5193	----	This Etext is for private use only. No republication for profit in print or other media may be made without the express consent of the Copyright Holder. The Copyright Holder is especially concerned about performance rights in any media on stage, cinema, or television, or audio or any other media, including readings for which an entrance fee or the like is charge. Permissions should be addressed to: Frank Morlock, 6006 Greenbelt Rd, #312, Greenbelt, MD 20770, USA or frankmorlock@msn.com. Other works by this author may be found at http://www.cadytech.com/dumas/personnage.asp?key=130 THE DOUBLE WIDOWING BY RIVIERE DUFRESNY TRANSLATED AND ADAPTED BY FRANK J. MORLOCK C 1986 CHARACTERS, four men, six women: The Countess, an imperious woman of no particular age Mr. Bramble, her steward Widow, Bramble's wife Tuneless, the Countess's butler who composes music Desmond, Mr. Bramble's nephew, a sentimentalist in love with Arabella Arabella, the Widow's niece, a rationalist in love with Desmond Maid, the Countess's maid Lucy, the Widow's maid Mr. MacPherson, a servant of the Countess Mrs. MacPherson, his wife The scene is set in a room in the Countess's country house. The time is the early 18th Century. Lucy I am delighted to see you return, sir. I've been looking for you all over the place, in the gardens, everywhere. Desmond Good day, Lucy, good day. Lucy You've come at just the right time. The Countess, and I, and all the house have been waiting for you to return with great impatience. But, quickly--tell me news of your uncle-- Is Mr. Bramble dead or alive? Desmond I know nothing of it. Lucy We are in the same incertitude. Only Mrs. Bramble is certain. We've told her he's dead for sure--to make her fall into the trap we've set for her. She thinks she's a widow, and it's on that belief that we build our little project of your marriage, sir. Desmond What's that? Lucy I told you, that to facilitate your marriage with Arabella, the Countess, who protects you both, has pulled a thousand strings to prove to my mistress that your uncle is dead. Mrs. Bramble is so sure of being a widow that she put on mourning yesterday, sir. Desmond What are you telling me? Lucy I'm telling you business that concerns both of us. For the thirty gold crowns you promised me has the same appeal to me that Arabella has for you. Listen to me, then--. To help us, you must hide from our widow the love you have for Arabella, for if she suspects you love her niece-- Desmond I know all that. I've been through it just now with the Countess. Lucy Sir, pardon my useless talk. I ought first to talk of the charms of this young beauty who-- Desmond What charms she has, Lucy, what charms! She has so many! Lucy The most pretty little charms. Not fifteen years old, these charms, and new ones added every day. And, you will marry all of them soon. Desmond It's the greatest misfortune that can happen to me. Lucy A misfortune to possess something you love so much! Here's one of your bizarre refinements. You are the most reasonable gentleman in England--but you've no common sense. Speak to me reasonably: do you wish to marry her? Desmond Do I ever wish it! Lucy If you wish this marriage ardently, let's work in concert. I hope Arabella will be your wife today. Desmond Alas, that's what I fear. Lucy Again! Oh, you exaggerate. Is this crazy love or simply craziness? Desmond No, Lucy, no--it is not caprice, it is not exaggeration. I fear with my mind that which I want with all my heart. I am well aware that I cannot live without the adorable Arabella. But, I foresee we will be unhappy together. In a word, we are unable to agree about anything. Lucy And, what is it necessary to agree about to get married? Desmond If you knew the reception she just gave me-- Lucy She was wrong-- Desmond She received me with an air-- Lucy Is it possible? Desmond After eight days absence. Lucy She received you coldly? Desmond She received me shouting, dancing. I saw her jump about with happiness. Lucy My word, you're not wise. What! You despair because she's delighted to see you? Desmond Delighted to see me! I cannot compare that dissipated delight with the sensitive pleasure and passion the sight of a loved one should inspire. For example, from the moment I saw her I stood immobile, seized by a languor--my heart beat, my eyes clouded. Ahh! That's the way to express passion. But she is incapable of such a solid, passionate love--which is the only kind that can content me. Lucy If I was a man, I'd choose for my wife a woman who was always gay, never moody or sensitive. Desmond I want sensibility. Lucy In a mistress--but in a wife, shame! Desmond It's all an amusement. Lucy It's an amusement very dangerous for the husband. Desmond One can have feelings and be virtuous. Lucy Virtue doesn't always make a woman faithful. I'd like a woman better who had no passions rather than one who is governed by them. (Enter Arabella, singing.) Arabella La, la, la, la--la, la, la, la, la. Desmond Do you hear, Lucy, do you hear? Lucy She has a nice voice, doesn't she? Desmond After having seen me before her overcome by emotion-- Arabella La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. Desmond (walking away) I am outraged to hear that. Arabella Hey! Here you both are-- You don't see what's going on here because you're wrapped up in your somber mood. Desmond My emotion is well justified. Arabella You are angry to see me laugh, and I am laughing to see you angry. Desmond Is this a way to talk of love? Arabella As for love--will yours always be so afflicted? Desmond If I had less refinement-- Arabella You would be more reasonable. Desmond Is there anything more reasonable than my complaints? Arabella Oh, your exaggerations are always full of reason. But they don't make you happy. Desmond What a conversation. Alas--how different your character is from mine. Arabella Marriage will solve all that. Desmond There, Lucy, I ask you to judge-- Lucy I have nothing to gain by judging. Judge yourselves. I am going to get my mistress up. Arabella Dress her up quickly, for the Countess wants to see her right away. Lucy Your aunt Bramble is not yet awake--and between the wake up and the coming down of a middle aged woman, there are numerous ceremonies of the toilette. (Exit Lucy.) Arabella We've got to get some money from my aunt. It's essential. Desmond The essential thing is to find out if we're going to be happy together. Arabella Nice question! With this type of humor we're going to get along fine; and I'm going to get rid of all your peculiarities. Desmond I am not being peculiar, when, after quiet reasoning, I conclude that your frivolousness-- Arabella Oh, my frivolousness, my frivolousness; I believe that my gayety ought to prove my tenderness. Here's how I think you ought to have reasoned, knowing me, and my fear of marriage because it is sad. I naturally fear marriage. I see they want to marry me to you--and I show no emotion. Well--to be gay under these circumstances--doesn't that prove I love you? Desmond That's not to hate me. Arabella If you don't want me to hate you, don't anger me any more with the tone you're taking. Seems to me, I love you passably well. Desmond Passably--there's a very touching expression. "Passably." Arabella Oh--I wish you could count the joys I feel. Desmond That joy would be properly expressed if you were sure our marriage will succeed--but in the situation we are in, you ought to tremble. And if you were in love, you'd be like me: ill at ease, agitated, in a cruel uncertainty, languishing, sighing, trembling. (Enter the Countess and her Maid.) Countess Well, Arabella, I am working to marry you--aren't you delighted? Arabella On the contrary, Madame, I am ill at ease, agitated, and in a cruel uncertainty, languishing, sighing, and trembling. Is that how I should love, sir? Countess Enough, Arabella, enough. Desmond, it was I who told her to tease you a bit over your emotionalism. It's not that I don't esteem you highly; the interest I take in your marriage proves that. But today, I've resolved to laugh, and to ridicule all those who happen to be around me. I have nothing but a boring day to pass in the country, and I am gong to amuse myself at the expense of anyone who happens to be around. So beware. Our widow will be the principal subject of my diversion--and the way I intend to get the money out of Mrs. Bramble is a comedy which will amuse me immensely. Arabella If you are able to get money out of aunt Bramble, don't mock her. We must pity the afflicted. Countess When her husband's death was announced to her, I perceived that only her facial expression showed any signs of affliction. Desmond Maybe so, but I beg you to spare her. For if her affection was false, that of my uncle was true enough. And my uncle had the honor to be your steward. Countess Oh, Bramble's enriched himself at my expense--and now I will laugh at the expense of his widow. After all, it's an outrage. She wants to disinherit her niece--who's my godchild--in a word, she hates what you love. Why manipulate, if it weren't for love of you? Desmond If she's done it from love of me, it's an inexcusable folly. Countess A less excusable folly is the speed with which she took to mourning yesterday. (to Maid) Miss, tell me how she has been able to find so much crepe in the country? Maid I heard this morning from Lucy, that she's always kept a mourning outfit hidden in her trunk, so as always to be well prepared for the unexpected death of her husband. She says every well-ordered wife ought to do the same, so she can celebrate her misfortune from the very first moment of widowhood. Countess And you don't want me to ridicule such an affectation? There, Desmond! Go, put on mourning, too--to prove that your uncle is dead. Arabella I am also going to put on black, to make it all more touching. (Exit Arabella and Desmond.) Countess Miss, you will have to sing a little aria in the opera that Mr. Tuneless is preparing for me. It's right that my servants contribute to my amusements today. Maid I wish your Scotsman were here. He sings well. His wife is also a good singer and dances well for a highlander. Countess Here she is now. What does she wish to tell me? (Enter Mrs. MacPherson.) Mrs. MacPherson Rejoice, Madame, my husband has just returned from Tunbridge Wells. Countess I am delighted. He will tell us if Mr. Bramble is dead or alive. He hasn't already told you, has he? Mrs. MacPherson My husband never tells me his secrets. He's right, for I am too much of a gossip. I like it better when he tells me nothing, because he's so pompous when he tells me a secret. He has such long oaths, so long that I would as soon listen to a hundred sighs from another man. Before he will tell me one word! Countess Why doesn't he come then? Mrs. MacPherson Madame, to appear to you in his proper attire, he has gone to have his wig curled and powdered. Maid He's rouging also. For he went to the Wells to lighten his skin. Mrs. MacPherson Don't mock him before her, mam. He went to the waters to improve his health. And to please me, for he loves me, and I am determined that he be healthy. Countess I am delighted to see you in such good humor. Mrs. MacPherson I am happy because my husband has returned. And also, because your servant has been slipping us a little wine--discreetly. Women from my country are born for wine, like the French are born for love. Each to his custom and often enough the one does not impede the other. Maid Here is Mr. MacPherson, Madame. You are going to hear an interesting speech, because he's erudite, your Highlander. MacPherson (entering) Madame, Madame. Countess Don't waste your time bowing. Tell me--is Bramble dead? MacPherson I know all about these matters--in extreme exactitude. Countess All these things consist in one word--he's dead, or he isn't. MacPherson It is necessary to explain all these things to you by direction. For, when I left you, you directed that I should bring you a report of all the circumstances of our trip in writing. Countess Very well. What I want to know is written in your journal. MacPherson My journal consists of words without paper. For I have written in my mind--in three little chapters--our departure, our trip, our return. Countess Here's a well-ordered explanation. MacPherson With regard to the first, Mr. Bramble was very ridiculous, very ridiculous. He said he'd been married to his wife for ten years without children, and it was to cure sterility that he was going to the waters. So much for what he said as soon as he arrived. Countess If this story wasn't so funny, it would make me very impatient. MacPherson In the second chapter, your bailiff was also very ridiculous. For I like wine, and he went to the waters to drink water, and in this water, he found, in place of virility--illness-so much illness, that he is dying. Countess Now, we're at the point. Bramble thought he was dying and is not dead. Listen, you must tell his wife that when her husband was dying--he died. MacPherson Ha, ha, ha. When one finds the widow of a living man, we'll have a good laugh. Countess When is he coming? Where did you leave him? MacPherson I left him yesterday, about thirty leagues from here, when his coach broke down. Go on ahead, he said, for I'm likely to be sick here until tomorrow, and my coach won't be ready till Monday. I will come on Tuesday. (Exit MacPherson and Mrs. MacPherson.) Countess According to that, he won't be here until tomorrow--and cannot disturb our project today. So, Miss, tell my dancing women to prepare for the wedding I intend to celebrate today. Maid We will do all our best to please you, and though I sing poorly, I can sing a sad song about being a widow. Countess It's Tuneless who is getting everything ready. He wants to be a music master, my Butler. Maid He's an original. Look here. I believe he's composing--for he's walking to the beat. Hold, hold, Madame, the spirit torments him--he's possessed by the demon of music. Countess Shh! He doesn't see us. Let's give him the pleasure-- Tuneless (entering) Nothing's going right, dammit. La, la, la, la. I can never find a completely new idea. (slowly) La, la, la, la, la--no, that opening's in Lully. La, la, la, la, la, la--Lully again. La, la, la, la--Lully again. That Lully everywhere--everywhere I turn. I am very unfortunate not to have been born before him. Everything I have in my head is useless because they say I plagiarize him. La, la, la, la, la--good there. La, la, la, la, la. Admirable. La, la. Marvelous. And the second, lower--la, la, la, low tone, what invention. La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la--what reflections of genius. The notes are coming to me--write them down quickly. (with one knee on the ground, he writes on some paper on the other knee, until, perceiving the Countess, he takes off his hat in this position and continues to write) (singing) Pardon me, Madame, oh pardon, Madame, da, de, da, de da, Madame. I note the last tone. (rising and bowing to the Countess) It's a duo for an aria about widowhood, as you have commanded. (giving her a paper. Wait, Madame--you know how to sing without a book. Countess I see Mrs. Bramble in the gallery. I must speak with our widow. Tuneless Let us sing together, and that will serve as a rehearsal. (Exit Countess.) Tuneless (to Maid) Now you will represent the widow. Carefully imitate the affliction of widows. Cry with your eyes down in your chin. Lucy (entering) Retire. My mistress approaches. She's coming here to cry on the way. She needs practice. Tuneless Exactly. Soon she'll be crying for her money. Real tears then. Lucy Don't joke. I'm afraid all this may be dangerous for her. Tuneless Why is that? Lucy I'm sorry for her. When the Countess guaranteed she was a widow, it was like a knife thrust in her heart. Tuneless What? She felt the blow? Lucy Think what she's going to feel when they undeceive her. The loss of her delightful status of widowhood will cause her to die. Tuneless Let's come to the business. Tell me truly, now that she believes her husband is dead--is she in love with Desmond, and does she plan to marry him? Lucy She thought about it even while she was alive. And I always thought she prayed the nephew would outlive his uncle. Tuneless >From the confidences her husband has made to me, I have often thought he destined his niece for the post of her aunt. He was quite explicit that Arabella was the niece of his wife only in the third degree. Lucy My mistress wishes that Desmond was not her husband's nephew. Tuneless These sentiments astonish me in a woman so careful of the proprieties. Lucy She's proper in public, but with certain women, public morals and private morals differ as much their faces do from the time they get up and the time they go to bed. Tuneless Everything considered, I judge that these two are perfectly matched in all the arts of conjugal hypocrisy. Lucy They love each other, in proportion to the wealth they hope to obtain from each other. Tuneless Yes, self-interest by itself produces more false love in some families than true love produces in all the sincere lovers in London. Lucy I admire the wisdom of our law which permits spouses to disinherit one another. For only the hope of inheriting is the dike that can prevent a torrent of family quarrels. Go quickly. Here is my mistress. To gain her confidence, I am going to help her out of her sorrows. (Exit Tuneless and the Maid. Enter from another direction, the Countess and the Widow Bramble.) Countess Save your tears, Madame, save your tears. To tremble, to sigh, to sob. All these demonstrations of sorrow are worse than sorrow itself. Widow Alas. Countess Don't avoid the offer I'm making you any more. Respond to me exactly. You don't like to have your niece around. I'm going to take her off your hands and marry her off in the country. Won't you give her some wedding present? Widow This is the fourth day of my widowhood--the fourth day isn't it, Lucy? Lucy The fourth, yes. Widow (to Countess) Well, Madame, since then I haven't had any nourishment at all. Lucy We are nourished only by affliction and black tea. Widow Everything I eat rests on my stomach like lead. Lucy We eat hardly anything, and what we eat suffocates us. Countess Answer me, then Madame, agree. Widow No, I won't be alive in four days. Countess Live, and don't cry. Widow Ah, I will cry more than thirty years. Lucy To die soon and cry forever is our final resolution. Widow I don't know what I'm saying, Lucy. Lucy I see it plainly. We haven't the strength to marry Arabella. Countess While your husband was living, you gave the excuse that you hoped to have children. Now, your hopes and excuses are dead with your husband: you are mistress of your estate. You must marry Arabella, or tell me that you don't wish it. Widow I cannot make up my mind to marry Arabella. Really, I don't wish her so much ill as to expose her to marriage. Countess To hear you speak thus about marriage, one would think you didn't like it. Widow On the contrary, it was because my happiness was so perfect, that I don't wish to marry my niece. Countess That's a reason to marry her. Widow I had a very loveable husband, and I don't want her to have one. Countess Explain yourself! Widow She will be too overcome if she loses him, to marry her would be to expose her to the risk of becoming a widow. (cries) And, to unhappiness like mine. Ah, Madame, in the abyss in which I find myself--retreat and solitude--that's the road my niece ought to take. Countess Solitude doesn't agree with Arabella. Widow Don't speak to me anymore about it. I am too afflicted. Countess And, in a word--your niece? Widow No, no--I am too afflicted. I intend that she spend her life in a convent. Countess >From the bad reasons you give me, I discern the good ones you keep to yourself. You wish to protect your money, so you can remarry. Widow Me! Me, remarry! Countess Listen, to undertake a second marriage, you need the great wealth your husband left you. And, this great wealth, having been earned in managing my affairs--I could--I haven't yet signed off on your husband's accounts--. That's why I beg you not to refuse the ten thousand crowns that you have in your strongbox. I beg you, I really do. (Exit Countess.) Widow (ill tempered) I beg you, she says, I beg you. Lucy She begs you with a certain air-- Widow Taking on a tone-- Lucy Of people of quality who-- Widow Believing that their prayers-- Lucy Are a sort of command. A great lord who asks a citizen to do him a service is like a banker respectfully asking payment on a promissory note. Widow She speaks as if one was in great fear of her. Lucy You'd have less reason to fear if your husband were alive. For he was as clever in protecting his prey as he was in catching it. Widow Alas, I am indeed lost. Lucy Madame, the Countess could easily cheat you. You may say that she cannot cheat the widow of an honest steward, who enriched himself as everyone does by entangling his affairs with hers. But, now she is going to take from you unjustly that which your husband earned on the fair and square. Widow That's what I'm afraid of, Lucy. Lucy They ought not to oppress widows--because they have lost their main support. Widow Their support. That's very true, I am without support. Lucy Without support! That's why you ought to pacify the Countess. That way you would peaceably obtain your husband's wealth. Then, find some young man to be your support. Widow Ah, Lucy. If I think of accommodating the Countess, it is not to gain peace. But, before I give her anything, I wish to consult with some smart man. Lucy (low) Like Desmond. (Aloud) Some smart fellow who-- Widow Some man of good counsel. Lucy Very good. Widow A man with a head. Lucy By the way, Desmond came this afternoon. Widow Desmond's come-- Lucy Yes, Madame. He's a smart fellow, Desmond. Widow Assuredly. Lucy A man of good counsel. Widow Without a doubt. Lucy A man with a head. If you told him your difficulties-- Widow He knows my husband's business-- Lucy Yours will be in good hands. Widow Go--tell him that he can find me in the garden. Lucy Right away, Madame. Widow A wise person ought to take advice. Lucy You will follow Desmond's. What wisdom. What wisdom. [Curtain in the original. End of Act I.] Widow Ah, Lucy, how ashamed I am to tell you of the distant vows I have made to Desmond. Lucy So long as those distant vows don't come too soon, I approve of them. Widow If I were less virtuous than those ancient wives who could envisage no other consolation except to swallow the ashes of their husbands! Lucy You see in your nephew the living features of your husband, his uncle. Catching the possessor of those features will cure you of your scruples. Widow Lucy, do you suppose Desmond misunderstands my motives? Lucy Not at all. I'm sure he understands them perfectly. But, be discreet. A man understands a widow's hint. Widow I have always spoken to him with an indifference, a frigidity-- Lucy See the fate of virtue-- Widow I have expressed all the ideas of tenderness with perfect circumspection, but--shrewdly, delicately, with refinement. Really, without these precautions, I would expose myself to continual remorse. I would imagine, without end, that the soul of the departed reproached me. Yes, even in this moment, I hear his complaints, the sound of his voice, actually in my ears. (Enter Desmond, after Lucy has signalled him to do so.) Desmond Madame. Widow Ah, Heaven, shh! It's you, Desmond. You've frightened me. I thought I heard the voice of my husband. Desmond Really, there's quite a resemblance in our voices. The whole world used to mistake us. Widow My husband had a very agreeable voice. Desmond Let's talk business. Widow The resemblances in families is remarkable. You've got your uncle's manners--even his brusqueness. Desmond Following the advice I have given you-- Widow You have his gestures, his manner, his way of looking. I love most your way of looking-- Desmond Let's think about finishing. Widow What still charms me in my husband is your softness, your wit, your entire person. Desmond Madame, I've spoken to the Countess, and I think it's important that you pacify her--but you are not honoring me with your attention. Widow With my attention! It's you who don't listen to me. Desmond But really, it's wise to give in to her-- Widow You urge me to give away all my wealth? Desmond Only a small part of it. Otherwise, you jeopardize-- Widow You don't know how much better it would be if I keep it. It would be better for you. Desmond For me? Widow For, in the future--you understand, sir. I could really, for you-- Right, Lucy--I can't explain any more, sir. You understand, don't you-- Desmond I-- Widow Because propriety prevents me from saying to you-- Lucy You've told him that already. Widow I will say only, that having reflected on what the Countess didn't say, I fear that the husband she intends for Arabella is none other than yourself. Desmond Me, Madame? Lucy The gentleman would be wiser to go to the source of the wealth. Widow I believe it, but from the fear that the Countess will give you, in spite of yourself, to Arabella, I have resolved not to give my money until the marriage contract is signed--and a husband other than yourself is the lucky man. And, I have a thousand other good reasons to communicate to you about this. But, I can't say a word now. Follow me, Lucy. (Exit Widow.) Desmond Lucy. Lucy Sir, I have to go. (Exit Lucy.) Desmond What to do now? (Enter Arabella.) Arabella Tell me quickly--how did your conversation go with my aunt? Desmond I think I've convinced her that she should let me arbitrate between her and the Countess. Arabella That's funny. Desmond She's disposed to agree to whatever I suggest, and--in a word--she's working for our marriage, without even knowing it. Arabella Without knowing it. That makes me delighted. Desmond Do you understand what our happiness is? Arabella You will judge against her interest. Nothing could be funnier. It charms me totally. Desmond You are pleased by the joke. The humor of it is what touches you. Your first sensation ought to be a passionate feeling of happiness. Arabella Happiness touches me, too. Desmond Too, too. You have a delightful choice of words--very revealing. Arabella Oh, don't quibble with me. I am going to have a good laugh with the Countess. Desmond What! Leave me without witnessing-- Arabella I will witness you wonderfully. (Enter Lucy.) Arabella Ah, Lucy, everything is going wonderfully. You see me in joy. But, in recompense, Desmond is angry. I believe he almost wishes that our marriage should be prevented, and that he will run into some obstacle. Lucy Then he can rejoice, for the obstacle has come. Your uncle is returned, sir. Desmond My uncle, ah Heaven, I am in despair. Arabella All our schemes are ruined. Ah, Desmond, why do you love me so much? It always makes you so unhappy. Really, I feel worse than you--no hope--I am desolated. Desmond Desolated, you say? Arabella Desolated, desperate. Desmond What? You suffer? Arabella Oh, how unhappy I am. Desmond Ah, what a joy for me! You have feelings. I am loved. I don't want anything else in the world. I want only your heart. Lucy You won't have that either. Desmond But Lucy, is it really true that my uncle is back? What, in the very moment I was convinced we'd be happy forever. Ah Heaven, is there a misery equal to mine? (Enter Tuneless.) Tuneless The steward is back. What a reversal. He took an express coach and returns just in time to desolate us. His wife's rage is going to rebound on us--for she already knows. Lucy For me, I wish them both what they deserve. To the wife, a dead husband. To the husband, a dead wife. At least their desires will not be accomplished quickly.-- You will never be married. Desmond Here's my uncle coming now. Arabella What shall we say to him? Lucy What role to play? Tuneless I don't know at all. (Enter Bramble.) Bramble Listen, what's this all about? Vainly do I question everybody. Each one turns his back on me, without any response. Everyone in mourning. Nephew, why are you dressed in mourning? Desmond (bowing and exiting) Sir-- Bramble Another fleeing mute. And you, Arabella, what have you to tell me? Arabella (curtsying) Not a thing, sir. (Exit Arabella.) Bramble Again--hey, I beg you, Lucy, ease me of my uncertainty. Why the mourning? Lucy For a costume party. (Exit Lucy.) Bramble And you, Tuneless--won't you explain to me what I already begin to suspect. If it were the Countess who was dead, then everybody would be in mourning--right? My dear Tuneless, hide nothing from me. You are my only confidant-- Tuneless Well, but-- (aside) What the devil am I going to say? Bramble What ought I to think in seeing all this? Tuneless In seeing all this black clothing, you ought to think they are dressed in black. Bramble Hmm! I doubt-- Tuneless Tell me. What are you worried about? I will tell you if it is true. Bramble It must be, but I don't believe it. Tuneless Nor I, sir. Bramble My heart tells me enough. (hands over his eyes) My wife is dead. Tuneless (aside) This give me an idea. Let him believe it. He is in love with Arabella, that's good, too. (aloud) Yes, my word, sir. There's no keeping it from you. One divines immediately what one fears or wishes most. You've guessed it. Your wife is--dead. Bramble I've observed that no one dared tell me the news. Tuneless It jumps right at you. I dared not tell you. I am certain you are strong enough to bear it. Bramble It happens to everybody. Tuneless You take it like a Caesar. Bramble I bet she died Saturday night. Tuneless Right. Bramble 'Cause I woke from a dream with a terrible start. Tuneless You see the sympathy between those two who love each other. Bramble I sensed a cold hand. Tuneless And, she told you goodbye. Bramble I saw an invisible phantom. There--who disappeared. But, how did her death occur? Tuneless I am going to tell you, sir. You know that Saturday night-- Bramble Yes? Tuneless In the moment she appeared to you--death took her. But the ghost already told you-- Bramble What happened? Tuneless Death took her. I don't like to tell sad tales like these. Bramble Tell me some circumstances. Tuneless If you absolutely wish to know the circumstances, I'll tell you right away that she died suddenly. Bramble Of apoplexy? Tuneless No, sir--of--of emotion. They just told her you had died at the wells. Suddenly, a seizure came on--and the faint turned into a coma--and you are now a widower. Bramble (drawing out a handkerchief) If it is true she died of sadness, I am obligated to weep. (low) But, how shall I manage it? Boo hoo. Tuneless Don't weep any more. I've got important business to discuss. Bramble Really, I've suffered an irreparable loss. Tuneless That can be repaired, sir--for-- Bramble She was the best of wives--boo hoo. Tuneless Listen to me, please-- Bramble Easy going--affectionate--boo hoo. Tuneless Listen, will you! Bramble Tender--boo--sincere hoo--honest boo--the best heart--the best heart-- hoo--hoo--hoo. Tuneless (aside) If he's going to weep forever, he'll mess up my plans. (pulling Bramble by the arm) Sir, you make me feel compassion for you. The woman didn't die of sadness. I told you at first to console you. But the truth is--as all the doctors agree--she died of pure joy! Bramble I cannot believe she wished my death. Tuneless To wish your death, no, but she hoped you wouldn't live as long as she. Bramble Oh, as to that, I believe it, indeed. Tuneless She wished to inherit your wealth. Bramble Ah! Self-interest. Tuneless Interest rendered her soft and caressing. But, at the bottom she had a hardness for you. Bramble Ah, that's a bad heart. Tuneless You remember, one day, enraged against you, she had such self control she was able to embrace you. She almost split. She told her maids all the injuries she wished, but didn't dare to express to you. In her mind, she was strangling you. Bramble A bad woman. Tuneless Malicious. Bramble Secretive. Tuneless Darkly so. Bramble If I were so indignant-- Tuneless Malign-- Bramble Outrageous. Tuneless Demonic. Bramble So extravagant. Tuneless She was a devil. Bramble If she hadn't died, I would kill her. Tuneless Therefore, cry no more. Recollect the tenderness you have for Arabella--remember you told me of it? In confidence, of course. If you still love that little Arabella, I warn you, the Countess intends to marry her today. Bramble Today! Tuneless >From friendship, that's what I wish you to prevent. But, before going into that, it's essential that you avoid the Countess until we have taken certain measures with Arabella. But, hide yourself quickly in these apartments while I go to Arabella. Bramble You upset me. Tuneless Go in, quickly. (pushing him out) Because I will lead Arabella to you instantly. (Exit Bramble.) Tuneless My idea is good; he's fallen into the trap. A weak little genius wrapped up in his business affairs--and stupid in everything else. One sees many like that. Now to prevent-- But, if someone should undeceive him-- (going, then stopping) Still, I have to go. (returning) Better stay. How to begin-- (Enter Mr. MacPherson and Mrs. MacPherson.) Mrs. MacPherson Ah, sir. Mr. Bramble is returned. What a misfortune! MacPherson He came post haste. That's the trouble. Mrs. MacPherson There's the trouble. MacPherson If his wife sees him, she'll know he's not dead. Mrs. MacPherson No more marriage. MacPherson No partying--no wedding. Mrs. MacPherson No drinking. MacPherson Nothing. Tuneless Listen to me--if you what to celebrate, we must make him believe his wife is dead. MacPherson Ho, ho, ho--both dead. Mrs. MacPherson And both widows. Tuneless If he asks you--say no more than "She is dead."