V\.■*-'-.' '' >"" " ^ ■. ' - .'.V -' ^ ■ It THE WORKS OF J.-B. P. MOLIERE VOLUME I MEMOIR THE BLUNDERER THE LOVE-TIFF THE EDITION COMEDIE FRANCAISE ON JAPAN VELLUM PAPER LIMITED TO TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES No. 51 PRINTED FOR MARY HAMILTON HOXIE w r •N th^. r r%. MM. LOUIS LELOlK MAURiu, Lti^UlK JAL^^Uto L EDMOND HEDOUiN 32UM 2IH QUA 35I3IJOM .flHHDia ,>ioi5itas::hh .flaiWlAq ,51IOJ3J 8IUOJ CHI: FDITEURS ('Hll.\r-M,PH MOLIERE AND HIS MUSE LOUIS LELOIR, PAINTER. F. L. KIRKPATRICK, ETCHER. THE WORKS OF MOLIERE ^^ USTRATIONS »r MM. LOUIS LELOIR MAURICE LELOIR JACQUES LEMAN EDMOND HEDOUIN PARIS CHEZ BARRIE FRERES, EDITEURS RUE SCRIBE, 19 PHILADELPHIA: GEORGE BARRIE & SON r^ FRONTISPIECE JAQQ' ■TLTrRE A TA SL-ET v/i TH "MOLIERE" AND THE DATES "1622"; " 1673," THE YEARS OF '"^^IS BIRTH AND OF HIS DEATH. ABOVE, TWO FIGURES OF FAME POINTING TO !HE CROWN OF LAUREL ATTACHED TO THE UPPER PART OF THE TABLET; BELOW, MOLIERE, HAT IN HAND, ADDRESSES THE PUBLIC AND PRESENTS THE < ACTORS OF HIS THEATRE; TO THE L^FT, HIS TWO MUSES: COMEDY HOLDING A MIRROR AND A MASK, AND A FEMh^J-EivSMYR HOLDING A LASH. IN THE .^.DISTANCE. A VIEW OpH^RlS, THE PONT-NEUF WITH THE EQUESTRIAN STATUE OF HENRI IV., AND TO THE RIGHT, IN FRONT OF THE L^pUVRE, THE PETIT- ,,,BOURBON, WHERE MOLIERE'S COMPANY PLAYED FROM NOVEMBER 3, 1658, UNTIL OCTOBER u, 1660. 303i12ITH051^ .jaa ,HAM3J 83U9DAL 30 853A3Y 3HT ".e^di " ; " ssdi " 23TAa 3HT QUA " 3J)3IJOM " HTIW T3JaAT A OT 0HITHI03 3MA3 30 83aU013 OV/T ,3VOaA .HTA3a 81H 30 QUA HTfllS 8IH ;T3JaAT 3HT 30 T«A1 f\3HHU 3HT OT a3HOATTA J3HUAJ 30 MWOflO 3HT "» 3HT 8TH323HT QUA OUaUl 3HT ZaZZEnOQA ,0VIAH JAl TAH ,3513IJOM ,WOJ3a O'/IiaJOH Ya3M03 :832UM OWT 21H ,T33J 3HT OT ;35JTA3HT 2IH 30 2510T3A 3HT WI .H8AJ A OWIQJOH flYTA2 3JAM33 A QUA ,»2AM A QUA JIOflflIM A 3UTAT2 WAmT23Up3 3HT HTIW 3U3/I-TH01 3HT .ZlHkl 30 W31V A ,3DHAT8ia -T1T3S 3HT ,3HVUOJ 3HT 30 TMOfl3 HI JHOIH 3HT OT QUA ,.VI I5Jk!3H 30 JITHU ,8?c)i ,e fl3aM3VOH M05J3 a3YAJ3 YUASMOO 2'ajJ3IJOM 35I3HW ,HOaHUOa .oddi ,11 H3aOTDO I think it will be ^r-, . poet France has produced, ] of character-comedies on tue divided into six classes or gri ^ torals, such as Psychk^ les Amants /, ^ Melicerte^ la Pastorale comiqtie, and j festivals, by order of Louis XIV. ; | of the less refined, such as Ics Bqii- " — ■ I i]Ions!c:ir ' la Comtesse d'' Escarbagnas, luumd.'i ^ lui, George Dandin, le Sicilien, PAff/ relle, and les PrSa'euses Ridicules^ — and "rpt attracting the higher classes by their ters; ■'^MM'^'^oU^^^-l' Etourdi, . '^^^^'^^ ■'^^'^^J 23U90AL VAvare^ Don Garde de Navarrr^ le i naire, — in each of which the princip.. into prominence one particular vice or quences; Fo7irfh, those splendidly ct- sava/ites, Tartuffe^ and le Misantl aspects; Fifth, those critical short and r Impromptu de Versailles, \\, his own plays and attacks his ad^ his comic muse le Mtdecin voir ample promise of what he aft It is always difficult to s author, for the saying, *'_/? / covered, and still covers, a ir, sessed a power of absorpi-i the materials he borrr value. In this sense n^':_. J.-B. P. MOUERE JACQUES LEMAN, PAINTER. P. LE RAT. ETCHER. PREFACE I think it will be generally admitted that Moliere is the greatest comic poet France has produced, and that he is equal, if not superior, to any writer of character-comedies on the ancient or modern stage. His plays may be divided into six classes or groups: First ^ the small dramatic poems or pas- torals, such as Psyche, les Amanis Diagnifiqiies, la Princesse d^ Elide, les Facheux, Mklicerte, la Pastorale comique, and Amphitryon, which he wrote for court festivals, by order of Louis XIV. ; Second, his farces, written to suit the taste of the less refined, such as les Fourberies de Scapin, le Bourgeois-gentilhonune, la Comtesse d'' Escarbagnas, Monsieur de Potirceaugnac, le Medecin malgre lui, George Dandin, le Sicilien, V Amonr Medecin, le Mariage forck, Sgana- relle, and les Precieuses Ridicules, — and yet, notwithstanding their absurdity, attracting the higher classes by their witty descriptions of grotesque charac- ters; Third, his comedies — P Etourdi, P Ecole des Maris, PEcole des fejnmes, P Avare, Don Garde de Navarre, le Dcpit amoureux, and le Malade iniagi- naire, — in each of which the principal object seems to have been to bring into prominence one particular vice or folly, with all its necessary conse- quences; Fourth, those splendidly conceived plaj-s, Doji Juan, les Femmes savantes, Tartuffe, and le Misanthrope, which portray humanity in all its aspects; Fifth, those critical short pieces, la Critiqjie de P Ecole des femmes and P Impromptti de Versailles, in which, with masterly acumen, he defends his own plays and attacks his adversaries; and Sixth, those early attempts of his comic muse le Mtdeci^i volant and la Jalousie du Barbouill^, which gave ample promise of what he afterwards became. It is always difficult to state when a playwright has taken from any other author, for the saying, '■Je prends mon bien par tout on je le trouve,^'' has covered, and still covers, a multitude of literary sins. Moreover, Moliere pos- sessed a power of absorption and assimilation which enabled him so to vivify the materials he borrowed that they became new creations of incomparable value. In this sense, to take an idea or a mere thought from another author vii VUl PREFACE can hardly be called an imitation; and though Moliere, in his first two or three plays, translated several scenes from Italian authors, he has scarcely ever done so in his latter pieces. To mention which of his comedies I consider, or rather which are generally thought, the best, would be difficult, where everything is so eminent; for in all his plays characters will be found which demonstrate his thorough knowledge of human nature, and display his genius. To discover these little peculiarities in which the specific difference of charac- ter consists; to distinguish between what men do from custom or fashion, and what they perform through their own natural idiosyncracy; to select, unite and draw these peculiarities to a dramatic point, demands real genius, and that of the highest order. Generally Moliere' s satire is directed against hypocrites, against quacks, against the afiectation of learning amongst ladies, and against snobbishness. If I were to enumerate, however, all the characters our author has created, I should arrive at the sum total of all human passions, all human feelings, all human vices, and at every type of the different classes of society. In P Avare sordid avarice is represented by Harpagon, and want of order and lavish prod- igality by his son Cleante; in le Festin de Pierre the type of shameless vice is Don Juan, Donna Elvira displays resignation amidst love disgracefully betrayed, Mathurine primitive and uncultivated coquetry, and Mons. Dimanche the greed of a tradesman who wishes to make money. Tartuffe, in the comedy of that name, represents hypocrisy and downright wickedness. Mons. Jourdain, a tradesman who has made money and who imitates a nobleman, is, in le Bourgeois-gentilhomme^ no bad specimen of self-sufficient vanity, folly and ignorance; whilst Dorante, in the same play, is a well-copied example of the fashionable swindler of that period. In le Misanthrope, Alceste portrays great susceptibility of tenderness and honor, Celimene, wit without any feeling, and Philinte, quiet common sense, amiability, intelligence, instruction, knowledge of the world, and a spirit of refined criticism. This is also displayed by Chrysalde in PEcole des Femmes, by Beralde, in le Malade imaginaire, and by Ariste in PEcole des Maris; whilst Sganarelle in the latter play is an example of foolish and coarse jealousy. George Dandin, in the comedy of that name, is a model of weakness of character and irresolution. Ang^lique, an impudent and heartless woman, and her father. Monsieur de Sotenville, the coarse, proud, country squire of that age. Argan, in le Malade imagi- naire, represents egotism and pusillanimity; Vadius and Trissotin, in les Femmes savantes, pedantic foolishness and self-conceit; Agnes, in PEcole des Femmes, cunning as well as ingenuity; and Aglaure, in Psycht, feminine jealousy. Finally, Nicole, Dorine, Martine, Marotte, Toinette, and Lisette PREFACE ix personify the homely servant girls, who, possessing plain, downright common sense, point out the affectation and ridiculous pretensions of their companions and superiors; whilst Claudiue, in George Dattdin, Nerine, in Mons. de Foitr- ceaugnac, and Frosine, in the Avare^ represent the intriguant in petticoats, — a female Mascarille. In how far it is true that many of Moliere's characters were copied from persons well known at the time his plays were represented, there is now no certain means of judging; but I think it extremely unlikely that he should have brought on the stage and ridiculed persons of the highest rank, as it is said he has done; though it is very probable that a general likeness existed between the character produced and the person whom it was thought he imitated. In the Introductory Notice to each play of this translation, due attention will be paid to any such innuendoes, and to the degree of credence which they deserve. The style of Moliere is the style suitable for comedy, and therefore ex- tremely difficult, if not impossible, to render into any other language. Per- haps of no writer are so many phrases quoted in French conversation; not seldom by people who have never read him, and who only, parrot-like, repeat what they have heard. Several of his expressions have become proverbial, or are used as wise saws to be uttered with solemn face and bated breath. Another not less remarkable faculty of IMoIiere is that the language his personages employ is precisely suited to them. It varies according to their age, character, rank and profession, whilst the very sentence becomes long or short, stilted or tripping, pedantic or elastic, finical or natural, coarse or over- refined, according as an old or young man, a marquis or a citizen, a scholar or a dunce, has to speak. It can be said of Moliere, more than of any other author we know, that he always emplo3'S the right word in the right place. Hence different commentators have tried to show that he was a kind of Ad- mirable Crichton, and that he knew and understood everything. Mons. Castil- Blaze wrote a book to prove that Moliere was a perfect musician; MM. Truinet and Paringault, barristers, printed one to convince the world he was a most able and learned lawyer; Mons. M. Raynaud, that he must have studied med- icine most thoroughly in order to be able to imitate so accurately the medical jargon of his time. And still a number of books might have been written to prove that he knew perfectly many more things. Even his peasants speak correctly the dialect of the province or county Moliere gives them as the land of their birth; all his creations bear proofs of his genius in an incisiveness of expression and clearness of thought which no other writer has equaled. Moliere has written some of his comedies in prose, others in verse, — and X PREFACE in verse that has none of the stiffness of the ordinary French rhyme, but which becomes in his hands a delightful medium for sparkling sallies, bitter sarcasms, well sustained and sprightly conversations. He has also managed blank verse with wonderful precision, — a rare gift among French authors. The whole of le Sicilien^ the love scenes of the Avare, the monologues of George Dandiii, and certain scenes of le Festin de Pierre^ are written in this metre. Moliere's plays have been translated into every language of Europe, and some of them even into the classical tongues ; they have found admirers wherever intellectual beings are congregated ; they have been carefully conned and studied by literary men of every age and clime; and Goethe himself read some of these comedies every year. I have attempted to give a new translation of all INIoliere's plays. After mature consideration the idea has been abandoned of reproducing, either in rhyme or blank verse, those which in the original are in poetry. The experi- ments which have been made to represent some of these in metre have not greatly charmed me; and as they were tried by men of talent, and as I do not pretend to possess greater gifts than my predecessors, I have come to the conclusion that an imitation of Moliere's style in any metre is next to an impossibility, but that a faithful and literal translation in prose, even if it cannot preserve the fire of the original, may still render the ideas, and repre- sent to the English reader as clear a perception of Moliere's characters as can be obtained in a foreign tongue. I have however endeavored not to be satisfied with a mere verbal version, but to preserve and convey the genuine spirit, as far as is consistent with the difference of the two languages. In the Introductory Notices a compact, critical judgment of the merits or demerits of each play is also given. But in order to place ourselves on a right standpoint for judging them, we must not forget that Moliere wrote his plays to be represented on the stage, and not to be read in the study only; that therefore we must recall, on reading him, the change of voice, the step, the smile, the gesture, the twinkle of the eye or movement of the head in the actor. Thus we are never tired of perus- ing him; he never cloys; we can remember all his good sayings, quote them, study him again and again, and every time discover fresh beauties. A remarkable characteristic of Moliere is that he does not exaggerate; his fools are never over-witty, his buffoons too grotesque, his men of wit too anxious to display their smartness, and his fine gentlemen too fond of im- modest and ribald talk. His satire is always kept within bounds, his repartees are never out of place, his plots are but seldom intricate, and the moral of PREFACE xi his plays is not obtruded, but follows as a natural consequence of the whole. He rarely rises to those lofty realms of poetry where Shakespeare so often soars, for he wrote not idealistic, but character-comedies; which is, perhaps, the reason that some of his would-be admirers consider him rather common- place. His claim to distinction is based only on strong common sense, good manners, sound morality, real wit, true humor, a great facile, and accurate command of language, and a photographic delineation of nature. It cannot be denied that there is little action in his plays, but there is a great deal of natural conversation; his personages show that he was a most attentive observer of men, even at court, where a certain varnish of over-refinement conceals nearly all individual features. He always makes vice appear in its most ridiculous aspect, in order to let his audience laugh at and despise it; his aim is to correct the follies of the age by exposing them to ridicule. Shakespeare, on the contrary, has no lack of incidents; he roves through camp, and court, and grove, through solitary forests and populous cities; he sketches in broad outlines rather than with minute strokes; he defines classes rather than indi- viduals, and instead of portraying petty vanities and human foibles prefers to deal with deep and tumultuous passions, to such an extent that some of his comedies are highly dramatic. But both poets are great, and perhaps unsur- passed in their own way, and both have many similar passages. Whenever these occur I have taken notice of them. As specimens, let me refer to Mas- carille's soliloquy in the Blunderer (iii, i), and Launcelot Gobbo's speech in the Merchant of Venice (ii, 2); in the same play Mascarille refusing money, and Autolycus in the Winter'' s Tale (iv, 3) doing the same ; the speech of Gros-Ren^ in Sganarelle (i, 7), and the scene between Sir Valentine and Speed (ii, i) in the Two Gentlemen of Verona. Monsieur Jourdain, in The Citizen u'ho Apes the Nobleman (le Boiirgeois-gentilhomme), when putting on his hat at the entreaty of Dorante, says '■'■f aime miciix ctre civil qti' importtm ;'''' Mas- ter Slender, upon entering the house before Mrs. Page, says, in the Merry Wives of Windsor {}., i), "I'll rather be unmannerly than troublesome;" Sosia, in Amphitryon (i, 2), sings, in order to show that he is not afraid when Mer- cury appears; Nick Bottom, xvi A Midsummer Nighf s Dream (iii, i), says, "I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid." The description of the horse in The Bores (les Faclieiix) is also worthy of being compared with that spoken by the Dauphin in Henry V. (iii, 6), and with the " round-hoof 'd, .short- jointed" horse in Venus and Adonis. Moliere's plays have been already several times translated into English. I shall give a short history of each of these translations, observing however, beforehand, that though many faults may be found in them, I have no incli- xii PREFACE nation to cavil at anything that my predecessors may have badly done or wholly omitted. And I here once and for all state that I have never scrupled to adopt any expression, turn of thought, or even page, of any or every trans- lation of my predecessors, whenever I found I could not improve upon it. The oldest of these English translations is by Mr. John Ozell, appeared in six volumes, was published in London, and printed for Bernard Lintott, at the "Cross-Keys," between the Two Temple Gates, in Fleet Street, 1714. It is full of racy and sometimes even witty expressions. Unfortunately where Moliere slightly hints at something indelicate, Ozell employs the broadest lan- guage possible. Moreover, he very often paraphrases or imitates, and on the whole translates rather too freely. This work is dedicated to the Earl of Dorset, in words which are rather a genealogical history of the Sackville family than an introduction to Moliere. The second translation is called, "Select Comedies of M. de Moliere, French and English, in eight volumes, with a frontispiece to each Comedy; to which is prefix' d a curious print of the author, with his life in French and English. Hie meret sera liber Sociis; hie et mare transit et longum noto scriptori prorogat sevum. Horat. London, printed for John Watts, at the Priutinsr-Office in Wild-Court near Lincoln'' s-Inn Fields, mdccxxxii." This translation is less racy, but far more literal than the former. One of the translators, in the Preface to The Self-deceived Husband^ oddly enough dedi- cated to Miss Wolstenholme, dates from Enfield, Jan. ist, 1 731-2, and signs himself " H. B.," probably Henry Baker; the other, in the Preface to Tartiiffe, dedicated to Mr. Wyndham, dates from the Academy in Soho-Square, London, July 25, 1732, and subscribes himself, "Your most obliged and obedient hum- ble servant, Martin Clare;" who appears to fame unknown. Some of the pictures in this edition have been drawn by Hogarth, of which the one before Sganarelle ou le Cocu Imaginaire is the best. Of the thirty-one plays then known to have been written by Moliere, only seventeen are translated ; each of them is dedicated to a separate person, and the whole to the Queen, in the following words : — "TO THE QUEEN. " Madam, — When Majesty vouchsafes to patronize the 7inse and the learned, and a Queen recommends knowledge and virtue to her people, what blessings may we not promise ourselves in such happy circumstances ? That this is the great intention and business of your Majesty's Life, witness the reception, which the labors of a Clark, a Newton, a Locke and a Wollaston have met with from your Majesty, and the immortal honors you have paid their names. Whatever therefore can any ways conduce to those glorious ends, need not question your royal approbation and favor ; and upon this presumption Moliere casts himself at your Majesty's feet for protection. PREFACE xiii "This merr\- philosopher, Madam, hath taken as much pains to laugh ignorance and immorality out of the world, as the other great sages did to reason 'em out ; and as the generality of mankind can stand an argument better than a jest, and bear to be told how good they ought to be, with less concern than to be shown how ridiculous they are, his success, we conceive, has not been much inferior. "Your Majesty need not be informed how much the manners and conduct of a people are dependent on their diversions ; and you are therefore convinced how necessary it is (since diversions are necessary) to give 'em such as may serve to polish and reform 'em. With this view, Madam, was the following translation undertaken. By a perusal of these scenes, every reader will plainly perceive that obscenities and immoralities are no ways neces- sary to make a diverting comedy ; they'll learn to distinguish betwixt honest satire and scurrilous invective ; betwixt decent repartee and tasteless ribaldry ; in short, between vicious satisfactions and rational pleasures. And if these plays should come to be read by the gener- ality of people (as your Majesty's approbation will unquestionably make 'em), they'll by degrees get a more just and refined taste in their diversions, be better acquainted, and grow more in love with the true e.xcellencies of dramatic writings. By this means our poets will be encouraged to aim at those excellencies, and blush to find themselves so much outdone in manners and virtue by their neighbors. Nay, there's no reason can possibly be given, Madam, why these very pieces should not most of 'em be brought upon the English stage. For, tho' our translation of 'em, as it now stands, may be thought too literal and close for that purpose, yet the dramatic writers might, with very little jiains, so model and adapt them to our theatre and age, as to procure 'em all the success could be wished ; and we may venture to affirm, that 'twould turn more tp their own account, and the satisfaction of their audiences, than anything they are able to produce themselves. This, too, they ought to be the more earnest to attempt, as the most probable means of drawing down a larger share of royal influence on the stage, which has been too justly forfeited by the licentious practice of modern playwrights. "We might here. Madam, take occasion to particularize our author's perfections and excellencies, but those your Majesty wants no information of. All we shall therefore observe to your M.^jesty is, that wherever learning, wit and politeness flourish, Moliere has always had an extraordinary reputation ; and his plays, which are translated into so many languages, and acted in so many nations, will gain him admiration as long as the stage shall endure. But what will contribute more than all to his glory and happiness, will be the patronage of a British Princess, and the applause of a British audience. " We dare not think, Madam, of offering anything in this address that might look like panegyric, lest the world should condemn us for meddling with a task above our talents, and saying too little — Your Majesty, for presuming to say anything at all. There are many virtues and perfections, so very peculiar in your Majesty's character, and so rarely found amongst the politics of princes, that they require a masterly and deliberate hand to do 'em justice — Such a zeal for religion moderated by reason — such a benevolent study for composing all factions and dissensions— such a laudable ambition, which aims at power only in order to benefit mankind, and yet such a glorious contempt, even of empire itself, when inconsistent with those Principles whose Truth, you were satisfy'd of. These are such elevated and shin- ing virtues, as even the vicious themselves must have a secret veneration for — But as your Majesty's great pleasure is privately to merit applause, not publicly to receive it ; for fear we should interrupt you in that noble delight, we'll beg leave to subscribe Our Selves, — May it please your Majesty, your Majesty's most obedient and most devoted humble servants, "The Translators." xiv PREFACE The third translation is "The works of Moliere, French and English, in ten volumes, a new edition, London, printed for John Watts, mdccxxxix." This translation appears to be precisely the same as the former one, a few words slightly altered; the motto from Horace on the title-page is the same; and the plays not found in the "Select Comedies" are here translated. The pictures are identical with those of the translation mentioned above, with the exception of those in front of the fourteen comedies added, which have engrav- ings, and very good ones too, drawn by the celebrated Boucher. According to Lowndes, this translation was executed by Henry Baker and the Rev. Mr. Miller. The work is dedicated to the Prince and Princess of Wales, and the dedication of the former translation to the Queen does duty here, somewhat abridged. The chief difference is, that whilst, in the former, the virtues of the Queen are all specified and catalogiied in the paragraph beginning, "W^e dare not think," under the headings "zeal for religion," "benevolent study," "laudable ambition," and "glorious contempt," they are only mentioned in the present preface in a lump as "many virtues and perfections;" but, to make up for it, the Prince and Princess of Wales are praised for their " un- parall'd union of hearts and affections." The dedication begins thus: — "To THEIR Royal Highnesses the PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF WALES. " May it please your Royal Highnesses, — The refined taste }our Royal Highnesses are both so celebrated for in the Belles Leftres, and the peculiar countenance you have shown to theatrical performances, have embolden'd the editors and translators of the following work to lay it at your feet. "Moliere has been translated into most of the languages, and patroniz'd by most of the Princes in Europe : But if we have been capalile of doing him as much justice in our version, as we have been prudent enough to do him in the choice of patrons, he'll be more happy in speaking English than all the rest." The rest of the dedication is taken from that to the Queen, beginning from "Your Majesty (your Royal Highnesses) need not be informed" until "with the true excellencies of Dramatic Writings." The ending varies, and we give it here below: — " By this means our poets will be encourag'd to aim at those excellencies, and be assisted in producing entertainments more agreeable to nature, good sense, and your Royal High- ■ nesses' taste. "We dare not think of offering anything in this address that might look like panegyric; there are many virtues and perfections so singular in your Royal Highnesses' characters, that they require a masterly and deliberate hand to do 'em justice. Give tis leave, Sir and Madam, only to hint at one, which is that unparallel'd union of hearts and affections so rarely found PREFACE XV in the palaces of princes, and which shines so conspicuously in your Royal Highnesses that we durst not presume so much as to separate your very names, or make our address to either singly. " That your Royal Highnesses may long enjoy that mutual bliss is the universal prayer of mankind, and of none more than of your Royal Highnesses' most obedient and most devoted humble servants, "The Translators." Another similar edition of our author was published by the same firm in 1748. Two editions of the same translation of Moliere's works were also pub- lished by D. Browne and A. Millar in 1748 and in 1755. The next Moliere, an elegant Scottish reprint of the English part of the above edition in ten volumes, was published in Glasgow in five volumes, "printed by Robert Urie, and sold by John Gilmour, Bookseller in the Salt- marcat, 1751." An edition of our author, according to Lowndes, was also published in Berwick-on-Tweed, in 1770, six volumes, but I have not been able to get hold of a copy of this translation. In the British Museum there is, however, a trans- lation of five plays by Moliere, published in one volume, and printed at Ber- wick for R. Taylor, 1771. Seven comedies of Moliere, most spiritedly translated from the fourth and fifth volumes of the "Comic Theatre, being a free translation of all the best French Comedies by Samuel Foote, Esq., and others^ London: printed by Dryden Leach, for J. Coote, in Paternoster Row; G. Kearsly, in Ludgate Street; and S. Crowder &: Co., in Paternoster Row, 1762." The proprietors state, however, to the public, "One Comedy in each volume of this work will be translated by Mr. Foote, his other avocations not permitting him to undertake more; and the rest by two other gentlemen, who, it is presumed, will acquit themselves in such a manner as to merit the approbation of the public." It appears that of the above "Comic Theatre" an edition was prepared for Ireland. At least I have seen a volume with a separate printed title-page; "printed for J. Coote, and sold by R. Bell, in Stephen Street, Dublin, 1765." Of single translated comedies of Moliere no notice has been taken, in order not to increase these already too long bibliographical remarks. Generally the proper names used by Moliere have not been Italianized or rendered into an English form in this translation, for wherever the scene of his play is laid, his characters, manners, and customs are always thoroughly French, and should therefore as much as possible remain so. English dramatic authors have borrowed, and then adapted or imitated xvi PREFACE from Moliere. Dryden, Vanbrugh, Flecknoe, Fielding, Bickerstaffe, Murphy, Miller, Ravenscroft, Sliadwell, Mrs. Centlivre, Mrs. Aphra Behn, Crowne, Lacy, Wycherley, Cohiiau, Garrick, Swiney, Sheridan, Otway, Foote, Cibber, and several other less known dramatic authors, are among the borrowers ; and though not rarely showing great talent in their adaptation, yet as a general rule they have always been careful to leave nothing to the imagination, and to emphasize the slightest mot of our author in the broadest language possible. Too often they have verified th^ saying of one of the admirers of our poet, ' 'Za on Moliere glisse, ses traducteurs appuyent et s' enfoncent. ' ' Several farces which have never beeu printed have been attributed to Moliere. Two of these, le Mcdccin volant and la Jalousie dii Barbouillk, have of late been added to the complete edition of his works. They give indications of what our author promised to become, and will be found in the last volume of this edition, for the first time rendered into English. Nearly all known editions of Moliere have been consulted' by me whilst engaged upon this translation; but in any cases of doubt I always referred to the literal reprints of the original editions published in 1666 and 1682, and only lately republished in eight volumes by Mons. A. Lemerre, of Paris; as distinguished for their accuracy and good and pithy notes as for their typo- graphical excellence. In the Prefatory Alemoir I have admitted no hj'pothetical or fanciful assertions, but have only stated what is really known of him. My best thanks are due to Mons. Eugene Despois, the learned editor of the new edition of IMoliere, now in course of publication by Messrs. Hachette, for valuable advice and elucidations kindly given. I have likewise to express my great obligations to Mons. Guillard, the archiviste of the Comtdie Francaise, for willing and kind assistance rendered with regard to the correct costumes of the times of Louis XIV. Last, but not least, I have to thank the superintendents and employes of the reading-room in the British Museum for many kind suggestions, which have often shortened my labors, and for their untiring willingness to aid me, whenever required. H. VAN LAUN. PRFr.T-ORY Jean Baptiste Poquelin, after? ^ : 1622. His father, Jean Poquelii;, Honore, who in 1631 attained to tl.. the " tapissiers ordinaires," and latei ■ to the king. It was a post which Jean he coveted nothing better for his sou clearly mapped out for him. But the • shop ; and his maternal grandfathc encouraged him in his rebellion. Hi 1" ' ''■ •■• 'I'.cr lost no time ii^g^H^"- wiS partly due to tne un_; . ok every opportunity of ■ i.jui- .