MOLIERE. 
 
The Minerva Library. 
 
 Edited by G. T. BETTANY, M.A. 
 
 1. CHARLES DARWIN'S JOURNAL DURING 
 
 A VOYAGE IN THE ''BEAGLE:' 
 
 2. THE INGOLDSBV LEGENDS. 
 
 3. BORROWS BIBLE IN SPAIN. 
 
 4. EMERSON'S PROSE WORKS. 
 
 5. GALTONS (FRANCIS) TRAVELS IN 
 
 TROPICAL SOUTH AFRICA. 
 
 6. MANZONI'S THE BETROTHED LOVERS. 
 
 7. GOETHE'S FA UST (Complete). Bayard Taylor's 
 
 Translation, 
 
 8. WALLACE'S {ALFRED RUSSEL) TRAVELS 
 
 ON THE AMAZON. 
 
 9. DEAN STANLEYS LIFE OF DR. ARNOLD. 
 
 10. FOE'S TALES OF ADVENTURE, MYSTERY, 
 
 AND IMAGINATION. 
 
 11. COMEDIES BY MOLIERE. 
 
 "WAED, LOOK & Oo., London, New York, & Molbonrne. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Arcinive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/comediesOOmolirich 
 
JEAN BAPTISTE POQUELIN DE MOLIEEE. 
 
THE MINERVA LIBRARY OF FAMOUS BOOKS. 
 
 Edited by G. T. BETTANY, A/.A., B.Sc, 
 
 COMEDIES 
 
 BY 
 
 MOLI ERE 
 
 Tf/E WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. 
 THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES. 
 THE FORCED MARRIAGE. 
 THE DOCTOR BY COMPULSION. 
 SCAFINS ROGUERIES. 
 THE BLUNDERER, 
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS. 
 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES, 
 THE MISER. 
 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC, 
 THE MISANTHROPE, 
 TARTU FEE, 
 
 THE BLUESTOCKINGS, 
 
 A NEW TRANSLATION BY CHARLES MATHEW, M.A, 
 
 THE TRANSLATION REVISED BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 WITH A PORTRAIT OF MOUERE AND A BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 WARD, LOCK AND CO. 
 
 LONPON, NE\V YORK, AND MELBOURNE. 
 1890. 
 
 [Ail rights reserved.] 
 

 CONTENTS 
 
 The Would-be Gentleman (Z^ Bourgeois Gentilhomme) 
 1670... ... ... ... ... ... ... I 
 
 The Affected Young Ladies {Les Precieuses Ridi- 
 cules) 1659 ... 
 
 The Forced Marriage {Le Mariage Force) 1664 
 
 The Doctor by Compulsion {Le MAdecin Malgre 
 Lui) 1666 
 
 ScAPiN's Rogueries {Les Fourberies de Scapin) 167 i 
 
 The Blunderer {D^tourdi) 1653 
 
 The School for Husbands {DJtcoLE des -Maris) 1661 
 
 The School for Wives {L'Ecole des Femmes) 1662 
 
 The Miser (L'^r^/f£) 1668 
 
 The Hypochondriac {^Le Malade Imaginaire) 1673 
 
 The Misanthrope {Le Misantrope) 1666 
 
 Tartuffe, 1667 ... 
 
 The Blue Stockings {Les Femmes Savantes) 1672 
 
 59 
 78 
 
 97 
 123 
 163 
 
 215 
 
 245 
 287^^ — 
 
 343 
 
 391-^^ 
 
 435 
 
 483 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 MoLiERE, who is to French comedy wliat Sliakespcare is to 
 EngHsh drama, needs only to be read to be appreciated, and (ew 
 authors appeal to a larger public. To all it may be said, Read 
 him in French if possible ; but there are still many to whom a 
 translation will always be the only accessible or the most agree- 
 able form of Moliere. Besides, so broad a moralist and humorist 
 is fit for many languages and peoples, and there seems little reason 
 for the rarity of dramatic representation of Moliere in English but 
 the school-notion of giving him as a means solely of displaying 
 French acquirement. Thousands more could enjoy these great 
 comedies if given in English, and it has been one of the objects 
 of this translation to facilitate such renderings. It has been 
 specially written and carefully revised, with a view to brisk- 
 ness of language and suitability for speaking on the stage. Few 
 will question that the selection given in this volume includes 
 most of Moli^re's best work, several other masterly plays contain- 
 ing matter which could hardly be represented in England at the 
 present day. Some previous translations have been consulted on 
 doubtful points, especially Mr. Van Laun's admirable edition in 
 six volumes (1875-6), which contains, besides an excellent English 
 translation, all the notes and elucidations that could be desired by 
 the student of Moliere, and which is especially full in its treat- 
 ment of the history of each play, and the various forms in which 
 the plays, or parts of them, have been presented by English 
 adaptors ; but the present is an independent translation, and will, 
 
vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 it is believed, be found to have some merits of its own. No 
 attempt has been made to reproduce the style of Moliere's time ; 
 rather a standard style of conversational English, brisk, clear, and 
 straightforward, has been aimed at. It is scarcely necessary to 
 mention that the verse-plays have been reproduced in prose. Verse, 
 however suitable for French plays, would but injure these comedies 
 in English. Names have been left in their French forms. 
 
 The collection in this volume, omitting any of the pastorals, early 
 comedies, and short occasional pieces which form three of the six 
 classes into which Mr. Van Laun divides Moliere's plays, consists 
 of five which he terms farces, beginning with Le Bourgeois Gentil- 
 homine^ as perhaps the best known, and following with four others 
 in order of composition ; five comedies, ranging from LEtourdi, 
 in 1653, to Le Malade Imaginaire of 1673, his last; and three 
 of those " plays which portray humanity in all its aspects," Le 
 Mtsantrope, Tartuffe, and Les Feinmes Savantes. Though I 
 should be disposed to rank LEtourdi among the farces, and 
 Le Bourgeois GejitilJwmvie among the comedies, and to link 
 VAime with the third greatest group, this matters little. But 
 the reader who may find in the first six plays matter less weighty 
 than he desires, however amusing it may be, will find the later 
 group as full as he can wish of that profound penetration of the 
 mask of humanity, that admirable humour, that comprehension 
 and characterisation of men and women in general, which make 
 Molifere as fresh nowadays as ever, and which refresh, charm, 
 enlighten, and warn us at one and the same time. But of course 
 the charm in reading will be most present to those who can, as Mr. 
 Van Laun urges, call up, as they read, " the change of voice, the 
 step, the smile, the gesture, the twinkle of the eye or movement 
 of the head in the actor." 
 
 Jean Baptiste Poquelin, better known as Moliere, the name he 
 assumed on becoming an actor, was born at Paris on or before 
 Jan. 15, 1622, his father, Jean Poquelin, having been Court 
 upholsterer in the Rue St. Honore. The youth was educated at 
 the College de Clermont, the best school in Paris, where he dis« 
 tinguished himself both in classics and philosophy, following this 
 by a course of civil law at Orleans. He thus grew up into manhood 
 
INTRODUCTION. vii 
 
 at the dawn of Louis XIV.'s brilliant age, in which Corneille and 
 Racine, La Fontaine, Pascal and Bossuet, Descartes and Madame 
 de Sevigne flourished, and when the salon of the hotel Ram- 
 bouillet sparkled with learned and witty women, whose affectations 
 Moliere so severely satirised. Moliere, much to his father's dis- 
 gust, in 1643 joined a new dramatic company, termed " L'lllustre 
 Theatre," founded by Madeleine Bej art and several well-to-do young 
 persons of bourgeois famiHes ; and he soon gained great influence 
 in the company, and became responsible for considerable sums of 
 money, which led to his not infrequent arrest. The company for 
 a long time travelled in the provinces; and while it produced 
 numerous indifferent plays, it certainly deserves the credit of 
 being the means of bringing out Moliere's tal^nt^ In 1653, 
 L'Etoiirdi was played at Lyons, where its success fixed them 
 for two or three years. Moliere was in 1658 persuaded to return 
 to Paris, where he was introduced to Cardinal Mazarin and Philip 
 duke of Anjou, the king's brother. This led to the "lUustre 
 The'atre " being asked to play before the king. From this time 
 the company took the title of the "Comediens de Monsieur," 
 and success shone on them. Moliere successively improved and 
 brought out the plays he had already given in sketch in the pro- 
 vinces, and in 1859 made a great hit with his Prkieuses Ridicules^ 
 which nevertheless made him many enemies. In 1660 Mohere 
 was transferred from the theatre of the Petit Bourbon to the 
 great hall of the Palais Royal. In the same year he succeeded to his 
 father's profitable place of Court upholsterer, and the king every- 
 where delighted to honour him. In 1662 he married Armande 
 Bejart, youngest sister of Madeleine. He sincerely loved his 
 wife, who, however, was fonder of pleasure than he could have 
 wished, and not unfrequently gave him some cause for jealousy 
 and melancholy. Henceforth Moliere produced, in rapid succes- 
 sion, farces, comedies, and Court pieces, interspersed with ballets. 
 The first three acts of Tartuffe (1664) and Le Festin de Pierre 
 (1665) raised such a storm of clerical and orthodox opposition 
 by their exposure of hypocrisy, that they were interdicted by the 
 Church ; but the king answered this by conferring on the company 
 the title of " (ZIomediens du Roi," with a royal subsidy. Mohere 
 
viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 had disagreeable moments with his company too, who now 
 through jealousy, now when a play was not greatly successful or a 
 rival piece was more in favour, showed their ingratitude. The 
 king's household troops, who had had free admission to the 
 theatre, were very angry with Moliere when this privilege was 
 taken from them, and it required the king's intervention to pacify 
 them. 
 
 Whether owing to his marriage, to the difficulties and opposi- 
 tion he met with, or to natural ill-health, Moliere in his greatest 
 period was often melancholy, morose, and somewhat feeble and 
 infirm off the stage. His spasmodic cough and weak chest com- 
 pelled him to lead a quiet, retired life as far as possible, and he 
 was frequently laid up for months together towards the close of 
 his career. The Misanthrope is the product of one of these ill- 
 nesses, wherein the dramatist has vividly depicted what he himself 
 largely felt, while Celimene too truthfully represents his wife ; 
 and when it was played in June, 1666, by the two originals who 
 could best expound it, Paris was charmed, and it ran a month. 
 The Miser ^ when first performed in the autumn of 1668, was 
 rather coldly received, a surprising thing to modern readers. It 
 was only in February, 1669, that lartuffe, complete, was given, 
 by the king's express permission, notwithstanding the strong 
 opposition of ecclesiastics, and it scored a grand success, running 
 for several months. Le Bourgeois Gentilhovivie^ still later, in 
 1670, gave us the masterly portrait of M. Jourdain, which part 
 Moliere played himself. In 1672 he produced the great comedy 
 against Blue-Stockings and Pedants which closes this volume 3 
 while the concluding months of his life were relieved by satirising 
 his own feelings in the Malade Imaginaire^ in which he acted the 
 part of Argan, on the 17th of February, 1673, though very ill. " In 
 the evening of the same day," says Mr. Van Laun, " 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 con- 
 solations of religion, but both refused to come. Before a third 
 could be found, Moliere was dead. He was buried four days 
 
INTRODUCTION. ix 
 
 Jater, almost without the rites of religion, in a churchyard adjoin- 
 ing the Rue Montmartre." The priests of that day resented 
 unauthorised censure of hypocrisy and false appearances, and so 
 Moliere died under their ban. The archbishop of Paris had 
 ordered that he should be buried without any ceremony. Could 
 Molibre awake now in France, what a welcome he would receive ! 
 His phrases, his ideas, his characters, are part of the national life. 
 Moliere is described by Madame Poisson, who had seen him 
 when she was very young, as rather tall, of noble figure, with a 
 remarkably fine leg. " Pie 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 motion he gave to 
 these latter rendered his physiognomy extremely comic." His 
 fellow-actors, as La Grange declares, "loved their chief, who 
 united to extraordinary genius an honourable character and 
 charming manner." He was fond of rich dress, splendid furni- 
 ture, and old books. The charms of his conversation were great, 
 and he was remarkable for gentleness, delicacy, and generosity. 
 As an actor he was most successful in comedy and in his own 
 characters. " He is probably," says Mr. Lang in the *' Encyclo- 
 paedia Britannica," " the greatest of all comic writers within the 
 limits of social and refined as distinguished from that of romantic 
 comedy. He has the humour which is but a sense of the true 
 value of life, and now takes the form of the most vivacious wit 
 and the keenest observation, now of melancholy and pity and 
 wonder at the fortunes of mortal men. . . . Besides his contem- 
 plative genius, he possessed an unerring knowledge of the theatre, 
 the knowledge of a great actor and a great manager, and hence 
 his plays can never cease to hold the stage, and to charm, if 
 possible, even more in the performance than in the reading." Sir 
 Walter Scott wrote : *' Moliere possessed, in a degree superior to 
 all other men, the falcon's piercing eye to detect vice under every 
 veil, or folly in every shape, and the talent to pounce upon either, 
 as the natural prey of the satirist. No other writer of comedy 
 ever soared through flights so many and so various." 
 
 G. T. B. 
 
THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN 
 
 {LE BOURGEOIS GENTJLHOMME), 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MONS. JOURDAIN, the citizeft. 
 Mdme. Jourdain, his wife. 
 LuciLE, M. Jourdain'' s daughter, 
 Nicole, a maidservant. 
 Cleonte, in love with Lucile. 
 CoviELLE, servant to Cleonte. 
 DORANTE, a Cou?ttj Dorimene's 
 
 lover. 
 PoniMENE, <? Marchioness. 
 
 Music-Master. 
 Music-Master's Pupil. 
 Dancing-Master. 
 Fencing-Master. 
 Professor of Philosophy. 
 Master-Tailor. 
 Journeyman-Tailor. 
 Servants, Musicians, etc. 
 
 Scene— PARIS. 
 
 ACT I. Scene I. 
 
 Music-Master, Dancing-Master, Three Musicians^ Two Violin- 
 Players, and Four Dancers. In the middle of the scene a 
 music-master's pupil at a table, cotJiposing an air for a serenade 
 which the citizen has bespoken. 
 
 Music- Master {to his musicians). Here, come into this room, 
 and rest yourselves, till he comes. 
 
 Dancing-Master {to the dancers). And you, too, come this way. 
 
 Music-M. {to his pupil). Is it done ? 
 
 Pupil. Yes, sir. 
 
 Music-M. Let me look at it. Ah ! that's good, 
 
 Dancing-M. Is that something new ? 
 
 Music-M. Yes, it is an air for a serenade, which I told him to 
 compose here, while we are waiting till our gentleman is awake. 
 
 Dancing-M. May I have a look at it ? 
 
 Music-M. You will hear it, with the dialogue, when he comes. 
 He can't be long. 
 
 Dancing-M. We're pretty busy, you and I, just now. 
 
 Music-M. That's true. We have found a man here who just 
 suits us both. This Monsieur Jourdain is a snug little income to 
 
2 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN, [Act I. 
 
 us, with the notions of nobility and gallantry that he has got into 
 his head. Your dancing and my music might be well content if 
 all the world were like him. 
 
 Dancmg-M. Well, not exactly ; for I should be better pleased 
 if he knew more of the subjects on which we instruct him. 
 
 Music-M. It is true that his knowledge is bad, but his pay is 
 good : and our arts have more need of that at present than of 
 anything else. 
 
 Dancmg-M. Well, for my part, I confess I have some little 
 appetite for glory. Applause touches my feelings ; and I hold 
 that in the fine arts it is mortifying enough to have to display 
 oneself to fools, and to submit one's compositions to the bar- 
 barism of stupid people. There is pleasure — don't tell me there 
 isn't — in working for persons who understand all the delicate points 
 of an art ; who know how to give a kind reception to the beauties 
 of a work, and by grateful approbation to make you take a relish 
 in your labour. Yes, the pleasantest recompense one can receive 
 for what one does is to see that it is understood ; and to have it 
 accepted with a kindly applause that does one honour. There is 
 nothing, in my opinion, that pays us better for all our toils than 
 this ; and nothing gives more exquisite pleasure than discriminating 
 praise. 
 
 Music-M. I quite agree with you, and I relish it as much as 
 you do. There is certainly nothing that tickles one's fancy more 
 than this applause which you speak of ; but one cannot exist on 
 this incense. Mere praise will not make a man live at his ease. 
 There must be something solid mixed with it, and the best way of 
 praising is to hand over some coin. This man's mental vision 
 is indeed very hmited ; he speaks of everything at random, and 
 never applauds but when he ought not ; but then, his money makes 
 up for his judgment. He has intelligence in his purse. His praises 
 are current coin ; and this ignorant citizen is worth more to us, as 
 you see, than the intellectual nobleman who introduced us here. 
 
 Daficifig-M. There is some truth in what you say ; but I think 
 you depend a little too much on money ; and mere lucre is so 
 base a thing, that no man of honour should ever show any attach- 
 ment to it. 
 
 Music-M. For all that, you are willing enough to take the 
 money that this man gives you. 
 
 Dancing-M. Certainly ; but I don't place all my happiness in 
 it ; and I wish that with his fortune he had also some good taste. 
 
 Music-M. So do I, and it is what we are both working for, so 
 far as we can. But anyhow, he gives us means of making our-. 
 
Scene II.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 3 
 
 selves known in the world ; and he will pay instead of others for 
 what others will praise instead of him. 
 Dandng-M. Here he comes. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 MoNS. JouRDAiN (/;/ nigJit-cap and dressing-gown), Music-Master ^ 
 Dancing-Master^ Violoncellists, Musicians, Dancers, and Two 
 Footmen. 
 
 M. Jourdain. AVell, gentlemen, what have you got there ? Will 
 you let me see your silly thing ? 
 
 Dancing-Master. Eh ? What silly thing ? 
 
 M. Jour. Why, the — what do you call it ? Your prologue or 
 dialogue of songs and dances. 
 
 Da?ici7tg-M. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Music-Master. We are quite ready for you. 
 
 M.Jour. Oh, I know I kept you waiting a little; but that was 
 because I am dressing to-day like the " upper ten," and my hosier 
 sent me a pair of silk stockings that I thought I never should have 
 got on. 
 
 Music-M. We are here only to wait your leisure. 
 
 M. Jour. I beg that you will neither of you go till they have 
 brought me my coat, that you may see me in it. 
 
 Dancing-M. Just as you please. 
 
 M.Jour. You shall see me rigged out in the best style from 
 head to foot. 
 
 Music-M. We don't doubt it. 
 
 M. Jour. I've had this chintz dressing-gown made for me. 
 
 Dancing-M. It's very handsome. 
 
 AI. Jour. My tailor tells me that this is what gentlemen wear 
 of a morning. 
 
 Music-M, It suits you wonderfully. 
 
 M. Jour. Here, you fellows, both of you ! 
 
 First Footman. What's your pleasure, sir ? 
 
 M. Jour. Oh ! nothing. It was only to see whether you heard 
 me properly. [To the tzao Masters.) What do you think of my 
 livery ? 
 
 Dancing-M. It's splendid. 
 
 M. Jour, {throwing his dressing-gown half open, and showing a 
 closely-fitting pair of crimson velvet breeches, and a green velvet vest). 
 Here, again, is a kind of morning dishabille to take exercise in. 
 
4- THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act I. 
 
 Music-M. It's fine. 
 M. Jour. Footman ! 
 First Footman, Sir ? 
 M. Jour. No ; the other fellow. 
 Second Footmmi. Sir ? 
 
 M. Jour. Here, hold my dressing-gown. Do I look well so ? 
 Dancing-M. Excellently well. You couldn't look better. 
 M. Jour. Nov/ let's see your production. 
 Music- M. I should greatly like you first to hear an air that he 
 (ifidicating his pupil) has just composed for the serenade you 
 wanted. He is one of my pupils, who has a remarkable talent for 
 that kind of thing. 
 
 Af. Jour. Yes ; but that shouldn't have been done by a pupil. 
 You are not too good for the work yourself. 
 
 Music-M. You must not allow yourself to be led away, sir, by 
 the name of Pupil. Pupils of this sort know as much about this 
 as the best masters ; and the air is as good as can be made. Only 
 listen to it. 
 
 M. Jour. Give me my dressing-gown, that I may hear it better — 
 Stay, I think I shall do without it — No, give it me again ; that 
 will be best. 
 
 Musician {singiiig)— 
 
 My pain is so extreme I languish day and night. 
 Since you have tanid me with your eyes so bright ; 
 But tell me, Iris, what dire fate attends 
 Your enemies, if thus you treat your friends 2 
 M. Jour. This song seems to me rather dismal ; it sends one 
 to sleep. I should be glad if you could enliven it a little here and 
 there. 
 
 Music-M. But, sir, the air must suit the words. 
 M. Jour. I learnt a very pretty one some time ago. Stay--- 
 H'm — How did it begin ? 
 
 Dancing-M. Really, sir, I don't know. 
 
 M. Jour. There's something about a lamb in it. 
 
 Dancing-M. What ! a lamb ? 
 
 M.Jour. Yes. Now I've got it. {He sings.) 
 
 J thought my dear Jenny was gentle and fair, 
 I thought my dear Jenny's a soft, lamb-like air; 
 But alas ! atid alas I she's a thousand times worse 
 Than the tiger that lives in the woods. 
 
 There, now, isn't that pretty ? 
 Music-M. Extremely pretty. 
 
Scene TL] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 5 
 
 Dancmg-M. And then, you sing it so well ! 
 
 AT. Jour. Yet I never learnt music. 
 
 Music-M. You ought to learn it, sir, as you learn dancing. 
 They are two arts which have a close connection with one another. 
 
 Dandng-M. And which open the human mind to see all that 
 is beautiful. 
 
 Af. Jour. Do fashionable people learn music, too ? 
 
 Miisic-M. Yes, sir. 
 
 AI. Jour. Then I'll learn it. But I don't know how I shall 
 find time : for besides the fencing-master who teaches me, I have 
 also engaged a Professor of Philosophy, who is to begin this 
 morning. 
 
 Music-M. Philosophy is something ; but music, sir, music 
 
 Z)anchig-M. Music and dancing — music and dancing — that's 
 all that's necessary. 
 
 Music-M. There's nothing so useful in a State as music. 
 
 Dancing-M. There's nothing so necessary for men as dancing. 
 
 Music-M. Witl-.out music a State cannot exist. 
 
 Dajicing-M, Without dancing a man can do nothing. 
 
 Music-M. All the disorders, all the wars that one sees in the 
 world, happen only from not having learnt music. 
 
 Dancing-M. All the disasters of mankind, all the fatal mis- 
 fortunes that history is so full of, the blunders of politicians, the 
 failures of great commanders, all have come from want of knowing 
 how to dance. 
 
 M. Jour. How so ? 
 
 Music-M. Does not war proceed from want of concord be- 
 tween men. 
 
 M. Jour. Tliat's true. 
 
 Music-M. And if all men learnt music, would not that be the 
 means of keeping them in accord together, and of seeing uni- 
 versal peace in the world. 
 
 M. Jour. You're quite right. 
 
 Dancing-M. When a man has been guilty of some slip in his 
 conduct, whether it be in the affairs of his family, or in the govern- 
 ment of the State, or in the command of an army, don't we always 
 say such a one has made a false step in such a matter ? 
 
 M, Jour. Yes, we certainly do say so. 
 
 Dancing-M. And can the making a false step proceed from 
 anything but not knowing how to dance ? 
 
 M. Jour. That's true, and you are both right. 
 
 Dancing-M. This is to show you the excellence and advantage 
 of dancing and music. 
 
6 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act I. 
 
 M. Jour. Now I understand it. 
 
 Music-M, Would you like now to see our two compositions ? 
 
 M. Jour. Yes. 
 
 Mtisic-M. I have told you already that this is a slight attempt 
 which I made some time ago to show how the various passions 
 may be expressed by music. 
 
 M.Jour. Very well. 
 
 Music-M. {to his musicians). Here, come forward. {To M. Jour.) 
 You must imagine that they are dressed like shepherds. 
 
 M. Jour. But why always shepherds ? That's what one sees 
 everywhere. 
 
 Music-M. When we have to introduce people speaking in 
 music, in order to keep to probability we must have recourse to 
 pastorals. Singing has always been appropriated to shepherds ; 
 and it is by no means natural in dialogue that princes and towns- 
 people should sing their passions. 
 
 M. Jour. Well, well. Now let us see it. 
 
 A Musical Dialogue between Three Singers (One I.ady 
 
 AND Two Men). 
 Lady Singer. 
 
 The heart that yields to lovers strong sway 
 Must look for cares unnumbered day by day ; 
 Sweet are lovers sighs and languishments they say : 
 
 But say whatever they 7mll, for me 
 
 Nought's so siveet as liberty. 
 
 First S. 
 
 Nought^ so sweet as lovers soft fire, 
 Which can two ardent hearts inspire 
 With but one love, and one desire. 
 Without love's passion none can happy be, 
 Take love fro7n life, no pleasure fnore you'll see. 
 
 Second S. 
 
 Firsts. 
 
 How sweet beneath the law of love to live-, 
 Jf only love true cotistancy would give : 
 
 But cruel fate I 
 
 No Nymph is true : 
 The faithless sex, more worthy of our hate, 
 To love should bid eternally adieu. 
 
 What pleasing heat I 
 
Scene II.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 
 Lady S. 
 
 What freedom blest! 
 O, fair deceit. 
 
 How I love thee. 
 
 I approve thee ! 
 
 But I detest. 
 
 Begin to love, and leave this mortal hate, 
 
 la shepherdess can find, 
 Who will prove a faithful mate. 
 
 Ah ! I fear 'tis but a blind. 
 
 Our glory to retrieve^ 
 My heart I here bestow. 
 
 But, Nymph, can I believe 
 
 That heat't no chaftge will know ? 
 
 By experience you'll see, 
 
 Which can give the truest love. 
 
 And who fails in constancy 
 Shall be punished from above. 
 
 Then let us kindle soft desire. 
 Let us fan the amorous fire. 
 Ah ! how sweet it is to love, 
 When hearts united constant prove. 
 
 M./our. Is that all? 
 Music-M. Yes. 
 
 M. Jour. I find this very well put together, and there are some 
 pretty little sayings in it. 
 
 Second S. 
 First S. 
 Lady S. 
 Second S. 
 First S. 
 Lady S. 
 
 Second S. 
 Lady S. 
 
 Second S. 
 
 Lady S. 
 
 Second S. 
 
 All Three. 
 
8 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. Act II. 
 
 E>ancw(!;-M. Now in my composition you have a little arrange- 
 ment of the finest movements, and the most beautiful attitudes 
 with which a dance can possibly be varied. 
 
 M. Jour. And are these shepherds too ? 
 
 Dancing-M. That's just as you please. Now begin. 
 
 (^Fotir dancers execute all the different fnovements and kinds of steps 
 which the Danciiig- Master orders : and this dafjce makes the 
 First Interlude.) 
 
 ACT II. Scene I. 
 MoNS. JouRDAiN, Music-Master, Dancing-Master, Senmnts. 
 
 M. Jourdain. This is not amiss, and those fellows trip it right 
 merrily. 
 
 Music-Master. When the dance is accompanied with music, 
 that would have a still better effect, and you shall see something 
 charming in the little ballet we have arranged for you. 
 
 M.Jour. However, that's for by and by, mind you; and the 
 person for whom I have ordered all this, will do me the honour of 
 dining with me here. 
 
 Dancing- Master. Everything is ready. 
 
 Music-M. But this is not enough, sir; a gentleman like your- 
 self, who lives in such good style, and has such a taste for fine 
 things, ought to have a concert at your house every Wednesday or 
 Thursday. 
 
 M. Jour. Do fash ionable people have them then ? 
 
 Music-M. Yes, sin "" — -^ " "^ 
 
 M. Jour. Then so will I. W^ill it be nice ? 
 
 Music-M. Certainly. You must have three voices — a treble, a 
 counter-tenor, and bass, which must be accompanied by a bass-viol, 
 a theorbo-lute, and a harpsichord for the sustained bass, with two 
 violins to play the symphonies. 
 
 M. Jour. You must add also a single-stringed viol, for that is 
 an instrument which pleases me, and is extremely harmonious. 
 
 Music-M. Leave us to manage matters. 
 
 M. Jour. However, don't forget by and by to send the musi- 
 cians to sing during dinner. 
 
 Music-M. You shall have everything that is necessary. 
 
 M. Jour. But, above all, let the ballet be first-rate. 
 
Scene II.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTJLHOMME. 9 
 
 Music-M. You shall be quite satisfied with it, and among other 
 things with certain minuets which you will find in it. 
 
 M. Jour. Ah! the minuet is my favourite dance. I should 
 like you to see me go through one. Come, master. 
 
 Dancing-M. A hat, sir, if you please. {M. Jourdain fakes the 
 hat from his footman^ and puts it on the top of his night-cap. The 
 Dancing-Master takes his hands and makes him dance to a mifwet 
 air, which he sings.) Now, Tol, lol, lol, lol, lol, lol ; Tol, lol lol, 
 twice; Tol, lol, lol; tol lol. Keep time, if you please. Tol, lol, 
 lol, lol. The right leg forward. Tol, lol, lol. Don't shake your 
 shoulders so much. Tol, lol, lol, lol, lol. Your arms hang as if 
 they were crippled. Tol, lol, lol, lol, lol. Hold up your head, 
 and turn out your toes. Tol, lol, lol. Your body upright. 
 
 M.Jour. Well ! 
 
 Mnsic-M. Couldn't be better. 
 
 M. Jour. By the way, show me how I ought to make a bow 
 on receiving a marchioness. I shall have occasion for it before 
 long. 
 
 Dancing M. How you must make a bow to a marchioness ? 
 
 M.Jour. Yes, a marchioness whose name is Dorimene. 
 
 Dancing'M. Give me your hand. 
 
 M. Jour. No. You've only got to do it. I shall remember 
 how. 
 
 Dancing-M. If you would salute her with a great deal of 
 respect you must first of all make a retiring bow, then, advancing 
 towards her, bow three times, and the last time bow as low as her 
 knees. 
 
 M. Jour. Just show me how. {After the Dancing-Master has 
 bowed three ti?nes.) That'll do. 
 
 First Footman. Sir, your fencing-master is here. 
 
 M. Jour. Tell him to come in, and give me a lesson. I should 
 like you to see how I do it. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 MoNs. Jourdain, Fencing-Master, Music-Master, Dancing- 
 Master, and Footman carrying two foils. 
 
 Fencing-Master (after having taken two foils from the Footman, 
 and havitig given one to M. Joicrdaiti). Now, sir. The salute. 
 Your body upright, leaning slightly on the left thigh. Your legs 
 not so far apart. Your feet both in line. Your wrist opposite 
 
lo THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act II. 
 
 your hip. The point of your sword over against your shoulder. 
 Your arm not stretched out quite so much. Your left hand on a 
 level with your eyes. Your left shoulder more squared. Hold up 
 your head with a firm look. Advance. Your body steady. 
 Engage my sword in carte and lunge from that position. One, 
 two. llecover. Again, your foot firm. One, two. A step back. 
 When you make a thrust, sir, your sword should quit first, and 
 your body well kept back. Come, thrust. Tierce, and finish the 
 same. Advance. Your body firm. Advance. Deliver from 
 there. One, two. As you were. Repeat the same. One, two. 
 A step back. Parry, sir, parry. {The Fencing- Master gives him 
 two or three home-thrusts^ saying at the same time, '■'' Parry, ^^) 
 
 M, Jourdain. Eugh — I am out of breath ! 
 
 Music-Master. You do wonders. 
 
 Fencing-M. I have already told you, that the whole secret of 
 an assault-at-arms consists in giving and not receiving ; and as I 
 showed you the other day by demonstrative reasoning, it is impos- 
 sible for you to be hit if you know how to turn your adversary's 
 sword from the line of your body, which depends only on a small 
 motion of your wrist, either inward or outward. 
 
 M. Jour. At that rate, then, a man, without any courage, is 
 sure to kill his man, and not be killed himself? 
 
 Fencing-M. No doubt. Have not you seen the demonstration 
 of it? 
 
 M.Jour. Yes, certainly. 
 
 Fencing-M. By this you may see how highly such persons as 
 ourselves ought to be esteemed in the State ; and how much the 
 science of arms excels all the other useless sciences, such as music, 
 dancing 
 
 Dancing-Master. Gently, Mr. Master- at- Arms. Don't speak 
 disrespectfully of dancing. 
 
 Music-M. And learn, I beg of you, to have a better apprecia- 
 tion of the excellence of music. 
 
 Fencing-M, You're comical fellows, to pretend to compare 
 your sciences with mine. 
 
 Music-M. I beg of you to notice the importance of the man. 
 
 Dancing- M, He's a droll kind of animal, with his leathern 
 breastplate. 
 
 Fencing-M. My little dancing-master, I'll give you something 
 to dance for. And as for you, Mr. Musician, I'll soon make you 
 tune up. 
 
 Dancing-M. Mr. Iron-smith, I'll soon teach you your trade. 
 
 M. Jour, {to the Danci?tg-Master). Are you mad to go and 
 
Scene III.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. ii 
 
 quarrel with a man who understands all about tierce and carte, 
 and who knows how to kill any one by demonstrative reasoning ? 
 
 Dancing-AI. Oh ! I laugh at his demonstrative reasoning and 
 at his tierce and carte too. 
 
 M.Jonr. Gently, I tell you ! 
 
 Feiicing-M. What's that ? You impertinent little wretch. 
 
 M. Joiw. Now, my dear Fencing-Master. 
 
 Da7icing-M. Eugh, you great coach-horse. 
 
 M. Jour. Now, really, my good Dancing-Master. 
 
 Fencing-M. Let me just fall on you 
 
 M. Jour. Come, come ! 
 
 Dancing-M. Let me only get hold of you ! 
 
 M. Jour. Gently. 
 
 Fencing-M. I'll comb your hair for you in a fine fashion 
 
 M. Jour. Now, for goodness sake ! 
 
 Dancing-M. I'll thrash you in such a way 
 
 M. Jour. Let me beg of you ! 
 
 Music-M. We must teach him a lesson in manners. 
 
 AT. Jour. Good heavens ! stop this. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Professor of Philosophy, Music-Master, Dancing-Master, 
 MoNS. Jourdain, Servants. 
 
 M. Jourdain. Ah, Mr. Professor, you are just in time with your 
 philosophy. Come and make peace among these good people. 
 
 Professor of Philosophy. How now? What's the matter, 
 gendemen ? 
 
 M. Jour. They have put themselves in such a passion over the 
 superiority of their professions, that they have insulted each other 
 and nearly come to blows. 
 
 Prof. Really, gentlemen, ought you to let yourselves be carried 
 so far ? Have you not read Seneca's learned treatise on anger ? 
 Is there anything more base and shameful than this passion which 
 turns a man into a wild beast ? And should not reason govern all 
 our actions ? 
 
 Daficing-Masfer. But, sir, he has been abusing us both, running 
 down dancing which is ray employment, and music, which is my 
 friend's profession. 
 
 Prof. A wise man is above all insults that can be offered him, 
 and the best answer to abuse is calmness and patience. 
 
12 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act I] 
 
 Fcncmg- Master. They both had the insolence to compare thei 
 professions to mine. 
 
 Frof. Why should this excite you? Men ought not to disput 
 about rank or empty glory ; what distinguishes clearly one mai 
 from another is wisdom and virtue. 
 
 Dancing-M. I maintain against him that dancing is a science 
 which cannot be too much honoured. 
 
 Music- Mastei'. And I, that music has been held in the greates 
 reverence in all ages. 
 
 Fencing-M. And I maintain against them both that th 
 art of self-defence is the finest and most necessary of all th 
 sciences. 
 
 Prof. What becomes of philosophy, then ? I think you arc a' 
 three of you very impertinent to speak in this way before me, ani 
 to have the impudence to give the name of Science to things tha 
 ought not even to be honoured with the name of Art ; and whic 
 can only be described as the pitiful trade of a Gladiator, Ballac 
 singer, and Street-dancer. 
 
 Fmcing-M. Get out, you dog of a philosopher ! 
 
 Music-M. Away with you, you pedantic scoundrel ! 
 
 Dancing-M. Be off, you arrant bottlewasher ! 
 
 Prof. What ! you rascals 
 
 \The Philosopher falls on the?n, and all ihn 
 move offfighti7ig. 
 
 M.Jour. What, Mr. Philosopher ! 
 
 Prof. Wretches, rogues, insolent curs ! 
 
 M. Jour. But really, Mr. Philosopher. 
 
 Fencing-M. . Plague on the animal ! 
 
 M. Jour. Gentlemen ! Gentlemen ! 
 
 Prof. Impudent villains ! 
 
 M.Jour. Come, Mr. Philosopher ! 
 
 Dancing-M. Deuce take the dull ass ! 
 
 M.Jour. Gentlemen! Gentlemen! 
 
 Prof. Scoundrels ! 
 
 M. Jour. Oh 1 Mr. Philosopher. 
 
 Music-M. To the devil with this impudent fellow ! 
 
 M. Jour. Now, gentlemen ! 
 
 Prof. Rogues ! Ragamuffins ! Traitors ! Impostors ! \Exeum 
 
 M. Jour. Mr. Philosopher 1 Gentlemen ! Mr. Philosopher 
 Gentlemen I Oh ! well then, fight away as much as you lik< 
 I'm not going to spoil my dressing-gown in trying to part you. 
 should be a great fool to push myself into the fray, and get a blo^ 
 that would hurt me. 
 
JCENii IV.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 13 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Professor of Philosophy, Mons. Jourdain, Servants. 
 
 Professor {arranging his collar). Now let us come to our lesson. 
 
 M. Jourdain. Ah ! sir, I am sorry for the blows they gave you. 
 
 Prof. Oh ! that doesn't matter. A philosopher must take 
 :hings as they come. I will write a satire against them, in 
 Juvenal's style, and that will cut them up finely. But let us say 
 10 more about it. What would you like to learn ? 
 
 M. Jour. All I can, for I have a great wish to be a scholar, 
 md I am wild to think that my father and mother never made me 
 study the sciences when I was young. 
 
 Prof. A very good sentiment, Nam sine dodrina vita est quasi- 
 mortis imago. You understand that, as of course you are ac- 
 quainted with Latin ? 
 
 Af. Jour. Yes; but go on just as if I did not know it. 
 Explain to me what it means. 
 
 Prof. Why, it means that without learning, life is as it were 
 the likeness of death. 
 
 M. Jour. That Latin is right. 
 
 Prof. Have you not learnt some principles or rudiments of 
 science ? 
 
 M. Jour, Oh ! yes, I can read and write. 
 
 Prof Where would you like us to begin ? Shall I teach you 
 logic ? 
 
 M. Jour. What's the meaning of logic ? 
 
 Prof. It is that which teaches us the three operations of the 
 mind. 
 
 M. Jour. And what are they ? 
 
 Prof The first, is the power of conceiving well, by means of 
 universals. The second, that of judging well, by means of cate- 
 gories. The third, that of drawing a right conclusion, by means 
 pf the figures, Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio^ Baralipton. 
 
 M. Jour. Your words are too repulsive. I don't care for your 
 logic. Let us learn something pleasanter. 
 
 Prof. Would you like to learn the science of Morals ? 
 
 M. Jour. Of morals ? 
 
 Prof Yes. 
 
 M. Jour. Well, what is morals about ? 
 
 Prof Why it treats of happiness, shows men how to govern 
 their passions, and 
 
 M.Jour. Oh, that'll do. I'm as headstrong as the very devil, 
 
14 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act II. 
 
 and no morality will keep me back ; I put myself into an awful 
 rage when I choose. 
 
 Prof. Would you like to learn Physics, then ? 
 
 M. Jour. What does physics drone about ? 
 
 Prof, It explains the principles of Nature, and the properties 
 of bodies; it treats of the nature of the elements, of metals, of 
 minerals, stones, plants, and animals ; it teaches us the cause of 
 all the meteors, of the rainbow, will-o'-the-wisp, comets, light- 
 nings, thunder, thunderbolts, rain, snow, hail, winds, and whirl- 
 winds. 
 
 M. Jour. There's too much hubbub in this, too much 
 confusion. 
 
 Prof. Well, what would you like me to teach you, then ? 
 
 M. Jour. Teach me orthography. 
 
 Prof With all my heart. 
 
 M. Jour. Then you can teach me the almanac ; when there is 
 a moon, and when there is none. 
 
 Prof. Very well ; but to carry out this idea of yours properly, 
 and to treat the matter philosophically, we must begin according 
 to the order of things, with an exact knowledge of the nature of 
 the letters, and the different manner of pronouncing each. And 
 first I must tell you that letters are divided into vowels, so called 
 because they express the distinct sounds ; and into consonants, so 
 named because they sound with the vowels, and only mark the 
 different articulations of the sounds. There are five vowels or 
 voices — A, E, I, O, U. 
 
 M. Jour. I understand all that. 
 
 Prof The vowel A is pronounced by opening the mouth very 
 wide — A.^ 
 
 M.Jour. A, A. Yes. 
 
 Prof The vowel E is formed by drawing the lower jaw a little 
 nearer to the upper — A, E. 
 
 M.Jour. A, E, A, E. So it is. This is really quite pretty. 
 
 Prof. And the vowel I by bringing the jaws still nearer to 
 each other, and stretching the two corners of the mouth towards 
 the ears — A, E, I. 
 
 M. Jour. A, E, I, I, I, I. That's true. Science for ever ! 
 
 Prof The vowel O is formed by re-opening the jaws and 
 drawing the lips together at the two corners, the upper and the 
 lower — O. 
 
 M. Jour. O, O. Nothing could be more exact. A, E, I, O, 
 I, O. This is admirable ! I, O, I, O. 
 
 * The letters are of course to be pronounced as in French. 
 
,CENE IV.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 15 
 
 Prof. The opening of the nnouth makes a perfect little ring 
 ^hich resembles an O. 
 
 M. Jour, O, 0,0. You are right. O. What a fine thing 
 t is to know something ! 
 
 Prof. The vowel U is formed by bringing the teeth close 
 ogether, without letting them actually touch, and then, extending 
 he lips outwards, bringing them also near together without abso- 
 utely joining them — U. 
 
 M. Jour. U, U. Nothing can be truer than that — U. 
 
 Prof You extend your two lips as if you were making a face. 
 50 if you want to do that to any one, and to laugh at him, you 
 leed say nothing more than U. 
 
 M. Jour. U, U. That's true. Ah ! I wish I'd studied 
 looner, to have known all this. 
 
 Prof To-morrow we will consider the other letters, which are 
 ;he consonants. 
 
 M.Jour. Is there anything as curious in them, as in these? 
 
 Prof. Undoubtedly. The consonant D, for example, is pro- 
 lounced by placing the tip of the tongue above the upper teeth — 
 D. 
 
 M. Jour. D, D. Yes ; so it is. This is quite charming ! 
 
 Prof. F, by resting the upper teeth upon the lower lip — F. 
 
 M. Jour. F, F. It's quite true. Oh, father and mother, what 
 I grudge I owe you ! 
 
 Prof hndi R, by carrying the tip of your tongue up to the roof 
 3f your mouth, so that being lightly touched by the air which 
 2omes out sharply, it yields to it, and, returning to the same place, 
 makes a kind of roll — R-rrr. 
 
 M. Jour. R, r, ra. R, r, r, r, r, ra. That's true. What a 
 clever man you are ! and how much time I've lost. R, r, r, ra. 
 
 Prof. I will explain all these curious things to you thoroughly. 
 
 M. Jour. Pray do : but now I must tell you a secret. I am 
 in love with a lady of high rank, and I should like you to help me 
 to write something to her in a short billet-doux which I wish to 
 drop at her feet. 
 
 Prof Very well. 
 
 M.Jour. It will be very gallant, will it? 
 
 Prof Certainly. Would you like to write poetry to her ? 
 ; M. Jour. Oh, no. None of your poetry for me. 
 ■ Prof. So, then, you only want prose. 
 
 M. Jour. No ; I don't want either poetry or prose. 
 
 Prof But it must be one or the other. 
 
 M. Jo2ir. Why so ? 
 
i6 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN, [Act I 
 
 Prof. For the reason, sir, that there is no other way of exprei 
 sing oneself except by poetry or prose. 
 
 M.Jour. Is there nothing else, then, but poetry or prose ? 
 
 Prof, No, sir. Whatever is not poetry is prose, and whateve 
 is not prose is poetry. 
 
 M. four. And when one talks, what is that then ? 
 
 Prof. Prose. 
 
 M.Jour. What, when I say, "Nicole, bring me my slipper; 
 and give me my night-cap," is that prose ? 
 
 Prof Yes, sir. 
 
 M.Jour. In good truth, then, I've been talking prose fc 
 more than forty years without knowing it, and I am extremel 
 obliged to you for informing me of it. Well, then I want to pii 
 this into my note, Beautiful Marchioness, your lovely eyes make ;a 
 die of love, but I should like this expressed in an extremely polit 
 v»ray, neatly turned, you know. 
 
 Prof Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced your heart t 
 ashes ; that night and day you suffer on her account all th 
 torments 
 
 M.Jour. No, no, no, I don't want all that. I'll have nothin 
 but what I told you, Beautiful Marchioness, your lovely eyes niaK 
 me die of love. 
 
 Prof But you must make a little more of it than that. 
 
 M. Jour. No, I tell you ; I'll only have those words in th 
 note, but expressed properly, and arranged as they should be. 
 beg you to do this for me, so that I may judge of the difFeren 
 ways in which the words can be placed. 
 
 Prof They can be placed as you said at first, Beautifu 
 Marchioness, your lovely eyes inake me die of love ; or. Of love to di 
 me make, beautiful Marchioness, your lovely eyes ; or. Your lovely 
 eyes, of love me make, beautiful Marchioness, to die ; or, To die you 
 lovely eyes, beautiful Marchioness, of love me make ; or, lastly, M 
 make your eyes lovely to die, beautiful Marchioness, of love. 
 
 M.Jour. But of all these ways, which is the best ? 
 
 Prof That which you said yourself, Beautiful Marchioness, 
 your lovely eyes make me die of love. 
 
 M. Jour. Yet I never studied it, and I made it all at once 
 I thank you with all my heart, and I hope you will come in gooc 
 time to-morrow. 
 
 Prof I will not fail. [Exii 
 
 M.Jour. {to a servant). What ! are not my clothes come yet! 
 
 Servant. No, sir. 
 
 M. Jour. This cursed tailor makes me wait long enough 
 
Scene V.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME, 17 
 
 seeing I have so much to do to-day. I am enraged. Plague take 
 this vagabond of a tailor ! If I only had him here, this dog of a 
 tailor, this treacherous tailor, I'd 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Master-Tailor, Journeyman-Tailor {carrying Mons. Jourdain's 
 suit of cloiJies\ Mons. Jourdain, Servant. 
 
 M. Jourdain. Oh ! There you are ; I was just getting into a 
 frightful passion with you. 
 
 Master-Tailor. I could not possibly come sooner; I set twenty 
 of my men to work at your clothes. 
 
 M. Jour. You sent me a pair of silk hose so tight, that I had 
 the greatest difficulty in the world to get them on ; and there are 
 two stitches broken in them already. 
 
 Masier-T. If anything, you'll find they'll get too large. 
 
 M. Jour. Yes, if I break some stitches every day. You've 
 had a pair of shoes made for me, too, which pinch me terribly. 
 
 Masier-T. Not at all, sir. 
 
 M.Jour. What do you mean by not at all ? 
 
 Master-T. I mean they don't pinch you at all. 
 
 M. Jour. But I tell you they do. 
 
 Master-T. You fancy so. 
 
 M. Jour. I fancy so because I feel it. That's a good reason. 
 
 Master-T. Come, here is one of the finest court suits, and 
 well matched. It's very clever to have invented a coat of such a 
 quiet colour without being black ; and I'll give the cleverest tailors 
 six chances to beat it. 
 
 M.Jour. But what's the meaning of this? You've put the 
 flowers upside down. 
 
 Maiter-2\ You didn't tell me you wanted them the other way. 
 
 AI. Jour. Was there any need to tell you that? 
 
 Master-T. Certainly ; all gentlemen wear them this way. 
 
 M. Jour. What, gentlemen wear the flowers downwards ? 
 
 Master-T. Yes, sir. 
 
 M. Jour. Oh, that will do very well then. 
 
 Master-T. If you like I will put them upwards. 
 
 M.Jour. No, no. 
 
 Master-T. You have only to say the word. 
 
 M. Jour. No, I tell you, you have done quite right. Do you 
 think my coat suits me ? 
 
i8 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act II. 
 
 Master- T. What a question ! I defy an artist with his brush 
 to draw anything that could suit you better. I have a workman 
 at home who will turn out a " Rhingrave " ^ against any one in 
 the world, and another who for the cut of a doublet is the hero of 
 our age. 
 
 M,/our. How about the wig, and the feathers ? Are they all 
 right ? 
 
 Master-T. Everything is perfectly right. 
 
 M.Jour. {looking closely at the Tailor's own clothes^. Why, Mr. 
 Tailor, this is the same stuff as you made my last suit of. I know 
 it at once. 
 
 Master-T. The cloth seemed to me so handsome, that I 
 thought I could not do better than cut a coat out of it for myself. 
 
 M. Jour. Yes ; but you should not have cabbaged it out of 
 mine. 
 
 Master-T. Will you try on your suit ? 
 
 AT. Jour. Yes, give it to me. 
 
 Master-T. Stop a minute. We can't do business like that. I 
 have brought my men with me, who will dress you to an appro- 
 priate tune : for this kind of suit must be put on with ceremony. 
 Here, come in {to his men). Now put on this gentleman's suit as 
 you do with people of rank. 
 
 {Four Journeyman-Tailors, dancing, approach M. Jourdain. Two 
 takeoff the close-fitting breeches, two others his jacket ; then they 
 put on his new suit, and M. Jourdain walks about to see how 
 it fits him. All this is done to the accompaniment of music.) 
 
 Journey 7nan-Tailor. Squire, will you kindly give the tailors 
 something to drink your health with ? 
 
 M. Jour. What did you call me ? 
 
 Journey 7nan- T. Squire. 
 
 M.Jour, See what it is to dress like people of quality ! You 
 may go all your life clothed like a citizen, and no one will ever 
 call you Squire. Stay ; here's something for you from the squire 
 i^ives them some 7noney). 
 
 Journey man-T. My lord, we're extremely obliged to you. 
 
 M. Jour. What 1 My lord ! Here, stay, friend. " My 
 lord " deserves something, and " My lord " is not an everyday 
 word. Here, that's what " My lord " gives you. 
 
 Journeyman-T. My lord, we shall all go and drink your Grace's 
 health. 
 
 ' Larije wide breeches, decked with ribbons. 
 
Scene V.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 19 
 
 M. Jour. Your Grace! Here, stop, don't go away. Only 
 fancy "Your Grace" to me! {Aside.) Upon my word, if he 
 goes as far as " Your Highness," he shall have the whole purse. 
 Here, this is from His Grace. 
 
 Journey maii-T. My lord, we thank your Grace most humbly 
 for your generosity. 
 
 M.Jour, That's all right. I was going to give him everything. 
 
 (The four Tailors dance a merry dance^ which forms the second 
 Interlude. ) 
 
 ACT HI. Scene I. 
 MoNS. JouRDAiN, and Two Footmen. 
 
 M. Jourdain. Follow me ; I am going to take a walk through 
 The town, just to show my suit ; and take particular care, both of 
 you, to walk close behind me, so that people may see that you 
 belong to me. 
 
 Footmen. Certainly, sir. 
 
 M.Jour. Call Nicole, as I have some orders to give her. No, 
 don't go ; here she comes. 
 
 Scene H. 
 
 Nicole, Mons. Jourdain, and Two Servants. 
 
 M. Jourdai7i. Nicole. 
 Nicole. Your pleasure, sir ? 
 M.Jour, Listen. 
 
 Nic. (laughing). Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! - 
 
 M.Jour. What are you laughing at? 
 JVic. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha I 
 M, Jour, What does the hussy mean by this ? 
 Nic. Ha, ha, ha ! How you are rigged out ! Ha, ha, ha f 
 M.Jour. Come now, this won't do. 
 Nic. Oh, my stars ! Ha, ha, ha ! 
 M. Jour. You jade, are you laughing at me ? 
 Nic. Oh, no, sir ! I should be very sorry to do so/ Ha, ha, 
 lia I 
 
20 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN, [Act III. 
 
 M. Jour. I shall give you a slap on the face, if' you laugh any 
 more. 
 
 Nic. Really, sir, I can't help it. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 M, Jour. Won't you leave off? 
 
 Nic. I beg your pardon, sir ; but you are so droll that I can- 
 not help laughing. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 M.Jour. Was there ever such impertinence? 
 
 Nic. But you are so very funny like that. Ha, ha 1 
 
 M.Jour. I shall 
 
 Nic. Oh, please excuse me. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 M. Jour. Now, I tell you, if you laugh again, ever so little, 
 I'll give you such a box on the ear as you never had before in 
 your Hfe. 
 
 Nic. Very well, sir,, now I've done. I won't laugh any more. 
 
 M. Jour. Take care you don't. You must clean out 
 
 Nic. Ha, ha ! 
 
 M. Jour. You must clean out properly 
 
 Nic. Ha, ha ! 
 
 M.Jour. I say you must clean out the hall — — 
 
 Nic. Ha, ha ! 
 
 M. Jour. What, again ! 
 
 Nic. Sir, I would rather you gave me a good beating, and let 
 me have my laugh out ; that will do me more good. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 M.Jour. I am enraged. 
 
 Nic. For goodness sake, sir, I beg of you let me laugh. Ha, 
 ha, ha ! 
 
 M.Jour. If I do take you in hand 
 
 Nic. Si-ir, I shall bu-urst if I do-on't laugh. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 M.Jour. Did any one ever see such a wench as this, who 
 laughs impudently in my face, instead of taking my orders. 
 
 Nic. What do you want me to do, sir ? 
 
 M.Jour. Why, take care and get the house ready for the 
 company that I'm expecting by and by. 
 
 Nic. Ah ! I can tell y.ou.I don't want to laugh any more; for 
 your company always make such a litter here, that the word is 
 enough to put me in a bad temper. 
 
 M.Jour. And am I to shut my door, then, against everybody? 
 
 Nic. You ought at least to shut it against certain people. 
 
Scene III.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 21 
 
 Scene III. 
 MoNS. JouRDAiN, Mdme. Jourdain, Nicole, and Servants, 
 
 Mdine. Jourdain. Now then. Here's a new tale. What's the 
 meaning, husband, of this get-up ? Do you despise the world, 
 that you go and deck yourself out in this fashion ? Do you want 
 to make yourself a laughing-stock to every one ? 
 
 M. Jourdain. Only foolish men and women, wife, will laugh 
 at me. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. People haven't waited .till now to do that ; all the 
 world has been laughing at your goings-on for a long time past. 
 
 M. Jour. And pray who is this world of yours ? 
 
 Mdme. Jour. It is a world that is right and is much wiser than 
 you are. For my part, I am quite ashamed of the life you are 
 leading. I don't know what's come to our house. One would 
 say that there was a constant carnival going on here ; and from the 
 first thing in the morning, in order to keep it up, there's nothing 
 to be heard but an uproar of fiddlers and singers, who disturb the 
 whole neighbourhood. 
 
 Nicole. What madame says is quite true. I shall never be 
 able to get the place in order again, after all this heap of people 
 you bring to the house. Their feet go all over the town and 
 collect mud, in order to bring it here ; and poor Frangoise is 
 almost worn off her feet with polishing the floors, which your fine 
 " masters " come and dirty every day. 
 
 M. Jour. So, so ! Maid Nicole, you've a pretty nimble 
 tongue of your own, for a country wench. i 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Nicole is quite right, and she has more sense' 
 than you have. I should like to know what you want with a 
 dancing-master at your age. 
 
 Nic. And with a great big fencing-master, who comes here 
 stamping about so as to shake the whole house, and tear up all 
 the pavement of the hall. 
 
 M. Jour. That will do, wife and servant. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Do you want to learn to dance against the time 
 when you have no legs left ? 
 
 Nic. Do you want to kill some one ? 
 
 M. Jour. Be quiet, I tell you, you are ignorant creatures both 
 of you, and don't know the advantage of all this. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. You ought to think much more about getting 
 your daughter married, since she is of an age now to be settled. 
 
 M. Jour. I shall think of marriage for my daughter when a 
 
2Z THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act III. 
 
 good match presents itself; but at the same time I mean to devote 
 myself to polite studies. 
 
 Nic. I've heard say, to crown all, he has engaged a professor 
 of philosophy to-day. 
 
 M./our. Quite right. I desire to have some wit, and to be 
 able to reason with persons of intelligence. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Won't you go to school one of these days and 
 get flogged, at your age ? 
 
 M. Jour. Why not ? I would be flogged this very moment, 
 and in sight of all the world, if only I knew what they learn at 
 school. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Yes, forsooth; I suppose that would improve the 
 shape of your legs. 
 
 M. Jour. No doubt. 
 
 Mdme. Jour, That is very necessary for the management of 
 your house ! 
 
 M. Jour. Certainly. You both of you talk like idiots, and I 
 am ashamed of your ignorance. {To Mdme. Jourdmn.) For 
 example, do you know what you are speaking at this moment ? 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Yes, I know that what I am speaking is quite 
 right, and that you ought to live in a very different fashion. 
 
 M.Jour. I am not talking about that. I ask you what the 
 words are which you are uttering ? 
 
 Mdme. Jour. They are very sensible words, more than your 
 conduct is. 
 
 M,Jour. I'm not talking about that, I tell you. I ask, what 
 is it that I am speaking to you, and saying to you this very 
 instant ? 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Nonsense. 
 
 M. Jour. No, it is not that. What are we both saying ? what 
 is the language we are speaking now ? 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Well, what is it? 
 
 M. Jour. What is it called ? 
 
 Mdme. Jour, It is called just whatever we please to call it. 
 
 M. Jour. It is called Prose, you ignorant woman. 
 
 Mdme. Jour, Prose ? 
 
 M.Jour, Yes, prose. Whatever is prose is not poetry, and 
 whatever is not poetry is prose. See what it is to study. And 
 you {to Nicole)^ do you know what you must do to say U ? 
 
 Nic. What do you mean ? 
 
 M. Jour. What is it you do when you say U ? 
 
 Nic. What? 
 
 M.Jour, Just say U now, to see. 
 
§CENE III.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 2.3 
 
 Nic, Well, U. 
 
 M.Jour. What is it you do? 
 ^ Nic. Why, I say U. 
 
 M.Jour. Yes, but when you say U, what do you do? 
 
 Nic. I do as you tell nie. 
 
 M.Jour. What a strange thing it is to have to do with stupid 
 people. You extend your lips outwards, you bring your under- 
 jaw near your upper one — U ; do you see ? I make a mouth, U. 
 
 Nic. Yes, that's all very fine. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Quite wonderful ! 
 
 M. Jour. It is quite different, if you had seen O, and D, 
 and F. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. What's the meaning of all this rubbish ? 
 
 Nic. W hat are we the better for it all ? 
 
 M.Jour. It makes me wild to listen to these ignorant women. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Come, come, you should send all these folks 
 about their business, with their rigmaroles. 
 
 Nic. Yes ; and above all that great hulking fencing-master, 
 who fills all the place with dust. 
 
 M. Jour. Ha, ha ! This fencing-master seems to stick in 
 your gizzard. I'll show you your impertinence presently. (He 
 orders the foils to be brought^ and gives one to Nicole.) Now 
 reason demonstrative ; the line of the body. When one thrusts 
 in Carte, one has only to do so; and w^hen one thrusts in Tierce, 
 one has only to do so. That is the way never to be killed. Is 
 not that clever, to be safe when you are fighting a duel with any 
 one ? There now, thrust a little at me ; just try. 
 
 Nic. What, so ? {Nicole gives him several thrusts.) 
 
 M.Jour. All right. Ah, gently. Deuce take the hussy ! 
 
 Nic. You told me to thrust. 
 
 M.Jour. Yes, but you thrust at me in Tierce before you do in 
 Carte ; and you have not patience to wait while I parry. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. You're out of your mind, husband, with all your 
 fantastic notions ; and all this has come to you because you have 
 chosen to keep company with the nobility. 
 
 M.Jour. And because I do so I show my good sense. I am 
 sure it is much better than herding with your citizens. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Oh dear, yes. There's a great deal to be got by 
 keeping company with the nobility, isn't there ? And a fine job 
 you've made of it with that Count you are so taken up with ! 
 
 M. Jour. Silence ! Take care what you are saying. Are you 
 aware, wife, that you do not know of whom you are speaking when 
 vou mention him ? He's a more important person that you think. 
 
24 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act III. 
 
 He's a nobleman of consideration at Court, who speaks to the 
 King just as I speak to you. Is it not a great honour to me to 
 see a person of his position come often to my house, call me his 
 friend, and treat me as his equal ? He has shown me more kind- 
 ness than you can conceive ; and he embraces me before all the 
 f world, till I feel quite ashamed. 
 Mdme. Jour. Oh, yes, he has a great regard for you, and 
 rabraces you ; butlli^Jj orrows money of you. 
 M.Joiir. ^Veli^ andlslt not a great honour to lend money to 
 any one in his position? Can I do less for a lord who calls me 
 his dear friend ? 
 
 Mdtne. Jour. And what does this lord do for you ? 
 
 M. Jour. Things that would astonish you, if you only knew 
 them. 
 
 Mdme. Jour, And what may they be ? 
 
 M.Jour. That will do. I can't explain myself. It is suffi- 
 cient that if I have lent him money he will pay it honourably, and 
 before long. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Yes ! and so you really expect that ? 
 
 M. Jour. Certainly. Did he not tell me so ? 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Yes, yes ; and he will not fail to disappoint you. 
 
 M.Jour. He swore to me on the faith of a gentleman. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Rubbish ! 
 
 M. Jour. Ah ! my good wife, you're very obstinate ; but I tell 
 you that he will keep his word with me — I'm sure of it. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. And I am sure he will not ; and all the fuss he 
 makes with you is only to take you in. 
 
 M. Jour. Will you hold your tongue ? Here he comes. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. We've had quite enough of him. I dare say he 
 has come to borrow some more money of you. The very sight 
 of him takes my appetite away. 
 
 AI. Jour. Hold your tongue, I tell you. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 DORANTE, MONS. JOURDAIN, MdME. JoURDAIN, NiCOLE. 
 
 Dorante. My dear friend. Monsieur Jourdain, how do you do ? 
 M. Jourdain. Quite well enough, sir, to render you any little 
 service I can. 
 
 Dor. And Madame Jourdain there, how is she ? 
 
Scene IV.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 25 
 
 Mdine. Jourdain. Madame Jourdain is as well as she can be. 
 
 Dor. Ah, Monsieur Jourdain, you're dressed in first-rate style. 
 
 M. Jour. As you see. 
 
 Dor. Your appearance is charming in that suit. I can assure 
 you there are no young fellows about Court better got up than 
 you are. 
 
 M. Jour. Ah, ha ! 
 
 Mdme. Jour. He scratches him where he itches. 
 
 Dor. Turn round. Ah, that's very fine ! 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Yes ; as foolish behind as before. 
 
 Dor. Indeed, Monsieur Jourdain, I was strangely impatient to 
 see you. I have the greatest possible esteem for you, and I was 
 only talking of you this morning at the King's Levee. 
 
 M. Jour. You do me too much honour, sir. {Aside to Mdme. 
 Jourdain.) At the King's Levee ! 
 
 Dor. Pray put your hat on. 
 
 M. Jour. Sir, I know the respect that I owe you. 
 
 Dor. Come, come, put on your hat. No ceremony, I beg, 
 between us. 
 
 M.Jour. Really, sir 
 
 Dor. I insist on your putting on your hat, Monsieur Jourdain ; 
 you're my friend. 
 
 M. Jour. Sir, I am your humble servant. 
 
 Dor. I won't keep my hat on if you won't. 
 
 M. Jour. I'd rather be unmannerly than presuming. 
 
 Dor. I am your debtor, as you know. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Yes, we know that only too well. 
 
 Dor. You have generously lent me money on several occasions, 
 and have obliged me with the utmost grace. 
 
 M. Jour. Oh, sir, you're laughing at me. 
 
 Dor. But I know how to repay what is lent me, and to be 
 grateful for favours. 
 
 M.Jour. I don't doubt it, sir. 
 
 Dor. I want to get out of your debt, and came here to have 
 a settlement with you. 
 
 M. Jour. Now then, wife, you see your impertinence. 
 
 Dor. I am a man who likes to be out of debt as soon as I can. 
 
 M.Jour. {to Mdme. Jour.). There, I told you so. 
 
 Dor. Just let us see what I owe you. 
 
 M.Jour. {to Mdme. Jour.). How much now for your absurd 
 suspicions ? 
 
 Dor. Do you remember perfectly all the money you have 
 lent me? 
 
26 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN, [Act III. 
 
 M.Jour. Yes, I think so. I have made a little memorandum 
 of; it. Here it is. Given you on one occasion, two hundred 
 louis d'ors. 
 
 Dor. That is right. 
 
 M.Jour. Another time, a hundred and twenty. 
 
 Dor. Just so. 
 
 M.Jour. And another time, a hundred and forty. 
 
 Dor. Quite correct. 
 
 M. Jour. These three sums make up four hundred and sixty 
 louis d'ors, or five thousand and sixty livres. 
 
 Dor. Your account is quite right — five thousand and sixty 
 livres. 
 
 M. Jour. Then, one tliousand eight hundred and thirty-two 
 livres to your plume-maker. 
 
 Dor. Right. 
 
 M.Jour. Two thousand seven hundred and eighty livres to 
 your tailor. 
 
 Dor. That's true. 
 
 M, Jour. Four thousand three hundred and seventy nine 
 livres, twelve sols, and eight deniers to your merchant. 
 
 Dor. Twelve sols and eight deniers. The account is quite 
 correct. 
 
 M. Jour. And one thousand seven hundred and forty-eight 
 livres, seven sols, four deniers to your saddler. 
 
 Dor, That's perfectly right. Now what does it all come to ? 
 
 M.Jour. Total, fifteen thousand eight hundred livres. 
 
 Dor, That's exactly the sum — fifteen thousand and eight 
 hundred livres. Add to this the two hundred pistoles which 
 you are going to give me, and that will make just eighteen 
 thousand francs, which I will pay you on the first opportunity. 
 
 Mdme.Jour. {aside to her husband). Well now, didn't I guess 
 well ? 
 
 M. Jour. Silence. 
 
 Dor. Will it inconvenience you to give me what I ask for? 
 
 M.Jour. Oh, no ; not at all. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. This man is making a milch cow of you. 
 
 M.Jour. W^ill you hold your tongue ! 
 
 Dor, If it will inconvenience you, I will go elsewhere for it. 
 
 M.Jour. Oh, no, sir. 
 
 Mdme. Jour, He will never be content until he has ruined 
 you. 
 
 M.Jour. I tell you to be quiet. 
 
 Dor. If it embarrasses you, you have only to say so. 
 
Scene V.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 27 
 
 M. Jour. Not at all, sir. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. He is a regular wheedler. 
 
 M. Jour. Won't you hold your tongue ? 
 
 Mdiiie.Jour. He'll drain the last farthing out of you. 
 
 M.Jour. Will you be quiet ! 
 
 Dor. There are plenty of people who would be glad enough 
 to lend it to me, but as you are my best friend I thought I should 
 do you wrong if I asked any one else for it. 
 
 M.Jour. It is too great an honour that you do me, sir. I will 
 go and get what you want. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. What ! are you going to lend him still more ? 
 
 M.Jour. What can I do? AVould you have me refuse a man 
 '^f his rank, who spoke about me this morning at the King's 
 Levee. 
 
 Mdim.Joir, Go; you are completely duped. 
 
 Scene V. 
 DoRANTE, Mdme. Jourdain, Nicole. 
 
 Dorante. You seem to me very melancholy. What is the 
 matter, Madame Jourdain? 
 
 Mdme. Jour. My head is bigger than my fist, and yet it is not 
 swollen. 
 
 Dor. I do not see your daughter ; where is she ? 
 
 Mdme. Jour. My daughter is very well where she is 
 
 Dor. How does she get on ? 
 
 Mdme. Jour. She goes on her two legs. 
 
 Dor. Won't you come with her one of these days to see the 
 ballet and the comedy that are being acted at Court ? 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Yes, indeed, we have a great wish to laugh; a 
 great wish to laugh have we. 
 
 Dor. I fancy, Madame Jourdain, that you must have had 
 plenty of admirers when you were young, as I am sure you were 
 handsome and good-humoured. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. By our Lady ! Pray, has Madame Jourdain 
 grown decrepit, and does her head shake with the palsy ? 
 
 Dor. Oh, really, Madame Jourdain, I beg your pardon. I did 
 not remember that you are still young ; and I am often absent- 
 minded. I pray you to excuse my impertinence. 
 
28 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN, [Act III. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 MoNS. JouRDAiNj Mdme. Jourdain, Dorante, Nicole. 
 
 M. Jourdain. Here are the two hundred louis, hard cash. 
 
 Dorante, I assure you, Monsieur Jourdain, that I am your 
 devoted servant, and I am longing to be of some use to you 
 at Court. 
 
 M.Jour. I am extremely obliged to you. 
 
 Dor. If Madame Jourdain would like to see the royal diver- 
 sions, I will get her the best place in the ballroom. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Madame Jourdain kisses your hand. 
 
 Dor. {whispering to Mons. Jourdain). Our pretty Marchioness, 
 as I informed you by letter, will be here by and by for your ballet 
 and collation. I got her consent at last to come to the entertain- 
 ment you mean to give her. 
 
 M.Jour. Let us move a little farther off. I have my reasons. 
 
 Dor. It is a week since I saw you last, and I have sent you 
 no news of the diamond you entrusted to me to present to her 
 from you. But I had the greatest difficulty in the world to get 
 over her scruples, and it is only to-day that she has decided to 
 accept it. 
 
 M.Jour. How did she like it ? 
 
 Dor. Wonderfully ; and I am very much mistaken if the 
 beauty of the diamond will not produce an excellent effect 
 upon her. 
 
 M.Jour. Heaven grant it ! 
 
 Mdme. Jour. When he's once with him, there's no getting rid 
 of him. 
 
 Dor. I made her value as she ought the richness of the present, 
 and the strength of your passion, 
 
 M. Jour. Sir, these kindnesses quite overwhelm me ; and I 
 am in the greatest confusion to see a person of your rank lower 
 himself to do for me what you do. 
 
 Dor. Why, you're laughing at me ! Does one stop at such 
 sort of scruples between friends? And would not you do as 
 much for me if the occasion offered ? 
 
 M. Jour. Yes, certainly, with all my heart. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. How his presence weighs on my mind. 
 
 Dor. For my part, I never mind anything when I can serve a 
 friend ; and when you confided to me your ardent passion for this 
 charming Marchioness, with whom I am acquainted, you saw that 
 I at once offered to further your interests. 
 
Scene VI L] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 29 
 
 M. Jour. It is true. This goodness overcomes me. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Will he never be gone ? 
 
 Nic. They seem wonderfully thick together. 
 
 Dor. You have taken the right way to reach her heart. 
 Women like above everything the expense we are at on their 
 account ; and your frequent serenades, and continual bouquets, 
 that magnificent display of fireworks which you arranged for her 
 upon the water, the diamond ring which she received from you, 
 and the entertainment which you are preparing for her — all this 
 speaks much more in favour of your love for her than all the 
 words you could have spoken to her yourself. 
 
 M.Jour. There is no expense I would not gladly be at, if 
 only I could find the way to her heart. A woman of rank has 
 the most engaging charms for me, and it is an honour tliat I 
 would purchase at any price. 
 
 Mdme. Jour, {aside, to Nicole). What on earth can they have to 
 talk about together ? Go quietly and listen. 
 
 Dor. Presently you will enjoy the sight of her at your ease ; 
 your eyes will have full time to be satisfied. 
 
 M. Jour. In order to be quite free, I have arranged for my 
 wife to go and dine with my sister, where she will 
 
 Dor. You have acted with great prudence ; your wife might 
 have been in the way. I have given proper orders to the cook 
 for you, and for all things necessary for the ballet. It is one of 
 my own invention ; and if the execution is only equal to the idea, 
 I am sure it will be found to be 
 
 {Mons. Jourdaiii perceives that Nicole is listening, and gives 
 her a box on the ear.) 
 
 M. Jour. You are very impertinent. {To Dorafitc.) Let us 
 walk out, if you please. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Madame Jourdain, Nicole. 
 
 Nicole. Well, madame, my curiosity has cost, me something ; 
 but I think there's a snake in the grass, for they were talking 
 about some affair that they didn't want you to be present at. 
 
 Mdme. Jourdain. This is not the first time, Nicole, that I've 
 had suspicions of my husband. Unless I am greatly deceived, 
 there is some intrigue in hand, and it shall be my business to find 
 it out. But I must think of my daughter. You know how deeply 
 
36 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act III. 
 
 Cl^onte is in love with her. He is a man that I have a hking for, 
 and I shall be glad to forward his suit, and to help him with 
 Lucile, if I can. 
 
 Nic. Indeed, madame, you cannot conceive how delighted I 
 am to hear your sentiments ; for if the master suits your taste, the 
 valet suits mine equally well, and I could wish that our marriage 
 could be concluded under the wing of theirs. 
 
 Mdmc. Jour. Go and talk to him about it, ns from me; and 
 tell him to come to me directly, that we may go together to my 
 husband to ask for my daughter's hand. 
 
 Nic. I shall fly, madame, for I could not have received a 
 more agreeable commission. {Aloue) I am going, I believe, to 
 give them a great deal of happiness. 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 Cl^onte, CoviELLr:, Nicole. 
 
 Nicole. Ah, most luckily met ! I am an ambassadress of joy, 
 and I come 
 
 Cleonte. Begone, you perfidious creature, and don't come to 
 amuse me with your treacherous speeches. 
 
 Nic. Is it thus you receive 
 
 Cle. Begone, I say, and go and tell your faithless mistress 
 that never again as long as she lives shall she take advantage of 
 the too simple Cleonte. 
 
 Nic. What infatuation is this ? My dear Covielle, tell me a 
 little what this means. 
 
 Gov. Your dear Covielle ! you little wretch. Be off out of my 
 sight at once, you hussy, and leave me alone. 
 
 Nic. What ! are you too going to 
 
 Gov. Out of my sight, I tell you, and don't talk to me ever 
 again. 
 
 Nic. Dear, dear ! What bee has slung them both ? Well, I 
 must go and tell this fine tale to my mistress. 
 
Scene IX.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 31 
 
 Scene IX. 
 Cli'onte, Covielle. 
 
 CVeonte. What ! treat a lover in this fashion ! and that lover 
 the most faithful and impassioned possible. 
 
 Gov. It is a frightful trick that they have played us both. 
 
 Clc. I show a lady all the ardour of love and all the tender- 
 ness imaginable ; I love nothing in the world but her, and have 
 nothing in my thoughts besides her. She is the cause of all my 
 cares, of all my desires, of all ray joy. I speak but of her, think 
 but of her, dream but of her, breathe only for her, my heart lives 
 wholly in her ; and now see the worthy recompense for such love. 
 I am two days without seeing her, which seems to me two 
 terrible ages. I meet her by chance ; at the sight of her my heart 
 feels transported with joy, my face beams with happiness. I fly 
 to her in an ecstasy ; and the faithless creature turns away her 
 eyes, and brushes hastily by me as if she had never seen me in 
 her life ! 
 
 Gov. I can say just the same as you. 
 
 Cle. Is it possible, Covielle, to conceive any perfidy equal to 
 that of this ungrateful Lucilc? 
 
 Gov. Or to that, sir, of the hussy Nicole ? 
 
 Glc. After so many ardent sacrifices of sighs and vows that I 
 made to her charms ! 
 
 Gov. After such constant homage, attentions and services that 
 I have rendered her in the kitchen ! 
 . Gle. So many tears that I have shed at her feet ! 
 
 Gov. So many buckets of water that I have drawn from the 
 well for her ! 
 
 Gle. Such ardour as I have shown in loving her more than 
 myself! 
 
 Gov. Such heat as I have borne in turning the spit in her 
 stead ! 
 
 Gle. She flies from me with disdain. 
 
 Gov. She turns her back on me with impudence. 
 
 Gle. It is a perfidy deserving the severest punishment. 
 
 Gov. It is a treachery that ought to receive a thousand boxes 
 on the ear. 
 
 Gle. Now I beg of you never to speak to me again on her 
 behalf. 
 
 Gov. I, sir ? Heaven forbid ! 
 
32 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act III. 
 
 Cle. And never try to excuse the action of this perfidious 
 woman. 
 
 Cov. You need not fear my doing so. 
 
 Cle. No, for all discourse in her favour will be useless. 
 
 Cov. Who dreams of such a thing ? 
 
 Cle. I am determined to keep up my resentment against her, 
 and to break off all intercourse. 
 
 Cov. I have no objection. 
 
 Cle. This same Count that visits her perhaps pleases her eye, 
 and I see plainly that her fancy is dazzled by his rank. But I 
 must, for my own honour, forestall the open exposure of her in- 
 constancy. I will make as much haste as she can do towards the 
 change which I see she is hurrying to, and will not leave her all 
 the glory of giving me up. 
 
 Cov. That is very well said ; and for my part I quite enter 
 into all your sentiments. 
 
 Cle. Deepen my resentment and support my resolution 
 against all the remains of love that may still plead for her. Tell 
 me, I entreat you, all the ill you can against her. Paint me her 
 person so as to make her despicable ; and, to disgust me, point 
 out well to me all the faults that you can find in her. 
 
 Cov. She, sir ! Why, she's a mass of affectation, a showily 
 dressed doll to be so much enamoured about ! I see nothing in 
 her but what is very ordinary, and you will find a hundred others 
 more worthy of your notice. First of all, she has small eyes. 
 
 Cle. It is true that she has small eyes ; but they are full of fire, 
 the most sparkling, the most piercing in the world ; the most 
 melting that one can see. 
 
 Cov. She has a wide mouth, 
 
 .Cle. Yes, but there is a grace in it not to be seen in other 
 mouths, and the sight of it inspires love ; it is the most attractive 
 and charming mouth in the world. 
 
 Cov. Then as to her height — she is not tall. 
 
 Cle. No, but she is graceful and well shaped. 
 
 Cov. She affects a certain carelessness in all her words and 
 actions. 
 
 Cle. That is true, but she does it in such an easy way, and her 
 manner is so attractive, that it has an unspeakable charm, and 
 finds its way into the heart of every one. 
 
 Cov. As to her mind 
 
 Cle. Oh, Covielle, she has the most delicate and refined in* 
 telligence. 
 
 Cov, Her conversation 
 
Scene X.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 33 
 
 Cle. Is charming. 
 
 Gov. But she is always grave. 
 
 Cle. Would you have extravagant pleasantry, and constant 
 outbreaks of mirth? Can you find anything more unpleasant 
 than those women who are always giggling at everything? 
 
 Gov. But, in short, she is tlie most capricious creature in the 
 world. 
 
 Gle. Yes, I grant you she is capricious ; but everything be- 
 comes a, beautiful woman — we can put up with anything from her. 
 
 Gov. Since that is the case, I see plainly that you mean to 
 love her always. 
 
 Gle. I ! I'd rather die ; and I am going now to hate her as 
 much as ever I loved her. 
 
 Gov. But how can you, if you think her so perfect ? 
 
 Gle. That will make my revenge all the more striking, and I 
 shall thereby the better show the strength of my resolution in 
 hating her, by quitting her, most beautiful as she is, most charm- 
 ing and amiable as I think her. Here she comes. 
 
 Scene X. 
 Cl^onte, Lucile, Covielle, Nicole. 
 
 Nicole. For my part, I was perfectly shocked at it. 
 
 Lucile. It can be nothing but what I say. There he comes. 
 
 Gleonte {to Govielle). I won't so much as speak to her. 
 
 Govielle. I will follow your example. 
 
 Luc. What is it, Cleonte ? What is the matter with you ? 
 
 Nic. What ails you, Covielle ? 
 
 Luc. What grief possesses you ? 
 
 Nic. What ill-temper has got hold of you ? 
 
 Luc. Are you dumb, Cldonte ? 
 
 Nic. Have you lost your speech, Covielle ? 
 
 Gle. Oh, the wretch ! 
 
 Gov. How Judas-like ! 
 
 Luc. I see that our late meeting has troubled your mind. 
 
 Gle. {to Govielle). Ah ! she sees what she has done. 
 
 Nic. The reception of this morning has put you in a huff. 
 
 Gov. {to Gleonte). She has guessed the sore. 
 
 L21C. Is it not true, Cleonte, that this is the reason of your 
 being out of temper ? 
 
 Gle. Yes, perfidious girl, if I must speak, it is so ; and I can 
 tell you that you shall not triumph, as you think you will do, by 
 
 4 
 
34 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act III. 
 
 your unfaithfulness, for I shall be beforehand in breaking off with 
 you, so that you shall not have the chance of discarding me. I 
 dare say I shall have some trouble in getting over the love which 
 I feel for you ; it will cause me some sorrow, and I shall suffer for 
 a time, but I shall gain my point, and I would rather stab myself 
 to the heart than have the weakness to return to you. 
 
 Cov. {to Nicole). Ditto, ditto. 
 
 Luc. Here's much ado about nothing. I want to tell you, 
 Cleonte, what made me avoid joining you this morning. 
 
 Cle. {makes as if he would go ^ but returns on the stage). No, I'll 
 hear nothing. 
 
 Nic. {to Covielle). I'll tell you the reaso'h which made us pass 
 you so quickly. 
 
 Cov. {follows Lucile). I will hear nothing. 
 
 I^uc. {follows Cleonte). You must know that this morning 
 
 Cle. No, I tell you. 
 
 Nic. 
 
 {folloivs Covielle). 
 
 Learn, then Cov. No, traitress 
 
 Luc. 
 
 Hear me. 
 
 Cle. 
 
 Not a bit. 
 
 Nic. 
 
 Let me speak. 
 
 Cov. 
 
 I am deaf. 
 
 Luc. 
 
 Cleonte ! 
 
 Cle. 
 
 No. 
 
 Nic. 
 
 Covielle ! 
 
 Cov. 
 
 No. 
 
 Luc. 
 
 Stay. 
 
 Cle. 
 
 Rubbish. 
 
 Nic. 
 
 Hear me. 
 
 Cov. 
 
 Idle talk. 
 
 Luc. 
 
 One moment. 
 
 Cle. 
 
 Not one. 
 
 Nic. 
 
 A little patience. 
 
 Cov. 
 
 Fiddlesticks. 
 
 Luc. 
 
 Two words. 
 
 Cle. 
 
 No, there's an end of it. 
 
 Nic. 
 
 One word. 
 
 Cov. 
 
 I've no more to do with you, 
 
 Luc. {stopping). Very well, since you won't listen to me, keep 
 your opinion, and do what you like. 
 
 Nic. {stopping also). Since you act in this way, take it as you 
 will. 
 
 Cle. {turning towards Lucile). Let us know, then, the cause of 
 this fine reception. 
 
 Luc. {going off in her turn to avoid Cleonte). I don't care to 
 tell it now. 
 
 Cov. {turning towards Nicole). Tell us a little about this 
 business. 
 
 Nic. [going off also to avoid Covielle). No, I don't choose to 
 now. 
 
 Cle. {following Lucile). Tell me. 
 
 Luc. {walking on without looking at Cleonte). No, I'll tell 
 you nothing. 
 
 Cov. {following Nicole). Tell me. 
 
Scene X.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 35 
 
 Nic. {ivalldfig also without looking at Covielle). No, I tell 
 nothing. 
 
 Cle. For goodness sake. Luc. No, I tell you. 
 
 Gov. For charity. Nic. Not a bit. 
 
 Gle. I beg of you. Luc. Let me alone. 
 
 Gov. I entreat you. Nic. Be off. 
 
 Gle. Lucile ! Luc. No. 
 
 Gov. Nicole ! Nic. Not at all. 
 
 Gle. For heaven's sake. Luc. I will not. 
 
 Gov. Speak to me. Nic. Not a word. 
 
 Gle. Clear up my doubts. Luc. No, I'll do nothing towards it. 
 
 Gov. Set my mind at rest. Nic. No, I don't choose to. 
 
 Gle. Well, since you care so little about easing me of my 
 pain, and justifying the unworthy treatment my ardent love has 
 received from you, ungrateful creature, you see me for the last 
 time ; I shall go far from you, and die of grief and love. 
 
 Gov. And I am going to follow his steps. 
 
 Luc. Cleonte ! 
 
 Nic. Covielle ! 
 
 Cle. [stopping). What? 
 
 Gov. {also stopping). Your pleasure? 
 
 Luc. Where are you going ? 
 
 Gle. Where I told you. 
 
 Gov. We are going to die. 
 
 Luc. What ? Are you going to die, Cleonte ? 
 
 Gle. Yes, cruel one, since you will have it so. 
 
 Luc. I ! I want you to die ? 
 
 Gle. Yes, you wish it. 
 
 Luc. Who told you so ? 
 
 Gle. Don't you wish it, when you will not clear up my 
 suspicions ? 
 
 Luc. Is that my fault ? If you had only listened to me, I 
 should have told you that the affair you make such a fuss about 
 was caused this morning by the presence of an old aunt, who will 
 have it that the very approach of a man is a disgrace to a girl, and 
 who is always preaching to us on that text, and represents men as 
 so many devils that one ought to avoid. 
 
 Nic. There's the secret of the whole affair. 
 
 Gle. Aren't you deceiving me, Lucile ? 
 
 Gov. Is not this a trick you're playing ? 
 
 Luc. Nothing can be more true. 
 
 Nic. That's just what's the matter, 
 
 Gov. Shall we give in on this ? 
 
36 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act III. 
 
 Cle. Ah, Lucile, a word from your mouth can calm all the 
 tumult of my heart 1 And how easily we allow ourselves to be 
 persuaded by those we love ! 
 
 Cov. How easily one is coaxed by these artful creatures ! 
 
 Scene XI. 
 Mdme. Jourdain, Cl^onte, Lucile, Covielle, Nicole. 
 
 Mdme. Jourdain. I am very glad to see you, Cl^onte, and you 
 have come just at the right time. My husband is coming, so lose 
 no time in asking for the hand of Lucile. 
 
 Cleonie. Oh, madame, what a kindly word ; and how it flatters 
 my wishes ! Could I receive a more charming order or a more 
 valued favour ! 
 
 Scene XII. 
 
 MoNS. Jourdain, Mdme. Jourdain, Cleonte, Lucile, 
 Nicole. 
 
 Clconte {to M. Jourdain). I have been unwilling to employ 
 any one else to ask of you a favour which I have long meditated 
 asking. It concerns me so much that I must undertake it my^ 
 self; and without further preface, I will tell you that the honour 
 of being your son-in-law is a distinguished favour which I beg you 
 to grant me. 
 
 M. Jourdain. Before giving you an answer, sir, I must ask you 
 to tell me whether you are of noble birth. 
 
 Cle. Most people would answer such a question without hesi- 
 tation. One can say the word easily. People make no scruple 
 about using it, and custom seems to authorise the assumption. 
 For my part, I must confess that I have more delicate sentiments 
 on the matter. I consider imposture unworthy of an honour- 
 able man, and that it is cowardly to deny the birth that Heaven 
 has given us, to trick ourselves out in the eyes of the world with a 
 stolen title, to wish to pass ourselves off for what we are not. I 
 was born of parents who unquestionably held an honourable posi- 
 tion. I served in the army for six years with credit, and I find 
 myself well enough off to hold a fair rank in the world ; but for 
 all that, I do not choose to give myself a description which others 
 in my place might think they had a right to, and so I will tell you 
 frankly that I am not of noble birth. 
 
Scene XII.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 37 
 
 M. Jour. Then, sir, my daughter is no wife for you. 
 
 Cl'e. Why not ? 
 
 M./our. You are not of noble family ; you shall not have my 
 daughter. 
 
 Mdfue. four. What have you to say about noble birth ? Do 
 you think that such people as we are are descended from St. 
 Louis? 
 
 M. Jour. Hold your tongue, wife. I see what you're coming to. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Are not we both descended from plain citizens ? 
 
 M. Jour. There's a pretty statement for you ! 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Was not your father a tradesman as well as 
 mine ? 
 
 M.Jour. Plague take the woman ! She'll never have done 
 with it. If your father was a tradesman, so much the worse for 
 him ; but as for mine, they are mistaken who say he was one. All 
 I have to say to you is that I choose to have a gentleman for my 
 son-in-law. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Your daughter should have a suitable husband ; 
 and a honest man who is rich and well-made is much better for 
 her than a gentleman who is deformed and a beggar. 
 
 Nic. That's true. We have the son of a squire in our village 
 who is the greatest gawky and the stupidest booby I ever set 
 eyes on. 
 
 M. Jour. Will you hold your tongue, you impertinent creature ? 
 You are always thrusting yourself into the conversation. I have 
 sufficient fortune for my daughter, so I want nothing but rank for 
 her, and I choose her to be a marchioness. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. A marchioness ? 
 
 Af. Jour. Yes, a marchioness. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Heaven forbid ! 
 
 M.Jour. It's what I've made up my mind to. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Then it's what I shall never consent to. Matches 
 with people above one always cause unpleasantness. I don't want 
 to have a son-in-law who could reproach my daughter with her 
 parents, or that her children should be ashamed to call me grand- 
 mama. If she should come and pay me a visit with the equip 
 age of a grand lady, and if from inadvertence she did not notice 
 some one of the neighbours, there would be a hundred disagree- 
 able things said at once. "Oh," they would say, "look at this 
 marchioness who gives herself such airs ! Why, she's only the 
 daughter of Mons. Jourdain ; she was glad enough when she was 
 little to play at ladies and gentlemen with us. She was not always 
 so stuck up as she is now ; and both her grandfathers were drapers 
 
38 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act III. 
 
 near St. Innocent's Gate. They managed to get a fortune for 
 their children, and perhaps are now paying dear enough for it in 
 another world. And honest people don't generally become so 
 rich." I don't choose to have all this tittle-tattle, and I want a 
 man who shall be beholden to me for my daughter, and to whom 
 I can say, " Son-in-law, come and dine with me, and sit there." 
 
 M. Jour. Those are the ideas of a small mind, which desires 
 always to continue in an inferior condition. I want no more 
 words. My daughter shall be a marchioness in spite of all the 
 world, and if you put me in a passion I'll make her a duchess. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Cl^onte, don't lose heart, for all this. Follow 
 me, my daughter, and tell your father boldly that if you can't 
 have him you won't marry anybody at all. 
 
 Scene XIII. 
 Cl^nte, Covielle. 
 
 Covielk, You've made a nice piece of work of it with your fine 
 sentiments. 
 
 Cleonte. What would you have me do ? I have scruples in the 
 matter that no precedents can overcome. 
 
 Cov. Are you jesting, that you talk seriously to a man like 
 that ? Don't you see that he's off his head ? And what would it 
 cost you to accommodate yourself to his fancies ? 
 
 Cle. You're right. But I never dreamt that it would be 
 necessary to bring proofs of noble birth to be son-in-law to 
 Mons. Jourdain. 
 
 Cov. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 CIL What are you laughing at ? 
 
 Cov. At a thought that came into my head to have a game 
 with our good man, and help you to obtain what you wish for. 
 
 Cle. How? 
 
 Cov. It's a most amusing idea. 
 
 CIL What is it, then ? 
 
 Cov. A short time ago there was a certain masquerade per- 
 formed which will come in excellently now, and which I mean to 
 turn to account as a means of playing off a joke on our coxcomb. 
 It will be a bit of a comedy ; but we can risk anything with him, 
 and we need not be too particular, for he's a man who'll play 
 his part wonderfully well, and will easily take in all the absurdi- 
 ties we may choose to put before him. I have the actors and 
 dresses all ready ; only leave it to me. 
 
Scene XV.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 39 
 
 Cle. But let me know of it. 
 
 Coi). I will tell you all about it. Let us withdraw. Here he 
 comes. 
 
 Scene XIV. 
 MoNS. JouRDAiN, Servant. 
 
 M. Joiirdain. What the deuce does this mean? They do 
 nothing but reproach me about great lords ; and for my part I 
 know nothing better than keeping company with the nobility. 
 There's nothing but honour and civility among them, and I would 
 cut off two fingers of my hand to have been born a count or a 
 marquis. 
 
 Servant. Sir, here's the Count, and a lady whom he is 
 handing in. 
 
 M. Jour. Good gracious ! and I have some orders to give. 
 Tell them I'm coming in a minute. 
 
 Scene XV. 
 DoRiMkNE, Dorante, Servant. 
 Servant. My master says as how he's a-coming in a minute. 
 
 Dorante. All right. 
 
 Doriniene. I don't know, Dorante, but it seems to me that I 
 am taking a strange step in allowing you to bring me to a house 
 where I know no one. 
 
 Dor. What place, then, would you choose for your lover to 
 entertain you in, since to avoid scandal you will not use your own 
 house or mine ? 
 
 Dori. But you forget that every day I am gradually being 
 led on to receive too great proofs of your devotion to me. It is 
 of no use for me to refuse things ; you weary me out of resisting, 
 and you have a civil kind of obstinacy which forces me gently to 
 yield to all you wish. Frequent visits came first, declarations 
 next, followed by serenades and entertainments, ending with pre- 
 sents. I opposed all this, but you do not give way ; and step by 
 step you overcome my resolutions. For my part, I cannot answer 
 for the consequences, and I believe in the end you will bring me 
 to marriage, which I have kept off for so long. 
 
 Dor. Indeed, madame, you ought to have reached it already. 
 You are a widow, and independent. I am my own master, and 
 
40 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act III. 
 
 love you more than my life. What hinders yon, then, from com- 
 pleting my happiness from this day forward ? 
 
 Dori. But, Dorante, there must be a great many qualities on 
 both sides for people to live together happily ; and the most 
 reasonable people in the world often have much difficulty in 
 arrahging a union to their mutual satisfaction. 
 
 Dor. You jest, madame, in representing so many difficulties in 
 the way ; and the experience you have had has nothing to do with 
 the rest of the world. 
 
 Dori. However, I must always come back to this point. The 
 expense to which you put yourself on my account disturbs me for 
 two reasons ; one is that it compromises me more than I wish, 
 and the other is that I am sure, without offence, that you must put 
 yourself to great inconvenience, which I do not wish. 
 
 Dor. Oh, madame, these are but trifles, and it is not by 
 that 
 
 Dori. I know what I am saying ; and among other things, the 
 diamond which you forced me to accept is of a value 
 
 Dor. Oh, madame, pray do not make so much of a thing 
 
 which my love finds unworthy of you ; and allow me Here 
 
 is the master of the house. 
 
 Scene XVI. 
 
 MONS. JOURDAIN, DORIMENE, DORANTE, Scrvaut. 
 
 M. Jourdain {after having made two boias, finding himself too 
 close to Doritnhte). A little farther off, madame. 
 
 Dori?nene. What ? 
 
 M. Jour. One step, if you please. 
 
 Dori. What then ? 
 
 M.Jour. Fall back a little for the third. 
 
 Dor. Madame, Mons. Jourdain knows his manners. 
 
 M.Jour. Madame, it is a very great honour for me to see 
 myself fortunate enough, happy enough, to have the felicity, that 
 you should have had the goodness to do me the honour, to 
 honour me with the favour of your presence ; and had I also the 
 merit to merit a merit like yours, and that Heaven — envious of 
 my happiness — had granted me — the advantage of seeing myself 
 worthy — of 
 
 Dor. That will do, Mons. Jourdain; madame does not like 
 too many compliments, and she knows you are a man of in- 
 
Scene XVI.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 41 
 
 telligence ( Whispers to Dorimhie.) He is only a citizen, absurd 
 enough, as you see, in all his behaviour. 
 
 E)on. It is easy enough to perceive that. 
 
 Dor. Madame, this is one of my best friends. 
 
 M. Jour. It is too much honour that you do me. 
 
 Dor. A thoroughly gallant man. 
 
 Dori. I have a very great esteem for him. 
 
 M. Jour. I have done nothing yet to deserve this favour. 
 
 Dor. {whispering to M. Jourdain). Take good care, however, 
 not to speak to her of the diamond you gave her. 
 
 M. Jour. Mayn't I just ask her how she likes it? 
 
 Dor. What ? On no account. It would be very mean on 
 your part, and if you wish to act gallantly, you must seem as if 
 you had not given it to her. Madame, Mons. Jourdain says that 
 he is delighted to see you at his house. 
 
 Dori. He does me a great deal of honour. 
 
 M. Jour, I am under great obligation, sir, to you for having 
 spoken to her in that manner on my account. 
 
 Dor. I had the greatest difficulty in getting her to come 
 here. 
 
 M. Jour. I do not know how to thank you enough for it. 
 
 Dor. He says, madame, that he thinks you the most charming 
 person in the world. 
 
 Dori. It is very good of him. 
 
 M:Jour. Madame, it is you who do favours, and 
 
 Dor. Let us think of eating. 
 
 Servant. Everything is ready, sir. 
 
 Dor. Come, then, let us sit down to table ; and send for the 
 musicians. 
 
 (Six Cooks who have prepared the feast dance together^ and perform 
 the third Interlude; after which they bring in a table covered 
 with various dishes.) 
 
 ACT IV. Scene I. 
 
 DoRANTE, DoRiMkNE, MoNS. JouRDAiN, Three Musicians, 
 Servant. 
 
 Dorimlne, Why, Dorante ! Here's a most magnificent repast. 
 M. Jourdain. You are joking, madame, I only wish it were 
 more worthy of you. 
 
 {They sit down to the table, the Musicians included.) 
 
42 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act IV. 
 
 Doranie. Mons. Jourdain is right, madame, to speak as lie 
 does, and I thank liim for doing the honours of this house so 
 well. I agree with him that the repast is not worthy of you. 
 As it was myself who ordered it, and as I am not so clear-sighted in 
 these matters as some of our friends, you will not have here any 
 learned feast, and you will find incongruities of good cheer, and 
 some offences against good taste. If our friend Damis had had 
 a hand in it, everything would have been done according to rule ; 
 elegance and erudition would have appeared everywhere, and he 
 would not have failed to exaggerate the excellence of all the 
 dishes, and have made you own his capacity in the science of 
 good eating ; he would have told you of a fancy loaf, with golden 
 edge, and a crust too all round, that would crumble sofdy between 
 your teeth ; of wine with a velvety body, heightened by just a 
 taste of sharpness ; of a breast of mutton stuffed with parsley ; of 
 a loin of veal, from the riverside meadows, as long as this 
 {stretchtfig out his hands), white, delicate, and like almond paste 
 in your mouth ; of partridges served up in a wonderful ragout ; 
 and then, by way of masterpiece, a pearl soup, supported by a 
 young plump turkey-poult, flanked with pigeons and garnished 
 with bleached onions and chicory. But, for my part, I must 
 confess my ignorance, and as Mons. Jourdain has very well said, 
 I wish the repast were more worthy of you. 
 
 Dori. My only answer to that compliment is to eat as I am 
 doing. 
 
 M. Jour. Ah ! what beautiful hands. 
 
 Dori. The hands are passable, Mons. Jourdain ; but you 
 mean the diamond, which is very handsome. 
 
 M. Jour. I, madame! heaven forbid I should speak of that; 
 that would not be gentlemanly; and the diamond is only a trifle. 
 
 Dori. You are very difficult to satisfy. 
 
 M. Jour. You have too much goodness. 
 
 Dor. {Jiaviiig made sig?is to Mons. Jourdain). Come, give 
 some wine to Mons. Jourdain, and to those gentlemen who will 
 do us the favour to sing us a drinking song. 
 
 Dori. It gives a wonderful relish to good cheer, to mix music 
 with it. I am being admirably entertained. 
 
 M. Jour. Madame, it is not 
 
 Dor. Come, Mons. Jourdain, let us listen to these gentlemen ; 
 they will entertain us better than anything we can possibly say. 
 
 {The Singers take their glasses, sing tivo catches, aftd are 
 accompanied by all the instruments^ 
 
Scene I.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 43 
 
 FIRST DRINKING SONG. 
 
 Just a thhnhlefuly Phyllis^ and send round the glass ; 
 
 Oh ! what charms to the crystal those fingers impart ! 
 You ajid Bacchus combined, all resista7ice d'erpass 
 And with passion redoubled have ravish' d my heart. 
 'Twixfhim^you, and me, my charmer, my fair. 
 Eternal affection let's swea?: 
 
 At the touch of your lips how it sparkles more bright I 
 
 How its touch i?t return those siveet lips doth embellish : 
 I could quaff it all day and drijtk bumpers all flight : 
 What longitig each gives me, what joy and what relish ! 
 ^Twixt hi?n, you, and me, my chartner, my fair ^ 
 Eternal affection lefs swear. 
 
 SECOND DRINKING SONG. 
 
 Since time flies so nimbly away. 
 
 Come drink, my dear friends, drink about ; 
 
 Lefs profit by life while ive may. 
 
 For all may be ended before the cup''s out. 
 
 \ 
 
 When Charon has got us aboard, 
 
 Our drinking and wooing are past ; 
 We ne'er to lose time can (ifford, 
 
 For drinking' s a joy not always to last. 
 
 Let your numskulls dispute in the schools. 
 
 As to what is the JSotiutn of man ; 
 Philosophers dry are but fools. 
 
 The secret is this, drink, drifik while you ca::. 
 
 Wealth, knowledge, and glory are vain. 
 
 And never relieve us of care, 
 *Tis drinking alone that's a gain. 
 
 And gives us a joy that's ever more fair. 
 
 Why ho, there ! some wine, boy, cofjiefill the glass, fill. 
 Pound, round, let it go till we bid it stand still. 
 
 Dori. I don't think anything could be better sung ; it really 
 is extremely good. 
 
 M.Jour. I see something here, madame, much better. 
 
44 . THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act IV. 
 
 Dori. Really ! Mons. Jourdain is more of a courtier than I 
 supposed. 
 
 Dor, Why, madame, whom do you take Mons. Jourdain for ? 
 
 M. Jour. I wish she would take me for what I could name. 
 
 Dori. What ! again ? 
 
 Dor. You don't know him. 
 
 M. Jouj\ She shall know me whenever she pleases. 
 
 Dori. Oh, I give in. 
 
 Dor. He's a man who has always a repartee at hand. But 
 you don't notice, madame, that Mons. Jourdain eats all the dishes 
 you partake of. 
 
 Dori. Mons. Jourdain is a man I am greatly taken with. 
 
 M. Jour. If I could take your heart I should be 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Madame Jourdain, Mons. Jourdain, Dorimene, Dorante, 
 Musicians, Servants. 
 
 Madame Jourdain. Well-a-day ! Here's a nice company, and 
 I can see very well I was not expected. So, husband, it was for 
 this fine affair, was it, that you were in such a hurry to send me 
 off to dine with my sister ? I have just found a stage downstairs, 
 and here I find a banquet fit for a wedding. This is how you 
 spend your money, and feast grand ladies when I am away, and 
 give them music and a play, while you send me out anywhere. 
 
 Dorante. What do you mean, Mdme. Jourdain ? And what 
 queer ideas you've got into your head, that your husband spends 
 his money, and that it is he who is giving this entertainment to 
 my lady ! I beg you to understand that this is my affair ; he only 
 lends me his house, and I must ask you to be more careful in 
 what you say. 
 
 Mons. Jourdain. Yes, impertinent woman, it is his honour the 
 Count who gives all this to my lady, who is a person of rank. He 
 does me the honour to borrow my house, and is pleased to let 
 me be with him. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. That's all nonsense. I know what I know. 
 
 Dor. Pray, Mdme. Jourdain, put on better spectacles. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. I don't want any spectacles, sir; I can see quite 
 well. I am no fool, and for a long time I've had an inkling of 
 what has been going on. It is shameful of you, who are a great 
 lord, to lend a helping-hand to the follies of my husband. And 
 for you, madame, who are a great lady, it is neither handsome 
 
3 Scene III.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 45 
 
 f nor honest in you to sow dissension in a family, and to allow my 
 J' husband to make love to you. 
 
 f Dorimene. What is the meaning of all this ? Why, Dorante, 
 ji it is wrong of you to expose me to the silly notions of this raving 
 •ii woman. \Exit Dorimene. 
 
 ]j Dor. Why, madame, madame, where are you going ? 
 
 M.Joiir. Madame — my lord, make my excuses to her, and try 
 to bring her back. {To his 7vife) Oh, you wretched creature, 
 this comes of your fine doings. You have affronted me before 
 everybody, and you have driven away from my house persons of 
 rank. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. I don't care a fig for their rank. 
 M.Jour. I don't know what keeps me, you cursed woman, 
 from breaking your head with the dishes of the feast, which you 
 have come here to disturb. 
 
 {The servants dear the table!) 
 Mdme. Jour. I despise all this. I stand up for my own rights, 
 and all the wives will be on my side. \Exit. 
 
 M. Jour. You do well to get out of the way of my rage. 
 {Alone.) She came at most unlucky time. I was just in the 
 humour to make pleasant speeches, and I never felt so witty. 
 Hullo, whom have we here? 
 
 Scene III. 
 CoviELLE {disguised as a traveller)^ Mons. Jourdain, Servant. 
 
 Covielle. Sir, I do not know whether I have the honour to be 
 recognised by you. 
 
 Mons. Jourdain. No, sir. 
 
 Gov. I saw you when yon were no taller than that {showing 
 with his hand). 
 
 M.Jour. What? Me? 
 
 Gov. Yes, you were one of the prettiest children in the world, 
 and all the ladies used to take you in their arms to kiss you. 
 
 M. Jour. To kiss me ? 
 
 Gov. Yes, I was an intimate friend of the late gentleman, your 
 father. 
 
 M. Jour. What, of the late gentleman, my father ? 
 
 Gov. Yes, he was a very worthy gentleman. 
 
 M. Jour. What is it you say ? 
 
 Gov. I say that he was a very worthy gentleman. 
 
 M' Jour. You're speaking of my father ? 
 
46 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act IV. 
 
 Cov. Certainly, I am. 
 
 M. Jour. Did you know him very well ? 
 
 Cov. I did. 
 
 M.Jour. And you knew him to be a gentleman? 
 
 Cov. Without any doubt. 
 
 M.Jottr. I don't know then what to make of the world. 
 
 Cov. Why ? 
 
 M. Jour. There are a lot of stupid people who will have it 
 that he was a shopkeeper. 
 
 Cov. He a shopkeeper ! Mere scandal ; he never was one. 
 All that he did was, to go out of his way to be obliging, and as he 
 was a great connoisseur in cloth, he used to buy it here, there, 
 and everywhere ; had it taken to his house, and then used to give 
 it to his friends for money. 
 
 M.Jour. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, as you 
 can bear witness that my father was a gentleman. 
 
 Cov. I'll stand to it in the face of all the world. 
 
 M.Jour. You will dp me a great service. May I ask what 
 business brings you here? 
 
 Cov. Since I knew your late father (honest gentleman as he 
 was), I have travelled through the whole world. 
 
 M. Jour. What ! Through the whole world ? 
 
 Cov. Yes. 
 
 M. four. I fancy that country must be a long way off. 
 
 Cov. You're right. I only returned four days ago from my 
 long journeyings : and as I have an interest in all that con- 
 cerns you, I have come to tell you the best news in the world. 
 
 M. Jour. What is that ? 
 
 Cov. Of course you know that the son of the Grank Turk is 
 here ? 
 
 M. Jour. I ? No. 
 
 Cov. Is it possible? He has a most magnificent suite. Every 
 one goes to see him, and he has been received here as a personage 
 of great importance. 
 
 M. Jour. Indeed ; I was not aware of it. 
 
 Cov. ' But what concerns you so much is that he is in love with 
 your daughter. 
 
 M. Jour. What, the son of the Grand Turk ? 
 
 Cov. Yes, and wishes to be your son-in-law. 
 
 M.Jour.^ My son-in-law? The son of the Grand Turk? 
 
 Cov. The son of the Grand Turk, your son-in-law. As I have 
 been to see him, and perfectly understand his language, he held a 
 conversation with me, and said, ^^ Acciam croc, toler, onch alia 
 
Scene III.] Z^ BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 47 
 
 moustaph gidelum amanahem varahini ouffere carbidatk " ; that is 
 to say, " Have you not see a handsome young person, who is the 
 daughter of Mons. Jourdain, a gentleman of Paris ? " 
 
 M. Jour. The son of the Grand Turk said that of me ? 
 
 Gov. He did. So I repHed that I knew you perfectly well, 
 and that I had seen your daughter. "Ah," he said to me, 
 ^^ Marahaha saheni !'^ that is to say, "Ah ! how I am in love 
 with her ! " 
 
 M.Jour. So, Marababa saheni means, " Ah ! how I am in love 
 with her?" 
 
 Gov. Yes. 
 
 M. Jour. Indeed ; you did well to tell me so, since for my 
 part I should never have believed that Marababa sahetfi meant, 
 " Ah ! how I am in love with her ! " This Turkish is an admi- 
 rable language ! 
 
 Gov. More admirable than any one would believe. Are you 
 aware what Gacaramouchen means ? 
 
 M.Jour. Gacara??iouchen ? No. 
 
 Gov. It is as much as to say, " My dear soul ! " 
 
 M. Jour. Gacaramouchen means, then, " My dear soul ! " 
 
 Gov. Yes. 
 
 M, Jour. Well, it's very wonderful ! Gacaraviouchen^ " My 
 dear soul ! " Who would ever have thought it ? It quite gets 
 over me. 
 
 Gov. In short, to finish my embassy, he is coming to ask for 
 the hand of your daughter ; and in order to have a father-in-law 
 worthy of him, he wishes to make you a Mamamouchi^ a great 
 dignity in his own country. 
 
 AI. Jour. Mamaffiouchi ? 
 
 Gov, Yes, Mauia7nouchi ; that is, in our language, a Paladin. 
 Paladins are the ancient — Paladins in short. There's nothing more 
 noble ; and you wuU rank with the greatest lords upon earth. 
 
 M.Jour. The son of the Grand Turk does me a great deal of 
 honour, and I beg you to conduct me to him, that I may return 
 him my thanks. 
 
 Gov. What ! Why, he is on the point of coming here. 
 
 M. Jour. He's coming here ? 
 
 Gov. Certainly ; and he is bringing with him everything neces- 
 sary for your installation. 
 
 M. Jour. He seems to be in a great hurry. 
 
 Gov. His love will suffer no delay. 
 
 M. Jour. All that troubles me is, that my daughter is extremely 
 obstinate, and she has taken it into her head to fall in love with a 
 
48 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN, [Act IV. 
 
 fellow called Cleonte, and she vows that she will marry no one 
 but him. 
 
 Cov. Ah, she'll change her mind when she has seen the son 
 of the Grand Turk ; and this is a most extraordinary circumstance, 
 that the son of the Grand Turk has a sort of likeness to this 
 Cleonte. I have just seen him — he was pointed out to me \ and 
 the love which she bears to one may easily be transferred to the 
 other, — I hear him coming ; here he is ! 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Clii;ontEj dressed like a Turk^ with three Pages carrying his vest ; 
 MoNS. JouRDAiN, CoviELLE, disguised. 
 
 Cleonte. Amhousahim oqui boraf^ Tordina^ salamalequt. 
 
 Covielle. That is to say, " Mons. Jourdain, may your heart be 
 all the year like a rose-tree in flower." These are polite forms of 
 expression in that country. 
 
 M. Jourdain. I am his Turkish Highness's most humble 
 servant. 
 
 Cov. Carigar camboto ovstin mora/. 
 
 Cle. Ovstin y DC catavialequi basuvi base alia moran. 
 
 Cov. He says, " May Heaven give you the strength of lions, 
 and the wisdom of serpents. 
 
 M.Jour. His Turkish Highness honours me too much, and 
 I wish him all manner of prosperity. 
 
 Cov. Ossa binamen sadoc babally oracaf ovram. 
 
 Cle. Bel-men. 
 
 Cov. He says that you are to go quickly with him and prepare 
 yourself for the ceremony, in order afterwards to see your daughter, 
 and to conclude the marriage. 
 
 M. Jour. So many things in two words ? 
 
 Cov. Yes, Turkish is like that ; it says a great deal in a few 
 words. Go quickly where he desires you. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 DoRANTE, Covielle. 
 
 Covielle. Ha, ha, ha ! Indeed this is extremely droll. What 
 a dupe ! If he had learnt his part by heart he could not have 
 played it better. Ha, ha ! {Seeing Dor ante.) I beg of yoUj sir, 
 to help us here in a certain matter* which we have in hand. 
 
Scene V.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME, 49 
 
 Dorante. Ha, ha ! CovicUe, who would have known you ? 
 How you are dressed up ! 
 
 Cov. So you see* Ha, ha ! 
 
 Dor. What afe you laughing at? 
 
 Cov. At something, sir, which is very droll. 
 
 Dor. What is it ? 
 
 Cov. I would give you a good many guesses, sir, before you 
 found out the trick we are playing on Mons. Jourdain to induce 
 him to give up his daughter to my master. 
 
 Dor. I can't guess what the trick is, but I guess it is not likely 
 to fail if you have a hand in it. 
 
 Cov. I know, sir, that you are acquainted with the animal. 
 
 Dor. Tell me what it is. 
 
 Cov. Will you mind stepping aside a little, so as to make 
 room for what I see coming. You can see one part of the story, 
 while I tell you the rest. 
 
 Turkish Ceremony. The Mufil^ Dervishes, Turks, Assistants 
 
 of the Mufti, singing and da7ici?ig. First entraiice of the Ballet. 
 
 Six Turks enter gravely together, two and two, to music. 7"hey 
 carry three carpets, which they lift very high and form into various 
 figures while dancing. The singing Turks and musicians pass 
 under these carpets, and range themselves on both sides of the 
 stage ; the Dervishes who accompany the Mufti close the pro- 
 cession. 
 
 Next the Turks spread the carpels on the ground, and kneel 
 upon them ; and then the Mufti, standing in the middle, invokes 
 Mahomet with contortions and grimaces, and says not another 
 word. The Turkish assistants prostrate themselves on the ground, 
 singing Alii ; then they raise their arms to heaven, singing Alia, 
 and so they continue alternately to the end of the Invocation. 
 Then they all rise up singing Alia ekber. 
 
 Then the Dervishes bring the Citizen before the Mufti, dressed 
 as a Turk, shaven, without a turban, without a sabre, to whom 
 the following words are sung in Lingua Franca :— - 
 
 The Mufii. If thou understandcst^ 
 Afiswer ; 
 If thou dost not understand. 
 
 Hold thy peace, hold thy peace* 
 I am Mufti, 
 
 Thou I who thou art 
 I knoiv not : 
 J J old thy peace, hold thy peact^ 
 5 
 
50 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act IV. 
 
 Two Turks lead the Citizen back, while the Mufti demands of 
 the Turks to what religion he belongs, and then sings— 
 
 Say, Turk^ who is this ; an Anabaptist, an Anabaptist i 
 
 Turks. No. 
 Mufti. A Zwi7iglian ? 
 Turks. No. 
 Mufti. A Copt? 
 Turks. No. 
 
 Mufti. A Hussite, a Moor, a Fronist ? 
 Turks. No, no, no. 
 
 Mufti repeats, No, no, no. Is he a pagan / 
 Turks. No. 
 
 Mufti. Is he a Lutheran ? 
 Turks. No. 
 Mufti. A Puritan ? 
 Turks. No. 
 
 Mufti. A Brahjnin, a Mossian, a Zurian ? 
 Turks. No, no, no. 
 
 Mufti repeats, No, no, no. A Mahometan, a Mahometan ? 
 Turks. There you have it ; there you have it! 
 Mufti. How is he called ; how is he called ? 
 Turks. Jourdain, Jourdain. 
 Mufti. Jourdain ? 
 
 The Mufti (dancing and looking on all sides). Jourdain, Jour- 
 dain, Jourdai7i ? 
 
 Turks repeat, Jourdain, Jourdain, Jourdain f 
 
 Mufti. To Mahomet for Jourdain 
 
 I pray night and day ; 
 1 7vish to make a Paladin 
 Of Jourdain, of Jourdain. 
 Give hifn a turban, and a sabre f 
 With a galley and a brigantinef 
 To defend Palestine. 
 To Mahomet for Jourdain j &c.- 
 
 (To the Turks.) Will he be a good Turk, Jourdain f 
 
 Turks. That he will, that he 7vill. 
 
 Mufti sings and dances. Ha la ba, ba la chou, ba ta ta.- 
 
 After the Mufti has retired, the Turks dance, aud sing the same 
 words — Ha la ba, ba la chou, ba la ba, ba la da. 
 Second Entry of the Ballet. 
 
 The Mufti returns, wearing the State turban, wfcicfr h of an 
 
Scene V.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 51 
 
 enormous size, decorated with four or five rows of lighted wax 
 candles. 
 
 Two Dervishes accompany him, with pointed caps, also 
 decked with lighted candles, carrying the Alcoran. The two 
 other Dervishes lead the Citizen, who is almost frightened to 
 death at the ceremonies. They make him kneel down, with his 
 back to the Mufti ; then making him bend his body till his hands 
 touch the ground, they place the Alcoran on his back, and make 
 him serve as a dej?k to the Mufti, who makes a burlesque Invoca- 
 tion, knitting his eyebrows and opening his mouth without saying 
 a word : then speaking with vehemence, now softening his voice, 
 then raising it enthusiastically, enough to make them tremble; 
 holding his sides with his fists, as if to make his words come 
 out ; sometimes striking the Alcoran and tossing the leaves over 
 hastily. He concludes at last by lifting up his hands and crying 
 with a loud voice, Hou ! 
 
 During this Invocation the Assistant Turks, bending down 
 and rising three times, sing, Hou^ hou, hou ! 
 
 After the Invocation is over, the Dervishes take the Alcoran 
 from the Citizen's back, who cries, Evgh ! Then they help 
 him up. 
 
 The Mufti (addressing the Citizen). TJiou wilt not be a thief? 
 
 Turks. No, no, no. 
 
 Mufti. Not a cheat ? 
 
 Turks. No, no, no. 
 
 Mufti (to Turks). Give the turban, give the turban. Then goes 
 away. 
 
 Turks. You are not a thief? 
 
 No, 110, no. 
 Not a cheat ? 
 No, no, no. 
 Give a turban. 
 
 Third Entry of the Ballet. 
 
 Turks put the turban on M. Jourdain, singing and dancing. 
 The Mufti returns, and gives the sabre to M. Jourdain, saying, 
 Be brave, be :vj scound7-el, take the sabre. Then he retires. 
 
 Fourth Entry of the Ballet. 
 
 The Turks repeat the same words, all drawing their sabres, and 
 six of them, dancing round M. Jourdain, make as though they 
 would give hkn several cuts with their sabres. 
 
52 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act V* 
 
 The Mufti returns and commands the Turks to bastinado the 
 Citizen, singing these words — 
 
 Give^ give a basti?tadOj a bastinado^ a bastinado. 
 Then he goes away. 
 
 Fifth Entry of the Ballet. 
 
 The Turks repeat the same words, and give M. Jourdain 
 several strokes with the stick in cadence. 
 The Mufti listurns and sings — 
 
 Not to have shame^ 
 Is the last affront. 
 Turks. 
 
 Not to have shame^ , 
 
 Is the last affront. 
 
 The Mufti begins another Invocation ; the Dervishes support 
 him under the arms respectfully, and all the Turks, leaping, 
 dancing, and singing round the Mufti, retire with him and lead 
 out M. Jourdain. 
 
 ACT V. Scene I. 
 Madame Jourdain, Mons. Jourdain. 
 
 Md?ne. Jourdain. Bless us and save us, what's all this ? What 
 a figure ! Are you going mumming ? Is this the time to go 
 masquerading ? Speak then, and say what is the meaning of it all. 
 Who has been making a guy of you like this ? 
 
 M. Jourdaiti. How impertinent to speak in that way to a 
 Mama?nouchi ! 
 
 Mdtne.Jour. What do you say ? 
 
 M. Jour. I say you must treat me with respect now. I've 
 just been made a Mamaniouchi. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. What do you mean, with your Mamamouchi i 
 
 M. Jour. Mamamouchi^ I tell you I am a Mama?nouchi. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. What sort of an animal is that ? 
 
 M. Jour. Mamamouchi — that is to say, in our language, a 
 Paladin. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. A Baladin ? ^ At your age arc you going to turn 
 Morris-dancer ? 
 
 M. Jour. How stupid you are ! I said Paladin ; it is a 
 dignity, the ceremony of which I have just gone through. 
 
 * A ballet-dancer. 
 
Scene II.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME, 53 
 
 Mdme. Jour. What ceremony then ? 
 
 M. Jour. Mahameta per Jordina, 
 
 Mdme. Jour. What does that mean ? 
 
 M.Jour. Jordina, that is to say Jourdain. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Well, Jourdain, and what then ? 
 
 M.Jour. Voler far ten Paladin de Jordina. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. What? 
 
 M. Jour. Dar Turbanta con Galera. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. What's the meaning of that? 
 
 M. Jour. Per defender Palesiina. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. What do you mean ? 
 
 M.Jour. Dara, dara bastonnara. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. What is all this jargon about? 
 
 M. Jour. Non tetiir /lonta, questa star V ultima affronta. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. What in the world can all this be ? 
 
 M. Jour, {datues and sings). Hou la ba^ ba la chou, ba la ba^ 
 ha la da {and falls down). 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Alas, alas ! My husband has gone out of his 
 mind. 
 
 M. Jour. Hold your tongue, impudence, and show respect to 
 Monsieur le Matnamouchi. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. I wonder how he came to lose his senses. I 
 must run and prevent his going out. {Seeing Dorante and 
 Dorimene.) Ah ! this is the last straw. I see nothing but 
 vexation on all sides. {Exit. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Dorante and Dorimene. 
 
 Dorante. Yes, madame, you shall see the most amusing sight 
 possible. I don't believe that in all the world you could find 
 another such a fool as this one. And then, madame, we must try 
 and forward Cleonte's suit, and support his masquerade. He is 
 a very gentlemanly fellow, and deserves that we should interest 
 ourselves in his behalf. 
 
 Dorimene. I've a great regard for him, and he deserves good 
 fortune in his suit. 
 
 Dor. Besides which, madame, we have here an entertainment 
 that may suit us, and which we ought not to lose ; and I must see 
 too whether my idea can be carried out. 
 
 Dori. 1 saw some magnificent arrangements, and these are 
 things, Dorante, which I can no longer allow. Yes, I must put 
 
54 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act V. 
 
 a stop to all your extravagance, and in order to break off the 
 expense which I see you are incurring on my account, I have 
 determined to marry you at once. That is the true secret of it, 
 and all these things end, as you know, with marriage. 
 
 Dor. Ah ! madame, is it possible that you should form so kind 
 a resolution in my favour ? 
 
 Dori. I only do it to prevent you ruining yourself; otherwise 
 I see plainly that before long you will not have a shilling. 
 
 Dor. How deeply I am indebted to you, madame, for the care 
 you take to preserve my estate. It is entirely at your service as 
 well as my heart, and you may dispose of them both as you please. 
 
 Dori. I shall make a proper use of them. But here comes 
 your man. What an extraordinary f gure ! 
 
 Scent; III. 
 
 MONS. JOURDAIN, DORANTE, DORIMENE. 
 
 Dorante. We have come, my Lady and I, to pay our homage 
 to your new dignity, and to congratulate you on the marriage you 
 are concluding between your daughter and the son of the Grand 
 Turk. 
 
 J/. Jourdain {Jiaving made his boiv in the Turkish manner'). 
 Sir, I wish you the strength of serpents, and the wisdom of lions. 
 
 Dorimcfie. I am extremely glad, sir, to be one of the first to 
 congratulate you on the high degree of glory to which you hrv/e 
 risen. 
 
 M. Jour. Madame, I wish that your rose tree may flourish all 
 the year round : I am infinitely obliged to you for taking an 
 interest in the honours which have come to me, and I am greatly 
 pleased to see you return here, so that I may make my excuses 
 for the impertinence of my wife. 
 
 Dori. Oh, that was nothing. I can quite excuse her being 
 upset ; your heart ought to be precious to her, and it is not at all 
 strange that the possession of such a man as you should give her 
 some anxiety. 
 
 M. Jour. The possession of my heart is a thing that you have 
 entirely gained. 
 
 Dor. You see, madame, that Mons. Jourdain is not one of 
 those people who are blinded by prosperity, and that in his glory 
 he still owns his friends. 
 
 Dori. It is the mark of a truly generous soul. 
 
Scene V.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 55 
 
 Dor. Where is His Turkish Highness? We should be glad, 
 as your friends, to pay our respects to him. 
 
 M. Jour. Here he comes, and I have sent for my daughter 
 that I may bestow her hand upon him. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Cleonte {in a Turkish dress\ Covielle, Mons. Jourdain, 
 
 DORIMENE, DORANTE. 
 
 Dorante. Sir, we are come to pay our homage to your High- 
 ness, as the friends of this gentleman — your future father-in-law — 
 and to assure you respectfully of our most humble services. 
 
 M. Jourdain. Where's the Dragoman, to tell him who you are, 
 and to make him understand what you say. You shall see that 
 he will answer you, and he speaks Turkish perfectly. Here ! 
 where the deuce is he gone? {To Cleonte^ pretending to talk 
 Turkish?) Strefy strif, strof^ straf. The gentleman is a grafide 
 Signore, and madame is a granda Dama^ grajtda Dama. Ahi^ 
 sir, he is a French Mama7?iouchi, and madame a French Mama- 
 mouchess: I can't speak plainer. Good, here's the Dragoman. 
 Where have you been too ? We can say nothing without you. 
 Tell him shortly that the gentleman and lady are people of high 
 rank, who have come to pay their respects to him, as friends of 
 mine, and to assure him of their services. You will see how he 
 will answer. 
 
 Covielle. Alabala crociafn^ acciboram alahamen. 
 
 Cleonte. Catalequi tubal ourift sotor Amalouchan. 
 
 M. Jour. Do you hear ? 
 
 Cov. He says that the rain of prosperity waters at all seasons 
 the garden of your family. 
 
 M.Joicr. Didn't I tell you that he speaks Turkish ? 
 
 Dor, This is admirable. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 LuciLE, Mons. Jourdain, Dorante, Dorimene, Cleonte, 
 Covielle. 
 
 M. Jourdain. Come, daughter, come nearer, and give your 
 hand to this gentleman, who does you the honour of asking it in 
 marriage. 
 
56 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN, [Act V. 
 
 Liicile. Why, father, what have you been doing to yourself? 
 Are you playing a comedy ? 
 
 M. Jour. No, no, it is no comedy, but a very serious affair ; 
 and the greatest honour I can desire for you. This is the husband 
 I give to you. 
 
 Luc. To me, father ? 
 
 M. Jour. Yes, to you. Come, take him by the hand and 
 thank heaven for your good fortune. 
 
 Luc. I don't wish to marry. 
 
 M. Jour. Then I'll make you, as I am your father. 
 
 Luc. I'll have nothing to do with it. 
 
 M.Jour. What a noise to be sure ! Come, I tell you. Give 
 your hand. 
 
 Laic. No, father ; I've told you already that there is no powet 
 that can force me to take any other husband than Cleonte, and I 
 am determined to proceed to all extremities rather than — {recog- 
 nising Cleonie) — It is true that you are my father, and I owe you 
 absolute obedience, so you may dispose of me as you please. 
 
 M. Jour. Ah ! I am delighted to see you return so quickly to 
 your duty ; and it is a pleasure to me to have such an obedient 
 daughter. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Mdme. Jourdain, Mons. Jourdain, Cleonte, (S^r. 
 
 Mdtne.Jourdain. How now? What's all this about? They 
 tell me you mean to give your daughter to some carnival-mummer. 
 
 M. Jourdain. Will you hold your tongue, impertinent woman. 
 You are always coming to mix up your ridiculous notions with 
 everything : there is no possibility of teaching you common sense. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. It is you who will never learn sense. You go 
 from one folly to another. What is your intention ? and what do 
 you want with all this crowd of people ? 
 
 M. Jour. I intend to marry my daughter to the son of the 
 Grand Turk. 
 
 Afdme. Jour. To the son of the Grand Turk ? 
 
 AL. Jour. Yes, go and give him your compliments, by the 
 Dragoman there. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. I'll have nothing to do with any Dragoman, and 
 I'll tell the other one to his face that he shall have no daughter of 
 mine. 
 
 M.Jour. Once more, will you hold your tongue? 
 
Scene VI.] LE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME. 57 
 
 Dorante. What, Madame Jourdain, would you set yourself 
 against such happiness as that? Do you refuse His Turkish 
 Highness for your son-in-law ? 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Good gracious, sir, will you mind your own 
 business ? 
 
 Doriinene. It is a great honour, by no means to be rejected.. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Madame, I must beg of you not to trouble your- 
 self with what does not concern you. 
 
 Dor. It is the friendship which we feel for you that makes us 
 interest ourselves in your well-being. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. I can do very well without your friendship. 
 
 Dor, But your daughter consents to her father's wishes. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. My daughter consents to marry a Turk ? 
 
 Dor. Undoubtedly. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Can she forget Cleonte ? 
 
 Dor. What would not one do to be a great lady ? 
 
 Mdme. Jour. I would strangle her with my own hands, if she 
 did a thing like that. 
 
 M. Jour. Come, come, there's too much cackle. I tell you 
 this marriage shall be carried through. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. And I say it shall not. 
 
 M. Jour. What a noise, to be sure ! 
 
 Lucile. Mother ! 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Oh, you're a good-for-nothing hussy ! 
 
 M. Jour. What ! do you scold her for obeying me ? 
 
 Md7ne.Jour. Yes ; for she's as much mine as yours. 
 
 Covielle {to Mdme. Jourdaiit). Madame ! 
 
 Mdme. Jour. What have you got to say ? 
 
 Gov. Only one word. 
 
 Mdme. /our. I'll have nothing to do with your word. 
 
 Go7K {to Mons. Jourdain). Sir, if she will only give me one 
 minute's private conversation, I promise to make her conform 
 to your wishes. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. I will not consent. 
 
 Gov. Only listen to me. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. No. 
 
 AT. Jour. Give him a hearing. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. No, I will not. 
 
 M. Jour. He'll tell you 
 
 Mdme. Jour. I will not have him say anything to me. 
 
 M. Jour. Did you ever see anything like the woman's ob- 
 stinacy ? Will it do you any harm to hear him ? 
 
 Gov. Only hear me ; you may do as you please afterwards. 
 
58 THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN. [Act V. 
 
 Mdme.Jour. Well, what? 
 
 Cov. {to Mdme. Jourdain^ apart). We have been making signs 
 to you, madame, for the last hour. Can't you see that all this is 
 only done to suit ourselves to your husband's notions, that we are 
 imposing upon him under this disguise, and that it is Cleonte 
 himself who is the son of the Grand Turk ? 
 
 Mdme.Jour. Ah! ah! 
 
 Cov. And it is I, Covielle, who am the Dragoman. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. Well, in that case, I must give in. 
 
 Cov. Don't seem to know anything about it. 
 
 Mdme. Jour, {returning). Yes. It is settled. I consent to 
 the marriage. 
 
 M. Jour. Ah ! now every one is becoming reasonable. {To 
 Madame Jour dain.) You would not hear him. I knew he would 
 explain to you who the son of the Grand Turk is. 
 
 Mdme. Jour. He has explained to me quite enough, and I am 
 satisfied. Now let us send for a Notary. 
 
 Dor. That is very well said. And Madame Jourdain, that 
 you may set your mind perfectly at rest, and may be free from any 
 jealousy you may have conceived about your husband, my lady 
 and I will make use of the same Notary to marry us. 
 
 Mdine. Jour. I have no objection to that. 
 
 M. Jour, {apart to Dorante). It is to make her believe. 
 
 Dor. {apart to Mons. Jourdain). We must by all means 
 amuse her by this pretence. 
 
 M. Jour, {aloud). Good, good. Let some one go for the 
 Notary. 
 
 Dor. In the meantime, till he comes, and has drawn up the 
 contract, let us see our entertainment and give his Turkish 
 Highness some amusement. 
 
 M. Jour. Well said. Come, let us take our places. 
 
 Mdftie. Jour. And Nicole ? 
 
 M. Jour. I give her to the Dragoman, and my wife to 
 whoever pleases to take her. 
 
 Cov. Sir, I thank you. {Apart.) If it's possible to find a 
 greater fool than this man, I'll go and tell it at Rome. 
 
 {The Comedy ends with a short Ballet which had been prepared by 
 Dorante.) 
 
THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES 
 
 i^LES PRECIEUSES RIDICULES). 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.^. 
 
 GoRGiBUS, a good citizen. 
 
 ^\^^^l^^, daughter of Gorgibus.X ^ ^^ 
 
 CMi:iios,7ueceofGorgious, ) ■' ^ 
 
 Marotte, the yotmg ladies' maid. 
 
 Almanzor, the young ladies^ footman. 
 
 Marquis de Mascarille, La Grange's valet. 
 
 ViCOMTE DE JODELET, Dic Croisfs valet. 
 
 Two Chairmen. 
 
 LuciLE and C£limene, neighbours. 
 
 Fiddlers. 
 
 Scene— PARIS, in the House of Gorgidus. 
 
 ACT I. Scene I. 
 La Grange, Du Croisy. 
 
 Du Croisy. Seigneur La Grange ! 
 
 La Grange. What? 
 
 Du Cr. Look at me a moment without laughing. 
 
 La Gr. Well ? 
 
 Du Cr. What do you think of our visit? Were you quite 
 pleased with it ? 
 
 La Gr. Do you believe either of us has reason to be so ? 
 
 Du Cr. Well, to tell the truth, not altogether. 
 
 La Gr. For my part, I assure you, I feel quite shocked at it 
 Pray did ever any one see two country wenches give themselves 
 more airs than they did, or two men treated with more contempt 
 than we were? They could scarcely bring themselves to ask us 
 to sit down. I never saw such whispering, such yawning, such 
 rubbing of eyes and asking so often what o'clock it was. 
 Did they answer more than " yes," or " no," to anything we 
 could say to them ? And, in short, don't you agree with me that 
 
6o THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES, [Act I. 
 
 if we had been the greatest scoundrels they could not have used 
 us worse than they did. 
 
 Du Cr. You seem to take it very much to heart. 
 
 La Gr. Certainly I do, and so much so that I shall revenge 
 myself for this impertinence. I know very well the cause of their 
 slighting us. This affected air has not only infected Paris, but has 
 spread into the provinces, and our absurd young ladies have 
 imbibed a good share of it. In a word, they are a curious 
 mixture of coquetry and affectation. I see what a man must be 
 to be on good terms with them, and if you'll trust me we'll play 
 them a trick, which shall make them see their folly, and teach 
 them to distinguish people a little better. 
 
 Du Cr, But how can this be done ? 
 
 La Gr, I have a valet named Mascarille, who passes for 
 a sort of wit in the opinion of many people — for nothing is cheaper 
 than wit nowadays. He is a mad fellow who takes it into his 
 head to assume the air of a person of quality. He goes in 
 for gallantry and poetry, and despises other valets, so much so as 
 to call them brutes. 
 
 Du Cr, Well, what do you mean to do with him ? 
 
 La Gr, What do I mean to do with him ? Why he must — 
 but first let us quit this place. 
 
 Scene II. 
 GoRGiBus, Du Croisy, La Grange. 
 
 Gorgibus, Well, gentlemen, have you seen my daughter and 
 my niece ? Are matters progressing ? What is the result of this 
 visit ? 
 
 La Grange, You can learn that better from them than from us. 
 All we can say is, that we return you thanks for the honour you 
 have done us, and we remain your most humble servants. 
 
 Du Croisy. Your most humble servants. 
 
 Gor. {alone). Oho ! It seems that they came away very 
 dissatisfied. What could be the cause of their discontent ? I 
 must find out something about it. Ho ! come here ! 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Marotte, Gorgidus. 
 
 Marotte. What do you please to want, sir ? 
 Gorgibus. Where are your mistresses ? 
 
Scene IV.] LES PI^HCIEUSES RtDlCULES. 6t 
 
 Mar. In their room, sir. 
 
 Gor. What are they doing ? 
 
 Mar. Making a salve for the h"ps. 
 
 Gor. There's too much of this salve- making. Tell them to 
 come down. {Alotie.) These hussies, I think, want to ruin me 
 with their salves. I see nothing about the place but whites 
 of eggs, milk of roses, and a thousand other fooleries I know 
 nothing of. Since we have been here, they have used the lard of 
 at least a dozen pigs, and one could keep four servants every day 
 on the sheeps' trotters they use. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Madelon, Catiios, Gorgibus. 
 
 Gorgibus. Truly, it is very necessary for you to go to all 
 this expense to grease your faces ! But give me some idea what 
 you have been doing to those gentlemen, whom I saw leaving 
 with so much coldness. Did I not command you to receive them 
 as your future husbands? 
 
 Madelon. My dear father, I should like to know how you 
 would have us receive the irregular proceedings of these people. 
 
 Cathos. And pray, uncle, how can a woman with a spark 
 of understanding put up with their persons? 
 
 Gor. What fault do you find with them ? 
 
 Mad. Talk of manners ! Why they began at once to speak of 
 marriage. 
 
 Gor. Well, how would you have them begin? With 
 concubinage? Surely both of you as well as myself ought to 
 be pleased with such a mode of paying addresses. Is there 
 anything more polite than that? And the sacred bond to which 
 they aspire, is it not a proof of their honourable intentions ? 
 
 Mad. Why, father, you talk like the lowest shopkeeper. I am 
 ashamed to hear you speak in such a way ; you ought now to get 
 some lessons in the proper air of things. 
 
 Gor. I've nothing to do with the air, nor the song. I tell you 
 that marriage is a holy and sacred thing, and it's quite right 
 and proper to begin with it. 
 
 Mad. Why, if all the world were like you, what would become 
 of romance? It would have been a fine state of things if Cyrus 
 had married Mandane off hand, and if Aronce had at once 
 espoused Clelie. 
 
 Gor. What is all this talk about ? 
 
62 THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES. [Act I. 
 
 Alad. Ask my cousin, father, and she will tell you as well as I 
 can, that marriage should come after other adventures. A lover, 
 to be agreeable, should know how to utter fine sentiments, how to 
 breathe soft, tender, and passionate thoughts, and to make his suit 
 according to rule. In the first place, he must see his lady-love at 
 church, in the park, or at some public ceremony ; or else he must 
 meet his fate by being introduced to her through a relation 
 or friend, and leave her presence pensive and melancholy. For 
 some time he conceals from the beloved object the devotion 
 he feels for her, but he pays her several visits, in the course 
 of which he always introduces the subject of love-making so as to 
 give opportunity for discussion by the company. At last the day 
 comes for his making his proposal, which should be done in the 
 side-walk of some garden, when others are at a distance. This 
 proposal is followed by a display of anger, as shown by our 
 blushes, and which keeps the would-be lover for some time at 
 a distance. He finds by degrees some mode of appeasing us, and 
 then again paves the way for a fresh declaration of love, and for 
 drawing forth that avowal which causes so much trouble. Then 
 comes a series of exciting adventures; rivals who thwart an 
 established affection ; persecution of fathers ; jealousies arising 
 from misconceptions, complaints, despair, runaway matches, and 
 the necessary results. This is how love affairs should be carried 
 on according to good manners, which ought always to be followed 
 in true gallantry. But to come point-blank to a matrimonial 
 engagement, to make love only with a marriage contract, and to 
 take romance by the wrong end ! Once more, dear father, 
 nothing could be more tradesman-like than such a proceeding, and 
 I feel quite upset at the mere notion. 
 
 Gor. What devilish nonsense is this ? This is nothing but 
 high-flying rubbish. 
 
 Ca. In short, uncle, my cousin tells you the truth of the 
 matter. How is it possible to receive people who are utterly 
 innocent of all proprieties ? I wouldn't mind wagering that they 
 have never seen the Map of True Love, and that " billets 
 doux," Tender Attentions, Polite Notes, and Sonnets, are unknown 
 regions to them. Cannot you see how their whole bearing shows 
 this, and that they have not the air about them which prepossesses 
 one at once in their favour. The idea of coming love-making 
 in plain breeches, a hat without any feathers, a head with 
 undressed locks, and a coat without any ribbons on it ! Good 
 gracious! What lovers are these? What stinginess in dress! 
 What dryness of conversation ! One can never stand it. > Ii 
 
ScKNE v.] LES PRkciEUSES RIDICULES. 63 
 
 noticed, too, that their ruffs were not at all well-made, and 
 that their breeches did not fit them properly. 
 
 Gor. I think they are both out of their mind. I can make 
 
 nothing out of this gibberish. Cathos, and you Madelon 
 
 Mad. Oh, father, pray leave off these outlandish names, and 
 call us differently. 
 
 Gor. What on earth do you mean ? Outlandish ! Are they 
 not your Christian names ? 
 
 Mad. Goodness, how vulgar you are ! It really does surprise 
 me that you could have had so witty and refined a daughter 
 as myself. Did any one in society ever speak of Cathos or 
 Madelon ? And you must acknowledge that either of these names 
 would be enough to ruin the finest novel in the world. 
 
 Ca. Really, uncle, an ear of any delicacy of sense must be 
 excruciated, at hearing such names, whereas Polixbne, which my 
 cousin has chosen, and Aminte, which I have taken for myself, 
 have a certain grace which you must allow. 
 
 Gor. Now listen, I have just one word to say to you. I 
 allow no other names than those given you by your godfathers and 
 godmothers ; and as regards the gentlemen in question, I know their 
 families and their fortunes, and I tell you plainly that I have made 
 up my mind you shall receive them as husbands. I am tired of 
 having you on my hands, and the care of a couple of young girls 
 is really too heavy a burden for a man of my age. 
 
 Ca. Well, uncle, I must tell you frankly that, for my part, 
 I consider marriage quite shocking. 
 
 Mad. Give us a little breathing-time now that we have come 
 into Parisian society, and allow us to weave at leisure the tissue of 
 our romance and don't hurry it to its conclusion too fast. 
 
 Gor. {aside). There can be no doubt about it. They've both 
 gone off their heads. {Aloud.) Once more I tell you I know 
 nothing about all this nonsense, but \ choose to be absolute 
 master ; and to put an end to all this dispute, let me tell you both 
 that either you'll get married out of hand, or I'll have you shut up 
 in a convent. And I give you my solemn word on it. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Cathos, Madelon, afterwards Marotte. 
 