-- But when? But how? But why? MacPherson She is dead. Tuneless Very good. But that's not the only thing. We must prevent these two from meeting, and to do that you may have to counterfeit drunkenness. Mrs. MacPherson I'll take care of that. We will drink despite him. Tuneless Yes. Watch him for me until I come back. (Exit Tuneless.) MacPherson We have to say "Your wife is dead, and we're drinking our sorrows." Mrs. MacPherson Maybe he can hear us. Sing something about his dead wife. MacPherson That's a fine idea. A fine idea, Hem, la, la, la. My wife is dead, my wife is dead, And my heart, it feels like lead--Ooh! (Enter Bramble.) Bramble What's this? Do you rejoice in my sorrow? MacPherson Your wife is dead and we're drinking. Mrs. MacPherson And we are drinking. Bramble These rogues are drunk. (trying to leave) MacPherson (stopping him) Drink away your sorrows. It's the only way. Bramble (trying to pass) What's all this? Mr. and Mrs. MacPherson Console yourself. Sit down in this chair. Bramble (forced to sit) The devil! Mrs. MacPherson You wife has left us. It's sad. We must drink until she returns. MacPherson If my wife dies, I will get drunk for her epitaph. Bramble I'm getting nothing from these drunks. I'd better wait till Tuneless returns. Mrs. MacPherson While we're waiting for Tuneless, we'll sing you a little song to chase your sorrows away. Bramble Death. Mr. and Mrs. MacPherson Heigh ho, heigh ho, it's off to the funeral we'll go, heigh ho, heigh ho-- (Enter Tuneless and Arabella.) Tuneless Silence. Get out. There Miss, come on in. (Exit Mr. and Mrs. MacPherson.) Arabella Here he is. I'm going to play my part wonderfully. Bramble Ah--they're gone. Let's join Tuneless. Arabella I come to ask your bounty, sir. I am desolate. Bramble Console yourself, my dear child. I will prevent the Countess from marrying you. Arabella She wants to marry me to a man with no money at all. That's what distresses me. Tuneless No money at all. Sir, you know she has nothing. And, when one marries without money--it makes for a lot of sad children. The Countess said this fellow had a fortune. Arabella I don't believe in fortunes, except when I see them already in existence. Tuneless She said he is young. Arabella Then, he will be unfaithful. Tuneless The older a man is, the more likely you'll love him for the rest of his life. Arabella I always wanted a husband with a settled disposition. Tuneless Who has been previously married. Arabella Who always indulges his wife in a thousand ways. Tuneless Like you, for example. Arabella Unfortunately, I will never be as happy as my aunt was. Bramble I like the prudence, the wisdom, and the good taste of this tasty little person. Arabella It's my natural taste, you know, sir. I am incapable of loving a young man. But, I am capable of a real affection for those who treat me right. Bramble Noble sentiments, noble sentiments. I am so charmed, so delighted, that I am going to see the Countess right now. Ah, there she is in the gallery. I am going to speak to her this moment. (Exit Bramble.) Arabella It's not going badly. But, if my aunt should come in-- Tuneless Fear nothing. These two departed will not meet so soon. For Desmond is keeping the widow in the garden, and we are keeping the husband here. The Countess is in on the plot, and is going to keep him in his apartment, one way or another. Arabella Hurry then, to do on our side as well as Desmond has done on his. Tuneless You must make your contribution by making the old widower in love, while Desmond does the same with the widow. (Enter Steward, Countess, Lucy.) Countess Love doesn't hide itself, sir, and you have accosted me in a manner that convinces me you have a great deal for Arabella. Bramble Not at all, Madame, but with respect-- Countess I have only one word to say to you about the matter. If you don't want me to marry off Arabella, and to keep her to console you in your grief, and then later marry her--then you must do something for your nephew. You know how highly I think of Desmond. I have spoken to you a hundred times for him--uselessly. And I am going to take this opportunity--the solicitor is downstairs--I am going to marry Arabella, before your very eyes, if you don't transfer some of your wealth to Desmond. Bramble I am a reasonable man. Countess We'll go see. But, come to my apartment to agree on the contract. Follow us, Arabella. Your presence will facilitate this little accommodation. (Exit Bramble, Countess, Arabella, and Tuneless. After a moment, enter Desmond and Lucy.) Desmond Well, Lucy? Lucy They are about to tax your uncle. What have you done to hasten the liberality of our widow? Desmond I pressed her in a lively way. But she was pressing me in a lively way, also. Lucy Her love presses. Desmond I pretend not to understand her passionate talk. But the less I seem to understand, the more she reveals. I can't hold her back. I had to leave her alone in the garden--where she stayed to hide her confusion. She sighs, she excites herself-- Lucy A declaration is coming. It wants to come forth. She will unburden her heart. She is meditating some passionate declaration which may be obscure--or plain enough. Desmond All too plain, I fear. I see her coming. I am not going to wait to hear this. (Exit Desmond.) Widow (entering) Where did he go, Lucy? Lucy (pointing her in the wrong direction) That way, I think. Widow Desmond. Desmond. I must talk to you. (Exit Widow. Enter Tuneless.) Lucy Ah, Tuneless, everything's a mess here. Tuneless Ah, Lucy, everything's even worse on the other side. Lucy Truly, she really wants to make a gift. Tuneless In truth, he wants to make a gift. Lucy But, Tuneless-- Tuneless But, Lucy-- Lucy But first, she wants to assure herself that Desmond-- Tuneless He wishes to be first secure of Arabella. He will give, when the contract is signed. Lucy In signing the contract, she says. Tuneless I can't see any hope. Lucy My genius is exhausted. Tuneless Our intrigue falls of its own weight. Lucy She's too sly. Tuneless He's too clever. Very well. Lucy, let us at least have the pleasure of dashing their hopes of this double marriage. Lucy What you suggest will do no good as far as I can see. I haven't the audacity to laugh about it. They'll be furious. (Exit Lucy.) Tuneless Me, I always have the courage to amuse myself. Let's see what will become of this. The husband is left alone in his apartment--his wife is alone in hers. They are both saddled for the race. Let's see who will win. Good, here's the husband. I also see the wife. Let's turn out the lights so as to make this double widowhood last a bit longer. (Tuneless turns out the lights. Bramble enters.) Bramble The Countess thinks she's found her dupe. She intends to get me to give my money to Desmond, and then marry Arabella to whoever she pleases. But Arabella would be in despair not to marry me. I told her to meet me here so we could take some precautions. She's on her way. Let's wait here. (stepping into the shadows) (Enter Widow.) Widow I can't find Desmond anywhere. Someone turned out the lights. He couldn't have given Arabella a rendez-vous here? Bramble (aside) If Arabella agrees, I will marry her, in spite of the Countess. I've only to take her away secretly. But, what's happening? Widow It's Desmond, waiting for Arabella! Bramble Arabella is following me. How lucky I am, that she's promised to marry me. Ah! Widow How he sighs for her. The little traitor! Bramble It's Arabella who's looking for me. Here I am. Widow The resemblance of their voices always astonishes me. How I love one and hate the other. Bramble Am I the one you're looking for? Widow His voice makes me tremble-- But, I am crazy--it's Desmond's voice that sounds like that. I'll pretend to be Arabella. I've come to our rendez-vous, my dear, Desmond. Bramble Desmond--what, is it Desmond you come to see, after having promised never to be with anyone but me? Widow Ah! It's the true raging voice of my husband. Bramble Ingrate! Liar! Widow His ghost reproaches me. Bramble To betray me thus. Widow His ghost returns. Let's get out of here! (runs and falls into a chair) My legs have betrayed me! Let me call for help. Ah! My voice fails me. Bramble You wish to marry Desmond? Widow I didn't say that. Bramble What! Didn't I hear right--"Isn't it Desmond?" Widow Oh, no. I will never have another except you. Bramble Bah! Never have another-- Widow No, no, husband, no. Bramble She trembles and calls me her husband. She fears the Countess. There's only me here--don't be afraid. Follow me. Widow Ha--a, a, a-- Bramble (taking her hand) Where are you then? Widow (fainting) Ah. Bramble Don't be afraid--it's me who's got your hand. Widow I know it's you. Bramble Yes,--while you call me your husband, you will be my wife. You will love me a little--right? Hey--modesty renders her silent. Hmm. How much more delightful this hand is to kiss than that of my late wife. Hers was rough, this is soft. But don't lose any time. Come with me. (pulling her) What is it? What's wrong? Widow Ah, Desmond-- Bramble What do I hear? (Enter Tuneless with a candle. The Widow and Bramble see each other, scream, and exit in different directions.) Tuneless I turn the thing into raillery. Now, we shall see. I have an idea that I must communicate to Lucy. (Exit Tuneless.) [Curtain in the original. End of Act II.] (The lights darken, indicating the passage of time. Enter Arabella and Lucy.) Lucy Mr. Bramble is outraged not to be a widower. He curses the Countess who has given him his false joy--but, he doesn't break with Tuneless, because he's afraid Tuneless will inform his dear lady of his infidelity. He still loves you, but he's still more amorous of inheriting from his wife. This should make it easier for Tuneless to bring him round. Arabella Really, what good can all this do? Lucy It may help--with luck. But frankly, I don't think it will help. Let's retire. I'm going to see in what shape my lady is in. (Exit Lucy and Arabella. Enter Tuneless and Bramble.) Tuneless Yes, sir, it's dissimulation that keeps society going between men-- civil and matrimonial. Bramble Ouf! Tuneless Under the shelter of dissimulation, courtiers embrace each other, women compliment each other, and authors bow to each other at a distance. Dissimulation creates new friendships and smoothes over old hatreds. Bramble Ouf! Tuneless Without dissimulation, how many secret separations would grow into public divorces. But dissimulation gives wisdom to men, joy to husbands--that's why there are so many happy families at present. Bramble Ah, my dear Tuneless-- Tuneless You begin to dissimulate--. You hide from me your fear that I might reveal to your wife your passion for-- Don't worry, I am discreet, and she herself cannot prove, even if she suspects, that you took her for Arabella--for you spoke low and she fainted. Bramble I am furious when I think-- Tuneless That she didn't faint? Bramble The liar. Tuneless It's with lying that you find the way to dissimulate. Bramble What! All the caresses that she gave me for ten years were only to have my wealth. Tuneless While you permitted her to caress, so you could have hers. Bramble A woman who hopes to outlive her husband is very unnatural. Tuneless For a man to wish to live longer than is wife is very--natural. Bramble To have a criminal passion for my nephew. Tuneless While you have an innocent tenderness for her niece. Bramble Heaven will punish her and all those who wish the death of others. Such people always die first. Tuneless Good. You will both predecease the other. Bramble Now, I must dissimulate to keep the peace at home, and to preserve my honor before the world. Tuneless Very good. But, remember the essential thing. Send your nephew to the Indies. Bramble To the Indies. I will spare nothing to get him there. Tuneless Here--begin your dissimulation with the Countess. Go joke with her about the trick she played on you, and joke in the faces of all those who do nothing but laugh behind your back. Bramble That's the role I've got to take. (Exit Bramble. After a moment, enter Lucy from another direction.) Lucy Well, Tuneless? Tuneless I've brought him to the point at which I want him. He will dissimulate. But, I had trouble calming his rage. Lucy The rage of my mistress is very violent. To soften it, she fainted twice. Tuneless It's the strength of women to have such little weaknesses ready at their command. For when these great accidents occur--the attack is very strong--and a woman saves herself by fainting or weeping. Lucy She fortifies herself in this way against reflections, and when she gets her strength back, there are tirades of abuse against her husband--but she leave the name blank. Tuneless Let's finish. It's time to manage the interview. Lucy Yes. Here's the lady--bring on the husband. Tuneless I'll go fetch him. (Exit Tuneless. Enter Widow from another direction.) Widow Where are you at, Lucy? You've abandoned me in my rage. I am furious against the Countess. Lucy That is to say, against your husband. Widow To deceive me, to betray me. He wanted me to die--the cruel man--the traitor. Lucy Oh, yes, more a traitor than the Countess. But, your husband also deserves your rage. First of all, because he is alive--and because he is unfaithful. But for fear that he may realize you are also unfaithful, feign, Madame, as I have told you. Widow I tremble with fear that he suspects me. Perhaps, in my mourning, I innocently called on Desmond. Lucy Innocently, of course. But now virtue and propriety insist, that in the batting of an eye, change your love into esteem. And, if your husband should eventually die, you may, in another bat of an eye, change your esteem into love. Widow Your advice is so wise. I will follow it. And send Arabella a hundred leagues from here. Lucy So. Let's go, embrace your husband as if nothing happened. Widow It will be very hard to hide my anger. (Enter Tuneless and Bramble.) Lucy Here he is. Recall all the feelings you had on your wedding day. Widow I do. I'm freezing. My blood is like ice. Lucy It's conjugal tenderness thawing. Tuneless Force yourself. Let no rancor show on your face. Lucy Courage, Madame. Tuneless Make an effort, sir. Lucy Strength. Tuneless Go on, now. (Bramble and the Widow look at each other and run to embrace. As they hug, their faces show outraged grimaces.) Bramble I see my dear wife again. Widow And my equally dear husband! (They embrace and separate several times, breathing like divers who surface for air, nauseated.) Bramble Ecch! Widow Ouf! Bramble (turning to his wife with a joyful, but somehow tortured look) My joy is so great that it's frightful--ah-ecch! Widow My delight is too much to bear--yuck! Bramble Why is it that your joy appears troubled? Widow Emotions of rage come over me--against the Countess. In making you believe I was dead, she exposed you to a possible seizure. You might have died. Bramble You?--she would've enjoyed to make me die. Widow Thank God's Mercy, you look--well. You appear healthy. I am furious with--that woman. Bramble All this has merely redoubled my feelings for you. I can't really express them. Widow I feel, also, that my love for you--I don't know how to say it. Huh-- how I hate the Countess. Bramble This is like a renewal of the feelings I had for you when we first met. Widow Yes. It's like a second honeymoon. Tuneless A posthumous marriage. Bramble A renewal of my love. Yes, I also wish to take these little precautions that will assure you are cared for properly when I die. Widow I want you to survive me to enjoy my wealth. All that you deserve of it. Bramble As, so as to no longer have to put up with the presence of anyone around me who might take something from you when I die, I've decided to send my nephew to the Indies. Widow (with surprise and spite) And, for the same reason, I--I am going to marry Arabella a hundred leagues from here. Bramble You tell me that with a little spite. It's innocently that I speak to you of separating from Desmond. Widow And, I have nothing but pure good intentions in separating from Arabella. (Enter the Countess's Maid.) Maid Here is the Countess, coming to rejoice. We are going to sing and dance all night. It's not only for the three marriages I see on the agency, WE are ready for a wedding, you see. Bramble What's that about three weddings? Maid Yours first--for the Countess regards all this as a new marriage. Widow She's right. But not one made in Heaven. Bramble And the two others? Maid Don't you know? Didn't you know the joke was to get money from you to marry Desmond in Wales. And you, Madame, understood, of course, that the money asked from you was to marry Arabella in Scotland. But, since you refused to give it, the Countess is bearing the expenses herself. Widow (low, to Lucy) Desmond in Wales! Lucy Keep a straight face--virtue. Bramble Arabella in Scotland! Tuneless Shut up, sir. Dissimulation. (Enter the Countess, Arabella, Desmond, and the MacPhersons.) Countess I come to share your joy in being reunited, in seeing each other again, like Orpheus and Eurydice. And to celebrate the two marriages I've made. Now, enjoy yourselves. (The MacPhersons start to sing: La, la, la--) Countess Stop the singing. I perceive that instead of rejoicing you, something saddens you. There's something here I don't understand. When I marry a nephew who displeases you so much that you are sending him away-- Bramble Send him away, Madame, that's what I wish-- Countess And, when I take your niece off your hands-- Widow You please me greatly, Madame. Countess Arabella will leave tomorrow for Scotland. Widow I consent, but-- Countess And your nephew to Wales-- Bramble That's what I want--but-- Countess Why then, are you both irritated, when I do what contents each of you? Lucy Madame doesn't want to be separated from her only niece. Tuneless The gentleman always wishes to see his dear nephew. Countess I don't believe that you love them at all. Yet--your tenderness for them gives me an idea. It would keep them here. I'll marry them to each other--if you give your consent to it. Tuneless This marriage would enrage your wife, and--Arabella would always be where you could get at her. Lucy This marriage would punish your husband, and someday, with Desmond about, you might-- Countess You hesitate at this second proposition. That makes me suspect-- Widow Not at all, Madame. Bramble You deceive yourself. Countess What then made you stop? Widow Because, Madame, having destined my wealth for a husband who is unspeakably dear to me-- Bramble Yes, Madame, and to protect mine for a loving spouse-- Countess Oh, I'm delighted to be deceived in my suspicions. I see the point that causes you hesitation. I ask nothing for them. Leave your money to each other, and let them take from the survivor. That way, they will ultimately get all your wealth, and you will take proper care of your spouse. Desmond (to Widow) Madame, prevent them from separating me from your presence. Arabella (to Bramble, low) Sir, will you let them take me away from you into Scotland? Bramble What determines me is the fear of--of displeasing my wife. Widow The fear that I have of angering my husband-- Countess Then, the marriage is made. Give your hands. Tuneless Such a pretty marriage merits a complete Opera. But unfortunately, we have neither musicians nor dancers. And, in the town they have only peasants. Be content, therefore, to listen to the little cantata I have composed. We are going to rehearse it in your presence. And, while we lack musicians, I myself will sing it for you. La, la, la. (While Tuneless is getting ready, they all run away.) CURTAIN 
6562	----	LES PRÉCIEUSES RIDICULES: COMÉDIE EN UN ACTE. 1659. * * * * * THE PRETENTIOUS YOUNG LADIES: A COMEDY IN ONE ACT. (_THE ORIGINAL IN PROSE_.) 1659. INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. Molière began in _The Pretentious Young Ladies_ to paint men and women as they are; to make living characters and existing manners the ground-work of his plays. From that time he abandoned all imitation of Italian or Spanish imbroglios and intrigues. There is no doubt that aristocratic society attempted, about the latter years of the reign of Louis XIII., to amend the coarse and licentious expressions, which, during the civil wars had been introduced into literature as well as into manners. It was praiseworthy of some high-born ladies in Parisian society to endeavour to refine the language and the mind. But there was a very great difference between the influence these ladies exercised from 1620 until 1640, and what took place in 1658, the year when Molière returned to Paris. The Hôtel de Rambouillet, and the aristocratic drawing-rooms, had then done their work, and done it well; but they were succeeded by a clique which cared only for what was nicely said, or rather what was out of the common. Instead of using an elegant and refined diction, they employed only a pretentious and conceitedly affected style, which became highly ridiculous; instead of improving the national idiom they completely spoilt it. Where formerly D'Urfe, Malherbe, Racan, Balzac, and Voiture reigned, Chapelain, Scudéry, Ménage, and the Abbé Cotin, "the father of the French Riddle," ruled in their stead. Moreover, every lady in Paris, as well as in the provinces, no matter what her education was, held her drawing-room, where nothing was heard but a ridiculous, exaggerated, and what was worse, a borrowed phraseology. The novels of Mdlle. de Scudéry became the text-book of the _précieux_ and the _précieuses_, for such was the name given to these gentlemen and ladies who set up for wits, and thought they displayed exquisite taste, refined ideas, fastidious judgment, and consummate and critical discrimination, whilst they only uttered vapid and blatant nonsense. What other language can be used when we find that they called the sun _l'aimable éclairant le plus beau du monde, l'epoux de la nature_, and that when speaking of an old gentleman with grey hair, they said, not as a joke, but seriously, _il a des quittances d'amour_. A few of their expressions, however, are employed even at the present time, such as, _châtier son style_; to correct one's style; _dépenser une heure_, to spend an hour; _revètir ses pensées d'expressions nobles_, to clothe one's thoughts in noble expressions, etc. Though the _précieux and précieuses_ had been several times attacked before, it remained for Molière to give them their death blow, and after the performance of his comedy the name became a term of ridicule and contumely. What enhanced the bitterness of the attack was the difference between Molière's natural style and the affected tone of the would-be elegants he brought upon the stage. This comedy, in prose, was first acted at Paris, at the Théâtre du Petit Bourbon, on the 18th of November, 1659, and met with great success. Through the influence of some noble _précieux_ and _précieuses_ it was forbidden until the 2d of December, when the concourse of spectators was so great that it had to be performed twice a day, that the prices of nearly all the places were raised (See Note 7, page xxv.), and that it ran for four months together. We have referred in our prefatory memoir of Molière to some of the legendary anecdotes connected with this play. It has also been said that our author owed perhaps the first idea of this play to a scarcely-known work, _le Cercle des Femmes, ou le Secret du Lit Nuptial; entretiens comiques_, written by a long-forgotten author, Samuel Chapuzeau, in which a servant, dressed in his master's clothes, is well received by a certain lady who had rejected the master. But as the witty dialogue is the principal merit in Molière's play, it is really of no great consequence who first suggested the primary idea. The piece, though played in 1659, was only printed on the 29th of January, 1660, by Guillaume de Luyne, a bookseller in Paris, with a preface by Molière, which we give here below: A strange thing it is, that People should be put in print against their Will. I know nothing so unjust, and should pardon any other Violence much sooner than that. Not that I here intend to personate the bashful Author, and out of a point of Honour undervalue my Comedy. I should very unseasonably disoblige all the People of Paris, should I accuse them of having applauded a foolish Thing: as the Public is absolute Judge of such sort of Works, it would be Impertinence in me to contradict it; and even if I should have had the worst Opinion in the World of my _Pretentious Young Ladies_ before they appeared upon the Stage, I must now believe them of some Value, since so many People agree to speak in their behalf. But as great part of the Pleasure it gave depends upon the Action and Tone of the Voice, it behooved me, not to let them be deprived of those Ornaments; and that success they had in the representation, was, I thought, sufficiently favorable for me to stop there. I was, I say, determined, to let them only be seen by Candlelight, that I might give no room for any one to use the Proverb; [Footnote: In Molière's time it was proverbially said of a woman, "_Elle est belle a la chandelle, mais le grand jour gate tout_." She is beautiful by candle-light, but day-light spoils everything.] nor was I willing they should leap from the Theatre de Bourbon into the _Galerie du Palais_. [Footnote: The _Galerie du Palais_ was the place where Molière's publisher lived.] Notwithstanding, I have been unable to avoid it, and am fallen under the Misfortune of seeing a surreptitious Copy of my Play in the Hands of the Booksellers, together with a Privilege, knavishly obtained, for printing it. I cried out in vain, O Times! O Manners! They showed me that there was a Necessity for me to be in print, or have a Law-suit; and the last evil is even worse than the first. Fate therefore must be submitted to, and I must consent to a Thing, which they would not fail to do without me. Lord, the strange Perplexity of sending a book abroad! and what an awkward Figure an Author makes the first time he appears in print! Had they allowed me time, I should have thought it over better, and have taken all those Precautions which the Gentlemen Authors, who are now my Brethren, commonly make use of upon the like Occasions. Besides, some noble Lord, whom I should have chosen, in spite of his Teeth, to be the Patron of my Work, and whose Generosity I should have excited by an Epistle Dedicatory very elegantly composed, I should have endeavoured to make a fine and learned Preface; nor do I want books which would have supplied me with all that can be said in a scholarly Manner upon Tragedy and Comedy; the Etymology of them both, their Origin, their Definition, and so forth. I should likewise have spoken to my friends, who to recommend my Performance, would not have refused me Verses, either in French or Latin. I have even some that would have praised me in Greek, and Nobody is ignorant, that a Commendation in Greek is of a marvellous efficacy at the Beginning of a Book. But I am sent Abroad without giving me time to look about me; and I can't so much as obtain the Liberty of speaking two words, to justify my Intention, as to the subject of this Comedy. I would willingly have shewn that it is confined throughout within the Bounds of allowable and decent Satire, that Things the most excellent are liable to be mimicked by wretched Apes, who deserve to be ridiculed; that these absurd Imitations of what is most perfect, have been at all times the Subject of Comedy; and that, for the same Reason, that the truly Learned and truly Brave never yet thought fit to be offended at the Doctor or the Captain in a Comedy, no more than Judges, Princes, and Kings at seeing Trivelin, [Footnote: The Doctor and the Captain were traditional personages of the Italian stage; their parts need no further explanation; Trivelin was a popular Italian actor, who in a humorous and exaggerated way played the parts of Judges, Princes, and Kings.] or any other upon the Stage, ridiculously act the Judge, the Prince, or King; so the true _Précieuses_ would be in the wrong to be angry, when the pretentious Ones are exposed, who imitate them awkwardly. In a Word, as I said, I am not allowed breathing time; Mr. de Luyne is going to bind me up this Instant: ... let it be so, since the Fates so ordain it. In the third volume of the "Select Comedies of M. de Molière," this comedy is called "The Conceited Ladies." It is dedicated to Miss Le Bas in the following words:--- MADAM, Addresses of this Nature are usually fill'd with Flattery: And it is become so general and known a Practice for Authors of every kind to bedeck with all Perfections Those to whom they present their Writings, that Dedications are, by most People, at Present, interpreted like Dreams, directly backwards. I dare not, therefore, attempt Your Character, lest even Truth itself should be suspected--Thus far, however, I'll venture to declare, that if sprightly blooming Youth, endearing sweet Good-nature, flowing gentile Wit, and an easy unaffected Conversation, maybe reckon'd Charms,--_Miss_ LE BAS is exquisitely charming. The following COMEDY of _Monsieur_ MOLIERE, that celebrated Dramatick Writer, was, by him, intended to reprove a vain, fantastical, conceited and preposterous Humour, which about that time prevailed very much in _France_. It had the desir'd good Effect, and conduced a great deal towards rooting out a Taste so unreasonable and ridiculous.---As Pride, Conceit, Vanity, and Affectation, are Foibles so often found amongst the Fair Sex at present, I have attempted this Translation, in hopes of doing service to my pretty Country-Women.--And, certainly, it must have a double efficacy, under the Patronage of one who is so bright an Example of the contrary fine Accomplishments, which a large Fortune makes her not the less careful to improve. I am not so presumptuous to imagine that my _English_ can do sufficient Justice to the sense of this admir'd AUTHOR; and, therefore, have caused the ORIGINAL to be placed against it Page for Page, hoping that, both together, may prove an agreeable and useful Entertainment.