^;:c, where the king's traged' the classical drama. Here the frtur the histT5?gHDrat)>{CW^TA^5fni^!.j;;-l shuddered at the notion of so va.-.t a ., prosperity to which the I'amily had ri^- The young Poquelin was broug!)'^ (1637) the best and most popula- scholars were many members ot" attendance on its classes, traditic Prince de Conti, the poet Hesn;. and the astronomer Gassendi. P in classics and in philosopli complete education, he proc civil law.' The period of Moli^re'*^ Xni. died in 1643. and ;j destined to be a patron i varying, though selfish most famous tragedi? ing allegories, Pn of religion, Des Madame de S6\ ■ ' Moliere. ^a- hirv. .it P.ar'<. T.uv.iirv r- well-to-i .ight of 1: Me of the Poquelin Mian that ■"■1 not ..». de Cre = :■■.. finer die- the latter to his younger son, Jean Poquelin, who exercised it during his elder brother's absence from Paris. Jean Poquelin the younger died in 1660, and Moliere then assumed the office to himself Apart xxii PREFATORY MEMOIR from the emoluments attached to this position, the poet no doubt found it extremely useful in bringing him constantly into the presence of the king, and in providing him with abundant opportunities for making the necessary studies of the foibles of humanity. That he suffered somewhat in his dignity as a poet we may well imagine; but Moliere's mind was sufficiently strong to bear the rebuflfe of smaller men with equanimity. On one occasion a fellow-valet declined to assist the comedian in making the king's bed. Bellocq, a courtier, known by some pretty verses, heard this remark, and walking towards them said: "Mons. de Moliere, permit me to have the honor of making his majesty's bed with you." But the king himself delighted to honor Moliere; and the latter made his own position wherever he went. He was recognized not only as an admirable actor, but as an author of the first rank; from this time forward, although he wrote a few com- plimentary or farcical pieces which were not quite worthy of his genius, he con- tinued to throw off, with great rapidity and yet with marvelous finish, the series of comedies on which his fame is securely built. Well might he say: "I need no longer study Plautus and Terence, aud filch the fragments of Menander; my models henceforth are the world and the living." In June, 1661, Moliere produced his Ecole des Afaris^ and in August, at a grand entertainment given by Fouquet to the king and queen, to the former Duke of Anjou, who had become Duke of Orleans, and to the Princess Henrietta of England, a few days before he was replaced by Colbert, Ics Facheux made another good impression. It was during the representation of this play that Louis XIV. pointed out to Moliere his future Master of the Hunt, the Marquis de Soye- court, as a character well worthy of his attention. In a few days the piece was richer by a part; though some critics maintained that Moliere did not actually write the principal scene which sprang out of this suggestion of the king, but that he merely versified what had been supplied to him by another. On the 20th of February, 1662, Moliere married Armande-Gresinde-Claire- Elizabeth Bejart, the youngest sister of Madeleine Bejart, and at this time aged about twenty years.' Her dowry was ten thousand livres; her widow's portion four thousand. The marriage contract and other documents relating to this period of Moliere's life, which were discovered by Beffara,'" the most able of his earlier biographers, show clearly that Armande's mother, brother and eldest sister were present at and consenting to the ceremony — so that Grimarest, and several of Moliere's early biographers must have been mistaken in saying that Madeleine was opposed to this union, and that it was kept secret for some time. Genevieve Bejart, however, the second daughter of Marie Herve, does not seem to have been present at the marriage; and it is surmised by Soule that whatever opposition existed may have come from her, and that Moliere's connection with her may have dated back to the time at which he first resolved to follow the career of an actor. Genevieve married two years after her younger sister. The affection be- tween Moliere and Armande had been sincere from the beginning. Armande was brought up, if not born, in the company; and her wit and manners seem to have secured for her in after-life the tenderness which the poet displayed towards her when a child. IMoliere's enemies have coupled his name injuriously with those of PREFATORY MEMOIR xxiii Madeleine and Genevieve Bejart. There is hardly any evidence in support of such suggestions; but there is abundant proof of his love and respect for his wife. His happiness with her was not, however, as great as he had hoped to find it. Armande was fond of pleasure and admiration; Moliere, amidst the avocations and anxieties of his position, could not always attend upon her with the devotion and ardor of a lover; and she sought and found adulation at the hands of others. On the stage, therefore, he acted Sganarelle to the life, and in his most melan- choly moods could not hold himself free from the twinges of but too well-founded jealousy. In the latter part of 1662 the Ecole des Femmes was performed. This play met with some opposition, and was answered by our author's La Critique de P Ecole des Fevimes, which was brought out the ist of June, 1663. The comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne had long envied and hated Moliere, and they took now the opportunity of attacking him. Boursault wrote a piece entitled le Portrait du Peintre ou la Contra-critiqiie de F Ecole des Femmes. Moliere replied in F Im- promptu de Versailles. De Villiersand Montfleury took up the cudgels on the other side, and wrote la Vengea7ice des Alarqiiis and I Impromptu de I hotel de Monde. At the same time IMontfleury's father was base enough to accuse Moliere before the king of having married his own daughter; the insinuation being that Armande was the child of Madeleine Bejart. The court did not listen to this tale, and presently after the king and Henrietta, Duchess of Orleans, stood sponsors for Moliere' s eldest son, who was born on the 19th of January, 1664." Moliere was satisfied with his triumph, and soon after stopped the sale of the Improinptu de Versailles. Moliere regarded himself henceforth as the court dramatist par excellence, and he was anxious to show by every means in his power the gratitude aroused in him by the king's favor. In January, 1664, he wrote, for a court high festival, le Mariage force, a one-act piece with eight entrees de ballet, ^'^ and in which Sganarelle reappears; who had figured in several previous plays. Louis himself danced in one of the acts. In May of the same year the Grand Monarque gave a grand festival in honor of Louise de Valli^re, lasting over a week, to which Moliere contributed the Princesse d^ Elide, a five-act piece, strung together in such haste that only the first act was in verse, and — a far more ambitious flight of the Muse, which had no doubt been for some time past in preparation — the first three acts of Tartuffe. Tartiiffe was a protest and satire against the ecclesiastical intolerance and religious hypocrisy which were amongst the characteristics of the day. A revival of orthodoxy had followed upon the restless period of the Ligue and the Fronde; and this reaction had brought in its train more of the outward show than of the reality of religion. Moliere hated cant with an unfeigned hatred; and besides, he had a private quarrel of his own against the ecclesiastics, who had excom- municated himself and his brother actors. In Tartuffe he hit the priests and the hypocrites very hard, and multiplied the number of his enemies. The play seems to have been acted tentatively from the first, and then only before the king, or certain select audiences at Versailles, Villers-Cotterets and Raincv. Paris did not xxiv PREFATORY MEMOIR see it at the Palais Royal for years after; but this partial publicity was sufficient to secure for it the abhorrence of those who regarded themselves as the guardians of popular morality and orthodoxy. Their objection to Tarhiffe^ and to le Festin de Pierre, which was first acted in February, 1665, and which treated hypocrisy in the like ungentle fashion, was much akin to those raised against Paul by the coppersmiths of Ephesus. But it was successful; and both pieces were inter- dicted, after the last-named had been represented for fifteen days before crowded houses. Pierre Roules, cure of Saint Barthelemy, and another clergyman, de Rochemont,'^ wrote treatises to counteract the evil effects of Moliere's works; and the enemies of the latter produced a disreputable pasquinade in his name, wherein he was made to cast shameful reflections against the priests. He subsequently thought it worth his while to expose this trick in the fifth act of the Misautlirope. The king hardly dared to withstand the Church in the then existing condition of the public mind. Unwilling to remove the prohibition by his royal fiat, he paid Moliere the compliment of permitting his troupe to be styled " Com^diens du Roi," which title they held from this time forward: and they were subsidized by a yearly pension of seven thousand livres. An intermittent source of trouble and anxiety to Moliere was found in the ingratitude of his company, who now and again forgot that he had made the fortunes of everj' one of them. When a play did not draw, or when the public found a momentary attraction elsewhere, they seem generally to have laid the blame upon their manager. Such was the case when "Scaramouch" (Torelli), the manager of the Italian farce-company, who had earned enough to buy an estate at Florence of about ten thousand livres per annum, being driven from his retirement by his wife and children, returned to Paris and resumed his career as an actor. The public had not lost their appreciation of the Italian harlequinades — the receipts of ]\Ioliere's theatre began to fall off, and his company — especially one of the Bejarts and IMaddle.'* Duparc pretended that the cause of the failure originated with him. Moliere's path was by no means an easy one to tread; the following anecdote may serve as another illustration of the fact. The king's body guards, and other household troops, had formerly been allowed to see the play for nothing, and Moliere, who was doubtless more troubled by the abuse of "paper" than are the managers of to-day, was urged by his company to obtain the removal of this privilege from the king. His request was granted; but the change gave great umbrage to the soldiers. They came down to the house in a body, killed the door-keeper, and uttered loud threats against the actors. On the next day the king had them drawn up on parade, and sent for Moliere to harangue them. This he did with so much tact and good humor, and he gave them such excellent reasons why they should pay for their seats like gentlemen, and leave the free admissions for such as could not afiPord a trifle, that they made no further difficulty in the matter. Like many comic actors, Moliere was often melancholy, morose and timid off the stage; and the lack of sympathy from the young wife he loved so much tended to aggravate those symptoms. He was, moreover, afflicted by a spasmodic PREFATORY MEMOIR xxv cough and pulmonary attacks, very possibly due to frequent exposures during his provincial tours, and compelled to live a most abstemious life. He had taken a house at Auteuil, where he passed all the time that could be spared from his arduous duties; hither his friends were wont to come and visit him, trying, with but little success, to rouse him from his characteristic melancholy. A very touch- ing story is related of one of these visits, which we may quote as an instance of the genuine friendship which existed between the poet and his friends, and of the essentially dramatic constitution of Moliere's mind. Chapelle, La Fontaine, Lulli, director of the Royal Academy of Music, Boileau, Mignard the artist and Corneille came one evening to Auteuil to make merry with their friend. Moliere was obliged to excuse himself on the ground of ill-health, but he requested Chapelle to do the honors of his house. The guests sat down, and presently, warmed with wine, they fell to talking of religion, futurity, the vanity of human life, and such other lofty and inexhaustible topics as are wont to occupy the vinous moments of intellectual men. Chapelle led the conversation, and indulged in a long tirade against the folly of most things counted wise; at length one of them suggested the idea of suicide, and proposed that they should all go and drown themselves in the river. This splendid notion was received with acclamation; the tipsy philosophers hurried down to the bank, and seized upon a boat in order to get into the middle of the stream. Meanwhile Baron, Moliere's favorite pupil, '° who lived in the house with him, and who had been present at the debauch, aroused his master, and sent off the servants in quest of the would-be suicides. The latter were already in the water when assistance arrived, and they were pulled out; but, on resenting such an impertinence, they drew their swords on their deliverers, and pursued them to Moliere's house. The poet displayed complete presence of mind, and pretended to approve of the plan which had been formed ; but he professed to be much annoyed that they should have thought of drowning themselves without him. They admitted their error, and invited him to come back with them and finish the business. "Nay," said Moliere, " that would be very clumsy. So glorious a deed should not be done at night, and in darkness. Early to-morrow, when we have all slept well, we will go, fasting and in public, and throw ourselves in." To this all assented, and Chapelle proposed that in the meantime they should finish the wine that had been left. It need not be added that the next day found them in a different mood." In September, 1665, P Amour Medicin was written, studied and rehearsed within a period of five days, and acted first at Versailles, afterwards in Paris. In December the Palais Royal had to be closed on account of Moliere's serious ill- ness. It was the beginning of the end, but he fought against his weakness valiantly. The death of Anne of Austria delayed the reopening of the theatre until June, 1666, in which month Moliere produced his Misanthrope^ a play which has been ranked as high in comedy as Athalie is ranked in French tragedy. The circumstances under which it was written were such as might almost warrant us in calling it a tragedy itself; for the great satirist, who had spent his life in copy- ing the eccentricities of others, had now employed the season of his illness and convalescence to commit to paper a drama in which he was himself the principal xxvi PREFATORY MEMOIR actor. The misanthrope, Alceste, loves the coquette Celimene almost against his will; and we can imagine the feelings with which Moliere himself took the role of Alceste to his wife's Celimene. The general sarcasm of the piece is very bitter; but Paris heard it eagerly for close upon a month. It was succeeded by the Medecin malgre lui; and at the beginning of the next year followed the charming operetta of le Sicilien ott P Amour peintre. Shortly after the appear- ance of this piece the author was again confined to his bed for upwards of two months. Philip IV. of Spain died in September, 1665, and lyouis XIV. claimed Bra- bant, Flanders, Hainault and Limburg in the right of his wife. He went in the spring of 1667 with a corps d'armee to take possession of this territory, and with him went the queen, Madame de Montespan, Mademoiselle de la Valliere and the whole court. During their absence Moliere, relying on a previously implied per- mission of the king, once more produced Tar/uffc, the name of which he had changed to P Imposlcur. It was immediately prohibited by the President de Lamoignon, and Moliere sent off two of his company to ask for the king's sanc- tion. The latter gave an evasive reply, undertaking to inquire into the matter on his return. Louis returned on the 7th of September, but his promise was not at once redeemed. In January, 1668, Amphitryon appeared, and a little later, in the course of a festival given in the honor of Conde's victories in Franche-Comte, George Dajidin. In the autumn of this year P Avare was first acted, but it was coldly received by the public. It was not until February, 1669, that Tartiiffe finally made its appearance before a Parisian audience, with the full permission and protection of the king. The objections raised against it were as strong as ever, but Louis was less anxious than formerly to please the ecclesiastics. The play had an immense success, and appears to have run for several months. In the same month (February) died Moliere's father, and in the papers he left behind him there is a bitter allusion to "Monsieur Moliere." In October of the same year Moliere played the title-role in his new farce. Monsieur de Pourceaugnac. In reference to this bright play Diderot has remarked that it would be a mistake to suppose that there are many more men capable of writing Pourceaugnac than the Misanthrope; and the judgment of later critics has confirmed the observation. As his infirmities increased upon him, and his short life drew to a close Moliere' s pen was more fruitful than ever. In the year 1670 he produced, in addition to a comedy-ballet, Ics Atnants magnifiques^ an excellent comedy, le Bourgeois-gentilhomme, in which he played the title-role. The same year died Marie Herve, the mother of the Bejarts. Baron took this year also the place of Louis B^jart. In the following year (1671) were brought out Psyche, a tragedie- ballet, of which he only wrote a part, and two farces, les Foiirberies de Scapin and la Comtcsse d'' Escarbagnas. In 1672 was played a satire-comedy in the highest mood of his trenchant mind, les Fcmmcs savaiites, a sort of sequel to les Prkcieuses ridicules, though with more general application. In 1671 his friends succeeded in bringing about a better understanding between Moliere and his wife, who for some time past had rarely met except on the stage. One cause of disagreement between them had been the absurd jealousy PREFATORY MEMOIR xxvii with which Armande regarded the affection of her husband for the young actor, Baron, whom on one occasion she drove from the house by her petulant reioroaches. The reconciliation extended to this faithful pupil of the great comedian, and the last scenes of IMoliere's life were brightened by the affectionate devotion of the two people whom he loved best. The year 1672 was nevertheless a sad one; and as it were by an omen of his approaching end, more than one of the ties which bound him with his earlier career were broken. Madeleine Bejart, the companion of his life-long labors, died in February, leaving many legacies to religious foun- dations, but the bulk of her property to her favorite sister Armande, with reversion to Madeleine Esprit, Moli^re's only surviving child, whose second son had died a few days previously. Of the famous company which in 1646 had quitted Paris on its twelve years' provincial tour, only two now remained — the poet and Genevieve Bejart. Bowed down by sorrow and pain, weakened by a racking cough which never left him a day's peace, he could not be persuaded to spare himself Within a few months of his death he wrote his Malade Lnaginaire, a happy conception, which must have done much to rob his bodily sufferings of their sting. On the 17th of February, 1673, in spite of the dissuasion of his wife and Baron, he played the part of Argan, and acted the piece through, though he was very ill. In the evening of the same day, in his house in the Rue Richelieu, he burst a blood- vessel. Two nuns who had for some time past been living in the house stood by his bed, and to them he expressed his complete resignation to the will of God. They sent in succession for two priests to administer the last consolations of religion, but both refused to come. Before a third could be found IMoliere was dead. He was buried four days later, almost without the rites of religion, in a church-yard adjoining the Rue ]\Iontmartre. The daughter of the actor Du Croisy, Madame Poisson, herself an actress, and one who had seen Moliere when she was very young, has left us an exact description of his personal appearance, which she wrote in the Merciire de France for May, 1740. "He was neither too stout nor too thin; his stature was rather tall than short; his carriage was noble; and he had a remarkable good leg. He walked measuredly; had a very serious air; a large nose, an ample mouth, with full lips ; brown complexion, and eyebrows black and thick ; while the varied xnotion he gave to these latter rendered his physiognomy extremely comic. ' ' "' NOTES ' Grimarest [La Vie de M. de Moliere, 1705, p. 14), says " quand Moliire eut acheve ses etudes, il fut obligi (J cause du grand age de son plre, d'exercer sa charge pendant quelque temps, et m?me il fit le voyage de iVarbonne d la suite de Lotus XIII." This journey was in 1642, at which time Beffara (Dissertation sur J. B. Poquelin- Moliire, 1S21, p. 25), has conclusively proved that the elder Poquelin was no more than forty-seven years old. It is also said that Jean Baptiste Pociuelin studied at Orleans in 1642. Others of his biographers mention that Moliere performed temporarily the duties of valet-tapissier to Louis XIII. The circumstance appears hardly probable; but our knowledge is not sufficiently definite to warrant us in describing it as absolutely impossible. xxviii PREFATORY MEMOIR 2 The biographers of Moli^re are not agreed about the date of the opening of the Tllustre T/iiaire. Moland and several others say 1645 ; Soulie, in his Recherches sur Moliere, 1S63, proves by official documents that it was either December 31, 1643, or at the very beginning of 1644. ' Bejart is sometimes written "Bejard." Soulie always spells it thus, though the members of that family generally wrote it with a /. * Several commentators say he was called Jacques. Soulie says Joseph. ^ Eud. Soulie, Recherches sur Moliire, 1863, p. 42. « Mademoiselle was the title given to Mdlle. de IVIontpensier, the daughter of Gaston, Duke of Orleans, uncle of Louis XIV. She was sometimes called la grande Mademoiselle to distinguish her from the daughter of Philip of OrMans, brother of Louis XIV. See also note 14. ' In general people have not a correct idea about the prices of admittance to the theatre in Molidre's time. In the theatre of the Palais Royal, where all his pieces were played, with the exception of the first four, the prices for the billets de theatre (tickets admitting on the stage) were five livres ten sous, representing about eighteen francs at the present time ; those for the boxes four livres ; those for the amphitheatre three livres ; for the boxes on the second tier, one livre ten sous ; for the upper boxes, one livre ; and for the pit, fifteen sous. In representa- tions au double or a r extraordinaire all the prices are raised except those of five livres ten sous. During ordi- nary representations the salle du Petit- Bourbon could hold 1400 livres, that of the Palais Royal 2860 livres; the Com^die Frangaise can at present hold 6000 francs : so that, considering the relative value of money, the latter place cannot make more, though it has room for 1650 persons. 8 Sauval in his Histoire el Recherches des Antiquiils de la ville de Paris, 1724, 3 vols., iii., p. 47, says the theatre of the Palais Royal could contain 4000 persons, M. Taschereau states 1000; the last number appears to be the most probable, considering the money the room could hold. See also note 7. ' Some of Moli^re's biographers state that Armande de Bejart, at the time of her marriage, was not yet seventeen years old ; Soulie gives the very marriage contract, which proves that she was twenty or thereabout. This contract is dated January 23, 1 662. '» Dissertation sur J. B. Poquclin-Moliire, 1821, p. 7. " Eud. Soulie, Recherches 'sur Molidre, p. 59. " This child died in the same year." '^ The ballets de coiir, according to M. Bazin's Notes historiques stir la vie de Moliire, 1 85 1, were composed of entries, vers and ricits. The entries were represented by persons who said nothing, but whose gestures, danc- ing and dress sufficiently showed what the author intended to represent ; this was, moreover, elucidated by the vers, which were not spoken on the stage, but only printed in the libretto. The ricits were verses spoken, or couplets sung, generally by professional actors or actresses. 15 In the re-impression of Obsei-uations sur le Festin de Pierre par de Rochemont et Riponses aux Observa- tions, e.d\ie.A by the bibliophile Jacob, Geneve, 1869, it is stated, p. 11, that though de Rochemont may have been an advocate, as many of Moliere's biographers had said, he was a clergyman at the time he wrote his Obseri'ations. 1* All ladies who were not of noble birth, or those of inferior nobility, were in Moliere's time called Made- moiselle, the others Madame ; nevertheless the expressions une demoiselle, une femme demoiselle, were often used for a noble-born married or unmarried lady. For the use of Mademoiselle as a special name, see note 6. '5 Subsequently the most finished actor in France. '* Boileau repeated this story to Racine, whose son has recorded it in his Memoirs. A sceptic might perhaps suspect that the attempted suicide was only a trick to get Moliire to join in the revels. " In that monument of accuracy and erudition, Dictionaire critique de Biographie et d'' Histoire, by A. Jal, Paris, 1872, it is stated in the article " Poisson," p. 983, that this actress died at St. Germain en Laye, the 12th of December, 1756, at the age of ninety. Moliire died in 1673; therefore, if she saw him even in 1672, she must have been six years old, a rather early age to receive impressions of personal appearance. Moland, in his life of Moliire, states that she was fifteen years old at our author's death, but Jal is always exact. I suppose Madame Poisson, who in 1740, was seventy-four years old, gave as her own personal impression what she could only have known by hearsay. / > I LbMAN, DEU- THE BLUNDERER ^ CHILD, DRESSED AS LELIO. .