 Cathos. Heavens ! my dear, how dense your father is ! How 
 grciis his understanding is, how dark his soul ! 
 
 Madelon. What can I say, my dear ? I am quite upset about 
 him. I can hardly believe that I am really his daughter, but 
 
64 THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES, [Act I. 
 
 expect that some day I shall discover, through some adventure, 
 that I belong to a more illustrious family. 
 
 Ca. I quite think so. There is every likelihood in the world 
 of it, and when I think of myself too 
 
 Enter Marotte. 
 
 Marotte. Here's a footman come to ask if you're at home, and 
 says that his master wishes to come and see you. 
 
 Mad. Learn, you stupid creature, not to speak in such a 
 vulgar way. Say, Here is an indispensable who desires to know 
 whether it is convenient to you to be visible. 
 
 Mar. By our Lady! I don't understand Latin, and I ain't 
 never learnt flossophy out of Cyrus like you. 
 
 Mad. Impertinent creature. Who can put up v/ith such 
 insolence ? And who is the master of this footman. 
 
 Mar. He said he was called the Marquis de Mascarille. 
 
 Mad. Oh, my dear, a Marquis ! a Marquis ! Yes, go and tell 
 him that we will see him. No doubt he's a wit that has heard us 
 spoken of. 
 
 Ca. Unquestionably, my dear. 
 
 Mad. We must receive him downstairs, and not in our own 
 room. Let us arrange our hair properly, and maintain our 
 reputation. Come here quickly and hold to us the counsellor of 
 the Graces. 
 
 Mar. Truly, I can't tell what sort of an animal that is. If you 
 want me to understand you, you must talk like a Christian. 
 
 Ca. Bring the looking-glass, you stupid creature, and take care 
 not to defile it with the image of your own face. 
 
 Scene VL 
 Mascarille, aiid Two C/iairmen» 
 
 Mascarille. Hold, chairmen, hold. La, la, la, la ! I think these 
 varlets intend to knock me to pieces, by jostling me against the 
 walls and pavement. 
 
 First Chairman. Ay, because the gate's narrow. You v/ould 
 have us bring you right in here. 
 
 Mas. Quite true. Would you have me expose the beauty of my 
 feathers to the inclemency of the rainy season, or leave the im- 
 pression of my shoes in the mud? Be off, and take away your chair. 
 
 Second Chairman. Then pay us, sir, if you please. 
 
 Mas. Eh? 
 
 %id Chair, Please to give us our money, sir, I say. 
 
Scene VII.] LES PrAcIEUSES RIDICULES, 65 
 
 Mas. {givi7ig him a box on the ear). What ! you rascal, ask for 
 money from a person of my rank ? 
 
 • ^nd Chair. Are poor people to be paid in this way ? And 
 will your rank get us a dinner ? 
 
 Mas. Ha, ha! I'll teach you to know your place. Dare 
 these scoundrels take liberties with me ? 
 
 1st Chair, {taking one of the poles of the chair). Come, pay us 
 quickly. 
 
 Mas. What ? 
 
 1st Chair. I say I'll have the money at once. 
 
 Mas. Ah, now, this is a reasonable man. 
 
 1^/ Chair. Make haste then. 
 
 Mas. Well, you speak as you ought to do, but the other 
 fellow is a rascal who does not know what he says. — There now, 
 are you contented ? 
 
 Isi Chair. No, I'm not contented ; you struck my mate 
 and {raising his pole). 
 
 Mas. Here, then, is something for the blow. People may get 
 anything out of me if they go the right way to work. Go now, but 
 come again for me by and by, to take me to the royal bed- 
 chamber. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 Marotte, Mascarille — afterwards Madelon, Cathos, 
 Almanzor. 
 
 Marotte. Sir, my mistresses will come directly. 
 Mascarille. Oh, they need not hurry themselves. I can wait 
 here very comfortably. 
 Mar. Here they are. 
 
 Enter Madelon and Cathos. 
 
 Mas. {after havitig boived $? them). You'll be doubtless 
 surprised, ladies, at the boldness of my visit, but your reputation 
 brings this infliction on you. Merit has such potent charms for 
 me, that I run everywhere after it. 
 
 Madelon. If you pursue merit, it is not on our grounds that 
 you must hunt. 
 
 Cathos. To find merit here, you must have brought it with 
 you. 
 
 Mas. Ah, I engage to prove the contrary. Fame told the 
 truth in relating your worth, and you are going to make a clean 
 sweep of all the gallants of Paris. 
 
 6 
 
65 THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES, [Act 1. 
 
 Mad, Your courtesy pushes the liberality of its praises some- 
 what too far, and my cousin and I must not take too seriously 
 the sweetness of your flattery. 
 
 Ca. My dear, we should call for chairs. 
 
 Mad. Almanzor. 
 
 Almanzor, Madame. 
 
 Mad^ Convey to us quickly the conveniences of conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 Mas, But tell me, am I safe here ? 
 
 Ca. What are you afraid of? 
 
 Mas. Some robbery of my heart, some attempt upon my 
 freedom. I see there a pair of eyes which look like two very 
 naughty boys, who would play with liberty and treat a heart 
 no better than a Turk would a slave. Why the deuce do they 
 put themselves on their murdering guard as soon as they see 
 any one approach them ? Ah, in truth I distrust them, and must 
 either run away or get good security that they will not do me any 
 harm. 
 
 Mad, My dear, this is lively wit. 
 
 Ca, I see plainly that he is a Hamilcar.* 
 
 Mad, You need not be afraid ; our eyes have no evil designs, 
 and your heart may repose in the assurance of their harmlessness. 
 
 Ca, But, my dear sir, I hope you will not be inexorable to the 
 advances of the easy chair which has been stretching out its arms 
 to you for a quarter of an hour ; pray yield to its desire to embrace 
 you. 
 
 Mas. {having combed his hair and adjusted his lace-fringes). 
 Well, ladies, and what do you think of Paris ? 
 
 Mad. Ah ! What can we say ? It would be the antipodes of 
 reason not to acknowledge that Paris is the greatest storehouse of 
 wonders, the centre of good taste, wit, and gallantry. 
 
 Mas. For my part, I think outside of Paris there is no 
 salvation for people of fashion. 
 
 Ca. There's no denying that. 
 
 Mas. It is rather dirty; but one can always call a sedan- 
 chair. 
 
 Mad. Ah, that is a wonderful safeguard against the insults of 
 mud and bad weather. 
 
 Mas. You doubtless have plenty of visitors ? What great wit 
 do you reckon among them ? 
 
 Mad, The fact is that we are not much known yet, but we are 
 in the way to be so, for we have a particular friend who has 
 * A lively character in •• Clelie," by Mdlle. de Sctidery. 
 
Scene VIL] LES PRRCIEUSES RIDICULES, 67 
 
 promised to bring here all the gentlemen who write for the " Select 
 Miscellany." 
 
 Ca. And some others who have been mentioned to us as 
 being the supreme judges of fine things. 
 
 Mas. I can do that for you better than any one. They all visit 
 me, and I can truly say that I never rise without having half 
 a dozen wits about me. 
 
 Mad. Really we shall be under the greatest obligation if you 
 can do us this service, for one must have the acquaintance of all 
 these gentlemen, if one would be in good society. They can give 
 one a name in Paris, and merely to be seen in the company 
 of some of them is enough to give one a reputation as a judge, 
 even if one had no other claim. But what I think most of is, that 
 by these intellectual visits one learns a hundred things that one 
 should know, and which are the very essence of wit. Thereby one 
 learns every day the latest scandals, the pleasant interchanges 
 in prose and verse. Thus one learns at the right time that such a 
 person has composed the finest piece in the world on such a 
 subject ; that such a lady has set words to such a tune ; this person 
 has made a madrigal upon a favour done him : that one has 
 written stanzas on one who has betrayed him. Mr. So-and-So 
 wrote a poem of six lines yesterday evening to Mrs. So-and-So, to 
 which she sent him an answer this morning at eight o'clock. 
 Such an author has made such a plan ; this writer has completed 
 the third part of his novel, that other is just sending his work 
 to the press. — It is this which makes you thought much of in 
 society, and if people are ignorant of these things I would not give 
 a pin for all their talent. 
 
 Ca. In fact I think it extremely ridiculous for any one to make 
 pretensions to talent, who does not know even the least little 
 sonnet that is made every day ; and for my part I should be 
 completely ashamed of myself if any one should ask me if I had 
 seen something new and I had not done so. 
 
 Mas. It really is shameful not to be among the first to 
 know what is going on ; but do not trouble about that. I will 
 establish in your house an Academy of Talent, and I can 
 promise you there shall not be a rhyme made in Paris which 
 you shall not have by heart before any one else. As for myself, you 
 see what I am ; I scribble a little when I am in the mood for it, 
 and you may meet with what I have written in all the best private 
 circles of Paris— some two hundred songs, as many sonnets, four 
 hundred epigrams, and more than a thousand madrigals, without 
 reckoning riddles and portraits. 
 
68 THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES. [Act I. 
 
 Mad. I must acknowledge that I am perfectly wild after 
 portraits. I think nothing is more delightful. 
 
 Mas. Portraits in words are difficult, and call for a very special 
 talent. I will show you some of mine that I think will not 
 displease you. 
 
 Ca. For my part, I am awfully fond of riddles. 
 
 Mas. Well, they exercise the wit. I have made four already 
 this morning, which I will submit to you to guess. 
 
 Mad. Madrigals are agreeable, when they are well turned. 
 
 Mas. That is my peculiar talent, and I'm going to turn all the 
 history of Rome into madrigals. 
 
 Mad. Ah, that will be wondrously fine. I must have at least 
 one copy if you print it. 
 
 Mas. I promise you each one, and bound in the best style. 
 It is rather beneath my rank ; and I only do it for the benefit of 
 the booksellers who pester me. 
 
 Mad. I fancy it must be a great pleasure to see one's self in print. 
 
 Mas. Certainly : but now I think of it, I must tell you some 
 extempore verses that I made yesterday at a Duchess's, a friend of 
 mine, where I was paying a visit, for I am tremendously strong 
 in impromptus. 
 
 Ca. I think they are the very touchstone of wit. 
 
 Mas. Listen then. 
 
 Mad. So we will, with all our ears. 
 
 Mas, Oh ! oh ! quite off my guard was /, 
 And no harm thmking^ 
 While you I view 
 
 Slily your eyes my heart surprise — 
 " Stop thief, stop thief, stop thief! " I cry. 
 
 Ca. My goodness ! that may rank among the finest pieces of 
 gallantry. 
 
 Mas. What I do has the touch of a gentleman ; there's nothing 
 of the pedant about it. 
 
 Mad. Oh no ! It's thousands of miles from that. 
 
 Mas. Did you mark the beginning — Oh, oh I Because it is 
 extraordinary — OJi, oh ! Like a man who bethinks himself all at 
 once — Oh, oh ! Taken by surprise — Oh, oh ! 
 
 Mad. I find that Oh, oh / admirable. 
 
 Mas. It is nothing. 
 
 Ca. Good gracious ! What do you say ? One cannot think 
 too highly of such things. 
 
 Mad. No doubt. I would rather have made that Oh^ oh ! than 
 have composed an epic poem. 
 
Scene VII.] LES PRECIEUSES RIDICULES. 69 
 
 Mas. Egad, you have good taste. 
 
 Mad. Well, I don't think that it is very bad. 
 
 Mas. But don't you also admire, " Quite off my guard was 7 " / 
 ** Quite off my guard was I." I paid no special attention to it ; 
 quite a natural way of speaking. " Qiiite off my guard was /." 
 " A7id no harm thmking^' — innocently, without malice, like a poor 
 sheep ; " While you J view ^^ — that is to say, while I amuse myself 
 with considering, with observing, with contemplating you. " Slily 
 your eyes.'' What do you think of that word " Slily " ? Isn't it 
 well chosen ? 
 
 Ca. Excellently. 
 
 Mas. " Slily,'' cunningly — it seems as if it were a cat coming to 
 catch a mouse. " Slily." 
 
 Mad. Nothing could be better. 
 
 Mas. " J/y hearl surprise," snatch it away, force it from me; 
 ** SloJ> thief, stop thief, stop thief!'' Would not you think it was a 
 man crying out, and running after a thief to seize him — " Stop 
 thief stop thief stop thief I " 
 
 Mad. It must be owned that it has a most witty and gallant 
 turn. 
 
 Mas. I should like to sing you the tune I set it to. 
 
 Ca. What ! have you learned music ? 
 
 Mas. I ? Not at all. 
 
 Ca. How can that be } 
 
 Mas. Persons of quality know everything, without having ever 
 learnt anything. 
 
 Mad. He's quite right, my dear. 
 
 Mas. Listen, and tell me if you like it. Hem, hem, hem, la, la, 
 la, la. The roughness of the season has seriously injured the 
 delicacy of my voice — but all the same I sing like a gentleman. 
 {He sings.) Oh, oh ! quite off my guard was I. 
 
 Ca. Oh what an impassioned air ! It makes one die with 
 pleasure. 
 
 Mad. Delightful chromatics indeed ! 
 
 Mas. Don't you find the thought well expressed in the tune, 
 *' Stop thief stop thief" ? And then as if some one cried out 
 violently, " Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop " ; and then all at once, 
 hke a person out of breath, " Stop thief!" 
 
 Mad. Now I see what it is to understand the refinement of 
 things, the great refinement — the refinement of refinements. It is 
 quite marvellous, I assure you ; I am in ecstasy with both the tune 
 and the words. 
 
 Ca. I never met with anything so powerful. 
 
70 THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES, [Act I. 
 
 Mas. All I do comes naturally, without any study. 
 
 Mad. Nature has treated you like a true fond mother; and 
 you are her spoiled child. 
 
 Mas. How do you pass your time, ladies ? 
 
 Ca. In nothing at all. 
 
 Mad. Up to now we have been suffering from a terrible dearth i 
 of all amusement. 
 
 Mas. I'm at your service to take you, one of these days, to) 
 the play, if you would like to go ; indeed, a new one is to be acted^ 
 and I should be very glad to see it with you. 
 
 Mad. That is not to be refused. 
 
 Mas. But I must ask you to applaud it well when we are there, i 
 for I have engaged to make the piece successful ; the author came] 
 this morning to beg me to do so. It is the custom here for authors to] 
 come and read their new plays to people of distinction like myselfj 
 that they may engage us to approve of them, and give them repu- 
 tation, and I leave you to imagine whether, when we say anything 
 the pit dares to contradict us. For my part, I am very scrupuloi 
 in this; and when I've promised any poet, I always call oi 
 " Excellent ! " even before the curtain rises. 
 
 Mad. Say no more about it. Paris is a wonderful place 
 hundred things happen in it every day, of which we know nothinj 
 in the provinces, however talented one may be. 
 
 Ca. That is enough ; now we have been told, we'll do our pc 
 in applauding as we ought every word that's said. 
 
 Mas, I don't know whether I am mistaken, but you look for 
 the world as if you had written a play. 
 
 Mad. Well, there may be something in what you say. 
 
 Mas. Ah, then we must see it. Between ourselves, I ha^ 
 composed one which I mean to have acted. 
 
 Ca. And to which company do you mean to give it ? 
 
 Mas, What a question ! Why of course to the Royal actor 
 No others are able to gain pieces a reputation ; the rest ai 
 ignorant creatures, who speak their parts just as one talks ; th( 
 don't understand how to roll out their words, or pause at 
 beautiful passage. How is one to know where the fine lines are, 
 the actor does not stop at them, and thereby show you when 
 applaud ? 
 
 Ca. Really, there is a way of making an audience sensible of the 
 beauties of a work, and things are only valued at what one makes 
 them valued. 
 
 Mas. How do you like my trimming ? Do you think it suits 
 the dress ? 
 
SCKNE VII.] LES PRECIEUSES RIDICULES, 71 
 
 Ca. Perfectly. 
 
 Mas. The ribbon is well chosen. 
 
 Mad. Awfully well. It's Pedrigeon's genuine thing. 
 
 Mas. What do you say to my rolls ? 
 
 Mad. They look extremely well. 
 
 Mas. At any rate I may boast that they are a quarter of a yard 
 wider than ever were made before. 
 
 Mad. I must confess that I never saw the elegance of dress 
 carried to such perfection. 
 
 Mas. Pray exercise your olfactory organs on these gloves. 
 
 Mad, They smell awfully nice. 
 
 Ca. I never breathed a more delightful odour. 
 
 Mas. And this — (giving them his poivdered wig to smelt). 
 
 Mad. There is something distinguished in it ; the sublime is 
 hit off deliciously. 
 
 Mas. You say nothing of my feathers ; how do you like 
 them ? 
 
 Ca. They're dreadfully beautiful. 
 
 Mas. Do you know that this ostrich feather cost me a louis 
 d'or ? For my part, I have a mania for indulging in the best of 
 everything. 
 
 Mad. You and I sympathize, I assure you. I am frightfully 
 delicate about everything I wear, and even to my socks I cannot 
 bear anything that is not perfectly well made. 
 
 Mas. {crying oiit suddenly). Oh, gently, gently ! Zounds, ladies, 
 this is very ill-usage ; I have reason to complain of your treatment 
 of me : it is not fair. 
 
 Ca. What now ? What is the matter ? 
 
 Mas. What ! both against my heart at the same time ? 
 Attacking me right and left ! Ah, it is contrary to the law of 
 nations; it is not an equal match. I shall ciy out. Murder ! 
 
 Ca. One must own that he says things in a very original 
 manner. 
 
 Mad. He has an admirable turn of wit. 
 
 Ca. You're more afraid than hurt. Your heart complains 
 before it's wounded. 
 
 Mas, What the deuce ! Why it's wounded from head to 
 foot! 
 
 Enter Marotte. 
 
 Marotte. Madame, some one is asking to see you. 
 
 Mad Who ? 
 
 Mar, The Vicomte de Jodelet. 
 
72 THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES, [Act I. 
 
 Mas. What, the Vicomte de Jodelet ? . 
 Mar, Yes, sir. 
 Ca. Do you know hh« ? 
 Mas. He's my best friend. 
 Mad, Beg him to come in at once. 
 
 Mas. It is some time since we have met, and I am deh'ghted 
 at the chance. 
 Ca, Here he is. 
 
 Scene VIH. 
 Jodelet, Mascarille, Cathos, Madelon, Marotte. 
 
 Mascarille. Ah, Vicomte ! 
 
 Jodelet {e77ibracing one another). Ah, Marquis ! 
 
 Mas. How glad I am to meet you ! 
 
 Jod. I am deh'ghted to find you here ! 
 
 Madelon {to Cathos). We are beginning to be known, my 
 dearest, when gentlemen of rank find their way here. 
 
 Mas. Ladies, allow me to present this gentleman to you. I 
 can assure you, he is worthy of your acquaintance. 
 
 Jod. It is only right to come and offer you your due, and 
 your charms demand their sovereign rights from all sorts of 
 people. 
 
 Mad. You are urging your civilities to the extreme limit of 
 flattery. 
 
 Cathos. This day ought to be marked in our almanac, as a very 
 fortunate one. 
 
 Mad. Come, boy [to Al?na7izor)^ must you be told the same 
 thing again and again ? Don't you see that the addition of another 
 chair is required ? 
 
 Mas. You must not be surprised to see the Vicomte as he is. 
 He is only just recovering from an illness, which leaves him as 
 pale as you see him. 
 
 Jod. It is the result of dancing attendance at Court, and of 
 the fatigues of war. 
 
 Mas. Are you aware, ladies, that in the Vicomte you behold 
 one of the bravest men of the age? He is a hero of tried 
 metal. 
 
 Jod, You are no way behind me. Marquis ; we are well aware 
 of what you can do. 
 
 Mas. It is true we have met before now. 
 
 Jod, Yes, and in places where it was very warm. 
 
Scene VIII.] LES PRECJEUSES RIDICULES, 73 
 
 Mas. Ah, but [looking at the ladies), not so warm as it is here. 
 Ah, ha ! 
 
 Jod. Our acquaintance was made in the army, and the first 
 time we saw each other, the Marquis was commanding a regiment 
 of horse, on board the galleys at Malta. 
 
 Mas. That is true, but for all that you were before me in the 
 service, for I remember that I was but a young officer, when you 
 commanded two thousand horse. 
 
 Jod. War is a fine thing in its way, but, on my word, the Court 
 rewards people very badly who, like us, have seen service. 
 
 Mas. That's why I mean to hang up my sword. 
 Ca. For my part, I've a tremendous liking for men of the 
 sword. 
 
 Mad. I love them too, but I like wit to temper bravery. 
 
 Mas. Do you remember, Vicomte, that half-moon that we 
 carried against the enemy at the siege of Arras ? 
 
 Jod. What do you mean by a half-moon } Why, man, it was 
 a whole moon. 
 
 Mas. I think you are right. 
 
 Jod. I ought, in truth, to remember it well enough, for I was 
 wounded there in the leg by the bursting of a hand-grenade, the 
 maiks of which I still carry about me. Feel a little, if you please, 
 and you will see what a wound it was. 
 
 Ca. {after touching the spot). It is true there is a terrible 
 scar. 
 
 Mas. Give me your hand a moment, and feel this — there — 
 just in the back of my head. Have you found it ? 
 
 Mad. Yes, I feel something. 
 
 Mas. It is a musket-shot that I received in my last campaign. 
 
 Jod. {uncovering his chest). Here is where a shot went right 
 through me at the attack on Gravelines. 
 
 Mas. They are honourable marks which show what one is. 
 
 Ca. We make no doubt what you are. 
 
 Mas, Vicomte, have you your carriage there ? 
 
 Jod. Why ? 
 
 Mas. We could take the ladies for a drive-in the suburbs, and 
 give them a little dinner. 
 
 Mad. We cannot go out to-day. 
 
 Mas. Let us have some fiddles, then, and dance. 
 
 Jod. That's a very good idea. 
 
 Mad. We shall be very pleased, but we shall want some 
 more company. 
 
 Mas. Who's in waiting there — " Champagne, Ficard, Bour- 
 
74 THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES. [Act I. 
 
 gognon, Casquarat, Basque^ La Verdure^ Lorraitiy Provencal, 
 Violette^'' — I wish all footmen were at the devil. I don't think 
 there's a gentleman in France worse served than I am. These 
 rascals always leave me alone. 
 
 Mad. Almanzor, tell his lordship's servants to go for some 
 fiddlers, and ask the ladies and gentlemen about here to come and 
 fill the solitude of our ball. \Exit Almanzor, 
 
 Mas. Vicomte, what do you think of those eyes ? 
 
 Jod. Well, Marquis, what do you think of them yourself? 
 
 Mas. I ? I say that our liberty is in danger, and I fear we shall 
 not be able to escape. At least, for my part, I receive a succession 
 of shocks, and my heart is held by a single thread. 
 
 Mad. How naturally he speaks. He gives such an agreeable 
 turn to everything. 
 
 Ca. It is true. He spends his wit extravagantly. 
 
 Mas. To show you that I am in earnest, 1 will make an im- 
 promptu on the subject. {He muses) 
 
 Ca. Oh, I beg and pray of you, do let us have something 
 made for us specially. 
 
 Jod. I should like to do as much myself, but my power has 
 been lessened by having been bled freely for the last three or four 
 days. 
 
 Mas. What the deuce is the matter ? I can always make the 
 first verse well enough, but I am bothered to make the rest. In 
 fact, this is too much of a hurry ; I will make you an impromptu 
 at my leisure, and it shall be the finest in the world. 
 
 Jod. He's as witty as the deuce himself. 
 
 Mad, Yes, as polite, and as charmingly turned. 
 
 Mas. Vicomte, tell me, how long is it since you saw the 
 Comtesse ? 
 
 Jod. It is more than three weeks since I paid her a visit. 
 
 Mas. Do you know that the Duke came to see me this morn- 
 ing, and wanted to take me down into the country, for some stag- 
 hunting ? 
 
 Mad. Ah ! here come our friends. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 
 JoDELET, Mascarille, Cathos, Madelon, Marotte, Lucile, 
 Celim^ne, Almanzor, and Musicians. 
 
 Madelon. My dears, we hope you will excuse us. These 
 
Scene X.] LES PRECI BUSES RIDICULES. 75 
 
 gentlemen had a fancy to put some life into our feet, and so we 
 sent to you to ask you to fill up the vacancies in our assembly. 
 
 Lucile. You have laid us under an obligation to you. 
 
 Mascarille. This is only an extempore dance, but one of these 
 days we'll give you a ball in proper style. Are the fiddlers come ? 
 
 Almanzor. Yes, sir, they are here. 
 
 Cathos. Come then, my dears, take your places. 
 
 Mas. {dancing alone by way of prelude). La, la, la, la, la, la, 
 la, la. 
 
 Mad. He has a most elegant shape. 
 
 Ca. And looks as if he could dance finely. 
 
 Mas. {having takefi out Afadelon.) My liberty is about to dance 
 a courant as well as my feet. Play in time, fiddlers, in time. Oh 
 what ignorant fellows ! One cannot dance with them. Deuce 
 take you, can't you play in measure } La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la — 
 Oh stop, you country fiddlers. 
 
 Jodelet {dancing afterwards'). Hold, don't play so fast ; I'm 
 only just recovering from an illness. 
 
 Scene X. 
 
 Du Croisy, La Grange, Mascarille, Jodelet, Cathos, 
 Madelon, Marotte, Lucile, Celimene. 
 
 La Grange {with a stick in his hand). So ho 1 Rascals, what 
 are you doing here ? We have been looking for you for the last 
 three hours ! 
 
 Mascarille {feeling himself beaten). Oh, oh, oh ! you didn't tell 
 me the blows would be like this. 
 
 Jodelet. Oh, oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 La Gr. You rascal ; the idea of your giving yourself the airs 
 of a gentleman ! 
 
 Du Croisy. This will teach you to know your place. 
 
 Madelon. What is the meaning of this ? 
 
 Jod. It's a wager. 
 
 Cathos. What, let yourselves be beaten in this manner ! 
 
 Mas. I wouldn't seem to take any notice of it, because I've a 
 violent temper, and could not answer for the consequences. 
 
 Mad. But to put up with an affront like that in our presence ! 
 
 Mas. Oh, it's nothing — don't let us leave off. We've known 
 each other for a long time, and between friends one does not 
 notice trifles. 
 
76 THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES. [Act I. 
 
 La Gr. I tell you, you rascals, you shall not laugh at us— 
 Come in, you there. 
 
 {Enter three or four Jioughs.) 
 
 Mad, What is the meaning of this impudence ? — to come and 
 make this disturbance in our own house. 
 
 Du Cr. What, ladies, shall we endure to have our footmen 
 better received than ourselves ? Shall they come and make love 
 to you at our expense, and offer you a ball ? 
 
 Mad. What ! your footmen ? 
 
 La Gr. Yes, our footmen, and it is neither decent nor 
 honourable that you should spoil them for our service, as you are 
 doing. 
 
 Mad. O heavens ! What insolence ! 
 
 La Gr. But they shall not have the advantage of using our 
 clothes, to dazzle your eyes with. If you choose to love them, it 
 shall be for their good looks alone. Quick, take off their things 
 at once. 
 
 Jod. Good-bye, then, to our finery. 
 
 Mas. The Marquisate and Viscountship are at an end. 
 
 Du Cr. What, you rascals, you've had the impertinence to 
 attempt to be our rivals ! You must go and look elsewhere for the 
 chance of making yourselves agreeable in your mistresses' eyes. 
 
 La Gr. It is too much that they should supplant us, and in 
 our own clothes too ! 
 
 Mas. O Fortune, how great is thy inconstancy ! 
 
 Du Cr. Make haste, take everything away from them. 
 
 La Gr. Look sharp, and carry off these clothes. Now, ladies, 
 in the condition in which they are, you can carry on your flirtations 
 with them as long as you please. We leave you full liberty for 
 that, and my friend and I assure you that we shall not be jealous, 
 in the slightest degree. [Exeunt Luciie and Celimene. 
 
 Ca. Oh ! what confusion ! 
 
 Mad. I am bursting with vexation. 
 
 Fiddlers (to the Marquis). W^hat is the meaning of this ? Who 
 is going to pay us ? 
 
 Mas. Ask Monsieur le Vicomte. 
 
 Fid, {to the Vicomte). Who's going to give us our money? 
 
 Jod. Ask Monsieur le Marquis. 
 
Scene XL] LES PRltClEUSES RIDICULES, 77 
 
 Scene XL 
 
 GoRGiBus, Mascarille, Jodelet, Cathos, Madelon, and 
 
 Fiddlers. 
 
 Gorglbus, Ah, you miserable creatures, you've brought things 
 to a pretty pass ! I've heard of your fine doings from the ladies 
 and gentlemen who have just gone out. 
 
 Madelon. Oh, father, it's a cruel trick they've played us. 
 
 Gor. Yes, a cruel trick, but the result of your own folly. 
 They have resented the way in which you treated them, and I, 
 unhappy that I am, must put up with the affront. 
 
 Mad. Ah, but I swear we'll be avenged, or I shall die of 
 vexation. And you, you wretches, you dare to stay here after your 
 insolence ! 
 
 Mascarille. Is that how you speak to a Marquis? But this is 
 the way of the world ; the least disgrace makes those turn against 
 us who lately caressed us. Come along, my friend, let us go and 
 seek our fortune somewhere else ; I see plainly that all they care 
 for here is vain show. They do not care for virtue unadorned. 
 
 \They both go. 
 
 Fiddlers. Sir, we look to you to pay us in their stead. 
 
 Gorgibus {beating them). Yes, yes, I'll pay you, and in this coin 
 too. {To Cathos and Madelon.) And as for you, you idle 
 wenches, I hardly know why I don't do as much for you. We 
 shall become the common talk and ridicule of everybody, and 
 this is what you have brought on yourselves by your fooleries. 
 Go and hide yourselves, you wretches. Never let me see you 
 again. {Alone.) And as for you who are the occasion of their 
 disgrace, with your stupid folly, your mischievous amusements 
 for idle minds, with your romances, verses, songs, sonnets, and 
 sonatas, I say, Deuce take you all 1 
 
THE FORCED MARRIAGE 
 
 {LE MARIAGE FORCE). 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sganarelle, lover of Dorimhie. 
 G^ViO'iiiM.O^ friend of Sganarelle. 
 DORIMENE, daughter of A Icantor^ 
 
 betrothed to Sganarelle. 
 Ki^CA^TOR, father of Doritnene. 
 Alcidas, brother of Dorimlne. 
 
 Lycaste, lover of Dorbiilne. 
 
 Pancrace, an Aristotelian doc- 
 tor. 
 
 Marfhurius, a Pyrrhonian 
 doctor. 
 
 Two Gipsy-women. 
 
 Scene— A PUBLIC PLACE. 
 
 ACT L Scene L 
 Sganarelle, Geronimo. 
 
 Sganarelle {speaking to the people in the house). I'll be back 
 again in a moment. Let good care be taken of the house, and 
 let everything go on right. If any one brings me money, let me 
 be sent for at once from Seigneur Geronimo's ; but if any one comes 
 to ask for any, say that I'm gone out and sha'n't return all day. 
 
 Geronimo. That's a very prudent order. 
 
 Sga. Oh, Seigneur Geronimo, I meet you most opportunely. 
 I was just going to your house to look for you. 
 
 Ger. For what purpose, please ? 
 
 Sga. To tell you of a matter I have in my mind, and to beg 
 you to give me your advice upon it. 
 
 Ger. Most willingly. I am very glad to have met you, and 
 we can talk here quite freely. 
 
 Sga. Pray be covered. It is a matter of some consequence 
 that has been proposed to me, and it is good to do nothing without 
 the advice of one's friends. 
 
 Ger. I am obliged to you for having chosen me for that 
 purpose. You have but to tell me what it is. 
 
 Sga. But first, I must implore you to give me your opinion 
 plainly, and in no way to flatter me. 
 
Scene 1.] LE MARlAGE FORCA . 79 
 
 Ger. I will, since you wish it. 
 
 Sga. I think there is nothing more blamable than a friend 
 who does not speak frankly. 
 
 Ger. You're quite right. 
 
 Sga. Then promise me, Seigneur Geronimo, to speak to me 
 with perfect frankness. 
 
 Ger, I promise you. 
 
 Sga. Swear on your word. 
 
 Ger. Yes, on the word of a friend. Only tell me what the 
 affair is. 
 
 Sga. What I want to know of you is whether I should do well 
 to marry ? 
 
 Ger. Who?— you! 
 
 Sga. Yes ; I, myself, my own self. What's your advice about 
 it? 
 
 Ger. I should like you to tell me one thing first. 
 
 Sga, Well, what ? 
 
 Ger. What age may you really be now ? 
 
 Sga. I ? 
 
 Ger, Yes. 
 
 Sga. On my word, I don't know, but I'm perfectly well. 
 
 Ger. What ! don't you know your age within a little ? 
 
 Sga. No. Is that a point to be considered ? 
 
 Ger. Well, tell me, how old were you when we first became 
 acquainted ? 
 
 Sga. Indeed, I was then only twenty. 
 
 Ger. How long were we" in Rome together ? 
 
 Sga. Eight years. 
 
 Ger. How long did you live in England ? 
 
 Sga. Seven years. 
 
 Ger. And in Holland, where you went afterwards ? 
 
 Sga. Five years and a half. 
 
 Ger. How long have you been back ? 
 
 Sga. I returned in fifty-two. 
 
 Ger. From fifty-two to sixty-four makes, I think, a dozen 
 years, five years in Holland makes seventeen, seven years in 
 England makes twenty-four, eight years we stayed in Rome makes 
 thirty-two, and twenty, which was your age when we became 
 acquainted, makes exactly fifty-two. So that, Seigneur Sganarelle, 
 by your own account you are about fifty-two or three, 
 
 Sga. Who, I? That can't be! 
 
 Ger. Indeed, the calculation is exact, and I must tell you as 
 a friend (you made me promise I wou)^), that matrimony is 
 
8o THE FORCED MARRIAGE. [Act I. 
 
 scarcely in your line. That's a thing that young people ought to 
 think of seriously before they enter on it, but folks of your age 
 ought not to think of it at all. And. if, as it is said, marrying is 
 one of the greatest follies, I know nothing more absurd than to 
 commit this folly at an age when we ought to be wiser. In short, 
 I tell you my opinion plainly, I advise you not to think of matri- 
 mony ; and I should lake you for the most ridiculous creature in 
 the world, if, having hitherto been at liberty, you were now to 
 load yourself with the heaviest of all chains. 
 
 Sga. And for my part, I tell you, I'm resolved to marry ; and 
 I shall not be at all ridiculous in marrying the girl I mean to 
 marry. 
 
 Ger. Oh, that's another matter. You did not tell me that. 
 
 Sga. It's a girl that pleases me, whom I love with all my heart. 
 
 Ger. You love her with all your heart ? 
 
 Sga. Most certainly ; and I've proposed to her father for her. 
 
 Ger. You've proposed for her ? 
 
 Sga. Yes ; it's a marriage that must be settled this evening, as 
 I've given my word. 
 
 Ger. Oh, marry then. I won't say a word more. 
 
 Sga. Shall I give up my design ? Do you imagine. Seigneur 
 Geronimo, that I'm no longer fit to think of a wife? Don't let us 
 talk of what age I may be, but let us only regard facts. Is there 
 a man of thirty who seems more fresh and vigorous than you see 
 me? Haven't I all the use of my limbs as well as ever? And 
 does any one ever see me want a carriage or a sedan-chair? 
 {Showing his teeth.) Don't I eat my four meals a day heartily? 
 And can you find any one with a better digestion than mine ? 
 Ahem ! ahem ! Well, what do you say to that ? 
 
 Ger. You're right. I was mistaken. You will do well to 
 marry. 
 
 Sga. I was against it myself formerly, but I've strong reasons 
 for it now. Besides the pleasure I shall have in possessing a 
 pretty woman who will fondle me, coddle me, and rock me when 
 I am tired ; I say besides that pleasure, I consider that by re- 
 maining a bachelor I shall suffer the race of the Sganarelles to 
 become extinct ; but that by marrying, I may see myself live again 
 in others. I shall have the satisfaction of seeing little creatures 
 sprung from me who will be as like me as two drops of water ; who 
 will be continually playing about the house, will call me their papa 
 when I come back from town, and will talk their little nonsense to 
 me in the most agreeable manner possible. Hold, I fancy I am 
 already among them, and see half a dozen round me I 
 
Scene II.] LE MARIAGE FORC£. 8i 
 
 Ger. There is nothing pleasanter than that, and I, desire you 
 to marry as quickly as you can. 
 
 Sga. Indeed, do you advise me to it ? 
 
 Ger, To be sure. You can't do better. 
 
 Sga. Really, I am delighted that you have given me this 
 advice as a true friend. 
 
 Ger. Well, and who is the person, pray, that you are going to 
 marry ? 
 
 Sga. Dorimene. 
 
 Ger, That young Dorimene, who is so gay and well-dressed? 
 
 Sga. Yes. 
 
 Ger. Seigneur Alcantor's daughter ! 
 
 Sga. The same. 
 
 Ger. And sister of one Alcidas, who takes on him to wear a 
 sword ? 
 
 Sga. That's the one. 
 
 Ger. Good gracious ! 
 
 Sga. What do you say to it ? 
 
 Ger. A good match. Marry off hand. 
 
 Sga. Have I not made a good choice ? 
 
 Ger. No doubt. Ah, you will be well married. Make haste 
 about it. 
 
 Sga. You overwhelm me with joy by saying so. I thank you 
 for your advice, and invite you this evening to my wedding. 
 
 Ger. I'll not fail, and I'll come masked, to do you the more 
 honour. 
 
 Sga. Your servant, sir. 
 
 Ger. {aside). Young Dorimene, Seigneur Alcantor's daughter, 
 with Seigneur Sganarelle, who is only fifty-three years old. Oh ! 
 a fine match ! a fine match I {This he repeats several times in 
 going away ^ 
 
 Sga. {alone). This marriage must needs be happy, for it 
 rejoices every one ; and I make every one laugh to whom I speak 
 of it. I am now the most contented man in the world. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Dorimene, Sganarelle. 
 
 Dorimene (to her page-boy). Now then, my little page, hold up 
 my train properly, and don't amuse yourself by playing tricks. 
 
 Sganarelle {aside, seeing Dorimene). Here's my lady-love 
 coming. How charming she is ! What an air she has ! What a 
 figure ! Could any one see her without longing to marry her ? 
 
 7 
 
82 THE FORCED MARRIAGE. [Act I. 
 
 {To Doriniene.) Where are you going, beautiful darling !— dear 
 future wife of ) our future husband ? 
 
 Dor. I'm going shopping. 
 
 Sga. Well, my pretty one, we are now both of us going to be 
 happy. You'll no longer have the right to refuse me anything, 
 and I can do what I like with you and no offence to any one. 
 You are going to be mine from head to foot, and I shall be master 
 of all — of your little twinkling eyes, of your little roguish nose, of 
 your provoking lips, of your lovely ears, of your pretty little chin, 
 your plump little breasts, your — in short, you will be mine alto- 
 gether, and I can caress you as I like. Aren't you very glad of 
 this marriage, my dear little darling ? 
 
 Dor. Yes, extremely, I can assure you. For indeed the 
 severity of my father has, till now, kept me in the most tiresome 
 subjection. You can't think how provoked I feel at the little 
 liberty he gives me; and I've wished a hundred times to be 
 married so that I might have a little more liberty, and be in a 
 condition to do as I like. Thank God, you've come luckily for 
 that purpose, and I'm preparing myself from now to take my 
 pleasure, and make up, as I ought to do, for the time I've lost. 
 As you are an extremely polite man, and know the ways of the 
 world, I think we shall get on perfectly well together, and I am 
 quite sure you're not like one of those foolish husbands who 
 would have their wives live like were-wolves. I assure you that 
 would not suit me at all, and solitude makes me mad. I love 
 play, visits, presents, assemblies, walks — in a word, all sorts of 
 pleasure, and you ought to be overjoyed to have a wife of my 
 temper. We shall never have any difference, for I won't restrain 
 your actions, as I hope on your part you won't put any restraint 
 on mine. For my part, I hold that there must be a mutual for- 
 bearance, and people should not marry to plague one another. 
 In a word, when we're married, we will live like people that know 
 the world. No jealous suspicion shall trouble our brain ; it will 
 be enough that you are persuaded of my fidelity, as I shall be 
 equally persuaded of yours — But what's the matter with you? 
 Your face is quite changed. 
 
 Sga. 'Tis the vapours that have risen to my head. 
 
 Dor. Oh, that happens to many people, but our marriage will 
 drive all that away. Good-bye. I'm longing to have some decent 
 clothes, that I may throw off these rags at once. I'm going to 
 buy all that I want, and I shall send the bills in to you. 
 
Scene IV.] LE MARIAGE FORCE. 83 
 
 Scene III. 
 Geronimo, Sganarelle. 
 
 Geronimo. Oh, Seigneur Sganarelle, I'm delighted to find you 
 still here, for I've just met with a goldsmith who heard that you 
 were looking for a fine diamond ring to give to your bride, and 
 he has begged me to come and speak to you for him, and to tell 
 you that he has one to sell, the finest in the world. 
 
 Sganarelle. Bless me, there's no hurry about that ! 
 
 Ger. What do you mean ? Where's the eagerness you showed 
 just now ? 
 
 Sga, A minute or two ago some scruples came into my head 
 with regard to this marriage. Before I go any farther, I should 
 like to get to the bottom of the affair, and find some one to 
 interpret a dream I had last night, and which I have just now 
 recollected. Dreams, you know, are like mirrors, in which one 
 sometimes discovers what is going to happen to one. I thought 
 I was in a ship, on a stormy sea, and that 
 
 Ger, Seigneur Sganarelle, I've got a little matter of business 
 in hand, which will not allow me to stop and hear you. I don't 
 understand anything about dreams ; and as for reasoning about 
 matrimony, you have a couple of learned philosophers, neighbours 
 of yours, who will tell you all that can be said on the subject. As 
 they are of different schools ^f thought, you can compare their 
 different opinions on the matter. For my part, I'm quite satisfied 
 with what I said to you just now, and I remain your obedient 
 servant. 
 
 Sga. {alone). He's right. I must consult these people a little, 
 in the uncertainty I'm in. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Pancrace, Sganarelle. 
 
 Pancrace {turning to tJie side by which he had entered^ without 
 seeing Sganarelle). Be off, you're an impertinent fellow, ignorant 
 of all good manners, who ought to be banished from the republic 
 of letters. 
 
 Sganarelle. Ah ! That's well ! Here's one of them just at the 
 right time. 
 
 Fan. {still not seeing Sganarelle). Ay, I'll maintain by strong 
 reasons, I'll prove to you by Aristotle, the philosopher of all 
 philosophers, that you are an Ignorans, Ignorantissimus ; Igno- 
 ranticans, and Ignorantificatus, through all the cases and moods 
 imaginable. 
 
84 THE FORCED MARRIAGE. [Act I. 
 
 Sga. {aside). He's quarrelling with some one. {To Pancrace\ 
 Sir 
 
 Pan. You attempt to argue, and don't know the elements of 
 logic. 
 
 Sga. (aside). Anger prevents him from seeing me. {To 
 Pancrace.) Sir 
 
 Pan. It is a proposition to be condemned in all the regions of 
 philosophy. 
 
 Sga. {aside). Some one must have provoked him terribly. 
 {To Pancrace.) I 
 
 Pan, Toto coezo, tota via aberras. 
 
 Sga. I kiss your hand, Doctor. 
 
 Pan. Your servant 
 
 Sga. May I 
 
 Pan. {returning to the place where he had entered). Do you 
 know what you have done ? A syllogism in Balordo ! 
 
 Sga. I tell you 
 
 Pan. The major is absurd, the minor is irrelevant, and the 
 conclusion ridiculous. 
 
 Sga. I 
 
 Pan. I'd die rather than uphold what you say, and I'll 
 maintain my opinion to the last drop of ink I've got in my pen. 
 
 Sga. May I 
 
 Pan. Yes. I'll defend that proposition, pugnis et calcibus, 
 unguibus et rosfro (tooth and nail). 
 
 Sga. Seigneur Aristotle, may I ask what makes you so angry ? 
 
 Pan. The best reason in the world. 
 
 Sga. What is it, pray ? 
 
 Pan. An ignoramus wanted to maintain an erroneous 
 proposition, a frightful, execrable proposition. 
 
 Sga. May I ask what it is ? 
 
 Pan. Ah, Seigneur Sganarelle, everything, nowadays, is turned 
 topsy-turvy, and the world is fallen into a general corruption. A 
 terrible license reigns everywhere, and the magistrates, who are 
 appointed to keep order in the state, ought to blush with shame, 
 for suffering such an intolerable scandal as I am going to tell you 
 of. 
 
 Sga. What is the matter ? 
 
 Pan. Is it not a dreadful thing, a thing that cries to heaven 
 for vengeance, that any one should be allowed publicly to speak 
 of the form of a hat ? 
 
 Sga. How's that ? 
 
 Pan. I maintain that we should say " the figure of a hat," and 
 
Scene IV.] LE MARIAGE FORCL 85 
 
 not "the form." Since there is this difference between the form 
 and the figure : the form is the exterior conformation of bodies 
 that are animated, and the figure is the exterior disposition of 
 bodies that are inanimate. Therefore as a hat is an inanimate body, 
 one should say the figure of a hat and not the form. {Retur7tiftg 
 to the side from which he entered.) Yes, you ignorant fellow, thus 
 it is that you should speak, and these are the express terms of 
 Aristotle in his chapter on qualities. 
 
 Sga. {aside). I thought we had all been done for. {To 
 Pancrace.) Seigneur Doctor, think no more of that. I 
 
 Pan. I am in such a rage, I don't know what I am doing. 
 
 Sga. Leave the form and the hat in peace. I have something 
 to communicate to you. I 
 
 Pan. Impertinent blockhead ! 
 
 Sga. Now I beg of you to command yourself. I • 
 
 Pan. Ignorant ass. 
 
 Sga. Good Lord, I 
 
 Pan. To think I could bear such a proposition ! 
 
 Sga. He is wrong. I 
 
 Pan. A proposition condemned by Aristotle ! 
 
 Sga. That's true. I 
 
 Pan. In express terms. 
 
 Sga. You're right. {Turning to the side where Pancrace entered?) 
 Yes, you're a fool and an impudent rascal to try and dispute with 
 a doctor who can read and write. There's an end of that matter. 
 Now I beg you to listen to me. I've come to ask your advice in 
 a matter that troubles me. I think of taking a wife who will help 
 me to keep house. The lady is handsome and well-made ; I like 
 her very much, and she is most anxious to marry me. Her father 
 consents to it, but I'm rather fearful of you know what, that dis- 
 grace which no one pities a man for, and I beg of you, as a 
 philosopher, to tell me your sentiments. Now, what is your 
 opinion on the matter ? 
 
 Pan. Rather than allow that one should say \hQ.form of a hat, 
 I'd allow that datur vacuum in re^'um ttaturd, and that I'm an 
 ass. 
 
 *S^^. (aj'/^i?). Plague on the man. {To Pancrace.) Come, master 
 doctor, listen to me a little. I've been talking to you for an hour, 
 and you give no answer to what is said to you. 
 
 Pan. I beg your pardon. A just anger occupies my mind. 
 
 Sga. Well, have done with all that, and take the trouble to 
 listen to me. 
 
 Pan. Good. What have you got to say to me ? 
 
86 THE FORCED MARRIAGE. [Act I. 
 
 ^ga. I want to talk to you about something. 
 
 Pan. And what tongue will you make use of in talking with me ? 
 
 Sga. "What tongue ? 
 
 Fan. Yes. 
 
 Sga. Bless my soul ! Why the tongue I've got in my mouth. 
 I don't suppose I shall borrow my neighbour's. 
 
 Fa7i. I ask you what idiom, what language ? 
 
 Sga. Oh ! That's another matter. 
 
 Pan. Will you speak Italian with me? 
 
 Sga. No. 
 
 Pan. Spanish? Sga. No. 
 
 Pan. Dutch, then ? Sga. No. 
 
 Pan. English ? ^S^^-^. No. 
 
 Pan. Latin? Sga. No. 
 
 Pan. Greek? Sga. No. 
 
 Pan, Hebrew? Sga. No. 
 
 Pan. Syriac? Sga. No. 
 
 Pan. Turkish? Sga. No. 
 
 Pan. Arabic ? Sga. No, no, French, French, French. 
 
 Pan. Oh ! French. Sga. Quite right. 
 
 Pan. Go to the other side then ; for this ear is set apart for 
 learned and foreign languages, and tiie other for the vulgar and 
 mother tongue. 
 
 Sga. {aside). One must use a great deal of ceremony with this 
 sort of people. 
 
 Pan, Well, then, what's your business ? 
 
 Sga. To consult you on a little difficulty. 
 
 Pa?t. Just so ; no doubt on a philosophical difficulty ? 
 
 Sga. Pardon me. I 
 
 Pan. Perhaps you wish to know whether substance and 
 accident are synonymous or equivocal terms with regard to entity ? 
 
 Sga. Not at all. I 
 
 Pan. Or whether logic is an art or a science? 
 
 Sga. It is not that. I 
 
 Pan. If it has for its object the three operations of the mind 
 or the third only ? 
 
 Sga. No. I 
 
 Pan, Whether there are ten categories, or no more than one ? 
 
 Sga. No. I 
 
 Pan, Whether the conclusion be the essence of the syllogism ? 
 
 Sga. No, no. I 
 
 Pa7t. Whether the essence of good be placed in desirability or 
 in suitability. 
 
Scene IV.] LE MART AGE FORCE, 8; 
 
 Sga. No. I 
 
 Fan. Whether good is reciprocal with its end ? 
 
 Sga. Oh ! no. I 
 
 Fan. Whether the end can affect us by its real essence or by 
 its intent ? 
 
 Sga. No, no, no. The devil take you, no 
 
 Fati. Explain your meaning, then, for I cannot guess it. 
 
 Sga. I will explain it, but then you must listen to me. {Speak- 
 ijig at the saitie time as the doctor.) The matter I have to tell you 
 about is this, I wish to marry a girl who is young and handsome. 
 I love her very much, and I have asked her of her father, but I 
 fear 
 
 Fan. {at the same ti??ie as Sgajiarelle). Speech was given to man 
 in order to express his thoughts; and just as thoughts are the 
 portraits of things, even so our words are the portraits of our 
 thoughts. [Sganarelle, being impatient^ stops the doctor's mouth 
 with his hand, several times ^ and the doctor goes on talking as soon as 
 Sganarelle takes his liand azvay.) But these portraits are different 
 from other portraits, because other portraits are distinguished in 
 every part from their originals, but speech includes its original in 
 itself; since it is nothing else but thought expressed by an exterior 
 sign : whence it comes to pass that those who think well are like- 
 wise those who speak the best. So express to me your thought by 
 speech, which is the most intelligible of all the signs. 
 
 Sga. (pushing the doctor into the house, and pulling the door to 
 in order to prevent his coining out). Plague the man ! 
 
 Fan. {ivithifi the house). Yes, speech is, Aninii ittdex et 
 speculum ; it is the interpreter of the heart, it is the image of the 
 soul. {He gets up to the ivindow and goes on.) It is a mirror that 
 plainly represents to us the most hidden secrets of ourselves as 
 individuals. Then since you have the faculty of ratiocination, and 
 also of talking, how comes it that you don't make use of speech 
 to make me understand your thoughts ? 
 
 Sga. That's what I want to do ; but you won't hear me. 
 
 Fan. I hear you; go on. 
 
 Sga. I say, then. Master Doctor, that 
 
 Fan. But, above all things, be brief 
 
 Sga. I will. 
 
 Fan. Avoid prolixity. 
 
 Sga. Oh ! sir 
 
 Fan. Abridge me your discourse into a laconic apothegm. 
 
 Sga. I 
 
 Fan. No round-about talk, no circumlocution. 
 
88 THE FORCED MARRIAGE. [Act I. 
 
 (Sganareile, in his anger at not being able to speak^ picks up^ 
 stones to throw at the Doctor's head.) 
 
 Pan. What now ? Do you want to get into a passion instead 
 of explaining yourself? Go along, you are more impertinent than 
 the man who would maintain that one should say the form of a 
 hat ; and I'll prove to you on all occasions, by reasons demon- 
 strative and convincing, and by arguments in Barbara^ that you 
 are not, nor ever will be, any other than a loggerhead, and that I 
 am, and shall be always, in utroqiie jure^ Doctor Pancratius. 
 
 Sga. What a fearful chatterbox this man is. 
 
 Pan. {coming on the stage). A man of letters, a man of learning. 
 
 Sga. What, again ! 
 
 Pan. A man of sufficiency, a man of capacity ; (going away) 
 a man perfect in all the sciences, natural, moral, political. {Com- 
 ing back.) A man learned, most learned per om7ies modos et casus. 
 {Going away.) A man that possesses in the superlative degree 
 fables, mythologies, and histories; {coining back) grammar, poetry, 
 rhetoric, dialectics, and sophistry; {going away) mathematics, 
 arithmetic, optics, onirocritics, physics, and metaphysics; {coming 
 back) cosmoraetry, geometry, architecture, speculation and ultra- 
 speculation ; [going away) medicine, astronomy, astrology, physi- 
 ognomy, metoposcopy, chiromancy, geomancy. \Exit. 
 
 Sga. The devil take these learned professors who won't listen 
 to any one. I was rightly told that his master, Aristode, was a 
 man full of words. I must go and look up the other ; perhaps he 
 will be more quiet and reasonable. Hullo ! there. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Marphurius, Sganarelle. 
 
 Marphurius. What's your will with me. Seigneur Sganarelle ? 
 
 Sganarelle. Seigneur Doctor, I've occasion for your advice about 
 a little matter I have in hand, and am come here on that account. 
 {Aside.) Ah, this looks better. This man can listen when one 
 talks. 
 
 Mar. Seigneur Sganarelle, please to change your way of speak 
 ing. Our philosophy commands us not to put forward a propo- 
 sition positively ; to speak of everything with uncertainty ; always 
 to suspend one's judgment ; and by that rule you ought not to 
 say, / have come^ but, / think that I have come. 
 
 Sga. I think ? 
 
 ikar. Yes. 
 
 Sga. I must needs think so, because it is so. 
 
Scene v.] LE MARIA GE FORCt. 89 
 
 Mar. That's not a consequence; for you may think so, without 
 the thing being really so. 
 
 Sga. What ! Is it not true that I have come ? 
 
 Mar. That's uncertain, and we should doubt about everything. 
 
 Sga. What ! am I not here, and am I not speaking to you ? 
 
 Mar. It appears to me that you are there, and I think that I 
 am speaking to you; but it is not certain that it is so. 
 
 Sga. Eh ? What, are you joking ? I am here and you are 
 there, very plainly, and there's nothing oi I think in all that. Pray 
 let's have done with these subtleties, and talk of my affair. I've 
 come to tell you that I wish to marry. 
 
 Mar. I know nothing of the matter. 
 
 Sga. I tell it to you. 
 
 Mar. That may be. 
 
 Sga. The girl that I would marry is very young and very 
 handsome. 
 
 Mar. That is not impossible. 
 
 Sga. Shall I do well or ill to marry her ? 
 
 Mar. Either the one or the other. 
 
 Sga. {aside). Ah ! here's another tune. {To Marplwrius.) I 
 isk you whether I shall do well to marry the girl I told you of? 
 
 Mar. Just as it happens. 
 
 Sga. Shall I do ill ? 
 
 Mar. Perhaps. 
 
 Sga. I beg of you to answer me properly. 
 
 Mar, I intend to do so. 
 
 Sga. I have a great liking for the girl. 
 
 Mar. That is possible. 
 
 Sga. Her father has given his consent. 
 
 Mar. He may have done so. 
 
 Sga. But by marrying her I am afraid of being made a 
 fool of. 
 
 Mar. It's possible. 
 
 Sga. What do you think of it ? 
 
 Mar. There's no impossibility in it. 
 
 Sga. But what would you do if you were in my place ? 
 
 Mar. I don't know. 
 
 Sga. What do you advise me to do ? 
 
 Mar. What you please. 
 
 Sga. You drive me mad ! 
 
 Mar. I wash my hands of it. 
 
 Sga. Devil take the old fool I 
 
 Mar. That must be as it will. 
 
90 THE FORCED MARRIAGE, [Act I. 
 
 Sga. {aside). Plague on the worrying fool ! Now I'll make 
 you change your note, you mad dog of a philosopher ! {Beating 
 Marphurius.) 
 
 Mar, Oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 Sga. That's payment for your foolery ; and now I'm satisfied. 
 
 Mar. How now ? What insolence to affront me like this ! 
 To have the impudence to beat a philosopher such as I am ! 
 
 Sga. Please to correct your way of speaking. One should 
 doubt of all things, and you ought not to say that I have beaten 
 you, but that you think that I have beaten you. 
 
 Mar. Ah ! I'll go and make my complaint to a magistrate 
 about the blows that I've received. 
 
 Sga. I wash my hands of it. 
 
 Mar, I have the marks of them on my body. 
 
 Sga. That may be. 
 
 Mar. It is you who have treated me in this manner. 
 
 Sga. It is not impossible. 
 
 Mar. I'll take out a summons against you. 
 
 Sga. I know nothing about it. 
 
 Mar. You'll pay the penalty. 
 
 Sga. That's as it happens. 
 
 Mar. Let me alone for that. \Exit. 
 
 Sga. {alone). How's this ? One cannot get one word from 
 that dog of a fellow there ! and one's as wise at the end as at the 
 beginning. What shall I do, being so uncertain of the conse- 
 quences of my marriage ? Never was a man more perplexed than 
 I am. Oh ! here are some Gipsies ; I must make them tell me 
 my good fortune. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Two Gipsy Women, with their tambourines , singing and daitcing. 
 
 Sganarelle. They are merry people. Come, can't you tell me 
 my good fortune ? 
 
 \st Gipsy. Ay, my good master, both of us will tell it you. 
 
 %id Gip. You've only got to give us your hand, and cross it 
 with silver, and we'll tell you something to your advantage. 
 
 Sga. Well, here are both of them, and what you ask for 
 besides. 
 
 1^/ Gip. You've got an excellent physiognomy, my good 
 gentleman, an excellent physiognomy. 
 
 %id Gip. Ay, a good physiognomy. The physiognomy of a 
 man who some day will be somebody. 
 
Scene VII.] LE MARIAGE FORC&. 91 
 
 \st Gip. You'll be married before long, my good gentleman ; 
 you'll be married before long. 
 
 %id Gip. You'll marry a charming woman, a charming woman. 
 
 1^/ Gip. Yes, a woman that shall be caressed and beloved 
 by every one. 
 
 ^nd Gip. A woman that will get you plenty of friends, my 
 good gentleman, plenty of friends. 
 
 \st Gip. A woman who will bring great plenty to your house. 
 
 %id Gip. A woman that will get you a great name. 
 
 1^/ Gip. You will be respected for her sake, my good gentle- 
 man, you will be respected for iier sake. 
 
 Sga. That's very well, but I beg of you to tell me whether I 
 shall be made a fool of. 
 
 %id Gip. A fool ? 
 
 Sga. Yes. 
 
 1^/ Gip. A fool ? 
 
 Sga. Yes ; whether I sha'n't be made a fool of. 
 i^The two Gipsies sing and dance.) 
 
 Sga. What the deuce ! This is not answering me. Come 
 here. I ask you both whether I shall be made a fool of? 
 
 2nd Gip. Made a fool of ! You ? 
 
 Sga. Yes, whether I shall be made a fool of? 
 
 1st Gip. You ? Made a fool of? 
 
 Sga. Yes, whether I shall be one, or not ? 
 
 (T/ie two Gipu'es go off, singing and dancing.) 
 
 Sga. {alone.) Plague on the hussies for leaving me in this 
 uncertainty. I must absolutely know the result of my marriage, 
 and so I'll go and find out that famous magician everyone is 
 talking about, and who by his wonderful art can show one all 
 one desires to know. In truth, I believe I've only to go to a 
 magician, and he will tell me all I ask. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 DoRiMtNE, Lycaste, Sganarelle {unseen in a corner of the 
 
 Stage.) 
 
 Lycaste. Well, fair Dorimbne, do you speak seriously ? 
 
 JJoriinenc. Yes, quite seriously. 
 
 Ly. Are you really going to be married ? 
 
 Dor. Really. 
 
 Ly. And your wedding is to take place this evening ? 
 
 Dor. This evening. 
 
92 THE FORCED MARRIAGE, [Act I. 
 
 Ly. And can you, cruel as you are, forget in this manner the 
 love that I bear you, and the kindly promises that you made me. 
 
 Dor. I forget them ? Not at all. I regard you still in the 
 same manner, and this marriage need not disturb you. I am not 
 marrying this man for love ; it is his fortune alone which leads 
 me to accept him. I have no fortune, nor have you, and without 
 means, you know, one's time does not pass very pleasantly in this 
 world ; therefore at any rate one must endeavour to acquire it. 
 I have made use of this chance of making myself independent, 
 and I have done it in the hope of seeing myself soon freed from 
 the greybeard I'm taking. He'll die before long ; at most he 
 hasn't above six months to live. I'll warrant him dead within the 
 time I mention, and I sha'n't have long to pray heaven for a happy 
 state of widowhood. {To Sganarelle.) Oh, we were talking* of 
 you, and saying all the best things of you. 
 
 Ly. Is that the gentleman 
 
 Dor. Yes, that's the gentleman who is going to marry me. 
 
 Ly. Allow me, sir, to congratulate you on your marriage, and 
 at the same time to present you my best respects. I assure you 
 that you are about to marry a most honourable lady — and I rejoice 
 with you also, madame, on the happy choice you have made. You 
 could not have found a better, for the gentleman has all the 
 appearance of making an excellent husband. Really, sir, I should 
 like to be friendly witn you, and to arrange an interchange of visits 
 and amusements. 
 
 Dor. You do us too much honour. But come, time presses, 
 and we shall have many opportunities of conversing together. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 Sga. (alone). I am now altogether disgusted with this match, 
 and think that I shall do well to go and get clear of this engage- 
 ment. It has cost me some money, but it is better to lose that 
 than to expose myself to something worse. I must endeavour to 
 get out of the matter cleverly. Hullo ! {Jvitocking at Aka?itor's 
 door.) 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 
 Alcantor, Sganarelle. 
 
 Alcantor. Ah, son-in-law, you're welcome. 
 
 Sganarelle. Your servant, sir. 
 
 Al. So, you've come to settle about the rharriagc ? 
 
 Sga. Pardon me. 
 
 Al. I promise you I'm as impatient for it as you are. 
 
Scene VIII.] LE MARIAGE FORCE. 93 
 
 Sga. I've come here on another matter. 
 
 Al. I've given all the necessary orders about the wedding 
 breakfast. 
 
 Sga. That's not the matter in question. 
 
 Al. The musicians have been engaged, the entertainment 
 ordered, and my daughter is already dressed to receive you. 
 
 Sga. It is not that which brings me here. 
 
 AL In short, you are going to be satisfied, and there is nothing 
 to hinder your happiness. 
 
 Sga. Good gracious ! That's another matter. 
 
 Al. Come, son-in-law, walk in. 
 
 Sga. But I've a word to say to you. 
 
 ,Al. Oh, pray don't stand on ceremony ; please to walk in at 
 once. 
 
 Sga» No, I tell you. I want to speak to you first. 
 
 Al. You want to say something to me ? 
 
 Sga. Yes. 
 
 Al Well, what is it ? 
 
 Sga. Seigneur Alcantor, it is true that I have asked your 
 daughter in marriage, and you have^ agreed to give her to me ; 
 but I find myself rather too much advanced in years for her, and 
 I feel that I'm not quite suitable for her. 
 
 Al. I beg your pardon. My daughter likes you very well as 
 you are ; and I'm sure she will live quite contentedly with you. 
 
 Sga. No; sometimes I've terrible fancies, and it would be too 
 much for her to put up with my ill-temper. 
 
 Al. My daughter is very accommodating, and you will find 
 that she will entirely conform herself to your ideas. 
 
 Sga. I have some bodily infirmities which might disgust 
 her. 
 
 AL That's nothing. A virtuous woman is never disgusted with 
 her husband. 
 
 Sga. In short, let me tell you, I advise you not to give her to 
 me. 
 
 AL Are you laughing at me ? I would rather die than not 
 keep my word. 
 
 Sga. Oh, I'll let you off from that, and I 
 
 AL Not at all ; I've promised her to you, and yr?jj shall have 
 her, in spite of all who may want her. 
 
 Sga. {aside). The deuce I shall ! 
 
 AL You see, I've a very special regard and friendship for you, 
 and I would refuse my daughter to a prince in order to give her 
 to you. 
 
94 THE FORCED MARRIAGE, [Act I. 
 
 Sga. Seigneur Alcantor, I'm obliged to you for the honour you 
 do me, but I declare to you that I shall not marry. 
 
 Al. What, you? 
 
 Sga. Yes, I. 
 
 Al. For what reason ? 
 
 Sga. The reason is because I find myself unfitted for marriage ; 
 and because I wish to imitate my father and all my other relations, 
 who never would marry. 
 
 Al. Listen. Every one's will is free, and I'm never a man to 
 force anybody. You are engaged to marry my daughter, and 
 every preparation has been made for the wedding, but, since you 
 wish to go from your word, I'll see what can be done in the 
 matter, and you shall hear from me soon. 
 
 Sga. {alone). He's more reasonable than I could have supposed, 
 and 1 thought I should have had much more difficulty in freeing 
 myself. Indeed, when I come to think of it, I find that I have 
 acted very wisely in extricating myself from this affair, which I 
 should perhaps have repented for long afterwards. But here 
 comes the son to give me an answer. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 Alcidas, Sganarelle. 
 
 Alcidas {speaking all the titne in a mild tone). Sir, I am your 
 most humble servant. 
 
 Sganarelle. So am I yours, sir, with all my heart. 
 
 Al. My father told me that you had come to 
 
 Sga, Yes, sir, I do so with regret, but 
 
 Al. Oh, sir ! There's no harm in that. 
 
 Sga. I can assure you I'm sorry for it. I could have wished — 
 
 Al. Oh ! that's nothing, I tell you. {Presenti?ig two siuords to 
 Sganarelle.) Will you have the goodness, sir, to choose one q\ 
 these two swords ? 
 
 Sga, Of these two swords ? 
 
 Al. Yes, if you please. 
 
 Sga. For what purpose ? 
 
 Al. Sir, as you refuse to marry my sister, having given your 
 word to do so, I belie v^e you will not take amiss the little com- 
 pliment I have come to pay you. 
 
 Sga. What's that? 
 
 Al. Other people would make more noise, and put themselves 
 in a passion with you ; but we like to do things in a quiet way, so 
 
Scene IX.] LE MART AGE FORCA 95 
 
 I've come to tell you civilly that, if you please, we must cut one 
 another's throats. 
 
 Sga. That's a very ill-turned compliment. 
 
 Al. Come, sir, pray make your choice. 
 
 Sga. I'm your humble servant, but I've no throat to be cut. 
 {Aside.) What a confounded way of talking this is ! 
 
 Al. Sir, by your leave it must be so. 
 
 Sga, Pray, sir, forbear that compliment, I beg of you. 
 
 AL Let us make haste, sir; I have a litttle matter that is 
 waiting for me. 
 
 Sga. I don't want anything of this sort, I tell you. 
 
 Al. Won't you fight, then ? 
 
 Sga. No, indeed I won't. 
 
 Al. Really? 
 
 Sga. Really. 
 
 A I. {after beating him with his cane). However, sir, you have 
 no reason to complain. You see, I do all things in order. You 
 break your word to us : I wish to fight you. You refuse to 
 fight : I beat you. All this is according to rule and order, and 
 you're too honourable a man to disapprove of my conduct. 
 
 Sga. {aside). What a devil of a man this is ! 
 
 Al. (presenting the swords to him again). Come, sir, do things 
 in a gentlemanly manner, and don't force me to pull your ears. 
 
 Sga. What, again ? 
 
 Al. Sir, I don't force any one ; but you must either marry my 
 sister or fight. 
 
 Sga. Sir, I assure you I can do neither the one nor the other. 
 
 Al. Positively ? 
 
 Sga, Positively. 
 
 Al. With your permission, then — {beating him again with his 
 cane). 
 
 Sga. Oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 Al. Sir, it gives me the greatest possible concern to treat you 
 in this way ; but I shall not leave off till you promise either to 
 fight, or to marry my sister. {He lifts up the cane.) 
 
 Sga. Well, then, I'll marry, I'll marry 
 
 Al. Oh, sir, I'm delighted that you've come to a reasonable 
 state of mind, and that things are put upon a right footing ; for 
 indeed I esteem you more than any one in the world, and it would 
 have heartily vexed me to have used you ill. I'll go and call my 
 father, and tell him that all is settled satisfactorily. 
 
96 THE FORCED MARRIAGE, [Act I. 
 
 Scene X. 
 Alcantor, Dorimene, Alcidas, Sganarelle. 
 
 Alcidas, Father, here's the gentleman, who's quite reasonable. 
 He's willing to do things with a good grace, so you may give my 
 sister to him. 
 
 Alcantor. There, sir, is her hand, and you need only give her 
 yours. Heaven be thanked, I have now got rid of her ; and it 
 remains with you to undertake the oversight of her conduct. 
 Now let us go and make merry, and celebrate this happy marriage. 
 
 
 '■jt} 
 
THE DOCTOR BY COMPULSION 
 
 {LE MEDECIN MALGRE LUI), 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 Sganarelle, husband of Mar- 
 tine. 
 
 Martine, wife of Sganarelle. 
 
 MONS. Robert, neighbour of 
 Sganarelle. 
 
 Valere, servant of Gironte. 
 
 Lucas, husband of Jacquelijie. 
 
 GtRONTE, father of Lucitide. 
 
 Jacqueline, nurse at Geronte's, 
 
 and wife of Lucas. 
 Lucinde, daughter of Geronte. 
 Leandre, Lucinde' s lover. 
 "VniBAXiT, father of Perrin. 
 Perrin, son of Thibaut^ a 
 
 cou7tt7yman. 
 
 Act I. Scene I. 
 Sganarelle and Martine enter quarrelling, 
 
 Sganarelle. No, I tell you I will do nothing of the kind ; and 
 that it is my place to speak and be master. 
 
 Martine. And I tell you, for my part, that you shall live as / 
 please. I did not marry you to put up with your pranks. 
 
 Sga. Oh, the monstrous plague of having a wife ! Aristotle 
 was certainly right when he said that a woman was worse than a 
 demon 1 
 
 Mar. Now just look at this clever man, with his blockhead of 
 an Aristotle ! 
 
 Sga. Yes, clever man. Find me a faggot-binder who knows 
 how to reason about things as I do, who has served a famous 
 doctor for six years, and who in his younger days had his 
 Accidence by heart. 
 
 Mar. Plague on you, for a downright ass ! 
 
 Sga. Plague on you, slut ! 
 
 Mar. It was an evil day and hour when I took it into my 
 head to say Yes. 
 
 Sga. Deuce take that notary who made me sign my own ruin. 
 
 Mar. It well becomes you to complain of that affair. Ought 
 not you to thank Heaven every minute of your life that you have 
 me for a wife ? Did you deserve to marry such a person as I 
 am? 
 
 8 
 
98 THE DOCTOR BY COMPULSION. [Act I. 
 
 Sga. Oh, yes, it's true that you did me too much honour. I 
 could say a good deal about your conduct ever since our wedding 
 day. I know what I know, and you were very lucky in lighting 
 on me. 
 
 Mar. Lucky, do you call me, in lighting on you ! A man 
 bringing me to the workhouse, a libertine, a traitor, who eats up 
 all I have. 
 
 Sga. You lie ; I drink some of it. 
 
 Mar, Who sells, piece by piece, everything that's in the 
 house. 
 
 Sga. That's living upon one's means. 
 
 Mar. Who has taken my very bed from under me. 
 
 Sga. Then you'll get up all the earlier. 
 
 Mar, In short, who has not left a single piece of furniture in 
 the house. 
 
 Sga. We can move all the easier. 
 
 Mar, And who, from morning to night, does nothing but 
 gamble and drink. 
 
 Sga, That's to keep myself from feeling dull. 
 
 Mar, And what would you have me do the while with my 
 family ? 
 
 Sga, Whatever you please. 
 
 Mar, I have four poor little infants in arms. 
 
 Sga, Lay them on the ground. 
 
 Mar. Who are crying to me every moment for bread. 
 
 Sga. Give them the rod. When I have eaten and drunk well, 
 I'll have every one in my house satisfied. 
 
 Mar. And do you intend, you sot, that things shall always go 
 on so ? 
 
 Sga. Now, my good wife, gently, if you please. 
 
 Mar, Am I always to put up with your abuse and debauchery ? 
 
 Sga. Don't let us get into a passion, wife. 
 
 Mar. Shall I never be able to find out a way of bringing you 
 to do your duty ? 
 
 Sga. You know, wife, that I've not got the best of tempers, 
 and my arm is pretty strong. 
 
 Mar. Qh ! I'm not afraid of your threats. 
 
 Sga. My better half, I see that you want to get something out 
 of me. 
 
 Mar. Do you think I fear your words ? 
 
 Sga. Sweet object of my marriage vows, I'll pull your ears. 
 
 Mar, Oh, you drunken fellow ! 
 
 Sga. I'll give you a good banging. _ . 
 
Scene IL] LE MEDECIN MALGR& LUI 99 
 
 Mar. Oh, you toss-pot 1 
 
 Sga. I'll thrash you. 
 
 Mar, You scoundrel ! 
 
 Sga, I'll comb your hair for you. 
 
 Mar, Rascal, knave, coward, villain, hang-dog, rogue, varlet, 
 thief- 
 
 Sga, {taking up a stick and beating her). Ah, well, if you will 
 have it, here goes. 
 
 Mar, Oh, oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 Sga. It's the only way to keep you quiet. 
 
 Scene II. 
 MONS. Robert, Sganarelle, Martin e. 
 
 M. Robert. Hullo, hullo ! What's the matter here ? What a 
 shame ! He must be a scoundrel who beats his wife in this 
 fashion. 
 
 Marline {setting her arms a-kimbo^ flies at Robert, drives him 
 round the stage, and at last gives him a box on the ear), I choose 
 that he should beat me. 
 
 M. Rob. Oh, then I agree to it with all my heart. 
 
 Mar. What do you come meddling here for ? 
 
 M. Rob. I was wrong. 
 
 Mar. Is it any business of yours ? 
 
 M. Rob. You are quite right. 
 
 Mar. What an impertinent fellow, to try and hinder a husband 
 from beating his wife ! 
 
 M, Rob. I retract. 
 
 Mar. What have you to say in this affair ? 
 
 M. Rob. Nothing at all. 
 
 Mar. Is it your business to thrust your nose into it ? 
 
 M, Rob. No. 
 
 Mar. You mind your own business. 
 
 M. Rob. I won't say another word. 
 
 Mar. I've a mind to be beaten. 
 
 M. Rob. Agreed. 
 
 Mar. You haven't got to pay for it. 
 
 M. Rob. That's true. 
 
 Mar. And you must be a fool to come thrusting yourself in 
 "where you're not wanted. 
 
 {^M. Robert then goes to the husband, who flies at him in like 
 manner, beats him with the stick he has been using, and 
 drives him away.) 
 
100 THE DOCTOR BV COMPULSION. lAct L 
 
 M. Roh. Neighbour, I beg your pardon with all my heart. 
 Go on, thrash your wife, and beat her as much as you like \ I'll 
 help you if you desire it. 
 
 Sga. I don't desire it. 
 
 M. Rob. Oh, that's another matter then. 
 
 Sga. If I choose to beat her, I will ; and if 1 don't, I won't. 
 
 M. Rob. Quite right. 
 
 Sga. She's my wife, and not yours. 
 
 M. Rob. Undoubtedly. 
 
 Sga. You've no right to give me order* 
 
 M. Rob. Agreed. 
 
 Sga. I can do without your help. 
 
 M. Rob. With all my heart. 
 
 Sga. And you are an impertinent fellow to meddle with other 
 people's concerns. Hear what Cicero says, " That between the 
 tree and the finger, you must not thrust the bark." {Exit M. 
 Robert. Then Sganarelle goes to his wife, and squeezes her ha?id.) 
 Come now, let's make it up. Shake hands. 
 
 Mar. Yes, after you have beaten me as you have done 1 
 
 Sga. Oh ! that's nothing. Shake hands. 
 
 Mar. I won't. 
 
 Sga. Eh ? 
 
 Mar. No. 
 
 Sga. Come, my dear little wife. 
 
 Mar. No. 
 
 .5^^. Come along, do. 
 
 Mar. I won't. 
 
 Sga. Come, come, come. 
 
 Mar. No, I choose to be angry. 
 
 Sga. It's only a trifle ; come, come. 
 
 Mar. Let me alone. 
 
 Sga. Come, I say, shake hand« 
 
 Mar. No ; you have used me too badly. 
 
 Sga. Well, well. I ask your pardon. Give me your hand. 
 
 Mar. I forgive you. {Aside) But you shall pay for it ! 
 
 Sga. You must be foolish to trouble about that. These are 
 trifles which from time to time are necessary in friendship, and 
 five or six blows from a cudgel, between people who love one 
 another, only serve to increase affection. Go. I'm ofl" to the 
 wood, and I promise you more than a hundred faggots to-day. 
 
SCExXE IV.] LE MEDECIN MALGRE LUI, loi 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Martine {alone). 
 
 Marline. Get you gone ! Whatever face I may put on it, 
 I shall not forget my resentment, and I am burning to find out 
 means to punish you for the blows you have given me. I know 
 very well that a wife has always the means of being revenged on 
 her husband ; but that is too light a punishment for my hang-dog. 
 I want a revenge that he will feel a little deeper, for this is not 
 sufficient for the injury I have received. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Valere, Lucas, Martine. 
 
 Lucas {lo Valere^ withoMt seeing Marline). In good sooth, we 
 have taken on us the deuce of a commission, and for my part I 
 don't know what we think to get by it. 
 
 Valere {lo Lucas ^ wilhout seeing Marline). What would you 
 have us do, good foster-father? We must obey our master; 
 besides, we have both of us an interest in the health of our 
 mistress, his daughter — for her marriage, which is delayed by her 
 illness, should bring us in something. Horace, who is a generous 
 man, has the best chance of securing her hand, and though she 
 has shown some liking for one Leandre, you know well enough 
 that her father would never consent to receive him as his son-in- 
 law. 
 
 Marline {musing aside^ believing herself lo he alone). Can I not 
 find out some method of revenging myself ? 
 
 Lu. {lo Valere). But what a whim is this that he has got into 
 his head, since the doctors are all at their wits' end. 
 
 VaL {to Lucas). One sometimes finds by dint of searching 
 what could not be found at first, and often in humble places. 
 
 Mar. {slill thinking she is alone). Yes, I must be revenged at 
 any cost. Those blows of the stick seem to rise within me, and I 
 cannot digest them. {She speaks this miLsing lo herself, and not 
 observing the two men, runs against them as she turns.) Oh, 
 gentlemen, I beg your pardon ; I did not see you, for I was puz- 
 zling my brains with something that perplexes me. 
 
 Val. Every one has his cares in this world ; and we, too, are 
 looking for what we should be very glad to find. 
 
 Mar. Might it be anything I could help you in ? 
 
 Val. Possibly. We want to find some clever man, some 
 special doctor, who might give some relief to our master's 
 daughter, who is afflicted by a disease which has entirely deprived 
 
I02 THE DOCTOR BY COMPULSION. [Act I. 
 
 her of the use of her tongue. Several doctors have already done 
 all they could for her ; but sometimes there are men with wonder- 
 ful secrets or private remedies which frequently accomplish what 
 others have failed to do. That's the sort of man we are looking 
 for. 
 
 Mar. {to herself). Heaven has inspired me with an admirable 
 idea by which I can be revenged on my rascal of a husband. {To 
 them.) You could not have met with any one better able to 
 supply what you want, for we have a man who is the most 
 wonderful man in the world for desperate maladies. 
 
 Val. Ah ! but pray, where can we find him? 
 
 Mar. You will find him just now in that little place over 
 there. He's amusing himself by cutting wood. 
 
 Lu. A doctor cutting wood ? 
 
 Val. I suppose you mean to say he's gathering simples ? 
 
 Mar. No. He's an extraordinary man, who amuses himself 
 in that way ; he is a fantastical, fanciful, whimsical mortal — one 
 whom you'd never take for what he is ; he goes about dressed in 
 an absurd fashion, affects sometimes to appear ignorant, keeps 
 his knowledge to himself, and avoids nothing so much as exer- 
 cising the marvellous talents that heaven has given him for 
 medicine. 
 
 Val. It is a wonderful thing that all your great men have 
 some caprice, some grain of folly mixed with their learning. 
 
 Mar. The folly of this man is incredible, for it sometimes 
 goes so far that he will submit to be beaten before he will own his 
 capacity ; and I give you warning that you will never gain your 
 end, that he'll never own he's a doctor, if the whim is on him, 
 unless you take a stick and bring him by force of blows to confess 
 at last, what at first he'll conceal from you. This is the way we 
 treat him when we've occasion for him. 
 
 Val. What strange folly. 
 
 Mar. It's true. But after that you'll see that he will do 
 wonders. 
 
 Val. What is his name ? 
 
 Mar. His name is Sganarelle, but he can easily be recognised. 
 He has a large black beard, wears a ruff, and a yellow and green 
 coat. 
 
 Lu. A yellow and green coat ! Then he m^ust be the doctor 
 of parroquets. 
 
 Val. But is it quite true that he is as clever as you say ? 
 
 Mar. Why, he's a man that does wonders. Six months ago 
 there was a woman given over by all the other doctors. They 
 
Scene V.] LE MJ^DECIN MALGRE LUL 103 
 
 thought her dead for six hours, and were going to bury her, when 
 they brought this man whom we are speaking about. Having 
 seen her, he put a little drop of something into her mouth, and 
 that very instant she rose from her bed, and began walking about 
 the room as if nothing had happened. 
 
 Lu. Dear me ! 
 
 Val. That must have been some drop of liquid gold. 
 
 Mar. It might have been. Then about three weeks ago a 
 young lad of twelve years old fell from the top of a tower, and 
 broke his head, arms, and legs on the pavement. They had no 
 sooner brought our man to him than he rubbed his body all over 
 with a certain ointment which he knows how to make, and the 
 boy raised himself on his feet and ran off to play chuck-farthing. 
 
 Lu. Is it possible ? 
 
 Val. This man must have a universal medicine. 
 
 Mar. Who doubts it ? 
 
 Lu. That sounds just the man we want; let us go at once and 
 find him. 
 
 Val. We thank you for the favour you have done us. 
 
 Mar. But don't forget the caution I gave you. 
 
 Lu. We'll see to that — if it's only beating he wants, the prize 
 is ours. 
 
 Val. {to Lucas). We were very fortunate in meeting with this 
 woman ; and for my part I conceive the greatest hopes in the 
 
 world from it. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Sganarelle, Valere, Lucas. 
 Sganarelle {singing behind the stage). Tol de rol lol, lol, lol ! 
 Valere. I hear some one singing, and cutting wood. 
 Sga. {coming on the stage with a bottle in his handy and not 
 seeing Vallre and Lucas), Tol de rol lol ! By my faith, I've 
 worked enough to drink a drop. Let's take a little breath. {He 
 drinks, and then says) It's devilish thirsty work cutting this wood. 
 {Sings.) 
 
 What pleasure's so great as the bottle can give, 
 
 What music so sweet as thy little Gull, gull ? ' 
 My fate might be envied by all men that live, 
 
 Were my dear, jolly bottle but constantly full. 
 Say why, my sweet bottle, I prithee, say why, 
 Since when full so delightful, you ever run dry. 
 Come, come, we musn't breed melancholy. 
 
 ' In imitation of swallowing. 
 
104 THE DOCTOR BY COMPULSION. [Act I 
 
 Val. {aside to Lucas). There's the very man. 
 
 Lu. {aside to Vallre). I think you're right, and we've just 
 dropped upon him. 
 
 Val. Let's look close. 
 
 Sga. {hugging his bottle ; ihen^ perceiving them watching him, he 
 lowers his voice.) Ah ! my little rascal, my httle corky, how I do 
 love thee ! {and sings) 
 
 My fate — might — be envied — by all men that live, 
 
 { Then, seeing them examining him more closely) What the deuce 
 do these fellows want ? 
 
 Val, It's he, most certainly. 
 
 Lu, That's exactly like him that was defigured to us. 
 
 {Sganarelle sets down the bottle on the ground ; Valere bows^ to 
 salute him, and he, thinking it is with a design to take it 
 away, puts it on the other side. Lucas also bowing, Sgana- 
 relle takes it up again, and holds it close to his body, with 
 various gestures which make an amusing pantomime.) 
 
 Sga. {aside). They are consulting together, and looking earnestly 
 at me. What can they mean ? 
 
 Val. Sir, are not you called Sganarelle ? 
 
 Sga. Eh ! what ? 
 
 Val I ask you whether your name is not Sganarelle ? 
 
 Sga. {turning towards Valere, and then towards Lucas). Yes, 
 and no, according to what you want with him. 
 
 Val. We only want to show him all the civility we can. 
 
 Sga. In that, it is I whose name is Sganarelle. 
 
 Val. Sir, we are delighted to see you. We have been recom- 
 mended to you for what we are searching after, and we have come 
 to beg your aid, which we need. 
 
 Sga. If it is anything, gentlemen, that belongs to my little 
 business, I am quite ready to be of service to you. 
 
 Val. Sir, you show us too much favour ; but pray be covered, 
 sir, the sun may inconvenience you. 
 
 Lu. Sir, cover your head. 
 
 Sga. {aside). These people are veiy ceremonious. 
 
 Val. Sir, you must not think it strange that we come to you. 
 People of talent are always sought after, and we are informed of 
 your ability. 
 
 Sga. It is true, sir, that I am the first man in the world at 
 making faggots. 
 
 Val, Ah ! sir 
 
Scene. V.] LE M^DECIN MALGR£: LUL 105 
 
 Sga. I spare no pains in making them, and I make them so 
 that people can't find fault with them. 
 
 Val. Sir, that's not the question. 
 
 Sga. But then, I sell them at four-and-six a hundred. 
 
 Val. Don't let us talk of that, please. 
 
 Sga^ I assure you I can't let them go for less. 
 
 Val. Sir, we know all about these things. 
 
 Sga. Then, if you know all about it, you know that I sell 
 them so. 
 
 Val. Sir, this is jesting, but 
 
 Sga. I am not jesting. I cannot lower the price. 
 
 Val. Let us talk in another manner, I beg of you. 
 
 Sga. You may get them at another place for less. There are 
 faggots and faggots, but for those that 1 make 
 
 Val. Pray, sir, let us quit this subject. 
 
 Sga. I swear that you shall not have them for a farthing less. 
 
 Val. Oh, fie ! 
 
 Sga. No, on my conscience, you shall pay that I speak 
 sincerely, and am not a man that would ask too much. 
 
 Val. Ought a man like you, sir, to amuse himself with such 
 coarse pretences, and to lower himself by talking in this manner? 
 Should a learned man, and a famous physician like yourself, hide 
 himself from the eyes of the world, and bury the fine talents he 
 possesses? 
 
 Sga. {aside). The man's mad. 
 
 Val. Pray, sir, do not dissemble with us. 
 
 Sga. What ? 
 
 Lu. All this gammoning means nought. I do know what I 
 do know. 
 
 Sga. Well, then, what would you say ? Whom do you take 
 me for ? 
 
 Val. For what you are — a great doctor. 
 
 Sga. Doctor yourself. I am not one, and never was one. 
 
 Val. {aside). This is the folly that possesses him ! {To hijft.) Sir, 
 do not deny things any longer, and let us not come, if you please, 
 to disagreeable conclusions. 
 
 Sga. To what ? 
 
 Val. To certain things that we should be sorry for. 
 
 Sga. Come to what you please; I am not a doctor, and I don't 
 understand what you mean. 
 
 Val. {aside). I see plainly that we must make use of the 
 remedy. {To him.) Sir, once more I desire you to own what 
 you are. 
 
io6 THE DOCTOR BY COMPULSION. [Act I. 
 
 Lu. And don't shilly-shally about it any longer, but own 
 frankly that you be a doctor. 
 
 S^a. I'm furious 
 
 VaL What's the good of denying what we know ? 
 
 Lu, What are all these whimsies for ? What good will they 
 do you ? 
 
 Sga. Gentlemen, one word's as good as two thousand. I tell 
 you I am not a doctor. 
 
 VaL You are not a doctor ? 
 
 Sga. No. 
 
 Lu. You bean't no doctor ? 
 
 Sga. No, I tell you. 
 
 Val. Since you will have it, we must come to it. 
 
 {Each takes a hig stick and they thrash him.) 
 
 Sga. Hold, gentlemen, hold ! I'm what you please. 
 
 Val. Sir, why did you oblige us to use this violence? 
 
 L.U. Why did you give us the trouble to beat you ? 
 
 Val. I assure you I did it with all the regret in the world. 
 
 Lu. By my faith, and frankly, I did it with sorrow. 
 
 Sga. What the deuce do you mean, sirs ? Pray, is it for a 
 joke, or are you both mad, that you will have me to be a doctor? 
 
 Val. What, won't you give in yet ? Do you still deny that 
 you are a physician ? 
 
 Sga. May the devil take me if I am. 
 
 Lu. Bain't it true, that y' understand physic ? 
 
 Sga. No, plague take me if I do. {They begifi to beat him 
 agai?i.) Hold, hold ! Well, then, gentlemen, if you will have it 
 so, I am a doctor — yes, a doctor ; ay, and an apothecary too, if 
 you think good. I'd rather agree to everything than be knocked 
 on the head. 
 
 Val. Ah ! now that's all right, sir. I am delighted to see you 
 will listen to reason. 
 
 Lu. You do give me a joyful mind, I tell 'ee, when ye do talk 
 like that. 
 
 Val. I ask your pardon, from the bottom of my soul. 
 
 Lu. Do 'ee forgive my freedom ? 
 
 Sga. {aside). What, have I actually deceived myself, then, and 
 have I become a doctor without knowing it ? 
 
 Lu. Sure, and that's just what you've done. 
 
 Sga. What, really ? 
 
 Val. Undoubtedly. 
 
 Sga. Deuce take me if I knew it I 
 
Scene v.] LE MEDECIN MALGRE LUL ioj 
 
 Fill. What do you mean ? Why, you are the cleverest doctor 
 in the world ! 
 
 Sga. Indeed ! 
 
 Z?/. A doctor that has cured a lot of sick folk. 
 
 Sga. Really ? 
 
 Val. A woman was thought to be dead for six hours ; they were 
 just going to bury her, when, with one drop of a certain essence, 
 you brought her to life again, and made her walk immediately 
 about the room. 
 
 Sga. The plague I did ! 
 
 Zti. A little lad, of a dozen year old, let himself toomble from 
 the top of a steeple, and a-had his head, legs, and arms broken, 
 and you, wi' some nointment, made 'en soon scramble up on his 
 feet, and go off and play at chuck farthing. 
 
 Sga. The deuce I did ! 
 
 Va/. In short, sir, you will be content with us ; and you may 
 gain as much as you please, if you will only let us conduct 
 you where we want you. 
 
 Sga. 1 can gain what I will ? 
 
 Val Yes. 
 
 Sga. Oh ! I'm a doctor without dispute ; I had forgotten it, 
 but I remember it now. What's the matter ? Where must I go to ? 
 
 VaL We will take you there. It is to see a young lady who 
 has lost her speech. 
 
 Sga. Faith ! I have not found it. 
 
 Va/. (aside to Lucas.) He likes his joke. (To Sganarelle.) Come 
 along, sir. 
 
 Sga. Without a doctor's gown ? 
 
 Val. We will get one for you. 
 
 Sga. (offering his bottle to Valtre). You hold that. That's where 
 I put my julep. 
 
 Lu. Here's a sort of doctor as I likes. I do fancy, somehow, 
 as he'll do ; he's a merry kind of fellow^ 
 
 ACT II. Scene I. 
 
 (A room in G^ronte's house.) 
 
 G^RONTE, Val^re, Lucas. 
 
 Val^re. Yes, sir, I believe you will be satisfied ; for we have 
 brought you the first physician in the world. 
 
 Lucas. Adzooks ! chuck away the ladder after that ; all the 
 others bean't worthy to black his shoes for'n. 
 
io8 THE DOCTOR BY COMPULSION. [Act II, 
 
 Val. He is a man who has done wonderful cures. 
 
 Lu. He's been and heal'd folk as was dead. 
 
 Val. He has some strange ideas, as I told you, and there are 
 times when his senses seem to leave him, and he does not appear 
 to be what he is. 
 
 Lu. Yes, he be mortal fond of playing the fool, and one would 
 say sometimes as how he's a bit cracked. 
 
 Val. But, at the bottom, he's all science ; and he often says 
 things extremely lofty. 
 
 Lu. When he'll give his moind to it, bless you, he'll talk as if 
 it came out of a book. 
 
 Val. His reputation has spread far and wide. Everybody 
 comes to him. 
 
 Gerojite. I'm longing to see him ; bring him to me at once. 
 
 Val. I'll go and look for him. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Geronte, Jacqueline, Lucas. 
 
 Jacqueline. By my troth, sir, this one will do just what the 
 others ha' done. I'se believe that he'll be so good, so bad; and 
 the best doctor you can gie your daughter, according to my notion, 
 is a good handsome husband for whom she has a liking. 
 
 Gerotite. Good lack, my dear nurse, you meddle with a good 
 many things ! 
 
 Lucas. Hold your tongue, housewife Jacqueline; don't poke 
 your nose in here. 
 
 Jac. I tell you, and both of ye, that all these 'ere doctors won't 
 do her no more good than a glass o' clear water ; your daughter 
 wants something else than rhubarb and senna. A husband is a 
 plaster that will cure all girls' ailments. 
 
 Ger. How can she marry in her present condition? And 
 when I wanted her to marry, did not she oppose all my wishes ? 
 
 Jac. Just so ; but you wanted her to have a man she didn't 
 care a button for. Why didn't you let her have that 'ere Mister 
 Liandre as she's set her heart on ? I'll be bound to say she'd a 
 been mighty obedient then ; ay, and what's more, she'd take him 
 now if she only had the chance. 
 
 Ger. This Leandre is not a match for her ; he's not so rich as 
 the other one. 
 
 Jac. But he's got an uncle who's mortal rich, and they do say 
 as how this one's to be his heir. 
 
 Ger, All these riches that are coming seem to me so many 
 
Scene III.] LE MEDECIN MALGR& LUI. 109 
 
 idle tales. There's nothing like what people are in possession of, 
 and we run a great risk of being taken in when we reckon upon 
 riches that others are keeping for us. Death does not always open 
 its ears to the wishes and prayers of the heirs, and they have 
 plenty of time to get hungry who wait for some one to die before 
 they can eat. 
 ii\. Jac. Ah ! I've often heard tell that in marriage, as in other 
 things, contentment's a deal better than money. Fathers and 
 mothers have such a cursed way of asking how much have he got, 
 and how much have she got. Old father Piarre went and married 
 his daughter Simonette to fat Thomas, just because he'd a bit of 
 a vineyard more than young Robin as she'd took a liking to ; and 
 the poor gal's gone as yallow as the jaundice, and not a penny 
 piece the better for it. There, master, what d'ye think of that ? 
 Folks ought to have a bit of pleasure some time, and I'd rather 
 give my girl a husband as she'd fancied that give her all the gold 
 in the bank. 
 
 Ger. That'll do, Mrs. Nurse. Give your tongue a holiday, or 
 you'll talk yourself into a fever. 
 
 Lu. {striking Jacqueline on the shoulder at every sentence). Come, 
 be silent ; you make too free, you do. The master an't no need 
 of all your preachments. Fie knows what to be after with his 
 daughter. You go and nurse the babby, and just let him do as he 
 likes. The master is his girl's father, and is kind and wise enough 
 to do what's right by her. {Pushes her aivay.) 
 
 Ger. Gently, gently. 
 
 Lu. [again striking Jacqueline on the shoulder). Oh, I want to 
 give her a bit of a lesson, sir, and teach her how to behave herself 
 respectfully to you. 
 
 Gcr. Yes, but you need not go quite so far. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Valere, Sganarelle, Geronte, Lucas, Jacqueline. 
 
 VaVere. Sir, prepare yourself; here comes our doctor. 
 
 Geronte {to Sganarelle). Sir, I'm delighted to see you at my 
 house, for indeed we are in great need of you. 
 
 Sganarelle {in a Physician^ s gown, with a high-crowned hat). 
 Hippocrates says, " Let us both be covered." 
 
 Ger. Does Hippocrates say so ? 
 
 Sga. Yes. 
 
 Ger. In what chapter, if you please ? 
 
 Sga. In his chapter — upon hats. 
 
Mo THE DOCTOR BY COMPULSION, [Act 11. 
 
 Ger. Since Hippocrates says so, it must be done. 
 
 Sga. Mr. Doctor, having heard of the wonderful things — 
 
 Ger, Whom are you speaking to, if you please ? 
 
 Sga. To you. 
 
 Ger. But I am not a doctor. 
 
 Sga. What ! you are not a doctor ? 
 
 Ger. No, indeed. 
 
 Sga. {taking a stick and heating Geronte, as he had been beaten 
 himself). Do you mean it? 
 
 Ger. I do mean it — Oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 Sga. Now you are a doctor. That's all the license I've had. 
 
 Ger. What demon of a man have you brought me ? 
 
 Val. I told you he was a droll sort of doctor. 
 
 Ger. Yes, I shall send him about his business with his 
 drollery. 
 
 Luc. Oh don't mind, master ; 'twere only a bit of a joke. 
 
 Gir. This kind of joking does not please me. 
 
 Sga. Sir, I ask pardon for the liberty I have taken. 
 
 Ger. Sir, I am your most obedient servant. 
 
 Sga. I am sorry 
 
 Gir, Oh, it's nothing at all. 
 
 Sga, For the blows 
 
 Ger. There's no harm done. 
 
 Sga, Which I have had the honour to give you. 
 
 Gir. There is no need to talk any more about that. I have a 
 daughter, sir, who is suffering from a strange disease. 
 
 Sga. I am delighted, sir, to think that your daughter has- 
 occasion for me ; I wish with all my heart that you, and all your 
 family, had the same occasion for me, that I might show the- 
 desire I have to serve you. 
 
 G^r. I am obhged to you for your good wishes. 
 
 Sga. I assure you that I speak from the bottom of my heart. 
 
 G^r. You do me too much honour. 
 
 Sga. What is your daughter's name ? 
 
 Ger. Lucinde. 
 
 Sga. Lucinde ! Oh, what a charming name for a patient ! 
 
 Ger. I will go and see what she is doing. 
 
 Sga. Who is that tall woman there ? 
 
 Ger. She is nurse to a young child of min«. [Exit.- 
 
 Luc, Ay, and she be my wife. 
 
 Sga. I congratulate her on having such a husband, and I con- 
 gratulate you on having such a discreet and handsome wife as* 
 she is. 
 
Scene IV.] LE MEDEClN MALGRE LUl in 
 
 Lu. Oh, Mr. Doctor, I don't care for no more of them there 
 compliments. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 LuciNDE, Valere, Geronte, Lucas, Sganarelle, Jacqueline. 
 
 Sganarelle. Is this the patient ? 
 
 Geroiite. Yes; I've no other daughter, and I should be in 
 despair if she were to die. 
 
 Sga. She had better not ; she cannot die, you know, without 
 a doctor's prescription. 
 
 Ger^ A chair, here. 
 
 Sga. {seated between Geronte and Lucinde). Here is a patient 
 who is not altogether disagreeable, and I think that a man who 
 was well and strong would be very well pleased with her. 
 
 Ger. You have made her laugh, sir. 
 
 Sga. So much the better. When a doctor can make his patient 
 laugh, it is the best symptom in the world. Now, what is the 
 case ? What's the matter with you ? What pain have you got ? 
 
 Lucinde {answering by signSy putting her hand to her mouthy 
 heady and under her chin). Haw, hi, how, haw. 
 
 .S^^. Eh ! What do you say ? 
 
 Luc. {continuing the same). Haw, hi, how, haw, haw, hi, 
 
 Sga. What ! 
 
 Luc. Haw, hi, how. 
 
 Sga. How, hi, how, haw, ha ! I don't understand you. What 
 the deuce of a language is this ? 
 
 Ger. Sir, that is her malady ; she has become dumb without 
 our being able to find out the cause of it, and in consequence of 
 this misfortune her marriage has had to be put off. 
 
 Sga. Why so ? 
 
 Ger. The gentleman she was about to marry wished to have 
 her cured before he could settle things. 
 
 Sga. Who is this stupid fellow who would not have a dumb 
 wife ? Would to heaven my wife had the same malady ; I would 
 take good care not to cure her ! 
 
 Ger. In short, su-, we must beg of you to do your best to lessen 
 her illness. 
 
 Sga. Oh ! don't put yourself out about it. But tell me a 
 little : does this illness oppress her much ? 
 
 Gh. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sga. So much the better. Does she feel much pain ? 
 
1 1 2 THE DOCTOR B Y CO MP ULSION. [Act 1 1 . 
 
 Ger. Very much. 
 
 Sga, {turning to the patient). Give me your arm. Here's a 
 pulse which shows that your daughter is dumb. 
 
 Ger, Why truly, sir, that's her disease ; you have found it all 
 at the first touch ! 
 
 Sga. Ay, ay. 
 
 Jac. Only for to see how he's been and found it all out ! 
 
 Sga. We great doctors know everything at once. An ignorant 
 fellow would have been puzzled, and would have told you it's this, 
 and that ; but for my part I hit the nail on the head at once, and 
 tell you that your daughter is dumb. 
 
 Ger. Yes, but I should be glad if you could tell me how it 
 came about. 
 
 Sga. Nothing more easy. It came about because she lost her 
 speech. 
 
 Gtr. Very good ; but the reason, if you please, why she lost 
 her speech ? 
 
 Sga. All our best authors will inform you that it comes from 
 an impediment in the action of the tongue. 
 
 Ger. Yes, but I want your views as to this impediment in the 
 action of the tongue. 
 
 Sga. Aristotle says about it — some very fine things. 
 
 Ger. I quite believe it. 
 
 Sga. Ah, he was a very great man ! 
 
 Ger. No doubt. 
 
 Sga. {holding out his arm from the elbow). A very great man : 
 a man taller than me by so much. But to return to our reason- 
 ing. I hold that this impediment in the action of the tongue is 
 caused by certain humours, which amongst us scholars are called 
 peccant humours ; peccant, that's to say — peccant humours ; so 
 that the vapours caused by the exhalations of influences which rise 
 in the region of diseases, coming — as we may say — to — Do you 
 understand Latin ? 
 
 Ger. Not in the least. 
 
 »5^^' (golfing ^P i^ surprise). You don't understand Latin ! 
 
 Gir, No. 
 
 Sga. {assuming divers diverting postures). Cabricias arci thuram, 
 catalamus, singulariter, nominativo, hsec Musa, the Muse, Bonus, 
 bona, bonum, Deus sanctus est. Ne oratio Latinas ? etiam. Quare ? 
 quia substantivo et adjectivum concordat in generi, numerum et 
 casus. 
 
 Ger. Ah, why did I not study ! 
 Jac, Sure, and this is a learned man ! 
 
Scene IV.] LE MtDECIN MALGRt LUI. 113 
 
 Lu. Ah, he be so clever, I can't make neither head nor tail 
 of it. 
 
 .S^^. For these vapours that I speak to you of, passing from 
 the left side, where the liver is, to the right side where the heart 
 is, find that the lungs, which we call in Latin Arjnyan, having 
 communication with the brain, which in Greek we name Nasmus^ 
 by means of the hollow vein, which in Hebrew we call Cubiky meets 
 in its way the said vapours, which fill the ventricles of the omo- 
 plate, and because the said vapours — comprehend this reasoning 
 well, I pray you — and because the said vapours have a certain 
 malignity — attend well to this, I beseech you. 
 
 Ger. Yes. 
 
 Sga. Have a certain malignity which is caused — be attentive, if 
 you please. - 
 
 Ger. I am so. 
 
 Sga. Which is caused by the acrimony of the humours en- 
 gendered in the concavity of the Diaphragm^ it comes to pass that 
 these vapours — Ossabundus, nequeis, negner, potarium^ quipsa nilus. 
 That is exactly what has caused your daughter to be dumb. 
 Jac. Ah, my good man, that's real fine, and no mistake. Jojs 
 
 Zu. Why couldn't I roll the patter off as glib as that ! 
 
 Get. Undoubtedly, no one could reason better; but there's 
 one thing I could not get over, and that's the place of the liver 
 and the heart. It seems to me that you placed them otherwise 
 than they really are ; that the heart is on the left side, and the liver 
 on the right side. 
 
 Sga. Yes, it was formerly so; but we have changed all that, 
 and we now practice medicine after quite a different fashion. 
 
 Ger. That is what I did not know, and I ask your pardon for 
 my ignorance. 
 
 Sga. There is no harm done. You are not obliged to be as 
 learned as we are. 
 
 Ger. True, sir ; but what do you think must be done with this 
 disease ? 
 
 Sga. What do I think must be done ? 
 
 Ger. Yes. 
 
 Sga. My opinion is that she be put to bed ; and that she 
 shall take for a remedy a quantity of bread soaked in wine. 
 
 Ger. Wherefore that, sir? 
 
 Sga. Because that in bread and wine mixed together there is 
 a certain sympathetic virtue which induces talking. Don't you 
 know that is what they give to parrots, and it makes them learn 
 to talk ? 
 
114 2"/^^ DOCTOR BY COMPULSION. [Act II. 
 
 Ger. That is true. Oh, what a clever man ! Make haste and 
 
 bring in a quantity of bread and wine. 
 
 Sga. I will return in the evening to see how she is getting on. 
 
 Ger. Stay a little, if you please. 
 
 Sga. What for? 
 
 Ger. Well, sir, I should like to offer you a fee 
 
 Sga. I won't take it, sir {putting his hands behind him under 
 his gown^ while Geronte opens his purse). 
 
 Ger. Sir ! 
 
 Sga. No. 
 
 Ger. Stay a moment. 
 
 Sga. Certainly not. 
 
 Ger. Now I beg of you. 
 
 Sga. You make a mistake. 
 
 Ger. That's all right. 
 
 Sga. I don't choose it. 
 
 Ger. Why not ? 
 
 Sga. I don't care to practise for money. 
 
 Ger. I quite believe that. 
 
 .S^^. (after having taken the mojiey). Is this good weight? 
 
 Gir. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sga. I am not a mercenary physician. 
 
 Ger. I know it well. 
 
 Sga. Interest does not govern me. 
 
 Ger. I have not thought so. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 SGANARELLE, LlEANDRE. 
 
 Sganarelle {looking at his money). In truth, this matter is not 
 going on badly, and provided that 
 
 Leandre. Sir, I have been waiting for you for a long time, and 
 am come to ask your help. 
 
 Sga. {taking hini by the wrist). A very bad pulse this. 
 
 Le. I am not sick, sir ; nor is it for that that I am come to you. 
 
 Sga. If you are not ill, why the deuce didn't you say so? 
 
 Le. Well, to tell you the matter in two words. My name is 
 Leandre, and I am in love with Lucinde, whom you have come 
 to visit ; but as her father's ill-will prevents me from seeing her, I 
 take the chance of asking you to try and serve me by advancing 
 my cause, and to give me an opportunity of carrying out a plan I 
 have decided on, by which I may be able to speak two words to 
 her, as my life and happiness depend on it. 
 
Scene V.] LE MEDECIN MALGRE LUL 115 
 
 Sga. {seejning to he in a passion). Whom do you take me for ? 
 What? You dare to apply to me to help you in your love- 
 making, and to debase the dignity of a physician by employments 
 of this kind? 
 
 Le. Pray do not make a noise, sir. 
 
 Sga. {making him retreat). I will do as I like. You are an 
 impertinent fellow. 
 
 Le. Oh, sir, gently. 
 
 Sga. An ill-advised fool. 
 
 LL I beg of you, sir. 
 
 Sga. I'll teach you that I'm not such a man as that, and it is 
 an extreme piece of insolence. 
 
 Le. {taking out a purse, and giving it to hint). Sir ! 
 
 Sga. To think of employing me {taking the purse) I don't 
 
 speak of you, for you are a worthy man, and I shall have great 
 pleasure in doing you a service ; but there are certain impertinent 
 people in the world who take persons for what they are not, and 
 this, I must own, puts me in a rage. 
 
 Le. I ask your pardon, sir, for the liberty that 
 
 Sga. You are jesting. But what is the business ? 
 
 Le. You must know, sir, that this malady that you would cure 
 is not a real disease. The doctors have reasoned upon it, as they 
 were bound to, and have not failed to say that it proceeds — one 
 from the brain, one from the stomach, one from the spleen, one 
 from the liver ; but it is certain that love is the real cause of it, 
 and that Lucinde pretended to have this disease only to escape 
 from a marriage which they wished to force upon her. But for 
 fear they should see us together, let us retire from here, and as we 
 go ni tell you what I wish you to do. 
 
 Sga. Come, sir, you have given me a wonderful interest in 
 your love affair, and I'll stake all my medicine on it that the 
 patient shall either die, or be yours. 
 
 ACT III. Scene I. 
 
 SgANARELLE, Ll^ANDRE. 
 
 Leandre. I think that I'm not amiss now for an apothecary ; 
 and as the father has scarcely ever seen me, this change of dress 
 and wig is sufficient, I think, to disguise me. 
 
 Sganarelle. Undoubtedly. 
 
 Le. All I wish now is to know five or six important medical 
 phrases, to season my discourse and give me the air of a learned 
 man. 
 
ii6 THE DOCTOR BY COMPULSION, [Act III. 
 
 Sga. Come, come, that is unnecessary. The robe is sufficient; 
 I know no more of medicine than you do. 
 
 U. What ! 
 
 Sga. Deuce take me if I know anything of physic. You are 
 a gentlemen, and I will confide in you, as you have done me. 
 
 Le. What ! are you not actually 
 
 Sga, No; I tell you they made me a doctor in spite of myself. 
 I never attempted to be so learned as that ; with all my studies I 
 never got beyond the first form. I do not know how this notion 
 came to them, but when I found that they would make me a 
 doctor by force, I resolved to be one at the expense of those I 
 might have to do with. Still, you would not believe how the 
 mistake has been spread about, and how every one is possessed 
 with the idea that I am a clever man. They come to consult me 
 from all parts, and if things go on always the same, I intend to 
 keep to physic all my life. I find that it is the best trade of all, 
 for whether we succeed or fail, we are paid all the same. The 
 bad work never comes back on our hands, and we cut out the 
 stuff we work on just as we please. A shoemaker can't spoil a 
 piece of leather in making a pair of shoes but he has to bear the 
 loss of it, whereas we can spoil a man without it costing us any- 
 thing. The blunders are not ours ; the fault is always the dead 
 man's for dying. In short, the advantage of our profession is, 
 that there is always the greatest honour and discretion among the 
 dead; you never hear them complain of the doctor that killed 
 them. 
 
 Lk. It is true that the dead are very honourable in this respect. 
 
 Sga. {seeing some men coming to him). Here are some persons 
 who look as if they were going to consult me. Go and wait for 
 me near your young lady's house. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Thibaut, Perrin, Sganarelle. 
 
 Thibaut. Maister, son Perrin and I we been a looking for ye. 
 
 Sgajiarelle. What's the matter ? 
 
 Thi. His pore mother, which her name be Parette, have took 
 to her bed more nor six months agone. 
 
 *S^^. {holding out his hand as if to receive some money). What 
 do you want me to do for her ? 
 
 Thi. Well, Maister, surely ye could gi' us a bit q' druggery 
 ware for the pore old body. 
 
 Sm. I must see what's the matter with her. 
 
Scene 11.] L^ MJ^DECIN MALGR& LUL 117 
 
 Thi, Matter ! Why, she be laid up with an hypocrisy. 
 
 JSga. Of an hypocrisy ? 
 
 Thi. Ay, that's what they do call it in our parts. She be 
 swelled up all over; and they do say as how she's a deal of 
 seriosities in her inside, and that her liver or her spleen make 
 blood instead o' water. One day out o' two she be taken wi' 
 quotigian fever, and pains all about her legs. And ye can hear the 
 rattles in her throat like to choke her. Sometimes when she be 
 so mortal bad with sincops and conversions, we do think she's 
 gone off. In our parish we've gotten a potticary, and we have 
 given her histories, and 't'ave cost me crawns and crawns for 
 clysters and suchlike. But law, there, 'tworn't no good, and we 
 bin afeard as how the pore thing '11 go to her forefathers. 
 
 Sga. {Jiolding out his hand all the while and shaking it as a sign 
 that he wanted money). Let's come to the point, friend; let's 
 come to the point. 
 
 Thi. Weel, maister, the point be we wants you to coam and 
 help us. 
 
 Sga. I don't understand you at all. 
 
 Ferrin. Mother she be zick, zir, and here be two crawns if so 
 be as ye'U cure 'er. 
 
 Sga. Ah, now I understand you. There's a lad that speaks 
 clearly, and explains himself as he should do. You say that your 
 mother is sick of a dropsy, that she's swelled all over her body, 
 that she has a fever, with pains in her legs, and that she is taken 
 by turns with syncope and convulsions — that is to say fainting fits. 
 
 Per. Ay, ay, zir ; that be just it. 
 
 Sga. I comprehended at once what you said. You have a 
 father who does not know what he says. Now, then, you want a 
 remedy from me ? 
 
 Per. Ay, zir. 
 
 Sga. A remedy to cure her. 
 
 Per. That's what I du mean. 
 
 Sga. Here, then, is a piece of cheese which you must make 
 her take. 
 
 Per. Cheese, zir ! 
 
 Sga. Yes ; 'tis prepared cheese, in which there is mixed gold, 
 coral, pearls, and abundance of costly things. 
 
 Per. Zir, we be mortal obligated to you, an' we'll go an' make 
 her take it directly minute. 
 
 Sga. Go. If she dies, don't fail to have her buried as hand- 
 somely as you can. 
 
Ii8 THE DOCTOR BY COMPULSION. [Act III. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 SgANARELLE, L^ANDRE, Gl^RONTE. 
 
 Gtronte. Oh, sir, I have been asking where you were. 
 
 Sganarelle. I was only amusing myself in your court. How 
 does the patient do ? 
 
 Ger. Rather worse since your remedy. 
 
 Sga. So much the better. It is a sign that it operates. 
 
 Ger. Yes ; but I am afraid lest it choke her. 
 
 Sga. Don't vex yourself about that. I have remedies against 
 all diseases, and I wait to the very last. 
 
 Ger. Who is this man that you are bringing here ? 
 
 Sga. {inaking signs with his hand that it is an aJ)othccary). It 
 is 
 
 Gir. What ? 
 
 Sga. He 
 
 Ger. Eh ? 
 
 Sga. Who 
 
 Ger. I understand you. 
 
 Sga. Your daughter will have occasion for him. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Jacqueline, Lucinde, Geronte, L^andre, Sganarelle. 
 
 Jacqueline. Here be your daughter, sur ; she's taken a fancy to 
 walk about a bit. 
 
 Sganarelle. That will do her good. Go to her, Mr. Apothe- 
 cary, feel her pulse a little, that I may consult with you by and by 
 about her complaint. [Here he takes Geronte to the etid of the 
 stage, and putting one arm over his shoulder, puts his hand under 
 his chin, by which he turns his face towards him whenever he wafits 
 to take notice of what his daughter and the apothecary are doing 
 together, in the meanwhile holding the following discourse with him 
 to amuse him^ Sir, it is a grave and subtle question among the 
 doctors, whether women are more easy to cure than men. I beg 
 you to listen to this, if you please. Some say No, some say Yes ; 
 and for my part I say both No and Yes. Forasmuch as the 
 incongruity of the opaque humours which meet in the natural 
 temperament of women cause the animal part always to gain the 
 mastery of the sensitive, we see that the inequality of their 
 opinions depends on the oblique motion of the circle of the 
 moon ; and as the sun, which darts its rays on the concavity of the 
 earth, finds 
 
Scene IV.] LE MEDECIN MALGR& LUI. 119 
 
 Lucinde. No, I am not capable of changing my sentiments in 
 the least. 
 
 Ger. My daughter speaks. Oh ! the great power of medicine ! 
 Oh ! wonderful physician ! How deeply am I obliged to you, sir, 
 for this wonderful cure ; and what can I do for you after such a 
 service ? 
 
 Sga. {walking about the stage^ and fanning his forehead with his 
 hat). This illness has caused me great trouble ! 
 
 Luc. Yes, father, I have recovered my speech, but I have 
 recovered it to tell you that I will never have any other husband 
 than Leandre, and that it is useless for you to try and give me 
 Horace. 
 
 Ger. But 
 
 Ltic. Nothing can shake the resolution I have taken. 
 
 Ger. What ? 
 
 Ltic. It is useless opposing me with your fine arguments. 
 
 Ger. If 
 
 Znc. All your talk will signify nothing. 
 
 G^r. I 
 
 Luc. It's a thing I've made up my mind about. 
 
 Ger. But 
 
 Laic. No paternal power shall make me marry against my will. 
 
 Ger. I have 
 
 Ljic. It's no use trying, do what you will. 
 
 G^r. It 
 
 Luc. My heart cannot submit to this tyranny. 
 
 Ger. There 
 
 Luc. I'll sooner go into a convent than marry a man I don't 
 love. 
 
 Ger. But 
 
 Luc. {speakijig in a very loud tone). No ; by no means. Not 
 at all. You lose your time. I will not do it. I've made up my 
 mind. 
 
 G^r. Oh ! what a torrent of words. There's no stopping her. 
 Sir, I beg that you will make her dumb again. 
 
 Sga. That is a thing impossible for me to do. All that I can 
 do to serve you is to make you deaf, if you wish it. 
 
 Ger. I thank you. {To Lucinde.) Do you think, then 
 
 Luc. No ; all your reasons will not have the slightest eifect 
 on me. 
 
 Gh'. You shall marry Horace this very night. 
 
 Lmc. I'd sooner marry death. 
 
 Sga, {to Gtronte). Now, wait a bit, and let me prescribe in 
 
I20 
 
 THE DOCTOR BY COMPULSION, [Act III. 
 
 this case. It is a disease which she is suffering from, and I know 
 the remedy for it. 
 
 Ger. Is it possible, sir, that you can cure this disease of the 
 mind? 
 
 Sga, Yes, let me alone ; I have remedies for everything, and 
 our apothecary will help us in this cure. {He calls the Apothecary 
 and speaks to him.) One word. You see that the affection which 
 she has for this Leandre is quite contrary to her father's will, that 
 there is no time to lose, and that the humours are very acrimonious, 
 and that it is necessary to find some remedy for this disease, which 
 may get worse by delay. For my part I can only see one, which 
 is a dose of runaway purgative, mixed, as it should be, with two 
 drachms of matrimonial pills. Perhaps she'll make some diffi- 
 culty in taking this medicine, but as you are a clever man in your 
 business, you will bring her to it, and make her swallow the thing 
 as well as you can. Go and make her talce a turn in the garden, 
 in order to settle the humours, while I keep her father here in 
 discourse ; but, above all, lose no time. To the remedy, as 
 quickly as you can, to the specific remedy. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 G^RONTE, SgANARELLE. 
 
 Ghontc, What drugs, sir, are those you were speaking of? I 
 don't think I ever heard them named before. 
 
 ,5"^^:. They are drugs which are used on urgent occasions. 
 
 Ger. Did you ever know insolence like hers ? 
 
 Sga. Well, girls are sometimes a little headstrong. 
 
 Ger. You can't conceive how she dotes on this Leandre. 
 
 Sga. The heat of the blood causes this in young minds. 
 
 Ger. For my part, ever since I discovered the violence of this 
 love-affair, I have always kept my daughter indoors. 
 
 Sga. You have acted wisely. 
 
 Ger. And I have taken very good care to prevent their having 
 any communication together. 
 
 Sga. Quite right. 
 
 Ger. Some folly would have come of it, if I had allowed them 
 to see one another. 
 
 Sga. No doubt. 
 
 Ger. I believe the girl would have run away with him. 
 
 Sga. Your reasoning is quite correct. 
 
 Ger. I've been told that she does all in her power to get to 
 speak with him. 
 
Scene VII.] LE M&DKClM MALGkR LVL 121 
 
 Sga. Absurd. 
 
 Ger. But he'll throw away his time. 
 
 Sga. Ay, ay ! 
 
 Ger. For I'll take very good care he doesn't see her. 
 
 Sga. He has not got to do with a fool ; you know tricks that 
 he is not up to. He that knows more than you do is no block- 
 head. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Lucas, Geronte, Sganarelle. 
 
 Lucas. Odds boddikins, sir ! here's a pretty go. Your daughter's 
 gone off with her Leandar. 'Twas he that were the Potticary, 
 and 'tis Mister Doctor's at the bottom o' this httle game. 
 
 Geronte. What ! is he going to murder me in this fashion ? Go 
 and get a commissary of police, to stop him from getting away. 
 Oh, you rascal ! the law shall lay hold of you. 
 
 Lu. Ah, my good Doctor, you'll be hanged sure enough, only 
 here you stay. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Sganarelle, Martine, Lucas. 
 
 Martine {to Liccas). Oh, good gracious ! What a trouble I've 
 had to find out this house. Tell me a bit o' news about the doctor 
 I sent you to. 
 
 Lucas. There he be : just a gwine to be hanged. 
 
 Mar. What I my husband hanged ? And what has he done to 
 deserve that ? 
 
 Lu. He's been and got our master's daughter carried off. 
 
 Mar, Alas ! my dear husband, and is it really true that they're 
 going to hang you ? 
 
 Sganarelle. You can see how it is, alas ! 
 
 Mar. And must you die in the presence of such a crowd of 
 people ? 
 
 Sga. What can I do ? 
 
 Mar. Still, if you'd finished cutting the wood, that would have 
 been some little comfort. 
 
 Sga. Pray go away. You break my heart. 
 
 Mar. '" No ; I'll stay to keep up your courage till you die. I'll 
 not leave you till I've seen you hanged. 
 
 Sga. Alas ! 
 
 {Enter Geronte). 
 
122 THE DOCTOR BY COMPULSION. [Act III. 
 
 Geronte. The commissary will be here directly, and then you'll 
 be put into a place where you'll be well looked after. 
 
 Sganarelle {taking off his hat). Alas ! cannbt this be changed 
 into a few blows ? 
 
 Ger. No, no ; justice must settle it. But what do I see ? 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 
 l^andre, lucinde, jacqueline, lucas, geronte, 
 Sganarelle, Martine. 
 
 Ltandre. Sir, I am come to make Leandre appear before you, 
 and to restore Lucinde to you. We both intended to go off and 
 get married, but this idea has given way to a more honourable 
 proceeding. I don't design to rob you of your daughter, and it 
 is from your hand alone that 1 will receive her. What I would 
 say to you, sir, is that I have just received letters, by which I learn 
 that my uncle is dead, and that I am his sole heir. 
 
 Geronte. Sir, your worth is sufficient, and I give you my daughter 
 with the greatest pleasure. 
 
 Sganarelle. The doctor has got well out of that scrape ! 
 
 Martine. Since you will not be hanged, thank me for being a 
 doctor, for 'twas I that procured you that honour 
 
 Sga. Yes, you got me I know not how many blows with a 
 stick. 
 
 LL The result is too good for you to bear any malice. 
 
 Sga. Well, let it be so ; I will forgive you the blows in con- 
 sideration of the dignity you have raised me to ; but from this 
 time you must show great respect to a man of my position, and 
 remember that the wrath of a physician is terrible. 
 
SCAPIN'S ROGUERIES 
 
 {LES FOURBERIES DE SCAFIN). 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Argante, father of Octave and 
 
 Zerbinetts. 
 Ceronte, fat/ier of L^andre and 
 
 Hyacinthe. 
 Octave, soji of Argattie, in love 
 
 with Hyaci?ithe. 
 Leandre, so7t of Ge'ro7ite, and in 
 
 love with Zerbinette, 
 Hyacinthe, Geronte's daughter. 
 
 Zerbinette, supposed to be a 
 
 Gipsy. 
 SCAPIN, L^andre's valet. 
 Silvestre, Octaves valet. 
 Nerine, Hyacinthe' s nurse. 
 Carle, an impostor^ friend of 
 
 Scapin. 
 Two Porters. 
 
 Scene— NAPLES. 
 
 Act I. Scene I. 
 Octave, Silvestre. 
 Octave. Ah ! sad news to an enamoured heart ! What cruel 
 extremities am I reduced to ! You have just heard, Silvestre, in 
 the port that my father is coming back ? 
 Silvestre. Yes. 
 
 Oct. That he is coming this very morning ? 
 Yes. 
 
 And that he has made up his mind to marry me ? 
 Yes. 
 
 To a daughter of Seigneur G^ronte ? 
 Of Seigneur Geronte. 
 
 And that this young lady has been sent for from Ta! entum 
 for that purpose ? 
 Sil. Yes. 
 
 And you have this news from my uncle ? 
 
 Yes, from your uncle. 
 
 Whom my father made acquainted with this by letter ? 
 
 By letter. 
 
 And this uncle, you say, knows all our affairs ? 
 
 All our affairs. • - . 
 
 Sil. 
 Oct. 
 Sil. 
 Oct. 
 Sil. 
 Oct. 
 
 Oct. 
 Sil. 
 Oct. 
 Sil. 
 Oct. 
 Sil, 
 
124 SCAPIN^S ROGUERIES. [Act 1. 
 
 Oct. Ob, come, speak if you will, but don't go on like this, so 
 that I have to snatch the words out of your mouth. 
 
 Sil. What can I say more ? You do not forget a single cir- 
 cumstance, and you relate everything just as it is. 
 
 Oct. At any rate, advise me, and tell me what to do in this 
 painful state of things. 
 
 Sil. In truth, I find myself in as great a difficulty as you, and 
 I wish I could find some one to advise me. 
 
 Oct. I am tormented to death by this wretched return. 
 
 Sil. And I am no less so. 
 
 Oct. When my father learns what has taken place, I shall have 
 a sudden storm of impetuous reproaches poured upon me. 
 
 Sil. Reproaches are nothing ; I only wish I could get off as 
 easily. But for my part, I am likely to pay much more dearly for 
 your follies, as I see in the distance a storm of cudgel blows which 
 will burst on my shoulders. 
 
 Oct. Good heavens ! how shall I get clear of the difficulty in 
 which I find myself? 
 
 Sil. You should have thought of that before you brought 
 yourself into it. 
 
 Oct. Oh ! you worry me to death with your unseasonable 
 lectures. 
 
 Sil. And you kill me much more by your thoughtless 
 actions. 
 
 Oct. What must I do? What am I to resolve on? What 
 
 remedy can I adopt ? 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 ""' Octave, Scapin, Silvestre. 
 
 Scapin. How now, Seigneur Octave ! W^hat is the matter with 
 you? What ails you? You seem greatly disturbed. 
 
 Octave. Ah ! my dear Scapin, I am undone, I am in despair. 
 I am the most unfortunate of men. 
 
 Sea. How so ? 
 
 Oct. Have you heard nothing that concerns me ? 
 
 Sea. No. 
 
 Oct. My father is just coming with Seigneur Geronte, and they 
 are determined to make a match for me. 
 
 Sea. Well, what is there so terrible in that ? 
 
 Oct. Ah, you don't know, then, the cause of my distress ? 
 
 Sea. No, but it's your own fault if I don't know it very soon ; 
 and I'm a true consoler, one who is interested in young people's 
 affairs. 
 
Scene II.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. 125 
 
 Oct. Oh ! Scapin, if you can find out any plan, devise any 
 plot, to deliver me from the misery I am in, I should think 
 myself indebted to you for more than my life. 
 
 Sea. To tell you the truth, there are few things impossible to 
 me when I choose to undertake them. Heaven has doubtless 
 bestowed on me a fine genius for all those witty contrivances 
 and those ingenious tricks to which the ignorant vulgar give 
 the name of rogueries ; and without vanity I can say that 
 scarcely any one has ever been more clever at expedients and 
 intrigues, or has acquired more glory in that noble profession 
 than myself. But, indeed, merit is ill-rewarded nowadays, and I 
 have given up all these things since a certain vexation happened 
 to me in an affair. 
 
 Oct. How, what affair, Scapin ? 
 
 Sea. ' Well, an affair in which I fell out with the Law. 
 
 Oct. With the Law ? 
 
 Sea. Yes, we had a slight quarrel. 
 
 Oct. What, you and the Law ? 
 
 Sea. Yes ; I was badly used, and I was so vexed at the 
 ingratitude of the age, that I resolved to do no more. But no 
 matter ; tell me your story. 
 
 Oct. You know, Scapin, that, two months ago, Seigneur 
 Geronte and my father embarked together on a voyage which had 
 to do with an undertaking in which both their interests were con- 
 cerned. 
 
 Sea. I know that. 
 
 Oct. And that Leandre and I were left by our fathers — I 
 under the care of Silvestre, and Leandre under yours. 
 
 Sea. Yes, and I have faithfully discharged my duty. 
 
 Oct. Some time afterwards Ldandre met with a young gipsy 
 girl, and fell in love with her. 
 
 Sea. I know that too. 
 
 Oct. As we are great friends, he let me into the secret of his 
 love affair, and took me to see this girl, whom, indeed, I thought 
 handsome, but not so much as he would have desired. He talked 
 to me about her every day, and all day long he would extol her 
 beauty and grace, praise her wit, and speak to me with transport 
 of the charms of her conversation, which he reported to me in full, 
 even to the least word, and tried to make me think it the most 
 delightful in the world. He sometimes quarrelled with me for not 
 sufficiently appreciating ^^hat he told me, and constantly blamed 
 me for the indifference I showed to the passion of love. 
 
 Sea. I don't yet see what this is leading to. 
 
126 SCAPIN'S ROGUERIES. [Act I. 
 
 Ocf. One day as I was going with him to the people with whom 
 the object of his affections is Hving, we heard from a httle house 
 in a by-street lamentations mixed with much sobbing. We asked 
 what it was. A woman told us, sighing, that if we went in we 
 should see some foreigners in a very pitiful state, and if we had 
 any feeling we should certainly be touched by what we saw. 
 
 Sea. What will this bring us to ? 
 
 OcA Curiosity made me press Leandre to go and see what it 
 was. We entered into a hall, where we found an old woman on 
 the point of death, waited upon by a maidservant, who was uttering 
 cries, and a young girl dissolved in tears, the most touching and 
 most beautiful creature you ever saw in your life. 
 
 Sea. So, so ! 
 
 Ocf. Any one else would have appeared hideous in the state 
 she was in : she had nothing on but a shabby little petticoat, with 
 a night-jacket of plain dimity ; and her head-dress was a yellow 
 night-cap, turned back on her head, which let her hair fall in dis- 
 order on her shoulders ; and yet in this state she shone with a 
 thousand charms, and there was nothing that was not delightful in 
 her whole person. 
 
 Sea. I guess what is coming. 
 
 Oc^. If you had seen her, Scapin, in the condition I am de- 
 scribing to you, you would have thought her admirable. 
 
 Sea. Oh ! I don't doubt it, and without having seen her, I am 
 sure she was absolutely charming. 
 
 Oef. Her tears were not of that unpleasant kind which disfigure 
 a face. She had a most winning gracefulness in weeping, and her 
 grief was the most beautiful in the world. 
 
 Sea. I can see it all. 
 
 OeL She melted every one into tears, by throwing herself most 
 tenderly on the body of the dying woman, whom she called her 
 dear mother ; there was no one there who was not cut to the heart 
 to see so good a disposition. 
 
 Sea. Really this is very affecting, and I see plainly that this 
 good disposition made you fall in love with her. 
 
 OeL Ah, Scapin, a savage would have loved her ! 
 
 Sea. Certainly. How could one help it ? 
 
 Oe/. After some words, with which I endeavoured to soften 
 the grief of this charmer in distress, we left her ; and asking 
 Leandre what he thought of her, he answered me coldly that she 
 was rather pretty. I was vexed at the indifference with which he 
 spoke of her, and would not let him know the effect her beauty 
 had produced on my heart. 
 
:ene III.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. 127 
 
 Silvestre {to Octave). If you don't shorten this, we shall have 
 I stop till to-morrow morning. Let me finish it in two words. 
 Vo ScapUi.) His heart takes fire from that moment; he can't 
 ^e if he doesn't go to comfort his dear afflicted one. His 
 squent visits are refused by the maidservant, who has become 
 jusekeeper by the death of the mother. See my gentleman in 
 ispair. He presses, supplicates, conjures, but all to no purpose, 
 hey tell him that the girl, though without fortune or means of 
 ipport, is of good family, and that unless he marries her they 
 mnot receive his attentions. But his love is only increased by 
 ifficulties. He racks his brains, debates, reasons, ponders, takes 
 s resolution ; and lo ! he has been married to her these three days. 
 
 Sea. I understand. 
 
 Sil. Now, in addition to this, comes the return of the father, 
 ho was not expected for two months ; the discovery that the 
 icle has made of the secret of our marriage ; and the other 
 arriage which they wish to make between him and the daughter 
 ^igneur Geronte had with a second wife, whom they say he 
 IS married at Tarentum. 
 
 Oct. And more than this, add also the poverty under which 
 lis charming creature labours, and the incapacity I am in to 
 ilieve her. 
 
 Sea. Is that all ? You are both greatly upset by a mere trifle. 
 :'s a fine thing to be so much alarmed at ! Aren't you ashamed 
 ) be at a loss for so small a matter ? What the deuce ! you are 
 ow as big as father and mother, and can't find in your head or 
 evise in your wits some polite artifice, some clever little stratagem 
 ) settle your enemies ? Fie ! Plague take the idiot ! I should 
 ave been very glad formerly if I had had these old people to get 
 le better of. I should have tripped them up in a trice. I was 
 o higher than this when I gained a reputation by a hundred 
 lever tricks. 
 
 Sil. I own that heaven has not given me your talents, and I 
 ave not the wit like you to get into the clutches of the law. 
 
 Oct, Here comes my charming Hyacinthe. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Hyacinthe, Octave, Scapin, Silvestre. 
 
 Hyacinthe. Oh, Octave, is it true what Silvestre has just told 
 serine, that your father has come back, and means to marry you? 
 
 Octave. Yes, my dear Hyacinthe ; and the news has been a 
 ruel blow to me. But what do I see ? You are in tears ? Tell 
 
128 SCAPIN'S ROGUERIES. [Act I. 
 
 me, do you suspect me of any unfaithfulness, and are you not 
 assured of my love for you ? 
 
 Hy. Yes, Octave, I am sure you love me, but I am not so sure 
 you will love me always. 
 
 Oct. What ! can one love you, and not love you all one's life ? 
 
 Hy. I have heard say, Octfl.ve, that your sex does not love so 
 long as ours does, and that the ardours men discover are flames 
 which are as easily extinguished as kindled. 
 
 Oct. Ah, my dear Hyacinthe, my heart, then, is not made like 
 that of other men, for I feel that for my part I shall love you till 
 I die. 
 
 Hy. 1 am willing to believe you think what you say, and I 
 have no doubt your words are sincere, but I fear a power which 
 will oppose in your heart the tender feelings which you may have 
 for me. You are dependent on a father, who wishes to marry 
 you to another, and I am sure that I shall die if this misfortune 
 should happen. 
 
 Oct. No, my lovely Hyacinthe ; no father shall force me to 
 break my faith with you. I am resolved to quit my country and 
 even life itself, if necessary, sooner than give you up. Already, 
 without having seen her, I have conceived the strongest dislike 
 to her whom they have chosen for me, and, without being cruel, 
 I could wish that the sea would carry her off for ever. So, my 
 lovely Hyacinthe, I beg you not to weep, for your tears kill me, 
 and I cannot see them without feeling pierced to the heart. 
 
 Hy. Since you will have it so, I will wipe away my tears, and 
 wait calmly for what it shall please heaven to decide about me. 
 
 Oct. Heaven will be favourable to us. 
 
 Hy. It cannot be against me, if you are faithful. 
 
 Oct. That I certainly shall be. 
 
 Hy. Then I shall be happy. 
 
 Sea. (aside). She's not altogether a fool, and I find her very 
 tolerable. 
 
 Oct. [J>ointing to Scaphi). Here's a man who could give us 
 wonderful help in our trouble, if he were only so disposed. 
 
 Sea. I have vowed again and again to have no more to do with 
 the world, but if you both of you beg me earnestly, perhaps 
 
 Oct. Nay, if it is only a question of begging hard enough for 
 your help, I implore you with all my heart to undertake the 
 steering of our bark ! 
 
 Sea. {to Hyaci?ithe). And have you nothing to say to me ? 
 
 Hy. I implore you as he did, by all that is most dear to you, 
 to help us in our love ! 
 
Scene III.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN, 129 
 
 Sea. I must suffer myself to be overcome, and be humane. 
 Go, I will set to work in your behalf. 
 
 Oct. Be assured that 
 
 Sea. {to Octave). Hush! [To Byacmthe.) You can go, and 
 make yourself easy. [Exit.JIyacinthe.^ {To Octave.) You must 
 prepare to endure meeting your father firmly. 
 
 Oct. I must confess to you that the thought of this meeting 
 makes me tremble beforehand ; I have a natural timidity that I 
 cannot overcome. 
 
 Sea. You must, however, appear firm at the first onset, lest he 
 should take advantage of your weakness, and deal with you as a 
 child. Now try and drill yourself into a little boldness, and think 
 how to answer resolutely whatever he may choose to say to you. 
 
 Oct. I will do the best I can. 
 
 Sea. Come, let me try and accustom you to it a little. We 
 will go over your part, and see if we can keep it up properly. 
 Come, a resolute bearing, your head well up, and a bold look. 
 
 Oct. What ! like this ? 
 
 Sea. A little more. 
 
 Oct. So ? 
 
 Sea. Well, yes. Suppose that I am your father just come, 
 and answer me firmly as if I were he. . . . What's the meaning 
 of this, you scoundrel, worthless, impudent fellow? A son utterly 
 unworthy of such a father as I am ! Do you dare to appear before 
 me, after your fine behaviour, and after the base trick you have 
 played me during my absence? Is this the fruit of all my care? 
 Is this the respect that is due to me ? the respect you retain for 
 me ? (Come on, now.) Have you the insolence, you rascal, to 
 contract a secret marriage without the consent of your father ? 
 Answer me, rogue, answer me ! Let me hear your grand reasons. 
 . . . . Why positively you've nothing to say ! 
 
 Oct. That is because I am imagining it is my father who is 
 speaking. 
 
 Sea. Just so ; it is for that reason that you must not look like 
 an idiot. 
 
 Oct. I shall summon up more resolution, and answer firmly. 
 
 Sea. Really ? 
 
 Oct. Yes, certainly. 
 
 Sea. Here is your father Coming. 
 
 Oct. Good heavens ! I am undone. [Exit. 
 
 Sea. Ho, Octave, stay. There, he's run away. What a poor 
 sort of fellow he is 1 Don't let us fail to wait for the old gentle- 
 man. 
 
 10 
 
I30 SCAPIN'S ROGUERIES, [Act I. 
 
 Sil. What shall I say to him ? 
 
 Sea. Let me speak, and only follow me. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Argante ; ScAPiN and Silvestre ai the back of the stage. 
 
 Argante {thinking himself alone). Did ever any one hear of such 
 an action ? 
 
 Scapin {to Silvestre). He has learnt the affair already, And has 
 got it so thoroughly into his head, that he talks about it aloud 
 now that he's alone. 
 
 Arg. {thinking himself alone). This is great hardihood. 
 
 Sea. {to Silvestre). Let us listen to him a little while. 
 
 Arg. I should like to know what they can say to me about 
 this fine marriage. 
 
 Sea. {aside). We have thought of that. 
 
 Arg. Will they endeavour to deny the thing ? 
 
 Sea. {aside). No, we don't think of that. 
 
 Arg. Or will they undertake to excuse it ? 
 
 Sea. {aside). That may possibly be. 
 
 Arg. Will they pretend to put me off with idle talcs ? 
 
 Sea. {aside). Perhaps so. 
 
 Arg. All their speeches will be useless. 
 
 Sea. {aside). We shall see. 
 
 Arg' They shall not take me in. 
 
 Sea. {aside). Don't swear to anything. 
 
 Arg. I shall take care to secure my rascal of a son in a safe 
 place. 
 
 Sea. {aside). We shall see to that. 
 
 Arg. And as for that rogue, Silvestre, I'll break his bones. 
 
 Silvestre {to Seapin). I should have been very much surprised 
 if he had forgotten me. 
 
 Arg. {seeing Silvestre). Ah, ah ! You are here then, are you, 
 you wise family manager, and fine director of young persons ! 
 
 Sea. Sir, I am delighted to see you returned. 
 
 Arg. Good-day, Scapin. {To Silvestre.) Truly you have 
 followed my orders after a fine fashion, and my son has behaved 
 very wisely during my absence. 
 
 Sea. You seem very well, so far as I can see. 
 
 Arg. Pretty well. {To Silvestre.) Can't you say a word, you 
 rascal, can't you say a word ? 
 
 Sea. Have you had a good voyage ? 
 
 Arg. Yes, yes. A very good one. Leave me to scold ill peace. 
 
Scene IV.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN, 131 
 
 Sea. You want to scold ? 
 
 Arg. Yes, I want to scold. 
 
 Sea. Whom, sir? 
 
 Arg. {pointijig to Silvestre). That rascal there. 
 
 Scc^. What for ? 
 
 Arg. Have you not heard what has happened in my absence ? 
 
 Sea. Well, 1 heard, indeed, of some trifling matter. 
 
 Arg. What ! Some trifling matter ! An action of this kind ! 
 
 Sea. Well, you're partly right. 
 
 Arg. Such a daring act ! 
 
 Sea. That's true. 
 
 Arg. A son marrying without the consent of his father ! 
 
 Sea. Yes, there's something to be said to that. But I am of 
 opinion you should not make any noise about it. 
 
 Arg. Well, that's not my opinion, and I'll make as much 
 noise as I please. What ! don't you think I've every reason to be 
 in a rage ? 
 