----But I have detain'd you too long already, and shall only add, that I am, with much respect, and every good Wish, MADAM, _Your most Obedient Humble Servant_, THE TRANSLATOR. The _Précieuses Ridicules_ have been partly imitated in "_The Damoiselles à la Mode_, Compos'd and Written by Richard Flecknoe. London: Printed for the Author, 1667. To their graces the Duke and Duchess of Newcastle, the Author dedicates this his comedy more humbly than by way of epistle." This gentleman, who was "so distinguished as a wretched poet, that his name had almost become proverbial," and who gave the title to Dryden's _Mac-Flecknoe_, is said to have been originally a Jesuit. Langbaine states "that his acquaintance with the nobility was more than with the Muses." In the preface our author says: "This Comedy is taken out of several excellent pieces of _Molière_. The main plot out of his _Pretieusee's Ridiculee's_; the Counterplot of _Sganarelle_ out of his _Escole des Femmes_, and out of the _Escole des Marys_, the two _Naturals_; all which, like so many _Pretieuse_ stones, I have brought out of _France_; and as a Lapidary set in one Jewel to adorn our English stage." This motley play was never acted; at least the author says: "for the Acting it, those who have the Governing of the Stage, have their Humours, and wou'd be intreated; and I have mine and won't intreat them; and were all Dramatick Writers of my mind, they shou'd wear their old _Playes_ Thred-bare e're they shou'd have any _New_, till they better understood their own Interest, and how to distinguish betwixt good and bad." The "Prologue intended for the overture of the Theater 1666," opens thus:-- "In these sad Times our Author has been long Studying to give you some diversion; And he has ta'en the way to do't, which he Thought most diverting, mirth and Comedy; And now he knows there are inough i' the Town At name of mirth and Comedy will frown, And sighing say, the times are bad; what then? Will their being sad and heavy better them?" [Footnote: In 1665 the plague broke out in London, and in the succeeding year the great fire took place; only at Christmas 1666 theatrical performances began again.] According to the list of "The Representers, as they were first design'd." I see that Nell Gwyn should have played the part of "_Lysette_, the _Damoiselle's_ waiting Woman." James Miller, a well-known dramatist, and joint-translator of Molière, with H. Baker, has also imitated part of "the _Pretentious Young Ladies_," and with another part borrowed from Molière's _School for Husbands_, two characters taken from Molière's _Learned Ladies_, and some short speeches borrowed from the _Countess of Escarbagnas_, he composed a comedy, which was played at Drury Lane, March 6th, 1735, under the title of _The Man of Taste, or, The Guardians_. Mr. Miller appears to have been a man of indomitable spirit and industry. Being a clergyman, with a very small stipend, he wrote plays to improve his circumstances, but offended both his bishop and the public. At last he was presented to the very valuable living of Upcerne, in Dorsetshire, and was also successful with a translation of _Mahomet_ of Voltaire, but died within the year after his induction. _The Man of Taste_ was printed for J. Watts, MDCCXXXV., and is dedicated to Lord Weymouth. We give part of the dedication: "As to the Attempt here made to expose the several Vices and Follies that at present flourish in Vogue, I hope your Lordship will think it confined within the bounds of a modest and wholesome Chastisement. That it is a very seasonable one, I believe, every Person will acknowledge. When what is set up for the Standard of Taste, is but just the Reverse of Truth and Common Sense; and that which is dignify'd with the Name of Politeness, is deficient in nothing--but Decency and Good Manners: When all Distinctions of Station and Fortune are broke in upon, so that a _Peer_ and a _Mechanick_ are cloathed in the same Habits, and indulge in the same Diversions and Luxuries: When Husbands are ruin'd, Children robb'd, and Tradesmen starv'd, in order to give Estates to a _French_ Harlequin, and _Italian_ Eunuch, for a Shrug or a Song; [Footnote: Farinelli, an eminent Italian soprano, went to England in 1734, remained there three years, sang chiefly at the Theatre of Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, then under the direction of Porpora, his old Master, became a great favorite, and made about, £5,000 a year. As _The Man of Taste_ was performed at a rival house, Drury Lane, the bitterness of the allusion may be easily understood. The French Comedians acted at the Haymarket from November 22, 1734 to June 1735, hence the allusion to a French Harlequin.] shall not fair and fearless Satire oppose this Outrage upon all Reason and Discretion. Yes, My Lord, resentment can never better be shown, nor Indignation more laudably exerted than on such an occasion." The Prologue, spoken by Mr. Cibber, is racy. We give the first half of it:-- "Wit springs so slow in our bleak Northern Soil, It scarce, at best, rewards the Planter's Toil. But now, when all the Sun-shine, and the Rain, Are turn'd to cultivate a Foreign grain; When, what should cherish, preys upon the Tree, What generous Fruit can you expect to see? Our Bard, to strike the Humour of the Times, Imports these Scenes from kindlier Southern Climes; Secure his Pains will with Applause be crown'd, If you're as fond of Foreign sense as ... sound: And since their Follies have been bought so dear, We hope their Wit a moderate Price may bear. Terence, Great Master! who, with wond'rous Art, Explor'd the deepest Secrets of the Heart; That best Old Judge of Manners and of Men, First grac'd this Tale with his immortal Pen. Molière, the Classick of the Gallick Stage, First dar'd to modernize the Sacred Page; Skilful, the one thing wanting to supply, Humour, that Soul of Comic Poesy. The Roman Fools were drawn so high ... the Pit Might take 'em now for Modern Men of Wit. But Molière painted with a bolder Hand, And mark'd his Oafs with the Fool's-Cap and Band: To ev'ry Vice he tagged the just Reproach, Shew'd Worth on Foot, and Rascals in a Coach." [Footnote: The plot of _The Man of Taste_, as we have said before, was partly borrowed from Molière's _School for Husbands_, partly from the _Pretentious Young Ladies_, and other of his plays. The first-mentioned French comedy owes part of its plot to Terence's _Adelphi_, hence the allusion to "his immortal Pen." in the above poem.] Mrs. Aphra Behn, a voluminous writer of plays, novels, poems, and letters, all of a lively and amorous turn, was the widow of a Dutch merchant, and partly occupied the time not engaged in literary pursuits in political or gallant intrigues. Her comedies are her best works, and although some of her scenes are often indecent, and not a few of her expressions indelicate, yet her plots are always lively and well sustained and her dialogues very witty. The date of her birth is unknown, but she died on the 16th of April, 1689, and was buried in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey. In 1682, was performed, at the Theatre, Dorset Garden, her play. _The False Count, or a New Way to Play an Old Game_. The prologue attacks the Whigs most furiously, and the epilogue, spoken by Mrs. Barry, is very indecent. The plot of this play, or rather farce, is very improbable, and the language is more than free. Julia, in love with Don Carlos, afterwards Governor of Cadiz, was forced by her father to marry Francisco, a rich old man, formerly a leather-seller; the latter going with his family to sea on a party of pleasure, are taken prisoners by Carlos and his servants, disguised as Turks. They are carried to a country house, and made to believe they are in the Grand Turk's seraglio. There is also an underplot, in which Isabella, Francisco's proud and vain daughter, is courted by Guilion, a supposed Count, but in reality a chimney-sweep, whose hand she accepts. In the end everything is discovered, and Guilion comes to claim his wife in his sooty clothes. Thomas Shadwell, a dramatist, and the poet-laureate of William III., who has been flagellated by Dryden in his _MacFlecknoe_ and in the second part of _Absalom_ and _Achitophel_, and been mentioned with contempt by Pope in his _Dunciad_, took from the _Précieuses Ridicules_ Mascarille and Jodelet, and freely imitated and united them in the character of La Roch, a sham Count, in his _Bury-Fair_, acted by His Majesty's servants in 1689. This play, dedicated to Charles, Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, was written "during eight months' painful sickness." In the Prologue Shadwell states: That every Part is Fiction in his Play; Particular Reflections there are none; Our Poet knows not one in all your Town. If any has so very little Wit, To think a Fop's Dress can his Person fit, E'en let him take it, and make much of it. Whilst, in The _Pretentious Young Ladies_, Mascarille and Jodelet impose upon two provincial girls, in _Bury-Fair_, La Roch, "a French peruke-maker" succeeds in deceiving Mrs. Fantast and Mrs. Gertrude under the name of Count de Cheveux. The Count is very amusing, and though a coward to boot, pretends to be a great warrior. His description of war is characteristic; he states that "de great Heros always burne and kille de Man, Woman, and Shilde for deir Glory." DRAMATIS PERSONAE. LA GRANGE, \ ) _repulsed Lovers_. DU CROISY, / GORGIBUS, _a good citizen_. [Footnote: Gorgibus was the name of certain characters in old comedies. The actor, L'Epy, who played this part, had a very loud voice; hence Molière gave him probably this name.] THE MARQUIS DE MASCARILLE, _valet to La Grange_. [Footnote: _Mascarille_ was played by Molière, and has a personality quite distinct from the servant of the same name in the _Blunderer_ and the _Love-Tiff_. The dress in which he acted this part, has not been mentioned in the inventory taken after his death, but in a pamphlet, published in 1660, he is described as wearing an enormous wig, a very small hat, a ruff like a morning gown, rolls in which children could play hide-and-seek, tassels like cornucopise, ribbons that covered his shoes, with heels half a foot in height.] THE VISCOUNT JODELET, _valet to Du Croisy_. ALMANZOR, _footman to the pretentious ladies_. TWO CHAIRMEN. MUSICIANS. MADELON, _daughter to Gorgibus_, \ ) _The pretentious young ladies_. CATHOS, _niece to Gorgibus_, / MAROTTE, _maid to the pretentious young ladies_. LUCILE. \ ) _two female neighbours_. CÉLIMÈNE. / SCENE--GORGIBUS' HOUSE, PARIS. THE PRETENTIOUS YOUNG LADIES. (LES PRÈCIEUSES RIDICULES.) ACT I. SCENE I.--LA GRANGE, DU CROISY. DU. CR. Mr. La Grange. LA. GR. What? DU. CR. Look at me for a moment without laughing. LA. GR. Well? DU. CR. What do you say of our visit? Are you quite pleased with it? LA. GR. Do you think either of us has any reason to be so? DU. CR. Not at all, to say the truth. LA. GR. As for me, I must acknowledge I was quite shocked at it. Pray now, did ever anybody see a couple of country wenches giving themselves more ridiculous airs, or two men treated with more contempt than we were? They could hardly make up their mind to order chairs for us. I never saw such whispering as there was between them; such yawning, such rubbing of the eyes, and asking so often what o'clock it was. Did they answer anything else but "yes," or "no," to what we said to them? In short, do you not agree with me that if we had been the meanest persons in the world, we could not have been treated worse? DU. CR. You seem to take it greatly to heart. LA. GR. No doubt I do; so much so, that I am resolved to be revenged on them for their impertinence. I know well enough why they despise us. Affectation has not alone infected Paris, but has also spread into the country, and our ridiculous damsels have sucked in their share of it. In a word, they are a strange medley of coquetry and affectation. I plainly see what kind of persons will be well received by them; if you will take my advice, we will play them such a trick as shall show them their folly, and teach them to distinguish a little better the people they have to deal with. DU. CR. How can you do this? LA. GR. I have a certain valet, named Mascarille, who, in the opinion of many people, passes for a kind of wit; for nothing now-a-days is easier than to acquire such a reputation. He is an extraordinary fellow, who has taken it into his head to ape a person of quality. He usually prides himself on his gallantry and his poetry, and despises so much the other servants that he calls them brutes. DU. CR. Well, what do you mean to do with him? LA. GR. What do I mean to do with him? He must ... but first, let us be gone. SCENE II.--GORGIBUS, DU CROISY, LA GRANGE. GORG. Well, gentlemen, you have seen my niece and my daughter. How are matters going on? What is the result of your visit? LA. GR. They will tell you this better than we can. All we say is that we thank you for the favour you have done us, and remain your most humble servants. DU. CR. Your most humble servants. GORG. (_Alone_). Hoity-toity! Methinks they go away dissatisfied. What can be the meaning of this? I must find it out. Within there! SCENE III.--GORGIBUS, MAROTTE. MAR. Did you call, sir? GORG. Where are your mistresses? MAR. In their room. GORG. What are they doing there? MAR. Making lip salve. GORG. There is no end of their salves. Bid them come down. (_Alone_). These hussies with their salves have, I think, a mind to ruin me. Everywhere in the house I see nothing but whites of eggs, lac virginal, and a thousand other fooleries I am not acquainted with. Since we have been here they have employed the lard of a dozen hogs at least, and four servants might live every day on the sheep's trotters they use. SCENE IV.---MADELON, CATHOS, GORGIBUS. GORG. Truly there is great need to spend so much money to grease your faces. Pray tell me, what have you done to those gentlemen, that I saw them go away with so much coldness. Did I not order you to receive them as persons whom I intended for your husbands? MAD. Dear father, what consideration do you wish us to entertain for the irregular behaviour of these people? CAT. How can a woman of ever so little understanding, uncle, reconcile herself to such individuals? GORG. What fault have you to find with them? MAD. Their's is fine gallantry, indeed. Would you believe it? they began with proposing marriage to us. GORG. What would you have them begin with--with a proposal to keep you as mistresses? Is not their proposal a compliment to both of you, as well as to me? Can anything be more polite than this? And do they not prove the honesty of their intentions by wishing to enter these holy bonds? MAD. O, father! Nothing can be more vulgar than what you have just said. I am ashamed to hear you talk in such a manner; you should take some lessons in the elegant way of looking at things. GORG. I care neither for elegant ways nor songs. I tell you marriage is a holy and sacred affair; to begin with that is to act like honest people. [Footnote: The original has a play on words. Madelon says, in addressing her father, _vous devriez un pen vous faire apprendre le bel air des choses_, upon which he answers, _je n'ai que faire ni d'air ni de chanson_. _Air_ means tune as well as look, appearance.] MAD. Good Heavens! If everybody was like you a love-story would soon be over. What a fine thing it would have been if Cyrus had immediately espoused Mandane, and if Aronce had been married all at once to Clélie. [Footnote: _Cyrus_ and _Mandane_ are the two principal characters of Mademoiselle de Scudéry's novel _Artamene, on the Grand Cyrus_; _Aronce_ and _Clélie_ of the novel _Clélie_, by the same author.] GORG. What is she jabbering about? MAD. Here is my cousin, father, who will tell as well as I that matrimony ought never to happen till after other adventures. A lover, to be agreeable, must understand how to utter fine sentiments, to breathe soft, tender, and passionate vows; his courtship must be according to the rules. In the first place, he should behold the fair one of whom he becomes enamoured either at a place of worship, [Footnote: See note 15, page 33.] or when out walking, or at some public ceremony; or else he should be introduced to her by a relative or a friend, as if by chance, and when he leaves her he should appear in a pensive and melancholy mood. For some time he should conceal his passion from the object of his love, but pay her several visits, in every one of which he ought to introduce some gallant subject to exercise the wits of all the company. When the day comes to make his declarations--which generally should be contrived in some shady garden-walk while the company is at a distance--it should be quickly followed by anger, which is shown by our blushing, and which, for a while, banishes the lover from our presence. He finds afterwards means to pacify us, to accustom us gradually to hear him depict his passion, and to draw from us that confession which causes us so much pain. After that come the adventures, the rivals who thwart mutual inclination, the persecutions of fathers, the jealousies arising without any foundation, complaints, despair, running away with, and its consequences. Thus things are carried on in fashionable life, and veritable gallantry cannot dispense with these forms. But to come out point-blank with a proposal of marriage,--to make no love but with a marriage-contract, and begin a novel at the wrong end! Once more, father, nothing can be more tradesmanlike, and the mere thought of it makes me sick at heart. GORG. What deuced nonsense is all this? That is highflown language with a vengeance! CAT. Indeed, uncle, my cousin hits the nail on the head. How can we receive kindly those who are so awkward in gallantry. I could lay a wager they have not even seen a map of the country of _Tenderness_, and that _Love-letters_, _Trifling attentions_, _Polite epistles_, and _Sprightly verses_, are regions to them unknown. [Footnote: The map of the country of Tenderness (_la carte de Tendre_) is found in the first part of _Clélie_ (see note 2, page 146); Love-letter (_Billetdoux_); Polite epistle (_Billet galant_); Trifling attentions (_Petit Soins_); Sprightly verses (_Jolts vers_), are the names of villages to be found in the map, which is a curiosity in its way.] Do you not see that the whole person shews it, and that their external appearance is not such as to give at first sight a good opinion of them. To come and pay a visit to the object of their love with a leg without any ornaments, a hat without any feathers, a head with its locks not artistically arranged, and a coat that suffers from a paucity of ribbons. Heavens! what lovers are these! what stinginess in dress! what barrenness of conversation! It is not to be allowed; it is not to be borne. I also observed that their ruffs [Footnote: The ruff (_rabat_) was at first only the shirt-collar pulled out and worn outside the coat. Later ruffs were worn, which were not fastened to the shirt, sometimes adorned with lace, and tied in front with two strings with tassels. The _rabat_ was very fashionable during the youthful years of Louis XIV.] were not made by the fashionable milliner, and that their breeches were not big enough by more than half-a-foot. GORG. I think they are both mad, nor can I understand anything of this gibberish. Cathos, and you Madelon... MAD. Pray, father, do not use those strange names, and call us by some other. GORG. What do you mean by those strange names? Are they not the names your godfathers and godmothers gave you? MAD. Good Heavens! how vulgar you are! I confess I wonder you could possibly be the father of such an intelligent girl as I am. Did ever anybody in genteel style talk of Cathos or of Madelon? And must you not admit that either of these names would be sufficient to disgrace the finest novel in the world? CAT. It is true, uncle, an ear rather delicate suffers extremely at hearing these words pronounced, and the name of Polixena, which my cousin has chosen, and that of Amintha, which I took, possesses a charm, which you must needs acknowledge. [Footnote: The _precieuses_ often changed their names into more poetical and romantic appellations. The Marquise de Rambouillet, whose real name was Catherine, was known under the anagram of Arthenice.] GORG. Hearken; one word will suffice. I do not allow you to take any other names than those that were given you by your godfathers and godmothers; and as for those gentlemen we are speaking about, I know their families and fortunes, and am determined they shall be your husbands. I am tired of having you upon my hands. Looking after a couple of girls is rather too weighty a charge for a man of my years. CAT. As for me, uncle, all I can say is, that I think marriage a very shocking business. How can one endure the thought of lying by the side of a man, who is really naked? MAD. Give us leave to take breath for a short time among the fashionable world of Paris, where we are but just arrived. Allow us to prepare at our leisure the groundwork of our novel, and do not hurry on the conclusion too abruptly. GORG. (_Aside_). I cannot doubt it any longer; they are completely mad. (_Aloud_). Once more, I tell you, I understand nothing of all this gibberish; I will be master, and to cut short all kinds of arguments, either you shall both be married shortly, or, upon my word, you shall be nuns; that I swear. [Footnote: This scene is the mere outline of the well known quarrel between Chrysale, Philaminte, and Belinda in the "_Femmes Savantes_" (see vol. iii.) but a husband trembling before his wife, and only daring to show his temper to his sister, is a much more tempting subject for a dramatic writer than a man addressing in a firm tone his daughter and niece.] SCENE VI.--CATHOS, MADELON. CAT. Good Heavens, my dear, how deeply is your father still immersed in material things! how dense is his understanding, and what gloom overcasts his soul! MAD. What can I do, my dear? I am ashamed of him. I can hardly persuade myself I am indeed his daughter; I believe that an accident, some time or other, will discover me to be of a more illustrious descent. CAT. I believe it; really, it is very likely; as for me, when I consider myself... SCENE VII.--CATHOS, MADELON, MAROTTE. MAR. Here is a footman asks if you are at home, and says his master is coming to see you. MAD. Learn, you dunce, to express yourself a little less vulgarly. Say, here is a necessary evil inquiring if it is commodious for you to become visible. [Footnote: All these and similar sentences were really employed by the _precieuses_.] MAR. I do not understand Latin, and have not learned philosophy out of Cyrus, as you have done. [Footnote: _Artamene, ou le Grand Cyrus_, (1649-1653) a novel in ten volumes by Madle. de Scudery.] MAD. Impertinent creature! How can this be borne! And who is this footman's master? MAR. He told me it was the Marquis de Mascarille. MAD. Ah, my dear! A marquis! a marquis! Well, go and tell him we are visible. This is certainly some wit who has heard of us. CAT. Undoubtedly, my dear. MAD. We had better receive him here in this parlour than in our room. Let us at least arrange our hair a little and maintain our reputation. Come in quickly, and reach us the Counsellor of the Graces. MAR. Upon my word, I do not know what sort of a beast that is; you must speak like a Christian if you would have me know your meaning. CAT. Bring us the looking-glass, you blockhead! and take care not to contaminate its brightness by the communication of your image. SCENE VIII.--MASCARILLE, TWO CHAIRMEN. MASC. Stop, chairman, stop. Easy does it! Easy, easy! I think these boobies intend to break me to pieces by bumping me against the walls and the pavement. 1 CHAIR. Ay, marry, because the gate is narrow and you would make us bring you in here. MASC. To be sure, you rascals! Would you have me expose the fulness of my plumes to the inclemency of the rainy season, and let the mud receive the impression of my shoes? Begone; take away your chair. 2 CHAIR. Then please to pay us, sir. MASC. What? 2 CHAIR. Sir, please to give us our money, I say. MASC. (_Giving him a box on the ear_). What, scoundrel, to ask money from a person of my rank! 2 CHAIR. Is this the way poor people are to be paid? Will your rank get us a dinner? MASC. Ha, ha! I shall teach you to keep your right place. Those low fellows dare to make fun of me! 1 CHAIR. (_Taking up one of the poles of his chair_). Come, pay us quickly. MASC. What? 1 CHAIR. I mean to have my money at once. MASC. That is a sensible fellow. 1 CHAIR. Make haste, then. MASC. Ay, you speak properly, but the other is a scoundrel, who does not know what he says. There, are you satisfied? 1 CHAIR. No, I am not satisfied; you boxed my friend's ears, and ... (_holding up his pole_). MASC. Gently; there is something for the box on the ear. People may get anything from me when they go about it in the right way. Go now, but come and fetch me by and by to carry me to the Louvre to the _petit coucher_. [Footnote: Louis XIV. and several other Kings of France, received their courtiers when rising or going to bed. This was called _lever_ and _coucher_. The _lever_ as well as the _coucher_ was divided into _petit_ and _grand_. All persons received at court had a right to come to the _grand lever_ and _coucher_, but only certain noblemen of high rank and the princes of the royal blood could remain at the _petit lever_ and _coucher_, which was the time between the king putting on either a day or night shirt, and the time he went to bed or was fully dressed. The highest person of rank always claimed the right of handing to the king his shirt.] SCENE IX.--MAROTTE, MASCARILLE. MAR. Sir, my mistresses will come immediately. MASC. Let them not hurry themselves; I am very comfortable here, and can wait. MAR. Here they come. SCENE X.--MADELON, CATHOS, MASCARILLE, ALMANZOR. MASC. (_After having bowed to them_). Ladies, no doubt you will be surprised at the boldness of my visit, but your reputation has drawn this disagreeable affair upon you; merit has for me such potent charms, that I run everywhere after it. MAD. If you pursue merit you should not come to us. CAT. If you find merit amongst us, you must have brought it hither yourself. MASC. Ah! I protest against these words. When fame mentioned your deserts it spoke the truth, and you are going to make _pic_, _repic_, and _capot_. all the gallants from Paris. [Footnote: Dryden, in his _Sir Martin Mar-all_ (Act i. sc. i), makes Sir Martin say: "If I go to picquet...he will picque and repicque, and capot me twenty times together" I believe that these terms in Molière's and Dryden's times had a different meaning from what they have now.] MAD. Your complaisance goes a little too far in the liberality of its praises, and my cousin and I must take care not to give too much credit to your sweet adulation. CAT. My dear, we should call for chairs. MAD. Almanzor! ALM. Madam. MAD. Convey to us hither, instantly, the conveniences of conversation. MASC. But am I safe here? (_Exit Almanzor_.) CAT. What is it you fear? MASC. Some larceny of my heart; some massacre of liberty. I behold here a pair of eyes that seem to be very naughty boys, that insult liberty, and use a heart most barbarously. Why the deuce do they put themselves on their guard, in order to kill any one who comes near them? Upon my word! I mistrust them; I shall either scamper away, or expect very good security that they do me no mischief. MAD. My dear, what a charming facetiousness he has! CAT. I see, indeed, he is an Amilcar. [Footnote: Amilcar is one of the heroes of the novel _Clélie_, who wishes to be thought sprightly.] MAD. Fear nothing, our eyes have no wicked designs, and your heart may rest in peace, fully assured of their innocence. CAT. But, pray, Sir, be not inexorable to the easy chair, which, for this last quarter of an hour, has held out its arms towards you; yield to its desire of embracing you. MASC. (_After having combed himself, and, adjusted the rolls of his stockings_). Well, ladies, and what do you think of Paris? [Footnote: It was at that time the custom for men of rank to comb their hair or periwigs in public.] [Footnote: The rolls (_canons_) were large round pieces of linen, often adorned with lace or ribbons, and which were fastened below the breeches, just under the knee.] MAD. Alas! what can we think of it? It would be the very antipodes of reason not to confess that Paris is the grand cabinet of marvels, the centre of good taste, wit, and gallantry. MASC. As for me, I maintain that, out of Paris, there is no salvation for the polite world. CAT. Most assuredly. MASC. Paris is somewhat muddy; but then we have sedan chairs. MAD. To be sure; a sedan chair is a wonderful protection against the insults of mud and bad weather. MASC. I am sure you receive many visits. What great wit belongs to your company? MAD. Alas! we are not yet known, but we are in the way of being so; for a lady of our acquaintance has promised us to bring all the gentlemen who have written for the Miscellanies of Select Poetry. [Footnote: Molière probably alludes to a Miscellany of Select Poetry, published in 1653, by de Sercy, under the title of _Poésies choisies de M. M. Corneille Benserade, de Scudéry, Boisrobert, Sarrazin, Desmarets, Baraud, Saint-Laurent, Colletet. Lamesnardiere, Montreuil, Viguier, Chevreau, Malleville, Tristan, Testu, Maucroy, de Prade, Girard et de L'Age_. A great number of such miscellanies appeared in France, and in England also, about that time.] CAT. And certain others, whom, we have been told, are likewise the sovereign arbiters of all that is handsome. MASC. I can manage this for you better than any one; they all visit me; and I may say that I never rise without having half-a-dozen wits at my levee. MAD. Good Heavens! you will place us under the greatest obligation if you will do us the kindness; for, in short, we must make the acquaintance of all those gentlemen if we wish to belong to the fashion. They are the persons who can make or unmake a reputation at Paris; you know that there are some, whose visits alone are sufficient to start the report that you are a _Connaisseuse_, though there should be no other reason for it. As for me, what I value particularly is, that by means of these ingenious visits, we learn a hundred things which we ought necessarily to know, and which are the quintessence of wit. Through them we hear the scandal of the day, or whatever niceties are going on in prose or verse. We know, at the right time, that Mr. So-and-so has written the finest piece in the world on such a subject; that Mrs. So-and-so has adapted words to such a tune; that a certain gentleman has written a madrigal upon a favour shown to him; another stanzas upon a fair one who betrayed him; Mr. Such-a-one wrote a couplet of six lines yesterday evening to Miss Such-a-one, to which she returned him an answer this morning at eight o'clock; such an author is engaged on such a subject; this writer is busy with the third volume of his novel; that one is putting his works to press. Those things procure you consideration in every society, and if people are ignorant of them, I would not give one pinch of snuff for all the wit they may have. CAT. Indeed, I think it the height of ridicule for any one who possesses the slightest claim to be called clever not to know even the smallest couplet that is made every day; as for me, I should be very much ashamed if any one should ask me my opinion about something new, and I had not seen it. MASC. It is really a shame not to know from the very first all that is going on; but do not give yourself any farther trouble, I will establish an academy of wits at your house, and I give you my word that not a single line of poetry shall be written in Paris, but what you shall be able to say by heart before anybody else. As for me, such as you see me, I amuse myself in that way when I am in the humour, and you may find handed about in the fashionable assemblies [Footnote: In the original French the word is _ruelle_, which means literally "a small street," "a lane," hence any narrow passage, hence the narrow opening between the wall and the bed. The _Précieuses_ at that time received their visitors lying dressed in a bed, which was placed in an alcove and upon a raised platform. Their fashionable friends (_alcovistes_) took their places between the bed and the wall, and thus the name _ruelle_ came to be given to all fashionable assemblies. In Dr. John Ash's New and Complete Dictionary of the English Language, published in London 1755, I still find _ruelle_ defined: "a little street, a circle, an assembly at a private house."] of Paris two hundred songs, as many sonnets, four hundred epigrams, and more than a thousand madrigals all made by me, without counting riddles and portraits. [Footnote: This kind of literature, in which one attempted to write a portrait of one's self or of others, was then very much in fashion. La Bruyere and de Saint-Simon in France, as well as Dryden and Pope in England, have shown what a literary portrait may become in the hands of men of talent.] MAD. I must acknowledge that I dote upon portraits; I think there is nothing more gallant. MASC. Portraits are difficult, and call for great wit; you shall see some of mine that will not displease you. CAT. As for me, I am awfully fond of riddles. MASC. They exercise the intelligence; I have already written four of them this morning, which I will give you to guess. MAD. Madrigals are pretty enough when they are neatly turned. MASC. That is my special talent; I am at present engaged in turning the whole Roman history into madrigals. [Footnote: Seventeen years after this play was performed, Benserade published _les Métamorphoses d' Ovide mises en rondeaux_.] MAD. Goodness gracious! that will certainly be superlatively fine; I should like to have one copy at least, if you think of publishing it. MASC. I promise you each a copy, bound in the handsomest manner. It does not become a man of my rank to scribble, but I do it only to serve the publishers, who are always bothering me. MAD. I fancy it must be a delightful thing to see one's self in print. MASC. Undoubtedly; but, by the by, I must repeat to you some extempore verses I made yesterday at the house of a certain duchess, an acquaintance of mine. I am deuced clever at extempore verses. CAT. Extempore verses are certainly the very touch-stone of genius. MASC. Listen then. MAD. We are all ears. MASC. _Oh! oh! quite without heed was I, As harmless you I chanced to spy, Slily your eyes My heart surprise, Stop thief! stop thief! stop thief I cry!_ CAT. Good Heavens! this is carried to the utmost pitch of gallantry. MASC. Everything I do shows it is done by a gentleman; there is nothing of the pedant about my effusions. MAD. They are more than two thousand miles removed from that. MASC. Did you observe the beginning, _oh! oh?_ there is something original in that _oh! oh!_ like a man who all of a sudden thinks about something, _oh! oh!_ Taken by surprise as it were, _oh! oh!_ MAD. Yes, I think that _oh! oh!_ admirable. MASC. It seems a mere nothing. CAT. Good Heavens! How can you say so? It is one of these things that are perfectly invaluable. MAD. No doubt on it; I would rather have written that _oh! oh!_ than an epic poem. MASC. Egad, you have good taste. MAD. Tolerably; none of the worst, I believe. MASC. But do you not also admire _quite without heed was I? quite without heed was I_, that is, I did not pay attention to anything; a natural way of speaking, _quite without heed was I, of no harm thinking_, that is, as I was going along, innocently, without malice, like a poor sheep, _you I chanced to spy_, that is to say, I amused myself with looking at you, with observing you, with contemplating you. _Slily your eyes_. ... What do you think of that word _slily_--is it not well chosen? CAT. Extremely so. MASC. _Slily_, stealthily; just like a cat watching a mouse--_slily_. MAD. Nothing can be better. MASC. My heart surprise, that is, carries it away from me, robs me of it. _Stop thief! stop thief! stop thief!_ Would you not think a man were shouting and running after a thief to catch him? _Stop thief! stop thief! stop thief!