The Misanthrope and Other Plays

Source

Source: Project Gutenberg Moliere English plays Source URL: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2027 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6923 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9070 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8772 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2992 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8776 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6742 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7279 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2536 Public domain basis: Public-domain English Moliere translations on Project Gutenberg. Coverage: Tartuffe, The Miser, The Imaginary Invalid, The Learned Women, The Middle-Class Gentleman, Scapin, School for Husbands, and related plays. An English Misanthrope plain text was checked but not found in Gutenberg; this is partial.

# Project Gutenberg #2027

Produced by Dagny and John Vickers.

Tartuffe Or The Hypocrite

TARTUFFE OR THE HYPOCRITE

by

Jean Baptiste Poquelin Moliere

JEAN BAPTISTE POQUELIN MOLIERE

Translated By

Curtis Hidden Page

Introductory Note

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Jean Baptiste Poquelin, better known by his stage name of Moliere, 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 Moliere was "Les Precieuses Ridicules," produced in 1659. In this brilliant piece Moliere 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, Moliere'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.

Tartuffe A Comedy Characters

TARTUFFE

A COMEDY

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

ACT I

Scene I

SCENE I

MADAME PERNELLE and FLIPOTTE, her servant; ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE,

Damis, Dorine Madame Pernelle

DAMIS, DORINE

MADAME PERNELLE Come, come, Flipotte, and let me get away.

ELMIRE You hurry so, I hardly can attend you.

Madame Pernelle

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

SCENE II

Cleante, Dorine Cleante

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 [1] 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) [2] 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: Moliere'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 Moliere 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

SCENE III

Elmire, Mariane, Damis, Cleante, Dorine

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

SCENE IV

Cleante, Damis, Dorine Damis

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

SCENE V

Orgon, Cleante, Dorine Orgon

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

SCENE VI

Orgon, Cleante Cleante

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

ACT II

SCENE I

Orgon, Mariane Orgon

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.) [3]

[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

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

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

ACT III

SCENE I

Damis, Dorine Damis

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, 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

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

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

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

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

SCENE VII

Orgon, Tartuffe Orgon

ORGON, TARTUFFE

ORGON What! So insult a saintly man of God!

TARTUFFE Heaven, forgive him all the pain he gives me! [4]

[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 Moliere 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

ACT IV

SCENE I

Cleante, Tartuffe Cleante

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

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

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

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.) [5]

[Footnote 5: Moliere'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, 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, 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

End of Project Gutenberg's Tartuffe, by Jean-Baptiste Poquelin Moliere

# Project Gutenberg #6923

THE MISER. (L'AVARE.)

by

MOLIÈRE

Translated into English Prose

With a Short Introduction and Explanatory Notes.

by

Charles Heron Wall

CHARLES HERON WALL

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.

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_.

The Miser. Act I.

THE MISER.

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. Dear 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 FL. "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.[1] 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[2] 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?

(MR. 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.

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.

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. [3] [Footnote: Frosine professes a knowledge of palmistry.] 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.[4] 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.[5]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. Rascal! 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.[6]

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.

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.

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 Footnotes:

THE END

FOOTNOTES:

[1] An old comic pastoral.

[2] The real hero in Rabelais' 'Pantagruel.'

[3] Frosine professes a knowledge of palmistry.

[4] Old enemies. The Turks took Candia from the Venetians in 1669, after a war of twenty years.

[5] Molière makes use even of his own infirmities. Compare act i. scene iii. This cough killed him at last.

[6] A good deal of the mystification is lost in the translation through the necessity of occasionally putting _it_ for _casket_, and _she_ for Élise.

# Project Gutenberg #9070

The Imaginary Invalid.

THE IMAGINARY INVALID.

(LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE.)

by

MOLIÈRE

Translated into English Prose.

_With Short Introductions and Explanatory Notes._

by

CHARLES HERON WALL

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.

The Imaginary Invalid. Act I.

THE IMAGINARY INVALID.

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 sous.” 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.[1] “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.

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.

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....[2]

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_ MR. 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.[3]

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.

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.

SECOND INTERLUDE.

MEN _and_ WOMEN (_dressed as Moors_).

First Moorish Woman.

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.

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.[4]

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 intemperament 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,[5] 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.[6][TN]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.[7]

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.

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.

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] As usual, Argan only counts half; even after he has reduced the charge.

[2] Thomas Diafoirus is evidently going to base some compliment on the _belle-mère_. The only way out of the difficulty in English seems to be to complete the sentence somewhat.

[3] Harvey’s treatise on the circulation of the blood was published in 1628. His discovery was violently opposed for a long time afterwards.

[4] Molière seems to refer to Dr. Guenaut, who was said to have killed with antimony (his favourite remedy) his wife, his daughter, his nephew, and two of his sons-in-law.—AIMÉ MARTIN.

[5] _Oubliés_; now called _plaisirs_. “Wafers” would perhaps have been the right rendering in Molière’s time.

[6] This piece is composed of a mixture of dog-Latin, French, &c. and is utterly untranslateable.

[7] It is said that it was when uttering this word that Molière gave way to the illness from which he had long suffered.

[TN] TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE (from a reader):

The above was a litteral rendition of the text. After this eBook was published in PG we received the following:

Dear sir or madam:

The original translator of the Moliere’s play “The Imaginary Invalid” did not translate the third interlude into English, simply declaring that it was “utterly untranslateable”(sic).

My father (Duane Larrieu, retired linguist) has translated this third Interlude and requested that I submit it to Project Gutenberg on his behalf. His translation of the Third Interlude follows:

THIRD INTERLUDE. [6]

BURLESQUE CEREMONY _representing the Admission of_ MR. GERONTE _to the Degree of Doctor of Medicine_.

_First Entry of the_ BALLET

Gentleman In Charge.

GENTLEMAN IN CHARGE. Most learned doctors, professors of medicine, who are assembled here; and you other gentlemen, dependable executors of the faculty’s decisions, surgeons and apothecaries and the entire company as well, health, honor and wealth and a good appetite.

Learned confreres, I am unable personally to have sufficient admiration for what a fine invention the medical profession is; what a fine thing it is and a good discovery. such is that blessed medicine, which, by its name alone, a surprising miracle, for so long a time has made so many different sorts of people live a long life. Throughout the entire world we see the great interest present where we are; and that well-to-do and insignificant people are infatuated with us. The whole world, rushing for our remedies, considers us deities, and you see the princes and kings submitting to our orders.

So it is our wisdom, good sense and prudence to work hard to keep us well credited, wanted, and honored; and to be careful not to admit into our learned group anybody except qualified individuals who are fully deserving of occupying such honorable positions.

That is why you are now summoned here and I do believe you will find deserving qualities in the learned man who is present here; and whom I am giving to you to question about whatever you want, and to use your capabilities to examine him in depth.

First Doctor

FIRST DOCTOR Sir, you are in charge. If you and so many doctors and illustrious assistants who are learned and have a baccalaureate, and whom I honor and esteem, grant me permission, I will ask the cause and reason why opium induces sleep.

Baccalaureate Holder

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER An educated doctor is asking me the cause and reason why opium induces sleep. My answer to that is because there is in it a sleep-inducing power which by its very nature relaxes the senses.

CHORUS A really, really, really good answer. You really deserve to enter into our learned group. A really good answer.

Second Doctor

SECOND DOCTOR Sir, you are in charge. Provided it isn’t displeasing which it actually isbn’t kindly allow, along with all the learned doctors, and well-intended assistants, that he explain to me a little, the a priori and evident reason why rhubarb and senna are prescribed to purge both biles from us. If he answers this, he will be very capable.

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER I, who am here providing explanations, have been asked by an educated doctor for an a priori and evident reason why rhubarb and senna are always prescribed for us to purge both biles. My answer to you is that it is because there is in them a purgative power which naturally empties out those two biles.

CHORUS A really, really, really good answer. You really deserve to enter into our learned group.

Third Doctor

THIRD DOCTOR From the answers, it seems clearer than sunlight that this brainy baccalaureate holder didn’t spend his life playing hippity-hop nor smoking cigarettes; but let him explain why a heap of bran and a little milk with phlebotomy and purging of the humors are called doctor’s idols by those who are naysayers and also an asses’ bridge. If, first off, our freedom to question is acceptable to the gentleman in charge as well as to the gentlemanly doctors and all the ranks of kind listeners.

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER Mister Chrysologos, that is, he who talks of gold, the doctor, asks me why a little milk and a heap of bran, phlebotomy and purging of humors are called doctor’s idols and asses’ bridge by naysayers. My answer is that prescribing such things doesn’t require a lot of knowledge and out of those four things doctors make louis, pistoles, and fourths of ecus.

CHORUS You answered really, really well. You really deserve to enter into our learned group.

Fourth Doctor

FOURTH DOCTOR With the permission of you, sir, who are in charge, and of the entire faculty, and of the company attending these activities of ours, I will ask you learned baccalaureate holder, what are the remedies to be given both to a man and to a woman suffering from the illness called hydropsy, from bodily issues such as apoplexy, convulsion, and paralysis?

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER Give a clyster, Afterwards purify, Then purge.

CHORUS You answered really, really well. You really deserve to enter into our learned group.

Fifth Doctor

FIFTH DOCTOR If it seems okay to you sir, who are in charge, to the very learned faculty, and to the company that is listening to us, I will ask you, learned baccalaureate holder, to return one day to a house full of illnesses. What are the remedies to come up with for colicosis, febrosis, for maniacs, nephritics, frenetics, melancholics, demoniacs, asthmatics and pulmonics, for catharrosics, tussicolisics, guttosics, lepers and gallosics, for apostemasis, plague and ulcers, for every broken or fractured member?

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER Give a clyster, Afterwards purify, Then purge.

CHORUS You answered really, really well, You really deserve to enter into our learned group

Sixth Doctor

SIXTH DOCTOR With the kind allowance of the respected gentleman in charge, of the successors of Hippocrates, and of the whole circle of those with their eyes fixed on us, I ask you, oh determined baccalaureate holder, a college graduate not unworthy of Montpelier, what are the remedies to be given to the blind, the deaf, the mute, to manchotics, claudics, and all the estropiatics, for problem feet, toothaches, afflictions, rabies, and the overwhelmingly great commotion in every newlywed?

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER Give a clyster, Afterwards purify, Then purge.

CHORUS You answered really, really well, You really deserve to enter into our learned group

Seventh Doctor

SEVENTH DOCTOR The baccalaureate gentleman has marvelously addressed all those illnesses; but if I do not bore the most learned faculty and the entire honorable company present here in body and in mind, I will put one question to him; yesterday a sick person fell into my hands, a person of rank and rich as Croesus. He has a severe fever that is ongoing, a serious headache, with trouble breathing and diarrhea of the stomach, along with a serious problem in his side and real difficulty and pain breathing. Please tell me, learned baccalaureate holder, what to do for him.

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER Give a clyster, Afterwards purify, Then purge.

CHORUS You answered really, really well, You really deserve to enter into our learned group

The Same Doctor

THE SAME DOCTOR But if, holding off from asking why, the illness about which an opinion has been furnished, doesn’t want to get well, then what’s to be done for it?

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER Give a clyster, Afterwards purify, Then purge. Purify, purge, and clysterize repeatedly.

CHORUS You answered really, really well, You really deserve to enter into our learned group

Eighth Doctor

EIGHTH DOCTOR I beg leave of you, sir, who are in charge, of the select assembly of doctors, both practicing and eager to practice, and of the curious flock of onlookers.

Oh so smart Baccalaureate holder, who so far could not be outflanked, I shall ask you one important question. Sirs, give us your attention. Quite early to-day, slightly before I had breakfast, a once lovely young Italian lady came to me. In fact, I still think of her as being somewhat a young girl. She was all pale-fleshed. The best doctors call it a white fever. She came complaining of a migraine, of shortness of breath, of feeling overburdened, of swollen legs and terrible weariness; of a pounding heart, and of a choked feeling, also called hysterical inhalation, which, like all illnesses ending in –ic, casts a snub on Galen. She appeared worn out and looked as green as goose droppings. Judging from her small racing heartbeat and the foul urine she brought in a container, she appeared not to be free of feverish bouts. Lastly, she was so weak that she came from her bed on horseback, actually, it was a mule. She hadn’t had her menses since that day that is called the day of lots of water. But she told me in my ear that it was a real marvel that she wasn’t dead. Because in her line of work there wasn’t much love, just too much heartiness. Her gallant guy had gone to Germany to serve on a campaign for mister Brandenburg. So far a bunch of charlatans, doctors, apothecaries, and surgeons have been working in vain to cure her illness, going so far as the new influenzas of that dopey Van Helmont, using everything from crab eyes to alchemy.

Kindly tell me what’s left, in keeping with orthodoxy, to do for her.

Baccalaureate Holder Give a clyster, Afterwards purify, Then purge.

CHORUS You answered really, really well, You really deserve to enter into our learned group

Same Doctor

SAME DOCTOR But if such an enormous and mortally obstinate withering of the natural organs cannot be cured by giving a clyster, purifying, and purging, over and over again for a hundred times, what would you finally come up with to do for her?

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER Order her, in the name of blessed Hippocrates, to couple with a good young lad.

GENTLEMAN IN CHARGE Do you swear to observe the statutes prescribed by the faculty with sense and judgment?

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER I do swear

GENTLEMAN IN CHARGE To have in all consultations the age-old advice, whether good or bad?

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER I do swear.

Gentlewoman In Charge

GENTLEWOMAN IN CHARGE Never to resort to any remedies besides those only of the resourceful faculty lest the sick person should wear out and die of his illness?

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER I do swear.

GENTLEMAN IN CHARGE With this venerable and learned doctor’s cap, I give and grant you the power, might and medical license, plus the approach to take, namely,

Clysterizing, Purifying, Purging, Bleeding, Ventilating, Sacrificing, Piercing, Slicing, Cutting, Drenching, Burning,

in a word, in keeping with the procedures and of killing without penalty, not just for Parisians but anyone in the world; sir, express gratitude to these gentlemen.

_Second Entry of the_ BALLET.

_All the_ DOCTORS _and_ APOTHECARIES _come and do him reverence_.

BACCALAUREATE HOLDER Great teachers in regard to instruction concerning rhubarb and senna, it would undoubtedly be a foolish, inappropriate and ridiculous thing for me if I allowed myself to engage in providing you with praises and undertake to add light to the sun, stars to the sky, flames to hell, waves to the ocean, and roses to the spring.

Allow me, with just a single word of all my gratitude to say thank you to such a learned group. To you, to you, I owe much more than to nature and to my father; nature and my father made me a human being. But you have made me a doctor (which is much more). Honor, favor, and gratitude that will definitely remain as feeling in this heart forever.

CHORUS Live a long life, live a long life, live a long life, live a long life, a hundred times let the new doctor who speaks so well live a long life! For a thousand, thousand years let him eat and drink, and cure and kill.

_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._

SURGEON May he just see his learned stipulations and fill the offices of surgeons and apothecaries.

CHORUS Live a long life, live a long life, live a long life, live a long life, a hundred times let the new doctor who speaks so well live a long life! For a thousand, thousand years let him eat and drink, and cure and kill.

Apothecary

APOTHECARY May all his years be good and favorable for him and may he never grapple with plagues or epidemics that are evil beasts.

But always pleurisies, pulmonias in the kidneys and vesical lumps, one-year rheumatisms, and all kinds of fevers, bloodflows, diabolic gouts, St. Joan’s problems, Poitou colics, Dutch scurvy, small and large poxes, good cankers and long brain problems.

CHORUS Live a long life, live a long life, live a long life, live a long life, a hundred times let the new doctor who speaks so well live a long life! For a thousand, thousand years let him eat and drink, and cure and kill.

_Fourth Entry of the _BALLET.

_ All the_ DOCTORS _and_ APOTHECARIES _go out according to their rank, as they came in._

The End

THE END

# Project Gutenberg #8772

Produced by Delphine Lettau, Charles Franks and the people at DP

The Learned Women

THE LEARNED WOMEN

(LES FEMMES SAVANTES)

BY

MOLIÈRE

Translated Into English Prose.

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH PROSE.

_WITH SHORT INTRODUCTIONS AND EXPLANATORY NOTES_

By Charles Heron Wall

BY

CHARLES HERON WALL

The comedy of 'Les Femmes Savantes' was acted on March 11, 1692 (see vol. i. p. 153).

Molière acted the part of Chrysale.

PERSONS REPRESENTED

CHRYSALE, _an honest bourgeois_

PHILAMINTE, _wife to_ CHRYSALE

ARMANDE & HENRIETTE, _their daughters_

ARISTE, _brother to_ CHRYSALE

BÉLISE, _his sister_

CLITANDRE, _lover to_ HENRIETTE

TRISSOTIN, _a wit_

VADIUS, _a learned man_

MARTINE, _a kitchen-maid_

LÉPINE, _servant to_ CHRYSALE

JULIEN, _servant to_ VADIUS

A Notary. The Learned Women. Act I. Scene I.--Armande, Henriette.

A NOTARY.

THE LEARNED WOMEN.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--ARMANDE, HENRIETTE.

ARM. What! Sister, you will give up the sweet and enchanting title of maiden? You can entertain thoughts of marrying! This vulgar wish can enter your head!

HEN. Yes, sister.

ARM. Ah! Who can bear that "yes"? Can anyone hear it without feelings of disgust?

HEN. What is there in marriage which can oblige you, sister, to....

ARM. Ah! Fie!

HEN. What?

ARM. Fie! I tell you. Can you not conceive what offence the very mention of such a word presents to the imagination, and what a repulsive image it offers to the thoughts? Do you not shudder before it? And can you bring yourself to accept all the consequences which this word implies?

HEN. When I consider all the consequences which this word implies, I only have offered to my thoughts a husband, children, and a home; and I see nothing in all this to defile the imagination, or to make one shudder.

ARM. O heavens! Can such ties have charms for you?

HEN. And what at my age can I do better than take a husband who loves me, and whom I love, and through such a tender union secure the delights of an innocent life? If there be conformity of tastes, do you see no attraction in such a bond?

ARM. Ah! heavens! What a grovelling disposition! What a poor part you act in the world, to confine yourself to family affairs, and to think of no more soul-stirring pleasures than those offered by an idol of a husband and by brats of children! Leave these base pleasures to the low and vulgar. Raise your thoughts to more exalted objects; endeavour to cultivate a taste for nobler pursuits; and treating sense and matter with contempt, give yourself, as we do, wholly to the cultivation of your mind. You have for an example our mother, who is everywhere honoured with the name of learned. Try, as we do, to prove yourself her daughter; aspire to the enlightened intellectuality which is found in our family, and acquire a taste for the rapturous pleasures which the love of study brings to the heart and mind. Instead of being in bondage to the will of a man, marry yourself, sister, to philosophy, for it alone raises you above the rest of mankind, gives sovereign empire to reason, and submits to its laws the animal part, with those grovelling desires which lower us to the level of the brute. These are the gentle flames, the sweet ties, which should fill every moment of life. And the cares to which I see so many women given up, appear to me pitiable frivolities.

HEN. Heaven, whose will is supreme, forms us at our birth to fill different spheres; and it is not every mind which is composed of materials fit to make a philosopher. If your mind is created to soar to those heights which are attained by the speculations of learned men, mine is fitted, sister, to take a meaner flight and to centre its weakness on the petty cares of the world. Let us not interfere with the just decrees of Heaven; but let each of us follow our different instincts. You, borne on the wings of a great and noble genius, will inhabit the lofty regions of philosophy; I, remaining here below, will taste the terrestrial charms of matrimony. Thus, in our several paths, we shall still imitate our mother: you, in her mind and its noble longings; I, in her grosser senses and coarser pleasures; you, in the productions of genius and light, and I, sister, in productions more material.

ARM. When we wish to take a person for a model, it is the nobler side we should imitate; and it is not taking our mother for a model, sister, to cough and spit like her.

HEN. But you would not have been what you boast yourself to be if our mother had had only her nobler qualities; and well it is for you that her lofty genius did not always devote itself to philosophy. Pray, leave me to those littlenesses to which you owe life, and do not, by wishing me to imitate you, deny some little savant entrance into the world.

ARM. I see that you cannot be cured of the foolish infatuation of taking a husband to yourself. But, pray, let us know whom you intend to marry; I suppose that you do not aim at Clitandre?

HEN. And why should I not? Does he lack merit? Is it a low choice I have made?

ARM. Certainly not; but it would not be honest to take away the conquest of another; and it is a fact not unknown to the world that Clitandre has publicly sighed for me.

HEN. Yes; but all those sighs are mere vanities for you; you do not share human weaknesses; your mind has for ever renounced matrimony, and philosophy has all your love. Thus, having in your heart no pretensions to Clitandre, what does it matter to you if another has such pretensions?

ARM. The empire which reason holds over the senses does not call upon us to renounce the pleasure of adulation; and we may refuse for a husband a man of merit whom we would willingly see swell the number of our admirers.

HEN. I have not prevented him from continuing his worship, but have only received the homage of his passion when you had rejected it.

ARM. But do you find entire safety, tell me, in the vows of a rejected lover? Do you think his passion for you so great that all love for me can be dead in his heart?

HEN. He tells me so, sister, and I trust him.

ARM. Do not, sister, be so ready to trust him; and be sure that, when he says he gives me up and loves you, he really does not mean it, but deceives himself.

HEN. I cannot say; but if you wish it, it will be easy for us to discover the true state of things. I see him coming, and on this point he will be sure to give us full information.

Scene Ii.--Clitandre, Armande, Henriette.

SCENE II.--CLITANDRE, ARMANDE, HENRIETTE.

HEN. Clitandre, deliver me from a doubt my sister has raised in me. Pray open your heart to us; tell us the truth, and let us know which of us has a claim upon your love.

ARM. No, no; I will not force upon your love the hardship of an explanation. I have too much respect for others, and know how perplexing it is to make an open avowal before witnesses.

CLI. No; my heart cannot dissemble, and it is no hardship to me to speak openly. Such a step in no way perplexes me, and I acknowledge before all, freely and openly, that the tender chains which bind me (_pointing to_ HENRIETTE), my homage and my love, are all on this side. Such a confession can cause you no surprise, for you wished things to be thus. I was touched by your attractions, and my tender sighs told you enough of my ardent desires; my heart offered you an immortal love, but you did not think the conquest which your eyes had made noble enough. I have suffered many slights, for you reigned over my heart like a tyrant; but weary at last with so much pain, I looked elsewhere for a conqueror more gentle, and for chains less cruel. (_Pointing to_ HENRIETTE) I have met with them here, and my bonds will forever be precious to me. These eyes have looked upon me with compassion, and have dried my tears. They have not despised what you had refused. Such kindness has captivated me, and there is nothing which would now break my chains. Therefore I beseech you, Madam, never to make an attempt to regain a heart which has resolved to die in this gentle bondage.

ARM. Bless me, Sir, who told you that I had such a desire, and, in short, that I cared so much for you? I think it tolerably ridiculous that you should imagine such a thing, and very impertinent in you to declare it to me.

HEN. Ah! gently, sister. Where is now that moral sense which has so much power over that which is merely animal in us, and which can restrain the madness of anger?

ARM. And you, who speak to me, what moral sense have you when you respond to a love which is offered to you before you have received leave from those who have given you birth? Know that duty subjects you to their laws, and that you may love only in accordance with their choice; for they have a supreme authority over your heart, and it is criminal in you to dispose of it yourself.

HEN. I thank you for the great kindness you show me in teaching me my duty. My heart intends to follow the line of conduct you have traced; and to show you that I profit by your advice, pray, Clitandre, see that your love is strengthened by the consent of those from whom I have received birth. Acquire thus a right over my wishes, and for me the power of loving you without a crime.

CLI. I will do so with all diligence. I only waited for this kind permission from you.

ARM. You triumph, sister, and seem to fancy that you thereby give me pain.

HEN. I, sister? By no means. I know that the laws of reason will always have full power over your senses, and that, through the lessons you derive from wisdom, you are altogether above such weakness. Far from thinking you moved by any vexation, I believe that you will use your influence to help me, will second his demand of my hand, and will by your approbation hasten the happy day of our marriage. I beseech you to do so; and in order to secure this end....

ARM. Your little mind thinks it grand to resort to raillery, and you seem wonderfully proud of a heart which I abandon to you.

HEN. Abandoned it may be; yet this heart, sister, is not so disliked by you but that, if you could regain it by stooping, you would even condescend to do so.

ARM. I scorn to answer such foolish prating.

HEN. You do well; and you show us inconceivable moderation.

Scene Iii.--Clitandre, Henriette.

SCENE III.--CLITANDRE, HENRIETTE.

HEN. Your frank confession has rather taken her aback.

CLI. She deserves such freedom of speech, and all the haughtiness of her proud folly merits my outspokenness! But since you give me leave, I will go to your father, to....

HEN. The safest thing to do would be to gain my mother over. My father easily consents to everything, but he places little weight on what he himself resolves. He has received from Heaven a certain gentleness which makes him readily submit to the will of his wife. It is she who governs, and who in a dictatorial tone lays down the law whenever she has made up her mind to anything. I wish I could see in you a more pliant spirit towards her and towards my aunt. If you would but fall in with their views, you would secure their favour and their esteem.

CLI. I am so sincere that I can never bring myself to praise, even in your sister, that side of her character which resembles theirs. Female doctors are not to my taste. I like a woman to have some knowledge of everything; but I cannot admire in her the revolting passion of wishing to be clever for the mere sake of being clever. I prefer that she should, at times, affect ignorance of what she really knows. In short, I like her to hide her knowledge, and to be learned without publishing her learning abroad, quoting the authors, making use of pompous words, and being witty under the least provocation. I greatly respect your mother, but I cannot approve her wild fancies, nor make myself an echo of what she says. I cannot support the praises she bestows upon that literary hero of hers, Mr. Trissotin, who vexes and wearies me to death. I cannot bear to see her have any esteem for such a man, and to see her reckon among men of genius a fool whose writings are everywhere hissed; a pedant whose liberal pen furnishes all the markets with wastepaper.

HEN. His writings, his speeches, in short, everything in him is unpleasant to me; and I feel towards him as you do. But as he possesses great ascendancy over my mother, you must force yourself to yield somewhat. A lover should make his court where his heart is engaged; he should win the favour of everyone; and in order to have nobody opposed to his love, try to please even the dog of the house.

CLI. Yes, you are right; but Mr. Trissotin is hateful to me. I cannot consent, in order to win his favour, to dishonour myself by praising his works. It is through them that he was first brought to my notice, and I knew him before I had seen him. I saw in the trash which he writes all that his pedantic person everywhere shows forth; the persistent haughtiness of his presumption, the intrepidity of the good opinion he has of his person, the calm overweening confidence which at all times makes him so satisfied with himself, and with the writings of which he boasts; so that he would not exchange his renown for all the honours of the greatest general.

HEN. You have good eyes to see all that.

CLI. I even guessed what he was like; and by means of the verses with which he deluges us, I saw what the poet must be. So well had I pictured to myself all his features and gait that one day, meeting a man in the galleries of the Palace of Justice [footnote: the resort of the best company in those days.], I laid a wager that it must be Trissotin--and I won my wager.

HEN. What a tale!

CLI. No, I assure you that it is the perfect truth. But I see your aunt coming; allow me, I pray you, to tell her of the longings of my heart, and to gain her kind help with your mother.

SCENE IV.--BÉLISE, CLITANDRE.