^HQ^^S THE PURSE ~^M ^ sMtoaas s t ■ '^■AW /' m. '^ PREFA . lEMOIR • date of the opening of the Hlmtre Thiitrt. Moland ir Moliire, 1863, proves by official documents that it was tiU,. '• 1644- ..ui always spells it thus, though the members of tliat family gencraiiy wrote il >ntl> a /. ' < > e.:.' irnmentators say he was called Jacques. Soulie says Joseph. IL-, Recherchts sur Moliire, 1 863, p. 42. ' . . ,_:h was the title given to Mdlle. dc Montpensier, tlie daughter of Gaston, Duke of Orleans, uncle of Louis XIV. She was sometimes called la grande MadtmoisslU to distiagtiish her from the daughter of Philip of OrliSans, brother of Louis XIV. See also note 14. ' In general people have not a correct idea about the pu • theatre in Mc. In the theatre of the Palais Ro) ■ ■ ■ • ^ .1 - prices for the biltels de Ihiilrt i tit franc- ' ■■:.'■■-> on tl tions [he rclaxr. ..■nta- ..r.li- -, the oney, the latter he room c i^uuiic j^ivci [lie very 1 January ^ZQ^Q 3 Q /I U J 9 • Sauval in thratre of the \.i,a.- i\ ).. ^ i . be the most probable, consideriny ; • Some of Moliiire's biograpiit^rs sl« seventeen years old ; Soulii gives the very . This contract is dated Ja ^^ Dissertation su^ /. ." ^-r-:'- .:>: Ai^uu-yi-, ia:i, j> " Eud. Soulie, t\ Moliire, p. 59. •■ 1"': " The ballets de c -ng to M. Bain's AVtj MMV't'^l^i.^' ' of entries, vers and rfn/s. The entrfes-i-^f^ ! tpVw,¥mrn ft |ie!v.iis w ho said nothing, but whose gestures, danc- ing and dress sufficiently showed what thi. author iuteiult ; lu represent; this was, moreover, elucidated by the vers, whicli were not spoken on the stage, but only printed in the libretto. The ricits were verses spoken, or couplets sung, gi' — ' ' ' = ->! actors or actresses. '" In the re ons sur le Festin de Pierre par de Riickrmant et A^^'ivses sux Oherva- chlS ' - de Paris, 1 724, 3 vols., iii., p. 47, says the :eau states looo; the last number appears to See also note 7. ;t, at the time of her marriage, was not yet 1 proves that she was twenty or thereabout. 3 Hi lied in the same year." fi ji«;- la vie de Moliire, 1 85 1, were composed .OMJ38V1A ^o aanuq W^^^^'^^ff^ ''''""'' ^ Obii fvHi " All ladies moiselle, Oie others .MmJam for a noble-bom married or i " Subsequently the most finished actor i; •• Boileau rei.M;ated this story to Racine, ui..- ^^ . suspect that the attempted suicide was only a trick to gei " In that monument of accuracy an.1 erudition, Ditlj' >: 1' .:is. 1872, it is stated in the article " Poi.sson," p. 983, that tiier, 1756, at the age of ninety. Moliire died in Keen si^ years old, a rather early age to receive in tales that she was fifteen years old at our auiho' I, who in 1740, was seventy-four years old, gave a;- . by hearsay. were in Mnti*rT'« 'iwr tnlled Afade- jtten used 6. c uiigtit perhaps .. iiiitiirt, by A. Jal, r..iiiv en Laye, thel2th ^:lw him even in 1672, she ippearance. Moland, in his always exact. I suppose A impression what she could -rvr-r L ES1 OURDY TITLE OF 1663 wpm JACQfctfS LEMAN, DE lES CON i TEMPSp. ARENTS, S€ ,. ^E IS SMALL VIEW OF THE RHdNE AND OF THE FAUBOURG D'AINAY [jft'LYOnS. IN THE yp^ER tEFT'ciOiRWE^, THE ARMS 6f>LY6i^J^; 'GULES, A LIOI^ RAMPANT, ARGENT, CHEF THE ARMS OF FRANCE. IN THE RIGHT CORNER, THE ARMS OF PARIS; GULES AN ANTIQUE SHIP, ARGENT, SAILING ON WAVES OF THE SAME, CHEF THEJARJvi^qFiFRANg^f hIj^tIs /' f 53 'tj' iPC lIcALL THE PRESENTATIONS OF "THE BLUNDERER" AT LYONS AND AT PARIS. BELOW ARE THE PORTRAITS OF LEANDE^AND HIPP'OLYTA IN CONUEMPORARY COSTUMES. /V _. — . -^ ' -:\, , FARTHER DOWN, CELIA- AND LELIO, DISGUISED AS ARMENIANS ; BELOW, THE I' PURSE diP ANSELMO APCOMPANILD BY THE SWORD OF LBLIO AND THE STAFF OF TRUFALDIN IN THE Fer]^Jf'-0F SAINT ANDREW'S CROSS. 'AT THE BOTTOM, LITTLE fMASQUERADERS IN THE FORM OF TERMINI, WHICH RECALL THE MAS- QUERADE AT THE END OF ACT III. IN THE CENTRE, THE ARMS OF MOLIERE, ' CCUR ON ALL THE ORIGINAL TITLES, BUT ALWAYS WITH DIFFERENT "T- CHLZ ' 7 ,■' ,. «a>* ■* ^ddi HO 3JT1T YAHIA'a OHUOaUAT 3HT 30 QXIA HHOHH HHT HO W3IV JJAM8 21 HVOaA WOU A ,23JUO ;2WOYJ ^O 2M)1A 3HT ,H3kl5503 1^3 J H^HHU 3HT HI .2HOYJ TA 3HT ,fl3HflOO THOIH 3HT HI .33HAfl3 ^O 2M5IA 3HT 33HO ,THa05IA .THASWlAfl 3HT 30 23VAW HO OH1JIA2 ,TH30flA ,SIH2 aUQlTHA HA 2aJUO ; 2I51A1 30 2M5iA aHT JJA33J1 "8;di" ;"'f?di" 23TAa BHT .30HA5n 30 8MHA 3HT 33HO ,3MA2 3flA WOJ3a .2mAS TA QUA 2HOYJ TA "flaH3aHU.Ja 3HT" 30 2M01TATW323«S .23MUT20D YflhHOHlA3JVlOD Ml ATYJOS'ilH QUA H3aHA3J 30 2TIA51T«01 3HT 3HT .WOJaa ;2WAIHaMflA 2A a321U02ia ,OIJ3J a;'iA AIJ33 ,/iWOa 5i3HT5IA3 H3AT2 3HT QUA OIJ3J HO aflOW2 3HT Ya a3mAe compliments ; when people have ne*,-a ui" U.S jxjor servants, we are 9 .»\ ! ; A.>AAT1S PERSON/C LELIO, Son to Pandolphus. LEANDER, A young gentleman of good birth ANSELMQ, An old man. PANDOLPHUS, An old man. TRUFALDIN, An old man. DRAMATIS PERSON/E MASCARILLE.- Servant to Lelio. ^/T^CQUES l.EMAN, DEL. ERGASTE, A servant. "^■^ A MESSENGER. Two troops of Masqueraders. MfeoUPED AT THE SIDES ARE THE INSTRUMENTS OF THE MUSICIANS OTFJh SQUERADE AT THB END OF ACT III. BELOW, IN A CARTOUCHE, A VIEW;j PORT AND QUA-i^'by'MESSlNA, THE SCENE OF THE PLAY. P. ARENTS,^ ^ ACT I. SCENE I.— Lelio, a/onc. Very well ! Leander, very well ! we must quarrel, then ; we shall see which of us two will gain the day; and which, in our mutual pursuit after this young miracle of beauty, will thwart the most his rival's ad- dresses. Do whatever you can, defend your- self well, for depend upon it, on my side no pains shall be spared. SCENE II. — Lelio, Mascarille. Lel. Ah ! Mascarille ! Masc. What's the matter? Lel. a great deal is the matter. Every- thing crosses my love. Leander is enamored of Celia. The Fates have willed it, that though I have changed the object of my pas- sion, he still remains my rival. Masc. Leander enamored of Celia ! Lel. He adores her, I tell you.^ Masc. So much the worse. Lel. Yes, so much the worse, and that's what annoys me. However, I should be wrong to despair, for since you aid me, I ought to take courage. I know that your mind can plan many intrigues, and never finds anything too difficult ; that you should be called the prince of servants, and that throughout the whole world . . . Masc. A truce to these compliments ; when people have need of us poor servants, we are 9 lO THE BLUNDERER darlings, and incomparable creatures ; but at other times, at the least fit of anger, we are scoundrels, and ought to be soundly thrashed. Lel. Nay, upon my word, you wrong me by this remark. But let us talk a little about the captive. Tell me, is there a heart so cruel, so unfeeling, as to be proof against such charming features? For my part, in her conversation as well as in her counte- nance, I see evidence of her noble birth. I believe that Heaven has concealed a lofty origin beneath such a lowly station. Masc. You are very romantic with all your fancies. But what will Pandolphus do in this case ? He is your father, at least he says so. You know very well that his bile is pretty often stirred up ; that he can rage against you finely, when your behavior offends him. He is now in treaty with Anselrno about your marriage with his daughter, Hippolyta; im- agining that it is marriage alone that may- hap can steady you : now, should he discover that you reject his choice, and that you enter- tain a passion for a person nobody knows any- thing about ; that the fatal power of this fool- ish love causes you to forget your duty and disobey him; Heaven knows what a storm will then burst forth, and what fine lectures you will be treated to. Lel. a truce, I pray, to your rhetoric. Masc. Rather a truce to your manner of loving; it is none of the best, and you ought to endeavor . . . Lel. Don't you know that nothing is gained by making me angry, that remon- strances are badly rewarded by me, and that a servant who counsels me acts against his own interest ? Masc. {Aside). He is in a passion now. {Aloud). All that I said was but in jest, and to try you. Do I look so very much like a censor, and is Mascarille an enemy to pleasure? You know the contrary, and that it is only too certain people can tax me with nothing but being too good-natured. Laugh at the preachings of an old graybeard of a father ; go on, I tell you, and mind them not. Upon my word, I am of opinion that these old, effete and grumpy libertines come to stupefy us with their silly stories, and being virtuous, out of necessity, hope through sheer envy to deprive young people of all the pleasures of life ! You know my talents ; I am at your service. Lel. Now, this is talking in a manner I like. Moreover, when I first declared my passion, it was not ill received by the lovely object who inspired it ; but, just now, Lean- der has declared to me that he is preparing to deprive me of Celia ; therefore let us make haste ; ransack your brain for the speediest means to secure me possession of her ; plan any tricks, stratagems, rogueries, inventions, to frustrate my rival's pretensions. Masc. Let me think a little upon this matter. {Aside). What can I invent upon this urgent occasion ? Lel. Well, the stratagem ? Masc. What a hurry you are in ! My brain must always move slowly. I have found what you want ; you must . . . No, that's not it ; but if you would go . . . Lel. Whither? Masc. No, that's a flimsy trick. I thought that . . . Lel. What is it ? Masc. That will not do either. But could you not . . . ? Lel. Could I not what? Masc. No, you could not do anything. Speak to Anselmo. THE BLUNDERER .ii<.'' ACf/I. SCENE II. JACQUES Lfi'MAN, PAINTER. C. CHAMPQLLION, ETCHER. CELIA AT THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE OF TRUFALDIN; MASCARIlLE AND LFLIO TO THE LEFT. MASCARILLE {^To Lclio) : "WHAT LUCK! HERE SHE IS COMING JUST IN THE NICK OF TIME." JO /■:r thrashed. word, you wrong me ,ct us talk a little about the captive. Till me, is there a heart so cruel, so unfeeling, as to be proof against such charming features? For my part, in | these old, eff' her conversation as well as in her coiinte- t(j stupefy us but at r/i iry you. Do I look SO very much like a iiger, we censor, and is Mascarille ■ an enemy to be soundly pleasure ? You know the contrary, and that ■ s only too certain people can tax .me »uh nothing but being too good-natured. Laugh at the preachings of an old graybeard of a father ; go on, I tell you, and mind them not. Upon my word, I am of opinion that " crrurapy libertines come ^ Hv stories, and being nance, I see evidence of her noble birth uous, out of n rhrough sheer believe that Hea aled a loity envy to deprive young the origin beneath sue ii ;i ijv, I) bumon. pleasures of life ! You knov luy laiciits ; 1 Masc. You are very ''^'^^Ut Aitl) ^ ,^yi^|"| j-UJi ^^ ^^i^.^H^'ice. fancies. But wlvat will Pai/l'lf A>jU r i U JO: aflj, this is talking in a manner I case? He is your father, at least he says so. , likt my You know very well that his bile is uretty pa.ssi.iu, , , i ■,.• i,..vely often stirred up ; that he can! l-ag£ygliiist^<«ii , ol#Jbct Ix-UAA ;r,t now, Lean- finely, when your behavior offends him. He I der has declared to me that he is preparing to .aiHSTa .WOlLJJO^Mi/iiH2)'i)S>'nio about your | deprive me .^-^im .^AWS^SftU^KDAieke marriage with his da ' ' ' ta; \\i\- haste; ransack your brain for the speediest agining that it is mar; ,__ at -wsy — means to secure nie possession of her; plan hap tan steady you : now, should he discover any tricks, stratagems, rogueries, inventions, tain a passion lor a person nobody kiuiws any- Masc. Let me cuuk. a little > thing about; that the rii;il Moweroiinis Wol- inatyr. {AsiJe). What can I invt ish love causes y. ur duty and aH'T. WL TSiiiiL orawoo ei 3Hc; aaaH \^3ids tah wv, : (j^^wiii i»t5;j)traJviiHAD2AM this urgent occasion? will then burst loith, ana wnat r:;ie lectures you will be treated to. Lfi,. a truce, I pray, to your rhetoric. Masc. Rather a truce to your manner of loving; it is none of the best, and you ought to endeavor . . . Lel. Don't you know that nothing js gained by making me angry, that remon- ire badl) ' ' ! >y me, and that a \\\o coun^' M..\sc. W1-. must always you want ; \ but if .you would Lel. Whit! ; M\sc. Xo. ^'"''.HMIT =10J|'DIW" ' . . \ ,\hat ■t !t; flimsy trick. I thought Lel. What is it ? ^T "' '.will not do either, against his own you >■■•■' . ? I.K! . Could I not what? But could !iii/e). He is in a passion now. '] that I said was but in jest, and Masc. No, you could not do anything. Speak to Anselmo. OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS II Lel. And what can I say to him ? Masc. That is true ; that would be falHng out of the frying-pan into the fire. Some- thing must be done, however. Go to Tru- faldin. Lel. What to do ? Masc. I don't know. Lel. Zounds ! this is too much. You drive me mad with this idle talk. Masc. Sir, if you could lay your hand on plenty of pistoles,* we should have no need now to think of and try to find out what means we must employ in compassing our wishes ; we might, by purchasing this slave quickly, prevent your rival from forestalling and thwarting you. Trufaldin, who takes charge of her, is rather uneasy about these gypsies, who placed her with him. If he could get back his money, which they have made him wait for too long, I am quite sure he would be delighted to sell her ; for he always lived like the veriest curmudgeon ; he would allow himself to be whipped for the smallest coin of the realm. Money is the god he worships above everything, but the worst of it is that . . . Lel. What is the worst of it ? Masc. That your father is just as covet- ous an old hunk, who does not allow you to handle his ducats, as you would like ; that there is no way by which we could now open ever so small a purse, in order to help you. But let us endeavor to speak to Celia for a moment, to know what she thinks about this affair ; this is her win- dow. Lel. But Trufaldin watches her closely night and day ; take care. Masc. Let us keep quiet in this corner. What luck ! Here she is coming just in the nick of time. SCENE in. — Celia, Lelio, Mascarille. Lel. Ah ! madam, what obligations do I owe to Heaven for allowing me to behold those celestial charms you are blest with ! Whatever sufferings your eyes may ha\e caused me, I cannot but take delight in gaz- ing on them in this place. Cel. My heart, which has good reason to be astonished at your speech, does not wish my eyes to injure any one ; if they have offended you in anything, I can assure you I did not intend it. Lel. Oh ! no, their glances are too pleas- ing to do me an injury. I count it my chief glory to cherish the wounds they give me ; and . . . Masc. You are soaring rather too high ; this style is by no means what we want now ; let us make better use of our time ; let us know of her quickly what . . . True. ( Withiii). Celia ! Masc. ( To Lelid). Well, what do you think now ? Lel. O cruel mischance ! What business has this wretched old man to interrupt us ! Masc. Go, withdraw, I'll find something to say to him. SCENE IV.— Trufaldin, Celia, Masca- rille and Lelio in a corner. Truf. (Til Celia). What are you doing out of doors? And what induces you to go out, — you, whom I have forbidden to speak to any one ? Cel. I was formerly acquainted with this respectable young man ; you have no occasion to be suspicious of him. 12 THE BLUNDERER Masc. Is this Signor Trufaldin ? Cel. Yes, it is himself. Masc. Sir, I am wholly yours ; it gives me extreme pleasure to have this opportunity of paying my most humble respects to a gen- tleman who is everywhere so highly spoken of. Truf. Your most humble servant. Masc. Perhaps I am troublesome, but I have been acquainted with this young woman elsewhere ; and as I heard about the great skill she has in predicting the future, I wished to consult her about a certain affair. Truf. What ! Do you dabble in the black art? Cel. No, sir; my skill lies entirely in the white.* Masc. The case is this. The master whom I serve languishes for a fair lady who has cap- tivated him. He would gladly disclose the passion which burns within him to the beau- teous object whom he adores, but a dragon that guards this rare treasure, in spite of all his attempts, has hitherto prevented him. And what torments him still more and makes him miserable is that he has just discovered a formidable rival ; so that I have come to con- sult you to know whether his love is likely to meet with any success, being well assured that from your mouth I may learn truly the secret which concerns us. Cel. Under what planet was your master born? Masc. Under that planet which never alters his love. Cel. Without asking you to name the ob- ject he sighs for, the science which 1 possess gives me sufficient information. This young woman is high spirited, and knows how to preserve a noble pride in the midst of ad- versity ; she is not inclined to declare too freely the secret sentiments of her heart. But I know them as well as herself, and am going with a more composed mind to unfold them all to you, in a few words. Masc. O wonderful power of magic vir- tue ! Cel. If your master is really constant in his affections, and if virtue alone prompts him, let him be under no apprehension of sighing in vain ; he has reason to hope the fortress he wishes to take is not averse to capitulation, but rather inclined to surren- der. Masc. That's something; but then the for- tress depends upon a governor whom it is hard to gain over. Cel. There lies the difficulty. Masc. {Aside, looking at Lelio). The deuce take this troublesome fellow, who is always watching us. Cel. I am going to teach you what you ought to do. Lel. {Joining theni). Mr. Trufaldin, give yourself no further uneasiness ; it was purely in obedience to my orders that this trusty servant came to visit you ; I dispatched him to offer you my services, and to speak to you concerning this young lady, whose liberty I am willing to purchase before long, provided we two can agree about the terms. Masc. {Aside). Plague take the ass ! Truf. .Ho ! ho ! Which of the two am I to believe ? This story contradicts the former very much. Masc. Sir, this gentleman is a little bit wrong in the upper story; did you not know it? Truf. I know what I know, and begin to smell a rat. Get you in {to Celid), and never take such a liberty again. As for you two, arrant rogues, or I am much mistaken, if you ■ THE BLUNDERER ACT I. SCENE IV. EDM. HEDOUIN, PAINTER. RICK, ETCHER. EXTERIOR OF THE HOUSE OF TRUFALDIN AND VIEW OF THE QUAY OF MESSINA. TRUFALDIN: "AS FOR YOU TWO, ARRANT ROGUES, OR I AM MUCH MIS- TAKEN: IF YOU WISH TO DECEIVE ME AGAIN, LET YOUR STORIES BE A LITTLE MORE IN HARMONY." , - Vej, it is hli!:-, -If Masc. Sir. I a: extreme Joying ni}- i. tleinan w!io of, Iruf. Your most humble servant Masc. Perhaps 1 am troubU have been acquainted with this ^ irt'ciy uic sctrLi sentiments of her heart. But I know them as well as herself, and am going gives me i with a more composed mind to unfold them have this opportunity o{ all to you. in a few words. l)le respects to a gen- i Masc. O wonderful power of magic vir- I tue! Cel. If your master is really constant in his affections, and if virtue alone prompts ' 1, let him be under no apprehension of ^, )ing in vain ; he lia? reason to hope the here so hiL'hlv suoken elsewhere ; and as I heard about the great fortress he wish< skill she has in predicting the future, I wished capitulation, but rai to consult her about a certfiri'^ttil 'i^ Q M 1 J'%fl[ 3 H T lot averse to 'JKVK. What! Dovoutiai- art : ihe 1 id- k Masc. l hat's something; but then the for- tress depends upon a governor whom it is Cel. No, sir; my skill lies eBtiro*j| ,yjq ^phardito afti^Z take the field ; let us act Olibrius, the slayer of the innocents. '^ Lel. He accused you of slandering . . . Masc. And you could not let the artifice pass, nor let him remain in his error, which did good service, and which pretty nearly extinguished his passion. No, honest soul, he cannot bear dissimulation. I cunningly get a footing at his rival's, who, like a dolt, was going to place his mistress in my hands; but he, Lelio, prevents me getting hold of her by a fictitious letter ; I try to abate the passion of his rival, my hero presently conies and undeceives him. In vain I make signs to him, and show him it was all a contrivance of mine ; it signifies nothing ; he continues to the end, and never rests satisfied till he has discovered all. Grand and sublime effect of a mind which is not inferior to any man liv- ing ! It is an exquisite piece, and worthy, in troth, to be made a present of to the king's private museum. Lel. I am not surprised that I do not come up to your expectations ; if I am not acquainted with the designs you are setting on foot, I shall be for ever making mistakes. Masc. So much the worse. Lel. At least, if you would be justly angry with me, give me a little insight into your plan ; but if I am kept ignorant of every con- trivance, I must always be caught napping."' Masc. I believe you would make a very good fencing-master, because you are so skil- ful at making feints, and at parr)ing of a thrust." Lel. Since the thing is done, let us think no more about it. My rival, however, will not have it in his power to cross me, and pro- vided you will but exert your skill, in which I trust . . . Masc. Let us drop this discourse, and talk of something else ; I am not so easily paci- fied, not I ; I am in too great a passion for that. In the first place, you must do me a service, and then we shall see whether I ought to undertake the management of your amours. Lel. If it only depends on that, I will do it ! Tell me, have you need of my blood, of my sword ? Masc. How crack-brained he is ! You are just like those swashbucklers who are always more ready to draw their sword than to pro- duce a tester, if it were necessary to give it. Lel. What can I do, then, for you ? Masc. You must, without delay, endeavor to appease your father's anger. Lel. We have become reconciled already. Masc. Yes, but I am not ; I killed him this morning for your sake; the very idea of it shocks him. Those sorts of jokes are severely felt by such old fellows as he, which, much against their will, make them reflect sadly on the near approach of death. The good sire, notwithstanding his age, is very fond of life, and cannot bear jesting upon that subject ; he is alarmed at the prognosti- cation, and so very angry that I hear he has lodged a complaint against me. I am afraid that if I am once housed at the expense of the king, I may like it so well after the first quarter of an hour, that I shall find it very difficult afterwards to get away. There have been several warrants out against me this good wliile ; for virtue is always envied and perse- cuted in this abominable age. Therefore go and make my peace with your father. Lel. Yes, I shall soften his anger, but you must promise me then . . . Masc. We shall see what there is to be done. {Exit Lelio'). Now, let us take a little breath after so many fatigues ; let us stop for a while the current of our intrigues, 34 THE BLUNDERER and not move about hither and thither as if we were hobgoblins. Leander cannot hurt us now, and Celia cannot be removed, through the contrivance of . . . I have a secret of im- SCENE VI. — Ergaste, Mascarille. Erg. I was looking for you everywhere to render you a service portance to disclose. Masc. What may that be ? Erg. Can no one overhear us? Masc. Not a soul. Erg. We are as intimate as two people can be ; I am acquainted with all your projects, and the love of your master. Mind what you are about by and by ; Leander has formed a plot to carry ofif Celia ; I have been told he has arranged everything and designs to get into Trufaldin's house in disguise, having heard that at this time of the year some ladies of the neighborhood often visit him in the evening in masks. Masc. Ay, well ! He has not yet reached the height of his happiness ; I may perhaps be beforehand with him j and as to this thrust, I know how to give him a counter- thrust, by which he may run himself through. He is not aware with what gifts I am endowed. Farewell, we shall take a cup together next time we meet. SCENE VII. — Mascarille, alone. We must, we must reap all possible benefit from this amorous scheme, and by a dexterous and uncommon counterplot endeavor to make the success our own, without any danger. If I put on a mask and be beforehand with Leander, he will certainly not laugh at us; if we take the prize ere he comes up, he will have paid for us the expenses of the expedi- tion ; for, as his project has already become known, suspicion will fall upon him ; and we, being safe from all pursuit, need not fear the consequences of that dangerous enterprise. Thus we shall not show ourselves, but use a cat's paw to take the chestnuts out of the fire. Now, then, let us go and disguise ourselves with some good fellows ; we must not delay if we wish to be beforehand with our gentry. I love to strike while the iron is hot, and can, without much difficulty, provide in one mo- ment men and dresses. Depend upon it, I do not let my skill lie dormant. If Heaven has endowed me with the gift of knavery, I am not one of those degenerate minds who hide the talents they have received. SCENE VIII.— Lelio, Ergaste. Lel. He intends to carry her off during a masquerade ! Erg. There is nothing more certain ; one of his band informed me of his design, upon which I instantly ran to Mascarille and told him the whole affair ; he said he would spoil their sport by some counter-scheme which he planned in an instant ; so meeting with you by chance, I thought I ought to let you know the whole. Lel. I am very much obliged to you for this piece of news ; go, I shall not forget this faithful service. {Exit Ergaste). SCENE IX.— Lelio, alone. My rascal will certainly play them some trick or other ; but I, too, have a mind to assist him in his project. It shall never be said that, in a business which so nearly concerns OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS 35 me, I stirred no more than a post ; this is j looks ! How now ! What are you mumbling ? the time ; they will be surprised at the sight of me. Why did I not take my blunderbuss with me? But let anybody attack me who likes, I have two good pistols and a trusty sword. Soho ! within there; a word with you. SCENE X. — Trufaldin at his window, Lelio. Truf. What is the matter? Who comes to pay me a visit ? Lel. Keep your door carefully shut to- night. Truf. Why? Lel. There are certain people coming masked to give you a sorry kind of serenade ; they intend to carry off Celia. Truf. Good Heavens ! Lel. No doubt they will soon be here. Keep where you are, you may see everything from your window. Hey ! Did I not tell you so ? Do you not see them already ? Hist ! I will affront them before your face. We shall see some fine fun, if they do not give way.'* SCENE XL — Lelio, Trufaldin, Masca- RILLE and his company masked. Truf. Oh, the funny blades, who think to surprise me. Lel. Markers, whither so fast ? Will you let me into the secret? Trufaldin, pray open the door to these gentry, that they may chal- lenge us for a throw with the dice." ( To Mas- carille, disguised as a woman') . Good Heavens ! What a pretty creature ! What a darling she Without offence, may I remove your mask and see your face ? Truf. Hence ! ye wicked rogues ; begone ye ragamuffins ! And you, sir, good night, and many thanks. SCENE Xn. — Lelio, Mascarille. Lel. {^After having taken the mask from Mascarille' s face'). Mascarille, is it you? Masc. No, not at all ; it is somebody else. Lel. Alas ! How astonished I am ! How adverse is our fate ! Could 1 possibly have guessed this, as you did not secretly inform me that you were going to disguise yourself? Wretch that I am, thoughtlessly to play )ou such a trick, while you wore this mask. I am in an awful passion with myself, and have a good mind to give myself a sound beating. Masc. Farewell, most refined wit, unpar- alleled inventive genius. Lel. Alas ! If your anger deprives me of your assistance, what saint shall I invoke ? M.\sc. Beelzebub. Lel. Ah ! If your heart is not made of stone or iron, do once more at least forgive my imprudence. If it is necessary to be par- doned that I should kneel before you, be- hold . . . Masc. Fiddlesticks ! Come, my boys, let us away ; I hear some other people coming closely behind us. SCENE XIII. — Leander and his company masked; Trufaldin at the window. Leand. Softly, let us do nothing but in the gentlest manner. 