_ [Footnote: The scene of Mascarille reading his extempore verses is something like Trissotin in _Les Femmes savantes_ (see vol. III.) reading his sonnet for the Princess Uranie. But Mascarille comments on the beauties of his verses with the insolent vanity of a man who does not pretend to have even one atom of modesty; Trissotin, a professional wit, listens in silence, but with secret pride, to the ridiculous exclamations of the admirers of his genius.] MAD. I must admit the turn is witty and sprightly. MASC. I will sing you the tune I made to it. CAT. Have you learned music? MASC. I? Not at all. CAT. How can you make a tune then? MASC. People of rank know everything without ever having learned anything. MAD. His lordship is quite in the right, my dear. MASC. Listen if you like the tune: _hem, hem, la, la._ The inclemency of the season has greatly injured the delicacy of my voice but no matter, it is in a free and easy way. (_He sings_). _Oh! Oh! quite without heed was I_, etc. CAT. What a passion there breathes in this music. It is enough to make one die away with delight! MAD. There is something plaintive in it. MASC. Do you not think that the air perfectly well expresses the sentiment, _stop thief, stop thief?_ And then as if some one cried out very loud, _stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop thief!_ Then all at once like a person out of breath, _Stop thief!_ MAD. This is to understand the perfection of things, the grand perfection, the perfection of perfections. I declare it is altogether a wonderful performance. I am quite enchanted with the air and the words. CAT. I never yet met with anything so excellent. MASC. All that I do comes naturally to me; it is without study. MAD. Nature has treated you like a very fond mother; you are her darling child. MASC. How do you pass away the time, ladies? CAT. With nothing at all. MAD. Until now we have lived in a terrible dearth of amusements. MASC. I am at your service to attend you to the play, one of those days, if you will permit me. Indeed, a new comedy is to be acted which I should be very glad we might see together. MAD. There is no refusing you anything. MASC. But I beg of you to applaud it well, when we shall be there; for I have promised to give a helping hand to the piece. The author called upon me this very morning to beg me so to do. It is the custom for authors to come and read their new plays to people of rank, that they may induce us to approve of them and give them a reputation. I leave you to imagine if, when we say anything, the pit dares contradict us. As for me, I am very punctual in these things, and when I have made a promise to a poet, I always cry out "Bravo" before the candles are lighted. MAD. Do not say another word; Paris is an admirable place. A hundred things happen every day which people in the country, however clever they may be, have no idea of. CAT. Since you have told us, we shall consider it our duty to cry up lustily every word that is said. MASC. I do not know whether I am deceived, but you look as if you had written some play yourself. MAD. Eh! there may be something in what you say. MASC. Ah! upon my word, we must see it. Between ourselves, I have written one which I intend to have brought out. CAT. Ay! to what company do you mean to give it? MASC. That is a very nice question, indeed. To the actors of the hôtel de Bourgogne; they alone can bring things into good repute; the rest are ignorant creatures who recite their parts just as people speak in every-day life; they do not understand to mouth the verses, or to pause at a beautiful passage; how can it be known where the fine lines are, if an actor does not stop at them, and thereby tell you to applaud heartily? [Footnote: The company of actors at the hotel de Bourgogne were rivals to the troop of Molière; it appears, however, from contemporary authors, that the accusations brought by our author against them were well-founded.] CAT. Indeed! that is one way of making an audience feel the beauties of any work; things are only prized when they are well set off. MASC. What do you think of my top-knot, sword-knot, and rosettes? Do you find them harmonize with my coat? [Footnote: In the original _petite oie_; this was first, the name given to the giblets of a goose, _oie_; next it came to mean all the accessories of dress, ribbons, laces, feathers, and other small ornaments. In one of the old translations of Molière _petite oie_ is rendered by "muff," and _Perdrigeon_ (see next note), I suppose, with a faint idea of _perdrix_, a partridge, by "bird of paradise feathers!!"] CAT. Perfectly. MASC. Do you think the ribbon well chosen? MAD. Furiously well. It is real Perdrigeon. [Footnote: Perdrigeon was the name of a fashionable linen-draper in Paris at that time.] MASC. What do you say of my rolls? [Footnote: According to Ash's Dictionary, 1775, _canons_, are "cannions, a kind of boot hose, an ancient dress for the legs."] MAD. They look very fashionable. MASC, I may at least boast that they are a quarter of a yard wider than any that have been made. MAD. I must own I never saw the elegance of dress carried farther. MASC. Please to fasten the reflection of your smelling faculty upon these gloves. MAD. They smell awfully fine. CAT. I never inhaled a more delicious perfume. MASC. And this? (_He gives them his powdered wig to smell_). MAD. It has the true quality odour; it titillates the nerves of the upper region most deliciously. MASC. You say nothing of my feathers. How do you like them? CAT. They are frightfully beautiful. MASC. Do you know that every single one of them cost me a Louis-d'or? But it is my hobby to have generally everything of the very best. MAD. I assure you that you and I sympathize. I am furiously particular in everything I wear; I cannot endure even stockings, unless they are bought at a fashionable shop. [Footnote: Without going into details about the phraseology of the _précieuses_, of which the ridiculousness has appeared sufficiently in this scene, it will be observed that they used adverbs, as "furiously, terribly, awfully, extraordinarily, horribly, greatly," and many more, in such a way that they often appear absurd, as, "I love you horribly," or, "he was greatly small." Such a way of speaking is not unknown even at the present time in England; we sometimes hear, "I like it awfully," "it is awfully jolly."] MASC. (_Crying out suddenly_). O! O! O! gently. Damme, ladies, you use me very ill; I have reason to complain of your behaviour; it is not fair. [Footnote: I employ here the words "to have reason," because that verb, in the sense of "to have a right, to be right," seems to have been a courtly expression in Dryden's time. Old Moody answers to Sir Martin Marall (Act iii., Scene 3), "You have reason, sir. There he is again, too; the town phrase; a great compliment I wise! _you have reason_, sir; that is, you are no beast, sir." ] CAT. What is the matter with you? MASC. What! two at once against my heart! to attack me thus right and left! Ha! This is contrary to the law of nations, the combat is too unequal, and I must cry out, "Murder!" CAT. Well, he does say things in a peculiar way. MAD. He is a consummate wit. CAT. You are more afraid than hurt, and your heart cries out before it is even wounded. MASC. The devil it does! it is wounded all over from head to foot. SCENE XI.--CATHOS, MADELON, MASCARILLE, MAROTTE. MAR. Madam, somebody asks to see you. MAD. Who! MAR. The Viscount de Jodelet. MASC. The Viscount de Jodelet? MAR. Yes, sir. CAT. Do you know him? MASC. He is my most intimate friend. MAD. Shew him in immediately. MASC. We have not seen each other for some time; I am delighted to meet him. CAT. Here he comes. SCENE XII.--CATHOS, MADELON, JODELET, MASCARILLE, MAROTTE, ALMANZOR. MASC. Ah, Viscount! JOD. Ah, Marquis! (_Embracing each other_). MASC. How glad I am to meet you! JOD. How happy I am to see you here. MASC. Embrace me once more, I pray you. [Footnote: It was then the fashion for young courtiers to embrace each other repeatedly with exaggerated gestures, uttering all the while loud exclamations. The Viscount de Jodelet is the caricature of a courtier of a former reign; he is very old, very pale, dressed in sombre colours, speaks slowly and through the nose. Geoffrin, the actor, who played this part, was at least seventy years old.] MAD. (_To Cathos_). My dearest, we begin to be known; people of fashion find the way to our house. MASC. Ladies, allow me to introduce this gentleman to you. Upon my word, he deserves the honour of your acquaintance. JOD. It is but just we should come and pay you what we owe; your charms demand their lordly rights from all sorts of people. MAD. You carry your civilities to the utmost confines of flattery. CAT. This day ought to be marked in our diary as a red-letter day. MAD. (_To Almanser_). Come, boy, must you always be told things over and over again? Do you not observe there must be an additional chair? MASC. You must not be astonished to see the Viscount thus; he has but just recovered from an illness, which, as you perceive, has made him so pale. [Footnote: Molière here alludes to the complexion of the actor Geoffrin.] JOD. The consequence of continual attendance at court and the fatigues of war. MASC. Do you know, ladies, that in the Viscount you behold one of the heroes of the age. He is a very valiant man. [Footnote: In the original _un brave à trois poils_, literally, "a brave man with three hairs." This is an allusion to the moustache and pointed beard on the chin, then called _royale_. We have seen the fashion revived in our days by the late emperor of the French, Napoleon III. and his courtiers; of course, the _royale_ was then called _impériale_.] JOB. Marquis, you are not inferior to me; we also know what you can do. MASC. It is true we have seen one another at work when there was need for it. JOD. And in places where it was hot. MASC. (_Looking at Cathos and Madelon_). Ay, but not so hot as here. Ha, ha, ha! JOD. We became acquainted in the army; the first time we saw each other he commanded a regiment of horse aboard the galleys of Malta. MASC. True, but for all that you were in the service before me; I remember that I was but a young officer when you commanded two thousand horse. JOD. War is a fine thing; but, upon my word, the court does not properly reward men of merit like us. MASC. That is the reason I intend to hang up my sword. CAT. As for me, I have a tremendous liking for gentlemen of the army. [Footnote: Cathos, who only repeats what her cousin says, and has observed that Mascarille admires Madelon, is resolved to worship more particularly the Viscount de Jodelet.] MAD. I love them, too; but I like bravery seasoned with wit. MASC. Do you remember, Viscount, our taking that half-moon from the enemy at the siege of Arras? [Footnote: Turenne compelled the Prince de Condé and the Spanish army to raise the siege of Arras in 1654.] JOD. What do you mean by a half-moon? It was a complete full moon. MASC. I believe you are right. JOD. Upon my word, I ought to remember it very well. I was wounded in the leg by a hand-grenade, of which I still carry the marks. Pray, feel it, you can perceive what sort of a wound it was. CAT. (_Putting her hand to the place_). The scar is really large. MASC. Give me your hand for a moment, and feel this; there, just at the back of my head. Do you feel it? MAD. Ay, I feel something. MASC. A musket shot which I received the last campaign I served in. JOD. (_Unbuttoning his breast_). Here is a wound which went quite through me at the attack of Gravelines. [Footnote: In 1658, the Marshal de la Ferte took this town from the Spaniards.] MASC. (_Putting his hand upon the button of his breeches_). I am going to show you a tremendous wound. MAD. There is no occasion for it, we believe it without seeing it. MASC They are honour's marks, that show what a man is made of. CAT. We have not the least doubt of the valour of you both. MASC. Viscount, is your coach in waiting? JOD. Why? MASC. We shall give these ladies an airing, and offer them a collation. MAD. We cannot go out to-day. MASC. Let us send for musicians then, and have a dance. JOD. Upon my word, that is a happy thought. MAD. With all our hearts, but we must have some additional company. MASC. So ho! Champagne, Picard, Bourguignon, Cascaret, Basque, La Verdure, Lorrain, Provençal, La Violette. I wish the deuce took all these footmen! I do not think there is a gentleman in France worse served than I am! These rascals are always out of the way. [Footnote: These names, with the exception of Cascaret, La Verdure and La Violette are those of natives of different provinces, and were often given to footmen, according to the place where they were born. _Cascaret_ is of Spanish origin, and not seldom used as a name for servants; _La Verdure_ means, verdure; _La Violette_, violet.] MAD. Almanzor, tell the servants of my lord marquis to go and fetch the musicians, and ask some of the gentlemen and ladies hereabouts to come and people the solitude of our ball. (_Exit Almanzor_). MASC. Viscount, what do you say of those eyes? JOD. Why, Marquess, what do you think of them yourself? MASC. I? I say that our liberty will have much difficulty to get away from here scot free. At least mine has suffered most violent attacks; my heart hangs by a single thread. MAD. How natural is all he says! he gives to things a most agreeable turn. CAT. He must really spend a tremendous deal of wit. MASC. To show you that I am in earnest, I shall make some extempore verses upon my passion. (_Seems to think_). CAT. O! I beseech you by all that I hold sacred, let us hear something made upon us. JOD. I should be glad to do so too, but the quantity of blood that has been taken from me lately, has greatly exhausted my poetic vein. MASC. Deuce take it! I always make the first verse well, but I find the others more difficult. Upon my word, this is too short a time; but I will make you some extempore verses at my leisure, which you shall think the finest in the world. JOD. He is devilish witty. MAD. He--his wit is so gallant and well expressed. MASC. Viscount, tell me, when did you see the Countess last? JOD. I have not paid her a visit these three weeks. MASC. Do you know that the duke came to see me this morning; he would fain have taken me into the country to hunt a stag with him? MAD. Here come our friends. SCENE XIII.--LUCILE, CÉLIMÈNE, CATHOS, MADELON, MASCARILLE, JODELET, MAROTTE, ALMANZOR, AND MUSICIANS. MAD. Lawk! my dears, we beg your pardon. These gentlemen had a fancy to put life into our heels; we sent for you to fill up the void of our assembly. LUC. We are certainly much obliged to you for doing so. MASC. This is a kind of extempore ball, ladies, but one of these days we shall give you one in form. Have the musicians come? ALM. Yes, sir, they are here. CAT. Come then, my dears, take your places. MASC. (_Dancing by himself and singing_). La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. MAD. What a very elegant shape he has. CAT. He looks as if he were a first-rate dancer. MASC. (_Taking out Madelon to dance_). My freedom will dance a Couranto as well as my feet. Play in time, musicians, in time. O what ignorant wretches! There is no dancing with them. The devil take you all, can you not play in time? La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la? Steady, you country-scrapers! [Footnote: A Couranto was a very grave, Spanish dance, or rather march, but in which the feet did not rise from the ground.] JOD. (_Dancing also_). Hold, do not play so fast. I have but just recovered from an illness. SCENE XIV.--Du CROISY, LA GRANGE, CATHOS, MADELON, LUCILE, CÉLIMÈNE, JODELET; MASCARILLE, MAROTTE, AND MUSICIANS. LA GR. (_With a stick in his hand_). Ah! ah! scoundrels, what are you doing here? We have been looking for you these three hours. (_He beats Mascarille_). MASC. Oh! oh! oh! you did not tell me that blows should be dealt about. JOD. (_Who is also beaten_). Oh! oh! oh! LA GR. It becomes you well, you rascal, to pretend to be a man of rank. DU CR. This will teach you to know yourself. SCENE XV.--CATHOS, MADELON, LUCILE, CÉLIMÈNE, MASCARILLE, JODELET, MAROTTE, AND MUSICIANS. MAD. What is the meaning of this? JOD. It is a wager. CAT. What, allow yourselves to be beaten thus? MASC. Good Heavens! I did not wish to appear to take any notice of it; because I am naturally very violent, and should have flown into a passion. MAD. To suffer an insult like this in our presence! MASC. It is nothing. Let us not leave off. We have known one another for a long time, and among friends one ought not to be so quickly offended for such a trifle. SCENE XVI.--DU CROISY, LA GRANGE, MADELON, CATHOS, LUCILE, CÉLIMÈNE, MASCARILLE, JODELET, MAROTTE, AND MUSICIANS. LA GR. Upon my word, rascals, you shall not laugh at us, I promise you. Come in, you there. (_Three or four men enter_). MAD. What means this impudence to come and disturb us in our own house? DU CR. What, ladies, shall we allow our footmen to be received better than ourselves? Shall they come to make love to you at our expense, and even give a ball in your honour? MAD. Your footmen? LA GR. Yes, our footmen; and you must give me leave to say that it is not acting either handsome or honest to spoil them for us, as you do. MAD. O Heaven! what insolence! LA GR. But they shall not have the advantage of our clothes to dazzle your eyes. Upon my word, if you are resolved to like them, it shall be for their handsome looks only. Quick, let them be stripped immediately. JOD. Farewell, a long farewell to all our fine clothes. [Footnote: The original has _braverle_; brave, and bravery, had formerly also the meaning of showy, gaudy, rich, in English. Fuller in _The Holy State_, bk. ii., c. 18, says: "If he (the good yeoman) chance to appear in clothes above his rank, it is to grace some great man with his service, and then he blusheth at his own bravery."] MASC. The marquisate and viscountship are at an end. DU. CR. Ah! ah! you knaves, you have the impudence to become our rivals. I assure you, you must go somewhere else to borrow finery to make yourselves agreeable to your mistresses. LA GR. It is too much to supplant us, and that with our own clothes. MASC. O fortune, how fickle you are! DU CR. Quick, pull off everything from them. LA GR. Make haste and take away all these clothes. Now, ladies, in their present condition you may continue your amours with them as long as you please; we leave you perfectly free; this gentleman and I declare solemnly that we shall not be in the least degree jealous. SCENE XVII.--MADELON, CATHOS, JODELET, MASCARILLE, AND MUSICIANS. CAT. What a confusion! MAD. I am nearly bursting with vexation. 1 MUS. (_To Mascarille_). What is the meaning of this? Who is to pay us? MASC. Ask my lord the viscount. 1 MUS. (_To Jodelet_). Who is to give us our money? JOD. Ask my lord the marquis. SCENE XVIII.--GORGIBUS, MADELON, CATHOS, JODELET, MASCARILLE, AND MUSICIANS. GORG. Ah! you hussies, you have put us in a nice pickle, by what I can see; I have heard about your fine goings on from those two gentlemen who just left. MAD. Ah, father! they have played us a cruel trick. GORG. Yes, it is a cruel trick, but you may thank your own impertinence for it, you jades. They have revenged themselves for the way you treated them; and yet, unhappy man that I am, I must put up with the affront. MAD. Ah! I swear we will be revenged, or I shall die in the attempt. And you, rascals, dare you remain here after your insolence? MASC. Do you treat a marquis in this manner? This is the way of the world; the least misfortune causes us to be slighted by those who before caressed us. Come along, brother, let us go and seek our fortune somewhere else; I perceive they love nothing here but outward show, and have no regard for worth unadorned. (_They both leave_). SCENE XIX.--GORGIBUS, MADELON, CATHOS, AND MUSICIANS. 1 MUS. Sir, as they have not paid us, we expect you to do so, for it was in this house we played. GORG. (_Beating them_). Yes, yes, I shall satisfy you; this is the coin I will pay you in. As for you, you sluts, I do not know why I should not serve you in the same way; we shall become the common talk and laughing-stock of everybody; this is what you have brought upon yourselves by your fooleries. Out of my sight and hide yourselves, you jades; go and hide yourselves forever. {_Alone_). And you, that are the cause of their folly, you stupid trash, mischievous amusements for idle minds, you novels, verses, songs, sonnets, and sonatas, the devil take you all. 
6564	----	LE DÉPIT AMOUREUX. COMÈDIE. THE LOVE-TIFF. A COMEDY IN FIVE ACTS. (_THE ORIGINAL IN VERSE_.) 1656. INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. _The Love-tiff_ (_Le Dépit-amoureux_) is composed of two pieces joined together. The first and longest is a comparatively modest imitation of a very coarse and indecent Italian comedy, _L'Interesse_, by Signer Nicolo Secchi; its intrigue depends chiefly on the substitution of a female for a male child, a change which forms the groundwork of many plays and novels, and of which Shakespeare has also made use. The second and best part of the _Love-tiff_ belongs to Molière alone, and is composed chiefly of the whole of the first act, the first six verses of the third scene, and the whole of the fourth scene of the second act; these, with a few alterations and a few. lines added, form, the comedy which the _Théâtre Française_ plays at the present time. It was first represented at Béziers towards the end of 1656, when the States General of Languedoc were assembled in that town, and met with great success; a success which continued when it was played in Paris at the Théâtre du Petit-Bourbon in 1658. Why in some of the former English translations of Moliére the servant Gros-René is called "Gros-Renard" we are unable to understand, for both names are thoroughly French. Mr. Ozell, in his translation, gives him the unmistakably English, but not very euphonious name of "punch-gutted Ben, _alias_ Renier," whilst Foote calls him "Hugh." The incidents of the _Love-tiff_ are arranged artistically, though in the Spanish taste; the plot is too complicated, and the ending very unnatural. But the characters are well delineated, and fathers, lovers, mistresses, and servants all move about amidst a complication of errors from which there is no visible disentangling. The conversation between Valère and Ascanio in man's clothes, the mutual begging pardon of Albert and Polydore, the natural astonishment of Lucile, accused in the presence of her father, and the stratagem of Éraste to get the truth from his servants, are all described in a masterly manner, whilst the tiff between Éraste and Lucile, which gives the title to the piece, as well as their reconciliation, are considered among the best scenes of this play. Nearly all actors in France who play either the _valets_ or the _soubrettes_ have attempted the parts of Gros-René and Marinette, and even the great tragédienne Madlle. Rachel ventured, on the 1st of July, 1844, to act Marinette, but not with much success. Dryden has imitated, in the fourth act of _An Evening's Love_, a small part of the scene between Marinette and Éraste, the quarrelling scene between Lucile, Éraste, Marinette, and Gros-René, as well as in the third act of the same play, the scene between Albert and Metaphrastus. Vanbrugh has very closely followed Molière's play in the _Mistake_, but has laid the scene in Spain. This is the principal difference I can perceive. He has paraphased the French with a spirit and ease which a mere translation can hardly ever acquire. The epilogue to his play, written by M. Motteux, a Frenchman, whom the revocation of the Edict of Nantes brought into England, is filthy in the extreme. Mr. J. King has curtailed Vanbrugh's play into an interlude, in one act, called _Lover's Quarrels_, or _Like Master Like Man_. Another imitator of Molière was Edward Ravenscroft, of whom Baker says in his _Biographia Dramatica_, that he was "a writer or compiler of plays, who lived in the reigns of Charles II. and his two successors." He was descended from the family of the Ravenscrofts, in Flintshire; a family, as he himself, in a dedication asserts, so ancient that when William the Conqueror came into England, one of his nobles married into it. He was some time a member of the Middle Temple; but, looking on the dry study of the law as greatly beneath the attention of a man of genius, quitted it. He was an arrant plagiary. Dryden attacked one of his plays, _The Citizen turned Gentleman_, an imitation of Molière's _Bourgeois-Gentilhomme_, in the Prologue to _The Assignation_. Ravenscroft wrote "_The Wrangling Lovers, or the Invisible Mistress_. Acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1677. London, Printed for William Crook, at the sign of the _Green Dragon_, without _Temple-Bar_, 1677." Though the plot was partly taken from a Spanish novel, the author has been inspired by Molière's _Dépit amoureux_. The scene is in Toledo: Éraste is called Don Diego de Stuniga, Valère Don Gusman de Haro, "a well-bred cavaliere," Lucile is Octavia de Pimentell, and Ascanio is Elvira; Gros-René's name is Sanco, "vallet to Gusman, a simple pleasant fellow," and Mascarille is Ordgano, "a cunning knave;" Marinette is called Beatrice and Frosine Isabella. The English play is rather too long. Don Gusman courts Elvira veiled, whilst in the French play Ascanio, her counterpart, is believed to be a young man. There is also a brother of Donna Elvira, Don Ruis de Moncade, who is a rival of Don Diego, whilst in _le Dépit-amoureux_. Valère is not the brother but the husband of Ascanio and the rival of Éraste (Don Diego) as well. The arrangement of the English comedy differs greatly from the French. Though the plot in both plays is nearly identical, yet the words and scenes in _The Wrangling Lovers_ are totally different, and not so amusing. Mascarille and Gros-René are but faintly attempted; Marinette and Frosine only sketched in outline; and in the fifth act the ladies appear to have nothing else to do but to pop in and out of closets. The scenes of the French play between Albert and Metaphrastus (ii. 7); the very comical scene between Albert and Polydore (iii. 4) and the reconciliation scene between Lucile and Éraste (iv. 3), are also not rendered in the English comedy. There are very few scenes which can be compared with those of _le Dépit amoureux_. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. ÉRASTE, _in love with Lucile_. ALBERT, _father to Lucile_. [Footnote: This part was played by Moliére himself] GROS-RENÉ, _servant to Éraste_. VALÈRE, _son to Polydore_. POLYDORE, _father to Valère_. MASCARILLE, _servant to Valère_. METAPHRASTUS, _a pedant_. LA RAPIÉRE, _a bully_. LUCILE, _daughter to Albert_. ASCANIO, _Albert's daughter, in man's clothes_. FROSINE, _confidant to Ascanio_. MARINETTE, _maid to Lucile_. THE LOVE-TIFF. (LE DÉPIT AMOUREUX.) * * * * * ACT I. SCENE I.--ÉRASTE, GROS-RENÉ. ERAS. Shall I declare it to you? A certain secret anxiety never leaves my mind quite at rest. Yes, whatever remarks you make about my love, to tell you the truth, I am afraid of being deceived; or that you may be bribed in order to favour a rival; or, at least, that you may be imposed upon as well as myself. GR.-RE. As for me, if you suspect me of any knavish trick, I will say, and I trust I give no offence to your honour's love, that you wound my honesty very unjustly, and that you show but small skill in physiognomy. People of my bulk are not accused, thank Heaven! of being either rogues or plotters. I scarcely need protest against the honour paid to us, but am straightforward in every thing. [Footnote: Du Parc, the actor who played this part, was very stout; hence the allusion in the original, "_et suis homme fort rond de toutes les manieres_." I have, of course, used in the translation the word "straightforward" ironically, and with an eye to the rotundity of stomach of the actor. Molière was rather fond of making allusions in his plays to the infirmities or peculiarities of some of his actors. Thus, in the Miser (_l'Avare_) Act I, Scene 3, he alludes to the lameness of the actor Béjart, "_Je ne me plais point a voir ce chien de boiteux-la_." "I do not like to see that lame dog;" in the Citizen who apes the Nobleman (_le Bourgeois gentilhomme_), Act iii. sc. 9, he even gives a portrait of his wife.] As for my being deceived that may be; there is a better foundation for that idea; nevertheless, I do not believe it can be easily done. I may be a fool, but I do not see yet why you vex yourself thus. Lucile, to my thinking, shows sufficient love for you; she sees you and talks to you, at all times; and Valère, after all, who is the cause of your fear, seems only to be allowed to approach her because she is compelled so to act. ERAS. A lover is often buoyed up by false hope. He who is best received is not always the most beloved. The affection a woman displays is often but a veil to cover her passion for another. Valère has lately shown too much tranquillity for a slighted lover; and the joy or indifference he displays at those favours, which you suppose bestowed upon me, embitters continually their greatest charms, causes this grief, which you cannot understand, holds my happiness in suspense, and makes it difficult for me to trust completely anything Lucile says to me. I should feel delighted if I saw Valère animated by a little more jealousy; his anxiety and impatience would then reassure my heart. Do you as yourself think it possible for any one to see a rival caressed and be as satisfied as he is; if you do not believe it, tell me, I conjure you, if I have not a cause to be perplexed? GR.-RE. Perhaps he has changed his inclination, upon finding that he sighed in vain. ERAS. When love has been frequently repelled it frees itself, and wishes to flee from the object it was charmed with; nor does it break its chain so quietly as to be able to continue at peace. When once we have been fond of anyone who influenced our destiny we are never afterwards indifferent in her presence; if our dislike does not increase when we behold her our love is upon the point of returning again. Believe me, however much a passion may be extinguished, a little jealousy still dwells in our breast; no one can see, without feeling some pang, the heart he has lost possessed by another. GR.-RE. For my part, I do not understand so much philosophy. I candidly believe what my eyes see, and am not such a mortal enemy to myself as to become melancholy without any cause. Why should I try to split hairs, and labour hard to find out reasons to be miserable? Shall I alarm myself about castles in the air? Let Lent come before we keep it! I think grief an uncomfortable thing; and, for my part, I never foster it without good and just cause. I might frequently find a hundred opportunities to become sad, but I do not want to see them. I run the same risk in love as you do; I share in your bad or good luck. The mistress cannot deceive you but the maid will do the same by me; yet I carefully avoid thinking about it. I like to believe people when they say "I love you." In order to be happy, I do not try to find out whether Mascarille tears the hair out of his head or not. Let Marinette allow herself to be kissed and caressed by Gros-René as much as he likes, and let my charming rival laugh at it like a fool, I will laugh too as much as I like, and follow his example; we shall then see who will laugh the heartiest. [Footnote: In several editions of Molière we find, instead of Gros-René the name of Jodelet. The latest, and and if I might be permitted to say so, the most careful editor of our author, Mons. E. Despois, thinks that "Gros-René" ought to be mentioned here. The sense shows he is right.] ERAS. That is like your talk. GR.-RE. But here she comes. SCENE II.--MARINETTE, ÉRASTE, GROS-RENÉ. GR.-RE. Hist! Marinette. MAR. Hallo! what are you doing there? GR.-RE. Faith! do you ask? We were just talking about you. MAR. Are you there too, sir? Upon my word you have made me trot about like a flunkey for this hour past. ERAS. How so? MAR. I have walked ten miles to look for you, and give you my word that... ERAS. What? MAR. That you were neither at church, in the fashionable walk, at home, nor in the market-place. GR.-RE. You may swear to that. ERAS. But pray, tell me who sent you? MAR. One, in good truth, who bears you no great ill-will; in a word, my mistress. ERAS. Ah! dear Marinette, do your words really express what she feels? Do not hide some ominous secret from me. I should not dislike you for this. For Heaven's sake tell me if your charming mistress does not merely pretend to love me? MAR. Ha! ha! ha! What has put that funny notion into your head? Does she not sufficiently show her inclination? What further security does your love demand? What does it require? GR.-RE. Unless Valère hangs himself, or some such trifle, he will not be reassured. MAR. How so? GR.-RE. He is so very jealous. MAR. Of Valère? Ha! a pretty fancy indeed! It could only be hatched in your brain. I thought you a man of sense, and until now had a good opinion of your intellect; but I see I was very much deceived. Have you also got a touch of this distemper in your head? GR.