The Complete Works of

MOLIÈRE

(1622-1673)

Contents

The Dramatic Works

The Flying Doctor

The Jealousy of le Barbouillé

The Blunderer; or, The Counterplots

The Love-Tiff

The Pretentious Young Ladies

Sganarelle; or, The Imaginary Cuckold

Don Garcia of Navarre or the Jealous Prince

The School for Husbands

The Mad; or, The Bores

The School for Wives

Critique of the School for Wives

The Versailles Impromptu

The Forced Marriage

The Princess of Elid

Tartuffe; or, The Impostor

Don Juan; or, The Stone Banquet

Love is the Best Doctor

The Misanthrope; or, The Cantankerous Lover

The Physician in Spite of Himself

Mélicerte

Comic Pastoral

The Sicilian; or, Love the Painter

Amphitryon

George Dandin; or, The Abashed Husband

The Miser; or, The School for Lies

Monsieur de Pourceaugnac

The Magnificent Lovers

The Middle-Class Gentleman

Psyche

The Impostures of Scapin

The Countess of Escarbagnas

The Learned Ladies

The Imaginary Invalid

The Poetry

The Poems of Molière

The Criticism

On Comedy by Voltaire

On the English Comedy by Voltaire

Molière by William Cleaver Wilkinson

To Monsieur de Molière by Andrew Lang

The Biographies

Molière by Andrew Lang

The Wife of Molière by H. Noel Williams

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The Complete Works of

MOLIÈRE

By Delphi Classics, 2018

COPYRIGHT

Complete Works of Molière

First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2018.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 978 1 78656 119 0

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

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The Dramatic Works

Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris — Molière’s birthplace.  The playwright was born on 15 January 1622.

Molière’s birthplace

Molière’s birthplace in 1901

Detail of the map of Paris by Merian, 1615, showing the suburb beyond the second door Saint-Honore

Portrait of Molière playing Julius Caesar by Nicolas Mignard, 1656

The Flying Doctor

Le Médecin volant

Translated by Charles Heron Wall

The Flying Doctor was written in 1645 when Molière was in his early twenties. It is his first play, which he composed the same year that the theatre company he founded with fellow actor Madeleine Béjart went bankrupt. Béjart was from a famous theatre family; she worked as both a performer and director and was highly regarded by her contemporaries. She and Molière established the Illustre Théâtre in June 1643 after the playwright decided not to pursue a career in the law. However, within two years, the company had amassed considerable debts and, upon declaring bankruptcy, Molière was imprisoned. He was released from jail within twenty-four hours after a friend paid his debts and he immediately returned to acting. He changed his name from Jean Baptiste Poquelin to Molière in order not to embarrass his father, who had been given a post as furniture maker to King Louis XIII in 1631.

The Flying Doctor is a short, one-act comedy, consisting of only sixteen scenes. It was not performed in Paris until April 1659 and it remains one of Molière’s lesser known works. The playwright acted in the Paris production, taking on the role of the servant, Sganarelle. The plot involves Sganarelle attempting to help his master, Valére, marry a young noblewoman called Lucile. Gorgibus, Lucile’s father, is adamant that his daughter should marry the older nobleman, Villebrequin, despite her love for Valére. Sganarelle is tasked with playing a doctor in a plan to fool Gorgibus, but the scheme soon goes awry leading to a comic and ridiculous scenario.

Trivelin, one of the figures of the crafty valet of the commedia dell’arte, from a seventeenth century vignette

CONTENTS

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

SCENE I.

SCENE II

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

SCENE XV.

Madeleine Béjart in ‘Les précieuses ridicules’

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

Gorgibus, father to Lucile.
Valère, in love with Lucile.
Sganarelle, servant to Valère.
Gros-René, valet to Gorgibus.
A Lawyer.
Lucile.
Sabine, cousin to Lucile.

SCENE I.

VALÈRE, SABINE.

VAL. WELL, SABINE, what do you advise me to do?

Sab. I have really much to tell you. My uncle is bent upon marrying my cousin to Villebrequin, and things have gone so far, that I believe the wedding would have taken place to-day if you were not loved by her. However, as my cousin told me the secret of all the love she feels for you, and as we were almost driven to desperation through the avarice of our niggardly uncle, we thought of a capital device to prevent the marriage: at the present moment my cousin affects to be ill, and the foolish old man, who is easily deceived, has just sent me to fetch a doctor. Could you not find one, some friend of yours, who would be on our side, and order the invalid to go into the country for a change of air? The old man will be sure to send my cousin to live in the pavilion, which is at the bottom of our garden. In that way you will be able to see her, unknown to our uncle, and marry her; then let him and Villebrequin curse as much as they please.

Val. But what means have I of finding so suddenly the doctor I want, and who would risk so much to serve me? I tell you frankly I know of none.

Sab. Now I think of it, why don’t you have your servant dressed up as a doctor? There is no one more easy to dupe than the old fellow.

Val. But Sganarelle is a blockhead who will spoil everything. However, as we have nobody else, we must make use of him. But where shall we find him? —— Ah! here he is in the very nick of time. (Exit Sabine.)

SCENE II

VALÈRE, SGANARELLE.

VAL. AH! MY poor Sganarelle, how glad I am to see you! I want your help in a most important business, but as I do not know what you can do …

Sgan. What I can do, sir? Only make use of me in your more important business, in things of consequence: for instance, send me to see what time it is by the clock; send me to the market to ask the price of butter; send me to water a horse; it is then that you will be able to judge of my talents.

Val. I ask for none of these things, I want you to play the part of a doctor.

Sgan. I, a doctor, sir! I am ready to do all you please, but as for being a doctor, I say no; I am your servant, I will be nothing of the kind. I ask you how I should set about it; goodness me, sir, you are only laughing at me.

Val. If you will try, I will give you ten pistoles.

Sgan. Ah! ten pistoles; well, I won’t say I am no doctor, for you see, sir, I am not so scrupulous as to tell you the whole truth. But supposing I am a doctor, where shall I go?

Val. To the old man Gorgibus, to see his daughter who is ill; but you are a blockhead who, instead of doing what we want, might …

Sgan. Ah! sir, don’t be anxious; I’ll answer for it that I can kill anybody as well as any doctor in the town. The proverb usually is, “after death comes the doctor,” but you will see that if I have anything to do with it, it will be, “after the doctor comes death!” But now, while I think of it, it must be difficult to play the doctor; and if I do nothing right…?

Val. There will be nothing difficult to do in this case. Gorgibus is a simpleton, a boor, who will readily believe everything you say, provided you speak to him of Hippocrates, of Galen, and that you have brass enough.

Sgan. You mean that I shall have to speak of philosophy and mathematics. Leave that to me; if he is a man as easily deceived as you say, I answer for everything. You have only to find me a doctor’s gown, tell me what you expect from me, and give me my diploma, that is, my ten pistoles. (Exeunt Valère and Sganarelle.)

SCENE III.

GORGIBUS, GROS-RENÉ.

GOR. GO QUICKLY and fetch the doctor for my daughter who is very ill; make haste!

Gr.-Re. Why the deuce do you think of giving your daughter in marriage to an old man? Don’t you see that it is the longing she has for a young one that makes her ill? See the attraction there is, &c.

Gor. Go quickly! I am greatly afraid that the wedding will have to be put off on account of this illness.

Gr.-Re. That is what vexes me, for I was looking forward to a good round bellyfull, and now I have to do without it. Yes, yes, I’ll go to fetch the doctor, but it is as much for my own sake as for your daughter’s. I am dreadfully disappointed. (Exit Gros-René.)

SCENE IV.

SABINE, GORGIBUS, SGANARELLE (as doctor).

SAB. I AM glad to meet you, uncle, to tell you of a good piece of news: I bring the cleverest doctor in the world, a man who comes from foreign lands, who knows the most important secrets, and who will no doubt cure my cousin. He was fortunately shown to me, and I bring him to you. He is so clever, that I heartily wish I were ill, so that he might cure me.

Gor. Where is he?

Sab. Close at hand; here he is.

Gor. Doctor, I am your very humble servant. I sent for you, to come and see my daughter who is ill; I put all my hopes in you.

Sgan. Hippocrates says, and Galen too, with strong reasoning argues, that a person does not feel well when he is ill. You are right to put all your hopes in me, for I am the greatest, the cleverest, the wisest doctor in the vegetable, animal, and mineral faculty.

Gor. I am delighted to hear it.

Sgan. Do not imagine that I am an ordinary doctor, a common doctor. All other doctors compared to me are abortions. I possess wonderful talents; I am master of many secrets. Salamalec, salamalec. “Hast thou courage, Rodrigo?” Signor, si; signor, non. Per omnia sæcula sæculorum. Still, let us see a little. (Feels Gorgibus’s pulse.)

Sab. Eh! He is not the patient; it is his daughter who is ill.

Sgan. It does not matter: the blood of the father and that of the daughter are the same; and by the deterioration of the blood of the father, I can know the illness of the daughter.

Gor. Ah! doctor, I am greatly afraid that my daughter will die.

Sgan. S’death! she must not! she must not indeed have the pleasure of dying before she has the doctor’s prescription. But, Mr. Gorgibus, can I see your daughter?

Sab. She is up; I will bring her if you like.

SCENE V.

SABINE, GORGIBUS, SGANARELLE (as doctor), LUCILE.

SGAN. WELL, YOUNG lady, so you are ill?

Luc. Yes, sir.

Sgan. So much the worse; it is a proof that you are not quite well. Do you feel great pains in your head and back?

Luc. Yes, sir.

Sgan. I thought so. Yes, the great doctor I spoke of, in the chapter he made on the nature of animals, said … a hundred fine things; and how the humours which have connexion, have much relation to each other; for instance, as melancholy is the enemy to joy, and as the bile in going through our body makes us become yellow, and as nothing is more contrary to good health than illness; so we can say with that great man that your daughter is very ill. I must give her a prescription.

Gor. Quick! a table, paper and ink!

Sgan. Is there anybody here who can write?

Gor. What! do you not know how to write?

Sgan. Ah! I was forgetting; I have so many things to think of, that I forget the half…. I think it is quite necessary for your daughter to have a change of air and that she should go and enjoy herself somewhere in the country.

Gor. We have a very fine garden, and some rooms attached to it; if you think it will do, I will send her there.

Sgan. Let us go and see the place. (Exeunt.)

SCENE VI.

THE LAWYER.

LAW. I HAVE heard that the daughter of Mr. Gorgibus is ill; I must go and inquire after her health, and offer my services, as the friend of the whole family. (Knocks.) Is Mr. Gorgibus at home? (Enter Gorgibus.) Having heard of your daughter’s illness, I come to tell you of my entire sympathy, and to put myself at your disposal for all that may be wanted of me.

Gor. I have just left the cleverest man in the world.

Law. Would it not be possible to speak with him for a few moments? (Gorgibus fetches Sganarelle.)

SCENE VII.

GORGIBUS, LAWYER, SGANARELLE (as doctor).

GOR. SIR, HERE is a friend of mine, a very clever man, who would be glad to speak with you.

Sgan. I have no leisure, Mr. Gorgibus; I must go and see my patients. I will not presume to take your place of honour, sir.

Law. Sir, from what Mr. Gorgibus has told me of your merit and talents, I had the greatest longing in the world to be introduced to you, and I have taken the liberty of addressing you on that account. I hope you will not think it too bold. One must acknowledge that those who excel in any great science are worthy of high praise; particularly those whose calling is that of doctor, as much on account of its utility, as because it is the source of several other sciences. Hence it is a difficult one to know perfectly, and Hippocrates therefore says truly in his first treatise: Vita brevis, ars verò longa, occasio autem praeceps, experimentum periculosum, judicium, difficile.

Sgan. (to Gorgibus). Ficile tantina pota baril cambustibus.

Law. You are not one of those doctors who only study the medicine called rational or dogmatic, and I believe that you practise it every day with great success, —— experientia magistra rerum. The first men who practised medicine were held in such consideration because of that wonderful science, that they were numbered among the gods on account of the marvellous cures they performed every day. Not that any one should despise a doctor who has not given back health to his patient, since health does not altogether depend on his remedies or his knowledge: interdum docta plus valet arte malum. Sir, I am afraid I am importunate; I must leave you, with the hope that next time we meet I shall have the honour of conversing with you at greater length. Your time is precious. (Exit Lawyer.)

Gor. What do you think of that man?

Sgan. He has some trifling knowledge of things. Had he stopped a moment longer I would have made him converse upon a lofty and sublime subject. But now I must leave you (Gorgibus offers him money). Ha! what are you about?

Gor. I know that I am indebted to you.

Sgan. You are laughing, Mr. Gorgibus! I never take any money, I am not a mercenary man (takes the money). Your very humble servant.
(Exit Sganarelle; Gorgibus goes into his own house.)

SCENE VIII.

VALÈRE (alone).

I WONDER WHAT Sganarelle has done; I have no news from him; I wish I knew where to meet him (Sganarelle returns in his usual dress). Ah! here he is. Well! Sganarelle, and what have you done since I saw you?

SCENE IX.

VALÈRE, SGANARELLE.

SGAN. WORKED WONDERS upon wonders! I have done so well, that Gorgibus really believes me to be a clever doctor. I went to his house, I ordered him to send his daughter to breathe fresh air, and she is now in an apartment at the bottom of their garden, so far from the old man, that you can go and see her without fear of being disturbed.

Val. Ah! how happy you make me; I shall go at once to see her, without losing any more time. (Exit.)

Sgan. That old fellow Gorgibus must be a downright fool to allow himself to be deceived in that fashion (seeing Gorgibus). Ah! goodness, all is lost! well, here’s a pretty upset for my doctorship! But I must try and take him in once more.

SCENE X.

SGANARELLE, GORGIBUS.

GOR. GOOD MORNING, sir.

Sgan. Sir, your servant. You see in me a poor fellow driven to despair. Do you know a doctor who has only lately come to this town, and who performs wonderful cures?

Gor. Yes, I know him; he has just left my house.

Sgan. I am his brother, sir; we are twins, and we resemble each other like two peas, and are often taken the one for the other.

Gor. Dev — … deuce take me, if I did not make the mistake myself; and what is your name?

Sgan. Narcissus, sir, at your service. You must know that while in his study I upset two bottles full of essence, which were on the edge of his table. Will you believe that he was so furious with me, that he actually drove me out of the house, and said he would never see me again; so that here I am a poor destitute fellow, without friends, without help, without anything at all.

Gor. Don’t distress yourself; I will make your peace with your brother. I am his friend, and I promise you that he shall forgive you. I will speak to him the first time I meet him.

Sgan. I shall be much obliged to you, Mr. Gorgibus. (Exit Sganarelle.)

SCENE XI.

SGANARELLE (dressed as a doctor), GORGIBUS.

SGAN. ONE MUST say, that when patients will not follow the advice of the doctor, but give themselves up to excesses …

Gor. Sir, your very humble servant. I have a favour to ask of you.

Sgan. What is it, sir? Can I be of service to you?

Gor. Sir, I have just met your brother, who is extremely sorry to …

Sgan. He is a scoundrel, Mr. Gorgibus.

Gor. I assure you that he is so distressed to have put you in a passion, that …

Sgan. He is a drunkard, Mr. Gorgibus.

Gor. Eh! sir, do you wish to drive the poor fellow to despair?

Sgan. Do not speak to me of him. Just fancy that scoundrel’s impudence to go and ask you to make his peace for him. I beg of you not to speak of him to me.

Gor. In Heaven’s name, sir, do it for my sake! If it is in my power to do anything to oblige you in return, I will do it with all my heart. I gave him my word, and …

Sgan. You entreat me so much, that although I swore I would never forgive him, here, shake hands, I forgive him. I assure you that I impose a great restraint upon myself, and that I must have great regard for you. Farewell, Mr. Gorgibus.
(Gorgibus goes into his house; exit Sganarelle.)

SCENE XII.

VALÈRE, SGANARELLE.

VAL. I AM forced to acknowledge that I should never have thought that Sganarelle could have done so well. (Sganarelle returns in his servant’s dress) Ah! my dear fellow, under what obligation I am to you! how happy I am! and how …

Sgan. Yes, this is all very well, but Gorgibus met me, and if it had not been for a trick I thought of on the spur of the moment, all would have been discovered, (seeing Gorgibus) Run away; here he is. (Exit Valère.)

SCENE XIII.

GORGIBUS, SGANARELLE.

GOR. I WAS looking for you everywhere to tell you that I have spoken to your brother. He has promised me that he will forgive you, but in order that I may be more sure of it, I want him to embrace you in my presence; step into my house, I will go and fetch him.

Sgan. But, Mr. Gorgibus, I don’t think you could find him now; besides, I should not like to stop in your house; I dread his anger too much.

Gor. Indeed! you will stay there, for I shall lock you in. I am going now to fetch your brother; fear nothing; I assure you that he is no longer angry. (Exit Gorgibus.)

Sgan. (at the window). Well! I am caught this time. I see no way of escape. The clouds are very dark, and I greatly fear that, if they break, they will rain hard blows on my back; or that by a prescription stronger even than that of all the doctors, they will apply a royal cautery to my shoulders. But why should I despair? Since I have done so much, I must go on to the end. Yes, yes; I must get clear of all this, and show that Sganarelle is the king of rogues. (Sganarelle jumps out of the window and runs away.)

SCENE XIV.

GROS-RENÉ, GORGIBUS, SGARANELLE.

GR.-RE. UPON MY word this is funny! How people jump out of the windows in this place! I must just stop here and see what comes of it. (Hides.)

Gor. I cannot find the doctor; I wonder where he went to hide himself. (seeing Sganarelle returning with his doctor’s gown) Ah! here he is. It is not sufficient, sir, to have forgiven your brother, I beg you to give me the satisfaction of seeing you embrace him. He is in my house; I was looking everywhere for you, to ask you to make your peace with him in my presence.

Sgan. You are joking, Mr. Gorgibus; is it not sufficient that I should have forgiven him? I will never see him again.

Gor. Do it for my sake, sir, I pray.

Sgan. I can refuse you nothing: tell him to come down (while Gorgibus goes into the house by the door, Sganarelle goes in by the window).

Gor. (at the window). Here is your brother waiting for you yonder; he has promised me that he will do all you like.

Sgan. (at the window). Mr. Gorgibus, I beg of you to make him come here; let me see him, and ask him, in private, to forgive me, for no doubt he would treat me roughly, and would shame me before everybody. (Gorgibus comes out of his house by the door; Sganarelle by the window.)

Gor. Very well, I will tell him. Sir, he says that he is thoroughly ashamed, and he begs you to come in, so that he may ask you in private to forgive him. Here is the key, you may come in. I beg of you not to refuse me, but give me this satisfaction.

Sgan. There is nothing I can refuse you. You will hear how I will speak to him. (within the house) Ah! so you are here, scoundrel! —— My brother, I beg your pardon, I assure you it was not my fault. —— Profligate wretch! I will teach you to dare importune Mr. Gorgibus, and plague him with your absurdities! —— Ah! my brother … —— Hold your tongue, I tell you. —— I would not disoblige … —— … Be silent, rascal. ——

Gr.-Re. (coming forward). Who do you think is in your house at present?

Gor. Why! it is the Doctor with his brother Narcissus; they have had a quarrel, but they are making it up.

Gr.-Re. Deuce take it, if they are more than one!

Sgan. (within the house) Drunkard that you are! I will teach you how to behave. —— He may well look down! He feels he has done wrong, the good-for-nothing scoundrel! Ah, the hypocrite, how he pretends to be good!

Gr.-Re. (to Gorgibus). Sir, do ask him, just for fun, to make his brother show himself at the window.

Gor. Very well. Sir, pray make your brother show himself at the window.

Sgan. (from the window). He is unworthy of being seen by honourable people; and, besides, I could not bear to have him by the side of me.

Gor. Sir, do not refuse me this favour, after all those you have granted me.

Sgan. (from the window). Truly, Mr. Gorgibus, you have so much power over me that I can refuse you nothing. Show yourself, scoundrel! (after having disappeared one moment, he reappears as a valet.) Mr. Gorgibus, I am so much indebted to you. (Disappears, and reappears again as doctor.) Well, did you see that picture of drunkenness?

Gr.-Re. (to Gorgibus). I know they are but one, and to prove it, tell him that you want to see them both together.

Gor. But grant me the favour of showing yourself with him, and of embracing him at the window before me.

Sgan. (from the window). It is a thing I would refuse to any one but you; but, to show you that I would do anything for your sake, I consent, though with difficulty, and I wish that he should first ask you to forgive him for the trouble he has given you. —— Yes, Mr. Gorgibus, I beg your pardon for having troubled you so much; and I promise you, my brother, in the presence of Mr. Gorgibus, to be so careful in future that you will never have reason to complain. I beg of you not to think any more of what is past (he kisses his hat and his ruff, which he has put at the end of his elbow).

Gor. Well, did you not see them both?

Gr.-Re. Upon my word, he is a sorcerer!

Sgan. (coming out of the house as doctor). I give you back the key of your house, sir. I do not wish this scoundrel to come down with me, for he makes me ashamed of him. I would not, for anything, that he should be seen with me in this town, where I have some reputation. You can send him away when you please. I wish you good morning, and am your humble servant (feigns to go, but, after having thrown down his gown, enters the house by the window).

Gor. I must go, and set this poor fellow free. To say the truth, if his brother has forgiven him, it is not before ill-treating him very much (goes into his house, and comes out with Sganarelle as a servant).

Sgan. I thank you very much, sir, for the trouble you have taken and the kindness you have shown me. I shall be obliged to you for it all my life.

Gr.-Re. (to Gorgibus). Where do you think the doctor is now?

Gor. He is gone away.

Gr.-Re. (who has picked up Sganarelle’s gown). I hold him under my arm. There is the knave who played the doctor and deceived you; and, while he is deceiving you and playing you off, Valère and your daughter are together, doing all they like.

Gor. Ah! how unfortunate I am! But you shall be hanged! you knave! you scoundrel!

Sgan. Why, sir, what good will it do you to hang me? Hear a word or two, I beg of you. It is true that, thanks to my stratagem, my master is with your daughter; but, while serving him, I have done you no wrong. It is a good match for her, both as to birth and money. Believe me, do not make a scandal which would turn to your shame; but send this knave here to the devil along with Villebrequin. But here are our lovers.

SCENE XV.

VALÈRE, LUCILE, GORGIBUS, SGANARELLE.

VAL. WE COME to ask you to forgive us.

Gor. I forgive you; and, on seeing such a good son-in-law, think myself happily deceived by Sganarelle. Now, let us all go to the wedding, and drink the health of the company.

THE END

The Jealousy of le Barbouillé

La Jalousie du barbouillé

Translated by Charles Heron Wall

CONTENTS

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

Le Barbouillé, husband to Angélique.
The Doctor.
Angélique.
Valère, lover to Angélique.
Cathau, maid to Angélique.
Gorgibus, father to Angélique.
Villebrequin.
La Vallée.

SCENE I.

LE BARBOUILLÉ.

BAR. EVERYBODY MUST acknowledge that I am the most unfortunate of men! I have a wife who plagues me to death; and who, instead of bringing me comfort and doing things as I like them to be done, makes me swear at her twenty times a day. Instead of keeping at home, she likes gadding about, eating good dinners, and passing her time with people of I don’t know what description. Ah! poor Barbouillé, how much you are to be pitied! But she must be punished. Suppose you killed her?… It would do no good, for you would be hung afterwards. If you were to have her sent to prison?… The minx would find means of coming out. What the deuce are you to do? — But here is the doctor coming out this way; suppose I ask his advice on my difficulties.

SCENE II.

DOCTOR, LE BARBOUILLÉ.

BAR. I WAS going to fetch you, to beg for your opinion on a question of great importance to me.

Doc. You must be very ill-bred, very loutish, and very badly taught, my friend, to speak to me in that fashion, without first taking off your hat, without observing rationem loci, temporis et personæ. What! you begin by an abrupt speech, instead of saying Salve, vel salvus sis, doctor doctorum eruditissime. What do you take me for, eh?

Bar. Really, doctor, I am very sorry; the fact is that I am almost beside myself, and did not think of what I was doing; but I know you are a gallant man.

Doc. Do you know what gallant man comes from?

Bar. It matters little to me whether it comes from Villejuif or Aubervilliers.

Doc. Know that the word gallant man comes from elegant. By taking the g and the a of the last syllable, that makes ga; then by taking the two ll’s, adding a and the two last letters nt, that makes gallant; then by adding man you have gallant man. But to come back to what I said; What do you take me for?

Bar. I take you for a doctor. But let us speak a little of what I have to propose to you. You must know that …

Doc. Let me tell you first that I am not only a doctor, but that I am one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten times doctor. Firstly, number one is the base, the foundation, and the first of all numbers; so am I the first of all doctors, the most learned of the learned. Secondly, there are two faculties essential for a perfect knowledge of things: the sense and the understanding; I am all sense, all understanding: ergo, I am twice doctor.

Bar. Agreed. What I want …

Doc. Thirdly, according to Aristotle, the number three is that of perfection; I am perfect; and every thing I do is perfect: ergo, I am three times doctor.

Bar. Very well then, doctor….

Doc. Fourthly, philosophy is divided into four parts, logic, morals, physics, and metaphysics; I possess all four, and know them perfectly: ergo, I am four times doctor.

Bar. Deuce take it, I don’t doubt it. Listen to me then.

Doc. Fifthly, there are five universals: the genus, the species, the differentia, the property, and the accident, without knowing which it is impossible to arrive at any satisfactory conclusions; I make great use of them, and know how important they are; ergo, I am five times doctor.

Bar. I must have patience.

Doc. Sixthly, number six is the number of work; I work incessantly for my own glory; ergo, I am six times doctor.

Bar. Well, well, speak as long as you like.

Doc. Seventhly, the number seven is the number of bliss; I possess a perfect knowledge of all that can produce happiness, and by my talents am happy myself. I am therefore forced to say of myself: O ter quaterque beatum! Eighthly, the number eight is the number of justice, on account of the equality which is found in it; the justice and prudence with which I measure and weigh all my actions make me eight times doctor. Ninthly, there are nine Muses, and I am equally the favourite of them all. Tenthly, one cannot pass number ten without repeating all the other numbers, and it is the universal number. Similarly, when people have found me, they have found the universal doctor; and I am in myself all the other doctors together. Thus, with the help of these plausible, true, demonstrative, and convincing reasons, you see that I am one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten times doctor.

Bar. What the deuce does he mean by all this? I thought I had found a clever man who would give me good advice, and I find a chimney-sweep, who, instead of speaking to me, plays at mora. One, two, three, four — ha! ha! — ha! ha! Come, come, that’s not it; you must listen to me, and remember that I am not a man to make you lose your time; I shall make it worth your while, and if you can satisfy me in what I want of you, I will give you what you wish — money, if you like.

Doc. Ha! money?

Bar. Yes, money; and whatever you may ask besides.

Doc. (sharply, tucking up his gown behind him). Then you take me for a man who would do anything for money, for a man fond of money, for a mercenary soul? Know, my friend, that if you were to give me a purse full of gold, and that this purse were in a rich box, this box in a precious case, this case in a superb chest, this chest in a rare museum, this museum in a magnificent apartment, this apartment in a gorgeous castle, this castle in a wonderful citadel, this citadel in a celebrated town, this town in a fertile island, this island in an opulent province, this province in a flourishing monarchy, this monarchy in the whole world; that if you gave me the world in which this flourishing monarchy would be, in which this opulent province would be, in which this fertile island would be, in which this celebrated town would be, in which this wonderful citadel would be, in which this gorgeous castle would be, in which this pleasant apartment would be, in which this rare museum would be, in which this wonderful chest would be, in which this precious case would be, in which this rich box would be, in which the purse full of gold would be, I should care no more for it than this (snaps his fingers and exit).

Bar. Well. I made a mistake. Seeing him dressed as a doctor, I felt that of necessity I must speak of money to him; but since he does not want any, nothing can be more easy than to satisfy him. I’ll run after him. (Runs out.)

SCENE III.

ANGÉLIQUE, VALÈRE, CATHAU.

ANG. I ASSURE you, sir, that you will oblige me very much by coming to see me sometimes: my husband is so ugly, so ill-behaved, and such a drunkard, that it is perfect martyrdom for me to be with him, and I ask you what pleasure one can have with such a clown as he is?

Val. You do me too much honour. I promise you I shall do my utmost to amuse you, and since you are kind enough to say that my company is not unpleasant, my care and attentions shall prove to you what pleasure this good news gives me.

Cat. Ay! quick, talk of something else; here’s our old bugbear coming.

SCENE IV.

LE BARBOUILLÉ, VALÈRE, ANGÉLIQUE, CATHAU.

VAL. MADEMOISELLE, I am very sorry to bring you such bad news, but, you would have heard it from some one else, and since your brother is ill….

Ang. Ah! say no more, sir, I am your servant, and thank you very much for the trouble you have taken.
(Exit Valère.)

Bar. Well! what need is there of my having a certificate of my cuckledom from the notary? So! so! you trollop! I find you with a man in spite of all my remonstrances, and you want to send me from Gemini to Capricornus.

Ang. Are you going to scold me for that? This gentleman only just came to tell me of my brother’s serious illness: why should you make that a subject of quarrel?

Cat. Ah, directly I saw him, I wondered if we should be long in peace.

Bar. You spoil one another, you women; you, Cathau, you corrupt my wife; she is not half as good now as she was before she had you to wait upon her.

Cat. Really you treat me in a nice manner.

Ang. Leave the drunkard alone; don’t you see that he is so muddled that he does not even know what he says.

SCENE V.

GORGIBUS, VILLEBREQUIN, ANGÉLIQUE, CATHAU, LE BARBOUILLÉ.

GOR. NOW, THERE’S my cursed son-in-law scolding my daughter again!

Vill. We must see what is the matter.

Gor. What! will you always be quarrelling! Will you never have peace at home?

Bar. This hussy calls me drunkard. (to Angélique) Here, I have a great mind to give you a good dressing before your relations.

Gor. May the dev … may his money be blessed, if you have done as he says.

Ang. It is always he who begins to …

Cat. Cursed be the hour when you chose that sordid wretch!

SCENE VI.

GORGIBUS, VILLEBREQUIN, ANGÉLIQUE, CATHAU, LE BARBOUILLÉ, DOCTOR.

DOC. WHY, WHAT is the meaning of this? what a disorder! what a quarrel! what a racket! what a row! what a noise! what a dispute! what a combustion! What is the matter, gentlemen? what is the matter? what is the matter? Come, come, is there no way of making you agree, let me be your pacificator; suffer me to bring peace among you.

Gor. It is my son-in-law and my daughter who have had words together.

Doc. But what can it be? Now, come, let me know the cause of their dispute.

Gor. Sir …

Doc. But in a few words …

Gor. Yes, yes; but put on your hat.

Doc. Hat; that is bonnet. Do you know what bonnet comes from?

Gor. No.

Doc. It comes from bonum est, it is good, a thing which is good, because it saves one from colds and coughs.

Gor. Indeed! I did not know that.

Doc. Now quick, the subject of your quarrel?

Gor. This is what happened.

Doc. I hope you are not a man to keep me long when I pray you not to do so. I have some pressing business which calls me to town; still, if I can bring peace to your family, I am willing to stop a moment.

Gor. I shall soon have done.

Doc. Be quick, then.

Gor. It will be said in a moment.

Doc. We must acknowledge, Mr. Gorgibus, that it is a wonderful gift to be able to say things in a few words, and that great talkers, instead of being heard, become often so wearisome that one cannot listen to them; virtutem primam esse puta compescere linguam. Yes, the best quality of an honest man is silence.

Gor. You must know then …

Doc. There are three things which Socrates used to recommend particularly to his disciples: to be careful of one’s actions, to be sober in eating, and to say things in a few words. Begin, Mr. Gorgibus.

Gor. It is my wish to do so.

Doc. In a few words, without ceremony, without indulging in a long speech: cut it short with an apophthegm; quick, quick, Mr. Gorgibus, make haste, avoid prolixity.

Gor. Suffer me to speak then….

Doc. That’s enough Mr. Gorgibus, you speak too much. Somebody else must tell me what was the cause of their quarrel.

Vill. You must know, sir, that …

Doc. You are an ignoramus, an unlearned man, ignorant of all good rules; an ass, in plain English. What! you begin a discourse without a word of exordium! Some one else must tell me what happened; will you, young lady, tell me the particulars of all this noise?

Ang. Do you see here my fat rascal, my wine-barrel of a husband …

Doc. Gently, if you please, speak with respect of your husband when you are under the nose of a doctor like me.

Ang. Ah! I should just think so, doctor! I care little for you or your doctrine, and I am a doctor whenever I please.

Doc. You, a doctor when you please. A nice doctor you make. You seem to me to do much as you wish…. But, I say, tell me the subject of your uproar.

Bar. Sir, your honour …

Doc. You begin well. “Your honour!” this word has something flattering to the ear, something full of magniloquence; “your honour!”

Bar. According to my will.

Doc. Quite right…. “According to my will!” the will speaks of a wish, the wish presupposes means to come to one’s ends, and the end presupposes an object. It is well said, “according to my will!”

Bar. I am bursting with rage.

Doc. Cut out this word “bursting.” It is a low, vulgar expression.

Bar. But, doctor, listen to me for mercy’s sake.

Doc. Audi, quæso, would Cæsar have said.

Bar. Seize her, or don’t seize her, you will listen to me or I will break your doctoral neck! What the devil do you mean by all this?
(Le Barbouillé, Angélique, Gorgibus, Cathau, Villebrequin, wish to explain the cause of the quarrel; the Doctor explains that peace is a fine thing. They all talk together, and make a dreadful noise. In the midst of all this, Le Barbouillé ties the Doctor by the legs with a rope, throws him down on his back, and drags him away; the Doctor goes on talking all the time, and counts all his arguments on his fingers, as if he were not on the ground.)

Gor. Now, my daughter, go back to your home and live in peace with your husband.

Vill. Your servant; good night.
(Exeunt Villebrequin, Gorgibus, and Angélique.)

SCENE VII.

VALÈRE, LA VALLÉE.

VAL. I AM extremely obliged to you, sir, for the trouble you have taken, and I promise you that in about an hour’s time I shall be at the place of rendezvous you give me.

La Val. It cannot be put off so long, in a quarter of an hour the ball will be over, and you will miss the pleasure of meeting there the person you love.

Val. Let us go together then.
(Exeunt Valère and La Vallée.)

SCENE VIII.

ANGÉLIQUE (alone).

WHILE MY HUSBAND is absent, I will just go round to a ball given by one of our neighbours. I shall be back before him, for he is somewhere drinking; he will not even know that I am gone out. The wretched knave always leaves me alone at home, as if I were his dog. (Exit Angélique.)

SCENE IX.

LE BARBOUILLÉ.

I KNEW THAT I should master that brute of a doctor and his stupid doctrine. Devil take the ignorant ass! I soon brought all his science to the ground. I must now go and see if our good wife has prepared anything for my supper. (Exit.)

SCENE X.

ANGÉLIQUE.

HOW UNLUCKY! I went too late, the party was over. I arrived just as everybody was leaving. But never mind, it shall be for another time. I will go home as if nothing was the matter. Bless me! the door is locked; Cathau! Cathau!

SCENE XI.

LE BARBOUILLÉ (at the window), ANGÉLIQUE.

BAR. “CATHAU! CATHAU!” Well! what is the matter with Cathau? And where do you come from at this time of night, and in such weather?

Ang. Where I come from? Just open the door, and I will tell you.

Bar. Yes, you catch me! You may go and sleep where you come from; I shall not open to a gad-about like you. What! alone at this time of night! I don’t know if it is fancy, but my forehead seems to me already rougher by half.

Ang. Well, what do you mean by scolding me because I am alone? You scold me if I have anybody near me; what am I to do?

Bar. Stop at home, give orders for the supper, take care of the household, and of the children; but it is no use talking so much; good-bye, good night, go to the devil and leave me in peace.

Ang. You won’t open to me?

Bar. No. I shall not open to you.

Ang. Ah! my dear little husband, I beg of you open the door; do, my darling little heart.

Bar. Ah! crocodile! Ah! dangerous serpent! you caress me to betray me.

Ang. Open, do open.

Bar. Farewell! Vade retro, Satanas!

Ang. What, you won’t open.

Bar. No!

Ang. You have no pity for the wife who loves you so much?

Bar. No, I am inflexible. You have offended me, I am revengeful like the very devil! that is to say plainly that I am inexorable.

Ang. Do you know that if you push me too far, and put me in a passion, I may do something which will make you repent your unkindness.

Bar. And what will you do, dear little vixen?

Ang. I declare that if you do not open to me, I will kill myself before the door; my parents will no doubt come here before going to bed, to see if we are all right together, and they will find me dead, and you will be hanged.

Bar. Ha! ha! ha! ha! the silly creature! Tell me who would lose the most? Nonsense, you are not so foolish as to play such a trick.

Ang. You don’t believe me. See, here is my knife all ready, if you do not open at once I will pierce myself to the heart with it.

Bar. Take care, it is very sharp.

Ang. You won’t open to me?

Bar. I have told you twenty times that I shall not open; kill yourself, die, go to the devil, I care not.

Ang. (pretending to stab herself). Farewell then…. Ay! I am dead.

Bar. Can she be stupid enough to do such a thing? I must go down with the light and see.

Ang. (aside). I will pay you back. If I can only slip into the house while you are looking for me, it shall be my turn. (She runs past Barbouillé, and manages to get into the house without his knowledge.)

Bar. Well! I knew she was not so stupid as all that! She is dead, and yet she runs like Pacolet’s horse. To say the truth, she really frightened me, she did right to run away, for if I had found her alive after she had given me such a fright, my boot would have taught her not to play the fool. I must go to bed now. Hallo! the wind must have shut the door to, I fear. Hi! Cathau, Cathau, open the door.

Ang. (at the window). “Cathau, Cathau! well what is the matter with Cathau?” and where do you come from, you drunkard? Well, well, my parents will soon be here, and will hear all about you. You wine-tap, you infamous wretch, you do not stir from the public-house; but leave a poor wife with little children waiting for you all day at home without caring to know if they want anything.

Bar. Open quickly, she-devil! or I’ll break your head open.

SCENE XII.

GORGIBUS, VILLEBREQUIN, ANGÉLIQUE, LE BARBOUILLÉ.

GOR. WHY, WHAT is it now? still quarrelling and fighting?

Vill. What? will you never agree?

Ang. Only just look at him! he is drunk, and returns at this time of night to make a noise and threaten to kill me.

Gor. She is right: it is not at this hour of night you should come home. Why can you not, like a good father of a family, come home early and live at peace with your wife?

Bar. Deuce take me, if I left the house! Ask those gentlemen who are on the terrace there. It is she who has only just come home. Ah! how innocence is always oppressed!

Gor. Well! Come, come, try to agree together, and ask her to forgive you.

Bar. I ask her to forgive me! I had rather the devil flew off with her. I am in such a terrible rage, I hardly know what to do.

Gor. Come, daughter, kiss your husband, and be friends.

SCENE XIII.

THE DOCTOR (in night-gear at another window).

DOC. WHAT! ALWAYS noise, disorder, dissension, quarrels, strife, disputes, uproar, everlasting altercations? What is it? What can it be? One can have no rest.

Vill. It is nothing, Mr. Doctor, every one is agreed.

Doc. Ah! about being agreed, shall I read you a chapter of Aristotle, where he proves that all the different parts of the universe subsist only through the concord which exists between them?

Vill. Will it be long?

Doc. No, it’s not a bit long, only about sixty or eighty pages.

Vill. Thanks, good night, good night!

Gor. It is not necessary.

Doc. Do you wish for it?

Gor. No.

Doc. Good night, then, since it is so — latine, bona nox.

Vill. Let us all go and have some supper together.

THE END

The Blunderer; or, The Counterplots

L’Étourdi ou Les Contretemps

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

SCENE XV.

Frontispiece from a 1682 edition

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

THE BLUNDERER IS generally believed to have been first acted at Lyons in 1653, whilst Molière and his troupe were in the provinces. In the month of November 1658 it was played for the first time in Paris, where it obtained a great and well-deserved success. It is chiefly based on an Italian comedy, written by Nicolo Barbieri, known as Beltrame, and called L’Inavvertito, from which the character of Mascarille, the servant, is taken, but differs in the ending, which is superior in the Italian play. An imitation of the classical boasting soldier, Captain Bellorofonte, Martelione, and a great number of concetti, have also not been copied by Molière. The fourth scene of the fourth act of l’Ètourdi contains some passages taken from the Angelica, a comedy by Fabritio de Fornaris, a Neapolitan, who calls himself on the title-page of his play “il Capitano Coccodrillo, comico confidente.” A few remarks are borrowed from la Emilia, a comedy by Luigi Grotto, whilst here and there we find a reminiscence from Plautus, and one scene, possibly suggested by the sixteenth of the Contes et Discours d’Eutrapel, written by Nöel du Fail, Lord of la Hérissaye. Some of the scenes remind us of passages in several Italian Commedia del’ arte between Arlecchino and Pantaleone the personifications of impudence and ingenuity, as opposed to meekness and stupidity; they rouse the hilarity of the spectators, who laugh at the ready invention of the knave as well as at the gullibility of the old man, Before this comedy appeared the French stage was chiefly filled with plays full of intrigue, but with scarcely any attempt to delineate character or manners. In this piece the plot is carried on, partly in imitation of the Spanish taste, by a servant, Mascarille, who is the first original personage Molière has created; he is not a mere imitation of the valets of the Italian or classical comedy; he has not the coarseness and base feelings of the servants of his contemporaries, but he is a lineal descendant of Villon, a free and easy fellow, not over nice in the choice or execution of his plans, but inventing new ones after each failure, simply to keep in his hand; not too valiant, except perhaps when in his cups, rather jovial and chaffy, making fun of himself and everybody else besides, no respecter of persons or things, and doomed probably not to die in his bed. Molière must have encountered many such a man whilst the wars of the Fronde were raging, during his perigrinations in the provinces. Even at the present time, a Mascarille is no impossibility; for, “like master like man.” There are also in The Blunderer too many incidents, which take place successively, without necessarily arising one from another. Some of the characters are not distinctly brought out, the style has often been found fault with, by Voltaire and other competent judges, [Footnote: Victor Hugo appears to be of another opinion. M. Paul Stapfer, in his les Artistes juges et parties (2º Causerie, the Grammarian of Hauteville House, ), states:— “the opinion of Victor Hugo about Molière is very peculiar. According to him, the best written of all the plays of our great comic author is his first work, l’Ètourdi. It possesses a brilliancy and freshness of style which still shine in le Dépit amoureux, but which gradually fade, because Molière, yielding unfortunately to other inspirations than his own, enters more and more upon a new way.”] but these defects are partly covered by a variety and vivacity which are only fully displayed when heard on the stage.

In the third volume of the “Select Comedies of M. de Molière, London, 1732.” The Blunderer is dedicated to the Right Honorable Philip, Earl of Chesterfield, in the following words: —

“MY LORD, — The translation of L’Ètourdi, which, in company with the original, throws itself at your lordship’s feet, is a part of a design form’d by some gentlemen, of exhibiting to the public a Select Collection of Molière’s Plays, in French and English. This author, my lord, was truly a genius, caress’d by the greatest men of his own time, and honoured with the patronage of princes. When the translator, therefore, of this piece was to introduce him in an English dress in justice he owed him an English patron, and was readily determined to your lordship, whom all the world allows to be a genius of the first rank. But he is too sensible of the beauties of his author, and the refined taste your lordship is universally known to have in polite literature, to plead anything but your candour and goodness, for your acceptance of this performance. He persuades himself that your lordship, who best knows how difficult it is to speak like Molière, even when we have his sentiments to inspire us, will be readiest to forgive the imperfections of this attempt. He is the rather encouraged, my lord, to hope for a candid reception from your lordship, on account of the usefulness of this design, which he flatters himself will have your approbation. ’Tis to spirit greater numbers of our countrymen to read this author, who wou’d otherwise not have attempted it, or, being foil’d in their attempts, wou’d throw him by in despair. And however generally the French language may be read, or spoke in England, there will be still very great numbers, even of those who are said to understand French, who, to master this comic writer, will want the help of a translation; and glad wou’d the publishers of this work be to guide the feebler steps of some such persons, not only till they should want no translation, but till some of them should be able to make a much better than the present. The great advantage of understanding Molière your Lordship best knows. What is it, but almost to understand mankind? He has shown such a compass of knowledge in human nature, as scarce to leave it in the power of succeeding writers in comedy to be originals; whence it has, in fact, appear’d, that they who, since his time, have most excelled in the Comic way, have copied Molière, and therein were sure of copying nature. In this author, my lord, our youth will find the strongest sense, the purest moral, and the keenest satyr, accompany’d with the utmost politeness; so that our countrymen may take a French polish, without danger of commencing fops and apes, as they sometimes do by an affectation of the dress and manners of that people; for no man has better pourtray’d, or in a finer manner expos’d fopperies of all kinds, than this our author hath, in one or other of his pieces. And now,’tis not doubted, my lord, but your lordship is under some apprehensions, and the reader under some expectation, that the translator should attempt your character, in right of a dedicator, as a refin’d wit, and consummate statesman. But, my lord, speaking the truth to a person of your lordship’s accomplishments, would have the appearance of flattery, especially to those who have not the honour of knowing you; and those who have, conceive greater ideas of you than the translator will pretend to express. Permit him, then, my lord, to crave your lordship’s acceptance of this piece, which appears to you with a fair and correct copy of the original; but with a translation which can be of no manner of consequence to your lordship, only as it may be of consequence to those who would understand Molière if they could. Your lordship’s countenance to recommend it to such will infinitely oblige, my lord, your lordship’s most devoted, and most obedient, humble servant, THE TRANSLATOR.”

To recommend to Lord Chesterfield an author on account of “the purest moral,” or because “no man has … in a finer manner exposed fopperies of all kinds,” appears to us now a bitter piece of satire; it may however, be doubted if it seemed so to his contemporaries. [Footnote: Lord Chesterfield appeared not so black to those who lived in his own time as he does to us, for Bishop Warburton dedicated to him his Necessity and Equity of an Established Religion and a Test-Law Demonstrated, and says in his preface: “It is an uncommon happiness when an honest man can congratulate a patriot on his becoming minister,” and expresses the hope, that “the temper of the times will suffer your Lordship to be instrumental in saving your country by a reformation of the general manners.”]

Dryden has imitated The Blunderer in Sir Martin Mar-all; or the Feigned Innocence, first translated by William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle, and afterwards adapted for the stage by “glorious John.” It must have been very successful, for it ran no less than thirty-three nights, and was four times acted at court. It was performed at Lincoln’s Inn Fields by the Duke of York’s servants, probably at the desire of the Duke of Newcastle, as Dryden was engaged to write for the King’s Company. It seems to have been acted in 1667, and was published, without the author’s name, in 1668. But it cannot be fairly called a translation, for Dryden has made several alterations, generally not for the better, and changed double entendres into single ones. The heroine in the English play, Mrs. Millisent, (Celia), marries the roguish servant, Warner (Mascarille), who takes all his master’s blunders upon himself, is bribed by nearly everybody, pockets insults and money with the same equanimity, and when married, is at last proved a gentleman, by the disgusting Lord Dartmouth, who “cannot refuse to own him for my (his) kinsman.” With a fine stroke of irony Millisent’s father becomes reconciled to his daughter having married a serving-man as soon as he hears that the latter has an estate of eight hundred a year. Sir Martin Mar-all is far more conceited and foolish than Lelio; Trufaldin becomes Mr. Moody, a swashbuckler; a compound of Leander and Andrès, Sir John Swallow, a Kentish knight; whilst of the filthy characters of Lord Dartmouth, Lady Dupe, Mrs. Christian, and Mrs. Preparation, no counterparts are found in Molière’s play. But the scene in which Warner plays the lute, whilst his master pretends to do so, and which is at last discovered by Sir Martin continuing to play after the servant has finished, is very clever. [Footnote: According to Geneste, Some Accounts of the English Stage, 10 vols., 1832, vol. i., , Bishop Warburton, in his Alliance of Church and State (the same work is mentioned in Note 2), and Porson in his Letters to Travis alludes to this scene.] Dryden is also said to have consulted l’Amant indiscret of Quinault, in order to furbish forth the Duke of Newcastle’s labours. Sir Walter Scott states in his introduction: “in that part of the play, which occasions its second title of ‘the feigned Innocence,’ the reader will hardly find wit enough to counterbalance the want of delicacy.” Murphy has borrowed from The Blunderer some incidents of the second act of his School for Guardians, played for the first time in 1767.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

[FOOTNOTE: MOLIÈRE, RACINE, and Corneille always call the dramatis personae acteurs, and not personnages.]

LELIO, son to PANDOLPHUS.

LEANDER, a young gentleman of good birth.

ANSELMO, an old man.

PANDOLPHUS, an old man.

TRUFALDIN, an old man.

ANDRÈS, a supposed gipsy.

MASCARILLE, servant to Lelio.
[Footnote: Mascarille is a name invented by Molière, and a diminutive of the Spanish mascara, a mask. Some commentators of Molière think that the author, who acted this part, may sometimes have played it in a mask, but this is now generally contradicted. He seems, however, to have performed it habitually, for after his death there was taken an inventory of all his dresses, and amongst these, according to M. Eudore Soulié, Recherches sur Molière, 1863, , was: “a … dress for l’Étourdi, consisting in doublet, knee-breeches, and cloak of satin.” Before his time the usual name of the intriguing man-servant was Philipin.]

ERGASTE, a servant.

A MESSENGER.

Two Troops of Masqueraders.

CELIA, slave to TRUFALDIN.

HIPPOLYTA, daughter to ANSELMO.

Scene. — MESSINA.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

LELIO, alone.

LEL. VERY WELL! Leander, very well! we must quarrel then, — we shall see which of us two will gain the day; and which, in our mutual pursuit after this young miracle of beauty, will thwart the most his rival’s addresses. Do whatever you can, defend yourself well, for depend upon it, on my side no pains shall be spared.

SCENE II.

LELIO, MASCARILLE.

LEL. AH! MASCARILLE!

MASC. What’s the matter?

LEL. A great deal is the matter. Everything crosses my love. Leander is enamoured of Celia. The Fates have willed it, that though I have changed the object of my passion, he still remains my rival.

MASC. Leander enamoured of Celia!

LEL. He adores her, I tell you.
[Footnote: In French, tu, toi, thee, thou, denote either social superiority or familiarity. The same phraseology was also employed in many English comedies of that time, but sounds so stiff at present, that the translator has everywhere used “you.”]

MASC. So much the worse.

LEL. Yes, so much the worse, and that’s what annoys me. However, I should be wrong to despair, for since you aid me, I ought to take courage. I know that your mind can plan many intrigues, and never finds anything too difficult; that you should be called the prince of servants, and that throughout the whole world….

MASC. A truce to these compliments; when people have need of us poor servants, we are darlings, and incomparable creatures; but at other times, at the least fit of anger, we are scoundrels, and ought to be soundly thrashed.

LEL. Nay, upon my word, you wrong me by this remark. But let us talk a little about the captive. Tell me, is there a heart so cruel, so unfeeling, as to be proof against such charming features? For my part, in her conversation as well as in her countenance, I see evidence of her noble birth. I believe that Heaven has concealed a lofty origin beneath such a lowly station.

MASC. You are very romantic with all your fancies. But what will Pandolphus do in this case? He is your father, at least he says so. You know very well that his bile is pretty often stirred up; that he can rage against you finely, when your behaviour offends him. He is now in treaty with Anselmo about your marriage with his daughter, Hippolyta; imagining that it is marriage alone that mayhap can steady you: now, should he discover that you reject his choice, and that you entertain a passion for a person nobody knows anything about; that the fatal power of this foolish love causes you to forget your duty and disobey him; Heaven knows what a storm will then burst forth, and what fine lectures you will be treated to.

LEL. A truce, I pray, to your rhetoric.

MASC. Rather a truce to your manner of loving, it is none of the best, and you ought to endeavour.

LEL. Don’t you know, that nothing is gained by making me angry, that remonstrances are badly rewarded by me, and that a servant who counsels me acts against his own interest?

MASC. (Aside). He is in a passion now. (Aloud). All that I said was but in jest, and to try you. Do I look so very much like a censor, and is Mascarille an enemy to pleasure? You know the contrary, and that it is only too certain people can tax me with nothing but being too good-natured. Laugh at the preachings of an old grey-beard of a father; go on, I tell you, and mind them not. Upon my word, I am of opinion that these old, effete and grumpy libertines come to stupify us with their silly stories, and being virtuous, out of necessity, hope through sheer envy to deprive young people of all the pleasures of life! You know my talents; I am at your service.

LEL. Now, this is talking in a manner I like. Moreover, when I first declared my passion, it was not ill received by the lovely object who inspired it; but, just now, Leander has declared to me that he is preparing to deprive me of Celia; therefore let us make haste; ransack your brain for the speediest means to secure me possession of her; plan any tricks, stratagems, rogueries, inventions, to frustrate my rival’s pretensions.

MASC. Let me think a little upon this matter. (Aside). What can I invent upon this urgent occasion?

LEL. Well, the stratagem?

MASC. What a hurry you are in! My brain must always move slowly. I have found what you want; you must… No, that’s not it; but if you would go…

LEL. Whither?

MASC. No, that’s a flimsy trick. I thought that…

LEL. What is it?

MASC. That will not do either. But could you not…?

LEL. Could I not what?

MASC. No, you could not do anything. Speak to Anselmo.

LEL. And what can I say to him?

MASC. That is true; that would be falling out of the frying-pan into the fire. Something must be done however. Go to Trufaldin.

LEL. What to do?

MASC. I don’t know.

LEL. Zounds! this is too much. You drive me mad with this idle talk.

MASC. Sir, if you could lay your hand on plenty of pistoles, [Footnote: The pistole is a Spanish gold coin worth about four dollars; formerly the French pistole was worth in France ten livres — about ten francs — they were struck in Franche-Comté.] we should have no need now to think of and try to find out what means we must employ in compassing our wishes; we might, by purchasing this slave quickly, prevent your rival from forestalling and thwarting you. Trufaldin, who takes charge of her, is rather uneasy about these gipsies, who placed her with him. If he could get back his money, which they have made him wait for too long, I am quite sure he would be delighted to sell her; for he always lived like the veriest curmudgeon; he would allow himself to be whipped for the smallest coin of the realm. Money is the God he worships above everything, but the worst of it is that…

LEL. What is the worst of it?…

MASC. That your father is just as covetous an old hunk, who does not allow you to handle his ducats, as you would like; that there is no way by which we could now open ever so small a purse, in order to help you. But let us endeavour to speak to Celia for a moment, to know what she thinks about this affair; this is her window.

LEL. But Trufaldin watches her closely night and day; Take care.

MASC. Let us keep quiet in this corner. What luck! Here she is coming just in the nick of time.

SCENE III.

CELIA, LELIO, MASCARILLE.

LEL. AH! MADAM, what obligations do I owe to Heaven for allowing me to behold those celestial charms you are blest with! Whatever sufferings your eyes may have caused me, I cannot but take delight in gazing on them in this place.

CEL. My heart, which has good reason to be astonished at your speech, does not wish my eyes to injure any one; if they have offended you in anything, I can assure you I did not intend it.

LEL. Oh! no, their glances are too pleasing to do me an injury. I count it my chief glory to cherish the wounds they give me; and…

MASC. You are soaring rather too high; this style is by no means what we want now; let us make better use of our time; let us know of her quickly what…

TRUF. (Within). Celia!

MASC. (To Lelio). Well, what do you think now?

LEL. O cruel mischance! What business has this wretched old man to interrupt us!

MASC. Go, withdraw, I’ll find something to say to him.

SCENE IV.

TRUFALDIN, CELIA, MASCARILLE, and LELIO in a corner.

TRUF. (TO CELIA). What are you doing out of doors? And what induces you to go out, — you, whom I have forbidden to speak to any one?

CEL. I was formerly acquainted with this respectable young man; you have no occasion to be suspicious of him.

MASC. Is this Signor Trufaldin?

CEL. Yes, it is himself.

MASC. Sir, I am wholly yours; it gives me extreme pleasure to have this opportunity of paying my most humble respects to a gentleman who is everywhere so highly spoken of.

TRUF. Your most humble servant.

MASC. Perhaps I am troublesome, but I have been acquainted with this young woman elsewhere; and as I heard about the great skill she has in predicting the future, I wished to consult her about a certain affair.

TRUF. What! Do you dabble in the black art?

CEL. No, sir, my skill lies entirely in the white.
[Footnote: The white art (magie blanche) only dealt with beneficent spirits, and wished to do good to mankind; the black art (magie noire) invoked evil spirits.]

MASC. The case is this. The master whom I serve languishes for a fair lady who has captivated him. He would gladly disclose the passion which burns within him to the beauteous object whom he adores, but a dragon that guards this rare treasure, in spite of all his attempts, has hitherto prevented him. And what torments him still more and makes him miserable, is that he has just discovered a formidable rival; so that I have come to consult you to know whether his love is likely to meet with any success, being well assured that from your mouth I may learn truly the secret which concerns us.

CEL. Under what planet was your master born?

MASC. Under that planet which never alters his love.

CEL. Without asking you to name the object he sighs for, the science which I possess gives me sufficient information. This young woman is high-spirited, and knows how to preserve a noble pride in the midst of adversity; she is not inclined to declare too freely the secret sentiments of her heart. But I know them as well as herself, and am going with a more composed mind to unfold them all to you, in a few words.

MASC. O wonderful power of magic virtue!

CEL. If your master is really constant in his affections, and if virtue alone prompts him, let him be under no apprehension of sighing in vain: he has reason to hope, the fortress he wishes to take is not averse to capitulation, but rather inclined to surrender.

MASC. That’s something, but then the fortress depends upon a governor whom it is hard to gain over.

CEL. There lies the difficulty.

MASC. (Aside, looking at Lelio). The deuce take this troublesome fellow, who is always watching us.

CEL. I am going to teach you what you ought to do.

LEL. (Joining them). Mr. Trufaldin, give yourself no farther uneasiness; it was purely in obedience to my orders that this trusty servant came to visit you; I dispatched him to offer you my services, and to speak to you concerning this young lady, whose liberty I am willing to purchase before long, provided we two can agree about the terms.

MASC. (Aside). Plague take the ass!

TRUF. Ho! ho! Which of the two am I to believe? This story contradicts the former very much.

MASC. Sir, this gentleman is a little bit wrong in the upper story: did you not know it?

TRUF. I know what I know, and begin to smell a rat. Get you in (to Celia), and never take such a liberty again. As for you two, arrant rogues, or I am much mistaken, if you wish to deceive me again, let your stories be a little more in harmony.

SCENE V.

LELIO, MASCARILLE.

MASC. HE IS quite right. To speak plainly, I wish he had given us both a sound cudgelling. What was the good of showing yourself, and, like a Blunderer, coming and giving the lie to all that I had been saying?

LEL. I thought I did right.

MASC. To be sure. But this action ought not to surprise me. You possess so many counterplots that your freaks no longer astonish anybody.

LEL. Good Heavens! How I am scolded for nothing! Is the harm so great that it cannot be remedied? However, if you cannot place Celia in my hands, you may at least contrive to frustrate all Leander’s schemes, so that he cannot purchase this fair one before me. But lest my presence should be further mischievous, I leave you.

MASC. (Alone). Very well. To say the truth, money would be a sure and staunch agent in our cause; but as this mainspring is lacking, we must employ some other means.

SCENE VI.

ANSELMO, MASCARILLE.

ANS. UPON MY word, this is a strange age we live in; I am ashamed of it; there was never such a fondness for money, and never so much difficulty in getting one’s own. Notwithstanding all the care a person may take, debts now-a-days are like children, begot with pleasure, but brought forth with pain. It is pleasant for money to come into our purse; but when the time comes that we have to give it back, then the pangs of labour seize us. Enough of this, it is no trifle to receive at last two thousand francs which have been owing upwards of two years. What luck!

MASC. (Aside). Good Heavens! What fine game to shoot flying! Hist, let me see if I cannot wheedle him a little. I know with what speeches to soothe him. (Joining him). Anselmo I have just seen….

ANS. Who, prithee?

MASC. Your Nerina.

ANS. What does the cruel fair one say about me?

MASC. Say? that she is passionately fond of you.

ANS. Is she?

MASC. She loves you so that I very much pity her.

ANS. How happy you make me!

MASC. The poor thing is nearly dying with love. “Oh, my dearest Anselmo,” she cries every minute, “when shall marriage unite our two hearts? When will you vouchsafe to extinguish my flames?”

ANS. But why has she hitherto concealed this from me? Girls, in troth, are great dissemblers! Mascarille, what do you say, really? Though in years, yet I look still well enough to please the eye.

MASC. Yes, truly, that face of yours is still very passable; if it is not of the handsomest in the world, it is very agreeable. [Footnote: The original has a play on words which cannot be translated, as, ce visage est encore fort mettable….,s’il n’est pas des plus beaux, il est des agreables; which two last words, according to pronunciation, can also mean disagreeable. This has been often imitated in French. After the Legion of Honour was instituted in France in 1804, some of the wits of the time asked the Imperialists: etes-vous des honores?]

ANS. So that…

MASC. (Endeavouring to take the purse). So that she dotes on you; and regards you no longer…

ANS. What?

MASC. But as a husband: and fully intends…

ANS. And fully intends…?

MASC. And fully intends, whatever may happen, to steal your purse….

ANS. To steal…?

MASC. (Taking the purse, and letting it fall to the ground). To steal a kiss from your mouth.
[Footnote: There is here again, in the original, a play on the words bourse, purse, and bouche, mouth, which cannot be rendered in English.]

ANS. Ah! I understand you. Come hither! The next time you see her, be sure to say as many fine things of me as possible.

MASC. Let me alone.

ANS. Farewell.

MASC. May Heaven guide you!

ANS. (Returning). Hold! I really should have committed a strange piece of folly; and you might justly have accused me of neglect. I engage you to assist me in serving my passion. You bring good tidings, and I do not give you the smallest present to reward your zeal. Here, be sure to remember….

MASC. O, pray, don’t.
[Footnote: Compare in Shakspeare’s Winter’s Tale Autolyeus’ answer to Camillo (Act IV., Scene 3), who gives him money, “I am a poor fellow, sir, … I cannot with conscience take it.”]

ANS. Permit me….

MASC. I won’t, indeed: I do not act thus for the sake of money.

ANS. I know you do not. But however…

MASC. No, Anselmo, I will not. I am a man of honour; this offends me.

ANS. Farewell then, Mascarille.

MASC. (Aside). How long-winded he is!

ANS. (Coming back). I wish you to carry a present to the fair object of my desires. I will give you some money to buy her a ring, or any other trifle, as you may think will please her most.

MASC. No, there is no need of your money; without troubling yourself, I will make her a present; a fashionable ring has been left in my hands, which you may pay for afterwards, if it fits her.

ANS. Be it so; give it her in my name; but above all, manage matters in such a manner that she may still desire to make me her own.

SCENE VII.

LELIO, ANSELMO, MASCARILLE.

LEL. (Taking up the purse). Whose purse is this?
[Footnote: During the whole of the preceding scene Mascarille has quietly kicked the purse away, so as to be out of sight of Anselmo, intending to pick it up when the latter has gone.]

ANS. Oh Heavens! I dropt it, and might have afterwards believed somebody had picked my pocket. I am very much obliged to you for your kindness, which saves me a great deal of vexation, and restores me my money. I shall go home this minute and get rid of it.

SCENE VIII.

LELIO, MASCARILLE.

MASC. OD’S DEATH! You have been very obliging, very much so.

LEL. Upon my word! if it had not been for me he would have lost his money.

MASC. Certainly, you do wonders, and show to-day a most exquisite judgment and supreme good fortune. We shall prosper greatly; go on as you have begun.

LEL. What is the matter now? What have I done?

MASC. To speak plainly as you wish me to do, and as I ought, you have acted like a fool. You know very well that your father leaves you without money; that a formidable rival follows us closely; yet for all this, when to oblige you I venture on a trick of which I take all the shame and danger upon myself…

LEL. What? was this…?

MASC. Yes, ninny; it was to release the captive that I was getting the money, whereof your officiousness took care to deprive us.

LEL. If that is the case, I am in the wrong. But who could have imagined it?

MASC. It really required a great deal of discernment.

LEL. You should have made some signs to warn me of what was going on.

MASC. Yes, indeed; I ought to have eyes in my back. By Jove, be quiet, and let us hear no more of your nonsensical excuses. Another, after all this, would perhaps abandon everything; but I have planned just now a master-stroke, which I will immediately put into execution, on condition that if…
[Footnote: The play is supposed to be in Sicily; hence Pagan oaths are not out of place. Even at the present time Italians say, per Jove! per Bacco!]

LEL. No, I promise you henceforth not to interfere either in word or deed.

MASC. Go away, then, the very sight of you kindles my wrath.

LEL. Above all, don’t delay, for fear that in this business…

MASC. Once more, I tell you, begone! I will set about it. (Exit Lelio). Let us manage this well; it will be a most exquisite piece of roguery; if it succeeds, as I think it must. We’ll try….But here comes the very man I want.

SCENE IX.

PANDOLPHUS, MASCARILLE.

PAND. MASCARILLE!

MASC. SIR?

PAND. To tell you the truth, I am very dissatisfied with my son.

MASC. With my master? You are not the only one who complains of him. His bad conduct which has grown unbearable in everything, puts me each moment out of patience.

PAND. I thought, however, you and he understood one another pretty well.

MASC. I? Believe it not, sir. I am always trying to put him in mind of his duty: we are perpetually at daggers drawn. Just now we had a quarrel again about his engagement with Hippolyta, which, I find he is very averse to. By a most disgraceful refusal he violates all the respect due to a father.

PAND. A quarrel?

MASC. Yes, a quarrel, and a desperate one too.

PAND. I was very much deceived then, for I thought you supported him in all he did.

MASC. I? See what this world is come to! How is innocence always oppressed! If you knew but my integrity, you would give me the additional salary of a tutor, whereas I am only paid as his servant. Yes, you yourself could not say more to him than I do in order to make him behave better. “For goodness’ sake, sir,” I say to him very often, “cease to be driven hither and thither with every wind that blows, — reform; look what a worthy father Heaven has given you, what a reputation he has. Forbear to stab him thus to the heart, and live, as he does, as a man of honour.”

PAND. That was well said; and what answer could he make to this?

MASC. Answer? Why only nonsense, with which he almost drives me mad. Not but that at the bottom of his heart he retains those principles of honour which he derives from you; but reason, at present, does not sway him. If I might be allowed to speak freely, you should soon see him submissive without much trouble.

PAND. Speak out.

MASC. It is a secret which would have serious consequences for me, should it be discovered; but I am quite sure I can confide it to your prudence.

PAND. You are right.

MASC. Know then that your wishes are sacrificed to the love your son has for a certain slave.

PAND. I have been told so before; but to hear it from your mouth pleases me.

MASC. I leave you to judge whether I am his secret confidant…

PAND. I am truly glad of it.

MASC. However, do you wish to bring him back to his duty, without any public scandal? You must… (I am in perpetual fear lest anybody should surprise us. Should he learn what I have told you, I should be a dead man.) You must, as I was saying, to break off this business, secretly purchase this slave, whom he so much idolizes, and send her into another country. Anselmo is very intimate with Trufaldin; let him go and buy her for you this very morning. Then, if you put her into my hands, I know some merchants, and promise you to sell her for the money she costs you, and to send her out of the way in spite of your son. For, if you would have him disposed for matrimony, we must divert this growing passion. Moreover, even if he were resolved to wear the yoke you design for him, yet this other girl might revive his foolish fancy, and prejudice him anew against matrimony.

PAND. Very well argued. I like this advice much. Here comes Anselmo; go, I will do my utmost quickly to obtain possession of this troublesome slave, when I will put her into your hands to finish the rest.

MASC. (Alone). Bravo, I will go and tell my master of this. Long live all knavery, and knaves also!

SCENE X.

HIPPOLYTA, MASCARILLE.

HIPP. AY, TRAITOR, is it thus that you serve me? I overheard all, and have myself been a witness of your treachery. Had I not, could I have suspected this? You are an arrant rogue, and you have deceived me. You promised me, you miscreant, and I expected, that you would assist me in my passion for Leander, that your skill and your management should find means to break off my match with Lelio; that you would free me from my father’s project; and yet you are doing quite the contrary. But you will find yourself mistaken. I know a sure method of breaking off the purchase you have been urging Pandolphus to make, and I will go immediately….

MASC. How impetuous you are! You fly into a passion in a moment; without inquiring whether you are right or wrong, you fall foul of me. I am in the wrong, and I ought to make your words true, without finishing what I began, since you abuse me so outrageously.

HIPP. By what illusion do you think to dazzle my eyes, traitor? Can you deny what I have just now heard?

MASC. No; but you must know that all this plotting was only contrived to serve you; that this cunning advice, which appeared so sincere, tends to make both old men fall into the snare; that all the pains I have taken for getting Celia into my hands, through their means, was to secure her for Lelio, and to arrange matters so that Anselmo, in the very height of passion, and finding himself disappointed of his son-in-law, might make choice of Leander.

HIPP. What! This admirable scheme, which has angered me so much, was all for my sake, Mascarille?

MASC. Yes, for your sake; but since I find my good offices meet with so bad a return, — since I have thus to bear your caprices, and as a reward for my services, you come here with a haughty air, and call me knave, cur, and cheat, I shall presently go, correct the mistake I have committed, and undo what I had undertaken to perform.

HIPP. (Holding him.) Nay, do not be so severe upon me, and forgive these outbursts of a sudden passion.

MASC. No, no; let me go. I have it yet in my power to set aside the scheme which offends you so much. Henceforth you shall have no occasion to complain of my zeal. Yes, you shall have my master, I promise you.

HIPP. My good Mascarille, be not in such a passion. I judged you ill; I was wrong; I confess I was. (Pulls out her purse). But I intend to atone for my fault with this. Could you find it in your heart to abandon me thus?

MASC. No, I cannot, do what I will. But your impetuosity was very shocking. Let me tell you that nothing offends a noble mind so much as the smallest imputation upon its honour.

HIPP. It is true; I treated you to some very harsh language, but here are two louis to heal your wounds.

MASC. Oh! all this is nothing. I am very sensitive on this point; but my passion begins to cool a little already. We must bear with the failings of our friends.

HIPP. Can you, then, bring about what I so earnestly wish for? Do you believe your daring projects will be as favourable to my passion as you imagine?

MASC. Do not make yourself uneasy on that account. I have several irons in the fire, and though this stratagem should fail us, what this cannot do, another shall.

HIPP. Depend upon it, Hippolyta will at least not be ungrateful.

MASC. It is not the hope of gain that makes me act.

HIPP. Your master beckons and wishes to speak with you. I will leave you, but remember to do what you can for me.

SCENE XI.

LELIO, MASCARILLE.

LEL. WHAT THE deuce are you doing there? You promised to perform wonders, but I am sure your dilatory ways are unparalleled. Had not my good genius inspired me, my happiness had been already wholly overthrown. There was an end to my good fortune, my joy. I should have been a prey to eternal grief; in short, had I not gone to this place in the very nick of time, Anselmo would have got possession of the captive, and I should have been deprived of her. He was carrying her home, but I parried the thrust, warded off the blow, and so worked upon Trufaldin’s fears as to make him keep the girl.

MASC. This is the third time! When we come to ten we will score. It was by my contrivance, incorrigible scatterbrains, that Anselmo undertook this desirable purchase; she should have been placed into my own hands, but your cursed officiousness knocks everything on the head again. Do you think I shall still labour to serve your love? I would sooner a hundred times become a fat old woman, a dolt, a cabbage, a lantern, a wehrwolf, and that Satan should twist your neck!

LEL. (Alone.) I must take him to some tavern and let him vent his passion on the bottles and glasses.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

LELIO, MASCARILLE.

MASC. I HAVE at length yielded to your desires. In spite of all my protestations I could hold out no longer; I am going to venture upon new dangers, to promote your interest, which I intended to abandon. So tender-hearted am I! If dame nature had made a girl of Mascarille, I leave you to guess what would have happened. However, after this assurance, do not deal a back stroke to the project I am about to undertake; do not make a blunder and frustrate my expectations. Then, as to Anselmo, we shall anew present your excuses to him, in order to get what we desire. But should your imprudence burst forth again hereafter, then you may bid farewell to all the trouble I take for the object of your passion.

LEL. No, I shall be careful, I tell you; never fear; you shall see….

MASC. Well, mind that you keep your word. I have planned a bold stratagem for your sake. Your father is very backward in satisfying all your wishes by his death. I have just killed him (in words, I mean); I have spread a report that the good man, being suddenly smitten by a fit of apoplexy, has departed this life. But first, so that I might the better pretend he was dead, I so managed that he went to his barn. I had a person ready to come and tell him that the workmen employed on his house accidentally discovered a treasure, in digging the foundations. He set out in an instant, and as all his people, except us two, have gone with him into the country, I shall kill him to-day in everybody’s imagination and produce some image which I shall bury under his name. I have already told you what I wish you to do; play your part well; and as to the character I have to keep up, if you perceive that I miss one word of it, tell me plainly I am nothing but a fool.

SCENE II.

LELIO, alone.

IT IS TRUE, he has found out a strange way to accomplish my wishes fully; but when we are very much in love with a fair lady, what would we not do to be made happy? If love is said to be an excuse for a crime, it may well serve for a slight piece of imposture, which love’s ardour to-day compels me to comply with, in expectation of the happy consequences that may result from it. Bless me! How expeditious they are. I see them already talking together about it; let us prepare to act our part.

SCENE III.

MASCARILLE, ANSELMO.

MASC. THE NEWS may well surprise you.

ANS. To die in such a manner!

MASC. He was certainly much to blame. I can never forgive him for such a freak.

ANS. Not even to take time to be ill.

MASC. No, never was a man in such a hurry to die.

ANS. And how does Lelio behave?

MASC. He raves, and has lost all command over his temper; he has beaten himself till he is black and blue in several places, and wishes to follow his father into the grave. In short, to make an end of this, the excess of his grief has made me with the utmost speed wrap the corpse in a shroud, for fear the sight, which fed his melancholy, should tempt him to commit some rash act.

ANS. No matter, you ought to have waited until evening. Besides, I should have liked to see Pandolphus once more. He who puts a shroud on a man too hastily very often commits murder; for a man is frequently thought dead when he only seems to be so.

MASC. I warrant him as dead as dead can be. But now, to return to what we were talking about, Lelio has, resolved (and it will do him good) to give his father a fine funeral, and to comfort the deceased a little for his hard fate, by the pleasure of seeing that we pay him such honours after his death. My master inherits a goodly estate, but as he is only a novice in business, and does not see his way clearly in his affairs, since the greater part of his property lies in another part of the country, or what he has here consists in paper, he would beg of you, after having entreated you to excuse the too great violence which he has shewn of late, to lend him for this last duty at least….

ANS. You have told me so already, and I will go and see him.

MASC. (Alone). Hitherto, at least, everything goes on swimmingly; let us endeavour to make the rest answer as well; and lest we should be wrecked in the very harbour, let us steer the ship carefully and keep a sharp look out.

SCENE IV.

ANSELMO, LELIO, MASCARILLE.

ANS. (COMING OUT of Pandolphus’ house). Let us leave the house. I cannot, without great sorrow, see him wrapped up in this strange manner. Alas! in so short a time! He was alive this morning.

MASC. We go sometimes over a good deal of ground in a short time.

LEL. (Weeping). Oh!

ANS. Dear Lelio, he was but a man after all; even Rome can grant no dispensation from death.

LEL. Oh!

ANS. Death smites men without giving warning, and always has bad designs against them.

LEL. Oh!

ANS. That merciless foe would not loosen one grip of his murderous teeth, however we may entreat him. Everybody must feel them.

LEL. Oh!

MASC. Your preaching will all be in vain; this sorrow is too deep-rooted to be plucked up.

ANS. If, notwithstanding all these arguments, you will not cast aside your grief, at least, my dear Lelio, endeavour to moderate it.

LEL. Oh!

MASC. He will not moderate it; I know his temper.

ANS. However, according to your servant’s message, I have brought you the money you want, so that you might celebrate your father’s funeral obsequies!

LEL. Oh! oh!

MASC. How his grief increases at these words! It will kill him to think of his misfortune.

ANS. I know you will find by the good man’s books that I owe him a much larger sum, but even if I should not owe anything, you could freely command my purse. Here it is; I am entirely at your service, and will show it.

LEL. (Going away). Oh!

MASC. How full of grief is my master!

ANS. Mascarille, I think it right he should give me some kind of receipt under his hand.

MASC. Oh!

ANS. Nothing in this world is certain.

MASC. Oh! oh!

ANS. Get him to sign me the receipt I require.

MASC. Alas! How can he comply with your desire in the condition he now is? Give him but time to get rid of his sorrow; and, when his troubles abate a little, I shall take care immediately to get you your security. Your servant, sir, my heart is over full of grief, and I shall go to take my fill of weeping with him. Hi! Hi!

ANS. (Alone). This world is full of crosses; we meet with them every day in different shapes, and never here below…

SCENE V.

PANDOLPHUS, ANSELMO.

ANS. OH HEAVENS! how I tremble! It is Pandolphus who has returned to the earth! God grant nothing disturbed his repose! How wan his face is grown since his death! Do not come any nearer. I beseech you; I very much detest to jostle a ghost.

PAND. What can be the reason of this whimsical terror?

ANS. Keep your distance, and tell me what business brings you here. If you have taken all this trouble to bid me farewell, you do me too much honour; I could really have done very well without your compliment. If your soul is restless, and stands in need of prayers. I promise you you shall have them, but do not frighten me. Upon the word of a terrified man, I will immediately set prayers agoing for you, to your very heart’s content.
 “Oh, dead worship, please to go!
    Heaven, if now you disappear,
  Will grant you joy down there below,
    And health as well, for many a year.”
[Footnote: This seems to be an imitation of a spell, charm, or incantation to lay the supposed ghost, which Anselmo says kneeling and hardly able to speak for terror.]

PAND. (Laughing). In spite of my indignation, I cannot help laughing.

ANS. It is strange, but you are very merry for a dead man.

PAND. Is this a joke, pray tell me, or is it downright madness to treat a living man as if he were dead?

ANS. Alas! you must be dead; I myself just now saw you.

PAND. What? Could I die without knowing it?

ANS. As soon as Mascarille told me the news, I was ready to die of grief.

PAND. But, really, are you asleep or awake? Don’t you know me?

ANS. You are clothed in an aerial body which imitates your own, but which may take another shape at any moment. I am mightily afraid to see you swell up to the size of a giant, and your countenance become frightfully distorted. For the love of God, do not assume any hideous form; you have scared me sufficiently for the nonce.

PAND. At any other time, Anselmo, I should have considered the simplicity which accompanies your credulity an excellent joke, and I should have carried on the pleasant conceit a little longer; but this story of my death, and the news of the supposed treasure, which I was told upon the road had not been found at all, raises in my mind a strong suspicion that Mascarille is a rogue, and an arrant rogue, who is proof against fear or remorse, and who invents extraordinary stratagems to compass his ends.

ANS. What! Am I tricked and made a fool of? Really, this would be a compliment to my good sense! Let me touch him and be satisfied. This is, indeed, the very man. What an ass I am! Pray, do not spread this story about, for they will write a farce about it, and shame me for ever. But, Pandolphus, help me to get the money back which I lent them to bury you.

PAND. Money, do you say? Oh! that is where the shoe pinches; that is the secret of the whole affair! So much the worse for you. For my part, I shall not trouble myself about it, but will go and lay an information against this Mascarille, and if he can be caught he shall be hanged, whatever the cost may be.

ANS. (Alone). And I, like a ninny, believe a scoundrel, and must in one day lose both my senses and my money. Upon my word, it well becomes me to have these gray hairs and to commit an act of folly so readily, without examining into the truth of the first story I hear…! But I see….

SCENE VI.

LELIO, ANSELMO.

LEL. NOW, WITH this master-key, I can easily pay Trufaldin a visit.

ANS. As far as I can see, your grief has subsided.

LEL. What do you say? No; it can never leave a heart which shall ever cherish it dearly.

ANS. I came back to tell you frankly of a mistake I made in the money I gave you just now; amongst these louis-d’or, though they look very good, I carelessly put some which I think are bad. I have brought some money with me to change them. The intolerable audacity of our coiners is grown to such a height in this state, that no one can receive any money now without danger of his being imposed upon. It would be doing good service to hang them all!

LEL. I am very much obliged to you for being willing to take them back, but I saw none among them that were bad, as I thought.

ANS. Let me see the money; let me see it; I shall know them again. Is this all?

LEL. Yes.

ANS. So much the better. Are you back again? my dear money! get into my pocket. As for you, my gallant sharper, you have no longer got a penny of it. You kill people who are in good health, do ye? And what would you have done, then, with me, a poor infirm father-in-law? Upon my word, I was going to get a nice addition to my family, a most discreet son-in-law. Go, go, and hang yourself for shame and vexation.

LEL. (Alone). I really must admit I have been bit this time. What a surprise this is! How can he have discovered our stratagem so soon?

SCENE VII.

LELIO, MASCARILLE.

MASC. WHAT, YOU were out? I have been hunting for you everywhere. Well, have we succeeded at last? I will give the greatest rogue six trials to do the like. Come, give me the money that I may go and buy the slave; your rival will be very much astonished at this.

LEL. Ah! my dear boy, our luck has changed. Can you imagine how ill fortune has served me?

MASC. What? What can it be?

LEL. Anselmo having found out the trick, just now got back every sou he lent us, pretending some of the gold-pieces were bad, and that he was going to change them.

MASC. You do but joke, I suppose?

LEL. It is but too true.

MASC. In good earnest?

LEL. In good earnest; I am very much grieved about it. It will put you into a furious passion.

MASC. Me, sir! A fool might, but not I! Anger hurts, and I am going to take care of myself, come what will. After all, whether Celia be captive or free, whether Leander purchases her or whether she remains where she is, I do not care one stiver about it.

LEL. Ah! do not show such indifference, but be a little more indulgent to my slight imprudence. Had this last misfortune not happened, you would have confessed that I did wonders, and that in this pretended decease I deceived everybody, and counterfeited grief so admirably that the most sharp-sighted would have been taken in.

MASC. Truly you have great reason to boast.

LEL. Oh! I am to blame, and I am willing to acknowledge it; but if ever you cared for my happiness, repair this mishap, and help me.

MASC. I kiss your hands, I cannot spare the time.

LEL. Mascarille, my dear boy!

MASC. No.

LEL. Do me this favour.

MASC. No, I will not.

LEL. If you are inflexible, I shall kill myself.

MASC. Do so — you may.

LEL. Can I not soften your hard heart?

MASC. No.

LEL. Do you see my sword ready drawn?

MASC. Yes.

LEL. I am going to stab myself.

MASC. Do just what you please.

LEL. Would you not regret to be the cause of my death?

MASC. No.

LEL. Farewell, Mascarille.

MASC. Good bye, Master Lelio.

LEL. What…?

MASC. Kill yourself quick. You are a long while about it.

LEL. Upon my word, you would like me to play the fool and kill myself, so that you might get hold of my clothes.

MASC. I knew all this was nothing but a sham; whatever people may swear they will do, they are not so hasty now-a-days in killing themselves.

SCENE VIII.

TRUFALDIN, LEANDER, LELIO, MASCARILLE.

(TRUFALDIN TAKING LEANDER aside and whispering to him).

LEL. What do I see? my rival and Trufaldin together! He is going to buy Celia. Oh! I tremble for fear.

MASC. There is no doubt that he will do all he can; and if he has money, he can do all he will. For my part I am delighted. This is a just reward for your blunders, your impatience.

LEL. What must I do? Advise me.

MASC. I don’t know.

LEL. Stay, I will go and pick a quarrel with him.

MASC. What good will that do?

LEL. What would you have me do to ward off this blow?

MASC. Well, I pardon you; I will yet cast an eye of pity on you. Leave me to watch them; I believe I shall discover what he intends to do by fairer means. (Exit Lelio).

TRUF. (To Leander). When you send by and by, it shall be done.

MASC. (Aside and going out). I must trap him and become his confidant, in order to baffle his designs the more easily.

LEAND. (Alone). Thanks to Heaven, my happiness is complete. I have found the way to secure it, and fear nothing more. Whatever my rival may henceforth attempt, it is no longer in his power to do me any harm.

SCENE IX.

LEANDER, MASCARILLE.

MASC. (SPEAKING THESE words within, and then coming on the stage). Oh! oh! Help! Murder! Help! They are killing me! Oh! oh! oh! oh! Traitor! Barbarian!

LEAND. Whence comes that noise? What is the matter? What are they doing to you?

MASC. He has just given me two hundred blows with a cudgel.

LEAND. Who?

MASC. Lelio.

LEAND. And for what reason?

MASC. For a mere trifle he has turned me away and beats me most unmercifully.

LEAND. He is really much to blame.

MASC. But, I swear, if ever it lies in my power I will be revenged on him. I will let you know, Mr. Thrasher, with a vengeance, that people’s bones are not to be broken for nothing! Though I am but a servant, yet I am a man of honour. After having been in your service for four years you shall not pay me with a switch, nor affront me in so sensible a part as my shoulders! I tell you once more, I shall find a way to be revenged! You are in love with a certain slave, you would fain induce me to get her for you, but I will manage matters so that somebody else shall carry her off; the deuce take me if I don’t!

LEAND. Hear me, Mascarille, and moderate your passion. I always liked you, and often wished that a young fellow, faithful and clever like you, might one day or other take a fancy to enter my service. In a word, if you think my offer worthy of acceptance, and if you have a mind to serve me, from this moment I engage you.

MASC. With all my heart, sir, and so much the rather because good fortune in serving you offers me an opportunity of being revenged, and because in my endeavours to please you I shall at the same time punish that wretch. In a word, by my dexterity, I hope to get Celia for…

LEAND. My love has provided already for that. Smitten by a faultless fair one, I have just now bought her for less than her value.

MASC. What! Celia belongs to you, then?

LEAND. You should see her this minute, if I were the master of my own actions. But alas! it is my father who is so; since he is resolved, as I understand by a letter brought me, to make me marry Hippolyta. I would not have this affair come to his knowledge lest it should exasperate him. Therefore in my arrangement with Trufaldin (from whom I just now parted), I acted purposely in the name of another. When the affair was settled, my ring was chosen as the token, on the sight of which Trufaldin is to deliver Celia. But I must first arrange the ways and means to conceal from the eyes of others the girl who so much charms my own, and then find some retired place where this lovely captive may be secreted.

MASC. A little way out of town lives an old relative of mine, whose house I can take the freedom to offer you; there you may safely lodge her, and not a creature know anything of the matter.

LEAND. Indeed! so I can: you have delighted me with the very thing I wanted. Here, take this, and go and get possession of the fair one. As soon as ever Trufaldin sees my ring, my girl will be immediately delivered into your hands. You can then take her to that house, when… But hist! here comes Hippolyta.

SCENE X.

HIPPOLYTA, LEANDER, MASCARILLE.

HIPP. I HAVE some news for you, Leander, but will you be pleased or displeased with it?

LEAND. To judge of that, and make answer off-hand, I should know it.

HIPP. Give me your hand, then, as far as the church, and I will tell it you as we go.
[Footnote: Generally it was thought preferable, during Molière’s lifetime, to use the word temple for “church,” instead of église.]

LEAND. (To Mascarille). Go, make haste, and serve me in that business without delay.

SCENE XI.

MASCARILLE, alone.

YES, I WILL serve you up a dish of my own dressing. Was there ever in the world so lucky a fellow. How delighted Lelio will be soon! His mistress to fall into our hands by these means! To derive his whole happiness from the man he would have expected to ruin him! To become happy by the hands of a rival! After this great exploit, I desire that due preparations be made to paint me as a hero crowned with laurel, and that underneath the portrait be inscribed in letters of gold: Vivat Mascarillus, rogum imperator.

SCENE XII.

TRUFALDIN, MASCARILLE.

MASC. SOHO, THERE!

TRUF. What do you want?

MASC. This ring, which you know, will inform you what business brings me hither.

TRUF. Yes, I recognise that ring perfectly; stay a little, I will fetch you the slave.

SCENE XIII.

TRUFALDIN, A MESSENGER, MASCARILLE.

MESS. (TO TRUFALDIN). Do me the favor, sir, to tell me where lives a gentleman….

TRUF. What gentleman?

MESS. I think his name is Trufaldin.

TRUF. And what is your business with him, pray? I am he.

MESS. Only to deliver this letter to him.

TRUF. (Reads). “Providence, whose goodness watches over my life, has just brought to my ears a most welcome report, that my daughter, who was stolen from me by some robbers when she was four years old, is now a slave at your house, under the name of Celia. If ever you knew what it was to be a father, and if natural affection makes an impression on your heart, then keep in your house this child so dear to me, and treat her as if she were your own flesh and blood. I am preparing to set out myself in order to fetch her. You shall be so well rewarded for your trouble, that in everything that relates to your happiness (which I am determined to advance) you shall have reason to bless the day in which you caused mine.”
                 DON PEDRO DE GUSMAN,
  From Madrid. Marquess of MONTALCANA
Though the gipsies can be seldom believed, yet they who sold her to me told me she would soon be fetched by somebody, and that I should have no reason to complain. Yet here I was going, all through my impatience, to lose the fruits of a great expectation. (To the Messenger). Had you come but one moment later, your journey would have been in vain; I was going, this very instant, to give the girl up into this gentleman’s hands; but it is well, I shall take great care of her. (Exit Messenger). (To Mascarille). You yourself have heard what this letter says, so you may tell the person who sent you that I cannot keep my word, and that he had better come and receive his money back.

MASC. But the way you insult him…

TRUF. Go about your business, and no more words.

MASC. (Alone). Oh, what a curse that this letter came now! Fate is indeed against me. What bad luck for this messenger to come from Spain when he was not wanted! May thunder and hail go with him! Never, certainly, had so happy a beginning such a sad ending in so short a time.

SCENE XIV.

LELIO laughing, MASCARILLE.

MASC. WHAT MAY be the cause of all this mirth?

LEL. Let me have my laugh out before I tell you.

MASC. Let us laugh then heartily, we have abundant cause so to do.

LEL. Oh! I shall no longer be the object of your expostulations: you who always reproach me shall no longer say that I am marrying all your schemes, like a busy-body as I am. I myself have played one of the cleverest tricks in the world. It is true I am quick-tempered, and now and then rather too hasty; but yet, when I have a mind to it, I can plan as many tricks as any man alive; even you shall own that what I have done shows an amount of sharpness rarely to be met with.

MASC. Let us hear what tricks you have invented.

LEL. Just now, being terribly frightened on seeing Trufaldin along with my rival, I was casting about to find a remedy for that mischief, when, calling all my invention to my aid, I conceived, digested, and perfected a stratagem, before which all yours, however vain you may be of them, ought undoubtedly to lower their colours.

MASC. But what may this be?

LEL. May it please you to have a little patience. Without much delay I invented a letter, written by an imaginary nobleman to Trufaldin, setting forth that, having fortunately heard that a certain slave, who lives in the latter’s house, and is named Celia, was this grandee’s daughter formerly kidnapped by thieves, it was his intention to come and fetch her; and he entreats him at least to keep her and take great care of her; for, that on her account he was setting out from Spain, and would acknowledge his civility by such handsome presents, that he should never regret being the means of making him happy.

MASC. Mighty well.

LEL. Hear me out; here is something much cleverer still. The letter I speak of was delivered to him, but can you imagine how? Only just in time, for the messenger told me, had it not been for this droll device, a fellow, who looked very foolish, was waiting to carry her off that identical moment.

MASC. And you did all this without the help of the devil?

LEL. Yes. Would you have believed me capable of such a subtle piece of wit? At least praise my skill, and the dexterity with which I have utterly disconcerted the scheme of my rival.

MASC. To praise you as you deserve, I lack eloquence; and feel unequal to the task. Yes, sufficiently to commend this lofty effort, this fine stratagem of war achieved before our eyes, this grand and rare effect of a mind which plans as many tricks as any man, which for smartness yields to none alive, my tongue wants words. I wish I had the abilities of the most refined scholars, so that I might tell you in the noblest verse, or else in learned prose, that you will always be, in spite of everything that may be done, the very same you have been all your life; that is to say, a scatter-brain, a man of distempered reason, always perplexed, wanting common sense, a man of left-handed judgment, a meddler, an ass, a blundering, hare-brained, giddy fellow, — what can I think of? A… a hundred times worse than anything I can say. This is only an abridgement of your panegyric.

LEL. Tell me, what puts you in such a passion with me? Have I done anything? Clear up this matter.

MASC. No, you have done nothing at all; but do not come after me.

LEL. I will follow you all over the world to find out this mystery.

MASC. Do so. Come on, then; get your legs in order, I shall give you an opportunity to exercise them.

LEL. (Alone). He has got away from me! O misfortune which cannot be allayed! What am I to understand by his discourse? And what harm can I possibly have done to myself?

ACT III.

SCENE I.

MASCARILLE, alone

[Footnote: Compare Launcelot Gobbo’s speech about his conscience in
Shakspeare’s Merchant of Venice (ii. 2).]
Silence, my good nature, and plead no more; you are a fool, and I am determined not to do it. Yes, my anger, you are right, I confess it! To be for ever doing what a meddler undoes, is showing too much patience, and I ought to give it up after the glorious attempts he has marred. But let us argue the matter a little without passion; if I should now give way to my just impatience the world will say I sank under difficulties, that my cunning was completely exhausted. What then becomes of that public esteem, which extols you everywhere as a first-rate rogue, and which you have acquired upon so many occasions, because you never yet were found wanting in inventions? Honour, Mascarille, is a fine thing; do not pause in your noble labours; and whatever a master may have done to incense you, complete your work, for your own glory, and not to oblige him. But what success can you expect, if you are thus continually crossed by your evil genius? You see he compels you every moment to change your tone; you may as well hold water in a sieve as try to stop that resistless torrent, which in a moment overturns the most beautiful structures raised by your art. Well, once more, out of kindness, and whatever may happen, let us take some pains, even if they are in vain; yet, if he still persists in baffling my designs, then I shall withdraw all assistance. After all, our affairs are not going on badly, if we could but supplant our rival, and if Leander, at last weary of his pursuit, would leave us one whole day for my intended operations. Yes, I have a most ingenious plot in my head, from which I expect a glorious success, if I had no longer that obstacle in my way. Well, let us see if he still persists in his love.

SCENE II.

LEANDER, MASCARILLE.

MASC. SIR, I have lost my labour; Trufaldin will not keep his word.

LEAND. He himself has told me the whole affair; but, what is more, I have discovered that all this pretty rigmarole about Celia being carried off by gypsies, and having a great nobleman for her father, who is setting out from Spain to come hither, is nothing but a mere stratagem, a merry trick, a made-up story, a tale raised by Lelio to prevent my buying Celia.

MASC. Here is roguery for you!

LEAND. And yet this ridiculous story has produced such an impression on Trufaldin, and he has swallowed the bait of this shallow device so greedily, that he will not allow himself to be undeceived.

MASC. So that henceforth he will watch her carefully. I do not see we can do anything more.

LEAND. If at first I thought this girl amiable, I now find her absolutely adorable, and I am in doubt whether I ought not to employ extreme measures to make her my own, thwart her ill fortune by plighting her my troth, and turn her present chains into matrimonial ones.

MASC. Would you marry her?

LEAND. I am not yet determined, but if her origin is somewhat obscure, her charms and her virtue are gentle attractions, which have incredible force to allure every heart.

MASC. Did you not mention her virtue?

LEAND. Ha! what is that you mutter? Out with it; explain what you mean by repeating that word “virtue.”

MASC. Sir, your countenance changes all of a sudden; perhaps I had much better hold my tongue.

LEAND. No, no, speak out.

MASC. Well, then, out of charity I will cure you of your blindness. That girl….

LEAND. Proceed.

MASC. So far from being merciless, makes no difficulty in obliging some people in private; you may believe me, after all she is not stony-hearted, to any one who knows how to take her in the right mood. She looks demure, and would fain pass for a prude; but I can speak of her on sure grounds. You know I understand something of the craft, and ought to know that kind of cattle.

LEAND. What! Celia?…

MASC. Yes, her modesty is nothing but a mere sham, the semblance of a virtue which will never hold out, but vanishes, as any one may discover, before the shining rays emitted from a purse.
[Footnote: This is an allusion to the rays of the sun, placed above the crown, and stamped on all golden crown-pieces, struck in France from Louis XI. (November 2, 1475) until the end of the reign of Louis XIII. These crowns were called écus au soleil. Louis XIV. took much later for his device the sun shining in full, with the motto, Nec pluribus impar.]

LEAND. Heavens! What do you tell me? Can I believe such words?

MASC. Sir, there is no compulsion; what does it matter to me? No, pray do not believe me, follow your own inclination, take the sly girl and marry her; the whole city, in a body, will acknowledge this favour; you marry the public good in her.

LEAND. What a strange surprise!

MASC. (Aside). He has taken the bait. Courage, my lad; if he does but swallow it in good earnest, we shall have got rid of a very awkward obstruction on our path.

LEAND. This astonishing account nearly kills me.

MASC. What! Can you…

LEAND. Go to the post-office, and see if there is a letter for me. (Alone, and for a while lost in thought). Who would not have been imposed upon? If what he says be true then there never was any countenance more deceiving.

SCENE III.

LELIO, LEANDER.

LEL. WHAT MAY be the cause of your looking so sad?

LEAND. Who, I?

LEL. Yes, yourself.

LEAND. I have, however, no occasion to be so.

LEL. I see well enough what it is; Celia is the cause of it.

LEAND. My mind does not run upon such trifles.

LEL. And yet you had formed some grand scheme to get her into your hands; but you must speak thus, as your stratagem has miscarried.

LEAND. Were I fool enough to be enamoured of her, I should laugh at all your finesse.

LEL. What finesse, pray?

LEAND. Good Heavens! sir, we know all.

LEL. All what?

LEAND. All your actions, from beginning to end.

LEL. This is all Greek to me; I do not understand one word of it.

LEAND. Pretend, if you please, not to understand me; but believe me, do not apprehend that I shall take a property which I should be sorry to dispute with you. I adore a beauty who has not been sullied, and do not wish to love a depraved woman.

LEL. Gently, gently, Leander.

LEAND. Oh! how credulous you are! I tell you once more, you may attend on her now without suspecting anybody. You may call yourself a lady-killer. It is true, her beauty is very uncommon, but, to make amends for that, the rest is common enough.

LEL. Leander, no more of this provoking language. Strive against me as much as you like in order to obtain her; but, above all things, do not traduce her so vilely. I should consider myself a great coward if I could tamely submit to hear my earthly deity slandered. I can much better bear your rivalry than listen to any speech that touches her character.

LEAND. What I state here I have from very good authority.

LEL. Whoever told you so is a scoundrel and a rascal. Nobody can discover the least blemish in this young lady; I know her heart well.

LEAND. But yet Mascarille is a very competent judge in such a cause; he thinks her guilty.

LEL. He?

LEAND. He himself.

LEL. Does he pretend impudently to slander a most respectable young lady, thinking, perhaps, I should only laugh at it? I will lay you a wager he eats his words.

LEAND. I will lay you a wager he does not.

LEL. ‘Sdeath! I would break every bone in his body should he dare to assert such lies to me,

LEAND. And I will crop his ears, if he does not prove every syllable he has told me.

SCENE IV.

LELIO, LEANDER, MASCARILLE.

LEL. OH! THAT’S lucky; there he is. Come hither, cursed hangdog!

MASC. What is the matter?

LEL. You serpent’s tongue! so full of lies! dare you fasten your stings on Celia, and slander the most consummate virtue that ever added lustre to misfortune?

MASC. (In a whisper to Lelio). Gently; I told him so on purpose.

LEL. No, no; none of your winking, and none of your jokes. I am blind and deaf to all you do or say. If it were my own brother he should pay dear for it; for to dare defame her whom I adore is to wound me in the most tender part. You make all these signs in vain. What was it you said to him?

MASC. Good Heavens! do not quarrel, or I shall leave you.

LEL. You shall not stir a step.

MASC. Oh!

LEL. Speak then; confess.

MASC. (Whispering to Lelio). Let me alone. I tell you it is a stratagem.

LEL. Make haste; what was it you said? Clear up this dispute between us.

MASC. (In a whisper to Lelio). I said what I said. Pray do not put yourself in a passion.

LEL. (Drawing his sword). I shall make you talk in another strain.

LEAND. (Stopping him). Stay your hand a little; moderate your ardour.

MASC. (Aside). Was there ever in the world a creature so dull of understanding?

LEL. Allow me to wreak my just vengeance on him.

LEAND. It is rather too much to wish to chastise him in my presence.

LEL. What! have I no right, then, to chastise my own servant?

LEAND. What do you mean by saying “your servant?”

MASC. (Aside). He is at it again! He will discover all.

LEL. Suppose I had a mind to thrash him within an inch of his life, what then? He is my own servant.

LEAND. At present he is mine.

LEL. That is an admirable joke. How comes he to be yours? Surely…

MASC. (In a whisper). Gently.

LEL. What are you whispering?

MASC. (Aside). Oh! the confounded blockhead. He is going to spoil everything, He understands not one of my signs.

LEL. You are dreaming, Leander. You are telling me a pretty story! Is he not my servant?

LEAND. Did you not discharge him from your service for some fault?

LEL. I do not know what this means.

LEAND. And did you not, in the violence of your passion, make his back smart most unmercifully?

LEL. No such thing. I discharge him! cudgel him! Either you make a jest of me, Leander, or he has been making a jest of you.

MASC. (Aside). Go on, go on, numskull; you will do your own business effectually.

LEAND. (To Mascarille). Then all this cudgelling is purely imaginary?

MASC. He does not know what he says; his memory…

LEAND. No, no; all these signs do not look well for you. I suspect some prettily contrived trick here; but for the ingenuity of the invention, go your ways, I forgive you. It is quite enough that I am undeceived, and see now why you imposed upon me. I come off cheap, because I trusted myself to your hypocritical zeal. A word to the wise is enough. Farewell, Lelio, farewell; your most obedient servant.

SCENE V.

LELIO, MASCARILLE.

MASC. Take courage, my boy, may fortune ever attend us I Let us draw and bravely take the field; let us act Olibrius, the slayer of the innocents.
[Footnote: Olibrius was, according to ancient legends, a Roman governor of Gaul, in the time of the Emperor Decius, very cruel, and a great boaster.]

LEL. He accused you of slandering…

MASC. And you could not let the artifice pass, nor let him remain in his error, which did you good service, and which pretty nearly extinguished his passion. No, honest soul, he cannot bear dissimulation. I cunningly get a footing at his rival’s, who, like a dolt, was going to place his mistress in my hands, but he, Lelio, prevents me getting hold of her by a fictitious letter; I try to abate the passion of his rival, my hero presently comes and undeceives him. In vain I make signs to him, and show him it was all a contrivance of mine; it signifies nothing; he continues to the end, and never rests satisfied till he has discovered all. Grand and sublime effect of a mind which is not inferior to any man living! It is an exquisite piece, and worthy, in troth, to be made a present of to the king’s private museum.

LEL. I am not surprised that I do not come up to your expectations; if I am not acquainted with the designs you are setting on foot, I shall be for ever making mistakes.

MASC. So much the worse.

LEL. At least, if you would be justly angry with me, give me a little insight into your plan; but if I am kept ignorant of every contrivance, I must always be caught napping.
[Footnote: The original is, je suis pris sans vert, “I am taken without green,” because in the month of May, in some parts of France, there is a game which binds him or her who is taken without a green leaf about them to pay a forfeit.]

MASC. I believe you would make a very good fencing-master, because you are so skilful at making feints, and at parrying of a thrust.
[Footnote: In the original we find prendre les contretemps, and rompre les mesures. In a little and very curious book, “The Scots Fencing Master, or Compleat Smal-Sword Man,” printed in Edinburgh 1687, and written by Sir William Hope of Kirkliston, the contre-temps is said to be: “When a man thrusts without having a good opportunity, or when he thrusts at the same time his adversarie thrusts, and that each of them at that time receive a thrust.” Breaking of measure is, according to the same booklet, done thus: “When you perceive your adversary thrusting at you, and you are not very certain of the parade, then break his measure, or make his thrust short of you, by either stepping a foot or half a foot back, with the single stepp, for if you judge your adversary’s distance or measure well, half a foot will break his measure as well as ten ells.”]

LEL. Since the thing is done, let us think no more about it. My rival, however, will not have it in his power to cross me, and provided you will but exert your skill, in which I trust…

MASC. Let us drop this discourse, and talk of something else; I am not so easily pacified, not I; I am in too great a passion for that. In the first place, you must do me a service, and then we shall see whether I ought to undertake the management of your amours.

LEL. If it only depends on that, I will do it! Tell me, have you need of my blood, of my sword?

MASC. How crack-brained he is! You are just like those swashbucklers who are always more ready to draw their sword than to produce a tester, if it were necessary to give it.

LEL. What can I do, then, for you?

MASC. You must, without delay, endeavour to appease your father’s anger.

LEL. We have become reconciled already.

MASC. Yes, but I am not; I killed him this morning for your sake; the very idea of it shocks him. Those sorts of jokes are severely felt by such old fellows as he, which, much against their will, make them reflect sadly on the near approach of death. The good sire, notwithstanding his age, is very fond of life, and cannot bear jesting upon that subject; he is alarmed at the prognostication, and so very angry that I hear he has lodged a complaint against me. I am afraid that if I am once housed at the expense of the king, I may like it so well after the first quarter of an hour, that I shall find it very difficult afterwards to get away. There have been several warrants out against me this good while; for virtue is always envied and persecuted in this abominable age. Therefore go and make my peace with your father.

LEL. Yes, I shall soften his anger, but you must promise me then…

MASC. We shall see what there is to be done. (Exit Lelio). Now, let us take a little breath after so many fatigues; let us stop for a while the current of our intrigues, and not move about hither and thither as if we were hobgoblins. Leander cannot hurt us now, and Celia cannot be removed, through the contrivance of…

SCENE VI.

ERGASTE, MASCARILLE.

ERG. I WAS looking for you everywhere to render you a service. I have a secret of importance to disclose.

MASC. What may that be?

ERG. Can no one overhear us?

MASC. Not a soul.

ERG. We are as intimate as two people can be; I am acquainted with all your projects, and the love of your master. Mind what you are about by and by; Leander has formed a plot to carry off Celia; I have been told he has arranged everything, and designs to get into Trufaldin’s house in disguise, having heard that at this time of the year some ladies of the neighbourhood often visit him in the evening in masks.

MASC. Ay, well! He has not yet reached the height of his happiness; I may perhaps be beforehand with him; and as to this thrust, I know how to give him a counter-thrust, by which he may run himself through. He is not aware with what gifts I am endowed. Farewell, we shall take a cup together next time we meet.

SCENE VII.

MASCARILLE, alone.

WE MUST, WE must reap all possible benefit from this amorous scheme, and by a dexterous and uncommon counterplot endeavour to make the success our own, without any danger. If I put on a mask and be beforehand with Leander, he will certainly not laugh at us; if we take the prize ere he comes up, he will have paid for us the expenses of the expedition; for, as his project has already become known, suspicion will fall upon him; and we, being safe from all pursuit, need not fear the consequences of that dangerous enterprise. Thus we shall not show ourselves, but use a cat’s paw to take the chesnuts out of the fire. Now, then, let us go and disguise ourselves with some good fellows; we must not delay if we wish to be beforehand with our gentry. I love to strike while the iron is hot, and can, without much difficulty, provide in one moment men and dresses. Depend upon it, I do not let my skill lie dormant. If Heaven has endowed me with the gift of knavery, I am not one of those degenerate minds who hide the talents they have received.

SCENE VIII.

LELIO, ERGASTE.

LEL. HE INTENDS to carry her off during a masquerade!

ERG. There is nothing more certain; one of his band informed me of his design, upon which I instantly ran to Mascarille and told him the whole affair; he said he would spoil their sport by some counter-scheme which he planned in an instant; so meeting with you by chance, I thought I ought to let you know the whole.

LEL. I am very much obliged to you for this piece of news; go, I shall not forget this faithful service.
[Exit Ergaste.]

SCENE IX.

LELIO, alone.

MY RASCAL WILL certainly play them some trick or other; but I, too, have a mind to assist him in his project. It shall never be said that, in a business which so nearly concerns me, I stirred no more than a post; this is the time; they will be surprised at the sight of me. Why did I not take my blunderbuss with me? But let anybody attack me who likes, I have two good pistols and a trusty sword. So ho! within there; a word with you.

SCENE X.

TRUFALDIN at his window, LELIO.

TRUF. WHAT IS the matter? Who comes to pay me a visit?

LEL. Keep your door carefully shut to-night.

TRUF. Why?

LEL. There are certain people coming masked to give you a sorry kind of serenade; they intend to carry off Celia.

TRUF. Good Heavens!

LEL. No doubt they will soon be here. Keep where you are, you may see everything from your window. Hey! Did I not tell you so? Do you not see them already? Hist! I will affront them before your face. We shall see some fine fun, if they do not give way.
[Footnote: This is one of the passages of Molière about which commentators do not agree; the original is, nous allons voir beau jeu, si la corde ne rompt. Some maintain that corde refers to the tight rope of a rope dancer; others that corde means the string of a bow, as in the phrase avoir deux cordes a son arc, to have two strings (resources) to one’s bow. Mons. Eugène Despois, in his carefully edited edition of Molière, (i., 187), defends the latter reading, and I agree with him.]

SCENE XI.

LELIO, TRUFALDIN, MASCARILLE, and his company masked.

TRUF. OH, THE funny blades, who think to surprise me.

LEL. Maskers, whither so fast? Will you let me into the secret? Trufaldin, pray open the door to these gentry, that they may challenge us for a throw with the dice.
[Footnote: The original has jouer un momon. Guy Miege, in his Dictionary of barbarous French. London, 1679 has “Mommon, a mummer, also a company of mummers; also a visard, or mask; also a let by a mummer at dice.”]
(To Mascarille, disguised as a woman). Good Heavens! What a pretty creature! What a darling she looks! How now! What are you mumbling? Without offence, may I remove your mask and see your face.

TRUF. Hence! ye wicked rogues; begone, ye ragamuffins! And you, sir, good night, and many thanks.

SCENE XII.

LELIO, MASCARILLE.

LEL. (After having taken the mask from Mascarille’s face).
Mascarille, is it you?

MASC. No, not at all; it is somebody else.

LEL. Alas! How astonished I am! How adverse is our fate! Could I possibly have guessed this, as you did not secretly inform me that you were going to disguise yourself? Wretch that I am, thoughtlessly to play you such a trick, while you wore this mask. I am in an awful passion with myself, and have a good mind to give myself a sound beating.

MASC. Farewell, most refined wit, unparalleled inventive genius.

LEL. Alas! If your anger deprives me of your assistance, what saint shall I invoke?

MASC. Beelzebub.

LEL. Ah! If your heart is not made of stone or iron, do once more at least forgive my imprudence; if it is necessary to be pardoned that I should kneel before you, behold…

MASC. Fiddlesticks! Come, my boys, let us away; I hear some other people coming closely behind us.

SCENE XIII.

LEANDER and his company masked; TRUFALDIN at the window.

LEAND. SOFTLY, LET us do nothing but in the gentlest manner.

TRUF. (At the window). How is this? What! mummers besieging my door all night. Gentlemen, do not catch a cold gratuitously; every one who is catching it here must have plenty of time to lose. It is rather a little too late to take Celia along with you; she begs you will excuse her to-night; the girl is in bed and cannot speak to you; I am very sorry; but to repay you for all the trouble you have taken for her sake, she begs you will be pleased to accept this pot of perfume.

LEAND. Faugh! That does not smell nicely. My clothes are all spoiled; we are discovered; let us be gone this way.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

LELIO, disguised as an Armenian; MASCARILLE.

MASC. YOU ARE dressed in a most comical fashion.

LEL. I had abandoned all hope, but you have revived it again by this contrivance.

MASC. My anger is always too soon over; it is vain to swear and curse, I can never keep to my oaths.

LEL. Be assured that if ever it lies in my power you shall be satisfied with the proofs of my gratitude, and though I had but one piece of bread…

MASC. Enough: Study well this new project; for if you commit now any blunder, you cannot lay the blame upon ignorance of the plot; you ought to know your part in the play perfectly by heart.

LEL. But how did Trufaldin receive you?

MASC. I cozened the good fellow with a pretended zeal for his interests. I went with alacrity to tell him that, unless he took very great care, some people would come and surprise him; that from different quarters they had designs upon her of whose origin a letter had given a false account; that they would have liked to draw me in for a share in the business, but that I kept well out of it; and that, being full of zeal for what so nearly concerned him, I came to give him timely notice that he might take his precautions. Then, moralizing, I discoursed solemnly about the many rogueries one sees every day here below; that, as for me, being tired with the world and its infamies, I wished to work out my soul’s salvation, retire from all its noise, and live with some worthy honest man, with whom I could spend the rest of my days in peace; that, if he had no objection, I should desire nothing more than to pass the remainder of my life with him; that I had taken such a liking to him, that, without asking for any wages to serve him, I was ready to place in his hands, knowing it to be safe there, some property my father had left me, as well as my savings, which I was fully determined to leave to him alone, if it pleased Heaven to take me hence. That was the right way to gain his affection. You and your beloved should decide what means to use to attain your wishes. I was anxious to arrange a secret interview between you two; he himself has contrived to show me a most excellent method, by which you may fairly and openly stay in her house. Happening to talk to me about a son he had lost, and whom he dreamt last night had come to life again, he told me the following story, upon which, just now, I founded my stratagem.

LEL. Enough; I know it all; you have told it me twice already.
[Footnote: Though Lelio says to Mascarille, “Enough, I know it all,” he has not been listening to the speech of his servant, but, in the meanwhile, is arranging his dress, and smoothing his ruffles, and making it clear to the spectator that he knows nothing, and that he will be a bad performer of the part assigned to him. This explains the blunders he makes afterwards in the second and fifth scenes of the same act.]

MASC. Yes, yes; but even if I should tell it thrice, it may happen still, that with all your conceit, you might break down in some minor detail.

LEL. I long to be at it already.

MASC. Pray, not quite so fast, for fear we might stumble. Your skull is rather thick, therefore you should be perfectly well instructed in your part. Some time ago Trufaldin left Naples; his name was then Zanobio Ruberti. Being suspected in his native town of having participated in a certain rebellion, raised by some political faction (though really he is not a man to disturb any state), he was obliged to quit it stealthily by night, leaving behind him his daughter, who was very young, and his wife. Some time afterwards he received the news that they were both dead, and in this perplexity, wishing to take with him to some other town, not only his property, but also the only one who was left of all his family, his young son, a schoolboy, called Horatio, he wrote to Bologna, where a certain tutor, named Alberto, had taken the boy when very young, to finish there his education; but though for two whole years he appointed several times to meet them, they never made their appearance. Believing them to be dead, after so long a time, he came to this city, where he took the name he now bears, without for twelve years ever having discovered any traces of this Alberto, or of his son Horatio. This is the substance of the story, which I have repeated so that you may better remember the groundwork of the plot. Now, you are to personate an Armenian merchant, who has seen them both safe and sound in Turkey. If I have invented this scheme, in preference to any other, of bringing them to life again according to his dream, it is because it is very common in adventures for people to be taken at sea by some Turkish pirate, and afterwards restored to their families in the very nick of time, when thought lost for fifteen or twenty years. For my part, I have heard a hundred of that kind of stories. Without giving ourselves the trouble of inventing something fresh, let us make use of this one; what does it matter? You must say you heard the story of their being made slaves from their own mouths, and also that you lent them money to pay their ransom; but that as urgent business obliged you to set out before them, Horatio asked you to go and visit his father here, whose adventures he was acquainted with, and with whom you were to stay a few days till their arrival. I have given you a long lesson now.

LEL. These repetitions are superfluous. From the very beginning I understood it all.

MASC. I shall go in and prepare the way.

LEL. Listen, Mascarille, there is only one thing that troubles me; suppose he should ask me to describe his son’s countenance?

MASC. There is no difficulty in answering that! You know he was very little when he saw him last. Besides it is very likely that increase of years and slavery have completely changed him.

LEL. That is true. But pray, if he should remember my face, what must I do then?

MASC. Have you no memory at all? I told you just now, that he has merely seen you for a minute, that therefore you could only have produced a very transient impression on his mind; besides, your beard and dress disguise you completely.

LEL. Very well. But, now I think of it, what part of Turkey…?

MASC. It is all the same, I tell you, Turkey or Barbary.

LEL. But what is the name of the town I saw them in?

MASC. Tunis. I think he will keep me till night. He tells me it is useless to repeat that name so often, and I have already mentioned it a dozen times.

LEL. Go, go in and prepare matters; I want nothing more.

MASC. Be cautious at least, and act wisely. Let us have none of your inventions here.

LEL. Let me alone! Trust to me, I say, once more.

MASC. Observe, Horatio, a schoolboy in Bologna; Trufaldin, his true name
Zanobio Ruberti, a citizen of Naples; the tutor was called Alberto…

LEL. You make me blush by preaching so much to me; do you think I am a fool?

MASC. No, not completely, but something very like it.

SCENE II.

LELIO, alone.

WHEN I DO not stand in need of him he cringes, but now, because he very well knows of how much use he is to me, his familiarity indulges in such remarks as he just now made. I shall bask in the sunshine of those beautiful eyes, which hold me in so sweet a captivity, and, without hindrance, depict in the most glaring colours the tortures I feel. I shall then know my fate…. But here they are.

SCENE III.

TRUFALDIN, LELIO, MASCARILLE.

TRUF. THANKS, RIGHTEOUS heaven, for this favourable turn of my fortune!

MASC. You are the man to see visions and dream dreams, since you prove how untrue is the saying that dreams are falsehoods.
[Footnote: In French there is a play on words between songes, dreams, and mensonges, falsehoods, which cannot be rendered into English.]

TRUF. How can I thank you? what returns can I make you, sir? You, whom I ought to style the messenger sent from Heaven to announce my happiness!

LEL. These compliments are superfluous; I can dispense with them.

TRUF. (To Mascarille). I have seen somebody like this Armenian, but I do not know where.

MASC. That is what I was saying, but one sees surprising likenesses sometimes.

TRUF. You have seen that son of mine, in whom all my hopes are centred?

LEL. Yes, Signor Trufaldin, and he was as well as well can be.

TRUF. He related to you his life and spoke much about me, did he not?

LEL. More than ten thousand times.

MASC. (Aside to Lelio). Not quite so much, I should say.

LEL. He described you just as I see you, your face, your gait.

TRUF. Is that possible? He has not seen me since he was seven years old. And even his tutor, after so long a time, would scarcely know my face again.

MASC. One’s own flesh and blood never forget the image of one’s relations; this likeness is imprinted so deeply, that my father…

TRUF. Hold your tongue. Where was it you left him?

LEL. In Turkey, at Turin.

TRUF. Turin! but I thought that town was in Piedmont.

MASC. (Aside). Oh the dunce! (To Trufaldin). You do not understand him; he means Tunis; it was in reality there he left your son; but the Armenians always have a certain vicious pronunciation, which seems very harsh to us; the reason of it is because in all their words they change nis into rin; and so, instead of saying Tunis, they pronounce Turin.

TRUF. I ought to know this in order to understand him. Did he tell you in what way you could meet with his father?

MASC. (Aside). What answer will he give?
[Footnote: Trufaldin having found out that Mascarille makes signs to his master, the servant pretends to fence.]
(To Trufaldin, after pretending to fence). I was just practising some passes; I have handled the foils in many a fencing school.

TRUF. (To Mascarille). That is not the thing I wish to know now. (To Lelio). What other name did he say I went by?

MASC. Ah, Signor Zanobio Ruberti. How glad you ought to be for what
Heaven sends you!

LEL. That is your real name; the other is assumed.

TRUF. But where did he tell you he first saw the light?

MASC. Naples seems a very nice place, but you must feel a decided aversion to it.

TRUF. Can you not let us go on with our conversation, without interrupting us?

LEL. Naples is the place where he first drew his breath.

TRUF. Whither did I send him in his infancy, and under whose care?

MASC. That poor Albert behaved very well, for having accompanied your son from Bologna, whom you committed to his care.

TRUF. Pshaw!

MASC. (Aside). We are undone if this conversation lasts long.

TRUF. I should very much like to know their adventures; aboard what ship did my adverse fate…?

MASC. I do not know what is the matter with me, I do nothing but yawn. But, Signor Trufaldin, perhaps this stranger may want some refreshment; besides, it grows late.

LEL. No refreshment for me.

MASC. Oh sir, you are more hungry than you imagine.

TRUF. Please to walk in then.

LEL. After you, sir.
[Footnote: It shows that Lelio knows not what he is about when he does the honours of the house to the master of the house himself, and forgets that as a stranger he ought to go in first.]

MASC. (To Trufaldin). Sir, in Armenia, the masters of the house use no ceremony. (To Lelio, after Trufaldin has gone in). Poor fellow, have you not a word to say for yourself?

LEL. He surprised me at first; but never fear, I have rallied my spirits, and am going to rattle away boldly..

MASC. Here comes our rival, who knows nothing of our plot. (They go into Trufaldin’s house).

SCENE IV.

ANSELMO, LEANDER.

ANS. STAY, LEANDER, and allow me to tell you something which concerns your peace and reputation. I do not speak to you as the father of Hippolyta, as a man interested for my own family, but as your father, anxious for your welfare, without wishing to flatter you or to disguise anything; in short, openly and honestly, as I would wish a child of mine to be treated upon the like occasion. Do you know how everybody regards this amour of yours, which in one night has burst forth? How your yesterday’s undertaking is everywhere talked of and ridiculed? What people think of the whim which, they say, has made you select for a wife a gipsy outcast, a strolling wench, whose noble occupation was only begging? I really blushed for you, even more than I did for myself, who am also compromised by this public scandal. Yes, I am compromised, I say, I whose daughter, being engaged to you, cannot bear to see her slighted, without taking offence at it. For shame, Leander; arise from your humiliation; consider well your infatuation; if none of us are wise at all times, yet the shortest errors are always the best. When a man receives no dowry with his wife, but beauty only, repentance follows soon after wedlock; and the handsomest woman in the world can hardly defend herself against a lukewarmness caused by possession. I repeat it, those fervent raptures, those youthful ardours and ecstacies, may make us pass a few agreeable nights, but this bliss is not at all lasting, and as our passions grow cool, very unpleasant days follow those pleasant nights; hence proceed cares, anxieties, miseries, sons disinherited through their fathers’ wrath.

LEAND. All that I now hear from you is no more than what my own reason has already suggested to me. I know how much I am obliged to you for the great honour you are inclined to pay me, and of which I am unworthy. In spite of the passion which sways me, I have ever retained a just sense of your daughter’s merit and virtue: therefore I will endeavour…

ANS. Somebody is opening this door; let us retire to a distance, lest some contagion spreads from it, which may attack you suddenly.

SCENE V.

LELIO, MASCARILLE.

MASC. WE SHALL soon see our roguery miscarry if you persist in such palpable blunders.

LEL. Must I always hear your reprimands? What can you complain of? Have
I not done admirably since…?

MASC. Only middling; for example, you called the Turks heretics, and you affirmed, on your corporal oath, that they worshipped the sun and moon as their gods. Let that pass. What vexes me most is that, when you are with Celia, you strangely forget yourself; your love is like porridge, which by too fierce a fire swells, mounts up to the brim, and runs over everywhere.

LEL. Could any one be more reserved? As yet I have hardly spoken to her.

MASC. You are right! but it is not enough to be silent; you had not been a moment at table till your gestures roused more suspicion than other people would have excited in a whole twelvemonth.

LEL. How so?

MASC. How so? Everybody might have seen it. At table, where Trufaldin made her sit down, you never kept your eyes off her, blushed, looked quite silly, cast sheep’s eyes at her, without ever minding what you were helped to; you were never thirsty but when she drank, and took the glass eagerly from her hands; and without rinsing it, or throwing a drop of it away, you drank what she left in it, and seemed to choose in preference that side of the glass which her lips had touched; upon every piece which her slender hand had touched, or which she had bit, you laid your paw as quickly as a cat does upon a mouse, and you swallowed it as glibly as if you were a regular glutton. Then, besides all this, you made an intolerable noise, shuffling with your feet under the table, for which Trufaldin, who received two lusty kicks, twice punished a couple of innocent dogs, who would have growled at you if they dared; and yet, in spite of all this, you say you behaved finely! For my part I sat upon thorns all the time; notwithstanding the cold, I feel even now in a perspiration. I hung over you just as a bowler does over his bowl after he has thrown it, and thought to restrain your actions by contorting my body ever so many times.

LEL. Lack-a day! how easy it is for you to condemn things of which you do not feel the enchanting cause. In order to humour you for once I have, nevertheless, a good mind to put a restraint upon that love which sways me. Henceforth…

SCENE VI.

TRUFALDIN, LELIO, MASCARILLE.

MASC. WE WERE speaking about your son’s adventures.

TRUF. (To Lelio). You did quite right. Will you do me the favour of letting me have one word in private with him?

LEL. I should be very rude if I did not. (Lelio goes into Trufaldin’s
House).

SCENE VII.

TRUFALDIN, MASCARILLE.

TRUF. HARK YE! do you know what I have just been doing?

MASC. No, but if you think it proper, I shall certainly not remain long in ignorance.

TRUF. I have just now cut off from a large and sturdy oak, of about two hundred years old, an admirable branch, selected on purpose, of tolerable thickness, of which immediately, upon the spot, I made a cudgel, about … yes, of this size (showing his arm); not so thick at one end as at the other, but fitter, I imagine, than thirty switches to belabour the shoulders withal; for it is well poised, green, knotty, and heavy.

MASC. But, pray, for whom is all this preparation?

TRUF. For yourself, first of all; then, secondly, for that fellow, who wishes to palm one person upon me, and trick me out of another; for this Armenian, this merchant in disguise, introduced by a lying and pretended story.

MASC. What! you do not believe…?

TRUF. Do not try to find an excuse; he himself, fortunately, discovered his own stratagem, by telling Celia, whilst he squeezed her hand at the same time, that it was for her sake alone he came disguised in this manner. He did not perceive Jeannette, my little god-daughter, who overheard every word he said. Though your name was not mentioned, I do not doubt but you are a cursed accomplice in all this.

MASC. Indeed, you wrong me. If you are really deceived, believe me I was the first imposed upon with his story.

TRUF. Would you convince me you speak the truth? Assist me in giving him a sound drubbing, and in driving him away; let us give it the rascal well, and then I will acquit you of all participation in this piece of rascality.

MASC. Ay, ay, with all my soul. I will dust his jacket for him so soundly, that you shall see I had no hand in this matter. (Aside). Ah! you shall have a good licking, Mister Armenian, who always spoil everything.

SCENE VIII.

LELIO, TRUFALDIN, MASCARILLE.

TRUF. (KNOCKS AT his door, and then addresses Lelio). A word with you, if you please. So, Mr. Cheat, you have the assurance to fool a respectable man, and make game of him?

MASC. To pretend to have seen his son abroad, in order to get the more easily into his house!

TRUF. (Beating Lelio). Go away, go away immediately.

LEL. (To Mascarille, who beats him likewise). Oh! you scoundrel!

MASC. It is thus that rogues…

LEL. Villain!

MASC. Are served here. Keep that for my sake!

LEL. What? Is a gentleman…?

MASC. (Beating him and driving him off). March off, begone, I tell you, or I shall break all the bones in your body.

TRUF. I am delighted with this; come in, I am satisfied. (Mascarille follows Trufaldin into his house).

LEL. (Returning). This to me! To be thus affronted by a servant! Could I have thought the wretch would have dared thus to ill-treat his master?

MASC. (From Trufaldin’s window). May I take the liberty to ask how your shoulders are?

LEL. What! Have you the impudence still to address me?

MASC. Now see what it is not to have perceived Jeannette, and to have always a blabbing tongue in your head! However, this time I am not angry with you, I have done cursing and swearing at you; though you behaved very imprudently, yet my hand has made your shoulders pay for your fault.

LEL. Ha! I shall be revenged on you for your treacherous behaviour.

MASC. You yourself were the cause of all this mischief.

LEL. I?

MASC. If you had had a grain of sense when you were talking to your idol you would have perceived Jeannette at your heels, whose sharp ears overheard the whole affair.

LEL. Could anybody possibly catch one word I spoke to Celia?

MASC. And what else was the cause why you were suddenly turned out of doors? Yes, you are shut out by your own tittle-tattle. I do not know whether you play often at piquet, but you at least throw your cards away in an admirable manner.

LEL. Oh! I am the most unhappy of all men. But why did you drive me away also?

MASC. I never did better than in acting thus. By these means, at least, I prevent all suspicion of my being the inventor or an accomplice of this stratagem.

LEL. But you should have laid it on more gently.

MASC. I was no such fool! Trufaldin watched me most narrowly; besides, I must tell you, under the pretence of being of use to you, I was not at all displeased to vent my spleen. However, the thing is done, and if you will give me your word of honour, never, directly or indirectly, to be revenged on me for the blows on the back I so heartily gave you, I promise you, by the help of my present station, to satisfy your wishes within these two nights.

LEL. Though you have treated me very harshly, yet what would not such a promise prevail upon me to do?

MASC. You promise, then?

LEL. Yes, I do.

MASC. But that is not all; promise never to meddle in anything I take in hand.

LEL. I do.

MASC. If you break your word may you get the cold shivers!

LEL. Then keep it with me, and do not forget my uneasiness.

MASC. Go and change your dress, and rub something on your back.

LEL. (Alone). Will ill-luck always follow me, and heap upon me one misfortune after another?

MASC. (Coming out of Trufaldin’s house). What! Not gone yet? Hence immediately; but, above all, be sure you don’t trouble your head about any thing. Be satisfied, that I am on your side; do not make the least attempt to assist me; remain quiet.

LEL. (Going). Yes, to be sure, I will remain quiet.

MASC. (Alone). Now let me see what course I am to steer.

SCENE IX.

ERGASTE, MASCARILLE.

ERG. MASCARILLE, I come to tell you a piece of news, which will give a cruel blow to your projects. At the very moment I am talking to you, a young gipsy, who nevertheless is no black, and looks like a gentleman, has arrived with a very wan-looking old woman, and is to call upon Trufaldin to purchase the slave you wished to redeem. He seems to be very anxious to get possession of her.

MASC. Doubtless it is the lover Celia spoke about. Were ever fortunes so tangled as ours? No sooner have we got rid of one trouble than we fall into another. In vain do we hear that Leander intends to abandon his pursuit, and to give us no further trouble; that the unexpected arrival of his father has turned the scales in favour of Hippolyta; that the old gentleman has employed his parental authority to make a thorough change, and that the marriage contract is going to be signed this very day; as soon as one rival withdraws, another and a more dangerous one starts up to destroy what little hope there was left. However, by a wonderful stratagem, I believe I shall be able to delay their departure and gain what time I want to put the finishing stroke to this famous affair. A great robbery has lately been committed, by whom, nobody knows. These gipsies have not generally the reputation of being very honest; upon this slight suspicion, I will cleverly get the fellow imprisoned for a few days. I know some officers of justice, open to a bribe, who will not hesitate on such an occasion; greedy and expecting some present, there is nothing they will not attempt with their eyes shut; be the accused ever so innocent, the purse is always criminal, and must pay for the offence.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

MASCARILLE, ERGASTE.

MASC. AH BLOCKHEAD! numskull! idiot! Will you never leave off persecuting me?

ERG. The constable took great care everything was going on smoothly; the fellow would have been in jail, had not your master come up that very moment, and, like a madman spoiled your plot. “I cannot suffer,” says he in a loud voice, “that a respectable man should be dragged to prison in this disgraceful manner; I will be responsible for him, from his very looks, and will be his bail.” And as they refused to let him go, he immediately and so vigorously attacked the officers, who are a kind of people much afraid of their carcasses, that, even at this very moment, they are running, and every man thinks he has got a Lelio at his heels.

MASC. The fool does not know that this gipsy is in the house already to carry off his treasure.

ERG. Good-bye, business obliges me to leave you.

SCENE II.

MASCARILLE, alone.

YES, THIS LAST marvellous accident quite stuns me. One would think, and I have no doubt of it, that this bungling devil which possesses Lelio takes delight in defying me, and leads him into every place where his presence can do mischief. Yet I shall go on, and notwithstanding all these buffets of fortune, try who will carry the day. Celia has no aversion to him, and looks upon her departure with great regret. I must endeavour to improve this opportunity. But here they come; let me consider how I shall execute my plan. Yonder furnished house is at my disposal, and I can do what I like with it; if fortune but favours us, all will go well; nobody lives there but myself, and I keep the key. Good Heavens! what a great many adventures have befallen us in so short a time, and what numerous disguises a rogue is obliged to put on.

SCENE III.

CELIA, ANDRÈS.

AND. YOU KNOW it, Celia, I have left nothing undone to prove the depth of my passion. When I was but very young, my courage in the wars gained me some consideration among the Venetians, and one time or other, and without having too great an opinion of myself, I might, had I continued in their service, have risen to some employment of distinction; but, for your sake, I abandoned everything; the sudden change you produced in my heart, was quickly followed by your lover joining the gipsies. Neither a great many adventures nor your indifference have been able to make me abandon my pursuit. Since that time, being by an accident separated from you much longer than I could have foreseen, I spared neither time nor pains to meet with you again. At last I discovered the old gipsy-woman, and heard from her that for a certain sum of money, which was then of great consequence to the gipsies, and prevented the dissolution of the whole band, you were left in pledge in this neighbourhood. Full of impatience, I flew hither immediately to break these mercenary chains, and to receive from you whatever commands you might be pleased to give. But, when I thought to see joy sparkle in your eyes, I find you pensive and melancholy; if quietness has charms for you, I have sufficient means at Venice, of the spoils taken in war, for us both to live there; but if I must still follow you as before, I will do so, and my heart shall have no other ambition than to serve you in whatever manner you please.

CEL. You openly display your affection for me. I should be ungrateful not to be sensible of it. Besides, just now, my countenance does not bear the impress of the feelings of my heart; my looks show that I have a violent headache. If I have the least influence over you, you will delay our voyage for at least three or four days, until my indisposition has passed away.

AND. I shall stay as long as you like; I only wish to please you; let us look for a house where you may be comfortable. Ho! here is a bill up just at the right time.

SCENE IV.

CELIA, ANDRÈS, MASCARILLE, disguised as a Swiss.

AND. MONSIEUR SWISS, are you the master of the house?

MASC. I am at your service.
[Footnote: In the original, Mascarille speaks a kind of gibberish, which is only amusing when the play is acted; but it can serve no purpose to translate “moi, pour serfir a fous,” “Oui, moi pour d’estrancher chappon champre garni, mais che non point locher te gent te mechant vi,” etc., by “me be at your serfice,” “yes. me have de very goot shambers, ready furnish for stranger, but me no loge de people scandaluse,” etc. A provincial pronunciation, an Irish brogue, or a Scotch tongue, are no equivalent for this mock Swiss German-French.]

AND. Can we lodge here?

MASC. Yes, I let furnished lodgings to strangers, but only to respectable people.

AND. I suppose your house has a very good reputation?

MASC. I see by your face you are a stranger in this town.

AND. I am.

MASC. Are you the husband of this lady?

AND. Sir?

MASC. Is she your wife or your sister?

AND. Neither.

MASC. Upon my word, she is very pretty! Do you come on business, or have you a lawsuit going on before the court? A lawsuit is a very bad thing, it costs so much money; a solicitor is a thief, and a barrister a rogue.

AND. I do not come for either of these.

MASC. You have brought this young lady then to walk about and to see the town?

AND. What is that to you? (To Celia). I shall be with you again in one moment; I am going to fetch the old woman presently, and tell them not to send the travelling-carriage which was ready.

MASC. Is the lady not quite well?

AND. She has a headache.

MASC. I have some good wine and cheese within; walk in, go into my small house. (Celia, Andrès and Mascarille go into the house).

SCENE V.

LELIO, alone.

HOWEVER IMPATIENT AND excited I may feel, yet I have pledged my word to do nothing but wait quietly, to let another work for me, and to see, without daring to stir, in what manner Heaven will change my destiny.

SCENE VI.

ANDRÈS, LELIO.

LEL. (ADDRESSING ANDRÈS, who is coming out of the house). Do you want to see anybody in this house?

AND. I have just taken some furnished apartments there.

LEL. The house belongs to my father, and my servant sleeps there every night to take care of it.

AND. I know nothing of that; the bill, at least, shows it is to be let; read it.

LEL. Truly this surprises me, I confess. Who the deuce can have put that bill up, and why…? Ho, faith, I can guess, pretty near, what it means; this cannot possibly proceed but from the quarter I surmise.

AND. May I ask what affair this may be?

LEL. I would keep it carefully from anybody else, but it can be of no consequence to you, and you will not mention it to any one. Without doubt, that bill can be nothing else but an invention of the servant I spoke of; nothing but some cunning plot he has hatched to place into my hands a certain gipsy girl, with whom I am smitten, and of whom I wish to obtain possession. I have already attempted this several times, but until now in vain.

AND. What is her name?

LEL. Celia.

AND. What do you say? Had you but mentioned this, no doubt I should have saved you all the trouble this project costs you.

LEL. How so? Do you know her?

AND. It is I who just now bought her from her master.

LEL. You surprise me!

AND. As the state of her health did not allow her to leave this town, I just took these apartments for her; and I am very glad that on this occasion you have acquainted me with your intentions.

LEL. What! shall I obtain the happiness I hope for by your means? Could you…?

AND. (Knocks at the door). You shall be satisfied immediately.

LEL. What can I say to you? And what thanks…?

AND. No, give me none; I will have none.

SCENE VII.

LELIO, ANDRÈS, MASCARILLE.

MASC. (ASIDE). HALLO! Is this not my mad-cap master? He will make another blunder.

LEL. Who would have known him in this grotesque dress? Come hither,
Mascarille, you are welcome.

MASC. I am a man of honour; I am not Mascarille, I never debauched any married or unmarried woman.
[Footnote: Mascarille answers in his gibberish, “Moi non point Masquerille,” an allusion to maquerelle a female pander; hence his further remarks.]

LEL. What funny gibberish! It is really very good!

MASC. Go about your business, and do not laugh at me.

LEL. You can take off your dress; recognise your master.

MASC. Upon my word! by all the saints, I never knew you!

LEL. Everything is settled, disguise yourself no longer.

MASC. If you do not go away I will give you a slap in the face.

LEL. Your Swiss jargon is needless, I tell you, for we are agreed, and his generosity lays me under an obligation. I have all I can wish for; you have no reason to be under any farther apprehension.

MASC. If you are agreed, by great good luck, I will no longer play the
Swiss, and become myself again.

AND. This valet of yours serves you with much zeal; stay a little; I will return presently.

SCENE VIII.

LELIO, MASCARILLE.

LEL. WELL, WHAT do you say now?

MASC. That I am delighted to see our labours crowned with success.

LEL. You were hesitating to doff your disguise, and could hardly believe me.

MASC. As I know you I was rather afraid, and still find the adventure very astonishing.

LEL. But confess, however, that I have done great things — at least I have now made amends for all my blunders — mine will be the honour of having finished the work.

MASC. Be it so; you have been much more lucky than wise.

SCENE IX.

CELIA, ANDRÈS, LELIO, MASCARILLE.

AND. IS NOT this the lady you were speaking of to me?

LEL. Heavens! what happiness can be equal to mine!

AND. It is true; I am indebted to you for the kindness you have shown me; I should be much to blame if I did not acknowledge it; but this kindness would be too dearly bought were I to repay it at the expense of my heart. Judge, by the rapture her beauty causes me, whether I ought to discharge my debt to you at such a price. You are generous, and would not have me act thus. Farewell. Let us return whence we came, and stay there for a few days. (He leads Celia away).

SCENE X.

LELIO, MASCARILLE.

MASC. I AM laughing, and yet I have little inclination to it. You two are quite of the same mind; he gives Celia to you. Hem! … You understand me, sir?

LEL. This is too much. I am determined no longer to ask you to assist me; it is useless; I am a puppy, a wretch, a detestable blockhead, not worthy of any one taking any trouble for me, incapable of doing anything. Abandon all endeavours to aid an unfortunate wretch, who will not allow himself to be made happy; after so many misfortunes, after all my imprudent actions, death alone should aid me.

SCENE XI.

MASCARILLE, alone.

THAT IS THE true way of putting the finishing stroke to his fate; he wants nothing now but to die, to crown all his follies. But in vain his indignation, for all the faults he has committed urges him to renounce my aid and my support. I intend, happen what will, to serve him in spite of himself, and vanquish the very devil that possesses him. The greater the obstacle, the greater the glory; and the difficulties which beset us are but a kind of tire-women who deck and adorn virtue.

SCENE XII.

CELIA, MASCARILLE.

CELIA. (TO MASCARILLE, who has been whispering to her). Whatever you may say, and whatever they intend doing, I have no great expectation from this delay. What we have seen hitherto may indeed convince us that they are not as yet likely to agree. I have already told you that a heart like mine will not for the sake of one do an injustice to another, and that I find myself strongly attached to both, though by different ties. If Lelio has love and its power on his side, Andrès has gratitude pleading for him, which will not permit even my most secret thoughts ever to harbour anything against his interests. Yes; if he has no longer a place in my heart, if the gift of my hand must not crown his love, I ought at least to reward that which he has done for me, by not choosing another, in contempt of his flame, and suppress my own inclinations in the same manner as I do his. You have heard the difficulties which duty throws in my way, and you can judge now whether your expectations will be realized.

MASC. To speak the truth, they are very formidable obstacles in our way, and I have not the knack of working miracles; but I will do my utmost, move Heaven and earth, leave no stone unturned to try and discover some happy expedient. I shall soon let you know what can be done.

SCENE XIII.

HIPPOLYTA, CELIA.

HIPP. EVER SINCE you came among us, the ladies of this neighbourhood may well complain of the havoc caused by your eyes, since you deprive them of the greatest part of their conquests, and make all their lovers faithless. There is not a heart which can escape the darts with which you pierce them as soon as they see you; many thousands load themselves with your chains, and seem to enrich you daily at our expense. However, as regards myself, I should make no complaints of the irresistible sway of your exquisite charms, had they left me one of all my lovers to console me for the loss of the others; but it is inhuman in you that without mercy you deprive me of all; I cannot forbear complaining to you.

CEL. You rally in a charming manner, but I beseech you to spare me a little. Those eyes, those very eyes of yours, know their own power too well ever to dread anything that I am able to do; they are too conscious of their own charms, and will never entertain similar feelings of fear.

HIPP. Yet I advance nothing in what I have said which has not already entered the mind of every one, and without mentioning anything else, it is well known that Celia has made a deep impression on Leander and on Lelio.

CEL. I believe you will easily console yourself about their loss, since they have become so infatuated; nor can you regret a lover who could make so ill a choice.

HIPP. On the contrary, I am of quite a different opinion, and discover such great merits in your beauty, and see in it so many reasons sufficient to excuse the inconstancy of those who allow themselves to be attracted by it, that I cannot blame Leander for having changed his love and broken his plighted troth. In a short time, and without either hatred or anger, I shall see him again brought under my sway, when his father shall have exercised his authority.

SCENE XIV.

CELIA, HIPPOLYTA, MASCARILLE.

MASC. GREAT NEWS! great news! a wonderful event which I am now going to tell you!

CEL. What means this?

MASC. Listen. This is, without any compliments…

CEL. What?

MASC. The last scene of a true and genuine comedy. The old gipsy-woman was, but this very moment…

CEL. Well?

MASC. Crossing the market-place, thinking about nothing at all, when another old woman, very haggard-looking, after having closely stared at her for some time, hoarsely broke out in a torrent of abusive language, and thus gave the signal for a furious combat, in which, instead of swords, muskets, daggers, or arrows, nothing was seen but four withered paws, brandished in the air, with which these two combatants endeavoured to tear off the little flesh old age had left on their bones. Not a word was heard but drab, wretch, trull. Their caps, to begin with, were flying about, and left a couple of bald pates exposed to view, which rendered the battle ridiculously horrible. At the noise and hubbub, Andrès and Trufaldin, as well as many others, ran to see what was the matter, and had much ado to part them, so excited were they by passion. Meanwhile each of them, when the storm was abated, endeavoured to hide her head with shame. Everybody wished to know the cause of this ridiculous fray. She who first began it having, notwithstanding the warmth of her passion, looked for some time at Trufaldin, said in a loud voice,— “It is you, unless my sight misgives me, who, I was informed, lived privately in this town; most happy meeting! Yes, Signor Zanobio Ruberti, fortune made me find you out at the very moment I was giving myself so much trouble for your sake. When you left your family at Naples, your daughter, as you know, remained under my care. I brought her up from her youth. When she was only four years old she showed already in a thousand different ways what charms and beauty she would have. That woman you see there — that infamous hag — who had become rather intimate with us, robbed me of that treasure. Your good lady, alas! felt so much grief at this misfortune, that, as I have reason to believe it shortened her days; so that, fearing your severe reproaches because your daughter had been stolen from me, I sent you word that both were dead; but now, as I have found out the thief, she must tell us what has become of your child.” At the name of Zanobio Ruberti, which she repeated several times throughout the story, Andrès, after changing colour often, addressed to the surprised Trufaldin these words: “What! has Heaven most happily brought me to him whom I have hitherto sought in vain! Can I possibly have beheld my father, the author of my being, without knowing him? Yes, father, I am Horatio, your son; my tutor, Albert, having died, I felt anew certain uneasiness in my mind, left Bologna, and abandoning my studies, wandered about for six years in different places, according as my curiosity led me. However, after the expiration of that time, a secret impulse drove me to revisit my kindred and my native country; but in Naples, alas! I could no longer find you, and could only hear vague reports concerning you; so that having in vain tried to meet with you, I ceased to roam about idly, and stopped for a while in Venice. From that time to this I have lived without receiving any other information about my family, except knowing its name.” You may judge whether Trufaldin was not more than ordinarily moved all this while; in one word (to tell you shortly that which you will have an opportunity of learning afterwards more at your leisure, from the confession of the old gipsy-woman), Trufaldin owns you (to Celia) now for his daughter; Andrès is your brother; and as he can no longer think of marrying his sister, and as he acknowledges he is under some obligation to my master, Lelio, he has obtained for him your hand. Pandolphus being present at this discovery, gives his full consent to the marriage; and to complete the happiness of the family, proposes that the newly-found Horatio should marry his daughter. See how many incidents are produced at one and the same time!

CEL. Such tidings perfectly amaze me.

MASC. The whole company follow me, except the two female champions, who are adjusting their toilet after the fray. Leander and your father are also coming. I shall go and inform my master of this, and let him know that when we thought obstacles were increasing, Heaven almost wrought a miracle in his favour. (Exit Mascarille).

HIPP. This fortunate event fills me with as much as joy as if it were my own case. But here they come.

SCENE XV.

TRUFALDIN, ANSELMO, ANDRÈS, CELIA, HIPPOLYTA, LEANDER.

TRUF. MY CHILD!

CEL. Father!

TRUF. Do you already know how Heaven has blest us?

CEL. I have just now heard this wonderful event.

HIPP. (To Leander). You need not find excuses for your past infidelity. The cause of it, which I have before my eyes, is a sufficient excuse.

LEAND. I crave nothing but a generous pardon. I call Heaven to witness that, though I return to my duty suddenly, my father’s authority has influenced me less than my own inclination.

AND. (To Celia). Who could ever have supposed that so chaste a love would one day be condemned by nature? However, honour swayed it always so much, that with a little alteration it may still continue.

CEL. As for me, I blamed myself, and thought I was wrong, because I felt nothing but a very sincere esteem for you. I could not tell what powerful obstacle stopped me in a path so agreeable and so dangerous, and diverted my heart from acknowledging a love which my senses endeavoured to communicate to my soul.

TRUF. (To Celia). But what would you say of me if, as soon as I have found you, I should be thinking of parting with you? I promised your hand to this gentleman’s son.

CEL. I know no will but yours.

The Love-Tiff

Le Dépit amoureux

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

THE LOVE-TIFF (LE Dépit-amoureux) is composed of two pieces joined together. The first and longest is a comparatively modest imitation of a very coarse and indecent Italian comedy, L’Interesse, by Signer Nicolo Secchi; its intrigue depends chiefly on the substitution of a female for a male child, a change which forms the groundwork of many plays and novels, and of which Shakespeare has also made use. The second and best part of the Love-tiff belongs to Molière alone, and is composed chiefly of the whole of the first act, the first six verses of the third scene, and the whole of the fourth scene of the second act; these, with a few alterations and a few. lines added, form, the comedy which the Théâtre Française plays at the present time. It was first represented at Béziers towards the end of 1656, when the States General of Languedoc were assembled in that town, and met with great success; a success which continued when it was played in Paris at the Théâtre du Petit-Bourbon in 1658. Why in some of the former English translations of Molière the servant Gros-René is called “Gros-Renard” we are unable to understand, for both names are thoroughly French. Mr. Ozell, in his translation, gives him the unmistakably English, but not very euphonious name of “punch-gutted Ben, alias Renier,” whilst Foote calls him “Hugh.” The incidents of the Love-tiff are arranged artistically, though in the Spanish taste; the plot is too complicated, and the ending very unnatural. But the characters are well delineated, and fathers, lovers, mistresses, and servants all move about amidst a complication of errors from which there is no visible disentangling. The conversation between Valère and Ascanio in man’s clothes, the mutual begging pardon of Albert and Polydore, the natural astonishment of Lucile, accused in the presence of her father, and the stratagem of Éraste to get the truth from his servants, are all described in a masterly manner, whilst the tiff between Éraste and Lucile, which gives the title to the piece, as well as their reconciliation, are considered among the best scenes of this play.

Nearly all actors in France who play either the valets or the soubrettes have attempted the parts of Gros-René and Marinette, and even the great tragédienne Madlle. Rachel ventured, on the 1st of July, 1844, to act Marinette, but not with much success.

Dryden has imitated, in the fourth act of An Evening’s Love, a small part of the scene between Marinette and Éraste, the quarrelling scene between Lucile, Éraste, Marinette, and Gros-René, as well as in the third act of the same play, the scene between Albert and Metaphrastus. Vanbrugh has very closely followed Molière’s play in the Mistake, but has laid the scene in Spain. This is the principal difference I can perceive. He has paraphased the French with a spirit and ease which a mere translation can hardly ever acquire. The epilogue to his play, written by M. Motteux, a Frenchman, whom the revocation of the Edict of Nantes brought into England, is filthy in the extreme. Mr. J. King has curtailed Vanbrugh’s play into an interlude, in one act, called Lover’s Quarrels, or Like Master Like Man.

Another imitator of Molière was Edward Ravenscroft, of whom Baker says in his Biographia Dramatica, that he was “a writer or compiler of plays, who lived in the reigns of Charles II. and his two successors.” He was descended from the family of the Ravenscrofts, in Flintshire; a family, as he himself, in a dedication asserts, so ancient that when William the Conqueror came into England, one of his nobles married into it.

He was some time a member of the Middle Temple; but, looking on the dry study of the law as greatly beneath the attention of a man of genius, quitted it. He was an arrant plagiary. Dryden attacked one of his plays, The Citizen turned Gentleman, an imitation of Molière’s Bourgeois-Gentilhomme, in the Prologue to The Assignation.

Ravenscroft wrote “The Wrangling Lovers, or the Invisible Mistress. Acted at the Duke’s Theatre, 1677. London, Printed for William Crook, at the sign of the Green Dragon, without Temple-Bar, 1677.” Though the plot was partly taken from a Spanish novel, the author has been inspired by Molière’s Dépit amoureux. The scene is in Toledo: Éraste is called Don Diego de Stuniga, Valère Don Gusman de Haro, “a well-bred cavaliere,” Lucile is Octavia de Pimentell, and Ascanio is Elvira; Gros-René’s name is Sanco, “vallet to Gusman, a simple pleasant fellow,” and Mascarille is Ordgano, “a cunning knave;” Marinette is called Beatrice and Frosine Isabella. The English play is rather too long. Don Gusman courts Elvira veiled, whilst in the French play Ascanio, her counterpart, is believed to be a young man. There is also a brother of Donna Elvira, Don Ruis de Moncade, who is a rival of Don Diego, whilst in le Dépit-amoureux. Valère is not the brother but the husband of Ascanio and the rival of Éraste (Don Diego) as well. The arrangement of the English comedy differs greatly from the French. Though the plot in both plays is nearly identical, yet the words and scenes in The Wrangling Lovers are totally different, and not so amusing. Mascarille and Gros-René are but faintly attempted; Marinette and Frosine only sketched in outline; and in the fifth act the ladies appear to have nothing else to do but to pop in and out of closets. The scenes of the French play between Albert and Metaphrastus (ii. 7); the very comical scene between Albert and Polydore (iii. 4) and the reconciliation scene between Lucile and Éraste (iv. 3), are also not rendered in the English comedy. There are very few scenes which can be compared with those of le Dépit amoureux.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ÉRASTE, IN LOVE with Lucile.

ALBERT, father to Lucile.

[Footnote: This part was played by Molière himself]

GROS-RENÉ, servant to Éraste.

VALÈRE, son to Polydore.

POLYDORE, father to Valère.

MASCARILLE, servant to Valère.

METAPHRASTUS, a pedant.

LA RAPIÉRE, a bully.

LUCILE, daughter to Albert.

ASCANIO, Albert’s daughter, in man’s clothes.

FROSINE, confidant to Ascanio.

MARINETTE, maid to Lucile.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

ÉRASTE, GROS-RENÉ.

ERAS. Shall I declare it to you? A certain secret anxiety never leaves my mind quite at rest. Yes, whatever remarks you make about my love, to tell you the truth, I am afraid of being deceived; or that you may be bribed in order to favour a rival; or, at least, that you may be imposed upon as well as myself.
GR.-RE. As for me, if you suspect me of any knavish trick, I will say, and I trust I give no offence to your honour’s love, that you wound my honesty very unjustly, and that you show but small skill in physiognomy. People of my bulk are not accused, thank Heaven! of being either rogues or plotters. I scarcely need protest against the honour paid to us, but am straightforward in every thing.
[Footnote: Du Parc, the actor who played this part, was very stout; hence the allusion in the original, “et suis homme fort rond de toutes les manieres.” I have, of course, used in the translation the word “straightforward” ironically, and with an eye to the rotundity of stomach of the actor. Molière was rather fond of making allusions in his plays to the infirmities or peculiarities of some of his actors. Thus, in the Miser (l’Avare) Act I, Scene 3, he alludes to the lameness of the actor Béjart, “Je ne me plais point a voir ce chien de boiteux-la.” “I do not like to see that lame dog;” in the Citizen who apes the Nobleman (le Bourgeois gentilhomme), Act iii. sc. 9, he even gives a portrait of his wife.]
As for my being deceived that may be; there is a better foundation for that idea; nevertheless, I do not believe it can be easily done. I may be a fool, but I do not see yet why you vex yourself thus. Lucile, to my thinking, shows sufficient love for you; she sees you and talks to you, at all times; and Valère, after all, who is the cause of your fear, seems only to be allowed to approach her because she is compelled so to act.

ERAS. A lover is often buoyed up by false hope. He who is best received is not always the most beloved. The affection a woman displays is often but a veil to cover her passion for another. Valère has lately shown too much tranquillity for a slighted lover; and the joy or indifference he displays at those favours, which you suppose bestowed upon me, embitters continually their greatest charms, causes this grief, which you cannot understand, holds my happiness in suspense, and makes it difficult for me to trust completely anything Lucile says to me. I should feel delighted if I saw Valère animated by a little more jealousy; his anxiety and impatience would then reassure my heart. Do you as yourself think it possible for any one to see a rival caressed and be as satisfied as he is; if you do not believe it, tell me, I conjure you, if I have not a cause to be perplexed?
GR.-RE. Perhaps he has changed his inclination, upon finding that he sighed in vain.

ERAS. When love has been frequently repelled it frees itself, and wishes to flee from the object it was charmed with; nor does it break its chain so quietly as to be able to continue at peace. When once we have been fond of anyone who influenced our destiny we are never afterwards indifferent in her presence; if our dislike does not increase when we behold her our love is upon the point of returning again. Believe me, however much a passion may be extinguished, a little jealousy still dwells in our breast; no one can see, without feeling some pang, the heart he has lost possessed by another.
GR.-RE. For my part, I do not understand so much philosophy. I candidly believe what my eyes see, and am not such a mortal enemy to myself as to become melancholy without any cause. Why should I try to split hairs, and labour hard to find out reasons to be miserable? Shall I alarm myself about castles in the air? Let Lent come before we keep it! I think grief an uncomfortable thing; and, for my part, I never foster it without good and just cause. I might frequently find a hundred opportunities to become sad, but I do not want to see them. I run the same risk in love as you do; I share in your bad or good luck. The mistress cannot deceive you but the maid will do the same by me; yet I carefully avoid thinking about it. I like to believe people when they say “I love you.” In order to be happy, I do not try to find out whether Mascarille tears the hair out of his head or not. Let Marinette allow herself to be kissed and caressed by Gros-René as much as he likes, and let my charming rival laugh at it like a fool, I will laugh too as much as I like, and follow his example; we shall then see who will laugh the heartiest.
[Footnote: In several editions of Molière we find, instead of Gros-René the name of Jodelet. The latest, and and if I might be permitted to say so, the most careful editor of our author, Mons. E. Despois, thinks that “Gros-René” ought to be mentioned here. The sense shows he is right.]

ERAS. That is like your talk.
GR.-RE. But here she comes.

SCENE II.

MARINETTE, ÉRASTE, GROS-RENÉ.

GR.-RE. Hist! Marinette.

MAR. Hallo! what are you doing there?
GR.-RE. Faith! do you ask? We were just talking about you.

MAR. Are you there too, sir? Upon my word you have made me trot about like a flunkey for this hour past.

ERAS. How so?

MAR. I have walked ten miles to look for you, and give you my word that…

ERAS. What?

MAR. That you were neither at church, in the fashionable walk, at home, nor in the market-place.
GR.-RE. You may swear to that.

ERAS. But pray, tell me who sent you?

MAR. One, in good truth, who bears you no great ill-will; in a word, my mistress.

ERAS. Ah! dear Marinette, do your words really express what she feels? Do not hide some ominous secret from me. I should not dislike you for this. For Heaven’s sake tell me if your charming mistress does not merely pretend to love me?

MAR. Ha! ha! ha! What has put that funny notion into your head? Does she not sufficiently show her inclination? What further security does your love demand? What does it require?
GR.-RE. Unless Valère hangs himself, or some such trifle, he will not be reassured.

MAR. How so?
GR.-RE. He is so very jealous.

MAR. Of Valère? Ha! a pretty fancy indeed! It could only be hatched in your brain. I thought you a man of sense, and until now had a good opinion of your intellect; but I see I was very much deceived. Have you also got a touch of this distemper in your head?
GR.-RE. I jealous? Heaven forbid! and keep me from being so silly as to go and make myself lean with any such grief. Your heart guarantees your fidelity; besides, I have too good an opinion of myself to believe that any other could please you after me. Where the deuce could you find any one equal to me?

MAR. You really are right; that is as it should be. A jealous man should never show his suspicions! All that he gains by it is to do himself harm, and in this manner furthers the designs of his rival. Your distrust often is the cause that a mistress pays attention to a man, before whose merits your own have paled. I know a certain person who, were it not for the preposterous jealousy of a rival, had never been so happy as he now is. But, in any case, to show suspicion in love is acting a foolish part, and after all is to make one’s-self miserable for nothing. This, sir (to Éraste), I mean as a hint to you.

ERAS. Very well, let us talk no more about it. What have you to say to me?

MAR. You deserve to be kept in suspense, In order to punish you, I ought to keep from you the great secret which has made me hunt for you so long. Here, read this letter, and doubt no more. Read it aloud, nobody listens.

ERAS. (Reads). “You told me that your love was capable of doing anything It may be crowned this very day, if you can but get my father’s consent. Acquaint him with the power you have over my heart; I give you leave so to do; if his reply be favourable, I can answer for it that I shall obey.” Ah I how happy am I! I ought to look upon you, the bearer of this letter, as a divine creature.
GR.-RE. I told you so. Though you do not believe it, I am seldom deceived in the things I ponder on.

ERAS. (Reading the letter again). “Acquaint him with the power you have over my heart; I give you leave so to do; if his reply be favourable, I can answer for it that I shall obey.”

MAR. If I should tell her you are weak-minded enough to be jealous, she would immediately disown such a letter as this.

ERAS. I beseech you, conceal from her a momentary fear, for which I thought I had some slight foundation; or, if you do tell it her, say to her at the same time that I am ready to atone for my fit of madness with my life, and would die at her feet, if I have been capable of displeasing her.

MAR. Let us not talk of dying; this is no time for it.

ERAS. However, you have laid me under a great obligation; I intend shortly to acknowledge in a handsome manner the trouble so gentle and so lovely a messenger has taken.

MAR. That reminds me. Do you know where I looked for you just now?

ERAS. Well?

MAR. Quite near the market-place; you know where that is.

ERAS. Where did you say?

MAR. There… in that shop where last month you generously and freely promised me a ring.

ERAS. Um! I understand you.
GR.-RE. What a cunning jade!

ERAS. It is true; I have delayed too long to make good my promise to you, but…

MAR. What I said, sir, was not because I wished you to make haste.
GR.-RE. Oh, no!

ERAS. (Giving her his ring). Perhaps this ring may please you; accept it instead of the one I owe.

MAR. You are only jesting, sir; I should be ashamed to take it.
GR.-RE. Poor shame-faced creature! Take it without more ado; only fools refuse what is offered them.

MAR. I will only accept it so that I may have something to remember you by.

ERAS. When may I return thanks to that lovely angel?

MAR. Endeavour to gain over her father.

ERAS. But if he rejects me, should I…?

MAR. We will think about that when he does so! We will do our utmost for you: one way or another she must be yours; do your best, and we will do ours.

ERAS. Farewell! we shall know our fate to-day. (Éraste reads the letter again to himself).

MAR. (To Gros-René). Well, what shall we say of our love? You do not speak to me of it.
GR.-RE. If such people as we wish to be married, the thing is soon done.
I will have you. Will you have me?

MAR. Gladly.
GR.-RE. Shake hands, that is enough.

MAR. Farewell, Gros-René, my heart’s delight.
GR.-RE. Farewell, my star.

MAR. Farewell, fair fire-brand of my flame.
GR.-RE. Farewell, dear comet, rainbow of my soul. (Exit Marinette). Heaven be praised, our affairs go on swimmingly. Albert is not a man to refuse you anything.

ERAS. Valère is coming here.
GR.-RE. I pity the poor wretch, knowing what I do know.

SCENE III.

ÉRASTE, VALÈRE, GROS-RENÉ.

ERAS. WELL, VALÈRE?

VAL. Well, Éraste?

ERAS. How does your love prosper?

VAL. And how does yours?

ERAS. It grows stronger and stronger every day.

VAL. So does mine.

ERAS. For Lucile?

VAL. For her.

ERAS. Certainly, I must own, you are a pattern of uncommon constancy.

VAL. And your perseverance will be a rare example to posterity.

ERAS. As for me, I am not very fond of that austere kind of love which is satisfied with looks only; nor do I possess feelings lofty enough to endure ill-treatment with constancy. In one word, when I really love, I wish to be beloved again.

VAL. It is very natural, and I am of the same opinion. I would never do homage to the most perfect object by whom I could be smitten, if she did not return my passion.

ERAS. However, Lucile…

VAL. Lucile does willingly everything my passion can desire.

ERAS. You are easily satisfied then.

VAL. Not so easily as you may think.

ERAS. I, however, may, without vanity, believe that I am in her favour.

VAL. And I know that I have a very good share of it.

ERAS. Do not deceive yourself; believe me.

VAL. Believe me, do not be too credulous, and take too much for granted.

ERAS. If I might show you a certain proof that her heart…but no, it would too much distress you.

VAL. If I might discover a secret to you…but it might grieve you, and so I will be discreet.

ERAS. You really urge me too far, and though much against my will, I see
I must lower your presumption. Read that.

VAL. (After having read the letter). These are tender words.

ERAS. You know the handwriting?

VAL. Yes, it is Lucile’s.

ERAS. Well! where is now your boasted certainty…?

VAL. (Smiling and going away). Farewell, Éraste.
GR.-RE. He is mad, surely. What reason has he to laugh?

ERAS. He certainly surprises me, and between ourselves I cannot imagine what the deuce of a mystery is hidden under this.
GR.-RE. Here comes his servant, I think.

ERAS. Yes, it is he; let us play the hypocrite, to set him talking about his master’s love.

SCENE IV.

ÉRASTE, MASCARILLE, GROS-RENÉ.

MASC. (Aside). No, I do not know a more wretched situation, than to have a young master, very much in love.
GR.-RE. Good morning.

MASC. Good morning.
GR.-RE. Where is Mascarille going just now? What is he doing? Is he coming back? Is he going away? Or does he intend to stay where he is?

MASC. No, I am not coming back, because I have not yet been where I am going; nor am I going, for I am stopped; nor do I design to stay, for this very moment I intend to be gone.

ERAS. You are very abrupt, Mascarille; gently.

MASC. Ha! Your servant, sir.

ERAS. You are in great haste to run away from us: what! do I frighten you?

MASC. You are too courteous to do that.

ERAS. Shake hands; all jealousy is now at an end between us; we will be friends; I have relinquished my love; henceforth you can have your own way to further your happiness.

MASC. Would to Heaven it were true!

ERAS. Gros-René knows that I have already another flame elsewhere.
GR.-RE. Certainly; and I also give up Marinette to you.

MASC. Do not let us touch on that point; our rivalry is not likely to go to such a length. But is it certain, sir, that you are no longer in love, or do you jest?

ERAS. I have been informed that your master is but too fortunate in his amours; I should be a fool to pretend any longer to gain the same favours which that lady grants to him alone.

MASC. Certainly, you please me with this news. Though I was rather afraid of you, with regard to our plans, yet you do wisely to slip your neck out of the collar. You have done well to leave a house where you were only caressed for form’s sake; I, knowing all that was going on, have many times pitied you, because you were allured by expectations, which could never be realized. It is a sin and a shame to deceive a gentleman! But how the deuce, after all, did you find out the trick? For when they plighted their faith to each other there were no witnesses but night, myself, and two others; and the tying of the knot, which satisfies the passion of our lovers, is thought to have been kept a secret till now.

ERAS. Ha! What do you say?

MASC. I say that I am amazed, sir, and cannot guess who told you, that under this mask, which deceives you and everybody else, a secret marriage unites their matchless love.

ERAS. You lie.

MASC. Sir, with all my heart.

ERAS. You are a rascal.

MASC. I acknowledge I am.

ERAS. And this impudence deserves a sound beating on the spot.

MASC. I am completely in your power,

ERAS. Ha! Gros-René.
GR.-RE. Sir?

ERAS, I contradict a story, which I much fear is but too true. (To
Mascarille). You wanted to run away.

MASC. Not in the least.

ERAS. What! Lucile is married to…

MASC. No, sir, I was only joking.

ERAS. Hey! you were joking, you wretch?

MASC. No, I was not joking.

ERAS. Is it true then?

MASC. No, I do not say that.

ERAS. What do you say then?

MASC. Alas! I say nothing, for fear of saying something wrong.

ERAS. Tell me positively, whether you have spoken the truth, or deceived me.

MASC. Whatever you please. I do not come here to contradict you.

ERAS. (Drawing his sword). Will you tell me? Here is something that will loosen your tongue without more ado.

MASC. It will again be saying some foolish speech or other. I pray you, if you have no objection, let me quickly have a few stripes, and then allow me to scamper off.

ERAS. You shall suffer death, unless you tell me the whole truth without disguise.

MASC. Alas! I will tell it then; but perhaps, sir, I shall make you angry.

ERAS. Speak: but take great care what you are doing; nothing shall save you from my just anger, if you utter but one single falsehood in your narration.

MASC. I agree to it; break my legs, arms, do worse to me still, kill me, if I have deceived you in the smallest degree, in anything I have said.

ERAS. It is true then that they are married?

MASC. With regard to this, I can now clearly see that my tongue tripped; but, for all that, the business happened just as I told you. It was after five visits paid at night, and whilst you were made use of as a screen to conceal their proceedings, that they were united the day before yesterday. Lucile ever since tries still more to hide the great love she bears my master, and desires he will only consider whatever he may see, and whatever favours she may show you, as the results of her deep-laid scheme, in order to prevent the discovery of their secrets. If, notwithstanding my protestations, you doubt the truth of what I have told you, Gros-René may come some night along with me, and I will show him, as I stand and watch, that we shall be admitted into her house, after dark.

ERAS. Out of my sight, villain.

MASC. I shall be delighted to go; that is just what I want. (Exit).

SCENE V.

ÉRASTE, GROS-RENÉ.

ERAS. Well?
GR.-RE. Well! Sir, we are both taken in if this fellow speaks the truth.

ERAS. Alas! The odious rascal has spoken the truth too well. All that he has said is very likely to have happened; Valère’s behaviour, at the sight of this letter, denotes that there is a collusion between them, and that it is a screen to hide Lucile’s love for him.

SCENE VI.

ÉRASTE, MARINETTE, GROS-RENÉ.

MAR. I COME to tell you that this evening my mistress permits you to see her in the garden.

ERAS. How dare you address me, you hypocritical traitress? Get out of my sight, and tell your mistress not to trouble me any more with her letters; that is the regard, wretch, I have for them. (He tears the letter and goes out).

MAR. Tell me, Gros-René, what ails him?
GR.-RE. Dare you again address me, iniquitous female, deceitful crocodile, whose base heart is worse than a satrap or a Lestrigon?
[Footnote: See Homer’s Odyssey, X., v. 81-132.]
Go, go, carry your answer to your lovely mistress, and tell her short and sweet, that in spite of all her cunning, neither my master nor I are any longer fools, and that henceforth she and you may go to the devil together. (Exit).

MAR. My poor Marinette, are you quite awake? What demon are they possessed by? What? Is it thus they receive our favours? How shocked my mistress will be when she hears this!

* * * * *

ACT II.

SCENE I.

ASCANIO, FROSINE.

FROS. THANK HEAVEN! I am a girl who can keep a secret, Ascanio.

ASC. But is this place private enough for such a conversation? Let us take care that nobody surprises us, or that we be not overheard from some corner or other.

FROS. We should be much less safe within the house; here we can easily see anybody coming, and may speak in perfect safety.

ASC. Alas! how painful it is for me to begin my tale!

FROS. Sure, this must be an important secret then?

ASC. Too much so, since I even entrust it to you with reluctance; even you should not know it, if I could keep it concealed any longer.

FROS. Fie! you insult me when you hesitate to trust in me, whom you have ever found so reserved in everything that concerns you — me, who was brought up with you, and have kept secret things of so great an importance to you; me, who know…

ASC. Yes, you are already acquainted with the secret reason which conceals from the eyes of the world my sex and family. You know that I was brought into this house, where I have passed my infancy, in order to preserve an inheritance which, on the death of young Ascanio (whom I personate), should have fallen to others; that is why I dare to unbosom myself to you with perfect confidence. But before we begin this conversation, Frosine, clear up a doubt which continually besets me. Can it be possible that Albert should know nothing of the secret, which thus disguises my sex, and makes him my father?

FROS. To tell you the truth, what you now wish to know has also greatly puzzled me. I have never been able to get at the bottom of this intrigue, nor could my mother give me any further insight. When Albert’s son died, who was so much beloved, and to whom a very rich uncle bequeathed a great deal of property, even before his birth; his mother kept his death secret, fearing that her husband, who was absent at the time, would have gone distracted, had he seen that great inheritance, from which his family would have reaped such advantage, pass into the hands of another. She, I say, in order to conceal this misfortune formed the plan of putting you into the place of her lost son; you were taken from our family, where you were brought up. Your mother gave her consent to this deceit; you took the son’s place, and every one was bribed to keep the secret. Albert has never known it through us, and as his wife kept it for more than twelve years, and died suddenly, her unexpected death prevented her from disclosing it. I perceive, however, that he keeps up an acquaintance with your real mother, and that, in private, he assists her; perhaps all this is not done without a reason. On the other hand, he commits a blunder by urging you to marry some young lady! Perhaps he knows that you took the place of his son, without knowing that you are a girl. But this digression might gradually carry us too far; let us return to that secret which I am impatient to hear.

ASC. Know then that Cupid cannot be deceived, that I have not been able to disguise my sex from love’s eyes, and that his subtle shafts have reached the heart of a weak woman beneath the dress I wear. In four words, I am in love!

FROS. You in love!

ASC. Gently, Frosine; do not be quite so astonished; it is not time yet; this love-sick heart has something else to tell you that will surprise you.

FROS. What is it?

ASC. I am in love with Valère.

FROS. Ha! I really am surprised. What! you love a man whose family your deceit has deprived of a rich inheritance, and who, if he had the least suspicion of your sex, would immediately regain everything. This is a still greater subject of astonishment.

ASC. I have a more wonderful surprise for you yet in store — I am his wife.

FROS. Oh, Heavens! his wife!

ASC. Yes, his wife.

FROS. Ha! this is worse than all, and nearly drives me mad.

ASC. And yet this is not all.

FROS. Not all!

ASC. I am his wife, I say, and he does not think so, nor has he the least idea of what I really am.

FROS. Go on, I give it up, and will not say any thing more, so much every word amazes me. I cannot comprehend anything of these riddles.

ASC. I shall explain if you will but hear me. Valère who admired my sister, seemed to me a lover worthy of being listened to; I could not bear to see his addresses slighted without feeling a certain interest in him. I wished that Lucile should take pleasure in his conversation, I blamed her severity, and blamed it so effectually, that I myself, without being able to help it, became affected with that passion which she could not entertain. He was talking to her, and persuaded me; I suffered myself to be overcome by the very sighs he breathed; and the love, rejected by the object of his flame, entered, like a conqueror, into my heart, which was wounded by an arrow, not aimed at it, and paid another’s debt with heavy interest. At last, my dear, the love I felt for him forced me to declare myself, but under a borrowed name. One night I spoke to him, disguising my voice as if it were Lucile’s, and this too amiable lover thought she returned his love; I managed the conversation so well that he never found out the deception. Under that disguise which pleased so much his deluded imagination, I told him that I was enamoured of him, but that, finding my father opposed to my wishes, I ought at least to pretend to obey him; that therefore it behooved us to keep our love secret, with which the night alone should be acquainted; that all private conversation should be avoided during the day, for fear of betraying everything; that he should behold me with the same indifference as he did before we had come to an understanding; and that on his part, as well as mine, no communication should take place either by gesture, word, or writing. In short, without dwelling any longer upon all the pains I have taken to bring this deception to a safe termination, I went on with my bold project as far as it was possible to go, and secured the husband I mentioned to you.

FROS. Upon my word, you possess great talents. Would any one think so, on seeing her passionless countenance? However, you have been pretty hasty, and though I grant that the affair has succeeded until now, what do you think will be the end of it, for it cannot be long concealed?

ASC. When love is strong it overcomes all obstacles, until it is satisfied; provided it reaches the wished-for goal, it looks upon everything else as a mere trifle. I have told you all to-day, so that your advice… But here comes my husband.

SCENE II.

VALÈRE, ASCANIO, FROSINE.

VAL. IF YOU are conversing, and if my presence is any interruption, I shall withdraw.

ASC. No; you may well interrupt it, since we were talking about you.

VAL. About me?

ASC. About yourself.

VAL. How so?

ASC. I was saying, that if I had been a woman, Valère would have been able to please me but too well, and that if I had been beloved by him, I should not have delayed long to make him happy.

VAL. This declaration does not cost you much, as there is such an if in the way; but you would be finely caught if some miraculous event should put to the proof the truth of so obliging a declaration.

ASC. Not in the least; I tell you that if I reigned in your heart, I would very willingly crown your passion.

VAL. And what, if you might contribute to my happiness, by assisting me to further my love?

ASC. I should then, certainly, disappoint you.

VAL. This admission is not very polite.

ASC. What, Valère? Supposing I were a woman and loved you tenderly, would you be so cruel as to make me promise to aid you in your love for another lady? I could not perform such a painful task.

VAL. But you are not a woman.

ASC. What I said to you I said in the character of a woman, and you ought to take it so.

VAL. Thus I ought not to imagine you like me, Ascanio, unless Heaven works a miracle in you. Therefore, as you are not a woman, I bid farewell to your affection; you do not care in the least for me.

ASC. My feelings are far more nice than people imagine, and the smallest misgiving shocks me when love is in the case. But I am sincere; I will not promise to aid you, Valère, unless you assure me that you entertain precisely the same sentiments for me; that you feel the same warmth of friendship for me as I feel for you; and that if I were a woman you would love no one better than me.

VAL. I never before heard of such a jealous scruple, but though quite unexpected, this affection obliges me to make some return for it; I here promise you all you require of me.

ASC. But sincerely?

VAL. Yes, sincerely.

ASC. If this be true, I promise you that henceforth your interests shall be mine.

VAL. I have a secret of the utmost consequence to reveal to you by and by, and then I shall remind you of your words.

ASC. And I have likewise a secret to discover to you, wherein your affection for me may show itself.

VAL. Indeed! what can that be?

ASC. I have a love affair which I dare not reveal, and you have influence enough over the object of my passion to promote my happiness.

VAL. Explain yourself, Ascanio, and be assured beforehand that, if your happiness lies in my power, it is certain.

ASC. You promise more than you imagine.

VAL. No, no; tell me the name of the person whom I have to influence.

ASC. It is not yet time, but it is a person who is nearly related to you.

VAL. Your words amaze me; would to Heaven my sister…

ASC. This is not the proper time to explain myself, I tell you.

VAL. Why so?

ASC. For a certain reason. You shall know my secret when I know yours.

VAL. I must have another person’s permission before I can discover it to you.

ASC. Obtain it then; and when we shall have explained ourselves we shall see which of us two will best keep his word.

VAL. Farewell, I accept your offer.

ASC. And I will be bound by it, Valère. (Exit Valère.)

FROS. He thinks you will help him as a brother.

SCENE III.

LUCILE, ASCANIO, MARINETTE, FROSINE.

LUC. (SAYING THE first words to Marinette). I have done it; it is thus I can revenge myself; if this step torments him, it will be a great consolation to me… Brother, you perceive a change in me; I am resolved to love Valère, after so much ill-usage; he shall become the object of my affection.

ASC. What do you say, sister? How do you change so suddenly? This inconstancy seems to me very strange.

LUC. Your change of disposition has more cause to surprise me. You formerly used always to plead in favour of Valère; for his sake you have accused me of caprice, blind cruelty, pride and injustice; and now, when I wish to love him, my intention displeases you, and I find you speaking against his interest.

ASC. I abandon his interest, sister, out of regard to yours. I know he is under the sway of another fair one; it will be a discredit to your charms if you call him back, and he does not come.

LUC. If that is all, I shall take care not to suffer a defeat; I know what I am to believe of his passion; he has shown it very clearly, at least so I think; you may safely discover my sentiments to him: or if you refuse to do it, I, myself shall let him know that his passion has touched me. What! you stand thunderstruck, brother, at those words!

ASC. Oh, sister, if I have any influence over you, if you will listen to a brother’s entreaties, abandon such a design; do not take away Valère from the love of a young creature, in whom I feel great interest, and for whom, upon my word, you ought to feel some sympathy. The poor unfortunate woman loves him to distraction; to me alone she has disclosed her passion; I perceive in her heart such a tender affection, that it might soften even the most relentless being. Yes, you yourself will pity her condition when she shall become aware with what stroke you threaten to crush her love; so sure am I of the excess of her grief, that I am certain, sister, she will die, if you rob her of the man she adores. Éraste is a match that ought to satisfy you, and the mutual affection you have for one another…

LUC. Brother, it is sufficient! I do not know in whom you take such an interest; but let us not continue this conversation, I beg of you; leave me a little to my own thoughts.

ASC. Cruel sister, you will drive me to despair if you carry your design into execution.

SCENE IV.

LUCILE, MARINETTE.

MAR. YOUR RESOLUTION, madam, is very sudden.

LUC. A heart considers nothing when it is once affronted, but flies to its revenge, and eagerly lays hold of whatever it thinks can minister to its resentment. The wretch! To treat me with such extreme insolence!

MAR. You see I have not yet recovered the effects; though I were to brood over it to all eternity, I cannot understand it, and all my labour is in vain. For never did a lover express more delight on receiving good news; so pleased was he with your kind note that he called me nothing less than a divine creature; and yet, when I brought him the other message, there was never a poor girl treated so scurvily. I cannot imagine what could happen in so short a time to occasion so great a change.

LUC. Do not trouble yourself about what may have happened, since nothing shall secure him against my hatred. What! do you think there is any secret reason for this affront but his own baseness? Does the unfortunate letter I sent him, and for which I now blame myself, present the smallest excuse for his madness?

MAR. Indeed, I must say you are right; this quarrel is downright treachery; we have both been duped, and yet, madam, we listen to these faithless rascals who promise everything; who, in order to hook us, feign so much tenderness; we let our severity melt before their fine speeches, and yield to their wishes, because we are too weak! A shame on our folly, and a plague take the men!

LUC. Well, well! let him boast and laugh at us; he shall not long have cause to triumph; I will let him see that in a well-balanced mind hatred follows close on slighted favours.

MAR. At least, in such a case, it is a great happiness to know that we are not in their power. Notwithstanding all that was said, Marinette was right the other night to interfere when some people were in a very merry mood. Another, in hopes of matrimony, would have listened to the temptation, but nescio vos, quoth I.
[Footnote: These two Latin words, which were in very common use in France, during Molière’s time, are taken from the Vulgate, Matthew xxv. 12: “Domine, domine, aperi nobis.” — At ille respondens ait: “Amen dico vobis, nescio vos.”]

LUC. How foolishly you talk; how ill you choose your time to joke! My heart is full of grief. If ever fate wills it that this false lover, — but I am in the wrong to conceive at present any such expectation; for Heaven has been too well pleased to afflict me to put it in my power to be revenged on him, — but if ever a propitious fate, I say, should cause Éraste to come back to me, and lay down his life as a sacrifice at my feet, as well as declare his sorrow for what he has done to-day, I forbid you, above all things, to speak to me in his favour. On the contrary, I would have you show your zeal by setting fully before me the greatness of his crime; if my heart should be tempted ever to degrade itself so far, let your affection then show itself; spare me not, but support my anger as is fit.

MAR. Oh! do not fear! leave that to me; I am at least as angry as you; I would rather remain a maid all my life than that my fat rascal should give me any inclination for him again. If he comes…

SCENE V.

MARINETTE, LUCILE, ALBERT.

ALB. GO IN, Lucile, and tell the tutor to come to me; I wish to have a little talk with him; and as he is the master of Ascanio, find out what is the cause that the latter has been of late so gloomy.

SCENE VI.

ALBERT, alone.

INTO WHAT AN abyss of cares and perplexities does one unjust action precipitate us. For a long time I have suffered a great deal because I was too avaricious, and passed off a stranger for my dead son. When I consider the mischief which followed I sincerely wish I had never thought of it. Sometimes I dread to behold my family in poverty and covered with shame, when the deception will be found out; at other times I fear a hundred accidents that may happen to this son whom it concerns me so much to preserve. If any business calls me abroad, I am afraid of hearing, on my return, some such melancholy tidings as these: “You know, I suppose? Have they not told you? Your son has a fever; or he has broken his leg or his arm.” In short, every moment, no matter what I do, all kinds of apprehensions are continually entering into my head. Ha!

SCENE VII.

ALBERT, METAPHRASTUS.

MET. Mandatum tuum euro diligenter.
[Footnote: “I hasten to obey your order.”]

ALB. Master, I want to…

MET. Master is derived from magis ter; it is as though you say “thrice greater.”

ALB. May I die if I knew that; but, never mind, be it so. Master, then…

MET. Proceed.

ALB. So I would, but do not proceed to interrupt me thus. Once more, then, master, for the third time, my son causes me some uneasiness. You know that I love him, and that I always brought him up carefully.

MET. It is true: filio non potest praeferri nisi filius.
[Footnote: “To a son one can only prefer a son.” An allusion to an article of feudal law.]

ALB. Master, I do not think this jargon at all necessary in common conversation. I believe you are a great Latin scholar and an eminent doctor, for I rely on those who have told me so; but in a conversation which I should like to have with you, do not display all your learning — do not play the pedant, and utter ever so many words, as if you were holding forth in a pulpit. My father, though he was a very clever man, never taught me anything but my prayers; and though I have said them daily for fifty years, they are still High-Dutch to me. Therefore, do not employ your prodigious knowledge, but adapt your language to my weak understanding.

MET. Be it so.

ALB. My son seems to be afraid of matrimony; whenever I propose a match to him, he seems indifferent, and draws back.

MET. Perhaps he is of the temper of Mark Tully’s brother, whom he writes about to Atticus. This is what the Greeks call athanaton….
[Footnote: Immortal.]

ALB. For Heaven’s sake! you ceaseless teacher, I pray you have done with the Greeks, the Albanians, the Sclavonians, and all the other nations you have mentioned; they have nothing to do with my son.

MET. Well then, your son…?

ALB. I do not know whether a secret love does not burn within him. Something disturbs him, or I am much deceived; for I saw him yesterday, when he did not see me, in a corner of the wood, where no person ever goes.

MET. In a recess of a grove, you mean, a remote spot, in Latin secessus. Virgil says, est in secessu locus…
[Footnote: “There is a remote spot”]

ALB. How could Virgil say that, since I am certain that there was not a soul in that quiet spot except us two?

MET. I quote Virgil as a famous author, who employed a more correct expression than the word you used, and not as a witness of what you saw yesterday.

ALB. I tell you I do not need a more correct expression, an author, or a witness, and that my own testimony is sufficient.

MET. However, you ought to choose words which are used by the best authors: tu vivendo bonos, scribendo sequare peritos, as the saying is.
[Footnote: “Regulate your conduct after the example of good people, your style after good authors.”]

ALB. Man or devil, will you hear me without disputing?

MET. That is Quintilian’s rule.

ALB. Hang the chatterbox!

MET. He has a very learned sentence upon a similar subject, which, I am sure, you will be very glad to hear.

ALB. I will be the devil to carry you off, you wretch. Oh! I am very much tempted to apply something to those chops.

MET. Sir, what is the reason that you fly in such a passion! What do you wish me to do?

ALB. I have told you twenty times; I wish you to listen to me when I speak.

MET. Oh! undoubtedly, you shall be satisfied if that is all. I am silent.

ALB. You act wisely.

MET. I am ready to hear what you have to say.

ALB. So much the better.

MET. May I be struck dead if I say another word!

ALB. Heaven grant you that favour.

MET. You shall not accuse me henceforth of talkativeness.

ALB. Be it so.

MET. Speak whenever you please.

ALB. I am going to do so.

MET. And do not be afraid of my interrupting you.

ALB. That is enough.

MET. My word is my bond.

ALB. I believe so.

MET. I have promised to say nothing.

ALB. That is sufficient.

MET. From this moment I am dumb.

ALB. Very well.

MET. Speak; go on; I will give you a hearing at least; you shall not complain that I cannot keep silent; I will not so much as open my mouth.

ALB. (Aside). The wretch!

MET. But pray, do not be prolix. I have listened already a long time, and it is reasonable that I should speak in my turn.

ALB. Detestable torturer!

MET. Hey! good lack! would you have me listen to you for ever? Let us share the talk, at least, or I shall be gone.

ALB. My patience is really…

MET. What, will you proceed? You have not done yet? By Jove, I am stunned.

ALB. I have not spoken…

MET. Again! good Heavens! what exuberant speechifying! Can nothing be done to stop it?

ALB. I am mad with rage.

MET. You are talking again! What a peculiar way of tormenting people! Let me say a few words, I entreat you; a fool who says nothing cannot be distinguished from a wise man who holds his tongue.

ALB. Zounds! I will make you hold yours. (Exit).

SCENE VIII.

METAPHRASTUS, alone.

HENCE COMES VERY properly that saying of a philosopher, “Speak, that I may know thee.” Therefore, if the liberty of speaking is taken from me, I, for my part, would as soon be divested of my humanity, and exchange my being for that of a brute. I shall have a headache for a week. Oh! how I detest these eternal talkers! But if learned men are not listened to, if their mouths are for ever to be stopped, then the order of events must be changed; the hens in a little time will devour the fox; young children teach old men; little lambs take a delight in pursuing the wolf; fools make laws; women go to battle; judges be tried by criminals; and masters whipped by pupils; a sick man prescribe for a healthy one; a timorous hare…

SCENE IX.

ALBERT, METAPHRASTUS.

(ALBERT RINGS A bell in the ears of Metaphrastus, and drives him off).

MET. Mercy on me! Help! help!

* * * * *

ACT III.

SCENE I.

MASCARILLE, alone.

HEAVEN SOMETIMES FAVOURS a bold design; we must get out of a bad business as well as we can. As for me, after having imprudently talked too much, the quickest remedy I could employ was to go on in the same way, and immediately to tell to our old master the whole intrigue. His son is a giddy-brained mortal, who worries me; but if the other tells what I have discovered to him, then I had better take care, for I shall get a beating. However, before his fury can be kindled, some lucky thing may happen to us, and the two old men may arrange the business between themselves. That is what I am going to attempt; without losing a moment I must, by my master’s order, go and see Albert. (Knocks at Albert’s door).

SCENE II.

ALBERT, MASCARILLE.

ALB. WHO KNOCKS?

MASC. A friend.

ALB. What brings you hither, Mascarille?

MASC. I come, sir, to wish you good-morning.

ALB. Hah! you really take a great deal of pains. Good-morning, then, with all my heart. (He goes in).

MASC. The answer is short and sweet. What a blunt old fellow he is. (Knocks).

ALB. What, do you knock again?

MASC. You have not heard me, sir.

ALB. Did you not wish me good-morning?

MASC. I did.

ALB. Well, then, good morning I say. (Is going; Mascarille stops him).

MASC. But I likewise come to pay Mr. Polydore’s compliments to you.

ALB. Oh! that is another thing. Has your master ordered you to give his compliments to me?

MASC. Yes.

ALB. I am obliged to him; you may go; tell him I wish him all kind of happiness. (Exit).

MASC. This man is an enemy to all ceremony. (Knocks). I have not finished, sir, giving you his whole message; he has a favour to request of you.

ALB. Well, whenever he pleases, I am at his service.

MASC. (Stopping him). Stay, and allow me to finish in two words. He desires to have a few minutes’ conversation with you about an important affair, and he will come hither.

ALB. Hey! what affair can that be which makes him wish to have some conversation with me?

MASC. A great secret, I tell you, which he has but just discovered, and which, no doubt, greatly concerns you both. And now I have delivered my message.

SCENE III.

ALBERT, alone.

ALB. RIGHTEOUS HEAVENS! how I tremble! Polydore and I have had little acquaintance together; my designs will all be overthrown; this secret is, no doubt, that of which I dread the discovery. They have bribed somebody to betray me; so there is a stain upon my honour which can never be wiped off. My imposture is found out. Oh! how difficult it is to keep the truth concealed for any length of time! How much better would it have been for me and my reputation had I followed the dictates of a well-founded apprehension! Many times and oft have I been tempted to give up to Polydore the wealth I withhold from him, in order to prevent the outcry that will be raised against me when everything shall be known, and so get the whole business quietly settled. But, alas! it is now too late, the opportunity is gone, and this wealth, which wrongfully came into my family, will be lost to them, and sweep away the greatest part of my own property with it.

SCENE IV.

ALBERT, POLYDORE.

POL. (NOT SEEING Albert). To be married in this fashion, and no one knowing anything about it! I hope it may all end well! I do not know what to think of it; I much fear the great wealth and just anger of the father. But I see him alone.

ALB. Oh, Heavens! yonder comes Polydore.

POL. I tremble to accost him.

ALB. Fear keeps me back.

POL. How shall I begin?

ALB. What shall I say?

POL. He is in a great passion.

ALB. He changes colour.

POL. I see, Signor Albert, by your looks, that you know already what brings me hither.

ALB. Alas! yes.

POL. The news, indeed, may well surprise you, and I could scarcely believe what I was told just now.

ALB. I ought to blush with shame and confusion.

POL. I think such an action deserves great blame, and do not pretend to excuse the guilty.

ALB. Heaven is merciful to miserable sinners.

POL. You should bear this in mind.

ALB. A man ought to behave as a Christian.

POL. That is quite right.

ALB. Have mercy; for Heaven’s sake, have mercy, Signor Polydore.

POL. It is for me to implore it of you.

ALB. Grant me mercy; I ask it on my bended knees.

POL. I ought to be in that attitude rather than you.
[Footnote: The two old men are kneeling opposite to one another.]

ALB. Pity my misfortune.

POL. After such an outrage I am the postulant.

ALB. Your goodness is heart-rending.

POL. You abash me with so much humility.

ALB. Once more, pardon.

POL. Alas! I crave it of you.

ALB. I am extremely sorry for this business.

POL. And I feel it greatly.

ALB. I venture to entreat you not to make it public.

POL. Alas, Signor Albert, I desire the very same.

ALB. Let us preserve my honour.

POL. With all my heart.

ALB. As for money, you shall determine how much you require.

POL. I desire no more than you are willing to give; you shall be the master in all these things, I shall be but too happy if you are so.

ALB. Ha! what a God-like man! how very kind he is!

POL. How very kind you are yourself, and that after such a misfortune.

ALB. May you be prosperous in all things!

POL. May Heaven preserve you!

ALB. Let us embrace like brothers.

POL. With all my heart! I am overjoyed that everything has ended so happily,

ALB. I thank Heaven for it.

POL. I do not wish to deceive you; I was afraid you would resent that Lucile has committed a fault with my son; and as you are powerful, have wealth and friends…

ALB. Hey! what do you say of faults and Lucile?

POL. Enough, let us not enter into a useless conversation. I own my son is greatly to blame; nay, if that will satisfy you, I will admit that he alone is at fault; that your daughter was too virtuous, and would never have taken a step so derogatory to honour, had she not been prevailed upon by a wicked seducer; that the wretch has betrayed her innocent modesty, and thus frustrated all your expectations. But since the thing is done, and my prayers have been granted, since we are both at peace and amity, let it be buried in oblivion, and repair the offence by the ceremony of a happy alliance.

ALB. (Aside). Oh, Heavens! what a mistake I have been under! What do I hear? I get from one difficulty into another as great. I do not know what to answer amidst these different emotions; if I say one word, I am afraid of betraying myself.

POL. What are you thinking of, Signor Albert?

ALB. Of nothing. Let us put off our conversation for a while, I pray you. I have become suddenly very unwell, and am obliged to leave you.

SCENE V.

POLYDORE, alone.

I CAN LOOK into his soul and discover what disturbs him; though he listened to reason at first, yet his anger is not quite appeased. Now and then the remembrance of the offence flashes upon him; he endeavours to hide his emotion by leaving me alone. I feel for him, and his grief touches me. It will require some time before he regains his composure, for if sorrow is suppressed too much, it easily becomes worse. O! here comes my foolish boy, the cause of all this confusion.

SCENE VI.

POLYDORE, VALÈRE.

POL. SO, MY fine fellow, shall your nice goings-on disturb your poor old father every moment? You perform something new every day, and we never hear of anything else.

VAL. What am I doing every day that is so very criminal? And how have I deserved so greatly a father’s wrath?

POL. I am a strange man, and very peculiar to accuse so good and discreet a son. He lives like a saint, and is at prayers and in the house from morning to evening. It is a great untruth to say that he perverts the order of nature, and turns day into night! It is a horrible falsehood to state that upon several occasions he has shown no consideration for father or kindred; that very lately he married secretly the daughter of Albert, regardless of the great consequences that were sure to follow; they mistake him for some other! The poor innocent creature does not even know what I mean! Oh, you villain! whom Heaven has sent me as a punishment for my sins, will you always do as you like, and shall I never see you act discreetly as long as I live? (Exit).

VAL. (Alone, musing). Whence comes this blow? I am perplexed, and can find none to think of but Mascarille, he will never confess it to me; I must be cunning, and curb my well-founded anger a little.

SCENE VII.

VALÈRE, MASCARILLE.

VAL. MASCARILLE, MY father whom I just saw knows our whole secret.

MASC. Does he know it?

VAL. Yes.

MASC. How the deuce could he know it?

VAL. I do not know whom to suspect; but the result has been so successful, that I have all the reason in the world to be delighted. He has not said one cross word about it; he excuses my fault, and approves of my love; I would fain know who could have made him so tractable. I cannot express to you the satisfaction it gives me.

MASC. And what would you say, sir, if it was I who had procured you this piece of good luck?

VAL. Indeed! you want to deceive me.

MASC. It is I, I tell you, who told it to your father, and produced this happy result for you.

VAL. Really, without jesting?

MASC. The devil take me if I jest, and if it is not as I tell you.

VAL. (Drawing his sword). And may he take me if I do not this very moment reward you for it.

MASC. Ha, sir! what now? Don’t surprise me.

VAL. Is this the fidelity you promised me? If I had not deceived you, you would never have owned the trick which I rightly suspected you played me. You rascal! your tongue, too ready to wag, has provoked my father’s wrath against me, and utterly ruined me. You shall die without saying another word.

MASC. Gently; my soul is not in a fit condition to die. I entreat you, be kind enough to await the result of this affair. I had very good reasons for revealing a marriage which you yourself could hardly conceal. It was a masterpiece of policy; you will not find your rage justified by the issue. Why should you get angry if, through me, you get all you desire, and are freed from the constraint you at present lie under?

VAL. And what if all this talk is nothing but moonshine?

MASC. Why, then, it will be time enough to kill me; but my schemes may perchance succeed. Heaven will assist his own servants; you will be satisfied in the end, and thank me for my extraordinary management.

VAL. Well, we shall see. But Lucile…

MASC. Hold, here comes her father

SCENE VIII.

ALBERT, VALÈRE, MASCARILLE.

ALB. (NOT SEEING Valère). The more I recover from the confusion into which I fell at first, the more I am astonished at the strange things Polydore told me, and which my fear made me interpret in so different a manner to what he intended. Lucile maintains that it is all nonsense, and spoke to me in such a manner as leaves no room for suspicion… Ha! sir, it is you whose unheard-of impudence sports with my honour, and invents this base story?

MASC. Pray, Signor Albert, use milder terms, and do not be so angry with your son-in-law.

ALB. How! son-in-law, rascal? You look as if you were the main-spring of this intrigue, and the originator of it.

MASC. Really I see no reason for you to fly in such a passion.

ALB. Pray, do you think it right to take away the character of my daughter, and bring such a scandal upon a whole family?

MASC. He is ready to do all you wish.

ALB. I only want him to tell the truth. If he had any inclination for Lucile, he should have courted her in an honourable and open way; he should have acted as he ought, and asked her father’s leave; and not have had recourse to this cowardly contrivance, which offends modesty so much.

MASC. What! Lucile is not secretly engaged to my master?

ALB. No, rascal, nor ever will be.

MASC. Not quite so fast! If the thing is already done, will you give your consent to ratify that secret engagement?

ALB. And if it is certain that it is not so, will you have your bones broken?

VAL. It is easy, sir, to prove to you that he speaks the truth.

ALB. Good! there is the other! Like master, like man. O! what impudent liars!

MASC. Upon the word of a man of honour, it is as I say.

VAL. Why should we deceive you?

ALB. (Aside) They are two sharpers that know how to play into each other’s hands.

MASC. But let us come to the proof, and without quarrelling. Send for
Lucile, and let her speak for herself.

ALB. And what if she should prove you a liar?

MASC. She will not contradict us, sir; of that I am certain. Promise to give your consent to their engagement; and I will suffer the severest punishment if, with her own mouth, she does not confess to you that she is engaged to Valère, and shares his passion.

ALB. We shall see this presently. (He knocks at his door).

MASC. (To Valère). Courage, Sir; all will end well.

ALB. Ho! Lucile, one word with you.

VAL. (To Mascarille), I fear…

MASC. Fear nothing.

SCENE IX.

VALÈRE, ALBERT, LUCILE, MASCARILLE.

MASC. SIGNOR ALBERT, at least be silent. At length, madam, everything conspires to make your happiness complete. Your father, who is informed of your love, leaves you your husband and gives his permission to your union, provided that, banishing all frivolous fears, a few words from your own mouth corroborate what we have told him.

LUC. What nonsense does this impudent scoundrel tell me?

MASC. That is all right. I am already honoured with a fine title.

LUC. Pray, sir, who has invented this nice story which has been spread about today?

VAL. Pardon me, charming creature. My servant has been babbling; our marriage is discovered, without my consent.

LUC. Our marriage?

VAL. Everything is known, adorable Lucile; it is vain to dissemble.

LUC. What! the ardour of my passion has made you my husband?

VAL. It is a happiness which causes a great many heart-burnings. But I impute the successful result of my courtship less to your great passion for me than to your kindness of heart. I know you have cause to be offended, that it was the secret which you would fain have concealed. I myself have put a restraint on my ardour, so that I might not violate your express commands; but…

MASC. Yes, it was I who told it. What great harm is done?

LUC. Was there ever a falsehood like this? Dare you mention this in my very presence, and hope to obtain my hand by this fine contrivance? What a wretched lover you are — you, whose gallant passion would wound my honour, because it could not gain my heart; who wish to frighten my father by a foolish story, so that you might obtain my hand as a reward for having vilified me. Though everything were favourable to your love — my father, fate, and my own inclination — yet my well-founded resentment would struggle against my own inclination, fate, and my father, and even lose life rather than be united to one who thought to obtain my hand in this manner. Begone! If my sex could with decency be provoked to any outburst of rage, I would let you know what it was to treat me thus.

VAL. (To Mascarille). It is all over with us; her anger cannot be appeased.

MASC. Let me speak to her. Prithee, madam, what is the good of all these excuses? What are you thinking of? And what strange whim makes you thus oppose your own happiness? If your father were a harsh parent, the case would be different, but he listens to reason; and he himself has assured me that if you would but confess the truth, his affection would grant you everything. I believe you are a little ashamed frankly to acknowledge that you have yielded to love; but if you have lost a trifling amount of freedom, everything will be set to rights again by a good marriage. Your great love for Valère may be blamed a little, but the mischief is not so great as if you had murdered a man. We all know that flesh is frail, and that a maid is neither stock nor stone. You were not the first, that is certain; and you will not be the last, I dare say.

LUC. What! can you listen to this shameless talk, and make no reply to these indignities?

ALB. What would you have me say? This affair puts me quite beside myself.

MASC. Upon my word, madam, you ought to have confessed all before now.

LUC. What ought I to have confessed?

MASC. What? Why, what has passed between my master and you. A fine joke, indeed!

LUC. Why, what has passed between your master and me, impudent wretch?

MASC. You ought, I think, to know that better than I; you passed that night too agreeably, to make us believe you could forget it so soon.

LUC. Father, we have too long borne with the insolence of an impudent lackey. (Gives him a box on the ear).

SCENE X.

ALBERT, VALÈRE, MASCARILLE.

MASC. I THINK she gave me a box on the ear.

ALB. Be gone! rascal, villain! Her father approves the way in which she has made her hand felt upon your cheek.

MASC. May be so; yet may the devil take me if I said anything but what was true!

ALB. And may I lose an ear if you carry on this impudence any further!

MASC. Shall I send for two witnesses to testify to the truth of my statements?

ALB. Shall I send for two of my servants to give you a sound thrashing?

MASC. Their testimony will corroborate mine.

ALB. Their arms may make up for my want of strength.

MASC. I tell you, Lucile behaves thus because she is ashamed.

ALB. I tell you, you shall be answerable for all this.

MASC. Do you know Ormin, that stout and clever notary?

ALB. Do you know Grimpant, the city executioner?

MASC. And Simon, the tailor, who used formerly to work for all the people of fashion?

ALB. And the gibbet set up in the middle of the market-place?

MASC. You shall see they will confirm the truth of this marriage.

ALB. You shall see they will make an end of you.

MASC. They were the witnesses chosen by them.

ALB. They shall shortly revenge me on you.

MASC. I myself saw them at the altar.

ALB. And I myself shall see you with a halter.

MASC. By the same token, your daughter had a black veil on.

ALB. By the same token, your face foretells your doom.

MASC. What an obstinate old man.

ALB. What a cursed rascal! You may thank my advanced years, which prevent me from punishing your insulting remarks upon the spot: but I promise you, you shall be paid with full interest.

SCENE XI.

VALÈRE, MASCARILLE.

VAL. WELL, WHERE is now that fine result you were to produce…?

MASC. I understand what you mean. Everything goes against me: I see cudgels and gibbets preparing for me on every side. Therefore, so that I may be at rest amidst this chaos, I shall go and throw myself headlong from a rock, if, in my present despair, I can find one high enough to please me. Farewell, sir.

VAL. No, no; in vain you wish to fly. If you die, I expect it to be in my presence.

MASC. I cannot die if anybody is looking on: it would only delay my end.

VAL. Follow me traitor; follow me. My maddened love will soon show whether this is a jesting matter or not.

MASC. (Alone). Unhappy Mascarille, to what misfortunes are you condemned to-day for another’s sin!

* * * * *

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

ASCANIO, FROSINE.

FROS. WHAT HAS happened is very annoying.

ASC. My dear Frosine, fate has irrevocably decreed my ruin. Now the affair has gone so far, it will never stop there, but will go on; Lucile and Valère, surprised at such a strange mystery, will, one day, try to find their way amidst this darkness, and thus all my plans will miscarry. For, whether Albert is acquainted with the deception, or whether he himself is deceived, as well as the rest of the world, if ever it happens that my family is discovered, and all the wealth he has wrongfully acquired passes into the hands of others, judge if he will then endure my presence; for, not having any interest more in the matter, he will abandon me, and his affection for me will be at an end. Whatever, then, my lover may think of my deception, will he acknowledge as his wife a girl without either fortune or family?

FROS. I think you reason rightly; but these reflections should have come sooner. What has prevented you from seeing all this before? there was no need to be a witch to foresee, as soon as you fell in love with Valère, all that your genius never found out until to-day. It is the natural consequence of what you have done; as soon as I was made acquainted with it I never imagined it would end otherwise.

ASC. But what must I do? There never was such a misfortune as mine. Put yourself in my place, and give me advice.

FROS. If I put myself in your place, you will have to give me advice upon this ill-success; for I am you, and you are I. Counsel me, Frosine, in the condition I am in. Where can we find a remedy? Tell me, I beg of you.

ASC. Alas! do not make fun of me. You show but little sympathy with my bitter grief, if you laugh in the midst of my distress.

FROS. Really, Ascanio, I pity your distress, and would do my utmost to help you. But what can I do, after all? I see very little likelihood of arranging this affair so as to satisfy your love.

ASC. If no assistance can be had, I must die.

FROS. Die! Come, come; it is always time enough for that. Death is a remedy ever at hand; we ought to make use of it as late as possible.

ASC. No, no, Frosine. If you and your invaluable counsels do not guide me amidst all these breakers, I abandon myself wholly to despair.

FROS. Do you know what I am thinking about? I must go and see the…. But here comes Éraste; he may interrupt us. We will talk this matter over as we go along. Come, let us retire.
[Footnote: Frosine means by “the…” the woman who knows the secret of all this intrigue, and who is supposed to be the mother of Ascanio. This is explained later on in Act V., Scene 4]

SCENE II.

ÉRASTE, GROS-RENÉ.

ERAS. You have failed again?
GR.-RE. Never was an ambassador less listened to. No sooner had I told her that you desired to have a moment’s conversation with her, than, drawing herself up, she answered haughtily, “Go, go, I value your master just as much as I do you; tell him he may go about his business;” and after this fine speech she turned her head away from me and walked off. Marinette, too, imitating her mistress, said, with a disdainful sneer, “Begone, you low fellow,” and then left me; so that your fortune and mine are very much alike.
[Footnote: In the original it is beau valet de carreau. Littré, in his “Dictionaire de la langue francaise,” says that this word which means literally “knave of diamonds,” was considered an insult, because in the old packs of cards of the beginning of the seventeenth century, that knave was called valet de chasse, hunting servant, a rather menial situation; while the knave of spades, valet de pique, was called, nobleman’s servant; the knave of hearts, valet de coeur, valet de cour, court servant; and the knave of clubs, valet de trefle, valet de pied, foot servant.]

ERAS. What an ungrateful creature, to receive with so much haughtiness the quick return of a heart justly incensed. Is the first outburst of a passion, which with so much reason thought itself deceived, unworthy of excuse? Could I, when burning with love, remain insensible, in that fatal moment, to the happiness of a rival? Would any other not have acted in the same way as I did, or been less amazed at so much boldness? Was I not quick in abandoning my well-founded suspicions? I did not wait till she swore they were false. When no one can tell as yet what to think of it, my heart, full of impatience, restores Lucile to her former place, and seeks to find excuses for her. Will not all these proofs satisfy her of the ardour of my respectful passion? Instead of calming my mind, and providing me with arms against a rival who wishes to alarm me, this ungrateful woman abandons me to all the tortures of jealousy, and refuses to receive my messages and notes, or to grant me an interview. Alas! that love is certainly very lukewarm which can be extinguished by so trifling an offence; that scornful rigour, which is displayed so readily, sufficiently shows to me the depth of her affection. What value ought I to set now upon all the caprices with which she fanned my love? No! I do not pretend to be any longer the slave of one who has so little love for me; since she does not mind whether she keeps me or not, I will do the same.
GR.-RE. And so will I. Let us both be angry, and put our love on the list of our old sins; we must teach a lesson to that wayward sex, and make them feel that we possess some courage. He that will bear their contempt shall have enough of it. If we had sense enough not to make ourselves too cheap, women would not talk so big. Oh! how insolent they are through our weakness! May I be hanged if we should not see them fall upon our neck more often than we wished, if it was not for those servilities with which most men, now-a-days, continually spoil them.

ERAS. As for me, nothing vexes me so much as contempt; and to punish her’s by one as great, I am resolved to cherish a new passion.
GR.-RE. So will I, and never trouble my head about women again. I renounce them all, and believe honestly you could not do better than to act like me. For, master, people say that woman is an animal hard to be known, and naturally very prone to evil; and as an animal is always an animal, and will never be anything but an animal, though it lived for a hundred thousand years, so, without contradiction, a woman is always a woman, and will never be anything but a woman as long as the world endures.
[Footnote: This passage is paraphrased from Erasmus, Colloquia familiaria et Encomium Moriae, in which, after having called a woman animal stultum atque ineptum verum ridiculum, et suave, Folly adds, Quemadmodum, juxta Graecorum proverbium, simia semper est simia, etiamsi purpura vestiatur, ita mulier semper mulier est, hoc est stulta, quamcunque personam induxerit.]
Wherefore, as a certain Greek author says: a woman’s head is like a quicksand; for pray, mark well this argument, which is most weighty: As the head is the chief of the body, and as the body without a chief is worse than a beast, unless the chief has a good understanding with the body, and unless everything be as well regulated as if it were measured with a pair of compasses, we see certain confusions arrive; the animal part then endeavours to get the better of the rational, and, we see one pull to the right, another to the left; one wants something soft, another something hard; in short, everything goes topsy turvy. This is to show that here below, as it has been explained to me, a woman’s head is like a weather-cock on the top of a house, which veers about at the slightest breeze; that is why cousin Aristotle often compares her to the sea; hence people say that nothing in the world is so stable as the waves.
[Footnote: Though “stable” is here used, it is only employed to show the confusion of Gros-René’s ideas, who, of course, wishes to say “unstable.”]
Now, by comparison — for comparison makes us comprehend an argument distinctly, — and we learned men love a comparison better than a similitude, — by comparison, then, if you please, master, as we see that the sea, when a storm rises, begins to rage, the wind roars and destroys, billows dash against billows with a great hullabaloo, and the ship, in spite of the mariner, goes sometimes down to the cellar and sometimes up into the garret; so, when a woman gets whims and crotchets into her head, we see a tempest in the form of a violent storm, which will break out by certain … words, and then a … certain wind, which by … certain waves in … a certain manner, like a sand-bank … when … In short, woman is worse than the devil.
[Footnote: This long speech of Gros-René ridicules the pedantic arguments of some of the philosophers of the time of Molière. It also attributes to the ancients some sayings of authors of the day; for example, the comparison, from a Greek author, “that a woman’s head is like a quicksand,” is from a contemporary; the saying from Aristotle, comparing woman to the sea, is from Malherbe. Words very familiar look more homely when employed with high-flown language, and Gros-René’s speech is no bad example of this, whilst at the same time it becomes more muddled the longer it goes on. There exists also a tradition that the actor who performs the part of Gros-René should in order to show his confusion, when he says “goes sometimes down the cellar,” point to his head, and when he mentions “up into the garret,” point to his feet.]

ERAS. You have argued that very well.
GR.-RE. Pretty well, thanks to Heaven; but I see them coming this way, sir, — stand firm.

ERAS. Never fear.
GR.-RE. I am very much afraid that her eyes will ensnare you again.

SCENE III.

ÉRASTE, LUCILE, MARINETTE, GROS-RENÉ.

MAR. HE IS not gone yet, but do not yield.

LUC. Do not imagine I am so weak.

MAR. He comes towards us.

ERAS. No, no, madam, do not think that I have come to speak to you again of my passion; it is all over; I am resolved to cure myself. I know how little share I have in your heart. A resentment kept up so long for a slight offence shows me your indifference but too plainly, and I must tell you that contempt, above all things, wounds a lofty mind. I confess I saw in you charms which I never found in any other; the delight I took in my chains would have made me prefer them to sceptres, had they been offered to me. Yes, my love for you was certainly very great; my life was centred in you; I will even own that, though I am insulted, I shall still perhaps have difficulty enough to free myself. Maybe, notwithstanding the cure I am attempting, my heart may for a long time smart with this wound. Freed from a yoke which I was happy to bend under, I shall take a resolution never to love again. But no matter, since your hatred repulses a heart which love brings back to you, this is the last time you shall ever be troubled by the man you so much despise.

LUC. You might have made the favour complete, sir, and spared me also this last trouble.

ERAS. Very well, madam, very well, you shall be satisfied. I here break off all acquaintance with you, and break it off for ever, since you wish it; may I lose my life if ever again I desire to converse with you!

LUC. So much the better, you will oblige me.

ERAS. No, no, do not be afraid that I shall break my word! For, though my heart may be weak enough not to be able to efface your image, be assured you shall never have the pleasure of seeing me return.

LUC. You may save yourself the trouble.

ERAS. I would pierce my breast a hundred times should I ever be so mean as to see you again, after this unworthy treatment.

LUC. Be it so; let us talk no more about it.

ERAS. Yes, yes; let us talk no more about it; and to make an end here of all unnecessary speeches, and to give you a convincing proof, ungrateful woman, that I forever throw off your chain, I will keep nothing which may remind me of what I must forget. Here is your portrait; it presents to the eye many wonderful and dazzling charms, but underneath them lurk as many monstrous faults; it is a delusion which I restore to you.
GR.-RE. You are right.

LUC. And I, not to be behind-hand with you in the idea of returning everything, restore to you this diamond which you obliged me to accept.

MAR. Very well.

ERAS. Here is likewise a bracelet of yours.
[Footnote: Formerly lovers used to wear bracelets generally made of each others hair, which no doubt were hidden from the common view. Shakespeare, in his Mid-summer Night’s Dream, Act i., Scene I, says, “Thou, Lysander, thou hast… stol’n th’ impression of her fantasy with bracelets of thy hair.”]

LUC. And this agate seal is yours.

ERAS. (Reads). “You love me with the most ardent passion, Éraste, and wish to know if I feel the same. If I do not love Éraste as much, at least I am pleased that Éraste should thus love me. — LUCILE.” You assure me by this letter that you accept my love; it is a falsehood which I punish thus. (Tears the letter).

LUC. (Reading). “I do not know what may be the fate of my ardent love, nor how long I shall suffer; but this I know, beauteous charmer, that I shall always love you. — ÉRASTE.” This is an assurance of everlasting love; both the hand and the letter told a lie. (Tears the letter).
GR.-RE. Go on.

ERAS. (Showing another letter). This is another of your letters; it shall share the same fate.

MAR. (To Lucile). Be firm.

LUC. (Tearing another letter). I should be sorry to keep back one of them.
GR.-RE. (To Éraste). Do not let her have the last word.

MAR. (To Lucile). Hold out bravely to the end.

LUC. Well, there are the rest.

ERAS. Thank Heaven, that is all! May I be struck dead if I do not keep my word!

LUC. May it confound me if mine be vain.

ERAS. Farewell, then.

LUC. Farewell, then.

MAR. (To Lucile). Nothing could be better.
GR.-RE. (To Éraste). You triumph.

MAR. (To Lucile). Come, let us leave him.
GR.-RE. (To Éraste). You had best retire after this courageous effort.

MAR. (To Lucile). What are you waiting for?
GR.-RE. (To Éraste). What more do you want?

ERAS. Ah, Lucile, Lucile! you will be sorry to lose a heart like mine, and I know it.

LUC. Éraste, Éraste, I may easily find a heart like yours.

ERAS. No, no, search everywhere; you will never find one so passionately fond of you, I assure you. I do not say this to move you to pity; I should be in the wrong now to wish it; the most respectful passion could not bind you. You wanted to break with me; I must think of you no more. But whatever any one may pretend, nobody will ever love you so tenderly as I have done.

LUC. When a woman is really beloved she is treated differently, and is not condemned so rashly.

ERAS. Those who love are apt to be jealous on the slightest cause of suspicion, but they can never wish to lose the object of their adoration, and that you have done.

LUC. Pure jealousy is more respectful.

ERAS. An offence caused by love is looked upon with more indulgence.

LUC. No, Éraste, your flame never burnt very bright.

ERAS. No, Lucile, you never loved me.

LUC. Oh! that does not trouble you much, I suppose; perhaps it would have been much better for me if… But no more of this idle talk; I do not say what I think on the subject.

ERAS. Why?

LUC. Because, as we are to break, it would be out of place, it seems to me.

ERAS. Do we break, then?

LUC. Yes, to be sure; have we not done so already?

ERAS. And you can do this calmly?

LUC. Yes; so can you.

ERAS. I?

LUC. Undoubtedly. It is weakness to let people see that we are hurt by losing them.

ERAS. But, hard-hearted woman, it is you who would have it so.

LUC. I? not at all; it was you who took that resolution.

ERAS. I? I thought it would please you.

LUC. Me; not at all; you did it for your own satisfaction.

ERAS. But what if my heart should wish to resume its former chain? If, though very sad, it should sue for pardon…?
[Footnote: An imitation from Horace, book iii., ode ix., vers. 17 and 18. Quid? si prisca redet Venus Diductosque jugo cogit aheneo?]

LUC. No, no; do no such thing; my weakness is too great. I am afraid I might too quickly grant your request.

ERAS. Oh! you cannot grant it, nor I ask for it, too soon, after what I have just heard. Consent to love me still, madam; so pure a flame ought to burn for ever, for your own sake. I ask for it, pray grant me this kind pardon.

LUC. Lead me home.

SCENE IV.

MARINETTE, GROS-RENÉ.

MAR. Oh! cowardly creature,
GR.-RE. Oh! weak courage.

MAR. I blush with indignation.
GR.-RE. I am swelling with rage; do not imagine I will yield thus.

MAR. And do not think to find such a dupe in me.
GR.-RE. Come on, come on; you shall soon see what my wrath is capable of doing.

MAR. I am not the person you take me for; you have not my silly mistress to deal with. It is enough to look at that fine phiz to be smitten with the man himself! Should I fall in love with your beastly face? Should I hunt after you? Upon my word, girls like us are not for the like of you.
GR.-RE. Ay! and you address me in such a fashion? Here, here, without any further compliments, there is your bow of tawdry lace, and your narrow ribbon; it shall not have the honour of being on my ear any more.

MAR. And to show you how I despise you, here, take back your half hundred of Paris pins, which you gave me yesterday with so much bragging.
GR.-RE. Take back your knife too; a thing most rich and rare; it cost you about twopence when you made me a present of it.

MAR. Take back your scissors with the pinchbeck chain.
GR.-RE. I forgot the piece of cheese you gave me the day before yesterday — here it is; I wish I could bring back the broth you made me eat, so that I might have nothing belonging to you.

MAR. I have none of your letters about me now, but I shall burn every one of them.
GR.-RE. And do you know what I shall do with yours?

MAR. Take care you never come begging to me again to forgive you.
GR. RE. (Picking up a bit of straw). To cut off every way of being reconciled, we must break this straw between us; when a straw is broken, it settles an affair between people of honour.
[Footnote: A wisp of straw, or a stick, was formerly used as a symbol of investiture of a feudal fief. According to some authors the breaking of the straw or stick was a proof that the vassals renounced their homage; hence the allusion of Molière. The breaking of a staff was also typical of the voluntary or compulsory abandonment of power. Formerly, after the death of the kings of France, the grand maitre (master of the household) broke his wand of office over the grave, saying aloud three times, le roi est mort and then Vive le roi. Hence also, most likely, the saying of Prospero, in Shakespeare’s “Tempest” Act v. Sc. I, “I’ll break my staff,” i.e., I voluntarily abandon my power. Sometimes the breaking of a staff betokened dishonour, as in Shakespeare’s second part of “Henry VI.” Act I. Sc. 2. when Gloster says: “Methought this staff, mine office-badge in court was broke in twain.”]
Cast none of your sheep’s eyes at me;
[Footnote: According to tradition, Gros-René and Marinette stand on the stage back to back; from time to time they look to the right and to the left; when their looks meet they turn their heads abruptly away, whilst Gros-René presents over his shoulder to Marinette the piece of straw, which the latter takes very good care not to touch.]
I will be angry.

MAR. Do not look at me thus; I am too much provoked.
GR.-RE. Here, break this straw; this is the way of never recanting again; break. What do you laugh at, you jade?

MAR. Yes, you make me laugh.
GR.-RE. The deuce take your laughing! all my anger is already softened.
What do you say? shall we break or not?

MAR. Just as you please.
GR.-RE. Just as you please.

MAR. Nay, it shall be as you please.
GR. RE. Do you wish me never to love you?

MAR. I? As you like.
GR.-RE. As you yourself like; only say the word.

MAR. I shall say nothing.
GR.-RE. Nor I.

MAR. Nor I.
GR.-RE. Faith! we had better forswear all this nonsense; shake hands, I pardon you.

MAR. And I forgive you.
GR.-RE. Bless me! how you bewitch me with your charms.

MAR. What a fool is Marinette when her Gros-René is by.

* * * * *

ACT V.

SCENE I.

MASCARILLE, alone.

“As soon as darkness has invaded the town, I will enter Lucile’s room; go, therefore, and get ready immediately the dark lantern, and whatever arms are necessary.” When my master said these words, it sounded in my ears as if he had said, “Go quickly and get a halter to hang yourself.” But come on, master of mine, for I was so astonished when first I heard your order, that I had no time to answer you; but I shall talk with you now, and confound you; therefore defend yourself well, and let us argue without making a noise. You say you wish to go and visit Lucile to-night? “Yes, Mascarille.” And what do you propose to do? “What a lover does who wishes to be convinced.” What a man does who has very little brains, who risks his carcass when there is no occasion for it. “But do you know what is my motive? Lucile is angry.” Well, so much the worse for her. “But my love prompts me to go and appease her.” But love is a fool, and does not know what he says: will this same love defend us against an enraged rival, father, or brother? “Do you think any of them intend to harm us?” Yes, really, I do think so; and especially this rival. “Mascarille, in any case, what I trust to is, that we shall go well armed, and if anybody interrupts us we shall draw.” Yes, but that is precisely what your servant does not wish to do. I draw! Good Heavens! am I a Roland, master, or a Ferragus?
[Footnote: Roland, or Orlando in Italian, one of Charlemagne’s paladins and nephew is represented as brave, loyal, and simple-minded. On the return of Charlemagne from Spain, Roland, who commanded the rearguard, fell into an ambuscade at Roncezvalles, in the Pyrenées (778), and perished, with the flower of French chivalry. He is the hero of Ariosto’s poem, “Orlando Furioso.” In this same poem Cant. xii. is also mentioned Ferragus, or Ferrau in Italian, a Saracen giant, who dropped his helmet into the river, and vowed he would never wear another till he had won that worn by Orlando; the latter slew him in the only part where he was vulnerable.]
You hardly know me. When I, who love myself so dearly, consider that two inches of cold steel in this body would be quite sufficient to send a poor mortal to his last home, I am particularly disgusted. “But you will be armed from head to foot.” So much the worse. I shall be less nimble to get into the thicket; besides, there is no armour so well made but some villainous point will pierce its joints. “Oh! you will then be considered a coward.” Never mind; provided I can but always move my jaws. At table you may set me down for as good as four persons, if you like; but when fighting is going on, you must not count me for anything. Moreover, if the other world possesses charms for you, the air of this world agrees very well with me. I do not thirst after death and wounds; if you have a mind to play the fool, you may do it all by yourself, I assure you.

SCENE II.

VALÈRE, MASCARILLE.

VAL. I NEVER felt a day pass more slowly; the sun seems to have forgotten himself; he has yet such a course to run before he reaches his bed, that I believe he will never accomplish it; his slow motion drives me mad.

MASC. What an eagerness to go in the dark, to grope about for some ugly adventure! You see that Lucile is obstinate in her repulses….

VAL. A truce to these idle remonstrances. Though I were sure to meet a hundred deaths lying in ambush, yet I feel her wrath so greatly, that I shall either appease it, or end my fate. I am resolved on that.

MASC. I approve of your design; but it is unfortunate, sir, that we must get in secretly.

VAL. Very well.

MASC. And I am afraid I shall only be in the way.

VAL. How so?

MASC. I have a cough which nearly kills me, and the noise it makes may betray you. Every moment… (He coughs). You see what a punishment it is.

VAL. You will get better; take some liquorice.

MASC. I do not think, sir, it will get better. I should be delighted to go with you, but I should be very sorry if any misfortune should befall my dear master through me.

SCENE III.

VALÈRE, LA RAPIÈRE, MASCARILLE.

LA RA. SIR, I have just now heard from good authority that Éraste is greatly enraged against you, and that Albert talks also of breaking all the bones in Mascarille’s body, on his daughter’s account.

MASC. I? I have nothing to do with all this confusion. What have I done to have all the bones in my body broken? Am I the guardian of the virginity of all the girls in the town, that I am to be thus threatened? Have I any influence with temptation? Can I help it, I, poor fellow, if I have a mind to try it?

VAL. Oh! they are not so dangerous as they pretend to be; however courageous love may have made Éraste, he will not have so easy a bargain with us.

LA RA. If you should have any need for it, my arm is entirely at your service. You know me to be at all times staunch.
[Footnote: It is thought the introduction of Mons. de la Rapière contains an allusion to the poor noblemen of Languedoc, who formerly made a kind of living by being seconds at duels, and whom the Prince de Conti compelled to obey the edicts of Louis XIV. against duelling. The Love-tiff was first played in 1656 at Béziers, where the States of Languedoc were assembled.]

VAL. I am much obliged to you, M. de la Rapière.

LA RA. I have likewise two friends I can procure, who will draw against all comers, and upon whom you may safely rely.

MASC. Accept their services, sir.

VAL. You are too kind.

LA RA. Little Giles might also have assisted us, if a sad accident had not taken him from us. Oh, sir, it is a great pity! He was such a handy fellow, too! You know the trick justice played him; he died like a hero; when the executioner broke him on the wheel, he made his exit without uttering a word.

VAL. M. de la Rapière, such a man ought to be lamented, but, as for your escort, I thank you, I want them not.

LA RA. Be it so, but do not forget that you are sought after, and may have some scurvy trick played upon you.

VAL. And I, to show you how much I fear him, will offer him the satisfaction he desires, if he seeks me; I will immediately go all over the town, only accompanied by Mascarille.

SCENE IV.

VALÈRE, MASCARILLE.

MASC. What, sir? will you tempt Heaven? Do not be so presumptuous!
Lack-a-day! you see how they threaten us. How on every side…

VAL. What are you looking at yonder?

MASC. I smell a cudgel that way. In short, if you will take my prudent advice, do not let us be so obstinate as to remain in the street; let us go and shut ourselves up.

VAL. Shut ourselves up, rascal? How dare you propose to me such a base action? Come along, and follow me, without any more words.

MASC. Why, sir, my dear master, life is so sweet! One can die but once, and it is for such a long time!

VAL. I shall half kill you, if I hear anything more. Here comes Ascanio; let us leave him; we must find out what side he will choose. However, come along with me into the house, to take whatever arms we may want.

MASC. I have no great itching for fighting. A curse on love and those darned girls, who will be tasting it, and then look as if butter would not melt in their mouth.

SCENE V.

ASCANIO, FROSINE.

ASC. IS IT really true, Frosine, do I not dream? Pray tell me all that has happened, from first to last.

FROS. You shall know all the particulars in good time; be patient; such adventures are generally told over and over again, and that every moment. You must know then that after this will, which was on condition of a male heir being born, Albert’s wife who was enceinte, gave birth to you. Albert, who had stealthily and long beforehand laid his plan, changed you for the son of Inez, the flower-woman, and gave you to my mother to nurse, saying it was her own child. Some ten months after, death took away this little innocent, whilst Albert was absent; his wife being afraid of her husband, and inspired by maternal love, invented a new stratagem. She secretly took her own daughter back; you received the name of the boy, who had taken your place, whilst the death of that pretended son was kept a secret from Albert, who was told that his daughter had died. Now the mystery of your birth is cleared up, which your supposed mother had hitherto concealed. She gives certain reasons for acting in this manner, and may have others to give, for her interests were not the same as yours. In short, this visit,
[Footnote: That is the visit of which Frosine speaks, Act iv., Scene I]
from which I expected so little, has proved more serviceable to your love than could have been imagined. This Inez has given up all claim to you. As it became necessary to reveal this secret, on account of your marriage, we two informed your father of it; a letter of his deceased wife has confirmed all. Pursuing our reasoning yet farther, and being rather fortunate as well as skilful, we have so cunningly interwoven the interests of Albert and of Polydore, so gradually unfolded all this mystery to the latter, that we might not make things appear too terrible to him in the beginning, and, in a word, to tell you all, so prudently led his mind step by step to a reconciliation, that Polydore is now as anxious as your father to legitimize that connection which is to make you happy.

ASC. Ah! Frosine, what happiness you prepare for me. … What do I, not owe to your fortunate zeal?

FROS. Moreover, the good man is inclined to be merry, and has forbidden us to mention anything of this affair to his son.

SCENE VI.

POLYDORE, ASCANIO, FROSINE.

POL. COME HITHER, daughter, since I may give you this name now, for I know the secret which this disguise conceals. You have shown so much resolution, ingenuity, and archness in your stratagem, that I forgive you; I think my son will esteem himself happy when he knows that you are the object of his love. You are worth to him more than all the treasures in this world; and I will tell him so. But here he comes: let us divert ourselves with this event. Go and tell all the people to come hither immediately.

ASC. To obey you, sir, shall be the first compliment I pay you.

SCENE VII.

MASCARILLE, POLYDORE, VALÈRE.

MASC. Misfortunes are often revealed by Heaven: I dreamt last night of pearls unstrung and broken eggs, sir. This dream depresses my spirits.
[Footnote: In a little book still sold on the quays of Paris, and called la Cle des Songes, it is said that to dream of pearls denotes “embarrassed affairs,” and of broken eggs, “loss of place and lawsuits.”]

VAL. Cowardly rascal!

POL. Valère, an encounter awaits you, wherein all your valour will be necessary: you are to cope with a powerful adversary.

MASC. Will nobody stir to prevent people from cutting each other’s throats? As for me, I do not care about it; but if any fatal accident should deprive you of your son, do not lay the blame on me.

POL. No, no; in this case I myself urge him to do what he ought.

MASC. What an unnatural father!

VAL. This sentiment, sir, shows you to be a man of honour; I respect you the more for it. I know I have offended you, I am to blame for having done all this without a father’s consent; but however angry you may be with me, Nature always will prevail. You do what is truly honourable, in not believing that I am to be terrified by the threats of Éraste.

POL. They just now frightened me with his threats, but since then things have changed greatly; you will be attacked by a more powerful enemy, without being able to flee from him.

MASC. Is there no way of making it up?

VAL! I flee! — Heaven forbid! And who can this be?

POL. Ascanio.

VAL. Ascanio?

POL. Yes; you shall see him appear presently.

VAL. He, who has pledged his word to serve me!

POL. Yes, it is he who says he has a quarrel with you; he, who is determined to decide the quarrel by single combat, to which he challenges you.

MASC. He is a good fellow: he knows that generous minds do not endanger other people’s lives by their quarrels.

POL. He accuses you of deceit. His anger appears to me to have so just a cause, that Albert and I have agreed you should give Ascanio satisfaction for this affront, but publicly, and without any delay, according to the formalities requisite in such a case.

VAL. What! father; and did Lucile obstinately…?

POL. Lucile is to marry Éraste, and blames you too; and the better to prove your story to be false, is resolved to give her hand to Éraste before your very face.

VAL. Ha! this impudence is enough to drive me mad. Has she lost, then, all sense, faith, conscience, and honour?

SCENE VIII.

ALBERT, POLYDORE, LUCILE, ÉRASTE, VALÈRE, MASCARILLE.

ALB. WELL! WHERE are the combatants? They are bringing ours. Have you prepared yours for the encounter?

VAL. Yes, yes; I am ready, since you compel me to it; if I at all hesitated, it was because I still felt a little respect, and not on account of the valour of the champion who is to oppose me. But I have been urged too far. This respect is at an end; I am prepared for any catastrophe! I have been treated so strangely and treacherously, that my love must and shall be revenged. (To Lucile). Not that I still pretend to your hand: my former love is now swallowed up in wrath; and when I have made your shame public, your guilty marriage will not in the least disturb me. Lucile, your behaviour is infamous: scarcely can I believe my own eyes. You show yourself so opposed to all modesty, that you ought to die for shame.

LUC. Such reproaches might affect me, if I had not one at hand to avenge my cause. Here comes Ascanio; he shall soon have the pleasure, and without giving himself much trouble, of making you change your language.

SCENE IX.

ALBERT, POLYDORE, ASCANIO, LUCILE, ÉRASTE, VALÈRE, FROSINE, MARINETTE, GROS-RENÉ, MASCARILLE.

VAL. HE SHALL not make me change my language, though he had twenty arms besides his own. I am sorry he defends a guilty sister; but since he is foolish enough to pick a quarrel with me, I shall give him satisfaction, and you also, my valiant gentleman.

ERAS. A short time ago I took an interest in this, but as Ascanio has taken the affair upon himself, I will have nothing more to do with it, but leave it to him.

VAL. You do well; prudence is always timely, but…

ERAS. He shall give you satisfaction for us all.

VAL. He?

POL. Do not deceive yourself; you do not yet know what a strange fellow
Ascanio is.

ALB. He is blind to it now, but Ascanio will let him know in a little time.

VAL. Come on, then; let him do so now.

MAR. What! before everybody?
GR.-RE. That would not be decent.

VAL. Are you making fun of me? I will break the head of any fellow who laughs. But let us see what Ascanio is going to do.

ASC. No, no. I am not so bad as they make me out; in this adventure, in which every one has put me forward, you shall see my weakness appear more than anything else; you will discover that Heaven, to which we must all submit, did not give me a heart to hold out against you, but that it reserved for you the easy triumph of putting an end to Lucile’s brother. Yes; far from boasting of the power of his arm, Ascanio shall receive death from your hands; nay, would gladly die, if his death could contribute to your satisfaction, by giving you, in the presence of all this company, a wife who lawfully belongs to you.

VAL. No, even the whole world, after her perfidy and shamelessness…

ASC. Ah! Valère, allow me to tell you that the heart which is pledged to you is guilty of no crime against you; her love is still pure, and her constancy unshaken; I call your own father himself to witness that I speak the truth.

POL. Yes, son, we have laughed enough at your rage; I see it is time to undeceive you; she to whom you are bound by oath is concealed under the dress you here behold. Some question about property was the cause of this disguise, which from her earliest youth deceived so many people. Lately love was the cause of another which deceived you, whilst it made of the two families but one. Yes, in a word, it is she whose subtle skill obtained your hand at night, who pretended to be Lucile, and by this contrivance, which none discovered, has perplexed you all so much. But since Ascanio now gives place to Dorothea, your love must be free from every appearance of deceit, and be strengthened by a more sacred knot!

ALB. This is the single combat by which you were to give us satisfaction for your offence, and which is not forbidden by any laws.
[Footnote: Severe laws were promulgated in the preceding reign against duelling; Louis XIV. also published two edicts against it in 1643 and in 1651. The Love-Tiff was first performed in 1656.]

POL. Such an event amazes you, but all hesitation is now too late.

VAL. No, no, I do not hesitate; if this adventure astonishes me, it is a flattering surprise; I find myself seized with admiration, love, and pleasure. Is it possible that those eyes…?

ALB. This dress, dear Valère, is not a proper one to hear your fine speeches in. Let her go and put on another, and meanwhile you shall know the particulars of the event.

VAL. Pardon me, Lucile, if my mind, duped by…

LUC. It is easy to forget that.

ALB. Come, these compliments will do as well at home; we shall then have plenty of time to pay them to one another.

ERAS. But in talking thus you do not seem to think that there is still occasion for manslaughter here. Our loves are indeed crowned, but who ought to obtain the hand of Marinette, his Mascarille or my Gros-René? This affair must end in blood.

MASC. No, no, my blood suits my body too well; let him marry her in peace, it will be nothing to me. I know Marinette too well to think marriage will be any bar to my courting her.

MAR. And do you think I will make my gallant of you? A husband does not matter; anything will do for that. We do not stand, then, upon so much ceremony; but a gallant should be well made enough to make one’s mouth water.
GR.-RE. Listen! When we are united by marriage, I insist that you should turn a deaf ear to all sparks.

MASC. Do you think, brother, to marry her for yourself alone?
GR.-RE. Of course; I will have a virtuous wife, or else I shall kick up a fine row.

MASC. Ah! lack-a-day, you shall do as others, and become more gentle. Those people who are so severe and critical before marriage, often degenerate into pacific husbands.

MAR. Make yourself easy, my dear husband, and do not have the least fear about my fidelity; flattery will produce no impression on me, and I shall tell you everything.

MASC. Oh! what a cunning wench to make of a husband a confidant.

MAR. Hold your tongue, you knave of clubs.
[Footnote: The original has as de pique, and different commentators have of course given various explanations. But why, says M. Despois, should Marinette, who appears to be fond of cards, not call people by names derived from her favourite game? She calls Gros-René in another place beau valet de carreau.]

ALB. For the third time, I say, let us go home, and continue at leisure such an agreeable conversation.

* * * * *

The Pretentious Young Ladies

Les Précieuses ridicules

Translated by Henri van Laun

The Pretentious Young Ladies received its Paris debut in November 1659 at the Théâtre du Petit-Bourbon. After his brief spell in prison, Molière returned to writing and acting; years later in 1658 he attracted the attention of Philippe I, Duke of Orléans, Louis XIV’s younger brother. Prior to this, the playwright spent more than twelve years touring and performing in the provinces, including in Nantes, Toulouse, Lyon and Montpellier. Unfortunately, there is only limited information about Molière’s life and work during this period, but it is likely to have been an important time for him, to not only refine his writing, but also learn the necessary skills for dealing with the practical aspects of managing a production. He returned to Paris in 1658 and after securing the patronage of Philippe I, his theatre troupe was granted the use of the large hall at the famous Petit-Bourbon.

The Pretentious Young Ladies is a one-act satire that lampoons the affectations of two young women who arrive in Paris from the provinces looking for love and an opportunity to display their wit, taste and refinement. Gorgibus, the father of one of the women and uncle of the other, desires that they should marry two eligible bachelors, La Grange and Du Croisy. However, at the opening of the play the men reveal that they have been treated with contempt and disdain by the women and they plan to extract revenge. Molière mocks the young women, Madelon and Cathos, for their vapid, conceited, self-regarding and ultimately ridiculous behaviour. The play proved to be moderately successful at the time and while not one of his best known works in the Anglophone world today, it is still frequently performed by smaller theatre companies.

Philippe I, Duke of Orléans, Molière’s first great patron

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

SCENE XV.

SCENE XVI.

SCENE XVII.

SCENE XVIII.

SCENE XIX.

A scene from ‘Les Précieuses ridicules’ by Moreau le Jeune

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

MOLIÈRE BEGAN IN The Pretentious Young Ladies to paint men and women as they are; to make living characters and existing manners the ground-work of his plays. From that time he abandoned all imitation of Italian or Spanish imbroglios and intrigues.

There is no doubt that aristocratic society attempted, about the latter years of the reign of Louis XIII., to amend the coarse and licentious expressions, which, during the civil wars had been introduced into literature as well as into manners. It was praiseworthy of some high-born ladies in Parisian society to endeavour to refine the language and the mind. But there was a very great difference between the influence these ladies exercised from 1620 until 1640, and what took place in 1658, the year when Molière returned to Paris. The Hôtel de Rambouillet, and the aristocratic drawing-rooms, had then done their work, and done it well; but they were succeeded by a clique which cared only for what was nicely said, or rather what was out of the common. Instead of using an elegant and refined diction, they employed only a pretentious and conceitedly affected style, which became highly ridiculous; instead of improving the national idiom they completely spoilt it. Where formerly D’Urfe, Malherbe, Racan, Balzac, and Voiture reigned, Chapelain, Scudéry, Ménage, and the Abbé Cotin, “the father of the French Riddle,” ruled in their stead. Moreover, every lady in Paris, as well as in the provinces, no matter what her education was, held her drawing-room, where nothing was heard but a ridiculous, exaggerated, and what was worse, a borrowed phraseology. The novels of Mdlle. de Scudéry became the text-book of the précieux and the précieuses, for such was the name given to these gentlemen and ladies who set up for wits, and thought they displayed exquisite taste, refined ideas, fastidious judgment, and consummate and critical discrimination, whilst they only uttered vapid and blatant nonsense. What other language can be used when we find that they called the sun l’aimable éclairant le plus beau du monde, l’epoux de la nature, and that when speaking of an old gentleman with grey hair, they said, not as a joke, but seriously, il a des quittances d’amour. A few of their expressions, however, are employed even at the present time, such as, châtier son style; to correct one’s style; dépenser une heure, to spend an hour; revètir ses pensées d’expressions nobles, to clothe one’s thoughts in noble expressions, etc.

Though the précieux and précieuses had been several times attacked before, it remained for Molière to give them their death blow, and after the performance of his comedy the name became a term of ridicule and contumely. What enhanced the bitterness of the attack was the difference between Molière’s natural style and the affected tone of the would-be elegants he brought upon the stage.

This comedy, in prose, was first acted at Paris, at the Théâtre du Petit Bourbon, on the 18th of November, 1659, and met with great success. Through the influence of some noble précieux and précieuses it was forbidden until the 2d of December, when the concourse of spectators was so great that it had to be performed twice a day, that the prices of nearly all the places were raised (See Note 7, page xxv.), and that it ran for four months together. We have referred in our prefatory memoir of Molière to some of the legendary anecdotes connected with this play.

It has also been said that our author owed perhaps the first idea of this play to a scarcely-known work, le Cercle des Femmes, ou le Secret du Lit Nuptial; entretiens comiques, written by a long-forgotten author, Samuel Chapuzeau, in which a servant, dressed in his master’s clothes, is well received by a certain lady who had rejected the master. But as the witty dialogue is the principal merit in Molière’s play, it is really of no great consequence who first suggested the primary idea.

The piece, though played in 1659, was only printed on the 29th of January, 1660, by Guillaume de Luyne, a bookseller in Paris, with a preface by Molière, which we give here below:

A strange thing it is, that People should be put in print against their Will. I know nothing so unjust, and should pardon any other Violence much sooner than that.

Not that I here intend to personate the bashful Author, and out of a point of Honour undervalue my Comedy. I should very unseasonably disoblige all the People of Paris, should I accuse them of having applauded a foolish Thing: as the Public is absolute Judge of such sort of Works, it would be Impertinence in me to contradict it; and even if I should have had the worst Opinion in the World of my Pretentious Young Ladies before they appeared upon the Stage, I must now believe them of some Value, since so many People agree to speak in their behalf. But as great part of the Pleasure it gave depends upon the Action and Tone of the Voice, it behooved me, not to let them be deprived of those Ornaments; and that success they had in the representation, was, I thought, sufficiently favorable for me to stop there. I was, I say, determined, to let them only be seen by Candlelight, that I might give no room for any one to use the Proverb; [Footnote: In Molière’s time it was proverbially said of a woman, “Elle est belle a la chandelle, mais le grand jour gate tout.” She is beautiful by candle-light, but day-light spoils everything.] nor was I willing they should leap from the Theatre de Bourbon into the Galerie du Palais. [Footnote: The Galerie du Palais was the place where Molière’s publisher lived.] Notwithstanding, I have been unable to avoid it, and am fallen under the Misfortune of seeing a surreptitious Copy of my Play in the Hands of the Booksellers, together with a Privilege, knavishly obtained, for printing it. I cried out in vain, O Times! O Manners! They showed me that there was a Necessity for me to be in print, or have a Law-suit; and the last evil is even worse than the first. Fate therefore must be submitted to, and I must consent to a Thing, which they would not fail to do without me.

Lord, the strange Perplexity of sending a book abroad! and what an awkward Figure an Author makes the first time he appears in print! Had they allowed me time, I should have thought it over better, and have taken all those Precautions which the Gentlemen Authors, who are now my Brethren, commonly make use of upon the like Occasions. Besides, some noble Lord, whom I should have chosen, in spite of his Teeth, to be the Patron of my Work, and whose Generosity I should have excited by an Epistle Dedicatory very elegantly composed, I should have endeavoured to make a fine and learned Preface; nor do I want books which would have supplied me with all that can be said in a scholarly Manner upon Tragedy and Comedy; the Etymology of them both, their Origin, their Definition, and so forth. I should likewise have spoken to my friends, who to recommend my Performance, would not have refused me Verses, either in French or Latin. I have even some that would have praised me in Greek, and Nobody is ignorant, that a Commendation in Greek is of a marvellous efficacy at the Beginning of a Book. But I am sent Abroad without giving me time to look about me; and I can’t so much as obtain the Liberty of speaking two words, to justify my Intention, as to the subject of this Comedy. I would willingly have shewn that it is confined throughout within the Bounds of allowable and decent Satire, that Things the most excellent are liable to be mimicked by wretched Apes, who deserve to be ridiculed; that these absurd Imitations of what is most perfect, have been at all times the Subject of Comedy; and that, for the same Reason, that the truly Learned and truly Brave never yet thought fit to be offended at the Doctor or the Captain in a Comedy, no more than Judges, Princes, and Kings at seeing Trivelin, [Footnote: The Doctor and the Captain were traditional personages of the Italian stage; their parts need no further explanation; Trivelin was a popular Italian actor, who in a humorous and exaggerated way played the parts of Judges, Princes, and Kings.] or any other upon the Stage, ridiculously act the Judge, the Prince, or King; so the true Précieuses would be in the wrong to be angry, when the pretentious Ones are exposed, who imitate them awkwardly. In a Word, as I said, I am not allowed breathing time; Mr. de Luyne is going to bind me up this Instant: … let it be so, since the Fates so ordain it.

In the third volume of the “Select Comedies of M. de Molière,” this comedy is called “The Conceited Ladies.” It is dedicated to Miss Le Bas in the following words: —

MADAM, Addresses of this Nature are usually fill’d with Flattery: And it is become so general and known a Practice for Authors of every kind to bedeck with all Perfections Those to whom they present their Writings, that Dedications are, by most People, at Present, interpreted like Dreams, directly backwards. I dare not, therefore, attempt Your Character, lest even Truth itself should be suspected — Thus far, however, I’ll venture to declare, that if sprightly blooming Youth, endearing sweet Good-nature, flowing gentile Wit, and an easy unaffected Conversation, maybe reckon’d Charms, — Miss LE BAS is exquisitely charming.

The following COMEDY of Monsieur MOLIERE, that celebrated Dramatick Writer, was, by him, intended to reprove a vain, fantastical, conceited and preposterous Humour, which about that time prevailed very much in France. It had the desir’d good Effect, and conduced a great deal towards rooting out a Taste so unreasonable and ridiculous. — As Pride, Conceit, Vanity, and Affectation, are Foibles so often found amongst the Fair Sex at present, I have attempted this Translation, in hopes of doing service to my pretty Country-Women. — And, certainly, it must have a double efficacy, under the Patronage of one who is so bright an Example of the contrary fine Accomplishments, which a large Fortune makes her not the less careful to improve.

I am not so presumptuous to imagine that my English can do sufficient Justice to the sense of this admir’d AUTHOR; and, therefore, have caused the ORIGINAL to be placed against it Page for Page, hoping that, both together, may prove an agreeable and useful Entertainment. —— But I have detain’d you too long already, and shall only add, that I am, with much respect, and every good Wish, MADAM, Your most Obedient Humble Servant, THE TRANSLATOR.

The Précieuses Ridicules have been partly imitated in “The Damoiselles à la Mode, Compos’d and Written by Richard Flecknoe. London: Printed for the Author, 1667. To their graces the Duke and Duchess of Newcastle, the Author dedicates this his comedy more humbly than by way of epistle.” This gentleman, who was “so distinguished as a wretched poet, that his name had almost become proverbial,” and who gave the title to Dryden’s Mac-Flecknoe, is said to have been originally a Jesuit. Langbaine states “that his acquaintance with the nobility was more than with the Muses.” In the preface our author says: “This Comedy is taken out of several excellent pieces of Molière. The main plot out of his Pretieusee’s Ridiculee’s; the Counterplot of Sganarelle out of his Escole des Femmes, and out of the Escole des Marys, the two Naturals; all which, like so many Pretieuse stones, I have brought out of France; and as a Lapidary set in one Jewel to adorn our English stage.”

This motley play was never acted; at least the author says: “for the Acting it, those who have the Governing of the Stage, have their Humours, and wou’d be intreated; and I have mine and won’t intreat them; and were all Dramatick Writers of my mind, they shou’d wear their old Playes Thred-bare e’re they shou’d have any New, till they better understood their own Interest, and how to distinguish betwixt good and bad.”

The “Prologue intended for the overture of the Theater 1666,” opens thus: —

 “In these sad Times our Author has been long
  Studying to give you some diversion;
  And he has ta’en the way to do’t, which he
  Thought most diverting, mirth and Comedy;
  And now he knows there are inough i’ the Town
  At name of mirth and Comedy will frown,
  And sighing say, the times are bad; what then?
  Will their being sad and heavy better them?”

[Footnote: In 1665 the plague broke out in London, and in the succeeding year the great fire took place; only at Christmas 1666 theatrical performances began again.]

According to the list of “The Representers, as they were first design’d.” I see that Nell Gwyn should have played the part of “Lysette, the Damoiselle’s waiting Woman.”

James Miller, a well-known dramatist, and joint-translator of Molière, with H. Baker, has also imitated part of “the Pretentious Young Ladies,” and with another part borrowed from Molière’s School for Husbands, two characters taken from Molière’s Learned Ladies, and some short speeches borrowed from the Countess of Escarbagnas, he composed a comedy, which was played at Drury Lane, March 6th, 1735, under the title of The Man of Taste, or, The Guardians. Mr. Miller appears to have been a man of indomitable spirit and industry. Being a clergyman, with a very small stipend, he wrote plays to improve his circumstances, but offended both his bishop and the public. At last he was presented to the very valuable living of Upcerne, in Dorsetshire, and was also successful with a translation of Mahomet of Voltaire, but died within the year after his induction. The Man of Taste was printed for J. Watts, MDCCXXXV., and is dedicated to Lord Weymouth. We give part of the dedication:

“As to the Attempt here made to expose the several Vices and Follies that at present flourish in Vogue, I hope your Lordship will think it confined within the bounds of a modest and wholesome Chastisement. That it is a very seasonable one, I believe, every Person will acknowledge. When what is set up for the Standard of Taste, is but just the Reverse of Truth and Common Sense; and that which is dignify’d with the Name of Politeness, is deficient in nothing — but Decency and Good Manners: When all Distinctions of Station and Fortune are broke in upon, so that a Peer and a Mechanick are cloathed in the same Habits, and indulge in the same Diversions and Luxuries: When Husbands are ruin’d, Children robb’d, and Tradesmen starv’d, in order to give Estates to a French Harlequin, and Italian Eunuch, for a Shrug or a Song; [Footnote: Farinelli, an eminent Italian soprano, went to England in 1734, remained there three years, sang chiefly at the Theatre of Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields, then under the direction of Porpora, his old Master, became a great favorite, and made about, £5,000 a year. As The Man of Taste was performed at a rival house, Drury Lane, the bitterness of the allusion may be easily understood. The French Comedians acted at the Haymarket from November 22, 1734 to June 1735, hence the allusion to a French Harlequin.] shall not fair and fearless Satire oppose this Outrage upon all Reason and Discretion. Yes, My Lord, resentment can never better be shown, nor Indignation more laudably exerted than on such an occasion.”

The Prologue, spoken by Mr. Cibber, is racy. We give the first half of it: —

 “Wit springs so slow in our bleak Northern Soil,
  It scarce, at best, rewards the Planter’s Toil.
  But now, when all the Sun-shine, and the Rain,
  Are turn’d to cultivate a Foreign grain;
  When, what should cherish, preys upon the Tree,
  What generous Fruit can you expect to see?
  Our Bard, to strike the Humour of the Times,
  Imports these Scenes from kindlier Southern Climes;
  Secure his Pains will with Applause be crown’d,
  If you’re as fond of Foreign sense as … sound:
  And since their Follies have been bought so dear,
  We hope their Wit a moderate Price may bear.
  Terence, Great Master! who, with wond’rous Art,
  Explor’d the deepest Secrets of the Heart;
  That best Old Judge of Manners and of Men,
  First grac’d this Tale with his immortal Pen.
  Molière, the Classick of the Gallick Stage,
  First dar’d to modernize the Sacred Page;
  Skilful, the one thing wanting to supply,
  Humour, that Soul of Comic Poesy.
  The Roman Fools were drawn so high … the Pit
  Might take ’em now for Modern Men of Wit.
  But Molière painted with a bolder Hand,
  And mark’d his Oafs with the Fool’s-Cap and Band:
  To ev’ry Vice he tagged the just Reproach,
  Shew’d Worth on Foot, and Rascals in a Coach.”

[Footnote: The plot of The Man of Taste, as we have said before, was partly borrowed from Molière’s School for Husbands, partly from the Pretentious Young Ladies, and other of his plays. The first-mentioned French comedy owes part of its plot to Terence’s Adelphi, hence the allusion to “his immortal Pen.” in the above poem.]

Mrs. Aphra Behn, a voluminous writer of plays, novels, poems, and letters, all of a lively and amorous turn, was the widow of a Dutch merchant, and partly occupied the time not engaged in literary pursuits in political or gallant intrigues. Her comedies are her best works, and although some of her scenes are often indecent, and not a few of her expressions indelicate, yet her plots are always lively and well sustained and her dialogues very witty. The date of her birth is unknown, but she died on the 16th of April, 1689, and was buried in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.

In 1682, was performed, at the Theatre, Dorset Garden, her play. The False Count, or a New Way to Play an Old Game. The prologue attacks the Whigs most furiously, and the epilogue, spoken by Mrs. Barry, is very indecent. The plot of this play, or rather farce, is very improbable, and the language is more than free. Julia, in love with Don Carlos, afterwards Governor of Cadiz, was forced by her father to marry Francisco, a rich old man, formerly a leather-seller; the latter going with his family to sea on a party of pleasure, are taken prisoners by Carlos and his servants, disguised as Turks. They are carried to a country house, and made to believe they are in the Grand Turk’s seraglio. There is also an underplot, in which Isabella, Francisco’s proud and vain daughter, is courted by Guilion, a supposed Count, but in reality a chimney-sweep, whose hand she accepts. In the end everything is discovered, and Guilion comes to claim his wife in his sooty clothes.

Thomas Shadwell, a dramatist, and the poet-laureate of William III., who has been flagellated by Dryden in his MacFlecknoe and in the second part of Absalom and Achitophel, and been mentioned with contempt by Pope in his Dunciad, took from the Précieuses Ridicules Mascarille and Jodelet, and freely imitated and united them in the character of La Roch, a sham Count, in his Bury-Fair, acted by His Majesty’s servants in 1689. This play, dedicated to Charles, Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, was written “during eight months’ painful sickness.” In the Prologue Shadwell states:

 That every Part is Fiction in his Play;
  Particular Reflections there are none;
  Our Poet knows not one in all your Town.
  If any has so very little Wit,
  To think a Fop’s Dress can his Person fit,
  E’en let him take it, and make much of it.

Whilst, in The Pretentious Young Ladies, Mascarille and Jodelet impose upon two provincial girls, in Bury-Fair, La Roch, “a French peruke-maker” succeeds in deceiving Mrs. Fantast and Mrs. Gertrude under the name of Count de Cheveux. The Count is very amusing, and though a coward to boot, pretends to be a great warrior. His description of war is characteristic; he states that “de great Heros always burne and kille de Man, Woman, and Shilde for deir Glory.”

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

LA GRANGE, repulsed Lovers.

DU CROISY, GORGIBUS, a good citizen.

[Footnote: Gorgibus was the name of certain characters in old comedies. The actor, L’Epy, who played this part, had a very loud voice; hence Molière gave him probably this name.]

THE MARQUIS DE MASCARILLE, valet to La Grange.

[Footnote: Mascarille was played by Molière, and has a personality quite distinct from the servant of the same name in the Blunderer and the Love-Tiff. The dress in which he acted this part, has not been mentioned in the inventory taken after his death, but in a pamphlet, published in 1660, he is described as wearing an enormous wig, a very small hat, a ruff like a morning gown, rolls in which children could play hide-and-seek, tassels like cornucopise, ribbons that covered his shoes, with heels half a foot in height.]

THE VISCOUNT JODELET, valet to Du Croisy.

ALMANZOR, footman to the pretentious ladies.

TWO CHAIRMEN.

MUSICIANS.

The pretentious young ladies:

MADELON, daughter to Gorgibus

CATHOS, niece to Gorgibus, /

MAROTTE, maid to the pretentious young ladies.

LUCILE and CÉLIMÈNE two female neighbours.

SCENE — GORGIBUS’ HOUSE, PARIS.

SCENE I.

LA GRANGE, DU CROISY.

DU. CR. MR. La Grange.

LA. GR. What?

DU. CR. Look at me for a moment without laughing.

LA. GR. Well?

DU. CR. What do you say of our visit? Are you quite pleased with it?

LA. GR. Do you think either of us has any reason to be so?

DU. CR. Not at all, to say the truth.

LA. GR. As for me, I must acknowledge I was quite shocked at it. Pray now, did ever anybody see a couple of country wenches giving themselves more ridiculous airs, or two men treated with more contempt than we were? They could hardly make up their mind to order chairs for us. I never saw such whispering as there was between them; such yawning, such rubbing of the eyes, and asking so often what o’clock it was. Did they answer anything else but “yes,” or “no,” to what we said to them? In short, do you not agree with me that if we had been the meanest persons in the world, we could not have been treated worse?

DU. CR. You seem to take it greatly to heart.

LA. GR. No doubt I do; so much so, that I am resolved to be revenged on them for their impertinence. I know well enough why they despise us. Affectation has not alone infected Paris, but has also spread into the country, and our ridiculous damsels have sucked in their share of it. In a word, they are a strange medley of coquetry and affectation. I plainly see what kind of persons will be well received by them; if you will take my advice, we will play them such a trick as shall show them their folly, and teach them to distinguish a little better the people they have to deal with.

DU. CR. How can you do this?

LA. GR. I have a certain valet, named Mascarille, who, in the opinion of many people, passes for a kind of wit; for nothing now-a-days is easier than to acquire such a reputation. He is an extraordinary fellow, who has taken it into his head to ape a person of quality. He usually prides himself on his gallantry and his poetry, and despises so much the other servants that he calls them brutes.

DU. CR. Well, what do you mean to do with him?

LA. GR. What do I mean to do with him? He must … but first, let us be gone.

SCENE II.

GORGIBUS, DU CROISY, LA GRANGE.

GORG. WELL, GENTLEMEN, you have seen my niece and my daughter. How are matters going on? What is the result of your visit?

LA. GR. They will tell you this better than we can. All we say is that we thank you for the favour you have done us, and remain your most humble servants.

DU. CR. Your most humble servants.

GORG. (Alone). Hoity-toity! Methinks they go away dissatisfied. What can be the meaning of this? I must find it out. Within there!

SCENE III.

GORGIBUS, MAROTTE.

MAR. DID YOU call, sir?

GORG. Where are your mistresses?

MAR. In their room.

GORG. What are they doing there?

MAR. Making lip salve.

GORG. There is no end of their salves. Bid them come down. (Alone). These hussies with their salves have, I think, a mind to ruin me. Everywhere in the house I see nothing but whites of eggs, lac virginal, and a thousand other fooleries I am not acquainted with. Since we have been here they have employed the lard of a dozen hogs at least, and four servants might live every day on the sheep’s trotters they use.

SCENE IV.

-MADELON, CATHOS, GORGIBUS.

GORG. TRULY THERE is great need to spend so much money to grease your faces. Pray tell me, what have you done to those gentlemen, that I saw them go away with so much coldness. Did I not order you to receive them as persons whom I intended for your husbands?

MAD. Dear father, what consideration do you wish us to entertain for the irregular behaviour of these people?

CAT. How can a woman of ever so little understanding, uncle, reconcile herself to such individuals?

GORG. What fault have you to find with them?

MAD. Their’s is fine gallantry, indeed. Would you believe it? they began with proposing marriage to us.

GORG. What would you have them begin with — with a proposal to keep you as mistresses? Is not their proposal a compliment to both of you, as well as to me? Can anything be more polite than this? And do they not prove the honesty of their intentions by wishing to enter these holy bonds?

MAD. O, father! Nothing can be more vulgar than what you have just said. I am ashamed to hear you talk in such a manner; you should take some lessons in the elegant way of looking at things.

GORG. I care neither for elegant ways nor songs. I tell you marriage is a holy and sacred affair; to begin with that is to act like honest people.
[Footnote: The original has a play on words. Madelon says, in addressing her father, vous devriez un pen vous faire apprendre le bel air des choses, upon which he answers, je n’ai que faire ni d’air ni de chanson. Air means tune as well as look, appearance.]

MAD. Good Heavens! If everybody was like you a love-story would soon be over. What a fine thing it would have been if Cyrus had immediately espoused Mandane, and if Aronce had been married all at once to Clélie.
[Footnote: Cyrus and Mandane are the two principal characters of Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s novel Artamene, on the Grand Cyrus; Aronce and Clélie of the novel Clélie, by the same author.]

GORG. What is she jabbering about?

MAD. Here is my cousin, father, who will tell as well as I that matrimony ought never to happen till after other adventures. A lover, to be agreeable, must understand how to utter fine sentiments, to breathe soft, tender, and passionate vows; his courtship must be according to the rules. In the first place, he should behold the fair one of whom he becomes enamoured either at a place of worship, [Footnote: See note 15, page 33.] or when out walking, or at some public ceremony; or else he should be introduced to her by a relative or a friend, as if by chance, and when he leaves her he should appear in a pensive and melancholy mood. For some time he should conceal his passion from the object of his love, but pay her several visits, in every one of which he ought to introduce some gallant subject to exercise the wits of all the company. When the day comes to make his declarations — which generally should be contrived in some shady garden-walk while the company is at a distance — it should be quickly followed by anger, which is shown by our blushing, and which, for a while, banishes the lover from our presence. He finds afterwards means to pacify us, to accustom us gradually to hear him depict his passion, and to draw from us that confession which causes us so much pain. After that come the adventures, the rivals who thwart mutual inclination, the persecutions of fathers, the jealousies arising without any foundation, complaints, despair, running away with, and its consequences. Thus things are carried on in fashionable life, and veritable gallantry cannot dispense with these forms. But to come out point-blank with a proposal of marriage, — to make no love but with a marriage-contract, and begin a novel at the wrong end! Once more, father, nothing can be more tradesmanlike, and the mere thought of it makes me sick at heart.

GORG. What deuced nonsense is all this? That is highflown language with a vengeance!

CAT. Indeed, uncle, my cousin hits the nail on the head. How can we receive kindly those who are so awkward in gallantry. I could lay a wager they have not even seen a map of the country of Tenderness, and that Love-letters, Trifling attentions, Polite epistles, and Sprightly verses, are regions to them unknown.
[Footnote: The map of the country of Tenderness (la carte de Tendre) is found in the first part of Clélie (see note 2, page 146); Love-letter (Billetdoux); Polite epistle (Billet galant); Trifling attentions (Petit Soins); Sprightly verses (Jolts vers), are the names of villages to be found in the map, which is a curiosity in its way.]
Do you not see that the whole person shews it, and that their external appearance is not such as to give at first sight a good opinion of them. To come and pay a visit to the object of their love with a leg without any ornaments, a hat without any feathers, a head with its locks not artistically arranged, and a coat that suffers from a paucity of ribbons. Heavens! what lovers are these! what stinginess in dress! what barrenness of conversation! It is not to be allowed; it is not to be borne. I also observed that their ruffs
[Footnote: The ruff (rabat) was at first only the shirt-collar pulled out and worn outside the coat. Later ruffs were worn, which were not fastened to the shirt, sometimes adorned with lace, and tied in front with two strings with tassels. The rabat was very fashionable during the youthful years of Louis XIV.]
were not made by the fashionable milliner, and that their breeches were not big enough by more than half-a-foot.

GORG. I think they are both mad, nor can I understand anything of this gibberish. Cathos, and you Madelon…

MAD. Pray, father, do not use those strange names, and call us by some other.

GORG. What do you mean by those strange names? Are they not the names your godfathers and godmothers gave you?

MAD. Good Heavens! how vulgar you are! I confess I wonder you could possibly be the father of such an intelligent girl as I am. Did ever anybody in genteel style talk of Cathos or of Madelon? And must you not admit that either of these names would be sufficient to disgrace the finest novel in the world?

CAT. It is true, uncle, an ear rather delicate suffers extremely at hearing these words pronounced, and the name of Polixena, which my cousin has chosen, and that of Amintha, which I took, possesses a charm, which you must needs acknowledge.
[Footnote: The precieuses often changed their names into more poetical and romantic appellations. The Marquise de Rambouillet, whose real name was Catherine, was known under the anagram of Arthenice.]

GORG. Hearken; one word will suffice. I do not allow you to take any other names than those that were given you by your godfathers and godmothers; and as for those gentlemen we are speaking about, I know their families and fortunes, and am determined they shall be your husbands. I am tired of having you upon my hands. Looking after a couple of girls is rather too weighty a charge for a man of my years.

CAT. As for me, uncle, all I can say is, that I think marriage a very shocking business. How can one endure the thought of lying by the side of a man, who is really naked?

MAD. Give us leave to take breath for a short time among the fashionable world of Paris, where we are but just arrived. Allow us to prepare at our leisure the groundwork of our novel, and do not hurry on the conclusion too abruptly.

GORG. (Aside). I cannot doubt it any longer; they are completely mad. (Aloud). Once more, I tell you, I understand nothing of all this gibberish; I will be master, and to cut short all kinds of arguments, either you shall both be married shortly, or, upon my word, you shall be nuns; that I swear.
[Footnote: This scene is the mere outline of the well known quarrel between Chrysale, Philaminte, and Belinda in the “Femmes Savantes” (see vol. iii.) but a husband trembling before his wife, and only daring to show his temper to his sister, is a much more tempting subject for a dramatic writer than a man addressing in a firm tone his daughter and niece.]

SCENE VI.

CATHOS, MADELON.

CAT. GOOD HEAVENS, my dear, how deeply is your father still immersed in material things! how dense is his understanding, and what gloom overcasts his soul!

MAD. What can I do, my dear? I am ashamed of him. I can hardly persuade myself I am indeed his daughter; I believe that an accident, some time or other, will discover me to be of a more illustrious descent.

CAT. I believe it; really, it is very likely; as for me, when I consider myself…

SCENE VII.

CATHOS, MADELON, MAROTTE.

MAR. HERE IS a footman asks if you are at home, and says his master is coming to see you.

MAD. Learn, you dunce, to express yourself a little less vulgarly. Say, here is a necessary evil inquiring if it is commodious for you to become visible.
[Footnote: All these and similar sentences were really employed by the precieuses.]

MAR. I do not understand Latin, and have not learned philosophy out of
Cyrus, as you have done.
[Footnote: Artamene, ou le Grand Cyrus, (1649-1653) a novel in ten volumes by Madle. de Scudery.]

MAD. Impertinent creature! How can this be borne! And who is this footman’s master?

MAR. He told me it was the Marquis de Mascarille.

MAD. Ah, my dear! A marquis! a marquis! Well, go and tell him we are visible. This is certainly some wit who has heard of us.

CAT. Undoubtedly, my dear.

MAD. We had better receive him here in this parlour than in our room.
Let us at least arrange our hair a little and maintain our reputation.
Come in quickly, and reach us the Counsellor of the Graces.

MAR. Upon my word, I do not know what sort of a beast that is; you must speak like a Christian if you would have me know your meaning.

CAT. Bring us the looking-glass, you blockhead! and take care not to contaminate its brightness by the communication of your image.

SCENE VIII.

MASCARILLE, TWO CHAIRMEN.

MASC. STOP, CHAIRMAN, stop. Easy does it! Easy, easy! I think these boobies intend to break me to pieces by bumping me against the walls and the pavement.

1 CHAIR. Ay, marry, because the gate is narrow and you would make us bring you in here.

MASC. To be sure, you rascals! Would you have me expose the fulness of my plumes to the inclemency of the rainy season, and let the mud receive the impression of my shoes? Begone; take away your chair.

2 CHAIR. Then please to pay us, sir.

MASC. What?

2 CHAIR. Sir, please to give us our money, I say.

MASC. (Giving him a box on the ear). What, scoundrel, to ask money from a person of my rank!

2 CHAIR. Is this the way poor people are to be paid? Will your rank get us a dinner?

MASC. Ha, ha! I shall teach you to keep your right place. Those low fellows dare to make fun of me!

1 CHAIR. (Taking up one of the poles of his chair). Come, pay us quickly.

MASC. What?

1 CHAIR. I mean to have my money at once.

MASC. That is a sensible fellow.

1 CHAIR. Make haste, then.

MASC. Ay, you speak properly, but the other is a scoundrel, who does not know what he says. There, are you satisfied?

1 CHAIR. No, I am not satisfied; you boxed my friend’s ears, and … (holding up his pole).

MASC. Gently; there is something for the box on the ear. People may get anything from me when they go about it in the right way. Go now, but come and fetch me by and by to carry me to the Louvre to the petit coucher.
[Footnote: Louis XIV. and several other Kings of France, received their courtiers when rising or going to bed. This was called lever and coucher. The lever as well as the coucher was divided into petit and grand. All persons received at court had a right to come to the grand lever and coucher, but only certain noblemen of high rank and the princes of the royal blood could remain at the petit lever and coucher, which was the time between the king putting on either a day or night shirt, and the time he went to bed or was fully dressed. The highest person of rank always claimed the right of handing to the king his shirt.]

SCENE IX.

MAROTTE, MASCARILLE.

MAR. SIR, MY mistresses will come immediately.

MASC. Let them not hurry themselves; I am very comfortable here, and can wait.

MAR. Here they come.

SCENE X.

MADELON, CATHOS, MASCARILLE, ALMANZOR.

MASC. (AFTER HAVING bowed to them). Ladies, no doubt you will be surprised at the boldness of my visit, but your reputation has drawn this disagreeable affair upon you; merit has for me such potent charms, that I run everywhere after it.

MAD. If you pursue merit you should not come to us.

CAT. If you find merit amongst us, you must have brought it hither yourself.

MASC. Ah! I protest against these words. When fame mentioned your deserts it spoke the truth, and you are going to make pic, repic, and capot. all the gallants from Paris.
[Footnote: Dryden, in his Sir Martin Mar-all (Act i. sc. i), makes Sir
Martin say: “If I go to picquet…he will picque and repicque, and capot
me twenty times together” I believe that these terms in Molière’s and
Dryden’s times had a different meaning from what they have now.]

MAD. Your complaisance goes a little too far in the liberality of its praises, and my cousin and I must take care not to give too much credit to your sweet adulation.

CAT. My dear, we should call for chairs.

MAD. Almanzor!

ALM. Madam.

MAD. Convey to us hither, instantly, the conveniences of conversation.

MASC. But am I safe here? (Exit Almanzor.)

CAT. What is it you fear?

MASC. Some larceny of my heart; some massacre of liberty. I behold here a pair of eyes that seem to be very naughty boys, that insult liberty, and use a heart most barbarously. Why the deuce do they put themselves on their guard, in order to kill any one who comes near them? Upon my word! I mistrust them; I shall either scamper away, or expect very good security that they do me no mischief.

MAD. My dear, what a charming facetiousness he has!

CAT. I see, indeed, he is an Amilcar.
[Footnote: Amilcar is one of the heroes of the novel Clélie, who wishes to be thought sprightly.]

MAD. Fear nothing, our eyes have no wicked designs, and your heart may rest in peace, fully assured of their innocence.

CAT. But, pray, Sir, be not inexorable to the easy chair, which, for this last quarter of an hour, has held out its arms towards you; yield to its desire of embracing you.

MASC. (After having combed himself, and, adjusted the rolls of his stockings). Well, ladies, and what do you think of Paris?
[Footnote: It was at that time the custom for men of rank to comb their hair or periwigs in public.]
[Footnote: The rolls (canons) were large round pieces of linen, often adorned with lace or ribbons, and which were fastened below the breeches, just under the knee.]

MAD. Alas! what can we think of it? It would be the very antipodes of reason not to confess that Paris is the grand cabinet of marvels, the centre of good taste, wit, and gallantry.

MASC. As for me, I maintain that, out of Paris, there is no salvation for the polite world.

CAT. Most assuredly.

MASC. Paris is somewhat muddy; but then we have sedan chairs.

MAD. To be sure; a sedan chair is a wonderful protection against the insults of mud and bad weather.

MASC. I am sure you receive many visits. What great wit belongs to your company?

MAD. Alas! we are not yet known, but we are in the way of being so; for a lady of our acquaintance has promised us to bring all the gentlemen who have written for the Miscellanies of Select Poetry.
[Footnote: Molière probably alludes to a Miscellany of Select Poetry,
published in 1653, by de Sercy, under the title of Poésies choisies de
M. M. Corneille Benserade, de Scudéry, Boisrobert, Sarrazin, Desmarets,
Baraud, Saint-Laurent, Colletet. Lamesnardiere, Montreuil, Viguier,
Chevreau, Malleville, Tristan, Testu, Maucroy, de Prade, Girard et de
L’Age. A great number of such miscellanies appeared in France, and in
England also, about that time.]

CAT. And certain others, whom, we have been told, are likewise the sovereign arbiters of all that is handsome.

MASC. I can manage this for you better than any one; they all visit me; and I may say that I never rise without having half-a-dozen wits at my levee.

MAD. Good Heavens! you will place us under the greatest obligation if you will do us the kindness; for, in short, we must make the acquaintance of all those gentlemen if we wish to belong to the fashion. They are the persons who can make or unmake a reputation at Paris; you know that there are some, whose visits alone are sufficient to start the report that you are a Connaisseuse, though there should be no other reason for it. As for me, what I value particularly is, that by means of these ingenious visits, we learn a hundred things which we ought necessarily to know, and which are the quintessence of wit. Through them we hear the scandal of the day, or whatever niceties are going on in prose or verse. We know, at the right time, that Mr. So-and-so has written the finest piece in the world on such a subject; that Mrs. So-and-so has adapted words to such a tune; that a certain gentleman has written a madrigal upon a favour shown to him; another stanzas upon a fair one who betrayed him; Mr. Such-a-one wrote a couplet of six lines yesterday evening to Miss Such-a-one, to which she returned him an answer this morning at eight o’clock; such an author is engaged on such a subject; this writer is busy with the third volume of his novel; that one is putting his works to press. Those things procure you consideration in every society, and if people are ignorant of them, I would not give one pinch of snuff for all the wit they may have.

CAT. Indeed, I think it the height of ridicule for any one who possesses the slightest claim to be called clever not to know even the smallest couplet that is made every day; as for me, I should be very much ashamed if any one should ask me my opinion about something new, and I had not seen it.

MASC. It is really a shame not to know from the very first all that is going on; but do not give yourself any farther trouble, I will establish an academy of wits at your house, and I give you my word that not a single line of poetry shall be written in Paris, but what you shall be able to say by heart before anybody else. As for me, such as you see me, I amuse myself in that way when I am in the humour, and you may find handed about in the fashionable assemblies
[Footnote: In the original French the word is ruelle, which means literally “a small street,” “a lane,” hence any narrow passage, hence the narrow opening between the wall and the bed. The Précieuses at that time received their visitors lying dressed in a bed, which was placed in an alcove and upon a raised platform. Their fashionable friends (alcovistes) took their places between the bed and the wall, and thus the name ruelle came to be given to all fashionable assemblies. In Dr. John Ash’s New and Complete Dictionary of the English Language, published in London 1755, I still find ruelle defined: “a little street, a circle, an assembly at a private house.”]
of Paris two hundred songs, as many sonnets, four hundred epigrams, and more than a thousand madrigals all made by me, without counting riddles and portraits.
[Footnote: This kind of literature, in which one attempted to write a portrait of one’s self or of others, was then very much in fashion. La Bruyere and de Saint-Simon in France, as well as Dryden and Pope in England, have shown what a literary portrait may become in the hands of men of talent.]

MAD. I must acknowledge that I dote upon portraits; I think there is nothing more gallant.

MASC. Portraits are difficult, and call for great wit; you shall see some of mine that will not displease you.

CAT. As for me, I am awfully fond of riddles.

MASC. They exercise the intelligence; I have already written four of them this morning, which I will give you to guess.

MAD. Madrigals are pretty enough when they are neatly turned.

MASC. That is my special talent; I am at present engaged in turning the whole Roman history into madrigals.
[Footnote: Seventeen years after this play was performed, Benserade published les Métamorphoses d’ Ovide mises en rondeaux.]

MAD. Goodness gracious! that will certainly be superlatively fine; I should like to have one copy at least, if you think of publishing it.

MASC. I promise you each a copy, bound in the handsomest manner. It does not become a man of my rank to scribble, but I do it only to serve the publishers, who are always bothering me.

MAD. I fancy it must be a delightful thing to see one’s self in print.

MASC. Undoubtedly; but, by the by, I must repeat to you some extempore verses I made yesterday at the house of a certain duchess, an acquaintance of mine. I am deuced clever at extempore verses.

CAT. Extempore verses are certainly the very touch-stone of genius.

MASC. Listen then.

MAD. We are all ears.

MASC.
   Oh! oh! quite without heed was I,
   As harmless you I chanced to spy,
     Slily your eyes
     My heart surprise,
   Stop thief! stop thief! stop thief I cry!

CAT. Good Heavens! this is carried to the utmost pitch of gallantry.

MASC. Everything I do shows it is done by a gentleman; there is nothing of the pedant about my effusions.

MAD. They are more than two thousand miles removed from that.

MASC. Did you observe the beginning, oh! oh? there is something original in that oh! oh! like a man who all of a sudden thinks about something, oh! oh! Taken by surprise as it were, oh! oh!

MAD. Yes, I think that oh! oh! admirable.

MASC. It seems a mere nothing.

CAT. Good Heavens! How can you say so? It is one of these things that are perfectly invaluable.

MAD. No doubt on it; I would rather have written that oh! oh! than an epic poem.

MASC. Egad, you have good taste.

MAD. Tolerably; none of the worst, I believe.

MASC. But do you not also admire quite without heed was I? quite without heed was I, that is, I did not pay attention to anything; a natural way of speaking, quite without heed was I, of no harm thinking, that is, as I was going along, innocently, without malice, like a poor sheep, you I chanced to spy, that is to say, I amused myself with looking at you, with observing you, with contemplating you. Slily your eyes. … What do you think of that word slily — is it not well chosen?

CAT. Extremely so.

MASC. Slily, stealthily; just like a cat watching a mouse — slily.

MAD. Nothing can be better.

MASC. My heart surprise, that is, carries it away from me, robs me of it. Stop thief! stop thief! stop thief! Would you not think a man were shouting and running after a thief to catch him? Stop thief! stop thief! stop thief!
[Footnote: The scene of Mascarille reading his extempore verses is something like Trissotin in Les Femmes savantes (see vol. III.) reading his sonnet for the Princess Uranie. But Mascarille comments on the beauties of his verses with the insolent vanity of a man who does not pretend to have even one atom of modesty; Trissotin, a professional wit, listens in silence, but with secret pride, to the ridiculous exclamations of the admirers of his genius.]

MAD. I must admit the turn is witty and sprightly.

MASC. I will sing you the tune I made to it.

CAT. Have you learned music?

MASC. I? Not at all.

CAT. How can you make a tune then?

MASC. People of rank know everything without ever having learned anything.

MAD. His lordship is quite in the right, my dear.

MASC. Listen if you like the tune: hem, hem, la, la. The inclemency of the season has greatly injured the delicacy of my voice but no matter, it is in a free and easy way. (He sings). Oh! Oh! quite without heed was I, etc.

CAT. What a passion there breathes in this music. It is enough to make one die away with delight!

MAD. There is something plaintive in it.

MASC. Do you not think that the air perfectly well expresses the sentiment, stop thief, stop thief? And then as if some one cried out very loud, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop thief! Then all at once like a person out of breath, Stop thief!

MAD. This is to understand the perfection of things, the grand perfection, the perfection of perfections. I declare it is altogether a wonderful performance. I am quite enchanted with the air and the words.

CAT. I never yet met with anything so excellent.

MASC. All that I do comes naturally to me; it is without study.

MAD. Nature has treated you like a very fond mother; you are her darling child.

MASC. How do you pass away the time, ladies?

CAT. With nothing at all.

MAD. Until now we have lived in a terrible dearth of amusements.

MASC. I am at your service to attend you to the play, one of those days, if you will permit me. Indeed, a new comedy is to be acted which I should be very glad we might see together.

MAD. There is no refusing you anything.

MASC. But I beg of you to applaud it well, when we shall be there; for I have promised to give a helping hand to the piece. The author called upon me this very morning to beg me so to do. It is the custom for authors to come and read their new plays to people of rank, that they may induce us to approve of them and give them a reputation. I leave you to imagine if, when we say anything, the pit dares contradict us. As for me, I am very punctual in these things, and when I have made a promise to a poet, I always cry out “Bravo” before the candles are lighted.

MAD. Do not say another word; Paris is an admirable place. A hundred things happen every day which people in the country, however clever they may be, have no idea of.

CAT. Since you have told us, we shall consider it our duty to cry up lustily every word that is said.

MASC. I do not know whether I am deceived, but you look as if you had written some play yourself.

MAD. Eh! there may be something in what you say.

MASC. Ah! upon my word, we must see it. Between ourselves, I have written one which I intend to have brought out.

CAT. Ay! to what company do you mean to give it?

MASC. That is a very nice question, indeed. To the actors of the hôtel de Bourgogne; they alone can bring things into good repute; the rest are ignorant creatures who recite their parts just as people speak in every-day life; they do not understand to mouth the verses, or to pause at a beautiful passage; how can it be known where the fine lines are, if an actor does not stop at them, and thereby tell you to applaud heartily?
[Footnote: The company of actors at the hotel de Bourgogne were rivals to the troop of Molière; it appears, however, from contemporary authors, that the accusations brought by our author against them were well-founded.]

CAT. Indeed! that is one way of making an audience feel the beauties of any work; things are only prized when they are well set off.

MASC. What do you think of my top-knot, sword-knot, and rosettes? Do you find them harmonize with my coat?
[Footnote: In the original petite oie; this was first, the name given to the giblets of a goose, oie; next it came to mean all the accessories of dress, ribbons, laces, feathers, and other small ornaments. In one of the old translations of Molière petite oie is rendered by “muff,” and Perdrigeon (see next note), I suppose, with a faint idea of perdrix, a partridge, by “bird of paradise feathers!!”]

CAT. Perfectly.

MASC. Do you think the ribbon well chosen?

MAD. Furiously well. It is real Perdrigeon.
[Footnote: Perdrigeon was the name of a fashionable linen-draper in
Paris at that time.]

MASC. What do you say of my rolls?
[Footnote: According to Ash’s Dictionary, 1775, canons, are “cannions, a kind of boot hose, an ancient dress for the legs.”]

MAD. They look very fashionable.

MASC, I may at least boast that they are a quarter of a yard wider than any that have been made.

MAD. I must own I never saw the elegance of dress carried farther.

MASC. Please to fasten the reflection of your smelling faculty upon these gloves.

MAD. They smell awfully fine.

CAT. I never inhaled a more delicious perfume.

MASC. And this? (He gives them his powdered wig to smell).

MAD. It has the true quality odour; it titillates the nerves of the upper region most deliciously.

MASC. You say nothing of my feathers. How do you like them?

CAT. They are frightfully beautiful.

MASC. Do you know that every single one of them cost me a Louis-d’or?
But it is my hobby to have generally everything of the very best.

MAD. I assure you that you and I sympathize. I am furiously particular in everything I wear; I cannot endure even stockings, unless they are bought at a fashionable shop.
[Footnote: Without going into details about the phraseology of the précieuses, of which the ridiculousness has appeared sufficiently in this scene, it will be observed that they used adverbs, as “furiously, terribly, awfully, extraordinarily, horribly, greatly,” and many more, in such a way that they often appear absurd, as, “I love you horribly,” or, “he was greatly small.” Such a way of speaking is not unknown even at the present time in England; we sometimes hear, “I like it awfully,” “it is awfully jolly.”]

MASC. (Crying out suddenly). O! O! O! gently. Damme, ladies, you use me very ill; I have reason to complain of your behaviour; it is not fair.
[Footnote: I employ here the words “to have reason,” because that verb, in the sense of “to have a right, to be right,” seems to have been a courtly expression in Dryden’s time. Old Moody answers to Sir Martin Marall (Act iii., Scene 3), “You have reason, sir. There he is again, too; the town phrase; a great compliment I wise! you have reason, sir; that is, you are no beast, sir.” ]

CAT. What is the matter with you?

MASC. What! two at once against my heart! to attack me thus right and left! Ha! This is contrary to the law of nations, the combat is too unequal, and I must cry out, “Murder!”

CAT. Well, he does say things in a peculiar way.

MAD. He is a consummate wit.

CAT. You are more afraid than hurt, and your heart cries out before it is even wounded.

MASC. The devil it does! it is wounded all over from head to foot.

SCENE XI.

CATHOS, MADELON, MASCARILLE, MAROTTE.

MAR. MADAM, SOMEBODY asks to see you.

MAD. Who!

MAR. The Viscount de Jodelet.

MASC. The Viscount de Jodelet?

MAR. Yes, sir.

CAT. Do you know him?

MASC. He is my most intimate friend.

MAD. Shew him in immediately.

MASC. We have not seen each other for some time; I am delighted to meet him.

CAT. Here he comes.

SCENE XII.

CATHOS, MADELON, JODELET, MASCARILLE, MAROTTE, ALMANZOR.

MASC. AH, VISCOUNT!

JOD. Ah, Marquis! (Embracing each other).

MASC. How glad I am to meet you!

JOD. How happy I am to see you here.

MASC. Embrace me once more, I pray you.
[Footnote: It was then the fashion for young courtiers to embrace each other repeatedly with exaggerated gestures, uttering all the while loud exclamations. The Viscount de Jodelet is the caricature of a courtier of a former reign; he is very old, very pale, dressed in sombre colours, speaks slowly and through the nose. Geoffrin, the actor, who played this part, was at least seventy years old.]

MAD. (To Cathos). My dearest, we begin to be known; people of fashion find the way to our house.

MASC. Ladies, allow me to introduce this gentleman to you. Upon my word, he deserves the honour of your acquaintance.

JOD. It is but just we should come and pay you what we owe; your charms demand their lordly rights from all sorts of people.

MAD. You carry your civilities to the utmost confines of flattery.

CAT. This day ought to be marked in our diary as a red-letter day.

MAD. (To Almanser). Come, boy, must you always be told things over and over again? Do you not observe there must be an additional chair?

MASC. You must not be astonished to see the Viscount thus; he has but just recovered from an illness, which, as you perceive, has made him so pale.
[Footnote: Molière here alludes to the complexion of the actor Geoffrin.]

JOD. The consequence of continual attendance at court and the fatigues of war.

MASC. Do you know, ladies, that in the Viscount you behold one of the heroes of the age. He is a very valiant man.
[Footnote: In the original un brave à trois poils, literally, “a brave man with three hairs.” This is an allusion to the moustache and pointed beard on the chin, then called royale. We have seen the fashion revived in our days by the late emperor of the French, Napoleon III. and his courtiers; of course, the royale was then called impériale.]

JOB. Marquis, you are not inferior to me; we also know what you can do.

MASC. It is true we have seen one another at work when there was need for it.

JOD. And in places where it was hot.

MASC. (Looking at Cathos and Madelon). Ay, but not so hot as here. Ha, ha, ha!

JOD. We became acquainted in the army; the first time we saw each other he commanded a regiment of horse aboard the galleys of Malta.

MASC. True, but for all that you were in the service before me; I remember that I was but a young officer when you commanded two thousand horse.

JOD. War is a fine thing; but, upon my word, the court does not properly reward men of merit like us.

MASC. That is the reason I intend to hang up my sword.

CAT. As for me, I have a tremendous liking for gentlemen of the army.
[Footnote: Cathos, who only repeats what her cousin says, and has observed that Mascarille admires Madelon, is resolved to worship more particularly the Viscount de Jodelet.]

MAD. I love them, too; but I like bravery seasoned with wit.

MASC. Do you remember, Viscount, our taking that half-moon from the enemy at the siege of Arras?
[Footnote: Turenne compelled the Prince de Condé and the Spanish army to raise the siege of Arras in 1654.]

JOD. What do you mean by a half-moon? It was a complete full moon.

MASC. I believe you are right.

JOD. Upon my word, I ought to remember it very well. I was wounded in the leg by a hand-grenade, of which I still carry the marks. Pray, feel it, you can perceive what sort of a wound it was.

CAT. (Putting her hand to the place). The scar is really large.

MASC. Give me your hand for a moment, and feel this; there, just at the back of my head. Do you feel it?

MAD. Ay, I feel something.

MASC. A musket shot which I received the last campaign I served in.

JOD. (Unbuttoning his breast). Here is a wound which went quite through me at the attack of Gravelines.
[Footnote: In 1658, the Marshal de la Ferte took this town from the
Spaniards.]

MASC. (Putting his hand upon the button of his breeches). I am going to show you a tremendous wound.

MAD. There is no occasion for it, we believe it without seeing it.

MASC They are honour’s marks, that show what a man is made of.

CAT. We have not the least doubt of the valour of you both.

MASC. Viscount, is your coach in waiting?

JOD. Why?

MASC. We shall give these ladies an airing, and offer them a collation.

MAD. We cannot go out to-day.

MASC. Let us send for musicians then, and have a dance.

JOD. Upon my word, that is a happy thought.

MAD. With all our hearts, but we must have some additional company.

MASC. So ho! Champagne, Picard, Bourguignon, Cascaret, Basque, La Verdure, Lorrain, Provençal, La Violette. I wish the deuce took all these footmen! I do not think there is a gentleman in France worse served than I am! These rascals are always out of the way.
[Footnote: These names, with the exception of Cascaret, La Verdure and La Violette are those of natives of different provinces, and were often given to footmen, according to the place where they were born. Cascaret is of Spanish origin, and not seldom used as a name for servants; La Verdure means, verdure; La Violette, violet.]

MAD. Almanzor, tell the servants of my lord marquis to go and fetch the musicians, and ask some of the gentlemen and ladies hereabouts to come and people the solitude of our ball. (Exit Almanzor).

MASC. Viscount, what do you say of those eyes?

JOD. Why, Marquess, what do you think of them yourself?

MASC. I? I say that our liberty will have much difficulty to get away from here scot free. At least mine has suffered most violent attacks; my heart hangs by a single thread.

MAD. How natural is all he says! he gives to things a most agreeable turn.

CAT. He must really spend a tremendous deal of wit.

MASC. To show you that I am in earnest, I shall make some extempore verses upon my passion. (Seems to think).

CAT. O! I beseech you by all that I hold sacred, let us hear something made upon us.

JOD. I should be glad to do so too, but the quantity of blood that has been taken from me lately, has greatly exhausted my poetic vein.

MASC. Deuce take it! I always make the first verse well, but I find the others more difficult. Upon my word, this is too short a time; but I will make you some extempore verses at my leisure, which you shall think the finest in the world.

JOD. He is devilish witty.

MAD. He — his wit is so gallant and well expressed.

MASC. Viscount, tell me, when did you see the Countess last?

JOD. I have not paid her a visit these three weeks.

MASC. Do you know that the duke came to see me this morning; he would fain have taken me into the country to hunt a stag with him?

MAD. Here come our friends.

SCENE XIII.

LUCILE, CÉLIMÈNE, CATHOS, MADELON, MASCARILLE, JODELET, MAROTTE, ALMANZOR, AND MUSICIANS.

MAD. LAWK! MY dears, we beg your pardon. These gentlemen had a fancy to put life into our heels; we sent for you to fill up the void of our assembly.

LUC. We are certainly much obliged to you for doing so.

MASC. This is a kind of extempore ball, ladies, but one of these days we shall give you one in form. Have the musicians come?

ALM. Yes, sir, they are here.

CAT. Come then, my dears, take your places.

MASC. (Dancing by himself and singing). La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la.

MAD. What a very elegant shape he has.

CAT. He looks as if he were a first-rate dancer.

MASC. (Taking out Madelon to dance). My freedom will dance a Couranto as well as my feet. Play in time, musicians, in time. O what ignorant wretches! There is no dancing with them. The devil take you all, can you not play in time? La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la? Steady, you country-scrapers!
[Footnote: A Couranto was a very grave, Spanish dance, or rather march, but in which the feet did not rise from the ground.]

JOD. (Dancing also). Hold, do not play so fast. I have but just recovered from an illness.

SCENE XIV.

Du CROISY, LA GRANGE, CATHOS, MADELON, LUCILE, CÉLIMÈNE, JODELET; MASCARILLE, MAROTTE, AND MUSICIANS.

LA GR. (WITH a stick in his hand). Ah! ah! scoundrels, what are you doing here? We have been looking for you these three hours. (He beats Mascarille).

MASC. Oh! oh! oh! you did not tell me that blows should be dealt about.

JOD. (Who is also beaten). Oh! oh! oh!

LA GR. It becomes you well, you rascal, to pretend to be a man of rank.

DU CR. This will teach you to know yourself.

SCENE XV.

CATHOS, MADELON, LUCILE, CÉLIMÈNE, MASCARILLE, JODELET, MAROTTE, AND MUSICIANS.

MAD. WHAT IS the meaning of this?

JOD. It is a wager.

CAT. What, allow yourselves to be beaten thus?

MASC. Good Heavens! I did not wish to appear to take any notice of it; because I am naturally very violent, and should have flown into a passion.

MAD. To suffer an insult like this in our presence!

MASC. It is nothing. Let us not leave off. We have known one another for a long time, and among friends one ought not to be so quickly offended for such a trifle.

SCENE XVI.

DU CROISY, LA GRANGE, MADELON, CATHOS, LUCILE, CÉLIMÈNE, MASCARILLE, JODELET, MAROTTE, AND MUSICIANS.

LA GR. Upon my word, rascals, you shall not laugh at us, I promise you.
Come in, you there. (Three or four men enter).

MAD. What means this impudence to come and disturb us in our own house?

DU CR. What, ladies, shall we allow our footmen to be received better than ourselves? Shall they come to make love to you at our expense, and even give a ball in your honour?

MAD. Your footmen?

LA GR. Yes, our footmen; and you must give me leave to say that it is not acting either handsome or honest to spoil them for us, as you do.

MAD. O Heaven! what insolence!

LA GR. But they shall not have the advantage of our clothes to dazzle your eyes. Upon my word, if you are resolved to like them, it shall be for their handsome looks only. Quick, let them be stripped immediately.

JOD. Farewell, a long farewell to all our fine clothes.
[Footnote: The original has braverle; brave, and bravery, had formerly also the meaning of showy, gaudy, rich, in English. Fuller in The Holy State, bk. ii., c. 18, says: “If he (the good yeoman) chance to appear in clothes above his rank, it is to grace some great man with his service, and then he blusheth at his own bravery.”]

MASC. The marquisate and viscountship are at an end.

DU. CR. Ah! ah! you knaves, you have the impudence to become our rivals. I assure you, you must go somewhere else to borrow finery to make yourselves agreeable to your mistresses.

LA GR. It is too much to supplant us, and that with our own clothes.

MASC. O fortune, how fickle you are!

DU CR. Quick, pull off everything from them.

LA GR. Make haste and take away all these clothes. Now, ladies, in their present condition you may continue your amours with them as long as you please; we leave you perfectly free; this gentleman and I declare solemnly that we shall not be in the least degree jealous.

SCENE XVII.

MADELON, CATHOS, JODELET, MASCARILLE, AND MUSICIANS.

CAT. WHAT A confusion!

MAD. I am nearly bursting with vexation.

1 MUS. (To Mascarille). What is the meaning of this? Who is to pay us?

MASC. Ask my lord the viscount.

1 MUS. (To Jodelet). Who is to give us our money?

JOD. Ask my lord the marquis.

SCENE XVIII.

GORGIBUS, MADELON, CATHOS, JODELET, MASCARILLE, AND MUSICIANS.

GORG. AH! YOU hussies, you have put us in a nice pickle, by what I can see; I have heard about your fine goings on from those two gentlemen who just left.

MAD. Ah, father! they have played us a cruel trick.

GORG. Yes, it is a cruel trick, but you may thank your own impertinence for it, you jades. They have revenged themselves for the way you treated them; and yet, unhappy man that I am, I must put up with the affront.

MAD. Ah! I swear we will be revenged, or I shall die in the attempt. And you, rascals, dare you remain here after your insolence?

MASC. Do you treat a marquis in this manner? This is the way of the world; the least misfortune causes us to be slighted by those who before caressed us. Come along, brother, let us go and seek our fortune somewhere else; I perceive they love nothing here but outward show, and have no regard for worth unadorned. (They both leave).

SCENE XIX.

GORGIBUS, MADELON, CATHOS, AND MUSICIANS.

1 MUS. SIR, as they have not paid us, we expect you to do so, for it was in this house we played.

GORG. (Beating them). Yes, yes, I shall satisfy you; this is the coin I will pay you in. As for you, you sluts, I do not know why I should not serve you in the same way; we shall become the common talk and laughing-stock of everybody; this is what you have brought upon yourselves by your fooleries. Out of my sight and hide yourselves, you jades; go and hide yourselves forever. {Alone). And you, that are the cause of their folly, you stupid trash, mischievous amusements for idle minds, you novels, verses, songs, sonnets, and sonatas, the devil take you all.

Sganarelle; or, The Imaginary Cuckold

Sganarelle ou Le Cocu imaginaire

Translated by Henri van Laun

Sganarelle, or the Imaginary Cuckold was first performed at the Théâtre du Petit-Bourbon on 28 May 1660. It was highly successful and popular during the playwright’s lifetime and was staged more frequently than any of his other works. The play premiered five months before the theatre was unexpectedly demolished in order to make space for further construction on the Louvre. This left Molière’s troupe without a venue until they were granted the use of the Théâtre du Palais-Royal at the start of 1661. Molière’s troupe shared the Petit-Bourbon and one of the wings of the Théâtre du Palais-Royal with Tiberio Fiorilli’s Comèdie- Italienne troupe and the two men become friends. Moreover, Fiorilli helped the Frenchman learn the techniques of Commedia dell’arte, which became an important influence on Molière’s work as an actor and writer. Fiorilli was a highly regarded performer, who became renowned for developing and popularising the role of Scaramouche (Scaramuccia) — the stock character of an unreliable braggart.

Sganarelle, or the Imaginary Cuckold is a one-act comedy of twenty four scenes written in French alexandrine verse. Heavily influenced by French farce, there is also a focus on characters and their beliefs, motivations and reservations, which is unusual for the genre. The plot involves a series of misunderstanding that lead characters to presumptions about their partner’s fidelity. It necessitates a sense of mistrust, a lack of faith and a sense of suspicion from characters towards their spouse in order for the events to unfurl in the way that they do. Sganarelle, originally played by Molière and first appeared in The Flying Doctor, would become a recurring character in the playwright’s work. Molière would develop and enrich the self-centred and egotistical Sganarelle over the years, while still maintaining the core features of his character.

The playwright had not wished to have the comedy printed immediately, but an author by the name of Sieur de Neuf-Villenaine wrote the play down after he attended many performances, added his own running commentary and then gave it to a publisher claiming he was as important as the author to the printed text. Unsurprisingly, Molière was unhappy and began legal proceedings against the bookseller Jean Ribou to prevent the pirated copy from being sold. The playwright believed he had been granted the ‘privilege’ (rights) to his play, although the legal battle resulted in Ribou continuing to sell his book while paying Molière a small sum of money.

Tiberio Fiorilli

Portrait of Tiberio Fiorilli as Scaramouche by Pietro Paolini

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

SCENE XV.

SCENE XVI.

SCENE XVII.

SCENE XVIII.

SCENE XIX.

SCENE XX.

SCENE XXI.

SCENE XXII.

SCENE XXIII.

SCENE XXIV.

Théâtre du Petit-Bourbon

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

SIX MONTHS AFTER the brilliant success of the Précieuses Ridicules, Molière brought out at the Théâtre du Petit-Bourbon a new comedy, called Sganarelle, ou le Cocu Imaginaire, which I have translated by Sganarelle, or the self-deceived Husband. It has been said that Molière owed the first idea of this piece to an Italian farce, Il Ritratto ovvero Arlichino cornuto per opinione, but, as it has never been printed, it is difficult to decide at the present time whether or not this be true. The primary idea of the play is common to many commedia dell’ arte, whilst Molière has also been inspired by such old authors as Noël Du Fail, Rabelais, those of the Quinze joyes de Mariage, of the Cent nouvelles Nouvelles, and perhaps others.

The plot of Sganarelle is ingenious and plausible; every trifle becomes circumstantial evidence, and is received as conclusive proof both by the husband and wife. The dialogue is sprightly throughout, and the anxious desire of Sganarelle to kill his supposed injurer, whilst his cowardice prevents him from executing his valorous design, is extremely ludicrous. The chief aim of our author appears to have been to show how dangerous it is to judge with too much haste, especially in those circumstances where passion may either augment or diminish the view we take of certain objects. This truth, animated by a great deal of humour and wit, drew crowds of spectators for forty nights, though the play was brought out in summer and the marriage of the young king kept the court from Paris.

The style is totally different from that employed in the Précieuses Ridicules, and is a real and very good specimen of the style gaulois adapted to the age in which Molière lived. He has often been blamed for not having followed up his success of the Précieuses Ridicules by a comedy in the same style, but Molière did not want to make fresh enemies. It appears to have been a regular and set purpose with him always to produce something farcical after a creation which provoked either secret or open hostility, or even violent opposition.

Sganarelle appears in this piece for the first time, if we except the farce, or rather sketch, of the Médecin volant, where in reality nothing is developed, but everything is in mere outline. But in Sganarelle Molière has created a character that is his own just as much as Falstaff belongs to Shakespeare, Sancho Panza to Cervantes, or Panurge to Rabelais. Whether Sganarelle is a servant, a husband, the father of Lucinde, the brother of Ariste, a guardian, a faggot-maker, a doctor, he always represents the ugly side of human nature, an antiquated, grumpy, sullen, egotistical, jealous, grovelling, frightened character, ever and anon raising a laugh on account of his boasting, mean, morose, odd qualities. Molière was, at the time he wrote Sganarelle, more than thirty years old, and could therefore no longer successfully represent Mascarille as the rollicking servant of the Blunderer.

This farce was published by a certain Mr. Neufvillenaine, who was so smitten by it that, after having seen it represented several times, he knew it by heart, wrote it out, and published it, accompanied by a running commentary, which is not worth much, and preceded by a letter to a friend in which he extols its beauties. Molière got, in 1663, his name inserted, instead of that of Neufvillenaine, in the privilége du roi.

Mr. Henry Baker, the translator of this play, in the “Select Comedies of M. de Molière, London, 1732,” oddly dedicates it to Miss Wolstenholme [Footnote: I suppose the lady was a descendant of Sir John Wolstenholme, mentioned in one of the notes of Pepy’s Diary, Sept. 5, 1662, as created a baronet, 1664, an intimate friend of Lord Clarendon’s, and collector outward for the Port of London — ob. 1679.] in the following words: —

MADAM,

Be so good to accept this little Present as an Instance of my high Esteem. Whoever has any Knowledge of the French Language, or any Taste for COMEDY, must needs distinguish the Excellency of Molière’s Plays: one of which is here translated. What the English may be, I leave others to determine; but the ORIGINAL, which you receive along with it, is, I am certain, worthy your Perusal.

Tho’ what You read, at present, is called a DEDICATION, it is, perhaps, the most unlike one of any thing You ever saw: for, You’ll find not one Word, in Praise, either of Your blooming Youth, Your agreeable Person, Your genteel Behaviour, Your easy Temper, or Your good Sense… and, the Reason is, that I cannot for my Life bring myself to such a Degree of Impertinence, as to sit down with a solemn Countenance, and Take upon me to inform the World, that the Sun is bright, and that the Spring is lovely.

My Knowledge of You from Your Infancy, and the many Civilities I am obliged for to Your Family, will, I hope, be an Excuse for this Presumption in,

MADAM, Your most obedient humble servant

H. B.

Enfield,

Jan. 1st 1731-2.

This play seems to have induced several English playwrights to imitate it. First, we have Sir William D’Avenant’s The Playhouse to be Let, of which the date of the first performance is uncertain. According to the Biographia Britannica, it was “a very singular entertainment, composed of five acts, each being a distinct performance. The first act is introductory, shows the distress of the players in the time of vacation, that obliges them to let their house, which several offer to take for different purposes; amongst the rest a Frenchman, who had brought over a troop of his countrymen to act a farce. This is performed in the second act, which is a translation of Molière’s Sganarelle, or the Cuckold Conceit; all in broken French to make the people laugh. The third act is a sort of comic opera, under the title of The History of Sir Francis Drake. The fourth act is a serious opera, representing the cruelties of the Spaniards in Peru. The fifth act is a burlesque in Heroicks on the Amours of Cæsar and Cleopatra, has a great deal of wit and humour, and was often acted afterwards by itself.”

With the exception of the first act, all the others, which are separate and distinct, but short dramatic pieces, were written in the time of Oliver Cromwell, and two of them at least were performed at the Cockpit, when Sir William D’Avenant had obtained permission to present his entertainments of music and perspective in scenes.

The second imitation of Sganarelle is “Tom Essence, or the Modish Wife, a Comedy as it is acted at the Duke’s Theatre, 1677. London, printed by T. M. for W. Cademan, at the Pope’s Head, in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange in the Strand, 1677.” This play is written by a Mr. Thomas Rawlins, printer and engraver to the Mint, under Charles the First and Second, and is founded on two French comedies — viz., Molière’s Sganarelle, and Thomas Corneille’s Don César d’ Avalos. The prologue is too bad to be quoted, and I doubt if it can ever have been spoken on any stage. This play is written partly in blank verse, partly in prose; though very coarse, it is, on the whole, clever and witty. Old Moneylove, a credulous fool, who has a young wife (Act ii., Scene I), reminds one at times of the senator Antonio in Otway’s Venice Preserved, and is, of course, deceived by the gallant Stanley; the sayings and doings of Mrs. Moneylove, who is “what she ought not to be,” and the way she tricks her husband, are very racy, perhaps too much so for the taste of the present times. I do not think any dramatist would now bring upon the stage a young lady like Theodocia, daughter of old Moneylove, reading the list about Squire Careless. Tom Essence is a seller of perfumes, a “jealous coxcomb of his wife;” and Courtly is “a sober gentleman, servant to Theodocia;” these are imitations of Sganarelle and Lelio. Loveall, “a wilde debaucht blade,” and Mrs. Luce, “a widdow disguis’d, and passes for Theodocia’s maid,” are taken from Corneille.

In the epilogue, the whole of which cannot be given, Mrs. Essence speaks the following lines:

 “But now methinks a Cloak-Cabal I see,
  Whose Prick-ears glow, whilst they their Jealousie
  In Essence find; but Citty-Sirs, I fear,
  Most of you have more cause to be severe.
  We yield you are the truest Character.”

Nearly all the scenes imitated in this play from Molière’s Sganarelle contain nothing which merits to be reproduced.

The Perplexed Couple, or Mistake upon Mistake, as it is acted at the New Theatre in Lincolns-Inn-Fields, by the Company of Comedians, acting under Letters Patent granted by King Charles the Second. London, Printed for W. Meares at the Lamb, and F. Brown, at the Black Swan without Temple Bar, 1715, is the third imitation of Molière’s Sganarelle. This comedy, printed for two gentlemen, with zoological signs, was written by a Mr. Charles Molloy, who for a long time was the editor of a well-known paper, Common Sense, in defence of Tory principles. This play had little success, and deserved to have had none, for it has no merit whatever. Our author states in the prologue: —

 “The injur’d Muses, who with savage Rage,
  Of late have often been expell’d a Tyrant Stage,
  Here fly for Refuge; where, secure from Harms,
  By you protected, shall display their Charms…
  No Jest profane the guilty scene deforms,
  That impious way of being dull he scorns;
  No Party Cant shall here inflame the Mind,
  And poison what for Pleasure was designed.”

Mr. Molloy admits in the preface that “the Incident of the Picture in the Third act, something in the Fourth, and one Hint in the last Act, are taken from the Cocu Imaginaire; the rest I’m forced to subscribe to myself, for I can lay it to no Body else.” I shall only remark on this, that nearly the whole play is a mere paraphrasing of Molière’s Cocu Imaginaire, and several other of his plays. The scene between Leonora, the heroine, and Sterling, the old usurer and lover (Act I.), is imitated from Madelon’s description in the art of making love in the Pretentious Young Ladies, and so are many others. The servant Crispin is a medley of Mascarille from The Blunderer, of Gros-René from The Love-Tiff, and of the servant of the same name in the Cocu Imaginaire; the interfering uncle of Lady Thinwit, is taken from George Dandin, whilst Sir Anthony Tainwit becomes Sganarelle. The only thing new I have been able to discover in The Perplexed Couple is the lover Octavio disguising himself as a pedlar to gain admittance to the object of his love; and old Sterling, the usurer, marrying the maid instead of the mistress. Molière’s farce has been lengthened by those means into a five-act comedy, and though “no jest profane” may be found in it it is more full than usual of coarse and lewd sayings, which can hardly be called inuendoes. The play is a mistake altogether; perhaps that is the reason, its second name is called Mistake upon Mistake.

The Picture, or the Cuckold in Conceit, a Comedy in one act, by Js. Miller, is founded on Molière, and is the fourth imitation of Sganarelle. London, MDCCXLV. This play is, on the whole, a free translation of Molière’s, interspersed with some songs set to music by Dr. Arne. Sganarelle is called Mr. Timothy Dotterel, grocer and common councilman; Gorgibus, Mr. Per-cent; Lelio, Mr. Heartly; Gros-René, John Broad, whilst Celia’s maid is called Phillis. The Prologue, spoken by Mr. Havard, ends thus:

 “…To-night we serve
  A Cuckold, that the Laugh does well deserve;
  A Cuckold in Conceit, by Fancy made
  As mad, as by the common Course of Trade:
  And more to please ye, and his Worth enhance,
  He’s carbonado’d a la mode de France;
  Cook’d by Molière, great Master of his Trade,
  From whose Receipt this Harrico was made.
  But if that poignant Taste we fail to take,
  That something, that a mere Receipt can’t make;
  Forgive the Failure — we’re but Copies all,
  And want the Spirit of th’ Original.”

The fifth and best imitation is Arthur Murphy’s All in the Wrong, a comedy in five acts, first performed during the summer season of 1761, at the Theatre Royal, in Drury Lane. Though the chief idea and several of the scenes are taken from Sganarelle, yet the characters are well drawn, and the play, as a whole, very entertaining. The Prologue, written and spoken by Samuel Foote, is as follows:

 “To-night, be it known to Box, Gall’ry, and Pit,
  Will be open’d the best Summer-Warehouse for Wit;

[Footnote: Mr. Garrick, at this time, had let his playhouse for the summer months.]

 The New Manufacture, Foote and Co., Undertakers;
  Play, Pantomime, Opera, Farce, — by the Makers!
  We scorn, like our brethren, our fortunes to owe
  To Shakespeare and Southern, to Otway and Rowe.
  Though our judgment may err, yet our justice is shewn,
  For we promise to mangle no works but our own.
  And moreover on this you may firmly rely,
  If we can’t make you laugh, that we won’t make you cry.
  For Roscius, who knew we were mirth-loving souls,
  Has lock’d up his lightning, his daggers, and bowls.
  Resolv’d that in buskins no hero shall stalk,
  He has shut us quite out of the Tragedy walk.
  No blood, no blank verse! — and in short we’re undone,
  Unless you’re contented with Frolic and Fun.
    If tired of her round in the Ranelagh-mill,
  There should be but one female inclined to sit still;
  If blind to the beauties, or sick of the squall,
  A party should shun to catch cold at Vauxhall;
  If at Sadler’s sweet Wells the made wine should be thick,
  The cheese-cakes turn sour, or Miss Wilkinson sick;
  If the fume of the pipes should oppress you in June,
  Or the tumblers be lame, or the bells out of tune;
  I hope you will call at our warehouse in Drury;
  We’ve a curious assortment of goods, I assure you;
  Domestic and foreign, and all kinds of wares;
  English cloths, Irish linnen, and French petenlairs!
    If for want of good custom, or losses in trade,
  The poetical partners should bankrupts be made;
  If from dealings too large, we plunge deeply in debt,
  And Whereas issue out in the Muses Gazette;
  We’ll on you our assigns for Certificates call;
  Though insolvent, we’re honest, and give up our all.”

Otway in his very indecent play, The Soldier’s Fortune, performed at Dorset Garden, 1681, has borrowed freely from Molière; namely: one scene from Sganarelle, four scenes from The School for Husbands, and a hint from The School for Wives.

The joke from The Pretentious Young Ladies, Scene xii., page 162, about “the half moon and the full moon” is repeated in the conversation between Fourbin and Bloody-Bones in The Soldier’s Fortune.

Sir John Vanbrugh also translated Molière’s Sganarelle, which was performed at the Queen’s Theatre in the Haymarket, 1706, but has not been printed.

There was also a ballad opera played at Drury Lane April 11, 1733, called the Imaginary Cuckold, which is an imitation of Sganarelle.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

GORGIBUS, A CITIZEN of Paris.

LELIO, in love with Celia.

SGANARELLE, a citizen of Paris and the self-deceived husband.

[Footnote: Molière acted this part himself. In the inventory of his dresses taken after his death, and given by M. Eudore Soulié in his Recherches sur Molière, 1863. we find: “a … dress for the Cocu imaginaire, consisting of knee-breeches, doublet, cloak, collar, and shoes, all in crimson red satin.”]

VILLEBREQUIN, father to Valère.

GROS-RENÉ, servant to Lelio.

A RELATIVE OF SGANARELLE’S WIFE.

CELIA, daughter of Gorgibus.

SGANARELLE’S WIFE.

CELIA’S MAID.

Scene. — A PUBLICK PLACE IN PARIS.

SCENE I.

GORGIBUS, CELIA, CELIA’S MAID.

CEL. (COMING OUT in tears, her father following her). Ah! never expect my heart to consent to that.

GORG. What do you mutter, you little impertinent girl? Do you suppose you can thwart my resolution? Have I not absolute power over you? And shall your youthful brain control my fatherly discretion by foolish arguments? Which of us two has most right to command the other? Which of us two, you or I, is, in your opinion, best able to judge what is advantageous for you? Zounds, do not provoke me too much, or you may feel, and in a very short time too, what strength this arm of mine still possesses! Your shortest way, you obstinate minx, would be to accept without any more ado the husband intended for you; but you say, “I do not know what kind of temper he has, and I ought to think about it beforehand, if you will allow me.” I know that he is heir to a large fortune; ought I therefore to trouble my head about anything else? Can this man, who has twenty thousand golden charms in his pocket to be beloved by you, want any accomplishments? Come, come, let him be what he will, I promise you that with such a sum he is a very worthy gentleman!

CEL. Alas!

GORG. Alas, indeed! What is the meaning of that? A fine alas you have uttered just now! Look ye! If once you put me in a passion you will have plenty of opportunities for shouting alas! This comes of that eagerness of yours to read novels day and night; your head is so full of all kinds of nonsense about love, that you talk of God much less than of Clélie. Throw into the fire all these mischievous books, which are every day corrupting the minds of so many young people; instead of such trumpery, read, as you ought to do, the Quatrains of Pibrac and the learned memorandum-books of Councillor Matthieu,
[Footnote: Gui du Faur de Pibrac (1528-1584) was a distinguished diplomatist, magistrate, and orator, who wrote several works, of which the Cinquante quatrains contenant préceptes et enseignements utiles pour la vie de l’homme, composes à l’imitation de Phocylides, Epicharmus, et autres poétes grecs, and which number he afterwards increased to 126, are the best known. These quatrains, or couplets of four verses, have been translated into nearly all European and several Eastern languages. A most elegant reprint has been published of them, in 1874, by M. A. Lemetre, of Paris.]
[Footnote: Pierre Matthieu (1563 — 1621), a French historian and poet wrote, among other works, his Tablettes de la vie et de la mort, quatrains de la Vanité du Monde, a collection of 274 moral quatrains, divided in three parts, each part of which was published separately in an oblong shape, like a memorandum book; hence the name Tablettes.]
a valuable work and full of fine sayings for you to learn by heart; the Guide for Sinners
[Footnote: La guide des pécheurs, the Guide for Sinners, is a translation in French of an ascetic Spanish work, la guia de pecadores, written by a Dominican friar, Lewis, of Granada.]
is also a good book. Such writings teach people in a short time how to spend their lives well, and if you had never read anything but such moral books you would have known better how to submit to my commands.

CEL. Do you suppose, dear father, I can ever forget that unchangeable affection I owe to Lelio? I should be wrong to dispose of my hand against your will, but you yourself engaged me to him.

GORG. Even if you were engaged ever so much, another man has made his appearance whose fortune annuls your engagement. Lelio is a pretty fellow, but learn that there is nothing that does not give way to money, that gold will make even the most ugly charming, and that without it everything else is but wretchedness. I believe you are not very fond of Valère, but though you do not like him as a lover, you will like him as a husband. The very name of husband endears a man more than is generally supposed, and love is often a consequence of marriage. But what a fool I am to stand arguing when I possess the absolute right to command. A truce then, I tell you, to your impertinence; let me have no more of your foolish complaints. This evening Valère intends to visit you, and if you do not receive him well, and look kindly upon him, I shall… but I will say no more on this subject.

SCENE II.

CELIA, CELIA’S MAID.

MAID. WHAT, MADAM! you refuse positively what so many other people would accept with all their heart! You answer with tears a proposal for marriage, and delay for a long time to say a “yes” so agreeable to hear! Alas! why does some one not wish to marry me? I should not need much entreaty: and so far from thinking it any trouble to say “yes” once, believe me I would very quickly say it a dozen times. Your brother’s tutor was quite right when, as we were talking about worldly affairs, he said, “A woman is like the ivy, which grows luxuriantly whilst it clings closely to the tree, but never thrives if it be separated from it.” Nothing can be truer, my dear mistress, and I, miserable sinner, have found it out. Heaven rest the soul of my poor Martin! when he was alive my complexion was like a cherub’s; I was plump and comely, my eyes sparkled brightly, and I felt happy: now I am doleful. In those pleasant times, which flew away like lightning, I went to bed, in the very depth of winter, without kindling a fire in the room; even airing the sheets appeared then to me ridiculous; but now I shiver even in the dogdays. In short, madam, believe me there is nothing like having a husband at night by one’s side, were it only for the pleasure of hearing him say, “God bless you,” whenever one may happen to sneeze.

CEL. Can you advise me to act so wickedly as to forsake Lelio and take up with this ill-shaped fellow?

MAID. Upon my word, your Lelio is a mere fool to stay away the very time he is wanted; his long absence makes me very much suspect some change in his affection.

GEL. (showing her the portrait of Lelio). Oh! do not distress me by such dire forebodings! Observe carefully the features of his face; they swear to me an eternal affection; after all, I would not willingly believe them to tell a falsehood, but that he is such as he is here limned by art, and that his affection for me remains unchanged.

MAID. To be sure, these features denote a deserving lover, whom you are right to regard tenderly.

CEL. And yet I must — Ah! support me.
                          (She lets fall the portrait of Lelio.)

MAID. Madam, what is the cause of… Heavens! she swoons. Oh! make haste! help! help!

SCENE III.

CELIA, SGANARELLE, CELIA’S MAID.

SGAN. WHAT IS the matter? I am here.

MAID. My lady is dying.

SGAN. What! is that all? You made such a noise, I thought the world was at an end. Let us see, however. Madam, are you dead? Um! she does not say one word.

MAID. I shall fetch somebody to carry her in; be kind enough to hold her so long.

SCENE IV.

CELIA, SGANARELLE, SGANARELLE’S WIFE.

SGAN. (PASSING HIS hand over Celia’s bosom). She is cold all over, and I do not know what to say to it. Let me draw a little nearer and try whether she breathes or not. Upon my word, I cannot tell, but I perceive still some signs of life.

SGAN.’S WIFE, (looking from the window). Ah! what do I see? My husband, holding in his arms… But I shall go down; he is false to me most certainly; I should be glad to catch him.

SGAN. She must be assisted very quickly; she would certainly be in the wrong to die. A journey to another world is very foolish, so long as a body is able to stay in this. (He carries her in).

SCENE V.

SGANARELLE’S WIFE, alone.

HE HAS SUDDENLY left this spot; his flight has disappointed my curiosity; but I doubt no longer that he is unfaithful to me; the little I have seen sufficiently proves it. I am no longer astonished that he returns my modest love with strange coldness; the ungrateful wretch reserves his caresses for others, and starves me in order to feed their pleasures. This is the common way of husbands; they become indifferent to what is lawful; at the beginning they do wonders, and seem to be very much in love with us, but the wretches soon grow weary of our fondness, and carry elsewhere what is due to us alone. Oh! how it vexes me that the law will not permit us to change our husband as we do our linen! That would be very convenient; and, troth, I know some women whom it would please as much as myself. (Taking up the picture which Celia had let fall). But what a pretty thing has fortune sent me here; the enamel of it is most beautiful, the workmanship delightful; let me open it?

SCENE VI.

SGANARELLE, SGANARELLE’S WIFE.

SGAN. (THINKING HIMSELF alone). They thought her dead, but it was nothing at all! She is already recovering and nearly well again. But I see my wife.

SGAN.’S WIFE. (Thinking herself alone). O Heaven! It is a miniature, a fine picture of a handsome man.

SGAN. (Aside, and looking over his wife’s shoulder). What is this she looks at so closely? This picture bodes my honour little good. A very ugly feeling of jealousy begins to creep over me.

SGAN.’S WIFE. (Not seeing her husband). I never saw anything more beautiful in my life! The workmanship is even of greater value than the gold! Oh, how sweet it smells!

SGAN. (Aside). The deuce! She kisses it! I am victimized!

SGAN.’S WIFE. (Continues her Monologue.) I think it must be a charming thing to have such a fine-looking man for a sweetheart; if he should urge his suit very much the temptation would be great. Alas! why have I not a handsome man like this for my husband instead of my booby, my clod-hopper…?

SGAN. (Snatching the portrait from her). What, hussey! have I caught you in the very act, slandering your honourable and darling husband? According to you, most worthy spouse, and everything well considered, the husband is not as good as the wife? In Beelzebub’s name (and may he fly away with you), what better match could you wish for? Is there any fault to be found with me? It seems that this shape, this air, which everybody admires; this face, so fit to inspire love, for which a thousand fair ones sigh both night and day; in a word, my own delightful self, by no manner of means pleases you. Moreover, to satisfy your ravenous appetite you add to the husband the relish of a gallant.

SGAN.’S WIFE. I see plainly the drift of your jocular remarks, though you do not clearly express yourself. You expect by these means…

SGAN. Try to impose upon others, not upon me, I pray you. The fact is evident; I have in my hands a convincing proof of the injury I complain of.

SGAN.’S WIFE. I am already too angry, and do not wish you to make me more so by any fresh insult. Hark ye, do not imagine that you shall keep this pretty thing; consider…

SGAN. I am seriously considering whether I shall break your neck. I wish I had but the original of this portrait in my power as much as I have the copy.

SGAN.’S WIFE. Why?

SGAN. For nothing at all, dear, sweet object of my love! I am very wrong to speak out; my forehead ought to thank you for many favours received. (Looking at the portrait of Lelio). There he is, your darling, the pretty bed-fellow, the wicked incentive of your secret flame, the merry blade with whom…

SGAN.’S WIFE. With whom? Go on.

SGAN. With whom, I say… I am almost bursting with vexation.
[Footnote: The original has: “j’en creve d’ennuis.” The French word ennui, which now only means weariness of mind, signified formerly injury, and the vexation or hatred caused thereby; something like the English word “annoy,” as in Shakespeare’s Richard III., v. 3: “Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, and wake in joy; Good angels guard thee from the boar’s annoy.”]

SGAN.’S WIFE. What does the drunken sot mean by all this?

SGAN. You know but too well, Mrs. Impudence. No one will call me any longer Sganarelle, but every one will give me the title of Signor Cornutus; my honor is gone, but to reward you, who took it from me, I shall at the very least break you an arm or a couple of ribs.

SGAN.’S WIFE. How dare you talk to me thus?

SGAN. How dare you play me these devilish pranks?

SGAN.’S WIFE. What devilish pranks? Say what you mean.

SGAN. Oh! It is not worth complaining of. A stag’s top-knot on my head is indeed a very pretty ornament for everybody to come and look at.

SGAN.’S WIFE. After you have insulted your wife so grossly as to excite her thirst for vengeance, you stupidly imagine you can prevent the effects of it by pretending to be angry? Such insolence was never before known on the like occasion. The offender is the person who begins the quarrel.

SGAN. Oh! what a shameless creature! To see the confident behaviour of this woman, would not any one suppose her to be very virtuous?

SGAN.’S WIFE. Away, go about your business, wheedle your mistresses, tell them you love them, caress them even, but give me back my picture, and do not make a jest of me. (She snatches the picture from him and runs away).

SGAN. So you think to escape me; but I shall get hold of it again in spite of you.

SCENE VII.

LELIO, GROS-RENÉ.

GR.-RE. HERE WE are at last; but, sir, if I might be so bold, I should like you to tell me one thing.

LEL. Well, speak.
GR.-RE. Are you possessed by some devil or other, that you do not sink under such fatigues as these? For eight whole days we have been riding long stages, and have not been sparing of whip and spur to urge on confounded screws, whose cursed trot shook us so very much that, for my part, I feel as if every limb was out of joint; without mentioning a worse mishap which troubles me very much in a place I will not mention. And yet, no sooner are you at your journey’s end, than you go out well and hearty, without taking rest, or eating the least morsel.

LEL. My haste may well be excused, for I am greatly alarmed about the report of Celia’s marriage. You know I adore her, and, before everything, I wish to hear if there is any truth in this ominous rumour.
GR.-RE. Ay, sir, but a good meal would be of great use to you to discover the truth or falsehood of this report; doubtless you would become thereby much stronger to withstand the strokes of fate. I judge by my own self, for, when I am fasting, the smallest disappointment gets hold of me and pulls me down; but when I have eaten sufficiently my soul can resist anything, and the greatest misfortunes cannot depress it. Believe me, stuff yourself well, and do not be too cautious. To fortify you under whatever misfortune may do, and in order to prevent sorrow from entering your heart, let it float in plenty of wine.
[Footnote: This is an imitation of Plautus’ Curculio, or the Forgery. The Parasite of Phæaedromus, who gave his name to the piece, says (ii. 3):— “I am quite undone. I can hardly see; my mouth is bitter; my teeth are blunted; my jaws are clammy through fasting; with my entrails thus lank with abstinence from food, am I come… Let’s cram down something first; the gammon, the udder, and the kernels; these are the foundations for the stomach, with head and roast-beef, a good-sized cup and a capacious pot, that council enough may be forthcoming.”]

LEL. I cannot eat.
GR.-RE. (Aside). I can eat very well indeed; If it is not true may I be struck dead! (Aloud). For all that, your dinner shall be ready presently.

LEL. Hold your tongue, I command you.
GR.-RE. How barbarous is that order!

LEL. I am not hungry, but uneasy.
GR.-RE. And I am hungry and uneasy as well, to see that a foolish love-affair engrosses all your thoughts.
[Footnote: Shakespeare, in The Two Gentlemen of Verona
(Act ii., Sc. I), has the following:
  Speed. …Why muse you, sir? ’tis dinner-time.
  Val. I have dined.
  Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon, love, can
  feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would
  fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress; be moved, be moved.]

LEL. Let me but get some information about my heart’s delight, and without troubling me more, go and take your meal if you like.
GR.-RE. I never say nay when a master commands.

SCENE VIII.

LELIO, alone.

NO, NO, MY mind is tormented by too many terrors; the father has promised me Celia’s hand, and she has given me such proofs of her love that I need not despair.

SCENE IX.

SGANARELLE, LELIO.

SGAN. (NOT SEEING Lelio, and holding the portrait in his hand). I have got it. I can now at my leisure look at the countenance of the rascal who causes my dishonour. I do not know him at all.

LEL. (Aside). Heavens! what do I see? If that be my picture, what then must I believe?

SGAN. (Not seeing Lelio). Ah! poor Sganarelle! your reputation is doomed, and to what a sad fate! Must… (Perceiving that Lelio observes him he goes to the other side of the stage).

LEL. (Aside). This pledge of my love cannot have left the fair hands to which I gave it, without startling my faith in her.

SGAN. (Aside). People will make fun of me henceforth by holding up their two fingers; songs will be made about me, and every time they will fling in my teeth that scandalous affront, which a wicked wife has printed upon my forehead.

LEL. (Aside). Do I deceive myself?

SGAN. (Aside). Oh! Jade!
[Footnote: The original is truande, which, as well as the masculine truand, meant, in old French, a vagabond, a rascal; it is still retained in the English phrase “to play the truant.”]
were you impudent enough to cuckold me in the flower of my age? The wife too of a husband who may be reckoned handsome! and must be a monkey, a cursed addle-pated fellow…

LEL. (Aside, looking still at the portrait in Sganarelle’s hand).
I am not mistaken; it is my very picture.

SGAN. (Turning his back towards him). This man seems very inquisitive.

LEL. (Aside). I am very much surprised.

SGAN. What would he be at?

LEL. (Aside). I will speak to him. (Aloud). May I… (Sganarelle goes farther off). I say, let me have one word with you.

SGAN. (Aside, and moving still farther). What does he wish to tell me now?

LEL. Will you inform me by what accident that picture came into your hands?

SGAN. (Aside). Why does he wish to know? But I am thinking… (Looking at Lelio and at the portrait in his hand). Oh! upon my word, I know the cause of his anxiety; I no longer wonder at his surprise. This is my man, or rather, my wife’s man.

LEL. Pray, relieve my distracted mind, and tell me how you come by…

SGAN. Thank Heaven, I know what disturbs you; this portrait, which causes you some uneasiness, is your very likeness, and was found in the hands of a certain acquaintance of yours; the soft endearments which have passed between that lady and you are no secret to me. I cannot tell whether I have the honour to be known by your gallant lordship in this piece of gallantry; but henceforth, be kind enough to break off an intrigue, which a husband may not approve of; and consider that the holy bonds of wedlock…

LEL. What do you say? She from whom you received this pledge…

SGAN. Is my wife, and I am her husband.

LEL. Her husband?

SGAN. Yes, her husband, I tell you. Though married I am far from merry; you, sir, know the reason of it; this very moment I am going to inform her relatives about this affair.
[Footnote: The original has mari-tres-marri; literally, “husband very sad;” marri being the old French for sad: the ancient plays and tales are full of allusions to the connection between these two words, mari and marri.]

SCENE X.

LELIO, alone.

ALAS! WHAT HAVE I heard! The report then was true that her husband was the ugliest of all his sex. Even if your faithless lips had never sworn me more than a thousand times eternal love, the disgust you should have felt at such a base and shameful choice might have sufficiently secured me against the loss of your affection… But this great insult, and the fatigues of a pretty long journey, produce all at once such a violent effect upon me, that I feel faint, and can hardly bear up under it.

SCENE XI.

LELIO, SGANARELLE’S WIFE.

SGAN.’S WIFE. IN spite of me, my wretch… (Seeing Lelio). Good lack! what ails you? I perceive, sir, you are ready to faint away.

LEL. It is an illness that has attacked me quite suddenly.

SGAN’S WIFE. I am afraid you shall faint; step in here, and stay until you are better.

LEL. For a moment or two I will accept of your kindness.

SCENE XII.

SGANARELLE, A RELATIVE OF SGANARELLE’S WIFE.

REL. I COMMEND a husband’s anxiety in such a case, but you take fright a little too hastily. All that you have told me against her, kinsman, does not prove her guilty. It is a delicate subject, and no one should ever be accused of such a crime unless it can be fully proved.

SGAN. That is to say, unless you see it.

REL. Too much haste leads us to commit mistakes. Who can tell how this picture came into her hands, and, after all, whether she knows the man? Seek a little more information, and if it proves to be as you suspect, I shall be one of the first to punish her offence.

SCENE XIII.

SGANARELLE, alone.

NOTHING COULD BE said fairer; it is really the best way to proceed cautiously. Perhaps I have dreamt of horns without any cause, and the perspiration has covered my brow rather prematurely. My dishonour is not at all proved by that portrait which frightened me so much. Let me endeavour then by care…

SCENE XIV.

SGANARELLE, SGANARELLE’S WIFE, standing at the door of her house, with LELIO.

SGAN. (ASIDE SEEING them). Ha! what do I see? Zounds! there can be no more question about the portrait, for upon my word here stands the very man, in propria persona.

SGAN.’S WIFE. You hurry away too fast, sir; if you leave us so quickly, you may perhaps have a return of your illness.

LEL. No, no, I thank you heartily for the kind assistance you have rendered me.

SGAN. (Aside). The deceitful woman is to the last polite to him. (Sganarelle’s Wife goes into the house again).

SCENE XV.

SGANARELLE, LELIO.

SGAN. HE HAS seen me, let us hear what he can say to me.

LEL. (Aside). Oh! my soul is moved! this sight inspires me with… but I ought to blame this unjust resentment, and only ascribe my sufferings to my merciless fate; yet I cannot help envying the success that has crowned his passion. (Approaching Sganarelle). O too happy mortal in having so beautiful a wife.

SCENE XVI.

SGANARELLE, CELIA, at her window, seeing Lelio go away.

SGAN. (ALONE). THIS confession is pretty plain. His extraordinary speech surprises me as much as if horns had grown upon my head. (Looking at the side where Lelio went off). Go your way, you have not acted at all like an honourable man.

CEL. (Aside, entering). Who can that be? Just now I saw Lelio.
Why does he conceal his return from me?

SGAN. (Without seeing Celia). “O too happy mortal in having so beautiful a wife!” Say rather, unhappy mortal in having such a disgraceful spouse through whose guilty passion, it is now but too clear, I have been cuckolded without any feeling of compassion. Yet I allow him to go away after such a discovery, and stand with my arms folded like a regular silly-billy! I ought at least to have knocked his hat off, thrown stones at him, or mud on his cloak; to satisfy my wrath I should rouse the whole neighbourhood, and cry, “Stop, thief of my honour!”

CEL. (To Sganarelle). Pray, sir, how came you to know this gentleman who went away just now and spoke to you?

SGAN. Alas! madam, it is not I who am acquainted with him; it is my wife.

CEL. What emotion thus disturbs your mind?

SGAN. Do not blame me; I have sufficient cause for my sorrow; permit me to breathe plenty of sighs.

CEL. What can be the reason of this uncommon grief?

SGAN. If I am sad it is not for a trifle: I challenge other people not to grieve, if they found themselves in my condition. You see in me the model of unhappy husbands. Poor Sganarelle’s honour is taken from him; but the loss of my honour would be small — they deprive me of my reputation also.

CEL. How do they do that?

SGAN. That fop has taken the liberty to cuckold me — saving your presence, madam — and this very day my own eyes have been witness to a private interview between him and my wife.

CEL. What? He who just now…

SGAN. Ay, ay, it is he who brings disgrace upon me; he is in love with my wife, and my wife is in love with him.

CEL. Ah! I find I was right when I thought his returning secretly only concealed some base design; I trembled the minute I saw him, from a sad foreboding of what would happen.

SGAN. You espouse my cause with too much kindness, but everybody is not so charitably disposed; for many, who have already heard of my sufferings, so far from taking my part, only laugh at me.