36 THE BLUNDERER: OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS Truf. {At the window). How is this? What ! mummers besieging my door all night. Gentlemen, do not catch a cold gratuitously ; every one who is catching it here must have plenty of time to lose. It is rather a little too late to take Celia along with you ; she begs you will excuse her to-night ; the girl is in bed and cannot speak to you ; I am very sorry ; but to repay you for all the trouble you have taken for her sake, she begs you will be pleased to accept this pot of perfume. Leand. Faugh ! That does not smell nicely. My clothes are all spoiled ; we are discovered ; let us be gone this way. ACT IV. SCENE I. — Lelio, disguised as an Armenian; Mascarille. Masc. You are dressed in a most comical fashion. Lel. I had abandoned all hope, but you have revived it again by this contrivance. Masc. My anger is always too soon over ; it is vain to swear and curse ; I can never keep to my oaths. Lel. Be assured that if ever it lies in my power you shall be satisfied with the proofs of my gratitude, and though I had but one piece of bread . . . Masc. Enough. Study well this new pro- ject ; for if you commit now any blunder j'ou cannot lay the blame upon ignorance of the plot ; you ought to know your part in the play perfectly by heart. Lel. But how did Trufaldin receive you ? Masc. I cozened the good fellow with a pretended zeal for his interests. I went with alacrity to tell him that, unless he took very great care, some people would come and sur- prise him ; that from different quarters they had designs upon her of whose origin a letter had given a false account ; that they would have liked to draw me in for a share in the business, but that I kept well out of it ; and that, being full of zeal for what so nearly con- cerned him, I came to give him timely notice that he might take his precautions. Then, moralizing, I discoursed solemnly about the many rogueries one sees every day here below ; that, as for me, being tired with the world and its infamies, I wished to work out my soul's salvation, retire from all its noise, and live with some worthy, honest man, with whom I could spend the rest of my days in 37 38 THE BLUNDERER peace ; that, if he had no objection, I should desire nothing more than to fjass the remain- der of my life with him ; that I had taken such a liking to him, that, without asking for any wages to serve him, I was ready to place in his hands, knowing it to be safe there, some property my father had left me, as well as my savings, which I was fully determined to leave to him alone, if it pleased Heaven to take me hence. That was the right way to gain his affection. You and your beloved should decide what means to use to attain your wishes. I was an.xious to arrange a secret interview between you two ; he him- self has contrived to show me a most ex- cellent method, by which you may fairly and openly stay in her house. Happening to talk to me about a son he had lost, and whom he dreamt last night had come to life again, he told me the following story, upon which, just now, I founded my stratagem. Lel. Enough ; I know it all ; you have told it me twice already.™ Masc. Yes, yes ; but even if I should tell it thrice, it may happen still, that with all your conceit, you might break down in some minor detail. Lel. I long to be at it already. Masc. Pray, not quite so fast, for fear we might stumble. Your skull is rather thick, therefore you should be perfectly well instructed in your part. Some time ago Trufaldin left Naples ; his name was then Zanobio Ruberti. Being suspected in his native town of having participated in a certain rebellion, raised by some political faction (though really he is not a man to disturb any state), he was obliged to quit it stealthily by night, leaving behind him his daughter, who was very young, and his wife. Some time afterwards he received the news that they were both dead, and in this per- plexity, wishing to take with him to some other town not only his property, but also the only one who was left of all his family, his young son, a schoolboy, called Horatio, he wrote to Bologna, where a certain tutor, named Alberto, had taken the boy when very young, to finish there his education ; but though for two whole years he appointed several times to meet them, they never made their appearance. Believing them to be dead, after so long a time, he came to this city, where he took the name he now bears, with- out for twelve years ever having discovered any traces of this Alberto, or of his son Horatio. This is the substance of the story, which I have repeated so that you may better remember "the groundwork of the plot. Now, you are to personate an Ar- menian merchant, who has seen them both safe and sound in Turkey. If I have in- vented this scheme, in preference to any other, of bringing them to life again ac- cording to his dream, it is because it is very common in adventures for people to be taken at sea by some Turkish pirate and afterwards restored to their families in the very nick of time, when thought lost for fifteen or twenty years. For my part, I have heard a hundred of that kind of stories. Without giving ourselves the trouble of inventing something fresh, let us make use of this one ; what does it matter ? You must say you heard the story of their being made slaves from their own mouths, and also that you lent them money to pay their ransom ; but that as urgent business obliged you to set out before them, Horatio asked you to go and visit his father here, whose adventures he was acquainted with, and with whom you were to stay a few days till their OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS 39 arrival. I have given you a long lesson now. Lel. These repetitions are superfluous. From the very beginning I understood it all. Masc. I shall go in and prepare the way. Lel. Listen, Mascarille ; there is only one thing that troubles me; suppose he should ask me to describe his son's countenance ? Masc. There is no difficulty in answering that ! You know he was very little when he saw him last. Besides, it is very likely that increase of years and slavery have completely changed him. Lel. That is true. But, pray, if he should remember my face, what must I do then ? M\sc. Have you no memory at all ? I told you just now that he has merely seen you for a minute ; that therefore you could only have produced a very transient impression on his mind ; besides, your beard and dress disguise you completely. Lel. Very well. But, now I think of it, what part of Turkey . . . ? Masc. It is all the same, I tell you, Turkey or Barbary. Lel. But what is the name of the town I saw them in ? Masc. Tunis. I think he will keep me till night. He tells me it is useless to repeat that name so often, and I have already mentioned it a dozen times. Lel. Go, go in and prepare matters ; I want nothing more. Masc. Be cautious, at least, and act wisely. Let us have none of your inventions here. Lel. Let me alone ! Trust to me, I say, once more. Masc. Observe, Horatio, a schoolboy in Bologna; Trufaldin, his true name Zanobio Ruberti, a citizen of Naples; the tutor was called Alberto . . . Lel. You make me blush by preaching so much to me ; do you think I am a fool ? Masc. No, not completely, but something very like it. SCENE IL— Lelio, alone. When I do not stand in need of him he cringes ; but now, because he very well knows of how much use he is to me, his familiarity indulges in such remarks as he just now made. I shall bask in the sunshine of those beautiful eyes, which hold me in so sweet a captivity, and, without hindrance, depict in the most glaring colors the tortures I feel. I shall then know my fate. . . . But here they are. SCENE HL -Trufaldix, Lelio, Mas- carille. Truf. Thanks, righteous Heaven ! for this favorable turn of my fortune ! Masc. You are the man to see visions and dream dreams, since you prove how untrue is the saying that dreams are falsehoods.^' Truf. How can I thank you ? what returns can I make you, sir ? You, whom I ought to style the messenger sent from Heaven to an- nounce my happiness ! Lel. These compliments are superfluous ; I can dispense with them. Truf. {^To Mascarille). I have seen some- body like this Armenian, but I do not know where. Masc. That is what I was saying, but one sees surprising likenesses sometimes. 40 THE BLUNDERER Truf. You have seen that son of mine, in whom all my hopes are centred ? Lel. Yes, Signor Trufaldin, and he was as well as well can be. Truf. He related to you his life and spoke much about me, did he not ? Lel. More than ten thousand times. Masc. {Aside to Lelio). Not quite so much, I should say. Lel. He described you just as I see you ; your face, your gait. Truf. Is that possible? He has not seen me since he was seven years old. And even his tutor, after so long a time, would scarcely know my face again. Masc. One's own flesh and blood never forget the image of one's relations ; this likeness is imprinted so deeply that my father . . . True. Hold your tongue. Where was it you left him ? Lel. In Turkey, at Turin. Truf. Turin ! but I thought that town was in Piedmont. Masc. {AsiJr). Oh, the dunce ! {To Trti- faldiri). You do not understand him ; he means Tunis; it was in reality there he left your son ; but the Armenians always have a certain vicious pronunciation, which seems very harsh to us ; the reason of it is because in all their words they change nis into rin ; and so, instead of saying Tunis, they pronounce Turin. Truf. I ought to know this in order to understand him. Did he tell you in what way you could meet with his father? Masc. {Aside). What answer will he give? ^^ {To Trufaldin, after pretending to fence'). I was just practising some passes ; I have han- dled the foils in many a fencing school. Truf. {To Mascarille). That is not the thing I wish to know now. {To Lelio). What other name did he say I went by? Masc. Ah, Signor Zanobio Ruberti. How glad you ought to be for what Hea\en sends you ! Lel. That is your real name ; the other is assumed. Truf. But where did he tell you he first saw the light ? Masc. Naples seems a very nice place, but you must feel a decided aversion to it. Truf. Can you not let us go on with our conversation without interrupting us? Lel. Naples is the place where he first drew his breath. Truf. Whither did I send him in his in- fancy, and under whose care ? Masc. That poor Albert behaved very well for having accompanied your son from Bo- logna, whom you committed to his care. Truf. Pshaw ! Masc. (Aside). We are undone if this conversation lasts long. True. I should very much like to know their adventures ; aboard what ship did my adverse fate . . . ? Masc. I do not know what is the matter with me, I do nothing but yawn. But, Signor Trufaldin, perhaps this stranger may want some refreshment ; besides, it grows late. Lel. No refreshment for me. Masc. Oh, sir, you are more hungry than you imagine. Truf. Please to walk in then. Lel. After you, sir.^^ Masc. {To Trufaldin). Sir, in Armenia the masters of the house use no ceremony. {To Lelio, after Trufaldin has gone iii). Poor fellow, have you not a word to say for your- self? OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS 41 Lel. He surprised me at first ; but never fear, I have rallied my spirits, and am going to rattle away boldly . . . Masc. Here comes our rival, who knows nothing of our plot. {They go into Trufaldin's house). SCENE IV. — Anselmo, Leander. Ans. Stay, Leander, and allow me to tell you something which concerns your peace and reputation. I do not speak to you as the father of Hippolyta, as a man interested for my own family, but as your father, anxious for your welfare, without wishing to flatter you or to disguise anything ; in short, openly and honestly, as I would wish a child of mine to be treated upon the like occasion. Do you know how everybody regards this amour of yours, which in one night has burst forth ? How your yesterday's undertaking is every- where talked of and ridiculed ? What people think of the whim which, they say, has made you select for a wife a gypsy outcast, a stroll- ing wench, whose noble occupation was only begging? I really blushed for you, even more than I did for myself, who am also compro- mised by this public scandal. Yes, I am compromised, I say, I, whose daughter, being engaged to you, cannot bear to see her slighted, without taking offence at it. For shame, Leander; arise from your humilia- tion ; consider well your infatuation ; if none of us are wise at all times, yet the shortest errors are always the best. When a man receives no dowry with his wife, but beauty only, repentance follows soon after wedlock ; and the handsomest woman in the world can hardly defend herself against a lukewarmness caused by possession. I repeat it: those fervent raptures, those youthful ardors and ecstacies, may make us pass a few agreeable nights, but this bliss is not at all lasting, and as our passions grow cool, very unpleasant days follow those pleasant nights ; hence proceed cares, anxieties, mis- eries, sons disinherited through their fathers' wrath. Leand. All that I now hear from you is no more than what my own reason has already suggested to me. I know how much I am obliged to you for the great honor you are inclined to pay me, and of which I am unworthy. In spite of the passion which sways me, I have ever retained a just sense of your daughter's merit and virtue: there- fore I will endeavor . . . Ans. Somebody is opening this door; let us retire to a distance, lest some contagion spreads from it which may attack you sud- denly. SCENE V. — Lelio, Mascarille. Masc. We shall soon see our roguery mis- carry if you persist in such palpable blunders. Lel. Must I always hear your reprimands? What can you complain of? Have I not done admirably since . . . ? Masc. Only middling; for example, you called the Turks heretics, and you affirmed, on your corporal oath, that they worshipped the sun and moon as their gods. Let that pass. What vexes me most is that, when you are with Celia, you strangely forget yourself; your love is like porridge, which by too fierce a fire swells, mounts up to the brim, and runs over everywhere. 42 THE BLUNDERER Lel. Could any one be more reserved ? As yet I have hardly spoken to her. Masc. You are right ! but it is not enough to be silent ; you had not been a moment at table till your gestures roused more suspicion than other people would have excited in a whole twelvemonth. Lel. How so ? Masc. How so? Everybody might have seen it. At table, where Trufaldin made her sit down, you never kept your eyes off her, blushed, looked quite silly, cast sheep's eyes at her, without ever minding what you were helped to ; you were never thirsty but when she drank, and took the glass eagerly from her hands; and without rinsing it, or throw- ing a drop of it away, you drank what she left in it, and seemed to choose in preference that side of the glass which her lips had touched ; upon every piece which her slender hand had touched, or which she had bit, you laid your paw as quickly as a cat does upon a mouse, and you swallowed it as glibly as if you were a regular glutton. Then, besides all this, you made an intolerable noise, shuffling with your feet under the table, for which Tru- faldin, who received two -lusty kicks, twice punished a couple of innocent dogs, who would have growled at you if they dared ; and yet, in spite of all this, you say you be- haved finely ! For my part I sat upon thorns all the time ; notwithstanding the cold, I feel even now in a perspiration. I hung over you just as a bowler does over his bowl after he has thrown it, and thought to restrain your actions by contorting my body ever so many times. Lel. Lack-a-day ! how easy it is for you to condemn things of which you do not feel the enchanting cause. In order to humor you for once I have, nevertheless, a good mind to ])ut a restraint upon that love which sways me. Henceforth . . . SCENE VL — Trufaldin, Lelio, Mas- CARILLE. Masc. We were speaking about your son's adventures. True. {To Lclio). You did quite right. Will you do me the favor of letting me have one word in private with him ? Lel. I should be very rude if I did not. {Lelio goes into Trit/aliiin' s house). SCENE VIL— Trufaldin, Mascarille. Truf. Hark ye ! do you know what I have just been doing ? Masc. No, but if you think it proper I shall certainly not remain long in ignorance. Truf. I have just now cut off from a large and sturdy oak, of about two hundred years old, an admirable branch, selected on pur- pose, of tolerable thickness, of which imme- diately, upon the spot, I made a cudgel, about . . . yes, oi \\\\i s\z& {showing his ar»i); not so thick at one end as at the other, but fitter, I imagine, than thirty switches to belabor the shoulders withal ; for it is well poised, green, knotty and heavy. Masc. But, pray, for whom is all this preparation ? True. For yourself, first of all ; then, secondly, for that fellow, who wishes to palm one person upon me, and trick me out of another; for this Armenian, this merchant in OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS 43 disguise, introduced by a lying and pretended story. Masc. What ! you do not believe . . . ? Truf. Do not try to find an excuse ; he himself, fortunately, discovered his own strat- agem, by telling Celia, whilst he squeezed her hand at the same time, that it was for her sake alone he came disguised in this manner. He did not perceive Jeannette, my little god- daughter, who overheard every word he said. Though your name was not mentioned, I do not doubt but you are a cursed accomplice in all this. Masc. Indeed, you wrong me. If you are really deceived, believe me I was the first im- posed upon with his story. Truf. Would you convince me you speak the truth ? Assist me in giving him a sound drubbing, and in driving him away; let us give it the rascal well, and then I will acquit you of all participation in this piece of rascality. Masc. Ay, ay, with all my soul. I will dust his jacket for him so soundly that you shall see I had no hand in this matter. {Aside). Ah ! you shall have a good licking. Mister Armenian, who always spoil every- thing. SCENE VIII.— Lelio, Trufaldin, Mas- CARILLE. Truf. {Knocks at his door, and then ad- dresses Lelid). A word with \ou, if you please. So, Mr. Cheat, you have the assur- ance to fool a respectable man, and make game of him ? Masc. To pretend to have seen his son abroad, in order to get the more easily into his house ! Truf. {Beating Lelio'). Go away, go away immediately. Lel. {To Mascarille, who beats him like- wise'). Oh, you scoundrel ! Masc. It is thus that rogues . . . Lel. Villain ! Masc. Are served here. Keep that for my sake ! Lel. What ? Is a gentleman . . . Masc. {Beating him and driving him off). March off ! begone, I tell you ! or I shall break all the bones in your body. Truf. I am delighted with this ; come in. I am satisfied. {Mascarille follows Trufaldin into his house). Lel. {Returning). This to me ! To be thus affronted by a servant ! Could I have thought the wretch would have dared thus to ill-treat his master? Masc. {From Trufaldin's window). May I take the liberty to ask how your shoulders are? Lel. What ! Have you the impudence still to address me ? Masc. Now see what it is not to have per- ceived Jeannette, and to have always a blab- bing tongue in your head ! However, this time I am not angry with you ; I have done cursing and swearing at you ; though you behaved very imprudently, yet my hand has made your shoulders pay for your fault. Lel. Ha ! I shall be revenged on you for your treacherous behavior. Masc. You yourself were the cause of all this miscliief. Lel. I? Masc. If you had had a grain of sense when you were talking to your idol you would have perceived Jeannette at your heels, whose sharp ears overheard the whole affair. 44 THE BLUNDERER Lel. Could anybody possibly catch one word I spoke to Celia? Masc. And what else was the cause why you were suddenly turned out of doors ? Yes, you are shut out by your own tittle-tattle. I do not know whether you play often at piquet, but you at least throw your cards away in an admirable manner. Lel. Oh ! I am the most unhappy of all men. But why did you drive me away also ? Masc. I never did better than in acting thus. By these means, at least, I prevent all suspicion of my being the inventor or an accomplice of this stratagem. Lel. But you should have laid it on more gently. Masc. I was no such fool ! Trufaldin watched me most narrowly ; besides, I must tell you, under the pretence of being of use to you, I was not at all displeased to vent my spleen. However, the thing is done, and if you will give me your word of honor, never, directly or indirectly, to be revenged on me for the blows on the back I so heartily gave you, I promise you, by the help of my present station, to satisfy your wishes within these two nights. Lel. Though you have treated me very harshly, yet what would not such a promise prevail upon me to do ? Masc. You promise, then ? Lel. Yes, I do. Masc. But that is not all ; promise never to meddle in anything I take in hand. Lel. I do. Masc. If you break your word may you get the cold shivers ! Lel. Then keep it with me, and do not forget my uneasiness. Masc. Go and change your dress, and rub something on your back. Lel. {Alone). Will ill-luck always follow me, and heap upon me one misfortune after another ? Masc. {Coming out of TrufaldM s house). What! Not gone yet ? Hence immediately; but, above all, be sure you don't trouble your head about anything. Be satisfied that I am on your side ; do not make the least attempt to assist me ; remain quiet. Lel. {Going). Yes, to be sure, I will remain quiet. Masc. {Alone). Now let me see what course I am to steer. SCENE IX. — Ergaste, Mascarille. Erg. Mascarille, I come to tell you a piece of news, which will give a cruel blow to your projects. At the very moment I am talking to you, a young gypsy, who nevertheless is no black, and looks like a gentleman, has arrived with a very wan-looking old woman, and is to call upon Trufaldin to purchase the slave you wished to redeem. He seems to be very anxious to get possession of her. Masc. Doubtless it is the lover Celia spoke about. Were ever fortunes so tangled as ours ? No sooner have we got rid of one trouble than we fall into another. In vain do we hear that Leander intends to abandon his pursuit, and to give us no further trouble ; that the unexpected arrival of his father has turned the scales in favor of Hippolyta ; that the old gentleman has employed his parental authority to make a thorough change, and that the marriage contract is going to be signed this very day ; as soon as one rival withdraws, another and a more dangerous one starts up to destroy what little hope there OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS 45 was left. However, by a wonderful strata- gem, I believe I shall be able to delay their departure and gain what time I want to put the finishing stroke to this famous affair. A great robbery has lately been committed, by whom, nobody knows. These gypsies have not generally the reputation of being very honest ; upon this slight suspicion I will cleverly get the fellow imprisoned for a few days. I know some officers of justice, open to a bribe, who will not hesitate on such an occasion ; greedy and expecting some present, there is nothing they will not attempt with their eyes shut; be the accused ever so inno- cent, the purse is always criminal, and must pay for the offence. ACT V. SCENE I. — Mascarille, Ergaste. Masc. Ah, blockhead ! numskull ! idiot ! Will you never leave off persecuting me ? Erg. The constable took great care every- thing was going on smoothly ; the fellow would have been in jail had not your master come up that very moment and, like a mad- man, spoiled your plot. " I cannot suffer," says he in a loud voice, " that a respectable man should be dragged to prison in this dis- graceful manner; I will be responsible for him, from his very looks, and will be his bail." And as they refused to let him go, he immediately and so vigorously attacked the officers, who are a kind of people much afraid of their carcasses, that even at this very mo- ment they are running, and every man thinks he has got a Lelio at his heels. Masc. The fool does not know that this gypsy is in the house already to carry off his treasure. Erg. Good-bye; business obliges me to leave you. SCENE 11. — Mascarille, alone. Yes, this last marvelous accident quite stuns me. One would think, and I have no doubt of it, that this bungling devil which possesses Lelio takes delight in defying me, 47 48 THE BLUNDERER and leads him into every place where his presence can do mischief. Yet I shall go on, and, notwithstanding all these buffets of for- tune, try who will carry the day. Celia has no aversion to him, and looks upon her de- parture with great regret. I must endeavor to improve this opportunity. But here they come ; let me consider how I shall execute my plan. Yonder furnished house is at my disposal, and I can do what I like with it; if fortune but favors us, all will go well ; nobody lives there but myself, and I keep the key. Good Heavens ! what a great many adven- tures have befallen us in so short a time, and what numerous disguises a rogue is obliged to put on. SCENE III.— jCelia, Andres. And. You know it, Celia, I have left noth- ing undone to prove the depth of my passion. When I was but very young, my courage in the wars gained me some consideration among the Venetians, and one time or other, and without having too great an opinion of my- self, I might, had I continued in their service, have risen to some employment of distinction ; but, for your sake, I abandoned everything; the sudden change you produced in my heart, was quickly followed by your lover joining the gypsies. Neither a great many adventures nor your indifference have been able to make me abandon my pursuit. Since that time, being by an accident separated from you much longer than I could have foreseen, I spared neither time nor pains to meet with you again. At last I discovered the old gypsy-woman, and heard from her that for a certain sum of money, which was then of great consequence to the gypsies, and pre- vented the dissolution of the whole band, you were left in pledge in this neighborhood. Full of impatience, 1 flew hither immediately to break these mercenary chains, and to receive from you whatever commands you might be pleased to give. But, when I thought to see joy sparkle in your eyes, I find you pensive and melancholy; if quietness has charms for you, I have sufficient means at Venice, of the spoils taken in war, for us both to live there; but if I must still follow you as before, I will do so, and my heart shall have no other am- bition than to serve you in whatever manner you please. Cel. You openly display your affection for me. I should be ungrateful not to be sensible of it. Besides, just now my countenance does not bear the impress of the feelings of my heart ; my looks show that I have a vio- lent headache. If I have the least influence over you, you will delay our voyage for at least three or four days, until my indisposition has passed away. And. I shall stay as long as you like ; I only wish to please you ; let us look for a house where you may be comfortable. Ho ! here is a bill up just at the right time. SCENE IV. — Celia, Andres, Mascarille disguised as a Swiss. And. Monsieur Swiss, are you the master of the house? Masc. I am at your service." OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS 49 And. Can we lodge here? Masc. Yes, I let furnished lodgings to strangers, but only to respectable people. And. I suppose your house has a very good reputation ? Masc. I see by your face you are a stranger in this town. And. I am. Masc. Are you the husband of this lady ? And. Sir? Masc. Is she your wife or your sister? And. Neither. Masc. Upon my word, she is very pretty ! Do you come on business, or have you a law- suit going on before the court? A lawsuit is a very bad thing; it costs so much money; a solicitor is a thief, and a barrister a rogue. And. I do not come for either of these. Masc. You have brought this young lady, then, to walk about and to see the town? And. What is that to you? (7b Celid). I shall be with you again in one moment ; I am going to fetch the old woman presently, and tell them not to send the traveling-car- riage which was ready. Masc. Is the lady not quite well ? And. She has a headache. Masc. I have some good wine and cheese within ; walk in ; go into my small house. (^Celia, Andres and Alascarille go into the house). and to see, without daring to stir, in what manner Heaven will change my destiny. SCENE v.— Lelio, alone. However impatient and excited I may feel, yet I have pledged my word to do nothing but wait quietly, to let another work for me, SCENE VI.