-RE. I jealous? Heaven forbid! and keep me from being so silly as to go and make myself lean with any such grief. Your heart guarantees your fidelity; besides, I have too good an opinion of myself to believe that any other could please you after me. Where the deuce could you find any one equal to me? MAR. You really are right; that is as it should be. A jealous man should never show his suspicions! All that he gains by it is to do himself harm, and in this manner furthers the designs of his rival. Your distrust often is the cause that a mistress pays attention to a man, before whose merits your own have paled. I know a certain person who, were it not for the preposterous jealousy of a rival, had never been so happy as he now is. But, in any case, to show suspicion in love is acting a foolish part, and after all is to make one's-self miserable for nothing. This, sir (_to Éraste_), I mean as a hint to you. ERAS. Very well, let us talk no more about it. What have you to say to me? MAR. You deserve to be kept in suspense, In order to punish you, I ought to keep from you the great secret which has made me hunt for you so long. Here, read this letter, and doubt no more. Read it aloud, nobody listens. ERAS. (_Reads_). "_You told me that your love was capable of doing anything It may be crowned this very day, if you can but get my father's consent. Acquaint him with the power you have over my heart; I give you leave so to do; if his reply be favourable, I can answer for it that I shall obey_." Ah I how happy am I! I ought to look upon you, the bearer of this letter, as a divine creature. GR.-RE. I told you so. Though you do not believe it, I am seldom deceived in the things I ponder on. ERAS. (_Reading the letter again_). "_Acquaint him with the power you have over my heart; I give you leave so to do; if his reply be favourable, I can answer for it that I shall obey_." MAR. If I should tell her you are weak-minded enough to be jealous, she would immediately disown such a letter as this. ERAS. I beseech you, conceal from her a momentary fear, for which I thought I had some slight foundation; or, if you do tell it her, say to her at the same time that I am ready to atone for my fit of madness with my life, and would die at her feet, if I have been capable of displeasing her. MAR. Let us not talk of dying; this is no time for it. ERAS. However, you have laid me under a great obligation; I intend shortly to acknowledge in a handsome manner the trouble so gentle and so lovely a messenger has taken. MAR. That reminds me. Do you know where I looked for you just now? ERAS. Well? MAR. Quite near the market-place; you know where that is. ERAS. Where did you say? MAR. There... in that shop where last month you generously and freely promised me a ring. ERAS. Um! I understand you. GR.-RE. What a cunning jade! ERAS. It is true; I have delayed too long to make good my promise to you, but... MAR. What I said, sir, was not because I wished you to make haste. GR.-RE. Oh, no! ERAS. (_Giving her his ring_). Perhaps this ring may please you; accept it instead of the one I owe. MAR. You are only jesting, sir; I should be ashamed to take it. GR.-RE. Poor shame-faced creature! Take it without more ado; only fools refuse what is offered them. MAR. I will only accept it so that I may have something to remember you by. ERAS. When may I return thanks to that lovely angel? MAR. Endeavour to gain over her father. ERAS. But if he rejects me, should I...? MAR. We will think about that when he does so! We will do our utmost for you: one way or another she must be yours; do your best, and we will do ours. ERAS. Farewell! we shall know our fate to-day. (_Éraste reads the letter again to himself_). MAR. (_To Gros-René_). Well, what shall we say of our love? You do not speak to me of it. GR.-RE. If such people as we wish to be married, the thing is soon done. I will have you. Will you have me? MAR. Gladly. GR.-RE. Shake hands, that is enough. MAR. Farewell, Gros-René, my heart's delight. GR.-RE. Farewell, my star. MAR. Farewell, fair fire-brand of my flame. GR.-RE. Farewell, dear comet, rainbow of my soul. (_Exit Marinette_). Heaven be praised, our affairs go on swimmingly. Albert is not a man to refuse you anything. ERAS. Valère is coming here. GR.-RE. I pity the poor wretch, knowing what I do know. SCENE III.--ÉRASTE, VALÈRE, GROS-RENÉ. ERAS. Well, Valère? VAL. Well, Éraste? ERAS. How does your love prosper? VAL. And how does yours? ERAS. It grows stronger and stronger every day. VAL. So does mine. ERAS. For Lucile? VAL. For her. ERAS. Certainly, I must own, you are a pattern of uncommon constancy. VAL. And your perseverance will be a rare example to posterity. ERAS. As for me, I am not very fond of that austere kind of love which is satisfied with looks only; nor do I possess feelings lofty enough to endure ill-treatment with constancy. In one word, when I really love, I wish to be beloved again. VAL. It is very natural, and I am of the same opinion. I would never do homage to the most perfect object by whom I could be smitten, if she did not return my passion. ERAS. However, Lucile... VAL. Lucile does willingly everything my passion can desire. ERAS. You are easily satisfied then. VAL. Not so easily as you may think. ERAS. I, however, may, without vanity, believe that I am in her favour. VAL. And I know that I have a very good share of it. ERAS. Do not deceive yourself; believe me. VAL. Believe me, do not be too credulous, and take too much for granted. ERAS. If I might show you a certain proof that her heart...but no, it would too much distress you. VAL. If I might discover a secret to you...but it might grieve you, and so I will be discreet. ERAS. You really urge me too far, and though much against my will, I see I must lower your presumption. Read that. VAL. (_After having read the letter_). These are tender words. ERAS. You know the handwriting? VAL. Yes, it is Lucile's. ERAS. Well! where is now your boasted certainty...? VAL. (_Smiling and going away_). Farewell, Éraste. GR.-RE. He is mad, surely. What reason has he to laugh? ERAS. He certainly surprises me, and between ourselves I cannot imagine what the deuce of a mystery is hidden under this. GR.-RE. Here comes his servant, I think. ERAS. Yes, it is he; let us play the hypocrite, to set him talking about his master's love. SCENE IV.--ÉRASTE, MASCARILLE, GROS-RENÉ. MASC. (_Aside_). No, I do not know a more wretched situation, than to have a young master, very much in love. GR.-RE. Good morning. MASC. Good morning. GR.-RE. Where is Mascarille going just now? What is he doing? Is he coming back? Is he going away? Or does he intend to stay where he is? MASC. No, I am not coming back, because I have not yet been where I am going; nor am I going, for I am stopped; nor do I design to stay, for this very moment I intend to be gone. ERAS. You are very abrupt, Mascarille; gently. MASC. Ha! Your servant, sir. ERAS. You are in great haste to run away from us: what! do I frighten you? MASC. You are too courteous to do that. ERAS. Shake hands; all jealousy is now at an end between us; we will be friends; I have relinquished my love; henceforth you can have your own way to further your happiness. MASC. Would to Heaven it were true! ERAS. Gros-René knows that I have already another flame elsewhere. GR.-RE. Certainly; and I also give up Marinette to you. MASC. Do not let us touch on that point; our rivalry is not likely to go to such a length. But is it certain, sir, that you are no longer in love, or do you jest? ERAS. I have been informed that your master is but too fortunate in his amours; I should be a fool to pretend any longer to gain the same favours which that lady grants to him alone. MASC. Certainly, you please me with this news. Though I was rather afraid of you, with regard to our plans, yet you do wisely to slip your neck out of the collar. You have done well to leave a house where you were only caressed for form's sake; I, knowing all that was going on, have many times pitied you, because you were allured by expectations, which could never be realized. It is a sin and a shame to deceive a gentleman! But how the deuce, after all, did you find out the trick? For when they plighted their faith to each other there were no witnesses but night, myself, and two others; and the tying of the knot, which satisfies the passion of our lovers, is thought to have been kept a secret till now. ERAS. Ha! What do you say? MASC. I say that I am amazed, sir, and cannot guess who told you, that under this mask, which deceives you and everybody else, a secret marriage unites their matchless love. ERAS. You lie. MASC. Sir, with all my heart. ERAS. You are a rascal. MASC. I acknowledge I am. ERAS. And this impudence deserves a sound beating on the spot. MASC. I am completely in your power, ERAS. Ha! Gros-René. GR.-RE. Sir? ERAS, I contradict a story, which I much fear is but too true. (_To Mascarille_). You wanted to run away. MASC. Not in the least. ERAS. What! Lucile is married to... MASC. No, sir, I was only joking. ERAS. Hey! you were joking, you wretch? MASC. No, I was not joking. ERAS. Is it true then? MASC. No, I do not say that. ERAS. What do you say then? MASC. Alas! I say nothing, for fear of saying something wrong. ERAS. Tell me positively, whether you have spoken the truth, or deceived me. MASC. Whatever you please. I do not come here to contradict you. ERAS. (_Drawing his sword_). Will you tell me? Here is something that will loosen your tongue without more ado. MASC. It will again be saying some foolish speech or other. I pray you, if you have no objection, let me quickly have a few stripes, and then allow me to scamper off. ERAS. You shall suffer death, unless you tell me the whole truth without disguise. MASC. Alas! I will tell it then; but perhaps, sir, I shall make you angry. ERAS. Speak: but take great care what you are doing; nothing shall save you from my just anger, if you utter but one single falsehood in your narration. MASC. I agree to it; break my legs, arms, do worse to me still, kill me, if I have deceived you in the smallest degree, in anything I have said. ERAS. It is true then that they are married? MASC. With regard to this, I can now clearly see that my tongue tripped; but, for all that, the business happened just as I told you. It was after five visits paid at night, and whilst you were made use of as a screen to conceal their proceedings, that they were united the day before yesterday. Lucile ever since tries still more to hide the great love she bears my master, and desires he will only consider whatever he may see, and whatever favours she may show you, as the results of her deep-laid scheme, in order to prevent the discovery of their secrets. If, notwithstanding my protestations, you doubt the truth of what I have told you, Gros-René may come some night along with me, and I will show him, as I stand and watch, that we shall be admitted into her house, after dark. ERAS. Out of my sight, villain. MASC. I shall be delighted to go; that is just what I want. (_Exit_). SCENE V.--ÉRASTE, GROS-RENÉ. ERAS. Well? GR.-RE. Well! Sir, we are both taken in if this fellow speaks the truth. ERAS. Alas! The odious rascal has spoken the truth too well. All that he has said is very likely to have happened; Valère's behaviour, at the sight of this letter, denotes that there is a collusion between them, and that it is a screen to hide Lucile's love for him. SCENE VI.--ÉRASTE, MARINETTE, GROS-RENÉ. MAR. I come to tell you that this evening my mistress permits you to see her in the garden. ERAS. How dare you address me, you hypocritical traitress? Get out of my sight, and tell your mistress not to trouble me any more with her letters; that is the regard, wretch, I have for them. (_He tears the letter and goes out_). MAR. Tell me, Gros-René, what ails him? GR.-RE. Dare you again address me, iniquitous female, deceitful crocodile, whose base heart is worse than a satrap or a Lestrigon? [Footnote: See Homer's Odyssey, X., v. 81-132.] Go, go, carry your answer to your lovely mistress, and tell her short and sweet, that in spite of all her cunning, neither my master nor I are any longer fools, and that henceforth she and you may go to the devil together. (_Exit_). MAR. My poor Marinette, are you quite awake? What demon are they possessed by? What? Is it thus they receive our favours? How shocked my mistress will be when she hears this! * * * * * ACT II. SCENE I.--ASCANIO, FROSINE. FROS. Thank Heaven! I am a girl who can keep a secret, Ascanio. ASC. But is this place private enough for such a conversation? Let us take care that nobody surprises us, or that we be not overheard from some corner or other. FROS. We should be much less safe within the house; here we can easily see anybody coming, and may speak in perfect safety. ASC. Alas! how painful it is for me to begin my tale! FROS. Sure, this must be an important secret then? ASC. Too much so, since I even entrust it to you with reluctance; even you should not know it, if I could keep it concealed any longer. FROS. Fie! you insult me when you hesitate to trust in me, whom you have ever found so reserved in everything that concerns you--me, who was brought up with you, and have kept secret things of so great an importance to you; me, who know... ASC. Yes, you are already acquainted with the secret reason which conceals from the eyes of the world my sex and family. You know that I was brought into this house, where I have passed my infancy, in order to preserve an inheritance which, on the death of young Ascanio (whom I personate), should have fallen to others; that is why I dare to unbosom myself to you with perfect confidence. But before we begin this conversation, Frosine, clear up a doubt which continually besets me. Can it be possible that Albert should know nothing of the secret, which thus disguises my sex, and makes him my father? FROS. To tell you the truth, what you now wish to know has also greatly puzzled me. I have never been able to get at the bottom of this intrigue, nor could my mother give me any further insight. When Albert's son died, who was so much beloved, and to whom a very rich uncle bequeathed a great deal of property, even before his birth; his mother kept his death secret, fearing that her husband, who was absent at the time, would have gone distracted, had he seen that great inheritance, from which his family would have reaped such advantage, pass into the hands of another. She, I say, in order to conceal this misfortune formed the plan of putting you into the place of her lost son; you were taken from our family, where you were brought up. Your mother gave her consent to this deceit; you took the son's place, and every one was bribed to keep the secret. Albert has never known it through us, and as his wife kept it for more than twelve years, and died suddenly, her unexpected death prevented her from disclosing it. I perceive, however, that he keeps up an acquaintance with your real mother, and that, in private, he assists her; perhaps all this is not done without a reason. On the other hand, he commits a blunder by urging you to marry some young lady! Perhaps he knows that you took the place of his son, without knowing that you are a girl. But this digression might gradually carry us too far; let us return to that secret which I am impatient to hear. ASC. Know then that Cupid cannot be deceived, that I have not been able to disguise my sex from love's eyes, and that his subtle shafts have reached the heart of a weak woman beneath the dress I wear. In four words, I am in love! FROS. You in love! ASC. Gently, Frosine; do not be quite so astonished; it is not time yet; this love-sick heart has something else to tell you that will surprise you. FROS. What is it? ASC. I am in love with Valère. FROS. Ha! I really am surprised. What! you love a man whose family your deceit has deprived of a rich inheritance, and who, if he had the least suspicion of your sex, would immediately regain everything. This is a still greater subject of astonishment. ASC. I have a more wonderful surprise for you yet in store--I am his wife. FROS. Oh, Heavens! his wife! ASC. Yes, his wife. FROS. Ha! this is worse than all, and nearly drives me mad. ASC. And yet this is not all. FROS. Not all! ASC. I am his wife, I say, and he does not think so, nor has he the least idea of what I really am. FROS. Go on, I give it up, and will not say any thing more, so much every word amazes me. I cannot comprehend anything of these riddles. ASC. I shall explain if you will but hear me. Valère who admired my sister, seemed to me a lover worthy of being listened to; I could not bear to see his addresses slighted without feeling a certain interest in him. I wished that Lucile should take pleasure in his conversation, I blamed her severity, and blamed it so effectually, that I myself, without being able to help it, became affected with that passion which she could not entertain. He was talking to her, and persuaded me; I suffered myself to be overcome by the very sighs he breathed; and the love, rejected by the object of his flame, entered, like a conqueror, into my heart, which was wounded by an arrow, not aimed at it, and paid another's debt with heavy interest. At last, my dear, the love I felt for him forced me to declare myself, but under a borrowed name. One night I spoke to him, disguising my voice as if it were Lucile's, and this too amiable lover thought she returned his love; I managed the conversation so well that he never found out the deception. Under that disguise which pleased so much his deluded imagination, I told him that I was enamoured of him, but that, finding my father opposed to my wishes, I ought at least to pretend to obey him; that therefore it behooved us to keep our love secret, with which the night alone should be acquainted; that all private conversation should be avoided during the day, for fear of betraying everything; that he should behold me with the same indifference as he did before we had come to an understanding; and that on his part, as well as mine, no communication should take place either by gesture, word, or writing. In short, without dwelling any longer upon all the pains I have taken to bring this deception to a safe termination, I went on with my bold project as far as it was possible to go, and secured the husband I mentioned to you. FROS. Upon my word, you possess great talents. Would any one think so, on seeing her passionless countenance? However, you have been pretty hasty, and though I grant that the affair has succeeded until now, what do you think will be the end of it, for it cannot be long concealed? ASC. When love is strong it overcomes all obstacles, until it is satisfied; provided it reaches the wished-for goal, it looks upon everything else as a mere trifle. I have told you all to-day, so that your advice... But here comes my husband. SCENE II.--VALÈRE, ASCANIO, FROSINE. VAL. If you are conversing, and if my presence is any interruption, I shall withdraw. ASC. No; you may well interrupt it, since we were talking about you. VAL. About me? ASC. About yourself. VAL. How so? ASC. I was saying, that if I had been a woman, Valère would have been able to please me but too well, and that if I had been beloved by him, I should not have delayed long to make him happy. VAL. This declaration does not cost you much, as there is such an _if_ in the way; but you would be finely caught if some miraculous event should put to the proof the truth of so obliging a declaration. ASC. Not in the least; I tell you that if I reigned in your heart, I would very willingly crown your passion. VAL. And what, if you might contribute to my happiness, by assisting me to further my love? ASC. I should then, certainly, disappoint you. VAL. This admission is not very polite. ASC. What, Valère? Supposing I were a woman and loved you tenderly, would you be so cruel as to make me promise to aid you in your love for another lady? I could not perform such a painful task. VAL. But you are not a woman. ASC. What I said to you I said in the character of a woman, and you ought to take it so. VAL. Thus I ought not to imagine you like me, Ascanio, unless Heaven works a miracle in you. Therefore, as you are not a woman, I bid farewell to your affection; you do not care in the least for me. ASC. My feelings are far more nice than people imagine, and the smallest misgiving shocks me when love is in the case. But I am sincere; I will not promise to aid you, Valère, unless you assure me that you entertain precisely the same sentiments for me; that you feel the same warmth of friendship for me as I feel for you; and that if I were a woman you would love no one better than me. VAL. I never before heard of such a jealous scruple, but though quite unexpected, this affection obliges me to make some return for it; I here promise you all you require of me. ASC. But sincerely? VAL. Yes, sincerely. ASC. If this be true, I promise you that henceforth your interests shall be mine. VAL. I have a secret of the utmost consequence to reveal to you by and by, and then I shall remind you of your words. ASC. And I have likewise a secret to discover to you, wherein your affection for me may show itself. VAL. Indeed! what can that be? ASC. I have a love affair which I dare not reveal, and you have influence enough over the object of my passion to promote my happiness. VAL. Explain yourself, Ascanio, and be assured beforehand that, if your happiness lies in my power, it is certain. ASC. You promise more than you imagine. VAL. No, no; tell me the name of the person whom I have to influence. ASC. It is not yet time, but it is a person who is nearly related to you. VAL. Your words amaze me; would to Heaven my sister... ASC. This is not the proper time to explain myself, I tell you. VAL. Why so? ASC. For a certain reason. You shall know my secret when I know yours. VAL. I must have another person's permission before I can discover it to you. ASC. Obtain it then; and when we shall have explained ourselves we shall see which of us two will best keep his word. VAL. Farewell, I accept your offer. ASC. And I will be bound by it, Valère. (_Exit Valère_.) FROS. He thinks you will help him as a brother. SCENE III.--LUCILE, ASCANIO, MARINETTE, FROSINE. LUC. (_Saying the first words to Marinette_). I have done it; it is thus I can revenge myself; if this step torments him, it will be a great consolation to me... Brother, you perceive a change in me; I am resolved to love Valère, after so much ill-usage; he shall become the object of my affection. ASC. What do you say, sister? How do you change so suddenly? This inconstancy seems to me very strange. LUC. Your change of disposition has more cause to surprise me. You formerly used always to plead in favour of Valère; for his sake you have accused me of caprice, blind cruelty, pride and injustice; and now, when I wish to love him, my intention displeases you, and I find you speaking against his interest. ASC. I abandon his interest, sister, out of regard to yours. I know he is under the sway of another fair one; it will be a discredit to your charms if you call him back, and he does not come. LUC. If that is all, I shall take care not to suffer a defeat; I know what I am to believe of his passion; he has shown it very clearly, at least so I think; you may safely discover my sentiments to him: or if you refuse to do it, I, myself shall let him know that his passion has touched me. What! you stand thunderstruck, brother, at those words! ASC. Oh, sister, if I have any influence over you, if you will listen to a brother's entreaties, abandon such a design; do not take away Valère from the love of a young creature, in whom I feel great interest, and for whom, upon my word, you ought to feel some sympathy. The poor unfortunate woman loves him to distraction; to me alone she has disclosed her passion; I perceive in her heart such a tender affection, that it might soften even the most relentless being. Yes, you yourself will pity her condition when she shall become aware with what stroke you threaten to crush her love; so sure am I of the excess of her grief, that I am certain, sister, she will die, if you rob her of the man she adores. Éraste is a match that ought to satisfy you, and the mutual affection you have for one another... LUC. Brother, it is sufficient! I do not know in whom you take such an interest; but let us not continue this conversation, I beg of you; leave me a little to my own thoughts. ASC. Cruel sister, you will drive me to despair if you carry your design into execution. SCENE IV.--LUCILE, MARINETTE. MAR. Your resolution, madam, is very sudden. LUC. A heart considers nothing when it is once affronted, but flies to its revenge, and eagerly lays hold of whatever it thinks can minister to its resentment. The wretch! To treat me with such extreme insolence! MAR. You see I have not yet recovered the effects; though I were to brood over it to all eternity, I cannot understand it, and all my labour is in vain. For never did a lover express more delight on receiving good news; so pleased was he with your kind note that he called me nothing less than a divine creature; and yet, when I brought him the other message, there was never a poor girl treated so scurvily. I cannot imagine what could happen in so short a time to occasion so great a change. LUC. Do not trouble yourself about what may have happened, since nothing shall secure him against my hatred. What! do you think there is any secret reason for this affront but his own baseness? Does the unfortunate letter I sent him, and for which I now blame myself, present the smallest excuse for his madness? MAR. Indeed, I must say you are right; this quarrel is downright treachery; we have both been duped, and yet, madam, we listen to these faithless rascals who promise everything; who, in order to hook us, feign so much tenderness; we let our severity melt before their fine speeches, and yield to their wishes, because we are too weak! A shame on our folly, and a plague take the men! LUC. Well, well! let him boast and laugh at us; he shall not long have cause to triumph; I will let him see that in a well-balanced mind hatred follows close on slighted favours. MAR. At least, in such a case, it is a great happiness to know that we are not in their power. Notwithstanding all that was said, Marinette was right the other night to interfere when some people were in a very merry mood. Another, in hopes of matrimony, would have listened to the temptation, but _nescio vos_, quoth I. [Footnote: These two Latin words, which were in very common use in France, during Molière's time, are taken from the Vulgate, Matthew xxv. 12: _"Domine, domine, aperi nobis."--At ille respondens ait: "Amen dico vobis, nescio vos."_] LUC. How foolishly you talk; how ill you choose your time to joke! My heart is full of grief. If ever fate wills it that this false lover,--but I am in the wrong to conceive at present any such expectation; for Heaven has been too well pleased to afflict me to put it in my power to be revenged on him,--but if ever a propitious fate, I say, should cause Éraste to come back to me, and lay down his life as a sacrifice at my feet, as well as declare his sorrow for what he has done to-day, I forbid you, above all things, to speak to me in his favour. On the contrary, I would have you show your zeal by setting fully before me the greatness of his crime; if my heart should be tempted ever to degrade itself so far, let your affection then show itself; spare me not, but support my anger as is fit. MAR. Oh! do not fear! leave that to me; I am at least as angry as you; I would rather remain a maid all my life than that my fat rascal should give me any inclination for him again. If he comes... SCENE V.--MARINETTE, LUCILE, ALBERT. ALB. Go in, Lucile, and tell the tutor to come to me; I wish to have a little talk with him; and as he is the master of Ascanio, find out what is the cause that the latter has been of late so gloomy. SCENE VI.--ALBERT, _alone_. Into what an abyss of cares and perplexities does one unjust action precipitate us. For a long time I have suffered a great deal because I was too avaricious, and passed off a stranger for my dead son. When I consider the mischief which followed I sincerely wish I had never thought of it. Sometimes I dread to behold my family in poverty and covered with shame, when the deception will be found out; at other times I fear a hundred accidents that may happen to this son whom it concerns me so much to preserve. If any business calls me abroad, I am afraid of hearing, on my return, some such melancholy tidings as these: "You know, I suppose? Have they not told you? Your son has a fever; or he has broken his leg or his arm." In short, every moment, no matter what I do, all kinds of apprehensions are continually entering into my head. Ha! SCENE VII.--ALBERT, METAPHRASTUS. MET. _Mandatum tuum euro diligenter_. [Footnote: "I hasten to obey your order."] ALB. Master, I want to... MET. Master is derived from _magis ter_; it is as though you say "thrice greater." ALB. May I die if I knew that; but, never mind, be it so. Master, then... MET. Proceed. ALB. So I would, but do not proceed to interrupt me thus. Once more, then, master, for the third time, my son causes me some uneasiness. You know that I love him, and that I always brought him up carefully. MET. It is true: _filio non potest praeferri nisi filius_. [Footnote: "To a son one can only prefer a son." An allusion to an article of feudal law.] ALB. Master, I do not think this jargon at all necessary in common conversation. I believe you are a great Latin scholar and an eminent doctor, for I rely on those who have told me so; but in a conversation which I should like to have with you, do not display all your learning--do not play the pedant, and utter ever so many words, as if you were holding forth in a pulpit. My father, though he was a very clever man, never taught me anything but my prayers; and though I have said them daily for fifty years, they are still High-Dutch to me. Therefore, do not employ your prodigious knowledge, but adapt your language to my weak understanding. MET. Be it so. ALB. My son seems to be afraid of matrimony; whenever I propose a match to him, he seems indifferent, and draws back. MET. Perhaps he is of the temper of Mark Tully's brother, whom he writes about to Atticus. This is what the Greeks call _athanaton_.... [Footnote: Immortal.] ALB. For Heaven's sake! you ceaseless teacher, I pray you have done with the Greeks, the Albanians, the Sclavonians, and all the other nations you have mentioned; they have nothing to do with my son. MET. Well then, your son...? ALB. I do not know whether a secret love does not burn within him. Something disturbs him, or I am much deceived; for I saw him yesterday, when he did not see me, in a corner of the wood, where no person ever goes. MET. In a recess of a grove, you mean, a remote spot, in Latin _secessus_. Virgil says, _est in secessu locus_... [Footnote: "There is a remote spot"] ALB. How could Virgil say that, since I am certain that there was not a soul in that quiet spot except us two? MET. I quote Virgil as a famous author, who employed a more correct expression than the word you used, and not as a witness of what you saw yesterday. ALB. I tell you I do not need a more correct expression, an author, or a witness, and that my own testimony is sufficient. MET. However, you ought to choose words which are used by the best authors: _tu vivendo bonos, scribendo sequare peritos_, as the saying is. [Footnote: "Regulate your conduct after the example of good people, your style after good authors."] ALB. Man or devil, will you hear me without disputing? MET. That is Quintilian's rule. ALB. Hang the chatterbox! MET. He has a very learned sentence upon a similar subject, which, I am sure, you will be very glad to hear. ALB. I will be the devil to carry you off, you wretch. Oh! I am very much tempted to apply something to those chops. MET. Sir, what is the reason that you fly in such a passion! What do you wish me to do? ALB. I have told you twenty times; I wish you to listen to me when I speak. MET. Oh! undoubtedly, you shall be satisfied if that is all. I am silent. ALB. You act wisely. MET. I am ready to hear what you have to say. ALB. So much the better. MET. May I be struck dead if I say another word! ALB. Heaven grant you that favour. MET. You shall not accuse me henceforth of talkativeness. ALB. Be it so. MET. Speak whenever you please. ALB. I am going to do so. MET. And do not be afraid of my interrupting you. ALB. That is enough. MET. My word is my bond. ALB. I believe so. MET. I have promised to say nothing. ALB. That is sufficient. MET. From this moment I am dumb. ALB. Very well. MET. Speak; go on; I will give you a hearing at least; you shall not complain that I cannot keep silent; I will not so much as open my mouth. ALB. (_Aside_). The wretch! MET. But pray, do not be prolix. I have listened already a long time, and it is reasonable that I should speak in my turn. ALB. Detestable torturer! MET. Hey! good lack! would you have me listen to you for ever? Let us share the talk, at least, or I shall be gone. ALB. My patience is really... MET. What, will you proceed? You have not done yet? By Jove, I am stunned. ALB. I have not spoken... MET. Again! good Heavens! what exuberant speechifying! Can nothing be done to stop it? ALB. I am mad with rage. MET. You are talking again! What a peculiar way of tormenting people! Let me say a few words, I entreat you; a fool who says nothing cannot be distinguished from a wise man who holds his tongue. ALB. Zounds! I will make you hold yours. (_Exit_). SCENE VIII.