CEL. Can anything be more base than this vile deed? or can a punishment be discovered such as he deserves? Does he think he is worthy to live, after polluting himself with such treachery? O Heaven! is it possible?

SGAN. It is but too true.

CEL. O traitor, villain, deceitful, faithless wretch!

SGAN. What a kind-hearted creature!

CEL. No, no, hell has not tortures enough to punish you sufficiently for your guilt!

SGAN. How well she talks!

CEL. Thus to abuse both innocence and goodness!

SGAN. (Sighing aloud). Ah!

CEL. A heart which never did the slightest action deserving of being treated with such insult and contempt.

SGAN. That’s true.

CEL. Who far from… but it is too much; nor can this heart endure the thought of it without feeling on the rack.

SGAN. My dear lady, do not distress yourself so much; it pierces my very soul to see you grieve so at my misfortune.

CEL. But do not deceive yourself so far as to fancy that I shall sit down and do nothing but lament; no, my heart knows how to act in order to be avenged; nothing can divert me from it; I go to prepare everything.

SCENE XVII.

SGANARELLE, alone.

May Heaven keep her for ever out of harm’s way! How kind of her to wish to avenge me! Her anger at my dishonour plainly teaches me how to act. Nobody should bear such affronts as these tamely, unless indeed he be a fool. Let us therefore hasten to hunt out this rascal who has insulted me, and let me prove my courage by avenging my dishonour.
[Footnote: A similar adventure is told of the renowned fabulist La Fontaine. One day some one informed him that Poignan, a retired captain of dragoons and one of his friends, was by far too intimate with Madame La Fontaine, and that to avenge his dishonour he ought to fight a duel with him. La Fontaine calls upon Poignan at four o’clock in the morning, tells him to dress, takes him out of town, and then coolly says “that he has been advised to fight a duel with him in order to avenge his wounded honour.” Soon La Fontaine’s sword flies out of his hand, the friends go to breakfast, and the whole affair is at an end.]
I will teach you, you rogue, to laugh at my expense, and to cuckold people without showing them any respect. (After going three or four steps he comes back again.) But gently, if you please, this man looks as if he were very hot-headed and passionate; he may, perhaps, heaping one insult upon another, ornament my back as well as he has done my brow.
[Footnote: In the original there is a play on words which cannot be rendered in English. Il pourrait bien … charger de bois mon dos comme, il a fait mort front. Bois means “stick” and “stags’ antlers.”]
I detest, from the bottom of my heart, these fiery tempers, and vastly prefer peaceable people. I do not care to beat for fear of being beaten; a gentle disposition was always my predominant virtue: But my honour tells me that it is absolutely necessary I should avenge such an outrage as this. Let honour say whatever it likes, the deuce take him who listens. Suppose now I should play the hero, and receive for my pains an ugly thrust with a piece of cold steel quite through my stomach; when the news of my death spreads through the whole town, tell me then, my honour, shall you be the better of it.
[Footnote: Compare in Shakespeare’s Part First of King Henry IV. v. I, Falstaff’s speech about honour.]
The grave is too melancholy an abode, and too unwholesome for people who are afraid of the colic; as for me, I find, all things considered, that it is, after all, better to be a cuckold than to be dead. What harm is there in it? Does it make a man’s legs crooked? does it spoil his shape? The plague take him who first invented being grieved about such a delusion, linking the honour of the wisest man to anything a fickle woman may do. Since every person is rightly held responsible for his own crimes, how can our honour, in this case, be considered criminal? We are blamed for the actions of other people. If our wives have an intrigue with any man, without our knowledge, all the mischief must fall upon our backs; they commit the crime and we are reckoned guilty. It is a villainous abuse, and indeed Government should remedy such injustice. Have we not enough of other accidents that happen to us whether we like them or not? Do not quarrels, lawsuits, hunger, thirst, and sickness sufficiently disturb the even tenour of our lives? and yet we must stupidly get it into our heads to grieve about something which has no foundation. Let us laugh at it, despise such idle fears, and be above sighs and tears. If my wife has done amiss, let her cry as much as she likes, but why should I weep when I have done no wrong? After all, I am not the only one of my fraternity, and that should console me a little. Many people of rank see their wives cajoled, and do not say a word about it. Why should I then try to pick a quarrel for an affront, which is but a mere trifle? They will call me a fool for not avenging myself, but I should be a much greater fool to rush on my own destruction. (Putting his hand upon his stomach). I feel, however, my bile is stirred up here; it almost persuades me to do some manly action. Ay, anger gets the better of me; it is rather too much of a good thing to be a coward too! I am resolved to be revenged upon the thief of my honour. Full of the passion which excites my ardour, and in order to make a beginning, I shall go and tell everywhere that he lies with my wife.

SCENE XVIII.

GORGIBUS, CELIA, CELIA’S MAID.

CEL. YES, I will yield willingly to so just a law, father; you can freely dispose of my heart and my hand; I will sign the marriage contract whenever you please, for I am now determined to perform my duty. I can command my own inclinations, and shall do whatever you order me.

GORG. How she pleases me by talking in this manner! Upon my word! I am so delighted that I would immediately cut a caper or two, were people not looking on, who would laugh at it. Come hither, I say, and let me embrace you; there is no harm in that; a father may kiss his daughter whenever he likes, without giving any occasion for scandal. Well, the satisfaction of seeing you so obedient has made me twenty years younger.

SCENE XIX.

CELIA, CELIA’S MAID.

MAID. THIS CHANGE surprises me.

CEL. When you come to know why I act thus, you will esteem me for it.

MAID. Perhaps so.

CEL. Know then that Lelio has wounded my heart by his treacherous behaviour, and has been in this neighbourhood without…

MAID. Here he comes.

SCENE XX.

LELIO, CELIA, CELIA’S MAID.

LEL. BEFORE I take my leave of you for ever, I will at least here tell you that…

CEL. What! are you insolent enough to speak to me again?

LEL. I own my insolence is great, and yet your choice is such I should not be greatly to blame if I upbraided you. Live, live contented, and laugh when you think of me, as well as your worthy husband, of whom you have reason to be proud.

CEL. Yes, traitor, I will live so, and I trust most earnestly that the thought of my happiness may disturb you.

LEL. Why this outbreak of passion?

CEL. You pretend to be surprised, and ask what crimes you have committed?

SCENE XXI.

CELIA, LELIO, SGANARELLE armed cap-a-pié, CELIA’S MAID.

SGAN. I WAGE war, a war of extermination against this robber of my honour, who without mercy has sullied my fair name.

CEL. (To Lelio, pointing to Sganarelle). Look on this man, and then you will require no further answer.

LEL. Ah! I see.

CEL. A mere glance at him is sufficient to abash you.

LEL. It ought rather to make you blush.

SGAN. My wrath is now disposed to vent itself upon some one; my courage is at its height; if I meet him, there will be blood shed. Yes, I have sworn to kill him, nothing can keep me from doing so. Wherever I see him I will dispatch him. (Drawing his sword halfway and approaching Lelio). Right through the middle of his heart I shall thrust…

LEL. (Turning round). Against whom do you bear such a grudge?

SGAN. Against no one.

LEL. Why are you thus in armour?

SGAN. It is a dress I put on to keep the rain off. (Aside). Ah! what a satisfaction it would be for me to kill him! Let us pluck up courage to do it.

LEL. (Turning round again). Hey?

SGAN. I did not speak. (Aside, boxing his own ears, and thumping himself to raise his courage). Ah! I am enraged at my own cowardice! Chicken-hearted poltroon!

CEL. What you have seen ought to satisfy you, but it appears to offend you.

LEL. Yes through him I know you are guilty of the greatest faithlessness that ever wronged a faithful lover’s heart, and for which no excuse can be found.

SGAN. (Aside). Why have I not a little more courage?

CEL. Ah, traitor, speak not to me in so unmanly and insolent a manner.

SGAN. (Aside). You see, Sganarelle, she takes up your quarrel: courage, my lad, be a trifle vigorous. Now, be bold, try to make one noble effort and kill him whilst his back is turned.

LEL. (Who has moved accidentally a few steps back, meets Sganarelle, who was drawing near to kill him. The latter is frightened, and retreats). Since my words kindle your wrath, madam, I ought to show my satisfaction with what your heart approves, and here commend the lovely choice you have made.

CEL. Yes, yes, my choice is such as cannot be blamed.

LEL. You do well to defend it.

SGAN. No doubt, she does well to defend my rights, but what you have done, sir, is not according to the laws; I have reason to complain; were I less discreet, much blood would be shed.

LEL. Of what do you complain? And why this…

SGAN. Do not say a word more. You know too well where the shoe pinches me. But conscience and a care for your own soul should remind you that my wife is my wife, and that to make her yours under my very nose is not acting like a good Christian.

LEL. Such a suspicion is mean and ridiculous! Harbour no scruples on that point: I know she belongs to you; I am very far from being in love with…

CEL. Oh! traitor! how well you dissemble!

LEL. What! do you imagine I foster a thought which need disturb his mind? Would you slander me by accusing me of such a cowardly action?

CEL. Speak, speak to himself; he can enlighten you.

SGAN. (To Celia), No, no, you can argue much better than I can, and have treated the matter in the right way.

SCENE XXII.

CELIA, LELIO, SGANARELLE, SGANARELLE’S WIFE, CELIA’S MAID.

SGAN.’S WIFE. (To Celia). I am not inclined, Madam, to show that
I am over-jealous; but I am no fool, and can see what is going on.
There are certain amours which appear very strange; you should be better
employed than in seducing a heart which ought to be mine alone.

CEL. This declaration of her love is plain enough.
[Footnote: Some commentators think it is Lelio who utters these words, but they are clearly Celia’s.]

SGAN. (To his wife). Who sent for you, baggage? You come and scold her because she takes my part, whilst you are afraid of losing your gallant.

CEL. Do not suppose anybody has a mind to him. (Turning towards Lelio). You see whether I have told a falsehood, and I am very glad of it.

LEL. What can be the meaning of this?

MAID. Upon my word, I do not know when this entanglement will be unravelled. I have tried for a pretty long time to comprehend it, but the more I hear the less I understand. Really I think I must interfere at last. (Placing herself between Lelio and Celia). Answer me one after another, and (To Lelio) allow me to ask what do you accuse this lady of?

LEL. That she broke her word and forsook me for another. As soon as I heard she was going to be married I hastened hither, carried away by an irrepressible love, and not believing I could be forgotten; but discovered, when I arrived here, that she was married.

MAID. Married! To whom?

LEL. (Pointing to Sganarelle). To him.

MAID. How! to him?

LEL. Yes, to him.

MAID. Who told you so?

LEL. Himself, this very day.

MAID. (To Sganarelle)Is this true?

SGAN. I? I told him I was married to my own wife.

LEL. Just now, whilst you looked at my picture, you seemed greatly moved.

SGAN. True, here it is.

LEL. (To Sganarelle). You also told me that she, from whose hands you had received this pledge of her love, was joined to you in the bonds of wedlock.

SGAN. No doubt (pointing to his wife), for I snatched it from her, and should not have discovered her wickedness had I not done so.

SGAN.’S WIFE. What do you mean by your groundless complaint? I found this portrait at my feet by accident. After you had stormed without telling me the cause of your rage, I saw this gentleman (pointing to Lelio)nearly fainting, asked him to come in, but did not even then discover that he was the original of the picture.

CEL. I was the cause of the portrait being lost; I let it fall when swooning, and when you (to Sganarelle) kindly carried me into the house.

MAID. You see that without my help you had still been at a loss, and that you had some need of hellebore.
[Footnote: Among the ancients the helleborus officinalis or orientalis was held to cure insanity; hence the allusion.]

SGAN. (Aside). Shall we believe all this? I have been very much frightened for my brow.

SGAN.’S WIFE. I have not quite recovered from my fear; however agreeable credulity may be, I am both to be deceived.

SGAN. (To his wife). Well, let us mutually suppose ourselves to be people of honour. I risk more on my side than you do on yours; accept, therefore, without much ado, what I propose.

SGAN.’S WIFE. Be it so, but wo be to you if I discover anything.

CEL. (To Lelio, after whispering together). Ye heavens! if it be so, what have I done? I ought to fear the consequences of my own anger! Thinking you false, and wishing to be avenged, I in an unhappy moment complied with my father’s wishes, and but a minute since engaged myself to marry a man whose hand, until then, I always had refused. I have made a promise to my father, and what grieves me most is… But I see him coming.

LEL. He shall keep his word with me.

SCENE XXIII.

GORGIBUS, CELIA, LELIO, SGANARELLE, SGANARELLE’S WIFE, CELIA’S MAID.

LEL. SIR, YOU see I have returned to this town, inflamed with the same ardour, and now I suppose you will keep your promise, which made me hope to marry Celia, and thus reward my intense love.

GORG. Sir, whom I see returned to this town inflamed with the same ardour, and who now supposes I will keep my promise, which made you hope to marry Celia, and thus reward your intense love, I am your lordship’s very humble servant.

LEL. What, sir, is it thus you frustrate my expectations?

GORG. Ay, sir, it is thus I do my duty, and my daughter obeys me too.

CEL. My duty compels me, father, to make good your promise to him.

GORG. Is this obeying my commands as a daughter ought to do? Just now you were very kindly disposed towards Valère, but you change quickly… I see his father approaching, who certainly comes to arrange about the marriage.

SCENE XXIV.

VILLEBREQUIN, GORGIBUS, CELIA, LELIO, SGANARELLE, SGANARELLE’S WIFE, CELIA’S MAID.

GORG. WHAT BRINGS you hither, M. Villebrequin?

VILL. An important secret, which I only discovered this morning, and which completely prevents me from keeping the engagement I made with you. My son, whom your daughter was going to espouse, has deceived everybody, and been secretly married these four months past to Lise. Her friends, her fortune, and her family connections, make it impossible for me to break off this alliance; and hence I come to you….

GORG. Pray, say no more. If Valère has married some one else without your permission, I cannot disguise from you, that I myself long ago, promised my daughter Celia to Lelio, endowed with every virtue, and that his return today prevents me from choosing any other husband for her.

VILL. Such a choice pleases me very much.

LEL. This honest intention will crown my days with eternal bliss.

GORG. Let us go and fix the day for the wedding.

SGAN. (Alone). Was there ever a man who had more cause to think himself victimized? You perceive that in such matters the strongest probability may create in the mind a wrong belief. Therefore remember, never to believe anything even if you should see everything.

Don Garcia of Navarre or the Jealous Prince

Dom Garcie de Navarre ou Le Prince jaloux

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

NOTHING CAN BE more unlike The Pretentious Young Ladies or Sganarelle than Molière’s Don Garcia of Navarre. The Théâtre du Palais-Royal had opened on the 20th January, 1661, with The Love-Tiff and Sganarelle, but as the young wife of Louis XIV., Maria Theresa, daughter of Philip IV., King of Spain, had only lately arrived, and as a taste for the Spanish drama appeared to spring up anew in France, Molière thought perhaps that a heroic comedy in that style might meet with some success, the more so as a company of Spanish actors had been performing in Paris the plays of Lope de Vega and Calderon, since the 24th of July, 1660. Therefore, he brought out, on the 4th of February, 1661, his new play of Don Garcia of Navarre. It is said that there exists a Spanish play of the same name, of which the author is unknown; Molière seems to have partly followed an Italian comedy, written by Giacinto Andrea Cicognini, under the name of Le Gelosie fortunata del principe Rodrigo; the style, loftiness and delicacy of expression are peculiar to the French dramatist.

Don Garcia of Navarre met with no favourable reception, though the author played the part of the hero. He withdrew it after five representations, but still did not think its condemnation final, for he played it again before the King on the 29th of September, 1662, in October, 1663, at Chantilly, and twice at Versailles. He attempted it anew on the theatre of the Palace-Royal in the month of November, 1663; but as it was everywhere unfavourably received, he resolved never to play it more, and even would not print it, for it was only published after his death in 1682. He inserted some parts of this comedy in the Misanthrope, the Femmes Savantes, Amphitryon, Tartuffe and Les Fâcheux, where they produced great effect.

Though it has not gained a place on the French stage, it nevertheless possesses some fine passages. Molière wished to create a counterpart of Sganarelle, the type of ridiculous jealousy, and to delineate passionate jealousy, its doubts, fears, perplexities and anxieties, and in this he has succeeded admirably. However noble-minded Don Garcia may be, there rages within his soul a mean passion which tortures and degrades him incessantly. When at last he is banished from the presence of the fair object of his love, he resolves to brave death by devoting himself to the destruction of her foe; but he is forestalled by his presumed rival, Don Alphonso, who turns out to be the brother of his mistress, and she receives him once again and for ever in her favour. The delineation of all these passions is too fine-spun, too argumentative to please the general public; the style is sometimes stilted, yet passages of great beauty may be found in it. Moreover the jealousy expressed by Don Garcia is neither sufficiently terrible to frighten, nor ridiculous enough to amuse the audience; he always speaks and acts as a prince, and hence, he sometimes becomes royally monotonous.

Some scenes of this play have been imitated in The Masquerade, a comedy, acted at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, 1719, London, “printed for Bernard Linton, between the Temple Gate,” which was itself partly borrowed from Shirley’s Lady of Pleasure. The comedy was written by Mr. Charles Johnson, who “was originally bred to the law, and was a member of the Middle Temple; but being a great admirer of the Muses, and finding in himself a strong propensity to dramatic writing, he quitted the studious labour of the one, for the more spirited amusements of the other; and by contracting an intimacy with Mr. Wilks, found means, through that gentleman’s interest, to get his plays on the stage without much difficulty … he, by a polite and modest behaviour formed so extensive an acquaintance and intimacy, as constantly ensured him great emoluments on his benefit night by which means, being a man of economy, he was enabled to subsist very genteelly. He at length married a young widow, with a tolerable fortune; on which he set up a tavern in Bow Street, Covent Garden, but quitted business at his wife’s death, and lived privately on an easy competence he had saved…. He was born in 1679 … but he did not die till March 11, 1748.” [Footnote: Biographia Dramatica, by Baker, Reed and Jones, 1812, Vol. I. Part i.]

The Masquerade is a clever comedy, rather free in language and thought, chiefly about the danger of gambling. Some of the sayings are very pointed. It has been stated that the author frequented the principal coffee-houses in town, and picked up many pungent remarks there; however this may be, the literary men who at the present time frequent clubs, have, I am afraid, not the same chance. As a specimen of free and easy — rather too easy — wit, let me mention the remarks of Mr. Smart (Act I.) on the way he passed the night, and in what manner. “Nine persons are kept handsomely out of the sober income of one hundred pounds a year.” I also observe the name of an old acquaintance in this play. Thackeray’s hero in the Memoirs of Mr. Charles J. Yellowplush is “the Honourable Algernon Percy Deuceace, youngest and fifth son of the Earl of Crabs,” and in The Masquerade (Act III. Sc. i) Mr. Ombre says: “Did you not observe an old decay’d rake that stood next the box-keeper yonder … they call him Sir Timothy Deuxace; that wretch has play’d off one of the best families in Europe — he has thrown away all his posterity, and reduced 20,000 acres of wood-land, arable, meadow, and pasture within the narrow circumference of an oaken table of eight foot.” The Masquerade as the title of the play is a misnomer, for it does not conduce at all to the plot. We give the greater part of the Prologue to The Masquerade, spoken by Mr. Wilks: —

 The Poet, who must paint by Nature’s Laws,
  If he wou’d merit what he begs, Applause;
  Surveys your changing Pleasures with Surprise,
  Sees each new Day some new Diversion rise;
  Hither, thro’ all the Quarters of the Sky,
  Fresh Rooks in Flocks from ev’ry Nation hye,
  To us, the Cullies of the Globe, they fly;
  French, Spaniards, Switzers; This Man dines on Fire
  And swallows Brimstone to your Heart’s Desire;
  Another, Handless, Footless, Half a Man,
  Does, Wou’d you think it? what no Whole one can,
  A Spaniard next, taught an Italian Frown,
  Boldly declares he’ll stare all Europe down:
  His tortured Muscles pleas’d our English Fools;

[Footnote: In the rival House, Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields Theatre, Rich was bringing out Pantomimes, which, by the fertility of his invention, the excellency of his own performance, and the introduction of foreign performers, drew nightly crowded houses — hence the allusion.]

 Why wou’d the Sot engage with English Bulls?
  Our English Bulls are Hereticks uncivil,
  They’d toss the Grand Inquisitor, the Devil:
  ’Twas stupidly contrived of Don Grimace,
  To hope to fright ’em with an ugly Face.
  And yet, tho’ these Exotick Monsters please,
  We must with humble Gratitude confess,
  To you alone ’tis due, that in this Age,
  Good Sense still triumphs on the British Stage:
  Shakespear beholds with Joy his Sons inherit
  His good old Plays, with good old Bess’s Spirit.
  Be wise and merry, while you keep that Tether;
  Nonsense and Slavery must die together.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

DON GARCIA, PRINCE of Navarre, in love with Elvira.

[Footnote: In the inventory taken after Molière’s death mention is made of “Spanish dress, breeches, cloth cloak, and a satin doublet, the whole adorned with silk embroideries.” This is probably the dress in which Molière played Don Garcia.]

DON ALPHONSO, Prince of Leon, thought to be Prince of Castile, under the name of Don Silvio.

DON ALVAREZ, confidant of Don Garcia, in love with Eliza.

DON LOPEZ, another confidant of Don Garcia, in love with Eliza.

DON PEDRO, gentleman usher to Inez.

A PAGE.

DONNA ELVIRA, Princess of Leon.

DONNA INEZ, a Countess, in love with Don Silvio, beloved by Mauregat, the usurper of the Kingdom of Leon.

ELIZA, confidant to Elvira.

Scene. — ASTORGA, a city of Spain, in the kingdom of Leon.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

DONNA ELVIRA, ELIZA.

ELVIRA. NO, THE hidden feelings of my heart were not regulated by choice: whatever the Prince may be, there is nothing in him to make me prefer his love. Don Silvio shows, as well as he, all the qualities of a renowned hero. The same noble virtues and the same high birth made me hesitate whom to prefer. If aught but merit could gain my heart, the conqueror were yet to be named; but these chains, with which Heaven keeps our souls enslaved, decide me, and, though I esteem both equally, my love is given to Don Garcia.

ELIZA. The love which you feel for him, seems to have very little influenced your actions, since I, myself, madam, could not for a long time discover which of the two rivals was the favoured one.

ELV. Their noble rivalry in love, Eliza, caused a severe struggle in my breast. When I looked on the one, I felt no pangs, because I followed my own tender inclination; but when I thought I sacrificed the other, I considered I acted very unjustly; and was of opinion, that Don Silvio’s passion, after all, deserved a happier destiny. I also reflected that a daughter of the late King of Leon owed some obligation to the house of Castile; that an intimate friendship had long knit together the interests of his father and mine. Thus, the more the one made progress in my heart, the more I lamented the ill success of the other. Full of pity, I listened to his ardent sighs, and received his vows politely; thus in a slight degree I tried to make amends for the opposition his love met with in my heart.
EL. But since you have been informed he previously loved another, your mind ought to be at rest. Before he loved you, Donna Inez had received the homage of his heart. As she is your most intimate friend, and has told you this secret, you are free to bestow your love upon whom you wish, and cover your refusal to listen to him under the guise of friendship for her.

ELV. It is true, I ought to be pleased with the news of Don Silvio’s faithlessness, because my heart, that was tormented by his love, is now at liberty to reject it; can justly refuse his addresses, and, without scruple, grant its favours to another. But what delight can my heart feel, if it suffers severely from other pangs; if the continual weakness of a jealous prince receives my tenderness with disdain, compels me justly to give way to anger, and thus to break off all intercourse between us?
EL. But as he has never been told that you love him, how can he be guilty if he disbelieves in his happiness? And does not that which could flatter his rival’s expectations warrant him to suspect your affection?

ELV. No, no; nothing can excuse the strange madness of his gloomy and unmanly jealousy; I have told him but too clearly, by my actions, that he can indeed flatter himself with the happiness of being beloved. Even if we do not speak, there are other interpreters which clearly lay bare our secret feelings. A sigh, a glance, a mere blush, silence itself, is enough to show the impulses of a heart. In love, everything speaks: in a case like this, the smallest glimmer ought to throw a great light upon such a subject, since the honour which sways our sex forbids us ever to discover all we feel. I have, I own, endeavoured so to guide my conduct, that I should behold their merits with an unprejudiced eye. But how vainly do we strive against our inclinations! How easy is it to perceive the difference between those favours that are bestowed out of mere politeness, and such as spring from the heart! The first seem always forced; the latter, alas! are granted without thinking, like those pure and limpid streams which spontaneously flow from their native sources. Though the feelings of pity I showed for Don Silvio moved the Prince, yet I unwittingly betrayed their shallowness, whilst my very looks, during this torture, always told him more than I desired they should.
EL. Though the suspicions of that illustrious lover have no foundation — for you tell me so — they at least prove that he is greatly smitten: some would rejoice at what you complain of. Jealousy may be odious when it proceeds from a love which displeases us; but when we return that love, such feelings should delight us. It is the best way in which a lover can express his passion; the more jealous he is the more we ought to love him. Therefore since in your soul a magnanimous Prince….

ELV. Ah! do not bring forward such a strange maxim. Jealousy is always odious and monstrous; nothing can soften its injurious attacks; the dearer the object of our love is to us, the more deeply we feel its offensive attempts. To see a passionate Prince, losing every moment that respect with which love inspires its real votaries; to see him, when his whole mind is a prey to jealousy, finding fault either with what I like or dislike, and explaining every look of mine in favour of a rival!
[Footnote: Molière has expressed the same thoughts differently in The
Bores, Act ii. scene 4.]
No, no! such suspicions are too insulting, and I tell you my thoughts without disguise. I love Don Garcia; he alone can fascinate a generous heart; his courage in Leon has nobly proved his passion for me; he dared on my account the greatest dangers, freed me from the toils of cowardly tyrants, and protected me against the horrors of an unworthy alliance by placing me within these strong walls. Nor will I deny but that I should have regretted that I owed my deliverance to any other; for an enamoured heart feels an extreme pleasure, Eliza, in being under some obligations to the object beloved; its faint flame becomes stronger and brighter when it thinks it can discharge them by granting some favours. Yes, I am charmed that he assisted me and risked his life for me, for this seems to give his passion a right of conquest; I rejoice that the danger I was in threw me into his hands. If common reports be true, and Heaven should grant my brother’s return, I wish fervently, and with all my heart, that his arm may aid my brother to recover his throne, and punish a traitor; that his heroic valour may be successful, and thus deserve my brother’s utmost gratitude. But for all this, if he continues to rouse my anger; if he does not lay aside his jealousy, and obey me in whatever I command, he in vain aspires to the hand of Donna Elvira. Marriage can never unite us; for I abhor bonds, which, undoubtedly, would then make a hell upon earth for both of us.
EL. Although one may hold different opinions, the Prince, Madam, should conform himself to your desires; they are so clearly set down in your note that, when he sees them thus explained, he…

ELV. This letter, Eliza, shall not be employed for such a purpose. It will be better to tell him what I think of his conduct. When we favor a lover by writing to him, we leave in his hands too flagrant proofs of our inclination. Therefore take care that that letter is not delivered to the Prince.
EL. Your will is law; yet I cannot help wondering that Heaven has made people’s minds so unlike, and that what some consider an insult should be viewed with a different eye by others. As for me I should think myself very fortunate if I had a lover who could be jealous, for his uneasiness would give me satisfaction. That which often vexes me is to see Don Alvarez give himself no concern about me.

ELV. We did not think he was so near us. Here he comes.

SCENE II.

DONNA ELVIRA, DON ALVAREZ, ELIZA.

ELV. Your return surprises me. What tidings do you bring? Is Don
Alphonso coming, and when may we expect him?

ALV. Yes, Madam; the time has arrived when your brother, brought up in Castile, will get his own again. Hitherto, the cautious Don Louis, to whom the late King, on his death-bed, entrusted the care of Don Alphonso, has concealed his rank from every one, in order to save him from the fury of the traitor Mauregat. Though the miserable but successful tyrant has often inquired after him, under pretence of restoring him to the throne, yet Don Louis, who is full of prudence, would never trust to Mauregat’s pretended feelings for justice, with which he tried to allure him. But as the people became enraged at the violence which a usurper would have offered you, generous old Don Louis thought it time to try what could be done after twenty years’ expectation. He has sounded Leon; his faithful emissaries have sought to influence the minds of great and small. Whilst Castile was arming ten thousand men to restore that Prince so wished for by his people, Don Louis caused a report to be noised abroad that the renowned Don Alphonso was coming, but that he would not produce him save at the head of an army, and completely ready to launch the avenging thunderbolts at the vile usurper’s head. Leon is besieged, and Don Silvio himself commands the auxiliary forces, with which his father aids you.

ELV. We may flatter ourselves that our expectations will be realized, but I am afraid my brother will owe Don Silvio too heavy a debt.
[Footnote: Donna Elvira is afraid that Don Alphonso will owe Don Silvio a debt so heavy, that he will only be able to repay it by the gift of her hand.]

ALV. But, Madam, is it not strange that, notwithstanding the storm which the usurper of your throne hears growling over his head, all the advices from Leon agree that he is going to marry the Countess Inez?

ELV. By allying himself to the high-born maiden, he hopes to obtain the support of her powerful family. I am rather uneasy that of late I have heard nothing of her. But she has always shown an inveterate dislike to that tyrant.
EL. Feelings of honour and tenderness will cause her to refuse the marriage they urge upon her, for…

ALV. The Prince is coming here.

SCENE III.

DON GARCIA, DONNA ELVIRA, DON ALVAREZ, ELIZA.

GARC. I come, Madam to rejoice with you in the good tidings you have just heard. Your brother, who threatens a tyrant stained with crimes, allows me to hope that my love may one day be returned, and offers to my arm an opportunity to acquire glory in fresh dangers for the sake of your lovely eyes. If Heaven proves propitious I will gain amidst these dangers a victory, which divine justice owes to you, which will lay treachery at your feet, and restore to your family its former dignity. But what pleases me still more amidst these cherished expectations is that Heaven restores you this brother to be King; for now my love may openly declare itself, without being accused of seeking to gain a crown whilst striving to obtain your hand. Yes, my heart desires nothing more than to show before the whole world that in you it values but yourself; if I may say so without giving offence, a hundred times have I wished you were of less rank. Loving you as I do I could have desired that your divine charms had fallen to the lot of some one born in a humbler station, that I might unselfishly proffer my heart, and thus make amends to you for Heaven’s injustice, so that you might owe to my love the homage due to your birth.
[Footnote: The sentence from “Yes, my heart,” &c., until “your birth” is nearly the same as the words addressed by Alceste to Celimène in the Misanthrope, Act iv. Sc. 3 (see Vol. II.)]
But since Heaven has forestalled me, and deprives me of the privilege of proving my love, do not take it amiss that my amorous flames look for some slight encouragement when I shall have killed the tyrant, whom I am ready to encounter; suffer me by noble services favourably to dispose the minds of a brother and of a whole nation towards me.

ELV. I know, Prince, that by avenging our wrongs you can make a hundred deeds of daring speak for your love. But the favour of a brother and the gratitude of a nation are not sufficient to reward you; Elvira is not to be obtained by such efforts; there is yet a stronger obstacle to overcome.

GARC. Yes, Madam, I know what you mean. I know very well that my heart sighs in vain for you; neither do I ignore the powerful obstacle against my love, though you name it not.

ELV. Often we hear badly when we think we hear well. Too much ardour, Prince, may lead us into mistakes. But since I must speak, I will. Do you wish to know how you can please me, and when you may entertain any hope?

GARC. I should consider this, Madam, a very great favour.

ELV. When you know how to love as you ought.

GARC. Alas! Madam, does there exist anything under the canopy of heaven that yields not to the passion with which your eyes have inspired me?

ELV. When your passion displays nothing at which the object of your love can feel offended.

GARC. That is its greatest study.

ELV. When you shall cease to harbour mean unworthy sentiments of me.

GARC. I love you to adoration.

ELV. When you have made reparation for your unjust suspicions, and when you finally banish that hideous monster which poisons your love with its black venom; that jealous and whimsical temper which mars, by its outbreaks, the love you offer, prevents it from ever being favourably listened to, and arms me, each time, with just indignation against it.

GARC. Alas, Madam, it is true, that, notwithstanding my utmost effort, some trifling jealousy lingers in my heart; that a rival, though distant from your divine charms, disturbs my equanimity. Whether it be whimsical or reasonable, I always imagine that you are uneasy when he is absent, and that in spite of my attentions, your sighs are continually sent in search of that too happy rival. But if such suspicions displease you, alas, you may easily cure them; their removal, which I hope for, depends more on you than on me. Yes, with a couple of love-breathing words you can arm my soul against jealousy, and disperse all the horrors with which that monster has enshrouded it, by encouraging me to entertain some expectation of a successful issue. Deign therefore to remove the doubt that oppresses me; and, amidst so many trials, let your charming lips grant me the assurance that you love me, — an assurance, of which, I know, I am utterly unworthy.

ELV. Prince, your suspicions completely master you. The slightest intimation of a heart should be understood; it does not reciprocate a passion that continually adjures the object beloved to explain herself more clearly. The first agitation displayed by our soul ought to satisfy a discreet lover; if he wishes to make us declare ourselves more plainly, he only gives us a reason for breaking our promise. If it depended on me alone, I know not whether I should choose Don Silvio or yourself; the very wish I expressed for you not to be jealous, would have been a sufficient hint to any one but you; I thought this request was worded agreeably enough without needing anything further. Your love, however, is not yet satisfied, and requires a more public avowal. In order to remove any scruples, I must distinctly say that I love you; perhaps even, to make more sure of it, you will insist that I must swear it too.

GARC. Well, Madam, I own I am too bold; I ought to be satisfied with everything that pleases you. I desire no further information. I believe you feel kindly towards me, that my love inspires you even with a little compassion; I am happier than I deserve to be. It is over now; I abandon my jealous suspicions; the sentence which condemns them is very agreeable; I shall obey the decision you so kindly pronounce, and free my heart from their unfounded sway.

ELV. You promise a great deal, Prince, but I very much doubt whether you can restrain yourself sufficiently.

GARC. Ah! Madam, you may believe me; it is enough that what is promised to you ought always to be kept, because the happiness of obeying the being one worships ought to render easy the greatest efforts. May Heaven declare eternal war against me; may its thunder strike me dead at your feet; or, what would be even worse than death, may your wrath be poured upon me, if ever my love descends to such weakness as to fail in the promise I have given, if ever any jealous transport of my soul…!

SCENE IV.

DONNA ELVIRA, DON GARCIA, DON ALVAREZ, ELIZA, A PAGE presenting a letter to Donna Elvira.

ELV. I WAS very anxious about this letter, I am very much obliged to you; let the messenger wait.

SCENE V.

DONNA ELVIRA, DON GARCIA, DON ALVAREZ, ELIZA.

ELV. (LOW AND aside). I see already by his looks that this letter disturbs him. What a wonderfully jealous temper he has! (Aloud). What stops you, Prince, in the midst of your oath.

GARC. I thought you might have some secret together; I was unwilling to interrupt you.

ELV. It seems to me that you reply in a much altered voice; I see all of a sudden a certain wildness in your looks; this abrupt change surprises me. What can be the cause of it? May I know?

GARC. A sudden sickness at heart.

ELV. Such illnesses have often more serious consequences than one believes; some immediate remedy would be necessary; but, tell me, have you often such attacks?

GARC. Sometimes.

ELV. Alas, weak-minded Prince! Here, let this writing cure your distemper; it is nowhere but in the mind.

GARC. That writing, Madam! No, I refuse to take it. I know your thoughts and what you will accuse me of, if…

ELV. Read it, I tell you, and satisfy yourself.

GARC. That you may afterwards call me weak-minded and jealous? No, no, I will prove that this letter gave me no umbrage, and though you kindly allow me to read it, to justify myself, I will not do so.

ELV. If you persist in your refusal, I should be wrong to compel you; it is sufficient, in short, as I have insisted upon it, to let you see whose hand it is.

GARC. I ought always to be submissive to you; if it is your pleasure I should read it for you, I will gladly do so.

ELV. Yes, yes, Prince, here it is; you shall read it for me.

GARC. I only do so, Madam, in obedience to your commands, and I may say…

ELV. Whatever you please; but pray make haste.

GARC. It comes from Donna Inez, I perceive.

ELV. It does, and I am glad of it, both for your sake and mine.

GARC. (Reads). “In spite of all that I do to show my contempt for the tyrant, he persists in his love for me; the more effectually to encompass his designs, he has, since your absence, directed against me all that violence with which he pursued the alliance between yourself and his son. Those who perhaps have the right to command me, and who are inspired by base motives of false honour, all approve this unworthy proposal. I do not know yet where my persecution will end; but I will die sooner than give my consent. May you, fair Elvira, be happier in your fate than I am. DONNA INEZ.” A lofty virtue fortifies her mind.

ELV. I will go and write an answer to this illustrious friend. Meanwhile, Prince, learn not to give way so readily to what causes you alarm. I have calmed your emotion by enlightening you, and the whole affair has passed off quietly; but, to tell you the truth, a time may come when I might entertain other sentiments.

GARC. What? you believe then…

ELV. I believe what I ought. Farewell, remember what I tell you; if your love for me be really so great as you pretend, prove it as I wish.

GARC. Henceforth this will be my only desire; and sooner than fail in it, I will lose my life.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

ELIZA, DON LOPEZ.

EL. TO SPEAK my mind freely to you, I am not much astonished at anything the Prince may do; for it is very natural, and I cannot disapprove of it, that a soul inflamed by a noble passion should become exasperated by jealousy, and that frequent doubts should cross his mind: but what surprises me, Don Lopez, is to hear that you keep alive his suspicions; that you are the contriver of them; that he is sad only because you wish it, jealous only because he looks at everything with your eyes. I repeat it, Don Lopez, I do not wonder that a man who is greatly in love becomes suspicious. But, that a man who is not in love should have all the anxieties of one who is jealous — this is a novelty that belongs to none but you.

LOP. Let everybody comment on my actions as much as they please. Each man regulates his conduct according to the goal he wishes to reach; since my love was rejected by you, I court the favour of the Prince.
EL. But do you not know that no favour will be granted to him if you continue to maintain him in this disposition?

LOP. Pray, charming Eliza, was it ever known that those about great men minded anything but their own interest, or that a perfect courtier wished to increase the retinue of those same grandees by adding to it a censor of their faults? Did he ever trouble himself if his conversation harmed them, provided he could but derive some benefit? All the actions of a courtier only tend to get into their favour, to obtain a place in as short a time as possible; the quickest way to acquire their good graces is by always flattering their weaknesses, by blindly applauding what they have a mind to do, and by never countenancing anything that displeases them. That is the true secret of standing well with them. Good advice causes a man to be looked upon as a troublesome fellow, so that he no longer enjoys that confidence which he had secured by an artful subservience. In short, we always see that the art of courtiers aims only at taking advantage of the foibles of the great, at cherishing their errors, and never advising them to do things which they dislike.
EL. These maxims may do well enough for a time: but reverses of fortune have to be dreaded. A gleam of light may at last penetrate the minds of the deceived nobles, who will then justly avenge themselves on all such flatterers for the length of time their glory has been dimmed. Meanwhile I must tell you that you have been a little too frank in your explanations; if a true account of your motives were laid before the Prince, it would but ill serve you in making your fortune.

LOP. I could deny having told you those truths I have just unfolded, and that without being gainsaid; but I know very well that Eliza is too discreet to divulge this private conversation. After all, what I have said is known by everyone; what actions of mine have I to conceal? A downfall may be justly dreaded when we employ artifices or treachery. But what have I to fear? I, who cannot be taxed with anything but complaisance, who by my useful lessons do but follow up the Prince’s natural inclination for jealousy. His soul seems to live upon suspicions; and so I do my very best to find him opportunities for his uneasiness, and to look out on all sides if anything has happened that may furnish a subject for a secret conversation. When I can go to him, with a piece of news that may give a deadly blow to his repose, then he loves me most: I can see him listen eagerly and swallow the poison, and thank me for it too, as if I had brought him news of some victory which would make him happy and glorious for all his life. But my rival draws near, and so I leave you together; though I have renounced all hope of ever gaining your affection, yet it would pain me not a little to see you prefer him to me before my face; therefore I will avoid such a mortification as much as I can.
[Footnote: Don Lopez bears a distant resemblance to “honest Iago” in Othello, though Molière has only faintly shadowed forth what Shakespeare has worked out in so masterly a manner.]
EL. All judicious lovers should do the same.

SCENE II.

DON ALVAREZ, ELIZA.

ALV. AT LAST we have received intelligence that the king of Navarre has this very day declared himself favourable to the Prince’s love, and that a number of fresh troops will reinforce his army, ready to be employed in the service of her to whom his wishes aspire. As for me, I am surprised at their quick movements… but…

SCENE III.

DON GARCIA, DON ALVAREZ, ELIZA.

GARC. What is the Princess doing?
EL. I think, my Lord, she is writing some letters; but I shall let her know that you are here.

GARC. (In a low voice and aside). How well she dissembles.

ELV. We have just now heard that the King, your father, approves your designs, and consents that his son should restore us to our subjects. I am extremely rejoiced at this.

GARC. Yes, Madam, and my heart is rejoiced at it too; but….

ELV. The tyrant will doubtless find it difficult to defend himself against the thunderbolts which from all sides threaten him. I flatter myself that the same courage which was able to deliver me from the brutal rage of the usurper, to snatch me out of his hands, and place me safe within the walls of Astorga, will conquer the whole of Leon, and by its noble efforts cause the head of the tyrant to fall.

GARC. A few days more will show if I am successful. But pray let us proceed to some other subject of conversation. If you do not consider me too bold, will you kindly tell me, Madam, to whom you have written since fate led us hither?

ELV. Why this question, and whence this anxiety?

GARC. Out of pure curiosity, Madam, that is all.

ELV. Curiosity is the daughter of jealousy.

GARC. No; it is not at all what you imagine; your commands have sufficiently cured that disease.

ELV. Without endeavouring further to discover what may be the reasons for your inquiry, I have written twice to the Countess Inez at Leon, and as often to the Marquis, Don Louis, at Burgos. Does this answer put your mind at rest?

GARC. Have you written to no one else, Madam?

ELV. No, certainly, and your questions astonish me.

GARC. Pray consider well, before you make such a statement, because people forget sometimes, and thus perjure themselves.

ELV. I cannot perjure myself in what I have stated.

GARC. You have, however, told a very great falsehood.

ELV. Prince!

GARC. Madam!

ELV. Heavens; what is the meaning of this! Speak! Have you lost your senses?

GARC. Yes, yes, I lost them, when to my misfortune I beheld you, and thus took the poison which kills me; when I thought to meet with some sincerity in those treacherous charms that bewitched me.

ELV. What treachery have you to complain of?

GARC. Oh! how double-faced she is! how well she knows to dissimulate! But all means for escape will fail you. Cast your eyes here, and recognize your writing.
[Footnote: The lines, “Heavens! what is the meaning of this?” till “and recognize your writing” have been employed again by Molière in the Misanthrope, Act iv., Scene 3, (see vol. II). The misanthrope Alceste has also in his hand the written proofs of the faithlessness of the object of his love: but his suspicions are well founded, whilst those of Don Garcia are inspired only by jealousy.]
Without having seen the other part of this letter, it is easy enough to discover for whom you employ this style.

ELV. And this is the cause of your perturbation of spirits?

GARC. Do you not blush on beholding this writing?

ELV. Innocence is not accustomed to blush.

GARC. Here indeed we see it oppressed. You disown this letter because it is not signed.

ELV. Why should I disown it, since I wrote it?
[Footnote: The words, “And this is the cause” until “since I wrote it,” are, with a few slight alterations, found also in the Misanthrope, Act iv., Scene 3.]

GARC. It is something that you are frank enough to own your handwriting; but I will warrant that it was a note written to some indifferent person, or at least that the tender sentiments it contains were intended only for some lady friend or relative.

ELV. No, I wrote it to a lover, and, what is more, to one greatly beloved.

GARC. And can I, O perfidious woman…?

ELV. Bridle, unworthy Prince, the excess of your base fury. Although you do not sway my heart, and I am accountable here to none but myself, yet for your sole punishment I will clear myself from the crime of which you so insolently accuse me. You shall be undeceived; do not doubt it. I have my defence at hand. You shall be fully enlightened; my innocence shall appear complete. You yourself shall be the judge in your own cause, and pronounce your own sentence.

GARC. I cannot understand such mysterious talk.

ELV. You shall soon comprehend it to your cost. Eliza come hither!

SCENE VI.

DON GARCIA, DONNA ELVIRA, ELIZA.

EL. Madam.

ELV. (to Don Garcia). At least observe well whether I make use of any artifice to deceive you; whether by a single glance or by any warning gesture I seek to ward off this sudden blow. (To Eliza). Answer me quickly, where did you leave the letter I wrote just now?
EL. Madam, I confess I am to blame. This letter was by accident left on my table; but I have just been informed that Don Lopez, coming into my apartment, took, as he usually does, the liberty to pry everywhere, and found it. As he was unfolding it, Leonora wished to snatch it from him before he had read anything; and whilst she tried to do this, the letter in dispute was torn in two pieces, with one of which Don Lopez quickly went away, in spite of all she could do.

ELV. Have you the other half?
EL. Yes; here it is.

ELV. Give it to me. (To Don Garcia). We shall see who is to blame; join the two parts together, and then read it aloud. I wish to hear it.

GARC. “To Don Garcia.” Ha!

ELV. Go on! Are you thunderstruck at the first word?

GARC. (Reads). “Though your rival, Prince, disturbs your mind, you ought still to fear yourself more than him. It is in your power to destroy now the greatest obstacle your passion has to encounter. I feel very grateful to Don Garcia for rescuing me from the hands of my bold ravishers; his love, his homage delights me much; but his jealousy is odious to me. Remove, therefore, from your love that foul blemish; deserve the regards that are bestowed upon it; and when one endeavours to make you happy, do not persist in remaining miserable.”

ELV. Well, what do you say to this?

GARC. Ah! Madam, I say that on reading this I am quite confounded; that I see the extreme injustice of my complaints, and that no punishment can be severe enough for me.

ELV. Enough! Know that if I desired that you should read the letter, it was only to contradict everything I stated in it; to unsay a hundred times all that you read there in your favour. Farewell, Prince.

GARC. Alas, Madam! whither do you fly?

ELV. To a spot where you shall not be, over-jealous man.

GARC. Ah, Madam, excuse a lover who is wretched because, by a wonderful turn of fate, he has become guilty towards you, and who, though you are now very wroth with him, would have deserved greater blame if he had remained innocent. For, in short, can a heart be truly enamoured which does not dread as well as hope? And could you believe I loved you if this ominous letter had not alarmed me; if I had not trembled at the thunderbolt which I imagined had destroyed all my happiness? I leave it to yourself to judge if such an accident would not have caused any other lover to commit the same error; if I could disbelieve, alas, a proof which seemed to me so clear!

ELV. Yes, you might have done so; my feelings so clearly expressed ought to have prevented your suspicions. You had nothing to fear; if some others had had such a pledge they would have laughed to scorn the testimony of the whole world.

GARC. The less we deserve a happiness which has been promised us, the greater is the difficulty we feel in believing in it. A destiny too full of glory seems unstable, and renders us suspicious. As for me, who think myself so little deserving of your favours, I doubted the success of my rashness.
[Footnote: Molière has with a few alterations placed this phrase beginning with “the less,” and ending with “my rashness,” in the mouth of Tartuffe in the play of the same name, Act iv., Sc. 5, (see Vol. II).]
I thought that, finding yourself in a place under my command, you forced yourself to be somewhat kind to me; that, disguising to me your severity…

ELV. Do you think that I could stoop to so cowardly an action? Am I capable of feigning so disgracefully; of acting from motives of servile fear; of betraying my sentiments; and, because I am in your power, of concealing my contempt for you under a pretence of kindness? Could any consideration for my own reputation so little influence me? Can you think so, and dare to tell it me? Know that this heart cannot debase itself; that nothing under Heaven can compel it to act thus: if it has committed the great error of showing you some kindness, of which you were not worthy, know that in spite of your power, it will be able now to show the hatred it feels for you, to defy your rage, and convince you that it is not mean, nor ever will be so.
[Footnote: This scene beginning from “Well,” until the end, has, with several alterations rendered necessary by change of metre, been treated by Molière in his Amphitryon, Act ii., Sc. 6, (see Vol. II.).]

GARC. Well, I cannot deny that I am guilty: but I beg pardon of your heavenly charms, I beg it for the sake of the most ardent love that two beautiful eyes ever kindled in a human soul. But if your wrath cannot be appeased; if my crime be beyond forgiveness; if you have no regard for the love that caused it, nor for my heart-felt repentance, then one propitious blow shall end my life, and free me from these unbearable torments. No, think not that having displeased you, I can live for one moment under your wrath. Even whilst we are speaking, my heart sinks under gnawing remorse; were a thousand vultures cruelly to wound it, they could not inflict greater pangs. Tell me, madam, if I may hope for pardon; if not, then this sword shall instantly, in your sight, by a well-directed thrust, pierce the heart of a miserable wretch; that heart, that irresolute heart, whose weakness has so deeply offended your excessive kindness, too happy if in death this just doom efface from your memory all remembrance of its crime, and cause you to think of my affection without dislike. This is the only favour my love begs of you.

ELV. Oh! too cruel Prince!

GARC. Speak, Madam.

ELV. Must I still preserve some kind feelings for you, and suffer myself to be affronted by so many indignities?

GARC. A heart that is in love can never offend, and finds excuses for whatever love may do.

ELV. Love is no excuse for such outbursts.

GARC. Love communicates its ardour to all emotions, and the stronger it is, the more difficulty it finds…

ELV. No, speak to me no more of it; you deserve my hatred.

GARC. You hate me then?

ELV. I will at least endeavour to do so. But alas! I am afraid it will be in vain, and that all the wrath which your insults have kindled, will not carry my revenge so far.

GARC. Do not endeavour to punish me so severely, since I offer to kill myself to avenge you; pronounce but the sentence and I obey immediately.

ELV. One who cannot hate cannot wish anybody to die.

GARC. I cannot live unless you kindly pardon my rash errors; resolve either to punish or to forgive.

ELV. Alas! I have shown too clearly my resolution; do we not pardon a criminal when we tell him we cannot hate him?

GARC. Ah! this is too much. Suffer me, adorable Princess…

ELV. Forbear, I am angry with myself for my weakness.

GARC. (Alone). At length I am…

SCENE VII.

DON GARCIA, DON LOPEZ.

LOP. MY LORD, I have to communicate to you a secret that may justly alarm your love.

GARC. Do not talk to me of secrets or alarms, whilst I am in such a blissful rapture. After what has just taken place, I ought not to listen to any suspicions. The unequalled kindness of a divine object ought to shut my ears against all such idle reports. Do not say anything more.

LOP. My Lord, I shall do as you wish; my only care in this business was for you. I thought that the secret I just discovered ought to be communicated with all diligence; but since it is your pleasure I should not mention it, I shall change the conversation, and inform you that every family in Leon threw off the mask, as soon as the report spread that the troops of Castile were approaching; the lower classes especially show openly such an affection for their true King, that the tyrant trembles for fear.

GARC. Castile, however, shall not gain the victory without our making an attempt to share in the glory; our troops may also be able to terrify Mauregat. But what secret would you communicate to me? Let us hear it?

LOP. My Lord, I have nothing to say.
[Footnote: Compare Iago’s reticence in Shakespeare’s Othello (iii. 3).]

GARC. Come, come, speak, I give you leave.

LOP. My Lord, your words have told me differently; and since my news may displease you, I shall know for the future how to remain silent.

GARC. Without further reply, I wish to know your secret.

LOP. Your commands must be obeyed; but, my Lord, duty forbids me to explain such a secret in this place. Let us go hence, and I shall communicate it to you; without taking anything lightly for granted, you yourself shall judge what you ought to think of it.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

DONNA ELVIRA, ELIZA.

ELV. What say you, Eliza, to this unaccountable weakness in the heart of a Princess? What do you say when you see me so quickly forego my desire for revenge, and, in spite of so much publicity, weakly and shamefully pardon so cruel an outrage.
EL. I say, Madam, that an insult from a man we love is doubtless very difficult to bear; but if there be none which makes us sooner angry, so there is none which we sooner pardon. If the man we love is guilty, and throws himself at our feet, he triumphs over the rash outbreak of the greatest anger; so much the more easily, Madam, if the offence comes from an excess of love. However great your displeasure may have been, I am not astonished to see it appeased; I know the power which, in spite of your threats, will always pardon such crimes.

ELV. But know, Eliza, however great the power of my love may be, I have blushed for the last time; if henceforth the Prince gives me fresh cause for anger, he must no longer look for pardon. I swear, that in such a case, I will never more foster tender feelings for him: for in short, a mind with ever so little pride is greatly ashamed to go back from its word, and often struggles gallantly against its own inclinations; it becomes stubborn for honour’s sake, and sacrifices everything to the noble pride of keeping its word. Though I have pardoned him now, do not consider this a precedent for the future. Whatever fortune has in store for me, I cannot think of giving my hand to the Prince of Navarre, until he has shown that he is completely cured of those gloomy fits which unsettle his reason, and has convinced me, who am the greatest sufferer by this disease, that he will never insult me again by a relapse.
EL. But how can the jealousy of a lover be an insult to us?

ELV. Is there one more deserving of our wrath? And since it is with the utmost difficulty we can resolve to confess our love; since the strict honour of our sex at all times strongly opposes such a confession, ought a lover to doubt our avowal, and should he not be punished? Is he not greatly to blame in disbelieving that which is never said but after a severe struggle with one’s self?
[Footnote: The words “since it is” until “one’s self” have been used by Molière with some slight alteration in the Misanthrope, Act iv., Scene 3, (see vol. II.)]
EL. As for me, I think that a little mistrust on such an occasion should not offend us; and that it is dangerous, Madam, for a lover to be absolutely persuaded that he is beloved. If…

ELV. Let us argue no more. Every person thinks differently. I am offended by such suspicions; and, in spite of myself, I am conscious of something which forebodes an open quarrel between the Prince and me, and which, notwithstanding his great qualities…. But Heavens! Don Silvio of Castile in this place!

SCENE II.

DONNA ELVIRA, DON ALPHONSO, under the name of Don Silvio, ELIZA.

ELV. AH! MY Lord, what chance has brought you here?

ALPH. I know, Madam, that my arrival must surprise you. To enter quietly this town, to which the access has become difficult through the orders of a rival, and to have avoided being seen by the soldiers, is an event you did not look for. But if, in coming here, I have surmounted some obstacles, the desire of seeing you is able to effect much greater miracles. My heart has felt but too severely the blows of merciless fate which kept me away from you; to allay the pangs which nearly kill me, I could not refuse myself some moments to behold in secret your inestimable person. I come, therefore, to tell you that I return thanks to Heaven, that you are rescued from the hands of an odious tyrant. But, in the midst of that happiness, I feel that I shall always be tortured with the thought that envious fate deprived me of the honour of performing such a noble deed, and has unjustly given to my rival the chance of venturing his life pleasantly to render you so great a service. Yes, Madam, my readiness to free you from your chains was undoubtedly equal to his; I should have gained the victory for you, if Heaven had not robbed me of that honour.

ELV. I know, my Lord, that you possess a heart capable of overcoming the greatest dangers; I doubt not but this generous zeal which incited you to espouse my quarrel, would have enabled you, as well as any one else, to overcome all base attempts; but even if you have not performed this noble deed — and you could have done it — I am already under sufficient obligations to the house of Castile. It is well known what a warm and faithful friend the Count, your father, was of the late King, and what he did for him. After having assisted him until he died, he gave my brother a shelter in his states; full twenty years he concealed him, in spite of the cowardly efforts to discover him, employed by barbarous and enraged enemies; and now to restore to his brow a crown, in all its splendour, you are marching in person against our usurpers. Are you not satisfied, and do not these generous endeavours place me under strong obligations to you? Would you, my Lord, obstinately persist in swaying my whole fate? Must I never receive even the slightest kindness unless from you? Ah! amidst these misfortunes, which seem to be my fate, suffer me to owe also something to another, and do not complain that another arm acquired some glory, when you were absent.

ALPH. Yes, Madam, I ought to cease complaining; you are quite right when you tell me so; we unjustly complain of one misfortune, when a much greater threatens to afflict us. This succour from a rival is a cruel mortification to me: but, alas! this is not the greatest of my misfortunes; the blow, the severe blow which crushes me, is to see that rival preferred to me. Yes, I but too plainly perceive that his greater reputation was the reason that his love was preferred to mine; that opportunity of serving you, the advantage he possessed of signalizing his prowess, that brilliant exploit which he performed in saving you, was nothing but the mere effect of being happy enough to please you, the secret power of a wonderful astral influence which causes the object you love to become famed. Thus all my efforts will be in vain. I am leading an army against your haughty tyrants; but I fulfil this noble duty trembling, because I am sure that your wishes will not be for me, and that, if they are granted, fortune has in store the most glorious success for my happy rival. Ah! Madam, must I see myself hurled from that summit of glory I expected; and may I not know what crimes they accuse me of, and why I have deserved that dreadful downfall?

ELV. Before you ask me anything, consider what you ought to ask of my feelings. As for this coldness of mine, which seems to abash you, I leave it to you, my Lord, to answer for me; for, in short, you cannot be ignorant that some of your secrets have been told to me. I believe your mind to be too noble and too generous to desire me to do what is wrong. Say yourself if it would be just to make me reward faithlessness; whether you can, without the greatest injustice, offer me a heart already tendered to another; whether you are justified in complaining, and in blaming a refusal which would prevent you from staining your virtues with a crime? Yes, my Lord, it is a crime, for first love has so sacred a hold on a lofty mind, that it would rather lose greatness and abandon life itself, than incline to a second love.
[Footnote: The words “Yes my Lord” until “second love” are also, with some alterations, found in The Blue Stockings, Act iv. Scene 2, (see Vol. III).]
I have that regard for you which is caused by an appreciation of your lofty courage, your magnanimous heart; but do not require of me more than I owe you, and maintain the honour of your first choice. In spite of your new love, consider what tender feelings the amiable Inez still retains for you; that she has constantly refused to be made happy for the sake of an ungrateful man; for such you are, my Lord! In her great love for you, how generously has she scorned the splendour of a diadem! Consider what attempts she has withstood for your sake, and restore to her heart what you owe it.

ALPH. Ah, Madam, do not present her merit to my eyes! Though I am an ungrateful man and abandon her, she is never out of my mind; if my heart could tell you what it feels for her, I fear it would be guilty towards you. Yes, that heart dares to pity Inez, and does not, without some hesitation follow the violent love which leads it on. I never flattered myself that you would reward my love without at the same time breathing some sighs for her; in the midst of these pleasant thoughts my memory still casts some sad looks towards my first love, reproaches itself with the effect of your divine charms, and mingles some remorse with what I wish most fervently. And since I must tell you all, I have done more than this. I have endeavoured to free myself from your sway, to break your chains, and to place my heart again under the innocent yoke of its first conqueror. But, after all my endeavours, my fidelity gives way, and I see only one remedy for the disease that kills me. Were I even to be forever wretched, I cannot forswear my love, or bear the terrible idea of seeing you in the arms of another; that same light, which permits me to behold your charms, will shine on my corpse, before this marriage takes place. I know that I betray an amiable Princess; but after all, Madam, is my heart guilty? Does the powerful influence which your beauty possesses leave the mind any liberty? Alas! I am much more to be pitied than she; for, by losing me, she loses only a faithless man. Such a sorrow can easily be soothed; but I, through an unparalleled misfortune, abandon an amiable lady, whilst I endure all the torments of a rejected love.

ELV. You have no torments but what you yourself create, for our heart is always in our own power. It may indeed sometimes show a little weakness; but, after all, reason sways our passions…

SCENE III.

DON GARCIA, DONNA ELVIRA, DON ALPHONSO, under the name of Don Silvio.

GARC. I PERCEIVE. Madam, that my coming is somewhat unseasonable, and disturbs your conversation. I must needs say I did not expect to find such good company here.

ELV. Don Silvio’s appearance indeed surprised me very much; I no more expected him than you did.

GARC. Madam, since you say so, I do not believe you were forewarned of this visit; (to Don Silvio) but you, sir, ought at least to have honoured us with some notice of this rare happiness, so that we should not have been surprised, but enabled to pay you here those attentions which we would have liked to render you.

ALPH. My Lord, you are so busy with warlike preparations, that I should have been wrong had I interrupted you. The sublime thoughts of mighty conquerors can hardly stoop to the ordinary civilities of the world.

GARC. But those mighty conquerors, whose warlike preparations are thus praised, far from loving secrecy, prefer to have witnesses of what they do; their minds trained to glorious deeds from infancy, make them carry out all their plans openly; being always supported by lofty sentiments, they never stoop to disguise themselves. Do you not compromise your heroic merits in coming here secretly, and are you not afraid that people may look upon this action as unworthy of you?

ALPH. I know not whether any one will blame my conduct because I have made a visit here in secret; but I know, Prince, that I never courted obscurity in things which require light. Were I to undertake anything against you, you should have no cause to remark you were surprised. It would depend upon yourself to guard against it; I would take care to warn you beforehand. Meanwhile let us continue upon ordinary terms, and postpone the settlement of our quarrels until all other affairs are arranged. Let us suppress the outbursts of our rather excited passions, and not forget in whose presence we are both speaking.

ELV. (To Don Garcia). Prince, you are in the wrong; and his visit is such that you…

GARC. Ah! Madam, it is too much to espouse his quarrel You ought to dissemble a little better when you pretend that you were ignorant he was coming here. You defend him so warmly and so quickly, that it is no very convincing proof of his visit being unexpected.

ELV. Your suspicions concern me so little, that I should be very sorry to deny your accusation.

GARC. Why do you not go farther in your lofty pride, and, without hesitation, lay bare your whole heart? You are too prone to dissimulation. Do not unsay anything you once said. Be brief, be brief, lay aside all scruples; say that his passion has kindled yours, that his presence delights you so much…

ELV. And if I have a mind to love him, can you hinder me? Do you pretend to sway my heart, and have I to receive your commands whom I must love? Know that too much pride has deceived you, if you think you have any authority over me; my mind soars too high to conceal my feelings when I am asked to declare them. I will not tell you whether the Count is beloved; but I may inform you that I esteem him highly; his great merits, which I admire, deserve the love of a Princess better than you; his passion, the assiduity he displays, impress me very strongly; and if the stern decree of fate puts it out of my power to reward him with my hand, I can at least promise him never to become a prey to your love. Without keeping you any longer in slight suspense, I engage myself to act thus, and I will keep my word. I have opened my heart to you, as you desired it, and shown you my real feelings. Are you satisfied, and do you not think that, as you pressed me, I have sufficiently explained myself? Consider whether there remains anything else for me to do in order to clear up your suspicions. (To Don Silvio). In the meanwhile, if you persist in your resolution to please me, do not forget, Count, that I have need of your arm, and that whatever may be the outbreaks of temper of an eccentric man, you must do your utmost to punish our tyrants. In a word, do not listen to what he may say to you in his wrath, and in order to induce you so to act, remember that I have entreated you.

SCENE IV.

DON GARCIA, DON ALPHONSO.

GARC. EVERYTHING SMILES upon you, and you proudly triumph over my confusion. It is pleasant to hear the glorious confession of that victory which you obtain over a rival; but it must greatly add to your joy to have that rival a witness to it. My pretensions, openly set aside, enhance all the more the triumph of your love. Enjoy this great happiness fully, but know that you have not yet gained your point; I have too just cause to be incensed, and many things may perhaps ere then come to pass. Despair, when it breaks out, goes a great way; everything is pardonable when one has been deceived. If the ungrateful woman, out of compliment to your love, has just now pledged her word never to be mine, my righteous indignation will discover the means of preventing her ever being yours.

ALPH. I do not trouble myself about your antagonism. We shall see who will be deceived in his expectations. Each by his valour will be able to defend the reputation of his love, or avenge his misfortune. But as between rivals the calmest mind may easily become irate, and as I am unwilling that such a conversation should exasperate either of us, I wish, Prince, you would put me in the way of leaving this place, so that the restraint I put upon myself may be ended.

GARC. No, no, do not fear that you will be compelled to violate the order you received. Whatever righteous wrath is kindled within me, and which no doubt delights you, Count, I know when it should break forth. This place is open to you; you can leave it, proud of the advantages you have gained. But once more I tell you that my head alone can put your conquest into your hands.

ALPH. When matters shall have reached that point, fortune and our arms will soon end our quarrel.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

DONNA ELVIRA, DON ALVAREZ.

ELV. YOU CAN go back, Don Alvarez, but do not expect that you shall persuade me to forget this offence. The wound which my heart received is incurable; all endeavours to heal it make it but fester the more. Does the Prince think I shall listen to some simulated compliments? No, no, he has made me too angry; and his fruitless repentance, which led you hither, solicits a pardon which I will not grant.

ALV. Madam, he deserves your pity. Never was any offence expiated with more stinging remorse; if you were to see his grief, it would touch your heart, and you would pardon him. It is well known that the Prince is of an age at which we abandon ourselves to first impressions; that in fiery youth the passions hardly leave room for reflection. Don Lopez, deceived by false tidings, was the cause of his master’s mistake. An idle report that the Count was coming, and that you had some understanding with those who admitted him within these walls, was indiscreetly bruited about. The Prince believed it; his love, deceived by a false alarm, has caused all this disturbance. But being now conscious of his error, he is well aware of your innocence; the dismissal of Don Lopez clearly proves how great his remorse is for the outburst of which he has been guilty.

ELV. Alas! He too readily believes me innocent; he is not yet quite sure of it. Tell him to weigh all things well, and not to make too much haste, for fear of being deceived.

ALV. Madam, he knows too well….

ELV. I pray you, Don Alvarez, let us no longer continue a conversation which vexes me: it revives in me some sadness, at the very moment that a more important sorrow oppresses me. Yes, I have received unexpectedly the news of a very great misfortune; the report of the death of the Countess Inez has filled my heart with so much wretchedness, that there is no room for any other grief.

ALV. Madam, these tidings may not be true; but when I return, I shall have to communicate to the Prince a cruel piece of news.

ELV. However great his sufferings may be, they fall short of what he deserves.

SCENE II.

DONNA ELVIRA, ELIZA.

EL. I WAITED, Madam until he was gone, to tell you something that will free you from your anxiety, since this very moment you can be informed what has become of Donna Inez. A certain person, whom I do not know, has sent one of his servants to ask an audience of you, in order to tell you all.

ELV. Eliza, I must see him; let him come quickly.
EL. He does not wish to be seen except by yourself; by this messenger he requests, Madam that his visit may take place without any one being present.

ELV. Well, we shall be alone, I will give orders about that, whilst you bring him here. How great is my impatience just now! Ye fates, shall these tidings be full of joy or grief?

SCENE III.

DON PEDRO, ELIZA.

EL. Where….

PED. If you are looking for me, Madam, here I am.
EL. Where is your master….

PED. He is hard by; shall I fetch him?
EL. Desire him to come; tell him that he is impatiently expected, and that no one shall see him. (Alone). I cannot unravel this mystery; all the precautions he takes … But here he is already.

SCENE IV.

DONNA INEZ, in man’s dress, ELIZA.

EL. My Lord, in order to wait for you, we have prepared…. But what do
I see? Ah! Madam, my eyes….

INEZ. Do not tell any one, Eliza, I am here; allow me to pass my sad days in peace. I pretended to kill myself. By this feigned death I got rid of all my tyrants; for this is the name my relatives deserve. Thus I have avoided a dreadful marriage; rather than have consented, I would really have killed myself. This dress, and the report of my death, will keep the secret of my fate from all, and secure me against that unjust persecution which may even follow me hither.
EL. My surprise might have betrayed you, if I had seen you in public; but go into this room and put an end to the sorrow of the Princess; her heart will be filled with joy when she shall behold you. You will find her there alone; she has taken care to see you by herself, and without any witnesses.

SCENE V.

DON ALVAREZ, ELIZA.

EL. IS THIS not Don Alvarez whom I see?

ALV. The Prince sends me to entreat you to use your utmost influence in his favour. His life is despaired of, unless he obtains by your means, fair Eliza, one moment’s conversation with Donna Elvira; he is beside himself … but here he is.

SCENE VI.

DON GARCIA, DON ALVAREZ, ELIZA.

GARC. Alas. Eliza, feel for my great misfortune; take pity on a heart full of wretchedness, and given up to the bitterest sorrow.
EL. I should look upon your torments, my Lord, with other eyes than the Princess does; Heaven or our mood is the reason why we judge differently about everything. But, as she blames you, and fancies your jealousy to be a frightful monster, if I were in your place I should obey her wishes, and endeavour to conceal from her eyes what offends them. A lover undoubtedly acts wisely when he tries to suit his temper to ours; a hundred acts of politeness have less influence than this unison, which makes two hearts appear as if stirred by the same feelings. This similarity firmly unites them; for we love nothing so much as what resembles ourselves.

GARC. I know it, but alas! merciless fate opposes such a well intentioned plan; in spite of all my endeavours, it continually lays a snare for me, which my heart cannot avoid. It is not because the ungrateful woman, in the presence of my rival, avowed her love for him, and not for me; and that with such an excess of tenderness, that it is impossible I can ever forget her cruelty. But as too much ardour led me to believe erroneously that she had introduced him into this place, I should be very much annoyed if I left upon her mind the impression that she has any just cause of complaint against me. Yes, if I am abandoned, it shall be only through her faithlessness; for as I have come to beg her pardon for my impetuosity, she shall have no excuse for ingratitude.
EL. Give a little time for her resentment to cool, and do not see her again so soon, my Lord.

GARC. Ah! if you love me, induce her to see me; she must grant me that permission; I do not leave this spot until her cruel disdain at least….
EL. Pray, my Lord, defer this purpose.

GARC. No; make no more idle excuses.
EL. (Aside). The Princess herself must find means to send him away, if she says but one word to him. (To Don Garcia). Stay here, my Lord, I shall go and speak to her.

GARC. Tell her that I instantly dismissed the person whose information was the cause of my offence, that Don Lopez shall never…

SCENE VII.

DON GARCIA, DON ALVAREZ.

GARC. (LOOKING IN at the door which Eliza left half open). What do I see, righteous Heavens! Can I believe my eyes? Alas! they are, doubtless, but too faithful witnesses; this is the most terrible of all my great troubles! This fatal blow completely overwhelms me! When suspicions raged within me, it was Heaven itself, vaguely but ominously foretelling me this horrible disgrace.

ALV. What have you seen, my Lord, to disturb you?

GARC. I have seen what I can hardly conceive; the overthrow of all creation would less astonish me than this accident. It is all over with me … Fate … I cannot speak.
[Footnote: The words from “What have you seen” till “I cannot speak,” are with some slight alterations, found in the Misanthrope, Act iv., Scene 2 (see Vol. II).]

ALV. My Lord, endeavour to be composed.

GARC. I have seen… Vengeance! O Heaven!

ALV. What sudden alarm…?

GARC. It will kill me, Don Alvarez, it is but too certain.

ALV. But, my Lord, what can…

GARC. Alas! Everything is undone. I am betrayed, I am murdered!
[Footnote: The last sentences of Don Alvarez and Don Garcia are also found in the Misanthrope, Act iv., Scene 2 (see Vol. II).]
A man, (can I say it and still live) a man in the arms of the faithless
Elvira!

ALV. The Princess, my Lord, is so virtuous…

GARC. Ah, Don Alvarez, do not gainsay what I have seen. It is too much to defend her reputation, after my eyes have beheld so heinous an action.

ALV. Our passions, my Lord, often cause us to mistake a deception for a reality; to believe that a mind nourished by virtue can….

GARC. Prithee leave me, Don Alvarez, a counsellor is in the way upon such an occasion; I will take counsel only of my wrath.

ALV. (Aside). It is better not to answer him when his mind is so upset.

GARC. Oh! how deeply am I wounded! But I shall see who it is, and punish with my own hand…. But here she comes. Restrain thyself, O rage!

SCENE VIII.

DONNA ELVIRA, DON GARCIA, DON ALVAREZ.

ELV. WELL, WHAT do you want? However bold you may be, how can you hope for pardon, after the way you have behaved? Dare you again present yourself before me? And what can you say that will become me to hear?

GARC. That all the wickedness of this world is not to be compared to your perfidy; that neither fate, hell, nor Heaven in its wrath ever produced anything so wicked as you are.
[Footnote: The above words of Don Garcia are also in the Misanthrope,
Act iv., Scene 3 (see Vol. II).]

ELV. How is this? I expected you would excuse your outrage; but I find you use other words.

GARC. Yes, yes, other words. You did not think that, the door being by accident left half open, I should discover the caitiff in your arms, and thus behold your shame, and my doom. Is it the happy lover who has returned, or some other rival to me unknown? O Heaven! grant me sufficient strength to bear such tortures. Now, blush, you have cause to do so; your treachery is laid bare. This is what the agitations of my mind prognosticated; it was not without cause that my love took alarm; my continual suspicions were hateful to you, but I was trying to discover the misfortune my eyes have beheld; in spite of all your care, and your skill in dissembling, my star foretold me what I had to fear. But do not imagine that I will bear unavenged the slight of being insulted! I know that we have no command over our inclinations; that love will everywhere spring up spontaneously; that there is no entering a heart by force, and that every soul is free to name its conqueror; therefore I should have no reason to complain, if you had spoken to me without dissembling; you would then have sounded the death-knell of my hope; but my heart could have blamed fortune alone. But to see my love encouraged by a deceitful avowal on your part, is so treacherous and perfidious an action, that it cannot meet with too great a punishment; I can allow my resentment to do anything. No, no, after such an outrage, hope for nothing. I am no longer myself, I am mad with rage.
[Footnote: The whole of this speech, from “Now blush,” until “mad with rage,” has, with few alterations, been used in the Misanthrope. Act iv., Scene 3 (see Vol. II).]
Betrayed on all sides, placed in so sad a situation, my love must avenge itself to the utmost; I shall sacrifice everything here to my frenzy, and end my despair with my life.

ELV. I have listened to you patiently; can I, in my turn, speak to you freely?

GARC. And by what eloquent speeches, inspired by cunning….

ELV. If you have still something to say, pray continue; I am ready to hear you. If not, I hope you will at least listen for a few minutes quietly to what I have to say.

GARC. Well, then, I am listening. Ye Heavens! what patience is mine!

ELV. I restrain my indignation, and will without any passion reply to your discourse, so full of fury.

GARC. It is because you see…

ELV. I have listened to you as long as you pleased; pray do the like to me. I wonder at my destiny, and I believe there was never any thing under Heaven so marvellous, nothing more strange and incomprehensible, and nothing more opposed to reason. I have a lover, who incessantly does nothing else but persecute me; who, amidst all the expressions of his love, does not entertain for me any feelings of esteem; whose heart, on which my eyes have made an impression, does not do justice to the lofty rank granted to me by Heaven; who will not defend the innocence of my actions against the slightest semblance of false appearances. Yes, I see … (Don Garcia shows some signs of impatience, and wishes to speak). Above all, do not interrupt me. I see that my unhappiness is so great, that one who says he loves me, and who, even if the whole world were to attack my reputation, ought to claim to defend it against all, is he who is its greatest foe. In the midst of his love, he lets no opportunity pass of suspecting me; he not only suspects me, but breaks out into such violent fits of jealousy that love cannot suffer without being wounded. Far from acting like a lover who would rather die than offend her whom he loves, who gently complains and seeks respectfully to have explained what he thinks suspicious, he proceeds to extremities as soon as he doubts, and is full of rage, insults, and threats. However, this day I will shut my eyes to everything that makes him odious to me, and out of mere kindness afford him an opportunity of being reconciled, though he insulted me anew. This great rage with which you attacked me proceeds from what you accidentally saw; I should be wrong to deny what you have seen; I own you might have some reason to be disturbed at it.

GARC. And is it not…

ELV. Listen to me a little longer, and you shall know what I have resolved. It is necessary that our fates should be decided. You are now upon the brink of a great precipice; you will either fall over it, or save yourself, according to the resolution you shall take. If, notwithstanding what you have seen, Prince, you act towards me as you ought, and ask no other proof but that I tell you you are wrong; if you readily comply with my wishes and are willing to believe me innocent upon my word alone, and no longer yield to every suspicion, but blindly believe what my heart tells you; then this submission, this proof of esteem, shall cancel all your offences; I instantly retract what I said when excited by well-founded anger. And if hereafter I can choose for myself, without prejudicing what I owe to my birth, then my honour, being satisfied with the respect you so quickly show, promises to reward your love with my heart and my hand. But listen now to what I say. If you care so little for my offer as to refuse completely to abandon your jealous suspicions; if the assurance which my heart and birth give you do not suffice; if the mistrust that darkens your mind compels me, though innocent, to convince you, and to produce a clear proof of my offended virtue, I am ready to do so, and you shall be satisfied; but you must then renounce me at once, and for ever give up all pretensions to my hand. I swear by Him who rules the Heavens, that, whatever fate may have in store for us, I will rather die than be yours! I trust these two proposals may satisfy you; now choose which of the two pleases you.

GARC. Righteous Heaven! Was there ever anything more artful and treacherous? Could hellish malice produce any perfidy so black? Could it have invented a more severe and merciless way to embarrass a lover? Ah! ungrateful woman, you know well how to take advantage of my great weakness, even against myself, and to employ for your own purposes that excessive, astonishing, and fatal love which you inspired.
[Footnote: The phrase “Ah! ungrateful woman” until “inspired” is also found in the Misanthrope, Act iv., Scene 3 (see Vol. II).]
Because you have been taken by surprise, and cannot find an excuse, you cunningly offer to forgive me. You pretend to be good-natured, and invent some trick to divert the consequences of my vengeance; you wish to ward off the blow that threatens a wretch, by craftily entangling me with your offer. Yes, your artifices would fain avert an explanation which must condemn you; pretending to be completely innocent, you will give convincing proof of it only upon such conditions as you think and most fervently trust I will never accept; but you are mistaken if you think to surprise me. Yes, yes, I am resolved to see how you can defend yourself; by what miracle you can justify the horrible sight I beheld, and condemn my anger.

ELV. Consider that, by this choice, you engage yourself to abandon all pretensions to the heart of Donna Elvira.

GARC. Be it so! I consent to everything; besides, in my present condition, I have no longer any pretensions.

ELV. You will repent the wrath you have displayed.

GARC. No, no, your argument is a mere evasion; I ought rather to tell you that somebody else may perhaps soon repent. The wretch, whoever he may be, shall not be fortunate enough to save his life, if I wreak my vengeance.

ELV. Ha! This can no longer be borne; I am too angry foolishly to preserve longer my good nature. Let me abandon the wretch to his own devices, and, since he will undergo his doom, let him — Eliza!… (To Don Garcia). You compel me to act thus; but you shall see that this outrage will be the last.

SCENE IX.

DONNA ELVIRA, DON GARCIA, ELIZA, DON ALVAREZ.

ELV. (TO ELIZA). Desire my beloved to come forth … Go, you understand me, say that I wish it.

GARC. And can I…

ELV. Patience, you will be satisfied.
EL. (Aside, going out). This is doubtless some new trick of our jealous lover.

ELV. Take care at least that this righteous indignation perseveres in its ardour to the end; above all, do not henceforth forget what price you have paid to see your suspicions removed.

SCENE X.

DONNA ELVIRA, DON GARCIA, DONNA INEZ, ELIZA, DON ALVAREZ.

ELV. (TO DON Garcia, showing him Donna Inez). Thanks to Heaven, behold the cause of the generous suspicions you showed. Look well on that face, and see if you do not at once recognize the features of Donna Inez.

GARC. O Heavens!

ELV. If the rage which fills your heart prevents you from using your eyes, you can ask others, and thus leave no room for doubt. It was necessary to pretend she was dead, so that she might escape from the tyrant who persecuted her: she disguised herself in this manner the better to profit by her pretended death. (To Donna Inez). You will pardon me, Madam, for having consented to betray your secrets and to frustrate your expectations; but I am exposed to Don Garcia’s insolence; I am no longer free to do as I wish; my honour is a prey to his suspicions, and is every moment compelled to defend itself. This jealous man accidentally saw us embrace, and then he behaved most disgracefully. (To Don Garcia). Yes, behold the cause of your sudden rage, and the convincing witness of my disgrace. Now, like a thorough tyrant, enjoy the explanation you have provoked; but know that I shall never blot from my memory the heinous outrage done to my reputation. And if ever I forget my oath, may Heaven shower its severest chastisements upon my head; may a thunderbolt descend upon me if ever I resolve to listen to your love. Come, Madam, let us leave this spot, poisoned by the looks of a furious monster; let us quickly flee from his bitter attacks, let us avoid the consequences of his mad rage, and animated by just motives, let us only pray that we may soon be delivered from his hands.

INEZ. (To Don Garcia). My Lord, your unjust and violent suspicions have wronged virtue itself.

SCENE XI.

DON GARCIA, DON ALVAREZ.

GARC. WHAT GLEAM of light clearly shows me my error, and, at the same time, involves my senses in such a profound horror that, dejected, I can see nothing but the dreadful object of a remorse that kills me! Ah! Don Alvarez, I perceive you were in the right; but hell breathed its poison into my soul; through a merciless fatality I am my worst enemy. What does it benefit me to love with the most ardent passion that an amorous heart ever displayed, if this love continually engenders suspicions which torment me, and thus renders itself hateful! I must, I must justly revenge by my death the outrage committed against her divine charms. What advice can I follow now? Alas! I have lost the only object which made life dear to me! As I relinquished all hope of ever being beloved by her, it is much easier to abandon life itself.

ALV. My Lord…

GARC. No, Don Alvarez, my death is necessary. No pains, no arguments shall turn me from it; yet my approaching end must do some signal service to the Princess. Animated by this noble desire, I will seek some glorious means of quitting life; perform some mighty deed worthy of my love, so that in expiring for her sake she may pity me, and say, it was excess of love that was my sole offence. Thus she shall see herself avenged! I must attempt a deed of daring, and with my own hand give to Mauregat that death he so justly deserves. My boldness will forestall the blow with which Castile openly threatens him. With my last breath, I shall have the pleasure of depriving my rival of performing such a glorious deed.

ALV. So great a service, my Lord, may perhaps obliterate all remembrance of your offence; but to risk….

GARC. Let me fulfil my duty, and strive to make my despair aid in this noble attempt.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

DON ALVAREZ, ELIZA.

ALV. No, never was anyone more astonished. He had just planned that lofty undertaking; inspired by despair, he was all anxiety to kill Mauregat; eager to show his courage, and to reap the advantage of this lawful deed; to endeavour to obtain his pardon, and prevent the mortification of seeing his rival share his glory. As he was leaving these walls, a too accurate report brought him the sad tidings, that the very rival whom he wished to forestall had already gained the honour he hoped to acquire: had anticipated him, in slaying the traitor, and urged the appearance of Don Alphonso, who will reap the fruits of Don Silvio’s prompt success, and come to fetch the Princess, his sister. It is publicly said and generally believed, that Don Alphonso intends to give the hand of his sister as a reward for the great services Don Silvio has rendered him, by clearing for him a way to the throne.
EL. Yes, Donna Elvira has heard this news, which has been confirmed by old Don Louis, who has sent her word that Leon is now awaiting her happy return and that of Don Alphonso, and that there, since fortune smiles upon her, she shall receive a husband from the hands of her brother. It is plain enough from these few words that Don Silvio will be her husband.

ALV. This blow to the Prince’s heart…
EL. Will certainly be severely felt. I cannot help pitying his distress; yet, if I judge rightly, he is still dear to the heart he has offended; it did not appear to me that the Princess was well pleased when she heard of Don Silvio’s success, and of the approaching arrival of her brother, or with the letter; but…

SCENE II.

DONNA ELVIRA, DONNA INEZ, ELIZA, DON ALVAREZ.

ELV. DON ALVAREZ, let the Prince come hither. (Don Alvarez leaves). Give me leave, Madam, to speak to him in your presence concerning this piece of news, which greatly surprises me; and do not accuse me of changing my mind too quickly, if I lose all my animosity against him. His unforeseen misfortune has extinguished it; he is unhappy enough without the addition of my hatred. Heaven, who treats him with so much rigour, has but too well executed the oaths I took. When my honour was outraged, I vowed openly never to be his; but as I see that fate is against him, I think I have treated his love with too great severity; the ill success that follows whatever he does for my sake, cancels his offence, and restores him my love. Yes, I have been too well avenged; the waywardness of his fate disarms my anger, and now, full of compassion, I am seeking to console an unhappy lover for his misfortunes. I believe his love well deserves the compassion I wish to show him.

INEZ. Madam, it would be wrong to blame the tender sentiments you feel for him. What he has done for you … He comes; and his paleness shows how deeply he is affected by this surprising stroke of fate.

SCENE III.

DON GARCIA, DONNA ELVIRA, DONNA INEZ, ELIZA.

GARC. MADAM, YOU must think me very bold in daring to come here to show you my hateful presence…

ELV. Prince, let us talk no more of my resentment; your fate has made a change in my heart. Its severity, and your wretched condition have extinguished my anger, and our peace is made. Yes, though you have deserved the misfortunes with which Heaven in its wrath has afflicted you; though your jealous suspicions have so ignominiously, so almost incredibly, sullied my fame, yet I must needs confess that I so far commiserate your misfortune, as to be somewhat displeased with our success. I hate the famous service Don Silvio has rendered us, because my heart must be sacrificed to reward it; I would, were it in my power, bring back the moments when destiny put only my oath in my way. But you know that it is the doom of such as we are, to be always the slaves of public interests; that Heaven has ordained that my brother, who disposes of my hand, is likewise my King. Yield, as I do, Prince, to that necessity which rank imposes upon those of lofty birth. If you are very unfortunate in your love, be comforted by the interest I take in you; and though you have been overwhelmed by fate, do not employ the power which your valour gives you in this place: it would, doubtless be unworthy of you to struggle against destiny; whilst it is in vain to oppose its decrees, a prompt submission shows a lofty courage. Do not therefore resist its orders; but open the gates of Astorga to my brother who is coming; allow my sad heart to yield to those rights which he is entitled to claim from me; perhaps that fatal duty, which I owe him against my will, may not go so far as you imagine.

GARC. Madam, you give me proofs of exquisite goodness in endeavouring to lighten the blow that is prepared for me, but without such pains you may let fall upon me all the wrath which your duty demands. In my present condition, I can say nothing. I have deserved the worst punishments which fate can inflict; and I know that, whatever evils I may suffer, I have deprived myself of the right to complain of them. Alas, amidst all my misfortunes, on what grounds can I be bold enough to utter any complaint against you? My love has rendered itself a thousand times odious, and has done nothing but outrage your glorious charms; when by a just and noble sacrifice, I was endeavouring to render some service to your family, fortune abandoned me, and made me taste the bitter grief of being forestalled by a rival. After this, Madam, I have nothing more to say. I deserve the blow which I expect; and I see it coming, without daring to call upon your heart to assist me. What remains for me in this extreme misfortune is to seek a remedy in myself, and, by a death which I long for, free my heart from all those tribulations. Yes, Don Alphonso will soon be here; already my rival has made his appearance; he seems to have hurried hither from Leon, to receive his reward for having killed the tyrant. Do not fear that I shall use my power within these walls to offer him any resistance. If you allowed it, there is no being on earth which I would not defy in order to keep you; but it is not for me, whom you detest, to expect such an honourable permission. No vain attempts of mine shall offer the smallest opposition to the execution of your just designs. No, Madam, your feelings are under no compulsion; you are perfectly free. I will open the gates of Astorga to the happy conqueror, and suffer the utmost severity of fate.

SCENE IV.

DONNA ELVIRA, DONNA INEZ, ELIZA.

ELV. MADAM, DO not ascribe all my afflictions to the interest which I take in his unhappy lot. You will do me but justice if you believe that you have a large share in my heart-felt grief; that I care more for friendship than for love. If I complain of any dire misfortune, it is because Heaven in its anger has borrowed from me those shafts which it hurls against you, and has made my looks guilty of kindling a passion which treats your kind heart unworthily.

INEZ. This is an accident caused, doubtless, by your looks, for which you ought not to quarrel with Heaven. If the feeble charms which my countenance displays have exposed me to the misfortune of my lover abandoning me, Heaven could not better soften such a blow than by making use of you to captivate that heart. I ought not to blush for an inconstancy which indicates the difference between your attractions and mine. If this change makes me sigh, it is from foreseeing that it will be fatal to your love; amidst the sorrow caused by friendship, I am angry for your sake that my few attractions have failed to retain a heart whose devotion interferes so greatly with the love you feel for another.

ELV. Rather blame your silence, which, without reason, concealed the understanding between your hearts. If I had known this secret sooner, it might perhaps have spared us both some sad trouble; I might then coldly and justly have refused to listen to the sighs of a fickle lover, and perhaps have sent back whence they strayed…

INEZ. Madam, he is here.

ELV. You can remain without even looking at him. Do not go away, Madam, but stay, and, though you suffer, hear what I say to him.

INEZ. I consent, Madam; though I very well know that were another in my place, she would avoid being present at such a conversation.

ELV. If Heaven seconds my wishes, Madam, you shall have no cause to repine.

SCENE V.

DON ALPHONSO (believed to be Don Silvio), DONNA ELVIRA, DONNA INEZ.

ELV. BEFORE YOU say a word, my Lord, I earnestly beg that you will deign to hear me for a moment. Fame has already informed us of the marvellous deeds you have performed. I wonder to see, as all do, how quickly and successfully you have changed our lot. I know very well that such an eminent service can never be sufficiently rewarded, and that nothing ought to be refused to you for that never-to-be-forgotten deed which replaces my brother on the throne of his ancestors. But whatever his grateful heart may offer you, make a generous use of your advantages, and do not employ your glorious action, my Lord, to make me bend under an imperious yoke; nor let your love — for you know who is the object of my passion — persist in triumphing over a well-founded refusal; let not my brother, to whom they are going to present me, begin his reign by an act of tyranny over his sister. Leon has other rewards which for the nonce, may do more honour to your lofty valour. A heart which you can obtain only by compulsion, would be too mean a reward for your courage. Can a man be ever really satisfied when, by coercion, he obtains what he loves? It is a melancholy advantage; a generous-minded lover refuses to be happy upon such conditions. He will not owe anything to that pressure which relatives think they have a right to employ; he is ever too fond of the maiden he loves, to suffer her to be sacrificed as a victim, even to himself. Not that my heart intends to grant to another what it refuses to you. No, my Lord, I promise you, and pledge you my word of honour, that no one shall ever obtain my hand, that a convent shall protect me against every other…

ALPH. Madam, I have listened long enough to your discourse, and might, by two words, have prevented it all, if you had given less credit to false tidings. I know that a common report, which is everywhere believed, attributes to me the glory of having killed the tyrant; but as we have been informed, the people alone, stirred up by Don Louis to do their duty, have performed this honourable and heroic act, which public rumour ascribed to me. The reason of these tidings was that Don Louis, the better to carry out his lofty purpose, spread a report that I and my soldiers had made ourselves masters of the town; by this news he so excited the people, that they hastened to kill the usurper. He has managed everything by his prudent zeal, and has just sent me notice of this by one of his servants. At the same time, a secret has been revealed to me which will astonish you as much as it surprised me. You expect a brother, and Leon its true master; Heaven now presents him before you. Yes, I am Don Alphonso; I was brought up and educated under the name of Prince of Castile; this clearly proves the sincere friendship that existed between Don Louis and the King, my father. Don Louis has all the proofs of this secret, and will establish its truth to the whole world. But now my thoughts are taken up with other cares; I am clear how to act towards you; not that my passion is opposed to such a discovery, or that the brother in my heart quarrels with the lover. The revelation of this secret has, without the least murmur, changed my ardour into a love commanded by nature; the tie of relationship which unites us has so entirely freed me from the love which I entertained for you, that the highest favour I now long for is the sweet delights of my first chain, and the means of rendering to the adorable Inez that which her excessive goodness deserves.
[Footnote: Compare the manner in which Andres, in The Blunderer (Act v., Scene 15), recognises his sister in Celia.]
But the uncertainty of her lot renders mine miserable; if what is reported be true, then it will be in vain for Leon to invite me, and for a throne to wait for me; for a crown could not make me happy. I only wished for its splendour in order to let me taste the joy of placing it on the head of that maiden for whom Heaven destined me, and by those means to repair, as far as I could, the wrong I have done to her extraordinary virtues. It is from you, Madam, I expect tidings as to what has become of her. Be pleased to communicate them, and by your words hasten my despair, or the happiness of my life.

ELV. Do not wonder if I delay answering you; for this news, my Lord, bewilders me. I will not take upon me to tell your loving heart, whether Donna Inez be dead or alive; but this gentleman here, who is one of her most intimate friends, will doubtless give you some information about her.

ALPH. (Recognising Donna Inez). Ah, Madam, in this dilemma I am happy to behold again your heavenly beauty. But with what eye can you look upon a fickle lover, whose crime…

INEZ. Ah! do not insult me, and venture to state that a heart, which I hold dear, could be inconstant. I cannot bear the thought, and the apology pains me. All the love you felt for the Princess could not offend me, because her great worth is a sufficient excuse. The love you bore her is no proof of your guilt towards me. Learn that if you had been culpable, the lofty pride within me would have made you sue in vain to overcome my contempt, and that neither repentance nor commands could have induced me to forget such an insult.

ELV. Ah, dear brother, — allow me to call you by this gentle name, — you render your sister very happy! I love your choice, and bless fortune, which enables you to crown so pure a friendship! Of the two noble hearts I so tenderly love…

SCENE VI.

DON GARCIA, DONNA ELVIRA, DONNA INEZ, DON ALPHONSO, ELIZA.

GARC. FOR MERCY’S sake, Madam, hide from me your satisfaction, and let me die in the belief that a feeling of duty compels you. I know you can freely dispose of your hand; I do not intend to run counter to your wishes. I have proved this sufficiently, as well as my obedience to your commands. But I must confess that this levity surprises me, and shakes all my resolutions. Such a sight awakens a storm of passion which I fear I cannot command, though I would punish myself, if this could make me lose that profound respect I wish to preserve. Yes, you have ordered me to bear patiently my unfortunate love; your behest has so much influence over my heart, that I will rather die than disobey you. But still, the joy you display tries me too severely; the wisest man, upon such an occasion, can but ill answer for his conduct. Suppress it, I beseech you, for a few moments, and spare me, Madam, this cruel trial; however great your love for my rival may be, do not let me be a wretched witness of his felicity. This is the smallest favour I think a lover may ask, even when he is disliked as much as I am. I do not seek this favour for long, Madam; my departure will soon satisfy you. I go where sorrow shall consume my soul, and shall learn your marriage only by hearsay; I ought not to hasten to behold such a spectacle; for, without seeing it, it will kill me.

INEZ. Give me leave, my Lord, to blame you for complaining, because the Princess has deeply felt your misfortunes; this very joy at which you murmur, arises solely from the happiness that is in store for you. She rejoices in a success which has favoured your heart’s desire, and has discovered that your rival is her brother. Yes, Don Alphonso, whose name has been so bruited about, is her brother; this great secret has just now been told to her.

ALPH. My heart, thank Heaven, after a long torture, has all that it can desire, and deprives you of nothing, my Lord. I am so much the happier, because I am able to forward your love.

GARC. Alas! my Lord, I am overwhelmed by your goodness, which condescends to respond to my dearest wishes. Heaven has averted the blow that I feared; any other man but myself would think himself happy. But the fortunate discovery of this favourable secret, proves me to be culpable towards her I adore; I have again succumbed to these wretched suspicions, against which I have been so often warned, and in vain; through them my love has become hateful, and I ought to despair of ever being happy. Yes, Donna Elvira has but too good reason to hate me; I know I am unworthy of pardon; and whatever success fortune may give me, death, death alone, is all that I can expect.

ELV. No, no, Prince, your submissive attitude brings more tender feelings into my heart; I feel that the oath I took is no longer binding on me; your complaints, your respect, your grief has moved me to compassion; I see an excess of love in all your actions, and your malady deserves to be pitied. Since Heaven is the cause of your faults, some indulgence ought to be allowed to them; in one word, jealous or not jealous, my King will have no compulsion to employ when he gives me to you.

GARC. Heaven! enable me to bear the excess of joy which this confession produces.

ALPH. I trust, my Lord, that after all our useless dissensions, this marriage may forever unite our hearts and kingdoms. But time presses, and Leon expects us; let us go therefore, and, by our presence and watchfulness give the last blow to the tyrant’s party.

The School for Husbands

L’École des maris

Translated by Henri van Laun

The School for Husbands was first performed on 24 June 1661 in Paris. It was staged after Gabriel Gilbert’s Le Tyran d’Egypte and not expected to be a success, but surprisingly became popular and its run lasted until October. The topic of marriage and romantic relationships features prominently in many of Molière’s works, including this play. He had decided by the spring of 1661 to marry Armande Béjart, the much younger sister of his former partner Madeleine Béjart, so his interest in the subject at this time was particularly acute. It was speculated that Armande was actually the daughter not the sister of Madeleine and some of the playwright’s rivals even suggested that Armande was also his daughter. One of his enemies, an actor by the name of Montfleury, went so far as to petition Louis XIV alleging that Molière had married his own daughter. While it is possible, even probable, that Armande was Madeline’s daughter, there is no evidence from a reputable source to suggest Molière was her father.

The School for Husbands is Molière’s first full length play: a three-act comedy written in French alexandrine verse. The plot involves two brothers, Sganarelle and Ariste, who are the guardians and possibly future husbands of two young sisters, Isabella and Léonor and the drama explores their opposing beliefs about how to treat the girls. Ariste allows Léonor freedom, while Sganarelle is controlling and oppressive in his treatment of Isabella. This results in her attempting to dupe him in her pursuit of her preferred suitor, Valère. Molière was confident that his play would develop into a success and so quickly decided to seek the publishing privilege for himself to prevent pirated copies from being printed by the likes of Jean Ribou.

Playwright Zacharie Jacob, ‘Montfleury’

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.-SGANARELLE, VALÈRE, ERGASTE.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

SCENE XV

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

Molière’s wife, Armande-Grésinde-Claire-Élisabeth Béjart (1640-1700), was one of the most famous French stage actors of the seventeenth century.

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

THE SCHOOL FOR Husbands was the first play in the title of which the word “School” was employed, to imply that, over and above the intention of amusing, the author designed to convey a special lesson to his hearers. Perhaps Molière wished not only that the general public should be prepared to find instructions and warnings for married men, but also that they who were wont to regard the theatre as injurious, or at best trivial, should know that he professed to educate, as well as to entertain. We must count the adoption of similar titles by Sheridan and others amongst the tributes, by imitation, to Molière’s genius.

This comedy was played for the first time at Paris, on the 24th of June, 1661, and met with great success. On the 12th of July following it was acted at Vaux, the country seat of Fouquet, before the whole court, Monsieur, the brother of the King, and the Queen of England; and by them also was much approved. Some commentators say that Molière was partly inspired by a comedy of Lope de Vega. La Discreta enamorada, The Cunning Sweetheart; also by a remodelling of the same play by Moreto, No puede ser guardar una muger, One cannot guard a woman; but this has lately been disproved. It appears, however, that he borrowed the primary idea of his comedy from the Adelphi of Terence; and from a tale, the third of the third day, in the Decameron of Boccaccio, where a young woman uses her father-confessor as a go-between for herself and her lover. In the Adelphi there are two old men of dissimilar character, who give a different education to the children they bring up. One of them is a dotard, who, after having for sixty years been sullen, grumpy and avaricious, becomes suddenly lively, polite, and prodigal; this Molière had too much common sense to imitate.

The School for Husbands marks a distinct departure in the dramatist’s literary progress. As a critic has well observed, it substitutes for situations produced by the mechanism of plot, characters which give rise to situations in accordance with the ordinary operations of human nature. Molière’s method — the simple and only true one, and, consequently, the one which incontestably establishes the original talent of its employer — is this: At the beginning of a play, he introduces his principal personages: sets them talking; suffers them to betray their characters, as men and women do in every-day life, — expecting from his hearers that same discernment which he has himself displayed in detecting their peculiarities: imports the germ of a plot in some slight misunderstanding or equivocal act; and leaves all the rest to be effected by the action and reaction of the characters which he began by bringing out in bold relief. His plots are thus the plots of nature; and it is impossible that they should not be both interesting and instructive. That his comedies, thus composed, are besides amusing, results from the shrewdness with which he has selected and combined his characters, and the art with which he arranges the situations produced.

The character-comedies of Molière exhibit, more than any others, the force of his natural genius, and the comparative weakness of his artistic talent. In the exhibition and the evolution of character, he is supreme. In the unravelling of his plots and the dénouement of his situations, he is driven too willingly to the deus ex machina.

The School for Husbands was directed against one of the special and prominent defects of society in the age and country in which Molière lived. Domestic tyranny was not only rife, but it was manifested in one of its coarsest forms. Sganarelle, though twenty years younger than Ariste, and not quite forty years old, could not govern by moral force; he relied solely on bolts and bars. Physical restraint was the safeguard in which husbands and parents had the greatest confidence, not perceiving that the brain and the heart are always able to prevail against it. This truth Molière took upon himself to preach, and herein he surpasses all his rivals; in nothing more than in the artistic device by which he introduces the contrast of the wise and trustful Ariste, raisonneur as he is called in French, rewarded in the end by the triumph of his more humane mode of treatment. Molière probably expresses his own feelings by the mouth of Ariste: for The School for Husbands was performed on the 24th of June, 1661, and about eight months later, on the 20th of February, 1662, he married Armande Béjart, being then about double her age. As to Sganarelle in this play, he ceases to be a mere buffoon, as in some of Molière’s farces, and becomes the personification of an idea or of a folly which has to be ridiculed.

Molière dedicated The School for Husbands to the Duke of Orleans, the King’s only brother, in the following words: —

MY LORD,

I here shew France things that are but little consistent. Nothing can be so great and superb as the name I place in front of this book; and nothing more mean than what it contains. Every one will think this a strange mixture; and some, to express its inequality, may say that it is like setting a crown of pearls and diamonds on an earthen statue, and making magnificent porticos and lofty triumphal arches to a mean cottage. But, my Lord, my excuse is, that in this case I had no choice to make, and that the honour I have of belonging to your Royal Highness, [Footnote: Molière was the chief of the troupe of actors belonging to the Duke of Orleans, who had only lately married, and was not yet twenty-one years old.] absolutely obliged me to dedicate to you the first work that I myself published. [Footnote: Sganarelle had been borrowed by Neufvillenaine; The Pretentious Ladies was only printed by Molière, because the copy of the play was stolen from him; Don Garcia of Navarre was not published till after his death, in 1682.] It is not a present I make you, it is a duty I discharge; and homages are never looked upon by the things they bring. I presumed, therefore, to dedicate a trifle to your Royal Highness, because I could not help it; but if I omit enlarging upon the glorious truths I might tell of you, it is through a just fear that those great ideas would make my offering the more inconsiderable. I have imposed silence on myself, meaning to wait for an opportunity better suited for introducing such fine things; all I intended in this epistle was to justify my action to France, and to have the glory of telling you yourself, my Lord, with all possible submission, that I am your Royal Highness’ very humble, very obedient, and very faithful servant,

MOLIÈRE.

In the fourth volume of the “Select Comedies of M. de Molière, London, 1732,” the translation of The School for Husbands is dedicated to the Right Honourable the Lady Harriot Campbell, in the following words: —

MADAM,

A Comedy which came abroad in its Native Language, under the Patronage of the Duke of ORLEANS, Brother to the King of FRANCE, attempts now to speak English, and begs the Honour of Your LADYSHIP’S Favour and Acceptance. That distinguishing good Sense, that nice Discernment, that refined Taste of Reading and Politeness for which Your LADYSHIP is so deservedly admir’d, must, I’m persuaded, make You esteem Molière; whose way of expression is easy and elegant, his Sentiments just and delicate, and his morals untainted: who constantly combats Vice and Folly with strong Reason and well turn’d Ridicule; in short, whose Plays are all instructive, and tend to some useful Purpose: — An Excellence sufficient to recommend them to your LADYSHIP.

As for this Translation, which endeavours to preserve the Spirit as well as Meaning of the Original, I shall only say, that if it can be so happy as to please Your LADYSHIP, all the Pains it cost me will be over-paid.

I beg Pardon for this Presumption, and am, with the greatest Respect that’s possible, Madam, Your Ladyship’s Most Obedient and most Humble Servant,

THE TRANSLATOR.

Sir Charles Sedley, well known through a history of a “frolick” which Pepys relates in his “Diary,” [Footnote: See Pepys’ Diary, October 23, 1668.] wrote The Mulberry Garden, of which Langbaine, in his “An Account of the Dramatick Poets,” states “I dare not say that the character of Sir John Everyoung and Sir Samuel Forecast are copies of Sganarelle and Ariste in Molière’s l’École des Maris; but I may say, that there is some resemblance, though whoever understands both languages will readily and with justice give our English wit the preference; and Sir Charles is not to learn to copy Nature from the French.” This comedy, which was played by his Majesty’s servants at the Theatre Royal, 1688, is dedicated to the Duchess of Richmond and Lennox, a lady who has “‘scap’d (prefaces) very well hitherto,” but, says Sir Charles, “Madam, your time is come, and you must bear it patiently. All the favour I can show you is that of a good executioner, which is, not to prolong your pain.” This play has two girls like Isabella, called Althea and Diana, two like Leonor, Victoria and Olivia, and four lovers, as well as a rather intricate plot. The Epilogue is amusing, and we give the beginning of it: —

 Poets of all men have the hardest game,
  Their best Endeavours can no Favours claim.
  The Lawyer if o’erthrown, though by the Laws,
  He quits himself, and lays it on your Cause.
  The Soldier is esteem’d a Man of War,
  And Honour gains, if he but bravely dare.
  The grave Physician, if his Patient dye,
  He shakes his head, and blames Mortality.
  Only poor Poets their own faults must bear;
  Therefore grave Judges be not too severe.

Flecknoe has also imitated several of the scenes of The School for
Husbands in The Damoiselles à la Mode, which is a medley of
several of Molière’s plays (see Introductory Notice to The
Pretentious Young Ladies).

James Miller has likewise followed, in The Man of Taste (Act i.,
Scene 2). (see Introductory Notice to The Pretentious Young
Ladies), one scene of the first act of Molière’s The School for Husbands.

Murphy, in The School for Guardians, has borrowed from three plays of Molière. The main plot is taken from The School for Wives; some incidents of the second act are taken from The Blunderer (see Introductory Notice to The Blunderer), but the scenes in which Oldcastle and Lovibond state their intention of marrying their wards, and the way in which one of the wards, Harriet, makes her love known to Belford is taken from The School for Husbands, though Leonor does not betray in the French comedy, as she does in the English, the confidence placed in her. The French Isabella acts like Harriet, but then she has a foolish and jealous guardian.

Wycherley in The Country Wife, probably acted in 1672 or 1673, and which is partly an imitation of Molière’s School for Wives, has borrowed from The School for Husbands, the letter which Isabella writes to Valère (Act ii., Scene 8), and also the scene in which Isabella escapes disguised in her sister’s clothes: but, of course, to give an additional zest to the English play, the author makes Pinchwife himself bring his wife to her lover, Horner. The scene hardly bears transcribing. He has also partly imitated in The Gentleman Dancing-Master, first performed in 1673, some scenes of The School for Husbands.

Otway, in The Soldier’s Fortune (see Introductory Notice to Sganarelle, or The Self-Deceived Husband), has borrowed from Molière’s School for Husbands that part of his play in which Lady Dunse makes her husband the agent for conveying a ring and a letter to her lover.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

 SGANARELLE, [Footnote: This part was played by Molière himself.
  In the inventory taken after Molière’s death, and given by M. Soulié,
  we find: “A dress for The School for Husbands, consisting of
  breeches, doublet, cloak, collar, purse and girdle, all of a kind of
  brown coloured (couleur de muse) satin.”]
          }
          } brothers.
  ARISTE, )

VALÈRE, lover to Isabella.

ERGASTE, servant to Valère.

A MAGISTRATE.

[Footnote: The original has un Commissaire, who in Molière’s time, appears to have been a kind of inferior magistrate under the authority of the Lieutenant-général de la Police. The Commissaires de Police were not established till 1699; and The School for Husbands was played for the first time in 1661.]

A NOTARY.

 ISABELLA, )
            ) sisters.
  LÉONOR, }

LISETTE, maid to Isabella.

Scene. — A PUBLIC PLACE IN PARIS.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SGANARELLE, ARISTE.

SGAN. Pray, brother, let us talk less, and let each of us live as he likes. Though you have the advantage of me in years, and are old enough to be wise, yet I tell you that I mean to receive none of your reproofs; that my fancy is the only counsellor I shall follow, and that I am quite satisfied with my way of living.
AR. But every one condemns it.

SGAN. Yes, fools like yourself, brother.
AR. Thank you very much. It is a pleasant compliment.

SGAN. I should like to know, since one ought to hear everything, what these fine critics blame in me.
AR. That surly and austere temper which shuns all the charms of society, gives a whimsical appearance to all your actions, and makes everything peculiar in you, even your dress.

SGAN. I ought then to make myself a slave in fashion, and not to put on clothes for my own sake? Would you not, my dear elder brother — for, Heaven be thanked, so you are, to tell you plainly, by a matter of twenty years; and that is not worth the trouble of mentioning — would you not, I say, by your precious nonsense, persuade me to adopt the fashions of those young sparks of yours?
[Footnote: The original has vos jeunes muguets, literally “your young lilies of the valley,” because in former times, according to some annotators, the courtiers wore natural or artificial lilies of the valley in their buttonholes, and perfumed themselves with the essence of that flower. I think that muguet is connected with the old French word musguet, smelling of musk. In Molière’s time muguet had become rather antiquated; hence it was rightly placed in the mouth of Sganarelle, who likes to use such words and phrases. Rabelais employs it in the eighth chapter of Gargantua, un tas de muguets, and it has been translated by Sir Thomas Urquhart as “some fond wooers and wench-courters.” The fashion of calling dandies after the name of perfumes is not rare in France. Thus Regnier speaks of them as marjolets, from marjolaine, sweet marjoram; and Agrippa d’Aubigné calls them muscadins (a word also connected with the old French musguet), which name was renewed at the beginning of the first French revolution, and bestowed on elegants, because they always smelled of musk.]
Oblige me to wear those little hats which provide ventilation for their weak brains, and that flaxen hair, the vast curls whereof conceal the form of the human face;
[Footnote: The fashion was in Molière’s time to wear the hair, or wigs, very long, and if possible of a fair colour, which gave to the young fashionables, hence called blondins, an effeminate air. Sganarelle addresses Valère (Act ii. Scene 9), likewise as Monsieur aux blonds cheveux. In The School for Wives (Act ii. Scene 6), Arnolphe also tells Agnès not to listen to the nonsense of these beaux blondins. According to Juvenal (Satire VI.) Messalina put a fair wig on to disguise herself. Louis XIV. did not begin to wear a wig until 1673.]
those little doublets but just below the arms, and those big collars falling down to the navel; those sleeves which one sees at table trying all the sauces, and those petticoats called breeches; those tiny shoes, covered with ribbons, which make you look like feather-legged pigeons; and those large rolls wherein the legs are put every morning, as it were into the stocks, and in which we see these gallants straddle about with their legs as wide apart, as if they were the beams of a mill?
[Footnote: The original has marcher écarquillés ainsi que des volants. Early commentators have generally stated that volants means here “the beams of a mill,” but MM. Moland and E. Despois, the last annotators of Molière, maintain that it stands for “shuttlecock,” because the large rolls (canons), tied at the knee and wide at the bottom, bore a great resemblance to shuttlecocks turned upside down. I cannot see how this can suit the words marcher écarquillés, for the motion of the canons of gallants, walking or straddling about, is very unlike that produced by shuttlecocks beaten by battledores; I still think “beams of a mill” right, because, though the canons did not look like beams of a mill, the legs did, when in motion.]
I should doubtless please you, bedizened in this way; I see that you wear the stupid gewgaws which it is the fashion to wear.
AR. We should always agree with the majority, and never cause ourselves to be stared at. Extremes shock, and a wise man should do with his clothes as with his speech; avoid too much affectation, and without being in too great a hurry, follow whatever change custom introduces. I do not think that we should act like those people who always exaggerate the fashion, and who are annoyed that another should go further than themselves in the extremes which they affect; but I maintain that it is wrong, for whatever reasons, obstinately to eschew what every one observes; that it would be better to be counted among the fools than to be the only wise person, in opposition to every one else.

SGAN. That smacks of the old man who, in order to impose upon the world, covers his grey hairs with a black wig.
AR. It is strange that you should be so careful always to fling my age in my face, and that I should continually find you blaming my dress as well as my cheerfulness. One would imagine that old age ought to think of nothing but death, since it is condemned to give up all enjoyment; and that it is not attended by enough ugliness of its own, but must needs be slovenly and crabbed.

SGAN. However that may be, I am resolved to stick to my way of dress. In spite of the fashion, I like my cap so that my head may be comfortably sheltered beneath it; a good long doublet buttoned close, as it should be,
[Footnote: The young dandies in the beginning of the reign of Louis
XIV., wore slashed doublets, very tight and short.]
which may keep the stomach warm, and promote a healthy digestion; a pair of breeches made exactly to fit my thighs; shoes, like those of our wise ancestors, in which my feet may not be tortured: and he who does not like the look of me may shut his eyes.

SCENE II.

LÉONOR, ISABELLA, LISETTE; ARISTE and SGANARELLE, conversing in an under-tone, unperceived.

LEO. (TO ISABELLA). I take it all on myself, in case you are scolded.

LIS. (To Isabella). Always in one room, seeing no one?

ISA. Such is his humour.

LEO. I pity you, sister.

LIS. (To Léonor). It is well for you, madam, that his brother is of quite another disposition; fate was very kind in making you fall into the hands of a rational person.

ISA. It is a wonder that he did not lock me up to-day, or take me with him.

LIS. I declare I would send him to the devil, with his Spanish ruff, and…
[Footnote: The Spanish ruff (fraise) was in fashion at the end of Henri IV.’s reign; in the reign of Louis XIII., and in the beginning of Louis XIV.’s, flat-lying collars, adorned with lace were worn, so that those who still stuck to the Spanish ruff in 1661, were considered very old-fashioned people.]

SGAN. (Against whom Lisette stumbles). Where are you going, if I may ask?

LEO. We really do not know; I was urging my sister to talk a walk, and enjoy this pleasant and fine weather; but…

SGAN. (To Léonor). As for you, you may go wherever you please. (To Lisette). You can run off; there are two of you together. (To Isabella). But as for you, I forbid you — excuse me — to go out.
AR. Oh, brother! let them go and amuse themselves.

SGAN. I am your servant, brother.
AR. Youth will…

SGAN. Youth is foolish, and old age too, sometimes.
AR. Do you think there is any harm in her being with Léonor?

SGAN. Not so; but with me I think she is still better.
AR. But…

SGAN. But her conduct must be guided by me; in short, I know the interest I ought to take in it.
AR. Have I less in her sister’s?

SGAN. By Heaven! each one argues and does as he likes. They are without relatives, and their father, our friend, entrusted them to us in his last hour, charging us both either to marry them, or, if we declined, to dispose of them hereafter. He gave us, in writing, the full authority of a father and a husband over them, from their infancy. You undertook to bring up that one; I charged myself with the care of this one. You govern yours at your pleasure. Leave me, I pray, to manage the other as I think best.
AR. It seems to me…

SGAN. It seems to me, and I say it openly, that is the right way to speak on such a subject. You let your ward go about gaily and stylishly; I am content. You let her have footmen and a maid; I agree. You let her gad about, love idleness, be freely courted by dandies; I am quite satisfied. But I intend that mine shall live according to my fancy, and not according to her own; that she shall be dressed in honest serge, and wear only black on holidays; that, shut up in the house, prudent in bearing, she shall apply herself entirely to domestic concerns, mend my linen in her leisure hours, or else knit stockings for amusement; that she shall close her ears to the talk of young sparks, and never go out without some one to watch her. In short, flesh is weak; I know what stories are going about. I have no mind to wear horns, if I can help it; and as her lot requires her to marry me, I mean to be as certain of her as I am of myself.

ISA. I believe you have no grounds for….

SGAN. Hold your tongue, I shall teach you to go out without us!

LEO. What, sir….

SGAN. Good Heavens, madam! without wasting any more words, I am not speaking to you, for you are too clever.

LEO. Do you regret to see Isabella with us?

SGAN. Yes, since I must speak plainly; you spoil her for me. Your visits here only displease me, and you will oblige me by honouring us no more.

LEO. Do you wish that I shall likewise speak my thoughts plainly to you? I know not how she regards all this; but I know what effect mistrust would have on me. Though we are of the same father and mother, she is not much of my sister if your daily conduct produces any love in her.

LIS. Indeed, all these precautions are disgraceful. Are we in Turkey, that women must be shut up? There, they say, they are kept like slaves; this is why the Turks are accursed by God. Our honour, sir, is very weak indeed, if it must be perpetually watched. Do you think, after all, that these precautions are any bar to our designs? that when we take anything into our heads, the cleverest man would not be but a donkey to us? All that vigilance of yours is but a fool’s notion; the best way of all, I assure you, is to trust us. He who torments us puts himself in extreme peril, for our honour must ever be its own protector. To take so much trouble in preventing us is almost to give us a desire to sin. If I were suspected by my husband, I should have a very good mind to justify his fears.

SGAN. (to Ariste). This, my fine teacher, is your training. And you endure it without being troubled?
AR. Brother, her words should only make you smile. There is some reason in what she says. Their sex loves to enjoy a little freedom; they are but ill-checked by so much austerity. Suspicious precautions, bolts and bars, make neither wives nor maids virtuous. It is honour which must hold them to their duty, not the severity which we display towards them. To tell you candidly, a woman who is discreet by compulsion only is not often to be met with. We pretend in vain to govern all her actions; I find that it is the heart we must win. For my part, whatever care might be taken, I would scarcely trust my honour in the hands of one who, in the desires which might assail her, required nothing but an opportunity of falling.

SGAN. That is all nonsense.
AR. Have it so; but still I maintain that we should instruct youth pleasantly, chide their faults with great tenderness, and not make them afraid of the name of virtue. Léonor’s education has been based on these maxims. I have not made crimes of the smallest acts of liberty, I have always assented to her youthful wishes, and, thank Heaven, I never repented of it. I have allowed her to see good company, to go to amusements, balls, plays. These are things which, for my part I think are calculated to form the minds of the young; the world is a school which, in my opinion, teaches them better how to live than any book. Does she like to spend money on clothes, linen, ribands — what then? I endeavour to gratify her wishes; these are pleasures which, when we are well-off, we may permit to the girls of our family. Her father’s command requires her to marry me; but it is not my intention to tyrannize over her. I am quite aware that our years hardly suit, and I leave her complete liberty of choice.
[Footnote: The School for Husbands was played for the first time, on the 24th of June, 1661, and Molière married Armande Béjart (see Prefatory Memoir), on the 20th of February, 1662, when he was forty, and she about twenty years old. It is therefore not unreasonable to suppose that the words he places in the mouth of Ariste are an expression of his own feelings.]
If a safe income of four thousand crowns a-year, great affection and consideration for her, may, in her opinion, counterbalance in marriage the inequality of our age, she may take me for her husband; if not she may choose elsewhere. If she can be happier without me, I do not object; I prefer to see her with another husband rather than that her hand should be given to me against her will.

SGAN. Oh, how sweet he is! All sugar and honey!
AR. At all events, that is my disposition; and I thank Heaven for it. I would never lay down these strict rules which make children wish their parents dead.

SGAN. But the liberty acquired in youth is not so easily withdrawn later on; all those feelings will please you but little when you have to change her mode of life.
AR. And why change it?

SGAN. Why?
AR. Yes.

SGAN. I do not know.
AR. Is there anything in it that offends honour?

SGAN. Why, if you marry her, she may demand the same freedom which she enjoyed as a girl?
AR. Why not?

SGAN. And you so far agree with her as to let her have patches and ribbons?
AR. Doubtless.

SGAN. To let her gad about madly at every ball and public assembly?
AR. Yes, certainly.

SGAN. And the beaux will visit at your house?
AR. What then?

SGAN. Who will junket and give entertainments?
AR. With all my heart.

SGAN. And your wife is to listen to their fine speeches?
AR. Exactly.

SGAN. And you will look on at these gallant visitors with a show of indifference?
AR. Of course.

SGAN. Go on, you old idiot. (To Isabella). Get indoors, and hear no more of this shameful doctrine.

SCENE III.

ARISTE, SGANARELLE, LÉONOR, LISETTE.

AR. I MEAN to trust to the faithfulness of my wife, and intend always to live as I have lived.

SGAN. How pleased I shall be to see him victimized!
AR. I cannot say what fate has in store for me; but as for you, I know that if you fail to be so, it is no fault of yours, for you are doing everything to bring it about.

SGAN. Laugh on, giggler! Oh, what a joke it is to see a railer of nearly sixty!

LEO. I promise to preserve him against the fate you speak of, if he is to receive my vows at the altar. He may rest secure; but I can tell you I would pass my word for nothing if I were your wife.

LIS. We have a conscience for those who rely on us; but it is delightful, really, to cheat such folks as you.

SGAN. Hush, you cursed ill-bred tongue!
AR. Brother, you drew these silly words on yourself. Good bye. Alter your temper, and be warned that to shut up a wife is a bad plan. Your servant.

SGAN. I am not yours.

SCENE IV.

SGANARELLE, alone.

OH, THEY ARE all well suited to one another! What an admirable family. A foolish old man with a worn-out body who plays the fop; a girl-mistress and a thorough coquette; impudent servants; — no, wisdom itself could not succeed, but would exhaust sense and reason, trying to amend a household like this. By such associations, Isabella might lose those principles of honour which she learned amongst us; to prevent it, I shall presently send her back again to my cabbages and turkeys.

SCENE V.

VALÈRE, SGANARELLE, ERGASTE.

VAL. (BEHIND). ERGASTE, that is he, the Argus whom I hate, the stern guardian of her whom I adore.

SGAN. (Thinking himself alone). In short, is there not something wonderful in the corruption of manners now-a-days?

VAL. I should like to address him, if I can get a chance, and try to strike up an acquaintance with him.

SGAN. (Thinking himself alone). Instead of seeing that severity prevail which so admirably formed virtue in other days, uncontrolled and imperious youth here-about assumes… (Valère bows to Sganarelle from a distance).

VAL. He does not see that we bow to him.

ERG. Perhaps his blind eye is on this side. Let us cross to the right.

SGAN. I must go away from this place. Life in town only produces in me…

VAL. (Gradually approaching). I must try to get an introduction.

SGAN. (Hearing a noise). Ha! I thought some one spoke… (Thinking himself alone). In the country, thank Heaven, the fashionable follies do not offend my eyes.

ERG. (To Valère). Speak to him.

SGAN. What is it?… my ears tingle… There, all the recreations of our girls are but… (He perceives Valère bowing to him). Do you bow to me?

ERG. (To Valère). Go up to him.

SGAN. (Not attending to Valère). Thither no coxcomb comes. (Valère again bows to him). What the deuce!… (He turns and sees Ergaste bowing on the other side). Another? What a great many bows!

VAL. Sir, my accosting you disturbs you, I fear?

SGAN. That may be.

VAL. But yet the honour of your acquaintance is so great a happiness, so exquisite a pleasure, that I had a great desire to pay my respects to you.

SGAN. Well.

VAL. And to come and assure you, without any deceit, that I am wholly at your service.

SGAN. I believe it.

VAL. I have the advantage of being one of your neighbours, for which I thank my lucky fate.

SGAN. That is all right.

VAL. But, sir. do you know the news going the round at Court, and thought to be reliable?

SGAN. What does it matter to me?

VAL. True; but we may sometimes be anxious to hear it? Shall you go and see the magnificent preparations for the birth of our Dauphin, sir?
[Footnote: The Dauphin, the son of Louis XIV. was born at Fontainebleau, on the 1st of November, 1661; The School for Husbands was first acted on the 24th of June of the same year; hence Molière ventures to prophesy about the Dauphin’s birth.]

SGAN. If I feel inclined.

VAL. Confess that Paris affords us a hundred delightful pleasures which are not to be found elsewhere. The provinces are a desert in comparison. How do you pass your time?

SGAN. On my own business.

VAL. The mind demands relaxation, and occasionally gives way, by too close attention to serious occupations. What do you do in the evening before going to bed?

SGAN. What I please.

VAL. Doubtless no one could speak better. The answer is just, and it seems to be common sense to resolve never to do what does not please us. If I did not think you were too much occupied, I would drop in on you sometimes after supper.

SGAN. Your servant.

SCENE VI.

VALÈRE, ERGASTE.

VAL. WHAT DO you think of that eccentric fool?

ERG. His answers are abrupt and his reception is churlish.

VAL. Ah! I am in a rage.

ERG. What for?

VAL. Why am I in a rage? To see her I love in the power of a savage, a watchful dragon, whose severity will not permit her to enjoy a single moment of liberty.

ERG. That is just what is in your favour. Your love ought to expect a great deal from these circumstances. Know, for your encouragement, that a woman watched is half-won, and that the gloomy ill-temper of husbands and fathers has always promoted the affairs of the gallant. I intrigue very little; for that is not one of my accomplishments. I do not pretend to be a gallant; but I have served a score of such sportsmen, who often used to tell me that it was their greatest delight to meet with churlish husbands, who never come home without scolding, — downright brutes, who, without rhyme or reason, criticise the conduct of their wives in everything, and, proudly assuming the authority of a husband, quarrel with them before the eyes of their admirers. “One knows,” they would say, “how to take advantage of this. The lady’s indignation at this kind of outrage, on the one hand, and the considerate compassion of the lover, on the other, afford an opportunity for pushing matters far enough.” In a word, the surliness of Isabella’s guardian is a circumstance sufficiently favourable for you.

VAL. But I could never find one moment to speak to her in the four months that I have ardently loved her.

ERG. Love quickens people’s wits, though it has little effect on yours.
If I had been…

VAL. Why, what could you have done? For one never sees her without that brute; in the house there are neither maids nor men-servants whom I might influence to assist me by the alluring temptation of some reward.

ERG. Then she does not yet know that you love her?

VAL. It is a point on which I am not informed. Wherever the churl took this fair one, she always saw me like a shadow behind her; my looks daily tried to explain to her the violence of my love. My eyes have spoken much; but who can tell whether, after all, their language could be understood?

ERG. It is true that this language may sometimes prove obscure, if it have not writing or speech for its interpreter.

VAL. What am I to do to rid myself of this vast difficulty, and to learn whether the fair one has perceived that I love her? Tell me some means or other.

ERG. That is what we have to discover. Let us go in for a while — the better to think over it.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

ISABELLA, SGANARELLE.

SGAN. THAT WILL do; I know the house, and the person, simply from the description you have given me.

ISA. (Aside). Heaven, be propitious, and favour to-day the artful contrivance of an innocent love!

SGAN. Do you say they have told you that his name is Valère?

ISA. Yes.

SGAN. That will do; do not make yourself uneasy about it. Go inside, and leave me to act. I am going at once to talk to this young madcap.

ISA. (As she goes in). For a girl, I am planning a pretty bold scheme. But the unreasonable severity with which I am treated will be my excuse to every right mind.

SCENE II.

SGANARELLE, alone.

(KNOCKS AT THE door of Valère’s house). Let us lose no time; here it is. Who’s there? Why, I am dreaming! Hulloa, I say! hulloa somebody! hulloa! I do not wonder, after this information, that he came up to me just now so meekly. But I must make haste, and teach this foolish aspirant…

SCENE III.

VALÈRE, SGANARELLE, ERGASTE.

SGAN. (TO ERGASTE, who has come out hastily). A plague on the lubberly ox! Do you mean to knock me down — coming and sticking yourself in front of me like a post?

VAL. Sir, I regret…

SGAN. Ah! you are the man I want.

VAL. I, sir?

SGAN. You. Your name is Valère, is it not?

VAL. Yes.

SGAN. I am come to speak to you if you will allow me.

VAL. Can I have the happiness of rendering you any service?

SGAN. No; but I propose to do you a good turn. That is what brings me to your house.

VAL. To my house, sir!

SGAN. To your house. Need you be so much astonished?

VAL. I have good reason for it; I am delighted with the honour…

SGAN. Do not mention the honour, I beseech you.

VAL. Will you not come in?

SGAN. There is no need.

VAL. I pray you, enter.

SGAN. No, I will go no further.

VAL. As long as you stay there I cannot listen to you.

SGAN. I will not budge.

VAL. Well, I must yield. Quick, since this gentleman is resolved upon it, bring a chair.

SGAN. I am going to talk standing.

VAL. As if I could permit such a thing!

SGAN. What an intolerable delay!

VAL. Such incivility would be quite unpardonable.

SGAN. Nothing can be so rude as not to listen to people who wish to speak to us.

VAL. I obey you, then.

SGAN. You cannot do better. (They make many compliments about putting on their hats). So much ceremony is hardly necessary. Will you listen to me?

VAL. Undoubtedly, and most willingly.

SGAN. Tell me: do you know that I am guardian to a tolerably young and passably handsome girl who lives in this neighbourhood, and whose name is Isabella?

VAL. Yes.

SGAN. As you know it, I need not tell it to you. But do you know, likewise, that as I find her charming, I care for her otherwise than as a guardian, and that she is destined for the honour of being my wife?

VAL. No!

SGAN. I tell it you, then; and also that it is as well that your passion, if you please, should leave her in peace.

VAL. Who? — I, sir?

SGAN. Yes, you. Let us have no dissembling.

VAL. Who has told you that my heart is smitten by her?

SGAN. Those who are worthy of belief.

VAL. Be more explicit.

SGAN. She herself.

VAL. She!

SGAN. She. Is not that enough? Like a virtuous young girl, who has loved me from childhood, she told me all just now; moreover, she charged me to tell you, that, since she has everywhere been followed by you, her heart, which your pursuit greatly offends, has only too well understood the language of your eyes; that your secret desires are well known to her; and that to try more fully to explain a passion which is contrary to the affection she entertains for me, is to give yourself needless trouble.

VAL. She, you say, of her own accord, makes you…

SGAN. Yes, makes me come to you and give you this frank and plain message; also, that, having observed the violent love wherewith your soul is smitten, she would earlier have let you know what she thinks about you if, perplexed as she was, she could have found anyone to send this message by; but that at length she was painfully compelled to make use of me, in order to assure you, as I have told you, that her affection is denied to all save me; that you have been ogling her long enough; and that, if you have ever so little brains, you will carry your passion somewhere else. Farewell, till our next meeting. That is what I had to tell you.

VAL. (Aside). Ergaste, what say you to such an adventure?

SGAN. (Aside, retiring). See how he is taken aback!

ERG. (In a low tone to Valère). For my part, I think that there is nothing in it to displease you; that a rather subtle mystery is concealed under it; in short, that this message is not sent by one who desires to see the love end which she inspires in you.

SGAN. (Aside). He takes it as he ought.

VAL. (In a low tone to Ergaste). You think it a mystery…

ERG. Yes…. But he is looking at us; let us get out of his sight.

SCENE IV.

SGANARELLE, alone.

HOW HIS FACE showed his confusion! Doubtless he did not expect this message. Let me call Isabella; she is showing the fruits which education produces on the mind. Virtue is all she cares for; and her heart is so deeply steeped in it, that she is offended if a man merely looks at her.

SCENE V.

ISABELLA, SGANARELLE.

ISA. (ASIDE, AS she enters). I fear that my lover, full of his passion, has not understood my message rightly! Since I am so strictly guarded, I must risk one which shall make my meaning clearer.

SGAN. Here I am, returned again.

ISA. Well?

SGAN. Your words wrought their full purpose; I have done his business. He wanted to deny that his heart was touched; but when I told him I came from you, he stood immediately dumbfounded and confused; I do not believe he will come here any more.

ISA. Ah, what do you tell me? I much fear the contrary, and that he will still give us more trouble.

SGAN. And why do you fear this?

ISA. You had hardly left the house when, going to the window to take a breath of air, I saw a young man at yonder turning, who first came, most unexpectedly, to wish me good morning, on the part of this impertinent man, and then threw right into my chamber a box, enclosing a letter, sealed like a love-letter.
[Footnote: The original has un poulet, literally “a chicken,” because love-letters were folded so as to represent a fowl, with two wings; this shape is now called cocotte, from coq, and, though no longer used to designate a billet-doux, is often employed in familiar phraseology, in speaking of a girl who does not lead a moral life.]
I meant at once to throw it after him; but he had already reached the end of the street. I feel very much annoyed at it.

SGAN. Just see his trickery and rascality!

ISA. It is my duty quickly to have this box and letter sent back to this detestable lover; for that purpose I need some one; for I dare not venture to ask yourself…

SGAN. On the contrary, darling, it shows me all the more your love and faithfulness; my heart joyfully accepts this task. You oblige me in this more than I can tell you.

ISA. Take it then.

SGAN. Well, let us see what he has dared to say to you.

ISA. Heavens! Take care not to open it!

SGAN. Why so?

ISA. Will you make him believe that it is I? A respectable girl ought always to refuse to read the letters a man sends her. The curiosity which she thus betrays shows a secret pleasure in listening to gallantries. I think it right that this letter should be peremptorily returned to Valère unopened, that he may the better learn this day the great contempt which my heart feels for him; so that his passion may from this time lose all hope, and never more attempt such a transgression.

SGAN. Of a truth she is right in this! Well, your virtue charms me, as well as your discretion. I see that my lessons have borne fruit in your mind; you show yourself worthy of being my wife.

ISA. Still I do not like to stand in the way of your wishes. The letter is in your hands, and you can open it.

SGAN. No, far from it. Your reasons are too good; I go to acquit myself of the task you impose upon me; I have likewise to say a few words quite near, and will then return hither to set you at rest.

SCENE VI.

SGANARELLE, alone.

HOW DELIGHTED I am to find her such a discreet girl! I have in my house a treasure of honour. To consider a loving look treason, to receive a love-letter as a supreme insult, and to have it carried back to the gallant by myself! I should like to know, seeing all this, if my brother’s ward would have acted thus, on a similar occasion. Upon my word, girls are what you make them… Hulloa! (Knocks at Valère’s door).

SCENE VII.

SGANARELLE, ERGASTE.

ERG. WHO IS there?

SGAN. Take this; and tell your master not to presume so far as to write letters again, and send them in gold boxes; say also that Isabella is mightily offended at it. See, it has not even been opened. He will perceive what regard she has for his passion, and what success he can expect in it.

SCENE VIII.

VALÈRE, ERGASTE.

VAL. WHAT HAS that surly brute just given you?

ERG. This letter, sir, as well as this box, which he pretends that Isabella has received from you, and about which, he says, she is in a great rage. She returns it to you unopened. Read it quickly, and let us see if I am mistaken.

VAL. (Reads). “This letter will no doubt surprise you; both the resolution to write to you and the means of conveying it to your hands may be thought very bold in me; but I am in such a condition, that I can no longer restrain myself. Well-founded repugnance to a marriage with which I am threatened in six days, makes me risk everything; and in the determination to free myself from it by whatever means, I thought I had rather choose you than despair. Yet do not think that you owe all to my evil fate; it is not the constraint in which I find myself that has given rise to the sentiments I entertain for you; but it hastens the avowal of them, and makes me transgress the decorum which the proprieties of my sex require. It depends on you alone to make me shortly your own; I wait only until you have declared your intentions to me before acquainting you with the resolution I have taken; but, above all remember that time presses, and that two hearts, which love each other, ought to understand even the slightest hint.”

ERG. Well, sir, is not this contrivance original? For a young girl she is not so very ignorant. Would one have thought her capable of these love stratagems?

VAL. Ah, I consider her altogether adorable. This evidence of her wit and tenderness doubles my love for her, and strengthens the feelings with which her beauty inspires me….

ERG. Here comes the dupe; think what you will say to him.

SCENE IX.

SGANARELLE, VALÈRE, ERGASTE.

SGAN. (Thinking himself alone). Oh, thrice and four times blessed be the law which forbids extravagance in dress!
[Footnote: It is remarkable that Louis XIV., who was so extravagant himself in his buildings, dress, and general expenses published sixteen laws against luxury; the law Sganarelle speaks of was promulgated November 27th, 1660, against the use of guipures, cannetilles, paillettes, etc., on men’s dresses.]
No longer will the troubles of husbands be so great! women will now be checked in their demands. Oh, how delighted I am with the King for this proclamation!
[Footnote: The original has décri a proclamation which forbade the manufacturing, sale or wearing, of certain fabrics.]
How I wish, for the peace of the same husbands, that he would forbid coquetry, as well as lace, and gold or silver embroidery. I have bought the law on purpose, so that Isabella may read it aloud; and, by and by, when she is at leisure, it shall be our entertainment after supper. (Perceiving Valère). Well, Mr. Sandy-hair, would you like to send again love-letters in boxes of gold? You doubtless thought you had found some young flirt, eager for an intrigue, and melting before pretty speeches. You see how your presents are received! Believe me, you waste your powder and shot. Isabella is a discreet girl, she loves me and your love insults her. Aim at some one else, and be off!

VAL. Yes, yes; your merits, to which everyone yields, are too great an obstacle, sir. Though my passion be sincere, it is folly to contend with you for the love of Isabella.

SGAN. It is really folly.

VAL. Be sure I should not have yielded to the fascination of her charms, could I have foreseen that this wretched heart would find a rival so formidable as yourself.

SGAN. I believe it.

VAL. Now I know better than to hope; I yield to you, sir, and that too without a murmur.

SGAN. You do well.

VAL. Reason will have it so; for you shine with so many virtues, that I should be wrong to regard with an angry eye the tender sentiments which Isabella entertains for you.

SGAN. Of course.

VAL. Yes, yes, I yield to you; but at least I pray you, — and it is the only favour, sir, begged by a wretched lover, of whose pangs this day you are the sole cause, — I pray you, I say, to assure Isabella that, if my heart has been burning with love for her these three months, that passion is spotless, and has never fostered a thought at which her honour could be offended.

SGAN. Ay.

VAL. That, relying solely on my heart’s choice, my only design was to obtain her for my wife, if destiny had not opposed an obstacle to this pure flame in you, who captivated her heart.

SGAN. Very good.

VAL. That, whatever happens, she must not think that her charms can ever be forgotten; that to whatever decrees of Heaven I must submit, my fate is to love her to my last breath; and that, if anything checks my pursuit, it is the just respect I have for your merits.
[Footnote: We are of course to read between the lines: “If there is anything which could strengthen my resolution to save her, it is the natural detestation which I feel for you.”]

SGAN. That is wisely spoken; I shall go at once to repeat these words, which will not be disagreeable to her. But, if you will listen to me, try to act so as to drive this passion from your mind. Farewell.

ERG. (To Valeère). The excellent dupe!

SCENE X.

SGANARELLE, alone.

I feel a great pity for this poor wretch, so full of affection. But it is unfortunate for him to have taken it into his head to try to storm a fortress which I have captured.
(Sganarelle knocks at his door.)

SCENE XI.

SGANARELLE, ISABELLA.

SGAN. NEVER DID lover display so much grief for a love-letter returned unopened! At last he loses all hope, and retires. But he earnestly entreated me to tell you, that, at least, in loving you, he never fostered a thought at which your honour could be offended, and that, relying solely on his heart’s choice, his only desire was to obtain you for a wife, if destiny had not opposed an obstacle to his pure flame, through me, who captivated your heart; that, whatever happens, you must not think that your charms can ever be forgotten by him; that, to whatever decrees of Heaven he must submit, his fate is to love you to his last breath; and that if anything checks his pursuit, it is the just respect he has for my merits. These are his very words; and, far from blaming him, I think him a gentleman, and I pity him for loving you.

ISA. (Aside). His passion does not contradict my secret belief, and his looks have always assured me of its innocence.

SGAN. What do you say?

ISA. That it is hard that you should so greatly pity a man whom I hate like death; and that, if you loved me as much as you say, you would feel how he insults me by his addresses.

SGAN. But he did not know your inclinations; and, from the uprightness of his intentions, his love does not deserve…

ISA. Is it good intentions, I ask, to try and carry people off? Is it like a man of honour to form designs for marrying me by force, and taking me out of your hands? As if I were a girl to live after such a disgrace!

SGAN. How?

ISA. Yes, yes, I have been informed that this base lover speaks of carrying me off by force; for my part, I cannot tell by what secret means he has learned so early that you intend to marry me in eight days
[Footnote: In the letter which Isabella writes to Valère (see page 279), she speaks of a marriage with which she is threatened in six days. This is, I suppose, a pious fraud, to urge Valère to make haste, for here she mentions “eight days.”]
at the latest, since it was only yesterday you told me so. But they say that he intends to be beforehand with you, and not let me unite my lot to yours.

SGAN. That is a bad case.

ISA. Oh, pardon me! He is eminently a gentleman, who only feels towards me…

SGAN. He is wrong; and this is past joking.

ISA. Yes, your good nature encourages his folly. If you had spoken sharply to him just now, he would have feared your rage and my resentment; for even since his letter was rejected, he mentioned this design which has shocked me. As I have been told, his love retains the belief that it is well received by me; that I dread to marry you, whatever people may think, and should be rejoiced to see myself away from you.

SGAN. He is mad!

ISA. Before you, he knows how to disguise; and his plan is to amuse you. Be sure the wretch makes sport of you by these fair speeches. I must confess that I am very unhappy. After all my pains to live honourably, and to repel the addresses of a vile seducer, I must be exposed to his vexatious and infamous designs against me!

SGAN. There, fear nothing.

ISA. For my part I tell you that if you do not strongly reprove such an impudent attempt, and do not find quickly means of ridding me of such bold persecutions, I will abandon all, and not suffer any longer the insults which I receive from him.

SGAN. Do not be so troubled, my little wife. There, I am going to find him, to give him a good blowing up.

ISA. Tell him at least plainly, so that it may be in vain for him to gainsay it, that I have been told of his intentions upon good authority; that, after this message, whatever he may undertake, I defy him to surprise me; and, lastly, that, without wasting any more sighs or time, he must know what are my feelings for you; that, if he wishes not to be the cause of some mischief, he should not require to have the same thing told twice over.

SGAN. I will tell him what is right.

ISA. But all this in such a way as to show him that I really speak seriously.

SGAN. There, I will forget nothing, I assure you.

ISA. I await your return impatiently. Pray, make as much haste as you can. I pine when I am a moment without seeing you.

SGAN. There, ducky, my heart’s delight, I will return immediately.

SCENE XII.

SGANARELLE, alone.

WAS THERE EVER a girl more discreet and better behaved? Oh, how happy I am! and what a pleasure it is to find a woman just after my own heart! Yes, that is how our women ought to be, and not, like some I know, downright flirts, who allow themselves to be courted, and make their simple husbands to be pointed at all over Paris. (Knocks at Valère’s door). Hulloa, my enterprising, fine gallant!

SCENE XIII.

VALÈRE, SGANARELLE, ERGASTE.

VAL. SIR, WHAT brings you here again?

SGAN. Your follies.

VAL. How?

SGAN. You know well enough what I wish to speak to you about. To tell you plainly, I thought you had more sense. You have been making fun of me with your fine speeches, and secretly nourish silly expectations. Look you, I wished to treat you gently; but you will end by making me very angry. Are you not ashamed, considering who you are, to form, such designs as you do? to intend to carry off a respectable girl, and interrupt a marriage on which her whole happiness depends?

VAL. Who told you this strange piece of news, sir?

SGAN. Do not let us dissimulate; I have it from Isabella, who sends you word by me, for the last time, that she has plainly enough shown you what her choice is; that her heart, entirely mine, is insulted by such a plan; that she would rather die than suffer such an outrage; and that you will cause a terrible uproar, unless you put an end to all this confusion.

VAL. If she really said what I have just heard, I confess that my passion has nothing more to expect. These expressions are plain enough to let me see that all is ended; I must respect the judgment she has passed.

SGAN. If… You doubt it then, and fancy all the complaints that I have made to you on her behalf are mere pretences! Do you wish that she herself should tell you her feelings? To set you right, I willingly consent to it. Follow me; you shall hear if I have added anything, and if her young heart hesitates between us two. (Goes and knocks at his own door).

SCENE XIV.

ISABELLA, SGANARELLE, VALÈRE, ERGASTE.

ISA. WHAT! YOU bring Valère to me! What is your design? Are you taking his part against me? And do you wish, charmed by his rare merits, to compel me to love him, and endure his visits?

SGAN. No, my love; your affection is too dear to me for that; but he believes that my messages are untrue; he thinks that it is I who speak, and cunningly represent you as full of hatred for him, and of tenderness for me; I wish, therefore, from your own mouth, infallibly to cure him of a mistake which nourishes his love.

ISA. (To Valère). What! Is not my soul completely bared to your eyes, and can you still doubt whom I love?

VAL. Yes, all that this gentleman has told me on your behalf, Madam, might well surprise a man; I confess I doubted it. This final sentence, which decides the fate of my great love, moves my feelings so much that it can be no offence if I wish to have it repeated.

ISA. No. no, such a sentence should not surprise you. Sganarelle told you my very sentiments; I consider them to be sufficiently founded on justice, to make their full truth clear. Yes, I desire it to be known, and I ought to be believed, that fate here presents two objects to my eyes, who, inspiring me with different sentiments, agitate my heart. One by a just choice, in which my honour is involved, has all my esteem and love; and the other, in return for his affection, has all my anger and aversion. The presence of the one is pleasing and dear to me, and fills me with joy; but the sight of the other inspires me with secret emotions of hatred and horror. To see myself the wife of the one is all my desire; and rather than belong to the other, I would lose my life. But I have sufficiently declared my real sentiments; and languished too long under this severe torture. He whom I love must use diligence to make him whom I hate lose all hope, and deliver me by a happy marriage, from a suffering more terrible than death.

SGAN. Yes, darling, I intend to gratify your wish.

ISA. It is the only way to make me happy.

SGAN. You shall soon be so.

ISA. I know it is a shame for a young woman, so openly to declare her love.

SGAN. No, no.

ISA. But, seeing what my lot is, such liberty must be allowed me; I can, without blushing, make so tender a confession to him whom I already regard as a husband.

SGAN. Yes, my poor child, darling of my soul!

ISA. Let him think, then, how to prove his passion for me.

SGAN. Yes, here, kiss my hand.

ISA. Let him, without more sighing, hasten a marriage which is all I desire, and accept the assurance which I give him, never to listen to the vows of another. (She pretends to embrace Sganarelle, and gives her hand to Valère to kiss).
[Footnote: This stage play is imitated by Congreve in The Old Bachelor, (Act iv., Scene 22) when Mrs. Fondlewife goes and hangs upon her husband’s neck and kisses him; whilst Bellmour kisses her hand behind Fondlewife’s back.]

SGAN. Oh, oh, my little pretty face, my poor little darling, you shall not pine long, I promise you. (To Valère). There, say no more. You see I do not make her speak; it is me alone she loves.

VAL. Well, Madam, well, this is sufficient explanation. I learn by your words what you urge me to do; I shall soon know how to rid your presence of him who so greatly offends you.

ISA. You could not give me greater pleasure. For, to be brief, the sight of him is intolerable. It is odious to me, and I detest it so much…

SGAN. Eh! Eh!

ISA. Do I offend you by speaking thus? Do I…

SGAN. Heavens, by no means! I do not say that. But in truth, I pity his condition; you show your aversion too openly.

ISA. I cannot show it too much on such an occasion.

VAL. Yes, you shall be satisfied; in three days your eyes shall no longer see the object which is odious to you.

ISA. That is right. Farewell.

SGAN. (To Valère): I pity your misfortune, but…

VAL. No, you will hear no complaint from me. The lady assuredly does us both justice, and I shall endeavour to satisfy her wishes. Farewell.

SGAN. Poor fellow! his grief is excessive. Stay, embrace me: I am her second self. (Embraces Valère)

SCENE XV

ISABELLA, SGANARELLE.

SGAN. I THINK he is greatly to be pitied.

ISA. Not at all.

SGAN. For the rest, your love touches me to the quick, little darling, and I mean it shall have its reward. Eight days are too long for your impatience; to-morrow I will marry you, and will not invite…

ISA. To-morrow!

SGAN. You modestly pretend to shrink from it; but I well know the joy these words afford you; you wish it were already over.

ISA. But…

SGAN. Let us get everything ready for this marriage.

ISA. (Aside), Heaven! Inspire me with a plan to put it off!

ACT III.

SCENE I.

ISABELLA, alone.

YES, DEATH SEEMS to me a hundred times less dreadful than this fatal marriage into which I am forced; all that I am doing to escape its horrors should excuse me in the eyes of those who blame me. Time presses; it is night; now, then, let me fearlessly entrust my fate to a lover’s fidelity.

SCENE II.

SGANARELLE, ISABELLA.

SGAN. (SPEAKING TO those inside the house). Here I am once more; to-morrow they are going, in my name…

ISA. O Heaven!

SGAN. Is it you, darling? Where are you going so late? You said when I left you that, being rather tired, you would shut yourself up in your room; you even begged that on my return I would let you be quiet till to-morrow morning….

ISA. It is true; but…

SGAN. But what?

ISA. You see I am confused; I do not know how to tell you the reason.

SGAN. Why, whatever can it be?

ISA. A wonderful secret! It is my sister who now compels me to go out, and who, for a purpose for which I have greatly blamed her, has borrowed my room, in which I have shut her up.

SGAN. What?

ISA. Could it be believed? She is in love with that suitor whom we have discarded.

SGAN. With Valère?

ISA. Desperately! Her passion is so great that I can compare it with nothing; you may judge of its violence by her coming here alone, at this hour, to confide to me her love, and to tell me positively that she will die if she does not obtain the object of her desire; that, for more than a year, a secret intercourse has kept up the ardour of their love; and that they had even pledged themselves to marry each other when their passion was new.

SGAN. Oh, the wretched girl!

ISA. That, being informed of the despair into which I had plunged the man whom she loves to see, she came to beg me to allow her to prevent a departure which would break her heart; to meet this lover to-night under my name, in the little street on which my room looks, where counterfeiting my voice, she may utter certain tender feelings, and thereby tempt him to stay; in short, cleverly to secure for herself the regard which it is known he has for me.

SGAN. And do you think this…

ISA. I? I am enraged at it. “What,” said I, “sister, are you mad? Do you not blush to indulge in such a love for one of those people who change every day? To forget your sex, and betray the trust put in you by the man whom Heaven has destined you to marry?”

SGAN. He deserves it richly; I am delighted by it.

ISA. Finally my vexation employed a hundred arguments to reprove such baseness in her, and enable me to refuse her request for to-night; but she became so importunate, shed so many tears, heaved so many sighs, said so often that I was driving her to despair if I refused to gratify her passion, that my heart was brought to consent in spite of me; and, to justify this night’s intrigue, to which affection for my own sister made me assent, I was about to bring Lucretia to sleep with me, whose virtues you extol to me daily; but you surprised me by your speedy return.

SGAN. No, no, I will not have all this mystery at my house. As for my brother, I might agree to it; but they may be seen by some one in the street, and she whom I am to honour with my body must not only be modest and well-born; she must not even be suspected. Let us send the miserable girl away, and let her passion…

ISA. Ah, you would overwhelm her with confusion, and she might justly complain of my want of discretion. Since I must not countenance her design, at least wait till I send her away.

SGAN. Well, do so.

ISA. But above all, conceal yourself, I beg of you, and be content to see her depart without speaking one word to her.

SGAN. Yes, for your sake I will restrain my anger; but as soon as she is gone, I will go and find my brother without delay. I shall be delighted to run and tell him of this business.

ISA. I entreat you, then, not to mention my name. Good night; for I shall shut myself in at the same time.

SGAN. Till to-morrow, dear… How impatient I am to see my brother, and tell him of his plight! The good man has been victimized, with all his bombast!
[Footnote: The original has phébus, which is often used for a swollen and pretentious style, because it is said that a work on the chase, written in the fourteenth century by Gaston, Count of Foix, in such a style, was called Miroir de Phébus. It is more probable that the word phébus, meaning showy language, is derived from the Greek phoibos, brilliant.]
I would not have this undone for twenty crowns!

ISA. (Within). Yes, sister, I am sorry to incur your displeasure; but what you wish me to do is impossible. My honour, which is dear to me, would run too great a risk. Farewell, go home before it is too late.

SGAN. There she goes, fretting finely, I warrant. Let me lock the door, for fear she should return.

ISA. (Going out disguised). Heaven! abandon me not in my resolve!

SGAN. Whither can she be going? Let me follow her.

ISA. (Aside). Night, at least, favours me in my distress.

SGAN. (Aside). To the gallant’s house! What is her design?

SCENE III.

VALÈRE, ISABELLA, SGANARELLE.

VAL. (COMING OUT quickly). Yes, yes; I will this night make some effort to speak to… Who is there?

ISA. (To Valère). No noise, Valère; I have forestalled you; I am Isabella.

SGAN. (Aside). You lie, minx; it is not she. She is too staunch to those laws of honour which you forsake; you are falsely assuming her name and voice.

ISA. (To Valère). But unless by the holy bonds of matrimony…

VAL. Yes; that is my only purpose; and here I make you a solemn promise that to-morrow I will go wherever you please to be married to you.

SGAN. (Aside). Poor deluded fool!

VAL. Enter with confidence. I now defy the power of your duped Argus; before he can tear you from my love, this arm shall stab him to the heart a thousand times.

SCENE IV.

SGANARELLE, alone.

Oh, I can assure you I do not want to take from you a shameless girl, so blinded by her passion. I am not jealous of your promise to her; if I am to be believed, you shall be her husband. Yes, let us surprise him with this bold creature. The memory of her father, who was justly respected, and the great interest I take in her sister, demand that an attempt, at least, should be made to restore her honour. Hulloa, there! (Knocks at the door of a magistrate).
[Footnote: See page 261, note 5.]

SCENE V.

SGANARELLE, A MAGISTRATE, A NOTARY, ATTENDANT with a lantern.

MAG. WHAT IS it?

SGAN. Your servant, your worship. Your presence in official garb is necessary here. Follow me, please, with your lantern-bearer.

MAG. We were going…

SGAN. This is a very pressing business.

MAG. What is it?

SGAN. To go into that house and surprise two persons who must be joined in lawful matrimony. It is a girl with whom I am connected, and whom, under promise of marriage, a certain Valère has seduced and got into his house. She comes of a noble and virtuous family, but…

MAG. If that is the business, it was well you met us, since we have a notary here.

SGAN. Sir?

NOT. Yes, a notary royal.

MAG. And what is more, an honourable man.

SGAN. No need to add that. Come to this doorway; make no noise, but see that no one escapes. You shall be fully satisfied for your trouble, but be sure and do not let yourself be bribed.

MAG. What! do you think that an officer of justice…

SGAN. What I said was not meant as a reflection on your position. I will bring my brother here at once; only let the lantern-bearer accompany me. (Aside). I am going to give this placable man a treat. Hulloa! (Knocks at Ariste’s door).

* * * * *

SCENE VI.

ARISTE, SGANARELLE.

AR. WHO KNOCKS? Why, what do you want, brother?

SGAN. Come, my fine teacher, my superannuated buck; I shall have something pretty to show you.
AR. How?

SGAN. I bring you good news.
AR. What is it?

SGAN. Where is your Léonor, pray?
AR. Why this question? She is, as I think, at a friend’s house at a ball.

SGAN. Eh! Oh yes! Follow me; you shall see to what ball Missy is gone.
AR. What do you mean?

SGAN. You have brought her up very well indeed. It is not good to be always finding fault; the mind is captivated by much tenderness; and suspicious precautions, bolts, and bars, make neither wives nor maids virtuous; we cause them to do evil by so much austerity; their sex demands a little freedom. Of a verity she has taken her fill of it, the artful girl; and with her, virtue has grown very complaisant.
AR. What is the drift of such a speech?

SGAN. Bravo, my elder brother! it is what you richly deserve; I would not for twenty pistoles that you should have missed this fruit of your silly maxims. Look what our lessons have produced in these two sisters: the one avoids the gallants, the other runs after them.
AR. If you will not make your riddle clearer…

SGAN. The riddle is that her ball is at Valère’s; that I saw her go to him under cover of night, and that she is at this moment in his arms.
AR. Who?

SGAN. Léonor.
AR. A truce to jokes, I beg of you.

SGAN. I joke… He is excellent with his joking! Poor fellow! I tell you, and tell you again, that Valère has your Léonor in his house, and that they had pledged each other before he dreamed of running after Isabella.
AR. This story is so very improbable…

SGAN. He will not believe it, even when he sees it. I am getting angry; upon my word, old age is not good for much when brains are wanting!
(Laying his finger on his forehead).
AR. What! brother, you mean to…

SGAN. I mean nothing, upon my soul! Only follow me. Your mind shall be satisfied directly. You shall see whether I am deceiving you, and whether they have not pledged their troth for more than a year past.
AR. Is it likely she could thus have agreed to this engagement without telling me? — me! who in everything, from her infancy, ever displayed towards her a complete readiness to please, and who a hundred times protested I would never force her inclinations.

SGAN. Well, your own eyes shall judge of the matter. I have already brought here a magistrate and a notary. We are concerned that the promised marriage shall at once restore to her the honour she has lost; for I do not suppose you are so mean-spirited as to wish to marry her with this stain upon her, unless you have still some arguments to raise you above all kinds of ridicule.
AR. For my part, I shall never be so weak as wish to possess a heart in spite of itself. But, after all, I cannot believe…

SGAN. What speeches you make! Come, this might go on for ever.

SCENE VII.

SGANARELLE, ARISTE, A MAGISTRATE, A NOTARY.

MAG. There is no need to use any compulsion here, gentlemen. If you wish to have them married, your anger may be appeased on the spot. Both are equally inclined to it; Valère has already given under his hand a statement that he considers her who is now with him as his wife.
AR. The girl…

MAG. Is within, and will not come out, unless you consent to gratify their desires.

SCENE VIII.

VALÈRE, A MAGISTRATE, A NOTARY, SGANARELLE, ARISTE.

VAL. (AT THE window of his house). No, gentlemen; no man shall enter here until your pleasure be known to me. You know who I am; I have done my duty in signing the statement, which they can show you. If you intend to approve of the marriage, you must also put your names to this agreement; if not, prepare to take my life before you shall rob me of the object of my love.

SGAN. No, we have no notion of separating you from her. (Aside). He has not yet been undeceived in the matter of Isabella. Let us make the most of his mistake.
AR. (To Valère). But is it Léonor?

SGAN. Hold your tongue!
AR. But…

SGAN. Be quiet!
AR. I want to know…

SGAN. Again! Will you hold your tongue, I say?

VAL. To be brief: whatever be the consequence, Isabella has my solemn promise; I also have hers; if you consider everything, I am not so bad a match that you should blame her.
AR. What he says is not…

SGAN. Be quiet! I have a reason for it. You shall know the mystery. (To Valére). Yes, without any more words, we both consent that you shall be the husband of her who is at present in your house.

MAG. The contract is drawn up in those very terms, and there is a blank for the name, as we have not seen her. Sign. The lady can set you all at ease by-and-by.

VAL. I agree to the arrangement.

SGAN. And so do I, with all my heart. (Aside). We will have a good laugh presently. (Aloud). There, brother, sign; yours the honour to sign first.
AR. But why all this mystery…

SGAN. The deuce! what hesitation. Sign, you simpleton.
AR. He talks of Isabella, and you of Léonor.

SGAN. Are you not agreed, brother, if it be she, to leave them to their mutual promises?
AR. Doubtless.

SGAN. Sign, then; I shall do the same.
AR. So be it. I understand nothing about it.

SGAN. You shall be enlightened.

MAG. We will soon return.
(Exeunt Magistrate and Notary into Valeère’s house).

SGAN. (To Ariste). Now, then, I will give you a cue to this intrigue. (They retire to the back of the stage).

SCENE IX.

LÉONOR, SGANARELLE, ARISTE, LISETTE.

LEO. AH, WHAT a strange martyrdom! What bores all those young fools appear to me! I have stolen away from the ball, on account of them.

LIS. Each of them tried to make himself agreeable to you.

LEO. And I never endured anything more intolerable. I should prefer the simplest conversation to all the babblings of these say-nothings.
[Footnote: The original has contes bleus, literally “blue stories” because old tales, such as The Four Sons of Aymon, Fortunatus, Valentine and Orson were formerly sold, printed on coarse paper and with blue paper cover; a kind of popular, but not political, “blue-books.”]
They fancy that everything must give way before their flaxen wigs, and think they have said the cleverest witticism when they come up, with their silly chaffing tone, and rally you stupidly about the love of an old man. For my part, I value more highly the affection of such an old man than all the giddy raptures of a youthful brain. But do I not see…

SGAN (To Ariste). Yes, so the matter stands. (Perceiving
Léonor). Ah, there she is, and her maid with her.
AR. Léonor, without being angry, I have reason to complain. You know whether I have ever sought to restrain you, and whether I have not stated a hundred times that I left you full liberty to gratify your own wishes; yet your heart, regardless of my approval, has pledged its faith, as well as its love, without my knowledge. I do not repent of my indulgence; but your conduct certainly annoys me; it is a way of acting which the tender friendship I have borne you does not merit.

LEO. I know not why you speak to me thus; but believe me, I am as I have ever been; nothing can alter my esteem for you; love for any other man would seem to me a crime; if you will satisfy my wishes, a holy bond shall unite us to-morrow.
AR. On what foundation, then, have you, brother…

SGAN. What! Did you not come out of Valère’s house? Have you not been declaring your passion this very day? And have you not been for a year past in love with him?

LEO. Who has been painting such pretty pictures of me? Who has been at the trouble of inventing such falsehoods?

SCENE X.

ISABELLA, VALÈRE, LÉONOR, ARISTE, SGANARELLE, MAGISTRATE, NOTARY, LISETTE, ERGASTE.

ISA. SISTER, I ask you generously to pardon me, if, by the freedom I have taken, I have brought some scandal upon your name. The urgent pressure of a great necessity, suggested to me, some time ago, this disgraceful stratagem. Your example condemns such an escapade; but fortune treated us differently. (To Sganarelle). As for you, sir, I will not excuse myself to you. I serve you much more than I wrong you. Heaven did not design us for one another. As I found I was unworthy of your love, and undeserving of a heart like yours, I vastly preferred to see myself in another’s hands.

VAL. (To Sganarelle). For me, I esteem it my greatest glory and happiness to receive her, sir, from your hands.
AR. Brother, you must take this matter quietly. Your own conduct is the cause of this. I can see it is your unhappy lot that no one will pity you, though they know you have been made a fool of.

LIS. Upon my word, I am glad of this. This reward of his mistrust is a striking retribution.

LEO. I do not know whether the trick ought to be commended; but I am quite sure that I, at least, cannot blame it.

ERG. His star condemns him to be a cuckold; it is lucky for him he is only a retrospective one.

SGAN. (Recovering from the stupor into which he had been plunged). No, I cannot get the better of my astonishment. This faithlessness perplexes my understanding. I think that Satan in person could be no worse than such a jade! I could have sworn it was not in her. Unhappy he who trusts a woman after this! The best of them are always full of mischief; they were made to damn the whole world. I renounce the treacherous sex for ever, and give them to the devil with all my heart!

ERG. Well said.
AR. Let us all go to my house. Come, M. Valère, tomorrow we will try to appease his wrath.

LIS. (To the audience). As for you, if you know any churlish husbands, by all means send them to school with us.
[Footnote: This is the last time Molière directly addressed the audience at the end of one of his plays; in Sganarelle he did it for the first time.]

The Mad; or, The Bores

Les Fâcheux

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

PREFACE.

PROLOGUE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

BALLET TO ACT I.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

BALLET TO ACT II.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

BALLET TO ACT III.

The first edition’s title page, 1662

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

THE BORES IS a character-comedy; but the peculiarities taken as the text of the play, instead of being confined to one or two of the leading personages, are exhibited in different forms by a succession of characters, introduced one after the other in rapid course, and disappearing after the brief performance of their rôles. We do not find an evolution of natural situations, proceeding from the harmonious conduct of two or three individuals, but rather a disjointed series of tableaux — little more than a collection of monologues strung together on a weak thread of explanatory comments, enunciated by an unwilling listener.

The method is less artistic, if not less natural; less productive of situations, if capable of greater variety of illustrations. The circumstances under which Molière undertook to compose the play explain his resort to the weaker manner of analysis. The Superintendent-General of finance, [Footnote: In Sir James Stephen’s Lectures on the History of France, vol. ii. page 22, I find: “Still further to centralize the fiscal economy of France, Philippe le Bel created a new ministry. At the head of it he placed an officer of high rank, entitled the Superintendent-General of Finance, and, in subordination to him, he appointed other officers designated as Treasurers.”] Nicolas Fouquet desiring to entertain the King, Queen, and court at his mansion of Vaux-le-Vicomte, asked for a comedy at the hands of the Palais-Royal company, who had discovered the secret of pleasing the Grand Monarque. Molière had but a fortnight’s notice; and he was expected, moreover, to accommodate his muse to various prescribed styles of entertainment.

Fouquet wanted a cue for a dance by Beauchamp, for a picture by Lebrun, for stage devices by Torelli. Molière was equal to the emergency. Never, perhaps, was a literary work written to order so worthy of being preserved for future generations. Not only were the intermediate ballets made sufficiently elastic to give scope for the ingenuity of the poet’s auxiliaries, but the written scenes themselves were admirably contrived to display all the varied talent of his troupe.

The success of the piece on its first representation, which took place on the 17th of August, 1661, was unequivocal; and the King summoned the author before him in order personally to express his satisfaction. It is related that, the Marquis de Soyecourt passing by at the time, the King said to Molière, “There is an original character which you have not yet copied.” The suggestion was enough. The result was that, at the next representation, Dorante the hunter, a new bore, took his place in the comedy.

Louis XIV. thought he had discovered in Molière a convenient mouthpiece for his dislikes. The selfish king was no lover of the nobility, and was short-sighted enough not to perceive that the author’s attacks on the nobles paved the way for doubts on the divine right of kings themselves. Hence he protected Molière, and entrusted to him the care of writing plays for his entertainments; the public did not, however, see The Bores until the 4th of November of the same year; and then it met with great success.

The bore is ubiquitous, on the stage as in everyday life. Horace painted him in his famous passage commencing Ibam forte via Sacrâ, and the French satirist, Regnier, has depicted him in his eighth satire.

Molière had no doubt seen the Italian farce, “Le Case svaliggiate ovvera gli Interrompimenti di Pantalone,” which appears to have directly provided him with the thread of his comedy. This is the gist of it. A girl, courted by Pantaloon, gives him a rendezvous in order to escape from his importunities; whilst a cunning knave sends across his path a medley of persons to delay his approach, and cause him to break his appointment. This delay, however, is about the only point of resemblance between the Italian play and the French comedy.

There are some passages in Scarron’s Epîtres chagrines addressed to the Marshal d’Albret and M. d’Elbène, from which our author must have derived a certain amount of inspiration; for in these epistles the writer reviews the whole tribe of bores, in coarse but vigorous language.

Molière dedicated The Bores to Louis XIV. in the following words:

SIRE,

I am adding one scene to the Comedy, and a man who dedicates a book is a species of Bore insupportable enough. Your Majesty is better acquainted with this than any person in the kingdom: and this is not the first time that you have been exposed to the fury of Epistles Dedicatory. But though I follow the example of others, and put myself in the rank of those I have ridiculed; I dare, however, assure Your Majesty, that what I have done in this case is not so much to present You a book, as to have the opportunity of returning You thanks for the success of this Comedy. I owe, Sire, that success, which exceeded my expectations, not only to the glorious approbation with which Your Majesty honoured this piece at first, and which attracted so powerfully that of all the world; but also to the order, which You gave me, to add a Bore, of which Yourself had the goodness to give me the idea, and which was proved by everyone to be the finest part of the work. [Footnote: See Prefatory Memoir, page xxviii. ?] I must confess, Sire, I never did any thing with such ease and readiness, as that part, where I had Your Majesty’s commands to work.

The pleasure I had in obeying them, was to me more than Apollo and all the Muses; and by this I conceive what I should be able to execute in a complete Comedy, were I inspired by the same commands. Those who are born in an elevated rank, may propose to themselves the honour of serving Your Majesty in great Employments; but, for my part, all the glory I can aspire to, is to amuse You. [Footnote: In spite of all that has been said about Molière’s passionate fondness for his profession, I imagine he must now and then have felt some slight, or suffered from some want of consideration. Hence perhaps the above sentence. Compare with this Shakespeare’s hundred and eleventh sonnet:

 “Oh! for my sake, do you with Fortune chide
  The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
  That did not better for my life provide
  Than public means which public manners breeds.
  Thence comes it that my name receives a brand;
  And almost thence my nature is subdu’d
  To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand.”]

The ambition of my wishes is confined to this; and I think that, to contribute any thing to the diversion of her King, is, in some respects, not to be useless to France. Should I not succeed in this, it shall never be through want of zeal, or study; but only through a hapless destiny, which often accompanies the best intentions, and which, to a certainty, would be a most sensible affliction to SIRE, Your MAJESTY’S most humble, most obedient, and most faithful Servant,

MOLIÈRE.

In the eighth volume of the “Select Comedies of M. de Molière, London, 1732,” the play of The Bores is dedicated, under the name of The Impertinents, to the Right Honourable the Lord Carteret, [Footnote: John, Lord Carteret, born 22nd April, 1690, twice Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, was Secretary of State and head of the Ministry from February, 1742, until November 23, 1744, became Earl Granville that same year, on the death of his mother; was president of the Council in 1751, and died in 1763.] in the following words:

MY LORD,

It is by Custom grown into a sort of Privilege for Writers, of whatsoever Class, to attack Persons of Rank and Merit by these kind of Addresses. We conceive a certain Charm in Great and Favourite Names, which sooths our Reader, and prepossesses him in our Favour: We deem ourselves of Consequence, according to the Distinction of our Patron; and come in for our Share in the Reputation he bears in the World. Hence it is, MY LORD, that Persons of the greatest Worth are most expos’d to these Insults.

For however usual and convenient this may be to a Writer, it must be confess’d, MY LORD, it may be some degree of Persecution to a Patron; Dedicators, as Molière observes, being a Species of Impertinents, troublesome enough. Yet the Translator of this Piece hopes he may be rank’d among the more tolerable ones, in presuming to inscribe to Your LORDSHIP the Facheux of Molière done into English; assuring himself that Your LORDSHIP will not think any thing this Author has writ unworthy of your Patronage; nor discourage even a weaker Attempt to make him more generally read and understood.

Your LORDSHIP is well known, as an absolute Master, and generous Patron of Polite Letters; of those Works especially which discover a Moral, as well as Genius; and by a delicate Raillery laugh men out of their Follies and Vices: could the Translator, therefore, of this Piece come anything near the Original, it were assured of your Acceptance. He will not dare to arrogate any thing to himself on this Head, before so good a Judge as Your LORDSHIP: He hopes, however, it will appear that, where he seems too superstitious a Follower of his Author, ’twas not because he could not have taken more Latitude, and have given more Spirit; but to answer what he thinks the most essential part of a Translator, to lead the less knowing to the Letter; and after better Acquaintance, Genius will bring them to the Spirit.

The Translator knows your LORDSHIP, and Himself too well to attempt Your Character, even though he should think this a proper occasion: The Scholar — the Genius — the Statesman — the Patriot — the Man of Honour and Humanity. — Were a Piece finish’d from these Out-lines, the whole World would agree in giving it Your LORDSHIP.

But that requires a Hand — the Person, who presents This, thinks it sufficient to be indulg’d the Honour of subscribing himself My LORD, Your Lordship’s most devoted, most obedient, humble servant,

THE TRANSLATOR.

Thomas Shadwell, whom Dryden flagellates in his Mac-Flecknoe, and in the second part of Absalom and Achitophel, and whom Pope mentions in his Dunciad, wrote The Sullen Lovers, or the Impertinents, which was first performed in 1668 at the Duke of York’s Theatre, by their Majesties’ Servants.

This play is a working up of The Bores and The Misanthrope, with two scenes from The Forced Marriage, and a reminiscence from The Love-Tiff. It is dedicated to the “Thrice Noble, High and Puissant Prince William, Duke, Marquis, and Earl of Newcastle,” because all Men, who pretend either to Sword or Pen, ought “to shelter themselves under Your Grace’s Protection.” Another reason Shadwell gives for this dedication is in order “to rescue this (play) from the bloody Hands of the Criticks, who will not dare to use it roughly, when they see Your Grace’s Name in the beginning.” He also states, that “the first Hint I received was from the Report of a Play of Molière’s of three Acts, called Les Fascheux, upon which I wrote a great part of this before I read that.” He borrowed, after reading it, the first scene in the second act, and Molière’s story of Piquet, which he translated into Backgammon, and says, “that he who makes a common practice of stealing other men’s wit, would if he could with the same safety, steal anything else.” Shadwell mentions, however, nothing of borrowing from The Misanthrope and The Forced Marriage. The preface was, besides political difference, the chief cause of the quarrel between Shadwell and Dryden; for in it the former defends Ben Jonson against the latter, and mentions that— “I have known some of late so insolent to say that Ben Jonson wrote his best playes without wit, imagining that all the wit playes consisted in bringing two persons upon the stage to break jest, and to bob one another, which they call repartie.” The original edition of The Sullen Lovers is partly in blank verse; but, in the first collected edition of Shadwell’s works, published by his son in 1720, it is printed in prose. Stanford, “a morose, melancholy man, tormented beyond measure with the impertinence of people, and resolved to leave the world to be quit of them” is a combination of Alceste in The Misanthrope, and Éraste in The Bores; Lovel, “an airy young gentleman, friend to Stanford, one that is pleased with, and laughs at, the impertinents; and that which is the other’s torment, is his recreation,” is Philinte of The Misanthrope; Emilia and Carolina appear to be Célimène and Eliante; whilst Lady Vaine is an exaggerated Arsinoé of the same play. Sir Positive At-all, “a foolish knight that pretends to understand everything in the world, and will suffer no man to understand anything in his Company, so foolishly positive, that he will never be convinced of an error, though never so gross,” is a very good character, and an epitome of all the Bores into one.

The prologue of The Sullen Lovers begins thus: —

 “How popular are Poets now-a-days!
  Who can more Men at their first summons raise,
  Than many a wealthy home-bred Gentleman,
  By all his Interest in his Country can.
  They raise their Friends; but in one Day arise
  ‘Gainst one poor Poet all these Enemies.”

PREFACE.

NEVER WAS ANY Dramatic performance so hurried as this; and it is a thing, I believe, quite new, to have a comedy planned, finished, got up, and played in a fortnight. I do not say this to boast of an impromptu, or to pretend to any reputation on that account: but only to prevent certain people, who might object that I have not introduced here all the species of Bores who are to be found. I know that the number of them is great, both at the Court and in the City, and that, without episodes, I might have composed a comedy of five acts and still have had matter to spare. But in the little time allowed me, it was impossible to execute any great design, or to study much the choice of my characters, or the disposition of my subject. I therefore confined myself to touching only upon a small number of Bores; and I took those which first presented themselves to my mind, and which I thought the best fitted for amusing the august personages before whom this play was to appear; and, to unite all these things together speedily, I made use of the first plot I could find. It is not, at present, my intention to examine whether the whole might not have been better, and whether all those who were diverted with it laughed according to rule. The time may come when I may print my remarks upon the pieces I have written: and I do not despair letting the world see that, like a grand author, I can quote Aristotle and Horace. In expectation of this examination, which perhaps may never take place, I leave the decision of this affair to the multitude, and I look upon it as equally difficult to oppose a work which the public approves, as it is to defend one which it condemns.

There is no one who does not know for what time of rejoicing the piece was composed; and that fete made so much noise, that it is not necessary to speak of it [Footnote: The Bores, according to the Preface, planned, finished, got up, and played in a fortnight, was acted amidst other festivities, first at Vaux, the seat of Monsieur Fouquet, Superintendent of Finances, the 17th of August, 1661, in the presence of the King and the whole Court, with the exception of the Queen. Three weeks later Fouquet was arrested, and finally condemned to be shut up in prison, where he died in 1672. It was not till November, 1661, that The Bores was played in Paris.] but it will not be amiss to say a word or two of the ornaments which have been mixed with the Comedy.

The design was also to give a ballet; and as there was only a small number of first-rate dancers, it was necessary to separate the entrées [Footnote: See Prefatory Memoir, page xxx., note 12] of this ballet, and to interpolate them with the Acts of the Play, so that these intervals might give time to the same dancers to appear in different dresses; also to avoid breaking the thread of the piece by these interludes, it was deemed advisable to weave the ballet in the best manner one could into the subject, and make but one thing of it and the play. But as the time was exceedingly short, and the whole was not entirely regulated by the same person, there may be found, perhaps, some parts of the ballet which do not enter so naturally into the play as others do. Be that as it may, this is a medley new upon our stage; although one might find some authorities in antiquity: but as every one thought it agreeable, it may serve as a specimen for other things which may be concerted more at leisure.

Immediately upon the curtain rising, one of the actors, whom you may suppose to be myself, appeared on the stage in an ordinary dress, and addressing himself to the King, with the look of a man surprised, made excuses in great disorder, for being there alone, and wanting both time and actors to give his Majesty the diversion he seemed to expect; at the same time in the midst of twenty natural cascades, a large shell was disclosed, which every one saw: and the agreeable Naiad who appeared in it, advanced to the front of the stage, and with an heroic air pronounced the following verses which Mr. Pellison had made, and which served as a Prologue.

PROLOGUE.

(THE THEATRE REPRESENTS a garden adorned with Termini and several fountains. A Naiad coming out of the water in a shell.)

 Mortals, from Grots profound I visit you,
  Gallia’s great Monarch in these Scenes to view;
  Shall Earth’s wide Circuit, or the wider Seas,
  Produce some Novel Sight your Prince to please;
  Speak He, or wish: to him nought can be hard,
  Whom as a living Miracle you all regard.
  Fertile in Miracles, his Reign demands
  Wonders at universal Nature’s Hands,
  Sage, young, victorious, valiant, and august,
  Mild as severe, and powerful as he’s just,
  His Passions, and his Foes alike to foil,
  And noblest Pleasures join to noblest Toil;
  His righteous Projects ne’er to misapply,
  Hear and see all, and act incessantly:
  He who can this, can all; he needs but dare,
  And Heaven in nothing will refuse his Prayer.
  Let Lewis but command, these Bounds shall move,
  And trees grow vocal as Dodona’s Grove.
  Ye Nymphs and Demi-Gods, whose Presence fills
  Their sacred Trunks, come forth; so Lewis wills;
  To please him be our task; I lead the way,
  Quit now your ancient Forms but for a Day,
  With borrow’d Shape cheat the Spectator’s Eye,
  And to Theatric Art yourselves apply.

(Several Dryads, accompanied by Fawns and Satyrs, come forth out of the Trees and Termini.)

 Hence Royal Cares, hence anxious Application,
  (His fav’rite Work) to bless a happy Nation:
  His lofty Mind permit him to unbend,
  And to a short Diversion condescend;
  The Morn shall see him with redoubled Force,
  Resume the Burthen and pursue his Course,
  Give Force to Laws, his Royal Bounties share,
  Wisely prevent our Wishes with his Care.
  Contending Lands to Union firm dispose,
  And lose his own to fix the World’s Repose.
  But now, let all conspire to ease the Pressure
  Of Royalty, by elegance of Pleasure.
  Impertinents, avant; nor come in sight,
  Unless to give him more supreme Delight.

[Footnote: The Naiad was represented by Madeleine Beéjart, even then good-looking, though she was more than forty years old. The verses are taken from the eighth volume of the “Select Comedies of M. de Molière in French and English, London, 1732,” and as fulsome as they well can be. The English translation, which is not mine, fairly represents the official nonsense of the original.]

(The Naiad brings with her, for the Play, one part of the Persons she has summoned to appear, whilst the rest begin a Dance to the sound of Hautboys, accompanied by Violins.)

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ÉRASTE, IN LOVE with Orphise.

DAMIS, guardian to Orphise.

ALCIDOR, a bore.

LISANDRE, a bore.

ALCANDRE, a bore.

ALCIPPE, a bore.

DORANTE, a bore.

CARITIDÈS, a bore.

ORMIN, a bore.

FILINTE, a bore.

LA MONTAGNE, servant to Éraste.

L’ÉPINE, servant to Damis.

LA RIVIERE and TWO COMRADES.

ORPHISE, in love with Éraste.

ORANTE, a female bore.

CLIMÈNE, a female bore.

Scene. — PARIS.

* * * * *

[Footnote: Molière himself played probably the parts of Lisandre the dancer, Alcandre the duellist, or Alcippe the gambler, and perhaps all three, with some slight changes in the dress. He also acted Caritidès the pedant, and Dorante the lover of the chase. In the inventory taken after Molière’s death we find: “A dress for the Marquis of the Fâcheux, consisting in a pair of breeches very large, and fastened below with ribbands, (rhingrave), made of common silk, blue and gold-coloured stripes, with plenty of flesh-coloured and yellow trimmings, with Colbertine, a doublet of Colbertine cloth trimmed with flame-coloured ribbands, silk stockings and garters.” The dress of Caritidès in the same play, “cloak and breeches of cloth, with picked trimmings, and a slashed doublet.” Dorante’s dress was probably “a hunting-coat, sword and belt; the above-mentioned hunting-coat ornamented with fine silver lace, also a pair of stag-hunting gloves, and a pair of long stockings (bas a botter) of yellow cloth.” The original inventory, given by M. Soulié, has toile Colbertine, for “Colbertine cloth.” I found this word in Webster’s Dictionary described from The Fop’s Dictionary of 1690 as “A lace resembling net-work, the fabric of Mons. Colbert, superintendent of the French king’s manufactures.” In Congreve’s The Way of the World, Lady Wishfort, quarrelling with her woman Foible (Act v., Scene i), says to her, among other insults: “Go, hang out an old Frisoneer gorget, with a yard of yellow colberteen again!”]

ACT I.

SCENE I.

ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE.

ER. Good Heavens! under what star am I born, to be perpetually worried by bores? It seems that fate throws them in my way everywhere; each day I discover some new specimen. But there is nothing to equal my bore of to-day. I thought I should never get rid of him; a hundred times I cursed the harmless desire, which seized me at dinner time, to see the play, where, thinking to amuse myself, I unhappily was sorely punished for my sins. I must tell you how it happened, for I cannot yet think about it coolly. I was on the stage,
[Footnote: It was the custom for young men of fashion to seat themselves upon the stage (see Vol. I.. Prefatory Memoir, page 26, note 7). They often crowded it to such an extent, that it was difficult for the actors to move. This custom was abolished only in 1759, when the Count de Lauraguais paid the comedians a considerable sum of money, on the condition of not allowing any stranger upon the stage.]
in a mood to listen to the piece which I had heard praised by so many. The actors began; everyone kept silence; when with a good deal of noise and in a ridiculous manner, a man with large rolls entered abruptly, crying out “Hulloa, there, a seat directly!” and, disturbing the audience with his uproar, interrupted the play in its finest passage. Heavens! will Frenchmen, altho’ so often corrected, never behave themselves like men of common-sense? Must we, in a public theatre, show ourselves with our worst faults, and so confirm, by our foolish outbursts what our neighbours everywhere say of us? Thus I spoke; and whilst I was shrugging my shoulders, the actors attempted to continue their parts. But the man made a fresh disturbance in seating himself, and again crossing the stage with long strides, although he might have been quite comfortable at the wings, he planted his chair full in front, and, defying the audience by his broad back, hid the actors from three-fourths of the pit. A murmur arose, at which anyone else would have felt ashamed; but he, firm and resolute, took no notice of it, and would have remained just as he had placed himself, if, to my misfortune, he had not cast his eyes on me. “Ah, Marquis!” he said, taking a seat near me, “how dost thou do? Let me embrace thee.” Immediately my face was covered with blushes that people should see I was acquainted with such a giddy fellow. I was but slightly known to him for all that: but so it is with these men, who assume an acquaintance on nothing, whose embraces we are obliged to endure when we meet them, and who are so familiar with us as to thou and thee us. He began by asking me a hundred frivolous questions, raising his voice higher than the actors. Everyone was cursing him; and in order to check him I said, “I should like to listen to the play.” “Hast thou not seen it, Marquis? Oh, on my soul, I think it very funny, and I am no fool in these matters. I know the canons of perfection, and Corneille reads to me all that he writes.” Thereupon he gave me a summary of the piece, informing me scene after scene of what was about to happen; and when we came to any lines which he knew by heart, he recited them aloud before the actor could say them. It was in vain for me to resist; he continued his recitations, and towards the end rose a good while before the rest. For these fashionable fellows, in order to behave gallantly, especially avoid listening to the conclusion. I thanked Heaven, and naturally thought that, with the comedy, my misery was ended. But as though this were too good to be expected, my gentleman fastened on me again, recounted his exploits, his uncommon virtues, spoke of his horses, of his love-affairs, of his influence at court, and heartily offered me his services. I politely bowed my thanks, all the time devising some way of escape. But he, seeing me eager to depart, said, “Let us leave; everyone is gone.” And when we were outside, he prevented my going away, by saying, “Marquis, let us go to the Cours to show my carriage.”
[Footnote: The Cours is that part of the Champs-Elysées called le Cours-la-Reine; because Maria de Medici, the wife of Henry IV., had trees planted there. As the theatre finished about seven o’clock in the evening, it was not too late to show a carriage.]
“It is very well built, and more than one Duke and Peer has ordered a similar one from my coach-maker.” I thanked him, and the better to get off, told him that I was about to give a little entertainment. “Ah, on my life, I shall join it, as one of your friends, and give the go-by to the Marshal, to whom I was engaged.” “My banquet,” I said, “is too slight for gentlemen of your rank.” “Nay,” he replied, “I am a man of no ceremony, and I go simply to have a chat with thee; I vow, I am tired of grand entertainments.” “But if you are expected, you will give offence, if you stay away.” “Thou art joking, Marquis! We all know each other; I pass my time with thee much more pleasantly.” I was chiding myself, sad and perplexed at heart at the unlucky result of my excuse, and knew not what to do next to get rid of such a mortal annoyance, when a splendidly built coach, crowded with footmen before and behind, stopped in front of us with a great clatter; from which leaped forth a young man gorgeously dressed; and my bore and he, hastening to embrace each other, surprised the passers-by with their furious encounter. Whilst both were plunged in these fits of civilities, I quietly made my exit without a word; not before I had long groaned under such a martyrdom, cursing this bore whose obstinate persistence kept me from the appointment which had been made with me here.

LA M. These annoyances are mingled with the pleasures of life. All goes not, sir, exactly as we wish it. Heaven wills that here below everyone should meet bores; without that, men would be too happy.

ER. But of all my bores the greatest is Damis, guardian of her whom I adore, who dashes every hope she raises, and has brought it to pass that she dares not see me in his presence. I fear I have already passed the hour agreed on; it is in this walk that Orphise promised to be.

LA M. The time of an appointment has generally some latitude, and is not limited to a second.

ER. True; but I tremble; my great passion makes out of nothing a crime against her whom I love.

LA M. If this perfect love, which you manifest so well, makes out of nothing a great crime against her whom you love; the pure flame which her heart feels for you on the other hand converts all your crimes into nothing.

ER. But, in good earnest, do you believe that I am loved by her?

LA M. What! do you still doubt a love that has been tried?

ER. Ah, it is with difficulty that a heart that truly loves has complete confidence in such a matter. It fears to flatter itself; and, amidst its various cares, what it most wishes is what it least believes. But let us endeavour to discover the delightful creature.

LA M. Sir, your necktie is loosened in front.

ER. No matter.

LA M. Let me adjust it, if you please.

ER. Ugh, you are choking me, blockhead; let it be as it is.

LA M. Let me just comb…

ER. Was there ever such stupidity! You have almost taken off my ear with a tooth of the comb.
[Footnote: The servants had always a comb about them to arrange the wigs of their masters, whilst the latter thought it fashionable to comb and arrange their hair in public (see The Pretentious Young Ladies).]

LA M. Your rolls…

ER. Leave them; you are too particular.

LA M. They are quite rumpled.

ER. I wish them to be so.

LA M. At least allow me, as a special favour, to brush your hat, which is covered with dust.

ER. Brush, then, since it must be so.

LA M. Will you wear it like that?

ER. Good Heavens, make haste!

LA M. It would be a shame.

ER. (After waiting). That is enough.

LA M. Have a little patience.

ER. He will be the death of me!

LA M. Where could you get all this dirt?

ER. Do you intend to keep that hat forever?

LA M. It is finished.

ER. Give it me, then.

LA M. (Letting the hat fall). Ah!

ER. There it is on the ground. I am not much the better for all your brushing! Plague take you!

LA M. Let me give it a couple of rubs to take off…

ER. You shall not. The deuce take every servant who dogs your heels, who wearies his master, and does nothing but annoy him by wanting to set himself up as indispensable!

SCENE II.

ORPHISE, ALCIDOR, ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE.

(ORPHISE PASSES AT the foot of the stage; Alcidor holds her hand.)

ER. But do I not see Orphise? Yes, it is she who comes. Whither goeth she so fast, and what man is that who holds her hand? (He bows to her as she passes, and she turns her head another way).

SCENE III.

ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE.

ER. WHAT! SHE sees me here before her, and she passes by, pretending not to know me! What can I think? What do you say? Speak if you will.

LA M. Sir, I say nothing, lest I bore you.

ER. And so indeed you do, if you say nothing to me whilst I suffer such a cruel martyrdom. Give me some answer; I am quite dejected. What am I to think? Say, what do you think of it? Tell me your opinion.

LA M. Sir, I desire to hold my tongue, and not to set up for being indispensable.

ER. Hang the impertinent fellow! Go and follow them; see what becomes of them, and do not quit them.

LA M. (Returning). Shall I follow at a distance?

ER. Yes.

LA M. (Returning). Without their seeing me, or letting it appear that I was sent after them?

ER. No, you will do much better to let them know that you follow them by my express orders.

LA M. (Returning). Shall I find you here?

ER. Plague take you. I declare you are the biggest bore in the world!

SCENE IV.

ÉRASTE, alone.

AH, HOW ANXIOUS I feel; how I wish I had missed this fatal appointment! I thought I should find everything favourable; and, instead of that, my heart is tortured.

SCENE V.

LISANDRE, ÉRASTE.

LIS. I recognized you under these trees from a distance, dear Marquis; and I came to you at once. As one of my friends, I must sing you a certain air which I have made for a little Couranto, which pleases all the connoisseurs at court, and to which more than a score have already written words.
[Footnote: See Vol. I., page 164, note 14.]

I have wealth, birth, a tolerable employment, and am of some consequence in France; but I would not have failed, for all I am worth, to compose this air which I am going to let you hear. (He tries his voice). La, la; hum, hum; listen attentively, I beg. (he sings an air of a Couranto). Is it not fine?

ER. Ah!

LIS. This close is pretty. (He sings the close over again four or five times successively). How do you like it?

ER. Very fine, indeed.

LIS. The steps which I have arranged are no less pleasing, and the figure in particular is wonderfully graceful. (He sings the words, talks, and dances at the same time; and makes Éraste perform the lady’s steps). Stay, the gen-man crosses thus; then the lady crosses again: together: then they separate, and the lady comes there. Do you observe that little touch of a faint? This fleuret? These coupés running after the fair one.
[Footnote: A fleuret was an old step in dancing formed of two half coupées and two steps on the point of the toes.]
[Footnote: A coupé is a movement in dancing, when one leg is a little bent, and raised from the ground, and with the other a motion is made forward.]
Back to back: face to face, pressing up close to her. (After finishing). What do you think of it, Marquis?

ER. All those steps are fine.

LIS. For my part, I would not give a fig for your ballet-masters.

ER. Evidently.

LIS. And the steps then?

ER. Are wonderful in every particular.

LIS. Shall I teach you them, for friendship’s sake?

ER. To tell the truth, just now I am somewhat disturbed ….

LIS. Well, then, it shall be when you please. If I had those new words about me, we would read them together, and see which were the prettiest.

ER. Another time.

LIS. Farewell. My dearest Baptiste has not seen my Couranto; I am going to look for him. We always agree about the tunes; I shall ask him to score it.
(Exit, still singing.)
[Footnote: Jean Baptiste Lulli had been appointed, in the month of May of 1661, the same year that The Bores was first played, Surintendant et Compositeur de la musique de la chambre du Roi.]

SCENE VI.

ÉRASTE, alone.

HEAVENS! MUST WE be compelled daily to endure a hundred fools, because they are men of rank, and must we, in our politeness, demean ourselves so often to applaud, when they annoy us?

SCENE VII.

ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE.

LA M. SIR, Orphise is alone, and is coming this way.

ER. Ah, I feel myself greatly disturbed! I still love the cruel fair one, and my reason bids me hate her.

LA M. Sir, your reason knows not what it would be at, nor yet what power a mistress has over a man’s heart. Whatever just cause we may have to be angry with a fair lady, she can set many things to rights by a single word.

ER. Alas, I must confess it; the sight of her inspires me with respect instead of with anger.

SCENE VIII.

ORPHISE, ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE.

ORPH. YOUR COUNTENANCE seems to me anything but cheerful. Can it be my presence, Éraste, which annoys you? What is the matter? What is amiss? What makes you heave those sighs at my appearance?

ER. Alas! can you ask me, cruel one, what makes me so sad, and what will kill me? Is it not malicious to feign ignorance of what you have done to me? The gentleman whose conversation made you pass me just now…

ORPH. (Laughing). Does that disturb you?

ER. Do, cruel one, anew insult my misfortune. Certainly, it ill becomes you to jeer at my grief, and, by outraging my feelings, ungrateful woman, to take advantage of my weakness for you.

ORPH. I really must laugh, and declare that you are very silly to trouble yourself thus. The man of whom you speak, far from being able to please me, is a bore of whom I have succeeded in ridding myself; one of those troublesome and officious fools who will not suffer a lady to be anywhere alone, but come up at once, with soft speech, offering you a hand against which one rebels. I pretended to be going away, in order to hide my intention, and he gave me his hand as far as my coach. I soon got rid of him in that way, and returned by another gate to come to you.

ER. Orphise, can I believe what you say? And is your heart really true to me?

ORPH. You are most kind to speak thus, when I justify myself against your frivolous complaints. I am still wonderfully simple, and my foolish kindness…

ER. Ah! too severe beauty, do not be angry. Being under your sway, I will implicitly believe whatever you are kind enough to tell me. Deceive your hapless lover if you will; I shall respect you to the last gasp. Abuse my love, refuse me yours, show me another lover triumphant; yes, I will endure everything for your divine charms. I shall die, but even then I will not complain.

ORPH. As such sentiments rule your heart, I shall know, on my side …

SCENE IX.

ALCANDRE, ORPHISE, ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE.

ALC. (TO ORPHISE). Marquis, one word. Madame, I pray you to pardon me, if I am indiscreet in venturing, before you, to speak with him privately. (Exit Orphise).

SCENE X.

ALCANDRE, ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE.

ALC. I HAVE a difficulty, Marquis, in making my request; but a fellow has just insulted me, and I earnestly wish, not to be behind-hand with him, that you would at once go and carry him a challenge from me. You know that in a like case I should joyfully repay you in the same coin.

ER. (After a brief silence). I have no desire to boast, but I was a soldier before I was a courtier. I served fourteen years, and I think I may fairly refrain from such a step with propriety, not fearing that the refusal of my sword can be imputed to cowardice. A duel puts one in an awkward light, and our King is not the mere shadow of a monarch. He knows how to make the highest in the state obey him, and I think that he acts like a wise Prince. When he needs my service, I have courage enough to perform it; but I have none to displease him. His commands are a supreme law to me; seek some one else to disobey him. I speak to you, Viscount, with entire frankness; in every other matter I am at your service. Farewell.
[Footnote: During his long reign, Louis XIV. tried to put a stop to duelling; and, though he did not wholly succeed, he prevented the seconds from participating in the fight, — a custom very general before his rule, and to which Éraste alludes in saying that he does not “fear that the refusal of his (my) sword can be imputed to cowardice.”]

SCENE XI.

ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE.

ER. TO THE deuce with these bores, fifty times over! Where, now, has my beloved gone to?

LA M. I know not.

ER. Go and search everywhere till you find her. I shall await you in this walk.

BALLET TO ACT I.

First Entry.
Players at Mall, crying out “Ware!” compel Éraste to draw back. After the players at Mall have finished, Éraste returns to wait for Orphise.
Second Entry.
Inquisitive folk advance, turning round him to see who he is, and cause him again to retire for a little while.

* * * * *

ACT II.

SCENE I.

ÉRASTE, alone.

ARE THE BORES gone at last? I think they rain here on every side. The more I flee from them, the more I light on them; and to add to my uneasiness, I cannot find her whom I wish to find. The thunder and rain have soon passed over, and have not dispersed the fashionable company. Would to Heaven that those gifts which it showered upon us, had driven away all the people who weary me! The sun sinks fast; I am surprised that my servant has not yet returned.

SCENE II.

ALCIPPE, ÉRASTE.

ALC. GOOD DAY to you.

ER. (Aside). How now! Is my passion always to be turned aside?

ALC. Console me, Marquis, in respect of a wonderful game of piquet which I lost yesterday to a certain Saint-Bouvain, to whom I could have given fifteen points and the deal. It was a desperate blow, which has been too much for me since yesterday, and would make me wish all players at the deuce; a blow, I assure you, enough to make me hang myself in public. — I wanted only two tricks, whilst the other wanted a piquet. I dealt, he takes six, and asks for another deal. I, having a little of everything, refuse. I had the ace of clubs (fancy my bad luck!) the ace, king, knave, ten and eight of hearts, and as I wanted to make the point, threw away king and queen of diamonds, ten and queen of spades. I had five hearts in hand, and took up the queen, which just made me a high sequence of five. But my gentleman, to my extreme surprise, lays down on the table a sequence of six low diamonds, together with the ace. I had thrown away king and queen of the same colour. But as he wanted a piquet, I got the better of my fear, and was confident at least of making two tricks. Besides the seven diamonds he had four spades, and playing the smallest of them, put me in the predicament of not knowing which of my two aces to keep. I threw away, rightly as I thought, the ace of hearts; but he had discarded four clubs, and I found myself made Capot by a six of hearts, unable, from sheer vexation, to say a single word.
[Footnote: In the seventeenth century, piquet was not played with thirty-two, but with thirty-six, cards; the sixes, which are now thrown away, remained then in the pack. Every player received twelve cards, and twelve remained on the table. He who had to play first could throw away seven or eight cards, the dealer four or five, and both might take fresh ones from those that were on the table. A trick counted only when taken with one of the court-cards, or a ten.
Saint-Bouvain, after having taken up his cards, had in hand six small diamonds with the ace, which counted 7, a sequence of six diamonds from the six to the knave counted 16, thus together 23, before he began to play. With his seven diamonds he made seven tricks, but only counted 3, for those made by the ace, knave, and ten; this gave him 26. Besides his seven diamonds he had four spades, most likely the ace, king, knave, and a little one, and a six of hearts; though he made all the tricks he only counted 3, which gave him 29. But as Alcippe had not made a single trick, he was capot, which gave Saint-Bouvain 40; this with the 29 he made before, brought the total up to 69. As the latter only wanted a piquet, that is 60, — which is when a player makes thirty in a game, to which an additional thirty are then added, Saint-Bouvain won the game. Alcippe does not, however, state what other cards he had in his hand at the moment the play began besides the ace of clubs and a high sequence of five hearts, as well as the eight of the same colour.]
By Heaven, account to me for this frightful piece of luck. Could it be credited, without having seen it?
[Footnote: Compare with Molière’s description of the game of piquet Pope’s poetical history of the game of Ombre in the third Canto of The Rape of the Lock.]

ER. It is in play that luck is mostly seen.

ALC. ‘Sdeath, you shall judge for yourself if I am wrong, and if it is without cause that this accident enrages me. For here are our two hands, which I carry about me on purpose. Stay, here is my hand, as I told you; and here …

ER. I understood everything from your description, and admit that you have a good cause to be enraged. But I must leave you on certain business. Farewell. But take comfort in your misfortune.

ALC. Who; I? I shall always have that luck on my mind; it is worse than a thunderbolt to me. I mean to shew it to all the world. (He retires and on the point of returning, says meditatively) A six of hearts! two points.

ER. Where in the world are we? Go where we will, we see nothing but fools.

SCENE III.

ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE.

ER. HA! HOW long you have been, and how you have made me suffer.

LA M. Sir, I could not make greater haste.

ER. But at length do you bring me some news?

LA M. Doubtless; and by express command, from her you love, I have something to tell you.

ER. What? Already my heart yearns for the message. Speak!

LA M. Do you wish to know what it is?

ER. Yes; speak quickly.

LA M. Sir, pray wait. I have almost run myself out of breath.

ER. Do you find any pleasure in keeping me in suspense?

LA M. Since you wish to know at once the orders which I have received from this charming person, I will tell you…. Upon my word, without boasting of my zeal, I went a great way to find the lady; and if…

ER. Hang your digressions!

LA M. Fie! you should somewhat moderate your passion; and Seneca…

ER. Seneca is a fool in your mouth, since he tells me nothing of all that concerns me. Tell me your message at once.

LA M. To satisfy you, Orphise … An insect has got among your hair.

ER. Let it alone.

LA M. This lovely one sends you word …

ER. What?

LA M. Guess.

ER. Are you aware that I am in no laughing mood?

LA M. Her message is, that you are to remain in this place, that in a short time you shall see her here, when she has got rid of some country-ladies, who greatly bore all people at court.

ER. Let us, then stay in the place she has selected. But since this message affords me some leisure, let me muse a little. (Exit La Montagne). I propose to write for her some verses to an air which I know she likes.
(He walks up and down the stage in a reverie).

SCENE IV.

ORANTE, CLIMÈNE, ÉRASTE (at the side of the stage, unseen.)

OR. EVERYONE WILL be of my opinion.

CL. Do you think you will carry your point by obstinacy?

OR. I think my reasons better than yours.

CL. I wish some one could hear both.

OR. I see a gentleman here who is not ignorant; he will be able to judge of our dispute. Marquis, a word, I beg of you. Allow us to ask you to decide in a quarrel between us two; we had a discussion arising from our different opinions, as to what may distinguish the most perfect lovers.

ER. That is a question difficult to settle; you had best look for a more skilful judge.

OR. No: you speak to no purpose. Your wit is much commended; and we know you. We know that everyone, with justice, gives you the character of a…

ER. Oh, I beseech you …

OR. In a word, you shall be our umpire, and you must spare us a couple of minutes.

CL. (To Orante). Now you are retaining one who must condemn you: for, to be brief, if what I venture to hold be true, this gentleman will give the victory to my arguments.

ER. (Aside). Would that I could get hold of any rascal to invent something to get me off!

OR. (To Climène). For my part, I am too much assured of his sense to fear that he will decide against me. (To Éraste). Well, this great contest which rages between us is to know whether a lover should be jealous.

CL. Or, the better to explain my opinion and yours, which ought to please most, a jealous man or one that is not so?

OR. For my part, I am clearly for the last.

CL. As for me, I stand up for the first.

OR. I believe that our heart must declare for him who best displays his respect.

CL. And I that, if our sentiments are to be shewn, it ought to be for him who makes his love most apparent.

OR. Yes; but we perceive the ardour of a lover much better through respect than through jealousy.

CL. It is my opinion that he who is attached to us, loves us the more that he shows himself jealous?

OR. Fie, Climène, do not call lovers those men whose love is like hatred, and who, instead of showing their respect and their ardour, give themselves no thought save how to become wearisome; whose minds, being ever prompted by some gloomy passion, seek to make a crime out of the slightest actions, are too blind to believe them innocent, and demand an explanation for a glance; who, if we seem a little sad, at once complain that their presence is the cause of it, and when the least joy sparkles in our eyes, will have their rivals to be at the bottom of it; who, in short, assuming a right because they are greatly in love, never speak to us save to pick a quarrel, dare to forbid anyone to approach us, and become the tyrants of their very conquerors. As for me, I want lovers to be respectful; their submission is a sure proof of our sway.

CL. Fie, do not call those men true lovers who are never violent in their passion; those lukewarm gallants, whose tranquil hearts already think everything quite sure, have no fear of losing us, and overweeningly suffer their love to slumber day by day, are on good terms with their rivals, and leave a free field for their perseverance. So sedate a love incites my anger; to be without jealousy is to love coldly. I would that a lover, in order to prove his flame, should have his mind shaken by eternal suspicions, and, by sudden outbursts, show clearly the value he sets upon her to whose hand he aspires. Then his restlessness is applauded; and, if he sometimes treats us a little roughly, the pleasure of seeing him, penitent at our feet, to excuse himself for the outbreak of which he has been guilty, his tears, his despair at having been capable of displeasing us, are a charm to soothe all our anger.

OR. If much violence is necessary to please you, I know who would satisfy you; I am acquainted with several men in Paris who love well enough to beat their fair ones openly.

CL. If to please you, there must never be jealousy, I know several men just suited to you; lovers of such enduring mood that they would see you in the arms of thirty people without being concerned about it.

OR. And now you must, by your sentence, declare whose love appears to you preferable.
(Orphise appears at the back of the stage, and sees Éraste between Orante and Climène).

ER. Since I cannot avoid giving judgment, I mean to satisfy you both at once; and, in order, not to blame that which is pleasing in your eyes, the jealous man loves more, but the other loves wisely.

CL. The judgment is very judicious; but…

ER. It is enough. I have finished. After what I have said permit me to leave you.

SCENE V.

ORPHISE, ÉRASTE.

ER. (SEEING ORPHISE, and going to meet her). How long you have been, Madam, and how I suffer …

ORPH. Nay, nay, do not leave such a pleasant conversation. You are wrong to blame me for having arrived too late. (Pointing to Orante and Climène, who have just left). You had wherewithal to get on without me.

ER. Will you be angry with me without reason, and reproach me with what
I am made to suffer? Oh, I beseech you, stay …

ORPH. Leave me, I beg, and hasten to rejoin your company.

SCENE VI.

ÉRASTE, alone.

HEAVEN! MUST BORES of both sexes conspire this day to frustrate my dearest wishes? But let me follow her in spite of her resistance, and make my innocence clear in her eyes.

SCENE VII.

DORANTE, ÉRASTE.

DOR. AH, MARQUIS, continually we find tedious people interrupting the course of our pleasures! You see me enraged on account of a splendid hunt, which a booby … It is a story I must relate to you.

ER. I am looking for some one, and cannot stay.

DOR. (Retaining him). Egad, I shall tell it you as we go along. We were a well selected company who met yesterday to hunt a stag; on purpose we went to sleep on the ground itself — that is, my dear sir, far away in the forest. As the chase is my greatest pleasure, I wished, to do the thing well, to go to the wood myself; we decided to concentrate our efforts upon a stag which every one said was seven years old.
[Footnote: The original expression is cerf dix-corps; this, according to the dictionnaire de chasse, is a seven years’ old animal.]
But my own opinion was — though I did not stop to observe the marks — that it was only a stag of the second year.
[Footnote: The technical term is: “a knobbler;” in French, un cerf à sa seconde tête.]
We had separated, as was necessary, into different parties, and were hastily breakfasting on some new-laid eggs, when a regular country-gentleman, with a long sword, proudly mounted on his brood-mare, which he honoured with the name of his good mare, came up to pay us an awkward compliment, presenting to us at the same time, to increase our vexation, a great booby of a son, as stupid as his father. He styled himself a great sportsman, and begged that he might have the pleasure of accompanying us. Heaven preserve every sensible sportsman, when hunting, from a fellow who carries a dog’s horn, which sounds when it ought not; from those gentry who, followed by ten mangy dogs, call them “my pack,” and play the part of wonderful hunters. His request granted, and his knowledge commended, we all of us started the deer,
[Footnote: The original has frapper à nos brisées; brisées means “blinks.” According to Dr. Ash’s Dictionary, 1775, “Blinks are the boughs or branches thrown in the way of a deer to stop its course.”]
within thrice the length of the leash, tally-ho! the dogs were put on the track of the stag. I encouraged them, and blew a loud blast. My stag emerged from the wood, and crossed a pretty wide plain, the dogs after him, but in such good order that you could have covered them all with one cloak. He made for the forest. Then we slipped the old pick upon him; I quickly brought out my sorrel-horse. You have seen him?

ER. I think not.

DOR. Not seen him? The animal is as good as he is beautiful; I bought him some days ago from Gaveau.
[Footnote: A well-known horse-dealer in Molière’s time.]

I leave you to think whether that dealer, who has such a respect for me, would deceive me in such a matter; I am satisfied with the horse. He never indeed sold a better, or a better-shaped one. The head of a barb, with a clear star; the neck of a swan, slender, and very straight; no more shoulder than a hare; short-jointed, and full of vivacity in his motion. Such feet — by Heaven! such feet! — double-haunched: to tell you the truth, it was I alone who found the way to break him in. Gaveau’s Little John never mounted him without trembling, though he did his best to look unconcerned. A back that beats any horse’s for breadth; and legs! O ye Heavens!
[Footnote: Compare the description of the horse given by the Dauphin in Shakespeare’s Henry V., Act iii., Scene 6, and also that of the “round hoof’d, short jointed” jennet in the Venus and Adonis of the same author.]
In short, he is a marvel; believe me, I have refused a hundred pistoles for him, with one of the horses destined for the King to boot. I then mounted, and was in high spirits to see some of the hounds coursing over the plain to get the better of the deer. I pressed on, and found myself in a by-thicket at the heels of the dogs, with none else but Drecar.
[Footnote: A famous huntsman in Molière’s time.]
There for an hour our stag was at bay. Upon this, I cheered on the dogs, and made a terrible row. In short, no hunter was ever more delighted! I alone started him again; and all was going on swimmingly, when a young stag joined ours. Some of my dogs left the others. Marquis, I saw them, as you may suppose, follow with hesitation, and Finaut was at a loss. But he suddenly turned, which delighted me very much, and drew the dogs the right way, whilst I sounded horn and hallooed, “Finaut! Finaut!” I again with pleasure discovered the track of the deer by a mole-hill, and blew away at my leisure. A few dogs ran back to me, when, as ill-luck would have it, the young stag came over to our country bumpkin. My blunderer began blowing like mad, and bellowed aloud, “Tallyho! tallyho! tallyho!” All my dogs left me, and made for my booby. I hastened there, and found the track again on the highroad. But, my dear fellow, I had scarcely cast my eyes on the ground, when I discovered it was the other animal, and was very much annoyed at it. It was in vain to point out to the country fellow the difference between the print of my stag’s hoof and his. He still maintained, like an ignorant sportsman, that this was the pack’s stag; and by this disagreement he gave the dogs time to get a great way off. I was in a rage, and, heartily cursing the fellow, I spurred my horse up hill and down dale, and brushed through boughs as thick as my arm. I brought back my dogs to my first scent, who set off, to my great joy, in search of our stag, as though he were in full view. They started him again; but, did ever such an accident happen? To tell you the truth, Marquis, it floored me. Our stag, newly started, passed our bumpkin, who, thinking to show what an admirable sportsman he was, shot him just in the forehead with a horse-pistol that he had brought with him, and cried out to me from a distance, “Ah! I’ve brought the beast down!” Good Heavens! did any one ever hear of pistols in stag-hunting? As for me, when I came to the spot, I found the whole affair so odd, that I put spurs to my horse in a rage, and returned home at a gallop, without saying a single word to that ignorant fool.

ER. You could not have done better; your prudence was admirable. That is how we must get rid of bores. Farewell.

DOR. When you like, we will go somewhere where we need not dread country-hunters.

ER. (Alone). Very well. I think I shall lose patience in the end.
Let me make all haste, and try to excuse myself.

BALLET TO ACT II.

First Entry.
Bowlers stop Éraste to measure a distance about which there is a dispute. He gets clear of them with difficulty, and leaves them to dance a measure, composed of all the postures usual to that game.
Second Entry.
Little boys with slings enter and interrupt them, who are in their turn driven out by
Third Entry.
Cobblers, men and women, their fathers, and others, who are also driven out in their turn.
Fourth Entry.

A gardener, who dances alone, and then retires.

* * * * *

ACT III.

SCENE I.

ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE.

ER. IT IS true that on the one hand my efforts have succeeded; the object of my love is at length appeased. But on the other hand I am wearied, and the cruel stars have persecuted my passion with double fury. Yes, Damis, her guardian, the worst of bores, is again hostile to my tenderest desires, has forbidden me to see his lovely niece, and wishes to provide her to-morrow with another husband. Yet Orphise, in spite of his refusal, deigns to grant me this evening a favour; I have prevailed upon the fair one to suffer me to see her in her own house, in private. Love prefers above all secret favours; it finds a pleasure in the obstacle which it masters; the slightest conversation with the beloved beauty becomes, when it is forbidden, a supreme favour. I am going to the rendezvous; it is almost the hour; since I wish to be there rather before than after my time.

LA M. Shall I follow you?

ER. No. I fear least you should make me known to certain suspicious persons.

LA M. But ….

ER. I do not desire it.

LA M. I must obey you. But at least, if at a distance….

ER. For the twentieth time will you hold your tongue? And will you never give up this practice of perpetually making yourself a troublesome servant?

SCENE II.

CARITIDÈS; ÉRASTE.

CAR. SIR, IT is an unseasonable time to do myself the honour of waiting upon you; morning would be more fit for performing such a duty, but it is not very easy to meet you, for you are always asleep, or in town. At least your servants so assure me. I have chosen this opportunity to see you. And yet this is a great happiness with which fortune favours me, for a couple of moments later I should have missed you.

ER. Sir, do you desire something of me?

CAR. I acquit myself, sir, of what I owe you; and come to you … Excuse the boldness which inspires me, if…

ER. Without so much ceremony, what have you to say to me?

CAR. As the rank, wit, and generosity which every one extols in you…

ER. Yes, I am very much extolled. Never mind that, sir.

CAR. Sir, it is a vast difficulty when a man has to introduce himself; we should always be presented to the great by people who commend us in words, whose voice, being listened to, delivers with authority what may cause our slender merit to be known. In short, I could have wished that some persons well-informed could have told you, sir, what I am…

ER. I see sufficiently, sir, what you are. Your manner of accosting me makes that clear.

CAR. Yes, I am a man of learning charmed by your worth; not one of those learned men whose name ends simply in us. Nothing is so common as a name with a Latin termination. Those we dress in Greek have a much superior look; and in order to have one ending in ès, I call myself Mr. Caritidès.

ER. Caritidès be it. What have you to say?

CAR. I wish, sir, to read you a petition, which I venture to beg of you to present to the King, as your position enables you to do.

ER. Why, sir, you can present it yourself! …

CAR. It is true that the King grants that supreme favour; but, from the very excess of his rare kindness, so many villainous petitions, sir, are presented that they choke the good ones; the hope I entertain is that mine should be presented when his Majesty is alone.

ER. Well, you can do it, and choose your own time.

CAR. Ah, sir, the door-keepers are such terrible fellows! They treat men of learning like snobbs and butts; I can never get beyond the guard-room. The ill-treatment I am compelled to suffer would make me withdraw from court for ever, if I had not conceived the certain hope that you will be my Mecaeænas with the King. Yes, your influence is to me a certain means …

ER. Well, then, give it me; I will present it.

CAR. Here it is. But at least, hear it read.

ER. No …

CAR. That you may be acquainted with it, sir, I beg.

“TO THE KING.

“Sire, — Your most humble, most obedient, most faithful and most learned subject and servant, Caritidès, a Frenchman by birth, a Greek
[Footnote: The original has Grec, a Greek. Can Caritidès have wished to allude to the græaca fides? Grec means also a cheat at cards, and is said to owe its name to a certain Apoulos, a knight of Greek origin, who was caught in the very act of cheating at play in the latter days of Louis XIV.’s reign, even in the palace of the grand monarque.]
by profession, having considered the great and notable abuses which are perpetrated in the inscriptions on the signs of houses, shops, taverns, bowling-alleys, and other places in your good city of Paris; inasmuch as certain ignorant composers of the said inscriptions subvert, by a barbarous, pernicious and hateful spelling, every kind of sense and reason, without any regard for etymology, analogy, energy or allegory whatsoever, to the great scandal of the republic of letters, and of the French nation, which is degraded and dishonoured, by the said abuses and gross faults, in the eyes of strangers, and notably of the Germans, curious readers and inspectors of the said inscriptions…”
[Footnote: This is an allusion either to the reputation of the Germans as great drinkers, or as learned decipherers of all kinds of inscriptions.]

ER. This petition is very long, and may very likely weary…

CAR. Ah, sir, not a word could be cut out.

ER. Finish quickly.

CAR. (Continuing). “Humbly petitions your Majesty to constitute, for the good of his state and the glory of his realm, an office of controller, supervisor, corrector, reviser and restorer in general of the said inscriptions; and with this office to honour your suppliant, as well in consideration of his rare and eminent erudition, as of the great and signal services which he has rendered to the state and to your Majesty, by making the anagram of your said Majesty in French, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Syriac, Chaldean, Arabic…”

ER. (Interrupting him). Very good. Give it me quickly and retire: it shall be seen by the King; the thing is as good as done.

CAR. Alas! sir, to show my petition is everything. If the King but see it, I am sure of my point; for as his justice is great in all things, he will never be able to refuse my prayer. For the rest, to raise your fame to the skies, give me your name and surname in writing, and I will make a poem, in which the first letters of your name shall appear at both ends of the lines, and in each half measure.

ER. Yes, you shall have it to-morrow, Mr. Caritidès. (Alone). Upon my word, such learned men are perfect asses. Another time I should have heartily laughed at his folly.

SCENE III.

ORMIN, ÉRASTE.

ORM. THOUGH A matter of great consequence brings me here, I wished that man to leave before speaking to you.

ER. Very well. But make haste; for I wish to be gone.

ORM. I almost fancy that the man who has just left you has vastly annoyed you, sir, by his visit. He is a troublesome old man whose mind is not quite right, and for whom I have always some excuse ready to get rid of him. On the Mall, in the Luxembourg,
[Footnote: The Mall was a promenade in Paris, shaded by trees, near the Arsenal.]
[Footnote: The Luxembourg was in Molière’s time the most fashionable promenade of Paris.]
and in the Tuileries he wearies people with his fancies; men like you should avoid the conversation of all those good-for-nothing pedants. For my part I have no fear of troubling you, since I am come, sir, to make your fortune.

ER. (Aside). This is some alchymist: one of those creatures who have nothing, and are always promising you ever so much riches. (Aloud). Have you discovered that blessed stone, sir, which alone can enrich all the kings of the earth?

ORM. Aha! what a funny idea! Heaven forbid, sir, that I should be one of those fools. I do not foster idle dreams; I bring you here sound words of advice which I would communicate, through you, to the King, and which I always carry about me, sealed up. None of those silly plans and vain chimeras which are dinned in the ears of our superintendents;
[Footnote: This is an allusion to the giver of the feast, Mons. Fouquet, surintendant des finances. See also page 299, note I.]
none of your beggarly schemes which rise to no more than twenty or thirty millions; but one which, at the lowest reckoning, will give the King a round four hundred millions yearly, with ease, without risk or suspicion, without oppressing the nation in any way. In short, it is a scheme for an inconceivable profit, which will be found feasible at the first explanation. Yes, if only through you I can be encouraged …

ER. Well, we will talk of it. I am rather in a hurry.

ORM. If you will promise to keep it secret, I will unfold to you this important scheme.

ER. No, no; I do not wish to know your secret.

ORM. Sir, I believe you are too discreet to divulge it, and I wish to communicate it to you frankly, in two words. I must see that none can hear us. (After seeing that no one is listening, he approaches Eraste’s ear). This marvellous plan, of which I am the inventor, is…

ER. A little farther off, sir, for a certain reason.

ORM. You know, without any need of my telling you, the great profit which the King yearly receives from his seaports. Well, the plan of which no one has yet thought, and which is an easy matter, is to make all the coasts of France into famous ports. This would amount to vast sums; and if …

ER. The scheme is good, and will greatly please the King. Farewell. We shall see each other again.

ORM. At all events assist me, for you are the first to whom I have spoken of it.

ER. Yes, yes.

ORM. If you would lend me a couple of pistoles, you could repay yourself out of the profits of the scheme ….

ER. (Gives money to Ormin). Gladly. (Alone). Would to Heaven, that at such a price I could get rid of all who trouble me! How ill-timed their visit is! At last I think I may go. Will any one else come to detain me?

SCENE IV.

FILINTE, ÉRASTE.

FIL. MARQUIS, I have just heard strange tidings.

ER. What?

FIL. That some one has just now quarrelled with you.

ER. With me?

FIL. What is the use of dissimulation? I know on good authority that you have been called out; and, as your friend, I come, at all events, to offer you my services against all mankind.

ER. I am obliged to you; but believe me you do me….

FIL. You will not admit it; but you are going out without attendants. Stay in town, or go into the country, you shall go nowhere without my accompanying you.

ER. (Aside). Oh, I shall go mad.

FIL. Where is the use of hiding from me?

ER. I swear to you, Marquis, that you have been deceived.

FIL. It is no use denying it.

ER. May Heaven smite me, if any dispute….

FIL. Do you think I believe you?

ER. Good Heaven, I tell you without concealment that….

FIL. Do not think me such a dupe and simpleton.

ER. Will you oblige me?

FIL. No.

ER. Leave me, I pray.

FIL. Nothing of the sort, Marquis.

ER. An assignation to-night at a certain place….

FIL. I do not quit you. Wherever it be, I mean to follow you.

ER. On my soul, since you mean me to have a quarrel, I agree to it, to satisfy your zeal. I shall be with you, who put me in a rage, and of whom I cannot get rid by fair means.

FIL. That is a sorry way of receiving the service of a friend. But as I do you so ill an office, farewell. Finish what you have on hand without me.

ER. You will be my friend when you leave me. (Alone). But see what misfortunes happen to me! They will have made me miss the hour appointed.

SCENE V.

DAMIS, L’ÉPINE, ÉRASTE, LA RIVIÈRE, and his Companions.

DAM. (ASIDE). WHAT! the rascal hopes to obtain her in spite of me! Ah! my just wrath shall know how to prevent him!

ER. (Aside). I see some one there at Orphise’s door. What! must there always be some obstacle to the passion she sanctions!

DAM. (To L’Epine). Yes, I have discovered that my niece, in spite of my care, is to receive Éraste in her room to-night, alone.

LA R. (To his companions). What do I hear those people saying of our master? Let us approach safely, without betraying ourselves.

DAM. (To L’Epine). But before he has a chance of accomplishing his design, we must pierce his treacherous heart with a thousand blows. Go and fetch those whom I mentioned just now, and place them in ambush where I told you, so that at the name of Éraste they may be ready to avenge my honour, which his passion has the presumption to outrage; to break off the assignation which brings him here, and quench his guilty flame in his blood.

LA R. (Attacking Damis with his companions). Before your fury can destroy him, wretch! you shall have to deal with us!

ER. Though he would have killed me, honour urges me here to rescue the uncle of my mistress. (To Damis). I am on your side, Sir. (He draws his sword and attacks La Rivière and his companions, whom he puts to flight.)

DAM. Heavens! By whose aid do I find myself saved from a certain death?
To whom am I indebted for so rare a service?

ER. (Returning). In serving you, I have done but an act of justice.

DAM. Heavens. Can I believe my ears! Is this the hand of Éraste?

ER. Yes, yes, Sir, it is I. Too happy that my hand has rescued you: too unhappy in having deserved your hatred.

DAM. What! Éraste, whom I was resolved to have assassinated has just used his sword to defend me! Oh, this is too much; my heart is compelled to yield; whatever your love may have meditated to-night, this remarkable display of generosity ought to stifle all animosity. I blush for my crime, and blame my prejudice. My hatred has too long done you injustice! To show you openly I no longer entertain it, I unite you this very night to your love.

SCENE VI.

ORPHISE, DAMIS, ÉRASTE.

ORPH. (ENTERING WITH a silver candlestick in her hand). Sir, what has happened that such a terrible disturbance….

DAM. Niece, nothing but what is very agreeable, since, after having blamed, for a long time, your love for Éraste, I now give him to you for a husband. His arm has warded off the deadly thrust aimed at me; I desire that your hand reward him.

ORPH. I owe everything to you; if, therefore, it is to pay him your debt. I consent, as he has saved your life.

ER. My heart is so overwhelmed by this great miracle, that amidst this ecstasy, I doubt if I am awake.

DAM. Let us celebrate the happy lot that awaits you; and let our violins put us in a joyful mood. (As the violins strike up, there is a knock at the door).

ER. Who knocks so loud?

SCENE VII.

DAMIS, ORPHISE, ÉRASTE, L’ÉPINE.

L’EP. Sir, here are masks, with kits and tabors.
(The masks enter, filling the stage).

ER. What! Bores for ever? Hulloa, guards, here. Turn out these rascals for me.

BALLET TO ACT III.

First Entry.
Swiss guards, with halberds, drive out all the troublesome masks, and then retire to make room for a dance of
[Footnote: The origin of the introduction of the Swiss Guards (mercenaries) in the service of the French and other foreign powers may be ascribed to the fact that Switzerland itself, being too poor to maintain soldiers in time of peace, allowed them to serve other nations on condition of coming back immediately to their own cantons in time of war or invasion.
It is particularly with France that Switzerland contracted treaties to furnish certain contingents in case of need. The first of these dates back as far as 1444 between the Dauphin, afterwards Charles VII., and the different cantons. This Act was renewed in 1453, and the number of soldiers to be furnished was fixed once for all, the minimum being 6,000, and the maximum 16,000. The Helvetians, who until 1515 had always been faithful to their engagements, turned traitors in that year against Francis I., who defeated them at Marignan. But the good feeling was soon afterwards re-established, and a new treaty, almost similar to the former, restored the harmony between the two nations.
Another document is extant, signed at Baden in 1553, by which the cantons bind themselves to furnish Henry II. with as many troops as he may want. It is particularly remarkable, inasmuch as it served as a basis for all subsequent ones until 1671. These conventions have not always been faithfully carried out, for the Swiss contracted engagements with other nations, notably with Spain, Naples, and Sardinia, and even with Portugal. At the commencement of the campaign of 1697, Louis XIV. had, notwithstanding all this, as many as 32,000 Swiss in his service, the highest number ever attained. The regulations for the foreign colonels and captains in their relations among themselves, and with the French Government, were not unlike those in force at present for the native soldiery in our Indian possessions. Towards the end of Louis XIV.’s reign the number decreased to 14,400, officers included; it rose in 1773 to 19,836, and during the wars of 1742-48. to 21,300. The ebb and flow of their numbers continued from that time until the Revolution of 1830, when they were finally abolished.
They received a much higher pay than the national troops, and had besides this many other advantages, one of them being that the officers had in the army the next grade higher than that which they occupied in their own regiments; for instance, the colonel of a Swiss regiment had the rank of a major-general, and retired on the pay of a lieutenant-general, &c. They enjoyed the same privileges, with some slight modifications, wherever they served elsewhere.]
Second Entry.
Four shepherds and a shepherdess, who, in the opinion of all who saw it, concluded the entertainment with much grace.

The School for Wives

L’École des femmes

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personae

ACT I

Scene I. Chrysalde, Arnolphe.

Scene II. Arnolphe, Alain, Georgette, within.

Scene III. Arnolphe, Georgette.

Scene IV. Arnolphe, Agnès, Alain, Georgette.

Scene V. Arnolphe, alone.

Scene VI. Horace, Arnolphe.

Scene VII. Arnolphe, alone.

ACT II

Scene I. Arnolphe, alone.

Scene II. Arnolphe, Alain, Georgette.

Scene III. Alain, Georgette.

Scene IV. Arnolphe, Algeorgette.

Scene V. Arnolphe, Agnès, Alain, Georgette.

Scene VI. Arnolphe, Agnès.

ACT III

Scene I. Arnolphe, Agnès, Alain, Georgette.

Scene II. Arnolphe, Agnes.

Scene III. Arnolphe, alone.

Scene IV. Horace, Arnolphe.

Scene V. Arnolphe, alone.

ACT IV

Scene I. Arnolphe, alone.

Scene II. A Notary, Arnolphe.

Scene III. A Notary, Alain, Georgette.

Scene IV. Arnolphe, Alain, Georgette.

Scene V. Arnolphe, alone.

Scene VI. Horace, Arnolphe.

Scene VII. Arnolphe, alone.

Scene VIII. Chrysalde, Arnolphe.

Scene IX. Arnolphe, Alain, Georgette.

ACT V

Scene I. Arnolphe, Alain, Georgette.

Scene II. Arnolphe, Horace.

Scene III. Agnès, Horace, Arnolphe.

Scene IV. Arnolphe, Agnès.

Scene V. Arnolphe, Agnès, Alain.

Scene VI. Horace, Arnolphe.

Scene VII. Enrique, Oronte, Chrysalde, Horace, Arnolphe.

Scene VIII. Enrique, Oronte, Chrysalde, Horace, Arnolphe, Georgette.

Scene IX. Agnès, Oronte, Enrique, Arnolphe, Horace, Chrysalde, Alain, Georgette.

Scene X. Enrique, Oronte, Chrysalde, Agnès, Horace.

The original frontispiece

Portrait of Molière by Charles-Antoine Coypel

Dramatis Personae

Arnolphe, alias M. de La Souche.
Chrysalde, friend to Arnolphe.
Horace, in love with Agnès.
Enrique, brother-in-law of Chrysalde.
Oronte, father to Horace and a great friend of Arnolphe.
Alain, a country fellow, servant to Arnolphe.
A Notary.
Agnès, a young innocent girl, brought up by Arnolphe.
Georgette, a country-woman, servant to Arnolphe.

Scene. — A Square in a Town

ACT I

Scene I. Chrysalde, Arnolphe.

CHRYSALDE. YOU HAVE come to marry her, you say?

Arnolphe. Yes, I mean to settle the business tomorrow.

Chrysalde. We are here alone, and I think we can speak together without fear of being overheard. Do you wish me to open my heart to you like a friend? Your plan makes me tremble with fear for you. To take a wife is a rash step for you, whichever way you consider the matter.

Arnolphe. True, my friend. Possibly you find in your own home reasons why you should fear for me. I fancy that your own forehead shows that horns are everywhere the infallible accompaniment of marriage.

Chrysalde. These are accidents against which we cannot insure ourselves; it seems to me that the trouble people take about this is very ridiculous. But when I fear for you, it is on account of this raillery of which a hundred poor husbands have felt the sting. For you know that neither great nor small have been safe from your criticism; that your greatest pleasure, wherever you are, is to make a mighty outcry about secret intrigues…

Arnolphe. Exactly. Is there another city in the world where husbands are so patient as here? Do we not meet with them in every variety, and well provided with everything? One heaps up wealth, which his wife shares with those who are eager to make him a dupe; another, slightly more fortunate, but not less infamous, sees his wife receive presents day after day, and is not troubled in mind by any jealous twinge when she tells him that they are the rewards of virtue. One makes a great noise, which does him not the slightest good; another lets matters take their course in all meekness, and, seeing the gallant arrive at his house, very politely takes up his gloves and his cloak. One married woman cunningly pretends to make a confident of her confiding husband, who slumbers securely under such a delusion, and pities the gallant for his pains, which, however, the latter does not throw away. Another married woman, to account for her extravagance, says that the money she spends has been won at play; and the silly husband, without considering at what play, thanks Heaven for her winnings. In short, we find subjects for satire everywhere, and may I, as a spectator, not laugh at them? Are not these fools…

Chrysalde. Yes; but he who laughs at another must beware, lest he in turn be laughed at himself. I hear what is said, and how some folks delight in retailing what goes on; but no one has seen me exult at reports, which are bruited about in the places I frequent. I am rather reserved in this respect; and, though I might condemn a certain toleration of these matters, and am resolved by no means to suffer quietly what some husbands endure, yet I have never affected to say so; for, after all, satire may fall upon ourselves, and we should never vow in such cases what we should or should not do. Thus, if by an overruling fate, some natural disgrace should ever happen to my brow, I am almost sure, after the way in which I have acted, that people would be content to laugh at it in their sleeve; and possibly, in addition, I may reap this advantage, that a few good fellows will say “What a pity!’’ But with you, my dear friend, it is otherwise. I tell you again you are running a plaguy risk. As your tongue has always persistently bantered husbands accused of being tolerant; as you have shown yourself like a demon let loose upon them, you must walk straight for fear of being made a laughing-stock; and, if it happens that they get the least pretext, take care they do not publish your disgrace at the public market-cross, and …

Arnolphe. Good Heaven, friend, do not trouble yourself. He will be a clever man who catches me in this way. I know all the cunning tricks and subtle devices which women use to deceive us, and how one is fooled by their dexterity, and I have taken precautions against this mischance. She whom I am marrying possesses all the innocence which may protect my forehead from evil influence.

Chrysalde. Why, what do you imagine? That a silly girl, to be brief …

Arnolphe. To marry a silly girl is not to become silly myself. I believe, as a good Christian, that your better half is very wise; but a clever wife is ominous, and I know what some people have to pay for choosing theirs with too much talent. What, I go and saddle myself with an intellectual woman, who talks of nothing but of her assembly and ruelle; who writes tender things in prose and in verse, and is visited by Marquises and wits, whilst, as “Mrs. So-and-so’s husband, “ I should be like a saint, whom no one calls upon! No, no, I will have none of your lofty minds. A woman who writes knows more than she ought to do. I intend that my wife shall not even be clever enough to know what a rhyme is. If one plays at corbillon with her, and asks her in her turn “What is put into the basket, “ I will have her answer, “A cream tart. “ In a word, let her be very ignorant; and to tell you the plain truth, it is enough for her that she can say her prayers, love me, saw and spin.

Chrysalde. A stupid wife, then, is your fancy?

Arnolphe. So much so that I should prefer a very stupid and ugly woman to a very beautiful one with a great deal of wit.

Chrysalde. Wit and beauty …

Arnolphe. Virtue is quite enough.

Chrysalde. But how can you expect, after, all, that a mere simpleton can ever know what it is to be virtuous? Besides, to my mind, it must be very wearisome for a man to have a stupid creature perpetually with him. Do you think you act rightly, and that, by reliance on your plan, a man’s brow is saved from danger? A woman of sense may fail in her duty; but she must at least do so knowingly; a stupid woman may at any time fail in hers, without desiring or thinking of it.

Arnolphe. To this fine argument, this deep discourse, I reply as Pantagruel did to Panurge: Urge me to marry any other woman than a stupid one; preach and lecture till Whitsuntide, you shall be amazed to find, when you have done, that you have not persuaded me in the very slightest.

Chrysalde. I do not want to say another word.

Arnolphe. Every man has his own way. With my wife, as in everything, I mean to follow my fashion. I think I am rich enough to take a partner who shall owe all to me, and whose humble station and complete dependence cannot reproach me either with her poverty or her birth. A sweet and staid look made me love Agnès, amongst other children, when she was only four. It came into my mind to ask her from her mother, who was very poor; the good country-woman, learning my wish, was delighted to rid herself of the charge. I had her brought up, according to my own notions, in a little solitary convent; that is to say, directing them what means to adopt in order to make her as idiotic as possible. Thank Heaven, success has crowned my efforts; and I am very thankful to say, I have found her so innocent that I have blessed Heaven for having done what I wished, in giving me a wife according to my desire. Then I brought her away; and as my house is continually open to a hundred different people, and as we must be on our guard against everything, I have kept her in another house where no one comes to see me; and where her good disposition cannot be spoiled, as she meets none but people as simple as herself. You will say, “Wherefore this long story? “ It is to let you see the care I have taken. To crown all, and as you are a trusty friend, I ask you to sup with her to-night. I wish you would examine her a little, and see if I am to be condemned for my choice.

Chrysalde. With all my heart.

Arnolphe. You can judge of her looks and her innocence when you converse with her.

Chrysalde. As to that, what you have told me cannot …

Arnolphe. What I have told you falls even short of the truth: I admire her simplicity on all occasions; sometimes she says things at which I split my sides with laughing. The other day — would you believe it? — she was uneasy, and came to ask me, with unexampled innocence, if children came through the ears.

Chrysalde. I greatly rejoice, M. Arnolphe …

Arnolphe. What! will you always call me by that name?

Chrysalde. Ah, it comes to my lips in spite of me; I never remember M. de la Souche. Who on earth has put it into your head to change your name at forty-two years of age, and give yourself a title from a rotten old tree on your farm?

Arnolphe. Besides the fact that the house is known by that name, la Souche pleases my ear better than Arnolphe.

Chrysalde. What a pity to give up the genuine name of one’s fathers, and take one based on chimeras! Most people have an itching that way, and, without including you in the comparison, I knew a country- fellow called Gros-Pierre, who, having no other property but a rood of land, had a muddy ditch made all around it, and took the high-sounding name of M. de l’Isle.

Arnolphe. You might dispense with such examples. But, at all events, de la Souche is the name I bear. I have a reason for it, I like it; and to call me otherwise is to annoy me.

Chrysalde. Most people find it hard to fall in with it; I even yet see letters addressed …

Arnolphe. I endure it easily from those who are not informed; but you …

Chrysalde. Be it so; we will make no difficulty about that; I will take care to accustom my lips to call you nothing else than M. de la Souche.

Arnolphe. Farewell. I am going to knock here, to wish them good morning, and simply to say that I have come back.

Chrysalde (aside). Upon my word, I think he is a perfect fool.

Arnolphe (alone). He is a little touched on certain points. Strange, to see how each man is passionately fond of his own opinion. (Knocks at his door.)  Hulloa!

Scene II. Arnolphe, Alain, Georgette, within.

ALAIN. — WHO knocks?

Arnolphe. Open the door! (Aside.)  I think they will be very glad to see me after ten days’ absence.

Alain. Who is there?

Arnolphe. I.

Alain. Georgette!

Georgette. Well!

Alain. Open the door there!

Georgette. Go, and do it yourself!

Alain. You go and do it!

Georgette. Indeed, I shall not go.

Alain. No more shall I.

Arnolphe. Fine compliments, while I am left without. Hulloa! Here, please.

Georgette. Who knocks?

Arnolphe. Your master.

Georgette. Alain!

Alain. What!

Georgette. It is the master. Open the door quickly.

Alain. Open it yourself.

Georgette. I am blowing the fire.

Alain. I am taking care that the sparrow does not go out, for fear of the cat.

Arnolphe. Whoever of you two does not open the door shall have no food for four days. Ah!

Georgette. Why do you come when I was running?

Alain. Why should you more than I? A pretty trick indeed!

Georgette. Stand out of the way.

Alain. Stand out of the way yourself.

Georgette. I wish to open the door.

Alain. And so do I.

Georgette. You shall not.

Alain. No more shall you.

Georgette. Nor you.

Arnolphe. I need have patience here.

Alain (entering). There; it is I, master.

Georgette (entering). Your servant; it is I.

Alain. If it were not out of respect for master here, I …

Arnolphe (receiving a push from Alain). Hang it!

Alain. Pardon me.

Arnolphe. Look at the lout!

Alain. It was she also, master

Arnolphe. Hold your tongues, both of you. Just answer me and let us have no more fooling. Well, Alain, how is every one here?

Alain. Master, we … (Arnolphe takes off Alain’S hat). Master, we … (Arnolphe takes it off again.)  Thank Heaven, we …

Arnolphe (taking off the hat a third time and flinging it on the ground). Who taught you, impertinent fool, to speak to me with your hat on your head?

Alain. You are right; I am wrong.

Arnolphe (to Alain). Ask Agnès to come down.

Scene III. Arnolphe, Georgette.

ARNOLPHE. WAS SHE sad after I went away?

Georgette. Sad? No.

Arnolphe. No?

Georgette. Yes, yes.

Arnolphe. Why, then?

Georgette. May I die on the spot, but she expected to see you return every minute; and we never heard a horse, an ass, or a mule pass by without her thinking it was you.

Scene IV. Arnolphe, Agnès, Alain, Georgette.

ARNOLPHE. WORK IN hand? That is a good sign. Well, Agnès, I have returned. Are you glad of it?

Agnès. Yes, sir, Heaven be thanked.

Arnolphe. I too am glad to see you again. You have always been well? I see you have.

Agnès. Except for the fleas, which troubled me in the night.

Arnolphe. Ah, you shall soon have some one to drive them away.

Agnès. I shall be pleased with that.

Arnolphe. I can easily imagine it. What are you doing there?

Agnès. I am making myself some caps. Your nightshirts and caps are finished.

Arnolphe. Ah, that is all right. Well, go up stairs. Do not tire yourself. I will soon return, and talk to you of important matters.

Scene V. Arnolphe, alone.

HEROINES OF THE day, learned ladies, who spout tender and fine sentiments, I defy in a breath all your verses, your novels, your letters, your love-letters, your entire science, to be worth as much as this virtuous and modest ignorance. We must not be dazzled by riches; and so long as honour is…

Scene VI. Horace, Arnolphe.

ARNOLPHE. WHAT DO I see? Is it…Yes. I am mistaken. But no. No; it is himself. Hor…

Horace. Mr. Arn…

Arnolphe. Horace.

Horace. Arnolphe.

Arnolphe. Ah! what joy indeed! And how long have you been here?

Horace. Nine days.

Arnolphe. Really.

Horace. I went straight to your house, but in vain.

Arnolphe. I was in the country.

Horace. Yes, you had been gone ten days.

Arnolphe. Oh, how these children spring up in a few years! I am amazed to see him so tall, after having known him no higher than that.

Horace. You see how it is.

Arnolphe. But tell me how is Oronte, your father, my good and dear friend, whom I esteem and revere? What is he doing? What is he saying? Is he still hearty? He knows I am interested in all that affects him; we have not seen one another these four years, nor, what is more, written to each other, I think.

Horace. M. Arnolphe, he is even more cheerful than we; I had a letter from him for you. But he has since informed me in another letter, that he is coming here, though as yet I do not know the reason for it. Can you tell me which of your townsmen has returned with abundance of wealth earned during a fourteen years’ residence in America?

Arnolphe. No. Have you not heard his name?

Horace. Enrique.

Arnolphe. No.

Horace. My father speaks of him and his return, as though he should be well known to me; he writes that they are about to set out together, on an affair of consequence, of which his letter says nothing. (Gives Oronte’s letter to Arnolphe.)

Arnolphe. I shall assuredly be very glad to see him, and shall do my best to entertain him. (After reading the letter.)  Friends do not need to send such polite letters, and all these compliments are unnecessary. Even if he had not taken the trouble to write one word, you might have freely disposed of all I have.

Horace. I am a man who takes people at their word; and I have present need of a hundred pistoles.

Arnolphe. Upon my word, you oblige me by using me thus. I rejoice that I have them with me. Keep the purse too.

Horace. I must…

Arnolphe. Drop this ceremony. Well, how do you like this town so far?

Horace. Its inhabitants are numerous, its buildings splendid, and I should think that its amusements are wonderful.

Arnolphe. Everyone has his own pleasures, after his own fashion; but for those whom we christen our gallants, they have in this town just what pleases them, for the women are born flirts. Dark and fair are amiably disposed, and the husbands also are the most kind in the world. It is a pleasure fit for a King; to me it is a mere comedy to see the pranks I do. Perhaps you have already smitten some one. Have you had no adventure yet? Men of your figure can do more than men who have money, and you are cut out to make a cuckold.

Horace. Not to deceive you as to the simple truth, I have had a certain love-passage in these parts, and friendship compels me to tell you of it.

Arnolphe (aside). Good. Here is another queer story to set down in my pocket-book.

Horace. But pray, let these things be secret.

Arnolphe. Oh!

Horace. You know that in these matters a secret divulged destroys our expectations. I will then frankly confess to you that my heart has been smitten in this place by a certain fair maid. My little attentions were at once so successful that I obtained a pleasant introduction to her; not to boast too much, nor to do her an injustice, affairs go very well with me.

Arnolphe (laughing). Ha! ha! And she is…

Horace (pointing to the house of Agnès). A young creature living in yonder house, of which you can see the red walls from this. Simple, of a truth, through the matchless folly of a man who hides her from all the world; but who, amidst the ignorance in which he would enslave her, discloses charms that throw one into raptures, as well as a thoroughly engaging manner, and something indescribably tender, against which no heart is proof. But perhaps you have seen this young star of love, adorned by so many charms. Agnès is her name.

Arnolphe (aside). Oh, I shall burst with rage!

Horace. As for the man, I think his name is De la Zousse, or Souche; I did not concern myself about the name. He is rich, by what they told me, but not one of the wisest of men; they say he is a ridiculous fellow. Do you not know him?

Arnolphe (aside). It is a bitter pill I have to swallow!

Horace. Why, you do not speak a word.

Arnolphe. Oh, yes…I know him.

Horace. He is a fool, is he not?

Arnolphe. Ugh!

Horace. What do you say? Ugh — that means yes? Jealous, I suppose, ridiculously so? Stupid? I see he is just as they told me. To be brief, the lovely Agnes has succeeded in enslaving me. She is a pretty jewel, to tell you honestly; it would be a sin if such a rare beauty were left in the power of this eccentric fellow. For me, all my efforts, all my dearest wishes, are to make her mine in spite of this jealous wretch; and the money which I so freely borrow of you, was only to bring this laudable enterprise to a conclusion.
 You know better than I, that, whatever we undertake, money is the masterkey to all great plans, and that this sweet metal, which distracts so many, promotes our triumphs, in love as in war. You seem vexed? Can it be that you disapprove of my design?

Arnolphe. No; but I was thinking…

Horace. This conversation wearies you? Farewell. I will soon pay you a visit to return thanks.

Arnolphe (thinking himself alone). What! must it…

Horace (returning). Once again, pray be discreet; do not go and spread my secret abroad.

Arnolphe (thinking himself alone). I feel within my soul…

Horace (returning again). And above all to my father, who would perhaps get enraged, if he knew of it.

Arnolphe (expecting HORACE to return again). Oh!…

Scene VII. Arnolphe, alone.

OH, WHAT I have endured during this conversation! Never was trouble of mind equal to mine! With what rashness and extreme haste did he come to tell me of this affair! Though my second name keeps him at fault, did ever any blunderer run on so furiously? But, having endured so much, I ought to have refrained until I had learned that which I have reason to fear, to have drawn out his foolish chattering to the end, and ascertained their secret understanding completely. Let me try to overtake him; I fancy he is not far off. Let me worm from him the whole mystery. I tremble for the misfortune which may befall me; for we often seek more than we wish to find.

ACT II

Scene I. Arnolphe, alone.

IT IS NO doubt well, when I think of it, that I have lost my way, and failed to find him; for after all, I should not have been able entirely to conceal from his eyes the overwhelming pang of my heart. The grief that preys upon me would have broken forth, and I do not wish him to know what he is at present ignorant of. But I am not the man to put up with this, and leave a free field for this young spark to pursue his design. I am resolved to check his progress, and learn, without delay, how far they understand each other. My honour is specially involved in this. I regard her already as my wife. She cannot have made a slip without covering me with shame; and whatever she does will be placed to my account. Fatal absence! Unfortunate voyage! (Knocks at his door.)

Scene II. Arnolphe, Alain, Georgette.

ALAIN. AH, MASTER, this time…

Arnolphe. Peace. Come here, both of you. That way, that way. Come along, come, I tell you.

Georgette. Ah, you frighten me; all my blood runs cold.

Arnolphe. Is it thus you have obeyed me in my absence? You have both combined to betray me!

Georgette (falling at Arnolphe’s feet). Oh, master, do not eat me, I implore you.

Alain (aside). I am sure some mad dog has bitten him.

Arnolphe (aside). Ugh, I cannot speak, I am so filled with rage. I am choking, and should like to throw off my clothes… (to Alain and Georgette). You cursed scoundrels, you have permitted a man to come… (to Alain, who tries to escape). You would run away, would you! You must this instant… (to Georgette). If you move…Now I wish you to tell me… (to Alain). Hi!…Yes, I wish you both… (Alain and Georgette rise, and again try to escape) …Whoever of you moves, upon my word, I shall knock him down. How came that man into my house? Now speak. Make haste, quick, directly, instantly, no thinking! Will you speak?

Both. Oh, oh!

Georgette (falling at his kness). My heart fails me!

Alain (falling at his knees). I am dying.

Arnolphe (aside). I perspire all over. Let me take a breath. I must fan myself, and walk about. Could I believe, when I saw Horace as a little boy, that he would grow up for this? Heaven, how I suffer! I think it would be better that I should gently draw from Agnès’ own mouth an account of what touches me so. Let me try to moderate my anger. Patience, my heart; softly, softly. (To Alain and Georgette.)  Rice, go in, and bid Agnès come to me…Stay, her surprise would be less. They will go and tell her how uneasy I am. I will go myself and bring her out. (To Alain and Georgette.)  Wait for me here.

Scene III. Alain, Georgette.

GEORGETTE. HEAVENS, HOW terrible he is! His looks made me afraid — horribly afraid. Never did I see a more hideous Christian.

Alain. This gentleman has vexed him; I told you so.

Georgette. But what on earth is the reason that he so strictly makes us keep our mistress in the house? Why does he wish to hide her from all the world, and cannot bear to see any one approach her?

Alain. Because that makes him jealous.

Georgette. But how has he got such a fancy in his head?

Alain. Because…because he is jealous.

Georgette. Yes; but wherefore is he so? and why this anger?

Alain. Because jealousy…understand me, Georgette, jealousy is a thing…a thing…which makes people uneasy …and which drives folk all round the house. I am going to give you an example, so that you may understand the thing better. Tell me, is it not true that, when you have your broth in your hand, and some hungry person comes up to eat it, you would be in a rage, and be ready to beat him?

Georgette. Yes, I understand that.

Alain. It is just the same. Woman is in fact the broth of man; and when a man sees other folks sometimes, trying to dip their fingers in his broth, he soon displays extreme anger at it.

Georgette. Yes; but why does not every one do the same? Why do we see some who appear to be pleased when their wives are with handsome fine gentlemen?

Alain. Because every one has not the greedy love which will give nothing away.

Georgette. If I am not blind, I see him returning.

Alain. Your eyes are good; it is he.

Georgette. See how vexed he is.

Alain. That is because he is in trouble.

Scene IV. Arnolphe, Algeorgette.

ARNOLPHE (ASIDE). A certain Greek told the Emperor Augustus, as an axiom as useful as it was true, that when any accident puts us in a rage, we should, first of all, repeat the alphabet; so that in the interval our anger may abate, and we may do nothing that we ought not to do. I have followed his advice in the matter of Agnès; and I have brought her here designedly, under pretence of taking a walk, so that the suspicions of my disordered mind may cunningly lead her to the topic, and, by sounding her heart, gently find out the truth.

Scene V. Arnolphe, Agnès, Alain, Georgette.

ARNOLPHE. COME, AGNÈS. (To Alain and Georgette.)  Get you in.

Scene VI. Arnolphe, Agnès.

ARNOLPHE. THIS IS a nice walk.

Agnès. Very nice.

Arnolphe. What a fine day.

Agnès. Very fine.

Arnolphe. What news?

Agnès. The kitten is dead.

Arnolphe. Pity! But what then? We are all mortal, and every one is for himself. Did it rain when I was in the country?

Agnès. No.

Arnolphe. Were you not wearied?

Agnès. I am never wearied.

Arnolphe. What did you do then, these nine or ten days?

Agnès. Six shirts, I think, and six nightcaps also.

Arnolphe (after musing). The world, dear Agnès, is a strange place. Observe the scandal, and how everybody gossips. Some of the neighbours have told me that an unknown young man came to the house in my absence; that you permitted him to see and talk to you. But I did not believe these slandering tongues, and I offered to bet that it was false…

Agnès. Oh, Heaven, do not bet; you would assuredly lose.

Arnolphe. What! It is true that a man…

Agnès. Quite true. I declare to you that he was scarcely ever out of the house.

Arnolphe (aside). This confession, so candidly made, at least assures me of her simplicity. (Aloud.)  But I think, Agnès, if my memory is clear, that I forbade you to see any one.

Agnès. Yes; but you do not know why I saw him; you would doubtless have done as much.

Arnolphe. Possibly; but tell me then how it was.

Agnès. It is very wonderful, and hard to believe. I was on the balcony, working in the open air, when I saw a handsome young man passing close to me under the trees, who, seeing me look at him, immediately bowed very respectfully. I, not to be rude, made him a curtsey. Suddenly he made another bow; I quickly made another curtsey; and when he repeated it for the third time, I answered it directly with a third curtsey. He went on, returned, went past again, and each time made me another bow. And I, who was looking earnestly at all these acts of politeness, returned him as many curtseys; so that if night had not fallen just then, I should have kept on continually in that way; not wishing to yield, and have the vexation of his thinking me less civil than himself.

Arnolphe. Very good.

Agnès. Next day, being at the door, an old woman accosted me, and said to me something like this: “My child, may good Heaven bless you, and keep you long in all your beauty. It did not make you such a lovely creature to abuse its gifts; you must know that you have wounded a heart which to-day is driven to complain.’’

Arnolphe (aside). Oh, tool of Satan! damnable wretch!

Agnès. “Have I wounded any one? “ I answered, quite astonished. “Yes, “ she said, “wounded; you have indeed wounded a gentleman. It is him you saw yesterday from the balcony. “ “Alas! “ said I, “what could have been the cause? Did I, without thinking, let anything fall on him? “ “No, “ replied she; “it was your eyes which gave the fatal blow; from their glances came all his injury. “ “Alas! good Heaven, “ said I, “I am more than ever surprised. Do my eyes contain something bad, that they can give it to other people? “ “Yes, “ cried she, “your eyes, my girl, have a poison to hurt withal, of which you know nothing. In a word, the poor fellow pines away; and if, “ continued the charitable old woman, “your cruelty refuses him assistance, it is likely he shall be carried to his grave in a couple of days. “ “Bless me! “ said I, “I would be very sorry for that; but what assistance does he require of me? “ “My child, “ said she, “he requests only the happiness of seeing and conversing with you. Your eyes alone can prevent his ruin, and cure the disease they have caused. “ “Oh! gladly, “ said I; “and, since it is so, he may come to see me here as often as he likes.’’

Arnolphe (aside). O cursed witch! poisoner of souls! may hell reward your charitable tricks!

Agnès. That is how he came to see me, and got cured. Now tell me, frankly, if I was not right? And could I, after all, have the conscience to let him die for lack of aid? — I, who feel so much pity for suffering people, and cannot see a chicken die without weeping!

Arnolphe (aside). All this comes only from an innocent soul; I blame my imprudent absence for it, which left this kindliness of heart without a protector, exposed to the wiles of artful seducers. I fear that the rascal, in his bold passion, has carried the matter somewhat beyond a joke.

Agnès. What ails you? I think you are a little angry. Was there anything wrong in what I have told you?

Arnolphe. No. But tell me what followed, and how the young man behaved during his visits.

Agnès. Alas! if you but knew how delightful he was; how he got rid of his illness as soon as I saw him, the present he made me of a lovely casket, and the money which Alain and Georgette have had from him, you would no doubt love him, and say, as we say…

Arnolphe. Yes. But what did he do when he was alone with you?

Agnès. He swore that he loved me with an unequalled passion, and said the prettiest words possible, things that nothing ever can equal, the sweetness of which charms me whenever I hear him speak, and moves I know not what within me.

Arnolphe (aside). Oh! sad inquiry into a fatal mystery, in which the inquirer alone suffers all the pain. (Aloud.)  Besides all these speeches, all these pretty compliments, did he not also bestow a few caresses on you?

Agnès. Oh, so many! He took my hands and my arms, and was never tired of kissing them.

Arnolphe. Agnès, did he take nothing else from you? (Seeing her confused.)  Ugh!

Agnès. Why, he…

Arnolphe. What?

Agnès. Took…

Arnolphe. Ugh!

Agnès. The…

Arnolphe. Well?

Agnès. I dare not tell you; you will perhaps be angry with me.

Arnolphe. No.

Agnès. Yes, but you will.

Arnolphe. Good Heavens! no.

Agnès. Swear on your word.

Arnolphe. On my word, then.

Agnès. He took my…You will be in a passion.

Arnolphe. No.

Agnès. Yes.

Arnolphe. No, no, no, no! What the devil is this mystery? What did he take from you?

Agnès. He…

Arnolphe (aside). I am suffering the torments of the damned.

Agnès. He took away from me the ribbon you gave me. To tell you the truth, I could not prevent him.

Arnolphe (drawing his breath). Oh! let the ribbon go. But I want to know if he did nothing to you but kiss your arms.

Agnès. Why! do people do other things?

Arnolphe. Not at all. But, to cure the disorder which he said had seized him, did he not ask you for any other remedy?

Agnès. No. You may judge that I would have granted him anything to do him good, if he had asked for it.

Arnolphe (aside). By the kindness of Heaven, I am cheaply out of it! May I be blessed if I fall into such a mistake again! (Aloud). Pooh! That is the result of your innocence, Agnès. I shall say no more about it. What is done is done. I know that, by flattering you, the gallant only wishes to deceive you, and to laugh at you afterwards.

Agnès. Oh, no! He told me so more than a score of times.

Arnolphe. Ah! you do not know that he is not to be believed. But, now, learn that to accept caskets, and to listen to the nonsense of these handsome fops, to allow them languidly to kiss your hands and charm your heart, is a mortal sin, and one of the greatest that can be committed.

Agnès. A sin, do you say? And why, pray?

Arnolphe. Why? The reason is the absolute law that Heaven is incensed by such things.

Agnès. Incensed! But why should it be incensed? Ah, it is so sweet and agreeable! How strange is the joy one feels from all this; up to this time I was ignorant of these things.

Arnolphe. Yes, all these tender passages, these pretty speeches and sweet caresses, are a great pleasure; but they must be enjoyed in an honest manner, and their sin should be taken away by marriage.

Agnès. Is it no longer a sin when one is married?

Arnolphe. No.

Agnès. Then please marry me quickly.

Arnolphe. If you wish it, I wish it also; I have returned hither for the purpose of marrying you.

Agnès. Is that possible?

Arnolphe. Yes.

Agnès. How happy you will make me!

Arnolphe. Yes, I have no doubt that marriage will please you.

Agnès. Then we two shall…

Arnolphe. Nothing is more certain.

Agnès. How I shall caress you, if this comes to pass.

Arnolphe. Ha! And I shall do the same to you.

Agnès. I can never tell when people are jesting. Do you speak seriously?

Arnolphe. Yes, you might see that I do.

Agnès. We are to be married?

Arnolphe. Yes.

Agnès. But when?

Arnolphe. This very evening.

Agnès (laughing). This very evening?

Arnolphe. This very evening. Does that make you laugh?

Agnès. Yes.

Arnolphe. To see you happy is my desire.

Agnès. Oh, how greatly I am obliged to you, and what satisfaction I shall have with him!

Arnolphe. With whom?

Agnès. With…him there…

Arnolphe. Him there! I am not speaking of him there. You are a little quick in selecting a husband. In a word, it is some one else whom I have ready for you. And as for that gentleman, I require, by your leave (though the illness of which he accuses you should be the death of him) , that henceforth you break off all intercourse with him; that, when he comes to the house, you will, by way of compliment, just shut the door in his face; throw a stone out of the window at him when he knocks, and oblige him in good earnest never to appear again. Do you hear me, Agnès? I shall observe your behaviour, concealed in a recess.

Agnès. Oh dear, he is so handsome! He is…

Arnolphe. Ha! How you are talking!

Agnès. I shall not have the heart…

Arnolphe. No more chatter. Go up stairs.

Agnès. But surely! Will you…

Arnolphe. Enough. I am master; I command; do you go and obey.

ACT III

Scene I. Arnolphe, Agnès, Alain, Georgette.

ARNOLPHE. YES, ALL has gone well; my joy is extreme. You have obeyed my orders to perfection, and brought the fair seducer to utter confusion. See what it is to have a wise counsellor. Your innocence, Agnès, had been betrayed; look what you had been brought to, before you had been aware of it. You were treading, deprived of my warning, right-down the broad path to hell and perdition. The way of all these young fops is but too well known. They have their fine rolls, plenty of ribbons and plumes, big wigs, good teeth, a smooth address; but I tell you they have the cloven foot beneath; and they are very devils, whose corrupt appetites try to prey upon the honour of women. This time, however, thanks to the care that has been taken, you have escaped with your virtue. The style in which I saw you throw that stone at him, which has dashed the hopes of all his plans, still more determines me not to delay the marriage for which I told you to prepare. But, before all, it is well I should speak a few words with you which may be salutary. (To Georgette and Alain). Bring out a chair in the open air. As for you, if you ever…

Georgette. We shall take care to remember all your instructions, that other gentleman imposed on us, but…

Alain. If he ever gets in here, may I never drink another drop. Besides he is a fool. He gave us two gold crowns the other day, which were under weight.

Arnolphe. Well, get what I ordered for supper; and as to the contract I spoke of, let one of you fetch the notary who lives at the corner of the market-place.

Scene II. Arnolphe, Agnes.

ARNOLPHE (SEATED). AGNÈS, put your work down, and listen to me. Raise your head a little, and turn your face round. (Putting his finger on his forehead.)  There, look at me here while I speak, and take good note of even the smallest word. I am going to wed you, Agnès; you ought to bless your stars a hundred times a day, to think of your former low estate, and at the same time, to wonder at my goodness in raising you from a poor country girl to the honourable rank of a citizen’s wife; to enjoy the bed and the embraces of a man who has shunned all such trammels, and whose heart has refused to a score of women, well fitted to please, the honour which he intends to confer on you. You must always keep in mind, I say, how insignificant you would be without this glorious alliance, in order that the picture may teach you the better to merit the condition in which I shall place you, and make you always know yourself, so that I may never repent of what I am doing. Marriage, Agnès, is no joke. The position of a wife calls for strict duties; I do not mean to exalt you to that condition, in order that you may be free and take your ease. Your sex is formed for dependence. Omnipotence goes with the beard. Though there are two halves in the connection, yet these two halves are by no means equal. The one half is supreme, and the other subordinate: the one is all submission to the other which rules; the obedience which the well disciplined soldier shows to his leader, the servant to his master, a child to his parent, the lowest monk to his superior, is far below the docility, obedience, humility, and profound respect due from the wife to her husband, her chief, her lord, and her master. When he looks at her gravely, her duty is at once to lower her eyes, never daring to look him in the face, until he chooses to favour her with a tender glance. Our women now-a-days do not understand this; but do not be spoiled by the example of others. Take care not to imitate those miserable flirts whose pranks are talked of all over the city; and do not let the evil one tempt you, that is, do not listen to any young coxcomb. Remember, Agnès, that, in making you part of myself, I give my honour into your hands, which honour is fragile, and easily damaged; that it will not do to trifle in such a matter, and that there are boiling cauldrons in hell, into which wives who live wickedly are thrown for evermore. I am not telling you a parcel of stories; you ought to let these lessons sink into your heart. If you practice them sincerely, and take care not to flirt, your soul will ever be white and spotless as a lily; but if you stain your honour, it will become as black as coal. You will seem hideous to all, and one day you will become the devil’s own property, and boil in hell to all eternity — from which may the goodness of Heaven defend you! Make a curtsey. As a novice in a convent ought to know her duties by heart, so it ought to be on getting married: here in my pocket I have an important document which will teach you the duty of a wife. I do not know the author, but it is some good soul or other; and I desire that this shall be your only study. (Rises.)  Stay. Let me see if you can read it fairly.

Agnès (reads). “The Maxims of Marriage; or the Duties of a Wife; together with her Daily Exercise.
“First Maxim.
“She who is honourably wed should remember, notwithstanding the fashion now-a-days, that the man who marries does not take a wife for anyone but himself.’’

Arnolphe. I shall explain what that means, but at present let us only read.

Agnès (continues) —
“Second Maxim.
“She ought not to bedeck herself more than her husband likes. The care of her beauty concerns him alone; and if others think her plain, that must go for nothing.
“Third Maxim.
“Far from her be the study of ogling, washes, paints, pomatums, and the thousand preparations for a good complexion. These are ever fatal poisons to honour; and the pains bestowed to look beautiful are seldom taken for a husband.

“Fourth Maxim.
“When she goes out, she should conceal the glances of her eyes beneath her hood, as honour requires; for in order to please her husband rightly, she should please none else.
“Fifth Maxim.
“It is fit that she receive none but those who visit her husband. The gallants that have no business but with the wife, are not agreeable to the husband.
“Sixth Maxim.
“She must firmly refuse presents from men, for in these days nothing is given for nothing.
“Seventh Maxim.
“Amongst her furniture, however she dislikes it, there must be neither writing-desk, ink, paper, nor pens. According to all good rules everything written in the house should be written by the husband.
“Eighth Maxim.
“Those disorderly meetings, called social gatherings, ever corrupt the minds of women. It is good policy to forbid them; for there they conspire against the poor husbands.
“Ninth Maxim.
“Every woman who wishes to preserve her honour should abstain from gambling as a plague; for play is very seductive, and often drives a woman to put down her last stake.
“Tenth Maxim.
“She must not venture on public promenades nor picnics; for wise men are of opinion that it is always the husband who pays for such treats.
“Eleventh Maxim…’’

Arnolphe. You shall finish it by yourself; and, by and by, I shall explain these things to you properly, word for word. I bethink myself of an engagement. I have but one word to say, and I shall not stay long. Go in again, and take special care of this volume. If the notary comes, let him wait for me a short time.

Scene III. Arnolphe, alone.

I CANNOT DO better than make her my wife. I shall be able to mould her as I please; she is like a bit of wax in my hands, and I can give her what shape I like. She was near being wiled away from me in my absence through her excess of simplicity; but, to say the truth, it is better that a wife should err on that side. The cure for these faults is easy; every simple person is docile; and if she is led out of the right way, a couple of words will instantly bring her back again. But a clever woman is quite another sort of animal. Our lot depends only on her judgment; nought can divert her from what she is set on, and our teaching in such a case is futile. Her wit avails her to ridicule our maxims, often to turn her vices into virtues, and to find means to cheat the ablest, so as to compass her own ends. We labour in vain to parry the blow; a clever woman is a devil at intrigue, and when her whim has mutely passed sentence on our honour, we must knock under. Many good fellows could tell as much. But my blundering friend shall have no cause to laugh; he has reaped the harvest of his gossip. This is the general fault of Frenchmen. When they have a love adventure, secrecy bores them, and silly vanity has so many charms for them, that they would rather hang themselves than hold their tongues. Ah! women are an easy prey to Satan when they go and choose such addle-pates! And when…But here he is…I must dissemble, and find out how he has been mortified.

Scene IV. Horace, Arnolphe.

HORACE. I AM come from your house. Fate seems resolved that I shall never meet you there. But I shall go so often that some time or other…

Arnolphe. Bah, for goodness’ sake, do not let us begin these idle compliments. Nothing vexes me like ceremony; and, if I could have my way, it should be abolished. It is a wretched custom, and most people foolishly waste two-thirds of their time on it. Let us put on our hats, without more ado. (Puts on his hat.)  Well, how about your love affair? May I know, Mr. Horace, how it goes? I was diverted for a while by some business that came into my head; but since then I have been thinking of it. I admire the rapidity of your commencement, and am interested in the issue.

Horace. Indeed, since I confided in you, my love has been unfortunate.

Arnolphe. Ay! How so?

Horace. Cruel fate has brought her governor back from the country.

Arnolphe. What bad luck!

Horace. Moreover, to my great sorrow, he has discovered what has passed in private between us.

Arnolphe. How the deuce could he discover this affair so soon?

Horace. I do not know; but it certainly is so. I meant, at the usual hour, to pay a short visit to my young charmer, when, with altered voice and looks, her two servants barred my entrance, and somewhat rudely shut the door in my face, saying “Begone, you bring us into trouble!’’

Arnolphe. The door in your face!

Horace. In my face.

Arnolphe. That was rather hard.

Horace. I wished to speak to them through the door; but to all I said their only answer was, “You shan’t come in; master has forbidden it.’’

Arnolphe. Did they not open the door then?

Horace. No. And Agnès from the window made me more certain as to her master’s return, by bidding me begone in a very angry tone, and flinging a stone at me into the bargain.

Arnolphe. What, a stone?

Horace. Not a small one either; that was how she rewarded my visit with her own hands.

Arnolphe. The devil! These are no trifles. Your affair seems to me in a bad way.

Horace. True, I am in a quandary through this unlucky return.

Arnolphe. Really I am sorry for you; I declare I am.

Horace. This fellow mars all.

Arnolphe. Yes, but that is nothing. You will find a way to recover yourself.

Horace. I must try by some device to baffle the strict watch of this jealous fellow.

Arnolphe. That will be easy: after all the girl loves you.

Horace. Doubtless.

Arnolphe. You will compass your end.

Horace. I hope so.

Arnolphe. The stone has put you out, but you cannot wonder at it.

Horace. True; and I understood in a moment that my rival was there, and that he was directing all without being seen. But what surprised me, and will surprise you, is another incident I am going to tell you of; a bold stroke of this lovely girl, which one could not have expected from her simplicity. Love, it must be allowed, is an able master; he teaches us to be what we never were before; a complete change in our manners is often the work of a moment under his tuition. He breaks through the impediments in our nature, and his sudden feats have the air of miracles. In an instant he makes the miser liberal, a coward brave, a churl polite. He renders the dullest soul fit for anything, and gives wit to the most simple. Yes, this last miracle is surprising in Agnès; for, blurting out these very words: “Begone, I am resolved never to receive your visits. I know all you would say, and there is my answer!’’ — this stone, or pebble, at which you are surprised, fell at my feet, with a letter. I greatly admire this note, chiming in with the significance of her words, and the casting of the stone. Are you not surprised by such an action as this? Does not love know how to sharpen the understanding? And can it be denied that his ardent flames have marvellous effects on the heart? What say you of the trick, and of the letter? Ah, do you not admire her cunning contrivance? Is it not amusing to see what a part my jealous rival has played in all this game? Say…

Arnolphe. Ay, very amusing.

Horace. Laugh at it, then. (Arnolphe forces a laugh.)  This fellow, garrisoned against my passion, who shuts himself up in his house, and seems provided with stones, as though I were preparing to enter by storm, who, in his ridiculous terror, encourages all his household to drive me away, is tricked before his very eyes by her whom he would keep in the utmost ignorance! For my part, I confess that, although his return throws my love affair in disorder, I think all this so exceedingly comical, that I cannot forbear laughing at it whenever it comes into my head. It seems to me that you do not laugh at if half enough.

Arnolphe (with a forced laugh). I beg pardon; I laugh at it as much as I can.

Horace. But I must shew you her letter, for friendship’s sake. Her hand knew how to set down all that her heart felt; but in such touching terms, so kind, so innocently tender, so ingenuous — in a word, just as an unaffected nature confesses its first attack of love.

Arnolphe (softly). This is the use you make of writing, you hussy. It was against my wish you ever learned it.

Horace (reads). “I wish to write to you, but I am at a loss how to begin. I have some thoughts which I should like you to know; but I do not know how to tell them to you, and I mistrust my own words. As I begin to feel that I have been always kept in ignorance, I fear to say something which is not right, and to express more than I ought. In fact I do not know what you have done to me; but I feel that I am desperately vexed at what I am made to do against you, that it will be the hardest thing in the world for me to do without you, and that I should be very glad to be with you. Perhaps it is wrong to say that, but the truth is I cannot help saying it, and I wish it could be brought about without harm. I am assured that all young men are deceivers, that they must not be listened to, and that all you told me was but to deceive me; but I assure you I have not yet come to believe that of you, and I am so touched by your words that I could not believe them false. Tell me frankly if they be: for, to be brief, as I am without an evil thought, you would be extremely wicked to deceive me, and I think I should die of vexation at such a thing.’’

Arnolphe (aside). Ah, the cat!

Horace. What is wrong?

Arnolphe. Wrong? Nothing! I was only coughing.

Horace. Have you ever heard a more tender expression? In spite of the cursed endeavours of unreasonable power, could you imagine a more genuine nature? Is it not beyond doubt a terrible crime villainously to mar such an admirable spirit, to try to stifle this bright soul in ignorance and stupidity? Love has begun to tear away the veil, and if, thanks to some lucky star, I can deal, as I hope, with this sheer animal, this wretch, this hang-dog, this scoundrel, this brute…

Arnolphe. Good-bye.

Horace. Why are you in such a hurry?

Arnolphe. It just occurs to me that I have a pressing engagement.

Horace. But do you not know anyone, for you live close by, who could get access to this house? I am open with you, and it is the usual thing for friends to help each other in these cases. I have no one there now except people who watch me; maid and man, as I just experienced, would not cease their rudeness and listen to me, do what I would. I had for some time in my interest an old woman of remarkable shrewdness; in fact more than human. She served me well in the beginning; but the poor woman died four days ago. Can you not devise some plan for me?

Arnolphe. No, really. You will easily find some one without me.

Horace. Good-bye then. You see what confidence I put in you.

Scene V. Arnolphe, alone.

HOW I AM obliged to suffer before him! How hard it is to conceal my gnawing pain! What! Such ready wit in a simpleton? The traitress has pretended to be so to my face, or the devil has breathed this cunning into her heart. But now that cursed letter is the death of me. I see that the rascal has corrupted her mind, and has established himself there in my stead. This is despair and deadly anguish for me. I suffer doubly by being robbed of her heart, for love as well as honour is injured by it. It drives me mad to find my place usurped, and I am enraged to see my prudence defeated. I know that to punish her guilty passion I have only to leave her to her evil fate, and that I shall be revenged on her by herself; but it is very vexatious to lose what we love. Good Heaven! after employing so much philosophy in my choice, why am I to be so terribly bewitched by her charms? She has neither relatives, friends, nor money; she abuses my care, my kindness, my tenderness; and yet I love her to distraction, even after this base trick! Fool, have you no shame? Ah, I cannot contain myself; I am mad; I could punch my head a thousand times over. I shall go in for a little; but only to see what she looks like after so vile a deed. Oh, Heaven, grant that my brow may escape dishonour; or rather, if it is decreed that I must endure it, at least grant me, under such misfortunes, that fortitude with which few are endowed.

ACT IV

Scene I. Arnolphe, alone.

I DECLARE I cannot rest anywhere; my mind is troubled by a thousand cares, thinking how to contrive, both indoors and out, so as to frustrate the attempts of this coxcomb. With what assurance the traitress stood the sight of me! She is not a whit moved by all that she has done, and though she has brought me within an inch of the grave, one could swear, to look at her, that she had no hand in it. The more composed she looked when I saw her, the more I was enraged, and those ardent transports which inflamed my heart seemed to redouble my great love for her. I was provoked, angry, incensed against her, and yet I never saw her look so lovely. Her eyes never seemed to me so bright; never before did they inspire me with such vehement desires; I feel that it will be the death of me, if my evil destiny should bring upon me this disgrace. What! I have brought her up with so much tenderness and forethought; I have had her with me from her infancy; I have indulged in the fondest hopes about her; my heart trusted to her growing charms; I have fondled her as my own for thirteen years, as I imagined — all for a young fool, with whom she is in love, to come and carry her off before my face, and that when she is already half married to me! No, by Heaven — no, by Heaven, my foolish young friend; you will be a cunning fellow to overturn my scheme, for, upon my word, all your hopes will be in vain, and you shall find no reason for laughing at me!

Scene II. A Notary, Arnolphe.

NOTARY. AH, THERE he is. Good-day. Here I am, ready to draw up the contract which you wish.

Arnolphe (not seeing or bearing him). How is it to be done?

Notary. It must be in the usual form.

Arnolphe (thinking himself alone). I shall take the greatest possible care.

Notary. I shall do nothing contrary to your interests.

Arnolphe (not seeing him). I must guard against all surprise.

Notary. It is enough that your affairs are placed in my hands. For fear of deception, you must not sign the contract before receiving the portion.

Arnolphe (thinking himself alone). I fear, if I let anything get abroad, that this business will become town talk.

Notary. Well, it is easy to avoid this publicity, and your contract can be drawn up privately.

Arnolphe (thinking himself alone). But how shall I manage it with her?

Notary. The jointure should be proportionate to the fortune she brings you.

Arnolphe (not seeing him). I love her, and that love is my great difficulty.

Notary. In that case the wife may have so much the more.

Arnolphe (thinking himself alone). How can I act towards her in such a case?

Notary. The regular way is that the husband that is to be settles on the wife that is to be a third of her marriage portion as a jointure; but this rule goes for nothing, and you may do a great deal more if you have a mind to it.

Arnolphe. If… (seeing him) .

Notary. As for the préciput, that is a question for both sides. I say the husband can settle on his wife what he thinks proper.

Arnolphe. Eh?

Notary. He can benefit her, when he loves her much, and wishes to do her a favour, and that by way of jointure, or settlement as it is called, which is lost upon her death; either without reversion, going from her to her heirs, or by statute, as people have a mind, or by actual deed of gift in form, which may be made either single or mutual. Why do you shrug your shoulders? Am I talking like a fool, or do I not understand contracts? Who can teach me? No one, I imagine. Do I not know that when people are married, they have a joint right to all moveables, moneys, fixtures, and acquisitions, unless they resign it by act of renunciation? Do I not know that a third part of the portion of the wife that is to be becomes common, in order…

Arnolphe. Yes, verily, you know all this; but who has said one word to you about it?

Notary. You, who seem to take me for a fool, shrugging your shoulders, and making faces at me.

Arnolphe. Hang the man his beastly face! Good day: that’s the way to get rid of you.

Notary. Was I not brought here to draw up a contract?

Arnolphe. Yes, I sent for you. But the business is put off; I shall send for you again when the time is fixed. What a devil of a fellow he is with his jabbering!

Notary (alone). I think he is mad, and I believe I am right.

Scene III. A Notary, Alain, Georgette.

NOTARY. DID YOU not come to fetch me to your master?

Alain. Yes.

Notary. I do not know what you think; but go and tell him from me that he is a downright fool.

Georgette. We will not fail.

Scene IV. Arnolphe, Alain, Georgette.

GEORGETTE. SIR…

Arnolphe. Come here! You are my faithful, my good, my real friends; I have news for you.

Alain. The notary…

Arnolphe. Never mind; some other day for that. A foul plot is contrived against my honour. What a disgrace it would be for you, my children, if your master’s honour were taken away! After that, you would not dare to be seen anywhere; for whoever saw you would point at you. So, since the affair concerns you as well as me, you must take care that this spark may not in any way…

Georgette. You have taught us our lesson just now.

Arnolphe. But take care not to listen to his fine speeches.

Alain. Oh, certainly…

Georgette. We know how to deny him.

Arnolphe. Suppose he should come now, wheedling: “Alain, my good fellow, cheer my drooping spirits by a little help.’’

Alain. You are a fool.

Arnolphe. You are right! (To Georgette.)  “Georgette, my darling, you look so sweet-tempered and so kind!’’

Georgette. You are a lout.

Arnolphe. You are right. (To Alain). “What harm do you find in an honest and perfectly virtuous scheme?’’

Alain. You are a rogue.

Arnolphe. Capital! (To Georgette.)  “I shall surely die if you do not take pity on my sufferings.’’

Georgette. You are a brazen-faced blockhead.

Arnolphe. First-rate! (To Alain.)  “I am not one who expects something for nothing; I can remember those who serve me. Here, Alain, is a trifle in advance, to have a drink with; and, Georgette, here is wherewith to buy you a petticoat. (Both hold out their hands and take the money.)  This is only an earnest of what I intend to do for you; I ask no other favour but that you will let me see your pretty mistress.’’

Georgette (pushing him). Try your games elsewhere.

Arnolphe. That was good.

Alain (pushing him). Get out of this.

Arnolphe. Very good!

Georgette (pushing him). Immediately!

Arnolphe. Good! Hulloa, that is enough.

Georgette. Am I not doing right?

Alain. Is this how you would have us act?

Arnolphe. Yes, capital; except for the money, which you must not take.

Georgette. We did not think of that.

Alain. Shall we begin again now?

Arnolphe. No. It is enough. Go in, both of you.

Alain. You need only say so.

Arnolphe. No, I tell you; go in when I desire you. You may keep the money. Go. I shall soon be with you again; keep your eyes open, and second my efforts.

Scene V. Arnolphe, alone.

I WILL GET the cobbler, who lives at the corner of the street, to be my spy, and tell me everything. I mean to keep her always indoors, watch her constantly…and banish in particular all sellers of ribbons, tire-women, hair-dressers, kerchief-makers, glove-sellers, dealers in cast-off apparel, and all those folks who make it their business clandestinely to bring people together who are in love. In fact, I have seen the world, and understand its tricks. My spark must be very cunning if a love-letter or message gets in here.

Scene VI. Horace, Arnolphe.

HORACE. HOW LUCKY I am to meet you here! I had a narrow escape just now, I can assure you. As I left you, I unexpectedly saw Agnès alone on her balcony, breathing the fresh air from the neighbouring trees. After giving me a sign, she contrived to come down into the garden and open the door. But we were scarcely into her room before she heard her jealous gentleman upon the stairs; and all she could do in such a case was to lock me into a large wardrobe. He entered the room at once. I did not see him, but I heard him walking up and down at a great rate, without saying a word, but sighing desperately at intervals, and occasionally thumping the table, striking a little frisky dog, and madly throwing about whatever came in his way. In his rage he broke the very vases with which the beauty had adorned her mantel-piece; doubtless the tricks she played must have come to the ears of this cuckold in embryo. At last, having in a score of ways vented his passion on things that could not help themselves, my restless jealous gentleman left the room without saying what disturbed him, and I left my wardrobe. We would not stay long together, for fear of my rival; it would have been too great a risk. But late to-night I am to enter her room without making a noise. I am to announce myself by three hems, and then the window is to be opened; whereby, with a ladder, and the help of Agnès, my love will try to gain me admittance. I tell you this as my only friend. Joy is increased by imparting it; and should we taste perfect bliss a hundred times over, It would not satisfy us unless it were known to some one. I believe you will sympathize in my success. Good-bye. I am going to make the needful preparations.

Scene VII. Arnolphe, alone.

WHAT, WILL THE star which is bent on driving me to despair allow me no time to breathe? Am I to see, through their mutual understanding, my watchful care and my wisdom defeated one after another? Must I, in my mature age, become the dupe of a simple girl and a scatter-brained young fellow? For twenty years, like a discreet philosopher, I have been musing on the wretched fate of married men, and have carefully informed myself of the accidents which plunge the most prudent into misfortune. Profiting in my own mind by the disgrace of others, and having a wish to marry, I sought how to secure my forehead from attack, and prevent its being matched with those of other men. For this noble end, I thought I had put in practice all that human policy could invent; but, as though it were decreed by fate that no man here below should be exempt from it, after all my experience and the knowledge I have been able to glean of such matters, after more than twenty years of meditation, so as to guide myself with all precaution, I have avoided the tracks of so many husbands to find myself after all involved in the same disgrace! Ah, cursed fate, you shall yet be a liar! I am still possessor of the loved one! if her heart be stolen by this obnoxious fop, I shall at least take care that he does not seize anything else. This night, which they have chosen for their pretty plan, shall not be spent so agreeably as they anticipate. It is some pleasure to me, amidst all this, to know that he has warned me of the snare he is laying, and that this blunderer, who would be my ruin, makes a confidant of his own rival.

Scene VIII. Chrysalde, Arnolphe.

CHRYSALDE. WELL, SHALL we take our supper before our walk?

Arnolphe. No, I fast to-night.

Chrysalde. Whence this fancy?

Arnolphe. Pray excuse me; there is something that hinders me.

Chrysalde. Is not your intended marriage to take place?

Arnolphe. You take too much trouble about other people’s affairs.

Chrysalde. Oh ho, so snappish? What ails you? Have you encountered any little mishap in your love, my friend? By your face I could almost swear you have.

Arnolphe. Whatever happens, I shall at least have the advantage of being unlike some folks, who meekly suffer the visits of gallants.

Chrysalde. It is an odd thing that, with so much intelligence, you always get so frightened at these matters; that you set your whole happiness on this, and imagine no other kind of honour in the world. To be a miser, a brute, a rogue, wicked and cowardly, is nothing in your mind compared with this stain; and however a man may have lived, he is a man of honour if he is not a cuckold. After all, why do you imagine that our glory depends on such an accident, and that a virtuous mind must reproach itself for the evil which it cannot prevent? Tell me, why do you hold that a man in taking a wife deserves praise or blame for the choice he makes, and why do you form a frightful bugbear out of the offence caused by her want of fidelity? Be persuaded that a man of honour may have a less serious notion of cuckoldom; that as none is secure from strokes of chance, this accident ought to be a matter of indifference; and that all the evil, whatever the world may say, is in the mode of receiving it. To behave well under these difficulties, as in all else, a man must shun extremes; not ape those over-simple folks who are proud of such affairs, and are ever inviting the gallants of their wives, praising them everywhere, and crying them up, displaying their sympathy with them, coming to all their entertainments and all their meetings, and making everyone wonder at their having the assurance to show their faces there. This way of acting is no doubt highly culpable; but the other extreme is no less to be condemned. If I do not approve of such as are the friends of their wives’ gallants; no more do I approve of your violent men whose indiscreet resentment, full of rage and fury, draws the eyes of all the world on them by its noise, and who seem, from their outbreaks, unwilling that any one should be ignorant of what is wrong with them. There is a mean between these extremes, where a wise man stops in such a case. When we know how to take it, there is no reason to blush for the worst a woman can do to us. In short, say what you will, cuckolding may easily be made to seem less terrible; and, as I told you before, all your dexterity lies in being able to turn the best side outwards.

Arnolphe. After this fine harangue, all the brotherhood owes your worship thanks; any one who hears you speak will be delighted to enrol himself.

Chrysalde. I do not say that; for that is what I have found fault with. But as fortune gives us a wife, I say that we should act as we do when we gamble with dice, when, if you do not get what you want, you must be shrewd and good-tempered, to amend your luck by good management.

Arnolphe. That is, sleep and eat well, and persuade yourself that it is all nothing.

Chrysalde. You think to make a joke of it; but, to be candid, I know a hundred things in the world more to be dreaded, and which I should think a much greater misfortune, than the accident you are so grievously afraid of. Do you think that, in choosing between the two alternatives, I should not prefer to be what you say, rather than see myself married to one of those good creatures whose ill-humour makes a quarrel out of nothing — those dragons of virtue, those respectable she-devils, ever piquing themselves on their wise conduct, who, because they do not do us a trifling wrong, take on themselves to behave haughtily, and, because they are faithful to us, expect that we should bear everything for them? Once more, my friend, know that cuckoldom is just what we make of it, that on some accounts it is even to be desired, and that it has its pleasures like other things.

Arnolphe. If you are of a mind to be satisfied with it, I am not disposed to try it myself; and rather than submit to such a thing…

Chrysalde. Bless me! do not swear, lest you should be forsworn. If fate has willed it, your precautions are useless; and your advice will not be taken in the matter.

Arnolphe. I! — I a cuckold!

Chrysalde. You are in a bad way. A thousand folks are so — I mean no offence — who, for bearing, courage, fortune and family, would scorn comparison with you.

Arnolphe. And I, on my side, will not draw comparisons with them. But, let me tell you, this pleasantry annoys me. Let us have done with it, if you please.

Chrysalde. You are in a passion. We shall know the cause. Good-bye; but remember, whatever your honour prompts you to do in this business, to swear you will never be what we have talked of is half-way towards being it.

Arnolphe. And I swear it again! I am going this instant to find a good remedy against such an accident.

Scene IX. Arnolphe, Alain, Georgette.

ARNOLPHE. MY FRIENDS, now is the time that I beg your assistance. I am touched by your affection; but it must be well proved on this occasion; and if you serve me in this, as I am sure you will, you may count on your reward. The man you wot of (but not a word!)  seeks, as I understand, to trick me this very night, and enter, by a ladder, into Agnès’ room. But we three must lay a trap for him. I would have each of you take a good cudgel, and, when he shall be nearly on the top round of the ladder (for I shall open the window at the proper time) , both of you shall fall on the rascal for me, so that his back may be sure to remember it, in order that he may learn never to come here again. Yet do it without naming me in any way, or making it appear that I am behind. Would you have the courage to execute my resentment?

Alain. If the thrashing is all, sir, rely on us. You shall see, when I beat, if I am a slow coach.

Georgette. Though my arm may not look so strong, it shall play its part in the drubbing.

Arnolphe. Get you in, then; and, above all, mind you do not chatter. (Alone.)  This is a useful lesson for my neighbours; if all the husbands in town were to receive their wives’ gallants in this fashion, the number of cuckolds would not be so great.

ACT V

Scene I. Arnolphe, Alain, Georgette.

ARNOLPHE. WRETCHES! WHAT have you done by your violence?

Alain. We have obeyed you, sir.

Arnolphe. It is of no use trying to defend yourselves by such an excuse. My orders were to beat him, not to murder him. I told you to discharge your blows on his back, and not on his head. Good Heavens! into what a plight my fate has now thrown me! And what course can I take, as the man is dead? Go into the house, and be sure to say nothing of the harmless order that I gave you. (Alone.)  It will be daylight presently, and I shall go and consider how to bear myself under this misfortune. Alas! what will become of me? And what will Horace’s father say when he shall suddenly hear of this affair?

Scene II. Arnolphe, Horace.

HORACE (ASIDE). I must go and make out who it is.

Arnolphe (thinking himself alone). Could one ever have foreseen… (Running against Horace.)  Who is there, pray?

Horace. Is it you, M. Arnolphe?

Arnolphe. Yes; but who are you?

Horace. Horace. I was going to your house to beg a favour. You are out very early.

Arnolphe (to himself aside). Wonderful! Is it magic? Is it a vision?

Horace. To tell the truth, I was in a great difficulty; I thank Heaven’s great goodness that at the nick of time I thus meet you. Let me tell you that everything has succeeded, much better even than I could have predicted, and by an accident which might have spoiled all. I do not know how our appointment could possibly have been suspected; but just as I was reaching the window, I unluckily saw some persons, who, unceremoniously raising their hand against me, made me miss my footing, and fall to the ground, which, at the expense of a bruise, saved me from a score of blows. These people, of whom, I fancy, my jealous rival was one, attributed my fall to their blows, and as the pain compelled me to lie for some time motionless, they honestly thought they had killed me, and were greatly alarmed. I heard all their noise in profound silence. Each, accusing the other of the violence, and complaining of their ill fortune, came softly, without a light, to feel if I were dead. You may imagine that I contrived in the darkness of night, to assume the appearance of a real corpse. They went away in great terror; and as I was thinking how I should make my escape, the young Agnès, frightened by my pretended death, came to me in great concern. For the talking of those people had reached her ears from the very first, and, being unobserved during all this commotion, she easily escaped from the house. But finding me unhurt, she displayed a transport which it would be difficult to describe. What more need I say? The lovely girl obeyed the promptings of her affection, would not return to her room, and commited her fate to my honour. You may judge, from this instance of innocence, to what she is exposed by the mad intolerance of a fool, and what frightful risks she might have run, if I were a man to hold her less dear than I do. But too pure a passion fills my soul; I would rather die than wrong her. I see in her charms worthy of a better fate, and nought but death shall part us. I foresee the rage my father will be in. But we must find an opportunity to appease his anger. I cannot help being transported by charms so delightful; and, in short, we must in this life be satisfied with our lot. What I wish you to do, as a confidential friend, is to let me place this beauty under your care; and that, in the interest of my love, you will conceal her in your house for at least a day or two. For, besides that I must conceal her flight from every one, to prevent any successful pursuit of her, you know that a young girl, especially such a beautiful one, would be strongly suspected in the company of a young man; and as I have trusted the whole secret of my passion to you, being assured of your prudence, so to you only, as a generous friend, can I confide this beloved treasure.

Arnolphe. Be assured I am entirely at your service.

Horace. You will really do me so great a favour?

Arnolphe. Very willingly, I tell you; I am delighted at the opportunity of serving you. I thank Heaven for putting it in my way; I never did anything with so much pleasure.

Horace. How much I am obliged to you for all your kindness! I feared a difficulty on your part; but you know the world, and your wisdom can excuse the ardour of youth. One of my servants is with her at the corner of this street.

Arnolphe. But how shall we manage, for day begins to break? If I take her here, I may be seen; and if you come to my house the servants will talk. To take a safe course you must bring her to me in a darker place. That alley of mine is convenient; I shall wait for her there.

Horace. It is quite right to use these precautions. I shall only place her in your hands, and return at once to my lodgings, without more ado.

Arnolphe (alone). Ah, fortune! This propitious accident makes amends for all the mischief which your caprice has done! (He muffles himself up in his cloak.)

Scene III. Agnès, Horace, Arnolphe.

ARNOLPHE. (TO AGNÈS). Do not be uneasy at the place I am taking you to. I conduct you to a safe abode. It would ruin all for you to lodge with me. Go in at this door, and follow where you are led. (ARNOLPHE takes her hand, without being recognised by her.)

Agnès (to Horace). Why do you leave me?

Horace. Dear Agnès, it must be so.

Agnès. Remember, then, I pray you to return soon.

Horace. My love urges me sufficiently for that.

Agnès. I feel no joy but when I see you.

Horace. Away from you I also am sad.

Agnès. Alas, if that were so, you would stay here.

Horace. What! Can you doubt my excessive love?

Agnès. No; you do not love me as much as I love you! Ah, he is pulling me too hard! (Arnolphe pulls her away) .

Horace. It is because it is dangerous, dear Agnès, for us to be seen together here; this true friend, whose hand draws you away, acts with the prudent zeal that inspires him on our behalf.

Agnès. But to follow a stranger…

Horace. Fear nothing. In such hands you cannot but be safe.

Agnès. I would rather be in Horace’s; and I should… (To Arnolphe, who still drags her away). Stay a little.

Horace. Farewell. The day drives me away.

Agnès. When shall I see you, then?

Horace. Very soon, you may be sure.

Agnès. How weary I shall be till I do!
HORACE (going). Thank Heaven, my happiness is no longer in suspense; now I can sleep securely.

Scene IV. Arnolphe, Agnès.

ARNOLPHE (CONCEALED BY his cloak, and disguising his voice). Come; it is not there you are going to lodge. I have provided a room for you elsewhere, and intend to place you where you will be safe enough. (Discovering himself.)  Do you know me?

Agnès. Ah!

Arnolphe. My face frightens you now, hussy; it is a disappointment to you to see me here. I interrupt your love and its pretty contrivances. (Agnès looks for Horace). Do not imagine you can call your lover to your aid with those eyes of yours; he is too far off to give you any assistance. So, so! young as you are, You can play such pranks. Your simplicity, that seemed so extraordinary, asks if infants come through the ear; yet you manage to make an assignation by night, and to slink out silently in order to follow your gallant? Gad, how coaxing your tongue was with him! You must have been at a good school. Who the deuce has taught you so much all on a sudden? You are no longer afraid, then, to meet ghosts; this gallant has given you courage in the night time. Ah, baggage, to arrive at such a pitch of deceit! To form such a plot in spite of all my kindness! Little serpent that I have warmed in my bosom, and that as soon as it feels it is alive, tries ungratefully to injure him that cherished it!

Agnès. Why do you scold me?

Arnolphe. Of a truth, I do wrong!

Agnès. I am not conscious of harm in all that I have done.

Arnolphe. To run after a gallant is not, then, an infamous thing?

Agnès. He is one who says he wishes to marry me. I followed your directions; you can have taught me that we ought to marry in order to avoid sin.

Arnolphe. Yes; but I meant to take you to wife myself; I think I gave you to understand it clearly enough.

Agnès. You did. But, to be frank with you, he is more to my taste for a husband than you. With you, marriage is a trouble and a pain, and your descriptions give a terrible picture of it; but there — he makes it seem so full of joy that I long to marry.

Arnolphe. Oh, traitress, that is because you love him!

Agnès. Yes, I love him.

Arnolphe. And you have the impudence to tell me so!

Agnès. Why, if it is true, should I not say so?

Arnolphe. Ought you to love him, minx?

Agnès. Alas! can I help it? He alone is the cause of it; I was not thinking of it when it came about.

Arnolphe. But you ought to have driven away that amorous desire.

Agnès. How can we drive away what gives us pleasure?

Arnolphe. And did you not know that it would displease me?

Agnès. I? Not at all. What harm can it do you?

Arnolphe. True. I ought to rejoice at it. You do not love me then after all?

Agnès. You?

Arnolphe. Yes.

Agnès. Alack! no.

Arnolphe. How! No?

Agnès. Would you have me tell a fib?

Arnolphe. Why not love me, Madam Impudence?

Agnès. Heaven! you ought not to blame me. Why did you not make yourself loved, as he has done? I did not prevent you, I fancy.

Arnolphe. I tried all I could; but all my pains were to no purpose.

Agnès. Of a truth then he knows more about it than you; for he had no difficulty in making himself loved.

Arnolphe (aside). See how the jade reasons and retorts! Plague! could one of your witty ladies say more about it? Ah, I was a dolt; or else, on my honour, a fool of a girl knows more than the wisest, man. (To Agnès.)  Since you are so good at reasoning, Madam Chop-logic, should I have maintained you so long for his benefit?

Agnès. No. He will pay you back, even to the last farthing.

Arnolphe (aside). She hits on words that double my vexation. (Aloud). With all his ability, hussy, will he discharge me the obligations that you owe me?

Agnès. I do not owe you so much as you may think.

Arnolphe. Was the care of bringing you up nothing?

Agnès. Verily, you have been at great pains there, and have caused me to be finely taught throughout. Do you think I flatter myself so far as not to know in my own mind that I am an ignoramus? I am ashamed of myself, and at my age, I do not wish to pass any longer for a fool, if I can help it.

Arnolphe. You shrink from ignorance, and would learn something of your spark, at any cost.

Agnès. To be sure. It is from him I know what I do know; I fancy I owe him much more than you.

Arnolphe. Really, what prevents me from revenging this saucy talk with a cuff? I am enraged at the sight of her provoking coldness: and to beat her would be a satisfaction to me.

Agnès. Ah, you can do that if you choose.

Arnolphe (aside). That speech and that look disarm my fury, and bring back the tenderness to my heart which effaces all her guilt. How strange it is to be in love! To think that men should be subject to such weakness for these traitresses! Everyone knows their imperfection. They are extravagant and indiscreet. Their mind is wicked and their understanding weak. There is nought weaker, more imbecile, more faithless; and, in spite of all, everything in the world is done for the sake of these bipeds. (To Agnès). Well, let us make peace. Listen, little wretch, I forgive all, and restore you to my affection. Learn thus how much I love you; and, seeing me so good, love me in return.

Agnès. With all my heart I should like to please you, if it were in my power.

Arnolphe. Poor little darling, you can if you will. Just listen to this sigh of love. See this dying look, behold my person, and forsake this young coxcomb and the love he inspires. He must have thrown some spell over you, and you will be a hundred times happier with me. Your desire is to be finely dressed and frolicsome; then I swear you shall ever be so; I will fondle you night and day, I will hug you, kiss you, devour you; you shall do everything you have a mind to. I do not enter into particulars; and that is saying everything. (Aside). To what length will my passion go? (Aloud). In short, nothing can equal my love. What proof would you have me give you, ungrateful girl? Would you have me weep? Shall I beat myself? Shall I tear out one half of my hair? Shall I kill myself? Yes, say so if you will. I am quite ready, cruel creature, to convince you of my love.

Agnès. Stay. All you say does not touch my heart. Horace could do more with a couple of words.

Arnolphe. Ah, this is too great an insult, and provokes my anger too far. I will pursue my design, you intractable brute, and will pack you out of the town forthwith. You reject my addresses and drive me to extremities: but the innermost cell of a convent shall avenge me of all.

Scene V. Arnolphe, Agnès, Alain.

ALAIN. I DO not know how it is, master, but it seems to me that Agnès and the corpse have run away together.

Arnolphe. She is here. Go and shut her up in my room. (Aside). Horace will not come here to see her. Besides, it is only for half an hour. (To ALAIN). Go and get a carriage, for I mean to find her a safe dwelling. Shut yourself safely in, and, above all, do not take your eyes off her. (Alone). Perhaps when her mind is buried in solitude, she will be disabused of this passion.

Scene VI. Horace, Arnolphe.

HORACE. OH, I come here, plunged in grief. Heaven, Mr.Arnolphe has decreed my ill fortune! By a fatal stroke of extreme justice, I am to be torn away from the beauty whom I love. My father arrived this very evening. I found him alighting close by. In a word the reason of his coming, with which, as I said, I was unacquainted, is, that he has made a match for me, without a word of warning; he has arrived here to celebrate the nuptials. Feel for my anxiety, and judge if a more cruel disappointment could happen to me. That Enrique, whom I asked you about Yesterday, is the source of all my trouble. He has come with my father to complete my ruin; it is for his only daughter that I am destined. I thought I should have swooned when they first spoke of it; not caring to hear more, as my father spoke of paying you a visit, I hurried here before him, my mind full of consternation. I pray you be sure not to let him know anything of my engagement, which might incense him; and try, since he has confidence in you, to dissuade him from this other match.

Arnolphe. Ay, to be sure!

Horace. Advise him to delay; and thus, like a friend, help me in my passion.

Arnolphe. No fear!

Horace. All my hope is in you.

Arnolphe. It could not be better placed.

Horace. I look on you as my real father. Tell him that my age … Ah, I see him coming. Hear the arguments I can supply you with.

Scene VII. Enrique, Oronte, Chrysalde, Horace, Arnolphe.

 (Horace and Arnolphe retire to the back of the stage and whisper together.)

Enrique (to Chrysalde). As soon as I saw you, before anyone could tell me, I should have known you. I recognise in your face the features of your lovely sister, whom marriage made mine in former days. Happy should I have been if cruel fate had permitted me to bring back that faithful wife, to enjoy with me the great delight of seeing once more, after our continual misfortunes, all her former friends. But since the irresistible power of destiny has for ever deprived us of her dear presence, let us try to submit, and to be content with the only fruit of love which remains to me. It concerns you nearly; without your consent I should do wrong in wishing to dispose of this pledge. The choice of the son of Oronte is honourable in itself; but you must be pleased with this choice as well as I.

Chrysalde. It would argue a poor opinion of my judgment to doubt my approbation of so reasonable a choice.

Arnolphe (aside to Horace). Ay, I will serve you finely!

Horace. Beware, once more…

Arnolphe. Have no uneasiness. Leaves Horace, and goes up to embrace Oronte.)

Oronte. Ah, this is indeed a tender embrace.

Arnolphe. How delighted I am to see you!

Oronte. I am come here…

Arnolphe. I know what brings you, without your telling me.

Oronte. You have already heard?

Arnolphe. Yes.

Oronte. So much the better.

Arnolphe. Your son is opposed to this match; his heart being pre-engaged, he looks on it as a misfortune. He has even prayed me to dissuade you from it; for my part, all the advice I can give you is, to exert a father’s authority, and not allow the marriage to be delayed. Young people should be managed with a high hand; we do them harm by being indulgent.

Horace (aside). Oh, the traitor!

Chrysalde. If it is repugnant to him, I think we ought not to force him. I think my brother will be of my mind.

Arnolphe. What? Will he let himself be ruled by his son? Would you have a father so weak as to be unable to make his son obey him? It would be fine indeed to see him at his time of life receiving orders from one who ought to receive them from him. No, no, he is my intimate friend, and his honour is my own. His word is passed, and he must keep it. Let him now display his firmness, and control his son’s affections.

Oronte. You speak well; in this match I will answer for my son’s obedience.

Chrysalde (to Arnolphe). I am indeed surprised at the great eagerness which you shew for this marriage, and cannot guess what is your motive…

Arnolphe. I know what I am about, and speak sensibly.

Oronte. Yes, yes, M. Arnolphe; he is…

Chrysalde. That name annoys him. He is Monsieur de la Souche, as you were told before.

Oronte. It makes no difference.

Horace (aside). What do I hear?

Arnolphe (turning to Horace). Ay, that is the mystery; you can judge as to what it behooved me to do.

Horace (aside). What a scrape…

Scene VIII. Enrique, Oronte, Chrysalde, Horace, Arnolphe, Georgette.

GEORGETTE. SIR, IF you do not come, we shall scarcely be able to hold Agnès; she is trying all she can to get away; I fear she will throw herself out of the window.

Arnolphe. Bring her to me, for I mean to take her away. (To HORACE). Do not be disturbed. Continual good fortune makes a man proud. Every dog has his day, as the proverb says.

Horace (aside). Good Heaven, what misfortune can equal mine? Was ever a man in such a mess as this?

Arnolphe (to Oronte). Hasten the day of the ceremony. I am bent on it, and invite myself beforehand.

Oronte. That is just my intention.

Scene IX. Agnès, Oronte, Enrique, Arnolphe, Horace, Chrysalde, Alain, Georgette.

ARNOLPHE (TO AGNÈS). Come hither, my beauty, whom they cannot hold, and who rebels. Here is your gallant, to whom, to make amends, you may make a sweet and humble curtsey. (To Horace). Farewell. The issue rather thwarts your desires; but all lovers are not fortunate.

Agnès. Horace, will you let me be carried off in this manner?

Horace. I scarcely know where I am, my sorrow is so great.

Arnolphe. Come along, chatterbox.

Agnès. I shall stay here.

Oronte. Tell us the meaning of this mystery. We are all staring at each other without being able to understand.

Arnolphe. I shall inform you at a more convenient time. Till then, good-bye.

Oronte. Where are you going? You do not speak to us as you should.

Arnolphe. I have advised you to complete the marriage, let Horace grumble as much as he likes.

Oronte. Ay; but to complete it, have you not heard — if they have told you all — that the lady concerned in this affair is in your house? — that she is the daughter of Enrique and of the lovely Angelica, who were privately married? Now, what was at the bottom of your talk just now?

Chrysalde. I too was astonished at his proceedings.

Arnolphe. What?

Chrysalde. My sister had a daughter by a secret marriage, whose existence was concealed from the whole family.

Oronte. And in order that nothing might be discovered, she was put out to nurse in the country by her husband, under a feigned name.

Chrysalde. At that time, fortune being against him, he was compelled to quit his native land.

Oronte. To encounter a thousand various dangers in far-distant countries, and beyond many seas.

Chrysalde. Where his industry has acquired what in his own land he lost through roguery and envy.

Oronte. And when he returned to France, the first thing he did was to seek out her to whom he had confided the care of his daughter.

Chrysalde. This country-woman frankly told him that she had committed her to your keeping from the age of four.

Oronte. And that she did it because she received money from you, and was very poor.

Chrysalde. Oronte, transported with joy, has even brought this woman hither.

Oronte. In short, you shall see her here directly to clear up this mystery to every one.

Chrysalde (to Arnolphe). I can almost imagine what is the cause of your grief; but fortune is kind to you. If it seems so good to you not to be a cuckold, your only course is not to marry.

Arnolphe (going away full of rage, and unable to speak). Ugh! ugh! ugh!

Scene X. Enrique, Oronte, Chrysalde, Agnès, Horace.

ORONTE. WHY DOES he run away without saying a word?

Horace. Ah, father, you shall know the whole of this surprising mystery. Accident has done here what your wisdom intended. I had engaged myself to this beauty in the sweet bonds of mutual love; it is she, in a word, whom you come to seek, and for whose sake I was about to grieve you by my refusal.

Enrique. I was sure of it as soon as I saw her; my heart has yearned for her ever since. Ah, daughter, I am overcome by such tender transports!

Chrysalde. I could be so, brother, just as well as you. But this is hardly the place for it. Let us go inside, and clear up these mysteries. Let us shew our friend some return for his great pains, and thank Heaven, which orders all for the best.

Critique of the School for Wives

La Critique de l’école des femmes

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE LAST.

APPENDIX.

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

THE SCHOOL FOR Wives criticised was first brought out at the theatre of the Palais Royal, on the 1st of June, 1663. It can scarcely be called a play, for it is entirely destitute of action. It is simply a reported conversation of “friends in council; but we cannot be surprised that it had a temporary success on the stage. It was acted as a pendant to The School for Wives, and the two were played together, with much profit to the company, thirty-two consecutive times. Molière, in the Preface to The School for Wives, mentions that the idea of writing The School for Wives criticised was suggested to him by a person of quality, who, it is said, was the Abbé Dubuisson, the grand introducteur des ruelles or, in other words, the Master of the Ceremonies to the Précieuses. Our author had also just been inscribed on the list of pensions which Louis XIV. allowed to eminent literary men, for a sum of a thousand livres.

The happy idea of self-criticism adopted by Molière in this piece has been caught at by many subsequent French writers. Thus we find la Critique du Légataire, by Regnard; la Critique du Philosopha marié, by Destouches; le Procès de la Femme juge et partie, by Montfleury. But in none of these is the subject so ably treated as by Molière, who did not scruple to attack the different cabals leagued against him. Climène is an example of those ladies “whose ears are more chaste than all the rest of their body,” and is a preliminary study for Philaminte of the Femmes Savantes. The Marquis represents the “noble patron,” who judges of a play before he has seen it, who is a critic by virtue of his rank, but not of his knowledge; Lysidas is the envious pedant, who “damns with faint praise,” who wishes everything measured according to the rules of Cocker’s arithmetic, who employs the little knowledge with which Heaven has afflicted him to hide his own mediocrity, and who afterwards will be farther developed in the Femmes Savantes as Trissotin and Vadius. Dorante, the man of sense, is also more fully shown in the Clitandre of the same play.

A few days after the play was produced, it was reported that Lysidas was meant for Boursault, the ridiculous Marquis for the Duke de La Feuillade, whilst it was said that the abbé d’Aubignac was also laughed at; but as Molière himself states in The School for Wives criticised (page 262):— “All the ridiculous delineations which are drawn on the stage should be looked on by every one without annoyance. They are public mirrors in which we must never pretend to see ourselves.”

Boursault believed, or affected to believe, that Molière intended to pourtray him, and hence replied in the Portrait du Peintre which was performed at the hôtel de Bourgogne. Tradition mentions that the Duke de la Feuillade took other means to avenge himself. He one day met Molière in one of the galleries of the Palace of Versailles. Pretending to be very polite and courteous, he ran towards him, smiling, and whilst embracing him, and rubbing all the while the actor’s face against the metal-worked buttons of his coat, he shouted out, “Cream-tart, Molière! Cream-tart!” It is said that Louis XIV. banished the Duke from the Court for some time for this offence, and that he ordered Molière to take anew vengeance upon his enemies. There can be no doubt about the order, for Molière states so expressly in The Impromptu of Versailles.

The School for Wives criticised may be taken as Molière’s general reply to his critics; for it deals as much with the points of good and bad criticism as with the special features of The School for Wives. Indeed, the defence raised, through the mouth of Dorante, of certain passages of the latter play which had been roughly handled by the poet’s contemporaries, are perhaps the weakest parts of The School for Wives criticised; whereas the generalities which deal with the art and practice of criticism are exceptionally shrewd and pungent.

The School for Wives met with a flattering reception, in the sense that the public was greatly divided as to its merits, and carried on the discussion of it with much warmth, and even bitterness. The play was town-talk for many days; and in this sequel, Molière no doubt reflected the principal arguments of his friends and of his opponents. If he reflected them aright, he did well to preserve them in this form, side by side; for Dorante, Urania, and their dissembling ally Eliza, have infinitely the best of the discussion, whether we regard them as champions of Molière only, or as vindicators of the highest principles of dramatic criticism in general. Perhaps “School for Critics” would better describe the most valuable half of the piece.

Molière dedicated The School for Wives criticised to the Queen-mother, in the following words: —

MADAM, — I very well know that your Majesty has no need of our dedications; and that those pretended duties of which people elegantly tell you they acquit themselves, are marks of respect with which, to speak the truth, you could very willingly dispense. But yet I have the boldness to dedicate to you The School far Wives criticised; and I could not omit this opportunity of testifying to your Majesty my joy upon that happy recovery, which restores to us the greatest and best Princess in the world, and which promises us in you long years of vigorous health. As everyone regards things from his own point of view, I rejoice in this general satisfaction, that I may again be able to have the honour of diverting your Majesty. You, Madam, who so well prove that true devotion is not opposed to innocent diversions; who, from your lofty thoughts and important occupations, descend so kindly to the pleasure of our performances, and who do not disdain to smile with the same mouth with which you pray to God so devoutly, I flatter my mind, I say, with the expectation of this glory; I await that moment with the utmost impatience; and, when I shall enjoy that happiness, it will be the greatest satisfaction in the world to, — MADAM, Your Majesty’s most humble, most obedient, and most obliged servant, —

MOLIERE.

Thomas Brown, of Shipnal, in Yorkshire, so well known for his free and easy writings, wrote an imitation of The School for Wives criticised, which he calls, “The Stage-Beaux tosid in a Blanket, or Hypocrisie à la mode; Expos’d in a true picture of Jerry... a pretending scourge to the English Stage, A Comedy with a Prologue on Occasional Conformity; being a full Explanation of the Poussin Doctor’s book; and an Epilogue on the Reformers. Spoken at the Theatre-Royal in Drury Lane, with the motto, ‘Simulant Curios et Bacchanalia vivunt, — Juv.’ London, Printed and Sold by J. Nott, near Stationers’ Hall, 1704.” This piece consists of three acts, while the French has only one. It is a satire against Jeremy Collier, on account of his Short View of the Immorality and Prophaneness of the English Stage, and was never acted. It was severely chastised and answered in sermons and pamphlets; amongst others, in “Serious Reflections on the Scandalous Abuse and Effects of the Stage, in a Sermon preached at Bristol, Jany. 7th, 1704-5, by A. Bedford,” at the end of which is printed “a copy of the Presentation of the Grand Jury to Mayor, Aldermen, and Justices of the Peace, asking them to forbid the Acting of Plays,” and praising them “for having endeavoured to suppress Musick-houses, and other Lewd and Disorderly Houses, Tipling, or Idle walking on the Lord’s Day;” also in A Representation of the Impiety and Immorality of the English Stage, 1704, A. Bedford; in A Second Advertisement concerning the Profaneness of the Playhouse; and in The Evil and Danger of Stage Plays in almost 2000 instances taken from the plays of the two last years, by A. Bedford, 1706. Again, in A Serious Remonstrance in behalf of the Christian Religion against the horrid Blasphemies and Impieties which are still used in the English Play-Houses, etc., from almost 7000 instances, taken out of the Plays of the present Century, 1719, by A. Bedford; and finally, in The Absolute unlawfulness of the Stage Entertainment fully demonstrated, by W. Law, A.M., 1726. The Stage-Beaux is dedicated to Christopher Rich, patentee of the Theatre Royal, in a humorous epistle, in which Themistocles, Milton, and even Collier himself are mentioned as friends of the Drama, and in which it is stated that “the stage exposes Knaves and Fools, Misers, Prodigals, Affectation, Hypocrisie, etc., and that has provoked some to be its zealous Foes, under the pretended Name of Sanctity and Religion.” The Prologue, spoken by “one dress’d one-half like a Noncon Parson, and the other like an Orthodox Divine,” opens thus: —

“My Dress is Odd, but yet ’tis Alamode,

Invented to unite Mammon with God.

This Side is Real, and full of Native Spite;

This I put on to get some Money by’t.

This Side is fill’d with Sanctify’d Grimace;

This is more Debonair in hopes of Place.

This Obstinate against Religious Forms;

This, brib’d by Gain, occasionally conforms.

Occasional conforming is our Darling,

Which if y ‘Attaque, you set us All a Snarling.”

The character in Brown’s play which is not in the French comedy is Sir Jerry Witwind, a pert, talkative, half-witted coxcomb, an arrant hypocrite, and a most immoral man, — a rather free imitation of Tartuffe, whose very words he sometimes employs, and whose worst actions he exaggerates at the end of the third act. The two last acts of the Stage Beaux are chiefly occupied with attacks on Collier, some of which are very amusing; but the first act contains a very fair imitation of a few scenes of The School for Wives criticised, which we give in the Appendix.

Wycherley has also borrowed from The School for Wives criticised a scene of his Plain-Dealer, which, as a whole, is partly taken from Molière’s Misanthrope. In the part thus imitated he tries to defend The Country Wife, and boldly states that “a lady may call her own modesty in question by publicly cavilling with the poets;” but Olivia’s defence of the play is as bad as The Country Wife itself. She reminds us of a certain French wit of the last century, called Duclos, who one day stated in the presence of some ladies that respectable women might hear any stories without being shocked; and then he went on relating some, which were bad enough, and was going to tell some which were even worse, when one of the ladies present stopped him by saying, “Monsieur Duclos, you really believe us to be more respectable than we are.”

In the Appendix will be found what the English dramatist has borrowed.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

THE MARQUIS.
DORANTE, or THE CHEVALIER. LYSIDAS, a poet.
GALOPIN, a lackey.
URANIA.
ELIZA. —
CLIMENE.

Scene — PARIS, IN THE HOUSE OF URANIA.

(LA CRITIQUE DE L’ÉCOLE DES FEMMES.)

SCENE I.

URANIA, ELIZA.

UR. WHAT! COUSIN, has no one been to visit you?

El. Not a soul.

Ur. I am really astonished that we have both of us been alone the whole day.

El. It astonishes me, too; for it is by no means usual; and your house, thank Heaven! is the ordinary resort of all the loungers at Court.

Ur. The afternoon, to be candid, seems very tedious to me.

El. And I have found it very short.

Ur. That, cousin, is because witty people love solitude.

El. Oh! I am not one of those witty people. You know I have no pretensions to that.

Ur. For my part, I confess I like company.

El. So do I, but I like it select; and the number of stupid visits we have to endure is, amongst others, the reason why I often take pleasure in being alone.

Ur. It is an over-refinement, not to be able to bear any but select people.

El. And it is too indiscriminate a complaisance to bear all sorts of people with indifference.

Ur. I relish those who are sensible, and amuse myself with those who talk nonsense.

El. In truth, those who talk nonsense do not proceed far without wearying you; and most of those folks are no longer amusing after the second visit. But, talking of your nonsensical people, will you not rid me of your troublesome Marquis? Do you mean always to leave him on my hands, and do you think that I can hold out for ever against his everlasting quips?

Ur. It is the language of fashion, and they make merry over it at Court.

El. So much the worse for those who do, and who rack their brains all day long to talk such an obscure jargon. A fine thing, to introduce into the conversation of the Louvre their stale double ente’ndres, raked together from the kennels of the markets and of the Place Maubert! A pretty style of jesting for courtiers, and for a man to display his wit by coming up to you, and saying, “Madame, you are in the Place Royale; every one sees you three leagues from Paris, for every one is pleased to see you;” because Bonneuil is a village three leagues off! Is it not very gallant and very witty? And ought they not to be proud for having hit upon such pretty puns?

Ur. At the same time, they do not say this as a piece of wit; for most of those who affect this language know themselves that it is ridiculous.

El. Worse still, to be at such pains to talk nonsense, and to be sorry jokers on purpose! I think them less excusable for this; and if I were their judge, I know well to what I would condemn all these gentry, the punsters.

Ur. A truce to this subject, which seems to excite you; let us talk of Dorante, who, methinks, is long in coming to the supper we are to take together.

El. Perhaps he has forgotten it, and...

SCENE II.

URANIA, ELIZA, GALOPIN.

GAL. MADAM, CLIMENE has come to see you.

Ur. Oh! bless me, here is a visit!

El. You complained of being alone; so Heaven punishes you for it.

Ur. Quick! go and tell her I am not at home.

Gal. She has already been told that you are in.

Ur. Who is the fool that told her?

Gal. I, madam.

Ur. Deuce take the little rascal! I shall teach you to give answers on your own behalf!

Gal. I go and tell her, madam, that you do not wish to be at home.

Ur. Stay, you stupid! As the mischief is done, let her come up.

Gal. She is still talking to a man in the street Ur. Ah! cousin, how annoying this visit is just now!

El. True; the lady is naturally rather troublesome. I always disliked her much; and, though she is a lady of rank, she is the most stupid creature that ever pretended to sense.

Ur. The term is rather strong.

El. Come, come; she richly deserves it, and more too, if justice were done her. Is there any one that better deserves to go by the name of a précieuse than she, to use the word in its worst sense?

Ur. She disclaims the epithet, at all events.

El. So she does. She disclaims the epithet, but not the thing; for she is finical from head to foot, and the most formal creature in the world. Her whole body appears to be out of joint, and the motions of her hips, her shoulders and her head seem to go like a piece of clock-work. She always assumes a languishing and silly tone, grimaces to make her mouth appear small, and rolls her eyes to make them seem large.

Ur. Softly, pray. If she should happen to overhear...

El. No, no; she is not coming up yet. I shall never forget that evening when she was anxious to see Damon, on account of his reputation, and of the books he had published. You know the man, and his natural indolence in keeping up a conversation. She had invited him to supper as a wit, and never did he appear such a fool, amidst half-a-dozen people for whom she had meant him to be a treat, and who stared at him with all their might, as if he ought not to be made like other men. They all thought he was there to entertain the company with witty sayings; that every word from his mouth was to be something extraordinary; that he ought to deliver an impromptu repartee on everything that was said, and not even to ask for a glass of wine without uttering a witticism. But he took them in by his silence; and the lady was as ill-pleased with him as I was with her.

Ur. Be quiet! I will go and receive her at the door.

El. One word more. — I wish she was married to the Marquis we spoke of. What a fine match it would be, between a précieuse and a turlupin!

Ur. Will you be quiet! Here she comes.

SCENE III.

CLIMENE, URANIA, ELIZA, GALOPIN.

UR. HOW LONG you have been...

Cl. Oh! for Heavens sake, my dear, make them bring me a chair immediately!

Ur. [To Galopin] An arm-chair here, quick!

Cl. Oh, good Heaven!

Ur. What can be the matter? —

Cl. I can bear it no longer.

Ur. What ails you?

Cl. I am going to faint.

Ur. Have you got the vapours?

Cl. No.

Ur. Shall I unlace you?

Cl. O lord! no. — Oh!

Ur. What is your ailment, then? When did it seize you?

Cl. Above three hours ago; and I brought it from the Palais Royal.

Ur. How?

Cl. I have just seen, as a punishment for my sins, that villainous rhapsody The School for Wives. I feel still a twinge from the-fainting-fit which it gave me; I believe I shall not be myself again for a fortnight.

El. Just see how our ailments arise without our suspecting it!

Ur. I do not know what stuff my cousin and I are made of; but we were at the same play the day before yesterday, and we both came away well and hearty.

Cl. What! have you seen it?

Ur. Yes, and listened to every word.

Cl. And did you not almost go into convulsions, my dear?

Ur. I am not so delicate, thank Heaven! For my part, I fancy that this comedy would be more likely to cure folks, than to make them sick.

Cl. Oh, good Heaven! What are you saying? Can such a proposition be advanced by any one who has the smallest stock of common sense? Do you think that everyone can, with impunity, insult reason, as you do? And is there in very truth a mind so hungry for a joke as to relish the silly things with which this play is seasoned? I confess, for my part, I could not find the least wit in the whole of it Children through the ear was, to my thinking, in execrable taste; the cream tart turned me sick; and I thought I must have vomited when I heard broth mentioned.

El. Heavens! most elegantly spoken! I was inclined to think the piece good; but the lady’s eloquence is so persuasive, and gives such an agreeable turn to things, that I must be of her opinion, in spite of myself.

Ur. For my part, I am not so easily moved. To be candid, I look on this play as one of the most diverting which the author has produced.

Cl. Oh! I pity you for talking so. I cannot let you display so much bluntness of peception. Can a virtuous person find anything pleasant in a piece that keeps her modesty in continual alarm, and sullies the imagination at every turn?

El. What a nice way of speaking! What a terrible hand you are at criticism, madam; and how I pity poor Molière in having you for an enemy!

Cl. Believe me, dear, correct your judgment in good earnest; for the sake of your honour, do not openly say that this comedy has pleased you.

Ur. I cannot think what you found in it to shock your modesty.

Cl. Good lack! all of it. I do maintain it for a fact that a gentlewoman cannot see it without confusion; so much impropriety and nastiness did I find in it.

Ur. You must have a special discernment for impropriety. I own I could see none.

Cl. It is undoubtedly because you would not see it; for, in short, all its impropriety, thank Heaven! is plain enough. It has not the least cloak to hide it; and the boldest eyes are shocked by its nakedness.

El. Oh!

Cl. Ah! ah! ah!

Ur. Yet once more, if you please, point out to me some of the improprieties you speak of.

Cl. Alas! is it necessary to point them out?

Ur. Yes. I ask of you but one passage that shocked you very much.

Cl. Do you wish any other than the scene with that Agnès, when she tells what Horace took from her?

Ur. And what do you find improper in that?

Cl. Ah!

Ur. Please.

Cl. Fie!

Ur. But... —

Cl. I have nothing more to say to you.

Ur. For my part, I see no harm in it.

Cl. So much the worse for you.

Ur. So much the better, I think. I look at things as they are shown to me, and do not turn them round to look at what should not be seen.

Cl. But a woman’s modesty...

Ur. A woman’s modesty does not consist in grimacing.
It ill becomes us to be over-wise. Affectation of this kind is worse than anything; and I see nothing more ridiculous than that delicate honour which takes everything amiss, gives a bad meaning to the most innocent words, and is startled at shadows. Believe me, those who make so much ado are not esteemed the most honest women. On the contrary, their mysterious severity and affected grimaces provoke public animadversion upon the actions of their own lives. The world is only too glad to discover anything to carp at. To give you a proof, there were some ladies at this comedy the other day, in a box opposite to ours, who, by their affected gestures throughout the piece, by averting their heads and hiding their faces, gave rise to a hundred impertinent remarks upon their behaviour, which would never have been uttered but for that; one of the footmen even cried out aloud that their ears were more chaste than all the rest of their bodies.

Cl. In short, we ought to be blind throughout this play, and pretend not to see anything in it.

Ur. We ought not to see what is not there.

Cl. Do not tell me. I maintain that the improprieties are glaring. —

Ur. And I remain still of a different mind.

Cl. What! Is not modesty plainly shocked by Agnès in the passage we are speaking about?

Ur. No, truly. She does not say a word which is indelicate in itself; and if you will understand something else, it is you who create the impropriety, and not she, for she only speaks of the ribbon that was taken from her.

Cl. Oh yes, the ribbon! But that the when she checks herself, is not put there for nothing. Odd ideas are suggested by this the. That the is tremendously scandalous. Say what you will, you cannot defend the coarseness of this the.

El. True, cousin, I am with this lady against that the. That the is excessively coarse; you are wrong to defend that the.

Cl. Its obscenity is unbearable.

El. What word do you use, madam?

Cl. Obscenity, madam.

El. Oh, good gracious! obscenity. I do not know the meaning of the word; but I think it very nice!

Cl. There! You see how your own relation takes my part.

Ur. Ah! she is a chatter-box, who does not speak as she thinks. Do not trust her much, if you will take my advice.

El. Oh! you wicked creature, to try to make this lady suspect me. Just think what would become of me, if she were to believe what you say. Could I be so unfortunate, Madam, as to have you think this of me?
CL No, no. I do not mind her words, and I believe that you are more sincere than she says.
EL Oh, you are quite right, Madam; and you do me justice when you believe that I think you the most engaging person in the world; that I enter into all your sentiments, and am charmed with every expression that comes from your lips.
CL Indeed, I speak without affectation.
EL We can see that, Madam, quite well; and everything about you is natural. Your words, the tone of your voice, your gait, your actions, and your dress, have an indescribable air of fashion about them, which is quite enchanting. I study you with my eyes and ears; and I am so full of you, that I strive to ape you and imitate you in everything.
CL You are bantering me, Madam.

El. Pardon me, Madam. Who could banter you?
CL I am not a good model, Madam.
EL Oh, yes, Madam.

Cl. You flatter me, Madam.

El. Not at all, Madam.
Cl, Spare me, I beg you, Madam.
EL I do spare you, Madam, and I say not half of what I think, Madam.
CL Ah, good Heavens! let us stop it, I beseech you. You throw me into a dreadful confusion. [To Urania] There, you see we are both against you, and obstinacy so ill becomes clever people...

SCENE IV.

THE MARQUIS, CLIMENE, URANIA, ELIZA, GALOPIN.

GAL. [AT THE door] Stop sir, please!

Mar. Do you not know me, fellow?

Gal. Ay, I know you; but you shall not come in.

Mar. What a noise you are making, little lackey.

Gal. It is not fair to wish to get in where you are not wanted.

Mar. I wish to see your mistress.

Gal. She is not at home, I tell you.

Mar. Why, she is in her room there!

Gal. That may be; she is there, but she is not at home Ur. What is the matter?

Mar. Your lackey, Madam, is playing the fool.

Gal. Madam, I am telling him you are not at home, and he will insist on coming in.

Ur. And why did you tell this gentleman that I am not at home?

Gal. You scolded me the other day for telling him you were at home.

Ur. The insolent fellow! Pray, sir, do not attend to what he says. He is a little stupid creature, who takes you for some one else.

Mar. I saw as much, Madam; and, had it not been out of respect for you, I should have taught him to distinguish people of quality.

El. My cousin is much obliged to you for this deference.

Ur. [To Galopin] Bring a chair there, impertinent Gal. Is there not one there?

Ur. Bring it nearer! [Galopin pushes it rudely and exit.]

SCENE V.

THE MARQUIS, CLIMENE, URANIA, ELIZA.

MAR. YOUR LITTLE lackey, madam, has a special contempt for me.

El. He would certainly be much to blame.

Mar. It is possibly because I pay interest on my ill looks. Ha, ha, ha! [laughing.]

El. Age will make him know people of fashion better.

Mar. Of what were you speaking, ladies, when I interrupted you?

Ur. Of the comedy, The School for Wives.

Mar. I have just come from it.

Cl. Well, sir, pray how do you like it?

Mar. It is altogether silly.

Cl. Oh!  am delighted to hear you say so!

Mar. The most wretched piece imaginable. What the deuce! I could hardly get a seat. I thought I should have been crushed to death at the door, and I was never so trampled upon. Pray see what a state my rolls and ribbons are in!

El. That certainly speaks volumes against The School for Wives, and you justly condemn it.

Mar. Never, I think, was such a wretched play composed.

Ur. Ah, here is Dorante, whom we were expecting.

SCENE VI.

DORANTE, THE MARQUIS, CLIMENE, ELIZA, URANIA.

DOR. PRAY DO not move, and do not break off your conversation. You are on a subject which, for four days, has been the common talk of Paris; and never was anything more amusing than the various judgments that are passed upon it. For, indeed, I have heard this play condemned by some for the very things that others most praise.

Ur. The Marquis speaks very ill of it.

Mar. It is true. I think it detestable, detestable, egad! to the last degree detestable; what you may call detestable!

Dor. And I, dear Marquis, think the judgment detestable.

Mar. How, Chevalier, do you mean to vindicate this play?

Dor. Yes, I do mean to vindicate it.

Mar. Egad, I warrant it to be detestable.

Dor. That guarantee would not be accepted in the city. But Marquis, for what reason, pray, is this comedy as you describe it?

Mar. Why detestable?

Dor. Ay.

Mar. It is detestable — because it is detestable.

Dor. After that, there is not a word to be said; the cause is ended. But still, instruct us, and tell us its faults.

Mar. How can I? I did not so much as give myself the trouble to listen to it. But yet I assure you I never saw anything so wretched, as I hope to be saved; and Dorilas, who sat opposite to me, was of my mind.

Dor. The authority is weighty, and you are well backed.

Mar. You have only to mark the continual bursts of laughter from the pit. I wish no more to prove its utter worthlessness.

Dor. You are then, Marquis, one of those grand gentlemen who will not allow the pit to have common sense, and who would be vexed to join in their laugh, though it were at the best thing conceivable? The other day, I saw one of our friends on the stage, who made himself ridiculous by this. He heard the piece out with the most gloomy seriousness imaginable; and whatever tickled others made him frown. At every burst of laughter he shrugged his shoulders and cast a look of pity on the pit; occasionally, too, he glanced contemptuously at them, saying in an audible voice, “Laugh away, pit, laugh away!” Our friend’s annoyance was a second comedy. He acted bravely before the whole house, and everyone agreed that he could not have played his part better. Pray, note, Marquis and your friends as well, that common sense has no fixed place at a theatre; that the difference between half a louis and fifteen sous makes none whatever in the matter of good taste; that whether we sit or stand, we may pass a bad judgment; and that, in short, speaking generally, I would place considerable reliance on the applause of the pit, because, amongst those who go there, many are capable of judging the piece according to rule, whilst others judge it as they ought, allowing themselves to be guided by circumstances, having neither a blind prejudice, nor an affected complaisance, nor a ridiculous refinement.

Mar. So, sir, you are a defender of the pit! Egad, I am glad of it; I shall not fail to let them know that you are one of their friends. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

Dor. Laugh as much as you like. I am for good sense, and I cannot bear the brain-bubbles of our Mascarille-Marquises. It drives me mad to see people make themselves ridiculous, in spite of their rank; folks who always decide, and talk boldly of everything without knowledge: who will shout with pleasure at the bad parts of a comedy, and never applaud those which are good; who, when they see a picture, or go to a concert, blame and praise all by rule of contraries; who pick up artistic shibboleths where-ever they can, get them by heart, and never fail to twist and misplace them. Zounds, gentlemen, hold your peace. Since Heaven has not blessed you with the knowledge of one single thing, do not make yourselves laughing-stocks to those who hear you; and remember, that, if you never open your mouths, you may perhaps be taken for clever men.

Mar. Egad, sir, you are carrying this...

Dor. Why, Marquis, I am not speaking to you. I am addressing a round dozen of those gentry who disgrace courtiers by their nonsensical manners, and make people believe we are all alike. For my part, I shall disclaim it as much as I can. I shall fall foul of them whenever we meet, until they grow wise at last.

Mar. Now tell me, sir, do you think Lysander has wit?

Dor. Yes, doubtless, and a good deal of it.

Ur. That is what no one can deny. —

Mar. Ask him what he thinks of The School for Wives. You shall see he will tell you he does not like it.

Dor. Upon my word, there are plenty who are spoiled by too much wit, who see things imperfectly, because the light is too strong, and who would even be very sorry to be of other people’s opinion, so that they may have the glory of passing judgment themselves.

Ur. It is true. Our friend is doubtless one of those people. He must be first in his opinion, and would have others wait respectfully for his decision. All applause which precedes his own is an outrage on his enlightenment, which he avenges openly by taking the other side. He expects people to consult him in all questions of wit: and I am sure that if the author had shown him his play before he let the public see it, he would have thought it the finest in the world.

Mar. And what do you say of the Marchioness Araminta, who declares The School for Wives everywhere dreadful, and says she never could endure the improprieties of which it is full?

Dor. I say that this is of a piece with the character she assumes, and that some folks make themselves ridiculous by affecting too much honour. Witty, no doubt, she is, but she has followed the bad example of those who, being in the decline of life, wish to replace by some means or other what they have lost, and fancy that grimaces of fastidious prudery will serve instead of youth and beauty. The lady in question carries it farther than any one; her scrupulous ingenuity finds obscenity where no one would ever have seen it. I hear that these scruples go the length of disfiguring our language; and that there are scarcely any words in it of which our lady’s severity will not dock either head or tail, on account of the immodest syllables she finds in them.

Ur. What a wag you are, Chevalier!

Mar. So, Chevalier, you think to defend your play by satirising those who condemn it?

Dor. By no means; but I think that this lady is scandalised without reason...

El. Gently, Chevalier; there may be other ladies of the same mind.

Dor. I know, at all events, that you are not; and that when you saw this play...

El. True, but I have changed my opinion, and this lady [pointing to Climène] supports hers by such convincing reasons, that she has won me over to her side.

Dor. [To Climène] Oh! Madam, I beg your pardon; and if you will, I shall for your sake unsay all that I have said.

Cl. I will not have it for my sake, but for reason’s sake: for indeed this piece, if you look at it properly, is quite indefensible, and I cannot imagine...

Ur. Ah, here is Mr Lysidas, the author. He comes just in time for this discussion. Mr Lysidas, take a chair, and sit down here.

SCENE VII.

LYSIDAS, CLIMENE, URANIA, ELIZA, DORANTE, THE MARQUIS.

LYS. MADAM, I am rather late; but I was obliged to read my piece at the house of the Marchioness, of whom I spoke to you; the praise bestowed on it kept me an hour longer than I anticipated.

El. Praise has a great charm to delay an author.

Ur. Sit down, then, Mr Lysidas; we shall read your play after supper.

Lys. All who were there are coming to the first representation, and have promised to do their duty as they ought.

Ur. I believe it. But pray, once more, please to sit down. We are engaged on a subject which I shall be glad we should pursue.

Lys. I trust, Madam, that you will also take a box for that day.

Ur. We shall see. Pray let us go on with our conversation.

Lys. I warn you, Madam, that they are nearly all taken.

Ur. That is capital. Now I was wanting you when you came, and every one here was against me.

El. [To Urania, and pointing to Dorante] He was on your side at first, but now [pointing to Climène] that he knows that Climène is at the head of the opposite party, I fancy you may just look for other aid.

Cl. No, no; I would not have him neglect your cousin, and I will allow his wit to be on the side of his heart.

Dor. With this permission, Madam, I shall make bold to defend myself.

Ur. But first, let us know somewhat of Lysidas’s mind.

Lys. Upon what, Madam?

Ur. On the subject of The School for Wives.

Lys. Ah — h!

Dor. What do you think of it?