— Andr4s, Lelio. Lel. (^Addressing Andres, who is coining out of the house). Do you want to see any- body in this house? And. I have just taken some furnished apartments there. Lel. The house belongs to my father, and my servant sleeps there every night to take care of it. And. I know nothing of that ; the bill, at least, shows it is to be let ; read it. Lel. Truly this surprises me, I confess. Who the deuce can have put that bill up, and why . . . ? Ho, faith, I guess, pretty near, what it means; this cannot possibly proceed but from the quarter I surmise. And. May I ask what this affair may be? Lel. I would keep it carefully from any- body else, but it can be of no consequence to you, and you will not mention it to any one. Without doubt, that bill can be nothing else but an invention of the servant I spoke of; nothing but some cunning plot he has hatched to place into my hands a certain gypsy-girl, with whom I am smitten, and of whom I wish to obtain possession. I have already at- tempted this several times, but until now in vain. And. What is her name? Lel. Celia. And. What do you say? Had you but 50 THE BLUNDERER mentioned this no doubt I should have saved you all the trouble this project costs you. Lel. How so? Do you know her? And. It is I who just now bought her from her master. Lel. You surprise me ! And. As the state of her health did not allow her to leave this town, I just took these apartments for her ; and I am very glad that on this occasion you have acquainted me with your intentions. Lel. What ! shall I obtain the happiness I hope for by your means ? Could you . . . ? And. (^Knocks at the door). You shall be satisfied immediately. Lel. What can I say to you ? And what thanks . . . ? And. No, give me none ; I will have none. SCENE Vn. — Lelio, Andres, Mascarille. Masc. {Aside). Hello! Is this not my mad-cap master? He will make another blunder. Lel. Who would have known him in this grotesque dress? Come hither, Mascarille; you are welcome. Masc. I am a man of honor ; I am not Mascarille ; '^ I never debauched any married or unmarried woman. Lel. What funny gibberish! It is really very good. Masc. Go about your business, and do not laugh at me. Lel. You take off your dress ; recognize your master. Masc. Upon my word ! By all the saints, I never knew you 1 Lel. Everything is settled; disguise your- self no longer. Masc. If you do not go away I will give you a slap in the face. Lel. Your Swiss jargon is needless, I tell you, for we are agreed, and his generosity lays me under an obligation. I have all I can wish for ; you have no reason to be under any further a)3prehension. Masc. If you are agreed, by great good luck, I will no longer play the Swiss, and be- come myself again. And. This valet of yours serves you with much zeal ; stay a little ; I will return pres- ently. SCENE VIII. — Lelio, Mascarille. Lel. Well, what do you say now ? Masc. That I am delighted to see our labors crowned with success. Lel. You were hesitating to doff your dis- guise, and could hardly believe me. Masc. As I know you I was rather afraid, and still find the adventure very astonishing. Lel. But confess, however, that I have done great things — at least I have now made amends for all my blunders — mine will be the honor of having finished the work. Masc. Be it so ; you have been much more lucky than wise. SCENE IX. — Celia, Andres, Lelio, Mascarille. And. Is not this the lady you were speak- ing of to me ? Lel. Heavens ! what happiness can be equal to mine ? OR. THE COUNTERPLOTS 51 And. It is true ; I am indebted to you for the kindness you have shown me ; I should be much to blame if I did not acknowledge it ; but this kindness would be too dearly bought were I to repay it at the expense of my heart. Judge, by the rapture her beauty causes me, whether I ought to discharge my debt to you at such a price. You are generous, and would not have me act thus. Farewell. Let us return whence we came, and stay there for a few days. (^He leads Celia away). mitted urges him to renounce my aid and my support. I intend, happen what will, to serve him in spite of himself, and vanquish the very devil that possesses him. The greater the obstacle, the greater the glory ; and the diffi- culties which beset us are but a kind of tire- women who deck and adorn virtue. SCENE X. — Lelio, Mascarille. Masc. I am laughing, and yet I have little inclination to it. You two are quite of the same mind ; he gives Celia to you. Hem ! . . . You understand me, sir? Lel. This is too much. I am determined no longer to ask you to assist me ; it is use- less; I am a puppy, a wTetch, a detestable blockhead, not worthy of any one taking any trouble for me, incapable of doing anything. Abandon all endeavors to aid an unfortunate wretch, who will not allow himself to be made happy; after so many misfortunes, after all my imprudent actions, death alone should aid me. SCENE XI. — Mascarille, alotte. That is the true way of putting the finishing stroke to his fate ; he wants nothing now but to die to crown all his follies. But in vain his indignation, for all the faults he has com- SCENE XII.— Celia, Mascarille. Celia. ( To Mascarille, who has been whispering to her). Whatever you may say, and whatever they intend doing, I have no great expectation from this delay. What we have seen hitherto may indeed convince us that they are not as yet likely to agree. I have already told you that a heart like mine will not for the sake of one do an injustice to another, and that I find myself strongly attached to both, though by different ties. If Lelio has love and its power on his side, Andres has gratitude pleading for him, which will not permit even my most secret thoughts ever to harbor anything against his interests. Yes ; if he has no longer a place in my heart, if the gift of my hand must not crown his love, I ought at least to reward that which he has done for me by not choosing another, in contempt of his flame, and suppress my own inclinations in the same manner as I do his. You have heard the difficulties which duty throws in my way, and you can judge now whether your expectations will be realized. Masc. To speak the truth, they are very formidable obstacles in our w-ay, and I have not the knack of working miracles; but I will do my utmost, move Heaven and earth, leave no stone unturned to try and discover some 52 THE BLUNDERER happy expedient. I shall soon let you know what can be done. SCENE XIII.— HiPPOLYTA, Celia. Hipp. Ever since you came among us the ladies of this neighborhood may well com- plain of the havoc caused by your eyes, since you deprive them of the greatest part of their conquests, and make all their lovers faithless. There is not a heart which can escape the darts with which you pierce them as soon as they see you ; many thousands load them- selves with your chains, and seem to enrich you daily at our expense. However, as re- gards myself, I should make no complaints of the irresistible sway of your exquisite charms, had they left me one of all my lovers to con- sole me for the loss of the others ; but it is inhuman in you, that without mercy you de- prive me of all ; I cannot forbear complain- ing to you. Cel. You rally in a charming manner, but I beseech you to spare me a little. Those eyes, those very eyes of yours, know their own power too well ever to dread anything that I am able to do ; they are too conscious of their own charms, and will never entertain similar feelings of fear. Hipp. Yet I advance nothing in what I have said which has not already entered the mind of every one, and without mentioning anything else, it is well known that Celia has made a deep impression on Leander and on Lelio. Cel. I believe you will easily console your- self about their loss, since they have become so infatuated ; nor can you regret a lover who could make so ill a choice. Hipp. On the contrary, I am of quite a different opinion, and discover such great merits in your beauty, and see in it so many reasons sufficient to excuse the inconstancy of those who allow themselves to be attracted by it, that I cannot blame Leander for having changed his love and broken his plighted troth. In a short time, and without either hatred or anger, I shall see him again brought under my sway, when his father shall have exercised his authority. SCENE XIV.— Celia, Hippolyta, Mas- CARILLE. Masc. Great news ! great news ! a wonder- ful event which I am now going to tell you ! Cel. What means this? Masc. Listen. This is, without any com- pliments . . . Cel. What? Masc. The last scene of a true and genuine comedy. The old gypsy-woman was, but this very moment . . . Cel. Well? Masc. Crossing the market-place, thinking about nothing at all, when another old woman, very haggard-looking, after having closely stared at her for some time, hoarsely broke out in a torrent of abusive language, and thus gave the signal for a furious combat, in which, instead of swords, muskets, daggers, or arrows, nothing was seen but four withered paws, brandished in the air, with which these OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS 53 two combatants endeavored to tear off the little flesh old age had left on their bones. Not a word was heard but drab, wretch, trull. Their caps, to begin with, were flying about, and left a couple of bald pates exposed to view, which rendered the battle ridiculously horrible. At the noise and hubbub Andres and Trufaldin, as well as many others, ran to see what was the matter, and had much ado to part them, so excited were they by passion. Meanwhile each of them, when the storm was abated, endeavored to hide her head with shame. Everybody wished to know the cause of this ridiculous fray. She who first began it having, notwithstanding the warmth of her passion, looked for some time at Trufaldin, said in a loud voice: " It is you, unless my sight misgives me, who, I was informed, lived privately in this town ; most happy meeting ! Yes, Signor Zanobio Ruberti, fortune made me find you out at the very moment I was giving myself so much trouble for your sake. When you left your family at Naples, your daughter, as you know, remained under my care. I brought her up from her youth. When she was only four )-ears old she showed already in a thousand different ways what charms and beauty she would have. That woman you see there — that infamous hag — who had become rather intimate with us, robbed me of that treasure. Your good lady, alas ! felt so much grief at this misfortune, that, as I have reason to believe it shortened her days ; so that, fearing your severe re- proaches because your daughter had been stolen from me, I sent you word that both were dead ; but now, as I have found out the thief, she must tell us what has become of your child." At the name of Zanobio Ru- berti, which she repeated several times throughout the story, Andres, after changing color often, addressed to the surprised Tru- faldin these words: "What! has Heaven most happily brought me to him whom I have hitherto sought in vain ? Can I possibly have beheld my father, the author of my being, without knowing him ? Yes, father, I am Horatio, your son ; my tutor, Albert, having died, I felt anew certain uneasiness in my mind, left Bologna, and abandoning my studies, wandered about for six years in dif- ferent places, according as my curiosity led me. However, after the expiration of that time, a secret impulse drove me to revisit my kindred and my native country; but in Naples, alas ! I could no longer find you, and could only hear vague reports concerning you ; so that, having in vain tried to meet with you, I ceased to roam about idly, and stopped for awhile in Venice. From that time to this I have lived without receiving any other information about my family, except knowing its name." You may judge whether Trufaldin was not more than ordinarily moved all this while ; in one word (to tell you shortly that which you will have an oppor- tunity of learning afterwards more at your leisure, from the confession of the old gypsy- woman), Trufaldin owns you {to Celia) now for his daughter ; Andres is your brother ; and as he can no longer think of marrying his sister, and as he acknowledges he is under some obligation to my master, Lelio, he has obtained for him your hand. Pandolphus, being present at this discovery, gives his full consent to the marriage ; and to complete the happiness of the family proposes that the newly-found Horatio should marry his daugh- ter. See how many incidents are produced at one and the same time ! Cel. Such tidings perfectly amaze me. Masc. The whole company follow me, ex- 54 THE BLUNDERER cept the two female champions, who are ad- justing their toilet after the fray. Leander and your father are also coming. I shall go and inform my master of this, and let him know that when we thought obstacles were in- creasing. Heaven almost wrought a miracle in his favor. {Exit Masc'arille). Hipp. This fortunate event fills me with as much joy as if it were my own case. But here they come. SCENE XV. — Trufaldin, Anselmo, An- dres, Celi.\, Hippolyta, Leander. Truf. My child! Cel. Father! Truf. Do you already know how Heaven has blest us ? Cel. I have just now heard this wonderful event. Hipp. {^To Leander). You need not find excuses for your past infidelity. The cause of it, which I have before my eyes, is a suffi- cient excuse. Leand. I crave nothing but a generous pardon. I call Heaven to witness that, though I return to my duty suddenly, my father's authority has influenced me less than my own inclination. And. {^To Cclia). Who could ever have supposed that so chaste a love would one day be condemned by nature? However, honor swayed it always so much, that with a little alteration it may still continue. Cel. As for me, I blamed myself, and thought I was wrong, because I felt nothing but a very sincere esteem for you. I could not tell what powerful obstacle stopped me in a path so agreeable and so dangerous, and diverted my heart from acknowledging a love which my senses endeavored to communicate to my soul. Truf. (^To Celid). But what would you say of me if, as soon as I have found you, I should be thinking of parting with you? I promised your hand to this gentleman's son. Cel. I know no will but yours. SCENE XVI.— Trufaldin, Anselmo, Pan- dolphus, Celia, Hippolyta, Leho, Le- ander, Andres, Mascarille. Masc. Now, let us see whether this devil of yours will have the power to destroy so solid a foundation as this ; and whether your inventive powers will again strive against this great good luck that befalls you. Through a most unexpected favorable turn of fortune your desires are crowned with success, and Celia is yours. Lel. Am I to believe that the omnipotence of Heaven . . . ? Truf. Yes, son-in-law, it is really so. Band. The matter is settled. And. {To Lelio). By this I repay the obli- gation you lay me under. Lel. {To Mascarille'). I must embrace you ever so many times in this great joy . . . Masc. Oh I oh ! gently, I beseech you ; he has almost choked me. I am very much afraid for Celia if you embrace her so forcibly. One can do very well without such proofs of affection. Truf. {To Lclio). You know the happiness OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS 55 with which Heaven has blessed me ; but since 1 As I see, every Jack has his Gill, I also want the same day has caused us all to rejoice, let i to be married. us not part until it is ended, and let Leander's father also be sent for quickly. Masc. You are all provided for. Is there not some girl who might suit poor Mascarille? Ans. 1 have a wife for you. Masc. Let us go, then ; and may pjropitious Heaven give us children whose fathers we really are. S6 THE BLUNDERER NOTES ■ MoIiSre, Racine and Corneille always call the dramatis personae acteurs, and not personages. ' Mascarille is a name invented by Moliere, and a diminutive of the Spanish mascara, a mask. Some com- mentators of Moliere think that the author, who acted this part, may sometimes have played it in a mask, but this is now generally contradicted. He seems, however, to have performed it habitually, for after his death there was taken an inventory of all his dresses, and amongst these, according to M. Eudore Soulie, Recherches siir MoKert, 1863, p. 278, was: "a . . . dress for I'Etourdi, consisting in doublet, knee-breeches, and cloak of satin." Before his time the usual name of the intriguing man-servant was Philipin. ' In French, tu, toi, thee, thou, denote either social superiority or familiarity. The same phraseology was also employed in many English comedies of that time, but sounds so stiff at present that the translator has every- where used "you." * The pistole is a Spanish gold coin worth about four dollars; formerly the French pistole was worth in France ten livres — about ten francs — they were struck in Franche-Comte. ^ The white art [ma:;ie blanche) only dealt with beneficent spirits, and wished to do good to mankind; the black art ( magie noire) invoked evil spirits. ' The original has a play on words which cannot be translated, as, ce visage est encore fort mettable. . . . sHl n' est pas ties plus beaut, il est ties agreables ; which two last words, according to pronunciation, can also mean disagreeable. This has been often imitated in French. After the Legion of Honor was instituted in France in 1804, some of the wits of the time asked the Imperialsts : etes-voiis des honoj'es ? ' There is here again, in the original, a play on the words bourse, purse, and boiiche, mouth, which cannot be rendered in English. ' Compare in Shakespeare's Winter's Tale Autolycus' answer to Camilio (Act iv. Scene 3), who gives him money, ** I am a poor fellow, sir, ... I cannot with conscience take it." ' During the whole of the preceding scene Mascarille has quietly kicked the purse away, so as to be out of sight of Anselmo, intending to pick it up when the latter has gone. '" Tlie play is supposed to be in Sicily ; hence pagan oaths are not out of place. Even at the present time Italians say, per Jove ! per Bacco l " This seems to be an imitation of a spell, chai'm or incantation to lay the supposed ghost, which Anselmo says kneeling and hardly able to speak for terror. " Generally it was thought preferable, during Moli^re's lifetime, to use the word temple for "church," instead of iglise. " Compare Launcelot Gobbo"s speech about his conscience in Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice (ii. 2). '* This is an allusion to the rays of the sun, placed above the crown, and stamped on all golden crown- pieces, struck in France from Louis XI. (November 2, 1475) until the end of the reign of Louis XIII. These crowns were called icus an soldi. Louis XIV. took much later for his device the sun shining in full, witli the motto. Nee pluribus iinpar. '5 Olibrius was, according to ancient legends, a Roman governor of Gaul, in the time of the Emperor Decius, very cruel and a great boaster. '^ The original is.y^ suis pris sans vert, " I am taken without green," because in the month of May, in some parts of France, there is a game which binds him or her who is taken without a green leaf about them to pay a forfeit. " In the original we find prendre les contretemps, and rompre Ics mesurcs. In a little and very curious book, "The Scots Fencing Master, or Compleat Smal-Sword Man," printed in F.dinburgh 1687, and written by Sir William Hope, of Kirkliston, the contre-temps is said to be : " When a man thrusts witliout having a good oppor- tunity, or when he thrusts at the same time his adversarie thrusts, and that each of them at that time receive a thrust." Breaking of measure is, according to the same booklet, done thus: " When you perceive your adversary thrusting at you, and you are not very certain of iht parade, tlien breaO: his measure, or make his thrust short of OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS 57 you, by either stepping a foot or half a foot back, with the si?igle stepp, for if you judge your adversary's distance or measure well, half a foot will break his measure as well as ten ells." " This is one of the passages of Molidre about which commentators do not agree ; the original is, nous allons voir beau jeu, si la corde ne rompt. Some maintain that corde refers to the tight rope of a rope dancer ; others that corde means the string of a bow, as in the phrase avoir deux cordes a son arc, to have two strings (resources) to one's bow. Mons. Eugene Despois, in his carefully edited edition of Moliere (i., 187), defends the latter reading, and I agree with him. " The original has jouer un momon. Guy Miege, in his " Dictionary of Barbarous French," London, 1679, has " Mammon, a mummer, also a company of mummers ; also a visard, or mask ; also a let by a mummer at dice." "> Though Lelio says to Mascarille, " Enough, I know it all," he has not been listening to the speech of his servant, but, in the meanwhile, is arranging his dress, and smoothing his ruffles, and making it clear to the spec- tator that he knows nothing, and that he will be a bad performer of the part assigned to him. This explains the blunders he makes afterwards in the second and fifth scenes of the same act. "' In French there is a play on words between songes, dreams, and mensonges, falsehoods, which cannot be rendered into English. '^ Trufaldin having found out that Mascarille makes signs to his master, the servant pretends to fence. '^ It shows that Lelio knows not what he is about when he does the honors of the house to the master of the house himself, and forgets that as a stranger he ought to go in first. " In the original, Mascarille speaks a kind of gibberish, which is only amusing when the play is acted ; but it can serve no purpose to translate " moi, pour serfir a /ous," " Oui, moi pour d' estrancher chappon champre garni, mats che non point lochcr te gent te mechant vi," etc., by " me be at your serfice," " yes, me have de very goot shambers, ready furnish for stranger, but me no loge de people scandaluse," etc. A provincial pronuncia- tion, an Irish brogue, or a Scotch tongue, are no equivalent for this mock Swiss German-French. " Mascarille answers in his gibberish, " Aloi non point MasqueriUe" an allusion to maquerelle, a female pander; hence his further remarks. LIST OF ENGRAVINGS THE BLUNDERER After GENERAL TITLE Jacques Leman . Fronti: PORTRAIT " " . . V MOLIERE AND HIS MUSE Louis Leloir THE BLUNDERER Jacques Leman TITLE OF 1663 " DRAMATIS PERSON/E • ATLANTES OF MASCARILLE Act I " CELIA, LELIO AND MASCARILLE Act I, Scene ir . . . ■• TRUFALDIN, CELIA, MASCARILLE AND LELIO . Act I, Scene IV . . . Edm. Iledouin HIPPOLYTA AND MASCARILLE Act I, Scene X . . . .Jacques Leman ANSELMO AND PANDOLPHUS Act II, Scene V . . . •■ •• . . 19 Vivat Mascarilliis, rogiim impcrator Act II, Scene XI ..." " . . 28 TRUFALDIN AND LELIO Act III, Scene X . . . " " . . 29 LELIO AND MASCARILLE \ct III, Scene XII . . '• ■' . . 36 TRUFALDIN, MASCARILLE AND LELIO Act IV, Scene VIII . . •' " . . 37 MASCARILLE AND LELIO Act IV, .Scene VIII . . " " . . 45 MASCARILLE, LELIO AND ANDRES Act V, Scene II . . . " " . . 47 LELIO AND MASCARILLE Act V, Scene XVI . . " « . . 55 58 THE LOVE-TIFF THE LOVE-TIFF JACQUES LEiiAN, ,DEL- nvF TITLE OF THE PLAY ON TABLET SUPPOPTED BY TWO CUPIDS, WHO TURN i FROM EACH OTHER AND POUT. ■f- 4TIT-3VOJ 3HT .jaa ,WAM3J aaupoAL W5IUT OHW ,2anU3 OWT Ya aajHOHHUZ THJaAT no YAjq aHT HO 3JTIT .TUOS a/lA flHHTO HDA3 MOflT *'^Wl£r^ TITLE OF 1663 JACQUES LEMAN, DEL. P. ARENTS, SC. IN UPPER PART, A SMALL VIEW OF THE TOWN OF BEZIERS, WITH THE Fo:!t dc rOi-b h^D THE GREAT CHURCH OF SAINT-NAZAIRE. IN THE UPPER PANELS, SUPPORTED BY CUPIDS, TO THE RIGHT, THE ARMS OF PARIS, AND TO THE LEFT, THE ARMS OF BEZIERS. BELOW THE CUPIDS IS THE BELL WITH WHICH ALBERT FRIGHTENED AWAY METAPHRASTUS. FARTHER DOWN ON THE LEFT, ERASTE IS LEADING BACK LUCILE, WHO HAS JUST SAID TO HIM, "LEAD ME HOME," ACT IV. SCENE III. OPPOSITE IS GROS-RENE SAYING TO MARINETTE, "HERE, BREAK THIS STRAW," ACT IV. SCENE IV. AT THE BOTTOM ARE TWO YOUNG TERMINI, ONE OF WHOM IS READY TO PLAY THE FLUTE WHEN THE OTHER TAKES HIS AWAY FROM HIS LIPS. BELOW ALL, AT EACH SIDE, ARE CUPIDS, WHO RECONCILE AND EMBRACE EACH OTHER. ^ddi HO 3JTIT .32 .sTuaflA .s .jaa ,ham3J aaupoAL 3HT HTIW ,2H3IS3a HO HWOT 3HT 30 W31V JJAM2 A ,THAS H3<1'?U Wl 513^'IU 3HT HI .3HIASAH-THIA2 30 HDHUHD JA39\D 3HT QUA ^vO '\ -.V \»^^ OT aWA .215IAS 30 gWlHA 3HT ,TH01H 3HT OT ,2aiHUD YS a3TflOSSU2 ,2J3HAS HTIW JJ3a 3HT 21 2aiSU3 3HT WOJ3a .2^31X38 30 2MflA 3HT ,7333 3HT 3HT WO WWOa H3HT5]A3 .2UT2A5IHSAT3M YAWA a3H3THOm3 TH3aJA HOIHW aA3J" ,MIH OT aiA2 T2UL 2AH OHW ,3JI0UJ XOAB OHiaA3J 21 3T2AH3 ,1333 ,3TT3WmAM OT OH1YA2 3H35I-20HO 21 37120^110 .111 3H338 .VI TOA ",3MOH 3M OWT 35IA MOTTOa 3HT TA .VI 31/1332 .VI TOA ",WA51T2 21HT >lA3aa ,3fl3H" aHT H3HW 3TUJ3 3HT YAJI OT YaA3H 21 MOHW 30 3HO ,1H1MH3T OHUOY 3flA ,3ai2 H0A3 TA ,JJA WOJ3a .2S1J 21H MOH3 YAWA 21H 23;iAT fl3HTO .fl3HTO H3A3 33A5iaM3 QUA 3JI3W033fl OHW ,201103 Par Grace et Privielge du Roy, donne a Parts le dernier jour de Jifay 1660, signe Le Juge, // est permis au Sieiir Moliere de /aire imprimer line Piece de Theatre, intitulee Le Depit Amoureux, pendant V espace de cinq annees, a commancer du jour que le dit livre sera acheve d^ imprimer, et defences sont faites a tous autres de I ' imprimer, a peine de ce qui est parte par les dites Lettres. Et ledit Sieur Moliere a cede et transporte son droict de Privilege a Claude Barbin et Gabriel Quinet, Marchands Libraires a Paris, pour en jouir le temps porte par iceluy. Acheve d^ imprimer, le vingt-quatre Novembre 1662. Registre sur le Livre de la Communaute ... Le vingt-sept Octobre 1662. Signe: Dubray, Sindic. Les exemplaires out este fournis. INTRODUCTORY NOTICE The Love-tiff {Le Depit-amoureux) is composed of two pieces joined together. The first and longest is a comparatively modern imitation of a very coarse and indecent Italian comedy, L' Interesse, by Signor Nicolo Secchi ; its intrigue depends chiefly on the substitution of a female for a male child, a change which forms the groundwork of many plan's and novels, and of which Shakespeare has also made use. The second and best part of the Love-tiff belongs to Moliere alone, and is composed chiefly of the whole of the first act, the first six verses of the third scene, and the whole of the fourth scene of the second act ; these, with a few alterations and a few lines added, form the comedy which the Theatre Fraiifaise plays at the present time. It was first represented at Beziers toward the end of 1656, when the States General of Languedoc were assembled in that town, and met with great success ; a success which continued when it was played in Paris at the Tlieatre du Petit-Bourbon in 1658. Why, in some of the former English translations of Moliere, the servant Gros-Rene is called " Gros- Renard," we are unable to understand, for both names are thoroughly French. Mr. Ozell, in his translation, gives him the unmistakably English, but not very euphonious, name of "Punch-gutted Ben, alias Renier," whilst Foote calls him "Hugh." The incidents of the Love-tiff are arranged artistically, though in the Spanish taste ; the plot is too compli- cated, and the ending very unnatural. But the characters are well delineated, and fathers, lovers, mistresses and servants all move about amidst a complication of errors from which there is no visible disentangling. The conversation between Valere and Ascanio in man's clothes, the mutual begging pardon of Albert and Polydore, the natural astonishment of Lucile, accused in the presence of her father, and the stratagem of Eraste to get the truth from his servants, are all described in a masterly manner, whilst the tiff between Eraste and Lucile, which gives the title to the piece, as well as their reconciliation, are considered among the best scenes of this play. Nearly all the actors in France who play either the valets or the souhretfes have attempted the parts of Gros-Rene and Marinette, and even the great tragedienne, Mile. Rachel, ventured, on the ist of July, 1844, to act Marinette, but not with much success. Dryden has imitated, in the fourth act of An Evenings Love, a small part of the scene between Marinette and Eraste, the quarreling scene between Lucile, Eraste, Marinette and Gros-Rene, as well as, in the third act of the same play, the scene between Albert and Meta- phrastus. Vanbrugh has very closely followed Moliere's play in the Mistake, but has laid the scene in Spain. This is the principal difference I can perceive. He has paraphrased the French with a spirit and ease which a mere translation can hardly ever acquire. The epilogue to his play, written by M. Motteux, a Frenchman whom the revocation of the Edict of 9 lo THE LOVE- TIFF Nantes brought into England, is filthy in the extreme. Mr. J. King has curtailed Vanbrugh's play into an interlude in one act, called Lovers' Quarrels ; or. Like Master Like ALan. Another imitator of Moliere was Edward Ravenscroft, of whom Baker says, in his Biographia Dramatica, that he was " a writer or compiler of plays who lived in the reigns of Charles II. and his two successors. ' ' He was descended from the family of the Ravens- crofts in Flintshire, a family, as he himself in a dedication asserts, so ancient that when William the Conqueror came into England, one of his nobles married into it. He was .some time a member of the Middle Temple ; but, looking on the dry study of the law as greatly beneath the attention of a man of genius, he quitted it. He was an arrant plagiary. Dryden attacked one of his plays. The Citizen Turned Gentleman, an imitation of Moliere's Bourgeois- gentilhomme, in the Prologue to The Assignation. Ravenscroft wrote ' ' The Wrangling Lovers ; or, the Invisible Mistress. Acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1677. London, Printed for William Crook, at the sign of the Green Dragon, without Temple-Bar, j6tt." Though the plot was partly taken from a Spanish novel, the author has been inspired by Moliere's Depit-amoureux. The scene is in Toledo : Eraste is called Don Diego de Stuniga ; Valere, Don Gusman de Haro, "a well-bred cavaliere ;" Lucile is Octavia de Pimentell, and Ascanio is Elvira ; Gros- Rene's name is Sanco, "valet to Gusman, a simple, pleasant fellow," and Mascarille is Ordgano, "a cunning knave;" Marinette is called Beatrice and Frosine, Isabella. The English play is rather too long. Don Gusman courts Elvira veiled, whilst in the French play Ascanio, her counterpart, is believed to be a young man. There is also a brother of Donna Elvira, Don Ruis de Moncade, who is a rival of Don Diego, whilst in le Depit amoureux Valere is not the brother but the husband of Ascanio and the rival of Eraste (Don Diego) as well. The arrangement of the English comedy differs greatly from the French. Though the plot in both plays is nearly identical, yet the words and scenes in The Wrangling Lovers are totally different, and not so amusing. Mascarille and Gros-Rene are but faintly attempted ; Marinette and Frosine only sketched in outline ; and in the fifth act the ladies appear to have nothing else to do but to pop in and out of closets. The scenes of the French play between Albert and Metaphrastus (ii, 7); the very comical scene between Albert and Polydore (iii, 4), and the reconciliation scene between Lucile and Eraste (iv, 3) are also not rendered in the English comedy. There are very few scenes which can be compared with those of k Depit-amoureux. ^^^J^^] ""^ |S-v^|M»[p|i^j W^ S^ ■'■'^-^^^-:^.