--METAPHRASTUS, _alone_. Hence comes very properly that saying of a philosopher, "Speak, that I may know thee." Therefore, if the liberty of speaking is taken from me, I, for my part, would as soon be divested of my humanity, and exchange my being for that of a brute. I shall have a headache for a week. Oh! how I detest these eternal talkers! But if learned men are not listened to, if their mouths are for ever to be stopped, then the order of events must be changed; the hens in a little time will devour the fox; young children teach old men; little lambs take a delight in pursuing the wolf; fools make laws; women go to battle; judges be tried by criminals; and masters whipped by pupils; a sick man prescribe for a healthy one; a timorous hare... SCENE IX.--ALBERT, METAPHRASTUS. (_Albert rings a bell in the ears of Metaphrastus, and drives him off_). MET. Mercy on me! Help! help! * * * * * ACT III. SCENE I.--MASCARILLE, _alone_. Heaven sometimes favours a bold design; we must get out of a bad business as well as we can. As for me, after having imprudently talked too much, the quickest remedy I could employ was to go on in the same way, and immediately to tell to our old master the whole intrigue. His son is a giddy-brained mortal, who worries me; but if the other tells what I have discovered to him, then I had better take care, for I shall get a beating. However, before his fury can be kindled, some lucky thing may happen to us, and the two old men may arrange the business between themselves. That is what I am going to attempt; without losing a moment I must, by my master's order, go and see Albert. (_Knocks at Albert's door_). SCENE II.--ALBERT, MASCARILLE. ALB. Who knocks? MASC. A friend. ALB. What brings you hither, Mascarille? MASC. I come, sir, to wish you good-morning. ALB. Hah! you really take a great deal of pains. Good-morning, then, with all my heart. (_He goes in_). MASC. The answer is short and sweet. What a blunt old fellow he is. (_Knocks_). ALB. What, do you knock again? MASC. You have not heard me, sir. ALB. Did you not wish me good-morning? MASC. I did. ALB. Well, then, good morning I say. (_Is going; Mascarille stops him_). MASC. But I likewise come to pay Mr. Polydore's compliments to you. ALB. Oh! that is another thing. Has your master ordered you to give his compliments to me? MASC. Yes. ALB. I am obliged to him; you may go; tell him I wish him all kind of happiness. (_Exit_). MASC. This man is an enemy to all ceremony. (_Knocks_). I have not finished, sir, giving you his whole message; he has a favour to request of you. ALB. Well, whenever he pleases, I am at his service. MASC. (_Stopping him_). Stay, and allow me to finish in two words. He desires to have a few minutes' conversation with you about an important affair, and he will come hither. ALB. Hey! what affair can that be which makes him wish to have some conversation with me? MASC. A great secret, I tell you, which he has but just discovered, and which, no doubt, greatly concerns you both. And now I have delivered my message. SCENE III.--ALBERT, _alone_. ALB. Righteous Heavens! how I tremble! Polydore and I have had little acquaintance together; my designs will all be overthrown; this secret is, no doubt, that of which I dread the discovery. They have bribed somebody to betray me; so there is a stain upon my honour which can never be wiped off. My imposture is found out. Oh! how difficult it is to keep the truth concealed for any length of time! How much better would it have been for me and my reputation had I followed the dictates of a well-founded apprehension! Many times and oft have I been tempted to give up to Polydore the wealth I withhold from him, in order to prevent the outcry that will be raised against me when everything shall be known, and so get the whole business quietly settled. But, alas! it is now too late, the opportunity is gone, and this wealth, which wrongfully came into my family, will be lost to them, and sweep away the greatest part of my own property with it. SCENE IV.--ALBERT, POLYDORE. POL. (_Not seeing Albert_). To be married in this fashion, and no one knowing anything about it! I hope it may all end well! I do not know what to think of it; I much fear the great wealth and just anger of the father. But I see him alone. ALB. Oh, Heavens! yonder comes Polydore. POL. I tremble to accost him. ALB. Fear keeps me back. POL. How shall I begin? ALB. What shall I say? POL. He is in a great passion. ALB. He changes colour. POL. I see, Signor Albert, by your looks, that you know already what brings me hither. ALB. Alas! yes. POL. The news, indeed, may well surprise you, and I could scarcely believe what I was told just now. ALB. I ought to blush with shame and confusion. POL. I think such an action deserves great blame, and do not pretend to excuse the guilty. ALB. Heaven is merciful to miserable sinners. POL. You should bear this in mind. ALB. A man ought to behave as a Christian. POL. That is quite right. ALB. Have mercy; for Heaven's sake, have mercy, Signor Polydore. POL. It is for me to implore it of you. ALB. Grant me mercy; I ask it on my bended knees. POL. I ought to be in that attitude rather than you. [Footnote: The two old men are kneeling opposite to one another.] ALB. Pity my misfortune. POL. After such an outrage I am the postulant. ALB. Your goodness is heart-rending. POL. You abash me with so much humility. ALB. Once more, pardon. POL. Alas! I crave it of you. ALB. I am extremely sorry for this business. POL. And I feel it greatly. ALB. I venture to entreat you not to make it public. POL. Alas, Signor Albert, I desire the very same. ALB. Let us preserve my honour. POL. With all my heart. ALB. As for money, you shall determine how much you require. POL. I desire no more than you are willing to give; you shall be the master in all these things, I shall be but too happy if you are so. ALB. Ha! what a God-like man! how very kind he is! POL. How very kind you are yourself, and that after such a misfortune. ALB. May you be prosperous in all things! POL. May Heaven preserve you! ALB. Let us embrace like brothers. POL. With all my heart! I am overjoyed that everything has ended so happily, ALB. I thank Heaven for it. POL. I do not wish to deceive you; I was afraid you would resent that Lucile has committed a fault with my son; and as you are powerful, have wealth and friends... ALB. Hey! what do you say of faults and Lucile? POL. Enough, let us not enter into a useless conversation. I own my son is greatly to blame; nay, if that will satisfy you, I will admit that he alone is at fault; that your daughter was too virtuous, and would never have taken a step so derogatory to honour, had she not been prevailed upon by a wicked seducer; that the wretch has betrayed her innocent modesty, and thus frustrated all your expectations. But since the thing is done, and my prayers have been granted, since we are both at peace and amity, let it be buried in oblivion, and repair the offence by the ceremony of a happy alliance. ALB. (_Aside_). Oh, Heavens! what a mistake I have been under! What do I hear? I get from one difficulty into another as great. I do not know what to answer amidst these different emotions; if I say one word, I am afraid of betraying myself. POL. What are you thinking of, Signor Albert? ALB. Of nothing. Let us put off our conversation for a while, I pray you. I have become suddenly very unwell, and am obliged to leave you. SCENE V.--POLYDORE, _alone_. I can look into his soul and discover what disturbs him; though he listened to reason at first, yet his anger is not quite appeased. Now and then the remembrance of the offence flashes upon him; he endeavours to hide his emotion by leaving me alone. I feel for him, and his grief touches me. It will require some time before he regains his composure, for if sorrow is suppressed too much, it easily becomes worse. O! here comes my foolish boy, the cause of all this confusion. SCENE VI.--POLYDORE, VALÈRE. POL. So, my fine fellow, shall your nice goings-on disturb your poor old father every moment? You perform something new every day, and we never hear of anything else. VAL. What am I doing every day that is so very criminal? And how have I deserved so greatly a father's wrath? POL. I am a strange man, and very peculiar to accuse so good and discreet a son. He lives like a saint, and is at prayers and in the house from morning to evening. It is a great untruth to say that he perverts the order of nature, and turns day into night! It is a horrible falsehood to state that upon several occasions he has shown no consideration for father or kindred; that very lately he married secretly the daughter of Albert, regardless of the great consequences that were sure to follow; they mistake him for some other! The poor innocent creature does not even know what I mean! Oh, you villain! whom Heaven has sent me as a punishment for my sins, will you always do as you like, and shall I never see you act discreetly as long as I live? (_Exit_). VAL. (_Alone, musing_). Whence comes this blow? I am perplexed, and can find none to think of but Mascarille, he will never confess it to me; I must be cunning, and curb my well-founded anger a little. SCENE VII.--VALÈRE, MASCARILLE. VAL. Mascarille, my father whom I just saw knows our whole secret. MASC. Does he know it? VAL. Yes. MASC. How the deuce could he know it? VAL. I do not know whom to suspect; but the result has been so successful, that I have all the reason in the world to be delighted. He has not said one cross word about it; he excuses my fault, and approves of my love; I would fain know who could have made him so tractable. I cannot express to you the satisfaction it gives me. MASC. And what would you say, sir, if it was I who had procured you this piece of good luck? VAL. Indeed! you want to deceive me. MASC. It is I, I tell you, who told it to your father, and produced this happy result for you. VAL. Really, without jesting? MASC. The devil take me if I jest, and if it is not as I tell you. VAL. (_Drawing his sword_). And may he take me if I do not this very moment reward you for it. MASC. Ha, sir! what now? Don't surprise me. VAL. Is this the fidelity you promised me? If I had not deceived you, you would never have owned the trick which I rightly suspected you played me. You rascal! your tongue, too ready to wag, has provoked my father's wrath against me, and utterly ruined me. You shall die without saying another word. MASC. Gently; my soul is not in a fit condition to die. I entreat you, be kind enough to await the result of this affair. I had very good reasons for revealing a marriage which you yourself could hardly conceal. It was a masterpiece of policy; you will not find your rage justified by the issue. Why should you get angry if, through me, you get all you desire, and are freed from the constraint you at present lie under? VAL. And what if all this talk is nothing but moonshine? MASC. Why, then, it will be time enough to kill me; but my schemes may perchance succeed. Heaven will assist his own servants; you will be satisfied in the end, and thank me for my extraordinary management. VAL. Well, we shall see. But Lucile... MASC. Hold, here comes her father SCENE VIII.--ALBERT, VALÈRE, MASCARILLE. ALB. (_Not seeing Valère_). The more I recover from the confusion into which I fell at first, the more I am astonished at the strange things Polydore told me, and which my fear made me interpret in so different a manner to what he intended. Lucile maintains that it is all nonsense, and spoke to me in such a manner as leaves no room for suspicion... Ha! sir, it is you whose unheard-of impudence sports with my honour, and invents this base story? MASC. Pray, Signor Albert, use milder terms, and do not be so angry with your son-in-law. ALB. How! son-in-law, rascal? You look as if you were the main-spring of this intrigue, and the originator of it. MASC. Really I see no reason for you to fly in such a passion. ALB. Pray, do you think it right to take away the character of my daughter, and bring such a scandal upon a whole family? MASC. He is ready to do all you wish. ALB. I only want him to tell the truth. If he had any inclination for Lucile, he should have courted her in an honourable and open way; he should have acted as he ought, and asked her father's leave; and not have had recourse to this cowardly contrivance, which offends modesty so much. MASC. What! Lucile is not secretly engaged to my master? ALB. No, rascal, nor ever will be. MASC. Not quite so fast! If the thing is already done, will you give your consent to ratify that secret engagement? ALB. And if it is certain that it is not so, will you have your bones broken? VAL. It is easy, sir, to prove to you that he speaks the truth. ALB. Good! there is the other! Like master, like man. O! what impudent liars! MASC. Upon the word of a man of honour, it is as I say. VAL. Why should we deceive you? ALB. (_Aside_) They are two sharpers that know how to play into each other's hands. MASC. But let us come to the proof, and without quarrelling. Send for Lucile, and let her speak for herself. ALB. And what if she should prove you a liar? MASC. She will not contradict us, sir; of that I am certain. Promise to give your consent to their engagement; and I will suffer the severest punishment if, with her own mouth, she does not confess to you that she is engaged to Valère, and shares his passion. ALB. We shall see this presently. (_He knocks at his door_). MASC. (To Valère). Courage, Sir; all will end well. ALB. Ho! Lucile, one word with you. VAL. (_To Mascarille_), I fear... MASC. Fear nothing. SCENE IX.--VALÈRE, ALBERT, LUCILE, MASCARILLE. MASC. Signor Albert, at least be silent. At length, madam, everything conspires to make your happiness complete. Your father, who is informed of your love, leaves you your husband and gives his permission to your union, provided that, banishing all frivolous fears, a few words from your own mouth corroborate what we have told him. LUC. What nonsense does this impudent scoundrel tell me? MASC. That is all right. I am already honoured with a fine title. LUC. Pray, sir, who has invented this nice story which has been spread about today? VAL. Pardon me, charming creature. My servant has been babbling; our marriage is discovered, without my consent. LUC. Our marriage? VAL. Everything is known, adorable Lucile; it is vain to dissemble. LUC. What! the ardour of my passion has made you my husband? VAL. It is a happiness which causes a great many heart-burnings. But I impute the successful result of my courtship less to your great passion for me than to your kindness of heart. I know you have cause to be offended, that it was the secret which you would fain have concealed. I myself have put a restraint on my ardour, so that I might not violate your express commands; but... MASC. Yes, it was I who told it. What great harm is done? LUC. Was there ever a falsehood like this? Dare you mention this in my very presence, and hope to obtain my hand by this fine contrivance? What a wretched lover you are--you, whose gallant passion would wound my honour, because it could not gain my heart; who wish to frighten my father by a foolish story, so that you might obtain my hand as a reward for having vilified me. Though everything were favourable to your love--my father, fate, and my own inclination--yet my well-founded resentment would struggle against my own inclination, fate, and my father, and even lose life rather than be united to one who thought to obtain my hand in this manner. Begone! If my sex could with decency be provoked to any outburst of rage, I would let you know what it was to treat me thus. VAL. (_To Mascarille_). It is all over with us; her anger cannot be appeased. MASC. Let me speak to her. Prithee, madam, what is the good of all these excuses? What are you thinking of? And what strange whim makes you thus oppose your own happiness? If your father were a harsh parent, the case would be different, but he listens to reason; and he himself has assured me that if you would but confess the truth, his affection would grant you everything. I believe you are a little ashamed frankly to acknowledge that you have yielded to love; but if you have lost a trifling amount of freedom, everything will be set to rights again by a good marriage. Your great love for Valère may be blamed a little, but the mischief is not so great as if you had murdered a man. We all know that flesh is frail, and that a maid is neither stock nor stone. You were not the first, that is certain; and you will not be the last, I dare say. LUC. What! can you listen to this shameless talk, and make no reply to these indignities? ALB. What would you have me say? This affair puts me quite beside myself. MASC. Upon my word, madam, you ought to have confessed all before now. LUC. What ought I to have confessed? MASC. What? Why, what has passed between my master and you. A fine joke, indeed! LUC. Why, what has passed between your master and me, impudent wretch? MASC. You ought, I think, to know that better than I; you passed that night too agreeably, to make us believe you could forget it so soon. LUC. Father, we have too long borne with the insolence of an impudent lackey. (_Gives him a box on the ear_). SCENE X.--ALBERT, VALÈRE, MASCARILLE. MASC. I think she gave me a box on the ear. ALB. Be gone! rascal, villain! Her father approves the way in which she has made her hand felt upon your cheek. MASC. May be so; yet may the devil take me if I said anything but what was true! ALB. And may I lose an ear if you carry on this impudence any further! MASC. Shall I send for two witnesses to testify to the truth of my statements? ALB. Shall I send for two of my servants to give you a sound thrashing? MASC. Their testimony will corroborate mine. ALB. Their arms may make up for my want of strength. MASC. I tell you, Lucile behaves thus because she is ashamed. ALB. I tell you, you shall be answerable for all this. MASC. Do you know Ormin, that stout and clever notary? ALB. Do you know Grimpant, the city executioner? MASC. And Simon, the tailor, who used formerly to work for all the people of fashion? ALB. And the gibbet set up in the middle of the market-place? MASC. You shall see they will confirm the truth of this marriage. ALB. You shall see they will make an end of you. MASC. They were the witnesses chosen by them. ALB. They shall shortly revenge me on you. MASC. I myself saw them at the altar. ALB. And I myself shall see you with a halter. MASC. By the same token, your daughter had a black veil on. ALB. By the same token, your face foretells your doom. MASC. What an obstinate old man. ALB. What a cursed rascal! You may thank my advanced years, which prevent me from punishing your insulting remarks upon the spot: but I promise you, you shall be paid with full interest. SCENE XI.--VALÈRE, MASCARILLE. VAL. Well, where is now that fine result you were to produce...? MASC. I understand what you mean. Everything goes against me: I see cudgels and gibbets preparing for me on every side. Therefore, so that I may be at rest amidst this chaos, I shall go and throw myself headlong from a rock, if, in my present despair, I can find one high enough to please me. Farewell, sir. VAL. No, no; in vain you wish to fly. If you die, I expect it to be in my presence. MASC. I cannot die if anybody is looking on: it would only delay my end. VAL. Follow me traitor; follow me. My maddened love will soon show whether this is a jesting matter or not. MASC. (_Alone_). Unhappy Mascarille, to what misfortunes are you condemned to-day for another's sin! * * * * * ACT IV. SCENE I.--ASCANIO, FROSINE. FROS. What has happened is very annoying. ASC. My dear Frosine, fate has irrevocably decreed my ruin. Now the affair has gone so far, it will never stop there, but will go on; Lucile and Valère, surprised at such a strange mystery, will, one day, try to find their way amidst this darkness, and thus all my plans will miscarry. For, whether Albert is acquainted with the deception, or whether he himself is deceived, as well as the rest of the world, if ever it happens that my family is discovered, and all the wealth he has wrongfully acquired passes into the hands of others, judge if he will then endure my presence; for, not having any interest more in the matter, he will abandon me, and his affection for me will be at an end. Whatever, then, my lover may think of my deception, will he acknowledge as his wife a girl without either fortune or family? FROS. I think you reason rightly; but these reflections should have come sooner. What has prevented you from seeing all this before? there was no need to be a witch to foresee, as soon as you fell in love with Valère, all that your genius never found out until to-day. It is the natural consequence of what you have done; as soon as I was made acquainted with it I never imagined it would end otherwise. ASC. But what must I do? There never was such a misfortune as mine. Put yourself in my place, and give me advice. FROS. If I put myself in your place, you will have to give me advice upon this ill-success; for I am you, and you are I. Counsel me, Frosine, in the condition I am in. Where can we find a remedy? Tell me, I beg of you. ASC. Alas! do not make fun of me. You show but little sympathy with my bitter grief, if you laugh in the midst of my distress. FROS. Really, Ascanio, I pity your distress, and would do my utmost to help you. But what can I do, after all? I see very little likelihood of arranging this affair so as to satisfy your love. ASC. If no assistance can be had, I must die. FROS. Die! Come, come; it is always time enough for that. Death is a remedy ever at hand; we ought to make use of it as late as possible. ASC. No, no, Frosine. If you and your invaluable counsels do not guide me amidst all these breakers, I abandon myself wholly to despair. FROS. Do you know what I am thinking about? I must go and see the.... But here comes Éraste; he may interrupt us. We will talk this matter over as we go along. Come, let us retire. [Footnote: Frosine means by "the..." the woman who knows the secret of all this intrigue, and who is supposed to be the mother of Ascanio. This is explained later on in Act V., Scene 4] SCENE II.--ÉRASTE, GROS-RENÉ. ERAS. You have failed again? GR.-RE. Never was an ambassador less listened to. No sooner had I told her that you desired to have a moment's conversation with her, than, drawing herself up, she answered haughtily, "Go, go, I value your master just as much as I do you; tell him he may go about his business;" and after this fine speech she turned her head away from me and walked off. Marinette, too, imitating her mistress, said, with a disdainful sneer, "Begone, you low fellow," and then left me; so that your fortune and mine are very much alike. [Footnote: In the original it is _beau valet de carreau_. Littré, in his "Dictionaire de la langue francaise," says that this word which means literally "knave of diamonds," was considered an insult, because in the old packs of cards of the beginning of the seventeenth century, that knave was called _valet de chasse_, hunting servant, a rather menial situation; while the knave of spades, _valet de pique_, was called, nobleman's servant; the knave of hearts, valet de coeur, valet de cour, court servant; and the knave of clubs, _valet de trefle, valet de pied_, foot servant.] ERAS. What an ungrateful creature, to receive with so much haughtiness the quick return of a heart justly incensed. Is the first outburst of a passion, which with so much reason thought itself deceived, unworthy of excuse? Could I, when burning with love, remain insensible, in that fatal moment, to the happiness of a rival? Would any other not have acted in the same way as I did, or been less amazed at so much boldness? Was I not quick in abandoning my well-founded suspicions? I did not wait till she swore they were false. When no one can tell as yet what to think of it, my heart, full of impatience, restores Lucile to her former place, and seeks to find excuses for her. Will not all these proofs satisfy her of the ardour of my respectful passion? Instead of calming my mind, and providing me with arms against a rival who wishes to alarm me, this ungrateful woman abandons me to all the tortures of jealousy, and refuses to receive my messages and notes, or to grant me an interview. Alas! that love is certainly very lukewarm which can be extinguished by so trifling an offence; that scornful rigour, which is displayed so readily, sufficiently shows to me the depth of her affection. What value ought I to set now upon all the caprices with which she fanned my love? No! I do not pretend to be any longer the slave of one who has so little love for me; since she does not mind whether she keeps me or not, I will do the same. GR.-RE. And so will I. Let us both be angry, and put our love on the list of our old sins; we must teach a lesson to that wayward sex, and make them feel that we possess some courage. He that will bear their contempt shall have enough of it. If we had sense enough not to make ourselves too cheap, women would not talk so big. Oh! how insolent they are through our weakness! May I be hanged if we should not see them fall upon our neck more often than we wished, if it was not for those servilities with which most men, now-a-days, continually spoil them. ERAS. As for me, nothing vexes me so much as contempt; and to punish her's by one as great, I am resolved to cherish a new passion. GR.-RE. So will I, and never trouble my head about women again. I renounce them all, and believe honestly you could not do better than to act like me. For, master, people say that woman is an animal hard to be known, and naturally very prone to evil; and as an animal is always an animal, and will never be anything but an animal, though it lived for a hundred thousand years, so, without contradiction, a woman is always a woman, and will never be anything but a woman as long as the world endures. [Footnote: This passage is paraphrased from Erasmus, _Colloquia familiaria et Encomium Moriae_, in which, after having called a woman _animal stultum atque ineptum verum ridiculum, et suave_, Folly adds, _Quemadmodum, juxta Graecorum proverbium, simia semper est simia, etiamsi purpura vestiatur, ita mulier semper mulier est, hoc est stulta, quamcunque personam induxerit_.] Wherefore, as a certain Greek author says: a woman's head is like a quicksand; for pray, mark well this argument, which is most weighty: As the head is the chief of the body, and as the body without a chief is worse than a beast, unless the chief has a good understanding with the body, and unless everything be as well regulated as if it were measured with a pair of compasses, we see certain confusions arrive; the animal part then endeavours to get the better of the rational, and, we see one pull to the right, another to the left; one wants something soft, another something hard; in short, everything goes topsy turvy. This is to show that here below, as it has been explained to me, a woman's head is like a weather-cock on the top of a house, which veers about at the slightest breeze; that is why cousin Aristotle often compares her to the sea; hence people say that nothing in the world is so stable as the waves. [Footnote: Though "stable" is here used, it is only employed to show the confusion of Gros-René's ideas, who, of course, wishes to say "unstable."] Now, by comparison--for comparison makes us comprehend an argument distinctly,--and we learned men love a comparison better than a similitude,--by comparison, then, if you please, master, as we see that the sea, when a storm rises, begins to rage, the wind roars and destroys, billows dash against billows with a great hullabaloo, and the ship, in spite of the mariner, goes sometimes down to the cellar and sometimes up into the garret; so, when a woman gets whims and crotchets into her head, we see a tempest in the form of a violent storm, which will break out by certain ... words, and then a ... certain wind, which by ... certain waves in ... a certain manner, like a sand-bank ... when ... In short, woman is worse than the devil. [Footnote: This long speech of Gros-René ridicules the pedantic arguments of some of the philosophers of the time of Molière. It also attributes to the ancients some sayings of authors of the day; for example, the comparison, from a Greek author, "that a woman's head is like a quicksand," is from a contemporary; the saying from Aristotle, comparing woman to the sea, is from Malherbe. Words very familiar look more homely when employed with high-flown language, and Gros-René's speech is no bad example of this, whilst at the same time it becomes more muddled the longer it goes on. There exists also a tradition that the actor who performs the part of Gros-René should in order to show his confusion, when he says "goes sometimes down the cellar," point to his head, and when he mentions "up into the garret," point to his feet.] ERAS. You have argued that very well. GR.-RE. Pretty well, thanks to Heaven; but I see them coming this way, sir,--stand firm. ERAS. Never fear. GR.-RE. I am very much afraid that her eyes will ensnare you again. SCENE III.--ÉRASTE, LUCILE, MARINETTE, GROS-RENÉ. MAR. He is not gone yet, but do not yield. LUC. Do not imagine I am so weak. MAR. He comes towards us. ERAS. No, no, madam, do not think that I have come to speak to you again of my passion; it is all over; I am resolved to cure myself. I know how little share I have in your heart. A resentment kept up so long for a slight offence shows me your indifference but too plainly, and I must tell you that contempt, above all things, wounds a lofty mind. I confess I saw in you charms which I never found in any other; the delight I took in my chains would have made me prefer them to sceptres, had they been offered to me. Yes, my love for you was certainly very great; my life was centred in you; I will even own that, though I am insulted, I shall still perhaps have difficulty enough to free myself. Maybe, notwithstanding the cure I am attempting, my heart may for a long time smart with this wound. Freed from a yoke which I was happy to bend under, I shall take a resolution never to love again. But no matter, since your hatred repulses a heart which love brings back to you, this is the last time you shall ever be troubled by the man you so much despise. LUC. You might have made the favour complete, sir, and spared me also this last trouble. ERAS. Very well, madam, very well, you shall be satisfied. I here break off all acquaintance with you, and break it off for ever, since you wish it; may I lose my life if ever again I desire to converse with you! LUC. So much the better, you will oblige me. ERAS. No, no, do not be afraid that I shall break my word! For, though my heart may be weak enough not to be able to efface your image, be assured you shall never have the pleasure of seeing me return. LUC. You may save yourself the trouble. ERAS. I would pierce my breast a hundred times should I ever be so mean as to see you again, after this unworthy treatment. LUC. Be it so; let us talk no more about it. ERAS. Yes, yes; let us talk no more about it; and to make an end here of all unnecessary speeches, and to give you a convincing proof, ungrateful woman, that I forever throw off your chain, I will keep nothing which may remind me of what I must forget. Here is your portrait; it presents to the eye many wonderful and dazzling charms, but underneath them lurk as many monstrous faults; it is a delusion which I restore to you. GR.-RE. You are right. LUC. And I, not to be behind-hand with you in the idea of returning everything, restore to you this diamond which you obliged me to accept. MAR. Very well. ERAS. Here is likewise a bracelet of yours. [Footnote: Formerly lovers used to wear bracelets generally made of each others hair, which no doubt were hidden from the common view. Shakespeare, in his _Mid-summer Night's Dream_, Act i., Scene I, says, "Thou, Lysander, thou hast... stol'n th' impression of her fantasy with bracelets of thy hair."] LUC. And this agate seal is yours. ERAS. (_Reads_). "You love me with the most ardent passion, Éraste, and wish to know if I feel the same. If I do not love Éraste as much, at least I am pleased that Éraste should thus love me.--LUCILE." You assure me by this letter that you accept my love; it is a falsehood which I punish thus. (_Tears the letter_). LUC. (_Reading_). "I do not know what may be the fate of my ardent love, nor how long I shall suffer; but this I know, beauteous charmer, that I shall always love you.--ÉRASTE." This is an assurance of everlasting love; both the hand and the letter told a lie. (_Tears the letter_). GR.-RE. Go on. ERAS. (_Showing another letter_). This is another of your letters; it shall share the same fate. MAR. (_To Lucile_). Be firm. LUC. (_Tearing another letter_). I should be sorry to keep back one of them. GR.