CLI. Suffer a lover, Madam, to profit by such a propitious moment to reveal to you his sincere devotion....

BEL. Ah! gently! Beware of opening your heart too freely to me; although I have placed you in the list of my lovers, you must use no interpreter but your eyes, and never explain by another language desires which are an insult to me. Love me; sigh for me; burn for my charms; but let me know nothing of it. I can shut my eyes to your secret flame, as long as you keep yourself to dumb interpreters; but if your mouth meddle in the matter, I must for ever banish you from my sight.

CLI. Do not be alarmed at the intentions of my heart. Henriette is, Madam, the object of my love, and I come ardently to conjure you to favour the love I have for her.

BEL. Ah! truly now, the subterfuge shows excellent wit. This subtle evasion deserves praise; and in all the romances I have glanced over, I have never met with anything more ingenious.

CLI. This is no attempt at wit, Madam; it is the avowal of what my heart feels. Heaven has bound me to the beauty of Henriette by the ties of an unchangeable love. Henriette holds me in her lovely chains; and to marry Henriette is the end of all my hopes. You can do much towards it; and what I have come to ask you is that you will condescend to second my addresses.

BEL. I see the end to which your demand would gently head, and I understand whom you mean under that name. The metaphor is clever; and not to depart from it, let me tell you that Henriette rebels against matrimony, and that you must love her without any hope of having your love returned.

CLI. But, Madam, what is the use of such a perplexing debate? Why will you persist in believing what is not?

BEL. Dear me! Do not trouble yourself so much. Leave off denying what your looks have often made me understand. Let it suffice that I am content with the subterfuge your love has so skilfully adopted, and that under the figure to which respect has limited it, I am willing to suffer its homage; always provided that its transports, guided by honour, offer only pure vows on my altars.

CLI. But....

BEL. Farewell. This ought really to satisfy you, and I have said more than I wished to say.

CLI. But your error....

BEL. Leave me. I am blushing now; and my modesty has had much to bear.

CLI. May I be hanged if I love you; and.... [Footnote: Molière ends this line with _sage_, with, apparently, no other motive than to find a rhyme to _davantage._]

BEL. No, no. I will hear nothing more.

SCENE V. CLITANDRE (_alone_)

Deuce take the foolish woman with her dreams! Was anything so preposterous ever heard of? I must go and ask the help of a person of more sense.

ACT II.

SCENE I.--ARISTE (_leaving_ CLITANDRE, _and still speaking to him_).

Yes; I will bring you an answer as soon as I can. I will press, insist, do all that should be done. How many things a lover has to say when one would suffice; and how impatient he is for all that he desires! Never....

SCENE II; CHRYSALE, ARISTE.

ARI. Good day to you, brother.

CHRY. And to you also, brother.

ARI. Do you know what brings me here?

CHRY. No, I do not; but I am ready to hear it, if it pleases you to tell me.

ARI. You have known Clitandre for some time now?

CHRY. Certainly; and he often comes to our house.

ARI. And what do you think of him?

CHRY. I think him to be a man of honour, wit, courage, and uprightness, and I know very few people who have more merit.

ARI. A certain wish of his has brought me here; and I am glad to see the esteem you have for him.

CHRY. I became acquainted with his late father when I was in Rome.

ARI. Ah!

CHRY. He was a perfect gentleman.

ARI. So it is said.

CHRY. We were only about twenty-eight years of age, and, upon my word, we were, both of us, very gay young fellows.

ARI. I believe it.

CHRY. We greatly affected the Roman ladies, and everybody there spoke of our pranks. We made many people jealous, I can tell you.

ARI. Excellent; but let us come to what brings me here.

SCENE III.--BÉLISE (_entering softly and listening_), CHRYSALE, ARISTE.

ARI. Clitandre has chosen me to be his interpreter to you; he has fallen in love with Henriette.

CHRY. What! with my daughter?

ARI. Yes. Clitandre is delighted with her, and you never saw a lover so smitten!

BEL. (_to_ ARISTE). No, no; you are mistaken. You do not know the story, and the thing is not as you imagine.

ARI. How so, sister?

BEL. Clitandre deceives you; it is with another that he is in love.

ARI. It is not with Henriette that he is in love? You are joking.

BEL. No; I am telling the perfect truth.

ARI. He told me so himself.

BEL. Doubtless.

ARI. You see me here, sister, commissioned by him to ask her of her father.

BEL. Yes, I know.

ARI. And he besought me, in the name of his love, to hasten the time of an alliance so desired by him.

BEL. Better and better. No more gallant subterfuge could have been employed. But let me tell you that Henriette is an excuse, an ingenious veil, a pretext, brother, to cover another flame, the mystery of which I know; and most willingly will I enlighten you both.

ARI. Since you know so much, sister, pray tell us whom he loves.

BEL. You wish to know?

ARI. Yes; who is it? BEL. Me!

ARI. You!

BEL. Myself.

ARI. Come, I say! sister!

BEL. What do you mean by this "Come, I say"? And what is there so wonderful in what I tell you? I am handsome enough, I should think, to have more than one heart in subjection to my empire; and Dorante, Damis, Cléonte, and Lycidas show well enough the power of my charms.

ARI. Do those men love you?

BEL. Yes; with all their might.

ARI. They have told you so?

BEL. No one would take such a liberty; they have, up to the present time, respected me so much that they have never spoken to me of their love. But the dumb interpreters have done their office in offering their hearts and lives to me.

ARI. I hardly ever see Damis here.

BEL. It is to show me a more respectful submission.

ARI. Dorante, with sharp words, abuses you everywhere.

BEL. It is the transport of a jealous passion.

ARI. Cléonte and Lycidas are both married.

BEL. It was the despair to which I had reduced their love.

ARI. Upon my word, sister, these are mere visions.

CHRY. (to BÉLISE). You had better get rid of these idle fancies.

BEL. Ah! idle fancies! They are idle fancies, you think. I have idle fancies! Really, "idle fancies" is excellent. I greatly rejoice at those idle fancies, brothers, and I did not know that I was addicted to idle fancies.

Scene Iv.--Chrysale, Ariste.

SCENE IV.--CHRYSALE, ARISTE.

CHRY. Our sister is decidedly crazy.

ARI. It grows upon her every day. But let us resume the subject that brings me here. Clitandre asks you to give him Henriette in marriage. Tell me what answer we can make to his love.

CHRY. Do you ask it? I consent to it with all my heart; and I consider his alliance a great honour.

ARI. You know that he is not wealthy, that....

CHRY. That is a thing of no consequence. He is rich in virtue, and that is better than wealth. Moreover, his father and I were but one mind in two bodies.

ARI. Let us speak to your wife, and try to render her favourable to....

CHRY. It is enough. I accept him for my son-in-law.

ARI. Yes; but to support your consent, it will not be amiss to have her agree to it also. Let us go....

CHRY. You are joking? There is no need of this. I answer for my wife, and take the business upon myself.

ARI. But....

CHRY. Leave it to me, I say, and fear nothing. I will go, and prepare her this moment.

ARI. Let it be so. I will go and see Henriette on the subject, and will return to know....

CHRY. It is a settled thing, and I will go without delay and talk to my wife about it.

Scene V.-Chrysale, Martine.

SCENE V.-CHRYSALE, MARTINE.

MAR. Just like my luck! Alas! they be true sayings, they be--"Give a dog a bad name and hang him," and--"One doesn't get fat in other folk's service." [Footnote: Or, more literally, "Service is no inheritance;" but this does not sound familiar enough in English.]

CHRY. What is it? What is the matter with you, Martine?

MAR. What is the matter?

CHRY. Yes.

MAR. The matter is that I am sent away, Sir.

CHRY. Sent away?

MAR. Yes; mistress has turned me out.

CHRY. I don't understand; why has she?

MAR. I am threatened with a sound beating if I don't go.

CHRY. No; you will stop here. I am quite satisfied with you. My wife is a little hasty at times, and I will not, no....

SCENE VI.--PHILAMINTE, BÉLISE, CHRYSALE, MARTINE.

PHI. (_seeing_ MARTINE). What! I see you here, you hussy! Quick, leave this place, and never let me set my eyes upon you again.

CHRY. Gently.

PHI. No; I will have it so.

CHRY. What?

PHI. I insist upon her going.

CHRY. But what has she done wrong, that you wish her in this way to...?

PHI. What! you take her part?

CHRY. Certainly not.

PHI. You side with her against me?

CHRY. Oh! dear me, no; I only ask what she is guilty of.

PHI. Am I one to send her away without just cause?

CHRY. I do not say that; but we must, with servants....

PHI. No; she must leave this place, I tell you.

CHRY. Let it be so; who says anything to the contrary?

PHI. I will have no opposition to my will.

CHRY. Agreed.

PHI. And like a reasonable husband, you should take my part against her, and share my anger.

CHRY. So I do. (_Turning towards_ MARTINE.) Yes; my wife is right in sending you away, baggage that you are; your crime cannot be forgiven.

MAR. What is it I have done, then?

CHRY. (_aside_). Upon my word, I don't know.

PHI. She is capable even now of looking upon it as nothing.

CHRY. Has she caused your anger by breaking some looking-glass or some china?

PHI. Do you think that I would send her away for that? And do you fancy that I should get angry for so little?

CHRY. (_to_ MARTINE). What is the meaning of this? (_To_ PHILAMINTE) The thing is of great importance, then?

PHI. Certainly; did you ever find me unreasonable?

CHRY. Has she, through carelessness, allowed some ewer or silver dish to be stolen from us?

PHI. That would be of little moment.

CHRY. (_to_ MARTINE). Oh! oh! I say, Miss! (_To_ PHILAMINTE) What! has she shown herself dishonest?

PHI. It is worse than that.

CHRY. Worse than that?

PHI. Worse.

CHRY. (_to_ MARTINE). How the deuce! you jade. (_To_ PHILAMINTE) What! has she...?

PHI. She has with unparalleled impudence, after thirty lessons, insulted my ear by the improper use of a low and vulgar word condemned in express terms by Vaugelas. [Footnote: The French grammarian, born about 1585; died 1650.]

CHRY. Is that...?

PHI. What! In spite of our remonstrances to be always sapping the foundation of all knowledge--of grammar which rules even kings, and makes them, with a high hand, obey her laws.

CHRY. I thought her guilty of the greatest crime.

PHI. What! You do not think the crime unpardonable?

CHRY. Yes, yes.

PHI. I should like to see you excuse her.

CHRY. Heaven forbid!

BEL. It is really pitiful. All constructions are destroyed by her; yet she has a hundred times been told the laws of the language.

MAR. All that you preach there is no doubt very fine, but I don't understand your jargon, not I.

PHI. Did you ever see such impudence? To call a language founded on reason and polite custom a jargon!

MAR. Provided one is understood, one speaks well enough, and all your fine speeches don't do me no good.

PHI. You see! Is not that her way of speaking, _don't do me no good!_

BEL. O intractable brains! How is it that, in spite of the trouble we daily take, we cannot teach you to speak with congruity? In putting _not_ with _no_, you have spoken redundantly, and it is, as you have been told, a negative too many.

MAR. Oh my! I ain't no scholar like you, and I speak straight out as they speaks in our place.

PHI. Ah! who can bear it?

BEL. What a horrible solecism!

PHI. It is enough to destroy a delicate ear.

BEL. You are, I must acknowledge, very dull of understanding; _they_ is in the plural number, and _speaks_ is in the singular. Will you thus all your life offend grammar? [Footnote: _Grammaire_ in Molière's time was pronounced as _grand'mère_ is now. _Gammer_ seems the nearest approach to this in English.]

MAR. Who speaks of offending either gammer or gaffer?

PHI. O heavens!

BEL. The word _grammar_ is misunderstood by you, and I have told you a hundred times where the word comes from.

MAR. Faith, let it come from Chaillot, Auteuil, or Pontoise, [Footnote: In Molière's time villages close to Paris.] I care precious little.

BEL. What a boorish mind! _Grammar_ teaches us the laws of the verb and nominative case, as well as of the adjective and substantive.

MAR. Sure, let me tell you, Ma'am, that I don't know those people.

PHI. What martyrdom!

BEL. They are names of words, and you ought to notice how they agree with each other.

MAR. What does it matter whether they agree or fall out?

PHI. (_to_ BÉLISE). Goodness gracious! put an end to such a discussion. (_To_ CHRYSALE) And so you will not send her away?

CHRY. Oh! yes. (_Aside_) I must put up with her caprice, Go, don't provoke her, Martine.

PHI. How! you are afraid of offending the hussy! you speak to her in quite an obliging tone.

CHRY. I? Not at all. (_In a rough tone_) Go, leave this place. (_In a softer tone_) Go away, my poor girl.

SCENE VII.--PHILAMINTE, CHRYSALE, BÉLISE.

CHRY. She is gone, and you are satisfied, but I do not approve of sending her away in this fashion. She answers very well for what she has to do, and you turn her out of my house for a trifle.

PHI. Do you wish me to keep her for ever in my service, for her to torture my ears incessantly, to infringe all the laws of custom and reason, by a barbarous accumulation of errors of speech, and of garbled expressions tacked together with proverbs dragged out of the gutters of all the market-places?

BEL. It is true that one sickens at hearing her talk; she pulls Vaugelas to pieces, and the least defects of her gross intellect are either pleonasm or cacophony.

CHRY. What does it matter if she fails to observe the laws of Vaugelas, provided she does not fail in her cooking? I had much rather that while picking her herbs, she should join wrongly the nouns to the verbs, and repeat a hundred times a coarse or vulgar word, than that she should burn my roast, or put too much salt in my broth. I live on good soup, and not on fine language. Vaugelas does not teach how to make broth; and Malherbe and Balzac, so clever in learned words, might, in cooking, have proved themselves but fools. [Footnote: Malherbe, 1555-1628; Balzac, 1594-1654.]

PHI. How shocking such a coarse speech sounds; and how unworthy of one who calls himself a man, to be always bent on material things, instead of rising towards those which are intellectual. Is that dross, the body, of importance enough to deserve even a passing thought? and ought we not to leave it far behind?

CHRY. Well, my body is myself, and I mean to take care of it; _dross_ if you like, but my dross is dear to me.

BEL. The body and the mind, brother, exist together; but if you believe all the learned world, the mind ought to take precedence over the body, and our first care, our most earnest endeavour, must be to feed it with the juices of science.

CHRY. Upon my word, if you talk of feeding your mind, you make use of but poor diet, as everybody knows; and you have no care, no solicitude for....

PHI. Ah! _Solicitude_ is unpleasant to my ear: it betrays strangely its antiquity. [Footnote: Many of the words condemned by the purists of the time have died out; _solicitude_ still remains.]

BEL. It is true that it is dreadfully starched and out of fashion.

CHRY. I can bear this no longer. You will have me speak out, then? I will raise the mask, and discharge my spleen. Every one calls you mad, and I am greatly troubled at....

PHI. Ah! what is the meaning of this?

CHRY. (_to_ BÉLISE). I am speaking to you, sister. The least solecism one makes in speaking irritates you; but you make strange ones in conduct. Your everlasting books do not satisfy me, and, except a big Plutarch to put my bands in [Footnote: To keep them flat.], you should burn all this useless lumber, and leave learning to the doctors of the town. Take away from the garret that long telescope, which is enough to frighten people, and a hundred other baubles which are offensive to the sight. Do not try to discover what is passing in the moon, and think a little more of what is happening at home, where we see everything going topsy-turvy. It is not right, and that too for many reasons, that a woman should study and know so much. To form the minds of her children to good manners, to make her household go well, to look after the servants, and regulate all expenses with economy, ought to be her principal study, and all her philosophy. Our fathers were much more sensible on this point: with them, a wife always knew enough when the extent of her genius enabled her to distinguish a doublet from a pair of breeches. She did not read, but she lived honestly; her family was the subject of all her learned conversation, and for hooks she had needles, thread, and a thimble, with which she worked at her daughter's trousseau. Women, in our days, are far from behaving thus: they must write and become authors. No science is too deep for them. It is worse in my house than anywhere else; the deepest secrets are understood, and everything is known except what should be known. Everyone knows how go the moon and the polar star, Venus, Saturn, and Mars, with which I have nothing to do. And in this vain knowledge, which they go so far to fetch, they know nothing of the soup of which I stand in need. My servants all wish to be learned, in order to please you; and all alike occupy themselves with anything but the work they have to do. Reasoning is the occupation of the whole house, and reasoning banishes all reason. One burns my roast while reading some story; another dreams of verses when I call for drink. In short, they all follow your example, and although I have servants, I am not served. One poor girl alone was left me, untouched by this villainous fashion; and now, behold, she is sent away with a huge clatter because she fails to speak Vaugelas. I tell you, sister, all this offends me, for as I have already said, it is to you I am speaking. I dislike to see all those Latin-mongers in my house, and particularly Mr. Trissotin. It is he who has turned your heads with his verses. All his talk is mere rubbish, and one is for ever trying to find out what he has said after he has done speaking. For my part I believe that he is rather cracked.

PHI. What coarseness, O heavens! both in thought and language.

BEL. Can there be a more gross assemblage of corpuscles, [Footnote: A reference to the corpuscular philosophy] a mind composed of more vulgar atoms? Is it possible that I can come from the same blood? I hate myself for being of your race, and out of pure shame I abandon the spot.

Scene Viii.--Philaminte, Chrysale.

SCENE VIII.--PHILAMINTE, CHRYSALE.

PHI. Have you any other shaft ready?

CHRY. I? No. Don't let us dispute any longer. I've done. Let's speak of something else. Your eldest daughter shows a dislike to marriage; in short, she is a philosopher, and I've nothing to say. She is under good management, and you do well by her. But her younger sister is of a different disposition, and I think it would be right to give Henriette a proper husband, who....

PHI. It is what I have been thinking about, and I wish to speak to you of what I intend to do. This Mr. Trissotin on whose account we are blamed, and who has not the honour of being esteemed by you; is the man whom I have chosen to be her husband; and I can judge of his merit better than you can. All discussion is superfluous here, for I have duly resolved that it should be so. I will ask you also not to say a word of it to your daughter before I have spoken to her on the subject. I can justify my conduct, and I shall be sure to know if you have spoken to her.

Scene Ix.--Ariste, Chrysale.

SCENE IX.--ARISTE, CHRYSALE.

ARI. Well! your wife has just left, and I see that you must have had a talk together.

CHRY. Yes.

ARI. And how did you succeed? Shall we have Henriette? Has she given her consent? Is the affair settled?

CHRY. Not quite as yet.

ARI. Does she refuse?

CHRY. No.

ARI. Then she hesitates?

CHRY. Not in the least.

ARI. What then?

CHRY. Well! she offers me another man for a son-in-law.

ARI. Another man for a son-in-law?

CHRY. Yes.

ARI. What is his name?

CHRY. Mr. Trissotin.

ARI. What! that Mr. Trissotin....

CHRY. Yes, he who always speaks of verse and Latin.

ARI. And you have accepted him?

CHRY. I? Heaven forbid!

ARI. What did you say to it?

CHRY. Nothing. I am glad that I did not speak, and commit myself.

ARI. Your reason is excellent, and it is a great step towards the end we have in view. Did you not propose Clitandre to her?

CHRY. No; for as she talked of another son-in-law, I thought it was better for me to say nothing.

ARI. Your prudence is to the last degree wonderful! Are you not ashamed of your weakness? How can a man be so poor-spirited as to let his wife have absolute power over him, and never dare to oppose anything she has resolved upon?

CHRY. Ah! it is easy, brother, for you to speak; you don't know what a dislike I have to a row, and how I love rest and peace. My wife has a terrible disposition. She makes a great show of the name of philosopher, but she is not the less passionate on that account; and her philosophy, which makes her despise all riches, has no power over the bitterness of her anger. However little I oppose what she has taken into her head, I raise a terrible storm which lasts at least a week. She makes me tremble when she begins her outcries; I don't know where to hide myself. She is a perfect virago; and yet, in spite of her diabolical temper, I must call her my darling and my love.

ARI. You are talking nonsense. Between ourselves, your wife has absolute power over you only because of your own cowardice. Her authority is founded upon your own weakness; it is from you she takes the name of mistress. You give way to her haughty manners, and suffer yourself to be led by the nose like a fool. What! you call yourself a man, and cannot for once make your wife obey you, and have courage enough to say, "I will have it so?" You will, without shame, see your daughter sacrificed to the mad visions with which the family is possessed? You will confer your wealth on a man because of half-a-dozen Latin words with which the ass talks big before them--a pedant whom your wife compliments at every turn with the names of wit and great philosopher whose verses were never equalled, whereas everybody knows that he is anything but all that. Once more I tell you, it is a shame, and you deserve that people should laugh at your cowardice.

CHRY. Yes, you are right, and I see that I am wrong. I must pluck up a little more courage, brother.

ARI. That's right.

CHRY. It is shameful to be so submissive under the tyranny of a woman.

ARI. Good.

CHRY. She has abused my gentleness.

ARI. It is true.

CHRY. My easy-going ways have lasted too long.

ARI. Certainly.

CHRY. And to-day I will let her know that my daughter is my daughter, and that I am the master, to choose a husband for her according to my mind.

ARI. You are reasonable now, and as you should be.

CHRY. You are for Clitandre, and you know where he lives; send him to me directly, brother.

ARI. I will go at once.

CHRY. I have borne it too long. I will be a man, and set everybody at defiance.

ACT III.

SCENE I.--PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, BÉLISE, TRISSOTIN, LÉPINE.

PHI. Ah! Let us sit down here to listen comfortably to these verses; they should be weighed word by word.

ARM. I am all anxiety to hear them.

BEL. And I am dying for them.

PHI. (_to_ TRISSOTIN). Whatever comes from you is a delight to me.

ARM. It is to me an unparalleled pleasure.

BEL. It is a delicious repast offered to my ears.

PHI. Do not let us languish under such pressing desires.

ARM. Lose no time.

BEL. Begin quickly and hasten our pleasure.

PHI. Offer your epigram to our impatience.

TRI. (_to_ PHILAMINTE). Alas! it is but a new-born child, Madam, but its fate ought truly to touch your heart, for it was in your court-yard that I brought it forth, but a moment since.

PHI. To make it dear to me, it is sufficient for me to know its father.

TRI. Your approbation may serve it as a mother.

BEL. What wit he has!

SCENE II.--HENRIETTE, PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, BÉLISE, TRISSOTIN, LÉPINE.

PHI. (_to_ HENRIETTE, _who is going away_). Stop! why do you run away?

HEN. I fear to disturb such sweet intercourse.

PHI. Come nearer, and with both ears share in the delight of hearing wonders.

HEN. I have little understanding for the beauties of authorship, and witty things are not in my line.

PHI. No matter. Besides, I wish afterwards to tell you of a secret which you must learn.

TRI. (_to_ HENRIETTE). Knowledge has nothing that can touch you, and your only care is to charm everybody.

HEN. One as little as the other, and I have no wish....

BEL. Ah! let us think of the new-born babe, I beg of you.

PHI. (_to_ LÉPINE). Now, little page, bring some seats for us to sit down. (LÉPINE _slips down_.) You senseless boy, how can you fall down after having learnt the laws of equilibrium?

BEL. Do you not perceive, ignorant fellow, the causes of your fall, and that it proceeds from your having deviated from the fixed point which we call the centre of gravity?

LEP. I perceived it, Madam, when I was on the ground.

PHI. (_to_ LÉPINE, _who goes out_). The awkward clown!

TRI. It is fortunate for him that he is not made of glass.

ARM. Ah! wit is everything!

BEL. It never ceases. (_They sit down._)

PHI. Serve us quickly your admirable feast.

TRI. To satisfy, the great hunger which is here shown to me, a dish of eight verses seems but little; and I think that I should do well to join to the epigram, or rather to the madrigal, the ragout of a sonnet which, in the eyes of a princess, was thought to have a certain delicacy in it. It is throughout seasoned with Attic salt, and I think you will find the taste of it tolerably good.

ARM. Ah! I have no doubt of it.

PHI. Let us quickly give audience.

BEL. (_interrupting_ TRISSOTIN _each time he is about to read_). I feel, beforehand, my heart beating for joy. I love poetry to distraction, particularly when the verses are gallantly turned.

PHI. If we go on speaking he will never be able to read.

Tri. Sonn....

TRI. SONN....

BEL. (_to_ HENRIETTE). Be silent, my niece.

ARM. Ah! let him read, I beg.

TRI. SONNET TO THE PRINCESS URANIA ON HER FEVER.[1] _Your prudence fast in sleep's repose Is plunged; if thus superbly kind, A lodging gorgeously you can find For the most cruel of your foes--_

[1] [The sonnet is not of Molière's invention, but is to be found in _Les Oeuvres galantes en prose et en vers de M. Cotin_, Paris, 1663. It is called, _Sonnet à Mademoiselle de Longueville, à présent Duchesse de Nemours, sur sa fièvre quarte_. As, of necessity, the translation given above is not very literal, I append the original.

"Votre prudence est endormie, De traiter magnifiquement, Et de loger superbement, Votre plus cruelle ennemie;

Faites-la sortir quoi qu'on die, De votre riche appartement, Où cette ingrate insolemment Attaque votre belle vie!

Quoi! sans respecter votre rang, Elle se prend à votre sang, Et nuit et jour vous fait outrage!

Si vous la conduisez aux bains, Sans la marchander davantage, Noyez-la de vos propres mains."

The _die_ of _quoi qu'on die_ was the regular form in Molière's time, and had nothing archaic about it. This is sufficiently true of "Will she, nill she" (compare Shakespeare's "And, will you, nill you, I will marry you") to excuse its use here.]

BEL. Ah! what a pretty beginning!

ARM. What a charming turn it has!

PHI. He alone possesses the talent of making easy verses.

ARM. We must yield to _prudence fast in sleep's repose is plunged_.

BEL. A _lodging for the most cruel of your foes_ is full of charms for me.

PHI. I like _superbly_ and _gorgeously_; these two adverbs joined together sound admirably.

BEL. Let us hear the rest.

TRI. _Your prudence fast in sleep's repose Is plunged; if thus superbly kind, A lodging gorgeously you can find For the most cruel of your foes_

ARM. _Prudence asleep_!

BEL. _Lodge one's enemy_!

PHI. _Superbly and gorgeously_!

TRI. _Will she, nill she, quick, out she goes! From your apartment richly lined, Where that ingrate's outrageous mind At your fair life her javelin throws_.

BEL. Ah! gently. Allow me to breathe, I beseech you.

ARM. Give us time to admire, I beg.

PHI. One feels, at hearing these verses, an indescribable something which goes through one's inmost soul, and makes one feel quite faint.

ARM. _Will she, nill she, quick, out she goes From your apartment richly lined_. How prettily _rich apartment_ is said here, and with what wit the metaphor is introduced!

PHI. _Will she, nill she, quick, out she goes!_ Ah! in what admirable taste that _will she, nill she_, is! To my mind the passage is invaluable.

ARM. My heart is also in love with _will she, nill she_.

BEL. I am of your opinion; _will she, nill she_, is a happy expression.

ARM. I wish I had written it.

BEL. It is worth a whole poem!

PHI. But do you, like me, understand thoroughly the wit of it?

ARM. _and_ BEL. Oh! oh

PHIL. _Will she, nill she, quick, out she goes_! Although another should take the fever's part, pay no attention; laugh at the gossips; _will she, nill she, quick, out she goes. Will she, nill she, will she, nill she_. This _will she, nill she_, 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.

BEL. It is true that it says more than its size seems to imply.