 Sea. Yes, I do. So was I in a rage when I heard of it; and 
 I took your part, so far as to scold your son. Ask him how I 
 pitched into him, and how I lectured him on the slight respect he 
 showed his father, whose footsteps he ought to kiss. No one 
 could have talked better to him, not even your own self. But 
 what of .that ? I submitted to reason, and considered that at 
 bottom he might not be so much in the wrong as one might think. 
 
 Arg. What do you tell me ? Is there no great wrong in his 
 marrying a perfect stranger straight away ? 
 
 Sea. What would you have? He was driven to it by his 
 destiny. 
 
 Arg. Indeed ! The best reason in the world ! A man has 
 but to commit the greatest crimes imaginable, to cheat, steal, 
 murder, and say in excuse he was urged to it by his destiny. 
 
 Sea. Really, sir, you take my words in too philosophical a 
 sense. I mean that he was irretrievably committed to the engage- 
 ment. 
 
 Arg. But why did he so commit himself? 
 
 Sea. Would you have him as wise as yourself? Young folks 
 are young, and have not always the prudence they should have to 
 do nothing but what is reasonable. Look at our Le'andre, Who, 
 in spite of all my lessons, and all my remonstrances, has gone 
 and done worse than your son has done. I should like to know 
 if you were not yourself once young, and played as many pranks 
 in your time as other people. I've been told that formerly you 
 were an excellent companion among the ladies, and you played 
 
132 SCAPIN'S ROGt/^lii^S. [Act I. 
 
 the gay young man with the best of them, and that you never 
 paid your addresses without gaining your point. 
 
 A?'g. I grant you that's true, but I always confined myself to 
 gallantry, and never went so far as he has done. 
 
 Sea. What would you have had him do ? He sees a young 
 person who likes him (for he takes after you in having all the 
 women in love with him) ; he thinks her charming, he pays her 
 visits, says sweet things to her, sighs in a gallant fashion, and acts 
 the passionate lover. She yields to his addresses ; he follows up 
 his success — when, lo, her relations interfere, and force him to 
 marry ]ier. 
 
 Sil. {aside). What a clever knave he is ! 
 
 Sea, Would you have had him killed ? It is much better to 
 be married than dead. 
 
 Arg. They did not tell me the affair took place in that way. 
 
 Scci. {pointing to Silvestre). Ask him, then. He will not say 
 the contrary. 
 
 Arg. {to Silvestre). Was it by force that he was married? 
 
 Sil. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sea. Would I tell you a lie ? 
 
 Atg. He should have gone at once to a notary and protested 
 against the violence. 
 
 Sea. That is just what he would not do. 
 
 Arg. But that would have made it easier for me to dissolve 
 the marriage. 
 
 Sea. What ! dissolve the marriage ? 
 
 Arg. Yes. 
 
 Sea. You will not destroy it. 
 
 Arg. Won't I ? 
 
 Sea. No. 
 
 Arg. Wliat ! shall not I have the rights of a father, and 
 demand satisfaction for the violence they have done my son ? 
 
 Sea. It is what he will never agree to. 
 
 Arg. Not agree to it ? 
 
 Sea. No. 
 
 Arg. Are you speaking of my son ? 
 
 Sea. Yes ; of your son. Would you hate him confess that 
 he was capable of fear, and that they made him do things by 
 force? He will take care not to own that. That would only 
 injure him, and prove him unworthy of such a father as you are. 
 
 Arg. That's nothing to me. 
 
 Sea. For his own honour and yours,, he must tell the world 
 that he married her voluntarily. 
 
Scene IV.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. 133 
 
 Arg. And for my honour and his own I'll have him say the 
 contrary. 
 
 Sea. No, I'm sure he will not do it. 
 
 Arg. I shall make him. 
 
 Sea. I tell you, he won't do it. 
 
 Arg. He shall do it, or I'll disinherit him. 
 
 Sea. -You? 
 
 Arg. Yes, I. 
 
 Sea. Good ! 
 
 Arg. What do you mean by good ? 
 
 Sea. You sha'n't disinherit him. 
 
 Arg. Sha'n't I? 
 
 Sea. No. 
 
 Arg. No ? 
 
 Sea. No. 
 
 Arg. Aha ! That's a good joke. Sha'n't I disinherit my son ? 
 
 Sea. No, I tell you. 
 
 Arg. Who will hinder me ? 
 
 Sea. Your own self. 
 
 Arg. What, I myself? 
 
 Sea. Yes, you won't have the heart to do it. 
 
 Arg. I shall. 
 
 Sea, You're only joking. 
 
 Arg. No, I'm not. 
 
 Sea. Fatherly tenderness will prevail. 
 
 Arg. It will do nothing at all. 
 
 Sea. Yes, yes. 
 
 Arg. I tell you this shall be done. 
 
 Sea. Oh, mere trifles ! 
 
 Arg. You mustn't call it a trifle.' 
 
 Sea. Oh ! I know you ; you are naturally kind-hearted. 
 
 Arg. I'm nothing of the kind. I am very spiteful when I 
 choose. Stop this talk, it irritates me. {To Silvestre.) Get you 
 gone, you wretch ; go and find my rascal, while I seek Seigneur 
 Geronte, and tell him my misfortune. 
 
 Sea. Sir, if I can serve you in anything, you have only to 
 command me. 
 
 Arg. I thank you. [Aside.) Oh, why was he an only son ! 
 Why have I not now the daughter of whom heaven deprived me, 
 so that I might make her my heiress ? [Exit. 
 
 Si/. I own you're a great man, and the matter promises 
 well ; but, on the other hand, we are sorely pressed for money to 
 live on, and we have people on all sides barking at us. 
 
134 — - SCAPIN'S ROGUERIES. [Act II. 
 
 Sea, Let me alone ; the scheme is formed. I am only rack- 
 ing my brain to find a trusty man to act a part that I have occa- 
 sion for. Stop. Hold a little. Pull your hat over your eyes like 
 a bully. Settle yourself firmly on one foot. Lean your hand on 
 your side. Put a fierce look into your eyes. Strut about like a 
 theatrical king. Very well. Now follow me. I know some 
 secrets for disguising your face and voice. 
 
 Sil. I implore you, however, not to get me into any trouble 
 with the law. 
 
 Sea. That'll do, that'll do. We will share our dangers like 
 brothers ; and three years in the galleys, more or less, will not curb 
 a noble spirit. 
 
 ACT IL Scene L 
 
 G^RONTE, ArGANTE. 
 
 Geronte. Yes, no doubt, with such weather, we shall have our 
 people here to-day. A sailor who comes from Tarentum assured 
 me he had seen my man, who was on the point of embarking. 
 But my daughters will arrive and find things badly arranged for 
 what we were proposing ; and what you have told me about your 
 son strangely upsets the plans we had formed. 
 
 Argante. Give yourself no trouble about that ; I will answer 
 for the removal of that obstacle, and will set to work about it at 
 once. 
 
 Ger. Indeed, Seigneur Argante, allow me to tell you that the 
 education of children requires the greatest attention. 
 
 Arg. No doubt. But what then ? 
 
 Ger. Why, that the bad behaviour of young people mostly 
 proceeds from the bad education their fathers have given them. 
 
 Arg. That happens sometimes ; but what do you mean by 
 that ? 
 
 Ger. What do I mean by that ? 
 
 Arg. Yes. 
 
 Ger. That if you, like a good father, had properly trained your 
 son, he would not have played you the trick he has done. 
 
 Arg. Very well. So, then, you have educated your son well ? 
 
 Ger. Certainly, and I should be very sorry if he were to do 
 anything of this kind. 
 
 Arg. And supposing this son of yours whom you have brought 
 up so well should have done worse than mine. What then ? 
 
 Gtr, What? 
 
 Arg. Yes, what? 
 
Scene II.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. ^135 
 
 Ger. What is the meaning of this ? 
 
 Arg. It means, Seigneur Geronte, that we should not be so 
 ready to condemn the conduct of others, and that they who will 
 criticise should take care there's nothing amiss at home. 
 
 Ger. I don't understand this riddle. 
 
 Arg. You'll have it explained. 
 
 Ger. What, have you heard anything about my son ? 
 
 Arg. That is possible. 
 
 Ger. And what then ? 
 
 Arg. When I was angry, your Scapin gave me a general idea 
 of the matter, and you can learn the details from him or some one 
 else. For my part I am going to consult a lawyer, and learn what 
 course I had better take. Good-bye. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Geronte {alone) : afterwards Leandre. 
 
 Geronte. What can this affair be ? Worse than his own? For 
 my part I don't see what can be worse, for I think that to marry 
 without a father's consent is one of the worst actions possible. 
 {Enter Leandre.) Ah, so you're there ? 
 
 Leandre- {running to embrace hint). Oh, father ! how glad I am 
 to see you returned. 
 
 Ger. {refusing to embrace him). Gently. Let us talk a little 
 business. 
 
 Lean. Allow me to embrace you, and 
 
 Ger. {still repulsing hint). Gently, I tell you. 
 
 Lean. What, father, do you refuse to allow me to show my 
 delight by embracing you ? 
 
 Ger. Yes. There is a certain matter that must be cleared "up 
 between us. 
 
 Lean. And what is that? 
 
 Ger. Stand still, that I may have a good look at you. 
 
 Lean. What for? 
 
 Ger. Look at me, straight in the face. 
 
 Lean, Well ? 
 
 Ger, What has happened here? 
 
 Lean. What has happened ? 
 
 Ger. Yes ; what have you been doing while I have been away? 
 
 Lean. What do you mean, father? What would ycu have had 
 me do? 
 
 Ger. It is not I who would have you do anything, but who ask 
 you, What is it you have done ? 
 
136 SCAPJN'S ROGUERIES, [Act II. 
 
 Lean. I ? I have done nothing that you have any reason to 
 complain of. 
 
 Ger. AVhat, nothing? 
 
 Lean. No. 
 
 Ger. You are very determined. 
 
 Lean. That is because I am sure of my innocence. 
 
 Ger. For all that, Scapin has given me some news of you. 
 
 Lean. What, Scapin ? 
 
 Ger. Aha ! I see, his name makes you blush. 
 
 Lean. He has told you something about me ? 
 
 Ger. This is not the place to go into this affair; we will 
 examine it elsewhere. Go home, and I will be there presently. 
 Ah, traitor, if I find that you disgrace me, I renounce you for 
 my son, and you may well make up your mind to fly from my 
 presence for ever. [Exit 
 
 Lean, (alone). To betray me in this manner ! A rascal who, 
 for a hundred reasons, ought to be the first to conceal the things 
 I trust to him, is the first to discover them to my father. I vow 
 to heaven this treachery shall not remain unpunished. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Octave, Leandre, Scapin. 
 
 Octave. My dear Scapin, what do I not owe to your efforts ? 
 What an excellent fellow you are, and how good heaven is to me 
 in sending you to my aid ! 
 
 Leaft. Aha! So you are there ? I'm glad I've found you, you 
 rascal. 
 
 Sea. Your servant, sir. You do me too much honour. 
 
 Lean, {drawing his sword). You're playing the wag, are you ? 
 I'll teach you ! 
 
 Sea. {falling on his knees). Oh, sir ! 
 
 Octave (stepping betiueen them to hi?tder Leandre from striking 
 him). Nay, Leandre. 
 
 Lean. No, Octave ; pray don't hold me ! 
 
 Sea. (to Leandre). Oh, sir ! " 
 
 Oct. (holding Leandre). I beg of you ! 
 
 Lean, {ivanting to strike Scapin). Let me satisfy my just 
 anger. 
 
 Oct, In the name of friendship, Leandre, don't ill-use him. 
 
 Sea. Sir, what have I done to you ? 
 
 Lean, (going to strike him). What have you done to me, you 
 rascal 1 
 
Scene III.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN, 137 
 
 Od. {still holding Zeandre). Now, gently ! 
 
 Lean. No, Octave ; I will have him instantly confess to me 
 the treachery he has been guilty of. You rascal, I know the 
 trick you've played me ; they have just told me of it, and you did 
 not think perhaps they would have let out the secret to me ; but I 
 will have the confession from your own mouth, or I'll run my 
 sword through your body. 
 
 Sea. Oh, sir, could you possibly have the heart? 
 
 Lean. Speak, then. 
 
 Sea. Have I done anything to you, sir? 
 
 Lean. Yes, rascal; and your conscience tells you only too 
 truly what it is. 
 
 Sea. I assure you I am not aware of it. 
 
 Lean, {advaneitjg to strike him). You are not aware of it ? 
 
 Oet. {Iwlding him). Leandre ! 
 
 Sea. Well, sir, since you will have it, I confess that I drank, 
 with my friends, that small cask of Spanish wine that was pre- 
 sented to you a few days ago, and it was I who made a hole in 
 the cask and poured water round the tap, to make you think the 
 wine had run out. 
 
 Lean. Was it you, villain, who drank my Spanish wine and 
 caused me to scold the maid, thinking it was she who had played 
 the trick ? 
 
 Sea. Yes, sir, and I beg your pardon for it. 
 
 Lea7t. I am glad to know this, but that's not the question just 
 now. 
 
 Sea. Isn't it that, sir ? 
 
 Lean. No, it's something else which concerns me much more, 
 and I will have you tell it me. 
 
 Sea. I don't remember to have done anything else, sir. 
 
 Lean, {going to strike him). Won't you speak ? 
 
 Sea. Oh ! 
 
 Oet. {holding him). Gently. 
 
 Sea. Yes, sir, it's true that about three weeks ago you sent me 
 in the evenmg to carry a watch to the young gipsy girl you are in 
 love with. I came back home with my clothes all covered with 
 dirt, and my face bloody, and told you I had met with thieves 
 who had beat me cruelly, and robbed me of the watch. It was I, 
 sir, who kept it. 
 
 Lean. So you kept my watch ? 
 
 Sea. Yes, sir, to see what o'clock it is. 
 
 Lean. So, so !" these are fine things I learn here. I have 
 indeed a most faithful servant. But this is not what I want. 
 
13a- SCAFIN'S ROGUERIES. [Act II. 
 
 Sea. Isn't that it ? 
 
 Leaji. No, scoundrel, there's something else that I must have 
 you confess. 
 
 Sea. {aside). Plague on it! 
 
 Lean. Out with it quick ; I'm in haste. 
 
 Sea. Sir, that's all that I have done. 
 
 Lean, {going to strike him). 
 
 Oct. {getting before Leandre). Nay ! 
 
 Sea. Well, yes, sir. You remember the hobgoblin some six 
 months ago, that gave you such a thrashing one night, and made 
 you almost break your neck in a cellar you fell into as you were 
 running away ? 
 
 Lean. Well? 
 
 Sea. It was I, sir, who acted the hobgoblin. 
 
 Lean. Was it you, you wretch, who acted the hobgoblin ? 
 
 Sea. Yes, sir, but only to frighten you, and to cure you of the 
 fancy you had of making us go about every night as you used 
 to do. 
 
 Lean. I shall remember all I've learnt, at the proper time and 
 place. But I must come to the point ; and I will have you con- 
 fess what you told my father. 
 
 Sea. Your father ? 
 
 Lean. Yes, you knave, my father. 
 
 Sea. I've not even seen him since his return. 
 
 Lean. Haven't you see him ? 
 
 Sea, No, sir. 
 
 Lean. Really ? 
 
 Sea. Really. It is what he himself will tell you. 
 
 Lean. I have it from his own mouth, however • 
 
 Sea, With your leave, he did not speak the truth. 
 Efiter Carle. 
 
 Carle {to Leandre). Sir, I bring you bad news about your love 
 affair. 
 
 Lean, What is that ? 
 
 Car. Your gipsies are on the point of carrying off Zerbinette, 
 and she herself, with tears in her eyes, charged me to come and 
 tell you in all haste that if you can't take them the money they 
 asked for her, in two hours, she will be lost to you for ever. 
 
 Lean. In two hours ? 
 
 Car, Yes, in two hours. \Exit. 
 
 te 
 
Scene IV.] LES FOURDERIES DE SCAPIN. 139 
 
 Scene IV. 
 L£\NDRE, Octave, Scapin. 
 
 Leandre. Oh ! my dear good Scapin, I want your help. 
 
 Scapin {rising and walking before Leandre, 7viih a disdainful 
 air). Oh ! my dear good Scapin ! I'm " my dear good Scapin " 
 now I am wanted. 
 
 Lean. There, I'll forgive you all you've told me, and worse 
 even, if you have done it. 
 
 S.ca. No, no, don't forgive anything. Run your sword through 
 my body. I should be glad if you killed me. 
 
 Lean. No, I implore you to give me life by helping me in my 
 love affair ! 
 
 Sea. No, no, you had much better kill me. 
 
 Lea7t. You are too valuable to me. I beg you to employ in 
 my behalf that wonderful genius of yours which succeeds in 
 everything. 
 
 Sea. No, kill me, I tell you. 
 
 Leaii. For heaven's sake, think no more of it, and try and give 
 me the help I ask for ! 
 
 Octave. Scapin, you must do something for him. 
 
 Sea. But how, after an insult of this kind ? 
 
 Lean. I beg of you to forget my passion, and bring your 
 cleverness to assist me. 
 
 Oct. I add my petition to his. 
 
 Sea. But I take that insult to heart. 
 
 Oct. You must give up your resentment. 
 
 Lean. Would you abandon me, Scapin, in the cruel extremity 
 that I am in ? 
 
 Sea. To come upon me, unawares, with such an affront ! 
 
 Lean. I'm in the wrong, I own it. 
 
 Sea. To treat me as a rogue, a knave, a rascal, a scoundrel ! 
 
 Lean. I regret it extremely. 
 
 Sea. And to think of running me through the body ! 
 
 Leaji. I beg your pardon with all my heart, and if it be only a 
 question of going on my knees before you, Scapin, here I am, im- 
 ploring you not to abandon me. 
 
 Oct. Now, Scapin, you must really yield to this. 
 
 Sea. Get up, and don't be so hasty another time. 
 
 L'ean. Will you promise to work for me ? 
 
 Sea. We will think of it. 
 
 Lean. But you know how time presses. 
 
 Sea. Give yourself no trouble. How much do you want ? 
 
I40 SCAP/N'S ROGUERIES, [Act II. 
 
 Lean. Five hundred crowns. 
 
 Sea. And you ? 
 
 Cct. Two hundred pistoles. 
 
 Sea. I will get the money from your fathers. {To Octave.) 
 As for your father's business, that is already arranged, {to Leandre) 
 and as for yours, though miserly to a degree, there will be need 
 for less trouble still ; for you know that as for wit, he has no great 
 amount of it ; and I look upon him as a sort of mortal whom 
 one can at any time make believe what one pleases. You must 
 not be offended, for there's no resemblance between you and him; 
 and you know very well the world thinks he's only your father in 
 name. 
 
 Lean, Gently, Scapin. 
 
 Sea. Right you are ; I know people are very particular about 
 that. What are you laughing at? But I see Octave's father 
 coming. Let us begin with him as he offers himself, {to Oetave) 
 and do you tell your Silvestre to come quickly and play his part. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Argante, Scapin. 
 
 Seapin {aside). There he is, meditating. 
 
 Argante {thinking himself alone). To have so little conduct and 
 consideration ; to run headlong into an engagement like this ! 
 Oh dear ! the wildness of youth. 
 
 Sea. Your servant, sir. 
 
 Arg. Good day, Scapin. 
 
 Sea. You are thinking of your son's affair. 
 
 Arg, I own it makes me very angry. 
 
 Sea. Life, sir, is full of disappointments, and it is good to be 
 always prepared for them ; and 1 heard, a long time ago, a saying 
 of an old man which I have always remembered. 
 
 Arg. What was it ? 
 
 Sea. That however short a time the master of a family may be 
 away from home, he should always turn over in his mind all the 
 vexatious accidents that may meet him on his return ; he should 
 picture to himself his house burnt, his money stolen, his son 
 crippled, his daughter seduced ; and whatever he finds has not 
 happened, he should put it down to good fortune. For my part 
 I have always practised this philosophy in a small way ; and I 
 never return home but I hold myself in readiness for the anger of 
 my masters, for scoldings, insults, kicks, bastinadoes and strappings, 
 and if nothing of this kind happens I thank my good luck for it. 
 
Scene V.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIAT. 141 
 
 Arg, That's all very well ; but this foolish marriage, which 
 interferes with the one we wish to make, is a thing I can't suffer, 
 and I have been consulting lawyers about dissolving it. 
 
 Sea. Indeed, sir, if you will believe me, you should try some 
 other way of settling the matter. You know what lawsuits are in 
 this country, and you are going to plunge yourself into strange 
 difficulties. 
 
 Arg. I see that you're right ; but what other way is there ? 
 
 Sea. I think I have found one. The compassion which I felt 
 for you in your vexation forced me to try and find some means to 
 free you from your trouble, for I can't bear to see excellent fathers 
 grieved by their children. It moves me ; and I always had a 
 strong liking for you. 
 
 Arg. I am very much obliged to you. 
 
 Sea. So I have found the brother of the girl whom he has 
 married. He is one of those bullies by profession, who always 
 have their hands on their swords, who talk of nothing but cutting 
 and slashing, and make no more conscience of killing a man than 
 of swallowing a glass of wine. I got him to talk about this 
 marriage ; I showed him how easy it would be to dissolve it, on 
 account of the violence done, your position as a father, and the 
 support your legal right, your money, and your friends would give 
 you in a court of justice. In short, I so worked the matter on all 
 sides, that he listened to the proposal I made of settling the 
 affair for a certain sum, and he gave his consent to break off the 
 marriage provided you would give him money. 
 
 Arg. And what did he demand ? 
 
 Sea. Oh, at first an outrageous amount. 
 
 Arg. But what ? 
 
 Sea. Extravagant things. 
 
 Arg. Well, but say what. 
 
 Sea. He talked of no less than five or six hundred pistoles. 
 
 Arg. Five or six hundred agues seize him ! Is he laughing at 
 us? 
 
 Sea. That's what I said to him. I utterly rejected all such 
 proposals ; and I gave him to understand that you were no dupe 
 to be asked for five or six hundred pistoles. At last, after a great 
 deal of talk, the result of our conversation came to this. "The 
 time is getting near," he said, " that I must start for the army ; 
 I am about equipping myself, and the need I have for money 
 makes me consent, in spite of myself, to what is proposed. I 
 must have a regimental horse, and I can't have one at all tolerable 
 under sixty pistoles." 
 
14^ SCAPIJSrS ROGUERIES, [Act II. 
 
 Arg. Well, as to the sixty pistoles, I will give them. 
 
 Sea. There must be accoutrements and pistols, that will 
 amount to twenty pistoles more. 
 
 Arg. Twenty pistoles and sixty, that makes eighty. 
 
 Sea. Just so. 
 
 Arg. That's a great deal ; but be it so. I agree to that. 
 
 Sea. *' I must have a horse, too, for my servant, which will cost 
 quite thirty pistoles." 
 
 Arg. What the deuce ! Let him walk. He shall have nothing 
 of the kind. 
 
 Sea. Sir ! 
 
 Asg. No ; he's an impertinent fellow. 
 
 Sea. Would you have his servant walk on foot ? 
 
 Arg. Let him walk as he pleases, and the master too. 
 
 Sea. Really, sir, you must not stand upon such small matters. 
 Pray don't go to law ; give everything to keep out of the hands of 
 justice. 
 
 Arg. Well, be it so. I'll make up my mind to give these 
 thirty pistoles. 
 
 Sea. Further, he says, " I must have a mule to carry " 
 
 Arg. Oh, let him and his mule both go to the devil ! It is too 
 much. We will take the matter into court. 
 
 Sea. Pray, sir 
 
 Arg. No, I'll do nothing. 
 
 Sea. Sir, a small mule. 
 
 Arg. I won't give him so much as an ass. 
 
 Sea. Consider 
 
 Arg. No ; I'd sooner go to law. 
 
 Sea. Oh, sir, what are you talking of; what are you resolving 
 on ? Consider the windings of justice. See how many appeals, 
 and degrees of jurisdiction, how many perplexing proceedings, the 
 many rapacious animals through whose talons you have to pass — ■ 
 Serjeants, attorneys, counsel at law, registrars, substitutes, re- 
 porters, judges and their clerks. There's not one of all the lot 
 who is not capable of spoiling the best cause in the world for a 
 trifle. A serjeant will deliver false writs on which you will lose 
 your case without knowing it. Your attorney will have an 
 understanding with the other side, and sell you for good ready 
 money. Your counsel, also bought, will not be found when 
 he should plead your cause, and he will bring forward 
 arguments that are not to the point. The registrar will issue 
 sentences and arrests against you in your absence. The re- 
 porter's clerk will purloin some of your papers, or the reporter 
 
 '^: 
 
Scene V.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. 143 
 
 himself will not say what he has seen. And when, by taking 
 every precaution, you have parried all this, you will be astonished 
 to find that your judges have been won over against you, either 
 by some pious people or by the women they love. Ah, sir, keep 
 out of such a hell upon earth ! It is like being damned in this 
 world to go to law, and the mere thought of it would send me of! 
 to India. 
 
 Arg. How much would the mule come to ? 
 
 Sea. Well, sir, for the mule, for his horse and that of his 
 man, for accoutrements and pistols, and to discharge some trifling 
 debt he owes his landlady, he asks, in all, two hundred pistoles. 
 
 Arg. Two hundred pistoles ? 
 
 Sea. Yes. 
 
 Arg. {walktfig about i?i a rage). Come, come ; I'll have the 
 case tried. 
 
 Sea. Reflect 
 
 Arg, I'll go to law. 
 
 Sm. Don't go and throw yourself ■ 
 
 Arg, I tell you, I'll have it tried. 
 
 Sea. But to go to law you must have money ; money for the 
 summons, money for the registration, money for the letter of 
 attorney, money for putting in an appearance, for counsel, wit- 
 nesses, and solicitor's time. Then you must pay for consultations 
 and pleadings of counsel, for the right of getting your papers 
 back, for an engrossed copy of the documents. You must have 
 money for the reports of the substitutes, for judges' fees at the 
 end, for the enrolment by the registrar, the form of the decree, 
 sentences, arrests, controls, signatures, and duplicate copies. To 
 say nothing of all the presents you must make. Give this man 
 the money, and get rid of the affair. 
 
 Arg. What, two hundred pistoles ? 
 
 Sea. Yes ; you will gain by it. I have made a small calcu- 
 lation myself of all the law charges, and I find that by giving this 
 fellow two hundred pistoles, you will save about one hundred and 
 fifty, without reckoning the anxiety, the weary journeys and 
 vexations that you will escape. Were there nothing else but 
 being exposed to the things those impudent lawyers will lay 
 before all the world, I would rather give three hundred pistoles 
 than go to law. 
 
 Arg. I despise all that, and defy the lawyers to say anything 
 of me. 
 
 Sea. You can do as yoii please, but if I were you I should avoid 
 a lawsuit. 
 
144 SCAPIN'S ROGUERIES. [Act It. 
 
 Arg. 1 won't give two hundred pistoles. 
 Sea. Here comes the man we are talking of. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Argante, Scapin, Silvestre {disguised as a bully). 
 
 Silvestre. Scapin, I beg you to show me this Argante, who is 
 Octave's father. 
 
 Sea. What for, sir ? 
 
 Sil. I have just heard that he intends to commence an action 
 against me, and get my sister's marriage dissolved. 
 
 Sea. I don't know whether that is his intention, but he won't 
 consent to the two hundred pistoles you want, as he says it is too 
 much. 
 
 Sil. Death and destruction ! Head and brains ! If I find 
 him I'll cut him to pieces, even if I were broken on the wheel 
 for it. 
 {Argante, in order not to be seen, stands treinbling behind SeaJ>in.) 
 
 Sea. Sir, Octave's father has some courage, and probably won't 
 fear you. 
 
 Sil. What ! He ! He ! Blood and thunder ! If he were 
 here I'd run my sword through his body in a moment. {Seeing 
 Argajtte.) Who's that man ? 
 
 Sea. It's not he, sir ; it's not he. 
 
 Sil. Isn't he one of his friends ? 
 
 Sea. No, sir ; on the contrary, he is his mortal enemy. 
 
 Sil. His mortal enemy? 
 
 Sea. Yes. 
 
 Sil. Ah ! I'm delighted. {To Argante.) Are you an enemy, 
 sir, to that scoundrel Argante ? Eh ? 
 
 Sea. Yes, yes ; I'll answer for it. 
 
 Sil. {seizi?tg Argante's hand roughly). Shake hands, my boy, 
 shake hands. I give you my word, and swear to you by my 
 honour, by the sword I wear, by all the oaths I can take, that 
 before the day's over I'll rid you of that arrant scoundrel Argante. 
 You may depend on me. 
 
 Sea. Violence is not allowed, sir, in this country. 
 
 Sil. I don't care. I've nothing to lose. 
 
 Sea. He certainly will be upon his guard; and he hag re- 
 lations, friends, and servants, who will protect him against your 
 anger. 
 
 Sil. That's exactly what I want ; that's what I want 1 {draimig 
 his sword). Death and fury ! Why haven't I got him here now 
 
Scene VI.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. " 145 
 
 with all his protectors? Why does he not come forward with 
 thirty persons ? Why don't they fall on me, sword in hand ? 
 {stafiding on his guard). What ! villains, have you the insolence 
 to attack me ? Come on ; kill, slay, no quarter {thrusting on 
 every side, as if he had several persons to attack). Lay on ! Firm ; 
 drive home ! A sure foot ; a quick eye. Ah ! rascals, ah ! raga- 
 muffins, if that's your game, I'll give you a bellyful of it. Now 
 then, scoundrels, stand to it. Come on ! Have at you here ; 
 have at you there ! {turning against Argante and Scapin). What ! 
 do you flinch ? Stand your ground, stand your ground ! 
 
 Sea. Nay, nay, sir ; we're none of them. 
 
 Sil. This will teach you to dare to play with me. \Exit. 
 
 Sea. Well, you see how many people are killed for two hundred 
 pistoles. Now come away ; I wish you good luck. 
 
 Arg. {trembling all over). Scapin. 
 
 Sea. What's your will ? 
 
 Arg. I've made up my mind to give the two hundred pistoles. 
 
 Sea. I'm very glad of it, for your sake. 
 
 Arg. Let's go and find him. I have them about me. 
 
 Sea. You need only give them to me. It would not suit your 
 honour that you should be seen in the business, after having 
 passed here for some one else ; and besides, I should be afraid 
 lest, on your discovering yourself, he should take it into his head 
 to demand more. 
 
 Arg. Yes, but I should have been very glad to have seen how 
 my money went. 
 
 Sea. What, do you mistrust me ? 
 
 Arg. No, no ; but 
 
 Sea. Well, sir, either I am a rogue, or I am an honest man ; I 
 must be one of the two. Should I deceive you, and have I any 
 other interest in all this but yours and my master's, with whom 
 you wish to be allied? If you suspect me, I sha'n't interfere 
 in anything ; and from this time forward you must find some one 
 €lse who will settle your affairs. 
 
 Arg. Take it, then. 
 
 Sea. No, sir. Don't trust your money with me. I shall be 
 very glad if you will employ some one else. 
 
 Arg. Nonsense, Take it. 
 
 Sea. No, I tell you ; don't trust me. Who knows whether I 
 mayn't do you out of your money ? 
 
 Arg. Take it, I say, and don't make any more words about it. 
 But take care to have good security from him. 
 
 Sea. Let me alone. He has not a fogl to deal with. 
 
146 ~ SCAPIiTS R0GUE2UES. [Act II. 
 
 Arg, I will go and wait for you at home. 
 
 Sea. I shall not fail to be there. (Alone.) One caught. Now 
 I've only to look for the other. There he is. It seems as if 
 heaven had brought them both, one after the other, into my net. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Geronte, Scapin. 
 
 Scapin {seeming not to see Geronte). Oh, heavens ! oh, un- 
 looked-for misfortune ! Oh, unhappy father ! Poor Geronte, what 
 will you do ? 
 
 Geronte {aside). What is he saying about me, with that pitiful 
 face? 
 
 Sea. Can no one tell me where Seigneur Geronte is ? 
 
 Ger, What's the matter, Scapin ? 
 
 Sea. {running about the stage, fiot appearing to see or hear 
 Geronte). Oh, that I could meet him to tell him of this sad 
 misfortune ! 
 
 Ger. {running after Seapin). What is it then ? 
 
 Sea. In vain do I run about everywhere to find him. 
 
 Ger. Here I am. 
 
 Sea, He must be hid in some corner, no one can guess where. 
 
 Ger. {stopping Seapin). Hullo ! are you blind that you don't 
 see me? 
 
 Sea. Oh ! sir, there's no possibility of meeting with you. 
 
 Ger. Why I've been here for an hour just under your nose, 
 Now what's the matter ? 
 
 Sea. Sir 
 
 Ger. Well, what ? 
 
 Sea. Sir, your son- 
 
 Ger. Well, my son 
 
 Sea, Has fallen into the strangest misfortune in the world. 
 
 Ger. What is it ? 
 
 Sea. I found him a little while ago very melancholy about 
 something you had been saying to him, in which you very in- 
 opportunely mixed me up; and, trying to divert him from this 
 melancholy, we went for a turn on the quay. There, among many 
 other things, a Turkish galley, very well equipped, arrested our 
 attention. A young Turk of very good appearance offered us his 
 hand, and invited us on board. We accepted his invitation ; he 
 showed us a thousand civilities, gave us a cold collation, where we 
 ate the most excellent fruit that ever was seen, and drank wine 
 which we found superb. 
 
Scene VII.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. 147 
 
 Ger. Well, what is there so grievous in all that ? 
 
 Sea. Wait a moment, sir. There we were. While we were eat- 
 ing he ordered the galley to put out to sea ; and when he had got 
 some distance from the harbour, he put me into the skiff and sent 
 me to tell you that if you don't send him at once, by me, five 
 hundred crowns, he will carry your son off to Algiers. 
 
 Ger. What the deuce, five hundred crowns ! 
 
 Sea. Yes, sir ; and, more than that, he has only given me two 
 hours to get it in. 
 
 Ger. Oh, that villain of a Turk, to do me to death in this way ! 
 
 Sea. It is for you, sir, to consider at once how you can save 
 from slavery a son whom you so dearly love. 
 
 Ger. But what the deuce was he going to do on board that 
 galley ? 
 
 Sea. He never dreamt of what has happened. 
 
 Ger. Go, Scapin, be off, quick, and tell the Turk that I'll have 
 him arrested. 
 
 Sea. Arrested in the open sea ! Do you want to joke with 
 people ? 
 
 Ger. But what the deuce had he to do on board that galley ? 
 
 Sea. Sometimes an evil destiny leads people on. 
 
 Ger. Now, Scapin, you must, you really must act as a faithful 
 servant. 
 
 Sea. What, sir? 
 
 Ger. Go and bid this Turk send me back my son, and put 
 yourself in his place till I have raised the sum he demands. 
 
 Sea. What, sir, do you consider what you're saying ? Do you 
 suppose this Turk has so little sense as to receive such a poor 
 wretch as I am in place of your son ? 
 
 Ger. But what the deuce did he want on board that galley ? 
 
 Sea. He never dreamt of this misfortune. Consider, sir, he 
 gave me only two hours. 
 
 Ger. You say that he asks • 
 
 Sea. Five hundred crowns. 
 
 Qer. Five hundred crowns ! Has he no conscience ? 
 
 Sea. Yes, indeed, sir, the conscience of a Turk ! 
 
 Ger. Does he know how much five hundred crowns are ? 
 
 ^S"^^. Yes, sir, he knows they are fifteen hundred livres. 
 
 Ger. Does the villain think that fifteen hundred livres are to 
 be picked up anywhere ? 
 
 Sea. They are people who have no idea of reason. 
 
 Ger. But what the deuce was he going to do on board that 
 galley ? 
 
148 SCAPIN'S ROGUERIES. [Act II. 
 
 Sea. That's true, but what then? One could not foresee things. 
 For goodness sake, sir, make haste ! 
 
 Gcr. Good. Here's the key of my closet. 
 
 Sea. Well. 
 
 Ger. You'll open it. 
 
 Sea. All right. 
 
 Ger. You'll find a large key on the left hand, which is that of 
 my lumber-room. 
 
 Sea. Yes. 
 
 Gh. Then go and take all the clothes that are in that great 
 hamper, and sell them to the old clothes' dealer to redeem my 
 son. 
 
 Sea. {givtJig him haek the key). Why, sir, you must be dreaming. 
 I should not get a hundred livres for all you speak of; and besides, 
 you know how little time is allowed me. 
 
 Ger. But what the deuce was he going to do on board that 
 galley ? 
 
 Sea. What waste of talking ! Never mind the galley, but con- 
 sider how we are pressed for time, and that you run the risk of 
 losing your son. Alas ! my poor master, perhaps I may never set 
 eyes on you while I hve, and the moment I am speaking they may 
 be carrying you oft' as a slave to Algiers. But heaven is my 
 witness, I have done all I could for you, and if you are not 
 ransomed there is nothing to be blamed but the too slight affec- 
 tion of your father. 
 
 Ger. Stay, Scapin, I'll go and fetch this sum. 
 
 Sea. Then pray make haste, sir ; I'm trembling lest the clock 
 should strike. 
 
 Ger. Didn't you sry four hundred crowns? 
 
 Sea. No, five hundred. 
 
 Ger. Five hundred crowns ! 
 
 Sea. Yes. 
 
 Ger. What the deuce had he to do on that galley? 
 
 Sea. You're right, but make haste. 
 
 Ger. Had he no other place to go to ? 
 
 Sea. That is true, but act quickly. 
 
 Ger. Oh, that cursed galley ! 
 
 Sea. {aside). This galley sticks in his gizzard. 
 
 Ger. Stay, Scapin, I did not remember I had just now received 
 that sum in gold, and I didn't think that it would be so soon 
 taken from me. {Taking his purse frojii his poeket and giving it tq 
 Seapin.) Here, go your way and redeem my son. 
 
 Sea. {holding out kis hand). Yes, sir. 
 
Scene VIII.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. ,149 
 
 Ger. {Jiolditig the purse fast while he seems to he giving it to 
 Scapin). But tell this Turk he's a villain. 
 
 Sea, {holding out his hand again). Yes. 
 
 G'er. A scoundrel. 
 
 Sea. {keeping his hand held out). Yes. 
 
 Ger. A man of no faith. A robber. 
 
 Sea. I'll see to that. 
 
 Ger. That he is extorting five hundred crowns from me against 
 all right and reason. 
 
 Sea. Yes. 
 
 Ger. That I don't give them to him of my free will either for 
 life or death. 
 
 Sea. Very well. 
 
 Ger. And that if ever I catch him, I'll have my revenge on 
 him. 
 
 Sea. Yes. 
 
 Ger. {putting his purse hack itito his pocket and going off). Go — 
 go quick, and fetch back my son. 
 
 Sea. {running after Geronte). Hulloa, sir ! 
 
 Gtr. What is it ? 
 
 Sea. Where is the money ? 
 
 Ger. Didn't I give it you ? 
 
 Sea. No, indeed ; you put it into your pocket again. 
 
 Ger. Alas ! grief disturbs my senses. 
 
 Sea. So I see. 
 
 Ger. What the deuce did he want in that galley ? Oh, cursed 
 galley ! The devil take this traitor of a Turk I 
 
 Sea. {alone). He can't digest the loss of these five hundred 
 crowns I've dragged out of him. But we're not quits yet ; I'll 
 make him pay in another sort of coin for his slander of me to 
 his son. 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 Octave, L^andre, Scapin. 
 
 Octave. Well, Scapin, have you succeeded in your enterprise 
 for me ? 
 
 Lea7idre. Have you done anything to get my love affair out 
 of the trouble it is in ? 
 
 Scapin {to Octave), There are the two hundred pistoles I got 
 out of your father. 
 
 Oct. Ah, what joy you give me ! 
 
 Sea. {to Leandre). As for you, I could do nothing. 
 
156 SCAPIN'S ROGUERIES. [Act III. 
 
 L^an {preparing to go). Then I must go and die. I have 
 nothing to hve for, if Zerbinette is taken from me. 
 
 Sea. Stop ! stop ! Gently ! What an awful hurry you are in ! 
 
 Lean. {retur?iing). What do you want me to do ? 
 
 Sea. I have what you want here. 
 
 Lkan. Ah ! you restore me to life. 
 
 Sea. But on condition that you allow me a little revenge on 
 your father for the trick he has played me. 
 
 Lean. Anything you please. 
 
 Sea. You promise me before a witness ? 
 
 Lean. Yes. 
 
 Sea. Here, then, are five hundred crowns. 
 
 Lean. Let us go at once and purchase the dear creature I 
 adore. 
 
 ACT III. Scene I. 
 Zerbinette, Hyacinthe, Scapin, Silvestre. 
 
 Silvestre {to Hyaei7tthe and Zerbinette). Yes, your lovers have 
 agreed among themselves that you should be together, and we 
 have carried out the order they gave us. 
 
 LLyaeinthe {to Zerbinette). Such an order is altogether agree- 
 able to me. I receive with joy such a companion, and it shall 
 not be my fault if the friendship which exists between our lovers 
 does not spread to us two. 
 
 Zerbinette. I accept the proposal, and am not one to draw 
 back when I am attacked by friendship. 
 
 Seapin. And how when you are attacked by love ? 
 
 Zer. As to love, that's another matter— one runs rather more 
 risk there ; and I am not so bold in that. 
 
 Sea. At present I think you are so against my master; but 
 what he has just done for you ought to give you courage to 
 answer his love in a proper manner. 
 
 Zer, I trust him as yet only on his good behaviour ; and what 
 he has now done is not enfough to convince me entirely. I am of 
 a lively disposition, and am always laughing, but for all my laugh- 
 ing I can be serious on certain subjects ; and your master makes 
 a mistake if he thinks that his having bought me is sufficient to 
 make me absolutely his own. It will cost him something else 
 besides money ; and to respond to his love in the way he wishes 
 he must plight me his troth, accompanied by certain ceremonies 
 deemed necessary on such occasions. 
 
 Sea. That's what he intends to do. He has no thought 
 
Scene I.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. 151 
 
 towards you but in good faith and honour ; had it been otherwise, 
 I would never have meddled in the matter. 
 
 Zer, That is what I desire to believe, since you tell me so ; 
 but on the father's side I see some hindrances. 
 
 Sea. We will find means to arrange that. 
 
 Hy. {to Zerbinette). The resemblance of our fortunes ought 
 also to contribute to the growth of our friendship ; we have both 
 the same fears, and are exposed to the same misfortunes. 
 
 Zer. You have at least the advantage of knowing who gave you 
 birth ; and the help of your relations, whom you can make known, 
 is able to settle everything, ensure your happiness, and gain 
 approval for a marriage already concluded. But for ray part I 
 meet with no relief from what I may possibly be, and am actually 
 found in a condition that cannot mollify the temper of a father 
 who thinks of nothing but money. 
 
 Hy. But you have this advantage at least— that they don't 
 tempt your lover with another match. 
 
 Zer. A change of feeling in a lover is not the worst thing to be 
 dreaded. One may naturally enough believe one's merit enough 
 to maintain one's conquest ; but what I look upon as most formid- 
 able in these matters is the paternal power, with which merit 
 counts for nothing. 
 
 Hy. Alas ! Why must our proper inclinations be crossed ? 
 How delightful to love, when there is no obstacle to those plea- 
 sant chains which join two hearts together ! 
 
 Sea. You're mistaken ; tranquillity in love is an unpleasant 
 calm. A happiness entirely uniform grows tedious to us. There 
 must be " ups " and " downs " in life, and the difficulties which 
 mingle with our affairs revive our ardour and increase our 
 pleasure. 
 
 Zer. Pray, Scapin, give us a short account, which they say is 
 so amusing, of the scheme you invented for getting money out of 
 the old miser. You know it is not trouble thrown away to tell me 
 the tale, and I pay well for it by the pleasure it gives me. 
 
 Sea. Here is Silvestre, who will do that as well as I can. I 
 have a certain small revenge in my head which I am going to enjoy. 
 
 Sil. But why will you mix yourself up in discreditable affairs 
 out of pure wantonness ? 
 
 Sea. I like to take in hand hazardous enterprises. 
 
 Sil. I've told you already that if you'd be guided by me you'd 
 give up the design you have in hand. 
 
 Sea. Yes, but I'll be guided by myself. 
 
 Sil. What the deuce are you going to amuse yourself about ? 
 
152 SCAPJN'S ROGUERIES. [Act III. 
 
 Sea. What the deuce are you troubhng yourself about ? 
 
 Sil. Why this, that I see you're going to run the risk of getting 
 a good thrashing without any necessity. 
 
 Sea. Well, that's at the expense of my back, not yours. 
 
 Sil. It's true you're master of your own shoulders, and can 
 dispose of them as you like. 
 
 Sea. Dangers of this sort never stop me, and I hate your 
 cowardly spirits that dare not attempt anything because they see 
 the consequences too plainly. 
 
 Zer. [to Scapin). We shall want your help. 
 
 Sea. Go ; I shall be with you again presently. It shall never 
 be said of me that they led me to betray myself, and discover 
 secrets which it had been well for no one to have known, without 
 paying dearly for it. 
 
 Scene II. 
 G^RONTE, Scapin. 
 
 Ghonte. Well, Scapin, how is my son's affair going on? 
 
 Seapiii. Your son is in a place of safety, sir ; but you yourself 
 at this very time are running the greatest danger, and I would give 
 a good deal that you were safe at home. 
 
 Gtr. Why, how so ? 
 
 Sea. At this very moment they are looking for you everywhere 
 to murder you. 
 
 Ger. Me ? 
 
 Sea. Yes. 
 
 Gh: But who? 
 
 Sea. The brother of the girl Octave has married. He thinks 
 your plan of putting your daughter into the place of his sister is 
 the strongest reason for dissolving the marriage, and with this idea 
 he has resolutely determined to vent his despair on you, and take 
 away your life to revenge his honour. All his friends, who, like 
 himself, are gentlemen of the sword, are looking for you every- 
 where, and asking for news of you. I saw myself, here and 
 there, some soldiers of his company questioning every one they 
 met, and they have placed pickets in all the approaches to your 
 house ; so that you can't go home, you can't take a step right or 
 left, without falling into their hands. 
 
 Ger. My dear Scapin, what shall I do ? 
 
 Sea. I don't know, sir ; it is a very strange affair. I tremble 
 
 for you from head to foot, and Stay {pretends to go to the end 
 
 of the stage to see whether any one is there). 
 
Scene II.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. 153 
 
 G^r. \tremhling). Eh ? 
 
 Sea, No, no, no ; it's nothing. 
 
 G'er. Can't you find any way to get me out of my trouble ? 
 
 Sea. I have an idea of something ; but I run the risk of being 
 knocked on the head myself. 
 
 Ger. Ah, Scapin, show yourself a faithful servant. Don't 
 abandon me, I beg of you. 
 
 Sea. I am willing to help you. I have such an affection for 
 you, that I can't leave you without help. 
 
 Ger. You shall be rewarded for it, I assure you. I promise 
 you this coat, when I have worn it out a little. 
 
 Sea. Stop ! Here's something I have thought of— just the 
 thing to save you. You must get into this sack, and 
 
 Ger. {fafieying he sees some one). Ah ! 
 
 Sea. No, no, no ; it's nobody. I say you must get in here, 
 and take care not to stir in the least. I will take you on my back 
 like a bundle of something, and so I will carry you right through 
 your enemies quite to your own house ; when we are once there 
 we can barricade ourselves, and send for help against their 
 violence. 
 
 Ger. The plan is a good one. 
 
 Sea. The best in the world. You shall see. {Aside.) You 
 shall pay for your slander. 
 
 Ger. Eh? 
 
 Sea, I say, your enemies will be finely tricked. Get you in 
 quite to the bottom, and take care above all things not to show 
 yourself and not to stir, whatever may happen. 
 
 Ger. Let me alone, I will be still. 
 
 Sea. Hide yourself ! Here's a bully in search of you. {In a 
 feigjted voiee.) What^ shall I not have the pleasure to kill this 
 Gero7tte, and will no one in charity tell me where he is 2 {To 
 Geronte, in his usual voiee.) Pray don't stir! Begar, Til find 
 him, if he hide in the middle of the earth/ {To Gerojtte, in his 
 natural tone.) Don't show yourself. ^Ere, you man with the 
 sack! Sir, I'll give you a louis if you tell me where Geronte is. 
 You seek Seigneur Geronte? Yes, I tvant him. And what for? 
 What for ? Yes. Begar, Til thrash him to death with my 
 cudgel / Oh, sir, cudgelling is not for such gentlemen as he ; he 
 is not a man to be treated in that manner. What / that jiinjiy 
 Geronte, that rascal, that scoundrel / Seigneur Geronte, sir, is 
 neither ninny, nor rascal, nor scoundrel ; and you must, if you 
 please, speak of him after another fashion. How / you treat me 
 with that i?isolence ? I defend, as I ou^ht to do, a man of honour 
 
154 SCAPIN'S ROGUERIES. [Act III. 
 
 who is abused. What ! you're a friend of Geronte ? Yes, sir, I 
 am. Ah 1 begad, you are one of his friends ? I am glad of it. 
 {Striki7ig the sack several times.) There, I give that for him. 
 {Scapin^ crying out as if he had received the blows of the cudgel) 
 Oh ! oh ! oh ! Oh, sir ! gently ! Oh ! oh ! oh ! Begone / carry 
 that to him from me. Deuce take the Gascon ! Oh ! 
 
 Ger. {thrusting his head out of the sack). Oh ! Scapin, I can 
 endure it no longer ! 
 
 Sea. Oh ! sir, I'm beat to a mummy; my shoulders pain me 
 horribly. 
 
 Ger. How so ? 'Twas on my shoulders the blows were laid. 
 
 Sea. No, indeed, sir, they were laid on my back. 
 
 Ger. What do you mean ? I felt the strokes plainly enough, 
 and I feel them still. 
 
 Sea. No, 'twas only the end of the stick, I tell you, that 
 reached your shoulders. 
 
 Ger. You should have retired, then, a little farther off, so as 
 to spare me 
 
 Sea. {making Geronte go into the sack agai/i). Take care, 
 here's another of them, who looks like a foreigner. Begar, I 
 run about like a March hare, and can't find this devilish Geronte 
 all the day. Keep yourself hid. You, sir, tell me, if you please, 
 if you haven't seen this Geronte I am seeking 1 No, sir, I don't 
 know where Geronte is. Tell me, I beg. I have no great matter 
 with him. I only want to give him a dozen blows on the back ivith 
 a cudgel, and three or four thrusts with the sivord. I assure you, 
 sir, I don't know where he is. I fancy I see sometliing moving in 
 the sack. Pardon me, sir. You have some funny thing there. 
 Oh, no, sir, nothing. / have a great desire to pass my sword 
 through that sack. You show me what that is. Gently, sir. 
 Hoiv, gently 1 You have nothing to do with what I carry. / 
 will see; I will. You sha'n't see. Ah! what is this nonsense 1 
 They are clothes that belong to me. Shotv me them. No, I won't. 
 You won't ? No. Then I'U cudgel you on your shoulders. I don't 
 care. Ah, you are a funny fellow ! {beating the sack a?id crying 
 out as if he had received the bloivs). Oh, oh, oh, sir ! oh oh, oh ! 
 Farewell I this is a little lesson to teach you fwt to speak insolently. 
 Plague take the jabbering rascal. Oh ! 
 
 Ger. {putting his head out of the sack). Oh, I am mauled to 
 death ! 
 
 Sea. Oh, I am killed ! 
 
 Ger. Why the deuce must they beat me so on the back ? 
 
 Sea. {thrusting his head info the sack again). Take care, here 
 
Scene III.] " LES FO URBERIES DE SCAPIN. 1 5 5 
 
 are half a dozen soldiers, all together. {Counterfeitivg the voices 
 of several persons^ Cojue, let us tiy to find out this Gero?ite. 
 Let us search everywhere. Let us not spare our steps. Let us run 
 over the whole town. Forget no place. Look. Search in every 
 quarter. Where shall we go ? Let us turn this way. No, here. 
 To the left. To the right. No, no. Yes. Hide yourself well. 
 Soho, comrades, here's his valet. Come, you rascal, tell us where 
 your master is. Nay, gentlemen, don't ill-treat me. Well, tell us 
 7vhere he is. Speak I Make haste I Immediately. ( Geronte puis 
 his head quickly out of the sack, and discorers Scapins tricky 
 If you don't find your master at once, you shall have a rain of 
 blows on you. I choose to suffer everything rather than show you 
 where my master is. The7i we'll beat out your brains. Do as you 
 please. Do you want a thrashing ? You'd like a taste of it ? 
 There. Oh ! {Just as he is going to strike, Geronte gets out 
 of the sack, and Scapin runs off.) 
 
 Ger. {alone). Oh, you scoundrel, you traitor, you villain ! To 
 murder me after this fashion ! 
 
 Scene III. 
 Zerbinette, Geronte. 
 
 Zerbinette {laughing, not seeing Geronte). Aba, aha ! I must take 
 a little air. 
 
 Gh'onte {aside, not seeing Zerbinette). I swear you shall pay for 
 this. 
 
 Zer. {not seeiftg Gironte). Ha, ha, ha, ha ! A droll story, but 
 what a dupe of an old fellow ! 
 
 Ge?'. There's no joke in the matter, and you've no business to 
 laugh at it. 
 
 Zer. How ? What do you mean, sir ? 
 
 Ger. I mean that you ought not to make a joke of me. 
 
 Zer. Of you ? 
 
 Ger. Yes. 
 
 Zer. Why, who wants to make a joke of you ? 
 
 Ger. Then why do you come and laugh at me to my face ? 
 
 Zer. This has nothing to do with you. I was laughing to 
 myself at a story that has just been told me, one of the most 
 amusing I ever heard. I do not know whether it is because I am 
 interested in the thing, but I never knew anything so droll as a 
 trick that has lately been played by a son on his father to cheat 
 him of his money. 
 
 Ger. By a son upon his father, to cheat him of his money ? 
 
iS5 SCAPIN'S ROGUERlEfS. [Act III. 
 
 Zer. Yes. Should you press me ever so little you'll find me 
 ready enough to tell you of the affair, for I've always a natural 
 longing to communicate stories I know. 
 
 Ger, Pray tell me this one then. 
 
 Zer. Willingly. I shall run no great risk in telling it to you, 
 for it is an adventure that cannot long be kept secret. It was 
 fated that I should fall into the hands of a band of those people 
 called gipsies, who roam from country to country, and employ 
 themselves in telling fortunes, and sometimes in many other things. 
 Arriving in this town, a young man saw me and fell in love with 
 me. From that moment he was always running after me, and 
 was presently just like other young fellows who think they have 
 but to speak, and at the least word the business is done. 13ut he 
 met with a pride which made him correct his first thoughts. He 
 discovered his passion to the people in whose hands I was, and 
 found them willing to give me up to him for a certain sum. But 
 the worst of the matter was that my lover was in the state of most 
 sons of good families — that is to say, he was short of money. He 
 has a father, who, though he is rich, is an arrant miser, a most 
 sordid animal. Stay, I can't remember his name. No. Help 
 me a httle. Can't you name some one who is noted for being 
 avaricious to the last degree ? 
 
 Ger, No. 
 
 Zer. There is a ";wz " in his name — " ronieP " Or'^ — " Oronte.^^ 
 No, " 6^<?" — Geronte; yes, " Geronte^^ ; the same. This is ray mean 
 fellow; I've found him out; he's the stingy wretch I've been 
 speaking of ! But now, to come to our story. Our people had 
 settled to leave the town to-day, and my lover was going to lose 
 me for want of nioney, if he had not been helped out of his 
 scrape by the cleverness of a servant who got it out of his father. 
 As to the name of the servant, I know that perfectly. His name 
 is Scapin. He has not his equal, and deserves all the praise one 
 can give him. 
 
 Ger. {aside). Oh, you rascal ! 
 
 Zer. This, then, is the stratagem he made use of to catch his 
 dupe. Ha, ha ha ! I can't think of it without laughing heartily. 
 Ha, ha, ha ! He goes and finds this coveto-us cur — ha, ha, ha I-— 
 and tells him that as he was walking on the quay with his son— 
 ha, ha ! — they saw a Turkish galley, and were invited to go on 
 board. That a young Turk had given them a collation there — ha, 
 ha ! — and that while they were eating, the galley put to sea ; and 
 that the Turk had sent him ashore alone in a skiff, with orders to 
 tell his master's father that he would carry his son to Algiers if he 
 
Scene IV.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. 157 
 
 did not at once send him five hundred crowns. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 Behold my miser, my sordid miser, in a dreadful state of mind; for 
 the affection that he had for his son made a strange fight with his 
 avarice. The five hundred crowns they demanded from him were 
 like five hundred stabs with a dagger. Ha, ha, ha ! He could 
 not make up his mind to tear this sum from his heart ; and the 
 pain he has suffered makes him find a hundred ridiculous ways of 
 getting his son again. Ha, ha, ha ! He wanted to send a warrant 
 after the Turkish galley when it was out at sea. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 He begs his valet to go and put himself in the place of his son, 
 till such time as he has raised the money which he has no mind 
 to give. Ha, ha, ha ! To make up the five hundred crowns he 
 will sacrifice five or six old suits of clothes not worth thirty. Ha, 
 ha, ha ! At every turn the valet shows him the absurdity of his 
 proposals, but he keeps up a doleful chorus of, '"'' But what the 
 deuce did he wa7it in the galley ? Oh, cursed galley I Traitor of a 
 Turk ! " In short, after many windings and turnings, after having 
 
 sighed and groaned for a long time But it seems my tale does 
 
 not amuse you. What do you say to it ? 
 
 Ger. I say the young man is a rascal, an insolent wretch, who 
 shall be punished by his father for the trick he has played him ; 
 that the gipsy is an ill-advised, impertinent hussy, to abuse a man 
 of honour, who will teach her to come and mislead gentlemen's 
 sons ; and that the valet is a wretch who shall be sent to the 
 gallows by Geronte before to-morrow morning. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Zerbinette, Silvestre. 
 
 Silvestre. Where in the world are you going to? Do you 
 know that you have just been talking to your lover's father ? 
 
 Zerbi?tette. I begin to think so : and I had inconsiderately 
 begun to tell him his own story. 
 
 Sil. What, his own story ? 
 
 Zer. Yes, I was quite full of it, and was burning to tell it 
 again. But what does it matter ? So much the worse for him. 
 I don't see that it can make much difference to us either way. 
 
 Sil. You were very ready to chatter. People who can't be 
 silent about their own affairs have too much tongue. 
 
 Zer. Wouldn't he have been told by some one else ? 
 
158 SCAPIN'S ROGUERIES. [Act III. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Argante, Zerbinette, Silvestre. 
 
 Arganie. Hullo, Silvestre ! 
 
 Silvestre {to Zerbinette). Go indoors again. My master is 
 calling me. 
 
 Arg, So, you have agreed together, you rascal, you have agreed 
 together — Scapin, you, and my son — to cheat me, and you think 
 I shall put up with it ? 
 
 Sil. Indeed, sir, if Scapin cheats you, I wash my hands of it ; 
 and I assure you I have nothing to do with it in any way. 
 
 Arg. We shall see to this, you rascal, we shall see to this ! 
 I sha'n't allow myself to be duped. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Geronte, Argante, Silvestre. 
 
 Geronte. Ah, Seigneur Argante, you see me overwhelmed with 
 misfortune. 
 
 Argante. You see me, too, under a terrible oppression. 
 
 Ger. That villain of a Scapin, by a piece of roguery, has got 
 five hundred crowns out of me. 
 
 Arg. That same villain of a Scapin, by a piece of roguery, also 
 has got two hundred pistoles out of me. 
 
 Ger. He did not content himself with cheating me of the five 
 hundred crowns ; he has treated mc in a manner I am ashamed 
 to mention. But he shall pay for it. 
 
 Arg. I'll have satisfaction of him for the trick he has played 
 me. 
 
 Ger. I intend to take exemplary vengeance on him. 
 
 Sil. {aside). I pray heaven I may have no part in all this ! 
 
 Ger. But this is not all, Seigneur Argante, one misfortune is 
 always the forerunner of another. I was happy to-day in the 
 thought of having my daughter, in whom I placed all my 
 happiness; and I have just been informed that she left Tarentum 
 a long time ago, and they believe there she perished in the 
 vessel on which she embarked. 
 
 Arg. But, pray, why did you keep her at Tarentum, and not 
 give yourself the pleasure of having her with you ? 
 
 Ger. I had my reasons for that. Family interests obliged me 
 to keep this second marriage a great secret. — But whom do I 
 see? 
 
Scene VIII.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. 159 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 Argante, Geronte, Nerine, Silvestre. 
 
 Geronte. What, are you there, Nerine ? 
 
 Nerine {falling on her knees). Oh ! Seigneur Pandolph, that- 
 
 Ger. Call me Geronte, and use the other name no more. 
 The reasons no longer exist which obliged me to take it among 
 you at Tarentum. 
 
 Ner. Alas, what troubles and anxieties have been caused by 
 this change of name, during the toilsome endeavour to find you here. 
 
 Ger. Where is my daughter and her mother ? 
 
 Ner. Your daughter, sir, is not far off. But before I let you 
 see her, I must ask your pardon for having allowed her to marry, 
 seeing that we were in such a helpless position for want of 
 meeting with you. 
 
 Ger. What ? My daughter married ? 
 
 Ner. Yes, sir. 
 
 Ger, And to whom ? 
 
 Ner. To a young gentleman named Octave, son of one 
 Seigneur Argante. 
 
 Ger. Oh, heavens ! 
 
 Argante. What a strange meeting. 
 
 Ger. Show us— show us quickly where she is ! 
 
 Ner. You need only go into that house. 
 
 Ger. Go first. Follow me, follow me. Seigneur Argante. 
 
 Silvestre {alone). What a surprising affair is this ! 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 ScAPiN, Silvestre. 
 
 Scapin. Well, Silvestre, what are our people doing ? 
 
 Silvestre. I have two pieces of news to give you. First, the 
 affair of Octave is settled. Our Hyacinthe is discovered to be 
 the daughter of Seigneur Geronte ; and chance has carried out 
 what the fathers' prudence had arranged. Secondly, I have to tell 
 you that the two old gentlemen threaten you in the most fearful 
 way, and specially Geronte. 
 
 Sea. Oh, that's nothing. Threatenings have never done me 
 any harm ; they are clouds that pass very high above our heads. 
 
 Sil. Take care of yourself. The sons will probably be 
 reconciled to their fathers, and you'll be left in the lurch. 
 
 Sea. Let me alone. I'll find a way to appease their anger, 
 and 
 
 Sil. Away ! for they're coming out. 
 
i6o SCAPIN'S ROGUERIES. [Act III. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 G^RONTE, Argante, Hyacinthe, Zerbinette, Nerine, 
 
 SiLVESTRE. 
 
 Geronte. Come, daughter, come home with me. My happi- 
 ness would have been complete if only I could have seen your 
 mother with you. 
 
 Argante. Here comes Octave, just at the very nick of time. 
 Enter Octave. 
 
 Arg. Come, my son, and rejoice with us at the happy out- 
 come of your marriage. Heaven 
 
 Octave. No, father, all your proposals of marriage will go for 
 nothing. I must throw off all disguise with yoa You have 
 been told of my engagement. 
 
 Arg. Yes ; but you don't know 
 
 Oct. I know all I want to know. 
 
 Arg. I want to tell you that Geronte's daughter 
 
 Oct. Geronte's daughter shall never be anything to me. 
 
 Arg. It is she 
 
 Oct. {to Geronte). No, sir, I ask your pardon. My resolution 
 is fixed. 
 
 Silvestre {to Octave). Listen 
 
 Oct. No ; hold your tongue. I'll listen to nothing. 
 
 Arg. {to Octave). Your wife 
 
 Oct. No, father; I tell you I'd die sooner than give up my 
 lovely Hyacinthe. Yes, all you can do is of no use. [Crossing the 
 stage to Ilyacmthe.) This is she to whom my faith is engaged; 
 I will love her for all my life, and won't have any other wife. 
 
 Afg. Good gracious ! Why, it's she we are giving you. 
 What a pig-headed fellow ; he will stick to his point. 
 
 Hyacinthe {pointing to Geronte). Yes, Octave, this is my 
 father whom I have found, and now we are out of all our 
 trouble. 
 
 Ger. Let us go to my house ; we can talk matters better over 
 there than here. 
 
 Hy. {pointi?ig to Zerbinette). Oh, father, I must ask you as 
 a favour not to let me be parted from that amiable person you 
 see there. She has so much merit, that you will have a great 
 liking for her when you come to know her. 
 
 Ger. Would you have me keep any one in my house whom 
 your brother is in love with, and who told me just now to my 
 face a thousand foolish things of myself? 
 
 Zerbinette. Sir, I beg you will excuse me. I should not have 
 
Scene X.] LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN. i6i 
 
 spoken in that manner if I had known it was you ; and, besides, 
 I knew you only by report. 
 
 Ger. What do you mean — only by report ? 
 
 Hy. Father, I will answer for my brother's love for her 
 being most pure and honourable. 
 
 Ger. That's all very well. Don't they want me to marry my 
 son to her, a girl whom nobody know^s, and who goes about as a 
 stroller ? 
 
 Enter L^andre. 
 
 Leandre. Don't complain, father, that I love a person who is 
 unknown, without birth or dowry. The people from whom I 
 purchased her have just told me that she belongs to this city, 
 and to an honourable family ; that they stole her at the age of 
 four years ; and here is a bracelet they gave me which may help 
 to find her relations. 
 
 Arg. Good heavens ! If I may trust this bracelet, it must 
 be my daughter, whom I lost at the age you speak of. 
 
 Ger. Your daughter ? 
 
 Arg. Yes ; and I see in her all the features that can make me 
 perfectly sure of it. My dear child 
 
 Hy, Good heavens ! What wonderful events ! 
 Enter Carle. 
 
 Carle. Ah, gentlemen, a strange accident has happened. 
 
 Gkr. What? 
 
 Car. Poor Scapin 
 
 Ger. He's a villain I should like to hang. 
 
 Car. Alas, sir, you need not trouble about that. Passing by 
 a house that was being built, a stone-cutter's hammer fell on his 
 head and broke his skull. He's dying, but desired to be brought 
 here, that he might speak with you before he dies. 
 
 Arg. Where is he ? 
 
 Car. Here he is. 
 
 Scene X. 
 
 . Argante, G^ronte, Leandre, Octave, Hyacinthe, 
 Zerbinette. 
 
 Scapin {carried by two men^ and his head bandaged up as if he 
 had been wounded). 
 
 Sea. Oh, gentlemen, you see me— oh, you see me in a 
 strange condition ! Oh, 1 was not willing to die without having 
 asked pardon of all persons whom I may have offended. Oh, 
 
 12 
 
i62 SCAPIN'S ROGUERIES, [Act III. 
 
 yes, gentlemen, before I give up my last breath, I implore you 
 from my heart to pardon me what I have done to you, and 
 specially Seigneur Argante and Seigneur G^ronte. Oh ! 
 
 Argante. For my part I pardon you ; go and die in peace. 
 
 Sea. {to Geronte). It is you, sir, whom I have most offended 
 by the cudgel blows that 
 
 Geronte, Speak no more of it. I pardon you too. 
 
 Sea. It was a frightful boldness on my part ; those blows 
 
 Ger. We'll drop that now. 
 
 Sea. Now that I am dying, I feel an unspeakable grief at 
 those blows 
 
 Gkr. Good heavens ! Hold your tongue. 
 
 Sea. Those unfortunate blows 
 
 Gkr. Hold your tongue, I say ; I forget it all. 
 
 Sea. Oh, what goodness ! But it is from the heart, sir, that 
 you forgive those blows ? 
 
 Ger. Yes, yes. I pardon you, that's enough. Let us say no 
 more about it. 
 
 Sea. Oh, sir, how I am relieved by these words. 
 
 Gtr. Yes, but I pardon you on condition that you die. 
 
 Sea. What, sir ? 
 
 Gtr, I revoke my word if you recover. 
 
 Sea, Oh, oh ! My weakness is coming on again ! 
 
 Arg. Seigneur Geronte, in consideration of our happiness, you 
 must indeed pardon him unconditionally. 
 
 Ger. Well, be it so. 
 
 Arg. Come, let us sup together, that we may relish our 
 pleasure the more. 
 
 Sea. And as for me, carry me to the lower end of the table 
 before I die. 
 
THE BLUNDERER 
 
 {LETOURDI, OU LES CONTRETEMPS). 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Lelie, son of Pandolphe. 
 C]^LIE, slave of Triifaldm. 
 Mascarille, servatit of Velie. 
 Hypolyte, daughter of Atiselme. 
 Ansel^ie, fat/i'er of Hypolyte. 
 Trufaldin, an old man. 
 Pandolphe, father of Lelie. 
 
 Scene— MESSINA 
 
 Li^andre, a young gentleman of 
 
 good family. 
 Andres, a supposed gipsy. 
 Ergaste, a servant. 
 A Messenger. 
 Two Companies of Masque- 
 
 raders. 
 
 ACT I. Scene I. 
 
 L:^lie. 
 
 Lelie. Very well, Leandre, very well ; it must come to a contest 
 then. We shall see which of us two can carry oif the prize ; and, 
 in our mutual regard for this young miracle of beauty, which 
 can offer the strongest opposition to his rival's addresses. Muster 
 your forces, friend, and stand on your guard, assuring yourself 
 that on my part no pains shall be spared. 
 
 Scene II. 
 L^LiE, Mascarille. 
 
 Lelie. Ah, Mascarille ! 
 
 Mascarille. Well, what's the matter ? 
 
 L'el. Matter enough. In my love affairs everything goes 
 wrong. Leandre is smitten with Celie, and, by a strange fatality, 
 though I have changed my sweetheart he is still my rival. 
 
 Mas. Leandre in love with Celie ? 
 
 Lei. He adores her, I tell you. 
 
 Mas, So much the worse. 
 
 I^l. Yes, that is just what plagues me. However, I should 
 be wrong to despair ; having your help, I ought to take courage ; 
 
i64 THE BLUNDERER. [Act t. 
 
 I know that your talent for intrigue has never found anything 
 difficult. You ought to be called the Prince of Valets, and in the 
 whole world 
 
 Mas. There, a truce to these smooth words. When we poor 
 wretches are wanted for anything, then we are the dearest and 
 most incomparables creatures on earth ; but at another time if 
 anything goes wrong, then we are scoundrels that ought to be 
 thrashed within an inch of our lives. 
 
 Lei. Indeed you wrong me by that reproach. But come, let 
 us talk of the charming captive. Tell me, is there a heart so 
 hard or so insensible as to be proof against such charms ? For 
 my part, in her conversation as v;ell in her face I see the strongest 
 proof of her being nobly born. I am persuaded that heaven, for 
 some purpose, conceals her true rank under this mean appear- 
 ance, and will not yet disclose it. 
 
 Alas. You are extremely romantic, sir, in your dreams. But 
 what part will Pandolphe take in all this ? He is your father — at 
 least he calls himself so, and you know how easily his anger is 
 moved, and how finely he can swear at you when your behaviour 
 does not please him. He has given his word to Anselme'that 
 you shall marry Hypolyte, fancying, I suppose, that marriage 
 will be the only way of making you sensible. Now, if he should 
 learn that, rejecting his choice, you are under the influence of 
 an unknown person, and that the fatal power of this absurd love 
 has taken from you all regard to your duty, heaven only knows 
 what a storm will burst over your head, and what fine lectures 
 you will be treated to. 
 
 Lei. Oh, come, a truce, if you please, to your rhetoric. 
 
 Mas. Rather a truce to your policy, which is not wise, and 
 you ought to try 
 
 LH. Don't you know that nobody ever gets any good by 
 putting me out of temper? That I give very poor wages for 
 good advice, and that a lecturing valet is not likely to get much 
 for his pains ? 
 
 Mas. [aside). So he's vexed ! {Aloud.) All I said was merely 
 by way of joke, and to try your temper. Have I the look of a 
 censor of pleasure, and is Mascarille an enemy to what's natural ? 
 You know the contrary, and it's very certain I am only too 
 kind-hearted. So laugh at the lectures of your old greybeard of 
 a father ; spur on, I tell you, and let them alone. On my con- 
 science, I'm of opinion that these crabbed dotards try to amuse 
 us with their waggish tales, and being themselves virtuous of 
 necessity, they enviously hope to deprive young people of all the 
 
Scene II.] VETOURDL 165 
 
 pleasures of life. You know my powers j I place them at your 
 service. 
 
 Lei. Ah, by this kind of talk you are sure to delight me. But 
 as to my love, when I first let it appear, it was not badly received 
 by those fair eyes which gave it birth. But Leandre has just 
 declared to me that he is preparing to carry off my Celie. So 
 let us make haste, and ransack your brain for the speediest way 
 of getting the better of him. Find out any scheme, dodge, trick 
 or device, by which I may frustrate my rival's pretensions. 
 
 Mas. Give me a little time to think the matter over. {Aside.) 
 What can I contrive in this emergency ? 
 
 Lei Well, the plan? 
 
 Mas. What a hurry you are in. My brain must always go 
 steadily — I've done your business. You must— no ; I'm at fault 
 — but if you would go 
 
 Lei. Where ? 
 
 Mas. That's only a shallow device — I was thinking of a . 
 
 LeL Well, what? 
 
 Mas. No, that wouldn't answer. But could you not ? 
 
 Lei. Could I not what ? 
 
 Mas. No, you couldn't do it at all. Talk with Anselme 
 
 Lei. But what could I say to him ? 
 
 Mas. That's very true. It would only be out of the frying- 
 pan into the fire. Still, something must be done. Go to Tru- 
 faldin. 
 
 Lei. What to do ? 
 
 Mas. I don't know. 
 
 Lei. Come, we've had too much of this. I'm out of patience 
 with these senseless tales. 
 
 Mas. If, sir, you had only plenty of ready money, there would 
 be no need for us to stand here dreaming which way we should 
 take ; and we might, by purchasing this slave at once, prevent 
 your rival from forestalling or insulting you. Trufaldin, who has 
 charge of her, is under some apprehension from the gipsies who 
 placed her with him, and if he could only get his money (which 
 they have tired his patience in waiting for), I know very well that 
 he would only be too glad to dispose of her. For he has always 
 lived like a regular skinflint. He would submit to be whipped 
 for half a crown — gold is the god he adores ; but the mischief of 
 it is ■ 
 
 Lei. What is it ? 
 
 Mas. Why, that your father is just such another wretch, who 
 will not allow you to dispose of his ducats as you wish. So 
 
i66 THE BLUNDERER, [Act I. 
 
 that at present we have no means of opening the most slender 
 purse to help you. But let us try and talk with Celie, to know 
 what she thinks about the matter. This is her window. 
 
 JL^L But Trufaldin keeps guard over her night and day ; we 
 must be cautious. 
 
 Mas. Keep quiet in that corner. What good fortune ! — she 
 is coming just at the right moment. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Lelie, Celie, Mascakille. 
 
 Lelie. Ah, how heaven blesses me in allowing me to gaze on 
 those celestial charms you are blest with ! And however sharp 
 the pain your eyes have caused me, what pleasure have I in 
 beholding them here ! 
 
 Celie. My heart, which may well be surprised at your language, 
 knows not how my eyes have injured any one. And if in any 
 way they have wronged you, I can assure you that it w^as without 
 my leave. 
 
 Lei. Ah, their glances are too charming to do me any harm. 
 I count it my only glory to cherish the wounds they give me. 
 And 
 
 Mas. You're mounting a note too high. This style is not 
 what we want now. Let us make better use of our time, and 
 let us learn from her at once what 
 
 Trufaldin {within). Celie ! 
 
 Mas. Well. 
 
 Lei. O cruel meeting ! What does this wretched old man 
 want to trouble us for ? 
 
 Mas, Do you go away. I shall know how to talk to him. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Trufaldin, Celie, Mascarille, and Lelie in the background. 
 
 Trufaldin. What are you doing out here, and what attention 
 drags you out when I have positively forbidden you to speak to 
 any one ? 
 
 Celie. This is a respectable young man whom I knew formerly ; 
 you need not be at all suspicious of him. 
 
 Mas. Is this Seigneur Trufaldin ? 
 
 Cel. Yes, it is himself. 
 
 Mas, Sir, I am your devoted servant, and I am delighted to 
 
Scene IV.l ' LETOURDI. 167 
 
 have the honour of paying my humble compliments to a gentle- 
 man whom every one speaks of. 
 
 Tru. Your humble servant. 
 
 Mas. I hope I do not inconvenience you; but I have seen 
 this young person elsewhere, and having learnt the great talent 
 she has in fortune-telling, I wished to consult her a little about a 
 certain matter. 
 
 Tru. What, have you been meddling with the black art ? 
 
 Cel. No, sir, all that I know is in white magic. 
 
 Mas. This is the affair. My master languishes for a fair one 
 who has captivated him. He would gladly disclose, the flame 
 which devours him to the beauty he adores; but a watchful 
 dragon, who guards the treasure, has hitherto prevented him, 
 in spite of all his attempts ; and what troubles him still more, and 
 makes him miserable, is that he has just discovered a formidable 
 rival : so that I come to consult you to know whether this 
 anxious love of his may have any hope of success — well assured 
 that from your mouth I can learn the truth about the secret 
 which so nearly concerns us. 
 
 Cel. Under what star was your master born ? 
 
 Mas. Under the star of unchangeable love. 
 
 Cel. Without your naming the object that he sighs for, the 
 knowledge I possess gives me sufficient information. This young 
 lady has courage, and knows how to maintain a noble pride even 
 in her poverty. Her disposition does not lead her to readily make 
 known the secret emotions of her soul. But I know them as well 
 as she does, and with more calmness of mind can in a few words 
 discover all. 
 
 Mas. Oh, the wonderful power of magical virtue ! 
 
 Cel. If your master is perfectly constant, and if virtue alone 
 is the life of his passion, let him no longer fear that he will sigh 
 in vain. There is room for hope, and the fort that he wishes to 
 take is not deaf to a parley, and is ready to surrender. 
 
 Mas. That is a great deal. But this fort depends on a 
 governor who is not easily won over. 
 
 Cel. That, indeed, is the whole misfortune. 
 
 Mas. {aside). Deuce take this troublesome fellow, who keeps 
 his eye always on us ! 
 
 Cel. Now I must teach you what you have to do. 
 
 Lei. {joining the?n). Pray, Seigneur Trufaldin, give yourself no 
 further uneasiness; it has been solely by my order that he has come 
 to visit you, for I sent him, as my trusty servant, to make you an 
 offer, and to speak to you about this damsel, whose liberty I 
 
i6^ THE BLUNDERER. [Act I. 
 
 should like to purchase, provided we two can agree upon a 
 price. 
 
 Mas. {aside). Plague take the ass ! 
 
 Tru. Ho, ho ! Which of the two am I to believe ? This 
 tale does not at all agree with the first. 
 
 Mas. This good gentleman's head is not quite right. Weren't 
 you aware of it ? 
 
 Tru. I know what I know. I fear there's some underhand 
 work here. {To Celie.) Go in, and never be so free again. — As 
 for you two — who are a couple of arrant rogues, unless I am 
 much mistaken — next time you play on me, see that your instru- 
 ments are in better tune together. 
 
 Mas. {to L'elie). Well done. I wish that, without any compli- 
 ment, he had thrashed us both together. What business had you 
 to show yourself, and, like a blunderer, come and give the lie to 
 all I had been saying ? 
 
 Lei. I thought I was acting for the best. 
 
 Mas. Oh, it was wisely judged ? But indeed this action 
 ought not to surprise me. You are so fruitful in counterplots of 
 this nature, that your wrong-headed freaks no longer astonish 
 any one. 
 
 Lei. Good heavens ! Am I to be found fault with for a trifle ? 
 Is the mischief so great that it cannot be repaired ? In short, if 
 you cannot give me Celie, do your best at any rate to upset 
 Leandre's plans, that he may not be beforehand with me in 
 purchasing the fair one. But lest my presence should do further 
 harm, I will leave you. 
 
 Mas. You cannot do better. To tell the truth, now, money 
 would be a sure and powerful agent in this affair ; but if this 
 spring fails us, we must look out for another. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Anselme, Mascarille. 
 
 Anselme, Body o' me ! 'Tis a strange age we live in ; I an 
 quite upset by it. Never was there so much love for wealth, ana 
 never so much difficulty to come by one's own, whatever care one 
 takes. Debts nowadays are like children, begotten with pleasure 
 and brought forth with pain. Money enters the purse sweetly, 
 but it comes out again very hardly when it has to be paid back. 
 However, it is something to have received at last two thousand 
 francs due any time these two years. Indeed, it is a piece of good 
 fortune. 
 
Scene. V.] VETOURDI. 169 
 
 Mascarille. Oh, what glorious game to shoot on the wing ! 
 I must see if I cannot wheedle him a little ; I know the lullaby 
 that will send him to rest, (/owing him) Anselme, I've just 
 seen 
 
 A71S. Whom, pray? 
 
 Mas. Your Nerine. 
 
 Ans, And what does the killing sweet creature say about me? 
 
 Mas. She's all on fire for you. 
 
 Ans. She is ? 
 
 Mas. And loves you so, it moves one's very heart. 
 
 Ans. How happy you make me ! 
 
 Mas. The poor girl is almost dying of love. " Anselme, my 
 darling," she cries out constantly, " when shall Hymen unite our 
 hearts ? When will you deign to quench these flames ? " 
 
 Ans. But why has she concealed them from me all this time ? 
 These girls indeed are strange dissemblers ! Now, Mascarille, 
 tell me the truth. Though I am elderly, yet I have sufficient 
 good looks to please the eye. 
 
 Mas. Yes, truly, your face is still very passable ; and if not 
 particularly handsome, it is very agreeable. 
 
 Ans. So that 
 
 Mas. {trying to take his purse). So that she dotes on you, and 
 regards you no longer 
 
 Ans. What ? 
 
 Mas. But as a husband, and wishes 
 
 Ans. Yes, and wishes ? 
 
 Mas. And wishes, whatever happens, to take your purse. 
 
 Ans. So ? 
 
 Mas. {takiiig the purse^ and letting it fall on the ground behind 
 him). And kiss mouth to mouth. 
 
 Ans. Oh, now I understand. Come here: now the next 
 time you see her, be sure and praise me as much as you can. 
 
 Mas. Let me alone for that. 
 
 Ans. Farewell. 
 
 Mas. May heaven guide you ! 
 
 Ans. In truth, I had almost been guilty of a strange neglect, 
 and you might justly have accused me of having slighted you. I 
 engage you to carry on my love affair. I receive from you a most 
 agreeable piece of news, without the least present to reward your 
 diligence. Here {feelitig in his pocket)^ be sure you remember. 
 
 Mas. Oh no, sir, if you please. 
 
 Ans. Allow me. 
 
 Mas. No, really ; I am acting without any regard to interest. 
 
I70 THE BLUNDERER. [Act I. 
 
 Alls. I know that ; but still 
 
 Mas. I tell you, Anselme, I will not. I am a man of honour, 
 and this offends me. 
 
 Ans. Farewell, then, Mascarille. 
 
 Mas. {aside). What a long rigmarole. 
 
 Ans. {returning). I should like to make a present to the deai 
 creature through you. I'll give you something to buy her a ring 
 with, or any other trifle she would fancy. 
 
 Mas. No; keep your money, and do not trouble yourself 
 about that. I will see to the present. I'm having rather a pretty 
 ring made, and if it suits her, you can pay for it afterwards. 
 
 A7ts. Very well, then, give it her for me ; but above all, dc 
 your best to make her cherish the ardent wish to have me for hei 
 own. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 L^LiE, Anselme, Mascarille. 
 
 Lelie {taking up the purse which Mascarille had dropped). 
 Whose purse is this ? 
 
 Anselme. Bless me ! I must have dropped it, and I should 
 have thought afterwards that some one had stolen it from me. I 
 am greatly obliged to you for your kind care, which has saved me 
 a great vexation, and restored me my money. I will go home at 
 once, and put it in a place of safety. \Exit. 
 
 . Mascarille. May I die if that was not being officious, and very 
 much so ! 
 
 Lei. Indeed, but for me he would have lost the money. 
 
 Mas. Certainly ; you are doing wonders, and have given proof 
 to-day of most unusual judgment and extreme good fortune. We 
 shall get on famously if you will continue as you have begun. 
 
 Lei. What is the matter, then ? What have I done ? 
 
 Mas. In plain English, you've acted like a fool, since I may 
 and indeed I ought to say it. He knows very well how close 
 his father keeps him ; that a formidable rival is pressing closely 
 upon him ; and yet, for all this, when I make a bold stroke tQ 
 oblige him, and run all the risk and shame myself 
 
 Lei. What ! Was this money 
 
 Mas. Yes, you blockhead ! it was to release the captive that 1 
 collared this money, which your care has now deprived us of. 
 
 L'el. If that's the case, I am to blame. But who could have 
 guessed it? 
 
 Mas. It required, indeed, an unusual amount of imagination. 
 
Scene VII.] nETOURDI. 171 
 
 Lei You should have given me a hint of what was going on. 
 
 Mas. Yes, indeed, I ought to have my eyes at the back of my 
 head. But in the name of Jupiter, be quiet, and don't make any 
 more of those silly speeches. Any one else, after this, would 
 have no more to do with you; but I have just now thought of a 
 master-stroke, which I shall put into execution at once, but only 
 on condition 
 
 Lei. Oh, I promise you that neither by word or deed will I 
 meddle with what you are doing. 
 
 Mas. Go, then, for the very sight of you vexes me. 
 
 L'el. But, above all, make haste, for fear that your plan 
 
 Mas. Now go. I am about to make another effort. {Alone.) 
 If I can only bring this scheme to bear, it will be an exquisite 
 piece of roguery ; and I fancy it will succeed. Good ; here's the 
 very man I want. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Pandolphe, Mascarille. 
 
 Pandolphe. Mascarille ! 
 
 Mascarille. Sir ? 
 
 Fan. To speak plainly, I am very much dissatisfied with my son. 
 
 Mas. What, with my master? You are not the only one 
 who complains of him. His insupportable conduct in everything 
 drives me every moment to the very verge of my patience. 
 
 Pan. For all that, I thought that you had a very good under- 
 standing together. 
 
 Mas. I ? Pray, sir, don't believe it any longer. I am always 
 trying to bring him to a sense of his duty ; and so we are con- 
 stantly at daggers drawn. Just this moment we had a quarrel 
 about his marriage with Hypolyte, which he rebels against. 'Tis 
 true he is violating the respect due to a father by a most criminal 
 refusal. 
 
 Fan» What ! you have quarrelled ? 
 
 Mas, Yes, and desperately too. 
 
 Pan. I was greatly mistaken then ; for I thought that he had 
 your help in everything. 
 
 Mas. Me ? See what the world is come to, and how inno- 
 cence is always trampled on. If you only knew my integrity, you 
 would take me to be tutor to your children, instead of leaving me 
 in the position of a servant. Yes, you could not yourself say 
 more than I do to keep him in the right road. ** In the name of 
 goodness, sir," I often say to him, *'do not be blown about by the 
 
172 THE BLUNDERER, [Act I. 
 
 first wind that comes. Keep within bounds. Think what a worthy 
 father heaven has blest you with, and what his position is in the 
 world. Cease to wound his affections, and live, as he does, hke 
 a man of honour." 
 
 Pan. That is talking to the point. And how could he answer 
 you? 
 
 Mas. Answer me? Oh, with any nonsense to stop my mouth. 
 Not that at the bottom of his heart he does not retain the prin- 
 ciples of honour which he has derived from you. But at present 
 his reason is not his master. If I might be allowed to advise you 
 freely, I could soon bring him back to you with little or no 
 trouble. 
 
 Pan. Speak freely. 
 
 Mas. It is a secret, which would do ine a great deal of harm 
 if it should be discovered; but I trust to your prudence in all 
 confidence. 
 
 Paji. You say well. 
 
 Mas. You must know, then, that all your plans are being upset 
 by the impression which a slave has made on your son's heart. 
 
 Pan. I had heard of it before, but it moves me greatly when 
 I hear it from your mouth. 
 
 Mas. You see that I am in his secrets. 
 
 Pan. Truly I am delighted at it ! 
 
 Mas. In the meantime, if you really wish to recall him to his 
 
 duty without any scandal, you must 1 am still afraid of some 
 
 one surprising us, for if he comes to know of this conversation, I 
 should he ruined. As I was saying, if you would settle this affair 
 once for all, go quietly and buy this slave whom he worships so 
 wildly, and send her out of the way. Anselme is a great friend of 
 Trufaldin's ; let him go and buy her at once. Afterwards, if you 
 like to put her into my hands, I know some traders, and can promise 
 to repay the money she may cost you, and so can send her away 
 in spite of your son. For, in short, if we find him set upon 
 marriage, we must transfer this growing passion to another ; and 
 further, even if he yielded to the yoke you design for him, yet 
 this other girl, having it in her power to revive his fancy, might 
 spoil all. 
 
 Pan. Very well argued. Your advice is quite to my mind. 
 Here comes Anselme. You go, and let me do what I can. I'll do 
 my best to get possession of this troublesome slave, and then put 
 her into your hands to settle the rest. \ExH Paiidolphe. 
 
 Mas. Good ; now I must go and inform my master of all this. 
 Long live knavery, and knaves too I 
 
Scene VIII.] V^TOURDI. 173 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 Hypolyte, Mascarille. 
 
 Hypolyte. Oh, you traitor ! So this is the way you serve me ! 
 I overheard it all, and saw your trickery. This is your trade, and 
 you have sold me a nice bargain. You promised me, and I had 
 every reason to believe it, that you would favour my passion for 
 L^andre ; that your cleverness and diligence would find means to 
 disengage me from Lelie, whom they would force me to marry, 
 and save me from my father's plan ; and yet all the time you are 
 working the contrary way. But you will find yourself greatly mis- 
 taken. I know a sure method of breaking off the purchase you 
 are seeking so eagerly ; I am off at once. 
 
 Mascarille. Ha, ha ! what a hurry you are in. You seem off 
 your head, and without waiting to see whether you are right or 
 wrong, you act like a little fury with me. I'm in the wrong, and 
 ought to make your words come true, since you abuse me so 
 outrageously. 
 
 Hyp. With what illusion would you dazzle my eyes, you 
 traitor? Can you deny what I have just now heard? 
 
 Mas. No. But you must understand that this contrivance is 
 arranged to do you a direct service, and that this sly piece of 
 advice which seems so guileless will trap both the old birds in the 
 snare : that the pains I have taken to get Celie, through them, was 
 only that I might hand her over to Lelie, so that by this means 
 Anselme being baulked of his intended son-in-law, would turn 
 round in his rage and make choice of Leandre. 
 
 Hyp. What ! and has this grand scheme, which make me so 
 angry, all been arranged for me, Mascarille ? 
 
 Mas. Yes, for you. But since my good offices are so badly 
 received, and I must put up with your caprices, and by way of 
 reward you come here with your haughty air and treat me as a 
 mean-spirited fellow, a wretch, and an impostor, I'll soon repair 
 the mistake I have committed, and break off the arrangement at 
 once. 
 
 Hyp. {holding him). Oh ! do not be so severe upon me, but 
 pardon this outbreak of sudden anger. 
 
 Mas. No, no, let me go ; it is still in my power to avert the 
 blow which has offended you so much. You shall never complain 
 again of my interference. Yes; I promise you that you shall 
 have my master. 
 
 Hyp. For heaven's sake, my good fellow, do not be so angry ! 
 I judged you too hardly. I was wrong, I own it {pulling out her 
 
174 THE BLUNDERER, [Act I. 
 
 pHrse\ but I wish to repair my fault with this. Can you make up 
 your mind to leave me thus ? 
 
 Mas. No, I cannot, do what I wilL But your hasty tempei 
 does not become you. You must know that nothing wounds a 
 generous spirit so much as an imputation on its honour. 
 
 Hyp. That is true. I spoke very roughly to you, but I hope 
 you will accept these two louis to make all straight. 
 
 Mas. No, that is nothing ; but I am very sensitive on these 
 matters. Still, my anger is beginning to abate. We must put up 
 with something from our friends. 
 
 Hyp. Now, tell me, do you think you can carry out what I 
 wish? Do you believe that your bold schemes will bring my 
 passion to the successful end you promise ? 
 
 Mas. Don't vex yourself on that account. I have several 
 irons in the fire, and if one stratagem does not succeed, another 
 shall. 
 
 Hyp. Well, depend upon it, Hypolyte, at any rate, will not be 
 ungrateful. 
 
 Mas. It is not the love of gain that will influence me. 
 
 Hyp. Your master is beckoning to you, and wishes to speak 
 with you, so I will leave you. But, remember, you must do all 
 you can for me. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 L^LiE, Mascarille. 
 
 Lelie. What on earth are you doing here? You promise 
 wonders, but your slackness in performance is unrivalled. If my 
 good genius had not come to the rescue, all my happiness would 
 have been destroyed. Then farewell good-fortune, farewell joy; 
 I should have been the prey of eternal regret : in short, if I had 
 not chanced to be on the spot, Anselme would have got the 
 captive girl, and I should have been done for. He was just 
 carrying her off, but I foiled the attempt, warded off the blow, 
 and so far worked on the fears of Trufaldin that he has kept the 
 girl at home. 
 
 Mas. Good heavens ! Three times already ! When we get to 
 ten, we'll begin to score. Why, you everlasting dunderhead, it 
 was by my clever arrangement that Anselme made this excellent 
 bargain. She was to have been left entirely in my hands, when 
 your cursed ofificiousness comes between us. And do you think 
 that I care for you enough to start another plan? No; I would 
 a hundred times rather be a donkey, a doll, a cabbage, a lantern, a 
 
Scene IX.] LETOURDI. 175 
 
 were- wolf, and that the devil himself should come and wring your 
 neck ! \Exit. 
 
 Lei. {alone), I must take him to some tavern, and let him vent 
 his rage on the glasses. 
 
 ACT II. Scene I. 
 Mascarille, L^lie. 
 
 Mascarille. I was forced to yield to your wishes at last. In 
 spite of all my protestations, I could hold out no longer, and now 
 I have entered upon fresh difficulties in your interests, though I 
 had quite made up mind to give them up. So soft-hearted am I, 
 and if dame Nature had only made a girl of Mascarille, I leave 
 you to guess the result. However, pray do not on this assurance 
 go and upset the project I have in hand ; do not make another 
 blunder and spoil my plans. As to Anselme, I will make your 
 excuses in such a manner as to gain all we want ; but if you give 
 way again to your indiscretion, I tell you you must bid farewell to 
 my endeavours to gain you your object. 
 
 Lei. No, I shall grow wiser, I tell you. Don't be afraid ; you 
 shall see 
 
 Mas. Well, I hope you will keep to it. I have formed a very 
 bold scheme in your behalf. Your father is so backward in 
 crowning your wishes by his death, that I have just killed him 
 (of course I mean in words only), and I am spreading the report 
 that the good man, being taken with an apoplectic fit, has departed 
 this life. But first, the better to carry out the deception, I sent 
 him off to his barn. Then they brought him news (this, too, was 
 my doing) that the labourers at work on his new building had 
 accidentally discovered a hoard of money. He went off at once, 
 and, as all his people, except us two, accompanied him, I can kill 
 him to-day in everyone's imagination, and bury some image in his 
 place. In short, this is the plan I have made for you : pky your 
 part well, and as to the character I have to sustain, if you catch 
 me failing in one single word, •! give you leave to call me a fool. 
 
 \Exit Mascarille. 
 
 L'el. {alone). To tell the truth, his wit has found a strange 
 way of bringing my wishes to pass ; but when one is in love with 
 a beautiful girl, what won't one do to become happy? If love is 
 sufficient excuse for crime, it may well serve to excuse the little 
 deception it has forced me to approve of to-day, by the soothing 
 hope of the advantage that may come from it. Good gracious ! 
 
176 THE BLUNDERER, [Act II. 
 
 How quick they are ! I see they have already begun to talk 
 about it. I must not be behindhand with my part. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Mascarille, Anselme. 
 
 Mascarille. No doubt this news is a great surprise to you ? 
 
 Anselme. To die in such a manner ! 
 
 Mas. He certainly was much to blame. I owe him a grudge 
 for such an affront. 
 
 Ans. Not to have time just for a short illness ! 
 
 Mas. A man surely was never in such a hurry to depart ! 
 
 Ans. And how does Lelie take it ? 
 
 Mas. Oh, he raves, and has lost all control of himself. He 
 has beaten himself black and blue, and declares that he will 
 follow his father into the grave. In short, to put an end to it, the 
 excess of his grief made me put the old man in his shroud as 
 quickly as possible, for fear that the sight of the object which 
 feeds his melancholy should lead him to some fatal action. 
 
 Ans. Nevertheless, you ought to have waited till the evening. 
 Besides, I have a strong wish to see him once more. Whoever 
 puts a man in his shroud quickly, often murders him ; and a man 
 is frequently thought to be dead, who only appears to be so. 
 
 Mas. Oh, I'll warrant you he's dead as dead can be. But 
 now to go back to what we were speaking about. Lelie has 
 resolved (and the resolution will do him a great deal of good) to 
 honour his father with a splendid funeral, and to comfort the 
 deceased a little for his hard fate by the pleasure of seeing the 
 honour done to his memory. Lelie is left very well off, but of 
 course he does not yet know much about his affairs ; and as the 
 greater part of his estate lies elsewhere, and what he has here in 
 hand consists mostly of bills, he begs you to excuse him if he 
 was too violent just now, and to lend him, at least, enough for 
 this duty. 
 
 Ans. You have made it quite clear, and I will go and see him. 
 
 Mas. {alone). So far, at least, everything goes as well as 
 possible. Now we must take care that the rest accords with 
 what has been done; and for fear that we should strike on a 
 rock just as we are entering harbour, let us steer the vessel care- 
 fully, and keep a sharp look-out. 
 
Scene III.] n^TOURDI. 177 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Lelie, Anselme, Mascarille {cofning out of Pandolphe^s house). 
 
 Ansehjie. Let us go out. It is with the greatest grief that I 
 see him wrapped up in so strange a manner. Poor fellow ! So 
 soon gone. He was alive and well this morning. 
 
 Mascarille. One may sometimes get over a good deal of 
 ground in a short time. 
 
 Lelie. Alas, alas ! 
 
 Ajis. Come, dear Lelie, remember he was but a man. Even 
 the Pope can give no dispensation from death. 
 
 Zel. Alas, alas ! 
 
 Ajts. Without any warning it dashes down all men, and has 
 always had evil designs against them. 
 
 Zel. Alas, alas ! 
 
 Ans. This merciless devourer would not lose one stroke of 
 his murderous teeth for all the prayers of mankind ; all the world 
 must feel them. 
 
 Zel. Alas, alas ! 
 
 Mas. It is of no use your preaching ; this sorrow is rooted 
 too deeply to be plucked up. 
 
 Ans. If, notwithstanding these arguments, you still persist in 
 your sorrow, my dear Lelie, at least moderate it. 
 
 Zel. Alas, alas ! 
 
 Mas. He won't do it. I know his temper. 
 
 Ans. However, according to your servant's message, I bring 
 you the money you will require for the funeral of your father. 
 
 Zel. Alas, alas ! 
 
 Mas. See how that word has increased his grief. It is death 
 to him to think of this misfortune. 
 
 A?ts. I know that you will find by the good man's papers that 
 I am indebted to him for a larger sum than this, but even if I 
 owed you nothing, my purse would have been equally at your 
 service. Please to take it. You can command me in everything, 
 as you shall see. 
 
 Zel. {walking away). Alas, alas ! 
 
 Mas. What terrible grief my master feels ! 
 
 Ans. Mascarille, I think it would be as well if he gave me a 
 receipt, if it were only in two words. 
 
 Mas. Alas, alas ! 
 
 Ans. There is always a great uncertainty in affairs. 
 
 Mas. Alas, alas ! 
 
 A?is. Get him to give me the signature I ask for. 
 
 13 
 
178 THE BLUNDERER. [Act II. 
 
 Mas. Good lack ! How can he comply with your wish in 
 his present state ? Give him time to lessen his grief, and when 
 his trouble is somewhat lighter I will take care that you have 
 your security. Farewell ; I feel my heart so overwhelmed with 
 grief, that I must go and take my fill of weeping with him. 
 Alack-a-day ! \Exit Mascarille. 
 
 Ans. {alone). The world is full of troubles ; every man feels 
 them daily, and never here below 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Pandolphe, Anselme. 
 
 Anselme. Oh, good heavens, how I tremble ! It is Pandolphe 
 walking the earth again ! Can he have been really dead ? How 
 pinched his face looks since his death ! Oh, I beg of you not to 
 come near to me ! I could not bear to elbow a ghost. 
 
 Pandolphe. What is the meaning of this strange fright ? 
 
 Ans. Tell me from a distance what business brings you here. 
 If you are taking so much trouble to bid me farewell, it is too 
 ceremonious, and I could have dispensed with the compliment. 
 If your soul is suffering and you need our prayers, I promise 
 that you shall have them, but do not frighten me like this ! On 
 the faith of a terrified man, you shall at once have as many 
 prayers as you can wish for. 
 
 Tlieji vanish away, 
 And to heaven I pray 
 That the Joy be increasd 
 Of your lordship deceased. 
 
 Pan. {laughing). In spite of my anger, I can't resist sharing 
 in this. 
 
 Ans. You are wondrously merry for a dead man ! 
 
 Pan. Is this a joke, or is it madness, that treats a living man 
 as if he were dead ? 
 
 Ans. Alas ! you must be dead, for I have just seen you. 
 
 Pan. What? Could I die without knowing anything about it? 
 
 Ans. As soon as Mascarille had told me the news, it went to 
 my very heart. 
 
 Pan. But tell me, are you asleep or awake? Don't you 
 know me ? 
 
 Ans. You are clothed with an aerial body which is the 
 counterfeit of your true one, but which may in a moment change 
 into something quite different. I am afraid of seeing you grow 
 as big as a giant, and all your features hideously distorted. For 
 
Scene V.] LtTOURDL 179 
 
 goodness' sake, don't put on any horrible look ! — I've been scared 
 enough for this once. 
 
 Pan. At another time, Anselme, the simplicity of your 
 credulity would have afforded me great amusement, and I would 
 have carried on the joke still farther ; but this tale of my death, 
 together with the story of a supposed treasure, which I learnt on 
 the road had no foundation, raises in my mind a just suspicion 
 that Mascarille is a rogue — ay, a rogue of rogues, who is influenced 
 neither by fear nor remorse, and who employs strange methods 
 to carry out his projects. 
 
 Ans. What? Have I been played upon and made a fool 
 of? Ah, indeed my reason should be good ! Let me touch him 
 to make sure. Yes, it is the man himself; What an ass I've 
 made of myself to-day ! But, I beg of you, don't let this story 
 get about, for they will make a farce of it to shame me. But, 
 Pandolphe, pray help me to get my money back which I lent them 
 for your funeral. 
 
 Pan. Oh ! money, say you ? There's the pinch. There lies 
 the key of the whole secret of your loss. Without much ado I 
 shall lay an information against Mascarille, and if I can have 
 him caught, cost what it will, I'll make him swing for it. 
 
 \Exit Pandolphe. 
 
 Ans. {alone). And for giving credit to a scoundrel, poor dupe 
 that I am, I must lose in one day both sense and money. In 
 sooth, it mightily becomes me, with my grey hairs, to be so apt 
 at playing the fool, to examine so little the first report. — But 
 I see 
 
 Scene V. 
 Lelie, Anselme. 
 
 Lelie: Now, with this passport I can readily go to Trufaldin. 
 
 Anselme. So far as I can judge, your grief has left you. 
 
 Lei. What say you ? No, it will never leave a heart that will 
 always tenderly cherish it. 
 
 Ans. I came back at once to tell you frankly that I had made 
 a mistake, for among the louis-d'ors, though they look good, I 
 had, without paying attention, put in some which I think were 
 counterfeit, and I have now brought money enough with me to 
 replace them. The intolerable insolence of our coiners has 
 grown to such a height in this country that one can't take any 
 money that is above suspicion. It would indeed be a good thing 
 if they were all hanged. 
 
i8o THE BLUNDERER. [Act II. 
 
 Lei. You oblige me very much by being willing to take them 
 again ; but I saw none among them that were bad, as I thought. 
 
 Ans. I shall know them at first sight. Let me see them, let 
 me see them. {Taking the purse.) Are they all here? 
 
 L'eL Yes. 
 
 Ans. So much the better. At last, my dear coins, I have 
 hold of you again : return to your place in my pocket. And as 
 for you, my brave sharper, you shall never finger one of them 
 again. So you kill people when they are in perfect health ! I 
 wonder what you would have done to me, a poor weak father-in-law, 
 In good truth, I was about to add to my family a most discreet 
 son-in-law. Go! go and hang yourself for very shame and 
 remorse. \Exit. 
 
 Lei. (alo?te). I must own that I am hard hit. But what a 
 surprise ! How came he to discover our stratagem so soon ? 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Mascarille, L^lie. 
 
 Mascarille. What ! were you gone out ? I have been looking 
 for you everywhere. Well, we have gained our end at last. ] 
 will give six points to the cleverest trickster of them all and bea 
 him. Now give me the money, that I may go and purchase oui 
 captive. I think your rival will be pretty well astonished wher 
 it's done. 
 
 Lelie. Ah ! my dear fellow, luck has gone against us. Yoi 
 cannot guess what a scurvy trick fortune has played me. 
 
 Mas. Why, how can that be ? 
 
 L'el. Anselme, having found out our trick, got back all tha 
 he had lent us under pretence of changing some gold that h( 
 thought was not good. 
 
 Mas. I suppose you are joking. 
 
 Lei. It is only too true. 
 
 Mas. What, in good earnest ? 
 
 Lei. Yes, in good earnest. I am inconsolable about it. 
 knew you would be wild with me, beyond all bounds. 
 
 Mas. I, sir? A fool might. Anger is hurtful, and I wan 
 to take care of myself, come what will, whether, after all, Celie i 
 captive or free. Let Leandre purchase her, or let her sta; 
 where she is ; for my part I don't care that for it. 
 
 LeL Pray do not be so indifferent to my interest, but maki 
 some allowance for this last slight imprudence. But for this las 
 misfortune, will you not admit that I did wonders, and that as t( 
 
 ::&#^ 
 
Scene VII.] lMVURDI. i8i 
 
 the pretended death, I imposed on all with so natural a grief that 
 the most sharp -sighted would have thought it real? 
 
 Mas. You may well commend yourself. 
 
 Lei. Oh, I know I'm to blame, and I'm willing to own it ; but 
 if ever, you had any regard for me, repair my misfortune, and 
 assist me. 
 
 Mas. I kiss your hand ; but I have no time to spare. 
 
 Lei. Mascarille, my dear fellow ! 
 
 Mas. No. 
 
 Lei. Do me this favour. 
 
 Mas. No, I can have nothing to do with it. 
 
 Lei. If you continue so hard-hearted, I must kill myself. 
 
 Mas. Do so; you can't do better. 
 
 Lei. Can I not influence you in any way ? 
 
 Mas. No. 
 
 Lei. Do you see my sword drawn ? 
 
 Mas. Yes. 
 
 Lei. I am about to drive it home. 
 
 Mas. Do as you please. 
 
 Lei. Should not you be sorry to be the means of taking away 
 my life ? 
 
 Mas. No. 
 
 Lei, Good-bye, Mascarille. 
 
 Mas. Good-bye, Monsieur L^lie. 
 
 L'el. What •? 
 
 Mas. Put yourself out of the way at once, then. What a 
 long business you are making of it. 
 
 Lei. I believe that you would hke me to play the fool and 
 kill myself, that you might come in for my clothes. 
 
 Mas. As if I did not know that this is all tomfoolery ; and 
 whatever young fellows nowadays say they will do, they're not 
 very ready to kill themselves ! 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 L^ANDRE, TrUFALDIN, Ll^LIE, MASCARILLE. 
 
 {Trufaldin whispering to Leandre.) 
 Velie. What do I see? My rival and Trufaldin together. 
 
 He's purchasing C^lie. Oh ! I tremble with fear ! 
 
 Mascarille. There's no doubt he'll do all he can ; and if he 
 
 has money he may do all he will. For my part I'm delighted. 
 
 This is the result of your stupid mistakes and impatience. 
 L'el. What must I do ? Pray advise me. 
 
i82 THE BLUNDERER. [Act II. 
 
 Mas. I don't know. 
 
 Lei. Stay, I'll go and pick a quarrel with him. 
 
 Mas. What would be the good of that ? 
 
 LH. Well, what would you have me do to ward off this blow ? 
 
 Mas. Go, go. I forgive you, and once more cast an eye of 
 pity on you. Leave me to look after them. I am about, as I 
 think, to find out their secret by fair means. {Exit Lelie. 
 
 Triifaldin {to Lea?idre). When they come by and by, the 
 bargain will be concluded. 
 
 Mas. {aside, going out). I must get over him, and learn his 
 plans, that I may the better frustrate them. 
 
 Leandre {alotie). Thanks to my good luck, my happiness is 
 now beyond the reach of chance. I have found the way to 
 insure it, and have no more to fear. Whatever any rival may 
 undertake hereafter, it will be no more in his power to harm me. 
 
 Mas. {returning). Oh, oh, oh ! Help ! Murder ! My brains 
 are being beaten out ! Help ! Murder ! Oh, oh, oh ! Traitor, 
 cut-throat ! 
 
 Lea?t. Where do those cries come from ? What's the matter ? 
 What have they been doing to you ? 
 
 Mas, He has just given me two hundred blows with the stick. 
 
 Lean. Who? 
 
 Mas. IA\\Q. 
 
 Lean. What for ? 
 
 Mas. For a mere trifle he has turned me away, and beaten 
 me in a most cruel manner. 
 
 Leaft. Oh, he is very much to blame. 
 
 Mas. Ah, well, if it's in any way possible, I swear I will be 
 revenged. Yes, I'll let you know, you confounded bully, that 
 people's bones are not to be broken for nothing. Though I am but 
 a valet, I'm a man of honour, and after having employed me for 
 four years as a servant, I don't care to be paid with blows of a 
 sapling, nor be injured in so tender a part as my shoulders. I 
 tell you again, I'll find out a way of revenging myself. A certain 
 slave-girl has taken your fancy, and you wish me to get her for 
 you ? Deuce take me, if I don't arrange for some one else to 
 carry her off ! 
 
 Lean. Listen to me, Mascarille, and do not give way to your 
 passion. I have always liked you, and wished to have about me 
 a trusty young fellow like you, with plenty of spirit, who would 
 take a fancy for my service. In short, if you think it good 
 enough for you, and choose to serve me, I will engage you at 
 once. 
 
Scene VIII.] V^TOURDI. 183 
 
 Mas. Certainly, sir, and all the more because a friendly 
 fortune offers me the means of revenge while I am serving you ; 
 and in the very pains I take to give you satisfaction I shall find a 
 punishment for the brute I have left. In a word, by my extreme 
 cleverness, Celie and yourself 
 
 Lemi. My love has already done that of^ce for itself Fired 
 with love for that faultless girl, I have just bought her for less 
 than her value. 
 
 Mas. What, then, is Celie yours ? 
 
 Ltaii. You should see her appear if I were only entire master 
 of my own actions — but alas ! my father is so ; and as he is 
 resolved, according to a letter just received, to conclude my 
 marriage with Hypolyte, I am anxious that the account of all 
 this affair should not reach him and put him in a rage. There- 
 fore, in my bargain with Trufaldin (for I am just come from his 
 house), I chose to act altogether in the name of another. The 
 purchase concluded, my ring is the arranged token, and to its 
 bearer he will give up Celie. I am trying now to find means to 
 conceal from the eyes of others her who charms my own so 
 much, and to find as soon as possible some convenient place 
 where I may secretly lodge my charming captive. 
 
 Mas. A little way out of town I can offer you the house of an 
 old relation of mine, where you can place her in all security, with- 
 out any one knowing the least about the matter. 
 
 Lean. Ah ! then indeed you will do me a great service. Here, 
 take this and get possession of this fair one for me. As soon as 
 Trufaldin sees my ring, the girl will be handed over to you. Take 
 
 her for me to that house, when But stay, here is Hypolyte 
 
 close upon us. 
 
 Scene VHI. 
 Hypolyte, L^andre, Mascarille. 
 
 Hypolyte. Leandre, I have some news which I ought to tell 
 you, but would it be agreeable or not ? 
 
 Leandre. To judge of that, and to answer off hand, I must 
 know what it is. 
 
 Hyp. Give me your hand, then, as far as the church ; I can tell 
 you on the way. 
 
 L'ean. {to Mascarille). Go, and serve me without any further 
 delay. _ {Exeunt. 
 
 Mascarille {alone). Yes, I will give you a dish after my own 
 taste. Was there ever in the world such a lucky fellow ? Oh ! 
 
i84 THE BLUNDERER. [Act II. 
 
 how L^lie would be delighted now ! His sweetheart to fall into 
 his hands in this manner ! To get all his happiness from the 
 source whence he would have expected his ruin ! To be happy, 
 and that by the hands of a rival ! After this great exploit I shall 
 expect to be painted as a hero, crowned with laurel, and this 
 inscription underneath, Vivat Mascarillus Knavorum Imperator. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 Trufaldin, Mascarille. 
 
 Mascarille, Hullo ! 
 
 Trufaldin, What do you want ? 
 
 Mas. This ring, which you recognise, will tell you why I have 
 come here. 
 
 Tru, Oh, yes, I know the ring again quite well. Wait here a 
 moment, and I'll go and fetch the slave. 
 
 Scene X. 
 
 A Messenger, Trufaldin, Mascarille. 
 
 Messenger. Will you do me the favour, sir, to direct me to a 
 
 gentleman 
 
 Trufaldin. To what gentleman ? 
 
 Mess. I think his name is Trufaldin. 
 
 Tru. What do you want with him ? I am he. 
 
 Mess. Only to give him this letter. 
 
 Trufaldin reads : 
 
 ^''Providence, which in its goodness takes care of my life, has just 
 brought to my ears a most welcome report, that my daughter, who 
 was stolen from me when only four years old, is a slave zvith you 
 under the name of Celie. If you ever k?tew what it ivas to be a 
 father, and to find yourself touched with natural affection, keep 
 this dear child with you as if she were one of your own. I am now 
 setting out from here in order to brittg her back, and I desire to 
 make you so handsome a recompe7ise for your trouble, that in your 
 good fortune {which I am deter??ii?ied to advance) you may bless the 
 day when you made mine. 
 
 "Don Pedro de Gusman, 
 
 *' Madrid." *' Marquis of Montalcana." 
 
 Tru. Though one cannot place much confidence in people of 
 their nation, yet those who sold her to me certainly told me that 
 before long some one would come to take her back, and that I 
 
SCENE XL] D&TOURDL 185 
 
 siiould then have no reason to complain. Yet, now, through my 
 impatience, I was on the point of losing the fruits of a great 
 expectation. {To the Messenger.) One moment later, and you 
 would have had your walk for nothing. I was just going to give 
 her up into his hands. But enough ; I shall take all the care of 
 her that he can desire. {To Mascarille) You've heard what 
 I've just read, and tell the gentleman who sent you here that I 
 cannot keep my word. So he can come and have his money back 
 again. 
 
 Mascarille. But what an insult to him ! 
 
 Tru. Be off. I don't want any more talk. 
 
 Mas. What a vexatious letter ! It has just upset all my hopes. 
 This courier comes from Spain just when he is not wanted ! May 
 thunder and hail go with him ! Never, surely, had so good a 
 beginning such a sorrowful ending. 
 
 Scene XI. 
 L^LiE, Mascarille. 
 
 Mascarille. Well, what transport of joy inspires you now ? 
 
 Lelie. Oh, let me have my laugh before I tell you. 
 
 Mas. By all means !— let us laugh heartily, we have good reason 
 to do so. 
 
 Lei. Oh ! I shall not have to put up with any more of your 
 complaints. You shall not have the chance of saying — you who 
 are always crying out after me — that I ruin all your trickeries like 
 a blunderer. I have just been playing one of the cleverest games 
 possible. It is true that I am hasty and sometimes out of tem- 
 per. But for all that, when I choose I have as good an 
 invention as any man. Even you must own that what I have done 
 shows very uncommon cleverness. 
 
 Mas. Let us know what this wonderful invention of yours has 
 done. 
 
 Lei. Presently. Havmg been struck with great fear at seeing 
 Trufaldin with my rival, I was considering how I could find a 
 remedy against this evil, when, pulling myself together, I con- 
 ceived, digested, and carried out a scheme before which all your 
 plans, about which you talk so much, must strike their colours. 
 
 Mas. But what is it ? 
 
 Lei. I beg'you to have a little patience. Well, then, I write 
 a letter very carefully, as from a great nobleman to Trufaldin, 
 showing that having heard by great good luck that a certain slave 
 in his possession named Cdlie was actually his daughter who had 
 
1 86 THE BLUNDERER. [Act II. 
 
 been stolen from him long ago, he wished to come and redeem 
 her, and begged Trufaldin on no account to part with her, but to 
 take the greatest care of her : that on this account he was leaving 
 Spain, and that he would give him such rich presents that he 
 would not regret having caused a father's happiness. 
 
 Mas. Very well indeed ! 
 
 Lei. Listen then. There's something better to follow. The 
 letter was delivered, but can you conceive how ? Why, in such a 
 nick of time, that the courier told me that at that very moment 
 there was a fellow waiting to carry her off. You may fancy what 
 a fool he looked. 
 
 Mas. And do you mean to say that you have done this with- 
 out selling yourself to the devil ? 
 
 L'el. Yes. Would you have thought me capable of such a 
 clever device ? At least, you must praise my sharpness and the 
 dexterity with which I have upset the carefully laid scheme of my 
 rival. 
 
 Mas. To praise you as you deserve I'm quite lacking in elo- 
 quence, and cannot rise to the subject. Yes, to display properly 
 this sublime effort, this grand stratagem of war, actually rehearsed 
 before our eyes, this great effort of an invention which yields in 
 power to no one living, my tongue is far too feeble, and I wish I 
 had the talent of the most learned, so that I might sing in noble 
 poetry or rehearse in flowing prose that you will be always, in spite 
 of all that can be said, what you have been all yotir life, that is to 
 say, a cross-grained fool with reason gone wrong and always 
 running riot, with wits topsy-turvy and contrary judgment, a booby, 
 a lout, an ass, a blunderer. What shall I say ? — a hundred times 
 more than I have said. This is your panegyric in brief. 
 
 Lei. Pray tell me the cause of your anger. Have I done any 
 thing ? Clear this matter up for me. 
 
 Mas. Oh no, you've done nothing, only don't come after me. 
 
 Lei. I'll follow you everywhere to get to the bottom of this 
 mystery. 
 
 Mas. Do so. Follow on then. Get your legs into good order. 
 I shall show you how to use them. 
 
 Ltl. He's off ! What can one make of this misfortune ? How 
 can I understand what he has been saying? And what harm can 
 I possibly have done to myself ? 
 
n^TOURDI. 187 
 
 ACT III. Scene I. 
 
 Mascarille. 
 
 Mascarille {alone). Peace, my good nature ; plead no more. 
 You are simply a fool ; I'll have nothing to do with it. Yes, I 
 own my temper is in the right. To keep on putting together what 
 a meddling fool undoes is too much for one's patience, and I 
 ought to give it up after he has defeated such glorious attempts. 
 But now let me reason the matter dispassionately. If I yield to 
 my just impatience it will be said that I am giving way to 
 difficulties, and that I have come to the end of my resources. 
 What then will become of that public estimation which holds you 
 to be a sublime rogue, and which you have acquired on so many 
 occasions, never having been found wanting in invention? Honour, 
 Mascarille, is a glorious thing ; make no pause in your noble 
 labours, and whatever a master may have done to anger you, 
 complete the work, not to oblige him, but for your own glory. 
 But how? What can you do when the clear stream is being per- 
 petually troubled by this evil spirit ? You see that every moment 
 he obliges you to change your plans, and that it is fighting the air 
 to try and stop that unbridled torrent which, in a moment, over- 
 turns the beautiful structures which your art has raised. Well, 
 one more stroke at least out of pure kindness : let us risk success 
 once more, and if he still persists in baffling our good fortune, then 
 w^e must withdraw. In the meantime our affair would not turn 
 out so badly if we could only ruin our rival, and if Leandre, weary 
 of the pursuit, would only leave a clear field for me to carry out 
 my plan. Yes ! I have a most ingenious plan working in my 
 brain, from which I could promise myself a glorious success if I 
 could only get rid of this obstacle. Good ! let me see if he is still 
 , obstinate in his attachment. 
 
 Scene II. 
 LEANDRE, Mascarille. 
 
 Mascarille. Sir, I've lost time and trouble too, for your man 
 cries off. 
 
 Leandre, He has himself given me an account of the whole 
 affair ; but there's a good deal more in it. I have learnt that all 
 this fine story of her having been carried away by gipsies, of a 
 grandee for her father, of his setting out for this place from Spain, 
 is nothing but a pure stratagem, a good joke, a laughable tale by 
 which L^lie wished to upset our purchase of Celie. 
 
i88 THE BLUNDERER. [Act III. 
 
 Mas. Only fancy, what a knavish trick ! 
 
 Lean. And yet for all that Trufaldin is so impressed with this 
 foolish story, and swallows the bait of this shallow device so 
 greedily, that he will not let any one undeceive him. 
 
 Mas. For this reason he will keep a close watch over her for 
 the future, and I see no opening for doing anything more. 
 
 Lean. If this girl seemed to me lovable at first, I now think 
 her perfectly adorable, and I am doubtful whether I should not 
 take extreme measures to make her mine ; reverse her destiny 
 by plighting her my troth, and changing her servile bonds into 
 matrimonial ones. 
 
 Mas. Would you marry her? 
 
 L'ean. I hardly know. But, in short, if her position is obscure, 
 her graceful manners and her modesty have extraordinary charms 
 to attract the heart. 
 
 Mas. Her modesty, did you say ? 
 
 Lean. What are you muttering about her modesty? Come, 
 explain yourself. 
 
 Mas. Why, sir, you seem upset all at once. I think I should 
 do better to hold my tongue. 
 
 L'ean. No, no ; speak out. 
 
 Mas. Well, then, if you must have it, I will try and open your 
 eyes. This girl 
 
 L'ean. Go on. 
 
 Mas. Far from being of a retiring disposition, is the regular 
 town's talk. She sets her cap at every man she thinks worth 
 attracting, and when she has got all she can out of him she will 
 quietly throw him over. She is very honeyed in her speech, and 
 would pass for a prude ; but I know — it's in my line to understand 
 something of that kind of thing. 
 
 Lean. Celie 
 
 Mas. Yes ; her modesty is only put on, only a semblance, 
 which vanishes before the glittering rays of gold. 
 
 L'ean. What are you teUing me? Can I believe such a 
 thing ? 
 
 Mas. No, don't believe it; marry this sly creature — all the 
 town will applaud you. 
 
 Ltan. This is indeed a surprise. 
 
 Mas. {aside). He has taken the bait. Courage ! If he does 
 swallow it, and get well hooked, we shall be rid of a very trouble- 
 some thorn. 
 
 Lean. Go to the post office and see if a letter has come for 
 me. {Exit Mascarilk. L'eandre alone^ after having mused awhile) 
 
Scene III.] LETOURDI. 189 
 
 Who would not have been taken in ? If what he says is true, 
 never did the look of a face take one in more completely. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Li^LiE, Leandre. 
 
 Lclie. What may be the reason, sir, why you look so sad ? 
 
 Leandre. Who ? I ? 
 
 L'el. Yes, yourself. 
 
 Lean. I have no reason at all. 
 
 Lei. I see plainly enough that Celie is the cause of it. 
 
 Lean. My mind does not dwell on such trifles. 
 
 L'el. For all that, you had some grand schemes about her. You 
 may as well own it as they have failed. 
 
 Lean. If I were foolish enough to value her charm, I should 
 laugh at all your tricks. 
 
 L'el. What tricks do you mean ? 
 
 L'ean. Oh ! we know all about that. 
 
 Lei. All about what ? 
 
 L'ean. Why all your goings-on, from beginning to end. 
 
 Lei. This is all Greek to me ; I can't understand it. 
 
 Lean. Pretend, if you like, not to understand me ; but you 
 need not be afraid of my disputing wM'th you a possession which 
 any one may have. I like a beauty that is not soiled ; one who is 
 free with every one has no charm for me. 
 
 Lei. Softly, softly, Leandre. 
 
 Lean. Ha ! how simple you are ! Go, I tell you, and see her. 
 I shall not be jealous, and you may be congratulated. Her 
 beauty's very uncommon, but she makes herself much too 
 common. 
 
 L'el. Leandre, no more of this provoking language. Try as 
 hard as you like to win her from me. I won't have my divinity's 
 character run down by any one, and I would much rather put 
 up with you as a rival than have you say a word against her 
 character. 
 
 Lean. What I tell you comes from a very good source. 
 
 Lei. Whoever told you so is a rascal and a scoundrel. No one 
 shall say a word against the girl. I know her very heart. 
 
 Lean. Well, I suppose Mascarille is a pretty good judge in the 
 matter, and it was he who spoke lightly of her. 
 
 L'el. He ? 
 
 L'ean. None other. 
 
 L'el. What, does the insolent rascal dare to say a word against 
 
190 THE BLUNDERER, [Act In. 
 
 an honourable girl like that, and to think I should make a joke of 
 it ? I'll lay you what you like that I force him to eat his words. 
 
 Lean. I'll take you that he doesn't. 
 
 Lei. Why, I'd thrash him within an inch of his life if be dared 
 to say anything of the kind to me ! 
 
 Lean. And I'll crop his ears on the spot if he does not stand 
 to what he said. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 L^LiE, Leandre, Mascarille. 
 
 Lelie. Ah ! by good luck here he is. Come hither, you vile 
 cur ! 
 
 Mascarille. What's the matter ? 
 
 Lei. You serpent's tongue, full of lies ! how dare you speak 
 against Celie ! How dare you, too, say a word against the most 
 virtuous girl that ever shone under ill-fortune ! 
 
 Mas. Gently. What I said was part of my plan. [Aside to 
 Lelie, and making signs. ^ 
 
 Lei. No, no ; none of your winking or trying to make a joke 
 of it. I am blind and deaf to all that you can say or do. If it 
 were my own brother he should pay dear for it. To dare to say 
 a word against one whom I adore is to wound me in the tenderest 
 part. All those signs are useless. What was it that you said to 
 this gentleman ? 
 
 Mas. Pray, sir, don't quarrel about it, or I shall be off. 
 
 Lei. No, you don't stir a step. 
 
 Mas. Oh! oh! 
 
 Lei. Well, speak, then ! — confess ! 
 
 Mas. Let me go. ( Whispering to Lelie) I tell you it is an 
 artful trick. 
 
 Lei. Make haste. What was it you said ? Decide this point 
 between us. 
 
 Mas. I said what I said ; don't put yourself in a passion. 
 
 Lei. {drawing his sword). Ah ! I'll make you talk in another 
 style. 
 
 Lean, {stopping him). Stay a moment; abate somewhat of 
 your anger. 
 
 Mas. Was there ever any one possessed of so little under- 
 standing ? 
 
 Lei. Let me satisfy my outraged feelings on him ! 
 
 Lean. It is taking too much on you to beat him in my 
 presence. 
 
Scene IV.] LETOURDI. ' 191 
 
 Lei. What ? Have I not the right to correct my own people ? 
 
 Lean. What do you mean by " your people " ? 
 
 Mas. {aside). Again ! He'll discover everything. 
 
 Lei. If I chose to beat him to death, what then ? He's my 
 own servant. 
 
 Lean. No ; at present he's mine. 
 
 Lei. This is a good joke ! Pray how is he yours ? 
 
 Lean. Most certainly. 
 
 Mas. (7vlitspermg). Gently. 
 
 Lei. Ha ! what tale do you want to tell me ? 
 
 Mas. {aside). Oh, the confounded blockhead ! He's going to 
 spoil everything. I can't get him to understand, make what signs 
 I will. 
 
 Lei. You've got some queer notions, Leandre, and want to 
 impose them on me. Is he not my servant ? 
 
 Lean. Haven't you dismissed him from your service for some 
 fault that he committed ? 
 
 Lei. I don't know what you mean. 
 
 Lean. And did you not in your anger chastise him across the 
 shoulders most unmercifully ? 
 
 Lei. Certainly not. I discharge him, and thrash him ! You 
 must be laughing at me,^ Leandre, or else he has been making fun 
 of you. 
 
 Mas. {aside): Pray go on, blockhead ! you'll soon settle your 
 affairs. 
 
 Lean, {to Mascarille). So all this thrashing was imaginary? 
 
 Mas. He does not know what he says. His memory 
 
 Lean. No, no. All your signs won't do you any good. I 
 can form an idea of your artful design ; but I'll forgive you for 
 the sake of your cleverness. It's enough for me that he has 
 undeceived me, so that I see your motive for having imposed on 
 me ; and I am glad to have got off so easily when I had trusted 
 myself to your hypocritical zeal. " This ought to be called a hint 
 to the reader. Farewell, Lelie, farewell; your most obedient 
 servant. [Exit. 
 
 Mas. Courage, my brave boy! May good luck attend us! 
 Let us draw the sword and bravely start on our campaign. Let us 
 act " Olibvius, the slayer of the innocents." 
 
 Lei. He accused you of slandering. 
 
 Mas. And could not you see my design, and have left him to 
 his mistake, which was doing you good, and had well-nigh cured 
 him of his love ? No, forsooth, he has an open, frank soul which 
 cannot dissemble. I had cleverly insinuated myself into his rival's 
 
192 THE BLUNDERER. [Act III- 
 
 favour ; this trick would have put his sweetheart into my hands — 
 when he must needs thwart me by a false message. I try to 
 lessen the warmth of his rival's love, when my fine fellow must 
 needs come and undeceive him. It is useless for me to make 
 signs to show him that it is only a stratagem ; he pushes his point 
 home, and never rests till he has unravelled the whole affair. 
 Grand and sublime effort of an imagination which yields to no 
 man living ! It's an excellent specimen, worthy, upon my word, 
 to be presented to the king's museum. 
 
 Lei. I am not surprised that I baffle your efforts. Unless I am 
 informed of your plans beforehand, t may make a hundred more 
 mistakes of the same sort. 
 
 Mas. So much the worse. 
 
 LeL At least, if you would be justly angry with me, give me 
 some insight into your plans; but if the door is kept always 
 closed, you must not wonder if I am taken unawares. 
 
 Mas. I believe you would be an excellent fencing-master, 
 you are so wonderfully skilful in making feints and parrying 
 thrusts. 
 
 L'el. Since the thing is done, it's no use thinking of it any 
 more. My rival cannot in any case thwart me; and provided that 
 your endeavours, on which I rely 
 
 Mas. Let us drop this discourse, ancl talk of something else. 
 I can tell you, I'm not so easily pacified. I am too angry. You 
 must first render me a service, and then we will see afterwards 
 whether I can again undertake your love affairs. 
 
 Lei. If that is all, I can refuse nothing. Tell me, do you want 
 my blood, or must I draw my sword for you ? 
 
 Mas. What strange ideas run in his head ! You're of the 
 same temper as those friends of the sword who are always more 
 ready to draw than to produce a tester if one wanted it. 
 
 Lei. What can I do for you ? 
 
 Mas. Well, then, you must absolutely appease your father's 
 anger. 
 
 Lei. We've made it up already. 
 
 Mas.' Yes, but not for me. I killed him this morning for love 
 of you. The idea of it enrages him ; and such fancies are cruel 
 shocks to old men like him, as they give rise to melancholy 
 reflections on their approaching end. The good man, old as he 
 is, loves life dearly, and can bear no joke on the subject. He 
 dreads the omen, and being in a rage with me, has, so they say, 
 taken out a summons against me. I am afraid if Fm once lodged 
 at the king's expense, that after the first quarter of an hour I may 
 
ScKN-ii v.] VETOURDI. 193 
 
 like it so well that I shall find it difficult to come out again. 
 There are a good many warrants out against me, of pretty long 
 standing ; for indeed virtue is always envied and persecuted in 
 this cursed age. Go, then, and try and win him over. 
 
 L'eL Oh, yes, I can manage that ; but at the same time you 
 must promise 
 
 Mas. Well, then, we'll see about it. {Exit Lelie.) Now for a 
 little ])reathing-time after so much fatigue. Let us stop for awhile 
 the course of our intrigues, and not plague ourselves like some 
 unquiet spirit. Leandre at last is off guard, and Celie being 
 kept safely, thanks to that artifice— — 
 
 Scene V. 
 Ergaste, Mascarille. 
 
 Ergasie. I have been looking for you everywhere, as I want 
 to do you a service by informing you of a very important secret. 
 
 Mascarille. What may that be ? 
 
 Er. There are no listeners about ? 
 
 Mas. None at all. 
 
 Er. We are friends, as much as it is possible to be. I know 
 all your plans, and your master's love affair. Look about you 
 sharply by and by ; Leandre has made a plot to carry off C^lie, 
 and I am told that he has arranged everything, and flatters him- 
 self that he will be able to get into Trufaldin's house by means of 
 a masquerade — having learnt that at this season women of the 
 neighbourhood often go masked to pay visits of an evening. 
 
 Mas. Good. That's enough. He has not yet succeeded in 
 gaining his utmost wishes. I may be able presently to choke him 
 off, and dehver a sly blow against this assault, by which I intend 
 that he shall run himself through. He does not know all the 
 gifts with which heaven has provided me. Good-bye. We'll 
 drain a bottle together at our next meeting. \Exit Ergaste. 
 
 Mas. {alo?ie). We must, indeed we must, get all the good we 
 can for ourselves from this amorous intrigue, and by a dexterous 
 and uncommon surprise try for good luck without any risk. If I 
 get the start of him in the masquerade business, Leandre will 
 have no reason to crow over us ; and then if we take the prize 
 before he comes, he will have to pay for the enterprise, for his plan 
 having already taken wind, suspicion will fall on him, while we, 
 being shielded from pursuit, need not fear any bad results from 
 this hazardous attack. We shall escape making any disturbance, 
 and use the cal's-paw to pull the chestnuts out of the fire. Now 
 
 '4 
 
194 THE BLUNDERER, [Act III. 
 
 then, let us go to mask ourselves with some good comrades, for 
 if we are to be first in the field there must be no loitering. I 
 know where the hare lies, and can, without any trouble, furnish 
 myself at once with men and dresses. Depend upon it, I'll turn 
 my dexterity to good account. If heaven has given me deception 
 for my share, I'm not like those degenerate spirits who hide the 
 talents that Providence has bestowed on them. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Lelie, Ergaste. 
 
 Lelie. What ! he intends to carry her off in masquerade ? 
 
 Ergaste. It is absolutely certain. One of the party having told 
 me of the plot, I ran as quickly as I could to Mascarille, to tell 
 him all about it ; and he is gone, so he said, to break up their 
 scheme by some suddenly devised stratagem of his own ; and as I 
 have accidentally met you here, I thought it my duty to let you 
 know the whole affair. ; 
 
 Lei. I am extremely obliged to you for this news. I shall not 
 forget this faithful service. {Exit Ergaste.) My amusing rascal 
 will certainly play them some trick, but I should like, for my part, 
 to second his design. It shall never be said that in a matter which 
 concerns me so closely I could not stir more than a post. It 
 must be near the time. I warrant they'll be surprised at the sight 
 of me. Zounds ! why didn't I bring my stick with me ? But 
 there, if any one attacks me, I have a brace of pistols and a good 
 sword. Hullo ! Any one there ? I want a word with you. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 I.ELIE, TrUFALDIN. 
 
 Trufaldin. What's the matter? Who's there ? 
 
 Lelie. Fasten your doors carefully to-night. 
 
 Tru. What for ? 
 
 Lei. There are certain fellows coming in masks, who intend ta 
 give you an unpleasant serenade. They mean to carry off Celie. 
 
 Tru. Good heavens ! 
 
 Lei. And they're sure to be here very soon. Stay where you 
 are. You can see everything from the window. Ah ! What 
 did I tell you ? Don't you see them coming ? Hist ! I want 
 you to see me open upon them. We shall have good sport if our 
 cord does not break. 
 
Scene IX.] VETOVRDL 195 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 Lelie, Trufaldin, Mascarille and his party {fnasked). 
 
 Trufaldiii. So these pleasant rogues think to catch me napping. 
 
 Lelie. You masks there, where are you off to so quick ? Won't 
 you tell us all about it ? Trufaldin, pray open the door that these 
 mummers may play. Oh, heavens ! how beautiful she is ! and 
 what a charming air ! What, are you grumbhng ? May not one, 
 without offence, remove the mask, and see your face ? 
 
 Trie. Be off, you villainous rogues ; go away from here, you 
 ragamuffins! {To Lelie.) And you, sir, good-night, and many 
 thanks. 
 
 Lei. What, Mascarille ! is it you ? 
 
 Mas. No, marry, it is not ; it is some one else. 
 
 Lei. Alas ! What a surprise ! What ill fortune is ours ! Could 
 I possibly have guessed this, not having been told beforehand of 
 the reasons which led you to disguise yourself. Unhappy that I 
 am to have looked under that mask, and so have played you this 
 trick without meaning it. I have a good mind, in the heat of my 
 just anger, to fall on myself and inflict a hundred blows on my 
 body. 
 
 Mas. Farewell, most refined wit, unparalleled imagination ! 
 
 Lei. Alas ! if your anger deprives me of your assistance, whom 
 can I call upon ? 
 
 Mas. The devil himself ! 
 
 LcL Ah ! if your heart is not as insensible as brass or steel, 
 once more at least let my imprudence be pardoned ; if to obtain 
 it I should kiss your feet, see me 
 
 Mas. Come along, my mates, come along. I hear some people 
 coming close behind us. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 L^ANDRE atid his suite {masked), Trufaldin. 
 
 Leandre. No noise. Let us act in the best style. 
 
 Trufaldin {at the window). What ! Masks besieging my door 
 all the night. Gentlemen, pray don't take cold for nothing; every 
 one who does so has surely plenty of time to lose. It is a little 
 too late to carry Celie off. She begs you to excuse her this night. 
 She is in bed, and so cannot speak to you. I am extremely sorry 
 on your account. But to refresh you after the great pains you've 
 been at for her sake, she sends you this perfumery. {Empties a 
 basin of dirty water on them.) 
 
196 THE DLVNbEREll [Act IV. 
 
 Lean. Phew ! that does not smell very sweet ! I'm drenched 
 with it. We are discovered, so we'd better be off. 
 
 ACT IV. Scene I. 
 L^LiE {dressed like afi Armenian), Mascarille. 
 
 Mascarille. There, you are got up in a most jolly fashion. 
 
 Lelie. You have by this means revived my dead hope. 
 
 Mas. My anger is always too soon over. It is of no use to swear 
 and protest ; I can't keep it up. 
 
 Lei, And in return, depend upon it, if I ever have it in my 
 power, you shall have no cause to complain of my want of grati- 
 tude, and if I had only a single morsel of bread 
 
 Mas. That will do. Now give all your thoughts to this new^ 
 plot. However, if you commit any blunder, you can't lay it to 
 the account of surprise ; you ought to have learnt your part in this 
 play off by heart. 
 
 Lei. But how did Trufaldin receive you at his house ? 
 
 Mas. I got over the old man by a pretended zeal for him ; I 
 said I had come to tell him as earnestly as I could, that unless he 
 looked well about him some people would surprise him ; that 
 they were taking their aim, from more than one quarter, at the 
 girl about whose birth a false disclosure had been made ; that 
 they had wished to involve me in the matter, but that I had taken 
 care to keep out of it ; and that, being moved by zeal for hij 
 interest, I came to warn him to be upon his guard. Then, 
 moralising, I discoursed seriously on the number of rogues one 
 sees about every day, and said that for my part, being tired of the 
 world and its evil ways, I wished to attend to my soul's salvation, 
 to retire from all worry, and pass the rest of my days in peace 
 near some good man ; that if he thought well of it, I should like 
 to end my life with him ; and that he had so far gained my affec- 
 tion, that, without asking any wages, I would place in his hands, 
 knowing it to be safe, some money which my father had left me, 
 as well as my savings ; of which, if it pleased heaven to take 
 me first, he should be the sole heir, knowing that this was the 
 best way to reach his heart. And since, in order that your sweet- 
 heart and you might find out some expedient for crowning your 
 desires, I wished to arrange a private interview, he himself devised 
 a way that promises well, by which you may openly stay in the 
 same house with her ; for he happened to tell me of a dead son 
 of his, who he dreamt last night had come to life again. The 
 
Scene I.] LETOURDI. 197 
 
 following is the story he told me, and on which I have formed 
 a new scheme. 
 
 Lei. Enough ; I know it all ; you have already it told me twice. 
 
 Mas. Yes, yes ; but when I've told it you even three times it 
 may be that your intelligence, in spite of its sufficiency, may fail 
 on some point or other. 
 
 Lei. But I can hardly restrain myself to wait so long. 
 
 Mas. Ah ! but pray don't run so fast, for fear you should get 
 a fall. Do you understand ? You've a head-piece that's rather 
 hard ; so you must be quite clear in this matter. Some time ago 
 Trufaldin left Naples — as he was tlien called, Zanobio Ruberti. 
 A faction having caused an outbreak in the city, of which he alone 
 was suspected (in fact, he's not a man to make a commotion in 
 any state), obliged him to leave the place quietly by night. His 
 very young daughter and his wife were left behind, and some time 
 afterwards he received news of their death. Under this great 
 affliction, wishing to take with Mm to some other town both his 
 property and the only hope left to his race, a son named Horace, 
 then a boy at school, he wrote to Bologna, where, that he might 
 have the best instruction, he had committed the lad to the care 
 of a tutor named Albert. But though the time and place were 
 fixed for their meeting, two whole years passed without his seeing 
 or hearing of them ; so that after that time, supposing they must 
 be dead, he came to this city, where he took the name he now 
 bears, never having found in twelve years the least trace of this 
 Albert or of his son Horace. This, then, is the story in rough 
 outline, only repeated over again that you might be surer of the 
 groundwork. Now, you're to be an Armenian merchant who has 
 seen them both in Turkey, safe and sound. If I have made use 
 of this means rather than any other for bringing these people to 
 life again of whom he dreamt, it is because it is very common to 
 hear of people taken captive at sea by the Turkish corsairs, and 
 then restored to their families perhaps fifteen or twenty years 
 afterwards. For my part I've heard a hundred tales of this kind, 
 and so let's make use of them without troubling our brains any 
 farther. You are to have heard them tell the story of their being 
 sold as slaves, and to have furnished them with money to redeem 
 themselves; but you having set out first on urgent business, Horace 
 charged you to come here and see his father, whose position he 
 had learnt, and with whom you were to stay for a few days till 
 they arrived. Now I've given you a good long lesson. 
 