-RE. (_To Éraste_). Do not let her have the last word. MAR. (_To Lucile_). Hold out bravely to the end. LUC. Well, there are the rest. ERAS. Thank Heaven, that is all! May I be struck dead if I do not keep my word! LUC. May it confound me if mine be vain. ERAS. Farewell, then. LUC. Farewell, then. MAR. (_To Lucile_). Nothing could be better. GR.-RE. (_To Éraste_). You triumph. MAR. (_To Lucile_). Come, let us leave him. GR.-RE. (_To Éraste_). You had best retire after this courageous effort. MAR. (_To Lucile_). What are you waiting for? GR.-RE. (_To Éraste_). What more do you want? ERAS. Ah, Lucile, Lucile! you will be sorry to lose a heart like mine, and I know it. LUC. Éraste, Éraste, I may easily find a heart like yours. ERAS. No, no, search everywhere; you will never find one so passionately fond of you, I assure you. I do not say this to move you to pity; I should be in the wrong now to wish it; the most respectful passion could not bind you. You wanted to break with me; I must think of you no more. But whatever any one may pretend, nobody will ever love you so tenderly as I have done. LUC. When a woman is really beloved she is treated differently, and is not condemned so rashly. ERAS. Those who love are apt to be jealous on the slightest cause of suspicion, but they can never wish to lose the object of their adoration, and that you have done. LUC. Pure jealousy is more respectful. ERAS. An offence caused by love is looked upon with more indulgence. LUC. No, Éraste, your flame never burnt very bright. ERAS. No, Lucile, you never loved me. LUC. Oh! that does not trouble you much, I suppose; perhaps it would have been much better for me if... But no more of this idle talk; I do not say what I think on the subject. ERAS. Why? LUC. Because, as we are to break, it would be out of place, it seems to me. ERAS. Do we break, then? LUC. Yes, to be sure; have we not done so already? ERAS. And you can do this calmly? LUC. Yes; so can you. ERAS. I? LUC. Undoubtedly. It is weakness to let people see that we are hurt by losing them. ERAS. But, hard-hearted woman, it is you who would have it so. LUC. I? not at all; it was you who took that resolution. ERAS. I? I thought it would please you. LUC. Me; not at all; you did it for your own satisfaction. ERAS. But what if my heart should wish to resume its former chain? If, though very sad, it should sue for pardon...? [Footnote: An imitation from Horace, book iii., ode ix., vers. 17 and 18. _Quid? si prisca redet Venus Diductosque jugo cogit aheneo?_] LUC. No, no; do no such thing; my weakness is too great. I am afraid I might too quickly grant your request. ERAS. Oh! you cannot grant it, nor I ask for it, too soon, after what I have just heard. Consent to love me still, madam; so pure a flame ought to burn for ever, for your own sake. I ask for it, pray grant me this kind pardon. LUC. Lead me home. SCENE IV.--MARINETTE, GROS-RENÉ. MAR. Oh! cowardly creature, GR.-RE. Oh! weak courage. MAR. I blush with indignation. GR.-RE. I am swelling with rage; do not imagine I will yield thus. MAR. And do not think to find such a dupe in me. GR.-RE. Come on, come on; you shall soon see what my wrath is capable of doing. MAR. I am not the person you take me for; you have not my silly mistress to deal with. It is enough to look at that fine phiz to be smitten with the man himself! Should I fall in love with your beastly face? Should I hunt after you? Upon my word, girls like us are not for the like of you. GR.-RE. Ay! and you address me in such a fashion? Here, here, without any further compliments, there is your bow of tawdry lace, and your narrow ribbon; it shall not have the honour of being on my ear any more. MAR. And to show you how I despise you, here, take back your half hundred of Paris pins, which you gave me yesterday with so much bragging. GR.-RE. Take back your knife too; a thing most rich and rare; it cost you about twopence when you made me a present of it. MAR. Take back your scissors with the pinchbeck chain. GR.-RE. I forgot the piece of cheese you gave me the day before yesterday--here it is; I wish I could bring back the broth you made me eat, so that I might have nothing belonging to you. MAR. I have none of your letters about me now, but I shall burn every one of them. GR.-RE. And do you know what I shall do with yours? MAR. Take care you never come begging to me again to forgive you. GR. RE. (_Picking up a bit of straw_). To cut off every way of being reconciled, we must break this straw between us; when a straw is broken, it settles an affair between people of honour. [Footnote: A wisp of straw, or a stick, was formerly used as a symbol of investiture of a feudal fief. According to some authors the breaking of the straw or stick was a proof that the vassals renounced their homage; hence the allusion of Molière. The breaking of a staff was also typical of the voluntary or compulsory abandonment of power. Formerly, after the death of the kings of France, the _grand maitre_ (master of the household) broke his wand of office over the grave, saying aloud three times, _le roi est mort_ and then _Vive le roi_. Hence also, most likely, the saying of Prospero, in Shakespeare's "Tempest" Act v. Sc. I, "I'll break my staff," _i.e._, I voluntarily abandon my power. Sometimes the breaking of a staff betokened dishonour, as in Shakespeare's second part of "Henry VI." Act I. Sc. 2. when Gloster says: "Methought this staff, mine office-badge in court was broke in twain."] Cast none of your sheep's eyes at me; [Footnote: According to tradition, Gros-René and Marinette stand on the stage back to back; from time to time they look to the right and to the left; when their looks meet they turn their heads abruptly away, whilst Gros-René presents over his shoulder to Marinette the piece of straw, which the latter takes very good care not to touch.] I will be angry. MAR. Do not look at me thus; I am too much provoked. GR.-RE. Here, break this straw; this is the way of never recanting again; break. What do you laugh at, you jade? MAR. Yes, you make me laugh. GR.-RE. The deuce take your laughing! all my anger is already softened. What do you say? shall we break or not? MAR. Just as you please. GR.-RE. Just as you please. MAR. Nay, it shall be as you please. GR. RE. Do you wish me never to love you? MAR. I? As you like. GR.-RE. As you yourself like; only say the word. MAR. I shall say nothing. GR.-RE. Nor I. MAR. Nor I. GR.-RE. Faith! we had better forswear all this nonsense; shake hands, I pardon you. MAR. And I forgive you. GR.-RE. Bless me! how you bewitch me with your charms. MAR. What a fool is Marinette when her Gros-René is by. * * * * * ACT V. SCENE I.--MASCARILLE, _alone_. "As soon as darkness has invaded the town, I will enter Lucile's room; go, therefore, and get ready immediately the dark lantern, and whatever arms are necessary." When my master said these words, it sounded in my ears as if he had said, "Go quickly and get a halter to hang yourself." But come on, master of mine, for I was so astonished when first I heard your order, that I had no time to answer you; but I shall talk with you now, and confound you; therefore defend yourself well, and let us argue without making a noise. You say you wish to go and visit Lucile to-night? "Yes, Mascarille." And what do you propose to do? "What a lover does who wishes to be convinced." What a man does who has very little brains, who risks his carcass when there is no occasion for it. "But do you know what is my motive? Lucile is angry." Well, so much the worse for her. "But my love prompts me to go and appease her." But love is a fool, and does not know what he says: will this same love defend us against an enraged rival, father, or brother? "Do you think any of them intend to harm us?" Yes, really, I do think so; and especially this rival. "Mascarille, in any case, what I trust to is, that we shall go well armed, and if anybody interrupts us we shall draw." Yes, but that is precisely what your servant does not wish to do. I draw! Good Heavens! am I a Roland, master, or a Ferragus? [Footnote: Roland, or Orlando in Italian, one of Charlemagne's paladins and nephew is represented as brave, loyal, and simple-minded. On the return of Charlemagne from Spain, Roland, who commanded the rearguard, fell into an ambuscade at Roncezvalles, in the Pyrenées (778), and perished, with the flower of French chivalry. He is the hero of Ariosto's poem, "Orlando Furioso." In this same poem Cant. xii. is also mentioned Ferragus, or Ferrau in Italian, a Saracen giant, who dropped his helmet into the river, and vowed he would never wear another till he had won that worn by Orlando; the latter slew him in the only part where he was vulnerable.] You hardly know me. When I, who love myself so dearly, consider that two inches of cold steel in this body would be quite sufficient to send a poor mortal to his last home, I am particularly disgusted. "But you will be armed from head to foot." So much the worse. I shall be less nimble to get into the thicket; besides, there is no armour so well made but some villainous point will pierce its joints. "Oh! you will then be considered a coward." Never mind; provided I can but always move my jaws. At table you may set me down for as good as four persons, if you like; but when fighting is going on, you must not count me for anything. Moreover, if the other world possesses charms for you, the air of this world agrees very well with me. I do not thirst after death and wounds; if you have a mind to play the fool, you may do it all by yourself, I assure you. SCENE II.--VALÈRE, MASCARILLE. VAL. I never felt a day pass more slowly; the sun seems to have forgotten himself; he has yet such a course to run before he reaches his bed, that I believe he will never accomplish it; his slow motion drives me mad. MASC. What an eagerness to go in the dark, to grope about for some ugly adventure! You see that Lucile is obstinate in her repulses.... VAL. A truce to these idle remonstrances. Though I were sure to meet a hundred deaths lying in ambush, yet I feel her wrath so greatly, that I shall either appease it, or end my fate. I am resolved on that. MASC. I approve of your design; but it is unfortunate, sir, that we must get in secretly. VAL. Very well. MASC. And I am afraid I shall only be in the way. VAL. How so? MASC. I have a cough which nearly kills me, and the noise it makes may betray you. Every moment... (_He coughs_). You see what a punishment it is. VAL. You will get better; take some liquorice. MASC. I do not think, sir, it will get better. I should be delighted to go with you, but I should be very sorry if any misfortune should befall my dear master through me. SCENE III.--VALÈRE, LA RAPIÈRE, MASCARILLE. LA RA. Sir, I have just now heard from good authority that Éraste is greatly enraged against you, and that Albert talks also of breaking all the bones in Mascarille's body, on his daughter's account. MASC. I? I have nothing to do with all this confusion. What have I done to have all the bones in my body broken? Am I the guardian of the virginity of all the girls in the town, that I am to be thus threatened? Have I any influence with temptation? Can I help it, I, poor fellow, if I have a mind to try it? VAL. Oh! they are not so dangerous as they pretend to be; however courageous love may have made Éraste, he will not have so easy a bargain with us. LA RA. If you should have any need for it, my arm is entirely at your service. You know me to be at all times staunch. [Footnote: It is thought the introduction of Mons. de la Rapière contains an allusion to the poor noblemen of Languedoc, who formerly made a kind of living by being seconds at duels, and whom the Prince de Conti compelled to obey the edicts of Louis XIV. against duelling. _The Love-tiff_ was first played in 1656 at Béziers, where the States of Languedoc were assembled.] VAL. I am much obliged to you, M. de la Rapière. LA RA. I have likewise two friends I can procure, who will draw against all comers, and upon whom you may safely rely. MASC. Accept their services, sir. VAL. You are too kind. LA RA. Little Giles might also have assisted us, if a sad accident had not taken him from us. Oh, sir, it is a great pity! He was such a handy fellow, too! You know the trick justice played him; he died like a hero; when the executioner broke him on the wheel, he made his exit without uttering a word. VAL. M. de la Rapière, such a man ought to be lamented, but, as for your escort, I thank you, I want them not. LA RA. Be it so, but do not forget that you are sought after, and may have some scurvy trick played upon you. VAL. And I, to show you how much I fear him, will offer him the satisfaction he desires, if he seeks me; I will immediately go all over the town, only accompanied by Mascarille. SCENE IV.--VALÈRE, MASCARILLE. MASC. What, sir? will you tempt Heaven? Do not be so presumptuous! Lack-a-day! you see how they threaten us. How on every side... VAL. What are you looking at yonder? MASC. I smell a cudgel that way. In short, if you will take my prudent advice, do not let us be so obstinate as to remain in the street; let us go and shut ourselves up. VAL. Shut ourselves up, rascal? How dare you propose to me such a base action? Come along, and follow me, without any more words. MASC. Why, sir, my dear master, life is so sweet! One can die but once, and it is for such a long time! VAL. I shall half kill you, if I hear anything more. Here comes Ascanio; let us leave him; we must find out what side he will choose. However, come along with me into the house, to take whatever arms we may want. MASC. I have no great itching for fighting. A curse on love and those darned girls, who will be tasting it, and then look as if butter would not melt in their mouth. SCENE V.--ASCANIO, FROSINE. ASC. Is it really true, Frosine, do I not dream? Pray tell me all that has happened, from first to last. FROS. You shall know all the particulars in good time; be patient; such adventures are generally told over and over again, and that every moment. You must know then that after this will, which was on condition of a male heir being born, Albert's wife who was _enceinte_, gave birth to you. Albert, who had stealthily and long beforehand laid his plan, changed you for the son of Inez, the flower-woman, and gave you to my mother to nurse, saying it was her own child. Some ten months after, death took away this little innocent, whilst Albert was absent; his wife being afraid of her husband, and inspired by maternal love, invented a new stratagem. She secretly took her own daughter back; you received the name of the boy, who had taken your place, whilst the death of that pretended son was kept a secret from Albert, who was told that his daughter had died. Now the mystery of your birth is cleared up, which your supposed mother had hitherto concealed. She gives certain reasons for acting in this manner, and may have others to give, for her interests were not the same as yours. In short, this visit, [Footnote: That is the visit of which Frosine speaks, Act iv., Scene I] from which I expected so little, has proved more serviceable to your love than could have been imagined. This Inez has given up all claim to you. As it became necessary to reveal this secret, on account of your marriage, we two informed your father of it; a letter of his deceased wife has confirmed all. Pursuing our reasoning yet farther, and being rather fortunate as well as skilful, we have so cunningly interwoven the interests of Albert and of Polydore, so gradually unfolded all this mystery to the latter, that we might not make things appear too terrible to him in the beginning, and, in a word, to tell you all, so prudently led his mind step by step to a reconciliation, that Polydore is now as anxious as your father to legitimize that connection which is to make you happy. ASC. Ah! Frosine, what happiness you prepare for me. ... What do I, not owe to your fortunate zeal? FROS. Moreover, the good man is inclined to be merry, and has forbidden us to mention anything of this affair to his son. SCENE VI.--POLYDORE, ASCANIO, FROSINE. POL. Come hither, daughter, since I may give you this name now, for I know the secret which this disguise conceals. You have shown so much resolution, ingenuity, and archness in your stratagem, that I forgive you; I think my son will esteem himself happy when he knows that you are the object of his love. You are worth to him more than all the treasures in this world; and I will tell him so. But here he comes: let us divert ourselves with this event. Go and tell all the people to come hither immediately. ASC. To obey you, sir, shall be the first compliment I pay you. SCENE VII.--MASCARILLE, POLYDORE, VALÈRE. MASC. Misfortunes are often revealed by Heaven: I dreamt last night of pearls unstrung and broken eggs, sir. This dream depresses my spirits. [Footnote: In a little book still sold on the quays of Paris, and called _la Cle des Songes_, it is said that to dream of pearls denotes "embarrassed affairs," and of broken eggs, "loss of place and lawsuits."] VAL. Cowardly rascal! POL. Valère, an encounter awaits you, wherein all your valour will be necessary: you are to cope with a powerful adversary. MASC. Will nobody stir to prevent people from cutting each other's throats? As for me, I do not care about it; but if any fatal accident should deprive you of your son, do not lay the blame on me. POL. No, no; in this case I myself urge him to do what he ought. MASC. What an unnatural father! VAL. This sentiment, sir, shows you to be a man of honour; I respect you the more for it. I know I have offended you, I am to blame for having done all this without a father's consent; but however angry you may be with me, Nature always will prevail. You do what is truly honourable, in not believing that I am to be terrified by the threats of Éraste. POL. They just now frightened me with his threats, but since then things have changed greatly; you will be attacked by a more powerful enemy, without being able to flee from him. MASC. Is there no way of making it up? VAL! I flee!--Heaven forbid! And who can this be? POL. Ascanio. VAL. Ascanio? POL. Yes; you shall see him appear presently. VAL. He, who has pledged his word to serve me! POL. Yes, it is he who says he has a quarrel with you; he, who is determined to decide the quarrel by single combat, to which he challenges you. MASC. He is a good fellow: he knows that generous minds do not endanger other people's lives by their quarrels. POL. He accuses you of deceit. His anger appears to me to have so just a cause, that Albert and I have agreed you should give Ascanio satisfaction for this affront, but publicly, and without any delay, according to the formalities requisite in such a case. VAL. What! father; and did Lucile obstinately...? POL. Lucile is to marry Éraste, and blames you too; and the better to prove your story to be false, is resolved to give her hand to Éraste before your very face. VAL. Ha! this impudence is enough to drive me mad. Has she lost, then, all sense, faith, conscience, and honour? SCENE VIII.--ALBERT, POLYDORE, LUCILE, ÉRASTE, VALÈRE, MASCARILLE. ALB. Well! where are the combatants? They are bringing ours. Have you prepared yours for the encounter? VAL. Yes, yes; I am ready, since you compel me to it; if I at all hesitated, it was because I still felt a little respect, and not on account of the valour of the champion who is to oppose me. But I have been urged too far. This respect is at an end; I am prepared for any catastrophe! I have been treated so strangely and treacherously, that my love must and shall be revenged. (_To Lucile_). Not that I still pretend to your hand: my former love is now swallowed up in wrath; and when I have made your shame public, your guilty marriage will not in the least disturb me. Lucile, your behaviour is infamous: scarcely can I believe my own eyes. You show yourself so opposed to all modesty, that you ought to die for shame. LUC. Such reproaches might affect me, if I had not one at hand to avenge my cause. Here comes Ascanio; he shall soon have the pleasure, and without giving himself much trouble, of making you change your language. SCENE IX.--ALBERT, POLYDORE, ASCANIO, LUCILE, ÉRASTE, VALÈRE, FROSINE, MARINETTE, GROS-RENÉ, MASCARILLE. VAL. He shall not make me change my language, though he had twenty arms besides his own. I am sorry he defends a guilty sister; but since he is foolish enough to pick a quarrel with me, I shall give him satisfaction, and you also, my valiant gentleman. ERAS. A short time ago I took an interest in this, but as Ascanio has taken the affair upon himself, I will have nothing more to do with it, but leave it to him. VAL. You do well; prudence is always timely, but... ERAS. He shall give you satisfaction for us all. VAL. He? POL. Do not deceive yourself; you do not yet know what a strange fellow Ascanio is. ALB. He is blind to it now, but Ascanio will let him know in a little time. VAL. Come on, then; let him do so now. MAR. What! before everybody? GR.-RE. That would not be decent. VAL. Are you making fun of me? I will break the head of any fellow who laughs. But let us see what Ascanio is going to do. ASC. No, no. I am not so bad as they make me out; in this adventure, in which every one has put me forward, you shall see my weakness appear more than anything else; you will discover that Heaven, to which we must all submit, did not give me a heart to hold out against you, but that it reserved for you the easy triumph of putting an end to Lucile's brother. Yes; far from boasting of the power of his arm, Ascanio shall receive death from your hands; nay, would gladly die, if his death could contribute to your satisfaction, by giving you, in the presence of all this company, a wife who lawfully belongs to you. VAL. No, even the whole world, after her perfidy and shamelessness... ASC. Ah! Valère, allow me to tell you that the heart which is pledged to you is guilty of no crime against you; her love is still pure, and her constancy unshaken; I call your own father himself to witness that I speak the truth. POL. Yes, son, we have laughed enough at your rage; I see it is time to undeceive you; she to whom you are bound by oath is concealed under the dress you here behold. Some question about property was the cause of this disguise, which from her earliest youth deceived so many people. Lately love was the cause of another which deceived you, whilst it made of the two families but one. Yes, in a word, it is she whose subtle skill obtained your hand at night, who pretended to be Lucile, and by this contrivance, which none discovered, has perplexed you all so much. But since Ascanio now gives place to Dorothea, your love must be free from every appearance of deceit, and be strengthened by a more sacred knot! ALB. This is the single combat by which you were to give us satisfaction for your offence, and which is not forbidden by any laws. [Footnote: Severe laws were promulgated in the preceding reign against duelling; Louis XIV. also published two edicts against it in 1643 and in 1651. _The Love-Tiff_ was first performed in 1656.] POL. Such an event amazes you, but all hesitation is now too late. VAL. No, no, I do not hesitate; if this adventure astonishes me, it is a flattering surprise; I find myself seized with admiration, love, and pleasure. Is it possible that those eyes...? ALB. This dress, dear Valère, is not a proper one to hear your fine speeches in. Let her go and put on another, and meanwhile you shall know the particulars of the event. VAL. Pardon me, Lucile, if my mind, duped by... LUC. It is easy to forget that. ALB. Come, these compliments will do as well at home; we shall then have plenty of time to pay them to one another. ERAS. But in talking thus you do not seem to think that there is still occasion for manslaughter here. Our loves are indeed crowned, but who ought to obtain the hand of Marinette, his Mascarille or my Gros-René? This affair must end in blood. MASC. No, no, my blood suits my body too well; let him marry her in peace, it will be nothing to me. I know Marinette too well to think marriage will be any bar to my courting her. MAR. And do you think I will make my gallant of you? A husband does not matter; anything will do for that. We do not stand, then, upon so much ceremony; but a gallant should be well made enough to make one's mouth water. GR.-RE. Listen! When we are united by marriage, I insist that you should turn a deaf ear to all sparks. MASC. Do you think, brother, to marry her for yourself alone? GR.-RE. Of course; I will have a virtuous wife, or else I shall kick up a fine row. MASC. Ah! lack-a-day, you shall do as others, and become more gentle. Those people who are so severe and critical before marriage, often degenerate into pacific husbands. MAR. Make yourself easy, my dear husband, and do not have the least fear about my fidelity; flattery will produce no impression on me, and I shall tell you everything. MASC. Oh! what a cunning wench to make of a husband a confidant. MAR. Hold your tongue, you knave of clubs. [Footnote: The original has _as de pique_, and different commentators have of course given various explanations. But why, says M. Despois, should Marinette, who appears to be fond of cards, not call people by names derived from her favourite game? She calls Gros-René in another place _beau valet de carreau_.] ALB. For the third time, I say, let us go home, and continue at leisure such an agreeable conversation. * * * * * 
6563	----	L'ÉTOURDI, OU LES CONTRE-TEMPS. COMEDIE. THE BLUNDERER: OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS. A COMEDY IN FIVE ACTS. (_THE ORIGINAL IN VERSE_.) 1653. (?) INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. _The Blunderer_ is generally believed to have been first acted at Lyons in 1653, whilst Molière and his troupe were in the provinces. In the month of November 1658 it was played for the first time in Paris, where it obtained a great and well-deserved success. It is chiefly based on an Italian comedy, written by Nicolo Barbieri, known as Beltrame, and called _L'Inavvertito_, from which the character of Mascarille, the servant, is taken, but differs in the ending, which is superior in the Italian play. An imitation of the classical boasting soldier, Captain Bellorofonte, Martelione, and a great number of _concetti_, have also not been copied by Molière. The fourth scene of the fourth act of _l'Ètourdi_ contains some passages taken from the _Angelica_, a comedy by Fabritio de Fornaris, a Neapolitan, who calls himself on the title-page of his play "il Capitano Coccodrillo, comico confidente." A few remarks are borrowed from _la Emilia_, a comedy by Luigi Grotto, whilst here and there we find a reminiscence from Plautus, and one scene, possibly suggested by the sixteenth of the _Contes et Discours d'Eutrapel_, written by Nöel du Fail, Lord of la Hérissaye. Some of the scenes remind us of passages in several Italian _Commedia del' arte_ between _Arlecchino_ and _Pantaleone_ the personifications of impudence and ingenuity, as opposed to meekness and stupidity; they rouse the hilarity of the spectators, who laugh at the ready invention of the knave as well as at the gullibility of the old man, Before this comedy appeared the French stage was chiefly filled with plays full of intrigue, but with scarcely any attempt to delineate character or manners. In this piece the plot is carried on, partly in imitation of the Spanish taste, by a servant, Mascarille, who is the first original personage Molière has created; he is not a mere imitation of the valets of the Italian or classical comedy; he has not the coarseness and base feelings of the servants of his contemporaries, but he is a lineal descendant of Villon, a free and easy fellow, not over nice in the choice or execution of his plans, but inventing new ones after each failure, simply to keep in his hand; not too valiant, except perhaps when in his cups, rather jovial and chaffy, making fun of himself and everybody else besides, no respecter of persons or things, and doomed probably not to die in his bed. Molière must have encountered many such a man whilst the wars of the Fronde were raging, during his perigrinations in the provinces. Even at the present time, a Mascarille is no impossibility; for, "like master like man." There are also in _The Blunderer_ too many incidents, which take place successively, without necessarily arising one from another. Some of the characters are not distinctly brought out, the style has often been found fault with, by Voltaire and other competent judges, [Footnote: Victor Hugo appears to be of another opinion. M. Paul Stapfer, in his _les Artistes juges et parties_ (2º Causerie, the Grammarian of Hauteville House, p. 55), states:--"the opinion of Victor Hugo about Molière is very peculiar. According to him, the best written of all the plays of our great comic author is his first work, _l'Ètourdi_. It possesses a brilliancy and freshness of style which still shine in _le Dépit amoureux_, but which gradually fade, because Molière, yielding unfortunately to other inspirations than his own, enters more and more upon a new way."] but these defects are partly covered by a variety and vivacity which are only fully displayed when heard on the stage. In the third volume of the "Select Comedies of M. de Molière, London, 1732." _The Blunderer_ is dedicated to the Right Honorable Philip, Earl of Chesterfield, in the following words:-- "MY LORD,--The translation of _L'Ètourdi_, which, in company with the original, throws itself at your lordship's feet, is a part of a design form'd by some gentlemen, of exhibiting to the public a _Select Collection of Molière's Plays_, in _French_ and _English_. This author, my lord, was truly a genius, caress'd by the greatest men of his own time, and honoured with the patronage of princes. When the translator, therefore, of this piece was to introduce him in an _English_ dress in justice he owed him an _English_ patron, and was readily determined to your lordship, whom all the world allows to be a genius of the first rank. But he is too sensible of the beauties of his author, and the refined taste your lordship is universally known to have in polite literature, to plead anything but your candour and goodness, for your acceptance of this performance. He persuades himself that your lordship, who best knows how difficult it is to speak like _Molière_, even when we have his sentiments to inspire us, will be readiest to forgive the imperfections of this attempt. He is the rather encouraged, my lord, to hope for a candid reception from your lordship, on account of the usefulness of this design, which he flatters himself will have your approbation. 