Lys. I have nothing to say on that head. You know that, amongst us authors, we must speak of each other’s works with great circumspection.

Dor. But still, between ourselves, what do you think of this play?

Lys. I, Sir?

Ur. Tell us your candid opinion.

Lys. I think it very fine.

Dor. Really?

Lys. Really. Why not? Is it not indeed the finest conceivable?

Dor. Hum, hum; you are a wicked fellow, Mr Lysidas. You do not speak as you think.

Lys. Pardon me.

Dor. Oh dear, I know you. Do not dissemble.

Lys. I, Sir?

Dor. I see clearly that you praise the piece only through politeness, and that, at the bottom of your heart, you agree with the many who think it bad.

Lys. Ha, ha, ha!

Dor. Come, confess that this comedy is a wretched thing.

Lys. True, it is not admired by connoisseurs.

Mar. Upon my word, Chevalier, you have got it! You are paid for your raillery. Ha, ha, ha!

Dor. Laugh away, dear Marquis, laugh away.

Mar. You see we have the learned on our side.

Dor. It is true. Lysidas’s judgment is worth consideration. But he will excuse me if I do not yield for all that; and since I have presumed to defend myself against this lady’s opinions [pointing to Climène], he will not take it amiss if I oppose his.

El. What! when you see this lady, the Marquis, and Mr Lysidas against you, dare you still resist? Fie, what bad manners!

Cl. For my part, what confounds me is that sensible people can take it into their heads to defend the stupidities of this piece.

Mar. Egad, Madam, it is wretched from beginning to end.

Dor. That is soon said, Marquis. There is nothing more easy than to cut the matter short in that way; and I do not see anything that can stand against the sovereignty of your decisions.

Mar. Gad, all the other actors who went to see it spoke all the ill they could of it.

Dor. Oh! I will not say another word. You are right, Marquis. Since the other actors speak ill of it, we must certainly believe them. They are all discerning gentlemen, and speak disinterestedly. There is no more to be said. I give in.

Cl. Give in or not, I am sure you will never persuade me to endure the immodesties of this play, any more than the rude satires on women which are to be found in it.

Ur. For my part, I shall be careful not to be offended, and to take nothing to myself that is said in it. Satire of this kind is aimed directly at habits, and only hits individuals by rebound. Let us not apply to ourselves the points of general censure; let us profit by the lesson, if possible, without assuming that we are spoken against. All the ridiculous delineations which are drawn on the stage should be looked on by every one without annoyance. They are public mirrors, in which we must never pretend to see ourselves. To bruit it about that we are offended at being hit, is to state openly that we are at fault.

Cl. As for me, I do not speak of these things for any part I may have in them; I think I live in such a manner before the world as not to fear being looked for in a picture of ill-behaved women.

El. Certainly, Madam, we will never look for you there. Your conduct is sufficiently well known, and these are things that no one thinks of discussing.

Ur. [To Climène] Madam, I said nothing that could apply to you; my words, like the satire of a comedy, are confined to generalities.

Cl. I do not doubt it, Madam. But let us no longer dwell on this episode. I do not know how you take the insults cast upon our sex in a certain part of the play; for my part, I own I am in a terrible passion to hear this impertinent author call us bipeds.

Ur. Do you not see that it is a ridiculous character he makes to speak so?

Dor. And besides, Madam, do you not know that the reproaches of lovers never offend; that it is pretty much the same with furious, as with mawkish lovers; and that on such occasions the strangest words, and worse than strange, are often taken as marks of affection by the very persons who receive them?
EL Say what you will, I cannot digest that, any more than the broth and cream tart, of which this lady was just speaking.
Mar, Oh! Upon my word, yes; cream tart! That is what I was saying; cream tart! How I thank you, Madam, for reminding me of cream tart! Are there apples enough in Normandy for cream tart? Cream tart, egad, cream tart!

Dor. Well, what do you mean with your cream tart?
Mar,’Sdeath! Cream tart, Chevalier!
Dor, But what?
Mar, Cream tart!
Dor, Let us have your reasons.

Mar. Cream tart!
Ur, But I think you should explain your meaning.
Mar, Cream tart, Madam!

Ur. What do you find there to object to?

Mar. I? Nothing! — Cream tart!

Ur. Oh! I give it up.

El. My lord goes the right way to work, and gives it you nicely. But I wish Mr Lysidas would finish, and give them a touch or two in his fashion.

Lys. It is not my wont to find fault. I am very indulgent to the works of other people. But, indeed, without any offence to the friendship which the Chevalier bears to the author, it must be owned that comedies of this kind are not genuine comedies, and that there is a vast difference between these trifles and the beauty of serious pieces. Yet, every one gives into it nowadays; nothing else is run after; we find a lamentable solitude at great productions, whilst these stupid plays have all Paris after them. My heart, I own, bleeds at it sometimes; it is a scandal to all France.

Cl. It is true that people’s taste is strangely corrupted in this matter, and that the age is getting very low.

El. Oh, that is exquisite again — getting very low. Did you invent that, Madam?

Cl. Ay!

El. I thought so.

Dor. So you think, Lysidas, that all the wit and beauty are to be found in serious poems, and that comic pieces are trifles which deserve no praise?

Ur. I certainly do not think so. Tragedy no doubt is very fine when it is well written; but comedy has also its charms, and I believe that one is no less difficult than the other.

Dor. Assuredly, Madam; and as to the difficulty, if you should rather set it on the side of comedy, perhaps you would not be far wrong. Indeed, I think that it is much easier to soar with grand sentiments, to brave fortune in verse, to arraign destiny and reproach the Gods, than to broach ridicule in a fit manner, and to make the faults of all mankind seem pleasant on the stage. When you paint heroes you can do as you like. These are fancy portraits, in which we do not look for a resemblance; you have only to follow your soaring imagination, which often neglects the true in order to attain the marvellous. But when you paint men, you must paint after nature. We expect resemblance in these portraits; you have done nothing, if you do not make us recognise the people of your day. In a word, in serious pieces, it suffices, to escape blame, to speak good sense, and to write well. But this is not enough in comedy. You must be merry; and it is a difficult undertaking to make gentle folks laugh.

Cl. I think I am one of the gentle folks; and yet I did not find cause for laughter in all I saw.

Mar. Upon my word, no more did Dor. Oh, you, Marquis — I am not astonished. That was because you found no puns in it.

Lys. Faith, sir, what we find there is not much better; all the jokes in this comedy are to my mind a little insipid.

Dor. The Court did not think so.

Lys. Ah, sir, the Court?

Dor. Pray, finish, Mr Lysidas. I see you mean to say that the Court is no judge in these matters; and this is the usual refuge of you gentlemen authors, in the scant success of your own works, to accuse the injustice of the age, and the want of discernment of the courtiers. Be assured, Mr Lysidas, that courtiers have as good eyes as other people; that folks who wear Venice lace and feathers may be as acute as those who wear a bob-wig and a little all-round cravat; that the grand test of all your plays is the judgment of the Court; that you must study its taste, in order to find the art of success; that there is no place where decisions are so just; and that, not to speak of all the learned men to be found there, a style of wit is created amongst them, by sheer natural common sense and the intercourse of people of fashion, which, beyond question, judges more delicately of things than all the rusty learning of pedants.

Ur. It is true that, however little you remain there, you have plenty of things daily passing before your eyes to give you a habit of recognising them; and especially, as to what concerns good or bad raillery.

Dor. The Court, I grant you, has a few ridiculous people; and I am, as you may see, the first to banter them. But, upon my word, there is a great number, too, amongst professional wits; if we ridicule some Marquises, I fancy there is much more reason to ridicule authors. It would be amusing to put them on the stage, with their learned antics and ridiculous refinements; their vicious custom of killing folks in their plays, their greed of praise, their scantiness of thought, their traffic of reputation, their cliques, offensive and defensive, as well as their wars of wit, and combats in prose and verse.

Lys. Molière is very happy, sir, in having so warm a defender. But, to come to facts, the question is whether this piece is good; I engage to shew in it a hundred manifest faults.

Ur. It is strange in you gentlemen poets that you always condemn the pieces which every one runs after, and speak well only of those which no one goes to see. You display an unconquerable hatred for the one, and an inconceivable tenderness for the others.

Dor. That is because it is generous to side with the unfortunate.

Ur. But, pray, Mr Lysidas, point us out some of those faults, which I could not detect.

Lys. Those who are versed in Aristotle and Horace, Madam, see at once that this comedy sins against all the rules of Art.

Ur. I confess that I am not familiar with those gentlemen, and that I do not know the rules of Art.

Dor. You are a most amusing set with your rules of Art, with which you embarrass the ignorant, and deafen us perpetually. To hear you talk, one would suppose that those rules of Art were the greatest mysteries in the world; and yet they are but a few simple observations which good sense has made upon that which may impair the pleasure taken in that kind of poems; and the same good sense which in former days made these observations makes them every day easily, without resorting to Horace and Aristotle. I should like to know whether the great rule of all rules is not to please; and whether a play which attains this has not followed a good method? Can the whole public be mistaken in these matters, and cannot everyone judge what pleases him?

Ur. I have observed one thing in these gentlemen; and that is, that those who speak most of rules, and who know them better than others, write comedies which no one admires.

Dor. Which shews, Madam, how little notice we should take of their troublesome objections. For, in short, if pieces according to rule do not please, and those do please which are not according to rule, then the rules must, of necessity, have been badly made. So let us laugh at the sophistry with which they would trammel the public taste, and let us judge a comedy only by the effect which it produces upon ourselves. Let us give ourselves up honestly to whatever stirs us deeply, and never hunt for arguments to mar our pleasure.

Ur. For my part, when I see a play, I look only whether the points strike me; and when I am well entertained, I do not ask whether I have been wrong, and whether the rules of Aristotle would forbid me to laugh.

Dor. It is just as if a man were to taste a capital sauce, and wished to know whether it were good according to the recipe in the cookery-book.

Ur. Very true; and I wonder at the critical refinements of certain people about things in which we should think for ourselves.

Dor. You are right, madam, in thinking all these mysterious critical refinements very odd. For really, if they are to subsist, we are reduced to discrediting ourselves. Our very senses must be slaves in everything; and, even in eating and drinking, we must no longer dare to find anything good, without permission from the committee of Taste.

Lys. So, sir, your, only reason is that The School for Wives has pleased you; you care not whether it be according to rule, provided...

Dor. Gently, Mr Lysidas; I do not grant you that. I certainly say that the great art is to please; and that, as this comedy has pleased those for whom it was written, I think that is enough, and that we need not care about anything else. But, at the same time, I maintain that it does not sin against any of the rules to which you allude. I have read them, thank Heaven! as well as other men, and I could easily prove that perhaps we have not on the stage a more regular play than this.

El. Courage, Mr Lysidas; we are undone if you give way.

Lys. What, sir! when the protasis, the epitasis, the peripetia...

Dor. Nay, Mr Lysidas, you overwhelm us with your fine words. Pray, do not seem so learned. Humanize your discourse a little, and speak intelligibly. Do you fancy a Greek word gives more weight to your arguments? And do you not think that it would look as well to say, “the exposition of the subject,” as the “protasis;” the “progress of the plot,” as the “epitasis;” the “crowning incident,” as the “peripetia?”

Lys. These are terms of art that we are allowed to make use of. But as these words offend your ears, I shall explain myself in another way; and I ask you to give me a plain answer to three or four things which I have to say. Can a piece be endured which sins against the very description of a play? For, after all, the name of a dramatic poem comes from a Greek word which signifies to act, in order to shew that the nature of the poem consists in action. But, in this comedy, there are no actions; it is made up of narratives by Agnès, or by Horace.

Mar. Ha! ha! Chevalier.

Cl. Ingeniously said. Now we come to the point.

Lys. Can anything be less witty, or, rather, more low, than some of the words at which every one laughs; above all, children through the ear?

Cl. Capital!

El. Oh!

Lys. Is not the scene of the servant-man and maid, indoors, of tedious length, and absolutely contemptible?

Mar. True.

Cl. Assuredly.

El. He is right.

Lys. Does not Arnolphe give his money too readily to Horace? And, as he is the ridiculous character of the piece, ought he to be made to do the action of a gentleman?

Mar. Good! The observation is good again.

Cl. — Admirable!

El. — Marvellous! —

Lys. Are not the sermon and maxims ridiculous, offending against the respect due to religion?

Mar. Well said!

Cl. Spoken as it ought to be!

El. Nothing could be better!

Lys. And this Monsieur de la Souche, to be brief, who is supposed to be a sensible man, and who appears so grave in many passages, does he not descend to something too comical and too exaggerated in the fifth act, when he declares the vehemence of his love for Agnès, with that wild rolling of his eyes, those ridiculous sighs, those silly tears, which set every one laughing?

Mar. Wonderful, egad!

Cl. Miraculous!

El. Long live Mr Lysidas!

Lys. I pass over a hundred thousand other things, for fear of being tedious.

Mar. Upon my word, Chevalier, you are in for it!

Dor. We shall see.

Mar. You have met your man.

Dor. Perhaps so.

Mar. Answer, answer, answer, answer.

Dor. Willingly. It is...

Mar. Answer, I beg you.

Dor. Allow me then. If...

Mar.’Gad, I defy you to answer.

Dor. Yes. If you talk perpetually.

Cl. Pray let us hear his reasons.

Dor. First, it is not true to say that the whole piece consists only of narratives. There is a good deal of action in it, passing on the stage; the narratives are themselves actions, according to the constitution of the piece, inasmuch as these narratives are all naturally told to the person concerned, who, by these means, is every moment thrown into a confusion which delights the audience, and who, at each fresh tiding, takes all the measures he can to ward off the misfortune which he dreads.

Ur. For my part, I think the beauty of the subject of The School for Wives consists in this continual confidence; and what seems to me diverting enough is, that a sensible man who is warned of everything by an innocent creature whom he loves, and by a marplot, who is his rival, cannot, for all that, escape his fate.

Mar. Nonsense! nonsense!

Cl. A weak answer.

El. Pitiful reasons.

Dor. As to the children through the ear, it has no jest in it except as regards Arnolphe; the author did not insert it as a jest, but only as a characteristic of the man, and the better to depict his craze; since he repeats a vulgar, stupid saying of Agnès as the finest thing in the world, and one which has given him inconceivable pleasure.

Mar. Wretchedly answered.

Cl. — That will not satisfy us.

El. — It is saying nothing.

Dor. As to the money which he gives so liberally, besides that the letter of his best friend is a sufficient surety for him, it is by no means incompatible for a man to be ridiculous in some things and worthy in others. And as to the scene between Alain and Georgette, in the house, which some think long and insipid, it is certainly not without its reasons; and just as Arnolphe is victimised during his journey by the pure innocence of his mistress, so, on his return, he is kept a long time at his own door by the innocence of his servants, just that he may be punished throughout by the very things whereby he thought to make his precautions good.

Mar. These reasons are good-for-nothing.

Cl. — All this is not worth a jot.

El. It is pitiful.

Dor. As to the moral discourse, which you call a sermon, it is a fact that truly religious people who heard it saw nothing that shocked what you mentioned; and doubtless those words, “hell,” and “boiling cauldrons” are sufficiently justified by the extravagance of Arnolphe, and by the innocence of her to whom he speaks. As for the amorous transports of the fifth act, which you blame as too exaggerated and burlesqued, I should like to know whether this is not a satire on lovers, and whether sober people, and even the most staid, on such occasions, do not do things...

Mar. Upon my word, Chevalier, you had better hold your tongue.

Dor. Very well. In short, if we were to look at ourselves when we are much in love...

Mar. I will not so much as listen to you.

Dor. Hear me, pray. In the violence of our passion...

Mar. Tol, lol, lol, lol, de rol, tol, lol, lol, lol, de rol. [Humming.]

Dor. What?

Mar. Tol, lol, lol, lol, lol, de rol, tol, lol, lol, de rol Dor. I am not aware...

Mar. Tol, lol, lol, lol, de rol, tol, lol, lol, lol, de rol.

Ur. I think that...

Mar. Tol, lol, lol, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la.

Ur. There are many funny things in our discussion. I fancy a little comedy might be made out of them, and that it would not be a bad wind-up to The School for Wives.

Dor. You are right.

Mar. Egad, Chevalier, you would play a part in it not at all to your advantage.

Dor. True, Marquis.

Cl. For my part, I wish it could be done, if they could give the whole thing just as it has happened.

El. And I would gladly furnish them with my part.

Lys. I think I should not refuse them mine.

Ur. As every one is satisfied, Chevalier, write out our discussion, and give it to Molière, whom you know, to work into a play.

Cl. He would not care for it, I am sure; it would be no panegyric upon him.

Ur. No, no, I know his mood; he does not mind if people criticise his pieces, so that they come to see them.

Dor. Ay. But what ending can we find to this plot? For there can be neither marriage nor recognition, and I do not see how we can finish the discussion.

Ur. We must think of some incident for that.

SCENE LAST.

CLIMENE, URANIA, ELIZA, DORANTE, MARQUIS, LYSIDAS, GALOPIN.

GAL. MADAM, SUPPER is ready.

Dor. Ah! This is just what we wanted for an ending and we can find nothing more natural. They shall dispute hard and fast on both sides, as we have done, without any one giving way; a boy shall come and say “supper is ready;” every one shall rise and go to supper.

Ur. The comedy cannot end better; we shall do well to stop here.

APPENDIX.

THE SECOND SCENE of The School for Wives criticised (Act i., Scene 2) is thus rendered in Thomas Brown’s Stage Beaux (Act i., Scene 2): —

URANIA, ELIZA, CLEMENE, PAGE.

Page. Madam, my Lady Clemene is come to wait on your Ladyship.

Urania. Heaven forbid! Ah, my dear Eliza, who can bear this killing visit?

Eliza. A just Judgment on you, Cousin, for your Complaint of Solitude.

Ur. Run, run down immediately, and tell her I’m not at home.

Page. I’ve told her already that you are, Madam.

Ur. You heedless little Animal you, what have you done?

Page. Who, I, Madam?

Ur. I’ll have you better taught than to give Answers in your own Head!

Page. I’ll run down and stop her — I’ll tell her that your Ladiship is not pleas’d to be at home — [Going.]

Ur. Stay, you thoughtless thing, you — you’ve done mischief enough already.

Page. Why, Madam, ‘t will be time enough; for when I came up she was engag’d in a Dispute with a Lord, whose Coach was passing your Ladiship’s Door when her’s stopped.

Ur. Go, get you down, and wait on her up — Oh! my Eliza! How shall we support the Fatigue of this Visit?

Eliz.... She is from Head to Foot the most affected Creature alive; she looks as if her whole Body were out of Joint; her Shoulders, Hips, and Head, moving like Clock-work on Springs. She affects a continual Languishment of Vice when she speaks, and is perpetually simpering and rouling her Eyes to Court the Reputation of a little Mouth and full Eyes...

Ur. Hold your Tongue — See, she’s here. —
B, — Page 247.
The third scene from The School for Wives criticised is imitated in The Stage Beaux (Act i., Scene 2) as follows: —
Enter CLEMENE; URANIA, ELIZA, PAGE.

Ur. Oh, Madam, how long ’tis since —

Cl. Eh! mee Dear excuse me! — Let me dee if I’m not just dead! Oh! a Chair immediately!

Ur. — Page, a Chair — quickly.

Cl. — Eh Ged! Eh — Ged!

Ur. Ah, Madam! What’s the matter?

Cl. Eh! E’en quite spent!

Ur. What will you have?

Cl. Eh! Eh! My Heart is beating its last.

Ur. — The Vapours?

Cl. — No, no —

Ur. Will you be unlac’d?

Cl. Eh Ged! No — Eh!

Ur. What’s your distemper?

El. How long have you been ill?

Cl. Eh! I have been above these three Hours at that filthy Place. Eh!

El. What filthy Place, Madam, cou’d your Ladyship go to?

Cl. I protest ee’m asham’d to name it — Eh!

Ur. — How, Madam!

Cl. Nay, but my Lord Vaunt-Title, and Sir Jerry Witwoud carry’d me by main force — Let me dey! It was a perfect Rape on my Understanding.

El. Pray, Madam, explain yourself.

Cl. Eh! That School of Debauchery, the Play-house, Medem! Let me dey, if I have been there since the Charming Mr Collier’s Book came out, before. And now for my Sins, Madam, for my Sins was I hurry’d to that Sink of Profaneness and Smut — But it has given me the Pal pitation of the Heart so violently, that let me dey, I shan’t recover it this Fortnight El. Ah, Cousin! The Misery of Humane Life! How strangely Diseases fall on us which we never dream of!

Cl. And then — which is the biggest Misfortune of all, Madam, let me dey, if I did not just at your Ladiship’s Door meet my Lord Truewit’s Coach, who on my Complaint had the odious Fally Militate for the hideous beastly Play-house.

Ur. I own, Madam, I don’t know what Sort of strong Constitution my Cousin and I are made of, for we were twice this Week, and yet came home safe and sound, easie, pleas’d and gay.

Cl. Eh! Madam, and are you one of the Abandon’d? Do you see Plays too?

Ur. Yes, and mind ’em too.

Cl. And do they not put you almost into Convulsions?

Ur. I thank my Stars I’m not so nice; and for what I can find by Plays, they’re more likely to Cure than make us Sick.

Cl. Eh! Madam! What is’t you say? Can any Person, that is a Person of the least Reverence in Understanding, advance such an extravagant Absurdity? Can a Lady of any feen Parts run so directly on the Point and Edge of Reason, without any apprehension of a… And is there in reality any Person of Sense, who is so very hungry and greedy after Laughter, as to be able to relish the nauseous Impertinencies of Plays? Eh! for mee part, I avow mee insensible of the least grain of Wit in eny of ’em. They all provoke mee in the most furious Degree of disgust, and ev’n Sickness at everything in them.

El. Ah! With what a charming Eloquence my Lady speaks! I swear I thought a Play a good, innocent, useful Entertainment! But she has so persuasive an Art, and gives what she says so agreeable a Turn, that we can’t resist our Inclinations to side with her Opinion.

Ur. I’m not so full of Complaisance to sacrifice my Opinion to another’s Humour, without Conviction; And till I have better Reasons than any of the Party have yet urg’d, I shall think well of the Stage.

Cl. Eh! let me dey, Medem! if I have not the least Pity for you — Eh, take my Opinion mee Dear, and recall the Deviations of your Judgment, let not the World, the censorious World, know that ever the filthy odious Plays cou’d please you.

El. Ah, Cousin! how Gay and Engaging is the very Manner and Air of my Lady’s Discourse? The very Dress ravishes, but the Sense Transports. How I pity the poor Players, who have so powerful an enemy.

Cl. Eh! the Hideous Obscenity and Ordures of the Plays.

Ur. Sure, Madam, your Ladiship’s Smell has a peculiar turn that Way! For I protest I can discover no such Matter!

Cl. No, no, mee Dear, you shall never perswade me to that — but you are one of the Obstinate Ones who tho’ Convinc’d, think it a Scandal to own your Errour — for let me dey, Medem, if the filthy Poets do not leave the Odious Things so Open and Barefac’d, that there’s not so much as a Lawn Veil drawn over them to justifie the Beholders, but the beastly Nudities are so very Monstrous and Visible, that the most prostituted Eyes in the Universe can’t look that Way without Blushes and Confusion.

El. Ah! — how many Charms are in my Lady?

Cl. He! he! he! he! he!

Ur. Pray, Madam, be Particular — point out some of these Ordures, as you call ’em.

Cl. Eh! Madam, is there then a Necessity of being Particular?

Ur. Yes, where the Case is Doubtful Cl Eh!

Ur. Come, pray be Particular.
Cl Eh! fie!

Ur. I beg you.
Cl Eh! Madam, you call all the Blood in my Body to my Face! I’m in the last Confusion, I’ve not one Word to say to you!

Ur. I’m Ignorant of the Cause, being not able to discover these Ordures myself.
Cl So much the worse for you.

Ur. So much the better rather in my Opinion. I only take things to be what they are offer’d for, nor give myself the immodest Fatigue to Rack and Torture an Expression to confess a guilty Sense which the Poet neither expos’d to my View, or Meant Cl A Woman’s Modesty!

Ur. A Woman’s Modesty lyes not in Grimaces and Affectation of knowing more in those Particulars than other People; this Affectation is the worst Symptom in the World of a sick Mind; and there can be no Modesty in the World so Ridiculous as that which takes ev’rything in the worst Sense. It discovers what Hypocrisie wou’d conceal, for it must argue a very good Acquaintance with the Lady to know her in a Mask and Disguise, and that at first Sight.
Cl In short, Madam, you may be what you please — but all Plays are full of insupportable Ordures.

El. That’s a most charming Word; Madam, I don’t know what it means, yet certainly ’tis the most ravishing Word in the World.

Cl. In fine, Madam, you see your own Cousin takes my part.

Ur. Ah! Madam, if you dare believe me, you shou’d not build much on that, since she’s a Dissembler, and won’t speak her Mind.
El Oh! fie Cousin — be not so Mischievous to bring me into Suspicion with my Lady! Shou’d she give Credit to your Calumny, how Unfortunate shou’d I be! I hope, Madam, I lye under no such injurious Thoughts from your Ladiship.

Cl. No, no, mee Dear, I mind her not, and believe you more Sincere.

El. Madam, you’re infinitely in the Right, and you do me but Justice when you believe, I think you one of the most accomplish’d and engaging Persons Alive; that I’m entirely vanquisht by your Reasons, am absolutely of your Sentiments, and extravagantly charm’d with every expression you utter.

Cl. Elese! Madam, I speak without Affectation.

El. That’s Apparent, Medem! as that all you say and do is Natural and Easie, your Words, the Tone of your Voice, your Mien, your Actions, your Address, has I know not what of Quality in them, which charms ev’ry Beholder; I’m studying every Motion of your Eyes and Mouth; and I’m so full of you, Medem, that the Town in a little Time will take me for a very Counterfeit of your Ladiship.

Cl. Eh! Medem! you mock me!

El. How can you think me so Stupid?

Cl. Let me dey, Medem, I’m but a Scurvy Model.

El. The best in the World, Medem.

Cl. Eh! You flatter me, mee Dear!

El. Not in the least, Medem!

Cl. Spare my Blushes, I conjure you, Medem.

El. Eh! Medem, I’ve spar’d you extreamly, for I’ve not said a quarter of what I think.

Cl. Eh! Medem! Ged Medem no more — Y’ave put me into a most inexpressiable Confusion — in short, Medem Urinia, we are two to one, and Obstinacy and Opiniatietures, you know, are so unworthy a Woman of Wit.
C, Page 248.
Wycherley, in The Plain Dealer (Act ii., Scene 1), defends his Country Wife, and has imitated the third scene from Molière’s The School for Wives criticised as follows: — Qimène is called Olivia, and Elise, Eliza, in the English play.

Cl. You think a woman modest that sees the hideous Country Wife without blushing, or publishing her detestation of it? D’ye hear him, cousin?

El. Yes, and am, I must confess, something of his opinion; and think, that as an over-conscious fool at a play, by endeavouring to show the authors want of wit, exposes his own to more censure, so may a lady call her own modesty in question, by publicly cavilling with the poet’s. For all those grimaces of honour and artificial modesty disparage a woman’s real virtue, as much as the use of white and red does the natural complexion: and you must use very, very little, if you would have it thought your own.

Cl. Then you would have a woman of honour with passive looks, ears, and tongue, undergo all the hideous obscenity she hears at nasty plays.

El. Truly, I think a woman betrays her want of modesty, by showing it publicly in a play house, as much as a man does his want of courage by a quarrel there: for the truly modest and stout say least, and are least exceptious, especially in public.

Ol. O hideous, cousin! this cannot be your opinion. But you are one of those who have the confidence to pardon the filthy play.

El. Why, what is there of ill in’t, say you?

Ol. O fy! fy! fy! would you put me to the blush anew? call all the blood into my face again? But to satisfy you then; first, the clandestine obscenity in the very name of Horner.

El. Truly, ’tis so hidden, I cannot find it out, I confess.

Ol. O horrid! Does it not give you the rank conception or image of a goat, or town-bull, or a satyr? nay, what is yet a filthier image than all the rest, that of a eunuch?

El. What then? I can think of a goat, a bull, or a satyr, without any hurt?

Ol. Ay; but, cousin, one cannot stop there.

El. I can, cousin.

Ol. O no; for when you have these filthy creatures in your head once, the next thing you think, is what they do; as their defiling of honest men’s beds and couches; rapes upon sleeping and waking country virgins under hedges, and on haycocks. Nay, further —

El. Nay, no further, cousin. We have enough of your comment on the play, which will make me more ashamed than the play itself.

Ol. O, believe me, ’tis a filthy play! and you may take my word for a filthy play as soon as another’s. But the filthiest thing in that play, or any other play, is —

El. Pray keep it to yourself, if it be so.

Ol.No, faith, you shall know it; I’m resolved to make you out of love with the play. I say, the lewdest, filthiest thing is his china; nay, I will never forgive the beastly author his china. He has quite taken away the reputation of poor china itself, and sullied the most innocent and pretty furniture of a lady’s chamber; insomuch that I was fain to break all my defiled vessels. You see I have none left; nor you I hope.

El. You’ll pardon me, I cannot think the worse of my china for that of the playhouse.

Ol. Why, you will not keep any now, sure. ’Tis now as unfit an ornament for a lady’s chamber as the pictures that come from Italy and other hot countries; as appears by their nudities, which I always cover, or scratch out, wheresoe’er I find ’em. But china! out upon’t, filthy china! nasty, debauched china!

El. All this will not put me out of conceit with china, nor the play, which is acted to-day, or another of the same beastly author’s, as you call him, which I’ll go see.

Ol. You will not, sure! nay, you sha’ not venture your reputation by going, and mine with leaving me alone with two men here: nay, you’ll disoblige me for ever, if — [Pulls her back].

El. I stay! — your servant — [Exit].
D, — Page 253.
The fifth Scene from Molière’s The School for Wives criticised, is rendered as follows in Tom Brown’s The Stage Beaux (Act i., Scene 4).
Enter LORD VAUNT-TITLE at the Chamber door struggling with the PAGE, who would stop him.

Page. Pray, Sir, go no farther!

Lord. Sure you don’t know me!

Page. Yes, my Lord, I do — but you are not to come in.

Lord. What brutal insolence is this?

Page. My Lord, don’t call your Civility in question by forcing into a Lady’s Apartment, whether she will or not.

Lord. I come to wait on your Lady.

Page. But my Lady, Sir, will not be waited on — I told your Lordship that she was not within.

Lord. Why, I see her in the Room there.

Page. That’s true, my Lord — but yet I tell you she is not within.

Ur. What’s the matter there?

Lord. Only your Ladiship’s Page is for playing the Fool a little, Madam.

Page. I told my Lord that your Ladiship was not at Home, and yet he wou’d needs press into the Room.

Ur. And why did you tell my Lord so?

Page. Because your Ladiship was angry last time for letting him know that you were within.

Ur. Was ever such Impudence in so Young a Creature! I hope your Lordship has a better Opinion of me than to believe what he says; he takes your Lordship for an impertinent Dancing-master I caution’d him about.

Lord. Oh! Medem, I’m infinitely satisfy’d of the Truth of what you say, and in Respect of your Ladiship I shall forbear to teach him to distinguish better betwixt a Man of Quality and a Dancing-Master.

El. There’s an obliging Difference, Cousin!

Ur. A Chair there, Impertinent.

Page. There is one, Madam. — [The page thrusts it ruddy to him.
E, — Page 254.
Thomas Brown has in his Stage-Beaux (Act i, Scene 6), imitated the fourth scene of The School for Wives criticised as follows: —

Lord. Your Page, Medem, has a strange Aversion to my Person.

El. He’s much in the Wrong, my Lord.

Lord. I fancy my ill Mien is not engaging enough with him, Ha! ha! ha! hey! hey! hey! — But pray Ladies what were you upon?

Ur. The Play-house, my Lord.

Lord. I just came from it.

El. With this Lady.

Lord. Right, Madam, she did me the Honour to Sacrifice Three Hours to the Adornment of the Boxes: For Rat me if there has not been a Dearth of Beauty there ever since her Ladiship has forsaken the House, except when your Ladiship was there.

Cl. Well, my Lord, your Opinion of the Play-house.

Lord. Rat me, a most Impertinent Place.

Cl. Eh! How I am Ravish’d with your Judgment, mee Lord!

Lord. Oh. ’Tis a most Abominable Insipid Place, Rat me, in the Universe! Why, Modem, the Devil take me if I was not horribly squeez’d to get a Place there! I thought I should have been Smother’d or Press’d to Death to get in. See how Hideously my Cloaths and Peruque are rumpled. By your Favour, Lady; I must adjust me.
[Goes to the glass.

El. Nay, that indeed ought to cry Vengeance on the Place, and justifies your Lordship’s Censure.
F, — Page 254.
What Molière says in The School for Wives criticised (Act i., Scenes 6 and 7), in defence of his Comedy, Tom Brown applies in The Stage-Beaux to the stage in general, and let Dorimant (Act i., Scene 6) defend it with the same arguments his French prototype uses in defence of The School for Wives.
LORD VAUNT-TITLE, DORIMANT, SIR JERRY WITWOOD, CELEMENE, URANIA, ELIZA.

Ur. Oh! Dorimant, you are come to my Assistance in a lucky Minute, and bring Right, a better Advocate than a Woman.

Dor. Not than such a Woman as your Ladiship, Madam: But I pray Ladies and Gentlemen keep your Places, nor let me interrupt your Discourse, for you are on a Subject that has long divided the Town.

Ur. Here’s my Lord a violent Enemy of the Stage.

Lord. True, Medem, I am so — for it’s Contempt of Quality. In short, it is a most detestable Place; refuse me, detestable to the last Degree; more detestable than anything that can be call’d detestable.

Dor. My Judgment and Reason then are most detestable.

Lord. Why, rat me, Dorimant, dost thou pretend to defend it?

Dor. Yes, my Lord, I am that bold Man — But pray, my Lord, what are the Reasons of your Indignation?

Lord. Reasons, why the Stage is detestable?

Dor. Yes, my Lord.

Lord. It is detestable, because it is detestable.

Dor. After this indeed, who wou’d say one word more — The sentence is past, and the Pulpit without any more ado condemn’d.

Lord. Sir Jerry here’s of my opinion.

Dor. The Authority is admirable, I confess.

Sir J. And are you a Defender of the Stage?

Dor. Certainly, Sir Jerry.

Lord. Demme! I’ll take care to inform the poor Rogues of their Advocate. Hey! hey! He, he, he!

Cl. Eh! Let me dey, Mr Dorimant, this is furiously incongruous to your Reputation! — for Mr Collier has proved the Poets a Company of strange debauch’d Fellows — who are furiously my Aversion.

Dor. Mr Collier does by the Poets, what he says Aristophanes did by Socrates, he puts them on an odious Dress, and then Rails at ’em for their Habit. But what say you if I am persuaded to be for the Stage, even by your beloved Mr Collier? Cl. )

Lord. He! he! he! That’s pleasant indeed!

Sir J. )

Cl. Eh! Mr Dorimant, you are for Paradoxes to show your Wit!

Dor. I am for Truth, Madam — and what I say I give my Reason for — He tells us in the very Front of his Book, That the Business of the Stage is to Recommend Vertue, and Discountenance Vice, to show the uncertainty of Humane Greatness... After this, who wou’d not be for the Stage, that dares pretend to be a Lover of either Vertue or Sense.

The Versailles Impromptu

L’Impromptu de Versailles

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

IN THE DELIGHTFUL Impromptu de Versailles, which was performed for the first time at Versailles, during some part of the month of October 1663, Molière hits round freely and pleasantly at all the world, himself included; but the principal object which he had in its conception was to retaliate upon his critics, and, in particular, upon his rivals of the hôtel de Bourgogne. The School for Wives criticised had, by its keen satire, exasperated that part of Parisian society which had been loudest in its cavils at Molière’s genius and success; and they who had felt the directness of his blows thirsted for revenge. The rival company, eager to pay their satirist in his own coin, and anticipating a run upon a play which should hold the poet up to ridicule, commissioned a young and unknown writer, Edme Boursault, to supply them with a new comedy, and the result was The Painter’s Portrait, in which The School for Wives is one of the staple subjects of ridicule. This piece, which was not represented until the last week in October, was well attended, and still more applauded; but its merits were not such as to bring lasting fame to its author. There can, however, be no doubt that Molière was hit by it rather harder than would appear from the dignified manner in which he rejoins — or rather declines to rejoin — to it in the Impromptu. It has been said that Molière and his company were sent for by the King to Versailles, and that Louis commanded his favourite comic dramatist to reply to the attack of his critics, for which purpose he placed the Court theatre at his disposal Molière found the task a difficult one, having only a few days in which to execute the commission; but he cannot be held to have done anything unworthy of his fame in the bright and sparkling Impromptu. It satisfied the King; and, as a reply to Boursault’s play, was acted on the 4th of November at the Theatre of the Palais-Royal, and subsequently for three weeks, with considerable effect in bringing Molière’s rivals back to their senses. I strongly suspect that between the performance at Court and that before the public, Molière enhanced and deepened some of his remarks against Boursault, and that the latter, Montfleury and De Villiers, did the same with the plays they wrote, attacking Molière. In any case, our author did not think The Impromptu of Versailles of sufficiently enduring interest to merit printing, and it was not until after his death that his friend La Grange gave it to the world.

It must have astonished the Court to see, on the rising of the curtain, Molière and his troupe, not disguised, but in their everyday apparel, with their ordinary countenances, all quarrelling among themselves, grumbling at the manager and author, preparing for a rehearsal, and behaving as if there was no public before them, and, above all, such a courtly public as was to be found in the Salle des Comédies at Versailles. But the fiction that the King was not present, and should not come for a couple of hours, saved appearances.

It is to be regretted that Molière in The Impromptu gave way to personalities, — a habit in which dramatic authors were formerly inclined to indulge too freely in every country, and which the improved good taste of the public has now generally banished from the stage.

The Impromptu was attempted to be answered by Montfleury, junior, in V Impromptu de l’hôtel de Coudé, and by De Villiers in la Vengeance des Marquis; both these plays were acted at the hôtel de Bourgogne, but are now deservedly forgotten. The actors of the hôtel du Marais (see Vol. I., Prefatory Memoir, page xxiv.) tried to remain neutral, and played a comedy by Chevalier, called les Amours de Calot in, in which both parties, the troupe of Molière and that of the hôtel de Bourgogne, are faintly criticised. Two dissertations about The School for Wives, in the form of dialogues, were also printed, but not acted; the one was called Le Panégyrique de l’Ecole des femmes, ou Conversation comique sur les Oeuvres de M. de Molière, by Robinet; the other, which probably concludes in favour of Molière, bore the title of La Guerre comique, ou la Défense de l’Ecole des femmes, and was written by de la Croix. In “Le Panégyrique de l’Ecole des Femmes, published in Paris by Jean Guignard, le fils, en la grande salle du Palais, à l’image de St Jean, 1664, the author makes an Englishman (Lysandre) give his opinion upon The School for Wives. Upon being asked whether he had seen the piece, he answers that if business had not taken him to Paris, he would have come expressly in order to see it, as it had made a great noise already in England. Says he in reply to a question as regards the feeling upon it in his own country. “Two reasons prevent it being to the taste of every one, the first that it is a languishing comedy, and that as you are aware, the English only like pure tragedy; the second, that the master of this school is morose and peevish, and wishes to make husbands the reverse of what they are in England, at which our ladies are not altogether pleased.” A friend of his, a Frenchman, replies to this:—” You are right, the husbands there are altogether good, I know it by experience. I have seen some here, who have really surprised me by their goodness. Far from being jealous of their wives, they like those who pay them attentions, and you can do them no greater favour than flatter their better halves.”

As in The Impromptu of Versailles, Molière’s actors appear, not in their dramatic, but in their own, characters, it behoves us to say something of them here. In the Prefatory Memoir (see Vol. I. p xix.) we have stated the names of those actors who were members of the Illustre Théâtre, as well as those who left with Molière for the provinces, and those who returned to Paris with him. We shall now briefly give a few details about the actors of the troupe of Molière in 1663. Only two of them, Messrs Duparc and Debrie, are not mentioned in the list of Dramatis Personae of The Impromptu; later on, Hubert, Baron, Beauval and his wife, and Marie de l’Estang became members of his company.

Brécourt, whose real name was Guillaume Marcoureau, was a member of Molière’s troupe only from June 1662 until Easter 1664; before that time he had been an actor at the Théâtre du Marais, and, after a quarrel with Molière, left him for the hôtel de Bourgogne. His life was full of accidents. Having killed a coachman, he was obliged to fly to Holland; took service there under the Prince of Orange; but having failed in his attempt to carry off one of his countrymen whom the French ministry wished to get hold of, and whom Brécourt had promised to deliver into their hands, he came back to Paris, received his pardon, and returned to the stage. He once, in presence of Louis XIV., and after a severe struggle, killed a wild boar with his sword. As a dramatic author, he possesses some, though not great, merit. One of his pieces, The Ghost of Molière, written after Molière’s death, and in his praise, is dedicated to the Duke d’Enghien, formerly a great enemy of Molière; it was played at the hôtel de Bourgogne; and was, for a long time, printed at the end of Molière’s works. Brécourt died March 28th, 1685, from his having broken a blood-vessel, whilst playing before the Court in his own comedy Timon.

Charles Variet, known as de la Grange was one of the best actors of Molière’s troupe, and the very words our author uses in addressing him (see page 306) prove this. He was the official orator of the company, delivered all the customary speeches, and announced the new plays at the closing or opening of the theatre. Together with Vinot, he published in 1682 the first collected edition of Molière’s works, in which appeared for the first time, Don Garcia of Navarre, The Impromptu of Versailles, Don Juan, Mélicerte, The Magnificent Lovers, The Countess of Escarbagnas, and The Hypochondriac. He died on the first of March 1692, and left behind him a manuscript book, in quarto, which is even now (1875) carefully kept in an iron chest by the Comédie française, and has for its title: Extrait des receptes et des affaires de la Comédie depuis pasques de Vannée 1659, apartenant autsr de la Orange, Vun des comédiens du Roy n Du Croisy, whose real name was Philbert Gassot, was a very able actor, who played the part of Tartuffe. After Molière’s death, he withdrew from the stage, and went to live at Conflans-Sainte-Honorine, in the neighbourhood of Paris, where he died in 1695.

La Thorillière, whose real name was Lenoir, had been a captain in an infantry regiment, and maréchal de camp. Smitten by a theatrical mania, he asked and obtained permission from Louis XIV. to resign, and to adopt the stage as a profession. He was of lofty stature, and is said to have played kings and peasants very well, for, in Molière’s time, these two parts were played by the same actor. A tragedy of his, Marc-Antoine et Cléopâtre, which was never printed, had some success in its time. He died in 1680.

Louis Béjart, surnamed L’Éguisë, the sharp one, one of the early actors in Molière’s troupe, was a younger brother of Madeleine and Geneviève Béjart, and appears to have acted servants’ parts. He became lame in trying to separate two of his friends who wished to fight a duel (see Vol. I., page 111, note 2). He was pensioned off in 1670, and died in 1678.

Madame Duparc was the wife of Berthelot, otherwise called Duparc, with the cognomen of Gros-René, because he was very stout. Both husband and wife had joined Molière’s troop at Lyons in 1653, and remained with him, except for one year, when they were with the troupe of the Marais. Madame Duparc played the princesses in tragedies, and was so very handsome, that she attracted, and scandal says, responded to, the attentions of some of the most celebrated poets of the day. In 1667, three years after the death of her husband, she went to the hôtel de Bourgogne, and there acted Andromaque in Racine’s tragedy of that name. Report states that she was rather stiff and ceremonious: hence, in answer to Molière’s remarks in the Impromptu (see page 305), she replies “that no one in the world” is less so than she. She died in 1668, only twenty-five years old.

Madame Madeleine Béj art’s life has been already described in the Prefatory Memoir (see Vol. I., page xxi.); to which we refer the reader.

Madame Debrie, the wife of Edme Villequin Debrie, played inferior parts in Molière’s troupe. The stage gossip of the times, at no period a very sound authority, pretends that she had been beloved by Molière. She was a very good and handsome actress, and acted, amongst others, the parts of Isabella in The School for Husbands, of Agnès in The School for Wives, and of Éliante in The Misanthrope. She retained her youthful appearance to an advanced age, and died in 1706.

Madame Molière was the wife of our celebrated author. In the Prefatory Memoir, Vol. I., page 290, I have already given some details of her marriage, and of the way in which she is said to have behaved to her husband. Her great charm appears to have been in her voice, which, according to all accounts, was both musical and pre-eminently feminine. The author of the Entretiens galants says: “Of this she is herself so well aware, that she has a different tone of voice for every different part she plays:” hence she was an excellent actress. It has been generally said that Molière describes his wife in The Citizen who apes the Nobleman (see Vol. VI., Act iii. Sc. 9) in the following words: “Her eyes are not large, but they are full of fire, the most brilliant, the most piercing, the most moving, imaginable. Her mouth is large; but it possesses attractions unseen in other mouths. She is not tall; but she is easy and elegant. She affects a careless air in her speech and carriage, but there is grace in all, and her manners have an inexpressible charm that appeals to every heart. Her wit is most refined and delicate; her conversation delightful; and if she be capricious beyond compare, — why, everything is becoming in a beauty, and we bear everything from a beauty.”

If we are to believe the gossip of the time, as repeated but not substantiated by many of Molière’s biographers, Madame Molière must have been a very depraved woman, who chose her lovers amongst the most elegant courtiers, such as the Duke de Lauzun, the Abbé de Richelieu, the Count de Guiche, and several others. These accusations are really backed by very little proof; but that Molière was jealous is only too well ascertained. According to a libellous booklet, published fifteen years after Molière’s death, and called: La Fameuse comédienne, ou Histoire de la Guerin, auparavant femme et veuve de Molière, which is a storehouse of the scandal from behind the wings, and has been a repository for all the attacks made against Molière or his wife, — our author was one day walking with his friend Chapelle in his garden at Auteuil, “who perceiving him to be more than usually out of sorts, pressed him several times to tell him the reason. Molière, who was somewhat ashamed to have so little fortitude under so common a misfortune, avoided replying as long as he could; but, as he was just then in one of those moods when the heart is full, so well known to persons in love, he yielded to the desire of unbosoming himself, and confessed frankly to his friend that the cause of his dejection was the manner in which he was compelled to treat his wife. Chapelle, who thought Molière above that sort of thing, rallied him, because a man who could so well depict the foibles of others gave way to the very one he was constantly attacking; adding, that the most absurd thing of all was to continue loving a woman who responds in no way to the tenderness lavished upon her!— ‘As for me,’ he continued, ‘I own that if I were so unfortunate as to find myself in such a case, and if I had a strong suspicion that the person in question granted her favours to others, I should feel so much scorn for her that it would infallibly cure me of my passion. Moreover, you have a satisfaction which you could not have were she a mistress: for vengeance, which generally succeeds to love in a heart that has been wronged, may indemnify you for all that your wife makes you suffer; since you have only to shut her up, and that will be a sure means of setting your mind at rest.’ Molière, who had listened to his friend pretty quietly, here interrupted him to enquire whether he had ever been in love? ‘Yes,’ replied Chapelle, ‘I have been so, as a sensible man should be; but I should never have fretted at a course which my honour required I should pursue; and I blush to find you so uneasy.’

‘I see you have never yet been really in love,’ answered Molière; you have taken the semblance of love for love itself. I will not quote you a great many examples showing the potency of this passion; I will merely describe to you faithfully my own condition, that you may comprehend how little one is master of oneself, when once the passion has assumed that ascendancy of which temperament is usually the cause. In answer to your remark upon my perfect knowledge of the human heart, judging by those delineations of character which I daily put forth, I agree that I studied myself to the utmost, in order the more thoroughly to know its weakness; but if my knowledge has taught me that peril is to be shunned, my experience has but too truly proved to me that it is impossible to avoid it; I learn this every day in my own case. I am by nature gifted with a great propensity to tenderness.... I wished that the innocence of my choice should be a guarantee for my happiness. I took my wife, so to say, from her cradle. I brought her up with a care which was the cause of the rumours you have no doubt heard. I imagined that force of habit would inspire her with feelings which time could not destroy. I have omitted nothing which might tend to win them. As she was very young when I married her, I did not perceive her bad tendencies; and I believed myself a little less unfortunate than the generality of those who enter into similar engagements. Marriage, therefore, did not slacken my attentions; but I discovered in her so much indifference, that I began to perceive that all my precaution had been useless, and that what she felt towards me was far removed from what I could have desired to form my happiness. I reproached myself with feeling a delicacy which seemed to me ridiculous in a husband. I attributed to her mood what was in fact her want of affection for me. But I had only too many opportunities to convince me of my error; and the foolish passion she displayed shortly after for the Count de Guiche was too notorious for me to remain long in this apparent tranquillity. As soon as I heard of it, I spared no pains to conquer my own feelings, as I felt it impossible to change hers. I summoned all my strength of mind to this end. I called to my aid everything that might tend to console me. I considered her as one whose sole merit was her innocence; and who, because she was unfaithful, retained none. I resolved from that time to live with her as a man of honour should who has a coquettish wife, and who believes, notwithstanding what is generally said, that his good name is not dependent upon his wife’s ill behaviour. Yet I had the mortification to see that a woman without beauty, and one who owes the small amount of wit she possesses to the education which I had given her, could destroy, in a single moment, all my philosophy. Her presence makes me forget my resolutions; and the very first word she says to me in her own defence leaves me so convinced that my suspicions were unfounded, that I ask her pardon for having been so credulous. Yet my indulgence has not changed her. I have therefore determined to live with her as if she were not my wife; but if you knew what I suffer, you would pity me. My passion has reached such a height, that it actually takes her part against myself; and when I reflect how impossible it is to overcome what I feel for her, I, at the same time, tell myself that perhaps she has equal difficulty in suppressing her inclination for coquetry: thus finding myself more ready to pity than to blame her. No doubt, you will tell me that a man must be mad to love in such a manner; but, in my opinion, there is only one sort of love, and those who have never had such delicate feelings have never truly loved. Every earthly thing is associated with her in my heart; my mind is so full of her, that I can do nothing in her absence to divert my thoughts. When I behold her, a thrill of emotion and transport, which can be experienced but not expressed, deprives me of composure. I have no eyes left for her defects: I see only all that renders her so irresistible. Is not this the height of infatuation? And do you not wonder to find that what sense I have left serves but to make me perceive my weakness, without the power of conquering it?’

‘I confess, indeed,’ answered his friend, ‘that you are more to be pitied than I could have believed; but we must hope all from time. Meanwhile, do not relax your efforts; they will produce their effect when you least expect it. For my part, I shall not cease my prayers that your wishes may speedily be crowned.’ He thereupon withdrew; leaving Molière, who remained for some time lost in thought on the means of relieving his distress of mind.” —

Four years after. Molière’s death his widow married another comedian, François Guérin du Tricher or d’Estriché, who appears not to have possessed the intellectual qualities of her first husband, but to have had other charms which captivated the fair widow, if we can believe an epigram written at the time of her marriage, in which it is said that Mad. Molière had little love for her first husband, who was all mind, but much for her second, who was all body. She died the 30th of November 1700, about fifty-eight years old.

Madame Du Croisy, whose maiden name was Marie Claveau, was an actress of very little talent. Her daughter was Madame Poisson Madame Hervé, whose real name was Géneviève Béjarrt, was an elder sister of Madame Molière, and took the name of Madame Hervé, after her mother. She was twice married. Of her talents as an actress, very little is known. As to her acquaintance with Molière, we have given a suggestion of Soulié in the Prefatory Memoir, Vol. I., page xxviii. She died at the end of June 1675.

I have said above that the Impromptu was first represented before Louis XIV., hence its name of Impromptu de Versailles. It may be interesting to know how the actors and actresses were treated when at court They each received an extra pay of six livres, all their expenses were paid, and even carriages were provided. If they had to go out of town the troupe had one thousand crowns per month, and each actor and actress two crowns per day for their expenses, as well as free lodgings. In summer, as well as in winter, each had three logs (pièces) of wood, one bottle of wine, one loaf, and, when at the Louvre, two wax-candles; when at Saint Germain, one large candle weighing two pounds; they also had every day, when they played at the King’s, a lunch, which cost twenty-five crowns. This is what M. Chappuzeau states in his Théâtre français, but the picture appears a little over-drawn, though it may have been true during the beginning of the reign of Louis XIV. But later on, if we consult the registres de la Comédie française, we find that no carriages nor extras were provided, and that often the indemnity which was allowed, did not cover the expenses.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MOLIERE, A RIDICULOUS Marquis.

BRECOURT, a man of Quality.

LA GRANGE, a ridiculous Marquis.

Du CROISY, a poet.

LA THORILLIERE, a fidgeity Marquis.

BEJART, a busybody.

FOUR BUSYBODIES.

Mademoiselle DUPARC, a ceremonious Marchioness. Mademoiselle BEJART, a prude.

Mademoiselle DEBRIE, a sage coquette. Mademoiselle MOLIERE, a satirical urit. Mademoiselle Du CROISY, a whining plague. Mademoiselle HERVE, a conceited chamber maid.

Scene — VERSAILLES, IN THE KING’S ANTECHAMBER.

SCENE I.

MOLIERE, BRECOURT, LA GRANGE, DU CROISY, MAD. DUPARC, MAD. BEJART, MAD. DEBRIE, MAD. MOLIERE, MAD. DU CROISY, MAD. HERVE.

Mol. — [A lone, speaking to his fellow-actors behind the scenes] Come, ladies and gentlemen, is this delay meant for a joke? Are you never coming here? Plague take the people! I say, Brécourt Bré. — [Behind] What? —

Mol. — La Grange!

La Gr. — [Behind] What is it?

Mol. — Du Croisy!

Du C. [Behind] Who calls?

Mol. — Mademoiselle Duparc!

Mad. Dup. — [Behind] Well?

Mol. — Mademoiselle Béjart!

Mad. Béj. [Behind] What is the matter?

Mol. — Mademoiselle Debrie!

Mad. Deb. [Behind] What do you want?

Mol. — Mademoiselle Du Croisy — !

Mad. Du — C. [Behind] Whatever is — it?

Mol. — Mademoiselle Hervé!

Mad. Her. — [Behind] I am coming.

Mol. — I think I shall go mad with these people.
Listen to me! — [Enter Brécourt, La Orange, Du Croisy]
Deuce take me! gentlemen, will you drive me out of my wits to-day?

Bré. — What would you have us do? We do not know our parts, and you will drive us out of our wits, if you force us to play in this style.

Mol. — Oh, what an awkward team to drive are actors! [Enter Mesdemoiselles Béjart, Duparc, Debrie, Molière, Du Croisy, and Hervé.]

Mad. Béj. — Well, here we are. What do you mean to do?

Mad. Dup. What is your idea?

Mad. Deb. What is to be done?

Mol. — Pray, let us take our positions; and, since we are ready dressed, and the King will not come for a couple of hours, let us employ the time in rehearsing our piece, and see how we are to play our parts.

La Or. — How are we to play what we do not know?

Mad. Dup. As for me, I declare that I do not remember a word of my part.

Mad. Deb. I am sure I shall have to be prompted from beginning to end.

Mad. Béj. And I just mean to hold mine in my hand.

Mad. Mol. So do I.

Mad. Her. For my part, I have not much to say.

Mad. Du C. Nor I either; but, for all that, I would not promise not to make a slip.

Du C. I would give ten pistoles to be out of it.

Bré. — I would stand a score of good blows with a whip to be the same, I assure you.

Mol. — You are all just disgusted at having parts that do not please you. What would you do if you were in my place, I should like to know?

Mad. Béj. Who, you? You are not to be pitied; for, having written the piece, you need not be afraid of tripping.

Mol. And have I nothing to fear but want of memory? Do you reckon the anxiety as to our success, which is entirely my own concern, nothing? And do you think it a trifle to provide something comic for such an assembly as this; to undertake to excite laughter in those who command our respect, and who only laugh when they choose? Must not any author tremble when he comes to such a test? Would it not be natural for me to say that I would give everything in the world to be quit of it?

Mad. Béj. If that makes you tremble, you should have been more careful, and not have undertaken what you have done in eight days.

Mol. How could I refuse the command of a King?

Mad. Béj. How? By a respectful excuse, based on the impossibility of the thing in the short time that was allowed you. Anyone else in your place would have thought more of his reputation, and would have taken care not to expose himself, as you are doing. What will you do, pray, if the thing fails? Think what advantage all your enemies will take of it.

Mad. Deb. Ay, to be sure! You ought to have respectfully excused yourself to the King, or required more time.

Mol. Oh! Mademoiselle, Kings like nothing better than a ready obedience, and are not at all pleased to meet with obstacles. Things are not acceptable, save at the moment when they desire them; to try to delay their amusement is to take away all the charm. They want pleasures that do not keep them waiting; and those that are least prepared are always the most agreeable to them. We ought never to think of ourselves in what they desire of us; our only business is to please them; and, when they command us, it is our part to respond quickly to their wish. We had better do amiss what they require of us, than not do it soon enough; if we have the shame of not succeeding, we always have the credit of having speedily obeyed their commands. But now, pray, let us set about our rehearsal.

Mad. Béj. What would you have us do, if we do not know our parts?

Mol. — I tell you, you shall know them; even if you do not quite know them, can you not fill in out of your own heads, as it is in prose, and you know your subject?

Mad. Béj. Thank you for nothing! Prose is worse than verse.

Mad. Mol. Shall I tell you what it is? You ought to write a comedy in which you could act all alone.

Mol. — Be quiet, wife. What a dunce you are!

Mad. Mol. Thanks, dear husband. That just shows how strangely marriage alters people. You would not have said that to me eighteen months ago.

Mol. — Pray be quiet.

Mad. Mol. It is an odd thing that a trifling ceremony deprives us of all our good qualities, and that a husband and a lover regard the same woman with such different eyes.

Mol. — Here is a sermon!

Mad. Mol. Upon my word, if I were to write a comedy, that should be my subject; I would justify women in many things of which they are accused, and I would make husbands afraid of the contrast between their abrupt manners and the civility of lovers.

Mol. — Well, let it pass. We cannot chatter now; we have something else to do.

Mad. Béj. But, since you were ordered to work on the subject of the criticism that is passed on you, why not write that comedy of actors that you have talked about so long? It was a ready-made notion, and would have come quite pat; the more so, as, having undertaken to delineate you, they gave you an opportunity to delineate them; it might have been called their portrait, far more justly than all their productions can be called yours. For, to try to mimic a comedian in a comic part is not to describe himself, but only after him the characters he represents, and making use of the same touches, and the same hues which he is obliged to employ in the various ridiculous characters that he draws from nature. But to mimic an actor in serious parts is to describe him by faults which are entirely his own, since characters of this kind do not carry either the gestures or ridiculous tones by which the actor is recognised.

Mol. — It is true; but I have my reasons for not doing it; between ourselves, I did not think it would be worth the trouble; and, besides, I should want more time to work out the idea. As their days for acting are the same as our own, I have hardly seen them three or four times since we have been in Paris; I have caught nothing of their style of delivery, but what was at once apparent to the eye; I should have to study them more, to make my portraits very like them.

Mad. Dup. I must say I have recognised some of them in your imitations.

Mad. Deb. I never heard this talked of.

Mol. — I had the idea once in my head, but I dismissed it as a trifle, a jest, which might have raised a laugh. Mad. Deb. Give me a specimen, as you have given it to others.

Mol. — We have no time now.

Mad. Deb. — Just a word or two!

Mol. — I thought of a comedy in which there should have been a poet, whose part I would have taken myself, coming to offer a piece to a strolling company fresh from the provinces. “Have you actors and actresses,” he was to say, “capable of doing justice to a play? For my play is a play..— “Oh sir,” the comedians were to answer, “we have ladies and gentlemen who have passed muster wherever we have been.”
“And who plays the Kings amongst you?”
“There is an actor who sometimes undertakes it.”
“Who? That well-made young man? Surely you jest. You want a King who is very fat, and as big as four men. A king, by Jove, well stuffed out. A king of vast circumference, who could fill a throne handsomely. Only fancy a well-made king! There is one great fault to begin with; but let me hear him recite a dozen lines.” Then the actor should repeat for example, some lines of the king in Nicomède:
“I say, Araspus, he has too well served me, Has raised my power...” and so on, in the most natural manner he could. Then the poet:—” What? Call you that reciting? You are joking. You should say things with an emphasis. Listen to me.” [He imitates Montfleury, a comedian of the hôtel de Bourgogne]
“I say, Araspus,” &c.
“Do you see this attitude? Observe that well. There, lay the proper stress on the last line; that is what elicits approbation, and makes the public applaud you.”
“But, sir,” the actor was to answer, “methinks a King who is conversing alone with the captain of his guards talks a little more mildly, and hardly uses this demoniacal tone.”
“You do not understand it. Go and speak in your way, and see if you get an atom of applause.”
“Ah, let us hear a scene between a lover and his mistress.” On which an actor and actress should have played a scene together — that of Camilla and Curiatius: —

“Dost go, dear soul, and does this fatal honour
So charm thee at the cost of all our bliss?
Ah! now too well I see, etc—”

 — like the other, as naturally as they could. And the poet would break out: “You are joking; that is good for nothing. This is how you ought to recite it:” [Imitating Mad de Beauchâteau, an actress of the hôtel de Bourgogne]

“Dost go, dear soul, &c.
“Nay, but I know thee better, etc.”..

“See how natural and impassioned this is. Admire the smiling face she maintains in the deepest affliction.” There, that was my idea; and my poet should have run through all the actors in the same manner.

Mad. Deb. I like the notion; and I recognised some of them by the very first lines. Do go on.

Mol. — [Imitating Beauchdteau in some lines from the Cid.]
“Pierced to the centre of my heart,” &c.
And do you know this man in Sertoriuss Pompey? [Imitating Hauteroche, a comedian of the hôtel de Bourgogne]
“The enmity which either faction sways Engenders here no honour,” &c.

Mad. Deb. I think I know him a little.

Mol. — And this one? [Imitating de Villiers, another comedian of the hôtel de Bourgogne]
“My lord, Polybius is dead,” &c.

Mad. Deb. Yes, I know who he is; but I fancy there are some amongst them whom you would find it hard to mimic.

Mol. Good Heavens! there is not one that cannot be had somewhere, if I had studied them well But you make me lose precious time. Pray, let us think of ourselves, and not amuse ourselves any longer with talking. [To La Orange] Take care how you act the part of Marquis with me.

Mad. Mol. Marquises again?

Mol. — Yes, Marquises again. What the deuce would you have me hit on for a character acceptable to the audience? The Marquis in these days is the funny character in a comedy; and as, in all the old comedies, there was always a clownish servant to make the spectators laugh, so now, in all our pieces, there must be always a ridiculous Marquis to divert the company.

Mad. Béj. It is true, that cannot be left out.

Mol. — As to you, Mademoiselle...

Mad. Dup. Nay, as to me, I shall act wretchedly; I do not know why you have given me this ceremonious part.

Mol. — Good Heavens! Mademoiselle, that is what you said when you had your part in The School for Wives criticised; yet you acquitted yourself admirably, and everyone agreed that it could not be better done. Believe me, this will be the same; you will play it better than you think. —

Mad. Dup. How can that be? There is no one in the world less ceremonious than I.

Mol. — True; and that is how you prove yourself to be an excellent actress, representing well a character which is opposed to your mood. Try then, all of you, to catch the spirit of your parts aright, and to imagine that you are what you represent. [To Du Croisy] You play a poet, and you ought to be taken up with your part; to mark the pedantic air which is maintained amidst the converse of the fashionable world; that sententious voice and precision of pronunciation, dwelling on every syllable, and not letting a letter drop from the strictest spelling. [To Brécourt] As for you, you play a courtier, as you have already done in The School for Wives criticised; that is, you must assume a sedate air, and a natural tone of voice, and gesticulate as little as possible. [To La Grange] As for you, I have nothing to say to you. — [To Mademoiselle Béjart]
You represent one of those women who, provided they are not making love, think everything else is permitted to them; who are always proudly entrenched in their prudery, looking up and down on everyone, and holding all the good qualities that others possess as nothing in comparison with a miserable honour which no one cares about. Keep this character always before your eyes, that you may show all its tricks. [To Mademoiselle Debrie] As for you, you play one of those women who think they are the most virtuous persons in the world, so long as they save appearances; who believe that the sin lies only in the scandal; who would quietly carry on their intrigues in the style of an honourable attachment, and call those friends whom others call lovers. [To Mademoiselle Molière] You play the same character as in The School for Wives criticised, and I have nothing more to say to you than to Mademoiselle Duparc. [To Mademoiselle Du Croisy] As for you, you represent one of those people who are sweetly charitable to every one, who always give a passing sting with their tongues, and who would be very sorry if they let their neighbours be well spoken of. I believe you will not acquit yourself badly in this part. [To Mademoiselle Hervé] For you, you are the maid of the précieuse, who is always putting her spoke into the conversation, and picks up all her mistress’s expressions, as well as she can. I tell you all your characters, that you may impress them strongly on your minds. Let us now begin to rehearse, and see how it will do. Oh, here comes a bore. This is all we wanted!

SCENE II.

LA THOBILLIERE, MOLIERE, BRECOURT, LA ORANGE, DU CROISY, MAD. DUPARC, MAD. BEJABT, MAD. DEBRIE, MAD. MOLIERE, MAD. DU CROISY, MAD. HERVE.

La Thor. Good day, Molière.

Mol. Sir, your servant. [Aside] Plague take the man.

La Thor. How goes it?

Mol. — Very well. What can I do for you? [To the actresses] Ladies, do not...

La Thor. I come from a place where I have been praising you up.

Mol. I am obliged to you. [Aside] The devil take you! [To the actors] Pray take care...

La Thor. You play a new piece to-night?

Mol. — Yes, sir. [To the actresses] Do not forget...

La Thor. The King got you to do it?

Mol. Yes, sir. [To the actors] Pray remember... La Thor. What do you call it?

Mol. — Yes, sir.

La Thor. I ask what you call it?

Mol. Oh! Upon my word I do not know. [To the actresses] You must, if you please...

La Thor. How are you going to be dressed?

Mol. As you see. [To the actors] I beg you...

La Thor. When do you begin?

Mol. — When the King comes. [Aside] The deuce take him and his questions.

La Thor. When do you think he will come?

Mol. May the quinsy choke me if I know, sir!

La Thor. Do you not know...

Mol. Look here, sir; I am the most ignorant man in the world. I swear I know nothing of anything about what you may ask. [Aside] I am going mad. This wretch comes cross-examining me in his cool way, never dreaming that I may have other things to attend to.

La Thor. — Ladies, your servant.

Mol. — Ah good! now he is on the other side.

La Thor. [To Mademoiselle Du Croisy] You are as handsome as a little angel. Do you both play to-day? [Looking at Mademoiselle Hervé.]

Mad. Du C. Yes, sir.

La Thor. Without you, the comedy would not be worth much.

Mol. — [Whispering to the actresses] Can you not send that man about his business?

Mad. Deb. Sir, we have a rehearsal on.

La Thor. Oh, Zounds, I shall not prevent you; you have only to go on.

Mad. Deb. But...

La Thor. Nay, nay, I should be sorry to trouble any one. Do what you have to do without scruple.

Mad. Deb. — Yes; but...

La Thor. I assure you, I am a man of no ceremony; and you can rehearse what you like.

Mol. — Sir, these ladies hesitate to tell you that they would much prefer that no one should be present during this rehearsal.

La Thor. But why? You have nothing to fear from me.

Mol. — Sir, it is their custom; you will be the better pleased when the thing takes you by surprise.

La Thor. — Then I shall go and tell them you are ready.

Mol. — By no means, sir; do not be in a hurry, Pray —

SCENE III.

MOLIERE, BRECOURT, LA GRANGE, DU CROISY, MAD. DUPARC, MAD. BEJART, MAD. DEBRIE, MAD. MOLIERE, MAD. DU CROISY, MAD. HERVE.

Mol. — Oh dear, this world is full of impertinent people!
But now come, let us begin. In the first place, then, imagine that the scene is in the Kings antechamber; for it is a place where plenty of amusing things go on every day. It is easy to introduce there whomsoever we please; and reasons can even be found to explain the appearance of the ladies whom I bring in. The comedy opens with the meeting of two Marquises. [To La Orange] Be sure and do not forget to come from that side, as I told you, with what they call a distinguished air, combing your wig, and humming a tune between your teeth. La, la, la, la, la, la, la! Just move aside, the rest of you; for a couple of Marquises require room, and they are not the sort of persons to be satisfied with a small space. — [To La Grange] Now then, speak.

La Gr. “Good day, Marquis.”

Mol. — Oh dear! That is not the way in which Marquises talk. It must be a little higher. Most of these gentlemen affect a special tone to distinguish themselves from the vulgar. “Good day, Marquis.” Try again.

La Gr. “Good day, Marquis.”

Mol. “Ah, Marquis, your most obedient.”

La Gr. “What are you doing there?”

Mol.—”’Sdeath, you may see. I am waiting until all these persons have cleared away from the door, that I may show my face there.”

La Gr. “Zounds! what a crowd! I do not care to go and push myself through, I had rather wait till the last” Mol. “There is a score there who have no chance of getting in, but they take good care to press forward, and occupy all the approaches to the door.”

La Or. “Let us call out our names to the door-keeper, so that he may summon us.”

Mol. “That may do for you; but I do not wish Molière to take me off.”

La Or. “Yet I think, Marquis, that it is you he takes off in The School for Wives criticised.”

Mol. “Me? Most mighty potentate! it is your very self.”

La Or. “Ah! upon my word, you are kind, to fit me with your own character.”

Mol. “Death, you are amusing, to give me what belongs to yourself.”

La Or. [Laughing] “Ah, ha! How entertaining!” Mol. — [Laughing] “Ah, ha! How comical!”

La Or. “What! you mean to maintain that it is not you who are exhibited in the Marquis of The School for Wives criticised?”

Mol. “Just so; it is I. ‘Detestable; egad! detestable! Cream tart!’ Oh, it is I, it is I, assuredly it is I!” La Or. “Yes, it is you. You need not jest; and we shall lay a wager, if you like, and see which of us is right.”

Mol. “Well then, what will you bet?”

La Or. “I bet a hundred pistoles that it is you.”

Mol. “And I bet a hundred it is you.”

La Or. “Money down!”

Mol. “Money down! Ninety on Amyntas, and ten cash.”

La Or. “Content!”

Mol. “Done, then.”

La Or. “Your money runs a great risk.”

Mol. “Yours is in danger.”

La Or. “Who shall be umpire?”

Mol. “Here is a gentleman who shall decide. Chevalier!”

Bré. “What is it?”

Mol. Good. Here is the other who assumes the tone of a Marquis. Did I not tell you that you were playing a part in which you had to speak naturally?

Bré. So you did.

Mol. Now then. “Chevalier...”

Bré. “What is it?” —

Mol. “Just decide betwixt us on a wager we have made.”

Bré. “What wager?”

Mol. “We cannot agree who is the Marquis in Molière’s School for Wives criticised. He bets that it is I, and I bet that it is he.”

Bré. “Well, I decide that it is neither the one nor the other. You are fools, both of you, to wish that these caps should fit; this is just what I heard Molière complaining of the other day, when he was talking to some people who charged him with the same thing. He said that nothing annoyed him so much as to be accused of animadverting upon anyone in the portraits he drew; that his design is to paint manners without striking at individuals, and that all the characters whom he introduces are imaginary — phantoms, so to speak, which he clothes according to his fancy in order to please his audience; that he would be much vexed to have hit any one through them; and that if aught could sicken him of writing comedies, it would be the resemblances that people always insisted on finding, and on which his enemies maliciously tried to fix attention, in order to do him an injury with certain persons of whom he had never thought. And, indeed, I think he is right: for why, pray, should you apply all his actions and words, and seek to draw him into quarrels by publicly declaring that he is showing up so-and-so, when the facts are such as will fit a hundred people? As the business of comedy is to represent in a general way all the faults of men, and especially of the men of our day, it is impossible for Molière to create any character not to be met with in the world; and if he must be accused of thinking of everyone in whom are to be found the faults which he delineates, he must, of course, give up writing comedies.”

Mol. “Upon my word, Chevalier, you wish to justify Molière, and spare our friend here.”

La Or. “Not at all. It is you he spares; and we shall find another umpire.”

Mol.— “So be it. But tell me, Chevalier, do you not think Molière is exhausted by this time, and that he will find no more subjects for...?”

Bré. “No more subjects? Ah, dear Marquis, we shall always go on providing him with plenty; and we are scarcely taking the course to grow wise, for all that he can do or say.”

Mol. Stay. You must be more emphatic with this passage. Just listen to me for a moment. “And that he will find no more subjects for... — No more subjects? Ah, dear Marquis, we shall always go on providing him with plenty, and we are scarcely taking the course to grow wise, for all that he can do or say. Do you imagine that he has exhausted in his comedies all the follies of men; and without leaving the Court, are there not a score of characters which he has not yet touched upon? For instance, has he not those who profess the greatest friendship possible, and who, when they turn their backs, think it a piece of gallantry to tear each other to pieces? Has he not those unmitigated sycophants, those vapid flatterers, who never give a pinch of salt with their praises, and whose flatteries have a sickly sweetness which nauseate those who hear them? Has he not the craven courtiers of favourites, the treacherous worshippers of fortune, who praise you in prosperity, and run you down in adversity? Has he not those who are always discontented with the Court, those useless hangers-on, those troublesome officious creatures, those people who can count up no services except importunities, and who expect to be rewarded for having laid a ten years’ siege to the King? Has he not those who fawn on all the world alike, who hand their civilities from left to right, who run after all whom they see, with the same salutations, and the same professions of friendship?— ‘Sir, your most obedient Sir, I am entirely at your service. Consider me wholly yours, dear sir. Reckon me, sir, as the warmest of your friends. Sir, I am enchanted to embrace you. Ah! sir, I did not see you. Oblige me by making use of me; be assured I am wholly yours. You are the one man in the world whom I most esteem. There is no one whom I honour like you. I entreat you to believe it. I beg of you not to doubt it. Your servant. Your humble slave.’ Oh, Marquis, Marquis, Molière will always have more subjects than he needs; and all that he has aimed at as yet is but a trifle to the treasure which is within his reach.” That is something of the style in which it should be played.

Bré. It is sufficient Mol. — Go on.

Bré.— “Here are Climène and Eliza.”

Mol. — [To Mesdemoiselles Duparc and — Molière]
Hereupon you two are to come up. [To Mademoiselle Duparc] Be sure, you, to attitudinise well, and observe a good many formalities. That will constrain you a little; but it cannot be helped. One must sometimes do violence to oneself.

Mad. Mol. “Madam, I easily recognised you a long way off, and perceived from your bearing that it could be no other than you.”

Mad. Dup. “You see, I have come to wait for a man with whom I have a little matter of business.”

Mad. Mol. “That is just my case.”

Mol. — Ladies, these boxes will serve you for arm chairs.

Mad. Dup. “Come, Madam, I beg you to be seated.” Mad. Mol. “After you, Madam.”

Mol. — Good. After these little dumb shows, let each take a seat, and speak sitting, whilst the Marquises must sometimes get up and sometimes sit down again, in accordance with their natural restlessness. “‘Sdeath, Chevalier, you ought to physic your rolls.”  Bré.—” How so?”

Mol.— “They look ill.”

Bré.— “I salute your punstership.”

Mad. Mol. “Heavens, Madam, I do think your complexion dazzling white, and your lips of a marvellous flame-colour.”

Mad. Dup. “Ah! what is that you say, Madam? Do not look at me; I am frightfully ugly to-day.”

Mad. Mol. “Do, Madam, just raise your hood.”

Mad. Dup. “Fie! I am frightful, I tell you, and shock even myself.”

Mad. Mol. “You are so lovely.”

Mad. Dup. “No, no.”

Mad. Mol. “Show yourself.”

Mad. Dup. “Oh, pray do not.”

Mad. Mol. “Please do.”

Mad. Dup. “Heavens, no!”

Mad. Mol. “Yes, do.”

Mad. Dup. “How troublesome you are!”

Mad. Mol. “Just for an instant.”

Mad. Dup. “Ah!”

Mad. Mol. “You positively shall show yourself. We cannot do without seeing you.”

Mad. Dup. “Good gracious, what an odd creature you are! What you wish you wish so desperately.”

Mad. Mol. “Ah, Madam, I am sure you need not dread the broad daylight How wicked people are to say that you use any paint! I shall certainly be able to contradict them now.”

Mad. Dup. “Lackaday, I do not so much as know what you mean by using paint! But where are those ladies going?”

Mad. Deb. “Permit us, ladies, to give you in passing the most agreeable news conceivable. Here is Mr Lysidas, who has just told us that some one has made a play against Molière, which the grand company are going to act” Mol.— “It is true, they wished to read it to me A certain Br... Brou... Brossaut has written it.”

Du Cr.— “Sir, it is advertised under the name of Boursault; but, to let you into the secret, many people have contributed to this piece, and one is disposed to form pretty high expectations of it. Since all authors and actors look on Molière as their greatest enemy, we all unite against him to do him an ill turn. Each of us has added a stroke to his portrait; but we have taken good care not to put our names to it. It would have been too much honour for him to succumb, before the eyes of the world, to the efforts of a combined Parnassus; and so, to make his discomfiture more ignominious, we thought of picking out on purpose an author without repute.”

Mad. Dup.— “For my part, I confess that I am greatly rejoiced at it.”

Mol.— “And so am I. Gad, the mocker shall be mocked; upon my word, he shall have a rap over the knuckles.”

Mad. Dup. “That will teach him to satirize everybody. What! This impertinent fellow will have it that women have no wit. He condemns all our lofty modes of expression, and makes out that we are always speaking in a humdrum way.”

Mad. Deb. “Speech matters nothing; but he blames all our intimacies, however harmless they may be; and according to him, it is criminal to possess merit.”

Mad. Du C. “It is unbearable. Women can do nothing henceforth. Why cannot he let our husbands be at peace, without opening their eyes and making them notice things of which they never thought?”

Mad. Béj. “All this is a trifle; but he satirizes even virtuous women; the wicked buffoon styles them ‘respectable she-devils.’”

Mad. Mol. “He is an impertinent wretch. He deserves all he gets.”

Du Cr. “This play, Madam, must needs be supported; and the comedians of the hôtel...”

Mad. Dup. “Oh, let them have no fear. I will lay my life on the success of this piece.”

Mad. Mol. “You are right, Madam. Too many people are interested in thinking it good. You may judge whether all those who believe themselves to have been satirized by Molière will not take the opportunity of avenging themselves on him by applauding this comedy.”

Bré. — [Ironically] “No doubt; and for my part I can answer for a dozen Marquises, six précieuses, a score of coquettes, and thirty victimised husbands, who will not fail to applaud.”

Mad. Mol. “Exactly so. Why should he go and offend all these people, and especially the victimised husbands, who are the best people in the world?”

Mol.— “Gad, I have been told that they will have a rub both at him and at all his plays, in fine style, and that actors and authors, from great to small, are deucedly savage against him.”

Mad. Mol. “That just serves him right. Why does he write wicked pieces that all Paris goes to see, and in which he paints people so well, that everybody knows himself? Why does he not make plays like those of Mr Lysidas? He would have no one against him, and all the authors would speak well of him. It is true that such plays do not draw large audiences; but, on the other hand, they are always well written; nobody writes against them, and all who see them are desperately anxious to think them fine.”

Du Cr. “It is true that I have the advantage of making no enemies, and that all my works are approved of by the learned.”

Mad. Mol. “You are justified in being satisfied with yourself. That is worth more than all the applause of the public, and than all the money that Molière’s pieces may draw. What does it matter to you whether people come to see your plays, so long as they are praised by your professional friends?”

La Or. “But when will The Painter’s Portrait be acted?”

Du Cr.— “I do not know; but I intend to appear in the front seat, and cry, This is something like a play!”

Mol.— “Gad, and I too.”

La Gr. “So do I, as I hope to be saved.”

Mad. Dup. “For my part, I shall show myself there, as I ought; and I will answer for a round of applause which shall drown all adverse opinion. It is really the least we can do, to assist with our approbation the avenger of our cause.” Mad. Mol. “Well said!”

Mad. Deb. “That is what we must all do.”

Mad. Bej. “Assuredly.”

Mad. Du C. “Undoubtedly.”

Mad. Her. “No quarter to this mimic.”

Mol.— “Upon my word, Chevalier, your Molière must hide his head.”

Bré.— “Who? He? I promise you, Marquis, that he intends to take a seat upon the stage, and laugh with the rest at the portrait they have drawn of him.”  Mol.— “Gad, then, he will laugh on the wrong side of his face.”

Bré.— “Come, come; perchance he will find more cause for laughter than you think. I was shown the play; and as everything amusing in it was actually taken from Molière, the pleasure which this will afford, will not be likely to offend him; for, as to the parts where they set themselves to blacken him, I am very much mistaken if this is applauded by any one. And as for all the people whom they have tried to set against him, of whom, it is said, he has drawn too faithful likenesses, not only is it in bad taste, but I never saw anything more ridiculous, or worse done; I never yet thought that it was a reproach to a dramatic author to depict men too well.”

La Gr. “The actors told me they expected a rejoinder from him, and that...”

Bré. “A rejoinder? Verily, I should think him a great fool if he took the trouble to reply to their invectives. Every one knows well enough from what motives they must be acting; and the best answer which he can make them is a comedy which will succeed like all the others. This is the true plan of being avenged on them; and judging from what I know of their disposition, I am sure that a new play, which will take their audiences from them, will annoy them much more than all the satires which could be written against them individually.”

Mol.— “But, Chevalier...?”

Mad. Béj. Let me interrupt the rehearsal for a moment. [To Molière] May I make a suggestion? If I had been you, I should have treated the thing in another way. Every one expects a vigorous rejoinder from you; and, after the way in which they tell me you have been treated in this comedy, you were justified in saying anything against the actors; and you ought not to spare one of them.

Mol. I am annoyed to hear you speak thus. This is just the way with you ladies. You would have me fire up against them, and follow their example by rushing into invectives and insults. A great deal of honour I should get from it, and a vast deal of vexation I should bring them! Are they not quite prepared for that kind of thing? And, when they were discussing whether they should play The Painter’s Portrait, for fear of a rejoinder, did not some of them say: “Let him abuse us as much as he likes, so long as we get money?” — Is not that the mark of a soul very sensitive to shame; and should I not be well avenged by giving them what they greatly long to receive?

Mad. Deb. They complained strongly of three or four words you said of them in The School for Wives criticised, and The Pretentious Young Ladies.

Mol. — It is true that these three or four words are very offensive; and they have great reason to quote them. Come, come, it is not that. The greatest harm I have done them is that I have been fortunate enough to please a little more than they would have liked; their whole conduct since we came to Paris has too clearly shown what pricks them. But let them do what they will, all their efforts cannot disturb me. They criticise my plays, so much the better; and Heaven forbid that I should ever do aught that pleased them! It would be a bad business for me.

Mad. Deb. Still there is not much pleasure in seeing one’s works pulled to pieces.

Mol. What does it matter to me? Have I not got from my comedy all that I wished, since it had the good fortune to please those lofty personages whom I specially aim at pleasing? Have I not cause to be content with my lot, and are not all their censures a little too late? Does that affect me now, pray? When they attack a piece which has been successful, do they not attack the judgment of those who praised it, rather than the skill of him who wrote it?

Mad. Deb. Upon my word, I should have had a hit at that little scribe, who is rash enough to write against people who do not trouble their heads about him.

Mol. — How silly you are. A fine subject for diversion monsieur Boursault would be! I should like to know how he could be tricked out to make him amusing; and whether, if he were ridiculed on the stage, he would be fortunate enough to make any one laugh. It would be too much honour for him, to be represented before an august assembly. He would ask nothing better; and he attacks me wantonly in order to make himself known in any way. He is a man who has nothing to lose, and the actors have let him loose on me only in order to engage me in a foolish quarrel, and turn me aside, by this dodge, from other works which I have on hand; and yet you are simple enough to fall into the trap. But I shall make a public declaration on this point. I do not mean to make any reply to all their criticisms and counter-criticisms. Let them say all the evil they can of my pieces; I am quite willing. Let them take our leavings, and turn them inside out like a coat, to bring them on their own stage, and try to profit by any pleasant thing they find in them, and by a little of my good fortune; I give them leave; they have need of it, and I shall be happy to contribute to their necessities, provided they will be satisfied with what I can decently grant them. Courtesy must have its limits; and there are some things which can make neither spectators laugh, nor him of whom they are spoken. I gladly leave to them my works, my figure, my attitudes, my words, the tone of my voice, and my style of recitation, to make and say whatever they will of them, if they can snatch some profit from them. I have nothing to say against all this, and shall be delighted if this can please people; but whilst I give them all this, they must do me the favour to leave me the remainder, and not to touch on things of the nature of those upon which, I hear, they attack me in their comedies. This I shall politely request of the honourable gentleman who undertakes to write for them; and this is all the answer they shall have from me.

Mad. Béj. But, in a word...

Mol. — But, in a word, you will drive me mad. Let us say no more of this. We amuse ourselves by talking when we ought to be rehearsing our comedy. Where were we? I do not remember.

Mad. Deb. You were at the very place...

Mol. — Good Heavens, what noise do I hear? Surely the King is come! I can plainly see we shall have no time to get through it. That is what comes of our gossipping. Oh, well, you must do the best you can with the rest.

Mad. Béj. On my word, I am in such a fright, I shall never be able to play my part unless I rehearse it all.

Mol. — What! You will not be able to play your part.

Mad. Béj. No.

Mad. Dup. Nor I mine.

Mad. Deb. No more shall I.

Mad. Mol. Nor I.

Mad. Her. Nor I.

Mad. Du C. Nor I.

Mol. — What on earth do you mean to do? Are you all mocking me?

SCENE IV.

BEJART, LA THORILLIERE, MOLIERE, BRECOURT, LA GRANGE, Du CROISY, MAD. DUPARC, MAD. BEJART, MAD. DEBRIE, MAD. MOLIERE, MAD. DU CROISY, MAD. HERVE.

Béj. Gentlemen, I come to inform you that the King has arrived, and waits for you to begin.

Mol. Ah, sir, you see me in a terrible strait I am distracted as I speak to you. These ladies are frightened, and say that they must rehearse their parts before commencing. We beg the favour of another moment. The King is kind, and he knows well that the piece has been done hurriedly.

SCENE V.

LA THORILLIERE, MOLIERE, BRECOURT, LA GRANGE, DU CROISY, MAD. DUPARC, MAD. BEJART, MAD. DEBRIE, MAD. MOLIERE, MAD. DU CROISY, MAD. HERVE.

Mol. — Oh, pray try and recover yourselves. Take courage, I entreat you.

Mad. Dup. You must go and excuse yourself.

Mol. — How can I excuse myself?

SCENE VI

A BUSYBODY, LA THORILLIERE, MOLIERE, BRECOURT, LA GRANGE, DU CROISY, MAD. DUPARC, MAD. BEJART, MAD. DEBRIE, MAD. MOLIERE, MAD. DU CROISY, MAD. HERVE.
I Busy. Gentlemen, begin.

Mol. At once, sir. I believe I shall go out of my mind over this precious business...

SCENE VII

A SECOND BUSYBODY, LA THORILLIERE, MOLIERE, BRECOURT, LA GRANGE, DU CROISY, MAD. DUPARC, MAD. BEJART, MAD. DEBRIE, MAD. MOLIERE, MAD. DU CROISY, MAD. HERVE.
2 — Busy. Gentlemen, begin!

Mol. In a moment, sir. [To his — ] What, would you have me affronted...

SCENE VIII.

A THIRD BUSYBODY, LA THORILLIERE, MOLIERE, BRECOURT, LA GRANGE, DU CROISY, MAD. DUPARC, MAD. BEJART, MAD. DEBRIE, MAD. MOLIERE, MAD. DU CROISY, MAD. HERVE.
3 — Busy. Gentlemen, begin!

Mol. Yes, sir, that is what we are about to do. How officious these gentry are, coming and bidding us begin, when the King did not order them!

SCENE IX.

A FOURTH BUSYBODY, LA THORILLIERE, MOLIERE, BRECOURT, LA GRANGE, DU CROISY, MAD. DUPARC, MAD. BEJART, MAD. DEBRIE, MAD. MOLIERE, MAD. DU CROISY, MAD. HERVE.
4 — Busy. Gentlemen, begin!

Mol. It is done, sir. [To his fellow-actors] What! must I be covered with confusion...

SCENE X.

BEJART, LA THORILLIERE, MOLIERE, BRECOURT, LA GRANGE, Du CROISY, MAD. DUPARC, MAD. BEJART, MAD. DEBRIE, MAD. MOLIERE, MAD. DU CROISY, MAD. HERVE.

Mol. Sir, you come to bid us begin, but...

Béj. No, gentlemen, I come to say that the King has heard of the trouble you are in, and that, in the kindness which distinguishes him, he defers your new comedy to another time, and will be satisfied to-day with the first you can give him.

Mol. Oh, sir, you give me new life. The King bestows on us the greatest possible favour in giving us time for that which he desired; we shall all go and thank him for the extreme goodness which he displays towards us.

The Forced Marriage

Le Mariage forcé

Translated by Henri van Laun

First staged in January 1664 at the Queen mother’s apartment at the Louvre in Paris, The Forced Marriage appeared a little over a year after the premiere of The School for Wives, which had generated an outcry from certain sections of society due to its sexual innuendos and disrespectful tone towards religion. Molière had defended the work in a Critique of the School for Wives in June 1663 and mocked his enemy Montfleury in The Impromptu at Versailles a few months later. This lead to Montfleury’s petition to the King accusing Molière of incest; it was entirely dismissed by Louis XIV who showed unambiguous support for the playwright by not only becoming godfather to his new baby, but also commissioning The Forced Marriage to be performed at the Louvre and dancing in the production.

The Forced Marriage is a one-act comedy, or more specifically, a Comédie-ballet, which was a genre of entertainment devised by Molière to please the King and court. It combined the spoken word of a play with dancing, singing and music to create a vivid aural and visual experience. The music in The Forced Marriage was composed by Jean-Baptiste Lully — a renowned Italian-born French composer who worked with Molière for more than a decade before they fell out and Lully was eventually appointed the director of the Académie Royale de Musique. The play centres on the middle-aged Sganarelle, who begins to believe he has made a terrible mistake after being betrothed to a much younger woman. He becomes convinced she will be unfaithful and wishes to end the relationship; however, he then encounters her father and brother, who are less than happy about the prospect of the marriage being rescinded.

An early frontispiece for the play

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

SCENE XV.

SCENE XVI.

SCENE XVII.

A portrait of Louis XIV in 1661

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

THE FORCED MARRIAGE is described as a Comédie-ballet, and was due to the request made to Molière by Louis XIV. for an entertainment in the manner of The Bores, in which a genuine comedy should be combined with a ballet, and wherein the Court itself might figure upon the stage. Even Louis did not disdain to show himself amongst his courtiers on special occasions of this kind, submitting himself to the direction of the dancing-masters, who held no contemptible position at the Court of the Grand Monarque. Molière had recently received from the royal grace a pension of a thousand livres, and he thus had more than one inducement to do his best for the young King’s pleasure. It was on the 29th of January, 1664, in the drawing-room of the Queen-mother, at the Louvre, that The Forced Marriage was first produced. Louis, then in his twenty-sixth year, figured as one of the gipsies in the ballet. The play had three acts, with entries, and, as the King danced in it, was called the Ballet du Roi.

The Comedy-ballet was subsequently brought out at the Palais-Royal, at great expense, and had a run of thirteen days. But Molière had separated the comedy from the ballet, and reduced the former from three acts to one. For the singing magician and the demons who frightened Sganarelle into trying to get out of his marriage engagement, the poet substituted the twelfth scene, introducing Alcidas, who is called Lycante in the ballet.

The comedy supplies us with yet another of those senile gallants whom the poet delights to paint; though in one of his preceding comedies, The School for Husbands (see page 1), the deceived gallant, Sganarelle, is twenty years younger than the wise Ariste, who is not betrayed. The comic element in The Forced Marriage springs, not only from the incongruity of the amorous old suitor and the coquettish young girl, but also from the fact that the butt of the piece discovers his mistake before marriage, into which he is nevertheless forced with the full knowledge of the fate that is awaiting him. The idea, at all events up to the eve of the catastrophe, had been worked out by Rabelais, whom Molière follows with considerable closeness. In the ninth chapter of the third book of the older writer’s work, “Panurge asketh counsel of Pantagruel whether he should marry, yea or nay]” and whether, if married, he will be able to escape “la disgrace dont on ne plaint personne? Pantagruel (the Geronimo of the play) gives his advice in the same complaisant manner as Sganarelle’s crony,  “Then do not marry— “Then marry, in the name of God.”

What Coleridge says of this chapter of Rabelais may well be applied to the first scene of Molière’s play Pantagruel (Geronimo) stands for the reason, as contradistinguished from the understanding and choice, that is, from Panurge (Sganarelle); and the humour consists in the latter asking advice of the former, on a subject in which the reason can only give the inevitable conclusion, the syllogistic ergo, from the premises provided by the understanding itself, which puts each case so as of necessity to predetermine the verdict thereon. This chapter, independently of the allegory, is an exquisite satire on the spirit in which people commonly ask advice.”

But Rabelais himself was not the first to adopt this illustration of wavering advice; for we find similar scenes in Poggio, and in the Itinerarium Paradisi of Raulin, a preacher of the beginning of the fifteenth century, in his sermon De Viduitate.

The two philosophers are not quite original creations, Marphurius being no other than the Ephectic and Pyrrhonian sage Trouillogan, whom Rabelais delineates in the thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth chapters of the third book of Pantagruel. It has been often said that the scenes between Sganarelle and the two philosophers are too farcical, and only induce laughter. But Molière never acted more courageously than in writing those scenes; for he openly attacked the Aristotelian philosophy, so strongly defended by the University of Paris, which intended to get confirmed a sentence of the parliament of Paris, of the 4th of September 1624, by which all those who attacked the Aristotelian doctrines were condemned to death. Besides this, the above-mentioned scenes are connected with several philosophical observations, to be found in The Pretentious Young Ladies (see Vol. I.), and in The Blue Stockings (see Vol. VI.). Trissotin and Vadius, in the latter play, belong to the same race as the illustrious Pancrace and Marphurius.

According to some commentators of Molière, an adventure of the Count de Grammont, when on the point of leaving England, has given to our author the chief idea of his piece. This Count, being banished from the court of Louis XIV., went to that of Charles II., and there became engaged to Miss Hamilton, a grand-daughter of the Duke of Ormond. Being suddenly recalled to France, he forgot his engagement and left at once. But the two brothers of the young lady immediately started after him, came up with him at Dover, and asked him “if he had not forgotten anything in London?” His answer was, “Pardon me, gentlemen, I have forgotten to marry your sister.” He returned with them, married Miss Hamilton, and went back with her to France.

Tradition states that the original of the over-polite Alcidas was a certain Marquis de la Trousse, killed at the siege of Tortosa in 1648, and who was so polite that he always used compliments when fighting a duel, and expressed his great sorrow whilst killing his opponent.

In the seventh volume of “Select Comedies of M. de Molière,” published in London, 1732, this play is dedicated to the Right Honourable the Lady Harvey, in the following words: —

MADAM, You will not, I hope, be frighted at the sight of a Dedication with Your Name before it, when I promise Your LADYSHIP, that I am not going to give You the Pain of reading Your own Character: — tho’ at the same time, I must assure You, that it is with great reluctance I relinquish so fair an Opportunity of describing everything that is lovely, desirable, and praiseworthy, and forbear setting before the Beauties of the present Age a charming Pattern, which the greatest and best of them might be proud to copy. But, for fear I should be unable to resist the Temptation, if I think any longer of Lady HARVEY, I’ll conclude this Address, with desiring your LADYSHIP’S Acceptance of one of MOLIERE’S Comedies, which has both Wit and Humour in the Original — I hope, too, they are not quite lost in the Translation.

Only give me leave to add, that I am, MADAM, your Ladyship’s most obedient, and most humble servant, — THE TRANSLATOR.

Ravenscroft (see Vol. I., The Love-Tiff Introductory Notice, p. 108) has imitated part of this play in his Scaramouch a Philosopher, Harlequin a School-Boy, Bravo, Merchant and Magician, acted at the Theatre Royal, 1677. This Comedy is a medley of three of Molière’s plays, The Forced Marriage, The Citizen who apes the Nobleman, and The Tricks of Scapin. This, with a Harlequin, borrowed from an Italian farce, who jumps about as in a pantomime, but speaks, forms the whole play. It appears not to have had much success. The actors were dilatory in getting it up, and the theatre in Dorset Garden forestalled them by bringing out a translation of Molière’s Tricks of Scapin, This is what the Prologue says:

Very unfortunate this play has bin,

A slippery trick was play’d us by Scapin,

Whilst here our actors made a long delay,

When some were idle, others run away,

The City House comes out with half our Play.

The English dramatist ends:

Let both French and Italians share the fame,

But if’t be bad, let them too bear the blame.

Mrs Centlivre, who was then Mrs Carroll, has, in her Lovés Contrivance, or Le Médecin malgré lui, acted at Drury Lane, June 4,1703, borrowed nearly everything from Molière’s Forced Marriage, and from The Physician in spite of Himself, (see Vol. iii.), with a reminiscence of Sganarelle (see Vol. I., page 267). She impudently states in the Preface—” Some scenes, I confess, are partly taken from Molière, and I dare be bold to say it has not suffered in the translation.... The French have that light airiness in their Temper, that the least Glimpse of Wit sets them a-laughing, when ’twould not make us so much as smile; so that where I found the stile too poor, I endeavoured to give it a Turn.” In the Prologue she says, however —

So feverish is the Humour of the Town

It surfeits of a Play ere three Days run.

At Locket’s, Brown’s, and at Pontack’s enquire,

What modish Kick-shaws the nice Beaus desire,

What famed Ragouts, what new-invented Sallad

Has best pretensions to regale the Palate.

If we present you with a Medley here,

A hodge-poedge Dish serv’d up in China Ware,

We hope ‘twill please, ‘cause like your Bills of Fare.

Sganarelle is called, in the English comedy, Sir Toby Doubtful, and Geronimo, Octavio. The only new, and perhaps original, thing in Love’s Contrivance is Bellmie’s former servant, Martin, hiding a letter in an orange, and pretending to sell fruit, and the trick being discovered by Selfwill, father to Lucinda, the heroine of the play.

Another imitation, An Hour before Marriage, was written by an Irish gentleman, and brought out at Covent Garden, January 25, 1772, with a prologue by Colman. The piece was very unfavourably received, and not allowed to be finished. Why, it is difficult to say, for it is a very good comedy in two acts. The character of Sir Andrew Melville is drawn cleverly, and the nice way in which, on meeting Elwood, he claims first the long-established friendship, the early and close intimacy “that has subsisted between us from our very childhood,” but denies this friendship when he finds out that Elwood is poor, is well and originally delineated. Very forcibly also is Miss Melville’s (Dorimène) brother boasting of his ancient descent, which is not in the French play. The eighth scene of Molière’s play is likewise well imitated by Mr Tardy, the lawyer, and Stanley; whilst the 15th and 16th scenes are thrown into one in the English version, the characters of Alcantor and Alcidas having been combined in the personage of Sir Andrew Melville.

The Irish Widow is another imitation of Molière’s Forced Marriage, written by David Garrick. The character of Widow Brady is skilfully drawn; it is she who, dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant, frightens poor Whittle; whilst in the French play, it is Alcidas, Dorimène’s brother, and not Dorimène herself, who compels Sganarelle either to fight or to marry.

Some scenes of Molière’s play are also borrowed in Love without Interest, or The Man too hard for the Master. The author of this piece is unknown; but the dedication is subscribed, Penkethman, and is directed to six lords, six knights, and twenty-four esquires; yet, notwithstanding this splendid patronage, it met with very little success on its appearance at the Theatre Royal.

Shadwell, in The Sullen Lovers (see Introductory Notice to The Bores, page 85), has also partly imitated the fourth and sixth scenes of The Forced Marriage All the imitations from Molière, attempted in the different plays, will be found in the Appendix.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SGANARELLE.

GERONIMO.

ALCANTOR, father to Dorimene.

ALCIDAS, brother to Dorimene.

LYCASTE, in love with Dorimene.

PANCRACE, an Aristotelian Philosopher. MARPHURIUS, a Pyrrhonian Philosopher.

DORIMENE, a young coquette, betrothed to Sganarelle. Two GIPSIES.

The Scene is in a Public Place.

SCENE I.

SGANARELLE, GERONIMO.

SGAN. [SPEAKING BEHIND the scenes as he enters] I shall be back in a moment. Take good care of the house, and let everything go on quite regularly. If any one brings me money, come for me quickly at Mr Geronimo’s; and if any one comes to ask for any, tell him I am out, and shall not be back to-day.

SCENE II.

SGANARELLE, GERONIMO.

GER. [HAVING HEARD the last words of Sganarelle] That is a very prudent order.

Sgan. Ah! Geronimo, well met. I was going to your house to look for you.

Ger. And why, pray?

Sgan. To tell you of something I have in my mind, and ask your advice about it.

Ger. Very willingly. I am glad we have met; we can speak here at our ease.

Sgan. Pray, be covered then. The business is about something of importance which has been proposed to me. It is well to do nothing without the advice of ones friends.

Ger. I am obliged to you for having chosen me. You have only to tell me what it is.

Sgan. But, first of all, I must implore you not to flatter me, but to tell me your opinion candidly.

Ger. Since you wish it, I will.

Sgan. I know nothing worse than a friend who does not speak frankly.

Ger. — You are right.

Sgan. Now-a-days, we meet few sincere friends.

Ger. That is true.

Sgan. Promise me, then, Geronimo, to speak with all frankness.

Ger. I promise.

Sgan. Swear on your word.

Ger. Ay, on the word of a friend. Now, do tell me your business.

Sgan. I wish to have your opinion whether I shall do well to marry.

Ger. Who? You? —

Sgan. Yes, I myself. What is your advice on the subject?

Ger. First of all, I beg you to tell me one thing.

Sgan. What is that?

Ger. How old do you think you may be now?

Sgan. I?

Ger. Yes.

Sgan. Why, really I do not know; but I am in very good health.

Ger. What! Do you not know your age, within a year or two?

Sgan. No. Who thinks about his age?

Ger. Hem! Just tell me, please, how old you were when we first became acquainted?

Sgan. Oh, I was only twenty then.

Ger. How long were we together at Rome?

Sgan. Eight years.

Ger. — How long did you stay in England?

Sgan. Seven years.

Ger. And in Holland, where you went next?

Sgan. Five years and a-half.

Ger. — How long is it since you returned?

Sgan. I came back in “fifty-two.”

Ger. From “fifty-two” to “sixty-four” makes twelve years, I think. Five years in Holland make seventeen; seven years in England make twenty-four; eight years for our stay in Rome make thirty-two; and twenty — your age when we became acquainted — make just fifty-two years. So, Sganarelle, according to your own confession, you are in about your fifty-second or fifty-third year.

Sgan. Who? I? It cannot be.

Ger. By Jove, the reckoning is exact; and so I must tell you candidly, and as a friend, as you made me promise, that marriage is hardly in your line. It is a thing about which young people ought to think seriously before they engage in it; but persons at your time of life ought not to think of it at all. If, as some say, marriage is the greatest of all follies, I know of nothing more ridiculous than to commit this folly at a season when we ought to be most prudent. To be brief, I shall tell you my idea in a few words. I advise you not to dream of marrying; I should think you the silliest man in the world if, after remaining free up to this time, you were to go and burden yourself now with the heaviest of all chains.

Sgan. And I tell you in return, that I am resolved to marry; and that I shall not be silly in marrying the girl I am after.

Ger. Oh! that is another thing. You never told me that.

Sgan. I like the girl; I love her with all my heart.

Ger. You love her with all your heart?

Sgan. Undoubtedly; and I have asked her of her father.

Ger. You have asked her?

Sgan. Yes. The marriage is to take place this evening; and I have plighted my troth.

Ger. Oh! marry then. I have not another word to say.

Sgan. Am I to abandon my design? Do you imagine, Geronimo, that I am no longer fit to think of a wife? Do not talk of what my age may be; but let us look at things as they are. Is there a man of thirty that looks fresher or more active than I? Have I not the use of my limbs as much as ever? Do I look as if I needed a carriage or chair to get about in? Are not all my teeth in excellent condition? [Showing his teeth] Do I not eat heartily four times a-day, and is any man’s stomach stronger than mine? [Coughing] Hem, hem, hem! What say you?

Ger. You are right; I was mistaken. Pray, marry; you cannot do better.

Sgan. I used to fight shy of it; but now I have strong reasons in its favour. Besides the pleasure I shall have in possessing a wife to fondle me, and to coddle me when I am tired; besides this pleasure, I consider that, by remaining as I am, I suffer the race of the Sganarelles to become extinct; whilst, by marrying, I may see myself reproduced, and shall have the joy of seeing children sprung from me, little images as like me as two peas, who will be always playing about the house, calling me their papa when I come back from town, and talking nonsense to me in the pleasantest manner possible. Oh, I can fancy I am already in the midst of them; and that I see half-a-dozen round about me.

Ger. Nothing could be nicer than that; and I advise you to marry as quickly as possible.

Sgan. Seriously? You advise it?

Ger. — Assuredly. You could not do better.

Sgan. I am indeed delighted that you give me this advice as a true friend.

Ger. — And pray, who is the lady whom you are going to marry?

Sgan. Dori mène.

Ger. — Young Dorimène, that gay, well-dressed girl?

Sgan. Yes.

Ger. — Alcantors daughter?

Sgan. The very same.

Ger. And the sister of Alcidas, who presumes to carry a sword?

Sgan. That is the girl.

Ger. My goodness!

Sgan. What have you to say to it?

Ger. A good match. Make haste and get married.

Sgan. Have I not made an excellent choice?

Ger. No doubt of it. Ah, you will be well matched! Lose no time about it Sgan. I am overjoyed to hear you say so. I thank you for your advice, and I invite you to come to-night to my wedding.

Ger. I shall be sure to be there; I shall come masked, the better to honour the occasion.

Sgan. Good day.

Ger. [Aside] Young Dorimène, Alcan tors daughter, to Sganarelle, who is only fifty-three. Oh! what a fine match! what a fine match! [He repeats this over and over again, as he goes away.]

SCENE III.

SGANARELLE, alone.
This marriage ought to be a happy one; for it pleases every one. All laugh to whom I mention it I declare I am the happiest of men!

SCENE IV.

DORIMENE, SGANARELLE.

DOR. [SPEAKING TO a page, who holds up her train] Mind, youngster, hold up my train properly, and do not be playing your tricks.

Sgan. [Aside, seeing Dorimène] Here comes my mistress. Ah, how pleasing she is! What an air! what a figure! Who could see her without wishing to marry her? [Going up to her] Where are you going, pretty darling, my dear wife that is to be?

Dor. I am going to make a few purchases.

Sgan. Well, my dear, both of us are going to be happy now. You will no longer have a right to refuse me anything; and I can do with you just as I please, without any one being shocked. You will be mine from head to foot, and I shall be master of everything, of your little sparkling eyes, your little roguish nose, your tempting lips, your lovely ears, your pretty little chin, your little round breasts, your... In short, your whole person will be mine, to do what I like with, and I shall be entitled to fondle you as I choose. Are you not glad of this marriage, my lovely pet?

Dor. Immensely glad, I assure you. For, indeed, my father’s severity has kept me hitherto in the most grievous subjection. I have been raging, I do not know how long, at the scanty liberty he allows me; I have wished a hundred times that he would get me a husband, so that I might quickly escape from the durance in which I have been kept by him, and be able to do as I pleased. Thank Heaven, you luckily came in the way; I mean henceforth to give myself up to pleasure, and make up finely for the time I have lost. As you are a well-bred man, and know the world, I think we shall get on wonderfully well together, and that you will not be one of those bothering husbands who wish their wives to live like owls. I confess that would not suit me! Solitude drives me mad. I like gambling, visiting, assemblies, entertainments, promenades; in fact, all kinds of pleasure. You must be overjoyed to have a wife like me. We shall never have a difference; I shall not constrain your actions, and I hope that you will not constrain mine. For my part, I think we ought to be mutually complaisant, and not be married only to annoy each other. In a word, we shall live, when we get married, like two people who know the world. No jealous suspicions shall trouble our heads; it will suffice for you to be assured of my fidelity, as I shall be persuaded of yours. But what is the matter? A change has come over you.

Sgan. I am taken with a sudden pain in my head.

Dor. That is a malady which attacks many people in these days; but our marriage will remove all that. Good-bye. I long to have a proper dress, that I may quickly throw these rags aside. I am going now to finish the purchase of all the things which I want; and I shall send in the bills to you.

SCENE V.

GERONIMO, SGANARELLE.

OER. AH! SGANARELLE, I am glad to find you here. I have met with a goldsmith who, having heard that you were in search of a handsome diamond ring to make a present to your bride, entreated me to recommend him to you, and to tell you that he has one to sell, the finest in the world.

Sgan. God bless me! there is no hurry for that Ger. How? What does that mean? Where is the ardour you displayed just now?

Sgan. Within the last few moments, I have had some slight scruples as to marriage. Before going farther I wish to sift this matter to the bottom, and to have interpreted to me a dream which I had last night, and which just recurred to me. You know that dreams are like mirrors, which sometimes show all that is to happen to us. I dreamt I was in a ship, on a rough sea, and that...

Ger. Sganarelle, I have a little business on hand, which will not let me stay to hear you. I do not understand dreams; and, as to arguments upon marriage, you have for neighbours a couple of scholars, of philosophers, who are just the men to tell you all that can be said on the subject. As they belong to different sects, you can compare their several opinions upon it. For my part, I adhere to what I said just now, and am your servant.

Sgan. [Alone] He is right. I must consult these men in my present uncertainty.

SCENE VI.

PANCRACE, SGANARELLE.

PAN. [SPEAKING TO somebody within, and not seeing Sganarelle] Go, you are an impertinent fellow, my friend, a man ignorant of all method and order, who ought to be expelled the Republic of letters.

Sgan. Ah! capital, here is one of them in the nick of time.

Pan. [As before, and not seeing Sganarelle] Yes, I shall maintain it on strong grounds, I will prove it you out of Aristotle, the philosopher of philosophers, that you are ignorans, ignorantissimus, ignorantificans, and ignorantificaius, in all imaginable cases and moods.

Sgan. He has fallen out with somebody. [To Pancrace] Sir!

Pan. [As before, and not seeing Sganarelle] You presume to argue, and do not know the very elements of reasoning.

Sgan. His passion prevents his seeing me. [To Pancrace] Sir!

Pan. [As before, and not seeing Sganarelle] It is a proposition condemned in all the regions of philosophy.

Sgan. [Aside] He must have been mightily vexed. [To Pancrace] say...

Pan. [As before, and not seeing Sganarelle] Toto coelo, tota via aberras.

Sgan. I kiss your hands, Master Doctor!

Pan. At your service.

Sgan. May I...

Pan. [Turning round again] Do you know what you have perpetrated? A syllogism in Balordo!

Sgan. I...

Pan. [As before] The major is foolish, the minor trivial, and the conclusion ridiculous.

Sgan. I...

Pan. [As before] I would rather die than admit what you say; and I shall maintain my opinion to the last drop of my ink.

Sgan. May I...

Pan. [As before] Yes, I shall defend this proposition pugnis et calcibus, unguibm et vostro.

Sgan. Mr Aristotle, may I ask what has put you in such a rage?

Pan. The best possible reason.

Sgan. But what?

Pan. An ignoramus dared to maintain an erroneous proposition, a frightful, terrible, execrable proposition.

Sgan. May I ask what it is?

Pan. Ah, Mr Sganarelle, everything nowadays is subverted, and the world has fallen into general corruption. A horrible licence reigns everywhere; and the magistrates, who are appointed to maintain order in the state, ought to die of shame, to suffer a scandal so intolerable as this which I shall reveal to you.

Sgan. What is it then?

Pan. Is it not a horrible thing, a thing crying for the vengeance of Heaven, to allow anyone to say in public “the form of a hat?”

Sgan. How?

Pan. I maintain that we ought to say “the figure of a hat,” and not “the form;” forasmuch as there is this difference between the form and the figure, that the form is the external disposition of animate bodies, and the figure is the external disposition of inanimate bodies; and since the hat is an inanimate body, we ought to say “the figure of a hat,” and not “the form.” [Turning again to the side by which he entered] Yes, ignoramus that you are, that is the manner in which you ought to express yourself, and these are Aristotle’s own terms in his chapter on Qualities.

Sgan. [Aside] I thought we were all undone. [To Pancrace] Master Doctor, think no more of this. I...

Pan. I am in such a rage, that I do not know what I am doing.

Sgan. Leave the form and the hat in peace. I have something to tell you. I...

Pan. Impertinent fellow!

Sgan. Pray, be quiet. I...

Pan. Ignoramus!

Sgan. Good Heavens! I... —

Pan. To dare to maintain such a proposition!

Sgan. He is wrong. I...

Pan. A proposition condemned by Aristotle.

Sgan. It is true. I...

Pan. In so many words!

Sgan. You are right. [Going round to the side by which Pancrace entered] Yes, you are a fool, an impudent fellow, to pretend to argue with a Doctor who can read and write. Now, that is done with. I beg you to listen to me. I am come to consult you on an affair which perplexes me. I intend to take a wife, to keep me company at home. The lady is handsome and well-made; she charms me greatly, and is delighted to marry me; her father has given her to me; but I am rather afraid of, you know what — the disgrace for which no one pities a man; I wish much to beg of you, as a philosopher, to give me your opinion. Eh? What is your advice in the matter?

Pan. Rather than admit that we ought to say “the form of a hat,” I would admit that datur vacuum in rerum natural and that I am a mere ass.

Sgan. [Aside] Plague take the man. [To Pancrace] Why, Master Doctor, do hear one for a moment. I have been talking to you for an hour, and you do not reply to what is said to you.

Pan. I ask your pardon. A just wrath engrosses my mind.

Sgan. Well, let it pass; and be at the pains to listen to me.

Pan. I will. What do you wish to say to me?

Sgan. I wish to speak to you of something.

Pan. And what tongue would you use with me?

Sgan. What tongue?

Pan. Ay.

Sgan. Zounds! the tongue I have in my mouth. I do not think I shall go and borrow my neighbour’s.

Pan. I ask you, what idiom, what language?

Sgan. Oh! that is another thing.

Pan. Do you wish to speak to me in Italian?

Sgan. No.

Pan. Spanish?

Sgan. No.

Pan. German?

Sgan. No.

Pan. English?

Sgan. No.

Pan. Latin?

Sgan. No.

Pan. Greek?

Sgan. No.

Pan. Hebrew?

Sgan. No.

Pan. Syriac?

Sgan. No.

Pan. Turkish?

Sgan. No.

Pan. Arabic?

Sgan. No, no! French, French, French! Pan. Ah, French! Sgan. Quite so.

Pan. Then go to the other side; for this ear is set apart for the learned and foreign languages, and the other is for the vulgar and mother tongue.

Sgan. [Aside] One must employ many ceremonies with this sort of people.

Pan. What do you desire?

Sgan. To consult you in a little difficulty.

Pan. Ah! a difficulty in philosophy, no doubt.

Sgan. Pardon me. I...

Pan. You would know perhaps if substance and accident be synonymous terms, or equivocal in respect of entity?

Sgan. Not at all. I...

Pan. If logic be an art or a science?

Sgan. It is not that. I...

Pan. If its object be the three operations of the mind, or the third only?

Sgan. No. I...

Pan. If there be ten categories, or only one?

Sgan. Not so. I...

Pan. If the conclusion be of the essence of a syllogism?

Sgan. No-o! I —

Pan. If the essence of good be placed in appetibility or incongruity?

Sgan. No. I —

Pan. If good be reciprocal with finality?

Sgan. Oh, no! I —

Pan. Whether finality can affect us by its real, or by its intentional being?

Sgan. No, no, no, no, no! By all the devils, no!

Pan. Unfold then your thought; for I cannot divine it.

Sgan. That is just what I wish to do; but you must listen to me. The business I have to mention to you is that I have a mind to marry a girl who is young and handsome. I love her very much, and I have asked her of her father; but I fear...

Pan. [Not listening to Sganarelle] Speech has been given to man to express his thoughts; and just as thoughts are the representations of things, so our words are the representations of our thoughts. [Sganarelle impatiently stops the Doctor’s mouth with his hand; but the latter continues to speak as soon as Sganarelle withdraws his hand. This is repeated several times.’] But these representations differ from other representations, inasmuch as these other representations are distinguished everywhere by their originals, whilst speech includes its original in itself; being nothing but thought explained by an external sign; whence it follows that they who think well are also they who speak the best. Explain to me then your thoughts by words, which are the most ineligible of all signs.

Sgan. [Pushing the Doctor into his house, and pulling the door to prevent his Corning out] Plague take the man!

Pan. [Within] Yes, speech is animi index et speculum, that is, the interpreter of the heart, the image of the soul [He gets up to the window and continues] It is a mirror which plainly reproduces for us the innermost secrets of our individualisais. Since, then, you have the faculty of reasoning, and also of speaking, why do you not make use of speech in order to make me understand your thoughts?

Sgan. That is just what I wish to do; but you will not listen to me.

Pan. I listen to you; speak.

Sgan. I say then, Doctor, that...

Pan. But above all, be brief.

Sgan. I will.

Pan. Avoid prolixity.

Sgan. Oh! Sir...

Pan. Contract your discourse into a laconic apophthegm.

Sgan. I...

Pan. No diffuseness nor circumlocution. [Sganarelle, in his vexation at being unable to speak, picks up stones to throw at the Doctor’s head.] Eh, what? Are you flying into a passion instead of explaining yourself? Go along, you are more impertinent than the fellow who would have it that one ought to say “the form of a hat and I will prove to you upon all occasions, by clear and convincing reasons, and by arguments in Barbara, that you are not, and never will be, aught but an animal, and that I am, and ever shall be, Doctor Pancrace, in utroque jure.

Sgan. What an eternal gabbler!

Pan. [Coming down] A man of letters, a man of learning.

Sgan. What, more?

Pan. A man of sufficiency, a man of capacity. [Going away.] A man supreme in all the sciences, natural, moral, and political. [Returning] A learned, most learned man, per omnes modos et casus. [Going away] A man who possesses, in the superlative degree, a knowledge of fables, mythologies, and histories — [returning] — grammar, poetry, rhetoric, dialectics, and sophistry — [going away] — mathematics, arithmetic, optics, oncirocritics, physics and metaphysics — [returning] — cosmometry, geometry, architecture, the speculory and speculatory arts — [going away] — medicine, astronomy, astrology, physiognomy, metoposcopy, cheiromancy, geomancy, etc.

SCENE VII.

SGANARELLE, alone.
The devil take these scholars, who will never listen to people! I was rightly informed that his master, Aristotle, was nothing but a talker. I must go and find the other one. Perhaps he may be more composed and reasonable. Soho, there!

SCENE VIII.

MARPHURIUS, SGANARELLE.

MAR. WHAT DO you want with me, Mr Sganarelle?

Sgan. Doctor, I have need of your advice in a little matter of business, and that is why I have come to you. [Aside] Ah! this is all right This gentleman lets people speak.

Mar. Mr Sganarelle, pray change this mode of speaking. Our philosophy enjoins us not to enunciate a positive proposition, but to speak of everything dubiously, and always to suspend our judgment. For this reason, you should not say, I am come, but it seems that I am come.

Sgan. Seems? —

Mar. Yes.

Sgan. Upon my word! no doubt it seems, because it is so.

Mar. That does not follow: it might seem, and yet not be true.

Sgan. How! Is it not true that I am come?

Mar. That is questionable; and we must doubt everything.

Sgan. What! I am not here? and you are not speaking to me!

Mar. It appears to me that you are there, and it seems that I am speaking to you; but it is not certain that it is so.

Sgan. Eh! what the deuce! You are joking. Here I am, and there you are, plainly enough; and there is no “seems” in all that. Let us dispense with these quirks and quibbles, I beg, and talk of my business. I am come to tell you that I wish to marry.

Mar. I know nothing of this.

Sgan. I tell it you.

Mar. It may be so.

Sgan. The girl whom I intend to marry is very young and very lovely.

Mar. It is not impossible.

Sgan. Shall I do well or ill to marry her?

Mar. The one or the other.

Sgan. [Aside] Oh, dear! here is another tune. I ask you, if I shall do well to marry the girl I speak of?

Mar. As it may chance.

Sgan. Shall I do ill?

Mar. Just as it happens.

Sgan. Pray, answer me properly.

Mar. That is my intention.

Sgan. I have a great liking for the girl Mar. That may be.

Sgan. The father has given his consent.

Mar. He may have done so.

Sgan. But if I marry her, I fear to be made a cuckold.

Mar. The thing is feasible.

Sgan. What do you think of it?

Mar. There is no impossibility in it.

Sgan. But what would you do, if you were in my place?

Mar. I do not know.

Sgan. What do you advise me to do?

Mar. Whatever you please.

Sgan. I shall go mad!

Mar. I wash my hands of it.

Sgan. Devil take the dreamer!

Mar. As it may be.

Sgan. [Aside] Plague take the rascal! I’ll make you change your tune, mad hang-dog of a philosopher!
[Beats him.

Mar. Oh, oh, oh!

Sgan. There is something for your nonsense! And now I am satisfied!

Mar. How! What insolence is this! To outrage me in this manner! To have the audacity to beat a philosopher like me!

Sgan. Pray, correct this manner of speaking. We are to doubt everything; and you ought not to say that I have beaten you, but that it seems I have beaten you.

Mar. Ugh! I shall go and complain to a magistrate of this beating.

Sgan. I wash my hands of it.

Mar. I have the marks on my body.

Sgan. It may be so.

Mar. You know it was you who did it Sgan. It is not impossible.

Mar. I will get a summons against you.

Sgan. I know nothing about it.

Mar. And you will be convicted.

Sgan. As it may be.

Mar. Leave me alone for that.

SCENE IX.

SGANARELLE, alone.
What now? One cannot get a word from that beastly man, and I am as wise at the end as at the beginning. What shall I do in this uncertainty as to the consequences of getting married? Never was a man more perplexed than I. Ah! here come the gipsies: they shall tell me my fortune.

SCENE X.

Two GIPSIES, SGANARELLE.
The two Gipsies come in, with tabors, singing and dancing.

Sgan. They are very merry. I say, you good women, can you tell me my fortune?
1 — Gip. Ay, my good sir, both of us here will tell it you.
2 — Gip. Just give us your hand, and cross ours with a small bit of silver, and we shall tell you something that shall be of service to you.

Sgan. Here: there are both my hands, with what you ask in them.

1 Gip. You have a good phiz, master — a good phiz.

2 Gip. Ay, a good phiz; the phiz of a man that will be something one of these days.

1 Gip. You will be married before long, good master, you will be married before long.

2 Gip. You will wed a pretty wife, a pretty wife.
1 — Gip. Ay, a wife that will be courted and loved by every one.
2 — Gip. A wife that will make you many friends, good master, many friends.
1 — Gip. A wife that will bring plenty to your house.
2 — Grip. A wife that will gain you great repute.
1 — Gip. You will be esteemed for her sake, good master; you will be esteemed for her sake.

Sgan. That is well. But just tell me, is there fear of my being a cuckold?
2 — Gip. Cuckold!

Sgan. Ay!
1 — Grip. Cuckold!

Sgan. Ay; is there fear of my being cuckolded? [The Gipsies sing and dance] What the devil! that is no answer. Come here. I ask you whether I shall be a cuckold.
2 — Gip. A cuckold! You?

Sgan. Ay, shall I be a cuckold?

1 Gip. You a cuckold!

Sgan. Yes; shall I, or not? —
[The Gipsies go off, singing and dancing.

SCENE XI.

SGANARELLE, alone.
Plague take the baggages for leaving me in this uncertainty! I must really know the upshot of my marriage; so I shall go and find that great magician of whom everybody is talking, and who, by his marvellous art, enables us to see all that we wish. Upon my word! I believe I have only to go to the magician, and he will show me all that I ask of him.

SCENE XII.

DORIMENE, LYCASTE, SGANARELLE [out of sight, at the back of the stage]

Lyc. What! lovely Dorimène, do you speak seriously?

Dor, Most seriously.

Lyc, You really mean to marry?

Dor, Really.

Lyc, And your wedding is to be this evening?

Dor, This evening.

Lyc, And you can forget, cruel maid, the love I feel for you, and the kind words you have spoken to me?

Dor, I? By no means. I shall always think the same of you; and this marriage need not trouble you. I am not marrying the man for love; it is only his wealth that makes me resolve to accept him. I have no fortune; no more have you; and you know that, without fortune, it goes hard with us in the world. At whatever cost, therefore, we must try to get it I have jumped at this opportunity of making myself comfortable; I have done it in the hope of being soon delivered from the old fool that I am marrying. He will shortly die; he has not more than six months to live. I guarantee that he is dead in the time I say; I shall not long have to pray Heaven for the happy state of widowhood. [Seeing Sgarmrelle] Ah, we were talking of you, and saying much in your praise too.

Lyc. Is that the gentleman...?

Dor. Yes, that is the gentleman who is going to marry me.

Lyc, Allow me, sir, to congratulate you on your marriage, and at the same time to offer you my most humble services. Let me tell you that the lady, whom you are marrying, possesses great merits; as for you, Miss Dorimène, I congratulate you also on the happy choice you have made. You could not have found a better, and this gentleman has all the appearance of making a very good husband. Yes, sir, I should be delighted to strike up a friendship with you, and to arrange a slight interchange of visits and entertainments.

Dor. You are doing us too much honour. But come, time presses, and we shall have plenty of opportunities to converse together.

SCENE XIII.

SGANARELLE, alone.
There, now I am fairly disgusted with my match; I think I shall not do amiss to go and get out of my engagement. It has cost me a little money; but I had better even lose that than run the risk of something worse. I shall try if I cannot be clever enough to get out of this scrape. Within there! [He knocks at Alcantor’s door.

SCENE XIV.

ALCANTOR, SGANARELLE.

AL. AH, SON-IN-LAW, you are welcome.

Sgan. Sir, my duty to you.

Al. You come to conclude the marriage?

Sgan. Excuse me.

Al. I promise you that I am as impatient as yourself.

Sgan. I come here for another purpose.

Al. I have given the necessary orders for the entertainment Sgan. That is not what I am come about.

Al. The violins are engaged, the feast is bespoke, and my daughter is ready dressed to receive you.

Sgan. It is not that which has brought me.

Al. In short, you are about to have your wish; and nothing can delay your happiness.

Sgan. Good Lord, there is something else to think of Al. Come, son-in-law, will you walk in?

Sgan. I have just a word to say to you.

Al. Oh goodness, let us have no ceremony! Enter quickly, if you please.

Sgan. No, I tell you. I wish to speak to you first.

Al. You have something to say to me?

Sgan. Yes.
Al What is it, then?

Sgan. Mr Alcantor, it is true I asked your daughter in marriage, and you granted my request; but I find that I am rather old; I think that I am by no means a proper match for her.

Al. Pardon me. My daughter likes you as you are; and I am sure that she will live very happily with you.

Sgan. Nay. I am given to strange whims at times, and she would have too much to endure from my ill humour.

Al. My daughter is of a very mild and obliging disposition; you shall see that she will accommodate herself entirely to you.

Sgan. I have some bodily infirmities which might disgust her.—’

Al. That is nothing. A virtuous woman is never disgusted with her husband.

Sgan. Must I then speak plainly? I do not advise you to give her to me.

Al. Surely you are jesting? I would rather die than break my word.

Sgan. Oh dear, I absolve you from it, and I...

Al. By no means. I have promised her to you, and you shall have her, in spite of all who are running after her.

Sgan. [Aside] The devil I shall!

Al. Look here. I have a special respect and friendship for you; and I would refuse my daughter to a Prince, to give her to you.

Sgan. Mr Alcantor, I am obliged for the honour you do me, but I declare to you that I will not marry.

Al. Not marry, you say?

Sgan. Yes, not marry.
AL And why?

Sgan. Why? Because I feel I am not fit for marriage; and because I wish to be like my father, and all my ancestors, who never would marry.
AL Hark ye. Every one to his liking; I am not the man to force anyone. You gave me your word that you would marry my daughter, and everything is prepared for the wedding; but since you wish to withdraw, I shall go and see what can be done in the matter; you shall hear from me presently.

SCENE XV.

SGANARELLE, ALONE.

Now he is more reasonable than I expected. I thought I should have much more trouble in getting off. Upon my word, when I think of it, I have done very prudently in withdrawing from this business. I was going to take a step of which I should perhaps have repented at leisure. But here comes the son, to bring me my answer.

SCENE XVI.

ALCIDAS, SGANARELLE.

ALCID. [IN A mild and complaisant tone] Sir, your most obedient servant Sgan. Sir, I am entirely yours.

Alcid. My father has told me, sir, that you came to withdraw your promise to marry my sister.

Sgan. Yes, sir. It is with regret; but. — .

Alcid. Oh! sir, there is no harm in that.

Sgan. I am extremely sorry, I assure you, and I could wish...

Alcid. That is nothing, I tell you. [Offers Sganarelle two swords] Sir, have the goodness to choose one of these swords.

Sgan. One of these swords?

Alcid. Yes, if you please.

Sgan. For what?

Alcid. Sir, as you refuse to marry my sister, after giving your word, I think you will not take amiss the little compliment I have paid you.

Sgan. How?

Alcid. Other people would make more noise, and get into a rage with you; but we are the sort of people to take things quietly; and I have come to tell you very politely that we must, by your favour, cut each other’s throats.

Sgan. That is a sorry compliment Alcid. Come, sir, I beg you will make your choice.

Sgan. I am your very humble servant, but I have no throat worth cutting. [Aside] Here is a scurvy style of speech!

Alcid. Sir, by your leave, it must be so.

Sgan. My dear sir, a truce, I beg, to this compliment Alcid. Let us be quick about it, sir. I have a little business on hand.

Sgan. I have no mind for this, I tell you.

Alcid. You will not fight?

Sgan. I will not, upon my soul.

Alcid. You mean it?

Sgan. I mean it.

Alcid. [Giving him a few blows with his cane] At least, sir, you cannot complain; you see that I do things by rule. You break your word with us, I wish to fight you, you refuse to fight, I cane you, — all that is according to form; and you are too much of a gentleman to find fault with my mode of acting.

Sgan. [Aside] Here is a devil of a fellow! —

Alcid. [Again offering the swords] Come, sir, do things like a gentleman, before I pull your ears.

Sgan. What! are you determined?

Alcid. Sir, I force no one; but you must either fight or marry my sister.

Sgan. Sir, I assure you, I cannot do either.

Alcid. Really?

Sgan. Really.

Alcid. By your leave then... [Beats him again.

Sgan. Oh, oh, oh!

Alcid. Sir, I infinitely regret to be obliged to treat you thus; but if you please I shall not stop until you have promised to marry my sister. — [Raises his cane.

Sgan. Well then, I will marry, I will marry!

Alcid. My dear Sir, I am delighted that you have returned to your senses, and that things can go smoothly. For I swear that I esteem you more than any one in the world; and I should have been grieved if you had compelled me to maltreat you. I shall call my father, and let him know that everything is settled.
[Goes and knocks at Alcantor’s door.

SCENE XVII.

ALCANTOR, DORIMENE, ALCIDAS, SGANARELLE.

ALCID. FATHER, THIS gentleman is now pleased to listen to reason. He has determined to do things with a good grace, and you can give my sister to him.

Alcan. Sir, here is her hand; you have only to give her yours. Heaven be praised! I have got rid of her; it is for you henceforth to take charge of her character. Let us make merry, and celebrate this happy marriage.
APPENDIX.
A, — Page 333.
David Garrick, in The Irish Widow (Act i., Scene 1), has given as follows the meeting between Whittle (Sganarelle) and Bates (Geronimo).

Whit. HA! here he is — give me your hand.

Bat. I am glad to see you in such spirits, my old gentleman.

Whit. Not so old neither — no man ought to be called old, friend Bates, if he is in health, spirits, and —

Bat. In his senses — which I should rather doubt, as I never saw you half so frolicksome in my life.

Whit. Never too old to learn, friend; and if I don’t make use of my philosophy now, I may wear it out in twenty years — I have been always banter’d as of too grave a cast — you know when I studied at Lincoln’s-Inn, they used to call me Young Wisdom.

Bat. And if they should call you Old Folly, it will be a much worse name.

Whit. No young jackanapes dares to call me so, while I have this friend at my side. [Touches his sword.]

Bat. A hero too! what in the name of common sense is come to you, my friend? — high spirits, quick honour, a long sword, and a bag! — you want nothing but to be terribly in love, and then you may sally forth Knight of the Woeful Countenance. Ha! ha! ha!

Whit. Mr Bates — the ladies, who are the best judges of countenances, are not of your opinion; and unless you’ll be a little serious, I must beg pardon for giving you this trouble, and I’ll open my mind to some more attentive friend.

Bat. Well, come unlock then, you wild, handsome, vigorous young dog you — I will please you if I can.

Whit. I believe me you never saw me look better, Frank, did you?

Bat. O yes, rather better forty years ago.

Whit. What, when I was at Merchant Taylor’s School?

Bat. At Lincoln’s-Inn, Tom.

Whit. It can’t be — I never disguise my age, and next February I shall be fifty-four.

Bat. Fifty-four! why I am sixty, and you always lick’d me at school — though I believe I could do as much for you now, and ecod I believe you deserve it too.

Whit. I tell you I am in my fifty-fifth year.

Bat. O, you are — let me see — we were together at Cambridge, Anno Domini twenty-five, which is near fifty years ago — you came to the college, indeed, surprisingly young: and, what is more surprising, by this calculation you went to school before you was born — you was always a forward child.

Whit. I see there is no talking or consulting with you in this humour; and so, Mr Bates, when you are in temper to show less of your wit, and more of your friendship, I shall consult with you.

Bat. Fare you well, my old boy — young fellow, I mean — when you have done sowing your wild oats, and have been blistered into your right senses; when you have half kill’d yourself with being a beau, and return to your woollen caps, flannel waistcoats, worsted stockings, cork soles, and gallochies, I am at your service again. So bon jour to you, Monsieur Fifty-four, ha! ha!
B, — Page 336.
The first and second scenes of Molière’s Forced Marriage are thus rendered by Mrs Carroll (afterwards Mrs Centlivre) in Lovée Contrivance (Act L, Scene 2). Sganarelle is called Sir Toby Doubtful and Geronimo Octavio.

Sir T. Do you hear, if any body brings me any Money, send for me to Mr Selfwill’s House immediately; but if any wants Money, tell ’em I am not at home, nor shan’t be all day. — [Enter Octavio.]

Oct. A very prudent Order, faith, — Sir Toby, your Servant.

Sir T. Mr Octavio, I am heartily glad to see you; pray, how long have you been in England?

Oct. These six months, but not one in town; the last Bills you transmitted me to Cales brought me over. I was several times upon Change, but cou’d not have the good Fortune to meet with you: Come, shall we take a Bottle together.

Sir T. Another time, Sir, I shall be glad to crack a Bottle with you, but at present I have a little pressing Business upon my Hands, wherein I should be glad of a Friend’s advice. Now I know you are a Man of Sense, and your Father was my particular Friend, and I have a very great Respect for you as his Son, and wou’d rather take your Advice than any Man’s I know again; therefore we’ll step into this House, and I’ll tell you what ’tis.

Oct. Oh! Sir Toby, you do me too much Honour; I’ll promise to give you the best Advice I am capable of. Allons; so ho the House there! — [Enter Drawer.

Draw. You are welcome, gentlemen; will you be pleased to walk into a Room? — [Exeunt, and enter again in a Room with a Table and Wine.

Sir T. Well, Mr Octavio, before I tell you what it is, I conjure you not to flatter me, but deal freely, and give your just thoughts of the Matter.

Oct. You may be certain I will.

Sir T. I think there can be nothing worse in a Friend, than not to speak his Mind freely.

Oct. You are in the right.

Sir T. In this Age one finds but few Friends sincere.

Oct. That’s true.

Sir T. Promise me, then.

Oct. I promise you.

Sir T. Swear by your Faith you will.

Oct. Upon the Faith of a Friend I will; therefore, pray tell me your Business. [Aside] What the Devil can all this mean?

Sir T. Why, then, it is this; shall I do well to marry?

Oct. [Aside] By the Injunction, I thought it was either Hanging or Marrying. Who, you! Sir Toby?

Sir T. Yes, myself, in proper Person; what is your Advice upon that?

Oct. I pray, before I give you my Opinion, tell me one thing.

Sir T. What’s that?

Oct. What Age are you?

Sir T. What Age?

Oct. Ay.

Sir T. Faith, I don’t know; but I’m very well.

Oct. Can you guess near what age?

Sir T. No, I never think of that.

Oct. Hark ye, Sir, how old were you when my Father was at first acquainted with you?

Sir T. Ha — how old? why about twenty.

Oct. Very good; and how long were you together at Rome?

Sir T. Eight years.

Oct. How long did you live in France?

Sir T. Seven years.

Oct. You were some time in Holland, too.

Sir T. Five years and a half.

Oct. And when did you come over again?

Sir T. I came over in eighty.

Oct. So, from eighty to seven hundred and one is 21 years, I think; and five years in Holland, and seven years in France, that is thirty-three, and eight years at Rome, that is forty-one, and twenty years you own at your first Acquaintance with my Father, which is just threescore and one, by your own Confession, and it may be a Year or two older.

Sir T. Who, I, Mr Octavio? No, no, it can’t be, you have reckon’d wrong.

Oct. Nay, I have calculated just I’ll assure you; whereupon I shall speak freely like a Friend; and as you made me swear to do —
Marriage won’t do your Work, that’s a thing we young Men ought to think seriously on before we do it, but Men of your Age should never think on’t at all: If one would give the greatest Ill a Name ’tis Marriage. I know nothing worse, especially to an old Man; therefore if you’ll take my Advice, don’t think on’t. I shou’d think that Man ridiculous that wou’d keep open House for all Strollers, and yet is incapable of sharing the Diversion himself. No, no, my Friend, grey Hairs and a bridal Bed are ridiculous Companions.

Sir T. Look ye, Sir, I ask’d your Advice as a Friend, and not to be affronted.

Oct. And I gave it you as a Friend, Sir; I’m sure I design’d no Affront, Sir Toby.

Sir T. Sir, I say my Hair is not grey with Age; for I was as grey as I am now at twenty, and so was my Father before me.

Oct. Nay, Sir Toby, that may be, I protest I did not think any harm when I spoke; you bid me speak my mind freely, you know.

Sir T. I did so, but did not think you had been of this opinion; for I can assure you I shall marry, and the very woman I design, and I warrant she’ll like me ne’er the worse for my grey Hairs, as you call ’em.

Oct. — Perhaps the Lady may suit your Years, Sir Toby; if so, you’ll do well to marry.

Sir T. My years — What do you mean, Mr Octavio? I think any Lady suits my years, — the Lady I design to many is about twenty, and I love her.

Oct. You love her! —

Sir T. And I have her Father’s Consent.

Oct. You have her Father’s Consent!

Sir T. Yes; and the match is concluded on, and is to be to-morrow.

Oct. Nay then many a’ God’s Name; I shan’t speak one Word more.

Sir T. Why, wou’d you have me fancy myself old, Sir, so long as I have the Vigour of a Man of thirty. Don’t I walk upright? [ Walks] Nay, can dance a Minuet with e’er a young Fellow of you all, la, la, lal, lara, lera, la. [Skips and dances] My Legs don’t fail me, thank God. I have no need of a Coach nor Chair to carry me to my Mistress — And look you here, I have as good a Set of Teeth as e’er a Beau in Christendom [Shews his Teeth] I have a very good Appetite too, I can digest four Meals a day, and am as sound as a Roach, Boy. Hem, hem, hem. [Coughs.] Ha! what say you to these Symptoms, Friend? Mayn ‘t I venture to many, think ye?

Oct. By all means, I was mistaken.

Sir T. Sometimes I am of another mind; but when I think what a Pleasure it will be to possess a young beautiful Creature that will caress, and stroak, and fondle me when I am weary, and out of Humour.

Oct. [Aside] That will cuckold you when she is in Humour. [Aside.]

Sir T. Besides, when I die, the Name of the Doubtfulls is extinct in the Male Line; therefore I’m resolv’d to beget a Boy, that shall beget another Boy, and so bear up my Name to Posterity. Ah! What Pleasure it will be to see the little Creatures playing about one’s knees, and to hear one tell me the Boy has my Nose, another my Eyes, the third my Mouth and Smile, ha, ha!

Oct. [Aside] While the Mother smiles, to think you had the least hand in the getting it.

Sir T. And then, when I come from Change, to have ’em run and meet one, and call Papa; ’tis surely the most agreeable Pleasure in the World, and I hope to get half a dozen of ’em ere I die yet, Boy.

Oct. [Aside] Father half a dozen, you mean, old Gentleman.

Sir T. What say ‘st thou then, ha — Boy?

Oct. Oh! Sir, I wou’d counsel you to marry with all the haste you can.

Sir T. Good — you counsel me! —

Oct. You can’t do better.

Sir T. I’m overjoy’d to think that your Opinion jumps with mine: I ever took you to be a Man of Sense — and you give this Counsel out of pure Friendship?

Oct. I do upon my word; for when a Man refuses to follow my Counsel, I think the best thing I can do, is to advise him to follow his own. But pray, Sir Toby, who is this Lady?

Sir T. Lucinda.

Oct. What, the great Beauty?

Sir T. Yes, Sir.

Oct. Daughter to Mr Selfwill?

Sir T. The Same.

Oct. What do I hear ?

Sir T. What do you say?

Oct. A very noble Match.

Sir T. Had I not Reason in my Choice ?

Oct. Oh! without doubt — [Aside] — But I’m mistaken if you have her, old Gentleman.

Sir T. Well, I invite you to the throwing of the Stocking, Mr Octavio. Ha — you’ll wish yourself in my Place, Boy.

Oct.... I’ll not fail; Sir, your very humble Servant Sir T. Sir, your very humble Servant.
This scene of Sganareile asking advice from Geronimo in Molière’s The Forced Marriage (Act L, Scene 2) is imitated by Ravenscroft in Scaramouch a Philosopher (Act ii., Scene 1), but the names in his play are Spittzaferro and Plautino.

Spittzaferro. Ah, Signior Plautino, I meet you very luckily, I was just coming to find you.

Plautino. For what, Signior Spittzaferro?

Spilt. To ask your advice about a business I have in hand.

Plaut. I’m very glad I meet you, here we may discourse with freedom.

Spilt. Be cover’d, I beseech you, ’tis concerning a matter of great importance, but it is not good to proceed in matters of this nature without the counsel and advice of Friends.

Plaut. I take it as a particular honour, Signior Spittzaferro, that you make choice of me. Well Sir, acquaint me with the business.

Spilt. But first I desire you not to flatter me, but really and truly to tell me your thoughts.

Plaut. Well, since you desire it, I will Spilt. There’s nothing I should sooner find fault with, than a friend that won’t freely tell me his mind.

Plaut. You are in the right.

Spin. In this Age ’tis very hard to find a sincere friend.

Plaut. Very true.

Spitt. Wherefore, Signior Plautino, give me your advice, with all the freedom imaginable.

Plaut. There’s my Hand upon’t.

Spilt. Swear to me.

Plaut. By our friendship, as I hope to live. Now, tell me, what is’t?

Spilt. I wou’d know whether you think it convenient for me to marry or not?

Plaut. For you to marry?

Spilt. Yes, I myself in Person, what wou’d you counsel me?

Plaut. I tell you plainly, that’t will be very indiscreetly done of you to marry, for marriage is a thing that even young people ought to consider of before they do it, and if marriage at the best be counted the greatest of follies, what can be worse than to be guilty of this folly, at an Age when one shou’d be more discreet. In short, Sir, I tell you my opinion, I wou’d not counsel you to marry, and you’ll be thought the indiscreetest man in the world, having liv’d free to these years, if you shou’d now thrust your neck into the yoak.

Spilt. And I tell you, Signior Plautino, that I’m resolv’d to marry, come what will, and that nobody will count me a fool for marrying the gentlewoman I pretend to, when once they see what manner of person she is.

Plaut. Oh! that alters the Case, you did not tell me that.

Spitt. She’s one that’s very pritty, and one that I love very well.

Plaut. You love her very well?

Spitt. With all my heart, and I have her Father’s consent.

Plant. Oh, you have her Father’s consent too?

Spitt. Yes, and I have promis’d to be marri’d to morrow.

Plaut. O Marry, Marry, I have no more to say.

Spitt. I was formerly against marrying, but now I consider if I continue as I am, the race of the Spittzaferros will be at an end, and in marrying I shall live after I am dead, in my issue.

Plaut. Therefore you ‘l do very well to marry.

Spitt. Yes, what a pleasure I shall take to see a Company of little Creatures, to whom I gave life and motion, and are so many small Figures of myself, there shall I see myself drawn to the life in little. O how these little images will be hopping and jumping about me, and calling me Papa, talking and prattling, and telling me a company of pritty little foolish tales. O the dear pritty little Poppets, what can be more delightful.

Plaut. Nothing in the world, therefore marry the first thing you do.

Spitt. Very good, you give me that Counsel Plant. I counsel you, you can’t do better.

Spitt. Truly I am very well pleased to find you counsel me so like a friend.

Plaut. But who is the Person you are to marry?

Spitt. One Mistress Aurelia.

Plaut. What, the pritty young Mistriss Aurelia?

Spitt. Yes.

Plaut. She that is so modish and waggish?

Spitt. Yes.

Plaut. Daughter to Signior Jeronimo?

Spitt. The same.

Plant. And Sister to young Alberto, that has a command in the Castle?

Spitt. ’Tis she, but him I never saw yet, he’s in the Country.

Plaut. Mercy upon me?

Spitt. What say you, Signior?

Plaut. A very fit person for you, marry with all speed.

Spitt. Have I not made a good choice?

Plaut. A rare one, ah, what a fine Wife will you have. Marry, Marry, Marry, Signior Spittzaferro.

Spitt. Your approbation pleases me extremely; I give you many thanks for your good counsel, and invite you to my wedding to-morrow.

Plant. I’ll not fail to come. The young Aurelia, daughter to Signior Geronimo, marry’d to Signior Spittzaferro, that is not above fifty-three years of Age; oh, what a match, what a fine match is this?
[Exit.]

Spitt. This match must needs be very happy, for everybody is much pleas’d that hears on’t. I have not told it to one but smil’d at my choice, as soon as I speak. I shall to-morrow be the happiest man in the world: O here comes my Mistress.
D, — Page 338.
The fourth scene from Molière’s Forced Marriage is thus rendered and amplified by David Garrick in The Irish Widow (end of first act). Dorimène is there called Widow Brady, who assumes for the nonce flaunting airs and a strong Irish brogue, in order to disgust Mr Whittle (Sganarelle).
Enter Widow, followed by NEPHEW, THREE FOOTMEN and A BLACK BOY.

Widow. Don’t bother me, young man, with your darts, your cupids, and your pangs... Your servant, Mr Whittol; [ wish you would spake to your nephew not to be whining and dangling after me all day in his green coat like a parrot.... Are you now talking of my brogue? It is always the most fullest when the wind is aesterly; it has the same effect upon me as upon stammering people — they can’t spake for their impediment, and my tongue is fix’d so loose in my mouth, I can’t stop it for the life of me.... When the wind changes I have no brogue at all, at all. But come, Mr Whittol, don’t let us be vulgar and talk of our poor relations; it is impossible to be in this metropolis of London, and have any thought but of operas, plays, masquerades, and pantaons, to keep up one’s spirits in the winter; and Ranelagh, Vauxhall, and Mary bone fireworks, to cool and refresh one in the summer — La! la! la! — ... Are you low-spirited, my dare Mr Whittol? When you were at Scarborough, and winning my affections, you were all mirth and gaiety; and now you have won me, you are as thoughtful about it as if we had been married some time.

Whittle. Indeed, Madam, I can’t but say I am a little thoughtful — we take it by turns; you were very sorrowful for the loss of your husband, and that you could dry up your tears so soon naturally makes me a little thoughtful Wid. Indeed, I could dry up my tears for a dozen husbands when I was sure of having a tirteenth like Mr Whittol; that’s very natural sure, both in England and Dublin too.... My mantua-maker is waiting for me to choose my clothes, in which I shall forget the sorrows of Mrs Brady in the joys of Mrs Whittol. Though I have no fortune myself, I shall bring a tolerable one to you, in debts, Mr Whittol; and which I will pay you tinfold in tinderness: Your deep purse, and my open heart, will make us the envy of the little grate ones, and the grate little ones; the people of quality with no souls, and grate souls with no cash at all. I hope you’ll meet me at the pantaon this evening. Lady Rantiton, and her daughter Miss Nettledown, and Nancy Tittup, with half a dozen Maccaroonies and two Savoury Vivers, are to take me there; and we propose a great deal of chat and merriment, and dancing all night, and all other kinds of recreations. I am quite another kind of a crator, now I am a bird in the fields, I can junket about a week together: I have a fine constitution, and am never molested with your nasty vapours. Are you ever troubled with vapours, Mr Whittol?

Whit. A little now and then, Madam.

Wid. I’ll rattle ’em away like smoke! there are no vapours where I come. I hate your dumps, and your nerves, and your megrims; and I had much rather break your rest with a little racketting, than let any thing get into your head that should not be there Mr Whittol.

Whit. I will take care that nothing shall be in my head, but what ought to be there: what a deliverance. [Aside.]
E, — Page 340.
The fourth scene from Molière’s Forced Marriage is thus imitated by Ravenscroft in Scaramouch a Philosopher; Dorimène is called Aurelia.

Enter AURELIA.

Spittzaferro. Ah! how pritty, what an Air, how delicately shap’d and what a stature! Can any man see her and not have a mind to her? Whether art thou going, my little Poppet, my dear Wife that is to be if thy Husband that must be?

Aurelia. I’m going about a little business.

Spitt. Euh — good, my little Mopsie, the hour is coming that we two must make one another happy. I can do with you what e’er I please, without any Body’s saying why do you so? or is it well done? you will be mine all over from head to foot, I shall then be your right owner, and Master of you all over, of your pretty waggish Eyes, of that pretty little Roguish Nose, of those Cherry, Cherry lips, of those little, little fritter Ears, of those pretty blub-cheeks, of that dimpl’d dimpl’d Chin .. of your soft, white Skin... In fine, every part and particle of you will be solely and wholly at my disposal; and I shall be the like to you, to be stroak’d and kiss’d, and do what e’re you please with. Are you not glad of this Marriage, my little Wanton?

Aur. Most extremely glad, I’ll assure you: — For to say truth, my Father’s severity has kept me in a most intollerable subjection, I have been almost mad for a little more liberty, and especially e’re since he was sick. He has kept me so mew’d up in his warm Chamber, that I have wanted room to breath in. Were it not for you, that I must go abroad to buy things for our Wedding, I shou’d never have stirr’d from him... Now I’ll be preparing to lead a pleasanter life, to take my full swing of pleasure, to make amends for what I have lost...

Spitt. Eumh!

Aur. Now, Sir, you being a very brave person, well bred and one that understands what it is to live, I believe that we shall do well together; and that you will not be one of those troublesome Husbands that wou’d have their Wives live sneaking and mew’d up; ‘t is a thing that does not at all agree with me, I shou’d never away with it in a Husband; I can’t endure a dull solitary life, ‘t is directly against my humour; I’m all Air and Mirth; I like to go where I please and do what I list...

Spitt. Eumh!

Aur. I love Visiting, Plays, Balls, Masquerades and good Company:
I’m for good Clothes, — a fine Coach! and handsome Liveries, and appearing amongst the best, as well drest, and as rich as any of ’em.

Spitt. Eumh! yes, yes.

Aur. In fine I’m resolved to make my life as pleasant as I can; and I know you’l think yourself happy to have a Wife of my humour.

Spitt. Eumh; — yes, yes.

Aur. We’l never be meddling nor thwarting one another, I’ll not concern myself at what you do; As I hope, on the other side, you’l not be contradicting or telling me what I shall do.

Spitt. Eumh: no, no.

Aur. As for my part, I think there ought to be a mutual compliance and that people ought not to marry to be troublesome to one another. In fine, when we are married we’l live like two that understands one anothers humour; no jealousy nor suspitions shall trouble your head, but it shall be sufficient that you have an assurance of my fidelity; as I shall have a good opinion of yours. But what troubles you? I perceive your countenance much chang’d on the sudden.

Spitt. Some splenatick vapours that rise and dizzy my brain.

Aur. ’Tis a distemper that abundance are troubled with. But our Marriage will take away all that. Adieu, Signior Spittzaferro, my dear Husband... that must be, of your wife that is to be. I am in a little haste at present, because I have not Clothes and things about me as I wou’d have; I’m just going to buy me what things I want, you shall see how fine I’l be to-morrow... Adieu, Signior Spittzaferro.
F, — Page 340.
Mrs Carroll (Centlivre) has amplified this scene in Love Contrivance (Act iv., Scene 1). Dorimène is called in the English play Lucinda, her cousin, which does not exist in Molière’s farce, Belliza.

Sir Toby. Well, my dear, we shall be very happy, you shall never refuse me any thing, and I’ll do just what I please with you... Ha, my girl, does not this please you ] ha!...

Lucinda. O! extremely, Sir Toby; for my Father’s rigid severity has made me almost weary of my Life, I am stark mad for my Liberty... now I’ll prepare for Diversion and retrieve the Time I’ve lost; you must promise me one thing, Sir Toby.

Sir T. What’s that, Madame?

Luc. O, let me have a House, or very good Lodgings about St James’s.

Sir T. About St James’s?

Belliza. Oh! by all Means, Sir Toby, all People of Breeding, and Fashion, live at that End of the Town.

Luc. Especially the Company that I shall most covet.

Sir T. But St James’s is quite out of my Way of Business; for that lies at the Exchange you know.

Bell. Better still, Sir Toby, for you may keep Lodgings in the City, and visit your Wife every Saturday Night, and stay till Monday, true Citizen like, you know... You look like a very gallant Gentleman, Sir Toby...

Luc. Ay, that knows how a Woman shou’d live; I’m certain you are not one of those ill-natured Husbands, who expect to keep their Wives like Melons under Glasses; I believe we shall agree the best in the World.

Sir T. [Aside] Asunder I believe it must be then.

Bell. [Aride] She’ll distract the old Fellow presently — And then, Sir Toby, you must alter your Livery, and give a lac’d one, for grey turned up with blue looks so like a Country Squire. Ha, ha, ha!

Luc. One thing more I had like to have forgot, I must have a French Chariot positively; for I would not give a farthing for a Chariot, if it ben’t a French one.

Sir T. French! egad I wou’d not have a Nail about my Coach that’s French, for the Wealth of the East-India Company. French Chariot! say ye? Zouns, Madam, do you take me for a Jacobite? ha!

Bell. [Aside] Oh Lord! he’ll beat us by and by. No, no, Sir Toby, Gentlemen may follow the French Fashions, nay, sup with a Frenchman, yet be no Jacobite.

Sir T. I say’t is a lie, and I’ll keep no French Chariot.

Luc. You’ll at least keep six Horses, Sir Toby, for I wou’d not make a Tour in Hyde-Park with less for the World; for methinks a Pair looks like a Hackney.

Sir T. [Aside] Zouns! this Woman will undo me.

Luc. For my Part I hate Solitude, Churches, and Prayers.

Bell. So do I directly; for except St James’s Church one scarce sees a well drest Man, or ever receives a Bow from any thing above one’s Mercer.

Sir T. Why what a World of Religion our Ladies have; why do you go to Church to pay and receive Bows, pray?

Bell. Not absolutely on purpose, Sir Toby; but she that has no Reverence from a Crowd, is look’d upon as an obscure Person, than which there cannot be a greater Affront; for the Pleasure of living now-a-days, is to be known and talk’d of.

Sir T. [Aside] And I’m mistaken if you’ll not give Cause enough for Talk.

Luc. For my part I love the Park, Plays — Oh Heavens! What ails you Sir? Your Countenance is changed.

Sir T. ‘T is only Vapours — my Head is giddy a little.

Bell. Ha, ha, ha!

Luc. Oh! ‘t is a Disease that afflicts Abundance of People; — but our Marriage, I hope, will dissipate that. I’ll fetch you some cold Water, Sir Toby.

Sir T. No, no, it will off again — [Aside] Mercy upon me, what a judgment have I escap’d.
G, — Page 340.
In Molière’s Forced Marriage (Scene iv.), it is Dorimène, the betrothed of Sganarelle, who tells him the life she intends to lead after marriage; in Shadwell’s Sullen Lovers, it is Roger, Stanford’s man, who tells (Act v.) the Country Gentleman what Emilia, his bride, is going to do.

Roger. Now we are alone, Sir, I am oblig’d to tell you, I am sorry to see one, whom I so much honour’d, so ill us’d.

Country Gentleman. Pish! it’s no matter, man....

Rog. I mean something concerns your Worship nearer.
C.-Gent. Nearer! what can that be?

Rog. I must beg your Pardon for that; I may be ruin’d for my Endeavours to serve you.... If you marry her, the Inconvenience will be yours not mine. Besides... she’ll never be persuaded to live in the Country. You must keep her in Town, with her Coach and six Horses, Pages, and Lacquies; and she must visit the Plays, the Park, and the Mulberry-garden.
C.-Qent. O Lamentable! this were the way to get a pair of Horns, bigger than the Stag’s Head in my Hall has. But, if I were marry’d to her, I’d get her into the Country, as sure as a gun.

Rog. If you shou’d, you’d have every Week this Earl, that Lord, this Knight, and that Gentleman of her kindred come to take the fresh Air; and to hunt, and hawk with you, in the time of the Year.
C.-Qent. Why, they wou’d eat me out of House and Home, as the saying is.

Rog. They would despise your Beef and Mutton: You must keep a couple of French Cooks; and eat nothing but Pottages, Fricases, and Ragouts; your Champinions, Cox-combs, and Pallats; your Andoilles, your Langue de Porceau; your Bisks and your Olio’s.... Then you must have your Quails, Ruffs, Gnats, Godwitt’s, Plover, Dotrills, Wheat-Ear, Cock of the Wood, and a hundred sort of Fowls: Besides, they would scorn your Ale, and Cyder, and March-Beer; you must have your Cellar full of Champaign, Chablee, Burgundy, and Remedy Wines. But Mum, Sir, if you love me.
H, — Page 341.
This scene from Sganarelle, or the Forced Marriage (Scene 6), is thus imitated by Ravenscroft in Scaramouch a Philosopher.
PANCRACE, SPITTZAFERRO.

Pancrace. Go, go friend, you are very impertinent, and ought to be banish’d the Republick of Letters.

Spittzaferro. Oh! here he comes to my purpose.

Pane. Yes, and not without very good reason: I say you are a Dunce, a Blockhead, an Ignorant; an Ignorantior, an Ignorantissimus, and Ignorantissimetissimus, an Ignoramus per omnes Cases, Moods and Tenses.

Spitt. He has been wrangling with somebody in a Disputation, Signior.

Panc. You will be arguing, and know not so much as the very Rudiments of Learning.

Spitt. Passion blinds him so, he sees me not, Signior.

Panc. ’Tis a Proposition condemn’d, confuted, rejected by all Philosophers both Ancient and Modern.

Spitt. Somebody has much incens’d him... I....

Panc. Toto Coelo, Toto via aberras.

Spitt. I kiss your hands, Signior Pancrace.

Panc. Servant, Servant.

Spitt. Can I...

Panc. Do you know what you have done! A Syllogism in Bocardo.

Spitt. I desire —

Pane. The Major’s absurd, the Minor’s impertinent, and the Conclusion ridiculous.

Spitt. I desi...

Panc. I’d sooner dye than grant what you say, and I’l defend my opinion to the last drop of my Ink.

Spitt. Can I...

Panc. Yes, I ‘l defend this Proposition, pugnis et caldbus, unguibus et rostro, Spitt. Signior Aristotle, pray what has so incens’d you?

Panc. I have all the reason in the World.

Spitt. Pray, what was’t?

Panc. An illiterate Blockhead wou’d maintain an erroneous Proposition; a false, damnable, destructive, execrable Proposition.

Spitt. May I beg leave to know what’t was!

Panc. Ah! Signior Spittzaferro, nature is this day reverst, and the World is falling to a general decay, a most shameful Licence reigns every where, and the Magistrates who are establisht to take care of the Publick, ought to blush for shame, in suffering such a horrible and intolerable Scandal as this.

Spitt. What pray]

Panc. Is it not a most horrible thing, a thing that cries to Heaven for vengeance, that it shou’d be suffer’d, for a man publickly to cry the form of a Hat?

Spitt. How’s that?

Panc. I maintain that a man ought to say the figure of a Hat, and not the form; yet, not forma, but figura; for there is this difference betwixt form and figure, that the form is the external disposition of animate Bodies; the figure is the external disposition of Bodies inanimate: It ought to be said, the figure of a Hat and not the form. Go to, Dunce as thou art, this is the truth of the thing, these are the express terms of Aristotle, in his Chapter of Quality.

Spitt. Marry, I thought we had all been undone! Come, Signior Pancrace, think no more of this; I have a business to impart to you, I desire...

Panc. O, impertinent Blockhead!

Spitt. Pray, forget it. I desi...

Panc. Dunce.

Spitt. I beseech you, Sir,... I desi...

Panc. To defend against me such a Proposition as this.

Spitt. He was in the wrong... I...

Panc. A Proposition condemn’d by Aristotle.

Spitt. That’s true... I... —

Panc. In express terms....

Spitt. Y’ are in the right, yes... you are a Fool, a Dunce, an Ouff, a Sot, a Blockhead, to dispute against a Learn’d Doctor that can both write and read. — So now the business is over, I desire you’d give me your attention; I come to consult with you about a business which very much puzzles me. I have thoughts of Marrying, to have a Companion in the business of the World; the person is handsome, and I like her very well: she thinks herself a happy Woman to have me for a Husband; her Father and I are agreed: But I’m a little startled at a thing that you may guess... of a blow that a man never feels when ‘t is given him. And I desire you, as being a Philosopher, to tell me your opinion. How, what do you advise me to?

Panc. Sooner than I wou’d accord to say the form of a Hat, I wou’d be brought to affirm that datur vacuum in rerum natura, and that I am not a Man, but a Vegetable, a Plant, or a four-footed Beast.

Spitt. Doubtless he’s possest; Mr Doctor, pray hear me a little; I have been speaking to you this half-hour, and you don’t mind what I say.

Panc. I beg your pardon, I am so incens’d when I hear the truth oppugn’d.

Spitt. Well, Sir, forget it, and give me your attention.

Panc. Very good;... what wou’d you with me, good Signior Spittzaferro?

Spitt. I wou’d speak to you concerning a business.

Panc. In what Idiom?

Spitt. Idiom!

Panc. In what Language would you discourse; in French?

Spitt. No.

Panc. Spanish? Spitt. No.

Panc. Dutch? Spitt. No.

Panc. English? Spitt. No.

Panc. Latin? Spitt. No.

Panc. Greek? Spitt. No.

Panc. Hebrew? Spitt. No.

Panc. Syriack? Spitt. No.

Panc. Arabick? Spitt. No.

Panc. Chaldea? Spitt. No.

Panc. Turkish? Spitt. No, no, no; in Italian, in Italian.

Panc. Oh! in Italian?

Spitt. Yes.

Panc. Go then on t’other side, for this ear is destin’d only to Scientifical Languages! and this for my Mother-tongue.

Spitt. What a deal of Ceremony there is with these Learn’d Men.

Panc. Well, now tell me what you wou’d have?

Spitt. I wou’d have your opinion concerning a difficulty.

Panc. A Philosophical difficulty, without doubt Spitt. Excuse me... I...

Panc. Perhaps you wou’d know if Substance and Accident be terms synonimus, or equivocal in respect of being.

Spitt. Not at all, Signior.

Panc. If Logick be an Art or a Science?

Spitt. Not that neither!...

Panc. If it has for its objects the three operations of the understanding or only the third?

Spitt. No... I...

Panc. If there be ten Categories, or only one?

Spitt. Not I... I...

Panc. If the Conclusion be of the Essence of eight Syllogisms.

Spitt. No, no,... I...

Panc. If the essence of good consists in the Appetibility, that is in being desirable, or in being convenient?

Spitt. No, that I... —

Panc. If good be reciprocal with the end?

Spitt. Peu! Ho! I...

Panc. If the end can move us by its real being, or by the intentional, that is, by the being it has in our apprehensions?

Spitt. No, no, no, a Pox o’ the Devil; none of all this.

Panc. Explain your self then, for I can’t guess what’t is.

Spitt. Aye, aye, Signior, I wou’d explain myself; but you must hear me then: the business that I wou’d discourse with you about, is this: that I have some thoughts of Marrying a gentlewoman, that is young and handsome, and one who has a kindness for me; and I have ask’d her Father’s consent. But now I apprehend...
[They speak together, and at the tame time.

Panc. Speech is given to man to explain his thoughts; and just as thoughts are the representations of things, so are our words the representations of our thoughts. But those representations are distinguish’d from others, in as much as other representations are altogether distinguish’d from their originals; and words include in themselves their originals, they being nothing else but the thoughts explicated by external signs; from whence it comes, that those who think well, do also speak well Now therefore explain your thoughts to me by your words, which are, of all signs, the most intelligible.

Spitt. [Pushes the Doctor into hit house, and returns] The Devil take all such folks as won’t hear a man speak; I ‘l go find out the other Philosopher; he perhaps may be more reasonable, and less talkative.

Panc. [Comes out again, and Spittzaferro pushes him in] Now, Aristotle says there is this difference...

Spitt. Are you there again with your Aristotle? Go, your Master Aristotle’s a Fool, and you ‘re an Ass.
Mrs Carroll (Centlivre) has, in the fifth act of Love’s Contrivance, also literally translated Molière’s scenes between Sganarelle, Pancrace, and Marphurius; the only difference is that in her play it is the lover Bellmie who disguises himself twice as a philosopher and proffers advice.
The following scene from Shadwell’s Sullen Lovers (Scene iv., end) is partly imitated from Molière’a Forced Marriage (Scene vi.) Sir Positive At-all is the English Pancrace.
STANFORD, SIR POSITIVE AT-ALL, LOVEL, LADY VAINE, EMELIA, CAROLINA.

Sir Pos. No, no, Madam... I understand little; but I’ll tell you, Madam, what was said of me the other Day by some great Persons, that shall be nameless.
L. Vaine. What was that, Sir?

Sir Pos. That I was a Man of the most universal Knowledge of any Man in England; but, without Comparison, the best poet in Europe.

Car. Now, Lovel, to your Post. —

Lov. — Navigation. — Lov. — Physick.

Sir Pos. Navigation d’ ye talk of? — Car. Divinity.

Car. — Geography. — Lov. — Surgery.

Sir Pos. Geography d’ ye talk of? — Car. Arithmetick.

Lov. — Astronomy. — Lov. — Logick.

Sir Pos. Astronomy d’ ye talk of ] — Car. — Cookery.

Car. — Palmestry. — Lov. — Magick.
[Lovel and Carolina speak so fast one after another, that Sir Positive turns himself first to one, then to another, and has not time to speak to them.]

Sir Pos. Hold, hold, hold, hold! Navigation, Geography, Astronomy, Palmestry, Physick, Divinity, Surgery, Arithmetick, Logick, Cookery, and Magick: I’ll speak to every one of these in their Order; if I don’t understand ’em every one in Perfection, nay, if I don’t Fence, Dance, Ride, Sing, fight a Duel, speak French, command an Army, play on the Violin, Bag-pipe, Organ, Harp, Hautboy, Sackbut, and double Curtal, speak Spanish, Italian, Greek, Hebrew, Dutch, Welsh and Irish, Dance a Jig, throw the Bar, Swear, Drink, Swagger,... Quarrel, Cuff, break Windows, manage Affairs of State, Hunt, Hawk, Shoot, Angle, play at Cat, Stool-ball, Scotch-hop and Trap-ball, Preach, Dispute, make speeches — [Coughs] Pr’ythee get me a glass of small-beer, Roger.
Stanf — Hell and Furies!

Em. — Oh, oh —— [They run.

Sir Pos. Nay, hold, I have not told you half; if I don’t do all these, and fifty times more, I am the greatest Owl, Pimp, Monkey, Jack-a-napes, Baboon, Rascal, Ouf, Ignoramus, Logger-head, Curr-dog, Blockhead, Buffoon, Jack-pudding, Tony, or what you will; spit upon me, kick me, cuff me, lugg me by the Ears, pull me by the Nose, tread upon me, and despise me more, more than the World now values me.
[Exeunt omnes, and he goes out talking as fast as he can.
J, — Page 351.
The eighth scene of Molière’» Forced Marriage has been very well imitated in An Hour before Marriage, in the scene between Tardy, the lawyer, and Stanley.

Stanley. Stay one moment, good Mr Tardy. — I have a little affair to mention to you.

Tardy. With all my heart, Sir; mention it.

Stan. As you have drawn up these writings, Mr Tardy, you cannot but know how matters stand between the young lady of this house and me.

Tar. You mean the young lady whose mother rents these lodgings, namely, Miss Melville.

Stan. Certainly I do. — Who else should I mean?

Tar. Nay, I know not. — I can only give a sort of a guess as to what you hint at.

Stan. Indeed! — Well, I’ll tell you then. — I have obtained the consent of her friends (which of course includes hers) and have given them my promise to marry her. So far all is in train.

Tar. It’s very possible.

Stan. Very possible! I tell you it is as I say.

Tar. I know nothing to the contrary.

Stan. How should you, when the thing is a fact? Now, she is young, handsome, and very virtuously brought up, Mr Tardy.

Tar. It’s not unlikely.

Stan. What do you mean by not unlikely? I say, she is young, handsome, and virtuously brought up: now this last circumstance made me think I should have a chance of living quietly and retired with her.

Tar. You might think so.

Stan. I did think so. But I have since found her to be giddy and extravagant; so I am convinced that, on the contrary, she would lead me into a good deal of expence.

Tar. It’s not impossible but you may suppose so.

Stan. I tell you I am convinced of it. I am as certain of it as that I am standing here. I suppose I may be clear in that. You see me standing here, don’t you?

Tar. I think so.

Stan. You only think so?

Tar. No more. Isn’t every thing a matter of doubt? and in law hardly any thing is certain. Oh, the glorious uncertainty of the law! Such things I could tell you, such alibis made out, and such proofs overthrown! There was a case (you’ll find it in Strange’s Reports, volume iii folio 517), Wilkins against Sanderson; it was in the second of William and Mary — Wilkins.

Stan. We’ll hear it another time; at present, Mr Tardy —

Tar. Nay, I ask pardon. — I should not have quoted the case but in evidence of what I advanced. — That there was nothing in law which would not admit of being controverted. For instance, now — you are in possession of a very good estate in Oxfordshire.

Stanley. I am, and have been these twenty years.

Tar. Well, and you think, perhaps, that that estate’s your own?

Stan. Yes, I am pretty positive of it.

Tar. And now, I am not. — I don’t know but that estate may belong to me.

Stan. To you, Mr Tardy.

Tar. Yes, to me. Were I to put you upon producing your titles, and proving your rights, there is a possibility that it might appear to belong to me.

Stan. The man’s mad. Well, I’ll not enter into any dispute with you. The matter I wish to have your opinion on is this. You know that in law and in strictness I am still at liberty to proceed further or not as I chuse.

Tar. Perhaps you may — perhaps you may not.

Stan. What the devil! I am not married yet — am I?

Tar. It’s more than I know.

Stan. But I know, to my comfort, that I am not.

Tar. It may be as you say.

Stan. You’d set one mad. Why you know it is. Are not those writings yet unsigned?

Tar. They may — they may not — I admit nothing.

Stan. Bless me. Well, I’ll say nothing. That I have still a choice, I know very well, so I don’t ask you about that: but I would be glad to have your advice whether it would be prudent in me to marry or not.

Tar. Whether it would be prudent in you to marry or not?

Stan. Yes, that’s the question.

Tar. There’s much to be said on both sides.

Stan. That I know. But what is your opinion? Do you think it an advisable step, or do you not?

Tar. The event will probably make that appear.

Stan. What would you advise?

Tar. It is a matter of a very doubtful nature.

Stan. True. But what resolution would you have me take ? I must determine myself one way or other.

Tar. I do think you must.

Stan. [Eagerly] Must do what?

Tar. Determine yourself one way or another.

Stan. I believe you are jesting. What is it you mean? I ask you whether you think I shall do right to marry this young lady?

Tar. That’s according as it happens.

Stan. Would I do better, think you, to break the thing off?

Tar. According as it happens.

Stan. For Heaven’s sake give me a rational answer. I have a great inclination for the girl.

Tar. That may be.

Stan. But I’m afraid, that if I married her, I might repent it afterwards.

Tar. The thing is not impossible.

Stan. In one word, what would you have me do?

Tar. Just what you please.

Stan. Now, what you do if you were in my place?

Tar. As it is not a point of law, nor such a thing as we can lay before counsel, I really don’t know. And so, Sir, I am your very humble servant. — [Exit.

Stan. A scoundrel! Not one word that’s positive to be got out of him! After spending one’s breath for half an hour together, endeavouring to squeeze some sort of an opinion out of him, one is just as wise as at first.
The sixth, seventh, and eighth scenes from The Forced Marriage are freely rendered in Love without Interest; or, The Man too hard for the Master (Act iv., Scene 2). Pancrace is, in the English play, Wrangle; Marphurius, Sobersides; and Sganarelle, Fickle.
WRANGLE, FICKLE, SOBERSIDES.

Wrangle. Fool! Blockhead! Incomprehensible Dolt! Thou Ox in an Ass’s Skin!... Get you gone to School again, and learn the meaning of the Word Ratification before you pretend to dispute the Legality of Essential Formality, requisite to the Constitution thereof; for I tell you once more, thou impertinent Head-piece, Ignoratis terminis, Ignoratur et ars!

Fickle.... Ay, ay, Sir, so he is an ignorant termagant Ass, to pretend to argue with you that can read, write, and Latin..

Wran. Dilate energetically, concisely and uninægmatically.

Fick.... Sir, I did not understand —

Wran. Oh ye pellucid Stars! whose Influences are subservient to Sapience, deconglomerate me from these unzodiacal, uncerebrated, circumambient Gemini.... Sir, I tell you both Sence or no Sence, Ratification is an Overt Subsequent Act to a Precedent Covert Transaction.

Fick. Overt! Covert! Precedent! and Subsequent! What trade do these Terms of Art belong to ? What a Devil, do you banter? Or are you a conjuring?

Wran. I’ll be plain: For Example, I owe you a Grudge; that is a Covert, or Secret Transaction in my Mind.

Fick. Good.

Wran. Then [Kicks and cuffs him] this is an Open, Publick, or Overt Act or Declaration thereof. — Now I hope you understand this is de monstrative.... But I lose time ‘mongst a Brace of Owla Fick. Owls! Owls! Owls in your throat, Sir;... if hard Words, dry Blows and Affronts, be all the Counsel I must expect, [Exit] my Riddle-me-ree, [Exit]. [Turning him out.]

Wran. Then I will leave you, as I found you, obfuscated by Poetick Dulness and Palpable Calliginosity.

Fick. Bur-r-r, Buz-z-z, G ingiber et Lacer Cicer Pepper atque Papaver [Turns him out] Owls! Owls! I don’t know but I may be as good a Scholar as himself. I begin to —

Wran. [Re-enters] And Cimerian Tenebrosity.

Fick. Hey! here again with his Tenebrosity? Hey, Noun, [Runs to him] Pronoun, Preposition, Conjunction, Participle, Interjection; Haec aquila, an Owl, both he and she. [Like an Owl runs at him] Or-ro-o-o-o-o-o — [Looking after him] Huzza! Victoria! So’t is but a little Resolution, and these Roarers are soon tam’d. [Spying Sobersides] O, Sir, cry your Mercy. This same passionate Puppy has so what-ye-call’t my Intellectuals, I protest, overlook’d you.

Sobersides. [Gravely] That might be, Sir.

Fick. [Mocking] So it might, I vow, Sir. Now I shall be as much plagu’d with this Fellows formal Preciseness, as I was with the tether’s blustering Bombast. — Deliver me but from this Piece of stiffn’d Tiffany, and if ever I go to Counsel to a Citizen again, may he take my Nose and Ears for his Fee. [To Sobersides] But, Sir.

Sober. [Formally] Sir.

Fick. Why, Sir, what I intended to have discours’d this same tasty, old, positive Puppy about, was Matrimony; I’m going to be married to a brisk, young Country Virgin, her Fortune, it’s true, is but small, but my Inclinations are great; you know me, let me know your Opinion.

Sober. That I believe I shall give you; but first, by way of Advice, reprehend not that Positiveness in another, whereof you seem to be so well provided; for you seem positively to affirm that you are going to be married, which, if you consider the Mutability of sublunary things, I esteem that you might with more Modesty say, that you conceive, or think, judge, or suppose yourself upon the Matrimonial Point.

Fick. The Man’s in the right on’t there; for we ‘re farthest off sometimes, when we think our selves nearest to the Blank....

Sober. Not unlikely. — Then, Sir, as for her Briskness, it may possibly be Levity; her Youth artificial, and her Vertue and her Virginity as slender as her Fortune.

Fick. [Angrily] How, Sir! No Vertue; No Virginity!

Sober. Possibly none; for I am of the Sects of the Scepticks, I think, I affirm nothing.

Fick. But I am not, and do possibly say that Man’s a Villain that dare call her Honour in question; therefore, Sir Dubious, pick up your Awls, or, now my Hand’s in, I can promise you no better Entertainment than your Deconglomerating Predecessor; th’ Example’s fresh, my Passion rises; therefore once more walk off, or I shall Overtly ratifie upon your Morrion.

Sober. Fortune I contemn, Examples I defie, and will maintain my Opinion, Spight of Passion or Ratification.

Fick. Nay, if you begin to be positive, walk, walk, my Philosopher. [As he turns him out.’]

Sober. I’ll have Satisfaction for this Affront done to my Person and Opinion; I’ll be revenged, look to it. [Fickle thrusts him out.]
L, — Page 337.
The eighth scene of Molière’s Forced Marriage, which represents the interview between Marphurius and Sganarelle is literally imitated in Ravenscroft’s Scaramouch, a Philosopher (Act iv., Scene 3), in a dialogue between Scaramouch, the Pyrrhonian philosopher, and Spittza-ferro. The meeting between Sganarelle and the gypsies is also followed in the English comedy, but whilst in Molière (Scene 16), the brother Alcidas, challenges Sganarelle, because he refuses to marry Dorimène, in the English play, it is not the brother, but Octavio, the lover of Aurelia (Dorimène) who is the bearer of the challenge. The scene (Act v., Scene 4), is a little different, and as follows: —
OCTAVIO, SPITTZAFERRO.

Octavio. Come Signior, chuse your sword, I pray.

Spittzaferro. I kiss your hands Signior, I have ne’er a throat to cut: What a Civility’s there?

Oct. It must be so if you please.

Spit. Signior, no matter for Complements among Friends, Servitore [Zi going off, Octavio pulls him back.

Oct. Signior; if you please you must not depart yet; come take which you like best, I’m a little in haste, or I’d allow you more time to make your choice.

Spit. I have nothing to say to the business.

Oct. You are not pleas’d then to fight him.

Spit. No, not at all.

Oct. You don’t think good to kill one another?

Spit. Signior, no.

Oct. ’Tis against your inclination.

Spit. Signior, I —

Oct. You have made a resolution to the contrary.

Spit. And please you.

Oct. At least Signior Spittzaferro you’l have no reason to complain; you see I observe method, and do things in order; you go from your word, the party injur’d sends you a challenge, I bring it, you refuse to fight, I beat you for not accepting the message, that follows of consequence, all this is in course, and I know you are too worthy a person not to approve of proceedings which are so orderly and exact.

Spit. What a sort of man’s this?

Oct. Come Signior, chuse your weapon without more ado.

Spit. Yet agen!

Oct. Signior, I force no body, but you must take it; nor does Signior Alberto compel you to any thing, but you must fight him, if you please.

Spit. I shall do neither.

Oct. No?

Spit. Signior, no.

Oct. With your permission then. — [Beats him.

Spit. Ah, ah, ah, ah.

Oct. Signior, I have all the reluctancy imaginable to treat you so contrary to all my inclinations; but with your good liking, if you please, I can’t forbear till you do me the favour to grant what I request of you.

Spit. I kiss your hands Signior, give me which you please.
[Takes a sword.

Oct. No Signior, which you please. So is it not best to do things thus freely and courteously. I’m very glad to find you so inclinable, for you are a very civil person, and one for whom I have a particular respect; I was extreme sorry to see you wou’d force me against my Nature. Well Signior, I’ll go and acquaint Signior Alberto, that you will please to do him the obligation to meet him at six to morrow morning upon the Mole, with your sword in your hand, like a gallant person. So Signior Spittzaferro I kiss your hands; Your most humble Servant. — [Exit.

Spit. Eh! What a sort of Ceremony, what kind of Complements are these? What an obliging, disobliging person was this? — Euh, Mattedetto.
M, — Page 359.
The scenes between Alcantor, Alcidas, and Sganarelle (Scenes 14, 15, and 16), in Molière’s Forced Marriage are thus rendered in An Hour before Marriage (Act ii. Scene 1); Sganarelle is there called Stanley, and Alcantor and Alcidas, in one person, Sir Andrew Melville. But in the French play Sganarelle is cudgelled into marriage, in the English play he is only threatened to fight a duel.

Sir Andrew. Mr Stanley, your most obedient — I am much pleas’d at finding you here — It is the mark of impatience that is flattering to my sister.

Stanley. [Aside] Unfortunate! — Sir Andrew — I — I —

Sir A. Indeed to do the girl justice, your impatience to conclude matters is but natural — She is a young lady of —

Stan. Of infinite merit, most certainly — But, my dear Sir —

Sir A. I guess what you would say — You would tell me that the lawyer has put the finishing hand to the writings — I know it — I see them there.

Stan. I beg your pardon, Sir, it’s another thing.

Sir A. Say no more, I am beforehand with you there too. You want, since everything is in readiness, to have a nearer day fix’d for the ceremony.

Stan. [Aside] Very cruel this — Dear Sir, if you will indulge me but while I speak two or three words —

Sir A. Twenty! twenty.

Stan. Lady Melville, your mother, and yourself, Sir Andrew, have both done me great honour in accepting of my proposals for your sister.

Sir A. Pass that, Mr Stanley; your happiness, you said, depended upon it, and we wou’d not cross you — You have your hearts content now, and I give you much joy of it.

Stan. You know, Sir, I — am not a — very young man, and — I fear Miss Melville may — not think that circumstance — altogether a — pleasing one; Sir A. Pardon me, Sir, from the first your age was no objection — It is written to be sure in very legible characters in your face; but for that very reason, as it never was any secret to my sister, so it can be no source of complaint now.

Stan. I have a peevishness — an — an oddity in my temper, that I fear would be - - insupportable to a wife. It might — create an aversion in her, which —

Sir A. Not at all. She has too much complaisance, and too strict notions of propriety to —

Stan. Then, Sir, my health — I find it but so, so. I am greatly apprehensive, her affection may cool when she sees her time taken up in nurse-tending a sickly man.

Sir A. Oh, her sense of duty will turn all such pain into pleasure.

Stan. Will nothing, nothing do? [Aside] Well, Sir, shall I speak sincerely to you? I would not have you bestow your sister on me.

Sir A. Do you jest, Sir? — You don’t know Sir Andrew Melville, Sir, when once my word is past, I had rather die than not stand to it.

Stan. But my dear Sir, I waive it — I waive it freely — I release you from all obligation of that sort.

Sir A. Sir, I am bound by my honour — my sacred honour. Her mother has consented to your offer, I have pass’d my word also; and here I confirm my promise that you shall marry my sister, in spite of any who may claim pretensions to her hand — Were there a score of suitors, and each one of the number a duke, still you should have her — Give me your hand, Mr Stanley — I am a man of my word, I say you shall have her.

Stan. This man sticks like bird-lime [Aside] — Sir, I am sorry you force me to it; but since I cannot make you understand me otherwise I must tell you in so many words that I have chang’d my mind, and am now determined not to marry.

Sir A. You have chang’d your mind, and are now determined not to marry?

Stan. Just so — Something has happen’d, which puts it out of my power to alter my condition at present. I hope you are not offended Sir, at this change in my sentiments?

Sir A. Offended! — by no means, Sir — you are perfectly free to act as you please; I should be loth to put the least constraint on you. [Exit.

Stan. Hum! — very reasonable indeed! an exceeding mild, civil, considerate gentleman — I protest I did not think I should get so easily out of this dilemma — I am a fortunate man — what an escape have I had! — Well, now I have got out of this danger, if ever I think again of wedlock, may the ceremony be my requiem, and the marriage-bed my grave. [Re-enter Sir Andrew Melville] Eh! what’s the meaning of this? return’d! He has not chang’d his mind, I hope — I must speak him as fair as I can — Sir Andrew, I assure you I am most sincerely sorry to have been under a necessity of declining the very high honour I had proposed to myself.

Sir A. Oh, sir, there’s no harm, no harm in the world.

Stan. It gives me vast concern, upon my honour.

Sir A. You need make no apology, sir; — you have a right to act just as you please.

Stan. I am happy to find, sir, that you see the thing in so rational a light — and I wish you a very good morning, sir. [Offering to go.

Sir A. One moment, good sir — Will you give yourself the trouble to chuse one of these two swords. — [Offering two swords to Stanley.

Stan. I to chuse one of those two swords?

Sir A. Yes, sir — Pray be so kind as to see which you like best — Take whichever you please, sir.

Stan. [Retreating towards the door] Sir, I — I — don’t understand what you mean — I — I wish you a good morning. — [Offers to go.

Sir A. [Keeping between Stanley and the door] Sir, I beg ten thousand pardons, I see you are going to the door to bolt it that we mayn’t be broken in upon — I’ll save you the trouble, sir. [Bolts and stands before the door] Now, sir —— [Offers Stanley the swords.

Stan. Sir, what is it you mean?

Sir A. My dear sir, no more than this — It is your pleasure to refuse my sister’s hand, after you have asked it, and its having been promis’d to you. — Now, upon the strength of that refusal, sir, I must beg of you to do me the favour to permit me to have the felicity of cutting a throat with you.

Stan. Sir, I — I — desire no such felicity — I — have no throat to cut Sir A. There are people, sir, who would make a noise about such a matter as this, and affront you — But it’s not in my way; — I love peace and quietness.

Stan. Peace and quietness! —

Sir A. I do, sir, you see it — I beg you will give yourself the trouble to chuse whichever hits your fancy most.

Stan. I don’t fancy either — I desire to be excused.

Sir A. Come, come, Mr Stanley — Do what you ought to do; don’t suffer yourself to be press’d any longer. Act as becomes a man of honour — Come, chuse — please yourself. — [Offering the swords.

Stan. I have no inclination to please myself in that way, sir.

Sir A. Excuse me, sir — It’s possible I may understand you. Perhaps you have alter’d your mind, and mean to accept the honour of my sister’s hand.

Stan. You mistake, sir, I do not — I — I — wish you a good morning.
[Endeavouring to get round to the door.

Sir A. Oh, I ask your pardon — You chuse this method of deciding the matter — Here, then, sir —— [Offers Stanley the swords again.

Stan. Hold, sir! — hold! — I do resolve; — I do resolve — I’ll marry the lady, sir — I’ll marry the lady.

Sir A. I am extremely happy to find, sir, that at length you consider the matter in so rational a light — I love peace and quietness; and besides, I protest to you, Mr Stanley, I have so much esteem for you, that it would have given me great pain to have been under the necessity of killing you.

Stan. Sir — you — you are vastly kind; — and — I — am very much obliged to you.

Sir A. Oh fye, sir, — no obligation at all — Well then, I’ll step in to my mother and sister, and let them know that you are come to put the finishing hand to this affair.
N, — Page 359.
In The Irish Widow (Act ii., Scene I) Garrick imitates the sixteenth scene of Molière’s Forced Marriage, but it is Widow Brady herself in disguise who fights old Whittle, whilst in the French play it is Dorimène’s brother Alcidas who compels Sganarelle to marry.
WHITTLE; Enter WIDOW as Lieutenant (J Neale, seemingly flutter’d, and putting up his sword, THOMAS following.

Wid. Where is your master?

Tho. There, Captain, I hope he has not offended you.

Wid. If you are impertinent, sir, you will offend me. Leave the room.

Tho. I value my life too much not to do that — What a raw-bon’d tartar! I wish he had not been caught and sent here.
[Aside to his master, and Exit.

Whit. Her brother, by all that’s terrible! and as like her as two tygers! I sweat at the sight of him. I’m sorry Thomas is gone — He has been quarrelling already.

Wid. Is your name Whittol?

Whit. My name is Whittle, not Whittol.

Wid. We shan’t stand for trifles — and you were bora and christen’d by the name of Thomas? —

Whit. So they told me, sir.

Wid. Then they told no lies, faith; so far, so good. [Takes out a letter] Do you know that hand-writing?

Whit. As well as I know this good friend of mine, who helps me upon such occasions. — [Showing his right hand and smiling.

Wid. You had better not show your teeth, sir, ‘till we come to the jokes — the hand-writing is yours?

Whit. Yes, sir, it is mine. — [Sighs.

Wid. Death and powder! What do you sigh for? are you asham’d or sorry for your handy-works?

Whit. Partly one, partly t’ other.

Wid. Will you be plas’d, sir, to read it aloud, that you may know it again when you hare it.

Whit. [Takes his letter and reads] Madam —— [Reads.

Wid. Would you be plas’d to let us know what Madam you mean? for women of quality, and women of no quality, and women of all qualities, are so mixt together, that you don’t know one from t’ other, and are all called Madams. You should always read the subscription before you open the letter.

Whit. I beg your pardon, sir. I don’t like this ceremony. [Aside] To Mrs Brady in Pall-Mall.

Wid. Now prosade — Fire and powder, but I would —

Whit. Sir, what’s the matter?

Wid. Nothing at all, sir; pray go on.

Whit. [Reads] Madam — as I prefer your happiness to the indulgence of my own passions —

Wid. I will not prefer your happiness to the indulgence of my passions — Mr Whittol, rade on.

Whit. I must confess that I am unworthy of your charms and virtues —

Wid. Very unworthy indeed. Rade on, sir.

Whit. I have for some days had a severe struggle between my justice and my passion —

Wid. I have had no struggle at all: My justice and passion are agreed.

Whit. The former has prevaild: and I beg leave to resign you, with all your accomplishments, to some more deserving, though not more admiring servant, than your most miserable and devoted THOMAS WHITTLE.

Wid. And miserable and devoted you shall be — To the postscript; rade on.

Whit. Postscript: Let me have your pity, but not your anger.

Wid. In answer to this love epistle, you pitiful fellow, my sister presents you with her tinderest wishes; and assures you, that you have, as you desire, her pity, and she generally throws her contempt, too, into the bargain.

Whit. I’m infinitely obligé to her.

Wid. I must beg lave, in the name of all our family, to present the same to you.

Whit. I am ditto to all the family.

Wid. But as a brache of promise to any of our family was never suffer’d without a brache into somebody’s body, I have fix’d upon myself to be your operator; and I believe that you will find that I have as fine a hand at this work, and will give you as little pain, as any in the three kingdoms. — [Sits down and loosens her knee-bands.

Whit. For Heaven’s sake, captain, what are you about?

Wid. I always loosen my garters for the advantage of lunging: it is for your sake as well as my own; for I will be twice through your body before you shall feel me once.

Whit. What a bloody fellow it is! I wish Thomas would come in.

Wid. Come, sir, prepare yourself; you are not the first by half a score that I have run through and through the heart, before they knew what was the matter with them.

Whit. But, captain, suppose I will marry your sister.

Wid. I have not the laste objection, if you recover of your wounds. Callogon O’Connor lives very happy with my great aunt, Mrs Deborah O’Neale, in the county of Galloway; except a small asthma he got by my running him through the lungs at the Currough: He would have forsaken her, if I had not stopp’d his perfidy, by a famous family stiptic I have here. Oho! my little old boy, but you shall get it. [Draws.

Whit. What shall I do? — Well, sir, if I must, I must: I’ll meet you to-morrow morning in Hyde-Park, let the consequence be what it will Wid. For fear you might forget that favour, I must beg to be indulged with a little pushing now. I have set my heart upon it; and two birds in hand is worth one in the bushes, Mr Whittol — Come, sir.

Whit. But I have not settled my matters.

Wid. O we’ll settle ’em in a trice, I warrant you.
[Puts herself in a position.

Whit. But I don’t understand the sword; I had rather fight with pistols.

Wid. I am very happy it is in my power to oblige you. There, sir, take your choice; I will plase you if I can. — [Offers pistols.

Whit. Out of the pan into the fire! there’s no putting him off: If I had chosen poison, I dare swear he had arsenic in his pocket. Look ‘ee, young gentleman, I am an old man, and you’ll get no credit by killing me; but I have a Nephew as young as yourself, and you’ll get more honour in facing him.

Wid. Ay, and more pleasure too — I expect ample satisfaction from him, after I have done your business. Prepare, sir.

Whit. What the devil! won’t one serve your turn? I can’t fight; and I wont fight; I’ll do any thing rather than fight. I’ll marry your sister. My Nephew shall marry her: I’ll give him all my fortune. What would the fellow have? Here Nephew! Thomas! murder! murder! — [He flies, and she pursues.

The Princess of Elid

La Princesse d’Élide

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

FIRST INTERLUDE.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SECOND INTERLUDE.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

THIRD INTERLUDE.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

FOURTH INTERLUDE.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

FIFTH INTERLUDE.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE THE LAST.

SIXTH INTERLUDE.

APPENDIX.

Representation of ‘La Princesse d’Élide’ at Versailles, 1664

The original frontispiece, 1682

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

IN THE MONTH of May 1664, Louis XIV. entertained the Queen-mother, Anne of Austria, and his own wife, Maria Theresa, with a brilliant and sumptuous fête at Versailles. It began on the 7th, and lasted a whole week. The duke de Saint-Aignan was commissioned to superintend the arrangements; and the plan he adopted was suggested by the materials which he discovered in the 6th and 7th cantos of Ariosto’s epic poem, Orlando Furioso, which describe the sojourn of Rogero in the isle and palace of the enchantress Alcina. The king was Rogero, whilst the princes and courtiers personified the other characters mentioned in the poem. “We shall give a description of this fête farther on.

In this fête, the second day was distinguished by the representation of The Princess of Elis; and subsequent days saw the production of The Bores, The Forced Marriage, and the first three acts of Tartuffe. For their services on this occasion, Molière’s troupe received the sum of 4,000 livres.

The Princess of Elis, a comedy-ballet, was intended to represent the struggle between the affections of the male and female sex, — a struggle in which victory often remains with the one who seems the farthest from obtaining it. Shakespeare has also attempted to sketch this strife in Much ado about Nothing, in As You like it, and in A Midsummer Nights Dream.

Molière composed this comedy-ballet at the special request of the king; and it was conceived in a romantic vein suitable to the character of the fête. The author’s natural flow of wit and humour was checked by the necessity of accommodating himself to the conventionalities of courtly propriety; and it must be admitted that Molière mingled a good deal of water with his wine, in order to please the fastidious palates of the courtiers. He borrowed his subject from Moreto’s Spanish comedy, El Desden con el Desden (Scorn for Scorn). The idea is pretty, and there is abundant room for the development of plot and passion; but the genius of the adapter was cramped, and The Princess of Elis is certainly not one of his happiest efforts. He has narrowed, rather than improved upon, the treatment of Moreto; he has blunted the edge of the Spaniard’s keenness, and, taking the situations almost too punctiliously, has rendered them bare and barren. He transports the scene to Elis; and the Count of Urgel, the Prince of Bearn, the Count of Foix, are disguised under the Princes of Ithaca, Pylos, and Messena. He was hurried in his work; and, almost as if himself craving for relief from an unwelcome mood, he created and sustained the character of the fool Moron, a coward who gives good advice, and is, on the whole, not unlike Butler’s Hudibras.

The piece was again produced in July of the same year at Fontainebleau, before the Pope’s Legate; and in November and December, it had a run of twenty-five days at the theatre of the Palais-Royal. It undoubtedly hit the mark with some amongst Molière’s contemporaries whose tastes were similar to those of the court. As an ephemeral production, therefore, designed for a temporary purpose, it may betheld to have been successful.

James Miller wrote a play called The Universal Passion, acted at the Theatre, Drury Lane, on the 28th of February 1737, which consists of Shakespeare’s Much ado about Nothing, and Molière’s Princess of Elis. He acknowledges his obligations to Shakespeare, but does not say anything about the French dramatist. In the dedication of The Universal Passion to Frederick Frankland, Esq., it is stated, that “the strict Regard I have had to Decency and good manners... is the principal Merit... the “World is at present happily inclin’d to support what is produced with that Intention.” The Prologue, spoken by Mr Cibber, harps on the same string, and ends thus:

“Howe’er, this Merit he at least can claim,

That sacred Decency’s his constant Aim;

There’s nought but what an Anchoret might hear,

No Sentence that can wound the chastest Ear...

To your Protection Shakespear’s Offspring take,

And save the Orphan for the Father’s Sake.”

Miller’s borrowings from Molière are given in the Appendix.

George Hyde wrote Love’s Victory; or, the School for Pride, a comedy in five acts, founded on the Spanish of Moreto, and performed at Covent-Garden, November 16, 1825. As Molière borrowed from the same source, there is a great similarity in the plot of both plays, but Hyde has chiefly followed the arrangement of a German author, West, and can therefore hardly be said to have imitated Molière.

As we have already mentioned, Molière’s play formed part of the court entertainment, and was published in Les Plaisirs de VLsle Enchantée; Course de Bague, Collation ornée de Machines, Comédie de Molière de la Princesse d’Elide, meslée de Danse et de Musique, Ballet du Palais d Alcine, Feu d’Artifice: Et autres Festes gelantes et magnifiques, faites par le Roy à Versailles, le 7 May 1664. Et continuées plusieurs autres Jours. Paris, Robert Ballard, 1665. Although the description of The Pleasures of the Enchanted Island was not written by Molière, who wrote only the comedy, it is inserted in the first collected edition of our author s works; and we give it here as a specimen of the complimentary style of the official catalogue of entertainments of Louis XIV. I am indebted for the completeness and accuracy of nearly all the notes which illustrate Les Plaisirs de L’Isle Enchantée, to M. Paul Lacroix, the Bibliothécaire de l’Arsenal, well known as the Bibliophile Jacob, who kindly communicated to me the genealogy and short history of the noble ladies and gentlemen who took a part in the festivities at Versailles. These fêtes, given nominally in honour of the two Queens, but in reality to please the quean, Mademoiselle de la Vallière, “whom the king delighteth to honour,” lasted seven days; the description opens thus: —

“The King, wishing to give to the Queen and the whole Court the pleasure of some uncommon entertainments, in a spot adorned with all the beauties to be admired in a Country Seat, chose for that purpose Versailles, four leagues from Paris. It is a seat which may justly be called an Enchanted Palace, so much have the embellishments of Art seconded the care which Nature has taken to render it perfect. It is every way charming; everything pleases both within and without: gold and marble vie there in beauty and splendour; and although it is not so extensive as some of her Majesty’s other Palaces, yet all things there are so polished, so well contrived, and so perfect, that nothing can equal them. Its symmetry, the richness of its furniture, the beauty of its walks, and the infinite number of its flowers, as well as of its orange-trees, render the neighbourhood of that place worthy of its singular rarity. The different animals within the two parks and the menagerie, wherein are several courts, in the figure of stars, with ponds for the water-fowl, together with great structures, add pleasure to magnificence, and create a palace in which nothing can be found to criticise.”

First Day of the Pleasures of the Enchanted Island.

It was in this beautiful place that on the fifth of May all the Court met, and that the King treated above six hundred persons till the fourteenth, not reckoning a great number of persons necessary in the dancing and in the play, besides all kinds of workmen who came from Paris; so that they looked like a small army.

The very heavens appeared to favour his Majesty’s designs, since, in a season in which it almost always rains, there was only a slight wind, which seemed to rise solely in order to show that the King’s foresight and power were proof against the greatest inconveniences. High cloths, wooden buildings, run up almost in an instant, and a prodigious number of torches of white wax, to supply daily the place of above four thousand wax candles, resisted the wind, which everywhere else would have rendered these diversions almost impracticable.

Monsieur de Vigarani, a gentleman, from Modena, very skilful in all such things, invented and proposed these. The King commanded the duke de Saint-Aignan, who was then first Gentleman of the Chamber, and who had ere this arranged several very agreeable balls, to plan something which might contain, connect, and group them all, so that they could not fail to please.

He took for his subject the Palace of Aleina, which gave the name to The Pleasures of the Enchanted Island, because, according to Ariosto, the brave Rogero, and several other good knights, were detained there by the spell of beauty (though it was artificial,) and by the incantations of that enchantress, and were delivered, after a long time spent in pleasures, by a ring, which destroyed the enchantment. It was the ring of Angelica, which Melissa, under the disguise of old Atlantes, at length placed upon Rogero’s finger.

In a few days there was fitted up a round, where four great alleys met between high palisades, with four porticos thirty-five feet high and twenty-two feet square, and several festoons enriched with gold and divers paintings, with his Majesty’s arms.

All the court having taken their places on the seventh; there entered, at six o’clock in the evening, a herald at arms, represented by M. des Bardins, dressed after the antique manner, in flame-colour, embroidered with silver, and very well mounted.

He was followed by three pages. The King’s (M. d’Artagnan) preceded the two others, very richly dressed in flame-colour, his Majesty’s livery, bearing his lance and shield, whereon sparkled a sun of precious stones, with these words: Nee cesso, nee erro (I neither stay, nor stray), alluding to his Majesty’s application to the affairs of state and his manuer of governing; which was likewise represented by these four verses of the President de Périgny, author of the said device.

Not without reason Heaven and earth behold

So rare an object with the utmost wonder,

Who in his no less hard than glorious course,

Does never take repose, nor ever strays.

The two other pages belonged to the dukes de Saint-Aignan and de Noailles, the former marshal of the camp, the latter judge of the course. The duke de Saint-Aignan’s page bore the shield of his device, and was dressed in his livery of silver cloth, enriched with gold, with flesh-coloured and black plumes, and ribands of the same. His device was the bell of a clock, with these words: De mis golpes mi ruido (From my strokes (proceeds) my noise).

The duke de Noailles’ page was dressed in flame-colour, silver and black, and the rest of the livery in harmony. The device on his shield was an eagle, with these words: Fidelis et audaæ (Faithful and bold).

Four trumpeters and two kettle-drummers followed these pages, dressed in flame-colour and silver, with plumes of the same, and the caparisons of their horses embroidered ill the same colours, with very brilliant suns upon the bandrols of their trumpets and the coverings of the kettle-drums.

The duke de Saint-Aignan, marshal of the camp, came after them, wearing, in the Greek fashion, a cuirass of silver-cloth, covered with little scales of gold, as was also the lower part of his cloak; his helmet was adorned with a dragon and a great number of white feathers, mixed with flesh-coloured and black ones. He rode a white horse, caparisoned in the same fashion, and represented Guido, the savage.

Madrigal for the duke de Saint-Aignan, representing Guido, the savage.

Those combats I fought in the dang’rous isle,
When I so many warriors overcame,
Followed by battles of an am’rous kind,
Showed what my strength as well as heart could do.
My well-known force in lawful frays displayed,
Or in forbidden fields exerted,
Proclaim it, for my glory, at both poles;
None, during war, deals more or better strokes.

For the same.

Singly against ten warriors and ten maids,
I am engaged in two peculiar contests.
If I with honour leave this twofold field,
Methinks I’m then a most terrific warrior.

Eight trumpeters and eight kettle-drummers, dressed like the first, walked behind the marshal of the camp.
The King, representing Rogero, followed them upon one of the finest horses in the world, of which the flame-coloured trappings shone with gold, silver, and precious stones. His Majesty was armed in the Greek fashion, as were all those of his troop, and wore a cuirass of silver plates, covered with a rich embroidery of gold and diamonds. His carriage and whole action were worthy of his rank; his helmet, entirely covered with flame-coloured plumes, looked incomparably beautiful; never did a more free or warlike air raise a mortal so much above other men.

Sonnet for the King, representing Rogero.

What shape, what carriage this bold conqu’ror has,
His person dazzles each beholder’s eye;
And though by his high post he is distinguished,
Yet something greater sparkles in his mien,
Clearly his brow his future fate foretells —

His virtue outshines all his ancestors!
They are forgotten. If he continues so,
He’ll leave them far, yea very far, behind.
His generous heart delights t’ employ its time,
To act for others, and not for himself,
In this his power is chiefly occupied.
All ancient heroes pale compared to him,
Honour’s his sole aim; he only draws
The sword for other int’rests than his own.

The duke de Noailles, judge of the lists, by the name of Ogier the Dane, marched after the King, wearing flame-colour and black underneath a rich embroidery of silver; his plumes, as well as the rest of his equipage, were of the same livery.

For the duke de Noailles, judge of the lists, representing Ogier the Dane.

The only business of this paladine
Is well to serve the greatest king on earth,
As he who judges well, must act as well,
Methinks none from his sentence will appeal.

The duke de Guise and the count d’Armagnac went after him. The former, under the name of Aquilant the black, wore a black dress embroidered with gold and jet; his horse and his lance being matched in the same colours. The count, representing Gryphon the white, wore on a dress of silver cloth several rubies, and rode on a white horse caparisoned in the same colour.

For the duke de Guise, representing Aquilant the black.
Night has its beauties, and so has the day;
Black is my colour, and I always loved it.
But if obscurity does suit my love,
‘T has not extended to my well-known fame.

For the count ÆArmagnac, representing Gryphon the white.
Behold what candour Heaven has placed in me;
Thus no fair-maid by me shall be deceived;
When it is time to attack the enemy
My sword will keep my colour stainless white.

The dukes de Foix and de Coaslin appeared afterwards, dressed, the one in flesh-colour, with gold and silver, and the other in green, with white and silver; their livery and horses were worthy the rest of their equipage.

For the duke de Foix, representing Rinaldo
He bears a glorious name, is young and sage,
To speak the truth he lief mounts very high;
What great good fortune, at so young an age
To have such fire as well as so much calmness.

For the duke de Coaslin, representing Dudo.
None can too far in glory’s course engage,
Though seven kings I were to conquer bravely,
And see them subject to Rogero’s power,
Yet e’en this exploit would not content me.

After them marched the Count de Lude and the Prince de Marsillac, the former dressed in flesh-colour and white, and the other in yellow, white, and black, enriched with silver embroidery, their livery of the same, and very well mounted.

For the count de Lude, representing Astolpho.
Of all the paladines this world contains,
No knight more prone to love was ever seen.
Always in fresh adventures he’ll engage,
And ever smitten by some youthful fay.

For the prince de Marsillac, representing Brandimart.
My vows will be content, my wishes crowned,
My fortune at its utmost height arriv’d,
When, lovely Flordelice, my zeal you’ll know
Indelibly within my heart imprest.

The marquises de Villequier and de Soyecourt followed. One wore blue and silver, the other blue, white, and black, with gold and silver; their plumes and the harness of their horses were of the same colour, and equally rich.

For the marquis de Villequier, representing Richardetto
No one, like me, with gallantry could quit
An intrigue where, no doubt, some skill was greatly needed,
No one deceiv’d his fair so pleasantly, methinks,
“While all the time remaining faithful to her.

For the marquis de Soyecourt, representing Oliviero.
Behold the honour of the age, compared to whom
E’en giants and ourselves are ordinary men;
This valiant knight, prepared for all that come,
Has aye his lance quite ready for the tilts.

The marquises d’Humières and de la Vallière followed them. The first wore flesh-colour and silver, and the other gridelin, white, and silver; their whole livery being the richest and best matched in the world.

For the marquis d’Humières, representing Ariodantes.
Fevered by love, I tremble in my fit,
And without boast elsewhere I ne’er did tremble;
Handsome Ginevra is the only fair
Young charmer to whose laws I bow.
For the marquis de la Vallikre, representing Zerbino.

Whate’er grand feelings glory may inspire
When we are wholly all-absorbed in love;
To die in the arms of her whom we admire,
Methinks is of all deaths the one most pleasant.

Monsieur the Duke went alone, having for his livery flame-colour, white, and silver; a great number of diamonds were fastened to the magnificent embroidery with which his cuirass and the lower part of his cloak were covered; his helmet, and the harness of his horse being likewise adorned with them.

For Monsieur the Duke representing Orlando,
Fame will in distant lands Orlando’s name make known,
Glory shall ne’er depart from him;
Descended from a race that e’er desires
To show its valour when war is proclaim’d.
In him, to speak unvarnished truth,
Flows the pure blood of Charlemagne.

A car, eighteen feet high, twenty-four long, and fifteen wide, appeared afterwards shining with gold and divers colours. It represented the chariot of Apollo, in whose honour the Pythian games were formerly celebrated, which those knights intended to imitate in their lists and dresses. The god, radiant with light, was seated on the top of the car, having at his feet the four ages, distinguished by rich habits, and by what they bore in their hands.

The golden Age, adorned with that precious metal, was also decked with different flowers, one of the principal ornaments of that happy age. The silver and brass Ages had also their distinguishing marks. The iron Age was represented by a warrior of terrible aspect, holding his sword in one hand, and his buckler in the other.

Several other large figures in relief adorned the sides of the magnificent chariot. The celestial monsters, the serpent Python, Daphne, Hyacinth, and the other figures which are suitable to Apollo, with an Atlas bearing the globe, were also elegantly carved upon it. Time, represented by M. Millet, with his scythe, his wings, and that decrepitude in which he is always depicted, was the coachman. The car was drawn by four horses, of uncommon size and beauty, abreast, covered with large housings, ornamented with gold-worked suns.

The twelve hours of the day, and the twelve signs of the Zodiac, splendidly dressed, as the poets described them, walked in two files on both sides of the chariot. All the knights’ pages followed it in pairs, after the duke’s, very neatly dressed in their liveries, with a great many plumes, bearing their master’s lances, and the shields with their devices.

The duke de Guise, representing Aquilant the black, having for his device a lion sleeping, with these words: Et quiescente pavescunt (They fear me even when asleep).

The count d’Armagnac, representing Gryphon the white, having for his device an ermine, with these words: Ex candore decus (My beauty proceeds from my whiteness).

The duke de Foix, representing Rinaldo, having for his device a ship on the sea, with these words: Longe levis aura feret (A slight breeze will carry it far).

The duke de Coaslin, representing Dudo, having for his device a sun and a sun-flower, with these words: Splendor ab obsequio (Its splendour arises from its obedience).

The count de Lude, representing Astolphus, having for his device a cypher in the form of a knot, with these words: Non fia mai sciolto (It shall never be broken).

The prince de Marsillac, representing Brandimart, having for his device a watch in relief, of which all the springs were visible, with these words: Ghieto fuor, commoto dentro (Calm without, agitated within).

The marquis de Villequier, representing Bichardetto, having for his device an eagle soaring before the sun, with these words: Uni militât astro (He fights for a single star).

The marquis de Soyecourt, representing Oliviero, having for his device Hercules’ club, with these words: Vix œquat fama labores (His fame is scarce equal to his labours).

The marquis d’Humières, representing Ariodantes, having for his device all sorts of crowns, with these words: No quiero menos (Less will not content me).

The marquis de la Vallière, representing Zerbino, having for his device a phoenix on a pile set on fire by the sun, with these words: Hoc jurat uri (It is pleasant to be so burnt)

The Duke, representing Orlando, having for his device a dart, wreathed with laurel, with these words: Certo ferit (It strikes surely).

Twenty shepherds, carrying different pieces of the barrier to be set up for the tilting, formed the last troop that entered the lists. They were dressed in short jackets of flame-colour, adorned with silver, and caps of the same.

As soon as these troops entered the camp, they went round it, and, after having paid their obeisance to the queens, they separated, and each took his post. The pages who were in front, the trumpeters and kettle-drummers crossed, and stationed themselves at the wings. The King, advancing towards the middle, placed himself opposite to the high canopy; the Duke near his Majesty; the dukes de Saint-Aignan and de Noailles on the right and left; the ten knights in a line on both sides of the chariot: their pages in the same order behind them: the Hours and the signs of the Zodiack as they entered.

When they had thus stopped, a profound silence, which arose from attention and respect, gave Mademoiselle Debrie, who represented the Age of Brass, an opportunity to recite these verses, in praise of the Queen, addressed to Apollo, represented by M. de la Grange.

THE BRASS AGE (to Apollo).

Thou dazzling father of the day, whose power
Does by its various aspects give us birth;
Hope of the earth, and ornament of Heaven,
Thou fairest and most necessary god;
Thou, whose activity and sovereign bounty,
In every place makes itself seen and felt,
Say by what destiny, or what new choice,
Thy games are solemnized on Gallia’s shores.

APOLLO.

If all th’ address, the glory, valour, merit,
Which made Greece shine, are found on these blest shores,
Then justly hither are those games transferred,
Which, to my honour, earth has consecrated.
I ever did delight to pour on France
The balmy influence of my gentle rays;
But the bright dame whom Hymen there enthrones
Makes me for her disdain all other realms.
Since for the wide creation’s good so long
I’ve made the boundless tour of seas and earth,
I ne’er saw ought so worthy of my fires,
Such noble blood, so generous a heart,
Never such lustre with such innocence,
Never such youth with so much sound discretion;
Never such grandeur with such condescension,
Never such wisdom joined to so much beauty.
The thousand various climates which are ruled
By all those demi-gods from whom she springs,
Led by their own devoir and her high merit,
United, will one day confess her power.
“Whatever grandeur France or Spain might boast,
The rights of Charles the Fifth, and Charlemagne,
Auspiciously transmitted in her blood,
Will to her throne subject the universe:

But a yet greater title, nobler lot,
Which lifts her higher, and which charms her more,
A name which in itself all names outweighs,
Is that of consort to the mighty Louis.

SILVER AGE.

By what unjust decree has fate produced
A star so kindly in the age of iron?

GOLDEN AGE.

Ah! Do not murmur at the gods appointment!
This age which has the hate of Heav’n deserv’d,
Instead of growing proud with that rare blessing,
Ought thence to augurate its approaching ruin,
And think a virtue which it can’t corrupt,
Comes rather to destroy than to ennoble it.
As soon as she appeared on this blest earth,
She chased away the furious raging war;
From that same day labour unwearied hands
To render happy all humanity.
See by what hidden springs a Hero strives
To banish from a barbarous age its horrors,
And kindly to assist my resurrection,
With all those joys which innocence desires.

IRON AGE.

I know what enemies have planned my ruin,
Their plots are known, their stratagems are traced;
But yet my courage is not so far sunk

APOLLO.

Should all hell’s monsters join in thy defence,
Feeble and vain would their resistance prove
Against such grandeur and against such virtue:
Long with thy galling yoke the world opprest
Shall by thy flight a happier lot enjoy.
’Tis time that thou give way to the high law
Which an august and mighty Queen imposes.
It’ is time to yield to the illustrious labours
Of a great King, favoured by Heaven and Earth;
But here too long this quarrel made me stay;
These lists invite to much more gentle combats,
Let us ope them just now, and laurels wreathe
To bind the brows of our most famous warriors.

After all these verses were spoken, the running at the ring began; wherein, after they had admired the King’s skill and gracefulness in that exercise, as in all others, and after several fine courses of all these knights, the duke de Guise, the marquises de Sovecourt and de la Vallière remained the last. The last bore off the prize, which was a golden sword enriched with diamonds, with very valuable buckles for the belt, which the Queen-mother gave, and wherewith she honoured him with her own hand.

They began their running in such good time, that just when it was finished, darkness came on; when a great number of lights illuminated this beautiful place, and thirty-four musicians, who were to precede the Seasons, entered very well dressed, and performed the most pleasant music in the world.

Whilst the Seasons were taking up the delicious viands they had to carry for the magnificent entertainment of their Majesties, the twelve signs of the Zodiac and the four Seasons danced in the ring one of the finest entrées ever seen.

Spring, represented by Mademoiselle Dupare, afterwards appeared on a Spanish horse. She showed the skill of a man, as well as womanly attractions. Her dress was green with silver embroidery, adorned with flowers.

M. Dupare, who represented Summer, followed upon an elephant covered with rich housings.

Next came M. de la Thorillière, representing Autumn, as splendidly dressed, and mounted on a camel.

Winter, represented by M. Béjart, followed on a bear.

Forty-eight persons followed them, carrying on their heads large basins for the lunch.

The first twelve, covered with flowers, carried, like gardeners, baskets painted green and silver, containing a great many china dishes, so full of preserves and many other delicious things of the season, that they bent beneath the agreeable load. —

Twelve others, like reapers, clothed in garments which suited their profession, but very rich, carried basins of that incarnadine colour which may be observed at sun-rise, and followed Summer. —

Twelve others, dressed like vine-dressers, were covered with vine-leaves, and bunches of grapes, and bore in baskets of filemot colour, full of little basins of the same, various other fruits and preserves. These followed Autumn.

The last twelve were old men, nearly frozen to death, whose furs and gait showed how they felt the inclemency of the weather, as well as their weakness, bearing, in basins covered with ice and snow so well imitated that they might have been taken for the very things they were intended to represent, that which was to contribute to the collation. These followed Winter.

Fourteen musicians preceded the two divinities Pan and Diana, with an agreeable harmony of flutes and bagpipes.

Pan and Diana then appeared upon a very ingenious carriage, shaped like a little mountain or rock, shaded by several trees, and so wonderfully constructed, that the machinery which held it in the air, and put it in motion, could not be perceived.

Twenty other persons followed, carrying viands, the produce of Pan’s menagerie and of Diana’s chase.

Eighteen pages of the King, very richly clad, who were to wait upon the ladies at table, came last. The whole troop then placed themselves in order. Pan, Diana, and the Seasons presented themselves before the Queen, whilst Spring first, and the others afterwards, addressed her in the following words:

SPRING (to the Queen).

Of all the new-blown flowers that deck my gardens,
Scorning the jessamines, the pinks and roses,
These lilies I have chosen to pay my tribute,
Which in your earliest years you so much cherished.
Louis has made them shine from east to west,
Whilst the charmed world at once respects and fears them.
But still their reign’s more soft and powerful too,
When, brilliant like, they beam on your complexion.

SUMMER.

Seized with too hasty a surprise, I bring
A slender ornament to grace this feast;
Yet know, before my season’s passed away,
Your warriors in the fields of Thrace,
Shall reap an ample crop of laurels.

AUTUMN.

The Spring, proud of the beauty of those flowers
Which to his lot have fortunately fallen,
Thinks to have all th’ advantage of this feast,
And quite obscure us by his lively colours.
But you, you matchless Princess, well remember
What precious fruit my season has produced,
Which in your house does one day mean to prove
The darling and the blessing of mankind.

WINTER.

The snow and icicles I hither bring,
Are viands far from being rare or precious;
But they’re most necessary in a feast,
Where with their killing eyes, a thousand objects,
Replete with charms, so many flames create.

DIANA (to the Queen).

Our woods, our rocks, our mountains, all our hunters,
And my companions who have to me always
Paid sovereign honours, since they have beheld
Your presence here, will know me now no more;
And laden with their presents, come with me
To bring this tribute to you, as a mark Of their allegiance. —
The swift inhabitants of those blessed groves,
Make it their choice to fall into your nets,
And only wish to perish by your hands.
Love, whose address and countenance you wear,
Alone with you this wondrous secret shares.

PAN.

Be not surprised, young deity, that we
In this famed festival approach to offer
The choice of what our pastures can bestow.
For if our flocks their herbage taste in peace,
’Tis to your charms that happiness we owe.

After these verses had been spoken, a great table was seen, shaped like a half moon, concave on the side on which they were to serve, and adorned with flowers on the convex side.

Thirty-six violin-players, very well dressed, were behind on a little stage, whilst Messieurs de la Marche and Parfait, father, brother, and son, controllers-general, by the names of Plenty, Joy, Cleanliness, and Good-cheer, caused the aforesaid table to be covered by Pleasures, Sports, Smiles, and Delights.

Their Majesties sat down in the following order, which prevented all the confusion that might have arisen about precedence:

The Queen-mother was seated in the middle of the table, and had at her right hand — The King, Mademoiselle d’Alençon, Madame la Princesse Mademoiselle d’Elbeuf? Madame de Béthune? Madame la duchesse de Créquis Monsieur, Madame la duchesse de Saint-Aignanf Madame la maréchale du Plessis, Madame la maréchale d’Etampes?

Madame de Oourdon, Madame de Montespan, Madame d? Humieres, Mademoiselle de Brancas, Madame d?Armagnac, Madame la comtesse de Boissons, Madame la princesse de Bade Mademoiselle de Grancey On the other side were seated the Queen? Madame de Carignan, with plumes of different colours, and their tilting dresses, leaned on the barriers; and the great number of officers, richly clad, who waited at table, enhanced its beauty, and rendered that ring an enchanted place; whence, after the collation, their Majesties and all the court went out by a portico opposite the lists, and in a great number of very comfortable carriages, took their way to the castle.

The Second Day of the Pleasures of the Enchanted Island.

On the evening of the second day, their Majesties went to another ring, surrounded by palisades like the former, and in the same line still projecting towards the lake, where the palace of Alcina was supposed to be built.

The plan of this second feast was that Rogero and the knights of his troop, after having performed wonders in the lists, which by order of the fair magician had been held in honour of the Queen, should continue in the same manner the following diversion; and that, the floating island not having left the French shore, they might afford her Majesty the pleasure of a comedy, of which the scene was laid in Elis.

The King then caused, with surprising expedition, the whole ring to be covered with cloths, shaped like a dome, to protect against the wind the great number of flambeaux and wax lights which were to light up the theatre, of which the decorations were very pleasing. They then represented The Princess of Elis, as well as six interludes. Whilst the shepherds and shepherdesses were singing and dancing at the end of the sixth interlude, there rose, from underneath the stage, a great tree, on which were sixteen fauns, eight of whom played on the flute, and the others on the violin, with the most agreeable harmony. Thirty violins answered them from the orchestra, as well as six harpsichords and theorbos.

Four shepherds and shepherdesses came and danced a very fine entrée, in which the fauns, who had come down from the tree, mingled from time to time. This whole scene was so grand, so busy, and so agreeable, that no more beautiful ballet was ever seen.

Thus the amusements of this day, which all the court praised no less than those of the preceding, ended most advantageously, every one going away well satisfied, and having great expectations of the sequel of so complete a festival.

The Third Day of the Pleasures of the Enchanted Island.

The more they advanced towards the great round water, representing the lake, on which formerly the palace of Alcina was built, the nearer they came to the end of the amusements of the Enchanted Island, as if it had not been fit that so many valiant knights should remain any longer in an idleness which would have wronged their glory.

Therefore, always following the first plan, it was pretended that, Heaven having resolved to set free these warriors, Alcina had some forebodings of it, which filled her with terror and uneasiness. She resolved to do all she could to prevent such a misfortune, and to fortify, by all possible means, a place which might secure her entire repose and joy.

Within this round lake, of which the size and shape were extras ordinary, was a rock situated in the middle of an island, filled with different animals, as if they would forbid the entry of it.

Two other islands, longer, but not so wide, were on both sides of the first, and all three, as well as the banks of the lake, were so well lit up that there seemed to arise a new day amidst the darkness of the night.

As soon as their Majesties had arrived and taken their places, one of the two islands which were by the sides of the first was wholly filled with violin-players, very well dressed. The opposite island was at the same time filled with trumpeters and kettle-drummers, whose dresses were no less rich.

But what was more surprising was to see Alcina (Mademoiselle Duparc) issue from behind a rock, borne by a sea monster of prodigious size. Two of her nymphs, called Celia (Mademoiselle Du Brie) and Dirce (Mademoiselle Molière), followed her; and, placing themselves on each side upon large whales, approached the bank of the lake; while Alcina began to recite the following verses, which her companions answered, and which were in praise of the Queen, mother of the King.

ALCINA, CELIA, DIRCE.

Alcina. You who both share my happy lot,
Come, weep with me in this extremity.

Celia. Why such alarms so unexpectedly?
What draws such floods of tears from those bright eyes?

Alcina. I can’t even think to speak on’t without trembling
‘Midst the dark horrors of a threatening dream,
A spectre with a hideous voice declared
That hell no longer aids me with its force,
That a celestial power arrests its aid,
And that this day for me shall be the last.
All the malignant influence of the stars,
Which adverse reigned ascendant at my birth,
And all misfortunes which my art had promised,
This dream foreshadowed in such lively colours,
That ceaseless to my waking eyes it offers
Melissa’s power and Bradamant’s good fortune.
These evils I foresaw, but the dear pleasures,
Which here seemed even to forestal our wishes;
Our lofty palaces, our fields, our gardens,
The pleasing converse of our dear companions,
Our songs and sports, the concerts of the birds,
The zephyr’s fragrant breath, the murmuring waters,
The sweet adventures of our tender loves,
Made me forget those fatal auguries;
When that dire dream, which still distracts my senses,
With so much fury brought ’em to my mind.
Methinks I see my troops each moment routed,
My guards all slaughtered, and my prisons forced,
A thousand lovers by my art transformed,
Who bent on my destruction full of rage,
Quit, all at once, their trunks, and leafy dwellings
To take a righteous vengeance upon me;
And last methinks I see my dear Rogero
Ready to shake off my despised chains.

Celia. Fear in your breast has gained the upper hand.
You reign sole here; for you alone they sigh;
Nought interrupts the course of your contentment,
But plaintive accents of your mournful lovers.
Logistilla’s troops driven from our fields
Still quake with fear, hidden in their far mountains;
And even Melissa’s name, unheard of here
Is only by your aug’ries known to us.

Dirce. Ah! let us not deceive ourselves, this phantom
Held, this last night, the same discourse with me.

Alcina. Alas! who then can doubt of our misfortunes?

Celia. I see a sure and easy remedy;
A queen appears, whose most auspicious aid
Will guard us from the efforts of Melissa.
The goodness of this queen is highly praised.
’Tis said her heart, whose constancy despised
The insolence of the rebellious waves,
Is ever open to her subjects’ vows.

Alcina. ’Tis true, I see her.
In this pressing danger
Let us endeavour to engage her succour.
Let’s tell her that the public voice proclaims
The charming beauties of her royal soul.
Say, that her virtue, higher than her rank,
Adorns the lustre of her noble blood;
And that our sex’s glory she has borne
So far, that times to come will scarce believe it.

That her great heart, fond of the public good,
Gives her a generous contempt of dangers;
Proof against ought that may befall herself,
She apprehends for nothing but the state.
Say that her benefits profusely poured,
Gain her the love and rev’rence of mankind,
That even the shadow of an ill that threats her
Is cause enough to put the world in mourning.
Say that at the acme of an absolute power,
Her grandeur without pride or pomp appears;
That in most dangerous times her constant prudence
Has fearless the prerogative supported;
And in the happy calm gained by her labours
Restores it to her son without regret.
Say, with what great respect, with what complaisance,
That glorious son rewards her for her cares.
Let’s laud the just laws, and the life-long labours
Of that same son, the greatest of all monarchs;
And how that mother, fortunately fruitful,
Giving but twice, gave so much to the world.
In fine, the more to move her to compassion,
Let’s use the eloquence of sighs and tears,
Then we amidst our greatest pangs may find
A peaceful refuge at her royal feet.

Dirce. I know her heart, magnificently generous,
Does kindly listen to the voice of misery;
But yet she ne’er exerted all her power,
Unless to shield the innocent from wrong;
I know she all things can, but dare not think
She’ll stoop so low as to defend our cause.
She may have been informed of our soft errors,
And nothing is more clashing with her conduct;
Her well-known zeal for piety will render
Our interests odious to her spotless virtue;
And far from growing less at her approach
My fear redoubling chills my troubled spirits.

Alcma. Oh! my own fear’s sufficient to afflict me.
Do not augment my grief, but try to soothe it,
To furnish my dejected soul, with means
Of warding off the ills that threaten it.
Meanwhile let all the palace guards be doubled,
And if there be no sanctuary for us,
Let us in our despair our comfort seek,
Nor yield ourselves at least without resistance.

When they had finished, and Alcina had gone out to double the guards of the palace, a concert of violins was heard, during which the front of the palace opened with wonderful art, and towers rose to view, whilst four giants of great size appeared with four dwarfs, who, by the contrast of their little stature, made that of the giants seem still more excessive. To these giants was committed the guard of the palace, and by them began the first entrée.

BALLET OF THE PALACE OF ALCINA.

The first entrée was composed of four giants and four dwarfs; the second, of eight Moors, to whom the guard of the interior was entrusted by Alcina, and who carefully visited it, each having two flambeaux.

Third entrée. Meanwhile some lover’s quarrel prompted six of the knights whom Alcina kept near her to attempt to get out of the palace; but fortune not seconding the endeavours they made, in their despair they were overcome, after a sharp combat, by as many monsters which attack them.

Fourth entrée. Alcina, alarmed by this accident, invokes anew all her spirits, and demands their aid; two of them present themselves before her, leaping with wonderful force and agility.

Fifth entrée. Other demons came and seemed to reassure the enchantress that they shall not forget anything that may contribute to her repose.

Sixth and last entrée. But hardly had she begun to reassure herself, when she saw the wise Melissa appear under the form of Atlant, near Rogero and some knights of his train. She immediately hastened to hinder her from executing her intention; but she came too late; Melissa had already placed on the finger of that brave knight the famous ring which destroys enchantments. Then thunderclaps, followed by several flashes of lightning, portended the destruction of the palace, which was immediately reduced to ashes by fireworks, which put an end to this adventure, and to the amusements of the Enchanted Island.

It looked as if Heaven, Earth, and Water were all in a flame, and as if the destruction of the splendid palace of Alcina, as well as the liberation of the knights she there kept in prison, could be effected only amidst prodigies and miracles. The height and number of rockets, — those which fell on the shore, and those which came out of the water after having fallen into it, — formed a spectacle so grand and magnificent, that nothing could better terminate the enchantments, than these fine fireworks; which, ending at last after an extraordinary length and noise, redoubled the loud reports which had begun it.

Then all the court withdrew, and confessed that nothing could be more perfect than these three feasts. It is sufficient acknowledgment of this perfection, to say that, as each of the three days had its partisans, as every one of them had its particular beauties, none could agree which ought to bear away the bell; although they all agreed that they might justly dispute it with all those that ever had been seen till then, and perhaps surpass them.

The Fourth Day of the Pleasures of the Enchanted Island.

But although the feasts properly belonging to the Pleasures of the Enchanted Island were ended, yet all the diversions of Versailles were not so. The magnificence and gallantry of the King had reserved some for other days, which were no less agreeable.

On Saturday, the 10th, his Majesty had a mind to run at heads, — an exercise of which few people are ignorant, which has come to us from Germany, and is well adapted for shewing a cavalier’s skill, as well in managing his horse in times of war, as in rightly using a lance, a dart, and a sword. If there are any who never saw them run at, being not so common as the ring, and brought hither only of late, they may here find a description of it; while those who have had the pleasure of seeing them, may bear with so short a narrative.

The knights enter the lists one after another with lance in hand, and a dart under the right thigh; and after one of them has run and borne off a head of thick paste-board painted, and like a Turk’s, he gives his lance to a page, and, turning the horse partly round, he returns at full gallop to the second head, which is like a Moor’s and as black, bears it off with the dart, with which he strikes it as he passes; then taking a javelin a little different in form from a dart, in a third turn he plants it in a buckler, whereon is painted a Medusa’s head; and ending his demi-volt, he draws his sword, wherewith, as he gallops past, he bears off a head raised half a foot from the ground; then giving way to another, he who in his running bears off most, gains the prize.

All the courtiers having arranged themselves behind a balustrade of iron gilt, which went quite round the agreeable house of Versailles, and which looks into the trench, where the lists and the barriers were, the King repaired thither, followed by the same knights that ran at the ring. The dukes de Saint-Aignan and de Noailles continued in their former offices, one of marshal of the camp, and the other of judge of the course. Of these, many were run very handsomely and successfully; but the King’s skill gained him not only the prize of the ladies’ course, but likewise that which was given by the queen. It was a rose of diamonds of great value, which the King won, but freely gave to be run for by the other knights, and for which the marquis de Coaslin contended with the marquis de Soyecourt, and gained.

The Fifth Day of the Pleasures of the Enchanted Island.

On Sunday, at the King’s Levee, almost all the conversation turned on the fine running of the preceding day, and occasioned a grand challenge between the duke de Saint-Aignan, who had not yet run, and the marquis de Soyecourt. The running was deferred till the next day, because the marshal duke de Grammont, who bet for the marquis, was obliged to go to Paris, whence he was not to return till that time.

On that afternoon, the King took all the court to his aviary, which excited great admiration, both by its particular beauties, and by the almost incredible number of birds of all sorts, amongst which were many of great rarity. It would be useless to mention the collation which followed this diversion, since, for eight successive days, every repast might be esteemed one of the greatest feasts that could be made.

In the evening, his Majesty caused to be represented, on one of those double theatres of his Salon, which his boundless ingenuity had invented, the very clever comedy of The Bores, (SeeVol. II., page 83,) written by the sieur de Molière, with entrées de ballet.

The Sixth Day of the Pleasures of the Enchanted Island.

The rumour of the challenge which was to be run on Monday the twelfth, caused an infinite number of bets of great value to be laid; although that of the two knights was but a hundred pistoles. And as the duke, by a happy boldness, gave one head to that dexterous marquis, several betted on the latter, who, coming somewhat late to the King, found a challenge to hasten him. This challenge being only in prose, we have not inserted here.

The duke de Saint-Aignan had likewise shown to some of his friends, as an happy omen of his victory, these three verses:

TO THE LADIES.

If, O ye fair, your sentiments agree

With mine, you shall confess this day, that he

Who conquers Soyecourt conquers ten besides —

 still alluding to his name of Guido the savage whom the adventure of the dangerous island made conqueror over ten knights. As soon as the King had dined, he conducted the queens, the duke and duchess of Orleans, and all the ladies, to a place where a lottery was to be drawn, that nothing might he wanting to the gallantry of these entertainments. The prizes were precious stones, furniture, plate and similar things; and though chance decided these presents, yet it certainly fell in with his Majesty’s desire, when it gave the great prize to the Queen. Every one left that place very well pleased, to go to see the running which was about to begin.

At length Guido and Oliviero appeared in the lists, at five o’clock in the evening, very handsomely dressed and well mounted.

The King and all the court honoured them with their presence, and his Majesty himself read the conditions of the running, that there might be no difference between them. The duke de Saint-Aignan was fortunate, for he gained the day.

At night, his Majesty caused to be performed the first three acts of a comedy called Tartuffe (see Vol. IV.), which the sieur de Molière had made against the hypocrites. But although the King thought it very diverting, he found so much conformity between those whom a true devotion leads in the way to Heaven, and those whom a vain ostentation of good works does not hinder from committing evil ones, that his extreme delicacy in point of religion could hardly bear that resemblance of vice and virtue which might be mistaken for one another. And although he did not doubt the good intentions of the author, he forbade its being acted in public, and deprived himself of that pleasure, so as not to deceive others, who were less capable of a just discernment.

The, Seventh Day of the Pleasures of the Enchanted Island.

On Tuesday the 13th, the King was pleased again to run at heads, as a common sport, wherein he who hit most was to win. His Majesty gained anew the prize of the course of the ladies, the duke de Saint-Aignan that of the sport; and having had the honour to enter the next time into competition with his Majesty, the incomparable skill of the King gained him that prize also. It was not without unavoidable astonishment, that the King was seen to gain four, whilst running twice at the heads. On the same night was played the comedy of The forced Marriage (see Vol. II., page 325), which was likewise the work of the same Molière. The king then took his way to Fontainebleau on Wednesday the 14th. All the court was so satisfied with what they had seen, that every one was of opinion that it ought to be put in writing, to give some idea of it to those who did not see such varied and agreeable entertainments, wherein were at once to be admired the project and the success, the liberality with the politeness, the multitude with order, and the satisfaction of all; wherein the indefatigable pains of Monsieur Colbert were employed through all these diversions, notwithstanding his important affairs; wherein the duke de Saint-Aignan acted, as well as invented the design; wherein the fine verses of the president de Périgny in praise of the queens were so justly conceived, so agreeably turned, and repeated with so much art; wherein those which M. de Benserade made for the knights were generally approved; wherein the great care of M. Bontemps, and the application of M. de Launay, let nothing that was necessary be wanting; wherein every one so advantageously testified his design of pleasing the King, at a time when his Majesty himself thought of nothing but pleasing; and wherein, in a word, all that was seen will for ever continue in the memory of the spectators, even if care had not been taken to preserve in writing the remembrance of all these wonders.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

PERSONAGES IN THE COMEDY.

IPHITAS, father to the Princess of Elis.

EURYALUS, Prince of Ithaca.

ARISTOMENES, Prince of Messena.

THEOCLES, Prince of Pylos.

ARBATES, governor to the Prince of Ithaca.

LYCAS, attendant on Iphitas.

MORON, the Princess’s fool.

THE PRINCESS OF ELIS.

AGLANTA, cousin to the Princess.

CYNTHIA, cousin to the Princess.

PHILLIS, attendant on the Princess.

Fourth Interlude.

PHILLIS.

TIRCIS, a singing shepherd.

MORON.

Fifth Interlude.

THE PRINCESS.

PHILLIS.

CLIMENE.

Sixth Interlude.

SHEPHERDS and SHEPHERDESSES, singing.

SHEPHERDS and SHEPHERDESSES, dancing.

First Interlude.

AURORA.

LYCISCAS, a huntsman THREE HUNTSMEN, singing.

WHIPPERS-IN, dancing.

Second Interlude.

MORON.

HUNTSMEN, dancing.

Third Interlude.

PHILLIS.

MORON.

A SATYR, singing.

SATYRS, dancing.

FIRST INTERLUDE.

SCENE I.

AURORA.

When Love presents a charming choice Respond to his flame, oh youthful fair!
Do not affect a pride which no one can subdue, Though you’ve been told such pride becomes you well. When one is of a lovely age Naught is so handsome as to love.
Breathe freely sighs for him who faithful loves And challenge those who wish to blame your ways.
A tender heart is lovely; but a cruel maid Will never be a title to esteem.
When one is fair and beautiful Naught is so handsome as to love.

SCENE II.

WHIPPERS-IN and MUSICIANS.

Whilst Aurora was singing these verses, four whippers-in were asleep on the grass, one of whom, called Lyciscas, represented by M. de Molière, an excellent actor, who had invented the verses and the whole comedy, was lying between two, whilst the third was at his feet. The other huntsmen were Messrs. Estival, Don, and Blondel, musicians of the king, who had admirable voices, and who awoke, at Aurora’s call, and, as soon as she had finished, sang in recitativo.
Hullo! hullo! get up, get up, get up! Everything must be prepared for the hunting match. Hullo! get up; get up quickly.

1 Whip. Day to the darkest spots imparts its light.

2 Whip. The air distils its pearls on flowers.

3 Whip. The nightingales begin their warbling notes, and with their little concerts thrill the air.

All three. Come, come, get up! quick, get up! [To Lyciscas asleep] What is the matter, Lyciscas? What! you are snoring still! you, who promised to outstrip Aurora? Come, get up; get up, quick! Everything must be prepared for the hunting match. Get up quickly, get up! Make haste, get up!

Lyciscas. [Waking] Zounds, you are terrible brawlers! You open your throats early in the morning.

Musicians. Do you not see the light beams everywhere? Come, get up Lyciscas, get up.

Lyc. Oh! let me sleep yet a little while, I entreat you.

Mus. No, no, get up, Lyciscas, get up.

Lyc. I only ask about a quarter of an hour.

Mus. Not at all, not at all; get up, quick, get up.

Lyc. Alas! I pray you.

Mus. Get up.

Lyc. A moment.

Mus. Get up.

Lyc. I beseech you.

Mus. Get up.

Lyc. Oh!

Mus. Get up.

Lyc. I Mus. Get up.

Lyc. I shall have done immediately.

Mus. No, no, get up, Lyciscas, get up. Everything has to be prepared for the hunting match. Quickly, get up; make haste, get up.

Lyc. Well, be quiet; I shall rise. You are strange people to torment me thus. You will be the cause of my being unwell all day; for, do you see, sleep is necessary to man, and when one does not sleep one’s fill, it happens... that. one is not... — [He falls asleep again.

3 Mus. Lyciscas!

All. Lyciscas!

Lyc. To the deuce with these brawlers! I wish your throats were stopped with scalding porridge.

All. Get up, get up; make haste; get up, quick, get up.

Lyc. Oh! how wearisome not to sleep one’s fill!

1 Mus. Soho, ho!

2 Mus. Soho, ho!

3 Mus. Soho, ho!

All. Soho, ho!.

Lyc. Ho! ho! ho! ho! Plague take the fellows with their howlings. May the devil take me if I do not give you a good drubbing for this. But what deuced enthusiasm possesses them to come and caterwaul in my ears at this rate?

All. Get up!

Lyc. Again?

All. Get up!

Lyc. The devil take you!

All. Get up.

Lyc. [Getting up] What! again! Was there ever such a passion for singing. Zounds! I shall go mad! Since I am disturbed, I will not let the others sleep. I shall torment them as they have done me. Come, soho! gentlemen, get up, get up, quick; you have been sleeping too long. I shall make a devil of a noise everywhere. [He shouts with all his might] Get up, get up, get up! Come quick! Soho, ho! get up, get up! Everything must be prepared for the hunt; get up, get up! Lyciscas, get up! Soho! ho! ho! ho!
Lyciscas having at length risen with the greatest difficulty, and having shouted as loud as he could, several horns and hunting-horns are blown, which, together with the violins, begin an entrée-tune, to which six whippers-in dance with great precision and order, whilst winding their horns at certain periods.

ACT I.

ARGUMENT.

THIS HUNT WAS prepared by the Prince of Elis, who, being of a gallant and magnificent disposition, and desirous that the Princess, his daughter, would think of marriage, to which she was very much averse, had invited to his court the Princes of Ithaca, Messena, and Pylos, thinking that whilst hunting, which she loved much, or during other sports, chariot-races, and the like displays, one of these princes might perhaps please her, and so become her husband.

SCENE I.

EURYALUS, PRINCE OF Ithaca, in love with the Princess of Elis; Arbates, his governor, who, indulgent to the prince’s passion, praises him in elegant phraseology, instead of blaming him.

EURYALUS, ARBATES.

Arb. This dreamy silence, to which you have accustomed yourself so dolefully, makes you continually seek solitude, those deep sighs which come from your heart, and that gaze so full of languor, certainly say much to one of my age. I believe, my lord, I understand the language; but, for fear of running too great a risk, I dare not be so bold as to explain it without your leave.

Eur. Explain, explain with all freedom, Arbates, these sighs, these looks, and this mournful silence. I give you leave to say that love has subjected me to its laws, and defies me in its turn. I farther admit that you make me ashamed of the weakness of a heart which suffers itself to be overcome.

Arb. What, my lord, shall I blame you for the tender emotions with which I now see you inspired? The sourness of old age cannot embitter me against the gentle transports of an amorous flame. Although my life is near its close, I maintain that love suits well such men as you; that the tribute paid to the charms of a beautiful face is a clear proof of a beautiful mind; and that it is not easy for a young prince to be great and generous without being in love. It is a quality I admire in a monarch. Tenderness of heart is a sure sign that everything may be expected from a prince of your age as soon as we perceive that his soul is capable of love. Yes, that passion, the most beautiful of all others, draws a hundred virtues in its train. It urges the heart to noble deeds, and all great heroes have felt its ardour. Your infancy, my lord, was spent under my eyes. I have seen realised the expectations formed from your virtues. I observed in you qualities which told of the blood from which you sprung; I discovered in you a fund of wit and brightness; I found you handsome, great, and noble; your courage and your abilities shone forth every day; but I was concerned because I did not perceive any traces of love. Now that the pangs of an incurable wound show that your soul is sensible to its strokes, I triumph; and my heart, full of joy, looks upon you as a finished prince.

Eur. If, for a time, I defied the power of love, alas! my dear Arbates, it takes ample vengeance for it now. If you knew the ills into which my heart is plunged, you yourself would wish that it had never loved. For this is the fate that awaits me; I love — I ardently love the Princess of Elis; you know that that pride which lurks beneath her charming aspect arms her youthful sentiments against love; and that she avoids, during this grand feast, the crowd of lovers who strive to obtain her hand. Alas! how little truth is there in the saying that the being we love charms us at first sight, and that the first glance kindles in us those flames to which Heaven at our birth destined our souls. On my return from Argos, I passed this way, and then saw the Princess. I beheld all the charms with which she is endowed, but looked on them as one would look on a fine statue. Her brilliant youth, which I observed carefully, did not inspire my soul with one secret desire; I quietly returned to the shores of Ithaca, without so much as recalling her to my mind for two years. In the meantime, the rumour spread to my court that she was known to entertain a contempt for love; it was published everywhere that her proud spirit had an unconquerable aversion to marriage, and that, with a bow in her hand, and a quiver on her shoulder, she roamed through the woods like another Diana, loved nothing but hunting, and caused all the young heroes of Greece to sigh in vain. Admire our tempers and fate! What her presence and beauty failed to do, the fame of her boldness produced in my heart. An unknown transport was born within me, which I could not master. Her disdain so bruited about had a secret charm, which made me carefully call to remembrance all her features. Looking upon her with new eyes, I formed an image of her so noble, so beautiful, — picturing to myself so much glory, and such pleasures, if I could but triumph over her coldness, that my heart, dazzled by such a victory, saw its glorious liberty fade away. It in vain resisted such a bait; the sweetness of it took such complete possession of my senses that, impelled by an invisible power, I sailed at once from Ithaca hither, concealing my ardent passion under the pretence of wishing to be present at these renowned sports, to which the illustrious Iphitas, father of the princess, has invited most of the princes of Greece.

Arb. But of what use, my lord, are the precautions you take; and why are you so anxious to keep it a secret? You love this illustrious princess, you say, and come to signalize yourself before her; yet neither looks, words, nor sighs have informed her of your ardent passion? I cannot, for my part, understand this policy, which will not allow you to open your heart; nor do I see what fruit can be expected of a love which avoids all modes of discovering itself.

EUT. And what should I gain, Arbates, by avowing my pangs, but draw down on myself the disdain of her haughty soul, and throw myself into the rank of those submissive princes, whose title of lovers causes her to look on them as enemies? You see the kings of Messena and Pylos in vain lay their hearts at her feet; the lofty splendour of their virtues, accompanied by the most assiduous respect, is useless. This repulse of their homage makes me conceal, in sad silence, the warmth of my love. I account myself condemned in seeing her behaviour towards these famous rivals, and read my own sentence in the contempt she shows to them.

Arb. And it is in this contempt and haughty humour that your love should see its brightest hope, since fortune presents to you a heart to conquer, which is defended only by mere coldness, and does not oppose to your passion the deep-rooted tenderness of some other engagement. A heart already occupied resists powerfully; but when the soul is free, it is easily overcome, and only a little patience is needed to triumph over all the pride of indifference. Conceal no longer from her the influence which her eyes have upon you; openly display your passion, and, far from trembling at the example of others, fortify yourself with the hope that you will be successful because they have been repulsed. Perhaps you may possess the secret of touching her obdurate heart, which these princes have not. And if, through her imperious and capricious pride, you should not meet with a more propitious destiny, it is at least a happiness in misfortunes of this kind to see one’s rivals rejected with oneself.

Eur. I am glad to find that you approve a declaration of my passion; by combating my reasons, you delight my soul.
I wished to see, by what I said, whether you could approve what I had done. In short, since I must take you into my confidence, there is one who is to explain my silence to the Princess, and perhaps, at the very moment I am talking to you here, the secret of my heart is revealed. This chase, to which she went, you know, this morning early, in order to avoid the crowd of her adorers, is the opportunity which Moron has chosen to declare my passion.

Arb. Moron, my lord?

Eur. My choice rather astonishes you; you misjudge him because he is a court fool; but you must know that he is less of a fool than he wishes to appear, and that, notwithstanding his present employment, he has more sense than those who laugh at him. The Princess amuses herself with his buffooneries: he has obtained her favour by a hundred jests, and can thus say, and persuade her to, what others dare not hazard. In short, I think him fit for my purpose; he says he has a great affection for me, and, having been born in my country, will assist my love against all rivals. A little money given him to sustain his zeal....

SCENE II.

MORON, REPRESENTED BY M. de Molière, arrives, and, being haunted by the remembrance of a furious wild boar, before which he had taken flight in the chase, asks for assistance. Meeting with Euryalus and Arbates, he places himself between them for greater safety, after having given proofs of his terror and cracked a hundred jokes about his want of courage.

EURYALUS, ARBATES, MORON.

Mor. [Behind the scenes] Help, help! save me from this cruel animal.

Eur. I think I hear his voice.
MOR. [Behind the scenes] Come to me! for mercy’s sake, come to me!

Eur. It is he. Where is he running in such a fright?

Mor. [Appearing without seeing anyone] How shall I avoid this frightful hoar? Ye gods! preserve me from his horrid tusks, and I promise you, if he does not catch me, four pounds of incense and two of the fattest calves. [Meeting Euryalus, whom in his fright he takes for the boar from which he is flying.] Oh! I am dead.

Eur. What ails you?

Mor. I took you for the animal, whose throat I beheld ready to swallow me; my lord, I could not recover from my fright.

Eur. What is it Mor. Oh! what a strange taste the Princess has; and, in following the chase and her extravagances, what foolishness we must put up with. What pleasure can these hunters find in being exposed to many thousand terrors? Now, if a man hunted only hares, rabbits, or young does, it would he sensible they are animals of a very gentle nature, and always run away from us. But to go and attack these unmannerly beasts, who have not the least respect for a human face, and who hunt those who come to hunt them; that is a foolish pastime that I cannot endure.

Eur. Tell us what is the matter.

Mor. [Turning round] What a whim of the Princess to take exercise under such difficulties! I could have sworn she would play this trick. As the chariot-race came on to-day, she must needs go hunt to show her open contempt for these sports, and to make it appear — But, mum, let me finish my tale, and resume the thread of my discourse. What was I saying?

Eur. You were talking of an exercise under difficulties.

Mor. Ah! yes. Well, then, fainting under this horrible labour (for I was up at break of day fitted out like a famous hunter), I slunk away from them all like a hero, and, finding a good place to take a nap in, I laid me down, and, composing myself, already began to snore comfortably, when suddenly a frightful noise made me open my eyes, and I beheld, coming out from behind an old thicket of the leafy wood, a boar of enormous size for. — .

Eur. What now?

Mor. Nothing. Do not be afraid, but let me get between you, for a reason; I may then be better able to tell you the whole thing. I was saying I beheld the boar, which, being pursued by our people, set up all his bristles with a hideous air; his glaring eyes darted only threats, his mouth with an ugly grin shewed through the foam certain tusks, for those who ventured near him... I leave you to imagine it. At this terrible sight, I seized my weapons; but the treacherous brute without the slightest fear rushed straight at me, without my speaking a word to him.

Arb. And you stood your ground?

Mor. I was not such a fool! I threw down my arms and ran like a dozen.

Arb. What! Having weapons, and yet fly from a boar! That was not a valiant action, Moron.

Mor. I confess it was not valiant, but sensible.

Arb. But if one does not immortalize oneself by some exploit. — .

Mor. I am your servant. I had rather people should say, it was here that Moron, by flying without much pressure, saved himself from the fury of a wild boar, than that they should say, here is the famous spot where the brave Moron, with heroic boldness facing the furious rush of a wild boar, lost his life by a wound from his tusk.

Eur. Very good.

Mor. Yes. Without offence to glory, I would rather live two days in the world, than a thousand years in history.

Eur. Your death would indeed grieve your friends; but if your mind has recovered from its fright, may I enquire if the passion which consumes me. — .

Mor. My lord, I will not dissemble with you. I have done nothing yet, not having had the opportunity to speak with the Princess as I desired. The office of court buffoon has its prerogatives, but we must often turn aside from our free attempts. To talk of your flame is a delicate matter; it is a state affair with the Princess. You know in what title she glories, and that her brain is full of a philosophy which wars against marriage, and treats Cupid as a minor god. I must manage the thing skilfully for fear of rousing her tiger humour. One must be careful how to speak to great folks, for they are very ticklish sometimes. Let me manage it by degrees. I am full of zeal for you. I was born your subject. Some other obligations may also contribute to the happiness I design for you. My mother was esteemed handsome in her day, and was not naturally cruel; that generous Prince, your late father, was dangerously gallant, and I have heard that Elpénor, supposed to be my father because he was my mother’s husband, related to the shepherds that he was occasionally honoured by a visit from the Prince, and that, during that time, he had the advantage of being bowed to by all the village. That is sufficient! Be that as it may, I intend by my labours. — . — . But here is the Princess and two of your rivals.

SCENE III.

THE PRINCESS OF Elis appears afterwards with the Princes of Messena and Pylos, who show that their characters are very different from that of the Prince of Ithaca, which procured for him, in the heart of the Princess, all the advantages he could desire. This amiable Princess did not show, however, that the merit of this Prince had made any impression on her mind, or that she had so much as observed him. She always professed that, like Diana, she only loved the chase and the forests; and when the Prince of Messena wished to mention the service he had rendered her by rescuing her from a huge boar which had attacked her, she told him that, without diminishing in aught her gratitude, she considered his assistance so much the less considerable, as she, unaided, had killed many as furious, and might perhaps have overcome that one.

THE PRINCESS, AGLANTA, CYNTHIA, ARISTOMENES,

THEOCLES, EURYALUS, PHILLIS, ARBATES, MORON.

Aris. Do you upbraid us, madam, for saving your charms from this peril? For my part, I should have thought that to overcome the boar which was about to attack you so furiously was an adventure (not knowing of the hunt) for which we onght to have thanked our happy fate; but, by your coldness, I see plainly that I ought to be of another opinion, and quarrel with that fatal power of chance which made me take part in an affair that has given you offence.

Theo. For my part, madam, I esteem myself very happy in having performed this action for which my whole heart was anxious, and, notwithstanding your displeasure, cannot consent to blame fortune for such an adventure. I know that, when one is disliked everything one does displeases; but even were your anger greater than it is, it is an extreme pleasure, when one’s love is extreme, to be able to rescue from peril the object of one’s love.

Prin. And do you think, my lord, since I must speak, that there would have been anything in this danger to terrify me so greatly? That the bow and arrow, which I love so much, would have been a useless weapon in my hands? And that I, accustomed to traverse our mountains, our plains, our woods, might not dare hope to suffice for my own defence? Surely I have made but little use of my time and the assiduous labours of which I boast, if, in such an emergency, I could not have triumphed over a wretched animal. At least if, in your opinion, my sex in general is unable for such actions, allow me the glory of a higher sphere, and do me the favour, both of you, to believe that, whatever the boar of to-day may have been, I have conquered fiercer ones without your help, my lords.

Theo. But, madam. — .

Prin. Well, be it so. I see that your desire is to shew me that I owe my life to you; I grant it. Yes, without you I had lost my life. I heartily thank you for your grand assistance, and will go at once to the Prince to inform him of the kindness with which your love has inspired you for me.

SCENE IV.

EURYALUS, ARBATES, MORON.

MOR. WELL! WAS there ever seen such an untamed spirit? The well-timed death of that ugly boar vexes her. Oh! how willingly would I have rewarded anyone who would have rid me of him just now!

Arb. [To Euryalus] I see, my lord, her disdain renders you pensive; but it ought not to retard in the least the execution of your plans. Her hour must come, and perhaps it is to you that the honour of conquering her is reserved.

Mor. She must know of your passion before the race, and I.

EUR. NO, Moron, I do not wish it so any longer. Be careful to say nothing, and leave me to act; I have resolved to take quite a different course. I see plainly she is resolved to despise all who think to gain her heart by deep respect; and the deity who induces me to sigh for her has inspired me with a new way to conquer her. Yes, it is he who has caused this sudden change, and from him I await its happy conclusion.

Arb. May one know, my lord, by what means you hope...

Eur. You shall see it. Follow me and keep silence.

SECOND INTERLUDE.

ARGUMENT.

THE AGREEABLE MORON leaves the Prince to go and talk of his growing passion to the woods and the rocks, uttering everywhere the beautiful name of his shepherdess Phillis; a ridiculous echo answers him whimsically; he takes so great a pleasure in it, that, laughing in a hundred ways, he makes the echo answer as often, without seeming at all tired of it. But a hear interrupts this fine amusement, and surprises him so much by the unexpected sight, that he shows visible signs of terror, which causes him to make before the hear all the bows he can think of to mollify him. At length he is going to run up a tree; but, seeing that the bear is also going to climb, he cries out for help so loudly, that eight peasants armed with pointed sticks and spears appear, whilst another bear comes after the first. A battle then begins, which ends with the death of one of the bears, and the flight of the other.

SCENE I.

MORON, alone.

Good bye, till I see you again; as for me, I shall stay here, and have a little conversation with these trees and rocks.
Woods, meadows, fountains, flowers, that behold my pale countenance, if you do not know it, I tell you I am in love. Phillis is the charming object who has fixed my heart. I became her lover by seeing her milk a cow; her fingers, quite full of milk, and a thousand times whiter, squeezed the udder in an admirable manner. Ouf! the thought of it will drive me crazy. Ah! Phillis! Phillis! (echo, Phillis!) ah! (echo, ah!) hem! (echo, hem!) ah! {echo, ah!) oh! (echo, oh!) oh! (echo, oh!) This is a funny echo! Horn! (echo, horn!) ha! (echo, ha!) ha! {echo, ha!) hu! (echo, hu!) This is a funny echo.

SCENE II.

A BEAR, MORON.

MOT. [Seeing a bear approaching’] Oh, Master bear, I am your very humble servant. Pray, spare me; I assure you I am not worth eating; I am only skin and bone, and I see certain people yonder who would serve your turn much better. Eh! eh! eh! my lord, gently, if you please. There [he caresses the bear and trembles with fear], there, there, there. Ha, my lord, how handsome and well-made your highness is! You look quite stylish, and you have the prettiest shape in the world. Ah! what beautiful bristles! what a beautiful head! what beautiful, sparkling, and large eyes! Ah! what a pretty little nose! what a pretty little mouth! what darling little teeth! Ah! what a beautiful throat! what beautiful little paws! what wellshaped little nails [the bear gets on his hind legs]! Help! help! I am dead! Have mercy! Poor Moron! Oh! good Heavens! Oh! quick, I am lost. [The huntsmen appear and Moron climbs up a tree]. [He addresses the huntsmen]. Oh! gentlemen, take pity upon me. [The huntsmen fight with the bear]. That is right, gentlemen, kill that ugly beast for me. Assist them, kind Heaven! All right! he runs away; there he stops and falls upon them. That is right, there is one who has given him a thrust in his throat. They all surround him. — Courage — stand to it! well done, my friends! That is right! go on! again! Oh! there he is on the ground; it is all over with him; he is dead. Let us come down now and give him a hundred blows. [Moron comes down the tree]. Your servant, gentlemen, I am much obliged to you for having delivered me from this animal. Now that you have killed him, I am going to finish him, and triumph with you.
These fortunate huntsmen had no sooner gained this victory, than Moron, grown hold by the danger being remote, wishes to go and give a thousand blows to the animal, no longer able to defend himself, and does all that a braggart, not over bold, would have done on such an occasion; the huntsmen, to show their joy, dance a very fine entreé.

ACT II.

ARGUMENT.

THE PRINCE OF Ithaca and the Princess had a very gallant conversation about the chariot race which was in preparation. She had ere this told one of the princesses, her relatives, that the insensibility of the Prince of Ithaca disturbed her, and was disagreeable to her: that, although she did not wish to love anyone, it was very sad to see that he loved nothing, and that, although she had resolved not to go to see the races, she now would go, in order to endeavour to triumph over the liberty of a man who was so fond of it. It might easily be perceived that the merit of this prince produced its ordinary effect; that his fine qualities had touched her proud heart, and had begun partly to thaw that ice which had resisted until then all the ardour of love. Advised by Moron, whom he had gained over, and who knew well the heart of the Princess, the more the Prince pretended to be insensible, although he was but too much in love, the more the Princess resolved to win his affections, though she did not intend to return his love. The Princes of Messena and Pylos took their leave of her, to go to prepare for the races, and spoke of the expectation they had of being conquerors, because they desired to please her. The Prince of Ithaca, on the contrary, told her that, having never been in love with anything, he was going to try to obtain the prize for his own satisfaction. This made the Princess all the more anxious to subdue a heart, already sufficiently subdued, but which knew how to disguise its sentiments in a wonderful manner.

SCENE I.

THE PRINCESS, AGLANTA, CYNTHIA, PHILLIS.

PRIN. YES, I love to dwell in these peaceful spots. There is nothing here but what enchants the eye; and all the noble architecture of our palaces must yield the palm to these simple beauties formed by nature. These trees, these rocks, these waters, this fresh turf, have charms for me of which I never tire.

Agi. Like you, I love tranquil retreats where one avoids the bustle of the city. Such places are adorned with a thousand charming objects; and what is surprising is that, at the very gates of Elis, those gentle souls who hate a crowd may find so vast and beautiful a solitude. But, to tell you the truth, in these days of rejoicing your retreat here appears somewhat unseasonable, and puts a slight on the magnificent preparations made by each prince for the public entertainment. The grand spectacle of the chariot-race merits the honour of your notice.

Prin. What right have they to desire my presence, and what do I owe, after all, to their magnificence? They take these pains on purpose to win me, and my heart is the only prize for which they all strive. But with whatever hope they may flatter themselves, I am greatly mistaken if either of them carries it off.

Cyn. How long will this heart be provoked at the innocent designs which are formed to touch it; and regard the trouble which people give themselves as so many offences against your person? I know that in pleading the cause of love, I am exposed to your displeasure, but as I have the honour to be related to you, I oppose myself to the harshness which you show; and cannot feed by flattery your resolution of never loving. Is anything more beautiful than the innocent flame which brilliant merit kindles in the soul? What happiness would there be in life, if love were banished from among mortals? No, no, the delights which it affords are infinite, and to live without loving is, properly speaking, not to live at all.

Agl. For my part, I think that this passion is the most agreeable business of life; that, in order to live happily, it is necessary to love, and that all pleasures are insipid unless mingled with a little love.

Prin. Can you two, being what you are, talk thus? And ought you not to blush for countenancing a passion which is nothing but error, weakness, and extravagance, and of which all the disorders are so repugnant to the glory of our sex? I intend to maintain its honour until the last moment of my life, and will never trust those men who pretend to be our slaves, only to become in time our tyrants. All these tears, all these sighs, all this homage, all these respects, are but snares laid for our hearts, and which often induce them to act basely. For my part, when I behold certain examples, and the hideous meannesses to which that passion can debase persons who are under its sway, my whole heart is moved; I cannot bear that a soul which possesses ever so little pride should not feel horribly ashamed of such weaknesses.

Cyn. Ah, madam, there are certain weaknesses that are not at all shameful, and which it is beautiful to have in the highest degree of glory. I hope that one day you will change your mind; and if Heaven please, we shall shortly see your heart...

Prin. Hold. Do not finish that strange wish. I have too unconquerable a horror of such debasement; if I should ever be capable of sinking so low, I should certainly never forgive myself.

Agi. Take care, madam. Love knows how to revenge himself for the contempt shown him, and perhaps...

Prim. No, no. I defy all his darts; the great power which is attributed to him is nothing but an idle fancy, and an excuse for feeble hearts, who represent him as invincible to justify their weakness.

Cyn. But all the world recognises his power, and you see that the gods themselves are subject to his empire. We are told that Jupiter loved more than once, and that Diana herself, whom you so much affect to imitate, was not ashamed to breathe sighs of love.

Prim. Public opinions are always mixed with error. The gods are not such as the vulgar make them out to be, and it is a want of respect to attribute to them human frailties.

SCENE II.

THE PRINCESS, AGLANTA, CYNTHIA, PHILLIS, MORON.

AGL. COME HITHER, Moron; come, help us to defend love against the Princess’s opinion.

Prim. Your side is strengthened by a grand defender truly!

Mor. Upon my word, madam, I believe that after my example there is no more to he said, and that none should doubt any longer the power of love. I for a long time defied his arms, and acted like a rogue, just as any other; but at length my pride was cowed, and you have a traitress [pointing to Phillis] who has made me tamer than a lamb. After that, you ought to have no scruples to love; and, since I have submitted to him, others may do the same.

Cyn. What! Moron in love?

Mor. Yes, indeed.

Cyn. And is he beloved?

Mor. And why not? Am I not well enough made for that? I think this face is passable enough; and as to elegant manners, thank Heaven, we yield to none.

Cyn. Without doubt, it would be wrong to...

SCENE III.

THE PRINCESS, AGLANTA, CYNTHIA, MORON, PHILLIS, LYCAS.

LYC. MADAM, THE Prince, your father, is coming hither to seek you; he brings with him the Princes of Pylos, of Ithaca, and of Messena.

Prin. Heavens! what does he mean by bringing them to me? Has he resolved on my ruin, and would he force me to choose one of them?

SCENE IV.

IPHITAS, EURYALUS, ARISTOMENES, THEOCLES, THE PRINCESS, AGLANTA, CYNTHIA, PHILLIS, MORON.

PRIN. [TO IPHITAS] My lord, I beg you to give me leave to prevent, by two words, the declaration of the thoughts which you may perhaps foster. There are two truths, my lord, the one as certain as the other, of which I can assure you; the one is, that you have an absolute power over me, and that you can lay no command upon me which I would not blindly obey; the other is, that I look upon marriage as death, and that it is impossible for me to conquer this natural aversion. To give me a husband and to kill me are the same thing; but your will takes precedence, and my obedience is dearer to me than life. After this, my lord, speak; say freely what you desire.

Iph. Daughter, you are wrong to be so alarmed; and I am grieved that you can think me so bad a father as to do violence to your sentiments, and to use tyrannically the power which Heaven has given me over you. I wish, indeed, that your heart were capable of loving some one. All my desires would be satisfied if that were to happen; and I proposed to celebrate the present fêtes and sports only to assemble all the illustrious youth of Greece, that amongst them you might meet one who would please you and determine your choice. I say, I ask of Heaven no other happiness than to see you married. To obtain this favour, I have this morning again offered up sacrifice to Venus; and if I know how to interpret the language of the gods, the goddess promised me a miracle. But, be this as it may, I will act like a father who loves his daughter. If you can find one on whom to fix your inclination, your choice shall be mine, and I shall consider neither interests of state nor advantages of alliance. If your heart remains insensible, I shall not attempt to force it. But at least be polite in answer to the civilities offered to you, and do not oblige me to make excuses for your coldness. Treat these princes with the esteem which you owe them, and receive with gratitude the proofs of their zeal. Come and see this race in which their skill will appear.

Theo. [To the Princess] Every one will do his utmost to gain the prize of this chariot-race. But, to tell you the truth, I care little for the victory, since your heart is not to be contended for.

Aris. For my part, madam, you are the only prize I propose to myself everywhere. It is you whom I imagine to be the reward in these combats of skill; I aspire honourably to gain this race only to obtain a degree of glory which may raise me nearer to your heart.

Eur. As for me, madam, I do not go with any such thought. As I have all my life professed to love nothing, I take pains, but not with the same object as the other princes. I do not pretend to obtain your heart, and the honour of gaining the race is the sole advantage to which I aspire.

SCENE V.

THE PRINCESS, AGLANTA, CYNTHIA, PHILLIS, MORON.

Prin. Whence proceeds thus unexpected haughtiness? Princesses, what do you say of this young Prince? Did you observe what an air he assumed?
A gl. It is true it was somewhat haughty.

Mor. [Aside] Oh! what a fine trick he has played her!

Prin. Do you not think it would be pleasant to humble his pride, and to abase a little that hectoring heart?

Cyn. As you are accustomed to receive nothing but homage and adoration from the whole world, such a compliment as his must indeed surprise you.

Prin. I confess it has caused me some emotion; and I should much like to find a way to chastise this pride. I had no great desire to go to this race, but now I shall go on purpose, and do all I can to inspire him with love.

Cyn. Take care, madam, the enterprise is dangerous; and when one tries to inspire love, one runs a risk of receiving it.

Prin. Oh, pray apprehend nothing. Come, I shall answer for myself.

THIRD INTERLUDE.

SCENE I.

MORON, PHILLIS.

MOR. PHILLIS, STAY here.

Phil. No, let me follow the rest.

Mor. Oh! cruel creature! If Tircis had asked you, you would have stayed fast enough.

Phil. That may be. I own I love much better to be with him than with you, for he amuses me with his voice, and you deafen me with your cackle. When you sing as well as he does, I promise to listen to you.

Mor. Oh, stay a little.

Phil. I cannot.

Mor. Pray do.

Phil. No, I tell you.

Mor. [Holding Phillis] I will not let you go...

Phil. What a bother!

Mor. I only ask to he one instant with you.

Phil. Well, I shall stay, provided you promise me one thing.

Mor. What?

Phil. Not to speak at all.

Mor. Oh, Phillis.

Phil. If you do, I shall not stay.

Mor. Will you...

Phil. Let me go.

Mor. Well, stay; I shall not say a word.

Phil. Take care you do not, for at the first word I shall run.

Mor. Be it so — [Making some gestures] Ha, Phillis! Ha!...

SCENE II.

MORON, ALONE.

Mor. She runs away, and I cannot overtake her. That is the mischief. If I could but sing, I might do my business better. Most women now-a-days are caught by the ear; that is the reason why every one learns music; no one succeeds with them but with little songs and little verses that are warbled to them. I must learn to sing that I may act like others. Oh! here is the very man.

SCENE III.

A SATYR, MORON.

SAT. [SINGS] LA, la, la.

Mor. Ah, friend Satyr, you know what you promised me, ever so long ago. Pray teach me to sing.

Sat. I will; but first listen to a song I have just made.

Mor. [Aside and in a whisper] He is so used to sing that he cannot speak otherwise. [Aloud] Come, sing, I am listening to you.

Sat. [Sings] I was carrying...

Mor. A song, do you say?

Sat. I was...

Mor. A song to be sung?

Sat. I was...

Mor. A lovers song? Hang it!

Sat. I was carrying in a cage two sparrows I had caught, when young Chloris, in a dark grove, showed to my astonished eyes her blooming and lovely countenance. When I beheld her gaze, so skilled in conquering, I said to the sparrows, Alas! console yourselves, poor little animals, he who caught you is much more caught than you are.
Moron was not satisfied with this song, though he thought it very pretty; he ashed for one with more passion in it, and, begging the Satyr to sing him the one he had heard him sing some days before, the Satyr thus continued: —
In your songs so sweet, sing to my fair one, oh birds, sing all my mortal pain. But if the cruel maid gets angry when she hears the true story of the pangs I endure for her sake, then, birds, be silent.
This second song having moved Moron very much, he desires the Satyr to teach him to sing it.

Mor. Ah! this is fine; teach it me.

Sat. — La, — la, — la, — la.

Mor. — La, — la, — la, — la.

Sat. — Fa, — fa, — fa. — fa.

Mor. Fa yourself.
The Satyr gets angry, and by degrees places himself in an attitude as if he was coming to fisticuffs; the violins begin to play, and several Satyrs dance an agreeable entrée,

ACT III.

ARGUMENT.

IN THE MEANTIME the Princess of Elis was very uneasy; the Prince of Ithaca had gained the prize at the races; afterwards the Princess had sung and danced in an admirable manner; and yet it did not seem that these gifts of nature and art had been even observed by the Prince of Ithaca; she complains of it to the Princess, her relative; she also speaks of it to Moron, who calls that unfeeling Prince a brute. At last, seeing him herself, she cannot refrain from making some serious allusions to it; he candidly answers that he loves nothing except his liberty, and the pleasures of solitude and the chase, in which he delights.

SCENE I.

THE PRINCESS, AGLANTA, CYNTHIA, PHILLIS.

CYN. IT IS true, madam, that this young prince showed uncommon skill, and that his bearing was surprising. He is the conqueror in this race, but I doubt much if he leaves with the same spirit with which he came; for you aimed such blows at him that it was difficult to defend himself, and, without mentioning anything else, your graceful dancing and the sweetness of your voice had charms to-day to touch the most insensible.

Prim. There he comes, conversing with Moron. We shall know what he is talking of. Let us not interrupt them, but turn this way, to meet them again by-and-bye.

SCENE II.

EURYALUS, ARBATES, MORON.

EUR. AH, MORON! I confess I was enchanted; never have so many charms together met my eyes and ears. She is, in truth, adorable at all times; but she was at that moment more so than ever. New charms enhanced her beauty. Never was her face adorned with more lively colours, nor were her eyes armed with swifter or more piercing shafts. The sweetness of her voice showed itself in the perfectly charming air which she deigned to sing; and the marvellous tones she uttered went to the very depth of my soul, and held all my senses so enraptured that they could not recover. She then showed an agility altogether divine; her lovely feet upon the enamel of the soft turf traced such delightful steps as put me quite beside myself, and hound me by irresistible bonds to the easy and accurate motion with which her whole body followed those harmonious strains. In short, never did soul feel stronger emotions than mine. More than twenty times I thought to give up my resolution, cast myself at her feet, and declare to her frankly the ardour which I felt for her.

Mor. Take my advice, my lord, and be careful how you do that. You have discovered the best method in the world, and I am greatly deceived (if it does not succeed. Women are animals of a whimsical nature; we spoil them by our tenderness; and I verily believe we should see them run after us, were it not for the respect and submission whereby men allure them.

Arb. My lord, here comes the Princess, a little in advance of her retinue.

Mor. At least, continue as you have begun. I shall go and see what she will say to me. In the meantime, walk you in these alleys without showing any desire to join her, and if you do accost her, stay as little with her as you can.

SCENE III.

THE PRINCESS, MORON.

ERIN. YOU ARE intimate, Moron, with the Prince of Ithaca?

Mor. Ah, madam! we have known one another a long time.

Prin. What is the reason that he did not walk so far as this, but turned the other way when he saw me?

Mor. He is a whimsical fellow, and only loves to converse with his own thoughts.

Prin. Were you present just now when he paid me that compliment?

Mor. Yes, madam, I was, and thought it rather impertinent, under favour of his princeship.

Prin. For my part, I confess, Moron, this avoidance of me offends me. I have a great desire to make him fall in love with me, that I may bring down his pride a little.

Mor. Upon my word, madam, you would not do ill; he deserves it: but, to tell you the truth, I have great doubts of your success.

Prin. How so?

Mor. How? Why, he is the proudest little rogue you ever saw. He thinks no one in the world is like him, and that the earth is not worthy to bear him.

Prin. But has he not yet spoken of me?

Mor. He? No.

Prin. Did he say nothing to you of my singing and dancing?

Mor. Not the least word.

Prin. This contempt is shocking. I cannot hear this strange haughtiness, which esteems nothing.

Mor. He neither esteems nor loves any one but himself.

Prin. There is nothing I would not do to humble him as he deserves.

Mor. We have no marble in our mountains harder or more insensible than he.

Prin. There he comes.

Mor. Do you see how he passes without noticing you?

Prin. Pray, Moron, go and tell him I am here, and oblige him to come and speak to me.

SCENE IV.

THE PRINCESS, EURYALUS, ARBATES, MORON.

MOR. [GOING UP to Euryalus and whispering to him] My lord, I tell you everything is going on well. The Princess wishes you to come and speak to her; but take care to continue to play your part. For fear of forgetting it, do not stay long with her.

Prin. You are very solitary, my lord; and it is an extraordinary disposition of yours to renounce our sex in this manner, and to avoid at your age that gallantry upon which your equals pride themselves.

Eur. This disposition, madam, is not so extraordinary but that we may find examples of it at no great distance; you cannot condemn the resolution I have taken of never loving anything, without also condemning your own sentiments.

Prin. There is a great difference. That which becomes well our sex does not well become yours. It is noble for a woman to be insensible, and to keep her heart free from the flames of love: but what is a virtue in her is a crime in a man; and as beauty is the portion of our sex, you cannot refrain from loving us without depriving us of the homage which is our due, and committing an offence which we ought all to resent. —

Eur. I do not see, madam, that those who will not love should take any interest in offences of this kind.

Prim. That is no reason, my lord; for although we will not love, yet we are always glad to be loved.

Eur. For my part, I am not of that mood; and as I design to love none I should be sorry to be beloved.

Prin. Why so?

Eur. Because we are under an obligation to those who love us, and I should be sorry to be ungrateful.

Prin. So that, to avoid ingratitude, you would love the one who loved you?

Eur. I, madam? Not at all. I say I should be sorry to be ungrateful; but I would sooner be so than be amorous.

Prin. Perhaps such a person might love you that your heart...

Eur. No, madam; nothing is capable of touching my heart. Liberty is the sole mistress whom I adore; and though Heaven should employ its utmost care to form a perfect beauty, in whom should be combined the most marvellous gifts both of body and mind; in short, though it should expose to my view a miracle of wit, cleverness, and beauty, and that person should love me with all the tenderness imaginable, I confess frankly to you I should not love her.

Prin. [Aside] Was ever anything seen like this?

Mor. [To the Princess] Plague take the little brute! I have a great mind to give him a slap in the face.

Prin. [Aside] This pride confounds me! I am so vexed that I am beside myself!

Mor. [In a whisper to the Prince] Courage, my lord; everything goes as well as can be.

Eur. [To Moron] Ah, Moron, I am exhausted! I have made strange efforts.

Prim. [To Euryalus] You must be very unfeeling, indeed, to talk as you do.

Eur. Heaven has not made me of another disposition. But, madam, I interrupt your walk, and my respect ought to inform me that you love solitude.

SCENE V.

THE PRINCESS, MORON.

MOR. HE IS not inferior to you, madam, in hardness of heart.

Prin. I would willingly give all I possess in the world to triumph over him.

Mor. I believe you.

Prin. Could not you serve me, Moron, in such a design?

Mor. You know well, madam, that I am wholly at your service.

Prin. Speak of me to him in your conversation. Cunningly praise my charms and my lofty birth; try to shake his resolution by encouraging him to hope; I give you leave to say all you think fit, to try to make him in love with me.

Mor. Leave it to me.

Prin. It is a thing I have set my heart on. I ardently wish he may love me.

Mor. It is true, the little rascal is well made; he has a good appearance, a good countenance, and I believe would suit very well a certain young Princess.

Prin. You may expect anything from me, if you can but find means to inflame his heart for me.

Mor. Nothing is impossible; but, madam, if he should come to love you, pray what would you do?

Prin. Oh, then I would take delight in fully triumphing over his vanity; I would punish his disdain by my coldness, and practise on him all the cruelties I could imagine.

Mor. He will never yield.

Prin. Ah! Moron, we must make him yield.

Mor. No, he will not; I know him; my labour will be in vain.

Prin. We must, however, try everything, and prove if his soul be entirely insensible. Come, I will speak to him, and follow an idea which has just come into my head.

FOURTH INTERLUDE.

SCENE I.

PHILLIS, TIRCIS.

PHIL. COME, TIRCIS, let them go, and depict to me your sufferings, in the manner you know. Your eyes have spoken to me for a long time, but I should be more glad to hear your voice.

Tir. [Sings] Alas! you listen to my sad complaints; but, O matchless fair one, I am not the better for it; I make an impression on your ears, but not on your heart.

Phil. Well, well, it is something to touch the ear; time will produce the rest. Meanwhile, sing me some new ditty that you have made for me.

SCENE II.

MORON, PHILLIS, TIRCIS.

MOR. OH! HAVE I caught you, cruel one? You slink away from the company to listen to my rival?

Phil. Yes, I slink away for that reason. I repeat it to you, I find a pleasure in his company; we hearken willingly to lovers when they complain so agreeably as he does. Why do you not sing like him? I should then take a delight in listening to you.

Mor. If I cannot sing, I can do other things; and when...

Phil. Be silent, I wish to hear him. Tircis, say what you like.

Mor. Ah! cruel one!...

Phil. Silence, I say, or I shall get angry.

Tir. [Sings] Ye tufted trees; and ye enamelled meads; that beauty winter stript you of is restored to you by spring. You resume all your charms; but, alas! my soul cannot resume the joy it has lost!

Mor. Zounds! why cannot I sing? Oh! stepmotherly nature, why did you not give me the means of singing like any other?

Phil. Really, Tircis, nothing can he more agreeable, and you bear away the hell from all your rivals.

Mor. But why can I not sing? Have I not a stomach, a throat, and a tongue, as well as any other man? Yes, yes, come on then. I too will sing, and show you that love enables one to do all things. Here is a song I made for you.

Phil. Come, sing it then; I shall listen to you for the novelty of the thing.

Mor. Pluck up your courage, Moron, there is nothing like holdness. [He sings.] Your extreme severity cruelly wounds my heart. Ah! Phillis, I am dying; deign to lend me some assistance. Will you he the stouter for it, because you have allowed me to die?... Well said, Moron.

Phil. That is very well. But, Moron, I should like very much the glory of having some lover die for me! It is an advantage I have not yet enjoyed; I find I should love with all my heart a person who would love me sufficiently to kill himself.

Mor. You would love the person that would kill himself for you?

Phil. Yes.

Mor. That is the only thing to please you?

Phil. Ay.

Mor. It is done then. I will show you that I can kill myself when I have a mind to it.

Tir. [Sings] Ah! how pleasant it is to die for the object one loves.

Mor. [To Tircis] It is a pleasure you may have when you like.

Tir. [Sings] Take courage, Moron, quickly die, like a generous lover.

Mor. [To Tircis] Pray, mind your own business, and let me kill myself as I like. Come, I will shame all lovers. [To Phillis] Behold, I am not a man who makes many compliments. Do you see this dagger? Pray, observe how I shall pierce my heart. [Laughing at Tircis] I am your servant; I am not such a fool as I look.

Phil. Come, Tircis, repeat to me, in an echo, what you have sung.”

ACT IV.

ARGUMENT.

THE PRINCESS OF Elis, hoping by a stratagem to discover the sentiments of the Prince of Ithaca, confides to him that she loves the Prince of Messena. Instead of seeming concerned at it, he gives her tit-for-tat, and tells her that he is enamoured of the Princess, her relative, and that he will demand her in marriage of the King, her father. At this unexpected news, the Princess of Elis loses all firmness, and although she tries to restrain herself before him, yet, as soon as he is gone, she so earnestly entreats her cousin not to listen favourably to this Prince, and never to marry him, that she cannot refuse. The Princess complains even to Moron, who, having freely told her that it was a sign she loved the Prince of Ithaca, is driven from her presence on account of his remark.

SCENE I.

THE PRINCESS, EURYALUS, MORON.

PRIN. PRINCE, AS hitherto we have shown a conformity of sentiment, and Heaven seems to have imbued us both with the same affection for liberty and the same aversion to love, I am glad to open my heart to you, and to entrust you with the secret of a change which will surprise you. I have always looked upon marriage as a frightful thing, and have vowed rather to abandon life than to resolve ever to lose that liberty of which I was so fond; but now, one moment has dispersed all these resolutions. The merit of a certain prince has to-day become obvious to me; my soul suddenly, as it were by a miracle, has become sensible to that passion which I have always despised. I presently found reasons to authorise this change; I may attribute it to my willingness to satisfy the eager solicitations of a father, and the wishes of a whole kingdom; but, to tell you the truth, I dread the judgment you may pass upon me, and would fain know whether or not you will condemn my design of taking a husband.

Eur. YOU may make such a choice, madam, that I should certainly approve of it.

Prin. Whom do you think, in your opinion, I intend to choose?

Eur. If I were in your heart, I could tell you; but as I am not, I do not care to answer you.

Prin. Guess, name some one.

Eur. I am too much afraid of making a mistake.

Prin. But for whom would you wish that I should declare myself?

Eur. I know well, to tell you the truth, for whom I could wish it; but, before I explain myself, I must know your thoughts.

Prin. Well, Prince, I will disclose it to you. I am sure you will approve of my choice; and, to hold you no longer in suspense, the Prince of Messena is he whose merit has made me love him.

Eur. [Aside] Oh, Heavens’

Prin. [Aside to Moron] My invention has succeeded, Moron. He is disturbed.

Mor. [TO the Princess] Good, madam. [To the Prince] Take courage, my lord. [To the Princess] He is hit hard. [To the Prince] Do not be disheartened.

Prin. [To Euryalus] Do you not think that I am in the right, and that the Prince possesses very great merit!

Mor. [Aside to the Prince] Recover yourself and answer.

Prin. How comes it, Prince, that you do not say a word, and seem thunderstruck?

Eur. I am so, indeed, and I wonder, madam, that Heaven could form two souls so alike in everything as ours; two souls in which are seen the greatest conformity of sentiment, which have shown, at the same time, a resolution to brave the power of love, and which, in the same instant, have shown an equal facility in losing the character of insensibility. For in short, madam, since your example authorises me, I shall not scruple to tell you that love, this very day, has mastered my heart, and that one of the princesses, your cousins, the amiable and beautiful Aglanta, has overthrown with a glance all my proud projects. I am overjoyed, madam, that we cannot reproach each other, as we are equally defeated. I do not doubt that, as I praise your choice greatly, you shall also approve mine. This miracle must become apparent to all the world, and we ought not to delay making ourselves both happy. For my part, madam, I solicit your influence, so that I may obtain her I desire; you will not object that I go immediately to ask her hand of the Prince, your father.

Mor. [Aside to Euryalus] Ah, worthy heart! ah, brave spirit!

SCENE II.

THE PRINCESS, MORON.

PRIN. AH, MORON! I am undone. This unexpected blow absolutely triumphs over all my firmness.

Mor. It is a surprising blow, it is true; I thought at first that your stratagem had taken effect.

Prin. Ah! this vexation is enough to drive me mad! Another has the advantage of subduing a heart which I wished to conquer.

SCENE III.

THE PRINCESS, AGLANTA, MORON.

PRIN. PRINCESS, I have one thing to beg of you, which you absolutely must grant me. The Prince of Ithaca loves you, and designs to ask your hand of the Prince, my father.

Agl. The Prince of Ithaca, madam!

Prin. Yes; he has just now told me so himself, and asked my consent to obtain your hand; but I conjure you to reject this proposal, and not lend an ear to what he may say.

Agl. But, madam, if it be true that this prince really loves me, and as you have yourself no design to gain his affections, why will you not suffer...

Prin. No, Aglanta. I desire it of you. I beg you to gratify me so far; and, as I have not the advantage of subduing his heart, let me have the pleasure of depriving him of the joy of obtaining yours.

Agl. Madam, I must obey you; but I should think the conquest of such a heart no contemptible victory.

Prin. No, no, he shall not have the pleasure of braving me entirely.

SCENE IV.

THE PRINCESS, ARISTOMENES, AGLANTA, MORON.

ARIS. MADAM, AT your feet I come to thank love for my happy fate, and to testify to you, by my transports, how grateful I am for the surprising goodness with which you deign to favour the most humble of your captives.

Prin. How?

Aris. The Prince of Ithaca, madam, just now assured me that, with regard to that celebrated choice which all Greece awaits, your heart had been, kind enough to declare itself in my favour.

Prin. He told you that he had it from my mouth?

Aris. Yes, madam.

Prin. He is thoughtless, and you are a little too credulous, prince, to believe so hastily what he told you; such news, in my opinion, should have been doubted for some time; and you could have done no more than believe it, if I myself had told it you.

Aris. Madam, if I have been too ready in persuading myself...

Prin. Pray, my lord, let us break off this conversation; and, if you will oblige me, let me enjoy a moment’s solitude.

SCENE V.

THE PRINCESS, AGLANTA, MORON.

PRIN. WITH WHAT strange severity Heaven uses me in this adventure! At least, Princess, remember the request I have made to you.

Agi. I have already told you, madam, that you shall be obeyed.

SCENE VI.

THE PRINCESS, MORON.

MUR. BUT, MADAM, if he loved you, you would not have him, and yet you will not let him be another’s. It is just like the dog in a manger.

Prin. No, I cannot bear that he should be happy with-another. If such a thing is to he, I believe I shall die with vexation.

Mor. Come, madam, confess all. You would fain have him for yourself; and in all your actions it is easily seen that you rather love this young prince.

Prin. I, I love him? Oh, Heavens! I love him? Have you the insolence to pronounce those words? Out of my sight, impudent man, and never let me see you again.

Mor. Madam..

Prin. Begone, I say, or I shall make you leave in another manner.

Mor. [Aside] Upon my word, her heart is no longer free, and... [The Princess casts a look upon him which sends him away.]

SCENE VII.

THE PRINCESS, ALONE.

What unknown emotion do I feel in my heart! What secret uneasiness suddenly disturbs the tranquillity of my soul! Is it not what I have just been told, and do I love this young prince without knowing it! Ah! if it were so, I should be in despair. But it is impossible it should be so, and I plainly perceive that I can never love him. What! I be capable of that baseness! I have seen the whole world at my feet with the utmost insensibility. Respect, homage, submission, could never touch my soul; and shall haughtiness and disdain triumph over it? I have despised all those who have loved me, and shall I love the only one who despises me! No, no, I know well I do not love him; there is no reason for it. But if this is not love which I now feel, what can it be? And whence comes this poison which runs through all my veins, and will not let me rest? Out of my heart, whatever you may be, you enemy who lurk there! Attack me openly, and appear before me as the most frightful monster of all our forests, so that with my darts and javelins I may rid myself of you.

FIFTH INTERLUDE.

SCENE I.

THE PRINCESS, ALONE.

O, you admirable ones, who by your sweet songs can calm the greatest uneasiness, draw near, I pray you, and try to soothe, with your music, the sorrow which I feel.

SCENE II.

THE PRINCESS, CLIMENE, PHILLIS.

(CLIMÈNE AND PHILLIS sing this duet.)

Clim. Tell me, dear Phillis, what think you of love? Phil. Tell me, what think you, my dear trusty friend? Clim. They say its flame is worse than vulture’s gnawing, And that great pangs are suffered when one loves. Phil. They say no fairer passion e’er existed, And that we live not, if we do not love.

Clim. Which of us two shall be victorious here?

Phil. Must we believe love to be good or ill?

Both. Let’s love, and then we’ll know What we ought to believe.

Phil. Chloris praises love and its flames everywhere. Clim. For its sake, Amarant sheds always tears.

Phil. If it fills every heart with so much pain Whence comes it that we like to yield to it?

Clim. If, Phillis, its flame is so full of charms Why forbid us its pleasures to enjoy?

Phil. Which of us two shall be victorious here?

Clim. Must we believe love to be good or ill?

Both. Let’s love, and then we’ll know What we ought to believe.

Prin. [Interrupting them here, says] Finish alone, if you like. I cannot remain at rest; and however agreeable your songs are, they do but redouble my uneasiness.

ACT V.

ARGUMENT.

THE HEART OF the Prince of Messena was agitated by various feelings; the joy which the Prince of Ithaca had caused by maliciously informing him that he was beloved by the Princess, had compelled him to go to her, with a want of consideration which nothing but extreme love could excuse; but he was received in a manner very different from what he hoped for. She asked him who had told him that news; and when she knew that it was the Prince of Ithaca, that knowledge cruelly increased her disease, and made her nearly beside herself. She replied “He is thoughtless.” This so confounded the Prince of Messena that he departed without being able to answer. On the other hand, the Princess went to the King, her father, who came with the Prince of Ithaca, and told the latter not only how delighted he should be to see him allied to him, but even the opinion he entertained that his daughter did not hate him. No sooner was the Princess in her father’s presence than, casting herself at his feet, she asked him, as the greatest favour she could ever receive, that the Prince of Ithaca might not marry the Princess Aglanta. This he solemnly promised her; but he told her that if she did not wish him to belong to another, she should take him herself. She answered “that the Prince did not desire it,” but in such a passionate manner that it was easy to see the sentiments of her heart. Then the Prince, abandoning all disguise, avowed his love for her, and the stratagem which, knowing her disposition, he had made use of, in order to attain the object he had now reached. The Princess giving him her hand, the King turned towards the two Princes of Messena and Pylos, and asked them if his two relatives, whose merit was equal to their rank, were incapable of consoling them in their disgrace. They answered that, the honour of his alliance being all they wished for, they could not expect a happier lot. This occasioned so great a joy in the Court, that it spread over the whole neighbourhood.

SCENE I.

IPHITAS, EURYALUS, AGLANTA, CYNTHIA, MORON.

MOR. [TO IPHITAS] Yes, my lord, it is no jest; I am what they call in disgrace. I was forced to pack up my traps as quickly as I could; you never saw any one more suddenly in a passion than she was.

Iph. [To Euryalus] Ah, Prince! how grateful I ought to be for your amorous stratagem, if it has found the secret of touching her heart!

Eur. Whatever, my lord, you may have been told, I dare not, for my part, yet flatter myself with that sweet hope; but if it is not too presumptuous in me to aspire to the honour of your alliance, if my person and dominions...

Iph. Prince, let us not enter upon these compliments. I find in you all that a father could desire; and if you have gained the heart of my daughter, you want nothing more.

SCENE II.

THE PRINCESS, IPHITAS, EURYALUS, AGLANTA, CYNTHIA, MORON.

PRIN. OH, HEAVEN! what do I see here?

Iph. [To Euryalus] Yes, the honour of your alliance is of the highest value to me; and without any farther difficulty I consent to your request.

Prin. [To Iphitas] My lord, I throw myself at your feet to beg a favour of you. You have always shewn great tenderness for me; I owe you much more for your kindness than for my birth. — But if ever you had any affection for me, I now ask the greatest proof of it which you can show. My lord, do not listen to that prince’s request and do not permit the princess Aglanta to marry him.

Iph. And why, daughter, would you oppose that union?

Prin. Because I hate the Prince, and will, if I can, cross his designs.

Iph. You hate him, daughter?

Prin. Yes, from my heart I confess it.

Iph. And what has he done to you?

Prin. He has despised me.

Iph. And how?

Prin. He did not consider me handsome enough to pay his addresses to me.

Iph. What offence does that give you? You will accept no one’s hand.

Prin. No matter. He ought to have loved me like the rest, and at least have left me the glory of refusing him. His love for Aglanta is an insult to me; he disgraces me when, in my presence and in the midst of your court, he has sought the hand of any other but me.

Iph. But what interest can you have in him?

Prin. My lord, I wish to revenge myself for his disdain; and as I know he is very much in love with Aglanta, with your permission I shall prevent him from being happy with her.

Iph. Then you take this to heart?

Prin. Without doubt, my lord; and if he obtains his desires, I shall die before your eyes.

Iph. Come, come, daughter, make a frank confession. This Prince’s merit has made you open your eyes; and in short, you love him, say what you will.

Prin. I, my lord?

Iph. Yes, you love him.

Prin. I love him, say you? Do you impute such baseness to me? Oh, Heavens! how great is my misfortune! Can I hear these words and live? And must I be so unhappy as to be suspected of loving him? Oh! if it were anyone but you, my lord, who spoke thus to me, I know not what I should do.

Iph. Well, well, you do not love him. You hate him, I grant; and I am resolved to content you, so that he shall not wed the Princess Aglanta.

Prin. Oh! my lord, you give me life.

Iph. But to prevent his ever being hers, you must take him for yourself.

Prin. You are joking, my lord, and that is not what he desires.

Eur. Pardon me, madam, I am rash enough to aspire so high, and I take to witness the prince, your father, if it was not your hand I asked of him. I have deceived you too long; I must throw off the mask, and, though you use it against me, discover to your eyes the real sentiments of my heart. I have never loved anyone but you, and never shall I love any other. It is you, madam, who took from me that want of feeling which I always affected; all I said to you was only a feint which I adopted, inspired by some secret motive, and which I did not follow up without doing the greatest violence to my feelings. It must soon have ceased, no doubt, and I am only astonished that it lasted for half a-day; for I was dying, my soul was burning within me, when I disguised my sentiments to you; never did a heart suffer a constraint equal to mine. If this feint, madam, has given you offence, I am ready to die to avenge you; you have only to speak, and my hand will immediately glory in executing the decree you pronounce.

Prin. No, no, Prince, I do not take it ill that you have deceived me; and would rather that all you have said to me were a feint than not the truth.

Iph. So that you accept the Prince for a husband, my daughter?

Prin. My lord, I do not yet know what I shall do. Pray give me time to think of it, and spare a little the confusion I am in.

Iph. Prince, you may guess the meaning of this; and you can now see what you may expect.

Eur. I shall wait as long as you please, madam, for this decree of my destiny; and, if it condemns me to death, I shall obey without murmuring.

Iph. Come, Moron, this is a day of peace, and I restore you to favour with the Princess.

Mor. My lord, I shall he a better courtier for the future, and shall take very good care not to say what I think.

SCENE III.

ARISTOMENES, THEOCLES, IPHITAS, the PRINCESS, AGLANTA, CYNTHIA, MORON.

Iph. [To the Princes of Messena and Pylos] I am afraid, princes, that my daughter’s choice is not in your favour; but there are two princesses who may console you for this trifling misfortune.

Aris. My lord, we have made up our minds; and, if these amiable Princesses have not too great contempt for hearts which have been repulsed, we may, through them, attain to the honour of your alliance.

SCENE THE LAST.

IPHITAS, THE PRINCESS, AGLANTA, CYNTHIA, PHILLIS, EITRYALUS, ARISTOMENES, THEOCLES, MORON.

Phil. [To Iphitas] My lord, the goddess Venus has proclaimed everywhere the change in the Princess’s heart. All the shepherds and shepherdesses testify their joy for it by dances and songs; and, if it is not a spectacle which you despise, you may see the public rejoicings extend as far as this.

THE END

SIXTH INTERLUDE.

A CHORUS OF SHEPHERDS and SHEPHERDESSES, who dance.

Four shepherds and two shepherdesses, dressed in the heroic style, and holding each other’s hands, sing this song, to which the rest answer.

Proud fair, employ in better way
The power of charming all:
Love, darling rustic maidens:
Our hearts are made to love.
However much we e’er may try
One day comes when we love.
Naught does exist but yet it yields
To the sweet charms of love.
In pristine youth, oh follow
The ardent love’s delight.
A heart only begins to live
The day it knows to love.
However much, etc., etc.

APPENDIX.

THIS SCENE FROM The Princess of Elis (Act II., Scene 1) is thus imitated by Miller in his Universal Passion. Arbates is called Lucentius, and Euryalus Bellario.

Lucentius. Come, come, my Lord, ‘t is in vain to dissemble; that deep Thoughtfulness, those downcast Looks, and those involuntary Sighs, carry a Meaning with ’em which one of my Age and Observation in Life can’t long be a Stranger to — But I transgress, perhaps, by insisting so long on this Subject.

Bellario. No, Lucentius, you can’t deal too freely with me upon it. — I must own, tho’ with blushing, that Love has at last found a way to my Heart — . Come, my good old Tutor, and chastise me for this Polly; rally me without Reserve for being guilty of such a Weakness.

Luce. NO, my Lord, even the cold Severity of Old Age can’t induce me to condemn so generous a Passion. Your Infancy was spent under my Care; I observ’d in you such excellent Talents as proclaim’d the Blood you sprung from, but at the same time was grieved to perceive no Footsteps of the tender Passion; this was the only Accomplishment wanting, and I am therefore transported at your being sensible of it.

Bel. If I have hitherto slighted the Power of Love it takes its fill of Revenge for it now. When I first arrived at Genoa, I was surpris’d at the Charms of lovely Lucilia, Daughter to the Duke here; but then I beheld ’em with no other Regard than I should have view’d those of a Painting or Statue: — Her blooming Beauties inspir’d my Soul with no secret Inclination; but what her soft, her gentle Frame could not effect, her haughty disdainful Soul too soon accomplish’d: — When I found her, like another Diana, frequenting the Forests and delighting only in the Chace, whilst all the Italian Youths were left to sigh in vain; then, then, Lucentius, Ambition begot Love in me: O the Glory and Rapture of triumphing over such Coldness! In short, by the Vanity of aiming at a Conquest over her Heart, I have irrecoverably lost my own.

Luce. But to what purpose, my Lord, do you make so great a Secret of your Passion?

Bel. What must I expect from the Discovery, Lucentius, but bringing on me the Contempt of her insolent Spirit, like the rest of her Admirers? who owning themselves Lovers makes her treat ’em as Spaniels: Their Usage is a sufficient Warning to me.

Luce. Not at all, my Lord, not at all: If there was a Favourite in the Case you might have reason to despair, but when there’s nothing but a little Female Pride in the way. — Psha, Psha, Psha! Why’t is only so much as to say, that none but a dauntless Champion shall win me. — I know the Sex — ay, ay, I know ’em. — Why, I warrant she’s half distracted that you han’t attacked her before now. — Come, come, my Lord, discover your Inclinations, and go manfully to work; don’t tremble at other Peoples want of Success, but let Courage be the Word and secure your own.

Bel. I am glad your opinion, Lucentius, agrees with my own, for, like a true Lover, I have been asking Advice when’t was too late to take it; for there’s a Person, you must know, whom I have already employed to reveal it to her: — This Hunting-Match which she has appointed to-day, in contradiction to the magnificent Sports, which are to be given by her Lovers in honour of her Birth-Day, is the Opportunity which Joculo takes to speak to her.

Luce. Who! Joculo! Joculo! my Lord!

Bel. You wonder, I see, Lucentius, at my Choice of a Confidant: You think him a Fool perhaps, but he’s far from being so; and, notwithstanding his employment of Court-Jester, he has more sense than many in a higher station who take upon ’em to laugh at him. His shrewd Wit and Talent at Raillery are agreeable to Lucilia; then he has the Liberty of saying anything by virtue of his Office, and he can often give her a serviceable Hint in a Jest, which would not be taken so well in earnest. —

Luce. O dear, dear, dear! what a strange World this is, that People of Rank should be directed in the Disposal of their Favours by their Lacqueys and Buffoons!
B, — Page 53.
Miller has imitated, in The Universal Passion (Act i., Scene 2) the following scene from The Princess of Elis (Act ii., Scenes 1, 2). The Princess is called in the English comedy Lucilia, Aglanta her cousin is Liberia, her maid Phillis, Delia, and Moron, Joculo.

Luc. How charming and agreeable is a little Solitude to us who are eternally surrounded and teaz’d with Multitudes! and what Satisfaction to converse a little with one’s own Thoughts and Desires, free from the Impertinence of Flattery and Folly! O, my dear Liberia, how I love these lonely Forests, these scenes of Freedom and Innocence! There’s nothing here but what enchants the Eye. — What are all the gilded Toys of a Palace to these simple Beauties of Nature?

Lib. Why ay, Cousin, such a Retreat as this, at the very Gate of a Court, is well enough sometimes to give one a stronger Relish for succeeding Gaities within; but in this time of general Joy it looks, me-thinks, a little unseasonable, and I am afraid’t will be taken as a direct Affront to the young Lords, who give this magnificent Entertainment on your Account.

Luc. What Right have they to expect my Presence? How am I oblig’d to ’em for their magnificence? They act in this manner for themselves, not me. My Heart is the Prize, it seems, and this is the Method they take to win it; but they may find themselves deceiv’d.

Lib. My sweet Cousin, how long will this flinty Heart of your’s be provok’d at every innocent attempt to touch it! You look upon the Addresses of your Admirers as so many criminal Plots against your Person. Where would be the Pleasure of Breathing if Love were banish’d out of the World? To live without loving is, properly speaking, not to live at all.

Dei. I am of your Cousin’s Opinion, Madam, all Pleasures are insipid unless season’d with that.

Luc. Astonishing Notions! Why’t is nothing but Error, Weakness, and Extravagance. No, I’ll maintain the Honour of my Sex against all those Sighs, Homages, and Respects, which are only Snares to overthrow it. Men only pretend to be our Slaves the present Hour, in order to be real Tyrants to us for the future.

Lib. Take care, my Dear, Cupid’s a testy little Urchin and knows how to revenge any slight cast upon him. — Come, Joculo, how come you silent so long? Won’t you help to defend Love against my Cousin’s Opinion?

Luc. Nay, then you’ll have a powerful Advocate indeed.

Joe. Troth, Madam, after my Example, I think there’ll be nothing more to be said; I defy’d him most heroically for a long time, I must own, but at length the little Trickster juggled me out o’ my Senses.

Lib. Joculo, in Love!

Joe. Yes, Joculo in Love!

Lib. And does he pretend to be belov’d again?

Joe. Yes sure, Madam, belike he does. And why not, pray? I am no such contemptible Figure, if I know my self. As for my shape I can’t find much fault in it; my Face I think too may pass in a Crowd; and as for Wit and Parts, as much a Fool as I am, thank Jupiter, we need not lower the Flag to many in the Drawing-Room.

Luc. Ha, ha, ha! And prythee who is the happy Nymph that is so highly favour’d?

Joe. A certain fair Handmaid of your Ladyship’s there; therefore after this, Madam, you ought to submit. Since I do, I think others very well may.
C, — Page 54.
This scene from The Princess of Elis (Act ii., Scene 4) is imitated by Miller in The Universal Passion (Act i., Scene 5) thus. The father of the Princess is in the French play called Iphitas, in the English one, Gratianô.

Grat. Well Daughter, won’t you yet comply with my earnest Solicitations? Will your Heart still remain insensible to the ardent Addresses of those noble Youths who study to outvie each other in their Attempts to merit it? Come, come, my dear Lucilia, a youthful generous Breast, like yours, must be capable of Love, and I must no longer be deny’ d.

Luc. My Lord, you can lay no Command upon me but what I’ll blindly obey; but at the same time I must declare I have that natural Aversion to Marriage, that to injoin me Death or a Husband will be the very same thing. But your Will goes first, and my Obedience is dearer to me than Life itself...

Grat. You are in the wrong, Daughter, to think me so cruel a Father as to do Violence to your Inclinations; but shew a Complaisance at least to the Honours which are done you by your Lovers, and give ’em your Presence at these Sports where their Skill and Bravery will be exerted. — If you should approve of either your Choice shall be mine, and I’ll consider neither Interest nor Advantage.

Bellario. You, Madam, are the Prize it seems to Day, but I aspire after no such Honour. As all my Life I have resolutely bid Defiance to Love, ‘t is with a different Aim that I engage. I make no Pretence to your Heart, Madam, the Joy of Victory is the whole of my Ambition.

Miller, in The Universal Passion (Act ii., Scene 1), has thus rendered the following scenes from The Princess of Elis (Act iii., Scenes 1 and 2). The Princess’s name is Lucilia, and Aglanta’s, Delia.

LUCILIA, DELIA.

Delia. ’Tis true, madam, the Lord Bellario shew’d the highest Bravery and Dexterity.

Lucilia. Ay, he goes off Conqueror from the Bing, but not with the same Heart, I fancy, that he came in.

Del. You le veil’d such strokes at him, Madam, as ’twas impossible he should be proof against.

Luc. I should joy to find it so; but see yonder he comes with his old Tutor and Joculo. We must know what he’s talking of; however, we’ll not interrupt ’em now, let us turn this Way, and meet them again by-and-bye. [Exeunt]
Enter BELLARIO, LUCENTIUS, and JOCULO.

Bel. My good old friend, I was quite enchanted; ’tis true she’s always lovely, but that Moment a thousand new Graces redoubl’d the Charm of her Beauty; her Eyes beam’d with irresistible Lustre; when she danc’d all Nature seem’d to smile with Approbation.... In short, everything she did, everything she said, had such Charms to-day, that I thought I should not possibly have maintain’d my Resolution, but thrown myself at her Feet and confess’d my Passion at once. — ..

Luce. And then she would have trampl’d upon you. No, keep but your Disdain up, and she’ll soon lower hers.

Joe. Did not I see to-day how she labour’d to trap you. There was a Design against you in every Inch of her; there was not a Pin about her but what was pointed full tilt at your Heart. These Women are whimsical kind of Animals, my Lord; we spoil ’em; yes, we quite spoil ’em indeed. If we were but wise enough to neglect ’em a little we should have ’em hunting us in Troops.
E, — Page 61.
The third scene of the Third Act of The Princess of Elis is thus rendered in The Universal Passion (Act ii., Scene 3), although, in the latter play, the ending of the scene is lengthier and different.
LUCILIA, JOCULO.

Luc. Are you familiar, Joculo, with Lord Bellario?

Joe. O, lack-a-day, Madam, we are old Acquaintance.

Luc. What was the Reason he did not walk on hither, but turn d another way when he saw me coming?

Joe. ’Tis a whimsical Mortal, Madam, and loves to be alone.

Luc. I must humble his Arrogance, Joculo.

Joe. Why, troth, Madam, I think you should — if you could.

Luc. If I could, Joculo!

Joe. Why, to tell you the truth, Madam, you would have a tight Task of it.

Luc. How so?

Joe. How! why ’tis the proudest Animal you ever came nigh; he thinks nobody in the World is good enough for him; I wonder he condescends to let the Earth bear him, for my part.

Luc. And does he never speak of me?

Joe. He! no not he.

Luc. Did he say nothing of my Singing and Dancing?

Joe. No, not a syllable.

Luc. Not a syllable?.... Insufferable! —

Joe. Why, he’s as hard as a Flint, Madam; there’s ne’er a Rock in our Mountains that’s so insensible as he is.

Luc. There he walks.

Joe. Ay, d’ye see now how he goes by without taking any notice of you.
F, — Page 62.
Miller has, in The Universal Passion (Act ii., Scene 5), thus rendered the scene from The Princess of Elis (Act iii., Scene 4).
BELLARIO, LUCENTIUS, LUCILIA, JOCULO.

Luce. If you must accost her, remember your Part, and for fear you should forget it, don’t stay long with her.

Luc. I was thinking, my Lord, ‘t was something very extraordinary for one of your Age and Galantry to be at war with our sex.

Bel. You, Madam, have certainly no reason to be surpris’d at it, since’t is so agreeable to your own sentiments.

Luc. What’s a Glory in our Sex, my Lord, is a Crime in yours; Homage and Love are due to our Beauty, tho’ we resolve to continue insensible to ’em.

Bel. My Opinion would be different, Madam. If I had no design of returning Love, I should not care to receive it.

Luc. Why so?

Bel. Because I would not willingly be ungrateful.

Luc. So that to avoid Ingratitude, you’d be sure to love those who had an Affection for you.

Bel. Not at all, Madam; I only say I would not willingly be ungrateful, but perhaps I should sooner be that than amorous.

Luc. What, suppose a Person of Merit and Beauty —

Bel. No, Madam, Liberty’s the only Mistress to whom I consecrate my Vows; and should lavish Nature pour out all her Charms, to form a perfect Beauty, should Wisdom’s self inspire the matchless Frame, and Fortune crown her with the noblest honours; should such a Miracle of all that’s lovely dote on me with the utmost Tenderness, it would not touch my Heart.

Joe. Deuce take him! I could give him a Slap o’ the Chops with all my Soul [Aside.]

Luce. Take courage, or you ‘re undone.
G, — Page 67.
The conversations between Moron and Phillis in the Third and Fourth Interludes of The Princess of Elis are imitated as follows in The Universal Passion (Act ii., Scene 7).
JOCULO, DELIA.

Joe. Hark ye, dear Madame Delia, a Word with you, if you please.

Del. No Impertinence, Sir....

Joe. [Catching her] Nay, pr’ythe stay, you dear hard-hearted creature; if Gremio was to desire it, you’d consent, I warrant ye.

Del. And what then, art thou a Gremio? No, he diverts and pleases me with his sweet voice; you deafen me with your impertinent clack; I hate and despise a Fool’s Wit as much as I do his ridiculous Coat. When you sing as sweetly as Gremio does, I’ll promise to stay and hear you.

Joe. Indeed, Delia, you must stay now.

Del. Well, I will stay then, provided thou wilt promise me one thing.

Joe. Ay, ay, with all my Heart — . But hold, what is it tho’?

Del. Why, that you’ll go, Booby.

Joe. Heyday, Madam Delia, that is not right for you to turn Jester, and take my Business off my Hands....

Del. Silence, Impudence, and don’t open thy booby Chops, or else I’ll leave the Place this Moment.

Joe. What! not speak?

Del. No, be sure you don’t.

Joe. Well, I won’t then, [Courting her in dumb show.]

Del. Pr’ythe don’t distort that little scurvy Carcase of thine; thou need’st not take pains to make ugly Faces, for thou hast one ready made to thy Hands. Where is this Gremio? I wish he was here to entertain one with a song.

Joe. Ay, all you fine Ladies now-a-days are to be taken by the Ear. If a Man has but a tuneable Gullet ’tis enough.’Sbobs! why can’t I sing as well as another? Han’t I a pair of Lungs? Han’t I a Throat 1 Han’t I a Tongue as well as he? And I was not born in England, was I? Yes, yes, I can sing, I’m sure I can, tho’ nobody has happen’d to find it out yet, and tho’ I don’t know it myself neither.

Del. I should be glad to hear thee, for the rarity of the thing. But hark ye, Joculo, there’s but one way you can possibly gain my Affection; I want the glory of having somebody die for Love of me; that’s a Pleasure I have never had yet, and I find I should love a Man prodigiously that lov’d me enough to hang or drown himself for me.

Joe. You’d love a Man that was to kill himself for you, would you?

Del. Yes.

Joe. And that’s the only thing that can please you; is it, Madam?

Del. Ay.

Joe. Um — I believe’t will be some time then before I shall please you that way. Ha, ha, ha! kill myself with a Murrain! no, I’m not quite enough in Love to be such a Fool as that comes to neither.
H, — Page 75.
In The Universal Passion (Act ii.) the Princess requests her father not to allow Bellario to marry her cousin Liberia, whom he pretends to love. This is taken from The Princess of Elis (Act v., Scene 2). The end of the latter play is also thus imitated by Miller: —
GRATIANO, BELLARIO, LUCILIA.

Gratiano. Daughter, you have heard already all that I can tell you; Heaven, you see, has explain’d itself in favour of this lord, and sure, my dear Child, you’ll not refuse the Recompense of your Smiles to one who sav’d your Father’s Life.

Luc. My Lord, that’s not a Recompense which Bellario desires.

Bel. Forgive me, Madam, if I have Ambition enough to aspire so high. I have too long deceiv’d you, Madam, but now throw off the Veil, and speak the real Language of my Soul; all that Disguise was the last Shift of a despairing Passion; I languish’d, I did for love all the while. And if this stratagem offends you, Madam, I’m ready to expiate the Crime of it any way you shall command me.

Luc. My Lord, if it be the Will of Heav’n and my Father, I must submit; and at the same time must confess that I can’t blame your Stratagem, and am better pleas’d that what you said to me was only a Pretence, than if it had been Truth.

Tartuffe; or, The Impostor

Tartuffe ou L’Imposteur

Translated by Curtis Hidden Page

First performed on 12 May 1664 as a three-act play at the Palace of Versailles, Tartuffe formed part of ‘The Pleasures of the Enchanted Island’ festivities. The week-long celebrations were publicly dedicated to the King’s mother, Anne d’Autriche and his wife, Marie-Thérèse, although in actuality it was a festival in honour of his mistress, Louise de La Vallière. Tartuffe was performed towards the end of the week of festivities and, though the King enjoyed it, the drama caused an uproar from Catholic Church leaders and the powerful and influential secret society, Company of the Blessed Sacrament. It was banned within days and the Archbishop of Paris declared that anyone who even watched the play would be excommunicated. Molière re-wrote the work as a five-act play titled The Imposter, which premiered on 5 August 1667 at the Théâtre du Palais-Royal. It was instantly banned again and Molière made further revisions before the King finally intervened in February 1669 and granted permission for the play to be performed in public.

The original three-act play was never published and there has been much speculation from Molière scholars about whether the May 1664 version was actually just the first three-acts of the five-act play, or if it fitted into the longer version in a different manner. It has even been suggested that the play performed at Versailles was simply incomplete, although it seems improbable that Molière’s troupe would have decided to stage a half-finished work for such an important event.

The plot centres around Orgon’s misplaced faith in his house-guest Tartuffe and his blindness to Tartuffe’s false piety. Orgon’s wife, children and friends are aghast at the situation as they can clearly perceive Tartuffe’s hypocrisy and deceit, becoming desperate to expose him. The play was highly successful when it premiered in 1669 and it continues to be one of Molière’s most popular and frequently performed works. There have many productions and adaptations over the past century, including a silent 1926 German film by Erich Pommer and a notable 1969 National Theatre production in England directed by Tyrone Guthrie.

Title page from the 1669 edition of the play

Louise de La Vallière, the King’s mistress

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

CHARACTERS

ACT I

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

ACT II

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

ACT III

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

ACT IV

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

SCENE VIII

ACT V

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

SCENE VIII

Molière in 1664, after a painting by Michel Corneille le Jeune

Nineteenth century costume design for the lead character of the play

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

JEAN BAPTISTE POQUELIN, better known by his stage name of Molière, stands without a rival at the head of French comedy. Born at Paris in January, 1622, where his father held a position in the royal household, he was educated at the Jesuit College de Clermont, and for some time studied law, which he soon abandoned for the stage. His life was spent in Paris and in the provinces, acting, directing performances, managing theaters, and writing plays. He had his share of applause from the king and from the public; but the satire in his comedies made him many enemies, and he was the object of the most venomous attacks and the most impossible slanders. Nor did he find much solace at home; for he married unfortunately, and the unhappiness that followed increased the bitterness that public hostility had brought into his life. On February 17, 1673, while acting in “La Malade Imaginaire,” the last of his masterpieces, he was seized with illness and died a few hours later.

The first of the greater works of Molière was “Les Precieuses Ridicules,” produced in 1659. In this brilliant piece Molière lifted French comedy to a new level and gave it a new purpose — the satirizing of contemporary manners and affectations by frank portrayal and criticism. In the great plays that followed, “The School for Husbands” and “The School for Wives,” “The Misanthrope” and “The Hypocrite” (Tartuffe), “The Miser” and “The Hypochondriac,” “The Learned Ladies,” “The Doctor in Spite of Himself,” “The Citizen Turned Gentleman,” and many others, he exposed mercilessly one after another the vices and foibles of the day.

His characteristic qualities are nowhere better exhibited than in “Tartuffe.” Compared with such characterization as Shakespeare’s, Molière’s method of portraying life may seem to be lacking in complexity; but it is precisely the simplicity with which creations like Tartuffe embody the weakness or vice they represent that has given them their place as universally recognized types of human nature.

CHARACTERS

MADAME PERNELLE, mother of Orgon
ORGON, husband of Elmire
ELMIRE, wife of Orgon
DAMIS, son of Orgon
MARIANE, daughter of Orgon, in love with Valere
CLEANTE, brother-in-law of Orgon
TARTUFFE, a hypocrite
DORINE, Mariane’s maid
M. LOYAL, a bailiff
A Police Officer
FLIPOTTE, Madame Pernelle’s servant

The Scene is at Paris

ACT I

SCENE I

MADAME PERNELLE and FLIPOTTE, her servant; ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE, DAMIS, DORINE

MADAME PERNELLE
Come, come, Flipotte, and let me get away.

ELMIRE
You hurry so, I hardly can attend you.

MADAME PERNELLE
Then don’t, my daughter-in law. Stay where you are.
I can dispense with your polite attentions.

ELMIRE
We’re only paying what is due you, mother.
Why must you go away in such a hurry?

MADAME PERNELLE
Because I can’t endure your carryings-on,
And no one takes the slightest pains to please me.
I leave your house, I tell you, quite disgusted;
You do the opposite of my instructions;
You’ve no respect for anything; each one
Must have his say; it’s perfect pandemonium.

DORINE
If …

MADAME PERNELLE
You’re a servant wench, my girl, and much
Too full of gab, and too impertinent
And free with your advice on all occasions.

DAMIS
But …

MADAME PERNELLE
You’re a fool, my boy — f, o, o, l
Just spells your name. Let grandma tell you that
I’ve said a hundred times to my poor son,
Your father, that you’d never come to good
Or give him anything but plague and torment.

MARIANE
I think …

MADAME PERNELLE
O dearie me, his little sister!
You’re all demureness, butter wouldn’t melt
In your mouth, one would think to look at you.
Still waters, though, they say … you know the proverb;
And I don’t like your doings on the sly.

ELMIRE
But, mother …

MADAME PERNELLE
Daughter, by your leave, your conduct
In everything is altogether wrong;
You ought to set a good example for ’em;
Their dear departed mother did much better.
You are extravagant; and it offends me,
To see you always decked out like a princess.
A woman who would please her husband’s eyes
Alone, wants no such wealth of fineries.

CLEANTE
But, madam, after all …

MADAME PERNELLE
Sir, as for you,
The lady’s brother, I esteem you highly,
Love and respect you. But, sir, all the same,
If I were in my son’s, her husband’s, place,
I’d urgently entreat you not to come
Within our doors. You preach a way of living
That decent people cannot tolerate.
I’m rather frank with you; but that’s my way —
I don’t mince matters, when I mean a thing.

DAMIS
Mr. Tartuffe, your friend, is mighty lucky …

MADAME PERNELLE
He is a holy man, and must be heeded;
I can’t endure, with any show of patience,
To hear a scatterbrains like you attack him.

DAMIS
What! Shall I let a bigot criticaster
Come and usurp a tyrant’s power here?
And shall we never dare amuse ourselves
Till this fine gentleman deigns to consent?

DORINE
If we must hark to him, and heed his maxims,
There’s not a thing we do but what’s a crime;
He censures everything, this zealous carper.

MADAME PERNELLE
And all he censures is well censured, too.
He wants to guide you on the way to heaven;
My son should train you all to love him well.

DAMIS
No, madam, look you, nothing — not my father
Nor anything — can make me tolerate him.
I should belie my feelings not to say so.
His actions rouse my wrath at every turn;
And I foresee that there must come of it
An open rupture with this sneaking scoundrel.

DORINE
Besides, ’tis downright scandalous to see
This unknown upstart master of the house —
This vagabond, who hadn’t, when he came,
Shoes to his feet, or clothing worth six farthings,
And who so far forgets his place, as now
To censure everything, and rule the roost!

MADAME PERNELLE
Eh! Mercy sakes alive! Things would go better
If all were governed by his pious orders.

DORINE
He passes for a saint in your opinion.
In fact, he’s nothing but a hypocrite.

MADAME PERNELLE
Just listen to her tongue!

DORINE
I wouldn’t trust him,
Nor yet his Lawrence, without bonds and surety.

MADAME PERNELLE
I don’t know what the servant’s character
May be; but I can guarantee the master
A holy man. You hate him and reject him
Because he tells home truths to all of you.
’Tis sin alone that moves his heart to anger,
And heaven’s interest is his only motive.

DORINE
Of course. But why, especially of late,
Can he let nobody come near the house?
Is heaven offended at a civil call
That he should make so great a fuss about it?
I’ll tell you, if you like, just what I think;
(Pointing to Elmire)
Upon my word, he’s jealous of our mistress.

MADAME PERNELLE
You hold your tongue, and think what you are saying.
He’s not alone in censuring these visits;
The turmoil that attends your sort of people,
Their carriages forever at the door,
And all their noisy footmen, flocked together,
Annoy the neighbourhood, and raise a scandal.
I’d gladly think there’s nothing really wrong;
But it makes talk; and that’s not as it should be.

CLEANTE
Eh! madam, can you hope to keep folk’s tongues
From wagging? It would be a grievous thing
If, for the fear of idle talk about us,
We had to sacrifice our friends. No, no;
Even if we could bring ourselves to do it,
Think you that everyone would then be silenced?
Against backbiting there is no defence
So let us try to live in innocence,
To silly tattle pay no heed at all,
And leave the gossips free to vent their gall.

DORINE
Our neighbour Daphne, and her little husband,
Must be the ones who slander us, I’m thinking.
Those whose own conduct’s most ridiculous,
Are always quickest to speak ill of others;
They never fail to seize at once upon
The slightest hint of any love affair,
And spread the news of it with glee, and give it
The character they’d have the world believe in.
By others’ actions, painted in their colours,
They hope to justify their own; they think,
In the false hope of some resemblance, either
To make their own intrigues seem innocent,
Or else to make their neighbours share the blame
Which they are loaded with by everybody.

MADAME PERNELLE
These arguments are nothing to the purpose.
Orante, we all know, lives a perfect life;
Her thoughts are all of heaven; and I have heard
That she condemns the company you keep.

DORINE
O admirable pattern! Virtuous dame!
She lives the model of austerity;
But age has brought this piety upon her,
And she’s a prude, now she can’t help herself.
As long as she could capture men’s attentions
She made the most of her advantages;
But, now she sees her beauty vanishing,
She wants to leave the world, that’s leaving her,
And in the specious veil of haughty virtue
She’d hide the weakness of her worn-out charms.
That is the way with all your old coquettes;
They find it hard to see their lovers leave ’em;
And thus abandoned, their forlorn estate
Can find no occupation but a prude’s.
These pious dames, in their austerity,
Must carp at everything, and pardon nothing.
They loudly blame their neighbours’ way of living,
Not for religion’s sake, but out of envy,
Because they can’t endure to see another
Enjoy the pleasures age has weaned them from.

MADAME PERNELLE (to Elmire)
There! That’s the kind of rigmarole to please you,
Daughter-in-law. One never has a chance
To get a word in edgewise, at your house,
Because this lady holds the floor all day;
But none the less, I mean to have my say, too.
I tell you that my son did nothing wiser
In all his life, than take this godly man
Into his household; heaven sent him here,
In your great need, to make you all repent;
For your salvation, you must hearken to him;
He censures nothing but deserves his censure.
These visits, these assemblies, and these balls,
Are all inventions of the evil spirit.
You never hear a word of godliness
At them — but idle cackle, nonsense, flimflam.
Our neighbour often comes in for a share,
The talk flies fast, and scandal fills the air;
It makes a sober person’s head go round,
At these assemblies, just to hear the sound
Of so much gab, with not a word to say;
And as a learned man remarked one day
Most aptly, ’tis the Tower of Babylon,
Where all, beyond all limit, babble on.
And just to tell you how this point came in …

(To Cleante)
So! Now the gentlemen must snicker, must he?
Go find fools like yourself to make you laugh
And don’t …

(To Elmire)
Daughter, good-bye; not one word more.
As for this house, I leave the half unsaid;
But I shan’t soon set foot in it again,

(Cuffing Flipotte)
Come, you! What makes you dream and stand agape,
Hussy! I’ll warm your ears in proper shape!
March, trollop, march!

SCENE II

CLEANTE, DORINE

CLEANTE
I won’t escort her down,
For fear she might fall foul of me again;
The good old lady …

DORINE
Bless us! What a pity
She shouldn’t hear the way you speak of her!
She’d surely tell you you’re too “good” by half,
And that she’s not so “old” as all that, neither!

CLEANTE
How she got angry with us all for nothing!
And how she seems possessed with her Tartuffe!

DORINE
Her case is nothing, though, beside her son’s!
To see him, you would say he’s ten times worse!
His conduct in our late unpleasantness
Had won him much esteem, and proved his courage
In service of his king; but now he’s like
A man besotted, since he’s been so taken
With this Tartuffe. He calls him brother, loves him
A hundred times as much as mother, son,
Daughter, and wife. He tells him all his secrets
And lets him guide his acts, and rule his conscience.
He fondles and embraces him; a sweetheart
Could not, I think, be loved more tenderly;
At table he must have the seat of honour,
While with delight our master sees him eat
As much as six men could; we must give up
The choicest tidbits to him; if he belches,
(’tis a servant speaking)
Master exclaims: “God bless you!” — Oh, he dotes
Upon him! he’s his universe, his hero;
He’s lost in constant admiration, quotes him
On all occasions, takes his trifling acts
For wonders, and his words for oracles.
The fellow knows his dupe, and makes the most on’t,
He fools him with a hundred masks of virtue,
Gets money from him all the time by canting,
And takes upon himself to carp at us.
Even his silly coxcomb of a lackey
Makes it his business to instruct us too;
He comes with rolling eyes to preach at us,
And throws away our ribbons, rouge, and patches.
The wretch, the other day, tore up a kerchief
That he had found, pressed in the Golden Legend,
Calling it a horrid crime for us to mingle
The devil’s finery with holy things.

[Footnote 1: Referring to the rebellion called La Fronde, during the
minority of Louis XIV.]

[Footnote 2: Molière’s note, inserted in the text of all the old editions. It is a curious illustration of the desire for uniformity and dignity of style in dramatic verse of the seventeenth century, that Molière feels called on to apologize for a touch of realism like this. Indeed, these lines were even omitted when the play was given.]

SCENE III

ELMIRE, MARIANE, DAMIS, CLEANTE, DORINE

ELMIRE (to Cleante)
You’re very lucky to have missed the speech
She gave us at the door. I see my husband
Is home again. He hasn’t seen me yet,
So I’ll go up and wait till he comes in.

CLEANTE
And I, to save time, will await him here;
I’ll merely say good-morning, and be gone.

SCENE IV

CLEANTE, DAMIS, DORINE

DAMIS
I wish you’d say a word to him about
My sister’s marriage; I suspect Tartuffe
Opposes it, and puts my father up
To all these wretched shifts. You know, besides,
How nearly I’m concerned in it myself;
If love unites my sister and Valere,
I love his sister too; and if this marriage
Were to …

DORINE
He’s coming.

SCENE V

ORGON, CLEANTE, DORINE

ORGON
Ah! Good morning, brother.

CLEANTE
I was just going, but am glad to greet you.
Things are not far advanced yet, in the country?

ORGON
Dorine …

(To Cleante)
Just wait a bit, please, brother-in-law.
Let me allay my first anxiety
By asking news about the family.

(To Dorine)
Has everything gone well these last two days?
What’s happening? And how is everybody?

DORINE
Madam had fever, and a splitting headache
Day before yesterday, all day and evening.

ORGON
And how about Tartuffe?

DORINE
Tartuffe? He’s well;
He’s mighty well; stout, fat, fair, rosy-lipped.

ORGON
Poor man!

DORINE
At evening she had nausea
And couldn’t touch a single thing for supper,
Her headache still was so severe.

ORGON
And how
About Tartuffe?

DORINE
He supped alone, before her,
And unctuously ate up two partridges,
As well as half a leg o’ mutton, deviled.

ORGON
Poor man!

DORINE
All night she couldn’t get a wink
Of sleep, the fever racked her so; and we
Had to sit up with her till daylight.

ORGON
How
About Tartuffe?

DORINE
Gently inclined to slumber,
He left the table, went into his room,
Got himself straight into a good warm bed,
And slept quite undisturbed until next morning.

ORGON
Poor man!

DORINE
At last she let us all persuade her,
And got up courage to be bled; and then
She was relieved at once.

ORGON
And how about
Tartuffe?

DORINE
He plucked up courage properly,
Bravely entrenched his soul against all evils,
And to replace the blood that she had lost,
He drank at breakfast four huge draughts of wine.

ORGON
Poor man!

DORINE
So now they both are doing well;
And I’ll go straightway and inform my mistress
How pleased you are at her recovery.

SCENE VI

ORGON, CLEANTE

CLEANTE
Brother, she ridicules you to your face;
And I, though I don’t want to make you angry,
Must tell you candidly that she’s quite right.
Was such infatuation ever heard of?
And can a man to-day have charms to make you
Forget all else, relieve his poverty,
Give him a home, and then … ?

ORGON
Stop there, good brother,
You do not know the man you’re speaking of.

CLEANTE
Since you will have it so, I do not know him;
But after all, to tell what sort of man
He is …

ORGON
Dear brother, you’d be charmed to know him;
Your raptures over him would have no end.
He is a man … who … ah! … in fact …a man
Whoever does his will, knows perfect peace,
And counts the whole world else, as so much dung.
His converse has transformed me quite; he weans
My heart from every friendship, teaches me
To have no love for anything on earth;
And I could see my brother, children, mother,
And wife, all die, and never care — a snap.

CLEANTE
Your feelings are humane, I must say, brother!

ORGON
Ah! If you’d seen him, as I saw him first,
You would have loved him just as much as I.
He came to church each day, with contrite mien,
Kneeled, on both knees, right opposite my place,
And drew the eyes of all the congregation,
To watch the fervour of his prayers to heaven;
With deep-drawn sighs and great ejaculations,
He humbly kissed the earth at every moment;
And when I left the church, he ran before me
To give me holy water at the door.
I learned his poverty, and who he was,
By questioning his servant, who is like him,
And gave him gifts; but in his modesty
He always wanted to return a part.
“It is too much,” he’d say, “too much by half;
I am not worthy of your pity.” Then,
When I refused to take it back, he’d go,
Before my eyes, and give it to the poor.
At length heaven bade me take him to my home,
And since that day, all seems to prosper here.
He censures everything, and for my sake
He even takes great interest in my wife;
He lets me know who ogles her, and seems
Six times as jealous as I am myself.
You’d not believe how far his zeal can go:
He calls himself a sinner just for trifles;
The merest nothing is enough to shock him;
So much so, that the other day I heard him
Accuse himself for having, while at prayer,
In too much anger caught and killed a flea.

CLEANTE
Zounds, brother, you are mad, I think! Or else
You’re making sport of me, with such a speech.
What are you driving at with all this nonsense … ?

ORGON
Brother, your language smacks of atheism;
And I suspect your soul’s a little tainted
Therewith. I’ve preached to you a score of times
That you’ll draw down some judgment on your head.

CLEANTE
That is the usual strain of all your kind;
They must have every one as blind as they.
They call you atheist if you have good eyes;
And if you don’t adore their vain grimaces,
You’ve neither faith nor care for sacred things.
No, no; such talk can’t frighten me; I know
What I am saying; heaven sees my heart.
We’re not the dupes of all your canting mummers;
There are false heroes — and false devotees;
And as true heroes never are the ones
Who make much noise about their deeds of honour,
Just so true devotees, whom we should follow,
Are not the ones who make so much vain show.
What! Will you find no difference between
Hypocrisy and genuine devoutness?
And will you treat them both alike, and pay
The self-same honour both to masks and faces
Set artifice beside sincerity,
Confuse the semblance with reality,
Esteem a phantom like a living person,
And counterfeit as good as honest coin?
Men, for the most part, are strange creatures, truly!
You never find them keep the golden mean;
The limits of good sense, too narrow for them,
Must always be passed by, in each direction;
They often spoil the noblest things, because
They go too far, and push them to extremes.
I merely say this by the way, good brother.

ORGON
You are the sole expounder of the doctrine;
Wisdom shall die with you, no doubt, good brother,
You are the only wise, the sole enlightened,
The oracle, the Cato, of our age.
All men, compared to you, are downright fools.

CLEANTE
I’m not the sole expounder of the doctrine,
And wisdom shall not die with me, good brother.
But this I know, though it be all my knowledge,
That there’s a difference ‘twixt false and true.
And as I find no kind of hero more
To be admired than men of true religion,
Nothing more noble or more beautiful
Than is the holy zeal of true devoutness;
Just so I think there’s naught more odious
Than whited sepulchres of outward unction,
Those barefaced charlatans, those hireling zealots,
Whose sacrilegious, treacherous pretence
Deceives at will, and with impunity
Makes mockery of all that men hold sacred;
Men who, enslaved to selfish interests,
Make trade and merchandise of godliness,
And try to purchase influence and office
With false eye-rollings and affected raptures;
Those men, I say, who with uncommon zeal
Seek their own fortunes on the road to heaven;
Who, skilled in prayer, have always much to ask,
And live at court to preach retirement;
Who reconcile religion with their vices,
Are quick to anger, vengeful, faithless, tricky,
And, to destroy a man, will have the boldness
To call their private grudge the cause of heaven;
All the more dangerous, since in their anger
They use against us weapons men revere,
And since they make the world applaud their passion,
And seek to stab us with a sacred sword.
There are too many of this canting kind.
Still, the sincere are easy to distinguish;
And many splendid patterns may be found,
In our own time, before our very eyes
Look at Ariston, Periandre, Oronte,
Alcidamas, Clitandre, and Polydore;
No one denies their claim to true religion;
Yet they’re no braggadocios of virtue,
They do not make insufferable display,
And their religion’s human, tractable;
They are not always judging all our actions,
They’d think such judgment savoured of presumption;
And, leaving pride of words to other men,
’Tis by their deeds alone they censure ours.
Evil appearances find little credit
With them; they even incline to think the best
Of others. No caballers, no intriguers,
They mind the business of their own right living.
They don’t attack a sinner tooth and nail,
For sin’s the only object of their hatred;
Nor are they over-zealous to attempt
Far more in heaven’s behalf than heaven would have ’em.
That is my kind of man, that is true living,
That is the pattern we should set ourselves.
Your fellow was not fashioned on this model;
You’re quite sincere in boasting of his zeal;
But you’re deceived, I think, by false pretences.

ORGON
My dear good brother-in-law, have you quite done?

CLEANTE
Yes.

ORGON
I’m your humble servant.

(Starts to go.)

CLEANTE
Just a word.
We’ll drop that other subject. But you know
Valere has had the promise of your daughter.

ORGON
Yes.

CLEANTE
You had named the happy day.

ORGON
’Tis true.

CLEANTE
Then why put off the celebration of it?

ORGON
I can’t say.