PHI. (_to_ TRISSOTIN). But when you wrote this charming _Will she, nill she_, did you yourself understand all its energy? Did you realise all that it tells us, and did you then think that you were writing something so witty?

TRI. Ah! ah!

ARM. I have likewise the _ingrate_ in my head; this ungrateful, unjust, uncivil fever that ill-treats people who entertain her.

PHI. In short, both the stanzas are admirable. Let us come quickly to the triplets, I pray.

ARM. Ah! once more, _will she, nill she_, I beg.

TRI. _Will she, nill she, quick, out she goes!_

PHI., ARM. _and_ BEL. _Will she, nill she!_

TRI. _From your apartment richly lined._

PHI., ARM. _and_ BEL. _Rich apartment!_

TRI. _Where that ingrate's outrageous mind._

PHI., ARM. _and_ BEL. That ungrateful fever!

TRI. _At your fair life her javelin throws._

PHI. _Fair life!_

ARM. _and_ BEL. Ah!

TRI. _What! without heed for your high line, She saps your blood with care malign..._

PHI., ARM. _and_ BEL. Ah!

TRI. _Redoubling outrage night and day! If to the bath you take her down, Without a moment's haggling, pray, With your own hands the miscreant drown._

PHI. Ah! it is quite overpowering.

BEL. I faint.

ARM. I die from pleasure.

PHI. A thousand sweet thrills seize one.

ARM. _If to the bath you take her down,_

BEL. _Without a moment's haggling, pray,_

PHI. _With your own hands the miscreant drown_. With your own hands, there, drown her there in the bath.

ARM. In your verses we meet at each step with charming beauty.

BEL. One promenades through them with rapture.

PHI. One treads on fine things only.

ARM. They are little lanes all strewn with roses.

TRI. Then the sonnet seems to you....

PHI. Admirable, new; and never did any one make anything more beautiful.

BEL. (_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.

TRI. My verses, perhaps, are tedious to you.

HEN. No. I do not listen.

PHI. Ah! let us hear the epigram.

Tri. On A Carriage Of The Colour Of Amaranth Given To One Of His Lady

TRI. ON A CARRIAGE OF THE COLOUR OF AMARANTH GIVEN TO ONE OF HIS LADY FRIENDS. [2]

PHI. His titles have always something rare in them.

ARM. They prepare one for a hundred flashes of wit.

TRI. _Love for his bonds so dear a price demands, E'en now it costs me more than half my lands, And when this chariot meets your eyes, Where so much gold emboss'd doth rise That people all astonished stand, And Laïs rides in triumph through the land..._

[2] [This epigram is also by Cotin. It is called, _'Madrigal sur un carosse de couleur amarante, acheté pour une dame.'_

"L'amour si chèrement m'a vendu son lien Qu'il me coûte déjà la moitié de mon bien, Et quand tu vois ce beau carrosse, Où tant d'or se relève en bosse, Qu'il étonne tout le pays, Et fait pompeusement triompher ma Laïs, Ne dis plus qu'il est amarante, Dis plutôt qu'il est de ma rente."]

PHI. Ah! Laïs! what erudition!

BEL. The cover is pretty, and worth a million.

TRI. _And when this chariot meets your eyes, Where so much gold emboss'd doth rise That people all astonished stand, And Laïs rides in triumph through the land, Say no more it is amaranth, Say rather it is o' my rent._

ARM. Oh, oh, oh! this is beyond everything; who would have expected that?

PHI. He is the only one to write in such taste.

BEL. Say no more it is _amaranth, say rather it is o' my rent_! It can be declined; _my rent; of my rent; to my rent; from my rent_.

PHI. I do not know whether I was prepossessed from the first moment I saw you, but I admire all your prose and verse whenever I see it.

TRI. (_to_ PHILAMINTE). If you would only show us something of your composition, we could admire in our turn.

PHI. I have done nothing in verse; but I have reason to hope that I shall, shortly, be able, as a friend, to show you eight chapters of the plan of our Academy. Plato only touched on the subject when he wrote the treatise of his Republic; but I will complete the idea as I have arranged it on paper in prose. For, in short, I am truly angry at the wrong which is done us in regard to intelligence; and I will avenge the whole sex for the unworthy place which men assign us by confining our talents to trifles, and by shutting the door of sublime knowledge against us.

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.

BEL. We must rise above this shameful condition, and bravely proclaim our emancipation.

TRI. Every one knows my respect for the fairer sex, and that if I render homage to the brightness of their eyes, I also honour the splendour of their intellect. PHI. 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.

TRI. For order, I prefer peripateticism.

PHI. For abstractions I love Platonism.

ARM. Epicurus pleases me, for his tenets are solid.

BEL. I agree with the doctrine of atoms: but I find it difficult to understand a vacuum, and I much prefer subtile matter.

TRI. I quite agree with Descartes about magnetism.

ARM. I like his vortices.

PHI. And I his falling worlds. [Footnote: Notes do not seem necessary here; a good English dictionary will give better explanations than could be given except by very long notes.]

ARM. I long to see our assembly opened, and to distinguish ourselves by some great discovery.

TRI. Much is expected from your enlightened knowledge, for nature has hidden few things from you.

PHI. For my part, I have, without boasting, already made one discovery; I have plainly seen men in the moon.

BEL. I have not, I believe, as yet quite distinguished men, but I have seen steeples as plainly as I see you. [Footnote: An astronomer of the day had boasted of having done this.]

ARM. In addition to natural philosophy, we will dive into grammar, history, verse, ethics, and politics.

PHI. 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.

ARM. Our regulations in respect to language will soon be known, and we mean to create a revolution. Through a just or natural antipathy, we have each of us taken a mortal hatred to certain words, both verbs and nouns, and these we mutually abandon to each other. We are preparing sentences of death against them, we shall open our learned meetings by the proscription of the diverse words of which we mean to purge both prose and verse.

PHI. But the greatest project of our assembly--a noble enterprise which transports me with joy, a glorious design which will be approved by all the lofty geniuses of posterity--is the cutting out of all those filthy syllables which, in the finest words, are a source of scandal: those eternal jests of the fools of all times; those nauseous commonplaces of wretched buffoons; those sources of infamous ambiguity, with which the purity of women is insulted.

TRI. These are indeed admirable projects.

BEL. You shall see our regulations when they are quite ready.

TRI. They cannot fail to be wise and beautiful.

ARM. We shall by our laws be the judges of all works; by our laws, prose and verse will both alike be submitted to us. No one will have wit except us or our friends. We shall try to find fault with everything, and esteem no one capable of writing but ourselves.

SCENE III--PHILAMINTE, BÉLISE, ARMANDE, HENRIETTE, TRISSOTIN, LÉPINE.

LEP. (_to_ TRISSOTIN). Sir, there is a gentleman who wants to speak to you; he is dressed all in black, and speaks in a soft tone. (_They all rise._)

TRI. It is that learned friend who entreated me so much to procure him the honour of your acquaintance.

PHI. You have our full leave to present him to us. (TRISSOTIN _goes out to meet_ VADIUS.)

SCENE IV.--PHILAMINTE, BÉLISE, ARMANDE, HENRIETTE.

PHI. (_to_ ARMANDE _and_ BÉLISE). At least, let us do him all the honours of our knowledge. (_To_ HENRIETTE, _who is going_) Stop! I told you very plainly that I wanted to speak to you.

HEN. But what about?

PHI. You will soon be enlightened on the subject.

SCENE V.--TRISSOTIN, VADIUS, PHILAMINTE, BÉLISE, ARMANDE, HENRIETTE.

TRI. (_introducing_ VADIUS). [Footnote: It is probably Ménage who is here laughed at.] Here is the gentleman who is dying to see you. In presenting him I am not afraid, Madam, of being accused of introducing a profane person to you; he can hold his place among the wits.

PHI. The hand which introduces him sufficiently proves his value.

TRI. He has a perfect knowledge of the ancient authors, and knows Greek, Madam, as well as any man in France.

PHI. (_to_ BÉLISE). Greek! O heaven! Greek! He understands Greek, sister!

BEL. (_to_ ARMANDE). Ah, niece! Greek!

ARM. Greek! ah! how delightful!

PHI. What, Sir, you understand Greek? Allow me, I beg, for the love of Greek, to embrace you. (VADIUS _embraces also_ BÉLISE _and_ ARMANDE.)

HEN. (_to_ VADIUS, _who comes forward to embrace her_) Excuse me, Sir, I do not understand Greek. (_They sit down_.)

PHI. I have a wonderful respect for Greek books.

VAD. I fear that the anxiety which calls me to render my homage to you to-day, Madam, may render me importunate. I may have disturbed some learned discourse.

PHI. Sir, with Greek in possession, you can spoil nothing.

TRI. Moreover, he does wonders in prose as well as in verse, and he could, if he chose, show you something.

VAD. The fault of authors is to burden conversation with their productions; to be at the Palais, in the walks, in the drawing-rooms, or at table, the indefatigable readers of their tedious verses. As for me, I think nothing more ridiculous than an author who goes about begging for praise, who, preying on the ears of the first comers, often makes them the martyrs of his night watches. I have never been guilty of such foolish conceit, and I am in that respect of the opinion of a Greek, who by an express law forbade all his wise men any unbecoming anxiety to read their works.--Here are some little verses for young lovers upon which I should like to have your opinion.

TRI. Your verses have beauties unequalled by any others.

VAD. Venus and the Graces reign in all yours.

TRI. You have an easy style, and a fine choice of words.

VAD. In all your writings one finds _ithos_ and _pathos_.

TRI. We have seen some eclogues of your composition which surpass in sweetness those of Theocritus and Virgil.

VAD. Your odes have a noble, gallant, and tender manner, which leaves Horace far behind.

TRI. Is there anything more lovely than your canzonets?

VAD. Is there anything equal to the sonnets you write?

TRI. Is there anything more charming than your little rondeaus?

VAD. Anything so full of wit as your madrigals?

TRI. You are particularly admirable in the ballad.

VAD. And in _bouts-rimés_ I think you adorable.

TRI. If France could appreciate your value--

VAD. If the age could render justice to a lofty genius--

TRI. You would ride in the streets in a gilt coach.

VAD. We should see the public erect statues to you. Hem...(_to_ TRISSOTIN). It is a ballad; and I wish you frankly to....

TRI. (_to_ VADIUS). Have you heard a certain little sonnet upon the Princess Urania's fever?

VAD. Yes; I heard it read yesterday.

TRI. Do you know the author of it?

VAD. No, I do not; but I know very well that, to tell him the truth, his sonnet is good for nothing.

TRI. Yet a great many people think it admirable.

VAD. It does not prevent it from being wretched; and if you had read it, you would think like me.

TRI. I know that I should differ from you altogether, and that few people are able to write such a sonnet.

VAD. Heaven forbid that I should ever write one so bad!

TRI. I maintain that a better one cannot be made, and my reason is that I am the author of it.

VAD. You?

TRI. Myself.

VAD. I cannot understand how the thing can have happened.

TRI. It is unfortunate that I had not the power of pleasing you.

VAD. My mind must have wandered during the reading, or else the reader spoilt the sonnet; but let us leave that subject, and come to my ballad.

TRI. The ballad is, to my mind, but an insipid thing; it is no longer the fashion, and savours of ancient times.

VAD. Yet a ballad has charms for many people.

TRI. It does not prevent me from thinking it unpleasant.

VAD. That does not make it worse.

TRI. It has wonderful attractions for pedants.

VAD. Yet we see that it does not please you.

TRI. You stupidly give your qualities to others.

(_They all rise._)

VAD. You very impertinently cast yours upon me.

TRI. Go, you little dunce! you pitiful quill-driver!

VAD. Go, you penny-a-liner! you disgrace to the profession!

TRI. Go, you book-maker, you impudent plagiarist!

VAD. Go, you pedantic snob!

PHI. Ah! gentlemen, what are you about?

TRI. (_to_ VADIUS). Go, go, and make restitution to the Greeks and Romans for all your shameful thefts.

VAD. Go and do penance on Parnassus for having murdered Horace in your verses.

TRI. Remember your book, and the little noise it made.

VAD. And you, remember your bookseller, reduced to the workhouse.

TRI. My glory is established; in vain would you endeavour to shake it.

VAD. Yes, yes; I send you to the author of the 'Satires.' [Footnote: Boileau.]

TRI. I, too, send you to him.

VAD. I have the satisfaction of having been honourably treated by him; he gives me a passing thrust, and includes me among several authors well known at the Palais; but he never leaves you in peace, and in all his verses you are exposed to his attacks.

TRI: By that we see the honourable rank I hold. He leaves you in the crowd, and esteems one blow enough to crush you. He has never done you the honour of repeating his attacks, whereas he assails me separately, as a noble adversary against whom all his efforts are necessary; and his blows, repeated against me on all occasions, show that he never thinks himself victorious.

VAD. My pen will teach you what sort of man I am.

TRI. And mine will make you know your master.

VAD. I defy you in verse, prose, Greek and Latin.

TRI. Very well, we shall meet each other alone at Barbin's. [Footnote: Barbin, a famous bookseller. The arms chosen for the duel would no doubt be books. See "The Lutrin," by Boileau.]

SCENE VI.--TRISSOTIN, PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, BÉLISE, HENRIETTE.

TRI. Do not blame my anger. It is your judgment I defend, Madam, in the sonnet he dares to attack.

PHI. I will do all I can to reconcile you. But let us speak of something else. Come here, Henriette. I have for some time now been tormented at finding in you a want of intellectuality, but I have thought of a means of remedying this defect.

HEN. You take unnecessary trouble for my sake. I have no love for learned discourses. I like to take life easy, and it is too much trouble to be intellectual. Such ambition does not trouble my head, and I am perfectly satisfied, mother, with being stupid. I prefer to have only a common way of talking, and not to torment myself to produce fine words.

PHI. That may be; but this stupidity wounds me, and it is not my intention to suffer such a stain on my family. The beauty of the face is a fragile ornament, a passing flower, a moment's brightness which only belongs to the epidermis; whereas that of the mind is lasting and solid. I have therefore been feeling about for the means of giving you the beauty which time cannot remove--of creating in you the love of knowledge, of insinuating solid learning into you; and the way I have at last determined upon is to unite you to a man full of genius; (_showing_ TRISSOTIN) to this gentleman, in fact. It is he whom I intend you to marry.

HEN. Me, mother!

PHI. Yes, you! just play the fool a little.

BEL. (_to_ TRISSOTIN). I understand you; your eyes ask me for leave to engage elsewhere a heart I possess. Be at peace, I consent. I yield you up to this union; it is a marriage which will establish you in society.

TRI. (_to_ HENRIETTE). In my delight, I hardly know what to tell you, Madam, and this marriage with which I am honoured puts me....

HEN. Gently, Sir; it is not concluded yet; do not be in such a hurry.

PHI. What a way of answering! Do you know that if ... but enough. You understand me. (_To_ TRISSOTIN) She will obey. Let us leave her alone for the present.

Scene Vii.--Henriette, Armande.

SCENE VII.--HENRIETTE, ARMANDE.

ARM. You see how our mother's anxiety for your welfare shines forth; she could not have chosen a more illustrious husband....

HEN. If the choice is so good, why do you not take him for yourself?

ARM. It is upon you, and not upon me, that his hand is bestowed.

HEN. I yield him up entirely to you as my elder Sister.

ARM. If marriage seemed so pleasant to me as it seems to be to you, I would accept your offer with delight.

HEN. If I loved pedants as you do, I should think the match an excellent one.

ARM. Although our tastes differ so in this case, you will still have to obey our parents, sister. A mother has full power over us, and in vain do you think by resistance to....

Scene Viii.--Chrysale, Ariste, Clitandre, Henriette, Armande.

SCENE VIII.--CHRYSALE, ARISTE, CLITANDRE, HENRIETTE, ARMANDE.

CHRY. (_to_ HENRIETTE, _as he presents_ CLITANDRE). Now, my daughter, you must show your approval of what I do. Take off your glove, shake hands with this gentleman, and from henceforth in your heart consider him as the man I want you to marry.

ARM. Your inclinations on this side are strong enough, sister.

HEN. We must obey our parents, sister; a father has full power over us.

ARM. A mother should have a share of obedience.

CHRY. What is the meaning of this?

ARM. I say that I greatly fear you and my mother are not likely to agree on this point, and this other husband....

CHRY. Be silent, you saucy baggage: philosophise as much as you please with her, and do not meddle with what I do. Tell her what I have done, and warn her that she is not to come and make me angry. Go at once!

Scene Ix.--Chrysale, Ariste, Henriette, Clitandre.

SCENE IX.--CHRYSALE, ARISTE, HENRIETTE, CLITANDRE.

ARI. That's right; you are doing wonders!

CLI. What transport! what joy! Ah! how kind fortune is to me!

CHRY. (_to_ CLITANDRE). Come, take her hand and pass before us; take her to her room. Ah! what sweet caresses. (_to_ ARISTE) How moved my heart is before this tenderness; it cheers up one's old age, and I can still remember my youthful loving days.

Act Iv. Scene I.--Philaminte, Armande.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.--PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE.

ARM. Yes, there was no hesitation in her; she made a display of her obedience, and her heart scarcely took time to hear the order. She seemed less to obey the will of her father than affect to set at defiance the will of her mother.

PHI. I will soon show her to which of us two the laws of reason subject her wishes, and who ought to govern, mother or father, mind or body, form or matter.

ARM. At least, they owed you the compliment of consulting you; and that little gentleman who resolves to become your son-in-law, in spite of yourself, behaves himself strangely.

PHI. He has not yet reached the goal of his desires. I thought him well made, and approved of your love; but his manners were always unpleasant to me. He knows that I write a little, thank heaven, and yet he has never desired me to read anything to him.

SCENE II--ARMANDE, PHILAMINTE, CLITANDRE (_entering softly and listening unseen_).

ARM. If I were you, I would not allow him to become Henriette's husband. It would be wrong to impute to me the least thought of speaking like an interested person in this matter, and false to think that the base trick he is playing me secretly vexes me. By the help of philosophy, my soul is fortified against such trials; by it we can rise above everything. But to see him treat you so, provokes me beyond all endurance. Honour requires you to resist his wishes, and he is not a man in whom you could find pleasure. In our talks together I never could see that he had in his heart any respect for you.

PHI. Poor idiot!

ARM. In spite of all the reports of your glory, he was always cold in praising you.

PHI. The churl!

ARM. And twenty times have I read to him some of your new productions, without his ever thinking them fine.

PHI. The impertinent fellow!

ARM. We were often at variance about it, and you could hardly believe what foolish things....

CLI (_to_ ARMANDE). Ah! gently, pray. A little charity, or at least a little truthfulness. What harm have I done to you? and of what am I guilty that you should thus arm all your eloquence against me to destroy me, and that you should take so much trouble to render me odious to those whose assistance I need? Tell me why this great indignation? (_To_ PHILAMINTE) I am willing to make you, Madam, an impartial judge between us.

ARM. If I felt this great wrath with which you accuse me, I could find enough to authorise it. You deserve it but too well. A first love has such sacred claims over our hearts, that it would be better to lose fortune and renounce life than to love a second time. Nothing can be compared to the crime of changing one's vows, and every faithless heart is a monster of immorality.

CLI. Do you call that infidelity, Madam, which the haughtiness of your mind has forced upon me? I have done nothing but obey the commands it imposed upon me; and if I offend you, you are the primary cause of the offence. At first your charms took entire possession of my heart. For two years I loved you with devoted love; there was no assiduous care, duty, respect, service, which I did not offer you. But all my attentions, all my cares, had no power over you. I found you opposed to my dearest wishes; and what you refused I offered to another. Consider then, if the fault is mine or yours. Does my heart run after change, or do you force me to it? Do I leave you, or do you not rather turn me away?

ARM. Do you call it being opposed to your love, Sir, if I deprive it of what there is vulgar in it, and if I wish to reduce it to the purity in which the beauty of perfect love consists? You cannot for me keep your thoughts clear and disentangled from the commerce of sense; and you do not enter into the charms of that union of two hearts in which the body is ignored. You can only love with a gross and material passion; and in order to maintain in you the love I have created, you must have marriage, and all that follows. Ah! what strange love! How far great souls are from burning with these terrestrial flames! The senses have no share in all their ardour; their noble passion unites the hearts only, and treats all else as unworthy. Theirs is a flame pure and clear like a celestial fire. With this they breathe only sinless sighs, and never yield to base desires. Nothing impure is mixed in what they propose to themselves. They love for the sake of loving, and for nothing else. It is only to the soul that all their transports are directed, and the body they altogether forget.

CLI. Unfortunately, Madam, I feel, if you will forgive my saying so, that I have a body as well as a soul; and that I am too much attached to that body for me totally to forget it. I do not understand this separation. Heaven has denied me such philosophy, and my body and soul go together. There is nothing so beautiful, as you well say, as that purified love which is directed only to the heart, those unions of the soul and those tender thoughts so free from the commerce of sense. But such love is too refined for me. I am, as you observe, a little gross and material. I love with all my being; and, in the love that is given to me, I wish to include the whole person. This is not a subject for lofty self-denial; and, without wishing to wrong your noble sentiments, I see that in the world my method has a certain vogue; that marriage is somewhat the fashion, and passes for a tie honourable and tender enough to have made me wish to become your husband, without giving you cause to be offended at such a thought.

ARM. Well, well! Sir, since without being convinced by what I say, your grosser feelings will be satisfied; since to reduce you to a faithful love, you must have carnal ties and material chains, I will, if I have my mother's permission, bring my mind to consent to all you wish.

CLI. It is too late; another has accepted before you and if I were to return to you, I should basely abuse the place of rest in which I sought refuge, and should wound the goodness of her to whom I fled when you disdained me.

PHI. But, Sir, when you thus look forward, do you believe in my consent to this other marriage? In the midst of your dreams, let it enter your mind that I have another husband ready for her.

CLI. Ah! Madam, reconsider your choice, I beseech you; and do not expose me to such a disgrace. Do not doom me to the unworthy destiny of seeing myself the rival of Mr. Trissotin. The love of _beaux esprits_ [Footnote: No single word has given me so much trouble to translate as this word _esprit_. This time I acknowledge myself beaten.], which goes against me in your mind, could not have opposed to me a less noble adversary. There are people whom the bad taste of the age has reckoned among men of genius; but Mr. Trissotin deceives nobody, and everyone does justice to the writings he gives us. Everywhere but here he is esteemed at his just value; and what has made me wonder above all things is to see you exalt to the sky, stupid verses which you would have disowned had you yourself written them.

PHI. If you judge of him differently from us, it is that we see him with other eyes than you do.

Scene Iii.--Trissotin, Philaminte, Armande, Clitandre.

SCENE III.--TRISSOTIN, PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, CLITANDRE.

TRI. (_to_ PHILAMINTE). I come to announce you great news. We have had a narrow escape while we slept. A world passed all along us, and fell right across our vortex. [Footnote: _Tourbillon_. Compare act iii scene ii. Another reference to Cotin.] If in its way it had met with our earth, it would have dashed us to pieces like so much glass.

PHI. Let us put off this subject till another season. This gentleman would understand nothing of it; he professes to cherish ignorance, and above all to hate intellect and knowledge.

CLI. This is not altogether the fact; allow me, Madam, to explain myself. I only hate that kind of intellect and learning which spoils people. These are good and beautiful in themselves; but I had rather be numbered among the ignorant than to see myself learned like certain people.

TRI. For my part I do not believe, whatever opinion may be held to the contrary, that knowledge can ever spoil anything.

CLI. And I hold that knowledge can make great fools both in words and in deeds.

TRI. The paradox is rather strong.

CLI. It would be easy to find proofs; and I believe without being very clever, that if reasons should fail, notable examples would not be wanting.

TRI. You might cite some without proving your point.

CLI. I should not have far to go to find what I want.

TRI. As far as I am concerned, I fail to see those notable examples.

CLI. I see them so well that they almost blind me.

TRI. I believed hitherto that it was ignorance which made fools, and not knowledge.

CLI. You made a great mistake; and I assure you that a learned fool is more of a fool than an ignorant one.

TRI. Common sense is against your maxims, since an ignorant man and a fool are synonymous.

CLI. If you cling to the strict uses of words, there is a greater connection between pedant and fool.

TRI. Folly in the one shows itself openly.

CLI. And study adds to nature in the other.

TRI. Knowledge has always its intrinsic value.

CLI. Knowledge in a pedant becomes impertinence.

TRI. Ignorance must have great charms for you, since you so eagerly take up arms in its defence.

CLI. If ignorance has such charms for me, it is since I have met with learned people of a certain kind.

TRI. These learned people of a certain kind may, when we know them well, be as good as other people of a certain other kind.

CLI. Yes, if we believe certain learned men; but that remains a question with certain people.

PHI. (_to CLITANDRE_.) It seems to me, Sir....

CLI. Ah! Madam, I beg of you; this gentleman is surely strong enough without assistance. I have enough to do already with so strong an adversary, and as I fight I retreat.

ARM. But the offensive eagerness with which your answers....

CLI. Another ally! I quit the field.

PHI. Such combats are allowed in conversation, provided you attack no one in particular.

CLI. Ah! Madam, there is nothing in all this to offend him. He can bear raillery as well as any man in France; and he has supported many other blows without finding his glory tarnished by it.

TRI. I am not surprised to see this gentleman take such a part in this contest. He belongs to the court; that is saying everything. The court, as every one well knows, does not care for learning; it has a certain interest in supporting ignorance. And it is as a courtier he takes up its defence.

CLI. Your are very angry with this poor court. The misfortune is great indeed to see you men of learning day after day declaiming against it; making it responsible for all your troubles; calling it to account for its bad taste, and seeing in it the scapegoat of your ill-success. Allow me, Mr. Trissotin, to tell you, with all the respect with which your name inspires me, that you would do well, your brethren and you, to speak of the court in a more moderate tone; that, after all, it is not so very stupid as all you gentlemen make it out to be; that it has good sense enough to appreciate everything; that some good taste can be acquired there; and that the common sense found there is, without flattery, well worth all the learning of pedantry.

TRI. We See some effects of its good taste, Sir.

CLI. Where do you see, Sir, that its taste is so bad?

TRI. Where, Sir! Do not Rasius and Balbus by their learning do honour to France? and yet their merit, so very patent to all, attracts no notice from the court.

CLI. I see whence your sorrow comes, and that, through modesty, you forbear, Sir, to rank yourself with these. Not to drag you in, tell me what your able heroes do for their country? What service do their writings render it that they should accuse the court of horrible injustice, and complain everywhere that it fails to pour down favours on their learned names? Their knowledge is of great moment to France! and the court stands in great need of the books they write! These wretched scribblers get it into their little heads that to be printed and bound in calf makes them at once important personages in the state; that with their pens they regulate the destiny of crowns; that at the least mention of their productions, pensions ought to be poured down upon them; that the eyes of the whole universe are fixed upon them, and the glory of their name spread everywhere! They think themselves prodigies of learning because they know what others have said before them; because for thirty years they have had eyes and ears, and have employed nine or ten thousand nights or so in cramming themselves with Greek and Latin, and in filling their heads with the indiscriminate plunder of all the old rubbish which lies scattered in books. They always seem intoxicated with their own knowledge, and for all merit are rich in importunate babble. Unskilful in everything, void of common sense, and full of absurdity and impertinence, they decry everywhere true learning and knowledge.

PHI. You speak very warmly on the subject, and this transport shows the working of ill-nature in you. It is the name of rival which excites in your breast....

Scene Iv.--Trissotin, Philaminte, Clitandre, Armande, Julian.