 Lei. These repetitions are net^dless, I understoou tlic wholg 
 aflair from the first. 
 
198 THE BLUNDERER, [Act IV. 
 
 Mas. I'll go in and give the first stroke. 
 
 Lei. Listen, Mascarille ; there's only one point that troubles 
 me. Suppose he should ask me to describe his son's appearance ? 
 
 Mas. That's no great difficulty ! Don't you know that he was 
 quite young when he last saw him ? and then, besides that, length 
 of time and slavery must have completely altered him. 
 
 Lei. That's true. But tell me, if he should remember having 
 seen me before, what must I do then ? 
 
 Mas. Have you really lost your memory ? I told you just 
 now that, as he only had a passing view of you, that could not 
 have made much impression on him, as he could not have seen 
 you for above a minute ; besides, your beard and dress would 
 disguise you completely. 
 
 Lei. Very well. But now I think of it, what part of Turkey ? 
 
 Mas. Oh, it's all the same, I tell you — Turkey or Barbary. 
 
 Lei, But the name of the town where I am to have seen 
 him? 
 
 Mas. Tunis. He'll keep me all day, I think. He says sucli 
 constant repetition is needless, and yet I've repeated the name of 
 this town to him a dozen times already. 
 
 Lei. Go and start, then ; I want nothing more. 
 
 Mas. At any rate be prudent, and act for the best. Don't 
 give us any more of your inventions. 
 
 Lei. Leave me to manage. You're always so suspicious. 
 
 Mas. Horace, a schoolboy, at Bologna ; Trufaldin — Zanobio 
 Ruberti, a citizen of Naples ; the tutor, Albert 
 
 Lei. Ah ! you're making me quite ashamed with all this 
 preaching at me. Do you take me for a fool ? 
 
 Mas. Not a perfect one ; but very near it. 
 
 Lei. {solus). When I've no occasion for him he cringes like a 
 spaniel, but now, because he knows very well he is giving me im- 
 portant help, his familiarity is unbearable. — Now I am going into 
 the full sunshine of those bright eyes whose power has imposed 
 on me a servitude so delightful : I am now going, without any 
 hindrance, to paint to my charmer in glowing colours the torments 
 my heart has suffered ! I shall then know my fate. — But here 
 they are. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Trufaldin, Lelie, Mascarille. 
 
 Tnifaldin. Righteous heaven be thanked for this favourable 
 turn in my fortune ! 
 
Scene II.] VETOURDI. 199 
 
 Mascarille. You are the man to see visions and dream dreams, 
 since with you dreams are no idle dreams. 
 
 Tru. What thanks can I render you, what good can I do you, 
 seigneur — you whom I ought to style the good angel of my 
 happiness ? 
 
 Lelie. Give yourself no trouble about that ; I can dispense 
 with thanks. 
 
 Tru. {to Mascarille). I have seen some one, I don't know 
 where, having some resemblance to this Armenian. 
 
 Mas. That's what I was just saying ; but one sees surprising 
 likenesses sometimes. 
 
 Tru. Have you really seen this son of mine, on whom all my 
 hopes are fixed ? 
 
 Lei. Yes, Seigneur Trufaldin; he's one of the jolliest fellows in 
 the world. 
 
 T7'u. Did he give you the history of his life, and talk much 
 about me ? 
 
 Lei. More than ten thousand times. 
 
 Mas, {aside to Lelie). I should fancy less than that. 
 
 Lei. He described you just as I see you ; your face, your air 
 
 Tru. How could that be, when he has not seen me since he 
 was seven years old ? Why, even his tutor, after so long a time, 
 could scarcely recognise me. 
 
 Mas. One's own flesh and blood preserve this likeness in quite 
 another fashion. This likeness is shown by certain marks so 
 strong that my father 
 
 Tru. That will do. Where was it you left him ? 
 
 Lei. In Turkey, at Turin. 
 
 Tj'u. Turin ? Why, that's in Piedmont. 
 
 Mas. {aside). Oh, what an idiot ! {To Trufaldin.) You don't 
 understand him, he means Tunis ; and there it was that he actually 
 left your son : but the Armenians all have a custom, a particular 
 faulty pronunciation, as it seems to other nations; in all their 
 words they change a ";;?>" into "nV?," and so instead of saying 
 Tunis they pronounce Turin. 
 
 Tru. One needed this explanation in order to understand 
 fwm. How did he tell you to find out his father? 
 
 Mas. {aside). See if he'll answer. {To Trufaldin, who sees 
 him gesticulating^ I have just been practising a lesson in fencing. 
 Formerly there was not a man anywhere who could match me, 
 and I've used a foil in many and many a fencing-room. 
 
 Tru. That's not what I want to know now. {To Lelie.) What 
 other name did he say that I should go by ? 
 
200 THE BLUNDERER. [Act IV. 
 
 Mas. {seeing Lelie still at fault). Ah! Seigneur Zandbio Ruberti, 
 what joy is heaven sending to you ! 
 
 Lei. That is your true name : the other is assumed. 
 
 Tru. But where did he tell you that he first saw the light? 
 
 Mas. Naples seems a most agreeable place to live in, but no 
 doubt to you it is most hateful. 
 
 Tnc. Can't you let us talk without chattering ? 
 
 Zel. It was in Naples that he first drew his breath. 
 
 Tni. Where did I send him when he was young, and to whom 
 did I entrust him ? 
 
 Lei. That poor tutor Albert, to whose discretion your care 
 had committed him, deserves well of you, for having accompanied 
 your son from Bologna. 
 
 Tni. Pshaw! 
 
 3Las. {aside). AVe shall be lost if this conversation lasts much 
 longer. 
 
 Tru. I should be glad to learn from you something about 
 their adventures ; on board what vessel Fate brought this upon 
 me. 
 
 Mas. I don't know how it is, but I do nothing but yawn. But 
 vSeigneur Trufaldin, do you consider that perhaps this gentleman 
 would like some refreshment? and besides that, it's late. 
 
 Lei. Oh, no refreshment for me. 
 
 Mas. Oh, sir, you are hungrier than you imagine. 
 
 Tru. Please to walk in, then. 
 
 Lei. After you. 
 
 Mas. {to Trufaldin). Sir, in Armenia the masters of the house 
 use no ceremony. [Trufaldin goes in.) {To Lelie.) You poor 
 wretch, can't you say two words ? 
 
 Lei. He surprised me at first. But don't give yourself any 
 further concern ; I have pulled myself together, and am going to 
 talk away boldly. 
 
 Mas. Here comes our rival, who knows nothing of our plot. 
 (T/iey enter Trufaldin^ s house.) 
 
 Scene IH. 
 
 Leandre, Anselme. 
 
 Anselme. Stay, Leandre, and listen to something which closely 
 concerns your peace and reputation. I do not speak to you as 
 the father of my daughter, as a man interested in my own family, 
 but as if I were your father, anxious for your welfare, without 
 wishing to flatter you or to disguise anything from you. In short, 
 
Scene IV.] VETOURDL 201 
 
 I deal with you in an open and honest spirit, as I should wish 
 every one to deal with me and mine in like case. Are you aware 
 how every one regards this amour of yours, which in one night 
 has been published everywhere? To how much remark and 
 ridicule has your adventure of last night exposed you ! What 
 opinion can people form of this capricious choice of a common 
 gipsy as your wife, a strolling wench whose only employment is 
 that of a beggar ? I blushed for you more than for myself, though 
 indeed I am involved in the scandal : myself, I say, whose 
 daughter being promised to you in marriage, cannot suffer the 
 insult without humiliation. I beg of you, Leandre, don't lower 
 yourself any longer ; open your eyes and see how blindly you have 
 been acting. If we are none of us wise at all times, the most 
 short-lived errors are always the best. When a man has no 
 portion with his wife except her good looks, repentance follows 
 hard upon marriage, and the handsomest wife has very little, 
 defence against the lukewarmness which follows possession. The 
 joys of marriage are soon damped by the stern realities of life, and 
 then come cares, anxieties, and sorrows, sons disinherited by the 
 father's anger. 
 
 Leandre. In all you say, I have not heard one word which my 
 mind has not already brought before me. I know how much I 
 owe to the great honour you design for me, and of which I am 
 unworthy ; and I see, in spite of the energy with which I have 
 struggled against it, that your daughter's worth and virtue are so 
 great, that I am determined to try 
 
 Ans. They are opening this door : let us go a little further off, 
 for fear some bad influence should seize vou unawares. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Lelie, IvIascarille. 
 
 Mascarille. \Ve shall very soon sec the wreck of our plot if 
 you will persist in these fearful blunders. 
 
 Lclic. Must I for ever listen to your fault-finding ? What have 
 \<)U to complain of? Have I not succeeded in everything I have 
 
 said since 
 
 Mas. So, so : witness the Turks whom you called heretics, 
 and who, you solemnly affirmed, worshipped the sun and moon 
 for their gods. Let that pass; but what vexes me beyond measure 
 is that your love leads you to a strange forgetful ness ; when you 
 are near Celie it is like soup which, heated by too fierce a fire, 
 wells, mounts up to the brim, and runs over all round. 
 
 I 
 
203 THE BLUNDERER, [Act IV. 
 
 L'el. Could one force oneself to a greater reserve ? As yet I 
 have scarcely spoken to her. 
 
 Mas. Yes, but it is not enough not to speak. By your 
 gestures during the short time of supper you gave greater ground 
 for suspicion than other people would have done in a whole 
 twelvemonth. 
 
 LeL And how so ? 
 
 Mas. How so ? Every one could see it. At table, where 
 Trufaldin would force her to sit down, you never took your eyes 
 off her ; you blushed and sat dumb, hanging on her looks, and 
 not paying the least attention to what you were being helped to. 
 You were never thirsty but when she drank, and then, seizing the 
 glass out of her hands, without rinsing it or throwing a drop of it 
 away, you drank her leavings, and sought to drink on that side of 
 the glass she had carried to her lips. Every morsel that her 
 delicate hand had touched, or her teeth had pressed, you seized 
 as a cat would a mouse, and swallowed most greedily. And then, 
 besides all this, you kept up an intolerable noise with your feet 
 under the table, and gave Trufaldin two hard kicks, for which he 
 punished two innocent dogs, who would have picked a quarrel 
 with you if they dared. And then, after all that, you say you 
 behaved well ! For my part my whole body was on the rack. 
 Notwithstanding the cold, I was in a perspiration with my exer- 
 tions. I hung over you as a bowler does over his bowl after he 
 has delivered it, and tried to restrain your actions by a thousand 
 distortions of my body. 
 
 Lei. Good gracious ! How easy it is to condemn things of 
 which you don't feel the enchanting cause. However, just to 
 please you for once, I will control that love which imposes its 
 laws on me. Henceforward 
 
 Scene V. 
 Lelie, Mascarille, Trufaldin. 
 
 Mascarille. We were just talking about Horace's adventures. 
 
 Trufaldin (to Lelie). That was very well. Meantime, will you 
 grant me the favour of a word with him in private ? 
 
 Lelie. I should be very inconsiderate if I did not. 
 
 Tru. [alone with Mascarille). Now, listen to me. Do you 
 know what I've just been doing ? 
 
 Mas. No ; but I soon shall do so, if you will be so good as to 
 inform me. 
 
 Tru. From a great sturdy oak, nearly two hundred years old, 
 
Scene VI.] LETOURDL 203 
 
 I have just cut off a splendid branch, chosen expressly, of a 
 reasonable thickness, of which I made on the spot, with great 
 zest, a cudgel, about {showing his arm), yes, about this size, 
 rather tapering at one end, but, as I think, better than thirty sap- 
 lings for belabouring the shoulders, for one can get a good hold 
 of it ; it is green, knotty, and strong. 
 
 Mas. But for whom, pray, is this prepared ? 
 
 Trt^. First of all for yourself; then for this good missionary, 
 who would restore to me one person and cheat me out of another; 
 for this Armenian, this merchant in disguise, introduced under 
 the bait of a trumped-up story. 
 
 Mas. What ! Don't you believe ? 
 
 Tru. Don't look about for an excuse. Fortunately he himself 
 discovered the cheat, by saying to Celie, as he squeezed her hand, 
 that it was for her sake alone that he had come in this disguise. 
 He did not notice my little goddaughter Jeannette, who heard 
 every word. I don't doubt, though he didn't happen to mention 
 it, that you are his cursed accomplice in all this. 
 
 Mas. Indeed you do me wrong. If one must contradict you, 
 believe that he imposed on me first with this story. 
 
 Tru. Do you wish to prove to me that you are speaking the 
 truth ? Assist my arm in driving him away. Let us give this 
 rascal a sound thrashing, then I will acquit you of everything. 
 
 Mas. Ay, ay, with all my heart I'll lay into him, and by that 
 you shall see that I have not deceived you in anything. {Aside.) 
 Ah, ah ! Mister Armenian, you shall have a good thrashing, you 
 who always spoil everything ! 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Lelie, Trufaldin, Mascarille. 
 
 7rufaldi?i {knocks at the door and addresses Lelie). A word with 
 you, pray. So, Mr. Impostor, you dare to deceive an honest man, 
 and make game of him ? 
 
 Mascarille. To pretend to have seen his son in another land 
 in order to get the readier admission into his family. 
 
 Tru. {beating Lelie). Clear off; clear off at once ! 
 
 Lelie. Oh, the scoundrel ! 
 
 Mas. {beating him also). 'Tis thus that cheats 
 
 LH. Villain ! 
 
 iMas. Are settled here. Keep that carefully for me. 
 
 L'el. What then ? Am I the man to 
 
 Mas. Come ; be off, I tell you, or I'll beat your brains in. 
 
204 THE BLUNDERER. [Act IV. 
 
 Tru, This pleases me greatly. Come in. I am quite satis- 
 fied. 
 
 . LcL This to me ! This glaring aftront from a servant ! Could 
 any one have foreseen the action of this traitor, who has so in- 
 .solently abused his master ? 
 
 Mas. {froJH Trufaldin's window). May one ask, without 
 offence, how your shoulders feel ? 
 
 Lei. What ! Have you still the impudence to speak to me in 
 this manner ? 
 
 Mas. See, then — see what it is to overlook little Jeannettt-, 
 and always to have an ungovernable tongue. But this time I'm 
 not angry with you ; I've done scolding and swearing at you. 
 Although the folly of the action was so great, yet my hand has 
 expiated the fault on your backbone. 
 
 Lei. Ah ! I am determined to take revenge for this shameful 
 assault. 
 
 Mas. You have brought all this mischief on your own head ? 
 
 Lei. I ? 
 
 Mas. If you had not been an addle-pate when you were talk- 
 ing heedlessly to your idol, you would have perceived Jeannette 
 close to you^ whose sharp ear discovered the whole affair. 
 
 Lei. Could any one possibly hear a word I said to Celie? 
 
 Mas. How else, then, came your speedy expulsion? Yes, 
 you are shut out by your own prating. I don't know whether you 
 often play at picquet, but you have an admirable knack of throw- 
 ing away your good cards. 
 
 IM. Oh, I am the most unfortunate of all v»Tetches ! But I 
 ask again, why should I have been turned out by you ? 
 
 Mas. I never did anything better than undertaking that task ; 
 for by this means, at least, I escape all suspicion of being the 
 author, or, at any rate, the accomplice in this artifice. , J 
 
 Lei. You should, at any rate, have laid it on more gently. '■ 
 
 Mas. How stupid you arc. Why, Trufaldin was watching u^ 
 most closely. And further, I must tell you that under this useful 
 cover I was not sorry to vent my vexation. In short, the thing 
 is over, and if I have your word that you will never directly or 
 indirectly revenge those blows which I gave you with such good- 
 will, then I promise you that, by the help of the position in which 
 I am, I will satisfy your desires before two nights have passed. 
 
 Lil. Though your treatment of me was cruel, yet what would 
 hot such a promise induce me to do I 
 
 Mas. You promise it, then ? 
 
 Lcl, Yes, I d« promise, 
 
SckxeVII.] VETOURDL 205 
 
 Mas. But this is not all; promise me that you will never 
 meddle with anything I have in hand. 
 
 Lei. That shall be so. 
 
 Mas. If you fail, plague take you. 
 
 Lei. But be as good as your word to me* and think of my 
 happiness. 
 
 Mas. Go and take off your coat, and put some ointment on 
 your back. 
 
 Ixl. Must that ill-fortune which pursues my steps always 
 present to me disgrace upon disgrace ? 
 
 Mas. What ! are you not gone yet ? Go from here at once ! 
 Above all, take care not to trouble about anything. Let it be 
 enough for you that I am acting for you, and do not try to for- 
 ward my plans in the slightest degree. Go, and stay quietly. 
 
 Lcl. Yes, I'll keep to that. 
 
 Mas. Now let me see what course to take. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Ergaste, Mascarille. 
 
 Ergaste. Mascarille, I've come to tell you a piece of |i^»'$; 
 which will give a sad blow to your designs. Now, while lam' 
 speaking to you, a young gipsy has come, who, however, is not" 
 black, and has a gentlemanly appearance. He is accompanied by 
 a pale-faced old woman, and is going to call on Trufaldin, to repur- 
 chase the slave that you are after. He seems to be very keen 
 after her. 
 
 Mascarille. No doubt it is the lover Celie spoke of. Were 
 ever people's fortunes so embroiled as ours are? We are no 
 sooner clear of one embarrassment than we fall into another. 1 1 
 is of no use that we learn that Leandre is on the point of giving 
 up the affair, and troubling us no longer ; that his father having 
 arrived, contrary to all expectation, turns the balance in favour of 
 Hypolyte ; that he has changed the look of everything by his 
 authority, and is going this very day to conclude the marriage 
 treaty. As soon as one rival takes himself off, a more dangerous 
 one turns up to deprive us of all the hope that remains. Never- 
 theless, by a wonderful exercise of my art I believe I shall be able 
 to stop their going for a while, and so gain as much time as will 
 be necessary to put the finishing stroke to this famous affair. A 
 great robbery has been committed, by whom no one knows. 
 These gipsy people are not generally thought much of, and so on 
 a slight suspicion T can manage to get the young man imprisoned 
 
2o6 THE BLUNDERER. [Act V. 
 
 for a few days. I know some thirsty officers of justice, who 
 are always ready for such jobs. In the greedy hope of getting 
 something, there's nothing that they will not attempt blindfold; 
 be the person ever so innocent, his purse is a criminal for their 
 benefit, and must pay a fine. 
 
 ACT V. Scene I. 
 Mascarille, Ergaste. 
 
 Mascarille. Oh, the cur ! The stupid cur ! Blunder-headed 
 turnspit ! Shall we never be free from your persecution ? 
 
 Ergaste. By the great care of the constable, your affair was 
 going on all right; our man had just been nabbed, when your 
 master must needs come upon the scene at that moment, like a 
 madman, to upset your plot. " I won't allow," he says, in a 
 haughty tone, " an honest man to be dragged off in this shameful 
 manner. I can see by his looks what he is. I will answer for 
 him, and be his bail." And as they made some resistance rather 
 than let go their man, he charged them so vigorously, that, as 
 they are a kind of folk who are very careful of their own persons, 
 they are at this moment running off as hard as they can, each 
 fancying he has a Lelie close upon him. 
 
 Mas. The idiot does not know that this gipsy is now in the 
 house ready to carry off his treasure. 
 
 E7\ Good-bye ; pressing business obliges me to leave you. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Mas. Yes, this last monstrous accident has positively stunned 
 me. One would think, and I really believe it, that the blunder- 
 ing devil by which this fellow is possessed is delighted to dare me, 
 and sends him wherever his presence can do me mischief. Yet, 
 for all this I'm determined to go on, and we'll see which shall 
 carry the day — this demon, or myself. C^lie is somewhat in our 
 confidence, and is most unwilling to depart. I will try to profit 
 by this. But here they come : I must put my plan into execution. 
 This furnished house is at my service ; I can dispose of it as I 
 choose. If fortune will only say the word, all will be ordered for 
 the best. No one but myself has any right here, and I keep the 
 keys. How strange that we should have had so many adventures 
 in so short a time, and how many shapes a rogue is obliged to 
 assume ! 
 
Scene III.] VilTOURDL so; 
 
 Scene II. 
 C^LiE, Andres. 
 
 Andres. You know, Celie, there is nothing that my heart has 
 left undone to prove to you the intensity of its devotion. In the 
 service of the Venetians, when I was but very young, my courage 
 gained me some consideration, and I might some day, without 
 being over-confident, have looked for some honourable distinction 
 in their service. But I forgot everything for your sake. 
 The sudden change you made in my heart enrolled your lover 
 among your companions, and since then neither a thousand 
 accidents nor your indifference have been able to alter my 
 constant attachment to you. Being by chance parted from you 
 much longer than I expected, I have spared neither time nor 
 trouble to rejoin you. In short, having found the old gipsy 
 woman, and full of impatience, having learnt your fate, how that 
 for a certain sum which was of great consequence to them, and 
 saved all the tribe from ruin, you had been left in pledge in these 
 parts, I fly hither with all speed to break these bonds, and to 
 receive from you what commands you are pleased to give. Yet 
 I find you pensive and melancholy, when your eyes should have 
 sparkled with joy. If a retired life has any attraction for you, 
 I have made sufficient in the wars for us to live at Venice ; 
 but if I must still follow you I am quite content, and my heart 
 will have no ambition other than to be near you, in whatever 
 quality you please. 
 
 Celie. Your regard for me is so evident that I should be 
 ungrateful to appear sad on that account : but just now my face 
 gives no indication of the feelings of my heart. I am suffering 
 from a violent headache, and if I have any influence with you, 
 our journey should be put off at least three or four days till this 
 indisposition shall have taken a turn. 
 
 And. Put it off as long as you like ; all my thought is how to 
 please you most. Let us look for a house where we may remain 
 quietly. Ah, here is a bill that seems to have been put up just at 
 the right moment. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Mascarille {dressed as a Swiss), L^lie, Andres. 
 
 Andres. Seigneur Swiss, are you master of this house ? 
 Mascarille. Me be at your serfice. 
 And. Can you lodge us well here ? 
 
2oS THE BLUNDERER. [Act \\ 
 
 Mas. Ves, me have very good shambers, ready furnish for 
 stranger. 
 
 And. I hope yours is a respectable house. 
 
 Mas. Me see by your face you be one stranger in this town. 
 
 And, Why do you say so ? 
 
 Mas. For why? Every one, man, v.oman, shild, know my 
 'ouse most respectable in der town. 
 
 And. Then I want comfortable rooms for this lady and nn- 
 self. 
 
 Mas. Ah, you find one, two, three much comfortable room in 
 in my litel 'ouse. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Lelie, Andri^s; afterwards Mascarille. 
 
 L'elie {alone). AYhatever may be the yearning of my impatient 
 heart, my pledged word obliges me to wait and let another work 
 for me, and to see, without daring to move, how heaven will 
 dispose of my fate. {To Andres^ laho comes out of the Jiouse.) 
 Were you asking for any one lodging here ? 
 
 Andres. It is a furnished house, which I have just hired. 
 
 Lei. For all that, the house belongs to my father, and my 
 servant sleeps here to take care of it. 
 
 And. I know nothing about th?it|. tfe.hi^^- jr^ the window 
 shows it is to let. Read it. 
 
 Lei. Very true. I won't deny that it surprises me. Who the* 
 deuce could have put it there, and for what purpose ? Ah, now 
 in truth I can form a pretty good guess what it means ! It can 
 only come from the quarter I imagine. 
 
 And. May I venture to ask what this affair may be ? 
 
 Lei. I should make a great secret of it to any one else, but 
 it cannot concern you, and I am sure you will keep your own 
 counsel. No doubt the bill you saw in the window must have 
 been the invention of a servant of mine that I was speaking of. 
 It is some subtle web that he has woven, to get a certain gipsy 
 into my power, as I am smitten with her and must win her. 1 
 have missed her hitherto, though I have made several attempts. 
 
 And. Her name is ? 
 
 Lei. Celie. 
 
 And. Ah, why did not you say so ? You'd only got to speak, 
 and doubtless I would have saved you all the trouble that this 
 scheme has cost you. 
 
 Lkl. What ! do you know her ? 
 
Scene IV.] V^TOURDI. 209 
 
 Afid. It is I who have just purchased her. 
 
 IJl. What a surprising tale ! 
 
 And. Since her health did not allow her to depart, I have 
 just placed her in this house, and I am much delighted that you 
 have informed me of your intention. 
 
 Lei, What ! Shall I obtain this happiness I hope for through 
 you ? Could you ? 
 
 And. {knocking at the door). You shall be satisfied on that 
 point directly. 
 
 Lei. What can I say to you ? How can I thank you ? 
 
 And. Pray don't ; I want no thanks. 
 
 Ettter Mascarille. 
 
 Mascarille [aside). Heaven bless us ! if that isn't my fool of a 
 master ! He's sure to go and play us some fresh trick to upset us. 
 
 Lei. Who would have known him in this outlandish dress ? 
 Come here, Mascarille, you're welcome ! 
 
 Mas, Me be man of honour, me no Masquerille ! 
 
 LM. What funny gibberish ! It is really very good 
 
 Mas. You go about your business, and make no laugh of me. 
 
 Lei. Get out with your masquerading, and recognise your 
 naster. 
 
 Mas. You go way. Me not know you. 
 
 LJl. Oh, it's all right ; disguise yourself no longer. 
 
 Mas. If you no go, me give you one slap in de face. 
 
 Lei. Your Swiss jargon is needless, I tell you. 
 
 Mas. Me never no connaissance of you. 
 
 LJl. All is arranged ; so disguise yourself no longer. We are 
 agreed, and he has acted most generously. I have all that I 
 could wish for, so you have no further cause for apprehension. 
 
 Mas. If by great good luck you have made all right, then I 
 un-Swiss myself, and am as before. 
 
 And. This servant of yours did his very best for you. I will 
 return to you, if you will wait a little. {EckH. 
 
 LJl. Now then, what have you to say ? 
 
 Mas. That I am delighted to see our labour attended by sufih; 
 good success. . ■. -■- 
 
 Lei. You were slow to leave your disguise, and could scarcely 
 credit me. 
 
 Mas. Knowing you as I did, I was afraid, and this adventure 
 is very surprising. 
 
 Zr/. However, you must own that I have done a great deal at 
 the last. I have made up for all my faults, and shall have the 
 honour to give the finishing stroke to the work. 
 
 ^5 
 
2IO THE BLUNDERER. [Act V. 
 
 Mas. Let it be so. You will have been much more lucky 
 than wise. Eiiter Celie. 
 
 And. Is not this the object of your affections, of whom you 
 were speaking to me ? 
 
 Lei. Oh, what happiness can be equal to mine ! 
 
 And. It is very true that I am greatly indebted to you for the 
 favour you have done me, and if I did not acknowledge it I 
 should be much to blame. But, in short, the favour would be 
 hardly earned if I were to repay it at the price of my heart. 
 Judge by the transport her beauty gives me, whether I ought to 
 discharge my debt at such a cost. You are generous yourself, 
 and would not desire it. Farewell, for some days ; let us retrace 
 our steps {leads off Celie). 
 
 Mas. I laugh, and yet I have not much inchnation to do 
 
 so. You're all agreed? He gives up Celie to you, and 
 
 you understand me, sir ? 
 
 LH. It is too much. I will not again ask your assistance. 
 I am no better than a dog, a villain, a detestable blockhead, not 
 worthy anybody's care, incapable of doing any good. Go, leave 
 off your efforts in behalf of an unlucky wretch, who will not allow 
 any one to make him happy. After so many misfortunes, and so 
 much blundering, death alone can give me any real aid. \Exit. 
 
 Mas. {alone). There he hit on the right way of crowning his 
 fortune. There is lacking nothing, in short, but death to crown 
 all his stupidity. But in vain does his indignation against the 
 wrongs he has committed lead him to release me from my care 
 and assistance. I'm resolved, whatever happens, to help him in 
 spite of himself, and to vanquish his evil genius. The stronger 
 the opposition, the greater the glory of overcoming it, and the 
 difficulties by which one is beset are like a dressmaker's assist- ' 
 
 ants who deck out virtue. 
 
 ■-\ 
 Scene V. ^^ 
 
 Mascarille, Celie. 
 Celie {to Mascarille, who has been whispering to her). Say 
 what you will, and propose what they may, I expect very little 
 from all this delay. The amount of success we have already 
 seen may convince us how little chance there is of their coming 
 to an agreement ; and I have told you already that a heart like 
 mine will not for the sake of one do injustice to another, and that 
 I find myself strongly attached by different ties to both parties. 
 If Lelie has love and its power on his side, Andres has gratitude 
 for his share, which will not permit my inmost thoughts ever to 
 
Scene VI.] VtTOURDI. 211 
 
 harbour anything against his interests. Yes, if he has no longer 
 a place in my heart, if the gift of my love cannot crown his 
 devotion, at least I owe this to what he has done for me — not to 
 choose another in contempt of his constancy, and that I should 
 offer the same violence to my own wishes as I do to his incli- 
 nations, of which he has given such proof. Under these diffi- 
 culties which duty throws in my way, you can judge how much 
 hope you can allow yourself. 
 
 Mas, To say the truth, these are very troublesome obstacles, 
 and I have not the art of working miracles, but I will use my 
 utmost efforts, move heaven and earth, make every effort to try 
 and find out some suitable expedient ; and I will tell you shortly 
 what can be done. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Celie, Hypolyte. 
 
 Hypolyie. Ever since you've been among us, the ladies in 
 these parts complain, and with some justice, of the robberies 
 committed by your eyes, since you rob them of their best con- 
 quests, and make traitors of their lovers. There are few hearts 
 that can escape the darts with which you have the art of striking 
 people at first sight, and a thousand liberties offered to your 
 chains seem to enrich you daily at our expense. For myself, 
 however, I should make no complaint of the tyranny of your 
 superior charms, if, when you have gained all my lovers, one of 
 them had given me consolation for the loss of the others ; but thus 
 inhumanly to deprive me of both, is a harsh measure of which I 
 venture to complain to you. 
 
 Celie. Madame, you make your attack with a certain grace, 
 but I beg of you to show some mercy. Your eyes, ay, your own 
 eyes, know their power too well to fear anything that I can do. 
 They are too conscious of the force of their own charms to have 
 much fear from the attacks of others. 
 
 Hyp. And yet I've said nothing but what all hearts feel, and, 
 without naming others, it is well known that Celie has smitten both 
 Leandre and L^lie. 
 
 Cel. I think that, as they have fallen into such a blind mistake, 
 you will easily console yourself for their loss, and will find a more 
 worthy lover who will not be capable of making so bad a choice. 
 
 Hyp. On the contrary, I look at the matter from quite a 
 different point of view. I find such merit in your beauty, and see 
 so many reasons to excuse the inconstancy of those who have 
 been insensibly won by it, that I cannot blame the new devotion 
 
2 1 2 THE BL UNDERER. [Act V. 
 
 for which Lcandre has broken his former vows, and I shall soon, 
 without anger or hatred, see him recalled to his former allegiance 
 by the authority of his father. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Mascarille, Celie, Hypolyte. 
 
 Mascarille. Great news ! wonderful news ! An astonishing 
 success I am going to tell you of. 
 
 Celie. What is it, then ? 
 
 Mas. Listen, then ; this is without any nonsense 
 
 Cel. Well, but what ? 
 
 Mas. The conclusion of a true and genuine comedy. At this 
 very moment the old sipsy 
 
 Cel. What then? ^ 
 
 Mas. "\^'hy, she was crossing the square, not thinking of any- 
 thing particular, when another old woman, as haggard as herself, 
 with a precious long nose, must needs make a quarrel about 
 nothing, and use frightful language. This was the signal for a 
 terrible fight. But instead of muskets, daggers, and spears, they 
 only brandished in the air four dried-up talons, with which they 
 tried to tear out each other's hair, and scratch each other's 
 withered flesh. One heard only these words — "witch," "wolf," 
 and worse. Off fly their caps, leaving a couple of bald heads to 
 view, absurdly horrible. At the noise of the skirmish, Andres and 
 Trufaldin, and a number of other people, came running up to see 
 what was the matter, and had trouble enough to part them. 
 However, each one after this outbreak did her best to conceal the 
 disgrace of her exposed head. Every one wanted to know what 
 was the cause of such a quarrel, when she who had first raised 
 the fray, in spite of the rags she was in, fixed her eyes for some 
 time on Trufaldin, and said, in a high-pitched voice — "Yes, 
 Seigneur Zanobio Ruberti, this is a fortunate meeting, if my 
 eyes don't deceive me. I was told you were living in these 
 parts, and I've found you just as I was giving myself a great deal 
 of trouble for your sake. AVhen you left your family at Naples, 
 I had, as you know, your daughter in my care, whom I brought 
 up in her infancy, and who at four years old showed a thousand 
 little ways of gracefulness and attractive behaviour. She, whom 
 you see here, this infamous hag, making herself very friendly in 
 our family, stole away my darling. Alas I I have every reason to 
 believe that, through excess of grief, your lady's days were 
 shortened. Fearing the just anger you might show, I sent you 
 
Scene XU.] niiTOURDL 213 
 
 the news that they were both dead; but now that I have found 
 
 this woman, I will make her tell me what has become of the 
 
 :hild." At the name of Zanobio Ruberti, which she repeated 
 
 several times in the course of her story, Andres, having changed 
 
 countenance for some time, addressed the astonished Trufaldin 
 
 in the following terms : " Is it possible, then, that heaven has 
 
 happily directed me to find him whom I have up to now vainly 
 
 looked for, and could I have seen, without knowing him, the 
 
 dear author of my being ! Yes, father, I am your son Horace ! 
 
 Alberti, my tutor, having ended his days, and finding myself 
 
 exposed to some anxieties, I left Bologna, and, forsaking my 
 
 studies, I wandered about for six years, just as curiosity impelled 
 
 ne. However, after this time a secret desire urged me to revisit 
 
 ny home and my people. But in Naples, unhappily, I could 
 
 lot find you, nor get any news of you, except some confused 
 
 eports ; so having had my trouble for nothing, Venice for a time 
 
 nded my fruitless wanderings, and since then I have lived with- 
 
 )ut knowing anything of my family beyond its name." I leave 
 
 ou to judge whether, during this recital, Trufaldin was not 
 
 ransported with delight. Now, to cut the matter short, which 
 
 ou can inform yourselves about at your leisure, from the con- 
 
 ession of this old gipsy-woman, Trufaldin owns you [to Celie) as 
 
 lis daughter; Andres is your brother, and as he cannot marry 
 
 is sister, an obligation he desires to own has led him to gain 
 
 our hand for my master, whose father, being witness of all that 
 
 Dok place, gives his full approval of the match ; and to complete 
 
 tie joy of his family, he has proposed that his daughter should 
 
 larry the newly-found Horace. See what a number of events are 
 
 \ U taking place at once ! 
 
 J Cel. I feel perfectly overwhelmed by such wonderful news. 
 
 Mas. They are coming close behind me, except the two com- 
 ' atants, who are putting themselves to rights after the battle. 
 '' .eandre is among them {to Hypolyte)^ and so is your father. I 
 ' mst go and tell my master that when everything seemed to be 
 ^1 pposed to the fulfilment of his wishes, heaven has worked some- 
 ' f ing like a miracle in his favour. 
 
 Byp. The delight of this so overcomes me, that were it my 
 wn case I could not feel more pleasure. But here they come. 
 
 Scene VHI. 
 
 RUFALDIN, AnSELME, PaNDOLPHE, AnDRES, C^LIE, HvPOLVTE, 
 
 L]£andre : afterivards Mascarille and L^lte. 
 -'i Trufaldin. My child ! '^W^^ '^ 
 
214 * THE BLUNDERER. [Act V, 
 
 Celie. My father ! 
 
 Tru. Do you know how much heaven has blessed us ? 
 
 Cel. I have just heard the wonderful account. 
 
 Hypolyte {to Leandre). It would be in vain to make excuses 
 for all your passionate speeches, when {looking at Celie) all thai 
 you can say I have before my eyes. 
 
 Leandre, I only ask for a generous pardon ; and I call heaver 
 to witness, that in this sudden return to my true devotion, m) 
 father has far less to do with it than the feeling of my heart. 
 
 Andres {to Celie). Who could ever have believed that so pure 
 a love should have been so impossible? But I retain all tht 
 kindest feelings of my heart for my dearest sister. 
 
 Cel. I may tell you frankly, dear brother, that my feeling foi 
 you never went beyond great esteem, which will now develop intc 
 the truest affection. 
 
 Trufal. But now I have found you, what will you think o 
 me, when I tell you that I am thinking of parting with you, anc 
 of allowing this gentleman's son to marry you? 
 
 Cel. On you now depends my future. 
 
 Enter Mascarille and Lelie. 
 
 Mas. Now let us see if your devil of an ingenuity car 
 destroy so sure a hope, and whether against your unexpected gooc 
 luck even your blundering can set itself. By a most marvellou; 
 turn of fortune your desires are crowned, and Celie is yours. 
 
 L'eL Can I believe that the absolute power of heaven 
 
 Tru. Yes, son-in-law ; it is really so. 
 
 Pandolphe. It is all settled. 
 
 A7id. So I pay what I owe you. 
 
 L'el. {to Mascarille), I must embrace you thousands of timesi 
 in this excess of joy ! | 
 
 Mas. Oh, gently, gently, if you please ! I am almoS; 
 smothered. I fear much for CeUe if you treat her so. One ca 
 do very well without such demonstrations. 
 
 Tru. {to Lelie). You know the happiness with which heave 
 has blest me ; but since one and the same day has given joy to \ 
 all, let us not part till it is ended, and let Leandre's father be ser^ 
 for at once. 
 
 Mas. Here you are, all provided for. Can't you find soir 
 one for poor Mascarille? I am very much inclined to g< 
 married. 
 
 Anselme. I think I know some one to suit you. 
 
 Mas. Let us go then; and may heaven bless us all wii 
 charming families ! 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS 
 
 {LECOLE DES MARIS). 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sganarelle, ) , ,; 
 Ariste, 'brothers, 
 
 ISABELLE,) ^-^^^^^ 
 
 Leonor, ) 
 
 LiSETTE, Leo?to?-'s maid. 
 
 Scene— PARIS. 
 
 Valere, Isabelle's lover. 
 Ergaste, Valh'c's valet. 
 A Magistrate. 
 A Notary. 
 
 ACT E Scene L 
 Sganarelle, Ariste. 
 
 Sganarelle. If you please, brother, don't let us talk so much, 
 but let each of us live according to his inclination. Though in 
 years you have the advantage over me, and are old enough to be 
 wise, I must tell you, all the same, that I don't intend to take any 
 reproofs from you ; my fancy is the only director I choose to 
 follow, and I am quite content to live in my own way. 
 
 Ariste. But then, every one condemns it. 
 
 Sga. Yes, brother, fools like you. 
 
 Aris. Thank you ; the compliment is kind. 
 
 Sga. I should like to know, since one must hear everything, 
 what these fault-finders can blame in^ me. 
 
 Aris. That surly temper of yours, the uncouthness of which 
 makes you shun all the pleasures of society, gives an odd air to 
 all you do, and makes you a barbarian, even to your clothes. 
 
 Sga. I should, then, make myself a slave to custom, and not 
 dress to my own liking ? Would not you, with your foolish tales, 
 my elder brother (for thank heaven you are so by twenty years, 
 to tell you plainly, though it's not worth while to speak of it), I 
 say would not you in these matters persuade me to follow the 
 ways of your young coxcombs — oblige me to wear those little 
 hats which cool their weak brains, and those powdered wigs 
 whose great bushy curls obscure the form of the human face ; 
 
2i6 rilE SCHOOL FOR BUSBAXDS. [Act I. 
 
 those short doublets which only come just below the arms, with 
 the collars reaching to the waist; those sleeves which dip into 
 the sauces at table, and the petticoats they call breeches; and 
 those pretty shoes bedecked with ribands, which make you look 
 like feather-footed pigeons ; and those large fringed ornaments, 
 in which your captive legs are confined in the stocks every 
 morning, which make these fine gentlemen walk straddling as if 
 they were shuttlecocks? I should delight you, no doubt, if 1 
 were equipped in this manner. You are, 1 see, dressed in this 
 idiotic fashion. 
 
 Aris. One should always follow the majority, and not cause 
 oneself to be stared at. Both extremes offend ; and a wise man, 
 in his clothes as well as in his words, should avoid anything 
 affected, and, without too much haste, follow whatever change 
 custom introduces. I do not think one should imitate those who 
 continually exceed the fashion, and who are so fond of being in 
 extremes that they would be vexed if any one went a step beyond 
 them. But I hold it wrong, for whatever reason, to avoid obsti- 
 nately what everybody else adopts ; and it is better to be classed 
 among the fools than to find oneself alone on the side of wisdom. 
 
 Sga. That savours of the old man who, to impose upon the 
 world, conceals his grey hairs under a black wig. 
 
 Aris. It's a strange thing that you are always so careful to 
 fling my age in my teeth, and that I constantly find you blaming 
 my dress as well as my cheerfulness ; as if old age should be 
 condemned to give up all enjoyment, and think of nothing but 
 dying ; as if it were not attended by enough that is disagreeable, 
 without being also crabbed and slovenly. 
 
 Sga. Let that be as it may, I am quite determined to make no 
 alteration in my dress. In spite of the fashion, I mean to have a 
 brim to my hat under which my head may find a convenient 
 shelter ; a good long doublet, buttoned close as it ought to be, to 
 keep the stomach warm and encourage good digestion ; a pair of 
 breeches made to fit me exactly, and shoes in which my feet will 
 not be tortured ; such as our forefathers wisely wore. And if any 
 one does not like the look of me, he has only got to shut his eyes. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 L^ONOR, IsABELLE, LiSETTE ; Ariste and Sganarelle [talking 
 together in an uttdertone in front of the stage, tmperaeit'ed), 
 
 ■''Zhnor {to Isahelle), I take it on myself, in case you should be 
 blamed. 
 
Scene I I.J LECOLE DES MARIS. 217 
 
 Lisette {to Isabelle). Always in one room, without seeing any 
 one ! 
 
 yjsabdle. Such is his disposition. 
 ^^J^o. I pity you for it, sister. 
 
 ''Lis. {to Leonor). It is well for you, madame, that his brother 
 is of quite another temper; and fate was very kind to you in 
 letting you fall into the hands of a man of common sense. 
 
 Isa. It's a wonder that he has not locked me up or taken me 
 out with him to-day. 
 
 Lis. For my part, I should send him to the devil, with his ruff, 
 and 
 
 Sga. {against whom Lisette stumbles). Allow me to ask where 
 you're all going to ? J 
 
 IJo. We don't know yet ; I was persuading my sister to walk 
 out and enjoy this mild fine weather. But 
 
 Sga. (to Leonor). For your part you may go where you think 
 proper {pointing to Lisette). You have but to wander about both 
 together ; but as for you, madame {to Isabelle)^ if you please, 
 I forbid you to go with them. 
 
 Aris..^^ yj^l^j, brother, give them leave to go and amuse them- 
 selves. \ /' \^'\'^, 
 
 Sga. 1 am your most obedient servant, brother. 
 
 Aris. Youth always wishes — -— 
 
 Sga. Youth is foolish, and old age too sometimes. 
 
 Aris. Do you think there's any harm in her being with Leonor ? 
 
 Sga. No, but I think it better for her to be with me. 
 
 Aris. But 
 
 Sga. But her actions must be under my control. I know, in 
 short, the interest I ought to take in them. 
 
 Aris. Ami less concerned in those of her sister ? 
 
 Sga. Oh ! every one must judge and act as he pleases. They 
 have no relations, and our friend their father in his last hour 
 committed them both to us, enjoining both of us either to marry 
 them ourselves, or (if we did not feel so disposed) to marry them 
 to others. He gave us in writing the full authority both of father 
 and husband over them from their childhood. You undertook 
 one, I took charge of the other. You govern yours according to 
 your own will ; but leave me, I beg of you, to manage mine as I 
 choose. 
 
 Aris. It seems to me 
 
 Sga. It seems to me — and I say it openly — that I am talking 
 quite properly on such a subject. You allow your charge to go 
 about smartly and gaily dressed. With all my heart. Let her 
 
2i8 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS, [Act I. 
 
 have a footman and a waiting-woman. I agree to it. Let her gad 
 about, and love idleness, and be at liberty to be run after by the 
 young sparks. I am well contented. But I am determined that 
 mine shall live according to my fancy, and not her own ; that she 
 shall be clothed in a decent stuff gown, and wear black satin 
 only on holidays ; that she shall stay at home like a discreet 
 l^erson and apply herself entirely to household affairs, mend my 
 linen in her leisure time, or else knit stockings for amusement. 
 But she shall not listen to the discourse of coxcombs, nor ever go 
 out without some one to look after her. Human nature is weak, 
 and I hear all the stories that are going about. I do not choose 
 to be made a fool of if I can help it, and as it is her fortune to 
 marry me, I will take the same care of her as of myself 
 
 Isa. You have no reason, that I know of 
 
 Sga. Hold your tongue ! I'll let you know whether you are to 
 go out without me ! 
 
 Leo. What then, sir ? 
 
 Sga, Lord ! madame, no words if you please. I have no wish 
 to talk with you, for you are overwise. 
 
 Leo. Are you sorry to see Isabelle with us ? 
 
 Sga. Well, yes, to tell the truth, since you spoil her for me. 
 Your visits here displease me, and I beg that you will come here 
 no more. 
 
 Leo. AVould you have me speak plainly too ? I do not know 
 how she takes all this, but I know very well what effect distrust 
 would ha.ve on me ; and though one mother bore us, we can 
 hardly be sisters if your constant behaviour produces any love in her. 
 
 Lis. Really, all these precautions are scandalous. Are w^e in 
 Turkey, that women are to be locked up ? For we are told that 
 in that country they are treated like slaves, and the people are 
 cursed by heaven for it. Our honour, sir, must be weak indeed, 
 if it must be continually watched. And do you think, after all, 
 that these precautions are any hindrance to our purposes ? When 
 we have taken anything into our head, the cunningest man is a 
 donkey to us. All this vigilance is but a fool's dream. The 
 surest way, let me tell you, is to trust us. He who restrains us 
 is himself in great danger ; and our honour desires always to take 
 care of itself. We are almost inspired with a wish to sin, when 
 such care is taken to hinder us ; and should I find myself fettered 
 by a husband, I should have very strong inchnation to justify his 
 apprehensions. 
 
 Sga. {to Ariste). This is your training, my fine tutor! Can 
 you listen to it without emotion ? 
 
Scene II.] LJ^COLE DES MARIS. ^ig 
 
 Art's. Her discourse, brother, should only make one laugh, 
 though indeed there is some reason in it. Women love to enjoy 
 a Httle liberty, and are ill restrained by so much austerity : dis- 
 trustful care, bolts and gratings, will make neither wives nor 
 maidens virtuous. It is honour that will keep them to their duty, 
 not any severity that we exercise over them. To speak sincerely^ 
 a woman who is discreet only because she is forced to be, is an 
 uncommon article. It is vain for us to try and govern all their 
 actions ; in my opinion we must try and gain their hearts. And 
 take what care one might, I should not think my honour very safe 
 in the hands of a person who, under the assaults of temptation, 
 only lacked an opportunity of transgressing. 
 
 Sga. This is all nonsense. 
 
 Ari's. So be it; but I always hold that we should instruct 
 young people good-humouredly, reprove their failings with great 
 gentleness, and not make them dread the very mention of virtue. 
 My care of Leonor has been guided by these maxims ; I have not 
 turned slight liberties into crimes ; I have continually given way 
 to her youthful wishes ; and I thank heaven I've no cause to 
 repent it. I have given her leave to enter into good society ; I 
 have permitted her to go to various amusements, plays, and balls. 
 These are things which, for my part, I judge very suitable to form 
 the minds of young people ; and the world is a school in which 
 more is to be learnt than from any book. Leonor likes to spend 
 money in clothes, linen, and ribbons. What would you have me 
 do ? I try to gratify her wishes. These are pleasures which one 
 should allow to young girls of our families when we can aflbrd it. 
 Her father's command orders her to marry me ; but I don't intend 
 to act like a tyrant towards her. I know perfectly well that our 
 ages are little suited, and so I leave her entirely to her own choice. 
 If four thousand crowns a year, a great affection, and tender care 
 can in her opinion make up for the difference in our ages, she 
 may take me for her husband ; if not, let her make her choice 
 elsewhere. If she can be happier without me, I consent to it, and 
 would rather see her married to another than gain her hand 
 against her will. 
 
 Sga. Oh, how sweet he is ! All sugar and honey ! 
 
 Art's. In short, that's my notion, and I thank heaven for it. 
 I shall never follow those rigid maxims which make children wish, 
 their parents dead. 
 
 Sga. But the liberty granted in youth cannot easily be abridged, 
 and this way of thinking will be disagreeable to you when her 
 mode of living has to be altered. 
 
220 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS. [Act I. 
 
 Aris. And why must it be altered ? 
 
 Sga. AVhy? 
 
 Aris. Yes, why ? 
 
 Sga. I don't know. 
 
 Aris. Is there anything in it to compromise one's honour ? 
 
 Sga. AVhat ? If you marry her, can she expect the same 
 hlDerty as a wife which she had when she was a girl ? '.i5n 
 
 Aris. Why not ? 
 
 Sga. Will your love be so complaisant as to allow her patches 
 and ribbons ? 
 
 Aris. Certainly. 
 
 Sga. And to let her run about like a mad thing to every ball 
 and party ? 
 
 Aris. Yes, indeed. 
 
 Sga. And shall you allow the young fellows to come to her 
 house ? 
 
 Aris, And what then ? 
 
 Sga. Shall you allow them to amuse themselves, and make her 
 presents ? 
 
 Aris. I have no objection. 
 
 Sga. And is your wife to hear their fine speeches ? 
 
 Aris. Why not? moBHui 
 
 Sga. And shall you look upon the visits of these coxcomby'iifi'' 
 sucli a way as to show that they do not trouble you ? 
 
 Aris. Of course. 
 
 Sga. Go along ; you're an old fool ! {Tolsabelle.) Go indoors ; 
 I will not have you listen to such scandalous teaching. 
 
 [Exit Isabellt. 
 
 Aris. I desire to trust myself to the fidelity of my wife, and 
 intend to live as I always have done. 
 
 ^SX''^. How pleased I shall be when he's tricked ! 
 
 Aris. I cannot tell for what fate I am born ; but \i you should 
 fail to be so, the fault must not be laid at your door, seeing you 
 have done all in your power to bring it about. 
 
 Sga. Laugh on, you giggler ! What a pleasure it is to see a 
 man facetious at almost sixty years old ! 
 
 Leo. I guarantee him against the fate you speak of, if I give 
 him my troth — he may assure himself of it ; but I would answer 
 for nothing if I were to be your wife. 
 
 Lis. There's a conscience due to those who trust us, but it's 
 delicious, really, to cheat such people as you. 
 
 Sga. Begone, with your cursed ill-bred tongue. 
 
 Aris. You bring this ridicule on yourself, brother. Good-bye ; 
 
Scene III.] LECOLE DES MARIS. 221 
 
 change your temper, and be forewarned that locking up a wife is 
 a very bad plan. I am your most obedient servant. \Exit Ariste. 
 Sga. I'm not yours. {Alone.) Oh, how well suited they are 
 to each other ! What a charming family ! A senseless old fellow 
 who acts the fop in a crazy worn-out body, a girl who is mistress, 
 and an arrant coquette ; impudent servants. Not even Wisdom 
 herself could succeed, but would lose sense and reason in the 
 task of regulating such a family. Isabelle might lose in such 
 company the principles of honour which she has learnt from me, 
 and in order to prevent it I intend shortly to send her back to 
 revisit our cabbages and turkeys. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Valere, Ergaste, Sganarelle. 
 
 VaVere {at the back of the stage). There's Sganarelle, the 
 Argus that I detest ; the stern guardian of her whom I adore. 
 
 Sganarelle {believing himself to be alone). Is not the corrup- 
 tion of manners nowadays something surprising ? 
 
 Val. I'll speak to him if I can, and try to get acquainted with him. 
 
 Sga. Instead of that severity which in former times so ad- 
 mirably formed the virtuous character, young people are now 
 absolutely unrestrained in their excesses, and do not take 
 
 P'al. [after bowing to Sganarelle from a distance). He does not 
 see that we are bowing to him. 
 
 Ergaste. He's blind of that eye ; let us go to the right side of 
 him 
 
 Sga. I must leave this place. A city life can only produce in 
 me- 
 
 Val. {gradually approaching nearer). I must try and gain 
 admittance to his house. 
 
 Sga. {hearing a noise). What ! I thought somebody spoke. 
 {Believing himself alone.) In the country, thank heaven, these 
 fashionable fooleries do not offend my eyes. 
 
 Er. {to Valere). Speak to him. 
 
 Sga. {again hearing a noise). What is it ? {Not perceiving any 
 
 one.) My ears tingle {Soliloquises again.) There, all the 
 
 amusements of our young women go no further than ( Valere 
 
 bows). Is that to me ? 
 
 Er. Go nearer. 
 
 Sga. {without attending to Valere). Thither no coxcomb comes. 
 ( Valere bojvs again.) What the deuce ! {Ergaste bows on the 
 other side.) Again ? What a number of bows ! 
 
222 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS. [Act I. 
 
 Val. Sir, perhaps this meeting interrupts you. 
 
 Sga. That is possible. 
 
 Val. But yet, the honour of making your acquaintance is to 
 me so great a happiness, so exquisite a pleasure, that I had a great 
 desire to pay my respects to you. 
 
 Sga. That may be so. 
 
 Val. And to wait on you, and assure you without any dis- 
 simulation that I am entirely at your service. 
 
 Sga. I believe it. 
 
 Val. I have the good fortune to be one of your neighbours, 
 for which I ought to thank my happy destiny. 
 
 . Sga. That's well. 
 
 Val. But, sir, do you know the news which is current at Court, 
 and is thought to be true ? 
 
 Sga. What does it matter to me ? 
 
 Val. That's true ; still, a man sometimes may be envious to 
 hear the latest news. Shall you go to see the magnificent pre- 
 parations for the birth of our Dauphin ? 
 
 Sga. If I choose. 
 
 Val. One must own that Paris affords us a hundred delightful 
 pleasures, which are nowhere else to be found. The country in 
 comparison is a solitude. How do you pass your time ? 
 
 Sga. About my own affairs. 
 
 Val. The mind needs some relaxation, and sometimes gives 
 way through too earnest attention to serious business. What do 
 you do of an evening before bedtime ? 
 
 Sga. What I please. 
 
 Val. Certainly, nothing could be said better. It is a reason- 
 able answer, and good sense is evident in never doing anything 
 but what one pleases. If I thought you were not too busy, I 
 should come to your house now and then after supper to pass away 
 the time. 
 
 Sga. Your most obedient servant ! 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Valere, Ergaste. 
 
 Valere. What do you think of this whimsical fool ? 
 Ergaste. He has a surly way of answering, and receives people 
 like a bear. 
 
 Val. How mad I am. 
 Er. At what ? 
 
 Val. At what ? Why it provokes me to see her I love in the 
 
Scene IV.] VECOLE DES MARIS. 223 
 
 power of a savage, a watchful dragon, whose severity will not allow 
 her any liberty. 
 
 Er. All the better for you, and on the effect of it you should 
 build your surest hopes of success. You must know for your en- 
 couragement that a woman who is watched is half-won, and the 
 gloomy temper of husbands and fathers has always promoted the 
 interest of lovers. I am very little of an intriguer, it is my 
 smallest accomplishment ; I do not profess to be a ladies' man : 
 but I have served a score of these women-hunters, and they always 
 told me that it was their greatest delight to meet with these horrid 
 husbands who never enter their houses without beginning to 
 scold ; these obstinate brutes who regulate every point of their 
 wives' conduct without rhyme or reason ; who, haughtily pluming 
 themselves on the name of husband, fly in their wives' faces before 
 the eyes of their admirers. " We know," they say, " how to take 
 advantage of this." The vexation of the ladies at such outrages is 
 a capital vantage ground for further attacks. In a word, the surli- 
 ness of Isabelle's guardian is a circumstance very much in your 
 favour. 
 
 Val. But during the four months that I have loved her so 
 dearly I have never been able to get a moment's conversation 
 with her. 
 
 Er. Love quickens the wits, but it has not had that effect on 
 yours. If I had been 
 
 Val. Well, what could you have done, when she's never to be 
 seen without that brute, and there are neither maids nor footmen 
 in the house whose assistance I could count on by the flattering 
 bait of a reward ? 
 
 Er. Then she does not yet know that you love her ? 
 
 Val. That is a point I am in doubt about. Wherever that 
 churl has taken the fair one, she has always seen me following her 
 like her shadow, and my looks have sought hers day by day that I 
 might express to her the depth of my love. My eyes have spoken 
 strongly, but who could tell me whether they could make their 
 language understood ? 
 
 Er. It is true that language may sometimes be obscure, when 
 it has neither writing nor speech for its interpreter. 
 
 Val. What can I do to get out of this great trouble, and to let 
 my angel know that I love her ? Tell me of some way. 
 
 Er. That is what we must contrive. Let us go home for a 
 little while that we may think it over the better. 
 
224 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS. [Act II. 
 
 ACT II. Scene I. 
 
 ISABELLE, ^ SgANARELLE. 
 
 Sganarelle. That will do. I know the house and the person 
 solely by the description you have given me. 
 
 Isabelle (aside). O heaven ! be propitious to me, and favour 
 the artful contrivance of an innocent passion. 
 
 Sga. Do you say that you were told that his name is Valere ? 
 
 Jsa. Yes. 
 
 Sga, Good, you need not make yourself uneasy. Go into the 
 house and leave me to act. I will go and settle this young scatter- 
 brain. 
 
 Isa. {going in). I have taken in hand a very bold scheme for a 
 young woman, but the unreasonable harshness with which I am 
 treated will be my excuse with every considerate person. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Sganarelle, Ergaste, Valiire. 
 
 Sganardle {knocking at Valer^s door). Let us lose no time. 
 This is the place. Who goes there? I must be dreaming. 
 Hulloa ! I say, hulloa ! is any one there ? I don't wonder now, 
 after this discovery, that he came here just now in such an ami- 
 able manner ; but I must make haste, and settle his foolish 
 
 hope {Ergaste comes out hastily.) A plague on the lout who 
 
 comes in my way like a post, on purpose to throw me down. 
 
 Vallre. Sir, I regret 
 
 Sga. Ah, it is you I am looking for. 
 
 Val. Me, sir ? 
 
 S^a. Yes, you. Isn't your name Valere ? 
 
 Val. Yes. 
 
 Sga. I am come to talk with you, if you will. 
 
 Val. Can I be so happy as to do you any service ? 
 
 Sga. No, but I wish myself to do you a good turn, and it is 
 that which brings me to your house. >ti 
 
 Val. To my house, sir ? ;d 
 
 Sga. To your house ; is that so surprising ? 
 
 Val. It is to me, and I am overjoyed at the honour. 
 
 Sga. Let's drop the honour, I beg of you. 
 
 Val. Won't you walk in ? 
 
 Sga. There's no occasion for it. 
 
 Val. I beg of you, sir. 
 
 Sga. No ! I will not go a step further. 
 
Scene II.] VIlCOLE DES MARIS. 225 
 
 Val. While you stay here I cannot hear you. 
 
 Sga. For my part I will not stir. 
 
 Val. Well, then, I must give in. As the gentleman is so 
 determined, bring a chair here at once. 
 
 Sga. I'll talk standing. 
 
 Fal. How can I allow such a thing ? 
 
 Sga. Oh ! what a frightful necessity ! 
 
 Fal. Such rudeness would be inexcusable. 
 
 Sga. Nothing can be so rude as not to listen to people who 
 want to speak to you. 
 
 Val. I give way then. 
 
 Sga. You can't do better. {They make great ceremony about 
 putting on their hats.) There is no need of so much ceremony. 
 Will you hear me ? 
 
 Val. Certainly, and very gladly. 
 
 Sga. Tell me then : Do you know that I am the guardian of 
 a young and tolerably good-looking lady who lives in this neigh- 
 bourhood, and is called Isabelle ? 
 
 Val. Yes. 
 
 Sga. Then if you know it, I need not inform you. But do you 
 know likewise that, being sensible of her charms, she interests me 
 more than merely as a guardian, and I intend to do her the 
 honour of making her my wife ? 
 
 Val. No. 
 
 Sga. Then I inform you of the fact, and that it will be as well 
 for you not to trouble her further with your love-making. 
 
 Val. Who? I, sir? 
 
 Sga. Yes, you. Let us have no dissembling. 
 
 l^al. Who told you that I was in love with her ? 
 
 .S^^. People that one may give some credit to. 
 
 Val. Well, but who, pray ? 
 
 .S^'-^. Why her own self. 
 
 Val, She ! 
 
 Sga, Yes, she ; is that saying enough ? But like an honest 
 girl who has loved me from her childhood, she told me all just 
 now, and moreover charged me to let you know that since she has 
 been followed everywhere by you, her heart, which your pursuit 
 exceedingly offends, has understood but too well the language of 
 your eyes ; that your secret desires are sufficiently known to her ; 
 and that it is giving yourself needless trouble to endeavour further 
 to explain a love that is contrary to the affection which she enter- 
 tains for me. 
 
 Val, And you say she, of herself, makes you 
 
 i6 
 
226 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS. [Act It. 
 
 Sga. Just so — come and give you this frank and true informa- 
 tion ; and that, having observed the violent love that has taken 
 possession of your heart, she would have let you know her senti- 
 ments before now, if, in her agitation, she could have found some 
 one by whom she could communicate them. But at last her pain- 
 ful necessity impelled her to make use of me to let you know, as 
 I have said, that her affection is denied to every one but myself, 
 that you have ogled her long enough, and that if you have any 
 brains at all you will use them in some other way. Farewell 
 till I see you again. This is what I had to tell you. 
 
 Val. {aside). Ergaste, what do you say to this ? 
 
 Sga, {aside). He is very much surprised. 
 
 Ergaste {aside). It is my opinion that there is nothing m it to 
 displease you, but that some clever mystery is concealed under it ; 
 and, in short, that this message does not come from one who would 
 destroy the love she inspires in you. 
 
 Sga. {aside). He takes it as he ought. 
 
 Val. You think, then, it is mysterious ? 
 
 Er. Yes — but he is looking at us. Let us get out of his sight. 
 
 Sga. {alone). How visible his confusion is in his face. He 
 looked for no such message, be sure. Now let us call Isabelle ; 
 she shows what effect education has upon the mind. Virtue is all 
 she cares for, and her heart is so full of it that the very looks of a 
 man displease her. 
 
 Scene HI. 
 Isabelle, Sganarelle. 
 
 IsaheUc {aside, entering). I'm afraid that my lover, full of his 
 devotion to me, does not comprehend the full meaning of my 
 message, and even from my prison-house I will run the risk of 
 another, that may make my meaning clearer. 
 
 Sgajiarelle. Here I am back again. 
 
 Isa. Well? 
 
 Sga. Your message had its full effect, and your man is done 
 with. He would have denied that his heart was smitten with love, 
 but when I assured him that I came from you, he seemed struck 
 dumb and confounded, and I don't believe he'll come here any 
 more. 
 
 Isa. Ah, what do you tell me ? I very much apprehend the 
 contrary, and that he will trouble us more than once again. 
 
 Sga. What reason have you for this apprehension? 
 
 Isa. You had hardly gone out of the house, when, putting my 
 
i 
 
 Scene IV.] LECOLE DES MARIS. 227 
 
 head out of the window to take the air, I saw a young man at the 
 opposite turning, who came from that impertinent fellow, wished 
 me good morning most unexpectedly, and then threw into my 
 room a box containing an enclosure sealed hke a love-letter. I 
 would at once have thrown it back to him, but he was at the end 
 of the street, and my heart is swelling with vexation. 
 
 Sga, Just mark the cunning and the knavery ! 
 
 Isa. It is my duty at once to send back the box and the letter 
 to this wretched lover of mine, and I shall want some one for that 
 purpose, as I could not be so bold as to ask you 
 
 Sga, On the contrary, my darling, this is a fresh proof of your 
 love and fidelity to me ; my heart gladly accepts the office, and 
 you oblige me hereby more than I can say. 
 
 Isa. Take it, then. 
 
 •S^^. Well, let us see what he could write to you. 
 
 Isa. Good heavens ! pray do not open it ! 
 
 Sga. Why not ? 
 
 Isa. Would you give him reason to suppose that I had done 
 so ? An honourable woman ought always to avoid reading the 
 letters a man may send her. The curiosity one then discloses 
 shows a secret pleasure in listening to sentimentalities about 
 oneself; so I think it as well that this letter should be immediately 
 conveyed back to him, sealed as it is, that he may so much the 
 better learn how extremely my heart despises him, so that his 
 passion may lose all hope for the future, and may never again 
 attempt such an impertinence. 
 
 Sga. She is certainly right. Well, your virtue and discretion 
 charm me. I perceive that my lessons have taken root in your 
 mind, and, in short, you show yourself worthy to be my wife. 
 
 Isa. I would not, however, fetter your wishes. You now have 
 the letter, and can open it. 
 
 Sga. No, I don't care about it ; your reasons are too good, and 
 I am just going to discharge the trust you place in me. After- 
 wards I shall have a word to say a few doors off, arid then shall 
 come back to set your mind at rest. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Sganarelle, Ergaste. 
 
 Sganarelh {alone). How I brim over with delight to find her 
 such a prudent girl ! What a treasure of honour I have in my 
 house. To take the glances of love as treason ! To receive a 
 love-letter as a great insult, and to send it back by me to her 
 
228 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS. [ACT II. 
 
 would-be lover ! I should like to know whether, under such 
 circumstances, my brother's ward would have acted as discreetly. 
 Truly, girls are just what you make them. — Hullo, there ! {knock- 
 ing at VaUr^s door). 
 
 Ergaste. Who's there ? 
 
 Sga. Take this, and tell your master he must not imper- 
 tinently presume to write any more letters, and send them in gold 
 boxes, since Isabelle is extremely offended at it. See, she has 
 not even opened it. He will now learn what she thinks of his 
 love-making, and what chance of success he may look for in it. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Valere, Ergaste. 
 
 Valere, What has that surly brute been giving you ? 
 
 Ergaste. This letter, sir, which, with this box, he says that 
 Isabelle received from you, and that in consequence she is ex- 
 tremely angry ; that she has returned it to you without opening it. 
 Please to read it quickly, and see if I am mistaken. 
 
 ^Vathre {reads) :'^''^ 
 
 This letter J no doubt, will surprise you, and both the design of 
 7vriting it and the manner of conveying it to you may be thought very 
 bold in me, but I find myself in such a situation as no longer to 
 keep within bounds. The fust dread of a marriage with which I 
 am threatened in six days, makes me run all risks ; and bein^:; 
 I'esolved to free myself by some means or other, I thought I ought 
 rather to choose you than despair. However, do not imagine thai 
 7ny sentiments of regard for you arise solely from my unhappy 
 fortune ; this only hastens the confessing of them, and makes me 
 dispense with those formalities which the propriety of my sex 
 demands. It depends on yourself alone to make ??ie speedily 
 yours, and I wait only till you show me what yojir love intends 
 before I let you know the resolution I have taken. But, above all, 
 remember that time is pressing, and that two hearts that love 
 should understand each other on the slightest hint. 
 
 Er. Well, sir, is not this trick original ? For a young girl, her 
 intelligence is not amiss. Would any one believe her capable of 
 these love stratagems ? 
 
 Val. Ah ! I find her perfectly adorable ! This token of her 
 sense and her regard redoubles my love for her, and adds to the 
 sentiments with which her beauty inspires me. 
 
 Er. The dupe is coming ; consider what you must say to him. 
 
Scene VI.] VECOLE DES MARIS. - 229 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Sganarelle, Valere, Ergaste. 
 
 Sganarelle. Oh, thrice, and four times blest be this edict which 
 forbids extravagance in dress ! The troubles of husbands will no 
 longer be so grievous, and the demands of the wives will now be kept 
 within bounds. How much I thank the king for this decree, and 
 for the ease of these same husbands, I could wish that coquetry 
 were forbidden as well as laces and embroidery. I have bought 
 the edict on purpose that Isabelle may read it to me aloud ; and 
 for want of other employment, that shall be our amusement after 
 supper. {Perceiving Valere.) Now, my fair-haired gentleman, 
 will you send any more love-letters enclosed in gold boxes ? No 
 doubt you thought you had to do with some young coquette fond 
 of intrigues, and open to flattery; but you see how your presents 
 are received, and take my word for it you're only wasting your 
 powder. She's discreet ; she loves me ; and your addresses affront 
 her. So be off, and aim at some one else. 
 
 Valere. Ay, indeed, sir, your merit, which every one acknow- 
 ledges, is too great an obstacle to my desires ; and it would be 
 madness in me, sincere as is my devotion, to contend with you 
 for Isabelle's love. 
 
 Sga. You are quite right. It would be madness. 
 
 Val. Nor should I have devoted my heart to the pursuit of 
 her beauty, I could have foreseen that this unhappy heart would 
 have found a rival so formidable as yourself. 
 
 Sga. I believe it. 
 
 Val. Now I have no room for hope, I yield to you, sir, and 
 without a murmur. 
 
 .S^^. You do well. 
 
 Val. Fate so orders it ; and so much virtue shines in you, that 
 I should do wrong to behold with an angry eye the tender senti- 
 ments which Isabelle has for you. 
 
 Sga. That's understood. 
 
 Val. Yes, yes ; I yield to you. But, sir, I beg of you (and it 
 is the only favour a despairing lover asks, whose present torment 
 you alone occasion), I entreat you to assure Isabelle that if for 
 three months my heart has loved her, it has been a pure and 
 spotless love, and never had a thought which her honour could 
 be displeased at ? 
 
 Sga. Yes. 
 
 Val. That, having nothing but my own inclinations to gratify, 
 all my desire was to obtain her for my wife, if fate had not opposed 
 
330 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS. [Act II. 
 
 an obstacle to my earnest wishes in you, who captivate her 
 heart. 
 
 Sga. Very well. 
 
 Val. Further, that happen what will, she must not suppose that 
 I can ever forget her charms ; and that whilst I must submit to 
 the decrees of Heaven, I am destined to love her to my latest 
 breath, and that the only thing which puts an end to ray addresses 
 is the just regard I have for your merit. 
 
 Sga. That is wisely said, and I will at once go and inform her 
 of this speech, which will not be disagreeable to her. But if you 
 take my advice, you will do your best to drive this passion out of 
 your head. Farewell ! 
 
 Ergaste {to Valere). Excellent dupe ! 
 
 Sga, {alone). I am very sorry for this poor, good-natured wretch. 
 It was very unfortunate for him to have taken it into his head to 
 capture a fortress which I had conquered. {Knocks at his oivn 
 door.) 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Sganarelle, Isabelle. 
 
 Sganarelle. No lover ever showed more vexation at a letter 
 being returned unopened. His hopes, in short, are utterly 
 destroyed, and he retires from the contest. But he earnestly 
 entreated me to tell you that in loving you he never had a thought 
 which your honour could have been reasonably displeased at, and 
 that having only his own inclinations to gratify, all his desire was 
 to obtain you for his wife, if fate had not opposed an obstacle to 
 his earnest wishes in me, who captivate your heart ; that, happen 
 what will, you must not suppose that he can ever forget your 
 charms ; that whatever decrees of Providence he must submit to, 
 he is destined to love you to his latest breath, and that if anything 
 puts an end to his addresses it is the just regard he has for my 
 merit. These are his own words, and, so far from blaming him, 
 I think he is a very good fellow, and pity him for loving you. 
 
 Isabelle {to herself). I am not mistaken in my secret belief in 
 his love for me, and his looks always assured me of its innocence. 
 
 Sga. What do you say ? 
 
 Isa. That it is unkind in you to pity a man for whom I have 
 mortal hatred, and that if you loved me as much as you say you 
 do, you would perceive how much I am affronted by his addresses. 
 
 Sga. But he did not know your sentiments, and his love and 
 honourable intentions do not deserve 
 
Scene VII.] LECOLE DES MARIS. . 231 
 
 Isa. Do you call it a good intention to wish to run away with 
 people ? Is it like a man of honour to form plans of taking me 
 from you and marrying me by force, as if I were a creature that 
 could support life after such a disgrace ? 
 
 Sga. What do you mean ? 
 
 Isa. Why, that this base lover really talks of running away 
 with me. But I cannot imagine, for my part, by what secret 
 means he learnt so soon that you intended marrying me in a 
 week at the farthest, since it was but yesterday you told me so ; 
 but it is said that he means to anticipate the day which shall unite 
 your fate and mine. 
 
 Sga. Oh, that does not mean anything. 
 
 Isa. Pardon me ! He is a very honourable man, and does 
 not entertain for me 
 
 Sga. He is in the wrong, and this is carrying the jest too far. 
 
 Isa. Come, your good-nature encourages his folly. If just 
 now you had talked to him sharply, he would have dreaded your 
 rage and my resentment, for even since his letter was rejected, 
 he has spoken of this scandalous design ; and as far as I can 
 learn, his passion makes him still believe that my heart approves 
 of him, and that, whatever the world may think, I wish to avoid 
 marrying you, and that I should be delighted to be freed from 
 you. 
 
 Sga. He must be mad ? 
 
 Isa. In your presence he knows how to dissemble, and his 
 intention is to play upon you ; but be certain that the traitor is 
 imposing on you with his fair speeches. I must say that I am 
 very unhappy when, after all my endeavours to live honourably, 
 and to repulse the addresses of a vile libertine, I must be exposed 
 to the vexation of dreading his infamous attempts on me. 
 
 Sga. You have no need to fear anything. 
 
 Isa. For my part, I assure you that unless you show yourself 
 exceedingly angry at such an impudent attempt, and quickly find 
 out some means of freeing me from the persecutions of such a 
 bold adventurer, I will give up everything, and not endure the 
 vexatious affronts he puts on me. 
 
 Sga. Come, don't make yourself so unhappy, my little wife ! 
 I'll go and find him out, and make him sing another tune. 
 
 Isa. Tell him plainly that it is useless for him to deny it, for 
 I was informed of his design on good authority ; and after this 
 warning I dare him to surprise me, whatever he may attempt. 
 In short that, without further waste of sighs or time, he ought 
 to know what my feelings are towards you, and that if he would 
 
232 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS. [Act IL 
 
 avoid causing a calamity he must not need telling the same thing 
 twice. 
 
 Sga. I'll tell him all that's necessary. 
 
 Isa. But say it in a tone to make him understand that I mean 
 it with all my heart. 
 
 Sga. Well, I promise you I'll forget nothing. 
 
 Isa. I'm impatient for your return. Pray make all the haste 
 you can. I languish if you're out of my sight for a moment. 
 
 Sga. I'll return immediately, darling. {Alone.) Does there 
 exist a better and a more discreet person ? Ah ! how happy I 
 am, and what a pleasure it is to meet with a wife after my own 
 heart ! This is how wives ought to be, and not like some that 
 I know, downright coquettes, who allow themselves to be courted, 
 and make their honest husbands pointed at all over Paris. 
 {Knocks at VaVere's door.) Hulloa ! my enterprising young gentle- 
 
 Valere, Sganarelle, Ergaste. 
 
 VaVere. Why, sir, what brings you here again ? 
 
 Sganarelle. Your follies ! 
 
 Val. How ? 
 
 Sga. You know very well what I've come to talk about. To 
 speak plainly, I thought you had more sense. You think to put 
 me off with your fine speeches, and yet are secretly nourishing 
 your foolish hopes. You see I wished to treat you in a friendly 
 manner, but at last you will force me into a passion. Are you 
 not ashamed, considering who you are, to contrive such schemes 
 as you do, and to intend running away with a woman of honour, 
 and to interrupt a marriage on which her whole happiness 
 depends ? 
 
 Val. Pray, sir, who told you this wonderful news ? 
 
 Sga. Not to deceive you, I had it from Isabelle herself, who 
 for the last time sends you word by me, that she has shown you 
 plainly enough whom she chooses ; that her heart, which is 
 entirely mine, is enraged at such a scheme ; that she would 
 rather die than put up with an insult ; and that you will occasion 
 terrible events, unless you put an end to all this disturbance. 
 
 Val. If she really said what you have just told me, I own that 
 I cannot carry my pretensions any further. These expressions 
 are clear enough to show me that all is over, and I must bow to 
 the senterice she has passe^. 
 
Scene IX.] UECOLE DES MARliS. 233 
 
 Sga. You say "If"? Do you doubt it then, and fancy all 
 the complaints I have brought you from her are mere pretences ? 
 Would you like her to explain the sentiments of her own heart 
 for herself? To set you right I willingly consent to it. Follow 
 me, and you shall see whether there is anything in what I have 
 told you, and whether her youthful heart hesitates between us. 
 {Goes and knocks at his own door!) 
 
 Scene IX. 
 
 ISABELLE, SgANARELLE, VaLERE. 
 
 Isabelle. What ! do you bring him here to me ? What is 
 your object ? Do you take his side against me ? And do you, 
 charmed with his rare qualities, force me to love him, and endure 
 his visits ? 
 
 Sganarelle. No, dearest, I set too great a value on your heart 
 for that ; but he imagines that what I told him is an idle fiction ; 
 he beheves that I have been speaking for myself, and that I am 
 cunning enough to misrepresent you as full of hate towards him, 
 and tenderness for me. So I wish that you would yourself 
 irrevocably cure him of a mistake which nourishes his pre- 
 tensions. 
 
 Isa. {to Valere). What ! does not my heart display itself fully 
 to you ? And can you still doubt whom I love ? 
 
 Val. Indeed, madame, all that this gentleman told me from 
 you might well surprise me. I must confess I had some doubt 
 about it, and that the final sentence which decides the fate of my 
 unbounded love must have such an effect upon me, that it can be 
 no oftence if I ask to hear it a second time. 
 
 Isa, No, indeed ; such a sentence should not surprise you. 
 He has told you my real thoughts, and I hold them to be 
 sufficiently founded on reason to prove how sincere they are. 
 Yes, I wish it to be known, and I ought to be believed, that fate 
 here presents two objects to my view, which, inspiring me with 
 different sentiments, agitate all the feelings of my heart. One, 
 by a reasonable choice, to which honour engages me, possesses 
 all my esteem and love ; and the other, in return for his affection, 
 has all my anger and aversion. The presence of one is agreeable 
 and dear to me, and fills my heart with joy ; but the sight of the 
 other inspires my heart with secret feelings both of hatred and 
 horror. To see myself the wife of one is all my desire ; but I 
 had rather lose my life than be married to the other. But it is 
 sufficient that I declare my real sentiments, for I languish too 
 
334 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS. [Act II. 
 
 long under this cruel anxiety ; the person I love must now use 
 his utmost diligence to destroy the hopes of him I hate, and 
 deliver me by a happy marriage from a punishment I dread much 
 more than death. 
 
 Sga. Yes, my darling, all my thought is to satisfy your ^Yish ! 
 
 Isa. It is the only way to make me happy. 
 
 Sga. You shall be so shortly. 
 
 Isa. I know it is very bold for young girls to declare their 
 love so freely. 
 
 Sga. No, no. 
 
 Isa. But in the condition in which fate has placed me, this 
 freedom may be allowed me ; and I can without a blush make 
 this tender acknowledgment to one whom I already consider as 
 my husband. 
 
 Sga. Ah ! my poor child, my heart's darling ! 
 
 Isa. Then pray let him think of proving his devotion to me. 
 
 Sga. Well then, kiss my hand. 
 
 Isa. Without any more sighs, let him conclude a marriage 
 which I heartily desire, and accept in return the assurance I here 
 give him, that I will never listen to the vows of any other person. 
 {She pretends to embrace Sganarelle^ but gives her hand to Va/ere to 
 kiss.) 
 
 Sga. Ah, ha ! my pretty duck, my dear little darling ! you 
 shall not pine very long, I promise you! {To Valere.) There, 
 say no more. You see I don't compel her to speak. Her heart 
 beats for none but me. 
 
 Val. Very well, madame, very well; your meaning is plain 
 enough. I see by this speech what it is you urge me to ; and ere 
 long I shall be able to free you from the presence of one who 
 causes you so much annoyance. 
 
 Isa. You could not give me a greater pleasure ; for, in short, 
 the sight is grievous to endure — it is hateful to me, and the horror 
 is so great 
 
 Sga. There, there. 
 
 Isa. Does my talking thus displease you ? Do I 
 
 Sga. Oh no, I don't say that at all ; but, to tell you the truth, 
 I'm sorry for his condition, and your aversion shows itself too 
 strongly. 
 
 Isa. I cannot show it too much on such an occasion. 
 
 Val. Well, you shall be satisfied, and after three days your 
 eyes shall never again rest on the object which is so hateful to 
 you. 
 
 Isa. Heaven grant it. Farewell. 
 
SCENE X.] LECOLE DES MARIS. 235 
 
 Sga. I pity your misfortune, but 
 
 Val. No, you shall hear no complaint from me; the lady 
 certainly does justice to us, and I will do my best to carry out her 
 wishes. Farewell. 
 
 Sga. Poor young fellow ! His grief is extreme. Come and 
 embrace me 3 I am her second self. {Embraces Valere.) 
 
 Scene X. 
 
 ISABELLE, SgANARELLE. 
 
 Sganarelle. I think he is very much to be pitied. 
 
 Isabelle. Indeed, I don't think so at all. 
 
 Sga. As to the rest, darling, your love makes the deepest 
 impression on me, and I desire to reward it. Eight days are too 
 long to wait, considering your impatience \ to-morrow I'll marry 
 you, and will not invite 
 
 Isa. What, so soon as to-morrow ? 
 
 Sga. You pretend reluctance out of modesty, but I know fiow 
 much pleasure my decision gives you, and you wish it was already 
 done. 
 
 Isa. But 
 
 Sga. Let us go and make all preparations for this wedding. 
 
 Isa. {aside). O heaven ! inspire me with some thought how to 
 hinder it. 
 
 Act III. Scene I. 
 
 Isabelle. 
 
 Isa. Yes, death itself is a hundred times less dreadful than this 
 fatal marriage into which they want to force me ; and whatever I 
 do to avoid the terror of it ought to meet with some indulgence 
 from those that would blame me. Time presses : it is night ; let 
 me go without any fear, and commit my fortune to the fidelity of 
 a lover. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Sganarelle, Isabelle. 
 
 Sganarelle. I've returned, and to-morrow I'll send. 
 Isabelle. O heaven ! 
 
 Sga. Is it you, darling ? Where are you going so late ? You 
 told me when I left you that, being rather tired, you would shut 
 
2^6 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS. [Act III. 
 
 yourself in your room ; nay, you desired thai on my return I 
 would let you rest till to-morrow morning. 
 
 Isa. It's true ; but 
 
 Sga. But what? ' ' 
 
 Isa. I'm confused, as you see, and I do not know how to tell 
 you the reason. 
 
 Sga. How so ? What can this mean ? 
 
 Isa. A surprising secret. It is my sister who obliges me to 
 go out now, and who, with an object for which I greatly blame 
 her, asked me to let her have my room, and I've locked her up 
 in it. 
 
 Sga. What for? -.vAm: 
 
 Isa. Could one believe it ? She is in love with that y6tin~g 
 man whom we sent away. 
 
 Sga. What, with Valere ? 
 
 Isa. Desperately. Nothing can exceed her passionate love. 
 You may form some idea of its violence from the fact of her coming 
 here alone at this hour to reveal to me the anguish of her mind, 
 and to tell me that she will certainly die unless she can obtain 
 what she has set her heart upon : that for above a year this 
 intrigue has been secretly carried on ; and that at the very com- 
 mencement of it they engaged themselves to each other by a 
 mutual promise of marriage. 
 
 Sga. Wretched girl ! 
 
 Isa. Further, on learning to what despair I had driven the 
 man whom she loves to see, she came to beg that I would let 
 her do what she could to prevent a separation that would pierce 
 her to the heart, and that I would permit her to converse with 
 her lover under my name this evening in the little street into 
 which my room looks, where, counterfeiting my voice, she could 
 talk a little kindly to him, and so tempt him to stay — and, in 
 short, that she might dexterously turn to her own account the 
 attachment which she knows he has for me. 
 
 Sga. And do you think that 
 
 Isa. For my part, I'm furious with her. "What, sister," I 
 said, " are you out of your mind ? Are you not ashamed to be 
 in love with a fellow of this sort who changes from day to day ? 
 To forget your sex, and to deceive the hope of a man to whom 
 Providence has aUied you ? " 
 
 Sga. He well deserves it, and I'm very glad of it. 
 
 Isa. In short, my vexation made use of a hundred reasons to 
 reproach her for so much baseness, and to enable me to refuse 
 what she this night requested: but I found her desires so 
 
L 
 
 Scene II.] IJKCOLE DES MARIS. 237 
 
 importunate, she shed so many tears, heaved so many sighs, 
 and so often told me that I should drive her to despair if I 
 would not yield to her wishes, that at last, in spite of myself, 1 
 was forced to give way; and in order to justify this night's 
 intrigue, Avhich tenderness for my own flesh and blood made me 
 assent to, I was going to get Lucrece, whose virtues you are 
 always praising, to come and sleep with me ; but you surprised 
 me by your quick return. 
 
 Sga. No, no ; I won't have all this mystery in my house. I 
 should not mind so far as my brother is concerned, but they may 
 be seen by some one in the street, and she whom I honour by 
 making my wife must not only be modest and well-bred, but she 
 must not be even suspected. Let us go and turn out the shame- 
 less creature ; and as to her passion 
 
 Isa. Ah ! you'll shame her too much, and she may justly 
 complain of me for not being able to keep her secret. Since I 
 must withdraw my consent to her scheme, stay here at least until 
 I have sent her away. 
 
 Sga. Well, then, do so. 
 
 Isa. But above all things conceal yourself, I entreat you, and 
 see her go without saying a word to her. 
 
 Sga. Yes, for love of you I will restrain my anger, but the 
 very instant she's outside the door, I will go and find my brother 
 without delay ; it will delight me to run and tell him of this 
 affair. 
 
 Isa. I entreat you, then, not to mention my name. Good- 
 night, for I am going to my room at once. 
 
 Sga, Until to-morrow, my own. {Alone.) How impatient I 
 am to see my brother and inform him of his luck. The good 
 man is duped, in spite of all his high-flown language, and I would 
 not mind laying twenty crowns on it. 
 
 Isa. {in the house). Yes, sister, I am sorry to incur your 
 displeasure, but it is not possible for me to do as you wish. My 
 honour, which is dear to me, will run too great a risk. Farewell. 
 Go before it is too late. 
 
 Sga. There she goes, fuming in fine style, I warrant. For 
 fear she should return, let us lock the door. 
 
 Isa. {going out). O heaven, forsake me not in my plans ! 
 
 Sga. {aside). Where can she be going ? Let us follow her a 
 little way. 
 
 Isa. {aside). The night, however, favours me in my distress. 
 
 Sga. Why, she's gone to her lover's house. What can be the 
 meaning of all this ? 
 
238 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS, [Act III, 
 
 Scene III. 
 ValI:re, Sganarelle, Isabelle. 
 
 Valere {coming out hastily). Yes, yes, I will make an attempt 
 to speak this very night. — Who's there ? 
 
 Isabelle. Make no noise, Valere ; I have anticipated you. I 
 am Isabelle. 
 
 Sganarelle. You lie, you hussy, it is not she. She follows too 
 closely the laws of honour which you forsake ; and you assume 
 falsely both her name and voice. 
 
 Isa. {to Valere). But were it not that you by holy matri- 
 mony 
 
 Val. Indeed, that is the only end of my destiny, and here I 
 make you a solemn promise that to-morrow I will go where you 
 ])lease and have the ceremony performed. 
 
 Sga. {aside). Poor deluded fool ! 
 
 Val. Come in with perfect confidence. I now defy the 
 power of your hoodwinked guardian, and before he shall take 
 you from me, I will stab him to the heart with a thousand blows. 
 
 Sga. {alone). Oh, I assure you I have no desire to take her 
 from you, the shameless creature, a slave to your passion. I'm 
 not jealous of your promise to her, and, beheve me, you shall be 
 her husband. Ah ! let us surprise him with his brazen-faced girl ! 
 The memory of her father, who was so justly respected, together 
 v/ith the great interest I have in her sister, make it right that I 
 should endeavour at least to preserve her honour. Hulloa ! {He 
 knocks at the door of a magistrate.) 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Sganarelle, the Magistrate^ the Notary, Attendants. 
 
 Magistrate. Who's there ? 
 
 Sganarelle. Your servant, Mr. Magistrate. We want your 
 presence officially. Please follow me with your light. 
 
 Mag. We were going 
 
 Sga. It's a very urgent affair. 
 
 Mag. What is it ? 
 
 Sga. To go in there and surprise two people, who must be 
 honestly married. It is a girl of ours whom a certain Valere has 
 deceived, and got into his house by promising her marriage. She 
 comes of a noble and virtuous family, but 
 
 Mag. Oh, if that is the business, our meeting is very fortunate, 
 for we have a notary here. 
 
Scene V.] V£:COLE DES MARIS. 239 
 
 Sga. I beg your pardon ? 
 
 Notary. Yes, sir, a public notary. 
 
 Mag. And a man of honour. 
 
 Sga. Of course. Go in at that door ; make no noise, but mind 
 that no one comes out. You shall be well repaid for your trouble ; 
 but don't allow yourselves to be bribed. 
 
 Mag. What ! do you believe that an officer of justice 
 
 Sga. I don't say it as a reflection on your office. I'll fetch my 
 brother here at once. Let the link-boy accompany me. {Aside.) 
 I am going to give this passionless man a grand time of it. Hulloa ! 
 {He knocks Aristis door.) 
 
 Scene V. 
 Ariste, Sganarelle. 
 
 Arisie. Who is knocking? Ah, ah, brother, what do you 
 want ? 
 
 Sganarelle. Come along, you old governor, you superannuated 
 fop, I'll show you something pretty ! 
 
 Aris. What is that ? 
 
 Sga. I bring you good news. 
 
 Aris, What ? 
 
 Sga. Pray where is your Leonor ? 
 
 Aris. Wihy do you ask? I believe she's gone to a friend's 
 house, to a ball. 
 
 Sga. Ay, ay ; follow me. You shall see what kind of a ball 
 the young miss is gone to ! 
 
 Aris. What do you mean ? 
 
 Sga. You have brought her up vastly well. It is not right to 
 be always finding fault ; great gentleness wins the mind, while 
 distrustful watching, bolts, and gratesvdiiake neither wives nor 
 maidens virtuous. By too much severity we cause them to go 
 wrong ; and women require a little liberty. In truth, she has 
 taken her fill of it, the artful hussy ; and virtue is very accommo- 
 dating. 
 
 Aris. What is the drift of all this talk ? 
 
 Sga. Come, my elder brother, it is what yo'a well deserve; 
 and I would not for twenty pistoles you should have missed this 
 fruit of your silly maxims. It's plain what effect our instructions 
 have produced on two sisters ; one avoids lovers, the other runs 
 after them. 
 
 Aris, Unless you make this riddle clearer to me 
 
 Sm. The riddle is that her ball is at M. Valbre's, that I saw 
 
240 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS. [ACT III. 
 
 her go there by night, and that at this present moment she's in his 
 arms. 
 
 Aris, Whom do you mean ? 
 
 Sga. L^onor. i. 
 
 Aris, I beg you to cease your banter. 
 
 Sga. Banter ! It's a great joke to hear him talk of " banter." 
 Poor wretch ! I tell you again and again that Valbre has got your 
 Leonor at his house, and that by a mutual promise they were 
 engaged to be married before he thought of Isabelle. 
 
 Aris. This story is so utterly improbable 
 
 Sga. He won't believe it, though he sees it. It makes me wild. 
 
 Age is worth little when it cannot supply this {touching his 
 
 forehead ivith his Jinger). 
 
 Aris. What, brother, do you want 
 
 .5^^. Good gracious ) I want nothing : only follow me, and 
 your mind will soon be put at ease. You shall see whether I am 
 imposing on you, and whether they have not been engaged for 
 more than a year. 
 
 A7-is. A likely story, that she should consent to this engage- 
 ment without letting me know of it — me who, since her childhood, 
 have in everything shown her perfect kindliness, and a hundred 
 times over have declared I would never constrain her inclinations. 
 
 Sga. However, your own eyes shall judge of the matter. I have 
 sent for a magistrate and a notary, as it is our interest that the 
 honour which she has lost should be restored by marriage on the 
 spot ; for I do not imagine that you are so mean-spirited as to 
 make her your wife with this stain, unless you have still some 
 arguments to raise yourself above ridicule. 
 
 Aris. I shall never be so extremely weak as to desire the 
 possession of a heart against its will. But, after all, I can't 
 believe 
 
 Sga. What endless talking ! Come along ; this dispute might 
 last for ever. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Magistrate, Notary, Sganarelle, Ariste. 
 
 Magistrate. Here's no occasion for compulsion. Gentlemen, 
 if you only wish that they should be married, your anger may be 
 appeased on the spot, as they are both equally inclined to it, 
 Val^re has already declared in writing that he will take as his wife 
 the lady now with him. 
 
 Ariste. And the girl ? 
 
Scene VII.] VECOLE DES MARIS. 241 
 
 Mag, She is locked in, and will not come out unless you 
 consent to gratify their wishes. 
 
 «» Scene VII. 
 
 Magistrate^ Valere, Notary^ Sganarelle, Ariste. 
 
 Valere {at the window). No, gentlemen, no one comes into 
 this house till this consent has been given. You know who I am, 
 and I have done my part in signing the document, which they can 
 let you see. If it is your intention to approve of the match, you 
 must likewise add your signatures in confirmation. If not, you 
 may take away my life sooner than take from me the object of my 
 love. 
 
 Sganarelle. Oh, no ! \Ve've no thought of separating you from 
 i^er. {Aside.) He's not yet undeceived as to Isabelle ; let us take 
 advantage of the mistake. 
 
 Aris. But is it Leonor ? 
 
 Sga. {to Ariste). Be quiet, do. 
 
 Ariste. But 
 
 Sga. Will you be quiet ? 
 
 Aris. I want to know 
 
 Sga. What, again? Hold your tongue, I tell you. 
 
 Val. In short, whatever may be the consequences, Isabelle 
 has my solemn promise, as I have hers ; and, all things con^, 
 sidered, mine is not an alliance that you ought to disapprove of. 
 
 Aris. What he says is not 
 
 Sga. Hold your tongue ; I have a reason for it, and you shall 
 know the secret. — Well, without any more words, we both consent 
 that you shall marry her who is now with you. 
 
 Magistrate. Those are the terms in which the document is 
 drawn up, and there is a blank for the name, since we did not 
 see her. Now set your hands to it, and the lady will set you all 
 at ease afterwards. 
 
 Val. I agree to it in that way. 
 
 Sga. And so do I. {Aside.) We shall have a grand joke 
 ])resently. {Aloud.) There, sign first, brother; that honour 
 belongs to you. 
 
 Aris. But why all this mystery ? 
 
 Sga. Bother your impertinence ! — come, sign, you simpleton. 
 
 Aris. He talks of Isabelle ; you of Leonor. 
 
 Sga. Don't you consent, brother, if it is she, to leave them to 
 their plighted faith? 
 
 Aris. Undoubtedly. 
 
 17 
 
242 THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS. [Act III. 
 
 Sga. Sign, then, and I will do the same. 
 
 Aris. So let it be, but I can't understand anything of the 
 matter. 
 
 Sga. You shall be enlightened. 
 
 Mag. We'll be back again presently. 
 
 Sga. {to Artste). Well, now I'll tell you the end of all this. 
 {They withdraw to the back of the staged) 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 Leonor, I.isette, Sganarelle, Ariste. 
 
 Leonor. Oh, what a martyrdom I have endured ! How weari- 
 some all these young fools appear to me. I've stolen away from 
 the ball on their account. 
 
 Lisette. Yet they all try to make themselves agreeable to you. 
 
 Leon. For my part, I never met with anything more insufiter- 
 able. I should prefer the most ordinary conversation to all the 
 silly speeches of these babblers about nothing. They think that 
 everything must give way to their flaxen wigs, and fancy them- 
 selves the wittiest people in the world when, in a wretched, 
 bantering tone, they rally one stupidly about the love of an old 
 man ; whereas I value the affection of such an old man beyond 
 all the giddy raptures of a youthful brain. But don't I per- 
 ceive 
 
 Sgafiarelle {to Ariste). Well, this is the state of the matter 
 
 Oh, I see her approaching, and her maid with her. 
 
 Ariste. Leonor, without being angry, I think I have good 
 reason to complain. You know I have never wished to lay any 
 constraint upon you, and I have promised you more than a hun- 
 dred times to allow you full liberty to gratify your own wishes. 
 But your heart, despising my approval, has engaged itself by troth 
 as well as by love, without acquainting me. I do not repent of 
 my indulgence towards you, but your conduct affects me very 
 much, for my fond affection for you has not deserved it. 
 
 Leon. Why you talk in this way I have no notion, but be 
 assured I am the same as I always have been. Nothing can alter 
 my attachment to you. Any other attachment would seem to me 
 a crime, and if you would satisfy my desires, the sacred knot should 
 make us one to-morrow. 
 
 Aris, On what grounds then, brother, came you 
 
 Sga. What ! Are not you now coming from Valeie's rooms ? 
 Have not you this very day declared your love for him ? And 
 have you not for a year past been devoted to him ? 
 
ScExNE IX.] L'ACOLE DES MARIS. 243 
 
 ' Leon. Who has drawn such fine pictures of me, and taken the 
 trouble to invent such calumnies ? 
 
 Scene IX. 
 
 IsABELLE, Valere, Magistrate^ Notary^ Ergaste, Lisette, 
 Leonor, Sganarelle, Ariste. 
 
 Isabelle. Sister, I beg you generously to pardon me if I have 
 brought any scandal on your name by the liberties I have taken. 
 The great perplexity of a sudden surprise gave me the idea of this 
 shameful trick. Your example condemns such an outrageous 
 action, but fate has dealt differently with you and me. {To 
 Sganarelle.) As for you, sir, I do not wish to excuse myself to 
 you, since I do you a service rather than use you ill. Heaven 
 never designed us for one another. I found myself unworthy of 
 your love, and greatly preferred to be in the hands of another, 
 rather than prove undeserving of such a love as yours. 
 
 Valere. For my part, sir, I esteem it my glory and my highest 
 happiness to receive her from your hands. 
 
 Ariste. Brother, you must swallow this quietly ; your own 
 behaviour is the cause of it. I think your lot unhappy in this 
 respect, that, knowing how you have been taken in, no one will 
 pity you. 
 
 Lisette. Well, for my part, I'm extremely glad of it ; this 
 reward of his watchfulness is a notable stroke. 
 
 Honor. I hardly know whether it ought to be approved, but, 
 for my part, I'm sure I can't blame it. 
 
 Ergaste. He seemed born to be a cuckold, and he is fortunate 
 to have escaped while on the way to it. 
 
 Sganarelle {after standing for some time like one stunned). No, 
 I cannot get over my astonishment. This devilish trick perplexes 
 my understanding, and I verily believe that Satan himself could 
 not be so wicked as this jilt. I would have staked my life on her. 
 Unhappy is the man who puts his trust in woman after this ; the 
 best of them are constantly hatching mischief; the whole sex 
 were made to ruin the world. I renounce the treacherous sex for 
 ever, and they may go the deuce with all my heart. 
 
 Er. Good. 
 
 Aris. Let us all go to my house. Come, Mons. Valere, to- 
 morrow we will endeavour to appease his anger. 
 
 Lis. {to the audience). If any of you are acquainted with 
 bearish husbands, do not fail to send them to our school. 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES 
 
 {ViCOLE DES FEMMES). 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON/E. 
 
 Arnolphe, alias Mons. de la \ Georgette, a countrywoman, 
 
 Arnolphc's maid. 
 Chrysalde, Arnolpke's friend. 
 Enrique, brother - in - law of 
 
 Chrysalde^ father oj Agnes. 
 OroNTE, father of Horace and 
 friend of Arnolphe' s. 
 ^ A Notary. 
 
 Souche. 
 Agnes, a youngs simple-minded 
 
 girl., brought up by Arnolphe; 
 
 daughter of Enrique. 
 Horace, lover of Agnes, son of 
 
 Oronte. 
 Alain, a peasant^ Arnolph^s 
 ■* ' valet. 
 
 Scene— A SQUARE IN A TOWN, 
 
 ACIVE Scene I. 
 Chrysalde, Arnolphe. 
 
 Chrysalde. You have come to marry her, do ,y6u say? 
 
 Arnolphe. Yes ; I want to conclude the affair to-morrow. 
 
 Chrys. We're here alone, and may converse, I think, without 
 fear of being overheard. Would you have me open my heart to 
 you as a friend ? Your intention makes me tremble for you, and 
 however you consider the matter, it is a very great piece of rash- 
 ness in you to marry. 
 
 Ar. That's true, friend. Perhaps you find reason at home 
 to be apprehensive for me ! Your own forehead makes you 
 imagine, I suppose, that horns are everywhere the infallible 
 accompaniment of matrimony. 
 
 Chrys. Those are accidents no one is secure against, and the 
 precautions people take against them seem to me extremely 
 foolish. But what I fear for you is that raillery which a hundred 
 husbands have borne the brunt of. For, in short, you know that 
 neither high nor low have been exempt from your criticisms ; that 
 your chief delight, wherever you are, is lo make a great outcry 
 about secret intrigues. 
 
SciXE I.] LECOLE DES FEMMES, 245 
 
 Ar. Very good. Is there any other city in the whole world 
 where husbands are so patient as here ? Does not one see all 
 kinds of them fooled at home in every way? One heaps up 
 wealth which his wife distributes to those who seek to seduce her. 
 Another — a little more happy, but not less deceived — sees 
 presents made every day to his wife, and yet no jealousy disturbs 
 his mind, because she tells him it is out of regard to her virtue. 
 One makes a great bustle, which is of little use ; another, in 
 perfect tranquillity, lets affairs take their course, and seeing the 
 fop come to his house, very civilly takes his gloves and cloak. 
 One wife, with female cunning, pretends to make a confidant of 
 her faithful husband, who sleeps securely under such delusion, 
 and pities the poor lover for taking pains — which he does not 
 throw away. Another, to clear herself from being extravagant, 
 says that she wins at play the money she spends ; and the silly 
 husband, not dreaming at what game she is playing, thanks 
 heaven for what she gains. In a word, there are everywhere 
 these objects of satire, and may not I, as a looker-on, laugh at 
 them.? May I not of our fools 
 
 Chrys. Yes ; but whoever laughs at others, should fear that 
 in return others will laugh at him. I hear what the world says, 
 and how people divert themselves by talking of what goes on 
 around them ; but whatever is told in places where I may be, no 
 one has ever seen me triumph at such stories. I am reserved 
 enough in that respect ; and although on these occasions I might 
 condemn the allowance of certain freedoms, and it would not be 
 my plan to put up with what some husbands endure quietly, yet I 
 have never cared to say this — for after all it is to be feared lest the 
 satire come home, and one should never positively swear what 
 any body would or would not do in such a case. Thus should 
 fate, which directs all things, bring some human disgrace 'jpon me, 
 I'm almost sure that, after my behaving in this mann- -. people 
 would be satisfied with a quiet laugh, and it may be that i should 
 have the benefit of some folks saying, " What a pity ! " But as 
 for you, dear friend, the case is quite different, and I tell you that 
 you'll run a terrible risk; for as your tongue has always been 
 ready to banter long-suffering husbands, and you've been a very 
 devil let loose against them, you must walk very straight if you 
 would not be made a laughing-stock. And if they get the least 
 hold on you, take care they do not publish your affair at the 
 market cross. 
 
 Ar. Oh, my friend, don't trouble yourself. He'll be mighty 
 clever who catches me on that point. I am acquainted with all 
 
246 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act I. 
 
 the artful tricks and subtle contrivances women employ to make 
 fools of us ; and since we're duped by their cleverness, I've 
 secured myself against that accident, for the lady I shall marry 
 will have innocence enough to preserve my forehead from any 
 evil influence. 
 
 Chrys. And do you suppose that a foolish girl, in one word 
 
 A7\ To marry a foolish girl does not make one a fool. I 
 believe, like a good Christian should, that your better half is 
 very discreet. But a clever wife is a bad omen, and I know what 
 it has cost some people for having married wives with too much 
 talent. Do you think I am going to charge myself with the care 
 of a witty wife who would talk of nothing but assemblies and 
 private parties, who would write soft effusions in prose and verse, 
 whom marquises and wits would visit, whilst, under the name of 
 madame's husband, I should be like a saint whom no one notices ? 
 No, no, I don't want a lofty mind ; a woman that writes under- 
 stands more than she should do. I intend that mine shall have 
 so little of the sublime, that she shall not even know what a 
 " rhyme " is ; and if she were playing at Basket, and were to be 
 asked in her turn, "What's put into it?" I would have her answer, 
 "A cream tart." In a word, I would have her extremely ignorant; 
 it is enough, to speak plainly, if she knows how to say her prayers, 
 to love me, to sew and to spin. 
 
 Chrys. So, then, you have a fancy for a stupid wife ? 
 
 Ar. So much so, that I would prefer an ugly fool to a very 
 handsome woman with a great deal of wit. 
 
 Chrys. Wit and beauty 
 
 : Ar. Virtue is sufficient. 
 
 Ch7ys. But how, after all, could you ever teach a fool to know 
 what it is to be virtuous ? Besides, I should think it very tiresome 
 for a man to have a fool with him all his lifetime. Do you think 
 you take a right view, and that one's trust can be surely founded 
 in constancy ? A woman of sense may act contrary to her duty, 
 but she must do so knowingly ; whereas a fool may fail in hers 
 without desiring or even thinking of it. 
 
 Ar. To this argument, to this profound discourse, I would 
 answer as Pantagruel did to Panurge, " Persuade me to marry a 
 woman that is not a fool, preach to me, plead with me from 
 January to June, and you'll be astonished, when you've done, to 
 find that you've not persuaded me the least." 
 I Chrys. I will not say a word more to you. 
 ' Ar. Every one to his own way. With a wife, as in every- 
 thing, I'll follow my own wishes. I'm rich enough, I think, to 
 
I 
 
 Scene I.] IJECOLE DES FEMMES. 247 
 
 take a wife who may owe everything to me, whose humble and 
 entire dependence on me can never reproach me either with her 
 birth or her fortune. A soft and quiet look amongst other chil- 
 dren inspired me with a love for her when she was only four years 
 old. Her mother being very badly off, it came into my mind to ask 
 for her ; and the poor countrywoman, understanding my desire, 
 was very glad to get rid of her. I had her brought up in a little 
 out-of-the-way convent, in strict accordance with my views — that 
 is to say, enjoining them to bring her up as much like a fool 
 as possible. Thank heaven, the result answered my utmost 
 expectations ; and when grown up, I found her so simple-minded 
 that I could not be sufficiently thankful for having found a wife 
 entirely to my mind. I brought her home, and, as my house is 
 continually open to a hundred kinds of people, as it is necessary 
 to take precautions, I have kept her apart in this other house, 
 where no one comes to visit me ; and that her good disposition may 
 not be spoilt, I only have persons about her who are as foolish as 
 herself. But you will say, " Why this long story ? " It is to let 
 you see the care I have taken. The end of the matter is that I 
 want you to come and sup with her this evening, as I know what 
 a true friend you are. I should like you to examine her a little, 
 and see whether I'm to be blamed for my choice. 
 
 Chrys. I agree to it. 
 
 Ar. In conversation you can form an opinion as to her 
 appearance and her innocence. 
 
 Chrys. What you have told me on that point cannot 
 
 Ar. My description comes even short of the truth. I admire 
 her simplicity on all occasions, and sometimes she so expresses it 
 that I am ready to die with laughter. The other day — would you 
 believe it? — she was greatly puzzled, and came and asked me, 
 with unparalleled simplicity, if children came through the ears. 
 
 Chrys. I rejoice at it very much, Monsieur Arnolphe. 
 
 Ar. Will you persist in calling me by that name ? 
 
 Chrys. Ah, do what I will, it comes to the tip of my tongue, 
 and I never remember Monsieur 'de la Souche. What the deuce 
 put it into your head to re-christen yourself at forty-two years of 
 age, and to take to yourself a title from a rotten old stump on 
 your farm ? 
 
 Ar. Besides that the house is known by that name, La 
 Souche pleases my ear more than Arnolphe. 
 
 Chrys. What a shame it is to quit the true name of one's 
 
 ancestors, to assume another based upon fancies ! Yet this is the 
 
 ' whim of many people, and, without including you in the com- 
 
248 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Acr I. 
 
 parison, I know a country fellow called " Fat Peter," whose whole 
 estate being only a small patch, he made a muddy ditch round it, 
 and assumed the pompous name of Monsieur de L'Isle. 
 
 Ar. You might dispense with instances of that kind. In 
 short, De la Souche is the name I bear. I've a reason for it ; 
 I find a pleasure in it ; and to call me by any other is not 
 courteous 
 
 Chrys. Most people, however, find it difficult to submit to it, 
 and I see even still, by the directions of your letters 
 
 Ar. I bear it easily from those who are not informed, but 
 you 
 
 Chrys. Well, well ; we'll have no quarrel about that. I'll take 
 care to accustom my mouth to call you nothing else but Monsieur 
 de la Souche; 
 
 Ar. Good-bye. I knock here only to wish them good-day, 
 and to say that I have come back. 
 
 Chrys. {going away). Indeed I thitik he's a fool in every way. 
 
 Ar. He's a little touched on certain points. It's wonderful 
 to see how passionately every man is attached to his own opinion. 
 Hulloa ! {knocking at his oivn door). 
 
 Scene II. 
 Alain, Georgette, Arnolphe. 
 
 Alain: Who knocks ? 
 
 Ar7iolphe. Open the door. {Aside.) They'll be very glad, 
 I suppose, to see me after ten days' absence. 
 
 Al. Who's there ? Am. I. 
 
 Al. Georgette! Georgette. Well? 
 
 AL Open the door there. Geor. Go and do it yourself. 
 
 Al. You go and do it. Geor. Faith, I won't go. 
 
 Al. And I won't go. 
 
 Ar. Here's a nice kind of ceremony while I am left outside. 
 Hulloa, hulloa there ! 
 
 Geor. Who's knocking at the door ? 
 
 Ar. Your master. 
 
 Geor. Alain ! 
 
 Al. Well ? 
 
 Geor. It's the master. Open the door quickly. 
 
 Al. You go and open it. 
 
 Geor. I can't; I'm blowing the fire. 
 
 Al. I can't move for fear of the cat, in case my sparrow got 
 out. 
 
Scene III.] LECOLE DES FEMMES, 249 
 
 Ar. Whichever of you two doesn't come and open the door 
 shall go four days without anything to eat. 
 
 Geor. {to Alaiii), What's the good of your coming, when I'm 
 running there? 
 
 Al. Why you, more than I ? A fine trick I 
 
 Geo7'. Get you gone then. 
 
 Al. I won't. Get you gone yourself. 
 
 Geor. I'll open the door. 
 
 Al. I'll open it myself. 
 
 Geor. You sha'n't open it. 
 
 Al. No more shall you. 
 
 Geor. Nor you. 
 
 Ar. I think I need have plenty of patience. 
 
 AL {enferi?ig). However, it's me, sir. 
 
 Geor. {entering). I am your servant — it is me. 
 
 Al. Were it not for respect to my master here, I'd 
 
 Ar. (receiving a blow fro7n Alain). Plague on you ! 
 
 Al. I beg your pardon, sir. 
 
 Ar. Look at that idiot, there ! 
 
 Al. She, sir, is quite ■ 
 
 Ar. Hold your tongues, both of you. Stop your fooling and 
 attend to what I ask you. Well, Alain, how are all here ? 
 
 Al. Why, sir, we — we — {Arnolphe pulls off Alain's hat. Ht 
 
 puts it on again.) Sir, we — we are — thank heaven — we, we- 
 
 {Arnolphe again takes off Alain's hat, and afterwards a third time.) 
 
 Ar. Impertinent ass ! w^ho taught you to talk to me with your 
 hat on your head ? 
 
 Al. You do well, sir ; I was in the wrong. 
 
 Ar. {to Alain). Fetch Agn^s down. {To Georgette.) Was 
 slie melancholy after I went away ? 
 
 Geor, Melancholy? Oh no. 
 
 Ar. What! No? 
 
 Geor. Yes, yes. 
 
 Ar. Why then 
 
 Geor. Yes, may I die but she continually expected your coming 
 back, and we saw neither horse, ass, nor mule pass by the house 
 which she did not take for you. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Agnes, Alain, Georgette, Arnolphe. 
 Arnolphe. Her work in her hand ! A good sign. Well, Agn^, 
 I'm come back from my journey. Are you glad of it ? 
 
250 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES, [Act I. 
 
 Agnh. Yes, sir, thank God ! 
 
 Am. And I too am glad to see you again. You've been well 
 all the time, it seems ? 
 
 Ag. Except for the fleas that disturbed me in the night. 
 
 Ar?i. Oh, we must find some one to catch them for you. 
 
 Ag. You'll do me a kindness. 
 
 Arn. I'll think of it. What are you doing there ? 
 
 Ag. I am making some nightcaps for myself. Your night- 
 shirts and caps are done. 
 
 Arn. Ah, that's well. Go upstairs — don't tire yourself. I shall 
 be back again presently and talk to you about aftairs of con- 
 sequence. {All being gone in.) You heroines of the age, you 
 learned ladies, that utter tender and fine sentiments — I defy at 
 once all your verses, your romances, your letters, your love-letters, 
 and all your knowledge to be worth as much as this modest and 
 virtuous ignorance I 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Horace, Arnolphe. 
 
 Arnolphe. It is not by riches one should be tempted, and 
 provided that honour be — Whom do I see ? Is it he ? Ay. I'lti 
 mistaken. No, no. But it is. Nay, it is he himself~Hor 
 
 Horace. Monsieur Ar 
 
 Ar. Horace. 
 
 Hor. Arnolphe. 
 
 Ar. What joy ! How long have you been here? 
 
 Hoi'. Nine days ago. 
 
 Ai: Really 
 
 Hor. I went directly to your house, but to no purpose. 
 
 Ar. I was in the country. 
 
 Hor. Yes, you'd been gone ten days. 
 
 Ar. How children shoot up in a few years ! I'm surprised to 
 find him grown so, after having known him no bigger than this. 
 
 Hor. You see what I am now. 
 
 Ar. But pray now, how is Oronte your father, my good and 
 dear friend whom I esteem and revere ? Is he hearty still ? He 
 knows how interested I am in all that concerns him ; we haven't 
 seen one another these four years, nor, which is more, written 
 to one another, I think. 
 
 Hor. He's even livelier than I am. Monsieur Arnolphe. I had a 
 letter for you from him ; but by another written since, he sends me 
 word that he is coming himself— though I don't know the reason. 
 
I 
 
 Scene IV.] LECOLE DES FEMMES. 251 
 
 Do you know which of your citizens it can be who has returned 
 here with great wealth which he has gained during the last fourteen 
 years in America ? 
 
 Ar. No. But were you told his name ? 
 
 Ifor. Enrique. 
 
 Ar. No, I don't know him. 
 
 Jlor. My father speaks to me of him and his return as if I 
 ought to be perfectly acquainted with him, and writes me word 
 that they are setting out together on an important business, the 
 nature of which his letter does not mention. {Horace gives 
 Orofite's letter to Amolphe.) 
 
 Ar. I shall certainly be extremely glad to see him, and do all 
 in my power to entertain him. {After having I'ead the letter.) 
 Letters between friends should be less ceremonious ; all these 
 compliments are needless. You might freely have made use of 
 my purse, without his taking the trouble to write to me on the 
 subject. 
 
 Hor. I am one who take people at their word, and just now I 
 am in want of a hundred pistoles. 
 
 Ar. Indeed you are laying me under an obligation by 
 making use of me in this manner, and I am glad that I have them 
 here. Keep the purse and all. 
 
 Hor. It must 
 
 Ar. Enough of that. Well, what do you think of this city ? 
 
 Hor. The people are very numerous, the buildings superb, and 
 I think the amusements are admirable. 
 
 Ar. Every one has his pleasures, suitable to his taste. But 
 as for those who are called ladies' men, they have enough to 
 satisfy them, for the women are regular coquettes ; you will 
 find them both fair and dark, and of a pleasant temper, and the 
 husbands are the most complaisant in the world. It is an amuse- 
 ment fit for a prince, and it is often a comedy for me to see the 
 tricks that are played. Perhaps you have already smitten some 
 one. Have not you had that luck yet? People like you are 
 worth more than gold ; you're of the sort to make husbands 
 jealous. 
 
 . Hor. To conceal nothing from you of the real truth, I have a 
 ;love adventure in these parts, and your friendship obliges me to 
 ,• tell you about it. 
 
 Ar. {aside). Good. Here's some new love-tale to note 
 down in my pocket-book. 
 
 Hoj'. But I beg, however, that this matter may be a secret. 
 
 Ar. Oh, indeed ! 
 
252 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act I. 
 
 Hor. You're well aware that in these matters if a secret gets 
 wind, it upsets all one's arrangements. I must freely own to you, 
 then, that there is a fair lady in this place who has made a conquest 
 of my heart. My little attentions have at once had so much success 
 that I obtained free admittance to her, and without boasting too 
 much or doing her an injustice, my affair with her is making very 
 good progress. 
 
 Ar. {laughmg). Ha, ha. And she is ? 
 
 Hor. (showing him where Agnes lives). A young creature who 
 lives in the house with red walls, that you can see from here. 
 She's a simpleton, indeed, through the unparalleled folly of a man 
 who hides her from the world; but in that ignorance by which he 
 intends to enslave her, her charms shine forth sufficient to enchant 
 one — a perfectly endearing manner, and a certain tenderness 
 which no heart can be proof against. But perhaps you have 
 already seen this young star of love, adorned with so many, 
 attractions. They call her Agnes. 
 ^:Ar, [aside). Oh, I shall burst ! 
 
 Hor. As for the man, I think they call him la Zousse or 
 Source ; I did not pay much attention to his name. He's rich, 
 from what they told me, but over-wise — no. They spoke of hini 
 to me as a ridiculous fellow. Do you know him ? 
 
 Ar. {aside). This is a bitter pill. 
 
 Hor. Why don't you answer ? 
 
 Ar. Oh ay, I know him. 
 
 Hor. He's a fool, isn't he ? 
 
 Ar. Heh— 
 
 Hor. How now, what do you say? Heh! — ohi, that means 
 yes. Ridiculously jealous ? A fool ? Ah ! I find he's just as I 
 was told. In short, the lovely Agnes has enthralled me ; to tell 
 you the truth she's a charming creature, and it would be a sin to 
 allow so rare a beauty to remain in the hands of this queer fellow. 
 All my endeavours, all my dearest wishes, are to make her 
 mine, in spite of this jealous wretch ; and the money I made so 
 free as to borrow of you is for no other purpose than to complete 
 this laudable enterprise. You know better than I do that in all 
 our undertakings gold is the master-key, and that sweet metal 
 which distracts so many heads, procures the victory in love as well 
 as war. — But you don't seem pleased. Is it that you disapprove 
 of my design ? 
 
 Ar. No, I was considering, 
 
 Hor, The conversation tires you. Farewell. I'll wait on you 
 by and by to thank you. 
 
Scene I.] HECOLE DBS FEMMES. 253 
 
 Ar. {believing himself to be alone). What! must it- 
 
 Jlor. {coming back). Once more I beg of you to be carefulf 
 
 and not go and divulge my secret. -1' 
 
 Ar. {again believing himself to be alone). How my soul now 
 feels— ' — 
 
 Hor. {retitrning). Especially to my father, who might perhaps 
 be angry. 
 
 Ar. {thinking he may co)ne back again). Oh, what have I 
 suffered during this conversation ! Never was vexation equal to 
 mine. With what imprudence and extreme haste he came to 
 give an account of this business to me, of all men ! Though my 
 other name occasions his mistake, blunderhead, will he always 
 show so much rashness ? But after enduring what I did, I had to 
 control myself till I had discovered what I have to fear. I had to 
 encourage his foolish babbling to the end to inform myself per- 
 fectly thereby of what is going on privately between them. Let 
 me try to rejoin him ; I don't think he's gone far. I will en- 
 deavour to get everything out of him. I tremble at the misfortune 
 that may arise from it ; we often seek more than we wish to find. 
 
 3 1 : ^oiuor 
 
 Act II. Scene I. 
 
 Arnolphe. 
 
 Arnolphe. It really is well for me, I believe, that I have had 
 my walk for nothing, and missed the way he went ; for indeed the 
 overwhelming trouble of my heart could not altogether have con- 
 cealed itself from him. It would have shown the grief that is 
 preying on me, and I would not have him know what he is 
 ignorant of at present. But I am not the man to put up with this, 
 and allow this young spark to do as he likes. I'll put an end to 
 it, and learn at once how far they have gone. I am deeply con- 
 cerned for my honour ; for I look upon her as my wife already. 
 She cannot have gone wrong without covering me with shame, 
 and all she does will be set down to my account. Oh, fatal 
 absence ! most unfortunate journey ! {Knocks at his door.) 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Alain, Georgette, Arnolphe. 
 
 Alain. Ah ! sir, this time 
 
 Arnolphe. Be quiet. Come here, both of you. This way, 
 this way. Come along, come along, I say. 
 
254 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act II. 
 
 Georgette, Oh, you frighten me, and make my blood run cold. 
 
 Ar. So this is the way you have obeyed me in my absence, 
 and have agreed to deceive me ! 
 
 Geor. {^falling at ArnolpMs knees). Oh, pray, sir, don't eat 
 me up ! 
 
 Al. (aside). I feel sure some mad dog has bitten him. 
 
 Ar. Eugh ! I can't speak, I'm so upset. I am dying with 
 anxiety to find out the real truth. You cursed scoundrels ! you've 
 allowed a man to come here, have you ? (To Alain, who tries to 
 run away.) You want to run off, do you ? Tell me this moment 
 — (To Georgette.) If you dare to stir — (To Alain.) Yes, I'll have 
 you both — (Alain and Georgette both rise and again try to escape.) 
 Whichever stirs, I'll murder him. How came that man into my 
 house ? Answer me, make haste ! quick, at once, without 
 stopping to think ! Will you speak ? 
 
 Al. and Geor. Oh, oh, oh ! (Both falling at his knees.) 
 
 Geor. My heart fails me. 
 
 Al. I'm half dead. 
 
 Ar. (aside). I feel in a cold sweat; let me take a little 
 breath. I must walk and cool myself. Could I have imagined, 
 when I knew him as a little boy, that he would grow up for this ? 
 Oh, heavens ! how my head suffers ! I think it will be better 
 gently to obtain from her own mouth an account of what concerns 
 me. I must try and calm down my passion ! Patience, my heart ; 
 gendy, gently. {To Alain and Georgette.) Get up, go indoors, 
 and tell Agnes to come down. — No, stop. (Aside.) They'll go 
 and tell her of the vexation that troubles me, and she will feel no 
 surprise. (To Alain aftd Georgette.) Wait here for me, and I will 
 call her out myself. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Alain, Georgette. 
 
 Georgette. Good heavens ! how terrible he is. His looks 
 frighten me horribly. I never saw a more frightful Christian ! 
 
 Alain. That gentleman has made him very angry; I told 
 you so. 
 
 Geor. But why on earth does he make us keep our mistress 
 so closely confined to the house ? Why does he want to hide her 
 so carefully from all the world, and cannot bear to see any one 
 come near her ? 
 
 Al. It is because it makes him jealous. 
 
 Geor. But how comes this foolish notion into his head ? 
 
Scene V.] LECOLE DES FEMMES. 255 
 
 Al. Well, it comes — it comes because he's jealous. 
 
 Geor. Yes, but why is he so ? And what makes him so very 
 angry ? 
 
 AL It's because jealousy — do you understand, Georgette? — 
 is a thing that — that troubles people, and drives people away from 
 the neighbourhood of the house. I'll give you a comparison to 
 make you understand it better. Now tell the truth : if you had 
 made some nice soup, and some hungry fellow came and ate it 
 all up, shouldn't you fall into a passion and be ready to beat 
 him ? 
 
 Geor. Oh, yes, I understand tliat. 
 
 AL Well, it's just like that. Woman really is a man's soup, 
 and when any one sees other people trying to dip their fingers into 
 his soup, he falls at once into a violent rage. 
 
 Geor. Yes, but why does not every one do the same ? Why 
 do some people seem quite pleased when their wives are in the 
 company of fine gentlemen ? 
 
 AL Because every one has not this gluttonous love, that would 
 keep all to itself. 
 
 Geor. If I am not near-sighted, I see him coming. 
 
 AL Your eyes are good ; it is he. 
 
 Geor. Look how melancholy he is. 
 
 AL That's because he's vexed. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Arnolphe, Agnes, Alain, Georgette. 
 Ariiolphe. A certain Greek gave the Emperor Augustus a 
 piece of advice, as useful as it was true — that when any occurrence 
 puts us into a passion, we should first of all repeat the alphabet, so 
 that in the meanwhile our anger may cool, and that we may do 
 nothing we ought not to do. This advice I've followed in the 
 matter of Agnes, and I have brought her on purpose that, under 
 the pretence of taking a walk, the suspicions of my disordered 
 mind may artfully give the conversation a turn, which shall sound 
 her heart, and clear the matter up quietly. Come, Agnes. {To 
 Alain and Georgette?^ Go indoors. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Arnolphe, Ag-nes. 
 
 Arnolphe. What a nice walk ! 
 Agnes. Very nice. 
 
2 56 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act II. 
 
 Ar. What a delightful day ! 
 
 Ag. Most delightful. 
 
 Ak Is there any news ? 
 
 Ag. Yes, the kitten's dead. 
 
 Ar. That's a pity. But what then ? We're all mortal, and 
 every one must look out for himself. Did it rain whilst I was in 
 the country? 
 
 Ag. No. 
 
 Ar. Did you feel dull ? 
 
 Ag. I never do feel dull. 
 
 Ar. What have you been doing the last nine or ten days ? 
 
 Ag. I've made six shirts, and I think as many caps. 
 
 Ar. {after considermg a little). The world is a strange thing, 
 my dear Agnes. Consider the scandal there is in it, and how 
 everybody gossips. Some of the neighbours have been telling mc 
 that a young man, a stranger, came here when I was gone, and 
 that you permitted him to see and talk with you. But I gave no. 
 heed to these slandering tongues, and would have laid a wager, 
 that it was false 
 
 Ag. Oh, pray don't do that, for you'll lose. 
 
 Ar. What! Is it true that a man . 
 
 Ag. Quite true. He scarcely stirred out of the housp, I-issu^r^/ 
 you. ,', 
 
 Ar. (aside.) This sincere avowal shows me at least her in- 
 genuousness. (Aloud.) But it seems to me, Agnes, if I remember 
 rightly, that I forbade you seeing any one. 
 
 Ag. Yes, but you don't know why I saw him. I'm sure you'd 
 have done as I did. 
 
 Ar. Perhaps ; but anyhow, tell me all about it. 
 
 Ag. It is very surprising and almost incredible. I was sitting 
 on the balcony, working in the cool, when I saw a well-made 
 young man pass under the trees close by, and when he saw mc 
 looking at him he immediately bowed to me very respectfully, 
 and, not to be outdone in civility, I returned him a curtsy. He 
 immediately bowed to me again, and I took care to make him 
 another curtsy. Then he bowed a third time, and I instantly 
 returned a third curtsy. He walked to and fro, making me, every 
 time that he passed, the most beautiful bow possible, and I, 
 looking at him earnestly all the while, made him as many curtsies ; 
 so that if night had not come on I should still have continued, 
 being unwilling to give way, or that he should think me les§. civil 
 than he was. 
 
 Ar. Very well. 
 
Scene V.] LECOLE DES FEMMES, 257 
 
 Ag. The day after, when I was at the door, an old woman 
 came up and said to me, "My child, may heaven bless you and 
 long preserve you in all your beauty ! It has not made such a 
 charming creature as you in order to throw away its gifts, and you 
 ought to know that you have wounded a heart which is now forced 
 to complain." 
 
 Ar. {aside). Oh, you agent of Satan ! Cursed wretch ! 
 
 Ag. " I ! Have I wounded any one ? " I answered, quite 
 astonished. " Wounded ! " she answered, " yes, you have 
 wounded him grievously. It is the gentleman whom you saw from 
 the balcony yesterday." " Alas ! " I said, " how could I have 
 been the cause of that? Did I let fall anything on him care- 
 lessly ? " " No," she said, " your eyes have given the fatal blow, 
 and it is from their glances all his hurt proceeds." " Good 
 gracious ! " I said, " I never was so surprised in my life ! Can 
 my eyes do people any harm?" "Yes, daughter," she said, 
 " your eyes have a deadly poison in them which you do not know 
 of. In a word, the poor wretch is languishing away, and if so 
 be," continued the kind old woman, " your cruelty refuses to help 
 him, he'll be a dead man in two days' time." " Goodness me ! " 
 I said, " that would be a great misfortune. But what does he 
 want of me?" "My child," she said, "he only wishes to have 
 the happiness of seeing and talking with you. Your eyes alone 
 can prevent his ruin, and remedy the mischief they have done." 
 " With all my heart," I said ; " and since it is so, he can come 
 and see me as often as he likes." 
 
 Ar, {aside). Oh ! cursed sorceress. Soul poisoner ! May hell 
 repay you for your charitable plots ! 
 
 Ag. That's how he saw me, and was cured. Now, don't you 
 think yourself that I was right? Could I, after all, have the 
 conscience to let him die for want of help — I who am so pitiful 
 towards all suffering creatures that I can't see a chicken die with- 
 out crying ? 
 
 Ar. {aside). All this has only proceeded from an innocent 
 mind ; and I must blame my own indiscreet absence for it, which left 
 this perfect goodness exposed to the designs of artful seducers. I 
 am afraid that this rascal, by his imprudent pretences, has pushed 
 matters beyond a joke. 
 
 Ag. What is the matter with you ? I think you are rather 
 cross. Is there any harm in what I have just told you ? 
 
 Ar. No ; but tell me what followed, and how the young man 
 {behaved in his visits. 
 
 Ag. Oh ! you can't think how delighted he was. He lost his 
 
 18 
 
258 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act V. 
 
 illness as soon as I saw him. If you knew of the beautiful 
 casket he has given me, and the money he has given Alain and 
 Georgette, I am sure you would like him as much as we do. 
 
 Ar. Well, but tell me a little more about him. 
 
 Ag. Well, he said he loved me with an unparalleled love, and 
 spoke to me in the most beautiful language possible. He talked 
 about things that I never heard the like of. Every time he spoke, 
 his pleasant words delighted me beyond expression, and raised in 
 me a feeling I can't describe. 
 
 Ar. {aside). What a tormenting inquiry into a fatal secret, 
 where the inquirer suffers all the pain ! {To Agnes.) Besides all 
 this talk, and these pretty ways, didn't he give you some 
 caresses ? 
 
 Ag. Oh, yes ! He took both my hands and my arms, and 
 never seem tired of kissing them. 
 
 Ar. Nothing more ? {seeing her confused). 
 
 Ag. Yes; he Ar, What? 
 
 Ag. Took Ar. Ugh! 
 
 Ag. The Ar. Yes? 
 
 Ag. I dare not. You would perhaps be vexed with me. 
 
 Ar. No. Ag. Yes, you will. 
 
 Ar. No, indeed. Ag. Give me your word, theiL 
 
 Ar. On my word and honour. 
 
 Ag. He took You will be angry. 
 
 Ar. No. 
 
 Ag. Yes. 
 
 Ar. No, no, no, no ! The devil, what a mystery ! What has 
 he taken from you ? 
 
 Ag He 
 
 Ar. {aside). I am suffering the tortures of hell. 
 
 Ag. Well, he took that riband you gave me. To tell you the 
 truth, I could not help it. 
 
 Ar. {taking breath). Let the riband pass. But I want to know 
 if he did anything besides kiss your arms. 
 
 Ag. What ? Do people do other things ? 
 
 Ar. No; but did not he want to try any other remedy for his 
 disease ? 
 
 Ag. No. You may be sure, if he had, I should have done 
 anything in my power to help him. 
 
 Ar. {aside). Thanks to heaven, I have come off well enough. 
 I may well be called fool, if I let myself in again. {Aloud.) 
 Now, Agnbs, as you knew no better, I'll say no more about it. 
 What's done is done; but I must tell you that, by flattering 
 
Scene v.] VECOLE DES FEMMES. 259 
 
 you, this young fellow only wants to deceive you, and then 
 laugh at you. 
 
 Ag. Oh, no ! He told me so more than twenty times. 
 
 Ar. Ah, but you don't know what his word is worth. How- 
 ever, I must tell you, that to accept presents and listen to the 
 idle tales of these coxcombs, to allow them to kiss your hands 
 and charm your heart, is a mortal sin, the greatest that can be. 
 
 Ag. A sin, do you say ? But why ? for what reason ? 
 
 Ar. For what reason ? Why, the reason is that Heaven is 
 angry at such doings. 
 
 Ag. Angry ! But why should it be angry ? It is so sweet, 
 and so pleasant ! I am delighted with the pleasure I find in it. 
 I had no idea of it before. 
 
 Ar. Yes, yes, there's a great pleasure in all that sort of 
 thing ; but it should be tasted in an honourable manner, and the 
 sin removed by marriage. 
 
 Ag. Is it no longer a sin, then, when one is married ? 
 
 Ar. No. 
 
 Ag. Then pray marry me at once. 
 
 Ar. If you wish it, so do I ; in fact I came back on purpose 
 to marry you. 
 
 Ag. Is it possible ? 
 
 Ar. Yes. 
 
 Ag. How glad you'll make me. 
 
 Ar. Ay ! I don't doubt but what matrimony will please you. 
 
 Ag. You wish, then, that we two ? 
 
 Ar. Nothing more certain. 
 
 Ag. In that case, how I shall embrace you ! 
 
 Ar. And I shall do the same by you. 
 
 Ag. For my part, I don't understand when people make a 
 joke. Are you speaking seriously ? 
 
 Ar. Yes ; you shall find that I am. 
 
 Ag. We shall be married, then ? 
 
 Ar. Yes. 
 
 Ag. But when ? 
 
 Ar. This very evening. 
 
 Ag. {laughmg). This very evening ? 
 
 Ar. This very evening. Does it make you laugh, then ? 
 
 Ag. Yes. 
 
 Ar, It is my desire to see you happy. 
 
 Ag, Indeed how greatly I am obliged to you ; and what 
 pleasure I shall enjoy with him ! 
 
 Ar, With whom ? 
 
26o THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES, [AcT III. 
 
 Ag. With — why with him. ,^^ x^"^'^»> 
 
 Ar. With him! — that's not at all my intention. - Vou're'M"£l 
 great hurry, I think, to make choice of a husband. In a word, it 
 is some one else whom I design for you, who is ready to take 
 you. And as for that gentleman, I intend, if you please (even if 
 the malady with which he amuses you should be the death of him), 
 that henceforward you break off all communication with him; that 
 when he conies to the house, by way of compliment you shut the 
 door in his face, and if he knocks throw a stone at him out of 
 the window, and oblige him in good earnest to appear there no 
 more. Do you understand me, Agnes ? I shall be hidden in a 
 corner, and be witness of your behaviour. 
 
 Ag, Alas, but he's so handsome, he is. 
 
 Ar, Well, that's a fine speech ! 
 
 lAg. I sha'n't have the heart. 
 
 Ar. No more talk. Go upstairs. 
 
 Ag. But what ? Will you 
 
 Ar. That's enough — I'm master. I order ; go and obey. 
 
 ACT III. ScEN.E-T. 
 
 ARxoLniE, Agnes, Alain, Georgette. . , , , 
 
 Arnolphe. Indeed, everything has succeeded well, arid I'^iri 
 extremely pleased. You've followed my directions to a wonder, 
 and driven that insinuating young coxcomb quite out of the field. 
 See what it is to have a discreet adviser. Your innocence, Agnes, 
 had been taken advantage of, and see into what a condition you 
 had got, without thinking of anything. You were entering the 
 high road to perdition, if I had not come to set you right. One 
 knows only too well the ways of these fops ; they've fine knee orna- 
 ments, plenty of ribands and feathers, large wigs, good teeth, and 
 a very smooth tongue. But I assure you there's a cloven foot 
 beneath, and they are really demons seeking to devour innocent 
 girls. However, this time, thanks to my care, you have had a 
 fortunate escape. The spirit with which I saw you throw that 
 stone at him, which upset all his schemes, confirms me in my 
 idea not to put the wedding off any longer, for which I told you 
 to prepare yourself. But first of all I must have a little talk with 
 you, which will be to your advantage. {To Alain and Georgette^ 
 Bring out a chair here, in the open air. As for you, if you 
 ever 
 
Scene II.] V^COLE DBS FEMMES. 261 
 
 Georgette. We'll remember all your mstructions perfectly. The 
 other gentleman imposed on us. But 
 
 Alain. If ever he finds his way in here any more, may I never 
 have another drink. Besides, he's a blockhead. The other day 
 he gave us two crown pieces which were light weight. 
 
 Ar, Get what I ordered for supper ; and as for our contract of 
 which I spoke, one of you go and fetch the notary who lives at 
 the corner of the market-place. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Arnolphe, Agnes. 
 
 Arnolphe (seated). Now, Agnes, put away your work so as to 
 listen to me. There {putting his finger on her forehead), look at 
 me while I am speaking, and give heed to every word I say. 
 Agnes, 1 am going to marry you, and you ought, a hundred times 
 a day, to bless your good fortune and to think of the humble 
 condition which you were in, and at the same time admire my 
 goodness, which, from the station of a poor country girl, raised 
 you to the rank of an honourable citizen's bride, who hitherto has 
 kept clear of all such engagements, and whose heart has refused 
 to twenty charming people the honour he is going to give to you. 
 You ought, I say, constantly to bear in mind of how little account 
 you would be without this glorious alliance, so that this consider- 
 ation may the better teach you to deserve the station I shall place 
 you in, that you may always know yourself, and always give me 
 reason to pride myself on what I am about to do. Matrimony, 
 Agnes, is no joke ; serious duties are required of a wife, and I do 
 not intend to lift you to that position merely for your own freedom 
 and pleasure. Your sex is made only for dependence — all the 
 power is on the side of the beard ; they are two parts of the same 
 body, yet these parts are by no means equal — one is the superior, 
 the other subordinate. The one is in all cases subject to the 
 other which governs, and that obedience which the soldier shows 
 to his general, the servant to his master, a child to his father, the 
 lowest monk to his superior, does not come near the tractableness, 
 the submission, the humiUty, and the profound respect which 
 a wife should have for her husband, her chief, her lord and 
 master. When he looks at her in a serious manner, she should 
 turn her eyes on the ground at once, and never presume to look 
 him in the face, until he favours her with a gracious glance. This 
 is what our wives nowadays do not understand ; but do not be 
 corrupted by the example of other people. Take care not to 
 
262 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act III. 
 
 imitate those wretched coquettes, whose pranks are talked about 
 everywhere ; beware of being captured by the assaults of the 
 evil spirit— that is to say, hearken to no young coxcomb. 
 
 Consider, Agnes, that in making you half of myself, I am giving 
 my honour into your keeping, and this honour is delicate, and 
 easily offended ; you must understand that there is no trifling on 
 such a matter as this, and that in hell there are boiling cauldrons, 
 in which wives who lead bad lives are plunged for ever. What 
 I am telling you is no idle tale, and you must lay these lessons 
 well to heart. If you follow them sincerel)', and avoid being a 
 coquette, your soul will be as white and spotless as a lily, but if 
 you lose your honour it will become as black as a coal ; you will 
 appear a hideous creature to every one, and at last, being the 
 devil's own property, you will go and boil for ever in hell" — from 
 which may the goodness of heaven preserve you. Now make a 
 curtsy. As a probationer in a convent must know her duty, so 
 she that marries should do the same ; and I have in my pocket a 
 writing of great importance, which will teach you your duty as a 
 wife. I don't know who wrote it, but it is some good creature, 
 and I'd have it to be your only study. {He gets up.) Stop ; let us 
 see if you can read it easily: 
 
 Agnes {reads) — 
 
 THE MAXIMS OF WEDLOCK, OR THE DUTIES OF A MARRIED 
 WOMAN ; TOGETHER WITH HER DAILY EXERCISE. 
 
 First Maxim. — She who weds honourably must bear in mind, 
 in spite of present custom, that the man who marries her takes 
 her for himself alone. 
 
 Ar. I will explain to you what that means, but for the present 
 go on reading. 
 
 Ag?ih continues — 
 
 Second Maxim. — She ought only to deck herself according to 
 her husband's wish. The care of her beauty concerns him alone, 
 and she ought not to consider whether other people think her 
 plain. 
 
 Third Maxim. — Far be it from her to study ogling, beauty- 
 was, )es, paints, pomatums, and a thousand other things for setting 
 off the complexion. These are always mortal poisons to honour, 
 and the pains taken to appear handsome are seldom for the 
 husband's sake. 
 
 Fourth Maxim. — When she goes out, she ought, as honour 
 requires, to conceal the glances of her eyes under her hood, for in 
 order to please her husband perfectly she ought to please no one 
 else. 
 
Scene III.] L^COLE DES FEMMES. 263 
 
 Fifth Maxim. — Besides those who come to visit her husband, 
 propriety forbids her receiving any friends. Those gay young 
 fellows, who come only to see the wife, are not agreeable to the 
 husband. 
 
 Sixth Maxim. — She must refuse all presents from men, for in 
 the age in which we live, people give nothing for nothing. 
 
 Seventh Maxim. — Among her possessions, although it may be 
 annoying, she needs neither writing-desk, ink, paper or pens. The 
 husband, by good rule, should write everything that goes from the 
 house. 
 
 Eighth Maxim. — Those disorderly meetings called assemblies, 
 which always disturb the minds of women, ought properly to 
 be forbidden ; for it is there that they conspire against their poor 
 husbands. 
 