CLEANTE
Can you have some other plan
In mind?

ORGON
Perhaps.

CLEANTE
You mean to break your word?

ORGON
I don’t say that.

CLEANTE
I hope no obstacle
Can keep you from performing what you’ve promised.

ORGON
Well, that depends.

CLEANTE
Why must you beat about?
Valere has sent me here to settle matters.

ORGON
Heaven be praised!

CLEANTE
What answer shall I take him?

ORGON
Why, anything you please.

CLEANTE
But we must know
Your plans. What are they?

ORGON
I shall do the will
Of Heaven.

CLEANTE
Come, be serious. You’ve given
Your promise to Valere. Now will you keep it?

ORGON
Good-bye.

CLEANTE (alone)
His love, methinks, has much to fear;
I must go let him know what’s happening here.

ACT II

SCENE I

ORGON, MARIANE

ORGON
Now, Mariane.

MARIANE
Yes, father?

ORGON
Come; I’ll tell you
A secret.

MARIANE
Yes … What are you looking for?

ORGON (looking into a small closet-room)
To see there’s no one there to spy upon us;
That little closet’s mighty fit to hide in.
There! We’re all right now. Mariane, in you
I’ve always found a daughter dutiful
And gentle. So I’ve always love you dearly.

MARIANE
I’m grateful for your fatherly affection.

ORGON
Well spoken, daughter. Now, prove you deserve it
By doing as I wish in all respects.

MARIANE
To do so is the height of my ambition.

ORGON
Excellent well. What say you of — Tartuffe?

MARIANE
Who? I?

ORGON
Yes, you. Look to it how you answer.

MARIANE
Why! I’ll say of him — anything you please.

SCENE II

ORGON, MARIANE, DORINE (coming in quietly and standing behind
Orgon, so that he does not see her)

ORGON
Well spoken. A good girl. Say then, my daughter,
That all his person shines with noble merit,
That he has won your heart, and you would like
To have him, by my choice, become your husband.
Eh?

MARIANE
Eh?

ORGON
What say you?

MARIANE
Please, what did you say?

ORGON
What?

MARIANE
Surely I mistook you, sir?

ORGON
How now?

MARIANE
Who is it, father, you would have me say
Has won my heart, and I would like to have
Become my husband, by your choice?

ORGON
Tartuffe.

MARIANE
But, father, I protest it isn’t true!
Why should you make me tell this dreadful lie?

ORGON
Because I mean to have it be the truth.
Let this suffice for you: I’ve settled it.

MARIANE
What, father, you would … ?

ORGON
Yes, child, I’m resolved
To graft Tartuffe into my family.
So he must be your husband. That I’ve settled.
And since your duty ..

(Seeing Dorine)
What are you doing there?
Your curiosity is keen, my girl,
To make you come eavesdropping on us so.

DORINE
Upon my word, I don’t know how the rumour
Got started — if ’twas guess-work or mere chance
But I had heard already of this match,
And treated it as utter stuff and nonsense.

ORGON
What! Is the thing incredible?

DORINE
So much so
I don’t believe it even from yourself, sir.

ORGON
I know a way to make you credit it.

DORINE
No, no, you’re telling us a fairly tale!

ORGON
I’m telling you just what will happen shortly.

DORINE
Stuff!

ORGON
Daughter, what I say is in good earnest.

DORINE
There, there, don’t take your father seriously;
He’s fooling.

ORGON
But I tell you …

DORINE
No. No use.
They won’t believe you.

ORGON
If I let my anger …

DORINE
Well, then, we do believe you; and the worse
For you it is. What! Can a grown-up man
With that expanse of beard across his face
Be mad enough to want …?

ORGON
You hark me:
You’ve taken on yourself here in this house
A sort of free familiarity
That I don’t like, I tell you frankly, girl.

DORINE
There, there, let’s not get angry, sir, I beg you.
But are you making game of everybody?
Your daughter’s not cut out for bigot’s meat;
And he has more important things to think of.
Besides, what can you gain by such a match?
How can a man of wealth, like you, go choose
A wretched vagabond for son-in-law?

ORGON
You hold your tongue. And know, the less he has,
The better cause have we to honour him.
His poverty is honest poverty;
It should exalt him more than worldly grandeur,
For he has let himself be robbed of all,
Through careless disregard of temporal things
And fixed attachment to the things eternal.
My help may set him on his feet again,
Win back his property — a fair estate
He has at home, so I’m informed — and prove him
For what he is, a true-born gentleman.

DORINE
Yes, so he says himself. Such vanity
But ill accords with pious living, sir.
The man who cares for holiness alone
Should not so loudly boast his name and birth;
The humble ways of genuine devoutness
Brook not so much display of earthly pride.
Why should he be so vain? … But I offend you:
Let’s leave his rank, then, — take the man himself:
Can you without compunction give a man
Like him possession of a girl like her?
Think what a scandal’s sure to come of it!
Virtue is at the mercy of the fates,
When a girl’s married to a man she hates;
The best intent to live an honest woman
Depends upon the husband’s being human,
And men whose brows are pointed at afar
May thank themselves their wives are what they are.
For to be true is more than woman can,
With husbands built upon a certain plan;
And he who weds his child against her will
Owes heaven account for it, if she do ill.
Think then what perils wait on your design.

ORGON (to Mariane)
So! I must learn what’s what from her, you see!

DORINE
You might do worse than follow my advice.

ORGON
Daughter, we can’t waste time upon this nonsense;
I know what’s good for you, and I’m your father.
True, I had promised you to young Valere;
But, first, they tell me he’s inclined to gamble,
And then, I fear his faith is not quite sound.
I haven’t noticed that he’s regular
At church.

DORINE
You’d have him run there just when you do.
Like those who go on purpose to be seen?

ORGON
I don’t ask your opinion on the matter.
In short, the other is in Heaven’s best graces,
And that is riches quite beyond compare.
This match will bring you every joy you long for;
‘Twill be all steeped in sweetness and delight.
You’ll live together, in your faithful loves,
Like two sweet children, like two turtle-doves;
You’ll never fail to quarrel, scold, or tease,
And you may do with him whate’er you please.

DORINE
With him? Do naught but give him horns, I’ll warrant.

ORGON
Out on thee, wench!

DORINE
I tell you he’s cut out for’t;
However great your daughter’s virtue, sir,
His destiny is sure to prove the stronger.

ORGON
Have done with interrupting. Hold your tongue.
Don’t poke your nose in other people’s business.

DORINE (She keeps interrupting him, just as he turns and starts
to speak to his daughter).
If I make bold, sir, ’tis for your own good.

ORGON
You’re too officious; pray you, hold your tongue.

DORINE
’Tis love of you …

ORGON
I want none of your love.

DORINE
Then I will love you in your own despite.

ORGON
You will, eh?

DORINE
Yes, your honour’s dear to me;
I can’t endure to see you made the butt
Of all men’s ridicule.

ORGON
Won’t you be still?

DORINE
’Twould be a sin to let you make this match.

ORGON
Won’t you be still, I say, you impudent viper!

DORINE
What! you are pious, and you lose your temper?

ORGON
I’m all wrought up, with your confounded nonsense;
Now, once for all, I tell you hold your tongue.

DORINE
Then mum’s the word; I’ll take it out in thinking.

ORGON
Think all you please; but not a syllable
To me about it, or … you understand!

(Turning to his daughter.)
As a wise father, I’ve considered all
With due deliberation.

DORINE
I’ll go mad
If I can’t speak.
(She stops the instant he turns his head.)

ORGON
Though he’s no lady’s man,
Tartuffe is well enough …

DORINE
A pretty phiz!

ORGON
So that, although you may not care at all
For his best qualities …

DORINE
A handsome dowry!

(Orgon turns and stands in front of her, with arms folded, eyeing
her.)
Were I in her place, any man should rue it
Who married me by force, that’s mighty certain;
I’d let him know, and that within a week,
A woman’s vengeance isn’t far to seek.

ORGON (to Dorine)
So — nothing that I say has any weight?

DORINE
Eh? What’s wrong now? I didn’t speak to you.

ORGON
What were you doing?

DORINE
Talking to myself.

ORGON
Oh! Very well. (Aside.) Her monstrous impudence
Must be chastised with one good slap in the face.

(He stands ready to strike her, and, each time he speaks to his
daughter, he glances toward her; but she stands still and says not a
word.)

[Footnote 3: As given at the Comedie francaise, the action is as follows: While Orgon says, “You must approve of my design,” Dorine is making signs to Mariane to resist his orders; Orgon turns around suddenly; but Dorine quickly changes her gesture and with the hand which she had lifted calmly arranges her hair and her cap. Orgon goes on, “Think of the husband …” and stops before the middle of his sentence to turn and catch the beginning of Dorine’s gesture; but he is too quick this time, and Dorine stands looking at his furious countenance with a sweet and gentle expression. He turns and goes on, and the obstinate Dorine again lifts her hand behind his shoulder to urge Mariane to resistance: this time he catches her; but just as he swings his shoulder to give her the promised blow, she stops him by changing the intent of her gesture, and carefully picking from the top of his sleeve a bit of fluff which she holds carefully between her fingers, then blows into the air, and watches intently as it floats away. Orgon is paralysed by her innocence of expression, and compelled to hide his rage. — Regnier, Le Tartuffe des Comediens.]

ORGON
Daughter, you must approve of my design….
Think of this husband … I have chosen for you…

(To Dorine)
Why don’t you talk to yourself?

DORINE
Nothing to say.

ORGON
One little word more.

DORINE
Oh, no, thanks. Not now.

ORGON
Sure, I’d have caught you.

DORINE
Faith, I’m no such fool.

ORGON
So, daughter, now obedience is the word;
You must accept my choice with reverence.

DORINE (running away)
You’d never catch me marrying such a creature.

ORGON (swinging his hand at her and missing her)
Daughter, you’ve such a pestilent hussy there
I can’t live with her longer, without sin.
I can’t discuss things in the state I’m in.
My mind’s so flustered by her insolent talk,
To calm myself, I must go take a walk.

SCENE III

MARIANE, DORINE

DORINE
Say, have you lost the tongue from out your head?
And must I speak your role from A to Zed?
You let them broach a project that’s absurd,
And don’t oppose it with a single word!

MARIANE
What can I do? My father is the master.

DORINE
Do? Everything, to ward off such disaster.

MARIANE
But what?

DORINE
Tell him one doesn’t love by proxy;
Tell him you’ll marry for yourself, not him;
Since you’re the one for whom the thing is done,
You are the one, not he, the man must please;
If his Tartuffe has charmed him so, why let him
Just marry him himself — no one will hinder.

MARIANE
A father’s rights are such, it seems to me,
That I could never dare to say a word.

DORINE
Came, talk it out. Valere has asked your hand:
Now do you love him, pray, or do you not?

MARIANE
Dorine! How can you wrong my love so much,
And ask me such a question? Have I not
A hundred times laid bare my heart to you?
Do you know how ardently I love him?

DORINE
How do I know if heart and words agree,
And if in honest truth you really love him?

MARIANE
Dorine, you wrong me greatly if you doubt it;
I’ve shown my inmost feelings, all too plainly.

DORINE
So then, you love him?

MARIANE
Yes, devotedly.

DORINE
And he returns your love, apparently?

MARIANE
I think so.

DORINE
And you both alike are eager
To be well married to each other?

MARIANE
Surely.

DORINE
Then what’s your plan about this other match?

MARIANE
To kill myself, if it is forced upon me.

DORINE
Good! That’s a remedy I hadn’t thought of.
Just die, and everything will be all right.
This medicine is marvellous, indeed!
It drives me mad to hear folk talk such nonsense.

MARIANE
Oh dear, Dorine you get in such a temper!
You have no sympathy for people’s troubles.

DORINE
I have no sympathy when folk talk nonsense,
And flatten out as you do, at a pinch.

MARIANE
But what can you expect? — if one is timid? —

DORINE
But what is love worth, if it has no courage?

MARIANE
Am I not constant in my love for him?
Is’t not his place to win me from my father?

DORINE
But if your father is a crazy fool,
And quite bewitched with his Tartuffe? And breaks
His bounden word? Is that your lover’s fault?

MARIANE
But shall I publicly refuse and scorn
This match, and make it plain that I’m in love?
Shall I cast off for him, whate’er he be,
Womanly modesty and filial duty?
You ask me to display my love in public … ?

DORINE
No, no, I ask you nothing. You shall be
Mister Tartuffe’s; why, now I think of it,
I should be wrong to turn you from this marriage.
What cause can I have to oppose your wishes?
So fine a match! An excellent good match!
Mister Tartuffe! Oh ho! No mean proposal!
Mister Tartuffe, sure, take it all in all,
Is not a man to sneeze at — oh, by no means!
’Tis no small luck to be his happy spouse.
The whole world joins to sing his praise already;
He’s noble — in his parish; handsome too;
Red ears and high complexion — oh, my lud!
You’ll be too happy, sure, with him for husband.

MARIANE
Oh dear! …

DORINE
What joy and pride will fill your heart
To be the bride of such a handsome fellow!

MARIANE
Oh, stop, I beg you; try to find some way
To help break off the match. I quite give in,
I’m ready to do anything you say.

DORINE
No, no, a daughter must obey her father,
Though he should want to make her wed a monkey.
Besides, your fate is fine. What could be better!
You’ll take the stage-coach to his little village,
And find it full of uncles and of cousins,
Whose conversation will delight you. Then
You’ll be presented in their best society.
You’ll even go to call, by way of welcome,
On Mrs. Bailiff, Mrs. Tax-Collector,
Who’ll patronise you with a folding-stool.
There, once a year, at carnival, you’ll have
Perhaps — a ball; with orchestra — two bag-pipes;
And sometimes a trained ape, and Punch and Judy;
Though if your husband …

MARIANE
Oh, you’ll kill me. Please
Contrive to help me out with your advice.

DORINE
I thank you kindly.

MARIANE
Oh! Dorine, I beg you …

DORINE
To serve you right, this marriage must go through.

MARIANE
Dear girl!

DORINE
No.

MARIANE
If I say I love Valere …

DORINE
No, no. Tartuffe’s your man, and you shall taste him.

MARIANE
You know I’ve always trusted you; now help me …

DORINE
No, you shall be, my faith! Tartuffified.

MARIANE
Well, then, since you’ve no pity for my fate
Let me take counsel only of despair;
It will advise and help and give me courage;
There’s one sure cure, I know, for all my troubles.

(She starts to go.)

DORINE
There, there! Come back. I can’t be angry long.
I must take pity on you, after all.

MARIANE
Oh, don’t you see, Dorine, if I must bear
This martyrdom, I certainly shall die.

DORINE
Now don’t you fret. We’ll surely find some way.
To hinder this … But here’s Valere, your lover.

SCENE IV

VALERE, MARIANE, DORINE

VALERE
Madam, a piece of news — quite new to me —
Has just come out, and very fine it is.

MARIANE
What piece of news?

VALERE
Your marriage with Tartuffe.

MARIANE
’Tis true my father has this plan in mind.

VALERE
Your father, madam …

MARIANE
Yes, he’s changed his plans,
And did but now propose it to me.

VALERE
What!
Seriously?

MARIANE
Yes, he was serious,
And openly insisted on the match.

VALERE
And what’s your resolution in the matter,
Madam?

MARIANE
I don’t know.

VALERE
That’s a pretty answer.
You don’t know?

MARIANE
No.

VALERE
No?

MARIANE
What do you advise?

VALERE
I? My advice is, marry him, by all means.

MARIANE
That’s your advice?

VALERE
Yes.

MARIANE
Do you mean it?

VALERE
Surely.
A splendid choice, and worthy of your acceptance.

MARIANE
Oh, very well, sir! I shall take your counsel.

VALERE
You’ll find no trouble taking it, I warrant.

MARIANE
No more than you did giving it, be sure.

VALERE
I gave it, truly, to oblige you, madam.

MARIANE
And I shall take it to oblige you, sir.

Dorine (withdrawing to the back of the stage)
Let’s see what this affair will come to.

VALERE
So,
That is your love? And it was all deceit
When you …

MARIANE
I beg you, say no more of that.
You told me, squarely, sir, I should accept
The husband that is offered me; and I
Will tell you squarely that I mean to do so,
Since you have given me this good advice.

VALERE
Don’t shield yourself with talk of my advice.
You had your mind made up, that’s evident;
And now you’re snatching at a trifling pretext
To justify the breaking of your word.

MARIANE
Exactly so.

VALERE
Of course it is; your heart
Has never known true love for me.

MARIANE
Alas!
You’re free to think so, if you please.

VALERE
Yes, yes,
I’m free to think so; and my outraged love
May yet forestall you in your perfidy,
And offer elsewhere both my heart and hand.

MARIANE
No doubt of it; the love your high deserts
May win …

VALERE
Good Lord, have done with my deserts!
I know I have but few, and you have proved it.
But I may find more kindness in another;
I know of someone, who’ll not be ashamed
To take your leavings, and make up my loss.

MARIANE
The loss is not so great; you’ll easily
Console yourself completely for this change.

VALERE
I’ll try my best, that you may well believe.
When we’re forgotten by a woman’s heart,
Our pride is challenged; we, too, must forget;
Or if we cannot, must at least pretend to.
No other way can man such baseness prove,
As be a lover scorned, and still in love.

MARIANE
In faith, a high and noble sentiment.

VALERE
Yes; and it’s one that all men must approve.
What! Would you have me keep my love alive,
And see you fly into another’s arms
Before my very eyes; and never offer
To someone else the heart that you had scorned?

MARIANE
Oh, no, indeed! For my part, I could wish
That it were done already.

VALERE
What! You wish it?

MARIANE
Yes.

VALERE
This is insult heaped on injury;
I’ll go at once and do as you desire.

(He takes a step or two as if to go away.)

MARIANE
Oh, very well then.

VALERE (turning back)
But remember this.
’Twas you that drove me to this desperate pass.

MARIANE
Of course.

VALERE (turning back again)
And in the plan that I have formed
I only follow your example.

MARIANE
Yes.

VALERE (at the door)
Enough; you shall be punctually obeyed.

MARIANE
So much the better.

VALERE (coming back again)
This is once for all.

MARIANE
So be it, then.

VALERE (He goes toward the door, but just as he reaches it, turns
around)
Eh?

MARIANE
What?

VALERE
You didn’t call me?

MARIANE
I? You are dreaming.

VALERE
Very well, I’m gone. Madam, farewell.

(He walks slowly away.)

MARIANE
Farewell, sir.

DORINE
I must say
You’ve lost your senses and both gone clean daft!
I’ve let you fight it out to the end o’ the chapter
To see how far the thing could go. Oho, there,
Mister Valere!

(She goes and seizes him by the arm, to stop him. He makes a great
show of resistance.)

VALERE
What do you want, Dorine?

DORINE
Come here.

VALERE
No, no, I’m quite beside myself.
Don’t hinder me from doing as she wishes.

DORINE
Stop!

VALERE
No. You see, I’m fixed, resolved, determined.

DORINE
So!

MARIANE (aside)
Since my presence pains him, makes him go,
I’d better go myself, and leave him free.

DORINE (leaving Valere, and running after Mariane)
Now t’other! Where are you going?

MARIANE
Let me be.

DORINE.
Come back.

MARIANE
No, no, it isn’t any use.

VALERE (aside)
’Tis clear the sight of me is torture to her;
No doubt, t’were better I should free her from it.

DORINE (leaving Mariane and running after Valere)
Same thing again! Deuce take you both, I say.
Now stop your fooling; come here, you; and you.

(She pulls first one, then the other, toward the middle of the stage.)

VALERE (to Dorine)
What’s your idea?

MARIANE (to Dorine)
What can you mean to do?

DORINE
Set you to rights, and pull you out o’ the scrape.

(To Valere)
Are you quite mad, to quarrel with her now?

VALERE
Didn’t you hear the things she said to me?

DORINE (to Mariane)
Are you quite mad, to get in such a passion?

MARIANE
Didn’t you see the way he treated me?

DORINE
Fools, both of you.

(To Valere)
She thinks of nothing else
But to keep faith with you, I vouch for it.

(To Mariane)
And he loves none but you, and longs for nothing
But just to marry you, I stake my life on’t.

MARIANE (to Valere)
Why did you give me such advice then, pray?

VALERE (to Mariane)
Why ask for my advice on such a matter?

DORINE
You both are daft, I tell you. Here, your hands.

(To Valere)
Come, yours.

VALERE (giving Dorine his hand)
What for?

DORINE (to Mariane)
Now, yours.

MARIANE (giving Dorine her hand)
But what’s the use?

DORINE
Oh, quick now, come along. There, both of you —
You love each other better than you think.

(Valere and Mariane hold each other’s hands some time without looking
at each other.)

VALERE (at last turning toward Mariane)
Come, don’t be so ungracious now about it;
Look at a man as if you didn’t hate him.

(Mariane looks sideways toward Valere, with just a bit of a smile.)

DORINE
My faith and troth, what fools these lovers be!

VALERE (to Mariane)
But come now, have I not a just complaint?
And truly, are you not a wicked creature
To take delight in saying what would pain me?

MARIANE
And are you not yourself the most ungrateful … ?

DORINE
Leave this discussion till another time;
Now, think how you’ll stave off this plaguy marriage.

MARIANE
Then tell us how to go about it.

DORINE
Well,
We’ll try all sorts of ways.

(To Mariane)
Your father’s daft;

(To Valere)
This plan is nonsense.

(To Mariane)
You had better humour
His notions by a semblance of consent,
So that in case of danger, you can still
Find means to block the marriage by delay.
If you gain time, the rest is easy, trust me.
One day you’ll fool them with a sudden illness,
Causing delay; another day, ill omens:
You’ve met a funeral, or broke a mirror,
Or dreamed of muddy water. Best of all,
They cannot marry you to anyone
Without your saying yes. But now, methinks,
They mustn’t find you chattering together.

(To Valere)
You, go at once and set your friends at work
To make him keep his word to you; while we
Will bring the brother’s influence to bear,
And get the step-mother on our side, too.
Good-bye.

VALERE (to Mariane)
Whatever efforts we may make,
My greatest hope, be sure, must rest on you.

MARIANE (to Valere)
I cannot answer for my father’s whims;
But no one save Valere shall ever have me.

VALERE
You thrill me through with joy! Whatever comes …

DORINE
Oho! These lovers! Never done with prattling!
Now go.

VALERE (starting to go, and coming back again)
One last word …

DORINE
What a gabble and pother!
Be off! By this door, you. And you, by t’other.

(She pushes them off, by the shoulders, in opposite directions.)

ACT III

SCENE I

DAMIS, DORINE

DAMIS
May lightning strike me dead this very instant,
May I be everywhere proclaimed a scoundrel,
If any reverence or power shall stop me,
And if I don’t do straightway something desperate!

DORINE
I beg you, moderate this towering passion;
Your father did but merely mention it.
Not all things that are talked of turn to facts;
The road is long, sometimes, from plans to acts.

DAMIS
No, I must end this paltry fellow’s plots,
And he shall hear from me a truth or two.

DORINE
So ho! Go slow now. Just you leave the fellow —
Your father too — in your step-mother’s hands.
She has some influence with this Tartuffe,
He makes a point of heeding all she says,
And I suspect that he is fond of her.
Would God ‘twere true!— ’Twould be the height of humour
Now, she has sent for him, in your behalf,
To sound him on this marriage, to find out
What his ideas are, and to show him plainly
What troubles he may cause, if he persists
In giving countenance to this design.
His man says, he’s at prayers, I mustn’t see him,
But likewise says, he’ll presently be down.
So off with you, and let me wait for him.

DAMIS
I may be present at this interview.

DORINE
No, no! They must be left alone.

DAMIS
I won’t
So much as speak to him.

DORINE
Go on! We know you
And your high tantrums. Just the way to spoil things!
Be off.

DAMIS
No, I must see — I’ll keep my temper.

DORINE
Out on you, what a plague! He’s coming. Hide!

(Damis goes and hides in the closet at the back of the stage.)

SCENE II

TARTUFFE, DORINE

TARTUFFE (speaking to his valet, off the stage, as soon as he sees
Dorine is there)
Lawrence, put up my hair-cloth shirt and scourge,
And pray that Heaven may shed its light upon you.
If any come to see me, say I’m gone
To share my alms among the prisoners.

DORINE (aside)
What affectation and what showing off!

TARTUFFE
What do you want with me?

DORINE
To tell you …

TARTUFFE (taking a handkerchief from his pocket)
Ah!
Before you speak, pray take this handkerchief.

DORINE
What?

TARTUFFE
Cover up that bosom, which I can’t
Endure to look on. Things like that offend
Our souls, and fill our minds with sinful thoughts.

DORINE
Are you so tender to temptation, then,
And has the flesh such power upon your senses?
I don’t know how you get in such a heat;
For my part, I am not so prone to lust,
And I could see you stripped from head to foot,
And all your hide not tempt me in the least.

TARTUFFE
Show in your speech some little modesty,
Or I must instantly take leave of you.

DORINE
No, no, I’ll leave you to yourself; I’ve only
One thing to say: Madam will soon be down,
And begs the favour of a word with you.

TARTUFFE
Ah! Willingly.

DORINE (aside)
How gentle all at once!
My faith, I still believe I’ve hit upon it.

TARTUFFE
Will she come soon?

DORINE
I think I hear her now.
Yes, here she is herself; I’ll leave you with her.

SCENE III

ELMIRE, TARTUFFE

TARTUFFE
May Heaven’s overflowing kindness ever
Give you good health of body and of soul,
And bless your days according to the wishes
And prayers of its most humble votary!

ELMIRE
I’m very grateful for your pious wishes.
But let’s sit down, so we may talk at ease.

TARTUFFE (after sitting down)
And how are you recovered from your illness?

ELMIRE (sitting down also)
Quite well; the fever soon let go its hold.

TARTUFFE
My prayers, I fear, have not sufficient merit
To have drawn down this favour from on high;
But each entreaty that I made to Heaven
Had for its object your recovery.

ELMIRE
You’re too solicitous on my behalf.

TARTUFFE
We could not cherish your dear health too much;
I would have given mine, to help restore it.

ELMIRE
That’s pushing Christian charity too far;
I owe you many thanks for so much kindness.

TARTUFFE
I do far less for you than you deserve.

ELMIRE
There is a matter that I wished to speak of
In private; I am glad there’s no one here
To listen.

TARTUFFE
Madam, I am overjoyed.
’Tis sweet to find myself alone with you.
This is an opportunity I’ve asked
Of Heaven, many a time; till now, in vain.

ELMIRE
All that I wish, is just a word from you,
Quite frank and open, hiding nothing from me.

(DAMIS, without their seeing him, opens the closet door halfway.)

TARTUFFE
I too could wish, as Heaven’s especial favour,
To lay my soul quite open to your eyes,
And swear to you, the trouble that I made
About those visits which your charms attract,
Does not result from any hatred toward you,
But rather from a passionate devotion,
And purest motives …

ELMIRE
That is how I take it,
I think ’tis my salvation that concerns you.

TARTUFFE (pressing her finger tips)
Madam, ’tis so; and such is my devotion …

ELMIRE
Ouch! but you squeeze too hard.

TARTUFFE
Excess of zeal.
In no way could I ever mean to hurt you,
And I’d as soon …

(He puts his hand on her knee.)

ELMIRE
What’s your hand doing there?

TARTUFFE
Feeling your gown; the stuff is very soft.

ELMIRE
Let be, I beg you; I am very ticklish.

(She moves her chair away, and Tartuffe brings his nearer.)

TARTUFFE (handling the lace yoke of Elmire’s dress)
Dear me how wonderful in workmanship
This lace is! They do marvels, nowadays;
Things of all kinds were never better made.

ELMIRE
Yes, very true. But let us come to business.
They say my husband means to break his word.
And marry Mariane to you. Is’t so?

TARTUFFE
He did hint some such thing; but truly, madam,
That’s not the happiness I’m yearning after;
I see elsewhere the sweet compelling charms
Of such a joy as fills my every wish.

ELMIRE
You mean you cannot love terrestrial things.

TARTUFFE
The heart within my bosom is not stone.

ELMIRE
I well believe your sighs all tend to Heaven,
And nothing here below can stay your thoughts.

TARTUFFE
Love for the beauty of eternal things
Cannot destroy our love for earthly beauty;
Our mortal senses well may be entranced
By perfect works that Heaven has fashioned here.
Its charms reflected shine in such as you,
And in yourself, its rarest miracles;
It has displayed such marvels in your face,
That eyes are dazed, and hearts are rapt away;
I could not look on you, the perfect creature,
Without admiring Nature’s great Creator,
And feeling all my heart inflamed with love
For you, His fairest image of Himself.
At first I trembled lest this secret love
Might be the Evil Spirit’s artful snare;
I even schooled my heart to flee your beauty,
Thinking it was a bar to my salvation.
But soon, enlightened, O all lovely one,
I saw how this my passion may be blameless,
How I may make it fit with modesty,
And thus completely yield my heart to it.
’Tis I must own, a great presumption in me
To dare make you the offer of my heart;
My love hopes all things from your perfect goodness,
And nothing from my own poor weak endeavour.
You are my hope, my stay, my peace of heart;
On you depends my torment or my bliss;
And by your doom of judgment, I shall be
Blest, if you will; or damned, by your decree.

ELMIRE
Your declaration’s turned most gallantly;
But truly, it is just a bit surprising.
You should have better armed your heart, methinks,
And taken thought somewhat on such a matter.
A pious man like you, known everywhere …

TARTUFFE
Though pious, I am none the less a man;
And when a man beholds your heavenly charms,
The heart surrenders, and can think no more.
I know such words seem strange, coming from me;
But, madam, I’m no angel, after all;
If you condemn my frankly made avowal
You only have your charming self to blame.
Soon as I saw your more than human beauty,
You were thenceforth the sovereign of my soul;
Sweetness ineffable was in your eyes,
That took by storm my still resisting heart,
And conquered everything, fasts, prayers, and tears,
And turned my worship wholly to yourself.
My looks, my sighs, have spoke a thousand times;
Now, to express it all, my voice must speak.
If but you will look down with gracious favour
Upon the sorrows of your worthless slave,
If in your goodness you will give me comfort
And condescend unto my nothingness,
I’ll ever pay you, O sweet miracle,
An unexampled worship and devotion.
Then too, with me your honour runs no risk;
With me you need not fear a public scandal.
These court gallants, that women are so fond of,
Are boastful of their acts, and vain in speech;
They always brag in public of their progress;
Soon as a favour’s granted, they’ll divulge it;
Their tattling tongues, if you but trust to them,
Will foul the altar where their hearts have worshipped.
But men like me are so discreet in love,
That you may trust their lasting secrecy.
The care we take to guard our own good name
May fully guarantee the one we love;
So you may find, with hearts like ours sincere,
Love without scandal, pleasure without fear.

ELMIRE
I’ve heard you through — your speech is clear, at least.
But don’t you fear that I may take a fancy
To tell my husband of your gallant passion,
And that a prompt report of this affair
May somewhat change the friendship which he bears you?

TARTUFFE
I know that you’re too good and generous,
That you will pardon my temerity,
Excuse, upon the score of human frailty,
The violence of passion that offends you,
And not forget, when you consult your mirror,
That I’m not blind, and man is made of flesh.

ELMIRE
Some women might do otherwise, perhaps,
But I am willing to employ discretion,
And not repeat the matter to my husband;
But in return, I’ll ask one thing of you:
That you urge forward, frankly and sincerely,
The marriage of Valere to Mariane;
That you give up the unjust influence
By which you hope to win another’s rights;
And …

SCENE IV

ELMIRE, DAMIS, TARTUFFE

DAMIS (coming out of the closet-room where he had been hiding)
No, I say! This thing must be made public.
I was just there, and overheard it all;
And Heaven’s goodness must have brought me there
On purpose to confound this scoundrel’s pride
And grant me means to take a signal vengeance
On his hypocrisy and arrogance,
And undeceive my father, showing up
The rascal caught at making love to you.

ELMIRE
No, no; it is enough if he reforms,
Endeavouring to deserve the favour shown him.
And since I’ve promised, do not you belie me.
’Tis not my way to make a public scandal;
An honest wife will scorn to heed such follies,
And never fret her husband’s ears with them.

DAMIS
You’ve reasons of your own for acting thus;
And I have mine for doing otherwise.
To spare him now would be a mockery;
His bigot’s pride has triumphed all too long
Over my righteous anger, and has caused
Far too much trouble in our family.
The rascal all too long has ruled my father,
And crossed my sister’s love, and mine as well.
The traitor now must be unmasked before him:
And Providence has given me means to do it.
To Heaven I owe the opportunity,
And if I did not use it now I have it,
I should deserve to lose it once for all.

ELMIRE
Damis …

DAMIS
No, by your leave; I’ll not be counselled.
I’m overjoyed. You needn’t try to tell me
I must give up the pleasure of revenge.
I’ll make an end of this affair at once;
And, to content me, here’s my father now.

SCENE V

ORGON, ELMIRE, DAMIS, TARTUFFE

DAMIS
Father, we’ve news to welcome your arrival,
That’s altogether novel, and surprising.
You are well paid for your caressing care,
And this fine gentleman rewards your love
Most handsomely, with zeal that seeks no less
Than your dishonour, as has now been proven.
I’ve just surprised him making to your wife
The shameful offer of a guilty love.
She, somewhat over gentle and discreet,
Insisted that the thing should be concealed;
But I will not condone such shamelessness,
Nor so far wrong you as to keep it secret.

ELMIRE
Yes, I believe a wife should never trouble
Her husband’s peace of mind with such vain gossip;
A woman’s honour does not hang on telling;
It is enough if she defend herself;
Or so I think; Damis, you’d not have spoken,
If you would but have heeded my advice.

SCENE VI

ORGON, DAMIS, TARTUFFE

ORGON
Just Heaven! Can what I hear be credited?

TARTUFFE
Yes, brother, I am wicked, I am guilty,
A miserable sinner, steeped in evil,
The greatest criminal that ever lived.
Each moment of my life is stained with soilures;
And all is but a mass of crime and filth;
Heaven, for my punishment, I see it plainly,
Would mortify me now. Whatever wrong
They find to charge me with, I’ll not deny it
But guard against the pride of self-defence.
Believe their stories, arm your wrath against me,
And drive me like a villain from your house;
I cannot have so great a share of shame
But what I have deserved a greater still.

ORGON (to his son)
You miscreant, can you dare, with such a falsehood,
To try to stain the whiteness of his virtue?

DAMIS
What! The feigned meekness of this hypocrite
Makes you discredit …

ORGON
Silence, cursed plague!

TARTUFFE
Ah! Let him speak; you chide him wrongfully;
You’d do far better to believe his tales.
Why favour me so much in such a matter?
How can you know of what I’m capable?
And should you trust my outward semblance, brother,
Or judge therefrom that I’m the better man?
No, no; you let appearances deceive you;
I’m anything but what I’m thought to be,
Alas! and though all men believe me godly,
The simple truth is, I’m a worthless creature.

(To Damis)
Yes, my dear son, say on, and call me traitor,
Abandoned scoundrel, thief, and murderer;
Heap on me names yet more detestable,
And I shall not gainsay you; I’ve deserved them;
I’ll bear this ignominy on my knees,
To expiate in shame the crimes I’ve done.

ORGON (to Tartuffe)
Ah, brother, ’tis too much!

(To his son)
You’ll not relent,
You blackguard?

DAMIS
What! His talk can so deceive you …

ORGON
Silence, you scoundrel!

(To Tartuffe)
Brother, rise, I beg you.

(To his son)
Infamous villain!

DAMIS
Can he …

ORGON
Silence!

DAMIS
What …

ORGON
Another word, I’ll break your every bone.

TARTUFFE
Brother, in God’s name, don’t be angry with him!
I’d rather bear myself the bitterest torture
Than have him get a scratch on my account.

ORGON (to his son)
Ungrateful monster!

TARTUFFE
Stop. Upon my knees
I beg you pardon him …

ORGON (throwing himself on his knees too, and embracing Tartuffe)
Alas! How can you?

(To his son)
Villain! Behold his goodness!

DAMIS
So …

ORGON
Be still.

DAMIS
What! I …

ORGON
Be still, I say. I know your motives
For this attack. You hate him, all of you;
Wife, children, servants, all let loose upon him,
You have recourse to every shameful trick
To drive this godly man out of my house;
The more you strive to rid yourselves of him,
The more I’ll strive to make him stay with me;
I’ll have him straightway married to my daughter,
Just to confound the pride of all of you.

DAMIS
What! Will you force her to accept his hand?

ORGON
Yes, and this very evening, to enrage you,
Young rascal! Ah! I’ll brave you all, and show you
That I’m the master, and must be obeyed.
Now, down upon your knees this instant, rogue,
And take back what you said, and ask his pardon.

DAMIS
Who? I? Ask pardon of that cheating scoundrel … ?

ORGON
Do you resist, you beggar, and insult him?
A cudgel, here! a cudgel!

(To Tartuffe)
Don’t restrain me.

(To his son)
Off with you! Leave my house this instant, sirrah,
And never dare set foot in it again.

DAMIS
Yes, I will leave your house, but …

ORGON
Leave it quickly.
You reprobate, I disinherit you,
And give you, too, my curse into the bargain.

SCENE VII

ORGON, TARTUFFE

ORGON
What! So insult a saintly man of God!

TARTUFFE
Heaven, forgive him all the pain he gives me!

[Footnote 4: Some modern editions have adopted the reading, preserved by tradition as that of the earliest stage version: Heaven, forgive him even as I forgive him! Voltaire gives still another reading: Heaven, forgive me even as I forgive him! Whichever was the original version, it appears in none of the early editions, and Molière probably felt forced to change it on account of its too close resemblance to the Biblical phrase.]

(To Orgon)
Could you but know with what distress I see
Them try to vilify me to my brother!

ORGON
Ah!

TARTUFFE
The mere thought of such ingratitude
Makes my soul suffer torture, bitterly …
My horror at it … Ah! my heart’s so full
I cannot speak … I think I’ll die of it.

ORGON (in tears, running to the door through which he drove away his
son)
Scoundrel! I wish I’d never let you go,
But slain you on the spot with my own hand.

(To Tartuffe)
Brother, compose yourself, and don’t be angry.

TARTUFFE
Nay, brother, let us end these painful quarrels.
I see what troublous times I bring upon you,
And think ’tis needful that I leave this house.

ORGON
What! You can’t mean it?

TARTUFFE
Yes, they hate me here,
And try, I find, to make you doubt my faith.

ORGON
What of it? Do you find I listen to them?

TARTUFFE
No doubt they won’t stop there. These same reports
You now reject, may some day win a hearing.

ORGON
No, brother, never.

TARTUFFE
Ah! my friend, a woman
May easily mislead her husband’s mind.

ORGON
No, no.

TARTUFFE
So let me quickly go away
And thus remove all cause for such attacks.

ORGON
No, you shall stay; my life depends upon it.

TARTUFFE
Then I must mortify myself. And yet,
If you should wish …

ORGON
No, never!

TARTUFFE
Very well, then;
No more of that. But I shall rule my conduct
To fit the case. Honour is delicate,
And friendship binds me to forestall suspicion,
Prevent all scandal, and avoid your wife.

ORGON
No, you shall haunt her, just to spite them all.
’Tis my delight to set them in a rage;
You shall be seen together at all hours
And what is more, the better to defy them,
I’ll have no other heir but you; and straightway
I’ll go and make a deed of gift to you,
Drawn in due form, of all my property.
A good true friend, my son-in-law to be,
Is more to me than son, and wife, and kindred.
You will accept my offer, will you not?

TARTUFFE
Heaven’s will be done in everything!

ORGON
Poor man!
We’ll go make haste to draw the deed aright,
And then let envy burst itself with spite!

ACT IV

SCENE I

CLEANTE, TARTUFFE

CLEANTE
Yes, it’s become the talk of all the town,
And make a stir that’s scarcely to your credit;
And I have met you, sir, most opportunely,
To tell you in a word my frank opinion.
Not to sift out this scandal to the bottom,
Suppose the worst for us — suppose Damis
Acted the traitor, and accused you falsely;
Should not a Christian pardon this offence,
And stifle in his heart all wish for vengeance?
Should you permit that, for your petty quarrel,
A son be driven from his father’s house?
I tell you yet again, and tell you frankly,
Everyone, high or low, is scandalised;
If you’ll take my advice, you’ll make it up,
And not push matters to extremities.
Make sacrifice to God of your resentment;
Restore the son to favour with his father.

TARTUFFE
Alas! So far as I’m concerned, how gladly
Would I do so! I bear him no ill will;
I pardon all, lay nothing to his charge,
And wish with all my heart that I might serve him;
But Heaven’s interests cannot allow it;
If he returns, then I must leave the house.
After his conduct, quite unparalleled,
All intercourse between us would bring scandal;
God knows what everyone’s first thought would be!
They would attribute it to merest scheming
On my part — say that conscious of my guilt
I feigned a Christian love for my accuser,
But feared him in my heart, and hoped to win him
And underhandedly secure his silence.

CLEANTE
You try to put us off with specious phrases;
But all your arguments are too far-fetched.
Why take upon yourself the cause of Heaven?
Does Heaven need our help to punish sinners?
Leave to itself the care of its own vengeance,
And keep in mind the pardon it commands us;
Besides, think somewhat less of men’s opinions,
When you are following the will of Heaven.
Shall petty fear of what the world may think
Prevent the doing of a noble deed?
No! — let us always do as Heaven commands,
And not perplex our brains with further questions.

TARTUFFE
Already I have told you I forgive him;
And that is doing, sir, as Heaven commands.
But after this day’s scandal and affront
Heaven does not order me to live with him.

CLEANTE
And does it order you to lend your ear
To what mere whim suggested to his father,
And to accept gift of his estates,
On which, in justice, you can make no claim?

TARTUFFE
No one who knows me, sir, can have the thought
That I am acting from a selfish motive.
The goods of this world have no charms for me;
I am not dazzled by their treacherous glamour;
And if I bring myself to take the gift
Which he insists on giving me, I do so,
To tell the truth, only because I fear
This whole estate may fall into bad hands,
And those to whom it comes may use it ill
And not employ it, as is my design,
For Heaven’s glory and my neighbours’ good.

CLEANTE
Eh, sir, give up these conscientious scruples
That well may cause a rightful heir’s complaints.
Don’t take so much upon yourself, but let him
Possess what’s his, at his own risk and peril;
Consider, it were better he misused it,
Than you should be accused of robbing him.
I am astounded that unblushingly
You could allow such offers to be made!
Tell me — has true religion any maxim
That teaches us to rob the lawful heir?
If Heaven has made it quite impossible
Damis and you should live together here,
Were it not better you should quietly
And honourably withdraw, than let the son
Be driven out for your sake, dead against
All reason? ’Twould be giving, sir, believe me,
Such an example of your probity …

TARTUFFE
Sir, it is half-past three; certain devotions
Recall me to my closet; you’ll forgive me
For leaving you so soon.

CLEANTE (alone)
Ah!

SCENE II

ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE, DORINE

DORINE (to Cleante)
Sir, we beg you
To help us all you can in her behalf;
She’s suffering almost more than heart can bear;
This match her father means to make to-night
Drives her each moment to despair. He’s coming.
Let us unite our efforts now, we beg you,
And try by strength or skill to change his purpose.

SCENE III

ORGON, ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE, DORINE

ORGON
So ho! I’m glad to find you all together.

(To Mariane)
Here is the contract that shall make you happy,
My dear. You know already what it means.

MARIANE (on her knees before Orgon)
Father, I beg you, in the name of Heaven
That knows my grief, and by whate’er can move you,
Relax a little your paternal rights,
And free my love from this obedience!
Oh, do not make me, by your harsh command,
Complain to Heaven you ever were my father;
Do not make wretched this poor life you gave me.
If, crossing that fond hope which I had formed,
You’ll not permit me to belong to one
Whom I have dared to love, at least, I beg you
Upon my knees, oh, save me from the torment
Of being possessed by one whom I abhor!
And do not drive me to some desperate act
By exercising all your rights upon me.

ORGON (a little touched)
Come, come, my heart, be firm! no human weakness!

MARIANE
I am not jealous of your love for him;
Display it freely; give him your estate,
And if that’s not enough, add all of mine;
I willingly agree, and give it up,
If only you’ll not give him me, your daughter;
Oh, rather let a convent’s rigid rule
Wear out the wretched days that Heaven allots me.

ORGON
These girls are ninnies! — always turning nuns
When fathers thwart their silly love-affairs.
Get on your feet! The more you hate to have him,
The more ‘twill help you earn your soul’s salvation.
So, mortify your senses by this marriage,
And don’t vex me about it any more.

DORINE
But what … ?

ORGON
You hold your tongue, before your betters.
Don’t dare to say a single word, I tell you.

CLEANTE
If you will let me answer, and advise …

ORGON
Brother, I value your advice most highly;
’Tis well thought out; no better can be had;
But you’ll allow me — not to follow it.

ELMIRE (to her husband)
I can’t find words to cope with such a case;
Your blindness makes me quite astounded at you.
You are bewitched with him, to disbelieve
The things we tell you happened here to-day.

ORGON
I am your humble servant, and can see
Things, when they’re plain as noses on folks’ faces,
I know you’re partial to my rascal son,
And didn’t dare to disavow the trick
He tried to play on this poor man; besides,
You were too calm, to be believed; if that
Had happened, you’d have been far more disturbed.

ELMIRE
And must our honour always rush to arms
At the mere mention of illicit love?
Or can we answer no attack upon it
Except with blazing eyes and lips of scorn?
For my part, I just laugh away such nonsense;
I’ve no desire to make a loud to-do.
Our virtue should, I think, be gentle-natured;
Nor can I quite approve those savage prudes
Whose honour arms itself with teeth and claws
To tear men’s eyes out at the slightest word.
Heaven preserve me from that kind of honour!
I like my virtue not to be a vixen,
And I believe a quiet cold rebuff
No less effective to repulse a lover.

ORGON
I know … and you can’t throw me off the scent.

ELMIRE
Once more, I am astounded at your weakness;
I wonder what your unbelief would answer,
If I should let you see we’ve told the truth?

ORGON
See it?

ELMIRE
Yes.

ORGON
Nonsense.

ELMIRE
Come! If I should find
A way to make you see it clear as day?

ORGON
All rubbish.

ELMIRE
What a man! But answer me.
I’m not proposing now that you believe us;
But let’s suppose that here, from proper hiding,
You should be made to see and hear all plainly;
What would you say then, to your man of virtue?

ORGON
Why, then, I’d say … say nothing. It can’t be.

ELMIRE
Your error has endured too long already,
And quite too long you’ve branded me a liar.
I must at once, for my own satisfaction,
Make you a witness of the things we’ve told you.

ORGON
Amen! I take you at your word. We’ll see
What tricks you have, and how you’ll keep your promise.

ELMIRE (to Dorine)
Send him to me.

DORINE (to Elmire)
The man’s a crafty codger,
Perhaps you’ll find it difficult to catch him.

ELMIRE (to Dorine)
Oh no! A lover’s never hard to cheat,
And self-conceit leads straight to self-deceit.
Bid him come down to me.

(To Cleante and Mariane)
And you, withdraw.

SCENE IV

ELMIRE, ORGON

ELMIRE
Bring up this table, and get under it.

ORGON
What?

ELMIRE
One essential is to hide you well.

ORGON
Why under there?

ELMIRE
Oh, dear! Do as I say;
I know what I’m about, as you shall see.
Get under, now, I tell you; and once there
Be careful no one either sees or hears you.

ORGON
I’m going a long way to humour you,
I must say; but I’ll see you through your scheme.

ELMIRE
And then you’ll have, I think, no more to say.

(To her husband, who is now under the table.)
But mind, I’m going to meddle with strange matters;
Prepare yourself to be in no wise shocked.
Whatever I may say must pass, because
’Tis only to convince you, as I promised.
By wheedling speeches, since I’m forced to do it,
I’ll make this hypocrite put off his mask,
Flatter the longings of his shameless passion,
And give free play to all his impudence.
But, since ’tis for your sake, to prove to you
His guilt, that I shall feign to share his love,
I can leave off as soon as you’re convinced,
And things shall go no farther than you choose.
So, when you think they’ve gone quite far enough,
It is for you to stop his mad pursuit,
To spare your wife, and not expose me farther
Than you shall need, yourself, to undeceive you.
It is your own affair, and you must end it
When … Here he comes. Keep still, don’t show yourself.

SCENE V

TARTUFFE, ELMIRE; ORGON (under the table)

TARTUFFE
They told me that you wished to see me here.

ELMIRE
Yes. I have secrets for your ear alone.
But shut the door first, and look everywhere
For fear of spies.

(Tartuffe goes and closes the door, and comes back.)
We surely can’t afford
Another scene like that we had just now;
Was ever anyone so caught before!
Damis did frighten me most terribly
On your account; you saw I did my best
To baffle his design, and calm his anger.
But I was so confused, I never thought
To contradict his story; still, thank Heaven,
Things turned out all the better, as it happened,
And now we’re on an even safer footing.
The high esteem you’re held in, laid the storm;
My husband can have no suspicion of you,
And even insists, to spite the scandal-mongers,
That we shall be together constantly;
So that is how, without the risk of blame,
I can be here locked up with you alone,
And can reveal to you my heart, perhaps
Only too ready to allow your passion.

TARTUFFE
Your words are somewhat hard to understand,
Madam; just now you used a different style.

ELMIRE
If that refusal has offended you,
How little do you know a woman’s heart!
How ill you guess what it would have you know,
When it presents so feeble a defence!
Always, at first, our modesty resists
The tender feelings you inspire us with.
Whatever cause we find to justify
The love that masters us, we still must feel
Some little shame in owning it; and strive
To make as though we would not, when we would.
But from the very way we go about it
We let a lover know our heart surrenders,
The while our lips, for honour’s sake, oppose
Our heart’s desire, and in refusing promise.
I’m telling you my secret all too freely
And with too little heed to modesty.
But — now that I’ve made bold to speak — pray tell me.
Should I have tried to keep Damis from speaking,
Should I have heard the offer of your heart
So quietly, and suffered all your pleading,
And taken it just as I did — remember —
If such a declaration had not pleased me,
And, when I tried my utmost to persuade you
Not to accept the marriage that was talked of,
What should my earnestness have hinted to you
If not the interest that you’ve inspired,
And my chagrin, should such a match compel me
To share a heart I want all to myself?

TARTUFFE
’Tis, past a doubt, the height of happiness,
To hear such words from lips we dote upon;
Their honeyed sweetness pours through all my senses
Long draughts of suavity ineffable.
My heart employs its utmost zeal to please you,
And counts your love its one beatitude;
And yet that heart must beg that you allow it
To doubt a little its felicity.
I well might think these words an honest trick
To make me break off this approaching marriage;
And if I may express myself quite plainly,
I cannot trust these too enchanting words
Until the granting of some little favour
I sigh for, shall assure me of their truth
And build within my soul, on firm foundations,
A lasting faith in your sweet charity.

ELMIRE (coughing to draw her husband’s attention)
What! Must you go so fast? — and all at once
Exhaust the whole love of a woman’s heart?
She does herself the violence to make
This dear confession of her love, and you
Are not yet satisfied, and will not be
Without the granting of her utmost favours?

TARTUFFE
The less a blessing is deserved, the less
We dare to hope for it; and words alone
Can ill assuage our love’s desires. A fate
Too full of happiness, seems doubtful still;
We must enjoy it ere we can believe it.
And I, who know how little I deserve
Your goodness, doubt the fortunes of my daring;
So I shall trust to nothing, madam, till
You have convinced my love by something real.

ELMIRE
Ah! How your love enacts the tyrant’s role,
And throws my mind into a strange confusion!
With what fierce sway it rules a conquered heart,
And violently will have its wishes granted!
What! Is there no escape from your pursuit?
No respite even? — not a breathing space?
Nay, is it decent to be so exacting,
And so abuse by urgency the weakness
You may discover in a woman’s heart?

TARTUFFE
But if my worship wins your gracious favour,
Then why refuse me some sure proof thereof?

ELMIRE
But how can I consent to what you wish,
Without offending Heaven you talk so much of?

TARTUFFE
If Heaven is all that stands now in my way,
I’ll easily remove that little hindrance;
Your heart need not hold back for such a trifle.

ELMIRE
But they affright us so with Heaven’s commands!

TARTUFFE
I can dispel these foolish fears, dear madam;
I know the art of pacifying scruples
Heaven forbids, ’tis true, some satisfactions;
But we find means to make things right with Heaven.

(’Tis a scoundrel speaking.)

[Footnote 5: Molière’s note, in the original edition.]

There is a science, madam, that instructs us
How to enlarge the limits of our conscience
According to our various occasions,
And rectify the evil of the deed
According to our purity of motive.
I’ll duly teach you all these secrets, madam;
You only need to let yourself be guided.
Content my wishes, have no fear at all;
I answer for’t, and take the sin upon me.

(Elmire coughs still louder.)
Your cough is very bad.

ELMIRE
Yes, I’m in torture.

TARTUFFE
Would you accept this bit of licorice?

ELMIRE
The case is obstinate, I find; and all
The licorice in the world will do no good.

TARTUFFE
’Tis very trying.

ELMIRE
More than words can say.

TARTUFFE
In any case, your scruple’s easily
Removed. With me you’re sure of secrecy,
And there’s no harm unless a thing is known.
The public scandal is what brings offence,
And secret sinning is not sin at all.

ELMIRE (after coughing again)
So then, I see I must resolve to yield;
I must consent to grant you everything,
And cannot hope to give full satisfaction
Or win full confidence, at lesser cost.
No doubt ’tis very hard to come to this;
’Tis quite against my will I go so far;
But since I must be forced to it, since nothing
That can be said suffices for belief,
Since more convincing proof is still demanded,
I must make up my mind to humour people.
If my consent give reason for offence,
So much the worse for him who forced me to it;
The fault can surely not be counted mine.

TARTUFFE
It need not, madam; and the thing itself …

ELMIRE
Open the door, I pray you, and just see
Whether my husband’s not there, in the hall.

TARTUFFE
Why take such care for him? Between ourselves,
He is a man to lead round by the nose.
He’s capable of glorying in our meetings;
I’ve fooled him so, he’d see all, and deny it.

ELMIRE
No matter; go, I beg you, look about,
And carefully examine every corner.

SCENE VI

ORGON, ELMIRE

ORGON (crawling out from under the table)
That is, I own, a man … abominable!
I can’t get over it; the whole thing floors me.

ELMIRE
What? You come out so soon? You cannot mean it!
Get back under the table; ’tis not time yet;
Wait till the end, to see, and make quite certain,
And don’t believe a thing on mere conjecture.

ORGON
Nothing more wicked e’er came out of Hell.

ELMIRE
Dear me! Don’t go and credit things too lightly.
No, let yourself be thoroughly convinced;
Don’t yield too soon, for fear you’ll be mistaken.

(As Tartuffe enters, she makes her husband stand behind her.)

SCENE VII

TARTUFFE, ELMIRE, ORGON

TARTUFFE (not seeing Orgon)
All things conspire toward my satisfaction,
Madam, I’ve searched the whole apartment through.
There’s no one here; and now my ravished soul …

ORGON (stopping him)
Softly! You are too eager in your amours;
You needn’t be so passionate. Ah ha!
My holy man! You want to put it on me!
How is your soul abandoned to temptation!
Marry my daughter, eh? — and want my wife, too?
I doubted long enough if this was earnest,
Expecting all the time the tone would change;
But now the proof’s been carried far enough;
I’m satisfied, and ask no more, for my part.

ELMIRE (to Tartuffe)
’Twas quite against my character to play
This part; but I was forced to treat you so.

TARTUFFE
What? You believe … ?

ORGON
Come, now, no protestations.
Get out from here, and make no fuss about it.

TARTUFFE
But my intent …

ORGON
That talk is out of season.
You leave my house this instant.

TARTUFFE
You’re the one
To leave it, you who play the master here!
This house belongs to me, I’ll have you know,
And show you plainly it’s no use to turn
To these low tricks, to pick a quarrel with me,
And that you can’t insult me at your pleasure,
For I have wherewith to confound your lies,
Avenge offended Heaven, and compel
Those to repent who talk to me of leaving.

SCENE VIII

ELMIRE, ORGON

ELMIRE
What sort of speech is this? What can it mean?

ORGON
My faith, I’m dazed. This is no laughing matter.

ELMIRE
What?

ORGON
From his words I see my great mistake;
The deed of gift is one thing troubles me.

ELMIRE
The deed of gift …

ORGON
Yes, that is past recall.
But I’ve another thing to make me anxious.

ELMIRE
What’s that?

ORGON
You shall know all. Let’s see at once
Whether a certain box is still upstairs.

ACT V

SCENE I

ORGON, CLEANTE

CLEANTE
Whither away so fast?

ORGON
How should I know?

CLEANTE
Methinks we should begin by taking counsel
To see what can be done to meet the case.

ORGON
I’m all worked up about that wretched box.
More than all else it drives me to despair.

CLEANTE
That box must hide some mighty mystery?

ORGON
Argas, my friend who is in trouble, brought it
Himself, most secretly, and left it with me.
He chose me, in his exile, for this trust;
And on these documents, from what he said,
I judge his life and property depend.

CLEANTE
How could you trust them to another’s hands?

ORGON
By reason of a conscientious scruple.
I went straight to my traitor, to confide
In him; his sophistry made me believe
That I must give the box to him to keep,
So that, in case of search, I might deny
My having it at all, and still, by favour
Of this evasion, keep my conscience clear
Even in taking oath against the truth.

CLEANTE
Your case is bad, so far as I can see;
This deed of gift, this trusting of the secret
To him, were both — to state my frank opinion —
Steps that you took too lightly; he can lead you
To any length, with these for hostages;
And since he holds you at such disadvantage,
You’d be still more imprudent, to provoke him;
So you must go some gentler way about.

ORGON
What! Can a soul so base, a heart so false,
Hide neath the semblance of such touching fervour?
I took him in, a vagabond, a beggar! …
’Tis too much! No more pious folk for me!
I shall abhor them utterly forever,
And henceforth treat them worse than any devil.

CLEANTE
So! There you go again, quite off the handle!
In nothing do you keep an even temper.
You never know what reason is, but always
Jump first to one extreme, and then the other.
You see your error, and you recognise
That you’ve been cozened by a feigned zeal;
But to make up for’t, in the name of reason,
Why should you plunge into a worse mistake,
And find no difference in character
Between a worthless scamp, and all good people?
What! Just because a rascal boldly duped you
With pompous show of false austerity,
Must you needs have it everybody’s like him,
And no one’s truly pious nowadays?
Leave such conclusions to mere infidels;
Distinguish virtue from its counterfeit,
Don’t give esteem too quickly, at a venture,
But try to keep, in this, the golden mean.
If you can help it, don’t uphold imposture;
But do not rail at true devoutness, either;
And if you must fall into one extreme,
Then rather err again the other way.

SCENE II

DAMIS, ORGON, CLEANTE

DAMIS
What! father, can the scoundrel threaten you,
Forget the many benefits received,
And in his base abominable pride
Make of your very favours arms against you?

ORGON
Too true, my son. It tortures me to think on’t.

DAMIS
Let me alone, I’ll chop his ears off for him.
We must deal roundly with his insolence;
’Tis I must free you from him at a blow;
’Tis I, to set things right, must strike him down.

CLEANTE
Spoke like a true young man. Now just calm down,
And moderate your towering tantrums, will you?
We live in such an age, with such a king,
That violence can not advance our cause.

SCENE III

MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON, ELMIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, DAMIS, DORINE

MADAME PERNELLE
What’s this? I hear of fearful mysteries!

ORGON
Strange things indeed, for my own eyes to witness;
You see how I’m requited for my kindness,
I zealously receive a wretched beggar,
I lodge him, entertain him like my brother,
Load him with benefactions every day,
Give him my daughter, give him all my fortune:
And he meanwhile, the villain, rascal, wretch,
Tries with black treason to suborn my wife,
And not content with such a foul design,
He dares to menace me with my own favours,
And would make use of those advantages
Which my too foolish kindness armed him with,
To ruin me, to take my fortune from me,
And leave me in the state I saved him from.

DORINE
Poor man!

MADAME PERNELLE
My son, I cannot possibly
Believe he could intend so black a deed.

ORGON
What?

MADAME PERNELLE
Worthy men are still the sport of envy.

ORGON
Mother, what do you mean by such a speech?

MADAME PERNELLE
There are strange goings-on about your house,
And everybody knows your people hate him.

ORGON
What’s that to do with what I tell you now?

MADAME PERNELLE
I always said, my son, when you were little:
That virtue here below is hated ever;
The envious may die, but envy never.

ORGON
What’s that fine speech to do with present facts?

MADAME PERNELLE
Be sure, they’ve forged a hundred silly lies …

ORGON
I’ve told you once, I saw it all myself.

MADAME PERNELLE
For slanderers abound in calumnies …

ORGON
Mother, you’d make me damn my soul. I tell you
I saw with my own eyes his shamelessness.

MADAME PERNELLE
Their tongues for spitting venom never lack,
There’s nothing here below they’ll not attack.

ORGON
Your speech has not a single grain of sense.
I saw it, harkee, saw it, with these eyes
I saw — d’ye know what saw means? — must I say it
A hundred times, and din it in your ears?

MADAME PERNELLE
My dear, appearances are oft deceiving,
And seeing shouldn’t always be believing.

ORGON
I’ll go mad.

MADAME PERNELLE
False suspicions may delude,
And good to evil oft is misconstrued.

ORGON
Must I construe as Christian charity
The wish to kiss my wife!

MADAME PERNELLE
You must, at least,
Have just foundation for accusing people,
And wait until you see a thing for sure.

ORGON
The devil! How could I see any surer?
Should I have waited till, before my eyes,
He … No, you’ll make me say things quite improper.

MADAME PERNELLE
In short, ’tis known too pure a zeal inflames him;
And so, I cannot possibly conceive
That he should try to do what’s charged against him.

ORGON
If you were not my mother, I should say
Such things! … I know not what, I’m so enraged!

DORINE (to Orgon)
Fortune has paid you fair, to be so doubted;
You flouted our report, now yours is flouted.

CLEANTE
We’re wasting time here in the merest trifling,
Which we should rather use in taking measures
To guard ourselves against the scoundrel’s threats.

DAMIS
You think his impudence could go far?

ELMIRE
For one, I can’t believe it possible;
Why, his ingratitude would be too patent.

CLEANTE
Don’t trust to that; he’ll find abundant warrant
To give good colour to his acts against you;
And for less cause than this, a strong cabal
Can make one’s life a labyrinth of troubles.
I tell you once again: armed as he is
You never should have pushed him quite so far.

ORGON
True; yet what could I do? The rascal’s pride
Made me lose all control of my resentment.

CLEANTE
I wish with all my heart that some pretence
Of peace could be patched up between you two

ELMIRE
If I had known what weapons he was armed with,
I never should have raised such an alarm,
And my …

ORGON (to Dorine, seeing Mr. Loyal come in)
Who’s coming now? Go quick, find out.
I’m in a fine state to receive a visit!

SCENE IV

ORGON, MADAME PERNELLE, ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE, DAMIS, DORINE, MR. LOYAL

MR. LOYAL (to Dorine, at the back of the stage)
Good day, good sister. Pray you, let me see
The master of the house.

DORINE
He’s occupied;
I think he can see nobody at present.

MR. LOYAL
I’m not by way of being unwelcome here.
My coming can, I think, nowise displease him;
My errand will be found to his advantage.

DORINE
Your name, then?

MR. LOYAL
Tell him simply that his friend
Mr. Tartuffe has sent me, for his goods …

DORINE (to Orgon)
It is a man who comes, with civil manners,
Sent by Tartuffe, he says, upon an errand
That you’ll be pleased with.

CLEANTE (to Orgon)
Surely you must see him,
And find out who he is, and what he wants.

ORGON (to Cleante)
Perhaps he’s come to make it up between us:
How shall I treat him?

CLEANTE
You must not get angry;
And if he talks of reconciliation
Accept it.

MR. LOYAL (to Orgon)
Sir, good-day. And Heaven send
Harm to your enemies, favour to you.

ORGON (aside to Cleante)
This mild beginning suits with my conjectures
And promises some compromise already.

MR. LOYAL
All of your house has long been dear to me;
I had the honour, sir, to serve your father.

ORGON
Sir, I am much ashamed, and ask your pardon
For not recalling now your face or name.

MR. LOYAL
My name is Loyal. I’m from Normandy.
My office is court-bailiff, in despite
Of envy; and for forty years, thank Heaven,
It’s been my fortune to perform that office
With honour. So I’ve come, sir, by your leave
To render service of a certain writ …

ORGON
What, you are here to …

MR. LOYAL
Pray, sir, don’t be angry.
’Tis nothing, sir, but just a little summons: —
Order to vacate, you and yours, this house,
Move out your furniture, make room for others,
And that without delay or putting off,
As needs must be …

ORGON
I? Leave this house?

MR. LOYAL
Yes, please, sir
The house is now, as you well know, of course,
Mr. Tartuffe’s. And he, beyond dispute,
Of all your goods is henceforth lord and master
By virtue of a contract here attached,
Drawn in due form, and unassailable.

DAMIS (to Mr. Loyal)
Your insolence is monstrous, and astounding!

MR. LOYAL (to Damis)
I have no business, sir, that touches you;

(Pointing to Orgon)
This is the gentleman. He’s fair and courteous,
And knows too well a gentleman’s behaviour
To wish in any wise to question justice.

ORGON
But …

MR. LOYAL
Sir, I know you would not for a million
Wish to rebel; like a good citizen
You’ll let me put in force the court’s decree.

DAMIS
Your long black gown may well, before you know it,
Mister Court-bailiff, get a thorough beating.

MR. LOYAL (to Orgon)
Sir, make your son be silent or withdraw.
I should be loath to have to set things down,
And see your names inscribed in my report.

DORINE (aside)
This Mr. Loyal’s looks are most disloyal.

MR. LOYAL
I have much feeling for respectable
And honest folk like you, sir, and consented
To serve these papers, only to oblige you,
And thus prevent the choice of any other
Who, less possessed of zeal for you than I am
Might order matters in less gentle fashion.

ORGON
And how could one do worse than order people
Out of their house?

MR. LOYAL
Why, we allow you time;
And even will suspend until to-morrow
The execution of the order, sir.
I’ll merely, without scandal, quietly,
Come here and spend the night, with half a score
Of officers; and just for form’s sake, please,
You’ll bring your keys to me, before retiring.
I will take care not to disturb your rest,
And see there’s no unseemly conduct here.
But by to-morrow, and at early morning,
You must make haste to move your least belongings;
My men will help you — I have chosen strong ones
To serve you, sir, in clearing out the house.
No one could act more generously, I fancy,
And, since I’m treating you with great indulgence,
I beg you’ll do as well by me, and see
I’m not disturbed in my discharge of duty.

ORGON
I’d give this very minute, and not grudge it,
The hundred best gold louis I have left,
If I could just indulge myself, and land
My fist, for one good square one, on his snout.

CLEANTE (aside to Orgon)
Careful! — don’t make things worse.

DAMIS
Such insolence!
I hardly can restrain myself. My hands
Are itching to be at him.

DORINE
By my faith,
With such a fine broad back, good Mr. Loyal,
A little beating would become you well.

MR. LOYAL
My girl, such infamous words are actionable.
And warrants can be issued against women.

CLEANTE (to Mr. Loyal)
Enough of this discussion, sir; have done.
Give us the paper, and then leave us, pray.

MR. LOYAL
Then au revoir. Heaven keep you from disaster!

ORGON
May Heaven confound you both, you and your master!

SCENE V

ORGON, MADAME PERNELLE, ELMIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, DAMIS, DORINE

ORGON
Well, mother, am I right or am I not?
This writ may help you now to judge the matter.
Or don’t you see his treason even yet?

MADAME PERNELLE
I’m all amazed, befuddled, and beflustered!

DORINE (to Orgon)
You are quite wrong, you have no right to blame him;
This action only proves his good intentions.
Love for his neighbour makes his virtue perfect;
And knowing money is a root of evil,
In Christian charity, he’d take away
Whatever things may hinder your salvation.

ORGON
Be still. You always need to have that told you.

CLEANTE (to Orgon)
Come, let us see what course you are to follow.

ELMIRE
Go and expose his bold ingratitude.
Such action must invalidate the contract;
His perfidy must now appear too black
To bring him the success that he expects.

SCENE VI

VALERE, ORGON, MADAME PERNELLE, ELMIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, DAMIS, DORINE

VALERE
’Tis with regret, sir, that I bring bad news;
But urgent danger forces me to do so.
A close and intimate friend of mine, who knows
The interest I take in what concerns you,
Has gone so far, for my sake, as to break
The secrecy that’s due to state affairs,
And sent me word but now, that leaves you only
The one expedient of sudden flight.
The villain who so long imposed upon you,
Found means, an hour ago, to see the prince,
And to accuse you (among other things)
By putting in his hands the private strong-box
Of a state-criminal, whose guilty secret,
You, failing in your duty as a subject,
(He says) have kept. I know no more of it
Save that a warrant’s drawn against you, sir,
And for the greater surety, that same rascal
Comes with the officer who must arrest you.

CLEANTE
His rights are armed; and this is how the scoundrel
Seeks to secure the property he claims.

ORGON
Man is a wicked animal, I’ll own it!

VALERE
The least delay may still be fatal, sir.
I have my carriage, and a thousand louis,
Provided for your journey, at the door.
Let’s lose no time; the bolt is swift to strike,
And such as only flight can save you from.
I’ll be your guide to seek a place of safety,
And stay with you until you reach it, sir.

ORGON
How much I owe to your obliging care!
Another time must serve to thank you fitly;
And I pray Heaven to grant me so much favour
That I may some day recompense your service.
Good-bye; see to it, all of you …

CLEANTE
Come hurry;
We’ll see to everything that’s needful, brother.

SCENE VII

TARTUFFE, AN OFFICER, MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON, ELMIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, VALERE, DAMIS, DORINE

TARTUFFE (stopping Orgon)
Softly, sir, softly; do not run so fast;
You haven’t far to go to find your lodging;
By order of the prince, we here arrest you.

ORGON
Traitor! You saved this worst stroke for the last;
This crowns your perfidies, and ruins me.

TARTUFFE
I shall not be embittered by your insults,
For Heaven has taught me to endure all things.

CLEANTE
Your moderation, I must own, is great.

DAMIS
How shamelessly the wretch makes bold with Heaven!

TARTUFFE
Your ravings cannot move me; all my thought
Is but to do my duty.

MARIANE
You must claim
Great glory from this honourable act.

TARTUFFE
The act cannot be aught but honourable,
Coming from that high power which sends me here.

ORGON
Ungrateful wretch, do you forget ’twas I
That rescued you from utter misery?

TARTUFFE
I’ve not forgot some help you may have given;
But my first duty now is toward my prince.
The higher power of that most sacred claim
Must stifle in my heart all gratitude;
And to such puissant ties I’d sacrifice
My friend, my wife, my kindred, and myself.

ELMIRE
The hypocrite!

DORINE
How well he knows the trick
Of cloaking him with what we most revere!

CLEANTE
But if the motive that you make parade of
Is perfect as you say, why should it wait
To show itself, until the day he caught you
Soliciting his wife? How happens it
You have not thought to go inform against him
Until his honour forces him to drive you
Out of his house? And though I need not mention
That he’d just given you his whole estate,
Still, if you meant to treat him now as guilty,
How could you then consent to take his gift?

TARTUFFE (to the Officer)
Pray, sir, deliver me from all this clamour;
Be good enough to carry out your order.

THE OFFICER
Yes, I’ve too long delayed its execution;
’Tis very fitting you should urge me to it;
So therefore, you must follow me at once
To prison, where you’ll find your lodging ready.

TARTUFFE
Who? I, sir?

THE OFFICER
You.

TARTUFFE
By why to prison?

THE OFFICER
You
Are not the one to whom I owe account.
You, sir (to Orgon), recover from your hot alarm.
Our prince is not a friend to double dealing,
His eyes can read men’s inmost hearts, and all
The art of hypocrites cannot deceive him.
His sharp discernment sees things clear and true;
His mind cannot too easily be swayed,
For reason always holds the balance even.
He honours and exalts true piety,
But knows the false, and views it with disgust.
This fellow was by no means apt to fool him,
Far subtler snares have failed against his wisdom,
And his quick insight pierced immediately
The hidden baseness of this tortuous heart.
Accusing you, the knave betrayed himself,
And by true recompense of Heaven’s justice
He stood revealed before our monarch’s eyes
A scoundrel known before by other names,
Whose horrid crimes, detailed at length, might fill
A long-drawn history of many volumes.
Our monarch — to resolve you in a word —
Detesting his ingratitude and baseness,
Added this horror to his other crimes,
And sent me hither under his direction
To see his insolence out-top itself,
And force him then to give you satisfaction.
Your papers, which the traitor says are his,
I am to take from him, and give you back;
The deed of gift transferring your estate
Our monarch’s sovereign will makes null and void;
And for the secret personal offence
Your friend involved you in, he pardons you:
Thus he rewards your recent zeal, displayed
In helping to maintain his rights, and shows
How well his heart, when it is least expected,
Knows how to recompense a noble deed,
And will not let true merit miss its due,
Remembering always rather good than evil.

DORINE
Now Heaven be praised!

MADAME PERNELLE
At last I breathe again.

ELMIRE
A happy outcome!

MARIANE
Who’d have dared to hope it?

ORGON (to Tartuffe, who is being led by the officer)
There traitor! Now you’re …

SCENE VIII

MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON, ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE, VALERE, DAMIS, DORINE

CLEANTE
Brother, hold! — and don’t
Descend to such indignities, I beg you.
Leave the poor wretch to his unhappy fate,
And let remorse oppress him, but not you.
Hope rather that his heart may now return
To virtue, hate his vice, reform his ways,
And win the pardon of our glorious prince;
While you must straightway go, and on your knees
Repay with thanks his noble generous kindness.

ORGON
Well said! We’ll go, and at his feet kneel down,
With joy to thank him for his goodness shown;
And this first duty done, with honours due,
We’ll then attend upon another, too.
With wedded happiness reward Valere,
And crown a lover noble and sincere.

Don Juan; or, The Stone Banquet

Dom Juan ou Le Festin de pierre

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

APPENDIX.

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

AFTER MOLIÈRE HAD written Tartuffe, he found it impossible to get permission to play it; all his attempts were in vain; the clerical party was too strong for him; he therefore resolved to write a counterpart to it, in Don Juan, or the Feast with the Statue. This play was acted for the first time on the 15th of February 1665. It contains, perhaps, more severe attacks upon hypocrisy than does even Tartuffe. It depicts the hero as a man who, rich, noble, powerful, and bold, respects neither heaven nor earth, and knows no bounds to the gratification of his desires or his passions. He has excellent manners, but abominable principles; he is “a whited sepulchre,” and abuses the privileges of nobility without acknowledging its obligations or its duties. Molière sketches no longer the nobleman as ridiculous, but makes him terrible, and shows that his exaggerated hatred of cant leads to the commission of the greatest immoralities, and to Atheism. After having seduced and abandoned many fair maids; after having insulted his father, and openly flaunted the most sceptical doctrines, Don Juan turns hypocrite; for hypocrisy is the climax of all vices. But although the hero of the play is young, elegant, and profligate, Molière makes us feel all the while that, underneath that charming exterior lurks something venomous. No doubt he is witty, but too sarcastic to be pleasant. He is sensual, but less than is generally thought. He is not so much a libertine, as a man who loves to set all rules of decency, order, and morality at defiance. What attracts him is something eccentric, violent, and scandalous. He likes to seduce a nun, or an innocent country girl, who is already engaged; and this not through mere lust, but in order to prove that he can trample upon all human laws; just as he invites to supper the statue of a man whom he has killed, and plays the hypocrite in order to show his scorn for all divine laws. He is not a follower of the modern romantic school, always in pursuit of an eternal idea of beauty, and fluttering from flower to flower; he has arrived at that stage of satiety that only the pangs of his victims can produce any emotion in him. This is proved by the remark he makes to Sganarelle on beholding Donna Elvira (Act i., Scene 2, page 110). He has something of the cruelty of Lovelace in Richardson’s Clarissa Harlowe, and, like him, is faithful to his friends, generous to his enemies, but at the same time cowardly enough to sacrifice any woman to his caprices.

But Molière has not made the hero coarse or ribald; his language is always well chosen; and although his morality may be offensive, his manners are never so. The style of his speech is generally masterly, often eloquent, and not seldom characteristic of his sneering, insolent, cruel, hypocritical feelings. The author sometimes borders upon almost forbidden ground, as, for example, when Don Juan, after having witnessed the “surprising miracle of a moving and speaking statue,” says—” There is really something in that which I do not understand; but, whatever it may be, it is not capable either of convincing my judgment, or of shaking my nerves.”

And yet this play made far less sensation than Tartuffe, and its representations were never forbidden. The reason of this is simple; Don Juan attacked an abstract idea, but Tartuffe satirised a particular class, “the unco guid.”

This drama came originally from Spain. A very old legend relates how one of the twenty-four governors of Sevilla, Don Juan de Tenorio, ran away with the daughter of the venerable Commander Gonzalo de Ulloa, whom he killed in a duel, and who was buried in the church of the Franciscans, where a splendid tomb and statue were erected to him. For some time, the murderer, thanks to the privileges of his rank and the influence of his family, set at nought human justice, when a rumour was circulated that, Don Juan having dared to insult the statue of his victim, the latter had come down from his marble tomb, had seized the impious wretch, and had precipitated him to the uttermost depths of the infernal regions. Those who said that he had been allured into the church, under some pretext or other, and slain there, were declared unbelievers and sceptics.

One of the Spanish dramatists, friar Gabriel Tellez, who lived at the beginning of the sixteenth century, wrote, under the name of Tirso de Molina, a comedy on this legend, which he divided into three jornados or days, and which he called The Seducer of Sevilla and the Stone Quest.

The action opens at Naples, where a certain Duchess Isabella, of whom Don Juan, under the feigned name of Duke Ottavio, has taken advantage, complains loudly to the king, who orders the guilty one to be seized. The seducer escapes, and is shipwrecked on the coast of Tarragona, in Spain, where he meets a young fisherman’s daughter, Tisbea, whom he seduces under promise of marriage, and who, when undeceived, throws herself into the sea. We next meet him at Sevilla, where, under the name and the disguise of his friend, the Marquis de la Mota, he treats Donna Anna, the daughter of the Commander de Ulloa, as he had treated Isabella. He then kills the Commander, and anew takes flight into the country, where he meets Aminta, who also falls a victim to his usual method of promising marriage. Don Juan secretly returns to Sevilla, and sees in the church the mausoleum of the Commander de Ulloa, hearing the inscription: “Here the most loyal of gentlemen awaits until God shall avenge him on a traitor. Don Juan and his servant, Catalinon, insult him and invite him to supper. The statue makes its appearance, and requests Don Juan to come to feast with him the next evening at ten o’clock in the chapel. He goes, and the seventeenth scene of the third day shows us the funereal feast, in which Don Juan and the statue sup on scorpions and vipers, drink gall and vinegar; and in which, finally, the libertine repents, and asks for a priest to be confessed and to receive absolution. The last scene of the play represents the Alcazar at Sevilla, where the king repairs the crimes of Don Juan by giving all his victims away in marriage, and commands the tomb and statue of the Commander to be brought to Madrid, to remain there as a warning for all time. The Spanish Don Juan is not a heartless and deliberate seducer, a thorough unbeliever, but an easygoing fellow, swayed by his passions, who does not repent because he thinks he has sufficient time for it, and at the final catastrophe proves himself a good Roman Catholic. Moreover, he meets the statue, not because he disbelieves in miracles, but because he has given his word to come, and “the dead man might otherwise have the right to call (him) me infamous.” The impression which the Spanish play leaves on the mind is eminently a religious one, and must have been strongly felt at the time it was written, — a feeling enhanced by the scene in the chapel, with the moonlight shining through the stained glass windows, and the chorus singing: “Let those who flee from the punishments of God, know that there is no term nor debt which must not be paid. No mortal living should say, ‘I have time before me,’ for the time of repentance is so short.”

From Spain, this drama went to Italy, where Onifrio Giliberti wrote an imitation of the Spanish play, called II Convitato di pietra, and which was performed in 1652, in which Don Juan appears as a highborn free-lover, making fun of everything, and even of the gods. In 1657, the Italian actors of Torelli, who played at the Théâtre du petit Bourbon, in Paris, gave a harlequinade, based on Giliberti’s imitation. This piece was full of broad fun; and Arlequin, the servant, is the principal character, whose chief business seems to be to crack jokes and to indulge in practical horse-play.

The actor Dorimond, in 1658, translated the Italian play for the comedians of Mademoiselle (see Prefatory Memoir, Vol. I., page xxiv., note 7), who were then at Lyons, and brought it to Paris in 1661. The translator made a blunder in the very title of the piece. Ilconvitato means “The guest;” but Dorimond thought it meant “feast,” which was in old French convive, and in Italian convito, and thus gave to his piece the title, Le Festin de Pierre, the Stone Feast. This play was printed only in 1665, after the great success which Molière’s comedy obtained. Villiers also versified an imitation of Giliberti’s comedy for the actora of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, with the same title as Dorimond’s, and which was printed in 1660. It is probable that the Spanish actors, who appeared in France in 1659, on the occasion of the marriage of Louis XIV. with the Infanta Maria Theresa, had represented the original Spanish play.

Four years after Molière’s Don Juan, ou le Festin de Pierre — for he kept the old title as well — had been performed, a certain actor, Rosimond, wrote for the Théâtre du Marais Le Nouveau Festin de Pierre, ou V Athée foudroyé, in which he made of Don Juan a tiresome controversialist.

Don Juan was played from February 15th, 1665, until the 20th of March of the same year; but produced so much irritation and remarks that several scenes, — for example, that between the poor man and Don Juan, and the boldest remarks in the dialogue between Don Juan and Sganarelle, had to be suppressed at once. It may even be supposed that Molière received a hint not to play the piece again; for after the 20th of March it disappeared for a long time from the scene.

In the month of April 1665, a pamphlet appeared, called Observations sur une Comédie de Molière intitulée le Festin de Pierre, and written by a clergyman called de Rochemont. It passed through three or four editions, which followed one another in quick succession, and is written in a good style, but full of the most bitter animus against our author. It faintly praises Molière, admits that he has some talent for farce, that he speaks passable French, translates Italian pretty well, and does not copy badly other authors; but states that he is always the same, although the public should be indulgent to those who try to amuse them. If Molière had, in the Précieuses, only criticised the little doublets, and the prodigious quantity of ribbands, nobody would have attacked him, or been indignant at him; but to make fun of religion, and openly to display scepticism, is too bad for a mere buffoon. Don Juan has caused a public scandal, which is the greater because it was performed in the house of a Christian prince, and in the presence of so many wise and pious magistrates. Whilst the greatest and most religious monarch in the world tries to destroy heresy, and to establish real devotion, Molière raises altars to impiety; his purpose is to ruin men whilst making them laugh; the malicious ingenuousness of his Agnès has corrupted more maidens than the most licentious writings; Sganarelle teaches how to make cuckolds, and The School for Wives how to debauch them. In fact, he first destroys the morals of men, and then their religion. To use his own words: “he does not mind if people criticise his pieces, so that they come to see them” and pay for their places. Nothing more impious has ever appeared than Tartuffe and Don Juan; even Pagan emperors condemned to death those who ridiculed religion. It is to be hoped that our great Prince will put a stop to this: “Deluge, plague and famine are the consequences of Atheism; when Heaven resolves to punish it, it pours out upon us all the vials of its wrath to make the chastisement more impressive. The wisdom of the King will divert those misfortunes which impiety wishes to draw upon ns; it will establish the altars which it endeavours to overturn; we shall see everywhere religion triumph over its enemies, under the sway of this pious and invincible monarch, the glory of his age, the ornament of his states, the beloved of his subjects, the terror of the unbelievers, the delight of the whole human race. Vivat rex, vivat in œternum! May the King live, but may he live eternally for the good of the Church, for the tranquillity of the State, and for the happiness of all nations!”

These observations were answered in a Lettre sur les Observations d’une Comidi du Sieur Molière, intitulée Le Festin de Pierre, published also in 1665, in which the author defends Molière; says that he is more than a mere buffoon; that the very fact that that most religious King, Louis XIV., allowed Don Juan to be acted before him, proves that there is no harm in the play; that people ought not to accuse Molière of infidelity without sufficient proof; that in this play virtue is rewarded and vice punished; that in Don Juan, as well as in Tartuffe, hypocrisy only is attacked, but not real religion; and that, finally, if we are to be visited by all those plagues prophesied by the Observateur, the hypocrites will be the first to feel the effects of them.

Another very badly written pamphlet was likewise published in the same year, in defence of Molière, having for its title Réponse aux Observations touchant Le Festin de Pierre de Monsieur de Molière.

In 1667, Don Juan re-appeared on the French stage, but remodelled and put into verse by Thomas Corneille. This version, or rather perversion, of Molière’s play was acted until the 15th of January 1847, when the comedy, as originally written, was again performed, and continues to be so until the present day.

Sir Aston Cokain wrote The Tragedy of Ovid, which was printed in 1662, but which was never acted. In this, the passage of Captain Hannibal (Don Juan) inviting the dead body of Helvidius to supper, and the Spectre accepting it, and the latter afterwards inviting Hannibal to supper, as well as the final catastrophe, seem borrowed from the Italian play II Atheisto fulminato, from which Molière appears also to have taken several scenes. In any case, Cokain cannot have borrowed from the French author, whose play was not brought out until February 15th, 1665. We have given, however, in the Appendix, several of Cokain’s scenes, imitated from the Italian, so that they may be compared with those of Molière.

Thomas Shadwell (see Introductory Notice to The Bores, Vol. II., page 88), has, in The Libertine, acted at Dorset Garden in 1676, partly imitated Molière. This play is dedicated to William, Duke of Newcastle; and in the preface it is admitted that “there are an Italian, a Spanish, and four French plays on the story of Don Juan, the character of the libertine, and consequently those of his friends are borrowed; but all the plot till the latter end of the fourth act is new.” This seems not quite true; for in the second act of Shadwell’s comedy there are evidently some scenes borrowed from Molière. In the English play, Don Juan loves wickedness, and philosophises about it to his two friends, Don Lopez and Don Antonio; he causes his own father to be murdered, and, on the whole, behaves rather like a madman. The scenes between Don Juan, The Statue, and Sganarelle — Jacomo in the English play — are pretty closely followed from Molière, but made more horrible. They are given in the Appendix. Shadwell’s comedy met with great success, although our author states: “there being no act in it which cost me above five days’ writing, and the two last (the playhouse having great occasion for a play) were both written in four days.” The Prologue opens thus:

“Our Author sent me hither for a Scout,

To spy what bloody Criticks were come out.

Those Piccaroons in Wit, wh’ infest this Road,

And snap both Friend and Foe that come abroad.

This savage Party crueller appears

Than in the Channel Ostend Privateers.

You in this Road, or Sink or Plunder all;

Remorseless as a Storm on us you fall.

But as a Merchant, when by Storm distres’d,

Flings out his bulky Goods to save the rest,

Hoping a Calm may come, he keeps the best.

In this black Tempest which o’er us impends,

Near Rocks and Quicksands, and no Ports of Friends,

Our Poet gives this over to your Rage,

The most irregular Play upon the Stage.”

Congreve has imitated, in Love for Love (Act i., Scene 1), acted for the first time in Little Lincoln’s Inn Fields in 1695, the scene from Molière’s Lon Juan between M. Dimanche and the hero of the play. Love for Love appears to me to be a free imitation of three of Molière’s plays; the scenes between Valentine and Jeremy are something like those between Don Juan and Sganarelle, from Lon Juan; Scandal, Tattle, Mrs Foresight, and Mrs Frail, are followed from similar characters in The Misanthrope; whilst Foresight seems Harpagon from The Miser. Love for Love was, curiously enough, acted entirely by women June 25th, 27th, and 29th, 1705; the two first times most likely at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the last, at the Haymarket.

At the Royalty Theatre was acted, in 1787, a tragic pantomimical entertainment, called Lon Juan, or the Libertine Destroyed, composed by M. Delpini; the songs, duets, and choruses by Mr Reeve. At Drury Lane, in 1790, was played a pantomime-ballet of the same name.

Moncrieff wrote an operatic extravaganza, in two acts, called Giovanni in London, or the Libertine Reclaimed. “Don Giovanni having, like his noble compeers, made the grand tour, and also acquired additional notoriety, by being forcibly ejected from that place where Telemachus went to look for his father, jumps into Charon’s boat, re-passes the river Styx, and pays a visit to London, for the purpose, like the man when he opened the oysters, of astonishing the natives. In this expedition he is accompanied by his valet, pimp, and bottle-holder, Leporello; and whether at the Magpie and Punch-Bowl, in the Borough — in St Giles’s, with Mesdames Drainemdry, Porous, and Simpkins — at Chalk Farm, with Finikin and Popinjay — in the King’s Bench, with Shirk, Sponge, and other gentlemen who pay their creditors by a hill at three months — or at Charing Cross, in company with King Charles on horseback — their adventures are equally wonderful and entertaining.” This piece was originally written for the Olympic Theatre, but was played in 1827 both at Drury Lane and at Covent Garden. In the last mentioned theatre the late Madame Yestris created a certain furore, in acting the hero of the piece.

Thomas Dibdin wrote a similar piece, called Don Giovanni, or the Spectre on Horseback, a burlesque on Mozart’s celebrated opera, which was acted at Bath, on the 19th of May, 1819.

On the 22d of December 1821, there was performed at Drury Lane, an opera called Giovanni in Ireland, in which Madame Vestris again played the hero; but it met with little success.

Goldine, the Italian dramatist, also wrote a Don Juan, or The Libertine, a comedy in five acts, and in blank verse, of which he says in his Autobiography, “Having learned enough of French to be able to read it, I found that Molière and Thomas Corneille had employed their talents on the same subject; I undertook also to give a similar treat to my countrymen, that I might be on somewhat decent terms with the devil. I could not, it is true, give the same title to it; for in my piece, the statue of the Commander neither speaks, moves, nor goes to sup in town.... I could not dispense with the thunder which strikes Don Juan, because the wicked deserve to be punished; but I brought about the event in such a way that it might either be an immediate effect of the wrath of God, or might proceed from a combination of secondary causes under the direction of the laws of providence.”

Mozart also composed the music to an opera called Don Giovanni, — in which the Italian librettist, Delponte, has followed rather the old Spanish play than Molière, — and which is known and admired wherever music is cultivated.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

DON JUAN, SON to Don Louis.

Don Carlos, brother To Donna Elvira.

Don Alonzo brother To Donna Elvira.

Don Louis, father to Don Juan.

The Statue of the Commander.

Guzman, gentleman-usher to Donna Elvira.

M. Dimanche, a tradesman.

Sganarelle, servant to Don Juan.

Violette, servant to Don Juan.

Ragotin, servant to Don Juan.

Pierrot, a countryman.

La Ramée, a swashbuckler.

A Poor Man.

Don Juan’s Followers.

Don Carlos’ and Don Alonzo’s Followers.

A Ghost.

Donna Elvira, wife to Don Juan.

Charlotte and Mathurine, country-women.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

(A Palace.)

SGANARELLE, GUZMAN.

Sgan. [With a snuff-box in his hand] Whatever Aristotle and all the philosophers may say, nothing can be compared to tobacco: all respectable men are very fond of it, and he who lives without tobacco deserves not to live. It not only enlivens and clears a man’s brains, but it also teaches men to be virtuous; through it one learns to become a respectable man. Do you not see plainly, as soon as we take it, how affable we become with every one, and how delighted we are to give right and left, wherever we are? We do not even wait till it is asked for, but we forestall people’s wishes; so true it is that tobacco inspires all those who take it with sentiments of honour and virtue. But enough O of this; let us rather resume our discourse. So, then, dear Guzman, Donna Elvira, your mistress, being surprised at our departure, is come after us; and my master has touched her heart so intensely, that you say she cannot exist without coming here in search of him. Between ourselves, do you wish me to tell you my thoughts? I am afraid her love will be ill repaid, that her journey to this city will produce little fruit, and that you would have gained just as much had you never stirred from the spot.

Guz. And pray, Sganarelle, what can inspire you with a terror which so augurs ill? Has your master opened his heart to you on that subject, and did he tell you that his coldness for us obliged him to leave?

Sgan. Not at all; but, by what I see, I know pretty well how things are; and, although he has not yet said anything to me, I could almost lay a wager that the business is tending that way. I may, perhaps, be mistaken; but yet, in such cases, experience has given me some insight.

Guz. What! Can this sudden departure be caused by the faithlessness of Don Juan. Could he insult so greatly the chaste love of Donna Elvira?

Sgan. No, no, he is young yet, and has not the courage to...

Guz. Can a man of his rank commit so base an action!

Sgan. Oh yes, his rank! The idea is really admirable; he would forbear on that account!

Guz. But he is restrained by the holy bonds of matrimony.

Sgan. Ah! poor Guzman, my good friend, believe me, you do not know yet what sort of man Don Juan is.

Guz. Truly, I do not know what sort of a man he may be, if he has acted so treacherously towards us. I do not understand how, after so much love and impatience shown, such homage urged upon us, such vows, sighs, and tears, so many passionate letters, such ardent protestations and repeated oaths, such transports in short, and such outbursts, forcing even, in his passion, the sacred obstacle of a nunnery, in order to get Donna Elvira in his power; I do not understand, I say, how after all this, he should have the heart to break his word.

Sgan. I have no great difficulty in understanding this; and, if you knew the fellow, you would think the thing easy enough for him. I do not say that he has changed his sentiments for Donna Elvira; I am not yet quite sure of it. You know that he ordered me to set out before him; and since his arrival, he has not spoken to me; but, by way of precaution, I tell you, between ourselves, that Don Juan, my master, is one of the greatest scoundrels upon earth, a madman, a dog, a demon, a Turk, a heretick, who believes neither in Heaven, hell, nor devil, who passes his life like a regular brute beast, one of Epicurus’ swine, a true Sardanapalus, who shuts his ears against all Christian remonstrauces that can be made to him, and considers all that we believe as so much nonsense. You tell me that he has married your mistress; believe me, he would have done more to satisfy his passion, and would, besides herself, have married you, her dog and her cat into the bargain. It costs him nothing to contract a marriage; he uses no other snares to entrap the fair sex; and he marries whomsoever he can get hold of. A lady, gentlewoman, citizen’s daughter, countrywoman; he thinks nothing too hot or too cold for him; and if I were to tell you the names of all those whom he has married in different places, I would not have finished until night. You seem surprised and change colour at what you hear; this is a mere outline of the man; and many other touches would be required to finish the picture. Let it he sufficient that some day or other Heaven must needs overwhelm him with its wrath; that I had much better be with the devil than with him, and that he makes me witness so many horrors, that I could wish him already I do not know where! If a great lord is a wicked man it is a terrible thing. I must be faithful to him in spite of myself; fear moves me instead of zeal, curbs my sentiments, and often compels me to applaud what I detest from my very soul. See, there he comes to take a walk in this palace; let us separate. One word more; I have trusted you, and not concealed anything from you; it came a little too quickly out of my mouth; but, if ever anything should reach his ears, I shall declare flatly that you have told a lie.

SCENE II.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

D. JU. WHAT man was just now talking to you? He has very much the air, it seems to me, of honest Guzman, a servant of Donna Elvira.

Sgan. It is something very like it.

D. Ju. What! is it he?

Sgan. The very man.

D. Ju. And how long has he been in town?

Sgan. Since last night.

D. Ju. And why has he come?

Sgan. I believe you may imagine well enough what disturbs him.

D. Ju. Our departure, no doubt?

Sgan. The good man is quite offended, and asked me the cause of it.

D. Ju. And what answer did you give him?

Sgan. That you had not told me anything about it.

D. JU. But, prithee, what do you think of it? What do you imagine about this affair?

Sgan. I? I believe, without wronging you, that you have some new love affair in your head.

D. Ju. Do you think so?

Sgan. Yes.

D. Ju. Upon my word, you are not mistaken; and I must confess another object has driven Elvira from my thoughts.

Sgan. Oh! good Heavens! I know my Don Juan at my fingers’ ends, and that your heart is the most restless in the world; it delights to rove from one set of chains to another, and never likes to stay in one spot.

D. Ju. And tell me, do you not think I am right in acting in such a manner?

Sgan. Oh! sir...

D. Ju. What! Speak.

Sgan. Certainly, you are right, if you have a mind to it; no one can say anything against it. But, if you had not a mind to it, it might perhaps be another affair.

D. Ju. Well, then, I give you leave to speak, and to tell me your sentiments.

Sgan. In that case, sir, I must frankly tell you that I do not approve of your goings on, and that I think it very wicked to make love to every one, as you do.

D. Ju. What! Would you have a man bind himself to remain with the first object which has caught him, renounce the world for her sake, and have no more eyes for anybody? A nice thing to pique one’s self upon the false honour of being faithful, to bury one’s self for ever in one passion, and to be dead from our very youth to all other beauties that may strike us! No, no, constancy is fit only for fools; every handsome woman has a right to charm us, and the advantage of being first met with ought not to rob others of the just pretensions which they all have upon our hearts. As for me, beauty delights me wherever I meet with it, and I easily give myself up to that sweet violence with which it hurries us along. It does not matter if I am engaged; the love I feel for one fair does not induce me to do injustice to others; I have eyes to see the merit of all, and pay to every one the homage and tribute which nature demands from us. However it be, I cannot refuse my heart to any lovely creature I behold; and as soon as a handsome face asks it of me, if I had ten thousand hearts, I would give them all. Budding inclinations, after all, have a charm which is indescribable, and all the pleasure of love is in variety. One takes great delight in reducing, by a hundred contrivances, the heart of a young beauty; in seeing every day the gradual progress one has made; in combating with transports, tears, and sighs, the innocent bashfulness of a mind which can hardly prevail upon itself to surrender; in demolishing, inch by inch, all the little resistance she can oppose to us; in conquering the scruples upon which she prides herself, and in leading her gently whither we have a mind to bring her. But when we are once her master, there is nothing more to say, nothing more to wish for; all the charms of the passion are over, and we are lulled asleep in the tranquillity of such a love, if some new object does not awaken our desires and present to our heart the attractive charms of a conquest still to make. In short, there is nothing so pleasant as to triumph over the resistance of a fair maiden; I possess, in such a case, the ambition of a conqueror, who flies perpetually from one victory to another, and can never resolve to set bounds to his wishes. Nothing can restrain the impetuosity of my desires; I feel I have a heart that could love all the world, and like Alexander, I could wish for other worlds, wherein to extend my amorous conquests.

Sgan. Ods’ boddikins, how you talk! It seems that you have learned this by heart; you speak like a book.

B. Ju. What have you to say to this?

Sgan. Upon my word, I have to say... I do not know what to say; for you turn things in such a manner that it seems you are right, and yet it is certain you are not. I had the finest thoughts in the world, but your speech has put them all out of my head. Let me alone; another time I shall write down all my arguments, to dispute with you.

B. Ju. Do so.

Sgan. But, sir, would it be included in the permission you have given me, if I were to tell you that I am somewhat scandalised at the life which you lead.

D. Ju. How? What life do I lead?

Sgan. A very good one. But, for example, to see you marry every month, as you do!

B. Ju. Can there be anything more agreeable?

Sgan. True, I should think it very agreeable and very amusing, and I should myself like it well enough if there were no harm in it; but, sir, to make thus a jest of a sacred mystery, and...

B. Ju. Well, be it so; it is an affair between Heaven and me, and I can very well settle it without your troubling yourself about it.

Sgan. Upon my word, sir, I have always heard it said that to jest about Heaven is wicked jesting, and that libertines always come to a bad end.

D. Ju. Hullo, Master Fool! You know I told you that I do not like persons who remonstrate.

Sgan. Therefore I do not speak to you! Heaven forbid! You know what you do; and, if you are a libertine you have your reasons: but there are certain puny coxcombs in this world who are so without knowing why or wherefore, who pretend to be free-thinkers, because they think it becomes them. Had I a master of that kind, I would tell him plainly to his face: “Dare you thus jest with Heaven, and do you not tremble to laugh, as you do, at things the most sacred? Does it become you, you little earthworm, you mannikin that you are (I speak to the master I mentioned), does it become you to wish to turn into ridicule what all men revere? Do you think that because you are a man of rank, because you wear a fair and well-curled wig, have some feathers in your hat, a gold-laced coat, and flame-coloured ribbons (I do not speak to you but to the other) — do you think, I say, that you are a cleverer man for all this, that you may be allowed to do everything, and that no one should dare to tell you the truth? Learn from me, who am your servant, that Heaven, sooner or later, punishes the impious; that a wicked life leads to a wicked death; that libertines never come to a good end, and that...”

D. Ju. Silence!

Sgan. Why, what is the matter?

D. Ju. The matter is, that I inform you that a certain beauty has got possession of my heart, and that, captivated by her charms, I followed her to this city.

Sgan. And you have no fear, sir, of the consequences of the death of that Commander whom you killed six months ago?

D. Ju. Why should I be afraid? Did I not kill him honourably?

Sgan. Very honourably; it could not have been done more so, and he would be wrong to complain.

D. Ju. I had my pardon for this affair.

Sgan. Yes; but this pardon does not perhaps stifle the resentment of relatives and friends, and...

D. Ju. Pooh! Let us not think of any harm that may happen to us, but only of what can give us pleasure. The person of whom I speak to you is a young bride, one of the prettiest in the world, who was brought hither by the very man she is to marry. Chance threw this pair of lovers in my way, three or four days before they set out on then-journey. Never did I see two people so satisfied with each other; and displaying so much love. The visible tenderness of their mutual flame moved me; I felt it deeply, and my love began by jealousy. Yes, I could not at first sight endure to see them so happy together. Resentment kindled my desire, and I thought it would cause me very great pleasure to disturb their intimacy, and to sever that union by which the delicate feelings of my heart were offended; but hitherto all my efforts have been in vain, and I have recourse to the final stratagem. This intended spouse is to-day to treat the object of his love with a sail. Without having said anything to you, all things are prepared for gratifying my passion. I have freighted a little vessel, and engaged men with whose assistance I can easily carry off the fair.

Sgan. Ah! sir...

D. Ju. What?

Sgan. You have done quite right, and you take things in the proper way. There is nothing in the world like satisfying all one’s desires.

D. Ju. Get ready to come along with me, and take care, you yourself, to bring all my arms, so that... [He sees Donna Elvira] Oh! most unlucky meeting. Traitor, you did not tell me she was here herself.

Sgan. Sir, you did not so much as ask me.

D. Ju. Is she mad not to have changed her dress, and to come here in her riding-habit?

SCENE III.

DONNA ELVIRA, DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

D. EL. WILL you do me the favour, Don Juan, to notice me? And may I at least hope that you will deign to turn your eyes this way?

D. Ju. I confess to you, madam, that I am surprised, and that I did not expect you here.

D. El. Yes, I see plainly that you did not expect me here; and you are indeed surprised, but quite otherwise than I hoped for; the manner in which you appear convinces me fully of what I refused to believe. I am astonished at my simplicity, arid at the weakness of my heart in doubting a treachery so strongly confirmed by appearances. I was simple-minded enough, I confess it, or rather foolish enough, to he willing to deceive myself, and to take pains to contradict my eyes and my judgment. I sought for reasons to excuse to my affection that diminution of friendship which it discovered in you; I purposely invented a hundred legitimate excuses for so hurried a departure, to clear you from the crime of which my reason accused you. All that my just suspicions could daily say to me was in vain; I would not listen to their voice, which represented you to me as a criminal; I took a pleasure in giving ear to a thousand ridiculous fancies, which depicted you to my heart as innocent; but, at last, your reception permits me no longer to doubt, and the glance with which you received me informs me of many more things than I would wish to know. I shall be glad, nevertheless, to hear from your own mouth the reasons for your departure. Pray, speak, Don Juan, let us hear in what way you can justify yourself.

D. Ju. Madam, there is Sganarelle, who knows why I went away.

Sgan. [ Whispering to Don Juan] I, sir! By your leave, I know nothing of the matter.

D. El. Well, Sganarelle, speak. It does not matter from whose mouth I hear his reasons.

D. Ju. [Making signs to Sganarelle to draw near him] Come, speak then to the lady.

Sgan. [Whispering to Don Juan] What would you have me say?

D. El. Come hither, since he will have it so, and tell me the causes of so sudden a departure.

D. Ju. Why do you not answer?

Sgan. [Whispering to Don Juan] I have nothing to answer. You make fun of your very humble servant.

D. Ju. Will you answer, I say?

Sgan. Madam...
R El. What?

Sgan. [Turning towards his master] Sir...

D. Ju. [Threatening him] If...

Sgan. Madam, the conqueror, Alexander, and the other worlds, are the cause of our departure. That, sir, is all I can say.

D. El. Will you be pleased, Don Juan, to explain to me these beautiful mysteries?

D. Ju. Madam, to say the truth...
D. — El. Fy! how badly you defend yourself for a courtier, who should be accustomed to these sort of things! I pity you to see you so confused. Why do you not arm your brow with a noble impudence? Why do you not swear that you entertain still the same feelings for me; that you always love me with an unparalleled affection, and that nothing but death can sever you from me? Why do you not tell me that affairs of the greatest consequence compelled you to set out without informing me of it; that, much against your will, you must stay here for some time; and that I need only return whence I came, with the assurance that you will follow me as soon as possible; that it is certain you are very anxious to rejoin me, and that, whilst you are absent from me, you endure the pangs of a body separated from the soul? That is the way to defend yourself; but not to stand thunderstruck as you do.
E. — Ju. I must confess, madam, that I possess not a talent for dissimulation, but am sincere at heart. I will not tell you that I entertain still the same feelings for you, and that I am very anxious to rejoin you, since it is certain that I came away only to avoid you; not for the reasons you imagine, but from a pure motive of conscience, and because I thought I could not live with you any longer without sin. I felt some scruples, madam; and the eyes of my mind were opened to what I was doing. I reflected that, in order to marry you, I took you from the precincts of a convent, that you broke vows which engaged you elsewhere, and that Heaven is very jealous of such things. I was seized with repentance, and dreaded the wrath of Heaven. I thought our marriage was only adultery in disguise; that it would bring down upon us some calamity, and that, in short, I ought to endeavour to forget you, and to give you an opportunity of returning to your former obligations. Would you oppose so holy a design, madam, and would you have me expose myself to the vengeance of Heaven by retaining you; that by...

D. El. Ah! wicked wretch! now I know you thoroughly; and to my misfortune I know you when it is too late, and when such a knowledge can only serve to make me despair. But he assured that your crime will not remain unpunished, and that the same Heaven which you mock will revenge your perfidy.

D. Ju. Sganarelle, Heaven!

Sgan. Oh, yes, we care much for that.

D. Ju. Madam...

D. El. It is enough. I do not wish to hear anything more. I even blame myself for having already heard too much. It is meanness to have our shame explained too clearly, and in such cases, a noble heart should, at the very first word, resolve what to do. Do not expect me to break out into reproaches and opprobrious language; no, no, my wrath does not spend itself in vain words; it reserves all its ardour for vengeance. I tell you once more, Heaven will punish you, wretch, for the wrong you have done me; and if you have nothing to fear from Heaven, fear at least the anger of an injured woman.

SCENE IV.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

SGAN. [ASIDE] IF he should ever feel some remorse.

D. Ju. [After some pause] Let us go and think of the execution of our amorous enterprise.

Sgan. [Alone] Oh! what an abominable master I am forced to serve!

ACT II.

SCENE I.

 (A Landscape near the sea shore.)

CHARLOTTE, PIERROT.

Char. By Jingo, Pierrot, you were there just in the nick of time.

Pier.’Sbobs, they were within an ace of being drowned, both of them.

Char. Was it the great storm this morning that upset them in the sea?

Pier. Look you, Charlotte, I shall tell you outright how it happened; for, as the saying is, I saw them first, first I saw them. I was on the sea-shore, I and fat Lucas, and we were a-larking together with clods of earth, that we threw at one another’s heads, for you very well know that fat Lucas likes to he a-larking, and so do I sometimes too. So as we were a-larking, for we were a-larking, I perceived a distance off something that stirred in the water, and that came bobbing towards us. I looked fixedly at it, but all of a sudden I saw that I saw nothing more. Ay, Lucas, says I, I think that there are men a-swimming down there. Oh, says he, you have been at the burial of a cat, your eyes are dazed.’Sdeath, says I, my eyes are not dazed; they are men. No, no, says he to me, you are purblind. Would you wager, says I, that I am not purblind, says I, and that they are two men, says I, who are swimming straight this way, says I. Znigs, says he, I lay a wager they are not. Well, come on, says I, will lay you tenpence on it? Marry will I, says he, and to show thee, there is the money down on the nail, says he. I was neither a fool nor a gaby; I boldly threw down upon the ground four silver pennies and sixpenny worth of ha’pence, as freely, i’ faith, as if I had drank off a glass of wine; for I am very venturesome, and go on any way. Yet I knew what I did how-somdever. I am not such a fool as I look. We had but just laid the wager when I saw the two men very plainly, who made signs to us to come and fetch them, and I take up the stakes. Come, Lucas, says I, you see that they call us; let us go at once and help them. No, says he, they have made me lose. Then, to cut short my story, I went on so, and at last preached so much to him, that we got into a boat, and then I made so much ado that I got them out of the water, and then I carried them home to the fire, and then they pulled off all their clothes and stripped to dry themselves, and then two more of the same gang came, who had saved themselves quite alone, and then comes Mathurine, and one of them cast sheep’s eyes at her. And that is precisely, Charlotte, how all this has happened.

Char. Did you not say, Pierrot, that one of them is a great deal handsomer than the rest?

Pier. Ay, he is the master; he must be some great, great man to be sure, for he has gold upon his clothes from top to bottom, and his servants are gentlefolks themselves; but for all his being a great man, he would have been drowned if I had not been there.

Char. Lawk a-day!

Pier. Ay, indeed, if it had not been for us he would have had his fill of water.

Char. Is he still at your house without his clothes on, Pierrot?

Pier. No, no, they all put on their clothes again before us. Mercy on me, I never saw any of these folks dress themselves before; what a parcel of gimcracks these courtiers wear! I should lose myself in them, and I was quite flabbergasted to see them. Why, Charlotte, they have hair which does not stick to their heads, and, after all, they put it on like a big cap of unspun flax. They have smocks with sleeves that you and I might get into; instead of breeches they have an apron as large as from this to Easter, instead of doublets they have little tiny waistcoats that do not reach to their middle, and instead of bands a great neck-handkerchief all open-worked with four large tufts of linen hanging down over their stomach. They have bands about their wrists too, and great funnels of lace about their legs, and amongst all this so many ribands, that it is a downright shame. Their very shoes are stuffed with them from one end to the other, and they are made in such a fashion that I should break my neck in them.

Char. I’ fakins, Pierrot, I must go and see them.

Pier. Oh! hark you, Charlotte, stay a little first, I have something else to say to you.

Char. Well, tell me, what is it?

Pier. Do you not see, Charlotte, that, as the saying is, I must unbosom myself to you. I am in love with you, you know it very well, I am for us being married together; but ‘sboddikius, I am not pleased with you.

Char. How? what’s the matter?

Pier. The matter is, to tell the truth, that you vex my very heart.

Char. How so?

Pier. Because, by the powers, you do not love me.

Char. Ho! ho! Is that all?

Pier. Ay, that is all, and enough too.

Char. Law, Pierrot, you always say the same thing to me.

Pier. I always say the same thing to you because it is always the same thing; and if it was not always the same thing I would not always say the same thing.

Char. But what do you want? What do you wish?

Pier. Drat it, I would wish you to love me.

Char. Why, do I not love you?

Pier. No, you do not love me, and yet I do all I can to make you. I do not mean to reproach you, but I buy ribbons for you of all the pedlars that come about, I risk my neck to go and fetch jackdaws out of their nests for you, I make the piper play for you when your birthday comes; and all this is no more than if I ran my head against the wall. Do ye hear? it is neither fair nor honest not to love folk that love us.

Char. But, lawk-a-day, I love you too.

Pier. Ay, very much indeed!

Char. What would you have me do then?

Pier. I would have you do as folk do when they love as they ought.

Char. Why, do I not love you as I ought?

Pier. No, when that is the case, anyone can see it; people play a thousand little tricks to folk when they love them with all their heart. Look at stout Thoinasse, how smitten she is with young Robin; she is always about him to tease him, and never lets him alone. She is always playing him some trick or other, or hits him a rap when she passes by him. The other day, as he was sitting upon a small stool, she comes and pulls it from under him, and down falls he at full length upon the ground. Zounds, that is the way folk do when they are in love; but you never say a word to me, you always stand like a log of wood; I may go by ye twenty times and you never stir to give me the smallest thump, or to say the least thing to me. Upon my word, it is not fair, after all, and you are too cold for folk.

Char. What would you have me do? My temper is such, and I cannot alter myself.

Pier. Temper or no temper, when a body loves a body one always gives some small inkling of it.

Char. I love you as well as I can, and if you are not satisfied with that, you must go and love somebody else.

Pier. Why there now! I have got what I bargained for. Zooks, if you loved me you would not say that.

Char. Why do you come and worrit me so?

Pier. And what harm do I do you? I only ask a little friendship from ye.

Char. Well, let me alone then and do not press me so, maybe it will come all of a sudden, without thinking of it.

Pier. Shake hands, then, Charlotte.

Char. [Gives him her hand] Well, there.

Pier. Promise me that you will do your best to love me more.

Char. I will do all that I can, but it must come of itself. Pierrot, is that the gentleman?

Pier. Yes, that is he.

Char. Oh! lack-a-day, how nice, he is! what a pity it would have been if he had been drowned.

Pier. I shall come again presently; I shall go to take a pint to refresh myself a little after my fatigue.

SCENE II.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE, CHARLOTTE in the background.

D. Ju. We have failed in our plot, Sganarelle, and this sudden squall has overturned our sloop, as well as the plan we had formed; but, to tell you the truth, the country-wench I have just parted with, makes amends for this misfortune. I have found such charms in her that they have effaced from my mind all the vexation caused by the ill success of our enterprise. This heart must not escape me; I have already disposed it in such a manner that I shall have no need to sigh long in vain.

Sgan. I confess, sir, you astonish me. We have hardly escaped from the jaws of death, and instead of thanking Heaven for the mercy it has granted us, you labour anew to draw down its wrath by your usual whims and your amours... [Seeing Don Juan look angry] Peace, rascal that you are; you do not know what you are talking of, and my master knows what he does. Come.

D. Ju. [Perceiving Charlotte] Ha! whence comes this other country-girl? Did you ever see anything prettier? Tell me, do you not think she is as handsome as the other?

Sgan. Certainly. [Aside] Another fresh morsel.

D. Ju. [To Charlotte] Whence this pleasant meeting, fair one? What? are there in these rural spots, amongst these trees and rocks, persons as handsome as you are?

Char. As you see, sir.

D. Ju. Do you helong to this village?

Char. Yes, sir.

D. Ju. And do you live there?

Char. Yes, sir.

D. Ju. What is your name?

Char. Charlotte, at your service.

D. Ju. Ah! what a beauty! what piercing eyes!

Char. Sir, you make me quite ashamed.
D Ju. Oh! do not be ashamed to hear the truth. What do you say, Sganarelle? Can anything be more agreeable? Turn about a little, please. Oh! what a fine shape. Hold up your head a little, pray. Oh! what a pretty face is this! Open your eyes wide. — Oh! how lovely they are. Pray let me see your teeth. — Oh! how love-inspiring! And those provoking lips! For my part, I am delighted; I never beheld so charming a person.

Char. Sir, you are pleased to say so; I do not know whether you make fun of me.

D. Ju. I make fun of you! Heaven forbid! I love you too well for that; I speak to you from the bottom of my heart.

Char. I am very much obliged to you if it is so.

D. Ju. Not at all; you are not obliged to me for anything I say; you owe it to your beauty alone.

Char. Sir, all these words are too fine for me; I have not wit enough to answer you.

D. Ju. Sganarelle, just cast a glance on her hands.

Char. Fie, sir! they are as black as anything.

D. Ju. Oh! what are you saying? They are the fairest in the world; pray, allow me to kiss them.

Char. You do me too much honour, sir, and if I had known it just now, I would not have failed to have washed them with bran.

D. Ju. Pray, tell me, pretty Charlotte, are you married?

Char. No, sir, but I am to be very soon, to Pierrot, our neighbour Simonetta’s son.

D. Ju. What! should a person like you become the wife of a simple clod-hopper! No, no! that would be a profanation of so much beauty; you were not born to pass your whole life in a village. No doubt you deserve a better fate; Heaven, which very well knows this, has led me hither on purpose to prevent this match, and to do justice to your charms; for, in short, beauteous Charlotte, I love you with all my heart; it only depends upon yourself whether I shall carry you off from this wretched place, and put you in the position you deserve. This passion is doubtless very sudden; but what then? It is owing to your great beauty; I love you as much in one quarter of an hour as I would another in six months.

Char. Really, I do not know what to do when you speak. What you say pleases me, and I should very much like to believe you; but I have always been told that we must never believe gentlemen, and that you, courtiers, are cozeners who think of nothing but of making fools of young girls.

D. Ju. I am not one of these.

Sgan. Not at all! Not at all!

Char. Look ye, sir, there is no pleasure in being imposed upon. I am but a poor country-wench, but I value honour above everything; I would sooner die than lose my honour.

D. Ju. I have a soul so wicked as to impose on such a person as you! I should be so base as to dishonour you! No, no, I am too conscientious for that. I love you, Charlotte, virtuously and honourably,; and to show you that I speak the truth, be convinced that I have no other design than to marry you. Can you have any greater proof? Here I am ready, whenever you please, and I call this fellow to be a witness of the promise which I make you.

Sgan. No, no, never fear. He will marry you as much as you please.

B. Ju. Ah! Charlotte, I plainly perceive you do not yet know me. You do me great wrong in judging of me by others; and if there are rogues in the world, people who only endeavour to make fools of young women, you ought not to consider me one of them, and never doubt the sincerity of my love; besides, your beauty is a guarantee for everything. When a woman is as handsome as you are she ought never to entertain such fears; believe me, you do not look as if you could be made a fool of. As for me, I protest I would stab myself a thousand times to the heart if I fostered the least thought of betraying you.

Char. Good Heavens! I do not know whether you speak the truth or not; but you make people believe you.

B. Ju. You do me justice most certainly by believing me; I repeat anew the promise which I have made you. Do you not accept it? Will you not consent to become my wife?

Char. Yes, provided my aunt has no objection.

B. Ju. Give me your hand then upon it, Charlotte, since you do not object.

Char. But at the very least, sir, pray, do not deceive me; it would be a sin, and you see how honestly I act.

B. Ju. What! you seem to doubt still my sincerity! Would you have me swear the most frightful oaths? May Heaven...

Char. Bless me, do not swear, I believe you.

B. Ju. Give me one little kiss, then, as a pledge of your promise.

Char. Nay, sir, pray, wait till we are married, and then I shall kiss you as much as you wish.

B. Ju. Well, pretty Charlotte, I will do whatever you please; only give me your hand, and let me, by a thousand kisses, express the rapture I am in...

SCENE III.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE, PIERROT, CHARLOTTE.

PIER. [GETTING BETWEEN them, and pushing away Don Juan] Gently, sir, if you please, you are getting too warm; you may get a pleurisy.

D. Ju. [Pushing away Pierrot roughly] What brings this impertinent fellow here?

Pier. — [Placing himself between Don Juan and Char lotte] Hold hard, sir, you must not kiss our wives that are to be.

D. Ju. [Pushing Pierrot again away] Ha! what a noise!

Pier.’Sdeath! People are not to he pushed thus.

Char. [Talcing Pierrot by the arm] Let him alone, Pierrot.

Pier. What! let him alone? I will not, not I!

D. Ju. Hah!

Pier. Drat it, because you are a gentleman, you come here to caress our wives under our very noses? Go and kiss your own.

D. Ju. What?

Pier. What? [Don Juan gives him a box on the ear] Dam it, do not strike me; [another] Hang it! [another] Zounds! [another]’Sblood and wounds! it is not fair to beat people! Is this my reward for saving you from being drowned?

Char. Do not be angry, Pierrot.

Pier. I will be angry; and you are a hussy, to let him cozen you.

Char. Oh, Pierrot! it is not as you think. This gentleman will marry me, and you should not be in a passion.

Pier. Ha! But you are engaged to me.

Char. That makes no matter, Pierrot. If you love me, should ye not be glad that I am to he made a madam?

Pier. No, I would as soon see you hanged as see you another’s.

Char. Come, come, Pierrot, do not fret yourself. If I am a madam I shall make you gain something; you shall serve us with butter and cheese.

Pier. Zounds! I shall never serve you with anything, even if you would pay me twice as much. Do not listen thus to what he says.’Sfish, had I known this just now, I should not have taken him out of the water at all, but I would have given him a good rap upon the head with my oar.

D. Ju. [Coming up to Pierrot to strike him] What is that you say?

Pier. [Getting behind Charlotte] Drat it! I fear no man.

D. Ju. [Coming towards him] Let me only get hold of you.

Pier. [Gets on the other side of Charlotte] I do not care, not I.

D. Ju. [Running after him] We shall try that.

Pier. [Getting anew behind Charlotte] I have seen many a man as good as you.

D. Ju. What?

Sgan. Oh, sir, let the poor wretch alone. It is a pity to beat him. [Placing himself between Don Juan and Pierrot, and addressing the latter] Harkee, my poor lad, move off, and do not talk to him.

Pier. [Passing before Sganarelle, and looking boldly at Don Juan] I will talk to him.

D. Ju. [Lifts up his hand and intends to give Pierrot a box on the ear] Ha! I shall teach you. [Pierrot ducks down his head, so that Sganarelle receives it.

Sgan. [Looking at Pierrot] Plague take the booby!

B. Ju. [To Sganarelle] That is a reward for your charity.

Pier. Zounds! I shall go and tell her aunt of all her goings-on.

SCENE IV.

DON JUAN, CHARLOTTE, SGANARELLE.

P. JU. [TO Charlotte] At last I am going to be the happiest of men, and I would not change my happiness for all the world could give me. What pleasures shall we have, when you are my wife, and what...

SCENE V.

DON JUAN, CHARLOTTE, MATHURINE, SGANARELLE.

SGAN. [PERCEIVING MATHURINE] So, so.

Math. [To Bon Juan] Sir, what are you doing there with Charlotte? Are you courting her too?

B. Ju. [Aside to Mathurine] No; on the contrary; she told me she wished to he my wife, and I told her I was engaged to you.

Char. [To Bon Juan] What is that Mathurine wants with you?

B. Ju. [Aside to Charlotte] She is jealous of my speaking to you, and would like me to marry her; but I tell her it is you whom I wish to have.

Math. What! Charlotte...

B. Ju. [Aside to Mathurine] All you can say to her will be of no use; she took this into her head.

Char. What then, Mathurine...

B. Ju. [Aside to Charlotte] It is in vain to talk to her, you will not get this whim out of her head.

Math. Would you...
B. — Ju. [Aside to Mathurine] There is no possibility of making her listen to reason.

Char. I should like...

B. Ju. [Aside to Charlotte] She is as obstinate as the devil.

Math. Really...

B. Ju. [Aside to Mathurine] Do not say anything to her, she is a fool.

Char. I think...

B. Ju. [Aside to Charlotte] Let her alone, she is silly.

Math. No, no, I must speak to her.

Char. I will hear some of her reasons.

Math. What...

B. Ju. [Aside to Mathurine] I will lay you a wager that she tells you that I promised to marry her.

Char. I...

B. Ju. [Aside to Charlotte] I will bet you anything that she will maintain that I have given her my word to make her my wife.

Math. Hark you, Charlotte, it is not right to meddle with other folks’ bargains.

Char. It is not polite to be jealous because the gentleman speaks to me.

Math. The gentleman saw me first.

Char. If he saw you first, he saw me second, and has promised to marry me.

B. Ju. [Aside to Mathurine] Well, did I not tell you so?

Math. [To Charlotte] Your humble servant, it was me and not you whom he promised to marry.

B. Ju. [Aside to Charlotte] Did I not guess right?

Char. You may tell that to others, if you please, but not to me; it was me he promised to marry, I tell you.

Math. You make fun of folks; once more it was me he promised to marry.

Char. There he is; he can tell you whether I am right.

Math. There he is; he can give me the lie if I do not speak the truth?

Char. Sir, did you promise to marry her?

D. Ju. [Aside to Charlotte] You are joking.

Math. Is it true, sir, that you have given your word to he her husband?

D. Ju. [Aside to Mathurine\ Could you entertain such a thought?

Char. You see she affirms it.

D. Ju. [Aside to Charlotte] Let her alone.

Math. You are witness how positive she is.

D. Ju. [Aside to Mathurine] Let her say what she likes.

Char. No, no, we must know the truth.

Math. We must have it decided.

Char. Yes, Mathurine, I will have the gentleman show you your mistake.

Math. Yes, Charlotte, I will have the gentleman make you look foolish.

Char. Decide the quarrel, sir, if you please.

Math. Satisfy us, sir.

Char. You shall see.

Math. And you shall see too.

Char. [To Don Juan] Speak.

Math. [To Don Juan] Speak.

D. Ju. What would you have me say? You both maintain that I have promised to marry you. Does not each of you know the whole business without any necessity for me giving any more explanations? Why should you oblige me to repeat what I have said? Has not the person to whom I really gave the promise sufficient reasons within herself to laugh at what the other says; and ought she to trouble herself, provided I keep my promise? All the speeches do not forward affairs; we must act and not talk, and facts prove more than words. Therefore, that is the only way in which I shall satisfy you, and when I marry, you shall see which of you two has my heart. [Aside to Mathurine] Let her believe what she will. [Aside to Charlotte] Let her flatter herself in her own imagination. [Aside to Mathurine] I adore you. [Aside to Charlotte] I am entirely yours. [Aside to Mathurine] All faces are ugly in comparison with yours. [Aside to Charlotte] When a man has once seen you he cannot hear to look at others. [Aloud to both] I have some trifling message to deliver; I shall he back again in a quarter of an hour.

SCENE VI.

CHARLOTTE, MATHURINE, SGANARELLE.

CHAR. [TO MATHURINE] I am the one he loves, however.

Math. [To Charlotte] He will marry me.

Sgan. [Stopping Charlotte and Mathurine] Ah! poor girls, I pity your innocence. I cannot bear to see you run thus to your destruction. Believe me both, do not be imposed upon by the stories be tells you, but stay in your village.

SCENE VII.

DON JUAN, CHARLOTTE, MATH URINE, SGANARELLE.

D. JU. [IN the background, aside] I would fain know why Sganarelle does not follow me.

Sgan. My master is a knave; he only wishes to make fools of you; he has made fools of a good many others; he marries the whole sex, and... [Seeing Don Juan] It is false, and whoever tells you this you may tell him he lies. My master does not marry the whole sex; he is no knave; he does not intend to deceive you, nor has he ever made a fool of any one. Oh, stay! here he is; ask him himself.

D. Ju. [Looking at Sganarelle, and suspecting him of having said something] Yes!

Sgan. Sir, as the world is full of backbiters, I was beforehand with them; and I was telling these girls that if anybody should say anything wrong of you they ought not to believe him, and be sure to tell him that he lied.

D. Ju. Sganarelle!

Sgan. [To Charlotte and Mathurine] Yes, my master is an honourable man; I warrant him such.

D. Ju. Hem!

Sgan. They are impertinent rascals. —

SCENE VIII.

DON JUAN, LA RAMEE, CHARLOTTE, MATHURINE, SGANARELLE.

LA R. [ASIDE to Don Juan\ Sir, I come to tell you that it is not quite safe for you to be here.

D. Ju. How so?

La R. Twelve men on horseback are in search of you; they will be here in a moment. I do not know how they have followed you; but I have learned these tidings from a country-man of whom they enquired, and to whom they described you. As there is no time to lose, the sooner you leave here the better.

SCENE IX.

DON JUAN, CHARLOTTE, MATHURINE, SGANARELLE.

D. JU. [TO Charlotte and Mathurine] Urgent business obliges me to leave this place, but I entreat you to remember the promise which I made you; depend upon it, you shall hear from me before to-morrow evening.

SCENE X.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

D. JU. AS we are unequally matched we must make use of a stratagem, and cleverly escape from the misfortune that pursues me. Sganarelle, you shall put on my clothes, and I... —

Sgan. Sir, you are joking. To expose me to be killed in your clothes, and...

D. Ju. Make haste, I do you too much honour. Happy is the servant who has the glory of dying for his master.

Sgan. Thank you for such an honour. [A Zone] As it is a case of death, grant me the favour, oh Heaven! not to be taken for another.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

(A FOREST).

DON JUAN, dressed as a country gentleman, SGANAEELLE, as a physician.

Sgan. Upon my word, sir, acknowledge that I was right, and that we are both wonderfully well disguised. Your first plan would by no means have been opportune; this conceals us much better than what you would have done.

B. Ju. It is true, you look very well; I cannot imagine where you have unearthed this ridiculous apparel.

Sgan. Yes! It is the dress of an old physician which was left in pawn in the place where I got it, and it cost me some money to have it. But do you know, sir, that this dress has already obtained me some consideration; that the people I meet bow to me, and that they come to consult me as an able man?

B. Ju. How?

Sgan. Five or six countrymen and countrywomen, seeing me pass, came to ask my advice upon different diseases.

D. Ju. You answered that you knew nothing of the matter?

Sgan. I? Not at all. I wished to keep up the honour of my dress; I speechified about the disease, and gave each of them a prescription.

D. Ju. And what remedies did you prescribe?

Sgan. Upon my word, sir, I picked them up where I could. I prescribed at random; it would be a funny thing if the patients should get cured, and come to thank me.

B. Ju. And why not? Why should you not have the same privileges as all other physicians? They have no more to do with the recovery of their patients than you have, and all their art is mere pretence. They do nothing but get honour if they succeed; and you may take advantage, as they do, of a patient’s good luck, and see attributed to your remedies what is owing to a lucky chance and to the powers of nature.

Sgan. What, sir? You are also an unbeliever in medicine?

D. Ju. It is one of the greatest errors of mankind.

Sgan. What! you have no belief in senna, cassia, or antimonial wine?

D. Ju. And why would you have me believe in them?

Sgan. You are of a very unbelieving temper. Yet you know how, of late, great noise has been made about antimonial wine? The miracles it has produced have converted the most incredulous minds; and it is but three weeks ago since I myself, who am speaking to you, saw a marvellous effect of it.

D. Ju. What?

Sgan. There was a man who, for six days, was dying; they did not know what more to prescribe for him, and all the remedies produced no effect; at last the doctors took it into their heads to give him an emetic.

D. Ju. He recovered, did he not?

Sgan. No, he died.

D. Ju. The effect is admirable.

Sgan. I should say so! He could not die for six whole days, and that made him die at once. Could you have anything more efficacious?

D. Ju. You are right.

Sgan. But let us drop physic, in which you do not believe, and talk of other things; for this dress inspires me, and I feel in the humour of disputing with you. You know you allow me to dispute, and forbid me only to remonstrate.

D. Ju. Well?

Sgan. I would fain know your innermost thoughts. Is it possible that you do not believe at all in Heaven?

D. Ju. Let us leave that alone.

Sgan. That means no. And in hell?

D. Ju. Eh?

Sgan. The same thing over again. And in the devil, if you please?

D. Ju. Yes, yes.

Sgan. Very little also. Do you not believe in a life after this?

D. Ju. Ha! ha! ha!

Sgan. I shall have some trouble in converting this man. Tell me what do you think of the moine bourru? Eh?

D. Ju. A plague on the fool!

Sgan. That is what I cannot bear; for nothing can he more true than the moine bourru. I will be hanged if it is not true! People must believe something in this world. What do you believe?

D. Ju. What do I believe?

Sgan. Yes.

D. Ju. I believe that two and two are four, Sganarelle, and that twice four are eight.

Sgan. A fine belief, and nice articles of faith! As far as I can see, your religion is arithmetic. It cannot he denied that strange follies run in the heads of men, and that those who have studied are often not the wiser for it. As for me, sir, thank Heaven! I have not studied as you have, and no one can boast of ever having taught me anything; but with my small amount of sense, and my little judgment, I can see things more clearly than all books, and I can very well understand that this world which we behold has not sprung up of itself in one night, like a mushroom. I should like to ask you who has created these trees, these rocks, this earth, and this sky above us; and if all this has sprung up of itself. There you are; I take you as an example; there you are: did you make yourself alone, and was not your father obliged to sleep with your mother to make you? Can you see all the inventions of which the human machine is composed without wondering how the one influences the other? these nerves, these bones, these veins, these arteries, these... this lung, this heart, this liver, and all these other ingredients to be found there, and which... Oh, Lord! interrupt me, if you please. I cannot argue unless I am interrupted. You do not say a single word on purpose, and allow me to go on out of spite.

D. Ju. I am waiting for your arguments to he finished.

Sgan. My arguments are that there exists something admirable in man, whatever you may say, which all the philosophers cannot explain. Is it not marvellous that I am here, and that I have something in my head which thinks a hundred different things in one moment, and does with my body all that it wishes to do? I wish to clasp my hands, to lift up my arm, to raise my eyes towards Heaven, to bend my head, to move my feet, to go to the right, to the left, forwards, backwards, turn... [He falls down whilst turning round.]

D. Ju. There is an end of all your arguing.

Sgan. Zounds! I am a fool to amuse myself in arguing with you; believe what you like; it does not matter a straw to me whether you are damned!

D. Ju. I believe that whilst arguing we have lost our way. Call that man we see yonder, and let us ask him our road.

SCENE II.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE, A POOR MAN.

SGAN. HULLO! HO! I say, you man! ho! my good fellow! friend, a word with you, pray. Show us the way to the town.

Poor M. You have only to follow that path, gentlemen, and turn to the right when you come to the end of the forest! but I warn you to be upon your guard, for there have been robbers about for some time.

D. Ju. I am much obliged to you, friend, and thank you with all my heart.

Poor M. If you would kindly assist me, sir, with some trifle?

D. Ju. Ha, ha! your advice is interested, I see.

Poor M. I am a poor man, sir, living alone in this forest these ten years; and I shall pray to Heaven to grant you all kinds of prosperity.

D. Ju. Pray Heaven to give you a coat, and do not trouble yourself about other people’s business.

Sgan. My good man, you do not know this gentleman; he only believes that two and two make four, and that twice four are eight.

D. Ju. What is your occupation among these trees?

Poor M. To pray to Heaven for the prosperity of all kind people who give me something.

D. Ju. You are pretty well off, then?

Poor M. Alas! sir, I am as poor as poor can be.

D. Ju. You are joking: a man who prays to Heaven every day must be very well off.

Poor M. I assure you, sir, that frequently I have not even a piece of bread to eat.

D. Ju. That is strange; your assiduity is ill rewarded. Ha, ha! I am going to give you directly a piece of gold, provided you swear a round oath.

Poor M. Oh! sir, would you wish me to commit such a sin?

D. Ju. Will you gain a piece of gold? yes or no. Here is one for you, if you swear. There; now swear.

Poor M. Sir...

D. Ju. Unless you swear, you shall not get it.

Sgan. — Well, well; swear ever so little; there is no harm in it.

D. Ju. Take it; here it is; take it, I tell you; but swear.

Poor M. No, sir, I would rather die of hunger.

D. Ju. There, there; I give you this piece of gold because you are a human being. [Looking into the forest] But what do I see? One man attacked by three! The match is too unequal, and I ought not to allow so base an action. [He draws his sword and hastens to the spot where the attach was going on].

SCENE III.

SGANARELLE, ALONE.

My master is truly mad to run unsought into danger. But, upon my word, his assistance has been of some use; the two have put the three to flight.

SCENE IV.

DON JUAN, DON CARLOS, SGANARELLE, in the background.

D. Gar. [Putting up his sword] The flight of these robbers shows me what I owe to your arm. Allow me, sir, to return you thanks for so generous an action, and let...

D. Ju. I have done nothing, sir, but what you would have done in my place. Such adventures touch our honour; the action of these rogues was so cowardly, that it would have been taking part with them not to have opposed them. But how fell you into their hands?

D. Car. By chance, I strayed from my brother and all our retinue; and whilst I was endeavouring to rejoin them, I fell in with these robbers, who immediately killed my horse, and would have done as much for me, had it not been for your valour.

D. Ju. Do you intend to go towards the town?

D. Car. Yes, but I do not intend to go into it; my brother and I are obliged to roam about on account of one of those sad affairs which compel noblemen to sacrifice themselves and their families to their untarnished honour; it is ever fatal, even if we do succeed; if we do not lose our life, we are compelled to leave the kingdom. This is the reason why I think it unfortunate to he a nobleman, for however discreetly and honestly he may five himself, he cannot prevent the laws of honour from connecting him with the disgraceful conduct of other people, nor from having his life, repose, and property depend upon the whims of the first audacious fellow who takes it into his head to do him one of those injuries for which a gentleman must lose his life.

D. Ju. There is, however, this advantage, that those who take it into their head to offend us out of mere wantonness run the same risks, and spend their time just as uncomfortably. But if I am not indiscreet, may I ask what this sad affair is?

D. Car. It has gone so far that the secret can no longer be kept. When the insult is once public, our honour does not oblige us to conceal our shame, but openly to blazon forth our vengeance, and even to proclaim that we intend to avenge ourselves. Therefore, sir, I have no scruples in telling you that the offence which we wish to avenge is the seduction of a sister, who was carried off from a convent, and that the author of this offence is Don Juan Tenorio, son of Don Louis Tenorio. We have been in search of him for some days, and we followed him this morning, upon the information of a servant, who told us that he had gone out on horseback, with four or five others, and that he had taken this route; but all our pains have been useless, and we cannot discover what has become of him.

D. Ju. Do you know this Don Juan, sir, of whom you speak?

D. Car. No, sir, I do not. I never saw him, and I have only heard my brother describe him; but his reputation is none of the best; he is a man whose life....

D. JU. Stop, sir, if you please. He is rather a friend of mine, and it would be base in me to allow any one to speak ill of him.

D. Car. Out of respect for you, sir, I shall say nothing of him. As you have saved my life, certainly the least thing I can do is not to speak before you of one of your acquaintances, when I can say nothing but evil of him. But however much his friend you may be, I venture to hope that you will not approve of this action of his, or think it strange that we should endeavour to avenge ourselves.

D. Ju. On the contrary, I will serve you in this, and spare you some fruitless trouble. I am Don Juan’s friend, I cannot help being so; but it is not right that he should offend gentlemen with impunity, and I promise you in his name that he shall give you satisfaction.

D. Car. And what satisfaction can he give for these sorts of injuries?

D. Ju. All that your honour can desire; and, without giving you any further trouble to look for Don Juan, I engage that he shall he forthcoming wherever you like, and when you please.

D. Car. This is very pleasant news, sir, to outraged hearts; but after what I owe you, it would be very painful to me if you were to be one of the combatants.

D. Ju. I am so intimately connected with Don Juan that he cannot fight unless I must fight too; but I answer for him as for myself, and you have only to say when you wish to meet him, and give you satisfaction.

D. Car. How cruel is my lot! Must I owe my life to you, and Don Juan be one of your friends?

SCENE V.

DON ALONZO, DON CARLOS, DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

D. AL. [SPEAKING to his retinue, without seeing Don Carlos or Don Juan] Give some water to my horses, and then lead them after us; I shall walk a little. [Seeing them both] Heavens! what do I see? What! brother, you are in conversation with our mortal enemy?

D. Car, Our mortal enemy?

D. Ju. [Clapping his hand to his sword] Yes, I am myself, Don Juan; and your superior number shall not force me to wish to disown my name.

D. Al. [Drawing his sword] All! traitor, you must die, and... [Sganarelle runs away and hides himself]

D. Car. Stay, brother. I owe my life to him; and had he not come to my assistance, the robbers whom I encountered would have killed me.

D. Al. And would you allow this consideration to prevent our vengeance? Whatever service the hand of an enemy may render us, it ought to have no influence upon our heart; if we are to measure the obligation by the injury, then your gratitude, brother, is in this case ridiculous; for honour is infinitely more precious than life, and therefore we owe nothing when we owe our life to him who has taken away our honour.

D. Car. I know the difference, brother, that a gentleman ought always to make between the one and the other; and gratitude for the obligation does not efface within me resentment for the injury; but allow me to give back to him on this very spot what he has lent me; let me repay him immediately the life I owe him, by delaying our vengeance, and by allowing him the liberty of enjoying, for a few days, the benefit of his kind action to me.

D. Al. No, no, we run the risk of not wreaking our vengeance if we delay it, and the opportunity of taking it may never come again. Heaven offers it to us now, and we ought not to let it pass. When honour is mortally wounded, we should not think of keeping any moderation; if you do not like to engage personally in this action, you need only retire, and leave to my arm the glory of such a sacrifice.

D. Car. Pray, brother...

D. Al. All further conversation is unnecessary; he must die.

D. Gar. Hold, I say, brother. I will not allow any attempt upon his life; and I swear by Heaven that I shall defend him here against any and every one; that very life which he has saved shall always guard him; if you attempt to kill him, you must first pierce me.

D. Al. What! you side with our enemy against me; and, instead of feeling the same rage on heholding him as I do, you show feelings full of gentleness!

D. Car. Brother, let us show moderation in a lawful action; and not avenge our honour with so much violence. Let us master our courage; let us show valour without ferocity, which only proceeds from mature deliberation and reason, not from the impulse of a blind rage. I will not remain in debt, brother, to my enemy; I am under an obligation to him, which I must repay before I do anything else. Our revenge will not be the less exemplary for being deferred; on the contrary, it will be the greater; and the opportunity we have had of taking it, will make it appear more just in the eyes of the whole world.

D. Al. O, the strange weakness and dreadful blindness of thus hazarding the interests of our honour for the ridiculous idea of a fanciful obligation!

D. Gar. No, brother, do not trouble yourself about that. If I commit a fault, I shall make amends for it, and take care of our honour; I know to what it obliges us, and this delay of one day, which my gratitude asks for him, will only augment my desire to satisfy it. You see, Don Juan, how anxious I am to return you the favour I have received; by this you can judge of the consequences; rest assured that I discharge with the same warmth what I owe, and that I shall not be the less punctual in repaying you the insult than the kindness. I will not oblige you to express your sentiments now; I allow you to think at your leisure about what you are resolved to do. You very well know the great injury you have done us; you shall yourself judge what reparation it demands. There are peaceful means of giving us satisfaction; there are violent and bloody ones; but finally, whatever choice you may make, you have passed me your word to let Don Juan give me satisfaction. Pray, mind to do so, and remember that, out of this place, my only duty is for my honour.

D. Ju. I have asked nothing of you, and shall keep my promise.

D. Gar. Come, brother, a moment’s forbearance does not injure the severity of our duty.

SCENE VI.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

D. JU. HULLO! bey! Sganarelle!

Sgan. — [Coming out of a place where he had hid him self] What is your pleasure, sir?

D. Ju. How! scoundrel, you run away when I am attacked?

Sgan. I beg your pardon, sir; I was quite near. I believe that this gown is purgative, and that to wear it is as good as taking medicine.

D. Ju. Plague on your insolence! Hide your cowardice at least behind a more decent covering. Do you know who the gentleman is whose life I saved?

Sgan. I? No.

D. Ju. It is a brother of Elvira.

Sgan. A...

D. Ju. He is gentlemanly enough, and behaved pretty well; I am sorry I have a quarrel with him.

Sgan. It would be easy for you to arrange all things.

D. Ju. Yes, but my passion for Elvira is worn out, and it does not suit my mood to engage myself. You know I love liberty in love, and I cannot resolve to immure my heart between four walls. I have told you a score of times I have a natural propensity to give way to whatever attracts me. My heart belongs to the whole fair sex; and they must take it by turns, and keep it as long as they can. But what splendid edifice do I see amongst those trees?

Sgan. Do you not know it?

D. Ju. No, indeed.

Sgan. Why! it is the tomb which the Commander ordered to be built when you killed him.

D. Ju. Ha! you are right. I did not know that it was hereabout. Every one says it is wonderfully well done, and the statue of the Commander as well; I have a mind to go and see it.

Sgan. Do not go there, sir.

D. Ju. Why not?

Sgan. It is not courteous to go to pay a visit to a man whom you have killed.

D. Ju. On the contrary; I intend to be courteous by paying him a visit, which he ought to receive politely, if he is anything of a gentleman. Come, let us go in. [The tomb opens, and discovers a splendid mausoleum and the statue of the Commander. ]

Sgan. Ah! how beautiful that is! what fine statues! what beautiful marble! what fine pillars! ah! how beautiful that is! What do you say of it, sir?

D. Ju. That the pride of a dead man cannot possibly go farther. What I think admirable is that a man, who, whilst he was alive, was satisfied with quite a plain abode, should desire so magnificent a one, when he has no longer occasion for it.

Sgan. Here is the statue of the Commander.

D. Ju. Zounds! he looks very well in the dress of a Roman emperor!

Sgan. Upon my word, sir, it is very well made. It seems as if he were alive, and going to speak. He looks at us in such a manner that it would frighten me if I were quite alone; I do not think he likes to see us.

D. Ju. He would be wrong; and it would be an unhandsome reception of the honour I do him. Ask him if he will come to take supper with me.

Sgan. That is a thing he has no occasion for, I believe.

D. Ju. Ask him, I say.

Sgan. You are jesting. It would be madness to go and speak to a statue.

D. Ju. Do what I bid you.

Sgan. How ridiculous! Mr Commander... [Aside] I laugh at my folly, but my master makes me do it. [Aloud] Mr Commander, my master, Don Juan, asks whether you will do him the honour to come to take supper with him. [The statue nods its head] Ah!

D. Ju. What is the matter? What ails you? Tell me. Will you speak?

Sgan. [Nodding his head like the statue] The statue...

D. Ju. Well, what do you mean, villain?

Sgan. I say that the statue...

D. Ju. Well! what of the statue? Speak, or I will break every bone in your body.

Sgan. The statue made a sign to me.

D. Ju. Plague take the rascal!

Sgan. I tell you it made a sign to me; there is nothing more true. Go and speak to him yourself, and then you will see. Perhaps...

D. Ju. Come, rogue, come. I will convict you clearly of cowardice. Observe. Will his Excellency the Commander come to take supper with me? [The statue nods his head again.

Sgan. I would not take ten pistoles to see it again. Well, sir?

D. Ju. Come, let us begone.

Sgan. [A lone] These are your free-thinkers who believe in nothing.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A ROOM IN Don Juan’s Palace.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE, RAGOTIN.

D. Ju. [To Sganarelle] Be it as it will; let us drop it. It is but a trifle, and we may have been deceived by a false light, or surprised by some giddiness which disturbed our sight.

Sgan. Ah! sir, do not try to deny what we saw with our own eyes. Nothing can be more certain than that nod; I make no doubt that Heaven, offended by your way of living, has wrought this miracle to convince you, and to reclaim you from...

D. Ju. Harkee. If you bother me any more with your foolish morality; if you say another word on that subject, I shall call one of the servants, send for a strong switch, have you held down by three or four men, and give you a thousand lashes. Do you understand me?

Sgan. Very well, sir, perfectly well. You explain yourself clearly; that is one good thing in you that you never affect a roundabout way; you express yourself with wonderful plainness.

D. Ju. Come, let me have supper as soon as possible. A chair here, boy.

SCENE II.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE, LA VIOLETTE, RAGOTIN.

LA V. SIR, here is one of your tradesmen, M. Dimanche, who wishes to speak to you.

Sgan. That is all right; we only wanted to be bothered by a creditor! What put it into his head to come to ask us for money? why did you not tell him that your master was not at home?

La V. I have been telling him so these three-quarters of an hour, but he would not believe me, and sat down within to wait.

Sgan. Let him wait as long as he likes.

D. Ju. No, on the contrary, hid him come in. It is very had policy to hide from your creditors. It is good to pay them something; and I possess the secret of sending them away satisfied without giving them a farthing.

SCENE III.

DON JUAN, M. DIMANCHE, SGANARELLE, LA VIOLETTE, RAGOTIN.

D. JU. HA! M. Dimanche, come this way. How delighted I am to see you! And how angry I am that my people did not show you in immediately! I had given orders that I would not see any one; but this order was not meant for you, and you have a right never to have the door shut against you in my house.

M. Dim. Sir, I am very much obliged to you.

D. Ju. [To La Violette and Ragotin] Zounds! rascals, I shall teach you to leave M. Dimanche in the antechamber, and I shall let you know who is who.
M Dim. Sir, it is not of the slightest consequence.

D. Ju. [To M. Dimanche] What! to say I was not within, to M. Dimanche, my very best friend!

M. Dim. Sir, I am your servant; I came... —

D. Ju. Here, quick, a seat for M. Dimanche.

M. Dim. Sir, I am very well as I am.

D. Ju. No, no; I will have you sit down by me.

M. Dim. It is not necessary.

D. Ju. Take away that stool, and bring an arm-chair.

M. Dim. Sir, you are jesting, and...

D. Ju. No, no; I know what I owe you; and I will not allow them to make any difference between us two.

M. Dim. Sir...

D. Ju. Come, sit down.

M. Dim. There is no need for it, sir. I have only one word to say to you. I was...

D. Ju. Sit you down there, I say.

M. Dim. No, sir, I am very well. I come to...

D. Ju. No, I will not hear you if you do not sit down.

M. Dim. Sir, I do as you wish. I...

D. Ju. Upon my word, M. Dimanche, you look very well.

M. Dim. Yes, sir, at your service. I came to...

D. Ju. You have an admirable constitution, rosy lips, a ruddy complexion, and sparkling eyes.

M. Dim. I should be glad...

D. Ju. How is Mrs Dimanche, your good lady?

M. Dim. Very well, sir, thank Heaven.

D. Ju. She is a good woman.

M. Dim. She is your humble servant, sir. I came...

D. Ju. And how is your little daughter, Claudine?

M. Dim. As well as possible.

D. Ju. What a pretty little girl she is! I love her with all my heart.

M. Dim. You do her too much honour, sir. I...

D. Ju. And does little Colin make as much noise as ever with his drum?

M. Dim. Always the same, sir. I...

D. Ju. And your little dog, Brusquet, does he still bark as loudly, and as lustily bite the legs of the people who visit you?

M. Dim. More than ever, sir; and we cannot break him off it.

D. Ju. Do not be surprised if I ask after your whole family; for I take a very great interest in them all.

M. Dim. We are infinitely obliged to you, sir. I...

D. Ju. [Holding out his hand] Shake hands, then, M. Dimanche. Are you really a friend of mine?

M. Dim. Sir, I am your servant.

D. Ju. I’ gad, I am yours with all my heart.

M. Dim. You do me too much honour. I..

D. Ju. There is nothing I would not do for you.

M. Dim. Sir, you are too kind.

D. Ju. And that without any motive, believe me.

M. Dim. I have certainly not deserved this favour. But, sir...

D. Ju. Nonsense! Come, Mr Dimanche, will you take supper with me without any ceremony?

M. Dim. No, sir; I must return home immediately. I...

D. Ju. — [Rising] Here, quick, a candle to light Mr Dimanche, and let four or five of my fellows take their blunderbusses to escort him.

M. Dim. [Rising also] Sir, this is not necessary; I can very well go alone. But... [Sganarelle quickly removes the chairs.]

D. Ju. What? They shall escort you; I take too great an interest in you. I am your humble servant, and your debtor to boot.

M. Dim. Ah! sir...

D. Ju. I do not conceal it, and I tell it to everyone.

M. Dim. If...

D. Ju. Do you wish me to see you home?

M. Dim. Oh, sir! you jest. Sir...

D. Ju. Embrace me then, pray. Once more I desire you to be convinced that I am entirely yours, and that there is nothing in the world which I would not do to serve you.

SCENE IV.

M. DIMANCHE, SGANARELLE.

SGAN. I MUST needs own that my master is a man who loves you much.

M. Dim. It is true; he is so polite to me, and pays me so many compliments, that I can never ask him for money.

Sgan. I assure you that his whole household would lay down their lives for you; and I wish something would happen to you, that somebody would take it into his head to cudgel you, then you should see how...

M. Dim. I believe it; but, Sganarelle, pray speak a word to him about my money.

Sgan. Oh! do not you trouble yourself about that, he will pay you as well as anyone.

M. Dim. But you, Sganarelle, you owe me something on your own account.

Sgan. Fie! do not speak of that.

M. Dim. What? I...

Sgan. Do I not know what I owe you?

M. Dim. Yes. But...

Sgan. Come, Mr Dimanche, I am going to light you to the door.

M. Dim. But my money...

Sgan. — [Taking M. Dimanche by the arm] You are only jesting?

M. Dim. I wish to...

Sgan. [Pulling him] Come.

M. Dim. I intend to...

Sgan. [Pushing him towards the door] Fiddlesticks! M. Dim. But...

Sgan. [Pushing him again] Fie!

M. Dim. I...

Sgan. [Pushing him quite off the stage] Fie, I say.

SCENE V.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE, LA VIOLETTE.

LA V. [TO Don Juan Sir, here is your father.

D. Ju. Oh! This completes the business! It wanted only this to drive me mad!

SCENE VI.

DON LOUIS, DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

D. LOUIS. I see plainly that I disturb you, and that you could very easily have dispensed with my visit. It is true we are a thorn in one another’s path, and if you are tired of seeing me, I am also very tired of your unruly behaviour. Alas! how little do we know what we do, when we do not allow Heaven to judge what we need, when we wish to be wiser than it, and importune it by our blind wishes and inconsiderate demands! I most anxiously wished for a son; I incessantly prayed with incredible fervour for one; and this son, whom I obtained by wearying Heaven with my prayers, is the plague and punishment of that very life, of which I thought he would be the joy and consolation! With what eye, do you think, can I behold the many unworthy actions, whose wickedness can hardly be palliated before the world, that continuance of disgraceful affairs which daily compels us to weary the goodness of our sovereign, and which has exhausted, in his opinion, the merit of my services, and the influence of my friends? Ah! what a mean spirit you have! Do you not blush because you so little deserve your lofty birth! Tell me, pray, what right have you to be proud of it? and what have you done in this world that gives you a claim to be considered a nobleman? Do you think it is sufficient to bear the title and arms of one, and that it is any glory to be descended of noble blood, if one lives in infamy? No, no! Rank is nothing without virtue. We have therefore no share in the glory of our ancestors, unless we strive to be like them; and the lustre which their actions reflect upon us, demands that we should do them like honour, follow in their footsteps, and not degenerate from their virtues, if we would be deemed their true descendants. Hence, in vain are you born of lofty progenitors; they disown you as one of their race, and all the illustrious deeds that they have achieved confer no advantage upon you: on the contrary, their renown only redounds to your discredit; and their glory is a shining light which renders clear to the eyes of all the infamy of your actions. Know, finally, that a nobleman who leads a wicked life is a monster in nature; that virtue is the prime badge of nobility; that I regard much less the name which a man bears than the actions which he commits, and that I should value more highly a porter’s son who was an honest man, than a monarch’s son who led such a life as yours.

D. Ju. Sir, if you were to take a seat, you would speak more at your ease.

D. Louis. No, insolent wretch; I will neither take a seat nor speak any more, and I plainly perceive that all my words have no effect upon you; but learn, unworthy son, that by your actions you have worn out a father’s love; that, sooner than you think, I shall put a stop to your irregularities, forestall the vengeance of Heaven, and, by your punishment, blot out the shame of being your father.

SCENE VII.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

D. Ju. [Still addressing his father, although he has left] Why! die as soon as you can, it is the best thing you can possibly do. Every one must have his turn; it drives me mad to see fathers live as long as their children. [He throws himself down in his arm chair.]
Nearly the whole of Don Louis’ speech, beginning from, “Oh! what a mean spirit you have,” is, in the original, in blank verse.

Sgan. Ah! sir, you are in the wrong.

D. Ju. [Rising] I in the wrong?

Sgan. [Trembling] Sir...

D. Ju. I in the wrong’?

Sgan. Yes, sir, you were wrong in having listened to what he said to you, and you ought to have turned him out by the shoulders. Did any one ever see anything more impertinent? A father to come and remonstrate with his son, and tell him to reform his ways, not to forget his lofty birth, to live the life of a respectable man, and a hundred other silly things of the same kind! Can a man like you, who knows how to live, stand such a thing as that? I wonder at your patience. Had I been in your place, I should have sent him about his business. [Aside] O cursed complaisance, what do you bring me to!

D. Ju. Will supper be ready soon?

SCENE VIII.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE, EAGOTIN.

RAG. SIR, A lady, with her face veiled, wishes to speak to you.

D. Ju. Who can that be?

Sgan. You must see.

SCENE IX.

DONNA ELVIRA, VEILED, DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

D. Elv. Do not be surprised, Don Juan, to see me at this hour, and in this dress. An urgent motive obliges me to make you this visit; what I have to say will admit of no delay. I do not come here possessed by that wrath I showed a little while ago; I am changed from what I was this morning. I am no longer that Donna Elvira who uttered imprecations against you; whose angry soul vented nothing but threats, and breathed only revenge. Heaven has banished from my heart all that unworthy passion which I entertained for you, all those tumultuous upheavings of a criminal attachment, all those shameful outbursts of an earthly and gross love; and it has left in my heart a flame which burns for you without any sensual affection, a tenderness entirely holy, a love detached from everything, which is not actuated by selfishness, and cares only for your good.

D. Ju. [ Whispering to Sganarelle] I think you weep?

Sgan. Excuse me.

D. Elv. It is this perfect and pure love which brings me hither for your sake, to impart to you a warning from Heaven, and endeavour to turn you away from that precipice whither you are hastening. Yes, Don Juan, I know all the irregularities of your life; and that same Heaven which has touched my heart, and made me see the errors of my own conduct, has inspired me to come to you, and to tell you in its name that your crimes have tired out its mercy, that its dreadful wrath is ready to fall upon you, that you can avoid this by a speedy repentance, and that perhaps not another day is left to save yourself from the greatest of all miseries. As for me, no earthly ties bind me any longer to you. Thanks be to Heaven, I have abandoned all foolish thoughts. I am resolved to retire into a nunnery; I only hope to live long enough to expiate the crime I have committed, and, by an austere penance, to deserve pardon for the blindness into which I have been plunged by the violence of a guilty passion. But, when I am retired from the world, it would greatly pain me if a person, whom I once tenderly loved, should be made an ominous example of the justice of Heaven; it will be an unspeakable delight to me if I can prevail upon you to ward off the dreadful blow that threatens you. I beseech you, Don Juan, grant me as a last favour this soothing consolation; refuse me not your own salvation, which I beg of you with tears; if you are not moved for your own sake, let at least my entreaties prevail, and spare me the terrible grief of seeing you condemned to eternal punishments.

Sgan. [Aside] Poor lady!

D. Elv. I once loved you very tenderly; nothing in this world was so dear to me as you; I forgot my duty for your sake; I have done everything for you; all the reward I desire is that you should amend your life, and ward off your destruction. Save yourself, I beseech you, either for your own sake or mine. Once more, Don Juan, I beg it of you with tears; and if the tears of a person you once loved have no influence with you, I conjure you by everything that is most capable of moving you.

Sgan. [Aside, looking to Don Juan] You have the feelings of a tiger.

D. Elv. I leave you now; that is all I had to say to you.

D. Ju. Madam, it is late, stay here. We shall give you as good a room as we can.

D. Elv. No, Don Juan, do not detain me longer.

D. Ju. Madam, you will oblige me by remaining, I assure you.

D. Elv. No, I tell you, let us not waste time in needless words. Let me go immediately; do not insist upon accompanying me, and think only of profiting by my advice.

SCENE X.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

D. JU. DO you know that I felt something stirring in my heart for her, that I was rather pleased with this strange unexpected adventure, and that her careless dress, her languishing air, and her tears, rekindled within me some small embers of an extinguished flame?

Sgan. That is as much as to say her words did not make any impression on you.

D. Ju. Supper, quickly.

Sgan. Very well.

SCENE XI.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE, LA VIOLETTE, RAGOTIN.

D. JU. [SITTING down at table] Sganarelle, we must really think of amending our lives.

Sgan. Ay, that we must!

D. Ju. Yes, upon my word, we must reform. Twenty or thirty years more of this life, and then we shall consider about it.

Sgan. Oh!

D. Ju. What do you say to that?

Sgan. Nothing. Here comes supper. [He takes a bit from one of the dishes that was brought in, and puts it into his mouth.]

D. JU. Methinks you have a swollen cheek: what is the matter with it? Speak. What have you in your mouth?

Sgan. Nothing.

D. Ju. Show it me. Zounds! he has got a swelling in his cheek. Quick! a lancet to open it. The poor fellow cannot stand this any longer, and this abscess may choke him. Wait! see it is quite ripe. Ha! you rascal!

Sgan. Upon my word, Sir, I wished to see whether your cook had not put in too much pepper or salt.

D. Ju. Come, sit down there, and eat. I have some business for you as soon as I have finished supper. I perceive you are hungry.

Sgan. [Sitting down at the table] I should think so, Sir, I have not eaten anything since this morning. Taste that, it is very good. [Ragotin takes Sganarelle’s plate away as soon as he has got anything upon it to eat] My plate, my plate! Gently, if you please. Ods boddikins! my mannikin, how nimble you are in giving clean plates! I say, little la Violette, you are not very handy in giving a man something to drink! [Whilst la Violette gives Sganarelle something to drink Ragotin again takes away his plate].

D. Ju. Who can it be that knocks in such a manner?

Sgan. Who the deuce comes to disturb us at our meal?

D. Ju. I wish to take my supper at least in peace; let no one, therefore, come in.

Sgan. Let me alone, I shall go to the door myself.

D. Ju. [Seeing Sganarelle return frightened] What ails you? What is the matter?

Sgan. [Nodding his head as the statue did] The... is there.

D. Ju. Let us go and see, and let us show that nothing can move me.

Sgan. Ah! poor Sganarelle, where will you hide yourself?

SCENE XII.

DON JUAN, THE STATUE OF THE COMMANDER, SGANARELLE, LA VIOLETTE, RAGOTIN.

D. JU. [TO his servants] A chair and a plate here. Quick! [Don Juan and the Statue sit down at the table] [To Sganarelle] Come, sit down.

Sgan. Sir, I have lost my appetite.

B. Ju. Sit down here, I say. Give me something to drink. The Commander’s health, Sganarelle. Give him some wine.

Sgan. Sir, I am not thirsty.

D. Ju. Drink, and sing a song to entertain the Commander.

Sgan. I have got a cold, Sir.

D. Ju. No matter. Begin. [To his servants] You, there, come and sing along with him.

Stat. It is enough, Don Juan. I invite you to come and take supper with me to-morrow. Will you he so bold?

D. Ju, Yes. Sganarelle alone shall accompany me. Sgan. I thank you, to-morrow is fast-day with me.

D. Ju. [To Sganarelle] Take a light.

Stat. No need of light for those whom Heaven guides.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

(THE THEATRE REPRESENTS a landscape.)

DON LOUIS, DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

D. Lo. What! my son, is it possible that the mercy of Heaven has granted my prayers? Is what you tell me really true? Do you not deceive me with a false expectation? and can I indeed believe the astonishing tidings of your conversion?

D. Ju. [Playing the hypocrite] Yes, I have seen the error of my ways; I am no longer the same I was last night; and Heaven has suddenly wrought a change in me, which will surprise every one. It has touched my heart and opened my eyes; I look back with horror upon my long blindness, and the crimes and disorders of the life I have led. In my own mind I consider all my former abominations; I am astonished that Heaven could bear with me so long, and that it has not twenty times discharged upon my head the thunderbolts of its terrible justice. I see how kind and merciful it has been to me in not punishing my crimes; I intend to profit by it as I ought, to show openly to the world a sudden change in my life, to repair, by those means, the scandal of my past actions, and endeavour to obtain from Heaven a full remission of my sins. I am now going to strive for this; I beg of you, Sir, to aid me in this design, and to assist me in making choice of a person, who may serve me as a guide, and under whose conduct I may walk safely in the way upon which I am entering.

B. Lo. Ah! my son! how easily does the love of a father return, and how quickly do the offences of a son fade from the memory at the least mention of repentance! I have already forgotten all the sorrows you have caused me; everything is effaced by the words you have just spoken. I confess I am beside myself; I shed tears of joy; all my prayers are answered, and henceforth I have nothing to ask from Heaven. Embrace me, my son, and persist, I conjure you, in this praiseworthy resolution. As for me, I shall go immediately to carry these happy tidings to your mother, unite with her in expressing our delight, and return thanks to Heaven for the holy thoughts with which it has vouchsafed to inspire you.

SCENE II.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

SGAN. AH, SIR, how glad I am to see you converted! I have long been waiting for this; and now, thanks to Heaven, all my wishes are accomplished.

D. Ju. Hang the booby!

Sgan. How, booby?

D. Ju. What, do you think I was serious in what I said just now, and do you imagine that my mouth uttered what my heart believed?

Sgan. What! it is not... You do not... Your. — . [Aside] Oh! what a man! what a man! what a man!

B. Ju. No, no, I am not altered, and my feelings are always the same.

Sgan. What, do you not yield to the surprising miracle of a moving and speaking statue?

D. Ju. There is really something in that which I do not understand; but, whatever it may be, it is not capable either of convincing my judgment, or of shaking my nerves, and if I said I wished to reform my conduct, and was going to lead an exemplary life, it is a plan which I have formed out of pure policy, a useful stratagem, a necessary disguise which I am willing to adopt, in order to spare the feelings of a father, whose assistance I want, and to screen myself, with respect to mankind, from the consequences of a hundred disagreeable adventures. Sganarelle, I make you my confidant in this case, and I am very glad to have a witness of the feelings of my inmost soul, and of the real motives which instigate me to act as I do.

Sgan. What! you believe in nothing, and you pretend at the same time to set up as a virtuous man?

D. Ju. And why not? There are many others besides myself, who çarry on this trade, and who make use of the same mask to deceive the world.

Sgan. [Aside] Oh! what a man! what a man!

D. Ju. There is no longer any shame in acting thus: hypocrisy is a fashionable vice, and all fashionable vices pass for virtues. The character of a virtuous man is the best part which one can play. Now-a-days, the profession of hypocrite possesses marvellous advantages. It is an art, the quackery of which is always respected; and although it be seen through, no one dares to say anything against it. All other vices of mankind are liable to censure, and everyone is at liberty to attack them openly: but hypocrisy is a privileged vice, which, with its own hand, closes the mouth of all the world, and peacefully enjoys a sovereign impunity. By mere force of humbug, a compact body is formed by the whole set. He who offends one, brings them all upon him; and those, whom every one knows to act in all good faith, and to be perfectly sincere, — even those, I say, are generally the dupes of the others; they simply fall into the traps of the humbugs, and blindly support those who ape-their own conduct. How many, think you, do I know who, by this stratagem, have adroitly patched up the errors of their youth; who put on a cloak of religion, and beneath this venerated habit obtain leave to be the most wicked fellows on earth? It signifies nothing that their intrigues, and they themselves, are known for what they are, they have none the less influence in society; a demurely bent head, a canting sigh, and a pair of up-turned eyes, justify with the world all that they can do. It is under this favourable shelter that I intend to take refuge, and arrange matters comfortably. I shall not abandon my darling habits, but I shall take care to conceal them, and amuse myself quietly. If I should be discovered, I shall, without stirring a finger, find my interests espoused by the whole crew, and be defended by them through thick and thin against every one. In short, this is the true way of doing with impunity all that I please. I shall set myself up as a censor of the actions of others, judge ill of every one, and think well only of myself. Whoever has offended me, however slightly, I shall never forgive; but preserve, without much ado, an irreconcilable hatred. I shall announce myself as the advocate of the interests of Heaven; and, under this convenient pretext, I shall persecute my enemies, accuse them of impiety, let loose against them those rash zealots who, without knowing why or wherefore, will raise an outcry against them, overwhelm them with abuse, and openly condemn them to perdition on their own private authority. It is thus that we must profit by men’s weaknesses, and that a man who is no fool adapts himself to the vices of his age.

Sgan. O Heavens! what do I hear? You only wanted to be a hypocrite to make you perfect; and now you have reached the height of your abominations. Sir, your last stroke is more than I can bear, and I cannot help speaking. Do what you please with me; beat me, break every bone in my body, kill me if you like; I must discharge my conscience, and, like a faithful servant, tell you what I ought. Know, sir, that the pitcher goes so often to the well, that it comes home broken at last, and as that author, whose name I have forgotten, very well says, man is, in this world, like a bird on a bough; the bough is fixed to the tree; he who clings to the tree follows good precepts; good precepts are better than fair words; fair words are found at court; at court are courtiers; the courtiers follow the fashion; fashion proceeds from fancy; fancy is a faculty of the soul; the soul gives us life; life ends in death; death causes us to think of Heaven; Heaven is above the earth; the earth is not the sea; the sea is subject to storms; storms toss vessels; vessels have need of a good pilot; a good pilot is prudent; young people are not prudent; young people ought to obey old people; old people love riches; riches make men rich; the rich are not poor; the poor have necessities; necessity has no law; he who knows no law lives like a brute beast, and consequently you shall be condemned to the bottomless pit.

D. Ju. What fine arguments!

Sgan. If you do not give in, after this, so much the worse for you.

SCENE III.

DON CARLOS, DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

D. CAR. DON Juan, I meet you just in time; and I am glad to address you here rather than at your own house, to ask you what you are resolved to do. You know that it concerns me, and that, in your presence, I took upon me to watch over this affair. As for me, I do not conceal it, I sincerely wish that things may be arranged in an amicable way; there is nothing which I would not do to induce you to take that course, and to see you publicly recognise my sister as your wife.

D. Ju. [In a hypocritical tone] Alas! I should indeed like to give you, with all my heart, the satisfaction you desire; but Heaven is directly opposed to it; it has inspired me with the design of amending my life; and I now entertain no other thoughts than entirely to abandon all that binds me to this world, to strip myself as soon as possible of all sorts of pomps and vanities, and henceforth to correct, by an austere behaviour, all those criminal irregularities into which a blind and youthful ardour led me.

D. Car. This design, Don Juan, does not clash with what I propose, and the company of a lawful wife is not in opposition to the praiseworthy designs with which Heaven has inspired you.

B. Ju. Alas! that is by no means the case. Your sister herself has formed this same plan; she has resolved to withdraw into a nunnery; and we have been both touched by grace at the same time.

B. Gar. Her going into a nunnery cannot give us satisfaction, since it may he attributed to the contempt which you show to her and our family; our honour demands that she should he married to you.

B. Ju. I assure you that that cannot he. I was very much inclined towards that union; and this very day I asked counsel from Heaven about it; but, when I did so, I heard a voice which told me that I ought not to think of your sister, and that most certainly I could not be saved with her.

B. Car. Do you think, Don Juan, that you can blind us with such fine excuses?

D. Ju. I obey the voice of Heaven.

B. Car. What? would you have me be satisfied with such a speech?

B. Ju. Heaven will have it so.

B. Car. Have you taken my sister out of a nunnery, to abandon her at last?

B. Ju. Heaven ordains it so.

B. Car. Shall we suffer such a blot upon our family?

B. Ju. Seek your redress from Heaven.

B. Car. Pooh! why always Heaven?

B. Ju. Heaven wishes it should be so.

B. Car. It is enough, Don Juan; I understand you. This spot is not favourable for what I have to say about it; but I shall find you before long.

B. Ju. You may do as you please. You know I am not wanting in courage, and can use my sword, if need be. I am going directly through that little lonely street which leads to the great convent; but I declare to you, solemnly, I do not wish to fight; Heaven forbid the thought; and if you attack me, we shall see what will come of it.

D. Car. Truly, we shall see, we shall see.

SCENE IV.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

SGAN. SIR, WHAT a devil of a style have you adopted? This is worse than all the rest, and I liked you much better as you were before. I always hoped you might be saved; but now I despair of it; I believe that Heaven, which has endured you hitherto, can never bear this last abomination.

D. Ju. Pooh! Pooh! Heaven is not so particular as you think; and if men were every time to...

SCENE V.

DON JUAN, SGANARELLE, A GHOST in the form of a veiled woman.

Sgan. [Seeing the Ghost] Ah! Sir, Heaven speaks to you; it is a warning it gives you.

D. Ju. If Heaven gives me a warning, it must speak more plainly, if it wishes me to understand it. —

Ghost. Don Juan has but a moment to take advantage of the mercy of Heaven; and if he does not repent now, his perdition is certain.

Sgan. Do you hear, sir?

D. Ju. Who dares to utter such words? I think I know that voice.

Sgan. Oh, sir, it is a Ghost, I know it by its step.

D. Ju. Ghost, phantom, or devil, I shall see what it is. [The Ghost changes its shape, and represents time with a scythe in its hand], Sgan. Oh Heavens! do you see this change of shape, sir?

D. Ju. No, no, nothing can frighten me; and I shall try with my sword whether it is a body or a spirit. [The Ghost vanishes the instant Don Juan offers to strike if].

Sgan. Ah, sir, yield to so many proofs, and repent immediately.

D. Ju. No, no, come what will, it shall never be said that I was capable of repentance. Come, follow me.

SCENE VI.

THE STATUE OF THE COMMANDER, DON JUAN, SGANARELLE.

STAT. STAY, DON Juan. You gave me your word yesterday that you would come and sup with me.

D. Ju. Yes. Where shall we go?

Stat. Give me your hand.

D. Ju. Here it is.

Stat. Don Juan, a terrible death is the consequence of persistency in sin; and when the mercy of Heaven is refused, its thunder appears.

D. Ju. Oh Heavens! what do I feel? an inward flame devours me, I can bear it no longer, and my whole body is on fire. Oh! [Loud claps of thunder are heard; great flashes of lightning fall upon Don Juan. The earth opens and swallows him up; flames burst out on the very spot where he went down].

SCENE VII.

SGANARELLE, ALONE.

Alas! my wages! my wages! Every one is satisfied by his death. Offended Heaven, violated laws, maids seduced, families dishonoured, parents outraged, wives ruined, husbands driven to despair, all are satisfied. I alone am unhappy. My wages, my wages, my wages!

APPENDIX.

A, — page 104.
This second Scene, Act i., of Molière’s Don Juan, is partly imitated and exaggerated by Th. Shadwell, in Don John.; or, the Libertine Destroyed (Act ii., Scene 1). Sganarelle is called Jacomo.

Don John. How now, Sir, what wise Thoughts have you in your Noddle?

Jacomo. Why, Sir, I was considering how well I could endure to be hang’d.

D. J. And why so, Buffle?

Jac. Why, you will force me to wait upon you in all your Fortunes, and you are making what haste you can to the Gallows —

D. J. Again at your Reproofs? You insipid Rascal, I shall cut your Ears off, Dog —

Jac. Good Sir, I have done; yet I cannot but admire, since you are resolved to go to the Devil, that you cannot be content with the common way of Travelling, but must ride Post to him.

D. J. Leave off your idle Tales, found out by Priests to keep the Rabble in awe.

Jac. O horrid Wickedness! If I may be bold to ask, what noble Exploits did your Chivalry perform last Night... O Horror!

D. J. Do you start, you Villain, Hah?

Jac. I, Sir! who I, Sir? Not I, Sir.

D. J. D’hear, Rascal, let me not see a Frown upon your Face; if I do, I will cut your Throat, you Rogue.

Jac. No, Sir, no, Sir, I warrant you; I am in a very good Humour, I assure you; — Heaven deliver me!

D. J. Now listen and learn. I kill’d a Lady’s Lover, and supply’d his Place...: In came her foolish Brother and surprized me, but perished by my hand; and I doubt not but I maul’d three or four of his Servants. — [Jacomo starts.

Jac. O horrid Fact! — [Aside.

D. J. Again, Villain, are you frowning?

Jac. No, Sir, no, Sir; don’t think so ill of me, Sir. Heaven send me from this wicked Wretch — What will become of us, Sir? We shall be apprehended.

D. J. Can you fear your rascally Carcase, when I venture mine? I observe always, those that have the most despicable Persons, are most careful to preserve ’em.

Jac. Sir, I beg your Pardon; but I have an odd Humour, makes me something unfit for your Worship’s Service.

D. J. What’s that, Sirrah?

Jac. ’Tis a very odd one, I’m almost asham’d to tell it to you.

D. J. Out with it, Fool —

Jac. Why, Sir, I cannot tell what is the Reason, but I have such an unconquerable Antipathy to Hemp, I could never endure a Bell-rope; Hanging is a kind of Death I cannot abide; I am not able to endure it.
B, — Page no.
Thomas Shad well, in Don John, or the Libertine Destroyed (Act i. Scene 1), has imitated the third Scene of the first Act of Molière’s Dan Juan; Sganarelle is called Jacomo, Donna Elvira, Leonora, and Don Juan, Don John.

Jacomo. Here comes Leonora, one of that Multitude of Ladies he Has sworn to, lyd to and betray’d.

Leonora. Jacomo, where’s Don John? I could not live to endure a longer Absence from him. I have sigh’d and wept myself away: I move, but have no Life left in me. His Coldness and his Absence have given me fearful and killing Apprehensions. Where is my Dear?

Jac. Your Dear, Madam! He’s yours no more.

Leo. Heav’n! What do I hear? Speak, is he dead?

Jac. To you he is.

Leo. Ah me! has he forgot his Vows and Oaths? Has he no Conscience, Faith, or Honour left?

Jac. Left, Madam! he ne ’er had any.

Leo. It is impossible; you speak this out of Malice, sure.

Jac. There’s no Man knows him better than I do. I have a greater Respect for you, than for any he has betray’d, and will undeceive you: He is the most perfidious Wretch alive.

Leo. Has he forgot the Sacred Contract, which was made privately betwixt us, and confirm’d before the Altar, during the Time of Holy Mass?

Jac. All Times and Places are alike to him.

Leo. Oh how assiduous was he in his Passion! How many thousand Vows and Sighs he breath’d. What Tears he wept, seeming to suffer all the cruel Pangs which Lovers e ’er endur’d! How eloquent were all his Words and Actions!

Jac. His Person and his Parts are excellent, but his base Vices are beyond all Measure: Why would you believe him.

Leo. My own Love brib’d me to believe him: I saw the Man I lov’d more than the World, oft on his Knees with his Eyes lift up to Heav’n, kissing my Hand with such an amorous Heat, and with such Ardor, breathing fervent Vows of loyal Love, and venting sad Complaints of extreme Sufferings; I, poor easy Soul, flattering myself to think he meant as I did, lost all my Sex’s Faculty, Dissembling; and in a Month must I be thus betray’d?

Jac. Poor Lady! I cannot but have Bowels for you: Your sad Narration makes me weep in sadness: But you are better us’d than others. I ne’er knew him constant a Fortnight before.

Leo. Then he promis’d he would marry me.

Jac. If we were to live here one month longer, he would many half the Town, ugly and handsome, old and young: Nothing that’s Female comes amiss to him —

Leo. Does he not fear a Thunderbolt from Heaven?

Jac. No, nor a Devil from Hell. He owns no Deity but his voluptuous Appetite, whose satisfaction he will compass by Murders, Rapes, Treasons, or aught else. But pray let me ask you one civil question: Did you not give him Earnest of your Body, Madam?

Leo. Mock not my Misery. Oh! that confounds me. Ah! I thought him true, and lov’d him so, I could deny him nothing.

Jac. Why, there’ tis; I fear you have, or else he wou’d have married you: He has married six within this month, and promis’d fifteen more, whom he has enjoy’d, and left, and is this night gone on some new Adventure, some Rape, or Murder, some such petty Thing.

Leo. Oh Monster of Impiety! O false Don John! Wonder of Cruelty. — [She swoons.
C, — Page 143.
Thomas Shadwell, in his Don John (Act iv., end) has partly imitated the sixth Scene of the third Act of Molière’s Don Juan; but in the English author the scene takes place in a church. Don John has, in Shadwell’s play, also two friends with him, Don Lopez and Don Antonio.
The Scene changes to a Church, with the Statue of Don Pedro on Horseback in it.
Enter DON JOHN, DON LOPEZ, DON ANTONIO, and JACOMO.

Don John. Let’s in, and see this church.

Jacomo. Is this a time to see churches? But, let me see, whose statue’s this O Heaven! this is Don Pedro, whom you murder’d at Sevil.
D. — J. Say you so? Read the inscription.

Jac. Here lies Don Pedro, Governor of Sevil, barbarously murder’d by that impious villain Don John, ‘gainst whom his innocent blood cries still for vengeance.

D. J. Let it cry on. Art thou there, i’ faith? Yes, I kill’d thee; and would do’t again upon the same occasion. Jacomo — invite him to supper.

Jac. What, a Statue! invite a Statue to supper! Ha, ha — can marble eat!

B. J. I say, Rascal, tell him I would have him sup with me.

Jac. Ha, ha, ha! Who the Devil put this whimsy into your head? Ha, ha, ha, invite a Statue to Supper.

B. J. I shall spoil your mirth, Sirrah; I will have it done.

Jac. Why, ‘t is impossible; would you have me such a Coxcomb? invite Marble to eat! ha, ha, ha. [He goes several Times towards the Statue, and returns Laughing.] Good Mr Statue, if it shall please your Worship, my Master desires you to make Collation with him presently. [The Statue nods his Head. Jacomo falls down and roars.] Oh!  am dead! Oh, oh, oh!

D. J. The Statue nods its Head; ‘t is odd —

D. A. ‘T is wonderful!

B. L. I am amaz’d!

Jac. Oh! I cannot stir! Help! help!

B. J. Well, Governour, come, take part of a Collation with me; ‘t is by this time ready; make haste, ‘t is I invite you. [Statue nods again.] Say you so? Come on, let’s set all things in order quickly.

Jac. Oh! fly, fly.

B. A. This is prodigious!
[Exeunt Bon John, Bon Lopez, Bon Antonio, Jacomo.
D, Page 145.
Sir Arthur Cockain’s Ovid (Act iv., Scene 4), has some similarity with the sixth Scene of the third Act of Molière’s Bon Juan, but Hannibal (Don Juan) and his servant Cacala (Sganarelle), espy a man hanging on a gibbet, and the first invites the dead man to supper, whilst in Molière Don Juan sees the statue of the man he has killed in a duel, and tells his servant Sganarelle to invite him to supper.

Hannibal. It is grown something late, and time to think Of our return unto our lodgings. Look!
What’s that? — [Espies a man hanging on a gibbet.

Cacala. Sir, I see nothing.

Han. — Cast thy eyes That way. How now? what is’t hangs there? Cac. Alas! ‘t is a poor fellow that was executed Two or three days ago.

Han. — He had ill fortune.
Had he not better have follow’d Mars, and fall’n In glorious battle, and his soul expir’d Through many wounds, than ignominiously Thus sneak to death in noose of paltry halter?

Cac. My Captain Hannibal talks evermore Of mighty battles...

Han. What mutter you, sirrah?

Cac. I, by your valour’s leave was saying, Captain, You man hangs in a pitiful cold corner; The north wind shakes his legs as he were dancing.
Of wine and women, and of all good meats, He hath for ever took his leave.

Han. I’m sorry for’s hard fate. Some lying people Report some of the dead have walk’d. If thou Canst such a piece of fine activity show, Come sup with me to-night; thou shalt be welcome.
[,Speaks to the hanged man.

Cac. He bows his head.

Han. — Hang his head!

Cac. He need not put himself to such unnecessary trouble; He that small favour hath received already From some of’s smaller friends.

Han. If th’ art a good dead fellow, come, I say!
And sup with me to-night.

Spec. — I’ll come!

Cac. I think I heard him answer he would come.

Han. Thou art so timorous, the echo of My voice deludes thee.
Follow me, thou fearful puppy!

Cac. — A dog His captainship makes of me. Sir, I shall Even tread upon your heels: I dare not stay Behind an inch.

Han. Come, then, for I fear nothing.

Cac. By your leave, I dread the gallows mightily; and a thief That can talk after he’s dead is a terrible bugbear. — [Exeunt.

Trapland. A good, morning to you, Mr Valentine; and to you, Mr Scandal.

Scandal. The morning’s a very good morning, if you don’t spoil it.

Val. Come, sit you down; you know his way.

Trap. [Sits] There is a debt, Mr Valentine, of fifteen hundred pounds, of pretty long standing —

Val. I cannot talk of business with a thirsty palate. — Sirrah! the sack.

Trap. And I desire to know what course you have taken for the payment.

Val. Faith and troth, I am heartily glad to see you — my service to you, fill, fill, to honest Mr Trapland — fuller!

Trap. Hold! sweetheart — this is not to our business — My service to you, Mr Scandal [Drinks] I have forborn as long —

Val. T’ other glass, and then we’ll talk — Fill, Jeremy.

Trap. No more, in truth, — I have forboru, I say —

Val. Sirrah! fill! when I bid you, — And how does your handsome daughter? — Come, a good husband to her [Drinks].

Trap. I thank you — -I have been out of this money —

Val. Drink first. Scandal, why do you not drink? [They drink.

Trap. And, in short, I can be put off no longer.

Val. I was much obliged to you for your supply: it did me signal service in my necessity. But you delight in doing good. Scandal, drink to me, my friend Trapland’s health. An honester man lives not, nor one more ready to serve his friend in distress, though I say it to his face. Come, fill each man his glass....

Scan. I know the buxom black widow in the Poultry. Eight hundred pounds a year iointure, and twenty thousand pounds in money A hah! old Trap!

Val. Say you so, i’ faith? Come, we’ll remember the widow. I know whereabouts you are; come, to the widow.

Trap. No more indeed.

Val. What! the widow’s health? Give it him — off with it [They drink] A lovely girl, i’ faith, black sparkling eyes, soft pouting lips! Better sealing there, then a bond for a million, ha!

Trap. No, no, there’s no such thing; we’d better mind our business — You ‘re a wag!

Val. No, faith, we’ll mind the widow’s business: fill again — a Barbary shape,... would stir an Anchorite; and the prettiest foot! Oh, if a man could but fasten his eyes to her feet, as they steal in and out, and play at bo-peep under her petticoats — ha! Mr Trapland?

Trap. Verily, give me a glass — you ‘re a wag, and here’s to the widow. — [Drinks.]

Scan. He begins to chuckle — ply him close, or he’ll relapse into a dun.

Enter OFFICER.

Officer. By your leave, gentlemen. Mr Trapland, if we must do our office, tell us. We have half a dozen gentlemen to arrest in Pall Mall and Covent Garden, and if we don’t make haste, the chairmen will be abroad, and block up the chocolate houses; and then our labour’s lost.

Trap. Odso, that’s true. Mr Valentine, I love mirth; but business must be done; are you ready to —

Jer. Sir, your father’s steward says, he comes to make proposals concerning your debts.

Val. Bid him come in. Mr Trapland, send away your officer; you shall have an answer presently.

Trap. Mr Snap, stay within call. — [Exit Officer.
Enter STEWARD, who whispers VALENTINE.

Scan. Here’s a dog now, a traitor in his wine! Sirrah, refund the sack; Jeremy, fetch him some warm water; or I’ll rip up his stomach, and go the shortest way to his conscience.

Trap. Mr Scandal, you are uncivil. I did not value your sack; but you cannot expect it again, when I have drunk it.

Scan. And how do you expect to have your money again, when a gentleman has spent it.

Val. You need say no more. I understand the conditions; they are very hard, but my necessity is very pressing: I agree to them. Take Mr Trapland with you, and let him draw the writing. Mr Trapland, you know this man; he shall satisfy you.

Trap. Sincerely, I am loth to be thus pressing; but my necessity —

Val. No apology, good Mr Scrivener; you shall be paid.

Trap. I hope you forgive me; my business requires ——
[Exeunt Trapland, Steward, and Jeremy.
F, Page 153.
Shadwell, in his Bon John (Act ii., Scene 1), has partly imitated the third Scene of the first Act and the ninth Scene of the fourth Act of Molière’s Bon Juan, but has made the hero of his piece boast of his vices, whilst in the French author he plays the hypocrite.

Enter LEONORA.

Leonora. I can hold no longer!

Bon John.’Sdeath, you Dog, how came she here?

Jacomo. I don’t know, Sir, she stole in —

Leon. What Witchcraft do I suffer under, that when I abhor his Vices, I still love his person! Ah, Don John! have I deserv’d that you should fly me! Are all your oaths and vows forgotten by you?

B. J. No, no; in these cases I always remember my oaths, and never forget to break them.

Leon. Oh! mpiety! Did I, for this, yield up my Honour to you? After you had sigh’d and languished many months, and shew’d all signs of a sincere affection, I trusted your truth and constancy, without the bond of marriage,.... believed your solemn contract, when you invok’d all the powers above to testify your vows.

D. J. They think much of us! Why don’t they witness ’em for you? Pish, its nothing but a way of speaking, which young amorous Fellows have gotten.

Leon. Did you not love me, then? What injury had I e’er done you, that you should feign Affection, to betray me?

D. J. Yes, faith, I did love you, and shew’d you as frequent and as hearty signs of it as I could; and egad y are an ungrateful Woman, if you say the contrary.

Leon. O Heaven! did you, and do not now! What crime have I committed, that could make you break your vows and oaths, and banish all your Passion? Ah! with what Tenderness have I received your feign’d Affection, and ne’er thought I liv’d but in your Presence! my Love was too fervent to be counterfeit —

D. J. That I know not, for since your Sex are such Dissemblers, that they can hold out against, and seem to hate the Men they love; why may they not seem to love the Men they hate?

Leon. O cruel Man! could I dissemble? Had I a thousand Lives, I ventur’d all each time I saw your Face; nay, were I now discover’d, I should instantly be sacrificed to my raging Brother’s Fury; and can I dissemble?

D. J. I do not know whether you do or no; you see I don’t, I am something free with you.

Leon. And do you not love me then?

D. J. Faith, Madam, I lov’d you as long as I could for the Heart and Blood of me, and there’s an end of it; what a Devil would you have more?

Leon. O cruel Man! How miserable have you made me!

D. J. Miserable! use Variety, as I do, and you’ll not be miserable. Ah! there’s nothing so sweet to frail human Flesh as Variety.

Leon. Inhuman Creature! What have I been guilty of, that thou should’st thus remove thy Affections from me?

D. J. Guilty! no, but I have had enough of you, and I have done what I can for you, and there’s no more to be said.

Leon. Tigers would have more Pity than thou hast.

D. J. Unreasonable Woman! Would you have a man love after enjoyment? I think the Devil’s in you —

Leon. Do not upbraid me with the rash Effects of Love, which you caus’d in me? And do you hate me for what you ought to love me for’? Were you not many months with Vows and Oaths betraying me to that Weakness? Ungrateful Monster!

D. J. Why the Devil did you not yield before? You Women always rook in Love. You’ll never play upon the Square with us.

Leon. False Man! I yielded but too soon. Unfortunate Woman!

L. J. Your dissembling Arts and jilting Tricks, taught you by your Mothers, and the phlegmatick Coldness of your Constitutions, make you so long in yielding, that we love out almost all our Love before you begin; and yet you would have our Love last as long as yours. I got the Start of you a long Way, and have Reason to reach the Goal before you.

Leon. Did you not swear you would for ever love me?

D. J. Why there’t is; why did you put me to the Trouble to swear it? If you Women would be honest, and follow the Dictates of Sense and Nature, we should agree about the Business presently, and never be forsworn for the Matter.

Leon. Are Oaths so slighted by you, perfidious Man?

D. J. Oaths! Snares to catch conceited Women with; I wou’d have sworn all the Oaths under the Sun; why I wou’d have committed Treason for you, and yet I knew I should be weary of you —

Leon. I thought such Love as mine might have deserv’d your constancy, false and ungrateful Man!

D. J. Thus your own Vanity, not we, betrays you. Each Woman thinks, though Men are false to Others, that she is so fine a Person, none can be so to her. You should not take our words of course in earnest.

Leon. Thus Devils do in Hell, who cruelly upbraid whom they have tempted thither.

D. J. In short, my Constitution will not let me love you longer. And whatever some Hypocrites pretend, all Mankind obey their Constitutions, and cannot do otherwise.

Leon. Heav’n, sure, will punish this vile Treachery.

D. J. Do you then leave it to Heav’n, and trouble yourself no further about it.

Leon. Ye Sacred Powers, who take care of injur’d Innocence, assist me.
G, — Page 156.
Thomas Shadwell has, in Lon John (Act iv., end), partly followed Molière’s Lon Juan (Act iv., Scenes 11 and 12), as follows:
The Scene in a dining-Room, a Table spread, Servants setting on meat and wine.

Lon John. Come, our meat is ready; let’s sit.... this foolish statue! it puzzles me to know the Reason on’t — Sirrah, I’ll give you leave to sit.

Lon Antonio. Let’s eat; ne’er think on’t.

Jacomo. Ay, come, let’s eat; I am too hungry now to think on the right —— [Jacomo eats greedily.

L. J. This is excellent meat: How the Rogue eats! You’ll choak yourself —

Jac. I warrant you, look to yourself.

B. A. Why, Jacomo, is the Devil in you?

Jac. No, no; if he be,’ tis a hungry Devil.

B. L. Will you not drink?

Jac. I’ll lay a good foundation first.

B. J. The Rascal eats like a Canibal.

Jac. Ay, ’tis no matter for that.

B. J. Some wine, Sirrah.

Jac. There, Sir, take it; I am in haste.

B. A.’ Sdeath! the Fool will be strangled.

Jac. The Fool knows what he does.

B. J. Here’s to Don Pedro’s Ghost; he should have been welcome. Jac. O name him not.
J). L. The Rascal is afraid of him after Death.

Jac. Oh! oh! Some wine, give me some wine. — [Almost chok’d B. A. Take it.

Jac. So; now ’tis down.
I). A. Are you not satisfied yet?

Jac. Peace, peace: I have but just begun. [One knocks hard at the Boor] Who’s there? Come in; I am very busy.

D. J. Rise, and do your Duty.

Jac. But one Morsel more, I come. [Knocks again] What a fix! Are you mad? — [Opens the door.

Enter GHOST.
Oh! the Devil, the Devil!

D. J. Ha! it is the Ghost! let’s rise and receive him.

D. A. I am amaz’d.

B. L. Not frightened, are you!

B. A. I scorn the thoughts of fear. — [They salute the Ghost.

B. J. Come, Governour, you are welcome: sit there; if we had thought you would have come, we wou’d have stay’d for you. But come on, Surah, give me some wine. — [The Ghost sits.

Jac. Oh! I am dead; what, shall I do? I dare not come near you. B. J. Come, Rascal, or I’ll cut your Throat. —
[Fills wine, his hand trembles. Jac. I come, I come, I come. Oh! oh!

B. J. Why do you tremble, Rascal! Hold it steadily —

Jac. Oh! I cannot.
[Jacomo snatches meat from the Table and runs aside. B. J. Here, Governour, your health. Friends, put it about. Here’s excellent meat; taste of this Ragoust. If you had had a body of flesh, I wou’d have given you cher entire — but the women care not for marble. Come, I’ll help you: Come, eat, and let old Quarrels be forgotten. Ghost. I come not here to take repast with you; Heaven has permitted me to animate This Marble Body, and I come to warn You of that Vengeance is in store for you, If you amend not your pernicious Lives.

Jac. Oh! Heaven!

D. A. What, are you come to preach to us?

D. L. Keep your Harangues for Fools, that will believe ’em.

D. J. We are too much confirm’d.... Give me some wine. Come, here’s to your Mistress; you had one when you were living: Not forgetting your sweet sister. Sirrah, more wine.

Jac. Ay, Sir ——  ——  ——  — Good Sir, do not provoke the Ghost; his Marble Fists may fly about your Ears, and knock your Brains out.

D. J. Peace, Fool!
G ho. Tremble, you impious Wretches, and Repent; Behold! the Pow’rs of Hell wait for you. — [Devils arise.

Jac. Oh! I will steal from hence. O, the Devil!

D. J. Sirrah, stir not; by Heaven I’ll use thee worse than Devils can do. Come near, Coward.

Jac. Oh! I dare not stir; what will become of me?

D. J. Come, Sirrah, Eat.

Jac. O Sir, my Appetite is satisfied.

D. J. Drink, Dog, the Ghost’s Health: Rogue, do’t, or I’ll run my sword down thy Throat.

Jac. Oh! oh! Here, Mr Statue, your Health.

D. J. Now, Rascal, Sing to entertain him.

Jac. Sing, quoth he! Oh! I have lost my voice, I cannot be merry in such company. Sing —

D. A. Who are these with ugly shapes?

D. L. Their manner of appearing is something strange.

Gho. They ‘re Devils, that wait for such impious men; they ‘re Heaven’s Instruments of Eternal Vengeance.

D. J. Are they some of your Retinue ? Devils, say you ? I am sorry I have no burnt Brandy to treat ’em with; that’s drink fit for Devils — Ha! they vanish. — [They sink.

Gho. Cannot the fear of Hell’s Eternal Tortures Change the horrid course of your abandon’d Lives?
Think on those Fires, those Everlasting Fires, That shall without consuming burn you ever.

D. J. Dreams, dreams, too slight to lose my Pleasure for.
In spite of all you say, I will go on, Till I have surfeited on all Delights.
Youth is a Fruit that can but once be gather’d, And I’ll enjoy it to the full.

D. A. Let’s push it on; Nature chalks out the way that we should follow.

D. L. ’Tis her fault, if we do that we shou’d not. Let’s on: here’s a Brimmer to our Leader’s health.

Jac. What hellish Friends are these?

B. J. Let me tell you, ’tis something ill-bred to rail at your Host that treats you civilly. You have not yet forgot your Quarrel to me.

Gho.’ Tis for your good; by me Heaven warns you of its Wrath, and gives you a longer Time for your Repentance. I invite you this night to a Repast of mine.

B. J. Where?

Gho. At my Tomb.

B. A. What time?

Gho. At dead of night.

D. J. We’ll come.

Gho. Fail not.

B. L. I warrant you.

Gho. Farewell, and think upon your lost Condition.

B. J. Farewell, Governonr; I’ll see what treat you’ll give ns.
D.A) And I. D. L.)

Jac. That will not I.... I have had enough of his company: I shall not recover it this week. If I eat with such an Host, I’ll be hang’d.

B. J. If you do not, by Heaven, you shall be hang’d.

Jac. Whither will your Lewdness carry me? I do not care for having a Ghost for a Landlord. Will not these Miracles do good upon you?

B. J. There’s nothing happens but by natural causes, Which in unusual things Fools cannot find, And then they style ’em miracles. But no Accident Can alter me from what I am by nature.
Were there Legions of Ghosts and Devils in my way, One moment in my course of pleasure I’d not stay.
[Exeunt omnes.
H, Page 158.
This twelfth Scene of the fourth Act of Molière’s Bon Juan can be compared with Sir Aston Cokain’s Ovid (Act iv., Scene 6). Don Juan is called Hannibal, and Sganarelle Caeala.

Han. Hark! somebody knocks! Rise, and inform me who Is at the door. How, now? What! art thou deaf, And hearest me not? or dumb, because thou speak’st not?
An apoplexy, sure, hath seized upon thee!
Sit down again and drink a glass of wine, It will recover thee. Well done! Now eat thy meat.
Again there knocks somebody at the door:
Rise once more, sirrah, and conduct them in!
Begone, or I shall kick you to your duty!
[He opens the door, turns back, and fall down as in a swoon. This idle rascal, sure, the falling sickness Hath got of late! I must be at the charge, I fear, to send for a physician to him.
I wonder who it is, for somebody knocks Again. It needs must be a stranger, else He such long compliment would not have show’d.
Still he knocks on! I will go bring him in!

Enter SPECTRE.
Your name, sir, and your pleasure?

Spec. My name Helvidius is.

Han. — You are a stranger Unknown to me; I pray what is your business?

Spec. I come to sup with you.

Han. — Though clad so meanly, You shall be welcome!

Spec. — I am not so rude To press upon you uninvited, Captain!

Han. Who should invite you? Spec. Sir, yourself!

Han.— ’Tis strange I should forget it, then!

Spec. I come unlook’d for, noble Hannibal, But you did bid me to supper to-night.

Han. My memory hath fail’d me. Where, Helvidius?

Spec. At the gibbet, by the city walls, Where I did hang in chains.

Han. This is a courtesy deserves a welcome.
You are most welcome, sir, and so believe it!

Spec. You are my generous patron, and I thank you!

Han. Sit down, I pray; sit down. So, ’tis well done!
Cacala! Where’s Cacala? Give me a glass of wine.
What! on the floor still? Rise, man!

Coe. I dare not stir nor breathe, sir.

Han. He will not hurt you!

Spec. I shall not be so rude, where I find welcome, To do a mischief.

Han. Fill wine, sir! Much good do you, and here’s to you, —
To your fair mistress’ health, whether alive, Or your companion i’ th’ Elysian groves!

Spec. You much endear me.

Han. Could I have thought you would have supp’d with me, You should have been much better treated.
Sit down and eat thou silly Cacala!

Cac. I am very timorous.

Han. His promise and my valour do protect thee!

Caç. This napkin, thus dispos’d under my hat, Shall keep my eyes off him. I’ll eat like a lion, Because I sit in fear; and after will Chew the cud, as some beasts do, to digest it.

Spec. Good fellow, I salute thee with this bowl.

Cac. I have no mind to drink yet; my master Is the better pledger of such fancies.

Han. You shall not refuse him. Off with it, Cacala!
I’ll conclude it!

Spec. — It has gone round.
Captain, your kindness hath so far oblig’d me, That I presume to crave a favour of you.

Han. You shall command!

Spec. I pray you, dine with me to-morrow.

Han. You jest!

Spec. I am in earnest! You shall be most welcome!

Han. Where? Spec. At the gibbet.

Han. I’ll come.

Cac. Now my belly’s full, I cannot forbear To cast a sheep’s eye at him.
Oh! oh! — [Cries aloud, falls backward, and, with his legs under the table, overthrows it and all the meat. Spec. I thank you, generous Captain, and good night!

Han. Farewell, sir, and expect me as I promised!
[Exit Spectre.
I, Page 166.

Th. Shad well has, in Don John, partly imitated and amplified the three last scenes of the fifth Act of Molière’s Don Juan, but Don Antonio and Don Lopez are not in the French play, neither is the Chorus of Devils; the ranting of Don John is also not to be found in Molière.

D. A. The clock strikes twelve.

D. J.’Slife! our Time’s come, we must to the Tomb. I would not break my Word with the Ghost for a thousand Doubloons —

Jac. Nor I keep it, for ten times the Money.

D. J. But you shall keep your Word, Sir.

Jac. Sir, I am resolved to fast to-Night:’Tis a Vigil. Besides, I care not for eating in such base company.

Within. Follow, follow, follow —

D. L. D’ye hear that Noise? The remaining Rogues have rais’d the Mobile, and are coming upon us.

Jac. Oh! let’s fly... fly... What will become of me?

D. A. Let’s to the Church, and give the Rogues the Go-by.

D. J. Come on; since ’tis my time, and I have promised the Governour, I’ll go... You had best stay, Sirrah, and be taken.

Jac. No: Now I must go the Church, whether I will or no. Away, away, fly!
Enter SHEPHERDS, with a great RABBLE.

Shep. Here they went; follow, follow... — [Exeunt Omnes.
The SCENE — the Church, the Statue of Don Pedro on Horseback; on each side of the Church, Don John’s Father’s Ghost, Marids, Don Francisco’s, Leonora’s, Fiords, Maria’s Brothers, and others, with Torches in their Hands.
Enter Don JOHN, DON ANTONIO, DON LOPEZ, and JACOMO.

Jac. Good sir, let’s go no further; look what horrid Attendants are here! This wicked Ghost has no good meaning in him.

D. J. He resolves to treat us in State; I think he has robb’d all the Graves hereabouts of their dead, to wait upon us.

D. A. I see no Entertainment prepar’d.

D. L. He has had the Manners to light off his Horse, and entertain us.

D. J. He would not sure be so ill-bred, to make us wait on him on Foot.

Jac.... I shall die with Fear. I had as good have been taken and bang’d. What Horror seizes me!

D. J. Well, Govemour, you see we are as good as our Words.

D. A. Where’s your Collation?

D. L. Bid some of your Attendants give us some wine. [Ghost descends.

Stat. Have you not yet thought on your lost Condition?
Here are the Ghosts of some whom you have murder’d, That cry for Vengeance on you —
Father’s Ghost. Repent, repent of all your horrid Crimes.
Monsters, repent; or Hell will swallow you.

D. J. That’s my old Man’s Voice. D’ye hear, old Gentleman! you talk idly.

Jac. I do repent, O spare me! I do repent of all my Sins, but especially of following this wicked Wretch. — [Kneels.

D. A. Away, Fool. — [Antonio kicks him.

D. F.’s Ghost. My Blood cries out upon thee, barbarous Wretch.

D. J. That’s my Host Francisco;’ faith, thou wert an honest Blockhead: that’s the Truth on’t —
Flora’s Ghost. Thou shalt not escape Vengeance for all thy Crimes.

D. J. What Fool’s that? I am not acquainted with her.
L.’s Ghost. In time lay hold on Mercy, and repent.

D. J. That was Leonora, a good-natur’d, silly Wench, something too loving, that was all her fault.

Maria. Villain, this is the last Moment of thy Life, And thou in Flames eternally shalt howl.

D. J. Thou ly’st; this is the young hot-heated Fool we killed at Francisco’s.... He disappointed me in my Design upon the Daughters.’Would that thou wert alive again, that I might kill thee once more.

D. L. No more of this old foolish stuff; give us some wine to begin with.

D. A. Ay, give us some Wine, Governour.

D. J. What, do you think to treat us thus? I offer’d you a better Entertainment. Pr’ythee trouble us no more, but bid some of your Attendants give us some wine; I’ll drink to you and all the good Company.

Stat. Give ’em the Liquor they have most delighted in.
[Two of the Ghosts go out, and bring four Glasses full of Blood, then give ’em to Don John, Don Antonio, Don Lopez.

D. L. This is something.

D. J. This is civil.

D. A. I hope a good Desert will follow.
[Ghost offers a Glass to Jaeomo, who runs round Don John Don Antonio, Don Lopez, roaring.

Jae. Are you distracted? Will you drink of that liquor? Oh! oh, what do you mean? Good sweet Ghost, forbear your Civility: Oh: I am not dry, I thank you —

D. J. Give it me. Here, take it, Sirrah.

Jae. By no means, Sir; I never drink between Meals. O Sir —

D. J. Take it, Rascal.

Sac. O Heav’ns!

D. J. Now, Governour, your Health; ’tis the reddest Drink I ever saw.

D. L. Ha! pah! ’tis Blood.

D. A. Pah! it is —

Jae. Oh! I’ll have none of it. — [They throw the Glasses down.

D. J.’Sdeath, do you mean to affront us?

Stat. ’Tis fit for such blood-thirsty Wretches.

D. J. Do you upbraid me with my killing of you? I did it, and would do it again; I’d fight with all your Family one by one, and cut off Root and Branch, to enjoy your Sister. But will you treat us no otherwise?

Stat. Yes, I will, ye impious Wretches. — [A Flourish.

D. L. What’s here? Musick to treat us with?

D. L. There is some Pleasure in this.
SONG of Devils, 1st Dec. Prepare, prepare; new Guests draw near, And on the brink of Hell appear.

2d Dev. Kindle fresh flames of Sulphur there, Assemble all ye Fiends; Wait for the dreadful Ends Of impious men, who far excell All the Inhabitants of Hell.
 — Let ’em come, let ’em come Chorus oft To an Eternal Dreadful Doom; Devils. Let ’em come, let ’em come.

3d Dev. In mischief they have all the damn’d out-done; Here they shall weep, and shall unpity’d groan, Here they shall howl, and make Eternal Moan, 1st Dev. By Blood and Lust they have deserv’d so well, That they shall feel the hottest flames in Hell.

2d Dev. In vain they shall here their past Mischiefs bewail, In exquisite Torments, that shall never fail.

3d Dev. Eternal Darkness they shall find, And them Eternal chains shall bind To infinite Pain of Sense and Mind.
 — Let ’em come, let ’em come torus of! To an Eternal dreadful Doom; Let em come, let em come.

Stat. Will you relent and feel Remorse?

D. J. Coud’st thou bestow another Heart on me, I might; but with this Heart I have, I cannot.

D. L. These Things are Prodigious!

D. A. I have a kind of grudging to relent, but something holds me back. D. L. If we could, ’tis now too late; I will not.

D. A. We defy thee.

Stat. Perish, ye impious wretches; go and find The Punishments laid up in store for you:
[It thunders, DON LOPEZ, and DON ANTONIO are swallowed up. Behold their fates, and know that thy last moment’s come.

D. J. Think not to fright me, foolish Ghost; I’ll break your marble Body in Pieces, and pull down your Horse.

Jac. If Pear has left me any strength, I’ll steal away. — [Exit.

D. J. These Things I see with Wonder, but no Pear.
Were all the Elements to be confounded, And shuffled up into their former chaos; Were Seas of Sulphur flaming round about me, And all Mankind roaring within those Pires, I could not fear, nor feel the least Remorse; To the last Instant I would dare thy Power.
Here I stand firm, and all thy Threats contemn; Thy murderer stands here, now do thy worst.
[It Thunders and Lightens. Devils descend and sink with Don John, who is cover’d with a cloud of Fire as he sinks.

Stat. Thus perish all Those men, who by their Words and Actions dare Against the Will and Pow’r of Heaven declare. — [Scene shuts.

Sir Aston Cokain’s Ovid (Act v., Scene 3) may be compared with the three last scenes of the last act of Molière’s Don Juan, as follows: —
Enter HANNIBAL and CACALA.

Cac. Sir, I entreat you, my too valiant Captain, To give me leave to return home; I have No mind to such a formidable dinner.

Han. What should’st thou fear? My keen victorious sword Carries spells strong enough to conjure down All the unruly fiends of Pluto’s court; Therefore, for shame, take courage! Thou hadst wont To have a good stomach to thy meat: and sure This gallant ghost will treat us very nobly.

Cac. I have an horror to such company, And had a thousand times much rather be With Mistress Floretta, and converse with her.

Han. Thou talk’st so often of her, that I think Thou art in love with her.

Cac. — I must confess I have some smackering that way; but the awe I stand in of your indignation Deters me from professing my respects....

Han. Walk on! we’re almost there.

Cac. I’m monstrously afraid!

Han. Pear nothing in my company....

Enter SPECTRE.

Spec. Welcome, thou noblest son of Mars!
Give me thy hand, thou servant to great Hannibal!

Cac. I wish you would excuse me the compliment.

Spec. You need not fear me.

Han. Cacala, be courageous, and dread nothing!
My friend Helvidius will no hurt do to thee.
Should Cerberus bark but at thee, with my sword I at one blow would cut off all his heads.

[A table set forth, covered with a black linen cloth; all the napkins of the same colour; the meat and dishes, bottles, wine, and all things also.

Spec. You see your entertainment, and are both Most heartily welcome. Let us sit and eat!
[ They all sit down and eat.

Cac. I do not like the colour of this linen; The meat and wine and everything is black.

Spec. ’Tis the sole colour us’d in Pluto’s court.

Cac. The meat tastes well, though. Though I had rather be At a piece of bread and cheese at Madam Cypassis’, I cannot choose but eat; I think my fear Hath added to my hunger.

Spec. — Gallant Hannibal, I dedicate this bowl to thy Floretta.

Han. Off with it, then, thou only worthy of The other world! Here, Cacala, thou shalt pledge me!

Cac. I’ll do my weak endeavour.

Han. I thank you, sir, and in requital drink To him or her you most affect.

Spec. — Y’are noble.
Friend Cacala, here’s to you! and you conclude it.

Cac. I dare not do otherwise.

Han. Would you excuse my curiosity, sir?
I would inquire why you were executed?

Spec. I’ll satisfy you. The lords and gentry of This city Tomos gave order to a statuary To make the image of the poet Ovid In beaten massy gold, for the honour he Had done them by writing an excellent poem I’ the Getick language in Tiberius’ praise.
When it was ready to have been presented, I got into the house and stole it thence, Melted it privately, and put it off By little parcels — spent it on wanton wenches And among boon companions. In my cups, Bragg’d on’t to two false brothers, who betrayed me.

Han. I would they had been born both dumb and fools!... Some business calls me home. I give you thanks For this brave entertainment; so, farewell!

Spec. I pray you stay awhile! you shall look on A little masque I have provided for you.

Han. You much oblige me, and are over liberal Of your high favours to me.
Enter, after very solemn loud music, ÆACUS, BHADAMANTHUS, and MINOS, the Judges of Hell; ALECTO, TISYPHONE, and MEGÆRA, the Furies; and dance altogether to low music.

Spec. Æacus, Minos, and Bhadamanthus, the three Judges in hell! Tisyphone, Megæra, and Alecto, The Furies there, of equal number to them, Lead in a dance.

Cac. — Can devils be so merry?
But I bad ever thought there had been rather Three thousand judges there than three; I wonder Their number is so few. So of the Furies, For oft on earth one woman hath more in her.
[The dance ended, this song follows.

Most happy is the libertine,
And of mankind the most ingenious,
Who from grave precepts doth decline,
And doth indulge his jovial genius!
Oh, the joys, the joys,
They have that follow vice,
Without any fear of the gods!
Who freely waste their treasures
To purchase them their pleasures,
And are with the virtuous at odds!

The atheist is the greatest fool,
Who only aims to please his senses,
Thinking in heaven no gods bear rule,
And tipples, murders, swears, and wenches.
Oh, the woes, the woes,
That follow all those
Who wear out their lives in vice!
That swear,... kill, and drink,
And never them bethink,
Till they fall into hell in a trice!

[After the song is ended, they all seize on him, and carry him away.

Han. Must I be then betrayed thus? False Helvidius!
And foolish Hannibal to trust to spectres! — [Exeunt with him.

Spec. Away with him! Down to the infernal shades Of griefly Pluto’s kingdom let him sink!
A fouler soul was never seen in hell, Where’s witchcrafts, rapes, murders, and vicious life Will find a suitable endless punishment! [The Spectre vanishes.

Cac. This was a terrible sight indeed! Heaven keep me But in my wits till I can see Floretta, And I shall tell her such a tale as will Make her turn virtuous, if she hath not lost All love to th’ powers divine, and fears no vengeance. — [Exit.

Love is the Best Doctor

L’Amour médecin

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

TO THE READER.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

PROLOGUE.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

APPENDIX.

The original frontispiece, 1682

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

ON THE 15TH of September 1665, was represented at Versailles an impromptu comedy, “interspersed with tunes, symphonies, singing, and dancing,” called Love is the best Doctor, in which Molière most strenuously attacked the faculty of medicine. He had already begun this criticism in Don Juan; but, as it was put into the mouth of a complete sceptic in everything, it was not considered as very serious. In Love is the best Doctor, however, he ridiculed the most fashionable physicians, and the patients who consulted and trusted them. Four doctors are called in to a consultation, in which, instead of comparing notes about the state of the patient, they converse about things in general and nothing in particular; at the end, the distracted father finds himself more bewildered than before, and rushes out of the house to buy a quack medicine, which the quack declares “cures by its excellence rare more complaints than are counted up in a whole year,” and the great virtues of which could ne’er be “repaid by the gold of all climes which by the ocean are bound,” but for which the anxious but avaricious parent only pays “thirty sous,”

“which,” he says, addressing the quack, “you will take, if you please.” The professional discussions of the learned brethren, and the shrewd interested advice of Dr Filerin, who rebukes them, and tells them not to quarrel before the public, and thus to lessen their influence, but to maintain a sedate and deeply anxious look, are admirable, and suitable, not for one but for all ages. As long as credulous and physic-swallowing people exist, and as long as external appearances will be taken as an indication of true knowledge and worth, so long will Molière’s comedy retain its sting. In nice contrast to the contentious practitioners, is the sharp common-sense of the maid Lisette, and the stubbornness and miserly feelings of the father Sganarelle, who asks advice, but does not follow it, refuses to give his daughter in marriage because “he means to keep his wealth,” and is finally tricked out of his daughter and a dowry as well.

Although I do not deny the courage, I cannot admire the taste, of Molière, in bringing four famous court physicians bodily on the stage, in exposing the physical defects of two of them, — the one a stammerer, the other a very rapid talker, — and in even barely disguising their names under Greek denominations, and which, tradition affirms, are due to Boileau. It is always right to attack and ridicule a vice on the stage, when by so doing, an author conscientiously believes that he is improving his fellow-men at the same time that he is amusing them, and is holding “a mirror up to nature;” but it can never be defensible to imitate living persons, to mimic their defects, to ape their attitudes — nay, to wear their very dress. The representative of a vice or virtue should, I imagine, be an embodiment of many persons, possessed of such good or evil qualities, but not the faithful portrait of one man or woman. To say that such an imitation is Aristophanesk, is simply to disguise a very ugly, and not even a very artistical, thing, under a not over-nicely sounding adjective.

According to some annotators, Molière meant by Desfonandrès, compounded of two Greek words, phonos, murder, and andrès, men, a certain Dr Elie Béda, who, at the time when Love is the best Doctor was first represented, must have been about seventy years old. He had adopted the name of Des Fougerais, and was the favourite physician of the high nobility and magistracy. Born a Protestant, he became a Roman Catholic in 1648, is said to have been a regular medical Vicar of Bray, and never to have changed his religious or medical opinions, except to benefit himself and his family. M. A. Jal, in his Dictionnaire critique, pretends that Guénault is caricatured in Desfonandrès, because he killed so many patients by antimony, and because Desfonandrès boasts, in the third scene of the second act, that he has “an astonishing horse, an indefatigable animal.” Now, it was well known in Molière’s time, that Guénault was the only doctor who always rode on horseback, whilst his colleagues went about in carriages, sedan chairs, or on foot.

Bahis (barker), seems to have been intended for Dr Esprit, whose real name was André, and who spoke very fast. He had been one of the physicians of Cardinal Richelieu, afterwards of Cardinal Mazarin, and finally of Monsieur, brother of the King, and was a declared partizan of emetics. According to Raynaud, les Médecins au temps de Molière, 1863, the physician Brayer is meant by Bahis, chiefly because Bahis is in French “brailleur,” shouter, and therefore there is a similarity in name, and also because he was one of the four physicians who held a famous consultation at Vincennes, when Cardinal Mazarin was dying.

By Macroton (stammerer), it is generally believed that Dr Francois Guénault is meant, because he spoke very slowly. This gentleman was one of the best known and most celebrated medical men of the time, and had been physician to the Prince de Condé, and then to the Queen. He had often professionally attended on the King, and scarcely a man of rank fell ill who did not consult him. It is said that he was very fond of money, and a declared champion of antimony (see page 132, note 20); and, through his influence amongst the great, a decided lord amongst doctors.

Tomes (the bleeder), was intended for Vallot, first physician to the King, with the rank of grand Chamberlain, as well as with the hereditary title of Count; and who exercised supreme jurisdiction over all the doctors and apothecaries in the kingdom. He kept a Journal de la Santé du Roy (Louis XIV.), published in 1862, which contains all the recipes “with which Heaven inspired” him, to keep the monarch in health. Bleeding and purgatives appear to have been the doctor’s two favourite remedies. He was a strenuous defender of emetics, Peruvian bark and laudanum, and obtained a great triumph when he cured, in 1650, Louis XIV., with antimonial wine (see note 20, page 132); but became anew the butt of many satires and epigrams, on the death of Henrietta of France, Queen of England, whom his opponents accused him of having killed by his prescriptions.

In the character of Dr Filerin (a friend of death), it is said that Molière wished to have a hit at the whole medical faculty. Mons. E. Soulié, in the Recherches sur Molière, states that in Molière’s time, there lived a certain well-known fencing-master, André Fillerin, and that therefore, the joke must have been enjoyed by the audience, on hearing that name given to a physician who killed his man.

Love is the best Doctor was, according to the preface, “sketched, written off, learned, and acted in five days.” It was three times represented at Versailles, and played, for the first time, in Paris, on the 22d of September 1665, when it was acted twenty-six times consecutively.

Several English dramatists have borrowed or imitated Molière’s comedy.

The first imitator of Molière’s Love is the best Doctor is John Lacy, who was greatly admired by Pepys and by Charles II., and was an excellent low-comedy actor. During the civil wars, he served as lieutenant in the King’s army, and returned to the stage at the Restoration. It has been rumoured that Lacy was a great favourite of Nell Gwyn, and taught her, amongst other things, the art of acting. He lived to an advanced age, and died on the 17th of September 1681. He wrote several plays, one of which was The Dumb Lady, or the Farrier made a Physician, a farce in five acts, performed about 1672, of which the main plot is taken from Molière’s Mock Doctor, and the catastrophe is borrowed from his Love is the best Doctor. Lacy, who himself most probably played the part of Drench, the farmer, dedicates his play to the high-born and most hopeful Prince Charles, Lord Limerick, and Earl of Southampton, the eldest of the three natural sons of Charles IL, by Barbara Villiers, wife of Roger Palmer, Earl of Castle-main, better known as Duchess of Cleveland. This dedication is couched in such high-flown and fawning language, that I give it here as a specimen of what flattery was in the days of Charles II.:

Mrs Aphra Behn (See Introductory Notice to Pretentious Young Ladies, Vol. I., page 216) has, in Sir Patient Fancy — an imitation, partly of Molière’s Malade Imaginaire, and of M. de Pourceaugnac, and acted at the Duke’s Theatre, 1678 — borrowed and amplified all the scenes of Love is the best Doctor, in which the physicians consult. But the patient to be cured is a hypochondriac, and not young girl; Sir Patience himself is present at the consultation, and the doctor’s names are also altered to Turboon, Amsterdam, Leyden, Brunswick, and Sir Credulous. —

As a second imitation of Love is the best Doctor I have to mention “The Quacks, or Lovés the Physician, as it was acted (after being twice forbid) at the Theatre-Loyal in Drury Lane (March 18th, 1705), by Mr Swiney. Quod libet, licet. London, Printed for Benj. Bragg, at the Blew Ball in Avemary Lane, 1705.” In the Preface, Swiney states that “this Play was to be stifled because the other House were to Act one upon the same Subject,” and that “the hints of this Play were taken from a petit piece of Molière call’d L’Amour Médecin,” but “I can’t stile it translation, the Doctor’s part being intirely new, much of the other characters alter’d, and the Contrivance somewhat Chang’d.” He ends by saying that “the Noise of these Scenes Alarm’d the Licencer, who generally destroys with as much Distinction as the old Woman in Don Quixot’s Library.” Swiney harps on the same string in the Prologue, by saying:

“Let every Quack be Comforted to-Night,

Care has been taken that he shall not Bite.”

The play is, for the most part, a bad translation of Molière’s play, with a few alterations and additions which do not improve it. The scene of Sganarelle and his advisers is left out; while a nurse and two servant-men, Harry and Edward, are needlessly introduced. The doctor’s names are changed into Medley, Caudle, Tickle Pulse, Novice, Refugee, and their conversation is slightly altered. In the end, Clitandre and Lucinda, who have been really married by a priest disguised as a footman, acknowledge their deceit, and are forgiven.

James Miller (See Introductory Notice to The Pretentious Young Ladies, Vol. I., page 215) wrote a comedy, Art and Nature, acted at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, 1738; and, according to Baker’s Biographia Dramatica, the principal scenes in this play are founded on the Arlequin Sauvage of M. De l’Isle and Le Flatteur of Rousseau. But it met with no success, because the Templars had taken an unreasonable prejudice against Miller, on account of his farce of The Coffee House, in which they thought themselves attacked, and seem to have been determined to condemn any piece known to be his. Miller has imitated the first, second, fifth, and sixth scenes of the first act of Love is the best Doctor. In his Preface to the Right Honourable the Lady.... Miller states, “that he never knew a Play destroy’d with so much Art.... But in Paris there is an Academy founded for the Encouragement of Wit and Learning, so in London, it is said, there is a Society established for the Demolition of them.” He also says in the Prologue, that he hopes there is none in the theatre, “who’d aim, Thro’ Wantonness of Heart, to blast his Fame.”

Another translation of Molière’s play, under the title of Love is the Doctor, was performed as a comedy in one act, at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, on April 4, 1734, for the benefit of the author, but has never been printed.

Bickerstaffe (See Introductory Notice to The School for Wives, Vol. II., page 144), in Dr Last in his Chariot — an imitation of Molière’s Malade Imaginaire, acted at the Haymarket, 1769 — acknowledges his obligation to Mr Foote for a whole scene in the first act, the consultation of the physicians. This acknowledgment is certainly a proof of Bickerstaffe’s gratitude, but none of his reading; otherwise he might have discovered that Foote had simply taken it from Molière’s Love is the best Doctor, and considerably enlarged it; the doctors are called Coffin, Skeleton, Bulruddery, and of course Doctor Last.

We have given in the Appendix all the imitations from Molière.

TO THE READER.

THIS IS ONLY a slight impromptu, a simple pencil sketch, which it has pleased the King to have made into an entertainment. It is the most hastily composed of all those written by order of his Majesty; and when I say that it was sketched, written, learned, and acted in five days, I shall only be speaking the truth. There is no need to tell you that many things depend entirely on the manner of the performance. Every one knows well enough that comedies are written only to be acted; and I advise no one to read this, unless he have the faculty, while doing so, of catching the meaning of the business of the stage. I shall say only one thing more, that it is to be wished that these sorts of works could always be shown with the same accessories, with which they are accompanied when played before the King. One would then see them under much more agreeable conditions; and the airs and symphonies of the incomparable M. Lulli, added to the sweet voices and agility of the dancers, invest them, undoubtedly, with certain graces, with which they could with difficulty dispense.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

PROLOGUE.

COMEDY, MUSIC, THE BALLET.

Comedy. Let us our fruitless quarrels banish, Each other’s talents not by turns dispute:
But greater glory to attain This day of all let he our aim.
Let us all three unite with matchless zeal The greatest King on earth with pleasure to provide.
The three together. Let us all three unite with matchless zeal The greatest King on earth with pleasure to provide.

Comedy. From toils more irksome than can be imagined, Amongst us, now and then, he comes to unbend, Can greater glory, greater pleasure be our share?
The three together. Let us all three unite with matchless zeal The greatest King on earth with pleasure to provide.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SGANARELLE, AMINTA, LUCKETIA, M. GUILLAUME, M. JOSSE.

SGAN. WHAT A strange thing is life! and well may I say with a great ancient philosopher, that he who has much land has also strife,? and misfortune seldom comes alone. I had but one wife, and she is dead.

M. Gu. — And, — pray, how many would you have — ?

Sgan. — She — is dead, friend Guillaume. I take — this loss very much to heart, and I cannot think of it without tears. I was not altogether satisfied with her behaviour, and we often quarrelled; but, after all, death settles everything. She is dead; I bewail her. If she were alive, we would very likely quarrel. Of all the children God sent me, He has left me but one daughter, and it is she who is the cause of all my trouble; for I see her plunged in the most dismal melancholy, the greatest sadness, of which there is no way of getting rid, and the cause of which I cannot even learn. I declare I am at my wit’s end, and am very much in want of — good — advice about it. [To Lucretia] — You — are my niece; — [To Aminta] you my neighbour; [To — M. Guil laume and M. Josse] you my companions and friends: tell me, I pray, what I am to do.

M. Jo. As for me, I think that finery and dress are the things which please young girls most; and if I were you, I should buy her, this very day, a handsome set of diamonds, or rubies, or emeralds.

M. Gu. And I, if I were in your place, I would buy her a beautiful set of hangings, with a landscape, or some figures in them, and I should have them hung up in her room to cheer her spirits and to please her eyes.

Amin. As for me, I would not take so much trouble; I would marry her well, and as quickly as I could, to that young man who asked her hand some time ago, as I have been told.

Luc. And I, I think your daughter is not at all fit to be married. She has too delicate and unhealthy a constitution, and it is almost sending her wilfully and speedily to the next world, to expose her to hear children in the state she is in. The busy world does not suit her at all, and I would advise you to put her in a convent, where she will find some amusements more to her taste.
Sgan-. All this advice is certainly admirable, but I think it rather interested, and I find that you are giving it very much for your own benefit. You are a goldsmith, M. Josse; and your advice savours of a man who wants to get rid of his wares. You sell hangings, M. Guillaume, and you look to me as if you had some which you would fain part with. The young man whom you are in love with, fair neighbour, is, I have been told, the very one who is somewhat favourably disposed towards my daughter; and you w’ould not he sorry to see her the wife of another. And as for you, my dear niece, it is not my intention, as is well known, to allow my daughter to get married at all, for reasons best known to myself; but your advice to make a nun of her is that of a woman who might charitably wish to become my sole heiress. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, although your counsels be the best in the world, with your permission, I shall not follow a single one of them. [Alone] So much for those fashionable advisers.

SCENE II.

LUCINDE, SGANARELLE.

SGAN. AH, HERE is my daughter come to take a breath of air. She does not see me. She is sighing; she looks up to the sky. [To Lucinde] May Heaven protect you! Good morning, my darling. Well, what is the matter? How do you feel? What! always so sad and so melancholy, and you will not tell me what ails you? Come, open your little heart to me. There, my poor pet, come and tell your little thoughts to your little fond papa. Keep your spirits up. Let me give you a kiss. Come. [Aside] It makes me wild to see her in that humour. [To Lucinde] But tell me, do you wish to kill me with displeasure; and am I not to know the reason of this great listlessness? Tell me the cause, and I promise that I shall do everything for you. Yes, if you will only tell me why you are so sad, I assure you and swear on this very spot, that I shall leave nothing undone to please you; I cannot say more. Are you jealous because one of your companions is better dressed than yourself, and is it some new-fashioned stuff of which you want a dress? No. Is your room not furnished nicely enough, and do you wish for one of those cabinets from St Laurent’s Fair? It is not that. Do you feel inclined to take lessons in something, and shall I get you a master to teach you how to play upon the harpsichord? No, not that either. Are you in love with some one, and do you wish to be married? [Lucinde gives an affirmative sign.]

SCENE III.

SGANARELLE, LUCINDE, LISETTE.

LIS. WELL! SIR, you have just been talking to your daughter. Have you found out the cause of her melancholy?

Sgan. No. She is a hussy who enrages me.

Lis. Let me manage it, sir; I shall pump her a little.

Sgan. There is no occasion; and since she prefers to be in this mood, I am inclined to let her remain in it.

Lis. Let me manage it, I tell you. Perhaps she will open her heart more freely to me than to you. How now! Madam, you will not tell us what ails you, and you wish to grieve everyone around you? You ought not to behave as you do, and if you have any objection to explain yourself to a father, you ought to have none to open your heart to me. Tell me, do you wish anything from him? He has told us more than once that he will spare nothing to satisfy you. Does he not allow you all the freedom you could wish for? And do pleasure parties and feasts not tempt you? Say! has anyone displeased you? Say! have you not some secret liking for some one to whom you would wish your father to marry you? Ah! I begin to understand you; that is it? Why the deuce so many compliments? Sir, the secret is found out, and...

Sgan. [Interrupting her] Go, ungrateful girl; I do not wish to speak to you any more, and I leave you in your obstinacy.

Luc. Dear father, since you wished me to tell you...

Sgan. Yes, I am losing all my regard for you.

Lis. Her sadness, sir...

Sgan. She is a hussy who wishes to drive me to my grave.

Luc. But, father, I am willing. — .

Sgan. That is not a fit reward for having brought you up as I have done.

Lis. But, Sir....

Sgan. No, I am in a terrible rage with her.

Luc. But, father...

Sgan. I do not love you any longer.

Lis. But....

Sgan. She is a slut.

Luc. But....

Sgan. An ungrateful girl.

Lis. But....

Sgan. A hussy who will not tell me what is the matter with her.

Lis. It is a husband she wants.

Sgan. [Pretending not to hear] I have done with her. Lis. A husband.

Sgan. I hate her.

Lis. A husband.

Sgan. And disown her as my daughter.

Lis. A husband.

Sgan. Do not speak to me any more about her.

Lis. A husband.

Sgan. Speak no more to me about her.

Lis. A husband.

Sgan. Speak no more to me about her.

Lis. A husband, a husband, a husband.

SCENE IV.

LUCINDE, LISETTE.

LIS. TRUE ENOUGH, none so deaf as those who will not hear.

Luc. Well, Lisette, I was wrong to hide my grief! I had but to speak to get all I wished from my father! You see now.

Lis. Upon my word, he is a disagreeable man; and I confess that it would give me the greatest pleasure to play him some trick. But how is it, Madam, that, till now, you have kept your grief from me?

Luc. Alas! what would have been the use of telling you before? and would it not have been quite as well if I had kept it to myself all my life? Do you think that I have not foreseen all which you see now, that I did not thoroughly know the sentiments of my father, and that when he refused my hand to my lover’s friend, who came to ask for it in his name, he had not crushed every hope in my heart?

Lis. What! this stranger, who asked for your hand, is the one whom you....

Luc. Perhaps it is not altogether modest in a girl to explain herself so freely; but, in short, I tell you candidly, that, were I allowed to wish for any one, it is he whom I should choose. We have never had any conversation together, and his lips have never avowed the love he has for me; but, in every spot where he had a chance of seeing me, his looks and his actions have always spoken so tenderly, and his asking me in marriage seems to me so very honourable, that my heart has not been able to remain insensible to his passion; and yet, you see to what the harshness of my father is likely to bring all this tenderness.

Lis. Let me manage it. Whatever reason I have to blame you for the secret you kept from me, I shall not fail to serve your love; and, provided you have sufficient resolution —

Luc. But what am I to do against a father’s authority? And if he will not relent....

Lis. Come, come, you must not allow yourself to be led like a goose, and provided it he done honourably, we can free ourselves from a father’s tyranny. What does he wish you to do? Are you not of an age to he married, and does he think you are made of marble? Once more, bear up, I shall take in hand your love-affair, and from this very moment do all I can to favour it, and you shall see that I know some stratagems.... But I see your father. Let us go in, and leave me to act.

SCENE V.

SGANARELLE, ALONE.

It is good sometimes to pretend not to hear things, which one hears only too well; and I have done wisely to ward off the declaration of a wish which I have no intention of satisfying. Was there ever a greater piece of tyranny than this custom to which they wish to subject all fathers; anything more preposterous and ridiculous than to amass great wealth by hard work, and to bring up a girl with the utmost tenderness and care, in order to strip one’s self of the one and of the other, for the benefit of a man who is nothing to us? No, no, I laugh at that custom, and I mean to keep my wealth and my daughter to myself.

SCENE VI.

SGANARELLE, LISETTE.

LIS. [RUNNING ON to the stage, and pretending not to see Sganarelle] Oh! what a misfortune! Oh! what a calamity! Poor Mr Sganarelle! where can I find him?

Sgan. [Aside] What does she say?

Lis. [Still running about] Oh! wretched father! what will you do when you hear this news?

Sgan. [Aside] What can it be?

Lis. My poor mistress!

Sgan. I am undone!

Lis. Ah!

Sgan. [Running after Lisette] Lisette!

Lis. What a misfortune!

Sgan. Lisette!

Lis. What an accident!

Sgan. Lisette!

Lis. What a calamity!

Sgan. Lisette!

Lis. Oh, Sir!

Sgan. What is the matter?

Lis. Sir!

Sgan. What has happened?

Lis. Your daughter...  Sgan. Oh! Oh!

Lis. Do not cry in such a way, sir; You will make me laugh.

Sgan. Tell me quickly.

Lis. Your daughter, overcome by your words, and seeing how dreadfully angry you were with her, went quietly up to her room, and, driven by despair, opened the window that looks out upon the river.

Sgan. Well!

Lis. Then, casting her looks up to Heaven: No, said she, it is impossible for me to live under my father’s anger, and as he disowns me for his child, I shall die.

Sgan. She has thrown herself out of the window?

Lis. No, sir. She gently closed it, and lay down upon her bed. There she began to cry bitterly; all at once she turned pale, her eyes rolled about, her strength failed her, and she became stiff in my arms.

Sgan. Oh, my child! She is dead?

Lis. No, sir. I pinched her till she came to herself again; but she relapses every moment, and I believe she will not live out the day.

Sgan. Champagne! Champagne! Champagne!

SCENE VII.

SGANARELLE, CHAMPAGNE, LISETTE.

SGAN. QUICK, GO and fetch me some doctors, and bring a lot of them. One cannot have too many in a crisis like this. Oh my daughter! my poor child!

FIRST ENTRY.

Champagne, servant to Sganarelle, knocks, dancing, at the doors of four Physicians.
The four Physicians dance, and ceremoniously enter into Sganarelle’s house.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SGANARELLE, LISETTE.

LIS. WHAT DO you want with four physicians, sir? Is one not enough to kill one person?

Sgan. Hold your tongue. Four heads are better than one.

Lis. Cannot your daughter die well enough without the assistance of those gentlemen?

Sgan. Do you think people die through having physicians?

Lis. Undoubtedly; and I knew a man who maintained — and proved it, too, by excellent reasons — that we should never say, Such a one has died of a fever, or from inflammation of the lungs, but, Such a one has died of four physicians and two apothecaries.

Sgan. Hush! do not offend those gentlemen.

Lis. Upon my word, sir, our cat had a narrow escape from a leap he took, a little while ago, from the top of the house into the street; he was three days without eating, and unable to wag head or foot; but it is very lucky that there are no cat-doctors, else it would have been all over with him, for they would have physicked and bled him.

Sgan. Will you hold your tongue when I bid you? What next! Here they are.

Lis. Look out; you are going to be finely edified. They will tell you in Latin that your daughter is ill.

SCENE II.

MM. TOMES, DESFONANDRES, MACROTON, BAHIS, SGANARELLE, LISETTE. Sgan. Well, gentlemen?

M. To. We have examined the patient sufficiently, and undoubtedly there is a great deal of impurity in her.

Sgan. Is my daughter impure?

M. To. I mean to say that there is a great deal of impurity in her system, and much corrupt matter.

Sgan. Ah! I understand you now.

M. To. But... We are going to consult together. Sgan. Come, hand some chairs.

Lis. [To M. Tomès] Ah! sir, are you with them! Sgan. [To Lisette] How do you know this gentleman? Lis. From having seen him the other day at a dear friend’s of your niece.

M. To. How is her coachman?

Lis. — Very well indeed. — He — is — dead.

M. To. — Dead?

Lis. — Yes.

M. To. — That cannot he.

Lis. I do not know whether it can be or not; but I know well enough that it is.

M. To. He cannot be dead, I tell you.

Lis. And I tell you, that he is dead and buried.

M. To. You are mistaken.

Lis. — I have seen him.

M. To. — It is impossible. — Hippocrates says that these sorts of diseases end only on the fourteenth or twenty-first day; and he has been ill only six.

Lis. Hippocrates may say what he likes; but the coachman is dead.

Sgan. Peace! chatterbox. Come, let us leave this room. Gentlemen, I pray you to consult carefully. Although it is not the custom to pay beforehand, yet, for fear I should forget it, and to have done with it, here is...
[He hands them some money, and each one, on receiving it, makes a different gesture.]

SCENE III.

MM. DESFONANDRES, TOMES, MACROTON, BAHIS [They all sit down and begin to cough].

M. Des. Paris is marvellously large, and one has to take long journeys when business is a little brisk.

M. To. I am glad to say that I have got a wonderful mule for that; and that one would hardly believe what a deal of ground he takes me over daily.

M. Des. I have got an astonishing horse, and it is an indefatigable animal.

M. To. Do you know the ground my mule has been over to-day? I have been, first, close by the Arsenal; from the Arsenal, to the end of the faubourg Saint-Germain; from the faubourg Saint-Germain, to the lower part of the Marais; from the lower part of the Marais, to the Porte Saint-Honoré; from the Porte Saint-Honoré, to the faubourg Saint-Jacques; from the faubourg Saint-Jacques, to the Porte de Richelieu; from the Porte de Richelieu, here; and from here, I have yet to go to the Place Royale.

M. Des. My horse has done all that to-day; and, besides, I have been to see a patient at Ruel.

M. To. But, by the bye, which side do you take in the quarrel between the two physicians Theophrastus and Artemius? for it is a matter that divides our profession.

M. Des. I? I am for Artemius.

M. To. So am I. It is true that his advice killed the patient, as we have experienced, and that Theophrastus’s was certainly much better; but the latter is wrong in the circumstances, and ought not to have been of a different opinion from his senior. What do you say?

M. Des. Certainly. We ought at all times to preserve the professional etiquette, whatever may happen.

M. To. For my part, I am excessively strict on that subject, except among friends. The other day three of us were called in to consult with an outsider; but I stopped the whole affair, and would hold no consultation unless things were conducted according to etiquette. The people of the house did what they could and the case grew worse; but I would not give way, and the patient bravely died during the contention.

M. Des. It is highly proper to teach people how to behave, and to show them their inexperience.

M. To. A dead man is but a dead man, and of very little consequence; but professional etiquette neglected does great harm to the whole body of physicians.

SCENE IV.

SGANARELLE, MM. TOMES, DESFONANDRES, MACROTON, BAHIS.

SGAN. GENTLEMEN, MY daughter is growing worse; I beg you to tell me quickly what you have decided on.

M. To. [To M. Desfonandrès] The word is with you, Sir.

M. Des. No, Sir; it is for you to speak if you please.

M. To. You are jesting.

M. Des. I shall not speak first.

M. To. Sir.

M. Des. Sir.

Sgan. For mercy’s sake, gentlemen, drop these ceremonies, and consider that matters are urgent.
[They all four speak at ike same time.]

M. To. Your daughter’s complaint...

M. Des. The opinion of all those gentlemen...

M. Mae. After hav-ing care-fully consi-dered....

M. Ba. In order to deduce...

Sgan. Ah! gentlemen, one at a time, pray...

M. To. Sir, we have duly argued upon your daughter’s complaint, and my own opinion is, that it proceeds from the overheating of the blood, consequently, I would have her bled as soon as possible.

M. Des. And I say that her illness arises from a putrefaction of humours, caused by a too great repletion; consequently I would have her given an emetic.

M. To. I maintain that an emetic will kill her.

M. Des. And I, that bleeding will be the death of her.

M. To. It is like you to set up for a clever man!

M. Des. Yes, it is like me; and I can, at any rate, cope with you in all kinds of knowledge.

M. To. Do you recollect the man you killed a few days ago?

M. Des. Do you recollect the lady you sent to the other world three days ago?

M. To. [To Sganarelle] I have given you my opinion.

M. Des. [To Sganarelle] I have told you what I think. —

M. To. If you do not have your daughter bled directly, she is a dead woman. — [Exit.

M. Des. If you have her bled, she will not be alive a quarter of an hour afterwards. — [Exit.

SCENE V.

SGANARELLE, MM. MACROTON, BAHIS.

SGAN. WHICH OF the two am I to believe? and who can decide amidst such conflicting opinions? Gentlemen, I beseech you to guide me, and to tell me, dispassionately, the best means of relieving my daughter.

M. Mac. [Drawling out his [words] Sir, in these kind-of-ca-ses, one must pro-ceed ve-ry care-fully, and do no-thing  in-con-si-der-ate-ly, as the say-ing is; the more so, as the mis-takes one may make, ac-cord-ing to our mas-ter Hip-po-cra-tes, have the most fat-al con-se-quen-ces.

M. Ba. [Jerking out his words hastily] That is true enough, one must take great care what one does; for this is not child’s play; and, when a mistake has been made, it is not easy to rectify it, nor make good what one has spoilt: experimentum periculosum. It is, therefore, as well to argue beforehand, to weigh things duly, to consider the constitution of people, to examine the causes of the complaint, and to decide upon the remedies to be adopted.

Sgan. [Aside] One moves like a tortoise, while the other gallops like a post-horse.

M. Mac. Yes, sir, to come to the fact, I find that your daugh-ter has a chro-nic dis-ease, to which she will succumb if re-lief be not giv-en to her, the more as the symptoms give in-di-ca-tions of e-mit-ting fu-li-gi-nons and mor-di-cant ex-ha-la-tions which ir-ri-tate the ce-re-bral membranes. And these va-pours, which in Greek we call At-mos, are caus-ed by pu-trid, te-na-ci-ous, and con-glu-ti-nous hu-mours, which have ag-glo-mer-at-ed in the ah-do-men.

M. Ba. And as these humours were engendered there by a long succession of time, they have become hardened, and have assumed those malignant fumes that rise towards the region of the brain.

M. Mac. Gon-se-quent-ly, in or-der to with-draw, to detach, to loos-en, to ex-pel, to e-va-cu-ate these said hu-mours, a ve-ry strong, pur-ga-tive is ne-ces-sa-ry. But first of all, I think it as well, and it will not cause any in-con-ve-ni-ence, to em-ploy some lit-tle a-no-dyne me-di-ci-nes, that is to say, small e-mol-li-ent and de-ter-sive in-jec-ti-ons, re-fresh-ing ju-leps and sy-rups, which may be mix-ed with her bar-ley wa-ter.

M. Ba. After that, we will come to the purgatives, and to the bleeding, which we shall repeat, if necessary.

M. Mac. We do not say that your daugh-ter may not die for all this; but you will at least have the sa-tis-fac-tion of hav-ing done some-thing, and the con-so-la-tion of know-ing that she died ac-cord-ing to rule.

M. Ba. It is better to die according to rule than to recover in violation of it.

M. Mac. We have sin-ce-re-ly told you our o-pi-ni-ons.

M. Ba. And we have spoken to you as to our own brother.

Sgan. [To M. Macroton, drawling out his words] I am hum-bly o-bli-ged to you. [To M. Bahis, sputtering] And I am very much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken.

SCENE VI.

SGANARELLE, ALONE.

Here I am, a little more in the dark than I was before. Zounds. I have got an idea! I will buy some Orviétan, and I will make her take it. Orviétan is a kind of remedy that has done a great deal of good to many. Soho!

SCENE VII.

SGANARELLE, A QUACK.

SGAN. WILL YOU, Sir, kindly give me a box of your Orviétan, for which I shall pay you.

Quack. [Sings] The gold of all climes which by the ocean are bound Can e’er it repay this important secret? My remedy cures, by its excellence rare, More complaints than are counted up in a whole year:
The itch, the mange, the scurf, the fever, the plague, The gout, the small-pox, ruptures, the measles, Great power possesses my Orvietan.

Sgan. Sir, I am willing to believe that, all the gold in the world could not pay for your remedy! but here is a piece of thirty sous, which you will take, if you please. Quack. [Sings] Admire how good I am. For a few paltry pence, I dispense freely such marvellous treasure. With this you may brave, quite devoid of all fear, All the ills to which mortals are subject down here:
The itch, the mange, the scurf, the fever, the plague, The gout, the small-pox, ruptures, the measles, Great power possesses my Orviétan.

SECOND ENTRY.

Several Trivelins and Scaramouches, servants of the quack, come in dancing.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

MM. FILERIN, TOMES, DESFONANDRES.

M. FIL. ARE you not ashamed, gentlemen, for men of your age to show so little discrimination, and to quarrel like young madcaps? Do you not plainly see the harm which these kinds of disputes do us with the world? and is it not sufficient that the learned perceive the dissensions and differences between our contemporaries and the old masters of our craft, without revealing to the public, by our quarrels and bickerings, the boasting of our art? As for me, I do not at all understand the mischievous policy of some of our brethren; and it must he admitted that all these controversies have somewhat strangely disparaged us, and that, if we are not careful, we shall ruin ourselves. I do not say so for my own interest, for, Heaven he praised, my little affairs are already settled. Whether it blows, rains, or hails, those who are dead are dead, and I have sufficient to he independent of the living; yet all these disputes do physic no good. Since Heaven has done us the favour, that, for so many centuries, people remain infatuated with us, let us not open their eyes by our extravagant cahals, and let us take advantage of their folly as quietly as possible. We are not the only ones, as you know full well, who try to make the hest of human foibles. The whole study of the greatest part of mankind tends towards that; and every one endeavours to speculate on man’s weaknesses, in order to derive some benefit from them. Flatterers, for example, seek to profit by men’s love for praise, by giving them all the vain incense they crave; it is an art by which, as we may see, large fortunes are made. Alchemists seek to profit by the passion for wealth, by promising mountains of gold to those who listen to them; the drawers of horoscopes, by their deceitful prophecies, profit by the vanity and ambition of credulous minds. But the greatest failing in men is their love of life; by our pompous speeches we benefit by it, and know how to take advantage of the veneration for our profession with which the fear of death inspires them. Let us, therefore, maintain ourselves in that esteem in which their foibles have placed us, and let us agree before our patients, so as to claim for ourselves the credit of the happy issue of the complaint, and to throw on Nature all the blunders of our art. Let us not, I say, foolishly destroy the happy accident of an error, which gives bread to so many people, and which allows us to raise everywhere such beautiful estates with the money of those whom we have sent to the grave.

M. To. You are right in all that you say; but sometimes one cannot control one’s temper.

M. Fil. Come, gentlemen, lay aside all animosity, and make up your quarrel on the spot.

M. Des. I consent. Let him allow me to have my way with the emetic for the patient in question; and I will let him have his with the first patient he shall be concerned with.

M. Fil. Nothing could be better said, and that is reasonable.

M. Des. Very well, that is settled.

M. Fil. Shake hands then. Farewell. Another time, show more tact.

SCENE II.

M. TOMES, M. DESFONANDRES, LISETTE.

LIS. WHAT! GENTLEMEN, you are here, and you do not think of repairing the wrong done to the medical profession?

M. To. What now! What is the matter?

Lis. Some insolent fellow has had the impudence to encroach upon your trade, and, without your prescription, has killed a man by running a sword clean through his body.

M. To. Look you here, you may laugh at us now; but you shall fall into our hands one of these days.

Lis. If ever I have recourse to you, I give you leave to kill me.

SCENE III.

CLITANDRE, DISGUISED AS a physician, LISETTE.

Clit. Well Lisette, what do you think of my disguise? Do you believe that I can trick the good man in these clothes? Do I look all right thus.

Lis. It could not he better; and I have been waiting impatiently for you. Heaven has given me the most humane disposition in the world, and I cannot bear to see two lovers sigh for one another, without entertaining a charitable tenderness towards them, and an ardent wish to relieve the ills which they are suffering. I mean, no matter at what cost, to free Lucinde from the tyranny to which she is subjected, and to confide her to your care. I liked you at first sight; I am a good judge of people, and she could not have made a better choice. Love risks extraordinary things, and we have concocted a little scheme, which may perhaps be successful. All our measures are already taken: the man we have to deal with is not one of the sharpest; and if this trick fail, we shall find a thousand other ways to encompass our end. Just wait here a little, I shall come back to fetch you. [Clitandre retires to the far end of the stage.

SCENE IV.

SGANARELLE, LISETTE.

LIS. HURRAH! HURRAH! Sir.

Sgan. What is the matter?

Lis. Rejoice.

Sgan. At what?

Lis. Rejoice, I say.

Sgan. Tell me what it is about, and then I shall rejoice, perhaps.

Lis. No. I wish you to rejoice first, I wish you to sing, to dance.

Sgan. On what grounds?

Lis. On my hare word.

Sgan. Be it so. [He sings and dances] La, lera, la, la, la, lera, la. What the deuce!

Lis. Your daughter is cured, Sir.

Sgan. My daughter is cured?

Lis. Yes. I have brought you a doctor, but a doctor of importance, who works wonderful cures, and who laughs at the other physicians.

Sgan. Where is he?

Lis. I shall bring him in.

Sgan. [Alone] It remains to he seen if he will da more than the others.

SCENE V.

CLITANDRE DISGUISED AS a physician, SGANARELLE, LISETTE.

Lis. [Leading Clitandre] Here he is.

Sgan. That doctor has not much beard, as yet.

Lis. Knowledge is not measured by the heard, and his skill does not lie in his chin.

Sgan. Sir, they tell me that you have some capital recipes for relieving the bowels.

Clit. My remedies, Sir, are different from those of other physicians. They use emetics, bleeding, drugs, and injections; but I cure by words, sounds, letters, talismans, and rings.

Lis. Did I not tell you so?

Sgan. A great man this!

Lis. Sir, as your daughter is yonder, ready dressed, in her chair, I shall bring her here.

Sgan. Yes, do.

Clit. [Feeling Sganarelle’s pulse] Your daughter is very ill, Sir.

Sgan. You can tell that here?

Clit. — Y es, by the sympathy which exists between father and daughter.

SCENE VI.

SGANARELLE, LUCINDE, CLITANDRE, LISETTE.

LIS. [TO CLITANDRE] Sir, here is a chair near her [to Sganarelle] Come, let us leave them to themselves.

Sgan. Why so? I wish to remain here.

Lis. Are you jesting? We must leave them. A doctor has a hundred things to ask, which it is not decent for a man to hear. — [Sganarelle and Lisette retire.

Clit. [Softly to Lucinde] Ah! lady, how great is my delight! and how little do I know how to begin my discourse! As long as I spoke to you only with my eyes, it seemed to me that I had a hundred things to say; and now that I have the opportunity of speaking to you, as I wished, I remain silent, and my great joy prevents my utterance.

Luc. I may say the same; and I feel, like you, thrills of joy which prevent me from speaking.

Clit. Ah! madam, how happy should I be, if it were true that you feel all I do, and that I were allowed to judge of your heart by mine. But, may I at least believe, dear lady, that I owe to you the idea of this happy scheme which enables me to enjoy your presence.

Luc. If you do not altogether owe the thought to me, you are, at any rate, my debtor for having gladly approved of the proposal.

Sgan. [To Lisette] It seems to me that he talks very close to her.

Lis. He is studying her physiognomy, and all the features of her face.

Clit. [To Lucinde] Will you be constant, dear lady, in these favours which you are bestowing upon me?

Luc. But you, will you be firm in the resolutions which you have taken?

Clit. Ah! madam, till death. I desire nothing so much as to be yours; and I shall prove it to you.

Sgan. [To Clitandre] Well! how does our patient? She seems a little more cheerful.

Clit. That is because I have already tried upon her one of the remedies which my art teaches me. As the mind has a great influence on the body, and as it is from the first that diseases most generally arise, my custom is to cure the mind before dealing with the body. I have therefore studied this young lady’s looks, her features, and the lines of both her hands; and by the knowledge which Heaven has bestowed upon me, I have discovered that she is ill in mind, and that the whole of her complaint arises only from a disordered imagination, from an inordinate desire of being married. As for myself, I think nothing more extravagant and ridiculous than this hankering after marriage.

Sgan. [Aside] A clever fellow this!

Clit. And I have, and always shall have, a frightful dislike to it.

Sgan. [Aside] A great doctor this!

Clit. But as we must humour the imagination of patients, and as I have perceived in her a wandering of the mind, and even that there was great danger in not giving her prompt relief, I have taken her at her foible, and told her that I came here to solicit her hand from you. Suddenly her countenance changed, her complexion cleared, her eyes became animated; and if you will leave her for a few days in this error, you will see that we shall cure her.

Sgan. Indeed, I do not mind.

Clit. After that, we shall apply other means to cure her of this fancy.

Sgan. Yes, that will do very well. Listen! my girl, this gentleman wishes to marry you, and I have told him that I give my consent.

Luc. Alas! can it be possible?

Sgan. Of course.

Luc. But really, in earnest?

Sgan. Certainly.

Luc. [To Clitandre] What! You wish to be my husband?

Clit. Yes, madam.

Luc. And my father consents to it?

Sgan. Yes, my child.

Luc. Ah how happy I am! if that is true.

Clit. Doubt it not, madam. My love for you, and my ardent wish to be your husband, do not date from to-day, I came only for this; and, if you wish me to tell you the plain truth, this dress is nothing but a mere disguise; I acted the physician only to get near to you, and the more easily to obtain what I desire.

Luc. These are signs of a very tender love, and I am fully sensible of them.

Sgan. [Aside] Oh, poor silly girl! silly girl! silly girl!

Luc. You do consent then, father, to give me this gentleman for a husband?

Sgan. Yes, certainly. Come, give me your hand. Give me yours also, Sir, for a moment.

Clit. But, Sir...

Sgan. [ With suppressed laughter] No, no, it is... to satisfy her mind. Take it. That is over.

Clit. Accept, as a pledge of my faith, this ring which I give you [Softly to Sganarelle] It is a constellated ring, which cures aberrations of the mind.

Luc. Let us draw up the contract, so that nothing may be wanting.

Clit. I have no objections, Madam. [Softly to Sganarelle] I will bring the fellow who writes my prescriptions, and will make her believe that he is a notary.

Sgan. Just so.

Clit. Hulloo! send up the notary I have brought with me.

Luc. What! you brought a notary with you?

Clit. Yes, Madam.

Luc. I am glad of that.

Sgan. Oh the poor silly girl! the silly girl!

SCENE VII.

THE NOTARY, CLITANDRE, SGANARELLE, LUCINDE, LISETTE.

[CLITANDRE SPEAKS SOFTLY to the Notary.]

Sgan. [To the Notary] Yes, Sir, you are to draw up a contract for these two people. Write. [To Lucinde] We are making the contract. [To the Notary] I give her twenty thousand crowns as a portion. Write that down.

Luc. I am very much obliged to you, dear father.

Not. That is done. You have only to sign it.

Sgan. That is a quickly drawn contract.

Clit. [To Sganarelle] But at least, Sir...

Sgan. No, no, I tell you. Do we not all know... [To the Notary] Come, hand him the pen to sign. [To Lucinde] Come you, sign now, sign, sign. Well, I shall sign presently.

Luc. No, no, I will have the contract in my own hands.

Sgan. Well! there then. [After having signed] Are you satisfied?

Luc. Better than you can imagine.

Sgan. That is all right, then, that is all right.

Clit. I have not only had the precaution to bring a notary; I have also brought singers, musicians, and dancers to celebrate the feast, and for our enjoyment. Let them come in. They are people I always have with me, and whom I daily make use of to calm, by their harmony and dancing, the troubles of the mind.

SCENE VIII.

COMEDY, THE BALLET, MUSIC.

Together. Without our aid, all humankind Would soon become unhealthy.
We are indeed the best of all physicians.

Comedy. Would you dispel by easy means Splenetic fumes that man is heir to. Avoid Hippocrates, and come to us.

Together. Without our aid, all humankind Would soon become unhealthy.
We are indeed the best of all physicians.
[ While the Sports, Laughter, and Pleasures are dancing together, Clitandre leads Lucinde away.]

SCENE IX.

SGANARELLE, LISETTE, COMEDY, MUSIC, THE BALLET, SPORTS, LAUGHTER, PLEASURES.

SGAN. A PLEASANT way of curing people this! But where are my daughter and the doctor?

Lis. They are gone to finish the remaining part of the marriage.

Sgan. What do you mean by the marriage?

Lis. The fact is, Sir, you have been cleverly done; and the joke you thought to play remains a truth.

Sgan. The devil it does! — [He wishes to rush after Clitandre and Lucinde, the dancers restrain him.] Let me go, let me go, I tell you. [The dancers still keep hold of him.] Again? — [They wish to make him dance by force.]
Plague take you all!

APPENDIX.

SWINEY, IN THE Quacks; or, Loves the Physician (Act i., Scene I), has imitated, nearly literally, Molière’s first scene of the first act of Love is the best Doctor. Sganarelle is called Sir Patient Carefull; Lucretia, Lysette; and Aminta, Doris; MM. Guillaume and Josse are not in the English play.

Enter SIR PATIENT CAREFULL, LTSETTE, and DORIS.

Sir Patient. What a strange thing is life? And we may say with that great Philosopher of Antiquity, that to live is to War, and one Evil never comes without another: I had but one Wife, who is dead.

Lysette. Why, how many wou’d you have?

Sir P. She is dead, cousin! And I can’t think of her without weeping — hoe — I had indeed some jealousie of her conduct, and we quar-rell’d perpetually; if she was alive again, we shou’d quarrel, but Death has ended all disputes, and the house is grown so silent I shall die with Melancholly.

Doris. Comfort yourself, she’s in a better place.

Sir P. I know it, and wherever she is, she will have her way. Of all the children the poor woman Bore me, I have but one Daughter left, and she is the only trouble of my Life! I don’t know who she takes after; she do’s not speak a word whole days together! It must be a strange Disease that works such effects on a Woman’s Constitution.

Lys. That strange Disease is Confinement. Uncle, if you’d let her have the use of her Leggs a little, she’d find the use of her Tongue.

Sir P. How now, Mrs Flippant! You don’t want the use of yours, I perceive.

Lys. Ha, ha, no, no! I was bred under a Mother, I thank my stars! But a Woman must needs come to her speaking very soon that hangs by a Bookish old Man, as a Bird most certainly will that hangs under a cuckoo.

Sir P. How?

Lys. Hark’e, Uncle; let her but loose to the Park, the Play, the Drawing-room, or my Lady Tattle’s Visiting-night, and, my Tongue for hers, she speaks in a week.

Sir P. Your Tongue for hers! A change indeed! From one that never speaks to one that never lyes still — hark’e, cosin, do you think she might not come to her speech if she hung under you?

Lys. Ha! ha! ha! If I teach her, Uncle, I’ll proceed like my singing master, and make her open her mouth very wide; for a Stick, you know, that grows bent, must be turn’d as much t’other way, to make it strait.

Sir P. I don’t doubt your method; ’tis admirable; you have the best Receipt against silence I ever heard.

Lys. I do wonders; L have talked Fifty young women out of the green Sickness and Fifty old men into the Spleen; here’s my hand, Uncle, let her Live a little with me, and if ever you complain of her being Dumb, I’m no Doctor.

Sir. P. But will you Ensure me that I shant complain of my being deaf when you have done with her?

Lys. The way to provide against that wou’d be to marry her, for then she’d have one of her own to exercise upon.

Dor. Now I think Madam Lucinda is too tender, and too delicate for the rough conversation of a Husband, and that she has not a constitution to undergo the Fatigue of being Fruitful — to marry her wou’d certainly kill her.

Lys. Hush! Not a word of that, for fear she shou’d steal a wedding; for in these cases, let the danger be ever so great, a Woman’s Resolution will struggle up to’t.

Sir P. How innocently the maids of this Age amuse themselves!

Dor. Mrs Lysette talks very mildly, Sir; but the properest way to cure Madam Lucinda’s Melancholly wou’d be to send her to a Nunnery.

Lys. Next to a dark Room, thëre’s nothing like it, and a young woman must needs preferr the wonderful Charms of Fennances and Water-gruel to the Roughness of a Man’s Passion and the Fatigue of being Fruitful.

Sir. P. Very well! You who have a head full of Fiddles and Intrigues, prescribe Dancing and a Husband; and you, Nurse, who have out-lived these things, advise me to a Nunnery. Both your councils are certainly very good, and I shall follow neither of ’em — but here comes one can Council me indeed.
B, Page 204.
The first and second scenes of the first act of Molière’s Love is the lest Doctor are imitated by Miller in his Art and Nature (Act i. Scene 1); with this difference, that the English dramatist has not brought Aminta, Lucrèce, M. Guillaume, and M. Josse on the stage, while Sir Simon Dupe (Sganarelle) relates his adventures to the servant-maid Violetta, the prototype of Lisette, the maid:
Sir Simon D. What a deplorable thing is Life! and how well may I say, with the great philosopher of Antiquity, that he who has Wealth hath Woe. Violetta, come hither.

Violetta. I am here, sir; your Commands.

Sir S. I had but one Wife, and she is dead.

Vio. Hadn’t you indeed, sir? Pray how many would you have had?

Sir S. She is dead, Violetta; this Loss is very grievous to me, and I can’t think of it without weeping. I was not mighty well satisfied with her Conduct, and we had very often Disputes together, but, in short, Death settles all things. She is dead — I lament her; if she was alive we should quarrel.

Vio. That I firmly believe, or you’d be strangely alter’d.

Sir S. Misfortunes never comes single, of all the Children that Heaven gave me, it has only left me one Daughter, and this Daughter is all my trouble, for she is in the deepest Melancholy of the World; out of which there is no way of getting her, and the Cause of which I can’t learn.

Vio. [A side] That’s false; you know it well enough, but don’t care to do it.

Sir S. Por my part, I’m half distracted about it, and have need of good Council in the Matter; I have been indeed consulting with some of my Acquaintances about it, whose Advices were certainly admirable, but I found a little too much of Self-Interest in ’em, and perceiv’d that they advised mighty well for themselves: One was a Toyman, and his Advice smelt of a Man who had a mind to get rid of some of his Trinkets, for he would persuade me to purchase a Cart-load of his Lumber to have diverted her with — Snuff-Boxes, Tweezer-Cases, Equipages, Pearls, Rubies, Emeralds, and China-Jars, as old as the Flood, for which I must have given my gold belike.

Vio. Foolish, foolish, very foolish.

Sir S. Another was a Bookseller, and he would have clear’d his Shop of Plays and Romances, and that kind of Trumpery, for nothing would divert the young Lady like reading, it seem’d.

Vio. Ridiculous!

Sir. S. Another sold Tapestry, and he seem’d to have some Hangings that lay upon his Hands; for he talk’d of sending me in some curious Tapestry adorn’d with Histories and Landskips, and the Murrain knows what, to adorn her Chamber forsooth, and please her that way.

Vio. O monstrous! worst of all.

Sir S. What can you think of, Violetta?

Vio. An effectual Remedy at once, sir; marry her to Truemore, who is just arriv’d here from the West Indies, and to whom you engaged her long ago.

Sir S. Ay, these Counsellors are all of a Piece. Now this Slut wants her married, that she may have more of her cast Clothes; and therefore tho’ your Advices be the best in the World, be pleas’d to excuse me from following e’er a one of ’em. These are your modish Counsellors truly. [Enter Flaminia] Oh! here comes my Daughter. Good-morrow, my Dear; well, what’s the Matter? how d’ye do? What, always thus sad and melancholy, and won’t you tell what ails you? Come, discover thy little Heart to me; come, my poor Dear, tell, tell, tell thy little Thoughts to thy dear little Papa; take Courage, shall I kiss thee? Come, I’m distracted to see thee in this Humour: Art thou jealous of any of thy Companions, that thou seest finer than thyself? No. Dost not think thy Apartment well enough furnish’d? and dost thou long for any little Trifle of that Kind — No.

Vio. Hold, hold, sir; let me alone, I’ll sound her a little.

Sir S. No, no; no matter, no matter; what must you be meddling for, Mistress?

Vio. Let me alone, I tell you, perhaps she’ll discover herself more freely to me than to you. What, Madam, won’t you tell us what ails you? Do you want anything of your Father? He has often declar’d that he’ll spare nothing to make you easy; is it because he does not give you all the Liberty you could wish! Um — Would you have a finer Equipage, or be more frequent at Plays, Operas, Auctions, Balls, Assemblies, and the other Diversions which People of your Youth and Fashion indulge in? Um — Have you no secret Inclination for any one whom you’d have your Father marry you to? Ahah! I understand you; there’s the thing; why, sir, the Mystery is discover’d, and —

Sir S. [Interrupting her] Go, ungrateful Girl, I’ll talk to thee no more, but leave thee in thy Obstinacy.

Flam. Since you will have me discover my Heart, Sir —

Sir S. I’ll throw off all the Affection I had for thee.

Vio. Her Melancholy, sir, proceeds from the want of a Husband.

Sir S. [Pretending not to hear] I abandon her.

Vio. A Husband.

Sir S. Don’t speak to me of her, don’t speak to me of her; I’ll stop my Ears, and not hear another Syllable about her. [Stops his ears and runs off.]

Vio. A Husband, a Husband, a Husband.

Flam. Well, Violetta, what say you now?

Vio. Why, that none are so deaf as those that won’t hear — But come, come, Madam, you must not suffer yourself to be led like a Fool thus; are you not of Age to be marry’d, and does he think you are Marble! Not but that I am glad he opposes it too.

Flam. Glad of it, Violetta!

Vio. Yes, or else I should have lost the Pleasure of contradicting him; Take Courage, then, Madam, since I give my Consent fear nothing; I’ll make him glad to give his before I’ve done with him; but come in now, and leave it to me.
C, — Page 208.
The fifth and sixth scenes of the first act of Molière’s Love is the best Doctor, are thus rendered in Miller’s Art and Nature (Act i., Scene 1).
Sir Simon Dupe. Is there any thing more tyrannical, any thing more impertinent and ridiculous than to heap up Riches with great Labour, and bring up a Daughter with much Care and Tenderness in order to strip one’s self of both, and give ’em into the Hands of a Man one has not the least Obligation to 1 No, no, that Practice is a Jest to me, and I’ll sooner keep my Money and marry my Daughter my self.

Enter VIOLETTA.

Violetta. Oh! Sir, Sir.

Sir S. What’s the matter?

Via. Your Daughter, Sir.

Sir S. Well, what of her, tell me quickly what’s the matter?

Vio. Your Daughter, quite struck with the terrible Passion you was in with her, went up immediately to her Chamber, and full of Despair open’d the Window which looks upon the River.

Sir S. Hey, and what then?

Vio. No, said she, ‘t is impossible for me to live under my Father’s Displeasure; and since he disowns me for his Daughter, I must die.

Sir S. So threw herself out, hey?

Vio. No, Sir, she gently shut the Window again, and laid her down on the Bed; there she fell a weeping in such a lamentable manner, it would have pierc’d a Heart of Adamant to have heard her, (Crying) when all at once her Face grew pale, her Eyes roll’d, her Heart ceas’d to beat, and cold and speechless she sunk into my Arms.

Sir S. Oh! my Daughter, she’s dead then! I’ll go and die by her side. — [ Weeps.

Via. No, Sir, by pinching her I brought her to herself again; but this takes her every Moment, and I believe she’ll not live out to-day.

Sir S. Ah, poor girl, poor girl, where is she? Let me go to her this very moment. I’ll pinch her, if pinching will do.
D, — Page 210.
Lacy has imitated, in The Dumb Lady, the seventh scone of the first act of Molière’s Love is the best Doctor; Lisette becomes Nibby and Sganarelle Gerente.

Eider NIBBY.

Nibby. Oh, woe is me, and woe unto us all! O this uncle! this wicked uncle!

Gerente. Alack! what’s the matter?

Nib. O cruel destiny! O fatal fortune!

Ger. Why, Niece Nibby, what’s the matter!

Nib. That ever I should live to see this day?

Nur. Oh, my dear Mrs Nibby, what’s the misfortune?

Nib. Oh, where should I find this cursed uncle of mine?

Ger. Here I am, Nibby! what’s the danger?

Nib. You are undone and ruined!

Ger. How! undone and ruined? Do not delay me!

Nib. Oh, your daughter, your daughter, you wicked wretch! I am not able to say more for grief.

All. Ah — ah — ah — ah. — [All weep.

Ger. Tell me quickly what’s the matter!

Nib. Why, your daughter’s grown desperate mad at your unkindness, ran to the window that stands over the river, and there opening the great casement —

Ger. Oh, what did she then?

Nib. Why, lifting up her hands and eyes to that good place where you will never come, uncle, she loudly cried, Since my father has abandoned me, ’tis time for me to quit this life of mine.

Gtr. And so threw herself into the river?

Nib. No; it seems she did not like that kind of death.

Ger. Why, what then?

Nib. Why, then she ran like lightning to the table, where your pocket pistol lay.

Ger. And so shot herself with that?

Nib. No; it seems there was no powder i’ th’ pan. But, bitterly sighing and weeping, at last she ran and desperately threw herself upon her bed, and then growing paler and paler by degrees fell into a deadly sound.

Ger. And so died ?

Nib. Stay, stay, you ‘re too quick for your daughter; but with much rubbing, tumbling, and tossing her, I brought her to life again. So, leaving her at death’s door, I came to tell you the news.

Ger. Where are my servants? Run, bid ’em run! I’ll have a consultation of doctors. And run for Doctor Drench, for he shall join in counsel with ’em. — [Exeunt Manet Nurse.

Nur. I’ll to the Doctor and tell him this. I doubt he will not like a consultation with physicians.
If he stand this brush, he’s made for ever; Luck, if’t be thy will, just now or never.
E, — Page 211.
Swiney, in The Quacks (Act ii., Scene 2), imitates Molière’s first and second scenes of the second act of Love is the best Doctor.
Enter SIR PATIENT and LYSETTE.

Lysette. What will you do with all these Physicians! Is not one enough to kill one Person?

Sir Patient. Hold your peace. ‘T is safer to have many Counsellors.

Lys. And cannot your Daughter die without the help of these Gentlemen?

Sir P. Is their Business to kill, then?

Lys. Without question! and if you wou’d speak properly you shou’d not say any body Dyes of a Feaver, or the Small-Pox, but of four Doctors and two Apothecaries.

Sir P. Why, Mistress, wou’d you have me trust my Daughter with a senseless nurse, or a good woman in the Neighbourhood, that cures People with a Receipt she has had in the Family ever since Cromwel’s Time, no, I’ll be Informed by Learned Men.

Lys. You’ll be strangely Edify’d, Uncle, they’ll tell you in Latin that your Daughter’s Sick.

Sir P. Hush, here are the Doctors.
Enter DOCTOR CAUDLE, REFUGEE, and TICKLEPULSE.
Well, Gentlemen, how do you find my Daughter?

Ticklepulse. Very bad, very bad.

Refugee. Your child be very Sick.

Caudle. Sick indeed, but let us consult.

Lys. Doctor Ticklepulse, your Servant.

Tick. Madam, I am yours; Pray, how do’s your Ladyship’s Coachman.

Lys. Very well, Doctor, he’s Dead.

Tick. How, Madam! Dead! impossible.

Lys. We were so ignorant as to believe so, Doctor, and have Bury’d him.

Sir P. Peace, Impertinence — and pray, Gentlemen, to your Debates out of hand, and tho’ it be not the Custome to Fee you first, yet to make everything easy [gives Fees’], And now, Gentlemen, we’ll leave you.

Lys. Tho’ I shan’t understand their Latin, and their hard words, I’ve a mind to over-hear these wise men. — [Exit Sir Patient.

Tick. Come, Gentlemen, shall we sit?

Cau. Pray, Doctor.

Tick. No ceremony, but the matter in hand. — [sit Enter DOCTOR MEDLEY, in a heat.

Medley. A rogue, a villain — was ever man served thus?

Om. Doctor yours, what’s the matter?

Med. The matter, Gentlemen, never was Physician us’d so by a Rascally Apothecary — I had a Patient in my hands three quarters of a year, and this slave has cur’d him in two days.

Tick. An impudent Rascal!

Med. Gentlemen, will you credit me — to serve this ungrateful fellow I have made Bills more like a Taylors, than a Doctors — prescrib’d the Bark to every Body, because he had bought a quantity of it, and made my Patients Dye with the Physick in their mouths — nay, have Prescrib’d after I knew they were dead — and to meet with this return at last!

Lys. This is an excellent fellow. — [Aside.

Cau. These Apothecaries will ruin us.

Med. But not to Interrupt you, Gentlemen.
Enter SIR PATIENT.

Sir P. Doctor Medley, I heard you were come — have you seen my daughter?

Med. Yes, yes, I look’d in.

Sir P. Then, here Doctor. — [Gives money.

Med. Sir, you oppress me —

Sir P. And Gentlemen, to your consultation, I’ll disturb you no more. — [Exit.
[They sit, after some ceremony of coughing.]

Lys. Now for the grave consultation. — [Aside.

Med. You wou’d not think, Gentlemen, what a wonderful creature a horse is.

Lys. — How’s that. — [Aside.

Med. I laid upon the Scotch Gelding this meeting, he Pan a four mill course in eight minutes.

Tick. Wonderful.

Cau. There’s certainly in all creatures, the same difference as amongst men.

Med. As your Nobles, and Commoners and slaves, I make account now, the Brutes that drag me, are on a level with tradesmen.

Tick. And my Pad Nag with an Esquire.

Lys. This indeed is Physic — I have enough. — [Aside, exit.

Ref. — Morbleau! — We consulta just so in France. — [Aside.

Cau. My favourite Horse Codshead has Languish’d a great while with a strain in his Back.

Med. Ay, nothing will recover that Beast but the Cortex or a Steel course, I cur’d my Lord Washy t’ other day of the same Distemper.

Tick. Why really if it were not for destroying so useful an animal, we might make fine experiments and improve as much as we do upon human Bodies.

Ref. Me be against dat, for if de Physician turn de Farryer, morbleau de Farryer will turn de Physician.

Cau. But to the purpose — what is your opinion Gentlemen of Doctor Worthy’s way of Practice? he always prescribes and never will consult as we do.

Om. Wrong Sir, wrong Sir.

Ref. The formality, be the chief Business.

Med. Certainly — and to break thro’ that will destroy all Physick —
I never yield to it — I was sent for t’ other day with four other Doctors to my Lady Swallowdrugs, who was at the last Extremity, and her Friends wou’d have had us order’d something immediately, but Sacred to our Rule, I wou’d do nothing before we consulted, and the Patient Dy’d bravely in the midst of our Debate.

Cau. Which will serve for the Instruction of the Living, to send for Physicians in time.

Tick. Right, right, a Dead Man is but a Dead man, but a Formality neglected is a Prejudice to the whole Body of Physicians.
F, Page 212.
Mrs Behn in Sir Patient Fancy (Act v., Scene 1), has imitated the consultation from Molière’s Love is the best Doctor (Act ii., Scene 2), but has modified and amplified it; besides this the physicians consult about, and in the presence of a hypochondriack, Sir Patient Fancy, and not about a young, girl, who pretends to be ill, as in the French play.
Enter LODWICK, MONSIEUR TURBOON, FAT DOCTOR, AMSTERDAM, LEYDEN, SIR CREDULOUS.

Sir Patient. Doctor Turboon, Your servant, I expected you not this two hours.

Turboon. Nor had ee com Sir, bot for dese wordy Gentelmen, whos affairs wode not permit dem to come at your hour.

Sir P. Are they English, pray?

Tur. Dis is, Sir [pointing to Lodwick^ an admirable Physician, and a rare Astrologer. — Dis speaks good English, bot a Colender born.
[Points to Sir Credulous.

Sir Credulous. Does the fellow call me a Cullender?

Lodwick. He means a High dutch-man of the town of Collen, Sir.

Sir P. Sir, I have heard of your Fame — Doctor, pray entertain these Gentlemen till my return, I’ ll be with you presently.

Lod. Sir, I hope you go not forth to-day. [Gazing on his Face.

Sir P. Not far, Sir.

Lod. There is a certain Star has rul’d this two days, Sir, of a very malignant Influence to Persons of your Complexion and Constitution.
 — Let me see — within this two hours and six minutes, its Malice will be spent, till then it will be fatal.

Sir P. Hum, reign’d this two days?-I profess and things have gone very cross with me this two days — a notable Man this....

Lod. If it be more than Health or Life, I beg your pardon, Sir.

Sir P. Nay, no Offence, Sir, I beseech you, I’ ll stay, Sir.

L. Fancy.... Would you have my dear venture out, when a malignant Star reigns! not for the world.

Sir P. No, I’ll not stir; had it been any Star but a malignant Star, I had waited on your Ladyship: but these malignant Stars are very pernicious Stars..

Enter BOY.

Boy. Sir, my Lady has sent for you.

Lod. Sir, I’ll be with you presently; Sir Credulous, be sure you lug him by the Ears with any sort of Stuff till my return. I’ll send you a friend to keep you in countenance.

Sir P. Please you to sit, Gentlemen!

Amst. Please you, Sir, — \To Sir Cred., who hows and runs hack.

Sir C. Oh Lord, sweet Sir, I hope you do not take me — Nay, I beseech you, Noble Sir — Reverend Sir.
[Turning from one to t other.

Leyd. By no means, Sir, a stranger.

Sir C. I beseech you — Scavantisdmi Doctores, — incomparable Sir, — and you — or you.

Fat D. In troth, Sir, these compliments are needless, I am something corpulent, and love my ease.

Sir C. Generous Sir, you say well; therefore Conlicentia, as the Grecians have it.

Amst. Brother —

Leyd. Nay, good Brother, — Sir Patient —

Sir P. Ingeniously, not before you, Mr Doctor.

Leyd. Excuse me, Sir, an Alderman, and a Knight.

Sir P. Both below the least of the learned Society.

Leyd. Since you will have it so.
[All sit and cry hum, and look gravely.

Sir C. Hum — hum, most worthy, and most Renowned — Medicinae Professores, qui hic assemblati estis, &c., et vos altra Mesioris; I am now going to make a Motion for the publick Good of us all, but will do nothing without your Doctorships Approbation.

Sir P. Judiciously concluded.

Sir C. The question then is, Reverentissimi Doctores, whether — for mark me, I come to the matter in hand, hating long Circumstances of words; there being no necessity, as our learned Brother Rabelais observes in that most notorious Treatise of his call’d Garagantua, there is, says he, no necessity of going over the Hedge when the Path lies fair before ye; therefore, as I said before, I now say again, coming to my Question; for as that admirable Welch Divine says, in that so famous Sermon of his, upon her Créât Cranfather Hadam and her Créât Cran-mother Heeve concerning the Happell — and her will, warrant her, her will keep her to her Text still — so I stick close to my question, which is, Illustrissimi Doctores, whether it be not necessary to the affair in hand — to take — a Bottle; and if your Doctorships are of my opinion — hold up your Thumbs. [All hold up their Thumbs] — Look Sir, you observe the Votes of the learned Cahalists.

Sir P. Which shall he put in Act forthwith — I like this man well, he does nothing without mature Deliberation.

Enter BRUNSWICK.

Brun. By your leaves, Gentlemen — Sir Credulous —— [ Whispers.

Sir C. Oh— ’tis Lodwick’s friend, the Rascal’s dress’d like Vanderbergen in the Strand: — Sir Patient — pray know this glorious Doctor, Sir.

Sir P. A Doctor, Sir?

Sir C. A Doctor, Sir! yes, and as eloquent a Doctor, Sir, as ever set Bill to Post: why, ’tis — the incomparable — Brunswick, High-Dutch Doctor.

Sir P. You’re welcome, Sir, — Pray sit; ah — well, Sir, you are come to visit a very crazy sickly Person, Sir.

Brun. Pray let me feel your Pulse, Sir; — what think you, Gentlemen, is he not very far gone? — [Peels his Pulse, they all feel.

Sir C. Ah, far, far. — Pray, Sir, have you not a certain wambling Pain in your stomach, Sir, as it were, Sir, a — a pain, Sir.

Sir P. Oh very great, Sir, especially in a morning fasting.

Sir C. I knew it..., Sir — and are you not troubled with a Pain in your Head, Sir?

Sir P. In my Head, Sir?

Sir C. I mean a — kind of a — Pain, — a kind of a — Vertigo, as the Latins call it; and a Whirligigoustiphon, as the Creeks have it, which signifies in English, Sir, a Dizzie-swimming kind — of a do ye see — a thing — that — a — you understand me.

Sir P. Oh intolerable, intolerable! — why, this is a rare man!

Fat B. Your Reason, Sir, for that? — [To Sir Cred.

Sir C. My Reason, Sir! why, my Reason, Sir, is this, Holy the Moore, and Rabbi Isaac, and some thousands more of learned Dutchmen, observe your dull wall Eye and your whir — Whirligigoustiphon, to be inseparable.

Brun. A most learned Reason!

Pat D. Oh Sir, inseparable.

Sir C. And have you not a kind of a — something — do ye mark me... — a — do ye conceive me, I have forgot the English Term, Sir, but in Latin ’tis a Stronggullionibus.

Sir P. Oh, Sir, most extremely! ’tis that which makes me desperate, Sir.

Sir C. Your ugly face is an infallible sign: your Dysurie, as the Arabicks call it, and your ill-favour’d countenance, are constant Relatives.

All. Constant, constant.

Sir C. Pray how do you eat, Sir?

Sir P. Ah, Sir, there’s my distraction. Alas, Sir, I have the weakest stomach — I do not make above four meals a-day, and then indeed I eat heartily — but alas, what’s that to eating to live! nothing, Sir, nothing —

Sir C. Poor Heart, I pity him.

III.

Sir P. And between meals, good wine, sweatmeats, caudles, cordials, and mirabilises, to keep up my fainting Spirits.

Sir C.... An the whole bench were such notable swingers, ‘twou’d famish the City sooner than a Siege.

Amst. Brothers, what do you think of this man?

Leyd. Think, Sir ? I think his case is desperate.

Sir G. Shaw, Sir, we shall soon rectify the quiblets and quillities of his Blood, if he observes our Directions and Diet, which is to eat but ou ce in four or five days.

Sir P. How, Sir, eat but once in four or five days? such a Diet, Sir, would kill me; alas, Sir, kill me.

Sir C. Oh no, Sir, no; for look ye, Sir, the case is thus, do you mind me — so that the business lying so obvious, do ye see, there is a certain Method, do ye marke me — in a — Now, Sir, when a man goes about to alter the course of Nature — the case is very plain, you may as well arrest the Chariot of the Sun, or alter the Eclipses of the Moon; for, Sir, this being of another nature, the nature of it is to be unnatural, you conceive me, Sirl — therefore we must crave your absence, Sir, for a few minutes, till we have debated this great Affair.

Sir P. With all my heart, Sir, since my case is so desperate, a few hours were not too much. — [Exit Sir Patient.

Sir C. Now, Sir, my service to you. — [Drinks.

Enter FANNT.

Fan. Oh, living heart! what do all these Men do in our House? sure they are a sort of new-fashioned Conventiclers. I’ll hear ’em preach. — [They drink round the while.

Amst. Sir, my service to you, and to your good Lady, Sir.

Leyd. Again to you, Sir, not forgetting your Daughters: they are fine Women, Sir, let Scandal do its worst. — [Drinks.

Brun. Faith it goes baldly on, I had the weekly Bill, and ’twas a very thin Mortality; some of the better sort die indeed, that have good round Fees to give.

Tur. Verily, I have not kill’d above my five or six this week.

Brun. How, Sir, kill’d?

Tur. Kill’d, Sir! ever whilst you live, especially those who have the grand.. for ’tis not for a man’s Credit to let the Patient want an Eye or a Nose, or some other thing. I have kill’d ye my five or six dozen a week — but times are hard.

Brun. I grant ye, Sir, your Poor for Experiments and Improvement of Knowledge: and to say truth, there ought to be such Scavengers as we to sweep away the Rubbish of the Nation.
[Sir Cred and Fat Doctor seeming in Discourse.

Sir G. Nay, and you talk of a Beast, my service to you, Sir [Drinks]. Ay, I lost the finest Beast of a Mare in all Devonshire.

Fat D. And I the finest Spaniel, Sir. [Here they all talk together till you come to purpose, Sir.]

Tur. Pray, what News is there stirring?

Brim. Faith, Sir, I am one of those Fools that never regards whether Lewis or Philip have the better or the worst.

Tur. Peace is a great Blessing, Sir, a very great Blessing.
Brun, You are i’ th’ right, Sir, and so my service to you, Sir.

Leyd. Well, Sir, Stetin held out nobly, the the Gazettes are various.

Amst. There’s a world of men kill’d they say; why, what a shame ’tis so many thousands should die without the help of a Physician.

Leyd. Hang ’em, they were poor Bogues, and not worth our killing; my service to you, Sir, they’ll serve to fill up Trenches.

Sir C. Spaniel, Sir! no man breathing understands Dogs and Horses better than my self.

Fat D. Your pardon for that, Sir.

Sir C. For look ye, Sir, I’ll tell you the Nature of Dogs and Horses.

Fat D. So can my groom and Dog-keeper; but what’s this to the purpose, Sir? — [Here they leave off.

Sir C. To th’ purpose, Sir! good Mr Hedleburgh, do you understand what’s to the purpose? you ‘re a Dutch Butter-ferkin, a Kilderkin, a Double Lug.

Fat D. You’re an ignorant Blockhead, Sir.

Sir C. You lye, Sir, and there I was with you again.

Amst. What, quarrelling, Men of your Gravity and Profession.

Sir C. That is to say, Fools and Knaves: pray, how long is’t since you left Toping and Naping, for Quacking, good Brother Cater-tray, — but let that pass, for I’ll have my Humour, and therefore will quarrel with no man, apd so I drink. — [Goes to Jill again.

Brun. But what’s all this to the Patient, Gentlemen?

Sir C. Ay, — the Wine’s all out, — and Quarrels apart, Gentlemen, as you say, what do you think of our Patient? for something I conceive necessary to be said for our Fees.

Fat D. I think unless he follows our Prescriptions he’s a dead man.

Sir C. Ay, Sir, a dead man.

Fat D. Please you to write, Sir, you seem the youngest Doctor.
[To Amst.

Amst. Your Pardon, Sir, I conceive there may be younger Doctors than I at the Board.

Sir C. A fine Punctilio this, when a man lies a dying [Aside], Sir, you shall excuse me, I have been a Doctor this 7 years.
[They shove the Pen and Paper from one to the other.

Amst. I commenc’d at Paris twenty years ago.

Leyd. And I at Leyden, almost as long since.

Fat D. And I at Barcelona, thirty.

Sir C. And I at Padua, Sir.

Fat D. You at Padua?

Sir C. Yes, Sir, I at Padua; why, what... do ye think I never was beyond Sea?

Brun. However, Sir, you are the youngest Doctor, and must write. Sir C. I will not lose an inch of my Dignity.

Fat D. Nor I.

Amst. Nor I.

Leyd. Nor I. [Put the Paper from each other.

Brun. Death, what Rascals are these?

Sir C. Give me the Pen — here’s ado about your Paduas and Punctillios. — [Sets himself to write.

Amst. Every morning a Dose of my Pills... quecrusticon, or the Amicable Pill.

Sir C. Fasting!

Leyd. Every Hour sixscore drops of Adminicula Vitae.

Sir G. Fasting, too? — [Sir Cred writes still.

Fat D. At Night twelve Cordial Pills, Gallimofriticus.

Tur. Let Blood once a week, a Glister once a day.

Brun. Cry Mercy, Sir, you ‘re a French man. — After his first sleep, threescore restorative Pills, call’d Gheatus Redivivus.

Sir G. And lastly, fifteen spoonfuls of my Aqua Tetrachymagogon, as often as ’tis necessary; little or no Breakfast, no Dinner, and go Supperless to Bed.

Fat D. Hum, your Aqua Tetrachymagogon?

Sir G. Yes, Sir, my Tetrachymagogon; for look ye, do you see, Sir, I cur’d the Arch-Duke of Strumbulo of a Gondileero, of which he dy’d, with this very Aqua Tetrachymagogon.
Enter SIR PATIENT.

Sir P. Well, Gentlemen, am I not an intruder? Fat D. Sir, we have duly consider’d the state of your Body; and are now about the Order and Method you are to observe.

Brun. Ay, this Distemper will be the occasion of his Death.

Sir G. Hold, Brothers, I do not say the occasion of his Death; but the occasional cause of his death. — [Sir Pat reads the Bill.

Sir P. Why, here’s no time allow’d for eating, Gentlemen.

Amst. Sir, we’ ll justify this Prescription to the whole College.

Leyd. If he will not follow it, let him die.

All. Ay, let him die.
Enter LODWICK and LEANDER.

Lod. What have you consulted without me, Gentlemen?
[Lod reads the Bill.

Sir P. Yes, Sir, and find it absolutely necessary for my Health, Sir, I shou’d be starv’d: and yet you say I am not sick, Sir. [To Lean. Lod. Very well, very well.

Sir P. No Breakfast, no Dinner, no Supper ? Sir G. Little or none, but none’s best.

Sir P. But, Gentlemen, consider, no small thing.

All. Nothing, nothing.

Sir C. Sir, you must write for your Fee. — [To Lod.

Lod. Now I think on’t, Sir, you may eat [Writes] a roasted Pippin cold upon a vine-leaf, at night.

Lean. Do you see, Sir, what damn’d canting Pascals these Doctors are?

Sir P. Ay, Ay, if all doctors were such, ingeniously, I shou’d soon he weary of Physick.

Lean. Give ’em their Pees, Sir, and send them to the Devil for a company of cheats.

Sir P. Truth is, there is no faith in ’em, — well I thank you for your Care and Pains. — [Gives ’em Fees.

Sir C. Sir, if you have any occasion for me, I live at the red-colour’d Lanthom, with eleven candles in’t, in the Strand; where you may come in privately, and need not be ashamed, I having no creature in my house but my self, and my whole Family. — [Exeunt.
Lck quam van Neder Landt te spreken End helpen van... end ander gebreken.
That’s a top of my Bill, sweet Sir, Fan. Lord, Sir Father, why do you give ’em money?

Lean. For talking nonsence this Hour or two upon his Distemper.

Fan. Oh, lemini, Sir, they did not talk one word of you, but of Dogs and Horses, and of Killing folks, and of their Wives and Daughters; and when the Wine was all out, they said they wou’d say something for their fees.

Sir P. Say you so? — Knaves, Pogues, Cheats, Murderers! I’ll he reveng’d on ’em all, — I’ll ne’er he sick again, — or if I be, I’ll die honestly of my self without the assistance of such Rascals — go, get you gone.
G, — Page 214.
Bickerstaffe in Dr Last in his Chariot, (Act i., Scenes 10, 11, 12), has imitated the Consultation Scene from Molière’s Love is the best Doctor. Lisette is called Prudence, and the physicians come to consult upon Ailwou’d’s case, instead of that of a young girl’s.

Prudence. Sir, there are three doctors below, in the parlour, that were to call upon you this morning.
Ailwou’d. Ay, they are come to consult upon my case. I’m sorry I spoke to them; but it’s too late now.

Pru. And there’s another gentleman at the door in a chariot, with Mr Trash the bookseller, who desired me to tell you he had brought Dr Last.

Ail. I hope the gentlemen in the parlour did not see him.

Pru. No, Sir, no.

Ail. Very well, then show the physicians up. Do you, my love, go and entertain Dr Last till I can come to you. — I will dispatch these as soon as I can; but one must keep up the forms of civility.
AILWOU’D, DE COFFIN, DR SKELETON, DR BULEUDDERY.

Coffin. Mr Ailwou’d, your servant. I have obey’d your commands you see; and am come, with my brothers Skeleton and Bulruddery, to have a consultation upon your case. How do you find yourself this morning?

Ail. Pray, gentlemen, be seated. — Why, really, doctor, I find myself but very indifferent.

Skel. How do you sleep, Sir?

Ail. Very indifferently, doctor; chiefly broken slumbers.

Bui. And pray how is your appetite?

Ail. Indifferent, very indifferent, indeed. I have made shift to get down a couple dishes of chocolate this morning in bed; about two hours after I had some tea and toast with my wife; just now I swallow’d, with much difficulty, a bason of soup; and I believe I shall hardly take any more till dinner.

Skel. But, Mr Ailwou’d, what are your chief complaints?

Ail. Really, doctor, I am afraid my disorder is a complication. Sometimes I think it is the gout, and sometimes the rheumatism, sometimes the dropsy, and sometimes, I feel myself in a high fever: however, gentlemen, Dr Coffin, here, has been long my good friend and physician, and, by the help of the intelligence he can give you about my constitution, your art and experience may perhaps enable you to find out what’s the matter with me; so I leave you to your consultation. Gentlemen, your servant [Ailwou’d feeing the doctors as he goes out, drops a guinea] Stay, doctor, I’ll take it up for you.

Skel. Sir, I thank you; — but I think there was another dropt.

Ail. No, there wasn’t.

Skel. Why, I have but two.

Ail. But two! — Oh! oh! — [Gives him another.
DR COFFIN, DE SKELETON, DR BULRUDDERY, sitting down with great ceremony, then, after a short silence.

Skel. Brother Coffin, shall I trouble you for a pinch of your — [taking snuff ] Havannah? I see —

Cof. Brought me from thence by a captain who assisted in taking the place.

Skel. [Sneezes] Devilish strong.

Bul. I have often, Dr Skeleton, had it in my head to ask some of the faculty, what can be the reason that, when a man happens to sneeze all the company bow?

Skel. Sneezing, Dr Bulruddery, was a mortal symptom that attended a pestilential disease, which formerly depopulated the republic of Athens; ever since, when the convulsion occurs, a short ejaculation is offered up that the sneezing or sternuting party may not be afflicted with the same distemper.

Bid. Upon my conscience a very learned account! Ay, and a very civil institution too. I can’t help thinking, doctor, but the gentlemen of our profession must thrive much better in them these foreign parts than at home: Now, because why, one hears of plagues and pestilences, and such like kind of disorders, that attack a whole nation at once. Now, here, you know, we are obliged to pick up patients one by one, just as a body can get them.

Cof. Ay, doctor; and since the great increase of this town, the sick lie so scattered that one pair of horses are scarce sufficient for a physician but in moderate practice.

Skel. True; why, there was yesterday, the first pulse I felt belonged to a lad with the measles in Dean’s Yard, Westminster, from thence I set out between seven and eight, my wig fresh powdered and my horses in spirits; I turned at Charing Cross for the New Buildings; then ran through the Holborn division, crossed the Fleet-market, and penetrated into the city as far as Whitechapel; then made a short trip to the wife of a salesman, who had the gout in he stomach, at Wapping; from thence returned through Comhill, Temple Bar, and the Strand, and finished my last prescription, between five and six, for a tradesman in Cockspur Street, who had burst a vein in hallooing at the Brentford election.

Bui. Upon my conscience, a long tour.

Skel. Long! Why, upon the most moderate calculation, I could not, before I sat down to my soup, have run up less than thirty pair of stairs; and my horses must have trotted, taking in cross-streets and turnings, at least eighteen miles and three-quarters.

Bui. Without doubt. But you was talking of Brentford! — Don’t you look upon a contested election as a good thing to the faculty, doctor?

Skel. If you mean to us of the college, Dr Bulruddery, little or nothing; if, indeed, there should happen to be warm work at the hustings, the corporation of surgeons may pick up some practice; though I don’t look upon any of these puhlic transactions as of any great use to our body in general. Lord Mayor’s Day, indeed, has its merit.

Cof. Yes; that turns to account.

Skel. Dr Doseum and I were making, t’other morning at Batson’s, a short calculation of what value that festival might be to the whole of the physical tribe.

Bui. Is it a secret to what you made it amount!

Skel. Why, what with colds caught on the water before dinner, repletion and indigestion at dinner, inebriety after dinner (not to mention the ball in the evening), we made that day and its consequences; for, you know, there are fine foundations laid for future disorders, especially if it turns out an easterly wind —

Bui. Does that make any difference?

Skel. Infinite; for when they come out of the hall, in a fine perspiration, from the heat of the room and exercise, should the winds miss them in crossing Cateaton Street, it’s sure to lay hold of them in turning the corner into Cheapside —

Cof. Without doubt.

Skel. We estimated the whole profit to physicians, surgeons, apothecaries, chemists, druggists, and nurses at eleven thousand, six hundred, seventy-three pounds, fourteen shillings, and threepence three farthings.
H, Page 214.
Swiney, in The Quacks (Act ii., end), has imitated this scene from Molière’s Love is the best Doctor.
Enter SIR PATIENT.

Sir P. Gentlemen, my daughter grows very bad, and I beg you to tell me what you have Resolved on.

Cau. Come, Gentlemen.

Med. Sir, with Submission.

Ref. Pardonnez moy — Monsieur Ticklepurse.

Tick. Doctor Pauvre Hugonot, I always am civil to Foreigners.

Sir P. I beseech you, Gentlemen, lay aside Ceremony, and consider the occasion.
Tick and Cau. — Distemper.

Tick. Sir.

Cau. Pardon me.

Tick. Sir, we have been in earnest Consultation about your Daughter, and her Distemper is certainly the Vapours to a great degree, and if she do’s not Bleed, she’s a dead woman.

Sir P. Ha — her mother was troubl’d with Vapours.

Cau. Sir, her Distemper is the Stone — and I have the only Nostrum in England that can help her; I have remov’d Stones from Women, as big as my two Fists.

Sir P. Haw — Now I think on’t, her Grandmother was troubl’d with the Gravel, and my Aunt Martha had a stone taken out that my Uncle wore in a Thumb Ring.

Cau. And if care ben’t taken to remove it, she’ll dye.

Ref. Just the contrary, Sir, her disease be de Green-sickness, and de only cure upon Earth be dis — take of Antimony.

Sir P. The Green Sickness, Doctor!

Med. Sir Patient, Heark’e, to deal Friendly with you, for in these cases, a man must tell his Mind; your Daughter’s Distemper is [ Whispers] and if she don’t take a dozen or two of my Vomits, she’s an undone woman.

Sir P. How, Doctor! I have kept her under Lock and Key all her Life.

Med. That may be; I can’t say whose fault ’tis — she has it that’s certain— ’Tis in her Blood — think —

Sir P. Ha! Let me see, there was a Baggage about, Sixteen years ago — but sure, Doctor, it can’t be.

Ref. Sir, believe me, your Daughter have de Green-sickness, and if de proper medicine be not apply, she be Lost.

Sir P. Do you think so?

Can. I say, Sir Patient, ’tis the Stone — you know her Grandmother had it before her.

Sir P. Very True.

Tick. And her Mother the Vapours; consider that.

Sir P. I don’t know what to say, nor what Besolution to take, divided ‘twixt so jarring opinions.
I, — Page 216.
Bickerstaffe, in Dr Last in his Chariot, (Act i., Scenes 13, 14), has partly imitated the fourth and fifth scenes of the Second Act of Molière’s play as follows:
DR COFFIN, DR SKELETON, DR BULRÜDDERY, and AILWOU’D.
Ailwou’d. Gentlemen, I beg pardon for this interruption; but you have been consulting upon my case, and I have some particular reasons for coming thus suddenly, to desire to know what opinion you have yet been able to form.

Coffin. [To Skeletoni] Come, Sir.

Skeleton. No, Sir; pray do you speak.

Cof. Before my senior! Pray excuse me.

Skel. [To Bulruddery] Doctor ——

Bulruddery. The devil burn myself if I do.

Ail. Nay; pray, gentlemen, leave these ceremonies; and, if you have been able to form any opinion, instruct me.

Cof. Why, really, sir, to tell you the truth — Brother Skeleton.

Skel. We have not yet, with all the observations we have been able to make upon your case and complaints — I say, Sir — and, after the most abstruse disquisitions, we have not as yet been able — to form any opinions at all.

Ail. Well, this is all I want to be acquainted with, because, if you have not been able to form any opinion, I have been happy enough to meet with a physician that has — Pray, Sir, do me the favour to walk in here.
DR COFFIN, DR SKELETON, DR BALRUDDERY, AILWOU’D, DR LAST.

Ail. This, gentlemen, is Dr Last, and he assures me that my disorder is a confirmed jaundice.

Doctors. A jaundice! — ha, ha, ha!

Dr Last. What do you grin at? — I says he has the jaunders, and I’ll uphold it. — I’ll lay you fifty pounds he has the janders, and the gentleman shall hold the stakes himself.

Gof. “Well, but Mr Ailwou’d this is altogether ridiculous. Did you ever see a man of your colour with the jaundice!

Ail. Why, that’s true; [Turning to Last] every one tells me that I have a very florid complexion; now the jaundice gives a yellow hue: will you be so good as explain that?

Dr L. Well, so I can, but not for the doctors. — If I does it, it’s all entirely to oblige you.

Skel. We shall hear how the impudent rascal will bring himself off.

Dr L. There are two sorts of jandars; the yallar and the grey.

Bul. The black, I believe you mean, honey.

Dr L. No; I don’t.

Cof. But you must, Sir; there is no such thing as the grey jaundice.

Skel. Oh! gentlemen, the doctor means the iron-gray, and that’s almost black, you know.

Dr L. They only does this to put me out now, because I’m no collegian.

Ail. “Well, pray, doctors, go on with your explanation.

Dr L. “Well, I says then; [To Ailwou’d, who turns about for something]| I won’t talk without you minds; — the yallar janders, I say, is — the yallar jaunders is, as if so be —

Cof. Why, you were talking of the grey jaundice this moment.

Dr L. No, I wasn’t; I didn’t say a word of the grey janders — Did I, Mr Ailwou’d ? — It’s the jallar jandars. — I knows well enough what I’m about, if you’ll let me alone.

Cof. Well, what of the yallar janders?

Dr L. Why, I won’t tell you — I won’t say a word more now; if you thinks to profit, you’re mistaken; you shan’t learn nothing from me.

Cof. You’re a... impudent fellow.

Dr L. I does my cures no purchase no pay; and which of you can say that?[Turning to Ailwou’d] Many a one of them comes to ax my advice and assistance, when they don’t know what to do themselves.

Cof. Come, come, friend, we know you.

Dr L. Well, and I know you. — Pray, Dr Coffin, didn’t you attend one Mrs Greaves, a tallow-chandler’s widow, that lodg’d at the pork-shop in Fetter Lane; and didn’t she send for me after you gave her over ?

Cof. Yes, and she died in two days.

Dr L. Well, — so she did; — but that was no fault of mine; she should have sent for me first. What could I do for her after you had killed the poor dear soul?

Gof. But, Mr Ailwou’d, we are come here to consult upon your case; and if you permit us, we are willing.

Ail. O! nothing I desire so much, and, to assist you, I’ll leave this gentleman; he may give you further reasons for what he advances.

Skel. What, Sir, do you think we’ll consult with a quack?

Bui. Ay, do you think we’ll be after consulting with a quack?

Dr L. I’m no quack — I have been regularly submitted; and I’ll prosecute you for your words in Westminster Hall.

Cof. Mr Ailwou’d, we are your humble servants.

Ail. Well, but, gentlemen, your fees; you’ll return them, I hope.

Cof. Return our fees, Sir!

Bul. Return our fees! Arrah, is the man mad?

Skel. Sir, it is a thing entirely out of the course of practice, we wish you a good morning.
AILWOU’D, LAST.

Ail. Why then, gentlemen, your servant, and good morning to you. Let them go; I’m glad we have got rid of them at any rate.

Dr L. Here, you Coffin —

Ail. Pray let him alone now.
J, — Page 224.
Swiney, in the Quacks (Act v., Scene 1), has nearly imitated literally this sixth scene of the last act from Molière’s Love is the best Doctor, but Clitander and Lucinde are married on the stage by a priest, put into livery.
Enter SIR PATIENT, CLITANDER, LTSETTE, and ATTENDANTS.

Lys. Here’s your patient Doctor, now try your skill upon her, and show a Remedy that is not in the Dispensary — come Uncle let’s leave ’em together.

Sir P. No, no, I’ll stay.

Lys. Indeed you shan’t Uncle, why he has Questions to put to her that are not proper for you to hear — a Physician may be as free with a woman as her Midwife, and we often converse with him as a Doctor, without considering he’s a man.

Sir P. That’s a tickelish point, Cousin, and for the security of our Wives and Daughters, If my Advice might be taken, I’d have none Practice Physick, but those that were Qualify’d for Queristers.

Lys. Then you might keep ’em for your own use. [Sir Patient and Lysette retire.

Clit. How lucky has been our Stratagem! You see Madam, these moments are not to be lost, do you but favour the deceipt and I am Happy — .

Luc. Alass! what farther Happiness can you hope, but this of being near me.

Clit. To be for ever near you.

Luc. HOW’S that Possible?

Clit. If I can Conjure up a Priest and Notary, and make your Father himself, as much as he’s against it, present you to me in marriage, what wou’d you say?

Luc. Yes! yes! yes! yes!
Clit There’s Eloquence enough in that word to move a Hermit! —

Sir P. Ha! methinks they’r very close. — \To Lysette.

Lys. Oh that is to observe her Phisiognomy and the Lines of her face — in some cases he must he Closer yet, before he do’s any good.

Sir P. Is’t Possible?

Luc. The Pleasure rises with the Hope, but I’m afraid I shan’t be able to keep my Countenance, and if my Father shou’d see thro’ it, all’s undone again.

Clit. Don’t think of the Devil, and he won’t appear.

Sir P. Ha! she smiles, I must go to ’em. “Well Doctor, I perceive your Patient is altered.

Clit. You must observe, Sir, that the Spirit has a mighty Power over the Flesh, and my way is always to cure the mind before I tamper with the Body, in order to which I examine the Lines of the Visage, and Hands, and by the art I have acquired, I find that your Daughters Disease is in her mind, and that the Disorder of it proceeds from a wild Imagination, and a deprav’d desire of being Marryed.

Sir P. A Strange Man this.

Clit. This sort of Madness is very rare, for Marriage it self sends many to Bedlam, and I don’t wonder at it, I have had from my Childhood a constant Aversion to it.

Sir P. A great Physician!

Clit. But now Sir, the only way of cure is to Flatter the Imagination of the Patient, to strike in with the Disease, and make it accessory to its own Cure.

Lys. As you know Uncle, the surest way to make you hate a thing, to give you a Surfeit of it.

Clit. I find Sir, that she is reduc’d to an Extremity, and there will be danger if she be not suddainly help’d — I just touched upon her Folly, and told her I came to demand her of her Father in Marriage, when of a sudden her Yisage chang’d, her Cheeks bloomed! her eyes sparkled! and if you’d but support that Errour for a few hours, you’ll see her perfectly restor’d.

Sir P. Strange — 1 observ’d it!

Clit. And after that we may apply other Remedies that will confirm her mind, and quite remove that wild Imagination.

Sir P. Right, right the best thing in the world, let’s apply it immediately — well Child, here is a Gentleman that wou’d Marry you, and I have given him my consent.

Luc. How Sir, is’t Possible?

Sir P. Ay my Dear, I agree to it.

Luc. But do you indeed?

Sir P. Yes, yes, my dear Lucinda.

Luc. And you Sir, are willing to be my Husband?

Clit. Yes Madam, Proud of it.

Luc. And my dear Father consent to it?

Sir P. I do! I do! my Dear Child.

Luc. How happy am I if this be Real!

Sir P. Ha! ha! poor Fool? — [Aside.

Clit. Doubt it not Madam, I have been long your Adorer, and Dye with desire to become your Husband, I came hither for that end, and if you wou’d have me speak ingenuously, this Habit is but a Disguise, and I made my self a Doctor for an opportunity to approach you, and to crown my wishes — .

Sir P. He acts it rarely!

Luc. Now give me tender instances of your Esteem, and I’m as sensible as I can be of so generous a Passion.

Lys. Do you mind her!

Sir P. I do! I do! a Pleasant way of Cure! He makes a fool of her to bring her to her wits!

Lys. A common thing! we see Men fool’d out of their Estates at Play, who come to their Senses by that time they ‘re undone, but it vexes me to see a Poor Woman deceived Uncle.

Sir P. Mum! you Hogue.

LMC. But shall he really be my Husband Father?

Sir P. Here, here [takes her hand] give yours Sir a little —— only to make believe. — [Apart to Clitander.

Clit. But — .

Sir P. Nay — only to sooth her madness — Here receive her — so now its done — its done! — [Stifling a laugh.

Clit. Take then as a Pledge of my Faith this ring.

Luc. Alas Sir, this won’t do, we must have the Priest to joyn us and the Notary to draw the writings of what my Father gives with me, or all’s nothing.

Sir P. What shall we do now, Doctor? All’s spoil’d again.

Clit. Let me see, Sir — I find her Brain is extreamly turn’d, and that she do’s not distinguish Persons, I’ll possess her that one of my Servants is a Priest, and my Mery-Andrew a Notary.

Sir P. Excellent! Ha, ha, ha! — I shall Dye with the conceit and spoil the Ceremony —

Clit. I never saw this sort of Madness, in such a degree before.

Sir P. Hark’e Doctor, you must know here was a fellow that had a mind to be Nibbling at her, without my consent, one Clitander.

Clit. A Hogue!

Sir P. Extravagant Dog! who’s Plot upon her knock’d o’ the Head in the Nick of time.

Clit. You were certainly in the Eight, Sir, and nobody ought to have your daughter, without advising with you about her.

Sir P. No, no, but let us dispatch — Come Lucinda, the Doct — I wou’d say your Lover here has taken care to bring those two Gentlemen with him — Let’s in and I’ll settle the whole affair to your Satisfaction my Dear.

Luc. I’m overjoy’d, Sir.

Sir P. Poor Soul, ha! ha! I can’t bear the Jest. — [To Lysette-

Lys. This Delusion Succeeds very well upon her, but how will you do to imitate Consummatiou? A woman must be very mad Uncle, who is to he Deceived in that.

Sir P. Pish, you’r a Fool, a Husband’s a Husband.

Lys. Yes, yes, and a Woman’s a Woman, Uncle, and you must not depend upon the loss of all her Senses!

Clit. To make it as like a Marriage as possible, we won’t fail in the Celebration, I have always Singers and Dancers in my Retinue, on purpose to Amuse the disorders of the mind, and they shall entertain her till she forgets that part of the ceremony.

Sir P. Nothing so Lucky — Let ’em prepare them — do you hear within — Let the Dancers make Ready — Ha! ha! this is the Pleasantest way of Cure that ever was — along —— [Exeunt omnes.
Entertainment of Singing and Dancing.
Re-enter SIB PATIENT and LYSETTE follow’d by CLITANDER and LUCINDA, who kneel down about the middle of the stage, and while they are in that Posture, a Servant brings CLITANDER’S Wigg, which he puts on.

Sir P. Now all’s done. Ha! ha! ha! Poor Fool, she’s satisfy’d.

Lys. What a wicked Man are you to cheat her So — but what way will you devise to amuse her at Night Uncle!

Sir P. Tell her ’tis the Fashion to have separate Beds, and then, [Turns and sees ’em kneeling. Ha! Bless me, what’s here? Where’s the Doctor?

Clit. You’ll find him in Your Son in Law.

Luc. Your pardon and your blessing, Sir. — [They rise.

Sir P. Why, Cousin —

Lys. I told you Uncle, he’d bring her to her senses.

Sir P. Ha! and I tell you I’ll reduce her to her madness again! — for this Imaginary Marriage will signify little, that’s one comfort — thou shallow Plotting Lover! Ha! ha! ha! Wise Clitander! To think that an Idle Footman’s Reading of the Ceremony would be sufficient to make a marriage. Ha! ha! ha! — [Turns to Lysette.

Cli. ’Twas not Sir, to Dishonour the Church that I put a Priest into Livery, but —— the Footman.

Sir P. Father Nicholas how? Is it real then, and am I cheated?

Clit. And I hope the Gravity of the City will not be injur’d by making a Jackpudding of a Notary Public. See Sir, your substantial Friend Mr Stockjob.

Lys. I told you, Uncle, this Doctor wou’d do wonders!

Sir P. He has made all safe! And ’tis in vain to vex — Harke Sir, since you’ve made the assurance to marry my Daughter —

Clit. With your consent, Sir, I wou’d not do anything without your approbation.

Sir P. Here’s a Rogue! — that your Punishment may have an affinity with your crime, and any Satisfaction he exemplary, nev er see my face more — till you make me a — Grandfather.

Luc. My Dearest Father! —

Lys. Ha! ha! ha! Right Uncle, why, that’s the finishing stroke, the only way to settle her mind, she’d a Relaps’d without it.

Clit. I shall endeavour, Sir, to Deserve your good opinion —

Sir P. Very well! and I’ll answer for my Daughter as mad as she is — and now the Adventure is over — to Fathers, Brothers, Husbands, and all that pretend to Govern Women,
This comfort from the Moral is Convey’d;
In what they like were sure to be obey’d.

K, — Page 227.
Lacy, in The Dumb Lady (Act v.), has imitated parts of the second and of the third acts of Molière’s Love is the best Doctor; but he has evidently not understood the Frenchman’s physicians, who certainly would, on no account, have held consultations with a farrier. With the exception of one scene, which could not be transcribed, the following extract forms the greatest part of the fifth act of The Dumb Lady. Olinda is the name of the young lady, her father is Gemette; Leander, her lover, an operator who appears as Humatio, whilst his brother, Parson Othentick, is disguised as Dr Drench’s man, Stirquilitio.
Enter old GERNETTE with three learned DOCTORS.

Oer. Gentlemen, I have made bold to send for you again; and though you could not help my child when she was dumb, I hope you may now she is mad.

1 Doct. How! Is she mad? and does she speak?

Oer. Yes, sir. A famous and a learned man, of great skill and wonderful knowledge, gave her something, and in a short time she spake, and fell into raving fits of madness, and has ever since continued so; and this he told me would be the effect of what he then did.

2 Doct. This is strange.

3 Doct. Most wonderful! What was it he gave her, sir?

Oer. Nay, that I know not; but I assure you he said he could make her speak, and told me her disease would turn to madness, and accordingly it has proved so. Nevertheless, gentlemen, I desire you to join with this learned man, and consider how to perfect her cure.

1 Doct. Why, sir, you tell us wonders of him. Where did he study?

Geer. I know not; but he seems to be a great traveller, for he talked of Tartar Cham, and of Padua, and Greenland.

2 Doct. Tartar Cham and Greenland? This must be a mountebank and a cheat.

Ger. Upon my credit you will not find him so, for he has seen all universities; he is but newly come over, and his name is Doctor Drench.

1 Doct. Drench? Why, that’s a fitter name for a farrier than a physician!

Ger. Let his name be as strange as it will, he has also strange humours too, for he’ll find out men’s ignorance presently.

3 Doct. I think we were best begone, lest he find out ours.

1 Doct. Why, ay, for if he be a chemist, his opinion and ours must needs differ, and consequently not agree in consultation.

2 Doct. I am, sir, of your opinion, for I think it infra dignitatem to hold consultation with mountebanks.

3 Doct. We know not yet, sir, what the man is.

1 Doct. If he be a chemist, sir, he is, eo nomine, a declared enemy to the Galenical way, to all truth and learning, and a denyer of principles, and therefore not to be consulted with.

2 Doct. Right, sir; contra principia negantem non est disputandum. He that replies but with submission to sic dixit Galenus is not to be looked on as a physician.

3 Doct. Pardon me, gentlemen, I have known some chemical physicians learned and rational men; and, although not strict adherers to the Galenical method, proceed with great reason and good success, which, I take it, answers all we can say or do.

2 Doct. I profess I think it as bad as murder to cure out of the methodical way. Oh, what satisfaction ’tis to have a patient die according to all the rules of art!

Ger. But, sure, it should satisfy your conscience better to have them live by rules.

2 Doct. Come life, come death, to follow rules in your satisfaction; and conscience is no ingredient within the rules of physic, sir.

Enter SERVANT.

Ser. Sir, the Doctor is come!

Ger. ’Tis well! ’tis well! Gentlemen, to end this dispute, here is a double fee for each; and, pray you, consult with him his way, and be civil in’t for my sake.

1 Doct. Sir, you and yours here hath prevailed over us.

2 Doct. I profess, to serve so worthy and magnificent a person, I would consult with a farrier.

3 Doct. A farrier? Nay, for a double fee we would consult with a gunsmith.

Ger. Here he is! pray you salute him.

3 Doct. We know how to be civil, sir.
Enter DOCTOR, HÜRNATIO, STIRQUILUTIO, and NURSE.

Ger. Save you, sir!

Doct. I thank you.

3 Doct. Save you, Dont. One save you, sir, is sufficient for all; we learned men should hate compliment — verba pauca sapiens sapit. — Was that true Latin, Parson?

Stir. Brave! fear nothing! At them with some question!

Doct. I shall fall into the farrier. — Well, I find, gentlemen, you are professed doctors of physic, and are met to consult the health of a distracted lady I therefore to the point, and avoid your canting words that would stick in a wise man’s throat and choke him.

2 Doct. But, sir, ’tis necessary we declare ourselves in proper and learned phrases when we discourse either of physic or distempers — in arte artificialiter loquendum; and withal, sir, ’tis fit that we of the consultation should withdraw.

Doct. No withdrawing, sir; ’tis not my way. I love persons concerned should hear and see what’s done, that they may judge who are doers and who are talkers; and if you affect the vain-glory of learned phrases, my operator Hurnatio and his man Stirquilutio shall dispute you, for with great pains I have enabled them to argue in all tongues, because they know I hate the trouble on’t myself.

Stir. Start a question quickly.

Doct. I shall only trouble you with one question or two myself. First, I ask you whether you know the practice of before behind, behind before?

2 Doct. Before behind, behind before? Why, that is something belongs to a horse! A farrier or a blacksmith must answer that question....

Stir. You’ll have no need of Latin, Doctor.

Doct. — Look you to that, Parson. — And I must tell you I shall spoil the benefit you get by that disease; for I’ll advise every man to plant a guaiacum tree in his orchard, and a leaf of that at any time will cure infallibly; and that’s one of the secrets I will reveal to the world, to spoil the practice of mountebanks,... doctors, and bill men.

2 Doct. But will that disease be cured with the leaf of a guaiacum tree?

Doct. Ay, sir, as I can order it.

1 Doct. Pray you, sir, how will you order it?

Doct. Why, first, sir, I will make you a mash.

3 Doct. How, sir, that’s a farrier’s phrase again. What mean you by a mash, sir?

Doct. Tell ’em, tell ’em, Stirquilutio, and let not me be troubled to interpret.

Stir. Why, sir, the Doctor is so much read in the Arabian physicians that he often uses their terms. Masha in the Arabic is what quinta essentia is in the Latin.

Doct. Well helped, Parson. — You wonder at my phrases, and I at your want of Arabic. Now, sir, when any man is troubled with the staggers, we do not cut him and slash him in the forehead as you do your horses.

2 Doct. Staggers in a man? With your favour, sir, you have talked all this while liker a farrier than a physician; and I begin to think you are one, sir.

Doct. How shall I get off now?

Stir. Yes, sir, he is a farrier, and an able farrier too; for if you be not good farriers, and good surgeons too, you deserve not the name of doctors.

Hur. And pray you, come to the point concerning our mad patient.

3 Doct. ’Tis wonderful that an under-servant to a doctor should have this learning!

2 Doct. I doubt whether the master understands so much.

Doct. Say you so, sir? I’ll be even with you. — Parson, I’ll tell that Doctor he is not well, and whilst I feel his pulse, convey you this cow-itch down his neck. Come hither, sir, I pray you.

2 Doct. Your pleasure, sir? Doct. You are not well, sir.

2 Doct. As ever I was in my life, sir.

Doct. Let me feel your pulse. You accuse me of farrier’s phrases; I’ve another farrier phrase for you. You are not well; you are foundered in your body, and it will fall upon your shoulders. First, it will begin with a kind of itching, then into inflammations and catarrhs: therefore, look to’t, be rowelled betimes.

2 Doct. I slight your opinion, sir.

Doct. Well, mark the end on’t, sir....

Olin. Nay, sir, I’ll fetter you from running. Doctor, get me a parson. Does none of these grave men belong to the clergy? 2 Doct. No madam.

Olin. Run, run and fetch me one; they ‘re never i’ th’ way when they should do good.

Doct. Stirquilutio, put on the parson’s coat quickly. Madam, have patience; the parson will be here presently.

Ger. — Why so? Why so, Doctor ? Why so!

Doct. To bring your child to herself again. Ask these doctors else. 2 Doet. Nay, no doubt they are right, sir, if you obstruct them not. I must have his opinion for my disease too.

Doct. Look you! here is the parson, madam.

Olin. Oh, welcome, sir! Nay, not a word out of your book, but turn to your text of matrimony, and marry us presently; and pray you, let not that old man know we are married.

Doct. No, no, by no means. You must not know, old man, your daughter’s to be married.

Ger. — Nay, nay, nay, Doctor; Doctor, no jesting with marriage.

Doct. — Why, are you jealous of my operator? Alas, poor wretch!
Why gentlemen, the man has a wife and four children.

Ger. Has he? And art thou sure of that, Doctor?

Doct. “Why, sir, before these gentlemen, if I speak false, degrade me of the dignity of a doctor.

Ger. I believe you, and am satisfied, and now I am as light and airy as a boy.

Olin. Who will be my father, and give me to Leander? I have a mind to this grave gentleman. Do you refuse me, sir?

Doct. No, no, no, madam; go and give her, sir, go. Bless us all, you see what a raging fit she had like to have fallen into.

Ger. Ay, but I do not like; I do not know — I do not like — I do not know what to say to it.

Doct. The devil’s in you! Why, you have forgot the fellow’s married.

Ger. I had forgot, I had forgot; in troth, I should laugh to see her thus recovered. Why, gentlemen, is not this a strange way to cure madness?

3 Doct. It is so, sir; but it seems they have the experience, the practical part, and truly it seems rational.

Doct. Why, sir, if we can but get her to sleep in the belief that she is married to Leander, my life for yours she wakes i’ th’ morning in her right senses.

2 Doct. And sure this back will put me into my wrong senses.

Ger. Ha, ha, ha! I laugh to think, poor girl, how she’ll he cozened into her wits again.

Nur. Master, as I live, they ‘re married in earnest! I’ll be sworn, with the very same words that I and my husband was.

Oer. Let them alone; ’tis all but jest, Nurse. Why, the apothecary’s married, fool, and has four children.

Hur. ’Tis true that he is married, but no four children, sir....

Hur., Olin. Now, sir, we both crave your blessing.

Oer.. Well said, Apothecary; thou acts it to the life, i’faith! Gentlemen Doctors, does he not do it well!

Hur. I shall do it better yet....

Ger.... There you overact it,’Pothecary.

Olin. Sir, he is no apothecary, but real Leander, and my lawful husband....

Ger. Why, Doctor, this girl is stark mad still.

Doct. No indeed, she speaks sensibly. What would you have a young woman do... when she is married?

Ger. Why, Doctor, thou overacts thy part too!

Doct. In troth, sir, this is neither apothecary, operator, nor Hurnatio, but very Leander; neither is this his man Stirquilutio, but his brother, and a minister in orders, who has lawfully made ’em man and wife.
Ger Oh, this cursed farrier? this cursed villain! Then you are not mad, Lady?

Olin. No, sir; neither was I mad or dumb, but counterfeited both to cozen the Squire and you, sir.

Ger. And you, sir, were Leander when you brought me the letter from Leander?

Lea. — Yes, sir.

Ger. And you told me that Leander would steal my daughter, and gave me good counsel to look to her?

Lea. I did so, sir.

Ger. ’Twas good counsel, if I could have taken it. That cursed letter feigned from Leander cozened me; that got them credit with me, spite of my jealousy. Thou art a pretty fellow, I confess, but the most impudent and audacious villain to marry my child against my will, and before my face too, Gentlemen.

Olin. Do you think I’d have been married but in my father’s presence? Not for all the world.

Lea. ’Twas love forced us to make this ship, sir.

Ger.. That’s the end on’t! Did not I tell thee all along that thou wouldst cozen me!

Lea. You did so, sir, but love can take no warning.

Ger. For my revenge, I’ll to bed and fall desperately sick, make my will, and die, and leave thee ne’er a groat, that thou and thy issue may starve and perish. — [Exit GERNETTE.

Olin. Fear not, Leander! When this fit is over, he’s to be reconciled, fear not!

Doet. Gentlemen Doctors, I hope ’tis no disparagement to you that a poor farrier, by a combination with Nurse, has cured a madwoman.

The Misanthrope; or, The Cantankerous Lover

Le Misanthrope ou L’Atrabilaire amoureux

Translated by Henri van Laun and Curtis Hidden Page

The Misanthrope, or, The Cantankerous Lover was first staged on 4 June 1666 at the Théâtre du Palais-Royal. In 1665, in the midst of the controversy surrounding Tartuffe, Molière wrote and staged Dom Juan ou le Festin de pierre , which was quickly condemned as offensive to religion. Molière was forced to edit certain passages from the play before it was removed (not officially banned) from the stage after only fifteen performances. Although the King continued to support Molière, the playwright was still viewed with great hostility by powerful religious forces when The Misanthrope premiered. During the Tartuffe controversy, there had even been one incredibly zealous priest that had called for the him to be condemned of blasphemy and burned at the stake.

The play focuses on Alceste, a French aristocrat, who rejects the hypocrisy and superficiality of those in fashionable life. He is an idealist and highly critical of everyone, while also being in love with the fickle and frivolous Célimène, who encapsulates everything Alceste loathes about upper-class society. He has other more suitable suitors, but he is determined to pursue Célimène despite there being no indication she is inclined to change. The play was classified as a comedy and according to an account of the original production, Alceste, as played by Molière, was a comic character, albeit one that was far from being completely ridiculous. However, there has been a long debate about how comic to make Alceste and whether it would be more accurate to view him as he sees himself: a righteous opponent of a corrupt and debased society. If he is regarded as entirely sincere, rather than comic or littered with contradictions, then it significantly alters the interpretation of the play.

Title page from the 1667 edition of the play

CONTENTS

Henri van Laun Translation, 1875

Curtis Hidden Page Translation, 1908

The frontispiece for the 1717 edition

Théâtre du Palais-Royal today

Henri van Laun Translation, 1875

CONTENTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ACT I

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

ACT II

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

ACT III

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

ACT IV

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

ACT V

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Alceste, in love with Célimène.
Philinte, his friend.
Oronte, in love with Célimène.
Célimène, beloved by Alceste.
Eliante, her cousin.
Arsinoé, Célimène’s friend.
Acaste, marquises.
Clitandre, marquises.
Basque, servant to Célimène.
Dubois, servant to Alceste.
An Officer of the Maréchaussée.

Scene. — At Paris, in Célimène’s House

ACT I

SCENE I.

PHILINTE, ALCESTE.

PHILINTE. WHAT IS the matter? What ails you?

Alceste (seated). Leave me, I pray.

Philinte. But, once more, tell me what strange whim . . .

Alceste. Leave me, I tell you, and get out of my sight.

Philinte. But you might at least listen to people, without getting angry.

Alceste. I choose to get angry, and I do not choose to listen.

Philinte. I do not understand you in these abrupt moods, and although we are friends, I am the first . . .

Alceste (rising quickly). I, your friend? Lay not that flattering unction to your soul. I have until now professed to be so; but after what I have just seen of you, I tell you candidly that I am such no longer; I have no wish to occupy a place in a corrupt heart.

Philinte. I am then very much to be blamed from your point of view, Alceste?

Alceste. To be blamed? You ought to die from very shame; there is no excuse for such behaviour, and every man of honour must be disgusted at it. I see you almost stifle a man with caresses, show him the most ardent affection, and overwhelm him with protestations, offers, and vows of friendship. Your ebullitions of tenderness know no bounds; and when I ask you who that man is, you can scarcely tell me his name; your feelings for him, the moment you have turned your back, suddenly cool; you speak of him most indifferently to me. Zounds! I call it unworthy, base, and infamous, so far to lower one’s self as to act contrary to one’s own feelings, and if, by some mischance, I had done such a thing, I should hang myself at once out of sheer vexation.

Philinte. I do not see that it is a hanging matter at all; and I beg of you not to think it amiss if I ask you to show me some mercy, for I shall not hung myself, if it be all the same to you.

Alceste. That is a sorry joke.

Philinte. But, seriously, what would you have people do?

Alceste. I would have people be sincere, and that, like men of honour, no word be spoken that comes not from the heart.

Philinte. When a man comes and embraces you warmly, you must pay him back in his own coin, respond as best you can to his show of feeling, and return offer for offer, and vow for vow.

Alceste. Not so. I cannot bear so base a method which your fashionable people generally affect; there is nothing I detest so much as the contortions of these great time-and-lip servers, these affable dispensers of meaningless embraces, these obliging utterers of empty words, who view every one in civilities, and treat the man of worth and the fop alike. What good does it do if a man heaps endearments on you, vows that he is your friend, that he believes in you, is full of zeal for you, esteems and loves you, and lauds you to the skies, when he rushes to do the same to the first rapscallion he meets? No, no, no heart with the least self-respect cares for esteem so prostituted; he will hardly relish it, even when openly expressed, when he finds that he shares it with the whole universe. Preference must be based on esteem, and to esteem every one is to esteem no one. Since you abandon yourself to the vices of the times, zounds! you are not the man for me. I decline this over-complaisant kindness, which uses no discrimination. I like to be distinguished; and, to cut the matter short, the friend of all mankind is no friend of mine.

Philinte. But when we are of the world, we must confirm to the outward civilities which custom demands.

Alceste. I deny it. We ought to punish pitilessly that shameful pretence of friendly intercourse. I like a man to be a man, and to show on all occasions the bottom of his heart in his discourse. Let that be the thing to speak, and never let our feelings be hidden beneath vain compliments.

Philinte. There are many cases in which plain speaking would become ridiculous, and could hardly be tolerated. And, with all due allowance for your unbending honesty, it is as well to conceal your feelings sometimes. Would it be right or decent to tell thousands of people what we think of them? And when we meet with some one whom we hate or who displeases us, must we tell him so openly?

Alceste. Yes.

Philinte. What! Would you tell old Emilia, that it ill becomes her to set up for a beauty at her age, and that the paint she uses disgusts everyone?

Alceste. Undoubtedly.

Philinte. Or Dorilas, that he is a bore, and that there is no one at court who is not sick of hearing him boast of his courage, and the lustre of his house?

Alceste. Decidedly so.

Philinte. You are jesting.

Alceste. I am not jesting at all; and I would not spare any one in that respect. It offends my eyes too much; and whether at Court or in town, I behold nothing but what provokes my spleen. I become quite melancholy and deeply grieved to see men behave to each other as they do. Everywhere I find nothing but base flattery, injustice, self-interest, deceit, roguery. I cannot bear it any longer; I am furious; and my intention is to break with all mankind.

Philinte. This philosophical spleen is somewhat too savage. I cannot but laugh to see you in these gloomy fits, and fancy that I perceive in us two, brought up together, the two brothers described in The School for Husbands, who . . .

Alceste. Good Heavens! drop your insipid comparisons.

Philinte. Nay, seriously, leave off these vagaries. The world will not alter for all your meddling. And as plain speaking has such charms for you, I shall tell you frankly that this complaint of yours is as good as a play, wherever you go, and that all those invectives against the manners of the age, make you a laughing stock to many people.

Alceste. So much the better Zounds! so much the better. That is just what I want. It is a very good sign, and I rejoice at it. All men are so odious to me, that I should be sorry to appear rational in their eyes.

Philinte. But do you wish harm to all mankind?

Alceste. Yes I have conceived a terrible hatred for them.

Philinte. Shall all poor mortals, without exception, be included in this aversion? There are some, even in the age in which we live . . .

Alceste. No, they are all alike; and I hate all men: some, because they are wicked and mischievous; others because they lend themselves to the wicked, and have not that healthy contempt with which vice ought to inspire all virtuous minds. You can see how unjustly and excessively complacent people are to that bare-faced scoundrel with whom I am at law. You may plainly perceive the traitor through his mask; he is well known every-where in his true colors; his rolling eyes and his honeyed tones impose only on those who do not know him. People are aware that this low-bred fellow, who deserves to be pilloried, has, by the dirtiest jobs, made his way in the world; and that the splendid position he has acquired makes merit repine and virtue blush. Yet whatever dishonourable epithets may be launched against him everywhere, nobody defends his wretched honour. Call him a rogue, an infamous wretch, a confounded scoundrel if you like, all the world will say “yea, “ and no one contradicts you. But for all that, his bowing and scraping are welcome everywhere; he is received, smiled upon, and wriggles himself into all kinds of society; and, if any appointment is to be secured by intriguing, he will carry the day over a man of the greatest worth. Zounds! these are mortal stabs to me, to see vice parleyed with; and sometimes times I feel suddenly inclined to fly into a wilderness far from the approach of men.

Philinte. Great Heaven? let us torment ourselves a little less about the vices of our age, and be a little more lenient to human nature. Let us not scrutinize it with the utmost severity, but look with some indulgence at its failings. In society, we need virtue to be more pliable. If we are too wise, we may be equally to blame. Good sense avoids all extremes, and requires us to be soberly rational. This unbending and virtuous stiffness of ancient times shocks too much the ordinary customs of our own; it requires too great perfection from us mortals; we must yield to the times without being too stubborn; it is the height of folly to busy ourselves in correcting the world. I, as well as yourself, notice a hundred things every day which might be better managed, differently enacted; but whatever I may discover at any moment, people do not see me in a rage like you. I take men quietly just as they are; I accustom my mind to bear with what they do; and I believe that at Court, as well as in the city, my phlegm is as philosophical as your bile.

Alceste. But this phlegm, good sir, you who reason so well, could it not be disturbed by anything? And if perchance a friend should betray you; if he forms a subtle plot to get hold of what is yours; if people should try to spread evil reports about you, would you tamely submit to all this without flying into a rage?

Philinte. Ay, I look upon all these faults of which you complain as vices inseparably connected with human nature; in short, my mind is no more shocked at seeing a man a rogue, unjust, or selfish, than at seeing vultures, eager for prey, mischievous apes, or fury-lashed wolves.

Alceste. What! I should see myself deceived, torn to pieces, robbed, without being . . . Zounds! I shall say no more about it; all this reasoning is beside the point!

Philinte. Upon my word, you would do well to keep silence. Rail a little less at your opponent, and attend a little more to your suit.

Alceste. That I shall not do; that is settled long ago.

Philinte. But whom then do you expect to solicit for you?

Alceste. Whom? Reason, my just right, equity.

Philinte. Shall you not pay a visit to any of the judges?

Alceste. No. Is my cause unjust or dubious?

Philinte. I am agreed on that; but you know what harm intrigues do, and . . .

Alceste. No. I am resolved not to stir a step. I am either right or wrong.

Philinte. Do not trust to that.

Alceste. I shall not budge an inch.

Philinte. Your opponent is powerful, and by his underhand work, may induce . . .

Alceste. It does not matter.

Philinte. You will make a mistake.

Alceste. Be it so. I wish to see the end of it.

Philinte. But . . .

Alceste. I shall have the satisfaction of losing my suit.

Philinte. But after all . . .

Alceste. I shall see by this trial whether men have sufficient impudence, are wicked, villainous, and perverse enough to do me this injustice in the face of the whole world.

Philinte. What a strange fellow!