SCENE IV.--TRISSOTIN, PHILAMINTE, CLITANDRE, ARMANDE, JULIAN.

JUL. The learned gentleman who paid you a visit just now, Madam, and whose humble servant I have the honour to be, exhorts you to read this letter.

PHI. However important this letter may be, learn, friend, that it is a piece of rudeness to come and interrupt a conversation, and that a servant who knows his place should apply first to the people of the household to be introduced.

JUL. I will note that down, Madam, in my book.

PHI. (_reads_). "_Trissotin boasts, Madam, that he is to marry your daughter. I give you notice that his philosophy aims only at your wealth, and that you would do well not to conclude this marriage before you have seen the poem which I am composing against him. While you are waiting for this portrait, in which I intend to paint him in all his colours, I send you Horace, Virgil, Terence, and Catullus, where you will find marked in the margin all the passages he has pilfered._"

We see there merit attacked by many enemies because of the marriage I have decided upon. But this general ill-feeling only prompts me to an action which will confound envy, and make it feel that whatever it does only hastens the end. (_To_ JULIAN) Tell all this to your master; tell him also that in order to let him know how much value I set on his disinterested advice, and how worthy of being followed I esteem it, this very evening I shall marry my daughter to this gentleman (_showing_ TRISSOTIN).

Scene V.--Philaminte, Armande, Clitandre.

SCENE V.--PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, CLITANDRE.

PHI. (_to_ CLITANDRE). You, Sir, as a friend of the family, may assist at the signing of the contract, for I am willing to invite you to it. Armande, be sure you send for the notary, and tell your sister of my decision.

ARM. There is no need of saying anything to my sister; this gentleman will be pretty sure to take the news to her, and try and dispose her heart to rebellion.

PHI. We shall see who has most power over her, and whether I can bring her to a sense of her duty.

Scene Vi.--Armande, Clitandre.

SCENE VI.--ARMANDE, CLITANDRE.

ARM. I am very sorry to see, Sir, that things are not going quite according to your views.

CLI. I shall go and do all I can not to leave this serious anxiety upon your mind.

ARM. I am afraid that your efforts will not be very successful.

CLI. You may perhaps see that your fears are without foundation.

ARM. I hope it may be so.

CLI. I am persuaded that I shall have all your help.

ARM. Yes, I will second you with all my power.

CLI. And I shall be sure to be most grateful.

Scene Vii.--Chrysale, Ariste, Henriette, Clitandre.

SCENE VII.--CHRYSALE, ARISTE, HENRIETTE, CLITANDRE.

CLI. I should be most unfortunate without your assistance, Sir, for your wife has rejected my offer, and, her mind being prepossessed in favour of Trissotin, she insists upon having him for a son-in-law.

CHRY. But what fancy is this that she has got into her head? Why in the world will she have this Mr. Trissotin?

ARI. It is because he has the honour of rhyming with Latin that he is carrying it off over the head of his rival.

CLI. She wants to conclude this marriage to-night.

CHRY. To-night?

CLI. Yes, to-night.

CHRY. Well! and this very night I will, in order to thwart her, have you both married.

CLI. She has sent for the notary to draw up the contract.

CHRY. And I will go and fetch him for the one he must draw up.

CLI. And Henriette is to be told by her sister of the marriage to which she must look forward.

CHRY. And I command her with full authority to prepare herself for this other alliance. Ah! I will show them if there is any other master but myself to give orders in the house. (_To_ HENRIETTE) We will return soon. Now, come along with me, brother; and you also, my son-in-law.

HEN. (_to_ ARISTE). Alas! try to keep him in this disposition.

ARI. I will do everything to serve your love.

Scene Viii.--Henriette, Clitandre.

SCENE VIII.--HENRIETTE, CLITANDRE.

CLI. However great may be the help that is promised to my love, my greatest hope is in your constancy.

HEN. You know that you may be sure of my love.

CLI. I see nothing to fear as long as I have that.

HEN. You see to what a union they mean to force me.

CLI. As long as your heart belongs entirely to me, I see nothing to fear.

HEN. I will try everything for the furtherance of our dearest wishes, and if after all I cannot be yours, there is a sure retreat I have resolved upon, which will save me from belonging to any one else.

CLI. May Heaven spare me from ever receiving from you that proof of your love.

Act V. Scene I.--Henriette, Trissotin.

ACT V.

SCENE I.--HENRIETTE, TRISSOTIN.

HEN. It is about the marriage which my mother has set her heart upon that I wish, Sir, to speak privately to you; and I thought that, seeing how our home is disturbed by it, I should be able to make you listen to reason. You are aware that with me you will receive a considerable dowry; but money, which we see so many people esteem, has no charms worthy of a philosopher; and contempt for wealth and earthly grandeur should not show itself in your words only.

TRI. Therefore it is not that which charms me in you; but your dazzling beauty, your sweet and piercing eyes, your grace, your noble air--these are the wealth, the riches, which have won for you my vows and love; it is of those treasures only that I am enamoured.

HEN. I thank you for your generous love; I ought to feel grateful and to respond to it; I regret that I cannot; I esteem you as much as one can esteem another; but in me I find an obstacle to loving you. You know that a heart cannot be given to two people, and I feel that Clitandre has taken entire possession of mine. I know that he has much less merit than you, that I have not fit discrimination for the choice of a husband, and that with your many talents you ought to please me. I see that I am wrong, but I cannot help it; and all the power that reason has over me is to make me angry with myself for such blindness.

TRI. The gift of your hand, to which I am allowed to aspire, will give me the heart possessed by Clitandre; for by a thousand tender cares I have reason to hope that I shall succeed in making myself loved.

HEN. No; my heart is bound to its first love, and cannot be touched by your cares and attention. I explain myself plainly with you, and my confession ought in no way to hurt your feelings. The love which springs up in the heart is not, as you know, the effect of merit, but is partly decided by caprice; and oftentimes, when some one pleases us, we can barely find the reason. If choice and wisdom guided love, all the tenderness of my heart would be for you; but love is not thus guided. Leave me, I pray, to my blindness; and do not profit by the violence which, for your sake, is imposed on my obedience. A man of honour will owe nothing to the power which parents have over us; he feels a repugnance to exact a self-sacrifice from her he loves, and will not obtain a heart by force. Do not encourage my mother to exercise, for your sake, the absolute power she has over me. Give up your love for me, and carry to another the homage of a heart so precious as yours.

TRI. For this heart to satisfy you, you must impose upon it laws it can obey. Could it cease to love you, Madam, unless you ceased to be loveable, and could cease to display those celestial charms....

HEN. Ah! Sir, leave aside all this trash; you are encumbered with so many Irises, Phyllises, Amaranthas, which everywhere in your verses you paint as charming, and to whom you swear such love, that....

TRI. It is the mind that speaks, and not the heart. With them it is only the poet that is in love; but it is in earnest that I love the adorable Henriette.

HEN. Ah, Sir, I beg of you....

TRI. If I offend you, my offence is not likely to cease. This love, ignored by you to this day, will be of eternal duration. Nothing can put a stop to its delightful transports; and although your beauty condemns my endeavours, I cannot refuse the help of a mother who wishes to crown such a precious flame. Provided I succeed in obtaining such great happiness, provided I obtain your hand, it matters little to me how it comes to pass.

HEN. But are you aware, Sir, that you risk more than you think by using violence; and to be plain with you, that it is not safe to marry a girl against her wish, for she might well have recourse to a certain revenge that a husband should fear.

TRI. Such a speech has nothing that can make me alter my purpose. A philosopher is prepared against every event. Cured by reason of all vulgar weaknesses, he rises above these things, and is far from minding what does not depend on him. [Footnote: Compare 'School for Wives,' act iv. scene vi.]

HEN. Truly, Sir, I am delighted to hear you; and I had no idea that philosophy was so capable of teaching men to bear such accidents with constancy. This wonderful strength of mind deserves to have a fit subject to illustrate it, and to find one who may take pleasure in giving it an occasion for its full display. As, however, to say the truth, I do not feel equal to the task, I will leave it to another; and, between ourselves, I assure you that I renounce altogether the happiness of seeing you my husband.

TRI. (_going_). We shall see by-and-by how the affair will end. In the next room, close at hand, is the notary waiting.

Scene Ii.--Chrysale, Clitandre, Henriette.

SCENE II.--CHRYSALE, CLITANDRE, HENRIETTE.

CHRY. I am glad, my daughter, to see you; come here and fulfil your duty, by showing obedience to the will of your father. I will teach your mother how to behave, and, to defy her more fully, here is Martine, whom I have brought back to take her old place in the house again.

HEN. Your resolution deserves praise. I beg of you, father, never to change the disposition you are in. Be firm in what you have resolved, and do not suffer yourself to be the dupe of your own good-nature. Do not yield; and I pray you to act so as to hinder my mother from having her own way.

CHRY. How! Do you take me for a booby?

HEN. Heaven forbid!

CHRY. Am I a fool, pray?

HEN. I do not say that.

CHRY. Am I thought unfit to have the decision of a man of sense?

HEN. No, father.

CHRY. Ought I not at my age to know how to be master at home?

HEN. Of course.

CHRY. Do you think me weak enough to allow my wife to lead me by the nose?

HEN. Oh dear, no, father.

CHRY. Well, then, what do you mean? You are a nice girl to speak to me as you do!

HEN. If I have displeased you, father, I have done so unintentionally.

CHRY. My will is law in this place.

HEN. Certainly, father.

CHRY. No one but myself has in this house a right to command.

HEN. Yes, you are right, father.

CHRY. It is I who hold the place of chief of the family.

HEN. Agreed.

CHRY. It is I who ought to dispose of my daughter's hand.

HEN. Yes, indeed, father.

CHRY. Heaven has given me full power over you.

HEN. No one, father, says anything to the contrary.

CHRY. And as to choosing a husband, I will show you that it is your father, and not your mother, whom you have to obey.

HEN. Alas! in that you respond to my dearest wish. Exact obedience to you is my earnest wish.

CHRY. We shall see if my wife will prove rebellious to my will.

CLI. Here she is, and she brings the notary with her.

CHRY. Back me up, all of you.

MAR. Leave that to me; I will take care to encourage you, if need be.

SCENE III.--PHILAMINTE, BÉLISE, ARMANDE, TRISSOTIN, A NOTARY,

Chrysale, Clitandre, Henriette, Martine.

CHRYSALE, CLITANDRE, HENRIETTE, MARTINE.

PHI. (_to the_ NOTARY). Can you not alter your barbarous style, and give us a contract couched in noble language?

NOT. Our style is very good, and I should be a blockhead, Madam, to try and change a single word.

BEL. Ah! what barbarism in the very midst of France! But yet, Sir, for learning's sake, allow us, instead of crowns, livres, and francs, to have the dowry expressed in minae and talents, and to express the date in Ides and Kalends.

NOT. I, Madam? If I were to do such a thing, all my colleagues would hiss me.

PHI. It is useless to complain of all this barbarism. Come, Sir, sit down and write. (_Seeing_ MARTINE) Ah! this impudent hussy dares to show herself here again! Why was she brought back, I should like to know?

CHRY. We will tell you by-and-by; we have now something else to do.

NOT. Let us proceed with the contract. Where is the future bride?

PHI. It is the younger daughter I give in marriage.

NOT. Good.

CHRY. (_showing_ HENRIETTE). Yes, Sir, here she is; her name is Henriette.

NOT. Very well; and the future bridegroom?

PHI. (_showing_ TRISSOTIN). This gentleman is the husband I give her.

CHRY. (_showing_ CLITANDRE). And the husband I wish her to marry is this gentleman.

NOT. Two husbands! Custom does not allow of more than one.

PHI. (_to the_ NOTARY). What is it that is stopping you? Put down Mr. Trissotin as my son-in-law.

CHRY. For my son-in-law put down Mr. Clitandre.

NOT. Try and agree together, and come to a quiet decision as to who is to be the future husband.

PHI. Abide, Sir, abide by my own choice.

CHRY. Do, Sir, do according to my will.

NOT. Tell me which of the two I must obey.

PHI. (_to_ CHRYSALE). What! you will go against my wishes.

CHRY. I cannot allow my daughter to be sought after only because of the wealth which is in my family.

PHI. Really! as if anyone here thought of your wealth, and as if it were a subject worthy the anxiety of a wise man.

CHRY. In short, I have fixed on Clitandre.

PHI. (_showing_ TRISSOTIN). And I am decided that for a husband she shall have this gentleman. My choice shall be followed; the thing is settled.

CHRY. Heyday! you assume here a very high tone.

MAR. 'Tisn't for the wife to lay down the law, and I be one to give up the lead to the men in everything.

CHRY. That is well said.

MAR. If my discharge was as sure as a gun, what I says is, that the hen hadn't ought to be heard when the cock's there.

CHRY. Just so.

MAR. And we all know that a man is always chaffed, when at home his wife wears the breeches.

CHRY. It is perfectly true.

MAR. I says that, if I had a husband, I would have him be the master of the house. I should not care a bit for him if he played the henpecked husband; and if I resisted him out of caprice, or if I spoke too loud, I should think it quite right if, with a couple of boxes on the ear, he made me pitch it lower.

CHRY. You speak as you ought.

MAR. Master is quite right to want a proper husband for his daughter.

CHRY. Certainly.

MAR. Why should he refuse her Clitandre, who is young and handsome, in order to give her a scholar, who is always splitting hairs about something? She wants a husband and not a pedagogue, and as she cares neither for Greek nor Latin, she has no need of Mr. Trissotin.

CHRY. Excellent.

PHI. We must suffer her to chatter on at her ease.

MAR. Learned people are only good to preach in a pulpit, and I have said a thousand times that I wouldn't have a learned man for my husband. Learning is not at all what is wanted in a household. Books agree badly with marriage, and if ever I consent to engage myself to anybody, it will be to a husband who has no other book but me, who doesn't know _a_ from _b_--no offence to you, Madam--and, in short, who would be clever only for his wife. [Footnote: In this scene, as in act ii. scenes v. and vi., Martine speaks very correctly at times.]

PHI. (_to_ CHRYSALE). Is it finished? and have I listened patiently enough to your worthy interpreter?

CHRY. She has only said the truth.

PHI. And I, to put an end to this dispute, will have my wish obeyed. (_Showing_ TRISSOTIN) Henriette _and_ this gentleman shall be united at once. I have said it, and I will have it so. Make no reply; and if you have given your word to Clitandre, offer him her elder sister.

CHRY. Ah! this is a way out of the difficulty. (_To_ HENRIETTE and CLITANDRE) Come, do you consent?

HEN. How! father...!

CLI. (_to_ CHRYSALE). What! Sir...!

BEL. Propositions more to his taste might be made. But we are establishing a kind of love which must be as pure as the morning-star; the thinking substance is admitted, but not the material substance.

SCENE IV.--ARISTE, CHRYSALE, PHILAMINTE, BÉLISE, HENRIETTE, ARMANDE,

Trissotin, A Notary, Clitandre, Martine.

TRISSOTIN, A NOTARY, CLITANDRE, MARTINE.

ARI. I am sorry to have to trouble this happy ceremony by the sad tidings of which I am obliged to be bearer. These two letters make me bring news which have made me feel grievously for you. (_To_ PHILAMINTE) One letter is for you, and comes from your attorney. (_To_ CHRYSALE) The other comes from Lyons.

PHI. What misfortune can be sent us worthy of troubling us?

ARI. You can read it in this letter.

PHI. _"Madam, I have asked your brother to give you this letter; it will tell you news which I did not dare to come and tell you myself. The great negligence you have shown in your affairs has been the cause that the clerk of your attorney has not forewarned me, and you have altogether lost the lawsuit which you ought to have gained."_

CHRY. (_to_ PHILAMINTE). Your lawsuit lost!

PHI. (_to_ CHRYSALE). You seem very much upset; my heart is in no way troubled by such a blow. Show, show like me, a less vulgar mind wherewith to brave the ills of fortune. "Your want of care will cost you forty thousand crowns, and you are condemned to pay this sum with all costs." Condemned? Ah! this is a shocking word, and only fit for criminals.

ARI. It is the wrong word, no doubt, and you, with reason, protest against it. It should have been, "You are desired by an order of the court to pay immediately forty thousand crowns and costs."

PHI. Let us see the other.

CHRY. _"Sir, the friendship which binds me to your brother prompts me to take a lively interest in all that concerns you. I know that you had placed your fortune entirely in the hands of Argante and Damon, and I acquaint you with the news that they have both failed."_ O Heaven! to lose everything thus in a moment!

PHI. (_to CHRYSALE_.) Ah! what a shameful outburst Fie! For the truly wise there is no fatal change of fortune, and, losing all, he still remains himself. Let us finish the business we have in hand; and please cast aside your sorrow. (_Showing_ TRISSOTIN) His wealth will be sufficient for us and for him.

TRI. No, Madam; cease, I pray you, from pressing this affair further. I see that everybody is opposed to this marriage, and I have no intention of forcing the wills of others.

PHI. This reflection, Sir, comes very quickly after our reverse of fortune.

TRI. I am tired at last of so much resistance, and prefer to relinquish all attempts at removing these obstacles. I do not wish for a heart that will not surrender itself.

PHI. I see in you, and that not to your honour, what I have hitherto refused to believe.

TRI. You may see whatever you please, and it matters little to me how you take what you see. I am not a man to put up with the disgrace of the refusals with which I have been insulted here. I am well worthy of more consideration, and whoever thinks otherwise, I am her humble servant. (_Exit_.)

SCENE V.--ARISTE, CHRYSALE, PHILAMINTE, BÉLISE, ARMANDE, HENRIETTE,

Clitandre, A Notary, Martine.

CLITANDRE, A NOTARY, MARTINE.

PHI. How plainly he has disclosed his mercenary soul, and how little like a philosopher he has acted.

CLI. I have no pretension to being one; but, Madam, I will link my destiny to yours, and I offer you, with myself, all that I possess.

PHI. Yon delight me, Sir, by this generous action, and I will reward your love. Yes, I grant Henriette to the eager affection....

HEN. No, mother. I have altered my mind; forgive me if now I resist your will.

CLI. What! do you refuse me happiness, and now that I see everybody for me....

HEN. I know how little you possess, Clitandre; and I always desired you for a husband when, by satisfying my most ardent wishes, I saw that our marriage would improve your fortune. But in the face of such reverses, I love you enough not to burden you with our adversity.

CLI. With you any destiny would be happiness, without you misery.

HEN. Love in its ardour generally speaks thus. Let us avoid the torture of vexatious recriminations. Nothing irritates such a tie more than the wretched wants of life. After a time we accuse each other of all the sorrows that follow such an engagement.

ARI. (_to_ HENRIETTE). Is what you have just said the only reason which makes you refuse to marry Clitandre?

HEN. Yes; otherwise you would see me ready to fly to this union with all my heart.

ARI. Suffer yourself, then, to be bound by such gentle ties. The news I brought you was false. It was a stratagem, a happy thought I had to serve your love by deceiving my sister, and by showing her what her philosopher would prove when put to the test.

CHRY. Heaven be praised!

PHI. I am delighted at heart for the vexation which this cowardly deserter will feel. The punishment of his sordid avarice will be to see in what a splendid manner this match will be concluded.

CHRY. (_to_ CLITANDRE). I told you that you would marry her.

ARM. (_to_ PHILAMINTE). So, then, you sacrifice me to their love?

PHI. It will not be to sacrifice you; you have the support of your philosophy, and you can with a contented mind see their love crowned.

BEL. Let him take care, for I still retain my place in his heart. Despair often leads people to conclude a hasty marriage, of which they repent ever after.

CHRY. (_to the_ NOTARY). Now, Sir, execute my orders, and draw up the contract in accordance with what I said.

# Project Gutenberg #2992

Produced by Philip Dwight Jones

THE MIDDLE CLASS GENTLEMAN (Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme)

By MOLIERE (Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, 1622-1673)

Translated by Philip Dwight Jones

Comedy-Ballet presented at Chambord, for the entertainment of the King, in the month of October 1670, and to the public in Paris for the first time at the Palais-Royal Theater 23 November 1670

The Cast

Monsieur Jourdain, bourgeois. Madame Jourdain, his wife. Lucile, their daughter. Nicole, maid. Cleonte, suitor of Lucile. Covielle, Cleonte's valet. Dorante, Count, suitor of Dorimene. Dorimene, 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

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 Jeanneton 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

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 Dorimene.

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...

ACT TWO

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

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.

ACT THREE

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.

ACT THREE

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 Franoise 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.

ACT THREE

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.

ACT THREE

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.

ACT THREE

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.

ACT THREE

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 Cleonte 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 Cleonte 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.

ACT THREE

SCENE VIII (Cleonte, Covielle, Nicole)

NICOLE: Ah! I'm glad to have found you. I'm an ambassadress of joy, and I come...

CLEONTE: Get out, traitor, and don't come to amuse me with your treacherous words.

NICOLE: Is this how you receive me...

CLEONTE: Get out, I tell you, and go tell your faithless mistress that she will never again in her life deceive the too trusting Cleonte.

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.

ACT THREE

SCENE IX (Cleonte, Covielle)

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: Covielle, can one see anything to equal this perfidy of the ungrateful Lucile?

COVIELLE: And that, Monsieur, of the treacherous Nicole?

CLEONTE: 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!

CLEONTE: So many tears I have shed at her knees!

COVIELLE: So many buckets of water I have drawn for her!

CLEONTE: 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!

CLEONTE: She flies from me in disdain!

COVIELLE: She turns her back on me!

CLEONTE: It is perfidy worthy of the greatest punishments.

COVIELLE: It is treachery that merits a thousand slaps.

CLEONTE: Don't think, I beg you, of ever speaking in her favor to me.

COVIELLE: I, sir? God forbid!

CLEONTE: 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?

CLEONTE: I want to conserve my resentment against her and end all contact with her.

COVIELLE: I agree.

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: No, but she is graceful and well made.

COVIELLE: She affects a nonchalance in her speech and in her actions.

CLEONTE: 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...

CLEONTE: Ah! She has that, Covielle, the finest, the most delicate!

COVIELLE: Her conversation...

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: 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?

CLEONTE: 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.

ACT THREE

SCENE X (Cleonte, 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.

CLEONTE: I don't even want to speak to her.

COVIELLE: I'll imitate you.

LUCILE: What's the matter Cleonte? 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, Cleonte?

NICOLE: Have you lost your voice, Covielle?

CLEONTE: Is this not villainous!

COVIELLE: It's a Judas!

LUCILE: I clearly see that our recent meeting has troubled you.

CLEONTE: 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, Cleonte, that this is the cause of your resentment?

CLEONTE: 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, Cleonte, what made me avoid joining you this morning.

CLEONTE: 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 Cleonte) Know that this morning...

CLEONTE: No, I tell you.

NICOLE: (Following Covielle) Learn that...

COVIELLE: No, traitor.

LUCILE: Listen.

CLEONTE: I won't listen.

NICOLE: Let me speak.

COVIELLE: I'm deaf.

LUCILE: Cleonte! CLEONTE: No.

NICOLE: Covielle!

COVIELLE: I won't listen.

LUCILE: Stop.

CLEONTE: Gibberish!

NICOLE: Listen to me.

COVIELLE: Rubbish!

LUCILE: One moment.

CLEONTE: Never.

NICOLE: A little patience.

COVIELLE: Not interested!

LUCILE: Two words.

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: Tell me...

LUCILE: No, I don't want to say anything.

COVIELLE: Tell it...

NICOLE: No, I'll tell nothing.

CLEONTE: For pity...

LUCILE: No, I say.

COVIELLE: Have mercy.

NICOLE: It's no use.

CLEONTE: I beg you.

LUCILE: Leave me...

COVIELLE: I plead with you.

NICOLE: Get out of here.

CLEONTE: Lucile!

LUCILE: No.

COVIELLE: Nicole!

NICOLE: Never.

CLEONTE: In the name of God!...

LUCILE: I don't want to.

COVIELLE: Talk to me.

NICOLE: Definitely not.

CLEONTE: Clear up my doubts.

LUCILE: No, I'll do nothing.

COVIELLE: Relieve my mind!

NICOLE: No, I don't care to.

CLEONTE: 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: Cleonte!

NICOLE: Covielle!

CLEONTE: What?

COVIELLE: Yes?

LUCILE: Where are you going?

CLEONTE: Where I told you.

COVIELLE: We are going to die.

LUCILE: You are going to die, Cleonte?

CLEONTE: Yes, cruel one, since you wish it.

LUCILE: Me! I wish you to die?

CLEONTE: Yes, you wish it.

LUCILE: Who told you that?

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: 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?

CLEONTE: 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!

ACT THREE

SCENE XI (Madame Jourdain, Cleonte, Lucile, Covielle, Nicole)

MADAME JOURDAIN: I am very glad to see you, Cleonte and you are here at just the right time. My husband is coming, seize the opportunity to ask for Lucile in marriage.

CLEONTE: 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?

ACT THREE

SCENE XII (Monsieur Jourdain, Madame Jourdain, Cleonte, Lucile, Covielle, Nicole)

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: 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: Cleonte, 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.

ACT THREE

SCENE XIII (Cleonte, Covielle)

COVIELLE: You've made a fine business, with your pretty sentiments.

CLEONTE: 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?

CLEONTE: 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!

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: How?

COVIELLE: The idea is really funny.

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: But tell me...

COVIELLE: I am going to instruct you in everything. Let's go, there he is, returning.

ACT THREE

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 (Dorimene, Dorante, Lackey)

LACKEY: Monsieur says that he'll be here very soon.

DORANTE: That's fine.

DORIMENE: 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?

DORIMENE: 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?

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: 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...

DORIMENE: 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.

ACT THREE

SCENE XVI (Monsieur Jourdain, Dorimene, Dorante, Lackey)

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: (After having made two bows, finding himself too near Dorimene) A little farther, Madame.

DORIMENE: What?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: One step, if you please.

DORIMENE: 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 Dorimene) As you can see, this good bourgeois is ridiculous enough in all his manners.

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: 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

ACT FOUR

SCENE I (Dorimene, Monsieur Jourdain, Dorante, two Male Musicians, a Female Musician, Lackeys)

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: I reply to this compliment only by eating.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Ah! What beautiful hands!

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: 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."

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: Again!

DORANTE: You don't know him.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: She may know me whenever it pleases her.

DORIMENE: 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?

DORIMENE: I am captivated by Monsieur Jourdain...

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: If I could captivate your heart, I would be...

ACT FOUR

SCENE II (Madame Jourdain, Monsieur Jourdain, Dorimene, 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.

DORIMENE: 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?

ACT FOUR

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 Cleonte 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.

ACT FOUR

SCENE IV (Cleonte, as a Turk, with three Pages carrying his outer clothes, Monsieur Jourdain, Covielle, disguised.)

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: 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.

CLEONTE: 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.

ACT FOUR

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

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.)

Act FIVE

SCENE II (Dorante, Dorimene)

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 Cleonte's plan by supporting his masquerade. He's a very gallant man and deserves our help.

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: 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?

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: I'll make use of them both. But here is your man: his costume is wonderful.

ACT FIVE

SCENE III (Monsieur Jourdain, Dorante, Dorimene)

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.

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: 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.

DORIMENE: 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.

ACT FIVE

SCENE IV (Cleonte, 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 Cleonte). 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.

CLEONTE: 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.

ACT FIVE

SCENE V (Lucile, Monsieur Jourdain, Dorante, Dorimene, 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 Cleonte. And I will go to extreme measures rather than... (Recognizes Cleonte) 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.