^ ''^^^El^/^Ml. -;, r^V , :^/ ^i#lrfsMi^i(^\ ^^Niiir .38 .aiHHHA .H A C I ? .jaa ,yiAM3J zaupoAi 3JFOUJ 30 8TIAaT«0'] HHT 35IA 8THOI5iqU 3HT HO 2HOIJJAa3M 3HT /ll aWA 30MAOTH3 JAflTWaO 3H'f "Wo^'w^lV"^ .^dV^'oa HHT TA .3TZA913 QWA ' 'lii.'ar^b vou nia.ke about j)i"!led so to art. T33flT^, aiiT;„??q,^p.h3^I,,.OWiW(HX3 (^Ijlf ,Jv^YpJJ j8IAJA'1^3^T,j^9 aOAOAT bcMifi #pcaOft4lA ERASTE, In love with Lucile. M BERT, Father tn Lucile. DRAMATIS PERSON/E . ALERE. Son to Polydore. 3UES LEMAN, DEL. r'OLYDORE, Father to Valere. AND I MASCARILLE, ServT.t '.i Valere. '.ETAPHRASTUS, A pedant. THE MEDALUONS ON THE UPRIGHTS ARE THE PORTRAITS OF LUGILE JASTE. AT THE BOTTOM, A VIEW OF THE CENTRAL ENTRANCE AND P. ARENTS FAC|U3E OF THE PALAIS ROYAL, AND EXHIBITING THE END OF THE STREET WHICH IS NOW THE RUE VALOIS. AT THE RIGHT END OF THE PALACE IS'AIN ENTRANCE TO THE THEATRE OF MONSIEUR. THE FRAME IS SURMOUNTED iBY TrfEiARMS OF FRANCE WITH THREE SILVER PENDANTS. AT FOOT OF THE ■^. 1 MAl'L-HrTi:; M..:a to Lii. ^- BQSpER ARE TWO CUPIDS— ONE, PERSONATING ERASTE, READS A LETTER FROM LublLE; THE OTHER, PERSONATING LUCILE, TEARS UP A LETTER FROM ERASfE. if ^11 ^ E.' _- Pf^-^ .ikr9uii iiUKi ,..^^.^g^ l&^a ACT I. SCENE I.— Eraste, Gros-Rene. Eras. Shall I declare it to you? A certain secret anxiety never leaves my mind quite at rest. Yes, whatever remarks you make about my love, to tell you the truth, I am afraid of being deceived ; or that you may be bribed in order to favor a rival ; or, at least, that you may be imposed upon as well as myself. Gr.-Re. As for me, if you suspect me of any knavish trick, I will say, and I trust I give no offence to your honor's love, that you wound my honesty very unjustly, and that you show but small skill in physiognomy. People of my bulk are not accused, thank Heaven ! of being either rogues or plotters. I scarcely need protest against the honor paid to us, but am straightforward in everything.' As for my being deceived, that may be ; there is a better foundation for that idea ; nevertheless, I do not believe it can be easily done. I may be a fool, but I do not see yet why you vex your- self thus. Lucile, to my thinking, shows sufficient love for you ; she sees you and talks to you at all times ; and Valere, after all, who is the cause of your fear, seems only to be allowed to approach her because she is com- pelled so to act. Eras. A lover is often buoyed up by false hope. He who is best received is not always the most beloved. The affection a woman displays is often but a veil to cover her pas- sion for another. Valere has lately shown too much tranquillity for a slighted lover ; and the joy or indifference he displays at those favors, which you suj^pose bestowed upon me, embitters continually their greatest charms, causes this grief, which you cannot under- stand, holds my happiness in suspense, and makes it difficult for me to trust completely anything Lucile says to me. I should feel delighted if I saw Valere animated by a little more jealousy ; his anxiety and impatience would then reassure my heart. Do you as yourself think it possible for any one to see a rival caressed and be as satisfied as he is ; if you do not believe it, tell me. I conjure 13 14 THE LOVE-TIFF you, if I have not a cause to be perplexed ? Gr.-Re. Perhaps he has changed his incli- nation upon finding that he sighed in vain. Eras. When love has been frequently re- pelled it frees itself, and wishes to flee from the object it was charmed with ; nor does it break its chain so quietly as to be able to con- tinue at peace. When once we have been fond of anyone who influenced our destiny we are never afterwards indifferent in her presence ; if our dislike does not increase when we behold her our love is upon the point of returning again. Believe me, however much a passion may be extinguished, a little jealousy still dwells in our breast ; no one can see, without feeling some pang, the heart he has lost possessed by another. Gr.-Re. For my part, I do not understand so much philosophy. I candidly believe what my eyes see, and am not such a mortal enemy to myself as to become melancholy without any cause. Why should I try to split hairs, and labor hard to find out reasons to be mis- erable ? Shall I alarm myself about castles in the air ? Let Lent come before we keep it ! I think grief an uncomfortable thing ; and, for my part, I never foster it without good and just cause. I might frequently find a hundred opportunities to become sad, but I do not want to see them. I run the same risk in love as you do; I share in your bad or good luck. The mistress cannot deceive you, but the maid will do the same by me ; yet I carefully avoid thinking about it. I like to believe people when they say "I love you." In order to be happy, I do not try to find out whether Mascarille tears the hair out of his head or not. Let Marinette allow herself to be kissed and caressed by Gros-Rene^ as much as he likes, and let my charming rival laugh at it like a fool, I will laugh too as much as I like, and follow his example ; we shall then see who will laugh the heartiest. Eras. That is like your talk. Gr.-Re. But here she comes. SCENE II. — Marinette, Eraste, Gros- Rene. Gr.-Re. Hist! Marinette. Mar. Hallo ! what are you doing there ? Gr.-Re. Faith! do you ask? We were just talking about you. Mar. Are you there, too, sir ? Upon my word you have made me trot about like a flunkey for this hour past. Eras. How so ? Mar. I have walked ten miles to look for you, and give you my word that . . . Eras. What? Mar. That you were neither at church, in the fashionable walk, at home, nor in the market-place. Gr.-Re. You may swear to that. Eras. But pray, tell me who sent you ? Mar. One, in good truth, who bears you no great ill-will ; in a word, my mistress. Eras. Ah ! dear Marinette, do your words really express what she feels? Do not hide some ominous secret from me. I should not dislike you for this. For Heaven's sake tell me if your charming mistress does not merely pretend to love me ? Mar. Ha ! ha ! ha ! What has put that funny notion into your head? Does she not sufficiently show her inclination ? What fur- ther security does your love demand ? What does it require? Gr.-Re. Unless Valere hangs himself, or some such trifle, he will not be reassured. Mar. How so ? THE LOVE-TIFF IS Gr.-Re. He is so very jealous. Mar. Of Valere ? Ha ! a pretty fancy in- deed ! It could only be hatched in your brain. I thought you a man of sense, and until now had a good opinion of your intel- lect ; but I see I was very much deceived. Have you also got a touch of this distemper in your head ? Gr.-Re. I jealous? Heaven forbid! and keep me from being so silly as to go and make myself lean with any such grief. Your heart guarantees your fidelity ; besides, I have too good an opinion of myself to believe that any other could please you after me. Where the deuce could you find any one equal to me ? Mar. You really are right ; that is as it should be. A jealous man should never show his suspicions ! All that he gains by it is to do himself harm, and in this manner furthers the designs of his rival. Your distrust often is the cause that a mistress pays attention to a man, before whose merits your own have paled. I know a certain person who, were it not for the preposterous jealousy of a rival, had never been so happy as he now is. But, in any case, to show suspicion in love is acting a foolish part, and after all is to make one's self miser- able for nothing. This, sir {to Erastc), I mean as a hint to you. Eras. Very well, let us talk no more about it. What have you to say to me? Mar. You deserve to be kept in suspense. In order to punish you, I ought to keep from you the great secret which has made me hunt for you so long. Here, read this letter, and doubt no more. Read it aloud, nobody listens. Eras. {Reads.') "Vou told me that your love was capable of doing anything. It may be crowned this very day, if you can but get my fat/wr' s consent. Acquaint him with the power you have over my heart ; I give you leave so to do ; if his reply be favorable, I can answer for it that I shall obey. ' ' Ah ! how happy am I ! I ought to look ujjon you, the bearer of this letter, as a divine creature. Gr.-Re. I told you so. Though you do not believe it, I am seldom deceived in the things I ponder on. Eras. {Reading the letter again.) "Ac- quaint him with the power you have over my heart ; I give you leave so to do ; if his reply be favorable, I can answer for it that I shall obey. ' ' Mar. If I should tell her you are weak- minded enough to be jealous, she would im- mediately disown such a letter as this. Eras. I beseech you, conceal from her a momentary fear, for which I thought I had some slight foundation ; or, if you do tell it her, say to her at the same time that I am ready to atone for my fit of madness with my life, and would die at her feet, if I have been capable of displeasing her. Mar. Let us not talk of dying ; this is no time for it. Eras. However, you have laid me under a great obligation ; I intend shortly to acknow- ledge in a handsome manner the trouble so gentle and so lovely a messenger has taken. Mar. That reminds me. Do you know where I looked for you just now ? Eras. Well? Mar. Quite near the market-place ; you know where that is. Eras. Where did you say ? Mar. There . . .in that shop where last month you generously and freely promised me a ring. Eras. Um ! I understand you. Gr.-Re. What a cunning jade ! Eras. It is true ; I have delayed too long to make good my promise to you, but . . . i6 THE LOVE-TIFF Mar. What I said, sir, was not because I wished you to make haste. Gr.-Re. Oh, no ! Eras. {Giving her his ring.) Perhaps this ring may please you ; accept it instead of the one I owe. Mar. You are only jesting, sir ; I should be ashamed to take it. Gr.-Re. Poor shame-faced creature ! Take it without more ado ; only fools refuse what is offered them. Mar. I will only accept it so that I may have something to remember you by. Eras. When may I return thanks to that lovely angel ? Mar. Endeavor to gain over her father. Eras. But if he rejects me, should I . . . ? Mar. We will think about that when he does so ! We will do our utmost for you ; one way or another she must be j'ours ; do your best, and we will do ours. Eras. Farewell ! we shall know our fate to- day. {Erasti- reads the letter again to himself.) Mar. {To Gros-Rene.) Well, what shall we say of our love ? You do not speak to me of it. Gr.-Re. If such people as we wish to be married, the thing is soon done. I will have you. Will you have me ? Mar. Gladly. Gr.-Re. Shake hands, that is enough. Mar. Farewell, Gros-Rene, my heart's de- light. Gr.-Re. Farewell, my star. Mar. Farewell, fair firebrand of my flame. Gr.-Re. Farewell, dear comet, rainbow of my soul. {^Exit Marinette.) Heaven be praised, our affairs go on swimmingly. Al- bert is not a man to refuse you anything. Eras. Valere is coming here. Gr.-Re. I pity the poor wretch, knowing what I do know. SCENE III. — Eraste, Valere, Gros-Rene. Eras. Well, Valere? Val. Well, Eraste? Eras. How does your love prosper ? Val. And how does yours? Eras. It grows stronger every day. Val. So does mine. Eras. For Lucile ? , Val. For her. Eras. Certainly, I must own, you are a pattern of uncommon constancy. Val. And your perseverance will be a rare example to posterity. Eras. As for me, I am not very fond of that austere kind of love which is satisfied with looks only ; nor do I possess feelings lofty enough to endure ill-treatment with con- stancy. In one word, when I really love, I wish to be beloved again. Val. It is very natural, and I am of the same opinion. I would never do homage to the most perfect object by whom I could be smitten if she did not return my passion. Eras. However, Lucile . . . Val. Lucile does willingly everything my passion can desire. Eras. You are easily satisfied then. Val. No so easily as you may think. Eras. I, however, may, without vanity, believe that I am in her favor. Val. And I know that I have a very good share of it. Eras. Do not deceive yourself; believe me. Val. Believe me ; do not be too credulous, and take too much for granted. Eras. If I might show you a certain proof that her heart . . . but no, it would too much distress you. Val. If I might discover a secret to you . . . but it might grieve you, and so I will be discreet. THE LOVE-TIFF 17 Eras. You really urge me too far, and, though much against my will, I see I must lower your presumption. Read that. Val. {After having read the letter.') These are tender words. Eras. You know the handwriting? Val. Yes ; it is Lucile's. Eras. Well ! where is now your boasted certainty . . . ? Val. {Smiling and going away.') Farewell, Eraste. Gr.-Re. He is mad, surely. What reason has he to laugh ? Eras. He certainly surprises me, and be- tween ourselves I cannot imagine what the deuce of a mystery is hidden under this. Gr.-Re. Here comes his servant, I think. Eras. Yes, it is he ; let us play the hj'po- crite, to set him talking about his master's love. SCENE IV. — Eraste, Mascarille, Gros- Rene. Masc. ( Aside.) No, I do not know a more wretched situation than to have a young mas- ter very much in love. Gr.-Re. Good morning. Masc. Good morning. Gr.-Re. Where is Mascarille going just now? What is he doing? Is he coming back? Is he going away ? Or does he intend to stay where he is ? Masc. No, I am not coming back, because I have not yet been where I am going ; nor am I going, for I am stopped ; nor do I de- sign to stay, for this very moment I intend to be gone. Eras. You are very abrupt, Mascarille; gently. Masc. Ha ! Your servant, sir. Eras. You are in great haste to run away from us : what ! do I frighten you ? Masc. You are too courteous to do that. Eras. Shake hands ; all jealousy is now at an end between us ; we will be friends ; I have relinquished my love; henceforth you can have your own way to further your hap- piness. Masc. Would to Heaven it were true ! Eras. Gros-Rene knows that I have already another flame elsewhere. Gr.-Re. Certainly; and I also give up Marinette to you. Masc. Do not let us touch on that point ; our rivalry is not likely to go to such a length. But is it certain, sir, that you are no longer in love, or do you jest ? Eras. I have been informed that your mas- ter is but too fortunate in his amours ; I should be a fool to pretend any longer to gain the same favors which that lady grants to him alone. Masc. Certainly, you please me with this news. Though I was rather afraid of you, with regard to/ our plans, yet you do wisely to slip your neck out of the collar. You have done well to leave a house where you were only caressed for form's sake ; I, knowing all that was going on, have many times pitied you, because you were allured by expectations which could never be realized. It is a sin and a shame to deceive a gentleman ! But how the deuce, after all, did you find out the trick ? For when they plighted their faith to each other there were no witnesses but night, myself, and two others ; and the tying of the knot, which satisfies the passion of our lovers, is thought to have been kept a secret till now. Eras. Ha ! What do you say ? Masc. I say that I am amazed, sir, and i8 THE LOVE- TIFF cannot guess who told you that under this mask, which deceives you and everybody else, a secret marriage unites their matchless love. Eras. You lie ! Masc. Sir, with all my heart. Eras. You are a rascal. Masc. I acknowledge I am. Eras. And this impudence deserves a sound beating on the spot. Masc. I am completely in your power. Eras. Ha ! Gros-Rene. Gr.-Re. Sir? Eras. I contradict a story, which I much fear is but too true. {To Mascariile.) You wanted to run away. Masc. Not in the least. Eras. What ! Lucile is married to . . . Masc. No, sir ; I was only joking. Eras. Hey ! you were joking, you wretch? Masc. No, I was not joking. Eras. Is it true, then ? Masc. No, I do not say that. Eras. What do you say, then ? Masc. Alas ! I say nothing, for fear of saying something wrong. Eras. Tell me positively ^\•hether you have spoken the truth or deceived me. Masc. Whatever you please. I do not come here to contradict you. Eras. {Drawing his siiiord.') Will you tell me? Here is something that will loosen your tongue without more ado. Masc. It will again be saying some foolish speech or other. I pray you, if you have no objection, let me quickly have a few stripes, and then allow me to scamper off. Eras. You shall suffer death, unless you tell me the whole truth without disguise. Masc. Alas ! I will tell it, then ; but per- haps, sir, I shall make you angry. Eras. Speak : but take great care what you are doing; nothing shall save you from my just anger if you utter but one single false- hood in your narration. Masc. I agree to it ; break my legs, arms, do worse to me still, kill me, if I have de- ceived you in the smallest degree in anything 1 have said. Eras. It is true, then, that they are married? Masc. With regard to this, I can now clearly see that my tongue tripped ; but, for all that, the business happened just as I told you. It was after five visits paid at night, and whilst you were made use of as a screen to conceal their proceedings, that they were united the day before yesterday. Lucile ever since tries still more to hide the great love she bears my master, and desires he will only consider whatever he may see, and whatever favors she may show you, as the results of her deep-laid scheme, in order to prevent the dis- covery of their secrets. If, notwithstanding my protestations, you doubt the truth of what I have told you, Gros-Rene may come some night along with me, and I will show him, as I stand and watch, that we shall be admitted into her house after dark. Eras. Out of my sight, villain ! Masc. I shall be delighted to go; that is just what I want. {Exit.) SCENE v.— Eraste, Gros-Ren*. Eras. Well? Gr.-Re. Well ! Sir, we are both taken in if this fellow speaks the truth. Eras. Alas ! The odious rascal has spoken the truth too well. All that he has said is very likely to have happened ; Valere's be- havior, at the sight of this letter, denotes that there is a collusion between them, and that it is a screen to hide Lucile's love for him. THE LOVE-TIFF 19 SCENE VI. — Eraste, Marinette, Gros- Rene. Mar. I come to tell you that this evening my mistress permits you to see her in the garden. Eras. How dare you address me, )ou hypocritical traitress? Get out of my sight, and tell your mistress not to trouble me any more about her letters ; that is the regard, wretch, I have for them. {^He tears the letter and goes out. ) Mar. Tell me, Gros-Rene, what ails him ? Gr.-Re. Dare you again address me. iniquitous female, deceitful crocodile, whose base heart is worse than a satrap or a Les- trigon ?' Go, go, carry your answer to your lovely mistress, and tell her short and sweet, that in spite of all her cunning, neither my master nor I are any longer fools, and that henceforth she and you may go to the devil together. {Exit.) Mar. My poor Marinette, are you quite awake ? What demon are they possessed by ? What? Is it thus they receive our favors? How shocked my mistress will be when she hears this ! ^p'ng him.) Stay, and allow me to finish in two words. He desires to have a few minutes' conversation with you about an important affair, and he will come hither. Alb. Hey ! what affair can that be which makes him wish to have some conversation with me ? Masc. A great secret, I tell you, which he has but just discovered, and which, no doubt, greatly concerns you both. And now I ha\e delivered my message. SCENE III.— Albert, alone. Alb. Righteous Heaven ! how I tremble ! Polydore and I have had little acquaintance together ; my designs will all be overthrown ; this secret is, no doubt, that of which I dread the discovery. They have bribed somebody to betray me ; so there is a stain upon my honor which can never be wiped off. My im- posture is found out. Oh ! how difficult it is to keep the truth concealed for any length of time ! How much better would it have been for me and my reputation had I followed the dictates of a well-founded apprehension ! Many times and oft have I been tempted to give up to Polydore the wealth I withhold from him, in order to prevent the outcry that will be raised against me when everything shall be known, and so get the whole business quietly settled. But, alas ! it is now too late ; the opportunity is gone ; and this wealth, which wrongfully came into my family, will be lost to them, and sweep away the greatest part of my own property with it. SCENE IV.— Albert, Polydore. Pol. {Not seeing Albert.) To be married in this fashion, and no one knowing anything about it ! I hope it may all end well ! I do not know what to think of it. I much fear the great wealth and just anger of the father. But I see him alone. Alb. Oh, Heavens ! yonder comes Polydore. Pol. I tremble to accost him. Alb. Fear keeps me back. Pol. How shall I begin ? Alb. What shall I say ? Pol. He is in a great passion. Alb. He changes color. Pol. I see, Signor Albert, by your looks, that you know already what brings me hither. Alb. Alas ! yes. Pol. The news, indeed, may well surprise you, and I could scarcely believe what I was told just now. Alb. I ought to blush with shame and con- fusion. Pol. I think such an action deserves great blame, and do not pretend to excuse the guilty. Alb. Heaven is merciful to miserable sin- ners. THE LOVE-TIFF 33 Pol. You should bear this in mind. Alb. a man ought to behave as a Christian. Pol. That is quite right. Alb. Have mercy ; for Heaven's sake, have mercy, Signor Polydore. Pol. It is for me to implore it of you. Alb. Grant me mercy j I ask it on my bended knees. Pol. I ought to be in that attitude rather than you.'" Alb. Pity my misfortune. Pol. After such an outrage I am the postu- lant. Alb. Your goodness is heart-rending. Pol. You abash me with so much humility. Alb. Once more, pardon. Pol. Alas ! I crave it of you. Alb. I am extremely sorry for this business. Pol. And I feel it greatly. Alb. I venture to entreat you not to make it public. Pol. Alas, Signor Albert, I desire the very same. Alb. Let us preserve my honor. Pol. With all my heart. Alb. As for money, you shall determine how much you require. Pol. I desire no more than you are willing to give ; you shall be the master in all these things; I shall be but too happy if you are so. Alb. Ha ! what a God-like man ! how very kind he is ! Pol. How very kind you are yourself, and that after such a misfortune. Alb. May you be prosperous in all things ! Pol. May Heaven preserve you ! Alb. Let us embrace like brothers. Pol. With all my heart ! I am overjoyed that everything has ended so happily. Alb. I thank Heaven for it. Pol. I do not wish to deceive you ; I was afraid you would resent that Lucile has com- mitted a fault with my son ; and as you are powerful, have wealth and friends . . . Alb. Hey ! what do you say of faults and Lucile ? Pol. Enough; let us not enter into a useless conversation. I own my son is greatly to blame ; nay, if that will satisfy you, I will admit that he alone is at fault; that your daughter was too virtuous, and would never have taken a step so derogatory to honor, had she not been prevailed upon by a wicked seducer; that the wretch has betrayed her in- nocent modesty, and thus frustrated all your expectations. But since the thing is done, and my prayers have been granted, since we are both at peace and amity, let it be buried in oblivion, and repair the offence by the cere- mony of a happy alliance. Alb. {Aside.') Oh, Heavens ! what a mis- take 1 have been under ! What do I hear ! I get from one difficulty into another as great. I do not know what to answer amidst these different emotions; if I say one word, I am afraid of betraying m)-self. Pol. What are you thinking of, Signor Al- bert? Alb. Of nothing. Let us put off our con- versation for awhile, I pray you. I have be- come suddenly very unwell, and am obliged to leave you. SCENE v.— Polydore, alone. I can look into his soul and discover what disturbs him ; though he listened to reason at first, yet his anger is not quite appeased. Now and then the remembrance of the offence flashes upon him ; he endeavors to hide his 34 THE LOVE- TIFF emotion by leaving me alone. I feel for him, and his grief touches me. It will require some time before he regains his composure, for if sorrow is suppressed too much, it easily becomes worse. O ! here comes my foolish boy, the cause of all this confusion. SCENE VI.— PoLYDORE, Valere. Pol. So, my fine fellow, shall your nice goings-on disturb your poor old father every moment ? You perform something new every day, and we never hear of anything else. Val. What am I doing every day that is so very criminal ? And how have I deserved so greatly a father's wrath ? Pol. I am a strange man, and very peculiar to accuse so good and discreet a son. He lives like a saint, and is at prayers and in the house from morning to evening. It is a great untruth to say that he perverts the order of nature, and turns day into night ! It is a hor- rible falsehood to state that upon several occa- sions he has shown no consideration for father or kindred ; that very lately he married secretly the daughter of Albert, regardless of the great consequences that were sure to follow ; they mistake him for some other ! The poor inno- cent creature does not even know what I mean ! Oh, you villain ! whom Heaven has sent me as a punishment for my sins, will you always do as you like, and shall I never see you act discreetly as long as I live? {Exit.') Val. {Alone, musing.) Whence comes this blow? I am perplexed, and can find none to think of but Mascarille ; he will never confess it to me ; I must be cunning, and curb my well-founded anger a little. SCENE VII.