 Ninth Maxim. — Every woman who would*pteserve her honour, 
 must refrain from gambling as a terrible thing ; for play is very 
 enticing, and often leads a woman to stake all she has. 
 
 Tenth Maxim. — She must not appear on public promenades, 
 nor at picnics ; for sensible people believe that the husband always 
 pays for such entertainments. 
 
 Eleventh Maxim. — 
 W Ar. You shall finish it by yourself, and by and by I will 
 explain everything to you properly. I have a little affair of 
 business to attend to. I have but a word to say, and I sha'n't be 
 long. Now go in, and take particular care of that little book. 
 If the notary comes, let him wait a little while. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Arnolphe. 
 
 Arnolphe. I can't do better than make her my wife. I shall be 
 able to manage her just as I choose. In my hands she's just like 
 a piece of wax, which I can mould as I please. In my absence I 
 narrowly escaped being ruined through her excessive innocence. 
 But to say the truth, it is much better that one's wife should err 
 on this side, for such mistakes are easily amended. All simple 
 people are attentive to advice, and if they're led out of the right 
 way, a word or two will bring them into it again immediately. But 
 a clever wife is quite another kind of creature ; our fate depends 
 on her judgment only ; nothing can prevent her doing what she 
 takes a fancy to, and our advice is worth no more than if we tried 
 to wash a blackamoor white. Her wit enables her to laugh at our 
 maxims, to represent her faults as virtues, and to find out ways of 
 
264 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act III. 
 
 deceiving the cleverest people, in order to bring about her blame- 
 worthy purposes. We labour in vain to parry the blow; a woman 
 is a very devil in intrigue, and when her caprice has silently passed 
 sentence on our honour, we have to put up with it. A great many 
 good people could say as much. But my blunderhead shall have 
 no reason for laughing ; he has met with what he deserved for his 
 chattering. This is the common fault of our Frenchmen, they are 
 never satisfied when they are in luck ; a secret seems always to 
 trouble them, and this senseless vanity is so dear to them, that 
 they would rather lose their happiness than not talk of it. The 
 devil must have a special power over women, when they choose 
 such empty heads But here he comes ! I must keep every- 
 thing dark, and find out whether he is greatly, mortified. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 . Horace, Arnolphe. 
 
 Horace. I have just come from your house, where it seems as 
 if fate had decreed I should never meet you; but I will go so 
 often that at last some day 
 
 Arnolphe. For goodness' sake don't let us begin these foolish 
 compliments ! Nothing vexes me so much as this idle ceremony, 
 and if I had my way it should be put an end to. It is a wretched 
 custom in which most people waste two-thirds of their time. Let 
 us put on our hats, then, without anymore ado. {Puts on his hat.) 
 Now as to your love affair : may I be informed, Monsieur 
 Horace, how you are getting on with it ? I was for a while dis- 
 turbed by a fancy, but I've been thinking it over since. I admire 
 the quick progress you made at the beginning, and am anxious to 
 learn the issue of it. 
 
 Hor. Indeed, since I opened my heart to you I have been- 
 very unfortunate. 
 
 Ar. Ah ! How so ? bn£ 
 
 Jlor. Cruel fortune has brought my fair one's master back*; 
 again out of the country. 
 ,.Ar. What a misfortune ? 
 
 ^jflor. And besides, to my great regret, he knows what passed 
 privately between us. j>^:i^ 
 
 Ar. How the deuce could he have learnt the affair ■•sot* 
 soon ? t 
 
 Hor. I do not know, but it certainly is so. I was going at my.^ 
 usual hour to go and pay a short visit to this charming girl, when 
 both the man and maid, with an entirely changed voice and look, 
 
Scene IV.] LECOLE DES FEMMES. 265 
 
 barred my way and shut the door in my face with a " Get you 
 gofie, yoii're a 7iuisa?ice." 
 
 Ar. Shut the door in your face ? 
 
 Hor. In my face ! 
 
 Ar. That was rather hard. 
 
 Hor. I would have talked to them through tlie door, but to 
 all that I could say their answer was, ^^Yon sho'iit come in ; master 
 has forbiddeti it!'' 
 
 Ar, Didn't they open the door after all ? 
 
 Hor. No. And Agnes confirmed the fact of the master's 
 return by speaking to me from the window, bidding me begone 
 in a very angry tone, and throwing a stone at me. 
 
 Ar. What! a stone? 
 
 Hor. Yes, a stone, and not a light one either, thrown with her 
 own hand. That's the way in which she received my visit. 
 
 Ar. Indeed this is no trifling matter. I am afraid the affair 
 is in a bad way. 
 
 Hor. It is true. This unfortunate return of his has done me 
 the greatest harm. 
 
 Ar. Really, I can assure you that I am very sorry for you. 
 
 Hor. This man upsets all my plans. 
 
 Ar. Oh, that's nothing ; you must find some means of putting 
 them right again. 
 
 Hor. I must try and get some intelligence, and disappoint the 
 strict vigilance of this jealous fellow. 
 
 Ar. You'll easily do that ; and the girl, after all, loves you ? 
 
 Hor. Yes, she certainly does. 
 
 Ar. Oh, you'll gain your end. 
 
 Hor. I hope so. 
 
 Ar. That stone has upset you; but you mur,t not be surprised 
 at it. 
 
 Hor. That's certain, for I found out that my rival was there, 
 and was carrying on the whole affair without showing himself. 
 But what surprised me, and will equally surprise you, is another 
 incident that I am going to tell you of, a bold stroke made by my 
 young beauty, which you would never have expected from her 
 simplicity. It must be confessed that love is a great teacher ; he 
 teaches us to be what we never were before, and very often an 
 entire change of our manners is with him only the work of a 
 moment. He breaks through all the obstacles of nature in us, 
 and his sudden results have the appearance of miracles. In an 
 instant he makes a miser liberal, a coward brave, a churl obliging. 
 He makes the dullest intellect fit for everything, and gives wit to 
 
266 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act III. 
 
 the most ignorant. This last miracle indeed appears in Agnes, 
 for breaking off with me in these very words, ^' Get you gone, Tm 
 resolved never to receive your visits ; I knoiv all you have to say, 
 and thafs my answer" this stone which you were wondering at 
 fell down with a letter at my feet, and I am astonished to find this 
 letter exactly suited to the meaning of her words and the throw- 
 ing of the stone. Are you not surprised at such an action as this ? 
 Does not love know the art of quickening the understanding? 
 And can it be denied that his powerful flames have astonishing 
 effects on the mind ? What do you say to all this ? What do 
 you think of the letter? Don't you admire this cunning con- 
 trivance ? Isn't it amusing to see what a part my jealous rival has 
 been playing in all this foolery. Tell me 
 
 Ar, Just so ; very amusing. 
 
 Jfor. Laugh then a little — {Arnolphe forces a laugh) — at this 
 man, armed against my passion, fortified in his own house against 
 me, and provided with stones as if I wanted to enter by storm ; 
 who in an absurd fright encourages all his servants to drive me 
 away, and yet is imposed upon even before his face, by means of 
 his own contrivance, by her whom he wishes to keep in the utmost 
 ignorance. For my part, I must own, although his return has 
 greatly upset my love affair, yet I think it so amusing that I cannot 
 help laughing when I think of it. It seems to me that you don't 
 laugh enough at it. 
 
 Ar. {with a forced laugh). I beg your pardon, I am laughing 
 at it as much as I can. 
 
 Hor. But now, as a friend, I must show you her letter. Her 
 hand has here written down all that her heart has felt, but in terms 
 so affecting, so full of goodness, of innocent tenderness and sin- 
 cerity ; in short, in the very manner in which pure nature expresses 
 the first wound that love gives. 
 
 A?', {to himself). So this is what comes of your learning to 
 write, you hussy. It was against my wish that the art was taught 
 you. 
 
 Hor. {reads) — 
 
 / zvant to write to you, hut I do not knoiv how to begin. I have 
 some thoughts which I should like you to know, but I do not know 
 how to tell them to you, and distrust my words. As I begin to 
 understand that I have been always kept in ignorance, I am afraid 
 of writing something that might be ivrong, or saying more than 1 
 should do. In truth, I can!t tell what you've done to ine, but I find 
 that I'm ready to die with vexation for what I am forced to do 
 against you, and I shall be in the greatest distress to do without 
 
Scene V.] LECOLE DES FEMMES. 267 
 
 you^ and I should be very pleased if I were yours. Perhaps it is 
 wrong to say so, but I cannot help it, though I wish it could be 
 brought about ivithout any harm. Fin told for certain that all 
 young men are deceivers, and that one should not listen to all they 
 say, and that all they tell you is only to dehide you. But F assure 
 you F ca?inot think that of you, and F am so touched by your words 
 that F cannot believe them to be lies. Tell me, frankly, if they are 
 so, for as F am myself free from any zvrofig purpose, you would do 
 me the greatest wrong if you were to deceive, and F think F should 
 die of vexation at it. 
 
 Ar. [aside). What a worthless creature ! 
 
 Hor. What did you say ? 
 
 Ar. I ? Nothing. I only coughed. 
 
 Hor. Did you ever read more tender expressions ? In spite 
 of all the wicked endeavours of an unreasonable power, can a 
 better nature be found; and isn't it certainly a mortal sin wickedly 
 to spoil such a charming mind ? to wish to obscure the bright- 
 ness of such an intelligence in ignorance and stupidity? But 
 love has begun to tear off the veil, and if by favour of some lucky 
 star I can deal with this animal, this traitor, this hang-dog, this 
 scoundrel, this brute 
 
 Ar. Good-bye. 
 
 Hor. Why are you in such a hurry ? 
 
 Ar. I have just thought of a very urgent matter of business. 
 
 Hor. But don't you know any one (as you live so near) who 
 can get me admission into this house ? I speak freely with you, 
 and it is not surprising that one should be able to serve friends in 
 like manner. At present I've no one there but people who are 
 set to watch me ; both the man and maid, in spite of all I could do, 
 were not even civil enough to listen to me. I had a certain old 
 .woman whom I kept in my pay for some time, who had really a 
 wonderful genius. She was of great use to me at first, but the poor 
 creature died four days ago. Can't you show me some way ? 
 
 Ar. No, indeed. You will find one very well without me. 
 
 Hor. Farewell, then. You see what confidence I place in 
 you I 
 
 Scene V. 
 Arnolphe. 
 
 Arnolphe. How am I obliged to mortify myself before him ! 
 What trouble I have to conceal my tormenting anguish ! What a 
 sharp wit for such a simpleton ! And the traitress pretended to 
 
268 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act IV. 
 
 be so before me, or else the devil prompted this piece of cunning. 
 After all, that fatal letter will be the death of me. I see that this 
 traitor has got hold of her mind, and has drawn me out and fixed 
 himself there. This makes me despair and gives me mortal pain. 
 I suffer doubly by being rob bed of her hearty for mjj^loye suffefs 
 as well as jnj honpuri Ttmakes me mad to see both my place 
 usurped and niy carefuljplans defeated. \ am well aware that irr 
 erder-te-punish her uTHaviTunove,' T heed only leave her to her 
 evil destiny, and she would revenge me herself; but it is very 
 grievous to lose the thing one loves. Good heavens! after so 
 much philosophy in my choice, why must I be so infatuated by 
 her charms ? She has neither relations, friends, nor money ; she 
 abuses my care, my kindness, my affection, and yet I love her even 
 after this disgraceful affair so that I cannot throw off this fond- 
 ness. Fool that you are ! Have you no sense of shame ? Oh, 
 I'm wild with rage ; I could give myself a thousand slaps on the 
 face. I'll go indoors for a while, just to see how she looks after 
 so scandalous an action. Heaven grant that I may be free from 
 dishonour ; but if it is decreed that I must suffer it, at least give 
 me the fortitude which some persons have to bear such troubles. 
 
 ACT IV. Scene I. 
 
 Arnolphe. I can scarcely stay a moment in any one place; my 
 mind is suffering from a thousand anxieties how to manage at 
 home and abroad saas to checkmate all the efforts of this cox- 
 comb. With what a look did the traitress endure my gaze ! She 
 is in no way concerned at what she has done ; and although she 
 has brought me within an inch of the grave, one would say, to look 
 at her, that she is not concerned at it. The more calm she appeared, 
 the more enraged I found myself, and the furious anger which filled 
 my heart only redoubled my ardent passion. I was provoked, 
 vexed, incensed against her, and yet I never saw her look so 
 handsome. Her eyes never appeared so piercing, nor did they 
 inspire me with such eager desires, and I felt that I must burst if 
 disgrace crowned my evil destiny. What ? Have I brought her 
 up with so much tenderness and precaution ? Have I taken her 
 to me since her infancy ? Have I built my dearest hopes on her 
 growing beauty ? And for thirteen years have I fondled her as my 
 own, as I supposed, in order that a young fool that she's enamoured 
 of may come and carry her off in my very teeth, even when she's 
 half married to me. No, by Jove, young fellow, no ! You 
 may try what tricks you please : either I lose my labour, 
 
Scene V.] LECOLE DES FEMMES. 269 
 
 or I will destroy all your hopes, and you won't have much cause 
 to laugh at me. 
 
 Scene IL 
 Notary, Arnolphe. 
 
 Notary, Oh, there he is ! Good day to you. I'm quite ready 
 to draw up the contract as you wish. 
 
 Arnolphe {not seeing him). How must it be done ? 
 
 Not. It rnust be in the usual form. 
 
 Ar. (?tot seeing hint), I must think seriously over my pre- 
 cautions. 
 
 Not. I'll do nothing contrary to your interest. 
 
 Ar. {not seeing him). I must guard against any surprise. 
 
 Not, It is enough that your affairs are in my hands. You 
 must by no means sign the contract till you have received the 
 portion, for fear of being cheated. 
 
 Ar. {jiot seeing him). I am afraid if I let anything out, the 
 affair will become the talk of the town. 
 
 Not. But it's very easy to prevent any gossip ; the contract 
 can be made quite privately. 
 
 Ar. {not seeing him). But how shall I settle with her ? 
 
 Not. The jointure should be in proportion to the fortune which 
 she brings you. 
 
 Ar. {not seeing him). I love her, and that is my great difficulty. 
 
 A^ot. In that case, the wife may have so much the more. 
 
 Ar. {not seeing him). How to behave to her on such an 
 occasion ? 
 
 Not. The law says that the intending husband shall settle on 
 the intended wife the third part of her portion : but that goes 
 for nothing ; you may do a great deal more if you wish it. 
 
 Ar. {not seeing him). If- {perceiving hint). 
 
 Not. As for the survivor's interest, let them settle that between 
 them. I say that the future husband can dowry his intended wife 
 just as he thinks fit. 
 
 Ar. Eh ? 
 
 Not. He may give her so much the more if he has a great 
 affection for her, and wishes to please her, and that by way of 
 dowry or settlement as they call it, which will be lost by her death ; 
 or go away entirely to the lawful heirs of the said wife, upon her 
 decease ; or by custom, as people may prefer, or as a gift by deed 
 in form which may be made either mutual or single. Why do you 
 shrug your shoulders? Do I talk like a fool, or don't I understand 
 
270 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Aci' 1\'. 
 
 the forms of a contract ? Who can teach me ? No one, I think. Do 
 not I know that they have in law an equal right to all movables, 
 moneys, immovables and acquisitions, unless they give it up 
 expressly by an act of renunciation ? Do not I know that a third 
 portion of the bride becomes common, for 
 
 A}\ Ay, to be sure you know all this, but who said one word to 
 you about it ? 
 
 Not. You, who seem to take me for a fool, by shrugging up 
 your shoulders and making faces at me. 
 
 Ar, Plague take the fellow with his dog's face ! Farewell. 
 That's the only way to get rid of you. 
 
 Not. Was not I brought here to draw up a contract ? 
 
 Ar. Yes, I sent for you, but the affair is put off, and I'll send 
 for you again when the time is fixed. What a devil of a fellow 
 this is with his long-winded talk ! 
 
 Not. {alone). I think he's mad, and I believe I'm right too. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Notary, Alain, Georgette. 
 
 Notary. Didn't you come to fetch me to your master ? 
 Alahi. Yes. 
 
 Not. I don't know what you take him for, but you may go 
 and tell him from me that I take him to be an arrant fool. 
 Georgette. We won't fail to do so. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Alain, Georgette, Arnolphe. 
 
 Alain. Sir 
 
 Arnolphe. Come here; you are my faithful, good and true 
 friends. I have some news for you. 
 
 Al. The notary 
 
 Ar. Oh leave him till another time. A wicked design has 
 been contrived against my honour, and what a disgrace it would 
 be for you if your master's honour were taken from him ! After 
 that you would not venture to appear anywhere, for whoever saw 
 you would point at you. So, since the aflair concerns you as much 
 as it does me, you must take such care on your part that this 
 fellow does not in any way 
 
 Georgette. You have taught us our lesson already. 
 
 Ar. But beware of Hstening to his fine speeches, 
 
 Al. Oh, you may be sure of that. 
 
Scene V.] UECOLE DES FEMMES, 271 
 
 Geor. We know how to keep him off. 
 
 Ar. Suppose he came and said in a wheedHng manner, "Alain, 
 my dear fellow, cheer up my drooping spirits by your kind help." 
 
 Al. . I should say, "You're a fool." 
 
 Ar. Right. {To Georgette) And if he said to you, "Georgette, 
 my darling, you seem so sweet-tempered, and such a kind 
 creature " ? 
 
 Geor. I should answer him, "You're a simpleton." 
 
 Ar. Right. {To Alain) Or, "What harm is there in an 
 honourable and virtuous design ? " 
 
 Al. Then, " You're a rogue." 
 
 Ar. Very well. {To Georgette.^ If he said, "I shall certainly 
 die, if you take no pity on the pains I suffer" ? 
 
 Geor. I should reply, " You're a saucy blockhead." 
 
 Ar. Very good. " I'm not a person that desires something for 
 nothing ; I know how to remember services done me. However, 
 Alain, here's something to go and get a drink with; and here's 
 something to buy you a new petticoat with. Georgette." {Both 
 hold out their hands and take the money. ^ "This is only an earnest 
 of my kindness ; and all the favour I ask of you is that you would 
 let me see your pretty mistress." 
 
 Geor. {pushing him). " Apply to some one else." 
 
 Ar. That's good. 
 
 Al. {pushing hint). "Get away do." Ar, Very good. 
 
 Geor. {pushing hint). " Off at once." 
 
 Ar. Good. That will do. 
 
 Geor. Don't I do right } 
 
 Al. Is this the way you would have us behave to him ? 
 
 Ar. Yes, very good, except the money, which you must not take. 
 
 Geor. Oh, we didn't think of that. 
 
 Al. Would you like us to begin again now ? 
 
 Ar. No, that's enough ; go indoors, both of you. 
 
 Al. You need only say the word. 
 
 Ar. No, I tell you ; go in, as I desire you. You can keep the 
 money ; go, I will come to you. Keep an eye on everything, and 
 help me in my wishes. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Arnolphe. I'll get the cobbler at the corner of our street to act 
 as spy for me, and keep a very sharp look-out. I intend to have 
 him constantly in the house, so that he may be on his guard 
 to keep out of it all sellers of ribbons, milliners, handkerchief- 
 
272 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act \\\ 
 
 makers, glove-washers, and frippery women, — in short, all those 
 people who make it their business to carry out intrigues in an 
 underhand manner. However, I've seen the world, and under- 
 stand the tricks of it, and this young man must be uncommonly 
 clever if he can get admittance for either letter or message. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Horace, Arnolphe. 
 Horace. It is very lucky for me to meet you here, for I can 
 assure you I've just had a very narrow escape. When I went from 
 you I saw Agnes, quite unexpectedly, on the balcony, all alone, 
 enjoying the cool breezes from the trees close by. After having 
 made me a sign, she managed, somehow, to get down into the 
 garden, and to open the door. But we had scarcely got into her 
 room, before she heard the sound of that zealous man's footsteps 
 on the stairs, and all she could do at such a pinch was to lock me 
 up in a large closet. He came at once into the room ; I could not 
 see him, but I heard him walking to and fro at a great rate, 
 without speaking a word : but he kept on sighing grievously every 
 now and then, sometimes giving great thumps on the table, 
 striking a little dog that barked at him, and flinging about in a 
 mad fashion everything that came in his way. He even broke, 
 in his passion, the very flowerpots with which the dear girl had 
 ornamented the mantelpiece. No doubt the prank she had been 
 playing had come to the ears of this jealous old fool. At last, 
 having by numberless tricks of this sort given vent to his rage, 
 this stupid fellow left the room, and I my closet. We would 
 not risk staying together after this, for fear some one might 
 come; but to-night, when it is late, I am to get into her room, 
 without making any noise : by coughing gently three times she 
 will know who it is, and then, by a ladder and the help of Agnes, 
 my love will try to gain admittance for me. I tell you all this as 
 my only friend ; joy increases by being imparted, and should one 
 taste the utmost happiness a hundred times over, it would not 
 be satisfactory unless it were known by some one. I am sure 
 you will sympathise in the success of my affair. Good-bye; I am 
 going to see to what is necessary. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Arnolphe. 
 Arnolphe, What ! will my evil fate drive me to despair, and 
 not allow me even breathing time ? Blow aftw blow ! Am I to 
 
Scene VIII.] LECOLE DES FEMMES, 273 
 
 see all the care my wisdom and vigilance have taken, defeated by 
 their craftiness ? And shall I, in the maturity of life, be made 
 a fool of by a simple girl, and a scatter-brained young idiot ? For 
 twenty years past, like a sensible philosopher, I had been con- 
 templating the unhappy fate of married men, and have carefully 
 informed myself of all the accidents which plunge the most 
 prudent into misfortune. Pondering this in my own mind, and 
 profiting by the mishaps of others, wishing at last to marry, I 
 have tried to find a way to secure myself against all chance of 
 the fate of other husbands* For this grand idea I thought that I 
 had put in practice whatever human policy could suggest, but as 
 if it were decreed by fate that none should be exempted from it, 
 after all the experience and enlightenment that twenty years could 
 afford me, and having carefully studied how to conduct myself 
 warily in the matter, I have acted contrary to the practice of so 
 many husbands, only to find myself involved in the same disgrace 
 at last ! Oh, cruel destiny ! thou hast lied unto me after all. 
 Still, I am in possession of my coveted object, and if my heart is 
 stolen from me by this wretched fop, I will see that he does not 
 take anything else, and this night, which they choose for their 
 fine exploit, shall not pass so agreeably as they imagine. It is 
 some pleasure to me in the amidst of so much uneasiness that I 
 have had notice of the snare laid for me, and that this blunder- 
 headed fellow, who would do his best to ruin me, actually makes 
 a confidant of his rival. 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 Chrysalde, Arnolphe. 
 
 Chrysalde. Well, shall we have some supper before our walk? 
 
 Arnolphe. No, I don't care to have anything to eat to-night. 
 
 Chrys. What is the meaning of this fancy ? 
 
 Ar. .Please to excuse me ; I've something in hand. 
 ^Clirys, Will not your wedding that you had decided on take 
 pla<^? 
 
 Ar. You're troubling yourself with other people's business. 
 
 Chrys. Oh, ho ! you're very sharp ! What is it disturbs you ? 
 Have you met with any misfortune in love, my friend ? By the 
 look of you, I could almost swear you have. 
 
 Ar. Let what will happen to me, I shall at least have the 
 advantage of being unlike certain people, who quietly allow young 
 fellows' visits, 
 
 Chrys. It's a strange thing that with so mdch knowledge you 
 
 19 
 
274 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act IV. 
 
 should always get so frightened on these matters, that you should 
 place in them your highest happiness, and fancy there is no other 
 honour in the world. To be a miser, a brute, a cheat, a wretch 
 and a coward, is nothing in your opinion, compared with that 
 blot ; and however a man may have lived, he's a man of honour^ 
 if he's not a cuckold. To get to the bottom of the matter, why.i 
 will you suppose that all our honour depends on such an accident ;; 
 and that a virtuous mind has reason to reproach itself for an evil 
 which it cannot hinder ? Why wall you have it, I say, that in ' 
 taking a wife one deserves either praise or blame, according to , 
 her will, and make a horrible monster out of the injury done by 
 her infidelity ? Be persuaded that a man of honour may have ' 
 something worse to fear than being made a fool of by a woman ; 
 that none being secure from the accidents of fate, this one might 
 be thought of less consequence ; and, in short, that all the evil, 
 let the world think what it will, lies in the way one takes it. 
 To behave well under these difficulties one must, as in all others, 
 avoid extremes, and not be like those over good-natured people, 
 who, proud of such affairs, are constantly inviting their wives' 
 followers, praising them everywhere, and crying up their good 
 qualities ; who seem to partake of all their ideas, go to all their 
 parties and meetings, and make every one wonder at their 
 assurance in showing their faces there. This way of acting is 
 certainly very much to be blamed, but the other extreme is no 
 less to be condemned. As I do not approve of such persons as 
 make friends with their wives' lovers, I have no more sympathy 
 for those whose indiscreet resentment, which rages and scolds, 
 draws the eyes of all the world upon them, and who by the 
 disturbance they make seem unwilling that any one should be 
 ignorant of all their misfortune. There is a medium between 
 these two extremes, and a wise man will adopt it. Then there 
 is no reason to blush for a wife's worst action. So that whatever 
 people may say of it, the husband's calamity may after all be less 
 terrible than it seems, and, as I said before, all the cleverness 
 consists in making the best of it. 
 
 Ar. After this fine speech, all the brotherhood ought to 
 thank your lordship, and any one who hears you speak will 
 rejoice to enrol himself among the number. 
 
 Chrys. I don't say that it is just what I blame, but as a wife 
 is the gift of fate, one should act as in a throw of dice, where, 
 if what you expect doesn't come up, you must play dexterously, 
 and with good-tempered resignation improve your luck by good 
 
SCENE IX.] LtCOLE DES FEMMES. 275 
 
 Ar. That is to say, always eat and sleep well, and persuade 
 yourself that all that signifies nothing at all. 
 
 Chrys. You think to laugh at what I say ; but, to be plain 
 with you, I see a hundred things in the world more to be dreaded, 
 and which I should think a much greater misfortune than this 
 you are so terribly afraid of. Do you imagine that if I were 
 forced to make my choice I wouldn't rather prefer to be what you 
 say, than to be married to one .^f those good women whose per- 
 verseness makes a quarrel about nothing; those dragons of 
 virtue who are always pluming themselves on their prudent 
 behaviour, and who, because they do not do us a slight injury, 
 take it on themselves to treat people with contempt, and because 
 they are true to us, expect us to put up with everything from them ? 
 Once more, my friend, let me tell you that the infidelity of a 
 wife is really but what one chooses to make it, and need not be so 
 very serious. 
 
 Ar. If you're of a mind to be contented with it, for my part 
 I've no wish to try it ; and rather than submit to such a thing 
 
 Chrys. Oh, don't swear, for fear of being perjured. If fate so 
 orders it, all your precautions are superfluous, and your advice 
 will not be taken in the matter. 
 
 Ar. Am I certain to be deceived then ? 
 
 Chfjs. You make a great fuss. Indeed, a thousand persons 
 are so, who, without disparagement to you, in person, courage, 
 wealth, and family would not be compared with you. 
 
 Ar. For my part I seek no comparison with them. But in a 
 word, this raillery is disagreeable ; let's have done with it, if you 
 please. 
 
 Chrys. You're in a rage. We shall learn the reason. Fare- 
 well ; but remember, whatever your honour may tell you on this 
 subject, to swear that you will not be so is halfway towards what 
 we were talking of. 
 
 Ar. Again I swear it, and. am going at once to find out a 
 good remedy against that misfortune. {He runs and knocks at his 
 0W71 door.) 
 
 Scene IX. 
 
 Arnolphe, Alain, Georgette. 
 
 Arnolphe. My friends, now is the time that I implore your 
 help. I am gratified by your regard for me, but you must show 
 it specially on this occasion ; and if you serve me as I believe you 
 will, you may count on a good reward. The man you know of 
 
2/6 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES, [Act V. 
 
 (do not speak a word) intends, as I am told, to trick me this very 
 night, and get by a ladder into Agnes' chamber. But we three 
 must lay a trap for him. I want each of you to take a thick stick, 
 and when he's almost at the top of the ladder (for at the right 
 moment I will open the window), both of you fall on the rascal 
 for me, and give him such a thrashing that he will not care to 
 come back again. However, don't mention me at all, or make 
 any appearance of my being behind. Now, have you spirit enough 
 to serve my resentment ? 
 
 Alain. If it's only a matter of thrashing, sir, depend upon us, 
 and you shall see whether I strike with a dead man's arm. 
 
 Georgette. Though mine may not seem to be so strong, it shall 
 play its part in drubbing him. 
 
 Ar. Go indoors then, and, above all, be sure not to tattle. 
 {Alone.) This will be a useful lesson for my neighbour, and \i 
 all the husbands in this city would receive their wives' lovers in 
 the same way, there would soon be not so many of them about. 
 
 ACT V. Scene I. 
 Arnolphe, Alain, Georgette. 
 
 Arnolphe. Traitors, what have you done by your violence ? 
 
 Alain. Sir, we only carried out your orders. 
 
 Ar. Tliat excuse won't serve you. You were told to beat 
 him, not to murder him ; I desired you to rain your blows on his 
 back, not on his head. Good heavens ! what an event fate has now 
 brought upon me ! What can I decide on when I see the maii 
 dead? Get you indoors, and be sure you say nothing of the 
 harmless order 1 gave you. {Alo?ie.) It will soon ])e daylight, 
 and I will go and consider what to do under this misfortune. 
 Alas ! what will become of me, and what will his father say when 
 he hears of this unexpected affair ? 
 
 Scene II. 
 Horace, Arnolphe. 
 
 Horace {aside). I must go and make out who it is. 
 
 Arnolphe {believing he is alone). Could one ever have fore- 
 seen {Horace knocks against him, Imt he does not recognise him.) 
 
 Who goes there? 
 
 Hor. Is that you. Monsieur Arnolphe ? 
 
 Ar. Yes j but who are you ? 
 
Scene II.] LECOLE DES FEMMES. 277 
 
 . Jior. I'm Horace. I was going to your house to ask you a 
 favour. You're out early. 
 
 Ar. {to himself^ aside). Surprising ! Is it enchantment ? Is 
 it a vision ? 
 
 Hor. To tell you the truth, I was in great trouble, and I thank 
 heaven's goodness for meeting you here so luckily. I have to tell 
 you that everything has succeeded even much better than I could 
 have hoped, and that through an accident which might have 
 ruined all. I don't know how the assignation which we had made 
 came to be suspected, but just as I had got up to the window, 
 some people made their appearance, contrary to all my expecta- 
 tion, and began striking me furiously, so that I missed my footing, 
 and fell to the ground ; my fall, at the expense of some bruises, 
 saved me, I verily believe, from a good thrashing. These people 
 (I expect old jealous-head was one of them) imagined that my fall 
 was occasioned by their blows, and as my pain made me lie a 
 good while motionless in the same place, they thought that they 
 had murdered me, which at once alarmed them all. I listened 
 to all their noise in profound silence. Each accused the other of 
 the violence, and, complaining of their ill-fortune, they came 
 (luietly without any light to see if I were dead. I leave you to 
 guess whether in the night I was not able to assume the appear- 
 ance of a real dead body. They went away very much frightened, 
 and as I was thinking how I could get away, young Agnes — 
 greatly frightened by my pretended death — came to me in great 
 concern. She had heard what these people were saying to one 
 another, and, escaping notice in the midst of all this disturbance, 
 she easily slipped out of the house. Finding, however, that I was 
 not really hurt, she gave way to an indescribable transport of 
 delight. What shall I say more to you ? At last this charming 
 creature has yielded to the dictates of her love, and, being un- 
 willing to go home any more, has committed herself and her 
 fortune to my fidelity. Mark this proof of innocence, and con- 
 sider to what grievous perils the gross imprudence of this jealous 
 fool might have exposed her if I cared less for her. But my love 
 is too pure, and I would rather die than wrong her. I see charms 
 in her worthy of a better fate, and nothing but death shall part 
 us. I foresee my father's opposition to it, but in time we shall 
 appease his anger. Her endearing charms transport me, and we 
 ought to be happy throughout life. Now, what I desire of you 
 (relying on your secrecy) is that I may put this beauty into your 
 hands, and that you will so far assist my plans, that you will con- 
 ceal her in your house for a day or two at least. For besides its 
 
27§ THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act V. 
 
 being necessary to conceal her flight from the world, to prevent 
 any pursuit after her, you know that a young girl being seen in the 
 company of a young man gives rise to suspicions ; and as I have 
 trusted you with the whole secret of my love, being well assured 
 of your prudence, so to you only, as a generous friend, can I 
 commit this beloved treasure. 
 
 Ar. I am entirely at your service ; don't doubt it. 
 
 Hor. And will you really do me this kind office ? 
 
 Ar. Very willingly, I assure you ; I am charmed to have this 
 opportunity of serving you, and thank heaven for having given it 
 me. I never did anything with so much pleasure. 
 
 ffor. How much I am indebted to your goodness ! I was 
 afraid you would make a difficulty; but you know the world, and 
 your wisdom can excuse the heat of youth. One of my servants 
 is taking care of her round this corner. 
 
 Ar. But how shall we manage it ? for it is growing light. If 
 I take her here, perhaps I shall be seen, and if you came to my 
 house the servants would chatter. To make matters quite safe, 
 you must bring her to me in some darker place. That alley of 
 mine is convenient, and I will go and wait for her there. 
 
 Hor. It is very right to take these precautions. For my part, 
 I shall only put her into your hands, and then go home at once, 
 quietly. 
 
 Ar. {alone). Ah, Fortune ! this propitious chance makes 
 amends for all the mischief thy caprice has done me. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Agnes, Horace, Arnolphe. 
 
 Horace {to Agnes). Don't be uneasy about the place I'm 
 taking you to. It is a very safe lodging for you. It would ruin 
 all for you to lodge in the same house with me. Go in at this 
 door, and you will be shown the way. [Arnolphe takes her hand, 
 wihout her recognising him. ) 
 
 Agnes {to Horace). Why are you leaving me ? 
 
 Hor. Dear Agnes, it must be so. 
 
 Ag. I beg of you to come back soon. 
 
 Hor, My love will sufficiently urge me to do so. 
 
 Ag. I have no happiness when you are not here. 
 
 JHor. Away from you I too am sad. 
 - Ag. Alas ! if that were true, you would stay here ! 
 
 Hor. What ! can you doubt my excessive love ? 
 
Scene IV.] LECOLE DES FEMMES. 279 
 
 Ag, No; but you don't love me as I love you. {Arnolphe 
 pulls her.) Ah ! I am being pulled too hard. 
 
 ffor. Dear Agnbs, that is because it is dangerous for us two 
 to be seen together here; and this true friend whose hand is 
 drawing you in, does so from the prudent interest he takes in our 
 concerns, 
 v^^^^^. But to follow a stranger who 
 
 :H[or. Do not be afraid. You are sure to be well in such 
 hands. 
 
 Ag. I would much sooner find myself in Horace's, and I 
 should have— — {To Arnolphe, who pidls her again?) Wait a 
 -Tittle. 
 
 Hor. Farewell. The daylight drives me av;ay. 
 
 Ag. When shall I see you, then ? 
 
 Hor. Very soon, you may be sure. 
 
 Ag. How weary I shall be till that time comes. 
 
 Hor. (going away). Heaven be thanked, my happiness is no 
 longer in suspense, and I can now sleep in security. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Arnolphe, A.gnes. 
 
 Arnolphe [muffled up in his cloak, and disguising his voice). 
 Come along ; I sha'n't let you lodge here. I have prepared a 
 room for you elsewhere, and intend to place you where you will 
 be safe enough. {Shoiuing hijnself.) Do you know me ? 
 
 Agnes [recognising him). Ah ! 
 
 Ar. The sight of me frightens you, hussy ; and it is a dis- 
 appointment to you to see me here. I interrupt the love con- 
 trivances you have in your head. {Agnes looks if she can see 
 Horace.) Don't fancy that your eyes can call your lover 
 back to help you ; he's gone too far to give you any assistance. 
 Ah ! so young, and yet to play such pranks. Your simpli- 
 city, which appeared to be unequalled, asked if children came 
 through the ear, and yet you know well enough how to make 
 assignations by night, and can steal out quietly to run after a 
 lover. How trippingly your tongue ran on with him ; you must 
 have taken lessons in some very good school. Who the deuce 
 has taught you all this so suddenly? It seems that you are no 
 longer afraid of ghosts. This lover of yours has given you 
 courage in the night-time. Oh, you hussy, to arrive at such a 
 pitch of deceit ! — to form such a design notwithstanding all my 
 kindness ! Little serpent that I've warmed in my bosom, which, 
 
28o THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES, [Act V. 
 
 as soon as it has any feeling, ungratefully tries to injure him who 
 cherished it ! 
 
 Ag. What are you scolding me for ? 
 
 Ar. Indeed I'm very much in the wrong. 
 
 Ag. I don't see any harm in what I've done. 
 
 Ar. Isn't running after a lover a scandalous action ? 
 
 Ag. He is a man who says he wants to marry me. I followed 
 your directions, for you told me that to avoid wrong-doing one 
 must marry. 
 
 Ar. Yes, but I intended marrying you myself, and it seems 
 to me that I let you know my meaning plainly enough. 
 
 Ag. Yes, but to speak frankly, he's more to my taste than you 
 are. With you matrimony is a troublesome, disagreeable thing, 
 and you give a terrible account of it ; but there, he makes it out 
 to be so brim full of pleasure, that it makes one wish to be married. 
 
 Ar. Ah, that's because you love him, you traitress ! 
 
 Ag. Yes, I do love him. 
 
 Ar. And you have the assurance to tell me so? - 
 
 Ag. Why, if it's true, mayn't I say so ? 
 
 Ar. Ought you to love him, you shameless creature ? 
 
 Ag. Alas ! how can I help it ? He alone is the cause of it. 
 and I never thought of it when it came about. -■ ' 
 
 Ar. But you ought to have driven away all thoughts of love'. 
 
 Ag. How can one drive away what is pleasant ? 
 
 Ar. And didn't you know that it displeased me ? 
 
 Ag. I ? Not in the least. What harm can it do you ? ' 
 
 Ar. Very true. I've great reason to rejoice at it ! At this 
 rate, then, you don't love me? 
 
 Ag. You ! 
 
 Ar. Yes. 
 
 Ag. Alas, no. 
 
 Ar. What do you mean by " no " ? 
 
 Ag. Would you have me tell a lie ? 
 
 Ar. And pray, Miss Impudence, why don't you love me ? 
 
 Ag. You shouldn't blame me for it ; why did not you make ' 
 yourself loved as he did ? I didn't hinder you that I know of. 
 
 Ar. I tried all I could to do so, but I had my trouble for 
 nothing. 
 
 Ag. Then he understands it better than you do, for he made 
 me love him without any trouble at all. 
 
 Ar. {aside). See how the creature answers and argues. Plague 
 upon it ! Could one of your real fine ladies have said more ? 
 Ah, I little knew her; or else, in these cases, a simple woman 
 
Scene IV.] VECOLE DES FEMMES. 2S1 
 
 understands more than the wisest man. (To Agnes.) Since 
 you're so good at reasoning, my fine logician, is there any reason 
 why I should have maintained you so long at my own expense 
 for him ? 
 
 Ag. No ; he'll repay you every farthing. 
 
 Ar. [aside). She has a way of talking which doubles my vexa- 
 tion. [Aloud.) Is it in his power, think you, hussy, to repay me 
 the obhgation you are under to me? 
 ^^~^~Ag. I am not indebted so much to you as you seem to think. 
 
 A^. Is it nothing to take care of your education from your 
 infancy ? 
 
 Ag. You've been at great pains in that respect, truly, and have 
 
 ^Ja^ me thoroughly instructed in everything ! Do you imagine I 
 
 flatter myself so far as not to know in my own mind that I am 
 
 utterly ignorant ? I am ashamed of it myself, and at my age I 
 
 don't wish any longer to pass for a fool if I can help it. 
 
 Ar. You hate ignorance, and, cost what it will, you are deter- 
 mined to learn something from your young spark ? 
 
 Ag. Certainly. It is from him that I know what I can know, 
 and I feel much more obliged to him than to you. 
 
 Ar. I do not know what hinders my revenging this saucy 
 language with a box on the ears. I am distracted at the sight of 
 her provoking coldness, and. to give her a beating would be a 
 satisfaction to me.^ .,-, .(^^ -> . j^^:; 
 
 Ag. Alas ! you can 'do it if it would please you. 
 
 Ar. [aside). That speech and that look disarm my rage, and 
 bring back a tenderness which effaces all her guilt. How strange 
 it is to love, and that men should be subject to such weakness on 
 account of these traitresses. Every one knows their imperfection ; 
 they are made up of extravagance and indiscretion ; their mind 
 is wayward and their understanding weak ; nothing is more frail, 
 nothing more unsteady, nothing more false ; and yet, for all that, 
 I in the world we do everything for these creatures. [To Agnes.) 
 I Well, let us make it up. Go, little traitress, I forgive you all, and 
 am fond of you again. Learn by this how much I love you, and, 
 seeing I'm so good, love me in return. 
 
 Ag. I should like to gratify you with all my heart. What 
 would it cost me, if I could do it ? 
 
 Ar. My dear life, you can if you will ! {He sighs.) Only listen 
 to that loving sigh, behold this dying look; look at my person, 
 and have done with this young fop and the love he offers you. 
 He must certainly have cast some spell over you, for you would 
 be a Jiundr^d time^ happier \yith me. Your great wish i? to be 
 
282 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act V. 
 
 fine and gay, and I promise you that you always shall be so. I 
 shall be caressing you day and night ; I will fondle you, kiss you, 
 devour you ! You shall do all you like. Can I say more ? {Aside) 
 How far will my infatuation carry me? {Aloud.) Nothing 
 really can be equal to my love. What proof of it would you 
 have me give you, you ungrateful girl ? Would you like to see 
 me weep? Shall I beat myself? Shall I tear my hair out? or 
 kill myself? You have only to speak the word, cruel creature, 
 and I am ready to do it to convince you of my love. 
 
 Ag. Stop ; all your talking does not touch my heart. Horace 
 would do more by two words than you with all your discourse. 
 
 Ar. Ah ! this is too great an insult ; it provokes my anger too far. 
 I'll carry out my design, you intractable wretch, and pack you 
 out of the town at once. You reject my addresses and drive me 
 to extremity, but a convent cell shall revenge me for all. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Alain, Arnolphe. 
 
 Alain. I don't know how it can be, sir, but it seems to me 
 that Agnes and the dead man's body have gone away together. 
 
 Arnolphe. Here she is. Go and shut her up in my room, 
 {Aside.) He won't come and look for her there. Besides, it's 
 only for half an hour. I'll go and get a coach that I may dispose 
 of her in a safe place. {To Alain.) Fasten yourselves in well, 
 and be sure you don't let her out of your sight. {Aloud.) Perhaps 
 she may get rid of this love by change of scene. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Horace, Arnolphe. 
 
 Horace. Ah, Monsieur Arnolphe, I've come to see you, quite 
 overwhelmed with sorrow. Heaven has completed my misfortune, 
 for, by a fatal stroke of extreme injustice, they want to tear from 
 me the beauty I love. My father has just arrived, he alighted 
 close by here; and, in short, the cause of his coming, which, as I 
 told you I did not know, is, that he has arranged a match for me, 
 without writing me one word about it, and that he has come here 
 to celebrate the wedding. Judge, by the share you have taken in 
 my trouble, whether a more grievous disappointment could have 
 befallen me. That Enrique, whom I asked you about yesterday, 
 is the cause of the misfortune I am suffering from. He has come 
 with my father to complete ray ruin, as it is his only daughter for 
 
ICENE VII.] LECOLE DES FEMMES. 283 
 
 irhom I am destined. I thought I should have fainted when they 
 irst spoke of it, and, not caring to hear any more (as my father 
 alked of paying you a visit), I came here beforehand, with my 
 nind full of apprehension. I beg of you not to let him know 
 nything of my engagement, as it might enrage him; and as he has 
 ;reat confidence in you, try and dissuade him from this match. 
 
 ArnolpJie. Ay, ay. 
 
 Hor, Advise him to put it off for a time, and, as a friend, give 
 oe what assistance you can in my love. 
 
 Ar. I won't fail to do so. 
 
 Hor» My hopes are all in you. 
 
 Ar. Quite right. 
 
 Hor, I look on you as my real father. Tell him that my age 
 
 5ut I see him coming ; hear the reasons I can give you. {They 
 ■emain i?i one corner of the stage.) 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 Enrique, Oronte, Chrysalde; Horace, Arnolphe 
 {m a corner apart). 
 
 Enrique {to Chrysalde). As soon as ever I saw you, even if I 
 lad not been told, I should have known you. I see in you the 
 matures of that charming sister whom marriage once made mine ; 
 nd I should have been happy if cruel destiny had permitted me 
 3 bring back that faithful wife to enjoy with me the keen delight 
 i seeing all her relations after our long misfortunes. But since 
 lie irresistible power of fate has deprived us for ever of her dear 
 ompany, let us endeavour to resign ourselves and to be contented 
 ith the only fruit that remains of our love. It concerns you 
 early, and without your consent I should do wrong to dispose of 
 lis pledge. To" marry the son of Oronte is in itself an honour- 
 ble alliance, but I want you to be pleased with this match as 
 ell as myself. 
 
 Chrysalde. You have a bad opinion of my judgment if you 
 oubt my approval of so reasonable a choice. 
 
 Arnolphe {aside to Horace). Ay, I'll serve you in the best way 
 
 can. 
 
 Horace {to Arnolphe). But beware of one thing — — 
 
 Ar. [to Horace). Be under no concern. 
 
 Oronte {whom Arnolphe embraces). Oh, how full of tenderness 
 
 this embrace ! 
 
 Ar. How delighted I am to see you ! 
 
 Or, I've come here. 
 
284 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act V. 
 
 Ar. I know what brings you, without your telling me. 
 
 Or. Have you been told already ? 
 
 Ar. Tes. 
 
 Or. So much the better. 
 
 Ar. Your son opposes this match, and, his heart being pre- 
 engaged, looks upon it as a misfortune. He even wished me to 
 dissuade you from it ; but for my part all the advice that I can give 
 you is to exert the authority of a father, and not allow the wedding 
 to be put off. Young people should be governed with a high hand ; 
 we do them harm by being indulgent to them. 
 
 Hor. {aside). Oh, traitor ! 
 
 Chrys. If it is against his inclination, I think we should not 
 force him. My brother, I believe, will be of the same opinion. 
 
 Ar. What! will he let himself be governed by his son? 
 Would you have a father be so weak as not to know how to make 
 youth obey him ? It would be a fine thing to see him, at his time 
 of life, taking orders from one who ought to receive them from 
 him. No, no, he is my intimate friend, and his honour is mine. 
 His promise is given, and he must keep it. Now let him show 
 firmness, and force his son's affections. 
 
 Or. What you say is right ; and as regards this match, I'll be 
 answerable for my son's obedience. 
 
 Chrys. (to Arnolphe). For my part I am surprised at the eager- 
 ness you show for this match, and cannot guess what motive you 
 can have for it. 
 
 Ar. I know what I know, and I say what I ought. 
 
 Or, Yes, yes. Monsieur Arnolphe, he is 
 
 Chrys. That name displeases him. He is Monsieur de la 
 Souche, as I've told you already. 
 
 Ar. It's no matter. 
 
 Hor. {aside). What is this I hear? 
 
 Ar. {tur7n72g towards Horace). Ah, there lies the secret, anc' 
 you can judge what my duty was. I 
 
 Hor. {aside). Into what trouble 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 
 Georgeti'e, Enrique, Oronte, Chrys alde, Horace, 
 Arnolphe. 
 
 Georgette. Sir, if you're not here, we shall hardly be able t' 
 keep Agnbs in. She is doing all in her power to get away, am 
 will perhaps throw herself out of the window. 
 
 Arnolphe, Bring her to me, for I intend to take her away fror 
 
Scene IX.] LECOLE DES FEMMES. 283 
 
 here. {To Horace.) Don't be troubled at all this: continual 
 good fortune would make a man proud, and every one has his 
 turn, as the proverb says. 
 
 Horace {aside). Good heavens! what misfortunes can equal 
 mine ? Was ever any one so overwhelmed as I am ? 
 
 Ar. {to Oronte). Hasten the day of the ceremony. I will be 
 there, and already I invite myself to it. 
 
 Oronte. That really is my intention. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 
 Agnes, Alain, Georgette, Oronte, Enrique, Arnolphe, 
 Horace, Chrysalde. 
 
 Arnolphe {to Agnes). Come here, my beauty ! come here ; you 
 who are headstrong and can't be managed. Here's your lover, to 
 whom, as an amends, you may make a humble and obliging 
 curtsy. {To Horace). Farewell. This result rather crosses your 
 wishes, but all lovers are not fortunate. 
 
 Agnes. Can you, Horace, let me be carried away like this ? 
 
 Horace. My trouble is so great, I hardly know where I am. 
 
 Ar. Come along, chatterbox, come along. 
 ^'^- Ag. No ; I want to stay here. 
 
 Oronte. Explain this mystery. We are all staring at one 
 another without being able to understand it. 
 
 An V\\ explain it to you when I have time. Good-bye 
 now. 
 
 Or. Where, then, are you going to ? You don't speak to us 
 as you ought. 
 
 * A?\ I have advised you, in spite of his grumbling, to carry out 
 the match. 
 
 Or. Yes, but in order to carry it out (if you were told all), 
 were you not informed that she whom we mean is in your house, 
 and is the daughter of the charming Angelique by her private 
 marriage to Monsieur Enrique? What did you mean by what you 
 said just now? 
 
 '^^ Chrys. I, too, was surprised at his behaviour. 
 I Ar. What? 
 
 Chrys. My sister, by a private marriage, had a daughter, whose 
 existence was concealed from all the family. 
 
 Or. To prevent discovery, her husband put the child out to 
 nurse in the country under a false name. 
 
 ^ Chrys. At that time, fate being against him, he was obliged to 
 leave his native land. 
 
286 THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES. [Act IV. 
 
 Or. And run a thousand perils in countries beyond the 
 sea 
 
 Chrys. Where he has acquired, by industry, what envy and 
 roguery deprived him of in his own country. 
 
 Or. On his return into France, he at once sought out the 
 woman to whom he had intrusted the care of his daughter. 
 
 Chrys, And the countrywoman said frankly that, at the age of 
 four years, she had entrusted her to you. 
 
 Or. {to Arnolphe). And that she did it on account of your 
 charity, as she was herself in extreme poverty 
 
 Chrys. And he, full of happiness and satisfaction, has brought 
 the woman here. 
 
 Or. In short, you will see her come here presently to clear up 
 this mystery to every one. 
 
 Chrys. {to Arnolphe). I can guess pretty nearly what a punish- 
 ment this must be to you. But fortune has really been kind to 
 you in the affair, and as you don't want to be deceived, the best 
 thing you can do is not to marry. 
 
 Ar. {going away in a furious passion). Oh 1 ! 
 
 Or. What makes him go off without saying a word ? 
 
 Hor. Oh, father ! you shall know the whole of this surprising 
 mystery. Accident had brought to pass what your prudence had 
 intended. I was already engaged to this dear creature by the 
 endearing ties of mutual love. In a word, she's both the very one 
 you were looking for, and the one for whose sake I was about to 
 vex you by disobeying you. 
 
 Enrique. I made no doubt of it from the moment I saw her, 
 and my heart has yearned to her ever since. Ah ! my daughter, 
 how delighted I am with these tender transports ! 
 
 Chrys. I could do the same, brother, with all my heart, but 
 this is not a proper place for it ; let us go indoors to clear up these 
 mysteries, to discharge the obligation we owe our friend, and give 
 thanks to heaven which orders all for the best. 
 
THE MISER 
 
 {rA VARE). 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON iE. 
 
 W.KR^kGO^, father of Cle'ajtie and I Frosine, an iiiiriirumg woman . 
 
 Elise : in love with Mariane. j MaJtre Simon, a broker, 
 Cleante, son of Harpagonj in \ Ma!tre Jacques, Harpagon^s 
 
 love with Mariane 
 ]6lise, daughter of Harpagon, in 
 
 love with Valere. 
 Val^^RE, son of Ansehne, in love 
 
 with Elise . 
 Mariane, daughter of Attseltne, 
 
 in love with Cleante. 
 Anselme, father of Valhre and 
 
 Mariane . 
 
 Scene— PARIS, in Harpagon's House 
 
 c'ook and coachman. 
 La Fleche, Cleante's valet. 
 Mistress Claude, Harpagon's 
 
 servant. 
 Brindavoine, ] Harpagon's 
 La Merluche, [ lacqueys. 
 A Commissary and his Clerk. 
 
 ACT I. Scene I. 
 Valere, Elise. 
 
 Valere. What ! my charming EHse, have you grown melan- 
 choly, after the obliging assurances you were so good as to give 
 me of your fidelity ? I hear you sighing, alas ! in the midst of 
 my joy. Tell me, is it out of regret for having made me happy ? 
 And do you repent that engagement which the warmth of my love 
 drew from you ? 
 
 Elise. No, Valere ; I cannot repent of what I have done for 
 you. I find myself drawn on by a most delightful influence, and 
 I have not even strength to form the wish to undo what has been 
 done. But, to tell you the truth, this very success makes me 
 uneasy, and I am very much afraid of loving you more than I 
 ought to do. 
 
 Val. And, Elise, what can you fear in the kindness you feel 
 towards me? 
 
 El. Alas ! a thousand things at once — my father's anger, 
 my family's reproaches, the world's censure ; but, above all, Valere, 
 
2g8 THE MISER. [Act I. 
 
 a change In your affection, and that cruel coldness with which so 
 many of your sex frequently requite the too warm proofs of an 
 innocent love. 
 
 Val. Ah ! do not wrong me by judging me by others. Sus- 
 pect me of anything, Elise, rather than of failing in my devotion 
 to you. I love you too much for that, and my love for you will 
 be as lasting as my life. 
 
 El. Ah ! Valere ; every one talks in the same strain. All men 
 are alike in words, and it is only their actions which show them 
 to be different. 
 
 Val. Since actions alone prove what we are, wait at least to 
 judge of my heart by them, and do not seek for charges against 
 me in the unjust fears of a tormenting anticipation. Do not 
 kill me, I beg of you, by the sharp blows of cruel suspicion, but 
 give me time to convince you, by thousands of proofs, of the 
 sincerity of my love. 
 
 EL Alas ! How easily one lets oneself be persuaded by those 
 whom one loves ! Yes, Valere, I look upon your heart as in- 
 capable of deceiving me. I believe that you love me with a true 
 love, and that you will always be constant to me. I cannot doubt 
 this ; but all that I fear is the blame that may fall p^ j^^ 
 Vfil. But w^hy this anxiety? ,f. ,, . 
 
 El. I should have nothing to fear if all the world regarded you 
 with the same eyes that I do, for I find in your person good cause 
 for all I do for you. My heart has your merit to plead in its 
 defence, supported by that gratitude with which heaven has bound 
 me to you. I call to mind every moment the astonishing danger 
 which first brought us together, and that surprising generosity 
 which made you risk your life to save mine from the fury of 
 the waves ; that tender care which you bestowed so lavishly on 
 me after you had drawn me out of the water; the constant homage 
 of that ardent love which neither time nor difficulties could 
 discourage, and which, making you neglect both kindred and 
 country, detains you here, keeps your rank in disguise for my sake, 
 and, in order to be near me, has induced you to take employment 
 as my father's servant. All this has, no doubt, a wonderful effect 
 on me, and is sufficient in my eyes to justify the engagement 
 which I prevailed on myself to consent to ; but it is not enough 
 perhaps to justify it to others, and I am not sure that they would 
 enter into my sentiments. 
 
 Val. Of all the things you have mentioned, it is my love alone 
 that can deserve anything from you; and as to your scruples, 
 your father himself takes only too much care to justify you to the 
 
Scene II.] VAVARE. 2^9 
 
 world : his extreme avarice and the austere manner with which 
 he treats his children would authorise even stronger action. For- 
 give me, dearest Elise, for talking in this way before you — you 
 know that on this subject one cannot say any good ; but if, as I 
 hope, I can find my relations again, I shall have no great difficulty 
 in gaining your father to our side. I am impatiently expecting 
 news of them, and if they do not arrive soon I shall go and seek 
 them myself. 
 
 EL Ah, Valere, do not go away, I beg of you : think only 
 how to yet into favour with my father. 
 
 Val. You see how I go about it, and how artfully I had to 
 manage in order to get into his service; under what a mask of 
 sympathy and likeness of sentiments I disguise myself in order to 
 please him, and what a part I play with him every day to gain his 
 esteem. I am making wonderful progress, and I find that to get 
 on well with men there is no better way than to adapt yourself to 
 their inclinations, to give into their maxims, to praise their foibles, 
 and to applaud all they do. There is no need to be afraid of 
 overdoing this complaisance, and the way one plays on them may 
 be ever so plain : for the cunningest men are easily taken in by 
 flattery, and there is nothing so' absurd that they cannot be in- 
 duced to swallow if it is seasoned with praise. Sincerity suffers a 
 little in this trade ; but when we have need of men we must adapt 
 ourselves to them, and since we cannot gain them over otherwise, 
 the fault is not on the side of the flatterers, but of those who wish 
 to be flattered. 
 
 JEL But why do you not try and get my brother's help, in case 
 the servant-maid should betray our secret ? 
 
 Val. It is not possible to deal with them both at once ; the 
 tempers of the father and son are so opposite that a double con- 
 fidence is impracticable. But you can manage your brother, and 
 use the friendship which exists between you to attach him to our 
 interest. Here he comes ; I withdraw. Take this opportunity of 
 speaking to him : but do not disclose to him more of our business 
 than you think advisable. 
 
 /iV. I do not know whether I shall have courage enough to 
 confide in him. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Cleante, Elise. 
 
 Cleafite. I am very glad to find you alone, sister, as I was very 
 anxious to see you to tell you a secret. 
 
290 THE MISER. [Aci i. 
 
 Elise. And I am quite ready to listen to you, brother. What 
 is it that you have to say to me ? 
 
 Cle. A great deal, sister, which may be summed up in one 
 word — I am in love. 
 
 Al. You, in love ? 
 
 Cle. Yes, in love : but before saying any more, I know that I 
 am dependent on a father, and that the name of son subjects 
 me to his will ; and that we ought not to engage ourselves without 
 the consent of those we owe our life to, that heaven has put our 
 vows under their control, and that we ought only to give them 
 under their guidance. They, not being under the influence of 
 foolish passion, are much less likely to be deceived than we 
 are, and can see much better what is suitable for us ; so that we 
 ought to trust their clear-sighted prudence rather than the blind- 
 ness of our passion ; also that the heat of youth very often draws 
 us upon dangerous precipices. I say all this to you, sister, that 
 you may not give yourself the trouble to say it to me ; for my love 
 will not listen to anything, and I beg you not to offer me any 
 remonstrance. 
 
 EL Have you engaged yourself, brother, to the girl you 
 love? 
 
 Cle. No, but I am determined to do so, and I beg you once 
 more not to advance any reasons to dissuade me. 
 
 El. Am I, brother, so strange a character ? 
 
 Cle. No, sister, but you are not in love ; you are ignorant of 
 the strange and gentle power which love exercises over the heart, 
 and I am afraid of your wisdom. 
 
 El. Ah, brother, don't talk of my wisdom. There is no one 
 who does not lack it once in his life ; artd if I lay open my heart 
 to you, I shall very likely appear in your eyes much less sensible 
 than yourself. 
 
 Cle. Ah, would to heaven that your heart, like mine 
 
 Al Let us settle your business first : tell me with whom you 
 are in love. 
 
 Cle. A young girl who has been staying lately in this 
 neighbourhood, and who seems to have the faculty of making all 
 who see her fall in love with her. Nature, my dear sister, has 
 formed nothing more lovely. I was in transports from the 
 moment I set eyes upon her. Her name is Mariane, and she 
 lives under the care of a good motherly woman who is in very bad 
 health, and for whom this charming girl shows an affection almost 
 beyond belief. She waits on her, feels for her, comforts her v/ith 
 a tenderness that would touch your heart. She goes about every- 
 
ScExXE III.] DAVARE. 291 
 
 thing she does with the most delightful air possible, and a thousand 
 graces shine in all her actions ; a most winning sweetness, a most 
 engaging good-nature, an adorable modesty — ah, sister, I wish 
 you could have seen her ! 
 
 Al. I see a good deal of her, brother, in what you tell me, and 
 to understand what she is, it is enough for me that you love her. 
 
 Cl'e, I have discovered secretly that they are not in easy cir- 
 cumstances, and that with the most careful management their 
 slender income will scarcely meet their modest requirements. 
 Imagine, sister, what a delight it would be to raise the fortune of 
 a person one loves, and to contribute with delicacy towards the 
 modest needs of a virtuous family ; and then think what a grief it 
 must be to me, that through the avarice of my father I am 
 incapable of tasting this joy, and of giving my dear one any proof 
 of rny love. 
 
 El. Yes, brother, I can well imagine what your vexation must be. 
 
 Cle. Ah, sister, it is greater than any one can believe. Can 
 anything be more cruel than the rigorous parsimony exercised 
 over us ; than the barrenness in which we languish. What good 
 will it do us to have a fortune, when we have passed the age to 
 enjoy it ? I am forced to get into debt on all sides merely for 
 the necessaries of life. You and I are obliged to ask the help of 
 the tradesmen in order to dress ourselves respectably. In short, 
 I wanted to speak to you that you might help me to sound my 
 father on this matter, and if I find that he opposes me I am 
 determined to go elsewhere with this charming creature, and make 
 the best of the luck Providence may send us. I am trying to 
 borrow money everywhere to enable me to carry out my plan ; and 
 if your affairs, sister, at all resemble mine, and our father sets 
 himself to oppose our wishes, we will both leave him, and free 
 ourselves from that tyranny to which his insupportable avarice has 
 so long subjected us. 
 
 El. It is true that every day he gives us more and more 
 reason to regret the loss of our mother, and 
 
 Clf. I hear his voice. Let us go aside a little, and finish our 
 mutual confidence ; and then we will join our forces to attack the 
 ruggedness of his temper. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Harpagon, La Fleche. 
 
 Harpagon. Be- off this moment, and don't answer me. Be off, 
 you rascal ! out of my house, you gallows-bird ! 
 
292 THE MISER. [Act I. 
 
 La FlecJie. I never saw anything so villainous as this cursed old 
 fellow; I believe he's got the very devil in him. 
 
 Har. What are you muttering about there ? 
 
 La FL Why do you drive me out ? 
 
 Har, The idea of your asking my reasons, you scoundrel ! Get 
 out of my way at once before I beat your brains out ! 
 
 La FL What have I done to you ? 
 
 Har. You've done this, that I've made up my mind you shall go. 
 
 La FL Master, your son, has ordered me to wait for him. 
 
 Har. Be off, and wait for him in the street, and don't stick in 
 my house planted upright like a post, to watch everything that is 
 going on and to profit by everything. I don't choose to have a 
 constant spy on all my affairs, a traitor whose cursed eyes besiege 
 all my actions, devour what I have, and ferret about in every 
 corner to see if there's anything to pilfer. 
 
 La FL How the deuce could any one rob you ? Are you the 
 sort of man to be robbed, when you keep everything under lock 
 and key, and stand sentinel day and night ? 
 
 Liar. I will lock up what I think proper, and stand sentinel as 
 I please. A nice lot of spies who notice all I do ! {Aside softly.) I 
 tremble lest he has suspected anything about my money. [Aloud.) 
 Aren't you the sort of man to spread reports that I have got money 
 hidden away in my house ? 
 
 La FL Have you got money hid ? 
 
 Har. No, you rascal, I don't say so. {Aside.) I'm enraged. 
 {Aloud.) I only ask whether you are not spiteful enough to go 
 about and say that I have. 
 
 La FL What does it matter to us, whether you have or not ? 
 It's all the same to us. 
 
 Har. {raising his hand as if to box his ears). So you want to 
 argue, do you ? I'll give you an argument in your ears. Once 
 more I tell you, be off. 
 
 La FL Very well, I'm going. 
 
 Har. Stop. Aren't you carrying anything away with you ? 
 
 La FL What I should I carry away from you ? 
 
 Ha?'. Come here that I may see. Show me your hands. 
 
 La FL There. 
 
 Har. Now the others. 
 
 LaFL The others? 
 
 Har. Yes. 
 
 La FL There they are. 
 
 Har. [pointing to La Fleche^s breeches). Have you nothing 
 stowed away in there ? 
 
Scene III.] L'AVARE. 293 
 
 La Fl. Look for yourself. 
 
 Har. {feeling the knees of his breeches). These wide breeches 
 are proper receivers of stolen goods ; I wish some one had been 
 hanged for them. 
 
 La Fl. How richly does a man like this deserve what he is 
 afraid of. How pleased I should be to rob him. 
 
 Liar. What's that ? 
 
 LaFl. Eh? 
 
 Har. What were you saying about robbing ? 
 
 La Fl. I say that you are feeling pretty well all round to see if 
 I have robbed you. 
 
 Har. {feeling in La Flkh^s pockets.) That's what I mean to do. 
 
 La Fl. Plague take avarice and misers ! 
 
 Har. Eh ? What do vou say ? 
 
 LaFl. What do I say? 
 
 Har. Yes. What do you say about avarice and misers ? 
 
 La Fl. I say plague on them. 
 
 Har' Whom are you speaking of? 
 
 La Fl. Of misers. 
 
 Har. Who are these misers ? 
 
 La Fl. Villains, stingy wretches. 
 
 Har. But whom do you mean? ' ' ■ ' ' 
 
 La Fl. What are you troubling yourselfiboiit ? 
 
 Har. About what I ought. i '^""J - 
 
 La Fl. Do you think I was talking aboiit you ? 
 
 Har. I think what I think : but I choose you shall tell md'^O 
 whom you are speaking, when you say that. 
 
 La Fl. I speak — I speak — to my cap. 
 
 Har. I should like to speak to your crown. 
 
 La Fl. Do you want to hinder me from cursing misers ? 
 
 Har. No, but I'll hinder you from chattering and being 
 insolent. Hold your tongue ! 
 
 La Fl. I name no names. 
 
 Har. A word more, and I'll break your bones. 
 
 La Fl. Whom the cap fits, let him wear it. 
 
 Har. Will you hold your tongue ? 
 
 La Fl. Yes, against my will. 
 
 Har. Ha, ha ! 
 
 Lm Fl. {shoiuing him one of his 7vaistcoat pockets). Stop, here's 
 one pocket more. Now are you satisfied ? 
 
 Har. Come, give it me, without my searching yoq, 
 
 La Fl. Give you what ? 
 
 Har, What you've taken from me, 
 
294 THE MISER. [Act 1. 
 
 La Fl. I've taken nothing from you. 
 
 Mar. Really? 
 
 La FL Really. 
 
 Har. Good-bye, then, and all the devils take you ! 
 
 La Fl. (aside). So, I'm nicely sent about my business. 
 
 Har. Anyhow, I leave it on your conscience, at least. [Exii 
 La Flkhe.) There goes a rascal of a valet, who is a great worry 
 to me. I don't care to have such a good-for-nothing cur about me. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Elise, Cleante, Harpagon. 
 
 Harpagon {alone). It is no small trouble to keep a large sum 
 of money by one; and he is happy who has his cash at good 
 interest, and keeps no more in his own hands than he needs for 
 common expenses. One is not a little puzzled to devise, from top 
 to bottom of the house, a safe hoarding-place ; for strong boxes 
 are to me very suspicious sort of places, and I will never trust 
 them. I look upon them as a regular bait for thieves, and they 
 are always the first thing which they attack. In the meantime I 
 am not sure that I did right to bury in the garden those ten thousand 
 crowns which I received yesterday, Ten thousand crowns is a 
 
 sum sufficiently {Seeing his children whispering together.) Oh, 
 
 heavens ! I have betrayed myself; my warmth transported me. 
 I believe I spoke out loud when I was reasoning to myself. What 
 is the matter ? 
 
 Cleante. Nothing, father. 
 
 JIar. How long have you been there ? 
 
 Flise. We have only come here this moment. 
 
 Har. Did you overhear ? 
 
 Cle. What, father ? 
 
 Har. What I 
 
 El. What might it be ? 
 
 Har. What I was just now saying. 
 
 Cle. No. 
 
 JIar. You did, you did ! 
 
 El. I beg your pardon, we did not. 
 
 Har. I see plainly that you did hear some words, I was 
 talking to myself of the difficulty of getting money nowadays, and 
 I was saying how happy he would be who had ten thousand 
 crowns in his house. 
 
 Cle. We were hesitating to come up to you, for fear we should.- 
 interrupt you. 
 
 1 
 
Scene IV.] LAVARE, 295 
 
 Ha7'. I am very glad to hear you say that, lest you should 
 take things the wrong way, and fancy I was saying that I had ten 
 thousand crowns. 
 
 Cle. We don't pry into your affairs. 
 
 Har. I wish to goodness I had them — the ten thousand 
 crowns ! 
 
 Cle. I don't believe 
 
 Har, 'Twould be a fine thing for me. 
 
 El. These are things 
 
 Har. I should find a use for them. 
 
 Cle. I am of opinion that 
 
 Har. That sum would suit me exactly. 
 
 EL You are 
 
 Har. And I should not complain, as I do now, that the times 
 are hard. 
 
 Cle. Bless me, father, you have no reason to complain. Every 
 one knows that you have plenty of money. 
 
 Har. What ! I have plenty of money ! Whoever says it is a 
 liar : there is nothing more false, and they are rascals who spread 
 all these reports. 
 
 El. Don't put yourself into a passion. 
 
 Har. It is strange that my own children should betray me, and 
 turn my enemies. 
 
 Cle. Does telling you that you have money make one your 
 enemy ? 
 
 Har. Yes ; such kind of talk, and your spending, will some 
 day cause my throat to be cut in my own house, in the idea that 
 I am stuffed with gold. 
 
 Cle. What great expense am I at ? 
 
 Har. What ! can anything be more scandalous than the ex- 
 pensive get-up in which you walk about the town ? I was finding 
 fault with your sister yesterday, but this is ten times worse. It 
 cries to heaven for punishment ; and to take you from head to 
 foot, one might find enough to purchase a good annuity with. I've 
 told you, my son, twenty times over, that all your ways displease 
 me greatly. You ape being a nobleman, and you must certainly 
 rob me to go dressed as you are. 
 
 Cle. How rob you ? 
 
 Har. How should I know ? How can you get the means of 
 keeping up the style you affect ? 
 
 Cle. Well, father, it is by play ; and as I am very lucky, I put 
 all the money I win upon my back. 
 
 Har. More shame for you. If you have good luck at play, 
 
296 THE MISER. [Act 1.; 
 
 you should make good use of it, and put the money you win out 
 at good interest, so that you might find it another time. I should 
 like to know, without mentioning the rest, what is the good of all 
 these ribands with which you are so finely decked from head to 
 foot, and whether half a dozen ties ' would not be enough to fasten 
 your breeches ? And what need to lay out money on wigs when 
 you may wear your own hair, which costs you nothing ? I'll be 
 bound that what with wigs and what with ribands there go at least 
 twenty pistoles ; and twenty pistoles bring in eighteen livres, six 
 sols, eight deniers per annum at S^ per cent, interest. , 
 
 Cle. Very true. j 
 
 Har. No more of this. Let us talk of other business. (Aside.) ' 
 Mercy on me, I believe they are making signs to one another to 
 pick my pocket. (Aloud.) What is the meaning of those signs ? 
 
 £/. We are settling, my brother and I, which of us shall speak 
 first, as we have both something to say to you. 
 
 jiar. And I, too, have something to say to both of you. 
 
 C/e. It is about marriage, father, that we want to speak with you. 
 
 Har. It is about marriage that I want to talk with you. 
 
 E/. Ah ! father. 
 
 Har. What is the meaning of that " ah " ? Is it the word, my 
 girl, or the thing that frightens you ? 
 
 C/e. Marriage may be frightful to both of us, in the fashion 
 you may understand it, and we fear our sentiments may not agree 
 with your choice. 
 
 Har. A little patience. Do not alarm yourselves. I know 
 what is proper for both of you, and you shall neither of you have 
 reason to complain of anything I intend to do. And to begin at 
 the right end; tell me, have you seen a young person of the 
 name of Mariane, who is living not far from here ? 
 
 C/e. Yes, father. 
 
 Har. And you, child ? 
 
 E/. I have heard speak of her. 
 
 Har. And how do you like this girl, my son ? 
 
 C/e. She is a charming creature. 
 
 Har. And how about her looks ? 
 
 C/e. Ingenuous and intelligent. 
 
 H(ir. Her air and manner ? 
 
 C/e. Admirable, without any question. 
 
 Har. Don't you think such a girl well deserves to be thought 
 of? 
 
 ' The fastenings or points formerly uscU to fi\sten the upper to the lower 
 garments. 
 
Scene IV.] VA VARE. 297 
 
 C/e. Yes, father. 
 
 Har. You think that this would be a desirable match ? 
 
 CIL Most desirable. 
 
 Har. That she has all the appearance of making an excellent 
 housewife ? 
 
 ClL No doubt. 
 
 Har. And that a husband might live comfortably with her ? 
 
 CIL Certainly. 
 
 Har. There is a trifling difficulty. I am afraid she has not so 
 much money as one might desire. 
 
 C/e. Oh, sir, money is not to be considered, when it is a ques- 
 tion of marrying an honourable person. 
 
 Har. Pardon me, pardon me ! But there is this to be said, 
 that if the fortune is not large it may be made up in other ways. 
 
 Clc. That may well be. 
 
 Har. In short, I am very glad to find that you fall in with my 
 views. For her charming manner and sweetness of temper have 
 gained my heart, and I am resolved to marry her provided I find 
 that she has some little fortune. 
 
 Clc. Oh, heavens ! 
 
 Har. What now ? 
 
 Cle. You are resolved, you say 
 
 Har. To marry Mariane. 
 
 Clc. Who, you ? You ? 
 
 Har. Yes, I, I, I. What is the meaning of all this? 
 
 Clc. A dizziness has come over me all at once, and I will 
 retire for awhile. 
 
 Har. Oh, that's nothing. Go into the kitchen and drink a 
 glass of cold water. {Exit Cleante.) These are young sparks, 
 who have no more heart than chickens. This, daughter, is what 
 I have resolved on for myself. As for your brother, I've found 
 out a certain widow for him, who was mentioned to me this 
 morning ; and for you, I'll give you to Seigneur Anselme. 
 
 El. To Seigneur Anselme ? 
 
 Har. A staid, prudent, and wise man, who is not above fifty 
 years old, and is said to be very rich. 
 
 El. {curtsying). I don't want to marry, father, if you please. 
 
 Har. {fnimicking her). But I want you, my little daughter, my 
 darling, to marry, if you please. 
 
 El. {again curtsying). I beg your pardon, father. 
 
 Har. {again mimicking her). I beg yours, daughter. 
 
 El. I am Seigneur Anselme's most humble servant {again 
 curtsying)^ but, with your leave, I will not marry him. 
 
298 THE MISER. [Act I. 
 
 Har. I am your most humble servant ; but {again mimicking 
 her), with your leave, you shall marry him this very night. 
 
 ±lI. This very night ? 
 
 Har. This very night. 
 
 EL (again curtsying). This can't be, father. 
 
 Har. {again mimicking). This shall be, daughter. 
 
 EL No. 
 
 Har. Yes. 
 
 EL No, I tell you. 
 
 Har. Yes, I tell you. 
 
 EL It is a thing you will never force me to. 
 
 Har. It is a thing I will force you to. 
 
 EL I will sooner kill myself than marry such a husband. 
 
 Har. You will not kill yourself; and you shall marry him. 
 But what audacity ! Did any one ever hear a daughter speak so 
 to her father ? 
 
 EL But did any one ever see a father marry his daughter in 
 such a fashion ? 
 
 Har. It is a match to which there can be no objection ; and 
 I'll be bound that everybody will approve of my choice. 
 
 EL And I'll wager that no reasonable person can approve 
 of it. 
 
 Har. {perceiving Valere at a distance). Here comes Valcre. 
 Will you agree to his deciding the question between us ? 
 
 EL Yes, I agree. 
 
 Har. But will you be bound by his decision ? 
 
 El. Yes, I'll stand by whatever he says. 
 
 Har. That's settled then. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Vali^re, Harpagon, Elise. 
 
 Harpagon. Come here, Valere. We have chosen you to 
 decide which is right — my daughter or I ? 
 
 Valere. Oh, you, sir, unquestionably. 
 
 Har. But do you know what we were talking about ? 
 
 Val. No ; but you cannot be wrong — you are all sense. 
 
 Har. Well, then, I have a mind to give my daughter this 
 evening a husband who is equally rich and wise ; and the hussy 
 tells me to my face that she scorns to take him. What do you say 
 to that ? 
 
 Val. What do I say to it ? 
 
 Har. Yes. 
 
Scene v.] L'AVARE. 299 
 
 VaL I— I 
 
 Har. What ? 
 
 VaL I say that in the main I am of your opinion, and you 
 cannot fail to be in the right. But at the same time she is not 
 absolutely in the wrong — and 
 
 Har. How so? Monsieur x\nselme is an excellent match. 
 He is a gentleman of good family, good-tempered, staid, discreet, 
 in good circumstances, and has no child of his former marriage. 
 Could she have a better chance ? 
 
 VaL That's true. But she might say that this is hurrying 
 matters too much, and that she should at least have time to see 
 if her inclination could fall in with 
 
 Har. It is a chance which we must seize by the forelock. I 
 find an advantage here which I should not find elsewhere, for he 
 is willing to take her without a dowry. 
 
 VaL Without a dowry ? 
 
 Har. Yes. 
 
 VaL Ah, then I can say no more. {Turning to Elise.) You 
 see here an utterly convincing reason, to which you must yield. 
 
 Har. This saves me a great deal. 
 
 VaL Certainly that admits of no contradiction. It is true that 
 your daughter may represent to you that marriage is a more 
 important matter than people are apt to think ; that it means to be 
 happy or unhappy all her life; and that an engagement which 
 must last till death should never be made without great pre- 
 caution. 
 
 Har. Without any dowry ! 
 
 VaL You are right. That decides all ; that's taken for granted. 
 There are people who would tell you that on such occasions a 
 daughter's inclination ought doubtless to be regarded ; and that 
 great disparity of age, temper, and sentiments makes a marriage 
 subject to vexatious accidents. 
 
 Har. Without any dowry ! 
 
 VaL Ah ! there's no replying to that. We are well aware of 
 it. Who the deuce can go against it ? Not but what there are 
 many fathers who would rather study the satisfaction they can give 
 their children than the money they can bestow on them; who 
 would never sacrifice them to interest, but would study in marriage 
 that sweet conformity which continually maintains the honour, 
 tranquillity, and joy of it ; and that 
 
 Har. Without any dowry ! 
 
 VaL It is true. That stops every mouth. Without a dowry ! 
 How can one withstand such an ara:ument ! 
 
300 THE MISER. [Act I. 
 
 Har. {looking towards the garden). Bless me ! I think I hear a 
 dog barking : it may be some one who has a design on my money. 
 Don't go away, I shall be back directly. 
 
 Elise. Are you jesting, Valere, to talk to him as you do ? 
 
 Val. It is not to exasperate him, and thus to gain my end the 
 better. To attack his sentiments directly, would be the way to 
 spoil all. There are some people who can be taken only in a 
 round-about way ; tempers which will stand no resistance ; restive 
 natures that fire up against the truth, that always set themselves 
 against the straight path of reason, whom you can never bring to 
 the point you desire, except by turning them about. Seem to con- 
 sent to what he wishes, and you will gain your end the better, 
 and :5iN\ 
 
 El. But this marriage, Valere ! 
 
 Val. We'll find out some way to break it off. 
 
 El. But what can we find if it's to be carried out this evening ? 
 
 'Val. You must ask for time, and feign some disorder. 
 
 El. But they will find it is only a pretence if they call in the 
 physician. 
 
 Val. You're jesting, surely. Do they know anything? Pooh ! 
 pooh ! You may have any ailment you like, as far as they arc 
 concerned : they'll find out some reason to account for it. 
 
 Har. {returning at the back of the stage). Thank heaven, it's 
 nothing ! 
 
 Val. {without seeing Harpagon). In short, our last resource is in 
 flight, which will save us from everything ; and if your love, fair 
 
 Elise, is capable of firmness {seeing Harpagon). Yes, it is 
 
 fitting that a daughter should be obedient to her father. She must 
 not mind the appearance and figure of a husband, and when the 
 argument of Without a dowry comes up, she ought to be ready to 
 take anything that may be given her. 
 
 Har. Good. That was very well put ! 
 
 Val Sir, I ask your pardon if I am a little warm, and take the 
 liberty of talking to her in the way I do. 
 
 Har. On the contrary, I am delighted, and I beg that you will 
 take an absolute control over her. Yes {to Elise\ it is in vain 
 for you to run away. I give him the same authority over you that 
 heaven has given to me, and mean that you do everything he directs. 
 
 Val. {to Elise). After that, dare you resist my remonstrances ? 
 {To Harpagon.) I will follow her and continue the lesson I have 
 been giving her. 
 
 Har. Do so ; I shall feel greatly obliged to you. 
 
 Val, It is necessary to keep a strict hand over her. 
 
Scene V.] VA VAR£. %oi 
 
 Har, That is true. We must 
 
 Val. Give yourself no trouble ; I can see my way quite 
 clearly. 
 
 Har, Very good. I am going to take a short turn in the 
 garden, and shall soon be back. 
 
 Val, {speakitig to Elise, going out by the door she has gone out 
 at). Yes ; money is the most valuable thing in the world, and 
 you ought to thank heaven for the worthy father it has bestowed 
 on you. He knows what life is. When a person offers to take off 
 a daughter without a dowry, one ought to look no further. Every- 
 thing is included in that ; and " without a dowry " supplies the 
 place of beauty, youth, pedigree, honour, wisdom, and uprightness. 
 
 Har. Well said, my boy ! Spoken like an oracle ! Happy is 
 the man who has a servant of this sort. 
 
 ACT n. Scene I. 
 Cl£\nte, La Flkche. 
 
 Cleante. Well, you rascal, where on earth have you been ? 
 Did not I order you— — • 
 
 La Fleche. Yes, sir, and I came here to wait for you without 
 stirring ; but your father, the most surly of men, drove me away 
 in spite of myself, and I ran the risk of being thrashed. 
 
 Clc. How is our affair getting on ? Things are more pressing 
 than ever ; since I left you I have discovered that my father is my 
 rival. 
 
 La Fl. Your father in love ? 
 
 Clc. Yes, and I had all the difficulty in the world to conceal 
 from him the trouble this news has caused me. 
 
 La FL He meddle with love affairs ! What the deuce can he 
 be thinking of? Is he going to play the world a joke ? And was 
 love made for people of his build ? 
 
 Cle. It must have been as a punishment for my sins that this 
 passion got into his head. 
 
 Z« Fl. But why did you make a mystery to him of your love? 
 
 Cle. To give him less suspicion, and to reserve myself in case 
 of need for the best way of breaking off the match. But what 
 answer did they give you ? 
 
 La FL Indeed, sir, borrowers are in a bad way, and one must 
 put up with strange things when one has, like yourself, to go 
 through the hands of the money-lenders. 
 
 Cle. Cannot the affair be managed, then ? ' 
 
302 THE MISER. [Act 11. 
 
 La Fl. Pardon me. Our Maitre Simon, the broker, who has 
 been recommended to us as an active, energetic fellow, tells me 
 that he has left no stone unturned to serve you, and that your 
 looks alone have gained his heart. 
 
 Cle. Shall I have the fifteen thousand francs, then, that I have 
 asked for ? 
 
 La FL Yes, but upon some trifling conditions which you must 
 accept if you wish to complete the transaction. 
 
 Cle. Did you get to speak with the man who will lend the 
 money ? 
 
 La FL No, truly ; the business is not done after that fashion. 
 He takes even more pains to conceal himself than you do, and 
 there are much greater mysteries than you imagine. He would 
 not have his name mentioned, and he is to be brought to an inter- 
 view with you to-day in a house lent for the purpose, that he may 
 be informed, from your own mouih, of your family and your 
 means ; and I feel sure that the mention of your father's name 
 will make everything quite smooth. 
 
 Clc. And especially my mother's being dead, as no one can 
 take her money from me. 
 
 La FL Here are some points which he dictated to our broker 
 to be shown to you, before anything can be done. 
 
 On the supposition that the Jeiidcr finds all the securities good^ 
 atid that the borrower is of age, of a family whose estate is ample, 
 solid, and well-secured, clear and free from all encumbrances ; a 
 good a?id exact bond shall be executed before a notary, the most 
 honourable man that can be found, and who for that purpose must 
 be chosen by the lender, to whom it is of the greatest importajicc 
 that the i?tstrume?it be rightly drawn up. 
 
 Cle. There is nothing to be said against this. 
 
 La FL The lender, not ivishing to burden his conscie?ice, zvill 
 lend his 7?ioney at no more than five and a half per cent, ijiterest. 
 
 Cle. Five and a half per cent. ! Upon my word this is an 
 honest man ! There is no reason to complain of this. 
 
 La FL That's true. 
 
 But as the lender aforesaid has not by him the su7n in question, 
 and in order to do the borroiver a favour is obliged himself to 
 borrow of another at the rate of twenty per cent., it is agreed that 
 tJie said borrower shall pay that interest, without prejudice to the 
 rest, seeiiig that it is only to oblige him that the said lender 
 engages to borrow this. 
 
 Cle. The deuce ! What a Jew ; what a Turk ! It is above 
 five and twenty per cent. 
 
 I 
 
ScKNEl.] VAVARE. 303 
 
 La Fl. Quite true. That's what I said. You had better con- 
 sider about it. 
 
 CIL But what would you have me consider ? I want money, 
 and I must agree to his terms. 
 
 La Fl. The very answer I made him. 
 Cle. Is there anything more ? 
 La Fl. Only one small article. 
 
 Of the fifteen thousand francs required^ the lender will not he 
 able to pay in cash more than twelve thousand ; and as to the 
 thousand crowns remainiftg, the borrower must take them out in 
 clothes, furniture, and trinkets ; as by the accompanying inventory, 
 and ivhich the lender has honestly put at the lowest possible 
 price. 
 
 Cle. What is the meaning of all this ? 
 La Fl. Listen to the inventory. 
 
 Lmprimis. — One four-post bedstead, with Hungary point lace, 
 properly sew 71 on olive-coloured cloth; with six chairs, and a 
 counterpane to match, all in good cofidition, atid lined with 
 reversible taffeta, red and blue. 
 
 Llem. — Ojte tent bedstead, covered ivith a good Aumale serge of 
 dead-rose colour, with silk fringes. 
 
 Cle. What would he have me do with this ? 
 La Fl. Wait a moment. 
 
 Item. — One set of tapestry hangings, being the loves of Gombaut 
 and Mack. 
 
 Ite?n. — One large walnut table, ivith tzvelve turned legs, draw- 
 ing out at each end, with six stools under it. 
 
 Cle. What on earth am I to do with 
 
 La Fl. Have a little patience. 
 
 Item. — Three large muskets, inlaid with mother of pearl, a?id 
 the rests belonging to them. 
 
 Item. — Oi2e brick furnace, with two retorts and three receivers, 
 7'ery useful for those zvho imder stand distillation. 
 Cle. I shall go mad ! 
 La Fl. Gently. 
 
 Item. — A Bologna lute, with a full set of strings, a few only 
 ivanfing. 
 
 Item. — One nine-hole board, one draught board, 2vith the game 
 of goose, recovered frojn the Greeks, very suitable for passing aivay 
 the time when one has nothing to do. 
 
 Item. — One lizard- skin, three feet and a half long, stuffed with 
 hay ; a pretty curiosity to hang from the ceiling of a roojn. 
 
 The total above-mentio7ied being honestly worth four thousand 
 
304 THE MISER. [ACT II. 
 
 five hundred livres, is reduced by the lender'' s inoderatmi to the 
 value of ojie thousand crowns. 
 
 Cle. Plague take him with his moderation, scoundrel and cut- 
 throat as he is ! Was there ever such extortion heard of? And 
 not satisfied with the ruinous interest he demands, he must 
 force me to take the beggarly old lumber he has heaped together, 
 for three thousand livres. I sha'n't get two hundred crowns out of 
 the lot, and yet I must bring myself to agree to his terms, for he 
 is in a position to make me accept anything. The villain has me 
 at his mercy. 
 
 La Fl. Without offence, sir, I see that you are following 
 exactly the same road which Panurge took to his ruin — getting 
 money advanced, buying dear, selling cheap, and eating your 
 wheat in the blade. 
 
 Cle. What would you have me do ? See what young fellows 
 are reduced to by the cursed avarice of their fathers : can one be 
 astonished after this if their children wish them dead ? 
 
 La Fl. I must confess that yours would enrage the calmest 
 man in the world against his stinginess. Thank heaven, I have no 
 special inclination for being hung; and among my comrades 
 whom I see meddling in many little affairs, I'm clever enough to 
 save my stakes, and to keep out of all affairs which tend, however 
 distantly, towards the gallows : but, to speak the truth, this man 
 would tempt me by his actions to rob him, and I should think 
 that in stealing from him I was doing a meritorious action. 
 
 Cle. Give me that inventory a little while, that I may look over 
 it again. viiJiii 
 
 Scene II. 
 MaItre Simon, Harpagon, Cleante, La Fleche. 
 
 Maltre Sifnon. Yes, sir, it is a young man who is in want of 
 money. His affairs oblige him to seek for it, and he will make no 
 difficulty about your terms. 
 
 Harpagon. But, Maitre Simon, do you think that there is no , 
 risk run in this case? And do you know the name, the means/ 
 and the family of him of whom you speak? *' 
 
 Mtre. Si. No, I cannot give you full information on that point, 
 as it v/as only by chance that I was directed to him ; but you will 
 be made acquainted with everything by himself, and his man 
 assured me that you would be satisfied when you came to know 
 him. All that I can tell you is that his family is very rich, and 
 that he has no mother, and further that he will undertake, if you 
 
Scene II.] r A FARE. 305 
 
 make a point of it, that his father will be dead before eight months 
 are over. 
 
 Hnr. That is something, indeed. Charity, Maitre Simon, 
 obliges us to oblige people when it is in our power. 
 
 Mire. Si. Of course. 
 
 La FVeche. What is the meaning of this ? Our Maitre Simon 
 talking to your father ! 
 
 Clcante. Can some one have told him who I am ? and are you 
 going to betray me ? 
 
 Mtre. Si. {to Clcante and La F/khe). Ah, you are in a great 
 hurry ! Who told you that this was the house ? (To Harpagon.) 
 At any rate, sir, it was not I who gave ihem your name and 
 address. But in my opinion there is no great harm done ; they 
 are persons of discretion, and you can enter into mutual explana- 
 tions. 
 
 Har. What ! ! 
 
 Mtre. Si. {indicatingCleante). This is the gentleman about whom 
 I was speaking to you, who wants to borrow fifteen thousand livres. 
 
 Har. How, sirrah ! is it you who are abandoning yourself to 
 such disgraceful proceedings ? 
 
 Cie. How, father, do you descend to such base actions ? 
 {Maitre Simon disappears, and La Fleche hides himself^.) 
 
 Har. Is it, you, who would ruin yourself by such shameful 
 borrowing ? . r. ^ijoi i03i,)-. : ,. 
 
 Cle. Is it youw'ho- would enrich yourself by such illegal 
 usury? 
 
 Har. How dare you, after this, show yourself to me ? 
 
 Cie. How dare you, after this, show yourself to the world ? 
 
 Har. Tell me, are you not ashamed to come to such 
 debauchery ; to run headlong into frightful expenses, and 
 scandalously squander the property your parents have got to- 
 gether for you by the sweat of their brows ? 
 
 Cie. Do not you blush at dishonouring your position by such 
 transactions — sacrificing your honour and reputation to the 
 insatiable desire of heaping crown upon crown, and outdoing in 
 ix)int of interest the most shameless extortions ever invented by 
 the most exorbitant usurers ? 
 
 Har. Out of my sight, you rascal, out of my sight ! 
 
 Cie. Which, think you, is the greatest criminal ? He who 
 buys money he is really in want of, or he who steals money for 
 which he has no use ? 
 
 Har. Be off, I say, and do not torment my ears {Exit 
 
 Cleante.) (Harpagon alone.) I am not altogether sorry for this 
 
3o6 THE MISER. [Act II. 
 
 adventure ; it will be a warning to me to keep an eye, more than 
 ever, upon all his actions. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Frosine, Harpagon. 
 
 Frosine. Sir 
 
 Harpagoti. Stay a moment; I will come back and talk to you 
 presently. {Aside.) It is desirable that I should take a look at 
 my money. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 La Fleche, Frosine. 
 
 • La Fleche {not seeing Frosine). This adventure is extremely 
 droll. He must certainly have a shopful of goods somewhere, 
 for we have no knowledge of a single article mentioned in the 
 inventory. 
 
 Frosine {seeing hifn). Ah, is it you, my poor La Fleche? 
 What brings this meeting about ? 
 
 La Ft. Ah, ha ! Is that you, Frosine ? What are you doing 
 here? 
 
 Fros. What I do everywhere else : mix myself up in affairs, 
 make myself useful to people, and turn what small talent I may 
 have to the best advantage. You know that in this world we 
 must live by cleverness, and that to people like myself heaven has 
 given no other income but intrigue and meddHng. 
 
 La Ft. Have you any business with the master of this house ? 
 
 Fros. Yes. I've a little affair in hand for him, for which I 
 expect some return. 
 
 La Fl. From him ? Ah, you'll be very clever if you can get 
 anything from that quarter. I may tell you that money is wonder- 
 fully scarce here. 
 
 Fros. But there are certain services which have a wonderful 
 influence. 
 
 La Fl. I am your humble servant : but as yet you don't know 
 Monsieur Harpagon. He is of all human beings the least human; 
 of all mortals he is the hardest and most close-fisted. There is 
 no service which can urge his gratitude so far as to make him open 
 his purse. Of praise, esteem, kindness in words and friendship, 
 as much as you please, but of money not a sou. There is nothing 
 more dry and withered than his favours and caresses; and "give" 
 is a word to which he has taken so strong a dislike that he never 
 says L give you good-day, but L lend yoic good-day. 
 
Scl.neV.] LAVARE. 307 
 
 Pros. Goodness ! But I possess the art of fleecing men. I've 
 the secret of introducing myself into their affections ; of tickling 
 their hearts, to find on which side they are the most accessible. 
 
 La Fl. That's useless here. I defy you to soften the man 
 we are talking of, on the side of money. He is a Turk on that 
 head, but so Turkish as to make everybody despair. You may 
 burst him before you can move him. In a word, he loves money 
 more than reputation, honour, and virtue ; and the sight of a 
 person who has any demand upon him throws him into convul- 
 sions ; it wounds him mortally, pierces him to the heart, tears out 
 
 his very entrails, and if But here he is coming back. I 
 
 must be off. \Exit La Fleche. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Harpagon, Frosine. 
 
 Harpagon {aside). Everything is quite right. {Aloud.) Ah ! 
 What is it, Frosine ? 
 
 Frosine. Good heavens ! How well you look. You're the 
 picture of health. 
 
 Bar. Who, I? 
 
 Fros. Never did I see you look so fresh and bright. 
 
 Jiar. You don't mean it ? 
 
 Fros. Indeed, you were never so young in your life as you are 
 now ; I see fellows of five and twenty who are older than you. 
 
 liar. For all that, Frosine, I'm turned sixty. 
 
 Fros. Well, what's that ? It is t'he flower of one's age, and 
 you are now entering on the prime of life. 
 
 Ifar. That may be ; but twenty years less would do me no 
 harm, I think. 
 
 Fros. You're joking. You have no need of them, for you're 
 made of stuff to last to a hundred. 
 
 Har. Do you think so ? 
 
 Fyos. Certainly, you have all the marks of it. Wait a moment. 
 Yes, there is certainly just between your two eyes a token of long life. 
 
 Har. Are you a judge of that ? 
 
 Fros. Certainly. Now show me your hand. Goodness ! 
 what a line of life is there ! 
 
 Har. What do you mean ? 
 
 Fros. Don't you see how far that line goes ? 
 
 Har. Well, what does that signify ? 
 
 Fros. On my conscience, I gave you a hundred years, but I do 
 believe you'll see a hundred and twenty. 
 
3o8 THE MISER. [Act II. 
 
 Har. Is it possible ? 
 
 Fros. You must be knocked on the head, I tell you. You'll 
 live to bury your children, and your children's children. 
 
 Har. So much the better. How is our affair going on ? 
 
 Fros. Need you ask ? Does any one see me mix myself up in 
 anything that I do not succeed in ? And, above all, I've a won- 
 derful talent for match-making. There are not two people in the 
 world that I can't bring together in less than no time ; I believe 
 that if I took it into my head I could marry the Grand Turk to 
 the Republic of Venice. But there was not, after all, such great 
 difficulty in this affair. As I am intimate with them, I've had long 
 conversations with them both about you. I told the mother the 
 project you formed for Mariane, after having seen her pass along 
 the street, and sitting at her window. 
 
 Har. What answer did she make ? 
 
 Fros. She was delighted with the proposal ; and when I told 
 her that you very much wished that her daughter should be pre- 
 sent at the signing of your daughter's marriage contract this 
 evening, she readily consented, and for this purpose entrusted her 
 '^to my care. 
 
 Har. I am obliged, Frosine, to give a supper to Monsieur 
 Anselme, and I should be glad if she would join the party. 
 
 ■ ■ Fros. You are right. After dinner she will pay your daughter 
 a visit; then she wishes to take a turn in the Fair, and can then 
 return to supper. 
 
 Har. Very well ; they can go together in my carriage, which I 
 will lend them. 
 
 Fros. That will suit her exacdy. 
 
 Har. But, Frosine, have you talked with the mother about the 
 ''marriage-portion she can give her daughter? Have you told her 
 that she must do something herself in the matter, that she must 
 make an effort and even make some sacrifice on such an occasion 
 as this ? For, after all, no one would marry a girl unless she 
 brought something with her. 
 
 ■ Fros. What ! Why she's a girl that will bring you in twelve 
 '•'thousand livres per annum. 
 
 Har. Twelve thousand livres per annum ? 
 
 Fros. Yes. First, she has been nursed and reared in a very 
 scanty way of living. She has been used to a diet of salad, milk, 
 cheese, and apples, and so there will be no need on her account 
 of an expensive style of cooking, no exquisite soups, nor constant 
 pearled-barley, nor delicacies such as another woman must have ; 
 and this is no trifling matter, but will be worth three thousand 
 
Scene V.] VA VARE. 309 
 
 livres a 3'ear, at least. Again, she does not care for anything 
 beyond simple decent plainness in apparel, and does not like 
 magnificent dresses, nor expensive jewels, nor grand furniture, 
 which young wives generally run after so eagerly, and this alone is 
 worth more than four thousand livres a year. Then she has a 
 great dislike to gambling, which is so common among ladies now- 
 adays. 1 know one in our neighbourhood who has lost twenty 
 thousand francs this year. But let us reckon only the quarter of 
 that, five thousand francs, then four thousand francs for jewels 
 and dress, that makes nine thousand francs, and a thousand 
 crowns that we reckon for difference in food — so there you see you 
 have your twelve thousand francs a year thoroughly accounted for. 
 
 Har. Well, that's not amiss : but this reckoning has nothing 
 tangible in it. 
 
 Fros. Pardon me; is it nothing tangible to bring you in 
 marriage great moderation, the inheritance of a great love of 
 simplicity of dress, and a great hatred of play ? 
 
 JHar. It is only jesting to make up her portion out of the 
 expenses she will not put me to. I cannot give a receipt for what 
 I have never received. I must handle something. 
 
 Fros. Good heavens ! You'll get enough. They have told 
 me of a certain country where they have property, of which 
 you will be the master. 
 
 liar. We must see that. But, Frosine, there is another 
 tiling which gives me uneasiness. The girl is young, as you 
 know, and young people generally only care for those of their 
 own age, and only desire their companionship, I am afraid 
 that a man of my time of life will not suit her taste, and this 
 may produce some domestic troubles, which I shall not care for. 
 
 Fros. Ah, how little do you know her! That is a special 
 characteristic in her that I wanted to point out to you. She 
 has a particular dislike to all young men, and only cares for old ones. 
 
 liar. She does ? 
 
 Fros. Yes, indeed. I wish you could have heard her talk on 
 this point. She cannot bear the sight of a young man ; but she is 
 never more delighted, she says, than when she can meet with a 
 fine old man with a venerable beard. The older they are, the 
 more she likes them, and I warn you not to try and make yourself 
 out younger than you are. She wishes for a husband who is sixty 
 at least ; and less than four months ago, when she was engaged to 
 be married, she broke off the match, because she found out that 
 her lover was only fifty-six years old, and did not use spectacles 
 in signing the marriage contract. 
 
3IO THE MISER. - [Act II. 
 
 Har. That was the only reason ? 
 
 Fros, Nothing else. She says that fifty-six years will not 
 satisfy her : and that above all she adores faces that wear 
 spectacles. 
 
 Har. You tell me something quite new to me. 
 
 Fros. Oh, she carries it farther than you would suppose. In 
 her own room she has some pictures and prints. But what would 
 you suppose them to be? None of your Adonises, Cephaluses, 
 Parises, and ApoUos. No. Handsome portraits of Saturn, of 
 King Priam, of old Nestor, and good Father Anchises on his son's 
 shoulders. 
 
 Har. That is admirable ! That is what I never could have 
 dreamt of, and I am very pleased to know that such is her taste. 
 Indeed, if I had been a woman I never should have cared for 
 young fellows. 
 
 Fros. I quite believe it. Nice sort of rubbish, indeed, to be in 
 love with ! Pretty boys with their bibs on ! Young fops who 
 want to be admired for their delicate complexion ! I should like 
 to know what relish there is in one of them. 
 
 Har. For my part I can't understand it, and I can't imagine 
 how it is that there are women who are so fond of them. 
 
 Fros. They must be rank fools. To think that youth is so 
 lovable ! Have people got common sense ? Are these young 
 swells really men ? And is it possible to care for such creatures as 
 these ? 
 
 Har. That's what I say every day. Look at them with their 
 mincing tones, their little moustache turned up , like a cat's 
 whiskers, their leg-of-mutton breeches, and their open waistcoats ! 
 
 Fros. They are well put together, aren't they, when compared 
 to any one like yourself! There's something like a man ! There's 
 something worth looking at ! That's the build and the dress to 
 inspire love ! 
 
 Har. What then, do you find me passable ? 
 
 Fros. Do I ? Why, you are enchanting, and you ought to 
 have your picture drawn. Turn this way a little, if you please : it 
 is impossible to be better. Let me see you walk. Here is a well- 
 proportioned frame, free and easy without the least infirmity ! 
 
 Har. I have no serious ones, thank heaven. There is only 
 my cough which seizes me now and then. 
 
 Fros. Oh, that is nothing at all. Your cough is really not 
 unbecoming, as you cough so gracefully. 
 
 Har. Now tell me a little. Has not Mariane seen me yet ? 
 Has not she remarked me as I passed ? 
 
Scene V.] ^ VA VA RE. 3 1 1 
 
 Fros. No. But we had a good deal of conversation about 
 your person ; and I did not fail to set forth your merits, and 
 to impress upon her how desirable it would be for her to have 
 such a husband as you. 
 
 Har. You did well, and I thank you for it. 
 
 Fros. But, sir, I have a small request to make to you. I have a 
 lawsuit, which I am in danger of losing for want of a little money — 
 {Harpagon looks grave) — and you could easily gain me this suit, 
 
 if you had any kind feehng towards me You cannot think 
 
 what pleasure she will have in seeing you. {He brightens up again.) 
 How you will please her ! What an admirable effect that old- 
 fashioned ruff of yours will have on her fancy ! But above all she 
 will be charmed with your breeches fastened on to your doublet 
 with corded tags. That will make her absolutely dote upon you. 
 A lover with tags will be a marvellous delight to her. 
 
 Har. In truth, you enchant me with your conversation. 
 
 Fros. Really, sir, this lawsuit is of the greatest importance to 
 me. [Harpagon looks grave again.) I shall be ruined if I lose it, 
 
 and some slight assistance from you would retrieve my affairs 
 
 I wish you could have seen how delighted she was when she heard 
 me talk about you. {Harpagon looks bright again.) Joy sparkled 
 in her eyes at the recital of your good qualities ; and I left her 
 most impatient to have this match fully concluded. 
 
 Ha?'. You have done me the greatest possible service, Frosine, 
 and I assure you that I am extremely obliged to you. 
 
 Fros. I beg of you, sir, to grant me the small assistance I ask 
 of you. {Harpagon looks serioiis again.) It will set me up again, 
 and I shall ever feel obliged to you. 
 
 Har. Good-bye. I must go and finish my letters. 
 
 Fros. I do assure you, sir, that you never could relieve me in 
 a greater necessity. 
 
 Har. I will give orders that my carriage shall be ready to take 
 you to the fair. 
 
 Fros. I really would not importune you, if I were not forced 
 to do so. 
 
 Har. And I will take care that you have supper early, so that 
 it may not disagree with you. 
 
 Fros. Do not refuse me the favour I ask you. You cannot 
 imagine, sir, the pleasure that 
 
 Har. I must be off. I am called. Good-bye till the 
 evening. 
 
 Fros. (alone). May fever take . you, you covetous cur ! The 
 niggard was proof against all my attacks. But I haven't done with 
 
312 THE MISER. [Act III. 
 
 the business yet : as I have the other side, from which in any case 
 I am sure of a reward. 
 
 ACT III. Scene I. 
 
 Harpagon, Cl^ante, Elise, Val^re, Dame Claude with a 
 droofn, MAtxRE Jacques, Brindavoine, La Mkrluciie. 
 
 Harpagon. Here, come here all of you, that I may give you 
 my orders for this evening, and arrange each one's work. Now, 
 Dame Claude, to begin with you. Good, you are already armed. 
 You must give everything a thorough cleaning; but be very 
 careful not to rub the furniture too hard, for fear of wearing it out. 
 Further, I give you during supper-time the care of the bottles ; and , 
 if one is missing or if anything is broken, I shall look to you for it, 
 and stop it out of your wages. 
 
 Mattre Jacques {aside). A very politic punishment. 
 
 Har. Now go. {^Exit Dame Claiide.^ You, Brindavoine, and 
 you, La Merluche, are to rinse the glasses and serve the wine — but 
 only when people are thirsty, and not like some impertinent 
 footmen, who tease people, and put it into their heads to drink 
 when they would not think of it. Wait till they have asked 
 more than once, and be sure to mix plenty of water with it. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. {aside). Yes, for unmixed wine gets into the head. 1 
 
 La Merluche. Shall we take off our smocks, sir ? 
 
 Har. Yes, when you see the guests coming ; and be wry 
 careful not to spoil your clothes. 
 
 Brindavoine. But, you know, sir, that one of the fore-flaps of 
 my doublet is covered with a great stain of lamp-oil. 
 
 La Mer. And I, sir, have my breeches all in holes behind, so 
 that I am quite ashamed of myself. 
 
 Har. Then you should turn that side carefully to the wall, and^^ 
 only show your front to the company. And you, when you are serving ' 
 at table, always hold your hat in this fashion. (Shows him how to 
 hold it so as to hide the oil stain.) And you, daughter, have an eye 
 on what is taken away, and see that there- is no waste. That is^' 
 very becoming to young women. Meantime, prepare to receive^ 
 my intended properly, as she is coming to pay you a visit, and 
 attend her to the fair. Do you hear what I say to you ? '" 
 
 Alise. Yes, father. 
 
 Har. And you, my fop of a son, whom I was good enough to 
 forgive for that recent affair, don't you go and take it into your 
 head to make sour faces at her. 
 
 Cleatite. I make sour faces, father ! What for ? 
 
Scene I.] VAVARE. 313 
 
 Har. Come, come, wc know the way of children whose fathers 
 marry again, and how they are accustomed to look on what is 
 called a step-mother. But if you wish me to lose all remembrance 
 of your late freak, I recommend you, above all things, to welcome 
 that young lady with a pleasant countenance, and, in short, to give 
 her the best reception that you can. 
 
 C/e. To tell you the truth, father, I cannot promise to be well 
 pleased that she should become my step-mother. I should lie if I 
 told you so ; but as to receiving her well and pleasantly, I can 
 promise to obey you faithfully in that respect. 
 
 Jfar. Take care you do, at any rate. 
 
 C/e. You shall see, sir, that you have not the least reason to 
 complain of that. 
 
 Har. You will do wisely. Yalere, I want your help in this 
 matter. — Here, Maitre Jacques, come here, I have kept you to 
 the last. 
 
 Mtre.Jac. Is it your coachman, sir, or your cook, that you 
 wish to speak to ? For I am. both. 
 
 Haj'. To both of them. , , ., 
 
 Mtre.Jac. But to which first ? 
 
 Har. To the cook. 
 
 Mtre.Jac. Wait then, if you please. {Takes off his coacJwmn's 
 great-coat and appears dressed as a cook.) 
 
 Har. AVhat the deuce is that ceremony for? 
 
 Mtre. Jac. You've only to speak. 
 
 Har. I've engaged, Maitre Jacques, to give a supper to-night. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Most wonderful ! 
 
 Har. Tell me, then, can you give us good cheer ? 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Yes, if you'll give me plenty of money. 
 
 Har. AVhat the deuce ! always "money." I think they have 
 nothing else to say but " Money, money, money! " Not a word 
 else in their mouth but " money." Always talking of money ! 
 Their argument always at hand, money ! 
 
 Valere {to Maitre Jacques). I never heard a more ridiculous 
 answer. What a wonder, to make good cheer with plenty of 
 money ! Why, it's the easiest thing in the world— any poor 
 creature could do that ; but to act like a clever man, you must 
 make good cheer with little money. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Good cheer with little money ? 
 
 Val. Yes. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. {to Valere). Indeed, Mr. Steward, you will oblige 
 me by letting me into the secret, and then take my place as cook. 
 You seem to aim at being factotum here. 
 
314 THE MISER, [Act III. 
 
 Har. Silence. What must we have ? 
 
 Mtre.^ Jac. There's Mr. Steward, sir, who will make you good 
 cheer with little money. 
 
 Har, Enough ; I will have you answer me. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. How many of you will there be at table ? 
 
 Har. We shall be eight or ten ; but you must reckon them as 
 eight. When there is enough for eight, there is always enougli 
 for ten. 
 
 Val. That's understood. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Well, then, we must have four soups and five 
 small dishes. 
 
 Har. Why, the devil ! that's enough to feed a whole town. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Roast meat 
 
 Har. {putting his hand on Jacques' month). You traitor, you 
 want to eat up all I'm worth ! 
 
 Mtre. /ac. Side dishes 
 
 Har. Again ? {Futti?ig his hand once niore on his mouth.) 
 
 Val. {to Jacques). Do you want to make them all burst, and 
 do you think your master has invited people to kill them by 
 stuffing them ? Go and read some of the rules of health, and 
 ask the doctors whether there is anything so hurtfulto men as 
 eating to excess. 
 
 Har. He is quite right. 
 
 Val. Learn, Maitre Jacques, you and the like of you, that a 
 table overloaded with food is a cut-throat ; that to show our- 
 selves tru^ friends to those whom we invite, frugality should reign 
 thrcvgh the whole repast, and that, according to the saying of 
 one oi tae ancients, "We must eat to live, not live to eat." 
 
 Bar. Ah, that was excellently said. Come here ; let me 
 embrace you for that saying. It is one of the finest sentences I 
 
 ever heard in my life. *' We must live to eat, and not eat to " 
 
 No, that's not it. What was it you said ? 
 
 Val. That " we must eat to live, and not live to eat." 
 
 Har. Yes. {To Jacques.) Do you hear that ? {To Valerc.) 
 What great man said that ? 
 
 Val. I don't remember his name just now. 
 
 Har. Recollect to write out those words for me. I will have 
 them engraved in gold on the chimney-piece of my dining-room. 
 
 Val. I will not fail. And as to your supper, leave that to me. 
 I will arrange everything as it ought to be. 
 
 Har. Do so, then. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. So much the better. I shall have less trouble. 
 
 Har. {to Valere). We only need such things as people can't 
 
Scene I.] VAVARE. 315 
 
 eat much of, and which satisfy them at once; such as a good 
 fat haricot, with a pie well garnished with chestnuts. 
 
 Val. Leave it to me. 
 
 Har. Now, Maitre Jacques, you must go and clean my 
 carriage. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Stop. You are now addressing the coachman. 
 {He puts on his coachma?i's great-coat.) You were saying 
 
 Har. That you must clean the carriage and get the horses 
 ready to go to the fair with 
 
 Mtre. /ac. Your horses, sir ? Why, they're not in a condition 
 to go anywhere. I will not say that they are lying on their litter — 
 that would be incorrect, seeing the poor beasts have none ; but 
 you make them keep such vigorous fasts, that they are only the 
 ideas, the phantoms, or shadows of horses. 
 
 ffar. They are very ill ! They do nothing. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. And because they do nothing, sir, must they eat 
 nothing.? It would be much better for them, poor beasts, to 
 tiave plenty to do and plenty to eat. It goes to my heart to see 
 them grown so thin, for indeed I have an affection for my 
 Worses, and when I see them suffer, it seems to be myself; not a 
 day passes but I take the food out of my own mouth to give to 
 [hem ; and it is a cruel nature, sir, that has no pity on one's 
 neighbour. 
 
 Har. It will be no great labour just to go to the fair. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. No, sir, I haven't the heart to drive them ; it would 
 50 against my conscience to give them a cut with the whip in the 
 condition in which they now are. How would you have them 
 drag the carriage when they can't drag themselves along ? 
 
 Val. Sir, I will get our neighbour, le Picard, to undertake to 
 drive them; besides, he will be needed to help to get the supper 
 •eady, 
 
 Mtre. Jac. With all my heart. I would much rather that 
 they should die under the hand of another than under mine. 
 
 Val. Maitre Jacques is very considerate. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Monsieur the Steward is quite indispensable, 
 
 Har. Peace. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Sir, I cannot endure flatterers, and I see that all 
 le does, his constant looking after the wine and the bread, the 
 vood, the salt, and the candles, are only done to curry favour 
 vith you, and make his court to you. This makes me mad ; and 
 \ am grieved to hear daily what people say of you — for indeed I 
 lave a great regard for you in spite of myself, and next to my 
 lorses you are the person I care for most. 
 
3i6 THE MISER. [Act III. 
 
 Har. Might I ask of you, Maitre Jacques, what people say 
 of me? 
 
 Mtre.Jac. Yes, sir, if I were sure it would not anger you. 
 
 Har. No, not in the least. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Excuse me, sir, but I know very well it would pul 
 you into a passion. 
 
 Har. Not at all; on the contrary, it will oblige me; and; 
 shall be glad to hear what the world says of me. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Well, sir, since you will have it, I tell you frankly" 
 that every one makes game of you ; that they hurl a thousand 
 jokes at us about you ; that they are never more delighted than 
 when they have caught you at a disadvantage, and make stories 
 without end of your miserly ways. One says that you have 
 almanacs printed on purpose, in which you double the number of 
 the Ember weeks and the vigils, so as to take advantage of the fasts 
 which you make your folks keep. Another declares that you 
 always have a quarrel ready to pick with your servants about new 
 year's time, or when they are going to leave you, so that you need 
 give them nothing. Then one tells a story that once on a time 
 you had a neighbour's cat prosecuted for having eaten the remains 
 of a leg of mutton. Another says that one night you were caught 
 by your coachman, my predecessor, stealing the horses' oats, and 
 that he gave you any number of blows with a cudgel, of which 
 you chose to say nothing. In short, if you wish me to speak 
 out, I must tell you that we can go nowhere without hearing 
 people show you up. You are the town-talk and the laughin;^- 
 stock of the world ; and one never hears you spoken of but ; 
 the miser, curmudgeon, niggard, and extortioner. 
 
 Har. {beating hiin). You're a fool, a rascal, a scoundrel, and 
 an insolent fellow ! i 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Very well ; did I not guess how it would be — only 
 you would not believe me? I told you plainly that I should 
 anger you by telling you the truth. 
 
 Har. Learn, then, how to speak. 
 
 Scene II. 
 MaItre Jacques, VALi:RE. 
 Vallre {laughing). So far as I can see, Maitre Jacques, you've 
 got a poor reward for your frankness. 
 
 Maitre Jacques. Mr. Upstart, who play the person of conse 
 quence, this is no business of yours ; laugh at your own thrashing j 
 when you get it, and don't come here to laugh at mine. j 
 
ScExNE III.] VAVARE. 317 
 
 Val. Ah ! Monsieur Maitre Jacques, don't put yourself in a 
 passion, I beg of you. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. {aside). He's coming down a peg. I'll put on a 
 bold face, and if he's fool enough to believe me, I'll give him a 
 bit of a dressing. {Aloud?) You know very well, Mr. Laugher, 
 that I do not laugh myself, and that if you provoke me I'll make 
 you laugh the other side of your mouth. {Maitre Jacques pushes 
 Valere to the far end of the stage, threatening him.) 
 
 Val. Gently. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. How gently ? Suppose I've a mind to ? 
 
 Val. Pray, sir! 
 
 Mtre. Jac. You're an impertinent fellow. 
 
 Val. Monsieur Maitre Jacques ! 
 
 Mtre. Jac. There's no such person as Monsieur Maitre 
 Jacques at all. If I take a stick to you, I'll give you a good 
 licking. 
 
 Val. What! a stick! {Valere pushes him back as far as he 
 had been pushed himself) 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Ah, I'm not speaking of that. 
 "^^ Val. Do you know, Mr. Coxcomb, that I'm Jt^e tttari ' to give 
 you a licking ? ^ n; i)--^^^ 
 
 Mtre. Jac. I don't doubt it. wfn f ,^ /^vt noy ■/ ^ 
 
 Val. A)id that, after all, you're notliing biic a snofe 6f a cook ? 
 
 Mtre. Jac. I know it very well. 
 
 Val. And that you don't know me yet ? 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Pardon me. 
 
 Val. Oh, you'll give me a good licking, will you ? 
 
 Mtre. Jac. I only spoke in jest. 
 
 Val. And I've no relish for your jests. {Giving him some 
 bloim with a stick.) Learn that you are a wretched jester. 
 
 \_Exit Valere. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. {alone). Plague on sincerity ! it's a poor kind of 
 trade. For the future I'll give it up, and no longer speak the 
 truth. I say nothing about my master, as he has some right to 
 heat me; but as for this Mr. Steward, I'll be revenged on him if 
 I can. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Frosine, Mariane, Maitre Jacques. 
 
 Frosine. Do you know, Maitre Jacques, if your master is 
 within ? 
 
 Maitre Jacques. Yes, indeed, I know it only too well. 
 Fros. Tell him, if you please, that we are here. 
 
3i8 THE MISER, [Act III. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Mariane, Frosine. 
 
 Mariane. Ah, Frosine, what a strange state I am in ; and if I 
 must say what I feel, I am terribly apprehensive about this 
 interview. 
 
 Frosine, Why so ? What is it that disquiets you ? 
 
 Mar. .Alas ! do you ask me ? Can't you imagine the alarm 
 of a person on the point of seeing the rack on which she is to be 
 fixed? 
 
 Fros. I see plainly that if you would die pleasantly, Harpagon 
 is not the rack that you would willingly embrace ; and I know by 
 your countenance that the young fellow you were speaking to me 
 about is still in your thoughts. 
 
 Mar. Yes, Frosine, it is a thing which I do not pretend 
 to deny; and the respectful visits which he paid at our house 
 have made, I confess, some impression on my mind. 
 
 Fros. But have you learnt who he is? 
 
 Mar. No, I don't know who he is, but I know that he has an 
 air which inspires love ; and that if I could make my own choice,' 
 I would take him sooner than another ; and that he contributes 
 not a little to raise in me a horrible dread of the husband you 
 would give me. 
 
 Fros. Ah, yes, these young fellows are agreeable enough and 
 play their part very well, but most of them are as poor as rats, and it 
 would be much better for you to take an old man who will make 
 you a good settlement. I grant you that the senses are not so 
 well satisfied in the case that I speak of, and that there are 
 certain disagreeables to be put up with in such a husband ; but it 
 will not last long ; and believe me, his death will soon put you in 
 a condition of taking some one more to your liking who will 
 make amends for all. 
 
 Mar. Still, Frosine, it is a strange affair when, in order to be 
 happ)', w^e must wish or wait for some one's death ; and death 
 will not always carry out the projects we make. 
 
 Fros. Surely you are joking ? You are only to marry him on 
 condition of his leaving you a widow very soon. This ought to 
 be one of the articles of the marriage contract. It would be 
 positively scandalous if he does not die within three months. But 
 here he comes in his own proper person. 
 
 Mar. Good heavens, Frosine, what a countenance I 
 
Scene VII.] VAVARE, 319 
 
 Scene V. 
 Harpagon, Frosine, Mariane. 
 
 Harpagoji. Do not be offended, fair one, if I come to you 
 with my spectacles on. I know that your charms strike the eye 
 sufficiently, are visible enough of themselves, and that there is no 
 need of glasses to discover them ; yet with glasses we observe the 
 stars, and I maintain and uphold that you are not only a star, 
 but the most beautiful in all the country of the stars. — Frosine, 
 she does not answer a word, nor does she show, as it seems to 
 me, the slightest pleasure in seeing me. 
 
 Pros. That is because as yet she is quite taken aback. And 
 besides, young girls are always shy in showing at first sight what 
 they have in their thoughts. 
 
 Har. You are right. {To Mariane^ See, pretty darling, here 
 is my daughter come to wait on you. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Elise, Harpagon, Mariane, Frosine. 
 
 Mariane. I am very remiss, madam e, in not having paid this 
 visit before. 
 
 Elise. You have done that, madame, which I ought to have 
 done, and it was my place to have been beforehand with you. 
 
 Harpagon. You see how tall she is : but ill weeds always 
 grow apace. 
 
 Mar. {aside to Frosine). What an odious fellow ! 
 
 Har. {to Eyosine). What does my pretty one say ? 
 
 Frosine. That she thinks you charming. 
 
 Har. You do me too much honour, you adorable darling !» 
 
 Mar. {aside). What an animal ! 
 
 Har. I am more than obliged to you for such sentiments. 
 
 Mar. {aside). I can hold out no longer. 
 
 Har. Here is my son, too, who is come to pay his respects to 
 you. 
 
 Mar. {aside to Frosine). Ah ! Frosine, what an unexpected 
 meeting ! This is the very person I spoke to you about. 
 
 Fros. {aside to Mariane). This is a wonderful adventure ! 
 
 Har. I see you are surprised to see that I have such big 
 children ; but I shall soon get rid of them both. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Cli^ante, Harpagon, Elise, Mariane, Frosine. 
 Cleante {to Mariane). To tell you the truth, madame, this is 
 
320 THE MISER. [Act 1 1 L 
 
 an adventure which I did not expect ; and my father surprised me 
 not a little when he told me of his design. 
 
 Mariane {to Cleante). I can say the same. It is an unforeseen 
 meeting, which has surprised me as much as you ; and I was not 
 prepared for such an adventure. 
 
 Cle. It is true, madame, that my father could not have made a 
 better choice, and that the honour of seeing you is a real pleasure 
 to me ; but for all that I will not assure you that I rejoice at the 
 idea of your becoming my step-mother. The compliment, I own, 
 is too much for me, and the title is one, if you please, which I do 
 not wish for you. This conversation may seem uncourteous in 
 the eyes of some people, but I am sure you are a person who will 
 take it as you should do. This is a marriage, madame, which you 
 will easily understand I much dislike ; and you cannot be ignorant, 
 knowing what I am, how much it clashes with my interest ; and 
 in short, I have no doubt you are willing that I should tell you, 
 with my father's permission, that if it depended upon me, this 
 match should not take place. 
 
 Ifar. What an impertinent kind of compliment ! What a nice 
 confession to make ! 
 
 Mar. And for myself, in reply, I can tell you that things are 
 on the same footing; and that if you would dislike to see me your 
 step-mother, I should no less dislike to see you my step-son. 
 Don't think, I beg of you, that the giving you this uneasiness is 
 any of my seeking. I should be very sorry to occasion you any 
 vexation, and if I were not compelled by an absolute power, I 
 would not, I give you my word, consent to a match which annoys 
 you, 
 
 Har. She is quite right. Answer a fool according to his folly. 
 I ask your pardon, my beauty, for the impertinence of my son. 
 He is a young puppy who does not yet know the consequences 
 of his words. 
 
 Mar. I can assure you that what he has said to me has by no 
 means offended me. On the contrary, he has given me i)leasure 
 by declaring his real sentiments. I like a confession of this sort 
 from him, and if he had spoken in any other manner I should 
 have esteemed him much less. 
 
 Har. It is very good of you to be willing to excuse his faults 
 in this way. Time will make him wiser, and you will see that he 
 will change his ideas. 
 
 Cie. No, father, I am not capable of changing them, and I 
 most earnestly desire the lady tc» believe it. 
 
 Har. AVhat outrageous language ! Why, he persists all the more ! 
 
Scene VII.] VAVARE. 321 
 
 Cie. Would you have me belie my heart ? 
 
 Har. What! again? I think you had better change the 
 conversation. 
 
 Cle. Well, since you wish me to speak in another style, allow 
 me, madame, to put myself into my father's place, and protest 
 that I have never seen anything in the world so charming as 
 yourself; that I can conceive no happiness equal to that of 
 pleasing you ; and that the title of your husband is a glory and a 
 felicity which I should prefer to the destiny of the greatest princes 
 upon earth. Yes, madame, the happiness of possessing you is, in 
 my eyes, the fairest of all fortunes ; it is what I would fix all my 
 ambition upon. There is nothing I should not be capable of 
 doing for so valuable a conquest, and the most powerful ob- 
 stacles 
 
 liar. Gently, my son, if you please. 
 
 Cle. I am paying the lady a compliment on your behalf. 
 
 ffiir. Thank you. I have a tongue with which I can express 
 myself quite plainly, without the help of an interpreter like you. 
 — Here, bring some chairs. 
 
 Fros. No, it will be better for us to go at once to the fair, so 
 that we can return all the sooner, and have all the rest of the time 
 to talk to you. 
 
 Har. {to Br'uidavoine). Put tlie horses to the carriage, then. 
 I beg you will excuse me, fair one, if I did not think of offering 
 you some light refreshment before you started. 
 
 Cle. But I have seen to that, father, and have told them to 
 bring some dishes of China oranges, citrons, and sweetmeats, 
 which I sent for on your account. 
 
 Har. {aside to Valere). Valere ! 
 
 Val. {aside to Harpagoii). He's lost his senses. 
 
 Cle. Do you think, father, that that is not enough. The lady 
 will be kind enough to excuse it. 
 
 Mar, That was not by any means necessary. 
 
 Cle. Madame, did you ever see a finer brilliant than the one 
 which my father is wearing ? 
 
 Mar. Indeed, it sparkles beautifully. 
 
 Cle. {taking it off his father's finger and giving it to Mariane). 
 You should look at it a little closer. 
 
 Mar. No doubt it is a very fine one, and full of lustre. 
 
 Cle. {steps before Mariane, who tv -Id return it). No, madame, 
 it could not be in more beautiful hands. It is a present my 
 lather makes you. 
 
 Har. I? 
 
 22 
 
322 THE MISER, [Act III. 
 
 CIS. Is it not true, father, that you wish the lady to keep it for 
 your sake ? 
 
 Har. {aside to his son). What ! 
 
 C/S. {to Marimie). A pretty question, indeed ! — He is making 
 signs for you to accept it. 
 
 Mar. I really cannot. 
 
 CIS. You must be joking. He would not think of taking it 
 back. 
 
 Har, {aside). I am going mad ! 
 
 Mar. It would be 
 
 CIL {always hindering Mariane from returning the ringy^ 'PfOj 
 I tell you, it would affront him. 
 
 Mar. Pray 
 
 Cle. By no means. 
 
 Har. {aside). Plague take 
 
 Cle. You see he is perfectly shocked at your refusal. 
 
 Har. {aside to his so?i). Oh ! you traitor. 
 
 Cle. You see he's quite out of patience. 
 
 Har. {aside to his son^ th?'eatening him). What a villain ybii 
 
 are! \ ,j/'; v". ' /'j : ',,iV. ■ . T " 
 
 Cle. It is not my fault, father i 1 do'HlI can^fe iridtlce her to 
 keep it; but she is resolute. '.'^^f^"^ ' 
 
 Har. {aside to his son, in a ragif"''^(i\x scoundrel ! 
 
 Cle. You are the cause, madame, of my father quarrelling 
 with me. 
 
 Har. {aside to his son^ with the same look). You rascal !, ' ' 
 
 Cle. You'll make him have a fit. For goodness' sake, madams, 
 do not stand out any longer ! 
 
 Ero. Good gracious ! What a fuss about nothing. Keep the 
 ring, since the gentleman wishes it. 
 
 Mar. As I do not wish to vex you, I will keep it for the 
 present, and shall take another opportunity to return it. 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 Harpagon, Mariane, Frosine, Cleante, Brindavoine, 
 
 Elise. 
 Brindavoine. Sir, here's a man who wants to speak with you. 
 Harpagon. Tell him I ^m busy, and bid him come again 
 another time. 
 
 Brin. He says he has some money for you. 
 
 Har. I beg your pardon. I shall be back directly. 
 
 -f<*fi 
 
 rrr 
 
ScEiXKlX.] nAVARE, 323 
 
 Scene IX. 
 
 Harpagon, Mariane, Cleante, Elise, Frosine, 
 La Merluche. 
 
 La Merluche {comes runnings and throws Harpagon down). 
 Sir- 
 
 Har. Oh ! I'm killed ! 
 
 Cle. What's the matter, father? Have you hurt yourself? 
 
 Har. The rascal has certainly been bribed by my debtors to 
 break my neck. 
 
 Val. There's no harm done. 
 
 La Mer. Sir, I beg your pardon. I thought I was doing 
 right to come in haste. 
 
 Har. What haye you come here for, you wretch ? 
 
 La Mer. To tell you that both your horses are without their 
 shoes. 
 
 Har. Take them to the blacksmith, then, at once. 
 
 Cle. While we are waiting till they are shod, I will do the 
 honours of the house, father, in your place, and show the lady the 
 way into the garden, where I will have the collation taken. 
 
 Har. Valere, keep an eye upon all this, and take care to save 
 as much as you can, that we may send it back again to the trades- 
 people. 
 
 Val. Don't be afraid ; I'll see to it. 
 
 Har. {aside). Impertinent son ! Have you a mind to ruin 
 me? 
 
 ACT IV. ScexNE I. 
 Cleante, Mariane, Elise, Frosine. 
 
 Cleante. Let us come this way; we shall be much better here. 
 There is not a single suspicious person near us, and we can speak 
 freely. 
 
 Elise. Yes, madame, my brother has disclosed to me his love 
 for you. I know the troubles and vexations caused by such cross- 
 purposes ; and I can assure you that I interest myself in your 
 cause with the greatest tenderness. 
 
 Mariane, It is a sweet consolation to gain the interest of any 
 one like yourself; and I entreat you, madame, ever to cherish 
 this generous friendship for me, which can do so much towards 
 alleviating the severities of fortune. 
 
 Frosine. In truth you are both of you unfortunate creatures, 
 ot to have let me into your affairs befofe all this. I should then, 
 
324 " THE MISER. [Act IV. 
 
 without doubt, have warded off this perplexing business, and 
 should not have carried matters so far as they have gone. 
 
 Cle, What would you have me do ? It is my ill-fortune that 
 has brought this about. Tell me, my fair Mariane, what have 
 you resolved upon ? 
 
 Mar. Alas ! Am I in a position to resolve upon anything ? 
 And, dependent as I am, can I form anything but wishes ? 
 
 Cle. What ! no support for me in your heart but bare wishes ? 
 No helpful pity ? No relieving goodness ? No active affection ? 
 
 Mar. What can I say to you? Put yourself in my place, 
 and think what I can do. Advise and order for me, I confide it 
 all to you ; and I am sure you are too sensible to require any- 
 thing of me which honour and propriety will not admit. 
 
 Cle. To what do you reduce me, when you would restrict me 
 to what the vexatious rules of a vigorous honour and scrupulous 
 propriety would allow ? 
 
 Mar. But what would you have me do? Though I could 
 overcome a good deal of the punctiliousness which our sex is 
 forced to observe, yet I have a regard for my mother. She has 
 always brought me up with the greatest tenderness, and I cannot 
 bring myself to do anything that would cause her uneasiness. 
 Act, and settle your business with her. Employ all your powers 
 to gain her over. I give you full leave to say and do what you 
 will ; and if it only rests on my declaring myself in your favour, 
 I readily consent to making an avowal to her of what I feel for 
 you. 
 
 Cle. Frosine, good Frosine, cannot you help us ? 
 
 Fros. In truth, you need not ask it. You know that my 
 natural disposition is a kindly one. Heaven has not given me 
 a heart of stone. I have too much feeling not to render small 
 services to those whom I see loving each other earnestly and 
 honourably. Now what can we do in this case ? 
 
 Cle. Think a little, I beg of you. 
 
 Mar. Throw some light on the matter. 
 
 EL Find out some plan of undoing what you have done. 
 
 Fros. It is difficult enough. {To Mariane) As to your 
 mother, she is not unreasonable, and one might possibly gain her 
 over, and make her resolve to transfer to the son the gift she 
 designs for the father. But the mischief that I find is that your 
 father is your father. 
 
 Cle. That's certain. 
 
 Fros. I mean that he'll bear malice, if he learns that he isi 
 refused ; and he won't be in a humour to give his consent tc 
 
Scene II.] L'AVARE. ' 325 
 
 your marriage. By rights the refusal should come from himself, 
 and we should endeavour to put him out of conceit with your 
 person. 
 
 Cie. You're right. 
 
 Fros. Yes, I'm right. I know that very well. That's what 
 ought to be done; but the thing is to find the means. Stay, 
 suppose we could find a woman rather elderly, with some of my 
 talent, who could act a part well enough to personate a lady of 
 rank, with the help of a retinue got together in haste, and some 
 fanciful name of a marchioness or viscountess, say from Lower 
 Brittany: I should be clever enough to make your father believe 
 that she was very rich, having, besides houses, a hundred thousand 
 crowns ready money ; that she was deeply in love with him, and 
 wished to be married to him, so much so as to make over all 
 she had to him by marriage contract ; and I don't doubt but he 
 would lend an ear to the proposal. In short, I am well aware, 
 though he loves you much, he loves his money a little more ; and 
 when, dazzled by this allurement, he had once consented to what 
 concerns you, it would not matter much afterwards if he were 
 disabused of the idea when he came to look closely into the 
 wealth of our marchioness. 
 
 C/e. All this is very well conceived. 
 
 Fros. Leave me to carry it out. By the way, I have just 
 thought of a friend of mine, the very one to do our business. 
 
 Cle. Depend on my gratitude, Frosine, if you succeed in this 
 affair; but, my charming Mariane, let us begin, I beg of you, 
 by gaining over your mother ; and a great deal has to be done 
 before we can break off this marriage. I beg of you to employ 
 your utmost efforts to bring this about. Make use of all the 
 power which her fondness for you gives you. Display without 
 reserve all those graces of eloquence, those all-powerful charms, 
 which heaven has placed in your eyes and on your tongue ; 
 and forget not, if you please, any of those tender expressions, 
 those soft entreaties, and those moving caresses to which I am 
 persuaded one can refuse nothing. 
 
 Mar. I will do all I can in it, and overlook nothing. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Harpagon, Cl1\nte, Mariane, I^lise, Irosine. 
 
 Harpagon. Oh, ho ! my son kisses the hand of his intended 
 step-mother, and his future step mother does not dechne it. Can 
 there be anything in this? 
 
326 THE MISER. [Act IV. 
 
 Elise, Here comes my father. 
 
 Har. The carriage is quite ready. You may set out when you 
 please. 
 
 Cleante. Since you are not going, father, I will escort them 
 myself. 
 
 Har. Noj stay. They can go very well by themselves, and I 
 want you. 
 
 Scene III. 
 [Harpagon, Cl1':ante. 
 
 Harpagon. Well, setting aside the question of a step-mother, 
 what do you think of this person ? 
 
 Cleante. What do I think of her? 
 
 Har. Yes, of her air, her make, her beauty, her wit ? 
 
 Cl'e. So, so. 
 
 Har. But speak out. 
 
 Cle. To be frank with you, I did not find her what I once 
 thought her. Her air is that of a regular coquette, her make 
 quite awkward, her beauty very indifferent, and her mind ex- 
 tremely commonplace. Don't believe that I say this, father, to 
 disgust you with her ; for, taking one step-mother with another, 
 I should like her as well as any one. 
 
 Har. And yet just now you told her 
 
 Cle. I did say some pleasant words to her in your name, but 
 that was to gratify you. 
 
 Har, So, then, you have not any liking for her ? 
 
 Cle. I ? Oh, no, not at all. 
 
 Har, I am sorry for that — for this quite upsets a thought 
 which came into my head. When I saw her I began to reflect 
 on my age, and I thought to myself that people would find fault 
 with me, seeing me marry a young girl. This consideration 
 made me give up the design, but as I have demanded her in 
 marriage, and am engaged to her by promise, I would have given 
 her to you, had you not taken such an aversion to her, 
 
 CVe. Given her to me ? 
 
 Har, Yes, to you. 
 
 Cle. In marriage ? 
 
 Har, Yes, in marriage. 
 
 Cle. Look you, it is true she is not much to my taste, but to 
 oblige you, father, I'll make up my mind to marry her, if you will. 
 
 Har. If I will? I am more reasonable than you think for. 
 I have no wish to force your inclination. 
 
 '.^dSl^.. 
 
Scene III.] VAVARE. 327 
 
 Cie. Excuse me : I will make this effort for your sake. 
 
 Har. No, no ; marriage can never be happy where there is 
 no inclination. , ' 
 
 CIL It is a thing, father, which may come afterwards; and 
 tliey say that love is often the result of marriage. 
 
 JIar. No, the matter ought not to be risked on the man's 
 side, and there are vexatious consequences to which I will take 
 care not to expose you. Had you the least inclination for her, 
 all in good time I would have arranged for you to marry her. 
 But as this is not the case, I shall carry out my first design and 
 marry her myself. 
 
 Cle. Well, father, since matters are so, I will open my heart 
 to you, and let you into this secret of ours. The truth is I've 
 been in love with her ever since I saw her out walking one day. 
 My design was to have asked her of you for a wife, and nothing 
 has kept me back but the declaration of your sentiments and the 
 fear of displeasing you. 
 
 Har. Have you visited her ? 
 
 Cle. Yes, father. 
 
 Har. Very often ? 
 
 Cle. Well, yes, for the time. 
 
 Har. Did they receive you well ? -, v , , 
 
 Cle. Very well ; but without knowing who 1 was.: and that 
 was the occasion of Mariane's surprise just now. 
 
 Har. Did you declare your affection, and the design that you 
 had of marrying her ? 
 
 Cle. Certainly ; and I had even made some overtures to her 
 mother. 
 
 Har. Did she listen to your proposals for her daughter ? 
 
 Cle. Yes, very civilly. 
 
 Har. And did the daughter return your love ? 
 
 Cle. If I may trust to appearances, I persuade myself that she 
 has a liking for me. 
 
 Har. I am very glad to have learnt this secret, as it is 
 exactly what I wanted to know. Now, my son, shall I tell you 
 what you have to do ? You must think, if you please, of giving 
 up your love ; of ceasing all pursuit of a person whom I intend 
 for myself, and of marrying before long the person whom I have 
 chosen for you. 
 
 Cle. So, father, this is the way you intend to play me off ! 
 Well, then, since matters have come to this point, I tell you that 
 I will not give up the love I have for Mariane ; and that there is 
 no extremity to which I will not go in order to dispute your 
 
328 THE MISER. [Act IV. 
 
 conquest ; and that if you have the consent of her mother on 
 your side, I have perhaps other forces which will fight on mine. 
 
 Har. What, you rascal, have you the audacity to poach on my 
 preserves ? 
 
 CIL It is you who trespass on mine ; I have the prior title. 
 
 Har, Am I not your father ? and do not you owe me respect ? 
 
 Cle. These are not points on which children should defer to 
 their parents, and love is no respecter of persons. 
 
 Har. I'll make you respect me by some good blows of a stick. 
 
 Cle. All your threatenings are of no account. 
 
 Har. Will you give up Mariane ? 
 
 Cle. Not on any account whatever. 
 
 Har. Here, bring me a stick direcdy. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 MaItre Jacques, Harpagon, Cl^ante. 
 
 Maitre Jacques. Hold, hold, gentlemen I .What is all this ? 
 What can you be thinking of ? 
 
 Cleante. I laugh at all this. 
 
 Mtre.Jac. [to Cleaiite). Ah, sir, gently. 
 
 HarpagOH. The idea of talking to me in that impudent fashion. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. (to Harpagon). Oh, sir, for heaven's sake ! 
 
 Cle. I sha'n't give way an inch. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. {to Cleante). What ! do you speak so to your father? 
 
 Har. Let me do as I choose. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. {to Harpagon). ^Vhat ! to your own son ? Pray 
 leave off, for my sake. 
 
 Har. I will make you judge, Maitre Jacques, in this matter, 
 to show you how much I am in the right. 
 
 Mtre.Jac. Agreed. {2"o Cleante.) Go a little further off. 
 
 Har. I'm in love with a girl whom I intend to marry ; and 
 this rascal has the insolence to love her too, and to persist in 
 spite of my orders. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Ah ! He's in the wrong. 
 
 Har. Is it not a frightful thing for a son to enter into com- 
 petition with his father ; and ought he not in duty to refrain 
 from interfering with my inclinations ? 
 
 Mtre. Jac. You're in the right. Let me talk to him, and do 
 you stay here. {Goes to Cleante at the end of the stage.) 
 
 Cle. Well, yes ; since he chooses you for judge, I don't 
 refuse it ; it's all the same to me who it is, and I am willing to 
 refer myself to you, Maitre Jacques, concerning our difference. 
 
Scene IV.] VAVARE. - 329 
 
 Afire. Jac. You do me a great honour. 
 