ACT FIVE

SCENE VI (Madame Jourdain, Monsieur Jourdain, Cleonte, 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.

DORIMENE: 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 Cleonte?

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 Cleonte 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.)

# Project Gutenberg #8776

Produced by Delphine Lettau

The Impostures Of Scapin.

THE IMPOSTURES OF SCAPIN.

(LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN.)

By Molière

Translated Into English Prose. With Short Introductions And Explanatory Notes By Charles Heron Wall

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.

CARLE.

TWO PORTERS.

_The scene is at_ NAPLES.

The Impostures Of Scapin. Act I. Scene I.--Octave, Silvestre.

THE IMPOSTURES OF SCAPIN.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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 {1} 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.

{1} _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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Impostures of Scapin, by (Poquelin) Moliere

# Project Gutenberg #6742

Produced by David Moynihan, D Garcia, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

L'ÉCOLE DES MARIS.

COMÉDIE.

* * * * *

The School For Husbands. A Comedy In Three Acts.

THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS.

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS.

(_THE ORIGINAL IN VERSE_.)

Introductory Notice.

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.

THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS.

(_L'ECOLE DES MARIS_).

* * * * *

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.]

# Project Gutenberg #7279

Produced by Charles Franks, Delphine Lettau and the people at DP.

THE SHOPKEEPER TURNED GENTLEMAN. (LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME.)

BY

MOLIERE,

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH PROSE.

_WITH SHORT INTRODUCTIONS AND EXPLANATORY NOTES_.

BY

CHARLES HERON WALL.

'Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme' was acted before the King for the first time at Chambord, on October 14, 1670, and on November 28 at the Palais Royal. After the second representation, Louis XIV. said to Moliere, "You have never written anything which amused me more, and your play is excellent." But it obtained a still greater success in Paris, where the _bourgeois_ willingly and good-humouredly laughed at what they deemed their neighbours' weaknesses. The three first acts are the best; Louis XIV. hurried Moliere so with the last that they degenerated into burlesque.

Moliere acted the part of the Bourgeois.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

MR. JOURDAIN.

CLEONTE, _in love with_ LUCILE.

DORANTE, _a count, in love with_ DORIMENE.

COVIELLE, _servant to_ CLEONTE.

A MUSIC MASTER, ETC.

A DANCING MASTER, ETC.

A FENCING MASTER.

A PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY.

A MASTER TAILOR.

ASSISTANT TAILORS.

TWO LACKEYS.

MRS. JOURDAIN.

LUCILE, _daughter to_ MR. JOURDAIN.

DORIMENE, _a marchioness_.

NICOLE, _maid-servant to_ MR. JOURDAIN.

_The scene is in_ PARIS, _in_ MR. JOURDAIN'S _house_.

THE SHOPKEEPER TURNED GENTLEMAN.

ACT I.

_The overture is played by a great many instruments; and in the middle of the stage the PUPIL of the MUSIC MASTER is seated at a table composing a serenade which MR. JOURDAIN has asked for_.

SCENE I.--MUSIC MASTER, DANCING MASTER, THREE SINGERS, TWO VIOLIN PLAYERS, FOUR DANCERS.

MUS. MAS. (_to the_ MUSICIANS). Come into this room, and rest till he comes.

DAN. MAS. (_to the_ DANCERS). Come also, on this side.

MUS. MAS. (_to his_ PUPIL). Have you finished?

PUP. Yes.

MUS. MAS. Let me see. Very good.

DAN. MAS. Is it anything new?

MUS. MAS. Yes; it is an air for a serenade that I made him compose while we are waiting for our gentleman to wake up.

DAN. MAS. Will you allow me to see what it is?

MUS. MAS. You shall hear it, as well as the dialogue, when he comes; he won't be long.

DAN. MAS. We both have plenty to do now; have we not?

MUS. MAS. Indeed we have. We have found the very man we both wanted. He brings us in a comfortable little income, with his notions of gentility and gallantry which he has taken into his head; and it would be well for your dancing and my music if everybody were like him.

DAN. MAS. No; not altogether. I wish, for his sake, that he would appreciate better than he does the things we give him.

MUS. MAS. He certainly understands them but little; but he pays well, and that is nowadays what our arts require above all things.

DAN. MAS. I must confess, for my part, that I rather hunger after glory. Applause finds a very ready answer in my heart, and I think it mortifying enough that in the fine arts we should have to exhibit ourselves before fools, and submit our compositions to the vulgar taste of an ass. No! say what you will, there is a real pleasure in working for people who are able to appreciate the refinements of an art; who know how to yield a kind recognition to the beauties of a work, and who, by felicitous approbations, reward you for your labour. Yes! the most charming recompense one can receive for the things which one does is to see them understood, and to have them received with the applause that honours. Nothing, in my opinion, can repay us better than this for all our fatigues; and the praises of the enlightened are a true delight to me.

MUS. MAS. I grant it; and I relish them as much as you do. There is certainly nothing more refreshing than the applause you speak of; still we cannot live on this flattering acknowledgment of our talent. Undiluted praise does not give competence to a man; we must have something more solid to fall back upon, and the best praise is the praise of the pocket. Our man, it is true, is a man of very limited capacity, who speaks at random upon all things, and only gives applause in the wrong place; but his money makes up for the errors of his judgment. He keeps his discernment in his purse, and his praises are golden. This ignorant, commonplace citizen is, as you see, better to us than that clever nobleman who introduced us here.

DAN. MAS. There is some truth in what you say; still I think that you set a little too much value on money, and that it is in itself something so base that he who respects himself should never make a display of his love for it.

MUS. MAS. Yet you receive readily enough the money our man gives you.

DAN. MAS. Certainly; but my whole happiness does not depend upon it; and I can still wish that with all his wealth he had good taste.

MUS. MAS. I wish it as much as you do; and we are both working as hard as we can towards that end. But at the same time he gives us the opportunity of making ourselves known. He shall pay for others, and others shall praise for him.

DAN. MAS. Here he comes.

SCENE II.--MR. JOURDAIN (_in a dressing-gown and night-cap_), THE MUSIC MASTER, THE DANCING MASTER, THE PUPIL OF THE MUSIC MASTER, A LADY SINGER, TWO MEN SINGERS, DANCERS, TWO SERVANTS.

MR. JOUR. Well, gentlemen! and what have you got there? Are you ready to show me your little drollery?

DAN. MAS. How? What little drollery?

MR. JOUR. Why, the ... what do you call it? Your prologue or dialogue of songs and dancing.

DAN. MAS. Ah, ah!

MUS. MAS. You see we are quite ready.

MR. JOUR. I have kept you waiting a little, but it is because I am to be dressed to-day like a man of rank, and my tailor sent me a pair of silk stockings which I thought I should never be able to get on.

MUS. MAS. We are here only to await your leisure.

MR. JOUR. I hope you will both stop till they have brought me my clothes, so that you may see me.

DAN. MAS. As you please.

MR. JOUR. You will see me equipped fashionably from head to foot.

MUS. MAS. We have no doubt of it.

MR. JOUR. I have had this dressing gown made for me.

DAN. MAS. It is very handsome,

MR. JOUR. My tailor told me that people of quality are dressed like this in the morning.

MUS. MAS. It becomes you wonderfully well.

MR. JOUR. Hullo! fellows! hullo! I say; my two lackeys, here!

1ST LACK. Do you want anything, Sir?

MR. JOUR. No; it was only to see if you heard me readily. (_To the_ TWO MASTERS) What do you think of my liveries?

DAN. MAS. They are magnificent.

MR. JOUR. (_opening his gown, and showing his tight breeches of scarlet velvet, and a green velvet morning jacket which he is wearing_). This is a kind of deshabille to go about early in the morning.

MUS. MAS. It is charming.

MR. JOUR. I say! lackey!

1ST LACK. Sir.

MR. JOUR. The other.

2ND LACK. Sir.

MR. JOUR. (_taking off his dressing-gown_). Hold my dressing-gown. (_To the_ TWO MASTERS) Do you think I look well so?

DAN. MAS. Perfectly well; nothing could be better.

MR. JOUR. Now let us see a little of this affair of yours.

MUS. MAS. I should like, first of all, for you to hear an air which he (_pointing to his_ PUPIL) has just composed for the serenade you asked of me. He is one of my pupils, who has an admirable talent for this kind of thing.

MR. JOUR. Yes; but you should not have had it done by a pupil; you were not too good for the business yourself.

MUS. MAS. You must not be deceived, Sir, by the name of pupil. These kind of pupils know sometimes as much as the greatest masters; and the air is as beautiful as possible. Only just listen to it.

MR. JOUR. (_to his_ SERVANTS). Hand me my dressing-gown, so that may hear better.... Stay, I believe that I shall be better without.... No, give it me back again; that will be best.

THE PUPIL All night and day I languish on; the sick man none can save Since those bright eyes have laid him low, to your stern laws a slave; If thus to those you love a meed of care you bring, What pain, fair Iris, will you find your foemen's hearts to wring?

MR. JOUR. This song seems to me rather dismal; it sends one to sleep; could you not enliven it a bit here and there?

MUS. MAS. We must, Sir, suit the air to the words.

MR. JOUR. I was taught a very pretty one quite lately; stop a moment ... ahem ... What is it? How does it begin?

DAN. MAS. Upon my word, Sir, I do not know.

MR. JOUR. There is some lamb in it.

DAN. MAS. Lamb?

MR. JOUR. Yes, ah! I have it. (_He sings._) /

When I had Jenny seen, I thought her kind as fair, I thought she'd gentler been Than lambkin on the green; But ah! but ah! she's far less mild, Far sterner, I declare, Than tigers are in forests wild.

Now, isn't it pretty?

MUS. MAS. The prettiest thing in the world.

DAN. MAS. And you sing it very well.

MR. JOUR. Do I? I have never learnt music.

MUS. MAS. You ought to learn it, Sir, as you do dancing. These are two arts which are closely bound together.

DAN. MAS. And which open the human mind to the beauty of things.

MR. JOUR. Do people of rank learn music also?

MUS. MAS. Yes, Sir.

MR. JOUR. I will learn it, then; but I hardly know how I shall find time for it; for, besides the fencing master who teaches me, I have engaged a professor of philosophy, who is to begin this morning.

MUS. MAS. Philosophy is something, no doubt; but music, Sir, music....

DAN. MAS. Music and dancing, Sir; in music and dancing we have all that we need.

MUS. MAS. There is nothing so useful in a state as music.

DAN. MAS. There is nothing so necessary to men as dancing.

MUS. MAS. Without music no kingdom can exist.

DAN. MAS. Without dancing a man can do nothing.

MUS. MAS. All the disorders, all the wars that happen in the world, are caused by nothing but the want of music.

DAN. MAS. All the sorrows and troubles of mankind, all the fatal misfortunes which fill the pages of history, the blunders of statesmen, the failures of great captains, all these come from the want of a knowledge of dancing.

MR. JOUR. How is that?

MUS. MAS. Does not war arise from a want of concord between them?

MR. JOUR. True.

MUS. MAS. And if all men learnt music, would not this be the means of keeping them in better harmony, and of seeing universal peace reign in the world?

MR. JOUR. You are quite right.

DAN. MAS. When a man has committed some fault, either in the management of his family affairs, or in the government of a state, or in the command of an army, do we not say, "So-and-so has made a false step in such an affair"?

MR. JOUR. Yes, we do say so.

DAN. MAS. And from whence can proceed the false step if it is not from ignorance of the art of dancing?

MR. JOUR. This is true, and you are both right.

DAN. MAS. This will give you an idea of the excellence and importance of dancing and music.

MR. JOUR. I understand it now.

MUS. MAS. Will you look at our two compositions?

MR. JOUR. Yes.

MUS. MAS. I have already told you that it is a short attempt which I made some time since to represent the different passions which can be expressed by music.

MR. JOUR. Very well.

MUS. MAS. (_to the_ SINGERS). Come forward. (_To_ MR. JOURDAIN) You must fancy that they are dressed like shepherds.

MR. JOUR. Why always shepherds? One sees nothing but that everywhere.

DAN. MAS. When we make people speak to music, we must, for the sake of probability, adopt the pastoral. Singing has always been affected by shepherds, and it is not very likely that our princes or citizens would sing their passions in dialogue.

MR. JOUR. Well! well! Go on.

LADY SINGER. The realm of passion in a loving heart Full many a care may vex, full many a smart; In vain we fondly languish, softly sigh; We learn too late, whatever friends may cry, To value liberty before it fly.

1ST MAN SINGER. Sweeter than liberty are love's bright fires, Kindling in two fond hearts the same desires; Happiness could never live by love unfed, Pleasure itself would die if love were dead.

2ND MAN SINGER. Love would be sweet if love could constant be, But ah! sad fate, no faithful loves we see! The fair are false; no prayers their heart can move, And who will love when they inconstant prove?

1ST SING. Ah! love, how sweet thou art!

LADY SING. Ah! freedom is happier!

2ND SING. Thou inconstant heart!

1ST SING. To me how dear, how blest!

LADY SING. My soul enraptured see!

2ND SING. I shrink, I turn from thee!

1ST SING. Ah! leave this idle strife, and learn to love.

LADY SING. I will show thee one who'll constant prove.

2ND SING. Alas! where seek her?

LADY SING. To defend our name, I offer you my heart, nor heed your blame.

2ND SING. But, Lady, dare I trust that promise blest?

LADY SING. Experience will decide who loves the best.

2ND SING. Who fails in constancy or depth of love The gods from him their favour will remove.

ALL THREE. Such noble feelings should our souls inspire, And melt our heart beneath love's gentle fire. For love is sweet when hearts are true and pure, And love shall last while earth and heaven endure.

MR. JOUR. Is that all?

MUS. MAS. Yes.

MR. JOUR. I think it very well turned out, and there are in it some pretty enough little sayings.

DAN. MAS. You have here from me an essay of the most beautiful movements and most graceful attitudes with which a dance can be varied.

MR. JOUR. Are these shepherds also?

DAN. MAS. They are what you please. (_To the_ DANCERS) Ho! ho! here!

_Entry of the_ BALLET.

FOUR DANCERS _execute the various movements and steps which the_ DANCING MASTER _orders them_.

ACT II.

SCENE I.--MR. JOURDAIN, DANCING MASTER, MUSIC MASTER.

MR. JOUR. This performance is not bad, and these fellows don't do it badly.

MUS. MAS. When the dance is accompanied by the music, you will find it still more effective, and you will see something charming in the little ballet we have prepared for you.

MR. JOUR. It is for this afternoon, mind; and the person for whom I have ordered all this is to do me the honour of coming to dine here.

DAN. MAS. Everything is ready.

MUS. MAS. But, Sir, this is not enough; a gentleman magnificent in all his ideas like you, and who has taste for doing things handsomely, should have a concert at his house every Wednesday or Thursday.

MR. JOUR. But why should I? Do people of quality have concerts?

MUS. MAS. Yes, Sir.

MR. JOUR. Oh! very well! Then I too must have some. It'll be fine?

MUS. MAS. Very. You must have three voices: a treble, a counter-tenor, and a bass; which must be accompanied by a bass-viol, a theorbo lute, and a harpsichord for the thorough-basses, with two violins to play the harmonics.

MR. JOUR. You must also have a trumpet-marine. [Footnote: An instrument with one thick string.] The trumpet-marine is an instrument that I like, and a very harmonious one.

MUS. MAS. Leave all the arrangements to us.

MR. JOUR. Be sure you don't forget to send me, by and by, some singers to sing at table.

MUS. MAS. You shall have all that is necessary.

MR. JOUR. But, above all, give us a nice ballet.

MUS. MAS. You will be pleased with it, and particularly with certain minuets which you shall see in it.

MR. JOUR. Ah! minuets are my favourite dance, and you should see me dance one. Come, my master.

DAN. MAS. A hat, Sir, if you please. (MR. JOURDAIN _takes the hat from his_ SERVANT, _and puts it on over his night-cap; his master takes him by both hands, and makes him dance to a minuet air which he hums._) La, la, la, la, la, la; la, la, la, la, la, la, la; la, la, la, la, la, la; la, la, la, la, la, la; la, la, la, la, la; in time, if you please; la, la, la, la, la; the right leg, la, la, la; do not shake your shoulders so much; la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la; your two arms are crippled; la, la, la, la, la; hold up your head; turn out your toes; la, la, la; your body erect.

MR. JOUR. Eh! eh!

MUS. MAS. Wonderfully well done.

MR. JOUR. Now I think of it! Teach me to make a bow to a marchioness. I shall have need of it presently.

DAN. MAS. A bow to a marchioness?

MR. JOUR. Yes; a marchioness, whose name is Dorimene.

DAN. MAS. Give me your hand.

MR. JOUR. No. You need only do it yourself. I shall be sure to remember.

DAN. MAS. If you want to salute her with great respect, you must first of all bow whilst stepping backward, then, advancing towards her, make three bows, and at the last bow bend down to her very knees.

MR. JOUR. Do it a little for me to see. (_After the_ DANCING MASTER _has made three bows_) Good.

SCENE II.--MR. JOURDAIN, MUSIC MASTER, DANCING MASTER, A SERVANT.

SER. Sir, your fencing master is here.

MR. JOUR. Make him come in here for my lesson. (_To the_ MUSIC _and_ DANCING MASTERS) I wish you to see me perform.

SCENE III.--MR. JOURDAIN, FENCING MASTER, MUSIC MASTER, DANCING MASTER, A SERVANT _holding two foils_.

FEN. MAS. (_taking the two foils from the hands of the_ SERVANT, _and giving one to_ MR. JOURDAIN). Now, Sir, the salute. The body upright, resting slightly on the left thigh. The legs not so far apart; the feet in a line. The wrist in a line with the thigh. The point of the foil opposite the shoulder. The arm not quite so much extended. The left hand as high as the eye. The left shoulder more squared. The head erect; the look firm. Advance; the body steady. Engage my blade in quart, and retain the engagement. One, two. As you were. Once more, with the foot firm. One, two; a step to the rear. When you make an attack, Sir, the sword should move first, and the body be well held back. One, two. Engage my blade in tierce, and retain the engagement. Advance; the body steady. Advance; one, two. Recover. Once more. One, two. A step to the rear. On guard, Sir; on guard. (_The_ FENCING MASTER _delivers two or three attacks, calling out_, "On guard!")

MR. JOUR. Ah!

MUS. MAS. You are doing wonders.

FEN. MAS. As I have already told you, the whole art of fencing consists of one of two things--in giving and not receiving; and as I showed you the other day by demonstrative reason, it is impossible for you to receive if you know how to turn aside your adversary's weapon from the line of your body; and this again depends only on a slight movement of the wrist to the inside or the out. [Footnote: Kindly corrected by Mr. Maclaren, The Gymnasium, Oxford.]

MR. JOUR. So that a man, without having any courage, is sure of killing his man, and of not being killed himself.

FEN. MAS. Exactly. Did you not see plainly the demonstration of it?

MR. JOUR. Yes.

FEN. MAS. And this shows you of what importance we must be in a state; and how much the science of arms is superior to all the other useless sciences, such as dancing, music....

DAN. MAS. Gently, Mr. Fencing Master; speak of dancing with respect, if you please.

MUS. MAS. Pray learn to treat more properly the excellence of music.

FEN. MAS. You certainly are odd sort of people to try and compare your sciences to mine.

MUS. MAS. Just see the man of importance!

DAN. MAS. A fine animal, to be sure, with his plastron.

FEN. MAS. Take care, my little dancing master, or I shall make you dance in fine style. And you, my little musician, I'll teach you to sing out.

DAN. MAS. And you, my beater of iron, I'll teach you your trade.

MR. JOUR. (_to the_ DANCING MASTER). Are you mad to go and quarrel with a man, who understands tierce and quart, and knows how to kill another by demonstrative reason?

DAN. MAS. I don't care a straw for his demonstrative reason, and his tierce and his quart.

MR. JOUR. (_to the_ DANCING MASTER). Gently, I tell you.

FEN. MAS. (_to the_ DANCING MASTER). How! You little impudent fellow!

MR. JOUR. Ah! my fencing master!

DAN. MAS. (_to the_ FENCING MASTER). How! you great cart-horse!

MR. JOUR. Stop! my dancing master!

FEN. MAS. If I once begin with you....

MR. JOUR. (_to the_ FENCING MASTER). Gently.

DAN. MAR. If I lay my hand upon you....

MR. JOUR. Softly.

FEN. MAS. I will beat you after such a fashion....

MR. JOUR. (_to the_ FENCING MASTER). For goodness sake!

DAN. MAS. I'll thrash you in such a style....

MR. JOUR. (_to the_ DANCING MASTER). I beg of you....

MUS. MAS. Let us teach him a little how to behave himself.

MR. JOUR. (_to the_ MUSIC MASTER). Gracious heavens! Do stop.

SCENE IV.--PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY, MR. JOURDAIN, MUSIC MASTER, DANCING MASTER, FENCING MASTER, A SERVANT.

MR. JOUR. Oh! you are in the very nick of time with your philosophy. Pray come here and restore peace among these people.

PROF. PHIL. What is going on? What is the matter, gentlemen?

MR. JOUR. They have got themselves into such a rage about the importance that ought to be attached to their different professions that they have almost come to blows over it.

PROF. PHIL. For shame, gentlemen; how can you thus forget yourselves? Have you not read the learned treatise which Seneca composed on anger? Is there anything more base and more shameful than the passion which changes a man into a savage beast, and ought not reason to govern all our actions?

DAN. MAS. How, Sir! He comes and insults us both in our professions; he despises dancing, which I teach, and music, which is his occupation.

PROF. PHIL. A wise man is above all the insults that can be offered him; and the best and noblest answer one can make to all kinds of provocation is moderation and patience.

FEN. MAS. They have both the impertinence to compare their professions to mine!

PROF. PHIL. Why should this offend you? It is not for vain glory and rank that men should strive among themselves. What distinguishes one man from another is wisdom and virtue.

DAN. MAS. I maintain that dancing is a science which we cannot honour too much. [Footnote: In fact, dancing was much more honoured in Moliere's time than it is now.]

MUS. MAS. And I that music is a science which all ages have revered.

FEN. MAS. And I, I maintain against them both that the science of attack and defence is the best and most necessary of all sciences.

PROF. PHIL. And for what, then, do you count philosophy? I think you are all three very bold fellows to dare to speak before me with this arrogance, and impudently to give the name of science to things which are not even to be honoured with the name of art, but which can only be classed with the trades of prize-fighter, street-singer, and mountebank.

FEN. MAS. Get out, you dog of a philosopher.

MUS. MAS. Get along with you, you beggarly pedant.

DAN. MAS. Begone, you empty-headed college scout.

PROF. PHIL. How, scoundrels that you are!

(_The_ PHILOSOPHER _rushes upon them, and they all three belabour him_.)

MR. JOUR. Mr. Philosopher.

PROF. PHIL. Infamous villains!

MR. JOUR. Mr. Philosopher!

FEN. MAS. Plague take the animal!

MR. JOUR. Gentlemen!

PROF. PHIL. Impudent cads!

MR. JOUR. Mr. Philosopher!

DAN. MAS. Deuce take the saddled ass!

MR. JOUR. Gentlemen!

PROF. PHIL. Scoundrels!

MR. JOUR. Mr. Philosopher!

MUS. MAS. Devil take the insolent fellow!

MR. JOUR. Gentlemen!

PROF. PHIL. Knaves, beggars, wretches, impostors!

MR. JOUR. Mr. Philosopher! Gentlemen! Mr. Philosopher! Gentlemen! Mr. Philosopher!

SCENE V.--MR. JOURDAIN, A SERVANT.

MR. JOUR. Well! fight as much as you like, I can't help it; but don't expect me to go and spoil my dressing-gown to separate you. I should be a fool indeed to thrust myself among them, and receive some blow or other that might hurt me.

SCENE VI.--PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY, MR. JOURDAIN, A SERVANT.

PROF. PHIL. (_setting his collar in order_). Now for our lesson.

MR. JOUR. Ah! Sir, how sorry I am for the blows they have given you.

PROF. PHIL. It is of no consequence. A philosopher knows how to receive things calmly, and I shall compose against them a satire, in the style of Juvenal, which will cut them up in proper fashion. Let us drop this subject. What do you wish to learn?

MR. JOUR. Everything I can, for 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.

PROF. PHIL. 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?

MR. 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_.

MR. JOUR. That Latin is quite right.

PROF. PHIL. Have you any principles, any rudiments of science?

MR. JOUR. Oh yes; I can read and write.

PROF. PHIL. With what would you like to begin? Shall I teach you logic?

MR. JOUR. And what may this logic be?

PROF. PHIL. It is that which teaches us the three operations of the mind.

MR. 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_, &c.

MR. 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?

MR. JOUR. Moral philosophy?

PROF. PHIL. Yes.

MR. JOUR. What does it say, this moral philosophy?

PROF. PHIL. It treats of happiness, teaches men to moderate their passions, and....

MR. 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?

MR. JOUR. And what have physics to say for themselves?

PROF. PHIL. Physics are 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, wind, and whirlwinds.

MR. JOUR. There is too much hullaballoo in all that; too much riot and rumpus.

PROF. PHIL. What would you have me teach you then?

MR. JOUR. Teach me spelling.

PROF. PHIL. Very good.

MR. JOUR. Afterwards you will teach me the almanac, so that I may know when there is a moon, and when there isn't one.

PROF. PHIL. Be it so. In order to give a right interpretation to your thought, and to treat this matter philosophically, we must begin, according to the order of things, with an exact knowledge of the nature of the letters, and the different way in which each is pronounced. And on this head I have to tell you that letters are divided into vowels, so called because they express the voice, and into consonants, so called because they are sounded with the vowels, and only mark the different articulations of the voice. There are five vowels or voices, _a, e, i, o, u_. [Footnote: It is scarcely necessary to say that this description, such as it is, only applies to the French vowels as they are pronounced in _pate, the, ici, cote, du_ respectively.]

MR. JOUR. I understand all that.

PROF. PHIL. The vowel _a_ is formed by opening the mouth very wide; _a_.

MR. JOUR. _A, a_; yes.

PROF. PHIL. The vowel _e_ is formed by drawing the lower jaw a little nearer to the upper; _a, e_.

MR. JOUR. _A, e; a, e;_ to be sure. Ah! how beautiful that is!

PROF. PHIL. And the vowel _i_ by bringing the jaws still closer to one another, and stretching the two corners of the mouth towards the ears; _a, e, i_.

MR. JOUR. _A, e, i, i, i, i_. Quite true. Long live science!

PROF. PHIL. The vowel _o_ is formed by opening the jaws, and drawing in the lips at the two corners, the upper and the lower;_ o_.

MR. JOUR. _O, o_. Nothing can be more correct; _a, e, i, o, i, o_. It is admirable! _I, o, i, o_.

PROF. PHIL. The opening of the mouth exactly makes a little circle, which resembles an _o_.

MR. JOUR. _O, o, o_. You are right. _O_! Ah! what a fine thing it is to know something!

PROF. PHIL. The vowel _u_ is formed by bringing the teeth near each other without entirely joining them, and thrusting out both the lips whilst also bringing them near together without quite joining them; _u_.

MR. JOUR. _U, u_. There is nothing more true; _u_.

PROF. PHIL. Your two lips lengthen as if you were pouting; so that, if you wish to make a grimace at anybody, and to laugh at him, you have only to _u_ him.

MR. JOUR. _U, u_. It's true. Oh! that I had studied when I was younger, so as to know all this.