Alceste. I could wish, were it to cost me ever so much, that, for the fun of the thing, I lost my case.

Philinte. But people will really laugh at you, Alceste, if they hear you go on in this fashion.

Alceste. So much the worse for those who will.

Philinte. But this rectitude, which you exact so carefully in every case, this absolute integrity in which you intrench yourself, do you perceive it in the lady you love? As for me, I am astonished that, appearing to be at war with the whole human race, you yet, notwithstanding everything that can render it odious to you, have found aught to charm your eyes. And what surprises me still more, is the strange choice your heart has made. The sincere Eliante has a liking for you, the prude Arsinoé looks with favour upon you, yet your heart does not respond to their passion; whilst you wear the chains of Célimène, who sports with you, and whose coquettish humour and malicious wit seems to accord so well with the manner of the times. How comes it that, hating these things as mortally as you do, you endure so much of them in that lady? Are they no longer faults in so sweet a charmer? Do not you perceive them, or if you do, do you excuse them?

Alceste. Not so. The love I feel for this young window does not make me blind to her faults, and, notwithstanding the great passion with which she has inspired me, I am the first to see, as well as to condemn, them. But for all this, do what I will, I confess my weakness, she has the art of pleasing me. In vain I see her faults; I may even blame them; in spite of all, she makes me love her. Her charms conquer everything, and, no doubt, my sincere love will purify her heart from the vices of our times.

Philinte. If you accomplish this,it will be no small task, Do you believe yourself beloved by her?

Alceste. Yes, certainly! I should not love her at all, did I not think so.

Philinte. But if her love for you is so apparent, how comes it that your rivals cause you so much uneasiness?

Alceste. It is because a heart, deeply smitten, claims all to itself; I come here only with the intention of telling her what, on this subject, my feelings dictate.

Philinte. Had I but to choose, her cousin Eliante would have all my love. Her heart, which values yours, is stable and sincere; and this more compatible choice would have suited you better.

Alceste. It is true; my good sense tells me so every day; but good sense does not always rule love.

Philinte. Well, I fear much for your affections; and the hope which you cherish may perhaps . . .

SCENE II.

ORONTE, ALCESTE, PHILINTE.

ORONTE (TO ALCESTE). I have been informed yonder, that Eliante and Célimène have gone out to make some purchases. But as I heard that you were here, I came to tell you, most sincerely, that I have conceived the greatest regard for you, and that, for a long time, this regard has inspired me with the most ardent wish to be reckoned among your friends. Yes; I like to do homage to merit; and I am most anxious that a bond of friendship should unite us. I suppose that a zealous friend, and of my standing, is not altogether to be rejected. (All this time Alceste has been musing, and seems not to be aware that Oronte is addressing him. He looks up only when Oronte says to him) — It is to you, if you please, that this speech is addressed.

Alceste. To me, sir?

Oronte. To you. Is it in any way offensive to you?

Alceste. Not in the least. But my surprise is very great; and I did not expect that honour.

Oronte. The regard in which I hold you ought not to astonish you, and you can claim it from the whole world.

Alceste. Sir . . .

Oronte. Our whole kingdom contains nothing above the dazzling merit which people discover in you.

Alceste. Sir . . .

Oronte. Yes; for my part, I prefer you to the most important in it.

Alceste. Sir . . .

Oronte. May Heaven strike me dead, if I lie! And, to convince you, on this very spot, of my feelings, allow me, sir, to embrace you with all my heart, and to solicit a place in your friendship. your hand, if you please. Will you promise me your friendship?

Alceste. Sir . . .

Oronte. What! you refuse me?

Alceste. Sir, you do me too much honour; but friendship is a sacred thing, and to lavish it on every occasion is surely to profane it. Judgment and choice should preside at such a compact; we ought to know more of each other before engaging ourselves; and it may happen that our dispositions are such that we may both of us repent of our bargain.

Oronte. Upon my word! that is wisely said; and I esteem you all the more for it. Let us therefore leave it to time to form such a pleasing bond; but, meanwhile I am entirely at your disposal. If you have any business at Court, every one knows how well I stand with the King; I have his private ear; and, upon my word, he treats me in everything with the utmost intimacy. In short, I am yours in every emergency; and, as you are a man of brilliant parts, and to inaugurate our charming amity, I come to read you a sonnet which I made a little while ago, and to find out whether it be good enough for publicity.

Alceste. I am not fit, sir, to decide such a matter. You will therefore excuse me.

Oronte. Why so?

Alceste. I have the failing of being a little more sincere in those things than is necessary.

Oronte. The very thing I ask; and I should have reason to complain, if, in laying myself open to you that you might give me your frank opinion, you should deceive me, and disguise anything from me.

Alceste. If that be the case, sir, I am perfectly willing.

Oronte. Sonnet . . . It is a sonnet . . .Hope . . . It is to a lady who flattered my passion with some hope. Hope . . . They are not long, pompous verses, but mild, tender and melting little lines. (At every one of these interruptions he looks at Alceste).

Alceste. We shall see.

Oronte. Hope . . . I do not know whether the style will strike you as sufficiently clear and easy and whether you will approve of my choice of words.

Alceste. We shall soon see, sir.

Oronte. Besides, you must know that I was only a quarter of an hour in composing it.

Alceste. Let us hear, sir; the time signifies nothing.

Oronte (reads).
Hope, it is true, oft gives relief,
Rocks for a while our tedious pain,
But what a poor advantage, Phillis,
When nought remains, and all is gone!

Philinte. I am already charmed with this little bit.

Alceste (softly to Philinte). What! do you mean to tell me that you like this stuff?

Oronte.
You once showed some complaisance,
But less would have sufficed,
You should not take that trouble
To give me nought but hope.

Philinte. In what pretty terms these thoughts are put!

Alceste. How now! you vile flatterer, you praise this rubbish!

Oronte.
If I must wait eternally,
My passion, driven to extremes,
Will fly to death.
Your tender cares cannot prevent this,
Fair Phillis, aye we’re in despair,
When we must hope for ever.

Philinte. The conclusion is pretty, amorous, admirable.

Alceste (softly, and aside to Philinte). A plague on the conclusion! I wish you had concluded to break your nose, you poisoner to the devil!

Philinte. I never heard verses more skilfully turned.

Alceste (softly, and aside). Zounds! . . .

Oronte (to Philinte). You flatter me; and you are under the impression perhaps . . .

Philinte. No, I am not flattering at all.

Alceste (softly, and aside). What else are you doing, you wretch?

Oronte (to Alceste). But for you, you know our agreement. Speak to me, I pray, in all sincerity.

Alceste. These matters, Sir, are always more or less delicate, and every one is fond of being praised for his wit. But I was saying one day to a certain person, who shall be nameless, when he showed me some of his verses, that a gentleman ought at all times to exercise a great control over that itch for writing which sometimes attacks us, and should keep a tight rein over the strong propensity which one has to display such amusements; and that, in the frequent anxiety to show their productions, people are frequently exposed to act a very foolish part.

Oronte. Do you wish to convey to me by this that I am wrong in desiring . . .

Alceste. I do not say that exactly. But I told him that writing without warmth becomes a bore; that there needs no other weakness to disgrace a man; that, even if people, on the other hand, had a hundred good qualities, we view them from their worst sides.

Oronte. Do you find anything to object to in my sonnet?

Alceste. I do not say that. But, to keep him from writing, I set before his eyes how, in our days, that desire had spoiled a great many very worthy people.

Oronte. Do I write badly? Am I like them in any way?

Alceste. I do not say that. But, in short, I said to him, What pressing need is there for you to rhyme, and what the deuce drives you into print? If we can pardon the sending into the world of a badly-written book, it will only be in those unfortunate men who write for their livelihood. Believe me, resist your temptations, keep these effusions from the public, and do not, how much so-ever you may be asked, forfeit the reputation which you enjoy at Court of being a man of sense and a gentleman, to take, from the hands of a greedy printer, that of a ridiculous and wretched author. That is what I tried to make him understand.

Oronte. This is all well and good, and I seem to understand you. But I should like to know what there is in my sonnet to . . .

Alceste. Candidly, you had better put it in your closet. You have been following bad models, and your expressions are not at all natural. Pray what is it — Rocks for a while our tedious pain? And what, When nought remains, and all is gone? What, You should not take that trouble to give me nought but hope? And what, Phillis, aye we’re in despair when we must hope for ever? This figurative style, that people are so vain of, is beside all good taste and truth; it is only a play upon words, sheet affectation, and it is not thus that nature speaks. The wretched taste of the age is what I dislike in this. Our forefathers, unpolished as they were, had a much better one; and I value all that is admired now-a-days far less than an old song which I am going to repeat to you:
“Had our great monarch granted me
His Paris large and fair;
And I straightway must quit for aye
The love of my true dear;
Then would I say, King Hal, I pray,
Take back your Paris fair,
I love much mo my dear, I trow,
I love much mo my dear.”
This versification is not rich, and the style is antiquated; but do you not see that it is far better than all those trumpery trifles against which good sense revolts, and that in this, passion speaks from the heart?
“Had our great monarch granted me
His Paris large and fair;
And I straightway must quit for aye
The love of my true dear;
Then would I say, King Hal, I pray,
Take back your Paris fair,
I love much mo my dear, I trow,
I love much mo my dear.”
This is what a really loving heart would say. (To Philinte, who is laughing). Yes, master wag, in spite of all your wit, I care more for this than for all the florid pomp and the tinsel which everybody is admiring now-a-days.

Oronte. And I, I maintain that my verses are very good.

Alceste. Doubtless you have your reasons for thinking them so; but you will allow me to have mine, which, with your permission, will remain independent.

Oronte. It is enough for me that others prize them.

Alceste. That is because they know how to dissemble, which I do not.

Oronte. Do you really believe that you have such a great share of wit?

Alceste. If I praised your verses, I should have more.

Oronte. I shall do very well without your approbation.

Alceste. You will have to do without it, if it be all the same.

Oronte. I should like much to see you compose some on the same subject, just to have a sample of your style.

Alceste. I might, perchance, make some as bad; but I should take good care not to show them to any one.

Oronte. You are mighty positive; and this great sufficiency . . .

Alceste. Pray, seek some one else to flatter you, and not me.

Oronte. But, my little Sir, drop this haughty tone.

Alceste. In truth, my big Sir, I shall do as I like.

Philinte (coming between them). Stop, gentlemen! that is carrying the matter too far. Cease, I pray.

Oronte. Ah! I am wrong, I confess; and I leave the field to you. I am your servant, Sir, most heartily.

Alceste. And I, Sir, am your most humble servant.

SCENE III.

PHILINTE, ALCESTE.

PHILINTE. WELL! YOU see. By being too sincere, you have got a nice affair on your hands; I saw that Oronte, in order to be flattered . . .

Alceste. Do not talk to me.

Philinte. But . . .

Alceste. No more society for me.

Philinte. Is it too much . . .

Alceste. Leave me alone.

Philinte. If I . . .

Alceste. Not another word.

Philinte. But what . . .

Alceste. I will hear no more.

Philinte. But . . .

Alceste. Again?

Philinte. People insult . . .

Alceste. Ah! zounds! this is too much. Do not dog my steps.

Philinte. You are making fun of me; I shall not leave you.

ACT II

SCENE I.

ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE.

ALCESTE. WILL YOU have me speak candidly to you, madam? Well, then, I am very much dissatisfied with your behaviour. I am very angry when I think of it; and I perceive that we shall have to break with each other. Yes; I should only deceive you were I to speak otherwise. Sooner or later a rupture is unavoidable; and if I were to promise the contrary a thousand times, I should not be able to bear this any longer.

Célimène. Oh, I see! it is to quarrel with me, that you wished to conduct me home?

Alceste. I do not quarrel. But your disposition, madam, is too ready to give any first comer an entrance into your heart. Too many admirers beset you; and my temper cannot put up with that.

Célimène. Am I to blame for having too many admirers? Can I prevent people from thinking me amiable? and am I to take a stick to drive them away, when they endeavour by tender means to visit me?

Alceste. No, madam, there is no need for a stick, but only a heart less yielding and less melting at their love-tales. I am aware that your good looks accompany you, go where you will; but your reception retains those whom your eyes attract; and that gentleness, accorded to those who surrender their arms, finishes on their hearts the sway which your charms began. The too agreeable expectation which you offer them increases their assiduities towards you; and your complacency, a little less extended, would drive away the great crowd of so many admirers. But, tell me, at least, madam, by what good fortune Clitandre has the happiness of pleasing you so mightily? Upon what basis of merit and sublime virtue do you ground the honour of your regard for him? Is it by the long nail on his little finger that he has acquired the esteem which you display for him? Are you, like all the rest of the fashionable world, fascinated by the dazzling merit of his fair wig? Do his great rolls make you love him? Do his many ribbons charm you? Is it by the attraction of his great German breeches that he has conquered your heart, whilst at the same time he pretended to be your slave? Or have his manner of smiling, and his falsetto voice, found out the secret of moving your feelings?

Célimène. How unjustly you take umbrage at him! Do not you know why I countenance him; and that he has promised to interest all his friends in my lawsuit?

Alceste. Lose your lawsuit, madam, with patience, and do not countenance a rival whom I detest.

Célimène. But you are getting jealous of the whole world.

Alceste. It is because the whole world is so kindly received by you.

Célimène. That is the very thing to calm your frightened mind, because my goodwill is diffused over all: you would have more reason to be offended if you saw me entirely occupied with one.

Alceste. But as for me, whom you accuse of too much jealousy, what have I more than any of them, madam, pray?

Célimène. The happiness of knowing that you are beloved.

Alceste. And what grounds has my love-sick heart for believing it?

Célimène. I think that, as I have taken the trouble to tell you so, such an avowal ought to satisfy you.

Alceste. But who will assure me that you may not, at the same time, say as much to everybody else perhaps?

Célimène. Certainly, for a lover, this is a pretty amorous speech, and you make me out a very nice lady. Well! to remove such a suspicion, I retract this moment everything I have said; and no one but yourself shall for the future impose upon you. Will that satisfy you?

Alceste. Zounds! why do I love you so! Ah! if ever I get heart-whole out of your hands, I shall bless Heaven for this rare good fortune. I make no secret of it; I do all that is possible to tear this unfortunate attachment from my heart; but hitherto my greatest efforts have been of no avail; and it is for my sins that I love you thus.

Célimène. It is very true that your affection for me is unequalled.

Alceste. As for that, I can challenge the whole world. My love for you cannot be conceived; and never, madam, has any man loved as I do.

Célimène. Your method, however, is entirely new, for you love people only to quarrel with them; it is in peevish expression alone that your feelings vent themselves; no one ever saw such a grumbling swain.

Alceste. But it lies with you alone to dissipate this ill-humour. For mercy’s sake let us make an end of all these bickerings; deal openly with each other, and try to put a stop . . .

SCENE II.

CÉLIMÈNE, ALCESTE, BASQUE.

CÉLIMÈNE. WHAT IS the matter?

Basque. Acaste is below.

Célimène. Very well! bid him come up.

SCENE III.

CÉLIMÈNE, ALECESTE.

ALCESTE. WHAT! CAN one never have a little private conversation with you? You are always ready to receive company; and you cannot, for a single instant, make up your mind to be “not at home.’’

Célimène. Do you wish me to quarrel with Acaste?

Alceste. You have such regard for people, which I by no means like.

Célimène. He is a man never to forgive me, if he knew that his presence could annoy me.

Alceste. And what is that to you, to inconvenience yourself so . . .

Célimène. But, good Heaven! the amity of such as he is of importance; they are a kind of people who, I do not know how, have acquired the right to be heard at Court. They take their part in every conversation; they can do you no good, but they may do you harm; and, whatever support one may find elsewhere, it will never do to be on bad terms with these very noisy gentry.

Alceste. In short, whatever people may say or do, you always find reasons to bear with every one; and your very careful judgment . . .

SCENE IV.

ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE, BASQUE.

BASQUE. CLITANDRE IS here too, madam.

Alceste. Exactly so. (Wishes to go.)

Célimène. Where are you running to?

Alceste. I am going.

Célimène. Stay.

Alceste. For what?

Célimène. Stay.

Alceste. I cannot.

Célimène. I wish it.

Alceste. I will not. These conversations only weary me; and it is too bad of you to wish me to endure them.

Célimène. I wish it, I wish it.

Alceste. No, it is impossible.

Célimène. Very well, then; go, begone; you can do as you like.

SCENE V.

ELIANTE, PHILINTE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE, ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE, BASQUE.

ELIANTE (TO CÉLIMÈNE). Here are the two marquises coming up with us. Has anyone told you?

Célimène. Yes. (to Basque). Place chairs for everyone. Basque places chairs, and goes out) (To Alceste). You are not gone?

Alceste. No; but I am determined, madam, to have you make up your mind either for them or for me.

Célimène. Hold your tongue.

Alceste. This very day you shall explain yourself.

Célimène. You are losing your senses.

Alceste. Not at all. You shall declare yourself.

Célimène. Indeed!

Alceste. You must take your stand.

Célimène. You are jesting, I believe.

Alceste. Not so. But you must choose. I have been too patient.

Clitandre. Egad! I have just come from the Louvre, where Cléonte, at the levee, made himself very ridiculous. Has he not some friend who could charitably enlighten him upon his manners?

Célimène. Truth to say, he compromises himself very much in society; everywhere he carries himself with an air that is noticed at first sight, and when after a short absence you meet him again, he is still more absurd than ever.

Acaste. Egad! Talk of absurd people, just now, one of the most tedious ones was annoying me. That reasoner, Damon, kept me, if you please, for a full hour in the broiling sun, away from my Sedan chair.

Célimène. He is a strange talker, and one who always finds the means of telling you nothing with a great flow of words. There is no sense at all in his tittle-tattle, and all that we hear is but noise.

Eliante (to Philinte). This beginning is not bad; and the conversation takes a sufficiently agreeable turn against our neighbours.

Clitandre. Timante, too, Madam, is another original.

Célimène. He is a complete mystery from top to toe, who throws upon you, in passing, a bewildered glance, and who, without having anything to do, is always busy. Whatever he utters is accompanied with grimaces; he quite oppresses people by his ceremonies. To interrupt a conversation, he has always a secret to whisper to you, and that secret turns out to be nothing. Of the merest molehill he makes a mountain, and whispers everything in your ear, even to a “good-day.’’

Acaste. And Geralde, Madam?

Célimène. That tiresome story-teller! He never comes down from his nobleman’s pedestal; he continually mixes with the best society, and never quotes any one of minor rank than a Duke, Prince, or Princess. Rank is his hobby, and his conversation is of nothing but horses, carriages, and dogs. He thee’s and thou’s persons of the highest standing, and the word Sir is quite obsolete with him.

Clitandre. It is said that he is on the best of terms with Bélise.

Célimène. Poor silly woman, and the dreariest company! When she comes to visit me, I suffer from martyrdom; one has to rack one’s brain perpetually to find out what to say to her; and the impossibility of her expressing her thoughts allows the conversation to drop every minute. In vain you try to overcome her stupid silence by the assistance of the most commonplace topics; even the fine weather, the rain, the heat and the cold are subjects, which, with her, are soon exhausted. Yet for all that, her calls, unbearable enough, are prolonged to an insufferable length; and you may consult the clock, or yawn twenty times, but she stirs no more than a log of wood.

Acaste. What think you of Adraste?

Célimène. Oh! What excessive pride! He is a man positively puffed out with conceit. His self-importance is never satisfied with the Court, against which he inveighs daily; and whenever an office, a place, or a living is bestowed on another, he is sure to think himself unjustly treated.

Clitandre. But young Cléon, whom the most respectable people go to see, what say you of him?

Célimène. That it is to his cook he owes his distinction, and to his table that people pay visits.

Eliante. He takes pains to provide the most dainty dishes.

Célimène. True; but I should be very glad if he would not dish up himself. His foolish person is a very bad dish, which, to my thinking, spoils every entertainment which he gives.

Philinte. His uncle Damis is very much esteemed; what say you to him, Madam?

Célimène. He is one of my friends.

Philinte. I think him a perfect gentleman, and sensible enough.

Célimène. True; but he pretends to too much wit, which annoys me. he is always upon stilts, and, in all his conversations, one sees him labouring to say smart things. Since he took it into his head to be clever, he is so difficult to please that nothing suits his taste. he must needs find mistakes in everything that one writes, and thinks that to bestow praise does not become a wit, that to find fault shows learning, that only fools admire and laugh, and that, by not approving of anything in the works of our time, he is superior to all other people. Even in conversations he finds something to cavil at, the subjects are too trivial for his condescension; and, with arms crossed on his breast, he looks down from the height of his intellect with pity on what everyone says.

Acaste. Drat it! his very picture.

Clitandre (to Célimène). You have an admirable knack of portraying people to the life.

Alceste. Capital, go on, my fine courtly friends. You spare no one, and everyone will have his turn. Nevertheless, let but any one of those persons appear, and we shall see you rush to meet him, offer him your hand, and, with a flattering kiss, give weight to your protestations of being his servant.

Clitandre. Why this to us? If what is said offends you, the reproach must be addressed to this lady.

Alceste. No, gadzooks! it concerns you; for your assenting smiles draw from her wit all these slanderous remarks. Her satiracal vein is incessantly recruited by the culpable incense of your flattery; and her mind would find fewer charms in raillery, if she discovered that no one applauded her. Thus it is that to flatterers we ought everywhere to impute the vices which are sown among mankind.

Philinte. But why do you take so great an interest in those people, for you would condemn the very things that are blamed in them?

Célimène. And is not this gentleman bound to contradict? Would you have him subscribe to the general opinion; and must he not everywhere display the spirit of contradiction with which Heaven has endowed him? Other people’s sentiments can never please him. He always supports a contrary idea, and he would think himself too much of the common herd, were he observed to be of any one’s opinion but his own. The honour of gainsaying has so many charms for him, that he very often takes up the cudgels against himself; he combats his own sentiments as soon as he hears them from other folks’ lips.

Alceste. In short, madam, the laughters are on your side; and you may launch your satire against me.

Philinte. But it is very true, too, that you always take up arms against everything that is said; and, that your avowed spleen cannot bear people to be praised or blamed.

Alceste. ‘Sdeath! spleen against mankind is always seasonable, because they are never in the right, and I see that, in all their dealings, they either praise impertinently, or censure rashly.

Célimène. But . . .

Alceste. No, Madam, no, though I were to die for it, you have pastimes which I cannot tolerate; and people are very wrong to nourish in your heart this great attachment to the very faults which they blame in you.

Clitandre. As for myself, I do not know; but I openly acknowledge that hitherto I have thought this lady faultless.

Acaste. I see that she is endowed with charms and attractions; but the faults which she has have not struck me.

Alceste. So much the more have they struck me; and far from appearing blind, she knows that I take care to reproach her with them. The more we love any one, the less we ought to flatter her. True love shows itself by overlooking nothing; and, were I a lady, I would banish all those mean-spirited lovers who submit to all my sentiments, and whose mild complacencies every moment offer up incense to my vagaries.

Célimène. In short, if hearts were ruled by you we ought, to love well, to relinquish all tenderness, and make it the highest aim of perfect attachment to rail heartily at the persons we love.

Eliante. Love, generally speaking, is little apt to put up with these decrees, and lovers are always observed to extol their choice. Their passion never sees aught to blame in it, and in the beloved all things become loveable. They think their faults perfections, and invent sweet terms to call them by. The pale one vies with the jessamine in fairness; another, dark enough to frighten people, becomes an adorable brunette; the lean one has a good shape and is lithe; the stout one has a portly and majestic bearing; the slattern, who has few charms, passes under the name of a careless beauty; the giantess seems a very goddess in their sight; the dwarf is an epitome of all the wonders of Heaven; the proud one has a soul worthy of diadem; the artful brims with wit; the silly one is very good-natured; the chatterbox is good-tempered; and the silent one modest and reticent. Thus a passionate swain loves even the very faults of those of whom he is enamoured.

Alceste. And I maintain that . . .

Célimène. Let us drop the subject, and take a turn or two in the gallery. What! are you going, gentlemen?
Clitandre and Acaste. No, no, Madam.

Alceste. The fear of their departure troubles you very much. Go when you like, gentlemen; but I tell you beforehand that I shall not leave until you leave.

Acaste. Unless it inconveniences this lady, I have nothing to call me elsewhere the whole day.

Clitandre. I, provided I am present when the King retires, I have no other matter to call me away.

Célimène (to Alceste). You only joke, I fancy.

Alceste. Not at all. We shall soon see whether it is me of whom you wish to get rid.

SCENE VI.

ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE, ELIANTE, ACASTE, PHILINTE, CLITANDRE, BASQUE.

BASQUE (TO ALCESTE). There is a man down stairs, sir, who wishes to speak to you on business which cannot be postponed.

Alceste. Tell him that I have no such urgent business.

Basque. He wears a jacket with large plaited skirts embroidered with gold.

Célimène (to Alceste). Go and see who it is, or else let him come in.

SCENE VII.

ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE, ELIANTE, ACASTE, PHILINTE, CLITANDRE, A GUARD OF THE MARÉCHAUSSÉE.

ALCESTE (GOING TO meet the guard). What may be your pleasure? Come in, sir.

Guard. I would have a few words privately with you, sir.

Alceste. You may speak aloud, sir, so as to let me know.

Guard. The Marshals of France, whose commands I bear, hereby summon you to appear before them immediately, sir.

Alceste. Whom? Me, sir?

Guard. Yourself.

Alceste. And for what?

Philinte (to Alceste). It is this ridiculous affair between you and Oronte.

Célimène (to Philinte). What do you mean?

Philinte. Oronte and he have been insulting each other just now about some trifling verses which he did not like; and the Marshals wish to nip the affair in the bud.

Alceste. Well, I shall never basely submit.

Philinte. But you must obey the summons: come, get ready.

Alceste. How will they settle this between us? Will the edict of these gentlemen oblige me to approve of the verses which are the cause of our quarrel? I will not retract what I have said; I think them abominable.

Philinte. But with a little milder tone . . .

Alceste. I will not abate one jot; the verses are execrable.

Philinte. You ought to show a more accommodating spirit. Come along.

Alceste. I shall go, but nothing shall induce me to retract.

Philinte. Go and show yourself.

Alceste. Unless an express order from the King himself commands me to approve of the verses which cause all this trouble, I shall ever maintain, egad, that they are bad, and that a fellow deserves hanging for making them. (To Clitandre and Acaste who are laughing). Hang it! gentlemen, I did not think I was so amusing.

Célimène. Go quickly whither you are wanted.

Alceste. I am going, Madam; but shall come back here to finish our discussion.

ACT III

SCENE I.

CLITANDRE, ACASTE.

CLITANDRE. MY DEAR marquis, you appear mightily pleased with yourself; everything amuses you, and nothing discomposes you. But really and truly, think you, without flattering yourself, that you have good reasons for appearing so joyful?

Acaste. Egad, I do not find, on looking at myself, any matter to be sorrowful about. I am wealthy, I am young, and am descended from a family which, with some appearance of truth, may be called noble; and I think that, by the rank which my lineage confers upon me, there are very few offices to which I might not aspire. As for courage, which we ought especially to value, it is well known — this without vanity — that I do not lack it; and people have seen me carry on an affair of honour in a manner sufficiently vigorous and brisk. As for wit, I have some, no doubt; and as for good taste, to judge and reason upon everything without study; at “first nights, “ of which I am very fond, to take my place as a critic upon the stage, to give my opinion as a judge, to applaud, and point out the best passages by repeated bravoes, I am sufficiently adroit; I carry myself well, and am good-looking, have particularly fine teeth, and a good figure. I believe, without flattering myself, that, as for dressing in good taste, very few will dispute the palm with me. I find myself treated with every possible consideration, very much beloved by the fair sex; and I stand very well with the King. With all that, I think, dear marquis, that one might be satisfied with oneself anywhere.

Clitandre. True But, finding so many easy conquests elsewhere, why come you here to utter fruitless sighs?

Acaste. I? Zounds! I have neither the wish nor the disposition to put up with the indifference of any woman. I leave it to awkward and ordinary people to burn constantly for cruel fair maidens, to languish at their feet, and to bear with their severities, to invoke the aid of sighs and tears, and to endeavour, by long and persistent assiduities, to obtain what is denied to their little merit. But men of my stamp, marquis, are not made to love on trust, and be at all the expenses themselves. Be the merit of the fair ever so great, I think, thank Heaven, that we have our value as well as they; that it is not reasonable to enthrall a heart like mine without its costing them anything; and that, to weigh everything in a just scale, the advances should be, at least, reciprocal.

Clitandre. Then you think that you are right enough here, marquis?

Acaste. I have some reason, marquis to think so.

Clitandre. Believe me, divest yourself of this great mistake: you flatter yourself, dear friend, and are altogether self-deceived.

Acaste. It is true. I flatter myself, and am, in fact, altogether, self-deceived.

Clitandre. But what causes you to judge your happiness to be complete?

Acaste. I flatter myself.

Clitandre. Upon what do you ground your belief?

Acaste. I am altogether self-deceived.

Clitandre. Have you any sure proofs?

Acaste. I am mistaken, I tell you.

Clitandre. Has Célimène made you any secret avowal of her inclinations?

Acaste. No, I am very badly treated by her

Clitandre. Answer me, I pray.

Acaste. I meet with nothing but rebuffs.

Clitandre. A truce to your raillery; and tell me that hope she has held out to you.

Acaste. I am the rejected, and you are the lucky one. She has a great aversion to me, and one of these days I shall have to hang myself.

Clitandre. Nonsense. Shall we two, marquis, to adjust our love affairs, make a compact together? Whenever one of us shall be able to show a certain proof of having the greater share in Célimène’s heart, the other shall leave the field free to the supposed conqueror, and by that means rid him of an obstinate rival.

Acaste. Egad! you please me with these words, and I agree to that from the bottom of my heart. But, hush.

SCENE II.

CÉLIMÈNE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE.

CÉLIMÈNE. WHAT! HERE still?

Clitandre. Love, madam, detains us.

Célimène. I hear a carriage below. Do you know whose it is?

Clitandre. No.

SCENE III.

CÉLIMÈNE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE, BASQUE.

BASQUE. ARSINOÉ, MADAM, is coming up to see you.

Célimène. What does the woman want with me?

Basque. Eliante is down stairs talking to her.

Célimène. What is she thinking about, and what brings her here?

Acaste. She has everywhere the reputation of being a consummate prude, and her fervent zeal . . .

Célimène. Psha, downright humbug. In her inmost soul she is as worldly as any; and her every nerve is strained to hook some one, without being successful, however. She can only look with envious eyes on the accepted lovers of others; and in her wretched condition, forsaken by all, she is for ever railing against the blindness of the age. She endeavours to hide the dreadful isolation of her home under a false cloak of prudishness; and to save the credit of her feeble charms, she brands as criminal the power which they lack. Yet a swain would not come at all amiss to the lady; and she has even a tender hankering after Alceste. Every attention that he pays me, she looks upon as a theft committed by me, and as an insult to her attractions; and her jealous spite, which she can hardly hide, breaks out against me at every opportunity, and in an underhand manner. In short, I never saw anything, to my fancy, so stupid. She is impertinent to the last degree . . .

SCENE IV.

ARSINOÉ, CÉLIMÈNE, CLITANDRE, ACASTE.

CÉLIMÈNE. AH! WHAT happy chance brings you here, Madam? I was really getting uneasy about you.

Arsinoé. I have come to give you some advice as a matter of duty.

Célimène. How very glad I am to see you! (Exeunt Clitandre and Acaste, laughing).

SCENE V.

ARSINOÉ, CÉLIMÈNE.

ARSINOÉ. THEY COULD not have left at a more convenient opportunity.

Célimène. Shall we sit down?

Arsinoé. It is not necessary. Friendship, Madam, must especially show itself in matters which may be of consequence to us; and as there are none of greater importance than honour and decorum, I come to prove to you, by an advice which closely touches your reputation, the friendship which I feel for you. Yesterday I was with some people of rare virtue, where the conversation turned upon you; and there, your conduct, which is causing some stir, was unfortunately, Madam, far from being commended. That crowd of people, whose visits you permit, your gallantry and the noise it makes, were criticised rather more freely and more severely than I could have wished. You can easily imagine whose part I took. I did all I could to defend you. I exonerated you, and vouched for the purity of your heart, and the honesty of your intentions. But you know there are things in life, which one cannot well defend, although one may have the greatest wish to do so; and I was at last obliged to confess that the way in which you lived did you some harm; that, in the eyes of the world, it had a doubtful look; that there was no story so ill- natured as not to be everywhere told about it; and that, if you liked, your behaviour might give less cause for censure. Not that I believe that decency is in any way outraged. Heaven forbid that I should harbour such a thought! But the world is so ready to give credit to the faintest shadow of a crime, and it is not enough to live blameless one’s self. Madam, I believe you to be too sensible not to take in good part this useful counsel, and not to ascribe it only to the inner promptings of an affection that feels an interest in your welfare.

Célimène. Madam, I have a great many thanks to return you. Such counsel lays me under an obligation; and, far from taking it amiss, I intend this very moment to repay the favour, by giving you an advice, which also touches your reputation closely; and as I see you prove yourself my friend by acquainting me with the stories that are current of me, I shall follow so nice an example, by informing you what is said of you. In a house the other day, where I paid a visit, I met some people of exemplary merit, who, while talking of the proper duties of a well spent life, turned the topic of the conversation upon you, Madam. There your prudishness and your too fervent zeal were not at all cited as a good example. This affectation of a grave demeanour, your eternal conversations on wisdom and honor, your mincings and mouthings at the slightest shadows of indecency, which an innocent though ambiguous word may convey, that lofty esteem in which you hold yourself, and those pitying glances which you cast upon all, your frequent lectures and your acrid censures on things which are pure and harmless; all this, if I may speak frankly to you, Madam, was blamed unanimously. What is the good, said they, of this modest mien and this prudent exterior, which is belied by all the rest? She says her prayers with the utmost exactness; but she beats her servants and pays them no wages. She displays great fervour in every place of devotion; but she paints and wishes to appear handsome. She covers the nudities in her pictures; but loves the reality. As for me, I undertook your defence against everyone, and positively assured them that it was nothing but scandal; but the general opinion went against me, as they came to the conclusion that you would do well to concern yourself less about the actions of others, and take a little more pains with your own; that one ought to look a long time at one’s self before thinking of condemning other people; that when we wish to correct others, we ought to add the weight of a blameless life; and that even then, it would be better to leave it to those whom Heaven has ordained for the task. Madam, I also believe you to be too sensible not to take in good part this useful counsel, and not to ascribe it only to the inner promptings of an affection that feels an interest in your welfare.

Arsinoé. To whatever we may be exposed when we reprove, I did not expect this retort, Madam, and, by its very sting, I see how my sincere advice has hurt your feelings.

Célimène. On the contrary, Madam; and, if we were reasonable, these mutual counsels would become customary. If honestly made use of, it would to a great extent destroy the excellent opinion people have of themselves. It depends entirely on you whether we shall continue this trustworthy practice with equal zeal, and whether we shall take great care to tell each other, between ourselves, what we hear, you of me, I of you.

Arsinoé. Ah! Madam, I can hear nothing said of you. It is in me that people find so much to reprove.

Célimène. Madam, it is easy, I believe, to blame or praise everything; and everyone may be right, according to their age and taste. There is a time for gallantry, there is one also for prudishness. One may out of policy take to it, when youthful attractions have faded away. It sometimes serves to hide vexatious ravages of time. I do not say that I shall not follow your example, one of these days. Those things come with old age; but twenty, as everyone well knows, is not an age to play the prude.

Arsinoé. You certainly pride yourself upon a very small advantage, and you boast terribly of your age. Whatever difference there may be between your years and mine, there is no occasion to make such a tremendous fuss about it; and I am at a loss to know, Madam, why you should get so angry, and what makes you goad me in this manner.

Célimène. And I, Madam, am at an equal loss to know why one hears you inveigh so bitterly against me everywhere. Must I always suffer for your vexations? Can I help it, if people refuse to pay you any attentions? If men will fall in love with me, and will persist in offering me each day those attentions of which your heart would wish to see me deprived, I cannot alter it, and it is not my fault. I leave you the field free, and do not prevent you from having charms to attract people.

Arsinoé. Alas! and do you think that I would trouble myself about this crowd of lovers of which you are so vain, and that it is not very easy to judge at what price they may be attracted now-a-days? Do you wish to make it be believed, that, judging by what is going on, your merit alone attracts this crowd; that their affection for you is strictly honest, and that it is for nothing but your virtue that they all pay you their court? People are not blinded by those empty pretences; the world is not duped in that way; and I see many ladies who are capable of inspiring a tender feeling, yet who do not succeed in attracting a crowd of beaux; and from that fact we may draw our conclusion that those conquests are not altogether made without some great advances; that no one cares to sigh for us, for our handsome looks only; and that the attentions bestowed on us are generally dearly bought. Do not therefore pull yourself up with vain- glory about the trifling advantages of a poor victory; and moderate slightly the pride on your good looks, instead of looking down upon people on account of them. If I were at all envious about your conquests, I dare say, that I might manage like other people; be under no restraint, and thus show plainly that one may have lovers, when one wishes for them.

Célimène. Do have some then, Madam, and let us see you try it; endeavour to please by this extraordinary secret; and without . . .

Arsinoé. Let us break off this conversation, madam, it might excite too much both your temper and mine; and I would have already taken my leave, had I not been obliged to wait for my carriage.

Célimène. Please stay as long as you like, and do not hurry yourself on that account, madam. But instead of wearying you any longer with my presence, I am going to give you some more pleasant company. This gentleman, who comes very opportunely, will better supply my place in entertaining you.

SCENE VI.

ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE, ARSINOÉ.

CÉLIMÈNE. ALCESTE, I have to write a few lines, which I cannot well delay. Please to stay with this lady; she will all the more easily excuse my rudeness.

SCENE VII.

ALCESTE, ARSINOÉ.

ARSINOÉ. YOU SEE, I am left here to entertain you, until my coach comes round. She could have devised no more charming treat for me, than such a conversation. Indeed, people of exceptional merit attract the esteem and love of every one; and yours has undoubtedly some secret charm, which makes me feel interested in all your doings. I could wish that the Court, with a real regard to your merits would do more justice to your deserts. You have reason to complain; and it vexes me to see that day by day nothing is done for you.

Alceste. For me, Madam? And by what right could I pretend to anything? What service have I rendered to the State? Pray, what have I done, so brilliant in itself, to complain of the Court doing nothing for me?

Arsinoé. Not everyone whom the State delights to honour, has rendered signal services; there must be an opportunity as well as the power; and the abilities which you allow us to perceive, ought . . .

Alceste. For Heaven’s sake, let us have no more of my abilities, I pray. What would you have the Court to do? It would have enough to do, and have its hands full, to discover the merits of people.

Arsinoé. Sterling merit discovers itself. A great deal is made of yours in certain places; and let me tell you that, not later than yesterday, you were highly spoken of in two distinguished circles, by people of very great standing.

Alceste. As for that, Madam, everyone is praised now-a-days, and very little discrimination is shown in our times. Everything is equally endowed with great merit, so that it is no longer an honour to be lauded. Praises abound, they throw them at one’s head, and even my valet is put in the gazette.

Arsinoé. As for me, I could wish that, to bring yourself into greater notice, some place at Court might tempt you. If you will only give me a hint that you seriously think about it, a great many engines might be set in motion to serve you; and I know some people whom I could employ for you, and who would manage the matter smoothly enough.

Alceste. And what should I do when I got there, Madam? My disposition rather prompts me to keep away from it. Heaven, when ushering me into the world, did not give me a mind suited for the atmosphere of a Court. I have not the qualifications necessary for success, nor for making my fortune there. To be open and candid is my chief talent; I possess not the art of deceiving people in conversation; and he who has not the gift of concealing his thoughts, ought not to stay long in those places. When not at Court, one has not, doubtless, that standing, and the advantage of those honourable titles which it bestows now-a-days; but, on the other hand, one has not the vexation of playing the silly fool. One has not to bear a thousand galling rebuffs; one is not, as it were, forced to praise the verses of mister so-and-so, to laud Madam such and such, and to put up with the whims of some ingenious marquis.

Arsinoé. Since you wish it, let us drop the subject of the Court: but I cannot help grieving for your amours; and, to tell you my opinions candidly on that head, I could heartily wish your affections better bestowed. You certainly deserve a much happier fate, and she who has fascinated you is unworthy of you.

Alceste. But in saying so, Madam, remember, I pray, that this lady is your friend.

Arsinoé. True. But really my conscience revolts at the thought of suffering any longer the wrong that is done to you. The position in which I see you afflicts my very soul, and I caution you that your affections are betrayed.

Alceste. This is certainly showing me a deal of good feeling, Madam, and such information is very welcome to a lover.

Arsinoé. Yes, for all Célimène is my friend, I do not hesitate to call her unworthy of possessing the heart of a man of honour; and hers only pretends to respond to yours.

Alceste. That is very possible, Madam, one cannot look into the heart; but your charitable feelings might well have refrained from awakening such a suspicion as mine.

Arsinoé. Nothing is easier than to say no more about it, if you do not wish to be undeceived.

Alceste. Just so. But whatever may be openly said on this subject is not half so annoying as hints thrown out; and I for one would prefer to be plainly told that only which could be clearly proved.

Arsinoé. Very well! and that is sufficient; I can fully enlighten you upon this subject. I will have you believe nothing but what your own eyes see. Only have the kindness to escort me as far as my house; and I will give you undeniable proof of the faithlessness of your fair one’s heart; and if, after that, you can find charms in anyone else, we will perhaps find you some consolation.

ACT IV

SCENE I.

ELIANTE, PHILINTE

PHILINTE. NO, NEVER have I seen so obstinate a mind, nor a reconciliation more difficult to effect. In vain was Alceste tried on all sides; he would still maintain his opinion; and never, I believe, has a more curious dispute engaged the attention of those gentlemen. “No, gentlemen, “ exclaimed he, “I will not retract, and I shall agree with you on every point, except on this one. At what is Oronte offended? and with what does he reproach me? Does it reflect upon his honour that he cannot write well? What is my opinion to him, which he has altogether wrongly construed? One may be a perfect gentleman, and write bad verses; those things have nothing to do with honour. I take him to be a gallant man in every way; a man of standing, of merit, and courage, anything you like, but he is a wretched author. I shall praise, if you wish, his mode of living, his lavishness, his skill in riding, in fencing, in dancing; but as to praising his verses, I am his humble servant; and if one has not the gift of composing better, one ought to leave off rhyming altogether, unless condemned to it on forfeit of one’s life. “ In short, all the modification they could with difficulty obtain from him, was to say, in what he thought a much gentler tone— “I am sorry, Sir, to be so difficult to please; and out of regard to you, I could wish, with all my heart, to have found your sonnet a little better. “ And they compelled them to settle this dispute quickly with an embrace.

Eliante. He is very eccentric in his doings; but I must confess that I think a great deal of him; and the candour upon which he prides himself has something noble and heroic in it. It is a rare virtue now-a- days, and I, for one, should not be sorry to meet with it everywhere.

Philinte. As for me, the more I see of him, the more I am amazed at that passion to which his whole heart is given up. I cannot conceive how, with a disposition like his, he has taken it into his head to love at all; and still less can I understand how your cousin happens to be the person to whom his feelings are inclined.

Eliante. That shows that love is not always produced by compatibility of temper; and in this case, all the pretty theories of gentle sympathies are belied.

Philinte. But do you think him beloved in return, to judge from what we see?

Eliante. That is a point not easily decided. How can we judge whether it be true she loves? Her own heart is not so very sure of what it feels. It sometimes loves, without being quite aware of it, and at other times thinks it does, without the least grounds.

Philinte. I think that our friend will have more trouble with this cousin of yours than he imagines; and to tell you the truth, if he were of my mind, he would bestow his affections elsewhere; and by a better choice, we should see him, Madam, profit by the kind feelings which your heart evinces for him.

Eliante. As for me, I do not mince matters, and I think that in such cases we ought to act with sincerity. I do not run counter to his tender feelings; on the contrary, I feel interested in them; and, if it depended only on me, I would unite him to the object of his love. But if, as it may happen in love affairs, his affections should receive a check, and if Célimène should respond to the love of any one else, I could easily be prevailed upon to listen to his addresses, and I should have no repugnance whatever to them on account of their rebuff elsewhere.

Philinte. Nor do I, from my side, oppose myself, Madam, to the tender feelings which you entertain for him; and he himself, if he wished, could inform you what I have taken care to say to him on that score. But if, by the union of those two, you should be prevented from accepting his attentions, all mine would endeavour to gain that great favour which your kind feelings offer to him; only too happy, Madam, to have them transferred to myself, if his heart could not respond to yours.

Eliante. You are in the humour to jest, Philinte.

Philinte. Not so, Madam, I am speaking my inmost feelings. I only wait the opportune moment to offer myself openly, and am wishing most anxiously to hurry its advent.

SCENE II.

ALCESTE, ELIANTE, PHILINTE.

ALCESTE. AH, MADAM! obtain me justice, for an offence which triumphs over all my constancy.

Eliante. What ails you? What disturbs you?

Alceste. This much ails me, that it is death to me to think of it; and the upheaving of all creation would less overwhelm me than this accident. It is all over with me . . . My love . . . I cannot speak.

Eliante. Just endeavour to be composed.

Alceste. Oh, just Heaven; can the odious vices of the basest minds be joined to such beauty?

Eliante. But, once more, what can have . . .

Alceste. Alas! All is ruined! I am! I am betrayed! I am stricken to death! Célimène . . . would you credit it! Célimène deceives me and is faithless.

Eliante. Have you just grounds for believing so?

Philinte. Perhaps it is a suspicion, rashly conceived; and your jealous temper often harbours fancies . . .

Alceste. Ah! ‘Sdeath, please to mind your own business, Sir. (To Eliante). Her treachery is but too certain, for I have in my pocket a letter in her own handwriting. Yes, Madam, a letter, intended for Oronte, has placed before my eyes my disgrace and her shame; Oronte, whose addresses I believed she avoided, and whom, of all my rivals, I feared the least.

Philinte. A letter may deceive by appearances, and is sometimes not so culpable as may be thought.

Alceste. Once more, sir, leave me alone, if you please, and trouble yourself only about your own concerns.

Eliante. You should moderate your passion; and the insult . . .

Alceste. You must be left to do that, Madam; it is to you that my heart has recourse to-day to free itself from this goading pain. Avenge me on an ungrateful and perfidious relative who basely deceives such constant tenderness. Avenge me for an act that ought to fill you with horror.

Eliante. I avenge you? How?

Alceste. By accepting my heart. Take it, Madam, instead of the false one; it is in this way that I can avenge myself upon her; and I shall punish her by the sincere attachment, and the profound love, the respectful cares, the eager devotions, the ceaseless attentions which this heart will henceforth offer up at your shrine.

Eliante. I certainly sympathize with you in your sufferings, and do not despise your proffered heart; but the wrong done may not be so great as you think, and you might wish to forego this desire for revenge. When the injury proceeds from a beloved object, we form many designs which we never execute; we may find as powerful a reason as we like to break off the connection, the guilty charmer is soon again innocent; all the harm we wish her quickly vanishes, and we know what a lover’s anger means.

Alceste. No, no, Madam, no. The offence is too cruel; there will be no relenting, and I have done with her. Nothing shall change the resolution I have taken, and I should hate myself for ever loving her again.
Here she comes. My anger increases at her approach. I shall taunt her with her black guilt, completely put her to the blush, and, after that, bring you a heart wholly freed from her deceitful attractions.

SCENE III.

CÉLIMÈNE, ALCESTE.

ALCESTE (ASIDE). GRANT, Heaven, that I may control my temper.

Célimène (aside). Ah! (To Alceste). What is all this trouble that I see you in, and what means those long- drawn sighs, and those black looks which you cast at me?

Alceste. That all the wickedness of a heart that is capable is not to be compared to your perfidy; that neither fate, hell, nor Heaven in its wrath, ever produced anything so wicked as you are.

Célimène. These are certainly pretty compliments, which I admire very much.

Alceste. Do not jest. This is no time for laughing. Blush rather, you have cause to do so; and I have undeniable proofs of your treachery. This is what the agitations of my mind prognosticated; it was not without cause that my love took alarm; by these frequent suspicions, which were hateful to you, I was trying to discover the misfortune which my eyes have beheld; and in spite of all your care and your skill in dissembling, my star foretold me what I had to fear. But do not imagine that I will bear unavenged this slight of being insulted. I know that we have no command over our inclinations, that love will everywhere spring up spontaneously, that there is no entering a heart by force, and that every soul is free to name its conqueror: I should thus have no reason to complain if you had spoken to me without dissembling, and rejected my advances from the very beginning; my heart would then have been justified in blaming fortune alone. But to see my love encouraged by a deceitful avowal on your part, is an action so treacherous and perfidious, that it cannot meet with too great a punishment; and I can allow my resentment to do anything. Yes, yes; after such an outrage, fear everything; I am no longer myself, I am mad with rage. My senses, struck by the deadly blow with which you kill me, are no longer governed by reason; I give way to the outbursts of a just wrath, and am no longer responsible for what I may do.

Célimène. Whence comes, I pray, such a passion? Speak! Have you lost your senses?

Alceste. Yes, yes, I lost them when, to my misfortune, I beheld you, and thus took the poison which kills me, and when I thought to meet with some sincerity in those treacherous charms that bewitched me.

Célimène. Of what treachery have you to complain?

Alceste. Ah! how double-faced she is! how well she knows how to dissemble! But I am fully prepared with the means of driving her to extremities. Cast your eyes here and recognize your writing. This picked- up note is sufficient to confound you, and such proof cannot easily be refuted.

Célimène. And this is the cause of your perturbation of spirits?

Alceste. You do not blush on beholding this writing!

Célimène. And why should I blush?

Alceste. What! You add boldness to craft! Will you disown this note because it bears no name?

Célimène. Why should I disown it, since I wrote it.

Alceste. And you can look at it without becoming confused at the crime of which its style accuses you!

Célimène. You are, in truth, a very eccentric man.

Alceste. What! you thus out-brave this convincing proof! And the contents so full of tenderness for Oronte, need have nothing in them to outrage me, or to shame you?

Célimène. Oronte! Who told you that this letter is for him?

Alceste. The people who put it into my hands this day. But I will even suppose that is for some one else. Has my heart any less cause to complain of yours? Will you, in fact, be less guilty toward me?

Célimène. But if it is a woman to whom this letter is addressed, how can it hurt you, or what is there culpable in it?

Alceste. Hem! The prevarication is ingenious, and the excuse excellent. I must own that I did not expect this turn; and nothing but that was wanting to convince me. Do you dare to have recourse to such palpable tricks? Do you think people entirely destitute of common sense? Come, let us see a little by what subterfuge, with what air, you will support so palpable a falsehood; and how you can apply to a woman every word of this note which evinces so much tenderness! Reconcile, if you can, to hide your deceit, what I am about to read . . . .

Célimène. It does not suit me to do so. I think it ridiculous that you should take so much upon yourself, and tell me to my face what you have the daring to say to me!

Alceste. No, no, without flying into a rage, take a little trouble to explain these terms.

Célimène. No, I shall do nothing of the kind, and it matters very little to me what you think upon the subject.

Alceste. I pray you, show me, and I shall be satisfied, if this letter can be explained as meant for a woman.

Célimène. Not at all. It is for Oronte; and I will have you believe it. I accept all his attentions gladly; I admire what he says, I like him, and I shall agree to whatever you please. Do as you like, and act as you think proper; let nothing hinder you and do not harass me any longer.

Alceste (aside). Heavens! can anything more cruel be conceived, and was ever heart treated like mine? What! I am justly angry with her, I come to complain, and I am quarreled with instead! My grief and my suspicions are excited to the utmost, I am allowed to believe everything, she boasts of everything; and yet, my heart is still sufficiently mean not to be able to break the bonds that hold it fast, and not to arm itself with a generous contempt for the ungrateful object of which it is too much enamoured. (To Célimène). Perfidious woman, you know well how to take advantage of my great weakness, and to employ for your own purpose that excessive, astonishing, and fatal love which your treacherous looks have inspired! Defend yourself at least from this crime that overwhelms me, and stop pretending to be guilty. Show me, if you can, that this letter is innocent; my affection will even consent to assist you. At any rate, endeavour to appear faithful, and I shall strive to believe you such.

Célimène. Bah, you are mad with your jealous frenzies, and do not deserve the love which I have for you. I should much like to know what could compel me to stoop for you to the baseness of dissembling; and why, if my heart were disposed towards another, I should not say so candidly. What! does the kind assurance of my sentiments towards you not defend me sufficiently against all your suspicions? Ought they to possess any weight at all with such a guarantee? Is it not insulting me even to listen to them? And since it is with the utmost difficulty that we can resolve to confess our love, since the strict honour of our sex, hostile to our passion, strongly opposes such a confession, ought a lover who sees such an obstacle overcome for his sake, doubt with impunity our avowal? And is he not greatly to blame in not assuring himself of the truth of that which is never said but after a severe struggle with oneself? Begone, such suspicions deserve my anger, and you are not worthy of being cared for. I am silly, and am vexed at my own simplicity in still preserving the least kindness for you. I ought to place my affections elsewhere, and give you a just cause for complaint.

Alceste. Ah! you traitress! mine is a strange infatuation for you; those tender expressions are, no doubt, meant only to deceive me. But it matters little, I must submit to my fate; my very soul is wrapt up in you; I will see to the bitter end how your heart will act towards me, and whether it will be black enough to deceive me.

Célimène. No, you do not love me as you ought to love.

Alceste. Indeed! Nothing is to be compared to my exceeding love; and, in its eagerness to show itself to the whole world, it goes even so far as to form wishes against you. Yes, I could wish that no one thought you handsome, that you were reduced to a miserable existence; that Heaven, at your birth, had bestowed upon you nothing; that you had no rank, no nobility, no wealth, so that I might openly proffer my heart, and thus make amends to you for the injustice of such a lot; and that, this very day, I might have the joy and the glory of seeing you owe everything to my love.

Célimène. This is wishing me well in a strange way! Heaven grant that you may never have occasion . . . But here comes Monsieur Dubois curiously decked out.

SCENE IV.

CÉLIMÈNE, ALCESTE, DUBOIS.

ALCESTE. WHAT MEANS this strange attire, and that frightened look? What ails you

Dubois. Sir . . .

Alceste. Well?

Dubois. The most mysterious event.

Alceste. What is it?

Dubois. Our affairs are turning out badly, Sir.

Alceste. What?

Dubois. Shall I speak out?

Alceste. Yes, do, and quickly.

Dubois. Is there no one there?

Alceste. Curse your trifling! Will you speak?

Dubois. Sir, we must beat a retreat.

Alceste. What do you mean?

Dubois. We must steal away from this quietly.

Alceste. And why?

Dubois. I tell you that we must leave this place.

Alceste. The reason?

Dubois. You must go, Sir, without staying to take leave.

Alceste. But what is the meaning of this strain?

Dubois. The meaning is, Sir, that you must make yourself scarce.

Alceste. I shall knock you on the head to a certainty, booby, if you do not explain yourself more clearly.

Dubois. A fellow, Sir, with a black dress, and as black a look, got as far as the kitchen to leave a paper with us, scribbled over in such a fashion that old Nick himself could not have read it. It is about your law-suit, I make no doubt; but the very devil, I believe, could not make head nor tail of it.

Alceste. Well! what then? What has the paper to do with the going away of which you speak, you scoundrel?

Dubois. I must tell you, Sir, that, about an hour afterwards, a gentleman who often calls, came to ask for you quite eagerly, and not finding you at home, quietly told me, knowing how attached I am to you, to let you know . . . Stop a moment, what the deuce is his name?

Alceste. Never mind his name, you scoundrel, and tell me what he told you.

Dubois. He is one of your friends, in short, that is sufficient. He told me that for your very life you must get away from this, and that you are threatened with arrest.

Alceste. But how! has he not specified anything?

Dubois. No He asked me for ink and paper, and has sent you a line from which you can, I think, fathom the mystery!

Alceste. Hand it over then.

Célimène. What can all this mean?

Alceste. I do not know; but I am anxious to be informed. Have you almost done, devil take you?

Dubois (after having fumbled for some time for the note). After all, Sir, I have left it on your table.

Alceste. I do not know what keeps me from . . .

Célimène. Do not put yourself in a passion, but go and unravel this perplexing business.

Alceste. It seems that fate, whatever I may do has sworn to prevent my having a conversation with you. But, to get the better of her, allow me to see you again, Madam, before the end of the day.

ACT V

SCENE I.

ALCESTE, PHILINTE.

ALCESTE. I TELL you, my mind is made up about it.

Philinte. But, whatever this blow may be, does it compel you . . .

Alceste. You may talk and argue till doomsday if you like, nothing can avert me from what I have said. The age we live in is too perverse, and I am determined to withdraw altogether from intercourse with the world. What! when honour, probity, decency, and the laws, are all against my adversary; when the equity of my claim is everywhere cried up; when my mind is at rest as to the justice of my cause, I meanwhile see myself betrayed by its issue! What! I have got justice on my side, and I lose my case! A wretch, whose scandalous history is well known, comes off triumphant by the blackest falsehood! All good faith yields to his treachery! He finds the means of being in the right, whilst cutting my throat! The weight of his dissimulation, so full of cunning, overthrows the right and turns the scales of justice! He obtains even a decree of court to crown his villainy. And, not content with the wrong he is doing me, there is abroad in society an abominable book, of which the very reading is to be condemned, a book that deserves the utmost severity, and of which the scoundrel has the impudence to proclaim me the author. Upon this, Oronte is observed to mutter, and tries wickedly to support the imposture! He, who holds an honourable position at Court, to whom I have done nothing except having been sincere and candid, who came to ask me in spite of myself of my opinion of some of his verses; and because I treat him honestly, and will not betray either him or truth, he assists in overwhelming me with a trumped-up crime. Behold him now my greatest enemy! And I shall never obtain his sincere forgiveness, because I did not think that his sonnet was good! ‘Sdeath! to think that mankind is made thus! The thirst for fame induces them to do such things! This is the good faith, the virtuous zeal, the justice and the honour to be found amongst them! Let us begone; it is too much to endure the vexations they are devising; let us get out of this wood, this cut-throat hole; and since men behave towards each other like real wolves, wretches, you shall never see me again as long as I live.

Philinte. I think you are acting somewhat hastily; and the harm done is not so great as you would make it out. Whatever your adversary dares to impute to you has not had the effect of causing you to be arrested. We see his false reports defeating themselves, and this action is likely to hurt him much more than you.

Alceste. Him? he does not mind the scandal of such tricks as these. He has a license to be an errant knave; and this event, far from damaging his position, will obtain him a still better standing to-morrow.

Philinte. In short, it is certain that little notice has been taken of the report which his malice spread against you; from that side you have already nothing to fear; and as for your law-suit, of which you certainly have reason to complain, it is easy for you to bring the trial on afresh, and against this decision . . .

Alceste. No, I shall leave it as it is. Whatever cruel wrong this verdict may inflict, I shall take particular care not to have it set aside. We see too plainly how right is maltreated in it, and I wish to go down to posterity as a signal proof, as a notorious testimony of the wickedness of the men of our age. It may indeed cost me twenty thousand francs, but at the cost of twenty thousand francs I shall have the right of railing against the iniquity of human nature, and of nourishing an undying hatred of it.

Philinte. But after all . . .

Alceste. But after all, your pains are thrown away. What can you, sir, say upon this head? Would you have the assurance to wish, to my face, to excuse the villainy of all that is happening?

Philinte. No, I agree with you in all that you say. Everything goes by intrigue, and by pure influence. It is only trickery which carries the day in our time, and men ought to act differently. But is their want of equity a reason for wishing to withdraw from their society? All human failings give us, in life, the means of exercising our philosophy. It is the best employment for virtue; and if probity reigned everywhere, if all hearts were candid, just, and tractable, most of our virtues would be useless to us, inasmuch as their functions are to bear, without annoyance, the injustice of others in our good cause; and just in the same way as a heart full of virtue . . .

Alceste. I know that you are a most fluent speaker, sir; that you always abound in fine arguments; but you are wasting your time, and all your fine speeches. Reason tells me to retire for my own good. I cannot command my tongue sufficiently; I cannot answer for what I might say, and should very probably get myself into a hundred scrapes. Allow me, without any more words, to wait for Célimène. She must consent to the plan that brings me here. I shall see whether her heart has any love for me; and this very hour will prove it to me.

Philinte. Let us go upstairs to Eliante, and wait her coming.

Alceste. No, my mind is too harassed. You go and see her, and leave me in this little dark corner with my black care.

Philinte. That is strange company to leave you in; I will induce Eliante to come down.

SCENE II.

CÉLIMÈNE, ORONTE, ALCESTE.

ORONTE. YES, MADAM, it remains for you to consider whether, by ties so dear, you will make me wholly yours, I must be absolutely certain of your affection: a lover dislikes to be held in suspense upon such a subject. If the ardour of my affection has been able to move your feelings, you ought not to hesitate to let me see it; and the proof, after all, which I ask of you, is not to allow Alceste to wait upon you any longer; to sacrifice him to my love, and, in short, to banish him from your house this very day.

Célimène. But why are you so incensed against him; you, whom I have so often heard speak of his merits?

Oronte. There is no need, Madam, of these explanations; the question is, what are your feelings? Please to choose between the one or the other; my resolution depends entirely upon yours.

Alceste (coming out of his corner). Yes, this gentleman is right, Madam, you must make a choice; and his request agrees perfectly with mine. I am equally eager, and the same anxiety brings me here. My love requires a sure proof. Things cannot go on any longer in this way, and the moment has arrived for explaining your feelings.

Oronte. I have no wish, Sir, in any way to disturb, by an untimely affection, your good fortune.

Alceste. And I have no wish, Sir, jealous or not jealous, to share aught in her heart with you.

Oronte. If she prefers your affection to mine . . .

Alceste. If she has the slightest inclination towards you . . .

Oronte. I swear henceforth not to pretend to it again.

Alceste. I peremptorily swear never to see her again.

Oronte. Madam, it remains with you now to speak openly.

Alceste. Madam, you can explain yourself fearlessly.

Oronte. You have simply to tell us where your feelings are engaged.

Alceste. You may simply finish the matter, by choosing between us two.

Oronte. What! you seem to be at a loss to make such a choice.

Alceste. What! your heart still wavers, and appears uncertain!

Célimène. Good Heavens, how out of place is this persistence, and how very unreasonable you both show yourselves! It is not that I do not know whom to prefer, nor is it my heart that wavers. It is not at all in doubt between you two; and nothing could be more quickly accomplished than the choice of my affections. But to tell the truth, I feel too confused to pronounce such an avowal before you; I think that disobliging words ought not to be spoken in people’s presence; that a heart can give sufficient proof of its attachment without going so far as to break with everyone; and gentler intimations suffice to inform a lover of the ill success of his suit.

Oronte. No, no, I do not fear a frank avowal; for my part I consent to it.

Alceste. And I demand it; it is just its very publicity that I claim, and I do not wish you to spare my feelings in the least. Your great study has always been to keep friends with everyone; but no more trifling, no more uncertainty. You must explain yourself clearly, or I shall take your refusal as a verdict; I shall know, for my part, how to interpret your silence, and shall consider it as a confirmation of the worst.

Oronte. I owe you many thanks, sir, for this wrath, and I say in every respect as you do.

Célimène. How you weary me with such a whim! Is there any justice in what you ask? And have I not told you what motive prevents me? I will be judged by Eliante, who is just coming.

SCENE III.

ELIANTE, PHILINTE, CÉLIMÈNE, ORONTE, ALCESTE.

CÉLIMÈNE. GOOD COUSIN, I am being persecuted here by people who have concerted to do so. They both demand, with the same warmth, that I should declare whom my heart has chosen, and that, by a decision which I must give before their very faces, I should forbid one of them to tease me any more with his attentions. Say, has ever such a thing been done?

Éliante. Pray, do not consult me upon such a matter. You may perhaps address yourself to a wrong person, for I am decidedly for people who speak their mind.

Oronte. Madam, it is useless for you to decline.

Alceste. All your evasions here will be badly supported.

Oronte. You must speak, you must, and no longer waver.

Alceste. You need do no more than remain silent.

Oronte. I desire but one word to end our discussions.

Alceste. To me your silence will convey as much as speech.

SCENE IV.

ARSINOÉ, CÉLIMÈNE, ELIANTE, ALCESTE, PHILINTE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE, ORONTE.

ACASTE (TO CÉLIMÈNE). We have both come, by your leave, Madam, to clear up a certain little matter with you.

Clitandre (to oronte and alceste). Your presence happens fortunately, gentlemen; for this affair concerns you also.

Arsinoé (to Célimène). No doubt you are surprised at seeing me here, Madam; but these gentlemen are the cause of my intrusion. They both came to see me, and complained of a proceeding which I could not have credited. I have too high an opinion of your kindness of heart ever to believe you capable of such a crime; my eyes even have refused to give credence to their strongest proofs, and in my friendship, forgetting trivial disagreements, I have been induced to accompany them here, to hear you refute this slander.

Acaste. Yes, Madam, let us see, with composure, how you will manage to bear this out. This letter has been written by you, to Clitandre.

Clitandre. And this tender epistle you have addressed to Acaste.

Acaste (to Oronte and Alceste). This writing is not altogether unknown to you, gentlemen, and I have no doubt that her kindness has before now made you familiar with her hand. But this is well worth the trouble of reading.
“You are a strange man to condemn my liveliness of spirits, and to reproach me that I am never so merry as when I am not with you. Nothing could be more unjust; and if you do not come very soon to ask my pardon for this offence, I shall never forgive you as long as I live. Our great hulking booby of a Viscount. “ He ought to have been here. “Our great hulking booby of a Viscount, with whom you begin your complaints, is a man who would not at all suit me; and ever since I watched him for full three-quarters of an hour spitting in a well to make circles in the water, I never could have a good opinion of him. As for the little Marquis . . . “ that is myself, ladies and gentlemen, be it said without the slightest vanity, . . . “as for the little Marquis, who held my hand yesterday for a long while, I think that there is nothing so diminutive as his whole person, and his sole merit consists in his cloak and sword. As to the man with the green shoulder knot. “ (To Alceste). It is your turn now, Sir. “As to the man with the green shoulder knot, he amuses me sometimes with his bluntness and his splenetic behaviour; but there are hundreds of times when I think him the greatest bore in the world. Respecting the man with the big waistcoat . . . “ (To oronte). This is your share. “Respecting the man with the big waistcoat, who has thought fit to set up as a wit, and wishes to be an author in spite of everyone, I cannot even take the trouble to listen to what he says; and his prose bores me just as much as his poetry. Take it for granted that I do not always enjoy myself so much as you think; and that I wish for you, more than I care to say, amongst all the entertainments to which I am dragged; and that the presence of those we love is an excellent relish to our pleasures.’’

Clitandre. Now for myself.
“Your Clitandre, whom you mention to me, and who has always such a quantity of soft expressions at his command, is the last man for whom I could feel any affection. He must be crazed in persuading himself that I love him; and you are so too in believing that I do not love you. You had better change your fancies for his, and come and see me as often as you can, to help me in bearing the annoyance of being pestered by him. “ This shows the model of a lovely character, Madam; and I need not tell you what to call it. It is enough. We shall, both of us, show this admirable sketch of your heart everywhere and to everybody.

Acaste. I might also say something, and the subject is tempting; but I deem you beneath my anger; and I will show you that little marquises can find worthier hearts than yours to console themselves.

SCENE V.

CÉLIMÈNE, ELIANTE, ARSINOÉ, ALCESTE, ORONTE, PHILINTE.

ORONTE. WHAT! AM I to be pulled to pieces in this fashion, after all that you have written to me? And does your heart, with all its semblance of love, plight its faith to all mankind by turns! Bah, I have been too great a dupe, but I shall be so no longer. You have done me a service, in showing yourself in your true colours to me. I am the richer by a heart which you thus restore to me, and find my revenge in your loss. (To Alceste.) Sir, I shall no longer be an obstacle to your flame, and you may settle matters with this lady as soon as you please.

SCENE VI.

CÉLIMÈNE, ELIANTE, ARSINOÉ, ALCESTE, PHILINTE.

ARSINOÉ (TO CÉLIMÈNE). This is certainly one of the basest actions which I have ever seen; I can no longer be silent, and feel quite upset. Has any one ever seen the like of it? I do not concern myself much in the affairs of other people, but this gentleman (pointing to Alceste), who has staked the whole of his happiness on you, an honourable and deserving man like this, and who worshipped you to madness, ought he to have been . . .

Alceste. Leave me, I pray you, madam, to manage my own affairs; and do not trouble yourself unnecessarily. In vain do I see you espouse my quarrel. I am unable to repay you for this great zeal; and if ever I intended to avenge myself by choosing some one else it would not be you whom I would select.

Arsinoé. And do you imagine, sir, that I ever harboured such a thought, and that I am so very anxious to secure you? You must be very vain, indeed, to flatter yourself with such an idea.
Célimène’s leavings are a commodity, of which no one needs be so very much enamoured. Pray, undeceive yourself, and do not carry matters with so high a hand. People like me are not for such as you. You will do much better to remain dangling after her skirts, and I long to see so beautiful a match.

SCENE VII.

CÉLIMÈNE, ELIANTE, ALCESTE, PHILINTE.

ALCESTE (TO CÉLIMÈNE). Well! I have held my tongue, notwithstanding all I have seen, and I have let everyone have his say before me. Have I controlled myself long enough? and will you now allow me . . .

Célimène. Yes, you may say what you like; you are justified when you complain, and you may reproach me with anything you please. I confess that I am in the wrong; and overwhelmed by confusion I do not seek by any idle excuse to palliate my fault. The anger of the others I have despised; but I admit my guilt towards you. No doubt, your resentment is just; I know how culpable I must appear to you, that everything speaks of my treachery to you, and that, in short, you have cause to hate me. Do so, I consent to it.

Alceste. But can I do so, you traitress? Can I thus get the better of all my tenderness for you? And although I wish to hate you with all my soul, shall I find a heart quite ready to obey me. (To Eliante and Philinte.) You see what an unworthy passion can do, and I call you both as witnesses of my infatuation. Nor, truth to say, is this all, and you will see me carry it out to the bitter end, to show you that it is wrong to call us wise, and that in all hearts there remains still something of the man. (To Célimène.) Yes, perfidious creature, I am willing to forget your crimes. I can find, in my own heart, an excuse for all your doings, and hide them under the name of a weakness into which the vices of the age betrayed your youth, provided your heart will second the design which I have formed of avoiding all human creatures, and that you are determined to follow me without delay into the solitude in which I have made a vow to pass my days. It is by that only, that, in everyone’s opinion, you can repair the harm done by your letters, and that, after the scandal which every noble heart must abhor, it may still be possible for me to love you.

Célimène. What! I renounce the world before I grow old, and bury myself in your wilderness!

Alceste. If your affection responds to mine what need the rest of the world signify to you? Am I not sufficient for you?

Célimène. Solitude is frightful to a widow of twenty. I do not feel my mind sufficiently grand and strong to resolve to adopt such a plan. If the gift of my hand can satisfy your wishes, I might be induced to tie such bonds; and marriage . . .

Alceste. No. My heart loathes you now, and this refusal alone effects more than all the rest. As you are not disposed, in those sweet ties, to find all in all in me, as I would find all in all in you, begone, I refuse your offer, and this much-felt outrage frees me for ever from your unworthy toils.

SCENE VIII.

ELIANTE, ALCESTE, PHILINTE.

ALCESTE (TO ELIANTE). Madam, your beauty is adorned by a hundred virtues; and I never saw anything in you but what was sincere. For a long while I thought very highly of you; but allow me to esteem you thus for ever, and suffer my heart in its various troubles not to offer itself for the honour of your acceptance. I feel too unworthy, and begin to perceive that Heaven did not intend me for the marriage bond; that the homage of only the remainder of a heart unworthy of you, would be below your merit, and that in short . . .

Eliante. You may pursue this thought. I am not at all embarrassed with my hand; and here is your friend, who, without giving me much trouble, might possibly accept it if I asked him.

Philinte. Ah! Madam, I ask for nothing better than that honour, and I could sacrifice my life and soul for it.

Alceste. May you, to taste true contentment, preserve for ever these feelings towards each other! Deceived on all sides, overwhelmed with injustice, I will fly from an abyss where vice is triumphant, and seek out some small secluded nook on earth, where one may enjoy the freedom of being an honest man.

Philinte. Come, Madam, let us leave nothing untried to deter him from the design on which his heart is set.

Curtis Hidden Page Translation, 1908

CONTENTS

CHARACTERS

ACT I

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

ACT II

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

ACT III

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

ACT IV

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

ACT V

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

SCENE VIII

CHARACTERS

ALCESTE, in love with Célimène
PHILINTE, friend of Alceste
ORONTE, in love with Célimène
CELIMENE
ELIANTE, Célimène’s cousin
ARSINOE, friend of Célimène
ACASTE, a marquis
CLITANDRE, a marquis
BASQUE, Célimène’s servant
AN OFFICER of the Marshals’ Court
DUBOIS, Alceste’s valet
The Scene is at Paris

ACT I

SCENE I

PHILINTE, ALCESTE

PHILINTE
What is it? What’s the matter?

ALCESTE, seated
Leave me, pray.

PHILINTE
But tell me first, what new fantastic humour . . .

ALCESTE
Leave me alone, I say. Out of my sight!

PHILINTE
But can’t you listen, at least, and not be angry?

ALCESTE
I will be angry, and I will not listen.

PHILINTE
I cannot understand your gusts of temper;
And though we’re friends, I’ll be the very first . . .

ALCESTE, starting to his feet
What, I, your friend? Go strike that off your books.
I have professed to be so hitherto;
But after seeing what you did just now,
I tell you flatly I am so no longer
And want no place in such corrupted hearts.

PHILINTE
Am I so very wicked, do you think?

ALCESTE
Go to, you ought to die for very shame!
Such conduct can have no excuse; it must
Arouse abhorrence in all men of honour.
I see you load a man with your caresses,
Profess for him the utmost tenderness,
And overcharge the zeal of your embracings
With protestations, promises, and oaths;
And when I come to ask you who he is
You hardly can remember even his name!
Your ardour cools the moment he is gone,
And you inform me you care nothing for him!
Good God! ’tis shameful, abject, infamous,
So basely to play traitor to your soul;
And if, by evil chance, I’d done as much,
I should go straight and hang myself for spite.

PHILINTE
It doesn’t seem to me a hanging matter,
And I’ll petition for your gracious leave
A little to commute your rigorous sentence,
And not go hang myself for that, an’t please you.

ALCESTE
How unbecoming is your pleasantry!

PHILINTE
But seriously, what would you have me do?

ALCESTE
Be genuine; and like a man of honour
Let no word pass unless it’s from the heart.

PHILINTE
But when a man salutes you joyfully,
You have to pay him back in his own coin,
Make what response you can to his politeness,
And render pledge for pledge, and oath for oath.

ALCESTE
No, no, I can’t endure these abject manners
So much affected by your men of fashion;
There’s nothing I detest like the contortions
Of all your noble protestation-mongers,
So generous with meaningless embraces,
So ready with their gifts of empty words,
Who vie with all men in civilities,
And treat alike the true man and the coxcomb.
What use is it to have a man embrace you,
Swear friendship, zeal, esteem, and faithful love,
And loudly praise you to your face, then run
And do as much for any scamp he meets?
No, no. No self-respecting man can ever
Accept esteem that ‘s prostituted so;
The highest honour has but little charm
If given to all the universe alike;
Real love must rest upon some preference;
You might as well love none, as everybody.
Since you go in for these prevailing vices,
By God, you ‘re not my kind of man, that’s all;
I’ll be no sharer in the fellowship
Of hearts that make for merit no distinction;
I must be singled out; to put it flatly,
The friend of all mankind’s no friend for me.

PHILINTE
But, while we’re of the world, we must observe
Some outward courtesies that custom calls for.

ALCESTE
No, no, I tell you; we must ruthlessly
Chastise this shameful trade in make-beliefs
Of friendship. Let’s be men; on all occasions
Show in our words the truth that’s in our hearts,
Letting the heart itself speak out, not hiding
Our feelings under masks of compliment.

PHILINTE
There’s many a time and place when utter frankness
Would be ridiculous, or even worse;
And sometimes, no offence to your high honour,
’Tis well to hide the feelings in our hearts.
Would it be proper, decent, in good taste,
To tell a thousand people your opinion
About themselves? When you detest a man,
Must you declare it to him, to his face?

ALCESTE
Yes.

PHILINTE
What! — you’d tell that ancient dame, Emilia,
That she’s too old to play the pretty girl,
And that her painting is a public scandal?

ALCESTE
Of course.

PHILINTE
And Dorilas, that he’s a bore;
And that he’s wearied every ear at court
With tales of his exploits and high extraction?

ALCESTE
By all means.

PHILINTE
You are joking.

ALCESTE
No. I’ll spare
No one. My eyes are far too much offended.
The court and town alike present me nothing
But objects to provoke my spleen; I fall
Into black humours and profound disgust,
To see men treat each other as they do;
There’s nowhere aught but dastard flattery,
Injustice, treachery, selfishness, deceit;
I can’t endure it, I go mad — and mean
Squarely to break with all the human race.

PHILINTE
This philosophic wrath’s a bit too savage.
I laugh at the black moods I find you in,
And think that we, who were brought up together,
Are like those brothers in the School for Husbands,
Whose ...

ALCESTE
Heavens, have done your dull comparisons.

PHILINTE
No, really now, have done your own vagaries.
The world will not reform for all your meddling;
And since plain speaking has such charms for you,
I’ll tell you plainly that your strange distemper
Is thought as good’s a play, where’er you go;
Such mighty wrath against the ways o’ the world
Makes you a laughing-stock for many people.

ALCESTE
So much the better! Zounds, so much the better!
The very thing I want; I’m overjoyed;
’Tis a good sign. I hate mankind so much,
I should be sorry if they thought me wise.

PHILINTE
You have a great spite against human nature.

ALCESTE
Yes, I’ve conceived a frightful hatred for it.

PHILINTE
And are all mortals, quite without exception,
To be included in this detestation?
There are some, surely, even now-a-days . . .

ALCESTE
There’s no exception, and I hate all men:
A part, because they’re wicked and do evil;
The rest, because they fawn upon the wicked,
And fail to feel for them that healthy hatred
Which vice should always rouse in virtuous hearts.
You see the rank injustice of this fawning,
Shown toward the bare-faced scoundrel I’m at law with.
The traitor’s face shows plainly through his mask,
And everywhere he’s known for what he is;
His up-turned eyes, his honeyed canting voice,
Impose on none but strangers. All men know
That this confounded, low-bred, sneaking scamp
Has made his way by doing dirty jobs,
And that the splendid fortune these have brought him
Turns merit bitter and makes virtue blush.
Whatever shameful names you heap upon him,
There’s no one to defend his wretched honour;
Call him a cheat, a rogue, a cursed rascal,
And every one agrees, none contradicts you.
But yet his grinning face is always welcomed;
He worms in everywhere, he’s greeted, smiled on;
And if there is preferment to compete for,
Intrigue will win it for him, from the worthiest.
Damnation! It offends me mortally
To see how people compromise with vice;
Sometimes I’m seized upon by sudden longings
To flee from all mankind, and live in deserts.

PHILINTE
Don’t take the manners of the time so hard!
Be a bit merciful to human nature;
Let us not judge it with the utmost rigour,
But look upon its faults with some indulgence.
Our social life demands a pliant virtue;
Too strict uprightness may be blameworthy;
Sound judgment always will avoid extremes,
And will be sober even in its virtue.
The stiff unbending morals of old times
Clash with our modern age and common usage;
They ask of mortal men too much perfection;
We must yield to the times, and not too hardly;
And ’tis the very utmost height of folly
To take upon you to reform the world.
I see a hundred things each day, as you do,
That might be better, were they different;
And yet, whatever I see happening,
I don’t fly in a passion, as you do;
I quietly accept men as they are,
Make up my mind to tolerate their conduct,
And think my calmness is, for court or town,
As good philosophy as is your choler.

ALCESTE
But can this calmness, sir, that talks so well,
Be moved at nothing? If perchance a friend
Betrays you — tries by fraud to steal your fortune —
Or if vile slanders are devised against you,
Will you behold all this and not get angry?

PHILINTE
Yes, I can look on faults, at which your soul
Revolts, as vices linked with human nature;
To put it in a word, I’m no more shocked
To see a man unjust, deceitful, selfish,
Than to see vultures ravenous for prey,
Or monkeys mischievous, or wolves blood-thirsty.

ALCESTE
What! see myself betrayed, robbed, torn in pieces,
And not . . . Good heavens! I won’t talk with you,
Your reasoning is such sheer sophistry!

PHILINTE
In truth, you had far better hold your tongue.
Storm somewhat less against your adversary,
And give some slight attention to your suit.

ALCESTE
I’ll give it none at all — that point is settled.

PHILINTE
Who will solicit for you, then, d’ye think?

ALCESTE
Who? Reason, equity, and my just rights.

PHILINTE
You won’t go call on any of the judges?

ALCESTE
No. Is my cause unjust, or even doubtful?

PHILINTE
No, I agree with you. But still, intrigue . . .

ALCESTE
No. I won’t stir a step. My mind’s made up.
My cause is wrong, or right.

PHILINTE
Don’t trust to that.

ALCESTE
I shall not budge.

PHILINTE
Your adversary’s strong,
And may, through his cabal, bear off ...

ALCESTE
No matter.

PHILINTE
You’ll find you’ve made a great mistake.

ALCESTE
So be it.
I want to see how this thing will turn out.

PHILINTE
But ...

ALCESTE
It will be a joy to lose my suit.

PHILINTE
But surely . . .

ALCESTE
By this trial I shall see
If men can be sufficiently perverse,
Rascally, villainous, and impudent
To do me wrong before the universe.

PHILINTE
Lord, what a man!

ALCESTE
No matter what it costs me,
Just for the beauty of the thing, I’d rather
My suit were lost.

PHILINTE
People would laugh at you,
Alceste, if they could hear you talk so, truly.

ALCESTE
So much the worse for those who laughed.

PHILINTE
But tell me:
This strict integrity that you demand,
This truthfulness exact and scrupulous —
Say, do you find them here, in her you love?
For my part, I’m amazed that you, while being
(Or so ’twould seem) so utterly at odds
With all the human race, should, spite of all
That makes it hateful to you, find in it
A charm to stay your eyes. Still more surprising
Is that strange choice your heart has fixed upon.
Though Eliante, the true, has shown a kindness
For you, and though Arsinoé, the prude,
Looks on you with an eye of favour, still
Your heart rejects their love, while Célimène,
Whose taste for slander and coquettish temper
So truly ape the manners of the age,
Holds it, for pastime, captive in her chains.
How happens it that, when you hate our manners
So bitterly, you bear with them in her?
Are they no longer false when housed so fairly?
Do you not see, or do you pardon them?

ALCESTE
No, no. The love I feel for this young widow
Can’t make me blind to any of her faults.
For all the passion she’s inspired me with,
I am the first to see them and condemn them.
Yet none the less — I must confess my weakness —
Do what I will, she still finds ways to please me;
In vain I see her faults, in vain I blame them,
Still in my own despite she makes me love her;
Her charms prevail; no doubt my love, in time,
Will purge her of the vices of the age.

PHILINTE
If you accomplish that, you will do wonders.
You think she loves you, then?

ALCESTE
By heaven, I do!
I could not love her if I didn’t think so.

PHILINTE
But if her fondness for you is confessed,
Why should you fret yourself about your rivals?

ALCESTE
Because a heart that truly loves, demands
To have its loved one wholly to itself.
I’ve come here now to tell her all I feel
Upon this point.

PHILINTE
If I could have my way
I should address my suit to Eliante,
Her cousin. She is steadfast and sincere,
Esteems you, and would be a fitter choice.

ALCESTE
Yes, yes, quite true. My reason tells me so
Each day. But reason does not govern love.

PHILINTE
I fear for your affections; and your hope
May well . . .

SCENE II

ORONTE, ALCESTE, PHILINTE

ORONTE, to Alceste
I learned below that Eliante
And Célimène have both gone out a-shopping.
But since they told me you were here, I came
Up stairs, to pay you, from my very heart,
My tribute of unlimited esteem,
And tell you of my ardent wish, long-cherished,
To be among the number of your friends.
Yes, I’ve a heart that loves to honour merit;
I long to see the bonds of friendship join us;
And I believe a zealous friend, and one
Of my condition, can’t well be rejected.

(During this speech, Alceste stands musing, and seems not to notice that Oronte is speaking to him.)

’Tis you, by your good leave, that I’m addressing.

ALCESTE
I, sir?

ORONTE
Yes, you. I hope I don’t offend you.

ALCESTE
By no means. But I’m very much surprised.
I did not look for such an honour, sir.

ORONTE
My great esteem for you should not surprise you,
For you can claim the like from everyone.

ALCESTE
Sir ...

ORONTE
Nothing in the state can measure up
To that supreme desert men see in you.

ALCESTE
Sir . . .

ORONTE
Yes, for me, I hold you far above
All that’s most eminent in all the nation.

ALCESTE
Sir ...

ORONTE
Heaven strike me dead, if I am lying!
And for a present witness of my feelings,
Pray let me, sir, most heartily embrace you,
And ask you for a place among your friends.
Your hand, I beg of you. You promise me
Your friendship?

ALCESTE
Sir. . .

ORONTE
What, you refuse it?

ALCESTE
Sir,
’Tis too much honour that you wish to do me.
But friendship needs a touch of mystery,
And asks initiation. We profane
Its name, to drag it in on all occasions.
It springs from mutual knowledge, mutual choice;
Before we form this tie, we need to know
Each other better; we might have such natures
That we should both repent our hasty bargain.

ORONTE
‘Pon honour, spoken like a man of sense!
And I esteem you for it all the more.
We’ll let time knit these gentle ties between us;
But meanwhile, I am wholly at your service.
If you need any favour from the court,
’Tis known I cut some figure with the king;
I have his ear, and he has always used me,
‘Pon honour, like a perfect gentleman.
In short, I’m yours completely, every way;
And since you’ve so much wit, I’ve come to show you,
Just to inaugurate our charming friendship,
A sonnet that I wrote not long ago,
And ask you whether I’d best publish it.

ALCESTE
Sir, I’m ill fitted to decide such matters;
Pray you, excuse me.

ORONTE
Why?

ALCESTE
I have the fault
Of being more sincere than suits the case.

ORONTE
The very thing I want. Why, you would wrong me
If, when I come for your unfeigned opinion,
You should deceive me, hiding anything.

ALCESTE
Since that is what you wish, sir, I am willing.

ORONTE
SONNET. It is a sonnet. Hope ... It is
A lady who had fanned my flame with hope.
Hope ... It is none of your grand pompous lines,
But light familiar verse, soft, languishing.

(At each interruption he looks toward Alceste.)

ALCESTE
We’ll see, sir.

ORONTE
Hope ... I don’t know if its style
Will seem sufficiently clean-cut and facile,
Or if the choice of words will satisfy you.

ALCESTE
Sir, we shall see.

ORONTE
Besides, I ought to tell you,
It took me but a quarter-hour to write it.

ALCESTE
Out with it, sir. The time can make no odds.

ORONTE, reading
Hope, it is true, may bring relief
And rock to sleep awhile our pain;
But, Phyllis, what small gain and brief,
If nothing follow in its train!

PHILINTE
I’m charmed already with this little taste.

ALCESTE, aside to Philinte
What! Can you have the face to call that fine?

ORONTE
You showed me some benevolence,
But should have shown me less, or none,
Nor put yourself to such expense
To give me hope, and hope alone.

PHILINTE
Ah! In what gallant terms these things are phrased!

ALCESTE, aside to Philinte
Good heavens! Vile flatterer! You’re praising rubbish.

ORONTE
If I must wait eternally,
Fordone by love, to death I’ll fly,
And end my lost endeavour.
Then vain your care, my Phyllis fair;
Hope and despair are one, I swear,
When hope lasts on forever.

PHILINTE
The ending’s pretty, amorous, admirable,
It has a dying fall.

ALCESTE, aside
Plague take your fall,
You devil’s poison-monger! Would you’d had
The dying fall yourself!

PHILINTE
I never heard
Lines better turned.

ALCESTE, aside
By heaven!

ORONTE
You flatter me
And think, perhaps . . .

PHILINTE
I am not flattering.

ALCESTE, aside
What are you doing then, you vile impostor?

ORONTE, to Alceste
But you, sir — you remember our agreement.
I pray you speak in all sincerity.

ALCESTE
This is a ticklish subject always, sir;
We’re fond of being flattered for our wit.
But I was saying, just the other day,
To some one — I won’t mention any names —
On hearing certain verses he had written,
That any gentleman should always keep
In stern control this writing itch we’re seized with;
That he must hold in check the great impatience
We feel to give the world these idle pastimes;
For, through this eagerness to show our works,
’Tis likely we shall cut a foolish figure.

ORONTE
And do you mean to intimate by this,
That I am wrong to wish . . . ?

ALCESTE
I don’t say that.
But I was telling him, a frigid piece
Of writing, bores to death; and this one weakness
Is quite enough to damn a man, no matter
What sterling qualities he have withal;
For men are judged most often by their foibles.

ORONTE
Then do you think my sonnet bad?

ALCESTE
I don’t
Say that. But still, as reason for not writing,
I tried to make him see how, right among us,
This lust for ink has spoiled most worthy men.

ORONTE
Do I write badly then? D’ ye mean I’m like ’em?

ALCESTE
I don’t say that. But still (said I to him)
What is your urgent need of making verses?
And who the deuce should drive you into print?
Only poor creatures writing for a living
Can ever be excused for publishing
A wretched book. Come, come, resist temptation,
Conceal this sort of business from the public,
And don’t, for anything, go and abandon
Your reputation as a gentleman
To get in place on’t, from a greedy printer,
That of ridiculous and wretched scribe.
That’s what I tried to make him understand.

ORONTE
All well and good, sir; and I take your meaning.
But mayn’t I know what there is, in my sonnet . . .

ALCESTE
Candidly, sir, ’tis good . . . good closet-verse.
You have been guided by the worst of models,
And your expressions are not true to nature.
Now what is this: And rock to sleep our pain?
Or this: If nothing follow in its train?
What means: Nor put yourself to such expense,
To give me hope, and hope alone? What sense
Is there in this: Hope and despair are one
When hope lasts on — or words to that effect?
This style, full of conceits, that we’re so vain of,
Is far from truth to life and genuineness;
’Tis merely play on words, sheer affectation,
And nature speaks far otherwise than so.
The wretched taste of this age makes me shudder;
Rude as they were, our fathers judged far better;
And I esteem all that’s admired to-day
Far less than this old song, which I’ll say over.

If the king had given me
His Paris town so fair,
But to have it I must leave
Loving of my dear, O!
I would say, “King Henry, pray
Take back your Paris fair,
I’d rather have my dearie, O!
I’d rather have my dear.”

The rhyme is not exact, the style’s old-fashioned;
But don’t you see it’s worth a thousand times
All your new gewgaws that good sense revolts at,
And there true passion speaks its native tongue?

If the king had given me
His Paris town so fair,
But to have it I must leave
Loving of my dear, O!
I would say, “King Henry, pray
Take back your Paris fair,
I’d rather have my dearie, O!
I’d rather have my dear.”
That’s what a really loving heart might say.
(To Philinte, who laughs)
Yes, Mr. Wag, in spite of all your wits,
I set that far above the flowery fustian
And tinsel stuff that everyone extols.

ORONTE
And I maintain my lines are excellent.

ALCESTE
You have your reasons, sir, for thinking so;
But you must grant me reasons of my own,
And not expect that mine shall bow to yours.

ORONTE
I’m satisfied to find that others prize them.

ALCESTE
They have the art of feigning. I have not.

ORONTE
D’ ye think you are endowed with all the brains?

ALCESTE
Did I but praise your rhymes, you’d grant me more.

ORONTE
I’ll get along quite well without your praise.

ALCESTE
You’ll have to get along without it, please.

ORONTE
I’d like to have you write, in your own style,
Some verses on the subject, just to see.

ALCESTE
I might, by bad luck, write as wretched ones;
But I’d be mighty careful not to show ’em.

ORONTE
You talk most high and mighty; but your pride . . .

ALCESTE
Go seek your incense-swingers somewhere else.

ORONTE
Come, little sir, don’t take such lofty airs.

ALCESTE
Faith, mighty sir, I’ll take what airs I please.

PHILINTE, stepping between them
Eh! sirs, you go too far. Let be, I pray you.

ORONTE
I’m in the wrong, of course; I’ll quit the field.
I am your servant, sir, with all my heart.

ALCESTE
And I, sir, am your most obedient servant.

SCENE III

PHILINTE, ALCESTE

PHILINTE
Well, now you see! For being too sincere,
You’ve got an ugly quarrel on your hands;
I saw Oronte, on purpose to be flattered . . .

ALCESTE
Don’t speak to me.

PHILINTE
But ...

ALCESTE
I renounce mankind.

PHILINTE
’Tis too much.

ALCESTE
Let me be.

PHILINTE
If I ...

ALCESTE
No talking.

PHILINTE
But what . . . ?

ALCESTE
I’ll hear no more.

PHILINTE
But ...

ALCESTE
Sir!

PHILINTE
You outrage . . .

ALCESTE
Zounds! ’tis too much. Don’t follow me, I say.

PHILINTE
What nonsense! I shan’t let you get away.

ACT II

SCENE I

ALCESTE, CELIMENE

ALCESTE
Madam, will you allow me to speak plainly?
I’m far from satisfied with your behaviour;
It fills my heart with so much bitterness
I feel ‘twere better we break off our match;
’Twould be deception to speak otherwise;
Sooner or later we must surely break.
Were I to promise you the contrary
A thousand times, I could not keep my word.

CELIMENE
So— ’twas to scold at me, apparently,
That you were kind enough to bring me home?

ALCESTE
I am not scolding. But your humour, madam,
Gives any and everyone too easy access
Into your heart. You have too many lovers
Besieging you — a thing I can’t endure.

CELIMENE
And must you hold me guilty of my lovers?
How can I hinder men from liking me?
And, when they come to pay me pleasant calls,
Ought I to take a stick and drive them out?

ALCESTE
No stick is needed, madam, but a heart
Less tender and less open to their loves.
I know your charms attend you everywhere;
But those your eyes attract are bound to you
By your kind welcome of them, which completes
The conquest of your beauty o’er their hearts.
The too fond hope you’re always holding out
Binds their attendance to you; somewhat less
Complacence on your part, would drive away
This jostling mob of suitors. Tell me, madam,
By what kind fate Clitandre can have pleased you
So much? On what foundation of sublime
Virtue and merit in him do you base
The honour of your high esteem? Perhaps
’Tis the long nail upon his little finger
That won your admiration? Or it may be,
The shining merit of his yellow wig
Quite overcame you, as it did the rest
Of high society? Or his broad ruffs
About the knees, have made you love him? Or
His mass of ribbons charmed you? Or, perhaps,
The vast proportions of his German breeches
Conquered your soul, the while he played your slave?
Or did his laugh, or his falsetto voice,
Find out the secret way of winning you?

CELIMENE
How foolishly you take offence at him!
You know exactly why I treat him kindly;
For he can bring me over all his friends
To help me win my law-suit, as he promised.

ALCESTE
Then lose your law-suit, madam, bravely lose it,
And don’t retain a rival I detest.

CELIMENE
But you grow jealous of the universe.

ALCESTE
Because you welcome all the universe.

CELIMENE
This very fact should calm your foolish terrors,
That I treat all with equal graciousness;
You’d have more cause, by far, to be offended,
Were all my favours heaped on one.

ALCESTE
But, madam,
What have I more than all of them, I pray you?
 — I, whom you blame for too much jealousy!

CELIMENE
The happiness of knowing you are loved.

ALCESTE
How can my burning heart be sure of it?

CELIMENE
I think that since I’ve taken pains to say so,
Such a confession ought to be sufficient.

ALCESTE
How shall I know you didn’t say as much
At the same time, perhaps, to all the others?

CELIMENE
Truly, a gallant lover’s compliment!
You make me out a pretty sort of person.
Well, then, to save you such anxiety,
I take back, here and now, all I have said;
Now nothing can deceive you but yourself;
I hope you’re satisfied.

ALCESTE
‘Sdeath, must I love you!
Oh, if I could but once get back my heart,
How I’d bless Heaven for such a rare good fortune!
I strive with all my strength, and don’t conceal it,
To break the cruel bonds by which I’m bound;
Still all my greatest efforts come to nothing;
It must be for my sins I love you so.

CELIMENE
Truly, your passion is unparalleled.

ALCESTE
Yes, on that point I challenge all the world.
My love is inconceivable; be sure
No one has ever loved as I do, madam.

CELIMENE
That’s true, your method is entirely novel,
You love a woman just to quarrel with her;
Only in peevish words you show your passion,
And love was never such a scold before.

ALCESTE
It rests with you to dissipate my anger.
Let us cut short all bickerings, I beg you,
Speak open-heartedly, and put a stop . . .

SCENE II

CELIMENE, ALCESTE, BASQUE

CELIMENE
What is it?

BASQUE
Here’s Acaste.

CELIMENE
Well, show him up.

SCENE III

CELIMENE, ALCESTE

ALCESTE
What! Can I never have you to myself?
You ‘re always quick to let in everybody,
And can’t make up your mind, in all the day,
One moment to deny yourself to people?

CELIMENE
Must I get up a quarrel with him, too?

ALCESTE
You show a deference that I can’t endure.

CELIMENE
He is a man who never would forgive me,
If he should learn I didn’t want to see him.

ALCESTE
What of it? ... and why put yourself to trouble ...?

CELIMENE
Good lack! From such as he, good-will’s important;
These people somehow have their say at court.
They force themselves on every conversation;
And though they cannot help you, they may harm you;
No matter what support you may have elsewhere,
You must not quarrel with these loud-mouthed gentry.

ALCESTE
In any case, and for whatever reason,
You find some cause to let in everybody;
And your discreet and careful policy . . .

SCENE IV

ALCESTE, CELIMENE, BASQUE

BASQUE
Madam, here is Clitandre as well.

ALCESTE
Precisely.
(He makes as if to go.)

CELIMENE
Now what’s this hurry?

ALCESTE
I am going.

CELIMENE
Stay.

ALCESTE
But what for?

CELIMENE
Stay.

ALCESTE
I can’t.

CELIMENE
You shall.

ALCESTE
No use.
These conversations only weary me,
It is too much to ask that I endure ’em.

CELIMENE
You shall, you shall.

ALCESTE
No, ’tis impossible.

CELIMENE
Well then, begone. Off with you. You’re quite free.

SCENE V

ELIANTE, PHILINTE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE, ALCESTE, CELIMENE, BASQUE

ELIANTE, to Célimène
The marquises are coming up with us.
Have they not been announced?

CELIMENE
Yes. (To Basque) Chairs for all.
(Basque places the chairs, and goes out.)
What! (To Alceste) Not gone yet?

ALCESTE
No; but I shall insist
That you declare yourself, for them or me.

CELIMENE
Be still!

ALCESTE
You shall declare yourself, to-day.

CELIMENE
You’ve lost your senses.

ALCESTE
No, you shall make known
Your choice.

CELIMENE
So ho!

ALCESTE
You shall decide.

CELIMENE
You’re joking.

ALCESTE
No. You shall choose. I have endured too long.

CLITANDRE
Egad! I’m just from court. At the levee
Cléonte did prove himself a perfect ass;
Has he no friend who could enlighten him
With charitable comments on his manners?

CELIMENE
’Tis true, he cuts a very sorry figure
Before society. He’s always startling;
But when you see him after some brief absence,
You find him more fantastical than ever.

ACASTE
Talk of fantastic characters! Egad!
I’ve just encountered one of the most tedious:
Damon, the talker, kept me, by your leave,
Out of my chair, one hour, in the sun.

CELIMENE
He is a marvellous talker — one who finds
The art of saying naught with many words.
You can’t make head or tail of his discourse,
And what you listen to is only noise.

ELIANTE, to Philinte
Not a bad opening. The conversation
Takes a fine start toward slandering our neighbours.

CLITANDRE
Madam, Timante’s another perfect type.

CELIMENE
From head to foot, of mystery compact!
He throws you one wild glance, and hurries by;
And without business, is always busy.
All that he says abounds in affectation;
He wearies you to death with mannerisms;
He interrupts the talk at every moment
To whisper you some secret — which is nothing!
He makes a marvel of the merest trifle,
And even says “Good morning” in your ear.

ACASTE
And Gerald, madam!

CELIMENE
Oh, the boresome boaster!
He stoops to nothing less than lord and lady,
Is always moving in the highest circles,
And never mentions aught but duke or prince.
“The quality” has turned his head; his talk
Is all of horses, carriages, and dogs.
He thees and thous the men of highest rank,
And just plain sir is obsolete with him.

CLITANDRE
They say he’s on the best terms with Bélise.

CELIMENE
The poor in spirit! What dull company!
The days she calls I suffer martyrdom;
I toil and sweat to keep the conversation
Alive, and constantly the barrenness
Of her expression lets it die again.
In vain attack upon her stupid silence
You summon to your aid all commonplaces;
Rain or fine weather, cold, or heat, are soon
Exhausted, yet her visit, bad enough
To start with, still drags on to frightful lengths;
You ask what ’tis o’clock, yawn twenty times,
And still she’ll budge no more than any log.

ACASTE
What think you of Adraste?

CELIMENE
Oh! what a pride!
The man is so puffed up with love of self
He ne’er can rest contented with the court,
And makes a daily trade of cursing it,
Because no office, place, or favour’s granted
But what he finds himself unjustly used.

CLITANDRE
But there’s young Cleon; our best sort of people
Frequent his house of late; now what of him?

CELIMENE
He’s made himself a merit of his cook;
And ’tis his table people go to call on.

ELIANTE
He takes great care to serve the daintiest dishes.

CELIMENE
Yes; if he only didn’t serve himself;
His stupid person is a villainous dish
That spoils, to my taste, all his finest dinners.

PHILINTE
Damis, his uncle, is well thought of, madam;
What say you of him?

CELIMENE
He’s a friend of mine.

PHILINTE
He seems a gentleman, and full of sense.

CELIMENE
Yes; but he’s always trying to be witty,
Which drives me wild; in all his talk, he labours
To be delivered of some brilliant saying.
Since he has taken a notion to be clever,
Nothing can hit his taste, he’s grown so nice.
He needs must censure everything that’s written,
And thinks, to praise does not become a wit,
But to find fault will prove your skill and learning,
And to admire and laugh belongs to fools;
He thinks that by approving nothing new
He sets himself above all other men.
Even in conversations he finds fault;
The talk’s too trivial for his condescension;
With folded arms, he looks in pity down
From heights of wit on everything that’s said.

ACASTE
Damme! That’s just his picture, to the life.

CLITANDRE, to Célimène
For drawing portraits, you’re incomparable.

ALCESTE
On! On! Stand firm, thrust hard, my good court-friends;
You give each one his turn, spare none at all;
And yet no one of them could show himself.
But what you’d rush to meet him, give your hand,
And kiss his cheeks, and swear you were his servants.

CLITANDRE
But why blame us? If what is said offends you,
You must address your censures to the lady.

ALCESTE
No, no! To you. ’Tis your approving laughter
That wings these slanderous arrows of her wit.
And her satiric humour feeds upon
The guilty incense of your flatteries;
Her heart would find less charm in raillery
Were she to see it pass without applause.
And so ’tis always flatterers we find
To blame for vices spread among mankind.

PHILINTE
But why so earnest in behalf of people
In whom you ‘d blame yourself the selfsame faults?

CELIMENE
Must not the gentleman needs contradict?
What! Would you have him think like other people,
And not exhibit, in and out of season,
The spirit of gainsaying he’s endowed with?
Others’ opinions are not fit for him,
And he must always hold the opposite,
Because he’d fear to seem like common mortals,
If he were caught agreeing with anyone.
The glory of contradiction charms him so
He often takes up arms against himself,
And falls to combating his own beliefs
If he but hears them from another’s lips.

ALCESTE
You have the laughers, madam, on your side;
That’s saying everything. On with your satire!

PHILINTE
But then, ’tis true you’re always up in arms
‘Gainst everything that anybody says;
And with ill-humour you admit yourself,
You can’t let people either blame or praise.

ALCESTE
Zounds! That’s because they ‘re always in the wrong,
Because ill-humour always is in season
Against them; for they are, in every case,
Praisers impertinent, or critics pert.

CELIMENE
But ...

ALCESTE
Madam, no! I say, though I should die for ‘t,
You have diversions that I can’t put up with;
And people here are in the wrong to nourish
Your inclination to the faults they blame.

CLITANDRE
’Tis not for me to say; still, I’ll declare
That hitherto I’ve found the lady faultless.

ACASTE
I find her full of graces and attractions;
But as for faults, I haven’t seen them yet.

ALCESTE
I’ve seen them all, and, far from hiding it,
She knows I make a point to tax her with them.
The more we love, the less we ought to flatter;
True love is proven by condoning nothing;
For my part, I would banish those base lovers
I found agreeing with my own opinions,
And pandering with weak obsequiousness
To my vagaries upon all occasions.

CELIMENE
In short, were you to rule men’s hearts, they must,
To show true love, renounce all compliments,
And set the high ideal of perfect passion
In railing handsomely at those they love.

ELIANTE
Love is but little subject to such laws,
And lovers always like to vaunt their choice.
Their passion can find naught in her to blame,
For in the loved one, all seems lovable.
They count her faults perfections, and invent
Sweet names to call them by. The pallid maiden
Is like a pure white jasmine flower for fairness;
The frightful dark one is a rich brunette;
The lean one has a figure lithe and free;
The fat one has a fine majestic carriage;
The dowdy, graced with little charm, is called
A careless beauty; and the giantess
Appears a goddess to adoring eyes.
The dwarf is deemed a brief epitome
Of heaven’s miracles; the haughty maiden
Is worthy of a crown; the cheat is clever;
The silly dunce, so perfectly good-hearted;
The chatterbox, so pleasantly vivacious;
The silent girl, so modest and retiring.
Thus does a lover, whom true passion fires,
Love even the faults of her whom he admires.

ALCESTE
For my part, I maintain . . .

CELIMENE
Let’s drop this subject,
And walk a little in the gallery.
What! Are you going, gentlemen?

CLITANDRE and ACASTE
No, madam.

ALCESTE
You have a mighty fear of their departure.
Go when you please, sirs; but I give you notice
I shall not stir till after you are gone.

ACASTE
Unless my presence prove importunate
There’s nothing calls me elsewhere all day long.

CLITANDRE
If I can wait upon the king at bed time
I have no other business to engage me.

CELIMENE, to Alceste
You must be joking, surely.

ALCESTE
Not at all.
We ‘ll see if I’m the one you would be rid of.

SCENE VI

ALCESTE, CELIMENE, ELIANTE, ACASTE, PHILINTE, CLITANDRE, BASQUE

BASQUE, to Alceste
Sir, there’s a man who wants to speak to you
On business that, he says, can’t be put off.

ALCESTE
Tell him I know of no such urgent business.

BASQUE
He ‘s got a jacket on with plaited coat-tails
And gold all over.

CELIMENE, to Alceste
Go see what it is,
Or rather, have him up.

SCENE VII

ALCESTE, CELIMENE, ELIANTE, ACASTE, PHILINTE, CLITANDRE, AN OFFICER from the Marshals’ Court

ALCESTE, stepping forward to meet the officer
What do you want?
Come in, sir.

THE OFFICER
Sir, I want a word with you.

ALCESTE
Speak out then, sir, and let me know what ’tis.

THE OFFICER
The honourable Marshals, whom I serve,
Bid you appear before them, sir, at once.

ALCESTE
Who? I, sir?

THE OFFICER
You.

ALCESTE
And what for, may I ask?

PHILINTE, to Alceste
’Tis your ridiculous quarrel with Oronte.

CELIMENE, to Philinte
What quarrel?

PHILINTE
They had words this morning here
About some trifling lines he didn’t like.
The Marshals want to hush things up at once.

ALCESTE
I’ll never stoop to any base compliance.

PHILINTE
You must obey their summons. Come, get ready . . .

ALCESTE
What sort of terms can they arrange between us?
Will they condemn me by a vote to think
The verses good that we disputed over?
I won’t take back a single word about them,
I think them wretched.

PHILINTE
But a gentler tone . . .

ALCESTE
I shall not budge an inch; they’re villainous.

PHILINTE
You ought to be the least bit tractable.
Come, come along with me.

ALCESTE
I’ll go, but nothing
Can make me take it back.

PHILINTE
Come show yourself . . .

ALCESTE
Short of a special order from the king
Commanding me to think their plaguy verses
Are good, I shall maintain, by heaven, they’re wretched,
And any man that made them merits hanging.
(To Clitandre and Acaste, who laugh)
By God’s blood, gentlemen, I didn’t know
I was so entertaining.

CELIMENE
Go, go quickly
Where you are summoned.

ALCESTE
Yes, I’ll go; and straight
Be back again to settle our debate.

ACT III

SCENE I

CLITANDRE, ACASTE

CLITANDRE
Dear Marquis, you seem quite self-satisfied;
You’re pleased with everything, annoyed at nothing.
Now tell me truly, are you sure — don’t flatter
Yourself — you’ve such great reason to be joyous?

ACASTE
Egad now! When I look myself well over,
I can’t find any cause for discontent;
I’m rich, I’m young, I’m of a family
That well may give itself the style of noble;
And by the rank which my extraction gives me,
I can lay claim to almost any office.
In courage, which we all must value most,
The world knows (not to boast) that I’m not lacking;
They’ve seen me carry an affair of honour
Quite dashingly and cavalierly through.
With wit, of course, I’m furnished; and good taste
To judge off-hand, and talk on any subject,
And, when new plays come out (which I adore),
On the stage-seats to act the knowing critic,
Decide the drama’s fate, and lead the applause
Whenever a fine passage merits bravos.
I’m dexterous, handsome, have a good complexion,
Especially fine teeth, a slender figure;
And as for dressing well, I think, without
Conceit, ‘twere foolish to dispute me that.
I find myself as much esteemed as can be,
Loved by the fair sex, favoured by the king.
And with all this, dear Marquis, I should think
That any man might be self-satisfied.

CLITANDRE
Yes. But, since elsewhere you find easy conquests,
Why waste your sighs upon this lady here?

ACASTE
I? Gad, not I! I’m not of make or temper
To bear a fair one’s coldness. Let the common
And awkward fellows burn with constancy
For frigid beauties, languish at their feet,
Bear their rebuffs, seek help in sighs and tears,
And try, by long continuance of service,
To win what is denied their scanty merit.
But men like me, dear Marquis, are not made
To love on credit and pay all expenses.
However rare may be the ladies’ merits
I think that I’m as good as they, thank Heaven;
That to be honoured with a heart like mine,
Should not, in any reason, cost them nothing;
And that the least a man like me can ask,
To make things fair, is meeting him half-way.

CLITANDRE
You think then, Marquis, you ‘re in favour here?

ACASTE
I have some reason, Marquis, so to think.

CLITANDRE
Trust me, divest yourself of that delusion;
Dear fellow, you deceive and blind yourself.

ACASTE
Quite true, I do deceive and blind myself.

CLITANDRE
What makes you think your happiness so perfect?

ACASTE
I do deceive myself.

CLITANDRE
Upon what grounds . . . ?

ACASTE
I blind myself.

CLITANDRE
Have you trustworthy proofs?

ACASTE
I fool myself, I say.

CLITANDRE
Can Célimène
Have secretly avowed some love for you?

ACASTE
No, I’m ill-used.

CLITANDRE
But answer me, I beg you.

ACASTE
I meet with nothing but rebuffs.

CLITANDRE
Have done
With jesting; say what hope she’s given you.

ACASTE
I am the luckless one, and you the lucky.
She feels for me a horrible aversion,
And one of these days I must hang myself.

CLITANDRE
Come, Marquis, let’s arrange our love-affairs,
Will you, by both agreeing on one thing —
If either of us show convincing proof
That he’s preferred by Célimène, the other
Shall give a clear field to the future victor
And free him from assiduous rivalry?

ACASTE
Egad! I swear I like your proposition,
And I agree with all my heart. But hush . . .

SCENE II

CELIMENE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE

CELIMENE
Still here?

CLITANDRE
Love stays our steps.

CELIMENE
I heard just now
A carriage driving in. Who can it be?

SCENE III

CELIMENE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE, BASQUE

BASQUE
Arsinoé is coming up to see you,
Madam.

CELIMENE
What can the woman want with me?

BASQUE
She’s talking now to Eliante, downstairs.

CELIMENE
What is she thinking of? What brings her here?

ACASTE
She everywhere is called a perfect prude;
Her zealous ardour . . .

CELIMENE
Yes, yes, all put on.
At heart she’s of the world, and does her utmost
To hook some man, and yet she can’t succeed.
So she can only look with eyes of envy
Upon another woman’s train of suitors;
Her sorry charms, in their abandonment,
Are always railing at our age’s blindness.
She’d like to hide, under sham prudery,
The frightful solitude that’s seen about her;
To save the credit of her feeble charms,
She makes a crime of every power they lack.
The lady, all the same, would like a lover,
And even has a weakness for Alceste.
The court he pays to me insults her beauty;
She claims that I have stolen him from her;
And in her jealous spite, but ill concealed,
She secretly attacks me everywhere.
I’ve never in my life seen such an idiot;
Her conduct is the height of silly malice,
And ...

SCENE IV

ARSINOE, CELIMENE, CLITANDRE, ACASTE

CELIMENE
Oh! What lucky chance has brought you here?
In truth I was right anxious for you, madam.

ARSINOE
I’ve come to speak of something that I thought
I ought to ...

CELIMENE
Dear! How glad I am to see you!

(Clitandre and Acaste go out laughing.)

SCENE V

ARSINOE, CELIMENE

ARSINOE
Their going away was certainly most timely.

CELIMENE
Shall we sit down?

ARSINOE
It is not necessary.
Friendship ought most to show itself, dear madam,
In things that are of most importance to us;
And since there ‘s none of greater import, surely,
Than what concerns propriety and honour,
I’ve come to prove my heart-felt love for you,
By telling you of something that involves
Your honour. Yesterday I called upon
Some very virtuous friends of mine; and there
The talk was all of you; your conduct, madam,
That wins you so much notoriety,
Had the misfortune not to be commended.
This motley crowd whose visits you encourage,
Your love-affairs, the rumours they give rise to,
Had censors far more numerous and harsh
Than I could wish. Of course, you well may know
Which side I took; how I did all I could
To clear you; swore you really meant no harm
And said I’d vouch for it your heart was right.
But still, you know there are some things in life
One can’t defend, however much one wants to;
And so I found myself compelled to grant
Your way of living was somewhat against you;
That to the world it had an ugly look;
That everywhere it makes all sorts of talk,
And that your conduct might, if you but chose,
Give far less reason for censorious judgment.
Not that I think you’ve really failed in virtue;
Heaven preserve me from that thought, at least!
But still, the mere appearances of evil
Are quickly credited; ’tis not enough
To live uprightly for ourselves alone.
I hope you have too sensible a spirit,
Madam, to take amiss this useful warning,
Or think it due to any other motive
Than my concern for all that touches you.

CELIMENE
Madam, I owe you many thanks. This warning
Has put me deeply in your debt; so far
From taking it amiss, I shall insist
Upon repaying it at once in kind
By giving you a warning which concerns
Your honour. Since you prove yourself my friend
By telling me the common talk about me,
I’ll follow, in my turn, this good example,
By telling you what people say of you.
Where I was visiting the other day,
I met some people of especial merit,
Who, in discussing true ideals of virtue,
Turned their remarks upon your character,
Dear madam. But your prudery and fervour
Were not regarded as the best of models;
Your false assumption of a grave demeanour,
Your endless talk of virtue and of honour,
Your mincings and your mouthings at the shadow
Of coarseness that some doubtful word may have,
The high esteem in which you hold yourself
And pitying glances that you cast on others,
Your constant preaching, and your acrid judgments
On things quite innocent and honourable:
All this, to be quite frank with you, dear madam,
Was blamed with one accord. What is the good,
They said, of all this outward show of virtue
And modesty, when all the rest belies it?
She’s punctual at her prayers, to a degree,
But beats her servants, and won’t pay their wages.
At public worship she displays great fervour,
But paints herself, and tries to play the beauty.
She has the nude in pictures covered up,
But the reality, meanwhile, she likes.
I took your part against them, one and all,
Assuring them that this was calumny;
But their opinions all combined against me,
And their conclusion was, that you’d do well
To meddle less with other people’s conduct,
And look a bit more closely to your own;
That we should scrutinise ourselves no little
Before assuming to condemn our neighbours,
And add the weight of exemplary living
To any censure that we pass on others;
And even so, if needful, we should leave it,
To those whom Heaven appoints to judge such matters.
I hope you likewise are too sensible,
Madam, to take amiss this useful warning,
Or think it due to any other motive
Than my concern for all that touches you.

ARSINOE
Whatever risk we run in our reproofs,
I did not, madam, look for this retort;
And I see plainly, by its bitterness,
That my frank warning cut you to the quick.

CELIMENE
No! Say it pleased me, rather. Were folk wise
Such mutual warnings would become the fashion.
Given in good faith, they’d soon dispel that blindness
Most of us suffer as regards ourselves.
‘Twill be your fault if we should not continue
This faithful service with unbated zeal,
And take pains privately to tell each other
What you may hear of me, and I of you.

ARSINOE
Ah! madam, I can hear no ill of you;
It is in me that everything’s to blame.

CELIMENE
Everything, madam, may be praised or blamed,
And each is right, in proper time and season.
There is an age for love-affairs, methinks,
And there’s an age that’s fit for prudery.
It may be policy to choose the second
When youth is gone and all its glamour faded,
For that may serve to hide a sorry downfall.
Perhaps some day I’ll follow in your footsteps,
For age brings everything; but ’tis not time,
As all men know, to be a prude at twenty.

ARSINOE
You plume yourself upon a slight advantage,
And make a frightful noise about your age.
The trifling difference between yours and mine
Is no such mighty matter to be proud of,
And I can’t see why you’re so angry, madam,
And fall upon me in such bitter fashion.

CELIMENE
I, madam, likewise cannot see just why
You should let loose against me everywhere.
Must I be blamed for all your disappointments,
And can I help it if the men won’t court you?
If they love me, and will persist in paying
To me addresses that you’d rather have,
Why, I can’t help it, and it’s not my fault;
The field is free for you, and I don’t hinder
Your having charms to win them, if you can.

ARSINOE
Good lack! D’ ye think that anyone’s concerned
About the mob of lovers you ‘re so vain of,
Or that we cannot easily infer
What price is paid to get ’em now-a-days?
D’ ye hope, the way things go, to make us think
Your simple merit draws this motley crowd?
That they’re inflamed with honourable passion,
And that they court you only for your virtues?
No one is blinded by such vain pretences;
The world’s no dupe. I know some women, too,
With charms to kindle tender sentiments,
Who don’t have lovers always dangling round ’em;
Whereby we may infer that they’re not won
Without some great advances on our part;
That men don’t woo us just to look at us,
And all the court they pay is dearly bought.
Then don’t be so purled up with boastful pride
For the cheap tinsel of a paltry triumph;
Don’t let your beauty be so self-conceited,
And for so little treat folk haughtily.
For if my charms could envy yours their conquests,
Why, I might do as others do, methinks,
And prove, by being lavish of myself,
That one has lovers if one wants to have ’em.

CELIMENE
Then have ’em, madam; let us see it done.
Try if by this rare secret you can please;
And don’t . . .

ARSINOE
Let’s end this conversation, madam,
‘Twill carry us too far; I should have taken
My leave already, as I ought to do,
If I weren’t forced to wait here for my carriage.

CELIMENE
Stay just as long as suits you, madam. Nothing
Need hurry you. But not to weary you
With my attentions, here’s a gentleman,
Most opportunely come, to take my place
And give you better company than I can.

SCENE VI

CELIMENE, ARSINOE, ALCESTE

CELIMENE
Alceste, I must go write a line or two;
I can’t defer it without serious loss.
Please stay with madam; she will be so kind
As gladly to excuse my impoliteness.

SCENE VII

ALCESTE, ARSINOE

ARSINOE
You see she wishes me to talk with you
Just for a moment, till my carriage comes;
Her hospitality could offer nothing
More charming to me than such conversation.
People of lofty merit needs must win
Esteem and love from everyone; your worth
Has some especial charm to make my heart
Espouse your interests in every way.
I wish the court would cast an eye of favour
On you, and do more justice to your merits.
You’ve reason to complain; I’m out of patience
To see them day by day do nothing for you.

ALCESTE
Me, madam! Pray what claim have I upon them?
What service have I rendered to the state?
What brilliant deeds have I achieved to give me
Cause for complaint that they do nothing for me?

ARSINOE
Not all those whom the court delights to honour
Have always done such signal services.
The opportunity as well as power
Is needed; and the merit that you show
Ought . . .

ALCESTE
Heavens! I beg you, let my merit be;
How can the court be bothered about that?
’Twould have its hands too full, if it attempted
To bring to light the worth of everybody.

ARSINOE
But brilliant worth will bring itself to light.
Yours is esteemed by many, and most highly;
Why, I could mention two distinguished houses
Where men of weight extolled you yesterday.

ALCESTE
Eh! madam, now-a-days all men are praised;
The present age has no distinctions left,
And all is equally of dazzling merit;
There is no honour brought you by such praise,
Flung at your head, stuffed down your throat; I see
My valet’s praised too, in the Court Gazette!

ARSINOE
For my part, I could wish, to prove your worth,
Some court employment might appeal to you.
If you’ll but show the least desire for it,
We’ll straightway set intrigues at work to serve you;
I’ve persons at my beck and call, to help you
And make the pathway smooth to all preferment.

ALCESTE
Madam, what would you have me do at court?
My character demands I keep away,
For heaven did not give me, at my birth,
A soul congenial to court atmosphere.
I know I don’t possess the talents needful
To win success, and make my fortune there.
A frank sincerity is my chief merit,
I’ve not the skill to hoodwink men with words,
And anyone who lacks the gift of hiding
His thoughts should make brief stay in such a country.
Away from court, ’tis true, we’ve not that standing
Or honourable rank which it bestows;
But still, for compensation, we escape
Having to play the part of silly fools,
To bear a thousand pitiless rebuffs,
To laud the rhymes of Mr. So-and-So,
Burn incense at the shrine of Madam Blank,
And bear the shallow wit of hare-brained lordlings.

ARSINOE
Then let us drop this matter of the court,
Since you prefer it; but my heart is moved
To pity by your love-affair. To tell you
Just what I think about it, I could wish
Your passion were more fittingly bestowed.
You certainly deserve a kinder fate,
For she who charms you is unworthy of you.

ALCESTE
Madam, in saying this, do you remember,
I pray you, that this person is your friend?

ARSINOE
Yes. But it really goes against my conscience
Longer to bear the wrong that ‘s being done you.
The state I see you in afflicts my soul
Too much. I warn you that your love’s betrayed.

ALCESTE
Madam, you’re showing much concern for me;
Such news is always welcome to a lover!

ARSINOE
Yes, though my friend, she is, and I declare her,
Unworthy to enthrall a true man’s heart;
And her affection for you is a sham.

ALCESTE
That’s possible; we can’t see people’s hearts;
But still, in charity you might refrain,
Madam, from raising such a doubt in mine.

ARSINOE
If you prefer not to be undeceived,
I’ll say no more to you; that’s easy enough.

ALCESTE
In such a case, whatever we may learn,
Doubts are more torturing than any truth;
And I had rather I were told of nothing
Except what can be proved with certainty.

ARSINOE
That’s right enough; and on this present matter
You shall receive complete enlightenment.
I’ll let your own eyes prove it all to you.
Only escort me home, and there I’ll show you
A faithful proof of her unfaithfulness;
And if your heart can love another fair,
Perhaps you’ll find your consolation there.

ACT IV

SCENE I

ELIANTE, PHILINTE

PHILINTE
Never was seen a man so hard to manage,
Or compromise so difficult to make
In vain they tried to move him every way,
They couldn’t drag him from his fixed opinion;
And never did so strange an altercation,
Methinks, employ the wisdom of the Marshals.
“No, gentlemen,” he said, “I’ll not retract;
I will agree to all you please, except
This one point. What is he offended at?
What does he want of me? Does it reflect
Upon his honour, if he can’t write well?
What odds to him is my opinion, which
He took so much amiss; a man may be
A perfect gentleman, and write poor verse.
These matters do not raise the point of honour.
I hold him a true man in all respects,
Brave, worthy, noble, anything you will,
But still, a wretched writer. I will praise,
If you desire, his lavish style of living,
His skill in horsemanship, in arms, in dancing;
But for his verse, I beg to be excused;
And if a man has not the luck to write
Better than that, he ought to give up rhyming,
Unless condemned to it on pain of death.”
In short, the only favour or concession
He could with effort bring himself to grant,
Was saying (as he thought, in gentler style):
“I’m sorry, sir, that I’m so hard to please,
And for your sake I wish with all my heart
I could have liked your recent sonnet better.”
Whereon the Marshals forced them to embrace,
And hastily hushed up the whole affair.

ELIANTE
His ways are very strange; yet I must own
That I esteem him above other men;
And this sincerity he makes a point of
Has something noble and heroic in it.
’Tis a rare virtue now-a-days. I wish
That everyone took pattern after him.

PHILINTE
The more I see of him, the more amazed
I am to see this passion he’s enslaved to.
With such a character as heaven gave him,
I don’t know how he ever came to love
At all; and even less how it could be
Your cousin that his fancy fixed upon.

ELIANTE
This only goes to show love doesn’t always
Depend on harmony of humours; all
Their theories of sympathetic souls
Are pretty, but the present case belies them.

PHILINTE
But do you think he’s loved, from what we see?

ELIANTE
That is a point not easy to determine.
Does she love him or not ? — how can we judge,
When her own heart’s not sure of what it feels?
She loves sometimes without quite knowing it,
And thinks she loves, too, sometimes, when she doesn’t.

PHILINTE
I think our friend is very like to have
More trouble than he looks for, with your cousin;
And, to be frank, if he but felt as I do,
He’d look in quite a different direction,
And by a fitter choice would take advantage,
Madam, of that kind favour you accord him.

ELIANTE
For my part, I don’t try to hide my feelings,
And think, in such things, we should be straightforward.
I don’t oppose his ardent love for her,
But rather do my best to forward it;
And if the matter could depend on me,
I should unite him with the one he loves.
But if (since anything is possible)
The fates should thwart him in his choice, and if
Another’s love be crowned with more success,
I could be glad, then, to receive his homage;
His having been refused, in such a case,
Would cause me no aversion.

PHILINTE
For my part,
I likewise don’t oppose your kindness, madam,
For him; and he can tell you, if he will,
What I have said to him upon that point.
But if their marriage once for all prevented
His suit to you, then I should do my utmost
To win that favour which your generous heart
Now grants to him; and count myself most happy
If what he misses might descend to me.

ELIANTE
Philinte, you’re jesting.

PHILINTE
Madam, I am speaking
Now from my inmost heart. I wait the chance
To make this offer unreservedly,
And all my hopes are eager for that moment.

SCENE II

ALCESTE, ELIANTE, PHILINTE

ALCESTE
Ah! madam, help me to avenge a crime
That triumphs over all my strength of soul.

ELIANTE
What is the matter? What can move you so?

ALCESTE
The matter is ... ’tis death to think upon it!
Complete upheaval of the universe
Could not o’erwhelm me more than this disaster.
All’s over with . . . My love ... I cannot speak.

ELIANTE
Try to control yourself somewhat.

ALCESTE
Just heaven!
How can so many graces be united
With hateful vices of the basest nature!

ELIANTE
But tell us, what can make you . . . ?

ALCESTE
All is ruined.
I am betrayed, destroyed, stricken to death,
For Célimène — ah! who could have believed it? —
For Célimène deceives me; she is faithless.

ELIANTE
Have you sufficient grounds for that belief?

PHILINTE
Perhaps you are too hastily suspicious;
Your jealous temper sometimes takes chimeras
For . . .

ALCESTE
‘Sdeath! Mind your own business, will you, sir?
(To Eliante)
I’m all too certain of her treason, madam,
Having it written down in her own hand.
Yes, here ‘s a letter to Oronte, disclosing
Her shame and my misfortune; to Oronte,
Whose suit I thought she scorned, and whom I feared
The least of all my rivals.

PHILINTE
Letters, sometimes,
Are not so guilty as they may appear.

ALCESTE
Once more, sir, will you please let me alone,
And pay attention to your own concerns?

ELIANTE
You ought to calm yourself. The outrage . . .

ALCESTE
Madam,
This rests with you. To you I have recourse
For power to free my heart from galling anguish.
Avenge me on your false ungrateful cousin
Who basely has betrayed my constant love
By such a deed as must arouse your horror.

ELIANTE
Avenge you? I? But how?

ALCESTE
Accept my heart.
Accept it, in that faithless woman’s place;
Only in that way can I be avenged;
I’ll punish her by the sincere attachment,
Profound affection, worshipful attentions,
Eager devotion, and assiduous service,
My heart will henceforth offer at your shrine.

ELIANTE
I truly sympathise with what you suffer,
And don’t despise the heart you offer me;
But still, perhaps the harm is not so great,
And you may yet give up this wish for vengeance.
For when a charming woman wrongs a man,
He forms a hundred plans, but acts on none;
In vain is even the strongest argument,
A guilty loved one soon seems innocent;
The wish to harm her quickly disappears,
And lover’s wrath — we all know how it wears.

ALCESTE
No, madam, no. I’m mortally offended.
There’s no relenting. I have done with her.
Nothing can change my settled resolution;
If I could love her still, I’d hate myself.
But here she comes. My anger is redoubled
At sight of her. I’ll taunt her with her treason,
Confound her utterly, then bring to you
A heart quite freed from her delusive charms.

SCENE III

CELIMENE, ALCESTE

ALCESTE, aside
O heaven! Can I be master of my passion?

CELIMENE, aside
So ho! (To Alceste) Well, what’s the matter with you now?
And what’s the meaning of your deep-drawn sighs,
And those black looks you cast in my direction?

ALCESTE
That all the horrors which a heart can hold
Have nothing to compare with your dishonour;
That fate and devils and the wrath of heaven
Never produced a creature so perverse.

CELIMENE
A pretty compliment. I like it vastly.

ALCESTE
Have done with joking. ’Tis no time for laughter.
Far rather blush, for you have reason to;
I have full proof here of your perfidy.
’Twas this that my presentiments foretold;
Not without reason was my love alarmed,
And through those many doubts that you called hateful
My soul foresaw the truth my eyes have found.
In spite of all your care and clever feigning,
My star predicted what I had to fear.
But do not hope I’ll suffer unavenged
The sting of such a wrong. ’Tis true, I know,
That will has no control of our affections,
That love must always come spontaneously,
That never any heart was won by force,
And every soul is free to name its master.
So I could find no reason for complaint
If you had treated me without deceit;
And though you had repulsed me from the first
I could have quarrelled only with my fate.
But to lead on my heart by false avowals,
Why, that is treason, that is perfidy
For which no punishment can be too great;
And I may give free rein to my resentment.
Yes, fear the worst, after such infamy;
I am beside myself, I am all rage.
Pierced by the deadly blow which you have struck,
My reason can no longer rule my senses;
I yield to impulses of righteous anger,
And will not answer for the things I do.

CELIMENE
But tell me, whence comes this excess of passion?
Have you quite lost your senses, pray?

ALCESTE
Yes, yes,
I lost them, when I sucked the murderous poison
Of my misfortune from the sight of you,
And thought to find some slight sincerity
In those deceitful charms that so bewitched me.

CELIMENE
Come now, what perfidy can you complain of?

ALCESTE
How false your heart, how skilled in arts of feigning!
But I have proofs to force its last defence.
Look here, and recognise your character;
This letter is sufficient to convict you,
And there can be no answer made to this.

CELIMENE
So that’s the thing you’re so worked up about.

ALCESTE
What! Don’t you blush to see this piece of writing?

CELIMENE
And why, pray, should I blush at sight of it?

ALCESTE
What! Add audacity to artifice!
Will you disown it for not being signed?

CELIMENE
But why disown a letter that I wrote?

ALCESTE
And you can look on it without confusion
To see the crime toward me it brands you with!

CELIMENE
You are in truth a most fantastic fellow.

ALCESTE
What! You outbrave unanswerable proof?
The love shown in this letter for Oronte
Does not wrong me, or cover you with shame?

CELIMENE
Oronte! Who says the letter is to him?

ALCESTE
Why, those who put it in my hands just now.
But granting it was written to another,
Have I less reason to complain of you?
Are you less culpable toward me for that?

CELIMENE
But if this note was written to a woman,
In what can it offend you? Where’s the guilt?

ALCESTE
Ah! ’tis a clever turn, a fine evasion.
I’ll own I didn’t look for such a shift,
And I am quite convinced by it, of course.
How dare you seek such palpable devices?
Or do you think me quite devoid of sense?
Come, show me by what trick, and with what face,
You can maintain so evident a lie;
How you will twist to suit them to a woman
All the expressions of this passionate letter?
Interpret now, to hide your faithlessness,
What I shall read . . .

CELIMENE
Not I; I do not care to.
You’re foolish, to assume such domination,
And say the things you dare to, to my face.

ALCESTE
No, no; now don’t get angry; try a little
To justify these words here.

CELIMENE
No, I will not.
What you may think of it is nothing to me.

ALCESTE
But I beseech you, show me how this letter
Can fit a woman, and I’ll be content.

CELIMENE
No, it is to Oronte. I’ll have you think so.
I welcome his attentions joyfully,
Admire his talk, esteem his character,
And will confess to everything you please.
Go on, do what you choose, let nothing stop you,
But don’t vex me about it any more.

ALCESTE, aside
Good heavens! Can anything be found more cruel?
Was ever heart so treated? What! I come
All hot with righteous anger, to complain
Of her, and find myself the one that’s blamed!
My griefs and doubts are goaded to the utmost,
She bids me think the worst, and glories in it;
And yet my heart is still so base and weak
It cannot break the chains that bind me to her,
Nor arm itself with noble scorn, against
The ungrateful object of a love too fond!
(To Célimène) How skilled you are to turn against me now,
Traitress, the weapon of my utter weakness,
And use to your own ends the strange excess
Of fated love sprung from your fickle beauty.
Defend yourself, I beg you, from a crime
That crushes me; do not pretend you’re guilty,
But show this letter innocent, if you can.
My love consents to help you; try to seem
Faithful, and I will try to think you so.

CELIMENE
Fie, fie, you’re mad, with all your jealous frenzies,
And don’t deserve the love that’s given you.
I’d like to know what ever could compel me
To stoop on your account to base dissembling?
Or why, if my heart leaned another way,
I shouldn’t say so with sincerity?
What! Does the kind assurance of my feelings
Not come to my defence against your doubts?
Compared with such a pledge, are they of weight?
Do you not outrage me by heeding them?
And since it costs a woman such great effort
To own her love, and since our sex’s honour,
A foe to love, opposes such avowals,
May any lover doubt the oracle
When for his sake we overpass those bounds?
Is he not guilty if he does not trust
What’s never said without a mighty struggle?
Fie on you, doubts like these deserve my anger.
You are not worth the least consideration.
I am a fool, and vexed at my own folly
In still retaining any kindness toward you;
I ought to fix my love on someone else,
And give you reason for a just complaint.

ALCESTE
How strange my weakness for you is! No doubt
You are deceiving me with tender words;
No matter; I must undergo my fate;
My soul is wholly given to love of you;
And I must see, even to the bitter end,
What your heart is, and whether ‘twill betray me.

CELIMENE
No, you don’t love me as one ought to love.

ALCESTE
Nothing can match the greatness of my love.
In its excess of zeal it goes so far
As even to wish you harm; yes, I could wish
That no one ever thought you lovable,
That you were forced to live in misery,
That heaven at your birth had given you nothing,
And that you had no wealth or rank or station,
If so my heart, by free and full devotion,
Might make amends to you for fate’s injustice,
And I might have the joy and glory, then,
Of seeing you owe all to my affection.

CELIMENE
That’s a strange way of caring for me! Heaven
Forbid your ever having cause . . . but here
Is your Du Bois, and strange enough he looks!

SCENE IV

CELIMENE, ALCESTE, DU BOIS

ALCESTE
What means this plight you’re in, this frightened air?
What is it?

DU BOIS
Sir ...

ALCESTE
Well?

DU BOIS
Here’s strange things have happened.

ALCESTE
Well, what?

DU BOIS
We are bad off, sir, very bad.

ALCESTE
How?

DU BOIS
Shall I speak right out?

ALCESTE
Yes, speak, and quickly.

DU BOIS
There’s no one here who’ll . . . ?

ALCESTE
Ah! what dallying!
Speak, will you?

DU BOIS
Sir, we’ve got to get away.

ALCESTE
What’s that?

DU BOIS
We must decamp, and make no noise.

ALCESTE
But why?

DU BOIS
I tell you we must leave this place.

ALCESTE
What for?

DU BOIS
And never stop to say good-bye.

ALCESTE
But what’s the cause, the cause, of what you tell me?

DU BOIS
The cause, the cause, sir, is, we must be packing.

ALCESTE
Ah! I shall break your head, beyond a doubt,
You booby, if you do not change your style.

DU BOIS
Sir, a man dressed in black, with blacker looks,
Came right into the kitchen, sir, and left us
A paper all so scribbled over, sir,
A man would have to be the very devil,
To read the thing. I make no sort of doubt
But it’s about your law-suit; still, old Nick
Himself could not make head or tail of it.

ALCESTE
Well, well, what then? What has this scrawl to do,
You rascal, with our sudden forced departure?

DU BOIS
I’m here to tell you, sir, an hour later
A man who often pays you visits, came
To look for you, and in a hurry too;
And when he couldn’t find you, asked me kindly —
Because he knows I am your faithful servant —
To tell you . . . wait a bit... what is his name . . . ?

ALCESTE
Rogue! Never mind his name; say what he told you!

DU BOIS
Well, he’s a friend of yours, and that’s enough.
He told me you must leave here, for your life,
And that you’re liable to be arrested.

ALCESTE
But why? He told you nothing definite?

DU BOIS
No. But he asked for ink and paper then
And wrote a word by which you can, I think,
Get at the bottom of this mystery.

ALCESTE
Then give it to me.

CELIMENE
What can this portend?

ALCESTE
I don’t know; but I mean to clear it up.
Will you not soon have done, you devil’s limb?

DU BOIS, after having fumbled about for the note a long time
Faith, sir, I’ve left it, sir, upon your table.

ALCESTE
I don’t know what restrains me . . .

CELIMENE
Keep your temper,
And go unravel this perplexing business.

ALCESTE
It seems that Fate, in spite of all I do,
Has sworn to interrupt my talk with you;
But, madam, help me baffle Fate, I pray,
And let me see you yet again to-day.

ACT V

SCENE I

ALCESTE, PHILINTE

ALCESTE
My mind’s made up, I say.

PHILINTE
But must this blow,
However hard it seem, compel you to ...

ALCESTE
No matter what you do or what you say,
Nothing can move me from my settled purpose;
The age we’re living in is so depraved
That I must shun all intercourse with men.
What! Honour, justice, decency, the laws,
Are all combined against my adversary;
My rights are everywhere proclaimed; I rest
Assured upon the justice of my cause;
And yet I’m disappointed by the outcome;
With justice on my side, I lose my case!
A knave, whose story is a public scandal,
Comes off triumphant in his treachery,
And honest truth must yield to blackguardism!
He cuts my throat, and proves he’s doing right!
That grinning face, in which his cant and cunning
Show clearly forth, has influence enough
To overthrow the right and ruin justice!
He gets decree of court to crown his crime!
Then, not contented with the wrong he’s done me,
Finding a villainous book in circulation,
A book deserving of the utmost censure,
And which it is disgraceful even to read,
The scoundrel has the face to say I wrote it!
And thereupon Oronte begins to mutter,
And basely tries to spread the lie! ... Oronte
Who has the standing of a gentleman
At court, and whom I never wronged, unless
By being frank and honest, when he came
With ardent eagerness, against my will,
To ask my judgment on some rhymes he’d written!
Because I treat him like an honest man
And won’t betray the truth or him, he helps
To overwhelm me with a trumped-up crime!
Now he’s become my greatest enemy,
And never will be brought to pardon me,
All just because I didn’t praise his sonnet!
And men, good heavens, are made of stuff like this!
These are the deeds their pride can bring them to!
This is the honesty, the love of virtue,
The justice, and the honour, found among ’em!
I’ve borne the plague of ’em too long; I’ll leave
This savage ambuscade and cut-throat hole;
And since among mankind you live like wolves,
You’ll never see me more in all your days.

PHILINTE
Your plan, methinks, is just a little hasty;
The mischief’s not so great as you make out.
Your adversary’s impudent accusation
Has not caused your arrest— ’tis not believed in;
We find his false report defeats itself,
And such an action well may do him harm.

ALCESTE
Do him harm! He that’s known for scurvy tricks
Need fear no scandal. He’s a licensed scoundrel,
And far from being harmed by this affair,
To-morrow he’ll be found in higher credit.

PHILINTE
In any case ’tis certain few are fooled
By this report his malice spread against you,
And on that score you have no more to fear;
As for your law-suit, which you may complain of
With justice, you can easily appeal
And have this sentence . . .

ALCESTE
No, I’ll hold by it.
However great the wrong this verdict does me,
I’ll take good care it shan’t be set aside;
It is so clear a case of justice wronged,
I’ll hand it down to future generations
As signal proof and unsurpassed example
Of what men’s villainy could be to-day.
The thing may cost me twenty thousand francs,
But for my twenty thousand francs I’ll have
The right to rail against the wickedness
Of human nature, and forever hate it.

PHILINTE
But after all ...

ALCESTE
But after all, your trouble
Is wasted, sir; what can you find to say
About it? Will you have the impudence
To palliate these constant infamies?

PHILINTE
No, I agree to anything you please.
Intrigue and selfish motives govern all,
Deceit wins every battle now-a-days,
And men should be quite other than they are.
But is their lack of righteousness a reason
To shun the world? These faults of human nature
But give us opportunities in life
To put in practice our philosophy;
This is the best employment virtue finds;
If everything were clothed in probity,
If all men’s hearts were open, just, and gentle,
Most of our virtues would be wholly useless,
Since we employ them now, in cheerfully
Enduring wrong, with right upon our side;
And just as any heart of genuine virtue . . .

ALCESTE
I know, sir, you’re a mighty fluent talker,
Always abounding in fine arguments;
Still, you waste time, and all your dapper speeches.
Reason demands, for my own good, that I
Should quit the world; I can’t control my tongue
Enough, nor answer for the things I’d say.
I’d have a hundred duels on my hands.
So let me wait in peace for Célimène;
She must accept the plan that brings me here;
I’ll learn in that way if she really loves me,
And here and now she must convince me of it.

PHILINTE
Let’s go see Eliante, until she comes.

ALCESTE
No, no, my heart’s too full of care. You go
Up stairs to her, and leave me here alone
In this dark corner, with my black chagrin.

PHILINTE
Strange company that is, and too austere
To wait with! I’ll bring Eliante down here.

SCENE II

CELIMENE, ORONTE, ALCESTE

ORONTE
Yes, ’tis for you to say, if ties so dear,
Madam, shall make me wholly yours forever.
I must have full assurance of your heart;
A lover does not like these waverings;
And if my ardent love has power to move you,
You should not hesitate to prove it to me;
And after all, the only proof I ask
Is, no more to admit Alceste’s addresses,
To sacrifice him, madam, to my love,
And shut your door against him from this day.

CELIMENE
But why are you, whom I have heard so often
Lauding his merit, angry with him now?

ORONTE
There’s no need, madam, of these explanations.
The point is, what are your own sentiments?
Choose, if you please, the one you wish to keep;
My own decision only waits on yours.

ALCESTE, coming out of the corner to which he had withdrawn
Yes, madam, he is right, it’s time to choose,
And his demand agrees with my desire.
The same impatience brings me here, the same
Intention; and my love demands of you
Some certain proof. Things can’t drag on forever.
Now is the moment to declare your heart.

ORONTE
Sir, not for anything would I disturb
Your happy fortune by an ill-timed wooing.

ALCESTE
Sir, not for anything — jealous or not —
Would I consent to share her heart with you.

ORONTE
If she can possibly prefer your love . . .

ALCESTE
If she can feel for you the slightest leaning . . .

ORONTE
I swear she’ll have no more of my addresses.

ALCESTE
I swear I’ll ne’er set eyes on her again.

ORONTE
Now, madam, you may speak, without restraint.

ALCESTE
Now, madam, you may choose, and have no fear.

ORONTE
You only need to tell us which you love.

ALCESTE
You only need to say the word, and choose.

ORONTE
What! Can you seem to balk at such a choice!

ALCESTE
What! Can you waver and appear uncertain!

CELIMENE
Good heavens! How out of place is this insistence!
How little sense does either of you show!
’Tis not but what I know which one to choose;
Of course I could not hold my heart suspended
Upon the scales, in doubt between you two;
No choice is quicker made than that of love;
But still, the truth is, I’m too much embarrassed
To state my preference before you both;
I think that words which well may prove unpleasant,
Should not be said point blank, and publicly;
We can give hints enough of how we feel
Without your forcing us to open quarrel;
And gentler intimations are sufficient
To tell a suitor of his ill success.

ORONTE
No, I fear nothing from a frank avowal;
For my part, I consent to it.

ALCESTE
And I
Demand it. Open declaration, now,
Is what I dare insist on most of all,
And I will have no mincing matters, either.
You’re always trying to retain them all;
But no more dallying or uncertainty!
Make now a clear and public declaration,
Or I shall take your silence for decision
And hold that it confirms my worst suspicions.

ORONTE
I thank you for your angry passion, sir,
And I repeat to her the selfsame words.

CELIMENE
How you do weary me with your caprice!
What reason is there in the thing you ask for
Have I not told you why I can’t consent?
Here’s Eliante, I’ll let her be the judge.

SCENE III

ELIANTE, PHILINTE, CELIMENE, ORONTE

CELIMENE
Dear cousin, I am being persecuted
By these two men, whose scheme seems preconcerted.
They both demand, and both insist upon it,
That I proclaim the choice I make between them,
And publicly forbid the other one
To pay me any court forever after.
Tell me if such a thing is ever done.

ELIANTE
You might do better not to ask my counsel;
Perhaps I am the wrong one to appeal to;
I’m on the side of those who speak their mind.

ORONTE
Madam, it is in vain you seek evasions.

ALCESTE
Your shifts and turns are ill supported here.

ORONTE
You needs must speak, and stop this balancing.

ALCESTE
You need do nothing but continue silent.

ORONTE
I only ask one word, to settle matters.

ALCESTE
And I shall understand, if you say nothing.

SCENE IV

ARSINOE, CELIMENE, ELIANTE, ALCESTE, PHILINTE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE, ORONTE

ACASTE, to Célimène
Madam, we both have come, by your good leave,
To clear up here a certain trifling matter.

CLITANDRE, to Oronte and Alceste
Your presence is right welcome, gentlemen;
You likewise are concerned in this affair.

ARSINOE
Madam, you’ll be surprised to see me here;
These gentlemen insisted on my coming;
Both called upon me, and complained to me
Of certain doings that I could not credit.
I feel too sure your heart at least is right,
To think you capable of such a crime;
I shut my eyes against their strongest proofs,
Forgot, for friendship’s sake, our little quarrels,
And even consented to come here with them
To see you clear yourself of this vile slander.

ACASTE
Yes, madam, we should like to have the pleasure
Of seeing how you’ll try to face it out.
You wrote this letter, did you, to Clitandre?

CLITANDRE
You penned this sweet epistle to Acaste?

ACASTE, to Oronte and Alceste
This writing, gentlemen, is not unknown
To you. I doubt not her civility
Has made you but too well acquainted with it.
Still, this is well worth reading:
“You are a strange fellow to blame me for my gaiety, and reproach me with being never so merry as when I am not with you. Nothing can be more unjust, and if you don’t come very soon and entreat my pardon for this crime, I’ll never forgive you as long as I live. Our great gawk of a viscount ...”
He ought to be here.
“Our great gawk of a viscount, whom you complain of first, could never by any possibility suit my taste. Ever since I saw him for three mortal quarters of an hour stand spitting into a well to make rings in the water, I haven’t been able to think much of him. As for the little marquis ...”
Myself, sirs; with no vanity I say it.
“As for the little marquis, who held me so long by the hand yesterday, I think there is nothing so diminutive as his whole personality; he is one of those gentry who have no worth but their titles, and whose merit is all leather and prunello. As for the man with the green ribbons ...”
(To Alceste) ’Tis your turn now, sir.
“As for the man with the green ribbons, he amuses me sometimes with his blunt ways and his surly humours; but hundreds of times I find him the most bothersome bore in the world. And as to the sonnetteer ...”
(To Oronte) This is your package, sir.
“And as to the sonnetteer, who has set up for a wit, and is determined to be an author whether the world will or no, I can’t bring myself to listen to him, and his prose wearies me as much as his verse. So be assured that I am not always so merry as you think; that I miss you greatly, and more than I could wish, at all the entertainments they drag me to; and that the presence of people we like gives a marvellous relish to our pleasures.”
CLITANDRE
Now here am I, for my turn.
“Your Clitandre, that you talk to me of, who abounds so in sweet compliments, is the very last of human beings that I could have a liking for. He is absurd to imagine that he is loved, and you are equally so to believe that you are not. Be reasonable, and exchange your ideas for his; and come to see me as often as you can, to help me bear the annoyance of being beset by him.”
There is a noble type of character
Set forth. You know its name perhaps, dear madam.
Enough. We’ll both of us be proud to show
This portrait of your heart, where’er we go.

ACASTE
I could find much to say; the theme is tempting;
But I don’t hold you worthy of my anger.
I’ll show you, little marquises can find
Hearts to console them, of a nobler kind.

SCENE V

ARSINOE, CELIMENE, ELIANTE, ALCESTE, ORONTE, PHILINTE

ORONTE
What! Must I see myself thus torn to tatters,
After the things I’ve had you write to me!
And does your heart, in love’s false finery
Arrayed, plight troth with all mankind by turns!
I was too much the dupe, I’m so no longer.
I owe you much for teaching me to know you,
I’m richer by the heart you thus restore.
And find revenge in knowing what you lose.
(To Alceste) I shall oppose your love no longer, sir,
And now you may conclude your match with her.

SCENE VI

CELIMENE, ELIANTE, ARSINOE, ALCESTE, PHILINTE

ARSINOE, to Célimène
This is the blackest deed I’ve ever known;
I can’t be silent, I’m in such a ferment.
Did ever anybody see the like?
Not that I care a snap about those others;
But that this gentleman, (Pointing to Alceste) whom your good luck
Attached to you, a man of worth and honour,
Who doted on you to idolatry,
Should be so . . .

ALCESTE
Madam, will you please allow me
To manage my affairs myself, and not
Take on yourself this quite superfluous burden?
However warmly you espouse my cause,
I’m in no way to pay your zeal in kind:
And you are not a person I could think of
Should I seek vengeance by another choice.

ARSINOE
Eh! Do you fancy, sir, I’ve that idea,
Or do you think I’d be so quick to have you?
I must say you are mighty vain if you
Can lay that flattering unction to your soul.
This lady’s leavings are an article
’Twould be a great mistake to rate so highly.
Pray undeceive yourself; don’t be so proud.
People like me are not for such as you.
You’d do well still to dangle at her skirts,
And marry her — you’d get your just deserts.

SCENE VII

CELIMENE, ELIANTE, ALCESTE, PHILINTE

ALCESTE, to Célimène
Well, I’ve kept silent, spite of what I’ve heard,
And let them all say out their say before me.
Have I controlled my feelings long enough,
And may I now . . . ?

CELIMENE
Yes, yes, say all you will;
You have the right, you justly may complain
And blame me as you please. I’m wrong, I own it;
In my confusion I shall not attempt
To put you off with any vain excuse.
The others’ anger I despised. But you
I must admit I’ve wronged; and your resentment
Beyond all doubt is just; I know how guilty
I must appear to you; how everything
Proclaims that I was ready to betray you,
And that you truly have good cause to hate me.
Do so, I must submit.

ALCESTE
Ah! Can I, traitress?
Can I thus triumph over all my love?
And though with all my might I long to hate you,
How can I ever make my heart obey me?
(To Eliante and Philinte)
You see how far an abject love can go;
I call you both to witness to my weakness.
Yet, to confess the truth, this is not all,
You’ll see me push it to the bitter end,
And prove that men are wrongfully called wise,
For all hearts have a touch of human nature.
(To Célimène) Yes, I am willing to forget your crimes;
I’ll find it in my heart to pardon all,
And tell myself that they are weaknesses
To which the vices of the time misled you,
If only you’ll consent to that design
Which I have formed, to flee from all mankind,
And be resolved at once to follow me
Into my desert, where I’ve vowed to live.
’Tis only so that in the world’s opinion
You can repair the mischief of your letters,
And even after scandal so abhorrent
To noble natures, I may love you still.

CELIMENE
What, I renounce the world before I’m old,
And go be buried in your solitude!

ALCESTE
But if your fondness equals my affection,
What matters to you all the world beside?
Will not your wishes be content with me?

CELIMENE
But solitude has terrors for a soul
Of twenty; mine’s not great and firm enough,
I fear, to let me take that high resolve.
But if my hand can satisfy your wishes,
I’ll bring myself to suffer such a bond,
And marriage . . .

ALCESTE
No; my heart detests you now.
This one rebuff does more than all the rest.
And since you cannot find, in that dear tie,
Your all in me, as I my all in you
Go, I refuse you; this last sore offence
Sets me forever free from your base fetters.

(Célimène goes.)

SCENE VIII

ELIANTE, ALCESTE, PHILINTE

ALCESTE, to Eliante
Madam, a hundred virtues crown your beauty.
In you alone I’ve found sincerity,
And long I’ve felt for you a deep regard;
But let me still esteem you thus; and suffer
My heart, with all its varied agitations,
Not to demand the honour of your service.
I’m too unworthy, and begin to see
That heaven did not create me fit for marriage;
The leavings of a heart unworthy you,
Would be an offering meaner than your due;
And so ...

ELIANTE
So let it be, Alceste, I pray;
I’m at no loss to give my hand away;
And here’s your friend — to seek no further — he,
If I should ask him, might accept of me.

PHILINTE
That honour, madam, is my whole desire;
To win it I would go through flood and fire.

ALCESTE
May you, to taste true happiness, preserve
These feelings each for each, and never swerve.
Betrayed on all sides, overwhelmed with wrong,
I’ll leave this den of thieves vice reigns among,
And find some lonely corner, if I can,
Where one is free to be an honest man.

PHILINTE
Come, madam, let us use our utmost art
To change this savage purpose of his heart.

THE END

The Physician in Spite of Himself

Le Médecin malgré lui

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personae

Act 1

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

Scene IV.

Scene V.

Scene VI.

Act 2

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

Scene IV.

Scene V.

Scene VI.

Scene VII.

Scene VIII.

Scene IX.

Act 3

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

Scene IV.

Scene V.

Scene VI.

Scene VII.

Scene VIII.

Scene IX.

Scene X.

Scene XI.

The original frontispiece, 1682

The frontispiece of 1719

Dramatis Personae

Géronte, father to Lucinde.
Léandre, Lucinde’s lover.
Sganarelle, husband to Martine.
M. Robert, Sganarelle’s neighbour.
Lucas, husband to Jacqueline.
Valère, Géronte’s servant.
Thibaut, peasants
Perrin, his son, peasants,
Lucinde, Géronte’s daughter.
Martine, Sganarelle’s wife.
Jacqueline, nurse at Géronte’s, and Lucas’ wife.

The Scene represents a Forest.

Act 1

Scene I.

SGANARELLE, MARTINE (APPEARING on the stage, quarrelling).

Sganarelle. No; I tell you that I will do nothing of the kind, and that it is for me to speak, and to be master.

Martine. And I tell you that I will have you live as I like, and that I am not married to you to put up with your vagaries.

Sganarelle. Oh! what a nuisance it is to have a wife! and Aristotle is perfectly right in saying that a woman is worse than a demon.

Martine. Look at Master Clever, with his silly Aristotle!

Sganarelle. Yes, Master Clever. Find me another faggot-binder who can argue upon things as I can, who has served a famous physician for six years, and who, when only a boy, knew his grammar by heart!

Martine. Plague on the arrant fool.

Sganarelle. Plague on the slut!

Martine. Cursed be the hour and the day when I took it into my head to say yes.

Sganarelle. Cursed be the cuckold of a notary that made me sign my own ruination.

Martine. Certainly it well becomes you to complain on that score. Ought you not rather to thank Heaven every minute of the day that you have me for a wife? and did you deserve to marry a woman like me?

Sganarelle. It is true you did me too much honour, and I had great occasion to be satisfied with my wedding-night. Zounds! do not make me open my mouth too wide: I might say certain things . . .

Martine. What? What could you say?

Sganarelle. Enough; let us drop the subject. It is enough that we know what we know, and that you were very glad to meet with me.

Martine. What do you call very glad to meet with you? A fellow who will drive me to the hospital — a debauched, deceitful wretch, who gobbles up every farthing I have got!

Sganarelle. That is a lie: for I drink part of it.

Martine. Who sells piecemeal every stick of furniture in the house.

Sganarelle. That is living upon one’s means.

Martine. Who has taken the very bed from under me!

Sganarelle. You will get up all the earlier.

Martine. In short, who does not leave me a stick in the whole house!

Sganarelle. There will be less trouble in moving.

Martine. And who from morning to night does nothing but gamble and drink!

Sganarelle. That is done in order not to get in the dumps.

Martine. And what am I to do all the while with my family?

Sganarelle. Whatever you like.

Martine. I have got four poor children on my hands.

Sganarelle. Put them down.

Martine. — Who keep asking me every moment for bread.

Sganarelle. Whip them. When I have had enough to eat and to drink, every one in the house ought to be satisfied.

Martine. And do you mean to tell me, you sot, that things can always go on so?

Sganarelle. Wife, let us proceed gently, if you please.

Martine. That I am to bear forever with your insolence and your debauchery?

Sganarelle. Do not let us get into a passion, wife.

Martine. And that I do not know the way to bring you back to your duty?

Sganarelle. Wife, you know that I am not very patient, and that my arm is somewhat heavy.

Martine. I laugh at your threats.

Sganarelle. My sweet wife, my pet, your skin is itching as usual.

Martine. I will let you see that I am not afraid of you.

Sganarelle. My dearest rib, you have set your heart upon a thrashing.

Martine. Do you think that I am frightened at your talk?

Sganarelle. Sweet object of my affections, I shall box your ears for you.

Martine. Sot that you are!

Sganarelle. I shall thrash you.

Martine. Walking wine-cask!

Sganarelle. I shall pummel you.

Martine. Infamous wretch!

Sganarelle. I shall curry your skin for you.

Martine. Wretch! villain! deceiver! cur! scoundrel! gallows-bird! churl! rogue! scamp! thief! . . .

Sganarelle. You will have it, will you? (Takes a stick and beats her.)

Martine (shrieking). Help! help! help! help!

Sganarelle. That is the real way of quieting you.

Scene II.

M. Robert, Sganarelle, Martine.
M. Robert. Hulloa, hulloa, hulloa! Fie! What is this? What a disgraceful thing! Plague take the scamp to beat his wife so.

Martine (her arms akimbo, speaks to M. Robert, and makes him draw back; at last she gives him a slap on the face). And I like him to beat me, I do.
M. Robert. If that is the case, I consent with all my heart.

Martine. What are you interfering with?
M. Robert. I am wrong.

Martine. Is it any of your business?
M. Robert. You are right.

Martine. Just look at this jackanapes, who wishes to hinder husbands from beating their wives!
M. Robert. I apologize.

Martine. What have you got to say to it?
M. Robert. Nothing.

Martine. Is it for you to poke your nose into it?
M. Robert. No.

Martine. Mind your own business.
M. Robert. I shall not say another word.

Martine. It pleases me to be beaten.
M. Robert. Agreed.

Martine. It does not hurt you.
M. Robert. That is true.

Martine. And you are an ass to interfere with what does not concern you.
M. Robert. Neighbour, I ask your pardon with all my heart. Go on, thrash and beat your wife as much as you like; I shall help you, if you wish it. (He goes towards Sganarelle, who also speaks to him, makes him draw back, beats him with the stick he has been using, and puts him to flight).

Sganarelle. I do not wish it.
M. Robert. Ah! that is a different thing.

Sganarelle. I will beat her if I like; and I will not beat her if I do not like.
M. Robert. Very good.

Sganarelle. She is my wife, and not yours.
M. Robert. Undoubtedly.

Sganarelle. It is not for you to order me about.
M. Robert. Just so.

Sganarelle. I do not want your help.
M. Robert. Exactly so.

Sganarelle. And it is like your impertinence to meddle with other people’s business. Remember that Cicero says that between the tree and the finger you should not put the bark. (He drives him away, then comes back to his wife, and says to her, squeezing her hand:)

Scene III.

SGANARELLE, MARTINE.

Sganarelle. Come, let us make it up. Shake hands.

Martine. Yes, after having beaten me thus!

Sganarelle. Never mind that. Shake hands.

Martine. I will not.

Sganarelle. Eh?

Martine. No.

Sganarelle. Come, wife!

Martine. I shall not.

Sganarelle. Come, I tell you.

Martine. I will do nothing of the kind.

Sganarelle. Come, come, come.

Martine. No; I will be angry.

Sganarelle. Bah! it is a trifle. Do.

Martine. Leave me alone.

Sganarelle. Shake hands, I tell you.

Martine. You have treated me too ill.

Sganarelle. Well! I beg your pardon; put your hand there.

Martine. I forgive you (aside, softly); but I shall make you pay for it.

Sganarelle. You are silly to take notice of it; these are trifles that are necessary now and then to keep up good feeling; and five or six strokes of a cudgel between people who love each other, only brighten the affections. There now! I am going to the wood, and I promise you that you shall have more than a hundred faggots to-day.

Scene IV.

Martine, alone.
Go, my lad, whatever look I may put on, I shall not forget to pay you out; and I am dying to hit upon something to punish you for the blows you gave me. I know well enough that a wife has always the means of being revenged upon her husband; but that is too delicate a punishment for my gallows-bird; I want a revenge that shall strike home a little more, or it will not be satisfaction for the insult which I have received.

Scene V.

VALÈRE, LUCAS, MARTINE.

Lucas (to Valère, without seeing Martine). I’facks we have undertaken a curious errand; and I do not know, for my part, what we shall get by it.

Valère (to Lucas, without seeing Martine). What is the use of grumbling, good foster-father? We are bound to do as our master tells us; and, besides, we have both of us some interest in the health of his daughter, our mistress; for her marriage, which is put off through her illness, will no doubt bring us in something. Horace, who is generous, is the most likely to succeed among her suitors; and although she has shown some inclination for a certain Léandre, you know well enough that her father would never consent to receive him for his son-in-law.

Martine (musing on one side, thinking herself alone). Can I not find out some way of revenging myself?

Lucas (to Valère). But what an idea has he taken into his head, since the doctors are quite at a loss.

Valère (to Lucas). You may sometimes find by dint of seeking, what cannot be found at once; and often in the most unlikely spots you may . . .

Martine (still thinking herself alone). Yes; I must pay him out, no matter at what cost. Those cudgel blows lie heavy on my stomach; I cannot digest them; and . . . (She is saying all this musingly, and as she moves, she comes in contact with the two men). Ah, gentlemen, I beg your pardon, I did not notice you, and was puzzling my brain about something that perplexes me.

Valère. Every one has his troubles in this world, and we also are looking for something that we should be very glad to find.

Martine. Is it something in which I can assist you?

Valère. Perhaps. We are endeavouring to meet with some clever man, some special physician, who could give some relief to our master’s daughter, seized with an illness which has at once deprived her of the use of her tongue. Several physicians have already exhausted all their knowledge on her behalf; but sometimes one may find people with wonderful secrets, and certain peculiar remedies, who very often succeed where others have failed; and that is the sort of man we are looking for.

Martine (softly and aside). Ah! This is an inspiration from Heaven to revenge myself on my rascal. (Aloud). You could never have addressed yourself to any one more able to find what you want; and we have a man here, the most wonderful fellow in the world for desperate maladies.

Valère. Ah! for mercy’s sake, where can we meet with him?

Martine. You will find him just now in that little spot yonder, where he is amusing himself in cutting wood.

Lucas. A doctor who cuts wood!

Valère. Who is amusing himself in gathering some simples, you mean to say?

Martine. No; he is a strange fellow who takes a delight in this; a fantastic, eccentric, whimsical man, whom you would never take to be what he really is. He goes about dressed in a most extraordinary fashion,
pretends sometimes to be very ignorant, keeps his knowledge to himself, and dislikes nothing so much every day as using the marvellous talents which God has given him for the healing art.

Valère. It is a wonderful thing that all these great men have always some whim, some slight grain of madness mixed with their learning.

Martine. The madness of this man is greater than can be imagined, for sometimes he has to be beaten before he will own his ability; and I warn you beforehand that you will not succeed, that he will never own that he is a physician, unless you take each a stick, and compel him, by dint of blows, to admit at last what he will conceal at first. It is thus that we act when we have need of him.

Valère. What a strange delusion!

Martine. That is true; but, after that, you shall see that he works wonders.

Valère. What is his name?

Martine. His name is Sganarelle. But it is very easy to recognise him. He is a man with a large black beard, and wears a ruff, and a yellow and green coat.

Lucas. A yellow and green coat! He is then a parrot-doctor?

Valère. But is it really true that he is as clever as you say?

Martine. As clever. He is a man who works miracles. About six months ago, a woman was given up by all the other physicians; she was considered dead at least six hours, and they were going to bury her, when they dragged by force the man we are speaking of to her bedside. Having seen her, he poured a small drop of something into her mouth; and at that very instant she rose from her bed, and began immediately to walk in her room as if nothing had happened.

Lucas. Ah!

Valère. It must have been a drop of liquid gold.

Martine. Possibly so. Not more than three weeks ago, a young child, twelve years old, fell from the top of the belfry, and smashed his head, arms, and legs on the stones. No sooner took they our man to it, than he rubbed the whole body with a certain ointment, which he knows how to prepare; and the child immediately rose on its legs, and ran away to play at chuck-farthing.

Lucas. Hah!

Valère. This man must have the universal cure-all.

Martine. Who doubts it?

Lucas. Odds-bobs! that is the very man we want. Let us go quickly and fetch him.

Valère. We thank you for the service you have rendered us.

Martine. But do not fail to remember the warning I have given you.

Lucas. Hey! Zooks! leave it to us. If he wants nothing but a thrashing, we will gain our point.

Valère (to Lucas). We are very glad to have met with this woman; and I conceive the best hopes in the world from it.

Scene VI.

SGANARELLE, VALÈRE, LUCAS.

Sganarelle (singing behind the Scene). La, la, la . . .

Valère. I hear some one singing and cutting wood.

Sganarelle (coming on, with a bottle in his hand, without perceiving Valère or Lucas). La, la, la. . . . Really I have done enough to deserve a drink. Let us take a little breath. (He drinks). This wood is as salt as the very devil. (Sings).
How sweet to hear,
My pretty flask,
How sweet to hear,
Your little gull, gull!
No fate with mine could vie,
If never you ran dry,
Oh, darling little flask,
But constantly were full!
Come! Zounds! we must take care not to get the blues.

Valère (softly to Lucas). This is the very man.

Lucas (softly to Valère). I think you are right, and that we have just hit upon him.

Valère. Let us look a little closer.

Sganarelle (hugging the bottle). Ah! you little rogue! I love you, my pretty dear! (He sings; but perceiving Lucas and Valère, who are examining him, he lowers his voice.)
No fate . . . with mine . . . could . . . vie,
Is . . .
(Seeing that they examine him more closely). Whom the deuce do these people want?

Valère (to Lucas). It is surely he.

Lucas (to Valère). There he is, exactly as he has been described to us.

Sganarelle (aside). (At this point he puts down his bottle; and when Valère stoops down to bow to him, he thinks that it is in order to snatch it away, and puts it on the other side. As Lucas is doing the same thing as Valère, Sganarelle takes it up again, and hugs it to his breast, with various grimaces which make a great deal of by-play.) They are consulting each other, while looking at me. What can be their intentions!

Valère. Sir, is not your name Sganarelle?

Sganarelle. Hey! What!

Valère. I ask you if your name is not Sganarelle.

Sganarelle (turning first to Valère, then to Lucas). Yes, and no. It depends on what you want with him.

Valère. We want nothing with him, but to offer him our utmost civilities.

Sganarelle. In that case my name is Sganarelle.

Valère. We are delighted to see you, Sir. We have been recommended to you for what we are in search of; and we have come to implore your help, of which we are in want.

Sganarelle. If it be anything, gentlemen, that belongs to my little trade, I am quite ready to oblige you.

Valère. You are too kind to us, Sir. But put your hat on, Sir, if you please; the sun might hurt you.

Lucas. Pray, Sir, put it on.

Sganarelle (aside). What a deal of ceremony these people use. (He puts his hat on).

Valère. You must not think it strange, Sir, that we have addressed ourselves to you. Clever people are always much sought after, and we have been informed of your capacity.

Sganarelle. It is true, gentlemen, that I am the best hand in the world at making faggots.

Valère. Oh! Sir . . .

Sganarelle. I spare no pains, and make them in a fashion that leaves nothing to be desired.

Valère. That is not the question we have come about, Sir.

Sganarelle. But I charge a hundred and ten sous the hundred.

Valère. Let us not speak about that, if you please.

Sganarelle. I pledge you my word that I could not sell them for less.

Valère. We know what is what, Sir.

Sganarelle. If you know what is what, you know that I charge that price.

Valère. This is a joke, Sir, but . . .

Sganarelle. It is no joke at all, I cannot bate a farthing.

Valère. Let us talk differently, please.

Sganarelle. You may find some elsewhere for less; there be faggots and faggots; but for those which I make . . .

Valère. Let us change the conversation, pray, Sir.

Sganarelle. I take my oath that you shall not have them for less, not a fraction.

Valère. Fie! Fie!

Sganarelle. No, upon my word, you shall have to pay that price. I am speaking frankly, and I am not the man to overcharge.

Valère. Ought a gentleman like you, Sir, to amuse himself with those clumsy pretences, to lower himself to talk thus? Ought so learned a man, such a famous physician as you are, wish to disguise himself in the eyes of the world and keep buried his great talents?

Sganarelle (aside). He is mad.

Valère. Pray, Sir, do not dissemble with us.

Sganarelle. What do you mean?

Lucas. All this beating about the bush is useless. We know what we know.

Sganarelle. What do you know? What do you want with me? For whom do you take me?

Valère. For what you are, a great physician.

Sganarelle. Physician yourself; I am not one, and I have never been one.

Valère (aside). Now the fit is on him. (Aloud). Sir, do not deny things any longer, and do not, if you please, make us have recourse to unpleasant extremities.

Sganarelle. Have recourse to what?

Valère. To certain things that we should be sorry for.

Sganarelle. Zounds! Have recourse to whatever you like. I am not a physician, and do not understand what you mean.

Valère (aside). Well, I perceive that we shall have to apply the remedy. (Aloud.) Once more, Sir, I pray you to confess what you are.

Lucas. Odds-bobs, do not talk any more nonsense; and confess plainly that you are a physician.

Sganarelle (aside). I am getting in a rage.

Valère. What is the good of denying what all the world knows?

Lucas. Why all these funny falsehoods? What is the good of it?

Sganarelle. One word is as good as a thousand, gentlemen. I tell you that I am not a physician.

Valère. You are not a physician?

Sganarelle. No.

Lucas. You are not a physician?

Sganarelle. No, I tell you.

Valère. Since you will have it so, we must make up our minds to do it. (They each take a stick, and thrash him.)

Sganarelle. Hold! hold! hold, gentlemen! I will be anything you like.

Valère. Why, Sir, do you oblige us to use this violence?

Lucas. Why do you make us take the trouble of giving you a beating?

Valère. I assure you that I regret it with all my heart.

Lucas. Upon my word I am sorry for it too.

Sganarelle. What the devil does it all mean, gentlemen? For pity’s sake, is it a joke, or are you both gone out of your minds, to wish to make me out a physician?

Valère. What! you do not give in yet, and you still deny being a physician?

Sganarelle. The devil take me if I am one!

Lucas. Are you not a physician?

Sganarelle. No, plague choke me! (They begin to thrash him again). Hold! hold! Well gentlemen, yes, since you will have it so, I am a physician, I am a physician — an apothecary into the bargain, if you like. I prefer saying yes to everything to being knocked about so.

Valère. Ah! that is right, Sir; I am delighted to see you so reasonable.

Lucas. It does my heart good to hear you speak in this way.

Valère. I beg your pardon with all my heart.

Lucas. I hope you will forgive me for the liberty I have taken.

Sganarelle (aside). Bless my soul! Am I perhaps myself mistaken, and have I become a physician without being aware of it?

Valère. You shall not regret, Sir, having shown us what you are; and you shall certainly be satisfied.

Sganarelle. But, tell me, gentlemen, may you not be yourselves mistaken? Is it quite certain that I am a physician?

Lucas. Yes, upon my word!

Sganarelle. Really and truly.

Valère. Undoubtedly.

Sganarelle. The devil take me if I knew it!

Valère. Nonsense! You are the cleverest physician in the world.

Sganarelle. Ha, ha!

Lucas. A physician who has cured I do not know how many complaints.

Sganarelle. The dickens I have!

Valère. A woman was thought dead for six hours; she was ready to be buried when you, with a drop of something, brought her to again, and made her walk at once about the room.

Sganarelle. The deuce I did!

Lucas. A child of twelve fell from the top of the belfry, by which he had his head, his legs, and his arms smashed; and you, with I do not know what ointment, made him immediately get up on his feet, and off he ran to play chuck-farthing.

Sganarelle. The devil I did!

Valère. In short, Sir, you will be satisfied with us, and you shall earn whatever you like, if you allow us to take you where we intend.

Sganarelle. I shall earn whatever I like?

Valère. Yes.

Sganarelle. In that case I am a physician: there is no doubt of it. I had forgotten it; but I recollect it now. What is the matter? Where am I to go?

Valère. We will conduct you. The matter is to see a girl who has lost her speech.

Sganarelle. Indeed! I have not found it.

Valère (softly to Lucas). How he loves his joke! (To Sganarelle). Come along, Sir!

Sganarelle. Without a physician’s gown!

Valère. We will get one.

Sganarelle (presenting his bottle to Valère). You carry this: I put my juleps in there (turning round to Lucas and spitting on the ground). And you, stamp on this, by order of the physician.

Lucas. Odds sniggers! this is a physician I like. I think he will do, for he is a comical fellow.

Act 2

(THE SCENE REPRESENTS a room in Géronte’s house.)

Scene I.

GÉRONTE, VALÈRE, LUCAS, Jacqueline.

Valère. Yes, sir, I think you will be satisfied; we have brought the greatest physician in the world with us.

Lucas. Oh! Zooks! this one beats everything; all the others are not worthy to hold the candle to him.

Valère. He is a man who has performed some marvellous cures.

Lucas. Who has put dead people on their legs again.

Valère. He is somewhat whimsical, as I have told you; and at times there are moments when his senses wander, and he does not seem what he really is.

Lucas. Yes, he loves a joke, and one would say sometimes that he has got a screw loose somewhere.

Valère. But in reality he is quite scientific; and very often he says things quite beyond any one’s comprehension.

Lucas. When he sets about it, he talks as finely as if he were reading a book.

Valère. He has already a great reputation hereabout, and everybody comes to consult him.

Géronte. I am very anxious to see him; send him to me quickly.

Valère. I am going to fetch him.

Scene II.

GÉRONTE, JACQUELINE, LUCAS.

Jacqueline. Upon my word, Sir, this one will do just the same as all the rest. I think it will be six of the one and half-a-dozen of the others; and the best medicine to give to your daughter would, in my opinion, be a handsome strapping husband, for whom she could have some love.

Géronte. Lord bless my soul, nurse dear, you are meddling with many things!

Lucas. Hold your tongue, mother Jacqueline; it is not for you to poke your nose there.

Jacqueline. I tell you, and a dozen more of you, that all these physicians do her no good; that your daughter wants something else than rhubarb and senna, and that a husband is a plaster which cures all girls’ complaints.

Géronte. Would any one have her in her present state, with that affliction on her? and when I intended her to marry, has she not opposed my wishes?

Jacqueline. No wonder. You wished to give her a man whom she does not like. Why did you not give her to Monsieur Léandre, who takes her fancy? She would have been very obedient, and I vouch for it that he will take her as she is, if you but give her to him.

Géronte. Léandre is not the man we want; he has not got a fortune like the other.

Jacqueline. He has got an uncle who is so rich, and he is the heir.

Géronte. All these expectations seem to me but moonshine. Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is a better; and we run a great risk in waiting for dead men’s shoes. Death is not always at the beck and call of gentlemen heirs; and while the grass grows, the cow starves.

Jacqueline. That is all well and good, but I have always heard that in marriage, as in everything else, happiness excels riches. Fathers and mothers have this cursed habit of asking always, “How much has he got? “ and “How much has she got? “ And gaffer Peter has married his Simonette to that lout Thomas, because he has got a few more vineyards than young Robin, for whom the girl had a fancy; and now the poor creature is as yellow as a guinea, and has not looked like herself ever since. That is a good example for you, Sir. After all, folks have but their pleasure in this world; and I would sooner give my daughter a husband whom she likes than have all the riches in the country.

Géronte. Bless me, nurse, how you chatter! Hold your tongue, let me beg of you; you take too much upon yourself, and you will spoil your milk.

Lucas. (slapping Géronte’s shoulder at every word). Indeed, be silent; you are too saucy. The master does not want your speeches, and he knows what he is about. All you have got to do is to suckle your baby, without arguing so much. Our master is the girl’s father, and he is good and clever enough to know what she wants.

Géronte. Gently, gently.

Lucas (still slapping Géronte’s shoulder). I wish to show her her place, and teach her the respect due to you, Sir.

Géronte. Very well. But it does not need all this gesticulating.

Scene III.

VALÈRE, SGANARELLE, GÉRONTE, Lucas, Jacqueline.

Valère. Look out, Sir, here is our physician coming.

Géronte (to Sganarelle). I am delighted to see you, Sir, at my house, and we have very great need of you.

Sganarelle (in a physician’s gown with a very pointed cap). Hippocrates says . . . that we should both put our hats on.

Géronte. Hippocrates says that?

Sganarelle. Yes.

Géronte. In which chapter, if you please?

Sganarelle. In his chapter . . . on hats.

Géronte. Since Hippocrates says so, we must obey.

Sganarelle. Doctor, having heard of the marvellous things . . .

Géronte. To whom are you speaking, pray?

Sganarelle. To you.

Géronte. I am not a physician.

Sganarelle. You are not a physician?

Géronte. Indeed I am not.

Sganarelle. Really?

Géronte. Really. (Sganarelle takes a stick and thrashes Géronte.) Oh! Oh! Oh!

Sganarelle. Now you are a physician, I have never taken any other degree.

Géronte (to Valère). What a devil of a fellow you have brought me here!

Valère. Did I not tell you that he was a funny sort of a physician?

Géronte. Yes; but I shall send him about his business with his fun.

Lucas. Do not take any notice of it, Sir. It is only his joking.

Géronte. The joking does not suit me.

Sganarelle. Sir; I beg your pardon for the liberty I have taken.

Géronte. I am your humble servant, Sir.

Sganarelle. I am sorry . . .

Géronte. It is nothing.

Sganarelle. For the cudgelling I . . .

Géronte. There is no harm done.

Sganarelle. Which I have had the honour to give you.

Géronte. Do not say any more about it, Sir. I have a daughter who is suffering from a strange complaint.

Sganarelle. I am delighted, Sir, that your daughter has need of my skill; and I wish, with all my heart, that you stood in the same need of it, you and all your family, in order to show you my wish to serve you.

Géronte. I am obliged to you for these kind feelings.

Sganarelle. I assure you that I am speaking from my very heart.

Géronte. You really do me too much honour.

Sganarelle. What is your daughter’s name?

Géronte. Lucinde.

Sganarelle. Lucinde! Ah! a pretty name to physic! Lucinde!

Géronte. I will just see what she is doing.

Sganarelle. Who is that tall woman?

Géronte. She is my baby’s nurse.

Scene IV.

Sganarelle, Jacqueline, Lucas.

Sganarelle (aside). The deuce! that is a fine piece of household furniture. (Aloud). Ah, nurse! Charming nurse! my physic is the very humble slave of your nurseship, and I should like to be the fortunate little nursling to suck the milk of your good graces.
(He puts his hand on her bosom.) All my nostrums, all my skill, all my cleverness, is at your service; and . . .

Lucas. By your leave, M. Doctor; leave my wife alone, I pray you.

Sganarelle. What! is she your wife?

Lucas. Yes.

Sganarelle. Oh! indeed! I did not know that, but I am very glad of it for the love of both. (He pretends to embrace Lucas, but embraces the nurse.)

Lucas. (pulling Sganarelle away, and placing himself between him and his wife). Gently, if you please.

Sganarelle. I assure you that I am delighted that you should be united together. I congratulate her upon having such a husband as you; and I congratulate you upon having a wife so handsome, so discreet, and so well-shaped as she is. (He pretends once more to embrace Lucas, who holds out his arms, he slips under them and embraces the nurse).

Lucas (pulling him away again). Do not pay so many compliments, I beg of you.

Sganarelle. Shall I not rejoice with you about such a lovely harmony?

Lucas. With me as much as you like; but a truce to compliments with my wife.

Sganarelle. I have both your happiness equally at heart; and if I embrace you to show my delight in you, I embrace her to show my delight in her. (Same by-play).

Lucas (pulling him away for the third time). Odds boddikins, Doctor, what capers you cut!

Scene V.

GÉRONTE, SGANARELLE, LUCAS, Jacqueline.

Géronte. My daughter will be here directly, Sir.

Sganarelle. I am awaiting her, Sir, with all my physic.

Géronte. Where is it?

Sganarelle (touching his forehead). In there.

Géronte. That is good.

Sganarelle. But as I feel much interested in your family, I should like to test the milk of your nurse, and examine her breasts. (He draws close to Jacqueline).

Lucas (pulling him away, and swinging him round). Nothing of the sort, nothing of the sort. I do not wish it.

Sganarelle. It is the physician’s duty to see the breasts of the nurse.

Lucas. Duty or no duty, I will not have it.

Sganarelle. Have you the audacity to contradict a physician? Out with you.

Lucas. I do not care a straw about a physician.

Sganarelle (looking askance at him). I will give you a fever.

Jacqueline (taking Lucas by the arm, and swinging him round also). Get out of the way. Am I not big enough to take my own part, if he does anything to me which he ought not to do?

Lucas. I will not have him touch you, I will not.

Sganarelle. For shame you rascal, to be jealous of your wife.

Géronte. Here comes my daughter.

Scene VI.

LUCINDE, GÉRONTE, SGANARELLE, Valère, Lucas, Jacqueline.

Sganarelle. Is this the patient?

Géronte. Yes, I have but one daughter; and I would never get over it if she were to die.

Sganarelle. Do not let her do anything of the kind. She must not die without a prescription of the physician.

Géronte. A chair here!

Sganarelle (seated between Géronte and Lucinde). This is not at all an unpleasant patient, and I am of the opinion that she would not be at all amiss for a man in very good health.

Géronte. You have made her laugh, Sir.

Sganarelle. So much the better. It is the best sign in the world when a physician makes the patient laugh. (To Lucinde.) Well, what is the matter? What ails you? What is it you feel?

Lucinde (replies by motions, by putting her hand to her mouth, her head, and under her chin). Ha, hi, ho, ha!

Sganarelle. What do you say?

Lucinde (continues the same motions). Ha, hi, ho, ha, ha, hi, ho!

Sganarelle. What is that?

Lucinde. Ha, hi, ho!

Sganarelle (imitating her). Ha, hi, ho, ha, ha! I do not understand you. What sort of language do you call that?

Géronte. That is just where her complaint lies, Sir. She has become dumb, without our having been able till now to discover the cause. This accident has obliged us to postpone her marriage.

Sganarelle. And why so?

Géronte. He whom she is going to marry wishes to wait for her recovery to conclude the marriage.

Sganarelle. And who is this fool that does not want his wife to be dumb? Would to Heaven that mine had that complaint! I should take particular care not to have her cured.

Géronte. To the point, Sir. We beseech you to use all your skill to cure her of this affliction.

Sganarelle. Do not make yourself uneasy. But tell me, does this pain oppress her much?

Géronte. Yes, Sir.

Sganarelle. So much the better. Is the suffering very acute?

Géronte. Very acute.

Sganarelle. That is right. Does she go to . . . you know where?

Géronte. Yes.

Sganarelle. Freely?

Géronte. That I know nothing about.

Sganarelle. Is the matter healthy?

Géronte. I do not understand these things.

Sganarelle (turning to the patient). Give me your hand. (To Géronte.) The pulse tells me that your daughter is dumb.

Géronte. Sir, that is what is the matter with her; ah! yes, you have found it out at the first touch.

Sganarelle. Of course!

Jacqueline. See how he has guessed her complaint.

Sganarelle. We great physicians, we know matters at once. An ignoramus would have been nonplussed, and would have told you: it is this, that, or the other; but I hit the nail on the head from the very first, and I tell you that your daughter is dumb.

Géronte. Yes; but I should like you to tell me whence it arises.

Sganarelle. Nothing is easier; it arises from loss of speech.

Géronte. Very good. But the reason of her having lost her speech, pray?

Sganarelle. Our best authorities will tell you that it is because there is an impediment in the action of her tongue.

Géronte. But, once more, your opinion upon this impediment in the action of her tongue.

Sganarelle. Aristotle on this subject says . . . a great many clever things.

Géronte. I dare say.

Sganarelle. Ah! He was a great man!

Géronte. No doubt.

Sganarelle. Yes, a very great man. (Holding out his arm, and putting a finger of the other hand in the bend). A man who was, by this, much greater than I. But to come back to our argument: I hold that this impediment in the action of her tongue is caused by certain humours, which among us learned men, we call peccant humours; peccant — that is to say . . . peccant humours; inasmuch as the vapours formed by the exhalations of the influences which rise in the very region of diseases, coming, . . . as we may say to.. . . Do you understand Latin?

Géronte. Not in the least.

Sganarelle (suddenly rising). You do not understand Latin?

Géronte. No.

Sganarelle (assuming various comic attitudes). Cabricias arci thuram, catalamus, singulariter, nominativo, hœc musa, the muse, bonus, bona, bonum. Deus sanctus, estne oratio latinas? Etiam, Yes. Quare? Why. Quia substantivo et adjectivum, concordat in generi, numerum, et casus.

Géronte. Ah! Why did I not study?

Jacqueline. What a clever man!

Lucas. Yes, it is so beautiful that I do not understand a word of it.

Sganarelle. Thus these vapours which I speak of, passing from the left side, where the liver is, to the right side, where we find the heart, it so happens that the lungs, which in Latin we call armyan, having communication with the brain, which in Greek we style nasmus, by means of the vena cava, which in Hebrew, is termed cubile, meet in their course the said vapours, which fill the ventricles of the omoplata; and because the said vapours . . . now understand well this argument, pray . . . and because these said vapours are endowed with a certain malignity . . . listen well to this, I beseech you.

Géronte. Yes.

Sganarelle. Are endowed with a certain malignity which is caused . . . pay attention here, if you please.

Géronte. I do.

Sganarelle. Which is caused by the acridity of these humours engendered in the concavity of the diaphragm, it happens that these vapours.. . . Ossabandus, nequeis, nequer, potarinum, puipsa milus. That is exactly the reason that your daughter is dumb.

Jacqueline. Ah! How well this gentleman explains all this.

Lucas. Why does not my tongue wag as well as his?

Géronte. It is undoubtedly impossible to argue better. There is but one thing that I cannot exactly make out: that is the whereabouts of the liver and the heart. It appears to me that you place them differently from what they are; that the heart is on the left side, and the liver on the right.

Sganarelle. Yes; this was so formerly; but we have changed all that, and we now-a-days practise the medical art on an entirely new system.

Géronte. I did not know that, and I pray you pardon my ignorance.

Sganarelle. There is no harm done; and you are not obliged to be so clever as we are.

Géronte. Certainly not. But what think you, Sir, ought to be done for this complaint?

Sganarelle. What do I think ought to be done?

Géronte. Yes.

Sganarelle. My advice is to put her to bed again, and make her, as a remedy, take plenty of bread soaked in wine.

Géronte. Why so, sir?

Sganarelle. Because there is in bread and wine mixed together a sympathetic virtue which produces speech. Do you not see that they give nothing else to parrots, and that, by eating it, they learn to speak?

Géronte. That is true. Oh! the great man! Quick, plenty of bread and wine.

Sganarelle. I shall come back to-night to see how the patient is getting on.

Scene VII.

GÉRONTE, SGANARELLE, JACQUELINE.

Sganarelle (to Jacqueline). Stop a little you. (To Géronte.) Sir, I must give some medicine to your nurse.

Jacqueline. To me, Sir? I am as well as can be.

Sganarelle. So much the worse, nurse, so much the worse. This excess of health is dangerous, and it would not be amiss to bleed you a little gently, and to administer some little soothing injection.

Géronte. But, my dear Sir, that is a method which I cannot understand. Why bleed folks when they are not ill?

Sganarelle. It does not matter, the method is salutary; and as we drink for the thirst to come, so must we bleed for the disease to come.

Jacqueline (going). I do not care a fig for all this, and I will not have my body made an apothecary’s shop.

Sganarelle. You object to my remedies; but we shall know how to bring you to reason.

Scene VIII.

GÉRONTE, SGANARELLE.

Sganarelle. I wish you good day.

Géronte. Stay a moment, if you please.

Sganarelle. What are you going to do?

Géronte. Give you your fee, sir.

Sganarelle (putting his hands behind him, from under his gown, while Géronte opens his purse). I shall not accept it, Sir.

Géronte. Sir.

Sganarelle. Not at all.

Géronte. One moment.

Sganarelle. On no consideration.

Géronte. Pray!

Sganarelle. You are jesting.

Géronte. That is settled.

Sganarelle. I shall do nothing of the kind.

Géronte. What!

Sganarelle. I do not practise for money’s sake.

Géronte. I am convinced of that.

Sganarelle (after having taken the money). Are they good weight?

Géronte. Yes, Sir.

Sganarelle. I am not a mercenary physician.

Géronte. I am well aware of it.

Sganarelle. I am not actuated by interest.

Géronte. I do not for a moment think so.

Sganarelle (alone, looking at the money he has received). Upon my word, this does not promise badly; and provided . . .

Scene IX.

LÉANDRE, SGANARELLE.

Léandre. I have been waiting some time for you, Sir, and I have come to beg your assistance.

Sganarelle (feeling his pulse). That is a very bad pulse.

Léandre. I am not ill, Sir; and it is not for that I am come to you.

Sganarelle. If you are not ill, why the devil do you not tell me so?

Léandre. No. To tell you the matter in a few words, my name is Léandre. I am in love with Lucinde to whom you have just paid a visit; and as all access to her is denied to me, through the ill-temper of her father, I venture to beseech you to serve me in my love affair, and to assist me in a stratagem that I have invented, so as to say a few words to her, on which my whole life and happiness absolutely depend.

Sganarelle (in apparent anger). Whom do you take me for? How dare you address yourself to me to assist you in your love affair, and to wish me to lower the dignity of a physician by an affair of that kind!

Léandre. Do not make a noise, Sir!

Sganarelle (driving him back). I will make a noise. You are an impertinent fellow.

Léandre. Ah! gently, Sir.

Sganarelle. An ill-mannered jackanapes.

Léandre. Pray!

Sganarelle. I will teach you that I am not the kind of man you take me for, and that it is the greatest insolence . . .

Léandre (taking out a purse). Sir . . .

Sganarelle. To wish to employ me . . . (taking the purse). I am not speaking about you, for you are a gentleman; and I should be delighted to be of any use to you; but there are certain impertinent people in this world who take folks for what they are not; and I tell you candidly that this puts me in a passion.

Léandre. I ask your pardon, Sir, for the liberty I have . . .

Sganarelle. You are jesting. What is the affair in question?

Léandre. You must know then, Sir, that this disease which you wish to cure is a feigned complaint. The physicians have argued about it, as they ought to do, and they have not failed to give it as their opinion, — this one, that it arose from the brain; that one, from the intestines; another, from the spleen; another, again, from the liver; but the fact is that love is its real cause, and that Lucinde has only invented this illness in order to free herself from a marriage with which she has been harassed. But for fear that we may be seen together, let us retire; and I will tell you as we go along, what I wish you to do.

Sganarelle. Come along, then, Sir. You have inspired me with an inconceivable interest in your love; and if all my medical science does not fail me, the patient shall either die or be yours.

Act 3

(THE SCENE REPRESENTS a spot near Géronte’s house.)

Scene I.

LÉANDRE, SGANARELLE.

Léandre. I think that I am not at all badly got up for an apothecary; and as her father has scarcely ever seen me, this change of dress and wig is likely enough, I think, to disguise me.

Sganarelle. There is no doubt of it.

Léandre. Only I should like to know five or six big medical words to leaven my conversation with, and to give me the air of a learned man.

Sganarelle. Go along, go along; it is not at all necessary. The dress is sufficient; and I know no more about it than you do.

Léandre. How is that!

Sganarelle. The devil take me if I understand anything about medicine! You are a gentleman, and I do not mind confiding in you, as you have confided in me.

Léandre. What! Then you are not really . . .

Sganarelle. No, I tell you. They have made me a physician in the teeth of my protests. I have never attempted to be so learned as that; and all my studies did not go farther than the lowest class at school. I do not know how the idea has come to them; but when I saw that in spite of everything they would have it that I was a physician, I made up my mind to be so at somebody’s expense. You would not believe, however, how this error has spread, and how everyone is possessed, and believes me to a learned man. They come seeking me on all sides; and if things go on in this way, I am resolved to stick to the profession all my life. I find that it is the best trade of all; for, whether we manage well or ill, we are paid just the same. Bad workmanship never recoils on us; and we cut the material we have to work with pretty much as we like. A shoemaker, in making a pair of shoes, cannot spoil a scrap of leather without having to bear the loss; but in our business we may spoil a man without its costing us a farthing. The blunders are never put down to us, and it is always the fault of the fellow who dies. The best of this profession is, that there is the greatest honesty and discretion among the dead; for you never find them complain of the physician who has killed them.

Léandre. It is true that the dead are very honourable in that respect.

Sganarelle (seeing some people advancing towards him). There come some people, who seem anxious to consult me. (To Léandre). Go and wait for me near the house of your lady-love.

Scene II.

THIBAUT, PERRIN, SGANARELLE.

Thibaut. Sir, we come to look for you, my son Perrin and myself.

Sganarelle. What is the matter?

Thibaut. His poor mother, whose name is Perrette, has been on a bed of sickness for the last six months.

Sganarelle (holding out his hand as if to receive money). What would you have me do to her?

Thibaut. I would like you to give me some little doctor’s stuff to cure her.

Sganarelle. We must first see what is the matter with her.

Thibaut. She is ill with the hypocrisy, Sir.

Sganarelle. With the hypocrisy?

Thibaut. Yes; I mean she is swollen everywhere. They say that there is a lot of seriosities in her inside, and that her liver, her belly, or her spleen, as you would call it, instead of making blood makes nothing but water. She has, every other day, the quotiguian fever, with lassitude and pains in the muscles of her legs. We can hear in her throat phlegms that are ready to choke her, and she is often taken with syncoles and conversions, so that we think she is going off the hooks. We have got in our village an apothecary — with respect be it said — who has given her, I do not know how much stuff; and it has cost me more than a dozen good crowns in clysters, saving your presence, in apostumes which he has made her swallow, in infections of hyacinth, and in cordial potions. But all this, as people say, was nothing but an ointment of fiddle-faddle. He wanted to give her a certain drug called ametile wine; but I was downright afeard that this would send her to the other world altogether; because they tell me that those big physicians kill, I do not know how many, with that new-fangled notion.

Sganarelle (still holding out his hand, and moving it about to show that he wants money). Let us come to the point, friend, let us come to the point.

Thibaut. The point is, Sir, that we have come to beg of you to tell us what we must do.

Sganarelle. I do not understand you at all.

Perrin. My mother is ill, Sir, and here are two crowns which we have brought you to give us some stuff.

Sganarelle. Ah! you I do understand. There is a lad who speaks clearly, and explains himself as he should. You say that your mother is ill with the dropsy; that she is swollen all over her body; that she has a fever, with pains in the legs; that she sometimes is taken with syncopes and convulsions, that is to say with fainting fits.

Perrin. Indeed, Sir! that is just it.

Sganarelle. I understand you at once. Your father does not know what he says. And now you ask me for a remedy?

Perrin. Yes, sir.

Sganarelle. A remedy to cure her?

Perrin. That is just what I mean.

Sganarelle. Take this then. It is a piece of cheese which you must make her take.

Perrin. A piece of cheese, Sir?

Sganarelle. Yes; it is a kind of prepared cheese, in which there is gold, coral, and pearls, and a great many other precious things.

Perrin. I am very much obliged to you, Sir, and I shall go and make her take it directly.

Sganarelle. Go, and if she dies, do not fail to bury her in the best style you can.

Scene III.

(THE SCENE CHANGES, and represents, as in the Second Act, a room in Géronte’s house) — Jacqueline, Sganarelle, Lucas, at the far end of the stage.

Sganarelle. Here is the pretty nurse. Ah! you darling nurse, I am delighted at this meeting; and the sight of you is like rhubarb, cassia, and senna to me, which purges all melancholy from my mind.

Jacqueline. Upon my word, M. Physician, it is no good talking to me in that style, and I do not understand your Latin at all.

Sganarelle. Get ill, nurse, I beg of you; get ill for my sake. I shall have all the pleasure in the world of curing you.

Jacqueline. I am your humble servant; I would much rather not be cured.

Sganarelle. How I grieve for you, beautiful nurse, in having such a jealous and troublesome husband.

Jacqueline. What am I to do, Sir? It is a penance for my sins; and where the goat is tied down she must browse.

Sganarelle. What! Such a clod-hopper as that! a fellow who is always watching you, and will let no one speak to you!

Jacqueline. Alas! you have seen nothing yet; and that is only a small sample of his bad temper.

Sganarelle. Is it possible? and can a man have so mean a spirit as to ill-use a woman like you? Ah! I know some, sweet nurse, and who are not very far off, who would only be too glad to kiss your little feet! Why should such a handsome woman have fallen into such hands! and a mere animal, a brute, a stupid, a fool.. . . Excuse me, nurse, for speaking in that way of your husband.

Jacqueline. Oh! Sir, I know full well that he deserves all these names.

Sganarelle. Undoubtedly, nurse, he deserves them; and he also deserves that you should plant something on his head to punish him for his suspicions.

Jacqueline. It is true enough that if I had not his interest so much at heart, he would drive me to do some strange things.

Sganarelle. Indeed it would just serve him right if you were to revenge yourself upon him with some one. The fellow richly deserves it all, I tell you, and if I were fortunate enough, fair nurse, to be chosen by you . . .
(While Sganarelle is holding out his arms to embrace Jacqueline, Lucas passes his head under them, and comes between the two. Sganarelle and Jacqueline stare at Lucas, and depart on opposite sides, but the doctor does so in a very comic manner.)

Scene IV.

GÉRONTE, LUCAS.

Géronte. I say, Lucas, have not you seen our physician here?

Lucas. Indeed I have seen him, by all the devils, and my wife, too.

Géronte. Where can he be?

Lucas. I do not know; but I wish he were with the devil.

Géronte. Just go and see what my daughter is doing.

Scene V.

SGANARELLE, LÉANDRE, GÉRONTE.

Géronte. I was just inquiring after you, Sir.

Sganarelle. I have just been amusing myself in your court with expelling the superfluity of drink. How is the patient?

Géronte. Somewhat worse since your remedy.

Sganarelle. So much the better; it shows that it takes effect.

Géronte. Yes; but while it is taking effect, I am afraid it will choke her.

Sganarelle. Do not make yourself uneasy; I have some remedies that will make it all right! and I will wait until she is at death’s door.

Géronte (pointing to Léandre). Who is this man that is with you?

Sganarelle (intimates by motions of his hands that it is an apothecary). It is.. . .

Géronte. What?

Sganarelle. He who . . .

Géronte. Oh!

Sganarelle. Who . . .

Géronte. I understand.

Sganarelle. Your daughter will want him.

Scene VI.

LUCINDE, GÉRONTE, LÉANDRE, Jacqueline, Sganarelle.

Jacqueline. Here is your daughter, Sir, who wishes to stretch her limbs a little.

Sganarelle. That will do her good. Go to her, M. Apothecary, and feel her pulse, so that I may consult with you presently about her complaint. (At this point he draws Géronte to one end of the stage, and putting one arm upon his shoulder, he places his hand under his chin, with which he makes him turn towards him, each time that Géronte wants to look at what is passing between his daughter and the apothecary, while he holds the following discourse with him.) Sir, it is a great and subtle question among physicians to know whether women or men are more easily cured. I pray you to listen to this, if you please. Some say “no,” others say “yes”: I say both “yes” and “no”; inasmuch as the incongruity of the opaque humours, which are found in the natural temperament of women, causes the brutal part to struggle for the mastery over the sensitive, we find that the conflict of their opinion depends on the oblique motion of the circle of the moon; and as the sun, which darts its beams on the concavity of the earth, meets . . .

Lucinde (to Léandre). No; I am not at all likely to change my feelings.

Géronte. Hark! my daughter speaks! O great virtue of the remedy! O excellent physician! How deeply am I obliged to you, Sir, for this marvellous cure! And what can I do for you after such a service?

Sganarelle (strutting about the stage, fanning himself with his hat). This case has given me some trouble.

Lucinde. Yes, father, I have recovered my speech; but I have recovered it to tell you that I will never have any other husband than Léandre, and that it is in vain for you to wish to give me to Horace.

Géronte. But . . .

Lucinde. Nothing will shake the resolution I have taken.

Géronte. What . . .

Lucinde. All your fine arguments will be in vain.

Géronte. If . . .

Lucinde. All your talking will be of no use.

Géronte. I . . .

Lucinde. I have made up my mind about the matter.

Géronte. But . . .

Lucinde. No paternal authority can compel me to marry against my will.

Géronte. I have . . .

Lucinde. You may try as much as you like.

Géronte. It . . .

Lucinde. My heart cannot submit to this tyranny.

Géronte. The . . .

Lucinde. And I will sooner go into a convent than marry a man I do not love.

Géronte. But . . .

Lucinde (in a loud voice). No. By no means. It is of no use. You waste your time. I shall do nothing of the kind. I am fully determined.

Géronte. Ah! what a torrent of words! One cannot hold out against it. (To Sganarelle). I beseech you, Sir, to make her dumb again.

Sganarelle. That is impossible. All that I can do in your behalf is to make you deaf, if you like.

Géronte. I thank you. (To Lucinde). Do you think . . .

Lucinde. No; all your reasoning will not have the slightest effect upon me.

Géronte. You shall marry Horace this very evening.

Lucinde. I would sooner marry death itself.

Sganarelle (to Géronte). Stop, for Heaven’s sake! stop. Let me doctor this matter; it is a disease that has got hold of her, and I know the remedy to apply to it.

Géronte. Is it possible, indeed, Sir, that you can cure this disease of the mind also?

Sganarelle. Yes; let me manage it. I have remedies for everything; and our apothecary will serve us capitally for this cure. (To Léandre.) A word with you. You perceive that the passion she has for this Léandre is altogether against the wishes of the father; that there is no time to lose; that the humours are very acrimonious; and that it becomes necessary to find speedily a remedy for this complaint, which may get worse by delay. As for myself, I see but one, which is a dose of purgative flight, mixed, as it should be, with two drachms of matrimonium, made up into pills. She may, perhaps, make some difficulty about taking this remedy; but as you are a clever man in your profession, you must induce her to consent to it, and make her swallow the thing as best you can. Go and take a little turn in the garden with her to prepare the humours, while I converse here with her father; but, above all, lose not a moment. Apply the remedy quick! apply the specific!

Scene VII.

GÉRONTE, SGANARELLE.

Géronte. What drugs are those you have just mentioned, Sir? It seems to me that I never heard of them before.

Sganarelle. They are drugs which are used only in urgent cases.

Géronte. Did you ever see such insolence as hers?

Sganarelle. Daughters are a little headstrong at times.

Géronte. You would not believe how she is infatuated with this Léandre.

Sganarelle. The heat of the blood produces those things in young people.

Géronte. As for me, the moment I discovered the violence of this passion, I took care to keep my daughter under lock and key.

Sganarelle. You have acted wisely.

Géronte. And I have prevented the slightest communication between them.

Sganarelle. Just so.

Géronte. They would have committed some folly, if they had been permitted to see each other.

Sganarelle. Undoubtedly.

Géronte. And I think she would have been the girl to run away with him.

Sganarelle. You have argued very prudently.

Géronte. I was informed, that he tried every means to get speech of her.

Sganarelle. The rascal!

Géronte. But he will waste his time.

Sganarelle. Aye! Aye!

Géronte. And I will effectually prevent him from seeing her.

Sganarelle. He has no fool to deal with, and you know some tricks of which he is ignorant. One must get up very early to catch you asleep.

Scene VIII.

LUCAS, GÉRONTE, SGANARELLE.

Lucas. Odds-bobs! Sir, here is a pretty to do. Your daughter has fled with her Léandre. It was he that played the apothecary, and this is the physician who has performed this nice operation.

Géronte. What! to murder me in this manner! Quick, fetch a magistrate, and take care that he does not get away. Ah villain! I will have you punished by the law.

Lucas. I am afraid, Master Doctor, that you will be hanged. Do not stir a step, I tell you.

Scene IX.

MARTINE, SGANARELLE, LUCAS.

Martine (to Lucas). Good gracious! what a difficulty I have had to find this place! Just tell me what has become of the physician I recommended to you?

Lucas. Here he is; just going to be hanged.

Martine. What! my husband hanged! Alas, and for what?

Lucas. He has helped some one to run away with master’s daughter.

Martine. Alas, my dear husband, is it true that you are going to be hanged?

Sganarelle. Judge for yourself. Ah!

Martine. And must you be made an end of in the presence of such a crowd.

Sganarelle. What am I to do?

Martine. If you had only finished cutting our wood, I should be somewhat consoled.

Sganarelle. Leave me, you break my heart.

Martine. No, I will remain to encourage you to die; and I will not leave you until I have seen you hanged.

Sganarelle. Ah!

Scene X.

GÉRONTE, SGANARELLE, MARTINE.

Géronte (to Sganarelle). The magistrate will be here directly, and we shall put you in a place of safety where they will be answerable for you.

Sganarelle (on his knees, hat in hand). Alas! will not a few strokes with a cudgel do instead?

Géronte. No; no; the law shall decide. But what do I see?

Scene XI.

GÉRONTE, LÉANDRE, LUCINDE, Sganarelle, Lucas, Martine.

Léandre. Sir, I appear before you as Léandre, and am come to restore Lucinde to your authority. We intended to run away, and get married; but this design has given away to a more honourable proceeding. I will not presume to steal away your daughter, and it is from your hands alone that I will obtain her. I must at the same time acquaint you, that I have just now received some letters informing me of the death of my uncle, and that he has left me heir to all his property.

Géronte. Really, Sir, your virtue is worthy of my utmost consideration, and I give you my daughter with the greatest pleasure in the world.

Sganarelle (aside). The physician has had a narrow escape!

Martine. Since you are not going to be hanged, you may thank me for being a physician; for I have procured you this honour.

Sganarelle. Yes, it is you who procured me, I do not know how many thwacks with a cudgel.

Léandre (to Sganarelle). The result has proved too happy to harbour any resentment.

Sganarelle. Be it so. (To Martine.) I forgive you the blows on account of the dignity to which you have elevated me; but prepare yourself henceforth to behave with great respect towards a man of my consequence; and consider that the anger of a physician is more to be dreaded than people imagine.

Mélicerte

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

The original frontispiece

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

ON THE 1ST of December, 1666, the troupe of Molière set out for Saint-

Germain-en-Laye, where it was employed, as well as the troupe of the hôtel de Bourgogne, and the Italian and Spanish comedians, in the Ballet des Muses, which inaugurated the renewal of the court-festivals, interrupted for nearly a year through the death of the Queen-mother. The celebrated musician, Lulli, composed the music for the ballet; whilst the King Madame, Mesdemoiselles de la Vallière and de la Mothe, Mesdames de Montespan and de Ludre — four ladies whom the King delighted to honour — and the principal personages of the court, took an active part in the entries, the dancing, and the mythological sports.

Molière was entrusted with the task of writing a comedy for these entertainments, and he chose for his subject a similar one to the history of’Florizel and Perdita, in Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale. It is said that Molière owed his episode of Melicerte to that part of Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s novel Cyrus, which relates the love-scenes between Sesostns and Timarète, a young shepherd and shepherdess, who became enamoured of each other, and are afterwards proved to be of noble origin.

But the charm of his writing, the exquisite delicacy of the sentiment, and the freshness of the pastoral scenes, cause us to regret that Molière wrote only the two first acts of this play, and never finished it. Those who wish to study Molière, and not to leave any of his writings neglected will discover in some of his most slighted plays, such as Don Garcia of Navarre, The Princess of Elis, Melicerte, The Magnificent Lovers, an under-current of sentimentality, sometimes a little too courtly, at other times of rather too pastoral and lackadaisical a flavour, but always bearing the impress of genuine, real, heartfelt emotion, worthy of being carefully observed, as perhaps a new trait in Molière’s character.

Melicerte was acted on the 2nd of December, 1666, and young Michel Boiron, better known as Baron, played in it the chief character of Myrtil.

Tradition states, that, during the rehearsals, the wife of Molière, jealous of the influence of the young actor — for he was only thirteen years old — over the heart of her husband, boxed Baron’s ears; at which the latter was so offended that he refused to play. The matter was arranged with great difficulty; but immediately after Mélicerte had been performed, Baron asked Louis XIV’s permission to leave Molière’s troupe, and for three years remained in the provinces. The scandalous gossip of those times says that Mad. Molière’s hatred of Baron changed afterwards into a warmer sentiment, which he returned.

This play was not published during Molière’s lifetime, but sixteen years after his death by La Grange and Vinot. (See Introductory Notice to The Impromptu of Versailles, Vol. I.). In 1699, seventeen years after it had been published, Guérin, a son of the husband of Molière’s widow, and who professed a great admiration for Molière, altered Mélicerte partly, changed the metre into an irregular one, made Myrtil give to Mélicerte a nosegay instead of a bird, and added an entire third act. But in spite of the music of Lalande and the protection of the Princess of Conti, the piece had no success.

Molière and his troupe remained at Saint Germain-en-Laye from the 1st of December, 1666, until the 25th of February, 1667, and received from the King, for the time spent in his pleasures, two years of their pension. During that time, the dramatist produced Mélicerte, the Pastorale Comique and The Sicilian. The Ballet des Muses was arranged by Benserade, the official manager of nearly all the courtly entertainments, who wrote also the verses or récits: but as this Ballet lasted for nearly three months, it must have been often changed, for variety is one of the necessities of courtly amusements. It opened with Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, who, remembering the great heroes of antiquity, wished to see the august prince who had such a glorious reputation, and who caused all arts to flourish in his dominions. She was accompanied by the nine Muses who sang, and by seven arts. Urania, and seven planets, represented by dancers in brilliant dresses, formed the first entry.

The second entry was Pyramus and Thisbe; Pyramus was acted by the Count of Armagnac, generally called Monsieur le Grand, because he was “Grand Ecuyer” (Master of the horse), and Thisbe by the Marquis de Mirepoix, who we sincerely trust played better than Nick Bottom, the weaver, and Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. The third entry was Thalia and Mélicerte, represented by Molière and his troupe, “of all our poets,” says the official description, “the one who, in this kind of writing, may with the greatest justice be compared to the ancients.” The fourth entry was in honour of Euterpe, a pastoral muse; eight shepherds and eight shepherdesses sang some verses in praise of the power of Love; four other shepherds and four other shepherdesses danced, whilst the sixteen were singing. Amongst the dancers were Louis XIV. and the Marquis de Villeroi, and amongst the danseuses Madame, Madame de Montespan, Mademoiselle de La Vallière and Mademoiselle de Toussi. The fifth entry, in honour of Clio, the muse of history, was a ballet representing the battle between Alexander and Porus. I cannot imagine that the battle was well represented; for the official description gives only the names of five Greeks and the same number of Indians, while each army has one drummer and two flute players. The sixth entry in honour of Calliope, “the mother of fine verses,” was a little comedy, called The Poets. acted by the troupe of the hôtel de Bourgogne, when a Spanish Mascarade was represented, in which the King and several noblemen, as well as Madame, Madame de Montespan, Mademoiselle de La Vallière, and several noble ladies, danced. There were also four Spaniards who played on the harp and guitar, the same number who sang, and four Spanish ladies who sang also; and if these Spanish actors were — as is most likely — the comedians patronised by the Queen Maria Theresa, herself a Spanish princess, and on the point of giving birth to a child, it is, to say the least of it, singular, that they should have sung in her presence, as well as in that of the King’s favourites, verses which say, “ the most charming youth, without love, is nothing; some little tenderness increases all charms. None can refrain from the power of love, but if my heart is tender, it is not so for you.” In the seventh entry, Orpheus, sung by Lulli, was represented as bewailing and feeling the influence of love; a nymph and eight Thracians are also there. The eighth entry represented Erato, “who, above all others, is invoked in love,” and six lovers taken from the most famous novels; amongst others Louis XIV., came forward as Cyrus.

The ninth entry was in honour of Polyhymnia, “whose power extends over eloquence and dialectics;” three Greek and three Roman orators are ridiculed by the same number of French and Italian actors. The tenth entry was in honour of Terpsichore, “to whom the invention of rustic song and dance is attributed;” four Fauns and four savage women dance, and a Satyr sings verses, of course in praise of Love. The eleventh entry consisted of the nine Muses and the nine daughters of Pierro vieing with each other in dancing, and all represented by noble ladies, amongst whom were Madame, Mademoiselle de La Vallière, Madame de Ludre, and Madame de Montespan. The twelfth entry was composed of three nymphs, who were umpires, of which the King was one.

The last entry consisted of the Pierides resisting, and Monsieur Le Grand, as Jupiter, changing them into birds.

It will be seen that the Grand Monarque danced several times himself in the Ballet des Muses; he always liked dancing, and however much his early education may have been neglected, upon that point it left nothing to be desired. But to judge rightly how much dancing was esteemed at that time, we have but to look at what was paid to the King’s different masters in 1650 — he was then twenty-three years old. We find that the yearly salary of his dancing master was 2000 livres, of his drawing master 1500 livres, and of his writing master 300 livres, the same, in fact, as that of the scullions of the royal kitchen — perhaps a just retribution for neglect, for Louis XIV., wrote a royally bad hand all his lifetime, but was considered a first-rate dancer. He instituted in 1661, an Académie royale de danse, formed of thirteen dancing masters, who “shall have to remedy the disorders and confusion which the late wars have introduced in the aforesaid art,” says the official preamble. This Academy enjoyed the same privileges as the Académie de peinture et de sculpture; and probably the dancing master of The Citizen who apes the Nobleman, was one of its members. The official Gazette always gave a minute and detailed report of the most trifling mythological or allegorical ballet danced at court, but never an analysis of any masterpiece of the French stage. It continued to do this, even after the King no longer danced himself.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MYRTIL, IN LOVE with Mèlicerte.

ACANTHE, in love with Daphne.

TYRENE, IN love with Eroxène.

LYCARSIS, herdsinan, supposed father to Myrtil. (This part was played by Molière himself.)

NICANDRE, shepherd.

MOPSE, shepherd, supposed uncle to Mèlicerte.

MELICERTE, shepherdess.

DAPHNE, shepherdess.

EROXENE, shepherdess.

CORINNE, confidante of Mèlicerte.

Scene. — THESSALY, IN THE VALLEY OF TEMPE.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

DAPHNE, ÉROXENE, ACANTHE, TYRENE.

ACAN. AH! CHARMING Daphné! —

TYR. TOO lovely Eroxène!

DAPH. Leave me, Acanthe.

EROX. DO not follow me Tyrène.

ACAN. (To Daphne). Why do you drive me away?

TYR. (To Eroxène). Why do you fly from me?

DAPH. (To Acanthe). You please me most when far away.

EROX. (To Tyrène). I love to be where you are not.

ACAN. Why not cease this killing severity?

TYR. Why not cease to be so cruel?

DAPH. Why not cease your useless protestations?

EROX. Why not cease to bore me?

ACAN. I die with grief, unless you pity them.

TYR. Unless you succour me, my death is but too sure.

DAPH. Unless you go, I leave this place.

EROX. If you remain, I say good-bye.

ACAN. Well, be it so! to please you I will go.

TYR. When I am gone, I am sure you will be pleased.

ACAN. Generous Eroxène, vouchsafe, for pity’s sake, to say a word or two to her in favour of my passion.

TYR. Obliging Daphné, speak to this inhuman creature, and learn whence proceeds so much hatred towards me.

SCENE II.

DAPHNE, ÉROXENE.

EROX. Acanthe has some merit, and loves you dearly.
How is it that you treat him so harshly?

DAPH. Tyrène has much worth, and pines for your love.
Whence comes it that, without pity, you behold him shedding tears?

EROX. Since I put the question first, it is but fair that you should answer before me.

DAPH. All Acanthe’s attentions make no impression on me, because I care for some one else.

EROX. I treat Tyrène with harshness, because another is master of my heart.

DAPH. May I know this choice which you conceal?

EROX. Yes, if you tell me this secret of yours.

DAPH. I can easily satisfy your wish without telling you the name of him I love. I have an admirable portrait of him in my pocket, the work of Atis, that inimitable painter, so like him in every feature, that I am sure you will recognise him at a glance.

EROX. I can satisfy you by the same means, and repay your secret in the like coin. I also have a lovely portrait by this famous painter, of the object of my affections, so like him in every feature, and in his exceeding grace, that you will name him at first sight.

DAPH. The case which the painter has had made for me is exactly like yours.

EROX. It is true. They are exactly alike, and certainly Atis must have had them made together.

DAPH. Let us now, by means of these few tints, show each other the secret of our hearts.

EROX. Let us see who will soonest understand this language, and which work speaks most plainly.

DAPH. This is a droll mistake, and you have made a nice blunder: instead of your portrait, you have given me back my own.

EROX. Indeed I have; I do not know how I came to do it.

DAPH. Give it me. It is because you were dreaming.

EROX. What is the meaning of this? I believe we are joking with each other. You have made the same blunder as I have with the portraits.

DAPH. This is certainly enough to make one laugh.
Give it me back again.

EROX. (Placing the two portraits side by side). This is the true way not to make a blunder.

DAPH. IS this an illusion of my preoccupied senses?

EROX. IS my mind affecting my eyes?

DAPH. Myrtil is shown to me in this work.

EROX. Of Myrtil’s features I see the image.

DAPH. It is young Myrtil who has kindled my flame.

EROX. It is to young Myrtil that all my wishes tend.

DAPH. I came to-day to entreat you to tell him how his merits interest me in his lot.

EROX. I came to ask you to assist me in my affections; to help me to gain his heart.

DAPH. IS this affection with which he inspires you so powerful?

EROX. IS your love for him so violent?

DAPH. He could inflame the coldest heart; and his budding charms must delight everyone.

EROX. Not a nymph, but would esteem herself happy in loving him. Diana herself might without shame be enamoured of him.

DAPH. Nothing but his bright presence charms me now-a-days; and had I a hundred hearts, they should all be his.

EROX. He blots every other sight from my eyes; and had I a sceptre he should be master of it.

DAPH. It would be useless, then, to try to tear this love from our breasts. Our hearts are too steadfast in their wishes. Only let us try, if possible, to remain friends; and since we both have formed the same designs for the same youth, let us act with the utmost candour in this matter, and not take a mean advantage of each other.
Let us hasten together to Lycarsis, and confide to him our tender feelings for his son.

EROX. I can hardly conceive, so great is my surprise, how such a son could spring from such a father. His shape, his mien, his words, his eyes, all make you believe that the blood of the gods runs in his veins. But I consent, let us go and find the father. Let us open our hearts to him, and agree that Myrtil shall decide by his own choice afterwards this contest of our desires.

DAPH. Be it so. I perceive Lycarsis with Mopse and Nicandre. They will leave him perhaps. Let us hide ourselves till they do.

SCENE III.

LYCARSIS, MOPSE, NICANDRE.

NIC. (TO LYCARSJS). Tell us your news?

Lyc. Ah! how you press me! It does not do to tell these things as you imagine.

MOP. What silly ceremonies, and what tomfoolery!
Menalcus does not make more to sing.

LYC. Amongst the busy-bodies in political matters, the divulging of news generally causes a great stir. I wish to be considered as rather a man of importance, and enjoy your impatience a little longer.

NIC. DO you wish to tire us both by your delay?

MOP. DO you take pleasure in making yourself a bore?

NIC. Prithee, speak out, and stop these grimaces.

LYC. Ask me both in a decent manner, and tell me what you will give me if I do as you wish.

MOP. Plague take the fool! Let us leave him, Nicandre.
He is more anxious to tell than we are to hear. His news weighs him down, he wishes to get rid of it, and we will just vex him by not listening.

LYC. Eh!

NIC. It serves you right for your ado.

LYC. I will tell it you, listen.

MOP. Not at all.

LYC. What! you do not wish to hear me?

Nic. NO.

LYC. Very well. I will not say a word, and you shall know nothing.

MOP. All right.

LYC. YOU shall not know, then, that the King has come to honour Tempe with his presence in the most magnificent style; and that he made his entry into Larissa yesterday afternoon; and that I saw him there comfortably installed with the whole Court; that these woods will be rejoiced to-day at the sight of him; and that there are a great many rumours abroad in connection with his visit.

Nic. We do not wish to know anything.

LYC. I have seen a hundred things there, delightful to behold. Nothing but great lords, glittering and brilliant from head to foot, as if dressed for a holiday; they astonish one’s eyes; and are more dazzling than our meadows at spring-time with all their flowers. As for the prince himself, he is easily known among all the rest; he looks like a grand monarch a mile off. There is a something about him that makes you tell at once that he is a master King. He performs his part with matchless grace; and to say the truth, it suits him admirably. You would hardly believe how every one at court eagerly watches for a glance; there reigns around him a pleasant confusion; and one would think it a swarm of brilliant insects following everywhere a sweet honeycomb. In short, I have seen nothing so lovely under the canopy of Heaven; and our much cherished feast of Pan is a mere piece of trash compared with this spectacle. Since you seem so proud, I keep my news to myself, and shall tell nothing.

MOP. And we do not in the least wish to hear you.

LYC. Go to the right about.

MOP. Go and hang yourself.

SCENE IV.

ÉROXENE, DAPHNE, LYCARSIS.

LYC. (.BELIEVING HIMSELF alone). That is the way to punish people when they are foolish and impertinent.

DAPH. Heaven always preserve your flock, shepherd!

EROX. May Ceres always keep your barns full of corn.

LYC. And may the great Pan give to each of you a husband, who will love you much and be worthy of you!

DAPH. Ah, Lycarsis! our wishes tend to the same end.

EROX. Both our hearts sigh for the same object.

DAPH. And that boy Cupid, the cause of all our languor, has borrowed from you the darts with which he wounds our hearts.

EROX. And we have come here to seek your countenance, and to see which of us two shall have the preference.

LYC. Nymphs....

DAPH. For this alone we sigh.

LYC. I am....

EROX. For this happiness only we wish.

DAPH. We express our thoughts somewhat freely.

LYC. Why so?

EROX. Good breeding seems somewhat outraged.

LYC. Not at all!

DAPH. But when the heart is consumed with a noble flame, one may, without any shame, make a candid avowal of it.

LYC. I....

EROX. We may be allowed this freedom, and the beauty of our hearts’ choice warrants it.

LYC. YOU shock my modesty by flattering me thus.

EROX. NO, no; affect no modesty in this case.

DAPH. In short, all our happiness is in your keeping.

EROX. Our only hope depends on you.

DAPH. Shall we find any difficulty in you?

LYC. Ah!

EROX. Tell me, shall our wishes be rejected?

LYC. NO. Heaven has given me no cruel heart. I take after my late wife; and I feel, like her, a great sympathy with the desires of others. And I am not the man to show much pride.

DAPH. Then grant us Myrtil to our ardent love.

EROX. And allow his choice to adjust our quarrel.

LYC. Myrtil?

DAPH. Yes, it is Myrtil whom we desire of you.

EROX: Of whom did you think we were speaking?

LYC. I do not know; but Myrtil is not of an age to take the yoke of matrimony upon himself.

DAPH. His growing merit may strike other eyes; and we wish to secure so precious a possession, to forestall others, and to brave fortune under the firm ties of a common bond.

EROX. AS by his wit and other brilliant qualities, he is out of the common order, and outstrips time; so shall our affection for him do the same, and regulate all his wishes according to his exceeding merit.

LYC. It is true that for his age he sometimes surprises me; and that this Athenian, who stayed with me for twenty months, finding him so handsome, took a fancy to fill his mind with his philosophy. He has made him so clever upon certain subjects, that, great as I am, he often puzzles me. But, after all, he is still a child, and his knowledge is mixed with a great deal of innocence.

DAPH. He is not such a child but that I, who see him every day, believe him somewhat love-sick already; and I have noticed many a thing that shows that he is after young Mélicerte.

EROX. They may be in love with each other, and I can see....

LYC. Nonsense. As for her, I do not say, she is two years older than he, and two years with her sex means a great deal. But as for him, he dreams of nothing but play, I think, and of his little vanities of being dressed like the shepherds of lofty rank.

DAPH. In short, we wish, by the marriage tie to attack his fortune to ours.

EROX. We are both equally eager to assure ourselves before-hand of the mastery of his heart.

LYC. I feel myself more honoured than you would think.

I am but a poor herdsman; and it is certainly too much glory that two nymphs of the highest rank in the land should contend for making my son their husband. Since he pleases you so much, let the matter be arranged in this way. I consent that his choice shall adjust your dispute; and she, whom his decree shall set aside, may marry me in compensation, if she likes. At all events, it is the same blood, and almost the same thing. But here he is. Allow me to prepare him a little. He has some sparrow newly caught: and this is nearly all his love and attachment.

SCENE V.

ÉROXENE, DAPHNE, and LYCARSIS (at the further end of the stage), MYRTIL.

MYR. (BELIEVING HIMSELF alone, carrying a sparrow in a cage). Innocent little bird, that thus, before me, beat your wings so violently against your prison walls, bewail not your loss of freedom. Yours is a glorious fate. I have caught you for Mélicerte. She will kiss you, and take you in her hands, and grant you the favour of nestling in her bosom. Can there be a sweeter and happier lot? Oh, happy little sparrow, where is the King that would not change places with you?

LYC. A word with you, Myrtil. Leave these playthings alone. It is a question of something else than sparrows.
These two nymphs, Myrtil, lay claim to you at the same time, and young as you are, desire you for their husband.

I am to secure you to them by marriage; and they wish you to choose one of them.

MYR. These nymphs?

LYC. Yes. Of the two you must select one. Look at the happiness in store for you, and bless your good fortune.

MYR. Can this proffered choice be deemed happiness, if my heart does not in the least wish for it?

LYC. At least, acknowledge it; and respond properly, and without confusion, to the honour intended for you.

EROX. Behold, Myrtil, notwithstanding the pride which reigns amongst us, two nymphs who offer themselves to you. The marvellous promise of your worth reverses the order of things in this case.

DAPH. We leave you, Myrtil, as the best judge, in this matter, to consult your own eyes and heart: nor will we influence your choice by a flowery description of our own perfections.

MYR. YOU intend me an honour the greatness of which dazzles me; but I confess that this honour is too great for me. I must oppose your exceeding goodness; I am of too little worth to deserve such fortune; and however great its attractions might be, I should be sorry that, for my sake, you should be blamed for having chosen beneath you.

EROX. Comply with our wishes whatever may be said of it, and do not trouble yourself with the care of our glory.

DAPH. NO, do not think so humbly of yourself, and leave us to be the judges of your deserts.

MYR. Even the proffered choice opposes itself to your expectations, and alone would prevent my heart from satisfying you. How am I to choose between two great beauties, equal in birth and rare perfections? To reject either would be a terrible crime, and it is much more reasonable to choose neither.

EROX. But in refusing to comply with our desires, instead of one, you offend two, Myrtil.

DAPH. Since we are willing to abide by your decision, you cannot defend yourself with these reasons.

MYR. Well then! if these reasons do not satisfy you, this one will: I love other charms, and I feel full well, that a heart, which a beautiful object engrosses, is indifferent and deaf to all other advantages.

LYC. What now! What means all this? Who could have thought it? And do you know, boy, what love is?

MYR. Without knowing it myself, my heart does.
(LYC. But this love displeases me, and is not wanted.

MYR. If it displeases you, you ought not to have given me such a tender and sensitive heart.

LYC. But this heart that I have given you owes me obedience:

MYR. Yes, when it is in its power to obey.

LYC. But it ought not to love without my leave.

MYR. Why did you not hinder it, then, from being charmed?

LYC. Well! I forbid you to let this continue.

MYR. I am afraid your prohibition comes too late.

LYC. What! has not a father superior rights?

MYR. Even the much greater gods cannot control our hearts.

LYC. The gods... Peace, little fool. This philosophy makes me...

DAPH. DO not be angry, pray.

LYC. NO: he shall choose one of you, or I will whip him before your faces. Ha, ha, I will let you know that I am your father.

DAPH. Pray, let us manage matters without anger.

EROX. May we inquire of you, Myrtil, the name of the charming object whose beauty has made you her swain?

MYR. Mélicerte, Madam. She may make others love her.

EROX. DO you compare her attractions to ours, Myrtil?

DAPH. The choice between her and us is unequal enough.

MYR. Nymphs, in Heaven’s name, do not say any ill of her. Pray consider that I love her, and do not upset my mind. If, by loving her, I outrage your heavenly charms, she has no part in that crime; all the offence comes from me, if you please. It is true that I know the difference between you and her; but we cannot escape our fate. In short, Nymphs, I feel that Heaven has granted me all imaginable respect for you, but for her all the love of which a heart is capable. I perceive, by the blush that rises in your face, that my words do not please you. My heart fears to hear in your answer what may wound it in its most tender part; and to avoid such a blow, I prefer taking my leave of you, Nymphs.

LYC. Hullo, Myrtil, hullo! Will you come back, you wretch? He is off; but we shall see who is master. Do not concern yourself about all these idle raptures; you shall have him for a husband, I answer with my life for that.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

MELICERTE, CORINNE.

MEL. AH! CORINNE, you have heard it from Stella, and she has got the news from Lycarsis?

COR. Yes.

MEL. That Myrtil’s charms have touched the hearts of Éroxène and Daphné?

COR. Yes.

MEL. That they are so eager to secure him, that both together have asked for his hand, and that, in their discussion, they have decided to claim it this very hour?
How unwilling you are to speak! and how little my misfortune touches you! — .

COR. But what would you have me say? This is the truth, and you repeat every word exactly as I told them to you.

MEL. But how does Lycarsis take this matter? —

COR. AS an honour, I believe, that ought to please him mightily.

MEL. And do not you see, you who know my feelings so well, that, alas! with these words you pierce me to the heart?

COR. HOW so? —

MEL. By showing me thus plainly that implacable fate makes me of so little consequence as compared with them.
Is not the thought, that they will be preferred to me, on account of their rank, enough to drive me mad?

COR. But I only answer and say what I think.

MEL. Oh! you kill me with your indifference. But tell me, what feelings did Myrtil show?

COR. I know not.

MEL. That is just what you ought to know, cruel girl!

COR. In truth I do not know what to do. Whatever I do, I am sure to displease you.

MEL. It is because you do not enter into the feelings of a heart too full, alas! of tender passion. Go: Leave me alone in this solitude to pass a few moments of my anxiety.

SCENE II.

MELICERTE, alone.

BEHOLD, MY HEART, what it is to love. Too well Bélise warned me of it. That darling mother, before her death, said to me, one day on the banks of the Peneus, “Beware, daughter; Love always comes to young hearts surrounded by sweet guiles. At first it offers nought but what is agreeable; but it drags horrible troubles after it; and if you wish to pass your days in peace, ever defend yourself from its darts, as from an evil.” And Oh! my heart, well did I remember those lessons, and when first I beheld Myrtil, when he played with me, and paid me attentions, I always told you to delight less in them. But you believed me not; and your complacency soon changed into too much goodwill. You imagined nought but joy and pleasure from this budding love that flattered your desires. Now you behold the cruel misfortune with which fate threatens you in this ominous day, and the deadly pangs to which it reduces you. Ah my heart! my heart! I warned you. But let us, if we can, conceal our grief. Here comes...

SCENE III.

MYRTIL, MELICERTE.

MYR. I JUST now, charming Mélicerte, took a little prisoner, which I have kept for you, and of which I may perhaps become jealous one of these days. It is a young sparrow, which I myself intend to tame with great care, and for your acceptance. The present is not great; but the gods themselves take note of the will only. The intention is everything; and it is never the value of presents that... But, Heaven, whence this sadness? What ails you, Mélicerte, and what dark sorrow is reflected in your dear eyes this morning? You do not answer me; and this mournful silence redoubles my anxiety and impatience. Speak, what has annoyed you? What is it?

MEL. It is nothing.

MYR. It is nothing, you say, and yet I see your eyes full of tears. Does this agree, fair charmer? Oh, do not kill me by concealing it, but explain to me what those tears mean.

MEL. It would do me no good to let you know this secret.

MYR. Ought you to have anything that I may not know?
Do you not offend this day our loves by wishing to rob me of my share of your troubles? Oh! do not hide it from my affection.

MEL. Well! Myrtil, be it so. I must tell it you, then.

I have been informed that, by a choice very glorious for you, Éroxène and Daphné wish you for their husband; and I will confess, Myrtil, that I have the weakness of not being able to hear this without grief; without accusing fate of her rigorous law, which renders their desires preferable to mine.

MYR. And you can harbour this unjust grief! You can suspect my love of weakness, and you imagine that, bound by such sweet charms, I could ever be another’s! that I would accept any other proffered hand! Ah! what have I done, cruel Mélicerte, that you treat my tenderness so harshly, and judge my heart so badly? What! ought you even to doubt it? It makes me very wretched to suffer this suspicion. What is the good of love like mine, alas! when you are so ready to disbelieve it?

MEL. I would fear these rivals less, Myrtil, if things were equal on both sides; and were I of similar rank, I might dare to hope that perhaps love would prefer me.
But the inequality of wealth and birth, which makes the difference between them and me...

MYR. Ah! their rank will not conquer my heart, and your divine charms stand you instead of all. I love you: that is sufficient; and in you I see rank, wealth, treasures, states, sceptre, crown. Were the greatest monarch’s power offered to me, I would not change it for the bliss of possessing you. This is the sincere and unvarnished truth, which to doubt is an insult to me.

MEL. Well! Myrtil, since you wish it, I believe that your vows are not shaken by their rank; and that, notwithstanding their nobility, riches, and beauty, your heart loves me well enough to love me better than them. But you will not follow the voice of love. Your father, Myrtil, will dictate your choice, and I am not dear to him, as I am to you, that he should prefer a simple shepherdess to aught else.

MYR. NO, dear Mélicerte, neither father nor gods shall force me to discard your lovely eyes; for ever, queen of my heart, as you are...

MEL. Ah, Myrtil, take care what you are doing. Do not indulge my heart with hope, which it would perhaps too willingly receive, and which, vanishing afterwards like a passing flash of lightning, would render my misfortune the more cruel.

MYR. What! Am I to invoke the aid of oaths, when I promise to love you for ever? How you wrong yourself by such alarms! How little you know the power of your charms! Well! since you wish it, I swear by the gods; and, if that be not enough, I swear by your eyes, that I shall sooner be killed than leave you. Accept here on the spot the pledge which I give you, and suffer my lips to seal the oath with transport on this fair hand.

MEL. Ah! Myrtil, get up for fear you may be seen.

MYR. IS there aught... But, oh Heavens, some one comes to disturb my bliss.

SCENE IV.

LYCARSIS, MYRTIL, MELICERTE.

LYC. DO NOT let me disturb you.

MEL. (Aside). Cruel fate!

LYC. Not at all bad, this! go on you two. Bless my heart, dear son, how tender you look, and how like a master you set about it already! Has this sage, whom Athens exiled, taught you all these pretty things in his philosophy? And you, my gentle shepherdess, who so sweetly give him your hand to kiss, does honour teach you these tender wiles wherewith you thus debauch young hearts?

MYR. Refrain from these degrading insinuations, and do not pain me with a discourse that insults her.

LYC. I will speak to her, I will. All this billing and cooing...

MYR. I will not allow her to be abused. My birth obliges me to have some respect for you; but I shall be able to punish you, upon myself, for this outrage. Yes, I call Heaven to witness, that if, against my wishes, you utter again to her the least harsh word, I shall with this sword give her satisfaction. My pierced heart shall be your punishment, and my spilled blood promptly convince her how highly I disapprove of your anger.

MEL. NO, no; do not believe that I purposely inflame him, and that it is my design to seduce his heart. It is by his own free will that he cares to see me, and bears me some goodwill; I do not force him. Not that I wish to refrain from responding to his tender passion by an equally tender one. I love him, I own it, as much as possible; but this attachment has nothing that ought to alarm you. And to disarm all your unjust fears, I promise you now to avoid his presence, to make room for the choice you have resolved upon, and not to listen to his protestations of love unless you wish it.

SCENE V.

LYCARSIS, MYRTIL.

MYR. WELL! NOW she is gone, you triumph. She has spoken, and you have obtained all that you desire. But know that you rejoice in vain, and that you will be disappointed in your expectations; and that do what you will, all your power shall not shake my determination.

LYC. What presumption is this, sirrah? Is this the wav to talk to me?

MYR. Yes, I am wrong, it is true: and my anger is not seemly. I will change my tone, as becomes me; and I beseech you father, in the name of the gods, and by all that can be most dear to you, not to use in this conjuncture the supreme power which nature gives you over me.
Do not embitter your most precious gifts. I owe my being to you; but shall I be indebted to you this day if you render life unbearable to me? Without Mélicerte, it becomes a torment; nothing is of value to me without her divine charms. They contain all my happiness and all my desires, and if you take them away, you take life itself.

LYC. (Aside). He makes me share his heart-felt grief.
Who would have ever thought it of the little rogue? What passion! what excitement! what talk for one of his age!
It quite confuses me, and I feel that I am interested in his MYR. (Throwing himself at Lycarsis’ knees). Say, will you condemn me to die? You have but to speak: I am ready to obey.

LYC. (Aside). I can hold out no longer: he draws tears from me, and his tender words make me yield.

MYR. If in your heart a spark of friendship inspires you with the slightest pity for my fate, grant Mélicerte to my ardent desire, and you will give me more than life.

LYC. Get up.

MYR. Will you take pity on my sighs?

LYC. Yes.

MYR. Shall I obtain the object of my desires?

LYC. Yes.

MYR. YOU will make her uncle give me her hand?

LYC. Yes, get up, I tell you.

MYR. Oh! best of fathers, let me kiss your hands after so much kindness.

LYC. Ah! how weak a father is for his children! Can we refuse aught to their tender words? Do we not feel some sweet emotions within us, when we reflect that they are part of ourselves?

MYR. But will you keep your given promise? Tell me that you will not change your mind.

LYC. No.

MYR. If any one should make you change your feelings, have I your leave to disobey you? Say!

LYC. Yes. Ah, Nature! Nature! I will go and see Mopse, and acquaint him with the love his niece and you have for each others.

MYR. HOW much I owe to your exceeding kindness.
(Alone). What happy news to tell Mélicerte! I would not accept a crown in exchange for the pleasure of telling her this marvellous success that will please her so much.

SCENE VI.

ACANTHE, TYRENE, MYRTIL.

ACAN. AH, MYRTIL, the charms which you have received from Heaven are the cause of tears in us; their dawning beauty, so fatal to our desires, robs us of the hearts of those we love.

TYR. May we inquire, Myrtil, which of these two fair ones you will choose, of which there is so much talk? and upon which of us two the blow is to fall that shatters all our expectant affections?

ACAN. Do not let two lovers pine any longer. Tell us what fate your heart prepares for us.

TYR. It is better, when one fears such terrible misfortune, to be killed outright by one blow, than to linger so long.

MYR. Let your love resume its calm career, noble shepherds; the lovely Mélicerte has captivated my heart. My lot is sweet enough with her not to wish to encroach upon you and if your passions have only mine to fear, neither of you will have any cause to complain.

ACAN. Can it be, Myrtil, that two sad lovers...

TYR. Can it be true that Heaven, giving way to our MYR! Yes, content with my fetters as with a victory, I have declined this choice so full of glory. I have also changed my father’s wishes, and made him consent to my ACAN. (To Tyrène). Ah! what a charming miraculous adventure is this, and what a great obstacle it removes to our pursuits!

TYR. It may restore these nymphs to our love, and be the means of making us both happy.

SCENE VII.

NICANDRE, MYRTIL, ACANTHE, TYRENE.

NIC. DO YOU know where Mélicerte may be found?

MYR. What do you mean?

Nic. She is being looked for everywhere.

MYR. And why? — . — , — , Nic. We shall soon lose this beauty. It is for her that the King has come hither; it is said that he will marry her to some great lord.

MYR. Oh, Heaven! explain these words, I pray.

Nic. They are important and mysterious events. Yes, the King has come to seek Mélicerte in these spots, and they say that formerly her mother Bélise, of whom all Tempe believed Mopse to be the brother... But I have undertaken to look for her everywhere. You shall know all about it by-and bye.

MYR. Oh, great gods, what a calamity! He! Nicandre, Nicandre!

ACAN. Let us follow him that we may know all.

Comic Pastoral

Pastorale comique

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

COMIC PASTORAL

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

THE PASTORALE COMIQUE was probably represented before the Court on the 5th January, 1667; it formed part of the Ballet of the Muses, and most likely replaced the unfinished Mélicerte when the ballet was again given in the beginning of that month. We cannot now discover what plan Molière has followed, or what he intended with the Pastorale Comique: he himself suppressed or destroyed the manuscript, and we have only now the couplets that were sung, and which are preserved in the ballet-book and in the musical partition. They show, according to some commentators, a violent desire, in Molière, to deaden his feelings. I confess that I can see in them only the ordinary words of an operatic libretto.

We know that our author played the part of Lycas, after he had just been ill; it is possible that his hollow and lean features may intentionally have rendered more ridiculous his love declarations.

I have not thought it necessary to give the names of the dancers, singers, musicians, or gipsies, which are stated in the official programme of the feasts. We have followed in the headings the collected edition of Molière’s works, 1734.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

IN THE PASTORAL.

LYCAS, a rich shepherd in love with Iris. (Molière played this part himself.)

PHILENE, a rich shepherd in love with Iris.

CORYDON, a young shepherd, friend of Lycas, in love with Iris.

A HERDSMAN, friend of Philène.

A SHEPHERD.

IRIS, a young shepherdess.

IN THE BALLET.

DANCING MAGICIANS

SINGING MAGICIANS.

DANCING DEMONS.

PEASANTS.

A SINGING AND DANCING GIPSY.

DANCING GIPSIES.

Scene. — THESSALY, IN A SMALL VILLAGE IN THE VALLEY OF TEMPE.

COMIC PASTORAL

SCENE I.

LYCAS, CORYDON.

SCENE II. — LYCAS, DANCING AND SINGING MUSICIANS, DEMONS.

First Entry of the Ballet.

Two Musicians begin dancing a kind of enchantment to beautify Lycas. They strike the ground with their wands, whereupon six Demons spring from it, who join them. Three more Musicians appear from underground.

THREE MAGICIANS (singing). Goddess of charms, refuse us not the favour which our lips implore of you. We beseech you for it by your ribbons, by your diamond buckles, by your paint and powder, by your patches, your mask, your head-dress, and your gloves.

A MAGICIAN (by himself). O you! who can beautify the plainest faces, deign to spread, O Venus! two or three charitable doses of your charms over this freshly clipped snout!

THE THREE MAGICIANS (singing). Goddess of charms, refuse us not the favour which our lips implore of you.
We beseech you for it by your ribbons, by your diamond buckles, by your paint and powder, by your patches, your mask, your head-dress, and your gloves.

Second Entry of the Ballet.

The six dancing Demons dress Lycas up in a ridiculous and strange fashion.

THE THREE MAGICIANS (singing). Ah! how lovely the youngster is now! Ah! how lovely! how lovely! How many fair ones he will kill. The most cruel maids will jump out of their skin when they approach him. Ah! how lovely the youngster is now. Ah! how lovely, how lovely! Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!

Third Entry of the Ballet.

The Magicians and the Demons continue their dancing, whilst the three singing Magicians continue to make fun of Lycas.

THREE MAGICIANS (singing). How fair is he! how pretty and polished! How fair is he! how fair is he!
Are there any eyes that can withstand him? He is more lovely than the late Narcissus, who was a consummate beau. How fair is he! how pretty and polished! How fair is he! Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi, hi!
(The three singing Magicians disappear in the ground, and the dancing Magicians exeunt at the sides.

SCENE III.

LYCAS, PHILENE.

PHIL. (without perceiving Lycas, sings). Browse, my pretty lambs, the sprouting grass. These meadows and these brooks have something to charm you. But if you wish to live content forever, dear little innocents, beware of love.

LYC. (without perceiving Philène, and wishing to compose some verses for his mistress, pronounces the name of Iris loud enough for Philène to hear it).

PHIL. Is it you whom I hear, audacious wretch? Is it you who dare pronounce the name of her who holds me ‘neath her sway.

LYC. Yes, it is I; yes, it is I.

PHIL. HOW dare you in any way profane that lovely name?

LYC. Eh, why not? why not?

PHIL. Iris charms my soul; and whosoever shall dare to indulge in the slightest spark of love for her will repent of it.

LYC. I do not care for that, I do not care for that.

PHIL. I will strangle and eat you, if ever you name my fair. Whatever I say I do — I will strangle and eat you.
It is enough that I have sworn it. Even if the gods take your part, I will strangle and eat you, if ever you name my fair.

LYC. Nonsense, nonsense.

SCENE IV.

IRIS, LYCAS.

SCENE V.

LYCAS, A COWHERD.

A Cowherd brings Lycas a challenge from Philène, his rival.

SCENE VI.

LYCAS, CORYDON.

SCENE VII.

PHILENE, LYCAS.

PHIL, (sings). Stay wretch! turn round; and let us see which of us two shall gain the day.
(Lycas hesitates to fight.
Enough of chatter; come, you must die.

SCENE VIII.

PHILENE, LYCAS, EIGHT PEASANTS.

The peasants rush in to separate Philène and Lycas.

Fourth Entry of the Ballet.

The peasants begin to quarrel among themselves, while they are trying to separate the two shepherds, and dance while fighting.

SCENE IX.

CORYDON, LYCAS, PHILENE, PEASANTS.

Corydon, by speaking to them, finds means to appease the dispute of the peasants.
Fifth Entry of the Ballet.
The reconciled peasants dance together.

SCENE X.

CORYDON, LYCAS, PHILENE.

SCENE XI.

IRIS, CORYDON.

SCENE XII.

PHILENE, LYCAS, IRIS, CORYDON.

Lycas and Philène, the two lovers of the shepherdess, press her to decide which of them she prefers.

PHIL, (To Iris). Do not expect me to boast about the choice regarding which you hesitate; you can see I love you; that tells you enough.
The shepherdess decides in favour of Corydon.

SCENE XIII.

PHILENE, LYCAS.

PHIL. Alas! can any one feel a more poignant grief?

A menial shepherd is to us preferred, oh Heavens!

LYC. (sings). Oh fates!

PHIL. What harshness!

LYC. What a blow!

PHIL. So many tears.

LYC. And so much perseverance.

PHIL. Such languor.

LYC. So much suffering.

PHIL. Such protestations,

LYC. And such cares,

PHIL. Such ardour,

LYC. SO much love,

PHIL. Are treated with so much disdain this day! Ah! cruel one!

LYC. Hard-hearted fair!

PHIL. And tigress too!

LYC. Merciless maid!

PHIL. Inhuman one!

LYC. YOU stubborn girl!

PHIL. Ungrateful one!

LYC. Pitiless one!

PHIL. YOU wish to kill us then? it is well; we shall content you.

LYC. We shall obey you.

PHIL, [drawing his javelin). Lycas, let us die.

LYC. (drawing his javelin). Philène, let us die.

PHIL. Let us end our sufferings with this steel.

LYC. Pierce!

PHIL. Be firm!

LYC. Take courage!

PHIL. Come, you first.

LYC. NO, I will be last.

PHIL. Since the same misfortune this day brings us together, let us depart together.

SCENE XIV.

A SHEPHERD, LYCAS, PHILENE.

THE SHEPHERD (sings). What folly to quit life for a fair one who rejects us! We might wish to quit this life for a lovely object’s sake, whose heart favours us, but to die for the fair one who rejects us, is folly!

SCENE XV.

A GIPSY, DANCING GIPSIES.

THE GIPSY. Relieve the torment of a poor heart. Of a poor heart relieve the suffering. In vain I depict my ardent flame; I see you laugh at my repining: — Ah! cruel one, I die through so much harshness: — Relieve the mar-tyrdom of a poor heart; of a poor heart relieve the suffering.

Sixth Entry of the Ballet.

Twelve gipsies, of whom four play the guitar, four the castagnettes, four the gnacares, dance with the gipsy to the measure of her song.

THE GIPSY. Believe me, let us hasten, my Sylvia, and profit well by the precious time; let us here satisfy our desires. The passions of our age invite us; you and I could not do better.
Winter has covered our fields with ice, Spring comes to take her place again, and to our pastures gives their charms.
But when, alas! old age has chilled us; our happy days return no more.
Let us seek all day naught but what pleases us; let us both be earnest about it; let pleasures be our business; let us get rid of all our troubles; a time will come when we shall have enough of them.
Winter has covered our fields with ice, Spring comes to take her place again, and to our pastures gives their charms.
But when, alas! old age has chilled our feelings, our happy days return no more.

The Sicilian; or, Love the Painter

Le Sicilien ou L’Amour peintre

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

FRAGMENT OF A COMEDY, SUNG AND ACCOMPANIED BY THE MUSICIANS WHOM HALI HAS BROUGHT.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

SCENE XV.

SCENE XVI.

SCENE XVII.

SCENE XVIII.

SCENE XIX.

SCENE XX.

SCENE XXI.

SCENE XXII.

The 1682 frontispiece

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

THE SICILIAN; OR, Love makes the Painter, was represented, probably on the 14th, or the 16th of February 1667, at the palace of Versailles, before Louis XIV. and the whole court. It was not placed, like Mêlicerte and the Pastorale Comique, in the third entry of the Ballet des Muses, but formed a fourteenth entry, with the following official heading:—” Fourteenth entry. After so many different nations which the Muses made to appear in the divers assemblies which formed the entertainment which they gave to the King, there was nothing wanting but to bring upon the stage Turks and Moors: and that is what they have thought of doing in this last entry, with which they have connected a little comedy to give scope to the charms of music and dancing, by which they wish to end.”

We give the official libretto of the analysis of The Sicilian, omitting only the names of the dancers and singers. The senator of the comedy is here called “a Sicilian magistrate.”

Scene 1st. Hali, by his master’s orders, brings upon the stage three Turkish musicians to give a serenade.

Scene 2d. Adraste asks for the three musicians, and, to oblige Isidore to come to the window, lets them sing a scene from a comedy.

Scene 3d. Don Pedro, in the dark, comes out of the house in a dressing-gown, to try to discover who gives the serenade.

Scene 4th. Hali promises his master to invent some trick in order to let Isidore know the love which he has for her.

Scene 5th. Isidore complains to Don Pedro of the precaution he takes to bring her everywhere with him.

Scene 6th. Hali, endeavouring to let Isidore know his master’s love, cleverly makes use of five Turkish slaves, of whom one sings and the four others dance, proposing them to Don Pedro as slaves agreeable and capable of amusing him. A Turkish slave sings at first, “An impassioned heart follows his beloved object everywhere, &c.,” by which he pretends to express the passion of Adraste, and to make it known to Isidore in the presence of Don Pedro.

The Turkish slave, after having sung, fearing that Don Pedro might understand the meaning of what he had just said, and perceive the trick, turns wholly towards Don Pedro, and to amuse him, sings in the lingua franca these words, “Chiribirida houcha la, &c.,” whereupon the four other Turkish slaves dance. The slave, who is a musician, begins again “Chiribirida houcha la, &c then, convinced that Don Pedro suspects nothing, he addresses himself to Isidore and sings, “ It is a complete martyrdom, &c.” As soon as he has finished, always afraid that Don Pedro may perceive something, he begins again, “ Chiribirida houcha la, &c then the four slaves dance again. At last Don Pedro, perceiving the trick, sings in his turn the words, “Do you know, you scamp, &c.”

Scene 7th. Hali informs his master of what he has done, and his master communicates to him the stratagem he has planned.

Scene 8th. Adraste goes to Don Pedro’s house to paint the portrait of Isidore.

Scene 9th. Hali, disguised as a Sicilian gentleman, comes to ask Don Pedro’s advice about an affair of honour.

Scene 10th. Isidore commends the politeness of Adraste to Don Pedro.

Scene nth. Zaide comes to throw herself into the arms of Don Pedro, so that he might protect her against the pretended anger of Adraste.

Scene 12th. Adraste pretends that he wishes to kill Zaide; but at Don Pedro’s intercession, he moderates his wrath,

Scene 13th. Don Pedro places Isidore, under the veil of Zaide, in the hands of Adraste.

Scene 14th. Zaide reproaches Don Pedro with his jealousy, and tells him that Isidore is no longer in his power.

Scene 15th. Don Pedro goes to complain before a Sicilian magistrate, who only speaks to him about a masquerade of Moors, which ends the Comedy and the Ballet.

The dancing Moors were of three kinds — Moors and Moorish girls of quality, who were the King, M. le Grand, the Marquesses de Villeroi and de Rassan, Madame, Mademoiselle de la Vallière, Madame de Rochefort, and Mademoiselle de Brancas; naked Moors and Alaures à capots, or Moors with light dresses to imitate skin, who were professional dancers.

This comedy was not given to the public before the 10th of June 1667, when it was acted for the first time, with the eighteenth representation of Attila, a tragedy by P. Corneille. This delay had been caused by an attack of illness of Molière.

In this little comedy, the author has often employed blank verse; and that he has done so purposely has clearly been proved.

John Crowne, in The Country Wit, acted at the Duke’s Theatre in 1675, has imitated a large portion of the plot, as well as of the language of The Sicilian. Crowne’s play is said to have been a great favourite with Charles II. and also with the public, although the author, in the dedication to the Right Honourable Charles, Earl of Middlesex, better known as the Earl of Dorset, states that it “stood firmer than I expected, and withstood the battery of a whole party who did me the honour to profess themselves my enemies, and made me appear more considerable than ever I thought myself, by shewing that no less than a confederacy was necessary to ruin my reputation.” Both in the prologue and in the dedication, the author sarcastically states that every man thinks himself a wit, and that “city and country is with wit o’erflown.” Country Wit is rather a good, though a very coarse, play. Don Pedro is called Lord Drybone; Isidore, Betty Frisque; Halit Merry; and Adraste, Ramble; but there is also another plot in this comedy, in which Sir Thomas Rash wishes his daughter Christina to marry Sir Mannerly Shallow, a foolish country knight. Instead of Hall and Pedro quarrelling, as in The Sicilian, Sir Thomas and Lord Drybone fight and are seized by the watch; in the English play, it is also Merry, the servant, who advises his master to go to Betty F risque’s house as a painter, whilst, in the French comedy, Adraste plans it himself.

Lady Faddle, Sir Mannerly Shallow, and the porter, Thomas Rash, and his wife are not to be found in The Sicilian. The first two characters appear to be a reminiscence of Molière’s Countess of Escarbagnas and Monsieur de Pourceaugnac, whilst some of the scenes between Rambler and his man seem to be freely followed from some in the French author’s Amphitryon. Crowne’s play gives a very peculiar idea of the manners and customs of the times in which he wrote. The licentiousness of his personages is only equalled by the excessive freedom of language which they use; a language which must have startled some of the audience even in Charles II.’s reign.

Sir Richard Steele, in The Tender Husband, acted for the first time at Drury Lane, 3, has also imitated the twelfth scene of Molière’s play; but Adraste is there called Captain Clerimont, and Isidore, simply Niece. I imagine that Sir Richard also took the liberty of borrowing from Crowne’s Sir Mannerly Shallow and transforming him into Humphrey Gubbin. Addison wrote the prologue, and is said to have given some assistance in the composition of this play.

Charles Dibdin also wrote an opera called The Metamorphoses, acted at the Haymarket, probably at the end of 1776, but not with much success, and which is borrowed chiefly from Molière’s Sicilian, with one character from George Dandin. Don Pedro wishes to marry his ward Marcella. Fabio, the servant, assumes, like Hali, various disguises. The catastrophe in which Juletta enters, veiled, Don Pedro’s house and asks the latter to protect her against Lysander, her husband’s wrath, and in which Marcella leaves her home muffled in the veil of Juletta, is borrowed from The Sicilian; the booby servant Perer is imitated from George Dandin. —

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

DON PEDRO, A Sicilian gentleman (This part was played by Molière himself. In the inventory taken after Molière’s death, and given by Μ. E. Soulié in the Recherches sur Molière, we find: “A dress for The Sicilian, the breeches and cloak of violet satin, embroidered with gold and silver, lined with green tabby, the skirt of gold-colour watered silk, with sleeves of silver cloth, adorned with silver embroideries; also a night-cap, a wig, and a sword.”)

ADRASTE, a French gentleman, in love with Isidore.

ISIDORE, a Greek girl, Don Pedro’s slave.

A SENATOR.

HALI, a Turk, Adraste’s slave.

ZAIDE, a young slave girl.

Two SERVANTS.

MUSICIANS.

A SLAVE, singing.

SLAVES, dancing.

MOORS OF BOTH SEXES, dancing.

SCENE I.

HALI, MUSICIANS.

HALL (TO THE musicians). Hush. Do not come any farther, and stay where you are until I call you.

SCENE II.

HALI, alone.

IT IS AS dark as pitch. The sky is dressed like a Scaramouche this evening, and I do not see a star that shows the tip of its nose. What a droll condition is that of a slave, never to live for one’s self, and always to be entirely engrossed by the passions of one’s master, to be controlled by nothing but his whims, and to see one’s self reduced to make all his cares one’s own concern! Mine makes me here share his anxieties; and because he is in love, I am forced to lose my rest both day and night. But here come some torch-bearers. It is he, no doubt.

SCENE III.

ADRASTE, TWO SERVANTS, each carrying a

TORCH, HALI.

ADR. IS it you, Hali?

HALI. And who should it be but me? At this hour of the night, except you and me, sir, I do not think that anyone takes it into his head to roam the streets now.

ADR. Nor do I think that anyone can be met who feels in his heart the grief that I do. For, after all, it is nothing to have to overcome the indifference or the harsh treatment of the fair one, whom one loves; one has always, at least, the pleasure of complaining, and the liberty of sighing for her. But not to be able to find any opportunity of speaking to her whom one adores, not to be able to learn from the fair one whether the passion which her eyes have kindled pleases or displeases her; that is, in my opinion, the most annoying of all anxieties; and that is to what I am reduced by that tiresome, jealous fellow, who watches with such care over my charming Greek, and who does not stir a step, without dragging her at his side.

HALI. But in love there are various ways of speaking to each other; and it seems to me that your eyes and hers have told many things during nearly two months.

ADR. It is true that she and I have frequently spoken to each other through our eyes; but how to find out if we have correctly interpreted this language, on either side?
And how do I know, after all, whether she quite understands everything that my glances tell her, and whether hers tell me that which I sometimes fancy they do? ——

HALI. We must find some other mode of speaking with her.

ADR. Have you your musicians here?

HALI. Yes.

ADR. Tell them to come near. (Alone). I will make them sing here until daybreak, and see whether their music will not oblige the fair one to come to one of the windows.

SCENE IV.

ADRASTE, HALI, MUSICIANS.

HALI. HERE THEY are. What shall they sing?

ADR. What they think best HALI. They must sing the trio that they sung to me the other day.

ADR. NO. That is not what I want.

HALI. Ah! sir, it is in that beautiful natural. —

ADR. What the deuce do you mean by that beautiful natural?

HALI. Sir, I am fond of the natural. You know that I am a judge. I love the natural; without the natural, there is no salvation in harmony. Just listen for a little to this trio. ——

ADR. NO, I wish something tender and impassioned; something that will lull me as in a sweet dream.

HALL I see that you prefer the flat; but there is a way of satisfying us both. They shall sing a certain scene of a little comedy that I have heard them attempt. Two shepherds, in love, quite full of languor, separately come into a grove to make their complaints in a flat; they confide to each other the cruelty of their mistresses; then comes a jovial shepherd with an admirable natural, who laughs at their weakness.

ADR. Very well. Let us hear what it is.

HALI. Here is just the very spot to serve as a stage; and here are two torches to throw a light upon the play.

ADR. Place yourself against this house, so that at the slightest noise inside, we may extinguish the lights.

FRAGMENT OF A COMEDY, SUNG AND ACCOMPANIED BY THE MUSICIANS WHOM HALI HAS BROUGHT.

SCENE I.

PHILENE, TIRCIS.

FIRST MUSICIAN (who represents Philène). If with the sorrowful tale of my grief I disturb the quiet of your solitude, do not be angry, O rocks. Rocks, though you are, you will be touched, when you know the excess of my hidden anguish.

SECOND MUSICIAN (who represents Tircis). The gladsome birds, when day begins to break, renew their song in these vast forests; and I renew my languishing sighs, and my sad regrets. Ah! dear Philène.

PHIL. Ah! dear Tircis!

TIR. What grief I feel!

PHIL. What cares I have!

TIR. Ever deaf to my sighs is the ungrateful Climène.

PHIL. Chloris has no sweet looks for me.

BOTH TOGETHER. O too inhuman law! If you cannot compel them to love, O Cupid! why do you leave them the power of charming?

SCENE II.

PHILENE, TIRCIS, A SHEPHERD.

THIRD MUSICIAN (who represents a shepherd). Poor lovers, what a mistake to adore merciless creatures! Sensible minds ought never to bear with harsh treatment; and favors are the chains which ought to bind our hearts.
Here are a hundred fair ones to whom I hasten to offer my tender cares; it is my greatest delight. But when they act like tigresses, upon my word I become a tiger too.

PHIL, AND TIR. (Together). Happy, alas! are they who can love thus.

HALI. Sir, I just heard some noise inside.

ADR. Be off quickly, and extinguish the torches.

SCENE V.

DON PEDRO, ADRASTE, HALI.

DON P. (IN a night-cap and a dressing-gown, with a sword under his arm, coining out of his house). I have noticed this singing going on for some time at my door; and no doubt this is not done for nothing. I must try to discover in the dark who these people can be.

ADR. Hali.

HALI. What is it?

ADR. DO you no longer hear anything?

HALI. NO. (Don Pedro is behind them, listening).

ADR. What! are all our efforts to speak for one moment with this pretty Greek in vain; and shall this cursed jealous fellow, this wretched Sicilian, for ever bar all access to her?

HALI. I wish with all my heart that the devil had taken him for the trouble he gives us, the tiresome fellow, the hangdog that he is. Ah! if we only had him here, how delighted should I be to avenge upon his back all the fruitless steps which his jealousy causes us.

ADR. We must, for all that, find some means, some trick, some stratagem, to catch our brute. I am too far advanced to be baffled now; and although I should have to use...

HALI. I do not know what this means, but the door is open, Sir; and, if you like, I will go in softly and find out what is the cause of this.
(Don Pedro goes back to his door.

ADR. Yes, do so; but do not make a noise. I shall not be far away. Would to Heaven it were the charming Isidore!

DON P. (Giving Hali a slap in the face). Who goes there?

HALT. (Doing the same to Don Pedro). A friend.

DON P. Hullo! Francisque, Dominique, Simon, Martin Pierre, Thomas, Georges, Charles, Barthélemy. Come, look sharp, my sword, my buckler, my halberd, my pistols, my blunderbusses, my guns. Quick, make haste. Here, kill and slay, give no quarter.

SCENE VI.

ADRASTE, HALI.

ADR. I HEAR not a soul stir. Hali, Hali!

HALI. (Hid in a corner). Sir?

ADR. Where are you hiding yourself?

HALI. Have these people come out?

ADR. NO. NO one is stirring.

HALI. (Coming out of his corner). If they do come, they shall have a drubbing.

ADR. What! Shall all our trouble be for nothing?
Shall this tiresome, jealous fellow always laugh at our attempts?

HALL NO. I get angry, and my honour is at stake; it shall not be said that anyone has outwitted me. My reputation as a rogue disdains all these obstacles; and I am determined to show the talents that Heaven has given me.

ADR. I only wish her, by some means, by some note, by some voice, to be informed of my feelings towards her, and in return, to know hers upon the subject. After that, we can easily find some means...

HALI. Only let me manage it. I shall try so many sorts of things, that, something or other, in short, may succeed. Come, day breaks; I shall go and fetch my men, and wait here, until our jealous fellow goes out.

SCENE VII.

DON PEDRO, ISIDORE.

ISID. I DO not know what pleasure you can have in waking me so early. It agrees badly, I think, with your intention of having my portrait painted to-day. You can hardly expect me to have a fresh complexion and sparkling eyes by making me get up at break of day.

DON P. Some business compels me to go out at this hour.

ISID. But this business can be very well transacted, I believe, without my presence; and you might, without incommoding yourself, have allowed me to taste the sweets of the morning’s slumber.

DON P. Yes. But I am very glad of having you always with me. It is as well to be on one’s guard a little against those vigilant swains; and not later than last night, people came and sang under our windows.

ISID. That is true. The music was charming.

DON P. It was intended for you?

ISID. I must believe so, since you say so.

DON P. DO you know who gave this serenade?

ISID. I do not; but, whoever he was, I am obliged to him.

DON P. Obliged?

ISID. Undoubtedly, since he seeks to amuse me.

DON P. YOU think it right, then, that people love you?

ISID. Decidedly. There is never anything offensive in that?

DON P. And you wish well to all who take that trouble?

ISID. Certainly.

DON P. YOU say pretty plainly what you think.

ISID. What is the good of dissimulating? Whatever we may pretend, we are always well pleased to be loved.
This homage to our charms is never disagreeable to us.
Whatever we may say, believe me, the great ambition of women is to inspire love. All the cares they bestow upon themselves are for that only; and the proudest inwardly applauds herself for the conquests which her eyes make.

DON P. But if you take so much pleasure in being beloved, do you know that I, who love you, do not take any in it?

ISID. I do not know why this should be, and if I loved any one, I should have no greater pleasure than seeing her beloved by everyone. Is there anything which marks more plainly the beauty of one’s choice? and ought we not to congratulate ourselves in thinking that what we love is found very loveable?

DON P. Each one loves in his own peculiar fashion, and this is not my way. I should be very delighted if people did not think you so beautiful, and you will oblige me by not trying to appear so in other people’s eyes.

ISID. What! are you jealous of these things?

DON P. Yes, jealous of these things; but as jealous as a tiger, or, if you like it better, as a devil. My love claims you all for itself. Its delicacy is offended at a smile, at a glance which may be drawn from you; and all the precautions which I take are only to bar every access to those admirers, and to assure myself of the possession of a heart, the slightest part of which I cannot bear to be robbed of.

ISID. In good truth, shall I tell you? you enter upon a wrong path; and a possession of a heart is but badly secured, if it is to be retained by force. As for me, I admit candidly, that were I the admirer of a woman who was in some one’s power, I would study everything to make that other person jealous, and to compel him to watch night and day over her whom I should like to win.
It is an admirable way to forward our wishes, and people are never very long in profiting by the spite and anger which restraint and servitude awake in the breast of a woman.

DON P. At this rate, if any one made love to you, he would find you disposed to receive his addresses?

ISID. I will say nothing about that. But, in short, women do not like to be restrained; and it is running a great risk to show them your suspicions, and to keep them imprisoned.

DON P. YOU but little acknowledge what you owe me; and it seems to me that a slave, to whom I have given her freedom, and whom I wish to make my wife....

ISID. Where is the obligation, if you but change one slavery into another more severe still, and if you do not allow me to enjoy the least freedom, and tire me, as you do, with continual watching?

DON P. But all this proceeds but from an excess of love.

ISID. If that is your way of loving, I beseech you to hate me.

DON P. You are in a pettish humour to-day; and I forgive you your words on account of the annoyance which you may feel at having risen so early.

SCENE VIII.

DON PEDRO, ISIDORE, HALI (dressed as a

TURK, BOWING REPEATEDLY to Don Pedro).

DON P. A truce to these ceremonies. What do you want?

HALI. (Placing himself between Don Pedro and Isidore, At each word which he speaks to Don Pedro he turns to Isidore, and makes signs to her to let her understand the designs of his master). Signor (with the Signora’s leave), I will tell you (with the signora’s leave), that I have come to see you (with the signora’s leave), to ask you (with the signora’s leave), to have the kindness (with the signora’s leave)....

DON P. With the signora’s leave, come a little on this side. (Don Pedro places himself between Isidore and Halt).

HALL I am a virtuoso, signor.

DON P. I have nothing to give away.

HALL I am not asking for anything. But as I meddle a little with music and dancing, I have taught some slaves, who would be glad to find a master who takes a delight in these things; and knowing that you are a gentleman of some importance, I have come to ask you to look at them and to listen to them, to buy them if they please you, or to recommend them to one of your friends, who might be willing to engage them.

ISID. We might see their performance; it will amuse us. Fetch them hither.

HALL Chala, bala. That is a new song, the latest out.
Listen well. Chala, bala.

SCENE IX.

DON PEDRO, ISIDORE, HALI, TURKISH

SLAVES.

A SLAVE. (Singing to Isidore). A lover with an impassioned heart follows its beloved object everywhere; but the eternal watchfulness of an odious jealousy prevents him speaking to her except by his eyes. Can there be aught more painful to a heart in love? (To Don Pedro). Chiribirida ouch alia, Star bon Turca, Non aver danara. Ti voler comprara? Mi servir à ti, Se pagar per mi; Far bona cucina, Mi levar matin a, Far boiler caldara; Parlara, parlara, Ti voler comprara?

First Entry of the Ballet.

Dance of the Slaves.

A SLAVE. (Singing to Isidore). It is a complete torture under which this lover expires; but if the fair one will only look upon his martyrdom with a gentle eye, and consent that he may sigh for her charms in the eyes of the whole world, then he may soon laugh at all the precautions of jealousy. (To Don Pedro). Chiribirida ouch alia, Star bon Turca, Non aver danara; Ti voler comprara? Mi servir à ti, Se pagar per mi; Far bona cucina, Me levar matina, Far boiler caldara; Parlara, parlara, Ti voler comprara?

Second Entry of the Ballet.

The Slaves recommence dancing.

DON. P. (Sings); Do you know, you scamps, that this song smells of stick for your backs? Chiribirida ouch alia, Mi ti non comprara, Ma ti bastonara, Si ti non andara; Andara, andara, O ti bastonara.
Oh! oh! what merry sparks! (To Isidore). Come, let us go in again: I have changed my mind; and moreover, the weather looks rather threatening. (To Hali, who comes back). Ah! you rogue! let me catch you at it again!

HALI. Well! yes, my master adores her. He has no greater desire than to show her his love; and, if she consents to it, to take her for his wife.

DON P. Yes, yes, I will keep her for him.

HALI. We shall get her in spite of you.

DON P. What do you mean, you scoundrel...

HALI. We shall get her, I tell you, in spite of your teeth.

DON P. If I take...

HALI. YOU may watch as much as you like. She shall be ours; I have sworn it.

DON P. Leave me alone, I shall catch you without fatiguing myself.

HALI. It is we who will catch you. She shall be our wife; our mind is made up. (Alone). I must accomplish it, or perish in the attempt.

SCENE X.

ADRASTE, HALI, TWO SERVANTS.

ADR. WELL, HALI, are our affairs improving?

HALI. I have already made some little attempt, sir; but I...

ADR. DO not trouble yourself about it; I have found, by accident, all that I wish; and I shall enjoy the happiness of seeing this fair one in her own house. I happened to be at Damon’s, the artist, who told me that he had to go to-day to paint the portrait of this charming creature; and as we are intimate friends of long standing, he wishes to serve my flame, and sends me, in his place, with a few words of introduction. You know that I was always fond of painting, and that I sometimes handle the brush myself, much against the French custom, which forbids a nobleman to know how to do anything; so shall I have the liberty of seeing this fair one at my ease. But I do not doubt that my jealous bore will always be there, and prevent any conversation between us; and, to tell you the truth, I have, by the aid of a young slave girl, prepared a stratagem to get this fair Greek out of the hands of her tormentor, if I can prevail with her to consent to it.

HALL Leave it to me; I will put you in the way to converse with her. (Whispers to Adraste). It shall not be said that I count for nothing in this affair. When are you going there?

ADR. This very minute; I have already prepared everything.

HALL And I am going, on my part, to prepare myself.

ADR. I will lose no time. Hullo! I will not delay the pleasure of seeing her.

SCENE XI.

DON PEDRO, ADRASTE, TWO SERVANTS.

DON P. FOR whom are you looking in this house sir?

ADR. I am looking for Don Pedro.

DON P. He stands before you.

ADR. He will take the trouble to read this letter, if it it please him, DON P. I send you, instead of myself, for the portrait in question, this French gentleman, who, anxious to oblige, has been good enough to undertake this task at my wish. He is unquestionably, the first man in the world for this sort of work, and I thought that I could do you no more agreeable service than to send him to you, since you intend to have a finished portrait of the person whom you love. But, above all, take care not to speak to him about any remuneration j for he would be offended at it, and does these things only for the sake of fame and reputation. Sir Frenchman, you intend doing me a great favour, and I am very much obliged to you.

ADR. All my ambition is to oblige people of standing and merit.

DON P. I will call the person in question.

SCENE XII.

ISIDORE, DON PEDRO, ADRASTE, TWO

SERVANTS.

DON P. (To Isidore). This is a gentleman whom Damon sends us, and who will be kind enough to undertake your portrait. (To Adraste, who, in saluting Isidore, embraces her). Hullo! Sir Frenchman, this way of saluting is not the fashion in this country.

ADR. It is the fashion of France.

DON P. The fashion of France may suit your ladies; but for ours, it is somewhat too familiar.

ISID. I accept this honour with much pleasure. The adventure surprises me immensely; and, to tell the truth I did not expect to have such an illustrious painter.

ADR. There is no one, doubtless, who would not think it an honour to engage on such a work. I have no great talent; but, in this case, the subject provides more than enough in itself, and we can do something beautiful with such an original to work from.

ISID. The original is but little to speak of; but the skill of the painter will be able to hide its defects.

ADR. The painter cannot perceive any; and all that he wishes is to be able to represent its charms to the world’s eyes in the same perfection as he sees them.

ISID. If your brush flatter as much as your tongue, you will paint a portrait which will not be at all like me.

ADR. Heaven, who made the original, has prevented us from making a portrait of it that could be flattering.

ISID. Whatever you may say, Heaven has not...

DON P. Let us finish this, pray. Let us leave compliments, and think about the portrait.

ADR. (To the servants). Come, bring my things.
(They bring the necessary pointing implements).

ISID. (To Adraste). Where shall I sit?

ADR. Here. This is the right spot, and catches best the precise light we want.

ISID. (After sitting down). Am I right thus?

ADR. Yes. Hold yourself up a little. A little more that way. Your body turned thus. You head raised a little, to show the beauty of the throat. This a little more open. (He uncovers her neck a little more). That is it. There, a little more; just another shade.

DON P. (To Isidore). What a fuss to put you right; cannot you sit properly?

ISID. These things are altogether new to me; and it is for this gentleman to place me as he likes.

ADR. (Seated). There, it could not be better, and you sit admirably. (Turning her a little towards him). Like this if you please. The whole depends upon the attitude which we give to the people we paint.

DON P. Very good.

ADR. A little more this way. Your eyes turned towards me, I pray; your looks fixed on mine.

ISID. I am not like those ladies, who, having their portraits painted, wish them to be unlike themselves, and are not satisfied with the painter unless he makes them more lovely than the day. To content them, one ought to make but one picture for them all; for they all ask for the same thing, — a complexion entirely of lilies and roses, a well shaped nose, a small mouth, and large sparkling eyes; and, above all, the face no larger than a hand, even if they have one a foot wide. As for me, I ask you for a portrait that is like me, and which shall not compel people to ask whose it is.

ADR. It would be difficult to have it asked of yours; and your features are very unlike those of others. How sweet and charming they are, and how much risk there is in painting them!

DON P. The nose seems to me a little too large.

ADR. I have read, I know not where, that Apelles, of old, painted a mistress of Alexander, so marvellously beautiful, that, while painting, he became so hopelessly enamoured of her, that it nearly cost him his life; had not Alexander, out of generosity, ceded to him the object of his love. (To Don Pedro.) I might do the same here as Apelles did of old; but you would not do the same perhaps, as Alexander. (Don Pedro makes a grimace.

ISID. (To Don Pedro). This is like all those of his nationality. These French gentlemen have always such a stock of gallantry that they scatter it everywhere.

ADR. One is seldom mistaken in this sort of thing, and you have too much good sense not to see whence come the words which one says to you. Yes, were Alexander present, and your lover, I could not help telling you that I have never beheld aught so beautiful as what I see now, and that...

DON P. Sir Frenchman, I think you ought not to talk much; it takes your attention from your work.

ADR. Ah! Not at all. I am in the habit of talking when I paint, and a little conversation is necessary in these cases to wake up the mind, and to keep the faces of those we paint in the requisite gay mood.

SCENE XIII.

HALI disguised as a Spanish gentleman.

DON PEDRO, ADRASTE, ISIDORE.

DON P. What does this man want? And Avho lets people walk up without announcing them?

HALI. (To Don Pedro). I have entered boldly; but between gentlemen, such freedom is allowed. Sir, am I known to you?

DON P. NO, Sir.

HALL I am Don Gilles d’Avalos; and the history of Spain must have made you acquainted with my merit.

DON P. DO you wish anything from me?

HALI. Yes, advice upon an affair of honour. I know that it would be difficult to find a gentleman more perfect in these matters than you; but I must beg of you as a favour to draw a little aside.

DON P. This will be fair enough. ——

ADR. TO Don Pedro, who catches him whispering to Isidore). She has blue eyes.

HALI. (.Drawing Don Pedro away from Adraste and Isidore). Sir, I have received a slap in the face. You know what a slap is, when it is given with an open hand, in the very middle of the cheek. I take this slap much to heart and I am uncertain whether to avenge the insult, I ought to fight my man, or rather to have him assassinated.

DON P. Assassinated; that is the surest and quickest way. Who is your enemy?

HALI. Let us speak low, if you please.
(Halt holds Don Pedro, while speaking to him in such a manner that he cannot see Adraste.

ADR. (At Isidore’s knees, while Hah and Don Pedro whisper together). Yes, charming Isidore, my looks have told you as much for the last two months, and you have understood them. I love you more than aught else, and I have no other thought, no other aim, no other passion, than to be yours all my life.

ISID. I do not know whether you speak the truth; but you make me believe you.

ADR. But do I make you believe me sufficiently to inspire you with ever so little kindness towards myself?

ISID. I only fear I have too much.

ADR. Have you enough, fair Isidore, to consent to the plan of which I have told you?

ISID. I cannot tell you yet.

ADR. What are you waiting for?

ISID. To make up my mind.

ADR. Ah! when people love with all their hearts, they make up their minds quickly.

ISID. Very well then! yes, I consent to it.

ADR. But do you consent, tell me, that it be this very moment?

ISID. Very well then; yes, I consent to it.

ADR. But do you consent, tell me, that it be this very moment?

ISID. When once our mind is made up about a thing, do we consider the time?

DON PED. (To Hali). This is my opinion, and I kiss your hands.

HALI. Sir if you ever receive a slap in the face, I am. also a man of counsel; and I may be able to return the service.

DON P. YOU will pardon me for not seeing you to the door; but, between gentlemen, such freedom is allowed.

ADR. (To Isidore). No, there is nothing that could efface from my heart the tender proofs... (To Don Pedro, who perceives him speaking very closely to Isidore).

I was looking at this little dimple which she has got at the side of her chin, and I thought at first that it was a mole.
But we have done enough for to-day; we will finish at another time. (To Don Pedro, who wishes to see the portrait).
No, do not look at anything yet. Have it carefully put aside, I pray; (To Isidore), and you, I beseech you, not to give way, and to keep your spirits up, in order that I may finish my work.

ISID. I shall reserve all the gaiety I can for this.

SCENE XIV.

DON PEDRO, ISIDORE.

ISID. WHAT SAY you? This gentleman seems to me the most polite in the world; and one must admit that the French have in them something so polished, so gallant, which other nations have not.

DON P. Yes; but they have that against them that they are somewhat too free, and that, madcap-like, they are too fond of whispering sweet nothings to every woman whom they meet.

ISID. It is because they know that those things please the ladies.

DON P. True; but if they please the ladies, they very much displease the gentlemen; and one is not very glad to see one’s wife or mistress openly courted to one’s very face.

ISID. They do so only in sport.

SCENE XV.

ZAIDE, DON PEDRO, ISIDORE.

ZAI. AH, SIR, save me, I beseech you, from the hands of an enraged husband who is close upon my heels. His jealousy is incredible, and surpasses in its violence everything imaginable. He carries it so far as to wish me to be always veiled; and for having found me with my face a little uncovered he has drawn his sword, and he has compelled me to throw myself upon you, and to ask for your protection against his injustice. But I see him coming; for heaven’s sake, honoured Sir, save me from his fury.

DON P. (To Zaide, pointing to Isidore). Go in there with her, and fear nothing.

SCENE XVI.

ADRASTE, DON PEDRO.

DON P. WHAT, sir, is it you? So much jealousy in a Frenchman. I fancied that only we were capable of such a thing.

ADR. The French always excel in everything they do; and, when we take it into our heads to be jealous, we are twenty times more so than a Sicilian. This infamous girl thinks to have found a safe refuge with you; but you are too sensible to blame my resentment. Allow me, I pray you, to treat her as she deserves.

DON P. Ah! for pity’s sake, stop. The offence is too trifling for so much anger.

ADR. The extent of the offence lies not in the importance of the deed: it is in the transgression of the given orders; and in such matters that which is only a trifle becomes very criminal when it is forbidden.

DON P. TO judge by what she has said, all that she has done was unintentional; and I pray you to be reconciled.

ADR. What! you take her part, you who are so particular in matters of that kind.

DON P. Yes, I take her part; and if you would oblige me, you will forget your anger, and be reconciled to each other. It is a favour which I ask of you, and I shall look upon it as an earnest of the friendship which I should like to subsist between us.

ADR. Under these conditions, I can refuse you nothing.

I will do as you wish.

SCENE XVII.

ZAIDE, DON PEDRO, ADRASTE, hidden in

A CORNER OF the stage.

DON P. (To Zaide). Come along, I say. Only follow me, I have made your peace. You could not have fallen into better hands.

ZAI. I am much more obliged to you than you think; but I shall take my veil; I shall take care not to appear before him without it.

SCENE XVIII.

DON PEDRO, ADRASTE.

DON P. SHE will be here directly; and I assure you that she seemed very glad when I told her that I had made it all right.

SCENE XIX.

ISIDORE, with Zaide’s veil, ADRASTE, DON PEDRO.

DON P. SINCE you have consented to forego your resentment, allow me to make you shake hands together here; and to beg of you to live henceforth, for my sake, in a perfect understanding.

ADR. Yes, I promise you, that for your sake, I shall live on the best possible terms with her.

DON P. You oblige me greatly, and I shall bear it in mind.

ADR. I give you my word, Don Pedro, that out of consideration for you, I shall treat her with the utmost possible kindness.

DON P. YOU are really too kind. (Alone). It does one good to make matters pleasant and peaceful. Hullo, Isidore, come.

SCENE XX.

ZAIDE, DON PEDRO.

DON P. WHAT is this! What means this?

ZAI. (Without her veil). What means this? That a jealous man is a monster hated by all the world; and that everyone delights to annoy him for annoyance’ sake; that all the locks and bolts cannot keep people: and that the heart must be won by gentleness and kindness; that Isidore is in the hands of a gentleman whom she loves, and that you have been duped.

DON P. And shall Don Pedro suffer this mortal insult!
No, no, I have too much courage; and I shall go and demand the assistance of the authorities to punish this perfidy to the utmost. Here lives a senator. Hullo!

SCENE XXI.

A SENATOR, DON PEDRO.

SEN. YOUR SERVANT, Don Pedro. How opportunely you come!

DON P. I come to complain to you of an insult which I have suffered.

SEN. I have just arranged the most beautiful masquerade in the world.

DON P. A treacherous Frenchman has played me a trick.

SEN. YOU have never, in all your life, seen anything so beautiful.

DON P. He has abducted a girl to whom I had given her freedom.

SEN. They are people dressed like Moors, who dance admirably. —

DON P. You may judge whether this is an insult which I ought to bear.

SEN. Most marvellous dresses, made expressly.

DON P. I demand the assistance of the authorities in this matter.

SEN. I wish you to see this. They are going to rehearse it to amuse the people.

DON P. What are you talking about?

SEN. I am speaking about my masquerade.

DON P. I am speaking of my affair.

SEN. I will not occupy myself about any matter, except pleasure, to-day. Come, gentlemen, come. Let us see whether it will go all right.

DON P. Plague take the fool, with his masquerade!

SEN. The deuce take the bore, with his affair!

SCENE XXII.

A SENATOR, TROUP OF DANCERS.

ENTRY OF THE Ballet.

Several dancers, dressed as Moros, dance before the Senator, and finish the comedy.

Amphitryon

Translated by A. R. Waller

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

ACT I

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

ACT II

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

ACT III

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

SCENE VIII

SCENE IX

SCENE X

The 1682 frontispiece

PROLOGUE

MERCURY, ON A cloud; NIGHT, in a chariot drawn by two horses

MERC. Wait! Gentle Night; deign to stay awhile: Some help is needed from you. I have two words to say to you from Jupiter.

NIGHT. Ah! Ah! It is you, Seigneur Mercury! Who would have thought of you here, in that position?

MERC. Well, feeling tired, and not being able to fulfil the different duties Jupiter ordered me, I quietly sat down on this cloud to await your coming.

NIGHT. You jest, Mercury: you do not mean it; does it become the Gods to say they are tired?

MERC. Are the Gods made of iron?

NIGHT. No; but one must always have a care for divine decorum. There are certain words the use of which debases this sublime quality, and it is meet that these should be left to men, because they are unworthy.

MERC. You speak at your ease, fair lady, from a swiftly rolling chariot, in which, like a dame free from care; you are drawn by two fine horses wherever you like. But it is not the same with me. Such is my miserable fate that I cannot bear the poets too great a grudge for their gross impertinence in having, by an unjust law, which they wish to retain in force, given a separate conveyance to each God, for his own use, and left me to go on foot: me, like a village messenger, though, as everyone knows, I am the famous messenger of the sovereign of the Gods, on the earth and in the heavens. Without any exaggeration, I need more than any one else the means of being carried about, because of all the duties he puts upon me.

NIGHT. What can one do? The poets do what pleases them. It is not the only stupidity we have detected in these gentlemen. But surely your irritation against them is wrong, for the wings at your feet are a friendly gift of theirs.

MERC. Yes; but does going more quickly tire oneself less?

NIGHT. Let us leave the matter, Seigneur Mercury, and learn what is wanted.

MERC. Jupiter, as I have told you, wishes the dark aid of your cloak for a certain gallant adventure, which a new love affair has furnished him. His custom is not new to you, I believe: often does he neglect the heavens for the earth; and you are not ignorant that this master of the Gods loves to take upon himself the guise of man to woo earthly beauties. He knows a hundred ingenious tricks to entrap the most obdurate. He has felt the darts of Alcmene’s eyes; and, whilst Amphitryon, her husband, commands the Theban troops on the plains of Boeotia, Jupiter has taken his form, and assuaged his pains, in the possession of the sweetest of pleasures. The condition of the couple is propitious to his desire: Hymen joined them only a few days ago; and the young warmth of their tender love suggested to Jupiter to have recourse to this fine artifice. His stratagem proved successful in this case; but with many a cherished object a similar disguise would not be of any use: it is not always a sure means of pleasing, to adopt the form, of a husband.

NIGHT. I admire Jupiter, and I cannot imagine all the disguises which come into his head.

MERC. By these means he wishes to taste all sorts of conditions: that is the act of a God who is not a fool. However mortals may regard him, I should think very meanly of him if he never quitted his redoubtable mien, and were always in the heavens, standing upon his dignity. In my opinion, there is nothing more idiotic than always to be imprisoned in one’s grandeur; above all, a lofty rank becomes very inconvenient in the transports of amorous ardour. Jupiter, no doubt, is a connoisseur in pleasure, and he knows how to descend from the height of his supreme glory. So that he can enter into everything that pleases him, he entirely casts aside himself, and then it is no longer Jupiter who appears.

NIGHT. I could overlook seeing him step down from his sublime stage to that of men, since he wishes to enter into all the transports which their natures can supply, and join in their jests, if, in the changes which take his fancy, he would confine himself to nature. But I do not think it fitting to see Jupiter as a bull, a serpent, a swan, or what not, and it does not astonish me that it is sometimes talked about.

MERC. Let all the busybodies talk; such changes have their own charms and surpass people’s understanding. The God knows what he does in this affair as in everything else: in the movements of their tender passions, animals are not so loutish as one might think.

NIGHT. Let us return to the lady whose favours he enjoys. If, by his stratagem, his pursuit is successful, what more can he wish? What can I do?

MERC. He wishes that you would slacken the pace of your horses, to satisfy the passion of his amorous heart, and so make of a delightful night the longest night of all; that you would give him more time for his transports, and retard the birth of day since it will hasten the return of him whose place he occupies.

NIGHT. Really the employment which the great Jupiter reserves for me is a worthy one! The service he requires of me passes under a very respectable name.

MERC. You are somewhat old-fashioned for a young goddess! Such an employment is not debasing except among people of mean birth. When one has the happiness of belonging to lofty rank, whatever one does is always right and good; things change their names to suit what one may be.

NIGHT. You know more about such matters than I do; I will trust to your enlightened views and accept this employment.

MERC. Come, come, now, Madam Night, a little gently, I beseech you. The world gives you the reputation of not being so scrupulous. In a hundred different climes you are made the confidant of many gallant adventures; and, if I may speak candidly, we do not owe each other anything.

NIGHT. Let us cease these reproaches and remain what we are. Let us not give men cause to laugh by telling each other the truth.

MERC. Adieu. I am going there to play my part in this business, promptly to strip myself of the form of Mercury and to take in its place the figure of Amphitryon’s valet.

NIGHT. I am going to keep station in this hemisphere with my sombre train.

MERC. Good day, Night.

NIGHT. Adieu, Mercury.
(Mercury descends from his cloud to the earth, and Night goes away in her chariot.)

END OF THE PROLOGUE.

ACT I

SCENE I

SOSIE

Who goes there? Eh? My fear grows with every step. Gentlemen, I am a friend to all the world. Ah! What unparalleled boldness, to be out at this hour! My master is crowned with fame, but what a villainous trick he plays me here! What? If he had any love for his neighbour, would he have sent me out in such a black night? Could he not just as well have waited until it was day before sending me to announce his return and the details of his victory? To what servitude are thy days subjected, Sosie! Our lot is far more hard with the great than with the mean. They insist that everything in nature should be compelled to sacrifice itself for them. Night and day, hail, wind, peril, heat, cold, as soon as they speak we must fly. Twenty years of assiduous service do not gain us any consideration from them. The least little whim draws down upon us their anger.
Notwithstanding this, our infatuated hearts cling to the empty honour of remaining near them, contented with the false idea, which every one holds, that we are happy. In vain reason bids us retire; in vain our spite sometimes consents to this; to be near them is too powerful an influence on our zeal, and the least favour of a caressing glance immediately re-engages us. But at last, I see our house through the darkness, and my fear vanishes.

I must prepare some thought-out speech for my mission. I must give Alcmene warlike description of the fierce combat which put our enemies to flight. But how the deuce can I do this since I was not there? Never mind; let us talk of cut and thrust, as though I were an eyewitness. How many people describe battles from which they remained far away! In order to act my part without discredit, I will rehearse it a little.
This is the chamber into which I am ushered as the messenger: this lantern is Alcmene, to whom I have to speak. (He sets his lantern on the ground and salutes it.) ‘Madam, Amphitryon, my master and your husband,... (Good! that is a fine beginning!) whose mind is ever full of your charms, has chosen me from amongst all to bring tidings of the success of his arms, and of his desire to be near you.’ ‘Ah! Really, my poor Sosie, I am delighted to see you back again.’ ‘Madam, you do me too much honour: my lot is an enviable one.’ (Well answered!)
‘How is Amphitryon?’ ‘Madam, as a man of courage should be, when glory leads him.’ (Very good! A capital idea!) ‘When will my heart be charmed and satisfied by his return?’ ‘As soon as possible, assuredly, Madam, but his heart desires a speedier return.’ (Ah!) ‘In what state has the war left him? What says he? What does he? Ease my anxiety.’ He says less than he does, Madam, and makes his enemies tremble.’ (Plague! where do I get all these fine speeches?) ‘What are the rebels doing? Tell me, what is their condition?’ ‘They could not resist our efforts, Madam; we cut them to pieces, put their chief, Pterelas, to death, took Telebos by assault; and now the port rings with our prowess.’ ‘Ah! What a success! Ye Gods! Who could ever have imagined it? Tell me, Sosie, how it happened.’ ‘I will, gladly, Madam; and, without boasting, I can tell you, with the greatest accuracy, the details of this victory. Imagine, therefore, Madam, that Telebos is on this side. (He marks the places on his hand, or on the ground.) It is a city really almost as large as Thebes. The river is, say, there. Here, our people encamped; and that space was occupied by our enemies. On a height, somewhere about here, was their infantry; and, lower down, on the right side, was their cavalry. After having addressed prayers to the Gods, and issued all the orders, the signal was given. The enemy, thinking to turn our flank, divided their horse soldiers into three platoons; but we soon chilled their warmth, and you shall see how. Here is our vanguard ready to begin work; there, were the archers of our king, Creon; and here, the main army (some one makes a slight noise), which was just going to... Stay; the main body is afraid’; I think I hear some noise.

SCENE II

MERCURY, SOSIE

MERC. (UNDER THE form of Sosie.) Under this mask which resembles him, I will drive away the babbler from here. His unfortunate arrival may disturb the pleasures our lovers are tasting together.

SOS. My heart revives a little; perhaps it was nothing. Lest anything untoward should happen, however, I will go in to finish the conversation.

MERC. I shall prevent your doing that unless you are stronger than Mercury.

SOS. This night seems to me unusually long. By the time I have been on the way, either my master has taken evening for morning, or lovely Phoebus slumbers too long in bed through having taken too much wine.

MERC. With what irreverence this lubber speaks of the Gods! My arm shall soon chastise this insolence; I shall have a fine game with him, stealing his name as well as his likeness.

SOS. Ah! upon my word, I was right: I am done for, miserable creature that I am! I see a man before our house whose mien bodes me no good. I will sing a little to show some semblance of assurance.
(He sings; and, when Mercury speaks, his voice weakens, little by little.)

MERC. What rascal is this, who takes the unwarrantable licence of singing and deafening me like this? Does he wish me to curry his coat for him?

SOS. Assuredly that fellow does not like music.

MERC. For more than a week, I have not found any one whose bones I could break; my arm will lose its strength in this idleness. I must look out for some one’s back to get my wind again.

SOS. What the deuce of a fellow is this? My heart thrills with clutching fear. But why should I tremble thus? Perhaps the rogue is as much afraid as I am, and talks in this way to hide his fear from me under a feigned audacity. Yes, yes, I will not allow him to think me a goose. If I am not bold, I will try to appear so. Let me seek courage by reason; he is alone, even as I am; I am strong, I have a good master, and there is our house.

MERC. Who goes there?

SOS. I.

MERC. Who, I?

SOS. I. Courage, Sosie!

MERC. Tell me, what is your condition?

SOS. To be a man, and to speak.

MERC. Are you a master, or a servant?

SOS. As fancy takes me.

MERC. Where are you going?

SOS. Where I intend to go.

MERC. Ah! This annoys me.

SOS. I am ravished to hear it.

MERC. By hook or by crook, I must definitely know all about you, you wretch; what you do, whence you come before the day breaks, where you are going, and who you may be.

SOS. I do good and ill by turns; I come from there; I go there; I belong to my master.

MERC. You show wit, and I see you think to play the man of importance for my edification. I feel inclined to make your acquaintance by slapping your face.

SOS. Mine?

MERC. Yours; and there you get it, sharp. (Mercury gives him a slap.)

SOS. Ah! Ah! This is a fine game!

MERC. No; it is only a laughing matter, a reply to your quips.

SOS. Good heavens! Friend, how you swing out your arm without any one saying anything to you.

MERC. These are my lightest clouts, little ordinary smacks.

SOS. If I were as hasty as you, we should have a fine ado.

MERC. All this is nothing as yet: it is merely to fill up time; we shall soon see something else; but let us continue our conversation.

SOS. I give up the game. (He turns to go away.)

MERC. Where are you going?

SOS. What does it matter to you?

MERC. I want to know where you are going.

SOS. I am going to open that door. Why do you detain me?

MERC. If you dare to go near it, I shall rain down a storm of blows on you.

SOS. What? You wish to hinder me from entering our own house by threats?

MERC. What do you say, your house?

SOS. Yes, our house.

MERC. O, the scoundrel! You speak of that house?

SOS. Certainly. Is not Amphitryon the master of it?

MERC. Well! What does that prove?

SOS. I am his valet.

MERC. You?

SOS. I.

MERC. His valet?

SOS. Unquestionably.

MERC. Valet of Amphitryon?

SOS. Of Amphitryon himself.

MERC. Your name is?

SOS. Sosie.

MERC. Eh? What?

SOS. Sosie.

MERC. Listen: do you realise that my fist can knock you spinning?

SOS. Why? What fury has seized you now?

MERC. Tell me, who made you so rash as to take the name of Sosie?

SOS. I do not take it; I have always borne it.

MERC. O what a monstrous lie! What confounded impudence! You dare to maintain that Sosie is your name?

SOS. Certainly; I maintain it, for the good reason that the Gods have so ordered it by their supreme power. It is not in my power to say no, and to be any one else than myself.
(Mercury beats him.) MERC. A thousand stripes ought to be the reward of such audacity.

SOS. Justice, citizens! Help! I beseech you.

MERC. So, you gallows-bird, you yell out?

SOS. You beat me down with a thousand blows, and yet do not wish me to cry out?

MERC. It is thus that my arm...

SOS. The action is unworthy. You gloat over the advantage which my want of courage gives you over me; that is not fair treatment. It is mere bullying to wish to profit by the poltroonery of those whom one makes to feel the weight of one’s arm. To thrash a man who does not retaliate is not the act of a generous soul; and to show courage against men who have none merits condemnation.

MERC. Well! Are you still Sosie? What say you?

SOS. Your blows have not made any metamorphosis in me; all the change there is is that in the matter I am Sosie thrashed.

MERC. Still? A hundred fresh blows for this fresh impudence.

SOS. Have mercy, a truce to your blows.

MERC. Then a truce to your insolence.

SOS. Anything that pleases you; I will keep silence. The dispute between us is too unequal.

MERC. Are you still Sosie? Say, villain!

SOS. Alas! I am what you wish; dispose of my lot exactly as you please: your arm ‘has made you the master of it.

MERC. I think you said your name was Sosie?

SOS. True, until now I thought the matter was clear; but your rod has made me see that I was mistaken in this affair.

MERC. I am Sosie: all Thebes avows it. Amphitryon has never had other than me.

SOS. You, Sosie?

MERC. Yes, Sosie; and if any one trifles with me, he must take care of himself.

SOS. Heavens! Must I thus renounce myself, and see my name stolen by an impostor. How lucky I am a poltroon! Or, by the death...!

MERC. What are you mumbling between your teeth?

SOS. Nothing. But, in the name of the Gods, give me leave to speak one moment with you.

MERC. Speak.

SOS. But promise me, I beseech you, that there shall not be any more strokes. Let us sign a truce.

MERC. Let that pass; go on, I grant you this point.

SOS. Tell me, who put this fancy into your head? What benefit will it be to you to take my name? In short, were you a demon, could you hinder me from being myself, from being Sosie?

MERC. What is this, you dare...

SOS. Ah! Gently: there is a truce to blows.

MERC. What! Gallows-bird, impostor, scoundrel...

SOS. As for abuse, give me as much as you please; it makes but a slight wound and does not bother me.

MERC. You say you are Sosie?

SOS. Yes. Some ridiculous tale...

MERC. So, I shall break our truce, and take back my word.

SOS. I can’t help it. I cannot annihilate myself for you, and endure so improbable a tale. Is it in your power to be what I am? Can I cease to be myself? Did any one ever hear of such a thing? And can you give the lie to a hundred clear indications? Do I dream? Do I sleep? Is my mind troubled by powerful transports? Do I not feel I am awake? Am I not in my right senses? Has not my master, Amphitryon, commanded me to come here to Alcmene his wife? Am I not, in commending his passion to her, to give her an account of his deeds against our enemies? Have I not just come from the harbour? Do I not hold a lantern in my hand? Have I not found you in front of our house? Did I not speak to you in a perfectly friendly manner? Do you not make use of my poltroonery to hinder me from entering our house? Have you not vented your rage upon my back? Have you not showered blows on me? Ah! All this is but too true: would to Heaven it were less real! Cease therefore to jeer at a wretch’s lot, and leave me to acquit myself where my duty calls me.

MERC. Stop, or the shortest step brings down upon your back clattering evidence of my just anger. All you have just said is mine, except the blows. It is I, whom Amphitryon sent to Alcmene; who has just arrived from the Persian port; I, who have come to announce the valour of his arm, which has gained us a glorious victory, and slain the chief of our enemies. In short, I am undoubtedly Sosie, son of Dave, an honest shepherd; brother of Arpage, who died in a foreign land; husband of Cleanthis the prude, whose temper drives me wild; I, who received a thousand cuts from a whip at Thebes, without ever saying anything about it; and who was once publicly branded on the back for being too worthy a man.

SOS. He is right. If he were not Sosie, he could not know all he says; all this is so astounding that even I begin to believe him a little. In fact, now I look at him, I see he has my figure, looks, and manners. I wilt ask him some question, in order to clear up this mystery. What did Amphitryon obtain as his share of all the plunder taken from our enemies?

MERC. Five fine large diamonds, beautifully set in a cluster, which their chief wore as a rare piece of handicraft.

SOS. For whom does he intend so rich a present?

MERC. For his wife; he intends her to wear it.

SOS. Where have you put it, until you meet her?

MERC. In a casket sealed with the arms of my master.

SOS. He does not tell a single lie at any turn: I begin to doubt myself in earnest. He has already cowed me into believing him to be Sosie; and he might even reason me into thinking him so. Yet, when I touch myself, and recollect, it seems to me I am myself. Where can I find some light that will clearly make my way plain? What I have done alone, and what no one has seen, cannot be known to any one else: that, at least, belongs to me. I will astonish him by this question: it will confound him, and we shall see. When they were at close quarters, what were you doing in our tents, whither you ran to hide yourself away?

MERC. Off a ham

SOS. That is it!

MERC. Which I unearthed, I soon cut two succulent slices: they suited me nicely. I added to them a wine which was usually kept dark, and, gloated over the sight of it before I tasted it. So I took heart for our fighters.

SOS. This unparalleled proof ends matters well in his favour; and, unless he were in the bottle, there is nothing to be said. From the proofs you show me, I cannot deny that you are Sosie: I admit it. But, if you are he, tell me whom you wish me to be; for I must be someone.

MERC. When I shall no longer be Sosie, you may be he, I consent to that; but I promise you it shall be the death of you if you take up such a fancy while I am he.

SOS. All this confusion turns me inside out, for reason is against what I see. But I must end this by some means; and the shortest way for me is to go in there.

MERC. Oh! You gallows-bird, you want to taste the stick.

SOS. What is the matter? Great Gods! He makes the blows ring again; my back will ache for a month. I will leave this devil of a fellow, and return to the harbour. O just Heavens, what a fine ambassador I have been!

MERC. At last, I have made him fly; this treatment has paid him out for many of his deeds. But here is Jupiter, gallantly escorting his lover Alcmene.

SCENE III

JUPITER, ALCMENE, CLEANTHIS, MERCURY

JUP. MY DEAR Alcmene, forbid the torch-bearers to come near. They give me delight in enabling me to see you; but they might betray my being here, and this were best unrevealed. Restrained by all the heavy cares with which the glory of our arms held me bound, my heart has stolen from the duties of my post the moments it has just given to your charms. This theft, which I have consecrated to your beauty, might be blamed by the public voice; and the only witness I want, is she who can thank me for it.

ALC. I take great interest, Amphitryon, in the glory which your illustrious exploits have cast upon you; the fame of your victory moves my heart to its depths. But when I see that this disastrous honour keeps my lover away from me, such is my heart’s feeling that I cannot forbear to think ill of it, and to regret the high order which makes you general of the Thebans. It is sweet after a victory to see the glory to which one’s lover has been raised; but, from among the perils attached to this glory, a deadly blow, alas! may soon fall. With how many fears is one’s heart wounded at the report of the least skirmish! In the horror of such a thought, is there anything that can console for the threatened stroke? And with whatever laurels the victor may be crowned, whatever share one may have in that supreme honour, is it worth what it costs a tender heart, which trembles every moment for its lover?

JUP. I do not see anything in you but what inflames my passion; everything shows me a deeply enamoured heart; and, I confess, it is a great delight to find so much love in a beloved object. But, if I may dare say so, one scruple in the tender sentiments which you show me causes me anxiety; and, in order to enjoy you the more, dear Alcmene, my heart would rather see love only, and not duty, in the favours which I receive from you; may they arise solely from affection, and have respect to my person only; let not my condition as your husband be the reason for them.

ALC. Yet it is in that name that the ardour which burns me holds the right to show itself: I do not understand this new scruple which troubles your heart.

JUP. The love and tenderness which I have for you far exceeds a husband’s; in these sweet moments, you do not realise its delicacy; You do not understand that a heart deeply in love studiously attaches itself to a hundred little trifles, and is restless over the manner of being happy. In me, fair and charming Alcmene, you see a lover and a husband; but, to speak frankly, it is the lover that appeals to me; when near you, I feel the husband restrains him. This lover, who is supremely jealous of your love, wishes your heart to abandon itself solely to him: his passion does not wish anything the husband gives him. He wishes to obtain the warmth of your love from the fountain-head, and not to owe anything to the bonds of wedlock, or to a duty which palls and makes the heart sad, for by these the sweetness of the most cherished favours is daily poisoned. This idea, in short, tosses him to and fro, and he wishes, in order to satisfy his scruples, that you would differentiate where the occasion offends him, the husband to be only for your virtue, and the lover to have the whole affection and tenderness of a heart known to be full of kindness.

ALC. In truth, Amphitryon, you must be jesting, to talk thus; I should be afraid anyone who heard you would think you were not sane.

JUP. There is more reason in this discourse, Alcmene, than you think. But a longer stay here would render me guilty, and time presses for my return to port. Adieu. The stern call of duty tears me away from you for a time; but, lovely Alcmene, I beseech you at least to think of the lover when you see the husband.

ALC. I do not separate what the Gods unite: both husband and lover are very precious to me.

CLE. O Heaven! How delightful are the caresses of an ardently cherished husband! How far my poor husband is from all this tenderness!

MERC. I must tell Night she has but to furl all her sails; the Sun may now arise from his bed and put out the stars.

SCENE IV

CLEANTHIS, MERCURY (MERCURY turns to go away)

CLE. So? Is it thus you quit me?

MERC. What would you have? Do you wish me not to do my duty, and follow in Amphitryon’s footsteps?

CLE. To separate from me so rudely as this, you villain!

MERC. It is a fine subject to make a fuss about! We have still plenty of time to live together!

CLE. But to go in such a churlish manner, without saying a single kind word to cheer me!

MERC. Where the deuce shall I dig up silly compliments? Fifteen years of married life exhaust nonsense; we said all we had to say to each other a long time ago.

CLE. Look at Amphitryon, you rascal; see how his ardour burns for Alcmene; and then blush for the little passion that you show your wife.

MERC. But, gracious me! Cleanthis, they are still lovers. There comes a certain age when all this passes away; what suits them well in these early days would look ridiculous in us, old married people. It would be it fine sight to see us embracing each other, and saying sweet nothings!

CLE. Oh! You perfidious wretch, must I give up hope that a heart sighs for me?

MERC. No, I should be sorry to say that; but I have too long a beard to dare to sigh; I should make you die of laughter.

CLE. You brute, do you deserve the good fortune of having a virtuous woman for your wife?

MERC. Good Heavens! You are but too virtuous; this fine virtue is not worth anything to me. Do not be quite so honest a woman, and don’t bother me so much.

CLE. What? Do you blame me for being too honest?

MERC. A woman’s gentleness is what charms me most: your virtue makes a clatter that never ceases to deafen me.

CLE. You care for hearts full of false tenderness, for those women with the laudable and fine talent of knowing how to smother their husbands with caresses in order to make them oblivious of the existence of lovers.

MERC. Well! Shall I tell you what I think? An imaginary evil concerns fools only; my device should be: ‘Less honour and more peace.’

CLE. Would you, without any repugnance, suffer me openly to love a gallant?

MERC. Yes, if I were no longer worried by your tongue, and if it changed your temper and your goings-on. I prefer a convenient vice, to a fatiguing virtue. Adieu, Cleanthis, my dear soul; I must follow Amphitryon. (He goes away.)

CLE Why has not my heart sufficient resolution to punish this infamous scoundrel? Ah, how it maddens me, now, that I am an honest woman!

END OF THE FIRST ACT

ACT II

SCENE I

AMPHITRYON, SOSIE

AMPH. COME HERE, you rascal, come here. Do you know, Master Villain, that your talk is sufficient to cause me to knock you down, and that my wrath waits only for a stick to thrash you as I intend?

SOS. If you take it in that way, Monsieur, I have nothing more to say; you will be always in the right.

AMPH. So? You scoundrel, you wish to impose upon me as truths tales which I know to be extravagantly far-fetched?

SOS. No; I am the servant, and you are the master; it shall not be otherwise than you wish it, Monsieur.

AMPH. Come, I will choke down the anger that inflames me, and hear all you have to say about your mission. I must unravel this confusion before I see my wife. Collect your senses, think well over what you say, and answer each question word for word.

SOS. But, lest I make a mistake, tell me, I beseech you, beforehand, in what way it would please you to have this affair healed. Shall I speak, Monsieur, according to my conscience, or as usual when near the great? Shall I tell the truth or use a certain complaisance?

AMPH. No; I only wish you to give me a perfectly unvarnished account.

SOS. Good. That is enough; leave it to me; you have, but to interrogate me.

AMPH. Upon the order which I lately gave you...

SOS. I set forth under skies veiled in black crape, swearing bitterly against you for this wretched martyrdom, and cursing twenty times the order of which you speak.

AMPH. What do you mean, you villain?

SOS. You have only to speak, Monsieur, and I shall lie, if you desire it.

AMPH. That is how a valet shows his zeal for us. Never mind. What happened to you on the way?

SOS. I had a mortal fright at the least thing I met.

AMPH. Poltroon!

SOS. Nature has her caprices in forming us; she gives us differing inclinations; some find a thousand delights in exposing themselves; I find them in taking care of myself.

AMPH. When you arrived at the house...?

SOS. When I reached the door, I wished to rehearse to myself for a short time, in what tone and in what manner I should give a glorious account of the battle.

AMPH. What followed?

SOS. Some one came to annoy and trouble me.

AMPH. Who was he?

SOS. Sosie; another I, jealous of your orders, whom you sent to Alcmene from the port, and who has as full knowledge of our secrets as I who am speaking to you.

AMPH. What nonsense!

SOS. No, Monsieur, it is the simple truth: this I was at your house sooner than I; and, I swear to you, I was there before I had arrived.

AMPH. Pray, where does all this cursed nonsense come from? Is it a dream? Is it drunkenness? Mind-wandering? Or a sorry joke?

SOS. No, it is the thing as it is, and by no means an idle tale. I am a man of honour, I give you my word, and you must please believe it. I tell you, believing I was but one Sosie, I found myself two at your house; and of these two I’s, piqued with jealousy, one is at the house, and the other is with you; the I who is here, tired out, found the other I fresh, jolly and active, having no other anxiety than to fight and break bones.

AMPH. I confess I must be of a very placid temper, very peaceable, very gentle, to permit a valet to entertain me with such nonsense!

SOS. If you become angry, no more conference between us: you know all will be over at once.

AMPH. No; I will listen to you without being carried away; I promised it. But tell me in good earnest, is there any shadow of likelihood in this new mystery which you have just told me?

SOS. No; you are right, the matter must appear to everyone past credit. It is a fact past understanding, an extravagant, ridiculous, far-fetched tale: it shocks common sense; but it is none the less a fact.

AMPH. How can anyone believe it, unless he has taken leave of his senses?

SOS. I myself did not believe it without extreme difficulty: I thought I was losing my senses when I saw myself two, and, for a long time, I treated my other self as an impostor: but he compelled me in the end to recognise myself; I saw it was I, without any trickery; from head to foot he is like me-handsome, a noble air, well built, charming manners; in fact, two peas do not resemble each other more; were it not that his hands are a little too heavy, I should be perfectly satisfied.

AMPH. I had need exhort myself to patience! But did you not in the end go into the house?

SOS. Good, go in! Ah! In what fashion? Have I never wished to listen to reason? Did I not forbid myself to enter our door?

AMPH. In what way?

SOS. With a stick, my back still aches from it.

AMPH. You have been thrashed?

SOS. Truly.

AMPH. And by whom?

SOS. Myself.

AMPH. You have thrashed yourself?

SOS. Yes, I; not the I who is here, but the I from the house, who whacks soundly.

AMPH. Heaven confound you for talking to me like this!

SOS. I am not joking; the I whom I have just met has great advantages over the I who speaks to you. He has a strong arm and great courage; I have had proofs of both; this devil of an I has licked me soundly; he is a fellow who can do wonders.

AMPH. Let us, cease this. Have you seen my wife?

SOS. No.

AMPH. Why not?

SOS. For a sufficiently strong reason.

AMPH. Who hindered you, scoundrel? Explain yourself.

SOS. Must I repeat the same thing twenty times? I, I tell you, this I who is more robust than I, this I who took possession of the door by force, this I who made me slope off, this I who wishes to be the only I, this I who is jealous of myself, this valiant I, whose anger made itself known to this poltroon of an I, in fact, this I who is at our house, this I who has shown himself to be my master, this I who has racked me with pain.

AMPH. His brain must be addled by having had too much to drink this morning.

SOS. May I be hanged if I have had anything to drink but water: I take my oath on it.

AMPH. Then your senses must have been fast asleep: some silly dream has shown you all these fairy tales and confused mysteries which you wish me to take for truths.

SOS. That is just as far away from the truth. I have not slept, and I do not even feel inclined that way. I am speaking to you wide-awake; I was wide awake this morning, upon my life! And the other Sosie was also wide-awake, when he drubbed me so well.

AMPH. Follow me; I order you to be silent. You tire my brain too much; I must be an out-and-out fool to have the patience to listen to the nonsense a valet has to say.

SOS. All talk is nonsense that comes from a man who is unknown. If a great man were to say it, it would be exquisite language.

AMPH. Let us go in without waiting any longer. But here comes Alcmene clothed in all her charms. Doubtless she does not expect me so soon, and my arrival will surprise her.

SCENE II

ALCMENE, CLEANTHIS, AMPHITRYON, SOSIE

ALC. COME, CLEANTHIS, let us attend the Gods, pay them our homage for my husband’s sake, and thank them for the glorious success, of which Thebes, by his arm, reaps the advantage. O ye Gods!

AMPH. Heaven grant that victorious Amphitryon may be met with renewed pleasure by his wife: that this day may be favourable to my passion, and restore you to me with the same heart: may I again find as much love as my heart brings to you!

ALC. Ah! Have you returned so soon.

AMPH. Really, you give me but a sorry proof of your love; this, ‘Ah! have you returned so soon?’ is scarcely the language a heart really inflamed with love would use on such an occasion as this. I dared to flatter myself I had remained away from you too long. The expectation of an ardently longed for return makes each moment seem of great length; the absence of what we love, however brief it may be, is always too long.

ALC. I do not see...

AMPH. No, Alcmene, time is measured in such cases by one’s impatience; you count the moments of absence as one who does not love. When we really love, the slightest separation kills us; the one whom we love to see never returns too soon. I confess that the love I bear you has cause to complain of your reception; I expected different expressions of joy and tenderness from your heart.

ALC. I cannot understand on what you found the words you have just uttered; if you complain of me, upon my word I do not know what would satisfy you. I think I showed a sufficiently tender joy last night, at your happy return; my heart responded by every means you could wish to the claims of your affection.

AMPH. In what way?

ALC. Did I not clearly show the sudden transports of a perfect joy? Could a heart’s feelings be better expressed at the return of a husband who is tenderly loved?

AMPH. What do you say?

ALC. That even your affection showed an inconceivable joy at my reception; and that, as you left me at break of day, I do not see that my surprise at this sudden return is so guilty.

AMPH. Did you, in a dream last night, Alcmene, anticipate in idea the reality of my hastened return; and having, perhaps, treated me kindly in your sleep, does your heart think it has fully acquitted itself of its duty to my passion?

ALC. Has some malignant vapour in your mind, Amphitryon, clouded the truth of last night’s return? Does your heart pretend to take away from me the credit of all the gentle affection I showed you in my tender welcome?

AMPH. This vapour you attribute to me seems to me somewhat strange.

ALC. It is in return for the dream which you attribute to me.

AMPH. Unless it is because of a dream, what you have just now told me is entirely inexcusable.

ALC. Unless it is a vapour which troubles your mind, what I have heard from you cannot be justified.

AMPH. Let us leave this vapour for a moment, Alcmene.

ALC. Let us leave this dream for a moment, Amphitryon.

AMPH. One cannot jest on the subject in question without being carried too far.

ALC. Undoubtedly; and, as a sure proof of it, I begin to feel somewhat uneasy.

AMPH. Is it thus you wish to try to make amends for the welcome of which I complain?

ALC. Do you desire to try to amuse yourself by this feint?

AMPH. For Heaven’s, sake, I beseech you, Alcmene! Let us cease this, and talk seriously.

ALC. You carry your amusement too far, Amphitryon: let there be an end to this raillery.

AMPH. Do you really dare maintain to my face that I was seen here before this hour?

ALC. Have you really the assurance to deny that you came here early yesterday evening?

AMPH. I! I came yesterday?

ALC. Certainly; and you went away again before dawn.

AMPH. Heavens! Was ever such a debate as this heard before? Who would not be astonished at all this? Sosie?

SOS. She needs six grains of hellebore, Monsieur; her brain is turned.

AMPH. Alcmene, in the name of all the Gods, this discourse will have a strange ending! Recollect your senses a little better, and think what you say.

ALC. I am indeed thinking seriously; all in the house saw your arrival. I am ignorant what motive makes you act thus; but, if the thing were in need of proof, if it were true that such a thing could be forgotten, from whom, but from you, could I have heard the news of the latest of all your battles, and of the five diamonds worn by Pterelas, who was plunged into eternal night by the strength of your arm? Could one wish for surer testimony?

AMPH. What? I have already given you the cluster of diamonds which I had for my share, and intended for you?

ALC. Assuredly. It is not difficult to convince you thoroughly on that point.

AMPH. How?

ALC. Here it is.

AMPH. Sosie!

SOS. She is jesting: I have it here; Monsieur, the feint is useless.

AMPH. The seal is whole.

ALC. Is it a vision? There. Will you think this proof strong enough?

AMPH. Ah Heaven! O just Heaven!

ALC. Come, Amphitryon, you are joking in acting thus: you ought to be ashamed of it.

AMPH. Break this seal, quickly.

SOS. (Having opened the casket.) Upon my word, the casket is empty. It must have been taken out by witchcraft, or else it came by itself a guide, to her whom it knew it was intended to adorn.

AMPH. O Gods, whose power governs all things, what is this adventure? What can I augur from it that does not clutch at my heart?

SOS. If she speaks the truth, we have the same lot, and, like me, Monsieur, you are double.

AMPH. Be silent.

ALC. Why are you so surprised? What causes all this confusion?

AMPH. O Heaven! What strange perplexity! I see incidents which surpass Nature, and my honour fears an adventure which my mind does not understand.

ALC. Do you still wish to deny your hasty return, when you have this sensible proof of it?

AMPH. No; but if it be possible, deign to tell me what passed at this return.

ALC. Since you ask an account of the matter, you still say it was not you?

AMPH. Pardon me; but I have a certain reason which makes me ask you to give us this account.

ALC. Have the important cares which perhaps engross you made you so quickly lose the remembrance of it?

AMPH. Perhaps; but, in short, you would please me by telling me the whole story.

ALC. The story is not long. I advanced towards you full of a delighted surprise; I embraced you tenderly, and showed my joy more than once.

AMPH. (to himself.) Ah! I could have done without so sweet a welcome.

ALC. You first made me this valuable gift, which you destined for me from the spoils of the conquered. Your heart vehemently unfolded to me all the violence of its love, and the annoying duties which had kept it enchained, the happiness of seeing me again, the torments of absence, all the care which your impatience to return had given you; never has your love, on similar occasions, seemed to me so tender and so passionate.

AMPH. (to himself.) Can one be more cruelly tortured?

ALC. As you may well believe, these transports and this tenderness did not displease me; if I must confess it, Amphitryon, my heart found a thousand charms in them.

AMPH. What followed, pray?

ALC. We interrupted each other with a thousand questions concerning each other. The table was laid. We supped together by ourselves; and, supper over, we went to bed.

AMPH. Together?

ALC. Assuredly. What a question?

AMPH. Ah; this is the most cruel stroke of all; my jealous passion trembled to assure itself of this.

ALC. Why do you blush so deeply at a word? Have I done something wrong in going to bed with you?

AMPH. No, to my great misery, it was not I; whoever says I was here yesterday, tells, of all falsehoods, the most horrible.

ALC. Amphitryon!

AMPH. Perfidious woman!

ALC. Ah! What madness is this!

AMPH. No, no; no more sweetness, no more respect; this rebuff puts an end to all my constancy; at this ghastly moment, my heart breathes only fury and, vengeance.

ALC. On whom then would you be avenged? What want of faith in me makes you treat me now as a criminal?

AMPH. I do not know, but it was not I; this despair makes me capable of anything.

ALC. Away unworthy husband, the deed speaks for itself, the imposture is frightful. It is too great an insult to accuse me of infidelity. If these confused transports mean that you seek a pretext to break the nuptial bonds which hold me enchained to you, all these pretences are superfluous, for I am determined that this day all our ties shall be broken.

AMPH. After the unworthy affront, which I now learn has been done me, that is indeed what you must prepare yourself for; it is the least that can be expected; and things may not perhaps remain there. The dishonour is sure; my misery is made plain to me; and my pride in vain would hide it from me. The details are still not clear: My anger is just and I claim to be enlightened. Your brother can positively avouch that I did not leave him until this morning: I will go and seek him, in order that I may confound you about the return falsely imputed to me. Afterwards, we will penetrate to the bottom of a mystery unheard of until now; and, in the fury of a righteous anger, woe to him who has betrayed me!

SOS. Monsieur...

AMPH. Do not accompany me, but remain here for me.

CLE. Must I...?

ALC. I cannot hear anything: leave me alone: do not follow me.

SCENE III

CLEANTHIS, SOSIE

CLE. SOMETHING MUST have turned his brain; but the brother will soon finish this quarrel.

SOS. This is a very sharp blow for my master; his fate is cruel. I greatly fear something coming for myself. I will go softly in enlightening her.

CLE. Let me see whether he will so much as speak to me! I will not reveal anything.

SOS. These things are often annoying when one knows about them: I hesitate to ask her. Would it not be better not to risk anything, and to ignore what may have happened? Yet, at all hazard, I must see. I cannot help myself. Curiosity concerning things which one would rather not know is a human weakness. Heaven preserve you, Cleanthis!

CLE. Ah! Ah! You dare to come near me, you villain!

SOS. Good Heavens! What is the matter with you? You are always in a temper, and become angry about nothing!

CLE. What do you call about nothing? Speak out.

SOS. I call about nothing what is called about nothing in verse as well as in prose; and nothing, as you well know, means to say nothing, or very little.

CLE. I do not know what keeps me from scratching your eyes out, infamous rascal, to teach you how far the anger of a woman can go.

SOS. Hullo! What do you mean by this furious rage?

CLE. Then you call that nothing, perhaps, which you have done to me?

SOS. What was that?

CLE. So? You feign to be innocent? Do you follow the example of your master and say you did not return here?

SOS. No, I know the contrary too well; but I will be frank with you. We had drunk some wretched wine, which might have made me forget what I did.

CLE. You think, perhaps, to excuse yourself by this trick,...

SOS. No, in truth you may believe me. I was in such a condition that I may have done things I should regret; I do not remember what they were.

CLE. You do not even remember the manner in which you thought fit to treat me when you came from the port?

SOS. Not at all. You had better tell me all about it; I am just and sincere, and would condemn myself were I wrong.

CLE. Well? Amphitryon having warned me of your return, I sat up until you came; but I never saw such coldness: I had myself to remind you that you had a wife; and, when I wanted to kiss you, you, turned away your head, and gave me your ear.

SOS. Good.

CLE. What do you mean by good?

SOS. Good gracious! You do not know why I talk like this, Cleanthis: I had been eating garlic, and, like a well-bred man, just turned my breath away from you.

CLE. I showed you every possible tenderness; but you were as deaf as a post to everything I said; never a kind word passed your lips.

SOS. Courage!

CLE. In short, my flame bad to burn alone, its chaste ardour did not find anything in you but ice; you were the culprit in a return that might have been so different: you even went so far as to refuse to take your place in bed, which the laws of wedlock oblige you to occupy.

SOS. What? Did I not go to bed?

CLE. No, you coward.

SOS. Is it possible?

CLE. It is but too true, you rascal. Of all affronts this affront is the greatest; and, instead of your heart repairing its wrong this morning, you left me with words full of undisguised contempt.

SOS. Vivat Sosie!

CLE. Eh, what? Has my complaint had this effect? You laugh at your fine goings on?

SOS. How pleased I am with myself!

CLE. Is this the way to express your grief at such an outrage?

SOS. I should never have believed I could be so prudent.

CLE. Instead of condemning yourself for such a perfidious trick, you rejoice at it to my face!

SOS. Good gracious! Gently, gently! If I appear pleased, you must believe that I have a very strong private reason for it; without thinking of it, I never did better than in using you in such a manner as I did.

CLE. Are you laughing at me, you villain?

SOS. No, I am speaking openly to you. I was in a wretched state. I had a certain load, which your words have lifted from my soul. I was very apprehensive, and feared that I had played the fool with you.

CLE. What is this fear? Come, let us know what you mean.

SOS. The doctors say that, when one is drunk, one should abstain from one’s wife, for, in that condition we can only have children who are dull, and who cannot live. Think, if my heart had not armed itself with coldness, what troubles might have followed!

CLE. I do not care a fig for doctors, with their insipid reasonings. Let them rule those who are sick without wishing to govern healthy people. They meddle with too many affairs when they seek to rein in our chaste desires; in addition to the dog days, and their strict rules, they tell us a hundred ridiculous stories into the bargain.

SOS. Gently.

CLE. No; I maintain theirs is a worthless conclusion: those reasons come from idiotic brains. Neither wine nor time ought to prevent the duties of conjugal love from being fulfilled; doctors are donkeys.

SOS. I entreat you, moderate your anger against them; they are honest people, whatever the world may say of them.

CLE. Things are not what you think them; you can shut up; your excuse will not go down; and, sooner or later, I tell you plainly, I will avenge myself for the contempt you show me every day. I remember everything you said just now, and I shall try to make use of the liberty you gave me, You faithless, cowardly husband.

SOS. What?

CLE. You told me just now, you villain, that you would heartily agree to my loving another.

SOS. Ah! In that matter I was wrong. I retract; my honour is at stake. You had better beware you do not give way to that sentiment.

CLE. Nevertheless if some time I can make up my mind to the thing...

SOS. Just stop talking for the present. Amphitryon is coming back, and he seems pleased.

SCENE IV

JUPITER, CLEANTHIS, SOSIE

JUP. I SHALL take this opportunity of appearing to Alcmene to banish the sorrow in which she wishes to indulge, and, under the pretence that brings me here, I will gratify my passion with the delight of a reconciliation with her. Alcmene is upstairs, is she not?

CLE. Yes; she is thoroughly upset and wishes to be left alone: she has forbidden me to follow her.

JUP. Whatever prohibition she may have given you does not concern me.

CLE. So far as I can see, his grief has beaten a quick retreat.

SCENE V

CLEANTHIS, SOSIE

SOS. WHAT DO you say, Cleanthis, to these cheerful looks, after his terrible rage?

CLE. That we should all do well to send all men to the devil; the best of them is not worth much.

SOS. You say that because you are in a passion; but you are too fond of men; upon my word, you would all look as black as thunder if the devil were to take them all away.

CLE. Really...

SOS. Here they come. Hush.

SCENE VI

JUPITER, ALCMENE, CLEANTHIS, SOSIE

JUP. DO YOU want to drive me to despair? Alas! Stay, lovely Alcmene.

ALC. No, I cannot remain longer with the author of my grief.

JUP. I beseech you

ALC. Leave me.

JUP. What...?

ALC. Leave me, I tell you.

JUP. Her tears touch me to the heart; her sorrow troubles me. Allow me to

ALC. No, do not follow me.

JUP. Where are you going?

ALC. Where you are not.

JUP. That would be a vain attempt to make. I am linked to your beauty by too close a bond to suffer a moment’s separation from you. I shall follow you everywhere, Alcmene.

ALC. And I shall flee from you everywhere.

JUP. I am very terrible, then!

ALC. Yes, more than I can say. Indeed, I look upon you as a frightful monster, a cruel, furious monster, whose approach is to be feared; as a monster to be avoided everywhere. My heart suffers incredible grief at the sight of you; it is a torture that overpowers me; I do not know anything under Heaven so frightful, horrible and odious, that I could not better endure than you.

JUP. Alas! Do these words really come from your mouth?

ALC. I have many more in my heart; I only regret I cannot find words to express all I feel.

JUP. Ah! What has my heart done to you, Alcmene, that I should be looked upon as such a monster?

ALC. Oh! Just Heaven! He can ask that? Is it not enough to drive me mad?

JUP. Yet, in a milder spirit...

ALC. No; I do not wish either to see or to hear anything of you.

JUP. Have you really the heart to treat me thus? Is this the tender love which I heard yesterday was to last so long?

ALC. No, no, it is not; your base insults have ordained it otherwise. That passionate and tender love does not exist any longer; you have cruelly killed it in my heart by a hundred keen wounds. In its place stands an inflexible wrath, a lively resentment, an invincible indignation, the despair of a heart justly incensed, which resolves to hate you for this grievous injury, as much as it was willing to love you; that is to say to hate as much as possible.

JUP. Alas! Your love must have had but little strength, if it can be killed by so slight a matter! Can a jest divorce us? Is there any need to be so roused at a trifle?

ALC. Ah! It is just that which offends me: that which my anger cannot pardon. I should have felt less wounded by the justifiable transports of a fit of jealousy. Jealousy makes impressions the force of which oftentimes carries us beyond our control; at such times the most discreet mind, no doubt, finds it difficult enough to answer for its deeds. The violence of a heart which may have been deluded has, in its very delusion, a peace-offering for an aggrieved soul, and the love that gave birth to its fears, furnishes, in spite of all its violence, at least some reasons to urge as excuse. Outbursts such as these ever have love as an excuse against anger: for love gave birth to them, and we can easily pardon what we cannot control.
But to fly into uncontrollable fury, in gaiety of heart, and so causelessly and keenly to wound the tenderness and honour of a heart that dearly loves you, ah! It is too cruel a blow: my grief can never forget it.

JUP. Yes, you are right, Alcmene; I admit it. This action is unquestionably an odious crime; I do not pretend to justify it longer: yet allow my heart to defend itself in your eyes, and let it reveal to you who is to blame for this insulting fury. To tell you frankly, it is the husband Alcmene, who has done this wrong; it is the husband whom you must blame. The lover has no share in this churlish anger: his heart is not capable of offending you. He has too much respect and affection for you ever to think of it; had he been guilty of the crime of doing aught that could wound you, he would pierce himself with a hundred stabs before your eyes. But the husband has cast aside that humble submission which should always be yours; by his harsh deeds, the husband has made himself known; he thought the rights of marriage allowed him everything. Yes, it is he no doubt who is guilty towards you; he only has ill-treated your lovely person. Hate, detest the husband; I consent to it; I yield him to your mercy; but, Alcmene, spare the lover from the anger which such an offence gives you; do not let him suffer; differentiate between him and the guilty one; and, finally, in order to be just, do not punish him for what he has not done.

ALC. Oh! All these subtleties are but frivolous excuses; such language only annoys incensed minds. In vain do you use these ridiculous prevarications. I do not make any distinction in him who offends me; everything in him becomes the object of my anger, the lover and the husband are alike confounded in its just violence. Both occupy my thoughts; both are painted in the same colours by my wounded heart. Both are guilty; both have offended me; and both are odious to me.

JUP. Well! Then, since you wish it, I must charge myself with the offence. Yes, you are right, when you sacrifice me as a guilty victim to your resentment. Anger towards me sways you; it is but too just, and all the terrible wrath you show causes me to suffer only lawful torments. It is right you should shun my presence, and in your anger threaten to flee from me everywhere. I must be a detestable object to you; you are right in thinking ill of me. My crime in being offensive in your charming eyes surpasses every horror; it is a crime that offends men and Gods; in short, as punishment for my insolence I deserve that your hatred should vent its utmost upon me. I beg your forgiveness, I beg it upon my knees, I beg it for the sake of the most lively passion, of the tenderest love for you, which has ever been kindled in a human breast. If, charming Alcmene, your heart refuses me the pardon which I have the audacity to seek, then shall a well-aimed stroke put an end to my life, and release me from the harsh severity of a penalty which I can no longer bear. Yes, this state of things drives me to despair. Do not think, Alcmene, that, enamoured as I am of your celestial charms, I can live a day under your wrath. Even these moments’ agony is barbarously prolonged and my sad heart sinks under their mortal blows. The cruel wounds of a thousand vultures are not comparable in any way to my lively grief. Alcmene, you have but to tell me I need not hope for pardon: and immediately this sword, by a happy thrust, shall pierce the heart of a miserable wretch before your eyes. This heart, this traitorous heart, too deserving of death, since it has offended an adorable being, will be happy if, in descending into the place of shades, my death appeases your anger, and, after this wretched day, it leaves in your soul no impression of hatred in remembering my love! This is all I ask as a sovereign favour.

ALC. Ah! Cruel husband.

JUP. Speak, Alcmene, speak.

ALC. Must I still keep some kindness for you, who insult me by so many indignities?

JUP. Whatever resentment an outrage causes us, can it hold out against the remorse of a heart deeply in love?

ALC. A heart full of passion would rather expose itself to a thousand deaths, than offend the object beloved.

JUP. The more one loves, the easier it is

ALC. No, do not speak to me any longer about it; you deserve my hatred.

JUP. You hate me then?

ALC. I make every effort to do so, and it annoys me to feel that all your insults do not yet carry my vengeance so far as yield to it.

JUP. But why this violence, since I offer to kill myself to satisfy your revenge? Pronounce the sentence and immediately I will obey.

ALC. It is impossible to wish for another’s death if hatred be absent.

JUP. I cannot live unless you abandon the wrath that overwhelms me, and unless you grant me the favour of a pardon which I beg at your feet. Decide to do one or the other quickly: to punish, or to absolve.

ALC. Alas! The only resolution I can take is but too clearly apparent. My heart has too plainly betrayed me, for me to wish to maintain this anger: is it not to say we pardon, when we say we cannot hate?

JUP. Ah, charming Alcmene, overwhelmed with delight I must...

ALC. Forbear: I hate myself for such weakness.

JUP. Go, Sosie, make haste; a sweet joy fills my soul. See what officers of the army you can find, and ask them to dine with me. (Softly aside.) Mercury can fill his post, while he is away from here.

SCENE VII

CLEANTHIS, SOSIE

SOS. COME! NOW, you see, this couple, Cleanthis. Will you follow their example, and let us also make peace? Indulge in some slight reconciliation?