 Cle. I am in love with a young lady who receives my addresses, 
 and graciously accepts the offer of my heart ; and my father takes 
 it into his head to interfere with our love by the demand which 
 he has m.ade. 
 
 Mire. Jac. He is certainly in the wrong. 
 
 Cle. Is he not ashamed at his age to think of marrying? Is 
 it suitable for him to become amorous again ? Ought he not to 
 leave that to the young fellows ? 
 
 MU-e. Jac. You're in the right. He is jesting. Let me say two 
 words to him. {He reUirns to Harpagon.) Well, your son is not 
 so unreasonable as you say, but is willing to listen to reason. He 
 says he knows the respect he owes you : that he was only hurried 
 away in the first heat of passion ; that he will by no means refuse 
 to submit to anything you please, provided you would only treat 
 him better than you do, and give him in marriage to some one 
 with whom he has reason to be satisfied. 
 
 Har. Oh, tell him, Maitre Jacques, that on that consideration 
 he may expect anything from me, and that, Mariane excepted, I 
 give him the liberty of choosing whom he likes. 
 
 Mire. Jac. Let me alone for that. {Goesto Cleante.) Well, your 
 father is not so unreasonable as you would make him out to be. 
 He declared to me that it was your fierceness which put him into 
 such a passion, and that your manner put him upon having her ; 
 and that he will be very ready to grant all you want, provided you 
 go about it with gentleness, and pay him the deference, respect, 
 and submission which a son owes to his father. 
 
 Cle. Ah ! Maitre Jacques, you may assure him that if he will 
 only grant me Mariane, he will always find me the most submissive 
 of men ; and that I shall never do anything but according to his 
 pleasure. 
 
 Mire. Jac. {going back lo the father). It's done. He consents 
 to what you say. 
 
 Har. That's the happiest thing in the world. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. {to the son). It is all settled ; he is satisfied with 
 your promises. 
 
 Cle. Heaven be praised ! 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Gentlemen, you have only to talk the matter over 
 together ; you are now of the same mind ; and yet just now you 
 were going to quarrel for want of a mutual understanding. 
 
 Cle. My good Maitre Jacques, I shall be indebted to you for 
 the whole of my life. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Pray don't mention it, sir. 
 
330 THE MISER. [Aci i\ . 
 
 Har. ,You have done me a service, Maitre Jacques, and that 
 deserves a reward. {Harpagan feels in his pocket, Maitre Jacques 
 holds out his hand, but Harpagon o?ily takes out his ha?rdke?rhief, ) 
 Go ; I can assure you I shall not forget it. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Sir, I kiss your hand. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Cl^ante, Harpagon. 
 
 Clkante. I ask your pardon, father, for the anger I displayed. 
 
 Harpagon. Oh, that is nothing. 
 
 Cle. I assure you I regret it extremely. 
 
 Har, And I am greatly rejoiced to find you so reasonable. 
 
 Cle. How good of you to forget my fault so quickly. 
 
 Har. One soon forgets the faults of children when they retui ii 
 to their duty. 
 
 Cle. So you retain no resentment for all my outbreaks ? 
 
 Har. Why, you leave me no choice by the submission and 
 respect you show me. 
 
 Cle. I promise you, father, that so long as I live I shall retain 
 in my heart the remembrance of your goodness. 
 
 Har. And I promise you, that there, is .i^q^hjngypu may not 
 obtain from me. ., ., ^ p, . ,,.,,^ ^,k ,7,, j- 
 
 Cle, Ah! father, I ask nothing more of you; it is giving me 
 enough to give me Mariane. 
 
 Har. What ! 
 
 Cle. I say, father, that I am more than satisfied with you, as I 
 find everything included in the favour of your giving me Mariane. 
 
 Har. Who talks of giving you Mariane? : .i.i;iA 
 
 Cle. Why, you, father. 
 
 Har. I? 
 
 Cle. Certainly. 
 
 Har. What? Why, you promised to give her up! 
 
 Clk. I renounce her ? 
 
 Har, Yes. 
 
 Cle. Not at all. 
 
 Har. Haven't you given up your pretensions to her ? 
 
 Cle. On the contrary, I am more determined than ever. 
 
 Har, What, you rascal, again ! 
 
 Cle. Nothing can alter me. 
 
 Ha7\ Only let me get at you, you villain ! 
 
 Cle. Do what you please. 
 
 Har. I forbid you to see me again. 
 
^ceneVII.] " rAVARE. 
 
 Cle. 
 
 The sooner the better. 
 
 Bar. 
 
 I give you up. 
 
 CIL 
 
 Do so. 
 
 Bar. 
 
 I renounce you as my son. 
 
 Cle. 
 
 Be it so. 
 
 Har. 
 
 I disinherit you. 
 
 CU\ 
 
 As you please. 
 
 Har. 
 
 I give you my curse. 
 
 CU: 
 
 I have nothing to do with your gifts 
 
 ZZ^ 
 
 Scene VI. 
 La Fleche, Cl^ante. 
 
 La Fllche {coming otit of the garden with a cash-box). Ah ! sir, 
 I have just found you at the right moment. Follow me, quick ! 
 
 Cleante. What's the matter ? 
 
 La Fl. Follow me, I tell you \ we're all right. 
 
 CIL How? 
 
 La Fl. Here's your affair. 
 
 Cle. What ? 
 
 La Fl. I've had my eye on it all the day. 
 
 Cle. What is it ? 
 
 La Fl. Your father's treasure, which I've collared. 
 
 Cle. How did you do it ? 
 
 L^a Fl. You shall know all. But let us be off. I hear him 
 calling out. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 Harpagon-^<?;« the garden^ crying " Thieves t* without his hat. 
 
 Harpag07t. Thieves, thieves ! murder ! assassination ! justice ! 
 Oh, just heaven ! I am ruined, I am murdered ; they have cut 
 my throat, they have stolen my money ! Who can it be ? What's 
 become of him? Where is he? Where is he hiding himself? 
 What shall I do to find him ? Which way shall I run ? — which 
 way shall I not run? Isn't he here? — isn't he there? Who's 
 there? Stand ! Give me back my money! Rascal — (Catches 
 hwiself by the arm.) Ah, 'tis myself. My mind is disturbed ; 
 and I don't know where I am, who I am, or what I do. Alas ! 
 My poor money, my poor money, my dear friend ! they've bereaved 
 me of you ; and since you are carried off, I've lost my support, 
 my consolation, my joy. All is at an end with me, and I have 
 no more to do in the world. Without my money it is impossible 
 
332 THE MISER, • [Act V. 
 
 to live. It is all over with me, I can do no more. I am dead, 
 and buried. Is there no one who will bring me to life again, by 
 restoring my dear money, or informing me who has taken it ? Eh ? 
 What do you say? It is no one. Whoever it may be that has 
 given the blow, they must have carefully chosen their time, just 
 when I was talking with my rascal of a son. I'll go out and 
 demand justice, and order all my family to be put to the torture — 
 my maids, my footmen, my son, my daughter, and myself too. 
 What a crowd of people have come together ! I can cast my eyes 
 on no one who does not seem suspicious ; every one seems to be 
 my thief. Ah ! What are they talking about ? Of the man that 
 robbed me ? What is that noise over there ? Is my thief over 
 there ? For heaven's sake, if you have any news of my thief I beg 
 you to tell me ! Is not he hid there among you? They all look 
 at me and begin to laugh. You see, no doubt they are concerned 
 in the robbery. Here, quick ! magistrates, police officers, pro- 
 vosts, judges, racks, gibbets, and executioners ! I'll have every- 
 body hanged; and if I don't find my money I'll hang myself 
 afterwards 1 
 
 ACT V. Scene I. 
 Harpagon, Magistrate and his Clerk. 
 
 Magistrate. Let me alone. Thank heaven, I know my busi- 
 ness. This is not my first day at thief-taking ; and I wish I had 
 as many sacks of gold crowns as I have hanged persons. 
 
 Harpagon. All magistrates have an interest in taking this affair 
 in hand ; and if they do not find out my money for me, I'll have 
 justice on justice. 
 
 Mag. And so on. We will make every inquiry possible. You 
 say that in this cash-box there was 
 
 Har. Ten thousand crowns, good money. 
 
 Mag. Ten thousand crowns ! 
 
 Har. {weeping). Yes, ten thousand crowns. 
 
 Mag. It is a serious robbery. 
 
 Har. There is no punishment great enough for the enormity 
 of the crime ; and if it remain unpunished, the most sacred 
 things are no longer safe. 
 
 Mag. In what coin was it ? 
 
 Har. In good louis-d'ors, and pistoles of full weight. 
 
 Mag. Whom do you suspect of this robbery ? 
 
 Har. Everybody. I would have you take into custody the 
 whole city and suburbs. 
 
y Scene II.] VAVARE. 333 
 
 Mag. If you will believe me, you must not frighten people too 
 <i much ; but endeavour to find some proof, so as to proceed after- 
 ji wards with greater severity to recover the money they have taken 
 l\ from you. 
 
 i Scene II. 
 
 ji Maitre Jacques, Harpagon, the Magistrate^ his Clerk. 
 
 Maitre Jacques {at the back of the stage^ turning back to the door 
 he entered by). I shall be back presently. Let his throat be cut 
 immediately. Let them singe his feet, put him into boiling water, 
 and hang him up to the ceiling. 
 
 Harpagon. Who ? He who robbed me ? 
 
 Mtre. Jac. I am speaking about a sucking-pig, which your 
 steward has just sent me, and I want to have it dressed according 
 to my fancy. 
 
 Har. I'hat's not the question. {Turns to the Magistrate.) 
 But here is a gentleman you must talk to on another matter. 
 
 Mag. Don't put yourself out. I am not a man to get you into 
 trouble, and everything shall be carried out quietly. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Is this gentleman going to sup with you? 
 
 Mag. My good friend, you must hide nothing from your 
 master. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Indeed, sir, I will show him all I can do ; and I 
 will treat you in the best manner possible. 
 
 Har. That's not the business. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. If I don't make you as good cheer as I would, it 
 is the fault of Mr. Steward, who has chpped my wings with the 
 scissors of his economy. 
 
 Har. Rascal, we have something else to think about than supper. 
 Tell me some news of the money they have stolen from me. 
 
 Mtre, Jac. What, have they stolen your money ? 
 
 Har. Yes, you villain, and I'll have you hanged, if you don't 
 give it back to me. 
 
 Mag. {to Harpagon). Pray, now, don't treat him ill. I see by 
 his looks that he's an honest fellow, and that without being sent to 
 jail he will find out all you want to know. Yes, my friend, if you 
 will confess the matter, no harm shall come to you, and you shall 
 be suitably rewarded by your master. His money has been stolen 
 from him to-day, and you must certainly know something of the 
 affair. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. {aside). Here's the very thing I wanted, to revenge 
 myself on our steward. Since he came into the house, he*s been 
 
334 THE MISER. [Act V. 
 
 the favourite : no advice is listened to but his, and those blows lie 
 gave me still stick in my gizzard. 
 
 Har. What are you thinking about ? 
 
 Mag. Let him aJone. He's going to satisfy you, and I told 
 you rightly he's an honest fellow. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Sir, if you wish me to speak of things as they are, I 
 believe that your dear Mr. Steward has done the job. 
 
 Har. What, Valere? 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Yes. 
 
 Har. He who appears to me, so trustworthy ? 
 
 Mtre. Jac. The very same. I believe it is he who has robbed 
 you. 
 
 Har. Why do you think so ? 
 
 Mire. Jac. Why? Har. Yes. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. I believe it — because I believe it. 
 
 Mag. But you must state what proofs you have. 
 
 Har. Have you seen any one hanging round the place where I 
 had put my money ? 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Yes, certainly. Where was your money ? 
 
 Har. In the garden. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Exactly; I saw him hanging about the garden. 
 And what was the money in ? 
 
 Har. In a casket. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. The very thing. I saw him with a casket. 
 
 Har. And how was this casket made ? I shall easily see if it 
 was mine. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. How was it made ? Har. Yes. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. It was made — it was made like a casket. 
 
 Mag. So it may be supposed. But describe it a little, that we 
 may be able to judge. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. It is a large casket. 
 
 Har. The one stolen from me is a small one. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Why, yes, it is small if you take it in that way, but 
 I call it large for what it contains. 
 
 Mag. And what colour is it ? 
 
 Mtre. Jac. What colour? Mag. Yes. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. It is of a colour — ^yes, of a certain colour — can't 
 you help me to say ? 
 
 Har. Eh ? 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Isn't it red? Har. No, gray. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Why yes, gray-red, that's what I would have said. 
 
 , Har.^ There can be no doubt. It is that certainly. Take his 
 deposition, sir, take it down. Good heavens ! Whom can one 
 
Scene 111.] " VAVARE. 3J5 
 
 trust ? One must never swear by anything after this, and Fm 
 almost inclined to believe that I might be the man to rob myself. 
 Mtre.Jac. {to Harpagon). Here he is come back, sir. But 
 don't go and tell him that it is I who have discovered this. 
 
 Scene III. 
 VALi:RE, Harpagon, Magistrate^ Clerk, MaItre Jacques. 
 
 Harpag07i. Here, come and confess the blackest action, the 
 most horrible attempt that ever was. 
 
 Valere. What do you mean, sir ? 
 
 Jlar. What, traitor, do not you blush at your own crime ? 
 
 Val. What crime are you speaking of? 
 
 Har. What crime am I speaking of, you scoundrel — as if you 
 did not know what I mean ! It is in vain for you to pretend to 
 disguise it. The whole affair is discovered, and I have just now 
 been told of it all. How could you abuse my kindness, and 
 introduce yourself into my house on purpose to betray me, and 
 play me a trick of this sort ? 
 
 Val. Since all has been known to you, sir, I will not try^J.o 
 palliate or deny anything. 
 
 Altre. Jacques. Oh, ho ! could I have guessed it without 
 knowing ? 
 
 Val. It was my intention to have spoken to you about it, and 
 I wished to wait for a favourable opportunity. But as it is, I beg 
 you not to put yourself out, but to hear my reasons. 
 
 Har. Fine reasons you can give me, you infamous thief ! 
 
 Val. Really, sir, I have not deserved such names. It is true, 
 I have committed an offence against you : but after all, my fault 
 is pardonable. 
 
 Har. What ! Pardonable ? A planned trap, an assassination 
 of this kind ! 
 
 Val. For goodness' sake don't put yourself into a passion. 
 When you have heard me, you will see that the harm done is not 
 so great as you make it. 
 
 Har. The harm done not so great as I make it 1 What, my 
 very body and blood ? What next, you rascal ? 
 
 Val. Your blood, sir, has not fallen into bad hands. I'm in a 
 rank not to injure it, and there is nothing in all this for which I 
 cannot make full reparation. 
 
 Har. So I intend you shall, and that you restore me what you 
 have torn from me. 
 
 Val. Your honour, sir, shall be fully satisfied. 
 
536 THE MISER. [Act V. 
 
 Har. There's no question of honour in this matter. But tell 
 me, what induced you to act as you have done? 
 
 Val. Alas! Do you ask me? 
 
 Har. Yes, indeed, I do ask you. •'-.,''« v 
 
 Val. A god who carries with him excuses for all he causes to 
 be done— Love, ■^y^ ^q^ ev^i r- 
 
 H^cjr. Love!. ^ ■ - - Val. Yes. 
 
 H^ar. In truth, a fine sort of love ! Love of my louis-d'ors. 
 
 Val. No, sir, it is not your riches that have tempted me ; it is 
 not that which has dazzled me ; and I protest that I will never 
 make any claim on you, if only you will leave me in possession of 
 what I have. 
 
 Har. I'll not do it. Deuce take me if I do! But what 
 audacity, to wish to keep what he has robbed me of I 
 
 Va/. Do you call it a robbery ? 
 
 Har. Do I call it a robbery ? A treasure such as this ! 
 
 Va/. Truly it is a treasure, and doubtless the most precious 
 that you have; but to let me have it will not be losing it. On my 
 knees, I ask for this treasure full, f^i charms, and to do right, you 
 ought to give it me. ' ■ 
 
 Har. I will do nothing of the kin4.,^,,tWMl -^s the meaning of 
 allthis? ?^{i?Gborri -:; -' - 
 
 Va/. We have pledged our •i;](V^tu2|V.:fj^tfe,i and sworn neVe'i^ to 
 forsake each other. -, V ; ^ ■^p-r-'^ 
 
 Har. The oath is admirable, and the promise droll. 
 
 Va/. We are engaged to be each other's eternally. 
 
 Har. I shall hinder you, I assure you. 
 
 Va/. Nothing but death can separate us. 
 
 H^ar. You seem deucedly enamoured of my money ! 
 
 Va/. I have told you already, sir, that it was not self-interest 
 which led me to act as I have done. My heart has not been 
 moved by such springs as you imagine, and a more noble motivt* 
 has inspired this resolution. 
 
 Har. You see that it is out of Christian charity he would ha^ t 
 my money; but I will give good orders, and justice will see mr 
 righted, you impudent hang-dog ! 
 
 Va/. You may treat me as you like, and I am ready to suffer 
 all the violence you please, but I beg of you to believe that if there 
 is any harm done, you must accuse me of it, as your daughter is ii i 
 no way to blame. 
 
 Har. I quite believe that. It would be strange indeed if mv 
 daughter had been an accomplice in such a crime. But I choos* 
 to have my treasure again; so confess whither you have carried it. 
 
Scene IV.] VAVAI^I^. ^yj 
 
 Vai. I ? t have hot taken it away. It is still in your house. 
 
 Har. {aside). O my dear casket ! {Aloud) Not gone out of 
 my house ? * 
 
 Val. No, sir. 
 
 Har. Ah ! Tell me a little. Have you been touching it ? 
 
 Val. I ! Ah, there you wrong us both. The flame with which 
 I burn is too pure, too full of respect to admit of any familiarity. 
 
 Har. Burn for my casket ! He speaks of it as a lover would 
 of his sweetheart. 
 
 Val. Dame Claude, sir, knows the whole truth, and she can 
 bear witness to you 
 
 Har. What ! my maid an accomplice in the affair ? 
 
 Val. Yes, sir, she was witness of our engagement ; and It was 
 after she knew that my suit was an honourable one, that she 
 assisted me in persuading your daughter to plight me her troth, 
 and to receive mine. 
 
 Har. {aside). Eh? Does the fear of justice make him rave? 
 {To Valere.) Why are you mixing up my daughter in the matter? 
 
 Val. I say, sir, that I had all the difficulty in the world to 
 bring her modesty to consent to what my love desired. 
 
 Har. Whose modesty ? 
 
 Val. Your daughter's, sir ; and it is only since yesterday, that 
 jhe could prevail upon herself to resolve that we should mutually 
 sign a promise of marriage. 
 
 Har. My daughter has signed a promise to marry you ? 
 
 Val. Yes, sir, as on my part I have signed one to her. 
 
 Har. Oh heavens ! Another disgrace ! 
 
 Mtre.Jac. {to the Magistrate). Take it down, sir, take it down. 
 
 Har. What a complication of misfortunes ! What an excess 
 )f despair ! Come, sir, do the duty of your office, and draw me 
 ip an indictment against him as a felon and suborner. 
 
 Mtre.Jac. As a felon and suborner. 
 
 Val. These names do not belong to me; and when you 
 :now who I am 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Elise, Mariane, Frosine, Harpagon, Val^ire, MaItre 
 
 Jacques, Magistrate and Clerk. 
 Harpagon, Ah, graceless child ! Unworthy daughter of such 
 father as myself! Is it thus you put in practice the lessons I've 
 
 * This passage is shortened, since it is not possible to express in English the 
 ouble entendre produced by the use of the feminine pronoun to indicate both 
 issette andyf//^. 
 
 23 
 
338 THE MISER. [Act V. 
 
 taught you. Do you suffer yourself to be led away by an infamou| 
 thief, and engage yourself to him ^without my consent? But 11 
 be even with you both. {To Elise.) Four strong walls shaj 
 answer for your good conduct, (to Fa/ere) and a good gallov\ 
 impudent rascal, shall do me justice for your audacity. 
 
 Va/. It will not be your passion that will judge the affair ; anc 
 at any rate, I shall be heard before I am condemned. 
 
 JIar. I was wrong to speak of the gallows ; you shall bej 
 broken alive on the wheel. "] 
 
 Elise {kneeling to her father). Oh, father, do show some morej 
 kindly feeling, and do not drive matters to the utmost extremit 
 of paternal power ! Do not allow yourself to be carried away bj 
 the first movements of passion, but give yourself time to consider ] 
 what you will do. Take the trouble to look more carefully at the 
 person with whom you are offended. He is quite different froi 
 what you judge him to be ; and you will find it less strange that 
 should have given myself to him, when I tell you that, but for him,'' 
 you would have lost me for ever. Yes, father, it was he whoj 
 sayed me when I was so nearly drowned, and it is to him that yoiij 
 owe the life of that very daughter who 
 
 Har. All that goes for nothing, and it would have been much 
 belter for me if he had let you be drowned, rather than act as 
 he has done. 
 
 El. Father, I beg you, by your paternal love, to grant me 
 
 Har. No, no, I will hear nothing. Justice must take its 
 course. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. {aside). Ha, ha ! You'll pay me nov; for thos2 
 blows of the stick. 
 
 Frosine {aside). This is a very perplexing affaii ! 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Anselme, Harpagon, Elise, Mariane, Frosine, Val^re. 
 MaItre Jacques, Magistrate and Clerk. 
 
 Anselme. What's the matter, Monsieur Harpagon ? You seem 
 to be very much upset. 
 
 Harpagon. Ah, Monsieur Anselme, you see in me one cf the 
 most unfortunate of men ; and there is nothing but trouble and 
 disorder about the contract you have come to sign. lam wounded 
 in my fortune and in my honour. There stands a traitor and a 
 villain who has violated all the most sacred ties ; who has crept 
 into my family under the guise of a servant, to rob mc of my money, 
 and to gain the affections of my daughter. 
 
Scene v.] L'A VARE. 339 
 
 Valere. Who wants your money, that you're talking such 
 gibberish about ? 
 
 Har. Yes, they've made each other a promise of marriage. 
 This affront concerns you, Monsieur Anselme, and you ought to 
 take part against him, and prosecute him to the utmost, at your 
 own expense, to revenge yourself on him for his insolence. 
 
 An. It is no plan of mine to force any one to marry me, or to 
 aspire to a heart which has already bestowed itself on another ; 
 but as to your interests, I am ready to take them up as my own. 
 
 Har. Here, sir, is a very honest magistrate, who tells me that 
 he will omit nothing that concerns the duty of his office. (To the 
 Magistrate^ pointing to Valhe.) Charge him, sir, as you ought, 
 and make the matter very criminal. 
 
 Val. I don't see what crime you can make out of the love 
 that I have for your daughter ; and as to the punishment which 
 you think I deserve on account of our engagement, when you 
 know who I am 
 
 Har. Oh, I laugh at all such tales ; and the world is full 
 nowadays of these pretended noblemen, impostors who take 
 advantage of their obscurity to trick themselves out unblushingly 
 with the first illustrious name that comes into their head. 
 
 Val. Know, then, that I am too honourable to take on me any- 
 :hing that does not belong to me, and that all Naples can bear 
 nritness to my position. 
 
 An. Gently. Take care what you're going to say. You are 
 •unning more risk than perhaps you are aware of. You speak 
 jefore a person to whom all Naples is known, and who can easily 
 >ee through your story. 
 
 Val. {putting his hat on with a jaunty air). I'm not a man to 
 De afraid of anything. If you know Naples so well, you must 
 enow who Don Thomas d'Alburci was. 
 
 An. Doubtless I know him, few people better than myself. 
 
 Har. I don't care either for Don Thomas or Don Martin. 
 Seeing two candles burning, he blows one out.) 
 
 An. Pray let him speak, and let us see what he'll say of him. 
 
 Val. I would say that he is my father. 
 
 An. He? 
 
 Val. Yes. 
 
 An. Go ; you are jesting : find some other story that may 
 ucceed better for you, and don't pretend to save yourself under 
 his imposture. 
 
 Val. Try to speak more carefully ! It is no imposture ; and I 
 im advancing nothing which it will not be easy for me to prove. 
 
340 THE MISER. [Act \\ 
 
 An. What ! you dare to call yourself the son of Don Thomas 
 d'Alburci? ,/ . ! 
 
 Val. Yes, I do; and I am ready to maintain this truth Against 
 any person whatsoever. 
 
 An. This is wonderful assurance. Know, then, to your con- 
 fusion, that sixteen years ago at least, the person you mention was 
 lost at sea with his wife and children, whom he was endeavouring 
 to save from the cruel persecutions which accompanied the troubles 
 in Naples, and occasioned the banishment of so many noble 
 families. 
 
 Val. Yes ; but know to your confusion, that his son, seven 
 years of age, was saved, with a servant, from that shipwreck by a 
 Spanish vessel ; and that the son so saved is the person who is 
 now speaking to you. Know, too, that the captain of this vessel, 
 being touched by my misfortune, took a liking to me, and brought 
 me up as his own son, and that I have devoted myself to arms 
 ever since I was capable of bearing them. I have come to know 
 of late that my father is not dead as I had been led to believe, 
 and, passing this way in search of him, an adventure, specially 
 arranged by Providence, was the cause of my seeing this charming 
 Elise, the sight of whom made me a slave to her beauty. The 
 violence of my love and the harshness of her father made me 
 resolve to enter this household, and to send some one else in 
 search of my parents. 
 
 All. But what proof, beyond your own words, can assure us 
 that this is not a fable that you have built on the truth ? 
 
 Val. The Spanish captain ; a ruby seal which belonged to my 
 father ; an agate bracelet, which my mother put upon my arm, 
 and old Pedro, the servant who was saved with me from the ship- 
 wreck. 
 
 Mariane. I myself can answer for the truth of what you have 
 said ; for every word you have spoken proves to me that you cer- 
 tainly are my brother. 
 
 Val. What ! you my sister ? 
 
 Mar. Yes. My heart was touched from the moment you 
 began to speak ; and our mother will be overjoyed to see you, for 
 she has often related to me the misfortunes of our family. Provi- 
 dence did not allow us to perish in that melancholy shipwreck ; 
 but it only saved our lives at the cost of our liberty, for they were 
 Corsairs who took my mother and myself from the wreck of our 
 vessel. After ten years of slavery, a lucky accident gave us our 
 liberty, and we returned to Naples, where we found all our estate 
 sold ; nor could we get any tidings of our father. Then we took- 
 
Scene VI.] VAVARB. 541 
 
 passage to Genoa, whither my mother went in order to collect 
 what was left of a family property that had been dissipated ; and 
 from thence, flying from the injustice of relations, we came into 
 these parts, v here she has ever since been spending a melancholy 
 existence. 
 
 Ah. Oh, Heaven ! how great is thy power, and what miracles 
 thou dost work ! Embrace me, my children, and join yonr tran- 
 spr.rts to those of your father ! 
 
 Val. What, are you our father ? 
 
 M(»'. Is it you whom my mother has so much lamented ? 
 
 A?t, Yes, my daughter ; yes, my son ; I am Don Thomas 
 d'Alburci, whom heaven saved from the waves with all the money 
 which he had with him ; and who, having thought you all dead 
 for more than sixteen years, was preparing, after long journeyings, 
 to seek the consolation of a new family by marrying some gentle 
 and discreet person. The small security which I saw for my life 
 in returning to Naples, made me give up the idea; and, having 
 found means to sell what I had, I have settled here under the 
 name of Anselme, wishing to drive away all the vexations of that 
 other name under which I had suffered so many reverses. 
 
 JIar. {to Anselme). Is that your s,pn. 
 
 An, Yes. , ^ " ; 
 
 Har. Then I hold you liable to pay me the ten thousand 
 crowns which he has stolen from me. 
 
 An. He has stolen from you ? JIar. The very same. 
 
 Val. Who told you that ? Har. Maitre Jacques. 
 
 Val. (to Mattre Jacques). Was it you who told him so ? 
 
 Mtre, Jac. You see that I say nothing. 
 
 Har. Yes ; monsieur the Magistrate has taken his deposition. 
 
 Val. Can you think me capable of so base an action ? 
 
 Har, Capable, or not capable, I want my money back. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Clkanie, Valilre, Mariane, Elise, Frosine, Harpagon, 
 Anselme, Maitre Jacques, La Fleciie, Magistrate and 
 Clerk. 
 
 Cleante. Don't torment yourself, father, and don't accuse any 
 one. I've had news of your affair, and I come here to tell you 
 that if you will only make up your mind to let me marry Mariane, 
 your money shall be restored to you. 
 
 Har. Where is it ? 
 
 Cle. Give yourself no sort of trouble. It is in a place which 
 
342 THE MISER. [Act V. 
 
 I am answerable for ; and all depends on myself alone. It is for 
 you to say what you decide on. You have your choice, either to 
 give me Mariane, or to lose your casket. 
 
 Har. Has nothing been taken out of it? 
 
 Cle. Nothing at all. Consider whether you will agree to this 
 marriage, and add your consent to that of her mother, who leaves 
 her free to choose between us two. 
 
 Mar. But you don't consider that this consent alone is not 
 sufficient, and that besides a brother, as you see, heaven has 
 restored to me a father from whom you have to obtain me. ' 
 
 An. Providence, my children, has not restored me to you in 
 order to oppose your desires. Monsieur Harpagon, you know 
 very well that the choice of a young person will fall upon the son 
 sooner than upon the father. Come, don't oblige people to say 
 what is not necessary to hear, but consent, as I d(\ to this double 
 marriage. 
 
 Har. To take counsel, I must see my casket. 
 
 Cle. You shall see it safe and sound. 
 
 Har. I have no money to give my children in marriage. 
 
 An. Well, I have some for them, so that need not disquiet you. 
 
 Har. Will you undertake the cost of both marriages ? 
 
 An. Yes. Now are you satisfied ? 
 
 Har. Yes, if you will order me a new suit of clothes for the 
 wedding. ^ 
 
 An. Agreed. Come now, let us enjoy the delights of this happy 
 day ! 
 
 Mag. Stop, gentlemen ; gently, if you please. Who is to pay 
 me for my writing ? 
 
 Har. We have nothing to do with that. 
 
 Mag. Indeed, but I don't intend to do it for nothing. 
 
 Har. For payment I'll give you that fellow to be hung. 
 
 Mtre. Jac. Alas ! What must one do then ? They beat me 
 for speaking the truth ; now they would hang me for telHng a lie. 
 
 An. Monsieur Harpagon, you must pardon this fellow's 
 imposture. 
 
 Har. Then you must pay the magistrate. 
 
 An. Done ! Let's go quickly and share our joy with your 
 mother. 
 
 Har, And I will go and see my dear casket. 
 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC 
 
 (LE MALADE IMAGJNAIRE), 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Argan, the hypochondriac, 
 B INLINE, ArgarCs second wife. 
 Angelique, Argan^s daughter, 
 L0UIS01<!, A rgan's little daughter; 
 
 Angeliqzie's sister. 
 35ERALDE, Argan's brother, \ MONS. BONNEFOY, a notary, 
 
 Cl^ANTE, Angelique s lover, i Toinette, Argan's servant 
 
 Scene— PARIS. 
 
 MONS. DiAFOIRUS, a physician. 
 Thomas Diafoirus, son of 
 
 Mons, Diafoirus. 
 INIONS. PURGON, a physician. 
 MONS. Fleurant, an apothecary. 
 
 ACT I. Scene I. 
 
 Argan, in his rootn^ seated before a table , is casting up his apothe- 
 cary's bills with counters. 
 
 Argan. Three and two are five, and five make ten, and ten 
 are twenty. Three and two make five. Item^ on the twenty- 
 fourth, a little insinuative, preparative, ajid emollient clyster, to 
 mollify f moisten, and refresh his worship'' s stomach. What pleases 
 me in Monsieur Fleurant, my apothecary, is, that his bills are 
 always extremely civil. His worship'' s stomach, thirty sous. Yes, 
 but. Monsieur Fleurant, it isn't enough to be civil : you ought to 
 be reasonable too, and not fleece your patients. Thirty sous for 
 a clyster. Your most obedient ! I've told you of this already. 
 You have charged me in your other bills only twenty sous, and 
 that, in the language of an apothecary, is as much as to say, 
 ten sous ; — there they are, ten sous. Item, the same day, a good 
 detergent clyster, composed of double heal-all, rhubarb, honey of roses, 
 ^c, according to the prescription, thirty sous. With your leave, ten 
 sous. Item, the same day at night, a soporific and somniferous 
 julep for the liver, to make his hoJtour sleep, thirty-five sous. I don't 
 complain of that, for it made me sleep well. Ten, fifteen, sixteen, 
 seventeen sous and a half. Itejn, on the twenty-fifth, a good purga- 
 tive and strengthening medicine, composed of fresh cassia, ivith 
 
344 "^'Ji^ HYPOCHONDRIAC, [Act I. 
 
 Levantine semia, 6^'^., according to the prescription of Monsieur 
 Furgon^ to drive out his honour' s bile, four livres. Why, Monsieur 
 Fleurant, surely you are joking ! You must allow your patients 
 to live. Monsieur Purgon did not prescribe you that you were to 
 charge four livres ; put down, put down three livres, if you please 
 — fifty sous. Item, the said day, an anodyne and astringent potion 
 to make his honour sleep, thirty sous. Good — fifteen sous. Itejn, 
 on the twenty-sixth, a carminative clyster, thirty sous. Ten sous, 
 Monsieur Fleurant. Item, his honour s clyster, repeated at night 
 as before, thirty sous. Ten sous. Monsieur Fleurant. Item, on the 
 twenty-seventh, a good aperietit medicine, to drive out all his 
 honour's disorders, three livres. Good, fifty sous. I'm glad you're 
 reasonable. Item, the twenty-eighth, a dose of clarified, dulcified 
 whey, to sweeten, lenify, temper, and refresh his hojiour's blood, 
 twefity sous. Good — ten sous. Itejn, a cordial preservative potion, 
 composed of twelve grains of bezoar, syrup of le?nons, pomegranates, 
 Q^^c, according to prescription, five livres. Oh, Monsieur Fleurant, 
 gently, if you please. If you use all people after this fashion, 
 one cannot be ill any longer. Content yourself with four livres — 
 sixty sous. Three and two make five, and five make ten, and ten 
 make twenty. Sixty livres, four sous, and a half. So that in this 
 month I have taken one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight 
 purges ; and one, two, three, four, five six, seven, eight, nine, ten, 
 eleven, twelve clysters ; and last month twelve purges, and twenty 
 clysters : no wonder I'm not so well this month as last. I shall 
 tell Monsieur Purgon of this, that he may put it right. Here, 
 take away all these things. {No one answering him.) It's no use 
 speaking, there's nobody there. I'm always left alone; there's 
 no way of keeping them here. {He rings a bell) They don't 
 hear; my bell's not loud enough. (Rings.) No. (Rings again.) 
 They are deaf. Toinette ! (Making as much noise as he can with 
 his bell.) Just as if I did not ring at all. Slut ! Hussy ! (Finding 
 he still rings in vain.) I shall go mad ! Dring, dring, dring ! 
 Deuce take the animal ! Is it possible they should leave a poor 
 sick man like this ! Dring, dring, dring ! Oh, it's pitiful ! Dring, 
 dring, dring ! Oh, heavens, they'll leave me to die here ! Pring, 
 dring! ... 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Akgan, Toinette. 
 
 Toinette (entering). Here I am. 
 ArgajL Oh, you hussy ! you wretch ! 
 
I 
 
 I SCENE III.] LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE, 345 
 
 ; Toi. {pretending to have hurt her head). The deuce take your 
 I impatience ! You hurry one so much that I've knocked my head 
 jj against the window shutter. 
 
 Ar. {angrily). Oh, you wretch i 
 
 Toi. {interrupting him). Oh ! 
 
 Ar. It's a Toi. Oh ! 
 
 Ar. It's an hour Toi. Oh ! 
 
 Ar. You have left me. Toi. Oh ! 
 
 Ar. Hold your tongue, you slut, that I may scold you. 
 
 Toi. I like that, after what I've done to myself. 
 
 Ar. You've made me bawl my throat sore, you hussy ! 
 
 Toi. And you've made me break my head ; one's as good as 
 another — so we're quits, with your leave. 
 
 Ar. How now, you jade 
 
 Toi. If you scold, I'll cry. 
 
 Ar. So leave me, you wretch 
 
 Toi. {still interrupting him). Oh ! 
 
 Ar. You impudent creature, would you 
 
 Toi. Oh! 
 
 Ar. What, must I not have the pleasure of scolding you either ? 
 
 Toi. Have your fill of scolding, with all my heart. 
 
 ^K -Yoii prevent-raW y<>»-^sy^ % iriterrupting me at every 
 turn." "•"'■'' 'y-'' :'' ^•■-:' .. -'v^' ":^v!S :>-;f\ ,vy. 
 
 Toi. If you have the pleasure of scolding, I, for my part, must 
 have the pleasure of crying. Give every one his own — that's only 
 reasonable. Eh? - 
 
 Ar. Well, then, we'll let this drop. Take away this thing, 
 you minx, take it away. Be sure and get some broth ready for 
 me by the time I have to take my next dose. 
 
 Toi. This Monsieur Fleurant and Monsieur Purgon amuse 
 themselves finely with your body ; they have a rare milch-cow 
 in you. I should like to ask them what ailment you have, that 
 you must take so much physic. 
 
 Ar. Hold your tongue, you ignorant creature; it is not for 
 you to control the decrees of the faculty. Bring my daughter 
 Angelique to me. I have something to say to her. 
 
 Toi. Here she comes of her own accord. She has guessed 
 your wish. — — — 
 
 Scene III. 
 Angelique, Toinette, Arc an. 
 Argan, Come here, Angelique; you have come just at the 
 right time. I want to speak to you. 
 
340 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act I. 
 
 Angelique. Vm ready to listen to you, sir. 
 
 Ar. Stop. {To Toinette.) Give me my stick. I'll come 
 back again in a moment. 
 
 Toinette. Go quick, sir, go. Monsieur Fleurant finds us 
 plenty to do, 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Ang^lique, Toinette. 
 
 Angelique. Toinette. Toitiette. Well. 
 
 An. Look at me a little. 
 
 ToL Well, I am looking. An. Toinette, 
 
 Toi. Well, what do you want with Toinette ? 
 
 An, Can't you guess what I want to speak about ? 
 
 Tot. I'm pretty sure it's about our young lover, for all our con- 
 versation for the last six days has turned on him, and you're not 
 well unless you're talking of him every minute. 
 
 An. If you know that, why are you not the first, then, to talk 
 of him to me, and spare me the trouble of bringing up the 
 subject ? 
 
 Toi. You don't give me time ; you think so much about the 
 matter, that it's difficult to be beforehand with you. 
 
 An, I must own to you that I am never weary of talking of 
 him to you, and that my heart eagerly takes advantage of every 
 moment to open itself. But tell me, Toinette, do you condemn 
 the feelings I entertain for him ? 
 
 Toi. By no means. 
 
 An. Am I wrong to give way to these soft impressions ? 
 
 Toi. I don't say that. 
 
 An. And would you have me insensible to the tender pro- 
 testations of his ardent passion ? 
 
 Toi. Heaven forbid ! 
 
 An. Tell me, don't you see, as I do, something in this of 
 Providence, some working of destiny in the unexpected adventure 
 that caused our acquaintance ? 
 
 Toi. Yes. 
 
 An. Don't you think that his engaging in my defence, without 
 knowing me, was very gallant ? 
 
 Toi. Yes. 
 
 A71. And that it was impossible to behave more generously ? 
 
 Toi. Agreed. 
 
 Aft. And that he did this with the best possible grace ? 
 
 Toi. Oh, yea. 
 
Scene V.] LE MALADE IMAGINAIRK, 347 
 
 An. And don't you think, Toinette, that he's a very well- 
 made man ? 
 
 ToL Certainly. 
 
 An. And that he has a most distinguished air ? 
 
 Tot. No doubt of that. 
 
 An, And that there is something noble in his conversation as 
 well as in his actions ? 
 
 Toi. That's certain. 
 
 An. And that nothing was ever heard more affectionate than 
 all he says to me ? 
 
 Toi. Quite true. 
 
 An. And that there's nothing more vexatious than the restraint 
 in which I'm kept, which hinder all interchange of the soft 
 transports of that mutual fire with which heaven inspires us } 
 
 Toi. You're right. 
 
 An. But, dear Toinette, do you think he loves me as much 
 as he says he does ? 
 
 Toi. Well — these things are sometimes not absolutely to be 
 depended upon. The caricature of love is very like the reality, 
 and I have seen those who could act the part very well. 
 
 An, Oh, Toinette, what are you saying ? Is it, alas, possible 
 when he talks in such a way that he should not really be telling 
 the truth ? 
 
 Toi. Anyhow, that point will soon be cleared up; and his 
 resolution to ask you in marriage, of which he informed you 
 yesterday, is a ready way for you to learn whether he spoke the 
 truth or not. That will be a certain proof. 
 
 An. Ah ! Toinette, if this man deceives me, I'll never believe 
 another as long as I live. 
 
 Toi. Here's your father come back. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Argan, Ang^lique, Toinette. 
 
 Argan {sitting dowtt). Now, daughter, I'm going to tell you 
 a piece of news which perhaps you little expect. You've been 
 asked of me in marriage. What's this ? You're laughing. Ah ! 
 that word marriage is pleasant enough. There's nothing makes 
 young girls so merry. Ah ! nature, nature ! I can see, my child, 
 that I have no occasion to ask you whether you are willing to be 
 married. 
 
 Angeliqne. It is my duty, sir, to do whatever you shall be 
 pleased to order me. 
 
348 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC, [Act I. 
 
 Ar. I am glad to have so dutiful a daughter. --Thfe matter, 
 then, is settled, and I have promised you. ' :.'ori7f ,^^, 
 
 An. It is for me, sir, blindly to follow your wishes. " ^' ' '-hn 
 
 Ar. My wife, your step-mother, desired that I should make , 
 a nun of you, and your little sister Louison too, and has always 
 persisted in it. ■ - ' ■. \^' '\'}i z-J:i ; •■■.. 
 
 Toinette {aside). Ah, the sly beast had her reasons for it. 
 
 Ar. She was not willing to consent to this match, but I've 
 carried my point, and pledged my word to it. 
 
 An. Ah ! sir, how much obliged to you I am for all your 
 goodness ! 
 
 Tot. Indeed, I take this well on your part. It is the most 
 sensible thing you ever did in your life. 
 
 Ar. I have not seen the person yet, but they tell me I shall 
 be very well pleased with him, and so will you be, too. 
 
 An. Certainly, sir. 
 
 Ar. What, have you seen him ? 
 
 An. Since your consent authorises me to open my heart to 
 you, I will not conceal from you that we accidentally became 
 known to one another about six days ago, and that the request 
 made to you is the result of an attachment we formed for one 
 another at first sight. 
 
 [ Ar. I was not told of that, but I am very glad of it, and it is 
 ail the better that things should be so arranged. They say that 
 he's a fine young fellow, of very good appearance. 
 
 An. That's quite true, sir. 
 
 Ar. And well made. An. Without doubt. 
 
 Ar. Agreeable in person. An. Certainly. 
 
 Ar. Good-looking. An. Extremely so, 
 
 ' Ar. Sensible, and of good family. An. Quite so. 
 
 .. Ar. Very honourable. 
 
 '^ An, The most honourable man in the world. 
 ^^ Ar. Speaks Latin and Greek well. 
 \^''An. Ah, that I don't know anything about. 
 'r'.^„Ar. And will be admitted Doctor of Medicine in three days' 
 liiik.; ;; 
 
 Ail, He, sir ? 
 
 Ar, Yes ; hasn't he told you so ? 
 
 An. No, indeed. Who told you ? 
 
 ylr. Monsieur Purgon. 
 
 An, Does Monsieur Purgon know him ? 
 
 Ar. What a question ! How can he help knowing him when 
 he's his nephew ? 
 
Scene V.] LE MALADE IMAGlNAIkE. 349 
 
 An. Cleante, Monsieur Purgon's nephew ! 
 
 Ar, Who's Cleante ? We are speaking of the person who has 
 asked you in marriage. 
 
 An. Well, yes. 
 
 Ar. Very well, and that's the nephew of Monsieur Purgon, 
 who is the son of his brother-in-law. Monsieur Diafoirus, the 
 ' ioctor ; and this son's name is Thomas Diafoirus, not Cldante ; 
 md this morning Monsieur Purgon, Monsieur Diafoirus, Monsieur 
 Fleurant, and I settled the matter, and to-morrow my intended 
 son-in-law is to be brought to me by his father. What's the 
 matter ? You look quite amazed. 
 
 An. It is because I find, sir, that you have been speaking of 
 ne person, and I meant another. 
 
 Toi. What, sir ! how can you entertain such an absurd idea ? 
 .\nd with all your wealth, would you marry your daughter to a 
 doctor ? 
 
 Ar. Yes, I would. What business is it of yours, you im- 
 pudent creature ? 
 
 Toi. Come now, gently, sir. You rush at once into abuse. 
 < :an't we reason together without your flying off into a passion ? 
 I ,et us talk the matter over coolly. Pray, what is your reason for 
 .Lich a marriage? 
 
 Ar. My reason is, that finding myself ill and infirm as I am, 
 I should like to have my son-in-law, and his relations, all phy- 
 icians, in order that I might have good help against my com- 
 plaint, and have in my family means of getting those remedies 
 which I need, and have close at hand both consultations and 
 prescriptions. 
 
 Toi. Very well ; that's giving a reason, and there's a pleasure 
 in answering one another calmly. But, sir, put your hand on 
 your heart, and tell me are you really ill ? 
 
 Ar. What, you hussy, am I ill! Am I ill, you impudent 
 creature ! 
 
 Toi. Well, yes, sir, you are ill ; let's have no quarrel about 
 that. Yes, you are very ill, more so than you think. I agree to 
 that, so that's settled. But your daughter is to marry a husband 
 for herself, and not being ill, it is not necessary to give her a 
 doctor. 
 
 Ar. It is for my sake that I give her this doctor, and a good- 
 hearted girl ought to be delighted to marry for the benefit of her 
 father's health. 
 
 Toi. Sir, will you allow me as a friend to give you a piece ot 
 advice ? 
 
350 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC* [Act 1. 
 
 Ar. What is it ? 
 
 Toi. Not to think of this match. 
 
 Ar. And for what reason ? 
 
 Toi. For this reason, that your daughter will not consent to it. 
 
 Ar, She won't consent to it ? 
 
 Tou No. 
 
 Ar. My daughter? 
 
 Toi. Yes, your daughter. She'll tell you that she'll have 
 nothing to do with Monsieur Diafoirus, nor with his son Thomas 
 Diafoirus, nor with all the Diafoiruses in the world. 
 
 Ar. But I have something to do with them. Besides, this 
 match is more advantageous than may be imagined. Monsieur 
 Diafoirus has only this son to inherit all that he has, and, more- 
 over, Monsieur Purgon, who has neither wife nor child, gives up 
 all his estate because of this marriage, and Monsieur Purgon is 
 a man who has eight thousand livres a year. 
 
 Toi. He must have killed many people to have become so rich. 
 
 Ar. Eight thousand livres a year is something without 
 reckoning his father's estate. 
 
 . Toi. All this, sir, is fair and fine; but I still return to my 
 point. Between ourselves, I advise you to choose another husband 
 for her, as she's not cut out to be Madame Diafoirus. 
 
 Ar. But I'll have it so. 
 
 Toi. Oh, fie ! Don't say that. 
 
 Ar. Why shouldn't I say that ? 
 
 Toi. People will say you don't know what you're talking about* 
 
 Ar. People may say what they like, but I'll have her carry 
 out the promise I have given. 
 
 Toi. No, I'm sure she won't. 
 
 Ar. Then I'll force her to it. 
 
 Toi. She'll not do it, I tell you. 
 
 Ar. She shall do it, or I'll put her into a convent. 
 
 Toi. You. Ar. Yes, I. Toi. Good ! > 
 
 Ar. What do you mean by good ? 
 
 Toi. You will not put- her into a convent 
 
 Ar. I shall not put her into a convent ? 
 
 Toi. No. Ar. No? Toi. No. 
 
 Ar. Dear me ! this is a good joke ! Sha'n't I put my daughter 
 into a convent, if I choose? 
 
 Toi. No, I tell you. 
 
 Ar. Who shall hinder me ? 
 
 Toi. Yourself. Ar. Myself? 
 
 Toi. Yes, you would not have the heart. 
 
Scene V.] LE MALADE IMAGtNAJRE. 351 
 
 Ar, I shall. Toi, You are joking. Ar. I am not. 
 
 Toi. Fatherly affection will hinder you. 
 
 Ar. It won't hinder me. 
 
 Toi. A tear or two, her arms thrown round your neck, a 
 darling Papa pronounced tenderly, will be enough to move you. 
 
 Ar. All that will do nothing. 
 
 Toi. Yes, yes. 
 
 Ar. I tell you I won't give way the least. 
 
 Toi. Nonsense ! 
 
 Ar. You must not say nonsense. 
 
 Toi. Good heavens ! But I know you. You're good-natured 
 at bottom. 
 
 Ar. {angrily). I'm not good-natured, I'm ill-natured when I 
 please. 
 
 Toi, Gently, sir. You forget that you're an invalid. 
 
 Ar. I command her absolutely to prepare to take the husband 
 that I speak of. 
 
 Toi. And I absolutely forbid her to do so. 
 
 Ar. What are we coming to next ? What audacity for a slut 
 of a servant to talk like this before her master ! 
 
 Toi. When a master does not know what he is doing, a sensible 
 servant has the right to teach him better. 
 
 Ar. {running after Toinette). Oh, you insolent creature, I should 
 like to knock you down ! 
 
 Toi. {avoidifig him and putting a chair between them). It is my 
 duty to oppose anything that would disgrace you. 
 
 Ar. [running after her round the chair with his stick in his 
 hand). Come here, come here, that I may teach you how to 
 speak. 
 
 Toi. {escaping on the side opposite to where Argan is). I interest 
 myself as I ought, to prevent you from doing a foolish thing. 
 
 A.r. Slut ! 
 
 Toi* No, I'll never consent to this match. 
 
 Ar. You hussy ! 
 
 Toi. I'll not have her marry your Thomas Diafoirus. 
 
 Ar. You animal ! 
 
 Toi. And she'll obey me sooner than you. 
 
 Ar. Angelique, won't you lay hold of that slut for me ? 
 
 Angelique. Pray, sir, don't make yourself ill. 
 
 Ar. If you don't lay hold of her for me, I will give you my curse. 
 
 Toi. {goi?tg out). And I'll disinherit her, if she does obey you. 
 
 Ar. {throwing himself into his chair). Oh, oh ! I can bear it no 
 longer. This is enough to kill me. 
 
^32 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act 1. 
 
 SCEI^E VI. 
 BiLiNt, *Ar<5an ; aftenvards Totnf.tte. 
 
 Argan. Ah, wife, come here. 
 
 Beline. What's the matter, my poor husband ? 
 
 Ar. Come here to my assistance. 
 
 Bel. What is it then, my dear child ? 
 
 Ar. My love ! Bel. My soul I 
 
 Ar. They have been putting me in a passion. 
 
 Bel, Alas ! my poor little love. How was it, my darling ? 
 
 Ar. Your slut Toinette has grown more insolent than ever. 
 
 BeL Don't put yourself in a passion then. 
 
 Ar. She has driven me mad, my sweet one. 
 
 Bel. Gently, my boy. 
 
 Ar. She has been opposing me, a whole hour, about things 
 I'm resolved to do. 
 
 Bel. There, there, gently. 
 
 Ar. And had the impudence to,.^il,me that I'm not an 
 invahd. 
 
 BeL She's insolent. 
 
 Ar. You know, my heart, how the case^ef^Jlyis. 
 
 Bel. Yes, my heart, she's wrong. vi k^i\ 
 
 Ar. My love, that slut will kill me. 
 
 BeL Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Ar. She is the cause of all my biliousness. 
 
 Bel Don't fret yourself so much. 
 
 Ar. And I don't know how many times I have told you to 
 dismiss her. 
 
 Bel. Alas, child, there are no servants, men or women, who 
 have not their faults. We are sometimes forced to put up with 
 their bad qualities for the sake of their good ones. The girl is 
 clever, careful, diligent, and above all honest ; and you know how 
 needful it is at the present time to take great precautions as^.tg the 
 servants we engage. Here, Toinette ! . , "" :?" 
 
 Enter Toinette. 
 
 Toinette. Madame. 
 
 Bel Why have you put my husband in such a rage ? 
 
 Toi. (in a mild tone). I, madame ? Alas, I don't know what 
 you mean ? I only think how I can best please my master in 
 everything. 
 
 Ar. Oh, you deceiver ! 
 
 Toi. He told us that he intended to give his daughter in 
 marriage to the son of Mons. Diafoirus ; I answered him that I 
 
 i 
 
Scene VI.] LE MAIADB IMAGINAIRE. 353 
 
 thought the match was very advantageous for her, but he would 
 do better to put her in a convent. 
 
 Bel. There's no great harm in that, and I think she's right. 
 
 Ar. What, my love, do you believe her ? She's a wicked 
 wretch. She said a hundred insolent things to me. 
 
 Bel. Yes, I quite believe you, my dear. Come, compose your- 
 self. Now hsten, Toinette, if ever you vex my husband again, I'll 
 turn you out of the house. So give me his fur-cloak and his 
 pillows, that I may make him comfortable in his chair. Here you 
 are huddled up anyhow. Pull your night-cap well over your ears ; 
 there's nothing gives people cold so readily as letting the air in at 
 their ears. 
 
 Ar. Ah, my wife, how I thank you for the care you take of me ! 
 
 Bel. {arranging the pillows^ which she puts round him). Raise 
 yourself up that I may put this under you. Let us put this so as 
 to keep you up, and this on the other side. Let us place this 
 behind your back, and that to support your head. 
 
 Toi. (thu??iping a pillow roughly on his head). And this to keep 
 you from the evening damp. 
 
 Ar. (rising in a rage and throwing all the pillows after Toinette 
 as she runs away). Oh, you hussy, did you want to stifle me ? 
 
 Bel. Oh dear, dear ! what's the matter now ? v. 
 
 Ar. {throiving himself into his chair). Oh, oh, ohLj" !fc,cah fcear 
 it no longer. ':^* V\ 
 
 Bel. Why fly into such a passion ? She meant to do well 
 
 Ar. You don't know, my love, the malice of that baggage. 
 She has driven me quite beside myself, and I shall need more 
 than eight doses of physic and a dozen clysters to set all to rights 
 again. 
 
 Bel. There, there, my dearie, quiet yourself a little. 
 
 Ar. My life, you are all my comfort ! 
 
 Bel. Poor little fellow r 
 
 Ar. That I may endeavour, my iieart, to requite the jpye that 
 you bear me, as I told you, Fll make my will. Z, "o^^-^tlvu^fi:,^ 
 
 Bel. Oh, my darling, don't talk of that now, I beg of you — I 
 can't bear the thought of it ; the very word "will" makes me 
 shudder with grief. 
 
 Ar. I desired you to speak of it to your notary. 
 
 Bel. He's there within; I brought him with me. 
 
 Ar. Let him come here then, my love. 
 
 Bel. Alas, my dearest, when one loves a husband well, one is 
 scarce in a condition to think of these things. 
 
 24 
 
354 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act L 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Monsieur de Bonnefoy, Beline, Argajt. 
 
 Argan, Come here, Monsieur de Bonnefoy, come here. Take 
 a chair, if you please. My wife has told me, sir, that you are an 
 honest man, and quite one of her friends, and I have desired her 
 to speak about my will. 
 
 Beline. Alas, I'm not capable of speaking about such things. 
 
 M. de Bonnefoy. She has explained your intentions to me, sir, 
 and what you wish to do for her, and I have come to tell you on 
 that subject that you cannot give your wife anything by will. :'\ 
 
 Ar. But why so ? 
 
 Bon. Custom is against it. If you were in a country of 
 statute law, it might be done ; but in Paris, and in countries for 
 the most part governed by custom, it cannot be done — any such 
 disposal of property would be null and void. All the benefit that 
 a man and woman, united in marriage, can give each to the other 
 must be by mutual gift during life ; moreover there must be no 
 children, either of the two married parties, or of one of them, at 
 the decease of the first who dies. 
 
 Ar. Then it is a very disagreeable custom, that a husband 
 cannot leave anything to a wife by whom he is tenderly beloved, 
 and who takes so much care of him. I should like to take counsel's 
 opinion to see what I can do. 
 
 Bon. You should not apply to barristers, for they are generally 
 very strict in these cases, and conceive it to be a great crime to 
 dispose of anything contrary to law. They are people who make 
 difficulties, and know little of the by-ways of conscience. There 
 are other persons who may be consulted, who will suit you much 
 better, who have expedients for lightly passing over the law, and 
 to make that right which is not allowed, who know how to smooth 
 over the difficulties of an aflair, and to find means of eluding the 
 custom by some indirect advantage. Without that, where should 
 we be always ? There must be some means of getting over things ; 
 otherwise we should do nothing, and I would not give a sou for 
 our business. 
 
 Ar. My wife told me, sir, that you were a skilful and honest 
 man. What then can I do, if you please, to give her my estate, 
 and to leave it away from my children ? 
 
 Bon. What can you do ? You must secretly choose an inti 
 mate friend of your wife's to whom you may bequeath in due form 
 by will all that you can, and this friend will afterwards give up all 
 to her. You may further sign a great many bonds, not open to 
 
Scene VII.] LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE. 355 
 
 suspicion, payable to several creditors, who will lend theit names 
 to your wife, and put into her hands a declaration that what they 
 had done in it was only to serve her. You may likewise in your 
 lifetime put into her hands ready money, or bills which you can 
 make payable to bearer. 
 
 B^l. Ah, you must not torment yourself with all these things. 
 If I should lose you, my boy, I'd stay no longer in the world. 
 
 Ar. My dear heart ! 
 
 Bel. Yes, my love, if I'm unfortunate enough to lose you- 
 
 Ar, My dear wife ! 
 
 Bel. Life will be no longer anything to me. 
 
 Ar. My love ! 
 
 Bel. And I'll follow you, to let you see the tenderness I have 
 for you. 
 
 Ar. Dearest, you break my heart j be comforted, I beg of you. 
 
 Bon. {to Belifie). These tears are unreasonable. Things have 
 not yet come to that pass. 
 
 Bel. Ah, sir, you don't know what it is to have a husband 
 whom one loves dearly. 
 
 Ar. All my regret if I die, my darling, is not to have a child 
 by you. 
 
 Bon. That may yet come. 
 
 Ar. I must make my will now, my love, in the manner this 
 gentleman says ; but, by way of precaution, I wish to place in 
 your hands twenty thousand livres in gold, which I have in the 
 wainscot of my bedroom, and two notes payable to bearer, which 
 are due to me, one from Mons. Damon, and the other from 
 Mons. Gerante. 
 
 Bel. No, no, I'll have none of it. Ah — how much do you 
 say that there is in your bedroom ? 
 
 Ar. Twenty thousand livres, my love. 
 
 Bel Don't speak to me of money, I beg of you. Ah — how 
 much are the two notes for ? 
 
 Ar. My hfe 1 one is for four thousand livres, and the other 
 for six. 
 
 Bel. All the wealth of the world, my dear, is nothing to me 
 in comparison with you. 
 
 Bon. {to Argan). Do you wish us to proceed to make the will ? 
 
 Ar. Yes, sir ; but we shall be better in my private room. My 
 love, pray lead me. 
 
 Bel. Come, my poor little man ! 
 
556 THE HYPOCHONDklAC, [Act li. 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 
 -'^i^/«^/ft';""They've got a notary there, and I heard thera 
 talking about a will. Your step-mother is very wide-awake, and it 
 is certainly some contrivance against your interest to which she is 
 urging your father. . --top 
 
 Angeliqiie, Let him dispose of his estate as he pleases, pro- 
 vided he does not dispose of my heart. You see, Toinette, what 
 strong measures they mean to take against me. I beg of you not 
 to abandon me in the extremity in which I find myself. 
 
 Tou I abandon you ! I'd die sooner. Your step-mother tries 
 in vain to take me into her confidence, and to bring me into her 
 interest. I never had any liking for her, and always took your 
 side. Leave it to me to do everything to serve you ; but to do 
 so more effectually, I'll change my tactics, conceal the zeal I 
 have for you, and pretend to enter into the sentiments of your 
 father and step-mother. 
 
 An. Try, I implore you, to give Cl^ante notice of the 
 marriage they have settled on for me. j, 
 
 Toi. I've no one to employ for tiiat but the old usurer, 
 Polichinello, my lover, and it will cost me some kind words to 
 have him do it ; but these I will willingly give for you. To-day 
 it is too late, but very early to-morrow I'll send for him, and he'll 
 be delighted to 
 
 Bel. {171 the house). Toinette! 
 
 Toi. {to Angelique). I'm qaU^d.,, .Gaod-Qight. Rely on me. 
 
 ACT II. Scene I. 
 
 {In Argan's Room.) 
 
 Toinette, Cl^ante. 
 
 Toinette {not knowing Cleante), What do you want, sir ? 
 
 Cleante. What do I want ? '!:;.; 
 
 V<1 Toi. Ah, ha ! It is surprising to see you. What dd xyou 
 come here for ? 
 
 Cle. To know my destiny, to speak to the charming Ang^lique, 
 to consult the sentiments of her heart, and to ask her what resolu- 
 tion she has formed with regard to that fatal marriage I have been 
 told of. 
 
 Toi. Yes, but Ang^lique cannot be spoken with in this off- 
 hand manner. There must be secret arrangements to manf ge 
 
Scene II.] LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE. 357 
 
 this. You have been told how strict a watch is kept over her. 
 They do not allow her to go out or to speak to any one, and it 
 was only the curiosity of an old aunt which gave us the oppor- 
 tunity to go to that play where your love was first born, and we 
 have been extremely careful not to speak of that adventure. 
 
 Cie. And so I have come here, not as Cleante, and under the 
 appearance of her lover, but as a friend of her music-master, who 
 has given me leave to say that I have come in his place. 
 
 Tot. Here's her father. Retire a little, and I will tell him 
 that you are here. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Argan, Toinette; aftenvards Clisante. 
 
 Argan {thinking himself alone ^ and not seeing Toinette). Mons. 
 Purgon told me that I should walk twelve times to and fro in my 
 room every morning, but I forgot to ask him whether it should be 
 longways or broadways. 
 
 Toinette. Sir, here is some one 
 
 Ar. Speak low, you hussy. You have just upset all my 
 brains, and you never reflect that you should not speak loudly to 
 s!pk people. .lavoi \ni ,ui 
 
 ''^ Toi. I want to tell you, sir— '? *^rf : ^J o^ 
 
 Ar. Speak low, I say. 
 
 Toi. Sir {she pretends to speak), 
 
 Ar. AVhat? 
 
 Toi. I tell you that {she still pretends to speak). 
 
 Ar. What is it you're saying ? 
 
 Toi. {aloud). I say there's a man wants to speak to you. 
 
 Ar. Let him come. {Toinette beckons to Cleante to come near.) 
 
 Cleatite. Sir 
 
 Toi. {to Cleante). Don't speak so loud, for fear of shaking my 
 master's brains. 
 
 Cle. Sir, I am extremely glad to see you up, and to find that 
 you are better. 
 
 Toi. {pretending to be in a passion). What do you mean by 
 better ? It is not true. My master is always ailing. 
 
 Cle. I had heard that the gentleman was better, and he looks 
 well. 
 
 Toi. What do you mean by your " looks well " ? He looks 
 very ill, and they are insolent people who told you he was better. 
 He never was so ill in his life, 
 
 4r. She's quite right. 
 
358 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC, [Act II. 
 
 Tot. He walks, sleeps, eats, and drinks like other people, but 
 that does not hinder him from being ill. 
 
 At. That's true. 
 
 Cle. Sir, I am heartily sorry for it. I come from your daughter's 
 music-master. He was obliged to go into the country for a few 
 days ; and as I am one of his intimate friends, he sent me in his 
 place, to go on with her lessons, for fear that if they were discon- 
 tinued she might forget what she had already learnt. 
 
 Ar. Very well. {To Toinette.) Call Angelique. 
 
 Tot, I think, sir, it would be better to show the gentleman to 
 her room. 
 
 Ar. No ; bid her come here. 
 
 Tot, He can't teach her her lesson as he should do, if they 
 are not by themselves. 
 
 Ar. Yes, he can. 
 
 Tot. Sir, it will only stun you, or split your brains, and you 
 must have nothing to disturb you in the condition in which you 
 are, 
 
 Ar. No, no, I love music, and I shall be glad to Ah, 
 
 here she comes. {To Toinette) Go and see if my wife is 
 
 dressed. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Argan, Angelique, Cl^ante. 
 
 Argan. Come, daughter, your music-master is gone into the 
 country, and here's a person whom he has sent to teach you in 
 his place. 
 
 Angelique {recognising Cleante). Oh, heavens ! 
 
 Ar. What's the matter ? Whence comes this surprise ? 
 
 An. It is 
 
 Ar. What ? Who disturbs you in this manner ? 
 
 An, It is a surprising occurrence that has happened. 
 
 Ar. What is it ? 
 
 Aft. I dreamt last night that I was in the greatest possible 
 distress, and that a person exactly like this gentleman offered 
 himself to me, of whom I asked help, and he presently freed me 
 from the trouble I was in ; and my surprise was very great to see 
 unexpectedly, upon coming in here, what was in my mind all night. 
 
 Cle. It is no small happiness to have a place in your thoughts, 
 whether sleeping or waking; and my good fortune would un- 
 doubtedly be very great if you were in any trouble from which 
 you should judge me worthy to deliver you ; and there is nothing 
 I would not do ^ 
 
Scene V.] LE MALADE I M AGIN AIRE. 359 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Argan, Angelique, Cleante, Toinette. 
 
 Toitiette {to Argan). Indeed, sir, I'm on your side now, and 
 unsay all that I said yesterday; Here are Mons. Diafoirus the 
 father, and Mons. Diafoirus the son, come to visit you. What a 
 capital son-in-law you will have ! You will see one of the best- 
 made young fellows in the world, and the wittiest too. He only 
 spoke two words, but I was delighted with him, and your daughter 
 will be charmed with him. 
 
 Argan {to Cltante^ who pretends to wish to go). Don't go, sir; 
 I am about to give my daughter in marriage, and the gentleman 
 who is come is her intended husband, whom she has not yet seen. 
 
 CIL You do me a great honour, sir, by allowing me to be 
 present at so agreeable an interview. 
 
 Ar. He is the son of an eminent physician, and the marriage 
 will come off in four days. 
 
 CIL Excellent. 
 
 Ar. Please to inform her music-master of it, so that he may 
 be present at the wedding. 
 
 Cle. I will not fail to do so. 
 
 Ar. I invite you also to it. 
 
 Cle. You do me a great honour. 
 
 Ar. Come, place yourselves in order; here they are. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Mons. Diafoirus, Thomas Diafoirus, Argan, Angelique, 
 
 Cleante, Servants. 
 Argan {putting his hand to his cap without taking it off). 
 Mons. Purgon, sir, has forbidden me to be uncovered. You are 
 of the faculty, you know the consequences. 
 
 M. Diafoirus. In all our visits we desire to bring relief to 
 our patients, and not to give them any inconvenience. 
 
 {Argan atid Mons. Diafoirus speak at the same time.) 
 Ar. I receive, sir — Dia. We come here, sir — 
 
 Ai^. With a great deal of joy — Dia. My son, Thomas, and I — 
 Ar. The honour you do me — Dia. To declare to you, sir — 
 Ar. And I could have wished — Dia. How delighted we are — 
 Ar. To have been able to go Dia. At the favour you do us — 
 
 to you — 
 Ar, To assure you of it, Dia, In so kindly receiving 
 
 us— 
 
36o THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act II. 
 
 Ar, But you know, sir — Dia, To the honour, sir — 
 
 y/r. What it is to be a poQi J)ia» Of your alliance- 
 invalid— ;.:;:, eo ^i^cn:!'" ■^■^:v.'.:^ "^'- ■ 
 
 Ar, Who can do no moJe-iJrfft d:^**. And to assure you— 
 
 Ar. Than tell you here— .4 z&.id)ia. That in affairs relating to 
 
 Ar» That he will seekjimftij x our profession — 
 
 opportunities — ysrlHi od^ta. As also in all others — 
 
 Ak To prove to you, sir — Dia, We shall ever be ready, 
 
 Ar. That he is entirely at you sir — 
 
 service. 
 ^' Dia. To testify our zeal for you. {To his son.) Come, 
 Thomas, advance ; pay your respects. 
 
 Thomas Diafoirus {to M. Diafoirus). Should not I begin 
 with the father ?., .j^y^^^ i^:;.fc, 
 
 M. Dia. Yes. 
 
 Tho, Dia. {to Argan). Sir, I come to salute, acknowledge, 
 cherish, and revere in you a second father ; but a second father 
 to whom I make bold to say I am more indebted than to my 
 first. The first gave me being, but you have chosen me. He 
 received me of necessity, but you have accepted me by favour. 
 What I have from him proceeds from the body, what I owe to 
 you proceeds from your will ; and as mental faculties are superior 
 to corporeal ones, by so much the more am I indebted to you, 
 and by so much do I hold more valuable this future filiation, for 
 which I come this day to offer you beforehand the most humble 
 and respectful homage. 
 
 Toinette. Prosperity to the colleges which turn. out such clever 
 persons ! -^^ 
 
 Tho. Dia. {to M. Dia.) Was that well done, father? 
 
 M. Dia. Optime. '- 
 
 Ar. {to Angelique). Come, salute the gentleman. ^ 
 
 Tho. Dia. {to M. Dia.). Shall I kiss her, father ? ^^ 
 
 M. Dia. Yes, yes. 
 
 Tho. Dia. {to Angelique). Madame, heaven has justly granted- 
 you the name of mother-in-law, since one '^^ 
 
 Ar. {to Tho. Dia.) It is not my wife, but my daughter that yoti^^ 
 are talking to. . ^' 
 
 Tho. Dia. Where is she, then ? '^ 
 
 Ar. She's coming. 
 
 Tho. Dia. Shall I wait, father, till she comes ? 
 
 M. Dia. Continue your compliments to the young lady. 
 
 Tho. Dia. Madame, just as the statue of Memnon gave a 
 harmonious sound, when illumined by the rays of the sun, so in 
 
Scene v.] LE MALADE JMAGINAIRE, 361 
 
 like manner do I feel myself animated with a sweet transport at 
 the appearance of the sun of your beauty. And as naturalists 
 remark that the sunflower turns without ceasing to the star of day, 
 so, shall my heart, henceforth and for ever, turn towards the 
 resplendent stars of your eyes, as to its only pole. Permit me 
 then, madame, now to offer at the altar of your charms that heart 
 which breathes for, longs for no other glory than to be till death, 
 madame, your most humble, most obedient, and most faithful 
 servant and husband. 
 
 Tot. See what it is to study ! How one learns to make fine 
 speeches ! 
 
 Ar. (to Cleanfe). Ah ! What do you think of that ? 
 
 Cle. I think the gentleman does wonders, and if he is as good 
 a doctor as he is an orator, it would be a great pleasure to be one 
 of his patients. 
 
 Toi. Certainly. It will be a wonderful thing if he can make 
 as good cures as he does speeches. 
 
 Ar. Here, make haste and bring my chair, and chairs for 
 everybody. (Footmeft bring chairs.) Daughter, sit there. [To 
 Mons. Diafoirus.) You see, sir, that everybody admires your son, 
 and I think you are very happy in having a son such as he is. 
 
 M. Dia. Sir, it is not because I am his father that I can say 
 I have reason to be satisfied with him, and that all who see him 
 speak of him as a youth who has no harm in him. He never had 
 a very lively imagination, nor that sparkling wit which one ob- 
 serves in some others ; but that I always looked upon as a happy 
 omen for his judgment — a quahty most essential in our art. When 
 he was a little boy, he was never what you might term roguish or 
 waggish. He was always mild, quiet, peaceable and taciturn, 
 never uttering a word, and never playing at those little games one 
 calls childish. They had great diflficulty in teaching him to read, 
 and he was nine years old before he knew his letters. Good, I 
 said to myself; trees slow of growth bear the best fruit One 
 writes on marble with much more difficulty than on the sand; 
 but things are much longer preserved there, and that slowness of 
 apprehension and heaviness of imagination are a mark of future 
 sound judgment. When I sent him to college, he found it hard 
 work; but he bore up bravely against all difficulties, and his 
 tutors always praised his assiduity and steady work. In short, by 
 mere force of hammering at it, he has nobly gained his degree ; 
 and I can say without vanity, that from the time he became a 
 student, there has been no candidate who has made more sen- 
 sation in all the disputations of the medical school. He has made 
 
362 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act II. 
 
 a name for himself there, and not an act passes but he argues to 
 the very last point on the contrary side. He is firm in a dispute, 
 strong as a Turk in his principles, and follows up an argument to 
 the farthest recesses of logic. But what pleases me in him above 
 everything, is that he is blindly attached to the opinions of our 
 ancestors, and that he would never take in nor hsten to the 
 reasons and experiments in favour of the pretended discoveries of 
 our age, concerning the circulation of the blood, and other theories 
 of the same sort. 
 
 Tho. Dia. {taking a long essay from his pocket, which he presents 
 to Angelique). I have supported a thesis against the circulation 
 of the blood, which, with your permission, monsieur {bowing to 
 Argan)^ I make bold to present to mademoiselle as my homage 
 to her of the first-fruits of my talents. 
 
 An. Sir, it is a useless piece of goods to me, as I know 
 nothing about matters of that sort. 
 
 Toi. (taking the thesis). Give it me ; give it me. It's worth 
 having for the picture on it. It will do to ornament our 
 bedroom. 
 
 Tho. Dia. And, with your permission also, monsieur, I invite 
 you to come one of these days and see a dissection on which I am 
 to lecture. 
 
 Toi. That will be a pleasant amusement ! There are some 
 gentlemen who offer their sweethearts a play, but to offer a dis- 
 section is much more gallant. 
 
 M. Dia. As for the rest, in all that regards marriage, I can 
 assure you that he is all that you could desire. 
 
 Ar. Is it not your intention, sir, to push his interest at Court, 
 and get him a physician's place there? 
 
 J/. Dia. To speak frankly to you, practice among great people 
 has never pleased me, and I have always found it better to make 
 our connection with the public. The general public are very 
 accommodating. You are accountable to no one for your 
 actions, and provided one follows the rules of the art, there is no 
 need to trouble about the event, whatever it may be. But what 
 is vexatious among your great people is, that when they happen 
 to be ill, they absolutely expect their physician to cure them. 
 
 Toi. That's a good joke ! and it's absurd to expect that you 
 gentlemen should cure them ! You don't attend them for that 
 purpose ; you only go to take your fees, and prescribe remedies : ^ 
 it's their business to get better if they can. 
 
 M. Dia. That's true. We're only obliged to treat people 
 according to regular form. 
 
SCENE v.] LE MALADE JMAGJNAIRE, ^6^ 
 
 Ar, {to Cleanie). Sir, pray let my daughter sing before the 
 company. 
 
 Cle. I waited for your orders, sir, and propose to amuse the 
 company by singing, with the young lady, a scene of a little 
 opera lately composed, [To Angelique, giving her a paper,) 
 There's your part. 
 
 An, I? 
 
 Cle. {aside to Angelujue). Pray don't refuse, but permit me to 
 let you into the design of the scene we're going to sing. {Aloud.) 
 I have no voice for singing, but it's sufficient in this case to make 
 myself understood ; you will kindly excuse me because of the 
 necessity I ^m under to make the young lady sing. 
 
 Ar. Are the words pretty ? 
 
 Cle. This is properly an extempore opera, and what you 
 are to hear sung is only rhythmical prose — a kind of irregular 
 verse, such as feeling and necessity might suggest to two persons 
 who say things out of their own head, and speak off-hand. 
 
 Ar. Very well. Let us hear. 
 
 Cle. The subject of the scene is this. A shepherd was 
 watching a play that was just beginning, when his attention was 
 interrupted by a noise on one side of him. He turns to look, 
 and sees a brutish clown, who, with insolent words, was abusing a 
 shepherdess. At once he took up the cause of the sex to which 
 all men owe homage; and having chastised the churl for his 
 insolence, he comes to the shepherdess, and sees a young creature 
 who, from the most lovely eyes he had ever seen, was shedding 
 tears, which he thought the most beautiful in the world. Alas ! 
 he says to himself, could any one be capable of insulting so 
 charming a creature? What inhuman, what barbarous person 
 would not be touched by such tears? He was anxious to stop 
 those tears which he thought so beautiful; and the lovely 
 shepherdess took care at the same time to thank him for the 
 slight service he had done, but in a manner so charming and so 
 tender that the shepherd could not resist it ; every word, every 
 look was a flaming dart which he felt pierce his heart. *' Is there 
 anything," said he, "that can possibly deserve the charming words 
 of such gratitude ? And what would not one do, what service, 
 what dangers would not one be delighted to go through, to attract 
 but for one moment the moving tenderness of so grateful a mind?" 
 The whole entertainment passes without his paying any attention 
 to it ; but he complains that it is too short, because at its close he 
 will be separated from his adorable shepherdess ; and from this 
 first view, from this first moment, he took home with him all the 
 
364 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC, [Act II, 
 
 force of an attachment of many years. He at once suffers all the 
 pangs of absence, and is tormented that he cannot any longer see 
 what he saw for so short a time. He does all that he can to 
 regain that sight, the dear thought of which he carries in his mind 
 night and day, but the great restraint under which his shepherdess 
 is kept deprives him of all opportunity. The vehemence of his 
 devotion to her makes him resolve to demand in marriage the 
 adorable beauty, without whom he can no longer live, and he 
 obtains her consent to this, by a letter which he had the cleverness 
 to convey to her. But at the same time he is told that the father 
 of the fair one has decided on marrying her to another ; and all 
 things are ready for celebrating the ceremony. Judge what a 
 cruel stroke this is for the heart of the melancholy shepherd. See 
 him overwhelmed with mortal sorrow: he cannot support the 
 horrible idea of seeing all that he loves in the arras of another, 
 and his passion being desperate, makes him introduce himself 
 into the house of his shepherdess to learn her sentiments, and 
 know what destiny he is to resolve on. He there finds preparations 
 for all he fears; he there sees the unworthy rival whom the 
 caprice of a father sets in opposition to the tenderness of his 
 love. He sees this ridiculous rival, near the lovely shepherdess, 
 triumphing as if the conquest were sure, and the sight fills him 
 with anger, which he has the greatest difficulty in mastering. He 
 casts a mournful look on her whom he adores, and both his 
 respect for her and the presence of her father prevent him from 
 saying anything to her, except by his eyes. But at length he 
 breaks through all restraint, and the transport of his love leads 
 him to express himself thus — {he sings). 
 
 Fair Phyllis, His too much to bear; 
 Break cruel silence, and your thoughts declare. 
 Tell fne at once my destiny. 
 Shall I live, or must I die ? 
 An. (sings) — 
 
 With sad, dejected looks, O Thyrsis, see 
 
 Poor Phyllis dreads tJC ill-fated wedding-day ; 
 Sighing, she lifts her eyes to heaven a?td thee ; 
 What needs she more to say 2 
 Ar. So, so. I didn't know my daughter was so clever as to^ 
 sing at sight, without hesitating. 
 
 Cle. Alas, my Phyllis fair. 
 
 Can the enamoured Thyrsis be so blest. 
 Your favour in the least to share. 
 And find a place within that lovely breast f 
 
3CENE v.] m MALADE tMAGlNAIkE. 365 
 
 An. In this extreme if I confess my love^ 
 
 ^. _ Not modesty itself can disapproi'e : 
 
 o: Yes, Thy r sis, thee I love. 
 
 ::'Cle. O f sound enchanti?tg to the ear I 
 
 Did I drea7Ti, or did I hear ? 
 Repeat it, Phyllis, and all doubt remove. 
 An. YeSy Thy r sis, thee I love. 
 
 Cle. Once more, my Phyllis. 
 
 An. Thee I love. 
 
 Cle. A thousand times repeat, nor weary proi)e. 
 
 An. I love, I love, yes, Thyrsis, thee I loi^e. 
 
 Clt, Ye monarchs of the earth, ye powers divine. 
 
 Can you compare your happiness to minel 
 But, Phyllis, therms a thought 
 Does my transporting joy abate : 
 
 A rival 
 
 An. I more than death the monster hate. 
 
 And if his presence tortures you^ 
 It does no less to Phyllis too. 
 Cle. If with the match a father's pow'r 
 
 Would force you to comply. 
 All. Id rather, rather die than give co?isent, 
 
 Muck rather, rather die. 
 Ar. And what says the father to all this ? 
 Cle. He says nothing. 
 
 Ar. That same father was a blockhead of a father to allow 9.U 
 these foolish things without saying anything. 
 
 Cle. (wishing to cotttinue singing). Ah ! my love — ; — 
 Ar. No, no ! that's enough of it. This play is of a pernicious 
 kind. The shepherd Thyrsis is an impertinent fellow, and the 
 shepherdess Phyllis an impudent hussy to speak in this way 
 before a father. {To Angelique.) Show me the paper. Ah, ha ! 
 Where are the words, then, that you spoke? There's nothing 
 written here but the music. 
 
 Cle. What, don't you know, sir, that they've found out lately 
 how to write the words in the very notes themselves ? 
 
 Ar. Vey well. I'm your obedient servant, sir. Good day. 
 We could very well have spared your impertinent opera. 
 Cle. I thought to divert you. 
 Ar, Impertinence never diverts. Ah ! here's my wife. 
 
366 TtiS: tiVPOCHONDRtAC, [Act Ii. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 BYLINE, Ar6AN, Ang^lique, Monsieur Diafoirus, Thomas 
 
 DiAFOIRUS, TOINETTE. 
 
 Argan. My love, here's Monsieur Diafoirus' son. 
 
 Thomas Diafoirus. Madame, it is with justice that heaven 
 has granted you the name of mother-in-law, since one sees in your 
 face 
 
 Beline. Sir, I am delighted that I came here just at the right 
 time that I might have the pleasure of seeing you. 
 
 Tho. Dia. Since one sees in your face — Since one sees in 
 your face — Madame, you interrupted me in the middle of my 
 sentence, and that has disturbed my memory. 
 
 Mons. Diafoirus. Reserve that, Thomas, for another time. 
 
 Ar. I wish you had been here just now, dearest. 
 
 Toittette. Ah, madame, you lost a great deal by not being here 
 at the second father, and the statue of Memnon, and the flower called 
 heliotrope, 
 
 • Ar. Come, daughter, join hands with this gentleman and 
 plight him your troth as your husband. 
 
 Angelique. Father ! 
 
 Ar. Eh ? Father ! What's the meaning of this ? 
 
 An. I beg of you not to hurry things too fast. Give us time 
 at least to know one another, and to develop that inclination for 
 one another which is so necessary for a perfect union. 
 
 Tho. Dia. As for me, madame, mine is grown already. I 
 have no need to wait any longer. 
 
 An. If you are so forward, sir, it is not the same with me, and 
 I confess to you that your merit has not yet made sufficient 
 impression on my mind. 
 
 Ar. Ah, well, well ; there will be plenty of time for that when 
 you are married. 
 
 An, Oh 1 father, pray give me time. Marriage is a chain 
 which should never be imposed on a heart by force, and if the 
 gentleman is a man of honour he would never accept a person 
 who must be his by constraint. 
 
 Tho. Dia. Nego consequentiam, madame. I may be a man of 
 honour, and yet be willing to receive you from the hands of your 
 father. 
 
 An. To resort to compulsion is a bad way of making one's 
 self beloved by any one. 
 
 Tho. Dia. We read, madame, that the custom of the ancients 
 was to carry off by force from their father's house the girls they 
 
SCENE VI.] LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE. 367 
 
 were going to marry, that it might not seem to be by their consent 
 that they flew into the arms of a man. 
 
 An. The ancients, sir, are the ancients, and we are the 
 moderns. Such fanciful ways are not necessary in our age, and 
 when a marriage pleases us we know how to approach it, without 
 any one dragging us. Have patience ; if you love me, sir, you 
 ought to desire what I wish. 
 
 Tho. Dia. Yes, madame, as far as the interests of my love are 
 concerned, exclusively. 
 
 An. But the great mark of love is to submit to the will of her 
 one loves. 
 
 Tho. Dia. Distinguo^ madame ; in what regards not the 
 possession of her, concedo ; but in what regards that, Jtego. 
 
 Tot. It is in vain to reason. The gentleman has just come 
 brand-new from college ; and he will always give you an answer. 
 Why should you resist so much and refuse the honour of being 
 attached to the body of the faculty ? 
 
 Bel. Perhaps she has some other inclination in her head. 
 
 An. If I had, madame, it would be such as reason and honour 
 might allow. 
 
 Ar. Well, I'm acting a pleasant part here ! 
 
 Bel. If I were in your place, my dear, I wouldn't force her to 
 marry at all. I know very well what I would do. 
 
 An. I know, madame, what you mean, and the kindness you 
 have for me ; but perhaps your counsels may not be lucky enough 
 to be put into execution. 
 
 Bel. That's because very well-beloved and very good children 
 like you, scorn to be submissive and obedient to the will of their 
 fathers. That was a virtue formerly. 
 
 An. The duty of a daughter, madame, has bounds, and 
 neither reason nor law extend to all sorts of things. 
 
 Bel. That is to say, you are very willing to marry, but you 
 wish to choose a husband after your own fancy. 
 
 An. If my father will not give me a husband to my liking, 
 I shall beg and entreat of him not to force me to marry one I can't 
 love. 
 
 Ar. Gentlemen, I beg your pardon for all this. 
 
 An. Every one has his own end to gain in marrying. For my 
 part, as I would not marry a husband except really to love him, 
 and as I intend to be entirely attached to him for life, I confess to 
 you that I use some precaution in the matter. There are some 
 persons who take husbands only to set themselves free from the 
 restraint of their parents, and to gain the opportunity of doing 
 
368 •— THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act 11. 
 
 whatever they please. There are others, madatiie, who make 
 marriage a bargain of self-interest ; who only marry to get a good 
 jointure, to enrich themselves through the death of their husbands, 
 and who without scruple take one husband after another in order 
 to lay hands on the spoils. These people indeed do not stand on 
 ceremony, and have little regard for the person they marry. 
 
 Bel. I find you very argumentative to day, and I should like 
 to know what you mean by that. 
 
 An. I, madame ? What should I mean but what I say ? 
 
 Bel. You're such a simpleton, my dear, that one cannot put 
 up with you any longer. 
 
 An. I have no doubt, madame, you would like to force me to 
 give you some impertinent answer, but I tell you beforehand you 
 shall not have that advantage. 
 
 Bel. Your insolence is not to be equalled. 
 
 An. No, madame, your talking is in vain. 
 
 Bel. You have a ridiculous pride, and an impertinent pre- 
 sumption which makes every one scorn you. 
 
 An. All this will do no good, madame ; I shall be discreet in 
 spite of you ; and to take away from you all hope of succeeding in 
 what you are trying to do, I shall get out of your sight. 
 
 Ar. (to Angelique as she goes out). Now listen to me. There's no 
 medium course in this case. You make your choice to marry in 
 four days' time either this gentleman, or a convent. {To Beline.) 
 Don't give yourself any uneasiness ; I'll bring her into good order. 
 
 Bel. I'm sorry to leave you, my boy, but I've some business 
 in the city, which can't be dispensed with. I shall come back 
 presently. 
 
 Ar. Go, love, and call upon your lawyer, so that he may get 
 on with you know what. 
 
 Bel. Good-bye, dearest. 
 
 Ar. Good-bye, darling. \Exit Beline. 
 
 Ar. There's a woman that loves me, you wouldn't believe how 
 much. 
 
 M. Dia. We shall now take our leave of you, sir. 
 
 Ar. Pray, sir, tell me how I am. " 
 
 M. Dia. {feeling his pulse). Here, Thomas, take the gentle- 
 man's other arm, to see whether you can form a good judgment of 
 his pulse. Quid dicis 1 
 
 Tho. Dia. Dico^ that the pulse is the pulse of a man who is 
 not well. 
 
 M. Dia. Good. 
 
 Tho. Dia. That it is hardish, not to say hard. 
 
Scene VIIL] LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE. 369 
 
 M. Dia. Very well. 
 
 Tho. Dia. Recoiling. 
 
 M. Dia. Bene. 
 
 Tho. Dia, Even a little bounding. 
 
 M, Dia. Optime. 
 
 Tho. Dia. Which shows disorder in the Parenchyma spleniaim^ 
 that is to say, the spleen. 
 
 M. Dia. Very well. 
 
 Ar, No, Monsieur Purgon says it is my liver which is out of 
 order. 
 
 M. Dia. Why yes, he who says Parenchyma^ means both one 
 and the other, on account of the close sympathy that exists 
 between them by means of the vas breve, the Pylorus, and some- 
 times the Meatus cholidici. He orders you, doubtless, to eat 
 roast meat ? 
 
 Ar. No, nothing but boiled. 
 
 M. Dia. Ah, yes, roast, boiled, the same thing. He orders 
 you very prudently, and you cannot be in better hands. 
 
 Ar, Sir, how many grains of salt ought one to take with an 
 egg? - 
 
 M, Dia. 3ix, eight, ten, by even numbers; but medicines by 
 odd ones. 
 
 Ar, Hoping to see you again, sir. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Beline, Argan. 
 
 Beline. I am come, my boy, before going out, to tell you 
 something which you must be on your guard against. As I 
 passed by the door of Angelique's room, I saw a young fellow 
 with her, who ran away as soon as he saw me. 
 
 Argan. A young fellow with my daughter ? 
 
 BU. Yes. Your little daughter Louison was with them ; she 
 can tell you all about it. 
 
 Ar. Send her here, dearest, send her here. {Alone!) Oh, the 
 bold-faced hussy ! I am no longer surprised at her obstinacy* - 
 
 Scene VHI. 
 Argan, Louison. 
 Ijouison. What do you want with me, papa? My step-mamma 
 told me that you want me. 
 
 Argan. Yes, come here. Come nearer. Turn towards me. 
 Look up at me. Well ? 
 
 25 
 
370 
 
 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act II. 
 
 1 
 
 Lou. What, papa? Ar, So? 
 
 Lou. What? Ar. Have you nothing to tell me? 
 
 Lou, If you like, I'll amuse you by repeating the fable of the 
 Ass's Skin, or that of the Crow and the Fox, which I learnt the 
 other day. 
 
 Ar. That's not what I want. Lou. What then? 
 
 Ar. Oh, you cunning puss, you know very well what I mean. 
 
 Lou. I beg your pardon, papa. J 
 
 Ar, Is this the way you obey me ? ^ 
 
 Lou. What do you mean ? 
 
 Ar, Did not I charge you to come and tell me everything you^ 
 saw. !| 
 
 Lou, Yes, papa. % 
 
 Ar, Have you done so ? 
 
 Lou. Yes, papa, I have come to tell you all I have seen. 
 
 Ar. And have you seen nothing to-day ? 
 
 Lou. No, papa. Ar. No ? 
 
 Lou. No, papa. Ar. Truly ! Lou. Truly. 
 
 Ar. Very well, then I'll make you see something. 
 
 Lou. {seeing Argan take a rod). Oh ! papa. 
 
 Ar. Ah, ha ! you little hypocrite, you never told me you saw 
 a man in your sister's room. 
 
 Lou. (crying). Papa! 
 
 Ar. {taking her by the ami). Here's something which will teach 
 you to tell lies. 
 
 Lou. {falling down on Jier knees). Oh, papa, please forgive me ! 
 It was because my sister told me not to tell you ; but I'm going 
 to tell you all. 
 
 Ar. You must first of all have a whipping, because you have 
 told a lie. We will see about the rest afterwards. 
 
 JLou. Please forgive me, papa ! Ar, No, no. 
 
 Lj}u. Please don't whip me, dear papa ! 
 
 Ar. You shall be whipped. 
 
 Lou. For heaven's sake, papa, don't whip me ! 
 
 Ar. (going to whip her). Come, come. 
 
 Lou. Oh ! papa, you've hurt me. Stop ! I'm dead. {She 
 pretends to be dead.) 
 
 Ar. Ah ! What's the meaning of this ? Louison, Louison ! 
 Oh, bless me, Louison ! Oh, my child ! Oh, wretched me ! My 
 poor child's dead. AVhat have I done ? Wretch! Oh! villain- 
 ous rod. A curse on all rods. Oh! my dear child; my poor 
 little Louison ! 
 
 Lou, There, there, papa, don't cry so. I'm not qfuite dead. 
 
SCENE VIII.] LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE, • 371 
 
 Ar. Oh, you artful little thing ! Well, well, I forgive you for 
 this time, if you really tell me all. 
 
 Lou. Oh, yes, papa. 
 
 Ar. You must take very good care, however, that you do, for 
 my little finger here, knows all, and will tell me if you are lying. 
 
 Lou. But, papa, don't tell my sister that I told you. 
 
 A7'. No, no. 
 
 Lou. [after seeing if any body listefted). Why, papa, there came 
 a man into my sister's room, when I was there, 
 
 Ar, Well ? 
 
 Lou. I asked him what he wanted, and he told me he was her 
 music-master. 
 
 Ar. {aside). Urn, um. So that's the business. {To Louison.) 
 Well? 
 
 Lou. Afterwards my sister came. Ar, Well? 
 
 Lou. She said to him, " Be gone, be gone, be gone, for good- 
 ness' sake ! Be gone, you will drive me mad ! " 
 
 Ar. Very well ; and what then ? 
 
 L^u, He wouldn't go. 
 
 Ar. What did he say to her ? 
 
 Lou. He said, oh, I don't know how many things. 
 
 Ar. But what were they ? 
 
 Lou. He told her this, that, and the other, how he loved her 
 dearly, and that she was the prettiest creature in the world. 
 
 Ar. And then ? 
 fej Lou. And then he fell down on his knees to her. 
 W'^Ar. And then? 
 
 Lou. Then he kissed her hand. Ar. And then ? 
 
 Lou. Then mamma came to the door, and he ran away. 
 
 Ar. Was there nothing else ? Lou. No, papa. 
 
 Ar. My little finger, however, mutters something besides. 
 {Putting his finger to his ear.) Stay— eh ? ha ! My little finger 
 tells me of something you saw, and have not told me about. 
 
 Lou. Then, papa, your little finger tells fibs. 
 
 Ar. Take care. 
 
 ^Lou. No, papa, don't believe it, it tell fibs, I assure you. 
 Ar. Well, well, we shall see. Go away, and be sure you 
 observe everything. Now go. {Alone.) Well, there are no such 
 things as children now. Oh, what a perplexity of affairs ! I have 
 not even leisure to pay attention to my ailments. In good truth, 
 I can hold out no longer. {Sinks down into his chair.) 
 
372 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC, [Act III. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 Bkralde, Argan. 
 
 Beralde. Well, brother^ what's the matter? '^How are you? 
 
 Argan. Ah, brother, very ill. . ^ v jm^'v, 
 
 Ber, How's that? What, very ill? "^ ^^^^^ ^ 
 
 Ar. Yes, no one would believe how weal: I ain. 
 
 Ber. That's a sad thing indeed. 
 
 Ar. I haven't even the strength to be able to speak. 
 
 Ber. I came here, brother, to propose a match for my niece, 
 Angelique. 
 
 Ar. {speaking in a great rage^ and starting out of his chair). 
 Brother, don't speak to me about that base slut ! She's an idle, 
 impertinent, impudent hussy, and I'll put her in a convent before 
 she's two days older. 
 
 Ber. Ah ! That's very good ! I'm very glad your strength is 
 coming back to you a little, and that my visit is doing you good. 
 Well, come, we'll talk of business presently. I am bringing you 
 an entertainment which I met with, which will dissipate your 
 melancholy, and dispose you better for what we have to talk 
 about. They are gipsies, dressed like Moors, who perform dances, 
 together with songs, which I am sure you will be pleased with ; 
 and this will be much better for you than one of Monsieur Pur- 
 gon's prescriptions. Now let us go. 
 
 ACT III. Scene I. 
 Beralde, Argan, Toinette. 
 
 Beralde. Well, brother, what do you say to this?. Is it npot 
 well worth -a dose of cassia ? 
 
 Toinette. Hm. Good cassia is an excellent thing. 
 
 Ber. Now, shall we talk a little together ? 
 
 Ar. A little patience, brother ; I will come back directly. 
 
 Tot. Stop, sir, you don't remember that you can't walk wji^- 
 out your stick. ' ' ^^ 
 
 Ar. You're right. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Beralde, Toinette. '' 
 
 Toinette. Pray, sir, don't abandon the interest of your niece. ':|, 
 
 Beralde, I'll try in every way to obtain for her what slie, 
 
 wishes. 
 
Scene III.] LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE, 373 
 
 Toi. We must absolutely prevent this absurd match that he 
 has got in his head ; and I've thought to myself that it would be 
 a good plan to introduce a physician here of our own choosing, 
 who would disgust him with his Monsieur Purgon, and cry down 
 his conduct. But as we have no one at hand to do it, I have 
 resolved to play a trick out of my own head. 
 
 Ber. How ? 
 
 Tou It's a whimsical fancy. It may be more fortunate, per- 
 haps, than prudent. Let me alone, and do you act your part. 
 Here comes our man. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Argan, B^ralde. 
 
 Beralde. Will you allow me, brother, to ask you, before every- 
 thing, not to put yourself into any heat in our conversation ? 
 
 Argan. Agreed. 
 
 Ber. And that you will answer without any irritation the things 
 I may say to you ? 
 
 Ar. Yes. 
 
 Ber. And that we may discuss the business we have to talk 
 about with a mind free from all passion ? 
 
 Ar. Good gracious, yes ! What a lot of preamble. 
 
 Ber. How is it, brother, that, having the fortune you have, 
 and having no children but one daughter — for I don't reckon your 
 little one — how comes it, I say, that you talk of putting her into 
 a convent ? 
 
 Ar. Whence comes it, brother, that I am master of my family 
 but to do as I think fit ? 
 
 Ber. Your wife does not fail to advise you thus to get rid of 
 your daughter, and I don't doubt that through a spirit of charity 
 she would be delighted to see them both good nuns. 
 
 Ar. Oh, that's it, is it ? My poor wife is at once brought into 
 play. She does all the mischief, and every one puts it down to 
 her. 
 
 Ber. No, brother, let's leave that alone. She's a woman who 
 has the best intentions in the world towards your family, and has 
 a wonderful tenderness for you, and shows an inconceivable affec- 
 tion and kindness for your children, that is certain. We'll not 
 talk of that, but return to your daughter. With what idea, brother, 
 would you give her in marriage to the son of a physician ? 
 
 Ar. With the idea, brother, of giving myself such a son-in-law 
 as I want. 
 
374 ~ THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act III. 
 
 Ber. That's no concern, brother, of your daughter's; and 
 there's a more suitable match offered her. 
 
 Ar. Yes, but this, brother, is more suitable to me. 
 
 Ber. But ought the husband she takes to be for you, or for 
 herself, brother ? 
 
 Ar. It ought, brother, to be both for herself and for me, and 
 I desire to bring into my family people that I have need of. 
 
 Ber. By the same reason, if your little girl were big enough, 
 you'd marry her to an apothecary. 
 
 Ar. Why not? 
 
 Ber. Is it possible you should ahvays be so infatuated with 
 your apothecaries and doctors, and resolve to be ill in spite of 
 mankind and nature ? 
 
 Ar. What do you mean, brother ? 
 
 Ber. I mean, brother, that I don't see any one less sick than 
 yourself, and I would not desire a better constitution than yours. 
 It is a great token that you are well, and have a very strong frame, 
 that with all the pains you have taken you have not been able to 
 ruin your constitution, and that you are not destroyed by all the 
 medicines they have made you take. 
 
 Ar. But do you know, brother, it is that which preserves me ; 
 and Monsieur Purgon says that I should go off if he was only 
 three days without taking care of me. 
 
 Ber. If you don't take care of yourself, he'll take so much 
 care of you that he'll send you into the other world. 
 
 Ar. But let us reason a little, brother. Have you no faith, 
 then, in physic? 
 
 Ber. No, brother ; and I don't think it's necessary to salvation 
 to have faith in it. 
 
 Ar. What ! don't you think a thing true which has been estab- 
 lished through all the world, and which all ages have revered ? 
 
 Ber. Far from thinking it true, I look upon it, between us, as 
 one of the greatest follies which prevails among men ; and to con- 
 sider the matter philosophically, I don't know a more pleasant; 
 piece of foolery. I cannot conceive anything more ridiculou&j 
 than for one man to undertake to cure another. I 
 
 Ar. Why, won't you allow, brother, that one man I 
 
 Ber, For this reason, brother, that the springs of our body ard 
 hitherto mysteries that men can scarce see into; and because! 
 nature has set before our eyes too thick a veil for us to know any-, 
 thing of the matter. 
 
 Ar. In your opinion, then, the doctors know nothing ? 
 
 Ber. True, brother. They are well up in the most polite 
 
Scene I I.J LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE. 375 
 
 learning ; can talk good Latin ; know how to name all ailments in 
 Greek, to define and to distinguish them ; but as to curing them, 
 that's what they don't know at all. 
 
 Ar. But still you must agree with me that in this matter 
 doctors know more than other people. 
 
 Ber. They know, brother, what won't cure any great matter ; 
 and all the excellency of their art consists in a pompous nonsense, 
 and a specious babbling, which gives you words instead of reasons, 
 and promises instead of results. 
 
 Ar. But in short, brother, there are people as wise and learned 
 as yourself, and we see that in sickness all the world has recourse 
 to doctors. 
 
 Ber. That is a mark of human weakness, and not of the truth 
 of their art. 
 
 Ar. But doctors must believe in the truth of their art, since 
 they make use of it themselves. 
 
 Ber. That is because there are some amongst them who are 
 themselves caught in the popular error by which they profit, and 
 there are others who make a profit of it without believing in it 
 themselves. Your Mons. Purgon, for instance, knows no artifice; 
 he is a thorough doctor from head to foot. He believes in his 
 rules, more than in mathematical demonstrations, and would think 
 it a crime even to wish to look into them. He sees nothing 
 obscure in physic, nothing dubious, nothing difficult, and with an 
 impetuous prepossession, obstinate assurance, and stubborn con- 
 fidence, bleeds and purges at hap-hazard, and hesitates at nothing. 
 You must bear him no grudge for all he does for you ; it is with 
 the greatest good faith that he will make an end of you ; and 
 he'll do no more in killing you than he has done to his wife and 
 children, and if necessary would do to himself. 
 
 Ar. That's because you have a spite against him, brother ; but 
 in short let us come to facts. What must we do, then, when we 
 are ill. 
 
 Ber. Nothing, brother. 
 
 Ar. Nothing ? 
 
 Ber. We must only keep ourselves quiet. Nature herself, if 
 we let her alone, will gently deliver herself from the disorder into 
 which she has fallen. It is our restlessness and our impatience 
 which spoil all, and most men die of their remedies rather than of 
 their maladies. 
 
 Ar. But you must agree with me, brother, that we can assist 
 nature by certain things. 
 
 Ber. Good heavens, brother, these are mere notions that we 
 
376 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act III. 
 
 love to feed ourselves with ; and at all times fanciful ideas have 
 crept in among men, and we are apt to believe them because they 
 flatter us, and it were to be wished they were true. When a 
 doctor talks to you of assisting, succouring, supporting nature, of 
 removing from her what is hateful and giving her what is \vanting, 
 of re-establishing her and restoring her to a full exercise of her 
 functions ; when he talks to you of rectifying the blood, refreshing 
 the bowels and the brain, correcting the spleen, restoring the 
 lungs, fortifying the heart, re-establishing and preserving the 
 natural heat, and of secrets by means of which he can lengthen 
 our life to a great number of years ; he is telling you in reality the 
 romance of medicine. But when you come to truth and experi- 
 ence you find nothing of all this, and it is like those pleasant 
 dreams which, when you wake, leave nothing behind, but regret 
 at having believed them. >j 
 
 Ai\ That's as much to say that all the science in the world is 
 shut up in your head, and you pretend to know more than all the ;t 
 great doctors of our age. »I 
 
 Ber. In talk and in action your great doctors are two kinds of q 
 people. To hear them talk, they are the most skilful persons in 
 the world; to see them act, they are the most ignorant of:;) 
 men. o 
 
 Ar, So, so, you are a great doctor, I see ; and I heartily wish 
 that one of those gentlemen were here to pay off your arguments, ^2 
 and check your prating. b 
 
 Ber. I don't make it my business to attack the faculty, and 
 every one at their peril may believe whatever they please. What 
 I say about it is only between ourselves, and I should like to 'S 
 have been able to set you free from the error you are in, and, ai 
 to amuse you, would take you to see one of Moli^re's comedies -A 
 on this subject. 
 
 Ar, Your Moliere is an impertinent fellow with his comedies, 
 and I think it too much of a joke to bring such worthy persons as 
 physicians on the stage. 
 
 Ber. It is not physicians that he exposes, but the absurdity of. 
 physic. 
 
 Ar. It's indeed becoming in him to set himself up to criticise 
 the faculty. Here's a fine simpleton, an impertinent fellow, to 
 make a joke of consultations and prescriptions, to attack the t^ 
 entire profession of physicians, and to bring on the stage such ai 
 venerable persons as those gentlemen. 
 
 Ber. What would you have him represent there but the dif- 
 ferent professions of men? Princes and kings are brought on 
 
Scene IV.] LE MALADE I M AGIN AIRE. 377 
 
 the stage every day, and they are of as good a family as 
 physicians. 
 
 Ar. Now by all that's terrible, if I were a doctor, I should be 
 revenged on his impertinence, and if he were ill I would let him 
 die without relief. He should say and do everything in vain. I 
 should not prescribe the slightest bleeding, the smallest clyster, 
 and would say to him, " Perish ! perish ! it will teach you another 
 time to make a jest of the faculty." 
 
 B'er, You seem to be in a great passion with him. 
 
 Ar. Yes, he's a foolish fellow, and if the doctors are wise 
 they'll do as I say. 
 
 Ber. He'll still be even with your doctors. For he won't ask 
 any help from them. 
 
 Ar. So much the worse for him, if he does not have recourse 
 to remedies. 
 
 B'er. He has his reasons for not desiring any ; and he thinks 
 it is only proper for vigorous people and those who have strength 
 left them to bear the physic together with the disease ; but for his 
 part he has only strength to bear his illness. 
 
 Ar. Very foolish reasons, those. Stop, brother, don't let us 
 talk any more about that man, for it provokes me, and you'll bring 
 on my complaint again. 
 
 Ber. With all my heart, brother : and, to change the conver- 
 sation, I must tell you that for a slight repugnance which your 
 daughter has shown to obey you, you ought not to take this violent 
 course of putting her into a convent, and that in the choice of a 
 son-in-law you should not blindly follow the passion that seizes you, 
 and that you ought in this matter to give way somewhat to the 
 inclination of your child ; since it is for all her life, and since all 
 her happiness depends on her marriage. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 MoNS. Fleurant {unth a syringe\ Argan, Bi^ralde. 
 
 Argan. Ah, brother. By your leave. 
 
 Beralde. Why, what do you want to do ? 
 
 Ar. Only to take this little clyster ; it will soon be done. 
 
 Ber. Why, you must be joking. Can't you be one moment 
 without a clyster or a purge ? Send it back till some other time, 
 and take a little rest. 
 
 Ar» This evening, Monsieur Fleurant, or to-morrow morn- 
 ing. 
 
 M. Fleurant {to Biralde). Why do you presume to oppose 
 
378 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act III. 
 
 medical prescriptions, and to prevent monsieur from taking 
 my clyster ? It is very impertinent of you to be so bold. 
 
 Ber. Be gone, sir ; it is evident that you have not been used 
 to speak straightforwardly. 
 
 M. Fl. You ought not ridicule physic in this way, and to make 
 me lose my time. I have come here with a good prescription, 
 and I shall go and tell Monsieur Purgon how I've been hindered 
 from executing his orders and performing my duty. But you'll 
 see, you'll see. 
 
 Ar. Brother, you'll cause some trouble here. 
 
 Ber. What ! A great trouble ! not to take a clyster Monsieur 
 Purgon had prescribed. Once more, brother, isn't it possible to 
 find some way of curing you of the disease of the doctor, and do 
 you desire to lie all your life buried in their drugs ? 
 
 Ar. Ah, brother, you talk of it like a man who's in health, but 
 if you were in my place you'd soon change your language. It's 
 easy to talk against physic when one's in good health. 
 
 B'er. But what's your ailment ? 
 
 Ar. You'll drive me mad. I wish you had my ailment, just 
 to see if you would go on talking as you do. But here's Monsieur 
 Purgon. 
 
 Scene V. 
 MoNs. Purgon, Argan, Bi^ralde, Toinette. 
 
 M. Purgon. I've just heard some very agreeable news, as I 
 was coming in — that you have been laughing at my prescription, 
 and refusing to take the remedy I ordered. 
 
 Argan. Sir, it is not 
 
 M. Bur. This is a great rashness, and a strange rebellion of a 
 patient against his medical attendant. 
 
 Toinette. Oh ! that's dreadful. 
 
 M. Pur, A clyster that I had taken the trouble to compound 
 myself. 
 
 Ar. It was not I 
 
 M. Pur. I'd invented it, and made it up according to all the 
 rules of art. 
 
 Tot, He is wrong. 
 
 M. Pur. And which would have produced a marvellous effect. 
 
 Ar. My brother 
 
 M. Pur. To send it back with contempt ! 
 
 Ar. {pointing to Btralde). It's he — — 
 
 M. Pur. It's a monstrous action. 
 
Scene v.] LE MALADE IMAGJNAIRE, $79 
 
 Tot. True. 
 
 M. Fur. A scandalous outrage against the profession. 
 : Ar. {pointing to Beralde). He is the cause- 
 
 M. Pur. A crime of high-treason against the faculty which 
 can't be sufficiently punished. 
 
 Toi. You're quite right. 
 
 M. Pur. I tell you that I break off all further connection with 
 you. 
 
 Ar. It's my brother 
 
 M. Pur. I'll have nothing more to do with you. 
 
 Toi. You'll do well. 
 
 M. Pur. And to end all connection with you, there's the deed 
 of gift which I made in favour of the marriage. {He tears it up 
 and throws down the pieces in a rage.) 
 
 Ar. It's my brother who has done all the mischief. 
 
 M. Pur, To contemn my clyster. 
 
 Ar. Let it be brought ; I'll take it at once. 
 
 M. Pur. I would have freed you from your ailment before 
 long. 
 
 Toi. He doesn't deserve it. 
 
 M. Pur. I was going to have cleansed your body, and to have 
 purified it from all distempers. 
 
 Ar. Oh! brother! 
 
 M. Pur» And I only wanted a dozen purges to have settled 
 with you. 
 
 Toi. He's not worthy of your care 
 
 M. Pur. But since you were not willing to be cured by me 
 
 Ar. It's not my fault. 
 
 M. Pur. Since you have forsaken the obedience which a man 
 owes to his doctor 
 
 Toi. Ah I that cries for vengeance. 
 
 M. Pur, Since you have rebelled against all the remedies I 
 have prescribed for you 
 
 Ar. Oh, not at all. 
 
 M. Pur. I must tell you that I abandon you to your wretched 
 constitution, to the discords of your blood, and the acrimony of 
 your humours. 
 
 Toi. That's very good. 
 
 Ar. Good heavens ! 
 
 M. Pur. And I wish that within four days you may become 
 incurable. 
 
 Ar, Oh, mercy ! 
 
 M. Pur. That you'll fall into a Bradypepsia. 
 
38o - THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act III. 
 
 Ar. Oh, Monsieur Purgon ! 
 M. Fur, From a Biadypepsia into a Dyspepsia. 
 Ar. Oh, Monsieur Purgon ! 
 M. Fur. From a Dyspepsia into an Apepsia. 
 Ar. Oh, Monsieur Purgon ! 
 M. Fur. From an Apepsia into a Lientery. 
 Ar. Oh, Monsieur Purgon ! 
 M. Fur. From a Lientery into a Dysentery, 
 ^r. Oh, Monsieur Purgon ! 
 M. Fur. From a Dysentery into a Dropsy. 
 Ar. Oh, Monsieur Purgon ! 
 
 M. Fur. And from a Dropsy into a deprivation of life to 
 which your folly will have brought you. 
 
 ^'"'■'^^-'SCENE VI. 
 
 Argan, Beralde. 
 
 Argan. Good heavens ! I'm dead. Brother, you've ruined me ! 
 
 Beralde. Why ? What's the matter ? 
 
 Ar. I can hold out no longer. I feel that the faculty is 
 taking its revenge. 
 
 £er. Indeed, brother, you're an idiot, and I should be very 
 sorry that you should be seen to be acting as you are doing. 
 Pray feel your own pulse a little, pull yourself together, and don't 
 give way so much to your imagination. 
 
 Ar. You heard, brother, the strange diseases he threatened me 
 with. 
 
 Fir. What a simple-minded man you are ! 
 
 Ar. He said that I should become incurable in four days' time. 
 
 Ber. And what does it matter what he said ? Is it an oracle 
 that has spoken to you ? To listen to you one would think that 
 Monsieur Purgon held in his hand the thread of your days, and 
 by supreme authority could prolong it, or cut it short as he 
 pleased. Consider that the principles of your life are in yourself, 
 and that the anger of Monsieur Purgon is as incapable of killing 
 you, as his remedies are of keeping you alive. Here's an oppor- 
 tunity, if you'll only use it, of getting rid of the doctors ; or, if you 
 were born not to live without them, it is easy to have another, 
 with whom, brother, you may run a little less risk. 
 
 Ar. Ah, brother, he knew all my constitution, and the way to 
 manage it for the best. 
 
 Ber. I must tell you I think you are infatuated, and look at 
 everything from a distorted point of view. 
 
Scene IX.] LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE, 381 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Argan, Beralde, Toinette. 
 
 Toiiiette {to Argan). Sir, there's a doctor wishes to see you. 
 
 Argan. What doctor ? 
 
 Toi. A doctor. 
 
 Ar. I ask you who he is ? 
 
 Toi I don't know him, but he is as Hke me as two drops of 
 water, and I could almost fancy he was a little brother born after 
 my father's death. 
 
 Ar. Let him come in. 
 
 Ber. Now youVe got your wish. One doctor leaves you, 
 another offers himself. 
 
 Ar, I am very much afraid that you will be the cause of some 
 misfortune. 
 
 Ber. What, again ? are you always harping on that ? 
 
 Ar. You see I have on my mind all these ailments, the nature 
 of which I do not know, and 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 Argan, Beralde, Toinette {dressed as a doctor), 
 
 Toinette. Allow me, sir, to pay you a visit, and to offer you my 
 humble services, for any bleedings or purgings you may have, 
 occasion for. i i 
 
 Argan. Sir, I'm very much obliged to you. {To Beralde.) 
 Why, it's Toinette herself. 
 
 Toi I beg you to excuse me, sir. I forgot to give a message 
 to my servant ; I'll return directly. \Exit. 
 
 Ar. Now, wouldn't you say it was Toinette herself ? 
 
 Ber. It's true the likeness is very striking. But this is not the 
 first time we've seen this sort of thing ; and history is full of these 
 sports of nature. 
 
 Ar. For my part I'm astonished at it, and 
 
 Scene IX. 
 
 Argan, Beralde, Toinette {having resumed her workmg dress 
 so quickly that it is difficult to believe that she has personated the 
 doctor). 
 
 Toinette. What do you want, sir ?^ 
 
 Argan. What ? 
 
 Toi Didn't you call me ? 
 
382 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC, [ACT III. 
 
 Ar. I? No. 
 
 Tot. My ears must have tingled then. 
 
 Ar. Stop a little while, and see how like this doctor is to you. 
 
 Tou No, thank you ; I've my work to do downstairs, and 
 I've seen quite enough of him. \Exit. 
 
 Ar. If I hadn't seen them both, I should have felt sure they 
 were one and the same. 
 
 Ber. I have read some surprising things about resemblances, 
 and we have seen some of them in our times which have taken in 
 everybody. 
 
 Ar. For my part I should have been taken in by this, arfti 
 should have sworn it was the same person. 
 
 Scene X. 
 Argan, Beralde, Toinette {dressed as a doctor). 
 
 Toinetie. Sir, I ask your pardon with all my heart. 
 
 Argan {aside to Beralde). This is wonderful ! 
 
 Toi. Pray, sir, don't take amiss the curiosity I had to see 
 such an illustrious patient as yoii are ! Your reputation, which 
 reaches everywhere, must excuse the liberty I have taken. 
 
 Ar. Sir, I'm your humble servant. 
 
 Toi. I see, sir, that you are looking at me very earnestly. 
 How old do you suppose I am ? 
 
 Ar. I think that you may be twenty-six or twenty-seven at the 
 most. 
 
 Toi. Ha, ha, ha ! I'm ninety. 
 
 Ar. Ninety ! 
 
 Toi. Yes. You see the result of the secrets of my art, which 
 preserve me thus fresh and vigorous. 
 
 Ar. In truth, you're a fine youthful old fellow for ninety. 
 
 Toi. I'm a travelling doctor who goes from town to town, from 
 province to province, from kingdom to kingdom, to seek out 
 famous subjects for my ability, to find patients worthy of employ- 
 ing myself on, capable of exercising the great and fine secrets 
 which I have discovered in medicine. I disdain to amuse myself 
 with the small fry of common complaints, of rheumatisms and 
 fluxions, agues, vapours and headaches. I desire to treat im- 
 portant diseases, good continued fevers, with a disordered brain, 
 good typhoid fevers, good plagues, good confirmed dropsies, good 
 pleurisies, with inflammations of the lungs — this is what pleases me, 
 this is what I triumph in ; and I wish, sir, that you had all the 
 diseases I just now mentioned, that you were given over by all 
 
Scene X.] LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE. 383 
 
 the physicians, despaired of, at the point of death, that I might 
 demonstrate to you the excellency of my remedies, and the 
 desire I have to do you service. 
 
 Ar. I am obliged to you, sir, for the kind wishes you have 
 for me. 
 
 Tot, Let me feel your pulse. Come now, beat as you 
 should. Aha, I shall make you go as you ought. So, this 
 pulse acts the impertinent ; I see you do not know me yet. Who 
 is your doctor ? 
 
 Ar. Monsieur Purgon. 
 
 Toi. His name is not written in my books as one of oui 
 leading doctors. What does he say you are ill of ? 
 
 Ar. He says it's the liver, and others say it's the spleen. 
 
 Toi. They are all blockheads. It's your lungs that are 
 affected. 
 
 Ar. Lungs ? 
 
 Toi. Yes ; what do you feel ? 
 
 Ar. I feel, from time to time, pains in my head. 
 
 Toi. Just so, the lungs. 
 
 Ar. I sometimes seem to have a mist before my eyes. 
 
 Toi. The lungs. 
 
 Ar. Sometimes I have a pain at my heart. 
 
 Toi, The lungs. 
 
 Ar. Sometimes I feel a weariness in all my limbs. 
 
 Toi. The lungs. 
 
 Ar. And sometimes I'm taken with pains in the stomach, as 
 if it were the colic. 
 
 Toi. The lungs. You have an appetite for what you eat? 
 
 Ar. Yes, sir. 
 
 Toi. The lungs. You like to drink a little wine ? 
 
 Ar. Yes, sir. 
 
 Toi. The lungs. You take a little nap after your meals, and 
 are glad to sleep ? 
 
 Ar. Yes, sir. 
 
 Toi. The lungs, the lungs, I tell you. What does your doctor 
 order for your food ? ' 
 
 Ar. Soup. 
 
 Toi. Ignoramus ! 
 
 Ar. Veal. 
 
 Toi. Ignoramus ! 
 
 Ar. Broth. 
 
 Toi. Ignoramus ! 
 
 Ar. New-laid eggs. 
 
3S4 . THE HYPOCHONDRIAC, [Act III. 
 
 Toi. Ignoramus ! 
 
 Ar. And a few prunes at night to relax the bowels. 
 
 Toi. Ignorant. 
 
 Ar. And above all to drink my wine well diluted. 
 
 Toi. Ignorantus, ignoranta, ignorantum. You must drink 
 your wine unmixed ; and to thicken your blood, which is too 
 thin, you must eat good fat beef, good fat pork, good Dutch 
 cheese, good rice-gruel, and chestnuts and wafercakes to thicken 
 and conglutinate. Your doctor's an ass. I'll send one of my 
 own choice, and will come to see you from time to time, so 
 long as I stay in this town. 
 
 Ar. You will very much oblige me. 
 
 Toi, What the deuce do you do with this arm ? 
 
 Ar. What do you mean ? 
 
 Toi. Here's an arm which I would have cut off immediately, 
 if I were you. 
 
 Ar. And why ? 
 
 Toi. Don't you see that it attracts all the nourishment to 
 itself, and hinders this side from growing. 
 
 Ar. Yes, but I want my arm. 
 
 Toi. You've a right eye, too, that I should have taken out 
 if I were in your place. 
 
 Ar. Have an eye out ? 
 
 Toi. Don't you find it incommodes the other, and robs it 
 of all its nourishment ? Believe me, and have it taken out as 
 soon as possible, and you'll see the clearer with the left eye. 
 
 Ar. There is no hurry in this matter ? 
 
 Toi. Farewell.- I'm sorry to leave you so soon, but I must 
 be present at a grand consultation we are to have over a man 
 who died yesterday. 
 
 Ar. About a man who died yesterday ? 
 
 Toi. Yes, to consider and see what ought to have been 
 done to cure him. I remain your humble servant. 
 
 Ar. You know that invalids don't see their visitors out. \Exit. 
 
 Ber. Truly, this doctor seems to be a very skilful man. 
 
 Ar. Yes, but he seems to go ahead rather fast. 
 
 Ber. All your great doctors do. 
 
 Ar. To cut off my arm, and pluck out my eye that the other 
 may be better ? I'd much rather it should not be quite so well. 
 A pretty operation indeed to make me both blind and lame ! 
 
Scene XL] LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE. 385 
 
 Scene XL 
 Argan, Beralde, Toinette {in ordinary dress). 
 
 Toinette {pretending to speak to some one). Come, come, I am 
 your humble servant. I am not in a mood to be merry. 
 
 Argan. What's the matter ? 
 
 Toi. Your doctor, if you please, wanted to feel my pulse. 
 
 Ar. What do you think of that, for fourscore and ten ? 
 
 Beralde. Now come, brother, since your Monsieur Purgon has 
 quarrelled with you, won't you let me speak about the match you 
 are arranging for my niece. 
 
 Ar. No, brother ; I'll put her in a convent, since she has 
 opposed my will. I see plainly there's something underhand in 
 the affair, and I have found out a certain secret interview which 
 they don't know I have discovered. 
 
 Ber. Well, brother, allowing for these inclinations, would it be 
 so criminal and offensive to you, if the result were matrimony ? 
 
 Ar, Be that as it may, brother, I'm determined she shall be 
 a nun. 
 
 Ber. You desire to please a certain person. 
 
 Ar. I understand you. You are always harping on that 
 string, and my wife seems to stick in your gizzard. 
 
 Ber. Well, brother, if I must speak plainly, it is your wife that 
 I mean ; and I can no more bear to see your infatuation for her 
 than I can endure to witness your infatuation for your doctors, 
 and to see you run headlong into every snare that is laid for you. 
 
 Toi. Pray, sir, don't talk about madame; she's a woman 
 against whom you can have nothing whatever to say. A woman 
 without intrigue, who loves my master, ah ! who loves him — more 
 than one can say. 
 
 Ar. Only ask her how fondly she loves me. 
 
 Toi. That's true. 
 
 Ar. And how unhappy she feels at my ailments. 
 
 Toi. Certainly. 
 
 Ar. And the care, and the pains she takes about me. 
 
 Toi. That's certain. {To Beralde.) Would you have me 
 convince you, and to show you presently how madame loves my 
 master? {To Argan.) Sir, let me undeceive him, and deliver 
 him from his mistake. 
 
 Ar. What do you mean ? 
 
 Toi. My mistress has just returned. Stretch yourself out at 
 full length in this chair, and pretend to be dead. You'll see her 
 grief, when I tell her the news. 
 
 26 
 
j86 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC, [Act III. 
 
 Ar. I'll do it. 
 
 Toi. Yes, but don't let her stay too long in despair ; it might 
 be the death of her. 
 
 Ar. Let me alone. 
 
 Toi. {to Beralde). Hide yourself in this corner. 
 
 Ar. Is there not some danger in counterfeiting death ? 
 
 Toi. No, no. What danger can there be? Only stretch 
 yourself out there. {Aside.) It will be a great pleasure to 
 confound your brother. Here's my mistress. Stay as you are. 
 
 Scene XII. 
 Beline, Argan {stretched out in his chair), Toinette. 
 
 Toinette {pretending not to see Beline). Oh, heavens ! oh, what 
 a misfortune ! What strange trouble ! 
 
 Beline. What's the matter, Toinette ? 
 
 Toi. Oh, madame ! 
 
 Bel. What's the matter ? 
 
 Toi. Your husband's dead. 
 
 Bel. My husband's dead ? 
 
 Toi. Alas ! yes. The poor man is dead. 
 
 BeL Certainly ? 
 
 Toi. Certainly. No one knows of this trouble as yet ; I was 
 here all alone with him. He has just now departed in my arms. 
 Here, see him lying full length in his chair. 
 
 Bel. Heaven be praised ! How am I delivered from a grievous 
 burden ! What a fool you are, Toinette, to be so afflicted at his 
 death ! 
 
 Toi. Well, I thought, madame, one ought to cry. 
 
 Bel. Go, go along, do, it's not worth while. What loss is there 
 in him, and what good did he do in the world? A wretch, 
 troublesome to every one, a filthy, disgusting fellow, never without 
 a clyster, or a dose in his inside ; always snivelling, coughing, or 
 spitting; a stupid, wearisome, ill-natured animal, continually 
 worrying people, and scolding night and day his maids and foot- 
 men. 
 
 Toi. A fine funeral oration ! 
 
 Bel. You must help me, Toinette, to carry out my plans, and 
 you may depend on it that in serving me you will have a certain 
 reward. Since, luckily, no one is yet aware of his death, let us 
 keep it a secret, and carry him to his bed, till I have settled my 
 business. There are papers and money, which I wish to take,^ 
 
Scene XIII.] LE MA LADE IMAGINAIRE. 387 
 
 and it is not just or reasonable that I should pass the prime of my 
 life with him, and get no benefit. Come, Toinette, let us take his 
 keys. 
 
 Ar. {starting up suddenly). Gently. 
 
 Bel. Oh, oh ! 
 
 Ar. So, my good wife, that's how you love me, is it ? 
 
 Toi. Ah, ah ! So, after all, the dead man is not dead ! 
 
 Ar. {to Beline., who runs off). I'm very glad to have seen the 
 value of your love, and to have heard all your fine sayings 
 about me. It's a very good lesson, which I shall profit by 
 for the future, and which will prevent me from doing a good many 
 things. 
 
 Ber. {coming out of the place where he 7aas hiding). Well, 
 brother, you see how it is. 
 
 Toi. Indeed, I never could have believed it. But I hear 
 your daughter coming ; place yourself as you were, and let us see 
 in what manner she will receive the news of your death. It is 
 something which will not be amiss to try; and since you've started 
 on it, you can learn in this way what your family really think of 
 you. 
 
 i 
 
 Scene XIII. 
 Argan, Angi^lique, Toinette. 
 
 Toinette {pretending not to see Angelique). Oh, heavens ! oh, 
 sad trouble ; unhappy day ! 
 
 Angelique. What's the matter, Toinette, and what are you cry- 
 ing for ? 
 
 Toi. Oh ! I've sad news for you. 
 
 An. Eh? What? 
 
 Toi. Your father's dead. 
 
 A71. What? My father dead, Toinette? 
 
 Toi. Yes, you see him there. He has just died in a fainting 
 fit. 
 
 An. Oh ! heavens, what a calamity ! What a cruel blow. 
 Alas ! must I lose my father, all that I had in the world ; and, to 
 increase my despair, must I lose him at a time when he was angry 
 with me? What will become of me, unhappy creature that I am, 
 and what consolation can I find for so great a loss ! 
 
388 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act III. 
 
 Scene XIV. 
 Argan, Angelique, Clieante, Toinette, Beralde. 
 
 Cleanie. What is the matter with you, my fair Angelique? 
 What misfortune are you weeping over ? 
 
 Angelique. I am weeping for the loss of everything that's dear 
 and most precious in life. I am weeping for the death of my 
 father. 
 
 Cle. Good heavens, what a misfortune ! What an unexpected 
 blow. Alas, after the request for our marriage which I got your 
 uncle to make on my behalf, I was just coming to present myself to 
 him, to endeavour by my respectful entreaties to incline his 
 heart to grant you to my wishes. 
 
 An. Ah ! Cleante, let us here give up all thoughts of marriage. 
 After the death of my father, I'll have nothing more to do with the 
 world ; I renounce it for ever. Yes, my dear father, if I have lately 
 opposed your inclinations, I will at least carry out one of your 
 wishes, and so make amends for the vexation I accuse myself 
 of having given you. {Kneeling^ Permit me, father, now to give 
 you my promise, and to embrace you as a token of my regret. 
 
 Argan {embracing Angelique). Ah, my daughter ! 
 
 An. Oh, oh ! 
 
 Ar. Come, don't be frightened, I'm not dead. Come, you're 
 my true flesh and blood, my own true daughter, and I am charmed 
 to have discovered the real goodness of your heart. 
 
 An. Oh, what a happy surprise! Since by extreme good 
 fortune, heaven restores you, sir, to my wishes, allow me to throw 
 myself at your feet to implore one favour of you. If you are not 
 favourable to the inchnation of my heart, if you refuse me Cleante 
 for a husband, I implore you at least not to force me to marry 
 another. This is all the favour I ask of you. 
 
 Cle. {throwing himself at Argan^sfeet), Oh, sir, permit yourself 
 to be moved by her entreaties and mine, and do not oppose the 
 mutual ardour of so warm a devotion ! 
 
 Beralde. Brother, can you withstand this ? 
 
 Toinette. Can you be insensible, sir, to so much love i' 
 
 Ar. If he will only turn doctor, I consent to the marriage. 
 {To Cleante.) Yes, sir, become a doctor and I give you my 
 daughter. 
 
 Cle. Most willingly, sir. If that is all that stands in the way 
 of my becoming your son-in-law, I'll turn physician, or even 
 apothecary if you wish it. That's no great matter, and I woulcj do 
 much more to gain Angelique. 
 
Scene XIV.] LE MALADE IM AGIN AIRE. 389 
 
 Bcr. But, brother, a thought has just come into my mind. 
 Turn doctor yourself. It will be much more convenient for you 
 to have all you want within yourself. 
 
 ToL That's true. That's the real way to cure yourself quickly, 
 and there's no disease so daring as to meddle with the person of a 
 doctor. 
 
 Ar. 1 think, brother, you must be laughing at me ; am I of 
 an age to study ? 
 
 Ber. Nonsense. Study ! Why you are learned enough. 
 There are plenty of them who have no more skill than yourself. 
 
 Ar. But one ought to be able to speak Latin well, to know 
 the nature of disease, and how to apply the proper remedies. 
 
 Ber. You'll learn all that by putting on the cap and gown of a 
 doctor, and you'll afterwards be more skilful than you wish to be. 
 
 Ar, What! do people understand how to discourse about 
 diseases, when they have that dress on ! . 
 
 Ber. Yes, you have nothing to do, but to put on a cap and 
 gown, and any stuff becomes learning, and nonsense becomes 
 sense. 
 
 Ar. Stay, sir, if you had nothing else but your beard, tliat 
 would go a long way. A beard makes more than half a doctor. 
 
 Clc. In any case, I'm prepared for everything. 
 
 Ber. Won't you have the matter carried out at once ? 
 
 Ar. Wliat, immediately ? 
 
 Bcr. Yes, now, and in your own house. 
 
 Ar. In my own house? 
 
 Ber. Yes, I know a body of my lady friends, personal friends 
 of mine, who will come at once and perform the ceremony in 
 your hall. It shall cost you nothing. 
 
 Ar. But what shall I say, what shall I answer? 
 
 Bcr. They will instruct you in a few words, and put down 
 in writing what you must say. Go and dress yourself properly, 
 and I'll go and send for them. 
 
 Ar. With all my heart. Let us see to this. 
 
 Cle. What's your intention ; and what do you mean by this 
 body of your lady friends ? 
 
 Toi. What's your plan ? 
 
 Bcr. To amuse ourselves a little this evening. The players 
 have composed an interlude for the admission of a doctor with 
 dances and music. I wish that we should all take part in it, 
 and that my brother should act the principal character. 
 
 All. But, uncle, I think you play on my father a little too much. 
 
 Ber. No, niece, this is not so much playing on him as 
 
390 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. [Act III. 
 
 giving in to his fancies. We may each of us take a part in it, 
 and so perform the comedy to one another. The carnival bears 
 us out in this. Let us make haste and get everything ready. 
 
 Cle. {to Afigelique). Do you agree to it ? 
 
 An. Yes, since my uncle conducts it. 
 Here follows a musical comedietta : a burlesque initiation 
 i of a doctor. ^ 
 
 * This being a mixture of dog Latin and untranslatable words, is not 
 given here. "• 
 
THE MISANTHROPE 
 
 {LE MISANTROPE). 
 
 Alceste, lover of Celimhie. 
 l^HiLitiTE, friend of A/ ws/e. 
 Oronte, lover of CHiinhie. 
 Celimene, i7t love with Alceste. 
 ;i:LiANTE, Celimene's cousin. 
 ARSl^oiL,frieJid of Celimhie. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 ACASTE, 
 
 CLITANDRE,^'^'^''^^''-^^^- 
 
 Basque, Celimhie' s servant. 
 Du BoiS, Alceste's servant. 
 An Officer of the Marshals 
 OF France. 
 
 Scene— PARIS, in Celimene's House. 
 
 ACT I. Scene I. 
 Philinte, Alceste. 
 
 Philinte. What's the matter, then? What ails you ? 
 
 Alceste (seated). Pray leave me. 
 
 Phi. But once more, tell me what whim 
 
 Al. Leave me, I say, and go and hide yourself. 
 
 Phi. But at any rate people listen to me without getting angry. 
 
 AL I will be angry, and I won't listen. 
 
 Phi. When you are in these rough tempers I can't make 
 you out ; and, in short, though a friend, I am one of the first 
 
 Al. {rising hastily). What, I your friend ? No, strike that out 
 of your books. I have hitherto professed to be so, but after what 
 I have now discovered in you, I declare to you, flatly, that I am 
 so no longer. I wish for no place in corrupt hearts. 
 
 Phi. According to your reckoning, then, Alceste, I am very 
 much to be blamed? 
 
 Al. Why, you ought to die of mere shame ; there's no excuse 
 for such an action, and every man of honour ought to be shocked 
 at it. I see you overflowing with courtesy to a man, and pro- 
 fessing the utmost regard for him. When you embrace a man, you 
 load him with protestations, offers, and oaths, and when shortly 
 afterwards I ask you who the man is, you can scarcely tell me his 
 name. 'V\\q warmth of your regard for him cools as soon as you leave 
 him, and you speak of him to me as a person utterly indifferent 
 
392 THE MISANTHROPE. [Act I. 
 
 to you. In truth, it is an unworthy, base, and infamous thing to 
 lower one's self so far as to be a traitor to one's own feelings. If, 
 by some ill luck, I had done as much, I should have gone at 
 once and hanged myself for vexation. 
 
 Phi. I don't see, for my part, that this is a hanging matter ; 
 so I shall beg of you to allow me somewhat to lessen the severity 
 of your sentence, and not to hang myself for this offence, if you 
 please. 
 
 Al. This idle jesting is very unbecoming. 
 
 Fhi, But seriously, what do you want me to do ? 
 
 Al. I would have you be sincere and, like a man of honour 
 not let slip a single word that does not come from the heart. 
 
 Phi. When a man comes and receives you with an effusion 
 of delight, you should in reason pay him back in the same coin, 
 answer his eagerness as far as you can, and return him offer for 
 offer and oaths for oaths. 
 
 Al. No ; I can't put up with that base method which most 
 people of quality affect, and I hate nothing so much as the contor- 
 tions of all those great protestation-makers, those affable dealers in 
 empty words, who attack every one with civilities, and treat with 
 the same air the man of worth and the blockhead. What good 
 does it do you that a man swears to you eternal friendship, faith, 
 zeal, esteem, tender regards, and makes a speech praising you to 
 the skies, when he runs to do the same to the first scoundrel 
 he meets? No, no, there is not a soul with any good disposition 
 who can desire an esteem so degraded, and the highest praise 
 has but a poor relish when one sees that it is shared with 
 all the world. ^.Esteem must be founded on some preference, and 
 to esteem all the world is to esteem no one. Since you give in to 
 these vices of the age, I cannot count you as one of my friends. 
 I refuse the vast complaisance of a heart which makes no dif- 
 ference in merit. I desire to be distinguished from others, 
 and, to cut the matter short, a friend to all mankind is no friend 
 of mine. 
 
 Phi. But while we are in the world it is necessary that we 
 should pay some outward civilities which custom demands. 
 
 AL No, I tell you ; we ought to chastise without mercy this 
 shameful commerce of appearances of friendship. I would have 
 us be men, and that on all occasions the bottom of our hearts 
 should discover itself in our discourses. Let the heart itself 
 speak, and let our sentiments never be masked under vain 
 compliments. 
 
 Phi. There are ,a good many occasions when an absolute 
 
Scene I.] LE MISANTROPE, 393 
 
 frankness would be ridiculous and hardly endurable, and some- 
 times (without offence to your austere honour) it is right to conceal 
 what we have in our hearts. Would it be proper or decent to tell 
 thousands of people what we think of them ? And when we have 
 to do with a man we hate, or who is disagreeable to us, ought we 
 to declare the matter to him just as it is ? 
 
 Al. Yes. 
 
 Phi. What ! would you go and tell the aged Emilia that 
 it ill becomes her at her age to set up for a beauly, and that 
 the paint which she lays on so thick shocks every one ? 
 
 AL Without doubt. 
 
 Phi. Or would you tell Dorilas that he is too impertinent? 
 And that there is no ear at Court that he does not weary in 
 recounting his bravery and the splendour of his family ? 
 
 Al. Certainly. 
 
 Phi. You must be joking. 
 
 Al. Nothing of the kind. I would spare no one on this 
 point. My eyes are too much offended. Neither court nor city 
 presents anything but objects to provoke my spleen. It throws 
 me into a melancholy temper, into a profound ill-humour, when 
 I see men live together in the manner they do. (_I find nothing 
 anywhere but base flattery, injustice, interest, treachery, and 
 knavery. I can contain myself no longer ; I am in a rage, and 
 my purpose is to break off all intercourse with all mankind.") 
 
 Phi. This philosophic vexation is too wild. I laugh at the 
 gloomy fits I perceive you fall into, and I think I see in us two 
 who have been brought up together the two brothers described 
 in " The School for Husbands," of whom ■ 
 
 Al Pray let us have none of these insipid comparisons. 
 
 Phi. No ; in good earnest leave off all these rude freaks. 
 The world will not alter its ways in spite of all the pains you may 
 take, and since frankness has such charms for you, I may tell you 
 plainly that this malady of yours is as good as a comedy wherever 
 you go, and that so much anger against the manners of the age 
 makes you ridiculous with a great many people. 
 
 AL So much the better, so much the better ; that's what 
 I want ; it is a good sign to me, and I am overjoyed at it. All 
 men are so odious to me that I should be sorry to be wise in their 
 eyes. 
 
 Phi. You wish very ill, then, to human nature ? 
 
 Al. Yes ; I have conceived a violent hatred of it. 
 
 Phi. Shall all poor mortals, without any exception, be involved 
 in this hatred ? Besides, are there not many in our age 
 
394 THE MISANTHROPE, [Act I. 
 
 AL No; it is general, and I hate all men — some because ihey 
 are wicked and mischievous, and others for being complaisant to 
 the wicked, and not having that vigorous hatred for tliem which 
 vice ought to excite in all virtuous minds. One sees the unjust 
 excess of this complaisance to that sheer villain with whom I have 
 a lawsuit. The treacherous rascal is plainly seen through his 
 mask, he is everywhere known for what he is; his rolling eyes and 
 soft tones impose only upon strangers. People know that this 
 wretched fellow, who onght to be hanged, has pushed his way 
 in the world by dirty jobs, and that the splendid condition he 
 finds himself in through them makes merit grumble and virtue 
 blush. Whatever shameful titles people give him everywhere, his 
 wretched honour hears no one call him infamous knave and 
 cursed villain; everybody agrees to it, and no one contradicts 
 it. In the meanwhile his hypocritical smile is everywhere wel- 
 come — he is entertained, well received, and he insinuates himself 
 into all companies ; and if there is any position to be gained by 
 canvassing for it, he will carry it against men of the greatest worth. 
 It gives me a mortal wound when I see men keep on good terms 
 with vice, and sometimes I am seized with a sudden impulse 
 to flee to a desert place and avoid all human beings. 
 
 Phi. Good heavens ! Let us give ourselves less trouble about 
 the manners of the age, and make some small allowance for 
 human nature ; let us not examine it with so much severity, but 
 look on its defects with some indulgence. To live in the world 
 one requires tractable virtue, and one may be blameworthy by 
 stress of wisdom. Perfect reason avoids all extreme, and would 
 have us wise with sobriety. That over-strictness of virtue in 
 ancient times offends our age and general usage ; it would have 
 mortals too perfect. We must yield to the times without 
 obstinacy, and it is an extremity of folly to busy ourselves in 
 correcting the world. I observe, as you do, every day a hundred 
 things which might go better if they took another course ; but 
 although I may discover them at every step, I don't fly off into 
 a rage as you do. I take men very quietly, just as they are ; 
 I accustom myself to put up with what they do, and I think that 
 at court and in the city my calmness is as philosophical as your 
 anger. 
 
 AL But this calmness, sir, which reasons so well, can nothing 
 ruffle it ? Should it happen by chance that a friend should betray 
 you, that a subtle plot were laid to gain your estate, or that 
 people should try and spread evil reports about you, could you 
 see all this without putting yourself into a rage ? 
 