PROF. PHIL. To-morrow we will speak of the other letters, which are the consonants.

MR. JOUR. Is there anything as curious in them as in these?

PROF. PHIL. Certainly. For instance, the consonant _d_ is pronounced by striking the tip of the tongue above the upper teeth; _da_.

MR. JOUR. _Da, da_. [Footnote: Untranslatable. _Dada_ equals "cock-horse" in nursery language] Yes. Ah! what beautiful things, what beautiful things!

PROF. PHIL. The _f_, by pressing the upper teeth upon the lower lip; _fa_.

MR. JOUR. _Fa, fa_. 'Tis the truth. Ah! my father and my mother, how angry I feel with you!

PROF. PHIL. And the _r_, by carrying the tip of the tongue up to the roof of the palate, so that, being grazed by the air which comes out with force, it yields to it, and, returning to the same place, causes a sort of tremour; _r, ra_.

MR. JOUR. _R-r-ra; r-r-r-r-r-ra_. That's true. Ah! what a clever man you are, and what time I have lost. _R-r-ra_.

PROF. PHIL. I will thoroughly explain all these curiosities to you.

MR. JOUR. Pray do. And now I want to entrust 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.

MR. JOUR. That will be gallant; will it not?

PROF. PHIL. Undoubtedly. Is it verse you wish to write to her?

MR. JOUR. Oh no; not verse.

PROF. PHIL. You only wish for prose?

MR. JOUR. No. I wish for neither verse nor prose.

PROF. PHIL. It must be one or the other.

MR. JOUR. Why?

PROF. PHIL. Because, Sir, there is nothing by which we can express ourselves except prose or verse.

MR. 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.

MR. JOUR. And when we speak, what is that, then?

PROF. PHIL. Prose.

MR. JOUR. What! When I say, "Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give me my night-cap," is that prose?

PROF. PHIL. Yes, Sir.

MR. 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 genteel manner, and turned prettily.

PROF. PHIL. Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced your heart to ashes; that you suffer day and night for her tortures....

MR. JOUR. No, no, no; I don't want any of that. I simply wish for what I tell you. _Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love_.

PROF. PHIL. Still, you might amplify the thing a little?

MR. JOUR. No, I tell you, I will have nothing but those 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_.

MR. 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_.

MR. JOUR. Yet I have never studied, and I did all that right off at the first shot. I thank you with all my heart, and I beg of you to come to-morrow morning early.

PROF. PHIL. I shall not fail.

SCENE VII.--MR. JOURDAIN, A SERVANT.

MR. JOUR. What? Has my suit of clothes not come yet?

SER. No, Sir.

MR. JOUR. That confounded tailor makes me wait a long time on a day like this, when I have so much business to attend to. I am furious. May the deuce fly away with the tailor! May the plague choke the tailor! May the ague shake that brute of a tailor! If I had him here now, that rascally tailor, that wretch of a tailor, I....

SCENE VIII.--MR. JOURDAIN, THE MASTER TAILOR, AN ASSISTANT TAILOR (_bringing a suit of clothes for_ MR. JOURDAIN), A SERVANT.

MR. JOUR. Ha! here you are. I was just on the point of getting angry with you.

TAIL. I could not come sooner, although I set twenty people to work at your coat.

MR. JOUR. You have sent me such a small pair of silk stockings that I had no end of trouble to put them on, and two of the stitches are broken already.

TAIL. They are pretty sure to become only too large.

MR. JOUR. No doubt, if I keep on breaking the stitches. You also sent me a pair of shoes that hurt me horribly.

TAIL. Not at all, Sir.

MR. JOUR. How! not at all?

TAIL. No; they do not hurt you at all.

MR. JOUR. I tell you they do hurt me.

TAIL. You fancy so.

MR. JOUR. I fancy so because I feel it to be so. Did any one ever hear such an argument!

TAIL. See, we have the most beautiful and the best matched suit in the whole court. It is a work of art to have discovered a sober suit of clothes not black; and I bet that the most skilful tailors would not do as much after half a dozen trials.

MR. JOUR. Why, what does this mean? You have put all the flowers upside down.

TAIL. You did not tell me you wished to have them the other way up.

MR. JOUR. Was it necessary to say that?

TAIL. Yes, certainly; for all the people of quality wear them in this way.

MR. JOUR. All people of quality wear the flowers bottom upwards?

TAIL. Yes, Sir.

MR. JOUR. Oh, then it's all right.

TAIL. If you wish it, I will put them the other way up.

MR. JOUR. No, no.

TAIL. You have only to say so.

MR. JOUR. No, no. I tell you that you have done right. Do you think my clothes fit me well?

TAIL. No doubt about it. I defy any painter with his pencil to draw you anything to fit more exactly. I have in my house a workman who to get up a rhinegrave is the greatest genius of our time, and another who in putting together a doublet is the hero of our age.

MR. JOUR. Are the wig and feathers as they should be?

TAIL. Everything is right.

MR. JOUR. (_looking carefully at the tailor's coat_). Oh! oh! Mr. Tailor, you have there some of the stuff of the last coat you made for me! I know it well.

TAIL. I thought the stuff so beautiful that I could not help cutting a coat from it for myself.

MR. JOUR. Yes; but you should not have cut it from mine.

TAIL. Will you put on your coat?

MR. JOUR. Yes; give it me.

TAIL. Wait a moment. Things are not done in that manner. I have brought my people with me to dress you to music; such coats as these are only put on with ceremony. Hullo there! Come in.

SCENE IX.--MR. JOURDAIN, MASTER TAILOR, ASSISTANT TAILORS (_dancing_), A SERVANT.

TAIL. Put this gentleman's suit on as you put on those of people of quality.

(_The four tailors, dancing, come near_ MR. JOURDAIN; _two of them pull off the breeches he has had on for his exercises; two others take off his waistcoat; then, still dancing, they dress him in his new suit_. MR. JOURDAIN _walks round in the midst of them, and shows them his clothes for them to see whether they fit him_.)

TAILS. My noble gentleman, give something, if you please, to the tailors to drink your health with.

MR. JOUR. How do you call me?

TAILS. My noble gentleman.

MR. JOUR. See what it is to be dressed like a person of quality! Go about all your life dressed like a citizen, and nobody will ever call you a "noble gentleman." (_Giving some money_.) This is for "My noble gentleman."

TAILS. We are greatly obliged to you, my lord.

MR. JOUR. Oh! oh! Wait a minute, my friends. "My lord" deserves something; it is no small thing to be "My lord." Here is what his lordship gives you.

TAILS. My lord, we shall go and drink your grace's health.

MR. JOUR. "Your grace!" Oh! oh! oh! Stay, don't go yet. "Your grace" to me! (_Aside_) Upon my word, if he goes as far as highness, he will have the whole purse. (_Aloud_) Take this for "Your grace."

TAILS. My lord, we most humbly thank you for your liberality.

MR. JOUR. He did well to stop. I should have given him all.

_Second entry of the_ BALLET.

_The_ FOUR ASSISTANTS _rejoice, dancing, at the generosity of_ MR. JOURDAIN.

ACT III.

SCENE I.--MR. JOURDAIN, TWO LACKEYS.

MR. JOUR. Follow me, that I may go and show my clothes about the town; and be very careful, both of you, to walk close to my heels, so that people may see that you belong to me.

LACK. Yes, Sir.

MR. JOUR. Just call Nicole. I have some orders to give her. You need not move; here she comes.

SCENE II.--MR. JOURDAIN, NICOLE, TWO LACKEYS.

MR. JOUR. Nicole!

NIC. What is it, Sir?

MR. JOUR. Listen.

NIC. (_laughing_). Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. What are you laughing at?

NIC. Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. What does the hussy mean?

NIC. Hi, hi, hi. What a figure you cut! Hi, hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. Eh? What?

NIC. Ah! ah! my goodness! Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. What an impertinent jade! Are you laughing at me?

NIC. Oh no, Sir. I should be very sorry to do so. Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. I'll slap your face if you laugh again.

NIC. I can't help it, Sir. Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. Will you leave off?

NIC. Sir; I beg your pardon, Sir; but you are so very comical that I can't help laughing. Hi, hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. Did you ever see such impudence?

NIC. You are so odd like that. Hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. I'll....

NIC. I beg of you to excuse me. Hi, hi, hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. Look here, if you laugh again ever so little, I swear I will give you a box on the ears such as you never had before in all your life.

NIC. Well, Sir, I have done. I won't laugh any more.

MR. JOUR. Mind you don't. You must for this afternoon clean....

NIC. Hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. You must clean thoroughly....

NIC. Hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. You must, I say, clean the drawing-room, and....

NIC. Hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. Again?

NIC. (_tumbling down with laughing_). There, Sir, beat me rather, but let me laugh to my heart's content. I am sure it will be better for me. Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. I am boiling with rage.

NIC. For pity's sake, Sir, let me laugh. Hi, hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. If I begin....

NIC. Si-r-r, I shall bur-r-st if I d-don't laugh. Hi, hi, hi.

MR. JOUR. But did you ever see such a hussy? She comes and laughs at me to my face, instead of attending to my orders.

NIC. What is it you wish me to do, Sir.

MR. JOUR. I want you to get this house ready for the company which is to come here by and by.

NIC. (_getting up_). Ah, well! All my wish to laugh is gone now; your company brings such disorder here that what you say is quite sufficient to put me out of temper.

MR. JOUR. I suppose that, to please you, I ought to shut my door against everybody?

NIC. Anyhow, you would do just as well to shut it against certain people, Sir.

SCENE III.--MRS. JOURDAIN, MR. JOURDAIN, NICOLE, TWO SERVANTS.

MRS. JOUR. Ah me! Here is some new vexation! Why, husband, what do you possibly mean by this strange get-up? Have you lost your senses that you go and deck yourself out like this, and do you wish to be the laughing-stock of everybody wherever you go?

MR. JOUR. Let me tell you, my good wife, that no one but a fool will laugh at me.

MRS. JOUR. No one has waited until to-day for that; and it is now some time since your ways of going on have been the amusement of everybody.

MR. JOUR. And who may everybody be, please?

MRS. JOUR. Everybody is a body who is in the right, and who has more sense than you. For my part, I am quite shocked at the life you lead. I don't know our home again. One would think, by what goes on, that it was one everlasting carnival here; and as soon as day breaks, for fear we should have any rest in it, we have a regular din of fiddles and singers, that are a positive nuisance to all the neighbourhood.

NIC. What mistress says is quite right. There is no longer any chance of having the house clean with all that heap of people you bring in. Their feet seem to have gone purposely to pick up the mud in the four quarters of the town in order to bring it in here afterwards; and poor Francoise is almost off her legs with the constant scrubbing of the floors, which your masters come and dirty every day as regular as clockwork.

MR. JOUR. I say there, our servant Nicole; you have a pretty sharp tongue of your own for a country wench.

MRS. JOUR. Nicole is right, and she has more sense by far than you have. I should like to know, for instance, what you mean to do with a dancing master at your age?

NIC. And with that big fencing master, who comes here stamping enough to shake the whole house down and to tear up the floor tiles of our rooms.

MR. JOUR. Gently, my servant and my wife.

MRS. JOUR. Do you mean to learn dancing for the time when you can't stand on your legs any longer?

NIC. Do you intend to kill anybody?

MR. JOUR. Hold your tongues, I say. You are only ignorant women, both of you, and understand nothing concerning the prerogative of all this.

MRS. JOUR. You would do much better to think of seeing your daughter married, for she is now of an age to be provided for.

MR. JOUR. I shall think of seeing my daughter married when a suitable match presents itself; but, in the meantime, I wish to think of acquiring fine learning.

NIC. I have heard say also, mistress, that, to go the whole hog, he has now taken a professor of philosophy.

MR. JOUR. To be sure I have. I wish to be clever, and reason concerning things with people of quality.

MRS. JOUR. Had you not better go to school one of these days, and get the birch, at your age?

MR. JOUR. Why not? Would to heaven I were flogged this very instant, before all the world, so that I might know all they learn at school.

NIC. Yes, to be sure; that would much improve the shape of your leg.

MR. JOUR. Of course.

MRS. JOUR. And all this is very necessary for the management of your house.

MR. JOUR. Certainly. You both speak like asses; and I am ashamed of your ignorance. (_To_ MRS. JOURDAIN) Let me see, for instance, if you know what you are speaking this very moment.

MRS. JOUR. Yes, I know that what I speak is rightly spoken; and that you should think of leading a different life.

MR. JOUR. I do not mean that. I ask you what the words are which you are now speaking.

MRS. JOUR. They are sensible words, I tell you, and that is more than your conduct is.

MR. JOUR. I am not speaking of that. I ask you what it is that I am now saying to you. That which I am now speaking to you, what is it?

MRS. JOUR. Rubbish.

MR. JOUR. No! no! I don't mean that. What we both speak; the language we are speaking this very moment.

MRS. JOUR. Well?

MR. JOUR. How is it called?

MRS. JOUR. It is called whatever you like to call it.

MR. JOUR. It is prose, you ignorant woman.

MRS. JOUR. Prose?

MR. JOUR. Whatever is prose is not verse, and whatever is not verse is prose. There! you see what it is to study. (_To_ NICOLE) And you, do you even know what you must do to say _u_?

NIC. Eh? What?

MR. JOUR. Yes; what do you do when you say _u_?

NIC. What I do?

MR. JOUR. Say _u_ a little to try.

NIC. Well, _u_.

MR. JOUR. What is it you do?

NIC. I say _u_.

MR. JOUR. Yes; but when you say _u_, what is it you do?

NIC. I do what you ask me to do.

MR. JOUR. Oh! What a strange thing it is to have to do with dunces! You pout your lips outwards, and bring your upper jaw near your lower jaw like this, _u_; I make a face; _u_. Do you see?

NIC. Yes, that's beautiful.

MRS. JOUR. It's admirable!

MR. JOUR. What would you say then if you had seen _o_, and _da, da_, and _fa, fa_?

MRS. JOUR. What is all this absurd stuff?

NIC. And what are we the better for all this?

MR. JOUR. I have no patience with such ignorant women.

MRS. JOUR. Believe me, pack off all those people with their ridiculous fooleries.

NIC. And particularly that great scraggy fencing master, who fills the whole place with dust.

MR. JOUR. Goodness me! The fencing master seems to set your teeth on edge. Come here, and I will show you at once your senseless impertinence. (_He asks for two foils, and gives one to_ NICOLE.) Here, reason demonstrative the line of the body. When you thrust in quart, you have only to do so; and, when you thrust in tierce, only to do so! That is the way never to be killed; and is it not a fine thing to be quite safe when one fights against anybody? There, thrust at me a little to try.

NIC. Well, what? (NICOLE _gives him several thrusts_)

MR. JOUR. Gently! Hold! Oh! Softly. Deuce take the wench!

NIC: You tell me to thrust at you.

MR. JOUR. Yes; but you thrust in tierce before thrusting at me in quart, and you haven't the patience to wait till I parry.

MRS. JOUR. You are crazy, husband, with all your fads; and this has come upon you since you have taken it into your head to frequent the gentlefolk.

MR. JOUR. By frequenting the gentlefolk I show my judgment. It is surely better than keeping company with your citizens.

MRS. JOUR. Yes: there is much good to be got by frequenting your nobility, and you have done a noble stroke of business with that fine count with whom you are so wrapped up.

MR. JOUR. Peace. Be careful what you say. Let me tell you, wife, that you do not know of whom you are speaking when you speak of him! He is a man of more importance than you can imagine, a nobleman who is held in great honour at court, and who speaks to the king just as I speak to you. Is it not a thing which does me great honour that such a person should be seen so often in my house, should call me his dear friend, and should treat me as if I were his equal? He has more kindness for me than you could ever guess, and he treats me before the world with such affection that I am perfectly ashamed.

MRS. JOUR. Yes; he is kind to you, and flatters you, but he borrows your money of you.

MR. JOUR. Well? Is it not a great honour to lend money to a man of his position? And could I do less for a lord who calls me his dear friend?

MRS. JOUR. And this lord, what does he do for you?

MR. JOUR. Things that would astound you if you only knew them.

MRS. JOUR. But what?

MR. JOUR. There! I can't explain myself. It is quite sufficient that, if I have lent him money, he will give it back to me, and that before long.

MRS. JOUR. Yes, trust him for that.

MR. JOUR. Certainly I will. Has he not said so?

MRS. JOUR. Yes, yes; and he won't fail not to do it.

MR. JOUR. He has given me his word as a gentleman.

MRS. JOUR. Mere stuff.

MR. JOUR. Dear me! You are very obstinate, wife! I tell you that he will keep his word; I am quite sure of it.

MRS. JOUR. And I am quite sure that he won't; and that all the caresses he loads you with are only meant to deceive you.

MR. JOUR. Be silent; here he comes.

MRS. JOUR. That's to finish up. He comes, no doubt, to borrow from you again; the very sight of him takes my appetite away.

MR. JOUR. Hold your tongue, I tell you.

SCENE IV.--DORANTE, MR. JOURDAIN, MRS. JOURDAIN, NICOLE.

DOR. Mr. Jourdain, my dear friend, how do you do?

MR. JOUR. Very well, Sir; at your service.

DOR. And Mrs. Jourdain, how does she do?

MRS. JOUR. Mrs. Jourdain does as well as may be.

DOR. I declare, Mr. Jourdain, that you have the most genteel dress in the world.

MR. JOUR. You see.

DOR. You look exceedingly well in this dress, and we have no young men at court better made than you.

MR. JOUR. He! he!

MRS. JOUR. (_aside_). He scratches him where it itches.

DOR. Turn round. This is quite gallant.

MRS. JOUR. (_aside_). Yes, as fine a fool behind as before.

DOR. Indeed, Mr. Jourdain, I was very impatient to see you. You are the man I esteem most in the world, and I was talking of you again this very morning at the king's levee.

MR. JOUR. You do me too much honour, Sir. (_To_ MRS. JOURDAIN) At the king's levee.

DOR. Come, put on your hat.

MR. JOUR. Sir, I know the respect I owe you;

DOR. Pray, put on your hat. No ceremony between us, I beg.

MR. JOUR. Sir!

DOR. Nay! nay! Put on your hat, I tell you, Mr. Jourdain; you are my friend.

MR. JOUR. Sir, I am your humble servant.

DOR. I will not put mine on unless you do.

MR. JOUR. (_putting on his hat_). I had rather be unmannerly than troublesome.

DOR. I am your debtor, as you know.

MRS. JOUR. (_aside_). Yes, we know it but too well.

DOR. On several occasions you have generously lent me some money, and you have obliged me, I must acknowledge, with the best grace in the world.

MR. JOUR. Sir, I beg of you.

DOR. But I know how to pay back what is lent to me, and how to acknowledge services rendered.

MR. JOUR. I have no doubt about it, Sir.

DOR. I want to acquit myself towards you, and I have come to settle my accounts.

MR. JOUR. (_aside to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). Well? Do you see how wrong you were, wife?

DOR. I like to get out of debt as soon as I can.

MR. JOUR. (_aside to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). Did I not tell you so?

DOR. Let us see how much I owe you.

MR. JOUR. (_aside to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). There you are, with your absurd suspicions.

DOR. Do you quite remember how much you have lent me?

MR. JOUR. I believe so. I have made a little memorandum of it. Here it is. At one time I gave you two hundred louis.

DOR. Quite true.

MR. JOUR. At another time, one hundred and twenty.

DOR. Yes.

MR. JOUR. At another time, one hundred and forty.

DOR. You are quite right.

MR. JOUR. These three payments make four hundred and sixty louis, which comes to five thousand and sixty livres.

DOR. This account is quite correct; five thousand and sixty livres.

MR. JOUR. One thousand eight hundred and thirty-two livres to your plume seller.

DOR. Just so.

MR. JOUR. Two thousand seven hundred and eighty livres to your tailor.

DOR. It is true.

MR. JOUR. Four thousand three hundred and seventy-nine livres, twelve sous, eight deniers, to your tradesman.

DOR. Twelve sous, eight deniers; the account is perfectly right.

MR. JOUR. And one thousand seven hundred and forty-eight livres, seven sous, four deniers, to your saddler.

DOR. It is so. How much does all this come to?

MR. JOUR. Sum-total, fifteen thousand eight hundred livres.

DOR. The sum-total is exact; fifteen thousand eight hundred livres. Add to this two hundred pistoles which you are going to lend me, and it will make exactly eighteen thousand francs, which I will pay you at the first opportunity.

MRS. JOUR. (_aside to_ MR. JOURDAIN). Well? Did I not guess right?

MR. JOUR. (_aside to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). Peace!

DOR. Will it be inconvenient to you to lend me what I say?

MR. JOUR. Oh dear! no.

MRS. JOUR. (_aside to_ MR. JOURDAIN). That man makes a milch-cow of you.

MR. JOUR. (_aside to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). Be silent!

DOR. If I at all inconvenience you, I will get it elsewhere.

MR. JOUR. No, Sir.

MRS. JOUR. (_aside to_ MR. JOURDAIN). He won't be satisfied until he has ruined you.

MR. JOUR. (_aside to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). Hold your tongue, I say.

DOR. You have only to tell me if this will embarrass you.

MR. JOUR. Not at all, Sir.

MRS. JOUR. (_aside to_ MR. JOURDAIN). He is a regular deceiver.

MR. JOUR. (_aside to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). Do hold your peace.

MRS. JOUR. (_aside to_ MR. JOURDAIN). He will drain you to the last penny.

MR. JOUR. (_aside to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). Will you hold your tongue?

DOR. There are a great many people who would advance me money with pleasure; but as I look upon you as my best friend, I was afraid of wronging you if I asked it of anyone else.

MR. JOUR. You do me too much honour, Sir. I will go and fetch what you want.

MRS. JOUR. (_aside_ to MR. JOURDAIN). What! are you going to give him that also?

MR. JOUR. (_aside_ to MRS. JOURDAIN). What can I do? How can I refuse a man of such rank, a man who spoke of me this morning at the king's levee.

MRS. JOUR. (_aside_ to MR. JOURDAIN). There, go; you are nothing but a dupe.

SCENE V.--DORANTE, MRS. JOURDAIN, NICOLE.

DOR. You appear to me quite low-spirited! What can be the matter with you, Mrs. Jourdain?

MRS. JOUR. My head is bigger than my fist, and yet it isn't swollen.

DOR. Where is your daughter, that I have not seen her?

MRS. JOUR. My daughter is very well where she is.

DOR. How does she get on?

MRS. JOUR. She gets on on her two legs.

DOR. Would you not like one of these days to come with her to see the ballet and the play which are being acted at court?

MRS. JOUR. Ah! yes. We have a great fancy for laughing, a great fancy have we!

DOR. I think, Mrs. Jourdain, that you must have had plenty of lovers in your young days, so handsome, and so sweet-tempered as you must have been.

MRS. JOUR. My goodness, Sir! Has Mrs. Jourdain grown decrepit, and does her head already shake on her shoulders?

DOR. Oh! Mrs Jourdain, I really beg your pardon! I had forgotten that you are young, and I am very often absent. I beg of you to excuse my impertinence.

SCENE VI.--MR. JOURDAIN, MRS. JOURDAIN, DORANTE, NICOLE.

MR. JOUR. (_to_ DORANTE). Here are two hundred louis in full.

DOR. I assure you, Mr. Jourdain, that you may dispose of me in any way you like, and that I long to render you some service at court.

MR. JOUR. I am much obliged to you.

DOR. If Mrs. Jourdain wishes to see the royal entertainment, [Footnote: 'The Magnificent Lovers.'] I will obtain the best places in the room for her.

MRS. JOUR. Mrs. Jourdain is your humble servant.

DOR. (_aside to_ MR. JOURDAIN). Our lovely marchioness, as I told you in my note, is coming here this afternoon for the ballet and the banquet, as I have at last prevailed on her to accept the entertainment you wish to give her. [Footnote: _Cadeau_ does not mean "present," as at first sight it seems to mean. Compare also the next speech of Dorante.]

MR. JOUR. Let us go a little further. I need not tell you the reason.

DOR. It is a whole week since I saw you; and I did not send you any news of the diamond which you placed in my hands to make her a present of from you; it is because I found it the most difficult thing in the world to make her accept it; and it is only to-day that she could conquer her scruples about it.

MR. JOUR. How does she like it?

DOR. Exceedingly; and, unless I am greatly mistaken, the beauty of that diamond will produce an admirable effect on her mind towards you.

MR. JOUR. Ah, may it be so!

MRS. JOUR. (_to_ NICOLE). When once he is with him, he can't leave him.

DOR. I described to her in glowing colours the expense of such a present, and the greatness of your love.

MR. JOUR. Your kindness is too much for me, Sir, and I feel perfectly ashamed to see a man of such high standing condescend to do for me the things you do.

DOR. Nonsense! Do friends stand upon such scruples? and would you not do for me the very same thing if the opportunity presented itself?

MR. JOUR. Oh, decidedly, and with all my heart!

MRS. JOUR. (_aside to_ NICOLE). How hard for me to bear with his presence.

DOR. For my part, I hesitate at nothing when I want to serve a friend; and as soon as you told me of your admiration for this charming marchioness, with whom I was acquainted, you saw me at once put myself at your disposal to serve your love.

MR. JOUR. It is perfectly true. Such kindness confounds me.

MRS. JOUR. (_to_ NICOLE). Will he never go?

NIC. (_to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). They are very thick together.

DOR. You went the right way to work to touch her heart. There is nothing women like more than the expenses one makes for them; and your frequent serenades, your numerous bouquets, the magnificent display of fireworks which she saw on the water, the diamond which she received from you, and the entertainment you are preparing for her, all this tells more in favour of your love than all the speeches you could make to her about it.

MR. JOUR. There is no expense I would not make to find access to her heart. A woman of quality has for me the most dazzling charms, and it is an honour which I would purchase at any price.

MRS. JOUR. (_aside to_ NICOLE). What on earth can they have to say together? Go and listen!

DOR. You will enjoy to-day the pleasure of seeing her; and your eyes will have full leisure to satisfy themselves.

MR. JOUR. In order to be free, I have arranged for my wife to go and dine with my sister, and she will spend the whole-afternoon there.

DOR. You have acted wisely, for your wife might be in the way. I have given the necessary orders to the cook, and for everything which may be necessary for the ballet. It is my own invention, and if the execution comes up to the conception, I am sure that it will be found....

MR. JOUR. (_seeing_ NICOLE _listening, and giving her a box on the ears_). Ha! you rude, impertinent hussy! (_To_ DORANTE) Let us go out, if you please.

SCENE VII.--MRS. JOURDAIN, NICOLE.

NIC. Well, Madam, my curiosity has cost me something; but all the same I believe that there is something in the wind, for they were speaking of an affair where they do not wish you to be present.

MRS. JOUR. This is not the first time, Nicole, that I have had some suspicions about my husband. Either I am greatly mistaken or there is some love affair on foot; and I am doing my best to discover what it maybe. But, first of all, let us think of my daughter. You know that Cleonte loves her; he is a man after my own heart, and I wish to help him, and give him to Lucile if I can.

NIC. To tell you the truth, Madam, I am delighted to find you think so; for if the master pleases you, the servant pleases me as well, and I wish our own marriage could take place at the same time as theirs.

MRS. JOUR. Go, then, and speak to him about what I told you; and tell him to come presently, that we may both together ask my husband to grant him my daughter.

NIC. I run with joy, Madam, and I could not receive a more pleasant order. (_Alone_.) How happy I am going to make certain people!

SCENE VIII.--NICOLE, CLEONTE, COVIELLE.