— Valere, Mascarille. Val. Mascarille, my father whom I just saw knows our whole secret. Masc. Does he know it ? Val. Yes. Masc. How the deuce could he know it ? Val. I do not know whom to suspect ; but the result has been so successful, that I have all the reason in the world to be delighted. He has not said one cross word about it ; he excuses my fault, and approves of my love. I would fain know who could have made him so tractable. I cannot express to you the sat- isfaction it gives me. Masc. And what would you say, sir, if it was I who had procured you this piece of good luck? Val. Indeed ! you want to deceive me. Masc. It is I, I tell you, who told it to your father, and produced this happy result for you. Val. Really, without jesting? Masc. The devil take me if I jest, and if it is not as I tell you. Val. {Drawing his sword.) And may he take me if I do not this very moment reward you for it. Masc. Ha, sir ! what now? Don't surprise me. Val. Is this the fidelity you promised me? If I had not deceived you, you would never have owned the trick which I rightly suspected you played me. You rascal ! your tongue, too ready to wag, has provoked my father's wrath against me, and utterly ruined me. You shall die without saying another word. Masc. Gently ; my soul is not in a fit con- dition to die. I entreat you, be kind enough to await the result of this affair. I had very good reasons for revealing a marriage which you yourself could hardly conceal. It was a THE LOVE- TIFF 35 master-piece of policy ; you will not find your rage justified by the issue. Why should you get angry if, through me, you get all you de- sire, and are freed from the constraint you at present lie under ? Val. And what if all this talk is nothing but moonshine ? Masc. AV'hy, then, it will be time enough to kill me ; but my schemes may perchance succeed. Heaven will assist his own servants ; you will be satisfied in the end, and thank me for my extraordinary management. Val. Well, we shall see. But Lucile . . . Masc. Hold, here comes her father. SCENE Vni.— Albert, Valere, Mas- CARILLE. Alb. (^Not seeing Valere^ The more I re- cover from the confusion into which I fell at first, the more I am astonished at the strange things Polydore told me, and which my fear made me interpret in so different a manner to what he intended. Lucile maintains that it is all nonsense, and spoke to me in such a manner as leaves no room for suspicion . . . Ha ! sir, it is you whose unheard-of impu- dence sports with my honor, and invents this base story ? Masc. Pray, Signor Albert, use milder terms, and do not be so angry with your son- in-law. Alb. How ! son-in-law, rascal ? You look as if you were the main-spring of this intrigue and the originator of it. Masc. Really, I see no reason for you to fly in such -5 '^-"^ion. Alb. Pray, do you think it right to take away the character of my daughter, and bring such a scandal upon a whole family ? Masc. He is ready to do all you wish. Alb. I only want him to tell the truth. If he had any inclination for Lucile, he should have courted her in an honorable and open way ; he should have acted as he ought, and asked her father's leave; and not have had recourse to this cowardly contrivance, which offends modesty so much. Masc. What ! Lucile is not secretly engaged to my master ? Alb. No, rascal, nor ever will be. Masc. Not quite so fast ! If the thing is already done, will you give your consent to ratify that secret engagement ? Alb. And if it is certain that it is not so, will you have your bones broken ? Val. It is easy, sir, to prove to you that he speaks the truth. Alb. Good ! there is the other ! Like master, like man. O ! what impudent liars ! M.4SC. Upon the word of a man of honor, it is as I say. Val. Why should we deceive you ? Alb. {Aside.) They are two sharpers that know how to play into each other's hands. Masc. But let us come to the proof, and without quarreling. Send for Lucile, and let her speak for herself. Alb. And what if she should prove you a liar? Masc. She will not contradict us, sir; of that I am certain. Promise to give your con- sent to their engagement, and I will suffer the severest punishment if, with her own mouth, she does not confess to you that she is engaged to Valere, and shares his passion. Alb. We shall see this presently, (ffe knocks at his door.') 36 THE LOVE-TIFF Masc. (71; Va/erc.) Courage, sir, all will end well. Alb. Ho ! Lucile, one word with you. Val. {To Mascarilk.) I fear . . . Masc. Fear nothing. SCENE IX. — Valere, Albert, Lucile, Mascarille. Masc. Signor Albert, at least be silent. At length, madam, everything conspires to make your happiness complete. Your father, who is informed of your love, leaves you your husband and gives his permission to your union, pro- vided that, banishing all frivolous fears, a few words from your own mouth corroborate what we have told him. Luc. What nonsense does this impudent scoundrel tell me ? Masc. That is all right. I am already honored with a fine title. Luc. Pray, sir, who has invented this nice story which has been spread about to-day ? Val. Pardon me, charming creature. My servant has been babbling; our marriage is discovered, without my consent. Luc. Our marriage ? Val. Everything is known, adorable Lucile ; it is vain to dissemble. Luc. What! the ardor of my passion has made you my husband ? Val. It is a happiness which causes a great many heart-burnings. But I impute the suc- cessful result of my courtship less to your great passion for me than to your kindness of heart. I know you have cause to be offended, that it was the secret which you would fain have con- cealed. I m)self have put a restraint on my ardor, so that I might not violate yoiu" express commands ; but . . . Masc. Yes, it was I who told it. What great harm is done ? Luc. Was there ever a falsehood like this? Dare you mention this in my presence, and hope to obtain my hand by this fine con- trivance? What a wretched lover you are — you, whose gallant passion would wound my honor because it could not gain my heart ; who wish to frighten my father by a foolish story, so that you might obtain my hand as a reward for having vilified me. Though every- thing were favorable to your love — my father, fate, and my own inclination — yet my well- founded resentment would struggle against my own inclination, fate, and my father, and even lose life, rather than be united to one who thought to obtain my hand in this manner. Begone ! If my sex could with decency be provoked to any outburst of rage, I would let you know what it was to treat me thus. Val. {To Mascarilh-.) It is all over with us ; her anger cannot be appeased. Masc. Let me speak to her. Prithee, madam, what is the good of all these ex- cuses? What are you thinking of? And what strange whim makes )0U thus oppose your own happiness ? If your father were a harsh parent, the case would be different, but he listens to reason ; and he himself has assured me that if you would but confess the truth his affection would grant you everything. I be- lieve you are a little ashamed frankly to acknowledge that you have yielded to love ; but if you have lost a trifling amount of free- dom, everything will be set to rights again by a good marriage. Your great love for Valere may be blamed a little, but the mischief is not so great as if you had murdered a man. We all know that flesh is frail, and that a maid is THE LOVE-TIFF 37 neither stock nor stone. You were not the first, that is certain ; and you will not be the last, I dare say. Luc. What ! can you listen to this shame- less talk, and make no reply to these indig- nities? Alb. What would you have me say ? This affair puts me quite beside myself. Masc. Upon my word, madam, you ought to have confessed all before now. Luc. What ought I to have confessed ? Masc. What ? Why, what has passed be- tween my master and you. A fine joke, in- deed ! Luc. Why, what has passed between your master and me, impudent wretch ? Masc. You ought, I think, to know that better than I ; you passed that night too agreeably to make us believe you could forget it so soon. Luc. Father, we have too long borne with the insolence of an impudent lackey. ( Gives him a box on the ear.) SCENE X. — Albert, Valere, Mascarille. Masc. I think she gave me a box on the ear. Alb. Begone ! rascal, villain ! Her father appro\es the way in which she has made her hand felt upon your cheek. Masc. May be so ; yet may the devil take me if I said anything but what was true ! Alb. And may I lose an ear if you carry on this impudence any further ! Masc. Shall I send for two witnesses to testify to the truth of my statements ? Alb. Shall I send for two of my servants to give you a sound thrashing? Masc. Their testimony will corroborate Alb. Their arms may make up for my want of strength. Masc. I tell you, Lucile behaves thus be- cause she is ashamed. Alb. I tell you, you shall be answerable for all this. Masc. Do you know Ormin, that stout and clever notary ? Alb. Do you know Grimpant, the city exe- cutioner ? Masc. And Simon, the tailor, who used for- merly to work for all the people of fashion ? Alb. And the gibbet set up in the middle of the market-place? Masc. You shall see they will confirm the truth of this marriage. Alb. You shall see they will make an end of you. Masc. They were the witnesses chosen by them. Alb. They shall shortly revenge me on you. Masc. I myself saw them at the altar. Alb. And I myself shall see you with a halter. Masc. By the same token, your daughter had a black veil on. Alb. By the same token, your face foretells your doom. Masc. What an obstinate old man. Alb. What a cursed rascal ! You may thank my advanced years, which prevent me from punishing your insulting remarks upon the spot ; but I promise you, you shall be paid with full interest. SCENE XL— Valere, Mascarille. Val. Well, where is now that fine result you were to produce . . . ? Masc. I understand what you mean. Every- 38 THE LOVE-TIFF thing goes against me ; I see cudgels and gib- bets preparing for me on every side. There- fore, so that I may be at rest amidst this chaos, I shall go and throw myself headlong from a rock, if, in my present despair, I can find one high enough to please me. Farewell, sir. Val. No, no ; in vain you wish to fly. If you die, I expect it to be in my presence. Masc. I cannot die if anybody is looking on ; it would only delay my end. Val. Follow me, traitor ; follow me. My maddened love will soon show whether this is a jesting matter or not. Masc. (^Ahnic.') Unhappy Mascarille, to what misfortunes are you condemned to-day for another's sin ! ACT IV. SCENE I. — AscANio, Frosine. Fros. What has happened is very annoying. Asc. My dear Frosine, fate has irrevocably decreed my ruin. Now the affair has gone so far, it will never stop there, but will go on ; Lucile and Valere, surprised at such a strange mystery, will, one day, try to find their way amidst this darkness, and thus all my plans will miscarry. For, whether Albert is ac- quainted with the deception, or whether he himself is deceived, as well as the rest of the world, if it ever happens that my family is discovered, and all the wealth he has wrong- fully acquired passes into the hands of others, judge if he will then endure my presence ; for, not having any interest more in the matter, he will abandon me, and his affection for me will be at an end. Whatever, then, my lover may think of my deception, will he acknowledge as his wife a girl without either fortune or family ? Fros. I think you reason rightly ; but these reflections should have come sooner. What has prevented you from seeing all this before ? There was no need to be a witch to foresee, as soon as you fell in love witli Valere, all that your genius never found out until to-day. It is the natural consequence of what you have done ; as soon as I was made acquainted with it I never imagined it would end other- wise. Asc. But what must I do? There never was such a misfortune as mine. Put yourself in my place, and give me advice. 39 40 THE LOVE- TIFF Fros. If I put myself in your place you will have to give nie advice upon this ill-success ; for I am you, and you are I. Counsel me, Frosine, in the condition I am in. Where can we find a remedy ? Tell me, I beg of you. Asc. Alas ! do not make fun of me. You show but little sympathy with my bitter grief, if you laugh in the midst of my distress. Fros. Really, Ascanio, I pity your distress, and would do my utmost to help you. But what can I do, after all? I see very little likelihood of arranging this affair so as to satisfy your love. Asc. If no assistance can be had, I must die. Fros. Die ! Come, come ; it is always time enough for that. Death is a remedy ever at hand ; we ought to make use of it as late as possible. Asc. No, no, Frosine. If you and your invaluable counsels do not guide me amidst all these breakers I shall abandon myself wholly to despair. Fros. Do you know what I am thinking about ? I must go and see the ..." But here comes Eraste ; he may interrupt us. We will talk this matter over as we go along. Come, let us retire. SCENE II.— Eraste, Gros-Renb;. Eras. You have failed again ? Gr.-Re. Never was an ambassador less lis- tened to. No sooner had I told her that you desired to have a moment's conversation with her, than, drawing herself up, she answered haughtily, " Go, go, I value your master just as much as I do you ; tell him he may go about his business ;" and after this fine speech she turned her head away from me and walked off. Marinette, too, imitating her mistress, said, with a disdainful sneer, " Begone, you low fellow," '^ and then left me ; so that your fortune and mine are very much alike. Eras. What an ungrateful creature, to re- ceive with so much haughtiness the quick return of a heart justly incensed. Is the first outburst of a passion, which with so much reason thought itself deceived, unworthy of excuse? Could I, when burning with love, remain insensible, in that fatal moment, to the happiness of a rival ? Would any other not have acted in the same way as I did, or been less amazed at so much boldness ? Was I not quick in abandoning my well-founded suspicions? I did not wait till she swore they were false. When no one can tell as yet what to think of it, my heart, full of impatience, re- stores Lucile to her former place, and seeks to find e.\cuses for her. Will not all these proofs satisfy her of the ardor of my respectful pas- sion ? Instead of calming my mind, and pro- viding me with arms against a rival who wishes to alarm me, this ungrateful woman abandons me to all the tortures of jealousy, and refuses to receive my messages and notes or to grant me an interview. Alas ! that love is certainly very lukewarm which can be extinguished by so trifling an offence ; that scornful rigor, which is displayed so readily, sufficiently shows to me the depth of her affection. What value ought I to set now upon all the caprices with which she fanned my love? No ! I do not pretend to be any longer the slave of one who has so little love for me; since she does not mind whether she keeps me or not, I will do the same. Gr.-Re. And so will I. Let us both be THE LOVE-TIFF ■^ i..} ACT IV. SCENE III. EDM. HEDOUIN, PAINTER. F. L. KIRKPATRICK, ETCHER. EXTERIOR OF THE HOUSE OF ALBERT. ERASTE AND GROS-RENE; LUCILE AND MARINETTE. ERASTE: "YOU ASSURE ME BY THIS LETTER THAT YOU ACCEPT MY LOVE; ITiS A FALSEHOOD WHICH I PUNISH THUS." {Tears tjie letter.) Ill myself •'" -^a will me advii success; you, aii'l Counsel me, t n.isiiic-, in the coiiuaioa 1 am in. Where find a remedy? Tell me, I beg of Asc. Alas ! do not make fun of me. You show but little sympathy with my bitter grief, if you laugh in the midst of my distress. Pros. Really, Ascanio, I pity your distress, and would do my utmost to help you. But what can I do, after all ? I see very little likelihood of arranging this affair so as to satisfy your love as much as I do you ; tell him he may go about his business;" and after this fine speech she turned her head away from me and walked off. Marinette, too, imitating her mistress, said, with a disdainful sneer, " Begone, you low fellow," '■" and tl,i.n left me; so tliat your fortune and mine are very much alike. Eras. What an ungrateful creature, to re- ceive with SD much haughtiness the quick return of a heart justly incensed. Is the first outburst of a passion, which with so much reason thought itself deceived, unworthy of excuse? Could I, when burning with love, remain insensible, in that fatal moment, to Asc. If no assistance c. Tlll~dVUJ ditliiss of a rival? Would any other not have acted in the same way as I did, or been less amazed at so much boldness ? Was !.VI it'vlJiA abandoning my well-founded die. Fros. Die! ■ •uit. come; k time enough for that. EktJll^ iSilfldsJc ever at hand ; ,we ought to make ijse of it a; late as possible. Asc. No. r ■ 1. V 'Ml and • ■" s? I did not wait till she swore they \\'hen no one can tell as yet what ,,. , . 1 K.-irt, fiill of im)'atience, re- (sLucik .jjaxi^iAq ,i/iiuoa9rt :M'tF3'' all these breakers I shall abandon myself ' find excuses tor her '"''M'Jllbll^it^'l^Sfl-aOJlO QUA 3T2AH3 .THHSJA HO 32UblH 3HT HO HOIH3TX3 Fkos. Do you 1 , ^ .3TT3mflAM QUA about? I must t; ; 3f6i'^li^453ibA''tl5V tAHT 513TT3J 2IHT Ya 3M 3HU22A UOY " : 3T2A513 will talk this matter over as we go a.oiiJ Come, let us retire. (-'^^^^^^-^) "-SUHT H^lWl^S j.HPlH^{/,aQOH^4A3 ^,^^T\^ me an interview. Alas ! that love is certainly very lukewarm which can be extinguished by so trifling an offence; that scornful rigor, which is displayed so readily, sufficiently shows to me the depth of her affection. What value ought I to set now upon all the caprices with which she fanned my love? No ! I do not pretend to be any longer the slave of one who has so little love for me; since slie does not mind whether she keeps me or not, I will do the same. Gr.-Re. And so will I. Let us '"•' SIT:NE II.— Eraste, Gros-Ren*;. Eras. You have failed again? Gr.-Re. Never was an ambassador less lis- tened to. No souner had I told her that you d'sired to have a moment's conversation with rself up, she answered : value your master just THE LOVE-TIFF 41 angry, and put our love on the list of our old sins ; we must teach a lesson to that wayward sex, and make them feel that we possess some courage. He that will bear their contempt shall have enough of it. If we had sense enough not to make ourselves too cheap, women would not talk so big. Oh ! how in- solent they are through our weakness ! May I be hanged if we should not see them fall upon our neck more often than we wished, if it was not for those servilities with which most men, now-a-days, continually spoil them. Eras. As for me, nothing vexes me so much as contempt ; and to punish her's by one as great I am resolved to cherish a new passion. Gr.-Re. So will I, and never trouble my head about women again. I renounce them all, and believe honestly you could not do better than to act like me. For, master, people say that woman is an animal hard to be known, and naturally very prone to evil ; and as an animal is always an animal, and will never be anything but an animal, though it lived for a hundred thousand years, so, without contradiction, a woman is always a woman, and will never be anything but a woman as long as the world endures." Where- fore, as a certain Greek author says : a woman's head is like a quicksand ; for, pray, mark well this argument, which is most weighty : As the head is the chief of the body, and as the body without a chief is worse than a beast, unless the chief has a good understanding with the body, and un- less everything be as well regulated as if it were measured with a pair of compasses, we see certain confusions arrive ; the animal part then endeavors to get the better of the rational, and we see one pull to the right, another to the left ; one wants something soft, another something hard ; in short, everything goes topsy-turvy. This is to show that here below, as it has been explained to me, a woman's head is like a weather-cock on the top of a house, which veers about at the slightest breeze ; that is why cousin Aristotle often compares her to the sea; hence people say that nothing in the world is so stable as the waves." Now, by comparison — for compari- son makes us comprehend an argument dis- tinctly, and we learned men love a comparison better than a similitude — by comparison, then, if you please, master, as we see that the sea, when a storm rises, begins to rage, the wind roars and destroys, billows dash against bil- lows with a great hullabaloo, and the ship, in spite of the mariner, goes sometimes down to the cellar and sometimes up into the garret ; so, when a woman gets whims and crotchets into her head, we see a tempest in the form of a violent storm, which will break out by certain . . . words, and then a . . . certain wind, which by . . . certain waves in . . . a certain manner, like a sand-bank . . . when . . .In short, woman is worse than the devil.'^ Eras. You have argued that very well. Gr.-Re. Pretty well, thanks to Heaven ; but I see them coming this way, sir — stand firm. Eras. Never fear. Gr.-Re. I am very much afraid that her eyes will ensnare you again. SCENE III. -Eraste, Lucile, Marinette, Gros-Rene. Mar. He is not gone yet, but do not yield. Luc. Do not imagine I am so weak. Mar. He comes toward us. 42 THE LOVE- TIFF Eras. No, no, madam, do not think that I have come to speak to you again of my pas- sion ; it is all over ; I am resolved to cure myself. I know how little share I have in your heart. A resentment kept up so long for a slight offence shovi's me your indifference but too [jlainly, and I must tell you that con- tempt, above all things, wounds a lofty mind. I confess I saw in you charms which I never found in any other ; the delight I took in my chains would have made me prefer them to sceptres, had they been offered to me. Yes, my love for you was certainly very great ; my life was centred in you ; I will even own that, though I am insulted, I shall still perhaps have difficulty enough to free myself. Maybe, not- withstanding the cure I am attempting, my heart may for a long time smart with this wound. Freed from a yoke which I was happy to bend under, I shall take a resolution never to love again. But no matter, since your hatred repulses a heart which love brings back to you, this is the last time you shall ever be troubled by the man you so much despise. Luc. You might have made the favor complete, sir, and spared me also this last trouble. Eras. Very well, madam, very well ; you shall be satisfied. I here break off all ac- quaintance with you, and break it off forever, since you wish it ; may I lose my life if ever again I desire to converse with you ! Luc. So much the better ; you will oblige me. Eras. No, no, do not be afraid that I shall break my word ! For, though my heart may be weak enough not to be able to efface your image, be assured you shall never have the pleasure of seeing me return. Luc. You may save yourself the trouble. Eras. I would pierce my breast a hundred times should I ever be so mean as to see you again, after this unworthy treatment. Luc. Be it so ; let us talk no more about it. Eras. Yes, yes ; let us talk no more about it ; and to make an end here of all unneces- sary speeches, and to give you a convincing proof, ungrateful woman, that I forever throw off your chain, I will keep nothing which may remind me of what I must forget. Here is your portrait ; it presents to the eye many wonderful and dazzling charms, but under- neath them lurk as many monstrous faults ; it is a delusion which I restore to you. Gr.-Re. You are right. Luc. And I, not to be behind-hand with you in the idea of returning everything, re- store to )0u this diamond which you obliged me to accept. Mar. Very well. Eras. Here is likewise a bracelet of yours.'* Luc. And this agate seal is yours. Eras. (^Rcads.') " You love me with the most ardent passion, Eraste, and wish to know if I feel the same. If I do not love Eraste as much, at least I am pleased that Eraste should thus love me. — Lucile." You assure me by this letter that you accept my love ; it is a falsehood which I punish thus. {Tears the letter.') Luc. {Reading.) " I do not know what may be the fate of my ardent love, nor how long I shall suffer ; but this I know, beau- teous charmer, that I shall always love you. — Eraste." This is an assurance of everlasting love ; both the hand and the letter told a lie. {Tears the letter.) Gr.-Re. Go on. Eras. {Showing another letter.) This is another of your letters ; it shall share the same fate. THE LOVE-TIFF ACT IV. SCENE 111. JACQUES LEMAN, PAINTER. 1 C. CHAMPOLLION, ETCHER THE QUARREL OF THE LOVERS. ERASTE AND GROS-REME ON THE LEFT; LUCILE AND MARINETTE ON THE RIGHT. IN THE BACKGROUND IS THE ENTRANCE TO THE HOUSE OF LUCILE'S FATHER. ERASTE {ToLucilc\: "THIS IS ANOTHER OF YOUR LETTERS: IT SHALL SHARE THE SAME FATE." -a* THE TIFF .^o, no, luaaau;, ao noi cupk inai i le to speak to 3'ou again of lOy pas- is all over; I am resolved to cure II •,<(■;! \ 'now how little share I have in y ur heart. A resentment kept up so long for a slight offence shows me your indifference but too plainly, and I must tell you that con- tempt, above all things, wounds a lofty mind. I confess I saw in you charms which I never found in any other ; the delight I took in my chains would have made me prefer them to sceptres, had tltey been offered to me. Yes, my love for you was certainly very crcat ■ nv times should I ever be so mean as to see you again, after this unworthy treatment. Luc. Be it so ; let us talk no more about it. Eras. > es, yes, lec is i;iik no moro al)Out it ; and to make an end here of all unneces- sary speeches, and to give you a convincing proof, ungrateful woman, that I forever throw off your chain, I will keep nothing which may remind me of what I must forget. Here is your portrait ; it presents to the eye many wonderful and dazzling charms, but under- neath them lurk as many monstrous faults ; it life was centred in you ; I will e\aCJ>lvr'j.i2;W'^aIdel^iUTliich I restore to you though 1 am insulted, I shall still i)erhaps have difficulty enough to free myself. Maybe, not with heai' :■'! a long time smart with this wound. Freed from a yoke which I was ha[>py to bend under, I shall take a resolution never to lo\c n.;a"' \ ' -- ^\\^:\ - - our to you, this is the Gr.-Re. You are right. Luc. And I, not to be behind-hand with he cure I am ♦ff"^l9fM3'3^^ >'°" lYItheTd^Apf returning everj'thing, re- store to you this diamond which you obliged me to accept. Mar. Very well. Eras. Here is likcwsi i-i ui "Ts." Luc. And th-i§ipiA^.*^lAM^4. 83U93AL R,vs. {Reads.') " Von l.n>^ -ne wit": ,^.J,^3J^l3HJ,„^^9, aH351-20HO ai/lA 3T2AH3 .8513VOJ 3HT tlO J3aHAUP 3HT 33>M'A51ttfla 3iH!pi8l aVIUOflO>IOAa 3HT /ll .THOlfl BHT HO 3TT3Wi5lAM QUA 3JIOUJ complete, sir, and s; .H3HTAq 2'3JIOUJ 30 32UbH 3HT Ot trouble. a^Affg iJfAH?^l':'g«^T3iI'aUOY30 513HTOMA 21 2IHT" : b\\-.«l (T^ ) 3T2AH3 '">" snaii i«e satisfied. I here break oft' all ac- quaintance with you, and break it off forever, since you wish it ; may I lose my life if ever again I desire to converse with yqu ! Lui. So much the better ; you will oblige me. Eras. No, no, do not be afraid that I shall break my word I For, though my heart may ' ': enough not to be able to efface your e assured you shall never have the f)leasure of seeing me return. Vou may save yourself the trouble. ".3TA3 aMA2 3HT Luc. {Rcoding.') " I do not know what may be the fate of my ardent love, nor how long I shall suffer; but this I know, beau- teous charmer, that I shall always love you. — Eraste." This is an assurance of everlasting love ; both the hand and the letter told a lie. {Tears the Utter.') Gr,-Re. Go on. Eras. {Showing another letter^ This is another of your letters; it shall share the mid jiierce my breast a hundred ' same fate.' J^^x /'?'/*0'^<^=/3f22^ . '////v//rt>,f /^i}/nnn (h-/ ("A.w>/'„//,. i//!/hif/t,}/) ,ir , THE LOVE- TIFF 43 Mar. {To Lucile.) Be firm. Luc. {Tearing another letter.^ I should be sorry to keep back one of them. Gr.-Re. {To Erastc.) Do not let her have the last word. Mar. {To Lucile.') Hold out bravely to the end. Luc. Well, there are the rest. Eras. Thank Heaven, that is all ! May I be struck dead if I do not keep my word ! Luc. May it confound me if mine be vain. Eras. Farewell, then. Luc. Farewell, then. Mar. {To Lucile.') Nothing could be better. Gr.-Re. {To Eraste.') You triumph. Mar. {To Lucile.') Come, let us leave him. Gr.-Re. {To Eraste.) You had best retire after this courageous effort. Mar. {To Lucile.) What are you waiting for? Gr.-Re. {To Eraste.) What more do you want? Eras. Ah, Lucile, Lucile ! you will be sorry to lose a heart like mine, and I know it. Luc. Eraste, Eraste, I may easily find a heart like yours. Eras. No, no, search everywhere ; you will never find one so passionately fond of you, I assure you. I do not say this to move you to pity ; I should be in the wrong now to wish it ; the most respectful passion could not bind you. You wanted to break with me ; I must think of you no more. But whatever any- one may pretend, nobody will ever love you so tenderly as I have done. Luc. When a woman is really beloved she is treated differently, and is not condemned so rashly. Eras. Those who love are apt to be jealous on the slightest cause of suspicion, but they can never wish to lose the object of their adoration, and that you have done. Luc. Pure jealousy is more respectful. Eras. An offence caused by love is looked upon with more indulgence. Luc. No, Eraste, your flame never burnt very bright. Eras. No, Lucile, you never loved me. Luc. Oh ! that does not trouble you much, I suppose ; perhaps it would have been much better for me if . . . But no more of this idle talk ; I do not say what I think on the subject. Eras. Why? Luc. Because, as we are to break, it would be out of place, it seems to me. Eras. Do we break, then ? Luc. Yes, to be sure ; have we not done so already ? Eras. And you can do this calmly? Luc. Yes ; so can you. Eras. I? Luc. Undoubtedly. It is weakness to let people see that we are hurt by losing them. Eras. But, hard-hearted woman, it is you who would have it so. Luc. I ? not at all ; it was you who took that resolution. Eras. I ? I thought it would please you. Luc. Me? not at all ; you did it for your own satisfaction. Eras. But what if my heart should wish to resume its former chain ? If, though very sad, it should sue for pardon . . . ? " Luc. No, no; do no such thing ; my weak- ness is too great. I am afraid I might too quickly grant your request. 