Scene I.] LE MISANTROPE, _ 39i, 
 
 Phi. Yes. I look upon these defects that you make such a 
 noise about as vices inherent in human nature ; and, in short, 
 my mind is no more shocked to see a man a knave, unjust, selfish, 
 than to see vultures ravenous after carnage, apes miscliievous, or 
 wolves raging. 
 
 Al. Shall I see myself betrayed, torn to pieces, robbed without 
 being— — Plague on it ! I won't talk at all. This is such an 
 absurd way of reasoning. 
 
 Phi, Indeed you will do well to keep silence. Exclaim some- 
 what less against your antagonist, and bestow some of your pains 
 on your lawsuit. 
 
 AL I won't bestow any upon it. I have said so. 
 
 Phi, Who, then, do you expect will trouble themselves about 
 it for you ? 
 
 Al. Who do I expect will do so ? Why reason, my just right 
 and equity. 
 
 Phi. Shall you not visit any judge ? 
 
 Al. No. Is my cause, then, unjust or doubtful ? 
 
 Phi. I grant you that, but canvassing is a very troublesome 
 job, and 
 
 Al. CNo. I am determined not to move a step. Either I am . 
 right, or I am wrong. 
 
 Phi. Don't trust to that. 
 
 Al. I shall not move. 
 
 PJii. Your opponent is strong, and may by mtriguc draw 
 
 Al. It matters not. 
 
 Phi. You will be deceived. 
 
 Al. Be it so. I will see the issue of it. 
 
 Phi. But 
 
 Al. I shall have the pleasure of losing my suit. 
 
 Phi. But in short 
 
 AL I shall see in this trial whether men will have impudence 
 enough, will be wicked, villainous, perverse enough to do me 
 injustice in the face of all the world. 
 
 Phi. What a strange man ! 
 
 AL I could wish, though it would cost me a great deal, that 
 for the pleasantness of the thing I had lost my cause. 
 
 Phi. In good truth, Alceste, people would laugh at you if 
 they heard you talk in this manner. 
 
 AL So much the worse for him that laughed. 
 
 Phi. But this uprightness, which you would have in every one 
 with so much exactitude, this absolute integrity that you intrench 
 yourself in, do you find it in the person you are in love with ? 
 
396 THE MISANTHROPE. [Act I. 
 
 I am astonished, for my part, that being, as it would seem that 
 you are, embroiled with the whole world, in spite of all that can 
 render it odious to you, you should have found anything to 
 charm your eyes ; the sincere Eliante has a liking for you, the 
 prude Arsinoe casts a sly glance at you, whilst your heart will not 
 favour their wishes, since Celimbne keeps it enchained, though 
 her coquettish humour and slanderous temper seem to give in so 
 strongly to the manners of the times. How comes it, that bearing 
 so mortal a hatred to these, you should so easily put up with what 
 this fair one possesses? Are there no defects in this sweet 
 object ? Don't you see them ? Or do you excuse them ? 
 
 AL No. The love that I feel for this young widow does not 
 shut my eyes to her defects, and with what ardour soever she may 
 have inspired me, I am the first to see and to condemn them. I 
 confess my weakness. She has the art of pleasing me ; in vain I 
 see her faults, in vain I blame them ; in spite of her faults she 
 makes me love her ; her charms are greater, and I doubt not my 
 affection will be able to rid her mind of these vices of the times. 
 
 Phi. If you do that, you will do no slight thing. You believe, 
 then, that you are beloved by her ? 
 
 AU Yes, indeed ; I should not love her at all if I did not 
 think so. 
 
 Phi. But if her affection for you discovers itself plainly, how 
 comes it that your rivals cause you so much uneasiness? 
 
 AL It is because a heart thoroughly smitten desires all for 
 itself; and I came here only to tell her everything my passion 
 inspires me with on this point. 
 
 Phi. For my part, had I nothing to do but to form a wish, 
 her cousin Eliante should have all my sighs. Her heart, which 
 esteems you, is steadfast and sincere ; and this more suitable choice 
 would be more worthy of your attention. 
 
 AL It is true, my reason tells me so every day ; but it is not 
 reason which governs love. 
 
 Phi. I am very much afraid for this love of yours, and the 
 hope you are in may perhaps 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Oronte, Alceste, Philinte. 
 
 Oronte {to Alceste). I was informed that Eliante and Celimene 
 
 were both gone out shopping ; but as I was told that you were 
 
 here, I came up to assure you (and with a sincere heart) that I 
 
 have conceived the highest regard for you, and that for a long 
 
Scene IL] LE MISANTROPE, 397 
 
 time this has rcade me ardently desire your friendship. Yes, my 
 heart loves to do justice to merit, and I burn with impatience 
 till the bond of friendship unites us. I think that a zealous 
 friend, and one of my position, too, is certainly not to be rejected. 
 {^During this time Alceste appears to be musings and not to knoiv 
 that Oronte is speaking to him. Finally lie looks up, when Oronte 
 says to him) It is to you, if you please, that this discourse is 
 addressed. 
 
 Alceste. To me, sir? 
 
 Or. To you. Does that offend you ? 
 
 Al. Not at all ; but my surprise is very great, and I did not 
 expect the honour I receive. 
 
 Or. The esteem in which I hold you ought not by any means 
 to surprise you, since you may claim it from the whole world. 
 
 Al. Sir 
 
 Or. The State contains nothing which is not inferior to the 
 dazzling merit which is seen in you. 
 
 Al. Sir 
 
 Or: Yes, for my part, I hold you preferable to all that is most 
 considerable therein. 
 
 Al. Sir- 
 
 Or. May heaven crush me if I lie ; and to prove my feelings 
 toward you, allow me to embrace you with all my heart, and to 
 beg for a place in your friendship. Your hand on it, if you 
 please, and allow me to call you my friend. 
 
 Al. Sir 
 
 Or. What ! do you refuse ? 
 
 Al. Sir, it does me too much honour. But friendship 
 demands a little more reserve, and it is certainly profaning the 
 name to bring it in on all occasions. This union ought to spring 
 from judgment and choice ; before we form a close connection, 
 we should be better acquainted, and we may possibly be of such 
 temperaments that we should both of us repent of our bargain. 
 
 Or. In truth, this is talking like a man of sense, and I esteem 
 you still more for it. Let us leave it to time, then, to form so 
 pleasing a union. But meanwhile I offer myself entirely to you. 
 If I can ask any favour for you at court, it is well known tl^at I 
 make some figure there. I have the king's ear, and indeed he 
 always treats me with the greatest freedom in the world. In 
 short, I am in all respects absolutely yours. And as you are a 
 man of bright parts, I come, by way of commencing this agree- 
 able connection, to show you a so met which I made a little 
 while ago, and to ask you whether it is worth pubHshing. 
 
398 THE MISANTHROPE. [Act I. 
 
 Al. Sir, I am a very unfit person to decide that Pray excuse 
 me. 
 
 Or, Why so ? 
 
 Al. I have the fault of being rather more sincere in such 
 matters than I should be. 
 
 Or. The very thing I ask of you ; indeed, I should have 
 reason to complain, if, after exposing myself to you that you 
 might speak without dissimulation, you should deceive me, and 
 conceal anything from me. 
 
 AL Since you are pleased to have it so, sir, I am very 
 willing. 
 
 Or. It is a sonnet. (Reads.) Hope It is a lady who 
 
 had flattered my passion with some hope. Hope These 
 
 are none of your long pompous verses, but soft, tender, languish- 
 ing verselets. [At each pause he looks at Alceste). 
 
 Al. We shall see. 
 
 Or. Hope 1 don't know whether the style may seem 
 
 sufficiently clear and easy, and whether you will be satisfied with 
 the choice of words. 
 
 AL We shall see presently, sir. 
 
 Or. Besides, you must know that I only took a quarter of an 
 hour to make them. 
 
 Al. Let us see, sir ; the time has nothing to do with it. 
 
 Or, Hope for a while allays^ ^tis true, 
 
 And rocks to sleep our tedious pain^ 
 But poor gain^ Phyllis., must accrue 
 When nothing marches in its train. 
 
 Philinte. I am charmed already with this little bit. 
 
 AL {to Philinte). What ! have you the face to admire this ? 
 
 Or, You shoiv^d^ indeed^ great complaisance, 
 
 Less had been better, on my ivord; 
 Why should you be at that expense, 
 When hope was all you could afford 1 
 
 Plbi. In what polite terms these things are expressed. 
 AL {aside to Philinte). Oh, you vile flatterer, to praise such 
 stupid things ! 
 
 Or, But if an endless expectation 
 
 Push to the last extreme my passion, 
 Death must be my reliever. 
 
Scene II.] LE MISANTROPE. 399 
 
 Nor to prevent this^ serves your care^ 
 Fair Phyllis^ Uis downright despair 
 When 7ve must hope for ever. 
 
 Phi. The fall is pretty, amorous, admirable. 
 
 Al. {aside, softly). A plague on your fall ! You wretched 
 poisoner ! Would you had had a fall that would break your nose ! 
 
 Phi. I never heard verses so well turned. 
 
 AL {softly, aside). Zounds ! 
 
 Or. {to Philinte). You flatter me, and perhaps you think 
 
 Phi. No, I don't flatter at all. 
 
 Al. {softly, aside). What are you doing then, you wretch ? 
 
 Or. {to Alceste). But now for you ; you know the agreement 
 we made. Speak, I pray you, with sincerity. 
 
 Al. This is always a delicate matter, and on the point of 
 genius we always like people to flatter us. But I was saying the 
 other day to a person who shall be nameless, when I saw some 
 verses of his, that a man of the world should always keep under 
 strong control that itch for writing which seizes us all ; that he 
 should keep a sharp curb over the great propensity we have to 
 make a show of such amusements ; and that this eagerness to 
 show off their work causes them to make but a very poor figure. 
 
 Or. Do you mean by this to let me know that I am wrong to 
 wish 
 
 Al. I don't say that ; but I told him that a frigid compO-sition 
 is a bore ; that it needs no other weakness to disgrace a man ; 
 and that though in other respects they may have a hundred good 
 qualities, yet we view people on their weak sides. 
 
 Or. Do you mean that you find any fault with my sonnet ? 
 
 Al. I don't say that ; but that he should not write, I set 
 before his eyes how in our time the thirst for doing so had 
 spoiled a great many worthy people. 
 
 Or. Do I write badly, and so resemble them ? 
 
 Al. I don't say that. But, in short, I said to him, what 
 urgent necessity have you for rhyming? and who on earth drives 
 you to rush into print? If one could pardon the publication of 
 a bad book, it would be in the case of those unfortunate wretches 
 who have to write for their living. Take my word, resist the 
 temptation, and keep such compositions from public view. Don't 
 throw away the reputation you now have at court of being a 
 worthy gentleman, to receive from the hands of a greedy printer 
 that of a ridiculous and wretched author. This is what I tried 
 to make him understand. 
 
400 THE MISANTHROPE, [Act I. 
 
 Or. Admirably put, and I think I understand your meaning. 
 But mayn't I know what it is in my sonnet that 
 
 Al Frankly, it is a very good one to lock up in your desk. 
 You have followed bad models, and your expressions are not at 
 all natural. Pray, what is, Afid rocks to sleep our tedious pain ? 
 And what, W/ien nothing 7narches in its train ? And, JV/iy should 
 you be at that expense^ When hope was all you could afford^ And 
 what, Fair Phyllis^ Uis downright despair When tve must hope for 
 ever? This figurative style that people are so fond of has neither 
 the virtue of good taste nor of truth ; it is nothing but a playing 
 upon words, pure affectation, and it is not thus that nature speaks. 
 The bad taste of the age in this respect is horrible ; that of our 
 forefathers, unpolished as they were, was much better ; and I 
 value all that people admire much less than an old ballad that 
 I will repeat to you. 
 
 Had Royal He7iry given to me 
 
 His Paris large and fair ^ 
 And I straightway must quit for aye 
 
 The love of my own dear; 
 Pd say^ pardic, my liege Heftry^ 
 
 Take back your Paris fair ; 
 Much mo love I my dear, truly y 
 
 Much more love P my dear. 
 
 The versification is not rich, and the style is antiquated. But 
 don't you see that this is infinitely better than all those gew- 
 gaws so abhorrent to good sense, and that pure love is speaking 
 here? 
 
 Had Royal Henry given to me 
 
 His Paris large and fair, 
 And I straightway jnust quit for aye 
 
 The lave of my own dear; 
 I^d say, par die, my liege Henry, 
 
 Take back your Paris fair ; 
 Much mo love I my dear, truly. 
 Much mo love I my dear. 
 
 That is what a heart can say that is really smitten. {To Philinte, 
 7vho laughs.) Yes, Mr. Laugher, in spite of all the wits, I value 
 this more than all the florid pomp of the tinsel which every one 
 cries up. 
 
 Or. And I, for my part, maintain that my verses are very 
 good. 
 
Scene III.] LE MISANTROPE. ' 401 
 
 AL You have your reasons for thinking them so ; but you 
 must allow me to have mine, which must be excused from giving 
 way to yours. 
 
 Or. It is sufficient for me that other people value them. 
 
 AL That is because they have the art of dissimulation, which 
 I, for my part, have not. 
 
 Or. Do you think, then, that you have so great a share of wit ? 
 
 AL If I commended your verses I should have more. 
 
 Or. I shall do very well without your approbation. 
 
 AL You must then, if you please, do without it. 
 
 Or. I should very much like to see how you would compose-^ 
 some verses on the same subject, in your own style. 
 
 AL I might have the misfortune to make as bad ones, but I 
 should take care not to show them to people. 
 
 Or. You speak with a great deal of assurance, and this self- 
 sufficiency 
 
 AL Pray seek some one else to flatter you. 
 
 Or. But, my little sir, don't take quite so much on yourself. 
 
 AL Indeed, my grand gentleman, I take just as much as I 
 should do. 
 
 Phi, {stepping between them). Nay, gentlemen, this is going too 
 far ; drop it, I beg of you. 
 
 Or. I'm in the wrong, I own it; and I leave the field. {To 
 Alceste.) Your servant, sir, with all my heart. 
 
 AL And I, sir, am yours most obediently. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Philinte, Alceste. 
 
 Philinte. Now you see. By being too sincere, you have a 
 troublesome affair on your hands. I saw that Oronte wanted to 
 t)e flattered, when 
 
 Alceste. Don't speak to me. 
 
 FM. But— 
 
 AL I don't want any more society. 
 
 Fhi. This is too much. 
 
 AL Leave me alone. 
 
 'Phu If I 
 
 AL No more words. ■ 
 
 Phi. But how 
 
 AL I'm not Hstening. 
 
 Phu But • 
 
 AL What, again ?. 
 
402 THE MISANTHROPE, [Act 1 1- 
 
 Phi. This is outrageous ! 
 
 Al. This is too much ! don't dog my steps. 
 
 Phi. You're joking with me. I shall not leave you. 
 
 ACT II. Scene I. 
 Alceste, C^limene. 
 
 Alceste. Madame, may I speak plainly to you? I am by no 
 means satisfied with the way you are behaving. My anger rises 
 when I think of it, and I feel that we must break off our con- 
 nection. Yes, I should deceive you if I spoke otherwise ; sooner 
 or later we must certainly part. I might promise you the con- 
 trary a thousand times, but I should not have it in my power to 
 do it. 
 
 Celimene. It is to scold me then, so far as I can see, that you 
 wished to bring me home. 
 
 Al. I do not scold ; but you have a way, madame, of opening 
 your heart too easily to the first comer. One sees too many 
 lovers laying siege to your heart, and I cannot at all reconcile 
 myself to this. 
 
 Cel. Am I to blame for having lovers ? Can I hinder people 
 from thinking me agreeable? And when they make kindly 
 efforts to visit me, ought I to take a stick and drive them out of 
 doors ? 
 
 Al. Nc ; it is not a stick, madame, that you need, but a heart 
 less easy and melting at their love sighs. I know that your 
 charms accompany you everywhere, but the reception you give 
 them retains those whom your eyes attract ; and your gentleness to 
 those who surrender to you, finishes in every heart the work 
 which your charms had begun. The too-lively hope you inspire 
 them with fixes their assiduous attendance about you ; and a more 
 reserved complaisance on your part would drive away that swarm 
 of admirers. But, however, tell me, madame, by what chance 
 that Clitandre of yours has the good luck to please you so much ? 
 On what foundation of merit and sublime virtue do you base the 
 honour of your esteem for him? Is it for his beautifully kept 
 finger-nails that' he has gained your evident regard ? Did you 
 yield, like all the fashionable world, to the surpassing beauty of 
 his fair wig ? Or is it his large knee ornaments which make you 
 like him? Has his profusion of ribbons charmed you ? Or is it 
 by the allurement of his large Rhingrave' that he has gained 
 * See p. 18. 
 
Scene I.] LE MISANTROPE. 403 
 
 your heart, while he was acting the part of your slave ? Or has 
 his manner of laughing and his effeminate voice found the secret 
 of touching you ? 
 
 Cel. How unjustly you take oifence at him. Don't you know 
 perfectly well why I humour him, and that he can interest his 
 friends in my lawsuit, as he has promised to do ? 
 
 AL Lose your lawsuit, madame, with firmness of mind; 
 but do not keep on friendly terms with a rival who is disagreeable 
 to me. 
 
 Cel. But you are getting jealous of all the world. 
 
 AL That is because all the world is kindly received by you. 
 
 Cel. That is the very thing that ought to calm your indignant 
 spirit, since my complaisance diffuses itself everywhere ; and you 
 would have more reason to be offended if you saw me taken up 
 entirely with one. 
 
 AL But as for me, whom you blame so much for jealousy, 
 pray what have I, madame, more than any of them ? 
 
 CeL The happiness of knowing that you are beloved. 
 
 AL And what ground has my burning soul for believing that ? 
 
 Cel. I think, that having taken the trouble to tell you so, such 
 a confession should suffice. 
 
 AL But who shall assure me that, at the same time, you may 
 not be saying quite as much perhaps to everybody else ? 
 
 Cel. A charming compliment, certainly, for a lover to make ; 
 and you make me out a very lady-like person. Well, then, 
 to remove any such suspicion, I here unsay all I have said, and 
 nothing can deceive you any longer but yourself. Rest satisfied. 
 
 AL Good heavens ! Must I then love you ? Oh, if I could 
 only snatch this heart of mine out of your hands, I should bless 
 heaven for the exquisite happiness ! I make no secret of it — I do 
 all that I can to tear from my heart this terrible attachment; but 
 my greatest efforts hitherto have done nothing, and it is a punish- 
 ' ment for my sins that I love you so. 
 
 Cel. It is true ; your love for me is unparalleled. 
 
 AL Yes ; on that head I can defy all the world. My love is 
 inconceivable, and never did any one, madame, love as I do. 
 
 Cel. In good truth, the method of it is entirely new, for you 
 love people only to scold them. Your passion only shows itself 
 in peevish expressions ; never did any see such a grumbling lover. 
 
 AL But it only rests with you whether my ill-temper shall 
 disappear. Pray let us cut short all these discussions ; let us talk 
 open-heartedly, and put a stop to 
 
404 THE MISANTHROPE. [Act II. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 C^LIMENE, AlCESTE, BaSQUE. 
 
 Celimhie. What's the matter ? 
 
 Basque. Acaste is below. 
 
 CeL Well ; tell him to come up. \Exit Basque, 
 
 Al. What, can one never have a private talk with you ? One 
 always sees you ready to receive people, and you cannot resolve 
 even for one moment to let yourself be denied to any one. 
 
 Cel. Do you want me to quarrel with him ? 
 
 Al. You consider people in a way which is not at all agreeable 
 to me. 
 
 Cel. He is a man who would never forgive me, if he knew that 
 his visits could be troublesome to me. 
 
 Al. And what good does it do you to inconvenience yourself 
 in this manner ? 
 
 Ckl. Good heavens ! the goodwill of such people is of con- 
 sequence, and these are the kind of people who, I don't know 
 how, have the privilege of talking freely at court. One sees that 
 they take part in every conversation ; they may not do you good, 
 but they can certainly do you harm, and whatever support one 
 may have besides, one should never embroil oneself with these 
 loud talkers. 
 
 Al. In short, be the matter what it may, you always find 
 reasons for putting up with all the world, and the precautions of 
 your judgment 
 
 Scene III. 
 Basque, Alceste, Celimene. 
 Basque. Here's Clitandre too, madame. 
 Alceste {appearing about to go). Just so. 
 Celimene. Where are you off to ? 
 Al. Out of doors. 
 Cel. Stay. 
 Al. What for? 
 Cel. Stay. 
 Al. I can't 
 Cel. I want you to. 
 
 Al. Not at all. These conversations only weary me, and it is 
 unreasonable to wish me to put up with them. 
 Cel. I say I will ; I will have you stay. 
 Al. No ; it is impossible for me. 
 Cel. Well then, go ; you are quite ready to do so> 
 
Scene IV.] LE MISANTROPE: 405 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 ^LiANTE, Philinte, Acaste, Clitandre, Alceste, Celimene, 
 
 Basque. 
 
 Eliante. Here come the two marquises with us. Did any 
 one announce us ? 
 
 Celimene. Yes. {To Basque^ Chairs here for every one. {To 
 Alceste) What, aren't you gone ? 
 
 Alceste, No; but I choose to make you declare yourself, 
 madame, either for them or for me. 
 
 Cel. Be quiet. 
 
 Al. You shall explain yourself this very day. 
 
 Cel. You are losing your senses. 
 
 Al. No ; you shall declare yourself. 
 
 Cel. Nay 
 
 Al. You must choose one side or the other. 
 
 Cel. Surely you're joking ! 
 
 Al. No, but you must make your choice. My patience has 
 been too much tried. 
 
 Clitandre. Zounds 1 I am just come from court, madame, 
 where Cleonte, at the Levee, made himself most ridiculous. Has 
 he no friend who can give him charitable advice about his be- 
 haviour ? 
 
 Cel. To tell the truth, he makes a very sad figure. Wherever 
 he goes, he wears an air that at once strikes the eye ; and when 
 one sees him again after a short absence, one finds him still more 
 absurd. 
 
 Acaste. If one must talk of absurd people, I have just had to 
 do with a most wearisome one — Damon, who cares for nothing 
 but discussion, and who kept me, if you please, a whole hour out 
 of my chair, in the heat of the sun. 
 
 Ctl. He is a strange tattler, and then he had always the art 
 of saying nothing at great length. One can never see anything in 
 the arguments which he holds, and all we hear is nothing but 
 noise. 
 
 Al, {to Philinte). Not a bad beginning. The conversation 
 takes a nice turn towards our neighbours. 
 
 Cli. Timante, too, madame, is an admirable character ! 
 
 Cel. From head to foot the man is all mystery ; he just casts 
 one wild glance on you as he passes you, and having nothing to 
 do is always busy. Everything he says is full of affectation ; he 
 quite wearies one with his ceremonious ways ; he constantly breaks 
 off the conversation, in order to whisper a secret to you, and that 
 
4o6 * THE MISANTHROPE. [Act II. 
 
 secret is — nothing ; he makes a wonder of the least trifle, and 
 whispers everything in your ear, even when he wishes you good- 
 day. 
 
 Acaste. And Gdralde, madame ? 
 
 Cel. Oh, the tedious romancer ! One never hears him leave 
 his grand society. He's head over ears with great people, and 
 never speaks of any one less than a duke, a prince, or a princess. 
 Grand folks turn his head, and all his discourse turns upon nothing 
 but horses, equipages, and dogs \ he thee's and thou's people of 
 the highest rank, and the word "sir" is quite obsolete with him. 
 
 Cli. They say that he is most intimate with Belise. 
 
 Cel. Oh, the stupidity of the woman, and her dry conversation ! 
 I suffer a perfect martyrdom when she comes to see me. One has 
 to rack one's brain all the time to find out what to say to her, 
 and the barrenness of her ideas lets the conversation drop at 
 every turn. In vain do you invoke the aid of all your common- 
 place subjects to attack the stupid silence ; the fine weather, or 
 the rain, the cold or the heat, are matters one soon exhausts with 
 her. At the same time, her Visits, insupportable enough in them- 
 selves, are drawn out to an unconscionable length, and one may 
 ask what o'clock it is, and yawn twenty times, she no more thinks 
 of moving than if she were a log of wood. 
 
 Acas. What do you think of Adraste ? 
 
 Cel. Oh, what extravagant pride ! There's a man puffed up 
 with self-love ! His merit is never satisfied with the court. He 
 makes it his daily occupation to revile it, and there is never an 
 employment, charge, or benefice given to another, but he thinks 
 they are doing injustice to him. 
 
 Cli. How about young Cleon, whom all the fashionable people 
 now visit ; what do you say of him ? 
 
 Cel. That he owes it to his cook, and that it is to his table that 
 people pay their visits. 
 
 El. He takes care to have the choicest provisions served at his 
 table. 
 
 Cel. Yes, but I wish he would not serve himself up. His 
 stupid person is a very unsatisfactory dish, and it spoils, to my 
 taste, all the entertainments he gives. 
 
 Phi. His uncle Damis is very much esteemed ; what do you 
 say of him ? 
 
 Cel. Oh, he's one of my friends. 
 
 Phi. I consider him to be a worthy man, and very sensible. 
 
 Cel. Yes, but what makes me wild is that he will needs have 
 too much wit. He is always on a stilt, and one can see that in 
 
J 
 
 Scene IV.] LE MISANTROP^. , 407 
 
 everything he says he is labouring to be witty. Since he has taken 
 it into his head to be a clever man, nothing can suit his taste, he 
 is so difficult to please; he sees faults in everything that is written, 
 and thinks that to praise is not the part of a man of wit ; that it 
 is learned to find fault, and that only fools admire and laugh, and 
 that in censuring all the works of the age, he shows himself supe- 
 rior to other people. Even in conversation he finds he cannot 
 descend so low, and, with arms crossed, he looks down with pity 
 from the height of his genius upon all that is said. 
 
 Acas. I'm blessed if that is not a true portrait of him. 
 
 Cli. {to Celimene). You paint people to the life. "^ 
 
 Al. Well done ! Steady ! Go on, my brave court friends. 
 You spare nobody, and each has his turn. Meanwhile, let but 
 one of these persons appear, and we shall see you run in haste 
 to meet him, offer him your hand, and back up with a flattering 
 kiss your assurances that you are his humble servant. 
 
 Cli. Why do you find fault with us ? If what is said offends 
 you, your charge must be made against my lady. 
 
 Al. No, indeed, it is against you ; and your fawning laughs 
 draw from her all these slanderous reflections; her satirical humour 
 is constantly fed by the culpable incense of your flattery ; her mind 
 would find less pleasure in sarcasm, had she observed that you 
 did not applaud it. It is thus that one ought to impute to flatterers 
 all the vices that overspread mankind. 
 
 Phi. But why do you take so great an interest in these people, 
 when you yourself would condemn what is blamed in them ? 
 
 Cel. Is not this gentleman bound to contradict ? Would you 
 have him reduce himself to the level of common opinion ? Should 
 he not everywhere display that contradictory spirit with which 
 heaven has endowed him ? The sentiments of others can never 
 please him, he always maintains the contrary opinion, and would 
 think he appeared like a vulgar person if he should be known to 
 share any one else's opinion. The honour of contradicting has 
 such charms for him, that he constantly takes up arms against 
 himself; and he attacks his own sentiments as soon as he meets 
 them in the mouth of another. 
 
 Al. The laughers are on your side, madame, which is saying 
 everything ; and you may push your satire against me as far as you 
 please. 
 
 Phi. But it is very true, too, that your way is to take up arms 
 against everything one says ; and by a peevishness which you 
 yourself avow, you can neither bear people to praise nor blame 
 vou. 
 
4o8 THE MISANTHROPE. [Act II. 
 
 Al. That is because men are always in the wrong ; because 
 vexation against them is always in season, and because I see that 
 in all matters they are either barefaced flatterers, or rash fault- 
 finders. 
 
 Cel. But 
 
 AL No, madame, no, though I should die for it, you have 
 ways of amusing yourself that I cannot put up with, and people 
 are greatly in the wrong to nourish in your heart this strong 
 inclination to the faults which they themselves blame. 
 
 Cli. For my part I do not know ; but I will openly confess, 
 that I always thought hitherto that the lady was faultless. 
 
 Acas. With graces and attractions I see her well provided, but 
 her faults are not perceptible to me. 
 
 AL But they all are to me ; and far from concealing them 
 from myself, she knows I take care to reproach her with them. 
 The more we love any one, the less it behoves us to flatter them ; 
 true love shows itself by pardoning nothing, and for my part I 
 would banish all those mean-spirited lovers whom I found sub- 
 missive to all my opinions, and whose soft complaisance ofl'ered 
 incense to all my extravagant ideas. 
 
 CeL In short then, if you are to be umpire of hearts, in order 
 to love rightly, one ought to renounce all tenderness ; and to 
 make it the highest honour of perfect devotion to find constant 
 fault with the person loved. 
 
 EL Love for the most part is not governed by these rules, and 
 we always find lovers extolling their choice. Their passion never 
 sees anything to be blamed, and everything becomes lovable in 
 the person beloved. They reckon blemishes as perfections, and 
 know how to give them pleasing names. The pale vies with the 
 jasmine in fairness ; the deepest black is an adorable brunette ; 
 the lean has shapeliness and ease of deportment ; the stout has a 
 stateliness full of majesty ; the slattern by nature, who has few 
 charms, is termed a negligent beauty; the giantess becomes a 
 goddess in their eyes ; the dwarf an epitome of all the wonders 
 of heaven ; the haughty has a soul worthy of a diadem ; the 
 cheat has wit ; the fool is all good-nature ; the chatterbox has a 
 pleasant humour; and the dumb preserves a decent modesty. 
 It is thus that the ardent lover loves even the very faults of the 
 person he loves. 
 
 AL And for my part, I maintain • 
 
 CeL Let us drop this conversation, and take a turn or two in 
 the gallery. What ! are you going already, gentlemen ? 
 
 Cli, and Acas. No, madame. 
 
Scene VI.] LE MISANTROPE. 409 
 
 Al. Does the fear of their departure trouble you so much ? 
 You can go when you hke, gentlemen ; but I give you notice that 
 I shall not leave till you are gone. 
 
 Acas. Unless I am in madame's way, I have nothing to call 
 me hence the whole day. 
 
 Cli. As for me, so long as I am in time to attend in the king's 
 bedchamber, I have nothing else to occupy me. 
 
 Cel. {to Alceste). This is a joke, I believe. 
 
 Al. No, by no means. We shall see whether I am the person 
 you want to get rid of. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Basque, Alceste, C^limene, Eliante, Acaste, Philinte, 
 Clitandre. 
 
 Basque {to Alceste). Sir, there is a man here who wants to 
 speak with you about a matter which he says admits of no delay. 
 
 Alceste. Tell him that I have no such urgent affairs. 
 
 Bas. He has a jacket on with large plaited skirts and edged 
 with gold lace. 
 
 Cel. Go and see what he wants, or ask hirp to come in. {Enter 
 Officer.) Well, then, what's your pleasure? Come here, sir. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Officer^ Alceste, CELmfeNE, Eliante, Acaste, Philinte, 
 Clitandre. 
 
 Officer. Sir, I have a word or two to speak with you. 
 
 Alceste. You may speak aloud, sir, for my information. 
 
 Officer. The Marshals,'' whose commands I am charged with, 
 order you to come and appear before them at once. 
 
 Al. Who? Me, sir? 
 
 Officer. Yourself, sir. 
 
 Al. And what for ? 
 
 Philinte {to Alceste). It is that ridiculous affair between you and 
 Oronte. 
 
 Celimhie {to Philinte). What was that ? 
 
 Phi. Oronte and he affronted one another just now about 
 some trifling verses he did not approve of, and they want to stop 
 
 I the matter before it goes any further. 
 Al. I shall never show any base compliance. 
 * A Court established to try and arrange matters of honour, without having 
 
4IO THE MISANTHROPE. [Act III. 
 
 Phi. But you must obey the order. Come, get ready. 
 
 Al. What arrangement would they make between us ? Will 
 these gentlemen condemn me to approve of those verses which 
 are the occasion of our quarrel. I won't unsay what I have said ; 
 I think them villainous. 
 
 Phi. But with a more gentle spirit 
 
 Al. I won't give in the least. The verses are execrable. 
 
 Phi. You should show yourself more tractable in your ideas. 
 Come, let us be off. 
 
 Al. I will go, but nothing shall induce me to retract. 
 
 Phi. Come, and show yourself. 
 
 Al. Unless an express command comes from the king that I 
 should approve these verses, about which they are making such a 
 fuss, I shall always maintain that they are wretched, and that the 
 man who made them deserves hanging. {To Clitandre and 
 Acaste^ who laugh.) Hang it, gentlemen, I did not think I should 
 cause so much amusement ! 
 
 Cel. Go at once, and appear where you should. 
 
 Al. I am going there, madame, and I shall come back here 
 directly to end our discussion. 
 
 ACT III. Scene I. 
 Clitandre, Acaste. 
 
 Clitandre. My dear Marquis, I see that you are quite at your 
 ease; everything pleases you, and nothing disturbs you. Do you 
 think indeed, if your eyes are not dazzled, that you have good 
 reason for seeming so happy ? 
 
 Acaste. Well, really, when I come to cross-examine myself, I 
 do not see where I can find any cause for being melancholy. I 
 have a fortune, I am young, and I come of a family which may 
 rightly be called noble ; and I think, by the rank which my birth 
 gives me, that there are very few employments which are not open 
 to me ; while as to courage, which we ought to value above 
 everything, without vanity I may say that the world knows that I 
 am not wanting in it ; and I have been pushing my way in the 
 world in a bold and vigorous manner. As to wit, no doubt I 
 have some, and a certain amount of good taste too, which enables 
 me to judge and reason upon everything without study; and at 
 first nights at the theatre, which I am devoted to, I pose as a critic 
 in the stage-boxes, give my verdict, and make a great uproar at 
 the finest passages. I am clever enough, I have a good appear- 
 ance, a specially good set of teeth, and a very fine figure. As to 
 
Scene I.] LE MISANTROPE, 411 
 
 dress, I think, without flattering myself, he would be in the wrong 
 who would dispute the palm with me. I find myself esteemed 
 as much as a man can be, beloved by the fair sex, and standing 
 well with my prince. I think with all this, my dear Marquis, I 
 really do think that a man might be quite satisfied with himself in 
 any country. 
 
 Cli. Yes, but finding conquests so easy elsewhere, why should 
 you come and sigh here to no purpose ? 
 
 Acas. I ? Good heavens, I'm not of the make or the temper 
 to put up with the indifference of a fine lady ! It is for vulgar, 
 awkward people, to worship constantly at the shrine of your severe 
 beauties ; to languish at their feet and put up with their cruelty ; 
 to seek relief from sighs and tears, and endeavouring by dancing 
 a prolonged attendance to obtain what is denied to their merit. 
 But people of my stamp, Marquis, are not made to live on trust, 
 and pay all the cost. However great may be the excellence of 
 the fair ones, I am of opinion, thank heaven, that we are worth as 
 much as they; and it is not just, if they are to be honoured by a 
 heart like mine, that it should cost them nothing, and at least, to 
 weigh everything justly, it is right that advances should be made 
 on both sides. 
 
 Cli. So you think. Marquis, that you are all right here ? 
 
 Acas. Well, Marquis, I have some reason to do so. 
 
 Cli. Then, believe me, have done with so great a mistake. 
 You flatter yourself, my dear fellow, and blind yourself. 
 
 Acas. That is quite true. I flatter myself, and I really am blind. 
 
 Cli. But what makes you consider yourself so perfectly happy ? 
 
 Acas. I flatter myself. 
 
 Cli. On what do you base your conjectures ? 
 
 Acas. I am blinded. 
 
 Cli. Have you pretty sure proofs of it ? 
 
 Acas. I impose on myself, I tell you. 
 
 Cli. Has C^lim^ne made any secret avowal of her passion ? 
 
 Acas. No ; I am scorned. 
 
 Cli. Pray answer me. 
 
 Acas. I meet with nothing but rebuffs. 
 
 Cli. Have done with this pleasantry, and tell me what hopes 
 she has given you. 
 
 Acas. I am a wretch, and you are the lucky man. She has a 
 great dislike to my person, and one of these days I must hang 
 myself. 
 
 Cli. Are you willing then. Marquis, that in order to settle our 
 love afiair we should both agree on one thing ? That whoever 
 
412 THE MISANTHROPE, [Act III. 
 
 can show a certain sign of having the greater share of Celimene's 
 heart, the other shall give place to the acknowledged conqueror, 
 and set him free from persistent rivalry ? 
 
 Acas. Ah, indeed, you speak exactly to my taste, and I agree 
 to your proposal from the bottom of my heart. But hush ! 
 {Enter C^limene.) 
 
 Scene II. 
 Celimene, Agaste, Clitandre, Basque. 
 
 Celimene. What ! here still ? 
 
 Clitandre. Love, madame, is keeping us. 
 
 Cel. I just now heard a carriage enter the courtyard. Do you 
 know who it is ? 
 
 Clu No. 
 
 Enter Basque. 
 
 Basque. Arsinod, madame, is coming up to see you. 
 
 Cel. What does this woman want with me ? 
 
 Bas. Eliante is below talking with her. 
 
 Cel. What has she got in her head ? And who sent for her ? 
 
 Acaste. She passes everywhere for a consummate prude, and 
 the ardour of her zeal 
 
 Cel. Yes, yes, mere cant. In her heart she belongs to the 
 world, and all her anxiety is to hook some one, though she has 
 not succeeded. She can only view enviously the professed lovers 
 of another, and her disagreeable goodness, abandoned by every 
 one, raves perpetually against the blindness of the age. She en- 
 deavours under the false cloak of prudery to conceal the frightful 
 solitude of her home, and to save the credit of her feeble charms 
 she would make a crime of every power they lack. At the same 
 time a lover would greatly please the lady ; and she has a 
 sneaking kindness even for Alccste. The court he pays to me 
 is an outrage on her charms, and she regards it as a kind of rob- 
 bery committed against her. Her jealous spite, which she hides 
 with great difficulty, gives me an underhand fling wherever she 
 goes. In short, I never saw anything to my mind so stupid. She 
 
 is impertinent to the last degree, and 
 
 Enter Arsino^. 
 
 Scene III. 
 y Arsino4 Celimene : Clitandre and Acaste. 
 
 ^ Celimene. Ah 1 what happy chance has brought you hither, 
 madame ? Sincerely I was very uneasy about you. 
 
Scene III.] LE MISANTROPE. 413 
 
 Arsinoe. I come to give you some advice which I thought it 
 my duty to impart. 
 
 Cel. Oh, how glad I am to see you ! 
 
 \Clitandre a?id Acastt leave the room^ laughing. 
 
 Ar. They have gone away most opportunely. 
 
 Cel. Shall we sit down ? 
 
 Ar. It is not at all necessary. Friendship, madame, ought 
 above all to display itself in those things which may be of most 
 importance to us. And as nothing can possibly be more important 
 than honour and decorum, I come to show the kindliness my heart 
 feels for you, by telling you of something which touches your 
 honour. Yesterday I was calling on some people of distinguished 
 virtue, and the conversation turned on you ; and your conduct, 
 madame, with its great display, unhappily did not meet with com- 
 mendation. This crowd of people whose visits you admit, your 
 easy manners and the talk they give rise to, found more critics 
 than was desirable, and the censure was more severe that I should 
 have wished. You may well suppose which side I took. I did 
 all I could in your defence. I strongly excused you on the 
 ground of your good intentions, and offered to be answerable 
 for your good principles. But you know there are certain things 
 in life which one cannot excuse, even with the strongest desire 
 to do so ; and I was obliged to own that your way of living did 
 you a certain amount of harm ; that in the eyes of the world it 
 had an ill appearance; that all sorts of ill-natured stories are 
 being told about you, and that if you chose, uncharitable judges 
 would have less to find fault with. Not that I believe that decency 
 is in any way outraged; heaven forbid such a thought! But 
 people easily give credit to the shadow of a fault, and it is not 
 enough to live well, as far as regards ourselves. I believe, madame, 
 that you are too sensible not to take in good part this useful 
 advice, and that you will attribute it to the secret promptings of 
 a zeal which attaches me thoroughly to your interests. 
 
 Cel. Madame, I must thank you greatly for the advice you 
 have given me ; and far from taking it ill, I desire at once to ac- 
 knowledge the favour by telling you something that equally touches 
 your honour. And as I see that you prove yourself my friend by 
 telling me of the reports people spread about me, I shall in my 
 turn follow so kind an example by acquainting you with what 
 people say of you. I was paying a visit the other day, and found 
 there some people of rare merit, who, speaking of the care which 
 those must take who lead a virtuous life, turned the conversation 
 on you. There your prudishness and your displays of zeal were 
 
414 THE MISANTHROPE, [Act III. 
 
 by no means referred to as a good model ; your affectation of 
 an outward gravity, your endless discourses about wisdom and 
 honour, your affectation and outcries at the shadow of an in- 
 decency, through an ambiguous word, which yet may have been 
 meant innocently ; the high esteem you are held in by yourself, 
 and the eye of pity you cast on every one else ; your frequent 
 lectures and your bitter censures upon things that are innocent and 
 pure ; all this, madame, if I may speak frankly to you, was blamed 
 by common consent. What is the good, they said, of that modest 
 look and that quiet exterior which all the rest belies ? She's most 
 punctual at her devotions, but she beats her servants and does not 
 pay them their wages. She makes a great show of zeal in all 
 places of devotion, but she paints, and wishes to appear handsome. 
 She has nude figures in pictures covered over, but she likes the 
 reahty. For my part I undertook your defence against them all, 
 and positively assured them that it was all scandal. But the 
 whole run of their opinion was against me, and their conclusion 
 was that you would do well to trouble less about the actions of 
 others, and to take a little more pains with your own ; that one 
 ought to look a long time into one's self before thinking of con- 
 demning others ; that we should add the weight of an exemplary 
 life to the corrections we desire to make in our neighbours, and 
 that it would be still better for us to leave this matter to those in 
 whose hands heaven has placed it. I believe that you also are 
 too reasonable, madame, not to take this advice in good part, and 
 that you will attribute it to the secret promptings of a zeal which 
 attaches me thoroughly to your interests. 
 
 Ar. Whatever we may be exposed to in giving reproofs, I did 
 not expect such a reply as this, madame ; and I see plainly .by 
 its sharpness, that my sincere advice has touched you to the quick. 
 
 Cel. On the contrary, madame, if people were but wise, 
 these mutual cautions would be more in vogue ; and we should, 
 by this frank treatment of each other put an end to that great 
 blindness which most persons are under in respect of themselves. 
 It will be entirely your fault if we do not continue this faithful 
 office, and take great care to compare notes as to what we hear 
 of each other, you of me, or I of you. 
 
 Ar. Ah ! madame, I can hear nothing of you ; it is in me 
 that people see a great deal to find fault with. 
 
 Cel. Madame, one may praise or blame everything, and each 
 one may be right according to his age or taste. There is a time 
 for gallantry, and one also more fit for prudery. One may, out of 
 policy, choose that, when the glory of our youthful days is faded. 
 
Scene III.] LE MISANTROPE. 415 
 
 This serves to cover some vexatious disaster. I do not say but 
 what I may, some time or other, follow your steps ; age will bring 
 about everything, but it is not the time, madame, to be a prude at 
 twenty years of age. 
 
 Ar. Really you pride yourself on a very trifling advantage, 
 and make a great noise about your age. Whatever difference 
 there may be between your age and mine, it is no such wonder- 
 ful matter to value yourself upon ; and I cannot imagine, madame. 
 why you should put yourself into such a passion, and flout me as 
 you are doing. 
 
 Cel. Nor do I also know, madame, why you everywhere 
 inveigh so bitterly against me. Must you needs be always 
 revenging your vexations on me ? and can I help it if people will 
 not pay their attentions to you ? If my person captivates people, 
 and they continue daily to make me offers of love which you may 
 wish to deprive me of, I do not know what to do in this matter, 
 and it is not my fault. You have a clear field, and I am no 
 hindrance to your having charms to attract people. 
 
 Ar, Ah, do you suppose I give myself any trouble about the 
 crowd of lovers you are so vain of? And is it not very easy to 
 judge at what price one may attract them nowadays? Do you 
 think to make one believe, as things go, that your merit alone 
 attracts all this crowd ? That they burn with nothing but honour- 
 able love for you, and all pay court to you for your virtues ? 
 People are not blinded by vain pretences ; the world is no dupe, 
 and I see some people who are formed to inspire tender senti- 
 ments, who nevertheless do not gather lovers to their houses ; 
 from which we can draw the conclusion that one does not win 
 their hearts without great advances, that no one is our admirer 
 merely for our looks, and that we must pay for the court that is 
 made to us. Therefore, don't puff yourself up with vainglory for 
 the trifling advantage of a poor victory ; moderate somewhat the 
 pride of your charms, and don't treat people with contempt 
 because of them. If my eyes envied yours their conquests, I 
 think I might do like other people — be under no restraint, and 
 show you plainly that we can have lovers when we wish to have 
 them. 
 
 Cel. Have some then, madame, and let us see you manage it ; 
 make an effort to please by means of your grand secret; and 
 without 
 
 Ar. Let us break off this conversation, madame ; it would try 
 both your temper and mine too much ; and I should already have 
 taken my leave had I not been obliged to wait for my carriage. 
 
4i6 THE MISANTHROPE. [Act III. 
 
 CeL You can stay, madame, as long as you please ; you need not 
 hurry on that account ; but, without fatiguing you with ceremony, 
 I will give you better company, and this gentleman {Alceste enters\ 
 whom chance has brought hither just at the right time, will better 
 fill my place in conversing with you. {To Alceste.) Alceste, I 
 must go and write a letter or two, which I cannot put off any 
 longer without doing myself harm ; so please to stay with madame, 
 who will, I am sure, be so good as to pardon my want of civility. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Alceste, Arsino^ 
 
 Arsinoe. You see she desires that I should entertain you while 
 I am waiting a moment for my carriage, and never could all her 
 attention offer me anything more charming than such a conversa- 
 tion. Indeed, persons of sublime merit attract the love and 
 esteem of every one, and yours certainly has hidden charms which 
 make me interested in all your affairs. I wish that the court 
 would do more justice to your worth and regard it more favour- 
 ably. You have reason to complain, and I am out of all patience 
 when I see, from day to day, that they do nothing for you. 
 
 Alceste. For me, madame ? And what pretensions have I to 
 anything ? Have I been known to do any service to the State ? 
 What have I done, if you please, that is so striking in itself, that 
 I should complain of the court doing nothing for me ? 
 
 Ar. Those on whom the court casts a favourable eye have 
 not always rendered such distinguished services. There must be 
 opportunity as well as capacity, and in short the merit you dis- 
 cover ought 
 
 Al. There, no more of my merit, for goodness' sake. Why 
 should the court trouble itself about that ? It would have enough 
 to do, and its hands full of business, if it had to unearth people's 
 merits. 
 
 Ar. Illustrious merit brings itself to light ; yours is extremely 
 valued in many quarters, and you may believe me when I tell you 
 that only yesterday, in two important circles, you were praised by 
 persons of great consequence. 
 
 Al. Why, madame, everybody is praised nowadays, and every- 
 thing is thereby confused in the present age; every man is credited 
 with equally great merit, so that is no longer any honour to be 
 praised. I am sick of eulogies ; they throw them at one's head. 
 Even my valet is in the Gazette. 
 
 Ar. For my part, I could heartily wish that, to bring you into 
 
Scene iV.] ZA" MISANTROPE. 417 
 
 greater notice, a place at court might allure you. If you would 
 only show the least inclination that way, one might set many 
 engines at work to serve you, and I have persons at my beck 
 whom I will employ for you, who will make your way easy to 
 everything. 
 
 Al. But what would you have me do there, madame ? The 
 temper I am of requires me to keep away from court. Heaven, 
 when it sent me into the world, did not give me a soul suited to 
 the air of courts. I do not find in myself the virtues necessary 
 to succeed, and make my fortune there. My chief talent is to be 
 frank and sincere. I do not know how to cajole people in 
 conversation, and he who has not the art of concealing his 
 thoughts ought to make a very short stay in that country. No 
 doubt, away from the court one has not the standing and the 
 titles of honour which it can confer ; but, at the same time, in 
 losing these advantages one has not the vexation of cajoling some 
 very silly persons. One has not a thousand cruel rebuffs to suffer ; 
 one has not Mr. So-and-so's verses to praise, nor my Lady Such- 
 an-one to flatter, nor to put up with the numskull of a marquis. 
 
 Ar. Well then, if you please, we will drop this question of a 
 court, but I must pity you for your love affair, and, to let you 
 know my thoughts on that point, I could heartily wish that your 
 affections were better placed. You certainly deserve a much 
 happier fate, and she whom you are charmed with is unworthy of 
 you. 
 
 AL But, pray, madame, consider, when you say so, that this 
 person is your friend. 
 
 Ar. Yes, but it really goes against my conscience to suffer any 
 longer the wrong she does you. Your situation greatly distresses 
 , me, for I give you warning that your love is being taken advan- 
 tage of. 
 
 Al. This is showing a tender interest in me, madame, and 
 such advice to a lover is very kind. 
 
 Ar. Yes, for all she is my friend, she is, I declare, utiworthy 
 to subjugate the heart of a man of honour, and she entertains 
 only pretended kindness for you. 
 
 Al. That may be, madame — one cannot see into people's 
 hearts ; but your charity might well have forborne to throw such 
 a suspicion into mine. 
 
 Ar. If you will not be undeceived, I will say no more ; that 
 is easy enough. 
 
 Al. No ; but on this subject, whatever we may be told, doubts 
 are of all things the most tormenting, and for my pai't I should be 
 
 28 
 
4i8 THE MISANTHROPE, [Act IV. 
 
 glad if you would inform me of nothing on which you cannot 
 throw the fullest light. 
 
 Ar. Well, you have said enough, and. you shall receive full 
 light on this matter. Yes, I am willing that your own eyes should 
 convince you of everything. Only escort me as far as my house. 
 There I shall show you absolute proof of the infidelity of your 
 fair one's heart, and if yours can be smitten by any other eyes, we 
 may perhaps offer you something in the way of consolation. 
 
 ACT IV. Scene I. 
 Eliante, Philinte. 
 
 Philinie. No, never was any one so difficult to manage ; never 
 did a reconciliation cost so much pains to bring about ; in vain 
 did they try and turn him this side or that — there was no changing 
 his opinion. In my idea, never did so absurd a difference occupy 
 the wisdom of these gentlemen. " No, gentlemen," he said, " I 
 shall not retract, but I will agree to anything barring this point. 
 What has he taken offence at ? What has he to say against me ? 
 Is his honour at stake because he cannot write well? What 
 harm did my opinion do to him that he took it in such bad part ? 
 One may be an excellent man, and yet write bad verses. Honour 
 is not affected by such things. I esteem him a gallant man in all 
 respects, a man of quality, merit, and courage ; all you please, but 
 he is a very bad author. I'll praise, if you like, his equipage and 
 his style of living, his skill in horsemanship, in arms, in dancing ; 
 but as to praising his verses, I am his most obedient servant \ and 
 when one has not the happiness to be able to write better, one 
 should have no desire to write verses unless upon pain of death.'' 
 In short, the utmost favour and modification which, after great 
 efforts, he could be brought to yield, was to say (thinking greatly to 
 soften his style), " Sir, I am sorry that I am so difficult to please ; 
 and out of respect to you I could have wished with all my soul 
 that I thought your sonnet better." To conclude, they forced 
 them to close the whole matter with an embrace. 
 
 J^Uante. His modes of acting are very singular, but I have, I 
 own it, a special regard for him ; and the sincerity he piques him- 
 self on has something noble and heroic in it : it is a rare virtue 
 in the present age, and I could wish to see it in everybody as in 
 him. 
 
 Phi. For my part, the more I see him, the more I am 
 astonished at this passion he gives way to. In the temper in 
 
Scene II.] LE MISANTROPE. 419 
 
 which heaven has thought fit to form him, I can't imagine why he 
 takes it in his head to be in love ; and still less can I imagine why 
 your cousin should be the person his fancy inclines him to. 
 
 EL This shows us sufficiently that love is not always produced 
 in people by a similarity of temper; and in this instance all 
 theories about tender sympathies are falsified. 
 
 Phi. But, by what you can see, do you think she loves him ? 
 
 JiL Ah, that is a point not easily known. How can one 
 judge whether she really loves him ? Her heart is not even itself 
 very sure what it thinks ; it loves sometimes without very well 
 knowing why, and fancies too that it loves when there is nothing in it. 
 
 Phi. I believe that our friend will have more vexation with 
 this cousin of yours than he imagines ; and to say the truth, if he 
 were of my mind, he would pay his addresses in quite another 
 quarter, and we should see him, madame, make a more suitable 
 choice, and profit by the kindness your heart shows him. 
 
 Al. For my part, I make no disguise in the matter, and I 
 think one should be sincere on these points. I do not oppose 
 his passion at all, on the contrary my heart interests itself in it ; 
 and if the matter depended only on me, I would myself join him 
 to her he loves. But if in such a choice, as anything may happen, 
 his love should experience some contrary fate, and if she decided 
 to crown some one else's love, I could make up my mind to receive 
 his addresses ; and his having been refused under such circum- 
 stances would not cause me to dislike him. 
 
 Phi. And I, for my part, madame, do not at all oppose that kind- 
 ness which your beauty entertains for him ; and he himself, if he 
 would, could tell you what I have taken the trouble to say to him 
 on this point. But if by their being united in marriage you should 
 be unable to receive his addresses, all mine should seek to gain 
 that distinguished favour which with so much goodness you offer 
 to him. Happy should I be, madame, if, when your heart can 
 withdraw itself from him, it might but fall to my share. 
 
 Al. You are amusing yourself, Philinte. 
 
 Phi. No, madame, I speak now from the bottom of my heart. 
 I await the opportunity to make you an offer openly, and with all 
 my heart I long for that moment. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Alceste, Eliante, Philinte. 
 
 Alceste. Ah, madame, give me satisfaction for an offence which 
 has just triumphed over all my constancy. 
 
4b THE MISANTHROPE, . [Act IV. 
 
 :^liante. What is the matter? What ails you? Who has 
 disturbed you ? 
 
 AL Something ails me which it is death for me to think of. 
 The dissolution of all nature had not oppressed me like this 
 occurrence. It is all over with me — my love — I can't speak. 
 
 Al. Endeavour to recover your spirits a little. 
 
 AL Oh, just heaven ! must so many charms be joined to the 
 odious vices of the basest souls ? 
 
 ]&L But pray, who can 
 
 AL Ah ! all is ruined ; I am — I am betrayed : I shall die of 
 it. Celimene — could one have believed the news? C(^limene 
 deceives me, and is faithless. 
 
 ^L Have you just grounds for believing it ? 
 
 Fhilinte. Perhaps it is a suspicion lightly conceived ; your 
 jealous temper sometimes indulges chimeras. 
 
 AL Oh, sir, for goodness' sake concern yourself with your own 
 affairs ! {To Eliante) I am only too certain of her treachery, 
 having a letter in my pocket written by her own hand. Yes, 
 madame, a letter written to Oronte sets before my eyes my dis- 
 grace and her shame — Oronte, whose addresses I thought she 
 avoided, and whom I dreaded least of all my rivals. 
 
 Phi. A letter may deceive us by appearances and is some- 
 times not so guilty as one thinks it. 
 
 AL Once more, sir, leave me if you please, and only trouble 
 yourself about your own concerns. 
 
 ^/. You should moderate your passion, and the outrage 
 
 AL This work, madame, belongs to you ; it is to you that my 
 heart has now recourse for power to free itself from this cutting 
 pain. Revenge me on your ungrateful and perfidious relation 
 who basely betrays my constant love ; revenge me for this stroke 
 which ought to excite your horror ! 
 
 Al I revenge you ! How ? 
 
 AL By receiving my heart. Accept it, madame, instead of 
 that faithless creature ; in that way I can take vengeance on her ; 
 and I will punish her by the sincere vows, the profound love, the 
 respectful concern, the earnest devotion, and the assiduous service, 
 which this heart shall offer you as an ardent sacrifice. 
 
 EL I sympathise with you certainly in what you suffer, and 
 do not despise the heart you offer me ; but perhaps the evil is not 
 so great as you think it, and you may lay aside this desire ot 
 vengeance. When the injury proceeds from an object full of 
 charms, one forms many designs one never executes. In vain do 
 we see powerful reasons to part ; the beloved criminal is perfectly 
 
Scene III.] LE MISANTROPE. 421 
 
 innocent ; all the harm we wish her easily vanishes, and it is very 
 well known what the anger of a lover is. 
 
 Al. No, no, madame, no ; the crime is too deadly ; there is 
 no return, and I absolutely break off with her. Nothing shall 
 change my resolution, and I should punish myself if ever I loved 
 her more. Here she is. My anger redoubles at her approach. 
 I will go and reproach her vehemently for her black ingratitude, 
 will absolutely confound her, and after that bring you a heart 
 entirely freed from her delusive charms. 
 
 , Scene III. 
 Celimene, Alceste. 
 
 Alceste (aside). Oh, heaven ! how can I here master my 
 emotion ? 
 
 Celimene {aside). Ah ! {To Alceste) Why, what is the 
 meaning of this state I find you in? This sighing and these 
 gloomy looks that you cast on me ? 
 
 Al. That all the horrors of which a soul is capable have 
 nothing in them comparable to your disloyalty ; that fate, devils, 
 and incensed heaven never produced anything so wicked as 
 yourself. 
 
 CeL This is certainly an admirable way of courtship. 
 
 Al. Nay, none of your jests ; this is no time for laughing — 
 much rather blush, you have reason for it. I have sure proofs of 
 your treachery. This is what the troubles of my heart pointed at ; 
 it was not in vain that my affection was alarmed. By those frequent 
 suspicions which you found so hateful, I was looking for the mis- 
 fortune which my eyes have met with ; and in spite of all your 
 caution and dissembling, my star hinted to me what I had to fear : 
 but do not presume that I shall endure the vexation of seeing 
 myself outraged without being revenged. I know that one has no 
 power over inclinations, and that love will always spring up 
 spontaneously ; that one can never take possession of a heart by 
 force, and that every soul is free to name its conqueror. So I 
 should have no ground for complaint had you spoken to me with- 
 out dissimulation ; and if you had rejected my addresses at once, 
 my heart would have had only destiny to blame. But to have 
 my love encouraged by a false confession, is a treachery and 
 perfidy which cannot have too great a punishment, and I shall 
 give full vent to my resentment. Yes, yes ; after such an outrage 
 dread everything, I am no longer myself, I am given over to 
 
423 THE MISANTHROPE. [Act IV. 
 
 rage. Pierced by the mortal blow which you have struck me, my 
 senses are no longer under the control of reason ; I yield to the 
 transports of a just anger, and cannot answer for what I 
 may do. . . r 
 
 CeL Pray tell me the meaning of this wild raving. Tell me — 
 have you lost your senses ? 
 
 Al. Yes, yes, I lost them, when, in seeing you, to my 
 misfortune I drank in the poison that is killing me, and when I 
 thought to find sincerity in the treacherous charms by which I 
 was enchanted. 
 
 CeL What treachery, then, can you complain of? 
 
 AL Oh, that double heart ! How well it knows how to dis- 
 semble ! But I have means quite ready to drive it to extremity. 
 Cast your eyes here and recognise your own handwriting. The 
 discovery of this letter is enough to confound you. Against this 
 evidence you can have nothing to answer. 
 
 CeL And it is this which troubles your mind ? 
 
 AL Don't you blush at seeing this writing ? 
 
 CeL No ! Why should I ? 
 
 AL What ! will you add audacity to artifice ? Will you dis- 
 own it because it is not signed? 
 
 CeL Why should I disown a letter in my own handwriting? 
 
 AL. And can you look upon it without being confounded at 
 the crime against me, of which its tenor accuses you ? 
 
 CeL You are assuredly an outrageous mortal. 
 
 AL. AVhat ! Do you thus brave out this convincing proof ? 
 And has that which shows me how favourable you are to Oronte 
 nothing in it injurious to me, and shameful to you? 
 
 CeL Oronte ! Who told you that the letter is for him ? 
 
 AL The persons who this day put it in my hands. But I am 
 villing to grant that it may be for another. Has my heart the 
 -ess reason to complain of yours ? Would you be really less 
 blameworthy towards me on that account ? 
 
 CeL But supposing it's a woman this letter is meant for, 
 how does that hurt you, and what is there blamablc in it ? 
 
 AL Ah ! That turn is good, and the excuse, admirable. I 
 own I was not prepared for this stroke, and here I am absolutely 
 convinced ! Dare you have recourse to such gross" impositions ? 
 Do you think people have lost their eyes ? Come, let us see a 
 little in what way, with wliat air, you can maintain so palpable a 
 falsity, and how you can apply to a woman all the impassioned 
 words of this letter. To cover your breach of constancy, explain 
 these words which I am going to read 
 
ScExNE III.] LE MISANTROPE. 423 
 
 Cel. I have no wish to do so. It is ridiculous for you to take 
 such authority on yourself, and to tell me to my face what you 
 have just ventured to say. 
 
 Al. No, no ; without going into a passion, take a little pains 
 to justify the terms you use here. 
 
 Cel. No, I will not have anything to do with it, and whatever 
 you may believe about this incident is of very little consequence 
 to m€. 
 
 AL Pray prove to me, and I shall be satisfied, that you can 
 explain this letter as meant for a woman. 
 
 Cel. No, it is for Oronte, and I would have you think so ; I 
 receive all his attentions with the greatest pleasure. I admire his 
 conversation ; I esteem him for what he is, and I admit whatever 
 you please. There now, take your own course, let nothing stop 
 you, only don't torment me any more. 
 
 AL [aside): Good heavens ! Can anything be conceived 
 more cruel ? And was ever a heart treated thus ? What ! I am 
 justly in a passion with her; and when I come to complain, it is 
 I who am scolded ! She aggravates to the utmost my sorrow and 
 my suspicions ; she lets me believe everything, she glories in 
 everything, and yet my heart is cowardly enough not to break the 
 chain which binds it, not to arm itself with a generous disdain 
 against the ungrateful object with which it is but too much 
 smitten. {To Celimene.) Ah! perfidious creature, how well you 
 know how to take advantage of my extreme weakness even against 
 myself, and to make subservient to your own ends the prodigious 
 excess of this fatal love, born of those traitorous eyes I Clear 
 yourself at least from a crime which overwhelms me, and do 
 not pretend to be guilty. Show, if you can, that this is an in- 
 nocent letter ; my fondness consents to lend a helping hand. 
 Try and appear faithful, and I will do all I can to believe you 
 such. -'-^^ 
 
 CcL Get along with you, you are mad with your transports of 
 jealousy, and you do not deserve the love I have for you. I 
 should like to know who could constrain me to descend to the / 
 baseness of dissembling with you ? And why, if my heart inclined j^ 
 another way, should I not say so sincerely ? What ! does not the ^,j 
 obliging assurance of my sentiments defend me sufficiently against ■,^<. 
 all your suspicions? Are they of any weight against such a ^J 
 pledge ? Is it not an affront to me to listen to them ? and since it is > 
 our heart's utmost effort to bring itself to confess its love, since the 
 honour of our sex, hostile to our passions, strongly opposes such 
 confessions, should the lover who sees us overcome such an 
 
424 THE MISANTHROPE, [Act IV. 
 
 obstacle for his sake suspect this oracle with impunity ? And is he 
 not a criminal, not to rest secure of that which one can only declare 
 after a great struggle with oneself? Go ; such suspicions deserve 
 my anger, and you are not worthy of consideration. I am foolish, 
 and am vexed at my folly in still retaining any kindness for you. 
 I ought to fix my regard somewhere else, and so give you just 
 reason to complain of me. 
 
 AL Ah, traitress ! How strange is my weakness for you. 
 You certainly deceive me with these tender expressions ; but it 
 signifies nothing, I must follow my fate. My soul is entirely 
 devoted to you. I must see to the last what your heart will prove, 
 and whether it can form so black a design as to deceive me. 
 
 CeL No, you don't love me as you ought. 
 
 AL Oh, nothing is comparable to my intense love, and in my 
 zeal to show it to ail the world, I go so far as to form wishes 
 against you. Yes, I could wish that no one thought you lovable, 
 that you were reduced to a miserable condition, that heaven at 
 your birth had bestowed nothing on you, that you had neither 
 rank, family, nor fortune, so that I might, by a striking sacrifice 
 of my heart, have repaired the injustice of your condition ; and 
 that I might now have had the joy and glory of seeing you 
 receive all from the hands of my love. 
 
 CeL This is wishing me well after a strange fashion ! Heaven 
 preserve me from your ever having occasion — —Here comes 
 Monsieur Du Bois, comically got up. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Du Bois, Celimene, Alceste. 
 
 Alceste. What means this get-up, and this frightened look? 
 What is the matter with you ? 
 
 Du Bois. Sir 
 
 AL Well? 
 
 Du B. Strange events, without end. 
 
 AL What is it ? 
 
 Du B. Ah ! sir, our affairs are going wrong. 
 
 AL How so? 
 
 Du B. Shall I speak out ? 
 
 AL Yes, speak quickly. 
 
 Du B. Isn't there some one here ? 
 
 AL This is mere trifling. Will you speak ? 
 
Scene IV.] LE MISANTROPE, 425 
 
 Da B. Sir, you must march off. 
 
 AL What for ? 
 
 Du B. We must be off as quickly as v/e can. 
 
 AL And why ? 
 
 Du B. I tell you we must leave this place. 
 
 AL But the reason ? 
 
 Du B. You must go, sir, without taking leave. 
 
 AL But what do you mean by all this talk ? 
 
 Du B. I mean that we must pack and be off. 
 
 AL Ah ! I shall certainly break your head, you rascal, if you 
 don't explain yourself ditferently. 
 
 Du B. Sir, a man whose face and dress were equally black 
 actually came into the kitchen to leave a paper, scribbled about 
 in such a way that it would take more than the devil to read it. 
 I make no doubt but it concerns your lawsuit, though Old Nick 
 himself could not make anything of it. 
 
 AL Well, well, but what has this paper to do with our going 
 away, you vagabond, that you spoke of just now? 
 
 Du B. Why, sir, I want to tell you that about an hour after- 
 wards a man, who often comes to see you, came to look for you 
 very anxiously, and not finding you, begged me very quietly, 
 
 knowing that I serve you zealously, to tell you Stay, what 
 
 is his name ? 
 
 AL Never mind his name, you rascal, and tell me what he 
 said. 
 
 Du B. He's one of your friends, and that is enough. He 
 told me it's at your peril if you stay here, and that fortune 
 threatens you with being arrested. 
 
 AL But how ? Would he not specify anything to you ? 
 
 Du B. No ; he asked for pen, ink, and paper, and wrote a 
 word or two, by which I believe you may get to the bottom of 
 this mystery. 
 
 AL Give it me, then. 
 
 Celimhie. What can there be in all this ? 
 
 AL I don't know; but I want to get to the bottom of it. 
 Will you have done soon, you impertinent devil ? 
 
 Du B. {after havirtg looked for it a long while). Indeed, sir, 
 I left it on your table. 
 
 AL I don't know what hinders me 
 
 Cel. Now, don't enrage yourself, but go and get to the bottom 
 of this perplexing business. 
 
 AL It seems to me that fortune, take what care I can, has 
 sworn to stop me from conversing with you ; but to triumph over 
 
426 THE MISANTHROPE. [Act V. 
 
 it, allow my love, madame, to see you again before the day is 
 
 over. 
 
 ACT V. Scene I. 
 Alceste, Philinte. 
 
 Alceste. My resolution is taken, I tell you. 
 
 Philinte. But whatever this blow may be, must it needs oblige 
 you ■ 
 
 Al. No, you talk and argue in vain ; nothing can divert me 
 from what I say. Too much perverseness prevails in our age, 
 and I am resolvefl to withdraw myself from human intercourse. 
 What ! honour, uprightness, honesty, moddst\',--and law are all 
 united against my adversary. Everywhere people speak of the 
 justice of my cause. My mind rests on the certainty of my 
 cause, and yet I am deceived in the result ; I have justice on 
 my side, and I lose my cause. A scoundrel whose scandalous 
 history is well known, comes off triumphant by most shameless 
 .falsehood. All honesty yields to his perfidy. He finds a way 
 to justify himself while cutting my throat. The weight of false 
 show, in which artifice is preeminent, overthrows all right and 
 perverts justice. He gets a decree of the Court to crown his 
 villainy, and not content with the injury done to me, there is 
 published an abominable book, the mere reading of which is 
 criminal, a book that deserves the utmost severity, of which the 
 knave has the impudence to make me the author. And even 
 Oronte is heard to mutter about it, wickedly endeavouring to 
 support the imposture. He, who has the credit at court of 
 of being an honourable man, to whom I have done nothing 
 that is not sincere and frank, who comes to me, without my ask- 
 ing him, with eagerness begging my opinion of some verses he 
 had made, and because I treat him honourably, and would betray 
 neither him nor the truth, he is helping to overwhelm me with an 
 imaginary crime ! Now he is become my greatest adversary ! 
 And I can never get his sincere pardon, because I did not think 
 his sonnet a good one. And mankind are made after this 
 fashion ! These are the actions to which the desire of glory 
 carries them ! This is the fidelity, the virtuous zeal, the justice 
 and honour one finds among them! Let us go; it is too much to 
 bear the vexations they are devising against us. Let us escape 
 from this cut-throat wood ; and since among men you live like 
 
Scene I.] LE MISANTROPL. - 427 
 
 wolves, traitors that you are, I will never again live among 
 you. 
 
 P'/ii. I think your design a little too hasty, and the whole 
 mischief is not so great as you make out. What your opponent 
 had the assurance to charge against you has not been sufficiently 
 credited to get you arrested. His false report is destroying itself, 
 and his actions will very probably injure him. 
 
 A/. Him ! He does not fear the exposure of such tricks ; he 
 has license to be an arrant rascal, and far from this incident 
 damaging his credit, you'll see him to-morrow still more flourishing. 
 
 F/ii. In short, it is certain that people have not given much 
 credit to the report his malice has spread against you. On this 
 side you have nothing to fear ; and as for your lawsuit, about 
 which you have reason to complain, it is easy for you to try it 
 afresh, and to lodge an appeal against the sentence. 
 
 A/. No, I'll abide by it. However serious a wrong such a 
 sentence does me, I'll take good care not to desire its reversal ; 
 one can see plainly by this how right is abused, and I would have 
 it handed down to posterity as a notorious mark and witness of 
 the wickedness of this age. It may indeed cost me some twenty 
 thousand livres, but for that sum I shall have the right to curse 
 the iniquity of human nature, and to nourish an everlasting hatred 
 of it. 
 
 P/ii. But, in short 
 
 A/. But, in short, your pains are thrown away. What can you 
 say, sir, on this head ? Can you possibly have the assurance to 
 excuse to my face the abominable things that go on now ? 
 
 P/ii. No, I agree to all you please. Everything goes by 
 intrigue and by interest. Nowadays cunning carries all before it. 
 Men ought to be made quite otherwise. But is their want of 
 justice a reason why we should think of withdrawing from their 
 society ? All these human defects give us in life the opportunity 
 of exercising our philosophy. It is the best employment that 
 virtue can find. If everything were clothed with integrity, and 
 all hearts were frank, just, and docile, most of our virtue would 
 be useless, since we can only use them in bearing the injustice of 
 others in respect to our rights. And in the same way a heart of 
 true virtue • 
 
 A/. I know, sir, that you speak excellently. You always 
 abound in good reasoning, but you are wasting your time and all 
 your fine speeches. Reason advises me to retire for my own 
 good. I have not sufficient command over my tongue to answer 
 for what I might say, and I should involve myself in a thousand 
 
428 THE MISANTHROPE, [Act V. 
 
 broils. Permit me, then, without any more words, to wait for 
 Celimene. I must have her consent to the plan which I have 
 formed. I shall see whether she really loves me, and this very 
 moment must convince me of it. - 
 
 Phi. Let us go up to Eliante, and wait her coming. ■ 
 
 AL No, my mind is too much agitated with anxieties. Do 
 you go and see her, and leave me in this corner with my gloomy 
 melancholy. 
 
 Phi. It is a strange sort of company to wait with. I'll go and 
 get Eliante to come down. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Oronte, Celimene, Alceste {hiding in a corner). 
 
 Oronte. Yes, madame, it is for you to consider whether by 
 ties so dear you will bind me to you for ever. I need an absolute 
 assurance of your affections. A lover does not like hesitation on 
 such a point. If the warmth of my devotion has really moved 
 you, you should not scruple to show it to me; and, after all, the 
 proof I ask of you is no more than not to admit Alceste's 
 addresses. Sacrifice him, madame, to my love, and, in short, 
 from this day forbid him your house. 
 
 Celimene, But what important reason provokes you against 
 him — you whom I have so often heard speak of his merit ? 
 
 Or. There is no need, madame, of these explanations. The 
 question is to know your sentiments. Choose, if you please, to 
 keep one or the other ; my resolution only waits on yours. 
 
 Alceste {stepping out of his corner). Yes, this gentleman is 
 right. You must make your choice, madame ; his demand agrees 
 with my desire. An equal impatience urges me, and the same 
 anxiety brings me. My love desires a sure token of yours. 
 Matters can be protracted no longer ; this is the moment to show 
 your heart. 
 
 Or. I do not desire, sir, by any importunate declaration, to 
 disturb your good fortune in any way. 
 
 AL Jealous or not jealous, sir, I cannot consent to share her 
 heart in any degree with you. 
 
 Or. If your love seems to her preferable to mine 
 
 AL If she is capable of the least inclination towards you- 
 
 \. 
 
 Or. I swear henceforward to make no pretensions to 
 her. 
 
Scene III.] LE MISANTROPE. 429 
 
 A I. I resolutely swear never to set eyes on her more. 
 
 Or. Madame, it is for you to speak without restraint. 
 
 Al. Madame, you may explain yourself without fear. 
 
 Or. You have nothing to do, but to tell us where your 
 inclinations are fixed. 
 
 AL You have only to cut the matter short, and choose which 
 of us you will. 
 
 Or. What ! have you any difficulty in making your choice ? 
 
 Al. What ! do you hesitate, and appear uncertain ? 
 
 Cel. Good gracious ! how unseasonable is this importunity, 
 and how unreasonable you both show yourselves ! I can easily 
 determine my preference, and it is not my heart here that wavers; 
 it is not in suspense between you, nor is anything sooner done 
 than making my choice. But to speak the truth, I am greatly 
 troubled at having to make a declaration of this kind to your 
 faces. I think these disobliging speeches should never be 
 spoken in the presence of people ; that a heart may give sufficient 
 light as to its inclinations without being obliged to proceed 
 abruptly to a quarrel ; and that it is sufficient, in short, that 
 gentler evidence should inform a lover of the ill success of his 
 courtship. 
 
 Or. No, no ; I have nothing to fear from a frank confession. 
 I consent to it for my part. 
 
 Al. And I demand it. It is an open declaration here that I 
 require above all things, and I do not wish you to consider any- 
 thing. Your great study is to keep every one — but no more 
 trifling, no more uncertainty. You must express yourself clearly 
 on this matter, otherwise I shall take your refusal for a decision. 
 I shall know, for my part, how to interpret this silence, and 
 reckon as said the worst I can think. 
 
 Or. I am obliged to you, sir, for this warmth, and I say the 
 same thing to her that you do. 
 
 Cel. How you worry me with this whim ! Is there any justice 
 in what you demand ? And have I not told you what restrains 
 me ? I'll be judged by Eliante, who comes here. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 ^LIANtE, PrtlLtNtE, Cl^LIMENE, ORONTE, ALCESTE. 
 
 Celiynene. Here am I persecuted, cousin, by people whosA 
 temper seems to me to be preconcerted. They both, with the 
 same warmth, will needs have me declare which of them my 
 
430 THE MISANTHROPE. [Act V. 
 
 heart makes choice of; and require that by a decision which I must 
 pronounce to their faces I should forbid one of the two ever to pay 
 his addresses to me again. Tell me if that is ever done. 
 
 Eliante. Don't address me on the subject ; you may perhaps 
 address yourself to a very wrong person. I hold with people who 
 speak their mind. 
 
 Oronte. It is in vain, madame, for you to excuse your- 
 self. 
 
 Akeste. All your evasions will be ill-supported. 
 
 Or. You must, you really must speak, and put an end to this 
 wavering. 
 
 Al. It will be enough if you continue silent. 
 
 Or. I only want one word to finish our discussion. 
 
 Al. And for my part, I understand you if you don't speak 
 at all. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 AcASTE, Clitandre, Arsino6, Philinte, Eliante, Oronte, 
 Celimene, Alceste. 
 
 Acaste {to Celimhie). We have come, both of us, madame, to 
 clear up a certain trifling matter. 
 
 Clitandre {to Oronte and Alceste^. You are here, gentle- 
 men, very opportunely, since you are also concerned in this 
 affair. 
 
 A?'si?we {to Celimhie). You will be surprised, madame, to see 
 me, but these gentlemen are the cause of my coming. They both 
 came to me and complained of a trick which I can scarcely credit. 
 I have too high an esteem for the uprightness of your mind ever 
 to believe you capable of such a crime ; my eyes contradicted 
 their strongest proofs, and my friendship overlooking a few words 
 which we had together, I was willing to come with them to your 
 house, to see you clear yourself from this calumny. 
 
 Acas. Yes, madame, let us see with composure how you will 
 manage to support this. Was this letter written by you to Cli- 
 tandre ? 
 
 Cli. Did you write this tender epistle to Acaste ? 
 
 Acas. {to Oronte and Alceste). Gentlemen, there is nothing 
 hidden or obscure in these observations. I have no doubt that 
 her civility has made you well acquainted with her handwriting. 
 But this is well worth reading {reads) — 
 
Scene IV.] LE MISANTROPE. 43i 
 
 You ai-e a strange man to condetnn my gaiety, and to reproach 
 me with the fact that I am never so happy as when I am aivay 
 from you. This is most unjust ; and if you do not co?ne very soon 
 to ask my pardon for this offence^ I will never forgive you. Our 
 la?iky, gaiuky Viscount — 
 
 He should have been here — 
 Our lanky, gaiuky Viscount, with who77i you begin your complaints, 
 is a man zvho ca?t never please 7ne; arid since I saiv him throwing 
 stones i?ito a pond, for three quarters of an hour together, to fnake 
 circles, I could never have a good opinion of him. As to the little 
 Marquis — 
 
 That's myself, gentlemen, without vanity — 
 As to the little Marquis, who held me so long by the hand yesterday, 
 I think there is nothing so trivial as his whole person ; and his 
 merits consist Ofily in his cloak and his sword. As to the 7nan with 
 the green ribbons — 
 
 Your turn now, sir {to Alceste) — 
 As to the 7nan zvith the green ribho7is, he a77iuses 7)ie so7neti77ies with 
 his rough ways and his surly peevishness ; hut there are f-equent 
 occasions wJien I think hitn the 77iost a77iusing person i7t the W07id. 
 A7id as to the so7inet-maker — 
 
 This is for you {to Oronte) — 
 Arid as to the so7i7iet-77taker, who puts hi77iself Jorivard as a ivit, a7id 
 will be an author in spite of everybody, I cannot take the tr'ouble to 
 listen to what he says, and his prose ivearies me as 7nuch as his 
 verses. Believe, then, that I am not always amused so well as you 
 imagi7ie, and that 1 77iiss you in all the parties I am taken to, while 
 the prese7ice of people we love gives a wonderful relish to pleasures. 
 
 Clita7idre — Now for myself — 
 Your Clitandre, of who77t you talk to 7ne, arid who is such a fop, 
 is the last man I should have a kindness for. He is infatuated in 
 persuading himself that I care for him, and you are the same for 
 believing I do not love you. If you ivish to be in the right, change 
 your ideas for his, a7id see 77ie as often as y oil can, to help me to bear 
 the trouble of being be,, 'eged by hi7n. 
 
 Here is the model of a very fme character, madame, and you 
 know what to call it. It is enough. We are both going to show 
 this glorious portrait of your heart everywhere. 
 
 Acas. I could say a great deal to you, and it is a fme subject, 
 but I don't hold you worthy of my anger ; and I will let you see 
 that your little marquises can give consolation to worthier hearts. 
 
 Oro7ite. What ! am I thus torn to pieces after all you have 
 
432 THE MISANTHROPE. [Act V. 
 
 written to me ? And does your heart, decked with all the fair 
 appearance of love, engage itself by turns to all the world? 
 Away with you ! I have been too much of a dupe, and will be so 
 no longer. You have done me a favour in letting me know what 
 you really are. I am richer by a heart which you thus restore 
 to me, and I have my revenge in what you lose. {To Alceste.) 
 Sir, I do not put any further obstacle in your way, and you may 
 settle your love affair with the lady. 
 
 Ar. This is certainly the blackest action in the world. I can 
 no longer be silent ; I am shocked at it. Were there ever any 
 proceedings like yours, madame ? I am not concerned about the 
 rest, but here is a gendeman {pointing to Alceste) who staked his 
 whole happiness on you — a man of merit and honour, who doted 
 on you to idolatry, should he 
 
 Al. Pray, madame, leave me to look after my own interests in 
 this matter, and do not burden yourself with superfluous cares. 
 In vain do I see you take up my quarrel. It is not in a condition 
 to requite you for so much zeal, and you are not the person I 
 should think of, if I sought to revenge myself by another choice. 
 
 Ar. What, sir, do you fancy I have any such notion, and that 
 I should be in such a violent hurry to have you? You must 
 have a great deal of vanity, I think, in your composition, if you 
 can flatter yourself with such a belief. This lady's leavings is a kind 
 of ware one would be very wrong to be greatly smitten with. 
 Pray undeceive yourself, and be less haughty. Persons like my- 
 self are not for you. You will do well still to sigh for her, and I 
 long to see so fine a match. \Exit. 
 
 Al. (to Celimhie). Ah, well, in spite of all I have seen, till now 
 I have said nothing, and have let every one speak before me. 
 
 Have I commanded myself long enough, and may I now • 
 
 / Cel. Yes, you may say everything. You are right when you 
 /complain, and reproach me as you please. I'm to blame, I con- 
 fess, and my confused mind does not seek to put you off with any 
 idle excuse. I despised the anger of the rest here, but I own my 
 fault towards you ; your resentment is just. I know how guilty 
 I must appear to you, that everything declares my unfaithfulness, 
 and that, in short, you have reason to hate me. Do so, I agree 
 to it. 
 
 Al. But can I do so, traitress — can I thus get the better of all 
 my fondness ? And though I should ardently wish to hate you, 
 shall I find my heart ready to obey me ? {To Eliante and Phi- 
 linte.) You see what an unworthy fondness can do, and I make 
 you both witnesses of my weakness. But to tell you the truth, 
 
SCENE IV.] LE MISANTROPE. 433 
 
 this is not all yet, and you will see me push this to the extreme in 
 order to show you that we are wrongly called wise, and that in 
 eyery heart there is still something of the man. {To Celimene.) 
 [Yes, perfidious creature, I am willing to forget the wrong you 
 I have done me, and excuse it all under the name of weakness, 
 into which the viciousness of the age has betrayed your youth, 
 provided your heart will second a design I have formed to flee 
 from all mankind, and that you will at once follow me into the 
 desert, where I have made a vow to live. It is by this means 
 alone that in every one's opinion you can repair the mischief of 
 your letters ; and that after such an exposure, which any honour- 
 able mind must revolt at, I may be permitted still to love you. 
 
 Cel. What, renounce the world before I grow old, and go and 
 bury myself in your desert ? 
 
 Al. And if your love answers to mine, what does the rest of 
 the world matter to you? Are not your desires satisfied with 
 me? 
 
 Cel. Solitude frightens any one at twenty. I do not feel my 
 soul great enough, or strong enough, to resolve on undertaking so 
 serious an affair. If this gift of my hand can satisfy your wishes, 
 I will not refuse to go to the altar with you, and Hymen 
 
 Al. No; my heart detests you now, and this refusal does more 
 than all the rest, since you are not willing in these pleasing 
 bonds to find your all in me as I do in you. Go, I discard you, i 
 and this deeply-felt outrage frees me for ever from your unworth^^J 
 chains. [Exit Celimene'. 
 
 Al. [to Elianie). A thousand virtues, madame, adorn your 
 beauty, and I have seen nothing in you but sincerity. For a long 
 time I have had the greatest regard for you; pray allow me to 
 continue always to esteem you in the same way. Permit my 
 heart in its variety of troubles to do itself the honour of wearing 
 your chains. I am well aware that I am unworthy of them, and 
 heaven has not marked me out for marriage. The refuse of a 
 heart not worthy of you would be too low a homage ; and in 
 short 
 
 il. You may carry out your thought. My hand is quite free 
 to bestow itself where it will. And without troubling myself too 
 much, here is your friend, who might possibly accept it if I 
 should ask it of him. 
 
 Phil. Ah ! madame, that honour is my utmost ambition, and 
 I would sacrifice my life for it. 
 
 AL May you know what true contentment means by keeping 
 for ever the same sentiments one for the other I Betrayed on all 
 
 29 
 
434 THE MISANTHROPE. [Act V. 
 
 sides, overwhelmed with injustice, I am going to escape from a 
 gulf where vice reigns triumphant, and to find out some retired 
 corner of the earth where one can be free to live as an honourable 
 man. 
 
 Phil. Come then, madame, let us exhaust every means to 
 deter him from this purpose. 
 
TARTUFFE, 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Madame Pernelle, Organ's 
 
 mother. 
 Orgon, husband of Elmire. 
 Elm I RE, Orgon' s wife. 
 Damis, Orgon' s son. 
 Mariane, Organ's daughter. 
 
 Tartuffe. 
 
 Cli^ante, Organ's brother-in- 
 law. 
 DORINE, Mariafte's maid. 
 MONS. Loyal, sergeant. 
 A Police-officer. 
 Flipote, Mdme. Pernelle' s maid. 
 
 Scene— PARIS, in Orgon's House. 
 
 ACT I. Scene T. 
 
 Madame Pernelle and Flipote, Elmire, Mariane, Dorine, 
 Damis, Cl^ante. 
 
 Madame Pernelle. Come, Flipote, let's begone, that I may get 
 rid of them. 
 
 Elmire. You walk so fast, madame, it is not easy to keep up 
 with you. 
 
 Mdme. Per. Stop, daughter-in-law : don't trouble to come 
 farther ; there is no need of all this ceremony. 
 
 EL We are only doing our duty to you. But pray, mother, 
 why are you in such a hurry to leave us? 
 
 Mdme. Per, Because I cannot bear to see such goings on. No 
 one takes any pains to please me. I leave your house, I tell you, 
 very much shocked : all my teaching is contradicted. You have 
 no regard for anything ; every one talks at the top of his voice, 
 and the place is a perfect Bedlam. 
 
 Dorine. If 
 
 Mdme. Per. You are rather too talkative and impertinent a 
 serving-girl, and venture to give your advice on all occasions. 
 
 JDamis. But 
 
 Mdme. Per. In four letters, my child, you're a fool ! I, your 
 grandmother, tell you so, just as I predicted to my son, your 
 
436 TARTUFFE. [Act L 
 
 father, a hundred times, that you would turtt out d tegular vaga- 
 bond, and would be nothing but a plague to hira. 
 
 Mariane. I believe 
 
 Mdme. Per. Good gracious, you're Damis's sister ! You play 
 the prude ; you pretend to be very good, and look as if butter 
 would not melt in your mouth ; but still waters, they say, run 
 deep, and under your sly airs you carry on a game which I 
 don't approve of. 
 
 El But, mofher 
 
 Mdme. Per. By your leave, daughter-in-law, your conduct is not 
 at all satisfactory. You ought to set them a good example. Their 
 late mother managed so much better. You spend a deal of 
 money, and what I can't away with, dress like a princess. Re- 
 member, daughter, that she who wishes to please her husband 
 only, wants none of that finery. 
 
 Cleante. But, madame, after all 
 
 Mdtne. Per. As for you, sir, who are her brother, I esteem you 
 very much. I love and respect you ; but yet, if I were in my 
 son's place, I should beg you not to enter my house. You are 
 always laying down rules of life that respectable people should 
 never follow. I speak rather freely to you, but it is my way. I 
 always blurt straight out what I have on my mind. 
 
 Dam. Your Master Tartuffe, no doubt, is very fortunate 
 
 Mdme. Per. He's an excellent man. What he says is worth 
 listening to, and I can't bear, without being angry, to hear him 
 run down by such a fool as you. 
 
 Dam. What ! Should I suffer a bigoted fault-finder like that to 
 come and exercise a tyrannical authority in the family? And 
 must not we take the least diversion, unless that fine gentleman 
 sees fit to allow it ? 
 
 Dor. If we must listen to him, and be guided by his maxims, 
 we can do nothing that would not lead us into sin, for this bigoted 
 critic rules the whole roast. 
 
 Mdfjie. Per. And what he rules, is very well ruled. He would 
 show you the way to heaven, and my son ought to make you all 
 love him. 
 
 Dam. Now look you, grandmother, neither father nor any one 
 else can oblige me to have any regard for him. I should be a 
 traitor to my heart if I told you otherwise. To me all his actions 
 are detestable ; and I foresee that some time or other matters will 
 come to a breach between that low-bred wretch and me. 
 
 Dor. It is perfectly scandalous to see an upstart like him carry 
 on as he does; a vagabond, who when he came here had not a 
 
Scene I.] TARTUFFE, 437 
 
 pair of shoes to his feet, and whose clothes, all the lot, would not 
 fetch sixpence, now carries on so far as to forget himself, to con- 
 tradict everything and to play the master. 
 
 Mdme. Per, Bless my life, everything would go on very 
 differently if managed by his pious directions. 
 
 Dor. You take him for a saint ; but, on my word, all he does 
 is nothing but hypocrisy. 
 
 Mdme. Per. Only listen to her tongue. 
 
 Dor. I would not trust him without good security ; nor his 
 man Laurent. 
 
 Mdme. Per. I cannot tell what the servant may really be, but I 
 can answer for the master that he is a good man; you wish him 
 ill and reject him because he tells you all the plain truth. His 
 anger is aroused against sin, and all that he cares for is the interest 
 of heaven. 
 
 Dor. Well, but why, then, especially for some time past, cannot 
 he endure that any one should visit us ? How can a civil visit 
 offend heaven, so much so that we must have such an uproar about 
 it as to stun one ? Shall I tell you in confidence what I think ? 
 {Pointing to Elmire.) I believe, truly, that he's jealous of 
 madame. 
 
 Mdfne. Per. Hold your tongue, and consider what you are talk- 
 ing about. He is not the only person who condemns these visits. 
 The noise of people coming to see you, the carriages constantly 
 standing at the door, and the noisy assembling of such a quantity 
 of footmen, disturbs the whole neighbourhood. I am willing to 
 believe that there's no harm done ; but people talk, and that is not 
 desirable. 
 
 Cle. Ah, madame, how can you hinder people from gossiping ? 
 It would be a grievous thing in life, if, because of any foolish stories 
 that might be spread about, people should be forced to give up 
 their best friends ; and even if we could resolve to do so, do you 
 think that would keep the world from talking ? There is no defence 
 against calumny. So let us not mind foolish tittle-tattle, and let 
 us endeavour to live innocently, and leave the gossips to say what 
 they please. 
 
 Dor. Is it not our neighbour Daphne and her little husband 
 who speak ill of us ? People whose conduct is the most ridiculous, 
 are always the readiest to run down that of others. They are 
 always ready to catch at the slightest appearance of an attach- 
 ment, to spread the news with the greatest delight, and to 
 give things the turn they would have believed. By colouring 
 other people's actions with their own colours they think to justify 
 
438 TARTUFFE. [Act I. 
 
 their conduct to the world, and fondly hope by reason of some 
 resemblance to give their own intrigues the air of innocence, 
 or to shift part of the blame elsewhere which they find falls too 
 heavy on themselves. 
 
 Mdme. Per. All these arguments are nothing to the purpose. 
 Orante is known to lead an exemplary life ; all her care is for the 
 next world, and I have been told that she has no great opinion of 
 the people that frequent your house. 
 
 Dor. An admirable pattern, indeed. She is an excellent lady, 
 and it is true that she lives a very strict life ; but it is age that has 
 brought this access of zeal upon her, and we know that she is a 
 prude in spite of herself. As long as she could make conquests, 
 she did not forego any of her chances, but when she found the 
 brightness of her eyes grow dim, then she must needs renounce 
 the world that was leaving her, and under the specious mask of 
 great prudence conceals the decay of her worn-out charms. This 
 is the old coquette's last resource. It is hard to see themselves 
 forsaken by all their lovers. Being deserted, they find no refuge 
 but in prudery, and then the severity of these good ladies cen- 
 sures all and forgives none. They cry out against everyone's 
 way of living, not from charity, but from envy, not enduring that 
 others should taste those pleasures from which age has weaned 
 themselves. 
 
 Mdvie. Per. {to Elmire). This is the idle talk that pleases you. 
 Why, daughter-in-law, there's no chance to say a word in your 
 house, for my lady here keeps all the talk to herself. But I will 
 have a word in my turn, and I tell you that my son never acted 
 more wisely than when he took this devout man into his family : 
 that heaven sent him here on a special mission to reclaim your 
 erring minds ; that it is for your good to hearken lo his advice, and 
 that he blames nothing that is not blamable. These visits, balls, 
 and assemblies are all inventions of the Evil Spirit. There's not 
 a good word to be heard at any of them, only idle talk, songs and 
 rubbish. Scandal about one's neighbours is a standing dish, and 
 the heads of reasonable people are turned by such meetings. A 
 thousand ill-natured tales are started about less than nothing, and 
 as a doctor said the other day, it is a perfect Tower of Babel, for 
 every one here babbles beyond all belief, and beyond all measure. 
 
 Now to tell you how it was the affair was brought up {Pomting 
 
 to Cleante.) Why that man's tittering already. Go and find some 
 other donkey to laugh at. {To Elmire.) There, there, daughter-in- 
 law, I shall say no more. Good-bye. I've not half the regard for 
 your house which I had, and you may depend upon it, it will be 
 
Scene III.] TARTUFFE. 439 
 
 a very fine day when I put my foot in it again. {Giving Flipoie a box 
 on the ears.) Now, then, are you dreaming and gaping at the 
 crows ? I'll warm your ears for you, you idle hussy ; let's move 
 on. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Cleante, Dorine. 
 
 Cleante. I won't go down to the door, for fear she should 
 quarrel with me again. That this good old lady 
 
 Dorine. It really is a pity she doesn't hear you call her so. 
 She'd tell you how good she thought you, and that she was not old 
 enough to be called so. 
 
 Cle. What a fuss she's been making with us for nothing. And 
 how infatuated she seems with Tartuffe ? 
 
 Dor. Oh, that's nothing compared to the infatuation of her 
 son, and if you were to see him you would say. This is much 
 worse. His conduct during the late troublous times gained him 
 great reputation, and he showed much courage in the cause of the 
 Prince, but he's grown quite stupid since he's so taken up with 
 Tartuffe. He calls him brother, and really loves him better than 
 he does his mother, wife, or children. He's the only confidant of 
 all his secrets, and the director of all his actions. He embraces 
 him, he pays him every attention a lover could to his mistress. He 
 seats him by his side at dinner, and likes to see him eat as much 
 as six. He must be helped to all the tit-bits, and if he only 
 sneezes he cries, God bless you ! In short, he's wild about him : 
 he's everything to him, his hero ; he admires all he does, quotes 
 him on all occasions, looks on every trifling action as a wonder, 
 and every word as an oracle. At the same time thejellow, know- 
 ing his dupe's blind side, and wishing to make the most of it, has 
 a hundred tricks by which to impose on his judgment, and get his 
 money from him by his sanctimoniousness. He now takes on him 
 to keep the whole family in order, and even his awkward fool of a 
 servant, with his fanatic face, lectures us, and runs down our 
 patches, paint, and ribands. The other day the rascal tore up a 
 fine handkerchief that was lying in a prayer-book, saying that it 
 was a profanation to mix the devil's ornaments with sacred things. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Elmire, Mariane, Damis, Cleante, Dorine. 
 Elmire {to Cleante)* You are very fortunate not to have had to 
 
440 TARTUFFE, [Act I. 
 
 listen to her harangue at the door. But I saw my husband ; as 
 he did not see me, I am going to await him upstairs. 
 
 Cleante. I will wait for him here, to lose less time. I am only 
 going to wish him good-day. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Cleante, Damis, Dorine. 
 
 Damis {to Cleante). Say something to him about my sister's 
 marriage. I suspect that Tartuffe fears its result, since he is com- 
 pelling my father to such shifts. You know the interest I take in 
 it ; I am inspired by the same devotion as my sister and Val^re, 
 for I am in love with his sister ; and if it were necessary 
 
 Scene V. 
 Orgon, Cleante, Dorine. 
 
 Orgon, Ah, brother, good-day ! 
 
 Cleante. I was just going, and am glad to see you back. The 
 country just now is not very pleasant. 
 
 Or. Dorine {To Cleante.) Brother, wait a moment while I 
 
 ask for news of the family, to set me at ease. {To Dorine.) Has all 
 gone on well since I've been away? Has anything happened 
 during these two days ? How are they all ? 
 
 Dorine. The day before yesterday my lady was feverish and 
 had a very bad headache. 
 
 Or. And Tartuffe ? 
 
 Dor. Oh, Tartuffe? Extremely well, fat, fair, and fresh- 
 coloured. 
 
 Or. The poor man ! 
 
 Dor. At night she had no appetite, and could not eat any 
 supper, her headache was so violent. 
 
 Or, And Tartuffe? 
 
 Dor. He supped by himself in her presence, and ate up a 
 brace of partridges, and half a leg of mutton hashed. 
 
 Or. The poor man ! 
 
 Dor. She never closed her eyes the whole night— the fever 
 was so strong that she could not get a wink of sleep, so that we 
 were forced to sit up with her till daybreak. 
 
 Or. And Tartuffe ? 
 
 Dor. Feeling sleepy, he went from supper to his room, then 
 into a warm bed, and slept comfortably till the morning. 
 
 Or, The poor man ! 
 
Scene VI.] TARTUFFE, 44i 
 
 Dor. At length my lady was prevailed on by our reasonings to 
 be bled ; then she soon got better. 
 
 Or. And Tartuffe ? 
 
 Dor. He kept up his courage, and then fortifying his mind 
 against all evils, to make up for the blood my lady lost, he drank 
 at breakfast four great goblets of wine. 
 
 Or. The poor man ! 
 
 Dor. At present they are both pretty well. I will go and let 
 my lady know how glad you are at her recovery. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Orgon, Cleante, 
 
 Cleante. She laughs in your face, brother, and without wishing 
 to make you angry I must say she is quite right. Was there ever 
 such a whim heard of.? Is it possible that at this time of day a 
 man can be so charming as to make you forget everything for him ? 
 That after having in your own house relieved his poverty, you 
 should be ready to 
 
 Orgon. Stop there, brother ; you don't know the man you're 
 speaking of. 
 
 Cle. Well, then, I don't know him, if you like ; but then, in 
 order to know what this man is 
 
 Or, Brother, you would be charmed if you knew him, and 
 there would be no end to your raptures. He is a man — that — 
 ah — a person — a man, in short, who always carries out what he 
 teaches, tastes profound peace, and looks on the world as trash. 
 I am quite changed by my intercourse with him. He teaches me 
 not to set my affection on anything ; he disengages my mind from 
 all friends and relations, and I could see my brother, children, 
 mother, wife, all die without showing any emotion. 
 
 Cle. Well, brother, these are humane sentiments indeed ! 
 
 Or. Ah, brother, if you had seen him as I first met with him, 
 you would have been as much taken with him as I am. He came 
 every day to church, with a quiet look, and knelt down just 
 opposite me. He attracted the attention of the whole congrega- 
 tion by the fervency with which he offered up his prayers, and 
 when I went out, hurried in front of me to the door to sprinkle 
 me with holy water. He sighed and groaned heavily, and pros- 
 trated himself every moment. Understanding by his servant (who 
 copied him in everything) that he was poorly off, I made him 
 presents, but he would modestly offer to return part. " It is too 
 much," he would say, " too much by half. I am not worth your 
 
442 TARTUFFE. [Act I. 
 
 pity;" and when I refused to take it back, he would go and distri- 
 bute it among the poor before my face. At length heaven put it 
 into my mind to take him home, and since then everything seems 
 to prosper there. I see that he reproves all without distinction, 
 even my wife, and takes the greatest care of my honour. He tells 
 me if any one ogles her, and is ten times more jealous over her 
 than I am myself. But you can hardly imagine how good he is — 
 he counts every trifle as a sin, and is scandalised at the smallest 
 thing : so much so, that he told me the other day that, having 
 caught a flea when he was saying his prayers, he was afraid he had 
 killed it with too much anger. 
 
 Cle. Why, brother, I think you must be mad ; or do you want 
 to make a fool of me with such nonsense? What do you mean 
 by all this rubbish ? 
 
 Or. Brother, your conversation savours of libertinism. I am 
 afraid you are somewhat tainted with it, and as I have told you 
 more than once, you will some day draw down a heavy judgment 
 on your head. 
 
 tie. This is the usual style of such as you. They would have 
 everyone as blind as themselves ; to be clear-sighted is libertinism, 
 and those who do not like foolish grimaces, have neither faith nor 
 respect for holy things. All your talk does not frighten me. I 
 know how I speak, and heaven sees my heart. We are not to be 
 slaves to your formalists. There are hypocrites in religion as well 
 as pretenders to courage ; and as we never find the truly brave to 
 be such as make much noise wherever they are led by honour, so 
 the good and truly pious, who are worthy of our imitation, are 
 never those who indulge in much show. What, would you make 
 no distinction between hypocrisy and true devotion ? Would you 
 address them in the same way, and pay as much regard to a mask 
 as to a face ? Would you put artifice on a level with sincerity, 
 and confound, the semblance with the reality ? Do you value the 
 phantom as much as the person, and bad money as much as 
 good ? Men for the most part are strange creatures ; they never 
 see nature in its true light ; the bounds of reason are too narrow 
 for them. In every character they over-act their parts, and often 
 spoil the noblest things ; because they will run into extremes, and 
 push matters too far. This, brother, is by the way. 
 
 Or. Yes, no doubt you are a very reverend doctor. All the 
 knowledge of the world lies under your cap. You are the only 
 wise and enlightened person of our age : an oracle, a Cato, and 
 all men compared with you are fools ! 
 
 Cle, No, brother, I am none of your reverend doctors, and I 
 
\ 
 
 Scene VI.] TARTUFFE. 443 
 
 don't profess to have all the knowledge in the world ; but I must 
 tell you plainly I have sense enough to distinguish truth from 
 falsehood ; and as I see nothing in life more noble or beautiful 
 than the fervour of sincere piety, so I think nothing more odious 
 than the plastered exterior of a false zeal ; than those thorough 
 humbugs, those show-off devotees, whose sacrilege and deceitful 
 pretences, with impunity abuse and make sport of what is 
 most venerable and sacred amongst men. These' slaves of 
 interest, who make a trade of godliness, and who would pur- 
 chase honour and reputation by a hypocritical turning up of the 
 eyes, and affected transports, these people, I say, show an un- 
 common zeal for the next world in order to make their fortunes in 
 tiiis. They recommend every day, with most earnest prayers, that 
 people should live in solitude, while they themselves frequent 
 courts ; they know how to make their vices suit their devotion ; 
 they are passionate, revengeful, faithless, full of artifice, and to 
 bring about a man's ruin insolently cloak their fierce resentment 
 with the mantle of heaven ; being so much the more dangerous 
 in their wrath, as they point against us weapons which men 
 reverence, and because their passions willingly prompt them to 
 destroy us with a consecrated blade. There are too many of this 
 vile character, but the sincerely devout are easily known ; and our 
 age, brother, affords us some who may serve as noble examples to 
 us. Look at Aristo, Oronte, Alcidamas, Polidore, Clitandre ; no 
 one can contest their title to this honour. These are no braggarts 
 in virtue. We see in them none of this insupportable haughtiness, 
 and their devotion is kindly and large-hearted. They do not cen- 
 sure all we do, but leave corrections of that sort to others, finding 
 therein a subtle kind of pride, and by their own actions they re- 
 prove ours. The mere appearance of evil has little weight with 
 them, and they are always willing to judge favourably of others. 
 They have no cabals, and no intrigues to carry on ; their chief aim 
 is to live themselves as they should do. They never show fury 
 against a sinner ; their anger is reserved for the sin. Nor do they 
 ever show a greater zeal in the interests of heaven than heaven 
 itself does. These are the men for me; this is the true prac- 
 tice, and an example to be followed. To speak plainly, your man 
 is not one of this sort ; you cry up his zeal with a good intention, 
 but I believe you are imposed on by a specious appearance. 
 
 Or, Now, my good brother, have you done ? 
 
 Cle. Yes. 
 
 Or. {on the point of going). Then I am your humble servant. 
 
 Cle. One word more, brother, if you please. Let us drop this 
 
444 TARTUFFE. [Act II. 
 
 conversation. You know that you gave your word to Val^re that 
 he should be your son-in-law. 
 
 Or. Yes. 
 
 Cle. And have appointed a day for the wedding ? 
 
 Or. True. 
 
 Cle. Why, then, do you put off the ceremony ? 
 
 Or. I don't know. 
 
 Cle. Have you got some other idea in your head ? 
 
 Or. Perhaps so. 
 
 Clk. Will you break your word, then ? 
 
 Or. I don't say that. 
 
 Cle. I hope no obstacle will prevent you from carrying out 
 your promise. 
 
 Or. That's as may be. 
 
 Cle. Does the speaking of a single word require so much cir- 
 cumlocution ? Valere wished me to see you about it. 
 
 Or. Heaven be thanked ! 
 
 Cle. But what answer shall I give him ? 
 
 Or. What you please. 
 
 Cle. But I must know your intentions. What are they ? 
 
 Or. To do what heaven wills. 
 
 Cle. But let us come to the point. Valere has your promise. 
 Do you mean to keep it or not ? 
 
 Or. Good-bye. 
 
 Cle. I hope he may not lose his lady-love. I must go and tell 
 him what has taken place. 
 
 ACT n. Scene I. 
 Orgon, Mariane. 
 
 Orgon. Mariane. 
 
 Mariane. Yes, father. 
 
 Or. Come here. I have something to say to you privately 
 {looking into a closet). 
 
 Mar. What are you looking for ? 
 
 Or. I'm looking to see if there's any one there to overhear 
 us. This little place would serve that purpose. But we're quite 
 safe. I've always found you, Mariane, of a very amiable disposi- 
 tion, and you have always been very dear to me. 
 
 Mar. I am very grateful for your fatherly affection. 
 
 Or. That is very well said, my child, and to deserve it 
 your chief care should be to please me. 
 
 Mar. That is the height of my ambition. 
 
Scene I.] TARTUFFE, 443 
 
 Or. Very well. Now what do you say of our guest, Tartuffe ? 
 
 Mar, What, I ? 
 
 Or. Yes, and take care how you answer. 
 
 (DoRiNE etiters quietly behind Organ without being seen.) 
 
 Mar, Oh, sir, I will say of him whatever you wish me. 
 
 Or. A very proper answer. You may say then, my girl, 
 that in every respect he is a most deserving person; that you 
 have a regard for him, and that you would be pleased if, ^y 
 my choice, he became your husband. 
 
 Mar. (in surj>rise). What ? 
 
 Or. What's the matter ? 
 
 Mar. What did you say ? 
 
 Or. What did I say? 
 
 Mar. Yes. Did I mistake you ? 
 
 Or. How? 
 
 Mar. Whom would you, father, have me say I liked and 
 should be glad if you would choose him for my husband? 
 
 Or. Tartuffe. 
 
 Mar. I declare to you, father, there's nothing in it. Why 
 would you make me tell such a story ? 
 
 Or. But I mean it to be true : and it's enough for you that 
 I've chosen him for you. 
 
 Mar, What, father, would you 
 
 Or. Yes, child ; I intend by your marriage to bring Tartuffe 
 into our family. I've made up my mind that he shall be your 
 
 husband, and I charge you on your duty (Perceives Dorine.) 
 
 What are you doing here ? Your curiosity must be very great to 
 bring you to listen in this manner. 
 
 Dorine. Really, sir, I don't know whether this report is a 
 mere idle rumour, or a guess of somebody's, but I've just been 
 told of this match, and I've treated it as a good joke. 
 
 Or. Why, is the thing so incredible ? 
 
 Dor. So incredible, that if you were to tell it me yourself I 
 should hardly believe you. 
 
 Or. I know how to make you believe it. 
 
 Dor. Ay, ay, you're going to tell some droll tale. 
 
 Or. I tell you just what will happen in a short time. 
 
 Dor, Idle talk ! 
 
 Or. I promise you, daughter, that this is no joke. 
 
 Dor. Go along. Don't believe your father, miss, he's only 
 jesting. 
 
 Or. I tell you 
 
 Dor. No, do what you like, no one will believe you. 
 
446 TARTUFFE. [Act II. 
 
 Or. At last my anger 
 
 Dor. Well then, sir, we'll believe you, and so much the worse 
 for you. What, sir, is it possible that, with that air of wisdom and 
 that large beard on your face, you should be foolish enough to 
 wish 
 
 Or. Listen to me. You've taken certain liberties lately that 
 I do not approve of. So I tell you, young woman. 
 
 Dor. Pray, sir, let us speak about this matter quietly. You 
 must be laughing at people, to have made such a scheme. Your 
 daughter is not the sort to marry a bigot. He has other things to 
 think of. And what induces you to make such a match ? Why, 
 with all your wealth, do you choose a beggar for a son-in-law ? 
 
 Or. Hold your tongue. If he has nothing, know that we 
 ought to esteem him all the more for it. His poverty is an 
 honourable poverty, which raises him above noblemen, because, in 
 short, he has lost his fortune by neglecting things temporal, in 
 his strong attachment to things eternal. But my aid may put him 
 in the way of getting out of trouble, and of recovering his own. 
 Poor as he is, he's a gentleman ; and the estate that he's entitled 
 to is one of renown. 
 
 Dor. That's what he says ; and this vanity does not suit very 
 well with piety. Any one who embraces the simplicity of a holy 
 life, ought not to boast too much of his name and family. The 
 humble life of devotion agrees badly with the glare of ambition. 
 What good purpose does this pride serve ? — But this talk offends 
 you— let us leave his quality and come to his person. Can you, 
 without discomfort, hand over such a girl to such a man ? Should 
 you not consult propriety and foresee the consequences of such a 
 union? Depend upon it, a young woman's virtue is in some 
 danger when she isn't married to her Hking ; and her living 
 virtuously afterwards depends on the character of her husband. 
 Those husbands who are pointed at often make their wives what 
 they are. It is no easy task to be faithful to some sorts of 
 husbands, and he who gives his daughter to a man she hates is 
 accountable to heaven for any slips she may make. Consider, 
 then, to what danger your scheme exposes you. 
 
 Or. I tell you, I must teach her how to live. 
 
 Dor. You will do better to follow my advice. 
 
 Or. Don't let us waste time, daughter, with idle tales. I am 
 your father, and know what's to be done. I had indeed promised 
 you to Val^re, but besides that he is said to be given to play, I 
 suspect him of being rather wild. I don't find him often at 
 church. 
 
Scene I.] TARTUFFE, 447 
 
 Dor. Would you have him run to church at the very same 
 time you do, as people do who only go there to be seen ? 
 
 Or. I am not asking your opinion in the matter. In short, 
 the other is a favourite with heaven, and so his wealth is second 
 to none in this world. This union will crown your desires with 
 every sort of good, and will be a continued succession of pleasure 
 and delight. You will live together in faithful love, like two 
 children, or two turtle-doves. No unhappy quarrel will ever arise 
 between you, and you'll do anything you like with him. 
 
 Dor. She ? She'll never make anything but a fool of him, I 
 can tell you I 
 
 Or. Oh ! what language ! . 
 
 Dor. I say that he has the look of it, and that his influence 
 will overbear all the virtue your daughter may have. 
 
 Or. Stop these interruptions : learn to hold your tongue, and 
 don't interfere where you're not wanted. 
 
 Dor. Nay, sir, I only speak for your interest. {She interrupts 
 him always at the 7nome?it he is going to speak to his dai4ghter.) 
 
 Or. You are too forward ; hold your tongue, if you please. 
 
 Dor. If one did not care for you 
 
 Or. Keep your care to yourself. 
 
 Dor. But I will care for you, sir, in spite of yourself. 
 
 Or. What next ? 
 
 Dor. Your character is dear to me, and I would not have you 
 scoffed at by every gossip. 
 
 Or. Won't you hold your tongue ? 
 
 Dor. One's bound in conscience to prevent your making such 
 an alliance as this. 
 
 Or. Will you be quiet, you serpent, whose impudence 
 
 Dor. What ! you a saint, and to put yourself into such a rage 
 as that ! 
 
 Or. Yes, my heart rises against all your impertinences, and 
 I'm determined you shall hold your tongue. 
 
 Dor. Very well. But if I don't speak a word, I think all the more. 
 
 Or. Think what you like, but take care I hear hone of your 
 thoughts. {Turning to his daughter.) It is enough that I have 
 carefully considered all things as a wise man should do. 
 
 Dor. It makes me mad that I cannot speak now {she is 
 site fit wheti he turns towards her). 
 
 Or. Without being a fop, Tartuffe is well made 
 
 Dor. {aside). Oh, yes, he's got a fine phiz. 
 
 Or. So that, even though you have no care for his other 
 gifts 
 
448 TARTUFFE. [Act II. 
 
 Dor. {aside). She'll have a fine bargain with him. (Orgon 
 turns toivards Dorine^ afid looks at her with his arms crossed.) If 
 I were in her place, no man alive should marry me against my 
 will with impunity. I'd let him see as soon as the ceremony was ,j 
 over that a woman always has a ready means of revenge. 
 
 Or. {to Dorine). Then what I say goes for nothing with you? 
 
 Dor. What are you finding fault about ? I'm not speaking to 
 you. 
 
 Or. What are you doing, then ? 
 
 Dor. I'm talking to myself. 
 
 Or. {aside). Very well. I must let her feel the weight of my 
 hand, to correct her prodigious insolence. {He makes as if he 
 would give her a box on the ear ; looks at her every time he speaks 
 to his daughter. Dorine^ each time he turns^ stands upright without 
 speaking.) Daughter, you must approve of my plan, and believe 
 that the husband whom I have chosen for you — {To Dorine) Why 
 don't you talk to yourself now ? 
 
 Dor. Because I've nothing to say to myself. 
 
 Or. One little word more. 
 
 Dor. No. I've no mind to it. 
 
 Or. To be sure I was watching you. 
 
 Dor. Not such a fool, my word ! 
 
 Or. In short, daughter, you must obey — and show an entire 
 deference to my choice. 
 
 Dor, {running off). I'd scorn to take such a husband myself. 
 
 Or. {strikes at her, but misses). You have about you, daughter, 
 a pestilent hussy, that I can't live in the house with any longer. 
 I'm not in a state- now to go on with what I was saying. Her 
 insolence has put my spirits into such a ferment that I must go 
 and take a walk to recover myself a little. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Dorine, Mariane. 
 
 Dorine. Pray tell me, have you lost your tongue ? Must I 
 play your part on this occasion ? What ! suffer a senseless pro- 
 posal to be made to you, without saying a word against it ! 
 
 Mariane. What can one do against an absolute father ? 
 
 Dor. Anything to ward off such a threat. 
 
 Mar, But what ? 
 
 Dor. Why, tell him that hearts are not to be given away by 
 proxy : that you marry for yourself, and not for him : that as all 
 the affair concerns you, and not him, you are the person whom 
 
Scene II.] TARTU FFE. 449 
 
 o> 
 
 the husband must please ; and if he finds Tartuffe so charmin 
 he had better marry him himself. 
 
 Mar, I must own that a father has such a command over one, 
 that I could not have courage to make him such a reply. 
 
 Dor. But let us reason out the matter. Valere has made his 
 advances for you. I beg you to tell me, do you love him or 
 not? 
 
 Mar. Ah, you do injustice to my love to ask such a question. 
 Ought you, Dorine, to put it to me ? Have I not opened my 
 heart to you a hundred times ? and you are still unaware of the 
 greatness of my love for him ? 
 
 Dor, How can I tell whether your heart speaks in your words, 
 or whether you really care for this lover or not ? 
 
 Mar. You do me a great wrong, Dorine, to doubt it ; and the 
 sincerity of my sentiments has only been too plain. 
 
 Dor. You really do love him, then ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, passionately. 
 
 Dor. And, to all appearance, he loves you as well. 
 
 Mar. I believe so. 
 
 Dor. And you two have a mutual eagerness to be married? 
 
 Mar. Assuredly. 
 
 Dor. What do you intend to do then about this other match ? 
 
 Mar. To kill myself, if they force me to it. 
 
 Dor. Very good. That's a resource I did not think of. You 
 have only to die to get out of the difficulty. No doubt this is a 
 wonderful remedy. It makes one mad to hear people talk in this 
 way ! 
 
 Mar, Bless me, Dorine, what a temper you get into ! You 
 have no pity for other people's misfortunes. 
 
 Dor. I have no pity for people who talk idly, and give way as 
 you do when you ought to act. 
 
 Mar. But what can one do who is timid ? 
 
 Dor, But love requires firmness of mind. 
 
 Mar. But have I not kept my love for Valere ? And is it not 
 his business to get me from my father ? 
 
 Dor. But if your father is a regular crusty fellow, who is com- 
 pletely bewitched by this Tartufte, and fails to carry out a match 
 which had been settled on, is that your lover's fault ? 
 
 Mar. But should I, by a high-handed and contemptuous 
 refusal, let every one know that I am violently in love? Shall I, 
 for him, transgress the modesty of my sex, and the bounds of my 
 /duty ? Would you have my love for him become a town's talk ? 
 
 Dor. No, no, I would have nothing. I see you wish to 
 
 Z9 
 
450 TARTUFFE. [Act IL 
 
 belong to Monsieur Tartuffe ; and, now I think of it, I should do 
 wrong to dissuade you from such an alliance. What reason have 
 I for opposing your wishes ? The match in itself is an excellent 
 one. Monsieur Tartuffe ! Oh, is such a proposal nothing ? From 
 a right point of view he's no fool. It will be no small honour to 
 be united to him. Every one already honours him greatly ; he is 
 of a noble family, handsome in person, has a red ear, and a fine 
 complexion ; in short, you'll be only too happy to have such a 
 husband. 
 
 Mar. Good heavens ! 
 
 Dor. How delightful it will be to be the wife of such a 
 man ! 
 
 Mar. Now I beg of you to leave off talking like this, and 
 rather help me against this match ; it is all over now. I give way, 
 and am ready to do whatever you tell me. 
 
 Dor. No, no ; a daughter ought to obey her father, even if he 
 wanted her to marry a monkey. Besides, what cause have you 
 for complaint ? You have drawn a prize. You will go by coach 
 to his native town, where you will find a tribe of uncles and 
 cousins, and you will be very pleased to entertain them all. Then 
 Madame Tartuffe will at once be introduced into the best society. 
 You will first call upon the bailiff's wife, and the tax-gatherer's wife, 
 and you will have the honour of a camp-stool. Then at carnival 
 time you may hope for a ball, and a grand concert — that is to say, 
 two bagpipes — not to mention Merry Andrew and the marionettes. 
 If, however, your husband 
 
 Mar. You'll be the death of me. Do try and help me by 
 your advice. 
 
 Dor. Your most obedient servant. 
 
 Mar: Nay, Dorine, for pity's sake ! 
 
 Dor. No, this match must come off, just to punish you. 
 
 Mar. My dear girl ! 
 
 Dor. No. 
 
 Mar. If my declared wishes 
 
 Dor. No, Tartuffe's your man, and you shall try him. 
 
 Mar. You know how much I always confided in you. Be 
 so good 
 
 Dor. No, in truth ; you shall be Tartuffed. 
 
 Mar. Well, since my fate can't move you, henceforth leave 
 me entirely to my despair. That shall lend my heart relief; and 
 I know an infallible remedy for all my sufferings. {Offers to go.) 
 
 Dor. Here, here, come back ; I'll be friends again. In spit6 
 of all, I must take pity on you. 
 
Scene III.] TARTUFFE. 451 
 
 Mar. I tell you, if they expose me to this cruel torment, I am 
 sure I shall die of it. 
 
 Dor. Don't vex yourself; that can easily be prevented. But 
 here comes your lover, Valere. 
 
 [ 
 
 Scene III. 
 Valilre, Mariane, Dorine. 
 
 Valere. Madame, I have been told some news which I was 
 unaware of, and which seems very strange to me. 
 
 Mariane. What's that ? 
 
 Val. That you are to be married to Tartu ffe. 
 
 Mar. My father certainly has such a plan in his head. 
 
 Val. Your father, madame 
 
 Mar. Has altered his mind, and has just now been making 
 the proposal to me. 
 
 Val. What, seriously ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, seriously. He has declared himself strongly in 
 favour of the match. 
 
 VaL And pray, what may your determination be in the 
 matter ? 
 
 Mar. I don't know. 
 
 Val. That's a straightforward answer. You don't know? 
 
 Mar. No. Val. No? 
 
 Mar. What would you advise me to do ? 
 
 Val. Oh, certainly to accept the offer. 
 
 Mar. Is that your advice ? Val. Yes. 
 
 Mar. In good earnest ? 
 
 Val. Undoubtedly. The choice is good, and well worth 
 attending to. 
 
 Mar. Well, sir, I shall take your advice. 
 
 Val. I do not believe you will have much difficulty in follow- 
 ing it. 
 
 Mar. Hardly more than you had in giving it. 
 
 Val. I gave it, madame, to oblige you. 
 
 Mar. And I shall follow it to please you. 
 
 Dorine. Let us see what this will come to. 
 
 Val. Is this your affection then? It was all deceit when 
 you 
 
 Mar. I beg you to say no more about that. You told me 
 frankly that I ought to accept the offer made me. And I tell you 
 I shall do so just because you advise me to it for the best. 
 
 Val. Don't excuse yourself by my intentions. Your resolu- 
 
452 TARTUFFE. [Act II. 
 
 tion was taken before, and you now lay hold of a frivolous pretext 
 for breaking your word. 
 
 Mar. Quite true ; very well said. 
 
 Val. No doubt ; and you never had any true love for me. 
 
 Mar. Ah, well ! you may think so if you like. 
 
 Val. Yes, yes ; I may think so. But my offended heart may, 
 perchance, be beforehand with you in the affair, as I know where 
 to offer both my hand and my affections. 
 
 Mar. I don't doubt it for a moment. The warmth that merit 
 excites 
 
 Val. Let us drop merit, if you please. Doubtless I have little 
 of it, and you think so. But I hope that another will treat me in 
 a kinder manner ; and I know some one, whose heart, touched by 
 my failure, will not be ashamed to repair my loss. 
 
 Mar. The loss is not great, and you will be easily consoled by 
 the exchange. 
 
 Val. You may be sure that I shall do all that lies in my 
 power. A heart that forgets us touches our honour. We must 
 use all our efforts to forget it also -, and if we do not succeed, at 
 any rate we must seem to do so, for it is an unpardonable mean- 
 ness to show an affection to those who forsake us. 
 
 Mar, The sentiment is doubtless noble and sublime. 
 
 Val. Very well ; it is what every one must approve of. What ! 
 would you have me keep a burning affection for you everlastingly 
 in my heart, and see you before my eyes pass into the arms of 
 another, without transferring elsewhere the heart you care so little 
 for? 
 
 Mar. So far from that, it is what I desire. I only wish it were 
 done already. 
 
 Val. You wish it done ? 
 
 Mar. Yes. 
 
 Val. You are insulting me sufficiently, madame; but you shall 
 have the satisfaction you desire. {He offers to go.) 
 
 Mar. Very well. 
 
 Val. {rehiniing). Anyhow, remember at least that it is you 
 who have driven me to this extremity. 
 
 Mar. I shall not fail to do so. 
 
 Val. {retiring again). And that the plan I have formed is only 
 formed from your example. 
 
 Mar. Very well, let it be from my example. 
 
 Val. {going out). Enough. You shall be obeyed to the 
 letter. 
 
 Mar, So much the better. 
 
Scene III.] TARTUFFE. 453 
 
 Val. {returning again). This is the last time you will ever set 
 eyes on me. 
 
 Mar, With all my heart. 
 
 VaL {goes to the door and returns). Eh ? 
 
 Mar. What's the matter ? 
 
 Val. Didn't you call me ? 
 
 Mar. Who ? I ? You must be dreaming. 
 
 Val. Well, then, I'm off. Farewell, madame. {He goes off slowly^ 
 
 Mar. Farewell, sir. 
 
 Dor. For my part, I think from this folly that you've both lost 
 your senses. I've let you go on quarrelling all this time to see 
 what it would come to. Now listen to me. Monsieur Valere. 
 {She goes and takes him by the arm, aiid he makes a show of 
 resistance^ 
 
 Val. ' Eh ! What do you want, Dorine ? 
 
 Dor. Come here. 
 
 Val. No, no ; my vexation overpowers me. Don't hinder me 
 from doing what she wishes. 
 
 Dor. Stop. 
 
 Val. No. Do you see, I've made up my mind. 
 
 Dor. Ah ! 
 
 Mar. {aside). He does not like to see me. My presence 
 drives him away ; so I had much better leave the place. 
 
 Dor. {leaves Valere, and runs to Mariane). The other one ! 
 Where are you going ? 
 
 Mar. Leave me alone. 
 
 Dor. You must come back. 
 
 Mar, No, no, Dorine. It is of no use trying to keep me. 
 
 Val. {aside), I see that the sight of me vexes her. I had 
 much better free her from it. 
 
 Dor. {leaves Mariane, and runs to Valere). What, again ? 
 Deuce take it ! I'll have no more of this nonsense. Come here, 
 both of you. {Fulls them both forward) 
 
 Val. {to Dorine). What are you after ? 
 
 Mar. {to Dorine): What do you want to do ? 
 
 Dor. To bring you together again, and get you out of this 
 scrape. {To Valere.) Are you mad, to quarrel like this ? 
 
 Val. Didn't you hear what she said to me ? 
 
 Mar. Hav'n't you seen it all, and how he treated me ? 
 
 Dor. {to Valere). Folly on both sides ! She has no other 
 thought than to be^ yours. I am witness to it. {To Mariane) 
 He loves no one but you, and has no other wish than to be your 
 husband. I'll answer for it with my life. 
 
454 
 
 TARTU FFE. [Act II. 
 
 Mar. (to VaUre). Wiiy, then, give me such advice ? 
 
 Val. {to Mariane). Why consult me on such a subject ? 
 
 Dor. You're a couple of fools. Come and give me your 
 hands, both of you. {To Vatere) Come, you. 
 
 Val. {giving his hand to Dorine). What good will my hand do? 
 
 Dor, Good. {To Mariane) Now then, yours. 
 
 Mar. {giving hers). What's the use of all this ? 
 
 Dor. Good gracious ! do make haste. You love each other 
 much bettter than you imagine. 
 
 ( Vallre a?id Mariane hold one another's hand for some time without 
 looking at each other.) 
 
 Val. {turning towards Mariane). Don't do things so un- 
 willingly, but look at people without hating ihem. 
 
 {Mariane turns towards Valere, and smiles a Utile) 
 
 Dor. Verily, lovers are foolish creatures ! 
 
 Val. {to Maria?te). Have not I reason to complain of you? 
 And without lying, was it not wicked of you to amuse yourself by 
 saying such a painful thing to me ? 
 
 Mar. And are not you the most ungrateful man 
 
 Dor. Let us leave this debate till another time, and think how 
 we can ward off this wretched marriage. 
 
 Mar. Tell us, then, what devices we must employ. 
 
 Dor. All we can. Your father is not in earnest, and is only 
 talking idly. (To Mariatie.) But for your part the best plan will 
 be to seem to give a gentle compliance to his extravagance, so 
 that if the worst comes to the worst, it will be more easy to 
 put off this proposed marriage. By gaining time, one gains every- 
 thing. Sometimes you can put them off with some illness, which 
 will come on suddenly, and will cause delay > or you may put them 
 off with ill omens — you unluckily met a funeral, or you broke a 
 looking-glass, or you dreamt of muddy water; but finally, and this 
 is the best of it, they cannot possibly unite you to any one else 
 unless you say, Yes. But in order to succeed in our plan, I think 
 you had better not be seen talking together. {To Valere.) Go at 
 once, and set your friends to work, to make him keep his promise 
 to you. We will go and stir up his brother, and gain over the 
 mother-in-law to our side. Farewell. 
 
 Val. {to Mariane). Whatever efforts we may all make, my 
 greatest hope, to say the truth, is in you. 
 
 Mar. {to Valhre). I cannot answer for my father's will, but I 
 shall belong to no one but to Valere. 
 
 Val. How you delight me ! And whatever he dares 
 
Scene III.] TARTUFFE. 455 
 
 Dor. Ah! these lovers are never tired of chattering. Go 
 away, I tell you. {He goes away a step or two, aiid returns.) 
 
 Vat. Once more 
 
 Z>or. What a chatterbox you are. You go this way, and you 
 the other, madame {pushing each out by the shoulders). 
 
 ACT III. Scene I. 
 Damis, Dorine. 
 
 Damis. May thunder put an end to me at once ; may I be 
 treated as one of the greatest scoundrels on earth if any respect 
 or power shall stop me from doing some rash act ! 
 
 Dorifie. Moderate your temper, for heaven's sake. Your 
 father barely mentioned the matter. People don't do all they 
 propose, and it is a long way from the project to the execution. 
 
 Dam. I must put a stop to this coxcomb's designs, and tell him 
 a word or two in his ear. 
 
 Dor. Gently now. Let your step-mother alone to deal with 
 him as well as with your father. She has some influence with 
 Tartuffe. He is very obliging to her in everything, and perhaps 
 he may have a sneaking kindness for her. I wish to heaven it 
 were so ! That would be a fme affair. In short, your interest 
 compels her to send for him; she wishes to sound him with regard 
 to this marriage which troubles you, and to let him know what 
 troubles he will cause if he entertains any hope of this affair. His 
 servant says that he's saying his prayers, and that I can't see him ; 
 but he told me that he would soon be coming down. Go then, 
 if you please, and let me wait for him. 
 
 Dam, I must be present at this conference. 
 
 Dor. No, they must be alone. 
 
 Dam, I shall say nothing to him. 
 
 Dor. You're mistaken. Your impatient temper is well known, 
 and that is the way to spoil everything. Now go. 
 
 Dam. No, I will see him without putting myself into a passion. 
 
 Dor, How troublesome you are. He's coming. Be off. 
 
 \Damis goes and hides in a cupboard at the back of the stage. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Tartuffe, Dorine. 
 
 Tartuffe {seeing Dorine). Laurent, lock up my sackcloth and 
 scourge, and pray that heaven may always enlighten you. If any 
 
456 TARTUFFE. [Act 1 1 1. 
 
 one comes to see me, I have gone to the prisoners to distribute 
 my alms. 
 
 Dorine. What affectation and boasting ! 
 
 Tar. What do you want ? 
 
 Dor. To tell you 
 
 Tar, {takes a handkerchief out of his pocket) . Before you say any 
 more, take this handkerchief, I beg. 
 
 Dor. What on earth do you mean ? 
 
 Tar. Cover up your bosom, which I cannot look at. Souls 
 are wounded by such sights, and they give rise to guilty thoughts. 
 
 Dor. Then you are very open to temptation, if you are so 
 easily led. My word, I don't know what's in your mind, but I'm 
 not so ready to take fire. All your charms would not affect me 
 in the slightest. 
 
 Tar. Be a little modest in your language, or I shall leavp the 
 room at once. 
 
 Dor. No, no. I will leave you. I have only two words to 
 say to you. My lady is coming down into this parlour, and 
 wishes to have a short conversation with you. 
 
 Tar. With all my heart. 
 
 Dor. {aside). How mild he grows, but I still stand to what I 
 said of him. 
 
 Tar, Will she come presently ? 
 
 Dor. I think I hear her. Yes, it is she herself. I leave you 
 together. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Elmire, Tartuffe. 
 
 Tartuffe. May heaven of its goodness ever give you health 
 both of body and soul, and bestow on you all the blessings that 
 heaven's humble servant desires for you. 
 
 Elmire. I am greatly obliged to you for your pious wish ; but 
 let us take a seat to talk more at our ease. 
 
 Tar. {seated). Do you find yourself quite recovered from your 
 late indisposition ? 
 
 El. Yes, quite so. The feverish symptoms soon left me. 
 
 Tar. My prayers have not sufficient merit to have drawn down 
 this favour from on high ; but I made no supplications to heaven 
 in which your recovery had not a great part. 
 
 El. Your zeal for me was too solicitous. 
 
 Tar. Your dear health cannot be made too much of; and to 
 re-establish it I would have sacrificed my own. 
 
Scene III.] TARTUFFE. 457 
 
 El. Th:^.t is carrying Christian charity to a great length, and I 
 am greatly indebted to you for all this kindness. 
 
 Tar. I do much less for you than you deserve. 
 
 El. I wished to speak to you privately about a certain matter, 
 and I am glad to do so without any one noticing us. 
 
 Tar. I am also delighted, and be assured, madame, it is no 
 small satisfaction to find myself alone with you. It is an oppor- 
 tunity that I have often prayed for, but till now it has never been 
 granted me. 
 
 El. What I want to speak to you about is a matter in which 
 you must be perfectly frank, and hide nothing from me. 
 
 (Damis^ unseen^ half opens the door of the cupboard to hear the 
 conversatiofi.) 
 
 Tar. And I for my part, in return for this great favour, will open 
 my heart to you without any reserve ; and I protest to you, that 
 all the talk I made about the visits paid to you did not arise 
 from ill-will, but rather from a passionate zeal, and from a pure 
 motive 
 
 El. For my part I like it very well, and believe that you do it 
 for my good. 
 
 Tar. {squeezing her hand, and pressing il). Yes, madame, 
 surely, and such is the fervour of my 
 
 El. Oh, you squeeze me too hard. 
 
 Tar. It is from excess of zeal. I never intended to hurt you. 
 I had much rather {Puts his hand on her knees.) 
 
 El. What are you doing ? 
 
 Tar. I'm only feeling the rich stuff your dress is made of. 
 
 El. Pray leave off, I can't permit that. {Elmire draws back 
 her chair, and Tartu ffe co?nes still nearer.) 
 
 T'ar. {handling her fichu). Goodness ! how wonderful this lace 
 is ; there's no such work done nowadays. I never saw anything 
 to equal it. 
 
 El. Yes, but now let us talk a little about our affair. They 
 say that my husband wishes to break his promise, and give you 
 his daughter. Tell me, is this true? 
 
 Tar. He did say something about it. But, madame, to tell 
 you the truth, that is not the happiness I sigh after. I behold 
 elsewhere the attractions of that felicity which engages every wish 
 of mine. 
 
 EL That is, things of this world have no attraction for you. 
 
 Tar. My heart is not made of stone. 
 
 El. For my part, I believe that all your sighs rise to heaven, 
 and that nothing below can fix your desires. 
 
458 TARTUFFE. [Act III. 
 
 Tar, The love M'hich leads us to eternal beauties does not 
 extinguish in us the love of temporal ones. Our senses may easily 
 be charmed by the perfect works which heaven has formed. Its 
 reflected charms shine forth in such as you ; but in your person 
 it displays its choicest wonders. It has diffused such beauties 
 over your face as surprise the heart, and delight the sight ; not 
 could I look upon you, you perfect creature, without admiring in 
 you the Author of nature, and feeling my heart touched with an 
 ardent love, at the sight of the fairest of portraits in which He has 
 painted Himself. At first I was afraid lest this secret flame might 
 be a subtle surprise of the evil one ; and my heart resolved to 
 avoid your eyes as an obstacle to my future happiness; but at 
 length I perceived, most lovely beauty, that my passion could not 
 be guilty ; that I could reconcile it with the rules of modesty, and 
 this made me yield my heart to it. It is, I confess, a very great 
 presumption in me to make you the offer of this heart ; but in my 
 vows I rely entirely on your goodness, and not on anything in my 
 own weak power. In you is my hope, my happiness, my peace. 
 On you depends my torment, or my bliss ; and by your sole 
 decision I am on the point of being, happy if you will, or miser- 
 able if you please. 
 
 El. This declaration is extremely 'polite, but to tell the truth 
 it is somewhat surprising. It seems to me that you should have 
 fortified your heart against anything of the kind, and have exer- 
 cised your reason better. Such a devout man as you are, whom 
 every one speaks of 
 
 Tar. Ah, being devout does not make me less a man ; and 
 when one comes to view your celestial charms the heart surren- 
 ders, and thinks no more. I know that this longing seems 
 strange coming from me, but I am not an angel, and if you con- 
 demn the declaration I make, you must lay the biame on your 
 attractive charms. From the moment I first set eyes on your 
 more than human splendour, you became the sovereign of my 
 heart. The ineffable sweetness of your divine looks broke through 
 the resistance which my soul obstinately made. It surmounted 
 everything, fastings, prayers, tears, and turned all my desires 
 towards your charms. My eyes and my sight have told you this 
 a thousand times, and the better to explain myself I now make 
 use of words. Now if you contemplate with some benignity the 
 tribulation of your unworthy slave, if your goodness will give me 
 consolation and deign to lower itself to my nothingness, I shall 
 ever entertain for you, miracle of sweetness, a devotion which 
 nothing can equal. Your honour with me runs no risk, and you 
 
Scene III.] TARTUFFE. 459 
 
 need fear no disgrace on my part. All these courtly gallants that 
 the ladies make such a fuss about, make a noise about all they 
 do, and are vain in all they say. We find them always vaunting 
 their success. They never receive favours that they don't divulge, 
 and their indiscreet tongues, which people confide in, dishonour 
 the altar on which their hearts sacrifice. But men of our sort 
 burn with a discreet flame ; with us a secret is sure always to 
 remain such. The care we take of our own reputation is an un- 
 deniable security to the person beloved ; so when they accept our 
 heart they can enjoy pleasure without scandal, and love without 
 fear. 
 
 FJ. I hear what you say, and you explain yourself in terms 
 sufficiently strong. Are you not afraid that I may take it into my 
 head to acquaint my husband with your conduct? And don't 
 you think an early account of this amour of yours would greatly 
 alter the friendship he now has for you ? 
 
 Tar. I know that you are too kind, and that you will excuse 
 my temerity ; that you will excuse on the ground of human frailty 
 the violent outbreak of a passion that offends you ; and remember 
 when you look in the glass that a man is not blind, and is made of 
 flesh and blood. 
 
 El. Perhaps some people might take this in another way, but 
 I shall make use of my discretion, and not tell my husband of it ; 
 but 1 choose you to do one thing in return, and that is honestly 
 and sincerely to forward the match between Valere and Mariane, 
 and that you renounce the unjust power by which you hope to 
 enrich yourself at the expense of another. And 
 
 Dam. {cojning out of the closet, where he had been hiding). No, 
 madame, no, this must be made public. I was in this place, and 
 overheard it all; and the goodness of heaven seems to have 
 directed me here, to confound the pride of a traitor who wrongs 
 me, to open a way for me to take vengeance of his hypocrisy and 
 insolence ; to undeceive my father, and to let him see plainly the 
 true heart of a villain who dares to talk to you of love. 
 
 El. No, Damis, it will be enough if he becomes more sensible, 
 and endeavours to deserve the favour I do him. Since I have 
 promised him, don't make me break my word. I don't care to 
 make a scandal. A woman laughs at such follies, and never 
 troubles her husband's ears with them. 
 
 Dam. You may have your reasons for acting so ; I have mine 
 for acting otherwise. To spare him would be ridiculous. The 
 insolent pride of his bigotry has triumphed too much over my just 
 anger, and has created too much disorder among us already. 
 
46o TARTUFFE. [Act III. 
 
 This villain has too long governed my father, and opposed my 
 love as well as Valere's. The perfidy of this wretch should be 
 made clear to him, and heaven offers me an easy way to do this. 
 I am very thankful for the opportunity ; it is too favourable to be 
 neglected, and I should deserve to have it taken from me if I were 
 to lose it. 
 
 El. Damis 
 
 Da77i, No. If you please, I must follow my own counsel. 
 My heart is overjoyed, and all you could say would be in vain to 
 dissuade me from the pleasure of avenging myself. Without 
 going any further, I will make an end of the affair, and this will, 
 just give me satisfaction. 
 
 Scene IV. ■ 
 
 Orgon, Damis, Tartuffe, Elmire. 
 
 Damis. Father, we are about to entertain you with an incident 
 that has just taken place, which will very much surprise you. 
 You are well repaid for all your kindness, and this gentleman 
 makes a fine return for your goodness. He goes so far as to wish 
 to dishonour you by making love to your wife. She is good- 
 natured, and her over-discretion would have kept the secret, but I 
 can't encourage such impudence, and I think that not to tell you 
 of it, is to do you an injury. 
 
 Elmire. Yes, I am of opinion that one never ought to disturb a 
 husband with such idle stuff. Our honour does not depend on it, 
 and it is enough to know that we can defend ourselves. This is 
 what I think about it, and you would have said nothing, Damis, 
 if you had listened to me. {Exit Elmire. 
 
 Orgon. What have I been hearing ? Oh, heavens, is this 
 credible ? 
 
 Tartuffe. Yes, brother, I am a wicked, guilty, wretched sinner, 
 full of iniquity, the greatest villain that ever was. Every instant of 
 my hfe is stained with wrong. It is one continued series of crimes 
 and defilements, and I see that heaven for my punishment designs 
 to mortify me on this occasion. Whatever great offence they may 
 lay to my charge, I have not sufficient pride to deny it. Believe 
 what they tell you, rouse your anger, and like a criminal drive me 
 out of your house. I cannot have so great a share of shame, but 
 I have deserved more. 
 
 Or. {to his son). Ah, traitor, do you dare, by this falsehood, 
 attempt to tarnish the purity of his virtue. 
 
Scene IV.] TARTUFFE. 461 
 
 Damis. What ! shall the feigned meekness of this hypocrite 
 make you give the He ■ 
 
 Or. Oh ! you cursed plague, hold your tongue. 
 