CLE. For the sake of your lovely mug, Oh yes! I will, and no mistake.

SOS. What? You will not?

CLE. No.

SOS. It doesn’t matter to me. So much the worse for you.

CLE. Well, well, come back.

SOS. No, not, likely! I shall not do anything of the kind, I shall be angry. I turn now.

CLE. Go away, you villain, let me alone; one gets tired now and then of being an honest woman.

END OF THE SECOND ACT

ACT III

SCENE I

AMPHITRYON

YES, SO DOUBT fate hides him purposely from me; at last am I tired of trying to find him. I do not know anything that can be more cruel than my lot. In spite of all my endeavours, I cannot find him whom I seek; all those I do not seek I find. A thousand tiresome bores, who do not think they are so, drive me mad with their congratulations on our feats of arms, although they know little of me. In the cruel embarrassment and anxiety that troubles me, they all burden me with their attentions, and their rejoicings make my uneasiness worse. In vain I try to pass them by, to flee from their persecutions; their killing friendship stops me on all sides; whilst I reply to the ardour of their expressions by a nod of the head, I mutter under my breath a hundred curses on them. Ah! How little we are flattered by praise, honour and all that a great victory brings, when inwardly we suffer keen sorrow! How willingly would I exchange all this glory to have peace of mind! At every turn my jealousy twits me with my disgrace; the more my mind ponders over it, the less can I unravel its miserable confusion. The theft of the diamonds does not astonish me; seals may be tampered with unperceived; but my most cruel torment is that she insists I gave the gift to her personally yesterday. Nature oftentimes produces resemblances, which some impostors have adopted in order to deceive; but it is inconceivable that, under these appearances, a man should pass himself off as a husband; there are a thousand differences in a relationship such as this which a wife could easily detect. The marvellous effects of Thessalian magic have at all times been renowned; but I have always looked upon as idle tales the famous stories everyone talks of. It would be a hard fate if I, after so glorious a victory elsewhere, should be compelled to believe them at the cost of my own honour. I will question her again upon this wretched mystery, and see if it is not a silly fancy that has taken advantage of her disordered brain. O righteous Heaven, may this thought be true, and may she even have lost her senses, so that I may be happy!

SCENE II

MERCURY, AMPHITRYON

MERC. SINCE LOVE does not offer me any pleasure here, I will at least enjoy myself in another way, and enliven my dismal leisure by putting Amphitron out of all patience. This may not be very charitable in a God; but I shall not bother myself about that; my planet tells me I am somewhat given to malice.

AMPH. How is it that the door is closed at this hour?

MERC. Hullo! Gently, gently! Who knocks?

AMPH. I.

MERC. Who, I?

AMPH. Ah! Open.

MERC. What do you mean by ‘open’? Who are you, pray, to make such a row, and speak like that?

AMPH. So? You do not know me?

MERC. No, nor have I the least wish to.

AMPH. Is every one losing his senses today? Is the malady spreading? Sosie! Hullo, Sosie!

MERC. Come, now! Sosie: that is my name; are you afraid I shall forget it?

AMPH. Do you see me?

MERC. Well enough. What can possess your arm to make such an uproar? What do you want down there?

AMPH. I, you gallows-bird! What do I want?

MERC. What do you not want then? Speak, if you want to be understood.

AMPH. Listen, you villain: I will come up with a stick to make you understand, and give you a fine lesson. How dare you speak to me like that?

MERC. Softly, softly! If you make the least attempt to create an uproar, I shall send you down some messengers who will annoy you.

AMPH. Oh Heavens! Did anyone ever conceive such insolence? And from a servant, from a beggar?

MERC. Come, now! What is the matter? Have you gone over everything correctly? Have your big eyes taken everything in? He glares, so savage he looks! If looks could bite, he would have torn me to shreds by now.

AMPH. I tremble at what you are bringing upon yourself with all this impudent talk. What a frightful storm you are brewing for yourself! What a tempest of blows will storm down on your back!

MERC. If you do not soon disappear from here, my friend, you may come in for some mauling.

AMPH. Ah! You villain, you shall know to your confusion what it is for a valet to attack his master.

MERC. You, my master?

AMPH. Yes, rascal. Do you dare to say you do not recognise me?

MERC. I do not recognise any other master than Amphitryon.

AMPH. And who, besides myself, may this Amphitryon be?

MERC. Amphitryon?

AMPH. Certainly.

MERC. Ah! What an illusion! Come, tell me in what decent tavern you have addled your brain?

AMPH. What? Again?

MERC. Was it a feast-day wine?

AMPH. Heavens!

MERC. Was it old or new?

AMPH. What insults!

MERC. New goes to one’s head, if drunk without water.

AMPH. Ah! I shall tear your tongue out soon.

MERC. Pass on, my dear friend; believe me, no one here will listen to you. I respect wine. Go away, make yourself scarce, and leave Amphitryon to the pleasures which he is tasting.

AMPH. What! Is Amphitryon in there?

MERC. Rather: covered with the laurels of his fine victory, he is side by side with the lovely Alcmene enjoying the delights of a charming tete-a-tete. They are tasting the pleasures of being reconciled, now their love-tiff has blown over. Take care how you disturb their sweet privacy, unless you wish him to punish you for your excessive rashness.

SCENE III

AMPHITRYON

AH! WHAT A frightful blow he has given me! How cruelly has he put me to confusion! If matters are as this villain says, to what a state are my honour and my affection reduced? What course can I adopt? Am I to noise it abroad or keep it secret? Ought I, in my anger, to keep the dishonour of my house to myself or make it public? Come! Must one even think what to do in so gross an affront? I have no standing, nothing to hope for; all my anxiety now shall be how to avenge myself.

SCENE IV

SOSIE, NAUCRATES, POLIDAS, AMPHITRYON

SOS. ALL I have been able to do, Monsieur, with all my diligence, is to have brought these gentlemen here.

AMPH. Ah! You are here?

SOS. Monsieur.

AMPH. Insolent, bold rascal!

SOS. What?

AMPH. I shall teach you to treat me thus.

SOS. What is it? What is the matter with you?

AMPH. What is the matter with me, villain?

SOS. Hullo, gentlemen, come here quickly.

NAU. Ah! Stay, I beseech you.

SOS. Of what am I guilty?

AMPH. You ask me that, you scoundrel? Let me satisfy my righteous anger.

SOS. When they hang any one, they tell him why they do it.

NAU. At least condescend to tell us what his crime may be.

SOS. I beseech you, gentlemen, keep a tight hold of me.

AMPH. Yes! He has just had the audacity to shut the door in my face, and to add threats to a thousand impudent jeers! Ah! You villain!

SOS. I am dead.

NAU. Restrain this anger.

SOS. Gentlemen.

POL. What is it?

SOS. Has he struck me?

AMPH. No, he must have his reward for the language he has made free to use just now.

SOS. How could that be when I was elsewhere busy carrying out your orders? These gentlemen here can bear witness that I have just invited them to dine with you.

NAU. That is true: he has just delivered us this message, and would not quit us.

AMPH. Who gave you that order?

SOS. You.

AMPH. When?

SOS. After you made your peace, when you were rejoicing at the delight of having appeased Alcmene’s anger.

AMPH. O Heaven! Every instant, every step, adds something to my cruel martyrdom; I am so utterly confused that I no longer know either what to believe or what to say.

NAU. All he has just told us, of what has happened at your house, surpasses what is natural so much, that before doing anything and before flying into such a passion, you ought to clear up the whole of this adventure.

AMPH. Come; you can second my efforts; Heaven has brought you here most opportunely. Let me see what fortune brings me today; let me solve this mystery, and know my fate. Alas! I burn to learn it, and I dread it more than death.

SCENE V

JUPITER, AMPHITRYON, NAUCRATES, POLIDAS, SOSIE

JUP. WHAT IS this noise that compels me to come down? Who knocks as though he were master where I am master?

AMPH. Good Gods! What do I see?

NAU. Heaven! What prodigy is this? What? Here are two Amphitryons!

AMPH. My soul is struck dumb. Alas! I cannot do anything more: the adventure is at an end; my fate is clear; what I see tells me all.

NAU. The more narrowly I watch them, the more I find they resemble each other.

SOS. Gentlemen, this is the true one; the other is an impostor who ought to be chastised.

POL. Truly, this marvellous resemblance keeps my judgment in suspense.

AMPH. We have been tricked too long by an execrable rogue; I must break the spell with this steel.

NAU. Stay.

AMPH. Leave me alone.

NAU. Ye Gods! What would you do?

AMPH. Punish the miserable treachery of an impostor.

JUP. Gently, gently! There is very little need of being carried away by passion; when a man bursts out in such a rage as this, it makes one think he has bad reasons.

SOS. Yes; it is an enchanter, who has a talisman that enables him to resemble the masters of houses.

AMPH. For your share in this insulting language, I shall make you feel a thousand blows.

SOS. My master is a man of courage: he will not allow his followers to be thrashed.

AMPH. Let me assuage my deep anger, and wash out my affront in the scoundrel’s blood.

NAU. We shall not suffer this strange combat of Amphitryon against himself.

AMPH. What? Does my honour receive this treatment from you? Do my friends undertake the defence of a rogue? Far from being the first to take up my vengeance, they themselves place obstacles in the way of my resentment?

NAU. What do you wish us to decide, when two Amphitryons are before us and all the warmth of our friendship is in suspense? If we were now to show towards you, we fear we might make a mistake, and not recognise you. Truly we see in you the appearance of Amphitryon, the glorious support of the Thebans’ well-being; but we also see the same appearance in him, and we cannot judge which he is. Our duty is not doubtful, the impostor ought to bite the dust at our hands; but this perfect resemblance hides him between you two; and it is too hazardous a stroke to undertake in the dark. Let us find out quietly on which side the imposture may be; then, as soon as we have unravelled the adventure, it will not be necessary for you to tell us our duty.

JUP. Yes, you are right, this resemblance authorises you to doubt both of us. I am not offended to see you cannot make up your minds: I am more reasonable, and excuse you. The eye cannot differentiate between us. I see one can easily be mistaken. You do not see me give way to anger, nor draw my sword: that is a bad way to enlighten a mystery; I can find one more gentle and more certain. One of us is Amphitryon; and both of us may seem so in your eyes. It is for me to end this confusion. I intend to make myself so well known to all, that, at the overwhelming proofs I shall bring forward to show who I am, he himself shall agree concerning the blood from which I sprang, and he shall no longer have occasion to say anything. Before all the Thebans I will reveal the truth to you; the affair is, unquestionably, of sufficient importance to justify my seeking to clear it up in the sight of all. Alcmene expects this public testimony from me; her virtue, which is outraged by the noise of this mischance, demands justification, and I will see justice is done it. My love for her compels me to it. I shall call together an assembly of the noblest chiefs, for the explanation her honour requires. While waiting with you for these desirable witnesses, I pray you to condescend to honour the table to which Sosie has invited you.

SOS. I was not mistaken, gentlemen, this word puts an end to all irresolution: the real Amphitryon is the Amphitryon who gives dinners.

AMPH. O Heaven! Can my humiliation go further? Must I indeed suffer the martyrdom of listening to all that this impostor has just said to my face, my arms bound, though his words drive me mad?

NAU. You are wrong to complain. Let us await the explanation which shall render resentment seasonable. I do not know whether he imposes upon us or not; but he speaks on the matter as though he were right.

AMPH. Go, you weak-kneed friends, and flatter the imposture. Thebes has other friends who will flock round me, different from you. I will go and find some who, sharing the insult, will know how to lend their hand in my just cause.

JUP. Ah well! I await them; I shall know how to decide the discussion in their presence.

AMPH. You rogue, you think perhaps to evade justice thus; but nothing shall shield you from my vengeance.

JUP. I shall not now condescend to answer this insulting language; soon I shall be able to confound your fury with two words.

AMPH. Not Heaven, not Heaven itself can protect you: I shall dog your footsteps even to Hell.

JUP. It will not be necessary; you will soon see I shall not fly away.

AMPH. Now, before he goes away with these, I will make haste to gather together friends who will aid my cause; they will come to my house and help me to pierce him with a thousand thrusts.

JUP. No ceremony, I implore you; let us go quickly into the house.

NAU. Really, this adventure utterly confounds the senses and the reason.

SOS. A truce, gentlemen, to all your surprises; let us joyfully sit down to feed until the morning. I intend to feast well, so that I may be in good condition to relate our valiant deeds! I am itching to attack the dishes; I never felt so hungry.

SCENE VI

MERCURY, SOSIE

MERC. STOP. WHAT have you come to poke your nose in here for, you impudent turn-spit?

SOS. Ah! Gently, gently, for mercy’s sake!

MERC. Ah! You have come back again! I shall tan your hide for you.

SOS. Ah! Brave and generous I, compose yourself, I beseech you. Sosie, spare Sosie a little, and do not divert yourself by knocking yourself down.

MERC. Who gave you liberty to call yourself by that name? Did I not expressly forbid you to do so, under penalty of experiencing a thousand cuts from the cane?

SOS. It is a name we both may bear at the same time, under the same master. I am recognised as Sosie everywhere; I permit you to be he, permit me to be so, too. Let us leave it to the two Amphitryons to give vent to their jealousies, and, though they contend, let the two Sosies live in the bonds of peace.

MERC. No, one is quite enough; I am determined not to allow any division.

SOS. You shall have precedence over me; I will be the younger, and you shall be the elder.

MERC. No: a brother is a nuisance, and not to my taste; I intend to be the only son.

SOS. O barbarous and tyrannical heart! Allow me at least to be your shadow.

MERC. Not at all.

SOS. Let your soul humanise itself with a little pity! Allow me to be near you in that capacity: I shall be everywhere so submissive a shadow that you will be pleased with me.

MERC. No quarter; the law is immutable. If you again have the audacity to go in there, a thousand blows shall be the fruit.

SOS. Alas! Poor Sosie, to what miserable disgrace are you reduced!

MERC. So? Your lips presume again to give yourself a name I forbid!

SOS. No, I did not intend myself; I was speaking of an old Sosie, who was formerly a relative of mine, and whom, with the utmost barbarity, they drove out of the house at dinner hour.

MERC. Take care you do not fall into that idiocy if you wish to remain among the number of the living.

SOS. How I would thwack you if I had the courage, for your wretched puffed up pride, you double son of a strumpet!

MERC. What do you say?

SOS. Nothing.

MERC. I am sure you muttered something.

SOS. Ask anyone; I do not breathe.

MERC. Nevertheless I am absolutely certain that something about a son of a strumpet struck my ear.

SOS. It must have been a parrot roused by the beautiful weather.

MERC. Adieu. If your back itches for a currying, here is where I live.

SOS. O Heavens! What a cursed hour is the dinner hour to be turned out of doors! Come, let us yield to fate in our affliction. Let us today follow blind caprice, and join the unfortunate Sosie to the unfortunate Amphitryon: it is a suitable union. I see he is coming in good company.

SCENE VII

AMPHITRYON, ARGATIPHONTIDAS, POSICLES, SOSIE

AMPH. STAY HERE, gentlemen, follow me a little way off, and do not all advance, I pray you, until there is need for it.

POS. I quite understand this blow touches you to the heart.

AMPH. Ah! My sorrow is bitter through and through: I suffer in my affection, as much as in my honour.

POS. If this resemblance is such as is said, Alcmene, without being guilty...

AMPH. Ah! In this affair, a simple error becomes a veritable crime, and, though no way consenting, innocence perishes in it. Such errors, in whatever way we look at them, affect us in the most sensitive parts; reason often, often pardons them, when honour and love cannot.

ARGAT. I do not bother my thoughts about that; but I hate your gentlemen for their disgraceful delay; it is a proceeding which wounds me to the quick, and one which courageous people will never approve. When any man has need of us, we ought to throw ourselves headforemost into his concerns. Argatiphontidas is not one for compromising matters. It is not seemly for men of honour to listen to the arguments of a friend’s adversary; one should only listen to vengeance at such times. The proceeding does not please me; in quarrels such as these we ought always to begin sending the sword through the body, without any nonsense. Yes, whatever happens, you shall see that Argatiphontidas goes straight to the point. I entreat you not to let the villain die by any other hand than mine.

AMPH. Come on.

SOS. I come, Monsieur, to undergo at your knees the just punishment of cursed audacity. Strike, beat, drub, overwhelm me with blows, kill me in your anger; you will do well, I deserve it; I shall not say a single word against you.

AMPH. Get up. What is the matter?

SOS. I have been turned away unceremoniously; thinking to eat and rejoice like them, I did not think that, as it turned out, I was waiting there to thrash myself. Yes, the other I, valet to the other you, has played the very devil with me once more. The same cruel fate seems to pursue us both today, Monsieur. In short, they have un-Sosied me, as they un-Amphitryon’d you.

AMPH. Follow me.

SOS. Is it not better to see if anybody is coming?

SCENE VIII

CLEANTHIS, NAUCRATES, POLIDAS, SOSIE, AMPHITRYON, ARGATIPHONTIDAS, POSICLES

CLE. O HEAVEN!

AMPH. What frightens you like this? Why are you afraid of me?

CLE. Why! You are up there and I see you here!

NAU. Do not hurry; here he comes to give, before us all, the explanation we want. If we may believe what he has just said about it, it will banish away your trouble and care.

SCENE IX

MERCURY, CLEANTHIS, NAUCRATES, POLIDAS, SOSIE, AMPHITRYON, ARGATIPHONTIDAS, POSICLES

MERC. YES, YOU shall all see him; know beforehand that it is the grand master of the Gods, whom, under the cherished features of this resemblance, Alcmene has caused to descend here from the heavens. As for me, I am Mercury. Not knowing what else to do, I have given him a drubbing whose appearance I took. He may now console himself, for strokes from the wand of a God confer honour on him who has to submit to them.

SOS. Upon my word, Monsieur God, I am your servant; I could have done without your attentions.

MERC. I now give you leave to be Sosie. I am tired of wearing such an ugly mug; I am going to the heavens, to scrape it all off with ambrosia. (He flies away to the skies.)

SOS. May Heaven forever keep you from the desire of wishing to come near me again! Your fury against me has been too bitter; never in my life have I seen a God who was more of a devil than you!

SCENE X

JUPITER, CLEANTHIS, NAUCRATES, POLIDAS, SOSIE, AMPHITRYON, ARGATIPHONTIDAS, POSICLES

JUP. (IN A cloud,) Behold, Amphitryon, who has imposed on you; under his own aspect you see Jupiter. By these signs you may easily know him; they are sufficient, I think, to restore your heart where it should be to bring back peace and happiness to your family. My name, which the whole earth continually adores, thus stifles all scandal that might be spread abroad. A share with Jupiter has nothing that in the least dishonours, for doubtless, it can be but glorious to find one’s self the rival of the sovereign of the Gods. I do not see any reason why your love should murmur; it is I, God as I am, who ought to be jealous in this affair. Alcmene is wholly yours, whatever means one may employ; it must be gratifying to your passion to see that there is no other way of pleasing her than to appear as her husband. Even Jupiter, clothed in his immortal glory, could not by himself undermine her fidelity; what he has received from her was granted by her ardent heart only to you.

SOS. The Seigneur Jupiter knows how to gild the pill.

JUP. Cast aside, therefore, the black care that stifles your heart; restore perfect peace to the ardour which consumes you. In your house shall be born a son, who, under the name of Hercules, shall cause the vast universe to ring with his deeds. A glorious future crowned with a thousand blessings shall let every one see I am your support; I will make your fate the envy of the whole world. You may boldly flatter yourself with what these promises confer. It is a crime to doubt them, for the words of Jupiter are the decrees of fate. (He is lost in the clouds.)

NAU. Truly, I am delighted at these evident marks...

SOS. Gentlemen, will you please take my advice? Do not embark in these sugary congratulations; it is a bad speculation; phrases are embarrassing on either side, in such a compliment. The great God Jupiter has done us much honour, and, unquestionably, his kindness towards us is unparalleled; he promises us the infallible happiness of a fortune crowned with a thousand blessings, and in our house shall be born a brave son. Nothing could be better than this. But, nevertheless, let us cut short our speeches, and each one retire quietly to his own house. In such affairs as these, it is always best not to say anything.

George Dandin; or, The Abashed Husband

George Dandin ou Le Mari confondu

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

SCENE XV.

The original frontispiece, 1662

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

THE TREATY OF Aix-la-Chapelle having been ratified on the 2nd of May, 1668, and peace being assured, at least for some time, Louis XIV. resolved to give a festival in his favourite gardens of Versailles, as he had already done in 1664. (See Introductory Notice to The Princess of Elis.)

This festival was held on the 18th of July 1668, and Molière’s comedy, George Dandin, formed the chief entertainment. Our author took the plot chiefly from one of his farces, The Jealousy of the Barbouillé, in which a wife who comes home rather late, finds the door shut, and threatens to kill herself if her husband does not let her in. She pretends to do  so; the good man rushes out of the house quite terrified; the wife, meanwhile sneaks in, and he in his turn is locked out. This idea is found in an Indian tale in la Roman de Dolopathos, written in the beginning of the thirteenth century, and also in the fourth story of the seventh day of Boccaccio’s Decameron. But Molière thought very likely that this plot was too slight for a comedy, and added to it a second idea, which exists in all literatures, namely, the danger of inequality of rank or education in marriage. Most probably, he took it from the eighth story of the seventh day of the Decameron, in which is related how Arriguccio Berlinghieri, a rich merchant, married a noble lady, named Sismonda. His wife deceives him; he thinks he has found her out, cuts off all her hair, gives her a sound beating, and even disfigures her. But when he returns with her family — a mother and three brothers — his wife appears in all her beauty and with all her hair, because she had bribed one of her servants to take the well-deserved punishment in her stead. Hereupon the wife accuses her husband of being a drunkard; he is soundly rated both by the mother and the three brawny brothers, and warned not to misbehave again.

The whole of the play is rather extravagant, but it is full of humour; the characters are very well drawn, and the dialogue is spirited. The servant girl Claudine is certainly one of the most impudent hussies whom even Molière has sketched; whilst the family de Sotenville faithfully represent the poor but proud French provincial nobles, as they existed in Molière’s time.

It cannot be denied that the impression which George Dandin leaves upon our minds is not a healthy one, and that the triumph of an adulterous woman over a husband, who, after all, is only guilty of having GEORGE DANDIN; OR, 5i8 married above his station, cannot be justified. But, in extenuation, we may say that, George Dandin was written only for a courtly “high jinks to excite the laughter of a public, whose risible muscles were not easily moved; and that, after all, the ideas about matrimonial fidelity were not the same at the court of Louis XIV. as they are at the present time amongst civilized nations. The same year (1668) in which Molière’s play was acted before the Court, Madame de Montespan, a married woman, became the recognized mistress of the Grand Monarque, whilst, later, her children by that King became enfants légitimés de France.

This piece was only performed in the theatre of the Palais Royal on the 9th of November, — precisely two months after the first representation of The Miser. Grimarest relates an anecdote about Molière, which seems to me very unlike his character, namely, that he read his comedy to a real Dandin before giving it to the public, in order to conciliate the foolish husband, who appears to have been a man of some influence; and that the latter became one of the warmest patrons of the play.

Several English dramatists have imitated this piece. Betterton, the actor, wrote a partial imitation of it, which, under the name of The Amorous Widow, or The Wanton Wife, was brought out at the theatre in Lincoln’s-Inn-Field in 1670. As Molière’s play is in three acts, and Betterton’s in five, the latter tacked an underplot to it, consisting of an amorous widow, vastly “prone to an iteration of nuptials,” and who at last, not finding any one willing to marry her, takes up with the Viscount Sans Terre, who proves to be a falconer in disguise, and is a reminiscence of the Marquis de Mascarille and the Viscount de Jodelet in The Pretentious Young Ladies. Geneste says,  “That part of it which is taken from George Dandin is very good, the other part of it is indifferent.”

On the 18th of April, 1781, was represented at Covent Garden Theatre Barnaby Brittle, or a Wife at her Wit’s end, a farce in two acts, altered from Molière and Betterton. It is a condensation of Molière’s play, with something added from Mrs. Centlivre’s Artifice, namely, the scene when the servant Jeremy brings his Mistress’ clogs on a plate, and the one in which Mrs. Brittle pretends to have broken her leg. Barnaby is a glassman.

A farce, called George Dandin, was also acted once at Drury Lane Theatre, November 25, 1747; but it has never been printed.

Dibdin, in The Metamorphoses (see Introductory Notice to The Sicilian) has imitated from Molière’s play, the second Scene of the first Act and the seventh Scene of the second Act. The hero is called, in the English play, Don Pedro, and the loutish servant, Perez.

Molière, published in London, 1732,’’ George Dandin has a most impudent dedication to the Right Honourable the Lady * * * *

MADAME,

There’s no body to whom this Play can with so much propriety be addressed, as to your LADYSHIP, whose real Story abounds with more Intrigue and Contrivance than all that the fruitful Fancy of Molière has been able to invent.

Your dexterous Management of a Husband is so extraordinary, that other Wives behold it with Envy and Emulation; your Example plainly showing that a Woman may heartily despise her Husband, and at the same time make him believe she loves him, and that Matrimony is so far from restraining that it may be made even subservient to Gallantry.

An Husband not overwise is a Conveniency your LADYSHIP well knows how to make proper Use of — most people were indeed supriz’d at your martyring Mr * * * * * * but you Madame, (whese Schemes are beyond the Reach of Common Capacities) easily foresaw the advantage of being the Wife of one whom Your superior Rank and Alliances would overawe, whom Your tVit would entirely direct and govern, and whose large Fortune would supply the necessary Expenses of a fine Lady.

I shall attempt no further a Task I am unequal to, but leave the World to praise You as You deserve; permit me only to declare, that I am, with a great deal of Admiration, MADAM, Your Ladyship’s most obedient, and most humble Servant,

                                                                                     THE TRANSLATOR.

As we have already mentioned, Molière’s play formed part of the court entertainment, of which a description was published in 1668, under the name of Relation de la Fête de Versailles. This narrative was written by Félibien, but the verses by Molière. We here give a résumé of the official description: —

“Having granted peace at the instance of his allies and at the desire of all Europe; having given marks of an unexampled moderation and kindness, even in the midst of his most glorious conquests, the king had no other thought than to apply himself to the affairs of his kingdom, when, in order to make up a little for the pleasures which the court had lost during his absence in carnival time, he resolved to give a fete in the gardens of Versailles, where, amidst the pleasures to be found in so delicious a retreat, the mind could not fail to be charmed with those many astonishing and extraordinary beauties with which this great prince knew so well how to season all his entertainments.

“To attain this effect, wishing to have a comedy after a collation, and the supper after the comedy, to be followed up by a ball and a display of fireworks, he selected those persons whom he thought most capable of performing these things properly. He himself marked out for them those spots, the situation of which he deemed most suitable, from their natural beauty, to contribute advantageously to their decoration; and because one of the most beautiful ornaments of this house is the quantity of water which art has brought there, notwithstanding that nature had not provided it, his Majesty ordered them to make the utmost use of it to enhance the embellishment of said spots, and even gave them the means to employ it, and to obtain the greatest possible effects from it.

“For the execution of this fête, the duke de Créquy, as first gentleman of the chamber, was charged with everything that belonged to the comedy; the marshall de Bellefonds, as first steward of the royal household, took care of the collation, of the supper, and of everything that belonged to the service of the table; and Monsieur Colbert, as superintendent of the royal buildings, had the different places for the royal entertainment constructed and embellished and gave the orders for the performance of the display of fireworks. The sieur Vigarani was commanded to arrange the theatre for the comedy; the sieur Gissey to prepare a room for the supper; and the sieur Le Vau, first architect of the king, another for the ball.

“On Wednesday, the eighteenth day of July, the king came from Saint Germain to dine at Versailles with the queen, Monseigneur the dauphin Monsieur and Madame. The remainder of the court having also arrived immediately after mid-day, were met by the king’s officers, who did the honours, and received everybody in the salons of the castle, where in several places, were tables for refreshments; the principal ladies were conducted to the private apartments to take some rest.

“At six o’clock at night, the king having given the order to the Marquis de Gesvres, the captain of his guards, to have all the doors thrown open, so that there might be nobody that did not take part in the entertainment, walked out of the castle with the queen and rest of the court, to amuse themselves with a promenade.”

Félibien, after having followed the king through all the particulars of his promenade, and having described the splendour of the theatre constructed in the garden continues, as follows: —

Though the piece represented must be regarded as an impromptu, and one of these works, in which the necessity to satisfy the orders of the king on the spot, leaves not always time completely to finish and to polish it, it is nevertheless certain that it is composed of parts so diversified and pleasant, that we may safely say that none have appeared on the stage so well calculated to please the eyes and ears of the spectators at the same time.

The prose which has been employed is a very fit language for the action it represents, and the verses which are sung between the acts of the comedy, accord so well with the subject, and express so tenderly the passions with which they who recite them must be moved, that there never has been heard anything more stirring. Though it appears that there are two comedies, which are being played at the same time, one of which is in prose and the other verse, they are however so well adapted to the same subject, that they make but one piece, and represent but one action.

The overture of the stage is performed by four shepherds, disguised as servants of the fête, who accompanied by four other shepherds, playing upon the flute, perform a dance, in which they force a rich peasant, whom they have met, to take a part, and who, dissatisfied with his marriage, has his head full of annoying thoughts; therefore he very soon retires from their society where he only remained by compulsion.

“Climèneand Chloris, who are two companion shepherdesses, hearing the sound of the flutes, come to add their voices to the instruments, and sing —

The other day, I heard

Annette’s voice, who,

Whilst playing on the bagpipe,

Was singing in our woods:

O love, how ‘neath thy sway

One suffers poignant grief!

I may well say it,

Since I feel it.

At the same moment Young Lisette,

In the same rhythm as Annette,

Responded tenderly:

O love, if ‘neath thy sway,

I suffer poignant grief,

It is because I dare not say

All that I feel.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

GEORGE DANDIN, A rich farmer, husband to Angélique. (Molière played this part himself.)

M. DE SOTENVILLE, a country gentleman, Angélique’s father.

CLITANDRE, in love with Angélique.

LUBIN, a peasant, Clitandre’s servant COLIN, George Dandin’s servant.

ANGELIQUE, George Dandin’s wife.

MADAM DE SOTENVILLE.

CLAUDINE, Angélique’s maid.

THE SCENE IS BEFORE GEORGE DANDIN’S HOUSE IN THE COUNTRY.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

GEORGE DANDIN, alone.

AH! WHAT A strange thing it is to be a woman of quality and a wife! and what an instructive lesson my marriage is to all peasants who wish to raise themselves above their condition, and to ally themselves, as I have done, to a nobleman’s family. Nobility, in itself, is good; it is a thing worthy of respect, surely: but it is attended by so many ugly circumstances, that it is better not to come in contact with it. I have become very knowing on that subject, to my cost, and understand now the way of noblemen, when they allow us to enter their families. We ourselves count for very little in the match: they only marry our property; and I would have done much better, rich as I am, to marry a good and honest peasant’s daughter, than to take a wife who holds herself above me, is ashamed to bear my name, and imagines that with all my wealth I have not paid dear enough for the honour of being her husband. George Dandin! George Dandin! you have committed the greatest folly in the world. My home has become unbearable to me now, and I never enter it without finding some annoyance.

SCENE II.

GEORGE DANDIN, LUBIN.

DAN. (ASIDE, SEEING Lubin come out of his house). What the devil can that fellow want in my house?

LUB. (Aside, perceiving George Dandin). There is some one looking at me.

DAN. (Aside). He does not know me.

LUB. (Aside). He suspects something.

DAN. (Aside). Bless my soul! he will barely nod to me.

LUB. (Aside). I am afraid he will say that he saw me come from within.

DAN. Good day to you.

LUB. Your servant.

DAN. YOU do not belong to this place, I believe?

LUB. NO: I have come only to see the feast to-morrow.

DAN. Just tell me, if you please, did not you come out thence?

LUB. Hush!

DAN. Why so?

LUB. Be quiet!

DAN. What is the matter?

LUB. Not a word! You must not say that you saw me come out there.

DAN. Why?

LUB. Good Heavens! because...

DAN. Well? What?

LUB. Softly. I am afraid they will hear us.

DAN. Not at all, not at all.

LUB. Because I have just been delivering a message to the mistress of the house from a certain gentleman who has an eye upon her; and it must not be known. Do you understand?

DAN. Yes.

LUB. I have been told to take care that no one should see me; and let me beg of you, at least, not to say that you have seen me.

DAN. I do not mean to.

LUB. I am very glad to do things secretly, as I have been told.

DAN. That is all right.

LUB. The husband, from what they tell me, is dreadfully jealous, who will not allow his wife to be made love to; and there would be the devil to pay if it came to his ears. Now, do you understand?

DAN. Very well.

LUB. He is to know nothing of all this.

DAN. TO be sure.

LUB. They wish to deceive him quietly. You understand me?

DAN. Perfectly.

LUB. If you go and say that you have seen me come out of his house, you will spoil the whole affair. Do you understand?

DAN. Indeed, I do. What is the name of him who sent you there?

LUB. He is our squire, Viscount of... somebody...
By my troth! I never remember how the deuce they manage to pronounce that name. Mr. Cli... Clitandre.

DAN. IS it that young courtier who lives...?

LUB. Yes; not far from those trees.

DAN. (Aside). That is why this civil young spark has come to live so close to me. I smell a rat, certainly; and his vicinity had already given me some suspicions.

LUB. Gadzooks! he is the most gentlemanlike man you ever met with. He has given me three gold pieces only to go and tell the lady that he is in love with her, and that he very much wishes the honour of being able to speak with her. It was not much trouble to be so well paid for it, compared with a day’s work, for which I get only ten sous.

DAN. Well! have you delivered your message?

LUB. Yes. I found inside a certain Claudine, who understood directly what I wanted, and who gained me speech with her mistress.

DAN. (Aside). Oh! what a jade that maid is!

LUB. Odds bobs! this Claudine is as pretty as can be:

I have taken a fancy to her, and it will be her fault if we are not married.

DAN. But what answer has the mistress made to this Mr. Courtier?

LUB. She has told me to tell him... stop; I do not know if I shall remember it all; that she is very much obliged to him for his affection towards her, and that he must be very careful not to show it, on account of her husband, who is whimsical, and that he must bethink himself to invent something, so that they may converse with each other.

DAN. (Aside). Ah! baggage of a wife!

LUB. Jeminy! that will be funny; for the husband will not dream of the trick; that is the best of it, and he will be taken in for all his jealousy. Is it not so?

DAN. That is true.

LUB. Good-bye. Keep silence, mind! Keep the secret well, so that the husband may not know of it.

DAN. Yes, yes.

LUB. AS for myself, I shall pretend to know nothing.

I am a cunning fellow, and people would not think that I have anything to do with it.

SCENE III.

GEORGE DANDIN, alone.

Well! George Dandin, you see how your wife treats you! That is your reward for having wished to marry a lady of quality! You are completely done for, without being able to revenge yourself; and nobility ties your hands.
Equality of condition leaves the husband at any rate the freedom of resentment; and if this were a country wench, you would now have full liberty to right yourself by giving her a good thrashing. But you wished to have a taste of nobility; and you were tired of being master in your own house. Ah! I am bursting with rage, and would willingly box my own ears. What! to listen impudently to the declaration of some fop, and to promise him at the same time that his love would be returned! Zounds! I will not let such an opportunity slip me. I must, at this very moment, go and complain to her father and mother, and take them to witness, at all events, of the vexations and annoyance which their daughter causes me. But here they come, just at the right moment.

SCENE IV.

M. DE SOTENVILLE, MADAM DE SOTENVILLE, GEORGE DANDIN.

M. DE S. What is the matter, son-in-law? You seem quite upset.

DAN. SO I have cause to be, and. — .

MAD. DE S. Good Heavens! son-in-law, how unpolite you are, not to bow to people when you approach them!

DAN. Upon my word! mother-in-law, it is because I have other matters to think of; and...

MAD. DE S. Again! Is it possible, son-in-law, that you know fashion so little, and is there no teaching you how to behave among people of quality?

DAN. What do you mean?

MAD. DE S. Will you never divest yourself, with me, of the familiarity of that word, mother-in-law, and can you not accustom yourself to call me Madam?

DAN. Zounds! If you call me your son-in-law, it seems to me that I may call you my mother-in-law.

MAD. DE S. That remains to be seen, and the case is not the same. Please to understand that it is not for you to use that word with a person of my rank; that, although you may be our son-in-law, there is a great difference between us, and that you ought to know your place.

M. DE S. That is enough, my love; let us drop that.

MAD. DE S. Good Heavens! M. de Sotenville, you are more indulgent than any one else, and you do not know how to make people give you your due.

M. DE S. Egad! I beg your pardon: I do not require any lessons upon that subject; and during my life, I have shown by a score of energetic actions that I am not a man ever to abate a tittle of my pretensions; but a hint is quite sufficient for him. Let us know a little, son-in-law, what you have got on your mind.

DAN. Since I am to speak categorically, I shall tell you, M. de Sotenville, that I have cause to...

M. DE S. Gently, son-in-law. Let me tell you that it is not respectful to address people by their names, and that we must only say, “Sir,” to those above us.

DAN. Well then, only say Sir, and no longer M. de Sotenville, I must tell you that my wife gives me...

M. DE S. Softly! Let me also tell you that you ought not to say my wife when you speak of our daughter.

DAN. I have no patience! What? is not my wife my wife?

MAD. DE S. Yes, son-in-law, she is your wife; but you must not call her so. You could not do more, if you had married one of your equals.

DAN. (Aside). Ah! George Dandin, what a hole you have got into! (Aloud). For gracious sake, put your gentility aside for a moment, and allow me now to speak to you as best I can. (Aside). A plague upon all this nonsensical tyranny! (To M. de Sotenville). I tell you then that I am very much dissatisfied with my marriage.

M. DE S. And the reason, son-in-law?

MAD. DE S. What! to speak thus of an affair from which you have derived such great advantages!

DAN. And what advantages, Madam, since “Madam” it is to be? The bargain has not been a bad one for you; for, by your leave, your affairs, had it not been for me, would have been in a very dilapidated condition, and my money has served to stop pretty large gaps; but, as for myself, what have I profited by it, pray, unless it be the lengthening of my name, and instead of being George Dandin, to have received, through you, the title of M. de La Dandinière?

M. DE S. Do you reckon for nothing, son-in-law, the advantage of being allied to the house of Sotenville?

MAD. DE S. And to that of La Prudoterie, from which I have the honour of being descended; a house where the females ennoble, and which, by that valuable privilege, will make your sons noblemen.

DAN. Oh! that is good, my sons shall be noblemen: but I shall be myself a cuckold, unless care be taken.

MAD. DE S. What does this mean, son-in-law?

DAN. It means that your daughter does not behave as a wife ought to do, and that she does things which are contrary to honour.

MAD. DE S. Gently. Take care what you are saying.
My daughter belongs to a race too full of honour, ever to do aught that might offend honesty; and as for the house of La Prudoterie, thank Heaven, it has been observed that for more than three hundred years no woman has been talked about.

M. DE S. Egad! there has never been a flirt in the house of Sotenville; and bravery is not more hereditary in the males than chastity in the females.

MAD. DE S. We have had a Jacqueline de la Prudoterie, who would never be the mistress of a duke and peer, governor of our province.

M. DE S. There was a Mathurine de Sotenville who refused twenty thousand crowns from a favourite of the King, who asked only for the favour of speaking to her.

DAN. Well! your daughter is not so straight-laced as all that; and she has grown tractable since she has been with me.

M. DE S. Explain yourself, son-in-law. We are not people to support her in any wrong actions, and we would be the first, her mother and I, to do you justice.

MAD. DE S. We do not understand jesting in matters of honour; and we have brought her up in the greatest possible strictness.

DAN. All I can tell you is, that there is a certain courtier thereabout, whom you have seen, who is in love with her, under my very nose, and who has sent her a declaration of his love, to which she has very feelingly listened.

MAD. DE S. By the Heavens above! I would strangle her with my own hands, were she to deviate from her mother’s virtuous path.

M. DE S. Zounds, I would pass my sword through her body, and that of her gallant, were she to forfeit her honour.

DAN. I have told you what is going on, to justify my complaints; and I ask you for satisfaction in this matter.

M. DE S. Do not torment yourself: I will get it you from both; and I am the man to keep a tight hold over, no matter whom. But are you quite positive about what you have told us?

DAN. Quite.

M. DE S. Take great care; for, between gentlemen, these are ticklish subjects; and you must not make a mistake.

DAN. I have said nothing, I tell you, but the truth.

M. DE S. My love, go and talk to your daughter, while I, with my son-in-law, will go and speak with that man.

MAD. DE S. IS it possible, my son, that she could so far forget herself, after the good example which, as you well know, I have set her.

M. DE S. We are going to clear the matter up. Follow me, son-in-law, and do not trouble yourself. You shall see what we are made of, when people attack those who may belong to us.

DAN. There he is coming toward us.

SCENE V.

M. DE SOTENVILLE, CLITANDRE, GEORGE

DANDIN.

M. DE S. Do you know me, Sir?

CLIT. Not that I am aware of, Sir.

M. DE S. My name is the Baron de Sotenville.

CLIT. I am very happy to hear it.

M. DE S. My name is well known at court; and in my youth, I had the honour of being one of the first to distinguish myself in the arrière-ban at Nancy.

CUT. SO much the better.

M. DE S. My father, Jean-Gilles de Sotenville, had the honour of assisting in person at the great siege of Montauban.

CUT. I am delighted to hear it.

M. DE S. And one of my ancestors, Bertrand de Sotenville, enjoyed so much consideration in his time, that he was permitted to dispose of all his property, to cross the seas.

CUT. I can easily believe it.

M. DE S. It has been reported to me, Sir, that you are in love with, and run after a young person, who is my daughter, in whom I am interested (pointing to George Dandin), as well as in this man whom you see, who has the honour of being my son-in-law.

CUT. Who? I?

M. DE S. Yes; and I am glad of the opportunity of speaking to you, in order to have this affair explained, if you please.

CUT. What strange slander is this! Who has told you that, Sir?

M. DE S. Somebody who believes himself well informed.

CUT. This somebody has told a lie. I am a gentleman.
Do you think me capable, Sir, of such a base act? What!
I, love a young and handsome person who has the honour of being the daughter of the Baron de Sotenville! I respect you too much for that, and am too much your humble servant. Whoever has told you this is a fool.

M. DE S. Now, son-in-law.

DAN. What?

CUT. He is a rogue and villain.

M. DE S. (To George Dandin). Answer him.
‘ DAN. Answer him yourself.

CUT. If I knew who it could be, I would in your presence run my sword through his body.

M. DE S. (To George Dandin). Support your assertion.

DAN. It is fully supported. It is true.

CUT. IS it your son-in-law, Sir, who...

M. DE S. Yes, it is he himself, who complains to me about it.

CUT. Certainly he may thank his stars for belonging to you; and without that, I would pretty well teach him to talk in such a manner about a person like me.

SCENE VI.

M. and MADAM DE SOTENVILLE, ANGELIQUE,

CLITANDRE, GEORGE DANDIN, CLAUDINE.

MAD. DE S. With regard to that, jealousy is a strange thing! I have brought my daughter here, to clear the matter up in the presence of every one.

CLIT. (To Angélique). It is you then, Madam, who have told your husband that I am in love with you.

ANG. I? And how could I have told him? Is it so then? I should really like to see you in love with me.
Just attempt it, pray; you will find out with whom you have to deal; I advise you to try the thing! Have recourse, by way of experiment, to all the lovers’ stratagems: just attempt to send me, for the fun of it, some messages, to write me some small love letters secretly; to watch the moments of my husband’s absence, or when I am going out to tell me of your love: you have only to set about it, I promise you you shall be received as you ought.

CLIT. Gently, gently, Madam; there is no need to read me such a lesson, or to be so scandalized. Who told you that I thought of loving you?

ANG. HOW do I know, who told me just now these stories?

CLIT. They may say what they like; but you know best whether I ever spoke of love to you when we met.

ANG. YOU should only have done so, you would have been welcome!

CLIT. I assure you that you have nothing to fear from me; that I am not a man to vex the fair; and that I respect you and your parents too much, to have even the thought of falling in love with you.

MAD. DE S. (To George Dan din.) Well, now you see!

M. DE S. Are you satisfied, son-in-law? What do you say to that?

DAN. I say that these are cock-and-bull stories; that I know what I know; and that, since I am to speak plainly, she has just now received a message from him.

ANG. What! I have received a message?

CLIT. I have sent a message?

ANG. Claudine?

CLIT. (To Claudine). Is it true?

CLAU. Upon my word, that is a strange falsehood!

DAN. Hold your tongue, slut that you are. I know your tricks; and it is you who introduced the messenger just now.

CLAU. Who? I?

DAN. Yes, you. Do not look so innocent.

CLAU. Alas! how full of wickedness people are nowadays, to suspect me thus, I, who am innocence itself!

DAN. Hold your tongue, you bad lot. You pretend to be a saint, but I have known you for a long time; and you are a sly jade.

CLAU. (To Angélique). Madam, have I...

DAN. Hold your tongue, I tell you; you may bear the brunt for all the others; and your father is not a nobleman.

ANG. It is a falsehood so gross, and which affects me so much, that I have not even the strength to answer it.
It is very horrible to be accused by a husband, when one has done nothing wrong to him! Alas! if I am to blame at all, it is for treating him too well.

CLAU. Indeed you have.

ANG. My great misfortune is that I consider him too much; and would to Heaven that I could tolerate, as he says, the attentions of some one else! I should not be so much to be pitied. Good-bye; I withdraw, and I cannot longer bear to be thus insulted.

SCENE VII.

M. and MADAM DE SOTENVILLE, CLITANDRE, GEORGE DANDIN, CLAUDINE.

MAD. DE S. (To George Dandin). Go, you do not deserve the virtuous wife you have got.

CLAU. Upon my word, he deserves that she should make his words come true; and if I were in her place, I would not hesitate about it. (To Clitandre). Yes, sir you ought to make love to my mistress, to punish him.
Insist, it is I who tell you; it will be worth your while; and I offer to assist you, since he has already taxed me with it. — (Exit Claudine.

M. DE S. You deserve, son-in-law, to have these things said to you; and your behaviour sets every one against you.

MAD. DE S. GO, endeavour to treat a gentlewoman better; and take care not to make any more such blunders for the future.

DAN. (Aside). It makes me mad to be put in the wrong, when I am in the right.

SCENE VIII.

M. DE SOTENVILLE, CLITANDRE, GEORGE

DANDIN.

CLIT. (To M. de Sotenville). You see, sir, how falsely I have been accused; you are a gentleman who know the punctilios of honour; and I demand satisfaction for the insult that has been offered to me.

MAD. DE S. That is just; and it is the right way of proceeding. Come, son-in-law, give this gentleman satisfaction.

DAN. HOW! satisfaction?

M. DE S. Yes, it is right according to usage, for having wrongly accused him.

DAN. That is something with which I do not at all agree, that I have wrongly accused him; and I know well enough what I think of it.

M. DE S. That does not matter. Whatever thought may remain in your mind, he denies it; that must satisfy people, and they have no right to complain of any man who gainsays a thing.

DAN. Thus, if I had found him in bed with my wife, he would get off by simply denying it?

M. DE S. No more arguments. Make him the apologies which I tell you.

DAN. I? I am to make him apologies after...

M. DE S. Come, I tell you; there is nothing to hesitate about, and there is no need of being afraid of overdoing the thing, since you are guided by me.

DAN. I cannot...

M. DE S. Zounds! son-in-law, do not make me angry.

I shall be taking his part against you. Come, be guided by me.

DAN. (Aside). Ah! George Dandin!

M. DE S. First, take your cap in hand: This gentleman is a nobleman, and you are not.

DAN. (Cap in hand, aside). I am boiling with rage!

M. DE S. Repeat after me: Sir...

DAN. Sir...

M. DE S. I crave your pardon... (Seeing that George Dandin hesitates to obey). Ah!

DAN. I crave your pardon...

M. DE S. For the bad thoughts which I have had of you.

DAN. For the bad thoughts which I have had of you.

M. DE S. It was because I had not the honour of knowing you.

DAN. It was because I had not the honour of knowing you.

M. DE S. And I beg you to believe...

DAN. And I beg you to believe...

M. DE S. That I am your servant.

DAN. Would you have me to be the servant of a man who wants to make me a cuckold?

M. DE S. (Threatening him again). Ah!

CLIT. It is sufficient, Sir.

M. DE S. No. I will have him finish it, and that everything should be done in due form: That I am your servant.

DAN. That I am your servant.

CLIT. (To George Dandin). Sir, I am yours with all my heart; and shall think no more of what has happened.
(To M. de Sotenville). As for you, Sir, I wish you goodday, and am sorry that you have had some annoyance.

M. DE S. I kiss your hand; and, whenever you like, shall give you some sport in coursing.

CLIT. YOU do me too much honour. (Exit Clitandre.

M. DE S. That is how things ought to be managed, son-in-law. Farewell. Remember that you have entered a family that will support you, and not suffer you to be affronted.

SCENE IX.

GEORGE DANDIN, alone.

AH! THAT I...YOU would have it so, you would have it so; George Dandin, you would have it so; this suits you very nicely, and you are served right; you have precisely what you deserve. Come, everything depends only on undeceiving the father and mother; and perhaps I may find some means of succeeding.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

CLAUDINE, LUBIN.

CLAU. YES, I guessed well enough that it must have come from you, and that you told it to some one, who related it to master.

LUB. Upon my word, I mentioned only a word of it, as I was passing by, to a man, that he might not say that he had seen me come out. People must be great chatterboxes in these parts!

CLAU. Really, the Viscount has well chosen his man in taking you for his messenger; and he has employed a fellow who is very lucky.

LUB. Never mind, I shall be more artful the next time, and take greater care.

CLAU. Yes, yes, it will be high time!

LUB. Let us speak no more of this. Listen.

CLAU. What am I to listen to?

LUB. Turn your face a little towards me.

CLAU. Well! what is it?

LUB. Claudine?

CLAU. Well?

LUB. Lack-a-day! Do you not know what I mean?

CLAU. NO.

LUB. I’ faiks! I love you.

CLAU. Really?

LUB. Yes, the devil take me! you may believe me, as I have sworn it.

CLAU. SO much the better.

LUB. I feel my heart going pit-a-pat when I look at you.

CLAU. I am very glad of it.

LUB. What do you do to be so pretty?

CLAU. I do like others.

LUB. Look ye here, a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse; if you like, you shall be my wife, I shall be your husband, and we shall be man and wife together.

CLAU. Perhaps you will be jealous like master.

LUB. Not at all.

CLAU. AS for me, I hate your suspicious husbands, and I want one who is frightened at nothing; one so full of confidence and so sure of my chastity, that he could see me in the midst of thirty men without being uneasy.

LUB. Very well; I shall be-all that.

CLAU. It is the silliest thing in the world to mistrust a wife and to torment her. The truth of the matter is that one gains nothing “by it: it only makes us think of harm; and most frequently husbands make themselves what they are by their hubbub.

LUB. Well! I shall leave you free to do whatever you like.

CLAU. That is what you should do in order not to be deceived. When a husband relies on our discretion, we take no more liberty than what is right. It is just with them as with those who open their purses to us, saying: take. We use them discreetly, and content ourselves with what is right; but those who cavil with us, we try to fleece them, and do not spare them.

LUB. Be easy, I shall be like those who open their purse; and you have only to marry me.

CLAU. Very well! we shall see.

LUB. Come here, Claudine.

CLAU. What do you want?

LUB. Come here, I tell you.

CLAU. Softly. I do not like fumblers.

LUB. Just a little bit of coddling.

CLAU. Let me alone, I tell you; I do not understand these jokes.

LUB. Claudine.

CLAU. (Repulsing Lubin). Have done!

LUB. Ah! how cross you are with folks! Fie, how disagreeable to refuse people! Are you not ashamed to be so pretty, and not wishing to be caressed? He! there!

CLAU. I shall slap your face.

LUB. Oh! how fierce! how savage she is! Fie, out upon you, you cruel minx!

CLAU. YOU are too fast.

LUB. What harm would it do to let me have my way a little?

CLAU. YOU must have patience.

LUB. Only a little kiss on account.

CLAU. I am your humble servant.

LUB. Come, Claudine, you can deduct it afterwards.

CLAU. Not if I know it! I have been taken in before.
Good-bye. Go, and tell the Viscount that I shall take care to deliver his note.

LUB. Good-bye, you cruel fair.

CLAU. That is affectionate.

LUB. Good-bye, you rock, you flint, you stone-block, you everything that is hard in the world.

CLAU. (Alone). I must deliver this to my mistress...
But here she comes with her husband: let us get out of the way, and wait until she is alone.

SCENE II.

GEORGE DANDIN, ANGELIQUE.

DAN. NO, NO; I am not so easily deceived, and I am but too certain that what I have been told is true. I have better eyes than people fancy ) and your talk just now has not dazzled me.

SCENE III.

CLITANDRE, ANGELIQUE, GEORGE DANDIN.

CLIT. (ASIDE, AT the far end of the stage). Ah! here she is; but her husband is with her.

DAN. (Without seeing Clitandre). Underneath all your grimaces, I have perceived the truth of what I have been told and the little respect which you have for the tie that binds us. (Clitandre and Angélique bow to each other).
Good Heavens! leave your bowing and scraping; it is not that kind of respect of which I am talking, and you need not play the fool with me.

ANG. I! play the fool! Not at all.

DAN. I know your thoughts, and understand...
(Clitandre and Angélique bow again). Again! Come, let us cease joking. I am well aware that you think me much beneath you, on account of your birth, and the respect of which I speak does not concern myself; I mean that which you owe to such sacred ties as those of wedlock.
(Angélique makes a sign to Clitandre). You need not shrug your shoulders. I am not talking nonsense.

ANG. Who dreams of shrugging her shoulders?

DAN. Good Heavens! I am not blind. I tell you once more that marriage is a bond to which we owe every respect; and that it ill becomes you to behave as you do. (Angélique nods to Clitandre). Yes, yes, it is very bad of you; and you need not nod your head, and make faces at me.

ANG. I? I do not know what you mean.

DAN. I know it well enough; and I know your contempt for me too. If I was not born a nobleman, I belong at least to a race on which there is no stain: and the family of the Dandins...

CLIT. (.Behind Angélique, without being seen by George Dandin). One moment’s conversation!

DAN. (Without seeing Clitandre). He?

ANG. What! I did not say a word.
(George Dandin turns round his wife, and Clitandre retires, making him a profound bow.

SCENE IV.

GEORGE DANDIN, ANGELIQUE.

DAN. THERE HE is, prowling about you.

ANG. Well! is it my fault? What do you wish me to do?

DAN. I wish you to do what a wife who only wishes to please her husband should do. Whatever people may say, gallants never trouble a woman unless she wishes it. There are certain sweet looks which attract them, as honey does flies; and virtuous women have a manner that drives them away immediately.

ANG. I drive them away! and for what reason? I am not scandalized at being thought handsome, and it affords me pleasure.

DAN. Just so! But what part would you have the husband act during this gallant performance?

ANG. The part of a sensible man, who is glad to see his wife admired.

DAN. Much obliged. That does not suit me; and the Dandins are not accustomed to that fashion.

ANG. Then the Dandins will be good enough to accustorn themselves to it; for, as to me, I declare that I do not intend to renounce the world, and to bury myself alive with a husband. What! because a man thinks fit to marry us, everything must be at an end immediately, and we must break off all intercourse with every living being!
This tyranny of husbands is a marvellous thing; and I think it very kind of them to wish that we should be dead to all amusements; and that we should live for them only!

I laugh at that, and do not wish to die so young.

DAN. Is it thus that you keep the vows of fidelity which you made to me before the world?

ANG. I? I did not make them willingly, and you forced them from me. Did you, before marriage, ask me my consent, and whether I cared for you? You consulted only my father and mother. In reality, they have married you, and therefore you will do well always to complain to them about the wrongs which you may suffer. As for me, who did not tell you to marry me, and whom you took without consulting my feelings, I do not pretend to be obliged to submit, like a slave, to your will; and, by your leave, I mean to enjoy the few happy days of my youth, to take the sweet liberties which the age allows me, to see the fashionable world a little, and to taste the pleasure of having pretty things said to me. Prepare yourself for this, for your punishment; and thank Heaven that I am not capable of something worse.

DAN. Indeed! that is how you take it? I am your husband, and tell you that I do not understand this.

ANG. I, I am your wife, and tell you that I understand it perfectly well.

DAN. (Aside). I have a great mind to beat her face to a jelly, and to bring it to a condition never more to charm those gallant sparks. Ah! come, George Dandin; you can hardly restrain yourself, and you had better leave the place.

SCENE V.

ANGELIQUE, CLAUDINE.

CLAU. I HAVE been on the tenterhooks for him to go, Madam, to give you this note from you know who.

ANG. Let us see. — (She reads softly.

CLAU. (Aside). To judge by appearances, what he tells her seems not at all displeasing.

ANG. Ah! Claudine, how prettily this note is worded!
How agreeable these courtiers are in all their words and in all their actions! And what, after all, are our country people compared with them?

CLAU. I think that, after having seen them, the Dandins hardly please you.

ANG. Remain here: I am going to answer it.

CLAU. (Alone). I have no need, I think, to recommend her to make it agreeable. But here he comes...

SCENE VI.

CLITANDRE, LUBIN, CLAUDINE.

CLAU. REALLY, SIR, you have chosen a clever messenger.

CLIT. I dared not send one of my own servants; but I must reward you, my pretty Claudine, for the good services which you have rendered me. (He feels in his pocket.

CLAU. Eh! Sir, there is no occasion for it. No, no, Sir, you need not give yourself that trouble; I serve you because you merit it, and because I like you at heart.

CUT. (Giving her some money). I am obliged to you.

LUB. (To Claudine). As we are going to be married, give it to me, that I may put it with mine.

CLAU. I will keep it for you, as well as the kiss.

CUT. (To Claudine). Tell me, have you given my note to your charming mistress?

CLAU. Yes. She has just gone to answer it.

CLIT. But, Claudine, is there no way to speak to her?

CLAU. Yes: come along with me; I shall let you speak to her.

CLIT. But will she not be displeased? and is there no risk?

CLAU. NO, no. Her husband is not at home; and, besides, he is not most to be considered; it is her father and mother; and as long as they are prepossessed in favour of their daughter, there is nothing to fear from the rest.

CLIT. I trust myself to your guidance!

LUB. (Alone). Odd boddikins, what a clever wife I shall have! She has wit enough for four.

SCENE VII.

GEORGE DANDIN, LUBIN.

DAN. (Softly, aside). There is my man I saw just now.
Would to Heaven he could be brought to bear witness to the father and mother of what they will not believe!

LUB. Ah, there you are, Mr. Tittle-tattle, whom I recommended so much not to talk, and who promised so much that he would not! You are a chatterbox, then, and you go and tell again what other people say to you in secret?

DAN. I?

LUB. Yes. You have repeated everything to the husband, and you are the cause of his having made a row. I am glad to know what a tongue you have got; and it will teach me not to tell you anything more.

DAN. Listen, friend.

LUB. If you had not blabbed, I would have told you what is going on just now; but, for your punishment, you shall know nothing at all.

DAN. HOW! What is going on?

LUB. Nothing, nothing. See what you get by chattering; you will not get another taste, so you can smack your lips at it.

DAN. Stop a little.

LUB. Not at all.

DAN. I wish to say only a word to you.

LUB. Nay, nay. You wish to pump me.

DAN. NO, it is not that.

LUB. I am not such a fool as I look. I see what you are driving at.

DAN. It is something else. Listen.

LUB. Nothing of the sort. You would like me to tell you that the Viscount gave some money just now to Claudine, and that she has taken him to her mistress.
But I am not so silly.

DAN. Pray...

LUB. NO.

DAN. I will give you...

LUB. Fiddlesticks.

SCENE VIII.

GEORGE DANDIN, alone.

I could not, with this idiot, make use of the idea which I had. But the fresh intelligence that has escaped him shall serve the same purpose; and if the gallant is indoors, that will be proof enough for the father and mother, and fully convince them of their daughter’s shamelessness.
The mischief is, that I do not know how to make the best of this piece of news. If I go indoors, the rascal will escape; and however clearly I may see my own dishonour, I shall not be believed on my oath, and I shall be told that I am dreaming. If, again, I fetch my father-in-law and mother-in-law, without being sure of finding the gallant inside, it will be no other thing, and I shall be in the same plight as before. Can I not find out quietly if he be there still? (After having looked through the keyhole). Oh, Heavens! there is no longer any doubt. I have just seen him through the key-hole. Fate gives me an opportunity of confounding my adversary; and, to complete the adventure, it sends the judges whom I need at the right moment.

SCENE IX.

M. DE SOTENVILLE, MADAM DE SOTENVILLE, GEORGE DANDIN.

DAN. JUST NOW, you would not believe me, and your daughter got the better of me; but at present I have proofs at hand how she serves me; and, thank Heaven, my dishonour is so plain now, that you cannot doubt it any longer.

M. DE S. How now! son-in-law, you are still harping upon this?

DAN. Yes, I am; and I have never had greater cause to do so.

MAD. DE S. You are going once more to cram your nonsense into our heads?

DAN. Yes, Madam, and they do worse to mine.

M. DE S. Are you not weary of making yourself such a nuisance?

DAN. NO; but I am very weary of being made a dupe of.

MAD. DE S. Will you never get rid of your preposterous fancies?

DAN. NO, Madam; but I would like to get rid of a wife who dishonours me.

MAD. DE S. Good Heavens! son-in-law, be careful how you speak.

M. DE S. Zounds! Try to find some less offensive terms.

DAN. The merchant who loses cannot laugh.

MAD. DE S. Remember that you have married a lady of noble birth.

DAN. I remember it well enough, and shall remember it only too much.

M. DE S. If you do remember it, endeavour to speak of her more respectfully.

DAN. But why does she not endeavour to treat me more honestly? What! because she is a lady of noble birth, is she to be free to do as she likes to me, without my daring to say a word?

M. DE S. What is the matter with you, and what can you say? Did you not see, this morning, that she denied all knowledge of the person you spoke to me about?

DAN. Yes. But you, what would you say if I show you at this moment that the gallant is with her?

MAD. DE S. With her?

DAN. Yes, with her, and in my house.

M. DE S. In your house?

DAN. Yes, in my own house.

MAD. DE S. If such be the case, we shall take your part against her.

M. DE S. Yes. The honour of our family is dear to us above everything; and if you speak the truth, we shall discard her as our child, and leave her to your resentment.

DAN. YOU have only to follow me.

MAD DE S. Take care not to be mistaken.

M. DE S. Do not do as you did before.

DAN. Good Heavens! you shall see. (Pointing to Clitandre, who comes out of the house with Angélique). There, have I told a lie?

SCENE X.

ANGELIQUE, CLITANDRE, CLAUDINE, M. DE SOTENVILLE, MADAM DE SOTENVILLE, with GEORGE

DANDIN AT THE farther end of the stage.

ANG. (To Clitandre). Good-bye. I am afraid that you should be caught here, and I have to keep up appearances.

CLIT. Promise me, then, Madam, to let me speak to you this night.

ANG. I shall try my best.

DAN. (To M. and Mad de Sotenville). Let us get behind softly, and try not to be seen.

CLAU. (To Angélique). Ah! Madam, all is lost!
Here are your father and mother, and your husband with them.

CLIT. Ah, Heavens!

ANG. (Softly to Clitandre and Claudine). Take no notice, and leave it to me. (Aloud to Clitandre). What! dare you to behave in such a manner, after the affair of just now? and is it thus that you disguise your sentiments?

I am told that you are in love with me; and that you intend to declare your affection for me; I show my annoyance at it, and explain myself clearly to you before every one: you stoutly deny the thing, and pledge me your word that you have no thought of offending me; and yet, the self-same day, you have the impudence to come and call upon me, to tell me that you love me, to say a hundred silly things to me to persuade me to respond to your follies: just as if I were a woman to break the vows which I have pledged to my husband, and ever to stray from that virtue which my parents have taught me. If my father knew of this, he would teach you indeed to attempt such things! But an honest woman does not like to make a stir: I do not care to tell him of it; (Making a sign to Claudine to bring a stick) and I shall show you that, woman as I am, I have courage enough to revenge myself for the insults offered to me. You have not acted like a nobleman, and therefore I shall not treat you as one. (Angélique takes the stick, and lifts it against Clitandre, who places himself in such a position that the blows fall upon Dandin.)

CLIT. (Crying as if he had been struck). Ah! Ah! Ah!
Ah! gently.

SCENE XI.

M. and MADAM DE SOTENVILLE, ANGELIQUE, GEORGE DANDIN, CLAUDINE.

CLAUD. STRIKE HARD, Madam! lay it on thickly.

ANG. (Pretending to speak to Clitandre). If you have anything more on your mind, I am ready to answer you.

CLAU. That will teach you whom you have got to deal with.

ANG. (Pretending to be surprised). Ah! father, you here!

M. DE S. Yes, daughter, and I am glad to see that in your discretion and courage you show yourself a worthy offspring of the house of Sotenville. Come here; let me embrace you.

MAD. DE S. Embrace me also, daughter. There! I weep for joy, and recognise my blood in what you have just now done.

M. DE S. Son-in-law, how delighted you ought to be! and how satisfied you should be with this incident! You had just cause to be alarmed; but your suspicions are allayed in the most fortunate manner.

MAD. DE S. Without doubt, son-in-law; and you ought now to be the most satisfied of husbands.

CLAU. Assuredly. This is what I call a woman! You ought to be only too happy, and kiss the ground she walks on.

DAN. (Aside). Oh, you wretch!

MAD. DE S. What is the matter, son-in-law? Why do you not thank your wife a little for the affection which you see she shows for you.

ANG. NO, no, father, there is no need for that. There is no necessity to thank me for what he has just witnessed;  whatever I have done is only out of self-respect.

M. DE S. Where are you going, daughter?

ANG. I am going away, father, not to be obliged to receive his compliments.

CLAUD. (To George Dandin). She is right to be angry.
She is a woman who deserves to be worshipped; and you do not treat her as you ought.

DAN. (Aside). Wicked wretch!

SCENE XII.

M. and MADAM DE SOTENVILLE, GEORGE

DANDIN.

M. DE S. She is rather angry at what happened just now, and it will pass away if you caress her a little.
Farewell, son-in-law; you see you have no occasion to be any longer uneasy. Go and make it up together, and try to appease her by apologizing for your anger.

MAD. DE S. YOU ought to consider that she is a girl strictly brought up, and who is not accustomed to see herself suspected of any bad action. Farewell. I am delighted to see your quarrels ended, and the great joy which her conduct must afford you.

SCENE XIII.

GEORGE DANDIN, alone.

I DO NOT say a word, for I should gain nothing by speaking; and never was anything known like my disgrace. Yes, I wonder at my misfortune, and the subtle I skill of my jade of a wife to be always in the right, and put me in the wrong. Is it possible that I shall always be outdone by her; that appearances will always go against me, and that I shall never have a chance of proving the guilt of my shameless wife! O Heaven! assist me in my plans, and vouchsafe me the favour of letting the world see that I am dishonoured!

ACT III.

SCENE I.

CLITANDRE, LUBIN.

CLIT. THE NIGHT is pretty far advanced, and I am afraid that it is too late. I cannot see where I am going Lubin!

LUB. Sir?

CLIT. IS this the way?

LUB. I think it is. Odds-bobs! This is a silly night, to be so dark as this.

CLIT. It is certainly not right; but if, on the one hand, it prevents us from seeing, on the other, it prevents our being seen.

LUB. You are right, it is not so far wrong after all. It should like to know, sir, you who are so learned, why it is not day at night?

Clit. That is a great question, and one which is difficult to answer. You are inquisitive, Lubin.

LUB. Yes: if I had studied, I should have thought about things of which no one ever thinks now.

Clit. Yes, I believe that. You appear to have a subtle and penetrating mind.

LUB. That is true. Look here, I explain Latin although I never learned it; and the other day, when I saw collegium written upon a large door, I guessed that it meant college.

Clit. Marvellous! You can read then, Lubin?

LUB. Yes. I can read print; but I never could learn to read writing.

Clit. We are near the house. (After clapping his hands).
This is the signal that Claudine has given me.

LUB. Upon my word! she is worth her weight in gold; and I love her with all my heart.

CLI. That is why I took you with me to entertain her.

LUB. Sir, I am...

CLI. Hush! I hear a noise.

SCENE II.

ANGELIQUE, CLAUDINE, CLITANDRE, LUBIN.

ANG. CLAUDINE?

CLAU. WELL?

ANG. Leave the door ajar.

CLAU. I have done so. (They are groping about for each other in the dark.

CLI. ( To Lubin). It is they. Hush.

ANG. Hush.

LUB. Hush.

CLAU. Hush.

CLI. ( To Claudine, whom he mistakes for Angélique).
Madam!

ANG. ( To Lubin, whom she mistakes for Clitandre).
What?

LUB. (To Angélique, whom he mistakes for Claudine).
Claudine!

CLAU. (To Clitandre, whom she mistakes for Lubin).
What is it?

CLI. (To Claudine, thinking he is speaking to Angélique?).
Ah, Madam, how happy you make me!

LUB. ( To Angélique, thinking he is speaking to Claudine).
Claudine! my poor Claudine’

CLAU. (To Clitandre). Gently, Sir.

ANG. (To Lubin). Softly, Lubin.

CLI. IS it you, Claudine?

CLAU. Yes.

LUB. IS it you, Madam?

ANG. Yes.

CLAU. (To Clitandre). You have taken the one for the other.

LUB. (To Angélique). Upon my word! at night one cannot see a bit.

ANG. IS it not you, Clitandre?

CLI. Yes, Madam.

ANG. My husband is snoring nicely, and I have taken the opportunity for our conversing together.

CLI. Let us look for a seat somewhere.

CLAU. That is a good idea. (Angélique, Claudine and Clitandre sit down at the farther end of the stage, upon a piece of turf at the foot of a tree.

LUB. (Seeking for Claudine). Claudine! whereabouts are you?

SCENE III.

ANGELIQUE, CLITANDRE, CLAUDINE, seated

AT THE FARTHER end of the stage, GEORGE DANDIN, partly dressed, LUBIN.

DAN. (Aside). I heard my wife go downstairs, and I have quickly dressed myself to go down after her. Where can she have gone to? Has she left the house?

LUB. (Seeking for Claudine and catching hold of Dandin for her). But where are you, Claudine? Ah! here you are. Upon my word, your master is nicely caught, and I think it as funny as the cudgel-blows just now, of which I was told. Your mistress says he was snoring at this moment, like a pig; and he does not know that the Viscount and she are together, while he sleeps. I should like to know what sort of a dream he is having now. It is quite laughable. Why does he get it into his head to be jealous of his wife, and to wish to keep her all to himself?
It is like his impudence, and the Viscount does him too much honour. You are not saying a word, Claudine?
Come, let us follow them; and -give me your little hand that I may kiss it. Ah! how sweet it is! it is like eating jam. (To George Dandin, whom he still takes for Claudine, and who rudely repulses him). The deuce! how you go it, your little hand is mighty hard.

DAN. Who is there?

LUB. NO one.

DAN. He runs away, and leaves me convinced of a fresh deception of my wretch. Come, I must send for her mother and father without delay, so that this adventure may get me separated from her. Hullo! Colin! Colin!

SCENE IV.

ANGELIQUE, CLITANDRE, CLAUDINE, LUBIN,

STILL SEATED AT the farther end of the stage, GEORGE

DANDIN, COLIN.

COL. (At the window). Sir!

DAN. Quick, come down.

COL. (Leaping out of the window). Here I am, I could not come more quickly.

DAN. Are you there?

COL. Ay, Sir!
(Whilst Dandin looks for Colin on the side where he has heard his voice, Colin crosses to the other and falls asleep.

DAN. (Turning to the side where he believes Colin to be).
Softly Speak low. Listen. Run to my father-in-law and mother-in-law, and say that I beseech them very urgently to come down here immediately. Do you hear?
Come, Colin! Colin!

COL. (On the other side, waking up). Sir?

DAN. Where the devil are you?

COL. Here.

DAN. Plague take the booby, who is moving away from me! (While Dandin returns to the side where he thinks that Colin has remained, Colin, half asleep, crosses over to the other, and falls asleep again). I say that you are to go directly to my father-in-law and mother-in-law, and tell them that I implore them to come here immediately.
Do you understand me? Answer. Colin! Colin!

COL. (On the other side, waking up). Sir!

DAN. The scoundrel will drive me mad. Come here, I say! (They run against each other and fall down).
Ah! the wretch! he has maimed me. Where are you?
Come here that I may thrash the life out of you. I believe he is running away from me.

COL. Of course I am.

COL. Not likely.

DAN. Come here, I tell you.

COL. Not a bit. You wish to thrash me.

DAN. Well! I will not thrash you.

COL. For certain?

DAN. Will you come here?

DAN. Yes. Come close. (To Colin, whom he holds by the arm). Good! It is lucky that I need you. Go quickly and ask my father-in-law and mother-in-law, in my name, to come down here as soon as possible, and tell them that it is on a matter of the utmost consequence; and, should they hesitate on account of the time, do not fail to insist upon it, and to give them to understand that it is most important they should come, no matter how they are dressed. You understand me thoroughly now?

COL. Yes, Sir.

DAN. Get along then and come back quickly. (Thinking himself alone). And I, I will go indoors, to wait till..
But I hear some one. Can it be my wife? I must listen, and take advantage of this darkness.
(He places himself at his door.

SCENE V.

ANGELIQUE, CLITANDRE, CLAUDINE, LUBIN,

GEORGE DANDIN

ANG. (To Clitandre). Good-bye. It is time to separate now.

CLI. What! already?

ANG. We have conversed enough.

CLI. Ah! Madam, can I have enough of your conversation, and find in so short a time all the words I need. It would take whole days to explain to you clearly all that I feel; and I have not told you yet the smallest part of what I have to say to you.

ANG. We shall hear some more at another time.

CLI. Alas! how you pierce my heart when you talk of withdrawing; and with what amount of grief you leave me now!

ANG. We shall find means of seeing each other again.

CLI. Yes. But I cannot help remembering that, when you leave me, you go back to a husband. This thought kills me; and a husband’s privileges are cruel things to a fond lover.

ANG. Are you weak enough to have such anxiety, and do you think it possible to love a certain sort of husbands?
We marry them, because we cannot help ourselves, and because we depend upon our parents, who look only to riches; but we know how to be even with them, and we take good care not to value them above their deserts.

DAN. (Aside). These are our strumpets of wives!

CLI. Alas! it must be admitted that the one they have given you little deserved the honour which he received, and that the union of a woman like you with a man like him is somewhat strange.

DAN. (Aside). Poor husbands! that is how they treat you.

CLI. YOU deserve, no doubt, a quite different lot; Heaven did not create you to be a peasant’s wife.

DAN. Would to Heaven she were yours! you would tell a different tale! Let us go in; it is enough.
(He goes in and locks the door inside.

SCENE VI.

ANGELIQUE, CLITANDRE, CLAUDINE, LUBIN.

CLAU. MADAM, IF you have any harm to say of your husband, you had better make haste, for it is getting late.

CLI. Ah! Claudine, how cruel you are!

ANG. (To Clitandre). She is right. We must separate.

CLI. Since you wish it, I must submit to it. But I pray you to pity me, at least, for the wretched moments that I am to pass.

ANG. Farewell.

LUB. Where are you, Claudine, that I may bid you good-night?

CLAU. DO not trouble. I accept it at a distance, and send you back the same.

SCENE VII.

ANGELIQUE, CLAUDINE.

ANG. LET US go in without making a noise.

CLAU. The door is shut.

ANG. I have the master-key.

CLAU. Then open it softly.

ANG. It is bolted inside, and I do not know what we shall do.

CLAU. Call the boy who sleeps there.

ANG. Colin! Colin! Colin!

SCENE VIII.

GEORGE DANDIN, ANGELIQUE, CLAUDINE.

DAN. (AT THE window). Colin! Colin! Ah! I have caught you at it this time, Mistress Dandin; and you make little escapades while I am asleep. I am very glad of it, and to see you abroad at this hour.

ANG. Well! what great harm is there in taking the fresh air at night?

DAN. Yes, yes. This is the right time to take the fresh air! It is rather the warm air, Mistress Jade; and we know all about the appointment between you and your spark. We heard the whole of your gallant conversation, and the beautiful verses in my praise which you sang to each other. But my consolation is that I am going to be avenged, and that your father and mother will be convinced now of the justice of my complaints, and of your disorderly conduct. I have sent for them, and they will be here in a moment.

ANG. (Aside). Oh Heavens!

CLAU. Madam! —

DAN. That is a blow, doubtless, which you did not expect. It is now my turn to win, and I have the wherewithal to put down your pride, and spoil your stratagems.
Up till now, you have laughed at my accusations, thrown dust in your parents’ eyes, and patched up your misdeeds.

I might see and say what I would, your cunning always got the better of my righteous cause, and you have always found some way to appear in the right; but this time, thank Heaven, matters will be cleared up, and your shamelessness will be quite confounded.

ANG. Pray let me in.

DAN. NO, no: you must wait the arrival of those I have sent for; I wish them to find you out-of-doors at this nice time of night. While you are waiting for them, you had better contrive, if you like, some new scheme to get out of this scrape; to invent some way to palliate your escapade; to find some pretty trick to hoodwink the world and to appear innocent; some specious pretext of a nocturnal pilgrimage, or of some female friend of yours in labour, whom you have just assisted.

ANG. NO. I have no intention of disguising anything from you. I do not pretend to defend myself, nor to deny things, since you know them.

DAN. That is because you find no loophole left to you, and that in this affair, you cannot invent an excuse of which it would not be easy for me to show the falsehood.

ANG. Yes, I confess that I am in the wrong, and that you have reason to complain. But I beg of you, I beseech you, not now to expose me to the anger of my parents, and let me in quickly.

DAN. I would see you far enough first.

ANG. There is a dear good husband! I implore you, do!

DAN. A dear good husband, am I! I am your dear good husband now, because you are caught. I am very glad of it; but you never took it into your head to say these sweet things before. —

ANG. There; I promise never again to give you any cause for displeasure, and to...

DAN. All that does not signify. I will not lose this opportunity; and I am determined that the world shall know thoroughly your misconduct this time.

ANG. For mercy’s sake, let me speak to you. I pray you for a moment’s hearing.

DAN. Well! what is it?

ANG. It is true, I have been at fault; I admit it once again, and that your resentment is just; that I have taken advantage of your sleep to slip out: and that I went out to keep an appointment with the person whom you know.
But after all, these are actions -which you ought to pardon at my age; the follies of a young woman who has had no experience, and has but just entered the world; liberties to which one gives way, without thinking of any harm, and which, in reality, have nothing...

DAN. Ay: as you say, these are things in which one ought to have implicit faith.

ANG. I do not wish to pretend by this, that I am without blame towards you; and I only entreat of you to forget an offence for which I heartily beg your pardon, and to spare me, for this once only, the vexation of the severe reproaches of my father and mother. If you will generously grant me the favour which I ask from you, your obliging conduct, your kindness towards me, will win me over entirely; it will thoroughly touch my heart, and produce there for you what neither the authority of my parents nor the bonds of marriage have been able to instil into it.
In short, it will cause me to renounce all gallantries, and to be attached solely to you. Yes, I pledge my word, that henceforth I will be the best wife in the world to you, and that I will show you so much affection, yes, so much, that you will be satisfied.

DAN. Ah! you crocodile, that flatters people to strangle them!

ANG. Grant me this favour.

DAN. Not a jot. I am inexorable.

ANG. Show yourself generous.

DAN. NO.

ANG. For pity’s sake!

DAN. Not at all.

ANG. I implore you with all my heart.

DAN. NO, no, no. I wish them to be undeceived about you, and that your disgrace may be made public.

ANG. Very well! if you drive me to despair, I warn you that a woman, in that condition, is capable of everything, and that I shall do something of which you shall repent.

DAN. And what will you do, pray?

ANG. I shall be driven to the most desperate resolution; and with this knife shall I kill myself on the spot.

DAN. Ha! ha! Well and good.

ANG. Not so well and good as you imagine. People are acquainted, on all hands, with our quarrels and the perpetual ill-will which you foster against me. When they find me dead, no one will doubt that you have killed me; and, certainly, my parents are not the people to leave my death unpunished, and they will punish you to the utmost extent which the law and the heat of their resentment will allow. That is the way in which I shall find means to be revenged upon you; and I am not the first who has had recourse to that kind of vengeance; and who has not scrupled to take her own life, in order to destroy those who had the cruelty to drive her to this last extremity.

DAN. I am not to be caught in that way. People no longer kill themselves; and the fashion has gone out long since.

ANG. You may rely upon my doing it; and if you persist in your refusal, if you do not let me in, I swear to you that I shall immediately show you how far the resolution of a desperate woman will go.

DAN. Nonsense, nonsense. You wish to frighten me.

ANG. Very well! since it must be, this will content us both, and will show whether I am jesting. (After having pretended to kill herself ). Ah! it is done. Heaven grant that my death may be avenged as I wish, and that he who is the cause of it may receive a just chastisement for his cruelty towards me!

DAN. Good gracious! can she have been malicious enough to kill herself to get me hanged? Let us take a bit of candle to go and see.

SCENE IX.

ANGELIQUE, CLAUDINE.

ANG. HUSH! KEEP still. Let us place ourselves immediately, one on each side of the door.

SCENE X.

ANGELIQUE and CLAUDINE, entering the house

AS SOON AS George Dandin comes out, and immediately bolting the door inside j GEORGE DANDIN, with a candle in his hand, without perceiving them.

DAN. Can the wickedness of a woman go as far as that?
(Alone, after looking everywhere). There is no one here.
Well! I thought so; and the hussy is gone away, finding that she could gain nothing from me, either by prayers or threats. So much the better! it will make matters still worse for her; and her father and mother will see her crime all the more plainly when they come. (After having been at his door, to go in). Ah! ah! the door has fallen to. Hullo! ho! some one! open the door for me quickly!

SCENE XI.

ANGELIQUE and CLAUDINE, at the window,

GEORGE DANDIN.

ANG. What! is it you? Where have you been, you wretch? Is this a time to come home, when it is nearlydaybreak? and is this the life which an honest husband ought to lead?

CLAU. A pretty thing to go about drinking all night, and to leave a poor young creature of a wife by herself at home?

DAN. What! you have... —

ANG. Get along, you wretch, get along; I am sick of your goings-on, and I will complain of them, without delay, to my father and mother.

DAN. What! You dare to...

SCENE XII.

M. and MADAM DE SOTENVILLE

 in their night-gowns, COLIN, carrying a lantern, ANGELIQUE and CLAUDINE, at the window, GEORGE DANDIN.

ANG. (To M. and Madam de Sotenville). Pray come here to protect me against the most consummate insolence of a husband, whose brain has been so muddled by wine and jealousy that he no longer knows what he is saying or doing, and has himself sent for you to make you witnesses of the most extravagant behaviour you ever heard of. This is how he comes back, as you may see, after making me wait all night for him; and were you to listen to him, he will tell you that he has the greatest complaints to make against me; that while he was asleep, I left his side to go gadding about, and a hundred other stories of the same nature, which he has taken into his head.

DAN. (Aside). There is a wicked strumpet!

CLAU. Yes, he wishes to make out that he was in the house, and that we were outside; and it is a fancy which we cannot drive out of his head.

M. DE S. How now! What means all this?

MAD. DE S. Here is a confounded impudence, to send for us.

DAN. Well I never...

ANG. NO, father, I can no longer put up with such a husband: my patience is exhausted; and he has been saying all manner of insulting words to me.

M. DE S. (To George Dandin). Zounds! you are a vile fellow.

CLAU. It is pity to see a poor young wife treated in such a fashion; it cries to Heaven for vengeance.

DAN. Can any one...

M. DE S. You ought to die with shame.

DAN. Allow me to say two words.

ANG. Only listen to him: he will tell you something pretty!

DAN. (Aside). I give it up in despair.

CLAU. He has drunk so much, that there is no staying near him; and the scent of the wine which he exhales comes up even to us.

DAN. Sir father-in-law, I implore you...

M. DE S. Withdraw: your breath smells offensively of wine.

DAN. I pray you, Madam...

MAD. DE S. Away! do not come near me; your breath is filthy.

DAN. (To M. de Sotenville). Allow me to...

M. DE S. Withdraw: I tell you, there is no bearing you.

DAN. (To Mad de Sotenville). For pity’s sake, let me...

MAD. DE S. Fie upon it! you make me sick. Speak if you will, but at a distance.

DAN. Very well, then, I will speak at a distance. I swear to you that I have not stirred out of the house, and that it was she who went out.

ANG. Did I not tell you so?

CLAU. YOU see how likely that is.

M. DE S. (To George Dandin). Go, you are jesting with people. Descend, daughter, and come here.

SCENE XIII.

M. and MADAM DE SOTENVILLE, GEORGE

DANDIN, COLIN.

DAN. I take Heaven to witness that I was in the house, and that...

M. DE S. Hold your tongue; this extravagance is unbearable.

DAN. May a thunderbolt strike me on the spot, if...

M. DE S. Do not pester my head any longer, but rather think of asking your wife’s pardon.

DAN. I! ask pardon?

M. DE S. Yes, pardon, and immediately.

DAN. What! I...

M. DE S. Zounds! if you answer me, I shall teach you what it is to make fools of us.

DAN. Ah! George Dandin!

SCENE XIV.

M. and MADAM DE SOTENVILLE, ANGELIQUE, CLAUDINE, GEORGE DANDIN, COLIN.

M. DE S. Come hither, daughter, that your husband may ask your pardon.

ANG. I! pardon him all that he has said to me? No, no, father, I cannot possibly make up my mind to it; and I beg of you to separate me from a husband with whom I can no longer live.

CLAU. HOW can she bear it?

M. DE S. Such separations, daughter, are not brought about without a great deal of scandal; and you should show yourself wiser than he, and be patient once more.

ANG. HOW can I be patient after such indignities? No, father, I cannot consent to it.

M. DE S. You must, daughter; I command you.

ANG. This word stops my mouth. You have absolute authority over me.

CLAU. What gentleness!

ANG. It is vexatious to have to overlook such insults; but, whatever violence I may do to my feelings, it is my duty to obey you.

CLAU. Poor lamb!

M. DE S. (To Angélique). Draw near.

ANG. Whatever you make me do will be of no use; we shall have to recommence to-morrow, you will see.

M. DE S. We shall put a stop to it. (To George Dandin). Come! go down on your knees.

DAN. On my knees?

M. DE S. Yes, on your knees, and without delay.

DAN. (Kneeling with a candle in his hands). (Aside).
Oh! Heavens! (To M. de Sotenville). What am I to say?

M. DE S. Madam, I beg of you to pardon me...

DAN. Madam, I beg of you to pardon me...

M. DE S. The folly I have committed...

DAN. The folly I have committed... (Aside), of marrying you.

M. DE S. And I promise you, to behave better for the future.

DAN. And I promise you, to behave better for the future.

M. DE S. (To George Dandin). Take care, and remember that this is the last of your impertinences that we shall endure.

MAD. DE S. By the Heavens above us! if you try them again, you shall be taught the respect due to your wife, and to those from whom she is descended.

M. DE S. The day is breaking. Farewell. (To George Dandin). Go in, and learn to behave better. (To Madam de Sotenville). And we, love, let us go to bed.

SCENE XV.

GEORGE DANDIN, alone.

AH! I GIVE it up altogether, and I can see no help for f it. When one has married, as I have done, a wicked wife, the best step which one can take is to go and throw one’s self into the water, head foremost.

The Miser; or, The School for Lies

L’Avare ou L’École du mensonge

Translated by Charles Heron Wall

First performed on 9 September 1668 at the Théâtre du Palais-Royal, The Miser; or, The School for Lies was heavily influenced by Plautus’ play Aulularia, which was written in the 2nd century BC. Plautus was born c. 254 BC in what is now northern Italy and began work in a theatre as a stage-carpenter, before he became a playwright. He is considered one of the great Roman dramatists and some of his plays are the earliest Latin literary works to have survived in their entirety. Aulularia did not survive as a complete work, as the manuscript ends before the conclusion, although summaries of the play have survived, giving a broad outline of the plot. It centres on an old man, Euclio, who finds a pot of gold hidden in his house, which he fiercely guards and obsesses over, until he finally sees the error of his ways and gives it to his daughter.

Molière’s play focuses on Harpagon, whose primary concern in life is his money which he keeps hidden from everyone. He is constantly paranoid that someone is going to steal it, even suspecting his own children. Harpagon and his son soon become love rivals and he also attempts to marry his daughter to a man against her desires. The play was a success and it quickly spawned adaptations and translations, including a 1670 German production called Der Heissige and the first English adaptation in 1672 by the poet and playwright, Thomas Shadwell. Over the last fifty years, it has continued to be adapted and performed in many countries, across various mediums, including a 2006 French television production and the 1990 Italian film, L’avaro, directed by Tonino Cervi.

The 1682 frontispiece

CONTENTS

THE MISER.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX

SCENE X.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

SCENE XV.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

THE MISER.

THIS PLAY WAS acted for the first time on September 9, 1668. In it, Molière has borrowed from Plautus, and has imitated several other authors, but he far surpasses them in the treatment of his subject. The picture of the miser, in whom love of money takes the place of all natural affections, who not only withdraws from family intercourse, but considers his children as natural enemies, is finely drawn, and renders Molière’s Miser altogether more dramatic and moral than those of his predecessors.

Molière acted the part of Harpagon.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

Harpagon, father to Cléante, in love with Marianne.
Cléante, Harpagon’s son, lover to Marianne.
Valère, son to Anselme, and lover to Élise.
Anselme, father to Valère and Marianne.
Master Simon, broker.
Master Jacques, cook and coachman to Harpagon.
La Flèche, valet to Cléante.
Brindavoine, and La Merluche, lackeys to Harpagon.
A Magistrate and his Clerk.
Élise, daughter to Harpagon.
Marianne, daughter to Anselme.
Frosine, an intriguing woman.
Mistress Claude, servant to Harpagon.

The scene is at Paris, in Harpagon’s house.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

VALÈRE, ÉLISE.

VAL. WHAT, DEAR Élise! you grow sad after having given me such dear tokens of your love; and I see you sigh in the midst of my joy! Can you regret having made me happy? and do you repent of the engagement which my love has forced from you?

Eli. No, Valère, I do not regret what I do for you; I feel carried on by too delightful a power, and I do not even wish that things should be otherwise than they are. Yet, to tell you the truth, I am very anxious about the consequences; and I greatly fear that I love you more than I should.

Val. What can you possibly fear from the affection you have shown me?

Eli. Everything; the anger of my father, the reproaches of my family, the censure of the world, and, above all, Valère, a change in your heart! I fear that cruel coldness with which your sex so often repays the too warm proofs of an innocent love.

Val. Alas! do not wrong me thus; do not judge of me by others. Think me capable of everything, Élise, except of falling short of what I owe to you. I love you too much for that; and my love will be as lasting as my life!

Eli. Ah! Valère, all men say the same thing; all men are alike in their words; their actions only show the difference that exists between them.

Val. Then why not wait for actions, if by them alone you can judge of the truthfulness of my heart? Do not suffer your anxious fears to mislead you, and to wrong me. Do not let an unjust suspicion destroy the happiness which is to me dearer than life; but give me time to show you by a thousand proofs the sincerity of my affection.

Eli. Alas! how easily do we allow ourselves to be persuaded by those we love. I believe you, Valère; I feel sure that your heart is utterly incapable of deceiving me, that your love is sincere, and that you will ever remain faithful to me. I will no longer doubt that happiness is near. If I grieve, it will only be over the difficulties of our position, and the possible censures of the world.

Val. But why even this fear?

Eli. Oh, Valère! if everybody knew you as I do, I should not have much to fear. I find in you enough to justify all I do for you; my heart knows all your merit, and feels, moreover, bound to you by deep gratitude. How can I forget that horrible moment when we met for the first time? Your generous courage in risking your own life to save mine from the fury of the waves; your tender care afterwards; your constant attentions and your ardent love, which neither time nor difficulties can lessen! For me you neglect your parents and your country; you give up your own position in life to be a servant of my father! How can I resist the influence that all this has over me? Is it not enough to justify in my eyes my engagement to you? Yet, who knows if it will be enough to justify it in the eyes of others? and how can I feel sure that my motives will be understood?

Val. You try in vain to find merit in what I have done; it is by my love alone that I trust to deserve you. As for the scruples you feel, your father himself justifies you but too much before the world; and his avarice and the distant way in which he lives with his children might authorise stranger things still. Forgive me, my dear Élise, for speaking thus of your father before you; but you know that, unfortunately, on this subject no good can be said of him. However, if I can find my parents, as I fully hope I shall, they will soon be favourable to us. I am expecting news of them with great impatience; but if none comes I will go in search of them myself.

Eli. Oh no! Valère, do not leave me, I entreat you. Try rather to ingratiate yourself in my father’s favour.

Val. You know how much I wish it, and you can see how I set about it. You know the skilful manoeuvres I have had to use in order to introduce myself into his service; under what a mask of sympathy and conformity of tastes I disguise my own feelings to please him; and what a part I play to acquire his affection. I succeed wonderfully well, and I feel that to obtain favour with men, there are no better means than to pretend to be of their way of thinking, to fall in with their maxims, to praise their defects, and to applaud all their doings. One need not fear to overdo it, for however gross the flattery, the most cunning are easily duped; there is nothing so impertinent or ridiculous which they will not believe, provided it be well seasoned with praise. Honesty suffers, I acknowledge; but when we have need of men, we may be allowed without blame to adapt ourselves to their mode of thought; and if we have no other hope of success but through such stratagem, it is not after all the fault of those who flatter, but the fault of those who wish to be flattered.

Eli. Why do you not try also to gain my brother’s goodwill, in case the servant should betray our secret?

Val. I am afraid I cannot humour them both. The temper of the father is so different from that of the son that it would be difficult to be the confidant of both at the same time. Rather try your brother yourself; make use of the love that exists between you to enlist him in our cause. I leave you, for I see him coming. Speak to him, sound him, and see how far we can trust him.

Eli. I greatly fear I shall never have the courage to speak to him of my secret.

SCENE II.

CLÉANTE, ÉLISE,

CLE. I AM very glad to find you alone, sister. I longed to speak to you and to tell you a secret.

Eli. I am quite ready to hear you, brother. What is it you have to tell me?

Cle. Many things, sister, summed up in one word — love.

Eli. You love?

Cle. Yes, I love. But, before I say more, let me tell you that I know I depend on my father, and that the name of son subjects me to his will; that it would be wrong to engage ourselves without the consent of the authors of our being; that heaven has made them the masters of our affections, and that it is our duty not to dispose of ourselves but in accordance to their wish; that their judgment is not biassed by their being in love themselves; that they are, therefore, much more likely not to be deceived by appearances, and to judge better what is good for us; that we ought to trust their experience rather than the passion which blinds us; and that the rashness of youth often carries us to the very brink of dangerous abysses. I know all this, my sister, and I tell it you to spare you the trouble of saying it to me, for my love will not let me listen to anything, and I pray you to spare me your remonstrances.

Eli. Have you engaged yourself, brother, to her you love?

Cle. No, but I have determined to do so; and I beseech you once more not to bring forward any reason to dissuade me from it.

Eli. Am I such a very strange person, brother?

Cle. No, dear sister; but you do not love. You know not the sweet power that love has upon our hearts; and I dread your wisdom.

Eli. Alas! my brother, let us not speak of my wisdom. There are very few people in this world who do not lack wisdom, were it only once in their lifetime; and if I opened my heart to you, perhaps you would think me less wise than you are yourself.

Cle. Ah! would to heaven that your heart, like mine …

Eli. Let us speak of you first, and tell me whom it is you love.

Cle. A young girl who has lately come to live in our neighbourhood, and who seems made to inspire love in all those who behold her. Nature, my dear sister, has made nothing more lovely; and I felt another man the moment I saw her. Her name is Marianne, and she lives with a good, kind mother, who is almost always ill, and for whom the dear girl shows the greatest affection. She waits upon her, pities and comforts her with a tenderness that would touch you to the very soul. Whatever she undertakes is done in the most charming way; and in all her actions shine a wonderful grace, a most winning gentleness, an adorable modesty, a … ah! my sister, how I wish you had but seen her.

Eli. I see many things in what you tell me, dear brother; and it is sufficient for me to know that you love her for me to understand what she is.

Cle. I have discovered, without their knowing it, that they are not in very good circumstances, and that, although they live with the greatest care, they have barely enough to cover their expenses. Can you imagine, my sister, what happiness it must be to improve the condition of those we love; skilfully to bring about some relief to the modest wants of a virtuous family? And think what grief it is for me to find myself deprived of this great joy through the avarice of a father, and for it to be impossible for me to give any proof of my love to her who is all in all to me.

Eli. Yes, I understand, dear brother, what sorrow this must be to you.

Cle. It is greater, my sister, than you can believe. For is there anything more cruel than this mean economy to which we are subjected? this strange penury in which we are made to pine? What good will it do us to have a fortune if it only comes to us when we are not able to enjoy it; if now to provide for my daily maintenance I get into debt on every side; if both you and I are reduced daily to beg the help of tradespeople in order to have decent clothes to wear? In short, I wanted to speak to you that you might help me to sound my father concerning my present feelings; and if I find him opposed to them, I am determined to go and live elsewhere with this most charming girl, and to make the best of what Providence offers us. I am trying everywhere to raise money for this purpose; and if your circumstances, dear sister, are like mine, and our father opposes us, let us both leave him, and free ourselves from the tyranny in which his hateful avarice has for so long held us.

Eli. It is but too true that every day he gives us more and more reason to regret the death of our mother, and that …

Cle. I hear his voice. Let us go a little farther and finish our talk. We will afterwards join our forces to make a common attack on his hard and unkind heart.

SCENE III.

HARPAGON, LA FLÈCHE.

HAR. GET OUT of here, this moment; and let me have no more of your prating. Now then, be gone out of my house, you sworn pickpocket, you veritable gallows’ bird.

La Fl. (aside). I never saw anything more wicked than this cursed old man; and I truly believe, if I may be allowed to say so, that he is possessed with a devil.

Har. What are you muttering there between your teeth?

La Fl. Why do you send me away?

Har. You dare to ask me my reasons, you scoundrel? Out with you, this moment, before I give you a good thrashing.

La Fl. What have I done to you?

Har. Done this, that I wish you to be off.

La Fl. My master, your son, gave me orders to wait for him.

Har. Go and wait for him in the street, then; out with you; don’t stay in my house, straight and stiff as a sentry, to observe what is going on, and to make your profit of everything. I won’t always have before me a spy on all my affairs; a treacherous scamp, whose cursed eyes watch all my actions, covet all I possess, and ferret about in every corner to see if there is anything to steal.

La Fl. How the deuce could one steal anything from you? Are you a man likely to be robbed when you put every possible thing under lock and key, and mount guard day and night?

Har. I will lock up whatever I think fit, and mount guard when and where I please. Did you ever see such spies as are set upon me to take note of everything I do? (Aside) I tremble for fear he should suspect something of my money. (Aloud) Now, aren’t you a fellow to give rise to stories about my having money hid in my house?

La Fl. You have some money hid in your house?

Har. No, scoundrel! I do not say that. (Aside) I am furious! (Aloud) I only ask if out of mischief you do not spread abroad the report that I have some?

La Fl. Oh! What does it matter whether you have money, or whether you have not, since it is all the same to us?

Har. (raising his hand to give La Flèche a blow). Oh! oh! You want to argue, do you? I will give you, and quickly too, some few of these arguments about your ears. Get out of the house, I tell you once more.

La Fl. Very well; very well. I am going.

Har. No, wait; are you carrying anything away with you?

La Fl. What can I possibly carry away?

Har. Come here, and let me see. Show me your hands.

La Fl. There they are.

Har. The others.

La Fl. The others?

Har. Yes.

La Fl. There they are.

Har. (pointing to La Flèche’s breeches). Have you anything hid in here?

La Fl. Look for yourself.

Har. (feeling the knees of the breeches). These wide knee-breeches are convenient receptacles of stolen goods; and I wish a pair of them had been hanged.

La Fl. (aside). Ah! how richly such a man deserves what he fears, and what joy it would be to me to steal some of his …

Har. Eh?

La Fl. What?

Har. What is it you talk of stealing?

La Fl. I say that you feel about everywhere to see if I have been stealing anything.

Har. And I mean to do so too. (He feels in La Flèche’s pockets).

La Fl. Plague take all misers and all miserly ways!

Har. Eh? What do you say?

La Fl. What do I say?

Har. Yes. What is it you say about misers and miserly ways.

La Fl. I say plague take all misers and all miserly ways.

Har. Of whom do you speak?

La Fl. Of misers.

Har. And who are they, these misers?

La Fl. Villains and stingy wretches!

Har. But what do you mean by that?

La Fl. Why do you trouble yourself so much about what I say?

Har. I trouble myself because I think it right to do so.

La Fl. Do you think I am speaking about you?

Har. I think what I think; but I insist upon your telling me to whom you speak when you say that.

La Fl. To whom I speak? I am speaking to the inside of my hat.

Har. And I will, perhaps, speak to the outside of your head.

La Fl. Would you prevent me from cursing misers?

Har. No; but I will prevent you from prating and from being insolent. Hold your tongue, will you?

La Fl. I name nobody.

Har. Another word, and I’ll thrash you.

La Fl. He whom the cap fits, let him wear it.

Har. Will you be silent?

La Fl. Yes; much against my will.

Har. Ah! ah!

La Fl. (showing Harpagon one of his doublet pockets). Just look, here is one more pocket. Are you satisfied?

Har. Come, give it up to me without all that fuss.

La Fl. Give you what?

Har. What you have stolen from me.

La Fl. I have stolen nothing at all from you.

Har. Are you telling the truth?

La Fl. Yes.

Har. Good-bye, then, and now you may go to the devil.

La Fl. (aside). That’s a nice way of dismissing anyone.

Har. I leave it to your conscience, remember!

SCENE IV.

HARPAGON (alone.)

THIS RASCALLY VALET is a constant vexation to me; and I hate the very sight of the good-for-nothing cripple. Really, it is no small anxiety to keep by one a large sum of money; and happy is the man who has all his cash well invested, and who needs not keep by him more than he wants for his daily expenses. I am not a little puzzled to find in the whole of this house a safe hiding-place. Don’t speak to me of your strong boxes, I will never trust to them. Why, they are just the very things thieves set upon!

SCENE V.

HARPAGON, ÉLISE and CLÉANTE are seen talking together at the back of the stage.

HAR. (THINKING HIMSELF alone.) Meanwhile, I hardly know whether I did right to bury in my garden the ten thousand crowns which were paid to me yesterday. Ten thousand crowns in gold is a sum sufficiently … (Aside, on perceiving Élise and Cléante whispering together) Good heavens! I have betrayed myself; my warmth has carried me away. I believe I spoke aloud while reasoning with myself. (To Cléante and Élise) What do you want?

Cle. Nothing, father.

Har. Have you been here long?

Eli. We have only just come.

Har. Did you hear…?

Cle. What, father?

Har. There…!

Cle. What?

Har. What I was just now saying.

Cle. No.

Har. You did. I know you did.

Eli. I beg your pardon, father, but we did not.

Har. I see well enough that you overheard a few words. The fact is, I was only talking to myself about the trouble one has nowadays to raise any money; and I was saying that he is a fortunate man who has ten thousand crowns in his house.

Cle. We were afraid of coming near you, for fear of intruding.

Har. I am very glad to tell you this, so that you may not misinterpret things, and imagine that I said that it was I who have ten thousand crowns.

Cle. We do not wish to interfere in your affairs.

Har. Would that I had them, these ten thousand crowns!

Cle. I should not think that …

Har. What a capital affair it would be for me.

Cle. There are things …

Har. I greatly need them.

Cle. I fancy that …

Har. It would suit me exceedingly well.

Eli. You are …

Har. And I should not have to complain, as I do now, that the times are bad.

Cle. Hear me, father, you have no reason to complain; and everyone knows that you are well enough off.

Har. How? I am well enough off! Those who say it are liars. Nothing can be more false; and they are scoundrels who spread such reports.

Eli. Don’t be angry.

Har. It is strange that my own children betray me and become my enemies.

Cle. Is it being your enemy to say that you have wealth?

Har. Yes, it is. Such talk and your extravagant expenses will be the cause that some day thieves will come and cut my throat, in the belief that I am made of gold.

Cle. What extravagant expenses do I indulge in?

Har. What! Is there anything more scandalous than this sumptuous attire with which you jaunt it about the town? I was remonstrating with your sister yesterday, but you are still worse. It cries vengeance to heaven; and were we to calculate all you are wearing, from head to foot, we should find enough for a good annuity. I have told you a hundred times, my son, that your manners displease me exceedingly; you affect the marquis terribly, and for you to be always dressed as you are, you must certainly rob me.

Cle. Rob you? And how?

Har. How should I know? Where else could you find money enough to clothe yourself as you do?

Cle. I, father? I play; and as I am very lucky, I spend in clothes all the money I win.

Har. It is very wrong. If you are lucky at play, you should profit by it, and place the money you win at decent interest, so that you may find it again some day. I should like to know, for instance, without mentioning the rest, what need there is for all these ribbons with which you are decked from head to foot, and if half a dozen tags are not sufficient to fasten your breeches. What necessity is there for anyone to spend money upon wigs, when we have hair of our own growth, which costs nothing. I will lay a wager that, in wigs and ribbons alone, there are certainly twenty pistoles spent, and twenty pistoles brings in at least eighteen livres six sous eight deniers per annum, at only eight per cent interest.

Cle. You are quite right.

Har. Enough on this subject; let us talk of something else. (Aside, noticing Cléante and Élise, who make signs to one another) I believe they are making signs to one another to pick my pocket. (Aloud) What do you mean by those signs?

Eli. We are hesitating as to who shall speak first, for we both have something to tell you.

Har. And I also have something to tell you both.

Cle. We wanted to speak to you about marriage, father.

Har. The very thing I wish to speak to you about.

Eli. Ah! my father!

Har. What is the meaning of that exclamation? Is it the word, daughter, or the thing itself that frightens you?

Cle. Marriage may frighten us both according to the way you take it; and our feelings may perhaps not coincide with your choice.

Har. A little patience, if you please. You need not be alarmed. I know what is good for you both, and you will have no reason to complain of anything I intend to do. To begin at the beginning. (To Cléante) Do you know, tell me, a young person, called Marianne, who lives not far from here?

Cle. Yes, father.

Har. And you?

Eli. I have heard her spoken of.

Har. Well, my son, and how do you like the girl?

Cle. She is very charming.

Har. Her face?

Cle. Modest and intelligent.

Har. Her air and manner?

Cle. Perfect, undoubtedly.

Har. Do you not think that such a girl well deserves to be thought of?

Cle. Yes, father.

Har. She would form a very desirable match?

Cle. Very desirable.

Har. That there is every likelihood of her making a thrifty and careful wife.

Cle. Certainly.

Har. And that a husband might live very happily with her?

Cle. I have not the least doubt about it.

Har. There is one little difficulty; I am afraid she has not the fortune we might reasonably expect.

Cle. Oh, my father, riches are of little importance when one is sure of marrying a virtuous woman.

Har. I beg your pardon. Only there is this to be said: that if we do not find as much money as we could wish, we may make it up in something else.

Cle. That follows as a matter of course.

Har. Well, I must say that I am very much pleased to find that you entirely agree with me, for her modest manner and her gentleness have won my heart; and I have made up my mind to marry her, provided I find she has some dowry.

Cle. Eh!

Har. What now?

Cle. You are resolved, you say…?

Har. To marry Marianne.

Cle. Who? you? you?

Har. Yes, I, I, I. What does all this mean?

Cle. I feel a sudden dizziness, and I must withdraw for a little while.

Har. It will be nothing. Go quickly into the kitchen and drink a large glass of cold water, it will soon set you all right again.

SCENE VI.

HARPAGON, ÉLISE.

HAR. THERE GOES one of your effeminate fops, with no more stamina than a chicken. That is what I have resolved for myself, my daughter. As to your brother, I have thought for him of a certain widow, of whom I heard this morning; and you I shall give to Mr. Anselme.

Eli. To Mr. Anselme?

Har. Yes, a staid and prudent man, who is not above fifty, and of whose riches everybody speaks.

Eli. (curtseying). I have no wish to marry, father, if you please.

Har. (imitating Élise). And I, my little girl, my darling, I wish you to marry, if you please.

Eli. (curtseying again). I beg your pardon, my father.

Har. (again imitating Élise). I beg your pardon, my daughter.

Eli. I am the very humble servant of Mr. Anselme, but (curtseying again), with your leave, I shall not marry him.

Har. I am your very humble servant, but (again imitating Élise) you will marry him this very evening.

Eli. This evening?

Har. This evening.

Eli. (curtseying again). It cannot be done, father.

Har. (imitating Élise). It will be done, daughter.

Eli. No.

Har. Yes.

Eli. No, I tell you.

Har. Yes, I tell you.

Eli. You will never force me to do such a thing

Har. I will force you to it.

Eli. I had rather kill myself than marry such a man.

Har. You will not kill yourself, and you will marry him. But did you ever see such impudence? Did ever any one hear a daughter speak in such a fashion to her father?

Eli. But did ever anyone see a father marry his daughter after such a fashion?

Har. It is a match against which nothing can be said, and I am perfectly sure that everybody will approve of my choice.

Eli. And I know that it will be approved of by no reasonable person.

Har. (seeing Valère). There is Valère coming. Shall we make him judge in this affair?

Eli. Willingly.

Har. You will abide by what he says?

Eli. Yes, whatever he thinks right, I will do.

Har. Agreed.

SCENE VII.

VALÈRE, HARPAGON, ÉLISE.

HAR. VALÈRE, WE have chosen you to decide who is in the right, my daughter or I.

Val. It is certainly you, Sir.

Har. But have you any idea of what we are talking about?

Val. No; but you could not be in the wrong; you are reason itself.

Har. I want to give her to-night, for a husband, a man as rich as he is good; and the hussy tells me to my face that she scorns to take him. What do you say to that?

Val. What I say to it?

Har. Yes?

Val. Eh! eh!

Har. What?

Val. I say that I am, upon the whole, of your opinion, and that you cannot but be right; yet, perhaps, she is not altogether wrong; and …

Har. How so? Mr. Anselme is an excellent match; he is a nobleman, and a gentleman too; of simple habits, and extremely well off. He has no children left from his first marriage. Could she meet with anything more suitable?

Val. It is true. But she might say that you are going rather fast, and that she ought to have at least a little time to consider whether her inclination could reconcile itself to …

Har. It is an opportunity I must not allow to slip through my fingers. I find an advantage here which I should not find elsewhere, and he agrees to take her without dowry.

Val. Without dowry?

Har. Yes.

Val. Ah! I have nothing more to say. A more convincing reason could not be found; and she must yield to that.

Har. It is a considerable saving to me.

Val. Undoubtedly; this admits of no contradiction. It is true that your daughter might represent to you that marriage is a more serious affair than people are apt to believe; that the happiness or misery of a whole life depends on it, and that an engagement which is to last till death ought not to be entered into without great consideration.

Har. Without dowry!

Val. That must of course decide everything. There are certainly people who might tell you that on such occasions the wishes of a daughter are no doubt to be considered, and that this great disparity of age, of disposition, and of feelings might be the cause of many an unpleasant thing in a married life.

Har. Without dowry!

Val. Ah! it must be granted that there is no reply to that; who in the world could think otherwise? I do not mean to say but that there are many fathers who would set a much higher value on the happiness of their daughter than on the money they may have to give for their marriage; who would not like to sacrifice them to their own interests, and who would, above all things, try to see in a marriage that sweet conformity of tastes which is a sure pledge of honour, tranquillity and joy; and that …

Har. Without dowry!

Val. That is true; nothing more can be said. Without dowry. How can anyone resist such arguments?

Har. (aside, looking towards the garden). Ah! I fancy I hear a dog barking. Is anyone after my money. (To Valère) Stop here, I’ll come back directly.

SCENE VIII.

ÉLISE, VALÈRE.

ELI. SURELY, VALÈRE, you are not in earnest when you speak to him in that manner?

Val. I do it that I may not vex him, and the better to secure my ends. To resist him boldly would simply spoil everything. There are certain people who are only to be managed by indirect means, temperaments averse from all resistance, restive natures whom truth causes to rear, who always kick when we would lead them on the right road of reason, and who can only be led by a way opposed to that by which you wish them to go. Pretend to comply with his wishes; you are much more likely to succeed in the end, and …

Eli. But this marriage, Valère?

Val. We will find some pretext for breaking it off.

Eli. But what pretext can we find if it is to be concluded to-night?

Val. You must ask to have it delayed, and must feign some illness or other.

Eli. But he will soon discover the truth if they call in the doctor.

Val. Not a bit of it. Do you imagine that a doctor understands what he is about? Nonsense! Don’t be afraid. Believe me, you may complain of any disease you please, the doctor will be at no loss to explain to you from what it proceeds.

SCENE IX

HARPAGON, ÉLISE, VALÈRE.

HAR. (ALONE, AT the farther end of the stage). It is nothing, thank heaven!

Val. (not seeing Harpagon). In short, flight is the last resource we have left us to avoid all this; and if your love, dear Élise, is as strong as … (Seeing Harpagon) Yes, a daughter is bound to obey her father. She has no right to inquire what a husband offered to her is like, and when the most important question, “without dowry,” presents itself, she should accept anybody that is given her.

Har. Good; that was beautifully said!

Val. I beg your pardon, Sir, if I carry it a little too far, and take upon myself to speak to her as I do.

Har. Why, I am delighted, and I wish you to have her entirely under your control. (To Élise) Yes, you may run away as much as you like. I give him all the authority over you that heaven has given me, and I will have you do all that he tells you.

Val. After that, resist all my expostulations, if you can.

SCENE X.

HARPAGON, VALÈRE.

VAL. I WILL follow her, Sir, if you will allow me, and will continue the lecture I was giving her.

Har. Yes, do so; you will oblige me greatly.

Val. She ought to be kept in with a tight hand.

Har. Quite true, you must …

Val. Do not be afraid; I believe I shall end by convincing her.

Har. Do so, do so. I am going to take a short stroll in the town, and I will come back again presently.

Val. (going towards the door through which Élise left, and speaking as if it were to her). Yes, money is more precious than anything else in the world, and you should thank heaven that you have so worthy a man for a father. He knows what life is. When a man offers to marry a girl without a dowry, we ought to look no farther. Everything is comprised in that, and “without dowry” compensates for want of beauty, youth, birth, honour, wisdom, and probity.

Har. Ah! the honest fellow! he speaks like an oracle. Happy is he who can secure such a servant!

ACT II.

SCENE I.

CLÉANTE, LA FLÈCHE.

CLE. HOW NOW, you rascal! where have you been hiding? Did I not give you orders to…?

La Fl. Yes, Sir, and I came here resolved to wait for you without stirring, but your father, that most ungracious of men, drove me into the street in spite of myself, and I well nigh got a good drubbing into the bargain.

Cle. How is our affair progressing? Things are worse than ever for us, and since I left you, I have discovered that my own father is my rival.

La Fl. Your father in love?

Cle. It seems so; and I found it very difficult to hide from him what I felt at such a discovery.

La Fl. He meddling with love! What the deuce is he thinking of? Does he mean to set everybody at defiance? And is love made for people of his build?

Cle. It is to punish me for my sins that this passion has entered his head.

La Fl. But why do you hide your love from him?

Cle. That he may not suspect anything, and to make it more easy for me to fall back, if need be, upon some device to prevent this marriage. What answer did you receive?

La Fl. Indeed, Sir, those who borrow are much to be pitied, and we must put up with strange things when, like you, we are forced to pass through the hands of the usurers.

Cle. Then the affair won’t come off?

La Fl. Excuse me; Mr. Simon, the broker who was recommended to us, is a very active and zealous fellow, and says he has left no stone unturned to help you. He assures me that your looks alone have won his heart.

Cle. Shall I have the fifteen thousand francs which I want?

La Fl. Yes, but under certain trifling conditions, which you must accept if you wish the bargain to be concluded.

Cle. Did you speak to the man who is to lend the money?

La Fl. Oh! dear no. Things are not done in that way. He is still more anxious than you to remain unknown. These things are greater mysteries than you think. His name is not by any means to be divulged, and he is to be introduced to you to-day at a house provided by him, so that he may hear from yourself all about your position and your family; and I have not the least doubt that the mere name of your father will be sufficient to accomplish what you wish.

Cle. Particularly as my mother is dead, and they cannot deprive me of what I inherit from her.

La Fl. Well, here are some of the conditions which he has himself dictated to our go-between for you to take cognisance of, before anything is begun.
“Supposing that the lender is satisfied with all his securities, and that the borrower is of age and of a family whose property is ample, solid, secure, and free from all incumbrances, there shall be drawn up a good and correct bond before as honest a notary as it is possible to find, and who for this purpose shall be chosen by the lender, because he is the more concerned of the two that the bond should be rightly executed.”

Cle. There is nothing to say against that.
LA FA. “The lender, not to burden his conscience with the least scruple, does not wish to lend his money at more than five and a half per cent.”

Cle. Five and a half per cent? By Jove, that’s honest! We have nothing to complain of.

La Fl. That’s true.
“But as the said lender has not in hand the sum required, and as, in order to oblige the borrower, he is himself obliged to borrow from another at the rate of twenty per cent., it is but right that the said first borrower shall pay this interest, without detriment to the rest; since it is only to oblige him that the said lender is himself forced to borrow.”

Cle. The deuce! What a Jew! what a Turk we have here! That is more than twenty-five per cent.

La Fl. That’s true; and it is the remark I made. It is for you to consider the matter before you act.

Cle. How can I consider? I want the money, and I must therefore accept everything.

La Fl. That is exactly what I answered.

Cle. Is there anything else?

La Fl. Only a small item.
“Of the fifteen thousand francs which are demanded, the lender will only be able to count down twelve thousand in hard cash; instead of the remaining three thousand, the borrower will have to take the chattels, clothing, and jewels, contained in the following catalogue, and which the said lender has put in all good faith at the lowest possible figure.”

Cle. What is the meaning of all that?

La Fl. I’ll go through the catalogue: —
“Firstly: — A fourpost bedstead, with hangings of Hungary lace very elegantly trimmed with olive-coloured cloth, and six chairs and a counterpane to match; the whole in very good condition, and lined with soft red and blue shot-silk. Item: — the tester of good pale pink Aumale serge, with the small and the large fringes of silk.”

Cle. What does he want me to do with all this?

La Fl. Wait.
“Item: — Tapestry hangings representing the loves of Gombaud and Macée. Item: — A large walnut table with twelve columns or turned legs, which draws out at both ends, and is provided beneath with six stools.”

Cle. Hang it all! What am I to do with all this?

La Fl. Have patience.
“Item: — Three large matchlocks inlaid with mother-of-pearl, with rests to correspond. Item: — A brick furnace with two retorts and three receivers, very useful to those who have any taste for distilling.”

Cle. You will drive me crazy.

La Fl. Gently!
“Item: — A Bologna lute with all its strings, or nearly all. Item: — A pigeon-hole table and a draught-board, and a game of mother goose, restored from the Greeks, most useful to pass the time when one has nothing to do. Item: — A lizard’s skin, three feet and a half in length, stuffed with hay, a pleasing curiosity to hang on the ceiling of a room. The whole of the above-mentioned articles are really worth more than four thousand five hundred francs, and are reduced to the value of a thousand crowns through the considerateness of the lender.”

Cle. Let the plague choke him with his considerateness, the wretch, the cut-throat that he is! Did ever anyone hear of such usury? Is he not satisfied with the outrageous interest he asks that he must force me to take, instead of the three thousand francs, all the old rubbish which he picks up. I shan’t get two hundred crowns for all that, and yet I must bring myself to yield to all his wishes; for he is in a position to force me to accept everything, and he has me, the villain, with a knife at my throat.

La Fl. I see you, Sir, if you’ll forgive my saying so, on the high-road followed by Panurge to ruin himself — taking money in advance, buying dear, selling cheap, and cutting your corn while it is still grass.

Cle. What would you have me do? It is to this that young men are reduced by the accursed avarice of their fathers; and people are astonished after that, that sons long for their death.

La Fl. No one can deny that yours would excite against his meanness the most quiet of men. I have not, thank God, any inclination gallows- ward, and among my colleagues whom I see dabbling in various doubtful affairs, I know well enough how to keep myself out of hot water, and how to keep clear of all those things which savour ever so little of the ladder; but to tell you the truth, he almost gives me, by his ways of going on, the desire of robbing him, and I should think that in doing so I was doing a meritorious action.

Cle. Give me that memorandum that I may have another look at it.

SCENE II.

HARPAGON, MR. SIMON (CLÉANTE and LA FLÈCHE at the back of the stage).

SIM. YES, SIR; it is a young man who is greatly in want of money; his affairs force him to find some at any cost, and he will submit to all your conditions.

Har. But are you sure, Mr. Simon, that there is no risk to run in this case? and do you know the name, the property, and the family of him for whom you speak?

Sim. No; I cannot tell you anything for certain, as it was by mere chance that I was made acquainted with him; but he will tell you everything himself, and his servant has assured me that you will be quite satisfied when you know who he is. All I can tell you is that his family is said to be very wealthy, that he has already lost his mother, and that he will pledge you his word, if you insist upon it, that his father will die before eight months are passed.

Har. That is something. Charity, Mr. Simon, demands of us to gratify people whenever we have it in our power.

Sim. Evidently.

La Fl. (aside to Cléante, on recognising Mr. Simon). What does this mean? Mr. Simon talking with your father!

Cle. (aside to La Flèche). Has he been told who I am, and would you be capable of betraying me?

Sim. (to Cléante and La Flèche). Ah! you are in good time! But who told you to come here? (To Harpagon) It was certainly not I who told them your name and address; but I am of opinion that there is no great harm done; they are people who can be trusted, and you can come to some understanding together.

Har. What!

Sim. (showing Cléante). This is the gentleman who wants to borrow the fifteen thousand francs of which I have spoken to you.

Har. What! miscreant! is it you who abandon yourself to such excesses?

Cle. What! father! is it you who stoop to such shameful deeds?
(M. Simon runs away, and La Flèche hides himself.)

SCENE III.

HARPAGON, CLÉANTE.

HAR. IT IS you who are ruining yourself by loans so greatly to be condemned!

Cle. So it is you who seek to enrich yourself by such criminal usury!

Har. And you dare, after that, to show yourself before me?

Cle. And you dare, after that, to show yourself to the world?

Har. Are you not ashamed, tell me, to descend to these wild excesses, to rush headlong into frightful expenses, and disgracefully to dissipate the wealth which your parents have amassed with so much toil.

Cle. Are you not ashamed of dishonouring your station by such dealings, of sacrificing honour and reputation to the insatiable desire of heaping crown upon crown, and of outdoing the most infamous devices that have ever been invented by the most notorious usurers?

Har. Get out of my sight, you reprobate; get out of my sight!

Cle. Who is the more criminal in your opinion: he who buys the money of which he stands in need, or he who obtains, by unfair means, money for which he has no use?

Har. Begone, I say, and do not provoke me to anger. (Alone) After all, I am not very much vexed at this adventure; it will be a lesson to me to keep a better watch over all his doings.

SCENE IV.

FROSINE, HARPAGON.

FRO. SIR.

Har. Wait a moment, I will come back and speak to you. (Aside) I had better go and see a little after my money.

SCENE V.

LA FLÈCHE, FROSINE.

LA FL. (WITHOUT seeing Frosine). The adventure is most comical. Hidden somewhere he must have a large store of goods of all kinds, for the list did not contain one single article which either of us recognised.

Fro. Hallo! is it you, my poor La Flèche? How is it we meet here?

La Fl. Ah! ah! it is you, Frosine; and what have you come to do here?

Fro. What have I come to do? Why! what I do everywhere else, busy myself about other people’s affairs, make myself useful to the community in general, and profit as much as I possibly can by the small talent I possess. Must we not live by our wits in this world? and what other resources have people like me but intrigue and cunning?

La Fl. Have you, then, any business with the master of this house?

Fro. Yes. I am transacting for him a certain small matter for which he is pretty sure to give me a reward.

La Fl. He give you a reward! Ah! ah! Upon my word, you will be ‘cute if you ever get one, and I warn you that ready money is very scarce hereabouts.

Fro. That may be, but there are certain services which wonderfully touch our feelings.

La Fl. Your humble servant; but as yet you don’t know Harpagon. Harpagon is the human being of all human beings the least humane, the mortal of all mortals the hardest and closest. There is no service great enough to induce him to open his purse. If, indeed, you want praise, esteem, kindness, and friendship, you are welcome to any amount; but money, that’s a different affair. There is nothing more dry, more barren, than his favour and his good grace, and “give” is a word for which he has such a strong dislike that he never says I give, but I lend, you a good morning.

Fro. That’s all very well; but I know the art of fleecing men. I have a secret of touching their affections by flattering their hearts, and of finding out their weak points.

La Fl. All useless here. I defy you to soften, as far as money is concerned, the man we are speaking of. He is a Turk on that point, of a Turkishness to drive anyone to despair, and we might starve in his presence and never a peg would he stir. In short, he loves money better than reputation, honour, and virtue, and the mere sight of anyone making demands upon his purse sends him into convulsions; it is like striking him in a vital place, it is piercing him to the heart, it is like tearing out his very bowels! And if … But here he comes again; I leave you.

SCENE VI.

HARPAGON, FROSINE.

HAR. (ASIDE). ALL is as it should be. (To Frosine) Well, what is it, Frosine?

Fro. Bless me, how well you look! You are the very picture of health.

Har. Who? I?

Fro. Never have I seen you looking more rosy, more hearty.

Har. Are you in earnest?

Fro. Why! you have never been so young in your life; and I know many a man of twenty-five who looks much older than you do.

Har. And yet, Frosine, I have passed threescore.

Fro. Threescore! Well, and what then? You don’t mean to make a trouble of that, do you? It’s the very flower of manhood, the threshold of the prime of life.

Har. True; but twenty years less would do me no harm, I think.

Fro. Nonsense! You’ve no need of that, and you are of a build to last out a hundred.

Har. Do you really think so?

Fro. Decidedly. You have all the appearance of it. Hold yourself up a little. Ah! what a sign of long life is that line there straight between your two eyes!

Har. You know all about that, do you?

Fro. I should think I do. Show me your hand. Dear me, what a line of life there is there!

Har. Where?

Fro. Don’t you see how far this line goes?

Har. Well, and what does it mean?

Fro. What does it mean? There … I said a hundred years; but no, it is one hundred and twenty I ought to have said.

Har. Is it possible?

Fro. I tell you they will have to kill you, and you will bury your children and your children’s children.

Har. So much the better! And what news of our affair?

Fro. Is there any need to ask? Did ever anyone see me begin anything and not succeed in it? I have, especially for matchmaking, the most wonderful talent. There are no two persons in the world I could not couple together; and I believe that, if I took it into my head, I could make the Grand Turk marry the Republic of Venice. But we had, to be sure, no such difficult thing to achieve in this matter. As I know the ladies very well, I told them every particular about you; and I acquainted the mother with your intentions towards Marianne since you saw her pass in the street and enjoy the fresh air out of her window.

Har. What did she answer…?

Fro. She received your proposal with great joy; and when I told her that you wished very much that her daughter should come to-night to assist at the marriage contract which is to be signed for your own daughter, she assented at once, and entrusted her to me for the purpose.

Har. You see, Frosine, I am obliged to give some supper to Mr. Anselme, and I should like her to have a share in the feast.

Fro. You are quite right. She is to come after dinner to pay a visit to your daughter; then she means to go from here to the fair, and return to your house just in time for supper.

Har. That will do very well; they shall go together in my carriage, which I will lend them.

Fro. That will suit her perfectly.

Har. But I say, Frosine, have you spoken to the mother about the dowry she can give her daughter? Did you make her understand that under such circumstances she ought to do her utmost and to make a great sacrifice? For, after all, one does not marry a girl without her bringing something with her.

Fro. How something! She is a girl who will bring you a clear twelve thousand francs a year?

Har. Twelve thousand francs a year?

Fro. Yes! To begin with, she has been nursed and brought up with the strictest notions of frugality. She is a girl accustomed to live upon salad, milk, cheese, and apples, and who consequently will require neither a well served up table, nor any rich broth, nor your everlasting peeled barley; none, in short, of all those delicacies that another woman would want. This is no small matter, and may well amount to three thousand francs yearly. Besides this, she only cares for simplicity and neatness; she will have none of those splendid dresses and rich jewels, none of that sumptuous furniture in which girls like her indulge so extravagantly; and this item is worth more than four thousand francs per annum. Lastly, she has the deepest aversion to gambling; and this is not very common nowadays among women. Why, I know of one in our neighbourhood who lost at least twenty thousand francs this year. But let us reckon only a fourth of that sum. Five thousand francs a year at play and four thousand in clothes and jewels make nine thousand; and three thousand francs which we count for food, does it not make your twelve thousand francs?

Har. Yes, that’s not bad; but, after all, that calculation has nothing real in it.

Fro. Excuse me; is it nothing real to bring you in marriage a great sobriety, to inherit a great love for simplicity in dress, and the acquired property of a great hatred for gambling?

Har. It is a farce to pretend to make up a dowry with all the expenses she will not run into. I could not give a receipt for what I do not receive; and I must decidedly get something.

Fro. Bless me! you will get enough; and they have spoken to me of a certain country where they have some property, of which you will be master.

Har. We shall have to see to that. But, Frosine, there is one more thing that makes me uneasy. The girl is young, you know; and young people generally like those who are young like themselves, and only care for the society of the young. I am afraid that a man of my age may not exactly suit her taste, and that this may occasion in my family certain complications that would in nowise be pleasant to me.

Fro. Oh, how badly you judge her! This is one more peculiarity of which I had to speak to you. She has the greatest detestation to all young men, and only likes old people.

Har. Does she?

Fro. I should like you to hear her talk on that subject; she cannot bear at all the sight of a young man, and nothing delights her more than to see a fine old man with a venerable beard. The oldest are to her the most charming, and I warn you beforehand not to go and make yourself any younger than you really are. She wishes for one sixty years old at least; and it is not more than six months ago that on the very eve of being married she suddenly broke off the match on learning that her lover was only fifty-six years of age, and did not put on spectacles to sign the contract.

Har. Only for that?

Fro. Yes; she says there is no pleasure with a man of fifty-six; and she has a decided affection for those who wear spectacles.

Har. Well, this is quite new to me.

Fro. No one can imagine how far she carries this. She has in her room a few pictures and engravings, and what do you imagine they are? An Adonis, a Cephalus, a Paris, an Apollo? Not a bit of it! Fine portraits of Saturn, of King Priam, of old Nestor, and of good father Anchises on his son’s shoulders.

Har. That’s admirable. I should never have guessed such a thing; and I am very pleased to hear that she has such taste as this. Indeed had I been a woman, I should never have loved young fellows.

Fro. I should think not. Fine trumpery indeed, these young men, for any one to fall in love with. Fine jackanapes and puppies for a woman to hanker after. I should like to know what relish anyone can find in them?

Har. Truly; I don’t understand it myself, and I cannot make out how it is that some women dote so on them.

Fro. They must be downright idiots. Can any one be in his senses who thinks youth amiable? Can those curly-pated coxcombs be men, and can one really get attached to such animals?

Har. Exactly what I say every day! With their effeminate voices, their three little bits of a beard turned up like cat’s whiskers, their tow wigs, their flowing breeches and open breasts!

Fro. Yes; they are famous guys compared with yourself. In you we see something like a man. There is enough to satisfy the eye. It is thus that one should be made and dressed to inspire love.

Har. Then you think I am pretty well?

Fro. Pretty well! I should think so; you are charming, and your face would make a beautiful picture. Turn round a little, if you please. You could not find anything better anywhere. Let me see you walk. You have a well-shaped body, free and easy, as it should be, and one which gives no sign of infirmity.

Har. I have nothing the matter to speak of, I am thankful to say. It is only my cough, which returns from time to time.

Fro. That is nothing, and coughing becomes you exceedingly well.

Har. Tell me, Frosine, has Marianne seen me yet? Has she not noticed me when I passed by?

Fro. No; but we have had many conversations about you. I gave her an exact description of your person, and I did not fail to make the most of your merit, and to show her what an advantage it would be to have a husband like you.

Har. You did right, and I thank you very much for it.

Fro. I have, Sir, a small request to make to you. I am in danger of losing a lawsuit for want of a little money (Harpagon looks grave), and you can easily help me with it, if you have pity upon me. You cannot imagine how happy she will be to see you. (Harpagon looks joyful.) Oh! how sure you are to please her, and how sure that antique ruff of yours is to produce a wonderful effect on her mind. But, above all, she will be delighted with your breeches fastened to your doublet with tags; that will make her mad after you, and a lover who wears tags will be most welcome to her.

Har. You send me into raptures, Frosine, by saying that.

Fro. I tell you the truth, Sir; this lawsuit is of the utmost importance for me. (Harpagon looks serious again.) If I lose it, I am for ever ruined; but a very small sum will save me. I should like you to have seen the happiness she felt when I spoke of you to her. (Harpagon looks pleased again.) Joy sparkled in her eyes while I told her of all your good qualities; and I succeeded, in short, in making her look forward with the greatest impatience to the conclusion of the match.

Har. You have given me great pleasure, Frosine, and I assure you I …

Fro. I beg of you, Sir, to grant me the little assistance I ask of you. (Harpagon again looks grave.) It will put me on my feet again, and I shall feel grateful to you for ever.

Har. Good-bye; I must go and finish my correspondence.

Fro. I assure you, Sir, that you could not help me in a more pressing necessity.

Har. I will see that my carriage is ready to take you to the fair.

Fro. I would not importune you so if I were not compelled by necessity.

Har. And I will see that we have supper early, so that nobody may be ill.

Fro. Do not refuse me the service; I beg of you. You can hardly believe, Sir, the pleasure that …

Har. I must go; somebody is calling me. We shall see each other again by and by.

Fro. (alone). May the fever seize you, you stingy cur, and send you to the devil and his angels! The miser has held out against all my attacks; but I must not drop the negotiation; for I have the other side, and there, at all events, I am sure of a good reward.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

HARPAGON, CLÉANTE, ÉLISE, VALÈRE, DAME CLAUDE (holding a broom), MASTER JACQUES, LA MERLUCHE, BRINDAVOINE.

HAR. HERE, COME here, all of you; I must give you orders for by and by, and arrange what each one will have to do. Come nearer, Dame Claude; let us begin with you. (Looking at her broom.) Good; you are ready armed, I see. To you I commit the care of cleaning up everywhere; but, above all, be very careful not to rub the furniture too hard, for fear of wearing it out. Besides this, I put the bottles under your care during supper, and if any one of them is missing, or if anything gets broken, you will be responsible for it, and pay it out of your wages.

Jac. (aside). A shrewd punishment that.

Har. (to Dame Claude.) Now you may go.

SCENE II.

HARPAGON, CLÉANTE, ÉLISE, VALÈRE, MASTER JACQUES, BRINDAVOINE, LA MERLUCHE.

HAR. TO YOU, Brindavoine, and to you, La Merluche, belongs the duty of washing the glasses, and of giving to drink, but only when people are thirsty, and not according to the custom of certain impertinent lackeys, who urge them to drink, and put the idea into their heads when they are not thinking about it. Wait until you have been asked several times, and remember always to have plenty of water.

Jac. (aside). Yes; wine without water gets into one’s head.

La Mer. Shall we take off our smocks, Sir?

Har. Yes, when you see the guests coming; but be very careful not to spoil your clothes.

Brind. You know, Sir, that one of the fronts of my doublet is covered with a large stain of oil from the lamp.

La Mer. And I, Sir, that my breeches are all torn behind, and that, saving your presence …

Har. (to La Merluche). Peace! Turn carefully towards the wall, and always face the company. (To Brindavoine, showing him how he is to hold his hat before his doublet, to hide the stain of oil) And you, always hold your hat in this fashion when you wait on the guests.

SCENE III.

HARPAGON, CLÉANTE, ÉLISE, VALÈRE, MASTER JACQUES.

HAR. AS FOR you, my daughter, you will look after all that is cleared off the table, and see that nothing is wasted: this care is very becoming to young girls. Meanwhile get ready to welcome my lady-love, who is coming this afternoon to pay you a visit, and will take you off to the fair with her. Do you understand what I say?

Eli. Yes, father.

SCENE IV.

HARPAGON, CLÉANTE, VALÈRE, MASTER JACQUES.

HAR. AND YOU, my young dandy of a son to whom I have the kindness of forgiving what happened this morning, mind you don’t receive her coldly, or show her a sour face.

Cle. Receive her coldly! And why should I?

Har. Why? why? We know pretty well the ways of children whose fathers marry again, and the looks they give to those we call stepmothers. But if you wish me to forget your last offence, I advise you, above all things, to receive her kindly, and, in short, to give her the heartiest welcome you can.

Cle. To speak the truth, father, I cannot promise you that I am very happy to see her become my stepmother; but as to receiving her properly, and as to giving her a kind welcome, I promise to obey you in that to the very letter.

Har. Be careful you do, at least.

Cle. You will see that you have no cause to complain.

Har. You will do wisely.

SCENE V.

HARPAGON, VALÈRE, MASTER JACQUES.

HAR. VALÈRE, YOU will have to give me your help in this business. Now, Master Jacques, I kept you for the last.

Jac. Is it to your coachman, Sir, or to your cook you want to speak, for I am both the one and the other?

Har. To both.

Jac. But to which of the two first?

Har. To the cook.

Jac. Then wait a minute, if you please.
(Jacques takes off his stable-coat and appears dressed as a cook.)

Har. What the deuce is the meaning of this ceremony?

Jac. Now I am at your service.

Har. I have engaged myself, Master Jacques, to give a supper to-night.

Jac. (aside). Wonderful!

Har. Tell me, can you give us a good supper?

Jac. Yes, if you give me plenty of money.

Har. The deuce! Always money! I think they have nothing else to say except money, money, money! Always that same word in their mouth, money! They always speak of money! It’s their pillow companion, money!

Val. Never did I hear such an impertinent answer! Would you call it wonderful to provide good cheer with plenty of money? Is it not the easiest thing in the world? The most stupid could do as much. But a clever man should talk of a good supper with little money.

Jac. A good supper with little money?

Val. Yes.

Jac. (to Valère). Indeed, Mr. Steward, you will oblige me greatly by telling me your secret, and also, if you like, by filling my place as cook; for you keep on meddling here, and want to be everything.

Har. Hold your tongue. What shall we want?

Jac. Ask that of Mr. Steward, who will give you good cheer with little money.

Har. Do you hear? I am speaking to you, and expect you to answer me.

Jac. How many will there be at your table?

Har. Eight or ten; but you must only reckon for eight. When there is enough for eight, there is enough for ten.

Val. That is evident.

Jac. Very well, then; you must have four tureens of soup and five side dishes; soups, entrées …

Har. What! do you mean to feed a whole town?

Jac. Roast …

Har. (clapping his hand on Master Jacques’ mouth). Ah! Wretch! you are eating up all my substance.

Jac. Entremêts …

Har. (again putting his hand on Jacques’ mouth). More still?

Val. (to Jacques). Do you mean to kill everybody? And has your master invited people in order to destroy them with over-feeding? Go and read a little the precepts of health, and ask the doctors if there is anything so hurtful to man as excess in eating.

Har. He is perfectly right.

Val. Know, Master Jacques, you and people like you, that a table overloaded with eatables is a real cut-throat; that, to be the true friends of those we invite, frugality should reign throughout the repast we give, and that according to the saying of one of the ancients, “We must eat to live, and not live to eat.”

Har. Ah! How well the man speaks! Come near, let me embrace you for this last saying. It is the finest sentence that I have ever heard in my life: “We must live to eat, and not eat to live.” No; that isn’t it. How do you say it?

Val. That we must eat to live, and not live to eat.

Har. (to Master Jacques). Yes. Do you hear that? (To Valère) Who is the great man who said that?

Val. I do not exactly recollect his name just now.

Har. Remember to write down those words for me. I will have them engraved in letters of gold over the mantel-piece of my dining-room.

Val. I will not fail. As for your supper, you had better let me manage it. I will see that it is all as it should be.

Har. Do so.

Jac. So much the better; all the less work for me.

Har. (to Valère). We must have some of those things of which it is not possible to eat much, and that satisfy directly. Some good fat beans, and a pâté well stuffed with chestnuts.

Val. Trust to me.

Har. Now, Master Jacques, you must clean my carriage.

Jac. Wait a moment; this is to the coachman. (Jacques puts on his coat.) You say …

Har. That you must clean my carriage, and have my horses ready to drive to the fair.

Jac. Your horses! Upon my word, Sir, they are not at all in a condition to stir. I won’t tell you that they are laid up, for the poor things have got nothing to lie upon, and it would not be telling the truth. But you make them keep such rigid fasts that they are nothing but phantoms, ideas, and mere shadows of horses.

Har. They are much to be pitied. They have nothing to do.

Jac. And because they have nothing to do, must they have nothing to eat? It would be much better for them, poor things, to work much and eat to correspond. It breaks my heart to see them so reduced; for, in short, I love my horses; and when I see them suffer, it seems as if it were myself. Every day I take the bread out of my own mouth to feed them; and it is being too hard-hearted, Sir, to have no compassion upon one’s neighbour.

Har. It won’t be very hard work to go to the fair.

Jac. No, Sir. I haven’t the heart to drive them; it would go too much against my conscience to use the whip to them in the state they are in. How could you expect them to drag a carriage? They have not even strength enough to drag themselves along.

Val. Sir, I will ask our neighbour, Picard, to drive them; particularly as we shall want his help to get the supper ready.

Jac. Be it so. I had much rather they should die under another’s hand than under mine.

Val. Master Jacques is mightily considerate.

Jac. Mr. Steward is mightily indispensable.

Har. Peace.

Jac. Sir, I can’t bear these flatteries, and I can see that, whatever this man does, his continual watching after the bread, wine, wood, salt, and candles, is done but to curry favour and to make his court to you. I am indignant to see it all; and I am sorry to hear every day what is said of you; for, after all, I have a certain tenderness for you; and, except my horses, you are the person I like most in the world.

Har. And I would know from you, Master Jacques, what it is that is said of me.

Jac. Yes, certainly, Sir, if I were sure you would not get angry with me.

Har. No, no; never fear.

Jac. Excuse me, but I am sure you will be angry.

Har. No, on the contrary, you will oblige me. I should be glad to know what people say of me.

Jac. Since you wish it, Sir, I will tell you frankly that you are the laughing-stock of everybody; that they taunt us everywhere by a thousand jokes on your account, and that nothing delights people more than to make sport of you, and to tell stories without end about your stinginess. One says that you have special almanacks printed, where you double the ember days and vigils, so that you may profit by the fasts to which you bind all your house; another, that you always have a ready-made quarrel for your servants at Christmas time or when they leave you, so that you may give them nothing. One tells a story how not long since you prosecuted a neighbour’s cat because it had eaten up the remainder of a leg of mutton; another says that one night you were caught stealing your horses’ oats, and that your coachman, — that is the man who was before me, — gave you, in the dark, a good sound drubbing, of which you said nothing. In short, what is the use of going on? We can go nowhere but we are sure to hear you pulled to pieces. You are the butt and jest and byword of everybody; and never does anyone mention you but under the names of miser, stingy, mean, niggardly fellow and usurer.

Har. (beating Jacques). You are a fool, a rascal, a scoundrel, and an impertinent wretch.

Jac. There, there! Did not I know how it would be? You would not believe me. I told you I should make you angry if I spoke the truth?

Har. Learn how to speak.

SCENE VI.

VALÈRE, MASTER JACQUES.

VAL. (LAUGHING). WELL, Master Jacques, your frankness is badly rewarded, I fear.

Jac. S’death! Mr. Upstart, you who assume the man of consequence, it is no business of yours as far as I can see. Laugh at your own cudgelling when you get it, and don’t come here and laugh at mine.

Val. Ah! Master Jacques, don’t get into a passion, I beg of you.

Jac. (aside). He is drawing in his horns. I will put on a bold face, and if he is fool enough to be afraid of me, I will pay him back somewhat. (To Valère) Do you know, Mr. Grinner, that I am not exactly in a laughing humour, and that if you provoke me too much, I shall make you laugh after another fashion. (Jacques pushes Valère to the farther end of the stage, threatening him.)

Val. Gently, gently.

Jac. How gently? And if it does not please me to go gently?

Val. Come, come! What are you about?

Jac. You are an impudent rascal.

Val. Master Jacques …

Jac. None of your Master Jacques here! If I take up a stick, I shall soon make you feel it.

Val. What do you mean by a stick? (Drives back Jacques in his turn.)

Jac. No; I don’t say anything about that.

Val. Do you know, Mr. Conceit, that I am a man to give you a drubbing in good earnest?

Jac. I have no doubt of it.

Val. That, after all, you are nothing but a scrub of a cook?

Jac. I know it very well.

Val. And that you don’t know me yet?

Jac. I beg your pardon.

Val. You will beat me, you say?

Jac. I only spoke in jest.

Val. I don’t like your jesting, and (beating Jacques) remember that you are but a sorry hand at it.

Jac. (alone). Plague take all sincerity; it is a bad trade. I give it up for the future, and will cease to tell the truth. It is all very well for my master to beat me; but as for that Mr. Steward, what right has he to do it? I will be revenged on him if I can.

SCENE VII.

MARIANNE, FROSINE, MASTER JACQUES.

FRO. DO YOU know if your master is at home?

Jac. Yes, he is indeed; I know it but too well.

Fro. Tell him, please, that we are here.

SCENE VIII.

MARIANNE, FROSINE.

MAR. AH! FROSINE, how strange I feel, and how I dread this interview!

Fro. Why should you? What can you possibly dread?

Mar. Alas! can you ask me? Can you not understand the alarms of a person about to see the instrument of torture to which she is to be tied.

Fro. I see very well that to die agreeably, Harpagon is not the torture you would embrace; and I can judge by your looks that the fair young man you spoke of to me is still in your thoughts.

Mar. Yes, Frosine; it is a thing I do not wish to deny. The respectful visits he has paid at our house have left, I confess, a great impression on my heart.

Fro. But do you know who he is?

Mar. No, I do not. All I know is that he is made to be loved; that if things were left to my choice, I would much rather marry him than any other, and that he adds not a little to the horrible dread that I have of the husband they want to force upon me.

Fro. Oh yes! All those dandies are very pleasant, and can talk agreeably enough, but most of them are as poor as church mice; and it is much better for you to marry an old husband, who gives you plenty of money. I fully acknowledge that the senses somewhat clash with the end I propose, and that there are certain little inconveniences to be endured with such a husband; but all that won’t last; and his death, believe me, will soon put you in a position to take a more pleasant husband, who will make amends for all.

Mar. Oh, Frosine! What a strange state of things that, in order to be happy, we must look forward to the death of another. Yet death will not fall in with all the projects we make.

Fro. You are joking. You marry him with the express understanding that he will soon leave you a widow; it must be one of the articles of the marriage contract. It would be very wrong in him not to die before three months are over. Here he is himself.

Mar. Ah! dear Frosine, what a face!

SCENE IX.

HARPAGON, MARIANNE, FROSINE.

HAR. (TO MARIANNE). Do not be offended, fair one, if I come to you with my glasses on. I know that your beauty is great enough to be seen with the naked eye; but, still, it is with glasses that we look at the stars, and I maintain and uphold that you are a star, the most beautiful and in the land of stars. Frosine, she does not answer, star, it seems to me, shows no joy at the sight of me.

Fro. It is because she is still quite awe-struck, and young girls are always shy at first, and afraid of showing what they feel.

Har. (to Frosine). You are right. (To Marianne) My pretty darling, there is my daughter coming to welcome you.

SCENE X.

HARPAGON, ÉLISE, MARIANNE, FROSINE.

MAR. I AM very late in acquitting myself of the visit I owed you.

Eli. You have done what I ought to have done. It was for me to have come and seen you first.

Har. You see what a great girl she is; but ill weeds grow apace.

Mar. (aside to Frosine). Oh, what an unpleasant man!

Har. (to Frosine). What does my fair one say?

Fro. That she thinks you perfect.

Har. You do me too much honour, my adorable darling.

Mar. (aside). What a dreadful creature!

Har. I really feel too grateful to you for these sentiments.

Mar. (aside). I can bear it no longer.

SCENE XI.

HARPAGON, MARIANNE, ÉLISE, CLÉANTE, VALÈRE, FROSINE, BRINDAVOINE.

HAR. HERE IS my son, who also comes to pay his respects to you.

Mar. (aside to Frosine). Oh, Frosine! what a strange meeting! He is the very one of whom I spoke to you.

Fro. (to Marianne). Well, that is extraordinary.

Har. You are surprised to see that my children can be so old; but I shall soon get rid of both of them.

Cle. (to Marianne). Madam, to tell you the truth, I little expected such an event; and my father surprised me not a little when he told me to-day of the decision he had come to.

Mar. I can say the same thing. It is an unexpected meeting; and I certainly was far from being prepared for such an event.

Cle. Madam, my father cannot make a better choice, and it is a great joy to me to have the honour of welcoming you here. At the same time, I cannot say that I should rejoice if it were your intention to become my stepmother. I must confess that I should find it difficult to pay you the compliment; and it is a title, forgive me, that I cannot wish you to have. To some this speech would seem coarse, but I feel that you understand it. This marriage, Madam, is altogether repugnant to me. You are not ignorant, now that you know who I am, how opposed it is to all my own interests, and with my father’s permission I hope you will allow me to say that, if things depended on me, it would never take place.

Har. (aside). What a very impertinent speech to make; and what a confession to make to her!

Mar. And as my answer, I must tell you that things are much the same with me, and that, if you have any repugnance in seeing me your stepmother, I shall have no less in seeing you my stepson. Do not believe, I beg of you, that it is of my own will that this trouble has come upon you. I should be deeply grieved to cause you the least sorrow, and unless I am forced to it by a power I must obey, I give you my word that, I will never consent to a marriage which is so painful to you.

Har. She is right. A foolish speech deserves a foolish answer. I beg your pardon, my love, for the impertinence of my son. He is a silly young fellow, who has not yet learnt the value of his own words.

Mar. I assure you that he has not at all offended me. I am thankful, on the contrary, that he has spoken so openly. I care greatly for such a confession from him, and if he had spoken differently, I should feel much less esteem for him.

Har. It is very kind of you to excuse him thus. Time will make him wiser, and you will see that his feelings will change.

Cle. No, father, they will never change; and I earnestly beg of you, Madam, to believe me.

Har. Did ever anybody see such folly? He is becoming worse and worse.

Cle. Would you have me false to my inmost feelings?

Har. Again! Change your manners, if you please.

Cle. Very well, since you wish me to speak differently. Allow me, Madam, to take for a moment my father’s place; and forgive me if I tell you that I never saw in the world anybody more charming than you are; that I can understand no happiness to equal that of pleasing you, and that to be your husband is a glory, a felicity, I should prefer to the destinies of the greatest princes upon earth. Yes, Madam, to possess you is, in my mind, to possess the best of all treasures; to obtain you is all my ambition. There is nothing I would not do for so precious a conquest, and the most powerful obstacles …

Har. Gently, gently, my son, if you please.

Cle. These are complimentary words which I speak to her in your name.

Har. Bless me! I have a tongue of my own to explain my feelings, and I really don’t care for such an advocate as you … Here, bring us some chairs.

Fro. No; I think it is better for us to go at once to the fair, in order to be back earlier, and have plenty of time for talking.

Har. (to Brindavoine). Have the carriage ready at once.

SCENE XII.

HARPAGON, MARIANNE, ÉLISE, CLÉANTE, VALÈRE, FROSINE.

HAR. (TO MARIANNE). I hope you will excuse me, my dear, but I forgot to order some refreshments for you, before you went out.

Cle. I have thought of it, father, and have ordered to be brought in here some baskets of China oranges, sweet citrons, and preserves, which I sent for in your name.

Har. (aside, to Valère). Valère!

Val. (aside, to Harpagon). He has lost his senses!

Cle. You are afraid, father, that it will not be enough? I hope, Madam, that you will have the kindness to excuse it.

Mar. It was by no means necessary.

Cle. Did you ever see, Madam, a more brilliant diamond than the one my father has upon his finger?

Mar. It certainly sparkles very much.

Cle. (taking the diamond off his father’s finger). You must see it near.

Mar. It is a beautiful one; it possesses great lustre.

Cle. (steps before Marianne, who wants to restore it). No, Madam, it is in hands too beautiful; it is a present my father gives you.

Har. I?

Cle. Is it not true, father, that you wish her to keep it for your sake?

Har. (aside, to his son). What?

Cle. (to Marianne). A strange question indeed! He is making me signs that I am to force you to accept it.

Mar. I would not …

Cle. (to Marianne). I beg of you…. He would not take it back.

Har. (aside). I am bursting with rage!

Mar. It would be …

Cle. (still hindering Marianne from returning it). No; I tell you, you will offend him.

Mar. Pray …

Cle. By no means.

Har. (aside). Plague take …

Cle. He is perfectly shocked at your refusal.

Har. (aside, to his son). Ah! traitor!

Cle. (to Marianne). You see he is in despair.

Har. (aside, to his son, threatening him). You villain!

Cle. Really, father, it is not my fault. I do all I can to persuade her to accept it; but she is obstinate.

Har. (in a rage, aside to his son). Rascal!

Cle. You are the cause, Madam, of my father scolding me.

Har. (aside, with the same looks). Scoundrel!

Cle. (to Marianne). You will make him ill; for goodness’ sake, hesitate no longer.

Fro. (to Marianne). Why so much ceremony? Keep the ring, since the gentleman wishes you to.

Mar. (to Harpagon). I will keep it now, Sir, in order not to make you angry, and I shall take another opportunity of returning it to you.

SCENE XIII.

HARPAGON, MARIANNE, ÉLISE, VALÈRE, FROSINE, BRINDAVOINE.

BRIND. SIR, THERE is a gentleman here who wants to speak to you.

Har. Tell him that I am engaged, and that I cannot see him to-day.

Brind. He says he has some money for you.

Har. (to Marianne). Pray, excuse me; I will come back directly.

SCENE XIV.

HARPAGON, MARIANNE, ÉLISE, CLÉANTE, FROSINE, LA MERLUCHE.

LA MER. (COMES in running, and throws Harpagon down). Sir …

Har. Oh! he has killed me.

Cle. What’s the matter, father? Have you hurt yourself?

Har. The wretch must have been bribed by some of my debtors to break my neck.

Val. (to Harpagon). There is nothing serious.

La Mer. (to Harpagon). I beg your pardon, Sir; I thought I had better run fast to tell you….

Har. What?

La Mer. That your two horses have lost their shoes.

Har. Take them quickly to the smith.

Cle. In the meantime, father, I will do the honours of the house for you, and take this lady into the garden, where lunch will be brought.

SCENE XV.

HARPAGON, VALÈRE.

HAR. VALÈRE, LOOK after all this; and take care, I beseech you, to save as much of it as you can, so that we may send it back to the tradesman again.

Val. I will.

Har. (alone). Miscreant! do you mean to ruin me?

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

CLÉANTE, MARIANNE, ÉLISE, FROSINE.

CLE. LET US come in here; we shall be much better. There is no one about us that we need be afraid of, and we can speak openly.

Eli. Yes, Madam, my brother has told me of the love he has for you. I know what sorrow and anxiety such trials as these may cause, and I assure you that I have the greatest sympathy for you.

Mar. I feel it a great comfort in my trouble to have the sympathy of a person like you, and I entreat you, Madam, ever to retain for me a friendship so capable of softening the cruelty of my fate.

Fro. You really are both very unfortunate not to have told me of all this before. I might certainly have warded off the blow, and not have carried things so far.

Cle. What could I do? It is my evil destiny which has willed it so. But you, fair Marianne, what have you resolved to do? What resolution have you taken?

Mar. Alas! Is it in my power to take any resolution? And, dependent as I am, can I do anything else except form wishes?

Cle. No other support for me in your heart? Nothing but mere wishes? No pitying energy? No kindly relief? No active affection?

Mar. What am I to say to you? Put yourself in my place, and judge what I can possibly do. Advise me, dispose of me, I trust myself entirely to you, for I am sure that you will never ask of me anything but what is modest and seemly.

Cle. Alas! to what do you reduce me when you wish me to be guided entirely by feelings of strict duty and of scrupulous propriety.

Mar. But what would you have me do? Even if I were, for you, to divest myself of the many scruples which our sex imposes on us, I have too much regard for my mother, who has brought me up with great tenderness, for me to give her any cause of sorrow. Do all you can with her. Strive to win her. I give you leave to say and do all you wish; and if anything depends upon her knowing the true state of my feelings, by all means tell her what they are; indeed I will do it myself if necessary.

Cle. Frosine, dear Frosine, will you not help us?

Fro. Indeed, I should like to do so, as you know. I am not naturally unkind. Heaven has not given me a heart of flint, and I feel but too ready to help when I see young people loving each other in all earnestness and honesty. What can we do in this case?

Cle. Try and think a little.

Mar. Advise us.

Eli. Invent something to undo what you have done.

Fro. Rather a difficult piece of business. (To Marianne) As far as your mother is concerned, she is not altogether unreasonable and we might succeed in making her give to the son the gift she reserved for the father. (To Cléante) But the most disheartening part of it all is that your father is your father.

Cle. Yes, so it is.

Fro. I mean that he will bear malice if he sees that he is refused, and he will be in no way disposed afterwards to give his consent to your marriage. It would be well if the refusal could be made to come from him, and you ought to try by some means or other to make him dislike you, Marianne.

Cle. You are quite right.

Fro. Yes, right enough, no doubt. That is what ought to be done; but how in the world are we to set about it? Wait a moment. Suppose we had a somewhat elderly woman with a little of the ability which I possess, and able sufficiently well to represent a lady of rank, by means of a retinue made up in haste, and of some whimsical title of a marchioness or viscountess, whom we would suppose to come from Lower Brittany. I should have enough power over your father to persuade him that she is a rich woman, in possession, besides her houses, of a hundred thousand crowns in ready money; that she is deeply in love with him, and that she would marry him at any cost, were she even to give him all her money by the marriage contract. I have no doubt he would listen to the proposal. For certainly he loves you very much, my dear, but he loves money still better. When once he has consented to your marriage, it does not signify much how he finds out the true state of affairs about our marchioness.

Cle. All that is very well made up.

Fro. Leave it to me; I just remember one of my friends who will do beautifully.

Cle. Depend on my gratitude, Frosine, if you succeed. But, dear Marianne, let us begin, I beg of you, by gaining over your mother; it would be a great deal accomplished if this marriage were once broken off. Make use, I beseech you, of all the power that her tenderness for you gives you over her. Display without hesitation those eloquent graces, those all-powerful charms, with which Heaven has endowed your eyes and lips; forget not, I beseech you, those sweet persuasions, those tender entreaties, those loving caresses to which, I feel, nothing could be refused.

Mar. I will do all I can, and will forget nothing.

SCENE II.

HARPAGON, MARIANNE, ÉLISE, FROSINE.

HAR. (ASIDE, AND without being seen). Ah! ah! my son is kissing the hand of his intended stepmother, and his intended stepmother does not seem much averse to it! Can there be any mystery in all this?

Eli. Here comes my father.

Har. The carriage is quite ready, and you can start when you like.

Cle. Since you are not going, father, allow me to take care of them.

Har. No, stop here; they can easily take care of themselves, and I want you.

SCENE III.

HARPAGON, CLÉANTE.

HAR. WELL, NOW, all consideration of stepmother aside, tell me what do you think of this lady?

Cle. What I think of her?

Har. Yes, what do you think of her appearance, her figure, her beauty and intelligence?

Cle. So, so.

Har. But still?

Cle. To tell you the truth, I did not find her such as I expected. Her manner is that of a thorough coquette, her figure is rather awkward, her beauty very middling, and her intelligence of the meanest order. Do not suppose that I say this to make you dislike her; for if I must have a stepmother, I like the idea of this one as well as of any other.

Har. You spoke to her just now, nevertheless….

Cle. I paid her several compliments in your name, but it was to please you.

Har. So then you don’t care for her?

Cle. Who? I? Not in the least.

Har. I am sorry for it, for that puts an end to a scheme which had occurred to me. Since I have seen her here, I have been thinking of my own age; and I feel that people would find fault with me for marrying so young a girl. This consideration had made me determine to abandon the project, and as I had demanded her in marriage, and had given her my promise, I would have given her to you if it were not for the dislike you have for her.

Cle. To me?

Har. To you.

Cle. In marriage?

Har. In marriage.

Cle. It is true she is not at all to my taste; but, to please you, father, I will bring myself to marry her, if you please.

Har. If I please! I am more reasonable than you think. I don’t wish to compel you.

Cle. Excuse me! I will make an attempt to love her.

Har. No, no; a marriage cannot be happy where there is no love.

Cle. That, my father, will, perhaps, come by and by, and it is said that love is often the fruit of marriage.

Har. No, it is not right to risk it on the side of the man, and there are some troublesome things I don’t care to run the chance of. If you had felt any inclination for her, you should have married her instead of me, but as it is, I will return to my first intention and marry her myself.

Cle. Well, father, since things are so, I had better be frank with you, and reveal our secret to you. The truth is that I have loved her ever since I saw her one day on the promenade. I intended to ask you today to let me marry her, and I was only deterred from it because you spoke of marrying her, and because I feared to displease you.

Har. Have you ever paid her any visits?

Cle. Yes, father.

Har. Many?

Cle. Yes; considering how long we have been acquainted.

Har. You were well received.

Cle. Very well, but without her knowing who I was; and that is why Marianne was so surprised when she saw me today.

Har. Have you told her of your love, and of your intention of marrying her?

Cle. Certainly, and I also spoke a little to the mother on the subject.

Har. Did she kindly receive your proposal for her daughter?

Cle. Yes, very kindly.

Har. And does the daughter return your love?

Cle. If I can believe appearances, she is certainly well disposed towards me.

Har. (aside). Well! I am very glad to have found out this secret; it is the very thing I wanted to know. (To his son) Now, look here, my son, I tell you what. You will have, if you please, to get rid of your love for Marianne, to cease to pay your attentions to a person I intend for myself, and to marry very soon the wife I have chosen for you.

Cle. So, father, it is thus you deceive me! Very well, since things are come to such a pass, I openly declare to you that I shall not give up my love for Marianne. No! understand that henceforth there is nothing from which I shall shrink in order to dispute her with you; and if you have on your side the consent of the mother, perhaps I shall have some other resources left to aid me.

Har. What, rascal! You dare to trespass on my grounds?

Cle. It is you who trespass on mine. I was the first.

Har. Am I not your father, and do you not owe me respect?

Cle. There are things in which children are not called upon to pay deference to their fathers; and love is no respector of persons.

Har. My stick will make you know me better.

Cle. All your threatenings are nothing to me.

Har. You will give up Marianne?

Cle. Never!

Har. Bring me my stick. Quick, I say! my stick!

SCENE IV.

HARPAGON, CLÉANTE, MASTER JACQUES.

JAC. HOLD! HOLD! Gentlemen, what does this mean? What are you thinking of?

Cle. I don’t care a bit for it.

Jac. (to Cléante). Ah! Sir, gently.

Har. He dares to speak to me with such impudence as that!

Jac. (to Harpagon). Ah! Sir, I beg of you.

Cle. I shall keep to it.

Jac. (to Cléante). What! to your father?

Har. Let me do it.

Jac. (to Harpagon). What! to your son? To me it’s different.

Har. I will make you judge between us, Master Jacques, so that you may see that I have right on my side.

Jac. Willingly. (To Cléante) Go a little farther back.

Har. There is a young girl I love and want to marry, and the scoundrel has the impudence to love her also, and wants to marry her in spite of me.

Jac. Oh! he is wrong.

Har. Is it not an abominable thing to see a son who does not shrink from becoming the rival of his father? And is it not his bounden duty to refrain from interfering with my love?

Jac. You are quite right; stop here, and let me go and speak to him.

Cle. (to Master Jacques, who comes near him). Very well; if he wants to make you a judge between us, I have no objection. I care little who it is, and I don’t mind referring our quarrel to you.

Jac. You do me great honour.

Cle. I am in love with a young girl who returns my affection, and who receives kindly the offer of my heart; but my father takes it into his head to disturb our love by asking her in marriage.

Jac. He certainly is wrong.

Cle. Is it not shameful for a man of his age to think of marrying? I ask you if it is right for him to fall in love? and ought he not now to leave that to younger men?

Jac. You are quite right; he is not serious; let me speak a word or two to him. (To Harpagon) Really, your son is not so extravagant as you think, and is amenable to reason. He says that he is conscious of the respect he owes you, and that he only got angry in the heat of the moment. He will willingly submit to all you wish if you will only promise to treat him more kindly than you do, and will give him in marriage a person to his taste.

Har. Ah! tell him, Master Jacques, that he will obtain everything from me on those terms, and that, except Marianne, I leave him free to choose for his wife whomsoever he pleases.

Jac. Leave that to me. (To Cléante) Really, your father is not so unreasonable as you make him out to me; and he tells me that it is your violence which irritated him. He only objects to your way of doing things, and is quite ready to grant you all you want, provided you will use gentle means and will give him the deference, respect, and submission that a son owes to his father.

Cle. Ah! Master Jacques, you can assure him that if he grants me Marianne, he will always find me the most submissive of men, and that I shall never do anything contrary to his pleasure.

Jac. (to Harpagon). It’s all right; he consents to what you say.

Har. Nothing could be better.

Jac. (to Cléante). It’s all settled; he is satisfied with your promises.

Cle. Heaven be praised!

Jac. Gentlemen, you have nothing to do but to talk quietly over the matter together; you are agreed now, and yet you were on the point of quarrelling through want of understanding each other.

Cle. My poor Jacques, I shall be obliged to you all my life.

Jac. Don’t mention it, Sir.

Har. You have given me great pleasure, Master Jacques, and deserve a reward. (Harpagon feels in his pocket, Jacques holds out his hand, but Harpagon only pulls out his handkerchief, and says,) Go; I will remember it, I promise you.

Jac. I thank you kindly, Sir.

SCENE V.

HARPAGON, CLÉANTE.

CLE. I BEG your pardon, father, for having been angry.

Har. It is nothing.

Cle. I assure you that I feel very sorry about it.

Har. I am very happy to see you reasonable again.

Cle. How very kind of you so soon to forget my fault.

Har. One easily forgets the faults of children when they return to their duty.

Cle. What! you are not angry with me for my extravagant behaviour?

Har. By your submission and respectful conduct you compel me to forget my anger.

Cle. I assure you, father, I shall for ever keep in heart the remembrance of all your kindness.

Har. And I promise you that, in future, you will obtain all you like from me.

Cle. Oh, father! I ask nothing more; it is sufficient for me that you give me Marianne.

Har. What?

Cle. I say, father, that I am only too thankful already for what you have done, and that when you give me Marianne, you give me everything.

Har. Who talks of giving you Marianne?

Cle. You, father.

Har. I?

Cle. Yes.

Har. What! is it not you who promised to give her up?

Cle. I! give her up?

Har. Yes.

Cle. Certainly not.

Har. Did you not give up all pretensions to her?

Cle. On the contrary, I am more determined than ever to have her.

Har. What, scoundrel! again?

Cle. Nothing can make me change my mind.

Har. Let me get at you again, wretch!

Cle. You can do as you please.

Har. I forbid you ever to come within my sight.

Cle. As you like.

Har. I abandon you.

Cle. Abandon me.

Har. I disown you.

Cle. Disown me.

Har. I disinherit you.

Cle. As you will.

Har. I give you my curse.

Cle. I want none of your gifts.

SCENE VI.

CLÉANTE, LA FLÈCHE.

LA FL. (LEAVING the garden with a casket). Ah! Sir, you are just in the nick of time. Quick! follow me.

Cle. What is the matter?

La Fl. Follow me, I say. We are saved.

Cle. How?

La Fl. Here is all you want.

Cle. What?

La Fl. I have watched for this all day.

Cle. What is it?

La Fl. Your father’s treasure that I have got hold of.

Cle. How did you manage it?

La Fl. I will tell you all about it. Let us be off. I can hear him calling out.

SCENE VII.

HARPAGON, from the garden, rushing in without his hat, and crying

THIEVES! THIEVES! ASSASSINS! murder! Justice, just heavens! I am undone; I am murdered; they have cut my throat; they have stolen my money! Who can it be? What has become of him? Where is he? Where is he hiding himself? What shall I do to find him? Where shall I run? Where shall I not run? Is he not here? Who is this? Stop! (To himself, taking hold of his own arm) Give me back my money, wretch…. Ah…! it is myself…. My mind is wandering, and I know not where I am, who I am, and what I am doing. Alas! my poor money! my poor money! my dearest friend, they have bereaved me of thee; and since thou art gone, I have lost my support, my consolation, and my joy. All is ended for me, and I have nothing more to do in the world! Without thee it is impossible for me to live. It is all over with me; I can bear it no longer. I am dying; I am dead; I am buried. Is there nobody who will call me from the dead, by restoring my dear money to me, or by telling me who has taken it? Ah! what is it you say? It is no one. Whoever has committed the deed must have watched carefully for his opportunity, and must have chosen the very moment when I was talking with my miscreant of a son. I must go. I will demand justice, and have the whole of my house put to the torture — my maids and my valets, my son, my daughter, and myself too. What a crowd of people are assembled here! Everyone seems to be my thief. I see no one who does not rouse suspicion in me. Ha! what are they speaking of there? Of him who stole my money? What noise is that up yonder? Is it my thief who is there? For pity’s sake, if you know anything of my thief, I beseech you to tell me. Is he hiding there among you? They all look at me and laugh. We shall see that they all have a share in the robbery. Quick! magistrates, police, provosts, judges, racks, gibbets, and executioners. I will hang everybody, and if I do not find my money, I will hang myself afterwards.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

HARPAGON, A POLICE OFFICER.

OFF. LEAVE THAT to me. I know my business. Thank Heaven! this is not the first time I have been employed in finding out thieves; and I wish I had as many bags of a thousand francs as I have had people hanged.

Har. Every magistrate must take this affair in hand; and if my money is not found, I shall call justice against justice itself.

Off. We must take all needful steps. You say there was in that casket…?

Har. Ten thousand crowns in cash.

Off. Ten thousand crowns!

Har. Ten thousand crowns.

Off. A considerable theft.

Har. There is no punishment great enough for the enormity of the crime; and if it remain unpunished, the most sacred things are no longer secure.

Off. In what coins was that sum?

Har. In good louis d’or and pistoles of full weight.

Off. Whom do you suspect of this robbery?

Har. Everybody. I wish you to take into custody the whole town and suburbs.

Off. You must not, if you trust me, frighten anybody, but must use gentle means to collect evidence, in order afterwards to proceed with more rigour for the recovery of the sum which has been taken from you.

SCENE II.

HARPAGON, THE POLICE OFFICER, MASTER JACQUES.

JAC. (AT THE end of the stage, turning back to the door by which he came in). I am coming back. Have his throat cut at once; have his feet singed; put him in boiling water, and hang him up to the ceiling.

Har. What! Him who has robbed me?

Jac. I was speaking of a sucking pig that your steward has just sent me; and I want to have it dressed for you after my own fancy.

Har. This is no longer the question; and you have to speak of something else to this gentleman.

Off. (to Jacques). Don’t get frightened. I am not a man to cause any scandal, and matters will be carried on by gentle means.

Jac. (to Harpagon). Is this gentleman coming to supper with you?

Off. You must, in this case, my good man, hide nothing from your master.

Jac. Indeed, Sir, I will show you all I know, and will treat you in the best manner I possibly can.

Off. That’s not the question.

Jac. If I do not give as good fare as I should like, it is the fault of your steward, who has clipped my wings with the scissors of his economy.

Har. R ascal! We have other matters to talk about than your supper; and I want you to tell me what has become of the money which has been stolen from me.

Jac. Some money has been stolen from you?

Har. Yes, you rascal! And I’ll have you hanged if you don’t give it me back again.

Off. (to Harpagon). Pray, don’t be hard upon him. I see by his looks that he is an honest fellow, and that he will tell you all you want to know without going to prison. Yes, my friend, if you confess, no harm shall come to you, and you shall be well rewarded by your master. Some money has been stolen from him, and it is not possible that you know nothing about it.

Jac. (aside). The very thing I wanted in order to be revenged of our steward. Ever since he came here, he has been the favourite, and his advice is the only one listened to. Moreover, I have forgotten neither the cudgelling of to-day nor …

Har. What are you muttering about there?

Off. (to Harpagon). Leave him alone. He is preparing himself to satisfy you; I told you that he was an honest fellow.

Jac. Sir, since you want me to tell you what I know, I believe it is your steward who has done this.

Har. Valère?

Jac. Yes.

Har. He who seemed so faithful to me!

Jac. Himself. I believe that it is he who has robbed you.

Har. And what makes you believe it?

Jac. What makes me believe it?

Har. Yes.

Jac. I believe it … because I believe it.

Off. But you must tell us the proofs you have.

Har. Did you see him hanging about the place where I had put my money?

Jac. Yes, indeed. Where was your money?

Har. In the garden.

Jac. Exactly; I saw him loitering about in the garden; and in what was your money?

Har. In a casket.

Jac. The very thing. I saw him with a casket.

Har. And this casket, what was it like? I shall soon see if it is mine.

Jac. What it was like?

Har. Yes.

Jac. It was like … like a casket.

Off. Of course. But describe it a little, to see if it is the same.

Jac. It was a large casket.

Har. The one taken from me is a small one.

Jac. Yes, small if you look at it in that way; but I call it large because of what it contains.

Har. And what colour was it?

Jac. What colour?

Off. Yes.

Jac. Of a colour … of a certain colour…. Can’t you help me to find the word?

Har. Ugh!

Jac. Red; isn’t it?

Har. No, grey.

Jac. Ha! yes, reddish-grey! That’s what I meant.

Har. There is no doubt about it, it’s my casket for certain. Write down his evidence, Sir! Heavens! whom can we trust after that? We must never swear to anything, and I believe now that I might rob my own self.

Jac. (to Harpagon). There he is coming back, Sir; I beg of you not to go and tell him that it was I who let it all out, Sir.

SCENE III.

HARPAGON, THE POLICE OFFICER, VALÈRE, MASTER JACQUES.

HAR. COME, COME near, and confess the most abominable action, the most horrible crime, that was ever committed.

Val. What do you want, Sir?

Har. What, wretch! you do not blush for shame after such a crime?

Val. Of what crime do you speak?

Har. Of what crime I speak? Base villain, as if you did not know what I mean! It is in vain for you to try to hide it; the thing is discovered, and I have just heard all the particulars. How could you thus abuse my kindness, introduce yourself on purpose into my house to betray me, and to play upon me such an abominable trick?

Val. Sir, since everything is known to you, I will neither deny what I have done nor will I try to palliate it.

Jac. (aside). Oh! oh! Have I guessed the truth?

Val. I intended to speak to you about it, and I was watching for a favourable opportunity; but, as this is no longer possible, I beg of you not to be angry, and to hear my motives.

Har. And what fine motives can you possibly give me, infamous thief?

Val. Ah! Sir, I do not deserve these names. I am guilty towards you, it is true; but, after all, my fault is pardonable.

Har. How pardonable? A premeditated trick, and such an assassination as this!

Val. I beseech you not to be so angry with me. When you have heard all I have to say, you will see that the harm is not so great as you make it out to be.

Har. The harm not so great as I make it out to be! What! my heart’s blood, scoundrel!

Val. Your blood, Sir, has not fallen into bad hands. My rank is high enough not to disgrace it, and there is nothing in all this for which reparation cannot be made.

Har. It is, indeed, my intention that you should restore what you have taken from me.

Val. Your honour, Sir, shall be fully satisfied.

Har. Honour is not the question in all this. But tell me what made you commit such a deed?

Val. Alas! do you ask it?

Har. Yes, I should rather think that I do.

Val. A god, Sir, who carries with him his excuses for all he makes people do: Love.

Har. Love?

Val. Yes.

Har. Fine love that! fine love, indeed! the love of my gold!

Val. No, Sir, it is not your wealth that has tempted me, it is not that which has dazzled me; and I swear never to pretend to any of your possessions, provided you leave me what I have.

Har. In the name of all the devils, no, I shall not leave it to you. But did anyone ever meet with such villainy! He wishes to keep what he has robbed me of!

Val. Do you call that a robbery?

Har. If I call that a robbery? A treasure like that!

Val. I readily acknowledge that it is a treasure, and the most precious one you have. But it will not be losing it to leave it to me. I ask you on my knees to leave in my possession this treasure so full of charms; and if you do right, you will grant it to me.

Har. I will do nothing of the kind. What in the world are you driving at?

Val. We have pledged our faith to each other, and have taken an oath never to forsake one another.

Har. The oath is admirable, and the promise strange enough!

Val. Yes, we are engaged to each other for ever.

Har. I know pretty well how to disengage you, I assure you of that.

Val. Nothing but death can separate us.

Har. You must be devilishly bewitched by my money.

Val. I have told you already, Sir, that it is not self-interest which has prompted me to what I have done. It was not that which prompted my heart; a nobler motive inspired me.

Har. We shall hear presently that it is out of Christian charity that he covets my money! But I will put a stop to all this, and justice, impudent rascal, will soon give me satisfaction.

Val. You will do as you please, and I am ready to suffer all the violence you care to inflict upon me, but I beg of you to believe, at least, that if there is any harm done, I am the only one guilty, and that your daughter has done nothing wrong in all this.

Har. I should think not! It would be strange, indeed, if my daughter had a share in this crime. But I will have that treasure back again, and you must confess to what place you have carried it off.

Val. I have not carried it off, and it is still in your house.

Har. (aside). O my beloved casket! (To Valère) My treasure has not left my house?

Val. No, Sir.

Har. Well, then, tell me, have you taken any liberties with…?

Val. Ah! Sir, you wrong us both; the flame with which I burn is too pure, too full of respect.

Har. (aside). He burns for my casket!

Val. I had rather die than show the least offensive thought: I found too much modesty and too much purity for that.

Har. (aside). My cash-box modest!

Val. All my desires were limited to the pleasures of sight, and nothing criminal has profaned the passion those fair eyes have inspired me with.

Har. (aside). The fair eyes of my cash-box! He speaks of it as a lover does of his mistress.

Val. Dame Claude knows the whole truth, and she can bear witness to it.

Har. Hallo! my servant is an accomplice in this affair?

Val. Yes, Sir, she was a witness to our engagement; and it was after being sure of the innocence of my love that she helped me to persuade your daughter to engage herself to me.

Har. Ah! (Aside) Has the fear of justice made him lose his senses? (To Valère) What rubbish are you talking about my daughter?

Val. I say, Sir, that I found it most difficult to make her modesty consent to what my love asked of her.

Har. The modesty of whom?

Val. Of your daughter; and it was only yesterday that she could make up her mind to sign our mutual promise of marriage.

Har. My daughter has signed a promise of marriage?

Val. Yes, Sir, and I have also signed.

Har. O heavens! another misfortune!

Jac. (to the Officer). Write, Sir, write.

Har. Aggravation of misery! Excess of despair! (To the Officer) Sir, discharge your duty, and draw me up an indictment against him as a thief and a suborner.

Jac. As a thief and a suborner.

Val. These are names which I do not deserve, and when you know who I am …

SCENE IV.

HARPAGON, ÉLISE, MARIANNE, VALÈRE, FROSINE, MASTER JACQUES, THE POLICE OFFICER.

HAR. AH! GUILTY daughter! unworthy of a father like me! is it thus that you put into practice the lessons I have given you? You give your love to an infamous thief, and engage yourself to him without my consent! But you shall both be disappointed. (To Élise) Four strong walls will answer for your conduct in the future; (to Valère) and good gallows, impudent thief, shall do me justice for your audacity.

Val. Your anger will be no judge in this affair, and I shall at least have a hearing before I am condemned.

Har. I was wrong to say gallows; you shall be broken alive on the wheel.

Eli. (kneeling to her father). Ah! my father, be more merciful, I beseech you, and do not let your paternal authority drive matters to extremes. Do not suffer yourself to be carried away by the first outburst of your anger, but give yourself time to consider what you do. Take the trouble of inquiring about him whose conduct has offended you. He is not what you imagine, and you will think it less strange that I should have given myself to him, when you know that without him you would long ago have lost me for ever. Yes, father, it is he who saved me from the great danger I ran in the waters, and to whom you owe the life of that very daughter who …

Har. All this is nothing; and it would have been much better for me if he had suffered you to be drowned rather than do what he has done.

Eli. My father, I beseech you, in the name of paternal love, grant me …

Har. No, no. I will hear nothing, and justice must have its course.

Jac. (aside). You shall pay me for the blows you gave me.

Fro. What a perplexing state of affairs!

SCENE V.

ANSELME, HARPAGON, ÉLISE, MARIANNE, FROSINE, VALÈRE, THE POLICE OFFICER, MASTER JACQUES.

ANS. WHAT CAN have happened, Mr. Harpagon? You are quite upset.

Har. Ah, Mr. Anselme, you see in me the most unfortunate of men; and you can never imagine what vexation and disorder is connected with the contract you have come to sign! I am attacked in my property; I am attacked in my honour; and you see there a scoundrel and a wretch who has violated the most sacred rights, who has introduced himself into my house as a servant in order to steal my money, and seduce my daughter.

Val. Who ever thought of your money about which you rave?

Har. Yes; they have given each other a promise of marriage. This insult concerns you, Mr. Anselme; and it is you who ought to be plaintiff against him, and who at your own expense ought to prosecute him to the utmost, in order to be revenged.

Ans. It is not my intention to force anybody to marry me, and to lay claim to a heart which has already bestowed itself; but as far as your interests are concerned, I am ready to espouse them as if they were my own.

Har. This is the gentleman, an honest commissary, who has promised that he will omit nothing of what concerns the duties of his office. (To the Officer, showing Valère) Charge him, Sir, as he ought to be, and make matters very criminal.

Val. I do not see what crime they can make of my passion for your daughter, nor the punishment you think I ought to be condemned to for our engagement; when it is known who I am …

Har. I don’t care a pin for all those stories, and the world is full, nowadays, of those pretenders to nobility, of those impostors, who take advantage of their obscurity and deck themselves out insolently with the first illustrious name that comes into their head.

Val. Know that I am too upright to adorn myself with a name which is not mine, and that all Naples can bear testimony to my birth!

Ans. Softly! Take care of what you are about to say. You speak before a man to whom all Naples is known, and who can soon see if your story is true.

Val. (proudly putting on his hat). I am not the man to fear anything; and if all Naples is known to you, you know who was Don Thomas d’Alburci.

Ans. Certainly; I know who he is, and few people know him better than I do.

Har. I care neither for Don Thomas nor Don Martin. (Seeing two candles burning, he blows one out.)

Ans. Have patience and let him speak; we shall soon know what he has to say of him.

Val. That it is to him that I owe my birth.

Ans. To him?

Val. Yes.

Ans. Nonsense; you are laughing. Try and make out a more likely story, and don’t pretend to shelter yourself under such a piece of imposture.

Val. Consider your words better before you speak; it is no imposture, and I say nothing here that I cannot prove.

Ans. What! You dare to call yourself the son of Don Thomas d’Alburci?

Val. Yes, I dare to do so; and I am ready to maintain the truth against anyone, who ever he may be.

Ans. This audacity is marvellous. Learn to your confusion that it is now at least sixteen years ago since the man of whom you speak died in a shipwreck at sea with his wife and children, when he was trying to save their lives from the cruel persecutions which accompanied the troubles at Naples, and which caused the banishment of several noble families.

Val. Yes; but learn to your confusion that his son, seven years of age, was, with a servant, saved from the wreck by a Spanish vessel, and that this son is he who now speaks to you. Learn that the captain of that ship, touched with compassion at my misfortune, loved me; that he had me brought up as his own son, and that the profession of arms has been my occupation ever since I was fit for it; that lately I heard that my father is not dead, as I thought he was; that, passing this way to go and find him out, an accident, arranged by heaven, brought to my sight the charming Élise; that the sight of her made me a slave to her beauty, and that the violence of my love and the harshness of her father made me take the resolution to come into his house disguised as a servant, and to send some one else to look after my parents.

Ans. But what other proofs have you besides your own words that all this is not a fable based by you upon truth.

Val. What proofs? The captain of the Spanish vessel; a ruby seal which belonged to my father; an agate bracelet which my mother put upon my arm; and old Pedro, that servant who was saved with me from the wreck.

Mar. Alas! I can answer here for what you have said; that you do not deceive us; and all you say clearly tells me that you are my brother.

Val. You my sister!

Mar. Yes, my heart was touched as soon as you began to speak; and our mother, who will be delighted at seeing you, often told me of the misfortunes of our family. Heaven spared us also in that dreadful wreck; but our life was spared at the cost of our liberty, for my mother and myself were taken up by pirates from the wreck of our vessel. After ten years of slavery a lucky event gave us back to liberty, and we returned to Naples, where we found all our property sold, and could hear no news of our father. We embarked for Genoa, where my mother went to gather what remained of a family estate which had been much disputed. Leaving her unjust relatives, she came here, where she has lived but a weary life.

Ans. O heaven! how wonderful are thy doings, and how true it is that it only belongs to thee to work miracles! Come to my arms, my children, and share the joy of your happy father!

Val. You are our father?

Mar. It was for you that my mother wept?

Ans. Yes, my daughter; yes, my son; I am Don Thomas d’Alburci, whom heaven saved from the waves, with all the money he had with him, and who, after sixteen years, believing you all dead, was preparing, after long journeys, to seek the consolations of a new family in marrying a gentle and virtuous woman. The little security there was for my life in Naples has made me abandon the idea of returning there, and having found the means of selling what I had, I settled here under the name of Anselme. I wished to forget the sorrows of a name associated with so many and great troubles.

Har. (to Anselme). He is your son?

Ans. Yes.

Har. That being so, I make you responsible for the ten thousand crowns that he has stolen from me.

Ans. He steal anything from you!

Har. Yes.

Val. Who said so?

Har. Master Jacques.

Val. (to Master Jacques). You say that?

Jac. You see that I am not saying anything.

Har. He certainly did. There is the officer who has received his deposition.

Val. Can you really believe me capable of such a base action?

Har. Capable or not capable, I must find my money.

SCENE VI.

HARPAGON, ANSELME, ÉLISE, MARIANNE, CLÉANTE, VALÈRE, FROSINE, THE POLICE OFFICER, MASTER JACQUES, LA FLÈCHE.

CLE. DO NOT grieve for your money, father, and accuse any one. I have news of it, and I come here to tell you that if you consent to let me marry Marianne, your money will be given back to you.

Har. Where is it?

Cle. Do not trouble yourself about that. It is in a safe place, and I answer for it; everything depends on your resolve. It is for you to decide, and you have the choice either of losing Marianne or your cash-box.

Har. Has nothing been taken out?

Cle. Nothing at all. Is it your intention to agree to this marriage, and to join your consent to that of her mother, who leaves her at liberty to do as she likes?

Mar. (to Cléante). But you do not know that this consent is no longer sufficient, and that heaven has given me back a brother (showing Valère), at the same time that it has given me back a father (showing Anselme); and you have now to obtain me from him.

Ans. Heaven, my dear children, has not restored you to me that I might oppose your wishes. Mr. Harpagon, you must be aware that the choice of a young girl is more likely to fall upon the son than upon the father. Come, now, do not force people to say to you what is unnecessary, and consent, as I do, to this double marriage.

Har. In order for me to be well advised, I must see my casket.

Cle. You shall see it safe and sound.

Har. I have no money to give my children in marriage.

Ans. Never mind, I have some; do not let this trouble you.

Har. Do you take upon yourself to defray the expenses of these two weddings?

Ans. Yes, I will take this responsibility upon myself. Are you satisfied?

Har. Yes, provided you order me a new suit of clothes for the wedding.

Ans. Agreed! Let us go and enjoy the blessings this happy day brings us.

Off. Stop, Sirs, stop; softly, if you please. Who is to pay me for my writing?

Har. We have nothing to do with your writing.

Off. Indeed! and yet I do not pretend to have done it for nothing.

Har. (showing Master Jacques). There is a fellow you can hang in payment!

Jac. Alas! what is one to do? I receive a good cudgelling for telling the truth, and now they would hang me for lying.

Ans. Mr. Harpagon, you must forgive him this piece of imposture.

Har. You will pay the officer then?

Ans. Let it be so. Let us go quickly, my children, to share our joy with your mother!

Har. And I to see my dear casket

THE END

Monsieur de Pourceaugnac

Monsieur de Pourceaugnac

Translated by Charles Heron Wall

CONTENTS

MONSIEUR DE POURCEAUGNAC.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

SCENE XV.

SCENE XVI.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

The 1670 title page

The 1682 frontispiece

MONSIEUR DE POURCEAUGNAC.

‘MONSIEUR DE POURCEAUGNAC’, acted on October 6, 1669, is nothing but a farce. But Molière excels in farce as well as in higher comedy, and ‘Monsieur de Pourceaugnac’ is one of the best of its kind. The attacks upon the doctors of the time are not exaggerated. Molière acted the part of Mr. de Pourceaugnac.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

Mr. de Pourceaugnac. Oronte, father to Julia.
Éraste, lover to Julia.
Sbrigani, a Neapolitan adventurer.
First Physician.
Second Physician.
An Apothecary.
A Peasant.
A Female Peasant.
First Swiss.
Second Swiss.
A Police Officer.
Two Inferior Police Officers.
Julia, daughter to Oronte.
Nérine, an intriguing woman, supposed to come from Picardy.
Lucette, supposed to come from Gascony.

The scene is in Paris.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

ÉRASTE, A LADY SINGER, TWO MEN SINGERS, several others performing on instruments, DANCERS.

ERA. (TO THE Musicians and Dancers). Carry out the orders I have given you for the serenade. As for myself, I will withdraw, for I do not wish to be seen here.

SCENE II.

A LADY SINGER, TWO MEN SINGERS, several others performing on instruments, DANCERS.

LADY (sings).
Spread, charming night, spread over every brow
The subtle scent of thy narcotic flower,
And let no wakeful hearts keep vigil now
Save those enthralled by love’s resistless power.
More beautiful than day’s most beauteous light,
Thy silent shades were made for love’s delight.

FIRST SINGER.
Love is sweet when none our wills oppose;
Then peaceful tastes our gentle hearts dispose;
But tyrants reign, who gave us birth and life.
Ah! love is sweet when love is free from strife.

SECOND SINGER.
All who strive ‘gainst love must fall;
Perfect love will conquer all.

ALL THREE.
Let us love with an eternal ardour!
Let parents frown, and try in vain to cure,
Absence, hardship, or cruel fortune’s rigour
Will only strengthen love when true and pure.
First entry of the Ballet.
(Dance of the two Dancing Masters.)
Second entry of the Ballet.
(Dance of the two Pages.)
Third entry of the Ballet.
(Four Spectators, who quarrelled during the dance, now dance,
sword in hand, fighting all the while.)
Fourth entry of the Ballet.
(Two Soldiers separate the combatants, and dance with them.)

SCENE III.

JULIA, ÉRASTE, NÉRINE.

JUL. OH DEAR, Éraste! take care that we are not discovered. I am so afraid of being seen with you; all would be lost after the command I have received to the contrary.

Era. I see nobody about.

Jul. (to Nérine). Just keep watch, Nérine, and be careful that nobody comes.

Ner. (going to the farther end of the stage). Trust me for that: and say all you have to say to each other.

Jul. Have you thought of anything to favour our plan, Éraste? And do you think that we shall succeed in breaking off that marriage which my father has taken into his head?

Era. We are at least doing all we can for it, and we have ready many schemes to bring such an absurd notion to naught.

Ner. (running towards Julia). I say, here is your father.

Jul. Ah! let us separate quickly.

Ner. No, no; don’t go; I made a mistake.

Jul. How absurd you are, Nérine, to give us such a fright!

Era. Yes, dear Julia, we have plenty of stratagems ready for the purpose; and, in accordance with the permission you have given me, we will not hesitate to make use of every means. Do not ask me what it is we are going to do; you will have the fun of seeing it, and, as at a comedy, it will be nice for you to have the pleasure of being surprised without my letting you know beforehand what is going to take place. This is telling you that we have many schemes in hand for the occasion, and that our clever Nérine and the dexterous Sbrigani have undertaken to bring the affair to a successful issue.

Ner. Yes, we have indeed. Is your father crazy to think of entangling you with his lawyer of Limoges; that Mr. de Pourceaugnac, whom he has never seen in his life, and who comes by the coach to take you away before our very eyes? Ought three or four thousand crowns, more or less — and that, too, upon the word of your uncle — to make him refuse a lover you like? Besides, are you made for a Limousin? If he has taken it into his head to marry, why does he not take one of his own countrywomen, and let Christians be at peace? The very name of Pourceaugnac puts me in a frightful rage. I boil over with Mr. de Pourceaugnac. If it were only because of the name, I would do anything to prevent the match. No, you shall not be Mrs. de Pourceaugnac. Pourceaugnac! Was ever such a name heard of! No, I could never put up with Pourceaugnac; and we will abuse the man to such an extent, and play him so many tricks, that he will have to return to Limoges, Mr. de Pourceaugnac.

Era. Here is our cunning Neapolitan, who will give us news.

SCENE IV.

JULIA, ÉRASTE, SBRIGANI, NÉRINE.

SBRI. OUR MAN has just come, Sir. I saw him at a place three leagues away from here, where the coach stops; and I studied him for more than half an hour in the kitchen, where he went down to breakfast, and I know him now perfectly. As to his appearance, I will say nothing about it; you will see for yourselves what nature has done for him, and if his dress is not the very thing to set that off. But as for his understanding, I can tell you beforehand that it is among the dullest I have met with for a long time. We shall find in him a fit subject to work upon as we like. He is just the man to fall into all the traps laid for him.

Era. Is all that possible?

Sbri. Perfectly true, and I am skilled in the knowledge of men.

Ner. (pointing to Sbrigani). This is a famous man, Madam; and your affair could not be trusted to better hands. He is the hero of the age, for the wonders he has performed. A man who, twenty times in his life, has generously braved the galleys to serve his friends; who, at the peril of his arms and shoulders, knows how to bring to a successful issue the most difficult enterprises; and who is, in short, banished from his country for I don’t know how many honourable actions he has generously engaged in.

Sbri. I am ashamed to hear the praises with which you honour me, and I could most justly extol the marvellous things you did in your life; I could particularly speak of the glory you acquired when you cheated at play that young nobleman we brought to your house, and won twelve thousand crowns from him; when you handsomely made that false contract which ruined a whole family; when with such greatness of soul you denied all knowledge of the deposit which had been entrusted to you, and so generously gave evidence which hung two innocent people.

Ner. These are trifles not worth mentioning, and your praises make me blush.

Sbri. Then I will spare your modesty. Let us leave that aside, and speak of our business. To begin with, I will quickly rejoin our countryman, while you, on your side, will see that all the other actors in the comedy are kept in readiness.

Era. And you, Madam, pray remember your part, that in order to conceal our aim the better, you are to affect to be quite perfectly delighted with your father’s resolutions.

Jul. If it only depends on that, things will be sure to succeed.

Era. But, dear Julia, if everything were to fail?

Jul. I will declare my real inclinations to my father.

Era. And if he persists in his designs in spite of your inclinations?

Jul. I will threaten to shut myself up in a convent.

Era. But if, notwithstanding all that, he wished to force you to this marriage?

Jul. Why, what would you have me say?

Era. What do I want you to say?

Jul. Yes.

Era. What is said when one loves truly?

Jul. But what?

Era. That nothing shall force you; that in spite of all your father can do, you promise to be mine.

Jul. Ah me! Éraste, be satisfied with what I do now, and leave the future alone. Do not perplex me in my duty, by speaking of sad expedients to which we may not be obliged to have recourse. Allow me to be led by the course of events.

Era. Will …

Sbri. Sir, here is our man. Be careful.

Ner. Ah! what a guy!

SCENE V.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, SBRIGANI.

MR. POUR. (TURNING to the side he came from, and speaking to the people who are following him). Well, what is it? What is the matter? What do you want? Deuce take this stupid town, and the people who live in it! Nobody can walk a step without meeting a lot of asses staring and laughing like fools at one. You boobies, mind your business; and let folk pass without grinning in their faces. Deuce take me if I don’t knock down the first man I see laughing.

Sbri. (speaking to the same people). What are you about? What is the meaning of such conduct? What is it you want? Is it right to make fun like that of strangers who come here?

Mr. Pour. Here is a man of sense at last.

Sbri. What manners! And what is there to laugh at?

Mr. Pour. Quite right.

Sbri. Is there anything ridiculous in this gentleman?

Mr. Pour. I ask you?

Sbri. Is he not like other people?

Mr. Pour. Am I crooked or hunchbacked?

Sbri. Learn to distinguish people.

Mr. Pour. Well said.

Sbri. This gentleman’s qualities call for your respect.

Mr. Pour. Perfectly true.

Sbri. He is a person of quality.

Mr. Pour. Yes, a gentleman from Limoges.

Sbri. A man of intelligence.

Mr. Pour. Who has studied the law.

Sbri. He does you too much honour in coming to this town.

Mr. Pour. Ay, indeed.

Sbri. This gentleman has nothing in him that can make you laugh.

Mr. Pour. Certainly not.

Sbri. And the first who laughs at him, I will call to account.

Mr. Pour. (to Sbrigani). Sir, I am extremely, obliged to you.

Sbri. I am sorry, Sir, to see a person like you received after such a fashion.

Mr. Pour. Your servant, Sir.

Sbri. I saw you breakfasting this morning, Sir, with the other passengers; and the grace with which you ate created in me at once a great friendship for you; and as I know that you have never been here before, and that you are a perfect stranger, I am glad I met you, to offer you my services at your arrival, and to assist you among these people, who do not always behave to strangers of quality as they should.

Mr. Pour. You are really very kind.

Sbri. I have told you already; the moment I saw you, I felt an inclination for you.

Mr. Pour. I am greatly obliged to you.

Sbri. Your countenance pleased me.

Mr. Pour. You do me much honour.

Sbri. I read honesty in it.

Mr. Pour. I am your servant.

Sbri. Something amiable.

Mr. Pour. Ah! ah!

Sbri. Graceful.

Mr. Pour. Ah! ah!

Sbri. Sweet.

Mr. Pour. Ah! ah!

Sbri. Majestic.

Mr. Pour. Ah! ah!

Sbri. Frank.

Mr. Pour. Ah! ah!

Sbri. And cordial.

Mr. Pour. Ah! ah!

Sbri. Believe that I am entirely yours.

Mr. Pour. I am greatly obliged to you.

Sbri. I speak from the bottom of my heart.

Mr. Pour. I believe you.

Sbri. If I had the honour of being known to you, you would find that I am altogether sincere.

Mr. Pour. I do not doubt it.

Sbri. An enemy to deceit.

Mr. Pour. I feel sure of it.

Sbri. And that I am incapable of disguising my thoughts.

Mr. Pour. It is exactly what I think.

Sbri. You look at my dress, which is not like that of other people; but I came originally from Naples, at your service; and I always like to keep up the way of dressing as well as the sincerity of my country.

Mr. Pour. You are quite right. For my part, I was desirous of appearing in the court dress for the country.

Sbri. Truly, it becomes you better than it does all our courtiers.

Mr. Pour. Exactly what my tailor told me. The coat is suitable and rich; it will tell here among these people.

Sbri. You will go to the Louvre, no doubt?

Mr. Pour. Yes; I must go and pay my court.

Sbri. The king will be charmed to see you.

Mr. Pour. I believe so.

Sbri. Have you fixed upon rooms?

Mr. Pour. No; I was going to look for some.

Sbri. I shall be very glad to go with you; I know all this city well.

SCENE VI.

ÉRASTE, MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, SBRIGANI.

ERA. AH, WHO is this? What do I see? What a happy meeting! Mr. de Pourceaugnac! How delighted I am to see you! What! anyone would think that you find it difficult to remember me!

Mr. Pour. Sir, I am your servant.

Era. Is it possible that five or six years can have made you forget me? Do you not remember the best friend of the de Pourceaugnacs?

Mr. Pour. Yes, yes. (Aside to Sbrigani) Deuce take me if I know who he is.

Era. There is not one of the de Pourceaugnacs of Limoges that I do not know, from the greatest to the smallest; I visited only them during my stay there, and I had the honour of seeing you every day.

Mr. Pour. The honour was mine, Sir.

Era. You do not remember my face?

Mr. Pour. Yes, yes. (To Sbrigani) I don’t know him a bit.

Era. You do not remember that I had the pleasure of drinking with you I don’t know how many times?

Mr. Pour. Excuse me. (To Sbrigani) I don’t know anything about it.

Era. What is the name of that pastrycook who cooks such capital dinners?

Mr. Pour. Petit-Jean.

Era. Just so. We used often to go there together to enjoy ourselves. How do you call that place where people go for a walk?

Mr. Pour. The cemetery of the Arènes.

Era. Exactly. It is there I enjoyed so many happy hours of your pleasant talk. Don’t you remember it all now?

Mr. Pour. Pardon me; yes, I remember. (To Sbrigani) Deuce take me if I do.

Sbri. (aside to Mr. de Pourceaugnac). There are a hundred things like that which one is apt to forget altogether.

Era. Let us embrace, I pray, and renew our former friendship.

Sbri. (to Mr. de Pourceaugnac). This man seems to have a great affection for you.

Era. Tell me some news of all the family. How is that gentleman your … he who is such an honest man?

Mr. Pour. My brother the sheriff?

Era. Yes.

Mr. Pour. He is as well as can be.

Era. I am delighted to hear it. And that good tempered man? You know, your …

Mr. Pour. My cousin, the assessor?

Era. Exactly.

Mr. Pour. Always gay and hearty.

Era. It gives me much pleasure to hear it. And your uncle, the …

Mr. Pour. I have no uncle.

Era. But you had one in those days?

Mr. Pour. No; only an aunt….

Era. Ah! it’s what I meant; your aunt; Mrs…. How is she?

Mr. Pour. She died six months ago.

Era. Alas! poor woman. She was so good, too!

Mr. Pour. We have also my nephew, the canon, who almost died of the smallpox.

Era. What a pity if it had happened!

Mr. Pour. Do you know him also?

Era. Indeed I do; a tall handsome fellow.

Mr. Pour. Not so very tall.

Era. No; but well-shaped.

Mr. Pour. Yes, yes.

Era. He’s your nephew, isn’t he?

Mr. Pour. Yes.

Era. Son of your brother or your sister?

Mr. Pour. True.

Era. A canon of the church of…. How do you call it?

Mr. Pour. Saint Stephen.

Era. Just so; I don’t know any other.

Mr. Pour. (to Sbrigani). He knows all my relations.

Sbri. He knows you better than you think.

Mr. Pour. You must have lived a long time in our town, I see.

Era. Two whole years.

Mr. Pour. You were there, then, when our governor was godfather to my cousin the assessor’s child?

Era. To be sure; I was one of the first invited.

Mr. Pour. The thing was well done.

Era. Very.

Mr. Pour. The dinner was well got up.

Era. Yes, indeed.

Mr. Pour. Then you must remember the quarrel I had with that gentleman from Périgord.

Era. Yes.

Mr. Pour. He met with his match, eh?

Era. Ah! ah!

Mr. Pour. He slapped my face; but I paid him back handsomely.

Era. Very handsomely. By the bye, I shall not allow you to go to any other house but mine.

Mr. Pour. I would not….

Era. Nonsense! I will not allow one of my best friends to go anywhere but to my house.

Mr. Pour. It would be disturb….

Era. No; deuce take it all. You shall stay with me.

Sbri. (to Mr. de Pourceaugnac). Since he will have it so, I advise you to accept.

Era. Where is your luggage?

Mr. Pour. With my servant, where we stopped.

Era. Send somebody to fetch it.

Mr. Pour. No. I forbade him to let it go out of his sight, for fear of swindlers.

Sbri. You did quite right.

Mr. Pour. It is good to be cautious in this place.

Era. We always know a man of sense.

Sbri. I will accompany this gentleman, and bring him back where you wish.

Era. Do so. I have a few orders to give; but you only need come to that house yonder.

Sbri. We will come back presently.

Era. (to Mr. de Pourceaugnac). I shall expect you with great impatience.

Mr. Pour. (to Sbrigani). I find an acquaintance when I little expected to meet with one.

Sbri. He looks like an honest man. (Exeunt.)

Era. (alone). Ah! ah! Mr. de Pourceaugnac, you will get it hot! Everything is ready, and I have only to give the word. Soho! there.

SCENE VII.

ÉRASTE, AN APOTHECARY.

ERA. I THINK, Sir, that you are the doctor to whom somebody went to speak in my name.

Apo. No, Sir. I am not the doctor; such an honour does not belong to me. I am only an unworthy apothecary; at your service.

Era. Is the doctor at home, then.

Apo. Yes; he is in there, trying to get rid quickly of some patients. I will tell him that you are here.

Era. No; you need not disturb him; I will wait till he has done. I have to entrust to his care a certain relation of mine he was told about today. He is attacked with a sort of madness that we should like to see cured before we marry him to anyone.

Apo. I know; I know all about it. I was there when he was told of this affair. Upon my word, Sir; upon my word, you could not apply to a more skilful doctor. He is a man who understands medicine thoroughly, as well as I do my A B C; and who, were you to die for it, would not abate one iota of the rules of the ancients. Yes, he always follows the high-road — the high-road, Sir, and doesn’t spend his time finding out mares’ nests. For all the gold in the world he would not cure anybody with other medicines than those prescribed by the faculty.

Era. He is quite right. A patient should not wish to be cured unless the faculty consents to it.

Apo. It is not because we are great friends that I speak so of him; but it is a pleasure to be his patient, and I had rather die by his medicines than be cured with those of another. For, whatever may happen, we know for certain that things are always in due order; and should we die under his care, our heirs have nothing to reproach us with.

Era. A great comfort to a dead man.

Apo. Certainly; it is pleasant to have died according to rules. Moreover, he is not one of those doctors who let a disease off. He is an expeditious man — expeditious, Sir, who likes to clear off his patients; and when they are to die, the thing is done in no time.

Era. There is, to be sure, nothing like going through the business quickly.

Apo. Indeed, what is the use of haggling over the matter, and beating so long about the bush? One should know offhand the long and short of an illness.

Era. You are quite right.

Apo. Why, he did me the honour of taking care of three of my children; they died in less than four days, whereas with another they would have lingered for more than three months.

Era. It is a blessing to have friends like these.

Apo. Decidedly. I have still two children left, of whom he takes care as if they were his own; he attends them, and physics them as he pleases, without my interfering in the least; and very frequently on my return from the city, I am quite surprised to find that they have been bled or purged by his direction.

Era. This is kind care indeed!

Apo. Here he is, here he is; here he is coming.

SCENE VIII.

ÉRASTE, 1ST PHYSICIAN, APOTHECARY, COUNTRYMAN, COUNTRYWOMAN.

C. MAN. SIR, he can hold out no longer; he says he feels the greatest pains imaginable in his head.

1st Phy. The patient is a fool; for in the disease by which he is attacked it is not his head, according to Galen, but the spleen, which must give pain.
C. Man. However this may be, Sir, he has had for the last six months a laxity with it.

1st Phy. That’s right. It is a sign that his body is clearing. I will go and see him in two or three days; but if he dies before, mind you do not forget to give me notice, for it is not proper that a doctor should go to visit a dead man.
C. Wom. (to Physician). My father, Sir, is getting worse and worse.

1st Phy. It is no fault of mine; I send him remedies; why does he not get better? How many times has he been bled?
C. Wom. Fifteen times, Sir, in twenty days.

1st Phy. Fifteen times?
C. Wom. Yes.

1st Phy. And he does not get better?
C. Wom. No, Sir.

1st Phy. It is a sign that the seat of the malady is not in the blood. He must be purged as many times, to see if it is in the humours; and if this does not succeed, we will send him to the bath.

Apo. This is the beau-idéal of physic.

SCENE IX.

ÉRASTE, 1ST PHYSICIAN, APOTHECARY.

ERA. (TO THE Physician). It was I, Sir, who sent to you few days ago about a relation of mine who is not quite right in his mind; and I want him to live in your house, as it would be more convenient for you to attend to him, and to prevent him from being seen by too many people.

1st Phy. Yes, Sir, I have got everything ready; and I will take the utmost care of him.

Era. Here he is.

1st Phy. That is most fortunate; for I have with me just now an old physician, a friend of mine, with whom I should be glad to consult concerning this disorder.

SCENE X.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, ÉRASTE, 1ST PHYSICIAN, APOTHECARY.

ERA. (TO MR. De Pourceaugnac). I am obliged to leave you a moment for a little affair which requires my presence; (showing the Physician) but this person, in whose hands I leave you, will do for you all he possibly can.

1st Phy. I am bound by my profession to do so; and it is enough that you should lay this duty upon me.

Mr. Pour. (aside). It is his steward, no doubt; he must be a man of quality.

1st Phy. (to Éraste). Yes, Sir; I assure you that I shall treat this gentleman methodically, and in strict accordance with the rules of our art.

Mr. Pour. Indeed, I do not ask for so much ceremony; and I have not come here to trouble you so.

1st Phy. Such a duty is a pleasure to me.

Era. (to 1st Physician). Nevertheless, here are ten pistoles beforehand, as an earnest of what I have promised you.

Mr. Pour. No, if you please; I won’t hear of your spending anything on my account, nor do I wish you to send for anything particular for me.

Era. Ah, pray, do not trouble yourself; it is not for that you imagine.

Mr. Pour. I beg of you to treat me only as a friend.

Era. It is exactly what I mean to do. (Aside to the Physician.) I particularly recommend you not to let him slip out of your hands, for at times he tries to escape.

1st Phy. You need not fear.

Era. (to Mr. De Pourceaugnac). Pray excuse the incivility I commit.

Mr. Pour. Don’t mention it. You are really too kind.

SCENE XI.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, 1ST PHYSICIAN, 2ND PHYSICIAN, APOTHECARY.

1ST PHY. IT is a great honour to me to be chosen to do you a service.

Mr. Pour. I am your servant.

1st Phy. Here is a clever man, one of my brethren, with whom I will consult concerning the manner of our treating you.

Mr. Pour. There is no need of so much ceremony, I tell you; I am easily satisfied.

1st Phy. Bring some seats. (Servants come in and place chairs.)

Mr. Pour. (aside). These servants are rather dismal for a young man.

1st Phy. Now, Sir; take a seat, Sir. (The two Physicians make Mr. De Pourceaugnac sit between them.)

Mr. Pour. (seated). Your very humble servant. (Each Physician takes one of his hands, and feels his pulse.) What are you about?

1st Phy. Do you eat well, Sir?

Mr. Pour. Yes; and drink still better.

1st Phy. So much the worse! That great craving for cold and wet is a sign of the heat and aridity that is within. Do you sleep well?

Mr. Pour. Yes; when I have made a hearty supper.

1st Phy. Do you dream much?

Mr. Pour. Now and then.

1st Phy. Of what nature are your dreams?

Mr. Pour. Of the nature of dreams. What the deuce is the meaning of this conversation?

1st Phy. Have a little patience. We will reason upon your affair in your presence; and we will do it in the vulgar tongue, so that you may understand better.

Mr. Pour. What great reasoning is there wanted to eat a mouthful?

1st Phy. Since it is a fact that we cannot cure any disease without first knowing it perfectly, and that we cannot know it perfectly without first establishing its exact nature and its true species by its diagnosis and prognosis, you will give me leave, you, my senior, to enter upon the consideration of the disease that is in question, before we think of the therapeutics and the remedies that we must decide upon in order to effect a perfect cure. I say then, Sir, if you will allow me, that our patient here present is unhappily attacked, affected, possessed, and disordered by that kind of madness which we properly name hypochondriac melancholy; a very trying kind of madness, and which requires no less than an Æsculapius deeply versed in our art like you; you, I say, who have become grey in harness, as the saying hath it; and through whose hands so much business of all sorts has passed. I call it hypochondriac melancholy, to distinguish it from the other two; for the celebrated Galen establishes and decides in a most learned manner, as is usual with him, that there are three species of the disease which we call melancholy, so called, not only by the Latins, but also by the Greeks; which in this case is worthy of remark: the first, which arises from a direct disease of the brain; the second, which proceeds from the whole of the blood, made and rendered atrabilious; and the third, termed hypochondriac, which is our case here, and which proceeds from some lower part of the abdomen; and from the inferior regions, but particularly the spleen; the heat and inflammation whereof sends up to the brain of our patient abundance of thick and foul fuliginosities; of which the black and gross vapours cause deterioration to the functions of the principal faculty, and cause the disease by which he is manifestly accused and convicted. In proof of what I say, and as an incontestable diagnostic of it, you need only consider that great seriousness, that sadness, accompanied by signs of fearfulness and suspicion — pathognomonic and particular symptoms of this disease, so well defined by the divine ancient Hippocrates; that countenance, those red and staring eyes, that long beard, that habit of body, thin, emaciated, black, and hairy — signs denoting him greatly affected by the disease proceeding from a defect in the hypochondria; which disease, by lapse of time, being naturalised, chronic, habitual, ingrained, and established within him, might well degenerate either into monomania, or into phthisis, or into apoplexy, or even into downright frenzy and raving. All this being taken for granted, since a disease well-known is a disease half cured, for ignoti nulla est curatio morbis, it will not be difficult for you to conclude what are the remedies needed by our patient. First of all, to remedy this obdurate plethora, and this luxuriant cacochymy throughout the body, I opine that he should be freely phlebotomised; by which I mean that there should be frequent and abundant bleedings, first in the basilic vein, then in the cephalic vein; and if the disease be obstinate, that even the vein of the forehead should be opened, and that the orifice be large, so that the thick blood may issue out; and, at the same time, that he should be purged, deobstructed, and evacuated by fit and suitable purgatives, i.e. by chologues and melanogogues. And as the real source of all this mischief is either a foul and feculent humour or a black and gross vapour, which obscures, empoisons, and contaminates the animal spirits, it is proper afterwards that he should have a bath of pure and clean water, with abundance of whey; to purify, by the water, the feculency of the foul humour, and by the whey to clarify the blackness of the vapour. But, before all things, I think it desirable to enliven him by pleasant conversations, by vocal and instrumental music, to which it will not be amiss to add dancers, that their movements, figures, and agility may stir up and awaken the sluggishness of his spirits, which occasions the thickness of his blood from whence the disease proceeds. These are the remedies I propose, to which may be added many better ones by you, Sir, my master and senior, according to the experience, judgment, knowledge and sufficiency that you have acquired in our art. Dixi.

2nd Phy. Heaven forbid, Sir, that it should enter my thoughts to add anything to what you have just been saying! You have discoursed too well on all the signs, symptoms, and causes of this gentleman’s disease. The arguments you have used are so learned and so delicate that it is impossible for him not to be mad and hypochondriacally melancholic; or, were he not, that he ought to become so, because of the beauty of the things you have spoken, and of the justness of your reasoning. Yes, Sir, you have graphically depicted, graphice depinxisti, everything that appertains to this disease. Nothing can be more learnedly, judiciously, and ingeniously conceived, thought, imagined, than what you have delivered on the subject of this disease, either as regards the diagnostic, the prognostic, or the therapeutic; and nothing remains for me to do but to congratulate this gentleman upon falling into your hands, and to tell him that he is but too fortunate to be mad, in order to experience the gentle efficacy of the remedies you have so judiciously proposed. I approve them in toto, manibus et pedibus descendo in tuam sententiam. All I should like to add is to let all his bleedings and purgings be of an odd number, numero deus impare gaudet, to take the whey before the bath, and to make him a forehead plaster, in the composition of which there should be salt — salt is a symbol of wisdom; to whitewash the walls of his room, to dissipate the gloominess of his mind; album est disgregativum visas; and to give him a little injection immediately, to serve as a prelude and introduction to those judicious remedies, from which, if he is curable, he must receive relief. Heaven grant that these remedies, which are yours, Sir, may succeed with the patient according to our wish!

Mr. Pour. Gentlemen, I have been listening to you for the last hour. Are we acting a comedy here?

1st Phy. No, Sir; we are not acting a comedy.

Mr. Pour. What does it all mean? What are you about with this gibberish and nonsense of yours?

1st Phy. Ah! Insulting language! A diagnostic which was wanting for the confirmation of his disease. This may turn to mania.

Mr. Pour. (aside). With what kind of people have they left me here. (He spits two or three times.)

1st Phy. Another diagnostic: frequent expectoration.

Mr. Pour. Let us cease all this, and go away.

1st Phy. Another: anxiety to move about.

Mr. Pour. What is the meaning of all this business? What do you want with me?

1st Phy. To cure you, according to the order we have received.

Mr. Pour. Cure me?

1st Phy. Yes.

Mr. Pour. S’death! I am not ill.

1st Phy. It is a bad sign when a patient does not feel his illness.

Mr. Pour. I tell you that I am quite well.

1st Phy. We know better than you how you are; we are physicians who see plainly into your constitution.

Mr. Pour. If you are physicians, I have nothing to do with you; and I snap my fingers at all your physic.

1st Phy. H’m! h’m! This man is madder than we thought.

Mr. Pour. My father and mother would never have anything to do with remedies; and they both died without the help of doctors.

1st Phy. I do not wonder if they have begotten a son who is mad. (To the 2nd Physician.) Come, let us begin the cure; and, through the exhilarating sweetness of harmony, let us dulcify, lenify, and pacify the acrimony of his spirits, which, I see, are ready to be inflamed. (Exeunt.)

SCENE XII.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC (alone).

WHAT THE DEVIL is all this? Are the people of this place crazy? I never saw anything like it; and I don’t understand it a bit.

SCENE XIII.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, TWO PHYSICIANS (in grotesque clothes).

(They all three at first sit down; the Physicians rise up at different times to bow to Mr. de Pourceaugnac, who rises up as often to bow to them in return.)
THE TWO PHYSICIANS.
Buon dì, buon dì, buon dì!
Non vi lasciate uccidere
Dal dolor malinconico.
Noi vi faremo ridere
Col nostro canto armonico;
Sol per guarirvi.
Siamo venuti quì.
Buon dì, buon dì, buon dì!

1ST PHYSICIAN.
Altro non è la pazzia
Che malinconia.
Il malato
Non è disperato
Se vol pigliar un poco d’allegria,
Altro non è la pazzia
Che malinconia.

2ND PHYSICIAN.
Sù; cantate, ballate, ridete.
E, se far meglio volete,
Quando sentite il deliro vicino
Pigliate del vino,
E qualche volta un poco di tabàc.
Allegramente, Monsu Pourceaugnàc.

SCENE XIV.

BALLET.

SCENE XV.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, AN APOTHECARY.

APO. SIR, HERE is a little remedy; a little remedy which you must take, if you please; if you please.

Mr. Pour. How? I have no occasion for anything of the kind.

Apo. It was ordered, Sir; it was ordered.

Mr. Pour. Ah! What noise and bother.

Apo. Take it, Sir; take it, Sir. It will do you no harm; it will do you no harm, &c.
(Mr. de Pourceaugnac runs away, the Apothecary &c. after him.)

SCENE XVI.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, AN APOTHECARY, TWO PHYSICIANS (in grotesque clothes).

The Two Physicians.
Piglialo sù,
Signor Monsu;
Piglialo, piglialo, piglialo sù,
Che non ti fara, male, &c.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

1ST PHYSICIAN, SBRIGANI.

1ST PHY. HE has forced through every obstacle I had placed to hinder him, and has fled from the remedies I was beginning to prepare for him.

Sbri. To avoid remedies so salutary as yours is to be a great enemy to oneself.

1st Phy. It is the mark of a disturbed brain and of a depraved reason to be unwilling to be cured.

Sbri. You would have cured him, for certain, in no time.

1st Phy. Certainly; though there had been the complication of a dozen diseases.

Sbri. With all that he makes you lose those fifty well-earned pistoles.

1st Phy. I have no intention of losing them; and I am determined to cure him in spite of himself. He is bound and engaged to take my remedies; and I will have him seized, wherever I can find him, as a deserter from physic and an infringer of my prescriptions.

Sbri. You are right. Your medicines were sure of their effect; and it is so much money he takes from you.

1st Phy. Where could I find him?

Sbri. No doubt, at the house of that goodman Oronte, whose daughter he comes to marry; and who, knowing nothing of the infirmity of his future son-in-law, will perhaps be in a hurry to conclude the marriage.

1st Phy. I will go and speak to him at once.

Sbri. You should, in justice to yourself.

1st Phy. He is in need of my consultations; and a patient must not make a fool of his doctor.

Sbri. That is well said; and, if I were you, I would not suffer him to marry till you have physicked him to your heart’s content.

1st Phy. Leave that to me.

Sbri. (aside, and going). For my part, I will bring another battery into play; for the father-in-law is as much of a dupe as the son-in-law.

SCENE II.

ORONTE, 1ST PHYSICIAN.

1ST PHY. A certain gentleman, Sir, a Mr. de Pourceaugnac, is to marry your daughter; is he not?

Oro. Yes; I expect him from Limoges, and he ought to have been here before now.

1st Phy. And he has come; he has run away from my house, after having been placed under my care; but I forbid you, in the name of the faculty, to proceed with the marriage you have decided upon, before I have duly prepared him for it, and put him in a state to have children well-conditioned both in mind and body.

Oro. What is it you mean?

1st Phy. Your intended son-in-law was entered as my patient. His disease which was given me to cure is a chattel which belongs to me, and which I reckon among my possessions. I therefore declare to you that I will not allow him to marry before he has rendered due satisfaction to the faculty, and submitted to the remedies which I have ordered for him.

Oro. He is suffering from some disease?

1st Phy. Yes.

Oro. And from what disease, if you please?

1st Phy. Don’t trouble yourself about that.

Oro. Is it some disease….?

1st Phy. Doctors are bound to keep things secret. Let it suffice you that I enjoin both you and your daughter not to celebrate the wedding without my consent, upon pain of incurring the displeasure of the faculty, and of undergoing all the diseases which we choose to lay upon you.

Oro. If that is the case, I shall take good care to put a stop to the marriage.

1st Phy. He was entrusted to me, and he is bound to be my patient.

Oro. Very well.

1st Phy. It is in vain for him to run away; I will have him sentenced to be cured by me.

Oro. I am very willing.

1st Phy. Yes; he must either die or be cured by me.

Oro. I consent to it.

1st Phy. And if I cannot find him, I will make you answerable, and cure you instead of him.

Oro. I am in very good health.

1st Phy. No matter. I must have a patient, and I will take anyone I can.

Oro. Take whom you will, but it shall not be me. (Alone) Did you ever hear of such a thing!

SCENE III.

ORONTE, SBRIGANI as a Flemish merchant.

SBRI. SIR, PY your leafe, I pe one voreign marchant, and vould like ask you one littel news.

Oro. What, Sir?

Sbri. Put you de hat on de head, Sir, if you pleace.

Oro. Tell me. Sir, what you want.

Sbri. I tell nozink, Sir, if you not put de hat on de head.

Oro. Very well, then, what is it, Sir?

Sbri. You not know in dis town one Mister Oronte?

Oro. Yes, I know him.

Sbri. And vat for one man is he, Sir, if you pleace?

Oro. He is like any other man.

Sbri. I ask you, Sir, if he one man of money is?

Oro. Yes.

Sbri. But very mooch rich, Sir?

Oro. Yes.

Sbri. It does me mooch pleasure, Sir.

Oro. But why should it?

Sbri. It is, Sir, for one littel great reason for us.

Oro. But why?

Sbri. It is, Sir, dat dis Mr. Oronte his tauchter in marriage to a certain Mr. Pourgnac gifes.

Oro. Well!

Sbri. And dis Mr. Pourgnac, Sir, is one man vat owes mooch golt to ten or twelf Flemish marchants vat come here.

Oro. T his Mr. de Pourceaugnac owes a great deal to ten or twelve merchants?

Sbri. Yes, Sir; and for de last eight months ve hafe obtain one littel judgment against him, and he put off all de credeetors till dis marriage vat Mr. Oronte gifes to his tauchter.

Oro. Ho! ho! So he puts off paying his creditors till then?

Sbri. Yes, Sir; and vid great defotion ve all wait for dis marriage.

Oro. The idea is not bad. (Aloud) I wish you good day.

Sbri. I tank de gentleman for de favour great.

Oro. Your very humble servant.

Sbri. I pe, Sir, more great obliged don all py de goot news vat the Mister gife me. (Alone, after having taken off his beard, and taken off the Flemish dress which he has put over his) Things don’t go badly. All is going on swimmingly. I must throw off this disguise and think of something else. We will put so much suspicion between the father-in-law and his son-in-law that the intended marriage must come to nothing. They are both equally fit to swallow the baits that are laid for them, and it is mere child’s play for us great sharpers when we find such easy gulls.

SCENE IV.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, SBRIGANI.

MR. POUR. (THINKING himself alone). Piglialo sù, piglialo sù, Signor Monsu. What the deuce does it all mean? (Seeing Sbrigani) Ah!

Sbri. What is the matter, Sir? what ails you?

Mr. Pour. Everything I see seems injection.

Sbri. How is that?

Mr. Pour. You can’t think what has happened to me in that house where you took me.

Sbri. No! What has happened?

Mr. Pour. I thought I should be well feasted there.

Sbri. Well?

Mr. Pour. I leave you in this gentleman’s hands. Doctors dressed in black. In a chair. Feel the pulse. In proof of what I say. He is mad. Two big, fat-faced fellows, with large-brimmed hats. Buon dì, buon dì. Six pantaloons. Ta, ra, ta, toi, ta, ra, ta, ta, toi. Allegramente, Monsu Pourceaugnac. Take, Sir; take, take. It is gentle, gentle, gentle. Piglialo sù, Signor Monsu; piglialo, piglialo sù. I never was so surfeited with absurdities in all my life.

Sbri. What does it all mean?

Mr. Pour. It means, Sir, that this gentleman, with all his kissing and hugging, is a deceitful rascal, who has sent me to that house to play me some trick.

Sbri. Is it possible?

Mr. Pour. It is, indeed. They were a dozen devils at my heels, and I had all the difficulty in the world to escape out of their clutches.

Sbri. Just fancy how deceitful people’s looks are; I should have taken him for the most affectionate friend you have. It is a wonder to me how there can exist such rascals in the world.

Mr. Pour. My imagination is full of it all; and it seems to me that I see everywhere a dozen injections threatening me.

Sbri. This is really too bad! how treacherous and wicked people are!

Mr. Pour. Pray, tell me where Mr. Oronte lives. I should be glad to go there at once.

Sbri. Ah! ah! you are of a loving disposition, I see; and you have heard that Mr. Oronte has a daughter?

Mr. Pour. Yes; I am come to marry her.

Sbri. To ma … to marry her?

Mr. Pour. Yes.

Sbri. In wedlock?

Mr. Pour. How could it be otherwise?

Sbri. Oh! it is another thing, and I beg your pardon.

Mr. Pour. What is it you mean?

Sbri. Oh, nothing.

Mr. Pour. But, pray!

Sbri. Nothing, I tell you. I spoke rather hastily.

Mr. Pour. I beg of you to tell me what it is.

Sbri. No; it is not necessary.

Mr. Pour. Pray do.

Sbri. No; I beg you to excuse me.

Mr. Pour. What! are you not one of my friends?

Sbri. Yes, certainly; nobody more so.

Mr. Pour. Then you ought not to hide anything from me.

Sbri. It is a thing in which a neighbour’s honour is concerned.

Mr. Pour. That I may oblige you to treat me like a friend, here is a small ring I beg of you to keep for my sake.

Sbri. Let me consider a little if I can in conscience do it. (Goes away a small distance from Mr. de Pourceaugnac.) He is a man who looks after his own interests, who tries to provide for his daughter as advantageously as possible; and one should injure nobody. It is true that these things are no secret; but I shall be telling them to a man who knows nothing about it, and it is forbidden to talk scandal of one’s neighbour. All this is true. On the other hand, however, here is a stranger they want to impose upon, who comes in all good faith to marry a girl he knows nothing about, and whom he has never seen. A gentleman all openheartedness, for whom I feel some inclination, who does me the honour of reckoning me his friend, puts his confidence in me, and gives me a ring to keep for his sake. (To Mr. de Pourceaugnac) Yes, I think that I can tell you how things are without wounding my conscience. But I must try to tell it all to you in the mildest way possible, and to spare people as much as I can. If I were to tell you that this girl leads a bad life, it would be going too far. I must find some milder term to explain myself. The word coquette does not come up to the mark; that of downright flirt seems to me to answer the purpose pretty well, and I can make use of it to tell you honestly what she is.

Mr. Pour. They want to make a fool of me then?

Sbri. But it may not be so bad as people think; and after all, there are men who set themselves above such things, and who do not think that their honour depends upon….

Mr. Pour. I am your servant; I have no wish to adorn my person with such a head-dress, and the Pourceaugnacs are accustomed to walk with their heads free.

Sbri. Here is the father.

Mr. Pour. Who? this old man?

Sbri. Yes. Allow me to withdraw.

SCENE V.

ORONTE, MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC.

MR. POUR. GOOD morning, Sir; good morning.

Oro. Your servant, Sir; your servant.

Mr. Pour. You are Mr. Oronte; are you not?

Oro. Yes.

Mr. Pour. And I, Mr. de Pourceaugnac.

Oro. Ah, indeed!

Mr. Pour. Do you think, Mr. Oronte, that the people of Limoges are fools?

Oro. Do you think, Mr. de Pourceaugnac, that the people of Paris are asses?

Mr. Pour. Do you imagine, Mr. Oronte, that a man like me can be dying for a wife?

Oro. Do you imagine, Mr. de Pourceaugnac, that a daughter like mine can be dying for a husband?

SCENE VI.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, JULIA, ORONTE.

JUL. I HAVE just been told, father, that Mr. de Pourceaugnac has come. Ah, there he is, no doubt; my heart tells me so. How handsome he is! How splendidly he holds himself. How pleased I am to have such a husband! Give me leave to kiss him and to show him….

Oro. Softly, daughter, softly.

Mr. Pour. (aside). Heyday! At what a pace she goes, and how she takes fire!

Oro. I should very much like to know, Mr. de Pourceaugnac, for what reason you …

Jul. (approaches Mr. de Pourceaugnac, looks at him with a languishing look, and tries to take his hand). How pleased I am to see you! And how impatient I am to …

Oro. Hey! daughter, go away; will you?

Mr. Pour. (aside). What a free and easy young damsel!

Oro. I should like to know what made you have the boldness to…. (Julia continues as above.)

Mr. Pour. (aside). By Jove!

Oro. (to Julia). Again! What do you mean?

Jul. May I not kiss the husband you have chosen for me?

Oro. No; go in.

Jul. Allow me to look at him.

Oro. Go in, I tell you.

Jul. I should like to stop here, if you please.

Oro. I will not suffer it. If you do not go in immediately, I …

Jul. Very well then, I will go in.

Oro. My daughter is a foolish girl who does not understand things.

Mr. Pour. (aside). How taken she is with me!

Oro. ( to Julia, who has stopped). You won’t go.

Jul. When will yon marry me to this gentleman?

Oro. Never. You are not intended for him.

Jul. I will have him, I will have him; you promised him to me.

Oro. If I promised him to you, I take my promise back again.

Mr. Pour. (aside). She would fain eat me.

Jul. Do what you will, we will be married in spite of everybody.

Oro. I shall know how to prevent it, I forewarn you. What madness has taken hold of her?

SCENE VII.

ORONTE, MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC.

MR. POUR. I say, our intended father-in-law, don’t give yourself so much trouble; I have no intention of running away with your daughter; and your pretence won’t take at all.

Oro. And yours will in no way succeed.

Mr. Pour. Did you think that Leonardo de Pourceaugnac is a man to buy a pig in a poke, and that he has not the sense to find out what goes on in the world, and to see if, in marrying, his honour is safe?

Oro. I do not know what you mean; but did you take into your head that a man of sixty-three years old has so little common sense, and so little consideration for his daughter, as to marry her to a man who has you know what, and who was put with a doctor to be cured?

Mr. Pour. This is a trick that was practised upon me, and there is nothing the matter with me.

Oro. The doctor told us so himself.

Mr. Pour. The doctor told a lie. I am a gentleman, and I will meet him sword in hand.

Oro. I know what I ought to believe, and you can no more impose upon me in this matter than about the debts you are bound to pay on your marriage day.

Mr. Pour. What debts?

Oro. It is of no use to affect ignorance. I have seen the Flemish merchant who with other creditors obtained a decision against you eight months ago.

Mr. Pour. What Flemish merchant? What creditors? What decision obtained against me?

Oro. You know perfectly well what I mean.

SCENE VIII.

MR. DR POURCEAUGNAC, ORONTE, LUCETTE.

LUC. (PRETENDING TO be a woman from Languedoc).  Oh, yèu be yur, be’e! an’ I’ve avoun thee to làs, àrter all this yur tràepsin’ vùrwurd an’ backward. Cans thee now, yèu rascal; cans leuk me in the fae-as?

Mr. Pour. What is it this woman wants?

Luc. What do I want o’ thee, yèu villun! Thee’s mak wise neet to know me, disn? an’ thee disn turn rid nuther, èempodent oseburd that thee art! What! thee witn turn colour vur to leuk me in the fae-as! (To Oronte) I baent sàaf, Maister, nif’tis yèu that they do zay ‘ee weeshth vur to marry wi’ the darter o’? but ‘owsomever I zwear to yèu, I be the weiv o’ un, an’ that zeben yur agone when ‘ee was a travellin’ drue Pézenas, he made out, we’ ‘iz falseness, that ‘ee knowth zo wul ’ow vur act vur to come over my ‘art, an’ zo by one way or tother vur to git me vur to gèe unmy ‘an vur to marry un.

Oro. Oh! oh!

Luc. The rascal lef me dree yur àrterwurds, purtendin’ that ‘eed agot some bizness vur to deu in ‘iz own country, an’ ivur sinz I ‘ant ayeard no news at all o’ un; but when I wadn thinkin’ nothin’ ‘tall ‘bout ‘ee, I yeard ’em say as ’ow ‘ee was acomin’ yur, into this yur town, vur to be amarried agee’an wi’ another young ummun, that her father an’ mother ‘d apromised teu un athout knowin’ nothin’ ’ow that ‘ee was amarried avore. Zo I starts toràcly, an’ I be acome yur to this yur place so zeun’s ivur I pausible keud, vur to staup this yur wicked marridge, an’ vur to show op, avore all the wurld, the very wissest man that iver was.

Mr. Pour. What wonderful impudence!

Luc. Eempurence! Baent yèu ashèe’amd o’ yurzul vur to mak sport o’ me, ‘stid o’ bein’ abroke down wi’ eenward feelins, that thee wicked ‘art aurt vur to gee thee?

Mr. Pour. Do you mean to say that I am your husband?

Luc. Villun! dis dare to zay tidn zo? Ah! thee’s know wul ‘nuf, wiss luck to me, that tis all zo treu’s the Gauspel; an’ I weesh to Heben twadn zo, an’ that thee’ds alef me so èenocent an’ so quiet like eens I used to be, avore thy charms an’ thy trumpery, bad luck, made me vur to ‘sake it all! I nivur sheudn abin abrought down vur to be the pour weesh thing that I be now — vur to zee my man, cruel like, mak a laughin’ sport of all the love that I’ve a ‘ad vorn, an’ lef me athout one beet o’ pity, vur the mortal pàin I’ve abeared, ‘bout the shee’amful way ‘eev asàrd me.

Oro. Really, I feel quite ready to weep. Go! you are a wicked man!

SCENE IX.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, NÉRINE, LUCETTE, ORONTE.

NER. (PRETENDING TO be from Picardy).  Oh! Aa can stand nowt more; aa’m rait winded! Ah! good for nowt, thou’s made me run well for it; thou’lt not ‘scape me now. Joostice! Joostice! Aa forbid the weddin. (To Oronte) He’s my ain man, Mast-ther, and as sh’d joost loik to ave him stroong up, the precious hang-dog there.

Mr. Pour. Another!

Oro. What a devil of a man!

Luc. An’ what be yèu a-tullin’ o’, wai yur vurbèedin’ an’ yur ‘àngin’? Thiki man’s yo-ur ùzban, is ur?

Ner. You’re rait, Missis, an aa’m joost his woif.

Luc. That’s a lie then; ’tis me that’s the rail weiv o’ un; an eef ‘ee ought vur to be a’ànged, why ’tis me that ought vur to ‘ave it adeud.

Ner. Me; aa can mak nowt o’ that soort o’ talk.

Luc. I do tul ‘ee ’ow that I be ’is weiv.

Ner. His woif?

Luc. Ees fie!

Ner. Aa tell ye once more, that it’s me at’s joost that.

Luc. An’ I vows an’ declares as ’ow tez me, my own zul.

Ner. ‘Twere fowr yeer agone ‘at he wed me.

Luc. An’ me, tez zeben yur sinz ’e teuk me vur ‘iz weiv.

Ner. Aa can proove aal ‘at aa say.

Luc. All my naibours knowth ut.

Ner. Owr town can well witness to it.

Luc. All Pézénas zeed us amarried.

Ner. All Sin Quintin helpt at owr weddin’.

Luc. Thur cant be nort more saafur.

Ner. Nowt can be more sartin.

Luc. (to Mr. de Pourceaugnac). Dis thee dare to zay òrt gin ut, yèu villun?

Ner. (to Mr. de Pourceaugnac). Canst thou deny me, wicked man?

Mr. Pour. One is as true as the other.

Luc. What èemperence! What, yèu rogue, yèu don’t mind poor leedle Franky an’ poor leedle Jinny — they that be the outcomin’s o’ our marridge?

Ner. Joost look, there’s cheek! What! thou’s forgot yon poor cheel, owr little Maggy, ‘at thou’s lef me for a pledge o’ thy faith?

Mr. Pour. What impudent jades!

Luc. Yur Franky! Yur Jinny, come both o’ ee, come both o’ ee, come an’ mak yur bad rascal of a father own to ’ow ee’ve asàrd all o’ us.

Ner. Coom hither, Maggy, maa cheel, coom heere quick, an’ shame your fayther of th’ impudence ‘at he’s gotten.

SCENE X.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, ORONTE, LUCETTE, NÉRINE, SEVERAL CHILDREN.

CHI. FAYTHER! FAYTHER! fayther!

Mr. Pour. Deuce take the little brats!

Luc. What yèu, villun, artn thee fit to drap, vur to tak to yur chillurn arter jis farshin, an’ to keep thee eyes vàs, ‘feerd thee mids show lig a father teu ’em? Thee shetn git away vrom me, yèu scàulus oseburd! I’ll volly thee ivery place, and cry op thee wickedness ‘gin I’ve asàrd thee out, an’ ‘gin I’ve amade thee zwing. Rascal, I sheud like vur to mak thee zwing vor’t, an’ that I sheud.

Ner. Wilt not bloosh to spaik yon words, an’ to tak no thowt o’th kissin’ o’ yon poor cheel? Thou’lt not get clear o’ ma claws; aa can tell thee! an spoit o’ thy showin’ thy teeth, aa’l mak thee know ‘at aa’m thy woif, an’ aa’l mak thee hang for it.

Chi. Fayther! fayther! fayther!

Mr. Pour. Help! help! Where shall I run?

Oro. Go; you will do right to have him punished, and he richly deserves to be hanged.

SCENE XI.

SBRIGANI (alone).

EVERYTHING HAS BEEN done according to my wish, and is succeeding admirably. We will so weary out our provincial that he will only be too thankful to leave the place.

SCENE XII.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, SBRIGANI.

MR. POUR. AH! I am murdered! What vexation! What a cursed town! Assassinated everywhere!

Sbri. What is it, Sir? Has anything new happened?

Mr. Pour. Yes; it rains doctors and women in this country.

Sbri. How is that?

Mr. Pour. Two jabbering jades have just been accusing me of being married to both of them, and have threatened me with justice.

Sbri. This is a bad business, for in this country justice is terribly rigorous against that sort of crime.

Mr. Pour. Yes; but even if there should be information, citation, decree, and verdict obtained by surprise, default, and contumacy, I have still the alternative of a conflict of jurisdiction to gain time, and a resort to the means of nullity that will be found in the court case.

Sbri. The very terms, and it is easy to see that you are in the profession, Sir.

Mr. Pour. I? Certainly not; I am a gentleman.

Sbri. But to speak as you do, you must have studied the law.

Mr. Pour. Not at all. It is only common sense which tells me that I shall always be admitted to be justified by facts, and that I could not be condemned upon a simple accusation, without witnesses, evidence, and confrontation with my adverse party.

Sbri. This is more clever still.

Mr. Pour. These words come into my head without my knowledge.

Sbri. It seems to me that the common sense of a gentleman may go so far as to understand what belongs to right and the order of justice, but not to know the very terms of chicane.

Mr. Pour. They are a few words I remember from reading novels.

Sbri. Ah! I see.

Mr. Pour. To show you that I understand nothing of chicane, I beg of you to take me to a lawyer to have advice upon this affair.

Sbri. Willingly. I will take you to two very clever men; but, first, I must tell you not to be surprised at their manner of speaking. They have contracted at the bar a certain habit of declaiming which looks like singing, and you would think all they tell you is nothing but music.

Mr. Pour. It does not matter how they speak, as long as they tell me what I wish to know!

SCENE XIII.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, SBRIGANI, TWO LAWYERS, TWO ATTORNEYS, TWO SERGEANTS.

1st Lawyer (drawling out his words).
Polygamy’s a case, you find,
A case of hanging.
2nd Lawyer (singing and speaking very fast).
Your deed
Is plain and clear,
And all the gear
Of wigs and law
Upon this flaw
One verdict bear.
Consult our authors,
Legislators and glossators,
Justinian, Papinian,
Ulpian and Tribonian,
Fernand, Rebuffe, Jean Imole,
Paul Castro, Julian Barthole,
Jason, Aloyat, and Cujas
That mighty mind!
Polygamy’s a case, you’ll find,
A case of hanging.
Ballet, while the 2nd Lawyer sings as before.
All nations civilised,
French, Dutch, and English,
Portuguese, Germans, Flemish,
Italians and Spanish,
By wisdom’s sceptre swayed,
For this the self-same law have made.
The affair allows no doubt,
Polygamy’s a case,
A case of hanging.
(Mr. de Pourceaugnac, irritated, drives them all away.)

ACT III.

SCENE I.

ÉRASTE, SBRIGANI.

SBRI. YES; EVERYTHING is succeeding splendidly; and as his knowledge of things is very shallow, and his understanding of the poorest, I put him in such a terrible fright at the severity of the law in this country, and at the preparations which were already set on foot to put him to death, that he is determined to run away, and in order the better to escape from the people who, I have told him, are placed at the city gates to stop him, he has decided upon disguising himself as a woman.

Era. How I should like to see him dressed up in that way!

Sbri. Take care you carry out the farce properly; and whilst I go through my parts with him, you go and … (Whispers to him.) You understand, don’t you?

Era. Yes.

Sbri. And when I have taken him where I mean…. (Whispers.)

Era. All right.

Sbri. And when the father has been forewarned by me…. (Whispers.)

Era. Nothing could be better.

Sbri. Here is our young lady. Go quickly; she must not see us together.

SCENE II.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC (as a lady), SBRIGANI.

SBRI. FOR MY part, I don’t think any one can know you, and you look exactly like a lady of birth.

Mr. Pour. I am so astonished that in this province the forms of justice should not be observed.

Sbri. Yes; as I have already told you, they begin by hanging a man, and try him afterwards.

Mr. Pour. What unjust justice!

Sbri. It is devilishly severe, particularly on this kind of crime.

Mr. Pour. Still, when one is innocent?

Sbri. Ah me! They care little for that, and, besides, they have here a most intolerable hatred for the people of your province; and nothing gives them more pleasure than to hang a man from Limoges.

Mr. Pour. What have the people from Limoges done to them?

Sbri. How do I know? They are downright brutes, enemies to all the gentility and merit of other cities. For my part, I am in the greatest fear on your account, and I should never comfort myself if you were hanged.

Mr. Pour. It is not so much the fear of death that urges me to fly as the fact of being hanged, for it is a most degrading thing for a gentleman, and would ruin one’s title of nobility.

Sbri. You are right; after such a thing they would contest your right of bearing a title of nobility. But, be careful, when I lead you by the hand, to walk like a woman, and to assume the manners and the language of a lady of quality.

Mr. Pour. Leave that to me; I have seen people of high standing in the world. The only thing that troubles me is that I have somewhat of a beard.

Sbri. Oh! it’s not worth mentioning. There are many women who have as much. Now, let us just see how you will behave yourself. (Mr. de Pourceaugnac mimics a lady of rank.) Good.

Mr. Pour. Why, my carriage is not here! Where is my carriage? Gracious me! how wretched to have such attendants! Shall I have to wait all day in the street? Will not some one call my carriage for me?

Sbri. Very good.

Mr. Pour. Soho! there, coachman. Little page! Ah! little rogue, what a whipping you will get by and by! Little page-boy! little page-boy! Where in the world is that page-boy? Will that little page never be found? Will nobody call that little page for me? Is my little page nowhere to be found?

Sbri. Marvellous! But there is one thing that I see does not do. This hood is a little too thin; I must go and fetch you a thicker one, to hide your face better in case of any accident.

Mr. Pour. What shall I do in the meantime?

Sbri. Wait for me here. I will be back in a moment; you have only to walk about.
(Mr. de Pourceaugnac walks forward and backward on the stage, mimicking the lady of rank.)

SCENE III.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, TWO SWISS.

1ST SWISS. (WITHOUT seeing Mr. de Pourceaugnac ). Come you, make haste, mein comrad, ve vill, both of us, go to ze market-place; to zee dis Porcegnac at de chustice, which him contemns to pe hung py de neck.

2nd Swiss. (without seeing Mr. de Pourceaugnac ). Ve moost hire one vindow to zee dis chustice.

1st Swiss. Man says dat zey alreaty a great new gallow plant hafe, to hang dis Porcegnac to it.

2nd Swiss. It will pe, yes, a great pleazure to see dis Limossin hung.

1st Swiss. Ja! to see him vaggle de feet up zere pefor all de peoples!

2nd Swiss. He pe one funny man, he pe; man says dat he married dree times hafe.

1st Swiss. Ze room fellow! he vant dree wifes all to himself! one fery much pe quite enough for him.

2nd Swiss. (perceiving Mr. de Pourceaugnac.) Ah! goot tay, missy.

1st Swiss. Vat do you zere all by self.

Mr. Pour. I am waiting for my servants, gentlemen.

2nd Swiss. You pe prooty, missy?

Mr. Pour. Gently, sirs.

1st Swiss. Missy, vill you come and amuse you on de market-place? Ve will make you zee one little hanging fery prooty.

Mr. Pour. I am much obliged to you.

2nd Swiss. It is a Limossin chentleman vat will hung pe fery prootily at a great gallow.

Mr. Pour. I am not desirous to see it.

1st Swiss. You hafe one much funny prest….

Mr. Pour. Ah! this is too much! and such odious things are not said to a woman of my position.

2nd Swiss. You go avay.

1st Swiss. Me vill let not you.

2nd Swiss. Put I vill, I tell ye. (Both lay hold of Mr. de Pourceaugnac roughly.)

1st Swiss. I vill not let you.

2nd Swiss. You hafe told one fery mooch lie.

1st Swiss. You hafe told one lie yourself.

Mr. Pour. Help! help! police!

SCENE IV.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, THREE POLICE OFFICERS, TWO SWISS.

OFF. WHAT IS it? what is the meaning of this violence? and what are you doing to this lady? Be off at once, unless you wish to be put in prison.

1st Swiss. Goot, you gone, you vill not hafe her.

2nd Swiss. Goot, you gone too, you vill not hafe her also.

SCENE V.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, THREE POLICE OFFICERS.

MR. POUR. I am much obliged to you, Sir, for saving me from those insolent fellows.

Off. Oh! oh! This is a face which is deucedly like that which was described to me.

Mr. Pour. It is not I, I assure you.

Off. Oh! oh! what does this mean?

Mr. Pour. I don’t know.

Off. What is it, then, that makes you say that?

Mr. Pour. Nothing.

Off. This manner of speaking is somewhat ambiguous, and you are my prisoner.

Mr. Pour. O, Sir, I pray!

Off. No, no; to judge by your appearance and your manner of speaking, you must be that Mr. de Pourceaugnac we are looking for, although you are disguised in this manner, and you must come to prison at once.

Mr. Pour. Alas!

SCENE VI.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, SBRIGANI, THREE POLICE OFFICERS.

SBRI. (TO MR. de Pourceaugnac ). Heavens! what does this mean?

Mr. Pour. They have discovered who I am.

Off. Yes, yes; I am delighted about it.

Sbri. (to the Officer). Ah, Sir! for my sake! do not take him to prison; you know that we have been friends a long while.

Off. I cannot help it.

Sbri. You are a man to hear reason. Is there no way of adjusting this matter with the help of a few pistoles?

Off. (to his subordinates). Go farther back.

SCENE VII.

MR. DE POURCEAUGNAC, SBRIGANI, A POLICE OFFICER.

SBRI. (TO MR. de Pourceaugnac ). You must give him some money for him to let you go. Be quick.

Mr. Pour. (giving some money to Sbrigani). Ah! cursed place.

Sbri. Here, Sir.

Off. How much is there?

Sbri. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Off. No; I have express orders.

Sbri. (to the Officer, who is going). Pray wait. (To Mr. de Pourceaugnac) Be quick, give him as much again.

Mr. Pour. But …

Sbri. Be quick, I tell you; don’t waste time; you would be happy, would you not, if you were hanged?

Mr. Pour. Ah! (Gives more money to Sbrigani.)

Sbri. (to the Officer). Here, Sir.

Off. (to Sbrigani). I must go off with him, for I should not be in safety here after this. Leave him to me, and don’t stir from this place.

Sbri. I beg of you to take the utmost care of him.

Off. I promise you not to leave him one moment till I see him safe.

Mr. Pour. (to Sbrigani). Farewell! This is the first honest man I have found in this town.

SCENE VIII.

ORONTE, SBRIGANI.

SBRI. (AFFECTING NOT to see Oronte). Ah! What a strange adventure! What terrible news for a father! Poor Oronte, how much I pity you! What will you say? How will you ever be able to bear with such a misfortune?

Oro. What is it? Of what misfortune do you speak?

Sbri. Ah, Sir! This wretch of a Limousin has run away with your daughter!

Oro. Run away with my daughter!

Sbri. Yes; she became so infatuated with him that she has left you to follow him. It is said that he has a charm to make all women fall in love with him.

Oro. Quick! Justice! Let the police be set after them!

SCENE IX.

ORONTE, ÉRASTE, JULIA, SBRIGANI.

ERA. (TO JULIA). Come along; you shall come in spite of yourself. I will put you in your father’s hands. Sir, here is your daughter, whom I had to take by force from the man with whom she was running away; it is not for her sake that I did it, but entirely for yours. For, after such conduct, I ought to despise her, and it is enough to cure me altogether of my love.

Oro. Ah! infamous girl that you are!

Era. (to Julia). How could you treat me in that way, after all the proofs of affection I have given you? I do not blame you for being obedient to your father’s will; he is wise and judicious in all he does; and I do not complain of him for having preferred another to me. They told him that that other man was richer than I by four or five thousand crowns, and four or five thousand crowns are a good round sum, and are enough to make a gentleman break his word; but that you should forget in a moment all the love I had for you, suffer yourself to fall madly in love with the first new-comer, and shamefully follow him; without the consent of your father, after all the crimes that were charged upon him! It is what all the world will condemn, and what my heart can never cease to reproach you with.

Jul. Well, yes; I fell in love with him, and I wanted to follow him, since my father had chosen him to be my husband. Whatever you may say, he is a very honest man, and all the crimes they accuse him of are so many detestable falsehoods.

Oro. Be silent; you are an impertinent hussy, and I know better than you.

Jul. They are some tricks they have played him, and (showing Éraste) it is he himself, no doubt, who managed it all, to disgust you with him.

Era. What! I should be capable of such a thing?

Jul. Yes, you.

Oro. Be silent, I tell you. You are a silly girl.

Era. You need not think that I have any wish to prevent the match, and that it is because I love you that I hastened to rescue you. I have already told you that it is only because of the regard I have for your father. I could not bear to see an honourable man exposed to the shame of all the gossip that would be occasioned by such an action.

Oro. I am truly and sincerely obliged to you, Sir.

Era. Farewell, Sir! I had the greatest desire to enter into your family; I did everything to deserve such an honour; but I have been unfortunate, and you did not judge me worthy of that honour. It will not prevent me from retaining towards you all those feelings of esteem and regard which your person demands; and although I cannot be your son-in-law, I shall always be at your service.

Oro. Stay. Your behaviour touches my heart, and I give you my daughter in marriage.

Jul. I won’t have any other husband than Mr. de Pourceaugnac.

Oro. And I will have you marry Éraste at once.

Jul. No; I will not.

Oro. I shall give it you about the ears.

Era. No, no, Sir; don’t use violence towards her, I pray you.

Oro. I will have her obey me, and I will show her that I am the master.

Era. Do you not see how fast in love she is with that man; and would you have me possess the body while another has the heart?

Oro. He has thrown some charm upon her. You may be sure that she will change before long. Give me your hand. Come.

Jul. No!

Oro. Ah! What, rebellion! Your hand, I tell you, at once. Ah!

Era. Do not think that it is because of my love for you that I agree to marry you; it is your father only I am in love with, and it is him whom I marry.

Oro. I am truly obliged to you, and I add ten thousand crowns to my daughter’s portion. Quick; a notary to draw up the contract.

Era. In the meanwhile, let us enjoy the pleasures of the season, and fetch in those masks whom the report of Mr. de Pourceaugnac’s wedding has attracted hither.

SCENE X.

A BALLET

The Magnificent Lovers

Les Amants magnifiques

Translated by Charles Heron Wall

CONTENTS

THE MAGNIFICENT LOVERS

PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

FIRST INTERLUDE.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SECOND INTERLUDE.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

THIRD INTERLUDE.

ACT III.

ARISTIONE, IPHICRATES, TIMOCLES, ERIPHYLE, ANAXARCHUS, SOSTRATUS, CLITIDAS.

FOURTH INTERLUDE.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

FIFTH INTERLUDE.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SIXTH INTERLUDE.

The 1682 frontispiece

THE MAGNIFICENT LOVERS

THE SUBJECT OF this play was given by Louis XIV. It was acted before him at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, on February 4, 1670, but was never represented in Paris, and was only printed after Molière’s death. It is one of the weakest plays of Molière, upon whom unfortunately now rested the whole responsibility of the court entertainments. His attack upon astrology is the most interesting part.

Molière acted the part of Clitidas.

PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR.

THE KING, WHO will have nothing but what is magnificent in all he undertakes, wished to give his court an entertainment which should comprise all that the stage can furnish. To facilitate the execution of so vast an idea, and to link together so many different things, his Majesty chose for the subject two rival princes, who, in the lovely vale of Tempe, where the Pythian Games were to be celebrated, vie with each other in fêting a young princess and her mother with all imaginable gallantries.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

Iphicrates & Timocles, princes in love with Eriphyle.
Sostratus, a general, also in love with Eriphyle.
Anaxarchus, an astrologer.
Cleon, his son.
Chorœbus, in the suit of Aristione.
Clitidas, a court jester, one of the attendants of Eriphyle.
Aristione, a princess, mother to Eriphyle.
Eriphyle, a princess, daughter to Aristione.
Cleonice, confidante to Eriphyle.
A sham Venus, acting in concert with Anaxarchus.

FIRST INTERLUDE.

THE SCENE OPENS with the pleasant sound of a great many instruments, and represents a vast sea, bordered on each side by four large rocks. On the summit of each is a river god, leaning on the insignia usual to those deities. At the foot of these rocks are twelve Tritons on each side, and in the middle of the sea four Cupids on dolphins; behind them the god Æolus floating on a small cloud above the waves. Æolus commands the winds to withdraw; and whilst four Cupids, twelve Tritons, and eight river gods answer him, the sea becomes calm, and an island rises from the waves. Eight fishermen come out of the sea with mother-of-pearl and branches of coral in their hands, and after a charming dance seat themselves each on a rock above one of the river gods. The music announces the advent of Neptune, and while this god is dancing with his suite, the fishermen, Tritons, and river gods accompany his steps with various movements and the clattering of the pearl shells. The spectacle is a magnificent compliment paid by one of the princes to the princesses during their maritime excursion.

Æolus.

Ye winds that cloud the fairest skies,
  Retire within your darkest caves,
  And leave the realm of waves
To Zephyr, Love, and sighs.

A Triton.

What lovely eyes these moist abodes have pierced?
Ye mighty Tritons, come; ye Nereids, hide.

All the Tritons.

Then rise we all these deities fair to meet;
With softest strains and homage let us greet
Their beauty rare.

A Cupid.

How dazzling are these ladies’ charms!

Another Cupid.

What heart but seeing them must yield?

Another Cupid.

The fairest of th’ Immortals — arms
So keen hath none to wield.

Chorus.

Then rise we all these deities fair to meet;
With softest strains and homage let us greet
Their beauty rare.

A Triton.

What would this noble train that meets our view?
’Tis Neptune! He and all his mighty crew!
He comes to honour, with his presence fair,
These lovely scenes, and charm the silent air.

Chorus.

Then strike again,
And raise your strain,
And let your homes around
With joyous songs resound!

Neptune.

I rank among the gods of greatest might;
’Tis Jove himself hath placed me on this height!
Alone, as king, I sway the azure wave;
In all this world there’s none my power to brave.

There are no lands on earth my might that know
But trembling dread that o’er their meads I flow;
No states, o’er which the boisterous waves I tread
In one short moment’s space I cannot spread.

There’s nought the raging billows’ force can stay,
No triple dike, but e’en it easily
My waves can crush,
When rolls along their mass with wildest rush.

And yet these billows fierce I force to yield,
Beneath the wisdom of the power I wield;
And everywhere I let the sailors bold
Where’er they list their trading courses hold.

Yet rocks sometimes are found within my states,
Where ships do perish, so doomed by fates;
Yet ‘gainst my power none murmurs aye,
For Virtue knows no wreck where’er I sway.

A Sea God.

Within this realm are many treasures bright;
  All mortals crowd its pleasant shores to view.
And would you climb of fame the dazzling height,
  Then seek nought else, but Neptune’s countenance sue.

Second Sea God.

Then trust the god of this vast billowy realm,
And shielded from all storms, you’ll guide the helm;
The waves would fain inconstant often be,
But ever constant Neptune you will see.

Third Sea God.

Launch then with dauntless zeal, and plough the deep;
Thus shall you Neptune’s kindly favour reap.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SOSTRATUS, CLITIDAS.

CLI. (ASIDE). HE is buried in thought.

Sos. (believing himself alone). No, Sostratus, I do not see where you can look for help, and your troubles are of a kind to leave you no hope.

Cli. (aside). He is talking to himself.

Sos. (believing himself alone). Alas!

Cli. These sighs must mean something, and my surmise will prove correct.

Sos. (believing himself alone). Upon what fancies can you build any hope? And what else can you expect but the protracted length of a miserable existence, and sorrow to end only with life itself.

Cli. (aside). His head is more perplexed than mine.

Sos. (believing himself alone). My heart! my heart! to what have you brought me?

Cli. Your servant, my Lord Sostratus!

Sos. Where are you going, Clitidas?

Cli. Rather tell me what you are doing here? And what secret melancholy, what gloomy sorrow, can keep you in these woods when all are gone in crowds to the magnificent festival which the Prince Iphicrates has just given upon the sea to the princesses. There they are treated to wonderful music and dancing, and even the rocks and the waves deck themselves with divinities to do homage to their beauty.

Sos. I can fancy all this magnificence, and as there are generally so many people to cause confusion at these festivals, I did not care to increase the number of unwelcome guests.

Cli. You know that your presence never spoils anything, and that you are never in the way wherever you go. Your face is welcome everywhere, and is not one of those ill-favoured countenances which are never well received by sovereigns. You are equally in favour with both princesses, and the mother and the daughter show plainly enough the regard they have for you; so that you need not fear to be accounted troublesome. In short, it was not this fear that kept you away.

Sos. I acknowledge that I have no inclination for such things.

Cli. Oh indeed! Yet, although we may not care to see things, we like to go where we find everybody else; and whatever you may say, people do not, during a festival, stop all alone among the trees to dream moodily as you do, unless they have something to disturb their minds.

Sos. Why? What do you think could disturb my mind?

Cli. Well, I can’t say; but there is a strong scent of love about here, and I am sure it does not come from me, and it must come from you.

Sos. How absurd you are, Clitidas!

Cli. Not so absurd as you would make out. You are in love; I have a delicate nose, and I smelt it directly.

Sos. What can possibly make you think so?

Cli. What? I daresay you would be very much surprised if I were to tell you besides with whom you are in love.

Sos. I?

Cli. Yes; I wager that I will guess presently whom you love. I have some secrets, as well as our astrologer with whom the Princess Aristione is so infatuated; and if his science makes him read in the stars the fate of men, I have the science of reading in the eyes of people the names of those they love. Hold up your head a little, and open your eyes wide. E, by itself, E; r, i, ri, Eri; p, h, y, phy, Eriphy; l, e, le, Eriphyle. You are in love with the Princess Eriphyle.

Sos. Ah! Clitidas, I cannot conceal my trouble from you, and you crush me with this blow.

Cli. You see how clever I am!

Sos. Alas! if anything has revealed to you the secret of my heart, I beseech you to tell it to no one; and, above all things, to keep it secret from the fair princess whose name you have just mentioned.

Cli. But, to speak seriously, if for awhile I have read in your actions the love you wish to keep secret, do you think that the Princess Eriphyle has been blind enough not to see it? Believe me, ladies are always very quick to discover the love they inspire, and the language of the eyes and of sighs is understood by those to whom it is addressed sooner than by anybody else.

Sos. Leave her, Clitidas, leave her to read, if she can, in my sighs and looks the love with which her beauty has inspired me; but let us be careful not to let her find it out in any other way.

Cli. And what is it you dread? Is it possible that this same Sostratus, who feared neither Brennus nor all the Gauls, and whose arm has been so gloriously successful in ridding us of that swarm of barbarians which ravaged Greece; is it possible, I say, that a man so dauntless in war should be so fearful as to tremble at the very mention of his being in love?

Sos. Ah! Clitidas, I do not tremble without a cause; and all the Gauls in the world would seem to me less to be feared than those two beautiful eyes full of charms.

Cli. I am not of the same opinion, and I know, as far as I am concerned, that one single Gaul, sword in hand, would frighten me much more than fifty of the most beautiful eyes in the world put together. But, tell me, what do you intend to do?

Sos. To die without telling my love.

Cli. A fine prospect! Nonsense, you are joking; you know that a little boldness always succeeds with lovers; it is only the bashful and timid who are losers; and were I to fall in love with a goddess, I would tell her of my passion at once.

Sos. Alas! too many things condemn my love to an eternal silence.

Cli. But what?

Sos. The lowness of my birth, by which it pleased heaven to humble the ambition of my love; the princess’s rank, which puts between her and my desires such an impassable barrier. The rivalry of two princes who can back the offer of their heart by the highest titles; two princes who offer the most magnificent entertainments by turn to her whose heart they strive to win, and between whom it is expected every moment that she will make a choice. Besides all this, Clitidas, there is the inviolable respect to which she subjugates the violence of my love.

Cli. Respect is not always as welcome as love; and if I am not greatly mistaken, the young princess knows of your affection, and is not insensible to it.

Sos. Ah! pray do not, out of pity, flatter the heart of a miserable lover.

Cli. I do not say it without good reasons. She is a long time postponing the choice of a husband, and I must try and discover a little more about all this. You know that I enjoy a kind of favour with her, that I have free access to her, and that, by dint of trying all kinds of ways, I have gained the privilege of saying a word now and then, and of speaking at random on any subject. Sometimes I do not succeed as I should like, but at others I succeed very well. Leave it to me, then; I am your friend, I love men of merit, and I will choose my time to speak to the princess of ...

Sos. Oh! for heaven’s sake, however much you may pity my misfortune, Clitidas, be careful not to tell her anything of my love. I had rather die than to be accused by her of the least temerity, and this deep respect in which her divine charms ...

Cli. Hush! they are all coming.

SCENE II.

ARISTIONE, IPHICRATES, TIMOCLES, SOSTRATUS ANAXARCHUS, CLEON, CLITIDAS.

ARI. (TO IPHICRATES). Prince, I cannot say too much, there is no spectacle in the world which can vie in magnificence with this one you have just given us. This entertainment had wonderful attractions, which will make it surpass all that can ever be seen. We have witnessed something so noble, so grand and glorious that heaven itself could do no more; and I feel sure there is nothing in the world that could be compared to it.

Tim. This is a display that cannot be expected in all entertainments, and I greatly fear, Madam, for the simplicity of the little festival which I am preparing to give you in the wood of Diana.

Ari. I feel sure that we shall see nothing there but what is delightful; and we must acknowledge that the country ought to appear very beautiful to us, and that we have no time left for dulness in this charming place, which all poets have celebrated under the name of Tempe. For, not to mention the pleasures of hunting, which we can enjoy at any hour, and the solemnity of the Pythian Games which are about to be celebrated, you both take care to supply us with pleasures that would charm away the sorrows of the most melancholy. How is it, Sostratus, that we did not meet you in our walks?

Sos. A slight indisposition, Madam, prevented me from going there.

IPH. Sostratus is one of those men who think it unbecoming to be curious like others, and who esteem it better to affect not to go where everybody is anxious to be.

Sos. My Lord, affectation has little share in anything I do, and, without paying you a compliment, there were things to be seen in this festival which would have attracted me if some other motive had not hindered me.

Ari. And has Clitidas seen it all?

Cli. Yes, Madam, but from the shore.

Ari. And why from the shore?

Cli. Well, Madam, I feared one of those accidents which generally happen in such large crowds. Last night I dreamt of dead fish and broken eggs, and I have learnt from Anaxarchus that broken eggs and dead fish forebode ill luck.

Ana. I observe one thing, that Clitidas would have nothing to say if he did not speak of me.

Cli. It is because there are so many things that can be said of you that one can never say too much.

Ana. You might choose some other subject of conversation, particularly since I have asked you to do so.

Cli. How can I? Do you not say that destiny is stronger than everything? And if it is written in the stars that I shall speak of you, how can I resist my fate?

Ana. With all the respect due to you, Madam, allow me to say that there is one thing in your court which it is sad to find there. It is that everybody takes the liberty of talking, and that the most honourable man is exposed to the scoffing of the first buffoon he meets.

Cli. I thank you for the honour you do me.

Ari. (to Anaxarchus). Why be put out by what he says?

Cli. With all due respect to you, Madam, there is one thing which amazes me in astrology; it is that people who know the secrets of the gods, and who have such knowledge as to place themselves above all other men, should have need of paying court and of asking for anything.

Ana. This is a paltry joke, and you should earn your money by giving your mistress wittier and better ones.

Cli. Upon my word, I give what I have. You speak most comfortably about it; the trade of a buffoon is not like that of an astrologer. To tell lies well and to joke well are things altogether different, and it is far easier to deceive people than to make them laugh.

Ari. Ha! what is the meaning of that?

Cli. (speaking to himself). Peace, fool that you are! Do you not know that astrology is an affair of state, and that you must not play upon that string? I have often told you that you are getting a great deal too bold, and that you take certain liberties which will bring trouble upon you. You will see that some day you will be kicked out like a knave. Hold your peace if you be wise.

Ari. Where is my daughter?

Tim. She is gone away, Madam. I offered her my arm, which she refused to accept.

Ari. Princes, since in your love for Eriphyle you have consented to submit to the laws I had imposed upon you, since it has been possible for me to obtain that you should be rivals without being enemies, and that, with a full submission to my daughter’s feelings, you are waiting for her choice, speak to me openly and tell me what progress you each think you have made on her heart.

Tim. Madam, I do not mean to flatter myself; but I have done all that I possibly could to touch the heart of the Princess Eriphyle. I have neglected none of the tender means that a lover should adopt. I have offered her the humble homage of my great love, I have been assiduous near her, I have attended on her daily. I have had my love sung by the most touching voices, and expressed in verse by the most skilful pens. I have complained in passionate terms of my sufferings. My eyes, as well as my words, have told her of my despair and my love. I have laid my love at her feet; I have even had recourse to tears, but all in vain, and I have failed to see that in her soul she was in any way touched by my love.

Ari. And you, Prince?

Iph. For my part, Madam, knowing her indifference and the little value she sets upon the homage that is paid to her, I did not mean to waste either sighs or tears upon her. I know that she is entirely submissive to your wishes, and that it is from you alone that she will accept a husband; therefore it is to you alone that I can address my wishes for her hand, to you rather than to her that I offer my homage and my attentions. Would to heaven, Madam, that you could bring yourself to take her place, enjoy the conquests which you make for her, and receive for yourself the affections which you refer to her!

Ari. Prince, the compliment comes from a cunning lover. You have heard that the mothers must be flattered in order to obtain the daughters from them; but here however, this will be useless, for I have determined to, leave my daughter entirely free in her choice, and in no way to thwart her inclination.

Iph. However free you leave her in her choice, what I tell you is no flattery, Madam. I court the Princess Eriphyle only because she is your daughter, and I think her charming in that which she inherits from you; and it is you whom I adore in her.

Ari. That is very pretty.

Iph. Yes, Madam, all the earth beholds in you charms and attractions....

Ari. Ah! Prince, pray, let us leave those charms and attractions; you know that these are words I banish from the compliments that are paid to me. I can endure to be praised for my sincerity, to be called a good princess, for it is true that I have a kind word for everybody, love for my friends and esteem for merit and virtue; yes, I can enjoy all that; but as for your charms and attractions, I had rather have nothing to do with them, and whatever truth there may be in them, one should make a scruple of wishing to be praised when one is mother to a daughter like mine.

Iph. Ah! Madam. It is you only who will remind everyone that you are a mother; everybody’s feelings are against it, and it depends entirely on yourself to pass for the sister of the Princess Eriphyle.

Ari. Believe me, Prince, I have no relish for all this idle nonsense, so welcome to too many women, I wish to be a mother, because I am one, and it would be in vain to wish to be otherwise. This title has nothing that wounds me, since I received it by my own consent. It is a weakness in our sex, from which, thank heaven! I am free, and I do not trouble myself about those grand discussions concerning ages about which there is so much folly. Let us resume what we were saying. Is it possible that until now you have been unable to discover my daughter’s feelings?

Iph. They are a secret to me.

Tim. And to me an impenetrable mystery.

Ari. She may be prevented by modesty from explaining herself either to you or to me. Let us make use of another to try and discover what she feels. Sostratus, take this message upon yourself for me, and oblige these princes by skilfully trying to discover towards which of the two my daughter’s feeling are inclined.

Sos. Madam, you have a great many people in your court who are better qualified than I for such a delicate mission, and I feel little fit to do what you ask of me.

Ari. Your merit, Sostratus, is not confined to the business of war only. You have brain, tact, and skill, and my daughter greatly esteems you.

Sos. Another better than I, Madam....

Ari. No, no, in vain you excuse yourself.

Sos. Since it is your wish, Madam, I must obey; but I assure you that there is not one person in the whole of your court who would be less qualified for such a commission than myself.

Ari. You are too modest, and you will always acquit yourself well in whatever is entrusted to you. Sound my daughter gently on her feelings, and remind her that she must be early at the wood of Diana.

SCENE III.

IPHICRATES, TIMOCLES, SOSTRATUS, CLITIDAS.

IPH. (TO SOSTRATUS). I assure you that I rejoice to see you held in such esteem by the princess.

Tim. (to Sostratus). I assure you that I am delighted that the choice should have fallen on you.

Iph. You have it now in your power to serve your friends.

Tim. You will be able to do good service to those you esteem.

Iph. I do not commend my interests to you.

Tim. I do not ask you to speak for me.

Sos. My Lords, all this is useless. I should be wrong to exceed my orders, and you will excuse me if I speak for neither.

Iph. I leave it to you to do as you please.

Tim. Do exactly as you think best.

SCENE IV.

IPHICRATES, TIMOCLES, CLITIDAS.

IPH. (ASIDE TO Clitidas). Well, Clitidas, remember that he is one of my friends. I hope he will still forward my interests with the princess against those of my rival.

Cli. (aside to Iphicrates). You may trust me. There is a great difference between you and him. He is a fine prince, indeed, to dispute it with you.

Iph. (aside to Clitidas). I will not forget such a service.

SCENE V.

TIMOCLES, CLITIDAS.

TIM. MY RIVAL pays his court to Clitidas; but Clitidas knows that he has promised to help me in my love against him.

Cli. Certainly. How very absurd to think of carrying the day against you. A fine gentleman, indeed, to be compared with you!

Tim. There is nothing I could not do for Clitidas.

Cli. (alone). Plenty of fine words on all sides! But here is the princess; we will take our opportunity to speak to her.

SCENE VI.

ERIPHYLE, CLEONICE.

CLEON. IT WILL be thought strange, Madam, that you should keep away from everybody.

Eri. Ah! to persons like us, always surrounded by so many indifferent people, how pleasant is solitude! How sweet to be left alone to commune with one’s thoughts when one has had to bear with so much trifling conversation. Leave me alone to walk a few moments by myself.

Cleon. Would you not like for a moment to see what those wonderful people, who are desirous of serving you, can do? It seems by their steps and gestures they can express everything to the eye. They are called pantomimists. I feared to pronounce that word before you, and there are some in your court who would not forgive me for using it.

Eri. You seem to me to propose some strange entertainment; for you never fail to introduce indifferently all that presents itself to you, and you have a kind welcome for everything. Therefore to you alone do we see all necessitous Muses have recourse. You are the great patroness of all merit in distress, and all virtuous indigents knock at your door.

Cleon. If you do not care to see them, Madam, you have only to say so.

Eri. No, no; let us see them. Bring them here.

Cleon. But, Madam, their dancing may be bad.

Eri. Bad or not, let us see it. It would only be putting off the thing with you. It is just as well to have it over.

Cleon. To-day it will only be an ordinary dance, Madam. Another time ...

Eri. No more about it, Cleonice. Let them dance.

SECOND INTERLUDE.

THE CONFIDANTE OF the young Princess calls forth three dancers under the name of pantomimists; that is, men who express all sorts of things by their movements. The Princess sees them dance, and receives them into her service.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

ERIPHYLE, CLEONICE.

ERI. THIS IS admirable! I do not think any dancing could ever be better; and I am glad to have them belonging to me.

Cleon. And I am very glad, Madam, for you to see that my taste is not so bad as you thought.

Eri. Do not be so triumphant. You won’t be long before giving me my revenge. Leave me alone here.

SCENE II.

ERIPHYLE, CLEONICE, CLITIDAS.

CLEON. (GOING TO meet Clitidas). I warn you, Clitidas, that the princess wishes to be alone.

Cli. Leave that to me. I understand court etiquette.

SCENE III.

ERIPHYLE, CLITIDAS.

CLI. (SINGING). LA, la, la, la. (Affecting surprise on seeing Eriphyle.) Ah!

Eri. (to Clitidas, who affects to go away). Clitidas!

Cli. I did not see, you, Madam.

Eri. Come near. Where have you been?

Cli. With the princess your mother, who was just going towards the temple of Apollo, accompanied by a great many people.

Eri. Do you not think this one of the most charming places in the world?

Cli. Certainly. The two princes, your lovers, were there.

Eri. The river Peneus has here the most charming windings.

Cli. Very charming. Sostratus was there also.

Eri. How is it that he was not with us to-day?

Cli. He has something on his mind which prevents him from taking any pleasure in all those beautiful entertainments. He wanted to tell me something; but you have so expressly forbidden me to intercede for any one to you that I would not hear him, and I told him flatly that I had no leisure.

Eri. You were wrong to say such a thing to him, and you ought to have heard him.

Cli. I told him at first that I was not at leisure to hear him; but afterwards I listened to what he had to say.

Eri. You did well.

Cli. In fact, he is a man after my own heart; a man with all the manners and qualities I should like to see in all men. He never assumes boisterous manners and provoking tones of voice, but is prudent and careful in everything. He never speaks but to the point, is never hasty in his decisions, is never annoying by his exaggerations. However fine may be the verses our poets repeat to him, I have never heard him say, “This is more beautiful than anything that Homer ever wrote.” In short, he is a man to my taste; and if I were a princess, I would not see him unhappy.

Eri. He is evidently a man of great merit; but what had he to say to you?

Cli. He asked me if you were very pleased with the royal entertainments that are offered to you. He spoke of your person with the greatest transports of delight, extolled you to the sky, and gave you all the praises that could be given to the most accomplished princess in the world, and with all this uttering many sighs which told me more than he thought. At last, by dint of questioning him in all kinds of ways, and pressing him to tell me the cause of his melancholy, which is noticed by everyone at court, he was forced to acknowledge that he is in love.

Eri. How, in love? What boldness is this? I will never see him again.

Cli. What are you offended at, Madam?

Eri. To be audacious enough to love me, and, moreover, to dare to say it!

Cli. It is not with you he is in love, Madam.

Eri. Not with me?

Cli. No; he has too much respect for you, and he is too wise to do such a thing.

Eri. With whom, then, Clitidas?

Cli. With one of your maids-of-honour, the young Arsinoë.

Eri. Is she so very beautiful that he can think none but her worthy of his love?

Cli. He loves her to distraction, and entreats you to honour his love with your protection.

Eri. Me!

Cli. No, no, Madam; I see that this offends you. Your anger forced me to make use of this subterfuge; and, to tell you the truth, it is you he loves to distraction.

Eri. You are an insolent knave to come thus to sound my feelings. Out of my sight this moment! Do you pretend to read people’s thoughts and penetrate into the secrets of a princess’s heart? Away with you; let me never see your face again.... Clitidas!

Cli. Madam.

Eri. Come here. I forgive you this affair.

Cli. You are too kind, Madam.

Eri. But on condition — mind what I say — that you will never mention it to anybody, at the peril of your life.

Cli. Enough.

Eri. Then Sostratus told you that he loved me?

Cli. No, Madam; I must now tell you the whole truth. I got from him by surprise a secret he intended to conceal from all the world, and which he said he would wish to die with him. He was in despair when I wrenched it with subtlety from him; and, far from asking me to tell you of it, he entreated me with the most earnest prayers never to reveal anything to you; and I have committed a piece of treachery against him by telling you what I have said.

Eri. I am glad of it. It is by his respect only that he can please me; and if he were bold enough to tell me of his love, he would forfeit for ever both my presence and my esteem.

Cli. Do not fear, Madam ...

Eri. Here he is. Remember, if you are wise, what I have forbidden you.

Cli. Certainly, Madam; I have no wish to be an indiscreet courtier.

SCENE IV.

ERIPHYLE, SOSTRATUS.

SOS. I HAVE an excuse, Madam, for daring to disturb your solitude. I have received from the princess your mother a mission which authorises the bold step I now take.

Eri. What mission is it, Sostratus?

Sos. To try, to learn from you, Madam, towards which of the two princes your heart inclines?

Eri. The princess my mother shows a judicious spirit in choosing you for such a message. This mission is very pleasant to you, no doubt, Sostratus, and you must have accepted it with great joy?

Sos. I have accepted it, Madam, because my duty obliges me to obey; and if the princess had kindly listened to my excuses, she would have appointed another for the task.

Eri. What reason could you have had, Sostratus, for refusing it?

Sos. The fear of not acquitting myself well.

Eri. Do you think that I have not enough esteem for you to open my heart to you, and say all you wish to know from me about the two princes?

Sos. As far as I am concerned, Madam, I have no desire to know anything; I only ask you what you think you can say in answer to the commands which bring me here.

Eri. Until now I have had no wish to explain myself, and the princess my mother has kindly allowed me to put off the choice which is to bind me. But I should be glad to show to everyone that I am willing to do something for your sake; and if you insist, I may give you this long expected verdict.

Sos. I will not importune you, Madam, and urge a princess who knows well what she has to do.

Eri. Yet it is what the princess my mother expects from you.

Sos. I told her that I was sure to acquit myself but badly of my message.

Eri. Well, tell me, Sostratus; you have far-seeing eyes, and I believe that there are few things that escape you. Have you not been able to discover what everybody is anxious to know? Have you no idea of the inclination of my heart? You see all the attentions that are bestowed on me, all the homage that is paid to me. Which of these two princes do you think I look upon with a most favourable eye?

Sos. The conjectures we make upon such matters generally arise from the greater or less interest we take.

Eri. Which would you prefer of the two, Sostratus? Tell me which one you would have me marry?

Sos. Ah! Madam! your inclination, not my wishes, must decide the matter.

Eri. But if I wished to consult you in this choice?

Sos. If you were to consult me, I should feel very much perplexed.

Eri. You could not tell me which of the two you think most worthy of preference?

Sos. If I were to be judge, I should find no one worthy of that honour. All the princes of the world would be too mean to aspire to you; the gods alone can pretend to you, and you would have from men but incense and sacrifice.

Eri. This is very kind, and I esteem you my friend. But I must have you tell me for which of the two you feel the greatest inclination, and which is the one you reckon your friend?

SCENE V.

ERIPHYLE, SOSTRATUS, CHORŒBUS.

CHO. MADAM, THE princess is coming to fetch you to go to the wood of Diana.

Sos. (aside). Alas! how seasonably you came in.

SCENE VI.

ARISTIONE, ERIPHYLE, IPHICRATES, TIMOCLES, SOSTRATUS, ANAXARCHUS, CLITIDAS.

ARI. YOU ARE asked for, my daughter, and there are some who are much pained by your absence.

Eri. I should think, Madam, that they only asked after me out of compliment, and that no one is as pained as you say.

Ari. There are so many entertainments made for your sake that all our time is taken up, and we have not a moment to lose if we wish to see them all. Let us enter the wood at once, and see what awaits us there. This is the most beautiful place in the world. Let us take our seats quickly.

THIRD INTERLUDE.

THE STAGE REPRESENTS a forest where the Princess has been invited to go. A Nymph does the honours, singing; and to amuse the Princess, a small musical comedy is played, the subject of which is as follows: — A shepherd complains to two other shepherds, his friends, of the coldness of her whom he loves; the two friends comfort him; at that moment the beloved shepherdess appears, and all three retire to observe her. After a plaintive love-song, she reclines on the turf, and gives way to sweet slumber. The lover makes his two friends approach to contemplate the beauty of his shepherdess, and invokes everything to contribute to her rest. The shepherdess, on waking up, sees her swain at her feet, complains of his persecution; but taking his constancy into consideration, she grants him his wish, and consents to be loved by him, in the presence of his two friends. The Satyrs arrive, upbraid her with her change, and, distressed by the disgrace into which they have fallen, look for comfort in wine.

Climene, Philinte.

Philinte.

There was a time I pleased you well,
Content I lived, and loved the spell;
I had not changed for god or throne
The sway o’er you I held alone.

Climene.

So, when by gentle passion swayed,
You held me dear above all maid,
The regal crown I would have spurned
If for me still your heart had burned.

Philinte.

Another’s faith hath cured the wound
I nursed for you within my breast.

Climene.

Another’s love for me hath found
Revenge I sought, and kindly rest.

Philinte.

Chloris the fair true passion sways,
  For me she pours her soul in sighs,
And I would gladly close my days
  If so should bid her beauteous eyes.

Climene.

Myrtil, of youthful hearts the flower,
  He loves me true e’en more than light;
And I, to prove love’s mighty power,
  Content, would pass to endless night.

Philinte.

But if our passion’s gentle ray
  A lingering spark would kindle anew,
And from my heart expel to-day
  Chloris the fair, thy love to sue?

Climene.

Though Myrtil loves me true,
  Though constant e’er to sigh,
Still, I confess, with you
  I’d gladly live and die.

Both (together).

‘Midst love then more than ever let us fleet
The lingering hours, and own a bond so sweet.

Ballet, Divertissement, etc.

ACT III.

ARISTIONE, IPHICRATES, TIMOCLES, ERIPHYLE, ANAXARCHUS, SOSTRATUS, CLITIDAS.

ARI. WE MUST always repeat the same words. We have always to exclaim: This is admirable! Wonderful! It is beyond all that has ever been seen.

Tim. You bestow too much praise on these trifles, Madam.

Ari. Such trifles may agreeably engage the thoughts of the most serious people. Indeed, my daughter, you have cause to be thankful to these princes, and you can never repay all the trouble they take for you.

Eri. I am deeply grateful for it, Madam.

Ari. And yet you make them languish a long time for what they expect from you. I have promised not to constrain you; but their love claims from you a declaration that you should not put off any longer the reward of their attentions. I had asked Sostratus to sound your heart, but I do not know if he has begun to acquit himself of his commission.

Eri. Yes, Madam, he has. But it seems to me that I cannot put off too long the decision which is asked of me, and that I could not give it without incurring some blame. I feel equally thankful for the love, attentions, and homage of these two princes, and I think it a great injustice to show myself ungrateful either to the one or to the other by the refusal I must make of one in preference to his rival.

Iph. We should call this, Madam, a very pretty way of refusing us both.

Ari. This scruple, daughter, should not stop you; and those two princes have both long since agreed to submit to the preference you show.

Eri. Our inclinations easily deceive us, Madam, and disinterested hearts are more able to make a right choice.

Ari. You know that I have engaged my word to give no opinion upon this matter, and you cannot make a bad choice when you have to choose between these two princes.

Eri. In order not to do violence either to your promise or to my scruples, Madam, pray agree to what I shall propose.

Ari. And what is that, my daughter?

Eri. I should like Sostratus to decide for me. You chose him to try to discover the secret of my heart; suffer me to choose him to end the perplexity I am in.

Ari. I have such a high regard for Sostratus that, whether you mean to employ him to explain your feelings or to leave him entirely to decide for you, I consent heartily to this proposition.

Iph. Which means, Madam, that we must pay our court to Sostratus.

Sos. No, my Lord, you will have no court to pay to me; and with all the respect due to the princesses, I refuse the glory to which they would raise me.

Ari. How is that, Sostratus?

Sos. I have reasons, Madam, which do not allow me to accept the honour you would do me.

Iph. Are you afraid, Sostratus, of making yourself an enemy?

Sos. I should have but little fear for the enemies I might make in obeying the will of my sovereigns.

Tim. Why, then, do you refuse to accept the power which is entrusted to you, and to acquire to yourself the friendship of a prince who would owe all his happiness to you?

Sos. Because it is not in my power to grant to that prince what he would wish from me.

Iph. What reason can you have?

Sos. Why should you so insist upon this? Perhaps I may have, my Lord, some secret interest opposed to the pretensions of your love. Perhaps I may have a friend who burns with a respectful flame for the divine charms with which you are in love. Perhaps that friend makes me the daily confidant of his sufferings, that he complains to me of the rigour of his fate, and is looking upon the marriage of the princess as the dreadful sentence which is to send him to his grave. Supposing it were so, my Lord, would it be right that he should receive his death-wound from my hands?

Iph. You seem to me, Sostratus, very likely to be that friend whose interests you have so much at heart.

Sos. I beg of you, my Lord, not to render me odious tote persons who hear you. I know what I am, and unfortunate people like me are not ignorant of the limits which fortune assigned to their desires.

Ari. Let us drop this subject; we will find means for overcoming my daughter’s irresolution.

Ana. Are there better means of arriving at a conclusion that would satisfy everybody than to consult the light which heaven can give us on that marriage? I have already begun, as I told you, to cast the mysterious figures which our art teaches us; and I hope soon to be able to show you what the future has in reserve regarding this longed for union. After that, who can still hesitate? Will not the glory or the prosperity which will be promised to one or the other be choice sufficient to decide it, and can he who is rejected be offended when heaven itself decides who is to be preferred?

Iph. For my part, I submit to it altogether, and I declare that this way seems the most reasonable.

Tim. I am entirely of the same opinion, and whatever heaven may decide, I yield to it without reluctance.

Eri. But, my Lord Anaxarchus, do you really read so clearly destiny that you can never be deceived? And pray, who will give us security for this prosperity, this glory which you say heaven promises us?

Ari. My daughter, you have a little incredulity which never leaves you.

Ana. The proofs, Madam, which everybody has seen, of the infallibility of my predictions are sufficient security for the promises I make. But, in short, when I have shown you what heaven has in reserve for you, you may act as you please, and choose one or the other destiny.

Eri. Heaven, you say, Anaxarchus, will show me the good or bad destiny that is in reserve for me?

Ana. Yes, Madam; the felicity with which you will be blessed if you marry the one, and the misery that will accompany you if you marry the other.

Eri. But since it is impossible for me to marry them both at once, it seems that we find written in the heavens not only what is to happen, but also what is not to happen.

Cli. (aside). Here is a puzzler for our astrologer!

Ana. I should have to give you, Madam, a long dissertation on the principles of astrology to make you understand this.

Cli. Well answered. I have no harm, Madam, to say of astrology; astrology is a fine thing. My Lord Anaxarchus is a great man.

Iph. The truth of astrology is an incontestable fact, and no one can dispute the certainty of its predictions.

Cli. Certainly not.

Tim. I am incredulous enough in many things, but as regards astrology, there is nothing more sure or constant than the certainty of the horoscopes it draws.

Cli. The things are as clear as daylight.

Iph. A hundred accidents happen every day which convince the greatest unbelievers.

Cli. Quite true.

Tim. Who could contradict the many famous incidents which are related to us in books?

Cli. Only people devoid of common sense can do so; how can anything in print be doubted?

Ari. Sostratus has not said a word yet. What is your opinion about it?

Sos. Madam, all minds are not gifted with the necessary qualities which the delicacy of those fine sciences called abstruse require. There are some so material that they cannot conceive what others understand most easily. There is nothing more agreeable, Madam, than all the great promises of these sublime sciences. To transform everything into gold; to cause people to live for ever; to cure with words; to make ourselves loved by whomsoever we please; to know all the secrets of futurity; to bring down from heaven, according to one’s will, on metals, impressions of happiness; to command demons, to raise invisible armies and invulnerable soldiers — all this is delightful, no doubt; and there are people who experience no difficulty whatever in believing all this to be possible; it is the easiest thing for them to conceive. But for me, I acknowledge that my coarse, gross mind can hardly understand and refuses to believe it; that, in fact, it thinks it all too good ever to be true. All those beautiful arguments of sympathy, magnetic power, and occult virtue, are so subtle and delicate that they escape my material understanding; and, without speaking of anything else, it has never been in my power to conceive how there is to be found in the heavens even the smallest particulars of the fortune of the least of men. What relation, what connection, what reciprocity, can there be between us and globes so immeasurably distant from our earth? And how, besides, can this sublime science have come to man? What god revealed it? or what experience can have been formed from the observation of that immense number of stars which have never as yet been seen twice in the same order?

Ana. It would not be hard to make you conceive it.

Sos. You would be more clever than all the others.

Cli. (to Sostratus). He will deliver you a long discussion about all this whenever you please.

Iph. If you do not understand such things, you can at least believe what is seen every day.

Sos. As my understanding is so gross that I never could understand anything, my eyes also are unfortunate enough never to have witnessed anything relating to it.

Iph. For my part, I have seen things altogether convincing.

Tim. So have I.

Sos. Since you have seen, you do well to believe; and your eyes must be differently made from mine.

Iph. But, in short, the princess believes in astrology; and I think we may well, after her example, believe in it also. Would you say that Madam has not intelligence and sense, Sostratus?

Sos. My Lord, your question is rather unfair. The mind of the princess is no rule for mine, and her understanding may raise her to light, which I, in my meaner sense, cannot reach.

Ari. No, Sostratus; I shall say nothing to you about many things to which I give no more credence than you do; but as for astrology, I have been told and been shown things so positive that I cannot doubt them.

Sos. Madam, I have nothing to answer to that.

Ari. We will say no more about this; leave us a moment. We will, my daughter and myself, go towards that fine grotto where I have promised to go. Ha! something gallant at every step.

FOURTH INTERLUDE.

THE STAGE REPRESENTS a grotto, where the Princesses go to take a walk. As they enter it, eight statues, each bearing two torches, come down from their recesses, and execute a varied dance of different figures and several fine attitudes in which they place themselves at intervals.

Ballet.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

ARISTIONE, ERIPHYLE.

ARI. NOTHING CAN be more gallant or better contrived. My daughter, I wished to come alone here with you, so that we may have a little quiet talk together; and I hope that you will in nothing hide the truth from me. Have you in your heart no secret inclination which you are unwilling to reveal to me?

Eri. I, Madam?

Ari. Speak openly, daughter; what I have done for you well deserves that you should be frank and open with me. To make you the sole object of all my thoughts, to prefer you above all things, to shut my ears, in the position I am in, to all the propositions that a hundred princesses might decently listen to in my place — all that ought to tell you that I am a kind mother, and that I am not likely to receive with severity the confidences your heart may have to make.

Eri. If I had so badly followed your example as to have allowed an inclination I had reason to conceal to enter my soul, I should have power enough over myself to impose silence on such a love, and to do nothing unworthy of your name.

Ari. No, no, daughter; I had rather you laid bare your feelings to me. I have not limited your choice to the two princes; you may extend it to whomsoever you please; merit stands so high in my estimation that I think it equal to any rank; and if you tell me frankly how things are, you will see me subscribe without repugnance to the choice you have made.

Eri. You are so kind and indulgent towards me that I can never be thankful enough for it; but I will not put your kindness to the test on such a subject, and all I ask of you is to allow me not to hurry a marriage about which I am not decided as yet.

Ari. Till now I have left everything to your decision; and the impatience of the princes your lovers.... But what means this noise? Ah! daughter, what spectacle is this? Some deity descends; it is the goddess Venus who seems about to speak to us.

SCENE II.

VENUS (in the air, accompanied by four CUPIDS), ARISTIONE, ERIPHYLE.

VEN. (TO ARISTIONE). Princess, in you shines a glorious example, which the immortals mean to recompense; and that you may have a son-in-law both great and happy, they will guide you in the choice you should make. They announce by my voice the great and glorious fame which will come to your house by this choice. Therefore, put an end to your perplexities, and give your daughter to him who shall save your life.

SCENE III.

ARISTIONE, ERIPHYLE.

ARI. DAUGHTER, THE gods have imposed silence on all our arguments. After this, all we have to do is to wait for what they wish to give us; and we have distinctly heard what their will is. Let us go to the nearest temple to assure them of our obedience, and to render thanks to them for their goodness.

SCENE IV.

ANAXARCHUS, CLEON.

CLE. THE PRINCESS is going away; do you not want to speak to her?

Ana. No; let us wait until her daughter has left her. I am afraid of her; she will never suffer herself to be led like her mother. In short, my son, as we have just been able to judge through this opening, our stratagem has succeeded. Our Venus has done wonders, and the admirable engineer, who has contrived this piece of machinery, has so well disposed everything, so cunningly cut the floor of his grotto, so well hid his wires and springs, so well adjusted his lights, and dressed his personages, that but few people could have escaped being deceived; and as the Princess Aristione is extremely superstitious, there is no, doubt that she fully believes in this piece of deception. I have been a long time preparing this machine, my son, and now I have almost reached the goal of my ambition.

Cle. But for which of the two princes have you invented this trick?

Ana. Both have courted my assistance, and I have promised to both the influence of my art. But the presents of Prince Iphicrates, and the promises which he has made, by far exceed all that the other could do. Therefore, it is Iphicrates who will profit by all I can invent, and as his ambition will owe everything to me, our future is sure. I will go and take my time to confirm the princess in her error, and, the better to prepossess her mind, skilfully show her the agreement of the words of Venus with the predictions of the celestial signs which I told her I have cast. Be it your part to go and get our six men to hide themselves carefully in their boat behind the rock, and make them wait quietly for the time when the princess comes alone in the evening for her usual walk. Then they must suddenly attack her like pirates, in order to give the opportunity to Prince Iphicrates to rush to her rescue, and lend her the help which is to put Eriphyle in his hands according to the words of Venus. I have forewarned the prince, and, acting on the belief in my prediction, he is to hold himself in readiness in that little wood that skirts the shore. But let us leave this grotto. I will tell you as we go along all that is necessary for you carefully to observe. Here is the Princess Eriphyle; let us avoid her.

SCENE V.

ERIPHYLE (alone).

ALAS! HOW HARD is my destiny! What have I done to the gods that they should interest themselves in what happens to me?

SCENE VI.

ERIPHYLE, CLEONICE.

CLEON. HERE HE is, Madam; he followed me the moment he heard your commands.

Eri. Let him come hither, Cleonice, and leave us alone for one moment.

SCENE VII.

ERIPHYLE, SOSTRATUS.

ERI. SOSTRATUS, YOU love me.

Sos. I, Madam?

Eri. Yes, Sostratus, I know it, I approve of it, and allow you to tell me so. Your love appeared to me accompanied by all the merit which could render it valuable to me. Were it not for the rank in which heaven has placed me, I might tell you that your love would not have been an unhappy one, and I have often wished for a position in which I might fully show the secret feelings of my heart. It is not, Sostratus, that merit fails to have for me all the value which it should have, and because, in my inmost soul, I do not prefer the virtues which you possess to all the magnificent titles which adorn others. The princess my mother has also, it is true, left me free in my choice, and I have no doubt that I could have obtained her consent according to my wish. But, Sostratus, there are stations in life where it is not right to wish that what pleases us should come to pass. It is painful to be above all others, and the burning light of fame often makes us pay too severely for having yielded to our inclination. I never could, therefore, expose myself to it, and I thought I would simply put off the bonds I was solicited to enter. But, at last, the gods themselves will give me a husband, and all these long delays with which I have postponed my marriage, and which the kindness of the princess my mother made possible, are no longer permitted to me. I must resign myself to the will of heaven. You may rest assured, Sostratus, that it is with the greatest repugnance that I consent to this marriage, and that, were I mistress of myself, either I should have been yours or should have belonged to no one. This is, Sostratus, what I had to tell you; what I felt I owed to your merit, and the only consolation which my tenderness can show to your love.

Sos. Ah! Madam, it is too much for one so undeserving as I am! I was not prepared to die with such glory, and from this moment I shall cease to complain of my destiny. If it caused me to be born in a rank below what I could have desired, it has made me to be born happy enough to attract some pity from the heart of a great princess, and this glorious pity is worth sceptres and crowns; is worth the power of the greatest princes of the earth. Yes, Madam, from the moment I dared to love you — it is you, Madam, who allow me to use this bold word — from the moment I dared to love you, I condemned the pride of my aspirations, and determined upon the fate I ought to expect. Death will not surprise me, for I am prepared for it, but your kindness has thrown upon it an honour which my love never dared to hope; I shall now die the happiest and most fortunate of men. If I may yet hope for anything, I on my knees will ask two favours of you: to be willing to endure my presence till that happy marriage which is to put an end to my life takes place; and amidst the glory and long prosperities which heaven promises to your union, to remember sometimes Sostratus, who loved you. May I hope for those favours, O divine princess?

Eri. Go, Sostratus; leave me. You little care for my peace of mind if you ask me to remember you.

Sos. Ah, Madam, if your peace of mind ...

Eri. Leave me, Sostratus; spare my weakness; do not expose me to do more than I have resolved upon.

SCENE VIII.

ERIPHYLE, CLEONICE.

CLE. MADAM, I see you quite melancholy; will you allow your dancers, who express so well all the passions of the soul, to come and give you a sample of their skill?

Eri. Yes, Cleonice; let them do what they like, provided they leave me to my thoughts.

FIFTH INTERLUDE.

FOUR PANTOMIMISTS, AS a sample of their skill, adapt their movements and steps to the signs of uneasiness of the young Princess Eriphyle.

Ballet.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

ERIPHYLE, CLITIDAS.

CLI. WHERE SHALL I go? which way shall I turn? Where am I likely to find the Princess Eriphyle? It is no small pleasure to be the first to bring news. Ah! here she is! Madam, I come to tell you that heaven has just now given you the husband it reserved for you.

Eri. Alas! leave me, Clitidas, to my gloomy sorrow.

Cli. Madam, I beg your pardon, I thought I did well to come and tell you that heaven has given you Sostratus for a husband; but, since it is unpleasant to you, I will pocket my news, and go back just as I came.

Eri. Clitidas! I say, Clitidas!

Cli. I leave you, Madam, to your gloomy melancholy.

Eri. Stay, I tell you; come here. What is it you say?

Cli. Nothing, Madam. One is sometimes too hasty in coming to tell great people things they don’t care about, and I pray you to excuse me.

Eri. How cruel you are!

Cli. Another time I will take care not to come and interrupt you.

Eri. Keep me no longer in suspense; say what it is you came to tell me.

Cli. An insignificant thing about Sostratus, Madam, which I will tell you another time when you are less engaged.

Eri. Keep me no longer in suspense, and tell me the news.

Cli. You wish to know it, Madam?

Eri. Yes, be quick. What is it about Sostratus?

Cli. A wonderful adventure which nobody expected.

Eri. Tell it me at once.

Cli. Will it not trouble you, Madam, in your gloomy melancholy?

Eri. Ah! Speak, I say.

Cli. I must tell you, then, Madam, that the princess your mother was going almost alone through the forest by those little paths which are so pleasant, when a frightful boar — those ugly boars are always doing mischief, and should be banished from civilised forests — when a hideous boar, I say, driven to bay, I believe, by some huntsmen, came right across the path where we were. I ought, perhaps, to adorn my account with an elaborate description of this said boar; but you must try and do without it, if you please, and be satisfied to know that it was a terribly ugly brute. It was going on its way, and it would have been as well not to disturb it; but the princess wished to show her skill, and with her dart, which, if I may say so, she launched somewhat unseasonably, inflicted a slight wound just above the ear. The ill-bred boar turned impertinently upon us. We were then two or three wretches who became pale with fright; each gained his tree, and the princess was left alone, exposed to the fury of the beast, when Sostratus appeared, just in time, as if the very gods had sent him.

Eri. And so, Clitidas?

Cli. If this account wearies you, Madam, I can put off the remainder for another occasion.

Eri. End it quickly.

Cli. It is, indeed, quickly that I shall end, for a grain of cowardice prevented me from seeing the details of the struggle, and all that I can tell you is that, when we came back to the spot, we found the boar dead and bleeding, and the princess full of joy, and proclaiming Sostratus her deliverer and your husband, according to the words spoken by the gods. When I heard this, I did not stop to hear any more, and I ran in search of you to bring you this piece of news.

Eri. Ah! Clitidas, you could never have given me a more welcome one.

Cli. Oh! here they are coming to find you.

SCENE II.

ARISTIONE, SOSTRATUS, ERIPHYLE, CLITIDAS.

ARI. I PERCEIVE, my daughter, that you already know everything which we are coming to tell you. You see that the gods have explained themselves sooner than we expected. The danger I have just run has told us what their will is, and it is easy to see that the choice comes from them, since merit alone shines in the selection they have made. Will it be repugnant to you to recompense with the gift of your heart the one to whom I owe my life, and will you refuse to accept Sostratus for your husband?

Eri. Both from the hands of the gods and from yours, Madam, I could receive no gift that would be disagreeable to me.

Sos. Is not this a glorious dream with which the gods wish to flatter me? Am I not to expect some dreadful awakenings which will plunge me back into all the baseness of my former fortune?

SCENE III.

ARISTIONE, ERIPHYLE, SOSTRATUS, CLEONICE, CLITIDAS.

CLEON. MADAM, I am come to tell you that Anaxarchus had till now deceived both the princes, with the hope of favouring the choice upon which their souls were bent; and that, hearing what has taken place, they have both given way to their resentment against him, and things growing worse, he has received several wounds, from which it is impossible to say what may happen. But here they are both coming.

SCENE IV.

ARISTIONE, ERIPHYLE, IPHICRATES, TIMOCLES, SOSTRATUS, CLEONICE, CLITIDAS.

ARI. PRINCES, YOU are very quick in avenging yourselves; if Anaxarchus offended you, I was here to do you justice.

Iph. And what justice can you have done us, Madam, when you do so little to our rank in the choice you have made?

Ari. Had you not both agreed to submit to what the order of the gods or my daughter’s inclination might decide in this matter? and of what consequence can the interests of a rival be to you?

Tim. Yes, Madam; we were ready to submit to a choice between the Prince Iphicrates and myself, but not to find ourselves both repulsed. It were some consolation to see the choice fall on an equal, but your blindness is something terrible.

Ari. Prince, I have no wish to fall out with one who has had the kindness to praise me so much; and I beg of you, in all sincerity, to base your sorrow upon better foundation. Try and remember, I pray, that Sostratus’ merit is known throughout Greece, and that by the rank to which the gods raise him to-day the distance between you and him disappears.

Iph. Yes, we shall remember it, Madam. But, perhaps, you will be pleased also to remember that two insulted princes may be enemies to be feared.

Tim. You may not have long to enjoy the contempt in which you hold us.

Ari. I forgive all these threats for the sake of the sorrow of a love which thinks itself insulted; and we will none the less go and see the Pythian Games in all peace. Let us go at once, and let us crown by the glorious spectacle this wonderful day.

SIXTH INTERLUDE.

THE SCENE REPRESENTS a great hall in the form of an amphitheatre, with a grand open arcade at the farther end, above which is a tribune, closed by a curtain, and in the distance is seen an altar prepared for the sacrifice. Six men, dressed as if they were almost naked, each carrying an axe on his shoulder, like executioners of the sacrifice, enter by the portico, to the sound of violins, and are followed by two sacrificers who play, by a priestess, also playing, and by their suite.

Ballet and Divertissement.

The Middle-Class Gentleman

Le Bourgeois gentilhomme

Translated by Philip Dwight Jones

The Middle-Class Gentleman was first staged on 14 October 1670 at the court of Louis XIV at Château of Chambord, before moving to the Théâtre du Palais-Royal on 23 November. The play was a Comédie-ballet and once again Molière collaborated with Jean-Baptiste Lully, who composed the music. The playwright also worked with choreographer Pierre Beauchamp, who made his debut in front of the King at the age of twelve in 1648. He became the head choreographer for Molière’s troupe in 1664 and they continued to work together until the playwright’s death in 1673. Beauchamp became the director of the Académie Royale de Danse in 1671 and is often credited with being the creator of the Beauchamp-Feuillet notation, even though it was Raoul-Auger Feuillet who first explained the system in detail in his 1700 work, Chorégraphie, ou l’art de décrire la danse.

In The Middle-Class Gentleman, Monsieur Jourdain is a wealthy merchant, desperately seeking to be elevated to the aristocracy. He is absurdly pretentious and devotes much of his time to trying to learn the pastimes of the aristocracy, such as fencing and philosophy. Jourdain is a ridiculous figure, who in his haste to climb the social ladder, allows himself to be easily deceived and manipulated by his daughter and her suitor and to be taken advantage of by a poor, but mercenary aristocrat. A contentious aspect of the play is the inclusion of a ‘Turkish’ ceremony and character, which had been demanded by Louis XIV after a difficult diplomatic visit from a Turkish envoy in late 1669. The King wished Molière to create a mocking portrait of Turkish culture.

A 1672 advertisement for the play

Title page from the 1688 edition

CONTENTS

The Cast

ACT ONE

SCENE I

SCENE II

ACT TWO

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

ACT THREE

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

SCENE VIII

SCENE IX

SCENE X

SCENE XI

SCENE XII

SCENE XIII

SCENE XIV

SCENE XV

SCENE XVI

ACT FOUR

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

ACT FIVE

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

Jean-Baptiste Lully (1632-1687) was an Italian-born French composer, instrumentalist and dancer.

The Cast

Monsieur Jourdain, bourgeois. 
Madame Jourdain, his wife. 
Lucile, their daughter.
Nicole, maid. 
Cléonte, suitor of Lucile. 
Covielle, Cléonte’s valet. 
Dorante, Count, suitor of Dorimène. 
Dorimène, Marchioness. 
Music Master. 
Pupil of the Music Master. 
Dancing Master. 
Fencing Master. 
Master of Philosophy. 
Tailor. 
Tailor’s apprentice. 
Two lackeys. 
Many male and female musicians, instrumentalists, dancers, cooks, tailor’s apprentices, and others necessary for the interludes.

The scene is Monsieur Jourdain’s house in Paris.

ACT ONE

SCENE I

(MUSIC MASTER, DANCING Master, Musicians, and Dancers)

(The play opens with a great assembly of instruments, and in the middle of the stage is a pupil of the Music Master seated at a table composing a melody which Monsieur Jourdain has ordered for a serenade.)

MUSIC MASTER: (To Musicians) Come, come into this room, sit there and wait until he comes.

DANCING MASTER: (To dancers) And you too, on this side.

MUSIC MASTER: (To Pupil) Is it done?

PUPIL: Yes.

MUSIC MASTER: Let’s see. . . This is good.

DANCING MASTER: Is it something new?

MUSIC MASTER: Yes, it’s a melody for a serenade that I set him to composing here, while waiting for our man to awake.

DANCING MASTER: May I see it?

MUSIC MASTER: You’ll hear it, with the dialogue, when he comes. He won’t be long.

DANCING MASTER: Our work, yours and mine, is not trivial at present.

MUSIC MASTER: This is true. We’ve found here such a man as we both need. This is a nice source of income for us — this Monsieur Jourdain, with the visions of nobility and gallantry that he has gotten into his head. You and I should hope that everyone resembled him.

DANCING MASTER: Not entirely; I could wish that he understood better the things that we give him.

MUSIC MASTER: It’s true that he understands them poorly, but he pays well, and that’s what our art needs now more than anything else.

DANCING MASTER: As for me, I admit, I feed a little on glory. Applause touches me; and I hold that, in all the fine arts, it is painful to produce for dolts, to endure the barbarous opinions of a fool about my choreography. It is a pleasure, don’t tell me otherwise, to work for people who can appreciate the fine points of an art, who know how to give a sweet reception to the beauties of a work and, by pleasurable approbations, gratify us for our labor. Yes, the most agreeable recompense we can receive for the things we do is to see them recognized and flattered by an applause that honors us. There is nothing, in my opinion, that pays us better for all our fatigue; and it is an exquisite delight to receive the praises of the well-informed.

MUSIC MASTER: I agree, and I enjoy them as you do. There is surely nothing more agreeable than the applause you speak of; but that incense does not provide a living. Pure praises do not provide a comfortable existence; it is necessary to add something solid, and the best way to praise is to praise with cash-in-hand. He’s a man, it’s true, whose insight is very slight, who talks nonsense about everything and applauds only for the wrong reasons but his money makes up for his judgments. He has discernment in his purse. His praises are in cash, and this ignorant bourgeois is worth more to us, as you see, than the educated nobleman who introduced us here.

DANCING MASTER: There is some truth in what you say; but I find that you lean a little too heavily on money; and material interest is something so base that a man of good taste should never show an attachment to it.

MUSIC MASTER: You are ready enough to receive the money our man gives you.

DANCING MASTER: Assuredly; but I don’t place all my happiness in it, and I could wish that together with his fortune he had some good taste in things.

MUSIC MASTER: I could wish it too, that’s what both of us are working for as much as we can. But, in any case, he gives us the means to make ourselves known in the world; and he will pay others if they will praise him.

DANCING MASTER: Here he comes.

SCENE II

(MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, TWO Lackeys, Music Master, Dancing Master, Pupil, Musicians, and Dancers)

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Well gentlemen? What’s this? Are you going to show me your little skit?

DANCING MASTER: How? What little skit?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Well, the. . . What-do-you-call it? Your prologue or dialogue of songs and dances.

DANCING MASTER: Ha, ha!

MUSIC MASTER: You find us ready for you.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I kept you waiting a little, but it’s because I’m having myself dressed today like the people of quality, and my tailor sent me some silk stockings that I thought I would never get on.

MUSIC MASTER: We are here only to wait upon your leisure.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I want you both to stay until they have brought me my suit, so that you may see me.

DANCING MASTER: Whatever you would like.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You will see me fitted out properly, from head to foot.

MUSIC MASTER: We have no doubt of it.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I had this robe made for me.

DANCING MASTER: It’s very attractive.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: My tailor told me the people of quality dress like this in the mornings.

MUSIC MASTER: It’s marvelously becoming.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Hey lackeys! My two lackeys!

FIRST LACKEY; What do you wish, Sir?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Nothing. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. (To the two masters) What say you of my liveries?

DANCING MASTER: They’re magnificent.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (Half opening his gown, showing a pair of tight red velvet breeches, and a green velvet vest, that he is wearing) Here again is a sort of lounging dress to perform my morning exercises in.

MUSIC MASTER: It is elegant.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Lackey!

FIRST LACKEY: Sir?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: The other lackey!

SECOND LACKEY: Sir?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Hold my robe.

(To the Masters) Do you think I look good?

DANCING MASTER: Very well. No one could look better.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Now let’s have a look at your little show.

MUSIC MASTER: I would like very much for you to listen to a melody he (indicating his student) has just composed for the serenade that you ordered from me. He’s one of my pupils who has an admirable talent for these kinds of things.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, but you should not have had that done by a pupil; you yourself were none too good for that piece of work.

MUSIC MASTER: You must not let the name of pupil fool you, sir. Pupils of this sort know as much as the greatest masters, and the melody is as fine as could be made. Just listen.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (To Lackeys) Give me my robe so I can listen better . . . Wait, I believe I would be better without a robe. . . No, give it back, that will be better.

MUSICIAN: (Singing) I languish night and day, my suffering is extreme Since to your control your lovely eyes subjected me; If you thus treat, fair Iris, those you love, Alas, how would you treat an enemy?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: This song seems to me a little mournful, it lulls to sleep, and I would like it if you could liven it up a little, here and there.

MUSIC MASTER: It is necessary, Sir, that the tune be suited to the words.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Someone taught me a perfectly pretty one some time ago. Listen . . . Now . . . how does it go?

DANCING MASTER: By my faith, I don’t know.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: There are sheep in it.

DANCING MASTER: Sheep?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes. Ah! (He sings)

I thought my Jeanneton As beautiful as sweet; I thought my Janneton Far sweeter than a sheep. Alas! Alas! She is a hundred times, A thousand times, more cruel Than tigers in the woods!

Isn’t it pretty?

MUSIC MASTER: The prettiest in the world.

DANCING MASTER: And you sing it well.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: It’s without having learned music.

MUSIC MASTER: You ought to learn it, Sir, as you are learning dancing. They are two arts which have a close connection.

DANCING MASTER: And which open the mind of a man to fine things.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: And do people of quality learn music, too?

MUSIC MASTER: Yes sir.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I’ll learn it then. But I don’t know when I can find time; for besides the Fencing Master who’s teaching me, I have also engaged a master of philosophy who is to begin this morning.

MUSIC MASTER: Philosophy is something; but music, sir, music . . .

DANCING MASTER: Music and dancing, music and dancing, that’s all that’s necessary.

MUSIC MASTER: There’s nothing so useful in a State as music.

DANCING MASTER: There’s nothing so necessary to men as dancing.

MUSIC MASTER: Without music, a State cannot subsist.

DANCING MASTER: Without the dance, a man can do nothing.

MUSIC MASTER: All the disorders, all the wars one sees in the world happen only from not learning music.

DANCING MASTER: All the misfortunes of mankind, all the dreadful disasters that fill the history books, the blunders of politicians and the faults of omission of great commanders, all this comes from not knowing how to dance.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: How is that?

MUSIC MASTER: Does not war result from a lack of agreement between men?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: That is true.

MUSIC MASTER: And if all men learned music, wouldn’t that be a means of bringing about harmony and of seeing universal peace in the world?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You are right.

DANCING MASTER: When a man has committed a mistake in his conduct, in family affairs, or in affairs of government of a state, or in the command of an army, do we not always say, “He took a bad step in such and such an affair?”

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, that’s said.

DANCING MASTER: And can taking a bad step result from anything but not knowing how to dance?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: It’s true, you are both right.

DANCING MASTER: It makes you see the excellence and usefulness of music and the dance.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I understand that, now.

MUSIC MASTER: Do you wish to see our pieces?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes.

MUSIC MASTER: I have already told you that this is a little attempt I have made to show the different passions that music can express.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Very good.

MUSIC MASTER (To musicians) Here, come forward. (To Monsieur Jourdain) You must imagine that they are dressed as shepherds.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Why always as shepherds? You see nothing but that everywhere.

MUSIC MASTER: When we have characters that are to speak in music, it’s necessary, for believability, to make them pastoral. Singing has always been assigned to shepherds; and it is scarcely natural dialogue for princes or merchants to sing their passions.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Alright, alright. Let’s see.

DIALOGUE IN MUSIC: (A Woman and Two Men)

ALL THREE: A heart, under the domination of love, Is always with a thousand cares oppressed. It is said that we gladly languish, gladly sigh; But, despite what can be said, There is nothing so sweet as our liberty!

FIRST MAN: There is nothing so sweet as the loving fires That make two hearts beat as one. One cannot live without amorous desires; Take love from life, you take away the pleasures.

SECOND MAN: It would be sweet to submit to love’s rule, If one could find faithful love, But, alas! oh cruel rule! No faithful shepherdess is to be seen, And that inconstant sex, much too unworthy, Must renounce love eternally.

FIRST MAN: Pleasing ardor!

WOMAN: Happy liberty!

SECOND MAN: Deceitful woman!

FIRST MAN: How precious you are to me!

WOMAN: How you please my heart!

SECOND MAN: How horrible you are to me!

FIRST MAN: Ah, leave, for love, that mortal hate!

WOMAN: We can, we can show you a faithful shepherdess!

SECOND MAN: Alas! Where to find her?

WOMAN: In order to defend our reputation, I want to offer you my heart!

FIRST MAN: But, shepherdess, can I believe That it will not be deceitful?

WOMAN: We’ll see through experience, Who of the two loves best.

SECOND MAN: Who lacks constancy, May the gods destroy!

ALL THREE: With ardors so beautiful Let us be inflamed! Ah, how sweet it is to love, When two hearts are faithful!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Is that all?

MUSIC MASTER: Yes.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I find it well-done, and there are some pretty enough sayings in it.

DANCING MASTER: Here, for my presentation, is a little display of the loveliest movements and the most beautiful attitudes with which a dance can possibly be varied.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Are these shepherds too?

DANCING MASTER: They’re whatever you please. Let’s go!

(Four dancers execute all the different movements and all the kinds of steps that the Dancing Master commands; and this dance makes the First Interlude.)

ACT TWO

SCENE I

(MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, MUSIC Master, Dancing Master, Lackeys)

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: That’s not all that bad, and those people there hop around well.

MUSIC MASTER: When the dance is combined with the music, it will have even better effect, and you will see something quite good in the little ballet we have prepared for you.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: That’s for later, when the person I ordered all this for is to do me the honor of coming here to dine.

DANCING MASTER: Everything is ready.

MUSIC MASTER: However, sir, this is not enough. A person like you, who lives magnificently, and who are inclined towards fine things, should have a concert of music here every Wednesday or every Thursday.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Is that what people of quality do?

MUSIC MASTER: Yes, Sir.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Then I’ll have them. Will it be fine?

MUSIC MASTER: Without doubt. You must have three voices — a tenor, a soprano, and a bass, who will be accompanied by a bass-viol, a theorbo, and a clavecin for the chords, with two violins to play the ritournelles.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You must also add a trumpet marine. The trumpet marine is an instrument that pleases me and it’s harmonious.

MUSIC MASTER: Leave it to us to manage things.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: At least, don’t forget to send the musicians to sing at table.

MUSIC MASTER: You will have everything you should have.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: But above all, let the ballet be fine.

MUSIC MASTER: You will be pleased with it, and, among other things, with certain minuets you will find in it.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Ah! Minuets are my dance, and I would like you to see me dance them. Come, my Dancing Master.

DANCING MASTER: A hat, sir, if you please. La, la, la, la. La, la, la, la. In cadence please. La, la, la, la. Your right leg. La, la, la, la. Don’t move your shoulders so. La, la, la, la. Your arms are wrong. La, la, la, la. Raise your head. Turn the toe out. La, la, la, la. Straighten your body up.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: How was that? (Breathlessly)

MUSIC MASTER: The best.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: By the way, teach me how to bow to salute a marchioness; I shall need to know soon.

DANCING MASTER: How you must bow to salute a marchioness?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, a marchioness named Dorimène.

DANCING MASTER: Give me your hand.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No. You only have to do it, I’ll remember it well.

DANCING MASTER: If you want to salute her with a great deal of respect, you must first bow and step back, then bow three times as you walk towards her, and at the last one bow down to her knees.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (After the Dancing Master has illustrated) Do it some. Good!

LACKEY: Sir, your Fencing Master is here.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Tell him to come in here for my lesson. I want you to see me perform.

SCENE II

(FENCING MASTER, MUSIC Master, Dancing Master, Monsier Jourdain, a Lackey)

FENCING MASTER: (After giving a foil to Monsieur Jourdain) Come, sir, the salute. Your body straight. A little inclined upon the left thigh. Your legs not so wide apart. Your feet both in a line. Your wrist opposite your hip. The point of your sword even with your shoulder. The arm not so much extended. The left hand at the level of the eye. The left shoulder more squared. The head up. The expression bold. Advance. The body steady. Beat carte, and thrust. One, two. Recover. Again, with the foot firm. Leap back. When you make a pass, Sir, you must first disengage, and your body must be well turned. One, two. Come, beat tierce and thrust. Advance. Stop there. One, two. Recover. Repeat. Leap back. On guard, Sir, on guard. (The fencing master touches him two or three times with the foil while saying, “On guard.” )

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: How was that? (Breathlessly)

MUSIC MASTER: You did marvelously!

FENCING MASTER: As I have told you, the entire secret of fencing lies in two things: to give and not to receive; and as I demonstrated to you the other day, it is impossible for you to receive, if you know how to turn your opponent’s sword from the line of your body. This depends solely on a slight movement of the wrist, either inward or outward.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: In this way then, a man, without courage, is sure to kill his man and not be killed himself?

FENCING MASTER: Without doubt. Didn’t you see the demonstration?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes.

FENCING MASTER: And thus you have seen how men like me should be considered by the State, and how the science of fencing is more important than all the other useless sciences, such as dancing, music, ...

DANCING MASTER: Careful there, Monsieur swordsman! Speak of the dance only with respect.

MUSIC MASTER: I beg you to speak better of the excellence of music.

FENCING MASTER: You are amusing fellows, to want to compare your sciences with mine!

MUSIC MASTER: See the self-importance of the man!

FENCING MASTER: My little Dancing Master, I’ll make you dance as you ought. And you, my little musician, I’ll make you sing in a pretty way.

DANCING MASTER: Monsieur Clanger-of-iron, I’ll teach you your trade.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (To the Dancing Master) Are you crazy to quarrel with him, who knows tierce and quarte, and who can kill a man by demonstration?

DANCING MASTER: I disdain his demonstrations, and his tierce, and his quarte.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Careful, I tell you.

FENCING MASTER: What? You little impertinent!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Oh! My Fencing Master.

DANCING MASTER: What? You big workhorse!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Oh! My Dancing Master.

FENCING MASTER: If I throw myself on you ...

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Careful.

DANCING MASTER: If I get my hands on you ...

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Be nice!

FENCING MASTER: I’ll go over you with a curry-comb, in such a way...

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Mercy!

DANCING MASTER: I’ll give you a beating such as ...

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I beg of you!

MUSIC MASTER: Let us teach him a little how to talk!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Oh Lord! Stop.

SCENE III

(PHILOSOPHY MASTER, MUSIC Master, Dancing Master, Fencing Master, Monsieur Jourdain, Lackeys)

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Aha! Monsieur Philosopher, you come just in time with your philosophy. Come, make a little peace among these people.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: What’s happening? What’s the matter, gentlemen.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: They have got into a rage over the superiority of their professions to the point of injurious words and of wanting to come to blows.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: What! Gentlemen, must you act this way? Haven’t you read the learned treatise that Seneca composed on anger? Is there anything more base and more shameful than this passion, which turns a man into a savage beast? And shouldn’t reason be the mistress of all our activities?

DANCING MASTER: Well! Sir, he has just abused both of us by, despising the dance, which I practice, and music, which is his profession.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: A wise man is above all the insults that can be spoken to him; and the grand reply one should make to such outrages is moderation and patience.

FENCING MASTER: They both had the audacity of trying to compare their professions with mine.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Should that disturb you? Men should not dispute amongst themselves about vainglory and rank; that which perfectly distinguishes one from the other is wisdom and virtue.

DANCING MASTER: I insist to him that dance is a science to which one cannot do enough honor.

MUSIC MASTER: And I, that music is something that all the ages have revered.

FENCING MASTER: And I insist to them that the science of fencing is the finest and the most necessary of all sciences.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: And where then will philosophy be? I find you all very impertinent to speak with this arrogance in front of me, and impudently to give the name of science to things that one should not even honor with the name of art, and that cannot be classified except under the name of miserable gladiator, singer, and buffoon!

FENCING MASTER: Get out, you dog of a philosopher!

MUSIC MASTER: Get out, you worthless pedant!

DANCING MASTER: Get out, you ill-mannered cur!

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: What! Rascals that you are ... (The philosopher flings himself at them, and all three go out fighting).

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Monsieur Philosopher!

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Rogues! Scoundrels! Insolent dogs!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Monsieur Philosopher!

FENCING MASTER: A pox on the beast!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Gentlemen!

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Impudent rogues!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Monsieur Philosopher!

DANCING MASTER: The devil take the jackass!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Gentlemen!

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Villains!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Monsieur Philosopher!

MUSIC MASTER: To the devil with the impertinent fellow!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Gentlemen!

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Rascals! Beggars! Traitors! Impostors! (They leave).

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Monsieur Philosopher, Gentlemen! Monsieur Philosopher! Gentlemen! Monsieur Philosopher! Oh! Fight as much as you like. I don’t know what to do, and I’ll not spoil my robe to separate you. I would be a fool to go among them and receive some damaging blow.

ACT TWO

SCENE IV

(PHILOSOPHY MASTER, MONSIEUR Jourdain)

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: (Straightening the collar that indicates he is a Philosopher) Now to our lesson.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Oh! Sir, I am distressed by the blows they gave you.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: It’s nothing. A philosopher knows how to take these things and I’ll compose a satire against them, in the style of Juvenal, which will fix them nicely. Let it be. What would you like to learn?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Everything I can, for I have every desire in the world to be educated, and I’m furious that my father and mother did not make me study all the sciences when I was young.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: This is a reasonable sentiment. Nam sine doctrina vita est quasi mortis imago. You understand that, and you doubtless know Latin?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, but act as if I did not know it. Tell me what it says.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: It says that without science life is almost an image of death.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: That Latin is right.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Don’t you know some principles, some basics of the sciences?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Oh yes! I can read and write.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Where would it please you for us to begin? Would you like me to teach you logic?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What is this logic?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: It is that which teaches the three operations of the mind.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What are these three operations of the mind?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: The first, the second, and the third. The first is to conceive well by means of the universals; the second is to judge well by means of the categories; and the third is to draw well a conclusion by means of figures. Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio, Baralipton, etc.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Those words are too ugly. This logic doesn’t suit me at all. Let’s learn something else that’s prettier.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Would you like to learn morality?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Morality?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Yes.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What does it say, this morality?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: It treats of happiness, teaches men to moderate their passions, and ...

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No, let’s leave that. I’m as choleric as all the devils and there’s no morality that sticks, I want to be as full of anger as I want whenever I like.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Would you like to learn physics?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What’s it about, this physics?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Physics explains the principles of natural things and the properties of the material world; it discourses on the nature of the elements, of metals, minerals, of stones, of plants and animals, and teaches the causes of all the meteors, the rainbow, the will o’ the wisps, the comets, lightning, thunder, thunderbolts, rain, snow, hail, winds, and whirlwinds.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: There’s too much commotion in it, too much confusion.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Then what do you want me to teach you?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Teach me how to spell.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Very gladly.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Afterwards, you may teach me the almanack, to know when there is a moon and when not.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: So be it. Following your thought and treating this matter as a philosopher, it is necessary to begin according to the order of things, by an exact knowledge of the nature of letters and the different ways of pronouncing them all. And thereupon I must tell you letters are divided into vowels, called vowels because they express the voice; and into consonants because they sound with the vowels and only mark the diverse articulations of the voice. There are five vowels or voices: A, E, I, O, U.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I understand all that.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: The vowel A is formed by opening the mouth widely : A. Its vowels are to be given the sounds used in vocalizing: Ah-aye-ee-o-ou.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: A, A. Yes.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: The vowel E is formed by approaching the lower jaw to the upper: A, E.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: A, E; A, E. By my faith, yes. Ah! How fine!

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: And the vowel I, by bringing the jaws still nearer each other and stretching the two corners of the mouth towards the ears: A, E, I.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: A, E, I. I. I. I. That’s true. Long live science!

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: The vowel O is formed by opening the jaws and drawing together the two corners of the lips, upper and lower: O.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: O, O. There’s nothing truer. A, E, I, O,I, O... That’s admirable! I, O, I, O.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: The opening of the mouth happens to make a little circle which represents an O.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: O, O, O. You are right! O. Ah! What a fine thing it is to know something!

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: The vowel U is formed by bringing the teeth nearly together without completely joining them, and thrusting the two lips outward, also bringing them nearly together without completely joining them: U.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: U, U. There’s nothing truer. U.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Your two lips thrust out as if you were making a face, whence it results that if you want to make a face at someone and mock him, you have only to say to him “U.”

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: U, U. That’s true. Ah! Why didn’t I study sooner in order to know all that!

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Tomorrow we shall look at the other letters, which are the consonants.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Are there things as curious about them as about these?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Without a doubt. The consonant D, for example, is pronounced by clapping the tongue above the upper teeth: D.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: D, D, Yes. Ah! What fine things! Fine things!

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: The F, by pressing the upper teeth against the lower lip: F.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: F, F. That’s the truth. Ah! My father and my mother, how I wish you ill!

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: And the R, by carrying the tip of the tongue to the top of the palate, so that being grazed by the air that comes out with force, it yields to it and comes back always to the same place, making a kind of trill: R. AR.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: R, R, AR. R, R, R, R, R, RA. That’s true. Ah! What a clever man you are! And how I have lost time! R, R, R, AR.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: I’ll explain to you all these strange things to their very depths.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Please do. But now, I must confide in you. I’m in love with a lady of great quality, and I wish that you would help me write something to her in a little note that I will let fall at her feet.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Very well.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: That will be gallant, yes?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Without doubt. Is it verse that you wish to write her?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No, no. No verse.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Do you want only prose?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No, I don’t want either prose or verse.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: It must be one or the other.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Why?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Because, sir, there is no other way to express oneself than with prose or verse.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: There is nothing but prose or verse?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: No, sir, everything that is not prose is verse, and everything that is not verse is prose.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: And when one speaks, what is that then?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Prose.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What! When I say, “Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give me my nightcap,” that’s prose?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Yes, Sir.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: By my faith! For more than forty years I have been speaking prose without knowing anything about it, and I am much obliged to you for having taught me that. I would like then to put into a note to her: “Beautiful marchioness, your lovely eyes make me die of love,” but I want that put in a gallant manner and be nicely turned.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Put it that the fires of her eyes reduce your heart to cinders; that you suffer night and day for her the torments of a . . .

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No, no, no. I want none of that; I only want you to say “Beautiful marchioness, your lovely eyes make me die of love.”

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: The thing requires a little lengthening.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No, I tell you, I want only those words in the note, but turned stylishly, well arranged, as is necessary. Please tell me, just to see, the diverse ways they could be put.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: One could put them first of all as you said them: “Beautiful marchioness, your lovely eyes make me die of love.” Or else: “Of love to die make me, beautiful marchioness, your beautiful eyes.” Or else: “Your lovely eyes, of love make me, beautiful marchioness, die.” Or else: “Die, your lovely eyes, beautiful marchioness, of love make me.” Or else: “Me make your lovely eyes die, beautiful marchioness, of love.”

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: But, of all those ways, which is the best?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: The way you said it: “Beautiful marchioness, your lovely eyes make me die of love.”

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I never studied, and yet I made the whole thing up at the first try. I thank you with all my heart, and I ask you to come tomorrow early.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: I shall not fail to do so. (He leaves).

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What? Hasn’t my suit come yet?

THE LACKEY: No, Sir.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: That cursed tailor makes me wait all day when I have so much to do! I’m enraged. May the quartan fever shake that tormentor of a tailor! To the devil with the tailor! May the plague choke the tailor! If I had him here now, that detestable tailor, that dog of a tailor, that traitor of a tailor, I . . .

SCENE V

(MASTER TAILOR, APPRENTICE Tailor carrying suit, Monsieur Jourdain, Lackeys)

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Ah! You’re here! I was getting into a rage against you.

MASTER TAILOR: I could not come sooner, and I put twenty men to work on your suit.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You sent me some silk hose so small that I had all the difficulty in the world putting them on, and already there are two broken stitches.

MASTER TAILOR: They get bigger, too much so.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, if I always break the stitches. You also had made for me a pair of shoes that pinch furiously.

MASTER TAILOR: Not at all, sir.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: How, not at all!

MASTER TAILOR: No, they don’t pinch you at all.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I tell you, they pinch me.

MASTER TAILOR: You imagine that.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I imagine it because I feel it. That’s a good reason for you!

MASTER TAILOR: Wait, here is the finest court-suit, and the best matched. It’s a masterpiece to have invented a serious suit that is not black. And I give six attempts to the best tailors to equal it.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What’s this? You’ve put the flowers upside down.

MASTER TAILOR: You didn’t tell me you wanted them right side up.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Did I have to tell you that?

MASTER TAILOR: Yes, surely. All the people of quality wear them this way.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: The people of quality wear the flowers upside down?

MASTER TAILOR: Yes, Sir.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Oh! It’s alright then.

MASTER TAILOR: If you like, I’ll put them right side up.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No, no.

MASTER TAILOR: You have only to say so.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No, I tell you. You’ve made it very well. Do you think the suit is going to look good on me?

MASTER TAILOR: What a question! I defy a painter with his brush to do anything that would fit you better. I have a worker in my place who is the greatest genius in the world at mounting a rhinegrave, and another who is the hero of the age at assembling a doublet.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: The perruque and the plumes: are they correct?

MASTER TAILOR: Everything’s good.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (Looking at the tailor’s suit) Ah! Ah! Monsieur Tailor, here’s the material from the last suit you made for me. I know it well.

MASTER TAILOR: You see, the material seemed so fine that I wanted a suit made of it for myself.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, but you should not have cut it out of mine.

MASTER TAILOR: Do you want to put on your suit?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, give it to me.

MASTER TAILOR: Wait. That’s not the way it’s done. I have brought men to dress you in a cadence; these kinds of suits are put on with ceremony. Hey there! Come in, you! Put this suit on the gentleman the way you do with people of quality.

(Four APPRENTICE TAILORS enter, two of them pull off Monsieur Jourdain’s breeches made for his morning exercises, and two others pull off his waistcoat; then they put on his new suit; Monsieur Jourdain promenades among them and shows them his suit for their approval. All this to the cadence of instrumental music.)

APPRENTICE TAILOR: My dear gentleman, please to give the apprentices a small tip.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What did you call me?

APPRENTICE TAILOR: My dear gentleman.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: My dear gentleman! That’s what it is to dress like people of quality! Go all your life dressed like a bourgeois and they’ll never call you “My dear gentleman.” Here, take this for the “My dear gentleman.”

APPRENTICE TAILOR: My Lord, we are very much obliged to you.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: “My Lord!” Oh! Oh! “My Lord!” Wait, my friend. “My Lord” deserves something, and it’s not a little word, this “My Lord.” Take this. That’s what “My Lord” gives you.

APPRENTICE TAILOR: My Lord, we will drink to the health of Your Grace.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: “Your Grace!” Oh! Oh! Oh! Wait, don’t go. To me, “Your Grace!” My faith, if he goes as far as “Highness,” he will have all my purse. Wait. That’s for “My Grace.”

APPRENTICE TAILOR: My Lord, we thank you very humbly for your liberality.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: He did well, I was going to give him everything.

(The four Apprentice Tailors celebrate with a dance, which comprises the Second Interlude.)

ACT THREE

SCENE I

(MONSIEUR JOURDAIN AND his two Lackeys)

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Follow me, I am going to show off my clothes a little about town. And above all both of you take care to walk close at my heels, so people can see that you are with me.

LACKEYS: Yes, Sir.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Call Nicole for me, so I can give her some orders. Don’t bother, there she is.

SCENE II

(NICOLE, MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, two Lackeys)

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Nicole!

NICOLE: Yes, sir?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Listen.

NICOLE: He, he, he, he, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What are you laughing about?

NICOLE: He, he, he, he, he, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What does the hussy mean by this?

NICOLE: He, he, he! Oh, how you are got up! He, he, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: How’s that?

NICOLE: Ah! Ah! Oh Lord! He, he, he, he, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What kind of little baggage is this? Are you mocking me?

NICOLE: Certainly not, sir, I should be very sorry to do so. He, he, he, he, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I’ll give you a smack on the nose if you go on laughing.

NICOLE: Sir, I can’t help it. He, he, he, he, he, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You are not going to stop?

NICOLE: Sir, I beg pardon. But you are so funny that I couldn’t help laughing. He, he, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What insolence!