NIC. Ah, what a lucky meeting! I am a messenger of joy, and I came....

CLE. Leave me, false woman, and don't think of deceiving me with your treacherous words.

NIC. Do you receive me in that way?

CLE. Leave me, I say, and go and tell your faithless mistress that she never shall again deceive the too credulous Cleonte.

NIC. What a change? My poor Covielle, tell me, I pray, what all this means.

COV. Your poor Covielle, indeed, you wicked girl! Go, minx! decamp; get out of my sight as fast as you can, and leave me alone!

NIC. What! and do you also...?

COV. Get out of my sight, I say; I will never speak to you any more, as long as I live.

NIC. (_aside_). Mercy on us! What has happened to both of them? I must go and tell my mistress this pretty piece of news.

SCENE IX.--CLEONTE, COVIELLE.

CLE. What! to treat a lover in that fashion, and the most faithful and affectionate of all lovers!

COV. It is shameful what they have done to both of us!

CLE. I show her all possible ardour and tenderness; I love nothing in the world better, and have nothing in my thoughts but her; she is all my care, all my desire, all my joy; I speak of nothing but her, think of nothing but her, dream of nothing but her. I live but for her; my heart beats but for her; and, behold the reward of so much devotion! I am two whole days without seeing her, two days which seem to me centuries of frightful length; I meet her by accident, my heart at the sight of her feels transported; joy sparkles in my face. I fly to her with delight, and the faithless one turns away her eyes, and passes by me hastily, as if she had never seen me before in her life!

COV. I can only repeat the same story.

CLE. Can anything be compared, Covielle, to the perfidy of the ungrateful Lucile?

COV. And to that, Sir, of that hussy Nicole?

CLE. After so many passionate sacrifices, sighs, and vows which I have paid to her charms!

COV. After so many attentions, cares, and services I have rendered her in the kitchen!

CLE. So many tears that I have shed at her feet!

COV. So many buckets of water that I have drawn for her from the well!

CLE. Such warmth as I have shown in loving her more than myself!

COV. Such heat as I have endured in turning the spit for her!

CLE. She avoids me with contempt!

COV. She rudely turns her back upon me!

CLE. This perfidy deserves the greatest chastisement.

COV. This treachery deserves a thousand blows.

CLE. Mind, you never speak to me of her any more.

COV. I, Sir? Heaven forbid!

CLE. Do not venture to palliate her wrongs before me.

COV. Never fear.

CLE. No; for all you would say in her defence would be lost upon me.

COV. Who dreams of such a thing?

CLE. I wish to nurse up my wrath against her, and to break off all intercourse with her.

COV. I am quite willing.

CLE. This count who goes to her house has turned her head, no doubt; and rank, I see, dazzles her mind. But I must, for my own honour, prevent her triumphing in her inconstancy. I will do as much as she does towards a change which I plainly see she desires, and I will not let her have all the pleasure of having dismissed me.

COV. You are in the right, and I enter into all your feelings.

CLE. Help me in my resentment, and support my resolution against the remainder of my love that might still plead for her. Tell me, I pray you, all the evil you can think of her. Draw a description of her person which may bring her down in my estimation, and, in order to make me dislike her more surely, show me all the defects you can see in her.

COV. She, indeed, Sir! a fine specimen, a fine piece of affectation to be in love with! I see nothing in her but the most common attractions, and you will find a thousand girls more worthy of your love than she is. To begin with, her eyes are small... [Footnote: It is Moliere's wife that is here described.]

CLE. Yes, it is true, her eyes are small, Covielle; but they are full of fire, the most sparkling, the most searching in the world, and the tenderest also that could be found.

COV. Her mouth is large....

CLE. Yes; but you find there charms that can be found in no other. The sight of that mouth inspires me with love; it is the most attractive and the most amorous mouth in the world!

COV. As to her height, she is not tall.

CLE. No; but she is well shaped and graceful.

COV. She affects great carelessness in her speech, and her movements....

CLE. It is true; but she is graceful in all she does, and her manners are attractive, and possess a certain charm which at once takes possession of one's heart.

COV. As for wit....

CLE. Ah, Covielle! her wit is of the most refined, the most delicate kind.

COV. Her conversation....

CLE. Her conversation is charming.

COV. It is always grave.

CLE. Would you prefer an unrestrained gaiety, a perpetual liveliness? and can you find anything more unpleasant than those women who giggle at everything?

COV. But, in short, she is as whimsical as any woman can be.

CLE. Yes, she is, I agree with you there; but everything becomes those we love. We bear everything from them.

COV. Since you go on so, I see pretty well that you are determined to love her still.

CLE. I? I had rather die this moment, and I mean in future to hate her as much as I loved her before.

COV. How can you if you think her so perfect?

CLE. In this way shall my revenge shine; in this way shall the strength of my decision to hate her be better displayed; if thinking her most beautiful, most charming, most amiable, I still part from her. Here she is.

SCENE X.--LUCILE, CLEONTE, COVIELLE, NICOLE.

NIC. (_to_ LUCILE). I was quite shocked at it.

LUC. It can only be what I tell you, Nicole; but there he is.

CLE. (_to_ COVIELLE). I will not condescend even to speak to her.

COV. I will do like you.

LUC. What is it, Cleonte? What can be the matter with you?

NIC. What ails you, Covielle?

LUC. What trouble afflicts you?

NIC. What fit of bad temper has got hold of you?

LUC. Are you dumb, Cleonte?

NIC. Have you lost your tongue, Covielle?

CLE. How deceitful she is!

COV. How Judas-like!

LUC. I see that our meeting of this morning has troubled your mind.

CLE. (_to_ COVIELLE). Ah! ah! we are conscious of what we have done?

NIC. Our reception of this morning has put you out.

COV. (_to_ CLEONTE). We know where the shoe pinches.

LUC. Is it not true, Cleonte; is not this the cause of your vexation?

CLE. Yes, faithless girl, it is, since I am to speak; but I must inform you that you shall not have, as you fancy, all the glory of your faithlessness; I wish to be the first to break with you, and you shall not have the pleasure of driving me away. I shall find it hard, I know, to conquer the love I feel for you; it will bring grief to me; I am sure, to suffer for a while; but I will overcome it, and I had rather stab myself to the heart than be weak enough to return to you.

COV. (_to_ NICOLE). As the master says, so says the man.

LUC. This is much ado about nothing, Cleonte, and I wish to tell you what made me avoid you this morning.

CLE. (_trying to go away to avoid_ LUCILE). I will hear nothing.

NIC. (_to_ COVIELLE). I want to tell you why we passed you so quickly.

COV. (_trying also to go away to avoid_ NICOLE). I will hear nothing.

LUC. (_following_ CLEONTE). Know, then, that this morning....

CLE. (_still walking away without looking at_ LUCILE). No, I tell you.

NIC. (_following_ COVIELLE). Let me tell you....

COV. (_still walking away without looking at_ NICOLE). No, you jilt!

LUC. Listen.

CLE. Don't trouble me.

NIC. Let me tell you.

COV. I am deaf.

LUC. Cleonte!

CLE. No.

NIC. Covielle!

COV. No.

LUC. Wait.

CLE. Nonsense.

NIC. Listen to me.

COV. Rubbish.

LUC. One moment.

CLE. Not a bit.

NIC. A little patience.

COV. Fiddle-de-dee!

LUC. A couple of words.

CLE. No; all is over.

NIC. One word.

COV. Not one.

LUC. (_stopping_). Very well! Since you will not listen to me, keep your own thoughts to yourself, and do as you please.

NIC. (_stopping also_). Since you act in that fashion, think what you like.

CLE. (_turning towards_ LUCILE). Well, what was the reason for such a welcome?

LUC. (_going away in her turn_, _to avoid_ CLEONTE). I don't choose to tell you now.

COV. (_turning towards_ NICOLE). Give us that story.

NIC. (_going away also_, _to avoid_ COVIELLE). I don't wish to tell it you now.

CLE. (_following_ LUCILE). Tell me....

LUC. (_walking away without looking at_ CLEONTE). No; I will tell you nothing.

COV. (_following_ NICOLE). Relate to me....

NIC. (_walking away without looking at_ COVIELLE). No; I shall relate nothing.

CLE. For mercy's sake!

LUC. No, I tell you.

COV. For pity's sake!

NIC. No; not another word.

CLE. I beseech you.

LUC. Leave me.

COV. I entreat you.

NIC. Get away from here.

CLE. Lucile!

LUC. No.

COV. Nicole!

NIC. Nothing.

CLE. For heaven's sake.

LUC. I will not.

COV. Speak to me.

NIC. I won't.

CLE. Clear up my doubts.

LUC. No; I will do nothing of the kind.

COV. Ease my mind.

NIC. No; it is not my wish to do so.

CLE. Very well! Since you care so little to relieve my grief, and to justify yourself of the unworthy treatment my love has received from you, you see me for the last time; and I am going away from you to die of grief and love.

COV. (_to_ NICOLE). And I will follow his steps.

LUC. (_to_ CLEONTE, _who is going_). Cleonte!

NIC. (_to_ COVIELLE, _who is going_). Covielle!

CLE. (_stopping_). Hey?

COV. (_stopping also_). What do you say?

LUC. Where are you going?

CLE. Where I have told you.

COV. We are going to die.

LUC. You are going to die, Cleonte?

CLE. Yes, cruel one, since you wish it.

LUC. I! I wish you to die!

CLE. Yes, you wish it.

LUC. Who told you such a thing?

CLE. Is it not wishing it, to refuse to clear up my suspicions?

LUC. Is it my fault? If you had but listened to me, I would have told you at once that the treatment you complain of was caused by the presence of an old aunt, who persists in saying that the mere approach of a man is dishonour to a girl; she is always lecturing us about it, and depicts all men to us as so many scamps whom we ought always to avoid.

NIC. (_to_ COVIELLE.) This is the whole secret of the affair.

CLE. (_to_ LUCILE). Are you not deceiving me, Lucile?

COV. (_to_ NICOLE). Are you not imposing upon me?

LUC. It is the exact truth.

NIC. That's how it is.

COV. (_to_ CLEONTE). Shall we surrender after this?

CLE. Ah! Lucile! How you can with one word bring back peace to my heart; and how easily we suffer ourselves to be persuaded by those we love.

COV. How easily these queer animals succeed in getting round us.

SCENE XI.--MRS. JOURDAIN, CLEONTE, LUCILE, COVIELLE, NICOLE.

MRS. JOUR. I am very glad to see you, Cleonte. You are just in time, for my husband will be here in a moment. Seize that opportunity of asking him to give you Lucile in marriage.

CLE. Oh! how welcome these kind words are, and how well they correspond to the inmost wishes of my heart. Could I ever receive an order more flattering, a favour more precious?

SCENE XII.--CLEONTE, MR. JOURDAIN, MRS. JOURDAIN, LUCILE, COVIELLE, NICOLE.

CLE. Sir, I would not ask anybody to come instead of me to make you a request which I have long wished to make. The matter interests me too much for me not to do it myself. Allow me to tell you then, without further words, that the honour of becoming your son-in-law is a favour I earnestly solicit, and one which I beseech you to grant me.

MR. JOUR. Before I give you an answer, Sir, I beg you to tell me if you are a nobleman.

CLE. Sir, most people would answer that question without any hesitation whatever. The word is easily spoken; a title is generally adopted without scruple, and present custom seems to sanction the theft. For my part, however, I must confess that I look upon any kind of imposture as unworthy of an honest man. I think it base to hide what heaven has made us, to adorn ourselves before the world with a title, and to wish to pass for what we are not. I am the son of parents who have filled honourable offices. I have acquitted myself with honour in the army, where I served for six years, and I am rich enough to hold a tolerable position in the world; but for all this, I will not assume a name that others might think I could pretend to in my position, and I tell you openly that I cannot be reckoned a nobleman.

MR. JOUR. Shake hands, then, my daughter is no wife for you.

CLE. How! May I know...?

MR. JOUR. You are not a nobleman, therefore you shall not have my daughter.

MRS. JOUR. What is it you mean by your nobleman? Are we ourselves descended from St. Louis?

MR. JOUR. Be silent, wife; I see what you are driving at.

MRS. JOUR. Are we not both descended from good, simple tradesmen?

MR. JOUR. Is not that a wicked slander?

MRS. JOUR. Was not your father a tradesman as well as mine?

MR. JOUR. Plague take the woman! She has never done with that. If your father was a tradesman, so much the worse for him; as for mine, it is only ill-informed people who say so, and all I have to tell you is that I will have a gentleman for my son-in-law.

MRS. JOUR. Your daughter must have a husband who suits her; and it is better for her to marry an honest man, rich and handsome, than a deformed and beggarly gentleman.

NIC. That's quite true. We have the son of the squire in our village, who is the most awkwardly built and stupid noodle that I have ever seen in my life.

MR. JOUR. (_to_ NICOLE). Hold your tongue, will you? and mind your own business. I have wealth enough and to spare for my daughter. I only wish for honours, and I will have her a marchioness.

MRS. JOUR. A marchioness?

MR. JOUR. Yes, a marchioness.

MRS. JOUR. alas! God forbid.

MR. JOUR. It's a thing that I'm determined upon.

MRS. JOUR. I will never consent to it. Marriages between people who are not of the same rank are always subject to the most serious inconveniences. I do not wish to have a son-in-law who would have it in his power to reproach my daughter with her parentage; nor that she should have children who would be ashamed to call me their grandmother. If she came to see me with the equipage of a grand lady, and failed through inadvertency to salute some of the neighbours, people would not fail to say a thousand ill-natured things. "Just see," they would say, "our lady the marchioness, who is so puffed up now, she is Mr. Jourdain's daughter; she was only too pleased, when a child, to play at my lady with us. She has not always been so exalted as now, and her two grandfathers sold cloth near St. Innocents' Gate. They have laid a great deal of money by for their children, for which, may be, they are now paying dearly in the other world, for one does not generally become so rich by honest means." I do not wish to give occasion for such gossip, and I desire to meet with a man who, to cut it short, will be grateful to me for my daughter, and to whom I can say, "Sit down there, son-in-law, and dine with me."

MR. JOUR. How all these feelings show a narrow mind, satisfied to live for ever in a low condition of life. Let me have no more replies; my daughter shall be a marchioness in spite of everybody, and if you provoke me too much, I will make her a duchess.

SCENE XIII.--MRS. JOURDAIN, LUCILE, CLEONTE, NICOLE, COVIELLE.

MRS. JOUR. Do not give up all hope, Cleonte. Follow me, Lucile; come and tell your father with firmness and decision that, unless you have Cleonte for a husband, you will never marry.

SCENE XIV.--CLEONTE, COVIELLE.

COV. Well! you have done a fine piece of work, with your lofty sentiments.

CLE. What could I do? I have scruples on that subject which no precedent could overcome.

COV. What nonsense to be serious with a man like that! Do you not see that he is infatuated with one idea, and would it have cost you much to fall in with his gentility?

CLE. I am afraid you are right; but the fact is I had not thought before that it was necessary to show proofs of gentility in order to become Mr. Jourdain's son-in-law.

COV. (_laughing_). Ha! ha! ha!

CLE. What are you laughing at?

COV. At the thought of something that has just come into my head; it will play off our man, and help you to succeed in what you want.

CLE. How so?

COV. It is most amusing even to think of it.

CLE. What is it?

COV. We have had lately a certain masquerade, which seems to me the very thing wanted, and which I mean to make use of to play a trick on our absurd old fellow. The whole affair seems rather silly, but with him we may risk many things; there is no need of much cunning, and he is one to play his part wonderfully well, and to swallow greedily all the nonsense we may venture to tell him. I have actors and costumes all ready; only leave it to me.

CLE. But tell me....

COV. Yes, I must tell you all about it; but let us go away, for here he is coming back again.

SCENE XV.--MR. JOURDAIN (_alone_).

What the deuce does it all mean? They do nothing but reproach me with my great lords, and I, for my part, see nothing so fine as to associate with great lords; we find only honour and civility with them; and I would give two fingers of my hand to have been born a count or a marquis.

SCENE XVI.--MR. JOURDAIN, A SERVANT.

SER. Sir, here is the count, and a lady with him.

MR. JOUR. Bless me! and I have some orders to give. Tell them I shall be here in a moment.

SCENE XVII--DORIMENE, DORANTE, A SERVANT.

SER. My master says he will be here directly.

DOR. Very well.

SCENE XVIII.--DORIMENE, DORANTE.

DORI. I am afraid, Dorante, that I am doing a very strange thing in allowing myself to be brought by you into a house where I know nobody.

DOR. Where then can I go to entertain you, Madam, since, to avoid remarks being made, you will see me neither at your own house nor at mine?

DORI. Yes; but you do not mention that I am little by little brought to accept too great proofs of your love. In vain do I refuse my acquiescence in all you do, you triumph over my resistance, and you have a kind of persevering civility which causes me by degrees to do all that you wish. You began with frequent visits; next came declarations, and they have drawn after them serenades and entertainments, followed by presents. I was opposed to all these things, but you are not to be discouraged, and step by step you have overcome all my resolutions. For my part, I dare answer for nothing now; and I believe that at last you will persuade me to marry you, although I had set my heart against it.

DOR. Indeed, Madam, you should have been persuaded before. You are a widow, and depend on nobody but yourself. I am my own master, and I love you more than my life. What is there to prevent you from making me supremely happy?

DORI. To say the truth, Dorante, it requires many good qualities on both sides for people to live happily together, and the two most sensible people in the world will often find it difficult to make up a union with which they are satisfied.

DOR. You are wrong, Madam, to fear so many drawbacks to the happiness of a married life, and your sad experience proves nothing.

DORI. In short, I still come back to this; the expenses which you run into for my sake make me anxious for two reasons: the first that they involve me more than I should wish, and the other that I feel certain--pray be not offended with me--that you cannot incur them without much inconvenience to yourself; and I do not wish such a state of things to go on.

DOR. Ah, Madam, these are trifles not worth mentioning, and it is not from that....

DORI. I know what I am saying; and, among other things, the diamond you forced upon me is of a price....

DOR. Nay, Madam, do not set such value upon a thing which my love thinks so unworthy of you; and allow me.... Here is the master of the house.

SCENE XIX.--MR. JOURDAIN, DORIMENE, DORANTE.

MR. JOUR. (_after having made two bows, finds himself too near to_ DORIMENE). A little farther, Madam.

DORI. What?

MR. JOUR. One step more, if you please.

DOR. What then?

MR. JOUR. Fall back a little for the third.

DOR. Mr. Jourdain, Madam, knows whom he is addressing.

MR. JOUR. Madam, it is a very great glory to me that I am fortunate enough to be so happy as to have the felicity that you should have had the goodness to do me the honour of honouring me with the favour of your presence, and had I also the merit to merit such merit as yours and that heaven ... envious of my good fortune ... had granted me ... the advantage of being worthy ... of the....

DOR. Mr. Jourdain, this is quite enough; Madam does not care for great compliments, and she knows that you are a clever and witty man. (_Aside to_ DORIMENE) He is a harmless citizen, ridiculous enough, as you see, in his behaviour.

DORI. (_aside to_ DORANTE). It is not difficult to perceive that.

DOR. Madam, this is one of my greatest friends.

MR. JOUR. You do me too much honour.

DOR. A most excellent and polite man.

DORI. I feel the greatest esteem for him.

MR. JOUR. I have done nothing as yet, Madam, to deserve such a favour.

DOR. (_aside to_ MR. JOURDAIN). Be very careful not to speak to her of the diamond you gave her.

MR. JOUR (_aside to_ DORANTE). May I not just ask her how she likes it?

DOR. (_aside to_ MR. JOURDAIN). Eh? Be sure not to do that. It would be most vulgar of you; and to behave like a true gentleman, you should act in all things as if you had made no present at all. (_Aloud_) Mr. Jourdain says, Madam, that he is delighted to see you in his house.

DORI. He does me great honour.

MR. JOUR. (_aside to_ DORANTE). How truly obliged I am to you, Sir, for speaking of me to her as you do.

DOR. (_aside to_ MR. JOURDAIN). I had all the trouble in the world to make her come here.

MR. JOUR. (_as before_). I don't know how to thank you enough for it.

DOR. He says, Madam, that he thinks you the most beautiful woman in the world.

DORI. It is a great favour he does me.

MR. JOUR. Madam, it is you who grant the favours, and....

DOR. Let us think of the dinner.

SCENE XX.--MR. JOURDAIN, DORIMENE, DORANTE, A SERVANT.

SER. (_to_ MR. JOURDAIN). Everything is ready, Sir.

DOR. Come, then, let us go and sit down. Tell the musicians to come.

SCENE XXI.--_Entry of the_ BALLET.

_The_ COOKS, _who have prepared the banquet, dance together, and make the third interlude; after which they bring in a table covered with various dishes_.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.--DORIMENE, MR. JOURDAIN, DORANTE, THREE SINGERS, A SERVANT.

DORI. Really, Dorante, this is a magnificent dinner.

MR. JOUR. You are pleased to say So, Madam, but I only wish it were more worthy of your acceptance.

(DORIMENE, MR. JOURDAIN, DORANTE, _and the_ THREE SINGERS _sit down_.)

DOR. Mr. Jourdain is right, Madam, in what he says; and he obliges me by doing so well the honours of his house to you. I agree with him that the dinner is not worthy of you. As it was I who ordered it, and as I have not for this kind of thing the knowledge of some of our friends, you will not find here a well studied repast, but will meet with many incongruities of good eating and some barbarisms against good taste. If our good friend Damis had ordered it, all would be according to rule; there would be elegance and erudition everywhere; and he would not fail to exaggerate to you the excellence of every dish, and to make you acknowledge his high capacity in the science of good eating. He would speak to you of a loaf with golden sides, crusty all over, and yielding tenderly under the teeth; of wine full-bodied and of not too perceptible an acidity; of a saddle of mutton stewed with parsley; of a loin of Normandy veal, long, white, tender, and which is, as it were, an almond paste between the teeth; of partridges wonderful in flavour; and as his masterpiece, a pearl broth reinforced with a large turkey flanked with young pigeons, and crowned with white onions blended with endive. For my part I confess my ignorance; and as Mr. Jourdain has very well said, I wish the repast were more worthy of your acceptance.

DORI. Well, I can only answer to this compliment by eating as I am doing.

MR. JOUR. Ah! what beautiful hands!

DORI. The hands have not much to boast of, Mr. Jourdain; it is the diamond which you wish to speak of; it is indeed very beautiful.

MR. JOUR. I, Madam? Heaven forbid that I should speak of it. It would be ungentlemanly to do so, and the diamond is but a trifle.

DOR. You are difficult to please.

MR. JOUR. You are too kind, and....

DOR. (_after having made signs to_ MR. JOURDAIN). Come, come, give a little wine to Mr. Jourdain and to these gentlemen, who will do us the pleasure of singing us a drinking song.

DORI. It is a most charming thought to make good music accompany good food, and I find myself most kindly entertained here.

MR. JOUR. Madam, it is not....

DOR. Mr. Jourdain, let us listen to the music; what these gentlemen will tell us is better than all you and I could say.

1ST _and_ 2ND SINGERS _together, each with a glass in his hand_.

Phyllis, deign to fill my glass; Give the draught an added charm. Which is fairer, wine or lass, Love for both my heart doth arm?-- In this hour supernal, Let us swear, while we can, For wine, woman, and man, A friendship eternal.

Ruby-red, the blushing wine, Paints thy lips with brighter shade, While its colours softer shine Where thy glances fall, fair maid!-- While our youth is vernal, Let us swear, while we can, For wine, woman, and man, A friendship eternal.

_Drinking Song_.

Fill your glass, fill your glass, my friends, Let us drink, though time fly; We must live while we live, my friends, For time passes by.

When we cross the waves of the river, Wine and love say farewell We must leave them behind for ever, So value them well.

What though fools spend their time in thinking Of the true aim of life! Our philosophy lies in drinking, Not in wordy strife.

And glory, wisdom, and wealth, Do not ease life of ill, But we find our pleasure and health As the wine-cup we fill.

DORI. I never heard anything better sung, and all this is really beautiful.

MR. JOUR. I see something still more beautiful here, Madam.

DORI. Why, Mr. Jourdain, you are a greater flatterer than I should have thought.

DOR. And for what, Madam, do you take Mr. Jourdain?

MR. JOUR. I wish she would take me for what I could name.

DORI. Again!

DOR. (_to_ DORIMENE). You do not know him.

MR. JOUR. But she will know me whenever it pleases her.

DORI. Oh, I give up.

DOR. He is a man always ready with an answer. But do you not see, Madam, that Mr. Jourdain eats all the pieces you have touched.

DORI. Mr. Jourdain is a man I am charmed with.

MR. JOUR. If I could only charm your heart, I should be....

SCENE II.--MRS. JOURDAIN, MR. JOURDAIN, DORIMENE, DORANTE, SINGERS, SERVANTS.

MRS. JOUR. Ah! ah! I find charming company here, and I see clearly that I was not expected. It is for this fine piece of business, Sir, that you showed such anxiety to pack me off to my sister; was it? I have just seen a theatre down below, and here I find a banquet worthy of a wedding. That is the way you spend your money, and thus it is that you feast ladies in my absence, and give them music and the comedy, whilst you send me, trotting.

DOR. What do you mean, Mrs. Jourdain, and what fancies are you taking into your head to go and imagine that your husband is spending his money and giving the dinner to this lady? I beg to tell you that he has only lent me his house, and that it is I who give this feast, and not he. You should be a little more cautious in what you say.

MR. JOUR. Yes, rude woman that you are, it is the count who gives all that to this lady, who is a lady of rank. He does me the honour of making use of my house, and of wishing me to be with him.

MRS. JOUR. All this is rubbish; I know what I know.

DOR. Put on better spectacles, Mrs. Jourdain.

MRS. JOUR. I have no need of spectacles, Sir, and I see clearly enough what is going on. It is some time since I have seen things as they are, and I am no fool. It is very wrong of you, a great lord, to encourage my husband in his delusion. And for you, Madam, a great lady, it is neither handsome nor honest to sow dissension in a family, and to allow my husband to be in love with you.

DORI. What does all this mean? How very wrong of you, Dorante, to expose me to the preposterous fancies of this foolish woman.

DOR. (_following_ DORIMENE, _who is going away_). Madam, stop, I pray; where are you going?

MR. JOUR. Madam.... My Lord the Count, present my humblest apologies to her and try to bring her back.

SCENE III.--MRS. JOURDAIN, MR. JOURDAIN, A SERVANT.

MR. JOUR. Ah! insolent woman that you are; these are your fine doings. You come and abuse me before everybody, and send away from my house persons of quality.

MRS. JOUR. I don't care a pin for their quality.

MR. JOUR. I don't know, accursed woman that you are, what prevents me from beating your skull in with what remains of the feast you have come and disturbed.

MRS. JOUR. (_going away_). I despise your threats. I come here to defend my own rights, and all wives will be on my side.

MR. JOUR. You do wisely to avoid my anger, I can tell you.

SCENE IV.--MR. JOURDAIN (_alone_).

She came in at a most unlucky moment. I was in a mood to tell her very pretty things, and I never felt so full of wit. But what does this mean?

SCENE V.--MR. JOURDAIN, COVIELLE (_disguised_).

COV. Sir, I am not sure if I have the honour of being known to you.

MR. JOUR. No, Sir.

COV. (_putting his hand about a foot from the ground_). I saw you when you were not taller than that.

MR. JOUR. Me?

COV. Yes! You were the most beautiful child in the world, and all the ladies used to lift you up in their arms to kiss you.