 Tar. Ah ! let him speak ; you blame him wrongfully. You 
 had much better believe what he tells you. Why do you judge 
 me so favourably on such a fact ? Do you know, after all, what I 
 may be capable of? Can you, my brother, depend on my out- 
 side? And do you think me the better for all you see of me? 
 No, no, you suffer yourself to be deceived by appearances, and 
 I am by no means what people think me. The world thinks me 
 a very good man, but the truth is I am a very worthless creature. 
 {To Damis.) Yes, my dear boy, say on. Call me treacherous, 
 infamous, reprobate, thief and murderer. Load me with epithets 
 still more detestable. I shall not contradict you, for I have 
 deserved them all, and am willing on my knees to suffer the 
 ignominy, as a shame due to the enormities of my life. 
 
 Or, {to Tartuffe). This is too much, brother. {To his son.) 
 Traitor, does not your heart relent ? 
 
 T>am. What ! shall his words so far deceive you as to 
 
 Or. Hold your tongue, you rascal! {To Tartuffe.) I beg 
 you, brother, to rise. {To his son.) Infamous wretch ! 
 
 Dam. He can 
 
 Or. Hold your tongue. 
 
 Dam. I'm furious. What ! am I taken for 
 
 Or. Say another word, and I'll break your bones. 
 ^ Tar. For heaven's sake, brother, don't be angry. I had rather 
 suffer anything than that he should get the slightest hurt on my 
 account. 
 
 Or. {to his sou). You ungrateful fellow ! 
 
 Tar. Let him alone. If necessary, I'll ask forgiveness for 
 him on my knees. 
 
 Or. {to Tartuffe). Ah, you must be joking. {To his son.) Look 
 at his goodness, you wretch ! 
 
 Datn. Then^ 
 
 Or. Hold your tongue ! 
 
 Dam. What ! I 
 
 Or. Not a word, I say. I know what motive urged you to 
 make this attack : you all hate him ; wife, children, servants, are 
 all let loose on him. They shamefully try all they can to remove 
 this devout man from me ; but the more they strive to drive him 
 away, the more pains will I take to keep him. And so I will 
 hasten on his marriage with my daughter in order to confound 
 the pride of the whole family. 
 
462 TAR TUFFE, [Act 1 1 L 
 
 Dam. Do you mean to force her to receive him ? 
 
 Or. Yes, traitor ; and this very evening, in order to plague 
 you. Ah ! I defy you all, and will show you that I am master 
 and will be obeyed. Come, retract, you rascal, this moment, and 
 throw yourself at his feet and beg his pardon. 
 
 Dam. Who, I ? Of this rogue, who by his impostures 
 
 Or. What, you scoundrel, do you rebel and call him names ? 
 Bring me a stick here, a stick. {To Tartuffe.) Don't hold me. 
 {To his son.) Get out of my house this minute, and -never dare 
 to enter it again. 
 
 Dafn. Yes, I shall go, but 
 
 Or. Leave the place at once ! I disinherit you at once, and 
 give you my curse besides. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Orgon, Tartuffe. 
 
 Organ. To insult a holy person in such a manner ! 
 
 Tartuffe. O heaven, pardon him, as I do. {To Orgon.) If 
 you only knew what a trouble it is to me that they should try to 
 blacken me to my dear brother ! 
 
 Or. Alas ! 
 
 Tar. The mere thought of this ingratitude wounds me terribly. 
 Oh, the horror of it ! My heart is so full that I can't speak. I 
 think it will be the death of me. 
 
 Or. {in tears, running to the door out of which he had drive?t 
 his son). I am sorry my hand spared him, and did not make an 
 end of him on the spot. Compose yourself, brother, and don't 
 be troubled. 
 
 Tar. By all means let us stop the course of these unhappy 
 debates. I see how much trouble I bring here, and I think, 
 brother, it is necessary that I should leave your house. 
 
 Or. What! You're joking? 
 
 Tar. They can't bear me, and I see they are trying to throw 
 suspicion on my good faith. 
 
 Or. What does that matter? You know that I pay no atten- 
 tion to them. 
 
 Tar. They won't stop here, you may be sure, and these very 
 tales which you now reject may one day be repeated and hstened 
 to. 
 
 Or. No, brother, never ! 
 
Scene V.] TARTUFFE, 463 
 
 Tar. Ah, brother, a wife may easily mislead her husband. 
 
 Or. No, no. 
 
 Tar. Allow me, by going away at once, to prevent another 
 attack of this kind. 
 
 Or. No. You must stay. It would cost me my life. 
 
 Tar. Well, then, I must mortify myself. If you would, how- 
 ever 
 
 Or. Ah ! 
 
 Tar. Then let it be so, and we will say no more about it. 
 But I know how to behave on this occasion. Honour is a tender 
 thing, and friendship obliges me to prevent reports and not to 
 give rise to any suspicions. I'll shun your wife, and you shall 
 never see me 
 
 Or. No, in spite of every one, you shall constandy be in her 
 company. To vex the world is my greatest delight, and I'll have 
 you seen with her at all hours. This is not all yet. The better 
 to brave them, I'll have no other heir but you, and I am going at 
 once to sign a deed of gift of my whole estate. A true and 
 hearty friend to whom I give my daughter, is far dearer to me 
 than wife or son or- kindred. You won't refuse what I propose? 
 
 Tar, Heaven's will be done in all things. 
 
 Or. Come, let us get the writings drawn up, and then let 
 envy burst itself with spite. 
 
 ACT IV. Scene I. 
 
 Cl:^ante, Tartuffe. 
 
 Cleante. Indeed, every one is talking about it, and you may 
 believe me. The noise caused by this rumour is not much to 
 your credit, and I have met with you, sir, very opportunely, to 
 tell you in two words what I think of the matter. I do not want 
 to go to the bottom of all that is reported ; I pass that b}', and 
 take the matter at its worst. We'll suppose, then, that Damis has 
 not used you well, and that you have been accused wrongfully. 
 Is it not the part of a good Christian to pardon the offence and 
 to extinguish in his heart all desire of revenge? Ought you 
 to suffer a son, on your account, to be turned out of his father's 
 house ? I tell you again, and frankly, that every one, both small 
 and great, is scandalised at it ; and if you take my advice, you 
 will make all up and not push matters to extremity. Sacrifice 
 
464 TARTUFFE, [Act IV. 
 
 your resentment to the Almighty, and restore a son to his father's' \ 
 favour. 
 
 Tartuffe. Ah, as far as concerns myself, I would do it with all 
 my heart. I bear him no ill-will ; I forgive him everything ; I lay 
 nothing to his charge, and would serve him with all my heart ; 
 but the interests of religion cannot permit it, and if he comes here 
 again I must leave. After such an unparalleled action it would 
 be scandalous for me to have anything more to do with him. 
 Heaven knows what the world would immediately think of it; 
 they would put it down to pure policy on my part, and everybody 
 would say that, jtnowing myself guilty, I pretended a charitable 
 zeal for my accuser, that I dreaded him in my heart, and wanted 
 to arrange matters with him that I might in an underhand way 
 secure his silence. 
 
 Cle. You are putting us off with feigned excuses ; all your 
 reasons, sir, are too far-fetched. Why do you take on yourself 
 the interests of heaven ? Has it need of us to help to punish the 
 guilty ? Do not trouble yourself about vengeance, but concern 
 yourself only about the pardon of offences which it enjoins. Have 
 no regard for the judgment of men when you follow the sovereign 
 orders of heaven. What ! shall the paltry interest of what people 
 may believe, hinder the glory of a good action ? No, no, let us 
 always do what heaven has ordered, and trouble our minds with 
 no other matter. 
 
 Tar. I have told you, sir, already, that I have forgiven him 
 from my heart, and that is doing what heaven ordains ; but after 
 the scandal and affront of to-day, heaven does not require me to 
 live with him. 
 
 Cle, And does it require you, sir, to listen to what mere 
 caprice dictates to the father, and to accept an estate to which 
 you can have no just pretension? 
 
 Tar. Those who know me will never suppose that it arises 
 from an interested motive. All the riches in the world have few 
 charms for me. I am not dazzled by their false glare, and if I 
 should resolve to accept the gift which the father wishes to make 
 me, it is, to tell you the truth, because I arn afraid that this pro- 
 perty will otherwise fall into bad hands, and come to those who 
 would make a bad use of it in this world, and not lay it out, as I 
 should do, for the glory of heaven and the good of my neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 Cle. Oh, sir, entertain none of these delicate scruples, which 
 may give rise to the complaints of the rightful heir. Don't give 
 yourself any further trouble, but let him keep his estate at his owr\ 
 
t 
 
 Scene 11.] TARTUFFE. 465 
 
 risk. Consider that it were better even that he misused it than 
 that you should be accused of depriving him of it. I only wonder 
 that you could have allowed yourself to entertain such a proposal. 
 In short, has true zeal any maxim which would lead it to deprive 
 a lawful heir of his rights ? and, if it is a fact that heaven is invin- 
 cibly opposed to your living with Damis, would it not be better 
 for you, like a prudent man, to quietly retire from here, rather 
 than suffer the eldest son, contrary to all reason, to be turned out 
 of doors for you ? Believe me, sir, this would give your discre- 
 tion 
 
 Tar. It is half-past three o'clock, sir. I have to attend to a 
 certain devotional exercise in my room, and I must beg you to 
 excuse me. 
 
 Cle. {alone). Ah ! 
 
 ^- Scene II. 
 
 ^,' JElmire, Mariane, Dorine, Cl^ante; afterwards Orgon. 
 
 i)ori?ie (to Ciea?ite). For goodness' sake, sir, do all you can to 
 help her as we are doing, for she is m a dreadful state of trouble. 
 The arrangement that her father has decided upon for to-night 
 is driving her every moment to despair. He will be here directly. 
 Let us all unite our efforts, and try either by force or cunning to 
 upset this plan which is causing us such fearful trouble. 
 Ettter Orgon. 
 
 Orgon. Ah, I'm very glad to see you all together. {To 
 Mariane.) I bring you something in this contract that will 
 make you smile. You know already what this means. 
 
 Mariane {kneeWig). Oh, father, in heaven's name, which 
 knows my grief, by everything that can move your heart, forego 
 something of the right you have over me as your child, and 
 dispense with my obedience in this point ! Don't compel me 
 through this hard law to complain to heaven of the duty I owe 
 you. Do not, father, make the life you have given me miserable. 
 If, contrary to the tender hopes I might have formed, you will not 
 suffer me to be the wife of the man I venture to love ; at least 
 out of your goodness, which I beg for on my knees, save me from 
 the torment of wedding a man whom I detest, and drive me not 
 to despair by exercising your full power over me. 
 
 Or. {feeling himself relent). Be firm, my heart. Yield to no 
 natural weakness. 
 
 Mar. Your attachment to him causes me no pain. Show it 
 
 31 
 
466 TARTUFFE. [Act IV. 
 
 as much as you like ; give him your property j and, if that is not 
 enough, add mine to it. I consent with all my heart, and give it 
 up to you ; but at least spare my person, and allow me to pass 
 the mournful days that heaven may allot me in the austere life of 
 a convent. 
 
 Or. Why, these are the sort of girls who turn nuns when their 
 fathers thwart them in their love affairs. Get up. The more 
 the matter goes against your inclinations, the greater will be 
 your merit in accepting it. Mortify your senses about this mar- 
 riage, and don't worry me any more about it. 
 
 Dor. But what 
 
 Or. You hold your tongue. Mind your own business. I 
 absolutely forbid you to venture to say a single word. 
 
 Cleante. If you would only allow me to give you one word of 
 advice. 
 
 Or. Brother, your advice is the best in the world. It is very 
 rational, and I have a great value for it. But you must not take 
 it ill if I do not make use of it now. 
 
 Elmire {to her husband). Seeing what I see, I don't know 
 what to say, except that I wonder greatly at your blindness. You 
 must be marvellously bewitched and prepossessed in his favour to 
 deny the fact we told you of to-day. 
 
 Or. I am your humble servant, and believe appearances. I 
 know your weakness for my rascal of a son, and you were afraid 
 to disavow the trick he would have played the poor man. But you 
 were too calm to gain credit, else you would have been mo^d 
 quite differently. 
 
 El. Ought our honour to take up arms and bluster so 
 vehemently at the simple avowal of an amorous transport ? Can 
 there be no reply to what offends us, without fury in our eyes, and 
 invectives in our mouth ? For my part, I only laugh at such over- 
 tures, and the disturbance made about them by no means pleases 
 me. I like that we should show our discretion with gentleness, 
 and I have no fancy for those savage prudes, whose honour is 
 armed with teeth and claws, and who for the least word would tear 
 out a man's eyes. Heaven keep me from such discretion. I like 
 a virtue that is not a she-dragon, and believe that a denial given 
 with proper coldness is no less powerful than a stronger rebuff. 
 
 Or. In short, I know the whole affair, and shall not alter 
 my mind. 
 
 El. I still wonder at your strange weakness. But what would 
 your incredulity say if I proved to you that you had been told the 
 truth? 
 
Scene III.] TARTUFFE. 467 
 
 Or. Prove it to me? 
 
 EL Yes. 
 
 Or. Nonsense. 
 
 EL But supposing I could find some means of showing it to 
 you very clearly ? 
 
 Or. Idle talk. 
 
 EL What a man you are ! At least give me an answer. I don't 
 speak of your giving credit to us, but supposing a place could be 
 found where you could see and overhear all, what would you then 
 say of your good man ? 
 
 Or. In that case I should say — I should say nothing, for the 
 thing can't be. 
 
 EL You have been too long deluded, and it is too much to 
 charge me with imposture. It is necessary by way of diversion, 
 and without going any farther, that I should make you witness all 
 that has been told you. 
 
 Or. Do so. I take you at your word. We will see your 
 cleverness. Let us see how you will make good your pro- 
 mise. 
 
 EL {to Dorine). Tell him to come to me. 
 
 Dor. {to Ehnire). He has a crafty soul of his own, and perhaps 
 it would be a difficult matter to surprise him. 
 
 EL {to Dori?te). No, people are easily duped by what they 
 like; and self-love helps them to deceive themselves. Call 
 him down to me, and do you go away {speaking to Cleante and 
 Mariane). 
 
 Scene III. 
 Elmire, Orgon. 
 
 iLhnire. Now come, and get under the table. 
 
 Orgon. What for ? 
 
 EL Because it is absolutely necessary that you should be 
 concealed. 
 
 Or. But why under this table? 
 
 EL Good gracious ! Do as I tell you. I have a plan in my 
 head, and you shall be the judge of it. Place yourself there, I 
 tell you, and take care that no one either sees or hears you. 
 
 Or. I must say that this is going a long way, but I must see the 
 end of your enterprise. 
 
 EL {to her husband imder the table). I believe you will have no 
 reason to complain of me. However, as I am going to enter upon 
 
 ".h 
 
468 TARTUFFE. [Act IV. 
 
 a strange affair, you must not be shocked at anything. You must 
 allow me to say what I like, as it is to convince you according to 
 my promise. Since I am reduced to it, I am going by coaxing 
 speeches to make this hypocritical fellow drop his mask, to flatter 
 the impudent desires of his love,, and give full scope to his bold- 
 ness. Since it is for your sake alone, and to confound him, that I 
 feign a compliance with his wishes, I shall leave off the moment 
 you appear, and things need go no farther than you wish them. 
 It lies with you to stop his mad infatuation, when you think the 
 affair is carried far enough, so as to spare your wife and not expose 
 me more than is necessary to undeceive you. This is in your 
 
 interest, you will control it, and But he's coming ; keep close, 
 
 and take care not to show yourself. • > 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Tartuffe, Elmire, Orgon {wider the table). 
 
 Tartu ffe. I was told you desired to speak to me here. 
 
 Elmire, Yes, I have some secrets to tell you ; but, first, shut 
 that door, and look well about for fear of a surprise. We cer- 
 tainly must not make such a mess of it as we did just now. I 
 never was so surprised in all my life. Damis put me into a terrible 
 fright for you, and you saw very well that I did my best to baffle 
 his designs and moderate his anger. It is true, I was in such 
 trouble that I did not think of contradicting him, but thank 
 heaven things have been all the better for that, and are now on a 
 safer footing. The esteem in which you are held dispelled that 
 storm, and my husband can have no suspicion of you. The better 
 to set the rumour of evil tongues at defiance, he desires that we 
 should be always together, and so it is that I can without fear of 
 blame find myself closeted alone here with you, and this it is 
 which justifies me in laying open to you a heart perhaps a little too 
 ready to allow your ardent addresses. 
 
 Tar, This language, madame, is rather difficult to understand ; 
 you spoke to me just now in quite another strain. 
 
 El. Ah ! If such a refusal makes you angry, how little do you 
 know the heart of woman ! How little do you know what it 
 means when we make so feeble a defence ! At such times our 
 modesty always fights against those tender sentiments you may in- 
 spire us with. Whatever gratification we may find for the passion 
 that subdues us, we shall always be rather ashamed to own it. We 
 
Scene IV.] TARTUFFE. 469 
 
 defend ourselves at first, but by the air that we put on, it is always 
 easy to know that our heart surrenders, that our words oppose our 
 wishes for the sake of honour, and that such refusals promise 
 everything. No doubt this is a very frank avowal to make to you, 
 and it pays little regard to our modesty ; but in short, since the 
 word has escaped me, should I have been so much bent on restrain- 
 ing Damis ? Should I, think you, have listened to the offer which 
 you made me of your heart? Should I have taken the matter as you 
 saw I did, if the offer of your heart had had nothing in it to please 
 me ? And when I myself would have forced you to refuse the 
 match which had just been proposed, what did that show but the 
 interest one was inclined to take in you, and the trouble that one 
 would have if the knot that was resolved on should divide a heart 
 which one would have only one's own ? 
 
 Tar. It is no doubt, madame, an extreme pleasure to hear 
 these words from the lips one loves ; their honey diffuses copiously 
 through all my senses a sweetness I never before tasted. My 
 supreme study is the happiness of pleasing you, and my heart 
 counts your affection its beatitude ; but my heart demands the 
 liberty of daring to doubt a little of its felicity. I can fancy these 
 words to be only a sort of decent artifice to make me break 
 off the match that is almost concluded. And if I must explain 
 myself freely to you, I shall not rely on this tender language till 
 some of the favours I sigh after assure me of the sincerity of what 
 has been said, and fix in my mind a firm belief in your charming 
 goodness. 
 
 El. {after coughing to warn her hushand). What! do you wish 
 to go so fast ? Would you exhaust the tenderness of one's heart 
 all at once? One does violence to oneself in making you the- 
 most m.elting declaration, but this is not enough for you, 
 and, to satisfy you, one must push matters to the farthest ex- 
 treme ? 
 
 Tar. The less one deserves a blessing, the less one presumes 
 to hope for it ; our love can scarcely rest satisfied with mere 
 words ; one easily suspects a lot overflowing with happiness, and 
 one desires to enjoy it before believing in it. For my part, who 
 know how little I deserve your favours, I doubt the success of my 
 rashness, and I shall believe nothing, madame, till you have by 
 realities convinced my ardent flame. 
 
 EL Good gracious ! Your love plays the very tyrant. What 
 a strange confusion it throws me into ! With what a furious sway 
 it rules hearts ! and with what violence it will have what it 
 desires. What ! is there no getting away from your pursuit ? 
 
470 
 
 TARTUFFE. [Act IV. 
 
 Will you not give one time to take breath ? Is it well to persist 
 with so much severity ? To insist on what you demand without 
 any quarter ? To take advantage thus, by your insistence, of the 
 weakness which you see one has for you. 
 
 Tar. But if you regard my addresses with a favourable eye, 
 why do you refuse to give me convincing proofs of it ? 
 
 El. But how can one comply with your wishes without'offend- 
 ing that heaven which you are always talking of? 
 
 Tar. If it is only heaven that obstructs my wishes, it is a small 
 matter with me to remove such an obstacle, and that need be no 
 restraint on your heart. 
 
 El. But the judgments of heaven with which they terrify us 
 so much ! 
 
 Tar. I can dissipate these ridiculous fears, madame ; and I 
 have the art of removing scruples. Heaven, it is true, forbids cer- 
 tain gratifications ; ^ but there are ways of compounding these 
 matters. There is a science of stretching the strings of our con- 
 science, according to different exigencies, and of rectifying the 
 wrongness of the action by the purity of our intention. In these 
 secrets, madame, I know how to instruct you, and all you 
 have to do is to let me guide you. Satisfy my wishes, madame, 
 and have no fear. I will answer for you, and take any wrong on 
 myself. {Elmire coughs more loudly.) You cough a great deal, 
 madame. 
 ' '" EL Yes, I am in torture. 
 
 Tar. Take a morsel of this liquorice. 
 
 El. No doubt it is an obstinate cough, and I am sure that all 
 the liquorice in the world will not cure it. 
 
 Tar. It is certainly very troublesome. 
 
 El. Yes, more than one can express. 
 
 Tar. In short, madame, your scruple is easily overcome. You 
 are sure of absolute secrecy here, and the evil only consists in the 
 noise that is made about it ; the world's scandal makes the offence, 
 and to sin in private is no sin at all. 
 
 El. {after having coughed again ajid k?wcked on the table). In 
 short, I see that I must resolve to yield, that I must consent to grant 
 you everything, and that with less than this I ought not to expect you 
 to be satisfied or to give over. No doubt it is very hard to go that 
 length, and I get over it very much against my will ; but since you 
 are so obstinately bent on reducing me to it, and will not believe 
 all that one can say, but still insist on more convincing proof, one 
 must even resolve on it, and satisfy people. And if this consent 
 * Note by Molilre, ** It is a villain who speaks." 
 
Scene IV,] TARTUFFE, 471 
 
 carries any offence with it, so much the worse for him who forces 
 me to do this violence to myself, and the fault ought not to be laid 
 at my door. 
 
 Tar. Yes, madame, I take the blame on my own shoulders, 
 and the thing in itself 
 
 EL Open the door a little, and pray look if my husband is not 
 in the gallery. 
 
 Tar. Why need you take so much trouble about him ? Be- 
 tween us two, he's a man to be led by the nose. He'll take pride 
 in all our intercourse, and I've brought him to the point of seeing 
 everything and believing nothing. 
 
 El. Never mind that. Pray go out a little and look carefully 
 all round. 
 
 Organ {coming from under the table). What an abominable 
 fellow ! I can't recover myself; this perfectly stuns me. 
 
 El. What ! are you coming out so soon? You make fools of 
 people ; get under the tablecloth again — stay to the end to make 
 sure, and do not trust to mere conjecture. 
 
 Or. No, nothing more wicked ever came from hell ! 
 
 El. Good heavens ! You must not believe too lightly. Be 
 fully convinced before you yield, and don't be too hasty, for fear 
 of a mistake. {She makes her husband go behind her.) 
 
 Tar. {not seeing Orgoji). Everything conspires, madame, to my 
 satisfaction. I have looked all round ; there is no one there, and 
 my ravished soul 
 
 ( While Tartujfe advances with open arms to embrace Elmire, she 
 draivs back, and Tartuffe perceives Orgon.) 
 
 Or. {taking hold of Tartuffe). You are too eager in your love 
 affairs ; you should not be so passionate. So, good man, you 
 thought to get over me, did you ? How you allow yourself to 
 give way to temptation ! So you were going to marry my 
 daughter, and coveted my wife ? I was a long time in doubt 
 whether this was genuine, and quite thought you'd change your 
 tone. But this is pushing the proof far enough ; I am satisfied 
 now, and for my part want no further conviction. 
 
 El. [to Tartuffe). The part that I have played was contrary to 
 my inclination, but they reduced me to the necessity of treating 
 you so. 
 
 Tar. {to Orgoii). What ! Do you believe 
 
 Or. Come, no noise, pray ; turn out from here, and without 
 ceremony. 
 
 Tar. My design 
 
472 
 
 TARTUFFE. [Act V. 
 
 Or. These speeches are unseasonable. You must leave the 
 house at once. 
 
 Tar. It is you who must be off, though you talk as if you 
 were the master. The house is mine, and I'll make you know it, 
 and shall plainly show you that it is useless for you to try and 
 pick a quarrel with me by these base tricks. When you injure 
 me, you don't think where you are. I have means wherewith to 
 confound and punish imposture, to avenge an offended heaven, 
 and make those repent it who talk of turning me out of doors. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 El. What language is this, and what does it all mean ? 
 
 Or. In truth I'm quite confused, and have no inclination to 
 laugh. 
 
 EL How so ? 
 
 Or. I see my fault by what he says, and the deed of gift is 
 what perplexes my mind. 
 
 El. The deed of gift ? 
 
 Or. Yes, it's actually done ; but there is something else, too, 
 that disturbs me. 
 
 El. What's that ? 
 
 Or. You shall know all. But let us go upstairs at once, and 
 see if a certain casket is still there. 
 
 ACT V. Scene I. 
 Orgon, Cleante; afterivards Damis. 
 
 Cleante. Where would you run to ? 
 
 Orgon. Alas ! How can I tell ? 
 
 Cle. I think we ought first to consult together as to what is 
 best to be done in this state of affairs. 
 
 Or. This casket troubles me greatly. It even gives me more 
 vexation than all the rest. 
 
 CIL This casket, then, is a secret of some importance? 
 
 Or. It is a deposit that Argas, my friend whom I pity, him- 
 self placed in my hands as a great secret. When he fled he 
 pitched on me for this purpose, and it contained papers, as he 
 told me, on which his life and fortune depended. 
 
 Cle. Why then did you let them pass into other hands ? 
 
 Or. It was from a scruple of conscience. I went straight to 
 this traitor to take him into my confidence ; and his casuistry 
 persuaded me to give him the casket so that, in order to deny 
 
Scene I.] TARTUFFE. 473 
 
 having it in case any inquiry might be made, I might deny it with 
 a ready excuse, by which my conscience would be quite at ease 
 in taking an oath contrary to the truth. 
 
 Clc. You are in a bad position, at least, to judge from appear- 
 ances; both the deed of gift and this trust are, in my view, 
 inconsdierate steps. You might be led into great trouble by such 
 pledges ; and this man having these advantages over you it would 
 be still more imprudent on your part to drive him to extremities, 
 and you ought to think of some gentler method of dealing with 
 him. 
 
 Or. Under the appearance of so moving a zeal, to think of 
 his concealing so treacherous a heart and so wicked a soul ! And 
 
 that I, who took him in when he was a penniless beggar It is 
 
 over, and I will have no more to do with pious people. For the 
 future I shall have an utter detestation of them, and shall become 
 worse than a devil towards them. 
 
 Clc. Extremely well ! More of your extravagant notions ! You 
 never can be moderate in anything. You never keep the straight 
 path of reason, but you must always be rushing from one extreme 
 to the other. You see your fault, and perceive that you have 
 been imposed on by a hypocritical zeal; but to mend matters, 
 what reason can you have for a worse mistake, and for seeing no 
 difference between the heart of a perfidious, worthless wretch, and 
 those of all good people ? What ! because a rascal has impu- 
 dently imposed on you under the pompous appearance of an 
 austere countenance, will you needs have it that every one is like 
 him, and that there are no truly devout people in the world now- 
 adays? Leave these foolish ideas to libertines; distinguish 
 between virtue and its counterfeit; never venture to give your 
 regard too suddenly, and in order to tliis, keep the mean as you 
 should do. Beware, if you can, of paying honour to imposture ; 
 but at the same time don't injure true zeal, and because you have 
 gone to one extreme, don't think you must offend again on the 
 other. 
 
 Damis. What, father, is it true that that rascal threatens you ? 
 That he has quite forgotten all the favours he has received from 
 you, and that his cowardly pride, but too deserving of your anger, 
 arms itself against you with your own benefits ? 
 
 Or. Yes, my son, and it gives me inconceivable vexation. 
 
 Dam. Let me alone. I'll cut off 'both his ears. There's no 
 putting up with such insolence as his. I'll undertake to settle 
 the matter at once ; and to get you clear out of it, I'll beat his 
 brains out. 
 
474 TTARTUFFE, [Act V.- 
 
 Cle. There now, you speak just like a young fellow. Calm 
 these violent transports, pray. We live in an age and under z, 
 government when violence is the worst way to settle affairs. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 MaIdame Pernelle, Mariane, Elmire, Dorine, Damis, Orgon, 
 Cl^ante. 
 
 Mdme. Pernelle. What's all this ? I've been told that there 
 have been some strange revelations here. 
 
 Orgon. They are some novelties, of which I have been an 
 eye-witness. You see how dearly I pay for my kindness. I pick 
 up a man in misery, I take him into my house, and treat him like 
 my own brother ; heap favours on him every day ; give him my 
 daughter, and my whole fortune ; when at the same time the per- 
 fidious, infamous wretch makes base proposals to my wife. And' 
 not content with these vile attempts, he dares to threaten me with 
 my own favours, and would employ, for my own ruin, the 
 advantages which my indiscreet kindness placed in his hands. 
 He would turn me out of the estate which I made over to him, 
 and reduce me to the condition from which I rescued him. 
 
 Dorine. Oh, the poor man ! 
 
 Mdme. Per. My son, I can never believe that he could commit 
 so base an action. 
 
 Or, Why not ? 
 
 Mdme. Per. Good people are always envied. 
 
 Or. What do you mean, mother, by such language ? 
 
 Mdi7te. Per. Why, that there are strange doings at your house, 
 and the ill-will they bear him is only too evident. 
 
 Or. What has this ill-will to do with what you have been 
 told? 
 
 Mdme. Per. I used to tell you, again and again, when you 
 were a child — 
 
 Virtue here is persecuted ever ; 
 
 The envious will die^ but envy never. 
 
 Or. But what has this to do with the matter in hand ? 
 
 Mdme. Per, Why, they've trumped up a hundred idle tales 
 about him. 
 
 Or, I've told you already, that I saw it all with my own 
 eyes. 
 
Scene II.] TARTUFFE. 475 
 
 Mdme. Per. Ah ! the malice of scandal- mongers is very 
 great. 
 
 Or. You'll make me swear, mother; I tell you I myself 
 witnessed his audacious attempt. 
 
 Mdme. Per. Tongues never lack venom to spread about. 
 Nothing in this world can be proof against them. 
 
 Or. You are keeping up a very senseless argument. I've seen 
 it, I tell you, seen ! What people term " seen ! " Must I din it 
 into your ears a hundred times, and shout as loud as four 
 people ? 
 
 Mdme, Per. Good gracious ! Appearances often deceive us. 
 You must not always judge by what you see. 
 
 Or. I shall go out of my mind ! 
 
 Md?7ie. Per. Nature is liable to false suspicions, and good is 
 often turned into evil. 
 
 Or. Am I to put a charitable construction on his wish to 
 embrace my wife. 
 
 Mdme. Per. You never ought to accuse any one except on 
 good grounds, and you should have waited till you had been quite 
 certain. 
 
 Or. How the devil, mother, could I have seen anything more 
 certain ? Should I have waited till he actually had, before my 
 eyes You'll make me say something foolish. 
 
 Mdme. Per. His soul burns with too pure a flame, and I 
 cannot allow myself to think that he would have made any such 
 attempt. 
 
 Or. Go away. If you were not my mother, I do not know 
 what I might say to you, my anger is so great. 
 
 Dor. {to Orgon). This is the just recompense of this world. 
 There was a time when you would not believe, and now you are 
 not believed yourself. 
 
 Cleante. We are wasting time in mere trifles, which should be 
 spent in taking measures ; we ought not to sleep when a knave 
 threatens. 
 
 Da77iis. W^hat ! can his impudence come to this pitch ? 
 
 Elmire. I can scarce believe it possible for my part — his in- 
 gratitude would be too flagrant. 
 
 Cle. {to Orgon). Don't count on that. He will be cunning 
 enough to give the colour of reason to what he does against you ;- 
 and for a less matter than this the weight of a conspiracy has 
 involved people in dismal labyrinths. I tell you again, that 
 with the weapons he has you ought not to have pushed him so 
 far. 
 
476 TARTUFFE. [Act V. 
 
 Or. True, but what was I to do ? Before the insolence of the 
 traitor, I was not master of my resentment. 
 
 Cle. I wish with all my heart that some show of a peace could 
 be patched up between you two. 
 
 EL If I had only known what power he held in his hands, I 
 should never have made so much fuss about the matter, and 
 my 
 
 Or. {to Dorine, seeing M. Loyal enter). What does that man 
 want? Go quickly and ask. I'm in a fine state to have people 
 come to see me ! 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 MoNS. Loyal, Mdme. Pernelle, Orgon, Damis, INIariane, 
 DoRiNE, Elmire, Cl^ante. 
 
 Mons. Loyal {to Dorme at the hack of the stage). Good-day, 
 my girl ; I want to speak with your master. 
 
 Dorine. He has company, and I don't think he can see any one 
 just now. 
 
 Loy. Nay, I have no wish to be troublesome here. I believe 
 that my coming will have nothing in it to displease him. I come 
 on a matter that he will be very glad of. 
 
 Dor, Your name, please ? 
 
 Loy. Only tell him that I come from Mons. Tartuffe, for his 
 good. 
 
 Dor. {to Orgon). He says he comes in a civil way from Mons. 
 Tartuffe, on business which he says you will not dislike. 
 
 Cleante {to Orgon). You must see who this man is, and what 
 he wants. 
 
 Orgon. Perhaps he wants to make friends again. How shall 
 I behave to him ? 
 
 Cle. You must not let your resentment break out, and if he 
 speaks of an arrangement you must listen to him. 
 
 Loy. {to Orgofi). Your servant, sir. Heaven judge the man 
 who would injure you, and may it be as favourable to you as I 
 wish. 
 
 Or. {aside to Cleante). This kindly opening favours my con- 
 jecture, and seems to open the way to some settlement. 
 
 Loy. I always had a great regard for your family, and I served 
 your good father. 
 
 Or. Sir, I must ask your pardon if I don't know you or your 
 name. 
 
SCENE III.] TARTUFFE. 477 
 
 Loy. My name, sir, is Loyal, a Norman by birth, and I am 
 sheriff's officer to the court, in spite of envy. For forty years, by 
 the grace of heaven, 1 have filled that office with great honour. 
 I come now, sir, by your leave, to signify to you the execution of 
 a certain decree. 
 
 Or. What ! here 
 
 Loy. Sir, without any excitement, it is nothing but a summons 
 to remove from here, you and yours, to take out your goods, 
 without remission or delay, as it is necessary 
 
 Or. I ! go from here ? 
 
 Loy. Yes, sir, if you please. The house at present, as you 
 are perfectly aware, belongs to my good Mons. Tartuffe, without 
 dispute. He is lord and master of the estate from this time 
 forward, by virtue of a contract I have in my charge. It is in 
 due form, and incontestable. 
 
 Damis {to Loyal), Certainly this is great impudence, and I 
 marvel at it. 
 
 Loy. {to Damis). Sir, my business is not with you, but with 
 this gentleman {poititing to Orgon), who is mild and reasonable, 
 and knows the duty of an honest man too well to oppose the 
 law. 
 
 Or. But 
 
 Loy. Yes, sir, I know that a million would not tempt you to 
 rebel, and that, like an honourable gentleman, you will allow me 
 to execute the orders I have received. 
 
 Dam. It may chance, Mr. Sheriff's officer, that you may get 
 your coat dusted here. 
 
 Loy. {to Orgojt). Sir, I must ask you to make your son hold 
 his tongue or else withdraw. I should be very sorry to have to 
 write a declaration, and to find your name in it. 
 
 Dor. This Monsieur Loyal has a very disloyal sort of look 
 with him. 
 
 Loy. I feel very kindly towards all honest people, and 
 should not have taken the office of serving these writs except to 
 oblige you ; and thus to prevent another from being chosen who, 
 not having the same regard for you, might have proceeded in a 
 rougher manner. 
 
 Or. And what can be worse than to order people out of their 
 houses ? 
 
 Loy. Why, you are allowed time; and till to-morrow, sir, 
 I shall suspend the execution of the writ. I shall only come and 
 pass the night here, with ten of my men, without any noise or 
 scandal For form's sake, if you please, the keys of your door 
 
478 TARTUFFE. [Act V. 
 
 must be brought me, before you go to bed. I'll take care your 
 rest is not disturbed, and will allow nothing improper to be done. 
 But to-morrow morning you must be ready to clear the house of 
 everything, even the smallest utensil. My people shall help you 
 and I have chosen a set of strong fellows, that they may be of 
 more use to you in moving out. No one can use you better, in 
 my opinion, and as I am treating you with great indulgence, I beg 
 of you, sir, to act in the same manner, and give me no trouble 
 in anything. 
 
 Or. {aside). I'd give now, with all my heart, a hundred louis 
 of what I have left, to strike the soundest blow I could on your 
 muzzle. 
 
 Cle. (aside to Orgon). Leave off; don't make things worse. 
 
 Dam. This impudence is too great. I can hardly restrain 
 myself; I had best walk off. 
 
 Dor, With so broad a back, Mr. Loyal, some good blows 
 with a stick would do you no harm. 
 
 Loy. These scandalous words are punishable, and there's 
 law against women too. 
 
 CIL {to Loyal). Let us end this, sir ; it is enough. Give us 
 your paper, pray, and leave us. 
 
 Loy, Good-bye. Heaven bless you all together. 
 
 Or» And confound both you and him who sent you. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Orgon, Cli^ante, Mariane, Elmire, Madame Pernelle, 
 DoRiNE, Damis. 
 
 Orgon. Well, mother, you see whether I am right or not, and 
 you can judge of the rest by this writ. Do you perceive his 
 treachery at last ? 
 
 Mdme. Pernelle, I feel stunned, and as if I had fallen from 
 the clouds. 
 
 Dorine {to Orgon). You are complaining without reason, and 
 blame him wrongfully. This does but confirm his pious inten- 
 tions. His virtue is consummated in the love of his neighbour. 
 He knows that very often riches are the ruin of men, and out of 
 pure charity he would take from you everything that might hinder 
 your salvation. 
 
 .^% Mold your tongue. Must I always be repeating the same 
 
Scene V.] TARTUFFE. 479 
 
 Cleante {to Orgon). Come, let us consult what's best to be 
 done. 
 
 Elmire. Go and expose the audacity of the ungrateful wretch. 
 This proceeding invalidates the deed of gift : his perfidy must 
 needs appear too black for him to have the success we apprehend. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Valere, Orgon, Cleante, Elmire, Marian e, 
 
 Vallre. It is with regret, sir, that I come to afflict you ; but I 
 am forced to do so by the very imminence of the danger. A very 
 intimate friend of mine, who knows the interest I take in you and 
 in all that concerns you, has for my sake, by a most delicate 
 action, broken through the secrecy due to affairs of state, and has 
 just sent me notice, in consequence of which you must take 
 refuge in sudden flight. The rascal who has so long imposed on 
 you, about an hour ago thought fit to accuse you to your Prince, ^ 
 and to put into his hands (among other blows he aims at you), 
 the important casket of a state criminal, whose guilty secret, he 
 says, you have kept in contempt of your duty as a subject. I do 
 not know the detail of the crime of which you are accused, but a 
 warrant has been issued against your person, and he himself, for 
 greater certainty, is ordered to accompany the person appointed 
 to arrest you. 
 
 Cleante. Now we see his rights armed ; and this is how the 
 traitor seeks to make himself master of your estate. 
 
 Orgon. I must own that man is a wicked creature. 
 
 Val. The least delay may be fatal to you. I have my carriage 
 at the door, ready to take you off, with a thousand louis 
 which I here bring you. Don't let us lose any time ; the stroke 
 is terrible, and these blows are only parried by flight. I offer to 
 conduct you myself to a place of safety, and to accompany you in 
 your escape to the last. 
 
 Or. Ah ! what do I not owe to your obliging care ! I must 
 take another time to thank you, and I pray heaven to be so pro- 
 pitious to me that I may one day acknowledge this generous 
 service. Farewell ; and the rest of you take care 
 
 Cle. Go quickly. We will take care, brother, to do what is 
 necessary. 
 
48o TARTUFFE. [Act \ . 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Tartuffe, a Police-Officer, Valere, Orcon, Elmire, 
 Mariane. 
 
 Tartuffe {tak'mg hold of Orgon). Softl)^, sir, softly, don't run 
 so fast ; you sha'n't go far to finci a lodging. We make you a 
 prisoner in the King's name. 
 
 Orgon. Traitor ! you have kept this bolt to the last. It is the 
 stroke by which you desire to despatch me, and this crowns all 
 your perfidies. 
 
 Tar. Your abuse has no power to enrage me. Heaven has 
 taught me how to suffer everything in its cause. 
 
 Cleanie. His moderation is great, I must own. 
 
 Damis. How impudently the vagabond sports with heaven ! 
 
 Tar. All your raving can't move me. I think of nothing but 
 doing my duty. 
 
 Mariane. You have much glory to expect from this, and your 
 employment is most honourable. 
 
 Tar. An employment cannot but be honourable when it 
 comes from the power that sent me here. 
 
 Or. But do you remember, you ungrateful wretch, that my 
 charitable hand raised you from a miserable condition ? 
 
 Tar. Yes, I know what help I have received from you ; but 
 the interest of my Prince is my first duty, my first obligation, 
 which stifles in my heart any other claim of gratitude, and to so 
 powerful a tie I would sacrifice friend, wife, kindred, even myself. 
 
 Elmire. Listen to the hypocrite ! 
 
 Dorine. How artfully he knows the way to make a cloak of all 
 one holds sacred. 
 
 Cle. But if the zeal that urges you, and with which you cloak 
 yourself, is so perfect as you say, how did it not show itself till he 
 caught you in the act of making proposals to his wife? How 
 was it that you never thought of informing against him till his 
 honour obliged him to drive you out of his house ? I don't say 
 that his making all his property over to you as he did lately 
 should draw you from your duty ; but intending to treat him as a 
 criminal, why did you consent to take anything from him ? 
 
 Tar. {to the Police-Officer). I beg you, sir, to free me from all 
 this clatter, and be good enough to carry out your orders. 
 
 Police-Officer. Yes, no doubt I am waiting too long before 
 executing my orders, which you yourself desired me to carry out 
 at once. So I beg you to follow me immediately to the prison, 
 which we are going to give you for a dwelling-place. 
 
Scene VI.] TARTUFFE, 481 
 
 Tar. Who, i, sir? 
 
 Fol.-Of. Yes, you. 
 
 Tar. Why to prison, if you please ? 
 
 Pol.- Off. It is not to you that I must give an account of my 
 conduct. {To Orgoji.) But I beg you, sir, to compose yourself 
 after so great an alarm. We live under a Prince who is an enemy 
 to fraud, a Prince whose eyes can penetrate the heart, and whom 
 all the cleverness of impostors cannot deceive. His great soul 
 has a fine discernment, and he takes a right view of all things. 
 Nothing drives him into too great a transport, and his solid reason- 
 ing falls into no excess. He bestows on men of worth immortal 
 glory ; but he dispenses his favours without blindness, and his 
 love for them does not close his heart to the horror which the 
 false inspire. Even this person was not able to take him in, for 
 he can keep clear of the most subtle snares. By his acuteness he 
 soon pierced through all the baseness of his heart. Coming to 
 accuse you, he betrayed himself, and by a just stroke of Divine 
 justice he proved himself to be a most noted rogue, who had been 
 accused under another name. The detail of his black actions 
 would fill volumes. Our monarch, in short, detested his ingrati- 
 tude and disloyalty to you. To his other misdoings he has added 
 this, and he has only sent me to see how far his assurance would 
 carry him, and to compel him to give you full satisfaction. He 
 wishes further that I should strip the traitor of all the papers to 
 which he pretends to have a right, and give them to you. By his 
 sovereign power he dissolves the contract which gives him your 
 property, and he pardons the misdeed in which the flight of your 
 friend involved you ; and this reward he grants for the zeal which 
 you formerly showed in maintaining his rights. He desires to 
 show that his heart knows how to reward a good action, even 
 when least expected ; that merit with him is never lost, and that 
 he remembers the good much more than he does the evil. 
 
 Dor. May heaven be praised ! 
 
 Mdme. Pcrnelle. I breathe freely again. ' 
 
 El. All turns out for the best. 
 
 Mar. Who could have foreseen this ? 
 
 Or. (to Tartuffe, as the officer is taking him off). Well, traitor, 
 now you are 
 
 Cle. No, brother, stop, don't descend to indignities; leave 
 the wretch to his evil fate, and don't add to the remorse which 
 oppresses him. Rather wish that he may now return to virtue; 
 that he may reform, and hate his crimes, and may appease the 
 justice of a glorious Prince — for whose goodness you must 
 
 32 
 
482 TARTUFFE. [Act V. 
 
 go on your knees, to thank him for his kindly treatment of 
 you. 
 
 Or. Yes, that is well said. Let us gladly throw ourselves at 
 his royal feet, to praise the goodness which his heart displays to 
 us. And then, having acquitted ourselves of this first duty, we 
 must attend to another, and with Hymen's tenderest joy must 
 crown Valfere, the generous lover, and the sincere friend 
 
THE BLUE-STOCKINGS 
 
 {LES FEMMES SAVANTES). 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Chrysale, a citizen. 
 Philaminte, Chrysah's zuife. 
 Armande, \ daughters of Chry- 
 Henriette, j sale&^Phila7mnte. 
 Ariste, Chrysale" s brother. 
 Belise, Chrysale' s sister. 
 Clitandre, lover of Henriette. 
 
 Trissotin, a wit. 
 VadiUS, a savant. 
 Martine, a kitchenmaid. 
 L'Epine, a footmati. 
 JULIEN, servant of Vadius. 
 A Notary. 
 
 Scene— PARIS, in Ciirysale's House. 
 
 ACT I. Scene I. 
 Armande, Henriette. 
 
 Armande. What ! is the lovely name of maid a title, sister, 
 the charming sweetness of which you would abandon? Dare 
 you rejoice in the thought of marriage? Can this vulgar idea 
 enter your head ? 
 
 Henriette. Yes, sister. 
 
 Ar. Ah, can one support that ">w," or hear it without being 
 sick? 
 
 Hen. What has marriage in it that constrains you, sister — 
 
 Ar. Oh, good heavens, for shame ! 
 
 Hen. What's the matter ? 
 
 Ar. Oh, for shame, I tell you ! Don't you understand what 
 a disgusting idea such a word offers to one's imagination when- 
 ever one hears it ; what a strange notion it shocks one with ; to 
 ■what a disagreeable prospect it leads the mind ? Don't you shudder 
 at it ? And can you bring yourself to endure the consequences 
 of that word, sister ? 
 
 Hen. The consequences of that word, when I consider them, 
 bring before my eyes a husband, children, and a family. I see 
 nothing in these, if I am capable of speaking rationally on it, to 
 shock the mind or make one shudder. 
 
4^4 ^-^/^ BLUE-STOCKINGS, [Act I. 
 
 Ar. Oh, heavens ! can you be pleased with such attachments ? 
 
 Hen. And what can one do better at my age than bind a man 
 to one's self under the title of husband, who loves one and is 
 loved by one, and from this union of affection to secure the 
 delights of innocent life ? Has such a union, when well matched, 
 no charms ? 
 
 Ar. Good gracious ! What a grovelling mind is yours ! 
 What a mean part do you act in the world, to immure yourself 
 in family affairs, and not to find more sensible pleasures than an 
 idol of a husband and brats of children ! Leave the low 
 amusements of such affairs to gross creatures, to vulgar people. 
 Raise your desires to more lofty objects, endeavour to get a taste 
 for more noble pleasures, and, treating sense and matter with 
 contempt, give yourself up, like us, entirely to understanding. 
 You have our mother for an example before your eyes, who is 
 everywhere honoured with the title of a " learjied^^ woman. 
 Endeavour like me to show yourself her daughter ; aspire to the 
 intellect which is in the family, and appreciate the charming 
 pleasures which the love of study pours into the heart. Far from 
 being in servile bondage to the will of a man, wed philosophy, 
 sister, which raises you above all human kind, and gives the 
 sovereign empire to reason, subjecting to its laws the animal part, 
 the gross appetite of which debases us to the level of the beasts. 
 These are the delightful flames, the sweet attachments which 
 ought to occupy life ; and the cares which I see so many women 
 afflicted with, appear in my eyes most horrible meannesses. 
 
 Heti. Heaven, whose order we own to be almighty, forms us 
 at birth for diff'erent occupations, and every mind is not composed 
 of the stuff to make a philosopher. If yours is created for those 
 heights which the speculations of the learned mount to, mine is 
 made, sister, to crawl upon earth, and its weakness confines it to 
 trifling cares. Let us not upset the just regulations of heaven, 
 but follow the instigations of our several instincts. Do you by 
 the flight of a great and fine genius inhabit the lofty regions of 
 philosophy, whilst my imagination, keeping itself here below, 
 tastes the terrestrial delights of matrimony ; thus in our contrary 
 ways we shall both imitate our mother — you in your mind and 
 noble desires, I with regard to the senses and the commonplace 
 pleasures ; you in the productions of genius and light, I in those 
 of matter. 
 
 Ar. When we pretend to model ourselves on any one, it is 
 their best points that we ought to imitate, and it is not at all 
 taking her for a model, sister, merely to cough as she does. 
 
Scene II.] LES FEMMES SAV ANTES, 485 
 
 Hen. But you would not have been what you boast yourself 
 to be if my mother had had only these fine parts ; and it was well 
 for you, sister, that her genius did not always apply itself to 
 philosophy. Pray allow to me, out of kindness, that vulgarity to 
 which you owe the light; and don't, by desiring that I should 
 imitate you, suppress a little savant who might come into the 
 world. 
 
 Ar. I see your mind can't be cured of the foolish infatuation 
 to be married. But let us know, if you please, whom you think 
 of taking. Surely you're not aiming at Clitandre? 
 
 Hen, And why should I not ? Is he without merit ? Is it a 
 low choice ? 
 
 Ar. No, but it would be a very dishonourable plan to try and 
 take away another's conquest ; and it is not unknown in the world 
 that Clitandre has deeply sighed for me. 
 
 Hen. Yes, but all those sighs are vain things in your eyes, as 
 you don't condescend to human weaknesses. Your mind has 
 renounced matrimony for ever, and philosophy has all your 
 affection. So having no design in your heart upon Clitandre, 
 what does it concern you if another makes any pretensions to him ? 
 
 Ar. This empire that reason holds over the senses does not 
 make one renounce the sweets of praise ; and one may refuse a 
 man of merit for a husband whom one would willingly have in 
 the train of one's admirers. 
 
 Hen. I did not hinder him from continuing his devotion to 
 your perfections, I only accepted one who came to offer me the 
 homage of his love after you had refused him. 
 
 Ar. But do you think that entire confidence should be placed 
 in the vows of a disappointed lover? Do you believe his passion 
 for your charms can be so strong, and that love for me is quite 
 dead in his heart ? 
 
 Hen. He tells me so, sister, and for my part I believe him. 
 
 Ar. Don't have so strong a faith, sister ; but be assured that 
 when he says he quits me and loves you, he does not really mean 
 it, but deceives himself. 
 
 Hen. I don't know ; but in short, if you like, it is very easy for 
 us to learn the truth of the matter. I see him coming, and he 
 can thoroughly enlighten us about it. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Clitandre, Armande, Henriette. 
 Jlenriette, To free me from a doubt which my sister has 
 
486 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS. [AcT I. 
 
 plunged me in, pray, Clitandre, explain your feelings as between 
 her and myself. Lay open your heart, and be so good as to let 
 us know which of us may rightly lay claim to your addresses. 
 
 Armaiide. No, no, I will not impose on your passion the 
 hardship of an explanation. I spare people, and I know how 
 embarrassing such an open confession must be. 
 
 Clitandre. No, my heart, which seldom dissembles, feels no 
 constraint in making a free avowal ; such a step does not cause 
 me any embarrassment, and I own openly, with a frank and clear 
 heart, that the tender cords with which I am bound {pointing to 
 Henriette), my love, and my devotion are all on this side. Do 
 not let this avowal cause you any emotion; you desired that 
 things should be so. Your attractions caught me, and my tender 
 sighs sufficiently proved to you the warmth of my desires. My 
 heart vowed an eternal attachment to you, but your eyes did not 
 think their conquest great enough. I suffered a hundred different 
 slights under their yoke. They reigned like proud tyrants over 
 ray heart, till, tired with so much torment, I sought more humane 
 conquerors and chains less cruel. {Pointing to Henridte.) I 
 have found them, madame, in these eyes, and their attractions 
 will always be precious to me. With one compassionate look 
 they dried up my tears, and did not disdain your cast-off lover. 
 Such rare kindness touched me so deeply, that nothing can ever 
 deliver me. from my bonds; and now I make bold, madame, to 
 implore you not to seek to win my love back again, nor ever 
 endeavour to recall a heart resolved to die in this soft warmth 
 of love. 
 
 Ar. Good gracious, sir'! who told you that I had such a 
 desire, or, in short, cared so much for you ? I think you're 
 ridiculous to suppose it, and very impertinent to tell me so. 
 
 Ife?i. Oh, gently, sister. Where, then, is the moral sense 
 which knows so well how to control the animal parts, and to bridle 
 outbreaks of rage ? 
 
 Ar. But how do you, who talk to me of it, practise it yourself 
 in answering a declaration of love made without the leave of your 
 parents ? You must know duty subjects you to their rule, that 
 you are only permitted to love according to their choice, that they 
 have a supreme authority over your heart, and you have no right 
 to dispose of it yourself. 
 
 Hen. I thank you for your kindness in teaching me so well 
 what belongs to my duty; my heart will regulate its conduct by 
 your instructions, and to show you, sister, that I profit by them, 
 take care, Clitandre, to support your love by the concurrence 
 
Scene III.] LES FEMMES SA VANTES. 487 
 
 of my parents. Obtain a lawful power over my affections, and 
 enable me to love you without doing wrong. 
 
 Ch\ I'll go and employ all my efforts to obtain it, as I only 
 waited this kind permission from you. 
 
 Ar, You triumph, sister, and look as if you thought this 
 vexed me. 
 
 Nen. I, sister ? Not at all ; I know very well that the 
 dictates of reason always have the mastery over your senses, and 
 that, through the lessons of wisdom which you learn, you are 
 above such weakness. So far from suspecting you of being vexed, 
 I believe that you'll deign to employ your interest for me, to 
 second his request, and, by your approval, to hasten the happy 
 moment of our marriage. I beg it of you, and to work for it 
 
 Ar. Your small mind sets up to jest; you seem very proud 
 of a heart one throws away to you. 
 
 Hen. Thrown away as the heart may be, you don't much 
 dislike it, and if by a look you could pick it up from me, you'd 
 readily take the pains to stoop for it. 
 
 Ar. I won't condescend to answer that, and these are foolish 
 speeches I ought not to listen to. 
 
 Hen. That's very well done of you, and you show inconceiv- 
 able moderation, 
 
 Scene III, 
 
 Clitandre, Henriette. 
 
 Henrtetie. Your sincere confession has not a little surprised her. 
 
 Clitandre. She well deserves such plain-speaking, and all the 
 haughtiness of her proud folly at least deserves my straightfor- 
 wardness. But since I have your permission, madame, I am 
 going to your father. 
 
 Hen, The surest way is to gain my mother. My father is of 
 a nature that will consent to everything ; but he does not attach 
 much importance to what he resolves on. Heaven has given him 
 a certain gentleness which makes him submit at once to whatever 
 his wife wills. It is she who governs, and with absolute authority 
 lays down as law whatever she has resolved on. I could heartily 
 wish, I must own, that you were a little more complaisant to 
 her and my aunt, and that by yielding to their fancies you might 
 win their warm regard. 
 
 Cli. My heart is naturally so sincere that it could never flatter 
 their character, even in your sister. These female philosophers 
 are not to my taste. I allow that a woman should have a certain 
 knowledge of everything, but I would not have her indulge in the 
 
488 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS, [Act I. 
 
 monstrous desire to make herself learned for the sake of being 
 learned. I would like her often to appear ignorant of things that 
 she knows, when questions are put to her. I would have her hide 
 her studies, and possess knowledge without letting all the world 
 know it ; without quoting authors, without using big words, and 
 showing off her wit on the slightest occasion. I have a great 
 respect for your mother, but I cannot approve of her chimerical 
 notions, and echo all the incense she offers to her hero of wit. 
 Her Mons. Trissotin vexes and enrages me, and I'm wild to see 
 her esteem such a man, and to place in the rank of great and fine 
 geniuses a blockhead whose writings are condemned ever)' where ; 
 a pedant whose facile pen furnishes waste paper to the whole 
 market. 
 
 Jlein. His writings and conversation are in my opinion both 
 very tiresome, and I find myself quite in accord with your taste 
 and ideas ; but since he has great influence over my mother, you 
 ought to force yourself to tolerate him to some extent. A lover 
 pays his court where his heart is engaged, and to that end would 
 willingly gain everybody's favour ; and in order to have no one 
 opposing his love, he compels himself to please even the very 
 house-dog. 
 
 Cli Yes, you are right ; but Mons. Trissotin inspires my soul 
 with an overwhelming dislike. I cannot consent to dishonour 
 myself by praising his works, in order to gain his approbation. It 
 is by them that he first attracted my notice, and I knew him 
 before I had seen him. I perceive in the trash of thoae writings 
 what his personal pedantry everywhere displays : his constant 
 haughty presumption ; his invincible good opinion of himself ; his 
 indolent assurance which renders him always so satisfied with 
 himself; which makes him incessantly smile at his own merit; 
 which keeps him in such good-humour with everything he writes, 
 that he would not change his renown for all the honours of a 
 commander-in-chief. 
 
 Hen. You must have good eyes to see all this. 
 
 Cli. Nay ; it went further, even to his very figure. I saw by 
 the verses he throws at our heads what must be the air of the 
 poet ; and I so well guessed every point about him, that, meeting 
 a man^ one day in the Law Courts, I made a bet that it was 
 Trissotin, and I was right. 
 
 Hen. What a story ! 
 
 Cli. No. I tell it just as it happened. But I see your aunt; 
 allow me to tell her our secret now, and bespeak her good offices 
 in our behalf with your mother. 
 
Scene IV.] LES FEMMES SA VANTES. 4S9 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Belise, Clitandre. 
 
 Clita?idre. Permit a lover, madame, to take this happy moment 
 to speak to you, and to declare to you the sincere devotion 
 
 Bcltse. Ah ! gently, take care not to open your heart too much 
 to me. If I have placed you in the ranks of my lovers, be con- 
 tent that your eyes be my only interpreters, and don't explain to 
 me by any other language desires which I could only look upon 
 as an affront. If you will, love me, sigh, burn for my charms, 
 but you must allow me to be ignorant of it. I can shut my eyes 
 to your secret ardours, so long as you keep yourself to dumb 
 interpreters; but if the mouth dares to interfere, I must banish 
 you for ever from my sight. 
 
 Cli. Take no alarm, madame, at my intentions. Henriette is 
 the object which charms me ; and I ardently implore your good- 
 ness to second the love which I have for her beauty. 
 
 Bel. Ah ! I own this is a very witty turn. This clever 
 evasion deserves to be praised, and in all the romances I ever 
 read, I never met with anything more ingenious. 
 
 Cli. This is no stroke of wit, madame, but a pure confession 
 of what I have in my breast. Heaven has bound my heart to 
 Henriette's by ties of a changeless affection ; Henriette holds me 
 in her amiable sway, and to marry her is the happiness I aspire to. 
 You can do a great deal in the matter, and all I desire is that you 
 would condescend to favour my addresses. 
 
 Bel. I see what this demand would gently aim at, and I know 
 what to understand by that name. The figure of speech is 
 clever, and not to depart from it to answer you according to what 
 my heart offers, I must tell you that Henriette rebels against 
 matrimony, and that you must burn for her without expecting any- 
 thing more. 
 
 Cli. Ah, madame, of what use is this confusion, and why will 
 you fancy what does not exist ? 
 
 Bel. Good heavens ! no ceremony. Leave oft* denying what 
 your looks have so often given me to understand. It is enough 
 that we are content with the turn which your love has artfully 
 conceived, and that, under the form to which respect compels us, 
 we will gladly resolve to accept of its homage, provided that its 
 transports, illumined by honour, offer only pure vows at my altar. 
 
 Cli. But 
 
 Bel. Farewell. This ought to satisfy you for this tim?, ^nd 
 I have said more than I wished. 
 
49^ 
 
 THE BLUE^-STOCKJNGS. [Act II. 
 
 Clt. But your mistake 
 
 £el. Enough. I'm blushing now, and my modesty has en- 
 dured a surprising attack. 
 
 Clt. I'll be hanged if I love you, and wise 
 
 £eL No, no ! I'll hear nothing more. ' [Exit. 
 
 Clt. (alone). Deuce take the fool with her fancies ! Did any 
 one ever see anything like her prepossessions ? I'll go and find 
 some one else to undertake this business, and seek the assistance 
 of some wiser person. 
 
 ACT II. Scene I. 
 
 Ariste {leaving Clitandre, but co7itinuing to speak to khn). 
 
 Ariste. Yes, I'll bring you the answer presently. I'll insist, I'll 
 press, I'll do all that is needed. How much a lover has to say 
 just for one word ! and how impatient he is for v.'hat he desires. 
 Never 
 
 Scene II. 
 Chrysale, Ariste. 
 
 Ariste. God bless you, brother. 
 
 Chrysale. And you too, brother. 
 
 Aris. Do you know what brings me here ? 
 
 Chr. No ; but I'm ready to learn it, if you will. 
 
 Aris. You have known Clitandre for some time past ? , 
 
 Chr. Undoubtedly ; and he comes often to our house. 
 
 Aris. And how do you esteem him ? 
 
 Chr, As a man of honour, wit, courage and conduct. I know 
 very few people of equal merit. 
 
 Aris. A certain desire of his brought me here, and I rejoice 
 that you esteem him highly. 
 
 Chr. I was acquainted with his late father in my journey to 
 Rome. 
 
 Aris. That's very well. 
 
 Chr. He was, brother, a very excellent gentleman. 
 
 Aris. So they say. 
 
 Clir. We were then only twenty-eight years old, and indeed 
 we were a couple of lively young fellows. 
 
 Aris. I quite believe it. 
 
 Chr. We had fine times with the Roman ladies, and every one 
 talked of our goings on. We made some people jealous. 
 
Scene III.] lES FEMMES SAVANTES. 491 
 
 Arts. That was well enough ; but let's come to the matter 
 that brought me here. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Belise (etiiering softly and lisic7iiiig), Chrysale, Ariste. 
 
 Ariste, Clitandre makes me his messenger to you ; his heart 
 is smitten with Henriette's charms. 
 
 Chrysale. What, m)' daughter ? 
 
 Aris. Yes. Clitandre is enamoured with her, and I never saw 
 a more devoted lover. 
 
 Belise {to Ariste). No, no ! I hear you. You don't know the 
 story. The affair is not what you suppose. 
 
 Aris, What, sister ? 
 
 Bel, Clitandre deceives you both. His heart is smitten with 
 another object. 
 
 Aris. You jest ! What, is it not Henriette that he's in love with ? 
 
 Bel. No ; I'm sure it's not. 
 
 Aris. He told it me himself. 
 
 Bel. Ay, ay ! 
 
 Aris. You see me here, sister, commissioned by him to ask her 
 from her father this very day. 
 
 BeL Very well. 
 
 Aris, And his love made him urge strongly that I should 
 hasten the time for such an alliance. 
 
 Bel. Better still. Nobody could have made use of a more 
 gallant description. Henriette, between ourselves, is a deception, 
 an ingenious cloak, a pretext, brother, to cover another flame of 
 which I know, and I'm anxious to undeceive you both, 
 
 Aris. But since you know so much, sister, pray tell us who is 
 this other object he loves. 
 
 Bel. You wish to know it ? Aris. Yes. Whom ? 
 
 Bel. It is I. Aris. You ? 
 
 Bel. Yes ; I myself. Aris. Ah, sister ! 
 
 Bel. What does that " Ah " mean ? And what is there sur- 
 prising in what I say ? I have sufficient attractions, I think, to 
 be able to say that I have not one heart only in subjection to my 
 empire ; and Dorante, Damis, Cleonte, and Licide plainly show 
 that I have some charms. 
 
 Aris, These men love you? 
 
 Bel. Yes, with all their hearts. 
 
 Aris. Have they ever told you so ? 
 
 Bel. No one ever took that liberty; they have hitherto so 
 
492 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS, [Act II. 
 
 much revered me that they have never said a word to me of their 
 love ; but the dumb interpreters have all done their duty in offering 
 me their hearts and devoting their service to me. 
 
 Aris, Why, Damis is seldom or never here. 
 
 Btl. That's to show me a more submissive respect. 
 
 Aris. Dorante is always affronting you with satirical speeches. 
 
 Bel. Those are the transports of a jealous rage. 
 
 Aris. Cleonte and Lycidas have both of them taken wives. 
 
 Bel. That was done through a despair to which I had 
 reduced their love. 
 
 Aris. In truth, my dear sister, all this is entirely imagination. 
 
 Chr. {to Belise). You ought to lay aside these idle fancies. 
 
 Bel. Ah, idle fancies ! So these are what you call fancies ! 
 Idle fancies, I ! Very good idle fancies ! I amuse myself greatly 
 with fancies, brothers; I was not aware that I had any idle 
 fancies. 
 
 Scene IV. '-* 
 
 Chrysale, Ariste. 
 
 Chrysale. Our sister is mad, surely ! 
 
 Ariste. This grows upon her every day. But let us resume 
 our conversation. Clitandre asks Henriette of you in marriage. 
 Consider what answer you should make to his request. 
 
 Chr. Need you ask ? I consent to it with all my heart, and 
 consider his alliance a singular honour. 
 
 Aris. You know that he has not great wealth, that 
 
 Chr. That's of no great consequence; he is rich in virtue, 
 and that is worth treasures. And besides, his father and I were 
 but one soul in two bodies. 
 
 Aris. Let us speak to your wife, and persuade her 
 
 Chr. It's enough ; I accept him for a son-in-law. 
 
 Aris. Yes, but to support your consent, brother, it is not amiss 
 to have her cordial consent. Come 
 
 Chr. You are jesting. It is not necessary. I will answer 
 for my wife, and will take the affair on m.yself. 
 
 Aris. But 
 
 Chr. Let me alone, I say, and don't fear. I'll go at once and 
 make all right. 
 
 Aris. Good ! I'll go and sound Henriette on the matter, and 
 will return to know 
 
 Chr. The matter's settled, and I'll go to my wife to talk X<i 
 her of it without delay. 
 
Scene VI.] LES FEMMES SAVANTES, 493 
 
 Scene V. 
 Chrysale, Martine. 
 
 Martine. I'm very unlucky. Alas, that's a true saying, If you 
 want to drown a dog, say he is mad. Another's service is no 
 inheritance. 
 
 Chrysale. What's the matter, Martine ? What ails you ? 
 
 Mar. What ails me ? 
 
 Chr. Yes. 
 
 Mar. What ails me is that I'm turned off to-day, sir. 
 
 Chr. Turned off? 
 
 Mar. Yes. Madame has turned me away. 
 
 Chr. I don't understand that. How is it ? 
 
 Mar. They threaten me with a sound beating, if I don't go 
 away. 
 
 Chr. No, you shall stay. I am satisfied with you ; my wife is 
 often a little hot-headed ; and I will not 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Philaminte, B^lise, Chrysale, Martine. 
 
 Philaminte {seeing Martine). What! do I see you, you hussy? 
 Quick, be off, you jade ; go, leave this place and never come into 
 my sight again ! 
 
 Chrysale. Gently. 
 
 Fhi. No, there's an end of it. 
 
 Chr. Eh ? 
 
 Phi. I'll have her gone. 
 
 Chr. But what has she done, that you choose to act in this 
 manner 
 
 Phi. What, do you uphold her ? 
 
 Chr. By no means. 
 
 Phi. Do you take her part against me ? 
 
 Chr. Good gracious me! No \ I only ask what her crime is. 
 
 Phi. Am I one to turn her away without just cause ? 
 
 Chr. I don't say that; but we must, with regard to our 
 servants 
 
 Phi. No, but I tell you she shall go out of our house. 
 
 Chr. Well, yes. Does any one say anything to you to the 
 contrary ? 
 
 Phi. I'll have no resistance to my desires. 
 
 Chr. We're agreed. 
 
494 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS, [Act 11. 
 
 Fhi. And, if you were a reasonable husband, you would take 
 my part against her, and join in my anger. 
 
 Chr. {tuniing towards Martine). So I do. Yes, my \yife is 
 quite right in sending you away, you hussy, and your crime is 
 unworthy of pardon. 
 
 Mar, What is it that I have done then? 
 
 Chr, (aside). Indeed I don't know. 
 
 Phi. She's in a temper still to make very light of it. 
 
 Chr. Has she incurred your displeasure by breaking a looking- 
 glass or some china ? 
 
 Fhi, Do you suppose I should turn her away or put myself in 
 a passion for so small a matter ? 
 
 Chr. {to Martine). What does this mean? {To Philaminie.) 
 It's something serious then ? 
 
 Phi. Undoubtedly. Am I an unreasonable woman ? 
 
 Chr. Has she through carelessness allowed some silver ewer 
 or dish to be stolen ? 
 
 Phi, Oh, that would be nothing. 
 
 Chr. {to Martine). Oh, oh ! Plague on you, you hussy ! {To 
 Philamifite.) What, have you surprised her in some dishonesty ? 
 
 Phi. Worse than all that. 
 
 Chr, Worse than all that ? 
 
 Phi, Worse. 
 
 Chr. {to Martine). What the deuce ? The wretch ! {To Phi- 
 la minte.) What, has she committed 
 
 Phi. She has, with unparalleled insolence, after thirty lessons 
 about it, insulted my ear with the impropriety of a vulgar, rough 
 word which Vaugelas decisively condemns. 
 
 Chr. Is that 
 
 Phi. What ! In spite of my remonstrances, continually to 
 strike at the foundation of all the sciences — grammar, which even 
 rules over kings, and with a high hand makes them obey its 
 laws ! 
 
 Chr. I thought she had been guilty of a much greater offence. 
 
 Phi. What, don't you think this crime unpardonable ? 
 
 Chr. Yes, indeed. 
 
 Phi. I very much wish you'd excuse her. 
 
 Chr. I'll take care not to. 
 
 Belise. It certainly is a pity. All the principles of construction 
 are destroyed by her, yet she has been instructed in the laws of 
 language a hundred times. 
 
 Mar. All you preach is fine and good, I believe, but I can't 
 talk your jargon, not I. 
 
Scene VI.] LES FEMMES SAVANTES. 495 
 
 ■ Phi. Oh, impudence ! to call language founded on reason, 
 and )3olite custom, jargon. ^^ 
 
 Mar. One always speaks well when one makes oneself under- 
 stood, and all your fine terms are not of no use. 
 
 Phi. There now. She keeps to her own style still, ''^ are not of 
 no nse^^ 
 
 Bel. Oh, untcachable animal ! Shall we never be able to teach 
 you to speak suitably, with all the pains we incessantly take ? Not 
 put w^ith No^ makes a recidivation, and it is, as I have told you, 
 one negative too much. 
 
 Mar. Good gracious I I aren't no scollard like you. I speaks 
 just as they do in our parts. 
 
 Phi, Now, can this be endured ? 
 
 Pel. What a dreadful solecism ! 
 
 Phi. It is enough to destroy any sensitive ear. 
 
 Bel. Your mind, I must own, is very dense, /is singular, are 
 is plural. Will you go on all your life offending grammar in this 
 way? 
 
 Mar, Who talks of offending Gammer or Gaffer ? 
 
 Phi. Oh, heavens ! 
 
 Bel. You take grammar in a wrong sense. I have already told 
 you where the word comes from. 
 
 Mar, I don't care whether it comes from Pontoise, Mantes, or 
 Versailles, it's all the same to me. 
 
 Bel. What a country clod, to be sure ! Grammar teaches us 
 the rules of the Nominative case, and the Verb, as well as of the 
 Adjective and Substantive. 
 
 Mar. I must tell you, madame, I don't know those people. 
 
 Phi, What a martyrdom ! 
 
 Bel. These are the names of words, and you ought to take 
 notice how they ought to agree with each other. 
 
 Alar. What does it matter, whether they agree with each 
 other or quarrel ? 
 
 Phi. {to Belise). Oh, heavens ! let us put an end to this style 
 of conversation. {To Chrysale.) Won't you send her away from 
 me then ? 
 
 Chr. Yes, yes. {Aside.) I must yield to her fancies. Go, 
 and don't provoke her, Martine ; leave us. 
 
 Phi. What ! you are afraid of offending the hussy ? You 
 speak in a very obliging tone. 
 
 Chr, I ? not at all. {Roughly.) Go, be gone ! {More mildly.) 
 Go away, my poor girL 
 
496 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS. [Act II. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Philaminte, Chrysale, Belise. 
 
 Chrysale. You are satisfied, I hope, now she's gone; but I 
 don't approve of her going in this manner. She's a girl fit for her 
 work, and you turn her out of my house for a trifling cause. 
 
 Phi. Would you have me keep her ahvays in my service, to 
 torture my ears incessantly? To break every law of custom 
 and reason, by a barbarous mass of faulty language, of lame ex- 
 pressions, mixed at times with sayings picked up from the mj^rket' 
 gutters. 
 
 Belise. It is true that it throws one into a perspiration to hear • 
 her talk. She pulls Vaugelas to pieces every day, and the least 
 blunders of her gross ignorance, are either pleonasm or caco- 
 phony. 
 
 Chr. What does it matter if she fails in the laws of Vaugelas, 
 so long as she does not fail in the kitchen ? For my part, I had 
 much rather that in picking her herbs she made the nouns and the 
 verbs agree wrongly and repeated some outrageous word a hun- 
 dred times, than have her burn my meat or oversalt my broth. I 
 live by good soup, and not by fine language. Vaugelas does not 
 teach how to make good soup ; and Malherbe and Balzac, so 
 learned in fine words, would possibly have been fools in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 Phi. How terribly this gross conversation shocks me. And 
 how unworthy it is of any one who calls himself a man, to be con- 
 tinually bent on material cares, instead of raising himself towards 
 spiritual ones. Is this body, this rag, of sufficient importance or 
 value to deserve a single thought ? And ought w^e not to leave 
 that far behind ? 
 
 Chr. Ay, but my body is myself, and I'll take care of it. A 
 rag, if you please, but my rag is dear to me. 
 
 Bel. The body, together with the mind, brother, makes a 
 figure ; but if you believe all the learned world in the case, the 
 mind ought to have precedence over the body, and our greatest 
 care, our first concern, should be to feed it with the juice of 
 science. 
 
 Chr. In truth, if you think of feeding your mind, it's with 
 very airy food, according to what every one says, and you have no 
 care, no solicitude for 
 
 Phi. Ah, the word soHcitude seems rough to my ear ; it sounds 
 strangely of antiquity. 
 
 Bel. It is true the word is of high date. 
 
Scene VII.] LES FEMMES SA VANTES. 497 
 
 , Chr. Will you let me speak ? I must be plain, pull off the 
 mask, and discharge my spleen. People call you mad, and I'm 
 
 heartily troubled 
 
 Phi. How now ? 
 
 Chr, {to Belise). It is to you that I'm speaking, sister. The 
 least solecism in speech provokes you, but you make strange ones 
 yourself in conduct. Your eternal books don't please me, and 
 except a big Plutarch that I put my bands in, you ought to burn 
 all this useless lumber, and leave science to the learned men of 
 the city ; and to be in the right, you should remove from the 
 garret upstairs that long spyglass which is enough to frighten 
 people, and a hundred trifles the sight of which is offensive. It 
 would be better not to trouble about what is being done in the 
 moon, but to look a little after what is being done in your house, 
 where everything is topsy-turvy. It is not right, for a great many 
 reasons, that a wife should study and know so much. To form 
 the minds of her children to good manners, to make her house- 
 hold go well, to have an eye over her servants, and to regulate 
 her expenditure with economy, ought to be her study and philo- 
 sophy. Our fathers were very sensible on this point when they 
 said that a wife always knew enough when her genius raised her 
 to distinguish between a doublet and a pair of breeches. Their 
 wives did not read, but they lived well ; their households were all 
 their learned discourse, and their books a thimble, thread, and 
 needles, with which they worked at their daughters' wedding out- 
 fits. But the women of this age are far from such manners ; they 
 must write and turn authors. No science is too profound for 
 them ; and in my house more than in any other place, the pro- 
 foundest secrets are conceived, and everything is known but what 
 ought to be known. They know the motions of the moon, the 
 polar star, Venus, Saturn, and Mars, which do not concern me, 
 and with all this vain knowledge which they go so far to look for, 
 they do not know how my dinner is being cooked, which I need. 
 My servants, too, aspire after learning in order to please you, and 
 they do nothing less than what they ought to do. Reasoning is 
 the business of all the house, and reasoning drives reason out of it. 
 One burns the joint while she reads some history, another is spout- 
 ing poetry when I want something to drink. In short, I perceive 
 they follow your example, andr though I have servants I am not 
 served. One poor girl remained to me, the only one who was not 
 infected with these senseless airs, and she's dismissed with a great 
 outcry, because she does not speak according to Vaugelas. I tell 
 you, sister, for it is to you, as I said, that I address myself, all this 
 
 33 
 
498 . THE BLUE-STOCKINGS, [Act II. 
 
 way of going on displeases me. I don't like all your Latin scholars 
 coming to my house, and specially this Monsieur Trissotin. He 
 It was who lampooned you in verse, and his discourses are foolish 
 trash. After he has spoken, one asks what it has all been about, 
 and for my part I believe that he's got a tile loose. 
 
 Phi. Good heavens, what meanness both of soul and lan- 
 guage ! 
 
 Bel. Can there be a duller assemblage of corpuscles? or a 
 mind composed of more vulgar atoms ? Is it possible that I'm 
 of the same blood ? I hate myself for being of your race, and I 
 leave the place in confusion. 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 Philaminte, Chrysale. 
 
 Fhilammte. Have you still another arrow to shoot ? 
 
 Chrysale. I? No. Let us have no more dispute; that's 
 ended. Let us talk of another matter. As for your eldest 
 daughter, one can see her dislike to the ties of marriage ; in short, 
 she's a philosopher, and I say nothing more of her ; she's well 
 managed, and you do very right. But her younger sister is quite 
 of another disposition, and I believe it will be well to provide 
 Henriette with a husband. 
 
 Phi. That is what I have been thinking about, and I will tell 
 you what my intention is. This Monsieur Trissotin, who is thrown 
 in our teeth, and who has not the honour to meet with your 
 approbation, is the person who I think will prove a suitable 
 husband for her ; and I know better than you how to judge of his 
 merit. Dispute in the matter is needless, as I have fully made up 
 my mind. At least, don't say a word about this choice of a 
 husband, as I wish to speak to your daughter about it before you. 
 I have reasons which will make my conduct approved of, and I 
 shall know very well if you have been instructing her. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 Ariste, Chrysale. 
 
 Ariste. Well? Your wife's gone, brother, and I see that you 
 have just been having some conversation together. 
 
 Chrysale. Yes. 
 
 Aris. With what success? iShall we have Henriette? Has- 
 she consented? Is the business done? 
 
 Chr. Not quite yet. 
 
Scene IX.] LES FEMMES SA VANTES. 499 
 
 jiris. Does she refuse ? 
 
 C/ir. No. 
 
 Aris. Does she hesitate ? 
 
 Chr. Not at all. 
 
 Aris. What then ? 
 
 Chr, She offers me another man for a son-in-law. 
 
 Aris. Another man for a son-in-law ? 
 
 Chr. Another. 
 
 Aris. What's his name ? 
 
 Chr. Monsieur Trissotin. 
 
 Aris. What ! that Monsieur Trissotin 
 
 Chr. Yes, who's always talking Latin and poetry. 
 
 Aris. Have you accepted him ? 
 
 Chr. I ? No. Heaven forbid. 
 
 Aris. What answer did you make ? 
 
 Chr. None. And I am very glad I did not speak, so as not 
 to commit myself. 
 
 Aris. That's a very fine reason, and you've taken a grand step. 
 However, did you at least propose Clitandre to her? 
 
 Chr. No ; for, finding she was talking of another son-in-law, 
 I thought it better not to make any advances. 
 
 Aris. Certainly your prudence is to the last degree extra- 
 ordinary. Are you not ashamed of such effeminacy? Is it 
 possible a man can be so weak as to let his wife have absolute 
 power, and not dare to oppose what she has resolved on ? 
 
 Chr. Good heavens, brother, you talk in a very off-hand way, 
 and don't know how noise depresses me ! I love repose, peace, 
 and tranquillity very much, and my wife has a terrible temper; 
 she makes a great fuss about the name of philosopher, but she is 
 none the less passionate for that ; and her morality, which despises 
 wealth, has no effect in lessening the sharpness of her anger. At 
 the slightest opposition to what comes into her head we have a 
 terrible storm for a week. She makes me tremble whenever she 
 takes that tone. She's such a perfect dragon, that I don't know 
 where to hide myself, and yet with all her devilish temper, I'm 
 obliged to call her My Heart, and My Love. 
 
 Aris. Come, this is joking. Between us, your wife is, through 
 your cowardice, absolute mistress over you. Her power is based 
 upon nothing but your weakness. It is from you that she takes 
 the title of mistress. You give yourself up to her haughty com- 
 mand, and allow yourself to be led by the nose like an ass. 
 What 1 can't you for once resolve to be a man — seeing you are 
 •called one — and make a wife yield to your wishes, and take heart 
 
50O THE BLUESTOCKINGS. [Act III. 
 
 to say, " I will have it so." Can you, without shame, let your 
 daughter be sacrificed to the foolish visions your family are 
 possessed with, and invest an idiot with all your wealth for six 
 words of Latin, which he extols to them ? A pedant whom your 
 wife comphments at every turn as a wit and a great philosopher, 
 a man unequalled for polite verses, when every one knows he's 
 nothing of the kind. Come, come, once more, the whole thing's 
 a jest, and your cowardice deserves to be laughed at. 
 
 Chr. You are right, and I find that I am in the wrong. 
 Come now, brother, I'll show a stouter heart. 
 
 Aris, That's well said. 
 
 Chr, It's a disgraceful thing to be so subject to the power of 
 a wife. 
 
 Aris. Very well. 
 
 Chr. She has gained too much by my mildness. 
 
 Arts. True. 
 
 Chr. Has played too much on my easy disposition. 
 
 Aris. Certainly. 
 
 Chr. And I'll show her this very day that my daughter is my 
 daughter, and that I am her master, and will choose a husband 
 for her who shall be after my mind. 
 
 Aris. Now you are reasonable, and as I would have you. 
 
 Chr. You are all for Clitandre, brother, and know where he 
 lives. Bring him to me at once. 
 
 Aris. I'll run and do it at once. 
 
 Chr. I've put up with it too long. I mean now to be a man 
 in the face of the world. 
 
 ACT III. Scene I. 
 
 Philaminte, Armande, Belise, Trissotin, L'Epine. 
 
 Philaminte. Ah, let us sit down here, to hear at our ease these 
 verses, which should be weighed word by word. 
 Ar?nmide. I'm dying to hear them. 
 Belise. And so are we. 
 
 I^hi. {to Trissoti?i). Whatever comes from you charms me. 
 Ar. To me it is an unparalleled pleasure. 
 JUL It is a delicious repast to my ear. 
 Phi. Don't make us languish under such pressing desires, 
 Ar. Pray make haste. 
 J3eL Be quick, and hasten our pleasure. 
 Phi. GfiFer your epigram to our impatience. 
 
Scene II.] LES FEMMES SA VANTES. 501 
 
 Trissotin {to Philaminte). Ah, madame, it is quite ^ new-born 
 babe. Its fate certainly ought to touch you, for it was in your 
 court-yard that I brought it forth. 
 
 Fhi. Its father is sufficient to make it dear to me. 
 
 Tris. Your approbation may serve it for a mother. 
 
 Bel. How witty he is ! 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Henriette, Philaminte, Armande, Belise, Trissotin, 
 
 L'fepiNE. 
 
 Philaminte {to Henriette^ who is going away). Ho, Henrielte 1 
 are you running away again ? 
 
 Henriette. It is for fear of disturbing so sweet a conversation. 
 
 Phi. Come near, and come, all attention, to share the pleasure 
 of hearing wonders. 
 
 Hen. I know very little about literary beauties, and matters of 
 genius are not in my province. 
 
 Phi. No matter. I have a secret besides to tell you after- 
 wards, which it is necessary you should know. 
 
 Trissotin (to Henriette). The sciences have nothing in them 
 to inflame you ; you only pique yourself on how to charm. 
 
 He7i. One as little as the other, and I have no desire — — • 
 
 Bel. Come,^ let us think of the new-born babe, pray. 
 
 Phi. {to IJEpine). Now, boy, make haste and bring us chair3. 
 {LEpine falls down) Look at the clumsy fellow. Ought you to 
 fall after having learned the equilibrium of things ? 
 
 Bel. Don't you see, you stupid boy, what caused your fall ? 
 It came from your deviating from the fixed point, which we call 
 the centre of gravity. 
 
 JJEpine. I perceived that, madame, when I was on the ground. 
 
 Phi. {to EEpi7ie^ who goes out). What a booby. 
 
 Tris. Lucky for him he wasn't made of glass. 
 
 Ar. Ah ! wit for ever. 
 
 Bel. That's never dried up. 
 
 Phi. {all sit doivn). Serve us up your delightful repast as 
 quickly as possible. 
 
 Tris. To satisfy such hunger as you show me, a course of only 
 eight verses seems to me little enough, and I think I should not 
 do wrong if I added to the epigram, or rather madrigal, the relish 
 of a sonnet in which a certain princess found some delicacy of 
 taste. It is seasoned with Attic salt throughout, and you'll find it, 
 I think, in very good taste. 
 
500 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS. [Act III. 
 
 to say, " I will have it so." Can you, without shame, let your 
 daughter be sacrificed to the fooHsh visions your family are 
 possessed with, and invest an idiot with all your wealth for six 
 words of Latin, which he extols to them ? A pedant whom your 
 wife comphments at every turn as a wit and a great philosopher, 
 a man unequalled for polite verses, when every one knows he's 
 nothing of the kind. Come, come, once more, the whole thing's 
 a jest, and your cowardice deserves to be laughed at. 
 
 Chr. You are right, and I find that I am in the wrong. 
 Come now, brother, I'll show a stouter heart. 
 
 Arts, That's well said. 
 
 Chr, It's a disgraceful thing to be so subject to the power of 
 a wife. 
 
 Arts. Very well. 
 
 Chr. She has gained too much by my mildness. 
 
 Aris. True. 
 
 Chr. Has played too nauch on my easy disposition. 
 
 Aris. Certainly. 
 
 Chr. And I'll show her this very day that my daughter is my 
 daughter, and that I am her master, and will choose a husband 
 for her who shall be after my mind. 
 
 Aris. Now you are reasonable, and as I would have you. 
 
 Chr, You are all for Clitandre, brother, and know where he 
 lives. Bring him to me at once. 
 
 Aris. I'll run and do it at once. 
 
 Chr. I've put up with it too long. I mean now to be a man 
 in the face of the world. 
 
 ACT III. Scene I. 
 
 Philaminte, Armande, Belise, Trissotin, L'Epine. 
 
 Philaminte. Ah, let us sit down here, to hear at our ease these 
 verses, which should be weighed word by word. 
 Armande. I'm dying to hear them. 
 Belise. And so are we. 
 
 Phi. (to Trissotifi). Whatever comes from you charms me. 
 Ar. To me it is an unparalleled pleasure. 
 JUL It is a delicious repast to my ear. 
 Phi. Don't make us languish under such pressing desires, 
 Ar. Pray make haste. 
 £eL Be quick, and hasten our pleasure. 
 Phi. Offer your epigram to our impatieiice. 
 
Scene II.] LES FEMMES SA V ANTES. 501 
 
 Trissotin {to Philaminte). Ah, madam e, it is quite ^ new-born 
 babe. Its fate certainly ought to touch you, for it was in your 
 court-yard that I brought it forth. 
 
 Phi. Its father is sufficient to make it dear to me. 
 
 Tris. Your approbation may serve it for a mother. 
 
 Bel. How witty he is ! 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Henriette, Philaminte, Armande, Belise, Trissotin, 
 L'fepiNE. 
 
 Philaminte {to Henriette^ who is going away). Ho, Henriette 1 
 are you running away again ? 
 
 Henriette. It is for fear of disturbing so sv/eet a conversation. 
 
 Phi. Come near, and come, all attention, to share the pleasure 
 of hearing wonders. 
 
 Hen. I know very little about literary beauties, and matters of 
 genius are not in my province. 
 
 Phi. No matter. I have a secret besides to tell you after- 
 wards, which it is necessary you should know. 
 
 Trissotin {to Henriette). The sciences have nothing in them 
 to inflame you ; you only pique yourself on how to charm. 
 
 Hen. One as little as the other, and I have no desire — — * 
 
 Bel. Come,^ let us think of the new-born babe, pray. 
 
 Phi. {to HEpine). Now, boy, make haste and bring us chairs. 
 {IJEpine falls doicn) Look at the clumsy fellow. Ought you to 
 fall after having Ifcarned the equilibrium of things ? 
 
 Bel. Don't you see, you stupid boy, what caused your fall ? 
 It came from your deviating from the fixed point, which we call 
 the centre of gravity. 
 
 HJipine. I perceived that, madame, when I was on the ground. 
 
 Phi {to L^Epine^ who goes out). What a booby. 
 
 Tris. Lucky for him he wasn't made of glass. 
 
 Ar. Ah ! wit for ever. 
 
 Bel. That's never dried up. 
 
 Phi. {all sit down). Serve us up your delightful repast as 
 quickly as possible. 
 
 Tris. To satisfy such hunger as you show me, a course of only 
 eight verses seems to me little enough, and I think I should not 
 do wrong if I added to the epigram, or rather madrigal, the relish 
 of a sonnet in which a certain princess found some delicacy of 
 taste. It is seasoned with Attic salt throughout, and you'll find it, 
 I think, in very good taste. 
 
502 
 
 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS. [Act III. 
 
 At. Oh, I don't doubt it. 
 Phi. Let us give attention at once. 
 
 Bel. {interrupting Trissotin as often as he begins to read). I feel 
 my heart leap for joy beforehand. I love poetry to distraction, 
 ar\d especially when the verses are gallantly turned. 
 Phi. If we talk continually, he can say nothing. 
 
 Tris. So 
 
 B^l. {to Henrieite). Silence, niece. 
 Ar. Now let him read. 
 
 Tris. A Sonnet to the Princess Uranie, on her fever.* 
 Asleep your prudence sure must bCy 
 Magnificently thus to treat. 
 And sumptuously lodge in state, 
 Your most pernicious e?iemy, 
 Bel. Oh ! what a lovely beginning ! 
 Ar. What a charming turn it has ! 
 
 Phi. He alone possesses the talent of making smooth verses. 
 Ar. We must give the palm to prude7tce asleep. 
 Bel, Lodge her enemy is full of charms to me. 
 Phi. I like sumptuously and magnificently. Those two adverbs 
 are joined so admirably. 
 B'el. Now let's listen to the rest. 
 Tris, Asleep your prudence sure must be. 
 
 Magnificently thus to treat. 
 And sumptuously lodge in state^ 
 Your most pernicious enemy, 
 Ar. Prudence asleep ! 
 Bel. Sumptuously lodge her enemy ! 
 Phi. Sumptuously I Magnificently ! 
 Tris. Whatever is said, the serpent send 
 
 Frotnyour apartment rich and great ; 
 Where insolently the ingrate 
 Your precious life attempts to end. 
 BH. Ah, gently ! Let us take breath. 
 Ar. Pray give us time to admire. 
 
 Phi. On hearing these verses, one feels something run at the 
 very bottom of one's heart, so that one feels faint. 
 Ar, What^er is said, the serpent send. 
 
 From your apartment rich and great. 
 How finely said is, Apartment rich a?id great / And with what 
 wit is the metaphor introduced ! 
 
 * Quoted from the works of Charles Cotin, 1663. 
 
Scene 11.] LES FEMMES SAVANTES. 503 
 
 Phi. Whatever is said is admirable for taste. In my opinion it 
 is an invaluable passage. 
 
 Bel. I am of your opinion, Whatever is said is a happy ex- 
 pression. 
 
 Ar. I wish I had written it. 
 
 Bel. It's worth a whole piece. 
 
 Phi. But do you really understand the refinement ot it, as 
 I do? 
 
 Ar. and Bel. Oh, oh ! 
 
 Phi. Whatever is said, the serpent send. 
 
 Though they should take the fever's part, don't regard it, but 
 laugh at their babbling, Whatever is said, the serpent send, What- 
 ever is said, Whatever is said. This Whatever is said says a great 
 deal more than any one thinks; for my part, I don't know if 
 every one is like me, but I understand a million of words 
 beneath it. 
 
 Bel, It is true. It says more things than it seems to do. 
 
 Phi. {to Trissotin). But when you wrote that charming What- 
 ever is said, did you yourself comprehend all its force ? Did you 
 really imagine all that it says to us? And did you then think you 
 were putting so much wit into it ? 
 
 Tris. Aha, aha ! 
 
 Ar, I have likewise theingrate running in my head : the ingrate 
 of a fever, unjust, uncivil, to treat people ill who entertained it. 
 
 Phi. In short, both the quatrains are admirable. Pray let us 
 come quickly to the triplets. 
 
 Ar. Ah, once more, What^er is said, if you please. 
 
 Tris. Whatever is said, the serpent send. 
 
 Phi., Ar., and Bel. Whatever is said f 
 
 Tris. From your apartment rich and great. 
 
 Phi, Ar., and Bel. Apartment rich and great. 
 
 Tris. Where insolently the ingrate. 
 
 Phi., Ar., and Bel. That " ingrate " of a fever ! 
 
 Tris. Your precious life attempts to end. 
 
 Phi. Your precious life I 
 
 Ar. and Bel. Ah ! 
 
 Tris. Who, tiot respecting your high rank. 
 
 Your noble blood has basely drank. 
 
 Phi, Ar., and Bel. Ah ! 
 
 Tris. And hourly plays some cruel prank. 
 
 The next time to the bath you go. 
 There take it without more ado. 
 And with your oimi hands drown it so. 
 
504 fHE ^LUE-SfOCKtMGS. [Act III 
 
 Phi. I can bear no more. 
 Btl. I am actually fainting. 
 Ar. I am dying with pleasure. 
 
 Phi. One finds oneself seized with a thousand gentle thrillings. 
 Ar. The ftext titne to the bath you go. 
 
 Bel. There take it without more ado. 
 
 Phi, And with your own hands droiun it so. 
 
 Drown it with your own hands, there. 
 With your own hands droum it in the bath. 
 Ar. At every step in your verses one meets with charming 
 beauty. 
 B'el. One goes through it all with rapture. 
 Phi. One cannot help treading upon beautiful things. 
 Ar. They are paths strewn with roses. 
 
 Tris. The sonnet, then, you think is- 
 
 Phi. Admirable, new ; no one ever made anything so fine. 
 Bel. (to Henriette). What ! no emotion during the reading ? 
 You make a strange figure there, niece. 
 
 Hen. Every one here below, aunt, makes what figure they ckn ; 
 and one cannot be a wit at will. 
 
 Tris. Perhaps my verses annoy you. 
 Hen. No ; 1 don't listen. 
 Phi. Now let us hear the epigram. 
 
 Tris. It is, On a carriage of an amarant colour ^ presented to a 
 lady of his acquaintance.'^ 
 Phi. His titles have always something uncommon in them. 
 Ar. The novelty of them prepares one for a hundred strokes 
 of wit. 
 
 Tris. Love has so dearly sold to me his band^ 
 
 Btl., Ar., and Phi. Ah ! 
 
 Tris, Already it has cost me half my land. 
 
 And when this lovely carriage you behold. 
 
 Wherein there lies ejnbossed so much gold, d 
 
 That it ainazeth all the country round. 
 
 And makes my Lais' triumph far resound 
 
 Phi. Ah, "My Lais ! " There's erudition ! 
 
 Bel The disguise is pretty, and is worth a million. 
 
 Tris. And when this lovely carriage you behold, 
 
 Wherein there lies embossed so much gold, *.. k 
 
 That it amazeth all the country round, :\\>. 
 
 And makes my Lais' triumph far resound, ' ^' 
 
 ' .Also from Cotin's works. 
 
Scene 11.] LES FEMMES SAVANTES. 505 
 
 No longer say that it is amaranth 
 
 But much^ much rather say His of my refit, ^ 
 
 Ar. Oh, oh, oh ! That was quite unexpected. 
 
 Phi. No one but he can write with such taste. 
 
 Bel. No longer say that it is afnarant, 
 
 But much, much rather say 'tis of my rent. 
 This may be dechned, My re?it, of my rent^ to my rent {a ma rente). 
 
 Phi. I don't know v.'hethcr my mind was prepossessed in 
 your favour from the moment I knew you ; but I admire your 
 verse and prose throughout. 
 
 Tris, {to Philaminte). If you would show us something of 
 yours, we too could admire it in our turn. 
 
 Phi. I have done nothing in verse, but I have reason to hope 
 that I may be able shortly to show you as a friend eight chapters 
 of the plan of our academy. Plato foolishly stopped at the mere 
 plan when he wrote his "Republic," but I'll carry out the idea, 
 which I have on paper, to its full extent. For indeed I am 
 greatly vexed at the wrong done to us as regards our intelligence, 
 and I'll avenge every one of us for the inferior place men assign 
 to us, limiting our talents to trifling things, and shutting against 
 us the door of the highest knowledge. 
 
 Ar. It is insulting to our sex to limit our intelligence to the 
 judging of a petticoat, or the sit of a mantle, or the beauty of 
 lace, or a new brocade. " 
 
 Bel. We must raise ourselves above this shameful condition, 
 and raise our genius to independence. 
 
 Tris. My respect for the ladies is everywhere known ; and if 
 I pay homage to the brilliancy of their eyes, I likewise honour the 
 brightness of their wit. 
 
 Phi. Our sex likewise does you justice in those things ; but 
 we would show certain authors whose pride of intellect treats us 
 with contempt that women are likewise equipped with knowledge; 
 that, like them, they can hold learned assemblies, regulated by 
 better rules, can unite there what's separated elsewhere, join fine 
 language to sublime knowledge, unveil nature in a thousand ex- 
 periments, and upon any question that may be proposed, bring 
 forward every view of it, and espouse none. 
 
 Tris. For order, I hold to Peripateticism. 
 
 Phi. For abstractions, I hold to Platonism. 
 
 Ar. Epicurus pleases me, for his dogmas are strong. 
 
 Bel, For my part, I agree altogether with the atomic philo- 
 
 * The play on the words in the original cannot be exactly rendered. 
 
5o8 THE BLUE-STOCKINC^. [Act III. 
 
 who, seizing the ears of the first comers, most frequently makes 
 them martyrs to his effusions. I never had this foolish infatua- 
 tion ; and in this I'm of the opinion of a certain Greek, who, by 
 an express dogma, forbids to all his wise men the unbecoming 
 eagerness to read their works to others. Here are some little 
 verses for young lovers, on which I would gladly have your 
 opinions. 
 
 Tris. Your verses have beauties which all others lack. 
 
 Vad. Venus and all the graces reign in all yours. 
 
 Tris. You have a free expression, and a fine choice of words. 
 
 Vad. We see everywhere that you have the Ethos and the 
 Pathos, 
 
 Tris. We have heard eclogues from you in a style that sur- 
 passes Virgil and Theocritus for sweetness. 
 
 Vad. Your odes have a noble, gallant, and tender air, which 
 leaves your own Horace far behind. 
 
 Tris, Is there anything so amorous as your lays ? 
 
 Vad. Can one find anything to equal your sonnets ? 
 
 Tris. Anything more charming that your rondeaux ? 
 
 Vad. Anything so full of wit as all your madrigals ? 
 
 Tris. At ballads especially you are admirable. 
 
 Vad. And I think you adorable in boiits-rijjies. 
 
 Tris. If France could only know your worth ! 
 
 Vad. If the age did but render justice to men of wit ! 
 
 Tris. You'd ride through the streets in a gilt carriage. 
 
 Vad. We should see the public erect statues to you. Hm 
 —{to Trissotin). Here's a ballad, and I desire that you'll 
 frankly 
 
 Tris. [to Vadiiis). Have you seen a certain little sonnet on the 
 Princess Uranie's fever ? 
 
 Vad. Yes ; it was read to me yesterday in company. 
 
 Tris. Do you know the author .^ 
 
 Vad. No ; but I know very well that, not to flatter him, his 
 sonnet's worth nothing. 
 
 Tris. A great many people, however, think it admirable. 
 
 Vad. That doesn't hinder it from being wretched, and if you 
 had seen it, you would have been of my opinion. 
 
 Tris. I know I shall not at all agree in that j for i^vf are 
 capable of such a sonnet. 
 
 Vad. Heaven preserve me from making such ! 
 
 Tris. I maintain that a better cannot be made, and my chief 
 reason is because I am the author of it. 
 
 Vad. You? Tris. I. 
 
Scene .III.] LES FEMMES SA VANTES, 509 
 
 Vad. I can't tell then how the thing was. 
 
 Tris. It was that I was so unhappy as not to be able to please 
 you. 
 
 Vad. I must have had my mind wandering when I heard it; 
 or else the reader spoilt the sonnet. But let us leave this discus- 
 sion and hear my ballad. 
 
 Tris. A ballad in my opinion is an insipid thing; it is no 
 longer in fashion, it savours of antiquity. 
 
 Fad. A ballad, however, charms a great many people 
 
 Tris. That doesn't hinder its displeasing me. 
 
 Fad. It may be none the worse for that. 
 
 Tris. It has a wonderful attraction for pedants. 
 
 Fad. And yet we see it does not please you. 
 
 Tris. You foolishly attribute your qualities to others. (T/iey 
 all rise.) 
 
 Fad, You very impertinently cast yours on me. 
 
 Tris. Be off, you school-boy, you paper-blotter ! 
 
 Fad. Be off, you pitiful rhymer, a shame to your profession ! 
 
 Tris. Go, you second-hand verse^maker. = Yqu impudent 
 plagiarist! ■ lo lii<« .)r ;.-."??{!: 
 
 Fad. Go, you pedant— — if, .., 
 
 Phi. Oh, gentlemen, what are youigoing to do ? 
 
 Tris. {to Fadius). Go, go and restore all the shameful thefts 
 which the Greeks and Latins claim back from you ! 
 
 Fad. Go, go and do penance on Parnassus for having lamed 
 Horace in your verses. 
 
 Tris. Remember your book, and the litde impression it made. 
 
 Fad. Remember your bookseller reduced to the workhouse. 
 
 Tris. My fame is established ; it is in vain that you endeavour 
 to tear it to pieces. 
 
 Fad. Yes, yes, I send you back to the author of the Satires.^ 
 
 Tris. And I send you to him too. 
 
 Fad. I have the satisfaction of knowing that people can see 
 he has treated me more honourably. He gives me a slight touch 
 in passing, as he does to many authors that are well thought of at 
 the Courts ; but as for you he never leaves you at peace with his 
 verses, and you are throughout the butt of his sarcasms. 
 
 Tris. I hold all the more honourable rank there for that. He 
 })uts you among the crowd, like a mere wretch ; thinks it sufficient 
 to crush you with one blow, and never does you the honour to 
 repeat it ; but he attacks me apart as a noble adversary, against 
 
 * Boileau. 
 
5IO THE BLUE^STOCKINGS. [Act III. 
 
 whom he thinks all his strength necessary, and his redoubling his 
 blows against me in all places, shows that he never thinks himself 
 victorious. 
 
 Vad. My pen shall teach you what sort of a man I am. 
 
 Tris, And mine shall make you know your master. 
 
 Vad. I defy you in verse, prose, Greek and Latin. 
 
 Tris. Well, well, we shall meet alone at Barbin's.* 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Trissotin, Philaminte, Armande, Belise, Henri ette. 
 
 Trissotin. Do not blame my passion. It is your judgment that 
 I defend, madame, in the sonnet he had the boldness to attack. 
 
 Philaminte. I will endeavour to reconcile you. But let us talk 
 of another affair. Come here, Henriette. I have been a long 
 time disturbed in my mind because I could never discover any 
 genius in you ; but I have found a m^ethod of giving some to you. 
 
 Henriette. You take an unnecessary care for me. Learned 
 discourses do not interest me ; I like to live at ease ; and it is too 
 much trouble to be always trying to say witty things. It is an 
 ambition which I lack. I am quite content, mother, to be stupid, 
 and would rather have only a common way of talking than torment 
 myself to make fine speeches. 
 
 Phi. Yes, but I am offended by it, and it is not my intention 
 to suffer such a stain in my family. Beauty of face is a frail orna- 
 ment, a fading flower, a moment's brightness, which is only skin 
 deep ; but that of the mind is inherent and firm. I have therefore 
 sought a long time some one to bestow on you that beauty which 
 time cannot harvest, to inspire you with the love of learning, to 
 make you long after knowledge ; and the resolution I have at 
 last come to is to unite you to a man who is full of cleverness. 
 And this [pointing to Trissotin) is that gentleman whom I order 
 you to look on as the husband I have chosen for you. 
 
 Hen. For me, mother? 
 
 Phi. Yes, for you. Play the fool a little, do. 
 
 Belise {to Trissotin). I understand you. Your eyes beg my 
 consent to engage elsewhere a heart which I possess. Well, I will 
 give it. I yield you to this union. It is a match that will give you 
 an establishment. 
 
 Tris. (to Henriette). I know not what to say to you in my 
 transport, madame ; and this match that I see myself honoured 
 with, puts me 
 
 * A well-known bookseller in the Grand Hall of the Palais de Justice. 
 
Scene VI .] LES FEMMES SA V ANTES. 5 1 1 
 
 Hen. Gently, sir. It is not yet concluded. Don't be in such 
 a hurry. 
 
 Phi. How you answer! Do you know that if That is 
 
 enough. You understand me. {To Trissotin.) She'll become 
 sensible. Come, let us leave her. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Henriette, Armande. 
 
 Armande. You can see how brightly our mother's care 
 shines for you; she could not have chosen a more illustrious 
 husband- 
 
 Henriette. If the choice is so charming, why don't you take 
 him? 
 
 Ar. It is to you, not to me, that his hand is given. 
 
 Hen. I yield him entirely to you as my elder sister. 
 
 Ar. If matrimony appeared as charming to me as it does to 
 you, I should accept your offer with rapture. 
 
 Hen. If I had pedants on the brain as you have, I should 
 think it a very good match. 
 
 Ar. However different our tastes may be, sister, we ought to 
 obey our parents. A mother has absolute power over us, and in 
 vain you think by your resistance 
 
 Scene VI. 
 Chrysale, Ariste, Clitandre, Henriette, Armande. 
 
 Chrysale {to Henriette ^ presenting Clitandre). Come, daughter, 
 you must approve of my design. Pull off your glove. Give this 
 gentleman your hand, and consider him henceforth in your heart 
 as the man whose wife I intend you to be. 
 
 Ar7?tande. On this side, sister, your inclination is strong 
 enough. 
 
 Henriette. We ought to obey our parents, sister, a father has 
 absolute power over our wishes. 
 
 Ar. A mother has her share in our obedience. 
 
 Chr. What do you mean by this ? 
 
 Ar. I say that I apprehend that you and my mother will not 
 agree in this, and there's another husband 
 
 Chr. Hold your tongue, you silly girl. Go and philosophise 
 as much as you like with her, but don't concern yourself with my 
 actions. Tell her my mind, and warn her strongly not to come 
 and worry rae. Make haste ! [Exit Armmide. 
 
5,2 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS. Act IV. 
 
 Arisie. Very well, indeed, you are doing wonders. 
 
 Clitandre. What transport, what joy ! How kind is fortune 
 to me. 
 
 Chr. {to Clitandre). Come, take her hand, and go before us ; 
 lead her to her room. Ah! What sweet caresses ! {To Ariste.) 
 Ah, my heart is moved by all this tenderness ; this cheers up my 
 old age wonderfully, and I begin to remember my youthful love- 
 making. 
 
 ACT IV. Scene I. 
 Ppiilaminte, Armande. 
 
 Aniiande. Yes, she did not in the least hesitate, but made a 
 vain show of her obedience. Her heart scarcely gave itself time 
 to receive the order, but seemed less to follow the will of a father 
 than to defy the commands of a mother. 
 
 Philaminte. I'll let her see to whose orders of us two the 
 laws of reason will make her submit her wishes ; and who ought 
 to govern, her father or her mother, mind or body, form or 
 matter. 
 
 Ar. At least they owed you a compliment in the affair. This 
 little gentleman uses you strangely, in resolving to be your son-in- 
 law in spite of you. 
 
 Phi. He is not so now in the way his heart might have aspired 
 to. I thought him handsome, and I approved of his love for you ; 
 but he always displeased me by his actions ; he knew that, thanks 
 to heaven, I was an authoress, and yet he never desired me tq 
 read anything to him. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Clitandre {entering quietly^ and listening unseen\ Armande, 
 Philaminte. 
 
 Armaiide. If I were you I would not permit him ever to be 
 Henriette's husband. It would be doing me a great wrong to sup- 
 pose that I speak from interested motives, or that the base trick 
 which he has played me has raised any secret indignation in my 
 heart. The soul is fortified against such blows by the solid help ol 
 philosophy, and by means of that one can raise oneself above 
 everything, but to treat you in this manner is to push matters to 
 an extremity. Your honour obliges you to. act contrary to his 
 wishes, and, in short, he's not a man you should be pleased with. 
 
. Scene II.] LES FEMMES SA VANTES. 513 
 
 I never found when we were talking together, that at the bottom 
 of his heart he had any regard for you. 
 
 Philaminte. Poor fool ! 
 
 Ar. Notwithstanding the noise your fame makes he always 
 appeared like ice as to praising you. 
 
 Phu The brute ! 
 
 Ar. And I have twenty times read some of your verses as 
 novelties, which he did not think fine. 
 
 Phi. What impertinence ! 
 
 Ar. We often quarrelled about it, and you would not believe 
 how much abuse 
 
 Clitandre {to Armande). Oh, gently, if you please. A little 
 charity, madame, or at least a little honesty. What harm have I 
 done you ? And what is my offence that you should arm all your 
 eloquence against me ? Why should you wish to ruin me, and 
 take so much pains to render me odious to those I have need of? 
 Speak, and tell me whence comes this terrible anger ? I should 
 like this lady to be an impartial judge in the case. 
 • • . Ar. If I were as angry as you say, I should have good reason. 
 t-jVou deserve it only too well : for first love fixes itself by such 
 sacred rights on the heart, that one ought to renounce fortune, and 
 even the very light of day, rather than burn with the fires of a 
 second love ; no horror is equal to changing one's love, and every 
 faithless heart is a moral monster. 
 
 Cli. Do you call that infidelity which the pride of your soul 
 enjoined on me ? I only obey the laws it imposes, and if I offend 
 you that alone is the cause of it. Your charms at first had full 
 possession of my heart, it burnt for two years with a constant fire ; 
 there was no assiduous care, duty, respect, service, which it did 
 not lovingly sacrifice to you. But all my ardour, all my care, could 
 prevail nothing with you ; I found you still opposed to my softest 
 addresses. What you refused I offer to another. Consider, 
 madame, is that my fault or yours ? Did my heart hasten to 
 change, or did you drive it thither ? Is it I that leave you or do 
 you turn me away ? 
 
 Ar. Do you call it, sir, opposing your addresses to deprive 
 them of all that was vulgar in them, and to endeavour to reduce 
 them to that purity in which consists the beauty of pure love ? 
 You could not for me keep your thoughts clear and disentangled 
 from matters of sense ; nor could you feast on the greatest of all 
 charms, the union of souls, in which the body is not concerned. 
 You can only love with a gross passion, with all the train of 
 material ties ; and to feed the fires that arise in you, there must be 
 
 34 . 
 
514 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS. [Act IV. 
 
 marriage and all its consequences. Ah, what strange love ! How 
 far are great souls from burning with these terrestrial flames ! The 
 senses have no share in all their ardours ; this pure passion would 
 marry nothing but the heart, and leaves the rest behind as worth- 
 less ; it is a fire pure and clear as the celestial fire ; with this they 
 breathe only virtuous sighs, and never incline to base desires. 
 Nothing impure has to do with the end they propose. They love 
 for the sake of loving and for nothing else ; their transports are 
 only of the soul, and they never remember that they have a body. 
 
 Cli. Unluckily for me, madame, I perceive that, with your 
 leave, I have a body as well as a soul, and they hold together 
 too closely to be parted ; I don't understand the art of these 
 separations; heaven has denied me this philosophy. My body 
 and soul go together. There is nothing finer, as you have 
 observed, than these purified desires which regard the soul only, 
 that union of hearts, and those tender thoughts so thoroughly 
 disentangled from things of sense. But love of this sort is too 
 refined for me. I am somewhat gross, as you accuse me of being ; 
 I love with my whole self, and I desire, I must own, to have the 
 love that is given to me given to my entire person. This is not 
 a matter worthy of any great punishment, and without wronging 
 your fine sentiments, I see that my method is very much followed 
 in the world, and that marriage is sufficiently in fashion, and 
 passes for a tie virtuous and tender enough to warrant the desire 
 I had of becoming your husband, without giving you cause to 
 appear offended at the liberty of the thought. 
 
 Ar. Ah, well, well, sir, since your vulgar sentiments must 
 needs be satisfied without listening to me, since there must be 
 carnal ties and corporeal bonds to bring you to love faithfully, if 
 my mother consents to it, I'll bring my mind to agree with you in 
 what we were discussing. 
 
 Cli. It is too late, madame, another has taken your place, and 
 by such a return I should basely abuse the refuge and wrong the 
 goodness to which I fled from your haughtiness. 
 
 Phi. But indeed, do you reckon on my consent, sir, when 
 you promise yourself this other match ? In your vain imaginings, 
 do you know that I have another husband ready for Henriette ? 
 
 Cli. I pray you, madame, to consider your choice, and expose 
 me, I beg of you, to less disgrace ; and do not condemn me to 
 the shameful fate of being a rival of Mons. Trissotin. The 
 love of genius which makes you oppose me could not match me 
 against a less noble adversary. There are many whom the 
 perverted taste of the age has accounted wits, but Mons. Trissotin 
 
Scene III.] LES FEMMES SA VANTES. 515 
 
 has not been able to deceive anybody, and every one does justice 
 to his writings. Everywhere, except here, they take him for what 
 he is worth, and twenty times I've been astonished to hear you 
 praise to the skies some silly verses that you would have disowned 
 if you had made them yourself. 
 
 Phi. If you judge of him quite differently from what we do, 
 it is because we see him with other eyes. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Trissotin, Philaminte, Armande, Clitandre. 
 
 Trissotift {to Philaminte). I've come to tell you a great piece 
 of news, madame. We've had a very narrow escape. A world 
 has passed along just by us, and is fallen across our vortex ; had 
 it met our earth on the way, it would have been dashed to pieces 
 like so much glass. 
 
 PhilaiiMtte. Let us postpone this conversation to another time, 
 since this gentleman finds neither rhyme nor reason in it. He 
 professes to cherish ignorance, and to hate wit and learning above 
 everything. 
 
 Clitandre. This truth wants some explanation. I must explain 
 myself, madame ; I only hate that wit and learning which spoil 
 people. These are things which in themselves are fine and 
 good ; but I would prefer to rank myself among the ignorant, 
 rather than see myself learned like some people. 
 
 Tris. For my part, I don't hold, whatever may be supposed, 
 that learning can spoil anything. 
 
 Cli: And it's my opinion that learning often makes very great 
 fools, both in word and deed. 
 
 Tris. That's a great paradox. 
 
 Cli. The proof of it would be easy enough, I believe, without 
 being very wise. If reasons should fail, I am sure that famous 
 examples will not be wanting. 
 
 Tris. Cite some, and that will end the matter. 
 
 Cli. I need not go very far to find one for my purpose. 
 
 Tris. For my part I don't see these famous examples. 
 
 Cli. I see them so plainly that they almost strike me blind. 
 
 Tris. I thought hitherto that it was ignorance which made 
 great fools, not learning. 
 
 Cli. You have thought very wrong, and I assure you that a 
 learned fool is more foolish than an ignorant one. 
 
 Tris. Common opinion is against your maxims, since ignorant 
 and fool are synonymous terms. 
 
5i6 THtL I^LUE-STOCKINGS. [Act IV. 
 
 Cli. If you wish to go by the use of words, the alhance is 
 closer between pedant and fool. 
 
 Tris. Folly in the one appears perfectly pure. 
 
 Cli. And study in the other adds to nature. 
 
 Tris. Learning in itself has eminent merit. 
 
 Cli. Learning in a blockhead becomes impertinent. 
 
 Tris. Ignorance must have great charms for you, since you 
 take up arms so eagerly m its defence. 
 
 Cli. If ignorance has very great charms for me, it is because 
 certain learned people offer themselves to my view. 
 
 Tris. Those certain learned people might, if we knew them, 
 be as good as certain other people whom we see before us. 
 
 Cli. Yes, if it were left to those learned people ; but the 
 others would not agree to this. 
 
 Phi, {to Clitandre). I think, sir 
 
 Cli. Oh, madame, if you please, monsieur is strong enough 
 witb9ut your coming to his assistance. I have already too rough 
 ar assailant, and I can only defend myself by retreating. 
 
 Armande. But the offensive bitterness of each repartee which 
 you ^^" 
 
 Cli. Another second ! I have done, then. 
 
 Phi. One can put up with controversies in conversation, pro* 
 vided there are no personal attacks. 
 
 Cli. Oh, good gracious ! there's nothing in all this to offend 
 him. He understands raillery as well as any man in France ; he 
 has felt himself pricked by many other darts without his vanity 
 having done anything but make a jest of them. 
 
 Tris. I don't wonder in this combat at seeing the gentleman 
 take up the thesis he maintains. He's much at court, that's 
 enough; the court, it is well known, does not go in for wit; it 
 has an interest in supporting ignorance, and it is as being a 
 courtier that he undertakes its defence. 
 
 Cli. You wish very ill to the poor court, and its'unhappiness 
 is very great at seeing you wits declaim against it every day 
 when anything vexes you, you scold it ; and arraigning its taste^ 
 accuse it alone of your ill success. Give me leave, Mons. 
 Trissotin, to tell you, with all the respect your name inspires, that 
 you and your brethren would do well to speak a little more gently 
 of the court ; and at bottom it is not so stupid as you gentlemen 
 imagine; that it has common sense to judge of everything; that 
 a little good taste may be formed there, and that, without flattery, 
 the knowledge of the world there is worth all the obscure learning 
 of pedantry. 
 
Scene IV.] LES FEMMES SA VANTES. 517 
 
 ^, Tris. We see the effects of its good taste, sir. 
 
 Clt. Where do you see, sir, its taste is so bad ? 
 
 Tris. What do I see, sir ? That Rasius and Baldus for learn- 
 ing do honour to France ; and that all their merit, which is very 
 visible, does not attract either the eyes or the gifts of the court. 
 
 Clt. I see your vexation, and that it is through modesty you 
 don't place yourself, sir, with them. Not to bring your name 
 into the discourse, What do your clever heroes do for the State ? 
 What service do their writings do it, that they accuse the court 
 of horrible injustice, and complain everywhere that it fails to pour 
 down its gifts upon their learned names. Their learning is very 
 necessary to France, and the court is much concerned with the 
 books they write ! Three beggarly fellows get it into their 
 pitiful heads that if they are but printed and bound in calf they 
 are important persons in the State; that the fate of crowns depends 
 on their pen ; that at the least rumour of their productions they 
 should see pensions flying about them ; that the eyes of the 
 universe are fixed upon them ; that the glory of their name is 
 spread everywhere; and that they are famous prodigies in learn- 
 ing, because they, knowing what others have said before them, 
 having had ears and eyes for thirty years, have employed nine or 
 ten thousand nights' labour in perplexing themselves with Greek 
 and Latin, and loading their minds with an unintelligible booty 
 of all the old trash that lies scattered in books : men that appear 
 always drunk with their learning ; their only merit an abundance 
 of importunate babble ; unskilful in everything, void of common 
 sense, and full of ridicule and impertinence to decry true wit and 
 learning everywhere. 
 
 F/ii. Your warmth is very great, and this anger shows the 
 strivings of nature in you. It is the word rival that excites in 
 your breast 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Trissotin, Philaminte, Clitandre, Armande, Julien. 
 
 Julien. The learned person that paid you a visit just now, 
 madame, and whose humble servant I have the honour of being, 
 exhorts you to read this letter. 
 
 Philamiiite. However important this may be, learn, friend, 
 that it is a piece of rudeness to interrupt a conversation ; and 
 tiiat a servant who knows how to behave should have recourse to 
 the people of the house to be introduced. 
 
 Julien. I'll note, that, madame, in my book. 
 
5i8 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS, [Act IV. 
 
 Phi. Trissotin boasts, madame, that he's to marry your 
 daughter. I give notice that his philosophy wants nothing but your 
 wealth, and that you ivould do well not to conchide the match till 
 you have seen the poem which I am cojnposing against him. While 
 you are waiting for this picture in which I intend to portray him 
 in all his colours, I send you Horace, Virgil, Terence, and Catullus, 
 where you'll see all the passages he has pilfered, marked in the 
 margin. 
 
 Here's merit attacked by a great many enemies on account of 
 this marriage I had proposed. And this outbreak invites me to 
 take action this very day, which will confound envy and make 
 him feel that this endeavour of his has hastened what it thought 
 to have broken off. [To Julien.) Relate all this to your master 
 directly, and tell him that, to show him what great value I set on 
 his noble advice, and how worthy I think it to be followed, I'll 
 marry my daughter to this gentleman {pointing to Trissotiii) this 
 very night. [Exit Julien.'] {To Clitandre.) You, sir, as a friend 
 of all the family, may assist at the signing of the contract, and I 
 invite you to it. Armande, take care to send to the notary, and 
 to go and tell your sister that the matter is arranged. 
 
 Armande. There's no occasion to give my sister any notice ; 
 that gentleman will take care to run and carry her this news im- 
 mediately, and dispose her heart to be rebellious to you. 
 
 Phi. We shall see who has most power over her, and whether 
 I am able to bring her back to her duty. {Exit. 
 
 Ar, I am very sorry, sir, to see that things are not arranged 
 as you wished. 
 
 Cli. I'll be off, madame, and labour with diligence, that this 
 great sorrow may not remain long at your heart. 
 
 Ar, I'm afraid that your labour will not have a very good 
 result. 
 
 Cli. Perhaps you may find your fear mistaken. 
 
 Ar. I hope I shall. 
 
 Cli. I am persuaded of it, and that I shall be seconded by 
 your assistance. 
 
 Ar. Yes, I'm going to serve you with all my might, 
 
 Cli. And that service shall have my gratitude. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Chrysale, Ariste, Clitandre, Henriette. 
 Clitandre. Without your support, sir, I sliall be unfortunate. 
 
Scene v.] LES FEMMES SAVANTES. 519 
 
 Your wife has rejected my addresses, and her prejudiced heart 
 \\'\\\ have Trissotin for a son-in-law. 
 
 Chrysale. What absurd fancy has possessed her ? Why the 
 deuce does she want this Monsieur Trissotin ? 
 
 Ariste. It is because he has the honour to make Latin rhymes, 
 that he gains the advantage over his rival. 
 
 CIL She'll have the wedding this very evening. 
 
 Chr. This evening ? 
 
 Cli. This evening. 
 
 Chr. And this evening, in order to thwart her, I'm resolved 
 that you two shall be married. 
 
 Cli. She's sending for a notary to draw up the contract. 
 
 Chr. And I'll fetch him to do what he ought to do. 
 
 Cli. {pointing to Henriette). And madame is to be informed 
 by her sister of the match she must prepare her heart for. 
 
 Chr. And I command her, with full power, to prepare her 
 hand for this other alliance. I'll let them see whether there's any 
 other master in my house but myself. {To Henriette^ We'll 
 return presently, be sure you wait for us. Come, follow me, 
 brother, and you, son-in-law. 
 
 Henriette (to Ariste). Oh, if you could only keep him always 
 in this humour ! 
 
 Aris. I'll do everything to serve your love. 
 
 Cli. However powerful the help promised to my love, my 
 surest hope is in your heart, madame. 
 
 Hen. As to my heart, you may assure yourself of that. 
 
 Cli. I cannot help being happy when I have its support. 
 
 Hen. You see to what ties they intend to compel it. 
 
 Cli. As long as it is on my side I see nothing to fear. 
 
 Hen. I'll go and try everything in favour of our tenderest 
 wishes ; but if all my endeavours fail to give me to you, there is 
 one retreat which my heart is resolved on, which will prevent me 
 from belonging to any one else. 
 
 Cli. Just heaven defend me from ever receiving from you that 
 proof of your love. 
 
 ACT V. Scene I. 
 
 Henriette, Trissotin. 
 
 Henriette. It is about this marriage, sir, which my mother is 
 preparing, that I wished to talk to you in private, thinking that 
 in the confusion the house is in I might be ^ble to get you to 
 
520 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS, [Act V. 
 
 listen to reason. I know that you think I may bring you a con- 
 siderable fortune as my marriage portion j but money, which so 
 many people esteem, has charms unworthy of a true philosopher ; 
 and the contempt of wealth and empty grandeur ought not to 
 shine in your words alone. 
 
 Trissotin. It is not that which delights me in you; your 
 sparkling charms, your eyes soft and yet piercing, your graceful- 
 ness and air, are the wealth and riches which have attracted my 
 tender attentions to you ; it is with these treasures alone that I 
 am enamoured. 
 
 Hen. I am much indebted to you for your generous warmth. 
 This kind affection confounds me, and I am grieved, sir, that I 
 am not able to respond to it. 'I esteem you as much as I can 
 esteem any one, but I find an obstacle that prevents me from 
 loving you. A heart, you know, cannot be possessed by two, and 
 I feel that Clitandre is master of mine. I know that he has much 
 less merit than you, that I have bad eyes for choosing a husband, 
 and that you have a hundred fine talents that ought to please me. 
 I see plainly that I'm in the wrong, but I can't help it, and all 
 the effect reasoning has on me is to make me think ill of myself 
 for being so blind. 
 
 Tris. The gift of your hand, which I am encouraged to make 
 pretensions to, will give over to me that heart which Clitandre 
 now possesses, and I have reason to hope that by a thousand 
 tender attentions I shall discover the art of making myself beloved. 
 
 Hen. No, sir, my heart is fixed to its first vows, and cannot 
 be touched by any tenderness from you. I dare explain myself 
 freely here to you, and my confession has nothing in it that 
 should shock you. This ardour of love which springs up in the 
 heart is not, you know, the effect of merit. Caprice has a share 
 in it ; and when any one pleases us we are often at a loss to say 
 why he does so. If people loved, sir, through choice and wisdom, 
 you would have my whole heart and my whole affection, but one 
 sees that love directs itself otherwise. I beg you to leave me 
 to my blindness, and not to make use of the violence which, for 
 your f.ake, is attempted to be done to my obedience. A gentle- 
 man v'ill owe nothing to the power which parents have over us ; 
 he refuses to let what he loves be sacrificed to him, and will not 
 gain a heart from any but itself. Don't urge my mother to exer- 
 cise by her choice her extreme rights over my wishes. Take away 
 your l<)ve from me, and bear to some other the homage of a heart 
 so valuable as yours. 
 ^ Tris, In what way can this heart satisfy you ? Impose on it 
 
Scene 1.] LES FEMMES SAVANTES. 521 
 
 any commands that it can execute. Can it be capable of not 
 loving you, madame, unless you cease to be amiable, and to dis- 
 play in your eyes celestial charms 
 
 Hen. Nay, sir, let us leave this idle stuff. You have so 
 many Irises, Phyllises, and Amarants, whom you everywhere 
 depict so charmingly in your poems, and for whom you vow such 
 warmth of love 
 
 Tris. It is my talent that speaks, not my heart. I'm only in 
 love with them as a poet, but I love the adorable Henriette in 
 earnest. 
 
 Hen. Oh, pray, sir 
 
 Tris. If this offends you, 1 am not likely to put an end to my 
 offence. This devotion, hitherto ignored by you, swears eternal 
 fidelity to you. Nothing can stop its transports of love; and, 
 notwithstanding your beauty may condemn my endeavours, I 
 cannot refuse the aid of a mother who intends to crown so dear 
 a flame ; and provided I obtain so great a happiness, provided I 
 have you, it is no matter how. 
 
 Hen. But do you know that people run a greater risk than 
 they imagine in using violence to a heart? Let nie tell you plainly 
 it is not very safe to marry a woman against her will, and that 
 finding herself compelled, she may be driven to feelings which her 
 husband may have reason to fear. 
 
 Tris. Such language has nothing in it to make me alter my 
 purpose. The wise man is prepared for all events. Cured, by 
 reason, of vulgar weaknesses, he sets himself above all things of 
 this sort, and has not the least shadow of anxiety about anything 
 that is not to depend on himself. 
 
 Hen. In truth, sir, I am delighted with you ; and I did not 
 think that philosophy was so fine a thing as it is, to teach people to 
 bear such accidents with constancy. This firmness of soul so 
 singular in you deserves to have an illustrious subject given it ; 
 is worthy to find one who may delightedly take continual pains 
 to bring it into full light ; and as 1 dare not, to say the truth, 
 think myself very fit to give it the whole lustre of its glory, I leave 
 it to some other person, and swear to you, between ourselves, that 
 I refuse the happiness of seeing you my husband. 
 
 Tris. (going). We shall see by and by how the affair will go 
 off, for they have got the Notary within already. 
 
522 THE BLUESTOCKINGS. [Act V. 
 
 Scene II. 
 Chrysale, Clitandre, Henriette, Martine. 
 
 Chrysale. Daughter, I am glad to see you. Come, come and 
 do your duty, and submit your wishes to the will of your father. 
 I mean to teach your mother how to behave ; and to defy her 
 more thoroughly, here I bring back Martine, and will settle her 
 in the house again, in the teeth of your mother's will. 
 
 Heiiriette. Your resolutions are praiseworthy. Take care, 
 father, that this mood does not change. Be firm in resolving 
 what you wish, and don't let yourself be seduced from your good 
 intentions. Don't relax, but act so as to hinder my mother from 
 getting the better of you. 
 
 Chr. What ! do you take me for a booby ? 
 
 Hen. Heaven forbid. 
 
 Chr. Am I a simpleton ? 
 
 He?i. I don't say so. 
 
 Chr. Am I thought incapable of the firm sentiments of a 
 reasonable man ? 
 
 Hen. No, father. 
 
 Chr. At my age, have I not sense enough to be master in my 
 own house ? 
 
 He7i. Certainly. 
 
 Chr. Have I such a weakness of soul as to sufifer myself to be 
 led by the nose by my wife ? 
 
 Hen. Oh, no, father ! 
 
 Chr. How now ? What do you mean, then ? I think you're 
 making very free in talking to me thus. 
 
 Hen. If I have offended you, it was not my intention. 
 
 Chr. My will ought to be followed entirely in this house. 
 
 Hen. "Very well, father. 
 
 Chr. No one besides myself has a right to govern in the house. 
 
 Hen. True ; you are in the right. 
 
 Chr. It is I that hold the place of chief of the family. 
 
 Hen. Agreed. 
 
 Chr. It is I who ought to dispose of my daughter. 
 
 Hen. Yes. 
 
 Chr., Heaven gives me full authority over you. 
 
 Hen, Who says the contrary ? 
 
 Chr. And I'll let you see that in taking a husband, you must 
 obey your father not your mother. 
 
 Hen. Ah ! In that you flatter my dearest wishes. All I desire 
 is to obey you. 
 
Scene III.] LES FEMMES SAVANTES. 523 
 
 Chr, We shall see if my wife proves rebellious to my wislies. 
 Cli. Here she is, bringing the Notary with her. 
 Chr. Second me, all of you. 
 
 Martine. Let me alone. I'll take care to encourage you, if 
 there is any occasion for it. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Philaminte, Belise, 'Armande, Trissotin, a Notary, 
 Chrysale, Clitandre, Henriette, Martine. 
 
 Philaminte {to the Notary). Can't you change your savage style, 
 and draw up a contract in good language. 
 
 Notary. Our style is very good, madame, and I should be a 
 fool if I attempted to change a word in it. 
 
 Belise. Ah ! What barbarism in the centre of France ! But 
 however, sir, for learning's sake instead of crowns, livres, and 
 francs, let the dowry be expressed in minas and talents; and 
 date by the word ides and kalends. 
 
 Not. I ? Why if I were to agree to your demand, all my 
 fellows would hiss me. 
 
 Fhi. In vain we complain of this barbarism. Come, sir, take 
 the table and write. (Seeing Martine). What, what ? Does that 
 impudent creature dare to show her face again? Pray why do 
 you bring her to my house again ? 
 
 Chr. We will tell you that by and by, when we have time. 
 We have something else to settle now. 
 
 Not. Let us proceed to the contract. Where's the bride that 
 is to be ? 
 
 F/ii. The one I am marrying is the younger daughter. 
 
 Not. Good. 
 
 Chr. (pointing to Henriette). Ay, here she is, sir. Pier name 
 is Henriette. 
 
 Not. And where's the bridegroom ? 
 
 Fhi. (pointi?ig to Trissotin). The husband I give her to is this 
 gentleman. 
 
 Chr. (pointing to Clitandre). And I myself intend she shall 
 marry this gentleman. 
 
 Not. Two husbands ! That's too many, according to present 
 custom. 
 
 Fhi. (to the Notary). What are you stopping for ? Set down, 
 set down Mons. Trissotin, for my son-in-law. 
 
 Chr, For my son-rn-law set down, set down, Mons. Cli- 
 tandre. 
 
524 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS. [Act V. 
 
 Not. Agree then among each other ; and after mature judg- 
 ment, see and settle between yourselves on a bridegroom. 
 
 Phi. Follow, sir, follow the choice I have fixed on. 
 
 Chr. Do, sir, do what I have resolved on. 
 
 Not. Tell me first which of the two I must obey. 
 
 PJii. {to Chrysale). What ! Do you dispute my will, then ? 
 
 Chr. I can't bear that my daughter should be sought after only 
 for the wealth that is in my family. 
 
 Phi. Truly, your riches are much thought of here ; and it is 
 a very worthy suspicion for a wise man. 
 
 Chr. In short, I have made choice of Clitandre for her 
 husband. 
 
 Phi. And here's the person {pointing to Trissotin) I have 
 pitched on for her husband, and my choice shall be followed ; 
 that's a settled point. 
 
 Chr. Indeed ! You fix on him in a very absolute manner. 
 
 Martinc. It is not for the wife to prescribe, and I am for giving 
 the upper part in everything to the men. 
 
 Chr. That's well said. 
 
 Mar. My discharge was given me a hundred times, that's 
 certain ; but the hen ought not to crow before the cock. 
 
 Chr. Certainly. 
 
 Mar. And we see that people jeer at a man, when his wife 
 wears the breeches. 
 
 Chr. True. 
 
 Mar. If I had a husband, I must needs say I would have him 
 to be master of the house. I should not love him if he played 
 the simpleton ; but if I contested a point with him out of caprice, 
 or spoke too loud, I should think it right if he lowered my tone 
 with a few stripes. 
 
 Chr. She speaks very suitably. 
 
 Mar. My master is in the right to choose a proper husband 
 for his daughter. 
 
 Chr. Yes. 
 
 Mar. Why should he refuse Clitandre for her, young and 
 handsome as he is ? And why, pray, should he give her a 
 scholar, who is always criticising ? She wants a husband, not a 
 schoolmaster ; and as she does not desire to understand Greek or 
 Latin, she has no need of Mons. Trissotin. 
 
 Chr. Very well. 
 
 Phi. We must let her prate at her ease. 
 
 Mar. Scholars are good for nothing but to preach, and I have 
 said a thousand times th^t I would never have a man of learning 
 
Scene IV.] LES FEMMES SAVANTES. 525 
 
 for my husband. Learning is not at all what is wanted in a family ; 
 books agree ill with matrimony, and if ever I plight my troth, I'll 
 have a husband that has no other book but me ; who, no offence 
 to my mistress, knows neither A nor B, and in one word is a pro- 
 fessor only to his wife. 
 
 Phi. {to Chrysale). Have you done ? And have I listened 
 quietly long enough to your worthy interpreter ? 
 
 Chr. She has spoken the truth. 
 
 Phi. To cut short all this dispute, I will absolutely have my 
 design carried out. {Pointing to Trissotiii) Henriette and this 
 gentleman shall be joined immediately. I have said it, and I'll 
 have it so ; make me no reply. If you have given your word to 
 Clitandre, offer him her elder sister for a match. 
 
 Chr. Here's a way to settle this affair. See {to Henriette atid 
 Clitandre), do you give your consent ? 
 
 Hen. What, father ? 
 
 Cii. {to Chrysale). How, sir? 
 
 Bel. She might easily have proposals made to her which 
 would please her much better ; but we establish a kind of love 
 which must be as refined as the Morning Star; the thinking sub- 
 stance may be admitted into it, but we banish from it the ex- 
 tended substance. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Ariste, Chrysale, Philaminte, Belise, Henriette, Armande, 
 Trissotin, Notary, Clitandre, Martine. 
 
 Ariste. I am sorry to disturb these joyful rites by the grief 
 I am forced to bring here. These two letters make me the bearer 
 of two pieces of news, on account of which I have felt very 
 great concern for you. (71? Philaminte) One, for you, came to 
 me from your lawyer ; {to Chrysale) the other, for you, came 
 from Lyons. 
 
 Philafm?ite. AVhat misfortune can we be informed of thus that 
 ought to trouble us ? 
 
 Aris. This letter contains one, as you may read. 
 
 Philaminte, — Madame^ I have desired your brother to deliver 
 you this letter, which will infortn you of 7t'hat I durst not come to 
 tell you. Your great negligence in your affairs has caused the clerk 
 of your judge not to give me notice; and you have absolutely lost y out 
 suity which you might have gai?ied. 
 ii^^Chr. {to Philaminte). Your suit lost \ 
 
526 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS, [Act V. 
 
 PJii. (to Chrysak). You are too much concerned ! My heart 
 is not at all shaken by this blow. Show me, show me a less 
 common soul, which can brave like me the strokes of fortune. 
 
 Your want of care costs you forty thousand crowns ; and it is to 
 pay that sum luith the cost that you are condemned by the order of 
 Court, 
 
 Condemned ! Ah, that word is shocking, and was made for 
 criminals only. 
 
 Aris. He's in the wrong, indeed, and you justly exclaim 
 against him. He ought to have said, that you are desired by 
 order of the Court to pay only forty thousand crowns, and the 
 necessary costs. 
 
 Phi. Let us see the other letter. 
 
 Chrysale, — The friendship which binds me to your brother makes 
 me interest myself in all that concerfis you. I knoiv that you have 
 put your money into the hands of Argante and Damon ^ and I must 
 acquaiiit you that they both becajjie ba7ikrupt on the same day. 
 Oh, heavens ; to lose all my money thus at once ! 
 
 Phi. {to Chrysale). Ah ! what a shameful outbreak. Fie ! All 
 this is nothing; to a truly wise man no reverse of fortune is 
 fatal ; and though he lose everything, he still remains firm to him- 
 self. Let us leave your trouble, and finish our affair. His 
 wealth {pointing to Trissotin) may suffice both for us and him- 
 self. 
 
 Trissotin. No, madame ; forbear to press this affair. I see that 
 every one is averse to this match, and I have no intention of 
 exercising compulsion. 
 
 Phi. This reflection has come very suddenly to you. It follows 
 very closely, sir, upon our misfortune. 
 
 Tris. At last I am tired of so much resistance. I had rather 
 renounce all this embarrassment. I do not wish for a heart that 
 won't surrender itself. 
 
 Phi. I see, I see in you, not to your credit, what I have 
 hitherto refused to believe. 
 
 Tris. You may see in me what you please, and I little care 
 how you take it. But I am not a man to put up with the infamy 
 of an injurious refusal, which I must have undergone here. I 
 would have people set a greater value on me, and make my bow to 
 those who will not. [Exit. 
 
 Phi. How plainly he discovered his mercenary soul, and how 
 little philosophical is this action of his. 
 
 Clitandre. I don't pretend to belong to that class ; but yet, 
 madame, I cling to your destiny, and venture to offer you with 
 
Scene IV.] LES FEMMES SAVANTES. 527 
 
 my person whatever wealth fortune is know to have given 
 me. 
 
 Phi. You charm me, sir, by this generous act, and I will, 
 therefore, crown the desire of your love. Yes; I grant Henriette 
 to the eager devotion 
 
 Henriette, No, mother; I now change my mind. Allow me 
 to resist your intention. 
 
 Cli. What ! Do you oppose my happiness ? when I find 
 every one agree to my love 
 
 Hen. I know the smallness of your fortune, Clitandre, and I 
 always desired you for a husband, when I found that my marrying 
 you would settle your affairs at the same time that it satisfied my 
 dearest wishes ; but since the fates are so contrary to us, I love 
 you so much in this extremity as not to burden you with our 
 adversity. 
 
 Cli. Any destiny with you would delight me, and without you 
 none would be supportable. 
 
 He7i. Love always talks thus in its transports, but let us avoid 
 the disquiet of vexatious reflections. Nothing so chafes the knot 
 that ties us as the grievous want of necessaries, and people often 
 charge one another with the dire sorrows that comes from such 
 engagements. 
 
 Aris. {to Henriette^. Is what we have just now learnt, the 
 only motive which makes you refuse to marry Clitandre ? 
 
 He7i. Otherwise you would see me fly to him with all my 
 heart, and I only refuse to take him because I love him too 
 well. 
 
 Aris. Suffer yourself then to be bound by such pleasant 
 chains. The news I brought you was false; it was a stratagem, a 
 surprising device which I resolved to try, in order to serve your 
 love, to undeceive my sister, and let her see what her philosopher 
 would prove on trial. 
 
 Chr. Heaven be praised t 
 
 Phi. I'm glad at heart for the vexation which the base deserter 
 will feel. To see this match concluded in a splendid manner, will 
 be the greatest punishment to his sordid avarice. 
 
 Chr. {to Clitandre). I knew very well that you would have 
 her. 
 
 Armande {to Philaminte). Will you sacrifice me, then, in this 
 manner to their wishes? 
 
 Phi. It will not be you that I sacrifice to them : you have 
 the support of philosophy, and car» see their ardour crowned with 
 a contented eye. 
 
528 THE BLUE-STOCKINGS. [Act V. 
 
 Bkl. Let him take care, however, to retain me in his heart. 
 People often marry through a sudden despair, which they after- 
 wards repent of as long as they live. 
 
 Chr. \to the Notary). Come, sir, follow the order I gave you, 
 and draw up the contract as I said. 
 
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