NICOLE: You’re so funny like that. He, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I’ll . . .

NICOLE: Please excuse me. He, he, he, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Listen. If you go on laughing the least bit, I swear I’ll give you the biggest slap ever given.

NICOLE: Alright, sir, it’s done, I won’t laugh any more.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Take good care not to. Presently you must clean . . .

NICOLE: He, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You must clean . . .

NICOLE: He, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You must, I say, clean the room and . . .

NICOLE: He, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Again!

NICOLE: (Falling down with laughter) Then beat me sir, and let me have my laugh out, it will do me more good. He, he, he, he, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I’m furious.

NICOLE: Have mercy, sir! I beg you to let me laugh. He, he, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: If I catch you . . .

NICOLE: Sir! I shall burst . . . Oh! if I don’t laugh. He, he, he!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: But did anyone ever see such a hussy as that, who laughs in my face instead of receiving my, orders?

NICOLE: What would you have me do, sir?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: That you consider getting my house ready for the company that’s coming soon, you hussy.

NICOLE: Ah, by my faith, I don’t feel like laughing any more. All your guests make such a disorder here that the word “company” is enough to put me in a bad humor.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Why, should I shut my door to everyone for your sake?

NICOLE: You should at least shut it to some people.

SCENE III

(MADAME JOURDAIN, MONSIEUR Jourdain, Nicole, Lackeys)

MADAME JOURDAIN: Ah, ah! Here’s a new story! What’s this, what’s this, husband, this outfit you have on there? Don’t you care what people think of you when you are got up like that? And do you want yourself laughed at everywhere?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: None but fools and dolts will laugh at me wife.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Truly, they haven’t waited until now, your antics have long given a laugh to everyone.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Who’s everyone, if you please?

MADAME JOURDAIN: Everyone is everyone who is right and who is wiser than you. For my part, I am scandalized at the life you lead. I no longer recognize our house. One would say it’s the beginning of Carnival here, every day; and beginning early in the morning, so it won’t be forgotten, one hears nothing but the racket of fiddles and singers which disturbs the whole neighborhood.

NICOLE: Madame speaks well. I’ll never be able to get my housework done properly with that gang you have come here. They have feet that hunt for mud in every part of town to bring it here; and poor Françoise almost has her teeth on the floor, scrubbing the boards that your fine masters come to dirty up every day.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What, our servant Nicole, you have quite a tongue for a peasant.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Nicole is right, and she has more sense than you. I’d like to know what you think you’re going to do with a Dancing Master, at your age?

NICOLE: And with a hulking Fencing Master who comes stamping his feet, shaking the whole house and tearing up all the floorboards in our drawing-room.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Be quiet, both servant and wife!

MADAME JOURDAIN: Is it that you’re learning to dance for the time when you’ll have no legs to dance on?

NICOLE: Do you want to kill someone?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Quiet, I tell you! You are ignorant women, both of you, and you don’t know the advantages of all this.

MADAME JOURDAIN: You should instead be thinking of marrying off your daughter, who is of an age to be provided for.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I’ll think of marrying off my daughter when a suitable match comes along, but I also want to learn about fine things.

NICOLE: I heard said, Madame, that today he took a Philosophy Master to thicken the soup!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Very well. I have a wish to have wit and to reason about things with decent people.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Don’t you intend, one of these days, to go to school and have yourself whipped at your age?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Why not? Would to God I were whipped this minute in front of everyone, if I only knew what they learn at school!

NICOLE: Yes, my faith! That would get you into better shape.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Without doubt.

MADAME JOURDAIN: All this is very important to the management of your house.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Assuredly. You both talk like beasts, and I’m ashamed of your ignorance. For example, do you know what are you speaking just now?

MADAME JOURDAIN: Yes, I know that what I’m saying is well said and that you ought to be considering living in another way.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I’m not talking about that. I’m asking if you know what the words are that you are saying here?

MADAME JOURDAIN: They are words that are very sensible, and your conduct is scarcely so.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I’m not talking about that, I tell you. I’m asking you: what is it that I’m speaking to you this minute, what is it?

MADAME JOURDAIN: Nonsense.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No, no! That’s not it. What is it we are both saying, what language is it that we are speaking right now?

MADAME JOURDAIN: Well?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What is it called?

MADAME JOURDAIN: It’s called whatever you want.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: It’s prose, you ignorant creature.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Prose?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, prose. Everything is prose that is not verse; and everything that’s not verse is prose. There! This is what it is to study! And you (to Nicole), do you know what you must do to say U?

NICOLE: What?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Say U, in order to see.

NICOLE: Oh Well, U.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What do you do?

NICOLE: I say U.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, but, when you say U, what do you do?

NICOLE: I do what you tell me to.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Oh, how strange it is to have to deal with morons! You thrust your lips out and bring your lower jaw to your upper jaw: U, see? U. Do you see? I make a pout: U.

NICOLE: Yes, that’s beautiful.

MADAME JOURDAIN: How admirable.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: But it’s quite another thing, if you have seen O, and D, D, and F, F.

MADAME JOURDAIN: What is all this rigmarole?

NICOLE: What does all this do for us?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: It enrages me when I see these ignorant women.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Go, go, you ought to send all those people packing with their foolishness.

NICOLE: And above all, that great gawk of a Fencing Master, who ruins all my work with dust.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Well! This Fencing Master seems to get under your skin. I’ll soon show you how impertinent you are.(He has the foils brought and gives one to Nicole). There. Demonstration: The line of the body. When your opponent thrusts in quarte, you need only do this, and when they thrust in tierce, you need only do this. That is the way never to be killed, and isn’t it fine to be assured of what one does, when fighting against someone? There, thrust at me a little, to see.

NICOLE: Well then, what? (Nicole thrusts, giving him several hits).

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Easy! Wait! Oh! Gently! Devil take the hussy!

NICOLE: You told me to thrust.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, but you thrust in tierce, before you thrust in quarte, and you didn’t have the patience to let me parry.

MADAME JOURDAIN: You are a fool, husband, with all your fantasies, and this has come to you since you took a notion to associate with the nobility.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: When I associate with the nobility, I show my good judgment; and that’s better than associating with your shopkeepers.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Oh yes, truly! There’s a great deal to gain by consorting with your nobles, and you did so well with your fine Count you were so taken with!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Peace! Think what you’re saying. You know very well, wife, that you don’t know who you’re talking about, when you talk about him! He’s a more important person than you think: a great Lord, respected at court, and who talks to the King just as I talk to you. Is it not a thing which does me great honor, that a person of this quality is seen to come so often to my house, who calls me his dear friend and treats me as if I were his equal? He has more regard for me than one would ever imagine; and, in front of everyone, he shows me so much affection that I am embarrassed myself.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Yes, he has a kindness for you, and shows his affection, but he borrows your money.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: So! Isn’t it an honor for me to lend money to a man of that condition? And can I do less for a lord who calls me his dear friend?

MADAME JOURDAIN: And this lord, what does he do for you?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Things that would astonish you if you knew them.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Like what?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Blast! I cannot explain myself. It must suffice that if I have lent him money, he’ll pay it back fully, and before long.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Yes. You are waiting for that.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Assuredly. Didn’t he tell me so?

MADAME JOURDAIN: Yes, yes, he won’t fail to do it.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: He swore it on the faith of a gentleman.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Nonsense!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Well! You are very obstinate, wife. I tell you he will keep his word, I’m sure of it.

MADAME JOURDAIN: And I’m sure he will not, and that all his show of affection is only to flatter you.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Be still. Here he is.

MADAME JOURDAIN: That’s all we needed! He’s come again perhaps to borrow something from you. The very sight of him spoils my appetite.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Be still, I tell you.

SCENE IV

(COUNT DORANTE, MONSIEUR Jourdain, Madame Jourdain, Nicole)

DORANTE: My dear friend, Monsieur Jourdain, how do you do?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Very well, sir, to render you my small services.

DORANTE: And Madame Jourdain there, how is she?

MADAME JOURDAIN: Madame Jourdain is as well as she can be.

DORANTE: Well! Monsieur Jourdain, you are excellently well dressed!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You see.

DORANTE: You have a fine air in that suit, and we have no young men at court who are better made than you.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Well! well!

MADAME JOURDAIN: (Aside) He scratches him where it itches.

DORANTE: Turn around. It’s positively elegant.

MADAME JOURDAIN: (Aside) Yes, as big a fool behind as in front.

DORANTE: My faith, Monsieur Jourdain, I was strangely impatient to see you. You are the man in the world I esteem most, and I was speaking of you again this morning in the bedchamber of the King.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You do me great honor, sir. (To Madame Jourdain) In the King’s bedchamber!

DORANTE: Come, put on . . .

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Sir, I know the respect I owe you.

DORANTE: Heavens! Put on your hat; I pray you, no ceremony between us.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Sir . . .

DORANTE: Put it on, I tell you, Monsieur Jourdain: you are my friend.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Sir, I am your humble servant.

DORANTE: I won’t be covered if you won’t.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (Putting on his hat) I would rather be uncivil than troublesome.

DORANTE: I am in your debt, as you know.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Yes, we know it all too well.

DORANTE: You have generously lent me money upon several occasions, and you have obliged me with the best grace in the world, assuredly.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Sir, you jest with me.

DORANTE: But I know how to repay what is lent me, and to acknowledge the favors rendered me.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I have no doubt of it, sir.

DoRANTE: I want to settle this matter with you, and I came here to make up our accounts together.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: There wife! You see your impertinence!

DORANTE: I am a man who likes to repay debts as soon as I can.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (Aside to Madame Jourdain) I told you so.

DORANTE: Let’s see how much do I owe you.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (Aside to Madame Jourdain) There you are, with your ridiculous suspicions.

DORANTE: Do you remember well all the money you have lent me?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I believe so. I made a little note of it. Here it is. Once you were given two hundred louis d’or.

DORANTE: That’s true.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Another time, six-score.

DORANTE: Yes.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: And another time, a hundred and forty.

DORANTE: You’re right.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: These three items make four hundred and sixty louis d’or, which comes to five thousand sixty livres.

DORANTE: The account is quite right. Five thousand sixty livres.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: One thousand eight hundred thirty-two livres to your plume-maker.

DORANTE: Exactly.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Two thousand seven hundred eighty livres to your tailor.

DoRANTE: It’s true.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Four thousand three hundred seventy-nine livres twelve sols eight deniers to your tradesman.

DORANTE: Quite right. Twelve sols eight deniers. The account is exact.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: And one thousand seven hundred forty-eight livres seven sols four deniers to your saddler.

DORANTE: All that is true. What does that come to?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Sum total, fifteen thousand eight hundred livres.

DORANTE: The sum total is exact: fifteen thousand eight hundred livres. To which add two hundred pistoles that you are going to give me, which will make exactly eighteen thousand francs, which I shall pay you at the first opportunity.

MADAME JOURDAIN: (Aside) Well, didn’t I predict it?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Peace!

DORANTE: Will that inconvenience you, to give me the amount I say?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Oh, no!

MADAME JOURDAIN: (Aside) That man is making a milk-cow out of you!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Be quiet!

DoRANTE: If that inconveniences you, I will seek it somewhere else.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: NO, Sir.

MADAME JOURDAIN: (Aside) He won’t be content until he’s ruined you.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Be quiet, I tell you.

DORANTE: You have only to tell me if that embarrasses you.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Not at all, sir.

MADAME JOURDAIN: (Aside) He’s a real wheedler!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Hush.

MADAME JOURDAIN: (Aside) He’ll drain you to the last sou.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Will you be quiet?

DORANTE: I have a number of people who would gladly lend it to me; but since you are my best friend, I believed I might do you wrong if I asked someone else for it.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: It’s too great an honor, sir, that you do me. I’ll go get it for you.

MADAME JOURDAIN: (Aside) What! You’re going to give it to him again?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What can I do? Do you want me to refuse a man of this station, who spoke about me this morning in the King’s bedchamber?

MADAME JOURDAIN: (Aside) Go on, you’re a true dupe.

SCENE V

(DORANTE, MADAME JOURDAIN, Nicole)

DORANTE: You appear to be very melancholy. What is wrong, Madame Jourdain?

MADAME JOURDAIN: I have a head bigger than my fist, even if it’s not swollen.

DORANTE: Mademoiselle, your daughter, where is she that I don’t see her?

MADAME JOURDAIN: Mademoiselle my daughter is right where she is.

DORANTE: How is she getting on?

MADAME JOURDAIN: She “gets on” on her two legs.

DORANTE: Wouldn’t you like to come with her one of these days to see the ballet and the comedy they are putting on at court?

MADAME JOURDAIN: Yes truly, we have a great desire to laugh, a very great desire to laugh.

DORANTE: I think, Madame Jourdain, that you must have had many admirers in your youth, beautiful and good humored as you were.

MADAME JOURDAIN: By Our Lady! Sir, is Madame Jourdain decrepit, and does her head already shake with palsy?

DORANTE: Ah! My faith, Madame Jourdain, I beg pardon. I did not remember that you are young. I am often distracted. Pray excuse my impertinence.

SCENE VI

(MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, MADAME Jourdain, Dorante, Nicole)

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: There are two hundred louis d’or.

DORANTE: I assure you, Monsieur Jourdain, that I am completely yours, and that I am eager to render you a service at court.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I’m much obliged to you.

DORANTE: If Madame Jourdain desires to see the royal entertainment, I will have the best places in the ballroom given to her.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Madame Jourdain kisses your hands [but declines].

DORANTE: (Aside to Monsieur Jourdain) Our beautiful marchioness, as I sent word to you, in my note, will come here soon for the ballet and refreshments; I finally brought her to consent to the entertainment you wish to give her.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Let us move a little farther away, for a certain reason.

DORANTE: It has been eight days since I saw you, and I have sent you no news regarding the diamond you put into my hands to present to her on your behalf; but it’s because I had the greatest difficulty in conquering her scruples, and it’s only today that she resolved to accept it.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: How did she judge it?

DORANTE: Marvelous. And I am greatly deceived if the beauty of that diamond does not produce for you an admirable effect on her spirit.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Would to Heaven!

MADAME JOURDAIN: (To Nicole) Once he’s with him he cannot leave him.

DORANTE: I made her value as she should the richness of that present and the grandeur of your love.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: These are, sir, favors which overwhelm me; and I am in the very greatest confusion at seeing a person of your quality demean himself for me as you do.

DORANTE: Are you joking? Among friends, does one stop at these sorts of scruples? And wouldn’t you do the same thing for me, if the occasion offered?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Oh! Certainly, and with all my heart.

MADAME JOURDAIN: (To Nicole) His presence weighs me down!

DORANTE: As for me, I never mind anything when it is necessary to serve a friend; and when you confided in me about the ardent passion you have formed for that delightful marchioness with whom I have contacts, you saw that I volunteered immediately to assist your love.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: It’s true, these are favors that confound me.

MADAME JOURDAIN: (To Nicole) Will he never go?

NICOLE: They enjoy being together.

DORANTE: You took the right tack to touch her heart. Women love above all the expenses we go to for them; and your frequent serenades, your continual bouquets, that superb fireworks for her over the water, the diamond she has received from you, and the entertainment you are preparing for her, all this speaks much better in favor of your love than all the words you might have spoken yourself.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: There are no expenditures I would not make if by that means I might find the road to her heart. A woman of quality has ravishing charms for me and it’s an honor I would purchase at any price.

MADAME JOURDAIN: (To Nicole) What can they talk about so much? Steal over and listen a little.

DORANTE: Soon enough you will enjoy at your ease the pleasure of seeing her, and your eyes will have a long time to satisfy themselves.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: To be completely free, I have arranged for my wife to go to dinner at her sister’s, where she’ll spend all the after-dinner hours.

DORANTE: You have done prudently, as your wife might have embarrassed us. I have given the necessary orders to the cook for you, and for the ballet. It is of my own invention; and, provided the execution corresponds to the idea, I am sure it will be found . . .

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (Sees that Nicole is listening, and gives her a slap) Say! You’re very impertinent! (To Dorante) Let’s go, if you please.

SCENE VII

(MADAME JOURDAIN, NICOLE)

NICOLE: My faith, Madame, curiosity has cost me; but I believe something’s afoot, since they were talking of some event where they did not want you to be.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Today’s not the first time, Nicole, that I’ve had suspicions about my husband. I’m the most mistaken woman in the world, or there’s some love-affair in the making. But let us see to my daughter. You know the love Cléonte has for her. He’s a man who appeals to me, and I want to help his suit and give him Lucile, if I can.

NICOLE: Truly, Madame, I’m the most delighted creature in the world to see that you feel this way, since, if the master appeals to you, his valet appeals to me no less, and I could wish our marriage made under the shadow of theirs.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Go speak to Cléonte about it for me, and tell him to come to me soon so we can present his request to my husband for my daughter in marriage.

NICOLE: I hasten, Madame, with joy, for I could not receive a more agreeable commission. (Alone) I shall, I think, make them very happy.

SCENE VIII

(CLÉONTE, COVIELLE, NICOLE)

NICOLE: Ah! I’m glad to have found you. I’m an ambassadress of joy, and I come . . .

CLÉONTE: Get out, traitor, and don’t come to amuse me with your treacherous words.

NICOLE: Is this how you receive me . . .

CLÉONTE: Get out, I tell you, and go tell your faithless mistress that she will never again in her life deceive the too trusting Cléonte.

NICOLE: What caprice is this? My dear Covielle, explain a little what you are trying to say.

COVIELLE: Your dear Covielle, little hussy? Go, quickly, out of my sight, villainess , and leave me in peace.

NICOLE: What! You come to me too. . .

COVIELLE: Out of my sight, I tell you, and never speak to me again.

NICOLE: My word! What fly has bitten those two? Let’s go tell this pretty story to my mistress.

SCENE IX

(CLÉONTE, COVIELLE)

CLÉONTE: What! Treat a lover in this way? And a lover who is the most faithful and passionate of lovers?

COVIELLE: It is a frightful thing that they have done to us both.

CLÉONTE: I show a woman all the ardor and tenderness that can be imagined; I love nothing in the world but her, and I have nothing but her in my thoughts; she is all I care for, all my desire, all my joy; I talk of nothing but her, I think of nothing but her, I have no dreams but of her, I breathe only because of her, my heart lives wholly in her; and see how so much love is well repaid! I have been two days without seeing her, which are for me two frightful centuries; I meet her by chance; my heart, at that sight, is completely transported, my joy shines on my face; I fly with ecstasy towards her — and the faithless one averts her eyes and hurries by as if she had never seen me in her life!

COVIELLE: I say the same things as you.

CLÉONTE: Covielle, can one see anything to equal this perfidy of the ungrateful Lucile?

COVIELLE: And that, Monsieur, of the treacherous Nicole?

CLÉONTE: After so many ardent homages, sighs, and vows that I have made to her charms!

COVIELLE: After so many assiduous compliments, cares, and services that I rendered her in the kitchen!

CLÉONTE: So many tears I have shed at her knees!

COVIELLE: So many buckets of water I have drawn for her!

CLÉONTE: So much passion I have shown her in loving her more than myself!

COVIELLE: So much heat I have endured in turning the spit for her!

CLÉONTE: She flies from me in disdain!

COVIELLE: She turns her back on me!

CLÉONTE: It is perfidy worthy of the greatest punishments.

COVIELLE: It is treachery that merits a thousand slaps.

CLÉONTE: Don’t think, I beg you, of ever speaking in her favor to me.

COVIELLE: I, sir? God forbid!

CLÉONTE: Never come to excuse the action of this faithless woman.

COVIELLE: Have no fear.

CLEONTE; No, you see, all your speeches in her defense will serve no purpose.

COVIELLE: Who even thinks of that?

CLÉONTE: I want to conserve my resentment against her and end all contact with her.

COVIELLE: I agree.

CLÉONTE: This Count who goes to her house is perhaps pleasant in her view; and her mind, I well see, allows itself to be dazzled by social standing. But it is necessary for me, for my honor, to prevent the scandal of her inconstancy. I want to break off with her first and not leave her all the glory of dumping me.

COVIELLE: That’s very well said, and I agree, for my part, with all your feelings.

CLÉONTE: Strengthen my resentment and aid my resolve against all the remains of love that could speak in her behalf. Tell me, I order you, all the bad you can of her; make for me a painting of her that will render her despicable; and show well, in order to disgust me, all the faults that you can see in her.

COVIELLE: Her, sir? There’s a pretty fool, a well made flirt for you to give so much love! I see only mediocrity in her, and you will find a hundred women who will be more worthy of you. First of all, she has small eyes.

CLÉONTE: That’s true, she has small eyes; but they are full of fire, the brightest, the keenest in the world, the most touching eyes that one can see.

COVIELLE: She has a big mouth.

CLÉONTE: Yes; but upon it one sees grace that one never sees on other mouths; and the sight of that mouth, which is the most attractive, the most amorous in the world, inspires desire.

COVIELLE: As for her figure, she’s not tall.

CLÉONTE: No, but she is graceful and well made.

COVIELLE: She affects a nonchalance in her speech and in her actions.

CLÉONTE: That’s true; but she may be forgiven all that, for her manners are so engaging, they have an irresistible charm.

COVIELLE: As to her wit . . .

CLÉONTE: Ah! She has that, Covielle, the finest, the most delicate!

COVIELLE: Her conversation . . .

CLÉONTE: Her conversation is charming.

COVIELLE: She is always serious . . .

CLEONTE; Would you have grinning playfulness, constant open merriment? And do you see anything more impertinent than those women who laugh all the time?

COVIELLE: But finally she is as capricious as any woman in the world.

CLÉONTE: Yes, she is capricious, I concede; but everything becomes beautiful ladies well, one suffers everything for beauty.

COVIELLE: I see clearly how it goes, you want to go on loving her.

CLÉONTE: Me, I’d like better to die; and I am going to hate her as much as I loved her.

COVIELLE: How, if you find her so perfect?

CLÉONTE: That’s how my vengeance will be more striking, in that way I’ll show better the strength of my heart, by hating her, by quitting her, with all her beauty, all her charms, and as lovable as I find her. Here she is.

SCENE X

(CLÉONTE, LUCILE, COVIELLE, Nicole)

NICOLE: For my part, I was completely shocked at it.

LUCILE: It can only be, Nicole, what I told you. But there he is.

CLÉONTE: I don’t even want to speak to her.

COVIELLE: I’ll imitate you.

LUCILE: What’s the matter Cléonte? What’s wrong with you?

NICOLE: What’s the matter with you, Covielle?

LUCILE: What grief possesses you?

NICOLE: What bad humor holds you?

LUCILE: Are you mute, Cléonte?

NICOLE: Have you lost your voice, Covielle?

CLÉONTE: Is this not villainous!

COVIELLE: It’s a Judas!

LUCILE: I clearly see that our recent meeting has troubled you.

CLÉONTE: Ah! Ah! She sees what she’s done.

NICOLE: Our greeting this morning has annoyed you.

COVIELLE: She has guessed the problem.

LUCILE: Isn’t it true, Cléonte, that this is the cause of your resentment?

CLÉONTE: Yes, perfidious one, it is, since I must speak; and I must tell that you shall not triumph in your faithlessness as you think, I want to be the first to break with you, and you won’t have the advantage of driving me away. I will have difficulty in conquering the love I have for you; it will cause me pain; I will suffer for a while. But I’ll come through it, and I would rather stab myself through the heart than have the weakness to return to you.

COVIELLE: Me too.

LUCILE: What an uproar over nothing. I want to tell you, Cléonte, what made me avoid joining you this morning.

CLÉONTE: No, I don’t want to listen to anything . . .

NICOLE: I want to tell you what made us pass so quickly.

COVIELLE: I don’t want to hear anything.

LUCILE: (Following Cléonte) Know that this morning . . .

CLÉONTE: No, I tell you.

NICOLE: (Following Covielle) Learn that . . .

COVIELLE: No, traitor.

LUCILE: Listen.

CLÉONTE: I won’t listen.

NICOLE: Let me speak.

COVIELLE: I’m deaf.

LUCILE: Cléonte!

CLÉONTE: No.

NICOLE: Covielle!

COVIELLE: I won’t listen.

LUCILE: Stop.

CLÉONTE: Gibberish!

NICOLE: Listen to me.

COVIELLE: Rubbish!

LUCILE: One moment.

CLÉONTE: Never.

NICOLE: A little patience.

COVIELLE: Not interested!

LUCILE: Two words.

CLÉONTE: No, you’ve had them.

NICOLE: One word.

COVIELLE: No more talking.

LUCILE: Alright! Since you don’t want to listen to me, think what you like, and do what you want.

NICOLE: Since you act like that, make whatever you like of it all.

CLÉONTE: Let us know the reason, then, for such a fine reception.

LUCILE: It no longer pleases me to say.

COVIELLE: Let us know something of your story.

NICOLE: I, myself, no longer want to tell you.

CLÉONTE: Tell me . . .

LUCILE: No, I don’t want to say anything.

COVIELLE: Tell it . . .

NICOLE: No, I’ll tell nothing.

CLÉONTE: For pity . . .

LUCILE: No, I say.

COVIELLE: Have mercy.

NICOLE: It’s no use.

CLÉONTE: I beg you.

LUCILE: Leave me . . .

COVIELLE: I plead with you.

NICOLE: Get out of here.

CLÉONTE: Lucile!

LUCILE: No.

COVIELLE: Nicole!

NICOLE: Never.

CLÉONTE: In the name of God! . . .

LUCILE: I don’t want to.

COVIELLE: Talk to me.

NICOLE: Definitely not.

CLÉONTE: Clear up my doubts.

LUCILE: No, I’ll do nothing.

COVIELLE: Relieve my mind!

NICOLE: No, I don’t care to.

CLÉONTE: Alright! since you are so little concerned to take me out of my pain and to justify yourself for the shameful treatment you gave to my passion, you are seeing me, ingrate, for the last time, and I am going far from you to die of sorrow and love.

COVIELLE: And I — I will follow in his steps.

LUCILE: Cléonte!

NICOLE: Covielle!

CLÉONTE: What?

COVIELLE: Yes?

LUCILE: Where are you going?

CLÉONTE: Where I told you.

COVIELLE: We are going to die.

LUCILE: You are going to die, Cléonte?

CLÉONTE: Yes, cruel one, since you wish it.

LUCILE: Me! I wish you to die?

CLÉONTE: Yes, you wish it.

LUCILE: Who told you that?

CLÉONTE: Is it not wishing it when you don’t wish to clear up my suspicions?

LUCILE: Is it my fault? And, if you had wished to listen to me, would I not have told you that the incident you complain of was caused this morning by the presence of an old aunt who insists that the mere approach of a man dishonors a woman — an aunt who constantly delivers sermons to us on this text, and tells us that all men are like devils we must flee?

NICOLE: There’s the key to the entire affair.

CLÉONTE: Are you sure you’re not deceiving me, Lucile?

COVIELLE: Aren’t you making this up?

LUCILE: There’s nothing more true.

NICOLE: It’s the absolute truth.

COVIELLE: Are we going to give in to this?

CLÉONTE: Ah! Lucile, how with a word from your lips you are able to appease the things in my heart, and how easily one allows himself to be persuaded by the people one loves!

COVIELLE: How easily we are manipulated by these blasted minxes!

SCENE XI

(MADAME JOURDAIN, CLÉONTE, Lucile, Covielle, Nicole)

MADAME JOURDAIN: I am very glad to see you, Cléonte and you are here at just the right time. My husband is coming, seize the opportunity to ask for Lucile in marriage.

CLÉONTE: Ah! Madame, how sweet that word is to me, and how it flatters my desires! Could I receive an order more charming, a favor more precious?

SCENE XII

(MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, MADAME Jourdain, Cléonte, Lucile, Covielle, Nicole)

CLÉONTE: Sir, I did not want to use anyone to make a request of you that I have long considered. It affects me enough for me to take charge of it myself; and, without further ado, I will say to you that the honor of being your son-in-law is a glorious favor that I beg you to grant me.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Before giving you a reply, sir, I beg to ask if you are a gentleman.

CLÉONTE: Sir, most people don’t hesitate much over this question. They use the word carelessly. They take the name without scruple, and the usage of today seems to validate the theft. As for me, I confess to you, I have a little more delicate feelings on this matter. I find all imposture undignified for an honest man, and that there is cowardice in disguising what Heaven made us at birth; to present ourselves to the eyes of the world with a stolen title; to wish to give a false impression. I was born of parents who, without doubt, held honorable positions. I have six years of service in the army, and I find myself established well enough to maintain a tolerable rank in the world; but despite all that I certainly have no wish to give myself a name to which others in my place might believe they could pretend, and I will tell you frankly that I am not a gentleman.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Shake hands, Sir! My daughter is not for you.

CLÉONTE: What?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You are not a gentleman. You will not have my daughter.

MADAME JOURDAIN: What are you trying to say with your talk of gentleman? Are we ourselves of the line of St. Louis?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Quiet, wife, I see what you are up to.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Aren’t we both descended from good bourgeois families?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: There’s that hateful word!

MADAME JOURDAIN: And wasn’t your father a merchant just like mine?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Plague take the woman! She never fails to do this! If your father was a merchant, so much the worse for him! But, as for mine, those who say that are misinformed. All that I have to say to you is, that I want a gentleman for a son-in-law.

MADAME JOURDAIN: It’s necessary for your daughter to have a husband who is worthy of her, and it’s better for her to have an honest rich man who is well made than an impoverished gentleman who is badly built.

NICOLE: That’s true. We have the son of a gentleman in our village who is the most ill formed and the greatest fool I have ever seen.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Hold your impertinent tongue! You always butt into the conversation. I have enough money for my daughter, I need only honor, and I want to make her a marchioness.

MADAME JOURDAIN: A marchioness?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, marchioness.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Alas! God save me from it!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: It’s a thing I have resolved.

MADAME JOURDAIN: As for me, it’s a thing I’ll never consent to. Marriages above one’s station are always subject to great inconveniences. I have absolutely no wish for a son-in-law who can reproach her parents to my daughter, and I don’t want her to have children who will be ashamed to call me their grandmother. If she arrives to visit me in the equipage of a great lady and if she fails, by mischance, to greet someone of the neighborhood, they wouldn’t fail immediately to say a hundred stupidities. “Do you see,” they would say, “this madam marchioness who gives herself such glorious airs? It’s the daughter of Monsieur Jourdain, who was all too glad, when she was little, to play house with us; she’s not always been so haughty as she now is; and her two grandfathers sold cloth near St. Innocent’s Gate. They amassed wealth for their children, they’re paying dearly perhaps for it now in the other world, and one can scarcely get that rich by being honest.” I certainly don’t want all that gossip, and I want, in a word, a man who will be obliged to me for my daughter and to whom I can say, “Sit down there, my son-in-law, and have dinner with me.”

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Surely those are the sentiments of a little spirit, to want to remain always in a base condition. Don’t talk back to me: my daughter will be a marchioness in spite of everyone. And, if you make me angrier, I’ll make a duchess of her.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Cléonte, don’t lose courage yet. Follow me, my daughter, and tell your father resolutely that, if you can’t have him, you don’t want to marry anyone.

SCENE XIII

(CLÉONTE, COVIELLE)

COVIELLE: You’ve made a fine business, with your pretty sentiments.

CLÉONTE: What do you want? I have a scruple about that which precedent cannot conquer.

COVIELLE: Don’t you make a fool of yourself by taking it seriously with a man like that? Don’t you see that he is a fool? And would it cost you anything to accommodate yourself to his fantasies?

CLÉONTE: You’re right. But I didn’t believe it necessary to prove nobility in order to be Monsieur Jourdain’s son-in-law.

COVIELLE: Ha, ha, ha!

CLÉONTE: What are you laughing at?

COVIELLE: At a thought that just occurred to me of how to play our man a trick and help you obtain what you desire.

CLÉONTE: How?

COVIELLE: The idea is really funny.

CLÉONTE: What is it?

COVIELLE: A short time ago there was a certain masquerade which fits here better than anything, and that I intend to make part of a prank I want to play on our fool. It all seems a little phony; but, with him, one can try anything, there is hardly any reason to be subtle, and he is the man to play his role marvelously and to swallow easily any fabrication we want to tell him. I have the actors, I have the costumes ready, just leave it to me.

CLÉONTE: But tell me . . .

COVIELLE: I am going to instruct you in everything. Let’s go, there he is, returning.

SCENE XIV

(MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, LACKEY)

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What the devil is this? They have nothing other than the great lords to reproach me with, and as for me, I see nothing so fine as to associate with the great lords; there is only honor and civility among them, and I would have given two fingers of a hand to have been born a count or a marquis.

LACKEY: Sir, here’s the Count, and he has a lady with him.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What! My Goodness, I have some orders to give. Tell them I’ll be back here soon.

SCENE XV

(DORIMÈNE, DORANTE, LACKEY)

LACKEY: Monsieur says that he’ll be here very soon.

DORANTE: That’s fine.

DORIMÈNE: I don’t know, Dorante; I feel strange allowing you to bring me to this house where I know no one.

DORANTE: Then where would you like, Madame, for me to express my love with an entertainment, since you will allow neither your house nor mine for fear of scandal?

DORIMÈNE: But you don’t mention that every day I am gradually preparing myself to receive too great proofs of your passion? As good a defense as I have put up, you wear down my resistance, and you have a polite persistence which makes me come gently to whatever you like. The frequent visits began, declarations followed, after them came serenades and amusements in their train, and presents followed them. I withstood all that, but you don’t give up at all and step by step you are overcoming my resolve. As for me, I can no longer answer for anything, and I believe that in the end you will bring me to marriage, which I have so far avoided.

DORANTE: My faith! Madame, you should already have come to it. You are a widow, and you answer only to yourself. I am my own master and I love you more than my life. Why shouldn’t you be all my happiness from today onward?

DORIMÈNE: Goodness! Dorante, for two people to live happily together both of them need particular qualities; and two of the most reasonable persons in the world often have trouble making a union satisfactory to them both.

DORANTE: You’re fooling yourself, Madame, to imagine so many difficulties, and the experience you had with one marriage doesn’t determine anything for others.

DORIMÈNE: Finally I always come back to this. The expenses that I see you go to for me disturb me for two reasons: one is that they get me more involved than I would like; and the other is that I am sure — meaning no offense — that you cannot do this without financially inconveniencing yourself, and I certainly don’t want that.

DORANTE: Ah! Madame, they are trifles, and it isn’t by that . . .

DORIMÈNE: I know what I’m talking about; and among other gifts, the diamond you forced me to take is worth ...

DORANTE: Oh! Madame, mercy, don’t put any value on a thing that my love finds unworthy of you, and allow ... Here’s the master of the house.

SCENE XVI

(MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, DORIMÈNE, Dorante, Lackey)

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (After having made two bows, finding himself too near Dorimène) A little farther, Madame.

DORIMÈNE: What?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: One step, if you please.

DORIMÈNE: What is it?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Step back a little for the third.

DORANTE: Madame, Monsieur Jourdain is very knowledgeable.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Madame, it is a very great honor to me to be fortunate enough to be so happy as to have the joy that you should have had the goodness to accord me the graciousness of doing me the honor of honoring me with the favor of your presence; and, if I also had the merit to merit a merit such as yours, and if Heaven . . . envious of my luck . . . should have accorded me . . . the advantage of seeing me worthy . . . of the . . .

DORANTE: Monsieur Jourdain, that is enough. Madame doesn’t like grand compliments, and she knows that you are a man of wit. (Aside to Dorimène) As you can see, this good bourgeois is ridiculous enough in all his manners.

DORIMÈNE: It isn’t difficult to see it.

DORANTE: Madame, he is the best of my friends.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You do me too much honor.

DORANTE: A completely gallant man.

DORIMÈNE: I have great esteem for him.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I have done nothing yet, Madame, to merit this favor.

DORANTE: (Aside to Monsieur Jourdain) Take care, nonetheless, to say absolutely nothing to her about the diamond that you gave her.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Can’t I even ask her how she likes it?

DORANTE: What? Take care that you don’t. That would be loutish of you; and, to act as a gallant man, you must act as though it were not you who made her this present. (Aloud) Monsieur Jourdain, Madame, says he is delighted to see you in his home.

DORIMÈNE: He honors me greatly.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: How obliged I am to you, sir, for speaking thus to her for me!

DORANTE: I have had frightful trouble getting her to come here.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I don’t know how to thank you enough.

DORANTE: He says, Madame, that he finds you the most beautiful woman in the world.

DORIMÈNE: He does me a great favor.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Madame, it is you who does the favors, and . . .

DORANTE: Let’s consider eating.

LACKEY: Everything is ready, sir.

DORANTE: Come then let us sit at the table. And bring on the musicians. (Six cooks, who have prepared the feast, dance together and make the third interlude; after which, they carry in a table covered with many dishes.)

ACT FOUR

SCENE I

(DORIMÈNE, MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, Dorante, two Male Musicians, a Female Musician, Lackeys)

DORIMÈNE: Why, Dorante, that is really a magnificent repast!

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You jest, Madame; I wish it were worthy of being offered to you. (All sit at the table).

DORANTE: Monsieur Jourdain is right, Madame, to speak so, and he obliges me by making you so welcome. I agree with him that the repast is not worthy of you. Since it was I who ordered it, and since I do not have the accomplishments of our friends in this matter, you do not have here a very sophisticated meal, and you will find some incongruities in the combinations and some

barbarities of taste. If Damis, our friend, had been involved, everything would have been according to the rules; everything would have been elegant and appropriate, and he would not have failed to impress upon you the significance of all the dishes of the repast, and to make you see his expertise when it comes to good food; he would have told you about hearth-baked bread, with its golden brown crust, crunching tenderly between the teeth; of a smooth, full-bodied wine, fortified with a piquancy not too strong, of a loin of mutton improved with parsley, of a cut of specially-raised veal as long as this, white and delicate, and which is like an almond paste between the teeth, of partridges complimented by a surprisingly flavorful sauce, and, for his masterpiece, a soup accompanied by a fat young turkey surrounded by pigeons and crowned with white onions mixed with chicory. But, as for me, I declare my ignorance; and, as Monsieur Jourdain has said so well, I only wish that the repast were more worthy of being offered to you.

DORIMÈNE: I reply to this compliment only by eating.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Ah! What beautiful hands!

DORIMÈNE: The hands are mediocre, Monsieur Jourdain; but you wish to speak of the diamond, which is very beautiful.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Me, Madame? God forbid that I should wish to speak of it; that would not be acting gallantly, and the diamond is a very small thing.

DORIMÈNE: You are very particular.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You are too kind. . .

DORANTE: Let’s have some wine for Monsieur Jourdain and for these gentlemen and ladies who are going to favor us with a drinking song.

DORIMÈNE: It is marvelous to season good food, by mixing it with music, and I see I am being admirably entertained.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Madame, it isn’t . .

DORANTE: Monsieur Jourdain, let us remain silent for these gentlemen and ladies; what they have for us to hear is of more value than anything we could say. (The male singers and the woman singer take the glasses, sing two drinking songs, and are accompanied by all the instrumental ensemble.)

FIRST DRINKING SONG

Drink a little, Phyllis, to start the glass round. Ah! A glass in your hands is charmingly agreeable! You and the wine arm each other, And I redouble my love for you both Let us three — wine, you, and me — Swear, my beauty, to an eternal passion.

Your lips are made yet more attractive by wetting with wine! Ah! The one and the other inspire me with desire And both you and it intoxicate me Let us three — wine, you, and me — Swear, my beauty, to an eternal passion.

SECOND DRINKING SONG

Let us drink, dear friends, let us drink; Time that flies beckons us to it! Let us profit from life as much as we can. Once we pass under the black shadow, Goodbye to wine, our loves; Let us drink while we can, One cannot drink forever.

Let fools speculate On the true happiness of life. Our philosophy Puts it among the wine-pots. Possessions, knowledge and glory Hardly make us forget troubling cares, And it is only with good drink That one can be happy.

Come on then, wine for all, pour, boys, pour, Pour, keep on pouring, until they say, “Enough.”

DORIMÈNE: I don’t believe it’s possible to sing better, and that is positively beautiful.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I see something here, Madame, yet more beautiful.

DORIMÈNE: Aha! Monsieur Jourdain is more gallant than I thought.

DORANTE: What! Madame, what did you take Monsieur Jourdain for?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I would like for her to take me at my word.

DORIMÈNE: Again!

DORANTE: You don’t know him.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: She may know me whenever it pleases her.

DORIMÈNE: Oh! I am overwhelmed.

DORANTE: He is a man who is always ready with a repartee. But don’t you see that Monsieur Jourdain, Madame, eats all the pieces of food you have touched?

DORIMÈNE: I am captivated by Monsieur Jourdain . . .

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: If I could captivate your heart, I would be . . .

SCENE II

(MADAME JOURDAIN, MONSIEUR Jourdain, Dorimène, Dorante, Musicians, Lackeys)

MADAME JOURDAIN: Aha! I find good company here, and I see that I was not expected. Was it for this pretty affair, Monsieur Husband, that you were so eager to send me to dinner at my sister’s? I just saw stage decorations downstairs, and here I see a banquet fit for a wedding. That is how you spend your money, and this is how you entertain the ladies in my absence, and you give them music and entertainment while sending me on my way.

DORANTE: What are you saying, Madame Jourdain? And what fantasies are you getting into your head that your husband spends his money, and that it is he who is giving this entertainment to Madame? Please know that it is I; that he only lends me his house, and that you ought to think more about the things you say.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, what impertinence. It is the Count who presents all this to Madame, who is a person of quality. He does me the honor of using my house and of wishing me to be with him.

MADAME JOURDAIN: All that’s nonsense. I know what I know.

DORANTE: Come Madame Jourdain, put on better glasses.

MADAME JOURDAIN: I don’t need glasses, sir, I see well enough; I have had suspicions for a long time, and I’m not a fool. This is very low of you, of a great lord, to lend a hand as you do to the follies of my husband. And you, Madame, for a great lady, it is neither fine nor honest of you to cause dissension in a household and to allow my husband to be in love with you.

DORIMÈNE: What is she trying to say with all this? Goodness Dorante! You have outdone yourself by exposing me to the absurd fantasies of this ridiculous woman.

DORANTE: Madame, wait! Madame, where are you going?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Madame! Monsieur Count, make excuses to her and try to bring her back. Ah! You impertinent creature, this is a fine way to act! You come and insult me in front of everybody, and you drive from me people of quality.

MADAME JOURDAIN: I laugh at their quality.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I don’t know who holds me back, evil creature, from breaking your head with the remains of the repast you came to disrupt. (The table is removed).

MADAME JOURDAIN: (Leaving) I’m not concerned. These are my rights that I defend, and I’ll have all wives on my side.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You do well to avoid my rage. She arrived very inopportunely. I was in the mood to say pretty things, and I had never felt so witty. What’s that?

SCENE III

(COVIELLE, DISGUISED; MONSIEUR Jourdain, Lackey)

COVIELLE: Sir, I don’t know if I have the honor to be known to you?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No, sir.

COVIELLE: I saw you when you were no taller than that.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Me?

COVIELLE: Yes. You were the most beautiful child in the world, and all the ladies took you in their arms to kiss you.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: To kiss me?

COVIELLE: Yes, I was a great friend of your late father.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Of my late father?

COVIELLE: Yes. He was a very honorable gentleman.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What did you say?

COVIELLE: I said that he was a very honorable gentleman.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: My father?

COVIELLE: Yes.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You knew him very well?

COVIELLE: Assuredly.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: And you knew him as a gentleman?

COVIELLE: Without doubt.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Then I don’t know what is going on!

COVIELLE: What?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: There are some fools who want to tell me that he was a tradesman.

COVIELLE: Him, a tradesman! It’s pure slander, he never was one. All that he did was to be very obliging, very ready to help; and, since he was a connoisseur in cloth, he went all over to choose them, had them brought to his house, and gave them to his friends for money.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I’m delighted to know you, so you can testify to the fact that my father was a gentleman.

COVIELLE: I’ll attest to it before all the world.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: You’ll oblige me. What business brings you here?

COVIELLE: Since knowing your late father, honorable gentleman, as I told you, I have traveled through all the world.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Through all the world!

COVIELLE: Yes.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I imagine it’s a long way from here to there.

COVIELLE: Assuredly. I returned from all my long voyages only four days ago; and because of the interest I take in all that concerns you, I come to announce to you the best news in the world.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What?

COVIELLE: You know that the son of the Grand Turk is here?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Me? No.

COVIELLE: What! He has a very magnificent retinue; everybody goes to see it, and he has been received in this country as an important lord.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: By my faith! I didn’t know that.

COVIELLE: The advantage to you in this is that he is in love with your daughter.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: The son of the Grand Turk?

COVIELLE: Yes. And he wants to be your son-in-law.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: My son-in-law, the son of the Grand Turk?

COVIELLE: The son of the Grand Turk your son-in-law. As I went to see him, and as I perfectly understand his language, he conversed with me; and, after some other discourse, he said to me, “Acciam croc soler ouch alla moustaph gidelum amanahem varahini oussere carbulath,” that is to say, “Haven’t you seen a beautiful young person who is the daughter of Monsieur Jourdain, gentleman of Paris?”

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: The son of the Grand Turk said that of me?

COVIELLE: Yes. Inasmuch as I told him in reply that I knew you particularly well and that I had seen your daughter: “Ah!” he said to me, “marababa sahem;” Which is to say, “Ah, how I am enamored of her!”

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: “Marababa sahem” means “Ah, how I am enamored of her”?

COVIELLE: Yes.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: By my faith, you do well to tell me, since, as for me, I would never have believed that “marababa sahem” could have meant to say “Oh, how I am enamored of her!” What an admirable language Turkish is!

COVIELLE: More admirable than one can believe. Do you know what Cacaracamouchen means?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Cacaracamouchen? No.

COVIELLE: It means: It means, “My dear soul.”

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Cacaracamouchen means “My dear soul?”

COVIELLE: Yes.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: That’s marvelous! Cacaracamouchen, my dear soul. Who would have thought? I’m dumbfounded.

COVIELLE: Finally, to complete my assignment, he comes to ask for your daughter in marriage; and in order to have a father-in-law who should be worthy of him, he wants to make you a Mamamouchi, which is a certain high rank in his country.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Mamamouchi?’

COVIELLE: Yes, Mamamouchi; that is to say, in our language, a Paladin. Paladin is one of those ancient . . . Well, Paladin! There is none nobler than that in the world, and you will be equal to the greatest lords of the earth.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: The son of the Grand Turk honors me greatly. Please take me to him in order to express my thanks.

COVIELLE: What! He is going to come here.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: He’s coming here?

COVIELLE: Yes. And he is bringing everything for the ceremony of bestowing your rank.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: That seems very quick.

COVIELLE: His love can suffer no delay.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: All that embarrasses me here is that my daughter is a stubborn one who has gotten into her head a certain Cleonte, and she swears she’ll marry no one but him.

COVIELLE: She’ll change her mind when she sees the son of the Grand Turk; and then there is a remarkable coincidence here, it is that the son of the Grand Turk resembles this Cléonte very closely. I just saw him, someone showed him to me; and the love she has for the one can easily pass to the other, and . . . I hear him coming. There he is.

SCENE IV

(CLÉONTE, AS A Turk, with three Pages carrying his outer clothes, Monsieur Jourdain, Covielle, disguised.)

CLÉONTE: Ambousahim oqui boraf, Iordina, salamalequi.

COVIELLE: That is to say: “Monsieur Jourdain, may your heart be all the year like a flowering rosebush.” This is the way of speaking politely in those countries.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I am the most humble servant of His Turkish Highness.

COVIELLE: Carigar camboto oustin moraf .

CLÉONTE: Oustin yoc catamalequi basum base alla moran.

COVIELLE: He says: “Heaven gives you the strength of lions and the wisdom of serpents.”

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: His Turkish Highness honors me too much, and I wish him all sorts of good fortune.

COVIELLE: Ossa binamen sadoc babally oracaf ouram.

CLÉONTE: Bel-men.

COVIELLE: He says that you should go with him quickly to prepare yourself for the ceremony; then you can see your daughter and conclude the marriage.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: So many things in two words?

COVIELLE: Yes; the Turkish language is like that, it says much in few words. Go quickly where he wants.

SCENE V

(DORANTE, COVIELLE)

COVIELLE: Ha, ha, ha! My faith, that was hilarious. What a dupe! If he had learned his role by heart, he could not have played it better. Ah! Ah! Excuse me, Sir, Wouldn’t you like to help us here in an affair that is taking place.

DORANTE: Ah! Ah! Covielle, who would have recognized you? How you are made up!

COVIELLE: You see, ha, ha!

DORANTE: What are you laughing at?

COVIELLE: At a thing, Sir, that well deserves it.

DORANTE: What?

COVIELLE: I’ll give you many chances, Sir, to guess the stratagem we are using on Monsieur Jourdain to get him to give his daughter to my master.

DORANTE: I can’t begin to guess the stratagem, but I guess it will not fail in its effect, since you are undertaking it.

COVIELLE: I see, Sir, that you know me too well.

DORANTE: Tell me what it is.

COVIELLE: Come over here a little to make room for what I see coming. You can see part of the story, while I tell you the rest.

(The Turkish ceremony for ennobling Monsieur Jourdain is performed in dance and music, and comprises the Fourth Interlude.) [The ceremony is a burlesque full of comic gibberish in pseudo-Turkish and nonsensical French, in which Monsieur Jourdain is made to appear ludicrous and during which he is outfitted with an extravagant costume, turban, and sword.]

ACT FIVE

SCENE I

(MADAME JOURDAINE, MONSIEUR Jourdain)

MADAME JOURDAIN: Ah, My God! Mercy! What is all of this? What a spectacle! Are you dressed for a masquerade, and is this a time to go masked? Speak then, what is this? Who has bundled you up like that?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: See the impertinent woman, to speak in this way to a Mamamouchi!

MADAME JOURDAIN: How’s that?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, you must show me respect now, as I’ve just been made a Mamamouchi.

MADAME JOURDAIN: What are you trying to say with your Mamamouchi?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Mamamouchi, I tell you. I’m a Mamamouchi.

MADAME JOURDAIN: What animal is that?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Mamamouchi, that is to say, in our language, Paladin.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Baladin! Are you of an age to dance in ballets?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What an ignorant woman! I said Paladin. It’s a dignity which has just been bestowed upon me in a ceremony.

MADAME JOURDAIN: What ceremony then?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Mahometa-per-Jordina.

MADAME JOURDAIN: What does that mean?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Jordina, that is to say, Jourdain.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Very well, what of Jourdain?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Voler far un Paladina de Jordina.

MADAME JOURDAIN: What?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Dar turbanta con galera.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Which is to say what?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Per deffender Palestina.

MADAME JOURDAIN: What are you trying to say?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Dara, dara, bastonnara.

MADAME JOURDAIN: What jargon is this?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Non tener honta, questa star l’ultima affronta.

MADAME JOURDAIN: What in the world is all that?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (Dancing and singing). Hou la ba, Ba la chou, ba la ba, ba la da.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Alas! Oh Lord, my husband has gone mad.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (Leaving) Peace, insolent woman! Show respect to the Monsieur Mamamouchi.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Has he lost his mind? I must hurry to stop him from going out. Ah! Ah! This is the last straw! I see nothing but shame on all sides.

(She leaves.)

SCENE II

(DORANTE, DORIMÈNE)

DORANTE: Yes, Madame, you are going to see the most amusing thing imaginable. I don’t believe it would be possible to find in all the world another man as crazy as that one is. And then too, Madame, we must try to help Cléonte’s plan by supporting his masquerade. He’s a very gallant man and deserves our help.

DORIMÈNE: I think highly of him and he deserves happiness.

DORANTE: Besides that, we have here, Madame, another ballet performance that we shouldn’t miss, and I want to see if my idea will succeed.

DORIMÈNE: I saw magnificent preparations, and I can no longer permit this Dorante. Yes, I finally want to end your extravagances and to stop all these expenses that I see you go to for me, I have decided to marry you right away. This is the truth of it, that all these sorts of things end with marriage, as you know.

DORANTE: Ah! Madame, is it possible that you should have taken such a sweet decision in my favor?

DORIMÈNE: It is only to impede you from ruining yourself; without that, I see very well that before long you would not have a penny.

DORANTE: How obliged I am to you, Madame, for the care you have to conserve my money! It is entirely yours, as well as my heart, and you may use them in whatever fashion you please.

DORIMÈNE: I’ll make use of them both. But here is your man: his costume is wonderful.

SCENE III

(MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, DORANTE, Dorimène)

DORANTE: Sir, we come to pay homage, Madame and I, to your new dignity, and to rejoice with you at the marriage between your daughter and the son of the Grand Turk.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (After bowing in the Turkish way) Sir, I wish you the strength of serpents and the wisdom of lions.

DORIMÈNE: I was very glad, Sir, to be among the first to come to congratulate you upon rising to such a high degree of honor.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Madame, I wish your rosebush to flower all year long; I am infinitely obliged to you for taking part in the honors bestowed upon me; and I am very happy to see you returned here, so I can make very humble excuses for the ridiculous behavior of my wife.

DORIMÈNE: That’s nothing. I excuse her jumping to conclusions: your heart must be precious to her, and it isn’t strange that the possession of such a man as you should inspire some jealousy.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: The possession of my heart is a thing that has been entirely gained by you.

DORANTE: You see, Madame, that Monsieur Jourdain is not one of those men that good fortune blinds, and that he still knows, even in his glory, how to recognize his friends.

DORIMÈNE: It is the mark of a completely generous soul.

DORANTE: Where then is His Turkish Highness? We want, as your friends, to pay him our respects.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: There he comes, and I have sent for my daughter in order to give him her hand.

SCENE IV

(CLÉONTE, COVIELLE, MONSIEUR Jourdain, etc.)

DORANTE: Sir, we come to bow to Your Highness as friends of the gentleman who is your father-in-law, and to assure you with respect of our very humble services.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Where’s the interpreter to tell him who you are and to make him understand what you say? You will see that he will reply, and that he speaks Turkish marvelously. Hey there! Where the devil has he gone? (To Cléonte). Strouf, strif, strof, straf. The gentleman is a grande Segnore, grande Segnore, grande Segnore. And Madame is a Dama granda Dama, granda. Ahi! He, Monsieur, he French Mamamauchi, and Madame also French Mamamouchie. I can’t say it more clearly. Good, here’s the interpreter. Where are you going? We won’t know how to say anything without you. Tell him, that Monsieur and Madame are persons of high rank, who have come to pay their respects to him, as my friends, and to assure him of their services. You’ll see how he will reply.

COVIELLE: Alabala crociam acci boram alabamen.

CLÉONTE: Catalequi tubal ourin soter amalouchan.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: See?

COVIELLE: He says that the rain of prosperity should water the garden of your family in all seasons.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I told you that he speaks Turkish!

DORANTE: That’s wonderful.

SCENE V

(LUCILE, MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, Dorante, Dorimène, etc.)

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Come, my daughter; come here and give your hand to the gentleman who does you the honor of asking for you in marriage.

LUCILE: What! Father, look at you! Are you playing in a comedy?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No, no, this is not a comedy, it’s a very serious matter, and as full of honor for you as possible. There is the husband I give you.

LUCILE: To me, father?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes, to you. Come, put your hand in his, and give thanks to Heaven for your happiness.

LUCILE: I have absolutely no wish to marry.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I wish it, I, who am your father.

LUCILLE: I’ll do nothing of the sort.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Ah! What a nuisance! Come, I tell you. Give your hand.

LUCILE: No, my father, I told you, there is no power on earth that can make me take any husband other than Cléonte. And I will go to extreme measures rather than . . . (Recognizes Cléonte) It is true that you are my father; I owe you complete obedience; and it is for you to dispose of me according to your wishes.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Ah! I am delighted to see you return so promptly to your duty, and it pleases me to have an obedient daughter.

SCENE VI

(MADAME JOURDAIN, MONSIEUR Jourdain, Cléonte, etc.)

MADAME JOURDAIN: What now? What’s this? They say that you want to give your daughter in marriage to a someone in a Carnival costume?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Will you be quiet, impertinent woman? You always throw your absurdities into everything, and there’s no teaching you to be reasonable.

MADAME JOURDAIN: It’s you that there is no way of making wise, and you go from folly to folly. What is your plan, and what do you want to do with this assemblage of people?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I want to marry our daughter to the son of the Grand Turk.

MADAME JOURDAIN: To the son of the Grand Turk?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Yes. Greet him through the interpreter there.

MADAME JOURDAIN: I don’t need an interpreter; and I’ll tell him straight out myself, to his face, that there is no way he will have my daughter.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I ask again, will you be quiet?

DORANTE: What! Madame Jourdain, do you oppose such good fortune as that? You refuse His Turkish Highness as your son-in-law?

MADAME JOURDAIN: My Goodness, Sir, mind your own business.

DORIMÈNE: It’s a great glory, which is not to be rejected.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Madame, I beg you also not to concern yourself with what does not affect you.

DORANTE: It’s the friendship we have for you that makes us involve ourselves in your interest.

MADAME JOURDAIN: I can get along quite well without your friendship.

DORANTE: Your daughter here agrees to the wishes of her father.

MADAME JOURDAIN: My daughter consents to marry a Turk?

DORANTE: Without doubt.

MADAME JOURDAIN: She can forget Cléonte?

DORANTE: What wouldn’t one do to be a great lady?

MADAME JOURDAIN: I would strangle her with my own hands if she did something like that.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: That is just so much talk. I tell you, this marriage shall take place.

MADAME JOURDAIN: And I say there is no way that it will happen.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Oh, what a row!

LUCILE: Mother!

MADAME JOURDAIN: Go away, you are a hussy.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What! You quarrel with her for obeying me?

MADAME JOURDAIN: Yes. She is mine as much as yours.

COVIELLE: Madame!

MADAME JOURDAIN: What do you want to tell me?

COVIELLE: A word.

MADAME JOURDAIN: I want nothing to do with your word.

COVIELLE: (To Monsieur Jourdain) Sir, if she will hear a word in private, I promise you to make her consent to what you want.

MADAME JOURDAIN: I will never consent to It.

COVIELLE: Only listen to me.

MADAME JOURDAIN: No.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Listen to him.

MADAME JOURDAIN: No, I don’t want to listen to him.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: He is going tell you . . .

MADAME JOURDAIN: I don’t want him to tell me anything whatsoever.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: There is the great stubbornness of a woman! How can it hurt you to listen to him?

COVIELLE: Just listen to me; after that you can do as you please.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Alright! What?

COVIELLE: (Aside to Madame Jourdain) For an hour, Madame, we’ve been signaling to you. Don’t you see that all this is done only to accommodate ourselves to the fantasies of your husband, that we are fooling him under this disguise and that it is Cléonte himself who is the son of the Grand Turk?

MADAME JOURDAIN: Ah! Ah!

COVIELLE: And I, Covielle, am the interpreter?

MADAME JOURDAIN: Ah! If this is the case then, I surrender.

COVIELLE: Don’t let on.

MADAME JOURDAIN: Yes, it’s done, I agree to the marriage.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Ah! Now everyone’s reasonable. You didn’t want to hear it. I knew he would explain to you what it means to be the son of the Grand Turk.

MADAME JOURDAIN: He explained it to me very well, and I am satisfied. Let us send for a notary.

DORANTE: This is very well said. And finally, Madame Jourdain, in order to relieve your mind completely, and that you may lose today all the jealousy that you may have conceived of your husband, we shall have the same notary marry us, Madame and me.

MADAME JOURDAIN: I agree to that also.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Is this to make her believe our story?

DORANTE: (Aside to Monsieur Jourdain) It is necessary to amuse her with this pretence.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Good, good! Someone go for the notary.

DORANTE: While we wait for him to come and while he draws up the contracts, let us see our ballet, and divert His Turkish Highness with it.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: That is very well advised. Come, let’s take our places.

MADAME JOURDAIN: And Nicole?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: I give her to the interpreter; and my wife to whoever wants her.

COVIELLE: Sir, I thank you. (Aside) If one can find a greater fool, I’ll go to Rome to tell it.

(The comedy ends with a ballet.)

Psyche

Translated by Charles Heron Wall

CONTENTS

PSYCHE.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

PROLOGUE.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

ACT I

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VII.

FIRST INTERLUDE.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SECOND INTERLUDE.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

THIRD INTERLUDE.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

FOURTH INTERLUDE.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

The 1698 frontispiece

Portrait of Louis XIV by Hyacinthe Rigaud, 1701 – the king commissioned this play

PSYCHE.

‘PSYCHE’ IS A tragédie-ballet. Molière had sketched the plan, written the prologue, the first act, and the first scenes of the second and third acts, when the King asked him to have the play finished before Lent. Pierre Corneille, then sixty years old, helped him, and wrote the other scenes in a fortnight. Quinault wrote the words of the songs.

Molière acted the part of Zephyr.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

Jupiter.
Venus.
Love.
Zephyr.
Aegiale and Phaëne, two Graces.
The King.
Psyche.
Aglaura.
Cidippe.
Cleomenes and Agenor, two princes, Psyche’s lovers.
Lycas, captain of the guards.
A River God
Two Cupids.

PROLOGUE.

THE FRONT OF the stage represents a rustic spot, while at the back the sea can be seen in the distance.

SCENE I.

FLORA. APPEARS IN the centre of the stage, attended by Vertumnus, god of trees and fruit, and by Palemon, god of the streams. Each of these gods conducts a troup of divinities; one leads in his train Dryads and Sylvans, and the other River Gods and Naiads.

Flora sings the following lines, to invite Venus to descend upon earth: —

Flora.

The din of battle is stayed;
   The mightiest king of earth
His arms aside has laid;
   Of peace ’tis now the birth!
Descend thou, lovely Venus,
And blissful hours grant us!

Vertumnus and Palemon, and the divinities who attend them, join their voices to that of Flora, and sing the following words. —

Chorus of Divinities of the earth and streams, composed of Flora, Nymphs, Palemon, Vertumnus, Sylvans, Fauns, Dryads, and Naiads.

A peace profound we now enjoy,
And games and bliss without alloy;
Earth’s mightiest king has giv’n us rest;
To him be praise and thanks addrest.
   Descend thou, lovely Venus,
   And happy hours grant us!

Then is formed an entry of the ballet, composed of two Dryads, four Sylvans, two River Gods, and two Naiads, after which Vertumnus and Palemon sing the following dialogue: —

Vertumnus.
Yield, yield, ye beauties stern,
To sigh ’tis now your turn!

Palemon.
See you, the queen above,
She comes to breathe soft love!

Vertumnus.
A fair one stern for aye
Ne’er wins a faithful sigh!

Palemon.
To woo has beauty arms,
But gentleness has greater charms.

Both (together).
To woo has beauty arms;
But gentleness has greater charms.

Vertumnus.
Seek not your hearts to shield;
To pine is law, and ye must yield.

Palemon.
Is aught more worthless born
Than hearts that love will scorn?

Vertumnus.
A fair one stern, for aye
Ne’er wins a faithful sigh!

Palemon.
To woo has beauty arms,
But gentleness has greater charms.

Both (together).
To woo has beauty arms,
But gentleness has greater charms.

Flora answers the dialogue of Vertumnus. and Palemon. by the following minuet, and the other divinities join their dances to the song.

Does wisdom say,
In youth’s heyday,
   Sweet love forego?
Be up, in haste
These pleasures taste
   Of earth below.

Youth’s wisdom too
Is love to woo,
And love to know.
If love disarms,
It is by charms;
So yield your arms.

‘Twere madness ‘gainst his darts
To seek to shield your hearts.
Whate’er the bond
Of lover fond,
’Tis sweeter chain
Than freedom’s gain.

Venus descends from heaven, attended by Cupid, her son, and two Graces, called Aegiale and Phaëne; and the divinities of the earth and the streams once more unite their songs, and continue by their dances to show their joy at her approach.

Chorus of all the Divinities of the earth and the streams.

A peace profound we now enjoy,
And games and bliss without alloy;
Earth’s mightiest king has giv’n us rest;
To him be praise and thanks addrest.
Descend thou, lovely Venus,
And happy hours grant us.

Ven. (in her chariot). Cease, cease, all your songs of joy. Such rare honours do not belong to me, and the homage which in your consideration you now pay me ought to be reserved for lovelier charms. To pay your court to me is a custom indeed too old; everything has its turn, and Venus is no longer the fashion. There are rising charms to which now all carry their incense. Psyche, the beauteous Psyche, to-day has taken my place. Already now the whole world hastens to worship her, and it is too great a boon that, in the midst of my disgrace, I still find some one who stoops to honour me. Our deserts are not even fairly weighed together, but all are ready to abandon me; while of the numerous train of privileged graces, whose care and friendship followed me everywhere, I have now only two of the smaller ones who cling to me out of mere pity. I pray you, let these dark abodes lend their solitude to the anguish of my heart, and suffer me to hide my shame and grief in the midst of their gloom.

Flora and the other deities withdraw; and Venus with her retinue descends from her chariot.

SCENE II.

VENUS, CUPID, AEGIALE, PHAËNE, CUPID

AEGI. WE KNOW not what to do, goddess; while we see you overwhelmed by this grief, our respect bids us be silent, our zeal would have us speak.

Ven. Speak; but if your cares would please me, leave all your advice for a fitter time; and speak of my wrath but to own me right; that was the keenest insult my divinity could ever receive; but revenge I shall have if gods have any power.

Pha. Your wisdom, your discernment, are greater than ours in deciding what may be worthy of you; yet, methinks, a mighty goddess should not thus give way to wrath.

Ven. That is the very reason of my extreme anger; the greater the brilliancy of my rank, the deeper the insult. If I did not stand on so lofty a height, the indignation of my heart would not be so violent. I, the daughter of the Thunderer, mother of the love-inspiring god; I, the sweetest yearning of heaven and earth, who received birth only to charm; I, who have seen everything that hath breath utter so many vows at my shrines, and by immortal rights have held the sovereign sway of beauty in all ages; I, whose eyes have forced two mighty gods to yield me the prize of beauty — I see my rights and my victory disputed by a wretched mortal. Shall the ridiculous excess of foolish obstinacy go so far as to oppose to me a little girl? Shall I constantly hear a rash verdict on the beauty of her features and of mine, and from the loftiest heaven where I shine shall I hear it said to the prejudiced world, “She is fairer than Venus”?

Aegi. This is the way with mortals, this is the style of mankind; they are impertinent in their comparisons.

Pha. In the century in which we live, they cannot praise without insulting great names.

Ven. Ah! how well does the insolent rigour of these words avenge Juno and Pallas, and comfort their hearts for the dazzling glory which the famous apple has won me. I see them rejoicing at my sorrow, assuming every moment a cruel smile, and with fixed gaze carefully seeking the confusion that lurks in my eyes. Their triumphant joy, when this affront is keenest felt, seems to tell me, “Boast, Venus, boast, the charms of thy features; by the verdict of one man was the victory made over us, but by the judgment of all, a mere mortal snatches it from you.” Ah! that blow is the direst; it pierces my heart, I cannot bear its unequalled severity; the pleasure of my rivals is too great an addition to my poignant grief. My son, if ever my feelings had any weight with you, if ever I have been dear to you, if you bear a heart that can share the resentment of a mother who loves you so tenderly, use here your utmost power to support my interests, and cause Psyche to feel the shafts of my revenge through your own darts. To render her miserable, choose the dart that will please me most, one of those in which lurks the keenest venom, and which you hurl in your wrath. See that she loves, even to madness, the basest and lowest of mortals, and let her hear the cruel torture of love unreturned.

Cup. In the world nothing is heard but complaints of Cupid; everywhere a thousand freaks are laid to my charge, and you could not believe the evil and the foolish things which are daily said of me. If, to assist your wrath ...

Ven. Be gone; no longer resist your mother’s wishes; use reasoning only to find the shortest method of offering a sacrifice to my outraged glory. Let your departure be your only answer to my entreaties, and do not see my face again until you have avenged me.

Cupid flies off, and Venus withdraws with the two Graces. The scenery changes to a large town, with palaces and houses of different architecture on both sides of the stage.

ACT I

SCENE I.

AGLAURA, CIDIPPE.

AGL. MY SISTER, there are sorrows which are rendered greater by keeping them to ourselves; let us speak freely of our joint distress, and give vent in our conversations to the poignant grief which fills our hearts. We are sisters in misfortune, and your heart and mine have so much in common that we can unite them, and in our just complaints murmur, with a common lament, against the cruelty of our fate. My sister, what secret fatality makes the whole world bow before our younger sister’s charms? and how is it that, amongst so many different princes who are brought by fortune to this place, not one has any love for us? What! must we see them on all sides pressing forward to lay their hearts at her feet, whilst they pass our charms slightingly by? What spell has heaven cast over our eyes? What have they done to the gods that they are thus left without homage amidst all the glorious tribute of which others proudly boast? Can there be for us, my sister, any greater trial than to see how all hearts disdain our beauty, and how the fortunate Psyche insolently reigns with full sway over the crowd of lovers who ever attend her?

Cid. Ah! my sister, our fate is enough to bereave one of reason, and all the ills of nature are nothing in comparison.

Agl. At times I can almost shed tears over it; it takes away my happiness and my rest; my constancy finds itself powerless against such a misfortune; my mind is for ever dwelling over it, and the ill success of our charms and the triumph of Psyche are ever before my eyes. At night, unceasingly, comes to me the remembrance of it, and nothing can banish the cruel picture. As soon as sweet slumber comes to deliver me from it, it is immediately recalled to my memory by some dream which startles me from my sleep.

Cid. That is just what I suffer from, my sister. All that you say, I see myself, and you depict everything that I experience.

Agl. Well, let us discuss the matter. What all-powerful charms have been bestowed upon her? Tell me how, by the least of her looks, she has acquired honour in the great art of pleasing? What is there in her person that can inspire such passion? What right of sway over all hearts has her beauty given her? She has some comeliness, some of the brilliancy of youth; we are all agreed upon that, and I do not gainsay it. But must we yield to her because we are her seniors by a few years? Must we, therefore, consider ourselves quite commonplace? Are we made so as to excite derision? Have we no charms, no power of pleasing, no complexion, no good eyes, no dignity and bearing, by which we may win hearts? Do me the favour, sister, to speak to me frankly. Am I, in your opinion, so fashioned that my merit is below hers? And do you think that she surpasses me in her attire?

Cid. You, my sister? By no means. Yesterday, at the hunt, I compared you and her for a long time, and, without flattery, you appeared to me the more beautiful. But tell me truly, sister, without blandishment, am I deceiving myself when I think that I am so framed as to deserve the glory of a conquest?

Agl. You, my sister? You possess, without disguise, everything that can excite a loving passion. Your least actions are full of a charm which moves my soul. And I would be your lover if I were not a woman.

Cid. Whence comes it, then, that she bears off the palm from us; that, at the first glance, all hearts give up the struggle, and that no tribute of sighs and vows is paid to our loveliness?

Agl. All the women, with one voice, find her attractions but small; and, sister, I have discovered the cause of the number of lovers she holds in thrall.

Cid. I guess it. We may presume that some mystery is hidden under it. This secret of captivating everybody is not an ordinary effect of nature; the Thessalian art must be mixed up in it, and, doubtless, some one has given to her a charm by which she makes herself beloved.

Agl. My opinion is founded on a more solid basis, and the charms by which she draws all hearts to herself are a demeanour at all times free of reserve; caressing words and looks; a smile full of sweetness, which invites everyone, and promises them nothing but favours. Our glory is departed; and that lofty pride which, by a full observance of noble trials, exacted a proof of the constancy of our lovers, exists no longer. We have degenerated, and are now reduced to hope for nothing unless we throw ourselves into the arms of the men.

Cid. Yes, that is the secret; and I see that you understand it better than I. It is because we cling too much to modesty, sister, that no lovers come to us; it is because we try to sustain too strictly the honour of our sex and of our birth. Men, nowadays, like what comes easily to them; hope attracts them more than love; and that is how Psyche deprives us of all the lovers we see under her sway. Let us follow her example, and suit ourselves to the times; let us stoop, sister, to make advances, and let us no longer keep to those dull morals which rob us of the fruits of our best years.

Agl. I approve of this idea; and we have an opportunity of making a first trial of it upon the two princes who have last arrived. They are charming, sister, and to me their whole person…. Have you noticed them?

Cid. Ah! Both are formed in such a mould that my soul…. They are perfect, my sister.

Agl. I think we might seek their affections without dishonour to ourselves.

Cid. I think that, without shame, a beautiful princess might bestow her heart upon them.

Agl. Here they both are. I admire their manners and attire.

Cid. They in no way fall short of all that we have said of them.

SCENE II.

CLEOMENES, AGENOR, AGLAURA, CIDIPPE.

AGL. WHEREFORE, PRINCES, wherefore do you thus hasten away? Does our appearance fill you with fear?

Cle. We were led to believe, Madam, that the Princess Psyche might be here.

Agl. Has this place no longer any charm for you if it is not adorned by her presence?

Age. This place may be pleasant enough, but in our impatience we would find the Princess Psyche.

Cid. Something very important must doubtless be urging you both to seek her.

Cle. The motive is powerful enough, since our happiness depends entirely upon her.

Agl. Might we be allowed to inquire into the secret implied by these words?

Cle. We do not pretend to make a mystery of it. Indeed, it would show itself in spite of us; and the secret, Madam, does not last long when it is love.

Cid. Without further words, Princes, it means that you are both in love with Psyche.

Age. We are both under her sway, and we go with one accord to declare our passion to her.

Agl. It is certainly something quite new, and rather odd, to see two rivals so well agreed.

Cle. It is true that the thing is rare; but it is not impossible for two perfect friends.

Cid. In this spot, is she the only fair one, and can you find none other with whom to divide your admiration?

Agl. Amongst all the nobly born, is she the only one whom your eyes deem worthy of your tenderness?

Cle. Do we reason when we fall in love? Do we choose the object of our attachment? And when we bestow our hearts, do we weigh the right of the fair one to fascinate us?

Age. Without having the power of choosing, we follow in such a passion something which delights us; and when love touches a heart, we have no reasons to give.

Agl. Indeed, I pity the painful troubles to which I see your hearts expose themselves. You love one whose bright charms will mingle grief with the hopes they hold out to you, and whose heart will not fulfil all that her eyes promise.

Cid. The hope which calls you into the rank of her lovers will experience many disappointments in the favours she bestows; and the fitful changes of her inconstant heart will cause you many painful hours.

Agl. A clear discernment of your worth makes us pity the fate into which this passion will lead you; and if you wished, you could both find a more constant heart and charms as great.

Cid. A choice sweeter by half can rescue your mutual friendship from love; and there is such a rare merit apparent in you both that a gentle counsel would, out of pity, save your hearts from what they are preparing for themselves.

Cle. This generous advice shows us a kindness which touches our hearts; but heaven, madam, reduces us to the misfortune of not being able to profit by it.

Age. Your illustrious pity would in vain dissuade us from a love of which we both dread the result. What our friendship, Madam, has not done cannot be effected by any other means.

Cid. The power of Psyche must have … Here she is.

SCENE III.

PSYCHE, CIDIPPE, AGLAURA, CLEOMENES, AGENOR.

CID. COME, SISTER, and enjoy what is offered to you.

Agl. Prepare your charms to receive here a new triumph.

Cid. These two princes have both so well felt the power of your beauty that their lips are eager to declare it.

Psy. I little thought myself to be the cause of their pensiveness, and I should have expected it to be quite otherwise when I found them talking to you.

Agl. We have neither sufficient rank nor beauty to make us deserving of their love and solicitude, but they favour us with the honour of their confidence.

Cle. (to Psyche). The avowal which we would make to your divine charms, Madam, is, no doubt, a rash one; but so many hearts, on the point of expiring, are by such avowals obliged to displease you, that you have ceased to punish them by the terrors of your wrath. You see in us two friends who were joined in childhood by a happy similarity of feeling, and this tender union has been strengthened by a hundred contests of esteem and gratitude. The attachment of our friendship has been proved in the severe assaults of unfavourable fortune, the contempt of death, the sight of torture, and the glorious splendour of mutual good offices; but whatever trials it may have endured, to-day witnesses its greatest triumph, and nothing proves so much its tried fidelity as its duration through the rivalry of love. Yes, in spite of so many charms, its constancy subjects our vows to the laws it gives us. It comes with sweet and entire deference, to submit the success of our passion to your choice; and, to give a weight to our competition which may bring the balance of state reasons to favour the choice of one of us, this friendship intends of free will to unite our two estates to the fortune of the happy one.

Age. Yes, Madam, we wish to make of these two estates, which we propose to unite under your happy choice, a help towards obtaining you. The sacrifice which we make to the king, your father, in order to ensure this happiness, has nothing difficult in it to our loving hearts, and it will be a necessary gift that the rejected unfortunate should make over to the one who is fortunate a power which he will no longer know bow to enjoy.

Psy. Princes, you both display to my eyes a choice so precious and dazzling that it would satisfy the proudest heart. But your passion, your friendship, your supreme virtue, all increase the value of your vows of fidelity, and make it a merit that I should oppose myself to what you ask of me. I must not listen to my heart only before engaging in such a union, but my hand must await my father’s decision before it can dispose of itself, and my sisters have rights superior to mine. But if I were referred absolutely to my own wishes, you might both have too great a share in them, and my entire esteem be so evenly balanced between you that I should not be able to decide in favour of either. I would indeed respond with most affectionate interest to the ardour of your suit, but amid so much merit two hearts are too much for me, one heart too little for you. The accomplishment of my dearest wishes would be to me a burden were it granted to me by your love. Yes, Princes, I should greatly prefer you to all those whose love will follow yours, but I could never have the heart to prefer one of you to the other. My tenderness would be too great a sacrifice to the one whom I might choose, and I should think myself barbarously unjust to inflict so great a wrong upon the other. Indeed, you both possess such greatness of soul that it would be wrong to make either of you miserable, and you must seek in love the means of being both happy. If your hearts honour me enough to give me the right of disposing of them, I have two sisters well fitted to please, who might make your destinies happy, and whom friendship endears to me enough for me to wish that you should be their husbands.

Cle. Can a heart whose love, alas! is extreme, consent to be given away by her it loves? We yield up our two hearts, Madam, to your divine charms, even should you doom them to death; but we beg you not to make them over to any one but yourself.

Age. It would be too unjust to the princesses, Madam, and too poor a tribute to their charms, if we should give to them the remains of a former affection. Only the faithful purity of a first love deserves to aspire to the honour to which your kindness invites us, for each of your sisters merits a love which has sighed for her alone.

Agl. It seems to me, Princes, without any offence, that before thus refusing, you might wait until our intentions had been declared. Do you think our hearts so susceptible and tender? And when people propose your offering yourselves to us, are you so sure of being accepted?

Cid. I think our sentiments are lofty enough to lead us to refuse a heart which wants soliciting; and we wish to conquer our lovers by the power of our own merit.

SCENE IV.

PSYCHE, AGLAURA, CIDIPPE, CLEOMENES, AGENOR, LYCAS.

LYC. (TO PSYCHE). Ah! Madam!

Psy. What is the matter?

Lyc. The king …

Psy. What?

Lyc. Requests your presence.

Psy. What am I to augur from your agitation?

Lyc. You will know it only too soon.

Psy. Alas! how you excite my fears about the king!

Lyc. Fear only for yourself; you are the one to be pitied.

Psy. I can praise heaven, and be no longer anxious, when I know that I am the only one in danger. But tell me, Lycas, what alarms you.

Lyc. Suffer me, Madam, to obey him who sent me hither; and I beg of you, learn from his lips what troubles me thus.

Psy. Let us go and hear what this is which makes them fear that my courage will fail me.

SCENE V.

AGLAURA, CIDIPPE, LYCAS.

AGL. IF YOUR orders do not extend to us, tell us what great misfortune is hidden under your sadness.

Lyc. Alas! hear for yourselves, princesses, the great misfortune which is known to the whole court. These are the very words which, through the oracle, destiny has spoken to the king, and which grief, Madam, has engraven on my heart: —

“No one must think to lead
Psyche to Hymen’s shrine;
But all with earnest speed,
In pompous mournful line,
High to the mountain crest
Must take her; there to await,
Forlorn, in deep unrest,
A monster who envenoms all,
Decreed by fate her husband;
A serpent whose dark poisonous breath
And rage e’er hold the world in thrall,
Shaking the heavens high and realms of death.”

After so severe a decree, I leave you to judge for yourselves if the gods could have manifested their wrath in a more cruel and fearful manner.

SCENE VII.

AGLAURA, CIDIPPE.

CID. HOW DOES this sudden misfortune into which destiny has plunged Psyche affect you, sister?

Agl. But how does it affect you, sister?

Cid. To speak the truth, my heart is not very much grieved at it.

Agl. My heart feels something which very much resembles joy. Let us go; Fate has sent us a calamity which we can consider as a blessing.

FIRST INTERLUDE.

THE SCENERY CHANGES to horrible rocks, and shows a dreadful cavern in the distance. It is in this desert that Psyche, in obedience to the oracle, is to be exposed. A band of afflicted people come to bewail her death. Some give utterance to their pity by touching complaints and mournful lays, while the rest express their grief by a dance full of every mark of the most violent despair.

WAILINGS sung by a woman and two men.

Woman.
Ah! weep with me, ye forests;
Ye mighty rocks of hardest adamant,
Ye Springs, ye beasts,
Lament the fate of one so fair.

1st Man.
Alas! dire grief

2nd Man.
Without relief!

1st Man.
Cruel death!

2nd Man.
Fell decree

All Three (together).
Of sternest fate that dooms to die
Such beauty rare! Oh! heavens high!
And stars! behold! and sigh!

Woman.
My sad, sad lay repeat,
  Ye caverns deep;
With notes of sorrow greet
  Her death, ye mountains steep;
Re-echo, woods, and silent hills,
My grief; and ye, soft rippling rills!

1st Man.
Alas! dire grief

2nd Man.
Without relief!

1st Man.
Cruel death!

2nd Man.
Fell decree

All Three (together).
Of sternest fate that dooms to die
Such beauty rare! Oh! heavens high!
And stars! behold! and sigh!

2nd Man.
Who then, eternal gods, will doom
A guiltless maid to lasting gloom?
Oh! this thy rigour, heaven, shames
Hell’s unrelenting flames!

1st Man.
Cruel will

2nd Man.
Of gods severe!

The Two Men.
Say why this hard decree,
To crush a heart so free
    From guilt or stain?
Oh! fell edict unheard ere this!
Thou doomest a maid who showers bliss
  Upon the mortal race.
  She the sad earth would grace,
    And would give life for pain!

Woman.
All tears are idle, all sighs.
Heaven wills it so — she dies!
Whene’er the gods their powers wield,
All man can do — is but to yield.

1st Man.
Alas! dire grief

2nd Man.
Without relief!

1st Man.
Cruel death!

2nd Man.
Fell decree!

ACT II.

SCENE I.

THE KING, PSYCHE, AGLAURA, CIDIPPE, LYCAS, and FOLLOWERS.

PSY. THE CAUSE of your tears, my Lord, is dear to me; but you are too kind when you allow a father’s love to overmaster the duties of a great king. The homage which here you pay to nature is fraught with too much injury to the rank which you hold. I must decline its touching favours. Check somewhat the sway of your grief over your wisdom, and cease to honour my destiny with tears, which, springing from a king’s heart, show weakness.

King. Ah! my daughter! close not my eyes to these tears; my grief is reasonable, even though it be extreme; and when such a loss as mine must endure for ever, wisdom herself, believe me, may weep. ’Tis in vain that pride of regal sway bids us be insensible to such calamities; as vain for reason to come to our help, and desire us to see with unmoved eye the death of what we love. The effort required is barbarous in the eyes of the universe— ’tis brutality rather than highest virtue. In this misfortune I will not wear a show of insensibility, and hide the grief I feel. I renounce the vanity of this fierce callousness, known as fortitude, and whatever be the name given to the keen pain, the pangs of which I feel, I will exhibit it, my daughter, to the gaze of all, and in the heart of a king display that of a man.

Psy. I deserve not this violent grief. Seek, I pray, to resist the claims it asserts over your heart, whose might a thousand events have marked. What! for me, my Lord, you must abandon that kingly firmness of which, under the blows of misfortune, you have shown such perfect proofs?

King. In numberless occasions firmness is easy. All revolutions to which ruthless fortune can expose us — loss of rank, persecution, envy’s venom, hatred’s dart — present nothing which the will of a soul, but a little swayed by reason, cannot easily brave. But those rigours which crush the heart under the weight of bitter grief are … are the cruel darts of those severe decrees of fate which deprive us for ever of our loved ones. Against such ills reason offers no available weapons. These are the direst blows that the gods in their wrath can hurl against us!

Psy. My Lord, one consolation is still left you. Your marriage has been graced with more than one gift from the gods, and by hiding me from your sight, they with open favour deprive you of nothing but what they have not carefully made good for you. Enough remains to relieve your sorrow, and this law of heaven which you call cruel leaves sufficient room in the two princesses, my sisters, for paternal love wherein to place all its kindness.

King. Ah! empty comfort to my sorrow. There is naught that can console me for thy loss. My grief fills my soul, I am conscious of nothing else; in presence of such cruel destiny, I look to what I lose, and see not what I still retain.

Psy. My Lord, you know better than myself that we must rule our will by that of heaven; and in this sad farewell I can only say to you that which you can much better say to others. These gods are sovereign lords of the gifts they deign to offer us; they leave them in our hands so long only as it pleases them; when they withdraw them, we have no right to murmur over the favours which their hands refuse any longer to pour upon us. My Lord, I am a gift they have offered to your vows, and when, by this decree, they wish to take me back, they deprive you of nothing that you do not hold from them; and it is without a murmur that you must resign me.

King. Ah! seek, I pray, better foundations for the comfort thy heart would offer me. Do not by the fallacy of thy reasoning increase the burden of the piercing grief which now torments me. Dost thou imagine that thou givest me a powerful reason why I should not complain of this decree of heaven? and in this proceeding of the gods, of which thou biddest me be satisfied, dost thou not clearly see a deadly severity? Consider the state in which the gods force me to resign thee, and that in which my hapless heart received thee. Thou shalt know then that they take from me much more than they gave: from them I received in thee, my daughter, a gift I did not ask for; then I found in it but few charms, and without joy I saw my family increased by it. But my heart and my eyes have made a sweet habit of this gift. Fifteen years of care, of watchfulness, of study, have I employed to render it precious to me. I have decked it with the lovely wealth of a thousand brilliant virtues; I have enshrined in it, by assiduous care, the rarest treasures that wisdom yields; to it clings the tenderness of my soul. I have made it the charm, the joy of this heart, the solace of my wearied senses, the sweet hope of my old age. All this they take from me — these gods! And thou wouldst have me utter no complaint concerning this dire edict from which I suffer! Ah! with too much rigour their power tramples upon the affections of our heart. To withdraw their gift, have they not waited till I had made it my all? Rather, if it was their purpose to remove it, had it not been better to give me nothing?

Psy. My Lord! dread the wrath of those gods whom you dare upbraid.

King. After this blow, what more can they inflict on me?

Psy. Ah! my Lord! I tremble for your sins, of which I am the cause; I hate myself for this….

King. Ah! let them bear with my legitimate complaints; ’tis pain enough for me to obey them; it ought to suffice them that my heart abandons thee to the barbarous respect we must bear them, without claiming also to control the grief that so frightful a decree calls forth. My just despair can know no bounds. My grief, my grief, I will nurse it for ever! I will feel for ever the loss I sustain, of heaven’s rigour I will always raise high my complaint; until death I will unceasingly weep for that than which the whole world could give me naught more precious.

Psy. +Ah! I pray you, my Lord, spare my weakness. I need constancy in these circumstances. Add not to the excess of my grief by the tears of your fondness. My sorrow alone is deep enough; my fate and your grief are too much for my heart.

King. True! I must spare thee my disconsolate trouble. The fatal moment has come. I must tear myself from thee; but how can I utter this dreadful word? And yet I must! Heaven commands it. An unavoidable cruelty forces me to leave thee in this fatal spot. Farewell, I go…. Farewell.

SCENE II.

PSYCHE, AGLAURA, CIDIPPE.

PSY. FOLLOW THE king, my sisters; dry his tears, solace his grief. You would fill him with alarm were you to, expose yourselves to my misfortune. Preserve for him whatever he possesses still; the serpent I expect might prove hurtful to you, and draw you in the same fate as myself; nay, through your death might cause me a second death. Me alone has heaven condemned to his poisonous breath; nothing could save me; and I need no example to die.

Agl. Grudge us not this cruel privilege of mingling our tears with your sorrows; suffer our sighs to answer your last sighs; accept this last pledge of our tender love.

Psy. ’Tis but to lose yourselves to no purpose.

Cid. ’Tis to hope for a miracle in your favour, or to accompany you to the tomb.

Psy. What room is there for hope after such an oracle?

Agl. An oracle is ever veiled in obscurity; the more we believe that we know its meaning, the less do we understand it. Perhaps, after all, you must expect from it nothing but glory and happiness. Suffer us, dear sister, to behold this mortal dread deceived by a worthy issue; or at least let us die with you, if heaven does not show itself more propitious to our prayers.

Psy. Dear sister, lend a readier ear to nature’s voice, which summons you to stand by the king. You love me too much, and duty murmurs; you know its unavoidable laws. A father ought to be dearer to you than myself; become both the mainstays of his old age. A thousand kings, a thousand rival kings, cherish love for you; you both owe your father a son-in-law and grandchildren. A thousand kings vie with each other to whisper their vows to you. Me alone the oracle demands, and alone, too, I will die, if I can, without weakness, or, if not, at least without you as witnesses of that little which nature has left me.

Agl. Then by sharing your woe we annoy you!

Cid. I dare go somewhat further, we offend you!

Psy. No; but you add to my torture, and perhaps increase the wrath of heaven.

Agl. It is your will; we go. May that same heaven, more just, and less severe, decree for you the fate we desire, and for which our sincere friendship, in spite of you and of the oracle, still hopes!

Psy. Farewell. This hope, these vows, my sisters, none of the gods will ever fulfil.

SCENE III.

PSYCHE (alone).

ALONE, AT LAST, I can look on this terrible change, which from the summit of highest glory hurls me to the tomb. This glory was without parallel. Its sheen spread from pole to pole; all kings seemed created to love me; all their subjects, looking upon me as on a goddess, were but now beginning to accustom me to the incense they never ceased to offer; sighs followed me, for which I gave naught in return. My soul remained fancy-free, while it captivated so many, and in the midst of so much love was queen of all hearts, and yet mistress of my own. Oh! heaven! hast thou counted a crime this want of feeling? All this severity which thou dost exhibit, is it because in return for their vows I have given nothing but esteem? If such be thy law, why didst thou not create in me that which merit and love create in others, and…. But what do I see here?

SCENE IV.

CLEOMENES, AGENOR, PSYCHE.

CLE. BEHOLD IN us two friends, two rivals, whose only wish is to expose our life to save yours.

Psy. Can I listen to you when I have refused two sisters? Princes! think you that you could defend me against heaven? To surrender yourselves to the serpent, whose coming I must await here, is but a despair ill-becoming great hearts; and to die when I die is to overwhelm a sensitive, soul, that already has but too many sorrows.

Age. A serpent is not invincible; Cadmus, who loved no one, slew Mars’ own reptile. We love, and Love makes everything possible for the heart that follows his standard, for the hand of whose darts he is himself the guide.

Psy. Do you expect his aid in behalf of an ungrateful one whom all his shafts have been unable to wound? Think you he can stay his vengeance, when ’tis bursting forth, and help you to release me from its stroke? Even if you should serve me, even if you should restore me to life, what reward do you hope for from that which knows no love?

Cle. It is not by the hope of so lovely a reward that we are animated. We seek only to obey the dictates of a love that dares not presume, whatever its efforts may be, that it can be so fortunate as to please you, so worthy as to kindle within you a responsive flame.

Age. Live, fair princess, and live for another; we will behold it with a jealous eye, we will die of it, yet of a death sweeter far than if we had to see you die. If we cannot save your life by the loss of ours, whatever love you may prefer to ours, we are ready to die of grief and of love.

Psy. Live, Princes, live, and no longer seek to ward off or to share my fate. I believe I have told you, heaven seeks me alone; me alone has it condemned. Methinks, I hear already the deadly hissing of its minister, who even now draws nigh. My dread pictures him to me, ever offers him to my view. Fear has mastered all my feelings; under its influence I see him on the summit of this rock; I sink for very weakness, and my fainting heart scarce keeps up a remnant of courage. Farewell, Princes; flee, lest he poison you.

Age. We have seen nothing as yet to astonish us. And since you deem your death so nigh, if strength fail you, we have both arms and hearts which hope never forsakes. It may be a rival has dictated this oracle; and gold has made its interpreter speak. It would be no miracle if a man has answered in the stead of a dumb deity; and everywhere we have but too many examples that temples, no less than other places, are the abode of the wicked.

Cle. Suffer us to oppose to the cowardly ravisher to whom sacrilege abandons you a love that heaven has chosen for the defender of the only fair one for whom we wish to live. If we dare not aspire to her possession, at least, in the midst of her danger, allow us to follow the ardour and dictates of our passion.

Psy. These dictates, this extreme ardour, with which your hearts are filled in my behalf, obey them in behalf of others, in behalf of my sisters. Live for them, since I die. Lament the cruel rigour of my fate; and by your death do not give my sisters new ground for sorrow. These are my last wishes, and in all ages the orders of the dying have been received as law.

Cle. Princess….

Psy. Once more, Princes, live for my sisters. So long as you love me, you must obey me; do not drive me to hate you, and to look upon you as rebels for being too faithful to me. Go, leave me to die alone in this spot, where I have no voice left except to say farewell. But I feel myself lifted up, and the air opens a road whence you will no longer hear this dying voice. Farewell, Princes, farewell, for the last time. See, can you doubt my destiny?

Psyche is borne through the air by two Zephyrs.

Age. We lose sight of her. Prince, let us both seek on the summit of this rock some means of following her.

Cle. Let us seek those of not surviving her.

SCENE V.

LOVE (in the air).

LOVE. DIE, THEN, rivals of a jealous god, whose wrath you have deserved, since your heart was sensible to the same charms. And thou, Vulcan, fashion a thousand brilliant ornaments to adorn the palace where Love will dry Psyche’s tears, and yield himself her slave.

SECOND INTERLUDE.

THE SCENE CHANGES to a splendid terrace, surrounded by pillars emblazoned with golden figures. The whole represents a magnificent palace, which Love designs for Psyche. Six Cyclops, accompanied by four Fairies, introduce a ballet, and, whilst keeping time, give the last touches to four huge silver vases which the Fairies have brought. The ballet is twice interrupted by this recitation of Vulcan, which he gives out in two parts

Part I.

Hasten, these seats prepare
For heaven’s gentlest god.
No strength, no effort spare;
With mighty zeal and constant care
Do now, my lads, what must be done.
When Love commands us — see!
What haste too great can be?

Great Love no lazy hand will brook;
So work with might and main.
Your ancient hammers ply,
And sparks will swiftly fly
Beneath your arms that rain
The fast, resounding blows;
While zeal to please him glows
Within your heaving breasts.

Part II.

Then serve a god so kind,
Who loves great zeal to find.
No strength, no effort spare;
With mighty zeal and constant care
Do now, my lads, what must be done.
When Love commands us — see!
What haste too great can be?

Great Love no lazy hand can brook;
So work with might and main.
Your ancient hammers ply,
And sparks will swiftly fly
Beneath your arms that rain
The fast, resounding blows,
While zeal to please him glows;
Within your heaving breasts.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

LOVE, ZEPHYR.

ZEP. YES! RIGHT gallantly have I acquitted myself of your errand; and from the summit of that rock I have softly borne this beauty through the air to this enchanted palace, where, with full freedom, you can decree her fate. Yet you astonish me by this mighty change in your appearance. That figure, that countenance, that costume, perfectly conceal your real being, and I defy the most cunning to see in you to-day the god of love.

Love. ’Tis because I do not wish to be known to Psyche. ’Tis my heart, my heart alone, I wish to unfold; nothing more than the sweet raptures of this keen passion, which her charms excite within it. To express its gentle pining, and to hide what may be from those eyes that impose on me their will, I have assumed this form which thou seest.

Zep. You are a master in everything; this is how I know it. Often the gods, when in love, have been seen assuming various disguises, seeking to alleviate the pleasing wound inflicted on all hearts by your fiery darts; but in good sense you outstrip them. Yours is the form necessary for succeeding with the lovely sex, for whom we sigh. Yes, the assistance derived from that form is powerful; and, apart from rank and wit, whoever finds the means of being so fashioned does not sigh in vain.

Love. I have decided, my dear Zephyr, to remain always thus; and the oldest of all loves cannot be blamed for this. It is time to issue from this long infancy, that wears out my patience. It is time, henceforth, that I should be grown up.

Zep. You are right. You cannot do better; and you are initiated into a mystery that demands no childish powers.

Love. This change will, no doubt, vex my mother.

Zep. I foresee some anger in that quarter, although disputes about age ought not to exist among immortals; yet, your mother Venus shares the spirit of beauties, who do not like grown-up children. But whereat I fancy her offended is the line of conduct you are pursuing; and ’tis a strange method of avenging her, to love the beauty she wished to see punished. This hatred to which she expects the power of a son generally feared by the gods to answer….

Love. Let us drop this discourse, Zephyr, and tell me whether thy eyes do not find Psyche the fairest woman in the world? Is there aught on the earth, aught in heaven, that could seize from her the glorious title of matchless beauty? But I see her, my dear Zephyr, wondering at the splendours of this spot.

Zep. You can show yourself, to put an end to her torture, and unfold to her her glorious destiny. Speak to one another all that sighs, lips, and glances can speak. As a discreet confident, I know my duty, and will not interrupt lovers’ secrets.

SCENE II.

PSYCHE (alone).

WHERE AM I? and in a spot I deemed deserted, what skilled hand has reared this palace, which art and nature deck with the rarest gifts that the eye could ever admire. Everything smiles, shines, sparkles in this garden, in these apartments, whose pompous furniture presents nothing that does not charm and flatter the beholder; and whithersoever my fears lead me, I see under my feet naught but gold or flowers. Can heaven have formed this world of wonders for the abode of a serpent? And when, by this sight, it amuses and stays the unequalled rigour of my jealous fate, does it wish to show that it repents of it? No, no; this is the darkest, the keenest shaft of its hatred, so fertile in its cruelties. This hatred, by a renewed and unparalleled sternness, lays before my gaze the choice it has made of all that is fairest in the world, only that I may leave it with deeper regret.

How foolish is my hope if it fancies it can thus alleviate my pain. Every moment that my death is delayed becomes a new misfortune for me; the more it stays its coming, the oftener I die.

Leave me no longer to pine; come, take thy victim, monster, whose mission it is to slay me. Wouldst thou have me seek thee? and must I rouse thy fury to devour me? If heaven wills my death, if my life be a crime, dare at length to seize whatever little remains of it; I am tired of murmuring against a lawful penalty; I am weary of sighs; come, that I may end the death I am dying.

SCENE III.

LOVE, PSYCHE, ZEPHYR.

LOVE. BEHOLD THIS serpent, this pitiless monster, whom a wonderful oracle has prepared for you, and who perhaps does not inspire such dread as you had imagined.

Psy. You, my Lord! you are that monster who, so spoke the oracle, threatens my sad life? you, who seem rather a god, deigning miraculously to come yourself to my rescue?

Love. What need of help in the midst of an empire where all that breathes only awaits your look to do its bidding, where I am the only monster you have to fear?

Psy. But small is the fear that a monster like you inspires, and if it has any venom, a soul has little reason to venture on the least complaint against a pleasing poison, the cure of which all the heart would dread! Scarce do I behold you than already my calmed fears suffer the image of death to vanish; and I feel I know not what unknown fire flow through my frozen veins: Esteem I have felt, and kindness, friendship, gratitude; compassion’s innocent sorrows have made me know its power, but I have not yet felt what I now feel. I know not what it is, but I know that it fills me with delight, and causes me no alarm. The longer I gaze on you, the more I feel the spell. Nothing that I have ever felt had the same effect; and I would tell you, my Lord, that I love you, did I know what love is. Turn them not away, those eyes that poison me, those eyes so tender, so piercing, yet so loving, that look as if they shared the confusion they cause me. Alas! the more dangerous they prove, the more fondly I cling to them. What decree of heaven is it which I cannot understand, that forces me to tell you more than I should? I, whose modesty ought at least to wait that you explain the confusion that, I see, is within you. You sigh, my Lord, as I sigh; your senses, like mine, seem amazed. ’Tis my duty to be silent concerning this, yours to speak it, yet it is I who tell this to you.

Love. Your heart, Psyche, has ever been too insensible, and you must not wonder if, to repair the insult, Love now pays himself with usury for that which your soul ought to have granted him. The time is come in which your lips must breathe those sighs so long restrained; and while it draws you from that fierce humour, an endless rapture, as sweet as it is unknown, must wound you as deeply as it ought to have wounded you during those golden days the course of which your unfeeling soul has profaned.

Psy. Not to love is, then, a great crime?

Love. Do you suffer a hard punishment for it?

Psy. The punishment is mild indeed.

Love. The penalty is suited to the offence; and Love, on this glorious day, avenges himself of lack of love by an excess of love.

Psy. Would I had been punished before! My life’s happiness lies in it. I ought to blush at it, or to whisper it low, but this torture has too many charms. Suffer me to say, and to repeat it aloud; though I said it a hundred times, I would never blush for it. It is not I who speak; and the wonderful empire, the amiable violence of your presence, sway my voice as soon as I begin to speak. Vainly does my modesty take secret offence at it; vainly would my sex and decency bind me to other laws; it is your eyes that dictate my answer, and my lips, the slaves of their almighty power, no longer consult me on the self-respect I owe myself.

Love. Fair Psyche, believe what these eyes tell you. Let yours vie with each other in instructing me of all your emotions. Trust this sighing heart, which, so long as yours will answer, will tell you more by a sigh than a hundred looks can express. ’Tis the sweetest language, the most powerful, the truest of all!

Psy. The understanding of it was due to both our hearts to make them equally satisfied. I have sighed, you have understood me; you sigh, and I heard you. But release me from doubt, my Lord, and tell me, if by the same road Zephyr has led you hither after me; to tell me what I hear now. When I arrived here, were you expected? and when you speak to him, are you obeyed?

Love. The empire I exercise over this sweet climate is as sovereign as yours is over my heart. Love is favourable to me, and ’tis for his sake that Aeolus has placed Zephyr under my command. It was Love who, to reward my passion, dictated this oracle, by which your fair days that were threatened have been released from a throng of lovers; and which has freed me from the lasting obstacle of so many ardent sighs that were unworthy of being addressed to you. Ask not of me what this region be, nor the name of its ruler; you shall know it in time. My object is to win you; but I wish to do so by my services, my assiduous care, my constant vows, by a lover’s sacrifice of all that I am, of all my power can effect. The splendour of my rank must not solicit you for me, neither must I make a merit of my power; and though sovereign lord of this blissful realm, I wish to owe you, Psyche, to nothing but my love.

Come with me, Princess, and admire its marvels; prepare your eyes and ears to the charms it will offer you. You shall gaze on woods and meads, contesting their beauties with gold and gems; you shall hear nothing but sweet concerts; a hundred beauties shall serve you here; without envy they shall worship you, and every moment with a humble and raptured soul shall solicit the honour of your commands.

Psy. My will waits upon yours; I can no longer have one of my own; but at any rate your oracle has severed me from two sisters, and the king, my father, whom my supposed death has all three reduced to bewail me. Suffer my sisters to be witnesses of my glory and your love for me, to dissipate the error which overwhelms their soul with mortal sorrow.

Lend them too, as you did me, Zephyr’s wings, that they may facilitate their access to your empire, as they did mine. Let them see where I live, let them wonder at the success of my loss.

Love. You do not yield me all your soul, Psyche. This affectionate remembrance of a father and two sisters snatches from me part of that which I crave for my passion only. Have no eyes for anyone but for me, who have none but for you. Let love for me, and the desire of pleasing me, be your only thought, and when such cares dare divert you from it….

Psy. Can you be jealous of affection for kin?

Love. I am jealous, my Psyche, jealous of all nature. The sun’s rays kiss you too often; your tresses are too sensible to the wooing of the breeze; no sooner does it caress them than I murmur. The very air which you breathe passes with too much pleasure between your lips; your robes cling too closely to your form. I know not what bewilders me, and I dread amidst your sighs some stray one.

But you would see your sisters. Be gone, Zephyr; Psyche commands, I cannot forbid.

SCENE IV.

LOVE, PSYCHE.

LOVE. WHEN YOU shall show them this blissful seat, make them a thousand gifts from these treasures; lavish on them endearments, caresses; and, if possible, exhaust the tendernesses that blood demands, so that you may yield yourself entirely to love. I shall not importune you with my presence, but let not your meeting be too long, remembering that you rob me of whatever attention you pay them.

Psy. Your love grants me a favour, which ‘twere not possible for me to abuse.

Love. Still, let us visit these gardens, this palace, where you will meet naught but what will pale before your dazzling charms. And you, little Cupids, you, young Zephyrs, whose souls are but soft sighs, vie with each other in showing what joy you feel at the appearance of my princess.

THIRD INTERLUDE.

ENTRY OF BALLET, composed of four Cupids and four Zephyrs, twice interrupted by a dialogue sung by a Cupid and a Zephyr.

Love, Psyche.

Part I.

A Zephyr.

Ye gentle youth, follow
Love’s sweet and tender glow;
In happy days and fair,
From passion’s joys do not forbear. —
’Tis to deceive they tell you, aye,
You should avoid the wooing sigh,
And fear the pressing suit. —
’Tis now the time to learn
What fires within you burn!

They sing together.

All gentle hearts in turn
With love must glow;
And greater charms that burn
A greater debt will owe.

A Zephyr (alone).

A youthful heart and tender
At last must yield surrender.

Both (together).

All gentle hearts in turn
With love must glow;
And greater charms that burn
A greater debt will owe.

A Cupid (alone).

What boots to play the truant’s part,
And shield yourselves against the dart?
The sunny day is flown and gone,
The hour lost may ne’er be won.

Both (together).

All gentle hearts in turn
With love must glow;
And greater charms that burn
A greater debt will owe.

Part II.

A Zephyr (alone).

Great Love hath potent charms;
To him we yield our arms;
His cares and sorrows sweet
Have, too, their joy — though fleet!
To follow him, all hearts
Would court a thousand darts.
If we would taste his deep delight,
Ah! we must pine till fades the light
Before our eyes.
A worthless life it is — when love
Fills not the heart it fain would move!

They sing together.

In love if we must grieve and sigh,
A moment’s bliss still well repays
The ills and woes of many days.

A Zephyr (alone).

‘Midst hopes and fears,
And mystery and tears,
We cannot, without the touch of pain,
Bliss seek again.

Both (together).

In love if we must grieve and sigh,
A moment’s bliss still well repays
The ills and woes of many days.

A Cupid (alone).

What better deed is there to do
Than strive to please and softly woo?
A lover’s part is sweetest care,
And this it is that all must bear.

Both (together).

In love if we must grieve and sigh,
A moment’s bliss still well repays
The ills and woes of many days.

ACT IV.

THE SCENE CHANGES to a splendid palace, in the interior of which is seen at the end of a long vestibule a lovely garden, in which are many trees laden with all kinds of fruit.

SCENE I.

AGLAURA, CIDIPPE.

AGL. I CAN bear it no longer, my sister. I have seen too many wonders; future times will scarcely conceive them; this sun, that sees all, and lays all before our gaze, never beheld the like. This dazzling palace and this stately equipage are a display hateful to me; shame as well as spite overwhelm me. How cruelly Fortune has treated us; see how her inconsiderate bounty blindly lavishes, exhausts, and unites her efforts to make all these treasures the lot of a younger sister!

Cid. I share all your feelings; your griefs are mine; in this delightful spot, all that displeases you wounds me; all which you consider a deadly insult oppresses me no less than yourself, and leaves bitterness within my breast and blushes on my brow.

Agl. No, my sister, no living queen, in her own realm speaks in such sovereign tones as Psyche in these abodes. Here we see her obeyed with scrupulous exactitude; and a yearning study of her will seeks it even in her eyes, a thousand beauties throng around her, and seem to say to our jealous looks, “Whatever your charms may be, she is still fairer, and we who serve her are fairer than you.” She orders, it is done; none refuse, none rebel. Flora, clinging to her steps, lavishes her sweetest charms around her; Zephyr flies to execute her orders, and his mistress and he, too much a prey to her charms, forget their own love in their eagerness to serve her.

Cid. She has gods at her services, soon she will have altars; our sway extends over weak mortals only, whose continual caprice and impudence, rebelling secretly from us, oppose either murmurs or stratagem to our will.

Agl. It was but little indeed that at our court so many hearts contended for her, preferring her to us! It was not enough that she was there worshipped night and day by a crowd of lovers. When we were comforting ourselves with seeing her on the brink of the grave by the sudden order of the oracle, she thought fit to display before us the miracle of her new destiny, and has chosen our eyes to be witnesses of that which at the bottom of our hearts we least desire.

Cid. What above all fills my heart with despair is to see this lover, so perfect, so born to please, a captive under her sway. Were it in our power to choose from so many monarchs, should we find one who bears such a noble mien? To see your wishes fulfilled beyond expectation is oftentimes a bliss that engenders unhappiness; there is no splendid train, no proud palace, but opens some door to incurable ills. But to possess a lover of perfect merit, to see yourself dearly beloved by him, is a happiness so lofty, so exquisite, that its worth cannot be expressed.

Agl. No more of this, my sister; the thought of it would kill us; let us rather think of revenge; let us find means of breaking the spell that fosters this affection between her and him.

She comes; I have darts ready, such as she shall find difficult to parry.

SCENE II.

PSYCHE, AGLAURA, CIDIPPE.

PSY. I COME to bid you farewell; my lover wishes your departure. He can no longer endure that you should deprive him of a particle of the joy he feels in being alone to contemplate me. The merest look, the slightest word, is a treasure for his love, and I rob him of it when I grant it to my sisters in favour of the ties of blood.

Agl. Jealousy is very keen, and these nice sentiments well deserve that he who shows such tenderness for you should be considered above the generality of lovers. I speak thus because I do not know him; nor do you know his name, or that of those to whom he owes the light. This alarms us. I hold him to be a mighty prince, whose power is extreme, far above kingly sway. His treasure which he has strewn beneath your feet would put Abundance herself to the blush. Your love for him is as keen as his for you; you are his delight, he is yours; your happiness, my sister, would be perfect if you but knew whom you love.

Psy. What care I! He loves me. The more he sees me, the more I please him. There are no pleasures which delight the soul, but anticipate my wishes. I do not understand the cause of your alarm when all here obeys my will.

Agl. What boots it that all bows to you here if this lover ever conceals what he is? If we are alarmed, it is for your interest alone. Vain it is that everything meets you with a smile, and brings delight; true love scorns reserve; and whoever persists in concealment is conscious that he is in some way open to reproach. Should this suitor prove fickle — for often change in love is pleasing, and between ourselves, I dare say that, however dazzling the flash of your charms, there are others as fair as you — if, I say, another beauty should bind him under new thralls, if in the state in which you are now, alone and defenceless at his mercy, he should go so far as to offer violence, on whom should the king wreak his vengeance for this change or this insolence?

Psy. You fill me with dread. Kind heaven! can I be so unfortunate?

Cid. Who knows but that Hymen’s knot….

Psy. Say no more, I could not bear it.

Agl. I have but one word more to say. This prince who loves you, sways the winds, gives us Zephyr’s wings for a chariot, and every moment lavishes on you new pleasures, when he thus openly breaks the order of nature, may perhaps mingle some little imposture with so much love. Perhaps this palace is nothing more than an enchantment; these gilt ceilings, these mountains of wealth, with which he buys your affection, so soon as he shall be weary of your caresses, will vanish in a moment. You know as well as ourselves what power lies in spells.

Psy. In my turn, what cruel alarms I feel!

Agl. Our friendship seeks your good only.

Psy. Farewell, sisters, we must close our meeting; I love, and fear lest he should grow impatient; go, and to-morrow, if I may, you shall see me, either happier or crushed by the deepest anguish.

Agl. We go to apprise the king of the new glory, the excess of bliss which heaven showers upon you.

Cid. We go to relate to him the surprising and marvellous tale of so pleasing a change.

Psy. Trouble him not, sisters, with your suspicions, and when you describe to him this charming empire….

Agl. We both know what we must conceal and what speak, and need no lessons.

Zephyr carries off Psyche’s sisters in a cloud, which descends to the earth, and in which he bears them rapidly away.

SCENE III.

LOVE, PSYCHE.

LOVE. YOU ARE alone at last. I can once more without your importunate sisters as witnesses declare to you what sway eyes so fair have won over me, and how extreme is the delight that a sincere ardour inspires when once it has locked two hearts together. I can unfold to you the loving eagerness of my enraptured soul, and swear that, enslaved to you alone, its rapture has no other aim than to behold this ardour followed by a similar ardour, to conceive no other wish but to bind my vows to your desires, and make all that pleases you my only delight. But wherefore does a cloud of sadness seem to dim the brightness of those beautiful eyes? Is there aught which you can want in these abodes? Scorn you the homage of the vows here paid to you?

Psy. No, my Lord!

Love. What is it then? And to what must I attribute my misfortune? You sigh less from love than from grief. The roses of your cheek are faded, a token of secret sorrow. Scarce are your sisters gone than you sigh of regret. Ah! my Psyche, when two hearts are swayed by an equal passion, can their sighs have a different object? and when their love is true, and the loved one nigh, is there room to sigh for relatives?

Psy. That is not the cause of my sorrow.

Love. Is it the absence of a rival, and a favoured rival too, that causes this neglect?

Psy. How ill you understand a heart wholly yours. I love you, my Lord; and my love is vexed at the undeserved suspicion which you have conceived. You but little know your own deserts, if you fear that you are not loved. I love you; and since I beheld the light of day, I have shown myself proud enough to scorn the vows of more than one king; and since I must disclose to you my whole heart, I have found none but you worthy of me. And yet I feel a certain sadness, which I would fain conceal from you; a gloomy grief is mingled with all my affection. Ask not the cause of it; perhaps, if you knew it, you would punish me for it, and if I still dare to aspire to anything, I am sure I should not obtain it.

Love. And do you not dread lest I should in my turn feel vexed at you for so ill understanding your own powers, or for pretending to be ignorant of the absolute sway you exercise over me? Ah! if you doubt it in the least, be undeceived. Speak.

Psy. I should have to bear with the shame of a refusal.

Love. I pray you to harbour kinder feelings in my behalf; the trial of it is easy. Speak; everything waits on your will. If you cannot trust my words without oaths, I swear by those beautiful eyes, those lords of my heart, those divine authors of my passion; and if it be not sufficient to swear by your beautiful eyes, I swear by the Styx, by which all the gods do swear.

Psy. After this assurance, my fears are somewhat allayed. My Lord, here I look on pomp and abundance, I adore you, and you worship me; my heart is enraptured, my senses charmed by it; but amidst this highest bliss, I have the misfortune of not knowing which it is whom I love. Dispel this darkness, and unfold to me who this perfect lover is.

Love. Psyche, what is that you say?

Psy. That this is the happiness for which I long, and that if you refuse it to me …

Love. I have sworn it, I am no longer master of it; but you do not know what you ask. Leave me my secret. If I discover myself, I lose you and you me. The only remedy is for you to retract your words.

Psy. Is this my sovereign sway over you?

Love. Your power is unbounded, and I am wholly yours. But if our wooing has charms for you, lay no obstacle in the way of its pleasing continuance. Do not force me to flight. This would be the least misfortune which can happen to us from that wish which has seduced you.

Psy. My Lord, you now wish to test me; but I know how far I am to believe it. I pray you to let me know the measure of my glory, and no longer to conceal from me for what illustrious choice I have rejected the vows of so many kings.

Love. Do you will it so?

Psy. Suffer me to beseech you to it.

Love. If you knew what cruel misfortune you draw upon yourself by it….

Psy. My Lord, you fill me with despair.

Love. Think well on it; I can yet be silent.

Psy. Do you pledge yourself by oaths which you do not mean to keep.

Love. Be it so! I am a god, the most powerful of all gods, absolute master on this earth, and in the heavens; my power is supreme in the ocean and the air; in a word, I am Love himself. I have wounded myself with my own darts for love of you; and, alas! but for the violence which you impose on me, and which has turned my passion for you into wrath, you would have me now for your husband. Your wish is accomplished; you know whom you loved; you know the lover whom you charmed; see now what misfortune is upon us. Yourself you force me to abandon you, yourself you force me to deprive you of all the fruits of your victory. It may be that your beautiful eyes will see me no more; this palace, these grounds, once vanished with me, will cause your rising glory to fade away. You would not believe me, and the dispelling of this doubt has for fruit that Fate, at whose blows the very heavens tremble, mightier than my love, mightier than all the gods united, which is even now showing its hatred to you, and driving me hence.

Love flies away, and the gardens vanish.

SCENE IV.

THE STAGE REPRESENTS a desert and the wild banks of a river.

Psyche, the River God, reclining on a bank of reeds, and leaning on an urn.

Psy. Cruel destiny! aching pain! fatal curiosity! Speak, dread solitude, what hast thou done with all my felicity? I loved a god; was beloved by him; my happiness redoubled at every moment; and now behold me, alone, bewailing, in the midst of a desert, where, to increase my pain, when shame and despair are upon me, I feel my love increasing now that I have lost the lover. Its very remembrance charms and poisons my soul. Its delights tyrannise over a wretched heart, which my passion has condemned to the keenest pain. Kind heaven! When Love abandoned me, why did he leave me the fire he had breathed into me. O thou! the pure and inexhaustible source of all good, lord of men and gods, dear author of the pain I now endure, art thou for ever vanished from my sight? I! I banished thee! when love was deepest, when bliss supreme, an unworthy suspicion filled my heart with alarm. Ungrateful heart, the fire was but ill-kindled; for from the first moment of love we cannot have any wish other than that of him whom we cherish. Let me die, it is the only choice left me after the loss I have made. For whom, great gods, would I live, for whom entertain a single wish? Thou, river, whose wave washes these desert sands, bury my crime in thy waters; and end ills so miserable by allowing me to find a rest in thy bed.

The River God. Thy death would sully my stream, Psyche. Heaven forbids it. Perhaps after such heavy sorrows, another fate awaits thee. Rather flee Venus’ implacable anger. I see her seeking thee in order to punish thee; the son’s love has excited the mother’s hatred. Flee! I will detain her.

Psy. I shall await her avenging wrath! What can it have that will not be too pleasant for me? Whoever seeks death dreads no gods or goddesses, but can defy all their darts.

SCENE V.

VENUS, PSYCHE, THE RIVER GOD.

VEN. INSOLENT PSYCHE, you dare then to await my arrival after you have deprived me on earth of my honours, after your seducing charms have received the incense which is due to mine alone? I have seen my shrines forsaken, I have seen all the world, enslaved by your charms, idolise you as the sovereign beauty, offer to you a homage until then unknown, and not stay to consider whether there was another Venus at all; notwithstanding this, I see you bold enough not to dread the punishment your crime justly deserves, and to meet my gaze as if my resentment were but little matter.

Psy. If I have been loved by a few mortals, is it a crime in me to have possessed charms by which they allowed their eyes to be captured while they were blind to you? I am but what heaven hath made me, I have only those attractions which it has been willing to lend me; if the vows that were paid to me pleased you but little, you had only to show yourself, to conceal no longer from men that perfect beauty which has but to show itself in order to bring them back to their duty.

Ven. You should have guarded better against these vows; this veneration, this incense ought to be declined, and in order to undeceive them more effectively, you should yourself have rendered this homage to me in their presence. You found pleasure in this error, from which on the contrary you should have shrunk with horror. Your haughty temper, proud of having rejected a thousand kings, has carried the extravagant ambition of its choice even to the skies.

Psy. Have I in my ambition aspired to heaven?

Ven. Your insolence is without an equal; do you not aspire to the gods when you reject all the kings of the world?

Psy. If Love had hardened my heart to all their passion, and had reserved me for himself alone, do I stand guilty? and must you to-day as a price for so dazzling a love crush me with everlasting sorrow?

Ven. Psyche, you should have known your position better, and the rank of this god.

Psy. And has he allowed me time and opportunity for doing so when from the first he became absolute master of my heart?

Ven. You have allowed your heart to be charmed by him, and you have loved him as soon as he said, “I love.”

Psy. How could I refuse to love the god who inspires all with love, and who was pleading his own cause? He is your son; you well know his power, his merit.

Ven. Yes; he is my son; but a son who excites my wrath; a son who ill returns to me what he knows is due; a son who knows that I am forsaken, and who, the more to flatter his own unworthy affection, since you return his love, wounds no one, forces no one to come to my shrine and address his supplications to me. You have made a rebel of him; but the whole world shall behold my dire revenge on you, and I shall teach you whether it is meet for a mortal maiden to suffer a god to sigh at her feet. Follow me; you shall find by your own experience to what degree of mad self-reliance this ambition was leading you. Come, and arm yourself with as much patience as you possess presumption.

FOURTH INTERLUDE.

THE SCENES REPRESENT the infernal regions; a sea of fire is discovered, whose waves are rolling unceasingly. This terrible sea is enclosed by burning ruins; and, standing in the midst of the raging billows, through a frightful opening, appears Pluto’s palace. Eight Furies issue from it, and form the entry of the ballet, in which they show their delight at having kindled such dire wrath in the heart of the sweetest of divinities. A Goblin adds perilous jumps to their dances, and meanwhile Psyche, who, in obedience to Venus, has come to the infernal regions, is seen crossing again in Charon’s bark, holding the box given to her by Proserpina for Venus.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

PSYCHE (alone)

ALAS! YE AWFUL waves of hell, ye gloomy palaces where Megaera and her sisters hold their court, far ever foes to the sun’s light, amongst your Ixions and your Tantaluses, in the midst of so many incessant tortures, in these hideous recesses, what pain, what toil so great as those to which Venus condemns my love? Yet my troubles satisfy not her wrath; and since I am subject to her laws, since I see myself a prey to her resentment, in these cruel moments I must have had more than one soul, more than one life, to fulfil her commands. Yet all this I could bear with joy if, in the midst of her hatred, my eyes could behold, were it for one moment only, my darling, my beloved lover! His name I dare not utter; my lips, whose guilt it was to exact too much, are now unworthy of him; and in this deadly anguish, the keenest pain my ever-returning death subjects me to is that I may not see him. If his anger lasted still, no anguish could equal mine; but if he felt any pity for a soul that worships him, however great the sufferings to which I am condemned, I should feel them not. Yea, thou mighty destiny, if he would but stay his wrath, all my sorrows would be at an end. Ah! a mere look from the son suffices to make me insensible to the mother’s fury. I will doubt it no longer; he shares my grief, he sees what I endure, and weeps with me; my sufferings are his too; it is a self-imposed law of love; in spite of Venus, in spite of my crime, he it is who sustains and revives me in the midst of the dangers I have to encounter. He harbours still the tender feelings urged by his passion, and hastens to restore me to new life as soon as I perish. But what would with me those two shades I see advancing towards me through the doubtful light of these dark recesses?

SCENE II.

PSYCHE, CLEOMENES, AGENOR.

PSY. CLEOMENES, AGENOR, is it not you whom I see? Who has deprived you of life?

Cle. The meetest grief that could have caused a noble despair. That funeral pomp where you awaited the fiercest rigour and highest injustice of a fate most dark.

Age. On that same rock where heaven in its wrath was promising to you, instead of a husband, a dragon who would forthwith devour you, we held ourselves ready to repulse his fury, or die with you. You know it well, Princess; and when you disappeared from our gaze through the air, both, equally carried away by our love and grief, cast ourselves headlong from that rock, in order to follow your beauty, or rather to feel that love-born joy of offering in your behalf a first prey to the monster.

Cle. We were fortunately deceived as to the meaning of your oracle; but here we have recognised its miracle, and learned that the serpent, ready to devour you, was the god who is the source of all love, and who, in spite of his divinity, adoring you himself, could not bear that mortals such as we are should presume to love you.

Age. We now enjoy a pleasant death, as a reward for having followed you. What would have been life to us if we could not have been yours? Here we behold your charms once more; which neither of us would ever have seen again in the world above. Happy shall we be if we see the merest tear honour the misfortunes of which you have been the cause.

Psy. How can I have more tears to shed when my own misfortunes have been carried to the highest pitch? Let us mingle our sighs, since we have so fatal a destiny; we cannot exhaust sighs; but yours, Princes, are uttered in behalf of an ungrateful being. You would not survive my misfortune; but under whatever blow I fall, I cannot die for you.

Cle. Have we deserved aught else, we whose great passion has not ceased to weary you with the tale of our woes?

Psy. Princes, you might have won my whole soul but for your being rivals; those incomparable qualities which attended the vows of both rendered you too deserving of love to allow me to reject either.

Age. You have been able, without injustice or cruelty, to refuse a heart reserved for a god. But behold Venus! Fate bids us return, and forces us to say “Farewell.”

Psy. Is not leisure allowed you to tell me what your abode is here?

Cle. Among groves ever green, where we breathe naught but love; no sooner do we die of love than through love we revive; we sigh for love under the sweet laws of his blest empire; and everlasting night dares not expel from it the day which Love himself brings on our phantoms, which he inspires, and of which he forms a court even in Hades.

Age. Your envious sisters, who descended here below after us lost themselves in the hope of losing you. Both, each in turn, as a reward for the plot which cost them their life, suffer, now the rock at Ixion’s side, now the vulture at Tityus’! Love, by means of the Zephyrs, has executed on them swift justice for their envenomed and jealous malice. Those winged ministers of his just wrath, under pretence of restoring them again to you, cast them both to the bottom of a precipice, where the hideous spectacle of their mangled bodies displays but the first and least torture for that stratagem the cunning of which was the cause of the ills you now endure.

Psy. How I pity them!

Cle. You alone are to be pitied; but we tarry too long conversing with you. Farewell! May we live in your remembrance; may you, and that soon, have nothing further to dread. Soon may Love exalt you to heaven, place you beside the other gods, and, kindling again a flame that cannot be extinguished, release for ever your beauteous eyes from the task of increasing daylight in these realms!

SCENE III.

PSYCHE (alone).

HAPLESS LOVERS! THEIR passion still continues; though dead, both love me — me, whose harshness so ill received their vows. ’Tis not thus thou actest — thou, who alone hast seized my heart; lover whom I still prize a thousand times more than my life, and who breakest such charming ties. Shun me no longer, and leave me to hope that one day thou shalt cast a glance on me, that by my sufferings, I shall please thee, and again win thy plighted faith. But my woes have disfigured me too much to allow to entertain such hopes. Eyes dejected, sad, despairing, pining, and with cheeks faded, what have I that can speak in my favour if some miracle impossible to foresee does not restore to me the beauty which once captivated thee? This treasure of divine beauty, which Proserpina has entrusted to me for Venus, contains charms which I can make mine own, and their lustre must be extreme, since beauty herself, Venus, requires them to adorn herself. Would it be a great crime to snatch a few? To captivate a god, who has been my lover, to recover his affection, and put an end to my torture, can anything that I may do be unlawful? Let me open it. What vapours cloud my brain? and what do I behold issuing from this open casket? Love, unless thy compassion forbids my death, I must needs descend to the tomb, never to live again.

Psyche swoons, and Love flies towards her.

SCENE IV.

LOVE. THY DANGER, Psyche, dispels my wrath; nay, the violence of my passion has never abated; and though thou hast excited my highest displeasure, yet my anger was harboured only against my mother’s wrath. I have seen all thy toils, I have followed all thy misfortunes, and throughout my sighs have answered thy tears. Look on me, I am still the same. What, again and again, I repeat that I love thee, and yet thou wilt not say that thou lovest me! Can it be that thy beauteous eyes are for ever closed, that they are for ever bereft of daylight? O Death! need’st thou have taken so cruel a dart, and, regardless of my eternal being, endangered my own life! How oft, ungrateful deity, have I swelled thy dark empire by the contempt or the cruelty of a fierce and proud fair one? How many faithful lovers, since I must confess it, have I, through irresistible raptures, sacrificed to thee? Go, I shall wound no more souls, I shall pierce no more hearts, but with darts dipped in the divine liquors that foster heaven’s immortal passions. I shall hurl them no more but to make as many lovers as there are gods. As for thee, thou inexorable mother, who forcest her to bereave me of what I held dearest in this world, dread, in thy turn, the effects of my wrath. Thou wouldst sway my feelings, thou who art often swayed by my will; thou who wearest a heart as sensitive as that of mortals; thou enviest to mine the raptures of thine own! But in this same heart I shall plunge such darts as shall be followed by jealous sorrow. I shall crush thee by abasing ravishments, and ever choose as objects for thy dearest longings Adonises and Anchises who will nurse nothing but hatred towards thee.

SCENE V.

VENUS, LOVE, PSYCHE (still senseless).

VEN. THE THREAT is full of respect, and the anger of a rebellious son presumptuous….

Love. I am no longer a child; my childhood has been but too long, and my wrath is as just as it is impetuous.

Ven. Its impetuosity should be subdued, and thou oughtest to remember that to me thou owest thy birth.

Love. And thou mightest well not forget that thou possessest a heart and beauty that hold their power from me; that my bow is the only support of this power, that without my shafts it is nothing, and that if the stoutest hearts have suffered themselves to be drawn in thy triumphant train, thou hast never enslaved any one whose chains it was not my pleasure to forge. Mention no more those rights of birth that fetter my desires; and if thou dost not wish to lose a thousand sighs, pay thy tribute to gratitude when thou seest me; thou whose glory and delights are the offsprings of my power.

Ven. How hast thou defended this glory of which thou speakest? How hast thou restored it to me? And when thou hast seen my shrines deserted, my temples violated, the honours due to me rivalled by those of another, if thou hast shared my shame, how hast thou punished Psyche, who hath stolen them from me? I bade thee throw a spell over her, that she might love the basest of mortals, who would not condescend to answer her passion but by continual repulse and cruellest contempt; and thyself thou hast loved her! Thou hast seduced immortal deities against me; for the Zephyrs have concealed her from me; for thee, Apollo himself, by an oracle cleverly turned, had snatched her from my power so well that, but for the curiosity which by a blind distrust restored her to my vengeance, she escaped for ever my angry passion. See to what thy love has reduced her, thine own Psyche! See! her soul is even now departing; and if thine is still smitten, receive now her last breath. Threaten and brave me if thou wilt, but she must die. So much insolence suits thee well; and I must needs bow to all it pleases thee to say, I, who can do nothing without thy darts.

Love. Thy power is but too great, relentless goddess! Fate abandons her to thy wrath; but be less inexorable to the prayers and tears of a son who beseeches thee on his knees. It must be a pleasant sight enough for thee to see on one side Psyche expiring, on the other a son who, in a suppliant voice, wishes to hold his heart’s happiness from thee only. Give me back my Psyche, restore to her all her charms, surrender her to my tears, to my love, to my grief; for she is my eyes’ delight, my heart’s happiness.

Ven. However deep thy love for Psyche, do not expect me to put an end to her misfortunes. If Fate abandons her to me, I abandon her to her fate. Importune me no more, and let her in the midst of her calamities triumph or perish without Venus.

Love. Alas! if I am too importunate, I would not be so if I could but die!

Ven. This grief is not common that drives an immortal to long for death.

Love. Thou mayest judge of the intensity of my passion by its very excess; wilt thou not be merciful?

Ven. I must confess thy love touches my heart; it disarms, it abates my sternness; thy Psyche shall see the light again.

Love. How powerfully I shall cause thy sway to be felt everywhere!

Ven. Ay! thou shalt behold her decked in her first beauty; but I will have the entire deference of thy grateful vows. I will that a true respect allow my love to select for thee another spouse.

Love. And I will have no such grace; I assume all my former boldness; I will have Psyche; I will have her plighted faith; I will that she live again, and that she live for me; and I reckon as naught that thy wearied hatred give way to favour another maiden. Jupiter, who even now appears, shall judge betwixt us, and decide between my insubordination and thy wrath.

The lightning flashes, the thunder rolls, and Jupiter appears in the air borne aloft by his eagle.

SCENE VI.

JUPITER, VENUS, LOVE, PSYCHE (senseless).

LOVE. O THOU to whom alone all is possible, father of gods, lord of mortals, soften the rigour of an inexorable mother, who without me would have no shrines. I have wept, I have supplicated; I sigh, I threaten. Sighs and threats are alike vain. She will not perceive that on my displeasure hangs the happy or sad condition of the whole world, and that if Psyche dies, if Psyche be not mine, I am no longer “Love”. Yes! I shall break my bow, shatter my arrows; I shall even extinguish my sacred flame, and leave all nature to pine to death; or if I deign to wound a few more hearts with these golden shafts that arrest my sway, I shall wound you all above in behalf of mortals, while I shall hurl against them blunted darts only that inspire hatred, and produce thankless and cruel rebels. What tyrannical law is this that would bind me to keep my shafts ever ready to serve you, and would have me make conquest upon conquest for you, while you forbid me to make one for myself?

Jup. (to Venus). My daughter, show thyself less severe towards him; his Psyche’s destiny is even now in thy hands. Fate, at thy slightest word, is ready to follow up thy wrath. Speak, and let a mother’s tenderness prevail upon thy designs. All dread this wrath which awes even me. Will thou leave the world to become the prey of hatred, disorder, and confusion, and change a god of union, of delights, of joy, into one of bitterness and division? Consider the lofty rank we hold, and say whether passion ought to sway our feelings. The word revenge is pleasing to mortals; the more is it meet that we should resort to forgiveness.

Ven. I forgive this rebel son. Yet would you have me submit to the reproach that a contemptible mortal, the object of my wrath, proud Psyche, because she displays some charms, has defiled my alliance and my son’s couch?

Jup. Well, then, I make her immortal, so that all shall be equal.

Ven. I feel no longer hatred or contempt for her, but admit her to the honour of this conjugal tie. Psyche! recover your life, never more to lose it. Jupiter has contrived your restoration, and I abandon that lofty humour which opposed itself to your wishes.

Psy. (recovering from her fainting condition). It is you then, mighty goddess, who restores the life to this innocent being?

Ven. Jupiter extends his pardon to you, and my wrath lasts no longer. Live! Venus commands it. Love allows it.

Psy. (to Love). At last I see you again, dear object of my passion!

Love. (to Psyche). You are mine at last, my soul’s own delight!

Jup. Come, lovers, come; and conclude in heaven so great, so lofty a union. Come, fair Psyche, to change thy destiny, and take thy place among the gods.

The Impostures of Scapin

Les Fourberies de Scapin

Translated by Charles Heron Wall

CONTENTS

THE IMPOSTURES OF SCAPIN.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.-OCTAVE, LÉANDRE, SCAPIN.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.-GÉRONTE, ARGANTE, SILVESTRE.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.-ARGANTE, GÉRONTE, LÉANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE,

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

The 1671 title page

The 1682 frontispiece

THE IMPOSTURES OF SCAPIN.

ACTED ON MAY 24, 1671, at the Palais Royal, ‘Les Fourberies de Scapin’ had great success. It is nothing, however, but a farce, taken partly from classical, partly from Italian or from French sources.

Molière acted the part of Scapin.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

ARGANTE, FATHER TO OCTAVE and ZERBINETTE.

GÉRONTE, father to LÉANDRE and HYACINTHA.

OCTAVE, son to ARGANTE, and lover to HYACINTHA.

LÉANDRE, son to GÉRONTE, and lover to ZERBINETTE.

ZERBINETTE, daughter to ARGANTE, believed to be a gypsy girl.

HYACINTHA, daughter to GÉRONTE.

SCAPIN, servant to LÉANDRE.

SILVESTRE, servant to OCTAVE.

NÉRINE, nurse to HYACINTHA.

CARLE.

TWO PORTERS.

The scene is at NAPLES.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

OCTAVE, SILVESTRE.

OCT. AH! WHAT sad news for one in love! What a hard fate to be reduced to! So, Silvestre, you have just heard at the harbour that my father is coming back?

SIL. Yes.

OCT. That he returns this very morning?

SIL. This very morning.

OCT. With the intention of marrying me?

SIL. Of marrying you.

OCT. To a daughter of Mr. Géronte?

SIL. Of Mr. Géronte.

OCT. And that this daughter is on her way from Tarentum for that purpose?

SIL. For that purpose.

OCT. And you have this news from my uncle?

SIL. From your uncle.

OCT. To whom my father has given all these particulars in a letter?

SIL. In a letter.

OCT. And this uncle, you say, knows all about our doings?

SIL. All our doings.

OCT. Oh! speak, I pray you; don’t go on in such a way as that, and force me to wrench everything from you, word by word.

SIL. But what is the use of my speaking? You don’t forget one single detail, but state everything exactly as it is.

OCT. At least advise me, and tell me what I ought to do in this wretched business.

SIL. I really feel as much perplexed as you, and I myself need the advice of some one to guide me.

OCT. I am undone by this unforeseen return.

SIL. And I no less.

OCT. When my father hears what has taken place, a storm of reprimands will burst upon me.

SIL. Reprimands are not very heavy to bear; would to heaven I were free at that price! But I am very likely to pay dearly for all your wild doings, and I see a storm of blows ready to burst upon my shoulders.

OCT. Heavens! how am I to get clear of all the difficulties that beset my path!

SIL. You should have thought of that before entering upon it.

OCT. Oh, don’t come and plague me to death with your unreasonable lectures.

SIL. You plague me much more by your foolish deeds.

OCT. What am I to do? What steps must I take? To what course of action have recourse?

SCENE II.

OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.

SCA. HOW NOW, Mr. Octave? What is the matter with you? What is it? What trouble are you in? You are all upset, I see.

OCT. Ah! my dear Scapin, I am in despair; I am lost; I am the most unfortunate of mortals.

SCA. How is that?

OCT. Don’t you know anything of what has happened to me?

SCA. No.

OCT. My father is just returning with Mr. Géronte, and they want to marry me.

SCA. Well, what is there so dreadful about that?

OCT. Alas! you don’t know what cause I have to be anxious.

SCA. No; but it only depends on you that I should soon know; and I am a man of consolation, a man who can interest himself in the troubles of young people.

OCT. Ah! Scapin, if you could find some scheme, invent some plot, to get me out of the trouble I am in, I should think myself indebted to you for more than life.

SCA. To tell you the truth, there are few things impossible to me when I once set about them. Heaven has bestowed on me a fair enough share of genius for the making up of all those neat strokes of mother wit, for all those ingenious gallantries to which the ignorant and vulgar give the name of impostures; and I can boast, without vanity, that there have been very few men more skilful than I in expedients and intrigues, and who have acquired a greater reputation in the noble profession. But, to tell the truth, merit is too ill rewarded nowadays, and I have given up everything of the kind since the trouble I had through a certain affair which happened to me.

OCT. How? What affair, Scapin?

SCA. An adventure in which justice and I fell out.

OCT. Justice and you?

SCA. Yes; we had a trifling quarrel.

SIL. You and justice?

SCA. Yes. She used me very badly; and I felt so enraged against the ingratitude of our age that I determined never to do anything for anybody. But never mind; tell me about yourself all the same.

OCT. You know, Scapin, that two months ago Mr. Géronte and my father set out together on a voyage, about a certain business in which they are both interested.

SCA. Yes, I know that.

OCT. And that both Léandre and I were left by our respective fathers, I under the management of Silvestre, and Léandre under your management.

SCA. Yes; I have acquitted myself very well of my charge.

OCT. Some time afterwards Léandre met with a young gipsy girl, with whom he fell in love.

SCA. I know that too.

OCT. As we are great friends, he told me at once of his love, and took me to see this young girl, whom I thought good-looking, it is true, but not so beautiful as he would have had me believe. He never spoke of anything but her; at every opportunity he exaggerated her grace and her beauty, extolled her intelligence, spoke to me with transport of the charms of her conversation, and related to me her most insignificant saying, which he always wanted me to think the cleverest thing in the world. He often found fault with me for not thinking as highly as he imagined I ought to do of the things he related to me, and blamed me again and again for being so insensible to the power of love.

SCA. I do not see what you are aiming at in all this.

OCT. One day, as I was going with him to the people who have charge of the girl with whom he is in love, we heard in a small house on a by-street, lamentations mixed with a good deal of sobbing. We inquired what it was, and were told by a woman that we might see there a most piteous sight, in the persons of two strangers, and that unless we were quite insensible to pity, we should be sure to be touched with it.

SCA. Where will this lead to?

OCT. Curiosity made me urge Léandre to come in with me. We went into a low room, where we saw an old woman dying, and with her a servant who was uttering lamentations, and a young girl dissolved in tears, the most beautiful, the most touching sight that you ever saw.

SCA. Oh! oh!

OCT. Any other person would have seemed frightful in the condition she was in, for all the dress she had on was a scanty old petticoat, with a night jacket of plain fustian, and turned back at the top of her head a yellow cap, which let her hair fall in disorder on her shoulders; and yet dressed even thus she shone with a thousand attractions, and all her person was most charming and pleasant.

SCA. I begin to understand.

OCT. Had you but seen her, Scapin, as I did, you would have thought her admirable.

SCA. Oh! I have no doubt about it; and without seeing her, I plainly perceive that she must have been altogether charming.

OCT. Her tears were none of those unpleasant tears which spoil the face; she had a most touching grace in weeping, and her sorrow was a most beautiful thing to witness.

SCA. I can see all that.

OCT. All who approached her burst into tears whilst she threw herself, in her loving way, on the body of the dying woman, whom she called her dear mother; and nobody could help being moved to the depths of the heart to see a girl with such a loving disposition.

SCA. Yes, all that is very touching; and I understand that this loving disposition made you love her.

OCT. Ah! Scapin, a savage would have loved her.

SCA. Certainly; how could anyone help doing so?

OCT. After a few words, with which I tried to soothe her grief, we left her; and when I asked Léandre what he thought of her, he answered coldly that she was rather pretty! I was wounded to find how unfeelingly he spoke to me of her, and I would not tell him the effect her beauty had had on my heart.

SIL. (to OCTAVE). If you do not abridge your story, we shall have to stop here till to-morrow. Leave it to me to finish it in a few words. (To SCAPIN) His heart takes fire from that moment. He cannot live without going to comfort the amiable and sorrowful girl. His frequent visits are forbidden by the servant, who has become her guardian by the death of the mother. Our young man is in despair; he presses, begs, beseeches — all in vain. He is told that the young girl, although without friends and without fortune, is of an honourable family, and that, unless he marries her, he must cease his visits. His love increases with the difficulties. He racks his brains; debates, reasons, ponders, and makes up his mind. And, to cut a long story short, he has been married these three days.

SCA. I see.

SIL. Now, add to this the unforeseen return of the father, who was not to be back before two whole months; the discovery which the uncle has made of the marriage; and that other marriage projected between him and a daughter which Mr. Géronte had by a second wife, whom, they say, he married at Tarentum.

OCT. And, above all, add also the poverty of my beloved, and the impossibility there is for me to do anything for her relief.

SCA. Is that all? You are both of you at a great loss about nothing. Is there any reason to be alarmed? Are you not ashamed, you, Silvestre, to fall short in such a small matter? Deuce take it all! You, big and stout as father and mother put together, you can’t find any expedient in your noddle? you can’t plan any stratagem, invent any gallant intrigue to put matters straight? Fie! Plague on the booby! I wish I had had the two old fellows to bamboozle in former times; I should not have thought much of it; and I was no bigger than that, when I had given a hundred delicate proofs of my skill.

SIL. I acknowledge that Heaven has not given me your talent, and that I have not the brains like you to embroil myself with justice.

OCT. Here is my lovely Hyacintha!

SCENE III.

HYACINTHA, OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.

HYA. AH! OCTAVE, is what Silvestre has just told Nérine really true? Is your father back, and is he bent upon marrying you?

OCT. Yes, it is so, dear Hyacintha; and these tidings have given me a cruel shock. But what do I see? You are weeping? Why those tears? Do you suspect me of unfaithfulness, and have you no assurance of the love I feel for you?

HYA. Yes, Octave, I am sure that you love me now; but can I be sure that you will love me always?

OCT. Ah! could anyone love you once without loving you for ever?

HYA. I have heard say, Octave, that your sex does not love so long as ours, and that the ardour men show is a fire which dies out as easily as it is kindled.

OCT. Then, my dear Hyacintha, my heart is not like that of other men, and I feel certain that I shall love you till I die.

HYA. I want to believe what you say, and I have no doubt that you are sincere; but I fear a power which will oppose in your heart the tender feelings you have for me. You depend on a father who would marry you to another, and I am sure it would kill me if such a thing happened.

OCT. No, lovely Hyacintha, there is no father who can force me to break my faith to you, and I could resolve to leave my country, and even to die, rather than be separated from you. Without having seen her, I have already conceived a horrible aversion to her whom they want me to marry; and although I am not cruel, I wish the sea would swallow her up, or drive her hence forever. Do not weep, then, dear Hyacintha, for your tears kill me, and I cannot see them without feeling pierced to the heart.

HYA. Since you wish it, I will dry my tears, and I will wait without fear for what Heaven shall decide.

OCT. Heaven will be favourable to us.

HYA. It cannot be against us if you are faithful.

OCT. I certainly shall be so.

HYA. Then I shall be happy.

SCA. (aside). She is not so bad, after all, and I think her pretty enough.

OCT. (showing SCAPIN). Here is a man who, if he would, could be of the greatest help to us in all our trouble.

SCA. I have sworn with many oaths never more to meddle with anything. But if you both entreat me very much, I might....

OCT. Ah! if entreaties will obtain your help, I beseech you with all my heart to steer our bark.

SCA. (to HYACINTHA). And you, have you anything to say?

HYA. Like him, I beseech you, by all that is most dear to you upon earth, to assist us in our love.

SCA. I must have a little humanity, and give way. There, don’t be afraid; I will do all I can for you.

OCT. Be sure that....

SCA. (to OCTAVE). Hush! (To HYACINTHA) Go, and make yourself easy.

SCENE IV.

OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.

SCA. (TO OCTAVE). You must prepare yourself to receive your father with firmness.

OCT. I confess that this meeting frightens me before hand, for with him I have a natural shyness that I cannot conquer.

SCA. Yes; you must be firm from the first, for fear that he should take advantage of your weakness, and lead you like a child. Now, come, try to school yourself into some amount of firmness, and be ready to answer boldly all he can say to you.

OCT. I will do the best I can.

SCA. Well! let us try a little, just to see. Rehearse your part, and let us see how you will manage. Come, a look of decision, your head erect, a bold face.

OCT. Like this.

SCA. A little more.

OCT. So?

SCA. That will do. Now, fancy that I am your father, just arrived; answer me boldly as if it were he himself.— “What! you scoundrel, you good-for-nothing fellow, you infamous rascal, unworthy son of such a father as I, dare you appear before me after what you have done, and after the infamous trick you have played me during my absence? Is this, you rascal, the reward of all my care? Is this the fruit of all my devotion? Is this the respect due to me? Is this the respect you retain for me?” — Now then, now then.— “You are insolent enough, scoundrel, to go and engage yourself without the consent of your father, and contract a clandestine marriage! Answer me, you villain! Answer me. Let me hear your fine reasons”.... — Why, the deuce, you seem quite lost.

OCT. It is because I imagine I hear my father speaking.

SCA. Why, yes; and it is for this reason that you must try not to look like an idiot.

OCT. I will be more resolute, and will answer more firmly.

SCA. Quite sure?

SIL. Here is your father coming.

OCT. Oh heavens! I am lost.

SCENE V.

SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.

SCA. STOP, OCTAVE; stop. He’s off. What a poor specimen it is! Let’s wait for the old man all the same.

SIL. What shall I tell him?

SCA. Leave him to me; only follow me.

SCENE VI.

ARGANTE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE

(AT THE FURTHER part of thestage).

ARG. (thinking himself alone). Did anyone ever hear of such an action?

SCA. (to SILVESTRE). He has already heard of the affair, and is so struck by it that, although alone, he speaks aloud about it.

ARG. (thinking himself alone). Such a bold thing to do.

SCA. (to SILVESTRE). Let us listen to him.

ARG. (thinking himself alone). I should like to know what they can say to me about this fine marriage.

SCA. (aside). We have it all ready.

ARG. (thinking himself alone). Will they try to deny it?

SCA. (aside). No: we have no thought of doing so.

ARG. (thinking himself alone). Or will they undertake to excuse it?

SCA. (aside). That may be.

ARG. (thinking himself alone). Do they intend to deceive me with impertinent stories?

SCA. (aside). May be.

ARG. (thinking himself alone). All they can say will be useless.

SCA. We shall see.

ARG. (thinking himself alone). They will not take me in.

SCA. (aside). I don’t know that.

ARG. (thinking himself alone). I shall know how to put my rascal of a son in a safe place.

SCA. (aside). We shall see about that.

ARG. (thinking himself alone). And as for that rascal Silvestre, I will cudgel him soundly.

SIL. (to SCAPIN). I should have been very much astonished if he had forgotten me.

ARG. (seeing SILVESTRE). Ah, ah! here you are, most wise governor of a family, fine director of young people!

SCA. Sir, I am delighted to see you back.

ARG. Good morning, Scapin. (To SILVESTRE) You have really followed my orders in a fine manner, and my son has behaved splendidly.

SCA. You are quite well, I see.

ARG. Pretty well. (To SILVESTRE) You don’t say a word, you rascal!

SCA. Have you had a pleasant journey?

ARG. Yes, yes, very good. Leave me alone a little to scold this villain!

SCA. You want to scold?

ARG. Yes, I wish to scold.

SCA. But whom, Sir?

ARG. (Pointing to SILVESTRE). This scoundrel!

SCA. Why?

ARG. Have you not heard what has taken place during my absence?

SCA. Yes, I have heard some trifling thing.

ARG. How! Some trifling thing! Such an action as this?

SCA. You are about right.

ARG. Such a daring thing to do!

SCA. That’s quite true.

ARG. To marry without his father’s consent!

SCA. Yes, there is something to be said against it, but my opinion is that you should make no fuss about it.

ARG. This is your opinion, but not mine; and I will make as much fuss as I please. What! do you not think that I have every reason to be angry?

SCA. Quite so. I was angry myself when I first heard it; and I so far felt interested in your behalf that I rated your son well. Just ask him the fine sermons I gave him, and how I lectured him about the little respect he showed his father, whose very footsteps he ought to kiss. You could not yourself talk better to him. But what of that? I submitted to reason, and considered that, after all, he had done nothing so dreadful.

ARG. What are you telling me? He has done nothing so dreadful? When he goes and marries straight off a perfect stranger?

SCA. What can one do? he was urged to it by his destiny.

ARG. Oh, oh! You give me there a fine reason. One has nothing better to do now than to commit the greatest crime imaginable — to cheat, steal, and murder — and give for an excuse that we were urged to it by destiny.

SCA. Ah me! You take my words too much like a philosopher. I mean to say that he was fatally engaged in this affair.

ARG. And why did he engage in it?

SCA. Do you expect him to be as wise as you are? Can you put an old head on young shoulders, and expect young people to have all the prudence necessary to do nothing but what is reasonable? Just look at our Léandre, who, in spite of all my lessons, has done even worse than that. I should like to know whether you yourself were not young once, and have not played as many pranks as others? I have heard say that you were a sad fellow in your time, that you played the gallant among the most gallant of those days, and that you never gave in until you had gained your point.

ARG. It is true, I grant it; but I always confined myself to gallantry, and never went so far as to do what he has done.

SCA. But what was he to do? He sees a young person who wishes him well; for he inherits it from you that all women love him. He thinks her charming, goes to see her, makes love to her, sighs as lovers sigh, and does the passionate swain. She yields to his pressing visits; he pushes his fortune. But her relations catch him with her, and oblige him to marry her by main force.

SIL. (aside). What a clever cheat!

SCA. Would you have him suffer them to murder him? It is still better to be married than to be dead.

ARG. I was not told that the thing had happened in that way.

SCA. (showing SILVESTRE). Ask him, if you like; he will tell you the same thing.

ARG. (to SILVESTRE). Was he married against his wish?

SIL. Yes, Sir.

SCA. Do you think I would tell you an untruth?

ARG. Then he should have gone at once to a lawyer to protest against the violence.

SCA. It is the very thing he would not do.

ARG. It would have made it easier for me to break off the marriage.

SCA. Break off the marriage?

ARG. Yes

SCA. You will not break it off.

ARG. I shall not break it off?

SCA. No.

ARG. What! Have I not on my side the rights of a father, and can I not have satisfaction for the violence done to my son?

SCA. This is a thing he will not consent to.

ARG. He will not consent to it?

SCA. No.

ARG. My son?

SCA. Your son. Would you have him acknowledge that he was frightened, and that he yielded by force to what was wanted of him? He will take care not to confess that; it would be to wrong himself, and show himself unworthy of a father like you.

ARG. I don’t care for all that.

SCA. He must, for his own honour and yours, say that he married of his own free will.

ARG. And I wish for my own honour, and for his, that he should say the contrary.

SCA. I am sure he will not do that.

ARG. I shall soon make him do it.

SCA. He will not acknowledge it, I tell you.

ARG. He shall do it, or I will disinherit him.

SCA. You?

ARG. I.

SCA. Nonsense!

ARG. How nonsense?

SCA. You will not disinherit him.

ARG. I shall not disinherit him?

SCA. No.

ARG. No?

SCA. No.

ARG. Well! This is really too much! I shall not disinherit my son!

SCA. No, I tell you.

ARG. Who will hinder me?

SCA. You yourself.

ARG. I?

SCA. Yes; you will never have the heart to do it.

ARG. I shall have the heart.

SCA. You are joking.

ARG. I am not joking.

SCA. Paternal love will carry the day.

ARG. No, it will not.

SCA. Yes, yes.

ARG. I tell you that I will disinherit him.

SCA. Rubbish.

ARG. You may say rubbish; but I will.

SCA. Gracious me, I know that you are naturally a kind-hearted man.

ARG. No, I am not kind-hearted; I can be angry when I choose. Leave off talking; you put me out of all patience. (To SYLVESTRE) Go, you rascal, run and fetch my son, while I go to Mr. Géronte and tell him of my misfortune.

SCA. Sir, if I can be useful to you in any way, you have but to order me.

ARG. I thank you. (Aside) Ah! Why is he my only son? Oh! that I had with me the daughter that Heaven has taken away from me, so that I might make her my heir.

SCENE VII.

SCAPIN, SYLVESTRE.

SIL. YOU ARE a great man, I must confess; and things are in a fair way to succeed. But, on the other hand, we are greatly pressed for money, and we have people dunning us.

SCA. Leave it to me; the plan is all ready. I am only puzzling my brains to find out a fellow to act along with us, in order to play a personage I want. But let me see; just look at me a little. Stick your cap rather rakishly on one side. Put on a furious look. Put your hand on your side. Walk about like a king on the stage. {Footnote: Compare the ‘Impromptu of Versailles’.} That will do. Follow me. I possess some means of changing your face and voice.

SIL. I pray you, Scapin, don’t go and embroil me with justice.

SCA. Never mind, we will share our perils like brothers, and three years more or less on the galleys are not sufficient to check a noble heart.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

GÉRONTE, ARGANTE.

GER. YES, THERE is no doubt but that with this weather we shall have our people with us to-day; and a sailor who has arrived from Tarentum told me just now that he had seen our man about to start with the ship. But my daughter’s arrival will find things strangely altered from what we thought they would be, and what you have just told me of your son has put an end to all the plans we had made together.

ARG. Don’t be anxious about that; I give you my word that I shall remove that obstacle, and I am going to see about it this moment.

GER. In all good faith, Mr. Argante, shall I tell you what? The education of children is a thing that one could never be too careful about.

ARG. You are right; but why do you say that?

GER. Because most of the follies of young men come from the way they have been brought up by their fathers.

ARG. It is so sometimes, certainly; but what do you mean by saying that to me?

GER. Why do I say that to you?

ARG. Yes.

GER. Because, if, like a courageous father, you had corrected your son when he was young, he would not have played you such a trick.

ARG. I see. So that you have corrected your own much better?

GER. Certainly; and I should be very sorry if he had done anything at all like what yours has done.

ARG. And if that son, so well brought up, had done worse even than mine, what would you say?

GER. What?

ARG. What?

GER. What do you mean?

ARG. I mean, Mr. Géronte, that we should never be so ready to blame the conduct of others, and that those who live in glass houses should not throw stones.

GER. I really do not understand you.

ARG. I will explain myself.

GER. Have you heard anything about my son?

ARG. Perhaps I have.

GER. But what?

ARG. Your servant Scapin, in his vexation, only told me the thing roughly, and you can learn all the particulars from him or from some one else. For my part, I will at once go to my solicitor, and see what steps I can take in the matter. Good-bye.

SCENE II.

GÉRONTE (alone).

GER. WHAT CAN it be? Worse than what his son has done! I am sure I don’t know what anyone can do more wrong than that; and to marry without the consent of one’s father is the worst thing that I can possibly imagine. {Footnote: No exaggeration, if we consider that this was said two hundred years ago, and by a French father.}

SCENE III

GÉRONTE, LÉANDRE.

GER. AH, HERE you are!

LEA. (going quickly towards his father to embrace him). Ah! father, how glad I am to see you!

GER. (refusing to embrace him). Stay, I have to speak to you first.

LEA. Allow me to embrace you, and....

GER. (refusing him again). Gently, I tell you.

LEA. How! father, you deprive me of the pleasure of showing you my joy at your return?

GER. Certainly; we have something to settle first of all.

LEA. But what?

GER. Just stand there before me, and let me look at you.

LEA. What for?

GER. Look me straight in the face.

LEA. Well?

GER. Will you tell me what has taken place here in my absence?

LEA. What has taken place?

GER. Yes; what did you do while I was away?

LEA. What would you have me do, father?

GER. It is not I who wanted you to do anything, but who ask you now what it is you did?

LEA. I have done nothing to give you reason to complain.

GER. Nothing at all?

LEA. No.

GER. You speak in a very decided tone.

LEA. It is because I am innocent.

GER. And yet Scapin has told me all about you.

LEA. Scapin!

GER. Oh! oh! that name makes you change colour.

LEA. He has told you something about me?

GER. He has. But this is not the place to talk about the business, and we must go elsewhere to see to it. Go home at once; I will be there presently. Ah! scoundrel, if you mean to bring dishonour upon me, I will renounce you for my son, and you will have to avoid my presence for ever!

SCENE IV.

LÉANDRE (alone).

LEA. TO BETRAY me after that fashion! A rascal who for so many reasons should be the first to keep secret what I trust him with! To go and tell everything to my father! Ah! I swear by all that is dear to me not to let such villainy go unpunished.

SCENE V.

OCTAVE, LÉANDRE, SCAPIN.

OCT. MY DEAR Scapin, what do I not owe to you? What a wonderful man you are, and how kind of Heaven to send you to my help!

LEA. Ah, ah! here you are, you rascal!

SCA. Sir, your servant; you do me too much honour.

LEA. (drawing his sword). You are setting me at defiance, I believe...Ah! I will teach you how....

SCA. (falling on his knees). Sir!

OCT. (stepping between them). Ah! Léandre.

LEA. No, Octave, do not keep me back.

SCA. (to LÉANDRE). Eh! Sir.

OCT. (keeping back LÉANDRE). For mercy’s sake!

LEA. (trying to strike). Leave me to wreak my anger upon him.

OCT. In the name of our friendship, Léandre, do not strike him.

SCA. What have I done to you, Sir?

LEA. What you have done, you scoundrel!

OCT. (still keeping back LÉANDRE). Gently, gently.

LEA. No, Octave, I will have him confess here on the spot the perfidy of which he is guilty. Yes, scoundrel, I know the trick you have played me; I have just been told of it. You did not think the secret would be revealed to me, did you? But I will have you confess it with your own lips, or I will run you through and through with my sword.

SCA. Ah! Sir, could you really be so cruel as that?

LEA. Speak, I say.

SCA. I have done something against you, Sir?

LEA. Yes, scoundrel! and your conscience must tell you only too well what it is.

SCA. I assure you that I do not know what you mean.

LEA. (going towards SCAPIN to strike him). You do not know?

OCT. (keeping back LÉANDRE). Léandre!

SCA. Well, Sir, since you will have it, I confess that I drank with some of my friends that small cask of Spanish wine you received as a present some days ago, and that it was I who made that opening in the cask, and spilled some water on the ground round it, to make you believe that all the wine had leaked out.

LEA. What! scoundrel, it was you who drank my Spanish wine, and who suffered me to scold the servant so much, because I thought it was she who had played me that trick?

SCA. Yes, Sir; I am very sorry, Sir.

LEA. I am glad to know this. But this is not what I am about now.

SCA. It is not that, Sir?

LEA. No; it is something else, for which I care much more, and I will have you tell it me.

SCA. I do not remember, Sir, that I ever did anything else.

LEA. (trying to strike SCAPIN). Will you speak?

SCA. Ah!

OCT. (keeping back LÉANDRE). Gently.

SCA. Yes, Sir; it is true that three weeks ago, when you sent me in the evening to take a small watch to the gypsy {Footnote: Égyptienne. Compare act v. scene ii. Bohémienne is a more usual name.} girl you love, and I came back, my clothes spattered with mud and my face covered with blood, I told you that I had been attacked by robbers who had beaten me soundly and had stolen the watch from me. It is true that I told a lie. It was I who kept the watch, Sir.

LEA. It was you who stole the watch?

SCA. Yes, Sir, in order to know the time.

LEA. Ah! you are telling me fine things; I have indeed a very faithful servant! But it is not this that I want to know of you.

SCA. It is not this?

LEA. No, infamous wretch! it is something else that I want you to confess.

SCA. (aside). Mercy on me!

LEA. Speak at once; I will not be put off.

SCA. Sir, I have done nothing else.

LEA. (trying to strike SCAPIN). Nothing else?

OCT. (stepping between them). Ah! I beg....

SCA. Well, Sir, you remember that ghost that six months ago cudgelled you soundly, and almost made you break your neck down a cellar, where you fell whilst running away?

LEA. Well?

SCA. It was I, Sir, who was playing the ghost.

LEA. It was you, wretch! who were playing the ghost?

SCA. Only to frighten you a little, and to cure you of the habit of making us go out every night as you did.

LEA. I will remember in proper time and place all I have just heard. But I’ll have you speak about the present matter, and tell me what it is you said to my father.

SCA. What I said to your father?

LEA. Yes, scoundrel! to my father.

SCA. Why, I have not seen him since his return!

LEA. You have not seen him?

SCA. No, Sir.

LEA. Is that the truth?

SCA. The perfect truth; and he shall tell you so himself.

LEA. And yet it was he himself who told me.

SCA. With your leave, Sir, he did not tell you the truth.

SCENE VI.

LÉANDRE, OCTAVE, CARLE, SCAPIN.

CAR. SIR, I bring you very bad news concerning your love affair.

LEA. What is it now?

CAR. The gypsies are on the point of carrying off Zerbinette. She came herself all in tears to ask me to tell you that, unless you take to them, before two hours are over, the money they have asked you for her, she will be lost to you for ever.

LEA. Two hours?

CAR. Two hours.

SCENE VII.

LÉANDRE, OCTAVE, SCAPIN.

LEA. AH! MY dear Scapin, I pray you to help me.

SCA. (rising and passing proudly before LÉANDRE). Ah! my dear Scapin! I am my dear Scapin, now that I am wanted.

LEA. I will forgive you all that you confessed just now, and more also.

SCA. No, no; forgive me nothing; run your sword through and through my body. I should be perfectly satisfied if you were to kill me.

LEA. I beseech you rather to give me life by serving my love.

SCA. Nay, nay; better kill me.

LEA. You are too dear to me for that. I beg of you to make use for me of that wonderful genius of yours which can conquer everything.

SCA. Certainly not. Kill me, I tell you.

LEA. Ah! for mercy’s sake, don’t think of that now, but try to give me the help I ask.

OCT. Scapin, you must do something to help him.

SCA. How can I after such abuse?

LEA. I beseech you to forget my outburst of temper, and to make use of your skill for me.

OCT. I add my entreaties to his.

SCA. I cannot forget such an insult.

OCT. You must not give way to resentment, Scapin.

LEA. Could you forsake me, Scapin, in this cruel extremity?

SCA. To come all of a sudden and insult me like that.

LEA. I was wrong, I acknowledge.

SCA. To call me scoundrel, knave, infamous wretch!

LEA. I am really very sorry.

SCA. To wish to send your sword through my body!

LEA. I ask you to forgive me, with all my heart; and if you want to see me at your feet, I beseech you, kneeling, not to give me up.

OCT. Scapin, you cannot resist that?

SCA. Well, get up, and another time remember not to be so hasty.

LEA. Will you try to act for me?

SCA. I will see.

LEA. But you know that time presses.

SCA. Don’t be anxious. How much is it you want?

LEA. Five hundred crowns.

SCA. You?

OCT. Two hundred pistoles.

SCA. I must extract this money from your respective fathers’ pockets. (To OCTAVE) As far as yours is concerned, my plan is all ready. (To LÉANDRE) And as for yours, although he is the greatest miser imaginable, we shall find it easier still; for you know that he is not blessed with too much intellect, and I look upon him as a man who will believe anything. This cannot offend you; there is not a suspicion of a resemblance between him and you; and you know what the world thinks, that he is your father only in name.

LEA. Gently, Scapin.

SCA. Besides, what does it matter? But, Mr. Octave, I see your father coming. Let us begin by him, since he is the first to cross our path. Vanish both of you; (to OCTAVE) and you, please, tell Silvestre to come quickly, and take his part in the affair.

SCENE VIII.

ARGANTE, SCAPIN.

SCA. (ASIDE). HERE he is, turning it over in his mind.

ARG. (thinking himself alone). Such behaviour and such lack of consideration! To entangle himself in an engagement like that! Ah! rash youth.

SCA. Your servant, Sir.

ARG. Good morning, Scapin.

SCA. You are thinking of your son’s conduct.

ARG. Yes, I acknowledge that it grieves me deeply.

SCA. Ah! Sir, life is full of troubles; and we should always be prepared for them. I was told, a long time ago, the saying of an ancient philosopher which I have never forgotten.

ARG. What was it?

SCA. That if the father of a family has been away from home for ever so short a time, he ought to dwell upon all the sad news that may greet him on his return. He ought to fancy his house burnt down, his money stolen, his wife dead, his son married, his daughter ruined; and be very thankful for whatever falls short of all this. In my small way of philosophy, I have ever taken this lesson to heart; and I never come home but I expect to have to bear with the anger of my masters, their scoldings, insults, kicks, blows, and horse-whipping. And I always thank my destiny for whatever I do not receive.

ARG. That’s all very well; but this rash marriage is more than I can put up with, and it forces me to break off the match I had intended for my son. I have come from my solicitor’s to see if we can cancel it.

SCA. Well, Sir, if you will take my advice, you will look to some other way of settling this business. You know what a law-suit means in this country, and you’ll find yourself in the midst of a strange bush of thorns.

ARG. I am fully aware that you are quite right; but what else can I do?

SCA. I think I have found something that will answer much better. The sorrow that I felt for you made me rummage in my head to find some means of getting you out of trouble; for I cannot bear to see kind fathers a prey to grief without feeling sad about it, and, besides, I have at all times had the greatest regard for you.

ARG. I am much obliged to you.

SCA. Then you must know that I went to the brother of the young girl whom your son has married. He is one of those fire-eaters, one of those men all sword-thrusts, who speak of nothing but fighting, and who think no more of killing a man than of swallowing a glass of wine. I got him to speak of this marriage; I showed him how easy it would be to have it broken off, because of the violence used towards your son. I spoke to him of your prerogatives as father, and of the weight which your rights, your money, and your friends would have with justice. I managed him so that at last he lent a ready ear to the propositions I made to him of arranging the matter amicably for a sum of money. In short, he will give his consent to the marriage being cancelled, provided you pay him well.

ARG. And how much did he ask?

SCA. Oh! at first things utterly out of the question.

ARG. But what?

SCA. Things utterly extravagant.

ARG. But what?

SCA. He spoke of no less than five or six hundred pistoles.

ARG. Five or six hundred agues to choke him withal. Does he think me a fool?

SCA. Just what I told him. I laughed his proposal to scorn, and made him understand that you were not a man to be duped in that fashion, and of whom anyone can ask five or six hundred pistoles! However, after much talking, this is what we decided upon. “The time is now come,” he said, “when I must go and rejoin the army. I am buying my equipments, and the want of money I am in forces me to listen to what you propose. I must have a horse, and I cannot obtain one at all fit for the service under sixty pistoles.”

ARG. Well, yes; I am willing to give sixty pistoles.

SCA. He must have the harness and pistols, and that will cost very nearly twenty pistoles more.

ARG. Twenty and sixty make eighty.

SCA. Exactly.

ARG. It’s a great deal; still, I consent to that.

SCA. He must also have a horse for his servant, which, we may expect, will cost at least thirty pistoles.

ARG. How, the deuce! Let him go to Jericho. He shall have nothing at all.

SCA. Sir!

ARG. No; he’s an insolent fellow.

SCA. Would you have his servant walk?

ARG. Let him get along as he pleases, and the master too.

SCA. Now, Sir, really don’t go and hesitate for so little. Don’t have recourse to law, I beg of you, but rather give all that is asked of you, and save yourself from the clutches of justice.

ARG. Well, well! I will bring myself to give these thirty pistoles also.

SCA. “I must also have,” he said, “a mule to carry....”

ARG. Let him go to the devil with his mule! This is asking too much. We will go before the judges.

SCA. I beg of you, Sir!

ARG. No, I will not give in.

SCA. Sir, only one small mule.

ARG. No; not even an ass.

SCA. Consider....

ARG. No, I tell you; I prefer going to law.

SCA. Ah! Sir, what are you talking about, and what a resolution you are going to take. Just cast a glance on the ins and outs of justice, look at the number of appeals, of stages of jurisdiction; how many embarrassing procedures; how many ravening wolves through whose claws you will have to pass; serjeants, solicitors, counsel, registrars, substitutes, recorders, judges and their clerks. There is not one of these who, for the merest trifle, couldn’t knock over the best case in the world. A serjeant will issue false writs without your knowing anything of it. Your solicitor will act in concert with your adversary, and sell you for ready money. Your counsel, bribed in the same way, will be nowhere to be found when your case comes on, or else will bring forward arguments which are the merest shooting in the air, and will never come to the point. The registrar will issue writs and decrees against you for contumacy. The recorder’s clerk will make away with some of your papers, or the instructing officer himself will not say what he has seen, and when, by dint of the wariest possible precautions, you have escaped all these traps, you will be amazed that your judges have been set against you either by bigots or by the women they love. Ah! Sir, save yourself from such a hell, if you can. ’Tis damnation in this world to have to go to law; and the mere thought of a lawsuit is quite enough to drive me to the other end of the world.

ARG. How much does he want for the mule?

SCA. For the mule, for his horse and that of his servant, for the harness and pistols, and to pay a little something he owes at the hotel, he asks altogether two hundred pistoles, Sir.

ARG. Two hundred pistoles?

SCA. Yes.

ARG. (walking about angrily). No, no; we will go to law.

SCA. Recollect what you are doing.

ARG. I shall go to law.

SCA. Don’t go and expose yourself to....

ARG. I will go to law.

SCA. But to go to law you need money. You must have money for the summons, you must have money for the rolls, for prosecution, attorney’s introduction, solicitor’s advice, evidence, and his days in court. You must have money for the consultations and pleadings of the counsel, for the right of withdrawing the briefs, and for engrossed copies of the documents. You must have money for the reports of the substitutes, for the court fees  at the conclusion, for registrar’s enrolment, drawing up of deeds, sentences, decrees, rolls, signings, and clerks’ despatches; letting alone all the presents you will have to make. Give this money to the man, and there you are well out of the whole thing.

Épices, “spices,” in ancient times, equalled sweetmeats, and were given to the judge by the side which gained the suit, as a mark of gratitude. These épices had long been changed into a compulsory payment of money when Molière wrote. In Racine’s Plaideurs, act ii. scene vii., Petit Jean takes literally the demand of the judge for épices, and fetches the pepper-box to satisfy him.

ARG. Two hundred pistoles!

SCA. Yes, and you will save by it. I have made a small calculation in my head of all that justice costs, and I find that by giving two hundred pistoles to your man you will have a large margin left — say, at least a hundred and fifty pistoles — without taking into consideration the cares, troubles, and anxieties, which you will spare yourself. For were it only to avoid being before everybody the butt of some facetious counsel, I had rather give three hundred pistoles than go to law. {Footnote: What would Molière have said if he had been living now!}

ARG. I don’t care for that, and I challenge all the lawyers to say anything against me.

SCA. You will do as you please, but in your place I would avoid a lawsuit.

ARG. I will never give two hundred pistoles.

SCA. Ah! here is our man.

SCENE IX.

ARGANTE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE,

DRESSED OUT AS a bravo.

SIL. Scapin, show me that Argante who is the father of Octave.

SCA. What for, Sir?

SIL. I have just been told that he wants to go to law with me, and to have my sister’s marriage annulled.

SCA. I don’t know if such is his intention, but he won’t consent to give the two hundred pistoles you asked; he says it’s too much.

SIL. S’death! s’blood! If I can but find him, I’ll make mince-meat of him, were I to be broken alive on the wheel afterwards.

(ARGANTE hides, trembling, behind SCAPIN.)

SCA. Sir, the father of Octave is a brave man, and perhaps he will not be afraid of you.

SIL. Ah! will he not? S’blood! s’death! If he were here, I would in a moment run my sword through his body. (Seeing ARGANTE.) Who is that man?

SCA. He’s not the man, Sir; he’s not the man.

SIL. Is he one of his friends?

SCA. No, Sir; on the contrary, he’s his greatest enemy.

SIL. His greatest enemy?

SCA. Yes.

SIL. Ah! zounds! I am delighted at it. (To ARGANTE) You are an enemy of that scoundrel Argante, are you?

SCA. Yes, yes; I assure you that it is so.

SIL. (shaking ARGANTE’S hand roughly). Shake hands, shake hands. I give you my word, I swear upon my honour, by the sword I wear, by all the oaths I can take, that, before the day is over, I shall have delivered you of that rascally knave, of that scoundrel Argante. Trust me.

SCA. But, Sir, violent deeds are not allowed in this country.

SIL. I don’t care, and I have nothing to lose.

SCA. He will certainly take his precautions; he has relations, friends, servants, who will take his part against you.

SIL. Blood and thunder! It is all I ask, all I ask. (Drawing his sword.) Ah! s’death! ah! s’blood! Why can I not meet him at this very moment, with all these relations and friends of his? If he would only appear before me, surrounded by a score of them! Why do they not fall upon me, arms in hand? (Standing upon his guard.) What! you villains! you dare to attack me? Now, s’death! Kill and slay! (He lunges out on all sides; as if he were fighting many people at once.) No quarter; lay on. Thrust. Firm. Again. Eye and foot. Ah! knaves! ah! rascals! ah! you shall have a taste of it. I’ll give you your fill. Come on, you rabble! come on. That’s what you want, you there. You shall have your fill of it, I say. Stick to it, you brutes; stick to it. Now, then, parry; now, then, you. (Turning towards ARGANTE and SCAPIN.) Parry this; parry. You draw back? Stand firm, man! S’death! What! Never flinch, I say.

SCA. Sir, we have nothing to do with it.

SIL. That will teach you to trifle with me.

SCENE X.

ARGANTE, SCAPIN.

SCA. WELL, SIR, you see how many people are killed for two hundred pistoles. Now I wish you a good morning.

ARG. (all trembling). Scapin.

SCA. What do you say?

ARG. I will give the two hundred pistoles.

SCA. I am very glad of it, for your sake.

ARG. Let us go to him; I have them with me.

SCA. Better give them to me. You must not, for your honour, appear in this business, now that you have passed for another; and, besides, I should be afraid that he would ask you for more, if he knew who you are.

ARG. True; still I should be glad to see to whom I give my money.

SCA. Do you mistrust me then?

ARG. Oh no; but....

SCA. Zounds! Sir; either I am a thief or an honest man; one or the other. Do you think I would deceive you, and that in all this I have any other interest at heart than yours and that of my master, whom you want to take into your family? If I have not all your confidence, I will have no more to do with all this, and you can look out for somebody else to get you out of the mess.

ARG. Here then.

SCA. No, Sir; do not trust your money to me. I would rather you trusted another with your message.

ARG. Ah me! here, take it.

SCA. No, no, I tell you; do not trust me. Who knows if I do not want to steal your money from you?

ARG. Take it, I tell you, and don’t force me to ask you again. However, mind you have an acknowledgment from him.

SCA. Trust me; he hasn’t to do with an idiot.

ARG. I will go home and wait for you.

SCA. I shall be sure to go. (Alone.) That one’s all right; now for the other. Ah! here he is. They are sent one after the other to fall into my net.

SCENE XI.

GÉRONTE, SCAPIN.

SCA. (AFFECTING NOT to see GÉRONTE). O Heaven! O unforeseen misfortune! O unfortunate father! Poor Géronte, what will you do?

GER. (aside). What is he saying there with that doleful face?

SCA. Can no one tell me whereto find Mr. Géronte?

GER. What is the matter, Scapin?

SCA. (running about on the stage, and still affecting not to see or hear GÉRONTE). Where could I meet him, to tell him of this misfortune?

GER. (stopping SCAPIN). What is the matter?

SCA. (as before). In vain I run everywhere to meet him. I cannot find him.

GER. Here I am.

SCA. (as before). He must have hidden himself in some place which nobody can guess.

GER. (stopping SCAPIN again). Ho! I say, are you blind? Can’t you see me?

SCA. Ah! Sir, it is impossible to find you.

GER. I have been near you for the last half-hour. What is it all about?

SCA. Sir....

GER. Well!

SCA. Your son, Sir....

GER. Well! My son....

SCA. Has met with the strangest misfortune you ever heard of.

GER. What is it?

SCA. This afternoon I found him looking very sad about something which you had said to him, and in which you had very improperly mixed my name. While trying: to dissipate his sorrow, we went and walked about in the harbour. There, among other things, was to be seen a Turkish galley. A young Turk, with a gentlemanly look about him, invited us to go in, and held out his hand to us. We went in. He was most civil to us; gave us some lunch, with the most excellent fruit and the best wine you have ever seen.

GER. What is there so sad about all this?

SCA. Wait a little; it is coming. Whilst we were eating, the galley left the harbour, and when in the open sea, the Turk made me go down into a boat, and sent me to tell you that unless you sent by me five hundred crowns, he would take your son prisoner to Algiers.

GER. What! five hundred crowns!

SCA. Yes, Sir; and, moreover, he only gave me two hours to find them in.

GER. Ah! the scoundrel of a Turk to murder me in that fashion!

SCA. It is for you, Sir, to see quickly about the means of saving from slavery a son whom you love so tenderly.

GER. What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for? {Footnote: Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère? This sentence has become established in the language with the meaning, “Whatever business had he there?”}

SCA. He had no idea of what would happen.

GER. Go, Scapin, go quickly, and tell that Turk that I shall send the police after him.

SCA. The police in the open sea! Are you joking?

GER. What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

SCA. A cruel destiny will sometimes lead people.

GER. Listen, Scapin; you must act in this the part of a faithful servant.

SCA. How, Sir?

GER. You must go and tell that Turk that he must send me back my son, and that you will take his place until I have found the sum he asks.

SCA. Ah! Sir; do you know what you are saying? and do you fancy that that Turk will be foolish enough to receive a poor wretch like me in your son’s stead?

GER. What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

SCA. He could not foresee his misfortune. However, Sir, remember that he has given me only two hours.

GER. You say that he asks....

SCA. Five hundred crowns.

GER. Five hundred crowns! Has he no conscience?

SCA. Ah! ah! Conscience in a Turk!

GER. Does he understand what five hundred crowns are?

SCA. Yes, Sir, he knows that five hundred crowns are one thousand five hundred francs. {Footnote: The écu stands usually for petit écu, which equalled three franks. “Crown,” employed in a general sense, seems the only translation possible.}

GER. Does the scoundrel think that one thousand five hundred francs are to be found in the gutter?

SCA. Such people will never listen to reason.

GER. But what the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

SCA. Ah! what a waste of words! Leave the galley alone; remember that time presses, and that you are running the risk of losing your son for ever. Alas! my poor master, perhaps I shall never see you again, and that at this very moment, whilst I am speaking to you, they are taking you away to make a slave of you in Algiers! But Heaven is my witness that I did all I could, and that, if you are not brought back, it is all owing to the want of love of your father.

GER. Wait a minute, Scapin; I will go and fetch that sum of money.

SCA. Be quick, then, for I am afraid of not being in time.

GER. You said four hundred crowns; did you not?

SCA. No, five hundred crowns.

GER. Five hundred crowns!

SCA. Yes.

GER. What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

SCA. Quite right, but be quick.

GER. Could he not have chosen another walk?

SCA. It is true; but act promptly.

GER. Cursed galley!

SCA. (aside) That galley sticks in his throat.

GER. Here, Scapin; I had forgotten that I have just received this sum in gold, and I had no idea it would so soon be wrenched from me. (Taking his purse out of his pocket, and making as if he were giving it to SCAPIN.) But mind you tell that Turk that he is a scoundrel.

SCA. (holding out his hand). Yes.

GER. (as above). An infamous wretch.

SCA. (still holding out his hand). Yes.

GER. (as above). A man without conscience, a thief.

SCA. Leave that to me.

GER. (as above). That....

SCA. All right.

GER. (as above). And that, if ever I catch him, he will pay for it.

SCA. Yes.

GER. (putting back the purse in his pocket). Go, go quickly, and fetch my son.

SCA. (running after him). Hallo! Sir.

GER. Well?

SCA. And the money?

GER. Did I not give it to you?

SCA. No, indeed, you put it back in pour pocket.

GER. Ah! it is grief which troubles my mind.

SCA. So I see.

GER. What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for? Ah! cursed galley! Scoundrel of a Turk! May the devil take you!

SCAPIN (alone). He can’t get over the five hundred crowns I wrench from him; but he has not yet done with me, and I will make him pay in a different money his imposture about me to his son.

SCENE XII.-OCTAVE, LÉANDRE, SCAPIN.

OCT. WELL, SCAPIN, have your plans been successful?

LEA. Have you done anything towards alleviating my sorrow?

SCA. (to OCTAVE). Here are two hundred pistoles I have got from your father.

OCT. Ah! how happy you make me.

SCA. (to LÉANDRE), But I could do nothing for you.

LEA. (going away). Then I must die, Sir, for I could not live without Zerbinette.

SCA. Hallo! stop, stop; my goodness, how quick you are!

LEA. What can become of me?

SCA. There, there, I have all you want.

LEA. Ah! you bring me back to life again.

SCA. But I give it you only on one condition, which is that you will allow me to revenge myself a little on your father for the trick he has played me.

LEA. You may do as you please.

SCA. You promise it to me before witnesses?

LEA. Yes.

SCA. There, take these five hundred crowns.

LEA. Ah! I will go at once and buy her whom I adore.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

ZERBINETTE, HYACINTHA, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.

SIL. YES; YOUR lovers have decided that you should be together, and we are acting according to their orders.

HYA. (to ZERBINETTE). Such an order has nothing in it but what is pleasant to me. I receive such a companion with joy, and it will not be my fault if the friendship which exists between those we love does not exist also between us two.

ZER. I accept the offer, and I am not one to draw back when friendship is asked of me.

SCA. And when it is love that is asked of you?

ZER. Ah! love is a different thing. One runs more risk, and I feel less determined.

SCA. You are determined enough against my master, and yet what he has just done for you ought to give you confidence enough to respond to his love as you should.

ZER. As yet I only half trust him, and what he has just done is not sufficient to reassure me. I am of a happy disposition, and am very fond of fun, it is true. But though I laugh, I am serious about many things; and your master will find himself deceived if he thinks that it is sufficient for him to have bought me, for me to be altogether his. He will have to give something else besides money, and for me to answer to his love as he wishes me, he must give me his word, with an accompaniment of certain little ceremonies which are thought indispensable.

SCA. It is so he understands this matter. He only wants you as his wife, and I am not a man to have mixed in this business if he had meant anything else.

ZER. I believe it since you say so; but I foresee certain difficulties with the father.

SCA. We shall find a way of settling that.

HYA. (to ZERBINETTE). The similarity of our fate ought to strengthen the tie of friendship between us. We are both subject to the same fears, both exposed to the same misfortune.

ZER. You have this advantage at least that you know who your parents are, and that, sure of their help, when you wish to make them known, you can secure your happiness by obtaining a consent to the marriage you have contracted. But I, on the contrary, have no such hope to fall back upon, and the position I am in is little calculated to satisfy the wishes of a father whose whole care is money.

HYA. That is true; but you have this in your favour, that the one you love is under no temptation of contracting another marriage.

ZER. A change in a lover’s heart is not what we should fear the most. We may justly rely on our own power to keep the conquest we have made; but what I particularly dread is the power of the fathers; for we cannot expect to see them moved by our merit.

HYA. Alas! Why must the course of true love never run smooth? How sweet it would be to love with no link wanting in those chains which unite two hearts.

SCA. How mistaken you are about this! Security in love forms a very unpleasant calm. Constant happiness becomes wearisome. We want ups and downs in life; and the difficulties which generally beset our path in this world revive us, and increase our sense of pleasure.

ZER. Do tell us, Scapin, all about that stratagem of yours, which, I was told, is so very amusing; and how you managed to get some money out of your old miser. You know that the trouble of telling me something amusing is not lost upon me, and that I well repay those who take that trouble by the pleasure it gives me.

SCA. Silvestre here will do that as well as I. I am nursing in my heart a certain little scheme of revenge which I mean to enjoy thoroughly.

SIL. Why do you recklessly engage in enterprises that may bring you into trouble?

SCA. I delight in dangerous enterprises.

SIL. As I told you already, you would give up the idea you have if you would listen to me.

SCA. I prefer listening to myself.

SIL. Why the deuce do you engage in such a business?

SCA. Why the deuce do you trouble yourself about it?

SIL. It is because I can see that you will without necessity bring a storm of blows upon yourself.

SCA. Ah, well, it will be on my shoulders, and not on yours.

SIL. It is true that you are master of your own shoulders, and at liberty to dispose of them as you please.

SCA. Such dangers never stop me, and I hate those fearful hearts which, by dint of thinking of what may happen, never undertake anything.

ZER. (to SCAPIN). But we shall want you.

SCA. Oh, yes! but I shall soon be with you again. It shall never be said that a man has with impunity put me into a position of betraying myself, and of revealing secrets which it were better should not be known.

SCENE II.

GÉRONTE, SCAPIN.

GER. WELL! SCAPIN, and how have we succeeded about my son’s mischance?

SCA. Your son is safe, Sir; but you now run the greatest danger imaginable, and I sincerely wish you were safe in your house.

GER. How is that?

SCA. While I am speaking to you, there are people who are looking out for you everywhere.

GER. For me?

SCA. Yes.

GER. But who?

SCA. The brother of that young girl whom Octave has married. He thinks that you are trying to break off that match, because you intend to give to your daughter the place she occupies in the heart of Octave; and he has resolved to wreak his vengeance upon you. All his friends, men of the sword like himself, are looking out for you, and are seeking you everywhere. I have met with scores here and there, soldiers of his company, who question every one they meet, and occupy in companies all the thoroughfares leading to your house, so that you cannot go home either to the right or the left without falling into their hands.

GER. What can I do, my dear Scapin?

SCA. I am sure I don’t know, Sir; it is an unpleasant business. I tremble for you from head to foot and.... Wait a moment.

(SCAPIN goes to see in the back of the stage if there is anybody coming.)

GER. (trembling). Well?

SCA. (coming back). No, no; ’tis nothing.

GER. Could you not find out some means of saving me?

SCA. I can indeed think of one, but I should run the risk of a sound beating.

GER. Ah! Scapin, show yourself a devoted servant. Do not forsake me, I pray you.

SCA. I will do what I can. I feel for you a tenderness which renders it impossible for me to leave you without help.

GER. Be sure that I will reward you for it, Scapin, and I promise you this coat of mine when it is a little more worn.

SCA. Wait a minute. I have just thought, at the proper moment, of the very thing to save you. You must get into this sack, and I....

GER. (thinking he sees somebody). Ah!

SCA. No, no, no, no; ’tis nobody. As I was saying, you must get in here, and must be very careful not to stir. I will put you on my shoulders, and carry you like a bundle of something or other. I shall thus be able to take you through your enemies, and see you safe into your house. When there, we will barricade the door and send for help.

GER. A very good idea.

SCA. The best possible. You will see. (Aside) Ah! you shall pay me for that lie.

GER. What?

SCA. I only say that your enemies will be finely caught. Get in right to the bottom, and, above all things, be careful not to show yourself and not to move, whatever may happen.

GER. You may trust me to keep still.

SCA. Hide yourself; here comes one of the bullies! He is looking for you. (Altering his voice.) {Footnote: All the parts within inverted commas are supposed to be spoken by the man Scapin is personating; the rest by himself.} “Vat! I shall not hab de pleasure to kill dis Géronte, and one vill not in sharity show me vere is he?” (To GÉRONTE, in his ordinary tone) Do not stir. “Pardi! I vill find him if he lied in de mittle ob de eart” (To GÉRONTE, in his natural tone) Do not show yourself. “Ho! you man vid a sack!” Sir! “I will give thee a pound if thou vilt tell me where dis Géronte is.” You are looking for Mr. Géronte? “Yes, dat I am.” And on what business, Sir? “For vat pusiness?” Yes. “I vill, pardi! trash him vid one stick to dead.” Oh! Sir, people like him are not thrashed with sticks, and he is not a man to be treated so. “Vat! dis fob of a Géronte, dis prute, dis cat.” Mr. Géronte, Sir, is neither a fop, a brute, nor a cad; and you ought, if you please, to speak differently. “Vat! you speak so mighty vit me?” I am defending, as I ought, an honourable man who is maligned. “Are you one friend of dis Géronte?” Yes, Sir, I am. “Ah, ah! You are one friend of him, dat is goot luck!” (Beating the sack several times with the stick.) “Here is vat I give you for him.” (Calling out as if he received the beating) Ah! ah! ah! ah! Sir. Ah! ah! Sir, gently! Ah! pray. Ah! ah! ah! “Dere, bear him dat from me. Goot-pye.” Ah! the wretch. Ah!...ah!

GER. (looking out). Ah! Scapin, I can bear it no longer.

SCA. Ah! Sir, I am bruised all over, and my shoulders are as sore as can be.

GER. How! It was on mine he laid his stick.

SCA. I beg your pardon, Sir, it was on my back.

GER. What do you mean? I am sure I felt the blows, and feel them still.

SCA. No, I tell you; it was only the end of his stick that reached your shoulders.

GER. You should have gone a little farther back, then, to spare me, and....

SCA. (pushing GÉRONTE’S head back into the sack). Take care, here is another man who looks like a foreigner. “Frient, me run like one Dutchman, and me not fint all de tay dis treatful Géronte.” Hide yourself well. “Tell me, you, Sir gentleman, if you please, know you not vere is dis Géronte, vat me look for?” No, Sir, I do not know where Géronte is. “Tell me, trutful, me not vant much vit him. Only to gife him one tosen plows vid a stick, and two or tree runs vid a swort tro’ his shest.” I assure you, Sir, I do not know where he is. “It seems me I see sometink shake in dat sack.” Excuse me, Sir. “I pe shure dere is sometink or oder in dat sack.” Not at all, Sir. “Me should like to gife one plow of de swort in dat sack.” Ah! Sir, beware, pray you, of doing so. “Put, show me ten vat to be dere?” Gently, Sir. “Why chently?” You have nothing to do with what I am carrying. “And I, put I vill see.” You shall not see. “Ah! vat trifling.” It is some clothes of mine. “Show me tem, I tell you.” I will not. “You vill not?” No. “I make you feel this shtick upon de sholders.” I don’t care. “Ah! you vill poast!” (Striking the sack, and calling out as if he were beaten) Oh! oh! oh! Oh! Sir. Oh! oh! “Goot-bye, dat is one littel lesson teach you to speak so insolent.” Ah! plague the crazy jabberer! Oh!

GER. (looking out of the sack). Ah! all my bones are broken.

SCA. Ah! I am dying.

GER. Why the deuce do they strike on my back?

SCA. (pushing his head back into the bag). Take care; I see half a dozen soldiers coming together. (Imitating the voices of several people.) “Now, we must discover Géronte; let us look everywhere carefully. We must spare no trouble, scour the town, and not forget one single spot Let us search on all sides. Which way shall we go? Let us go that way. No, this. On the left. On the right. No; yes.” (To GÉRONTE in his ordinary voice) Hide yourself well. “Ah! here is his servant. I say, you rascal, you must tell us where your master is. Speak. Be quick. At once. Make haste. Now.” Ah! gentlemen, one moment. (GÉRONTE looks quietly out of the bag, and sees SCAPIN’S trick.) “If you do not tell us at once where your master is, we will shower a rain of blows on your back.” I had rather suffer anything than tell you where my master is. “Very well, we will cudgel you soundly.” Do as you please. “You want to be beaten, then?” I will never betray my master. “Ah! you will have it — there.” Oh!

(As he is going to strike, GÉRONTE gets out of the bag, and SCAPIN runs away.)

GER. (alone). Ah! infamous wretch! ah I rascal! ah! scoundrel! It is thus that you murder me?

SCENE III.

ZERBINETTE, GÉRONTE.

ZER. (LAUGHING, WITHOUT seeing GÉRONTE). Ah, ah! I must really come and breathe a little.

GER. (aside, not seeing ZERBINETTE). Ah! I will make you pay for it.

ZER. (not seeing GÉRONTE). Ah, ah, ah, ah! What an amusing story! What a good dupe that old man is!

GER. This is no matter for laughter; and you have no business to laugh at it.

ZER. Why? What do you mean, Sir?

GER. I mean to say that you ought not to laugh at me.

ZER. Laugh at you?

GER. Yes.

ZER. How! Who is thinking of laughing at you?

GER. Why do you come and laugh in my face?

ZER. This has nothing to do with you. I am only laughing with myself at the remembrance of a story which has just been told me. The most amusing story in the world. I don’t know if it is because I am interested in the matter, but I never heard anything so absurd as the trick that has just been played by a son to his father to get some money out of him.

GER. By a son to his father to get some money out of him?

ZER. Yes; and if you are at all desirous of hearing how it was done, I will tell you the whole affair. I have a natural longing for imparting to others the funny things I know.

GER. Pray, tell me that story.

ZER. Willingly. I shall not risk much by telling it you, for it is an adventure which is not likely to remain secret long. Fate placed me among one of those bands of people who are called gypsies, and who, tramping from province to province, tell you your fortune, and do many other things besides. When we came to this town, I met a young man, who, on seeing me, fell in love with me. From that moment he followed me everywhere; and, like all young men, he imagined that he had but to speak and things would go on as he liked; but he met with a pride which forced him to think twice. He spoke of his love to the people in whose power I was, and found them ready to give me up for a certain sum of money. But the sad part of the business was that my lover found himself exactly in the same condition as most young men of good family, that is, without any money at all. His father, although rich, is the veriest old skinflint and greatest miser you ever heard of. Wait a moment — what is his name? I don’t remember it — can’t you help me? Can’t you name some one in this town who is known to be the most hard-fisted old miser in the place?

GER. No.

ZER. There is in his name some Ron...Ronte... Or...Oronte...No. Gé...Géronte. Yes, Géronte, that’s my miser’s name. I have it now; it is the old churl I mean. Well, to come back to our story. Our people wished to leave this town to-day, and my lover would have lost me through his lack of money if, in order to wrench some out of his father, he had not made use of a clever servant he has. As for that servant’s name, I remember it very well. His name is Scapin. He is a most wonderful man, and deserves the highest praise.

GER. (aside). Ah, the wretch!

ZER. But just listen to the plan he adopted to take in his dupe — ah! ah! ah! ah! I can’t think of it without laughing heartily — ah! ah! ah! He went to that old screw — ah! ah! ah! — and told him that while he was walking about the harbour with his son — ah! ah! — they noticed a Turkish galley; that a young Turk had invited them to come in and see it; that he had given them some lunch — ah! ah! — and that, while they were at table, the galley had gone into the open sea; that the Turk had sent him alone back, with the express order to say to him that, unless he sent him five hundred crowns, he would take his son to be a slave in Algiers — ah, ah, ah! You may imagine our miser, our stingy old curmudgeon, in the greatest anguish, struggling between his love for his son and his love for his money. Those five hundred crowns that are asked of him are five hundred dagger-thrusts — ah! ah! ah! ah! He can’t bring his mind to tear out, as it were, this sum from his heart, and his anguish makes him think of the most ridiculous means to find money for his son’s ransom — ah! ah! ah! He wants to send the police into the open sea after the Turk’s galley — ah! ah! ah! He asks his servant to take the place of his son till he has found the money to pay for him — money he has no intention of giving — ah! ah! ah! He yields up, to make the five hundred crowns, three or four old suits which are not worth thirty — ah! ah! ah! The servant shows him each time how absurd is what he proposes, and each reflection of the old fellow is accompanied by an agonising, “But what the deuce did he want to go in that galley for? Ah! cursed galley. Ah! scoundrel of a Turk!” At last, after many hesitations, after having sighed and groaned for a long time...But it seems to me that my story does not make you laugh; what do you say to it?

GER. What I say? That the young man is a scoundrel — a good-for-nothing fellow — who will be punished by his father for the trick he has played him; that the gypsy girl is a bold, impudent hussy to come and insult a man of honour, who will give her what she deserves for coming here to debauch the sons of good families; and that the servant is an infamous wretch, whom Géronte will take care to have hung before to-morrow is over.

SCENE IV.

ZERBINETTE, SILVESTRE.

SIL. WHERE ARE you running away to? Do you know that the man you were speaking to is your lover’s father?

ZER. I have just begun to suspect that it was so; and I related to him his own story without knowing who he was.

SIL. What do you mean by his story?

ZER. Yes; I was so full of that story that I longed to tell it to somebody. But what does it matter? So much the worse for him. I do not see that things can be made either better or worse.

SIL. You must have been in a great hurry to chatter; and it is indiscretion, indeed, not to keep silent on your own affairs.

ZER. Oh! he would have heard it from somebody else.

SCENE V.

ARGANTE, ZERBINETTE, SILVESTRE.

ARG. (BEHIND THE scenes). Hullo! Silvestre.

SIL. (to ZERBINETTE). Go in there; my master is calling me.

SCENE VI.

ARGANTE, SILVESTRE.

ARG. SO YOU agreed, you rascals; you agreed — Scapin, you, and my son — to cheat me out of my money; and you think that I am going to bear it patiently?

SIL. Upon my word, Sir, if Scapin is deceiving you, it is none of my doing. I assure you that I have nothing whatever to do with it.

ARG. We shall see, you rascal! we shall see; and I am not going to be made a fool of for nothing.

SCENE VII.-GÉRONTE, ARGANTE, SILVESTRE.

GER. AH! MR. Argante, you see me in the greatest trouble.

ARG. And I am in the greatest sorrow.

GER. This rascal, Scapin, has got five hundred crowns out of me.

ARG. Yes, and this same rascal, Scapin, two hundred pistoles out of me.

GER. He was not satisfied with getting those five hundred crowns, but treated me besides in a manner I am ashamed to speak of. But he — shall pay me for it.

ARG. I shall have him punished for the trick he has played me.

GER. And I mean to make an example of him.

SIL. (aside). May Heaven grant that I do not catch my share of all this!

GER. But, Mr. Argante, this is not all; and misfortunes, as you know, never come alone. I was looking forward to the happiness of to-day seeing my daughter, who was everything to me; and I have just heard that she left Tarentum a long while since; and there is every reason to suppose that the ship was wrecked, and that she is lost to me for ever.

ARG. But why did you keep her in Tarentum, instead of enjoying the happiness of having her with you?

GER. I had my reasons for it; some family interests forced me till now to keep my second marriage secret. But what do I see?

SCENE VIII.

ARGANTE, GÉRONTE, NÉRINE, SILVESTRE.

GER. WHAT! YOU here, Nérine?

NER. (on her knees before GÉRONTE). Ah! Mr. Pandolphe, how....

GER. Call me Géronte, and do not use the other name any more. The reasons which forced me to take it at Tarentum exist no longer.

NER. Alas! what sorrow that change of name has caused us; what troubles and difficulties in trying to find you out!

GER. And where are my daughter and her mother?

NER. Your daughter, Sir, is not far from here; but before I go to fetch her, I must ask you to forgive me for having married her, because of the forsaken state we found ourselves in, when we had no longer any hope of meeting you.

GER. My daughter is married?

NER. Yes, Sir.

GER. And to whom?

NER. To a young man, called Octave, the son of a certain Mr. Argante.

GER. O Heaven!

ARG. What an extraordinary coincidence.

GER. Take us quickly where she is.

NER. You have but to come into this house.

GER. Go in first; follow me, follow me, Mr. Argante.

SIL. (alone). Well, this is a strange affair.

SCENE IX.

SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.

SCA. WELL, SILVESTRE, what are our people doing?

SIL. I have two things to tell you. One is that Octave is all right; our Hyacintha is, it seems, the daughter of Géronte, and chance has brought to pass what the wisdom of the fathers had decided. The other, that the old men threaten you with the greatest punishments — particularly Mr. Géronte.

SCA. Oh, that’s nothing. Threats have never done me any harm as yet; they are but clouds which pass away far above our heads.

SIL. You had better take care. The sons may get reconciled to their fathers, and leave you in the lurch.

SCA. Leave that to me. I shall find the means of soothing their anger, and....

SIL. Go away; I see them coming.

SCENE X.

GÉRONTE, ARGANTE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NÉRINE, SILVESTRE.

GER. COME, MY daughter; come to my house. My happiness would be perfect if your mother had been with you.

ARG. Here is Octave coming just at the right time.

SCENE XI.

ARGANTE, GÉRONTE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NÉRINE,

SILVESTRE.

ARG. Come, my son, come and rejoice with us about the happiness of your marriage. Heaven....

OCT. No, father, all your proposals for marriage are useless. I must be open with you, and you have been told how I am engaged.

ARG. Yes; but what you do not know....

OCT. I know all I care to know.

ARG. I mean to say that the daughter of Mr. Géronte....

OCT. The daughter of Mr. Géronte will never be anything to me.

GER. It is she who....

OCT. (to GÉRONTE). You need not go on, Sir; I hope you will forgive me, but I shall abide by my resolution.

SIL. (to OCTAVE). Listen....

OCT. Be silent; I will listen to nothing.

ARG. (to OCTAVE). Your wife....

OCT. No, father, I would rather die than lose my dear Hyacintha (crossing the theatre, and placing himself by HYACINTHA). Yes, all you would do is useless; this is the one to whom my heart is engaged. I will have no other wife.

ARG. Well! she it is whom we give you. What a madcap you are never to listen to anything but your own foolish whim.

HYA. (showing GÉRONTE). Yes, Octave, this is my father whom I have found again, and all our troubles are over.

GER. Let us go home; we shall talk more comfortably at home.

HYA. (showing ZERBINETTE). Ah! father, I beg of you the favour not to part me from this charming young lady. She has noble qualities, which will be sure to make you like her when you know her.

GER. What! do you wish me to take to my house a girl with whom your brother is in love, and who told me to my face so many insulting things?

ZER. Pray forgive me, Sir; I should not have spoken in that way if I had known who you were, and I only knew you by reputation.

GER. By reputation; what do you mean?

HYA. Father, I can answer for it that she is most virtuous, and that the love my brother has for her is pure.

GER. It is all very well. You would try now to persuade me to marry my son to her, a stranger, a street-girl!

SCENE XII.-ARGANTE, GÉRONTE, LÉANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE,

NÉRINE, SILVESTRE.

LEA. My father, you must no longer say that I love a stranger without birth or wealth. Those from whom I bought her have just told me that she belongs to an honest family in this town. They stole her away when she was four years old, and here is a bracelet which they gave me, and which will help me to discover her family.

ARG. Ah! To judge by this bracelet, this is my daughter whom I lost when she was four years old.

GER. Your daughter?

ARG. Yes, I see she is my daughter. I know all her features again. My dear child!

GER. Oh! what wonderful events!

SCENE XIII.

ARGANTE, GÉRONTE, LÉANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA,

ZERBINETTE, NÉRINE, SILVESTRE, CARLE.

CAR. Ah! gentlemen, a most sad accident has just taken place.

GER. What is it?

CAR. Poor Scapin....

GER. Is a rascal whom I shall see hung.

CAR. Alas! Sir, you will not have that trouble. As he was passing near a building, a bricklayer’s hammer fell on his head and broke his skull, leaving his brain exposed. He is dying, and he has asked to be brought in here to speak to you before he dies.

SCENE XIV.

ARGANTE, GÉRONTE, LÉANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NÉRINE. SILVESTRE, CARLE, SCAPIN.

SCA. (BROUGHT IN by some men, his head wrapped up, as if he were wounded). Oh, oh! gentlemen, you see me.... Oh! You see me in a sad state. Oh! I would not die without coming to ask forgiveness of all those I may have offended. Oh! Yes, gentlemen, before I give up the ghost, I beseech you to forgive me all I have done amiss, and particularly Mr. Argante and Mr. Géronte. Oh!

ARG. I forgive you; die in peace, Scapin.

SCA. (to GÉRONTE). It is you, Sir, I have offended the most, because of the beating with the cudgel which I....

GER. Leave that alone.

SCA. I feel in dying an inconceivable grief for the beating which I....

GER. Ah me! be silent.

SCA. That unfortunate beating that I gave....

GER. Be silent, I tell you; I forgive you everything.

SCA. Alas! how good you are. But is it really with all your heart that you forgive me the beating which I...?

GER. Yes, yes; don’t mention it. I forgive you everything. You are punished.

SCA. Ah! Sir, how much better I feel for your kind words.

GER. Yes, I forgive you; but on one condition, that you die.

SCA. How! Sir?

GER. I retract my words if you recover.

SCA. Oh! oh! all my pains are coming hack.

ARG. Mr. Géronte, let us forgive him without any condition, for we are all so happy.

GER. Well, be it so.

ARG. Let us go to supper, and talk of our happiness.

SCA. And you, take me to the end of the table; it is there I will await death.

The Countess of Escarbagnas

La Comtesse d’Escarbagnas

Translated by Charles Heron Wall

CONTENTS

THE COUNTESS OF ESCARBAGNAS.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

THE COUNTESS OF ESCARBAGNAS.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

SCENE XV.

SCENE XVI.

SCENE XVII.

SCENE XVIII.

SCENE XIX.

SCENE XX.

SCENE XXI.

SCENE XXII.

The 1682 frontispiece

THE COUNTESS OF ESCARBAGNAS.

‘LA COMTESSE D’ESCARBAGNAS’ was acted before the Court at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, on December 2, 1671, and in the theatre of the Palais Royal on July 8, 1672. It was never printed during Molière’s lifetime, but for the first time only in 1682. It gives us a good picture of the provincial thoughts, manners, and habits of those days.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

The Count, son to the Countess.
The Viscount, in love with Julia.
Mr. Thibaudier, councillor, in love with the Countess.
Mr. Harpin, receiver of taxes, also in love with the Countess.
Mr. Bobinet, tutor to the Count.
Jeannot, servant to Mr. Thibaudier.
Criquet, servant to the Countess.
The Countess of Escarbagnas.
Julia, in love with the Viscount.
Andrée, maid to the Countess.

The scene is at Angoulême.

THE COUNTESS OF ESCARBAGNAS.

SCENE I.

JULIA, THE VISCOUNT.

VISC. WHAT! YOU are here already?

Ju. Yes, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Cléante; it is not right for a lover to be the last to come to the rendezvous.

Visc. I should have been here long ago if there were no importunate people in the world. I was stopped on my way by an old bore of rank, who asked me news of the court, merely to be able himself to detail to me the most absurd things that can well be imagined about it. You know that those great newsmongers are the curse of provincial towns, and that they have no greater anxiety than to spread, everywhere abroad all the tittle-tattle they pick up. This one showed me, to begin with, two large sheets of paper full to the very brim with the greatest imaginable amount of rubbish, which, he says, comes from the safest quarters. Then, as if it were a wonderful thing, he read full length and with great mystery all the stupid jokes in the Dutch Gazette, which he takes for gospel. He thinks that France is being brought to ruin by the pen of that writer, whose fine wit, according to him, is sufficient to defeat armies. After that he raved about the ministry, spoke of all its faults, and I thought he would never have done. If one is to believe him, he knows the secrets of the cabinet better than those who compose it. The policy of the state is an open book to him, and no step is taken without his seeing through it. He shows you the secret machinations of all that takes place, whither the wisdom of our neighbours tends, and controls at his will and pleasure all the affairs of Europe. His knowledge of what goes on extends as far as Africa and Asia, and he is informed of all that; is discussed in the privy council of Prester John.

Ju. You make the best excuse you can, and so arrange it that it may pass off well and be easily received.

Visc. I assure you, dear Julia, that this is the real reason of my being late. But if I wanted to say anything gallant, I could tell you that the rendezvous to which you bring me here might well excuse the sluggishness of which you complain. To compel me to pay my addresses to the lady of this house is certainly reason enough for me to fear being here the first. I ought not to have to bear the misery of it, except when she whom it amuses is present. I avoid finding myself alone with that ridiculous countess with whom you shackle me. In short, as I come only for your sake, I have every reason to stay away until you are here.

Ju. Oh! you will never lack the power of giving a bright colour to your faults. However, if you had come half an hour sooner, we should have enjoyed those few moments. For when I came, I found that the countess was out, and I have no doubt that she is gone all over the town to claim for herself the honour of the comedy you gave me under her name.

Visc. But, pray, when will you put an end to this, and make me buy less dearly the happiness of seeing you?

Ju. When our parents agree, which I scarcely dare hope for. You know as well as I do that the dissensions which exist between our two families deprive us of the possibility of seeing each other anywhere else, and that neither my brothers nor my father are likely to approve of our engagement.

Visc. Yes; but why not profit better by the opportunity which their enmity gives us, and why oblige me to waste, under a ridiculous deception, the moments I pass near you?

Ju. It is the better to hide our love; and, besides, to tell you the truth, this deception you speak of is to me a very amusing comedy, and I hardly think that the one you give me to-day will amuse me as much. Our Countess of Escarbagnas, with her perpetual infatuation for “quality,” is as good a personage as can be put on the stage. The short journey she has made to Paris has brought her back to Angoulême more crazy than ever. The air of the court has given a new charm to her extravagance, and her folly grows and increases every day.

Visc. Yes; but you do not take into consideration that what amuses you drives me to despair; and that one cannot dissimulate long when one is under the sway of love as true as that which I feel for you. It is cruel to think, dear Julia, that this amusement of yours should deprive me of the few moments during which I could speak to you of my love, and last night I wrote on the subject some verses that I cannot help repeating to you, so true is it that the mania of reciting one’s verses is inseparable from the title of a poet:

“Iris, too long thou keepst on torture’s rack
One who obeys thy laws, yet whisp’ring chides
In that thou bidst me boast a joy I lack,
And hush the sorrow that my bosom hides.

Must thy dear eyes, to which I yield my arms,
From my sad sighs draw wanton pleasure still?
Is’t not enough to suffer for thy charms
That I must grieve at thy capricious will?

This double martyrdom a pain affords
Too keen to bear at once; thy deeds, thy words,
Work on my wasting heart a cruel doom,

Love bids it burn; constraint its life doth chill.
If pity soften not thy wayward will,
Love, feigned and real, will lead me to the tomb.”

Ju. I see that you make yourself out much more ill-used than you need; but it is the way with you poets to tell falsehoods in cold blood, and to pretend that those you love are much more cruel than they are, in order to make them correspond to the fancies you may take into your heads. Yet, I should like you, if you will, to give me those verses in writing.

Visc. No, it is enough that I have repeated them to you, and I ought to stop there. A man may be foolish enough to make verses, but that is different from giving them to others.

Ju. It is in vain for you to affect a false modesty; your wit is well known, and I do not see why you should hide what you write.

Visc. Ah! we must tread here with the greatest circumspection. It is a dangerous thing to set up for a wit. There is inherent to it a certain touch of absurdity which is catching, and we should be warned by the example of some of our friends.

Ju. Nonsense, Cléante; I see that, in spite of all you say, you are longing to give me your verses; and I feel sure that you would be very unhappy if I pretended not to care for them.

Visc. I unhappy? Oh! dear no, I am not so much of a poet for you to think that I … but here is the Countess of Escarbagnas; I’ll go by this door, so as not to meet her, and will see that everything is got ready for the play I have promised you.

SCENE II.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA; ANDRÉE and CRIQUET in the background.

COUN. WHAT, MADAM, are you alone? Ah! what a shame! All alone! I thought my people had told me that the Viscount was here.

Ju. It is true that he came, but it was sufficient for him to know that you were not at home; he would not stop after that.

Coun. What! did he see you?

Ju. Yes.

Coun. And did he not stop to talk with you?

Ju. No, Madam; he wished to show you how very much he is struck by your charms.

Coun. Still, I shall call him to account for that. However much any one may be in love with me, I wish them to pay to our sex the homage that is due to it. I am not one of those unjust women who approve of the rudeness their lovers display towards other fair ones.

Ju. You must in no way be surprised at his conduct. The love he has for you shows itself in all his actions, and prevents him from caring for anybody but you.

Coun. I know that I can give rise to a strong passion; I have for that enough of beauty, youth, and rank, thank Heaven; but it is no reason why those who love me should not keep within the bounds of propriety towards others. (Seeing CRIQUET.) What are you doing there, little page? is there not an ante-room for you to be in until you are called? It is a strange thing that in the provinces we cannot meet with a servant who knows his place! To whom do you think I am speaking? Why do you not move? Will you go outside, little knave that you are!

SCENE III.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA, ANDRÉE.

COUN. COME HITHER, girl.

And. What do you wish me to do, Ma’am?

Coun. To take off my head-dress. Gently, you awkward girl: how roughly you touch my head with your heavy hands!

And. I do it as gently as I can, Ma’am.

Coun. No doubt; but what you call gently is very rough treatment for my head. You have almost put my neck out of joint. Now, take also this muff; go and put it with the rest into the closet; don’t leave anything about. Well! where is she going to now? What is the stupid girl doing?

And. I am going to take this into the closet, as you told me, Ma’am.

Coun. Ah! heavens! (To JULIA) Pray, excuse her rudeness, Madam. (To ANDRÉE) I told you my closet, great ass; that is the place where I keep my dresses.

And. Please, Ma’am, is a cupboard called a closet at court?

Coun. Yes, dunce; it is thus that a place where clothes are kept is called.

And. I will remember it, Ma’am, as well as the word furniture warehouse for your attic.

SCENE IV.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA.

COUN. WHAT TROUBLE it gives me to have to teach such simpletons.

Ju. I think them very fortunate to be under your discipline, Madam.

Coun. She is my nurse’s daughter, whom I have made lady’s-maid; the post is quite new to her, as yet.

Ju. It shows a generous soul, Madam, and it is glorious thus to form people.

Coun. Come, some seats, I say! Here, little page! little page! little page-boy! Truly, this is too bad not to have a page to give us chairs! My maids! my page! my page! my maids! Ho! somebody! I really think that they must be all dead, and that we shall have to find seats for ourselves.

SCENE V.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA, ANDRÉE.

AND. WHAT IS it you want, Ma’am?

Coun. You do make people scream after you, you servants!

And. I was putting your muff and head-dress away in the cup … in the closet, I mean.

Coun.Call in that rascal of a page.

And. I say, Criquet!

Coun. Cease that “Criquet” of yours, stupid, and call out “Page.”

And. Page then, and not Criquet, come and speak to missis. I think he must be deaf. Criq…. Page! page!

SCENE VI.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA, ANDRÉE, CRIQUET.

CRI. WHAT IS it you want?

Coun. Where were you, you rascal?

Cri. In the street, Ma’am.

Coun. Why in the street?

Cri. You told me to go outside.

Coun. You are a rude little fellow, and you ought to know that outside among people of quality, means the ante-room. Andrée, mind you ask my equerry to flog this little rogue. He is an incorrigible little wretch.

And. Whom do you mean by your equerry, Ma’am? Is it Mr. Charles you call by that name?

Coun. Be silent, impertinent girl! You can hardly open your month without making some rude remark. (To CRIQUET) Quick, some seats; (to ANDRÉE) and you, light two wax candles in my silver candlesticks; it is getting late. What is it now? why do you look so scared?

And. Ma’am.

Coun. Well — Ma’am — what is the matter?

And. It is that …

Coun. What?

And. I have no wax candles, but only dips.

Coun. The simpleton! And where are the wax candles I bought a few days ago?

And. I have seen none since I have been here.

Coun. Get out from my presence, rude girl. I will send you back to your home again. Bring me a glass of water.

SCENE VII.

THE COUNTESS and JULIA (making much ceremony before they sit down).

COUN. MADAM!

Ju. MADAM!

Coun. Ah! Madam!

Ju. Ah! Madam!

Coun. Madam, I beg of you!

Ju. Madam, I beg of you!

Coun. Oh! Madam!

Ju. Oh! Madam!

Coun. Pray, Madam!

Ju. Pray, Madam!

Coun. Now really, Madam!

Ju. Now really, Madam!

Coun. I am in my own house, Madam! We are agreed as to that. Do you take me for a provincial, Madam?

Ju. Oh! Heaven forbid, Madam!

SCENE VIII.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA, ANDRÉE (who brings a glass of water), CRIQUET.

COUN. (TO ANDRÉE). Get along with you, you hussy. I drink with a salver. I tell you that you must go and fetch me a salver.

And. Criquet, what’s a salver?

Cri. A salver?

And. Yes.

Cri. I don’t know.

Coun. (to ANDRÉE). Will you move, or will you not?

And. We don’t either of us know what a salver is.

Coun. Know, then, that it is a plate on which you put the glass.

SCENE IX.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA.

COUN. LONG LIVE Paris! It is only there that one is well waited upon; there a glance is enough.

SCENE X.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA, ANDRÉE (who brings a glass of water, with a plate on the top of it), CRIQUET.

COUN. IS THAT what I asked you for, dunderhead? It is under that you must put the plate.

And. That is easy to do. (She breaks the glass in trying to put it on the plate.)

Coun. You stupid girl! You shall really pay for the glass; you shall, I promise you!

And. Very well, Ma’am, I will pay you for it.

Coun. But did you ever see such an awkward loutish girl? such a …

And. I say, Ma’am, if I am to pay for the glass, I won’t be scolded into the bargain.

Coun. Get out of my sight.

SCENE XI.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA.

COUN. REALLY, MADAM, small towns are strange places. In them there is no respect of persons, and I have just been making a few calls at houses where they drove me almost to despair; so little regard did they pay to my rank.

Ju. Where could you expect them to have learnt manners? They have never been to Paris.

Coun. Still, they might learn, if they would only listen to one; but what I think too bad is that they will persist in saying that they know as much as I do — I who have spent two months in Paris, and have seen the whole court.

Ju. What absurd people!

Coun. They are unbearable in the impertinent equality with which they treat people. For, in short, there ought to be a certain subordination in things; and what puts me out of all patience is that a town upstart, whether with two days’ gentility to boast of or with two hundred years’, should have impudence enough to say that he is as much of a gentleman as my late husband, who lived in the country, kept a pack of hounds, and took the title of Count in all the deeds that he signed.

Ju. They know better how to live in Paris, in those large hotels you must remember with such pleasure! That Hotel of Mouchy, Madam; that Hotel of Lyons, that Hotel of Holland, what charming places to live in!

Coun. It is true that those places are very different from what we have here. You see there people of quality who do not hesitate to show you all the respect and consideration which you look for. One is not under the obligation of rising from one’s seat, and if one wants to see a review or the great ballet of Psyche, your wishes are at once attended to.

Ju. I should think, Madam, that during your stay in Paris you made many a conquest among the people of quality.

Coun. You can readily believe, Madam, that of all the famous court gallants not one failed to come to my door and pay his respects to me. I keep in my casket some of the letters sent me, and can prove by them what offers I have refused. There is no need for me to tell you their names; you know what is meant by court gallants.

Ju. I wonder, Madam, how, after all those great names, which I can easily guess, you can descend to Mr. Thibaudier, a councillor, and Mr. Harpin, a collector of taxes? The fall is great, I must say. For your viscount, although nothing but a country viscount, is still a viscount, and can take a journey to Paris if he has not been there already. But a councillor and a tax-gatherer are but poor lovers for a great countess like you.

Coun. They are men whom one treats kindly in the country, in order to make use of when the need arises. They serve to fill up the gaps of gallantry, and to swell the ranks of one’s lovers. It is a good thing not to leave a lover the sole master of one’s heart, lest, for want of rivals, his love go to sleep through over-confidence.

Ju. I confess, Madam, that no one can help profiting wonderfully by all you say. Your conversation is a school, to which I do not fail to come every day in order to learn something new.

SCENE XII.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA, ANDRÉE, CRIQUET.

CRI. (TO THE COUNTESS). Here is Jeannot, Mr. Thibaudier’s man, who wants to see you, Ma’am.

Coun. Ah! you little wretch, this is another of your stupidities. A well-bred lackey would have spoken in a whisper to the gentlewoman in attendance; the latter would have come to her mistress and have whispered in her ear: “Here is the footman of Mr. So-and-so, who wants to speak to you, Madam.” To which the mistress would have answered, “Show him in.”

SCENE XIII.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA, ANDRÉE, CRIQUET, JEANNOT.

CRI. COME ALONG in, Jeannot.

Coun. Another blunder. (To JEANNOT) What do you want, page? What have you there?

Jean. It is Mr. Thibaudier, Ma’am, who wishes you good morning, and, before he comes, sends you some pears out of his garden, with this small note.

SCENE XIV.

THE COUNTESS, CRIQUET, JEANNOT.

COUN. (GIVING SOME money to JEANNOT). Here, my boy; here is something for your trouble.

Jean. Oh no, thank you, Ma’am.

Coun. Take it, I say.

Jean. My master told me not take anything from you Ma’am.

Coun. Never mind, take it all the same.

Jean. Excuse me, Ma’am.

Cri. Take it, Jeannot. If you don’t want it, you can give it me.

Coun. Tell your master that I thank him.

Cri. (to JEANNOT, who is going). Give it to me, Jeannot.

Jea. Yes, you catch me.

Cri. It was I who made you take it.

Jea. I should have taken it without your help.

Coun. What pleases me in this Mr. Thibaudier is that he knows how to behave with people of my quality, and that he is very respectful.

SCENE XV.

THE VISCOUNT, THE COUNTESS, JULIA, CRIQUET.

VISC. I COME to tell you, Madam, that the theatricals will soon be ready, and that we can go into the hall in a quarter of an hour.

Coun. Mind, I will have no crowd after me. (To CRIQUET) Tell the porter not to let anybody come in.

Visc. If so, Madam, I give up our theatricals. I could take no interest in them unless the spectators are numerous. Believe me, if you want to enjoy it thoroughly, tell your people to let the whole town in.

Coun. Page, a seat. (To the VISCOUNT, after he is seated) You have come just in time to accept a self-sacrifice I am willing to make to you. Look, I have here a note from Mr. Thibaudier, who sends me some pears. I give you leave to read it aloud; I have not opened it yet.

Visc. (after he has read the note to himself). This note is written in the most fashionable style, Madam, and is worthy of all your attention. (Reads aloud) “Madam, I could not have made you the present I send you if my garden did not bring me more fruit than my love….”

Coun. You see clearly by this that nothing has taken place between us.

Visc. “The pears are not quite ripe yet, but they will all the better match the hardness of your heart, the continued disdain of which promises me nothing soft and sweet. Allow me, Madam, without risking an enumeration of your charms, which would be endless, to conclude with begging you to consider that I am as good a Christian as the pears which I send you, for I render good for evil; which is to say, to explain myself more plainly, that I present you with good Christian pears in return for the choke-pears which your cruelty makes me swallow every day.
Your unworthy slave,
THIBAUDIER.”
Madam, this letter is worth keeping.

Coun. There may be a few words in it that are not of the Academy, but I observe in it a certain respect which pleases me greatly.

Ju. You are right, Madam, and even if the viscount were to take it amiss, I should love a man who would write so to me.

SCENE XVI.

MR. THIBAUDIER, THE VISCOUNT, THE COUNTESS, JULIA, CRIQUET.

COUN. COME HERE, Mr. Thibaudier; do not be afraid of coming in. Your note was well received, and so were your pears; and there is a lady here who takes your part against your rival.

Thi. I am much obliged to her, Madam, and if ever she has a lawsuit in our court, she may be sure that I shall not forget the honour she does me in making herself the advocate of my flame near your beauty.

Ju. You have no need of an advocate, Sir, and your cause has justice on its side.

Thi. This, nevertheless. Madam, the right has need of help, and I have reason to apprehend the being supplanted by such a rival, and the beguiling of the lady by the rank of the viscount.

Visc. I had hopes before your note came, Sir, but now, I confess fears for my love.

Thi. Here are likewise a few little couplets which I have composed to your honour and glory, Madam.

Visc. Ah! I had no idea that Mr. Thibaudier was a poet; these few little couplets will be my ruin.

Coun. He means two strophes. (To CRIQUET) Page, give a seat to Mr. Thibaudier. (Aside to CRIQUET, who brings a chair) A folding-chair, little animal! Mr. Thibaudier, sit down there, and read your strophes to us.

Thi. (reads).

“A person of quality
Is my fair dame;
 She has got beauty,
Fierce is my flame;
Yet I must blame
 Her pride and cruelty.”

Visc. I am lost after that.

Coun. The first line is excellent: “A person of quality.”

Ju. I think it is a little too long; but a liberty may be taken to express a noble thought.

Coun. (to MR. THIBAUDIER). Let us have the other.

Thi. (reads).

“I know not if you doubt that my love be sincere,
Yet this I know, that my heart every moment
Longs to leave its sorry apartment
 To visit yours, with fond respect and fear.
 After all this, having my love in hand,
 And my honour, of superfine brand,
You ought, in turn, I say,
Content to be a countess gay,
To cast that tigress’ skin away,
Which hides your charms both night and day.”

Visc. I am undone by Mr. Thibaudier.

Coun. Do not make fun of it; for the verses are good although they are country verses.

Visc. I, Madam, make fun of it! Though he is my rival, I think his verses admirable. I do not call them, like you, two strophes merely; but two epigrams, as good as any of Martial’s.

Coun. What! Does Martial make verses? I thought he only made gloves.

Thi. It is not that Martial, Madam, but an author who lived thirty or forty years ago.

Visc. Mr. Thibaudier has read the authors, as you see. But, Madam, we shall see if my comedy, with its interludes and dances, will counteract in your mind the progress which the two strophes have made.

Coun. My son the Count must be one of the spectators, for he came this morning from my country-seat, with his tutor, whom I see here.

SCENE XVII.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA, THE VISCOUNT, MR. THIBAUDIER, MR. BOBINET, CRIQUET.

COUN. MR. BOBINET, I say, Mr. Bobinet, come forward.

Bob. I give the good evening to all this honourable company. What does Madam the Countess of Escarbagnas want of her humble servant Bobinet?

Coun. At what time, Mr. Bobinet, did you leave Escarbagnas with the Count my son?

Bob. At a quarter to nine, my lady, according to your orders.

Coun. How are my two other sons, the Marquis and the Commander?

Bob. They are, Heaven be thanked, in perfect health.

Coun. Where is the Count?

Bob. In your beautiful room, with a recess in it, Madam.

Coun. What is he doing, Mr. Bobinet?

Bob. Madam, he is composing an essay upon one of the epistles of Cicero, which I have just given him as a subject.

Coun. Call him in, Mr. Bobinet.

Bob. Be it according to your command, Madam. (Exit)

SCENE XVIII.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA, THE VISCOUNT, MR. THIBAUDIER.

THI. (TO THE COUNTESS). That Mr. Bobinet, Madam, looks very wise, and I think that he is a man of esprit.

SCENE XIX.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA, THE VISCOUNT, THE COUNT, MR. BOBINET, MR. THIBAUDIER.

BOB. COME, MY Lord, show what progress you make under the good precepts that are given you. Bow to the honourable company.

Coun. (showing JULIA). Come, Count, salute this lady; bow low to the viscount; salute the councillor.

Thi. I am delighted, Madam, that you should grant me the favour of embracing his lordship. One cannot love the trunk without loving the branches.

Coun. Goodness gracious, Mr. Thibaudier, what a comparison to use!

Ju. Really, Madam, his lordship the count has perfect manners.

Visc. This is a young gentleman who is thriving well.

Ju. Who could have believed that your ladyship had so big a child.

Coun. Alas! when he was born, I was so young that I still played with dolls.

Ju. He is your brother and not your son.

Coun. Be very careful of his education, Mr. Bobinet.

Bob. I shall never, Madam, neglect anything towards the cultivation of the young plant which your goodness has entrusted to my care, and I will try to inculcate in him the seeds of all the virtues.

Coun. Mr. Bobinet, just make him recite some choice piece from what you teach him.

Bob. Will your lordship repeat your lesson of yesterday morning?

Coun. Omne viro soli quod convenit esto virile,
Omne viri….

Coun. Fie! Mr. Bobinet; what silly stuff is that you teach him?

Bob. It is Latin, Madam, and the first rule of Jean Despautère.

Coun. Truly, that Jean Despautère is an impudent fellow, and I beg you to teach my son more honest Latin than this is in future.

Bob. If you will allow him to say it all through, Madam, the gloss will explain the meaning.

Coun. There is no need; it explains itself sufficiently.

SCENE XX.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA, THE VISCOUNT, MR THIBAUDIER, THE COUNT, MR. BOBINET, CRIQUET.

CRI. THE ACTORS send me to tell you that they are ready.

Coun. Let us take our seats. (Showing JULIA.) Mr. Thibaudier, take this lady under your care.

CRIQUET places all the chairs on one side of the stage. The COUNTESS, JULIA, and the VISCOUNT sit down, and MR. THIBAUDIER sits down at the COUNTESS’S feet.

Visc. It is important for you to observe that this comedy was made only to unite the different pieces of music and dancing which compose the entertainment, and that …

Coun. Ah! never mind, let us see it; we have enough good sense to understand things.

Visc. Begin then at once, and see that no troublesome intruder comes to disturb our pleasure.

(The violins begin an overture.)

SCENE XXI.

THE COUNTESS, JULIA, THE VISCOUNT, THE COUNT, MR. HARPIN, MR. THIBAUDIER, MR. BOBINET, CRIQUET.

HAR. BY GEORGE! This is fine, and I rejoice to see what I see.

Coun. How! Mr. Receiver, what do you mean by this behaviour? Is it right to come and interrupt a comedy in that fashion?

Har. By Jove, Madam, I am delighted at this adventure, and it shows me what I ought to think of you, and what I ought to believe of the assurances you gave me of the gift of your heart, and likewise of all your oaths of fidelity.

Coun. But, really, one should not come thus in the middle of a play and disturb an actor who is speaking.

Har. Hah! zounds, the real comedy here is the one you are playing, and I care little if I disturb you.

Coun. Really, you do not know what you are saying.

Har. Yes, d —— it, I know perfectly well; and …

MR. BOBINET, frightened, takes up the COUNT, and runs away; CRIQUET follows him.

Coun. Fie, Sir! How wrong it is to swear in that fashion!

Har. Ah! ‘sdeath! If there is anything bad here, it is not my swearing, but your actions; and it would be much better for you to swear by heaven and hell than to do what you do with the viscount.

Visc. I don’t know, Sir, of what you have to complain; and if….

Har. (to the VISCOUNT). I have nothing to say to you, Sir; you do right to push your fortune; that is quite natural; I see nothing strange in it, and I beg your pardon for interrupting your play. But neither can you find it strange that I complain of her proceedings; and we both have a right to do what we are doing.

Visc. I have nothing to say to that, and I do not know what cause of complaint you can have against her ladyship the Countess of Escarbagnas.

Coun. When one suffers from jealousy, one does not give way to such outbursts, but one comes peaceably to complain to the person beloved.

Har. I complain peaceably!

Coun. Yes; one does not come and shout on the stage what should be said in private.

Har. I came purposely to complain on the stage. ‘Sdeath! it is the place that suits me best, and I should be glad if this were a real theatre so that I might expose you more publicly.

Coun. Is there need for such an uproar because the viscount gives a play in my honour? Just look at Mr. Thibaudier, who loves me; he acts more respectfully than you do.

Har. Mr. Thibaudier does as he pleases; I don’t know how far Mr. Thibaudier has got with you, but Mr. Thibaudier is no example for me. I don’t like to pay the piper for other people to dance.

Coun. But, Mr. Receiver, you don’t consider what you are saying. Women of rank are not treated thus, and those who hear you might believe that something strange had taken place between us.

Har. Confound it all, Madam; let us cast aside all this foolery.

Coun. What do you mean by foolery?

Har. I mean that I do not think it strange that you should yield to the viscount’s merit; you are not the first woman in the world who plays such a part, and who has a receiver of taxes of whom the love and purse are betrayed for the first new comer who takes her fancy. But do not think it extraordinary that I do not care to be the dupe of an infidelity so common to coquettes of the period, and that I come before good company to say that I break with you, and that I, the receiver of taxes, will no more be taxed on your account.

Coun. It is really wonderful how angry lovers have become the fashion! We see nothing else anywhere. Come, come, Mr. Receiver, cast aside your anger, and come and take a seat to see the play.

Har. I sit down? s’death! not I! (Showing MR. THIBAUDIER.) Look for a fool at your feet, my lady Countess; I give you up to my lord the viscount, and it is to him that I will send the letters I have received from you. My scene is ended, my part is played. Good night to all!

Thi. We shall meet somewhere else, and I will show you that I am a man of the sword as well as of the pen.

Har. Right, my good Mr. Thibaudier. (Exit.)

Coun. Such insolence confounds me!

Visc. The jealous, Madam, are like those who lose their cause; they have leave to say anything. Let us listen to the play now.

SCENE XXII.

THE COUNTESS, THE VISCOUNT, JULIA, MR. THIBAUDIER, JEANNOT.

JEAN. (TO THE VISCOUNT). Sir, here is a note which I have been asked to give to you immediately.

Visc. (reads). “As you may have some measures to take, I send you notice at once that the quarrel between your family and that of Julia’s has just been settled, and that the condition of this agreement is your marriage with Julia. Good night!” (To JULIA) Truly, Madam, our part is also played.

The VISCOUNT, the COUNTESS, and MR. THIBAUDIER, all rise.

Ju. Ah! Cléante, what happiness is this! Our love could scarcely hope for such a happy end.

Coun. What is it you mean?

Visc. It means, Madam, that I marry Julia; and if you will believe me, in order to make the play complete at all points, you will marry Mr. Thibaudier, and give Andrée to his footman, whom he will make his valet-de-chambre.

Coun. What! you deceive thus a person of my rank!

Visc. No offence to you, Madam, but plays require such things.

Coun. Yes, Mr. Thibaudier, I will marry you to vex everybody.

Thi. You do me too much honour, Madam.

Visc. Allow us, Madam, in spite of our vexation, to see the end of the play.

THE END

The Learned Ladies

Les Femmes savantes

Translated by Henri van Laun

This drama premiered on 11 March 1672 at the Théâtre du Palais-Royal, before it was published at the end of the year. A five-act comedy written in verse, The Learned Ladies proved to be very successful. It debuted less than a year before Molière’s death and was a feature of his last complete theatre season. During its composition, Madeleine Béjart’s health took a turn for the worse and on 17 February, she died. Molière’s wife had been a hugely important figure in his life and her death occurred the same year his third child died, only a month old. His own health was also further declining due to the tuberculosis he contracted years before when he went to prison for debt.

The Learned Ladies is a satire that centres around a young couple, Henriette and Clitandre, who wish to marry, but must first overcome the demand of Philaminte, Henriette’s mother, that she must marry the more ‘learned’ Trissotin. Philaminte, Belise and Armande fawn over the talentless poet Trissotin as they indulge his absurd literary aspirations. They affect an air of erudition and are portrayed by Molière as ridiculously pretentious. Philaminte is depicted as being a poor wife and mother while Armande is manipulative, cold and close-minded and all three are compared unfavourably to Henriette, who is the epitome of good sense and judgement. Molière criticises a type of education for women that distracts them from being able to carry out everyday tasks and perform their domestic duties — the sort of education that deprives them of common sense and taste, undermining marriage and the family.

Madeleine Béjart

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

The original frontispiece, 1682

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

THE COMEDY, THE Learned Ladies, was represented on the nth of March 1672, and performed nineteen times, partly before, and partly after Easter.

In this play, Molière aimed not, as in The Pretentious Young Ladies, at sketching a temporary folly, and affectation of language and manners, but in giving us characters which exist, with certain modifications, in all ages. Philaminte is the woman who rules her home despotically, wishes to be the queen of a literary meeting to be held at her house, and treats her husband and children as inferior beings. But she is strong-minded, and remains unmoved when she thinks that misfortunes overwhelm her.

Bélise, the sister of Chrysale, is of weak intellect, with a very limited amount of brains, and fancies that everybody is in love with her. She is based chiefly upon Hespérie, — a character taken from a comedy by Desmarets, called The Visionaries. Armande, the elder daughter of Philaminte, is jealous, vindictive, and hides her evil thoughts under a pretended Platonism. These three ladies are regular “blue stockings,” whilst Henriette, the younger daughter, is the model of an honest, sensible, and well-brought-up young lady. Chrysale represents the weak-minded man who thinks he is always leading when, in reality, he is only led, afraid of his wife and of quarrels, and giving way to her, whenever she insists. He thinks he is the master because he talks in a loud voice. Ariste, Martine, and the young lover Clitandre, are also very natural. But the two heroes of the play are Trissotin and Vadius, the first a pedant and a wit, the second a pedant and a scholar; the first full of vanity and jealousy, the second full of pride and odium scholasticum; finally, the first anxious for the dowry, and not for the heart, of Henriette, and showing openly his cupidity when he imagines that her parents are ruined.

It is said that Molière wished to put upon the stage the Abbé Cotin and Ménage, in drawing the characters of Trissotin and Vadius. Molière denied the latter delineation, and Ménage himself pretended not to recognize the portrait of Vadius. But as to the Abbé Cotin, no doubt is possible; for die sonnet “On the Ague of the Princess Uranie,” and the madrigal “On the Amarant Coach,” are taken literally from the works of the Abbe, published in 1663. The Abbé was a fertile rhymester of rondeaux, madrigals, riddles, and moreover a fashionable preacher in Paris.

Born in 1604, he became chaplain to the king about 1635, and member of the Academy in 1655. He was the intimate friend of Mademoiselle de Montpensier, who read his riddles to the king and queen, and gravely called himself “The Father of the French riddle.” He attacked the Précieuses, Ménage and Mademoiselle de Scudéry, and thought he had found an ally in Molière. He quarrelled also with Boileau, against whom he wrote a Satire, and who replied by saying that “He who despises Cotin, does not esteem his king, and has according to Cotin, no belief in God, faith, or law.” It is also stated that he had written against Molière; and hence the latters attack upon him. Cotin died, totally forgotten, in 1681.

I have already given my opinion about the bringing upon the stage of living personages. Let me, however, state that only the ridiculous side of Cotin’s character appears to have been portrayed by Molière, but that no one ever applied to the Abbé, the villainous traits of Tarissotin.

Several English Dramatists appear to have borrowed from this play of Molière.

Thomas Wright, in The Female Virtuosoes, performed at the Theatre Royal in 1693, has imitated partly Molière’s Learned Ladies. In the English comedy, the characters of Sir Maurice Meanwell, Mr. Mean well, Clerimont, Lady Meanwell, Mrs. Lovewitt, and Catchat, correspond to those of Chrysale, Ariste, Clitandre, Philaminte, Armande, Henriette, and Bélise in the French comedy, whilst Sir Maggot Jingle is Trissotin.

Lady Meanwell designs however Marianna to marry witless, an entirely new character, not to be found in the original play. The Female Virtuesoes was revived at the theatre, Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields, January 10, 1721, as No Fools like Wits in order to anticipate Cibbers Refusal. On the 14th of February 1721, was performed at the theatre Drury Lane, Cibber’s Refusal, or The Ladies’ Philosophy, which is chiefly taken from Molière’s Learned Ladies. Sir Gilbert Wrangle (Chrysale), becomes a South Sea director, and part of the plot depends on the infatuation of the South Sea scheme. The other characters are like Molière’s. This piece ran for no more than six nights.

John Miller, in the Man of Taste (see Introductory Notice to The Pretentious Young Ladies, Vol. I.,) which was acted at Drury Lane, March 6th, 1735, has borrowed from Molière’s Learned Ladies the characters of Sir Humphrey and Lady Henpeck; Ariste becomes Freelove, and Clitandre is changed into Harcourt. At the end of Act IV., Miller has somewhat freely imitated the second and third scenes of the act of Molière’s play; and then Freelove takes the part of Martin, the servant. The ending is also different in the English and French Comedies.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

CHRYSALE, A CITIZEN.

ARISTE, his brother.

CLITANDRE, Henriette’s lover.

TRISSOTIN, a wit.

VADIUS, a savant.

LEPINE, a lacquey.

JULIEN, Vadius’ servant.

A NOTARY.

PHILAMINTE, Chrysale’s wife.

ARMANDE - daughter of Phrysale and of Philaminte.

HENRIETTE - daughter of Phrysale and of Philaminte.

BELISE, Chrysale’S sister.

MARTINE, a kitchen maid.

Scene. — PARIS, IN CHRYSALE’S HOUSE.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

ARMANDE, HENRIETTE.

AR. WHAT! THE lovely name of maid is a title, sister, of which you wish to abandon the sweet charm? And you dare enjoy the thought of getting married? Can such a vulgar design have entered your head?

Hen. Yes, sister.

Ar. Ah! is that yes to be borne? And can it be heard without a heart-ache?

Hen. What can there be in marriage to constrain you, sister...?
AR. Ah! good Heavens! fie!

Hen. How?

Ar. Fie! I tell you. Can you not conceive the disgust that such a word inspires, the moment it is heard; with what a strange image one is shocked, on what filthy prospects it leads the thought? Do not you shudder at it, and can you, sister, bring your heart to contemplate the consequences of this word?

Hen. The consequences of this word, when I contemplate them, show me a husband, children, a household; and I see nothing there, to talk rationally, which shocks my imagination and makes me shudder.

Ar. Oh Heavens! have such ties aught in them to please you?

Hen. And can one do aught better, at my age, than to attach to one’s self, by the title of husband, a man who loves you, and is by you beloved; and procure from a union, dictated by tenderness, the sweets of an innocent life? Has such a well-suited tie no charms?

Ar. Good Heavens! what a grovelling mind is yours!
What a mean part to play in the world, to imprison yourself within a household, and to get no glimpse of more exciting pleasures than an idolized husband and brats of children!
Leave the low pleasures of such things to coarse people, and vulgar persons. To higher objects raise your desires, endeavour to have a taste for more noble pleasures, and treating with contempt the senses and matter, abandon yourself entirely to the mind, as we do. You have our mother as an example before you, who is honoured and called everywhere a learned woman; try, as I do, to prove yourself her daughter. Aspire to the knowledge which is in the family, and feel the sweet charms which the love of study instils into peoples hearts. Far from being a submissive slave to the laws of men, wed yourself to Philosophy, sister, which elevates us above the whole human race, and invests reason with sovereign sway, subjecting to her laws the animal part, of which the gross appetite places us on a level with brutes.
These are the beautiful desires, the sweet ties, which ought to fill up the moments of our lives; and the anxieties in which I see so many women delight appear to my eyes the most horrible meanness.

Hen. Heaven, whose commands we see to be all-powerful, fits us at our birth for different functions; and every mind is not composed of the stuff cut out to make a philosopher.
If yours is apt to soar to the heights of learned speculations, mine, sister, is formed to creep, and to small concerns its weakness confines itself. Let us not disturb the righteous arrangements of Heaven; and let us each follow the promptings of our instincts. Dwell, through the flight of a grand and beautiful genius, in the lofty regions of philosophy, while my mind, remaining here below, shall taste the earthly bliss of wedlock. Thus, differing in our manner of living, we shall both imitate our mother: you, as regards the soul and noble aspirations; I, as regards the senses and the grosser pleasures; you, in the productions of mind and knowledge; I, sister, in those which are material.

Ar. If we pretend to model ourselves upon another person, we should resemble her in her finest parts, and only to cough and spit like her is not at all taking her, sister, for a model.

Hen. But you would not be what you boast yourself to be, if my mother had possessed only those finer parts; and it is well for you, sister, that her noble genius has not always dwelt upon philosophy. Pray, grant me, with some kindness, the meanness to which you owe your being; and, by wishing that I should imitate you, do not suppress some little savant who may wish to come into the world.

Ar. I perceive that your mind cannot be cured of the foolish infatuation of getting a husband: but let us know, if it pleases you, whom you mean to take: you surely do not intend to take Clitandre?

Hen. And why should it not be so? Is he devoid of merit? Is the choice mean?

Ar. No; but it is a dishonest design to endeavour to take away another’s conquest; and it is not a fact unknown to the world, that Clitandre has openly sighed after me.

Hen. Yes; but all these sighs are in vain with you, and you do not descend to human weakness; your mind has for ever renounced marriage, and philosophy has all your affection. Therefore, not having any design upon Clitandre, what matters it to you if some one else pretend to him?

Ar. This empire which reason holds over the senses does not make us renounce the charms of homage; and we may refuse as a husband a deserving man whom we like to see as an adorer in our train.

Hen. I have not prevented him from continuing to worship your perfections; and I have but accepted, after your refusal, the offer of the homage of his flame.

Ar. But, pray, do you think there is perfect security in the offers of affection from a spited lover? Do you believe that his passion for you is very strong, and that all his affection for me is quite dead in his heart?

Hen. So he tells me, sister; and, for my part, I believe him.

Ar. Do not be so credulous, sister; and rather believe, when he says he has left me and loves you, that he does not reflect seriously upon it, and deceives himself.

Hen. I cannot tell; but to cut the matter short, if such be your pleasure, it is very easy to find out the truth: I perceive him coming; and he can give us a full explanation upon the subject.

SCENE II.

CLITANDRE, ARMANDE, HENRIETTE.

HEN. TO DISPEL the doubt in which my sister plunges me, please to explain your feelings, Clitandre, as regards myself and her; bare your heart, and vouchsafe to inform us which of us has the right to pretend to your love.

Ar. No, no, I will not impose the rigour of an explanation on your passion; I have a consideration for people, and know how embarrassing must be the constraining effort of these open avowals.

Cli. No, Madam; my heart, which dissimulates little, feels no constraint to make a frank avowal. Such a step throws me into no confusion; and I will confess openly, frankly, and fearlessly, that the bonds which hold me captive, my love and my affection, are all on this side [Pointing to Henriette]. Let not this avowal disturb you; you yourself would have it so. Your attractions had caught me, and my tender sighs sufficiently proved to you the ardour of my desires; my heart burned for you with a steadfast flame: but your eyes did not think their conquest sufficiently beautiful I have borne a hundred various insults under their yoke; they swayed my heart like proud tyrants; and I sought for myself, wearied with so much trouble, conquerors more humane, and chains less galling. [Pointing to Henriette’] I have met them, Madam, in those eyes, and their glances are for ever precious to me; by one pitying look they have dried my tears, and did not disdain what your charms rejected. Such rare kindness has had the effect of so moving me, that there is nought that could make me throw off my fetters; and I dare now beseech you, Madam, to make no attempt to regain my love, nor to try to call back a heart resolved to die in this sweet transport.

Ar. Pray, Sir, who tells you that I have such a wish, and that I am so strongly concerned about you? I think it amusing of you to imagine such a thing, and very impertinent to declare it to me.

Hen. Eh! gently, sister. Where then is that morality, which knows so well to control the animal parts, and to keep the reins tight on anger’s promptings?

Ar. But you who speak of morality, where do you practise it, when you respond to the passion which is shown to you without the leave of those who have given you birth? Know that duty subjects you to their laws; that you are not allowed to love except through their choice; that they possess supreme authority over your heart, and that it is criminal to dispose of it yourself.

Hen. I acknowledge the kindness you show me in teaching me so well matters connected with duty. My heart shall regulate its conduct according to your lessons; and to show you, sister, that I profit by them, Clitandre, have a care to support your love by the consent of those who gave me birth. Obtain a legitimate power over my affection, so that I may love you without crime.

Cli. I am going to do so openly, and with all my might; and I was only waiting for this sweet consent.

Ar. You triumph, sister, and look as if you imagined that this vexes me.

Ben. I, sister! not at all. I know that the dictates of reason are always all-powerful over your senses, and that through the teachings drawn from wisdom’s source you are above such weaknesses. Far from suspecting you of such vexation, I think that in this case you will bestir yourself for me, second his demand, and, by your suffrage, accelerate the happy moment of our marriage. I entreat you to do so and to work at it...

Ar. Your small wit pretends to jest; and we behold you quite proud of a heart that is thrown at you.

Hen. Much as this heart may be thrown, it would not at all displease you; and if your eyes could pick it up from before me, they would easily take the trouble to stoop.
AR. I do not deign to condescend to answer this; and it is silly prattle which ought not to be listened to.

Hen. That is very well on your part, and you show us a moderation which can hardly be conceived.

SCENE III.

CLITANDRE, HENRIETTE.

HEN. YOUR SINCERE avowal has surprised her not a little.

Cli. She sufficiently merits such frankness, and all the haughtiness of her foolish pride is, at least, worthy of my sincerity. But since you have allowed me, I am going to your father, Madam...

Hen. The surest way is to gain over my mother. My father is of a disposition to consent to everything; but he attaches little weight to his resolutions; he has received from Heaven a certain kindness of heart which instantly subjects him to the will of his wife. It is she who governs and absolutely makes her pleasure law. I should wish much to see you a little more complaisant, I confess it, to her and to my aunt, of a disposition which, while flattering their ideas, might attract the warmth of their esteem.

Cli. My heart, with its innate sincerity, never could flatter their character even in your sister; and learned women are not at all to my taste. I admit that a woman may be enlightened upon everything: but I do not wish to behold the unseemly passion of making her learned in order to become learned; and I like that she should, when questioned, often pretend to be ignorant of the things which she knows; in short, I wish her to hide her studying; to have knowledge without wishing it to be known, without quoting authors, without using grand words, and being witty on the least opportunity. I much respect your mother; but I cannot at all approve of her whims, and constitute myself the echo of all the incense which she wafts to her hero for wit Her Mr Trissotin annoys and wearies me; and it makes me angry to find her esteem such a man; that she should rank among men of great and fine mind, a booby whose writings are everywhere damned; a pedant whose copious pen furnishes the whole market with waste-paper.

Hen. His writings, his speeches, everything from him seems tiresome, and I agree in a great measure with your taste and views; but, as he has much influence with my mother, you must constrain yourself to be somewhat complaisant to him. A lover pays his court where his heart has taken root; he aims at gaining every one’s favour in that spot; and so as to have no one opposed to his flame, he endeavours to please the very house-dog.

Cli. Yes, you are right; but Mr Trissotin inspires me from the bottom of my soul with a dislike which prevails over everything. I cannot consent, to gain his suffrages, to dishonour myself by praising his works. It is through them that he first appeared to my sight, and I knew him before I had seen him. I perceived in the trashy writings which he gives us what his pedantic person displays in every spot, the constant height of his presumption, his intrepid good opinion of himself, the indolent state of extreme confidence which renders him at all times so satisfied with himself, which makes him smile incessantly at his own merit, which makes him congratulate himself upon everything that he writes, and which renders him unwilling to exchange his reputation for all the honours of the general of an army.

Hen. One must be sharp-sighted to perceive all this.

Cli. It went even so far as his figure; and I saw by the verses which he throws at our heads how the poet was shaped; and so well had I guessed every trait of him, that, meeting in the Palais one day a man, I laid a wager that it was Trissotin in person, as indeed it was.

Hen. What a story!

Cli. No; I tell the thing as it happened. But I perceive your aunt Permit me, pray, in this spot to reveal our secret to her, and endeavour to gain her over to intercede with your mother.

SCENE IV.

BELISE, CLITANDRE.

CLI. ALLOW A lover, Madam, to take advantage of this happy moment, to speak to you, and to reveal to you the sincere flame...

Bél. Ah! gently; be careful not to bare your soul too much. If I have enrolled you in the ranks of my lovers, content yourself with letting your eyes be the sole interpreters, and do not explain to me, in another language, those desires which with me pass for an outrage. Love me, sigh, burn for my charms; but allow me not to know it. I may shut my eyes to your secret flame as long as you confine yourself to dumb interpreters; but if the mouth presume to meddle with it, I must banish you for ever from my sight.

Cli. Do not take alarm at the projects of my heart Henriette, Madam, is the object which charms me; and I ardently beseech your kindness to second the love inspired by her beauty.

Bél. Ah! certainly, the turn is witty, I must confess. This subtle subterfuge deserves to be praised; and in all the novels which I have read I have met with nothing more ingenious.

Cli. It is not at all a stroke of wit, Madam; but it is a frank avowal of the feelings of my heart. Heaven, by the bonds of immutable ardour, has fettered me to the beauties of Henriette; Henriette holds me ‘neath her gentle empire, and a marriage with Henriette is the bliss to which I aspire. You have much influence; and all I wish is that you would deign to favour my affection.

Bél. I perceive what this demand is gently aiming at, and I know what I am to understand under that name.
The figure of speech is clever; and, not to change it, instead of the things which my heart prompts me to answer you, I shall say that Henriette is opposed to wedlock, and that without claiming aught you must burn for her.

Cli. Ah! Madam, why such confusion? and why will you imagine what has no existence?

Bél. Good Heavens! no compliments. Cease to gainsay what your looks have often given me to understand. It suffices that we are satisfied with the subterfuge, of which your love adroitly bethought itself, and that underneath the figure which respect obliges you to use, we are good enough to suffer your homage, provided its transports, enlightened by honour, offer nought but refined vows on my altar.

Cli. But...

Bél. Farewell. This ought to suffice you for once, and I have said more to you than I wished to say.

Cli. But your mistake...

Bél. Enough; I now blush, and my modesty has made a surprising effort.

Cli. I will be hanged if I love you; and prudent...

Bél. No, no, I shall hear no more.

SCENE V.

CLITANDRE, alone.
The deuce take the foolish woman with her fancies!
Has the like madness ever been seen? Let us go and entrust some one else with this affair, and take the advice of some clever person.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

ARISTE, leaving Clitandre, but still speaking to him.
Yes, I shall take you the answer as soon as possible; I shall insist, and press, and do all that is necessary. What a deal a lover has to say that could be said in one word! And how impatiently he wishes what he desires! Never...

SCENE II.

CHRYSALE, ARISTE.
AR. Ah! Heaven guard you, brother!

Ch. And you also, brother!

Ar. Do you know what brings me here?

Ch. No; but if you wish, I am ready to hear it Ar. You know Clitandre sufficiently long?

Ch. No doubt, and I see him at our house.

Ar. In what esteem do you hold him, brother? —

Ch. As a man of honour, of wit, of courage, and well-behaved: I see few people who are so deserving.

Ar. A certain wish of his brings me hither, and I am glad that you set store by him.

Ch. I knew his late father in my journey to Rome.

Ar. Very well.

Ch. He was a sterling gentleman, brother.

Ar. So they say.

Ch. We were but eight-and-twenty at that time, and, on my word, we were a couple of brisk young fellows.

Ar. I can well believe it.

Ch. We were very well with the Roman ladies, and every one there spoke of our pranks: we caused some jealousies.

Ar. Nothing could be better. But let us come to the subject which brings me hither.

SCENE III.

BELISE, ENTERING SOFTLY, and listening; CHRYSALE, ARISTE.

Ar. Clitandre makes me his spokesman with you, and his heart is smitten with the charms of Henriette.

Ch. What! of my daughter?

Ar. Yes; he is bewitched by her, and I never saw a more fervid lover.

Bél. [To Ariste] No, no; I hear you. You are ignorant of the story; and the matter is not as you believe it to be.

Ar. How, sister?

Bél. Clitandre abuses your minds; and it is of another object that his heart is enamoured.

Ar. You are jesting. It is not Henriette whom he loves?

Bél. No; I am certain of it.

Ar. He has told me so himself.

Bél. Eh! yes.

Ar. You behold me, sister, commissioned by him to ask her from her father this day.

Bél. Very good.

Ar. And his very love has urged me to hasten the moment of such an alliance.

Bél. Better still. One cannot deceive more gallantly.
Henriette, among ourselves, is an amusement, an ingenious screen, a pretext, brother, to hide another flame, the mystery of which I know; and I wish to disabuse you both of your error.

Ar. But since you know so many things, sister, tell us, pray, who is this other object whom he loves.

Bel. You wish to know it?

Ar. Yes, what of it?

Bél. Me!

Ar. You?

Bél. Myself.

Ar. Eh, sister!

Bél. What is the meaning of this Eh? and what is there surprising in what I say? One is handsome enough, I imagine, to be able to say that it is not one heart only which is subject to our empire; and Dorante, Damis, Cléonte, and Lycidas may show that we have some charms.

Ar. These gentlemen love you?

Bél. Yes, with all their might.

Ar. They have told you so?

Bél. No one has taken that liberty; they have so well known to reverence me up to this day, that they never breathed a word of their love. But to offer me their hearts and to devote themselves to my services, dumb interpreters have sufficiently done their office.

Ar. We hardly ever see Damis come into the house.

Bél. It is to show me a more submissive respect.

Ar. With stinging words, Dorante insults you everywhere.

Bél. They are the transports of a jealous rage.

Ar. Cléonte and Lycidas have both taken wives to themselves.

Bél. It is through the despair to which I have reduced their flames.

Ar. Upon my word, dear sister, pure fancies.

Ch. [To Bélise] You ought to divest yourself of those fancies.
Bél Ah! Fancies! they are fancies, you say. Fancies, I!
Really, fancies is very good; I am very happy in having fancies, brothers, and I did not know that I had any fancies.

SCENE IV.

CHRYSALE, ARISTE.

CH. YES, OUR sister is mad.

Ar. It is growing day by day. But let us resume our conversation once more. Clitandre asks you to give him Henriette as a wife. See what answer is to be made to his flame.

Ch. Is there need to ask? I consent with all my heart, and consider it a great honour to be allied to him.

Ar. You know that he has no great abundance of worldly goods, that...

Ch. That is a consideration of but small importance; he is rich in virtues; that is worth treasures; and besides his father and I were but one soul in two bodies.

Ar. Let us speak to your wife, and endeavour to render her favourable.... —

Ch. It suffices; I accept him for a son-in-law.

Ar. Yes; but to strengthen your consent, brother, it would do no harm to have her permission. Let us go....

Ch. Are you jesting? There is no need. I answer for my wife, and take the matter upon myself.

Ar. But...

Ch. Leave it to me, I tell you, and be under no apprehension. I am going to prepare her immediately.

Ar. Be it so. I am going to sound your Henriette upon this, and shall come back to know....

Ch. The business is concluded; and I am going to speak to my wife without delay.

SCENE V.

CHRYSALE, MARTINE.

MAR. JUST LIKE my luck! Alas! it is a true saying; give a dog a bad name, and hang him; and service to another is no inheritance.

Ch. What is the matter? What ails you, Martine?

Mar. What ails me?

Ch. Yes.

Mar. What ails me is that they have discharged me today, Sir.

Ch. Discharged!

Mar. Yes. Madam sends me away.

Ch. I do not understand this. How?

Mar. I am threatened with a hundred blows, if I do not leave this.

Ch. No, you shall stay; I am satisfied with you. My wife is at times somewhat hot-headed; and I will not, I...

SCENE VI.

PHILAMINTE, BELISE, CHRYSALE, MARTINE.

PHIL. [PERCEIVING MARTINE] What! I still find you, you booby. Quick, out with you, jade; come, leave the place, and never show yourself in my sight.

Ch. Gently.

Phil. No, there is an end of it.

Ch. Eh!

Phil. I wish her to go.

Ch. But what has she done, to insist in this manner....

Phil. What! you back her up?

Ch. In no way.

Phil. Do you take her part against me?

Ch. Good Heavens! no; I am simply asking her crime.

Phil. Am I likely to send her away without a legitimate cause?

Ch. I do not say that; but it is right that our people should...

Phil. No; she shall leave this, I tell you.

Ch. Well! yes. Does any one say aught against it?

Phil. I will have no opposition to my wishes.

Ch. Agreed.

Phil. And you ought, as a sensible husband, to be with me against her, and share my anger.

Ch. [Turning to Martine] So I do. Yes, my wife is right in sending you away, you jade, and your crime deserves no mercy.

Mar. But what have I done then?

Ch. [Softly] Upon my word, I do not know.

Phil. What is more, she is disposed to make very light of it.

Ch. Has she broken some mirror or piece of porcelain, that you are so incensed against her?

Phil. Should I send her away? and do you imagine that I should put myself in a temper for such a trifle?

Ch. [To Martine] What does it mean? [To Philaminte] The matter is of importance, then?

Phil. Undoubtedly. Have I ever been found an unreasonable woman?

Ch. Has she, through a spirit of negligence, allowed some ewer or silver platter to be stolen?

Phil. That would be nothing.

Ch. [To Martine] Oh! oh! the deuce, good woman [To Philaminte] What! Have you surprised her in being dishonest?

Phil. It is worse than all that.

Ch. Worse than all that?

Phil. Worse.

Ch. [To Martine] How! the deuce, you jade! [To Philaminte] Eh! Has she committed...

Phil. She has, with matchless insolence, after thirty lessons, shocked my ear by the impropriety of a low and vulgar word, which Vaugelas condemns in decisive terms.

Ch. Is that the...

Phil. What! always, notwithstanding our remonstrances, to be upsetting the foundation of all sciences, grammar, which knows how to control even kings, and makes them, with a high hand, obey its laws!

Ch. I thought her guilty of the most serious misbehaviour.
Phil, What! you do not think this crime unpardonable?

Ch. Indeed.

Phil. I should like to see you condone her!

Ch. I do not think of it.
BA. It is true that these are pitiful things. All construing is destroyed by her, and in the laws of language she has been instructed a hundred times.

Mar. All that you preach is, I believe, well and good; but as for me I shall never know how to speak your gibberish.

Phil. The impudent girl! to call gibberish a language founded on reason and on elegant custom!

Mar. We always speak well when we make ourselves understood, and all your beautiful diction does not serve for nothing.

Phil. Well! is that not another sample of her style? does not serve for nothing!

Bél. O indocile brain! With all the cares which we are incessantly taking, can we not teach you to speak congruously. In joining not to noticing you make a repetition, and there is, as you have been told, a negative too much.

Mar. Good Heavens! I have not studied like you, and I speak straight out as they speak our way.

Phil. Ah! is it to be borne?

Bél. What horrible solecism!

Phil. It is enough to kill a sensitive ear.

Bél. Your mind must be very material, I confess. I is but a singular, while have in this case is a plural Are you to offend against grammar all your life?

Mar. Who says anything about offending grandmother or grandfather either?

Phil. O Heavens!

Bél. Grammar is taken in the wrong sense by you, and I have already told you where the word comes from.

Mar. Upon my word! it may come from Chaillot, Auteuil, or Pontoise, for all it matters to me.

Bél. What a loutish soul! Grammar teaches us the laws of the verb and of the nominative, as well as of the adjective in connection with the substantive.

Mar. All I have to say, Madam, is that I do not know these people.

Phil. What a martyrdom!

Bél. They are the names of words; and one has to consider how they have to be made to agree together.

Mar. They may agree together, or tear each other to pieces, for what I care.

Phil. [To Bélise] Eh! Good Heavens! Finish this conversation. [To Chrysale] You will not, you, make her leave?

Ch. — Yes, indeed. [Aside] I must give way to her whim. — Go, do not irritate her; retire, Martine.

Phil. What! You are afraid to offend the hussey! You speak to her in quite an obliging tone!

Ch. I? Not at all. [In a firm tone] Come, you must go. [In a more gentle tone] Go, my poor child.

SCENE VII.

PHILAMINTE, CHRYSALE, BELISE.

CH. YOU ARE satisfied, and behold her gone; but I do not at all approve of her being turned away. She is a girl who does her duty well, and you discard her for a trifling cause.

Phil. Do you wish me to have her always in my service, to put my ears incessantly to the torture, to break every rule of custom and reason by a barbarous heap of errors in speech, mutilated words linked together, at intervals, by proverbs found in the gutters of the Halles?

Bél. It is true that it makes one hot to have to bear her conversations; she tears Vaugelas to shreds every day; and the least faults of this coarse mind are either a pleonasm, or cacophony.

Ch. What does it matter that she fails in the laws of Vaugelas, provided she does not fail in the cooking? I would rather, I would, that in cleaning the vegetables she should make the verbs agree ill with the nouns, and say a hundred times a low or bad word, than that she should burn y  my meat or put too much salt in my soup; I live on good soup, and not on fine language. Vaugelas does not teach how to make a good soup, and Malherbe and Balzac, so learned in fine words, in cookery would perhaps have been real ninnies.

Phil. How horribly this coarse conversation shocks one.
And what indignity for him who calls himself a man to be for ever grovelling in material cares, instead of elevating himself to the spiritual! Is this body of ours, this rag, of sufficient importance, or valuable enough, to deserve that we should even think about it? And ought we not to put these things far from us?

Ch. Yes, my body is myself, and I mean to take care of it.
You may call it rag if you will, but my rag is dear to me.

Bél. The body with the mind is something, brother; but if you are to believe the whole of the learned world, the mind ought to take precedence of the body; and our greatest care, our first effort, ought to be to nourish it with the juice of science.

Ch. Upon my word, if you wish to nourish your mind, it is with very empty ideas, according to what every one says, and you need have no care, no solicitude, to....

Phil. Ah! solicitude sounds very roughly to my ear; it smacks strangely of its age.

Bél. It is true that the word is very old fashioned.

Ch. Do you wish me to tell you? I shall have to burst” out at last, take off the mask, and give way to my choler.
You are called fools, and I take it much to heart...

Phil. What now?

Ch. [To Bélise.] It is to you I am sister. The least solecism in speech irritates you; but you commit some strange ones in your conduct. Your everlasting books do not satisfy me; and, with the exception of a large Plutarch to put my bands in  you ought to burn the whole of this useless trumpery, and leave science to the professors in town; to do right, you should remove from the garret that long spyglass which frightens people, and a thousand other trifles, the sight of which annoys; not try to find out what they are doing in the moon, and interest yourself a little more in what is being done at home, where we find everything going topsy-turvey. It is not very proper, and for several reasons, that a woman should study and know so mçny things. To train the minds of her children in good morals and manners, to superintend her household by keeping an eye on her servants, and to control the expenditure with economy, ought to be her study and philosophy. Our fathers, on this point, were very sensible, who said that a woman always knows enough as long as her mind rises to the level of knowing a doublet from a pair of breeches. Theirs did not read much, but they led a good life; their households were all their learned occupations; and their library, a thimble, thread, and needles, with which they worked at the outfit of their daughters. The women of the present age are far removed from these manners; they wish to write and become authors. No science is too deep for them, and in this house more than in any other spot in this world; the loftiest secrets are pried into, and everything is known in my home, except what ought to be known. They know the motions of the moon and the polar star, of Venus, of Saturn, and of Mars, with which I have no concern; and in this vain learning, which is so farfetched, my food, of which I stand so much in need, is neglected. My servants aspire to science in order to please you, and all neglect nothing so much as what they have to do. To argue is the occupation of the whole of my household, and argument banishes reason from it The one burns my roast, while reading some history; the other dreams of verses, while I am asking for something to drink.
In short, I see your example followed by them, and though I have servants, I am not served. One poor servant girl at least remained to me, whom this bad air had not infected, and behold her turned out with a great ado, because she fails to speak according to Vaugelas. I tell you, sister, that all these doings annoy me; for it is to you, as I have told you, that I address myself I do not care about all your people with their Latin in my house, and above all this Mr Trissotin; it is he, who with his verses, has made you ridiculous: all his talk is so much foolish trash. One has to look for what he has said after he has spoken; and as for me, I believe him to be a little cracked.

Phil. O Heavens! what baseness of soul and language!

Bel. Can there be in a small body a more grovelling aggregate, a mind composed of more vulgar atoms? And can I be of the same blood? I mortally hate myself for belonging to your family; and I quit the place in confusion.

SCENE VIII.

PHILAMINTE, CHRYSALE.

PHIL. HAYE YOU yet some other dart to level at me?

Ch. I? No. Let us quarrel no longer; it is over. Let us discourse of another matter. In your eldest daughter we perceive some aversion to the hymeneal knot; she is in short a philosopher. I say nothing about it; she is well ruled, and you act very well But her younger sister is of quite a different disposition; and I believe we should do well to provide and to choose for Henriette a husband...

Phil. I have thought about it, and I shall communicate to you my intention. This Mr Trissotin, who is so railed at, and who has not the honour of possessing your esteem, is the one whom I consider to be the husband that would suit her; and I am a better judge of his merits than you are. To argue in this case is superfluous; and my mind in this matter is quite made up. At least do not say a word about the choice of this husband; I wish to speak to your daughter about it before you. I have reasons to make my conduct approved of, and I shall know well enough if you have informed her.

SCENE IX.

ARISTE, CHRYSALE.

Aris. Well! brother, your wife has left this moment, and I perceive quite well that you had just some conversation together.
CL Yes.

Avis. And with what success? Shall we have Henriette?
Has she consented? Is the affair concluded?
CL Not quite as yet Aris. Does she refuse?

Ch. No.

Aris. Does she waver?

Ch. In no way.

Aris. What then?

Ch. She proposes some one else for my son-in-law.

Aris. Some one else for your son-in-law?

Ch. Some one else.

Aris. Whose name is...

Ch. Mr Trissotin.

Aris. What! this Mr Trissotin....

Ch. Yes, who is always talking verses and Latin.

Aris. Have you accepted him?

Ch. I, not at all: Heaven forbid!

Aris. What answer have you made?

Ch. None; and right glad I am not to have spoken, so as not to bind myself.

Aris. The reason is very nice; and you have taken a great step! Have you at least proposed Clitandre to her?

Ch. No; for as I saw that there was a question of another son-in-law, I thought it better to let it alone.

Aris. Certainly, your prudence is excessively rare. Are you not ashamed of your want of firmness? and is it possible for a man to be so weak as to leave his wife absolute power, and not dare to attack what she has resolved upon?

Ch. Good Heavens! brother, you speak very easily of it, but you do not know how noise troubles me. I am  very fond of rest, peace, and tranquillity, and my wife is terrible in her tempers. She greatly considers the name of philosopher, but she is none the less choleric; and her morality, which affects to despise wealth, does not operate in the least on the sting of her anger. If in the slightest matter you oppose her will, a terrible tempest rages for a week afterwards. She makes me tremble the moment she assumes that tone; I do not know where to hide myself, for she is such a dragon; and nevertheless, with all her devilry, I am obliged to call her my heart and my love.

Aris. Come, this is mere jest. Between ourselves, your wife has mastered you through your cowardice. Her power, is based only on your weakness; it is from you that she takes the title of mistress; you allow yourself to give way to her haughtiness, and are led by the nose like a fool.
What! cannot you, seeing what you are called, make up your mind for once to become a man, to bring down a woman to your wishes, and take sufficient courage to say, I will have it so! You will, without shame, allow your daughter to be sacrificed to the silly visions which are holding your family in bondage, and endow a booby with all your wealth in return for six words of Latin, which he spouts to them; a pedant, whom your wife at every turn addresses as a man of wit and a great philosopher, as a man who, in gallant poetry, never had his equal, and who is nothing of the sort, as every one knows. Come, once more, it is a jest; and your cowardice deserves to be laughed at.

Ch. Yes, you are right, and I see that I am wrong.
Come, I must at last show a firmer mind, brother.

Aris. That is well said.

Ch. It is an infamous thing to be thus under the sway of a woman.

Aris. Very good.

Ch. She has taken too great an advantage of my softness.

Aris. It is true.

Ch. Too much imposed upon my easy-going nature.

Aris. Undoubtedly.

Ch. And I will have her know this very day that my daughter is my daughter, and that I am the master, to take for her a husband who pleases me.

Aris. Now you are reasonable, and as I wish you to be.

Ch. You are for Clitandre, and know his address; send him to me, brother, presently.

Aris. I am going there directly.

Ch. I have borne it too long, and I am going to be a man in spite of every one.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, BELISE, TRISSOTIN, LEPINE.

Phil. Ah! let us seat ourselves here to listen at our ease to these verses which should be weighed word by word.
AR. I am burning to see them.

Bél. And we are dying for them.

Phil. [To Trissotin] Whatever comes from you has a charm for me.

Ar. TO me it is a matchless sweetness.

Bél. It is a dainty repast provided for my ears.

Phil. Do not prolong such pressing desires.

Ar. Pray hurry.

Bél. Be quick, and hasten our pleasures.

Phil. Offer your epigram to our impatience.

Trie. [To Philaminte] Alas! it is but a new-born child, Madam: its fate may surely interest you; and it is in your courtyard that I have been delivered of it.

Phil. Its father is sufficient to make it dear to me.

Tris. Your approbation may serve it as a mother.

Bél. What wit he has!

SCENE II.

HENRIETTE, PHILAMINTE, BELISE, ARMANDE, TRISSOTIN, LEPINE.
Phil [To Henriette, who is about to withdraw] Hullo! why do you run away?

Hen. It is for fear of disturbing so sweet a conversation.

Phil. Draw near, and come, intently, to take part in the pleasure of hearing some marvels.

Hen. I know but little of the beauties of people’s writings, and things of wit are beyond me.

Phil. It matters not Afterwards, I have also to tell you a secret, of which it would be as well that you were informed.

Trie. [To Henriette] Science has nothing that can inflame you, and your only pride is to know how to charm.

Hen. The one as little as the other; and I have not the least desire...

Bél. Come! let us see to the new-born child, pray.

Phil. [To Lépine] Come, lad, quick, the wherewithal to seat ourselves. [Lépine tumbles down] Look at the awkward fellow! Ought people to fall after they have learned the equilibrium of things?

Bél. Do not you see the causes of your fall, Ignoramus, and that it proceeded from your deviation from the fixed point which we call the centre of gravity.

Lép. I became aware of it, Madam, when I was on the ground.

Phil. [To Lépine, who goes out] The awkward booby!

Tris. Well for him he was not made of glass.
AR. Ah! wit everywhere!

Bél. It never lags. — [They sit down.

Phil. Now promptly dish us up your amiable repast.

Tris. For such great hunger as is shown to me, a dish of only eight verses seems very little; and I think that I shall do no harm here in joining to the epigram, or to the madrigal, the relish of a sonnet, which a certain princess thought rather delicate. It is seasoned with attic salt throughout, and I believe you will find it of sufficiently good taste.

Ar. Ah! I do not doubt it.

Phil. Let us give ear immediately.

Bél. [Interrupting Trissotin each time he is ready to begin] I feel my heart beat with pleasure beforehand. I love poetry to distraction, and especially when the verses are gallantly turned.

Phil. If we are always speaking, he cannot say anything.

Tris. A son...

Bél. [To Henriette] Silence, niece.

Tris. A sonnet to the Princess Uranie, on her Ague,
Your prudence surely is asleep,
To treat and sumptuously to keep,
To lodge in state and luxury,
Your most hard-hearted enemy.

Bél. Ah! what a charming beginning!

Ar. How prettily he turns things!

Phil. He alone possesses the talent for easy verses, Ar. To prudence asleep we must yield up our arms.

Bél. To lodge an enemy is for me full of charms.

Phil. I like sumptuously and state and luxury, the joining of these last words does admirably.

Bél. Let us listen to the rest.

Tris. Your prudence surely is asleep,
To treat and sumptuously to keep,
To lodge in state and luxury,
Your most hard-hearted enemy.

Ar. Prudence asleep!

Bél. To lodge an enemy!

Phil. Sumptuously, and state and luxury!

Tris. Whate’er be said, drive it away,
From ‘neath your roofs splendid array,
Expel the ungrateful wretch, who would
Attack a life so fair, so good.

Bél. Ah! gently; let me take breath, pray.

Ar. Give us leisure to admire, if you please.

Phil. One feels, at these verses, running at the bottom of ones heart, a something, I do not know what, that makes one feel faint.

Ar. Whate’er be said, drive it away,
From ‘neath your roofs splendid array,

How elegantly is ‘neath your roofs splendid array expressed; and how wittily the metaphor is put!

Phil. Whate’er be said, drive it away! Ah! what an admirable taste is displayed in this drive il away. This, in my opinion, is an invaluable passage.

Ar. My heart is likewise smitten with whate’er be said.

Bél. I am of your opinion, Whate’er be said is a happy expression.

Ar. I would like to have written it.

Bél. It is worth a whole piece.

Phil. But is the finesse of it really understood, as I do?
Ar and Bél. Oh! oh!

Phil. Whatever he said, drive it away. Though people should take the ague’s part, do not pay any heed, laugh at the babbling. — Whatever he said, drive it away, whate’er be said, whatever be said. — This whatever be mid has more in it than it seems to have. As for me, I do not know, if everyone resembles me; but I perceive a million words beneath it.

Bél. It is true, it says more things than it appears to do.

Phil. [To Trissotin] But when you wrote this charming whate’er be said, did you yourself comprehend all its energy?
Did you yourself reflect upon all which it conveys to us?
And did you at that time think of putting so much wit in it?

Tris. Eh! Eh!

Ar. I have also my head full of the ungrateful wretch, that ungrateful ague, unjust, unmannerly, which treats people ill who give it a lodging.

Phil. In short, the quatrains are both admirable. Let us come quickly to the triplets, pray.

Ar. Ah! if you please, once more whatever be mid.

Tris. Whate’er be said, drive it away.

Phil., Ar., and Bél. Whate’er be mid!

Tris. From ‘neath your roofs splendid array....

Phil., Ar., and Bel. Your roofs splendid array!

Tris. To expel the ungrateful wretch that could....

Phil., Ar., and Bel. This ungrateful fever!

Tris. Attack a life so fair, so good.

Phil. A life so fair, so good, Ar and Bél. Ah!

Tris. What! not respecting your high rank, Your noble blood il basely drank.

Phil., Ar., and Bél. Ah!

Tris. And day and night insults you so!
If with it to the baths you go Without your making more ado, With your own hands then drown it too.

Phil. We are exhausted.

Bél. We swoon.
Ar, We die with pleasure.

Phil. It gives one a thousand gentle shiverings.

Ar. If with it to the baths you go.

Bél. Without your making more ado.

Phil. With your own hands then drown it too. With your own hands, then, with your own hands, then drown it too.

Ar. At every step one encounters a charming trait in your verses.

Bél. Everywhere we wander there delighted.

Phil. One can light upon nothing but fine things in them.

Ar. They are small paths all strewn with roses.

Tris. The sonnet then seems to you...

Phil. Admirable, new; and no one has ever made anything so fine.

Bél. [To Henriette] What! were you not touched on hearing this? You made but a sorry figure, niece.

Hen. Each one makes here below the figure that one can make, aunt; and it is not sufficient to wish to become a wit, in order to be one.

Tris. Perhaps my verses are troublesome to this lady.

Hen. Not at all. I do not listen to them.

Phil. Ah! let us have the epigram.

Tris. On a coach of an amarant colour given to a lady of his acquaintance.

Phil. The very names of his pieces have always something peculiar.

Ar. Their novelty prepares one for a hundred fine strokes of wit.

Tris. Love has so dearly sold to me his chains, Phil, Ar., and Bél, Ah!
Tris, That half of my estate only remains;
And when this beauteous coach you shall behold,
On which there are embossed such heaps of gold,
That all the country wonders at the ride,
And makes my Lais triumph in her pride...

Phil. Oh!  my Lais! There is erudition!
Bél, The disguise is pretty, and worth a million.

Tris. And when this beauteous coach you shall behold,
On which there are embossed such heaps of gold,
That all the country wonders at the ride,
And makes my Lais triumph in her pride,
No longer say ’tis amarant,
Say rather that it is my land,

Ar. Oh! oh! oh! that was not at all expected.

Phil, Only he could write in such taste.

Bél. No longer say ’tis amarant,
Bay rather that it is my land,

This may be declined, my land, of my land, to my land?
Phil, I know not whether my mind was prepossessed in your favour, from the moment I knew you; but I admire everywhere your verse and your prose.

Tris. [To Philaminte] If you would show us something of your own, we in our turn might also admire.

Phil. I have written nothing in verse; but I have reason to hope that I shall soon be able to show you, as among friends, eight chapters of the plan of our academy. Plato foolishly stopped at this project, when he wrote the treatise upon his Republic; but I shall carry out the idea, which I have arranged in prose upon paper. For, in short, I feel strangely annoyed at the wrong which they do us with regard to wit; and I wish to vindicate ourselves, that is my whole sex, from the unworthy class in which men place us, by confining our talents to trifling things, and by closing against us the entrance to sublime lights.

Ar. It is giving too great an offence to our sex to extend the effort of our intelligence no farther than to judge about a skirt, or the shape of a mantle, or the beauties of a piece of lace, or of a new brocade.

Bél. We must rise from this shameful condition, and openly set our genius at liberty.

Tris. My respect for the ladies at all times is well known; and, if I render homage to the brilliancy of their eyes, I also honour the light of their intelligence.

Phil. The sex likewise does you justice on this point; but we wish to show to certain wits, whose proud knowledge treats us with disdain, that women are also endowed with learning; that, like them, they can hold learned assemblies, conducted by better rules; inasmuch as they wish to unite what they separate elsewhere, join fine language to the higher sciences, explore nature by a thousand experiments, and upon any question that may be proposed, bring in each sect, and espouse the opinions of none.

Tris. For order, I hold by peripateticism.

Phil. For abstractions, I love platonism.

Ar. Epicurus pleases me, and his dogmas are strong.

Bél. I accommodate myself sufficiently well to the atomic system; but I think a vacuum is difficult to be endured, and I relish the subtle matter much better.
Τris. As for the properties of the magnet, Descartes agrees with my opinion.

Ar. I am fond of his vortices.

Phil. I, of his falling worlds.

Ar. I am anxious to see our assembly opened, and that we should signalize ourselves by some discovery.

Tris. We expect much from your enlightened opinions; for nature has few things that are dark to you.

Phil. As for me, without flattering myself, I have already made one, and I have clearly seen men in the moon.

Bél. I have not seen men as yet, as I think; but I have seen steeples as clearly as I see you.

Ar. We shall probe grammar, history, poetry, moral philosophy, and politics, as well as physics.

Phil. Moral philosophy has charms by which my heart is smitten; and it was formerly the passion of great minds; but I yield the palm to the Stoics, and I find nothing so beautiful as their wise men.

Ar. As for the language, they shall see our regulations in a little time, and we pretend to make some revolutions.
Through antipathy, either just or natural, we have each of us conceived a mortal hatred for a number of words, whether verbs, or nouns which we mutually abandon. Against them we are preparing deadly sentences, and we design to open our learned conferences by the proscription of all those divers words of which we wish to purge both prose and poetry.

Phil. But the most beautiful project of our academy, a noble enterprise, with which I am delighted, a design full of glory, and which shall be lauded among all the great minds of posterity, is the retrenching of these filthy syllables which cause a scandal in the finest words, these eternal playthings of the fools of all times, these nauseous commonplaces of our sorry jokers, these sources of a mass of infamous equivocations with which they insult the modesty of women.

Tris. These are certainly admirable projects.

Bél. You shall see our statutes when they shall be made.

Tris. All are certain to be beautiful and wise.

Ar. We shall be, by our laws, the judges of works; by our laws, prose and verse, everything shall be submitted to us. No one shall have any wit beyond ourselves and friends. We shall seek everywhere to find something to cavil at, and shall see none but ourselves able to write well.

SCENE III.

PHILAMINTE, BELISE, ARMANDE, HENRIETTE, TRISSOTIN, LEPINE.

LÉP. [TO TRISSOTIN] A man is there, Sir, who wishes to speak to you; he is dressed in black, and speaks in a soft tone. — [They rise.

Tris. It is that learned friend who has pressed me so much to procure him the honour of your acquaintance.

Phil. You have our full consent to introduce him.
[Trissotin goes to meet Vadius.

SCENE IV.

PHILAMINTE, BELISE, ARMANDE, HENRIETTE.

PHIL. [TO ARMANDE and to Bélise] Let us do well the honours at least of our wit [To Henriette, who wishes to go] Hullo! I have told you very distinctly that I want you.

Hen. But for what?

Phil. Come hither; we shall let you know shortly.

SCENE V.

TRISSOTIN, VADIUS, PHILAMINTE, BELISE, ARMANDE, HENRIETTE.

Tris. [Presenting Vadius] Behold the man who is dying to see you. In introducing him here I do not fear being blamed for having admitted a profane among you, Madam.
He can hold his own amongst the wits.

Phil. The hand that presents him is sufficient guarantee.

Tris. He has a perfect knowledge of the old authors, and he knows Greek, Madam, as well as any man in France.

Phil. [To Bélise] Greek, O Heavens! Greek! He knows Greek, sister!

Bél. [To Armande] Ah! niece, Greek!

Arm. Greek! how charming!

Phil. What! this gentleman knows Greek! Ah! permit me, pray, that, for the love of Greek, Sir, I embrace you.
[Vadius embraces Bélise and Armande also.

Hen. [To Vadius, who wishes to embrace her also]
Excuse me, Sir, I do not understand Greek.
[They sit down.

Phil. I have a marvellous respect for Greek books.

Vad. I fear that, through the anxiety which prompts me to pay you my respects to-day, Madam, I am intruding; and that I shall be disturbing some learned conversation.

Phil. With Greek, Sir, nothing can be spoilt.

Tris. Besides, he does wonders in verse as well as prose, and could, if he would, show you something.

Vad. The fault of authors is to tyrannize in conversation with their productions; in being at the Palais in public walks, at the ruelles, at table, the indefatigable reciters of their own tiresome verses. As for me, I see nothing more absurd, according to my opinion, than an author who goes begging everywhere for incense, who, catching the ears of the first comers, often makes them the martyrs of his vigils. I have never had this foolish hobby; and I am, on this subject, of the opinion of a Greek who, by an express dogma, forbids all his followers the undignified eagerness of reading their own works. Here are some small verses for young lovers, upon which I should like to have your opinions.

Tris. Your verses have charms which no others have.

Vad. The Graces and Venus reign in all yours.

Tris. Your turn is unconstrained, and you choose your words well.

Vad. Throughout all your works the ithos and pathos are seen.

Tris. We have had some eclogues from you, which surpass in sweet charms Theocritus and Virgil.

Vad. Your odes have a noble ring, gallant and sweet, which leave Horace very far behind.

Tris. Is there aught more amorous than your little songs?

Vad. Is there anything to equal your sonnets?

Tris. There is nothing so charming as your little rondeaux.

Vad. Nothing so full of wit as your madrigals.

Tris. In the ballads, above all, you are admirable.

Vad. And in bouts-rimés I think you adorable.

Tris. If France could but know your worth.

Vad. If the age did but render justice to men of wit.

Tris. In a gilded coach you would pass through the streets.

Vad. We should see the public erect statues to you [to Trissotin] Hm! it is a ballad, and I should like you to tell me plainly —

Tris. [To Vadius] Have you seen a little sonnet on the ague which has attacked the Princess Uranie.

Vad. Yes; it was read to me yesterday in a certain company.

Tris. Do you know the author of it?

Vad. No; but I know well enough that, not to flatter him, his sonnet is worth nothing.

Tris. Many people think it admirable, however.

Vad. That does not prevent it from being very wretched; and if you had read it, you would be of my way of thinking.

Tris. I know that I should differ with you on this subject, and that few people are capable of such a sonnet.

Vad. Heaven preserve me from writing such!

Tris. I maintain that nothing better could be written; and my great reason is, that I am the author of it.

Vad. You?

Tris. I.

Vad. I do not know then how the affair happened.

Tris. It is that I was not fortunate enough to be able to please you.

Vad. I must have been absent-minded in listening to it, or the reader must have spoilt me the sonnet. But let us drop the subject and look to my ballad.

Tris. A ballad, to my taste, is an insipid thing; it is no longer the fashion; it smacks of ancient times.

Vad. The ballad, however, charms many people.

Tris. That does not prevent it from displeasing me.

Vad. It remains none the worse for that.

Tris. It has wondrous charms for certain pedants.

Vad. And yet we see that it does not please you.

Tris. You foolishly attribute your own qualities to others.
[They all rise.

Vad. You throw yours at me very impertinently.

Tris. Go along, you little dunce, you pitiful scribbler.

Vad. Go along, you doggerel rhymester, you disgrace of the profession.

Tris. Go along, you second-hand verse-dealer, you impudent plagiarist.

Vad. Go along, you numbskull...

Phil. He! gentlemen, what are you about?

Tris. [To Vadius] Go, go, and make restitution of your shameful larcenies which the Greeks and Latins claim from you.

Vad. Go, go, and do penance to Parnassus, for having maimed Horace with your verses.

Tris. Remember your book, and the little stir it caused.

Vad. And you, your publisher reduced to the hospital.

Tris. My fame is established; you attack it in vain.

Vad. Yes, yes; I refer you to the author of the Satires.

Tris. I refer you also to him.

Vad. I have the satisfaction of people seeing that he has treated me more honourably. He gives me a slight dig by the way, among many authors who are esteemed at the Palais; but he never leaves you in peace in his verses, and we find you a butt for his arrows throughout.

Tris. It is by this that I hold the more honourable rank. He places you among the crowd like a miserable being; he thinks one blow enough to knock you down, and has never done you the honour to repeat it. But he attacks me apart as a noble adversary, against whom all his efforts seem necessary; and his blows, repeated against me everywhere, show that he never believes himself certain of the victory.

Vad. My pen shall teach you what sort of man I can be.

Tris. And mine will make you see your master.

Vad. I defy you in verse, prose, Greek, and Latin.

Tris. Well! we shall see each other alone at Barbin.

SCENE VI.

TRISSOTIN, PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, BELISE, HENRIETTE.

TRIS. DO NOT blame me for giving way to my temper; it is your judgment which I defend, Madam, in the sonnet which he has had the audacity to attack.

Phil. It shall be my care to reconcile you. But let us speak of something else. Draw near, Henriette. For a long time my heart has been uneasy, because I could never perceive any trace of wit in you; but I have found the means of making you have some.

Hen. You take pains for me which are unnecessary; learned conversations are not at all in my way: I love to live at ease; and, in whatever is said, one must take too much trouble to become clever; it is an ambition which does not at all enter my mind. I find myself very well, mother, in being stupid; and I prefer having nothing but common-place talk to tormenting myself to say fine words.

Phil. Yes; but I am hurt at it, and it does not suit me to bear, in my own family, such a disgrace. Beauty of countenance is but a frail ornament, a transitory flower, the dazzle of a moment, which exists but in the epidermis; but that of the mind is inherent and firm. I have, therefore, long looked for some way to give you that beauty which years cannot reap, to inspire you with a love for learning, and to instil into you a desire for fine knowledge; and, in short, the thought to which my wishes have tended, is to attach to you a man replete with intelligence. [Pointing to Trissotin] And that man is this gentleman, whom I command you to look upon as the husband whom my choice intends for you.

Hen. I! mother?

Phil. Yes, you. Play the fool a little.

Bel. [To Trissotin] I understand you: your eyes demand my consent to pledge elsewhere a heart which I possess.
Go, I am willing. To this bond I surrender you; it is a union that will be the making of you.

Tris. [To Henriette] I do not know what to say to you in my delight, Madam; and this union, with which I see myself honoured, puts me...

Ren. Gently, Sir; it is not yet concluded: do not hurry yourself so much.

Phil. How you answer! Do you know that...?

Enough. You understand me. [To Trissotin] She will be sensible. Come, let us leave her.

SCENE VII.

HENRIETTE, ARMANDE.
AR. We see shining forth our mother s care for you; and she could not have chosen a more illustrious husband...

Hen. If the choice be so fine, why do not you take it?
AR. It is to you, not to me, that -his hand is given.

Hen. I surrender it all, as to my elder sister.

Ar. If wedlock were invested with any charm for me, as it is for you, I should accept your offer with delight Hen. If I bad, like you, my head full of pedants, I should think him a very decent match.

Ar. Though our tastes in this may be different, we ought, however, to obey our parents, sister. A mother has an absolute power over us; and you believe in vain, by your resistance...

SCENE VIII.

CHRYSALE, ARISTE, CLITANDRE, HENRIETTE, ARMANDE.

Ch. [To Henriette, presenting Clitandre to her] Come, daughter, you must approve my design. Take off your glove. Take this gentleman’s hand, and henceforth consider him in your heart, as a man whose wife I wish you to be.
AT. On this side your likings are very strong, sister.

Hen. We must obey our parents, sister. A father has absolute power over our wishes.

Ar. A mother has her claim to our obedience.

Ch. What does it mean?
AT. I say that I apprehend much that on this my mother and you will not agree; and that it is another husband...

Ch. Hold your tongue, you saucy jade; go and have your fill at philosophizing with her; and do not concern yourself with my actions. Tell her my mind, and take care to warn her not to come and pester my ears. Go quickly.

SCENE IX.

CHRYSALE, ARISTE, HENRIETTE, CLITANDRE.
Ατι. Very good. You have done wonders.

Cli. What transport! what joy! Ah, how sweet is my lot!

Ch. [To Clitandre] Come, take her hand, and go before us; conduct her to her room. Ah! the sweet caresses!
[To Ariste] There, my heart leaps at all these tender signs; it makes my old days feel young again, and I look back upon my youthful love affairs.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE.
AR. Yes, nothing has kept her mind in check; she is proud of her obedience. Scarcely has her heart given itself time to receive the order in my presence before it sur-
‘ rendered, and seemed less to follow the wishes of a father than affect to defy the orders of a mother.

Phil. I shall soon show her to whose orders the laws of reason subject her wishes, and who is to control, her mother or her father, the mind or the body, the form or the matter.

Ar. The compliment of it was, at least, due to you: and this little gentleman behaves strangely in wishing to become your son-in-law, in spite of you.

Phil. He is not there yet where his heart aspires to be.
I thought him well enough, and I looked with pleasure on your love-affairs; but he has always displeased me in his way of acting. He knew, Heaven be thanked, that I was an author; and yet he never asked me to read anything to him.

SCENE II.

CLITANDRE, entering softly, and listening without being seen, ARMANDE, PHILAMINTE.
AR. I should not allow, if I were you, that he should ever became the husband of Henriette. It would be doing me a great wrong to imagine that I speak about this as an interested girl, and that the scurvy trick which he plays me produces some secret spite at the bottom of my heart.
Against such blows the soul is strengthened by the solid assistance of philosophy, and through her we may place ourselves above everything; but to treat you thus is to drive you to extremes. It becomes your honour to oppose his wishes; and he is a man, in short, who ought not to please you. Between ourselves, I never knew that in his inmost heart he had any esteem for you.

Phil. The little fool!
AR. Whatever praises were uttered about you, he always seemed like ice when it came to lauding you.

Phil. The coarse man!
AR. And twenty times I have read him, as a novelty, some of your verses which he did not like.

Phil. The impertinent fellow!
AR. We often quarrelled about it; and you would not believe how much nonsense...

Cli. [To Armande] Eh! gently, pray. A little charity, Madam, or, at least, a little honesty. What harm have I done to you? and what is my offence, to have all your eloquence up in arms against me? to wish to destroy me, and to take so much trouble in making me odious with people of whom I stand in need? Speak, say, whence comes this terrible anger? I have no objection that this lady should honestly judge between us.
AR. If I harboured this anger of which you wish to accuse me, I should find sufficient to justify it You but too well deserve it; and a first love establishes such sacred rights upon the heart, that sooner than burn with the flame of another passion, one should lose one’s fortune, and renounce life. Nothing equals the horror of a change in love; and every faithless heart is a monster in morality.

Cli. Do you account it an infidelity, Madam, to do what the pride of your heart has commanded me? I only obey its commands; and, if I offend you, that alone is the cause of it. Your charms at first possessed my whole heart; it burned constantly for two years; no assiduous attentions, duties, respects, services, but what it sacrificed lovingly to you. All my affection, all my attentions, avail nothing with you; I find you opposed to my sweetest aspirations. What you refuse, I offer to another. Now judge. Is it, Madam, my fault or yours? Does my heart run after change, or does yours goad me to it? Is it I who leaves you, or you who drive me away?

Ar. Do you call it being opposed to your desires, Sir, to deprive them of what was vulgar in them, and to wish to reduce them to that purity wherein consists the beauty of perfect love? You cannot for me keep your thoughts clear and disentangled from the commerce of the senses; and you do not taste, as its sweetest charms, this union of hearts, in which the bodies are not concerned. You cannot love except with a gross love, and with all its train of material bonds: and, to feed the flames produced in your heart, a marriage and all its sequel is necessary. Ah! what strange love, and how far removed are noble souls from burning with such terrestrial flames! The senses have no share in all their ardours; and this lovely fire unites nought but hearts. It leaves the rest as an unworthy matter; it is a fire, pure and clear as the heavenly fire; one utters nought but virtuous sighs, and does not tend towards filthy desires. Nothing impure is mixed with the proposed aim; one loves for the sake of love, and for nothing else; it is to the mind only that all transports are directed, and one never perceives that one has a body.

Cli. As for me, to my misfortune, Madam, I perceive but too plainly that I have a body as well as a soul; I feel that it sticks too closely to it to leave it aside. I do not know the art of these separations; Heaven has denied me this philosophy, and my body and soul go together.
There is nothing more beautiful, as you have observed, than these purified desires, which regard the mind only, this union of hearts, and these tender thoughts so disentangled from the commerce of the senses. But for me such affections are too subtle; I am somewhat gross, as you accuse me; I love with my whole self, and the love with which I am inspired, is meant, I confess, for the whole person. This is not a matter for very great punishments; and, without wronging your fine sentiments, I perceive that in the world my method is greatly followed, and that marriage is much the fashion, and that it passes for a sufficiently sweet and honourable tie, for me to have desired to become your husband, without the liberty of such a thought giving you the least reason for being offended.

Ar. Well! Sir, well! since your coarse sentiments wish to gratify themselves, without listening to me; since, to induce you to remain faithful, there must be carnal bonds, corporeal chains, if my mother wishes it, I shall make up my mind to consent for your sake to what we were speaking of.

Cli. It is too late, Madam, another has taken your place; and it would ill become me to repay in such a manner the protection, and wound the kindness that sheltered me against your pride.

Phil. But in short, Sir, do you count upon my consent when you contemplate this other marriage? and, if you please, do you imagine, that I have another husband quite ready for Henriette?

Cli. Eh! Madam, consider your choice, I pray; expose me, I beseech you, to less ignominy, and do not consign me to the humbling lot of seeing myself the rival of Mr Trissotin. The love of wits, which makes you thwart me, cannot oppose me a less noble adversary. There are many men, whom the bad taste of the age has given credit for being wits; but Mr Trissotin has not been able to dupe any one, and all do justice to the writings which he gives us. Except here, he is valued everywhere at his real worth; and what has a score of times astonished me, is to find you exalt to the skies silly verses which you would have disavowed, if you had made them yourself.

Phil. If you judge him altogether otherwise than we, it is because we see him with other eyes than yours.

SCENE III.

TRISSOTIN, PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, CLITANDRE.

TRIS. [TO PHILAMINTE] I have come to tell you a great piece of news. We have, Madam, while sleeping, had a narrow escape. A world has passed along by us, has fallen across our vortex, and, if it had on its way met with our earth, it would have been broken into pieces, like glass.

Phil. Let us remit this conversation to another opportunity. This gentleman would find neither rhyme nor reason in it; he professes to love ignorance, and above all to hate wit and learning.

Cli. This truth requires some qualification. I shall explain myself, Madam; and I hate only the wit and learning that spoil people. They are things which, in themselves, are good and great; but I should prefer being in the rank of those who are ignorant to being learned like certain persons.

Tris. For my part, I do not think that learning can spoil anything, whatever may be supposed.

Cli. And it is my opinion, that in facts as well as in conversations, science often makes great fools.

Tris. That is a great paradox.

Cli. Without being very clever, the proof of it would, I think, be very easy to me. If reasons failed, I am sure that in any case famous examples would not fail me.

Tris. You might quote some which would prove hardly anything.

Cli. I should not have far to go to find what I want.

Tris. For my part, I do not see those famous examples.

Cli. As for me, I see them so plainly, that they stare me in the face.

Tris. I have hitherto believed that it was ignorance which made great fools, and not learning.

Cli. You have believed very wrongly, and I will be bound that a learned fool is more foolish than an ignorant fool.

Tris. Common opinion is against your maxims, since ignorant and fool are synonymous terms.

Cli. If you will take it according to the use of the word, the affinity is greater between pedant and fool.

Tris. Folly, in the one, appears perfectly pure.

Cli. And study, in the other, adds to nature.

Tris. Learning in itself has eminent merit Cli. Learning in a fop becomes impertinent Tris. Ignorance must have great charms for you, since you take up arms so eagerly in its defence.

Cli. If ignorance has such great charms for me, it is since I have seen certain learned men.

Tris. Those certain learned men may, when they are known, be worth certain other people who are not far off.

Cli. Yes, if certain learned people were to be judges; but would people agree to it?

Phil. [To Clitandre] It seems to me, sir....

Cli. Eh! Madam, pray; this gentleman is strong enough without you coming to his aid. I have already too formidable an assailant, and if I defend myself, I only do so by retreating.

Ar. But the offensive sharpness of each repartee of which you....

Cli. Another second! I give up the game.

Phil. We allow these kinds of combats in conversation, provided the person be not attacked.

Cli. Eh, good Heavens! all this has nothing in it to offend him; he understands raillery as well as any man in France; and he has felt himself goaded with many other points, without his glory ever doing aught but smiling at it.

Tris. I am not astonished to see this gentleman set forth the thesis in the combat which I maintain; he is much at court, that is saying everything. The court, it is well known, does not stand up for wit. It has some interest in supporting ignorance, Madam; and it is as a courtier that he takes up its defence.

Cli. You are very hard upon this poor court; and its misfortune is great to find you gentlemen of wit every day declaiming against it; laying all your annoyances at its door, and quarrelling with it upon its bad taste, accusing no one but it upon your ill success. Permit me to tell you, Mr Trissotin, with all the respect with which your name inspires me, that you and your brethren would do very well to speak of the court in somewhat gentler tones; and that, after all, it is not so silly as you and these other gentlemen imagine; that it has common sense to judge of everything; that some good taste may be formed there, and that the knowledge of the world which is there displayed is, without flattery, worth all the obscure learning of pedantry.

Tria. Of its good taste, Sir, we behold the effects.

Cli. Where, Sir, do you see that it is so bad?

Tris. What do I see, Sir? Is it that as regards learning Rasius and Baldus are an honour to France; and that all their merit, clear as day, attracts neither the eyes nor the gifts of the court Cli. I perceive your annoyance, Sir, and that, from modesty, you do not place yourself among them; and, not to bring you therefore into the question, what do these able heroes do for the state? in what way are their writings of any service to it to accuse the court of a horrible injustice, and to complain everywhere that it fails to bestow the favour of its gifts on their learned names? Their learning is very necessary to France! and the court cares much about the books which they write! Three beggarly fellows take it into their narrow heads, that if they are only printed and bound in calf they are important persons in the state; that with their pens they shape the destiny of crowns; that at the slightest rumour of their productions, pensions ought to come flying to them; that the universe has its eyes on them; that the glory of their name is bruited about everywhere; and that they are famous prodigies in learning, because they know what others have said before them, because they have had eyes and ears for the last thirty years, and because they have spent nine or ten thousand nights in confusing themselves with Greek and Latin, and loading their minds with the unintelligible booty of all the old trash that lies scattered about in books. People who always seem drunk with their learning; have no other merit than an abundance of troublesome talk; good for nothing, void of common sense, and full of a ridicule and an impertinence to decry everywhere wit and learning.

Phil. Your warmth is great; and this violence marks the movement of nature in you. It is the name of rival which excites in your heart....

SCENE IV.

TRISSOTIN, PHILAMINTE, CLITANDRE, ARMANDE, JULIEN.

JUL. THE LEARNED gentleman who just now paid you a visit, and whose humble servant I have the honour to be, requests you to read this note.

Phil. However important the letter may be which I am desired to read, know, friend, that it is a piece of rudeness to come to interrupt people in the midst of a conversation; and that as a servant who knows how to behave, you should have recourse to the people of the house to be introduced.

Jul. I shall note that down in my book, Madam.

Phil. [Reads] “ Trissotin has boasted, Madam, that he is to marry your daughter. Let me inform you that his philosophy aims only ai your wealth, and that you would do well not to conclude this marriage until you have read the poem which I am composing against him. — Whilst this sketch is preparing, in which I mean to depict him in all his colours, I send you Horace, Virgil, Terence and Catullus, where you will see noted down on the margin all the passages which he has pillaged.”
On account of this intended marriage, a man of merit is attacked by many enemies; and this very vilifying induces me to-day to do an action which shall confound envy, and make it feel that its efforts accelerate the execution of that which it wishes to undo. — [To Julien] Let your master immediately know this; and tell him that to show what great store I set on his noble counsels, and how worthy I think them of being acted upon, this very evening I marry him [Pointing to Trissotin] to my daughter. —

SCENE V.

PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, CLITANDRE.

PHIL. [TO CLITANDRE] You, Sir, as a friend of the whole family, may assist at the signing of the contract; and I wish to invite you to it. Armande, take care to send for the notary, and to inform your sister of the business.

Ar. There is no need to inform my sister; this gentleman here will charge himself with the trouble of running and carrying her the news very soon, and of disposing her heart to be rebellious against you.

Phil. We shall see who will have the greatest power over her, and if I shall be able to bring her to her duty.

SCENE VI.

ARMANDE, CLITANDRE.

AR. I REGRET much to see, Sir, that matters do not altogether turn out as you wished.

Cli. I am going to set about it zealously, Madam, so as not to leave you so much regret in your heart.

Ar. I am afraid that your efforts will not have too good a result.

Cli. Perhaps you will not see your fear realised.

Ar. I hope so.

Cli. I am convinced of it, and that I shall be assisted by your support Ar. Yes, I am going to serve you with all my might Cli. And this service is sure of my gratitude.

SCENE VII.

CHRYSALE, ARISTE, HENRIETTE, CLITANDRE.

CLI. WITHOUT YOUR support, I should be unhappy; your wife has rejected my addresses, and in her prejudiced heart wishes Trissotin for her son-in-law.

Ch. But what fancy has she got hold of? Why the deuce does she wish for this Mr Trissotin?

Ari. It is because his name has the honour of rhyming with Latin, that he gains an advantage over his rival.

Cli. She wishes to conclude this marriage this very evening.

Ch. This evening?

Cli. This evening.

Ch. And this evening, I have made up my mind to marry you two, to thwart her.

Cli. She has sent for the notary to draw up the contract.

Ch. And I am going to fetch him for the one he is to draw up.

Cli. [Pointing to Henriette] And this lady ought to be informed by her sister of the marriage to which they wish her to consent.

Ch. And I command her, with plenary power, to prepare her hand for this other union. Ah! I will show if there be another master than myself in my house, to lay down the law. [To Henriette] We are coming back, take care to wait for us. Come, follow me, brother, and you also, son-in-law.

Hen. [To Ariste] Alas! try to keep him always in this humour.

Ari. I shall do everything to serve your love.

SCENE VIII.

HENRIETTE, CLITANDRE.

CLI. WHATEVER POWERFUL aid he promises to my flame, my greatest hope is in your heart, Madam.

Hen. As for my heart, you may be assured of that.

Cli. I cannot but be happy, when I have its support.

Hen. You see to what marriage they attempt to compel it.

Cli. As long as it shall be mine, I see nothing to fear.

Hen. I am going to try everything to see our sweetest wishes fulfilled; and if all my efforts do not make me yours, there exists a retreat where the soul can fly to, and which shall prevent me from belonging to any other person.

Cli. May a just Heaven forfend that I should ever receive such a proof of your affection!

ACT V.

SCENE I.

HENRIETTE, TRISSOTIN.

HEN. IT IS about the marriage for which my mother is preparing that I wished, Sir, to talk to you face-to-face; and I thought that in the trouble in which I see the whole household plunged, I might make you listen to reason. I know that you expect me to bring you a considerable marriage portion: but money, of which so many people are fond, has only charms unworthy of a real philosopher; and the contempt for wealth and frivolous grandeur ought not to shine in your words alone.

Tris. Nor is it that which charms me in you; and your brilliant attractions, your piercing and soft eyes, your gracefulness and your air, are the wealth, the riches which draw my affection and my tenderness towards you: these are the only treasures of which I am enamoured.

Hen. I am much beholden to your generous flame. Such obliging love confounds me, and I regret, Sir, not to be able to respond to it. I esteem you as much as one can esteem; but I find an obstacle to loving you. A heart, you know, cannot belong to two people; and I feel that Clitandre has made himself master of mine. I know that he has much less merit than you, that I am no good observer when I choose him for a husband; that by a hundred fine accomplishments, you ought to please me; I see well enough that I am wrong, but I cannot help it; and the only effect which reason has upon me is to make me angry with myself for being so blind.

Tris. The gift of your hand, to which I am encouraged to pretend, shall also give me that heart which Clitandre possesses; and I have reason to presume that by a thousand gentle cares I may find the secret of making myself beloved.

Hen. No; my heart is attached to its first affections, and cannot be touched, Sir, by your attentions. I dare explain myself freely with you here, nor has my avowal anything to offend you. This affectionate ardour, which springs up in the heart, is not, as is well known, an effect of merit: fancy takes its share in it; and, when some one pleases us, we often find a difficulty in saying why it is so. If we could love, Sir, by choice and prudence, you should have my whole heart, and my whole tenderness; but we see that love is controlled otherwise. Leave me, I pray, to my blindness, and do not take advantage of this violence, which, for your sake, they wish to do to my obedience. A gallant man wishes to owe nothing to the power which parents have over us. He has a repugnance to see the object of his love sacrificed, and does not wish to obtain a heart except from that heart itself.  Do not drive my mother to wish, by her choice, to exercise her utmost rights upon my inclinations.
Take back your love from me, and bear to some other the homage of a heart so precious as yours.

Tris. How can this heart obey you? Impose upon it any commands which it can execute. Can it be capable of not loving you, unless you cease, Madam, to be loveable, and to display to people’s eyes heavenly charms...

Hen. Nay, Sir, a truce to this idle nonsense You have so many Irises, Philises, Amarantes, which throughout your verses you paint as charming, and to whom you vow so much amorous ardour....

Tris. It is my mind that speaks, and not my heart. I am enamoured of them only as a poet; but I love in all earnest the adorable Henriette.

Hen. Eh! pray, Sir....

Tris. If it offend you, my offence towards you is not likely to cease. This ardour, hitherto ignored by you, swears to be devoted to you for ever. Nothing can stay its loving transports; and, although your charms condemn my efforts, I cannot refuse the aid of a mother, who proposes to crown so dear a flame; and, provided I obtain so sweet a happiness, provided you become mine, the rest does not matter.

Hen. But do you know that you risk a little more than you imagine by using violence with a heart; that it is not very safe, to speak frankly to you, to marry a girl in spite of herself; and that she may have recourse, by seeing herself forced, to resentments which a husband ought to fear?

Tris. Such a discourse has nothing in it to make me uneasy; a wise man is prepared for all emergencies. Cured by reason, of all vulgar weaknesses, he places himself above such things, and takes care not to feel the least annoyance at anything which does not depend upon himself.

Hen. In truth, Sir, I am delighted with you; and I did not imagine that philosophy was so beautiful as it is, thus to teach people to bear with equanimity such accidents. This firmness of soul, so singular in you, deserves to have an illustrious subject to work upon, is worthy to find some one who lovingly takes continual pains to place it in its full light; and, as in truth, I dare not believe myself very fit to give it all the brilliancy of its glory, I leave it to some one else, and swear to you, between ourselves, that I renounce the happiness of seeing you my husband.

Tris. [Going] We shall soon see how the affair will go on; for they have already got the notary within.

SCENE II.

CHRYSALE, CLITANDRE, HENRIETTE, MARTINE.

CH. AH! DAUGHTER, I am glad to see you; come, come, and do your duty, and submit your wishes to the will of a father. I intend, I mean to teach your mother how to behave; and, the better to brave her, here is Martine whom, in spite of her, I bring back and re-instate in the house.

Hen. Your resolutions are worthy of praise. Take care not to change this disposition, father; be firm in having your wishes carried out; and do not allow them to induce you to abandon your good intentions. Do not unbend, and manage to prevent my mother from gaining a victory over you.

Ch. How! Do you take me for a booby?

Hen. Heaven preserve me from it!

Ch. Am I a simpleton, please?

Hen. I do not say so.

Ch. Am I thought incapable of the steadfast sentiments of a reasonable man?

Hen. No, father.

Ch. Should I not have the sense, at my age, to be master in my own house?

Hen. Yes, indeed.

Ch. Should I be so weak in mind as to be led by the nose by my wife?

Hen. Eh! no, father.

Ch. Lack-a-day! What, then, does all this mean? I think you very facetious to speak to me thus!

Hen. If I have offended you, it was not my intention.

Ch. My will shall be carried out in everything in this house.

Hen. Very well, father.

Ch. No one, but myself, has the right to command in this house.

Hen. Yes; you are right.

Ch. It is I who hold the place of head of the family.

Hen. Agreed.

Ch. It is I who have to dispose of the hand of my daughter.

Hen. Eh! yes.

Ch. Heaven gives me full authority over you.

Hen. Who says the contrary?

Ch. And I shall soon show you that you have to obey your father, and not your mother, in taking a husband.

Ben. Alas! you flatter in this the sweetest of my inclinations; to obey you is all I wish.

Ch. We shall see if my wife opposes my wishes...

Clit. Here she comes bringing the notary with her.

Ch. Second me well, all of you.

Mar. Leave it to me. I shall take care to encourage you if there be any need of it.

SCENE III.

PHILAMINTE, BELISE, ARMANDE, TRISSOTIN, A NOTARY, CHRYSALE, CLITANDRE, HENRIETTE, MARTINE.

Phil. [To the Notary] Could not you change your barbarous style, and give us a contract in beautiful language?
Not Our style is very good, Madam, and I should be a fool to wish to change one word of it.

Bel. Ah! what barbarism in the very midst of France!
But at least, out of regard for learning, Sir, be kind enough to enumerate the dowry in minæ and talents instead of in crowns, livres, and francs, and to date by the words of ides and calends.
Not I? If I were to grant your requests, Madam, I should find myself hooted by all my colleagues.

Phil. We complain in vain against this barbarism.
Come, Sir, sit down and write [Perceiving Martine] Ah! ah! this impudent girl dares to shew her face here again!
Why, pray, bring her back to my house?

Ch. By-and-bye, at our leisure, we shall tell you. Now we have other matters to look after.
Not Let us proceed to the contract. Where is the intended bride?

Phil. She whom I marry is the youngest daughter.
Not Very well.

Ch. [Pointing to Henriette] Yes, here she is, Sir.
Her name is Henriette.

Not. Very good. And the intended bridegroom?

Phil. [Pointing to Trissotin] The husband whom I give her is this gentleman.

Ch. [Pointing to Clitandre] And the one whom I myself intend her to marry is this gentleman.

Not. Two husbands! It is one too many, according to custom.

Phil. [To the Notary] Why do you stop? Set down, set down Mr Trissotin, for my son-in-law.

Ch. For my son-in-law, set down, set down, Mr Clitandre.

Not. But first agree among yourselves, and after having well-weighed everything, decide between you who shall be the intended husband.

Phil. Follow the choice, Sir, upon which I have resolved.

Ch. Do things as I tell you, Sir.

Not. Tell me which of the two I am to obey.

Phil. [To Chrysale] What, you oppose my wish!

Ch. I shall not allow my daughter to be courted only for the sake of my family’s wealth.

Phil. Indeed, your wealth is a great deal thought of!
And a wise man takes much heed of that!

Ch. In one word, I have made choice of Clitandre for her husband.

Phil. [Pointing to Trissotin] And behold the one whom I design for her. My choice shall prevail; I have made up my mind to that!

Ch. Upon my word! You cany things with a very high hand.

Mar. It is not for the wife to dictate, and I am for giving way in all things to the men.

Ch. That is well said.

Mar. Were I ever so certain of being turned out, the hen ought not to crow before the cock.

Ch. Undoubtedly.

Mar. And we see people jeer at a man when the wife at home wears the breeches.

Ch. That is true.

Mar. I say that if I had a husband, I should like him to be master in his own house: I should not like him to play the nobody; and, if I went against him through some whim or other, if I spoke too loud, I should think it very good that he lowered my tone by some slaps.

Ch. That is sensibly spoken.

Mar. Master is reasonable to wish a proper husband for his daughter.

Ch. Yes.

Mar. For what reason should Clitandre, young and handsome as he is, be refused to her? And why, if you please, give her a scholar, who is unceasingly making epilogues? She wants a husband, not a pedagogue; and, having no wish to know either Greek or Latin, she has no need of Mr Trissotin.

Ch. Very good.

Phil. We must allow her to chatter at her ease.

Mar. Scholars are good for nothing but to preach; and for my husband, yes, I have said it a thousand times, I would never take a man of wit. Wit is not at all wanted at the domestic hearth. Books go badly with wedlock; and I should wish, if ever my troth were plighted, a husband who had no other book but myself, who, without offence to Madam, knows not A from B, and who, in one word, should only be a doctor for his wife.

Phil. [To Chrysale] Is it finished? And have I listened quietly enough to your worthy interpreter?

Ch. She has spoken the truth.

Phil. And I, to cut short this dispute, require absolutely that my plan shall be carried out. [Pointing to Trissotin]
Henriette and this gentleman shall be joined on the spot.
I have said it, I will have it so; do not answer me. And, if your word has been pledged to Clitandre, offer him to marry the elder.

Ch. Here is a way to settle this matter. [To Henriette and Clitandre] Well! do you give your consent to it?

Hen. Eh! father...

Cli. [To Chrysale] Eh! Sir...

Bél. We might make proposals to him that should please him better: but we are for establishing a kind of love that shall be pure as the morning star: the reflecting substance may be admitted into it; but we banish the extended substance from it.

SCENE IV.

ARISTE, CHRYSALE, PHILAMINTE, BELISE, HENRIETTE, ARMANDE, TRISSOTIN, NOTARY, CLITANDRE, MARTINE.
A ri. I regret to trouble a festive ceremony by the sorrow which I am obliged to cause here. These two letters make me the bearer of two tidings, of which I have felt great grief for your sakes. [To Philaminte’] The one for you comes to me from your solicitor. [To Chrysale] The other for you comes to me from Lyons.

Phil. Who can write us about a misfortune worthy of troubling us?

Ari. This letter will relate one to you.

Phil. “Madam, I have requested your brother to hand you this letter, which will inform you what I dared not come to tell you. The great neglect which you show for your affairs has caused the clerk of your judge not to give me notice, and you have irrevocably lost your lawsuit, which you ought to have won.”

Ch. [To Philaminte] Your lawsuit lost!
Phil, You trouble yourself much! My heart is not at all upset by this blow. Show a less common soul, and brave, like me, the strokes of fortune. “This want of cave costs you forty thousand crowns; and you have been condemned to pay this sum with costs, by an order of the Court.”
Condemned? Ah! this word is offensive, and is made for criminals only!

Aris. He is wrong, in fact; and you right in finding fault with him. He ought to have said that you are invited, by order of the Court, to pay as quickly as possible forty thousand crowns and the necessary expenses.

Phil. Let us see the other.

Ch. “Sir, the friendship which binds me to your brother makes me take an interest in all that concerns you. I know that you have placed all your property in the hands of Argante and Damon, and I beg to give you notice that they have both become bankrupts on the same day.” O Heavens! at once thus to lose all that I possess!

Phil. [To Chrysale] Ah! what a shameful outbreak!
Fie! all this is nothing. To the real philosopher there is no serious reverse, and, losing everything, he still remains all in all to himself, Let us terminate our affair, and have done with your grief. [Pointing to Trissotin] His wealth will suffice for him and for us.

Tris. No, Madam: cease to press this matter. I see that everyone is opposed to this marriage, and I have no design to force people’s inclinations.

Phil. This consideration has come upon you very quickly; it follows very closely, Sir, upon our misfortune.

Tris. I am weary at last of so much resistance. I prefer renouncing all this bickering, and do not wish for a heart which does not give itself freely.

Phil. I see, I see now, and not at all to your credit, what hitherto I have refused to believe of you.

Tris. You may believe of me what you please, and I care little how you take it: but I am not the man to suffer the shame of the offensive refusals which I have undergone here. I am well worth being made much more of and my service to those who will not have me.

SCENE V.

ARISTE, CHRYSALE, PHILAMINTE, BELISE, ARMANDE HENRIETTE, CLITANDRE, NOTARY, MARTINE.

Phil. How clearly he has shown his mercenary soul! and how little there is of the philosopher in what he has just done!

Cli. — I do not boast of being such; but in one word, I do not separate my fate from yours, Madam; and I dare offer you with my person the little which fortune has bestowed upon me.

Phil. You charm me, Sir, by this generous trait, and I will crown the desires of your affection. Yes; I grant Henriette to the eager ardour...

Hen. No, mother; I now change my mind. Permit me to resist your wishes.

Clit. What! you oppose my happiness! and, when I see every one yield to my love....

Hen. I know the smallness of your fortune, Clitandre; and I have ever desired you for my husband, when by satisfying my sweetest inclinations I saw that my union improved your affairs. But when we have such contrary fates, I love you sufficiently in such extremity, not to burden you with our adversity.

Chit. Every destiny shared with you would be pleasant; every destiny without you would be unbearable.

Hen. Love, in its transport, speaks always thus. Let us avoid painful and unpleasant reflections. Nothing wears so quickly the affections of the tie which binds us as the sad necessities of life’s cares; and people often, upon such occasions, accuse each other mutually of all the dismal griefs which proceed from such engagements.

Ari. [To Henriette] Is this the only motive which makes you refuse the union with Clitandre?

Hen. Without this, you would find my heart leap at it; I refuse his hand only because I love him too well.

Ari. Then be bound by such beautiful chains. I have brought you only false tidings; and it is a trick, a surprising device, which I have put into practice to serve your love, to undeceive my sister, and show her what her philosopher would prove upon trial.

Ch. Heaven be praised for it!

Phil. I am glad at the vexation which it will give this base deserter. To see this match concluded with magnificence will be a punishment to his sordid meanness.

Ch. [To Clitandre] I knew well enough that you would marry her.

Ar. [To Philaminte] Then you sacrifice me to their love?

Phil. It is not you whom I sacrifice to them; and you have the support of philosophy to see with a satisfied eye their ardour crowned.

Bél. Let him beware, at least, that I am not dwelling in his heart. One marries often through sudden despair, and repents all one’s life afterwards.

Ch. [To the Notary] Come, Sir, follow the order which I have prescribed, and draw up the contract as I have told you.

The Imaginary Invalid

Le Malade imaginaire

Translated by Charles Heron Wall

The Imaginary Invalid was first performed at the Théâtre du Palais-Royal on 10 February 1673. The play is a three-act Comédie-ballet, which Molière created in collaboration with Marc-Antoine Chapentier, who composed the musical interludes. Chapentier was renowned for his versatility as a composer; he was prolific in his output and was greatly admired by his contemporaries. The play is perhaps most famous due to the unfortunate incident that occurred one week after it opened. On 17 February, Molière was performing the lead role, Argan, when he became overwhelmed by a coughing fit and collapsed on stage. He partially recovered and insisted on completing the performance. Shortly afterwards, he suffered another fit and a more severe haemorrhage and died a few hours later. There had even been some speculation that he had died while on stage, but that claim was refuted some years ago. During this period in France, it was forbidden for actors to be buried on sacred ground, but Armande begged and subsequently convinced Louis XIV to grant permission for the playwright to be buried in a cemetery . However, local religious officials objected, so Molière was given a night funeral and a grave in a section of the cemetery reserved for unbaptised babies.

In The Imaginary Invalid, Argan, a miserable hypochondriac, spends most of his time requesting doctors to attend to his many imagined ailments. He attempts to marry his daughter, Angélique, to a young medical professional so that he can have his own personal doctor at no cost. Unfortunately for her father, Angélique is in love with another man and has no intention of marrying the doctor; and Argan’s wife, Béline, is only interested in his money. Molière takes aims at the greed and quackery of the medical profession and the foolishness of those willing to throw money at unscrupulous doctors for non-existent ailments.

Armande Béjart

CONTENTS

THE IMAGINARY INVALID.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

FIRST INTERLUDE.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SECOND INTERLUDE.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

SCENE VI.

SCENE VII.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE IX.

SCENE X.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

SCENE XIII.

SCENE XIV.

SCENE XV.

SCENE XVI.

SCENE XVII.

SCENE XVIII.

SCENE XIX.

SCENE XX.

SCENE XXI.

SCENE XXII.

SCENE XXIII.

THIRD INTERLUDE.

A portrait of the French composer Marc-Antoine Charpentier (1643-1704)

The 1682 frontispiece

THE IMAGINARY INVALID.

THIS IS THE last comedy written by Molière. He was very ill, nearly dying, at the time he wrote it. It was first acted at the Palais Royal Theatre, on February 10, 1673.

Molière acted the part of Argan.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

Argan, an imaginary invalid.
Béline, second wife to Argan.
Angélique, daughter to Argan, in love with Cléante.
Louison, Argan’s young daughter, sister to Angélique.
Béralde, brother to Argan.
Cléante, lover to Angélique.
Mr. Diafoirus, a physician.
Thomas Diafoirus, his son, in love with Angélique.
Mr. Purgon, physician to Argan.
Mr. Fleurant, an apothecary.
Mr. de Bonnefoi, a notary.
Toinette, maid-servant to Argan.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

ARGAN (sitting at a table, adding up his apothecary’s bill with counters).

ARG. THREE AND two make five, and five make ten, and ten make twenty. “Item, on the 24th, a small, insinuative clyster, preparative and gentle, to soften, moisten, and refresh the bowels of Mr. Argan.” What I like about Mr. Fleurant, my apothecary, is that his bills are always civil. “The bowels of Mr. Argan.” All the same, Mr. Fleurant, it is not enough to be civil, you must also be reasonable, and not plunder sick people. Thirty sous for a clyster! I have already told you, with all due respect to you, that elsewhere you have only charged me twenty sous; and twenty sous, in the language of apothecaries, means only ten sous. Here they are, these ten sous. “Item, on the said day, a good detergent clyster, compounded of double catholicon rhubarb, honey of roses, and other ingredients, according to the prescription, to scour, work, and clear out the bowels of Mr. Argan, thirty sons.” With your leave, ten sous. “Item, on the said day, in the evening, a julep, hepatic, soporiferous, and somniferous, intended to promote the sleep of Mr. Argan, thirty-five sous.” I do not complain of that, for it made me sleep very well. Ten, fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen sous six deniers. “Item, on the 25th, a good purgative and corroborative mixture, composed of fresh cassia with Levantine senna and other ingredients, according to the prescription of Mr. Purgon, to expel Mr. Argan’s bile, four francs.” You are joking, Mr. Fleurant; you must learn to be reasonable with patients; Mr. Purgon never ordered you to put four francs. Tut! put three francs, if you please. Twenty; thirty sous. “Item, on the said day, a dose, anodyne and astringent, to make Mr. Argan sleep, thirty sous.” Ten sous, Mr. Fleurant. “Item, on the 26th, a carminative clyster to cure the flatulence of Mr. Argan, thirty sous.” “Item, the clyster repeated in the evening, as above, thirty sous.” Ten sous, Mr. Fleurant. “Item, on the 27th, a good mixture composed for the purpose of driving out the bad humours of Mr. Argan, three francs.” Good; twenty and thirty sous; I am glad that you are reasonable. “Item, on the 28th, a dose of clarified and edulcorated whey, to soften, lenify, temper, and refresh the blood of Mr. Argan, twenty sous.” Good; ten sous. “Item, a potion, cordial and preservative, composed of twelve grains of bezoar, syrup of citrons and pomegranates, and other ingredients, according to the prescription, five francs.” Ah! Mr. Fleurant, gently, if you please; if you go on like that, no one will wish to be unwell. Be satisfied with four francs. Twenty, forty sous. Three and two are five, and five are ten, and ten are twenty. Sixty-three francs four sous six deniers. So that during this month I have taken one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight mixtures, and one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve clysters; and last month there were twelve mixtures and twenty clysters. I am not astonished, therefore, that I am not so well this month as last. I shall speak to Mr. Purgon about it, so that he may set the matter right. Come, let all this be taken away. (He sees that no one comes, and that he is alone.) Nobody. It’s no use, I am always left alone; there’s no way of keeping them here. (He rings a hand-bell.) They don’t hear, and my bell doesn’t make enough noise. (He rings again.) No one. (He rings again.) Toinette! (He rings again.) It’s just as if I didn’t ring at all. You hussy! you jade! (He rings again.) Confound it all! (He rings and shouts.) Deuce take you, you wretch!

SCENE II.

ARGAN, TOINETTE.

TOI. COMING, COMING.

Arg. Ah! you jade, you wretch!

Toi. (pretending to have knocked her head). Bother your impatience! You hurry me so much that I have knocked my head against the window-shutter.

Arg. (angry). You vixen!

Toi. (interrupting Argan). Oh!

Arg. There is …

Toi. Oh!

Arg. For the last hour I …

Toi. Oh!

Arg. You have left me …

Toi. Oh!

Arg. Be silent! you baggage, and let me scold you.

Toi. Well! that’s too bad after what I have done to myself.

Arg. You make me bawl till my throat is sore, you jade!

Toi. And you, you made me break my head open; one is just as bad as the other; so, with your leave, we are quits.

Arg. What! you hussy….

Toi. If you go on scolding me, I shall cry.

Arg. To leave me, you …

Toi. (again interrupting Argan.) Oh!

Arg. You would …

Toi. (still interrupting him). Oh!

Arg. What! shall I have also to give up the pleasure of scolding her?

Toi. Well, scold as much as you please; do as you like.

Arg. You prevent me, you hussy, by interrupting me every moment.

Toi. If you have the pleasure of scolding, I surely can have that of crying. Let every one have his fancy; ’tis but right. Oh! oh!

Arg. I must give it up, I suppose. Take this away, take this away, you jade. Be careful to have some broth ready, for the other that I am to take soon.

Toi. This Mr. Fleurant and Mr. Purgon amuse themselves finely with your body. They have a rare milch-cow in you, I must say; and I should like them to tell me what disease it is you have for them to physic you so.

Arg. Hold your tongue, simpleton; it is not for you to control the decrees of the faculty. Ask my daughter Angélique to come to me. I have something to tell her.

Toi. Here she is, coming of her own accord; she must have guessed your thoughts.

SCENE III.

ARGAN, ANGÉLIQUE, TOINETTE.

ARG. YOU COME just in time; I want to speak to you.

Ang. I am quite ready to hear you.

Arg. Wait a moment. (To Toinette) Give me my walking-stick; I’ll come back directly.

Toi. Go, Sir, go quickly; Mr. Fleurant gives us plenty to do.

SCENE IV.

ANGÉLIQUE, TOINETTE.

ANG. TOINETTE!

Toi. Well! what?

Ang. Look at me a little.

Toi. Well, I am looking at you.

Ang. Toinette!

Toi. Well! what, Toinette?

Ang. Don’t you guess what I want to speak about?

Toi. Oh! yes, I have some slight idea that you want to speak of our young lover, for it is of him we have been speaking for the last six days, and you are not well unless you mention him at every turn.

Ang. Since you know what it is I want, why are you not the first to speak to me of him? and why do you not spare me the trouble of being the one to start the conversation?

Toi. You don’t give me time, and you are so eager that it is difficult to be beforehand with you on the subject.

Ang. I acknowledge that I am never weary of speaking of him, and that my heart takes eager advantage of every moment I have to open my heart to you. But tell me, Toinette, do you blame the feelings I have towards him?

Toi. I am far from doing so.

Ang. Am I wrong in giving way to these sweet impressions?

Toi. I don’t say that you are.

Ang. And would you have me insensible to the tender protestations of ardent love which he shows me?

Toi. Heaven forbid!

Ang. Tell me, do you not see, as I do, Something providential, some act of destiny in the unexpected adventure from which our acquaintance originated?

Toi. Yes.

Ang. That it is impossible to act more generously?

Toi. Agreed.

Ang. And that he did all this with the greatest possible grace?

Toi. Oh! yes.

Ang. Do you not think, Toinette, that he is very handsome?

Toi. Certainly.

Ang. That he has the best manners in the world?

Toi. No doubt about it.

Ang. That there is always something noble in what he says and what he does?

Toi. Most certainly.

Ang. That there never was anything more tender than all he says to me?

Toi. True.

Arg. And that there can be nothing more painful than the restraint under which I am kept? for it prevents all sweet intercourse, and puts an end to that mutual love with which Heaven has inspired us.

Toi. You are right.

Ang. But, dear Toinette, tell me, do you think that he loves me as much as he says he does?

Toi. Hum! That’s a thing hardly to be trusted at any time. A show of love is sadly like the real thing, and I have met with very good actors in that line.

Ang. Ah! Toinette, what are you saying there? Alas! judging by the manner in which he speaks, is it possible that he is not telling the truth?

Toi. At any rate, you will soon be satisfied on this point, and the resolution which he says he has taken of asking you in marriage, is a sure and ready way of showing you if what he says is true or not. That is the all-sufficient proof.

Ang. Ah! Toinette, if he deceives me, I shall never in all my life believe in any man.

Toi. Here is your father coming back.

SCENE V.

ARGAN, ANGÉLIQUE, TOINETTE.

ARG. I SAY, Angélique, I have a piece of news for yon which, perhaps, you did not expect. You have been asked of me in marriage. Halloa! how is that? You are smiling. It is pleasant, is it not, that word marriage? there is nothing so funny to young girls. Ah! nature! nature! So, from what I see, daughter, there is no need of my asking you if you are willing to marry.

Ang. I ought to obey you in everything, father.

Arg. I am very glad to possess such an obedient daughter; the thing is settled then, and I have promised you.

Ang. It is my duty, father, blindly to follow all you determine upon for me.

Arg. My wife, your mother-in-law, wanted me to make a nun of you and of your little sister Louison also. She has always been bent upon that.

Toi. (aside). The excellent creature has her reasons.

Arg. She would not consent to this marriage; but I carried the day, and my word is given.

Toi. (to Argan). Really, I am pleased with you for that, and it is the wisest thing you ever did in your life.

Arg. I have not seen the person in question; but I am told that I shall be satisfied with him, and that you too will be satisfied.

Ang. Most certainly, father.

Arg. How! have you seen him then?

Ang. Since your consent to our marriage authorises me to open my heart to you, I will not hide from you that chance made us acquainted six days ago, and that the request which has been made to you is the result of the sympathy we felt for one another at first sight.

Arg. They did not tell me that; but I am glad of it; it is much better that things should be so. They say that he is a tall, well-made young fellow.

Ang. Yes, father.

Arg. Of a fine build.

Ang. Yes, indeed.

Arg. Pleasant.

Ang. Certainly.

Arg. A good face.

Ang. Very good.

Arg. Steady and of good family.

Ang. Quite.

Arg. With very good manners.

Ang. The best possible.

Arg. And speaks both Latin and Greek.

Ang. Ah! that I don’t know anything about.

Arg. And that he will in three days be made a doctor.

Ang. He, father?

Arg. Yes; did he not tell you?

Ang. No, indeed! who told you?

Arg. Mr. Purgon.

Ang. Does Mr. Purgon know him?

Arg. What a question! Of course he knows him, since he is his nephew.

Ang. Cléante is the nephew of Mr. Purgon?

Arg. What Cléante? We are speaking about him who has asked you in marriage.

Ang. Yes, of course.

Arg. Well, he is the nephew of Mr. Purgon, and the son of his brother-in-law, Mr. Diafoirus; and this son is called Thomas Diafoirus, and not Cléante. Mr. Fleurant and I decided upon this match this morning, and to-morrow this future son-in-law will be brought to me by his father.… What is the matter, you look all scared?

Ang. It is because, father, I see that you have been speaking of one person, and I of another.

Toi. What! Sir, you have formed such a queer project as that, and, with all the wealth you possess, you want to marry your daughter to a doctor?

Arg. What business is it of yours, you impudent jade?

Toi. Gently, gently. You always begin by abuse. Can we not reason together without getting into a rage? Come, let us speak quietly. What reason have you, if you please, for such a marriage?

Arg. My reason is, that seeing myself infirm and sick, I wish to have a son-in-law and relatives who are doctors, in order to secure their kind assistance in my illness, to have in my family the fountain-head of those remedies which are necessary to me, and to be within reach of consultations and prescriptions.

Toi. Very well; at least that is giving a reason, and there is a certain pleasure in answering one another calmly. But now, Sir, on your conscience, do you really and truly believe that you are ill?

Arg. Believe that I am ill, you jade? Believe that I am ill, you impudent hussy?

Toi. Very well, then, Sir, you are ill; don’t let us quarrel about that. Yes, you are very ill, I agree with you upon that point, more ill even than you think. Now, is that settled? But your daughter is to marry a husband for herself, and as she is not ill, what is the use of giving her a doctor?

Arg. It is for my sake that I give her this doctor, and a good daughter ought to be delighted to marry for the sake of her father’s health.