44 THE LOVE- TIFF Eras. Oh ! you cannot grant it, nor I ask for it, too soon after what I have just heard. Consent to love me still, madam ; so pure a flame ought to burn forever, for your own sake. I ask for it, pray grant me this kind pardon. Luc. Lead me home. SCENE IV.— Marinette, Gros-Rene. Mar. Oh ! cowardly creature. Or. -Re. Oh! weak courage. Mar. I blush with indignation. Gr.-Rc. I am swelling with rage; do not imagine I will yield thus. Mar. And do not think to find such a dupe in me. Gr.-Re. Come on, come on; you shall soon see what my wrath is capable of doing. Mar. I am not the person you take me for ; you have not my silly mistress to deal with. It is enough to look at that fine phiz to be smitten with the man himself! Should I fall in love with your beastly face? Should I hunt after you ? Upon my word, girls like us are not for the like of you. Gr.-Re. Ay! and you address me in such a fashion ? Here, here, vi'ithout any further compliments, there is your bow of tawdry lace, and your narrow ribbon ; it shall not have the honor of being on my ear any more. Mar. And to show you how I despise you, here, take back your half hundred of Paris pins, which you gave me yesterday with so much bragging. Gr.-Re. Take back your knife, too; a thing most rich and rare ; it cost you about twopence when you made me a present of it. Mar. Take back your scissors with tlie pinchbeck chain. Gr.-Re. I forgot the piece of cheese you gave me the day before yesterday — here it is ; I wish I could bring back the broth you made me eat, so that I might have nothing belong- ing to you. Mar. I have none of your letters about me now, but I shall burn every one of them. Gr.-Re. And do you know what I shall do with yours? Mar. Take care you never come begging to me again to forgive you. Gr.-Re. (^Picking up a bit of straw. ^ To cut off every way of being reconciled, we must break this straw between us ; when a straw is broken, it settles an affair between people of honor." Cast none of your sheep's eyes at me ; " I will be angry. Mar. Do not look at me thus ; I am too much provoked. Gr.-Re. Here, break this straw; this is the way of never recanting again ; break. What do you laugh at, you jade ? Mar. Yes, you make me laugh. Gr.-Re. The deuce take your laughing I all my anger is already softened. What do you say ? shall we break or not ? Mar. Just as you please. Gr.-Re. Just as you please. Mar. Nay, it shall be as you please. Gr.-Re. Do you wish me never to love you? Mar. I ? As you like. Gr.-Re. As you yourself like; only say the word. THE LOVE-TIFF 45 Mar. I shall say nothing. Gr.-Re. Nor I. Mar. Nor I. Gr.-Re. Faith ! we had better forswear all this nonsense ; shake hands, I pardon you. Mar. And I forgive you. Gr.-Re. Bless me! how you bewitch me with your charms. Mar. What a fool is Marinette when her Gros-Rene is by. ACT V. SCENE I. — Mascarille, alone. "As soon as darkness has invaded the town I will enter Lucile's room ; go, therefore, and get ready immediately the dark-lantern and whatever arms are necessary." When my master said these words, it sounded in my ears as if he had said, " Go quickly and get a halter to hang yourself." But come on, master of mine, for I was so astonished when first I heard your order that I had no time to answer you ; but I shall talk with you now, and confound you ; therefore defend yourself well, and let us argue without making a noise. You say you wish to go and visit Lucile to- night ? "Yes, Mascarille." And what do you propose to do ? " What a lover does who wishes to be convinced." What a man does who has very little brains, who risks his car- cass when there is no occasion for it. " But do you know what is my motive ? Lucile is angry." Well, so much the worse for her. " But my love prompts me to go and appease her." But love is a fool, and does not know what he says : will this same love defend us against an enraged rival, father, or brother? " Do you think any of them intend to harm us?" Yes, really, I do think so; and espe- cially this rival. "Mascarille, in any case, what I trust to is that we shall go well armed, and if anybody interrupts us we shall draw." Yes, but that is precisely what your ser\ant does not wish to do. I draw ! Good Heavens ! am I a Roland, master, or a Ferragus ? ■'' You hardly know me. When I, who love myself so dearly, consider that two inches of cold steel in this body would be quite sufficient to send a poor mortal to his last home, I am particularly disgusted. "But you will be 47 48 THE LOVE-TIFF armed from head to foot." So much the worse. I shall be less nimble to get into the thicket ; besides, there is no armor so well made but some villainous point will pierce its joints. " Oh ! you will then be considered a coward." Never mind; provided I can but always move my jaws. At table you may set me down for as good as four persons, if you like ; but when fighting is going on you must not count me for anything. Moreover, if the other world possesses charms for you, the air of this world agrees very well with me. I do not thirst after death and wounds; if you have a mind to play the fool, you may do it all by yourself, I assure you. SCENE II. — Valere, Mascarille. Val. I never felt a day pass more slowly ; the sun seems to have forgotten himself; he has yet such a course to run before he reaches his bed, that I believe he will never accom- plish it ; his slow motion drives me mad. Masc. What an eagerness to go in the dark, to grope about for some ugly adven- ture ! You see that Lucile is obstinate in her repulses . . . Val. a truce to these idle remonstrances. Though I were sure to meet a hundred deaths lying in ambush, yet I feel her wrath so greatly that I shall either appease it or end my fate. I am resolved on that. Masc. I approve of your design ; but it is unfortunate, sir, that we must get in secretly. Val. Very well. Masc. And I am afraid I shall only be in the way. Val. How so? Masc. I have a cough which nearly kills me, and the noise it makes may betray you. Every moment . . . {He coughs.) You see what a punishment it is. Val. You will get better ; take some liq- uorice. Masc. I do not think, sir, it will get better. I should be delighted to go with you, but I should be very sorry if any misfortune should befall my dear master through me. SCENE III.— Valere, La Rapiere, Mas- carille. La Ra. Sir, I have just now heard from good authority that Eraste is greatly enraged against you, and that Albert talks also of breaking all the bones in Mascarille's body, on his daughter's account. Masc. I? I have nothing to do with all this confusion. What have I done to have all the bones in my body broken ? Am I the guardian of the virginity of all the girls in the town, that I am to be thus threatened? Have I any influence with temptation ? Can I help it, I, poor fellow, if I have a mind to try it? Val. Oh ! they are not so dangerous as they pretend to be. However courageous love may have made Eraste, he will not have so easy a bargain with us. La Ra. If you should have any need for it, my arm is entirely at your service. You know me to be at all times staunch.^' Val. I am much obliged to you, M. de la Rapiere. La Ra. I have likewise two friends I can procure, who will draw against all comers, and upon whom you may safely rely. Masc. Accept their services, sir. THE LOVE-TIFF 49 Val. You are too kind. La Ra. Little Giles might also have assisted us, if a sad accident had not taken him from us. Oh, sir, it is a great pity ! He was such a handy fellow, too ! You know the trick justice played him ; he died like a hero ; when the executioner broke him on the wheel he made his exit without uttering a word. Val. M. de la Rapiere, such a man ought to be lamented, but as for your escort, I thank you, I want them not. La Ra. Be it so ; but do not forget that you are sought after, and may have some scurvy trick played upon you. Val. And I, to show you how much I fear him, will offer him the satisfaction he desires, if he seeks me ; I will immediately go all over the town, only accompanied by Masca- rille. SCENE IV.— Valere, Mascarille. Masc. What, sir? Will you tempt Heaven? Do not be so presumptuous ! Lack-a-day ! )ou see how they threaten us. How on every side . . . Val. What are you looking at yonder ? Masc. I smell a cudgel that way. In short, if you will take my prudent advice, do not let us be so obstinate as to remain in the street ; let us go and shut ourselves up. Val. Shut ourselves up, rascal ? How dare you propose to me such a base action ? Come along, and follow me, without any more words. Masc. Why, sir, my dear master, life is so sweet ! One can die but once, and it is for such a long time. Val. I shall half kill you if I hear anything more. Here comes Ascanio; let us l^ave him ; we must find out what side he will choose. However, come along with me into the house, to take whatever arms we may want. Masc. I have no great itching for fighting. A curse on love and those darned girls, who will be tasting it and then look as if butter would not melt in their mouth. SCENE V. — A.SCANIO, Frosine. Asc. Is it really true, Frosine ; do I not dream ? Pray tell me all that has happened from first to last. Fros. You shall know all the particulars in good time ; be patient ; such adventures are generally told over and over again, and that every moment. You must know, then, that after this will, which was on condition of a male heir being born, Albert's wife, who was enciente, gave birth to you. Albert, who had stealthily and long beforehand laid his plan, changed you for the son of Inez, the flower- woman, and gave you to my mother to nurse, saying it was her own child. Some ten months after, death took away this little innocent whilst Albert was absent; his wife, being afraid of her husband, and inspired by maternal love, invented a new stratagem. She secretly took her own daughter back ; you received the name of the boy who had taken your place, whilst the death of that pretended son was kept a secret from Albert, who was told that his daughter had died. Now the mystery of your birth is cleared up, which your supposed mother had hitherto concealed. She gives certain reasons for acting in this manner, and may have others to give, for her interests were not the same 50 THE LOVE- TIFF as yours. In short, this visit," from which I expected so little, has proved more service- able to your love than could have been imag- ined. This Inez has given up all claim to you. As it became necessary to reveal this secret on account of your marriage, we two informed your father of it ; a letter of his deceased wife has confirmed all. Pursuing our reasoning yet further, and being rather fortunate, as well as skilful, we have so cun- ningly interwoven the interests of Albert and of Polydore, so gradually unfolded all this mystery to the latter, that we might not make things appear too terrible to him in the be- ginning, and in a word, to tell you all, so prudently led his mind step by step to a reconciliation, that Polydore is now as anx- ious as your father to legitimize that con- nection which is to make you happy. Asc. Ah ! Frosine, what happiness you prepare for me . . . 'What do I not owe to your fortunate zeal ? Fros. Moreover, the good man is inclined to be merry, and has forbidden us to mention anything of this affair to his son. SCENE VI. — Polydore, Ascanio, Frosine. Pol. Come hither, daughter, since I may give you this name now, for I know the secret which this disguise conceals. You have shown so much resolution, ingenuity, and archness in your stratagem, that I forgive you; I think my son will esteem himself happy when he knows that you are the object of his love. You are worth to him more than all the treas- ures in this world, and I will tell him so. But here he comes ; let us divert ourselves with this event. Go and tell all the people to come hither immediately. Asc. To obey you, sir, shall be the first compliment I pay you. SCENE VII. — Mascarille, Polydore, Valere. Masc. Misfortunes are often revealed by Heaven : I dreamt last night of pearls un- strung and broken eggs, '^'^ sir. This dream depresses my spirits. Val. Cowardly rascal. Pol. Valere, an encounter awaits you, wherein all your valor will be necessary : you are to cope with a powerful adversary. Masc. Will nobody stir to prevent people from cutting each other's throats? As for me, I do not care about it ; but if any fatal acci- dent should deprive you of your son, do not lay the blame on me. Pol. No, no ; in this case I myself urge him to do what he ought. Masc. What an unnatural father ! Val. This sentiment, sir, shows you to be a man of honor ; I respect you the more for it. I know I have offended you. I am to blame for having done all this without a father's consent ; but however angry you may be with me. Nature always will prevail. You do what is truly honorable in not believing that I am to be terrified by the threats of Eraste. Pol. They just now frightened me with his threats, but since then things have changed greatly ; you will be attacked by a more power- ful enemy, without being able to flee from him. Masc. Is there no way of making it up ? Val. I flee ! Heaven forbid ! And who can this be? THE LOVE-TIFF 51 Pol. Ascanio. Val. Ascanio? Pol. Yes; you shall see him appear pres- ently. Val. He, who has pledged his word to serve me ! Pol. Yes, it is he who says he has a quarrel with you ; he who is determined to decide the quarrel by single combat, to which he chal- lenges you. Masc. He is a good fellow : he knows that generous minds do not endanger other people's lives by their quarrels. Pol. He accuses you of deceit. His anger appears to me to have so just a cause that Al- bert and I have agreed you should give Ascanio satisfaction for this affront, but publicly and without any delay, according to the formalities requisite in such a case. Val. What ! father ; and did Lucile obsti- nately . . . ? Pol. Lucile is to marry Eraste, and blames you too ; and the better to prove your story to be false, is resolved to give her hand to Eraste before your very face. Val. Ha ! this impudence is enough to drive me mad. Has she lost, then, all sense, faith, conscience, and honor ? SCENE vni. — Albert, Polydore, Lucile, Er-\ste, Valere, Mascarille. Alb. ^^'ell ! where are the combatants ? They are bringing ours. Have you prepared yours for the encounter ? Val. Yes, yes ; I am ready, since you com- pel me to it ; if I at all hesitated, it was be- cause I still felt a little respect, and not on account of the valor of the champion who is to oppose me. But I have been urged too far. This respect is at an end ; I am prepared for any catastrophe ! I have been treated so strangely and treacherously that my love must and shall be revenged. (^To Lucile.') Not that I still pretend to your hand : my former love is now swallowed up in wrath ; and when I have made your shame public, your guilty marriage will not in the least disturb me. Lucile, your behavior is infamous : scarcely can I believe my own eyes. You show your- self so opposed to all modesty that you ought to die for shame. Luc. Such reproaches might affect me if I had not one at hand to avenge my cause. Here comes Ascanio ; he shall soon have the pleasure, and without giving himself much trouble, of making you change your language. SCENE IX. — .\lbert, Polydore, Ascanio, Lucile, Eraste, Valere, Frosine, ]\L\ri- NETTE, GROS-ReNE, MaSCARILLE. Val. He shall not make me change my lan- guage, though he had twenty arms besides his own. I am sorry he defends a guilty sister ; but since he is foolish enough to pick a quarrel with me, I shall give him satisfaction, and you also, my valiant gentleman. Eras. A short time ago I took an interest in this, but as Ascanio has taken the affair upon himself, I will have nothing more to do with it, but leave it to him. Val. You do well ; prudence is always timely, but . . . Er.\s. He shall give you satisfaction for us all. Val. He? Pol. Do not deceive yourself; you do not yet know what a strange fellow Ascanio is. 52 THE LOVE-TIFF Alb. He is blind to it now, but Ascanio will let him know in a little time. Val. Come on, then ; let him do so now. Mar. What! before everybody ? Gr.-Re. That would not be decent. Val. Are you making fun of me? I will break the head of any fellow who laughs. But let us see what Ascanio is going to do. Asc. No, no. I am not so bad as they make me out; in this adventure, in which every one has put me forward, you shall see my weakness appear more than anything else ; you will discover that Heaven, to which we must all submit, did not give me a heart to hold out against you, but that it reserved for you the easy triumph of putting an end to Lucile's brother. Yes ; far from boasting of the power of his arm, Ascanio shall receive death from your hands; nay, would gladly die, if his death could contribute to your satis- faction, by giving you, in the presence of all this company, a wife who lawfully belongs to you. Val. No, even the whole world, after her perfidy and shamelessness . . . Asc. Ah ! Valere, allow me to tell you that the heart which is pledged to you is guilty of no crime against you ; her love is still pure and her constancy unshaken ; I call your own father himself to witness that I speak the truth. Pol. Yes, son, we have laughed enough at your rage ; I see it is time to undeceive you ; she to whom you are bound by oath is con- cealed under the dress you here behold. Some question about property was the cause of this disguise, which from her earliest youth de- ceived so many people. Lately love was the cause of another which deceived you, whilst it made of the two families but one. Yes, in a word, it is she whose subtle skill obtained your hand at night, who pretended to be Lucile, and by this contrivance, which none discovered, has perplexed you all so much. But since Ascanio now gives place to Doro- thea, your love must be free from every ap- pearance of deceit, and be strengthened by a more sacred knot. Alb. This is the single combat by which you were to give us satisfaction for your offence, and which is not forbidden by any laws." Pol. Such an event amazes you, but all hesitation is now too late. Val. No, no, I do not hesitate ; if this ad- venture astonishes me, it is a flattering sur- prise ; I find myself seized Avith admiration, love, and pleasure. Is it possible that those eyes . . . ? Alb. This dress, dear Valere, is not a proper one to hear your fine speeches in. Let her go and put on another, and meanwhile you shall know the particulars of the event. Val. Pardon me, Lucile, if my mind, duped by . . . Luc. It is easy to forget that. Alb. Come, these compliments will do as well at home ; we shall then have plenty of time to pay them to one another. Eras. But in talking thus you do not seem to think that there is still occasion for man- slaughter here. Our loves are indeed crowned, but who ought to obtain the hand of Mari- nette, his Mascarille or my Gros-Rene? This affair must end in blood. Masc. No, no, my blood suits my body too well ; let him marry her in peace, it will be nothing to me. I know Marinette too well to think marriage will be any bar to my court- ing her. Mar. And do you tliink I will make my gallant of you ? A husband does not matter ; anything will do for that. We do not stand THE LOVE- TIFF S3 then upon so much ceremony ; but a gallant should be well made enough to make one's mouth water. Gr.-Re. Listen ! When we are united by marriage, I insist that you should turn a deaf ear to all sparks. Masc. Do you think, brother, to marry her for yourself alone ? Gr.-Re. Of course; I will have a virtuous wife, or else I shall kick up a fine row. Masc. Ah ! lack-a-day, you shall do as others, and become more gentle. Those people who are so severe and critical before marriage, often degenerate into pacific hus- bands. Mar. Make yourself easy, my dear hus- band, and do not have the least fear about my fidelity; flattery will produce no impression on me, and I shall tell you everything. Masc. Oh ! what a cunning wench to make of a husband a confidant. Mar. Hold your tongue, you knave of clubs. ■' Alb. For the third time, I .say, let us go home, and continue at leisure such an agree- able conversation. 54 THE LOVE-TIFF NOTES ' Du Pare, the actor who played this part, was very stout ; hence the allusion in the original, " et suis homme fort rond dc totttes Us manieres." I have, of course, used in the translation the word "straightforward" ironi- cally, and with an eye to the rotundity of stomach of the actor. Moliere was rather fond of making allusions in his plays to the infirmities or peculiarities of some of his actors. Thus, in The Miser [I'Avare), Act i. Scene 3, he alludes to the lameness of the actor Bejart : "_/? ne Jiie plais point a voir ce chien de boiteux-la " (" I do not like to see that lame dog"); in The Citizen who Apes the Nobleman (le Bourgeois gentilhomme , Act iii, Scene 9, he even gives a portrait of his wife. * In several editions of Moliere we find, instead of Gros-Reni, the name of Jodelet. The latest and, if I might be permitted to say so, the most careful editor of our author, Mons. E. Despois, thinks that Gros-RenS ought to be mentioned here. The sense shows he is right. ' See Homer's " Odyssey," X, v. 81-132. * These two Latin words, which were in very common use in France during MoliSre's time, are taken from the Vulgate, Matthew xxv, 12: " Domine, damine, aperi nobis." — At ille respondens ait : '^ Amen dico vobis, nescio iws." ^ " I hasten to obey your order." * " To a son one can only prefer a son." An allusion to an article of feudal law. ' Immortal. * There is a remote spot. * " Regulate your conduct after the example of good people, your style after good authors." "• The two old men are kneeling opposite to one another. " Frosine means by " the ..." the woman who knows the secret of all this intrigue, and who is supposed to be the mother of Ascanio. This is explained later on, in Act v, Scene 5, page 94. '^ In the original it is beau valet de earreau. Liltri, in his Diclionaire de la langue Franfaise, says that this word, which means literally " lyiave of diamonds," was considered an insult, because in the old packs of cards of the beginning of the seventeenth century that knave was called valet de ehasse (hunting sei-vant), a rather menial situation ; while the knave of spades, valet de pique, was called valet de noblesse (nobleman's servant) ; the knave of hearts, valet de ca-ur, valet de cour (court servant) ; and the knave of clubs, valet de trefle, valet de pied (foot-servant). " This passage is paraphrased from Erasmus, Colloquia familiaria et Encomium Moris, in which, after hav- ing called a woman animal stultum atque ineptum verum ridiculum, et suave. Folly adds, Quemadmodum, juxta Gracorutii proverbium, simia semper est simia, etiamsi purpura vestiatur, ita mulier semper mulier est, hoc est stttlta, quamcunque personam induxerit. " Though " stable " is here used, it is only employed to show the confusion of Gros-Ren^'s ideas, who, of course, wishes to say " unstable." •* This long speech of Gros-Reni ridicules the pedantic arguments of some of the philosophers of the time of Moliire. It also attributes to the ancients some sayings of authors of the day; for example, the comparison, from a Greek author, that "a woman's head is like a quicksand," is from a contemporary ; the saying from Aristotle, comparing woman to the sea, is from Malherbe. Words very familiar look more homely when era- ployed with high-flown language, and Gros-Ren^'s speech is no bad example of this, whilst at the same time it becomes more muddled the longer it goes on. There exists also a tradition that the actor who performs the part of Gros-Reni should, in order to show his confusion, when he says " goes sometimes down the cellar," point to his head, and when he mentions " up into the garret," point to his feet. THE LOVE-TIFF 55 '* Formerly lovers used to wear bracelets generally made of each other's hair, which no doubt were hidden from the common view; Shakespeare, in his Mid-summer Night's Dream, Act i, Scene I, says: "Thou, Lysander, thou hast . . . stol'n th' impression of her fantasy with bracelets of thy hair." " An imitation from Horace, book iii, ode 9, verses 17 and 18 : Quid ? si prisca redet Venus Diductosque jttgo cogit aheneo ? " A wisp of straw, or a stick, was formerly used as a symbol of investiture of a feudal fief. According to some authors, the breaking of the straw or stick was a proof that the vassals renounced their homage ; hence the allusion of Moliere. The breaking of a staff was also typical of the volimtary or compulsory abandonment of power. Formerly, after the death of the kings of France, the grand maitre (master of the household) broke his wand of office over the grave, saying aloud three times, " le roi est mart,'' and then, " Vive le roi." Hence also, most likely, the saying of Prospero, in Shakespeare's Tempest, Act v. Scene I, "I'll break my staff," i.e., I volun- tarily abandon my power. Sometimes the breaking of a statf betokened dishonor, as in Shakespeare's second part of Henry VI, Act i. Scene 2, when Gloster says : " Methought this staff, mine office-badge in court, was broke in twain." " According to tradition, Gros-Ren^ and Marinette stand on the stage back to back ; from time to time they look to the right and to the left ; when their looks meet they turn their heads abruptly away, whilst Gros-Rene presents over his shoulder to Marinette the piece of straw, which the latter takes very good care not to touch. ™ Roland, or Orlando in Italian, one of Charlemagne's paladins and nephews, is represented as brave, loyal and simple-minded. On the return of Charlemagne from Spain, Roland, who commanded the rear-guard, fell into an ambuscade at Roncezvalles, in the Pyrenees (778), and perished, with the flower of French chivalry. He is the hero of Ariosto's poem, "Orlando Furioso." In this same poem, Cant, xii, is also mentioned Ferragus, or Ferrau in Italian, a Saracen giant, who dropped his helmet into the river and vowed he would never wear another till he had won that worn by Orlando ; the latter slew him in the only part where he was vulnerable. " It is thought the introduction of Mons. de la Rapi^re contains an allusion to the poor noblemen of Languedoc, who formerly made a kind of living by being seconds at duels, and whom the Prince de Conti com- pelled to obey the edicts of Louis XIV against dueling. The Love-tiff was first played in 1656 at Bfiziers, where the States of Languedoc were assembled. ^ That is the visit of which Frosine speaks. Act iv, Scene i, page 86. ** In a little book still sold on the quays of Paris, and called !a Cle des Songes, it is said that to dream of pearls denotes "embarrassed affairs," and of broken eggs, "loss of place and lawsuits." '• Severe laws were promulgated in the preceding reign against dueling ; Louis XIV also published two edicts against it in 1643 and in 1651. T/te Love-tiff •«&% first performed in 1656. ^ The original has as de pique, and different commentators have, of course, given various explanations. But why, says M. Despois, should Marinette, who appears to be fond of cards, not call people by names derived from her favorite game ? She calls Gros-Ren6 in another place beau valet de carreau. (See Note 12, preceding page.) LIST OF ENGRAVINGS THE LOVE-TIFF After THE LOVE-TIFF ■ Jacques Leman . . 5 TITLE OF 1663 " " . . 7 DRAMATIS PERSON/E ■' " . . 12 ERASTE AND LUCILE Act I " " . . 13 ERASTE, GROS-RENE AND MARINETTE ..... Act I, Scene VI ... " " . . 19 ASCANIO, FROSINE AND VALERE Act II, Scene I . . . •' '• . . 21 ALBERT AND METAPHRASTUS Act II, Scene IX ... " " . . 29 ALBERT AND POLYDORE Act III, Scene IV. . " •■ . . 31 VALERE AND MASCARILLE Act III, Scene XI . . '■ " . . 38 GROS-RENE, ERASTE, LUCILE AND MARINETTE. Act IV, .Scene II . . . " " . . 39 ERASTE, GROS-RENE, LUCILE AND MASCARILLE . Act IV, Scene III . . Edm. Iledouin . . 40 ERASTE, GROS-RENE, LUCILE AND MARINETTE . Act IV, Scene III . . Jacques Leman . . 42 GROS-RENE AND MARINETTE Act IV, Scene IV . . •' " . . 45 LA RAPIERE, VALERE AND MASCARILLE Act V, Scene III ... " " . . 47 V PORTRAIT OF LUCILE Act V " " . . 53 56 / '