MR. JOUR. To kiss me?

COV. Yes. I was a great friend of the late nobleman your father.

MR. JOUR. Of the late nobleman my father?

COV. Yes, he was a most kind gentleman.

MR. JOUR. What do you say?

COV. I say that he was a most kind gentleman.

MR. JOUR. My father?

COV. Your father.

MR. JOUR. You knew him well?

COV. Very well indeed.

MR. JOUR. And you know him to have been a nobleman?

COV. Undoubtedly.

MR. JOUR. Well, I don't understand what the world means.

COV. What do you say?

MR. JOUR. There are some stupid people who try to persuade me that he was a shopkeeper.

COV. He a shopkeeper! It is sheer calumny. All he did was this: he was extremely kind and obliging, and understood different kinds of stuff very well; therefore he used to go everywhere and choose some; then, he had them brought to his house, and was in the habit of letting his friends have some for money if they chose.

MR. JOUR. I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, so that you may testify that my father was a nobleman.

COV. I will maintain it before the whole world.

MR. JOUR. You will oblige me greatly; may I know what business brings you here?

COV. Since my acquaintance with your late father--a perfect gentleman, as I was telling you--I have travelled to the end of the world.

MR. JOUR. To the end of the world?

COV. Yes.

MR. JOUR. I suppose it is a very far-off country.

COV. Very far off. I only returned four days ago, and owing to the interest I take in all that concerns you, I have come to give you the best news possible.

MR. JOUR. What can it be?

COV. You know that the son of the Grand Turk is here. [Footnote: There seems to have been a Turkish envoy in Paris at that time.]

MR. JOUR. No, I didn't know.

COV. You didn't know! He has a most magnificent retinue of attendants. Everybody goes to see him, and he has been received in this country as a personage of the greatest importance.

MR. JOUR. Indeed? I have heard nothing of it.

COV. What is of great concern to you is that he is in love with your daughter.

MR. JOUR. The son of the Grand Turk?

COV. Yes, and that he wishes to, become your son-in-law.

MR. JOUR. My son-in-law, the son of the Grand Turk!

COV. The son of the Grand Turk your son-in-law When I went to see him, as I understand his language perfectly, we had a long chat together; and after having talked of different things, he told me, _Acciam croc soler onch alla moustaph gidelum amanahem varahini oussere carbulath_? that is to say, "Have you not seen a beautiful young girl who is the daughter of Mr. Jourdain, a nobleman of Paris?"

MR. JOUR. The son of the Grand Turk said that of me?

COV. Yes. Then I answered him that I knew you perfectly well, and that I had seen your daughter. Ah! said he, _marababa sahem_! which is to say, "Ah! how much I love her!"

MR. JOUR. _Marababa sahem_! means, "Ah! how I love her!"

COV. Yes.

MR. JOUR. Indeed, you do right to tell me; for I should never have known that _Marababa sahem_! meant, "Ah I how much I love her!" This Turkish language is admirable.

COV. More admirable than you would ever imagine. For instance, do you know what _Cacaracamouchen_ means?

MR. JOUR. _Cacaracamouchen_? No.

COV. It means, "My dear love."

MR. JOUR. _Cacaracamouchen_ means, "My dear love"?

COV. Yes.

MR. JOUR. It is wonderful! _Cacaracamouchen_, "My dear love." Who would ever have thought it? I am perfectly astounded.

COV. In short, in order to end my embassy, I must tell you that he is coming to ask your daughter in marriage; and in order to have a father-in-law worthy of him, he wants to make you a _mamamouchi_, which is a great dignity in his country.

MR. JOUR. _Mamamouchi_?

COV. _Mamamouchi_; that is to say in our own language, a paladin. Paladin, you know those ancient paladins; in short, there is nothing more noble than that in the whole world, and you will take rank with the greatest lords upon the earth.

MR. JOUR. The son of the Grand Turk honours me greatly, and I beg of you to take me to his house, that I may return him my thanks.

COV. Not at all; he is just coming here.

MR. JOUR. He is coming here?

COV. Yes, and he is bringing with him everything necessary for the ceremony.

MR. JOUR. It is doing things rather quickly.

COV. Yes, his love will suffer no delay.

MR. JOUR. All that perplexes me in this affair is that my daughter is a very obstinate girl, who has taken it into her head to have a certain Cleonte for her husband, and vows she will marry no other.

COV. She is sure to change her mind when she sees the son of the Grand Turk; besides, wonderful to relate, the son of the Grand Turk has a strong likeness to that very Cleonte. People showed him to me, and I have just seen him; the love she feels for the one is sure to pass to the other, and ... I hear him coming! Lo, here he is.

SCENE VI.--CLEONTE (_dressed as a Turk_), THREE PAGES (_carrying the vest of_ CLEONTE), MR. JOURDAIN, COVIELLE.

CLE. _Ambousahim oqui boraf, Giourdina, salamatequi_.

COV. (_to_ MR. JOURDAIN). That is to say, "Mr. Jourdain, may your heart be all the year round a budding rose tree." It is a way of speaking they have in that country.

MR. JOUR. I am your Turkish highness's humble servant.

COV. _Carigar camboto oustin moraf_.

CLE. _Oustin yoc catamalequi basum base alla moran_.

COV. He says, "May heaven grant you the strength of the lion and the prudence of the serpent."

MR. JOUR. His Turkish highness does me too much honour, and I wish him all manner of prosperity.

COV. _Ossa binamen sadoc baballi oracaf ouram_.

CLE. _Belmen_.

COV. He says you must go quickly with him to prepare for the ceremony, in order afterwards to see your daughter and conclude the marriage.

MR. JOUR. So many things comprised in two words?

COV. Yes, The Turkish language is like that, it says a good deal in a few words. Go quickly where he wishes you.

SCENE VII.--COVIELLE (_alone_).

Ah! ah! ah! Upon my soul, this is most absurd. What a dupe! Had he learnt his part by heart, he would not have played it better. Ah! ah! ah!

SCENE VIII.--DORANTE, COVIELLE.

COV. I beg of you, Sir, to help us here in a little affair we have in hand.

DOR. Hallo! Covielle, who would have known you again? What a get up!

COV. As you see. Ah! ah! ah!

DOR. What are you laughing at?

COV. At a thing worth laughing at, I can tell you.

DOR. What is it?

COV. You would never guess the stratagem we have invented to induce Mr. Jourdain to give my master his daughter in marriage.

DOR. I certainly can't guess what it is, but I can guess that it will succeed since you are at the head of affairs.

COV. I know, Sir, that the animal is appreciated by you.

DOR. Tell me what you are about.

COV. Kindly go a little on one side to make room for what I see coming. You will be able to have a view of a part of the business whilst I explain the rest to you.

SCENE IX.--THE TURKISH CEREMONY. [Footnote: Lulli composed the music, and acted the part of the Mufti.]

THE MUFTI, DERVISHES, TURKS (_assisting the_ MUFTI), SINGERS and DANCERS.

SIX TURKS _enter gravely, two and two at the sound of instruments. They carry three carpets which they lift very high as they dance several dances The_ TURKS _pass under the carpets, singing and range themselves on each side of the stage. The_ MUFTI, _accompanied by_ DERVISHES, _closes the march. The_ TURKS _then spread the carpets on the ground, and kneel down upon them. The_ MUFTI _and the_ DERVISHES _stand up in the middle of them; and while the_ MUFTI _invokes Mahomet in dumb contortions and grimaces the_ TURKS _prostrate themselves to the ground, singing_ Alli, _raising their hands to heaven, singing_ Alla, _and continue so alternately to the end of the invocation; after which they all rise up, singing_, Alla eckber, _and two_ DERVISHES _go and fetch_ MR. JOURDAIN.

SCENE X.--THE MUFTI, DERVISH, TURKISH SINGERS _and_ DANCERS. MR. JOURDAIN, _dressed like a Turk, his head shaved, without any turban or sword_.

THE MUFTI (_to_ MR. JOURDAIN).

[1] Se ti sabir, Ti respondir; Se non sabir, Tazir, tazir.

Mi star muphti, Ti qui star si? Non intendir; Tazir, tazir. [2]

[1] _Lingua franca,_ jargon composed of Italian, Spanish, &c., and spoken in the Levant.

[2] If you understand, Answer; If you do not understand, Hold thy peace, hold thy peace. I am the Mufti

(TWO DERVISHES _retire with_ MR. JOURDAIN.)

SCENE XI.--THE MUFTI, DERVISHES, TURKS, _singing and dancing_.

MUF. Dice, Turque, qui star quista? Anabatista? anabatista? [Say, Turk, who is this? Is he Anabaptist? Anabaptist?]

TUR. Ioc. [No.]

MUF. Zuinglista? [A Zwinglian?]

TUR. Ioc. [No.]

MUF. Coffita? [A Capht?]

TUR. Ioc. [No.]

MUF. Hussita? Morista? Fronista? [A Hussite? a Moor? a Phronist?]

TUR. Ioc, ioc; ioc. [No, no, no.]

MUF. Ioc, ioc, ioc. Star pagana? [No, no, no. Is he a pagan?]

TUR. Ioc. [No.]

MUF. Luterana? [A Lutheran?]

TUR. Ioc. [No.]

MUF. Puritana? [A Puritan?]

TUR. Ioc. [No.]

MUF. Bramina? Moffina? Zurina? [A Brahmin? a Moffian? a Zurian?]

TUR. Ioc, ioc, ioc. [No, no, no.]

MUF. Ioc, ioc, ioc. Mahametana? Mahametana? [No, no, no. A Mahometan? a Mahometan?]

TUR. Hi Valla. Hi Valla. [There you have it. There you have it.]

MUF. Como chamara? Como chamara? [How is he called? How is he called?]

TUR. Giourdina, Giourdina. [Jourdain, Jourdain.]

MUF. (_jumping_). Giourdina, Giourdina. [Jourdain, Jourdain.]

TUR. Giourdina, Giourdina. [Jourdain, Jourdain.]

THE MUFTI. [1]

Mahameta, per Giourdina, Mi pregar sera e matina. Voler far un paladina De Giourdina, de Giourdina; Dar turbanta, e dar scarrina, Con galera, e brigantina, Per deffender Palestina. Mahameta, per Giourdina, Mi pregar sera e matina. (_To the_ TURKS.) Star bon Turca Giourdina?

[1] To Mahomet for Jourdain, I pray night and day. I wish to make a paladin Of Jourdain, of Jourdain. Give him a turban, and give him a sword, With a galley and a brigantine, To defend Palestine. To Mahomet for Jourdain I pray night and day. (_To the_ TURKS.). Is Jourdain a good Turk?

TUR. Hi Valla. Hi Valla. [Yes, by Allah!]

MUF. (_singing and dancing_). Ha la ba, ba la chou, ba la ba, ba la da.

TUR. Ha la ba, ba la chou, ba la ba ba la da. [2]

[2] Thus separated, these words have no sense; but by joining and correcting them, we have: _Allah baba, hou, Allah hou_, which are really Turkish, and which signify, "_God my Father; God my Father_." (_Auger_.)

SCENE XI.--TURKS, _singing and dancing_. _Second entry of the_ BALLET.

SCENE XIII.--THE MUFTI, DERVISHES, MR. JOURDAIN, TURKS, _singing and dancing_.

_The_ MUFTI _returns, wearing on his head the state turban, which is of enormous size, and adorned with lighted candles, four or five rows deep; he is accompanied by_ TWO DERVISHES _bearing the Koran, and wearing cone-shaped caps also adorned with lighted candles_.

_The two other_ DERVISHES _lead in_ MR. JOURDAIN, _and make him kneel down, his two hands on the ground, so that his back, on which the Koran is placed, serves for a desk for the_ MUFTI, _who makes a second burlesque invocation, knitting his eyebrows, striking from time to time on the Koran, and turning over the pages with precipitation; after which, lifting up his hands, he cries with a loud voice_, "HOU."

_During this second invocation, the other_ TURKS, _bowing down and raising themselves alternately, sing likewise_, "Hou, hou, hou."

MR. JOUR. (_after they have taken the Koran from off his back_). Ouf!

THE MUFTI (_to_ MR. JOURDAIN). Ti non star furba? [Thou wilt not be a knave?]

THE TURKS. No, no, no.

THE MUFTI. Non star forfanta? [Nor be a thief?]

THE TURKS. No, no, no.

THE MUFTI (_to the_ TURKS). Donar turbanta. [Give the turban.]

THE TURKS. Ti non star furba? [Thou wilt not be a knave?] No, no, no. Non star forfanta? [Nor be a thief?] No, no, no. Donar turbanta. [Give the turban.]

Third entry of the BALLET.

_The_ TURKS, _dancing, put the turban on_ MR. JOURDAIN'S _head at the sound of the instruments_.

THE MUFTI (_giving a sabre to_ MR. JOURDAIN). Ti star nobile, non star fabbola. [Be brave, be no Scoundrel] Pigliar schiabbola [Take the Sword.]

THE TURKS (_drawing their sabres_). Ti star nobile, non star fabbola. [Be brave, be no Scoundrel] Pigliar schiabbola. [Take the Sword.]

_Fourth entry of the_ BALLET.

_The_ TURKS, _dancing, strike_ MR. JOURDAIN _several times with their swords, keeping time with the music_.

THE MUFTI. Dara, dara Bastonnara. [Give, give the bastonnade.]

THE TURKS. Dara, dara Bastonnara. [Give, give the bastonnade.]

_Fifth entry of the_ BALLET.

_The_ Turks, _dancing, give_ MR. JOURDAIN _several blows with a stick, keeping time meanwhile_.

THE MUFTI. Non tener honta; [Think it not a shame;] Questa star l'ultima affronta. [This is the last affront.]

THE TURKS. Non tener honta; [Think it not a shame;] Questa star l'ultima affronta. [This is the last affront.]

_The_ MUFTI _begins a third invocation. The_ DERVISHES _support him under the arms with great respect, after which the_ TURKS, _singing and dancing round the_ MUFTI, _retire with him, and lead off_ MR. JOURDAIN.

ACT V.

SCENE I.--MRS. JOURDAIN, MR. JOURDAIN.

MRS. JOUR. Goodness gracious me! Lord, have mercy on us! What can this be? What a figure! Is it a _momon_ [Footnote: Apparently there is no English equivalent to _momon_ in this sense.] you have in hand, and is this carnival time? Do speak! What does all this mean? Who trussed you up in this manner?

MR. JOUR. Just see the impertinent woman, to speak after such a manner to a _mamamouchi_.

MRS. JOUR. What do you say?

MR. JOUR. Yes, you must show me respect now; I have just been made a _mamamouchi_.

MRS. JOUR. What can you possibly mean with your _mamamouchi_?

MR. JOUR. _Mamamouchi_, I tell you; I am a _mamamouchi_.

MRS. JOUR. What kind of a beast is that?

MR. JOUR. _Mamamouchi_; which in our language means paladin.

MRS. JOUR. Ballet in? Are you of an age to be dancing ballets?

MR. JOUR. What an ignorant woman you are! I say "paladin," which is a dignity which has just been conferred upon me with all due ceremony.

MRS. JOUR. What ceremony?

MR. JOUR. _Mahameta per Jordina_.

MRS. JOUR. What does that mean?

MR. JOUR. _Jordina, that is to say Jourdain_.

MRS. JOUR. Well? What, Jourdain?

MR. JOUR. _Voler far un paladina de Jordina_.

MRS. JOUR. What?

MR. JOUR. _Dar turbanta con galera_.

MRS. JOUR. What does that mean?

MR. JOUR. _Per deffender Palestina_.

MRS. JOUR. Tell me what you mean then.

MR. JOUR. _Dara, dara bastonnara_.

MRS. JOUR. What is all this jargon?

MR. JOUR. _Non tener honta, questa star l'ultima affronta_.

MRS. JOUR. Whatever is all this?

MR. JOUR. (_singing and dancing_). _Hou la ba, ba la chow, ba la ba, ba la da_. (_Falls to the ground_.)

MRS. JOUR. Alas, alas! my husband is gone out of his mind.

MR. JOUR. (_getting up and walking off_). Peace! Show respect to the _mamamouchi_.

MRS. JOUR. (_alone_). Where can he have lost his senses? I must run after him and prevent him from going out! (_Seeing_ DORIMENE _and_ DORANTE.) Oh dear! Oh dear! Here's the last straw! I see nothing but trouble and disgrace everywhere!

SCENE II.--DORANTE, DORIMENE.

DOR. Yes, Madam, it is the most amusing thing that you ever saw, and I do not think that there is in the whole world a man as, crazy as this one. Moreover, we must try to help Cleonte and back up his masquerade. He is a most excellent fellow, and one who deserves all your interest.

DORI. I have the greatest esteem for him, and he is worthy of all success.

DOR. We also have here, Madam, a ballet due to us. We must not miss it, for I should be glad to see if my idea succeeds.

DORI. I saw magnificent preparations yonder; and this is a state of things, Dorante, with which I can bear no longer. Yes, I must put an end to your profusion; and in order to cut short all the expenses I see you run into for me, I have decided upon marrying you as soon as possible. This is the real secret of my decision; all these things, as you know, end ever in matrimony.

DOR. Ah, Madam, is it possible that you should have come to such a kind determination in my favour?

DORI. It is only to prevent you from ruining yourself, for, if I am not quick, I clearly see that before long you will not have a penny left.

DOR. What thanks I owe you for your anxiety about my fortune! That and my heart are entirely yours, and you can dispose of both as shall seem good to you.

DORI. I will make a right use of both. But here is our man coming. What an admirable figure!

SCENE III.--MR. JOURDAIN, DORIMENE, DORANTE.

DOR. Sir, we have both come to do homage to your new dignity, and to rejoice with you over the marriage of your daughter with the son of the Grand Turk.

MR. JOUR. (_after bowing in the Turkish manner_). Sir, I wish you the strength of the serpent, and the wisdom of the lion.

DORI. I am very glad to be one of the first, Sir, to come and congratulate you on the high degree of glory to which you are raised.

MR. JOUR. Madam, may your rose-tree bloom all the year round. I am infinitely obliged to you for interesting yourself in the honour just bestowed upon me; and I am greatly rejoiced to see you back here, so that I may tender to you my most humble apologies for the extraordinary conduct of my wife.

DORI. Don't speak about it. I excuse in her such a momentary impulse; your heart ought to be very precious to her; and it is not to be wondered at that the possession of such a man as you are may cause her some alarm.

MR. JOUR. The possession of my heart is a thing you have altogether acquired.

DOR. You see, Madam, that Mr. Jourdain is not one of those whom prosperity blinds, and that, even in his elevation, he knows how to recognise his friends.

DORI. It is the proof of a truly generous soul.

DOR. Where can his Turkish highness be? We should like, as your friends, to pay our homage to him.

MR. JOUR. Here he is coming, and I sent for my daughter to give him her hand.

SCENE IV.--MR. JOURDAIN, DORIMENE, DORANTE, CLEONTE (_dressed as a Turk_).

DORI. (_to_ CLEONTE). Sir, we come, as friends of your father-in-law, to salute your highness, and to assure you with all respect of our most humble services.

MR. JOUR. Where is the interpreter, to tell him who you are, and to make him understand what you say? You shall see that he will answer you, and he speaks Turkish wonderfully well. Holla, here! where the deuce is he gone? (_To_ CLEONTE) _Strouf strif, strof, straf_. This gentleman is a _grande segnore, grande segnore, grande segnore_; and this lady a _granda dama, granda dama. (Seeing that he is not understood)_ Ah! (_To_ CLEONTE, _showing him_ DORANTE) This gentleman is a French _mamamouchi_, and the lady she is a French _mamamouchess_. I cannot explain myself more clearly. Good! Here is the interpreter.

SCENE V.--MR. JOURDAIN, DORIMENE, DORANTE, CLEONTE (_dressed as a Turk_); COVIELLE (_disguised_).

MR. JOUR. Where are you going, then? You know that we can say nothing without you. (_Showing_ CLEONTE.) Just tell him that this gentleman and this lady are people of very high rank, who have come to pay their homage to him, as friends of mine, and to assure him of their services. (_To_ DORIMENE _and_ DORANTE) You will see how he will answer.

COV. _Alabala crociam acci boram alabamen_.

CLE. _Catalequi tubal ouria soter amalouchan_.

MR. JOUR. (to DORIMENE and DORANTE). Do you see?

COV. He says, "May the rain of prosperity water at all times the garden of your family."

MR. JOUR. I told you that he spoke Turkish.

DOR. This is admirable.

SCENE VI.--LUCILE, CLEONTE, MR. JOURDAIN, DORIMENE, DORANTE, COVIELLE.

MR. JOUR. Come, my daughter; come near, and give your hand to this gentleman, who does you the honour of asking you in marriage.

LUC. Why, father, how strangely dressed you are! Are you acting a comedy?

MR. JOUR. No, no; it is no comedy, but a very serious affair, and the most honourable for you that could ever be wished for. (_Showing_ CLEONTE.) Here is the husband I bestow upon you.

LUC. Bestow upon me, father?

MR. JOUR. Yes, upon you. There, give him your hand, and thank heaven for your good fortune.

LUC. I have no wish to marry.

MR. JOUR. It is all very well, but I wish it; I who am your father.

LUC. I will do nothing of the kind.

MR. JOUR. Ah! what a noise! Come, I say, give him your hand.

LUC. No, father; I told you already that no power upon earth will force me to marry any other but Cleonte; and I would have recourse to any extremity rather than.... (_Recognising_ CLEONTE.) But it is true that you are my father, and that I owe you absolute obedience; dispose of me, then, according to your will.

MR. JOUR. Truly, I am delighted to see you return so quickly to a sense of your duty; and it is a pleasure to me to have such an obedient daughter.

SCENE VII.--MRS. JOURDAIN. CLEONTE, MR. JOURDAIN, LUCILE, DORANTE, DORIMENE, COVIELLE.

MRS JOUR. What is it? What is the meaning of all this? They say you want to give your daughter in marriage to a mummer.

MR. JOUR. Will you be silent? You always come and disturb everything with your follies; and there is no possibility of teaching you how to behave yourself.

MRS. JOUR. It is because there is no possibility of making you wise; and you go from folly to folly. What are your intentions? and what do you mean to do with all this assembly of people?

MR. JOUR. I wish to marry my daughter to the son of the Grand Turk.

MRS. JOUR. To the son of the Grand Turk?

MR. JOUR. (_showing_ COVIELLE). Yes; ask the interpreter to present your compliments to him from you.

MRS. JOUR. I have no need of an interpreter, and I can tell him myself easily to his face that he shall not have my daughter.

MR. JOUR. Will you be silent? I ask once more.

DOR. What! Mrs. Jourdain, you oppose yourself to such an honour as this? You refuse his Turkish highness for a son-in-law?

MRS. JOUR. Good gracious, Sir! Mind your own business, if you please.

DORI. It is an honour by no means to be rejected.

MRS. JOUR. I pray you also not to trouble yourself with that which is no concern of yours.

DOR. It is the friendship we have for you which makes us interest ourselves in your welfare.

MRS. JOUR. I can do very well without your friendship.

DOR. You see that your daughter yields to her father's will.

MRS. JOUR. My daughter consents to marry a Turk?

DOR. Certainly.

MRS. JOUR. She can forget Cleonte?

DOR. What will not one do to be a grand lady?

MRS. JOUR. I would strangle her with my own hands if she had done such a thing.

MR. JOUR. Too much prating by half! I tell you the marriage shall take place.

MRS. JOUR. And I tell you that it shan't.

MR. JOUR. Ah! what a row!

LUC. Mother!

MRS. JOUR. Leave me alone, you are a bad girl.

MR. JOUR. (_to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). What! you scold her because she is obedient to me?

MRS. JOUR. Certainly; she belongs to me as much as she belongs to you.

COV. (_to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). Madam.

MRS. JOUR. What business have you to speak to me, you?

COV. One word.

MRS. JOUR. I'll have nothing to do with your word.

COV. (_to_ MR. JOURDAIN). Sir, if she will only listen to a word in private, I promise you to make her consent to all you want.

MRS. JOUR. I will never consent to it.

COV. Only hear me.

MRS. JOUR. No.

MR. JOUR. (_to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). Hear him.

MRS. JOUR. No; I will not hear him.

MR. JOUR. He will tell you....

MRS. JOUR. I don't want him to tell me anything.

MR. JOUR. Did ever anybody see such obstinacy in a woman! Would it hurt you to hear him?

COV. Only listen to me; you may do what you please afterwards.

MRS. JOUR. Well, what?

COV. (_aside, to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). We have made signs to you for the last hour. Do you not see that all this is done to fit in with the fancies of your husband? that we are imposing upon him under this disguise, and that it is Cleonte himself who is the son of the Grand Turk?

MRS. JOUR. (_aside, to_ COVIELLE). Oh! oh!

COV. (_aside, to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). And that it is I, Covielle, who am the interpreter?

MRS. JOUR. (_aside, to _COVIELLE). Ah! if it is so, I give in.

COV. (_aside, to_ MRS. JOURDAIN). Seem not to have any idea of what's going on.

MRS. JOUR. (_aloud_). Very well, let it be; I consent to the marriage.

MR. JOUR. So, everyone is agreed. (_To_ MRS. JOURDAIN) You would not listen to him. I knew he would explain to you what the son of the Grand Turk is.

MRS. JOUR. He has explained it quite sufficiently, and I am satisfied with it. Let us send for a notary.

DOR. The very thing! And Mrs. Jourdain, in order to set your mind at rest, and that you should lose to-day all feelings of jealousy which you may have felt about your husband, this lady and I will ask the same notary to marry us.

MRS. JOUR. I consent to that also.

MR. JOUR. (_aside_, to DORANTE). It is to deceive her, is it not?

DOR. (_aside_, to MR. JOURDAIN). We must amuse her with this notion.

MR. JOUR. Good, good. (_Aloud_) Let somebody go at once for the notary.

DOR. Whilst he draws up the contract, let us see our ballet, and give the entertainment to his Turkish highness.

MR. JOUR. It is well thought of. Let us go to our places.

MRS. JOUR. And Nicole?

MR. JOUR. I give her to the interpreter, and my wife to anyone who will have her.

COV. Sir, I thank you. (_Aside_) If it is possible to find a greater fool than this one, I will go and publish it in Rome.

BALLET AND DIVERTISSEMENT.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Shopkeeper Turned Gentleman, by Moliere

# Project Gutenberg #2536

AMPHITRYON

A play

By Moliere

Translated by A.R. Waller

Amphitryon was played for the first time in Paris, at the Theatre du Palais-Royal, January 13, 1668. It was successfully received, holding the boards until the 18th of March, when Easter intervened. After the re-opening of the theatre, it was played half a dozen times more the same year, and continued to please.

The first edition was published in 1668.

Note: It is perhaps hardly necessary to refer the reader to Amphitryon, by Plautus, the comedy upon which Moliere's charming play was, in the main, based. The rendering attempted here can give but a faint reflection of the original, for hardly any comedy of Moliere's loses more in the process of translation.

AMPHITRYON

A Comedy

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

MERCURY. NIGHT. JUPITER, under the form of Amphitryon. AMPHITRYON, general of the Thebans. ALCMÈNE, Amphitryon's wife. CLÉANTHIS, Alcmène's attendant and Sosie's wife. SOSIE, Amphitryon's valet. ARGATIPHONTIDAS, } NAUCRATÈS, } Theban captains. POLIDAS, } POSICLÈS, }

The Scene is at Thebes, before the house of Amphitryon.

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.