Toi. In good troth, Sir, shall I, as a friend, give you a piece of advice?

Arg. What is this advice?

Toi. Not to think of this match.

Arg. And your reason?

Toi. The reason is that your daughter will never consent to it.

Arg. My daughter will not consent to it?

Toi. No.

Arg. My daughter?

Toi. Your daughter. She will tell you that she has no need of Mr. Diafoirus, nor of his son, Mr. Thomas Diafoirus, nor all the Diafoiruses in the world.

Arg. But I have need of them. Besides, the match is more advantageous than you think. Mr. Diafoirus has only this son for his heir; and, moreover, Mr. Purgon, who has neither wife nor child, gives all he has in favour of this marriage; and Mr. Purgon is a man worth eight thousand francs a year.

Toi. What a lot of people he must have killed to have become so rich!

Arg. Eight thousand francs is something, without counting the property of the father.

Toi. That is very well, Sir, but, all the same, I advise you, between ourselves, to choose another husband for her; she is not of a make to become a Mrs. Diafoirus.

Arg. But I will have it so.

Toi. Fie! nonsense! Don’t speak like that.

Arg. Don’t speak like that? Why not?

Toi. Dear me, no, don’t.

Arg. And why should I not speak like that?

Toi. People will say that you don’t know what you are talking about.

Arg. People will say all they like, but I tell you that I will have her make my promise good.

Toi. I feel sure that she won’t.

Arg. Then I will force her to do it.

Toi. She will not do it, I tell you.

Arg. She will, or I will shut her up in a convent.

Toi. You?

Arg. I.

Toi. Good!

Arg. How good?

Toi. You will not shut her up in a convent.

Arg. I shall not shut her up in a convent?

Toi. No.

Arg. No?

Toi. No.

Arg. Well, this is cool! I shall not put my daughter in a convent if I like!

Toi. No, I tell you.

Arg. And who will hinder me?

Toi. You yourself.

Arg. Myself?

Toi. You will never have the heart to do it.

Arg. I shall.

Toi. You are joking.

Arg. I am not joking.

Toi. Fatherly love will hinder you.

Arg. It will not hinder me.

Toi. A little tear or two, her arms thrown round your neck, Or “My darling little papa,” said very tenderly, will be enough to touch your heart.

Arg. All that will be useless.

Toi. Oh yes!

Arg. I tell you that nothing will move me.

Toi. Rubbish!

Arg. You have no business to say “Rubbish.”

Toi. I know you well enough; you are naturally kind-hearted.

Arg. (angrily). I am not kind-hearted, and I am ill-natured when I like.

Toi. Gently, Sir, you forget that you are ill.

Arg. I command her to prepare herself to take the husband I have fixed upon.

Toi. And I decidedly forbid her to do anything of the kind.

Arg. What have we come to? And what boldness is this for a scrub of a servant to speak in such a way before her master?

Toi. When a master does not consider what he is doing, a sensible servant should set him right.

Arg. (running after Toinette). Ah, impudent girl, I will kill you!

Toi. (avoiding Argan, and putting the chair between her and him). It is my duty to oppose what would be a dishonour to you.

Arg. (running after Toinette with his cane in his hand). Come here, come here, let me teach you how to speak.

Toi. (running to the opposite side of the chair). I interest myself in your affairs as I ought to do, and I don’t wish to see you commit any folly.

Arg. (as before). Jade!

Toi. (as before). No, I will never consent to this marriage.

Arg. (as before). Worthless hussy!

Toi. (as before). I won’t have her marry your Thomas Diafoirus.

Arg. (as before). Vixen!

Toi. (as before). She will obey me sooner than you.

Arg. (stopping). Angélique, won’t you stop that jade for me?

Ang. Ah! father, don’t make yourself ill.

Arg. (to Angélique). If you don’t stop her, I will refuse you my blessing.

Toi. (going away). And I will disinherit her if she obeys you.

Arg. (throwing himself into his chair). Ah! I am done for. It is enough to kill me!

SCENE VI.

BÉLINE, ARGAN.

ARG. AH! COME near, my wife.

Bel. What ails you, my poor, dear husband?

Arg. Come to my help.

Bel. What is the matter, my little darling child?

Arg. My love.

Bel. My love.

Arg. They have just put me in a rage.

Bel. Alas! my poor little husband! How was that, my own dear pet?

Arg. That jade of yours, Toinette, has grown more insolent than ever.

Bel. Don’t excite yourself.

Arg. She has put me in a rage, my dove.

Bel. Gently, my child.

Arg. She has been thwarting me for the last hour about everything I want to do.

Bel. There, there; never mind.

Arg. And has had the impudence to say that I am not ill.

Bel. She is an impertinent hussy.

Arg. You know, my soul, what the truth is?

Bel. Yes, my darling, she is wrong.

Arg. My own dear, that jade will be the death of me.

Bel. Now, don’t, don’t.

Arg. She is the cause of all my bile.

Bel. Don’t be so angry.

Arg. And I have asked you ever so many times to send her away.

Bel. Alas! my child, there is no servant without defects. We are obliged to put up at times with their bad qualities on account of their good ones. The girl is skilful, careful, diligent, and, above all, honest; and you know that in our days we must be very careful what people we take into our house. I say, Toinette.

SCENE VII.

ARGAN, BÉLINE, TOINETTE.

TOI. MADAM.

Bel. How is this? Why do you put my husband in a passion?

Toi. (in a soft tone). I, Madam? Alas! I don’t know what you mean, and my only aim is to please master in everything.

Arg. Ah! the deceitful girl!

Toi. He said to us that he wished to marry his daughter to the son of Mr. Diafoirus. I told him that I thought the match very advantageous for her, but that I believed he would do better to put her in a convent.

Bel. There is not much harm in that, and I think that she is right.

Arg. Ah! deary, do you believe her? She is a vile girl, and has said a hundred insolent things to me.

Bel. Well, I believe you, my dear. Come, compose yourself; and you, Toinette, listen to me. If ever you make my husband angry again, I will send you away. Come, give me his fur cloak and some pillows, that I may make him comfortable in his arm-chair. You are all anyhow. Pull your night-cap right down over your ears; there is nothing that gives people such bad colds as letting in the air through the ears.

Arg. Ah, deary! how much obliged I am to you for all the care you take of me.

Bel. (adjusting the pillows, which she puts round him). Raise yourself a little for me to put this under you. Let us put this one for you to lean upon, and this one on the other side; this one behind your back, and this other to support your head.

Toi. (clapping a pillow rudely on his head). And this other to keep you from the evening damp.

Arg. (rising angrily, and throwing the pillows after Toinette, who runs away). Ah, wretch! you want to smother me.

SCENE VIII.

ARGAN, BÉLINE.

BEL. NOW, NOW; what is it again?

Arg. (throwing himself in his chair). Ah! I can hold out no longer.

Bel. But why do you fly into such a passion? she thought she was doing right.

Arg. You don’t know, darling, the wickedness of that villainous baggage. She has altogether upset me, and I shall want more than eight different mixtures and twelve injections to remedy the evil.

Bel. Come, come, my dearie, compose yourself a little.

Arg. Lovey, you are my only consolation.

Bel. Poor little pet!

Arg. To repay you for all the love you have for me, my darling, I will, as I told you, make my will.

Bel. Ah, my soul! do not let us speak of that, I beseech you. I cannot bear to think of it, and the very word “will” makes me die of grief.

Arg. I had asked you to speak to our notary about it.

Bel. There he is, close at hand; I have brought him with me.

Arg. Make him come in then, my life!

Bel. Alas! my darling, when a woman loves her husband so much, she finds it almost impossible to think of these things.

SCENE IX.

MR. DE BONNEFOI, BÉLINE, ARGAN.

ARG. COME HERE, Mr. de Bonnefoi, come here. Take a seat, if you please. My wife tells me, Sir, that you are a very honest man, and altogether one of her friends; I have therefore asked her to speak to you about a will which I wish to make.

Bel. Alas! I cannot speak of those things.

Mr. de Bon. She has fully explained to me your intentions, Sir, and what you mean to do for her. But I have to tell you that you can give nothing to your wife by will.

Arg. But why so?

Mr. de Bon. It is against custom. If you were in a district where statute law prevailed, the thing could be done; but in Paris, and in almost all places governed by custom, it cannot be done; and the will would be held void. The only settlement that man and wife can make on each other is by mutual donation while they are alive, and even then there must be no children from either that marriage or from any previous marriage at the decease of the first who dies.

Arg. It’s a very impertinent custom that a husband can leave nothing to a wife whom he loves, by whom he is tenderly loved, and who takes so much care of him. I should like to consult my own advocate to see what I can do.

Mr. de Bon. It is not to an advocate that you must apply; for they are very particular on this point and think it a great crime to bestow one’s property contrary to the law. They are people to make difficulties, and are ignorant of the bylaws of conscience. There are others whom you may consult with advantage on that point, and who have expedients for gently overriding the law, and for rendering just that which is not allowed. These know how to smooth over the difficulties of an affair, and to find the means of eluding custom by some indirect advantage. Without that, what would become of us every day? We must make things easy; otherwise we should do nothing, and I wouldn’t give a penny for our business.

Arg. My wife had rightly told me, Sir, that you were a very clever and honest man. What can I do, pray, to give her my fortune and deprive my children of it?

Mr. de Bon. What you can do? You can discreetly choose a friend of your wife, to whom you will give all you own in due form by your will, and that friend will give it up to her afterwards; or else you can sign a great many safe bonds in favour of various creditors who will lend their names to your wife, and in whose hands they will leave a declaration that what was done was only to serve her. You can also in your lifetime put in her hands ready money and bills which you can make payable to bearer.

Bel. Alas! you must not trouble yourself about all that. If I lose you, my child, I will stay no longer in the world.

Arg. My darling!

Bel. Yes, my pet, if I were unfortunate enough to lose you …

Arg. My dear wifey!

Bel. Life would be nothing to me.

Arg. My love!

Bel. And I would follow you to the grave, to show you all the tenderness I feel for you.

Arg. You will break my heart, deary; comfort yourself, I beseech you.

Mr. de Bon. (to BÉLINE). These tears are unseasonable; things have not come to that yet.

Bel. Ah, Sir! you don’t know what it is to have a husband one loves tenderly.

Arg. All the regret I shall have, if I die, my darling, will be to have no child from you. Mr. Purgon told me he would make me have one.

Mr. de Bon. That may come still.

Arg. I must make my will, deary, according to what this gentleman advises; but, out of precaution, I will give you the twenty thousand francs in gold which I have in the wainscoting of the recess of my room, and two bills payable to bearer which are due to me, one from Mr. Damon, the other from Mr. Géronte.

Bel. No, no! I will have nothing to do with all that. Ah! How much do you say there is in the recess?

Arg. Twenty thousand francs, darling.

Bel. Don’t speak to me of your money, I beseech you. Ah! How much are the two bills for?

Arg. One, my love, is for four thousand francs, and the other for six thousand.

Bel. All the wealth in the world, my soul, is nothing to me compared to you.

Mr. de Bon. (to Argan). Shall we draw up the will?

Arg. Yes, Sir. But we shall be more comfortable in my own little study. Help me, my love.

Bel. Come, my poor, dear child.

SCENE X.

ANGÉLIQUE, TOINETTE.

TOI. THEY ARE shut up with the notary, and I heard something about a will; your mother-in-law doesn’t go to sleep; it is, no doubt, some conspiracy of hers against your interests to which she is urging your father.

Ang. Let him dispose of his money as he likes, as long as he does not dispose of my heart in the same way. You see, Toinette, to what violence it is subjected. Do not forsake me, I beseech you, in this my extremity.

Toi. I forsake you! I had rather die. In vain does your stepmother try to take me into her confidence, and make me espouse her interests. I never could like her, and I have always been on your side. Trust me, I will do every thing to serve you. But, in order to serve you more effectually, I shall change my tactics, hide my wish to help you, and affect to enter into the feelings of your father and your stepmother.

Ang. Try, I beseech you, to let Cléante know about the marriage they have decided upon.

Toi. I have nobody to employ for that duty but the old usurer Punchinello, my lover; it will cost me a few honeyed words, which I am most willing to spend for you. To-day it is too late for that, but to-morrow morning early I will send for him, and he will be delighted to …

SCENE XI.

BÉLINE (in the house), ANGÉLIQUE, TOINETTE.

BEL. TOINETTE.

Toi. (to Angélique). I am called away. Good night. Trust me.

FIRST INTERLUDE.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

CLÉANTE, TOINETTE.

TOI. (NOT RECOGNISING Cléante). What is it you want, Sir?

Cle. What do I want?

Toi. Ah! ah! is it you? What a surprise! What are you coming here for?

Cle. To learn my destiny, to speak to the lovely Angélique, to consult the feelings of her heart, and to ask her what she means to do about this fatal marriage of which I have been told.

Toi. Very well; but no one speaks so easily as all that to Angélique; you must take precautions, and you have been told how narrowly she is watched. She never goes out, nor does she see anybody. It was through the curiosity of an old aunt that we obtained leave to go to the play where your love began, and we have taken good care not to say anything about it.

Cle. Therefore am I not here as Cléante, nor as her lover, but as the friend of her music-master, from whom I have obtained leave to say that I have come in his stead.

Toi. Here is her father; withdraw a little, and let me tell him who you are.

SCENE II.

ARGAN, TOINETTE.

ARG. (THINKING HIMSELF alone). Mr. Purgon told me that I was to walk twelve times to and fro in my room every morning, but I forgot to ask him whether it should be lengthways or across.

Toi. Sir, here is a gentleman …

Arg. Speak in a lower tone, you jade; you split my head open; and you forget that we should never speak so loud to sick people.

Toi. I wanted to tell you, Sir …

Arg. Speak low, I tell you.

Toi. Sir … (She moves her lips as if she were speaking.)

Arg. What?

Toi. I tell you that … (As before.)

Arg. What is it you say?

Toi. (aloud). I say that there is a gentleman here who wants to speak to you.

Arg. Let him come in.

SCENE III.

ARGAN, CLÉANTE, TOINETTE.

CLE. SIR.

Toi. (to Cléante). Do not speak so loud, for fear of splitting open the head of Mr. Argan.

Cle. Sir, I am delighted to find you up, and to see you better.

Toi. (affecting to be angry). How! better? It is false; master is always ill.

Cle. I had heard that your master was better, and I think that he looks well in the face.

Toi. What do you mean by his looking well in the face? He looks very bad, and it is only impertinent folks who say that he is better; he never was so ill in his life.

Arg. She is right.

Toi. He walks, sleeps, eats, and drinks, like other folks, but that does not hinder him from being very ill.

Arg. Quite true.

Cle. I am heartily sorry for it, Sir. I am sent by your daughter’s music-master; he was obliged to go into the country for a few days, and as I am his intimate friend, he has asked me to come here in his place, to go on with the lessons, for fear that, if they were discontinued, she should forget what she has already learnt.

Arg. Very well. (To Toinette) Call Angélique.

Toi. I think, Sir, It would be better to take the gentleman to her room.

Arg. No, make her come here.

Toi. He cannot give her a good lesson if they are not left alone.

Arg. Oh! yes, he can.

Toi. Sir, it will stun you; and you should have nothing to disturb you in the state of health you are in.

Arg. No, no; I like music, and I should be glad to…. Ah! here she is. (To Toinette) Go and see if my wife is dressed.

SCENE IV.

ARGAN, ANGÉLIQUE, CLÉANTE.

ARG. COME, MY daughter, your music-master is gone into the country, and here is a person whom he sends instead, to give you your lesson.

Ang. (recognising Cléante). O heavens!

Arg. What is the matter? Why this surprise?

Ang. It is …

Arg. What can disturb you in that manner?

Ang. It is such a strange coincidence.

Arg. How so?

Ang. I dreamt last night that I was in the greatest trouble imaginable, and that some one exactly like this gentleman came to me. I asked him to help me, and presently he saved me from the great trouble I was in. My surprise was very great to meet unexpectedly, on my coming here, him of whom I had been dreaming all night.

Cle. It is no small happiness to occupy your thoughts whether sleeping or waking, and my delight would be great indeed if you were in any trouble out of which you would think me worthy of delivering you. There is nothing that I would not do for …

SCENE V.

ARGAN, ANGÉLIQUE, CLÉANTE, TOINETTE.

TOI. (TO ARGAN). Indeed, Sir, I am of your opinion now, and I unsay all that I said yesterday. Here are Mr. Diafoirus the father, and Mr. Diafoirus the son, who are coming to visit you. How well provided with a son-in-law you will be! You will see the best-made young fellow in the world, and the most intellectual. He said but two words to me, it is true, but I was struck with them, and your daughter will be delighted with him.

Arg. (to Cléante, who moves as if to go). Do not go, Sir. I am about, as you see, to marry my daughter, and they have just brought her future husband, whom she has not as yet seen.

Cle. You do me great honour, Sir, in wishing me to be witness of such a pleasant interview.

Arg. He is the son of a clever doctor, and the marriage will take place in four days.

Cle. Indeed!

Arg. Please inform her music-master of it, that he may be at the wedding.

Cle. I will not fail to do so.

Arg. And I invite you also.

Cle. You do me too much honour.

Toi. Come, make room; here they are.

SCENE VI.

MR. DIAFOIRUS, THOMAS DIAFOIRUS, ARGAN, ANGÉLIQUE, CLÉANTE, TOINETTE, SERVANTS.

ARG. (PUTTING UP his hand to his night-cap without taking it off). Mr. Purgon has forbidden me to uncover my head. You belong to the profession, and know what would be the consequence if I did so.

Mr. Dia. We are bound in all our visits to bring relief to invalids, and not to injure them.

(Mr. Argan and Mr. Diafoirus speak at the same time.)

Arg. I receive, Sir….

Mr. Dia. We come here, Sir….

Arg. With great joy….

Mr. Dia. My son Thomas and myself….

Arg. The honour you do me….

Mr. Dia. To declare to you, Sir….

Arg. And I wish….

Mr. Dia. The delight we are in….

Arg. I could have gone to your house….

Mr. Dia. At the favour you do us….

Arg. To assure you of it….

Mr. Dia. In so kindly admitting us….

Arg. But you know, Sir….

Mr. Dia. To the honour, Sir….

Arg. What it is to be a poor invalid….

Mr. Dia. Of your alliance….

Arg. Who can only….

Mr. Dia. And assure you….

Arg. Tell you here….

Mr. Dia. That in all that depends on our knowledge….

Arg. That he will seize every opportunity….

Mr. Dia. As well as in any other way….

Arg. To show you, Sir….

Mr. Dia. That we shall ever be ready, Sir….

Arg. That he is entirely at your service….

Mr. Dia. To show you our zeal. (To his son) Now, Thomas, come forward, and pay your respects.

T. Dia. (to Mr. Diafoirus). Ought I not to begin with the father?

Mr. Dia. Yes.

T. Dia. (to Argan). Sir, I come to salute, acknowledge, cherish, and revere in you a second father; but a second father to whom I owe more, I make bold to say, than to the first. The first gave me birth; but you have chosen me. He received me by necessity, but you have accepted me by choice. What I have from him is of the body, corporal; what I hold from you is of the will, voluntary; and in so much the more as the mental faculties are above the corporal, in so much the more do I hold precious this future affiliation, for which I come beforehand to-day to render you my most humble and most respectful homage.

Toi. Long life to the colleges which send such clever people into the world!

T. Dia. (to Mr. Diafoirus). Has this been said to your satisfaction, father?

Mr. Dia. Optime.

Arg. (to Angélique). Come, bow to this gentleman.

T. Dia (to Mr. Diafoirus). Shall I kiss?

Mr. Dia. Yes, yes.

T. Dia. (to Angélique). Madam, it is with justice that heaven has given you the name of stepmother, since we see in you steps towards the perfect beauty which …

Arg. (to Thomas Diafoirus). It is not to my wife, but to my daughter, that you are speaking.

T. Dia. Where is she?

Arg. She will soon come.

T. Dia. Shall I wait, father, till she comes?

Mr. Dia. No; go through your compliments to the young lady in the meantime.

T. Dia. Madam, as the statue of Memnon gave forth a harmonious sound when it was struck by the first rays of the sun, in like manner do I experience a sweet rapture at the apparition of this sun of your beauty. As the naturalists remark that the flower styled heliotrope always turns towards the star of day, so will my heart for ever turn towards the resplendent stars of your adorable eyes as to its only pole. Suffer me, then, Madam, to make to-day on the altar of your charms the offering of a heart which longs for and is ambitious of no greater glory than to be till death, Madam, your most humble, most obedient, most faithful servant and husband.

Toi. Ah! See what it is to study, and how one learns to say fine things!

Arg. (to Cléante). Well! what do you say to that?

Cle. The gentleman does wonders, and if he is as good a doctor as he is an orator, it will be most pleasant to be one of his patients.

Toi. Certainly, it will be something admirable if his cures are as wonderful as his speeches.

Arg. Now, quick, my chair; and seats for everybody. (Servants bring chairs.) Sit down here, my daughter. (To M. Diafoirus) You see, Sir, that everybody admires your son; and I think you very fortunate in being the father of such a fine young man.

Mr. Dia. Sir, it is not because I am his father, but I can boast that I have reason to be satisfied with him, and that all those who see him speak of him as of a youth without guile. He has not a very lively imagination, nor that sparkling wit which is found in some others; but it is this which has always made me augur well of his judgment, a quality required for the exercise of our art. As a child he never was what is called sharp or lively. He was always gentle, peaceful, taciturn, never saying a word, and never playing at any of those little pastimes that we call children’s games. It was found most difficult to teach him to read, and he was nine years old before he knew his letters. A good omen, I used to say to myself; trees slow of growth bear the best fruit. We engrave on marble with much more difficulty than on sand, but the result is more lasting; and that dulness of apprehension, that heaviness of imagination, is a mark of a sound judgment in the future. When I sent him to college, he found it hard work, but he stuck to his duty, and bore up with obstinacy against all difficulties. His tutors always praised him for his assiduity and the trouble he took. In short, by dint of continual hammering, he at last succeeded gloriously in obtaining his degree; and I can say, without vanity, that from that time till now there has been no candidate who has made more noise than he in all the disputations of our school. There he has rendered himself formidable, and no debate passes but he goes and argues loudly and to the last extreme on the opposite side. He is firm in dispute, strong as a Turk in his principles, never changes his opinion, and pursues an argument to the last recesses of logic. But, above all things, what pleases me in him, and what I am glad to see him follow my example in, is that he is blindly attached to the opinions of the ancients, and that he would never understand nor listen to the reasons and the experiences of the pretended discoveries of our century concerning the circulation of the blood and other opinions of the same stamp.

T. Dia. (pulling out of his pocket a long paper rolled up, and presenting it to Angélique). I have upheld against these circulators a thesis which, with the permission (bowing to Argan) of this gentleman, I venture to present to the young lady as the first-fruits of my genius.

Ang. Sir, it is a useless piece of furniture to me; I do not understand these things.

Toi. (taking the paper). Never mind; give it all the same; the picture will be of use, and we will adorn our attic with it.

T. Dia. (again bowing to Angélique). With the permission of this gentleman, I invite you to come one of these days to amuse yourself by assisting at the dissection of a woman upon whose body I am to give lectures.

Toi. The treat will be most welcome. There are some who give the pleasure of seeing a play to their lady-love; but a dissection is much more gallant.

Mr. Dia. Moreover, in respect to the qualities required for marriage, I assure you that he is all you could wish, and that his children will be strong and healthy.

Arg. Do you not intend, Sir, to push his way at court, and obtain for him the post of physician there?

Mr. Dia. To tell you the truth, I have never had any predilection to practice with the great; it never seemed pleasant to me, and I have found that it is better for us to confine ourselves to the ordinary public. Ordinary people are more convenient; you are accountable to nobody for your actions, and as long as you follow the common rules laid down by the faculty, there is no necessity to trouble yourself about the result. What is vexatious among people of rank is that, when they are ill, they positively expect their doctor to cure them.

Toi. How very absurd! How impertinent of them to ask of you doctors to cure them! You are not placed near them for that, but only to receive your fees and to prescribe remedies. It is their own look-out to get well if they can.

Mr. Dia. Quite so. We are only bound to treat people according to form.

Arg. (to Cléante). Sir, please make my daughter sing before the company.

Cle. I was waiting for your commands, Sir; and I propose, in order to amuse the company, to sing with the young lady an operetta which has lately come out. (To Angélique, giving her a paper) There is your part.

Ang. Mine?

Cle. (aside to Angélique). Don’t refuse, pray; but let me explain to you what is the scene we must sing. (Aloud) I have no voice; but in this case it is sufficient if I make myself understood; and you must have the goodness to excuse me, because I am under the necessity of making the young lady sing.

Arg. Are the verses pretty?

Cle. It is really nothing but a small extempore opera, and what you will hear is only rhythmical prose or a kind of irregular verse, such as passion and necessity make two people utter.

Arg. Very well; let us hear.

Cle. The subject of the scene is as follows. A shepherd was paying every attention to the beauties of a play, when he was disturbed by a noise close to him, and on turning round he saw a scoundrel who, with insolent language, was annoying a young shepherdess. He immediately espoused the cause of a sex to which all men owe homage; and after having chastised the brute for his insolence, he came near the shepherdess to comfort her. He sees a young girl with the most beautiful eyes he has ever beheld, who is shedding tears which he thinks the most precious in the world. Alas! says he to himself, can any one be capable of insulting such charms? Where is the unfeeling wretch, the barbarous man to be found who will not feel touched by such tears? He endeavours to stop those beautiful tears, and the lovely shepherdess takes the opportunity of thanking him for the slight service he has rendered her. But she does it in a manner so touching, so tender, and so passionate that the shepherd cannot resist it, and each word, each look is a burning shaft which penetrates his heart. Is there anything in the world worthy of such thanks? and what will not one do, what service and what danger will not one be delighted to run to attract upon oneself even for a moment the touching sweetness of so grateful a heart? The whole play was acted without his paying any more attention to it; yet he complains that it was too short, since the end separates him from his lovely shepherdess. From that moment, from that first sight, he carries away with him a love which has the strength of a passion of many years. He now feels all the pangs of absence, and is tormented in no longer seeing what he beheld for so short a time. He tries every means to meet again with a sight so dear to him, and the remembrance of which pursues him day and night. But the great watch which is kept over his shepherdess deprives him of all the power of doing so. The violence of his passion urges him to ask in marriage the adorable beauty without whom he can no longer live, and he obtains from her the permission of doing so, by means of a note that he has succeeded in sending to her. But he is told in the meantime that the father of her whom he loves has decided upon marrying her to another, and that everything is being got ready to celebrate the wedding. Judge what a cruel wound for the heart of that poor shepherd! Behold him suffering from this mortal blow; he cannot bear the dreadful idea of seeing her he loves in the arms of another; and in his despair he finds the means of introducing himself into the house of his shepherdess, in order to learn her feelings and to hear from her the fate he must expect. There he sees everything ready for what he fears; he sees the unworthy rival whom the caprice of a father opposes to the tenderness of his love; he sees that ridiculous rival triumphant near the lovely shepherdess, as if already assured of his conquest. Such a sight fills him with a wrath he can hardly master. He looks despairingly at her whom he adores, but the respect he has for her and the presence of her father prevent him from speaking except with his eyes. At last he breaks through all restraint, and the greatness of his love forces him to speak as follows. (He sings.)

Phyllis, too sharp a pain you bid me bear;
Break this stern silence, tell me what to fear;
Disclose your thoughts, and bid them open lie
To tell me if I live or die.

Ang.

The marriage preparations sadden me.
O’erwhelmed with sorrow,
My eyes I lift to heaven; I strive to pray,
Then gaze on you and sigh. No more I say.

Cle.

Tircis, who fain would woo,
Tell him, Phyllis, is it true,
Is he so blest by your sweet grace
As in your heart to find a place?

Ang.

I may not hide it, in this dire extreme,
Tircis, I own for you my love….

Cle.

O blessed words! am I indeed so blest?
Repeat them, Phyllis; set my doubts at rest.

Ang.

I love you, Tircis!

Cle.

Ah! Phyllis, once again.

Ang.

I love you, Tircis!

Cle.

Alas! I fain
A hundred times would hearken to that strain.

Ang.

I love you! I love you!
Tircis, I love you!

Cle.

Ye kings and gods who, from your eternal seat,
Behold the world of men beneath your feet,
Can you possess a happiness more sweet?
My Phyllis! one dark haunting fear
Our peaceful joy disturbs unsought;
A rival may my homage share.

Ang.

Ah! worse than death is such a thought!
Its presence equal torment is
To both, and mars my bliss.

Cle.

Your father to his vow would subject you.

Ang.

Ah! welcome death before I prove untrue.

Arg. And what does the father say to all that?

Cle. Nothing.

Arg. Then that father is a fool to put up with those silly things, without saying a word!

Cle. (trying to go on singing).

Ah! my love….

Arg. No; no; that will do. An opera like that is in very bad taste. The shepherd Tircis is an impertinent fellow, and the shepherdess Phyllis an impudent girl to speak in that way in the presence of her father. (To Angélique) Show me that paper. Ah! ah! and where are the words that you have just sung? This is only the music.

Cle. Are you not aware, Sir, that the way of writing the words with the notes themselves has been lately discovered?

Arg. Has it? Good-bye for the present. We could have done very well without your impertinent opera.

Cle. I thought I should amuse you.

Arg. Foolish things do not amuse, Sir. Ah! here is my wife.

SCENE VII.

BÉLINE, ARGAN, ANGÉLIQUE, MR. DIAFOIRUS, T. DIAFOIRUS, TOINETTE.

ARG. MY LOVE, here is the son of Mr. Diafoirus.

T. Dia. Madam, it is with justice that heaven has given you the title of stepmother, since we see in you steps …

Bel. Sir, I am delighted to have come here just in time to see you.

T. Dia. Since we see in you … since we see in you…. Madam, you have interrupted me in the middle of my period, and have troubled my memory.

Mr. Dia. Keep it for another time.

Arg. I wish, my dear, that you had been here just now.

Toi. Ah! Madam, how much you have lost by not being at the second father, the statue of Memnon, and the flower styled heliotrope.

Arg. Come, my daughter, shake hands with this gentleman, and pledge him your troth.

Ang. Father!

Arg. Well? What do you mean by “Father”?

Ang. I beseech you not to be in such a hurry; give us time to become acquainted with each other, and to see grow in us that sympathy so necessary to a perfect union.

T. Dia. As far as I am concerned, Madam, it is already full-grown within me, and there is no occasion for me to wait.

Ang. I am not so quick as you are, Sir, and I must confess that your merit has not yet made enough impression on my heart.

Arg. Oh! nonsense! There will be time enough for the impression to be made after you are married.

Ang. Ah! my father, give me time, I beseech you! Marriage is a chain which should never be imposed by force. And if this gentleman is a man of honour, he ought not to accept a person who would be his only by force.

T. Dia. Nego consequentiam. I can be a man of honour, Madam, and at the same time accept you from the hands of your father.

Ang. To do violence to any one is a strange way of setting about inspiring love.

T. Dia. We read in the ancients, Madam, that it was their custom to carry off by main force from their father’s house the maiden they wished to marry, so that the latter might not seem to fly of her own accord into the arms of a man.

Ang. The ancients, Sir, are the ancients; but we are the moderns. Pretences are not necessary in our age; and when a marriage pleases us, we know very well how to go to it without being dragged by force. Have a little patience; if you love me, Sir, you ought to do what I wish.

T. Dia. Certainly, Madam, but without prejudice to the interest of my love.

Ang. But the greatest mark of love is to submit to the will of her who is loved.

T. Dia. Distinguo, Madam. In what does not regard the possession of her, concedo; but in what regards it, nego.

Toi. (to Angélique). It is in vain for you to argue. This gentleman is bran new from college, and will be more than a match for you. Why resist, and refuse the glory of belonging to the faculty?

Bel. She may have some other inclination in her head.

Ang. If I had, Madam, it would be such as reason and honour allow.

Arg. Heyday! I am acting a pleasant part here!

Bel. If I were you, my child, I would not force her to marry; I know very well what I should do.

Ang. I know what you mean, Madam, and how kind you are to me; but it may be hoped that your advice may not be fortunate enough to be followed.

Bel. That is because well-brought-up and good children, like you, scorn to be obedient to the will of their fathers. Obedience was all very well in former times.

Ang. The duty of a daughter has its limits, Madam, and neither reason nor law extend it to all things.

Bel. Which means that your thoughts are all in favour of marriage, but that you will choose a husband for yourself.

Ang. If my father will not give me a husband I like, at least I beseech him not to force me to marry one I can never love.

Arg. Gentlemen, I beg your pardon for all this.

Ang. We all have our own end in marrying. For my part, as I only want a husband that I can love sincerely, and as I intend to consecrate my whole life to him, I feel bound, I confess, to be cautious. There are some who marry simply to free themselves from the yoke of their parents, and to be at liberty to do all they like. There are others, Madam, who see in marriage only a matter of mere interest; who marry only to get a settlement, and to enrich themselves by the death of those they marry. They pass without scruple from husband to husband, with an eye to their possessions. These, no doubt, Madam, are not so difficult to satisfy, and care little what the husband is like.

Bel. You are very full of reasoning to-day. I wonder what you mean by this.

Ang. I, Madam? What can I mean but what I say?

Bel. You are such a simpleton, my dear, that one can hardly bear with you.

Ang. You would like to extract from me some rude answer; but I warn you that you will not have the pleasure of doing so.

Bel. Nothing can equal your impertinence.

Ang. It is of no use, Madam; you will not.

Bel. And you have a ridiculous pride, an impertinent presumption, which makes you the scorn of everybody.

Ang. All this will be useless, Madam. I shall be quiet in spite of you; and to take away from you all hope of succeeding in what you wish, I will withdraw from your presence.

SCENE VIII.

ARGAN, BÉLINE, MR. DIAFOIRUS, T. DIAFOIRUS, TOINETTE.

ARG. (TO ANGÉLIQUE, as she goes away). Listen to me! Of two things, one. Either you will marry this gentleman or you will go into a convent. I give you four days to consider. (To Béline) Don’t be anxious; I will bring her to reason.

Bel. I am sorry to leave you, my child; but I have some important business which calls me to town. I shall soon be back.

Arg. Go, my darling; call upon the notary, and tell him to be quick about you know what.

Bel. Good-bye, my child.

Arg. Good-bye, deary.

SCENE IX.

ARGAN, MR. DIAFOIRUS, T. DIAFOIRUS, TOINETTE.

ARG. HOW MUCH this woman loves me; it is perfectly incredible.

Mr. Dia. We shall now take our leave of you, Sir.

Arg. I beg of you, Sir, to tell me how I am.

Mr. Dia. (feeling Argan’s pulse). Now, Thomas, take the other arm of the gentleman, so that I may see whether you can form a right judgment on his pulse. Quid dicis?

T. Dia. Dico that the pulse of this gentleman is the pulse of a man who is not well.

Mr. Dia. Good.

T. Dia. That it is duriusculus, not to say durus.

Mr. Dia. Very well.

T. Dia. Irregular.

Mr. Dia. Bene.

T. Dia. And even a little caprizant.

Mr. Dia. Optime.

T. Dia. Which speaks of an intemperance in the splenetic parenchyma; that is to say, the spleen.

Mr. Dia. Quite right.

Arg. It cannot be, for Mr. Purgon says that it is my liver which is out of order.

Mr. Dia. Certainly; he who says parenchyma says both one and the other, because of the great sympathy which exists between them through the means of the vas breve, of the pylorus, and often of the meatus choledici. He no doubt orders you to eat plenty of roast-meat.

Arg. No; nothing but boiled meat.

Mr. Dia. Yes, yes; roast or boiled, it is all the same; he orders very wisely, and you could not have fallen into better hands.

Arg. Sir, tell me how many grains of salt I ought to put to an egg?

Mr. Dia. Six, eight, ten, by even numbers; just as in medicines by odd numbers.

Arg. Good-bye, Sir; I hope soon to have the pleasure of seeing you again.

SCENE X.

BÉLINE, ARGAN.

BEL. BEFORE I go out, I must inform you of one thing you must be careful about. While passing before Angélique’s door, I saw with her a young man, who ran away as soon as he noticed me.

Arg. A young man with my daughter!

Bel. Yes; your little girl Louison, who was with them, will tell you all about it.

Arg. Send her here, my love, send her here at once. Ah! the brazen-faced girl! (Alone.) I no longer wonder at the resistance she showed.

SCENE XI.

ARGAN, LOUISON.

LOU. WHAT DO you want, papa? My step-mamma told me to come to you.

Arg. Yes; come here. Come nearer. Turn round, and hold up your head. Look straight at me. Well?

Lou. What, papa?

Arg. So?

Lou. What?

Arg. Have you nothing to say to me?

Lou. Yes. I will, to amuse you, tell you, if you like, the story of the Ass’s Skin or the fable of the Fox and the Crow, which I have learnt lately.

Arg. That is not what I want of you.

Lou. What is it then?

Arg. Ah! cunning little girl, you know very well what I mean.

Lou. No indeed, papa.

Arg. Is that the way you obey me?

Lou. What, papa?

Arg. Have I not asked you to tell me at once all you see?

Lou. Yes, papa.

Arg. Have you done so?

Lou. Yes, papa. I always come and tell you all I see.

Arg. And have you seen nothing to-day?

Lou. No, papa.

Arg. No?

Lou. No, papa.

Arg. Quite sure?

Lou. Quite sure.

Arg. Ah! indeed! I will make you see something soon.

Lou. (seeing Argan take a rod). Ah! papa!

Arg. Ah! ah! false little girl; you do not tell me that you saw a man in your sister’s room!

Lou. (crying). Papa!

Arg. (taking Louison by the arm). This will teach you to tell falsehoods.

Lou. (throwing herself on her knees). Ah! my dear papa! pray forgive me. My sister had asked me not to say anything to you, but I will tell you everything.

Arg. First you must have a flogging for having told an untruth, then we will see to the rest.

Lou. Forgive me, papa, forgive me!

Arg. No, no!

Lou. My dear papa, don’t whip me.

Arg. Yes, you shall be whipped.

Lou. For pity’s sake! don’t whip me, papa.

Arg. (going to whip her). Come, come.

Lou. Ah! papa, you have hurt me; I am dead! (She feigns to be dead.)

Arg. How, now! What does this mean? Louison! Louison! Ah! heaven! Louison! My child! Ah! wretched father! My poor child is dead! What have I done? Ah! villainous rod! A curse on the rod! Ah! my poor child! My dear little Louison!

Lou. Come, come, dear papa; don’t weep so. I am not quite dead yet.

Arg. Just see the cunning little wench. Well! I forgive you this once, but you must tell me everything.

Lou. Oh yes, dear papa.

Arg. Be sure you take great care, for here is my little finger that knows everything, and it will tell me if you don’t speak the truth.

Lou. But, papa, you won’t tell sister that I told you.

Arg. No, no.

Lou. (after having listened to see if any one can hear). Papa, a young man came into sister’s room while I was there.

Arg. Well?

Lou. I asked him what he wanted; he said that he was her music-master.

Arg. (aside). Hm! hm! I see. (To Louison) Well?

Lou. Then sister came.

Arg. Well?

Lou. She said to him, “Go away, go away, go. Good heavens! you will drive me to despair.”

Arg. Well?

Lou. But he would not go away.

Arg. What did he say to her?

Lou. Oh! ever so many things.

Arg. But what?

Lou. He told her this, and that, and the other; that he loved her dearly; that she was the most beautiful person in the world.

Arg. And then, after?

Lou. Then he knelt down before her.

Arg. And then?

Lou. Then he kept on kissing her hands.

Arg. And then?

Lou. Then my mamma came to the door, and, he escaped.

Arg. Nothing else?

Lou. No, dear papa.

Arg. Here is my little finger, which says something though. (Putting his finger up to his ear.) Wait. Stay, eh? ah! ah! Yes? oh! oh! here is my little finger, which says that there is something you saw, and which you do not tell me.

Lou. Ah! papa, your little finger is a story-teller.

Arg. Take care.

Lou. No, don’t believe him; he tells a story, I assure you.

Arg. Oh! Well, well; we will see to that. Go away now, and pay great attention to what you see. (Alone.) Ah! children are no longer children nowadays! What trouble! I have not even enough leisure to attend to my illness. I am quite done up. (He falls down into his chair.)

SCENE XII.

BÉRALDE, ARGAN.

BER. WELL, BROTHER! What is the matter? How are you?

Arg. Ah! very bad, brother; very bad.

Ber. How is that?

Arg. No one would believe how very feeble I am.

Ber. That’s a sad thing, indeed.

Arg. I have hardly enough strength to speak.

Ber. I came here, brother, to propose a match for my niece, Angélique.

Arg. (in a rage, speaking with great fury, and starting up from his chair). Brother, don’t speak to me of that wicked, good-for-nothing, insolent, brazen-faced girl. I will put her in a convent before two days are over.

Ber. Ah! all right! I am glad to see that you have a little strength still left, and that my visit does you good. Well, well, we will talk of business by-and-by. I have brought you an entertainment, which will dissipate your melancholy, and will dispose you better for what we have to talk about. They are gipsies dressed in Moorish clothes. They perform some dances mixed with songs, which, I am sure, you will like, and which will be as good as a prescription from Mr. Purgon. Come along.

SECOND INTERLUDE.

MEN AND WOMEN (dressed as Moors).

First Moorish Woman.

When blooms the spring of life,
  The golden harvest reap.
Waste not your years in bootless strife,
  Till age upon your bodies creep.
But now, when shines the kindly light,
Give up your soul to love’s delight.

No touch of sweetest joy
  This longing heart can know,
No bliss without alloy
  When love does silent show.

Then up, ye lads and lasses gay!
  The spring of life is fair;
  Cloud not these hours with care,
For love must win the day.

Beauty fades,
  Years roll by,
Lowering shades
  Obscure the sky.
And joys so sweet of yore
Shall charm us then no more.

Then up, ye lads and lasses gay!
  The spring of life is fair;
  Cloud not these hours with care,
For love must win the day.

First Entry of the Ballet.

2nd Moorish Woman.

They bid us love, they bid us woo,
  Why seek delay?
To tender sighs and kisses too
  In youth’s fair day,
Our hearts are but too true.

The sweetest charms has Cupid’s spell.
  No sooner felt, the ready heart
His conquered self would yield him well
  Ere yet the god had winged his dart.
But yet the tale we often hear
  Of tears and sorrows keen,
  To share in them, I ween,
Though sweet, would make us fear!

3rd Moorish Woman.

To love a lover true,
  In youth’s kind day, I trow,
  Is pleasant task enow;
But think how we must rue
  If he inconstant show!

4th Moorish Woman.

The loss of lover false to me
But trifling grief would be,
Yet this is far the keenest smart
That he had stol’n away our heart.

2nd Moorish Woman.

What then shall we do
Whose hearts are so young?

4th Moorish Woman.

Though cruel his laws,
Attended by woes,
Away with your arms,
Submit to his charms!

Together.

His whims ye must follow,
  His transports though fleet,
  His pinings too sweet
Though often comes sorrow,
The thousand delights
  The wounds of his darts
   Still charm all the hearts.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

BÉRALDE, ARGAN, TOINETTE.

BER. WELL, BROTHER, what do you say to that? Isn’t it as good as a dose of cassia?

Toi. Oh! good cassia is a very good thing, Sir.

Ber. Now, shall we have a little chat together.

Arg. Wait a moment, brother, I’ll be back directly.

Toi. Here, Sir; you forget that you cannot get about without a stick.

Arg. Ay, to be sure.

SCENE II.

BÉRALDE, TOINETTE.

TOI. PRAY, DO not give up the interest of your niece.

Ber. No, I shall do all in my power to forward her wishes.

Toi. We must prevent this foolish marriage which he has got into his head, from taking place. And I thought to myself that it would be a good thing to introduce a doctor here, having a full understanding of our wishes, to disgust him with his Mr. Purgon, and abuse his mode of treating him. But as we have nobody to act that part for us, I have decided upon playing him a trick of my own.

Ber. In what way?

Toi. It is rather an absurd idea, and it may be more fortunate than good. But act your own part. Here is our man.

SCENE III.

ARGAN, BÉRALDE.

BER. LET ME ask you, brother, above all things not to excite yourself during our conversation.

Arg. I agree.

Ber. To answer without anger to anything I may mention.

Arg. Very well.

Ber. And to reason together upon the business I want to discuss with you without any irritation.

Arg. Dear me! Yes. What a preamble!

Ber. How is it, brother, that, with all the wealth you possess, and with only one daughter — for I do not count the little one — you speak of sending her to a convent?

Arg. How is it, brother, that I am master of my family, and that I can do all I think fit?

Ber. Your wife doesn’t fail to advise you to get rid, in that way, of your two daughters; and I have no doubt that, through a spirit of charity, she would be charmed to see them both good nuns.

Arg. Oh, I see! My poor wife again! It is she who does all the harm, and everybody is against her.

Ber. No, brother; let us leave that alone. She is a woman with the best intentions in the world for the good of your family, and is free from all interested motives. She expresses for you the most extraordinary tenderness, and shows towards your children an inconceivable goodness. No, don’t let us speak of her, but only of your daughter. What can be your reason for wishing to give her in marriage to the sort of a doctor?

Arg. My reason is that I wish to have a son-in-law who will suit my wants.

Ber. But it is not what your daughter requires, and we have a more suitable match for her.

Arg. Yes; but this one is more suitable for me.

Ber. But does she marry a husband for herself or for you, brother?

Arg. He must do both for her and for me, brother; and I wish to take into my family people of whom I have need.

Ber. So that, if your little girl were old enough, you would give her to an apothecary?

Arg. Why not?

Ber. Is it possible that you should always be so infatuated with your apothecaries and doctors, and be so determined to be ill, in spite of men and nature?

Arg. What do you mean by that, brother?

Ber. I mean, brother, that I know of no man less sick than you, and that I should be quite satisfied with a constitution no worse than yours. One great proof that you are well, and that you have a body perfectly well made, is that with all the pains you have taken, you have failed as yet in injuring the soundness of your constitution, and that you have not died of all the medicine they have made you swallow.

Arg. But are you aware, brother, that it is these medicines which keep me in good health? Mr. Purgon says that I should go off if he were but three days without taking care of me.

Ber. If you are not careful, he will take such care of you that he will soon send you into the next world.

Arg. But let us reason together, brother; don’t you believe at all in medicine?

Ber. No, brother; and I do not see that it is necessary for our salvation to believe in it.

Arg. What! Do you not hold true a thing acknowledged by everybody, and revered throughout all ages?

Ber. Between ourselves, far from thinking it true, I look upon it as one of the greatest follies which exist among men; and to consider things from a philosophical point of view, I don’t know of a more absurd piece of mummery, of anything more ridiculous, than a man who takes upon himself to cure another man.

Arg. Why will you not believe that a man can cure another?

Ber. For the simple reason, brother, that the springs of our machines are mysteries about which men are as yet completely in the dark, and nature has put too thick a veil before our eyes for us to know anything about it.

Arg. Then, according to you, the doctors know nothing at all.

Ber. Oh yes, brother. Most of them have some knowledge of the best classics, can talk fine Latin, can give a Greek name to every disease, can define and distinguish them; but as to curing these diseases, that’s out of the question.

Arg. Still, you must agree to this, that doctors know more than others.

Ber. They know, brother, what I have told you; and that does not effect many cures. All the excellency of their art consists in pompous gibberish, in a specious babbling, which gives you words instead of reasons, and promises instead Of results.

Arg. Still, brother, there exist men as wise and clever as you, and we see that in cases of illness every one has recourse to the doctor.

Ber. It is a proof of human weakness, and not of the truth of their art.

Arg. Still, doctors must believe in their art, since they make use of it for themselves.

Ber. It is because some of them share the popular error by which they themselves profit, while others profit by it without sharing it. Your Mr. Purgon has no wish to deceive; he is a thorough doctor from head to foot, a man who believes in his rules more than in all the demonstrations of mathematics, and who would think it a crime to question them. He sees nothing obscure in physic, nothing doubtful, nothing difficult, and through an impetuous prepossession, an obstinate confidence, a coarse common sense and reason, orders right and left purgatives and bleedings, and hesitates at nothing. We must bear him no ill-will for the harm he does us; it is with the best intentions in the world that he will send you into the next world, and in killing you he will do no more than he has done to his wife and children, and than he would do to himself, if need be.

Arg. It is because you have a spite against him. But let us come to the point. What is to be done when one is ill?

Ber. Nothing, brother.

Arg. Nothing?

Ber. Nothing. Only rest. Nature, when we leave her free, will herself gently recover from the disorder into which she has fallen. It is our anxiety, our impatience, which does the mischief, and most men die of their remedies, and not of their diseases.

Arg. Still you must acknowledge, brother, that we can in certain things help nature.

Ber. Alas! brother; these are pure fancies, with which we deceive ourselves. At all times, there have crept among men brilliant fancies in which we believe, because they flatter us, and because it would be well if they were true. When a doctor speaks to us of assisting, succouring nature, of removing what is injurious to it, of giving it what it is defective in, of restoring it, and giving back to it the full exercise of its functions, when he speaks of purifying the blood, of refreshing the bowels and the brain, of correcting the spleen, of rebuilding the lungs, of renovating the liver, of fortifying the heart, of re-establishing and keeping up the natural heat, and of possessing secrets wherewith to lengthen life of many years — he repeats to you the romance of physic. But when you test the truth of what he has promised to you, you find that it all ends in nothing; it is like those beautiful dreams which only leave you in the morning the regret of having believed in them.

Arg. Which means that all the knowledge of the world is contained in your brain, and that you think you know more than all the great doctors of our age put together.

Ber. When you weigh words and actions, your great doctors are two different kinds of people. Listen to their talk, they are the cleverest people in the world; see them at work, and they are the most ignorant.

Arg. Heyday! You are a great doctor, I see, and I wish that some one of those gentlemen were here to take up your arguments and to check your babble.

Ber. I do not take upon myself, brother, to fight against physic; and every one at their own risk and peril may believe what he likes. What I say is only between ourselves; and I should have liked, in order to deliver you from the error into which you have fallen, and in order to amuse you, to take you to see some of Molière’s comedies on this subject.

Arg. Your Molière is a fine impertinent fellow with his comedies! I think it mightily pleasant of him to go and take off honest people like the doctors.

Ber. It is not the doctors themselves that he takes off, but the absurdity of medicine.

Arg. It becomes him well, truly, to control the faculty! He’s a nice simpleton, and a nice impertinent fellow to laugh at consultations and prescriptions, to attack the body of physicians, and to bring on his stage such venerable people as those gentlemen.

Ber. What would you have him bring there but the different professions of men? Princes and kings are brought there every day, and they are of as good a stock as your physicians.

Arg. No, by all the devils! if I were a physician, I would be revenged of his impertinence, and when he falls ill, I would let him die without relief. In vain would he beg and pray. I would not prescribe for him the least little bleeding, the least little injection, and I would tell him, “Die, die, like a dog; it will teach you to laugh at us doctors.”

Ber. You are terribly angry with him.

Arg. Yes, he is an ill-advised fellow, and if the doctors are wise, they will do what I say.

Ber. He will be wiser than the doctors, for he will not go and ask their help.

Arg. So much the worse for him, if he has not recourse to their remedies.

Ber. He has his reasons for not wishing to have anything to do with them; he is certain that only strong and robust constitutions can bear their remedies in addition to the illness, and he has only just enough strength for his sickness.

Arg. What absurd reasons. Here, brother, don’t speak to me anymore about that man; for it makes me savage, and you will give me his complaint.

Ber. I will willingly cease, brother; and, to change the subject, allow me to tell you that, because your daughter shows a slight repugnance to the match you propose, it is no reason why you should shut her up in a convent. In your choice of a son-in-law you should not blindly follow the anger which masters you. We should in such a matter yield a little to the inclinations of a daughter, since it is for all her life, and the whole happiness of her married life depends on it.

SCENE IV.

MR. FLEURANT, ARGAN, BÉRALDE.

ARG. AH! BROTHER, with your leave.

Ber. Eh? What are you going to do?

Arg. To take this little clyster; it will soon be done.

Ber. Are you joking? Can you not spend one moment without clysters or physic? Put it off to another time, and be quiet.

Arg. Mr. Fleurant, let it be for to-night or to-morrow morning.

Mr. Fleu. (to Béralde). What right have you to interfere? How dare you oppose yourself to the prescription of the doctors, and prevent the gentleman from taking my clyster? You are a nice fellow to show such boldness.

Ber. Go, Sir, go; it is easy to see that you are not accustomed to speak face to face with men.

Mr. Fleu. You ought not thus to sneer at physic, and make me lose my precious time. I came here for a good prescription, and I will go and tell Mr. Purgon that I have been prevented from executing his orders, and that I have been stopped in the performance of my duty. You’ll see, you’ll see….

SCENE V.

ARGAN, BÉRALDE.

ARG. BROTHER, YOU’LL be the cause that some misfortune will happen here.

Ber. What a misfortune not to take a clyster prescribed by Mr. Purgon! Once more, brother, is it possible that you can’t be cured of this doctor disease, and that you will thus bring yourself under their remedies?

Arg. Ah! brother. You speak like a man who is quite well, but if you were in my place, you would soon change your way of speaking. It is easy to speak against medicine when one is in perfect health.

Ber. But what disease do you suffer from?

Arg. You will drive me to desperation. I should like you to have my disease, and then we should see if you would prate as you do. Ah! here is Mr. Purgon.

SCENE VI.

MR. PURGON, ARGAN, BÉRALDE, TOINETTE.

MR. PUR. I have just heard nice news downstairs! You laugh at my prescriptions, and refuse to take the remedy which I ordered.

Arg. Sir, it is not …

Mr. Pur. What daring boldness, what a strange revolt of a patient against his doctor!

Toi. It is frightful.

Mr. Pur. A clyster which I have had the pleasure of composing myself.

Arg. It was not I….

Mr. Pur. Invented and made up according to all the rules of art.

Toi. He was wrong.

Mr. Pur. And which was to work a marvellous effect on the intestines.

Arg. My brother …

Mr. Pur. To send it back with contempt!

Arg. (showing Béralde). It was he….

Mr. Pur. Such conduct is monstrous.

Toi. So it is.

Mr. Pur. It is a fearful outrage against medicine.

Arg. (showing Béralde). He is the cause….

Mr. Pur. A crime of high-treason against the faculty, and one which cannot be too severely punished.

Toi. You are quite right.

Mr. Pur. I declare to you that I break off all intercourse with you.

Arg. It is my brother….

Mr. Pur. That I will have no more connection with you.

Toi. You will do quite right.

Mr. Pur. And to end all association with you, here is the deed of gift which I made to my nephew in favour of the marriage. (He tears the document, and throws the pieces about furiously.)

Arg. It is my brother who has done all the mischief.

Mr. Pur. To despise my clyster!

Arg. Let it be brought, I will take it directly.

Mr. Pur. I would have cured you in a very short time.

Toi. He doesn’t deserve it.

Mr. Pur. I was about to cleanse your body, and to clear it of its bad humours.

Arg. Ah! my brother!

Mr. Pur. And it wanted only a dozen purgatives to cleanse it entirely.

Toi. He is unworthy of your care.

Mr. Pur. But since you would not be cured by me …

Arg. It was not my fault.

Mr. Pur. Since you have forsaken the obedience you owe to your doctor …

Toi. It cries for vengeance.

Mr. Pur. Since you have declared yourself a rebel against the remedies I had prescribed for you …

Arg. No, no, certainly not.

Mr. Pur. I must now tell you that I give you up to your bad constitution, to the imtemperament of your intestines, to the corruption of your blood, to the acrimony of your bile, and to the feculence of your humours.

Toi. It serves you right.

Arg. Alas!

Mr. Pur. And I will have you before four days in an incurable state.

Arg. Ah! mercy on me!

Mr. Pur. You shall fall into bradypepsia.

Arg. Mr. Purgon!

Mr. Pur. From bradypepsia into dyspepsia.

Arg. Mr. Purgon!

Mr. Pur. From dyspepsia into apepsy.

Arg. Mr. Purgon!

Mr. Pur. From apepsy into lientery.

Arg. Mr. Purgon!

Mr. Pur. From lientery into dysentery.

Arg. Mr. Purgon!

Mr. Pur. From dysentery into dropsy.

Arg. Mr. Purgon!

Mr. Pur. And from dropsy to the deprivation of life into which your folly will bring you.

SCENE VII.

ARGAN, BÉRALDE.

ARG. AH HEAVEN! I am dead. Brother, you have undone me.

Ber. Why? What is the matter?

Arg. I am undone. I feel already that the faculty is avenging itself.

Ber. Really, brother, you are crazy, and I would not for a great deal that you should be seen acting as you are doing. Shake yourself a little, I beg, recover yourself, and do not give way so much to your imagination.

Arg. You hear, brother, with what strange diseases he has threatened me.

Ber. What a foolish fellow you are!

Arg. He says that I shall become incurable within four days.

Ber. And what does it signify what he says? Is it an oracle that has spoken? To hear you, anyone would think that Mr. Purgon holds in his hands the thread of your life, and that he has supreme authority to prolong it or to cut it short at his will. Remember that the springs of your life are in yourself, and that all the wrath of Mr. Purgon can do as little towards making you die, as his remedies can do to make you live. This is an opportunity, if you like to take it, of getting rid of your doctors; and if you are so constituted that you cannot do without them, it is easy for you, brother, to have another with whom you run less risk.

Arg. Ah, brother! he knows all about my constitution, and the way to treat me.

Ber. I must acknowledge that you are greatly infatuated, and that you look at things with strange eyes.

SCENE VIII.

ARGAN, TOINETTE, BÉRALDE.

TOI. (TO ARGAN). There is a doctor, here, Sir, who desires to see you.

Arg. What doctor?

Toi. A doctor of medicine.

Arg. I ask you who he is?

Toi. I don’t know who he is, but he is as much like me as two peas, and if I was not sure that my mother was an honest woman, I should say that this is a little brother she has given me since my father’s death.

SCENE IX.

ARGAN, BÉRALDE.

BER. YOU ARE served according to your wish. One doctor leaves you, another comes to replace him.

Arg. I greatly fear that you will cause some misfortune.

Ber. Oh! You are harping upon that string again?

Arg. Ah! I have on my mind all those diseases that I don’t understand, those….

SCENE X.

ARGAN, BÉRALDE, TOINETTE (dressed as a doctor).

TOI. ALLOW ME, Sir, to come and pay my respects to you, and to offer you my small services for all the bleedings and purging you may require.

Arg. I am much obliged to you, Sir. (To Béralde) Toinette herself, I declare!

Toi. I beg you will excuse me one moment, Sir. I forgot to give a small order to my servant.

SCENE XI.

ARGAN, BÉRALDE.

ARG. WOULD YOU not say that this is really Toinette?

Ber. It is true that the resemblance is very striking. But it is not the first time that we have seen this kind of thing, and history is full of those freaks of nature.

Arg. For my part, I am astonished, and …

SCENE XII.

ARGAN, BÉRALDE, TOINETTE.

TOI. WHAT DO you want, Sir?

Arg. What?

Toi. Did you not call me?

Arg. I? No.

Toi. My ears must have tingled then.

Arg. Just stop here one moment and see how much that doctor is like you.

Toi. Ah! yes, indeed, I have plenty of time to waste! Besides, I have seen enough of him already.

SCENE XIII.

ARGAN, BÉRALDE.

ARG. HAD I not seen them both together, I should have believed it was one and the same person.

Ber. I have read wonderful stories about such resemblances; and we have seen some in our day that have taken in everybody.

Arg. For my part, I should have been deceived this time, and sworn that the two were but one.

SCENE XIV.

ARGAN, BÉRALDE, TOINETTE (as a doctor).

TOI. SIR, I beg your pardon with all my heart.

Arg. (to Béralde). It is wonderful.

Toi. You will not take amiss, I hope, the curiosity I feel to see such an illustrious patient; and your reputation, which reaches the farthest ends of the world, must be my excuse for the liberty I am taking.

Arg. Sir, I am your servant.

Toi. I see, Sir, that you are looking earnestly at me. What age do you think I am?

Arg. I should think twenty-six or twenty-seven at the utmost.

Toi. Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah! I am ninety years old.

Arg. Ninety years old!

Toi. Yes; this is what the secrets of my art have done for me to preserve me fresh and vigorous as you see.

Arg. Upon my word, a fine youthful old fellow of ninety!

Toi. I am an itinerant doctor, and go from town to town, from province to province, from kingdom to kingdom, to seek out illustrious material for my abilities; to find patients worthy of my attention, capable of exercising the great and noble secrets which I have discovered in medicine. I disdain to amuse myself with the small rubbish of common diseases, with the trifles of rheumatism, coughs, fevers, vapours, and headaches. I require diseases of importance, such as good non-intermittent fevers with delirium, good scarlet-fevers, good plagues, good confirmed dropsies, good pleurisies with inflammations of the lungs. These are what I like, what I triumph in, and I wish, Sir, that you had all those diseases combined, that you had been given up, despaired of by all the doctors, and at the point of death, so that I might have the pleasure of showing you the excellency of my remedies, and the desire I have of doing you service!

Arg. I am greatly obliged to you, Sir, for the kind intentions you have towards me.

Toi. Let me feel your pulse. Come, come, beat properly, please. Ah! I will soon make you beat as you should. This pulse is trifling with me; I see that it does not know me yet. Who is your doctor?

Arg. Mr. Purgon.

Toi. That man is not noted in my books among the great doctors. What does he say you are ill of?

Arg. He says it is the liver, and others say it is the spleen.

Toi. They are a pack of ignorant blockheads; you are suffering from the lungs.

Arg. The lungs?

Toi. Yes; what do you feel?

Arg. From time to time great pains in my head.

Toi. Just so; the lungs.

Arg. At times it seems as if I had a mist before my eyes.

Toi. The lungs.

Arg. I feel sick now and then.

Toi. The lungs.

Arg. And I feel sometimes a weariness in all my limbs.

Toi. The lungs.

Arg. And sometimes I have sharp pains in the stomach, as if I had the colic.

Toi. The lungs. Do you eat your food with appetite?

Arg. Yes, Sir.

Toi. The lungs. Do you like to drink a little wine?

Arg. Yes, Sir.

Toi. The lungs. You feel sleepy after your meals, and willingly enjoy a nap?

Arg. Yes, Sir.

Toi. The lungs, the lungs, I tell you. What does your doctor order you for food?

Arg. He orders me soup.

Toi. Ignoramus!

Arg. Fowl.

Toi. Ignoramus!

Arg. Veal.

Toi. Ignoramus!

Arg. Broth.

Toi. Ignoramus!

Arg. New-laid eggs.

Toi. Ignoramus!

Arg. And at night a few prunes to relax the bowels.

Toi. Ignoramus!

Arg. And, above all, to drink my wine well diluted with water.

Toi. Ignorantus, ignoranta, ignorantum. You must drink your wine pure; and to thicken your blood, which is too thin, you must eat good fat beef, good fat pork, good Dutch cheese, some gruel, rice puddings, chestnuts, and thin cakes, to make all adhere and conglutinate. Your doctor is an ass. I will send you one of my own school, and will come and examine you from time to time during my stay in this town.

Arg. You will oblige me greatly.

Toi. What the deuce do you want with this arm?

Arg. What?

Toi. If I were you, I should have it cut off on the spot.

Arg. Why?

Toi. Don’t you see that it attracts all the nourishment to itself, and hinders this side from growing?

Arg. May be; but I have need of my arm.

Toi. You have also a right eye that I would have plucked out if I were in your place.

Arg. My right eye plucked out?

Toi. Don’t you see that it interferes with the other, and robs it of its nourishment? Believe me; have it plucked out as soon as possible; you will see all the clearer with the left eye.

Arg. There is no need to hurry.

Toi. Good-bye. I am sorry to leave you so soon, but I must assist at a grand consultation which is to take place about a man who died yesterday.

Arg. About a man who died yesterday?

Toi. Yes, that we may consider and see what ought to have been done to cure him. Good-bye.

Arg. You know that patients do not use ceremony.

SCENE XV.

ARGAN, BÉRALDE.

BER. UPON MY word, this doctor seems to be a very clever man.

Arg. Yes, but he goes a little too fast.

Ber. All great doctors do so.

Arg. Cut off my arm and pluck out my eye, so that the other may be better. I had rather that it were not better. A nice operation indeed, to make me at once one-eyed and one-armed.

SCENE XVI.

ARGAN, BÉRALDE, TOINETTE.

TOI. (PRETENDING TO speak to somebody). Come, come, I am your servant; I’m in no joking humour.

Arg. What is the matter?

Toi. Your doctor, forsooth, who wanted to feel my pulse!

Arg. Just imagine; and that, too, at fourscore and ten years of age.

Ber. Now, I say, brother, since you have quarrelled with Mr. Purgon, won’t you give me leave to speak of the match which is proposed for my niece?

Arg. No, brother; I will put her in a convent, since she has rebelled against me. I see plainly that there is some love business at the bottom of it all, and I have discovered a certain secret interview which they don’t suspect me to know anything about.

Ber. Well, brother, and suppose there were some little inclination, where could the harm be? Would it be so criminal when it all tends to what is honourable — marriage?

Arg. Be that as it may, she will be a nun. I have made up my mind.

Ber. You intend to please somebody by so doing.

Arg. I understand what you mean. You always come back to that, and my wife is very much in your way.

Ber. Well, yes, brother; since I must speak out, it is your wife I mean; for I can no more bear with your infatuation about doctors than with your infatuation about your wife, and see you run headlong into every snare she lays for you.

Toi. Ah! Sir, don’t talk so of mistress. She is a person against whom there is nothing to be said; a woman without deceit, and who loves master  ah! who loves him…. I can’t express how much.

Arg. (to Béralde). Just ask her all the caresses she lavishes for me.

Toi. Yes, indeed!

Arg. And all the uneasiness my sickness causes her.

Toi. Certainly.

Arg. And the care and trouble she takes about me.

Toi. Quite right. (To Béralde) Will you let me convince you; and to show you at once how my mistress loves my master. (To Argan) Sir, allow me to undeceive him, and to show him his mistake.

Arg. How?

Toi. My mistress will soon come back. Stretch yourself full-length in this arm-chair, and pretend to be dead. You will see what grief she will be in when I tell her the news.

Arg. Very well, I consent.

Toi. Yes; but don’t leave her too long in despair, for she might die of it.

Arg. Trust me for that.

Toi. (to Béralde). Hide yourself in that corner.

SCENE XVII.

ARGAN, TOINETTE.

ARG. IS THERE no danger in counterfeiting death?

Toi. No, no. What danger can there be? Only stretch yourself there. It will be so pleasant to put your brother to confusion. Here is my mistress. Mind you keep still.

SCENE XVIII.

BÉLINE, ARGAN (stretched out in his chair), TOINETTE.

TOI. (PRETENDING NOT to see Béline). Ah heavens! Ah! what a misfortune! What a strange accident!

Bel. What is the matter, Toinette?

Toi. Ah! Madam!

Bel. What ails you?

Toi. Your husband is dead.

Bel. My husband is dead?

Toi. Alas! yes; the poor soul is gone.

Bel. Are you quite certain?

Toi. Quite certain. Nobody knows of it yet. I was all alone here when it happened. He has just breathed his last in my arms. Here, just look at him, full-length in his chair.

Bel. Heaven be praised. I am delivered from a most grievous burden. How silly of you, Toinette, to be so afflicted at his death.

Toi. Ah! Ma’am, I thought I ought to cry.

Bel. Pooh! it is not worth the trouble. What loss is it to anybody, and what good did he do in this world? A wretch, unpleasant to everybody; of nauseous, dirty habits; always a clyster or a dose of physic in his body. Always snivelling, coughing, spitting; a stupid, tedious, ill-natured fellow, who was for ever fatiguing people and scolding night and day at his maids and servants.

Toi. An excellent funeral oration!

Bel. Toinette, you must help me to carry out my design; and you may depend upon it that I will make it worth your while if you serve me. Since, by good luck, nobody is aware of his death, let us put him into his bed, and keep the secret until I have done what I want. There are some papers and some money I must possess myself of. It is not right that I should have passed the best years of my life with him without any kind of advantage. Come along, Toinette, first of all, let us take all the keys.

Arg. (getting up hastily). Softly.

Bel. Ah!

Arg. So, my wife, it is thus you love me?

Toi. Ah! the dead man is not dead.

Arg. (to Béline, who goes away) I am very glad to see how you love me, and to have heard the noble panegyric you made upon me. This is a good warning, which will make me wise for the future, and prevent me from doing many things.

SCENE XIX.

BÉRALDE (coming out of the place where he was hiding), ARGAN, TOINETTE.

BER. WELL, BROTHER, you see….

Toi. Now, really, I could never have believed such a thing. But I hear your daughter coming, place yourself as you were just now, and let us see how she will receive the news. It is not a bad thing to try; and since you have begun, you will be able by this means to know the sentiments of your family towards you.

SCENE XX.

ARGAN, ANGÉLIQUE, TOINETTE.

TOI. (PRETENDING NOT to see Angélique). O heavens! what a sad accident! What an unhappy day!

Ang. What ails you, Toinette, and why do you cry?

Toi. Alas! I have such sad news for you.

Ang. What is it?

Toi. Your father is dead.

Ang. My father is dead, Toinette?

Toi. Yes, just look at him there; he died only a moment ago of a fainting fit that came over him.

Ang. O heavens! what a misfortune! What a cruel grief! Alas! why must I lose my father, the only being left me in the world? and why should I lose him, too, at a time when he was angry with me? What will become of me, unhappy girl that I am? What consolation can I find after so great a loss?

SCENE XXI.

ARGAN, ANGÉLIQUE, CLÉANTE, TOINETTE.

CLE. WHAT IS the matter with you, dear Angélique, and what misfortune makes you weep?

Ang. Alas! I weep for what was most dear and most precious to me. I weep for the death of my father.

Cle. O heaven! what a misfortune! What an unforeseen stroke of fortune! Alas! after I had asked your uncle to ask you in marriage, I was coming to see him, in order to try by my respect and entreaties to incline his heart to grant you to my wishes.

Ang. Ah! Cléante, let us talk no more of this. Let us give up all hopes of marriage. Now my father is dead, I will have nothing to do with the world, and will renounce it for ever. Yes, my dear father, if I resisted your will, I will at least follow out one of your intentions, and will by that make amends for the sorrow I have caused you. (Kneeling.) Let me, father, make you this promise here, and kiss you as a proof of my repentance.

Arg. (kissing Angélique). Ah! my daughter!

Ang. Ah!

Arg. Come; do not be afraid. I am not dead. Ah! you are my true flesh and blood and my real daughter; I am delighted to have discovered your good heart.

SCENE XXII.

ARGAN, BÉRALDE, ANGÉLIQUE, CLÉANTE, TOINETTE.

ANG. AH! WHAT a delightful surprise! Father, since heaven has given you back to our love, let me here throw myself at your feet to implore one favour of you. If you do not approve of what my heart feels, if you refuse to give me Cléante for a husband, I conjure you, at least, not to force me to marry another. It is all I have to ask of you.

Cle. (throwing himself at Argan’s feet). Ah! Sir, allow your heart to be touched by her entreaties and by mine, and do not oppose our mutual love.

Ber. Brother, how can you resist all this?

Toi. Will you remain insensible before such affection?

Arg. Well, let him become a doctor, and I will consent to the marriage. (To Cléante) Yes, turn doctor, Sir, and I will give you my daughter.

Cle. Very willingly, Sir, if it is all that is required to become your son-in-law. I will turn doctor; apothecary also, if you like. It is not such a difficult thing after all, and I would do much more to obtain from you the fair Angélique.

Ber. But, brother, it just strikes me; why don’t you turn doctor yourself? It would be much more convenient to have all you want within yourself.

Toi. Quite true. That is the very way to cure yourself. There is no disease bold enough to dare to attack the person of a doctor.

Arg. I imagine, brother, that you are laughing at me. Can I study at my age?

Ber. Study! What need is there? You are clever enough for that; there are a great many who are not a bit more clever than you are.

Arg. But one must be able to speak Latin well, and know the different diseases and the remedies they require.

Ber. When you put on the cap and gown of a doctor, all that will come of itself, and you will afterwards be much more clever than you care to be.

Arg. What! We understand how to discourse upon diseases when we have that dress?

Ber. Yes; you have only to hold forth; when you have a cap and gown, any stuff becomes learned, and all rubbish good sense.

Toi. Look you, Sir; a beard is something in itself; a beard is half the doctor.

Cle. Anyhow, I am ready for everything.

Ber. (to Argan). Shall we have the thing done immediately?

Arg. How, immediately?

Ber. Yes, in your house.

Arg. In my house?

Ber. Yes, I know a body of physicians, friends of mine, who will come presently, and will perform the ceremony in your hall. It will cost you nothing.

Arg. But what can I say, what can I answer?

Ber. You will be instructed in a few words, and they will give you in writing all you have to say. Go and dress yourself directly, and I will send for them.

Arg. Very well; let it be done.

SCENE XXIII.

BÉRALDE, ANGÉLIQUE, CLÉANTE.

CLE. WHAT IS it yon intend to do, and what do you mean by this body of physicians?

Toi. What is it you are going to do?

Ber. To amuse ourselves a little to-night. The players have made a doctor’s admission the subject of an interlude, with dances and music. I want everyone to enjoy it, and my brother to act the principal part in it.

Ang. But, uncle, it seems to me that you are making fun of my father.

Ber. But, niece, it is not making too much fun of him to fall in with his fancies. We may each of us take part in it ourselves, and thus perform the comedy for each other’s amusement. Carnival time authorises it. Let us go quickly and get everything ready.

Cle. (to Angélique). Do you consent to it?

Ang. Yes; since my uncle takes the lead.

THIRD INTERLUDE.

BURLESQUE CEREMONY REPRESENTING the Admission of Mr. Geronte to the Degree of Doctor of Medicine.

First Entry of the Ballet.

PRAESES.
Savantissimi doctores,
Medicinae professores,
Qui hic assemblati estis;
Et vos, altri messiores,
Sententiarum Facultatis
Fideles executores,
Chirurgiani et apothicari
Atque tota compagnia aussi,
Salus, honor et argentum,
Atque bonum appetitum.

Non possum, docti confreri,
En moi satis admirari
Qualis bona inventio
Est medici professio;
Quam bella chosa est et bene trovata.
Medicina illa benedicta,
Quae, suo nomine solo,
Surprenanti miraculo,
Depuis si longo tempore,
Facit à gogo vivere
Tant de gens omni genere.

Per totam terram videmus
Grandam vogam ubi sumus;
Et quod grandes et petiti
Sunt de nobis infatuti.
Totus mundus, currens ad nostros remedios,
Nos regardat sicut deos;
Et nostris ordonnanciis
Principes et reges soumissos videtis.

Doncque il est nostrae sapientiae,
Boni sensus atque prudentiae,
De fortement travaillare
A nos bene conservare
In tali credito, voga, et honore;
Et prendere gardam a non recevere
In nostro docto corpore,
Quam personas capabiles,
Et totas dignas remplire
Has plaças honorabiles.

C’est pour cela que nunc convocati estis:
Et credo quod trovabitis
Dignam matieram medici
In savanti homine que voici;
Lequel, in chosis omnibus,
Dono ad interrogandum,
Et à fond examinandum
Vostris capacitatibus.

PRIMUS DOCTOR.
Si mihi licentiam dat dominus praeses,
Et tanti docti doctores,
Et assistantes illustres,
Très savanti bacheliero,
Quem estimo et honoro,
Domandabo causam et rationom quare
Opium facit dormire.

BACHELIERUS.
Mihi a docto doctore
Domandatur causam et rationem quare
Opium facit dormire.
A quoi respondeo,
Quia est in eo
Vertus dormitiva,
Cujus eat natura
Sensus assoupire.

CHORUS.
Bene, bene, bene, bene respondere.
Dignus, dignus est intrare
In nostro docto corpore.
Bene, bene respondere.

SECUNDUS DOCTOR.
Proviso quod non displiceat,
Domino praesidi, lequel n’est pas fat,
Me benigne annuat,
Cum totis doctoribus savantibus,
Et assistantibus bienveillantibus,
Dicat mihi un peu dominus praetendens,
Raison a priori et evidens
Cur rhubarba et le séné
Per nos semper est ordonné
Ad purgandum l’utramque bile?
Si dicit hoc, erit valde habile.

BACHELIERUS.
A docto doctore mihi, qui sum praetendens,
Domandatur raison a priori et evidens
Cur rhubarba et le séné
Per nos semper est ordonné
Ad purgandum l’utramque bile?
Respondeo vobis,
Quia est in illis
Vertus purgativa,
Cujus est natura
Istas duas biles evacuare.

CHORUS.
Bene, bene, bone, bene respondere,
Dignus, dignus est intrare
In nostro docto corpore.

TERTIUS DOCTOR.
Ex responsis, il paraît jam sole clarius
Quod lepidum iste caput bachelierus
Non passavit suam vitam ludendo au trictrac,
Nec in prenando du tabac;
Sed explicit pourquoi furfur macrum et parvum lac,
Cum phlebotomia et purgatione humorum,
Appellantur a medisantibus idolae medicorum,
Nec non pontus asinorum?
Si premièrement grata sit domino praesidi
Nostra libertas quaestionandi,
Pariter dominis doctribus
Atque de tous ordres benignis auditoribus.

BACHELIERUS.
Quaerit a me dominus doctor
Chrysologos, id est, qui dit d’or,
Quare parvum lac et furfur macrum,
Phlebotomia et purgatio humorum
Appellantur a medisantibus idolae medicorum,
Atque pontus asinorum.
Respondeo quia:
Ista ordonnando non requiritur magna scientia,
Et ex illis quatuor rebus
Medici faciunt ludovicos, pistolas, et des quarts d’écus.

CHORUS.
Bene, bene, bene, bene respondere
Dignus, dignus est intrare
In nostro docto corpore.

QUARTUS DOCTOR.
Cum permissione domini praesidis,
Doctissimae Facultatis,
Et totius his nostris actis
Companiae assistantis,
Domandabo tibi, docte bacheliere,
Quae sunt remedia
Tam in homine quam in muliere
Quae, in maladia
Ditta hydropisia,
In malo caduco, apoplexia, convulsione et paralysia,
Convenit facere.

BACHELIERUS.
Clysterium donare,
Postea seignare,
Ensuita purgare.

CHORUS.
Bene, bene, bene, bene respondere.
Dignus, dignus est intrare
In nostro docto corpore.

QUINTUS DOCTOR.
Si bonum semblatur domino praesidi.
Doctissimae Facultati,
Et companiae ecoutanti,
Domandabo tibi, erudite bacheliere,
Ut revenir un jour à la maison gravis aegre
Quae remedia colicosis, fievrosis,
Maniacis, nefreticis, freneticis,
Melancolicis, demoniacis,
Asthmaticis atque pulmonicis,
Catharrosis, tussicolisis,
Guttosis, ladris atque gallosis,
In apostemasis plagis et ulcéré,
In omni membro démis aut fracturé
Convenit facere.

BACHELIERUS.
Clysterium donare,
Postea seignare,
Ensuita purgare.

CHORUS.
Bene, bene, bene, bene respondere.
Dignus, dignus est intrare
In nostro docto corpore.

SEXTUS DOCTOR.
Cum bona venia reverendi praesidis,
Filiorum Hippocratis,
Et totius coronae nos admirantis,
Petam tibi, resolute bacheliere,
Non indignus alumnus di Monspeliere,
Quae remedia caecis, surdis, mutis,
Manchotis, claudis, atque omnibus estropiatis,
Pro coris pedum, malum de dentibus, pesta, rabie,
Et nimis magna commotione in omni novo marié
Convenit facere.

BACHELIERUS.
Clysterium donare,
Postea seignare,
Ensuita purgare.

CHORUS.
Bene, bene, bene, bene respondere.
Dignus, dignus est intrare
In nostro docto corpore.

SEPTIMUS DOCTOR.
Super illas maladias,
Dominus bachelierus dixit maravillas;
Mais, si non ennuyo doctissimam facultatem
Et totam honorabilem companiam
Tam corporaliter quam mentaliter hic praesentem,
Faciam illi unam quaestionem;
De hiero maladus unus
Tombavit in meas manus,
Homo qualitatis et dives comme un Crésus.
Habet grandam fievram cum redoublamentis,
Grandam dolorem capitis,
Cum troublatione spirii et laxamento ventris.
Grandum insuper malum au côté,
Cum granda difficultate
Et pena a respirare;
Veuillas mihi dire,
Docte bacheliere,
Quid illi facere.

BACHELIERUS.
Clysterium donare,
Postea seignare,
Ensuita purgare.

CHORUS.
Bene, bene, bene, bene respondere.
Dignus, dignus est intrare
In nostro docto corpore.

IDEM DOCTOR.
Mais, si maladia
Opiniatria
Ponendo modicum a quia
Non vult se guarire,
Quid illi facere?

BACHELIERUS.
Clysterium donare,
Postea seignare,
Ensuita purgare,
Reseignare, repurgare, et reclysterizare.

CHORUS.
Bene, bene, bene, bene respondere.
Dignus, dignus est intrare
In nostro docto corpore.

OCTAVUS DOCTOR.
Impetro favorabile congé
A domino praeside,
Ab electa trouppa doctorum,
Tam practicantium quam practica avidorum,
Et a curiosa turba badodorum.
Ingeniose bacheliere
Qui non potuit esse jusqu’ici déferré,
Faciam tibi unam questionem de importantia.
Messiores, detur nobis audiencia.
Isto die bene mane,
Paulo ante mon déjeuné,
Venit ad me una domicella
Italiana jadis bella,
Et ut penso encore un peu pucella,
Quae habebat pallidos colores,
Fievram blancam dicunt magis fini doctores,
Quia plaigniebat se de migraina,
De curta halena,
De granda oppressione,
Jambarum enflatura, et effroyebili lassitudine;
De batimento cordis,
De strangulamento matris,
Alio nomine vapor hystérique,
Quae, sicut omnes maladiae terminatae en ique,
Facit a Galien la nique.
Visagium apparebat bouffietum, et coloris
Tantum vertae quantum merda anseris.
Ex pulsu petito valde frequens, et urina mala
Quam apportaverat in fiola
Non videbatur exempta de febricules;
Au reste, tam debilis quod venerat
De son grabat
In cavallo sur une mule,
Non habuerat menses suos
Ab illa die qui dicitur des grosses eaux;
Sed contabat mihi à l’oreille
Che si non era morta, c’était grand merveille,
Perchè in suo negotio
Era un poco d’amore, et troppo di cordoglio;
Che suo galanto sen era andato in Allemagna,
Servire al signor Brandeburg una campagna.
Usque ad maintenant multi charlatani,
Medici, apothicari, et chirurgiani
Pro sua maladia in veno travaillaverunt,
Juxta même las novas gripas istius bouru Van Helmont,
Amploiantes ab oculis cancri, ad Alcahest;
Veuillas mihi dire quid superest,
Juxta orthodoxos, illi facere.

BACHELIERUS.
Clysterium donare,
Postea seignare,
Ensuita purgare.

CHORUS.
Bene, bene, bene, bene respondero.
Dignus, dignus est intrare
In nostro docto corpore.

IDEM DOCTOR.
Mais si tam grandum couchamentum
Partium naturalium,
Mortaliter obstinatum,
Per clysterium donare,
Seignare
Et reiterando cent fois purgare,
Non potest se guarire,
Finaliter quid trovaris à propos illi facere?

BACHELIERUS.
In nomine Hippocratis benedictam cum bono
Garçone conjunctionem imperare.

PRAESES.
Juras gardare statuta
Per Facultatem praescripta,
Cum sensu et jugeamento?

BACHELIERUS.
Juro.

PRAESES.
Essere in Omnibus
Consultationibus
Ancieni aviso,
Aut bono,
Aut mauvaiso!

BACHELIERUS.
Juro.

PRAESES.
De non jamais te servire
De remediis aucunis,
Quam de ceuz seulement almae Facultatis,
Maladus dût-il crevare,
Et mori de suo malo?

BACHELIERUS.
Juro.

PRAESES.
Ego, cum isto boneto
Venerabili et docto,
Dono tibi et concedo
Puissanciam, vertutem atque licentiam
Medicinam cum methodo faciendi
Id est,
Clysterizandi,
Seignandi,
Purgandi,
Sangsuandi,
Ventousandi,
Sacrificandi,
Perçandi,
Taillandi,
Coupandi,
Trepanandi,
Brulandi,
Uno verbo, selon les formes, atque impune occidendi
Parisiis et per totem terram;
Rendes, Domine, his messioribus gratiam.

Second Entry of the Ballet.

All the Doctors and Apothecaries come and do him reverence.

BACHELIERUS.
Grandes doctres doctrinae
De la rhubarbe et du séné
Ce seroit sans douta à moi chosa folla,
Inepta et ridicula,
Si j’alloibam m’engageare
Vobis louangeas donare,
Et entreprenoibam ajoutare
Des lumieras au soleillo,
Des etoilas au cielo,
Des flammas à l’inferno
Des ondas à l’oceano,
Et des rosas au printano.
Agreate qu’avec uno moto,
Pro toto remercimento,
Rendam gratias corpori tam docto.
Vobis, vobis debeo
Bien plus qu’à nature et qu’à patri meo:
Natura et pater meus
Hominem me habent factum;
Mais vos me (ce qui est bien plus)
Avetis factum medicum
Honor, favor et gratia,
Qui, in hoc corde que voilà,
Imprimant ressentimenta
Qui dureront in secula.

CHORUS.
Vivat, vivat, vivat, vivat, cent fois vivat,
Novus doctor, qui tam bene parlat!
Mille, mille annis, et manget et bibat,
Et seignet et tuat!

Third Entry of the Ballet.

All the Doctors and Apothecaries dance to the sound of instruments and voices, the clapping of hands, and the beating of Apothecaries’ mortars.

CHIRURGUS.
Puisse-t-il voir doctas
Suas ordonnancias,
Omnium chirurgorum,
Et apothicarum
Remplire boutiquas!

CHORUS.
Vivat, vivat, vivat, vivat, cent fois vivat,
Novus doctor, qui tam bene parlat!
Mille, mille annis, et manget et bibat,
Et seignet et tuat!

APOTHICARIUS.
Puissent toti anni
Lui essere boni
Et favorabiles
Et n’habere jamais
Entre ses mains, pestas, epidemias
Quae sunt malas bestias;
Mais semper pluresias, pulmonias
In renibus et vessia pierras,
Rhumatismos d’un anno, et omnis generis fievras,
Fluxus de sanguine, gouttas diabolicas,
Mala de sancto Joanne, Poitevinorum colicas
Scorbutum de Hollandia, verolas parvas et grossas
Bonos chancros atque longas callidopissas.

BACHELIERUS.
Amen.

CHORUS.
Vivat, vivat, vivat, vivat, cent fois vivat,
Novus doctor, qui tam bene parlat!
Mille, mille annis, et manget et bibat,
Et seignet et tuat!

Fourth Entry of the Ballet.

All the Doctors and Apothecaries go out according to their rank, as they came in.

THE END

The Poetry

Molière was educated at Paris’ prestigious Lycée Louis-le-Grand.

The Poems of Molière

Translated by Henri van Laun

CONTENTS

THANKS TO THE KING

POEMS

TO MONSIEUR DE LA MOTHE LE VAYER

QUATRAINS PLACED BELOW A PRINT OF LE DOYEN AFTER F. CHAUVEAU

LOVE STANZAS

BOUTS-RIMEZ

TO THE KING ON THE CONQUEST OF FRANCHE-COMTÉ

THE GLORY OF VAL-DE-GRACE

NEW INTERLUDES FOR ENFORCED MARRIAGE

GROTESQUE TRIO

THE GIPSY GIRLS

THANKS TO THE KING

MAURICE LELOIR, DEL.

AN ORNAMENTAL FRAMEWORK, BEARING ON EITHER SIDE, IN PROFILE, THE HEAD OF A BEARDED SATYR, CURIOUSLY CROWNED. BELOW, IN THE CENTRE, THE FLORENTINE FLEUR-DE-LIS, SIMILAR TO THOSE WORKED INTO THE TABLES OF HARD STONE MOSAIC THEN MADE AT THE GOBELINS BY THE FLORENTINES. ABOVE, THE SCEPTRE, THE HAND OF JUSTICE, AND TWO PALM BRANCHES CROSSED SUPPORTING A CLOSED CROWN.

THANKS TO THE KING

MAURICE LELOIR, DEL.

A BROAD BAND OF OPEN-WORK, SIMILAR TO A BALCONY RAILING IN FORGED IRON. IN THE CENTRE, A MEDALLION WITH THE HEAD OF LOUIS XIV IN PROFILE. THE WHOLE SURMOUNTED BY TWO FEMALE GENII, WHO BEAR ABOVE TWO PALM BRANCHES CROSSED, BEHIND WHICH SHINE THE RAYS OF THE ROYAL SUN.

THANKS TO THE KING

MADE BY J.-B. P. DE MOLIÈRE

IN THE YEAR 1663

AFTER HAVING BEEN HONORED BY A PENSION FROM HIS MAJESTY

O Muse, thy indolence is base,
A scandal! Take thou wing.
Fly, ere the morning runs her race,
And greet the awakening king!
For well thou knowest why;
And sure it were a graceless deed
In sober sloth to lie
When thanks are due for royal meed —
But better late than never — make thou speed,
Go to the Louvre, bow before thy lord
And bear my service for his potent word!

But be not in the guise of just a Muse.
Such air is hateful nigh a throne;
Where joyous objects please alone
‘Twere best the gallant form to use
Of some gay Marquis of a noble name;
Else will thy king his ear refuse.
A Marquis! Thou shouldst know full well
The lordly poise, the dress, the frame,
The hat of thirty plumes that droop
Above a flowing wig. And swell
The rabat into many a loop;
The pourpoint tighten to its utmost ell.
But, above all, take heed to wear
The mantle of beribboned back —
For gallantry none else compare,
Nor any Marquis who would win the fair
Durst its device to lack.

So, with thy brilliant show
And courtly mien that all may see
Traverse the Guards’ Hall, stately, slow,
With studious gallantry.
Scan well each face therein
And favor all that recognition win,
Nor fail, with lofty air,
By name and rank to hail them fair.
’Tis such familiarity
Betokens most the man of quality.

Rap lightly on the door
Of the chamber of the king;
Or if there be a ring
Of suitors therebefore,
Lift high thy feathered hat aloft
In some conspicuous place
Where all may see thy face,
And, with a pressing cry repeated oft,
In natural accents, make thy mission heard:
“Ho, Monsieur Usher; must a Marquis wait!”
Or mingle with the throng and join thy peers,
Elbow thy way, care not for paunch or pate,
Press on, push wildly — Devil take the rout!
Put thyself forward spite of curses, jeers,
And toward the surly Usher shout —
Who, though he finds a Marquis there
Confronts him with a haughty air,
Still bars him out.
But bide thy time, for none may go
Forth while the mad crowd presses so.
At last, when one within is summoned, thou
Advance, and enter ere the wight allow.

Once thou art in abate no jot,
Perpetual combat marks the lot
Of one who seeks the Chair of State.
Slowly, with many a halt and wait,
A suppliant’s suit is got.
But if the thronged besiegers hold
All avenues, take thought, be bold —
As the Prince goes forth, the passage pace;
Maugre disguise, he’ll know thy face;
And then with duty and deference
Make well thy loyal compliments.
With deftest ease Thou wilt devise of these,
And speak of transports throbbing in thy breast
For lordliest bounty showered abundantly
Upon thy meritless head by his behest.
Dwell upon efforts new whose fruit shall be
Growth of those honors undeserved,
And tell him thy desires are based —
Thy hope, thy art, and thee
(After his favors past all parallel) —
On service for his glory, without fee.
Aye, promise all the wonders that may dwell
In sources never dry of Fancy’s well —
For Muses ever were in pledges free,
And, like thy sisters, thou art graced
With lips alluring as a Syren’s spell.

But greatest Princes little love
Such praises as are over-long.
Our Prince’s mood is pitched above
Thy compliments, his thoughts to the State belong.

THANKS TO THE KING

MAURICE LELOIR, DEL.

ORNAMENTAL OPEN-WORK IN THE FORM OF A CONSOLE, IN THE CENTRE OF THIS THE DOUBLE “L” OF THE KING AND THE QUILL PENS OF THE POET. UPON THE PLATFORM WHICH CAPS THE FRAMEWORK, LOUIS XIV, SEATED IN A CHAIR, HAT ON HEAD AND IN HIS HAND A LONG CANE, LISTENS TO THE HARANGUE OF THE MUSE OF COMEDY, DRESSED AS A YOUNG MARQUIS, WHO SALUTES THE KING, AND BEARS A PENNON AND A WREATH OF LAUREL- VICTORIOUS EVIDENCES OF THE TRIUMPH OF POETRY.

Praises and incense are not in his mind
Whene’er thou will to speak
Of benefits and graces kind.
He knows, ere thou hast spoken, what thou’d speak,
And smiles benignantly
With loving manners that do charm the heart,
Then passes, ere one start —
And this brief audience must suffice for thee.
Thy compliments are made, thou’st done thy part!

POEMS

MAURICE LELOIR, DEL.

A BAND OF HEAVV OPEN-WORK; IN THE CENTRE IS SEATED THE MUSE, HOLDING A PEN.

TO MONSIEUR DE LA MOTHE LE VAYER

ON THE DEATH OF MONSIEUR, HIS SON

With tears, Le Vayer, let thy eyes flow free;
Thy grief is just, though it should seem o’erdeep.
To lose what thou hast lost eternally
Wisdom itself, believe me, needs must weep.

What though one bring an hundred precepts vain
Gainst weeping when we lose what most we love?
Tis barbarous thus our destiny to disdain
A. brutal vice — no virtue from above.

Full well we know that tears will not again
Bring back the dear son ravished from thy arms,
But such cold wisdom lessens not the pain;
Revered he was for every virtuous trait, —
Pure heart, fine spirit, mind without a stain, —
And these to mourn it is ordained of Fate.

QUATRAINS PLACED BELOW A PRINT OF LE DOYEN AFTER F. CHAUVEAU

REPRESENTING THE BROTHERHOOD of Charity, established in the Church of the Religious Order of La Charité, by our Holy Father, Pope Alexander VII, in the year 1665

O break the shameful fetters of the bondage of your brood
Wherein, for odious commerce, ye are held as slaves of sin,
And come receive the shackles of a glorious servitude
From the hands reached out of Heaven by the queen who is God’s kin.
The one unto your senses has given victory;
The other crowns you ruler of desires that do you wrong;
The one will toss you hellward and the other set you free.
Alas! can any mortal hold the choice in balance long?

LOVE STANZAS

(1666)

Let love awake you in the night;
My sighs, O let them touch your heart!
Too long you sleep, O marvel bright!
Slumber and love are worlds apart.

Fear nothing, for in Cupid’s realm
Evil is plucked of all its woes.
Passion, and sighs that overwhelm —
These are the only dreaded foes.

Love’s evil? It is silence. Speak,
So I may shun it, speak for me!
It is Love’s will whose world I seek.
Fear not, and make no mystery.

Can sweeter pain be borne by man,
Can one submit to sweeter law —
Sole sovereign of hearts, who can
Put even your very love in awe?

O Amarante, bend thou the knee;
Submit to Love’s imperial will;
Love ere your beauty fade and flee:
The sands of Time are speeding still!

BOUTS-RIMEZ

COMMANDED UPON BEL AIR

O embarrassed am I with your frog, to begin,
Who drags in his claws the word Hippocras.
I hate the poor trash of Bouts-rimez, alas!
And sure it were better a distaff to spin.

The pride of Bel Air only tickles my skin.
You will murder my spirit with such a dull mass,
I hold they are happy who died at Coutras,
Seeing paper for sonnets is wasted in sin.

Again I am burning with hate of Cagot,
No aged baboon could have fallen so low
As I, when Bout-rimé compels me to dance.
As a sweet-throated bullfinch I sing it to you;
To the end of the world I shall hurry perchance,
And adieu, O great Prince, be ye blithe, — and adieu!

TO THE KING ON THE CONQUEST OF FRANCHE-COMTÉ

(FEBRUARY, 1668)

Beyond our ken, O King, thy victories are,
The years may little deem of their just praise,
And history, blowing brazen trumps of war,
Calls not the visions which thy prowess raise.
What! at the moment of thy challenge high,
Behold a province joined unto thy realm;
The torrents, winds, and thunder never fly
More swiftly than thy arm to overwhelm.

But stay not, when from such a conquest come!
Our lagging Muse that still cannot be dumb
The homage due to noble deeds must pay.
Yet songs, great king, are not so deftly wrought,
And in less time thy gallant wars are fought
Than we do ask to praise them with our lay.

THE GLORY OF VAL-DE-GRACE

MAURICE LELOIR, DEL.

THE TWO EARLY EDITIONS OF THE POEMS HAD THIS SAME FRONTISPIECE, ENGRAVED BY FRANCOIS CHAUVEAU AFTER A DRAWING BY MIGNARD. IF, IN DAYS PAST, PAINTING ENDEAVORED TO DO HONOR TO THE WORK OF THE POET WHO GLORIFIED IT, THE MORE REASON WHY WE TO-DAY SHOULD REPRODUCE IN FACSIMILE THE OLD ENGRAVING WHICH, THESE EARLY EDITIONS BEING VERY RARE, IS ALMOST UNKNOWN AND HAS NEVER BEFORE BEEN USED IN ANY OF THE ILLUSTRATED REPRINTS. APOLLO, HOLDING HIS LYRE AND SURROUNDED BY THE NINE MUSES, IS SEATED IN THE SHADE OF A GROVE OF LAURELS, WHICH CROWN MOUNT HELICON. AT HIS FEET, TWO STREAMS, THE AGANIPPE AND THE HIPPOCRENE, “THE FOUNTAIN OF THE HORSE,” WHICH GUSHED FORTH AT A BLOW FROM THE HOOF OF PEGASUS. IN THE FOREGROUND, TO THE RIGHT, MINERVA LEADS BY THE HAND THE MUSE OF PAINTING, AT THE SAME TIME POINTING TO THE GOD OF POETRY.

POEMS

MAURICE LELOIR, DEL.

ON EITHER SIDE A LITTLE CHERUB, SEATED ON THE FRAMEWORK. THEY WREATH A GARLAND OF LEAVES AND FLOWERS AROUND A LYRE.

TITLE OF 1669

MAURICE LELOIR, DEL.

THE TITLE IS SET FORTH ON A TABLET PLACED IN FRONT OF A BROAD SUB-BASEMENT, FLANKED ON EITHER SIDE BY A PEDESTAL, ON THE FRONT OF WHICH IS INSCRIBED A DATE, TO THE LEFT 1645 AND TO THE RIGHT 1665, RECALLING THE COMMENCEMENT AND COMPLETION OF THE CHURCH. ON THE PEDESTALS, TWO STATUES, SEATED, PAINTING AND POETRY. TWO LARGE PALM BRANCHES, RISING BEHIND THE TABLET OF THE TITLE, SPREAD OUT AND FORM A FRAME FOR A VIEW OF THE FACADE OF THE CHURCH. THE TWO STATUES IN THE NICHES ON EITHER SIDE OF THE DOORWAY ARE THOSE OF SAINT BENOIT AND SAINT SCHOLASTIQUE, BY MICHEL ANGUIER, THE PATRON SAINTS OF THE BENEDICTINE NUNS. SURROUNDING THE BASE OF THE DOME MAY BE SEEN THE LARGE MEDALLIONS, BEARING ALTERNATELY THE FLEUR- DE-LIS AND THE ROYAL MONOGRAM AL, ANNE AND LOUIS. ABOVE EACH OF THE PALM BRANCHES IS A WINGED CHERUB UPHOLDING A MEDALLION, BEARING A COAT OF ARMS, ON THE LEFT THE ARMS OF THE QUEEN-MOTHER, FOUNDER OF THE CONVENT, AND ON THE RIGHT THOSE OF THE CONVENT.

THE GLORY OF VAL-DE-GRACE

MAURICE LELOIR, DEL.

A CHOIR OF CELESTIAL MUSICIANS, UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THEIR LEADER; THE SINGERS HOLD SHEETS OF MUSIC, THE VARIOUS INSTRUMENTALISTS PLAY UPON THE ORGAN, FLUTE, VIOLIN, THEORBO, AND THE LYRE. AFTER A GROUP IN THE DOME OF VAL-DE-GRACE.

FAIR fruit of two decades of travail and trust,
O temple majestic! O fabric august!
Thy beautiful dome, lifted high in the blue,
Over Paris presides ‘mid her glorious view;
And, before all the splendors that challenge the sight,
Takes the traveller’s eye with surprise and delight
O forever embody in thy noble frame
The vow of a Princess of holiest fame,
And bear to the far generations to be
Report of her bounty and true piety.
Conserve for our children, as type of her zeal,
Thy exquisite beauty, thy lordly appeal.
But defend above all from the rust of the years
The offering rarest her charity rears, —
That brilliant example of painting which lies
Like a crown on thy structure, the joy of all eyes.
’Tis the fairest effect of her pains and her pride;
All thy marble and gold are as nothing beside.

O thou who hast come with thy genius divine,
Like a theatre fair where all riches combine,
To unfold the vast wealth of thy art in this dome
Made precious by Tiber, brought hither from Rome,
Tell, tell us, great Mignard, by whom wert thou taught
The ravishing beauties of thy noble thought?
Reveal from what source that variety rises
Which quickens the eye and the spirit surprises?
What fire divine in thy vigils, O say,
Gives birth to the marvels that greet the full day?
What charm guides thy pencil in each gracious line,
What force does it blend with a beauty divine,
And whence is the power with which it is rife
To our vision to quicken the dead into life,
With a delicate mingling of varying tones,
Make spirit of color, bring flesh out of stones?

Thou art silent, pretending we may not conceive
These truths of thy calling, but simply believe
That the beautiful secrets which dwell in thy art
Have cost thee too dear to be rended apart —
But thy pencil betrays what thou still wouldst conceal,
And in spite of thy silence its greatness we feel.
In these exquisite efforts unrolled to our eyes
Many mysteries profound stand revealed in new guise;
For the full light of day greets the uplooking face
And this luminous Dome is a school for our race,
Where thy work is a voice that proclaims from the heart
The unchangeable laws of thy glorious art.

It potently points to the three attributes,
Which lend to a picture its loveliest fruits,
Which fairly united lift talent on high
And give the world painters whose names never die.
Of the three, as their queen, it behooves us to mark
The one attained neither by yearning nor work,
And which, like a gift from on high, for a sign,
By every nation is counted divine.
For its flight is beyond the high thunder, and they
Who possess it not, grovel and die by the way.
Eternal it is; ruling all, all ordaining,
And over its sisters twain rightfully reigning.

It teaches the artist a motive to choose
Which wins a wide field for his hovering Muse,
It brings to perfection the rich ornaments
That are born of a genius young and intense;
And Painting and Poesy, sisters in fine,
Lend it freely their learned illusions divine,
Composing with subtlety pleasures and arts
That gain by their lessons a path to our hearts,

With which in all times those two sisters sincere
Have woven a charm for the eye and the ear,
But it warns us away from apparent discord
Between subject and place, between matter and word;
Nor into a tomb must light Folly be led;
No heaven underfoot, no hell overhead.

Full better arrange in a noble array
Groups clearly contrasted, the grave and the gay,
Which stand in a picture at distances due
And balance each other well poised through and through,
Devoid of confusion and vulgar surprise,
Which banish repose, the kind friend of the eyes.
Without crowding, the groups should assemble and stand
In sumptuous concert, a beauty unplanned,
Where the sight is not flurried, repeated is naught,
And all from the depths of the spirit is brought;
Well spiced with a humor of graces antique,
Nor loaded with ornaments Gothic and weak —
Those odious monsters of ignorant days
In torrents let loose by a barbaric race,
Whose flood inundating the breadth of the earth
Made deadliest war on refinement and worth,
And o’erturning the strength of the Roman ramparts
Came with tyrannous empire to strangle the arts.

It instructs us to pose with nobility, grace
The principal figure in fitliest place,

Suffused with due charm, and of brilliant device,
Which win the spectator and ravish the eyes;
Having care that throughout the symmetrical scheme
The first in regard is the figure supreme;
That whatever his rôle and wherever ’tis placed,
The picture’s true hero must not be effaced.

It bids us to flee from all ornaments weak,
From spiritless episodes, barren and bleak,
But to render the subject in generous truth
And faithfully guard and uplift it, forsooth,
With no easy licence to mar it, save such
As legitimate beauty creates by her touch.

And amply it teaches the laws of Design
In the manner Hellenic, the pure Roman line;
The choice of true beauty, that words may not speak,
Through the exquisite fragments of sculpture antique,
Which, taking for subject perfection compact,
Knew well to escape the inadequate fact,
And forming, of many, one beauty supreme,
By art corrects nature’s unlovely extreme;
Above all, it explains by adjustment of space
The united effects of Proportion and Grace;
Of figures, the interdependence and poise,
Whose extremities no lack of balance destroys;
The values contrasted of limbs shapeliest,
Great, noble, extended, developed, at rest;
On their centre well balanced in beauty of pose
Formed one by the other, as rose is by rose,
Offending the eye with no vagaries bold
Where the head, leg, and arm are of different mould;
Their just adaptation to space, and the play
Of the muscles which move in the natural way;
The beauty of contours observed with due care,
Not treated austerely, but ample and fair,
Full-flowing, unequal, like flame out of coal,
And holding embodied both action and soul;
The countenance, varied and vividly real,
To the character joined in a marriage ideal.
It is thus a great painter, with largess of gifts,
A golden idea from obscurity lifts,
For the play of variety brightens his theme,
Repetitions confound not the dominant scheme.
But the commonplace artist, ignoble and vain,
By the love of himself is bound in as with chain;
His weak repetitions make weary the sight,
And his own meagre image stands full in the light.

It teaches of draperies richly unrolled
In undulant symmetry fold over fold,
Where the ornaments ought to preserve their due shape,
But seem to the eye as if half to escape,
Nor falter in falling, but follow in grace
The folds of the plane they caress and embrace.

It shows us, forsooth, by what action and mien
The dominant passions are oftenest seen;
The heart’s deep emotions that throb in the breast
Of the Painter himself — by what gestures expressed,
Set forth as if speaking, clear, vital, and strong
With the vigorous movements of mutes in a throng
Who, denied by great Nature the boon of a voice,
Speak forth in the magic this Painter employs.

It is truly a guide to that mystery of eld
Of the beautiful art wherein Zeuxis excelled,
Which, investing him round with a glory for aye,
Made him peer of Apelles whose bays never die, —
The union of colors, the harmony, tone,
The contrasts, the mingling of hues freely sown,
Which create rare effects and illusions impart,
The soul of all Figures, the triumph of Art!

It indicates clearly the fitliest choice
Of the time and the subject the picture should voice;
How a just distribution of light and of shade
On objects alone or in mass should be laid;
Of their balanced disposal in space and in air
By the differing tints of the dark and the fair,
And the relative value of objects in place
Which approach will distinguish and distance efface;
The gracious repose, with due care to be made,
Which the shade gives the light as the light gives the shade;
With what charm of unheeded companionship these
Should enter together, opposing to please,
And the gentle device by which each should efface
Yet expose itself linked in a tender embrace;
Those shadowy depths which are dexterously planned
To enshroud in their bosoms what art shall command;
By what strokes of the pencil the rondure is wrought
From the flat, when relief, as of sculpture, is sought;
What tempering of tints of the ambient light
Makes the distance recede and then vanish from sight,
And as, with receding planes, vague and obscure,
The strength of the shade drowns the light, full and pure.
Triumph of the picture! it forcefully sweeps
The forms which resist its enveloping deeps,
And, maugre the might they oppose to its laws,
They are forced from their base and projected toward us.

It tells us all this, thy magnificent work,
But, illustrious Mignard, let no alarm lurk
In thy mind lest thy art, disclosed by thy hand,
Shall be known like a way through a wide-open land —
That these lessons profound and oracles fair
Shall betray unto others thy miracles rare.
But few have the talents which join with thy worth,
And talents are secrets none learn save at birth.
Oh, Mignard, no other by reason or care

THE GLORY OF VAL-DE-GRACE

MAURICE LELOIR, PAINTER — GERY-BICHARD, ETCHER

THE INTERIOR OF THE UPPER PART OF THE DOME, WHICH HAS JUST BEEN COMPLETED AND IS BEING CLEARED OUT. BELOW, AND IN THE BACKGROUND, ARE THE REMAINS OF THE TEMPORARY FLOORING, AND THE CARPENTERS ARE AT WORK DISPOSING OF THEIR ROPES AND SCAFFOLDING, SOME OF WHICH REACHES UP AS FAR AS THE CORNICE. IN THE FOREGROUND, ON A NARROW PLATFORM, SUCH AS ARE USED BY PAINTERS, STAND MIGNARD AND MOLIERE. THE PAINTER, IN WORKING-COAT AND CAP, WELCOMES HIS FRIEND MOLIERE TO THE DOME, AND EXPLAINS TO HIM THE MOTIF OF THE COMPOSITION AND THE GROUPS WHICH HE POINTS OUT TO HIM. MOLIERE, WHO HAS REMOVED HIS HAT, THE BETTER TO BE ABLE TO LOOK UPWARDS, LISTENS TO MIGNARD’S EXPLANATION, WHILST CAREFULLY STUDYING THE DECORATIONS TO FIRMLY FIX THEM IN HIS MIND IN ANTICIPATION OF THE WRITING OF THE POEM.

Thy three brilliant gifts may hope to acquire,
Thy passion, and grace, and color, which give
To thy richest examples long ages to live.
These are Heaven’s high gifts which full rarely foregather,
For the centuries old have scarce found them together!
’Tis through these that no work of thy parentage born
Bears marks of the labor, the prick of the thorn.
But in spite of the followers this Glory will raise,
It will still be the marvel to mark out our days;
From the ends of the earth to its o’erarching dome
All curious savants through ages will come.

O you, worthy Objects, for whom a Princess
Has here manifested divine tenderness,
Who born of great God, of the holiest race,
With magnificent zeal have established this place;
Pure spirits, whose holiness Heaven infuses,
Fair temples of virtue, O noble Recluses,
Who, in your retirement, of feverous heat,
Furnish likewise a place where the heart may retreat;
And exempt from the world by a reverent choice,
Allow not your thoughts to be turned toward its voice.
Oh! is it not dear, thus to keep through the days
This picture, blest source of pure vows, in your gaze,
Forever to nourish, from thence, precious flames
With which pious spirits enkindle high aims?
To feel the deep ardor of longings arise,
To give to each hour the incense of sighs,
To enshrine in the breast an image full fair
Of the beauties divine in this Glory laid bare,
Unspeakable beauties which hold you enchained
And render all others unnatural and feigned.

And thou, the world’s mistress in cycles of old,
O School wise and famous, of learning untold!
Where the arts disinterred by an effort put forth
Have healed up the havoc of Vandal and Goth;
O source of rich débris of centuries rare!
O Rome! it is due to thy fostering cafe
That here we possess as the work of thy hand
A man nobly great, a Roman new-planned,
Whose illustrious brush has brought hither to France
Rich works which will ever her honor advance,
Has created in splendor for all to behold
That art never yet to our vision unrolled
Called the fresco, whose grace by no other surpassed
With a lustre exquisite forever shall last.
And so quick is it painted, so bold in design,
That none save a genius its art may divine.

But the obvious method which all artists know
Indulges their weaknesses, bids them be slow,
And the leisurely oil, with its slow-drying powers,
Will await tardy talent through wavering hours.
Abundant the time, and he learns without rush
How to mend the false steps of his too-timid brush.
One can ever return to amend and revise —

Such a work, and behold it again with new eyes.
For the means to refashion a work late or soon
To the painter who vacillates, sure is a boon;
And what is at twenty attempts incomplete
May at thirty be finished and saved from defeat.

But pressing is Fresco, admits no delay,
And wills that an artist shall bend to its sway,
Adapt his devices, and well understand
To capture the moment it yields to his hand.
For the sweep of that moment of speediest pace
Allows to no error an atom of grace,
No attempt at amendment, the border once crossed,
And all at a stroke must be finished, or lost.
A spirit alone that unites intellect
With true genius may ever achievement expect;
But the dexterous hand must support well the head,
For the art must be leashed, as a prisoner led; —
A hand prompt to follow the flame as it burns
Of the growing conception which travels and turns
Like a radiance, and spreads to the depth of the soul
The loveliness felt, and the hope of the goal.

’Tis thus that the fresco, in glorious guise,
From conventional painting wins ever the prize,
And that all the high critics as judges sincere
Unite in proclaiming its victory clear.
A hundred high brushes its praise deserve well,
And Annibal, Angelo, Jules, Raphaël,
Mignards of their cycles, as rivals apart,
By fresco have sought to ennoble their art.

Here all the allurements which startled the past
In scholarly guise are reset and recast.
And, surely, the marvel seems dropped from the skies,
For its beauty, undreamed, has astonished all eyes;
Not alone has it charmed the exact connoisseurs,
And touched the full throng of alert amateurs;
But its miracles still have extended beyond
And attracted the courtiers who seldom respond.
It has fixed their attention, attached their regards,
Arrested their spirits from gossip and cards,
And kindled within them a taste for true art
Which in spite of indifference kindles the heart.

But what, above all, his true merit uplifts
Is the King’s august visit, the crown of his gifts —
That monarch whose mind to great qualities brings
A delicate taste for the beauty of things,
Who, winnowing good from its base counterfeit,
Decides without error, and praises with wit.
And Louis, great Louis, whose sovereign soul
Utters nothing by hazard, is sure of its goal,
Let fall from his lips, like the notes of sweet birds,
The flattering unction of two precious words,
And we know in two words this monarch discreet
Made a glorious eulogy, just and complete.

And Colbert, whose taste is at one with the king,
Proclaims the same beauty in accents that ring.
This vigorous genius of infinite toil,
Whose prudence embraces each science and all, —

Whose merit is felt through the provinces, marts,
In the conduct supreme of our commerce and arts, —
Has evolved the idea of a noble design
Which he gave to the hands of this painter divine
Whose talents he craved to invoke for the walls
Of the Temple his heart and his memory enthralls.

Behold, then, that hand which in ardor begins!
It takes up the brushes; draws, colors, and wins
Without pause all the phases of happiest touch.
At last it has finished! we marvel how much!
And discover with eyes which no prejudice blurs
Three triumphs of art in three pictures diverse.
Yet, ‘mid hundreds of objects where beauty’s the vaunt,
God’s reverence is sacred and all things enchant,
And nothing of majesty, sweetness, or grace
But is radiant with light from the one Divine Face,
Through each noble trait as a flame it shines forth;
And the grandeur, the justice, the wisdom, the worth,
The power, and goodness which here are achieved
Reveal what the spirit of man has conceived.

Pursue, O great Colbert, thy wish to enhance
The arts which thy rule would establish in France,
And give this great project indifference would crush
The unreserved time of a scholarly brush;
Release for the work, which thy memory will crown,
The last precious days of this man of renown.
Such men are full rare and of loftiest choice,
And when Heaven gives, it is meet we rejoice;
For the toil of such hands, which are treasures of
Time, Belongs to the universe, spreads to each clime.
’Tis thy office to grasp them, to hold and to guide
In fitting employment the State should provide;
And well it behooves thee for sake of thy fame
To choose what is offered by him of high name,
For Colbert, the greatest, as courtiers, are rude,
Nor wot of the wiles by which Fortune is wooed,
They are wrapped in reflection, the world they know not
Perfection through leisure and learning is sought;
The Visit, and Study, are widely apart,
Who enters Society banishes art.
A spirit divided is under the ban,
For the work of the Muses exacts the whole man.
He durst not depart from his loftier task
Thy porter each day for an audience to ask;
Nor may he expect, through the flatterer’s aid,
To approach with that homage the courtly have paid.
The dear love of work which resides in his breast
Nor all other care leaves his spirit at rest,
And, sure, thou shouldst pardon a negligence wrought
Of the glorious gifts by thy patronage bought.
By achievement alone let such souls make their court,
O suffer, each day, they advance in their art;
Let thy taste be the master, and judge of their worth
By that merit which marks the elect of the earth,
And ponder thou well thy true choice to uplift,
Who shall have the proud service of toil in thy gift.
It is thus a new glory of art shall recall

THE GLORY OF VAL-DE-GRACE

MAURICE LELOIR, DEL.

ALSO TAKEN FROM THE FRESCO. A CIRCULAR ALTAR, SUPPORTED ON EITHER SIDE BY CENSERS, THE SMOKE FROM WHICH, RISING, FORMS A TEMPORARY FRAME. ON THE ALTAR, THE SEVEN-BRANCHED CANDLESTICK AND THE SLAIN LAMB OF THE PASSOVER. ABOVE, AN ANGEL, HOLDING OPEN, AT ARM’S LENGTH, THE BOOK OF THE SEVEN SEALS; BELOW, TO THE RIGHT AND TO THE LEFT, THE WINGED HEADS OF CHERUBS.

Thy illustrious cares to the memory of all —

That thy name being shown in a hundred proud ways
Shall triumphantly pass to our uttermost days.

NEW INTERLUDES FOR ENFORCED MARRIAGE

A CONTRALTO

Tell me, comrade, in good sooth,
What dost think of marriage, say?

A TENOR

How fares thine own household, pray?
Read me this; spare not the truth.

CONTRALTO

A sad she-devil is my wife,
She raves forever, day and night.

TENOR

And mine a traitress, on my life,
She does far worse than rave and fight.

BOTH

Unhappy those who link their lot
To that false sex.

TENOR

Bizarre.

CONTRALTO

Extravagant.

TENOR

Unfaithful.

CONTRALTO

Obstinate.

TENOR

Quarrelsome.

CONTRALTO

Arrogant.

BOTH

’Tis to renounce the joys of life for naught.

TENOR

And every soul will grant as much,
Yet such
Still in the net are caught.

GROTESQUE TRIO

CONTRALTO

Loving gray hairs, it is not strange
That Love has got you in his range.

BASS

In youth, or eld, or in man’s prime —
O true Love’s sweet at any time.

TENOR

But if you wish to take a wife,
Avoid these beauties on your life.

CONTRALTO

They will tease you
And displease you.

TRIO

And very far from fooling them
Of horns you’ll wear a diadem!

AIRS FOR THE CONTRALTO

Fair or plain, it matters not,
Fear all women as untrue;
Cuckoldry is mankind’s lot,
And the best that man can do
Is to be serene, God wot.

Ah, what strange extravagance,
That one to be a cuckold fears,
For life as many evils has as years,
And all expect some violence;
But wherefore dread an ill we know not whence,
Ah, what strange extravagance.

THE GIPSY GIRLS

A SARABAND

THE THREE ABOVE

The nightingales, in music soothing grief,
Announce Spring’s journey up this joyous way.
The green returns, the groves laugh into leaf,
Ah, Iris fair, how sweet the sky, the day,
If but thy love were only mine alway.

Flora delights in Zephyr’s amorous kiss,
The birds in turn are kissing at their play —
’Tis Love alone beguiles them into bliss.
Ah, Iris fair, how sweet the sky, the day,
If but thy love were only mine alway.

.. They follow Love, who guides them well, I wis.
Ah, Iris fair, how sweet the sky, the day,
If but thou, too, would follow Love alway.
O lovely Silvia, let us love,
Let us unite our hopes and hearts,
Our sighs and languors, ardors, arts,
And live as dove with dove
In nests of plenteous sweets till life departs.
He who would let such moments pass,
Unmindful of their hidden charm,
To Nature’s self would do a harm;
And the light Spring, with leaves and grass,
Reflects the joyance of our years —
For, without love, the Spring is dead,
And all fair days are banished.

The Criticism

The Théâtre du Palais-Royal, where many of Molière’s plays were performed

On Comedy by Voltaire

From ‘Letters on England’, Letter XIX

Anonymous Translation, 1894

I am surprised that the judicious and ingenious Mr. de Muralt, who has published some letters on the English and French nations, should have confined himself; in treating of comedy, merely to censure Shadwell the comic writer.  This author was had in pretty great contempt in Mr. de Muralt’s time, and was not the poet of the polite part of the nation.  His dramatic pieces, which pleased some time in acting, were despised by all persons of taste, and might be compared to many plays which I have seen in France, that drew crowds to the playhouse, at the same time that they were intolerable to read; and of which it might be said, that the whole city of Paris exploded them, and yet all flocked to see them represented on the stage.  Methinks Mr. de Muralt should have mentioned an excellent comic writer (living when he was in England), I mean Mr. Wycherley, who was a long time known publicly to be happy in the good graces of the most celebrated mistress of King Charles II.  This gentleman, who passed his life among persons of the highest distinction, was perfectly well acquainted with their lives and their follies, and painted them with the strongest pencil, and in the truest colours.  He has drawn a misanthrope or man-hater, in imitation of that of Molière.  All Wycherley’s strokes are stronger and bolder than those of our misanthrope, but then they are less delicate, and the rules of decorum are not so well observed in this play.  The English writer has corrected the only defect that is in Molière’s comedy, the thinness of the plot, which also is so disposed that the characters in it do not enough raise our concern.  The English comedy affects us, and the contrivance of the plot is very ingenious, but at the same time it is too bold for the French manners.  The fable is this: — A captain of a man-of-war, who is very brave, open-hearted, and inflamed with a spirit of contempt for all mankind, has a prudent, sincere friend, whom he yet is suspicious of; and a mistress that loves him with the utmost excess of passion.  The captain so far from returning her love, will not even condescend to look upon her, but confides entirely in a false friend, who is the most worthless wretch living.  At the same time he has given his heart to a creature, who is the greatest coquette and the most perfidious of her sex, and he is so credulous as to be confident she is a Penelope, and his false friend a Cato.  He embarks on board his ship in order to go and fight the Dutch, having left all his money, his jewels, and everything he had in the world to this virtuous creature, whom at the same time he recommends to the care of his supposed faithful friend.  Nevertheless the real man of honour, whom he suspects so unaccountably, goes on board the ship with him, and the mistress, on whom he would not bestow so much as one glance, disguises herself in the habit of a page, and is with him the whole voyage, without his once knowing that she is of a sex different from that she attempts to pass for, which, by the way, is not over natural.

The captain having blown up his own ship in an engagement, returns to England abandoned and undone, accompanied by his page and his friend, without knowing the friendship of the one or the tender passion of the other.  Immediately he goes to the jewel among women, who he expected had preserved her fidelity to him and the treasure he had left in her hands.  He meets with her indeed, but married to the honest knave in whom he had reposed so much confidence, and finds she had acted as treacherously with regard to the casket he had entrusted her with.  The captain can scarce think it possible that a woman of virtue and honour can act so vile a part; but to convince him still more of the reality of it, this very worthy lady falls in love with the little page, and will force him to her embraces.  But as it is requisite justice should be done, and that in a dramatic piece virtue ought to be rewarded and vice punished, it is at last found that the captain takes his page’s place, and lies with his faithless mistress, cuckolds his treacherous friend, thrusts his sword through his body, recovers his casket, and marries his page.  You will observe that this play is also larded with a petulant, litigious old woman (a relation of the captain), who is the most comical character that was ever brought upon the stage.

Wycherley has also copied from Molière another play, of as singular and bold a cast, which is a kind of Ecole des Femmes, or, School for Married Women.

The principal character in this comedy is one Homer, a sly fortune hunter, and the terror of all the City husbands.  This fellow, in order to play a surer game, causes a report to be spread, that in his last illness, the surgeons had found it necessary to have him made a eunuch.  Upon his appearing in this noble character, all the husbands in town flock to him with their wives, and now poor Homer is only puzzled about his choice.  However, he gives the preference particularly to a little female peasant, a very harmless, innocent creature, who enjoys a fine flush of health, and cuckolds her husband with a simplicity that has infinitely more merit than the witty malice of the most experienced ladies.  This play cannot indeed be called the school of good morals, but it is certainly the school of wit and true humour.

Sir John Vanbrugh has written several comedies, which are more humorous than those of Mr. Wycherley, but not so ingenious.  Sir John was a man of pleasure, and likewise a poet and an architect.  The general opinion is, that he is as sprightly in his writings as he is heavy in his buildings.  It is he who raised the famous Castle of Blenheim, a ponderous and lasting monument of our unfortunate Battle of Hochstet.  Were the apartments but as spacious as the walls are thick, this castle would be commodious enough.  Some wag, in an epitaph he made on Sir John Vanbrugh, has these lines: —

“Earth lie light on him, for he
Laid many a heavy load on thee.”

Sir John having taken a tour into France before the glorious war that broke out in 1701, was thrown into the Bastille, and detained there for some time, without being ever able to discover the motive which had prompted our ministry to indulge him with this mark of their distinction.  He wrote a comedy during his confinement; and a circumstance which appears to me very extraordinary is, that we don’t meet with so much as a single satirical stroke against the country in which he had been so injuriously treated.

The late Mr. Congreve raised the glory of comedy to a greater height than any English writer before or since his time.  He wrote only a few plays, but they are all excellent in their kind.  The laws of the drama are strictly observed in them; they abound with characters all which are shadowed with the utmost delicacy, and we don’t meet with so much as one low or coarse jest.  The language is everywhere that of men of honour, but their actions are those of knaves — a proof that he was perfectly well acquainted with human nature, and frequented what we call polite company.  He was infirm and come to the verge of life when I knew him.  Mr. Congreve had one defect, which was his entertaining too mean an idea of his first profession (that of a writer), though it was to this he owed his fame and fortune.  He spoke of his works as of trifles that were beneath him; and hinted to me, in our first conversation, that I should visit him upon no other footing than that of a gentleman who led a life of plainness and simplicity.  I answered, that had he been so unfortunate as to be a mere gentleman, I should never have come to see him; and I was very much disgusted at so unseasonable a piece of vanity.

Mr. Congreve’s comedies are the most witty and regular, those of Sir John Vanbrugh most gay and humorous, and those of Mr. Wycherley have the greatest force and spirit.  It may be proper to observe that these fine geniuses never spoke disadvantageously of Molière; and that none but the contemptible writers among the English have endeavoured to lessen the character of that great comic poet.  Such Italian musicians as despise Lully are themselves persons of no character or ability; but a Buononcini esteems that great artist, and does justice to his merit.

The English have some other good comic writers living, such as Sir Richard Steele and Mr. Cibber, who is an excellent player, and also Poet Laureate — a title which, how ridiculous soever it may be thought, is yet worth a thousand crowns a year (besides some considerable privileges) to the person who enjoys it.  Our illustrious Corneille had not so much.

To conclude.  Don’t desire me to descend to particulars with regard to these English comedies, which I am so fond of applauding; nor to give you a single smart saying or humorous stroke from Wycherley or Congreve.  We don’t laugh in rending a translation.  If you have a mind to understand the English comedy, the only way to do this will be for you to go to England, to spend three years in London, to make yourself master of the English tongue, and to frequent the playhouse every night.  I receive but little pleasure from the perusal of Aristophanes and Plautus, and for this reason, because I am neither a Greek nor a Roman.  The delicacy of the humour, the allusion, the à propos — all these are lost to a foreigner.

But it is different with respect to tragedy, this treating only of exalted passions and heroical follies, which the antiquated errors of fable or history have made sacred.  Œdipus, Electra, and such-like characters, may with as much propriety be treated of by the Spaniards, the English, or us, as by the Greeks.  But true comedy is the speaking picture of the follies and ridiculous foibles of a nation; so that he only is able to judge of the painting who is perfectly acquainted with the people it represents.

On the English Comedy by Voltaire

From ‘Philosophical Letters’

Translated by William F. Fleming

If in most of the English tragedies the heroes are awkward and the heroines extravagant, in return the style is more natural in comedy; but then this style would appear to us rather that of debauchery than of politeness; it distinguishes everything by its proper name; a woman, enraged at her lover, wishes him the pox; a drunkard, in a piece that is very often performed, is disguised like a priest, makes a great riot, and is arrested by the watch: he calls himself a curate; he is asked what cure he has; and he replies, “An excellent one for the... .” In one of the most decent comedies, “The Careless Husband,” this husband is represented having his head rubbed by a servant–maid, who is seated by his side: his wife enters, and exclaims: “To what power may one not arrive by being a whore!” Some cynics justify these gross expressions, and quote the example of Horace, who describes, by their proper names, all the parts of the human body, and all the pleasures they give. These are images that succeed with us only when properly veiled; but Horace, who seemed made for the stews as well as for the court, and who perfectly understood the customs of both, speaks as freely of the way of a man with a maid, as if he was describing a walk, or a collation. It has been observed, that the Romans, in the days of Augustus, were as polite as the Parisians are at present; and that this very Horace, who praises the emperor Augustus for reforming the manners, complied, without scruple, with the customs of the times, which permitted the promiscuous use of girls and boys, and of the proper names of things. Strange it is — if anything can be said to be so — that Horace, while speaking the language of a debauchee, should be the favorite of a reformer; and that Ovid, for speaking only the language of gallantry, should be exiled by a debauchee, an impostor, an assassin, called Octavius, who acquired the empire by crimes which merited death.

However this be, Bayle pretends that expressions are indifferent, in which he, the cynics, and the Stoics, deceive themselves; for everything has different names which represent it under different aspects, and afford different ideas of it. The words “magistrate” and “lawyer,” “gentleman” and “squire,” “officer” and “sharper,” “monk” and “friar,” have not the same signification. The consummation of marriage, and everything that contributes to the completion of this great work, will be differently expressed by the parson, the husband, the physician, and the rake. The word the latter of these would make use of would awaken the idea of pleasure, the terms the physician would explain himself in would put you in mind of a dead body, the husband would make that understood with decency which the young libertine had described immodestly, and the parson would attempt to give you the idea of a sacrament. Words then are not in themselves indifferent; for they are not synonymous.

It must further be considered, that though the Romans permitted these gross expressions in satires, which were read but by a few people, they never suffered indecent words on the stage; for, as La Fontaine says: “Chaste are the ears, although the eyes are wanton.” In a word, no expression should be made use of in public, which a modest woman would be ashamed to repeat.

The English have stolen, disguised, and mangled, most of Molière’s plays. They attempted to make a Tartuffe. It was impossible that this subject should succeed at London, because the portrait of a stranger affords very little pleasure. One of the blessings of the English nation is, that she has no Tartuffes: to have hypocrites, it is necessary to have bigots; but the name of bigot is almost unknown there, while that of an honest man is common. He sees no dotards committing to others the care of their souls; no petty tyrants establishing a despotic empire, in some quarter of the city, over a set of superannuated females, who were once coquettes, and always weak; and over men still more weak and despicable. Philosophy, liberty, and the climate, lead the way to misanthropy. London, which has no Tartuffes, abounds with Timons. The “Plain Dealer” is one of the best English comedies: it was written at the time when Charles II. and his splendid court were endeavoring to laugh away the settled gloom that had overspread the nation. Wycherly, the author of this comedy, was the professed admirer of the duchess of Cleveland, the king’s mistress. This man, who passed his life in the gay world, as it is called, painted its follies and absurdities in the strongest colors. The strokes are bolder in Wycherly’s piece than in Molière’s; but they are not so delicate, nor so refined. The English author has corrected the only fault in Molière’s piece, the want of plot and intrigue: the English comedy is interesting, the intrigue is ingenious, but too bold for our manners.

A captain of a ship, of distinguished courage and frankness, and a professed despiser of mankind, has a sincere and prudent friend whom he mistrusts, and a mistress, by whom he is tenderly beloved, whom he slights: whilst he places all his confidence in a false friend, the most unworthy of men; and gives his heart to a jilt, the most perfidious of her sex. He believes, however, that this woman is a Penelope, and this false friend a Cato: he sets–out on an expedition against the Dutch, and leaves all his money, jewels, and other effects, in the hands of this woman to the care of this friend he so firmly relies on; while the true friend, whom he mistrusts, embarks with him, and the lady, to whom he has not deigned to pay the least regard, disguises herself in the habit of a page, and performs the voyage with him, without discovering her sex the whole time.

The captain’s ship being blown up in an engagement, he returns to London in the utmost distress, accompanied by his friend and the page, without knowing the friendship of the one, or the love of the other. He goes immediately to that paragon of women from whom he expects to receive his strong box, and a fresh proof of her fidelity. He finds her married to the sharper he had confided in, and can get no account of the treasure he had committed to her charge. The good man will hardly believe that so virtuous a woman could be guilty of such baseness; when the better to convince him of it, this honest lady falls in love with the little page, and attempts to take him away by force: but as it is necessary, in a dramatic piece, that justice should take place, vice be punished, and virtue meet its reward, at the close of the catastrophe, the captain supplied the place of the page, goes to bed to his inconstant mistress, cuckolds his treacherous friend, runs him through the body, recovers the remains of his effects, and marries his page. You will observe, that this piece is interlarded with an old litigious woman, related to the captain, who is one of the merriest creatures, and one of the best characters, on the stage.

Wycherly has taken another piece from Molière not less bold and singular; it is a sort of “School for Women.” The principal character in the piece is a droll libertine, the terror of the husbands of London; who, to make sure of his business, spreads a report, that, in a late illness, his surgeons had found it necessary to make him a eunuch. Having this curious character, the husbands grant him free access to their wives, and his only difficulty is where to fix his choice. However, at last, he gives the preference to a little country–woman, who has a great share of innocence, with a natural warmth of constitution, by which she makes her husband a cuckold with a good will and readiness that far exceeds the premeditated malice of experienced dames. This piece is not indeed “The School of Morality”; but it is “The School of Wit and True Comic Humor.”

The comedies of Sir John Vanbrugh are more facetious, but less ingenious. The knight was a man of pleasure, and besides a poet and an architect. It is remarked, that he wrote as delicately and as elegantly as he built clumsily: it was he who built the famous castle of Blenheim, the heavy but durable monument of our unfortunate battle of Höchstädt. If the apartments were only as large as the walls are thick, this mansion would be convenient enough. In Sir John Vanbrugh’s epitaph, the earth is invoked to lie heavy on him, who, when living, had laid such heavy loads upon it. This gentleman took a tour into France just before the curious war of 1701, and was put into the Bastille, where he remained some time, without knowing what it was that had procured him this mark of distinction from our ministry. He wrote a comedy in the Bastille, and, what is in my opinion very remarkable, there is not in all the piece the least stroke against the country where he suffered this violence.

Of all the English writers, the late Mr. Congreve has carried the glory of the comic theatre to the highest pitch. He wrote but few pieces, but they are all excellent of their kind: the laws of the drama are strictly observed in them; they are full of characters elegantly varied; no mean pleasantry, not the least indecency, is introduced; you find in every part the language of politeness, even in describing the actions of knaves; which proves that he knew the world, and kept what is called good company. His comedies are the most sprightly and correct, Sir John Vanbrugh’s the gayest, and Wycherly’s the boldest. It is to be observed, that none of these sublime wits have spoken ill of Molière: it is only writers of no repute that have vilified this great man. In a word, do not expect from me any extracts from these English performances that I am so great an advocate of; nor that I should give you a single bon mot or jest from Congreve or Wycherly. One cannot laugh in a translation. If you would be acquainted with the English comedy, you must go to London: you must reside there three years; you must learn the language perfectly, and constantly frequent the theatre. I take no great pleasure in reading Plautus or Aristophanes, because I am neither Greek nor Roman. The delicate turn of bon mots, the allusion, and the apropos, are all lost to a foreigner.

It is not the same in tragedy; that consists alone in the sublime passions, and heroic fooleries, consecrated by the stale error of fables and histories. Œdipus and Electra belong as much to us, to the English, and to the Spaniards, as to the Greeks: but true comedy is the living picture of the absurdities of a country; and, if you are not thoroughly acquainted with the country, you can hardly judge of the painting.

It has been objected to the English, that their scene is bloody, and often covered with dead bodies; that their gladiators fight half naked before young girls, and often return from the combat with the loss of a nose or a cheek. In answer to this, they tell you that they imitate the Greeks in tragedy, and the Romans in the act of cutting off noses: but their theatre is widely different from that of Sophocles and Euripides; and, with respect to the Romans, it must be acknowledged that a nose or a cheek is a trifle in comparison with that multitude of victims that mutually butchered each other in the circus for the diversion of the Roman ladies.

The English have sometimes had dances in their comedies, which were allegorical, and of a very singular taste. Despotic power and a republican state were represented by a very gallant dance in 1709. A king appears in the dance, who, after a few capers, gives his prime minister a very severe kick on the... . the minister bestows it on a second person, the second on a third, and, in fine, he who received the last represented the bulk of the nation, which had nobody to revenge itself on: all was performed in cadence. The republican government was represented by a round dance, where everyone equally received and returned the blow. This, however, is the country that has given birth to Addisons, Popes, Lockes, and Newtons.

Molière by William Cleaver Wilkinson

From ‘French Classics’, 1909

MOLIÈRE

1623-1673.

Molière is confessedly the greatest writer of comedy in the world. Greek Menander might have disputed the palm; but Menander’s works have perished, and his greatness must be guessed. Who knows but we guess him too great? Molière’s works survive, and his greatness may be measured.

We have stinted our praise. Molière is not only the foremost name in a certain department of literature; he is one  of the foremost names in literature. The names are few on which critics are willing to bestow this distinction. But critics generally agree in bestowing this distinction on Molière.

Molière’s comedy is by no means mere farce. Farces he wrote, undoubtedly; and some element of farce, perhaps, entered to qualify nearly every comedy that flowed from his pen. But it is not for his farce that Molière is rated one of the few greatest producers of literature. Molière’s comedy constitutes to Molière the patent that it does, of high degree in genius, not because it provokes laughter, but because, amid laughter provoked, it not seldom reveals, as if with flashes of lightning — lightning playful, indeed, but lightning that might have been deadly — the “secrets of the nethermost abyss” of human nature. Not human manners merely, those of a time, or a race, but human attributes, those of all times, and of all races, are the things with which, in his higher comedies, Molière deals. Some transient whim of fashion may in these supply to him the mould of form that he uses, but it is human nature itself that supplies to Molière the substance of his dramatic creations. Now and again, if you read Molière wisely and deeply, you find your laughter at comedy fairly frozen in your throat, by a gelid horror seizing you, to feel that these follies or these crimes displayed belong to that human nature, one and the same everywhere and always, of which also you yourself partake. Comedy, Dante, too, called his poem, which included the Inferno. And a Dantesque quality, not of method, but of power, is to be felt in Molière.

This character in Molière the writer accords with the character of the man Molière. It might not have seemed natural to say of Molière, as was said of Dante, “There goes the man that has been in hell.” But Molière was melancholy enough in temper and in mien to have well inspired an exclamation such as, “There goes the man that has seen the human heart.”

A poet as well as a dramatist, his own fellow-countrymen, at  least, feel Molière to be. In Victor Hugo’s list of the eight greatest poets of all time, two are Hebrews (Job and Isaiah), two Greeks (Homer and Æschylus), one is a Roman (Lucretius), one an Italian (Dante), one an Englishman (Shakespeare) — seven. The eighth could hardly fail to be a Frenchman, and that Frenchman is Molière. Mr. Swinburne might perhaps make the list nine, but he would certainly include Victor Hugo himself.

Curiously enough, Molière is not this great writer’s real name. It is a stage name. It was assumed by the bearer when he was about twenty-four years of age, on occasion of his becoming one in a strolling band of players — in 1646 or thereabout. This band, originally composed of amateurs, developed into a professional dramatic company, which passed through various transformations, until, from being at first grandiloquently self-styled, L’Illustre Théâtre, it was, twenty years after, recognized by the national title of Théâtre Français. Molière’s real name was Jean Baptiste Poquelin.

Young Poquelin’s bent, early encouraged by seeing plays and ballets, was strongly toward the stage. The drama, under the quickening patronage of Louis XIII.’s lordly minister, Cardinal Richelieu, was a great public interest of those times in Paris. Molière’s evil star, too, it was perhaps in part that brought him back to Paris, from Orleans. He admired a certain actress in the capital. She became the companion — probably not innocent companion — of his wandering life as actor. A sister of this actress — a sister young enough to be daughter, instead of sister — Molière finally married. She led her jealous husband a wretched conjugal life. A peculiarly dark tradition of shame, connected with Molière’s marriage, has lately been to a good degree dispelled. But it is not possible to redeem this great man’s fame to chastity and honor. He paid heavily, in like misery of his own, for whatever pangs of jealousy he inflicted. There was sometimes true tragedy for himself hidden within the comedy that he acted for others. (Molière, to the very end of his life, acted in the comedies that he wrote.) When some play of his represented the torments  of jealousy in the heart of a husband, it was probably not so much acting, as it was real life, that the spectators saw proceeding on the stage between Molière and his wife, confronted with each other in performing the piece.

Despite his faults, Molière was cast in a noble, generous mold, of character as well as of genius. Expostulated with for persisting to appear on the stage when his health was such that he put his life at stake in so doing, he replied that the men and women of his company depended for their bread on the play’s going through, and appear he would. He actually died an hour or so after playing the part of the Imaginary Invalid in his comedy of that name. That piece was the last work of his pen.

Molière produced in all some thirty dramatic pieces, from among which we select a few of the most celebrated for brief description and illustration.

The “Bourgeois Gentilhomme” (“Shopkeeper turned Gentleman”) partakes of the nature of the farce quite as much as it does of the comedy. But it is farce such as only a man of genius could produce. In it Molière ridicules the airs and affectations of a rich man vulgarly ambitious to figure in a social rank too exalted for his birth, his breeding, or his merit. Jourdain is the name under which Molière satirizes such a character. We give a fragment from one of the scenes. M. Jourdain is in process of fitting himself for that higher position in society to which he aspires. He will equip himself with the necessary knowledge. To this end he employs a professor of philosophy to come and give him lessons at his house:

M. Jourdain. I have the greatest desire in the world to be learned; and it vexes me more than I can tell, that my father and mother did not make me learn thoroughly all the sciences when I was young.

Professor of Philosophy. This is a praiseworthy feeling. Nam sine doctrina vita est quasi mortis imago. You understand this, and you have, no doubt, a knowledge of Latin?

M. Jour. Yes; but act as if I had none. Explain to me the meaning of it —

Prof. Phil. The meaning of it is, that, without science, life is an image of death.

M. Jour. That Latin is quite right.

Prof. Phil. Have you any principles, any rudiments, of science?

M. Jour. Oh, yes! I can read and write.

Prof. Phil. With what would you like to begin? Shall I teach you logic?

M. Jour. And what may this logic be?

Prof. Phil. It is that which teaches us the three operations of the mind.

M. Jour. What are they — these three operations of the mind?

Prof. Phil. The first, the second, and the third. The first is to conceive well by means of universals; the second, to judge well by means of categories; and the third, to draw a conclusion aright by means of the figures Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio, Baralipton, etc.

M. Jour. Pooh! what repulsive words! This logic does not by any means suit me. Teach me something more enlivening.

Prof. Phil. Will you learn moral philosophy?

M. Jour. Moral philosophy?

Prof. Phil. Yes.

M. Jour. What does it say, this moral philosophy?

Prof. Phil. It treats of happiness, teaches men to moderate their passions, and —

M. Jour. No, none of that. I am devilishly hot-tempered, and, morality or no morality, I like to give full vent to my anger whenever I have a mind to it.

Prof. Phil. Would you like to learn physics?

M. Jour. And what have physics to say for themselves?

Prof. Phil. Physics is that science which explains the principles of natural things and the properties of bodies; which discourses of the nature of the elements, of metals, minerals, stones, plants, and animals; which teaches us the cause of all the meteors, the rainbow, the ignis fatuus, comets, lightning, thunder, thunderbolts, rain, snow, hail, and whirlwinds.

M. Jour. There is too much hullaballoo in all that, too much riot and rumpus.

Prof. Phil. Very good.

M. Jour. And now I want to intrust you with a great secret. I am in love with a lady of quality; and I should be glad if you would help me to write something to her in a short letter which I mean to drop at her feet.

Prof. Phil. Very well.

M. Jour. That will be gallant, will it not?

Prof. Phil. Undoubtedly. Is it verse you wish to write to her?

M. Jour. Oh, no! not verse.

Prof. Phil. You only wish prose?

M. Jour. No. I wish for neither verse nor prose.

Prof. Phil. It must be one or the other.

M. Jour. Why?

Prof. Phil. Because, sir, there is nothing by which we can express ourselves except prose or verse.

M. Jour. There is nothing but prose or verse?

Prof. Phil. No, sir. Whatever is not prose, is verse; and whatever is not verse, is prose.

M. Jour. And when we speak, what is that, then?

Prof. Phil. Prose.

M. Jour. What! when I say, “Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give me my nightcap,” is that prose?

Prof. Phil. Yes, sir.

M. Jour. Upon my word, I have been speaking prose these forty years without being aware of it; and I am under the greatest obligation to you for informing me of it. Well, then, I wish to write to her in a letter, “Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love”; but I would have this worded in a gallant manner, turned genteelly.

Prof. Phil. Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced your heart to ashes; that you suffer day and night for her the torments of a —

M. Jour. No, no, no, I don’t wish any of that. I simply wish what I tell you— “Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love.”

Prof. Phil. Still, you might amplify the thing a little.

M. Jour. No, I tell you, I will have nothing but these very words in the letter; but they must be put in a fashionable way, and arranged as they should be. Pray show me a little, so that I may see the different ways in which they can be put.

Prof. Phil. They may be put first of all, as you have said, “Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love;” or else, “Of love die make me, fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes;” or, “Your beautiful eyes of love make me, fair Marchioness, die;” or, “Die of love your beautiful eyes, fair Marchioness, make me;” or else, “Me make your beautiful eyes die, fair Marchioness, of love.”

M. Jour. But of all these ways, which is the best?

Prof. Phil. The one you said— “Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love.”

M. Jour. Yet I have never studied, and I did all right off at the first shot.

The “Bourgeois Gentilhomme” is a very amusing comedy throughout.

From “Les Femmes Savantes” (“The Learned Women”)— “The Blue-Stockings,” we might perhaps freely render the title — we present one scene to indicate the nature of the  comedy. There had grown to be a fashion in Paris, among certain women high in social rank, of pretending to the distinction of skill in literary criticism, and of proficiency in science. It was the Hôtel de Rambouillet reduced to absurdity. That fashionable affectation Molière made the subject of his comedy, “The Learned Women.”

In the following extracts, Molière satirizes, under the name of Trissotin, a contemporary writer, one Cotin. The poem which Trissotin reads, for the learned women to criticise and admire, is an actual production of this gentleman. Imagine the domestic coterie assembled, and Trissotin, the poet, their guest. He is present, prepared to regale them with what he calls his sonnet. We need to explain that the original poem is thus inscribed: “To Mademoiselle de Longueville, now Duchess of Namur, on her Quartan Fever.” The conceit of the sonneteer is that the fever is an enemy luxuriously lodged in the lovely person of its victim, and there insidiously plotting against her life:

Trissotin. Sonnet to the Princess Urania on her Fever.

Your prudence sure is fast asleep,

That thus luxuriously you keep

And lodge magnificently so

Your very hardest-hearted foe.

Bélise. Ah! what a pretty beginning!

Armande. What a charming turn it has!

Philaminte. He alone possesses the talent of making easy verses.

Arm. We must yield to prudence fast asleep.

Bél. Lodge one’s very hardest-hearted foe is full of charms for me.

Phil. I like luxuriously and magnificently: these two adverbs joined together sound admirably.

Bél. Let us hear the rest.

Triss.

Your prudence sure is fast asleep,

That thus luxuriously you keep

And lodge magnificently so

Your very hardest-hearted foe.

Arm. Prudence fast asleep.

Bél. To lodge one’s foe.

Phil. Luxuriously and magnificently.

Triss.

Drive forth that foe, whate’er men say,

From out your chamber, decked so gay,

Where, ingrate vile, with murderous knife,

Bold she assails your lovely life.

Bél. Ah! gently. Allow me to breathe, I beseech you.

Arm. Give us time to admire, I beg.

Phil. One feels, at hearing these verses, an indescribable something which goes through one’s inmost soul, and makes one feel quite faint.

Arm.

Drive forth that foe, whate’er men say,

From out your chamber, decked so gay —

How prettily chamber, decked so gay, is said here! And with what wit the metaphor is introduced!

Phil.    Drive forth that foe, whate’er men say.

Ah! in what an admirable taste that whate’er men say is! To my mind, the passage is invaluable.

Arm. My heart is also in love with whate’er men say.

Bél. I am of your opinion: whate’er men say is a happy expression.

Arm. I wish I had written it.

Bél. It is worth a whole poem.

Phil. But do you, like me, thoroughly understand the wit of it?

Arm. and Bél. Oh! Oh!

Phil.    Drive forth that foe, whate’er men say.

Although another should take the fever’s part, pay no attention; laugh at the gossips.

Drive forth that foe, whate’er men say,

Whate’er men say, whate’er men say.

This whate’er men say, says a great deal more than it seems. I do not know if every one is like me, but I discover in it a hundred meanings.

Bél. It is true that it says more than its size seems to imply.

Phil. (to Trissotin.) But when you wrote this charming whate’er men say, did you yourself understand all its energy? Did you realize all it tells us? And did you then think that you were writing something so witty?

Triss. Ah! ah!

Arm. I have likewise the ingrate in my head — this ungrateful, unjust, uncivil fever that ill-treats people who entertain her.

Phil. In short, both the stanzas are admirable. Let us come quickly to the triplets, I pray.

Arm. Ah! once more, what’er men say, I beg.

Triss. Drive forth that foe, whate’er men say —

Phil., Arm., and Bél. Whate’er men say!

Triss. From out your chamber, decked so gay —

Phil., Arm. and Bél. Chamber decked so gay!

Triss. Where, ingrate vile, with murderous knife —

Phil., Arm., and Bél. That ingrate fever!

Triss. Bold she assails your lovely life.

Triss. Your lovely life!

Arm. and Bél. Ah!

Triss.

What! reckless of your ladyhood,

Still fiercely seeks to shed your blood —

Phil., Arm. and Bél. Ah!

Triss.

And day and night to work you harm.

When to the baths sometime you’ve brought her,

No more ado, with your own arm

Whelm her and drown her in the water.

Phil. Ah! It is quite overpowering.

Bél. I faint.

Arm. I die from pleasure.

Phil. A thousand sweet thrills seize one.

Arm. When to the baths sometime you’ve brought her.

Bél. No more ado, with your own arm.

Phil. Whelm her and drown her in the water.

With your own arm, drown her there in the baths.

Arm. In your verses we meet at each step with charming beauty.

Bél. One promenades through them with rapture.

Phil. One treads on fine things only.

Arm. They are little lanes all strewn with roses.

Triss. Then, the sonnet seems to you —

Phil. Admirable, new; and never did any one make any thing more beautiful.

Bél. (to Henriette). What! my niece, you listen to what has been read without emotion! You play there but a sorry part!

Hen. We each of us play the best part we can, my aunt; and to be a wit does not depend on our will.

Triss. My verses, perhaps, are tedious to you.

Hen. No. I do not listen.

Phil. Ah! Let us hear the epigram.

But our readers, we think, will consent to spare the epigram. They will relish, however, a fragment taken from a subsequent part of the same protracted scene. The conversation has made the transition from literary criticism to philosophy, in Molière’s time a fashionable study, rendered such by the contemporary genius and fame of Descartes. Armande resents the limitations imposed upon her sex:

Arm. It is insulting our sex too grossly to limit our intelligence to the power of judging of a skirt, of the make of a garment, of the beauties of lace, or of a new brocade.

Bél. We must rise above this shameful condition, and bravely proclaim our emancipation.

Triss. Every one knows my respect for the fairer sex, and that, if I render homage to the brightness of their eyes, I also honor the splendor of their intellect.

Phil. And our sex does you justice in this respect; but we will show to certain minds who treat us with proud contempt, that women also have knowledge; that, like men, they can hold learned meetings — regulated, too, by better rules; that they wish to unite what elsewhere is kept apart, join noble language to deep learning, reveal nature’s laws by a thousand experiments; and, on all questions proposed, admit every party, and ally themselves to none.

Triss. For order, I prefer peripateticism.

Phil. For abstractions, I love platonism.

Arm. Epicurus pleases me, for his tenets are solid.

Bél. I agree with the doctrine of atoms; but I find it difficult to understand a vacuum, and I much prefer subtile matter.

Triss. I quite agree with Descartes about magnetism.

Arm. I like his vortices.

Phil. And I, his falling worlds.

Arm. I long to see our assembly opened, and to distinguish ourselves by some great discovery.

Triss. Much is expected from your enlightened knowledge, for nature has hidden few things from you.

Phil. For my part, I have, without boasting, already made one discovery; I have plainly seen men in the moon.

Bél. I have not, I believe as yet, quite distinguished men, but I have seen steeples as plainly as I see you.

Arm. In addition to natural philosophy, we will dive into grammar, history, verse, ethics, and politics.

Phil. I find in ethics charms which delight my heart; it was formerly the admiration of great geniuses; but I give the preference to the Stoics, and I think nothing so grand as their founder.

“Les Précieuses Ridicules” is an earlier and lighter treatment of the same theme. The object of ridicule in both these pieces was a lapsed and degenerate form of what originally was a thing worthy of respect, and even of praise. At the Hôtel de Rambouillet, conversation was cultivated as a fine art. There was, no doubt, something overstrained in the  standards which the ladies of that circle enforced. Their mutual communication was all conducted in a peculiar style of language, the natural deterioration of which was into a kind of euphuism, such as English readers will remember to have seen exemplified in Walter Scott’s Sir Piercie Shafton. These ladies called each other, with demonstrative fondness, “Ma précieuse.” Hence at last the term précieuse as a designation of ridicule. Madame de Sévigné was a précieuse. But she, with many of her peers, was too rich in sarcastic common sense to be a précieuse ridicule. Molière himself, thrifty master of policy that he was, took pains to explain that he did not satirize the real thing, but only the affectation.

“Tartuffe, or the Impostor,” is perhaps the most celebrated of all Molière’s plays. Scarcely comedy, scarcely tragedy, it partakes of both characters. Like tragedy, serious in purpose, it has a happy ending like comedy. Pity and terror are absent; or, if not quite absent, these sentiments are present raised only to a pitch distinctly below the tragic. Indignation is the chief passion excited, or detestation, perhaps, rather than indignation. This feeling is provided at last with its full satisfaction in the condign punishment visited on the impostor.

The original “Tartuffe,” like the most of Molière’s comedies, is written in rhymed verse. We could not, with any effort, make the English-reading student of Molière sufficiently feel how much is lost when the form is lost which the creations of this great genius took, in their native French, under his own master hand. A satisfactory metrical rendering is out of the question. The sense, at least, if not the incommunicable spirit, of the original, is very well given in Mr. C. H. Wall’s version, which we use.

The story of “Tartuffe” is briefly this: Tartuffe, the hero, is a pure villain. He mixes no adulteration of good in his composition. He is hypocrisy itself, the strictly genuine article. Tartuffe has completely imposed upon one Orgon, a man of wealth and standing. Orgon, with his wife, and with his mother, in fact, believes in him absolutely. These people  have received the canting rascal into their house, and are about to bestow upon him their daughter in marriage. The following scene from act first shows the skill with which Molière could exhibit, in a few strokes of bold exaggeration, the infatuation of Orgon’s regard for Tartuffe. Orgon has been absent from home. He returns, and meets Cléante, his brother, whom, in his eagerness, he begs to excuse his not answering a question just addressed to him:

Orgon (to Cléante). Brother, pray excuse me: you will kindly allow me to allay my anxiety by asking news of the family. (To Dorine, a maid-servant.) Has every thing gone on well these last two days? What has happened? How is every body?

Dor. The day before yesterday our mistress was very feverish from morning to night, and suffered from a most extraordinary headache.

Org. And Tartuffe?

Dor. Tartuffe! He is wonderfully well, stout, and fat with blooming cheeks and ruddy lips.

Org. Poor man!

Dor. In the evening she felt very faint, and the pain in her head was so great that she could not touch any thing at supper.

Org. And Tartuffe?

Dor. He ate his supper by himself before her, and very devoutly devoured a brace of partridges and half a leg of mutton hashed.

Org. Poor man!

Dor. She spent the whole of the night without getting one wink of sleep: she was very feverish, and we had to sit up with her until the morning.

Org. And Tartuffe?

Dor. Overcome by a pleasant sleepiness, he passed from the table to his room and got at once into his warmed bed, where he slept comfortably till the next morning.

Org. Poor man!

Dor. At last, yielding to our persuasions, she consented to be bled, and immediately felt relieved.

Org. And Tartuffe?

Dor. He took heart right valiantly, and fortifying his soul against all evils, to make up for the blood which our lady had lost, drank at breakfast four large bumpers of wine.

Org. Poor man!

Dor. Now, at last, they are both well: and I will go and tell our lady how glad you are to hear of her recovery.

Tartuffe repays the trust and love of his benefactor by making improper advances to that benefactor’s wife. Orgon’s son, who does not share his father’s confidence in Tartuffe, happens to be an unseen witness of the man’s infamous conduct. He exposes the hypocrite to Orgon, with the result of being himself expelled from the house for his pains; while Tartuffe, in recompense for the injury done to his feelings, is presented with a gift-deed of Orgon’s estate. But now Orgon’s wife contrives to let her husband see and hear for himself the vileness of Tartuffe. This done, Orgon confronts the villain, and, with just indignation, orders him out of his house. Tartuffe reminds Orgon that the shoe is on the other foot; that he is himself now owner there, and that it is Orgon, instead of Tartuffe, who must go. Orgon has an interview with his mother, who is exasperatingly sure still that Tartuffe is a maligned good man:

Madame Pernelle. I can never believe, my son, that he would commit so base an action.

Org. What?

Per. Good people are always subject to envy.

Org. What do you mean, mother?

Per. That you live after a strange sort here, and that I am but too well aware of the ill-will they all bear him.

Org. What has this ill-will to do with what I have just told you?

Per. I have told it you a hundred times when you were young, that in this world virtue is ever liable to persecution, and that, although the envious die, envy never dies.

Org. But what has this to do with what has happened to-day?

Per. They have concocted a hundred foolish stories against him.

Org. I have already told you that I saw it all myself.

Per. The malice of evil-disposed persons is very great.

Org. You would make me swear, mother! I tell you that I saw his audacious attempt with my own eyes.

Per. Evil tongues have always some venom to pour forth; and here below, there is nothing proof against them.

Org. You are maintaining a very senseless argument. I saw it, I tell you — saw it with my own eyes! what you can call s-a-w, saw! Must I din it over and over into your ears, and shout as loud as half a dozen people?

Per. Gracious goodness! appearances often deceive us! We must not always judge by what we see.

Org. I shall go mad!

Per. We are by nature prone to judge wrongly, and good is often mistaken for evil.

Org. I ought to look upon his desire of seducing my wife as charitable?

Per. You ought to have good reasons before you accuse another, and you should have waited till you were quite sure of the fact.

Org. Heaven save the mark! how could I be more sure? I suppose, mother, I ought to have waited till — you will make me say something foolish.

Per. In short, his soul is possessed with too pure a zeal; and I cannot possibly conceive that he would think of attempting what you accuse him of.

Org. If you were not my mother, I really don’t know what I might now say to you, you make me so savage.

The short remainder of the scene has for its important idea the suggestion that, under the existing circumstances, some sort of peace ought to be patched up between Orgon and Tartuffe. Meantime one Loyal is observed coming, whereupon the fourth scene of act fifth opens:

Loy. (to Dorine at the farther part of the stage). Good-day, my dear sister; pray let me speak to your master.

Dor. He is with friends, and I do not think he can see any one just now.

Loy. I would not be intrusive. I feel sure that he will find nothing unpleasant in my visit; in fact, I come for something which will be very gratifying to him.

Dor. What is your name?

Loy. Only tell him that I come from Mr. Tartuffe for his benefit.

Dor. (to Orgon). It is a man who comes in a civil way from Mr. Tartuffe, on some business which will make you glad, he says.

Clé. (to Orgon). You must see who it is and what the man wants.

Org. (to Cléante). He is coming, perhaps, to settle matters between us in a friendly way. How, in this case, ought I to behave to him?

Clé. Don’t show any resentment, and, if he speaks of an agreement, listen to him.

Loy. (to Orgon). Your servant, sir. May heaven punish whoever wrongs you; and may it be as favorable to you, sir, as I wish!

Org. (aside to Cléante). This pleasant beginning agrees with my conjectures, and argues some sort of reconciliation.

Loy. All your family was always dear to me, and I served your father.

Org. I am sorry and ashamed to say that I do not know who you are, neither do I remember your name.

Loy. My name is Loyal; I was born in Normandy, and am a royal bailiff in spite of envy. For the last forty years I have had the good fortune to fill the office, thanks to heaven, with great credit; and I come, sir, with your leave, to serve you the writ of a certain order.

Org. What! you are here —

Loy. Gently, sir, I beg. It is merely a summons — a notice for you to leave this place, you and yours; to take away all your goods and chattels, and make room for others, without delay or adjournment, as hereby decreed.

Org. I! leave this place?

Loy. Yes, sir, if you please. The house incontestably belongs, as you are well aware, to the good Mr. Tartuffe. He is now lord and master of your estates, according to a deed I have in my keeping. It is in due form, and cannot be challenged.

Damis (to Mr. Loyal). This great impudence is, indeed, worthy of all admiration.

Loy. (to Damis.) Sir, I have nothing at all to do with you. (Pointing to Orgon.) My business is with this gentleman. He is tractable and gentle, and knows too well the duty of a gentleman to try to oppose authority.

Org. But —

Loy. Yes, sir; I know that you would not, for any thing, show contumacy; and that you will allow me, like a reasonable man, to execute the orders I have received.

The scene gives in conclusion some spirited byplay of asides and interruptions from indignant members of the family. Then follows scene fifth, one exchange of conversation from which will sufficiently indicate the progress of the plot:

Org. Well, mother, you see whether I am right; and you can judge of the rest by the writ. Do you at last acknowledge his rascality?

Per. I am thunderstruck, and can scarcely believe my eyes and ears.

The next scene introduces Valère, the noble lover of that daughter whom the infatuated father was bent on sacrificing to Tartuffe. Valère comes to announce that Tartuffe, the villain, has accused Orgon to the king. Orgon must fly. Valère offers him his own carriage and money — will, in fact, himself keep him company till he reaches a place of safety. As Orgon, taking hasty leave of his family, turns to go, he is encountered by — the following scene will show whom:

Tar. (stopping Orgon.) Gently, sir, gently; not so fast, I beg. You have not far to go to find a lodging, and you are a prisoner in the king’s name.

Org. Wretch! you had reserved this shaft for the last; by it you finish me, and crown all your perfidies.

Tar. Your abuse has no power to disturb me, and I know how to suffer every thing for the sake of heaven.

Clé. Your moderation is really great, we must acknowledge.

Da. How impudently the infamous wretch sports with heaven!

Tar. Your anger cannot move me. I have no other wish but to fulfill my duty.

Marianne. You may claim great glory from the performance of this duty: it is a very honorable employment for you.

Tar. The employment cannot be otherwise than glorious, when it comes from the power that sends me here.

Org. But do you remember that my charitable hand, ungrateful scoundrel, raised you from a state of misery?

Tar. Yes, I know what help I have received from you; but the interest of my king is my first duty. The just obligation of this sacred duty stifles in my heart all other claims; and I would sacrifice to it friend, wife, relations, and myself with them.

Elmire. The impostor!

Dor. With what treacherous cunning he makes a cloak of all that men revere!...

Tar. (to the Officer). I beg of you, sir, to deliver me from all this noise, and to act according to the orders you have received.

Officer. I have certainly put off too long the discharge of my duty, and you very rightly remind me of it. To execute my order, follow me immediately to the prison in which a place is assigned to you.

Tar. Who? I, sir?

Officer. Yes, you.

Tar. Why to prison?

Officer. To you I have no account to render. (To Orgon.) Pray, sir, recover from your great alarm. We live under a king [Louis XIV.] who is an enemy to fraud — a king who can read the heart, and whom all the arts of impostors cannot deceive. His great mind, endowed with delicate discernment, at all times sees things in their true light.... He annuls, by his sovereign will, the terms of the contract by which you gave him [Tartuffe] your property. He moreover forgives you this secret offense in which you were involved by the flight of your friend. This to reward the zeal which you once showed for him in maintaining his rights, and to prove that his heart, when it is least expected, knows how to recompense a good action. Merit with him is never lost, and he remembers good better than evil.

Dor. Heaven be thanked!

Per. Ah! I breathe again.

El. What a favorable end to our troubles!

Mar. Who would have foretold it?

Org. (to Tartuffe as the Officer leads him off). Ah, wretch! now you are —

Tartuffe thus disposed of, the play promptly ends with a vanishing glimpse afforded us of a happy marriage in prospect for Valère with the daughter.

“The Tartuffian Age” is the title of a late Italian book admirably translated into English by an American, Mr. W. A. Nettleton. That such should be the Italian author’s chosen title for his work incidentally shows how cosmopolitan is our French dramatist’s fame. The book is a kindly-caustic satire on the times in which we live, found by the satirist to be abundant in the quality of Tartuffe, that leaven of the Pharisees which is hypocrisy.

Molière is said to have had a personal aim in drawing the character of Tartuffe. This, at least, was like Dante. There is not much sweet laughter in such a comedy. But there is a power that is dreadful.

Each succeeding generation of Frenchmen supplies its bright and ingenious wits who produce comedy. But as there is no second Shakespeare, so there is but one Molière.

To Monsieur de Molière by Andrew Lang

From ‘Letters to Dead Authors’

Monsieur, — With what awe does a writer venture into the presence of the great Molière! As a courtier in your time would scratch humbly (with his comb!) at the door of the Grand Monarch, so I presume to draw near your dwelling among the Immortals. You, like the king who, among all his titles, has now none so proud as that of the friend of Molière — you found your dominions small, humble, and distracted; you raised them to the dignity of an empire: what Louis XIV. did for France you achieved for French comedy; and the ba’ton of Scapin still wields its sway though the sword of Louis was broken at Blenheim. For the King the Pyrenees, or so he fancied, ceased to exist; by a more magnificent conquest you overcame the Channel. If England vanquished your country’s arms, it was through you that France ferum victorem cepit, and restored the dynasty of Comedy to the land whence she had been driven. Ever since Dryden borrowed ‘L’Etourdi,’ our tardy apish nation has lived (in matters theatrical) on the spoils of the wits of France.

In one respect, to be sure, times and manners have altered. While you lived, taste kept the French drama pure; and it was the congenial business of English playwrights to foist their rustic grossness and their large Fescennine jests into the urban page of Molière. Now they are diversely occupied; and it is their affair to lend modesty where they borrow wit, and to spare a blush to the cheek of the Lord Chamberlain. But still, as has ever been our wont since Etherege saw, and envied, and imitated your successes — still we pilfer the plays of France, and take our bien, as you said in your lordly manner, wherever we can find it. We are the privateers of the stage; and it is rarely, to be sure, that a comedy pleases the town which has not first been ‘cut out’ from the countrymen of Molière. Why this should be, and what ‘tenebriferous star’ (as Paracelsus, your companion in the ‘Dialogues des Morts,’ would have believed) thus darkens the sun of English humour, we know not; but certainly our dependence on France is the sincerest tribute to you. Without you, neither Rotrou, nor Corneille, nor ‘a wilderness of monkeys’ like Scarron, could ever have given Comedy to France and restored her to Europe.

While we owe to you, Monsieur, the beautiful advent of Comedy, fair and beneficent as Peace in the play of Aristophanes, it is still to you that we must turn when of comedies we desire the best. If you studied with daily and nightly care the works of Plautus and Terence, if you ‘let no musty bouquin escape you’ (so your enemies declared), it was to some purpose that you laboured. Shakespeare excepted, you eclipsed all who came before you; and from those that follow, however fresh, we turn: we turn from Regnard and Beaumarchais, from Sheridan: and Goldsmith, from Musset and Pailleron and Labiche, to that crowded world of your creations. ‘Creations’ one may well say, for you anticipated Nature herself: you gave us, before she did, in Alceste a Rousseau who was a gentleman not a lacquey; in a mot of Don Juan’s, the secret of the new Religion and the watchword of Comte, l’amour de l’humanité.

Before you where can we find, save in Rabelais, a Frenchman with humour; and where, unless it be in Montaigne, the wise philosophy of a secular civilisalion? With a heart the most tender, delicate, loving, and generous, a heart often in agony and torment, you had to make life endurable (we cannot doubt it) without any whisper of promise, or hope, or warning from Religion. Yes, in an age when the greatest mind of all, the mind of Pascal, proclaimed that the only help was in voluntary blindness, that the only chance was to hazard all on a bet at evens, you, Monsieur, refused to be blinded, or to pretend to see what you found invisible.

In Religion you beheld no promise of help. When the Jesuits and Jansenists of your time saw, each of them, in Tartufe the portrait of their rivals (as each of the laughable Marquises in your play conceived that you were girding at his neighbour), you all the while were mocking every credulous excess of Faith. In the sermons preached to Agnés we surely hear your private laughter; in the arguments for credulity which are presented to Don Juan by his valet we listen to the eternal self-defence of superstition. Thus, desolate of belief, you sought for the permanent element of life — precisely where Pascal recognised all that was most fleeting and unsubstantial — in divertissement; in the pleasure of looking on, a spectator of the accidents of existence, an observer of the follies of mankind. Like the Gods of the Epicurean, you seem to regard our life as a play that is played, as a comedy; yet how often the tragic note comes in! What pity, and in the laughter what an accent of tears, as of rain in the wind! No comedian has been so kindly and human as you; none has had a heart, like you, to feel for his butts, and to leave them sometimes, in a sense, superior to their tormentors. Sganarelle, M. de Pourceaugnac, George Dandin, and the rest — our sympathy, somehow, is with them, after all; and M. de Pourceaugnac is a gentleman, despite his misadventures.

Though triumphant Youth and malicious Love in your plays may batter and defeat Jealousy and Old Age, yet they have not all the victory, or you did not mean that they should win it. They go off with laughter, and their victim with a grimace; but in him we, that are past our youth, behold an actor in an unending tragedy, the defeat of a generation. Your sympathy is not wholly with the dogs that are having their day; you can throw a bone or a crust to the dog that has had his, and has been taught that it is over and ended. Yourself not unlearned in shame, in jealousy, in endurance of the wanton pride of men (how could the poor player and the husband of Céliméne be untaught in that experience?), you never sided quite heartily, as other comedians have done, with young prosperity and rank and power.

I am not the first who has dared to approach you in the Shades; for just after your own death the author of ‘Les Dialogues des Morts’ gave you Paracelsus as a companion, and the author of ‘Le Jugement de Pluton’ made the ‘mighty warder’ decide that ‘Molière should not talk philosophy.’ These writers, like most of us, feel that, after all, the comedies of the Contemplateur, of the translator of Lucretius, are a philosophy of life in themselves, and that in them we read the lessons of human experience writ small and clear.

What comedian but Molière has combined with such depths — with the indignation of Alceste, the self-deception of Tartufe, the blasphemy of Don Juan — such wildness of irresponsible mirth, such humour, such wit! Even now, when more than two hundred years have sped by, when so much water has flowed under the bridges and has borne away so many trifles of contemporary mirth (cetera fluminis ritu feruntur), even now we never laugh so well as when Mascarille and Vadius and M. Jourdain tread the boards in the Maison de Molière. Since those mobile dark brows of yours ceased to make men laugh, since your voice denounced the ‘demoniac’ manner of contemporary tragedians, I take leave to think that no player has been more worthy to wear the canons of Mascarille or the gown of Vadius than M. Coquelin of the Comédie Francaise. In him you have a successor to your Mascarille so perfect, that the ghosts of play-goers of your date might cry, could they see him, that Molière had come again. But, with all respect to the efforts of the fair, I doubt if Mdlle. Barthet, or Mdme. Croizette herself, would reconcile the town to the loss of the fair De Brie, and Madeleine, and the first, the true Céliméne, Armande. Yet had you ever so merry a soubrette as Mdme. Samary, so exquisite a Nicole?

Denounced, persecuted, and buried hugger-mugger two hundred years ago, you are now not over-praised, but more worshipped, with more servility and ostentation, studied with more prying curiosity than you may approve. Are not the Moliéristes a body who carry adoration to fanaticism? Any scrap of your handwriting (so few are these), any anecdote even remotely touching on your life, any fact that may prove your house was numbered 15 not 22, is eagerly seized and discussed by your too minute historians. Concerning your private life, these men often write more like malicious enemies than friends; repeating the fabulous scandals of Le Boulanger, and trying vainly to support them by grubbing in dusty parish registers. It is most necessary to defend you from your friends — from such friends as the veteran and inveterate M. Arséne Houssaye, or the industrious but puzzle-headed M. Loiseleur. Truly they seek the living among the dead, and the immortal Molière among the sweepings of attorneys’ offices. As I regard them (for I have tarried in their tents) and as I behold their trivialities — the exercises of men who neglect Moliérés works to write about Molière’s great-grandmother’s second-best bed — I sometimes wish that Molière were here to write on his devotees a new comedy, ‘Les Moliéristes.’ How fortunate were they, Monsieur, who lived and worked with you, who saw you day by day, who were attached, as Lagrange tells us, by the kindest loyalty to the best and most honourable of men, the most open-handed in friendship, in charity the most delicate, of the heartiest sympathy! Ah, that for one day I could behold you, writing in the study, rehearsing on the stage, musing in the lace-seller’s shop, strolling through the Palais, turning over the new books at Billaine’s, dusting your ruffles among the old volumes on the sunny stalls. Would that, through the ages, we could hear you after supper, merry with Boileau, and with Racine, — not yet a traitor, — laughing over Chapelain, combining to gird at him in an epigram, or mocking at Cotin, or talking your favourite philosophy, mindful of Descartes. Surely of all the wits none was ever so good a man, none ever made life so rich with humour and friendship.

The Biographies

Fontaine Molière, a fountain in the 1st arrondissement of Paris, at the junction of rue Molière and rue de Richelieu, built in 1844 to honour the life and works of the beloved playwright.

Portrait of Molière by Pierre Mignard, c. 1658

Molière by Andrew Lang

From ‘1911 Encyclopædia Britannica, Volume 18’

MOLIÈRE (1622-1673), the nom de théâtre chosen, for some undiscovered reason, by the great French dramatist Jean Baptiste Poquelin, and ever since substituted for his family name. He was born in Paris, probably in January 1622. The baptismal certificate which is usually, and almost with absolute certainty, accepted as his is dated 15th January 1622, but it is not possible to infer that he was born on the day of his christening. The exact place of his birth is also disputed, but it seems tolerably certain that he saw the light in a house of the Rue St Honoré. His father was Jean Poquelin, an upholsterer, who, in 1631, succeeded his own uncle as “ valet tapissier de chambre du roi.” The family of Poquelin came from Beauvais, where for some centuries they had been prosperous tradesmen. The legend of their Scotch descent seems to have been finally disproved by the researches of M. E. Révérend du Mesnil. The mother of Molière was Marie Cressé; and on his father’s side he was connected with the family of Mazuel, musicians attached to the court of France. In 1632 Molière lost his mother; his father married again in 1633. The father possessed certain shops in the covered Halle de la Foire, Saint Germain des Prés, and the biographers have imagined that Molière might have received his first bent towards the stage from the spectacles ofiered to the holiday people at the fair. Cf his early education little is known; but it is certain that his mother possessed a Bible and Plutarch’s Lives, books which an intelligent child would not fail to study. In spite of a persistent tradition, there is no reason to believe that the later education of Molière was neglected. “Il fit ses humanitez au college de Clermont, “ says the brief life of the Comedian published by his friend and fellow-actor, La Grange, in the edition of his works printed in 1682. La Grange adds that Molière “ eut l’advantage de suivre M. le Prince de Conti dans toutes ses classes.” As Conti was seven years younger than Molière, it is not easy to understand how Molière came to be the school contemporary of the prince. Among more serious studies the Jesuit fathers encouraged their pupils to take part in ballels, and in later life Molière was a distinguished master of this sort of entertainment. According to Grimarest, the first writer Who published a life of Molière in any detail (1705), he not only acquired “his humanities, “ but finished his “ philosophy “ in five years. He left the Collége de Clermont in 1641, the year when Gassendi, a great contemn er of Aristotle, arrived in Paris. The Logic and Ethics of Aristotle, with his Physics and Metaphysics, were the chief philosophical textbooks at the College de Clermont. But when he became the pupil of Gassendi (in company with Cyrano de Bergerac, Chapelle, and Hesnaut), Molière was taught to appreciate the atomic philosophy of Lucretius. There seems no doubt that Molière began, and almost or quite finished, a translation of the De nalura rerum. According to a manuscript note of Trallage, published by M. Paul Lacroix, the manuscript was sold by Molière’s widow to a bookseller. His philosophic studies left a deep mark on the genius of Molière. In the Jugemenl de Plulon sur les deux parties des nouveaux dialogues des morls (1684), the verdict is “ que Molière ne parleroit point de philosophies.” To “ talk philosophy “ was a favourite exercise of his during his life, and his ideas are indicated with sufficient clearness in several of his plays. There seems no connexion between them and the opinions of “ Molière le Critique “ in a dialogue of that name, published in Holland in 1709. From his study of philosophy, too, he gained his knowledge of the ways of contemporary pedants: of Pancrace the Aristotelian, of Marphorius the Cartesian, of Trissotin, “ qui s’attache pour l’ordre au Péripatétisme, “ of Philaminte, who loves Platonism, of Belise, who relishes “les petits corps,” and Armande, who loves “les tourbillons.” Grimarest has an amusing anecdote of a controversy in which Molière, defending Descartes, chose a lay-brother of a begging order for umpire, While Chapelle appealed to the same expert in favour of Gassendi. His college education over, Molière studied law, and there is even evidence-that of tradition in Grimarest, and of Le Boulanger de Chalussay, the libellous author of a play called Elomire hypochondre-to prove that he was actually called to the bar. More trustworthy is the passing remark in La Grange’s short biography (1682), “ au sorlir des écoles de droit, il choisit la profession de comédien.” Before joining a troop of half amateur comedians, however, Molière had some experience in his father’s business. In 1637 his father had obtained for him the right to succeed to his own office as “ valet tapissier de chambre du roi.” The document is mentioned in the inventory of Molière’s effects, taken after his death. When the king travelled the valet tapissier accompanied him to arrange the furniture of the royal quarters. There is very good reason to believe (Loiseleur, Points obscurs, ) that Molière accompanied Louis XIII. as his valet tapissier to Provence in 1642. It is even not impossible that Molière was the young valel de chambre who concealed Cinq Mars just before his arrest at Narbonne, on the 13th of June 1642. But this is part of the romance rather than of the history of Molière. Our next glimpse of the comedian we get in a document of 6th January 1643. Molière acknowledges the receipt of money due to him from his deceased mother’s estate, and gives up his claim to succeed his father as “valet de chambre du roi.” On the 28th of December of the same year we learn, again from documentary evidence, that Jean Baptiste Poquelin, with Joseph Béjard, Madeleine Béjard, Genevieve Béjard, and others, have hired a tennis-court and fitted it up as a stage for dramatic performances. The company called themselves L’Illustre Théatre, illnslre being then almost a slang word, freely employed by the writers of the period. We now reach a very important point in the private history of Molière, which it is necessary to discuss at some length in defence of the much maligned character of a great writer and a good man. Molière’s connexion with the family of Béjard brought him much unhappiness. The father of this family, Joseph Béjard the elder, was a needy man, with eleven children at least. His wife’s name was Marie Hervé. The most noted of his children, companions of Molière, were Joseph, Madeleine, Genevieve, and Armande. Of these, Madeleine was a woman of great talent as an actress, and Molière’s friend, or perhaps mistress, through all the years of his wanderings. Now, on the 14th of February 1662 (for we must here leave the chronological order of events), Molière married Armande Claire Elisabeth Grésinde Béjard; His enemies at that time, and a number of his biographers in our own day, have attempted to prove that Armande Béjard was not the sister, but the daughter of Madeleine, and even that Molière’s wife may have been his own daughter by Madeleine Béjard. The arguments of M. Arséne Houssaye in support of this abominable theory are based on reckless and ignorant confusions, and do not deserve criticism. But the system of M. Loiseleur is more serious, and he goes no further than the idea that Madeleine was the mother of Armande. This, certainly, was the opinion of traditio n, an opinion based on the slanders of Montfieury, a rival of Molière’s, on the authority of the spiteful and anonymous author of La F ameuse camédienne (1688), and on the no less libellous play, Elomire hypoehondre. In 1821 tradition received a shock, for Beffara then discovered Molière’s “acte de mariage, “ in which Armande, the bride, is spoken of as the sister of Madeleine Béjard, by the same father and mother. The old scandal, or part of it, was revived by M. Fournier and M. Bazin, but received another blow in 1863. M. Soulié then discovered a legal document of the 10th of March 1643, in which the widow of Joseph Béjard renounced, in the name of herself and her children, his inheritance, chiefly a collection of unpaid bills. Now in this document all the children are described as minors, and among them is “une petite non encore baptisée.” This little girl, still not christened in March 1643, is universally recognized as the Armande Béjard afterwards married by Molière. We reach this point, then, that when Armande was an infant she was acknowledged as the sister, not as the daughter, of Madeleine Béjard. M. Loiseleur refuses, however, to accept this evidence. Madeleine, says he, had already become the mother, in 1638, of a daughter by Esprit Raymond de Moirmoron, comte de Modene, and chamberlain of Gaston duc d’Orléans, brother of Louis XIII. In 1642 Modéne, who had been exiled for political reasons, “was certain. to return, for Richelieu had just died, and Louis XIII. was likely to follow him.” Now Madeleine was again-this is M. Loiseleur’s hypothesis-about to become a mother, and if Modene returned, and learned this fact, he would not continue the liaison, still less would he marry her — which, by the way, he could not do, as his wife was still alive. Madeleine, therefore, induced her mother to acknowledge the little girl as her own child. In the first place, all this is pure unsupported hypothesis. In the second place, it has always been denied that Béjard’s wife could have been a mother in 1643, owing to her advanced age, probably fifty-three. But M. Loiseleur himself says that Marie Hervé was young enough fto make the story “sufficiently probable.” If it was probable, much more was it possible. M. Loiseleur supports his contention by pointing out that two of the other children, described as legally minors, were over twenty-five, and that their age was understated to make the account of Arma.nde’s birth more probable. Nothing is less likely than that Modéne would have consulted this document to ascertain the truth about the parentage of Armande, yet M. Loiseleur’s whole theory rests on that extreme improbability. It must also be observed that the date of the birth of Joseph Béjard is unknown, and he may have been, and according to M. Tal (Dictionnaire critique, ) must have been, a minor when he was so described in the document of the 10th of March 1643, while Madeleine had only passed her twenty-fifth birthday, her legal majority, by two months. This view of Joseph’s age is supported by Bouquet (Molière d Rouen, ). M. Loiseleur’s only other proof is that Marie Hervé gave Armande a respectable dowry, and that, as we do not know whence the money came, it must have come from Madeleine. The tradition in Grimarest, which makes Madeleine behave en femme furieuse, when she heard of the marriage, is based on a juster appreciation of the character of women. It will be admitted, probably, that the reasons for supposing that Molière espoused the daughter of a. woman who had been his mistress (if she had been his mistress) are flimsy and inadequate. The affair of the dowry is insisted on by M. Livet (La Fameuse comedienne, reprint of 1877, ). But M. Livet explains the dowry by the hypothesis that Armande was the daughter of Madeleine and the comte de Modéne, which exactly contradicts the theory of M. Loiseleur, and is itself contradicted by dates, at least as understood by M. Loiseleur. Such are the conjectures by which the foul calumnies of Molière’s enemies are supported in the essays of modern French critics.

Michelet accepted the scandal apparently as a buttress to his charges against Louis XIV. and Madame (Histoire de France, 1879, XV. 63, 64, 352)-’,

To return to the order of events, Molière passed the year 1643 in playing with and helping to manage the T héatre Illustre. The company acted in various tennis-courts, with very little success. Molière was actually arrested by the tradesman who supplied candles, and the company had to borrow money from one Aubrey to release their leader from the Grand Chatelet (Aug. 13, 1645). The process of turning a tennis-court into a theatre was somewhat expensive, even though no seats were provided in the pit. The troupe was for a short time under the protection of the duc d’Orléans, but his favours were not lucrative. The duc de Guise, according to some verses printed in 1646, made Molière a present of his cast-off wardrobe. But costume was not enough to draw the public to the tennis-court theatre of the Croix Noire, and empty houses at last obliged the Theatre Illustre to leave Paris at the end of 1646.

“Nul animal vivant n’entra dans n6tre salle, “ says the author of the scurrilous play on Molière, Elomire hypoehondre. But at that time some dozen travelling companies found means to exist in the provinces, and Molière determined to play among the rural towns. The career of a strolling player is much the same at all times and in all countries. The Roman comique of Scarron gives a vivid picture of the adventures and misadventures, the difficulty of transport, the queer cavalcade of horses, mules, and lumbering carts that drag the wardrobe and properties, the sudden metamorphosis of the tennis court, where the balls have just been rattling, into a stage, the quarrels with local squires, the disturbed nights in crowded country inns, all the loves and wars of a troupe on the march. Perrault tells us what the arrangements to the theatre were in Molière’s early time. Tapestries were hung round the stage, and entrances and exits were made by struggling through the heavy curtains, which often knocked off the hat of the comedian, or gave a strange cock to the helmet of a warrior or a god. The lights were candles stuck in tin sconces at the back and sides, but luxury sometimes went so far that a chandelier of four candles was suspended from the roof. At intervals the candles were let down by a rope and pulley, and any one within easy reach snufied them with his fingers. A flute and tambour, or two fiddlers, supplied the music. The highest prices were paid for seats in the dedans (cost of admission five pence); for the privilege of standing up in the pit twopence-halfpenny was the charge. The doors were opened at one o’clock, the curtain rose at two.

The nominal director of the Théatre Illustre in the provinces was Du F resne; the most noted actors were Molière, the Béjards, and Du Parc, called Gros René. It is extremely difficult to follow exactly the line of march of the company. They played at Bordeaux, for example, but the date of this performance, when Molière (according to Montesquieu) failed in tragedy and was pelted, is variously given as 1644-1645 (Trallage), 1647 (Loiseleur), 1648-1658 (Lacroix). Perhaps the theatre prospered better elsewhere than in Paris, where the streets were barricaded in these early days of the war of the Fronde. We find Molière at Nantes in 1648, at F ontenay-la-Compte, and in the spring of 1649 at Agen, Toulouse, and probably at Angouléme and Limoges. In January 1650 they played at Narbonne, and between 16 50 and 1653 Lyons was the headquarters of the troupe. In January 1653, or perhaps 1655, Molière gave I/Etourdi at Lyons, the first of his hnished pieces, as contrasted with the slight farces with which he generally diverted a country audience. It would be interesting to have the precise date of this piece, but La Grange (1682) says that “ in 1653 Molière went to Lyons, where he gave his first comedy, L’Etourdi, “ while in his Registre La Grange enters the year as 1655. At Lyons de Brie and his wife, the famous Mlle de Brie, entered the troupe, and du Parc married the “ marquise “ de Gorla, better known as Mlle du Parc. The libellous author of La Fameuse comédieuue reports that Molière’s heart was the shuttlecock of the beautiful du Parc and de Brie, and the tradition has a persistent life. Molière’s own opinion of the ladies and men of his company may be read between the lines of his Impromptu de Versailles. In 1653 Prince de Conti, after many political adventures, was residing at La Grange, near Pézénas, in Languedoc, and chance brought him into relations with his old schoolfellow Molière. Conti had for first gentleman of his bed-chamber the abbé Daniel de Cosnac, whose memoirs now throw light for a moment on the fortunes of the wandering troupe. Cosnac engaged the company “of Molière and of La Béjart”; but another company, that of Cormier, nearly intercepted the favour of the prince. Thanks to the resolution of Cosnac, Molière was given one chance of appearing on the private theatre of La Grange. The excellence of his acting, the splendour of the costumes, and the insistence of Cosnac, and of Sarrasin, Conti’s secretary, gained the day for Molière, and a pension was assigned to his company (Cosnac, Mémoires, i. 128; Paris, 1852). As Cosnac proposed to pay Molière a thousand crowns of his own money to recompense him in case he was supplanted by Cormier, it is obvious that his profession had become sufficiently lucrative. In 1654, during the session of the estates of Languedoc, Molière and his company played at Montpellier. Here Molière danced in a ballet (Le Ballet des incompatibles) in which a number of men of rank took part, according to the fashion of the time. Molière’s own réles were those of the Poet and the Fishwife. The sport of the little piece is to introduce opposite characters, dancing and singing together. Silence dances with six women, Truth with four courtiers, Money with a poet, and so forth. Whether the ballet, or any parts of it, are by Molière, is still disputed (La J eunesse de M oliere, suitvie du ballet des incompatibles, P. L. Jacob, Paris, 1858). In April 1655 it is certain that the troupe was at Lyons, where they met and hospitably entertained a profligate bulioon, Charles d’Assoucy, who informs the ages that Molière kept open house, and “ une table bien garnie.” November 1655 found Molière at Pézénas, where the estates of Languedoc were convened, and Where local tradition points out the barber’s chair in which the poet used to sit and study character. The longest of Molière’s extant autographs is a receipt, dated at Pézénas, on the 4th of February 1656, for 6000 livres, granted by the estates of Languedoc. This year was notable for the earliest representation, at Béziers, of Molière’s second finished comedy, the Dépit amoureux. Conti now (1656) began to “ make his soul.” Almost his first act of penitence was to discard Molière’s troupe (1657), which consequently found that the liberality of the estates of Languedoc was dried up for ever. Conti’s relations with Molière must have definitively closed long before 1666, when the now pious prince wrote a treatise against the stage, and especially charged his old schoolfellow with keeping a new school, a school of atheism (Traité de, la comédle, ; Paris, 1666). Molière was now (1657) independent of princes and their favour. He went on a new circuit to Nismes, Orange and Avignon, where he met another old class-mate, Chapelle, and also encountered the friend of his later life, the painter Mignard. After a later stay at Lyons, ending with a piece given for the benefit of the poor on the 27th of February 1658, Molière passed to Grenoble, returned to Lyons, and is next found in Rouen, where, we should have said, the Théatre Illustre had played in 1643 (F. Bouquet, La Troupe de Mollere li Rouen, p. go; Paris, 1880). At Rouen Molière must have made or renewed the acquaintance of Pierre and Thomas Corneille. His company had played pieces by Corneille at Lyons and elsewhere. The real business of the comedian in Rouen was to prepare his return to Paris. “After several secret journeys thither he was fortunate enough to secure the patronage of Monsieur, the king’s only brother, who granted him his protection, and permitted the company to take his name, presenting them as his servants to the king and the queen mother “ (Preface to La Grange’s edition of 1682). The troupe appeared for the first time before Louis XIV. in a theatre arranged in the old Louvre (Oct. 24, 1658).

Molière was now thirty-six years of age. He had gained all the experience that nfteen years of practice could give. He had seen men and cities, and noted all the humours of rural and civic France. He was at the head of a company which, as La Grange, his friend and comrade, says, “ sincerely loved him.” He had the unlucrative patronage of a great prince to back him, and the jealousy of all playwrights, and of the old theatres of the Hotel de Bourgogne and the Marais, to contend against. In this struggle we can follow him by aid of the Registre of La Grange (a brief diary of receipts and payments), and by the help of notices in the rhymed chronicles of Loret.

The first appearance of Molière before the king was all but a failure. Nieoméde, by the elder Corneille, was the piece, and We may believe that the actors of the Hotel de Bourgogne, who were present, found much to criticize. When the play was over, Molière came forward and asked the king’s permission to act “ one of the little pieces with which he had been used to regale the provinces.” The Docteur amoureux, one of several slight comedies admitting of much “ gag, “ was then performed, and “ diverted as much as it surprised the audience.” The king commanded that the troupe should establish itself in Paris (Preface, ed. 1682). The theatre assigned to the company was a salle in the Petit Bourbon, in a line with the present Rue du Louvre. Some Italian players already occupied the house on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays; the company of Molière played on the other days. ‘The first piece played in the new house (Nov. 3, 1658) was L’Etourdi. La Grange says the comedy had a great success, producing seventy pistoles for each actor. The success is admitted even by the spiteful author of Elomire hypochoudre (Paris, 1670):-

“Je jouai l’Etourdi, qui fut une merveille.”

The success, however, is attributed to the farcical element in the play and the acting-the cuckoo-cry of Molière’s de tractors. The original of L’Etourdi is the Italian comedy (1629) L’Iua’voertito, by Nicolo Barbieri detto Beltrame; Molière pushed rather far his right to “take his own wherever he found it.” Had he written nothing more original, the contemporary critic of the Festiu de Pierre might have said, not untruly, that he only excelled in stealing pieces from the Italians. The piece is conventional: the stock characters of the prodigal son, the impudent valet, the old father occupy the stage. But the dialogue has amazing rapidity, and the vivacity of M. Coquelin to Mascarille made L’Etourdi a favourite on the modern stage, though it cannot be read with very much pleasure. The next piece, new in Paris, though not in the provinces, was the Dépit amoureux (first acted at Béziers, 1656). The play was not less successful than L’Etourdi. It has two parts, one an Italian imbroglio; the other, which alone keeps the stage, is the original work of Molière, though, of course, the idea of amanlium irae is as old as literature. “ Nothing so good, “ says Mr Saintsbury, “ had yet been seen on the French stage, as the quarrels and reconciliations of the quartette of master, mistress, valet and soubrette.” Even the hostile Le Boulanger de Chalussay (Elomire hypochondre) admits that the audience was much of this opinion:-

“ Et de tous les cotés chacun cria tout haut: C’est la faire et jouer les pieces commeil faut.’ “ The same praise was given, perhaps even more deservedly, to Les Précieuses ridicules (Nov. 18, 1659). Doubts have been raised as to whether this famous piece, the first true comic satire of contemporary foibles on the French stage, was a new play. La Grange calls it piece nouvelle in his Registre; but, as he enters it as the third piece nouvelle, he may only mean that, like L’Etourdi, it was new to Paris. The short life of 1682, produced under La Grange’s care, and probably written by Marcel the actor, says the Précieuses ‘was “ made “ in 1659. There is another controversy as to whether the ladies of the Hotel Rambouillet, or merely their bourgeois es and rustic imitators, were laughed at. Ménage, in later years at least, professed to recognize an attack on the over-refinement and affectation of the original and, in most ways, honourable précieuses of the Hotel Rambouillet. But Chapelle and Bachaumont had discovered provincial précieuses, hyper-aesthetic literary ladies, at Montpellier before Molière’s return to Paris; and Furetiére, in the Roman bourgeois (1666), found Paris full of middle-class précieuses, who had survived, or, like their modern counterparts, had thriven on ridicule. Another question is: Did Molière copy from the earlier Précieuses of the abbé de Pure? This charge of plagiarism is brought by Somaize, in the preface to his Vérilables précieuses. De Pure’s work was a novel (1656), from which the Italian actors had put together an acting-piece in their manner-that is, a thing of “ gag, “ and improvised speeches. The reproach is interesting only because it proves how early Molière found enemies who, like Thomas Corneille in 1659, accused him of being skilled only in farce, or, like Somaize, charged him with literary larceny. These were the stock criticisms of Molière’s opponents as long as he lived. The success of the Précieuses ridicules was immense; on one famous occasion the king was a spectator, leaning against the great chair of the dying Cardinal Mazarin. The play can never cease to please while literary affectation exists, and it has a comic force of deathless energy. Yet a modern reader may spare some sympathy for the poor heroines, who do not wish, in courtship, to “ begin with marriage, “ but prefer first to have some less formidable acquaintance with their wooers. Molière’s next piece was less important, and more purely farcical, S ganarelle; on le cocu imaginaire (May 28, 1660). The public taste preferred a work of this light nature, and S garlarelle was played every year as long as Molière lived. The play was pirated by a man who pretended to have retained all the words in his memory. The counterfeit copy was published by Ribou, a double injury to Molière, as, once printed, any company might act the play. With his habitual good-nature, Molière not only allowed Ribou to publish later works of his, but actually lent money to that knave (Soulié, Recherches, ).

On the 11th of October 1660 the Theatre du Petit Bourbon was demolished by the superintendent of works, without notice given to the company. The king gave Molière the Salle du Palais Royal, but the machinery of the old theatre was maliciously destroyed. Meanwhile the older companies of the Marais and the Hotel de Bourgogne attempted to lure away Molière’s troupe, but, as La Grange declares (Regislre, ), “ all the actors loved their chief, who united to extraordinary genius an honourable character and charming manner, which compelled them all to protest that they would never leave him, but always share his fortunes.” While the new theatre was being put in order, the company played in the houses of the great, and before the king at the Louvre. In their new house (originally built by Richelieu) Molière began to play on the 2oth of January 1661. Molière now gratified his rivals by a failure. Don Garcie de Navarre, a heavy tragi-comedy, which had long lain among his papers, was first represented on the 4th of February 1661. Either Molière was a poor actor outside comedy, or his manner was not sufficiently “stagy, “ and, as he says, “ demoniac, “ for the taste of the day. His opponents were determined that he could not act in tragi-comedy, and he, in turn, burlesqued their pretentious and~ exaggerated manner in a later piece. In the Préeieuses (sc. ix.) Molière had already rallied “ les grands comédiens “ of the Hotel Bourgogne. “Les autres, “ he makes Mascarille say about his own troupe, “sont des ignorantsqui récitent comme 1’on parle, ils ne savent pas faire roniier les vers.” All this was likely to irritate the grands comédiens, and their friends, who avenged themselves on that unfortunate jealous prince, Don Garcie de Navarre. The subject of this unsuccessful drama is one of many examples which show how Molière’s mind was engaged with the serious or comic aspects of jealousy, a passion which he had soon cause to know most intimately. Meantime the everyday life of the stage went on, and the doorkeeper of the Théatre St Germain was wounded by some revellers who tried to force their way into the house (La Grange, Regislre). A year later, an Italian actor was stabbed in front of Molière’s house, where he had sought to take shelter (Campardon, Nouvelles pieces, ) To these dangers actors were peculiarly subject: Molière himself was frequently threatened by the marquises and others whose class he ridiculed on the stage, and there seems even reason to believe that there is some truth in the story of the angry marquis who rubbed the poet’s head against his buttons, thereby cutting his face severely. The story comes late (1725) into his biography, but is supported by a passage in the contemporary play, Zéliude (Paris, 1663, scene viii.). Before Easter, Molière asked for two shares in the profits of his company, one for himself, and one for his wife, if he married. That fatal step was already contemplated (La Grange). On the 24th of June he brought out for the first time L’Eeole des maris. The general idea of the piece is as old as Menander, and Molière was promptly accused of pilfering from the Adelphi of Terence. One of the jicelles of the comedy is borrowed from a story as old, at least, as Boccaccio, and still amusing in a novel by Charles de Bernard. It is significant of Molière’s talent that the grotesque and baffied paternal wooer, Sganarelle, like several other butts in Molière’s comedy, does to a certain extent win our sympathy and pity as well as our laughter. The next new piece was Les Fascheux, a come die ballet, the Comedy of Bores, played before the king at Fouquet’s house at Vaux le Vicomte (Aug. 15-20, 1661). The comedians, without knowing it, were perhaps the real “fascheux “ on this occasion, for Fouquet was absorbed in the schemes of his insatiable ambition (Quo non aseemiam? says his motto), and the king was organizing the arrest and fall of F ouquet, his rival in the affections of La Valliére. The authorof the prologue to Les Fascheux, Pellisson, a friend of Fouquet’s, was arrested with the superintendent of finance. Pellisson’s prologue and name were retained in the later editions. In the dedication to the king Molière says that Louis suggested one scene (that of the Sportsman), and in another place he mentions that the piece was written, rehearsed, and played in a fortnight. The fundamental idea of the play, the interruptions by bores, is suggested by a satire of Régnier’s, and that by a satire of Horace. Perhaps it may have been the acknowledged suggestions of the king which made gossips declare that Molière habitually worked up hints and mérnolres given him by persons of quality (Nouvelles nouvelles, 1663).

In February 1662 Molière married Armande Béjard. The date is given thus in the Registre of La Grange: “ Mardy 14, Les Visionnaires, L’Ecol des M.

“Part. Visite chez Me d’Equeuilly.”

And on the margin he has painted a blue circle-his way of recording a happy event — with the words, “ mariage de M. de Molière au sortir de la Visite.” M. Loiseleur gives the date in one passage as the 29th of February; in another as the 2oth of February. But La Grange elsewhere mentions the date as “ Shrove Tuesday, “ which was, it seems, the 14th of February. Elsewhere M. Loiseleur makes the date of the marriage a vague day “ in January.” The truth is that the marriage contract is dated the 23rd of January 1662 (Soulié, Documents, ). Where it is so difficult to establish the date of the marriage, a simple fact, it must be infinitely harder to discover the truth as to the conduct of Mme Molière. The abominable assertions of the anonymous libel, Les I ntrigues de M oliere et celles de sa femme; ou la fameuse comedienne (1688), have found their way into tradition, and are accepted by many biographers. But M. Livet and M. Bazin have proved that the alleged lovers of Mme Molière were actually absent from France, or from the court, at the time when they are reported, in the libel, to have conquered her heart. A conversation between Chapelle and Molière, in which the comedian is made to tell the story of his wrongs, is plainly a mere fiction, and is answered in Grimarest by another dialogue between Molière and Rohault, in which Molière only complains of a jealousy which he knows to be unfounded. It is noticed, too, that the contemporary assailants of Molière counted him among jealous, but not among deceived, husbands. The hideous accusation brought by the actor Montfleury, that Molière had married his own daughter, Louis XIV. answered by becoming the godfather of Molière’s child. The king, indeed, was a firm friend of the actor, and, when Molière was accused of impiety on the production of Don Juan (1665) Louis gave him a pension. We need not try to make Mme Molière a vertu, as French ladies of the theatre say, but it is certain that the charges against her are unsubstantiated. It is generally thought that Molière drew her portrait in Le Bourgeois gentilhomme (acte 111. sc. ix.), “ elle est capricieuse, mais on souffre tout des belies.” From 1662 onwards Molière suffered the increasing hatred of his rival actors. La. Grange mentions the visit of Floridor and Montfleury to the queen mother, and their attempt to obtain equal favour, “la troupe de Molière leur donnant beaucoup de jalouzie “ (Aug. 12, 1662). On the 26 th of December was played for the first time the admirable Ecole des femmes, which provoked a literary war, and caused a shower of “ paper bullets of the brain.” The innocence of Agnes was called indecency; the sermon of Arnolphe was a deliberate attack on Christian mysteries. We have not the space to discuss the religious ideas of Molière; but both in L’Ecole des femmes and in Don Juan he does display a bold contempt for the creed of “ boiling chaldrons “ and of physical hell. A brief list of the plays and pamphlets provoked by L’Ecole des femmes is all we can offer in this place.

December 26, 1662.-Ecole des femmes.

February 9, 1663.-Nou’velles nouoelles, by De Visé. Molière is accused of pilfering from Straparola.

June I, 1663.-Molière’s own piece, Critique de l’éeole des femmes. In this play Molière retorts on the critics, and especially on his favourite butt, the critical marquess.

August 1663.-Zélinde, a play by De Visé, is printed. The scene is in the shop of a seller of lace, where persons of quality meet, and attack the reputation of “ Elomire “-that is, Molière. He steals from the Italian, the Spanish, from F uretiére’s Francion, “ il lit tous les Vieux bouquins, “ he insults the noblesse, he insults Christianity, and so forth.

November 17, 1663.-Portrait du peintre is printed-an attack on Molière by Boursault. This piece is a detailed criticism, by several persons, of L’Ecole des femmes. It is pronounced dull, vulgar, farcical, obscene and (what chiefly vexed Molière, who knew the danger of the accusation) impious. Perhaps the only biographical matter we gain from Boursault’s play is the interesting fact that Molière was a tennis-player. On the 4th November 1663, Molière replied with L’Impromptu de Versailles, a witty and merciless attack on his critics, in which Boursault was mentioned by name. The actors of the H6tel de Bourgogne were parodied on the stage, and their art was ridiculed.

The next scenes in this comedy of comedians were:- November 3o.-The Panégyrique tk l’école des femmes, by Robinet.

December 7.-Répanse d Fimpromptu; on la vengeance des marquis, by De Visé.

January 19, 1664.-L’Impromptu de l’h6tel de Condé. It is a reply by a. son of Montfleury.

March 17, 1664.-La Guerre comique; on défense de l’école des femmes. 1664.-Lettre sur les afaires du thédtre, published in Diversités galantes. bv the author of Zétinde.

In all those quarrels the influence of Corneille was opposed to Molière, while his cause was espoused by Boileau, a useful ally, when “les comédiens et les auteurs, depuis le cédre [Corneille?] jusqu’a l’hysope, sont disablement animés contre lui “ (Impromptu de Versailles, sc. v.). .

Molière’s next piece was Le Mariage force (Feb. 15, 1664), a farce with a ballet. The comic character of the reluctant bridegroom excites contemptuous pity, as Well as laughter. From the end of April till the 22nd of May the troupe was at Versailles, acting among the picturesque pleasures of that great festival of the king’s. The Princesse d’Elide was acted for the first time, and the three first acts of Tartu jfe were given. Molière’s natural hatred of hypocrisy had not been diminished by the charges of blasphemy which were showered on him after the Ecole des femmes. Tartuje made enemies everywhere. Iansenists and jesuits, like the two marquesses in L’Impromptu de Versailles, each thought the others were aimed at. Five years passed before Molière got permission to play the whole piece in public. In the interval it was acted before Madame, Condé, the legate, and was frequently read by Molière in private houses. The Gazette of the 17th of May 1664 (a paper hostile to Molière) says that the king thought the piece inimical to religion. Louis was not at that time on good terms with the déoots, whom his amours scandalized; but, not impossibly, the queen mother (then suffering from her fatal malady) disliked the play. A most violent attack on Molière, “ that demon clad in human liesh, “ was written by one Pierre Roullé (Le Roy glorieux au monde, Paris, 1664). This fierce pamphlet was suppressed, but the king’s own copy, in red morocco with the royal arms, remains to testify to the bigotry of the author, who was curé of Saint Barthélemy. According to Roullé, Molière deserved to be sent through earthly to eternal fires. The play was prohibited, as we have seen, but in August 1665 the king adopted Molière’s troupe as his servants, and gave them the title of “ troupe du roy.” This, however, did not cause Molière to relax his efforts to obtain permission for Tartuje (or Tartufe, or T artufle, as it was variously spelled), and his perseverance was at length successful. That his thoughts were busy with contemporary hypocrisy is proved by certain scenes in one of his greatest pieces, the Festin de Pierre, or Don Juan (Feb. 15, 1665). The legend of Don Juan was familiar already on the Spanish, Italian and French stages. Molière made it a new thing: terrible and romantic in its portrait of un grand seigneur mauvais homme, modern in its suggested substitution of la humanité for religion, comic, even among his comedies, by the mirthful character of Sganarelle. The piece filled the theatre, but was stopped, probably by authority, after Easter. It was not printed by Molière, and even in 1682»the publication of the full text was not permitted. Happily .the copy of De la Regnie, the chief of the police, escaped obliteration’s, and gave us the full scene of Don Iuan and the Beggar. The piece provoked a. virulent criticism (Observations sur le festin de Pierre, 1665). It is allowed that Molière has some farcical talent, and is not unskilled as a plagiarist, but he “attacks the interests of Heaven, “ “keeps a school of infidelity, “ “insults the king, “ “ corrupts virtue, “ “offends the queen-mother “ and so. forth. Two replies were published, one of which is by some critics believed to show traces of the hand of Molière. The king’s reply, as has been shown, was to adopt Molière’s company as his servants, and to pension them. L’Amour médecin, a light comedy, appeared on the 22nd of September 1665. In this piece Molière, for the second time, attacked physicians. In December there was a quarrel with Racine about his play of Alexandre, which he treacherously transferred to the Hotel de Bourgogne. The 4th of June 1666 saw the first representation of that famous play, Le Misanthrope (ou L’/ltrabiliaire amoureux, as the original second title ran). This piece, perhaps the masterpiece of Molière, was more successful with the critics, with the court, and with posterity than with the public. The rival comedians called it “ a new style of comedy, “ and so it was. The eternal passions and sentiments of human nature, modified by the influence of the utmost refinement of civilization, were the matter of the piece. The school for scandal kept by Céliméne, with its hasty judgments on all characters, gave the artist a wide canvas. The perpetual strife between the sensible optimism of a kindly man of the world (Philinte) and the saefua indignation of a noble nature soured (Alceste) supplies the intellectual action. The humours of the joyously severe Céliméne and of her court, especially of that deathless minor poet Oronte, supply the lighter comedy. Boileau, Lessing, Goethe have combined to give this piece the highest rank even among the comedies of Molière. As to the “ keys “ to the characters, and the guesses about the original from whom Alceste was drawn, they are as valueless as other contemporary tattle.

A briefer summary must be given of the remaining years of the life of Molière. The attractions of Le M misanthrope were reinforced (Aug. 6) by those of the Médeein malgré lui, an amusing farce founded on an old fabliau. In December the court and the comedians went to St Germain, Where, among other diversions, the pieces called M élicerte, La Pastorale comique (of which Molière is said to have destroyed the MS.) and the charming little piece Le Sieilien were performed. A cold and fatigue seem to have injured the health of Molière, and we now hear of the consumptive tendency which was cruelly ridiculed in Elomire hypochondre. Molière was doubtless obliged to see too much of the distracted or pedantic physicians of an age when medicine was the battlefield of tradition, superstition, and nascent chemical science. On the 17th of April 1667 Robinet, the rhyming gazetteer, says that the life of Molière was thought to be in danger. On the 10th of June, however, he played in Le Sieilien before the town. In the earlier months of 1667 Louis XIV. was with the army in Flanders. There were embassies sent from the comedy to the camp, and on the 5th of August it was apparent that Molière had overcome the royal scruples. Tartnje was played, but Lamoignon stopped it after the first night. La Grange and La Torilliere hastened to the camp, and got the king’s promise that he would reconsider the matter on his return. Molière’s next piece (]an. 13, 1668) was Amphitryon, a fretfa very free — adaptation from Plautus, who then seems to have engaged his attention; for not long afterwards he again borrowed from the ancient Writer in L’Az/are. There is a controversy as to whether Amphilryon was meant to ridicule M. de Montespan, the husband of the new mistress of Louis XIV. Michelet has a kind of romance based on this probably groundless hypothesis. The king still saw the piece occasionally, after he had purged himself and forsworn sack under Mme de Maintenon, and probably neither he nor that devout lady detected any personal references in the coarse and witty comedy. As usual, Molière was accused of plagiarizing, this time from Rotrou, who had also imitated Plautus. The next play was the immortal George Dandin (July ro), first played at a festival at Versailles. Probably the piece was a rapid palimpsest on the ground of one of his old farces, but the addition of these typical members of a county family, the De Sotenville, raises the work from farce to satiric comedy. The story is borrowed from Boccaccio, but is of unknown age, and always new-Adolphus Crosbie in The Small House at Allinglon being a kind of modern George Dandin. Though the sad fortunes of this peasant with social ambition do not fail to make us pity him somewhat, it is being too refined to regard George Dandin as a comedy with a concealed tragic intention. Molière must have been at work on L’A1/are before George Dandin appeared, for the new comedy after Plautus was first acted on the oth of September. There is a tradition that the piece almost failed; but, if unpopular in the first year of its production, it certainly gained favour before the deathof its author. M de Pourceaugnac (Sept. 17, 1669) was first acted at Chambord, for the amusement of the king. It is a rattling farce. The physicians, as usual, bore the brunt of Molière’s raillery, some of which is still applicable. Earlier in 1669 (Feb. 5) Tarluje was played at last, with extraordinary success. Les Amanls magnijiques, a comedy-ballet, was acted first at St Germain (Feb. ro, 1670). The king might have been expected to dance in the ballet, but from Racine’s Britannieus (Dec. 13, 1669) the majestical monarch learned that Nero was blamed for exhibitions of this kind, and he did not wish to out-Nero Nero. Astrology this time took the place of medicine as a butt, but the satire has become obsolete, except, perhaps, in Turkey, where astrology is still a power. The Bourgeois genlilhomme, ‘too familiar to require analysis, was first played on the 23rd of October 1770. The lively F onrberies de Scapin “ saw the footlights “ (if footlights there were) on the 24th of May 1671, and on the 7th of May we read in La Grange, “les Repetitions de Spsyche ont commancé.” La Grange says the theatre was newly decorated and fitted with machines. A “ concert of twelve violins” was also provided, the company being resolute to have everything handsome about them. New singers were introduced, who did not refuse to sing unmasked on the stage. Quinault composed the words for the music, which was by Lulli; Molière and Pierre Corneille collaborated in the dialogue of this magnificent opera, the name of which (Psyche) La Grange eventually learned how to spe1l.~ The Comtesse d’Esearbagnas (Feb. 2, 1672) was another piece for the amusement of the court, and made part of an entertainment called Le Ballet des bullets. In this play, a study of provincial manners, Molière attacked the financiers of the time in the person of M. Harpin. The comedy has’ little importance compared with Les Femmes savanles (Feb. II), a severer Préeieuses, in which are satirized the vanity and affectation of sciolists, pedants and the women who admire them. The satire is never out of date, and finds its modern form in Le M unde on l’on s’ennuie, by M. Pailleron. On the 17th of February Madeleine Béjard died, and was buried at St Paul. She did not go long before her old friend or lover Molière. His Mariage force, founded, perhaps, on a famous anecdote of Gramont, was played on the 18th of July. On the 7th of August La Grange notes that Molière was indisposed, and there was no comedy. Molière’s son died on the rrth of October. On the 2’2I’1d of November the preparations for the M alade imaginaire were begun. On the 10th of February 1673 the piece was acted for the first time. What occurred on the 17th of February we translate from the Registre of La Grange:- “ This same day, about ten o’clock at night, after the comedy, Monsieur de Molière died in his house, Rue de Richelieu. He had played the part of the said Malade, suffering much from coldand mfiammation, which caused a violent cou h. In the violence of the cough he burst a vessel in his body, anti did not live more than half’ an hour or three-quarters after the bursting of the vessel. His body is buried at St Joseph’s, parish of St Eustache. There is a gravestone raised about a foot above the ground.” Molière’s funeral is thus described in a letter, said to be by an eyewitness, discovered by M. Benjamin Fillonz” Tuesday, 21st F ebruary, about nine in the evening, was buried lean Baptiste Poquelin Molière, lapissier valet ole chambre, and a famous actor. There was no procession, except three ecclesiastics; four priests bore the body in a wooden bier covered with a pall, six children in blue carried candles in silver holders, and there were lackeys with burning torches of wax. The body... was taken to St Joseph’s churchyard, and buried at the foot of the cross. There was a great crowd, and some twelve hundred livres were distributed among the poor. The archbishop had given orders that Molière should be interred. without any ceremony, and had even forbidden the clergy of the diocese to do any service for him. Nevertheless a number of masses were commanded to be said for the deceased.”

When an attempt was made to exhume the body of Molière in 1792, the wrong tomb appears to have been opened. Unknown is the grave of Molière.

Molière, according to Mlle Poisson, who had seen him in her extreme youth, was “ neither too stout nor too thin, tall rather than short; he had a noble carriage, a good leg, walked slowly, and had a very serious expression. His nose was thick, his mouth large with thick lips, his complexion brown, his eyebrows black and strongly marked, and it was his way of moving these that gave him his comic expression on the stage.” “ His eyes seemed to search the deeps of men’s hearts, “ says the author of Zélinde. The inventories printed by M. Soulié prove that Molière was fond of rich dress, splendid furniture, and old books. The charm of his conversation is attested by the names of his friends, who were all the wits of the age, and the greater their genius the greater their love of Molière. As an actor, friends and enemies agreed in recognizing him as most successful in comedy. His ideas of tragic declamation were in advance of his time, for he set his face against the prevalent habit of ranting. His private character was remarkable for gentleness, probity, generosity and delicacy, qualities attested not only by anecdotes but by the evidence of documents. He is probably the greatest of all comic writers within the limits of social and rehned, as distinguished from romantic, comedy like that of Shakespeare, and political comedy like that of Aristophanes. He has the humour which is but a sense of the true value of life, and now takes the form of the most vivacious wit and the keenest observation, now of melancholy and pity and wonder at the fortunes of mortal men. In the literature of France his is the greatest name, and in the literature of the modern drama the greatest after that of Shakespeare. Besides his contemplative genius he possessed an unerring knowledge of the theatre, the knowledge of a great actor and a great manager, and hence his plays can never cease to hold the stage, and to charm, if possible, even more in the performance than in the reading.

The best biography of Molière on a level with the latest researches into his life is that in vol. x. of his works in Grands écrivains de la France (Eugene Despois and Paul Mesnard). The next best is probably that of M. Taschereau, prefixed to an edition of his works (Eames completes, Paris, 1863). To this may be added Jules L0iseleur’s Les Points obscurs de la vie de Molière (Paris, 1877). We have seen that M. Loiseleur is not always accurate, but he is laborious. For other books it is enough to recommend the excellent Bibliographic rnoliéresgne of M. Paul Lacroix (1875), which is an all but faultless guide. The best edition of Molière’s Works for the purposes of the student is that Published in Les Grands écrivains de la France (Hachette, Paris, 1874-1882). It contains reprints of many contemporary tracts, and, with the Registre of La Grange, and the Collection moliéresque of M. Lacroix, is the chief source of the facts stated in this notice, in cases where the rarity of documents has prevented the writer from studying them in the original texts. Another valuable authority is the Recherches sur Molière et sur sa famille of Ed. Soulié (1863). Lothexsen’s Molière, sein Lebcn and seine Werke (Frankfurt, 1880), is a respectable German compilation. Le Moliériste (Tresse, Paris, ed. by M. Georges Monval) was a monthly serial, containing notes on Molière and his plays, by a number of contributors. The essays, biographies, plays and poems on Molière are extremely numerous. The best guide to these is the indispensable Bibliographie of M. Lacroix.

(A. L.)

The Wife of Molière by H. Noel Williams

From ‘Queens of the French Stage’, 1905

FEW women in French history have been the subject of more discussion than the young girl whom Molière married, at the church of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, on February 20, 1662.

Armande Grésinde Claire Elisabeth Béjart, for that was the bride’s name, is described in the marriage deed as the daughter of the late Joseph Béjart, écuyer, sieur de Belleville, and of his widow, Marie Hervé. Joseph Béjart, it should be stated, had died shortly before, or shortly after, Armande’s birth.

The Béjarts were very poor, for the only means which Joseph seems to have possessed wherewith to maintain his pretensions to nobility were derived from a small government appointment (huissier ordinaire du roy ès eaux et forêts de France), and his wife had presented him with “at least eleven children.” They lived in the Marais, then the theatrical quarter of Paris. On its northern outskirts, near the Halles, in the Rue Mauconseil, stood the old Hôtel de Bourgogne, the first home of the regular drama; in the centre, in the Rue Vieille-du-Temple, was the theatre which took its name from the quarter, the Théâtre du Marais, where Corneille’s Cid was first performed; while nearer the Seine, the playgoer could make choice between the Italian troupes, the Trois Farceurs, Gaultier-Garguille, Gros-Guillaume, and Turlupin, and open-air entertainments on the Pont-au-Change, the Pont-Neuf, and the Place Dauphine. It is, therefore, not surprising that the little Béjarts should have been in the habit of varying the monotony of their poverty-stricken lives by occasional visits to one or other of these spectacles, or that, dazzled by those well-known attractions, which were doubtless as potent in the seventeenth century as they are to-day, the two eldest, Joseph and Madeleine, should have decided, while still very young, to make the stage their profession.

What theatre witnessed their débuts we do not know. The majority of authors are of opinion that they joined a company of strolling players which was at this time exploiting Languedoc; M. Larroumet hesitates between one of the unlicensed playhouses of the fairs in the neighbourhood of Paris and a troupe of amateurs, several of which were to be found in the capital; while another of Madeleine’s biographers, M. Henri Chardon, thinks that she obtained admission to the Théâtre du Marais, though it appears very improbable that a young and inexperienced actress could have met with such good fortune.

However that may be, Madeleine seems to have prospered in her profession from the very outset, as on January 10, 1636, supported by her curateur, one Simon Courtin, her father, a paternal uncle, a “chef du gobelet du roi,” and divers other relatives and friends, she appears before the Civil Lieutenant of Paris to request permission to contract a loan of 2000 livres, wherewith to supplement a like sum of her own and enable her to acquire a little house and garden situated in the Cul-de-Sac Thorigny.

Two and a half years later (July 11, 1638), we hear of her again, under circumstances which perhaps explain her desire to secure a residence of her own — a desire, it must be admitted, not a little singular in a young lady of eighteen — for on that day is baptized at Saint-Eustache “Françoise, daughter of Esprit Raymond, chevalier, seigneur de Modène and other places, chamberlain of the affairs of Monseigneur, only brother of the King, and of the demoiselle Madeleine Béjart.”

M. de Modène and Madeleine were not married; indeed, there was already a Madame de Modène, residing at Le Mans, who did not die until 1649. But this trifling accident, as it was regarded in those days, did not prevent the son of the former (by proxy) and the mother of the latter (in person) standing as sponsors to the little Françoise, whose birth was fated to be the cause of much trouble, not to her guilty parents, but to two perfectly innocent persons, one of whom was as yet unborn.

A few words must here be said of the father of Madeleine Béjart’s child.

Esprit Raymond de Mormoiron, Comte de Modène, who was then about thirty years of age, came of an old family in the Venaissin. His father, François Raymond de Mormoiron, had at one time held the office of Grand Provost of France and had also been employed on several diplomatic missions. Appointed page to Gaston d’Orléans, brother of Louis XIII., he became later one of the chamberlains of that prince, and seems to have done his best to imitate him in his dissipated and turbulent conduct. He early ranged himself among the enemies of Richelieu, joined the famous league “for the universal peace of Christendom,” and fought on its behalf at the battle of La Marfée, at the head of a body of cavalry which he had raised at his own expense. In consequence of this, he was condemned to death, by a decree of the Parliament of Paris (September 6, 1641), but took refuge in Flanders, with the Duc de Guise, against whom a similar sentence had been pronounced, and remained there until the death of Richelieu, followed by that of Louis XIII., left him at liberty to return to France. When, in 1647, Guise went to Naples, to endeavour to exploit the revolt of Masaniello to his own advantage, Modène accompanied him and greatly distinguished himself. He was eventually, however, taken prisoner by the Spaniards and held captive until 1650. On his return to France, he meddled no more with public affairs, but occupied himself with the care of his neglected estates and in the compilation of a valuable history of the revolution in Naples, reprinted, in 1826, under the title of Mémoires du Comte de Modène. It is to be noted here that from the early autumn of 1641 until the summer of 1643 the Comte de Modène was absent from France.

Some time in the early weeks of the year 1643, probably either in the last week in February or the first in March, Madeleine’s father, Joseph Béjart the elder, died; and on March 10, Marie Hervé, his widow, presented herself before the Civil Lieutenant of Paris, where, in the name, and as guardian, of Joseph, Madeleine, Geneviève, Louis, and “a little girl not yet baptized,” children under age (i.e. under twenty-five) of the said deceased and herself, she represented that “the inheritance of her deceased husband being charged with heavy debts without any property wherewith to acquit them, she feared that it would be more burdensome than profitable,” and, accordingly, declared her intention of renouncing it. Her request was supported by her brother-in-law, Pierre Béjart, procureur to the Châtelet, and other relatives, and on June 10 of the same year she was permitted to make the renunciation she desired.

Now who was this “little unbaptized girl”? Without a shadow of doubt, Armande Béjart, the future wife of Molière; on this point all the poet’s biographers are unanimous. Was she, as represented, the daughter of Marie Hervé? That is the question which has afforded material for a controversy which has already lasted for nearly two hundred and fifty years and seems not unlikely to continue till the end of all things, for the most fantastic theories, for a small library of books and pamphlets, and for review and newspaper articles without number. For some see in this little girl a sister, others a daughter of Madeleine Béjart, and the truth is of the most vital importance to the honour of the great man whose wife Armande became.

That the latter impression was almost universal amongst Molière’s contemporaries is beyond question, nor is the fact one that need occasion any surprise. Every one, that is to say, every one connected with, or interested in, the theatrical world, was aware that, early in life, Madeleine Béjart had had a little girl; while, on the other hand, the birth of Marie Hervé’s child, which was of no public interest, and which, moreover, probably took place not in Paris, but in one of the adjacent villages, was known to very few. A young girl grew up with Madeleine, who was tenderly attached to her; it was Armande; but gossip confounded her with the child Francoise, of whom all trace seems to have been lost, and the wiseacres smiled the smile begotten of superior knowledge when any stranger to Paris chanced to refer to the girl as Madeleine’s sister.

For over a century and a half this belief remained unchallenged. Hostile or sympathetic, all who wrote of Molière — La Grange, Grimarest, Breuze de la Martinière, Bayle, Donneau de Visé — shared the common opinion in regard to the origin of Armande Béjart. In 1821, however, there was quite a flutter of excitement in literary circles, for in that year Beffara discovered Molière’s acte de mariage, in which Armande is spoken of as the daughter of Joseph Béjart and his widow, Marie Hervé. Forty-two years later, the old scandal, which in the interim had been partly revived by M. Fournier (Études sur la vie et les œuvres de Molière) and M. Bazin (Notes historiques sur Molière), received another severe blow by Eudore Soulié’s discovery of the deed of March 10, 1643, already mentioned, wherein Marie Hervé requested permission to renounce the succession to her husband’s property, and which confirmed the statement made in the acte de mariage. Such evidence, one would naturally suppose, would have been accepted as conclusive, and the matter set at rest once and for all. But tradition dies hard; not a few Molièristes refused to renounce an opinion sanctioned by so many generations, and M. Jules Loiseleur, a writer who enjoyed a considerable, and not undeserved, reputation as an unraveller of historical mysteries, propounded, on behalf of his fellow-sceptics, the following theory.

The declarations made by Marie Hervé, in the deed of March 10, 1643, and again in the acte de mariage, that Armande was her child, were, he maintains, deliberate falsehoods, conceived in the interests of her daughter, Madeleine. At the beginning of the year 1643, Madeleine was about to become a mother, for the second time, not, of course, by the Comte de Modène, who had been in exile for nearly two years, but by some new lover. Fearing that if Modène returned and learned the fact, he would refuse to resume the liaison, which she hoped might one day be regularised (M. Loiseleur was under the impression that Madame de Modène was dead, whereas she lived until 1649), she begged her mother to recognise the child as her own; a request to which that complacent old lady, whose husband was just dead, or on the point of death, readily consented.

Now this ingenious theory is based on the advanced age of Marie Hervé — she was then about fifty-three — and the belief that she had not had a child since the birth of Louis Béjart, afterwards a prominent member of Molière’s troupe, who was born on November 14 or 15, 1630, that is to say, more than twelve years earlier, which facts rendered it highly improbable that she could have been the mother of Armande; and M. Loiseleur supports his contention by pointing out that the two eldest children, Joseph and Madeleine, described in the deed of March 10, 1643, as minors, were over twenty-five, and that their age was purposely understated to make their mother appear younger than she was, and so facilitate the fraud. This point has been contested by Mr. Andrew Lang, in his admirable article on Molière in the Encyclopædia Britannica, but is really of no importance, as if M. Loiseleur had exercised a little more care, he would have found that so far from more than twelve years having elapsed between the birth of the last of Marie Hervé’s children and that of Armande, she had had a little girl less than three and a half years before (November 30, 1639), baptized, in the parish of Saint-Sauveur, by the name of Bénigne Madeleine, the second name being doubtless intended as a compliment to Madeleine Béjart, who acted as marraine. Whereby M. Loiseleur’s argument disappears, and his theory with it.

Nevertheless, the fact remains that Armande’s contemporaries saw in her not a sister, but a daughter of Madeleine Béjart, and, with this belief, they held another, to wit, that Molière had been, previous to his marriage with the younger sister, the lover of the elder. From which two suppositions sprang one of the most hideous accusations that has ever sullied the reputation of a great man.

Molière, like most successful men, had a good many enemies, and was accustomed to give and receive very hard knocks. With the company of the Théâtre du Marais he appears to have been on tolerably amicable terms; but with the actors of the third great theatre, the Hôtel de Bourgogne, his relations were decidedly strained, and whenever an opportunity arose of turning one or other of them into ridicule, he seldom failed to avail himself of it, though he made an exception in the case of Floridor, who was too great a favourite with the public for them to tolerate any attacks upon him. In his Impromptu de Versailles, played before the Court in October 1663, Molière satirised several actors of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, and, among them, one named Montfleury, whose ponderous style of declamation he imitated with great success. To this, Montfleury’s son, Antoine Montfleury, who was a prolific and successful dramatist, replied with another play, called l’Impromptu de l’hôtel de Condé, in which he endeavoured to turn the tables on Molière; but the vengeance of the father took a very different form.

In December 1663, Racine wrote to the Abbé Le Vasseur: “Montfleury has drawn up a memorial and presented it to the King. He accuses him [Molière] of having married the daughter [Armande], and of having formerly lived with the mother [Madeleine]. But Montfleury is not listened to at Court.” From this passage it is evident that Montfleury intended Louis XIV. to believe that Molière had married his own daughter; which is the starting-point of the abominable calumny which so long weighed, and which still weighs, on the memory of the great dramatist.

Beyond what Racine tells us, we have no information about this memorial of Montfleury. That he advanced any proofs in support of his accusation is extremely improbable; although it is quite possible that he would have endeavoured to substantiate it had he received any encouragement from the King. Any way, Louis XIV. appears to have satisfied himself that the charge was merely the outcome of jealousy and spite, and when, in the following February, Molière’s first child was baptized at Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, he and his sister-in-law, the ill-fated Henrietta of England, stood sponsors. Than which the poet could have desired no more complete reparation.

Thirteen years later, in 1676, that is to say, three years after Molière’s death, Montfleury’s accusation was repeated. A man of the name of Guichard, a sort of entrepreneur for fêtes and plays, coveted Lulli’s post as director of the recently-established Opera, and, seeing no likelihood of realising his ambition by any legitimate means, had recourse to poison, the fashionable expedient for ridding oneself of professional rivals and other inconvenient persons at this period. One Sebastian Aubry, a connection of the Béjarts, was entrusted with the commission; but, instead of executing it, he informed Lulli, who promptly invoked the protection of the law. An inquiry was held and numerous witnesses called for the prosecution, among whom was the widow of Molière. In order to discredit the testimony of these witnesses, Guichard drew up a memorial, in which, besides making the most infamous charges against Armande’s moral character, of which we shall speak later, he alluded to her as “the orphan of her husband” and “the widow of her father.” Unlike Montfleury, however, who was an old and respected member of his profession, Guichard appears to have been a consummate scoundrel, capable of any villainy to serve his ends; and we can hardly believe that a charge made by such a person could have excited any feelings, save those of indignation and disgust.

However, unhappily, other pens were not wanting to keep alive this hideous calumny. It is true that there are no further direct accusations; but there are allusions, which, as they appear in works that enjoyed, in their day, a considerable circulation, must have answered much the same purpose. In 1770, seven years after Montfleury had set the ball rolling, a certain Le Boulanger de Chalussay, of whom little or nothing seems to be known, attacked Molière in a play called Élomire hypocondre, ou les Médicins vengés — Élomire being, of course, an anagram of Molière. This play, intended as a reply to the great dramatist’s repeated attacks on the medical profession, was a fatuous production, dull, confused, and encumbered with an absurd number of characters; and the company of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, to whom it was submitted, very prudently declined to accept it, notwithstanding which the author caused it to be printed and circulated. In one scene, Élomire speaks of the care he is taking to train up his wife in the way he would have her go, in order to avoid all risk of finding himself numbered among deceived husbands. Thereupon, his confidant reminds him of the fate which befell Arnolphe in the École des femmes, in spite of all his precautions. But Élomire replies that he is better advised than Arnolphe: —

“Arnolphe commença trop tard à la forger;

  C’est avant le berceau qu’il y devoit songer,

  Comme quelqu’un l’a fait.”

Molière demanded and obtained the suppression of Élomire hypocondre; but this only had the effect of stimulating its circulation, as, in the following year, a new edition was clandestinely printed in the provinces, and, in 1672, a third was produced by the Elzevirs, in Holland.

Another allusion occurs in a scandalous work entitled La Fameuse Comédienne, published anonymously in 1688, of which we shall have a good deal to say hereafter: “She [Armande] was the daughter of the deceased Béjart, a provincial actress, who was making the bonne fortune of numbers of young gentlemen in Languedoc at the time of the auspicious birth of her daughter. That is why it is very difficult, in the face of such promiscuous gallantry, to say who was the father.” And the writer concludes: “She is believed to be the daughter of Molière, notwithstanding the fact that he afterwards became her husband; however, one does not really know the truth.”

It appears to be the tendency among modern writers, while indignantly repudiating the accusation of Montfleury, to accept with complacency the opinion of Molière’s contemporaries that his relations with Madeleine Béjart had been, at one time, on a closer footing than that of friendship. In this they show a singular want of consistency, for, as M. Gustave Larroumet, than whom Molière has no more ardent admirer, very justly observes, the two suppositions are inseparable, and those who admit the probability of the second cannot well deny the possibility of the first, provided, of course, that they hold, with M. Loiseleur, that Marie Hervé had been guilty of fraud in the documents discovered by Beffara and Eudore Soulié, and that Armande was the daughter of Madeleine.

Let us, however, look at the facts as briefly as may be, since the subject is not one upon which it profits greatly to dwell.

Molière’s connection with the Béjart family is commonly believed to have begun some time in 1641 or 1642. In June 1643, Madeleine Béjart, with her younger sister Géneviève, and her brothers, Joseph and Louis, joined Molière and several others in founding the Illustre Théâtre. She remained faithful to Molière’s fortunes during those disastrous two years, when the receipts of the new theatre did not suffice to discharge the ordinary working expenses, and its chief was, on one occasion, imprisoned in the Châtelet, until the bill of an importunate candle-merchant had been settled. When the company left Paris, in the spring of 1646, on its twelve years’ wanderings through the provinces, she accompanied it, and, in addition to playing in nearly every piece, appears to have superintended the costumes and scenery, and regulated the expenses, at least so far as concerned Molière and the three other Béjarts. Finally, when Molière returned to Paris, in 1658, and the company was installed, first, at the Petit-Bourbon and, afterwards, at the Palais-Royal, she retained her place and continued to play regularly down to the time of her death on February 17, 1678, exactly a year before that of Molière himself.

An admirable actress, one of the best of her time, according to Tallemant des Réaux, ready to undertake almost any rôle in either tragedy or comedy, she excelled in depicting smartly-attired maids, who ridicule the follies of their employers with equal wit, impudence, and good sense, and, but for her, Molière might never have created his inimitable soubrettes. She was, moreover, remarkably handsome, tall and graceful, with hair of a peculiarly beautiful blonde hue, and La Fontaine, Loret, and other contemporaries speak of her in terms of unfeigned admiration; while she seems to have possessed some literary ability, having, when a girl of eighteen, addressed a quatrain to Rotrou, who had just produced his Hercule mourant at the Hôtel de Bourgogne — which so delighted the dramatist that he published it in an edition of his work — and also adapted an old comedy, which was performed by the Illustre Théâtre in the provinces.

That a very warm friendship and regard existed between Madeleine and Molière is certain, nor does what we know of the latter’s relations with other ladies of his troupe render a closer connection improbable. In 1653, at Lyons, the Illustre Théâtre was strengthened by the accession of two actresses, Mlle. du Parc and Mlle. de Brie, both destined to rise to eminence in their profession. Molière promptly fell in love with the former, who, however, rejected his addresses, as she subsequently did those of Pierre Corneille and La Fontaine, upon which the mortified dramatist transferred his attentions to the less attractive, but more sympathetic, Mlle. de Brie, and formed with her a liaison which appears to have lasted until his marriage, and was resumed at a later date.

Under these circumstances, it is scarcely surprising that contemporary gossip should have coupled the names of Molière and Madeleine together— “M. Despréaux [Boileau] told me,” writes Brossette, “that Molière had been in love with the actress Béjart, whose daughter he espoused,” — or that many modern writers should have taken the same view. M. Larroumet, we may observe, is of the contrary opinion, but, though generally so correct, he appears in this instance to be arguing from a false premise. He assumes that the Comte de Modène returned to Paris in the summer of 1643 and resumed his former relations with Madeleine, which fact, he says, makes a liaison between her and Molière altogether improbable. But the count’s biographer, M. Chardon, asserts that at the time when M. Larroumet believes Modène to have been in Paris, he was residing on his estates in the Venaissin, and that he did not visit the capital until the autumn of 1646, that is to say, after the Illustre Théâtre had left for the provinces. Shortly after this, the count set out with the Duc de Guise for Italy, where, as we have mentioned, he remained until 1650.

But, after all, the nature of Molière’s relations with Madeleine Béjart subsequent to the birth of Armande is of very secondary importance; it is on the degree of intimacy existing between them prior to that event that the whole question hinges. That they were at that time anything more than friends — possibly only acquaintances — there is not a shred of evidence to prove; for the rumours we have spoken of relate mainly to the early years of the Illustre Théâtre. Indeed, so little is known about their movements previous to the establishment of that institution that it is impossible to say with any degree of certainty whether their paths in life lay together or far apart at a particular date, much less to hazard an opinion upon so very delicate a matter as the one under discussion.

M. Larroumet says that from July 1638, when her little daughter, Françoise, was born, until June 1643, when the Illustre Théâtre was founded, we lose all trace of Madeleine. This is not quite correct, as on November 30, 1639, she appears as marraine at the baptism of her little sister, Bénigne Madeleine, in the parish of Saint-Sauveur, and, six months later (June 5, 1640), we find her discharging the same duty to a child of one Robert de la Voypierre, described as a valet-de-chambre at the Church of Saint-Sulpice. After that, it is true, nothing more is heard of her for three years. Now, where was she during these three years? M. Chardon thinks that she was in Paris until the early summer of 1641, and during the remainder of the time — that is to say, for the eighteen months or more preceding Armande’s birth — in the provinces, with a company of strolling players; and this is the reason he gives for his supposition.

In May 1641, a friend of the Comte de Modène, Jean Baptiste de l’Hermite, brother of Tristan de l’Hermite, author of the tragedy of Mariamne, together with his wife and a servant of the count, were arrested and imprisoned in the Château of Vincennes, apparently on a charge of treasonable correspondence with Modène. Thereupon, Madeleine, apprehensive of sharing their fate, her connection with Modène being well known, leaves Paris and joins a company in the provinces, and does not show her face in the capital again until Richelieu and Louis XIII. are both dead, and all danger for the Count and his friends removed.

As for Molière, he is commonly believed to have spent the year 1642 in Paris, with the exception of the months of May, June, and July, when M. Loiseleur is of opinion that he replaced his father as tapissier valet-de-chambre to the King, who was then returning by easy stages from the conquest of Roussillon.

Now, if these two theories are correct, as they probably are, it is obvious that, whoever was the father of Madeleine Béjart’s child, supposing her to have been the mother of Armande, which few now will be found to maintain, it could not have been Molière, unless Madeleine was a member of a troupe of strolling players, which performed several times before the Court at Montfrin, during its stay there in the latter part of June, a contingency so remote as to be hardly worth taking into account. With which observations, we hasten to take leave of this most unpleasant subject, and begin our history of Armande Béjart.

When the Illustre Théâtre quitted Paris, in the spring of 1646, Marie Hervé and her little daughter accompanied it. It does not appear probable, however, as some writers have supposed, that Armande’s early years were passed on the high roads. From what we know of her accomplishments, she must have received a far superior education to that which a little Bohemian could have obtained. According to one account, she lived for some years in Languedoc, “with a lady of distinguished rank in that province,” and did not return to her family until 1653, when the company, relatively more stable, had made Lyons its headquarters. Thenceforward Armande’s education was carried on under the immediate supervision of Molière himself, who, as time went on, began to take something more than a friendly interest in the progress of his pupil, and ended by falling passionately in love with her.

Nearly all the biographers of Molière and Armande agree that Madeleine Béjart was much occupied by this marriage, though they differ widely in the part they assign to her, some asserting that she laboured strenuously to prevent it, others that she did her utmost to bring it about. According to Grimarest, one of the oldest of the poet’s biographers — who believed Madeleine to have been Molière’s mistress, and that she was, moreover, the mother of Armande, though he does not go so far as to attribute the girl’s paternity to Molière — Madeleine behaved en femme furieuse, threatened to ruin him, her daughter, and herself, if he persisted in his intention, and that in consequence the lovers were compelled to contract a secret marriage.

On the other hand, the anonymous author of La Fameuse Comédienne, who wrote nearer the event, gives a wholly different version of the affair. According to him — or more probably her — it is Madeleine who prepared and concluded the marriage, by a series of patient and tortuous intrigues, her object being to recover, through Armande, the influence over Molière of which Mlle. de Brie had deprived her. “She did not fail to exaggerate to Molière the satisfaction he would derive from educating for himself a child whose heart he was sure of possessing, and whose disposition was known to him, and assured him that it was only at that innocent age that one could hope to meet with that sincerity which was found but rarely among persons who had seen the great world. These arguments she often repeated to Molière, at the same time, adroitly calling his attention to that natural delight which her daughter showed whenever she observed him enter the room, and her blind obedience to his wishes. In a word, she conducted the affair so skilfully that he decided that he could not do better than marry the girl.”

These two accounts, remarks M. Larroumet, would appear, at first sight, to be equally unworthy of belief, since they are in direct contradiction to one another. But when we come to examine them more closely, we shall find that, though the worthlessness of Grimarest’s version is clearly demonstrated by the fact that Molière’s marriage had nothing secret about it, being indeed celebrated publicly in the presence of his family and Armande’s, that of the author of La Fameuse Comédienne has a basis of truth. Madeleine did, no doubt, play an important part in bringing about the marriage, but the reason which prompted her to do so was very different from that stated by the author. Sincerely attached to both her sister and Molière, she honestly believed that a marriage between them would be to their common advantage, securing to the one an excellent settlement in life, and to the other a means of escape from the gallantries which served but to add fresh annoyances to the cares imposed upon him by his triple rôle of playwright, actor, and manager. She committed a grievous mistake, it is true; but that she was animated by perfectly disinterested motives, and did everything in her power to make the marriage a happy one, there can be no question.

With the exception of the drawing reproduced in this volume, there does not appear to be any portrait of Armande, painted or engraved, the authenticity of which is beyond dispute. But, as some atonement for this, several excellent pen-portraits have come down to us. The most interesting of these is, of course, the one traced by Molière’s own hand in that exquisite little scene between Cléonte and Covielle in the third act of the Bourgeois gentilhomme, where Armande plays the part of the charming Lucile. Cléonte, incensed by Lucile’s seeming indifference, determines to break with her, and calls upon the valet to “assist him in his resentment and sustain his resolution against every remnant of affection that may yet plead for her. ‘Say, I entreat you, all the harm that you can of her. Make of her person a picture that shall render her contemptible in my sight, and, to disgust me with her, point out all the faults that you can see in her.’”

Smarting under the rebuff just administered to him by Lucile’s waiting-woman, Nicole, who follows the example of her mistress, Covielle readily obeys, and proceeds to draw a most unflattering portrait of the young lady. But no sooner does the valet point out some fault in Lucile than his love-lorn master straightway transforms it into a trait of beauty, with an ever-increasing anger and impatience.

Covielle.— “To begin with, her eyes are small.”

Cléonte.— “That is true; her eyes are small, but then they are full of fire — the most brilliant, the most piercing in the world, the tenderest that one can possibly see.”

Covielle.— “She has a large mouth.”

Cléonte.— “Yes; but one finds there charms which one does not find in other mouths; and that mouth, when one beholds it, inspires desire; it is the most attractive, the most adorable in the world.”

Covielle.— “As for her figure, she is not tall.”

Cléonte.— “No; but she is supple and well-proportioned.”

Covielle.— “She affects a carelessness in her speech and deportment.”

Cléonte.— “It is true, but there is grace in all; and her manners are engaging and have a nameless charm which insinuates itself into our hearts.”

Covielle.— “As to her wit — —”

Cléonte.— “Ah! she has that, Covielle; the finest and most delicate kind.”

Covielle.— “Her conversation — —”

Cléonte.— “Her conversation is charming.”

Covielle.— “It is always serious.”

Cléonte.— “Would you have unrestrained liveliness and boisterous gaiety? Is there anything more annoying than women who laugh at every word that is spoken?”

Covielle.— “But, after all, she is as capricious as any person you can find.”

Cléonte.— “Yes, she is capricious; there I agree with you; but everything is becoming to, and must be borne with from, the fair.”

ARMANDE BÉJART. From an etching by J. HANRIOT, after a contemporary drawing in the collection of M. HENRY HOUSSAYE, of the Académie Française

The fidelity of the aforegoing portrait is confirmed by other contemporary evidence. Examined in detail, it would appear that Armande’s features were far from perfect, but that the ensemble was fascinating to a very remarkable degree. Mlle. Poisson, in a Lettre sur la vie et les œuvres de Molière et les comédiens de son temps, which she contributed to the Mercure of 1740, describes her as “of middle height,” with “very small eyes,” and “a large flat mouth”; but adds that she had “an engaging air,” and “performed every action with grace.” The elder Grandval is in accord with Mlle. Poisson: “Without being beautiful, she was piquant and capable of inspiring a grande passion.” While a bitter enemy of Armande, the anonymous author of La Fameuse Comédienne, while denying her “aucun trait de beauté” is fain to admit that her appearance and manners rendered her very amiable in the opinion of many people, and that she was “very affecting when she wished to please.”

That Armande should have triumphed so completely over physical deficiencies was probably due, to some extent, to the perfection of her toilettes. “No one,” the brothers Parfaict tell us, in their Histoire du Théâtre Français, “knew better than she how to enhance the beauty of her face by the arrangement of her coiffure, or of her figure by the fashion of her costume.” And Mlle. Poisson records that she “showed most remarkable taste and invariably opposed to the mode of the time.” She seems indeed to have had some claim to be considered the arbitrix of feminine taste in dress, for the Mercure galant of 1673 ascribes to her the credit of a radical reform in ladies’ toilettes, nothing less than the substitution of gowns, “tout unis sur le corps, de la manière que la taille parait plus belle,” for the majestic but somewhat heavy costume hitherto in vogue, which concealed beneath its too ample folds the graceful lines of the figure.

If Armande, as a woman, was an object of admiration to her contemporaries, as an actress, she aroused in them something very like enthusiasm. It would indeed have been a matter for surprise had it been otherwise, since she enjoyed advantages which fall to the lot of very few. She came of a family which had already contributed several finished performers to the French stage, and “had in her blood the passion and instinct of the theatre.” With her charm of manner and exquisite taste in dress, she combined many accomplishments: “she had a very pretty voice, sang with great taste in both French and Italian, and danced ravishingly.” She had received a long and careful training from one who was perhaps an even better teacher than he was an actor, and who was as ambitious for her success as for his own. And, finally, nearly all her parts — certainly all her more important parts — were written by Molière with the express object of enabling her to display her abilities to the best advantage.

Lacking the dignity and strength required to give adequate expression to the greater passions, she wisely refrained from attempting any important rôles in tragedy, and in Racine’s Alexandre and the Attila of Corneille we find her allotted only minor parts. But at the Palais-Royal comedy was, of course, the staple fare, and in “la rôles de femmes coquettes et satiriques,” which accorded so well with her own temperament, and also in those of ingénues, Armande had no superior in her day and probably very few since. Her acting is said to have been characterised by great judgment, while her by-play was remarkably effective. “If she but retouches her hair, or rearranges her ribbons or her jewellery, these little fashions conceal a satire judicious and natural, and throw ridicule upon the women she wishes to represent.” Moreover, she had the rare gift of being able to change at will the character of her voice, and “had a different tone for every part she undertook.”

Molière’s wise reluctance to allow his young wife to challenge the verdict of the public until he had done everything in his power to ensure her success, delayed Armande’s first appearance on the stage for fifteen months after her marriage, when she made her début as Élise in the Critique de l’École des femmes (June 1, 1663), a reply to the attacks of Donneau de Visé and other critics upon the play produced at the Palais-Royal the previous December. The part allotted to her, which is that of a self-possessed young woman, with a good deal of shrewd common-sense, a turn for irony of a rather caustic brand, and not too much consideration for the feelings of others, suited her admirably — perhaps rather more so than poor Molière at that time imagined — and secured her a somewhat similar rôle in the delightful Impromptu de Versailles, played before the Court in the following October, where she figures in the cast as a “satirical wit.” She did not play in the Mariage forcé (January 29, 1664), as, ten days earlier, she had borne Molière a son, to whom, as we have mentioned, Louis XIV. and Henrietta of England stood sponsors; but in the following spring we find her in the first of her long list of important rôles.

At the beginning of May 1664, Louis XIV. entertained the Queen-mother, Anne of Austria, and his own consort, Maria Theresa, with a brilliant and sumptuous fête, or rather succession of fêtes, at Versailles, which was then, of course, still only the little country-house built by Louis XIII., occupying to-day the bottom of the Cour de Marbre. The fêtes, which were denominated Les Plaisirs de l’Ile enchantée, as the plan adopted was suggested by the sixth and seventh cantos of Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso, which describe the sojourn of Rogero (impersonated by the King) in the isle and palace of the enchantress Alcena, began on the 7th of the month and lasted a week; stately processions, tilting, displays of fireworks, balls, and magnificent banquets alternating with theatrical performances. On the 8th, Molière’s troupe gave a comedy ballet, called the Princesse d’Élide, composed for the occasion, by their chief, at the special request of the King, and the rôle of the princess was taken by Armande. The play, the subject of which was borrowed from the Spanish dramatist Moreto’s El Desden con el Desden (Scorn for Scorn), is the story of a fair princess, who until then had professed to despise love and had driven her innumerable suitors to despair, but who suddenly finds herself wounded to the heart by the skilfully feigned indifference to her charms shown by Euryale, Prince of Ithaca, who ultimately succeeds in winning her hand. Though far from being one of Molière’s happiest efforts, as it was hastily strung together — the first act and the commencement of the first scene of the second are in verse, and the rest in prose — while the author’s natural flow of wit and humour was checked by the necessity of accommodating himself to courtly conventions, it met with a very favourable reception, and, moreover, served to establish Armande’s reputation as an actress. This was, no doubt, Molière’s intention, as the whole play appears to have been conceived expressly to bring into relief the young lady’s various accomplishments — her taste in dress, her charming voice, and her graceful dancing — and the enamoured Euryale declaims in her honour a portrait of the most flattering description: “She is, in truth, adorable at all times; but at that moment she was more so than ever, and new charms redoubled the splendour of her beauty. Never was her face adorned with more lovely colours; never were her eyes armed with swifter or more piercing shafts. The sweetness of her voice showed itself in the perfectly charming air which she deigned to sing; and the marvellous tones she uttered penetrated to the very depth of my soul and held all my senses in a rapture from which they were powerless to escape. She next showed a disposition altogether divine; her lovely feet on the enamel of the soft turf danced delightful steps, which carried me quite beyond myself and bound me by irresistible bonds to the easy and accurate movements with which her whole body followed those harmonious motions.”

On the three concluding days of the fêtes, the Fâcheux, the first three acts of Tartuffe, and the Mariage forcé were in turn represented. It is uncertain what parts were allotted Armande in the first and third of these plays, but in the much discussed Tartuffe, now played for the first time, she again filled the leading feminine rôle. How she fared on this occasion we have unfortunately no information; but when, in February 1669, the interdict under which Tartuffe had so long lain was at length withdrawn and the piece produced at the Palais-Royal, the rhyming chronicle of Robinet speaks in eulogistic terms of her performance of Elmire.

In the meanwhile, she had successfully created other important parts: Lucinde in the Medecin malgré lui, Angélique in George Dandin, and Elise in l’Avare, and, on June 4, 1666, the greatest of all her triumphs — the rôle of Célimène in the famous comedy of the Misanthrope.

“Célimène,” says M. Larroumet, “is the type of woman the most original and the most complete which the genius of Molière has evolved. Eternal temptation of actresses, those who have attempted it may be called legion, those who have succeeded in making themselves mistresses of it form a select group, admired, envied. Such an actress of genius as Rachel failed here miserably, and a true Célimène, like Mlle. Mars, is sure of transmitting her name to posterity. One has noted, however, the tones and gestures of the great interpreters of the part; tradition preserves them, and they point out the way. But an intelligent pupil will readily make herself acquainted with all that can be learned; if she does not evolve from her own resources the sentiment of the character, she will only swell the alarming number of vain attempts which theatrical history records. Célimène is twenty years of age, and her experience is that of a woman of forty. Coquettish and feline with Alceste, frivolous and back-biting with the little marquises, cruelly ironical with Arsinoé, in each act, in each scene, she shows herself under a different aspect. Contemporary, or very nearly so, of Mesdames de Châtillon, de Luynes, de Monaco, de Soubise, and the nieces of Mazarin, she ought to awaken a vague memory of these great names; she is the exquisite and rare product of an aristocratic civilisation in the full splendour of its development, and often she speaks a language of almost plebeian candour and acerbity. In the salon where she reigns, she ought to convey the idea of perfect ease and supreme distinction; and in the dénouement she submits to a cruel humiliation without the possibility of revenge; she makes her exit vanquished at all points, and, even then, she ought to lose nothing of her haughty bearing and her tranquil smile.”

It will thus be readily understood that an actress who could be trusted to create such a part must have truly been a great artist, and Armande secured a brilliant triumph. Her performance was “a charm” and “an ecstasy,” Robinet tells us; and though Robinet was in the habit of dealing somewhat freely in such expressions, we have no reason to doubt that on this occasion he faithfully reflects the opinion of the audience.

But, after all, we can hardly wonder at the young actress’s success, since she had only to be perfectly natural to realise the author’s whole idea of his heroine. For what is Célimène but a finished portrait of Armande herself? Célimène is “la grande coquette par excellence,” surrounded by a crowd of admirers wherever she goes. Armande, unhappily for Molière’s peace of mind, seems to have enjoyed very much the same reputation. Célimène depends for her fascination not so much on beauty of face or form as on her expression, her smile, her manners, her conversation; “elle a l’art de me plaire,” says the infatuated Alceste. Armande possessed the same kind of attractions, and was “very affecting when she wished to please.” Célimène is haughty and imperious. “It is my wish; it is my wish,” she cries when Alceste hesitates to comply with her demands. “Armande,” says a contemporary, “could not brook contradiction, and pretended that a lover ought to be as submissive as a slave.” In fact, so perfect is the resemblance that even if the circumstances, of which we shall presently speak, did not preclude all reasonable doubt about the matter, few would be found to deny that the heroine of the Misanthrope was drawn from life.

Among Armande’s other rôles may be mentioned the capricious and charming Lucile of the Bourgeois gentilhomme, in which Molière drew the well-known portrait of his wife which we have already cited; the title-part in the famous “tragedy-ballet” of Psyché, one of the most remarkable instances of collaboration in dramatic history, in which she appeared in a different costume in each of its five acts — a very unusual extravagance in those days — and is described by the enthusiastic Robinet as “marvellous” and “playing divinely”; Henriette in the Femmes savantes, “the model of an honest, sensible, and well-brought-up young lady;” and finally, Angélique in Molière’s swan-song, the Malade imaginaire, perhaps, next to Célimène, her most finished impersonation.

But great as were the dramatic talents of Armande Béjart, they count for comparatively little in the curiosity which her name arouses. It is her moral character, her private life, her relations with her famous husband, which have exercised the minds of the biographers of Molière for upwards of two centuries. On these matters even more ink has been expended than on the vexed question of her birth, and with far less satisfactory results. To the great majority of writers Armande was an unworthy wife, who repaid the kindness and affection lavished upon her by the great man whose name she bore with ingratitude and contumely; while there are not wanting those who go so far as to accuse her of the grossest infidelity, and to assert that her misconduct was in some measure responsible for the dramatist’s untimely death. When, however, we come to sift the evidence against her, we shall find that these extreme views are based on very insufficient or very suspicious testimony, and that one thing only has been clearly established, namely, that she rendered Molière’s later years very unhappy. But what was the true cause of his unhappiness, whether occasioned by actual misconduct on the part of Armande, or merely by an ever present dread that such must be the inevitable termination of one or other of the very imprudent flirtations in which she appears to have been continually indulging, is very difficult, nay, well-nigh impossible, to determine.

It has always been a favourite practice with biographers of Molière and historians of the French theatre to affect to discover more or less direct allusions to the dramatist’s relations with his wife in several of his plays: the École des femmes, the Impromptu de Versailles, the Mariage forcé, George Dandin, and, of course, the Misanthrope. That this is true of the last-named play cannot, we think, be disputed; but in regard to the others, we are inclined to believe that the significance of the passages and episodes on which their contention rests have been a good deal exaggerated.

Let us begin with the École des femmes, the first in chronological order. Here, as in the École des maris, Molière turns to the ethics of marriage for his materials. Arnolphe, a middle-aged bachelor, disgusted by the lack of fidelity among the married women he sees around him, comes to the conclusion that the only safeguard of a wife’s honour is extreme ignorance. No young woman should know anything beyond her household and religious duties; her reading is to be confined to the Bible and the Maxims of Marriage; her only objects in life are to be the salvation of her soul and the comfort and happiness of her husband. In order to put his theory to the test, he adopts a little girl called Agnès, and has her carefully brought up in the most complete seclusion, with the intention of making her his wife when she shall have reached a suitable age. But, unfortunately for him — for he falls genuinely in love with his ward — the damsel’s very simplicity proves his undoing; she bestows her affections upon a young gallant, Horace by name, and poor Arnolphe is left lamenting the downfall of his hopes.

We have outlined this plot of the play, which is doubtless familiar to many, as several writers have assumed that Molière has depicted himself in the role of Arnolphe and Armande in that of Agnès; but beyond the fact that both Molière and his hero themselves supervised the education of their intended wives, there does not seem to be the slightest ground for such a supposition. In the first place, Molière espoused the woman of his choice; while Arnolphe sees his cherished scheme come to nothing, through the appearance on the scene of the youthful Horace. In the second, the brilliant and witty Armande bears as little resemblance to the unsophisticated Agnès as does her liberal-minded husband to the tyrannical guardian. And, lastly, to ask us to believe that only ten months after his marriage, with the glamour of the honeymoon still upon him, Molière could have intended an unsympathetic character like Agnès to represent his wife, is to make too great a call upon our credulity.

In the Impromptu de Versailles a good deal has been made of the little quarrel between the author and his wife, which the former introduces at the beginning of the play. The company is supposed to be rehearsing a new comedy, commanded by the King at two hours’ notice, and to be causing its chief no little trouble.

Mademoiselle Molière.— “Shall I tell you what it is? You ought to have written a play which you could have acted all alone.”

Molière.— “Be silent, wife; you are a fool.”

Mademoiselle Molière.— “Thank you, my lord and husband; that just shows what it is to be married, and how strangely wedlock alters people. You would not have said that eighteen months ago.”

Molière.— “Pray be silent.”

Mademoiselle Molière.— “It is an odd thing that a trifling ceremony should be capable of depriving us of all our good qualities, and that a husband and a lover should regard the same person with such different eyes.”

Molière.— “What loquacity!”

Mademoiselle Molière.—”’Faith! if I were to write a play, it would be upon that subject. I would justify women in many things of which they are accused, and I would make husbands afraid of the contrast between their abrupt manners and the courtesy of lovers.”

Here, we are told by certain critics, the inference is unmistakable; Molière clearly foresees the fate which awaits him. In our opinion, they are wrong. In the Impromptu de Versailles Molière and his wife do not, as in an ordinary play, represent fictitious characters; they appear under their own names. In these circumstances, it is surely inconceivable that the dramatist should have introduced this dialogue, if he had for one moment imagined it applicable to his own affairs! The very fact that he was so ready to jest upon such a subject seems to us a conclusive proof that up to that time, at least, Armande’s conduct had given him but scant cause for uneasiness.

The Mariage forcé and George Dandin, the former produced early in the year 1664, when the difference of age and of character between Molière and his wife was no doubt beginning to produce its fatal consequences, and the latter in the summer of 1667, after their separation, of which we shall speak in due course, had actually taken place, contain more direct allusions to their author’s ménage. Sganarelle, like Molière, had believed himself “le plus content des hommes,” only to be roughly disillusioned when the carefully brought up Dorimène frankly avows her passion for “toutes les choses de plaisir” — play, visiting, assemblies, entertainments, and so forth — at the same time expressing a hope that he does not intend to be one of those inconvenient husbands who desire their wives to live “comme des loup-garous,” since solitude drives her to despair, but that they may dwell together as a pair “qui savent leur monde.” Angélique, in her turn, complains to George Dandin of the tyranny exercised by husbands “who wish their wives to be dead to all amusements, and to live only for them.” She has no desire, she tells him, to die young, but “intends to enjoy, under his good pleasure, some of the glad days that youth has to offer her, to take advantage of the sweet liberties that the age permits her, to see a little of the beau monde, and to taste the pleasure of hearing her praises sung.”

All this is certainly reminiscent of Armande, who, according to Grimarest, was no sooner married than she “believed herself a duchess,” affected a coquettish manner with the idle gallants who flocked to pay court to her, and turned a deaf ear to the warnings of her husband, whose lessons appeared to her “too severe for a young person who, besides, had nothing wherewith to reproach herself.” But the resemblance in the situations goes no further. If Dorimène, in her craving for “toutes les chases de plaisir” and Angélique, in her imperious temper and cold irony, bear some relation to Armande, the foolish and cowardly Sganarelle, who allows himself to be cudgelled by Dorimène’s brother, Lycidas, into a marriage which he knows must bring him unhappiness, has nothing, save his age, in common with Molière; while the aspiring farmer, George Dandin, marrying not for love, but for social position, and deservedly punished for his snobbishness, is as far removed from his creator as Tartuffe or Monsieur Jourdain.

When we come to the Misanthrope, the similarity between fiction and reality is too striking to admit of any doubt as to the author’s intentions. It is true that a distinguished English critic professes to see in this play, as in Don Garcie de Navarre — Molière’s one failure, produced the year before his marriage, and withdrawn after a run of five nights — the outcome of the actor-dramatist’s “desire of indulging his humour of seriousness and a determination to example his elocutionary theories in verse that, without being actually tragic and heroic, should have something in it of the tragic and heroic quality.” But, though the large number of verses from Don Garcie which Molière has incorporated with his role of Alceste would seem to lend some confirmation to this theory, the fact remains that writers are practically unanimous in regarding the Misanthrope as, primarily, a pathetic autobiography of its author under the cloak of fiction. “This Célimène, so frivolous and so charming, so dangerous and so seductive, this incorrigible coquette, who does not understand what a noble heart she is wounding even unto death: is not this Armande Béjart, embellished by all the love and all the genius of Molière? And Alceste; who is he? At the first representations people believed that they recognised the Duc de Montausier, and the Duc de Montausier remarked, with good reason: ‘I thank you; it is a great honour.’ But we, for our part, recognise Molière. This misanthrope is something more than an honourable gentleman at odds with the world. He is a great genius misunderstood, who endures and waits; he is a passionate sage, an honest man with a great and excellent heart.”

In the Misanthrope, Molière has given to Célimène all the coquetry, the egoism, and the caustic wit which belonged to Armande; to his own rôle all the weakness of a high-minded man struggling vainly against his passion for an unworthy object. “The love I bear for her,” says Alceste —

“Ne ferme point mes yeux aux défauts qu’on lui trouve;

  Et je suis, quelque ardeur qu’elle m’ait pu donner,

  Le premier à les voirs, comme à les condamner.

  Mais, avec tout cela, quoi que je puis faire,

  Je confesse mon foible; elle a l’art de me plaire;

  J’ai beau voir ses défauts, et j’ai beau l’en blâmer,

  En dépit qu’on en ait, elle se fait aimer;

  Sa grâce est la plus forte, et, sans doute, ma flamme

  De ces vices du temps pourra purger son âme.”

There are moments indeed in the play when it almost ceases to belong to the realm of fiction. The scene, for instance, in the fourth act, when Alceste, holding in his hand the proof of Célimène’s perfidy, the letter written by her to his rival, Oronte, calls upon her “to justify herself at least of a crime that overwhelms him,” and to do her best to appear faithful, while he, on his side, will do his best to believe her such; and Célimène tartly refuses —

“Allez, vous êtes fou, dans vos transports jaloux,

  Et ne méritez pas l’amour qu’on a pour vous.

. . . . .

  Allez, de tels soupçons méritent ma colère,

  Et vous ne valez pas que l’on vous considère:

  Je suis sotte, et veux mal à ma simplicité,

  De conserver, encor, pour vous, quelque bonté;

  Je devrois, autre part, attacher mon estime

  Et vous faire un sujet de plainte légitime,”

may well have had its parallel in their own lives. And few, again, can doubt the sincerity with which the lover must have uttered the lines, —

“Je fais tout mon possible

À rompre de ce cœur l’attachement terrible;

Mais mes plus grands efforts n’ont rien fait jusqu’ici,

Et c’est pour mes péchés que je vous aime ainsi.”

“We might well say without exaggeration of this Célimène,” remarks August Wilhelm von Schlegel, “that there is not a single good point in her whole composition.” This may be so; but, as M. Larroumet is careful to point out, there is really nothing in the Misanthrope which gives us the right to assume that Armande was anything worse than an incorrigible coquette. “Célimène is impeccable; she has neither heart nor feeling.” Nor do the remainder of Molière’s plays furnish any fresh proof against Armande; they, on the contrary, strengthen the impression that, while he suffered much from his wife’s character, he never believed her to have been guilty of anything which might affect his honour.

This impression seems to have been that of the poet’s contemporaries. Molière had, as we know, many enemies — unscrupulous enemies, who did not hesitate to launch against him the most hideous of accusations. We can hardly doubt that had there been any reasonable ground for believing Armande guilty of something more than coquetry, the Montfleurys, Le Boulanger de Chalussay and the rest, would have been only too ready to avail themselves of such an opportunity of humiliating the man whom they so bitterly hated. Yet though, like all the rest of the world, they were aware of Molière’s jealous nature, and made this weakness the object of their unsparing ridicule, none of them went so far as to accuse him of being that which he appears to have been in incessant dread of becoming. At most, their works contain only vague hints and insinuations, to which little or no attention seems to have been paid; and it is probable that Armande’s name would have gone down to posterity without any very serious stain upon it, had she not chanced to be made the victim of one of the most audacious and malignant libels ever penned.

Among the swarm of scurrilous brochures, fictitious histories, and stupid romances in the French language which issued from the foreign press during the decade which followed the Protestant emigration of 1685, was a little book, or rather pamphlet, written for the delectation of those persons who are always ready to welcome anything calculated to gratify their curiosity about the private affairs of stage celebrities. This book, published anonymously at Frankfort, in 1688, by one Rottenberg, a bookseller who made a speciality of such sensational works, bore the title of La Fameuse Comédienne, ou Histoire de la Guérin, Guérin being the name of Armande Béjart’s second husband, whom she married in 1677. Although the demand for it was considerable, and five editions were printed within ten years of the date of its publication, the charges against Armande which it contained do not appear to have been taken very seriously, except among the class of readers for whom it was written, until, in 1697, it occurred to Bayle, who had a weakness for piquant anecdotes about notable persons, to include certain passages in his famous Dictionary, since which few of the biographers of Molière have failed to borrow more or less freely from its pages, with most unfortunate results to the reputation of the dramatist’s wife.

The authorship of the Fameuse Comédienne remains a mystery to this day, though contemporary gossip, or historians in search of some new sensation, have attributed it successively to a number of persons: La Fontaine, Racine, Chapelle, Blot, the chansonnier of the Fronde, Rosimont, an actor of the Rue Guénégaud, Mlle. Guyot, a member of the same company, and Mlle. Boudin, a provincial actress, who would appear to have been at one time on terms of intimacy with Armande. With regard to the first five of these suppositions, we will merely remark that neither La Fontaine, Racine, nor Chapelle were capable of committing such an infamy; that Blot had been in his grave more than thirty years at the time of the publication of the libel ascribed to him, and that the chief argument advanced by M. Charles Livet, the editor of the latest edition of the Fameuse Comédienne, in favour of Rosimont, namely, a resemblance between the style of the book and a theological work entitled La Vie des Saints, which he published in 1680, seems to us too fanciful to merit any serious consideration. In the cases of Mesdemoiselles Guyot and Boudin, there is again a total absence of anything like adequate proof; nevertheless, though they are both in all probability guiltless, strong grounds exist for believing the book to be the work of one of Armande’s professional rivals, as the intimate acquaintance with theatrical life which it reveals precludes all doubt as to the vocation of the writer; while the preponderating place it allots to women, the manner in which it speaks of men, the jealous hatred which inspires it, the finesse of some of its remarks, its style and method, all denote a feminine hand.

Atrocious libel though the Fameuse Comédienne undoubtedly is, it is very far from destitute of that literary merit in which even the works of the most obscure writers of the great epoch of French prose are seldom lacking, and, moreover, contains not a little interesting and authentic information about the public career of Molière and his wife. But that is all that can be said in its favour. “Possessed,” remarks M. Larroumet, “by a ferocious hatred against Armande, hatred of the woman and the actress, the writer has only one object — to render her odious. What she knows of the actions of her enemy she perverts or, at any rate, exaggerates; what she does not know she invents. He who wishes to injure a man attributes to him acts of indecency or cowardice; he who wishes to injure a woman gives her lovers; these are the surest means. Thus our author makes of Armande a Messalina, and a Messalina of the baser sort, one who sells her favours.”

Unfortunately for the object which the libeller has in view, she does not content herself with general charges; she makes formal accusations, which she endeavours to substantiate, and the book abounds in letters, conversations, details about matters which could not possibly have been known, save to the parties immediately concerned, with the result that her attack fails miserably, and the judicious reader very speedily perceives that the work is nothing but a collection of scandalous anecdotes, which, when not controverted by positive facts, sin grievously against probability.

However, as all readers are not judicious, and as the book has imposed on several historians of deservedly high reputation, it may be as well for us, in the interests of truth, to follow the example of M. Bazin and M. Larroumet, and devote some little space to an examination of the charges which have brought so much unmerited odium upon the memory of Armande Béjart.

The first lover attributed to Armande is the Abbé de Richelieu, great-nephew of the famous cardinal, a gentleman of a very gallant disposition, with a marked predilection for actresses: “There was no one at the Court who did not endeavour to gain her favours. The Abbé de Richelieu was one of the first who determined to make her his mistress. As he was very liberal, while the young lady was very fond of expenditure, the matter was soon concluded. It was agreed that he should give her four pistoles (about forty francs) a day, without counting clothes and entertainments. The abbé did not fail to send her every morning, by a page, the pledge of their treaty, and to go and visit her every afternoon.”

Now, as M. Larroumet points out, if this story is to be accepted, we must either believe Molière to have been ignorant of the comings and goings of the page and the abbé, or that he was aware of and tolerated them: two suppositions equally inadmissible. Moreover, if we consult the dates, the improbability becomes an impossibility. Armande was married on February 20, 1662, and on January 19, 1664, she bore Molière a son. The intrigue must then have taken place between these two periods — which is to make her infidelity begin at a very early date — since M. Bazin tells us that the Abbé de Richelieu left France in March 1664 with the expedition organised to defend Hungary against the Turks, and died at Venice on January 9, 1665. That, however, does not prevent the Fameuse Comédienne from making his liaison with Mlle. Molière last until the production of the Princesse d’ Élide; a play which was not performed until May 8, 1664, some weeks after his departure.

On to the supposed intrigue between Armande and the abbé, the anonymous author next proceeds to graft a new and double adventure: “This affair lasted for some months without trouble; but Molière having written the Princesse d’ Élide, in which the Molière played the princess, which was the first important rôle she had filled, because Mademoiselle du Parc played them all and was the heroine of the theatre, she created such a sensation that Molière had cause to repent of having exhibited her in the midst of the brilliant young men of the Court. For scarcely had she arrived at Chambord, where the King gave this entertainment, than she became infatuated with the Comte de Guiche, while the Comte de Lauzun became infatuated with her. The latter spared no effort to obtain her good graces, but the Molière, who had quite lost her head over her hero, would listen to no proposition, and contented herself with visiting Du Parc and weeping over the indifference of the Comte de Guiche. The Comte de Lauzun, however, did not abandon hope, experience having taught him that nothing could resist him. He knew, moreover, that the Comte de Guiche was one who set but little store by woman’s love, for which reason he doubted not that his indifference would end by repulsing the Molière, and that his own star would then produce in her heart what it had produced in those of all the women whom he had sought to please. He was not deceived, for the Molière, irritated by the coldness of the Comte de Guiche, threw herself into the arms of the Comte de Lauzun, as if desirous of seeking protection against further suffering at the hands of a man who failed to appreciate her.”

Here again we have an impossibility and an improbability. In May 1664 the Comte de Guiche was at Warsaw, having been exiled the previous year, on account of his complicity in the “Spanish letter” plot against Mlle. de la Vallière, and, therefore, could not have been making love — or being made love to — at Versailles. As for Lauzun, no mention of him is to be found among the persons who assisted at the fêtes where the Princesse d’Élide was performed, while even if he were present, it is very unlikely that he had any attention to spare for Mlle. Molière, as he was at this time desperately in love with the Princesse de Monaco, who afterwards jilted him for the King himself. The fact is that the malicious chronicler, having decided to give her victim some grands seigneurs as lovers, not unnaturally selected those most celebrated for their gallantry, in the belief that, among their numerous mistresses, one more would pass without difficulty; but she had little acquaintance with the Court, and her ignorance has betrayed her.

Although the Abbé de Richelieu had, as we have mentioned, departed for Hungary, the Fameuse Comédienne retains him on the stage and makes him play a particularly odious rôle. He intercepts a very tender letter written by Armande to the Comte de Guiche, and, furious at the lady’s duplicity, “does not amuse himself by uttering reproaches, which never serve any good purpose; but, congratulating himself on having engaged her only by the day, resolves to break with her from that moment, which he does, after calling Molière’s attention to the fact that the great care he took to please the public left him no time for examining the conduct of his own wife, and that while he worked to divert every one, every one worked to divert her.”

A bitter matrimonial quarrel naturally follows this confidence. Armande sheds floods of tears, confesses her tendresse for Guiche, but protests that she is guilty in intention only, carefully refrains from saying a word about Lauzun, entreats her deluded husband’s pardon, which she obtains with very little difficulty, and profits by his credulity to continue her intrigues “with more éclat than ever.” Wearying of sentimental or quasi-sentimental attachments, she resolves to profit by her charms, at the same time making a great pretence of chastity and “causing to sigh for her an infinity of fools who imagine her to be of unexampled virtue.” However, in due course, Molière is advised of her proceedings, and another painful scene takes place between husband and wife. Molière falls into a violent passion and threatens to have her shut up in a convent. Armande weeps, swoons away, and appears to be on the point of expiring; but eventually revives and, instead of entreating pardon, as on the previous occasion, takes a high tone, accuses her husband of keeping up his intimacy with Mlle. de Brie, who, by a singular arrangement, still continued to reside under the same roof as her former lover, and also with Madeleine Béjart, declares that she “no longer has the courage to live with him, that she would rather die, and that everything between them must come to an end.” In vain her family, that of Molière, and their common friends endeavour to appease her. “She conceives henceforth a terrible aversion for her husband, she treats him with the utmost contempt; finally, she carries matters to such an extremity that Molière, beginning to perceive her evil propensities, consents to the rupture which, since their quarrel, she has never ceased to demand; and, accordingly, without any decree of the Parliament, they agree that they will no longer live together.”

Here, at last, the author of the Fameuse Comédienne is on sure ground; for we know, on unimpeachable authority, that an “amicable” separation did actually take place between Molière and his wife. Its precise date is a matter of some uncertainty, but it must have been subsequent to the month of April 1665, when Armande presented her husband with a second child, a daughter, to whom Madeleine Béjart and the Comte de Modène stood sponsors. “If,” says M. Larroumet, “we admit that the Misanthrope reflects something of the poet’s state of mind and of his feelings towards his wife, the separation perhaps belongs to the moment when this play was produced, in June 1666, or later, about the month of August, after the Médecin malgré lui.” M. Larroumet sees in the circumstance that the leading feminine parts in the three plays which followed the Médecin malgré lui: Mélicerte, Le Sicilien, and Amphitryon, were allotted to Mlle. de Brie, and not to Armande — a distribution which must have been peculiarly galling to the latter, who had so long filled the most important or the most flattering rôles — a natural effect of her husband’s resentment.

From the moment of their rupture until their reconciliation, some five years later, husband and wife met no more, except at the theatre. Armande remained in Paris, with her mother and sister; while Molière passed most of his rare leisure at a little country-house which he rented at Auteuil, then, as now, one of the most beautiful suburbs of Paris. One day, according to the Fameuse Comédienne, he was sitting in his garden, musing sadly upon his lost happiness, when his friend Chapelle broke in upon his solitude, and, finding him in a more than usually despondent mood, began to reproach him with betraying a weakness which he had so often turned to ridicule upon the stage.

“For my part,” said he, “if I were unfortunate enough to find myself in like case to you, and that the person I loved granted favours to others, I should feel such a contempt for her as would infallibly cure me of my passion. Moreover, there is a satisfaction open to you, which would be denied you if she were only your mistress; and that vengeance which commonly takes the place of love in an outraged heart can compensate you for all the mortifications your wife occasions you, since you can at once have her shut up in a convent. This would, indeed, be a sure means of placing your mind at rest.”

Molière, who had listened quietly to his friend, here interrupted him to inquire whether he himself had never loved.

“Yes,” replied Chapelle, “I have been in love as a man of sense ought to be, but I should never have found any difficulty in following what honour prescribed; and I blush to find you in such a state of indecision in regard to this matter.”

“I see well,” rejoined Molière, “that you have never truly loved. You take the semblance of love for love itself. I might give you many examples which would demonstrate to you the strength of this passion; but I will merely give you a faithful account of my own trouble, that you may understand how little we are masters of ourselves when once it has acquired dominion over us. As for the consummate knowledge of the human heart which you say the portraits I am constantly offering to the public prove me to possess, I will acknowledge that I have endeavoured to understand its weakness. But, if my science has taught me that danger should be avoided, my experience convinces me but too thoroughly that to escape it is impossible. I judge daily by my own case.

“I am by nature of an excessively tender disposition, and all my efforts have never enabled me to overcome my inclinations towards love. I sought to render myself happy, that is to say, so far as might be with a sensitive heart. I was convinced that few women are deserving of sincere affection; that interest, ambition, and vanity are at the root of all their intrigues. I thought, however, to secure my happiness by the innocence of my choice. I took my wife, so to speak, from the cradle. I educated her with the care which has given rise to the rumours which have doubtless reached your ears. I had persuaded myself that I could inspire her by habit with sentiments that time alone could destroy, and I neglected nothing whereby this end could be attained. As she was still young when I married her, I was unaware of her evil propensities, and deemed myself a little less unfortunate than the majority of those who contract such engagements. Thus marriage did not lessen my affection; but she treated me with such indifference that I began to perceive that all my precautions had been unavailing, and that her feelings towards me were very far removed from what I desired for my happiness. I reproached myself with a sensitiveness which seemed ridiculous in a husband, ascribing to her disposition that which was really due to her want of affection for me. But I had but too many opportunities of perceiving my error; and the mad passion which she contracted soon afterwards for the Comte de Guiche occasioned too much commotion to leave me even this appearance of tranquillity. I spared no endeavour, so soon as I knew the truth, to conquer myself, finding it impossible to change her. I employed all the strength of mind that I could command. I summoned to my aid everything that could help to console me. I considered her as a person whose sole merit had lain in her innocence, and whose unfaithfulness robbed her of all her charms. I resolved henceforth to live with her as an honourable man whose wife is a coquette, and who is well persuaded that, whatever may be said, his reputation is not affected by the misconduct of his spouse. But I had the mortification to discover that a woman without great beauty, who owed what little intelligence she possessed to the education which I had given her, could, in an instant, destroy all my philosophy. Her presence made me forget all my resolutions; the first words she said in her defence left me so convinced that my suspicions were ill-founded that I asked pardon of her for having been so credulous.

“However, my kindness effected no change in her, and, in the end, I determined to live with her as if she were not my wife; but if you knew what I suffer you would pity me. My passion has reached such a point as to cause me to sympathise with her; and when I reflect upon the impossibility of suppressing what I feel for her, I tell myself, at the same time, that she has perhaps a similar difficulty in overcoming her inclination towards coquetry, and I find myself more disposed to pity than to blame her.

“No doubt you will tell me that one must be a poet to love in this manner, but, for my part, I hold that there is only one kind of love, and that those who have not felt such tenderness have never truly loved. Everything in this world is associated in my mind with her. So entirely are my thoughts occupied by her that in her absence nothing can give me pleasure. When I behold her, an emotion, transports which may be felt but not expressed, deprive me of all power of reflection. I have no longer eyes for her faults, but see only her lovable qualities. Is not this the last extremity of folly? And do you not marvel that all my reason serves only to convince me of my weakness without giving me the strength to master it?”

Quite a number of writers, including several who are inclined to place but little confidence in the rest of the Fameuse Comédienne, pronounce unhesitatingly for the genuineness of the above conversation. M. Edouard Fournier thinks that a letter from Molière to Chapelle has been worked into the text, while Mr. Gegg Markheim, in his very interesting preface to the Clarendon Press edition of the Misanthrope, is of opinion that a conversation between the two poets was repeated by Chapelle, “either thoughtlessly or to clear his friend from certain slanders,” and reached the ears of the author. Mr. Markheim adduces two circumstances as proofs of the genuineness of the Auteuil confession: first, that the substance of it is confirmed by a similar conversation between Molière and his friends, the physician Rohault, and Mignard, the celebrated painter, cited by Grimarest, in his biography of the dramatist; secondly, the very remarkable resemblance, not only in thought but in language, between certain passages in the Fameuse Comédienne and the Misanthrope, in which play Molière is generally believed to have, in some measure, taken his audience into his confidence in regard to his domestic affairs. Thus — to cite only one instance of several which Mr. Markheim gives — in the book Molière says: “Je n’ai plus d’yeux pour ses défauts, il m’en reste seulement pour ce qu’elle a d’aimable;” while in the play Alceste makes the same confession in almost the same words: —

“J’ai beau voir ses défauts, et j’ai beau l’en blâmer,

  En dépit qu’on en ait, elle se fait aimer.”

Mr. Markheim’s first argument may, we think, be dismissed, as the conversation in Grimarest would appear to be nothing more than a not too skilful imitation of that in the Fameuse Comédienne; but the second is deserving of more attention. The similarity between the several passages Mr. Markheim cites is certainly too striking to be explained away on the ground of mere coincidence; yet, so far from proving his contention, it makes, in our opinion, for a diametrically opposite conclusion. Let us listen to what M. Larroumet, the best-informed and most impartial of all the recent biographers of Molière, has to say upon the matter: “If we admit that the Fameuse Comédienne, in spite of its detestable inspiration, is not the work of a beginner, but of an actress endowed with the talent of a natural style, the simplest course would be to admit further that this fragment is as much her work as the rest of the book. Trained to the practice of the theatre, she combines certain portions of her story with as many little plays. Here she will have perceived the scene to construct and the pathetic tirade to write. Is not the situation one to inspire and stimulate? Sustained then by her recollections of the Misanthrope, her imagination stirred by the passionate complaints of Alceste, her hatred of Armande coming to her assistance, she has been successful in the scene and the tirade.”

In a word, the whole Auteuil episode is pure fiction; yet fiction of such a kind— “one of the choicest morsels of French prose in its most glorious epoch” — as may well arouse a regret that the writer did not turn her undoubted talents to some worthier purpose than the composition of scandalous libels.

In the isolation in which he now found himself, Molière, who was one of those who cannot live without woman’s affection, turned for comfort to Mlle. de Brie, his former providence, who, it may be mentioned, had in the Misanthrope played the part of Éliante, the lady who endeavours to console Alceste for the caprices of Célimène. Her intervention, however, was of a less irreproachable kind than Éliante’s, and she appears to have passed a considerable portion of her time at Auteuil. The poet’s friends remonstrated, pointing out that, by renewing his intimacy with Mlle. de Brie, he was giving his wife but too much excuse for her own conduct, and endeavoured to persuade him to break with her. “Is it for virtue, beauty, or intelligence that you love this woman?” one of them is said to have asked him. “You know that Florimont and Le Barre are her lovers, that she is not beautiful, that she is a perfect skeleton, and that she has no common sense.” “I know all that,” replied Molière; “but I am accustomed to her faults; for me to accommodate myself to the imperfections of another would be a task beyond my powers; I have neither the time nor the patience.”

But Molière adored his wife: about this all his contemporaries are agreed. Bold and courageous in his works, ever ready to castigate vice and ridicule folly, without troubling himself about the possibility of reprisals, he showed himself in regard to her feeble and irresolute to the last degree. His relations with Mlle. de Brie and other women were after all but passing caprices; his passion for Armande was the one serious love of his life; a love which survived indifference, ingratitude, it may be even infidelity, and to which he always returned, in spite of vows and good resolutions.

Under these circumstances, a reconciliation could be only a matter of time, and, thanks to the good offices of their common friends, Chapelle and the Marquis de Jonzac, it took place towards the end of the year 1671. The author of the Fameuse Comédienne is discreetly silent about this, fearing that it might weaken her indictment; and, between whiles, places a new intrigue of Armande; this time with a member of her husband’s troupe.

Some years before, Molière had rescued a little boy named Michel Baron from the hands of some strolling players, and, perceiving in him the makings of an excellent actor, had attached him to himself and trained him for the stage. His confidence was justified, for Baron became in later years the greatest actor of his time and also a successful dramatist. Armande, however, was far from sharing Molière’s liking for the boy; she detested him for his precocity and impertinent airs, and still more for the influence which she suspected him of exercising over her husband; and one day, during a rehearsal of Mélicerte, in which Baron had been cast for the title-part, carried her resentment to the point of dealing him a sound box on the ear. In high dudgeon, Baron forthwith took himself off and joined a strolling company; nor was it until four years later that, at the urgent entreaty of Molière, he consented to return. He was then a tall lad of seventeen, exceedingly handsome, full of assurance, and “already in great request among the ladies of the theatre and also among certain ladies of the fashionable world.” It did not appear at first, says the author of the Fameuse Comédienne, that time had greatly modified the hostility with which Mlle. Molière and he regarded one another. But when they appeared together in Psyché, at the carnival of 1671, Armande in the title-part, Baron as Love, there came a change. “The common praises that they received compelled them to examine one another more attentively, and even with some degree of pleasure. He was the first to break the silence by complimenting her on the good fortune that had befallen him in being chosen to represent her lover, and observing that he owed the approbation of the public to this happy chance, and that it was not difficult to play the part of a person whose feelings one could so well understand. The Molière replied that the praises bestowed on a man like himself were the reward of merit, and that she had no share in them; but that gallantry on the part of one who was said to have so many mistresses did not surprise her, and that he must be as accomplished an actor outside the theatre as he was on the stage.

“Baron, to whom these kind of reproaches were not displeasing, told her that he had indeed some habits that one might call bonnes fortunes, but that he was prepared to sacrifice all for her, and that he would set more value on the smallest of her favours than on any which the ladies who had smiled upon him were able to bestow. And he mentioned their names, with a discretion which was natural to him.”

Armande is, of course, enchanted by this proof of devotion, and, to cut a long story short, they resolve to continue their respective rôles off the stage.

We have related this supposed intrigue at far greater length than it deserves, since it furnishes a fair sample of the materials upon which M. Loiseleur and other historians have based their judgments of Armande. But, in point of fact, it is no more worthy of belief than the stories about Lauzun, Guiche, and the Abbé de Richelieu. Although the insufferable coxcomb whom La Bruyère has depicted under the name of Roscius, and who is said to have depicted himself in his comedy, L’Homme à bonnes fortunes, was not the kind of person to be deterred by any honourable scruples from making love to the wife of his benefactor, had he been so minded, we can hardly suppose that an intrigue between Armande and a member of his own troupe could have been carried on without Molière becoming aware of it, or that, when aware of it, he would have permitted Baron to retain his place in the company. Moreover, apart from the statement in the Fameuse Comédienne, there is no reason to believe that the old antipathy between Armande and Baron ever ceased to exist, far less that they became lovers. What is certain, is that no sooner was Molière dead than Baron quitted the Palais-Royal and went over to the Hôtel de Bourgogne, at a moment when Armande, become chief of the troupe, was urgently in need of his services. This, it must be admitted, was hardly the conduct of a friend, to say nothing of a lover.

By the side of these intrigues, apocryphal or doubtful, it is pleasant to be able to record a friendship of an altogether unexceptional nature. The great Corneille, in spite of his affection for his wife, Marie de Lemperière, whose hand Cardinal de Richelieu is said to have obtained for him, after her father had sent the poet about his business, was of a very gallant disposition and in the habit of offering incense at the shrine of any goddess of the theatre who was inclined to accept his devotion. At Rouen, in 1758, he had, like Molière at an earlier date, fallen desperately in love with Mlle. du Parc, but had fared no better at the hands of that haughty beauty than the chief of the Illustre Théâtre. This rebuff, which drew from the chagrined poet the well-known Stances à une marquise, seems to have brought home to Corneille the fact that he was no longer young, and to have somewhat damped his amorous ardour. At any rate, when Armande appeared upon the scene, he contented himself with offering her a platonic admiration, charmingly expressed in the third act of Psyché.

Psyché.— “Can one be jealous of the affection of relatives?”

Amour.— “I am so, my Psyché; I am so of all nature. The sun’s rays kiss you too often; your tresses suffer too many caresses from the wind. The moment it toys with them, I murmur at it. The very air you breathe with too much pleasure passes between your lips. And, so soon as you sigh, I know not what affrights me, and makes me fear, among your sighs, some errant ones.”

Not content with this tribute to the lady’s charms, the old poet conceived the idea of writing for Armande a play in which she might impersonate the heroine, and he might portray himself in the character of a chivalrous old man in love with her. He, accordingly, composed his Pulchérie, which, as Molière, for some reason, could not see his way to accept it for the Palais-Royal, was produced at the Marais on November 2, 1672. It was a poor play, the dramatist having failed to endow either the plot with interest, or the characters, apart from the amorous old senator Martian, with any special individuality; and even Corneille’s devoted admirer, Madame de Sévigné, was compelled to admit that “Pulchérie was not a success.” Nevertheless the terms in which Martian speaks of the heroine were so very flattering that Armande must have regretted that circumstances had prevented her undertaking the latter part.

The reconciliation between Molière and Armande was in all likelihood facilitated by a serious illness with which the latter was seized in the early autumn of 1671, during the run of Psyché. Under such circumstances the most legitimate grievances are apt to be forgotten, and it must have needed but very little persuasion on the part of their common friends to induce Molière, with all his love for his wife revived at the sight of her suffering, to hasten her convalescence by an assurance of his full forgiveness. In the following February, Madeleine Béjart died, leaving the bulk of her property to Armande, and, towards the middle of that year, Molière removed from the Place du Palais-Royal, where he had lived for so long with the Béjarts and Mlle. de Brie, to a large house in the Rue de Richelieu, near the Académie des Peintres, which he furnished very sumptuously. Here, on September 15, Armande gave birth to her third child — a son — baptized as Pierre Jean Baptiste Armand on October 1, Boileau-Puimorin, brother of Boileau-Despréaux, and Mlle. Mignard, daughter of the celebrated painter, acting as sponsors. The little boy, however, only survived this ceremony a few days, thus preceding his illustrious father to the grave by rather less than four months.

The reconciliation with his wife, indeed, in itself so happy, was destined to prove fatal to Molière, and was undoubtedly one of the causes of his premature death. For some years, the poet had suffered from a chest affection, very possibly due to frequent exposure during his provincial tours. In the winter of 1665-1666, we learn from Robinet that he had had an illness which all but terminated fatally, and in the spring of 1667 he was again “tout proche d’entrer dans la bière,” was absent from the theatre for two months, and was compelled to restrict himself to a milk diet, and speak as little as possible when not on the stage. The retired life he had led during his breach with Armande had, of course, favoured the adoption of this regimen, and under it his health had so much improved that, believing himself cured, and unwilling to impose on his wife the cheerless society of a valetudinarian, he abandoned his abstemious habits, entertained largely, and, in short, resumed his former mode of life. The result was a rapid aggravation of his complaint; his nights were sleepless, he was racked by a terrible cough, and, at the beginning of the year 1673, it became evident that his days were numbered. In this condition, by the irony of Fate, it fell to him to represent the folly of a man in perfect health who, imagining himself the victim of all manner of fell diseases, is ready to submit to any and every remedy that may be suggested to him, — that is to say, the exact counterpart of his own state. On February 10, the Malade imaginaire, a happy conception in the composition of which the author had doubtless contrived to find some relief from his sufferings, both of body and mind — for there is some reason to believe that his relations with his wife were again becoming strained — was produced at the Palais-Royal, and played for three nights to crowded houses. On the morning of the fourth performance, February 17, Molière was so weak that Armande and Baron united in urging him not to play, but their efforts were unavailing. “How,” he asked, “can I refuse to appear when so many persons’ bread depends upon it? I should reproach myself for the distress I might cause them, as I have sufficient strength to prevent it.” This speech is often quoted as a proof of Molière’s consideration for others, but though the great writer’s unselfishness and generosity are happily beyond dispute, it would appear more probable that his plea was merely an excuse for disregarding the advice of his wife and friend, as he was sufficiently well off to have been able to compensate those who would have suffered by the temporary closing of the theatre without any very serious inconvenience. No; Molière knew that his end was near, and, like the brave man he was, he preferred to die in harness, rather than, by taking to his bed, prolong his sufferings a few days longer.

Accordingly, when the play began at four o’clock, he again appeared in the high-backed arm-chair of the imaginary invalid, and acted the part with as much whimsical humour as on the three previous occasions, though it was obvious to those on the stage that every speech and movement cost him a terrible effort; and in the burlesque ceremony where Argan takes the oath as a new doctor, swearing to adhere to the remedies prescribed by antiquity and to ignore modern discovery, he was seized with a convulsion, which he endeavoured vainly to disguise by forcing a laugh. When the curtain fell, he made his way to Baron’s dressing-room and complained that he was “perishing of cold.” A chair was obtained, and the dying man conveyed to his home, where he was put to bed. Feeling that his last hour was at hand, he asked for the consolations of religion, and Armande and Baron hurried off to Saint-Eustache, where, however, the two priests in attendance, learning who it was who required their help, declined to leave the church. The next priest applied to had a better sense of his duty, and consented to administer the Sacraments. But, in the meanwhile, much precious time had been wasted, and when he reached the house, Molière had no further need of his services. He had died at ten o’clock, in the arms of two Sisters of Charity, to whom he had long given shelter during their Lenten visits to Paris, and who had but that day arrived in the capital.

Notwithstanding the assistance of these two nuns, and the fact that a priest had been summoned to his death-bed, Molière was none the less regarded as having died without the consolations of religion, and M. Merlin, the curé of Saint-Eustache, refused ecclesiastical burial to his remains.

Armande at once addressed a petition to the Archbishop of Paris, Harlay de Chanvalon, explaining the circumstances of the case, and laying stress upon the fact of her husband having communicated at the previous Easter. It has been stated that the archbishop’s reply was an absolute refusal. This is incorrect; he confined himself to referring the petition to an official whose duty it was to inquire into such matters.

However, Armande, dreading an unfavourable answer, determined to seek the intervention of the King, and, accompanied by the curé of Auteuil, a liberal-minded ecclesiastic and a personal friend of Molière, she set off for Saint-Germain, where the Court then was. Even her enemies are compelled to admit that, in these trying circumstances, she showed both dignity and courage. “If,” she exclaimed, when the King demurred to granting her request, “if my husband was a criminal, his crimes were authorised by your Majesty in person.” This was certainly true, though to remind his Majesty of the fact was hardly calculated to further her cause, nor did the curé of Auteuil improve matters by embarking on a theological argument, apparently with the view of anticipating an attack upon his orthodoxy by his more bigoted brethren. Nevertheless, Louis XIV., though obviously much annoyed at such outspokenness, behaved with that tact which is one of his best claims to our respect. He dismissed the widow and the curé, telling them that the matter was one which concerned the archbishop and not himself; but, at the same time, he wrote to the prelate, bidding him “take steps to avoid éclat and scandal.”

The archbishop, as became a good courtier, bowed to the royal commands, but, in order to save appearances, compromised the matter. He permitted “the curé of Saint-Eustache to give ecclesiastical burial to the body of the deceased in the cemetery of the parish, on condition, nevertheless, that it should take place without any ostentation, with two priests only, and after dusk had fallen; that there should be no solemn service on his behalf, either in the said parish of Saint-Eustache or even in any church of the regular clergy, and that our present permission shall be without prejudice to the rules of the ritual of our Church, which we desire shall be observed according to their form and tenor.”

Much has been written on the refusal of the curé of Saint-Eustache to accord Molière Christian burial, and on the conditions imposed by the Archbishop of Paris after the official intervention of the king; and the bigotry and inhumanity of both priest and prelate have been denounced in scathing terms. But the majority of those who have treated of the incident were better acquainted with the theatre than the Sorbonne, for, though the souvenirs of Tartuffe and Don Juan no doubt counted for much in the matter, Harlay de Chanvalon and his subordinate were, after all, only putting into force a rule of the Church which had existed for centuries, though in recent times it had, happily, been more honoured in the breach than the observance. As, however, the question is of great interest, and one, also, to which we shall have occasion to return more than once in the course of the present volume, it may be as well for us to give here a brief sketch of the doctrine of the Church in regard to the actor.

The hostility of the Christian Church to the theatre may be traced back to very early times. The Fathers of the Church — Tertullian, Saint-Cyprian, Saint-Chrysostome, and others — had been unsparing in their condemnation of the actor, whilst Saint-Salvien, a priest of the fourth century, went so far as to declare that “comedy was worse than blasphemy, theft, homicide, and all other crimes, and that the spectator was the accomplice of the performer.” Nor was this hostility by any means confined to treatises and sermons. The Council of Elvira, in 305, enacted that no actor was to be received into the Church unless he had solemnly engaged to renounce his profession; if he failed to keep his promise, he was to be immediately excommunicated. At the Council of Arles, held five years later, all circus-performers and actors were excluded from the Sacraments, so long as they exercised their profession; and the third Council of Carthage (A.D. 397) denied them baptism or absolution. Henceforth, the Church regarded actors as beyond her pale, and, imitating the severity of the Roman Law, placed them on the same footing as prostitutes. She refused them baptism; she refused them absolution; she refused to marry them; she refused to accept them as sponsors at the baptism of the children of their relatives and friends; she refused them the Holy Communion, in public or in private, in life or on their death-beds; finally, she refused them even Christian burial.

Extravagantly severe as all these canons may, at first sight, appear, they were none the less perfectly logical. It was indeed only natural that the early Church should insist that actors who desired to participate in her Sacraments should forthwith abjure their profession, when we pause to consider the exceedingly licentious character of the Roman theatre and the powerful influence it exercised in perpetuating the memory of Paganism. It is to be remarked, however, that the censures pronounced against the actor emanated not from any Pope or ecumenical council, but from provincial synods, and when, in process of time, Paganism disappeared and practically the whole of civilised Europe became Christian, they naturally ceased to be enforced — though they were never formally abrogated — in every country, save one. The exception was France, where the old anathemas remained in force, as a natural consequence of the independent attitude adopted by the French clergy towards the Holy See.

In order to protect themselves against the encroachments of the Popes, and to resist the changes which they were incessantly striving to introduce into the discipline of the Church, the French bishops laid the foundations of Gallicanism, by declaring immutable all the canons promulgated by the early councils up to the eighth century which had passed into the customs of the Church of France. The adoption of these canons was a very serious matter for the theatrical profession in France, for among them was that of the Council of Arles, already mentioned, which expressly excluded the actor from the Sacraments, so long as he followed his calling. However, it was clearly understood that the penalties pronounced should not be applied to the regular actor, but only to mountebanks and other persons whose performances might serve to recall those of Paganism; and indeed down to the time of the Reformation, when the Catholic clergy, unwilling to show less austerity than those of the Reformed faith, began to proscribe severely all kinds of amusements, even these seem to have been treated with great indulgence.

In 1624, the bigoted Jean de Gondy, Archbishop of Paris, declared in a pastoral letter that actors ought to be deprived of the Sacraments and ecclesiastical burial, and stigmatized their profession as “infamous and one unworthy of a Christian.” Nevertheless, until the latter part of the seventeenth century, thanks in a great measure, no doubt, to the patronage bestowed on the stage by Richelieu and Mazarin, in practice the greatest tolerance prevailed, and the clergy accorded to the actor the same treatment as to all other good Catholics. Thus, on January 6, 1654, we find Molière appearing as godfather at a church at Montpellier, and, in 1670 and again in 1672, discharging the same duty at churches in Paris, while his marriage, in February 1662, at Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, was celebrated without the least difficulty being raised.

Strange as it may appear, it was the protection accorded the theatre, and the extreme indulgence shown to all connected with it, by a great party in the Church itself that was directly responsible for the termination of this happy state of affairs and the violent reaction, of which the conduct of Harlay de Chanvalon and the curé of Saint-Eustache towards Molière was but the beginning.

For some time, the Jesuits seem to have regarded the theatre with disfavour; but towards the middle of the seventeenth century, perceiving that it might very readily be made to serve as a vehicle for the propagation of their own ideas, their attitude changed, and they not only permitted all who came under their influence to attend the play, but even encouraged the pupils in their colleges to perform theological comedies, in which their enemies, the Jansenists, were held up to ridicule. This, naturally, had the effect of exasperating the zealots of Port-Royal and their numerous adherents, who, always hostile to the drama, quickly became bitterly antagonistic and required but very slight provocation to declare open war.

This provocation was not long in coming. In 1665, the clever but eccentric playwright Desmarets de Saint-Sorlin, the author of Les Visionnaires, having passed “à la devotion la plus outrée,” espoused the cause of the Jesuits, and, believing that he had received a call from Heaven to combat the heretics — that is to say, the Jansenists — made a violent attack upon them. The Jansenists replied by the pen of their famous publicist, Nicole, who stigmatized those who wrote for the theatre as “public poisoners, not of bodies, but of souls.” Racine, believing his honour touched, joined in the fray and ridiculed the bigotry of Port-Royal. Nicole rejoined with a Traité de la Comédie, wherein, relying on the teaching of the Fathers of the Church, he condemned not only dramatic authors, but those who interpreted them. “The playhouse,” said he, “is a school of Vice. The profession of an actor is an employment unworthy of a Christian,” and much more to the same effect. Armand de Bourbon, Prince de Conti, formerly a generous patron of the drama and of Molière, but now, for some time past, a Jansenist of the most advanced type, published a similar work, and gave it as his opinion that a troupe of actors was “a troupe of devils,” and to amuse oneself at the play was to “delight the demon.” So the war went on.

The attacks of Nicole and the Prince de Conti were not without their effect; they aroused the zeal of all who disliked the theatre and believed it prejudicial to morality; and a regular campaign was organised. All unconsciously, Molière himself forged a terrible weapon for the enemies of his profession. The production of Tartuffe aroused a perfect storm of indignation among all sections of the clergy; Jesuit and Jansenist united in denouncing the play, its author, and his calling. A curé of Paris, one Père Roullé, demanded that the writer, “this demon clothed with flesh and habited as a man, the most notorious blasphemer and libertine that has appeared for centuries past, should be delivered to the flames, the forerunners of those of hell;” Bourdaloue preached against it; Bossuet declared the works of the poet to be a tissue of buffooneries, blasphemies, infamies, and obscenities; and Hardouin de Péréfixe, the then Archbishop of Paris, issued an order forbidding people “to represent, read or hear Tartuffe recited under pain of excommunication.”

All the old prejudices of the Church against the theatre awoke with redoubled force. All the old anathemas against the hapless actor, which had been allowed to slumber for centuries, were dug up by industrious theologians, and the clergy waited eagerly for opportunities of applying them. In 1671, Floridor, the famous tragedian of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, fell dangerously ill and sent for the curé of Saint-Eustache to give him absolution. The curé flatly refused, save on condition that the actor would engage, in the event of his recovery, never again to set foot on the stage. Floridor gave the required promise; nevertheless, when he died, he was buried without ecclesiastical rites. Molière himself, as we have just seen, was the next victim of priestly intolerance.

The funeral took place on February 21, at nine o’clock in the evening, in conformity with the orders of Chanvalon. By that hour, an immense crowd had gathered in front of the house, drawn thither, no doubt, merely by curiosity. Armande, however, “unable to penetrate its intention,” became much alarmed, fearing that the enemies of her husband were organising a riot, and that some indignity to his remains was intended. She accordingly determined to endeavour to appease it, and going to a window, threw out handfuls of silver to the amount of one thousand livres, “at the same time, imploring the assembled people to give their prayers to her husband, in terms so touching that there was not one among those persons who did not pray to God with all his heart.”

The body of Molière was not taken into the church, but conveyed direct to the cemetery of Saint-Joseph; the coffin, covered by a large pall, being preceded by two priests and six enfants bleus carrying lighted tapers in silver sconces, and followed by a considerable number of people, many of whom bore torches. Among the mourners were Boileau, La Fontaine, Chapelle, and the players of the Palais-Royal.

When the cortège reached the cemetery, which was situated in the Rue Montmartre, a long delay occurred, as the gate was closed and the keys had been forgotten. While awaiting their arrival, the mourners were able to read, by the light of the blazing torches, a placard posted on the wall, which bore the following verses: —

“Il est passé ce Molière

  Du Théâtre à la bière;

  Le pauvre homme a fait un faux bond;

  Et ce tant renommé bouffon

  N’a jamais su si bien faire

  Le Malade imaginaire

  Qu’il a fait la mort pour tout de bon.”

At last, the keys arrived, and the ceremony was concluded without further incident. Molière was interred in the middle of the cemetery, at the foot of the cross. Not a word was spoken over his grave.

Above the last resting-place of her husband Armande placed a large tombstone, which was still to be seen in 1745, when the brothers Parfaict published their Histoire du Théâtre Français. “This stone,” writes Titon du Tillet, “is cracked down the middle, which was occasioned by a very noble and very remarkable action on the part of his widow. Two or three years after Molière’s death, there was a very severe winter, and she ordered to be conveyed to the cemetery a hundred loads of wood, which were burned on her husband’s tomb, to warm all the poor of the quarter; the great heat of the fire caused this stone to crack in two.”

It is, as we have said elsewhere, an exceedingly difficult task to arrive at a definite conclusion in regard to the conduct of Armande. That she was the abandoned woman that the Fameuse Comédienne and the writers who follow it have depicted her we entirely decline to believe. If she had been, is it conceivable that Molière would have lived with her so long, or that, once having broken with her, he would ever have been brought to consent to a reconciliation? On the other hand, to pretend that she was an irreproachable wife seems as hazardous as to affirm her misconduct. There is no smoke without fire, and the separation between her and her husband — a separation lasting for five years — is a highly suspicious circumstance. Its immediate cause may, of course, have been merely incompatibility of temper — for the account of the matter given by the Fameuse Comédienne is utterly unreliable — but, at the same time, it may very well have been occasioned by a far graver reason. On the whole, the wisest course would appear to be to adopt a middle position, and, while refusing to accept the statements of her detractors, to be equally diffident about associating ourselves with the somewhat violent reaction in the lady’s favour which has set in within recent years.

Whatever may have been Armande’s sins or shortcomings, however, we should, in justice to her, remember that the responsibility for Molière’s unhappiness did not rest entirely with her. If she was selfish, vain, and frivolous, greedy for pleasure, and impatient of contradiction, Molière possessed the nervousness and irritability so frequently associated with genius in a very marked degree, and which, in his case, were aggravated by ill-health and overwork. The servant of a public ever exacting and eager for novelties, the strain to which he was subjected, always very great, must, at times, have been well-nigh unbearable; for we must remember that he was not only a dramatist, but an actor, not only an actor, but a manager. The financial affairs of the troupe, it is true, were in the capable hands of La Grange; but Molière made himself responsible for its efficiency, and though the Impromptu de Versailles no doubt conveys an exaggerated idea of his difficulties in this direction, they were probably considerable. The jealousy between the two principal actresses, Armande and Mlle. de Brie, must have been alone a fruitful source of trouble. In these circumstances, it is not difficult to understand that the little trials of domestic life, which in the majority of men arouse but a passing feeling of annoyance, should have presented themselves to him as intolerable vexations, and that the sudden gusts of passion in which, we are told, he was wont to indulge on the most trifling provocation, should have widened the breach between himself and Armande, whose narrow mind was incapable of comprehending that in such outbursts men of her husband’s temperament oft-times seek relief for long weeks of mental strain and anxiety. Add to all this the fact that Molière was of an excessively jealous disposition, and it becomes obvious that the marriage was doomed to failure from the very first; in fact, the only thing to occasion surprise is that the inevitable rupture did not take place at a much earlier date, and that it was ever healed.

Molière, as we have seen, had been buried on February 21, and three days later the theatre of the Palais-Royal reopened with a performance of the Misanthrope, Armande playing Célimène. Her conduct in thus resuming her place in the company so soon after her husband’s death was commented upon very unfavourably; but it would appear to have been dictated by stern necessity. In the face of the formidable competition of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, the troupe of Molière, already terribly weakened by the death of its chief, could not possibly have afforded to lose its leading actress for even a brief period; and Armande, therefore, decided to sacrifice her own feelings to the interests of her colleagues.

Indeed, as matters stood, the continued existence of the “Comédiens du Roi” as a separate company was soon in imminent peril. During the Easter recess, the Hôtel de Bourgogne intrigued vigorously against them, with the result that four of the best players, with Baron at their head, resigned their places and passed over to the older theatre; while, shortly afterwards, Lulli obtained the king’s permission to make the theatre of the Palais-Royal the home of French opera, and the unfortunate Moliéristes found themselves without a stage to act upon. This was a crushing blow; and when, very reluctantly, the troupe had made overtures to their old rivals in the Rue Mauconseil, with a view to an amalgamation, and had been met by a curt refusal, the position seemed almost desperate.

Well indeed was it for Armande and her colleagues that they numbered among them, in the person of La Grange, one of the shrewdest and most capable men of business who ever trod the boards of a theatre. Born, about 1640, at Amiens, of respectable Picard stock, La Grange, after two or three years’ experience in the provinces as a strolling player, joined his fortunes to those of Molière; and, in May 1659, on the death of Joseph Béjart, stepped into his shoes as the jeune premier of the troupe. As an actor, he appears to have been altogether admirable, the type of the perfect lover, as understood in those days, and, according to the anonymous author of the Entretiens galants, to see him play with Armande in such a piece as the Malade imaginaire was a sight not easily forgotten: “Their acting continues still, even when their part is concluded; they are never useless on the stage; they play almost as well when they listen as when they speak. Their glances are never wasted; their eyes do not wander round the boxes; they know that the theatre is full, but they speak and act as if they see only those who are concerned in their rôle and action.”

But, excellent actor as was La Grange, he was even better as an “orator” and manager, posts which, at the time of Molière’s death, he had occupied for some six years; and there can be no doubt that much of the success which had attended the troupe was due to his skill in gauging the public taste, his untiring energy, and his personal popularity. To him, too, we owe that wonderful Registre, a perfect mine of accurate and detailed information about the doings of Molière’s troupe, the Hôtel Guénégaud, and the early years of the Comédie-Française; while it was under his auspices that the first complete edition of his old chief’s works was given to the world.

On the advice of La Grange, Armande now resolved on a bold stroke. Some years before, a play-loving nobleman, the Marquis de Sourdéac, had built a theatre in a tennis-court in the Rue Mazarine, near the Luxembourg, where opera had been performed, until, in March 1672, the intriguing Lulli had succeeded in securing for himself the exclusive right of representing musical pieces. It was a fine house, fitted up with every convenience, “with a stage,” says Samuel Chappuzeau, in his work on the Paris theatres of the time, “large enough to allow the most elaborate machinery to be worked.” La Grange proposed that the troupe should acquire this theatre, and himself undertook the negotiations, which resulted in the Marquis de Sourdéac and his partner, a M. de Champeron, ceding to Armande their lease of the property for the sum of 30,000 livres, of which 14,000 was to be paid in cash and the balance by fifty livres on each performance given there.

An event of great importance was the immediate outcome of the acquisition of this theatre. For some years past, the popularity of the Théâtre du Marais had been steadily declining, a circumstance which seems to have been attributable rather to the mediocrity of the plays produced there and the fact that the district in which it was situated was no longer the centre of Parisian life, as it had been during the first half of the century, than to any lack of talent on the part of the company, which, indeed, comprised several excellent performers of both sexes; and the establishment of the Opera threatened to reduce its already diminished receipts still further. Accordingly, Louis XIV. decided that it should join forces with Mlle. Molière’s troupe, and, on June 23, 1673, an ordinance issued by Colbert closed the old playhouse in the Rue Vieille-du-Temple, which had survived the theatrical vicissitudes of nearly eighty years, and granted permission to the two united companies henceforth to be known as the “Troupe du Roi,” to perform comedies and other divertissements honnêtes in the Rue Mazarine.

The new theatre, which was usually called the Théâtre Guénégaud, the street of that name being close at hand, opened its doors on July 9 with a performance of Tartuffe. At first, it met with but indifferent success, and between that date and Easter 1674, the share of each player only amounted to 1481 livres, a striking contrast to the takings at the Palais-Royal during the last year of Molière’s life; while, on one occasion, at the beginning of the second season, l’Avare was played to a house of 88 livres! However, matters steadily improved; by the following Easter the success of the company was assured, and the season of 1679-1680 was worth 1100 livres more to each of the old Moliéristes than the great and profitable year of Tartuffe itself.

Although the perennial comedies of Molière naturally figured frequently in the bills, Armande and La Grange had a keen eye for novelties, and did not disdain to tickle the public with melodramas and spectacular plays; and it was from these indeed that the theatre derived the greater part of its revenue. Thus Circé, a tragedy by Thomas Corneille, with changes of scenery, and music by Charpentier, brought in 24,000 livres in nine performances; while the Devineresse, a comic-melodrama, by the same playwright and Donneau de Visé, on the adventures of La Voisin, the poisoner, was played for forty-seven consecutive nights, almost a record for those days. Another success was achieved when Thomas Corneille turned Molière’s Don Juan into verse, “eliminating the speeches which offended the scrupulous.” Donneau de Visé, to whose “puffing” in the Mercure the Théâtre Guénégaud was probably indebted for not a little of its popularity, declared that in the process of transition the play “had acquired new beauties without losing any of the old,” and though few will be found to agree with this pronouncement, the new version proved exceedingly popular.

The first of the above-mentioned plays, in which Armande secured a great personal triumph in the part of the beautiful sorceress, was associated with a singular incident.

One evening, a well-dressed man, who occupied a seat upon the stage, approached the actress, as she was standing in the wings awaiting her turn to go on, and addressed her in the manner of an ardent and favoured lover. “Never,” said he, “have I seen you look so beautiful. Were it not that I am already your slave, I should be so from this moment.”

Armande, who had never seen the gentleman before, turned haughtily away, without making any reply. But when the play was over, the stranger followed her to her dressing-room, and, having reproached her with her previous coldness, inquired why she had not kept an appointment which she had given him that afternoon. The lady, in profound astonishment, disclaimed all knowledge of her visitor, and angrily ordered him to leave the room. The stranger refused, insisting that she had given him “a score of rendezvous,” and demanding how she could have the audacity to treat him thus after such an intimacy as had existed between them. Armande thereupon sent her maid to summon some of her colleagues, who arrived to find their leader and the stranger almost beside themselves with passion. As well as her outraged feelings would permit, the actress explained the situation to her friends, declaring that she had never set eyes on the gentleman before her in her life; while he, on his side, asserted in the most positive manner that he knew her intimately, and that she had repeatedly met him at a house of somewhat questionable repute. “Why,” cried he, “the very necklace she is now wearing is one of the presents I have made her!” and he snatched it from her. Armande immediately sent for the guards attached to the theatre, who seized the stranger and held him until the arrival of a commissary of police, when he was conducted to prison.

His statement to the authorities served but to deepen the mystery. It transpired that he was a M. Lescot, a president of the Parliament of Grenoble, who was on a visit to Paris. He had fallen in love with Armande after seeing her play at the Théâtre Guénégaud, but, lacking courage to declare his passion directly, and having failed to secure an introduction in the ordinary way, had had recourse to the good offices of a woman called Ledoux, “dont le métier ordinaire était de faire plaisir au public,” and promised her a liberal reward, if she could arrange a rendezvous. In this she had been successful; Mlle. Molière had accepted his proposals, and they had met repeatedly at Ledoux’s house. The actress had, however, strictly forbidden him, for prudential reasons, to address, or even approach, her at the theatre, which instructions he had faithfully observed until that evening, when, as she had failed to keep an appointment to meet him after dinner, he had determined to ascertain the reason, thinking that “a little display of passion” might not be altogether displeasing to her. As for the necklace, which, it should be mentioned, was one of a common pattern, he had purchased it at a jeweller’s shop on the Quai des Orfévres, the lady being with him at the time. Let them question the jeweller, who would, no doubt, be prepared to corroborate his statement.

Matters now began to look very unpleasant for Armande, and when the jeweller of the Quai des Orfévres, without a moment’s hesitation, identified her as the lady who had accompanied the president to his shop, and Ledoux was found to have left the city, she was in despair. However, a few days later the affair was cleared up. Hunted down by the police, Ledoux confessed that she had palmed off on the credulous Lescot a young woman called Tourelle, who bore so extraordinary a resemblance to Mlle. Molière, both in appearance and voice, that it was almost impossible for any one not personally acquainted with the latter to tell one from the other, and who had already succeeded in duping quite a number of persons. This woman was also arrested, and a decree of the Parliament of Paris, dated October 17, 1675, sentenced the two delinquents “to be flogged, naked, with rods, before the principal gate of the Châtelet and the house of Mlle. Molière,” and to be afterwards banished from Paris for three years. Président Lescot was condemned to pay a fine of two hundred crowns, and to make “verbal reparation,” that is to say, he had to declare in court, in the presence of Mlle. Molière and any four persons whom she might select, that he had “raised his hand against her and used the insulting language mentioned in the indictment through error and inadvertence.” Which done, we may presume, he lost no time in returning to Grenoble, a sadder and a wiser man.

“One is struck,” observes M. Larroumet, “by the singular resemblance that this affair presents to that of the Diamond Necklace, which, in 1785, involved the name of Marie Antoinette in so resounding a scandal. After a lapse of a hundred years, the same rôles are resumed, that of Armande by the queen, that of the entremetteuse Ledoux by the Comtesse de la Motte, that of the woman Tourelle by the girl Oliva, finally, that of Président Lescot by the Cardinal de Rohan. And that nothing may be wanting to the parallel, just as the queen was bespattered by the infamous libel of Madame de la Motte, Armande had to submit to La Fameuse Comédienne.”

Less than a year afterwards, Armande was the victim of another scandal, even more painful than the one recorded above. The scoundrelly Guichard, the attempted poisoner of Lulli, of whom we have already spoken, did not confine his attack upon the widow of Molière to repeating the hideous accusation of Montfleury: he calumniated her in the most shameful manner. “The Molière,” he wrote, “is infamous both in law (i.e. by profession) and in deed. Previous to her marriage, she lived continually in wholesale prostitution; during her married life, continually in public adultery. In short, the Molière is the most infamous of all infamous women.” The obvious extravagance of these charges, and the fact that Guichard assailed with equal violence the characters of most of the other witnesses for the prosecution, no doubt robbed them of much of their sting. Nevertheless, they can hardly have failed to occasion the unfortunate woman great annoyance, and, following as they did so closely upon the affaire Lescot, had probably not a little influence upon a step which she took some months later.

In May 1677, Armande exchanged the glorious name of Molière for that of Guérin d’Estriché, one of her colleagues of the Théâtre Guénégaud, and, in earlier years, a member of the now defunct Théâtre du Marais. For this second marriage she was severely blamed by her contemporaries, while it is the fashion among modern writers to refer to it as if it had been a species of sacrilege. In this, we are inclined to think, an injustice had been done Armande. Molière, as one of his recent biographers reminds us, was not, during the years which followed his death, regarded as the mighty genius which he is now admitted to have been. Save to a few, like Boileau, who fully comprehended the extent of the loss which literature had sustained, he was merely an amusing actor and an excellent author, whose premature death they deplored, but whom they never dreamed of apotheosizing. As for Armande, she was still young and retained all her fascination; she had not been happy in her first marriage, and may very well have felt that life owed her some compensation. Besides, a second marriage would free her from the attentions of unwelcome admirers, of whom, we may be sure, the luckless Président Lescot was only one among many, and would provide her with a counsellor in business matters whose interests would be identical with her own, and of whom she must have long felt the need.

With Guérin, Armande appears to have lived very happily, and even the author of La Fameuse Comédienne is compelled to recognise that her conduct was exemplary, though she hastens to qualify this reluctant admission by declaring that her second husband was a veritable tyrant, who brooked no opposition to his will and did not hesitate to enforce obedience by blows. All disinterested witnesses, however, concur in representing Guérin as an excellent man, and we see no reason to believe that the anonymous author comes anywhere nearer the truth here than in other portions of her history.

At Easter 1679, Armande and La Grange succeeded in persuading the famous tragédienne Mlle. de Champmeslé, who had been for nineteen years the mainstay of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, to transfer her services to the Théâtre Guénégaud, Armande, with rare self-denial, ceding to the illustrious recruit the place which she herself had so long occupied. The defection of their great actress was a paralysing blow for the players of the Rue Mauconseil, and, coupled with the death of La Thorillière, which occurred shortly afterwards, rendered their position so precarious that, by a lettre de cachet dated October 21, 1680, Louis XIV. directed that they should join forces with the Théâtre Guénégaud; and the Comédie-Française was founded. Thus, of the three great troupes in existence at the time of Molière’s death, his own alone survived, fortified by the ruin of their rivals.

Armande continued her career as an actress for some years longer, perhaps her most successful impersonation being that of a young Italian girl in a play called Le Parisien, written by the husband of Mlle. de Champmeslé. At the Easter recess of 1694, she retired from the stage, with a pension of one thousand livres. From that time we hear but little of her. She appears to have lived a very quiet and uneventful life, for the most part, at a charming country-house which she owned at Meudon, and which still exists, very much as the actress left it. She died at Paris, in the Rue du Touraine, on November 30, 1700, at the age of fifty-eight.

Of Armande’s three children by Molière only one survived their father, a daughter, Madeleine, who, at the age of twenty, much to her mother’s disgust, eloped with a M. de Montalant, a middle-aged widower with several children. Making a virtue of necessity, Madame Guérin gave her consent to her daughter’s marriage, and Madeleine and her husband subsequently resided at Auteuil, where the former died in 1723. She left no children.

By Guérin, Armande had a son, to whom she seems to have been intensely devoted. In 1698, at the age of twenty, this young man published an edition of the Mélicerte of Molière, which he had rendered into verse, preceded by an introduction, in which he mentioned that in the Guérin household the memory of the dramatist was held “in respect and veneration.”

Armande’s death certificate naturally contained no mention of the great man whose name she had once borne and whose works she had both inspired and interpreted. Nevertheless, posterity has decided to ignore her connection with the worthy Guérin, and, for us, she must always remain the “Wife of Molière.”

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

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Series Contents

Series One

Anton Chekhov
Charles Dickens
D.H. Lawrence
Dickensiana Volume I
Edgar Allan Poe
Elizabeth Gaskell
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
George Eliot
H. G. Wells
Henry James
Ivan Turgenev
Jack London
James Joyce
Jane Austen
Joseph Conrad
Leo Tolstoy
Louisa May Alcott
Mark Twain
Oscar Wilde
Robert Louis Stevenson
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Sir Walter Scott
The Brontës
Thomas Hardy
Virginia Woolf
Wilkie Collins
William Makepeace Thackeray

Series Two

Alexander Pushkin
Alexandre Dumas (English)
Andrew Lang
Anthony Trollope
Bram Stoker
Christopher Marlowe
Daniel Defoe
Edith Wharton
F. Scott Fitzgerald
G. K. Chesterton
Gustave Flaubert (English)
H. Rider Haggard
Herman Melville
Honoré de Balzac (English)
J. W. von Goethe (English)
Jules Verne
L. Frank Baum
Lewis Carroll
Marcel Proust (English)
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Nikolai Gogol
O. Henry
Rudyard Kipling
Tobias Smollett
Victor Hugo
William Shakespeare

Series Three

Ambrose Bierce
Ann Radcliffe
Ben Jonson
Charles Lever
Émile Zola
Ford Madox Ford
Geoffrey Chaucer
George Gissing
George Orwell
Guy de Maupassant
H. P. Lovecraft
Henrik Ibsen
Henry David Thoreau
Henry Fielding
J. M. Barrie
James Fenimore Cooper
John Buchan
John Galsworthy
Jonathan Swift
Kate Chopin
Katherine Mansfield
L. M. Montgomery
Laurence Sterne
Mary Shelley
Sheridan Le Fanu
Washington Irving

Series Four

Arnold Bennett
Arthur Machen
Beatrix Potter
Bret Harte
Captain Frederick Marryat
Charles Kingsley
Charles Reade
G. A. Henty
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Edgar Wallace
E. M. Forster
E. Nesbit
George Meredith
Harriet Beecher Stowe
Jerome K. Jerome
John Ruskin
Maria Edgeworth
M. E. Braddon
Miguel de Cervantes
M. R. James
R. M. Ballantyne
Robert E. Howard
Samuel Johnson
Stendhal
Stephen Crane
Zane Grey

Series Five

Algernon Blackwood
Anatole France
Beaumont and Fletcher
Charles Darwin
Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Edward Gibbon
E. F. Benson
Frances Hodgson Burnett
Friedrich Nietzsche
George Bernard Shaw
George MacDonald
Hilaire Belloc
John Bunyan
John Webster
Margaret Oliphant
Maxim Gorky
Oliver Goldsmith
Radclyffe Hall
Robert W. Chambers
Samuel Butler
Samuel Richardson
Sir Thomas Malory
Thomas Carlyle
William Harrison Ainsworth
William Dean Howells
William Morris

Series Six

Anthony Hope
Aphra Behn
Arthur Morrison
Baroness Emma Orczy
Captain Mayne Reid
Charlotte M. Yonge
Charlotte Perkins Gilman
E. W. Hornung
Ellen Wood
Frances Burney
Frank Norris
Frank R. Stockton
Hall Caine
Horace Walpole
One Thousand and One Nights
R. Austin Freeman
Rafael Sabatini
Saki
Samuel Pepys
Sir Issac Newton
Stanley J. Weyman
Thomas De Quincey
Thomas Middleton
Voltaire
William Hazlitt
William Hope Hodgson

Series Seven

Adam Smith
Benjamin Disraeli
Confucius
David Hume
E. M. Delafield
E. Phillips Oppenheim
Edmund Burke
Ernest Hemingway
Frances Trollope
Galileo Galilei
Guy Boothby
Hans Christian Andersen
Ian Fleming
Immanuel Kant
Karl Marx
Kenneth Grahame
Lytton Strachey
Mary Wollstonecraft
Michel de Montaigne
René Descartes
Richard Marsh
Sax Rohmer
Sir Richard Burton
Talbot Mundy
Thomas Babington Macaulay
W. W. Jacobs

Series Eight

Anna Katharine Green
Arthur Schopenhauer
The Brothers Grimm
C. S. Lewis
Charles and Mary Lamb
Elizabeth von Arnim
Ernest Bramah
Francis Bacon
Gilbert and Sullivan
Grant Allen
Henryk Sienkiewicz
Hugh Walpole
Jean-Jacques Rousseau
John Locke
John Muir
Joseph Addison
Lafcadio Hearn
Lord Dunsany
Marie Corelli
Niccolò Machiavelli
Ouida
Richard Brinsley Sheridan
Sigmund Freud
Theodore Dreiser
Walter Pater
W. Somerset Maugham

Series Nine

Aldous Huxley

August Strindberg

Booth Tarkington

C. S. Forester

Erasmus

Eugene Sue

Fergus Hume

George Moore

Gertrude Stein

Giovanni Boccaccio

Izaak Walton

J. M. Synge

Johanna Spyri

John Galt

Maurice Leblanc

Max Brand

Molière

Norse Sagas

R. D. Blackmore

R. S. Surtees

Sir Thomas More

Stephen Leacock

The Harvard Classics

Thomas Love Peacock

Thomas Paine

William James

Ancient Classics

Achilles Tatius
Aeschylus
Ammianus Marcellinus
Apollodorus
Appian
Apuleius
Apollonius of Rhodes
Aristophanes
Aristotle
Arrian
Athenaeus
Augustine
Aulus Gellius
Bede
Callimachus
Cassius Dio
Cato
Catullus
Cicero
Claudian
Clement of Alexandria
Cornelius Nepos
Demosthenes
Dio Chrysostom
Diodorus Siculus
Dionysius of Halicarnassus
Diogenes Laërtius
Ennius
Epictetus
Euripides
Frontius
Fronto
Herodotus
Hesiod
Hippocrates
Homer
Horace
Isocrates
Josephus
Julian
Julius Caesar
Juvenal
Livy
Longus
Lucan
Lucian
Lucretius
Marcus Aurelius
Manetho
Martial
Nonnus
Ovid
Pausanias
Petronius
Pindar
Plato
Plautus
Pliny the Elder
Pliny the Younger
Plotinus
Plutarch
Polybius
Procopius
Propertius
Quintus Curtius Rufus
Quintus Smyrnaeus
Sallust
Sappho
Seneca the Younger
Septuagint
Sidonius
Sophocles
Statius
Strabo
Suetonius
Tacitus
Terence
Tertullian
Theocritus
Thucydides
Tibullus
Varro
Virgil
Xenophon

Delphi Poets Series

Adam Mickiewicz
A. E. Housman
Alexander Pope
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Andrew Marvell
Beowulf
Charlotte Smith
Christina Rossetti
D. H Lawrence (poetry)
Dante Alighieri (English)
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Delphi Poetry Anthology
Edgar Allan Poe (poetry)
Edmund Spenser
Edward Lear
Edward Thomas
Edwin Arlington Robinson
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Emily Dickinson
Epic of Gilgamesh
Ezra Pound
Friedrich Schiller (English)
George Chapman
George Herbert
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gertrude Stein
Hafez
Heinrich Heine
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey
Henry Lawson
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Isaac Rosenberg
James Russell Lowell
Johan Ludvig Runeberg
John Clare
John Donne
John Dryden
John Gower
John Keats
John Milton
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
Joseph Addison
Kahlil Gibran
Leigh Hunt
Lord Byron
Ludovico Ariosto
Luís de Camões
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Prior
Michael Drayton
Nikolai Nekrasov
Paul Laurence Dunbar
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Petrarch
Rabindranath Tagore
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Robert Browning
Robert Burns
Robert Frost
Robert Southey
Rumi
Rupert Brooke
Sara Teasdale
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Sir Philip Sidney
Sir Thomas Wyatt
Sir Walter Raleigh
Thomas Chatterton
Thomas Gray
Thomas Hardy (poetry)
Thomas Hood
Thomas Moore
Torquato Tasso
T. S. Eliot
W. B. Yeats
Walter Savage Landor
Walt Whitman
Wilfred Owen
William Blake
William Cowper
William Wordsworth

Masters of Art

Albrecht Dürer
Amedeo Modigliani
Artemisia Gentileschi
Berthe Morisot
Camille Pissarro
Canaletto
Caravaggio
Caspar David Friedrich
Claude Lorrain
Claude Monet
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Diego Velázquez
Donatello
Edgar Degas
Édouard Manet
Edvard Munch
El Greco
Eugène Delacroix
Francisco Goya
Giotto
Giovanni Bellini
Gustave Courbet
Gustav Klimt
Hieronymus Bosch
Jacques-Louis David
James Abbott McNeill Whistler
Jan van Eyck
J. M. W. Turner
Johannes Vermeer
John Constable
Leonardo da Vinci
Michelangelo
Paul Cézanne
Paul Gauguin
Paul Klee
Peter Paul Rubens
Pierre-Auguste Renoir
Pieter Bruegel the Elder
Piet Mondrian
Sandro Botticelli
Raphael
Rembrandt van Rijn
Thomas Gainsborough
Tintoretto
Titian
Vincent van Gogh
Wassily Kandinsky

Great Composers

Antonín Dvořák
Franz Schubert
Johann Sebastian Bach
Joseph Haydn
Ludwig van Beethoven
Piotr Illitch Tchaïkovsky
Richard Wagner
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Alphabetical List of Titles

A. E. Housman

Achilles Tatius

Adam Mickiewicz

Adam Smith

Aeschylus

Albrecht Dürer

Aldous Huxley

Alexander Pope

Alexander Pushkin

Alexandre Dumas (English)

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Algernon Blackwood

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Ambrose Bierce

Amedeo Modigliani

Ammianus Marcellinus

Anatole France

Andrew Lang

Andrew Marvell

Ann Radcliffe

Anna Katharine Green

Anthony Hope

Anthony Trollope

Anton Chekhov

Antonín Dvořák

Aphra Behn

Apollodorus

Apollonius of Rhodes

Appian

Apuleius

Aristophanes

Aristotle

Arnold Bennett

Arrian

Artemisia Gentileschi

Arthur Machen

Arthur Morrison

Arthur Schopenhauer

Athenaeus

August Strindberg

Augustine

Aulus Gellius

Baroness Emma Orczy

Beatrix Potter

Beaumont and Fletcher

Bede

Ben Jonson

Benjamin Disraeli

Beowulf

Berthe Morisot

Booth Tarkington

Bram Stoker

Bret Harte

C. S. Forester

C. S. Lewis

Callimachus

Camille Pissarro

Canaletto

Captain Frederick Marryat

Captain Mayne Reid

Caravaggio

Caspar David Friedrich

Cassius Dio

Cato

Catullus

Charles and Mary Lamb

Charles Darwin

Charles Dickens

Charles Kingsley

Charles Lever

Charles Reade

Charlotte M. Yonge

Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Charlotte Smith

Christina Rossetti

Christopher Marlowe

Cicero

Claude Lorrain

Claude Monet

Claudian

Clement of Alexandria

Confucius

Cornelius Nepos

D. H Lawrence (poetry)

D.H. Lawrence

Daniel Defoe

Dante Alighieri (English)

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

David Hume

Delphi Poetry Anthology

Demosthenes

Dickensiana Volume I

Diego Velázquez

Dio Chrysostom

Diodorus Siculus

Diogenes Laërtius

Dionysius of Halicarnassus

Donatello

E. F. Benson

E. M. Delafield

E. M. Forster

E. Nesbit

E. Phillips Oppenheim

E. W. Hornung

Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe (poetry)

Edgar Degas

Edgar Rice Burroughs

Edgar Wallace

Edith Wharton

Edmund Burke

Edmund Spenser

Édouard Manet

Edvard Munch

Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Edward Gibbon

Edward Lear

Edward Thomas

Edwin Arlington Robinson

El Greco

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Elizabeth Gaskell

Elizabeth von Arnim

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ellen Wood

Émile Zola

Emily Dickinson

Ennius
Epic of Gilgamesh

Epictetus

Erasmus

Ernest Bramah

Ernest Hemingway

Eugène Delacroix

Eugene Sue

Euripides

Ezra Pound

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Fergus Hume

Ford Madox Ford

Frances Burney

Frances Hodgson Burnett

Frances Trollope

Francis Bacon

Francisco Goya

Frank Norris

Frank R. Stockton

Franz Schubert

Friedrich Nietzsche

Friedrich Schiller (English)

Frontius

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

G. A. Henty

G. K. Chesterton

Galileo Galilei

Geoffrey Chaucer

George Bernard Shaw

George Chapman

George Eliot

George Gissing

George Herbert

George MacDonald

George Meredith

George Moore

George Orwell

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Gertrude Stein

Gertrude Stein

Gilbert and Sullivan

Giotto

Giovanni Bellini

Giovanni Boccaccio

Grant Allen

Gustav Klimt

Gustave Courbet

Gustave Flaubert (English)

Guy Boothby

Guy de Maupassant

H. G. Wells

H. P. Lovecraft

H. Rider Haggard

Hafez

Hall Caine

Hans Christian Andersen

Harriet Beecher Stowe

Heinrich Heine

Henrik Ibsen

Henry David Thoreau

Henry Fielding

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

Henry James

Henry Lawson

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henryk Sienkiewicz

Herman Melville

Herodotus

Hesiod

Hieronymus Bosch

Hilaire Belloc

Hippocrates

Homer

Honoré de Balzac (English)

Horace

Horace Walpole

Hugh Walpole

Ian Fleming

Immanuel Kant

Isaac Rosenberg

Isocrates

Ivan Turgenev

Izaak Walton

J. M. Barrie

J. M. Synge

J. M. W. Turner

J. W. von Goethe (English)

Jack London

Jacques-Louis David

James Abbott McNeill Whistler

James Fenimore Cooper

James Joyce

James Russell Lowell

Jane Austen

Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Jerome K. Jerome

Johan Ludvig Runeberg

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Molière’s remains were moved to Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris, in 1817

Molière’s grave