'Tis to spirit greater numbers of our countrymen to read this author, who wou'd otherwise not have attempted it, or, being foil'd in their attempts, wou'd throw him by in despair. And however generally the _French_ language may be read, or spoke in England, there will be still very great numbers, even of those who are said to understand _French_, who, to master this comic writer, will want the help of a translation; and glad wou'd the publishers of this work be to guide the feebler steps of some such persons, not only till they should want no translation, but till some of them should be able to make a much better than the present. The great advantage of understanding _Molière_ your Lordship best knows. What is it, but almost to understand mankind? He has shown such a compass of knowledge in human nature, as scarce to leave it in the power of succeeding writers in comedy to be originals; whence it has, in fact, appear'd, that they who, since his time, have most excelled in the _Comic_ way, have copied _Molière_, and therein were sure of copying nature. In this author, my lord, our youth will find the strongest sense, the purest moral, and the keenest satyr, accompany'd with the utmost politeness; so that our countrymen may take a _French_ polish, without danger of commencing fops and apes, as they sometimes do by an affectation of the dress and manners of that people; for no man has better pourtray'd, or in a finer manner expos'd fopperies of all kinds, than this our author hath, in one or other of his pieces. And now,'tis not doubted, my lord, but your lordship is under some apprehensions, and the reader under some expectation, that the translator should attempt your character, in right of a dedicator, as a refin'd wit, and consummate statesman. But, my lord, speaking the truth to a person of your lordship's accomplishments, would have the appearance of flattery, especially to those who have not the honour of knowing you; and those who have, conceive greater ideas of you than the translator will pretend to express. Permit him, then, my lord, to crave your lordship's acceptance of this piece, which appears to you with a fair and correct copy of the original; but with a translation which can be of no manner of consequence to your lordship, only as it may be of consequence to those who _would_ understand Molière if they _could_. Your lordship's countenance to recommend it to such will infinitely oblige, my lord, your lordship's most devoted, and most obedient, humble servant, THE TRANSLATOR." To recommend to Lord Chesterfield an author on account of "the purest moral," or because "no man has ... in a finer manner exposed fopperies of all kinds," appears to us now a bitter piece of satire; it may however, be doubted if it seemed so to his contemporaries. [Footnote: Lord Chesterfield appeared not so black to those who lived in his own time as he does to us, for Bishop Warburton dedicated to him his _Necessity and Equity of an Established Religion and a Test-Law Demonstrated_, and says in his preface: "It is an uncommon happiness when an honest man can congratulate a patriot on his becoming minister," and expresses the hope, that "the temper of the times will suffer your Lordship to be instrumental in saving your country by a reformation of the general manners."] Dryden has imitated _The Blunderer_ in _Sir Martin Mar-all; or the Feigned Innocence_, first translated by William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle, and afterwards adapted for the stage by "glorious John." It must have been very successful, for it ran no less than thirty-three nights, and was four times acted at court. It was performed at Lincoln's Inn Fields by the Duke of York's servants, probably at the desire of the Duke of Newcastle, as Dryden was engaged to write for the King's Company. It seems to have been acted in 1667, and was published, without the author's name, in 1668. But it cannot be fairly called a translation, for Dryden has made several alterations, generally not for the better, and changed _double entendres_ into single ones. The heroine in the English play, Mrs. Millisent, (Celia), marries the roguish servant, Warner (Mascarille), who takes all his master's blunders upon himself, is bribed by nearly everybody, pockets insults and money with the same equanimity, and when married, is at last proved a gentleman, by the disgusting Lord Dartmouth, who "cannot refuse to own him for my (his) kinsman." With a fine stroke of irony Millisent's father becomes reconciled to his daughter having married a serving-man as soon as he hears that the latter has an estate of eight hundred a year. Sir Martin Mar-all is far more conceited and foolish than Lelio; Trufaldin becomes Mr. Moody, a swashbuckler; a compound of Leander and Andrès, Sir John Swallow, a Kentish knight; whilst of the filthy characters of Lord Dartmouth, Lady Dupe, Mrs. Christian, and Mrs. Preparation, no counterparts are found in Molière's play. But the scene in which Warner plays the lute, whilst his master pretends to do so, and which is at last discovered by Sir Martin continuing to play after the servant has finished, is very clever. [Footnote: According to Geneste, _Some Accounts of the English Stage_, 10 vols., 1832, vol. i., p. 76, Bishop Warburton, in his _Alliance of Church and State_ (the same work is mentioned in Note 2), and Porson in his _Letters to Travis_ alludes to this scene.] Dryden is also said to have consulted _l'Amant indiscret_ of Quinault, in order to furbish forth the Duke of Newcastle's labours. Sir Walter Scott states in his introduction: "in that part of the play, which occasions its second title of 'the feigned Innocence,' the reader will hardly find wit enough to counterbalance the want of delicacy." Murphy has borrowed from _The Blunderer_ some incidents of the second act of his _School for Guardians_, played for the first time in 1767. DRAMATIS PERSONAE [Footnote: Molière, Racine, and Corneille always call the dramatis personae _acteurs_, and not _personnages_.] LELIO, _son to_ PANDOLPHUS. LEANDER, _a young gentleman of good birth_. ANSELMO, _an old man_. PANDOLPHUS, _an old man_. TRUFALDIN, _an old man_. ANDRÈS, _a supposed gipsy_. MASCARILLE, _servant to Lelio_. [Footnote: _Mascarille_ is a name invented by Molière, and a diminutive of the Spanish _mascara_, a mask. Some commentators of Molière think that the author, who acted this part, may sometimes have played it in a mask, but this is now generally contradicted. He seems, however, to have performed it habitually, for after his death there was taken an inventory of all his dresses, and amongst these, according to M. Eudore Soulié, _Recherches sur Molière_, 1863, p. 278, was: "a ... dress for _l'Étourdi_, consisting in doublet, knee-breeches, and cloak of satin." Before his time the usual name of the intriguing man-servant was _Philipin_.] ERGASTE, _a servant_. A MESSENGER. _Two Troops of Masqueraders_. CELIA, _slave to_ TRUFALDIN. HIPPOLYTA, _daughter to_ ANSELMO. _Scene_.--MESSINA. THE BLUNDERER: OR, THE COUNTERPLOTS. (_L'ÉTOURDI, ou LES CONTRE-TEMPS_.) ACT I. SCENE I.--LELIO, _alone_. LEL. Very well! Leander, very well! we must quarrel then,--we shall see which of us two will gain the day; and which, in our mutual pursuit after this young miracle of beauty, will thwart the most his rival's addresses. Do whatever you can, defend yourself well, for depend upon it, on my side no pains shall be spared. SCENE II.--LELIO, MASCARILLE. LEL. Ah! Mascarille! MASC. What's the matter? LEL. A great deal is the matter. Everything crosses my love. Leander is enamoured of Celia. The Fates have willed it, that though I have changed the object of my passion, he still remains my rival. MASC. Leander enamoured of Celia! LEL. He adores her, I tell you. [Footnote: In French, _tu, toi_, thee, thou, denote either social superiority or familiarity. The same phraseology was also employed in many English comedies of that time, but sounds so stiff at present, that the translator has everywhere used "you."] MASC. So much the worse. LEL. Yes, so much the worse, and that's what annoys me. However, I should be wrong to despair, for since you aid me, I ought to take courage. I know that your mind can plan many intrigues, and never finds anything too difficult; that you should be called the prince of servants, and that throughout the whole world.... MASC. A truce to these compliments; when people have need of us poor servants, we are darlings, and incomparable creatures; but at other times, at the least fit of anger, we are scoundrels, and ought to be soundly thrashed. LEL. Nay, upon my word, you wrong me by this remark. But let us talk a little about the captive. Tell me, is there a heart so cruel, so unfeeling, as to be proof against such charming features? For my part, in her conversation as well as in her countenance, I see evidence of her noble birth. I believe that Heaven has concealed a lofty origin beneath such a lowly station. MASC. You are very romantic with all your fancies. But what will Pandolphus do in this case? He is your father, at least he says so. You know very well that his bile is pretty often stirred up; that he can rage against you finely, when your behaviour offends him. He is now in treaty with Anselmo about your marriage with his daughter, Hippolyta; imagining that it is marriage alone that mayhap can steady you: now, should he discover that you reject his choice, and that you entertain a passion for a person nobody knows anything about; that the fatal power of this foolish love causes you to forget your duty and disobey him; Heaven knows what a storm will then burst forth, and what fine lectures you will be treated to. LEL. A truce, I pray, to your rhetoric. MASC. Rather a truce to your manner of loving, it is none of the best, and you ought to endeavour. LEL. Don't you know, that nothing is gained by making me angry, that remonstrances are badly rewarded by me, and that a servant who counsels me acts against his own interest? MASC. (_Aside_). He is in a passion now. (_Aloud_). All that I said was but in jest, and to try you. Do I look so very much like a censor, and is Mascarille an enemy to pleasure? You know the contrary, and that it is only too certain people can tax me with nothing but being too good-natured. Laugh at the preachings of an old grey-beard of a father; go on, I tell you, and mind them not. Upon my word, I am of opinion that these old, effete and grumpy libertines come to stupify us with their silly stories, and being virtuous, out of necessity, hope through sheer envy to deprive young people of all the pleasures of life! You know my talents; I am at your service. LEL. Now, this is talking in a manner I like. Moreover, when I first declared my passion, it was not ill received by the lovely object who inspired it; but, just now, Leander has declared to me that he is preparing to deprive me of Celia; therefore let us make haste; ransack your brain for the speediest means to secure me possession of her; plan any tricks, stratagems, rogueries, inventions, to frustrate my rival's pretensions. MASC. Let me think a little upon this matter. (_Aside_). What can I invent upon this urgent occasion? LEL. Well, the stratagem? MASC. What a hurry you are in! My brain must always move slowly. I have found what you want; you must... No, that's not it; but if you would go... LEL. Whither? MASC. No, that's a flimsy trick. I thought that... LEL. What is it? MASC. That will not do either. But could you not...? LEL. Could I not what? MASC. No, you could not do anything. Speak to Anselmo. LEL. And what can I say to him? MASC. That is true; that would be falling out of the frying-pan into the fire. Something must be done however. Go to Trufaldin. LEL. What to do? MASC. I don't know. LEL. Zounds! this is too much. You drive me mad with this idle talk. MASC. Sir, if you could lay your hand on plenty of pistoles, [Footnote: The pistole is a Spanish gold coin worth about four dollars; formerly the French pistole was worth in France ten _livres_--about ten francs--they were struck in Franche-Comté.] we should have no need now to think of and try to find out what means we must employ in compassing our wishes; we might, by purchasing this slave quickly, prevent your rival from forestalling and thwarting you. Trufaldin, who takes charge of her, is rather uneasy about these gipsies, who placed her with him. If he could get back his money, which they have made him wait for too long, I am quite sure he would be delighted to sell her; for he always lived like the veriest curmudgeon; he would allow himself to be whipped for the smallest coin of the realm. Money is the God he worships above everything, but the worst of it is that... LEL. What is the worst of it?... MASC. That your father is just as covetous an old hunk, who does not allow you to handle his ducats, as you would like; that there is no way by which we could now open ever so small a purse, in order to help you. But let us endeavour to speak to Celia for a moment, to know what she thinks about this affair; this is her window. LEL. But Trufaldin watches her closely night and day; Take care. MASC. Let us keep quiet in this corner. What luck! Here she is coming just in the nick of time. SCENE III.--CELIA, LELIO, MASCARILLE. LEL. Ah! madam, what obligations do I owe to Heaven for allowing me to behold those celestial charms you are blest with! Whatever sufferings your eyes may have caused me, I cannot but take delight in gazing on them in this place. CEL. My heart, which has good reason to be astonished at your speech, does not wish my eyes to injure any one; if they have offended you in anything, I can assure you I did not intend it. LEL. Oh! no, their glances are too pleasing to do me an injury. I count it my chief glory to cherish the wounds they give me; and... MASC. You are soaring rather too high; this style is by no means what we want now; let us make better use of our time; let us know of her quickly what... TRUF. (_Within_). Celia! MASC. (_To Lelio_). Well, what do you think now? LEL. O cruel mischance! What business has this wretched old man to interrupt us! MASC. Go, withdraw, I'll find something to say to him. SCENE IV.--TRUFALDIN, CELIA, MASCARILLE, _and_ LELIO _in a corner_. TRUF. (_To Celia_). What are you doing out of doors? And what induces you to go out,--you, whom I have forbidden to speak to any one? CEL. I was formerly acquainted with this respectable young man; you have no occasion to be suspicious of him. MASC. Is this Signor Trufaldin? CEL. Yes, it is himself. MASC. Sir, I am wholly yours; it gives me extreme pleasure to have this opportunity of paying my most humble respects to a gentleman who is everywhere so highly spoken of. TRUF. Your most humble servant. MASC. Perhaps I am troublesome, but I have been acquainted with this young woman elsewhere; and as I heard about the great skill she has in predicting the future, I wished to consult her about a certain affair. TRUF. What! Do you dabble in the black art? CEL. No, sir, my skill lies entirely in the white. [Footnote: The white art (_magie blanche_) only dealt with beneficent spirits, and wished to do good to mankind; the black art (_magie noire_) invoked evil spirits.] MASC. The case is this. The master whom I serve languishes for a fair lady who has captivated him. He would gladly disclose the passion which burns within him to the beauteous object whom he adores, but a dragon that guards this rare treasure, in spite of all his attempts, has hitherto prevented him. And what torments him still more and makes him miserable, is that he has just discovered a formidable rival; so that I have come to consult you to know whether his love is likely to meet with any success, being well assured that from your mouth I may learn truly the secret which concerns us. CEL. Under what planet was your master born? MASC. Under that planet which never alters his love. CEL. Without asking you to name the object he sighs for, the science which I possess gives me sufficient information. This young woman is high-spirited, and knows how to preserve a noble pride in the midst of adversity; she is not inclined to declare too freely the secret sentiments of her heart. But I know them as well as herself, and am going with a more composed mind to unfold them all to you, in a few words. MASC. O wonderful power of magic virtue! CEL. If your master is really constant in his affections, and if virtue alone prompts him, let him be under no apprehension of sighing in vain: he has reason to hope, the fortress he wishes to take is not averse to capitulation, but rather inclined to surrender. MASC. That's something, but then the fortress depends upon a governor whom it is hard to gain over. CEL. There lies the difficulty. MASC. (_Aside, looking at Lelio_). The deuce take this troublesome fellow, who is always watching us. CEL. I am going to teach you what you ought to do. LEL. (_Joining them_). Mr. Trufaldin, give yourself no farther uneasiness; it was purely in obedience to my orders that this trusty servant came to visit you; I dispatched him to offer you my services, and to speak to you concerning this young lady, whose liberty I am willing to purchase before long, provided we two can agree about the terms. MASC. (_Aside_). Plague take the ass! TRUF. Ho! ho! Which of the two am I to believe? This story contradicts the former very much. MASC. Sir, this gentleman is a little bit wrong in the upper story: did you not know it? TRUF. I know what I know, and begin to smell a rat. Get you in (_to Celia_), and never take such a liberty again. As for you two, arrant rogues, or I am much mistaken, if you wish to deceive me again, let your stories be a little more in harmony. SCENE V.--LELIO, MASCARILLE. MASC. He is quite right. To speak plainly, I wish he had given us both a sound cudgelling. What was the good of showing yourself, and, like a Blunderer, coming and giving the lie to all that I had been saying? LEL. I thought I did right. MASC. To be sure. But this action ought not to surprise me. You possess so many counterplots that your freaks no longer astonish anybody. LEL. Good Heavens! How I am scolded for nothing! Is the harm so great that it cannot be remedied? However, if you cannot place Celia in my hands, you may at least contrive to frustrate all Leander's schemes, so that he cannot purchase this fair one before me. But lest my presence should be further mischievous, I leave you. MASC. (_Alone_). Very well. To say the truth, money would be a sure and staunch agent in our cause; but as this mainspring is lacking, we must employ some other means. SCENE VI.--ANSELMO, MASCARILLE. ANS. Upon my word, this is a strange age we live in; I am ashamed of it; there was never such a fondness for money, and never so much difficulty in getting one's own. Notwithstanding all the care a person may take, debts now-a-days are like children, begot with pleasure, but brought forth with pain. It is pleasant for money to come into our purse; but when the time comes that we have to give it back, then the pangs of labour seize us. Enough of this, it is no trifle to receive at last two thousand francs which have been owing upwards of two years. What luck! MASC. (_Aside_). Good Heavens! What fine game to shoot flying! Hist, let me see if I cannot wheedle him a little. I know with what speeches to soothe him. (_Joining him_). Anselmo I have just seen.... ANS. Who, prithee? MASC. Your Nerina. ANS. What does the cruel fair one say about me? MASC. Say? that she is passionately fond of you. ANS. Is she? MASC. She loves you so that I very much pity her. ANS. How happy you make me! MASC. The poor thing is nearly dying with love. "Oh, my dearest Anselmo," she cries every minute, "when shall marriage unite our two hearts? When will you vouchsafe to extinguish my flames?" ANS. But why has she hitherto concealed this from me? Girls, in troth, are great dissemblers! Mascarille, what do you say, really? Though in years, yet I look still well enough to please the eye. MASC. Yes, truly, that face of yours is still very passable; if it is not of the handsomest in the world, it is very agreeable. [Footnote: The original has a play on words which cannot be translated, as, _ce visage est encore fort mettable....,s'il n'est pas des plus beaux, il est des agreables_; which two last words, according to pronunciation, can also mean disagreeable. This has been often imitated in French. After the Legion of Honour was instituted in France in 1804, some of the wits of the time asked the Imperialists: _etes-vous des honores?_] ANS. So that... MASC. (_Endeavouring to take the purse_). So that she dotes on you; and regards you no longer... ANS. What? MASC. But as a husband: and fully intends... ANS. And fully intends...? MASC. And fully intends, whatever may happen, to steal your purse.... ANS. To steal...? MASC. (_Taking the purse, and letting it fall to the ground_). To steal a kiss from your mouth. [Footnote: There is here again, in the original, a play on the words _bourse_, purse, and _bouche_, mouth, which cannot be rendered in English.] ANS. Ah! I understand you. Come hither! The next time you see her, be sure to say as many fine things of me as possible. MASC. Let me alone. ANS. Farewell. MASC. May Heaven guide you! ANS. (_Returning_). Hold! I really should have committed a strange piece of folly; and you might justly have accused me of neglect. I engage you to assist me in serving my passion. You bring good tidings, and I do not give you the smallest present to reward your zeal. Here, be sure to remember.... MASC. O, pray, don't. [Footnote: Compare in Shakspeare's _Winter's Tale_ Autolyeus' answer to Camillo (Act IV., Scene 3), who gives him money, "I am a poor fellow, sir, ... I cannot with conscience take it."] ANS. Permit me.... MASC. I won't, indeed: I do not act thus for the sake of money. ANS. I know you do not. But however... MASC. No, Anselmo, I will not. I am a man of honour; this offends me. ANS. Farewell then, Mascarille. MASC. (_Aside_). How long-winded he is! ANS. (_Coming back_). I wish you to carry a present to the fair object of my desires. I will give you some money to buy her a ring, or any other trifle, as you may think will please her most. MASC. No, there is no need of your money; without troubling yourself, I will make her a present; a fashionable ring has been left in my hands, which you may pay for afterwards, if it fits her. ANS. Be it so; give it her in my name; but above all, manage matters in such a manner that she may still desire to make me her own. SCENE VII.--LELIO, ANSELMO, MASCARILLE. LEL. (_Taking up the purse_). Whose purse is this? [Footnote: During the whole of the preceding scene Mascarille has quietly kicked the purse away, so as to be out of sight of Anselmo, intending to pick it up when the latter has gone.] ANS. Oh Heavens! I dropt it, and might have afterwards believed somebody had picked my pocket. I am very much obliged to you for your kindness, which saves me a great deal of vexation, and restores me my money. I shall go home this minute and get rid of it. SCENE VIII.--LELIO, MASCARILLE. MASC. Od's death! You have been very obliging, very much so. LEL. Upon my word! if it had not been for me he would have lost his money. MASC. Certainly, you do wonders, and show to-day a most exquisite judgment and supreme good fortune. We shall prosper greatly; go on as you have begun. LEL. What is the matter now? What have I done? MASC. To speak plainly as you wish me to do, and as I ought, you have acted like a fool. You know very well that your father leaves you without money; that a formidable rival follows us closely; yet for all this, when to oblige you I venture on a trick of which I take all the shame and danger upon myself... LEL. What? was this...? MASC. Yes, ninny; it was to release the captive that I was getting the money, whereof your officiousness took care to deprive us. LEL. If that is the case, I am in the wrong. But who could have imagined it? MASC. It really required a great deal of discernment. LEL. You should have made some signs to warn me of what was going on. MASC. Yes, indeed; I ought to have eyes in my back. By Jove, be quiet, and let us hear no more of your nonsensical excuses. Another, after all this, would perhaps abandon everything; but I have planned just now a master-stroke, which I will immediately put into execution, on condition that if... [Footnote: The play is supposed to be in Sicily; hence Pagan oaths are not out of place. Even at the present time Italians say, _per Jove! per Bacco!_] LEL. No, I promise you henceforth not to interfere either in word or deed. MASC. Go away, then, the very sight of you kindles my wrath. LEL. Above all, don't delay, for fear that in this business... MASC. Once more, I tell you, begone! I will set about it. (_Exit Lelio_). Let us manage this well; it will be a most exquisite piece of roguery; if it succeeds, as I think it must. We'll try....But here comes the very man I want. SCENE IX.--PANDOLPHUS, MASCARILLE. PAND. Mascarille! MASC. Sir? PAND. To tell you the truth, I am very dissatisfied with my son. MASC. With my master? You are not the only one who complains of him. His bad conduct which has grown unbearable in everything, puts me each moment out of patience. PAND. I thought, however, you and he understood one another pretty well. MASC. I? Believe it not, sir. I am always trying to put him in mind of his duty: we are perpetually at daggers drawn. Just now we had a quarrel again about his engagement with Hippolyta, which, I find he is very averse to. By a most disgraceful refusal he violates all the respect due to a father. PAND. A quarrel? MASC. Yes, a quarrel, and a desperate one too. PAND. I was very much deceived then, for I thought you supported him in all he did. MASC. I? See what this world is come to! How is innocence always oppressed! If you knew but my integrity, you would give me the additional salary of a tutor, whereas I am only paid as his servant. Yes, you yourself could not say more to him than I do in order to make him behave better. "For goodness' sake, sir," I say to him very often, "cease to be driven hither and thither with every wind that blows,--reform; look what a worthy father Heaven has given you, what a reputation he has. Forbear to stab him thus to the heart, and live, as he does, as a man of honour." PAND. That was well said; and what answer could he make to this? MASC. Answer? Why only nonsense, with which he almost drives me mad. Not but that at the bottom of his heart he retains those principles of honour which he derives from you; but reason, at present, does not sway him. If I might be allowed to speak freely, you should soon see him submissive without much trouble. PAND. Speak out. MASC. It is a secret which would have serious consequences for me, should it be discovered; but I am quite sure I can confide it to your prudence. PAND. You are right. MASC. Know then that your wishes are sacrificed to the love your son has for a certain slave. PAND. I have been told so before; but to hear it from your mouth pleases me. MASC. I leave you to judge whether I am his secret confidant... PAND. I am truly glad of it. MASC. However, do you wish to bring him back to his duty, without any public scandal? You must... (I am in perpetual fear lest anybody should surprise us. Should he learn what I have told you, I should be a dead man.) You must, as I was saying, to break off this business, secretly purchase this slave, whom he so much idolizes, and send her into another country. Anselmo is very intimate with Trufaldin; let him go and buy her for you this very morning. Then, if you put her into my hands, I know some merchants, and promise you to sell her for the money she costs you, and to send her out of the way in spite of your son. For, if you would have him disposed for matrimony, we must divert this growing passion. Moreover, even if he were resolved to wear the yoke you design for him, yet this other girl might revive his foolish fancy, and prejudice him anew against matrimony. PAND. Very well argued. I like this advice much. Here comes Anselmo; go, I will do my utmost quickly to obtain possession of this troublesome slave, when I will put her into your hands to finish the rest. MASC. (_Alone_). Bravo, I will go and tell my master of this. Long live all knavery, and knaves also! SCENE X.--HIPPOLYTA, MASCARILLE. HIPP. Ay, traitor, is it thus that you serve me? I overheard all, and have myself been a witness of your treachery. Had I not, could I have suspected this? You are an arrant rogue, and you have deceived me. You promised me, you miscreant, and I expected, that you would assist me in my passion for Leander, that your skill and your management should find means to break off my match with Lelio; that you would free me from my father's project; and yet you are doing quite the contrary. But you will find yourself mistaken. I know a sure method of breaking off the purchase you have been urging Pandolphus to make, and I will go immediately.... MASC. How impetuous you are! You fly into a passion in a moment; without inquiring whether you are right or wrong, you fall foul of me. I am in the wrong, and I ought to make your words true, without finishing what I began, since you abuse me so outrageously. HIPP. By what illusion do you think to dazzle my eyes, traitor? Can you deny what I have just now heard? MASC. No; but you must know that all this plotting was only contrived to serve you; that this cunning advice, which appeared so sincere, tends to make both old men fall into the snare; that all the pains I have taken for getting Celia into my hands, through their means, was to secure her for Lelio, and to arrange matters so that Anselmo, in the very height of passion, and finding himself disappointed of his son-in-law, might make choice of Leander. HIPP. What! This admirable scheme, which has angered me so much, was all for my sake, Mascarille? MASC. Yes, for your sake; but since I find my good offices meet with so bad a return,--since I have thus to bear your caprices, and as a reward for my services, you come here with a haughty air, and call me knave, cur, and cheat, I shall presently go, correct the mistake I have committed, and undo what I had undertaken to perform. HIPP. (_Holding him_.) Nay, do not be so severe upon me, and forgive these outbursts of a sudden passion. MASC. No, no; let me go. I have it yet in my power to set aside the scheme which offends you so much. Henceforth you shall have no occasion to complain of my zeal. Yes, you shall have my master, I promise you. HIPP. My good Mascarille, be not in such a passion. I judged you ill; I was wrong; I confess I was. (_Pulls out her purse_). But I intend to atone for my fault with this. Could you find it in your heart to abandon me thus? MASC. No, I cannot, do what I will. But your impetuosity was very shocking. Let me tell you that nothing offends a noble mind so much as the smallest imputation upon its honour. HIPP. It is true; I treated you to some very harsh language, but here are two louis to heal your wounds. MASC. Oh! all this is nothing. I am very sensitive on this point; but my passion begins to cool a little already. We must bear with the failings of our friends. HIPP. Can you, then, bring about what I so earnestly wish for? Do you believe your daring projects will be as favourable to my passion as you imagine? MASC. Do not make yourself uneasy on that account. I have several irons in the fire, and though this stratagem should fail us, what this cannot do, another shall. HIPP. Depend upon it, Hippolyta will at least not be ungrateful. MASC. It is not the hope of gain that makes me act. HIPP. Your master beckons and wishes to speak with you. I will leave you, but remember to do what you can for me. SCENE XI.--LELIO, MASCARILLE. LEL. What the deuce are you doing there? You promised to perform wonders, but I am sure your dilatory ways are unparalleled. Had not my good genius inspired me, my happiness had been already wholly overthrown. There was an end to my good fortune, my joy. I should have been a prey to eternal grief; in short, had I not gone to this place in the very nick of time, Anselmo would have got possession of the captive, and I should have been deprived of her. He was carrying her home, but I parried the thrust, warded off the blow, and so worked upon Trufaldin's fears as to make him keep the girl. MASC. This is the third time! When we come to ten we will score. It was by my contrivance, incorrigible scatterbrains, that Anselmo undertook this desirable purchase; she should have been placed into my own hands, but your cursed officiousness knocks everything on the head again. Do you think I shall still labour to serve your love? I would sooner a hundred times become a fat old woman, a dolt, a cabbage, a lantern, a wehrwolf, and that Satan should twist your neck! LEL. (_Alone_.) I must take him to some tavern and let him vent his passion on the bottles and glasses. ACT II. SCENE I.--LELIO, MASCARILLE. MASC. I have at length yielded to your desires. In spite of all my protestations I could hold out no longer; I am going to venture upon new dangers, to promote your interest, which I intended to abandon. So tender-hearted am I! If dame nature had made a girl of Mascarille, I leave you to guess what would have happened. However, after this assurance, do not deal a back stroke to the project I am about to undertake; do not make a blunder and frustrate my expectations. Then, as to Anselmo, we shall anew present your excuses to him, in order to get what we desire. But should your imprudence burst forth again hereafter, then you may bid farewell to all the trouble I take for the object of your passion. LEL. No, I shall be careful, I tell you; never fear; you shall see.... MASC. Well, mind that you keep your word. I have planned a bold stratagem for your sake. Your father is very backward in satisfying all your wishes by his death. I have just killed him (in words, I mean); I have spread a report that the good man, being suddenly smitten by a fit of apoplexy, has departed this life. But first, so that I might the better pretend he was dead, I so managed that he went to his barn. I had a person ready to come and tell him that the workmen employed on his house accidentally discovered a treasure, in digging the foundations. He set out in an instant, and as all his people, except us two, have gone with him into the country, I shall kill him to-day in everybody's imagination and produce some image which I shall bury under his name. I have already told you what I wish you to do; play your part well; and as to the character I have to keep up, if you perceive that I miss one word of it, tell me plainly I am nothing but a fool. SCENE II.--LELIO, _alone_. It is true, he has found out a strange way to accomplish my wishes fully; but when we are very much in love with a fair lady, what would we not do to be made happy? If love is said to be an excuse for a crime, it may well serve for a slight piece of imposture, which love's ardour to-day compels me to comply with, in expectation of the happy consequences that may result from it. Bless me! How expeditious they are. I see them already talking together about it; let us prepare to act our part. SCENE III.--MASCARILLE, ANSELMO. MASC. The news may well surprise you. ANS. To die in such a manner! MASC. He was certainly much to blame. I can never forgive him for such a freak. ANS. Not even to take time to be ill. MASC. No, never was a man in such a hurry to die. ANS. And how does Lelio behave? MASC. He raves, and has lost all command over his temper; he has beaten himself till he is black and blue in several places, and wishes to follow his father into the grave. In short, to make an end of this, the excess of his grief has made me with the utmost speed wrap the corpse in a shroud, for fear the sight, which fed his melancholy, should tempt him to commit some rash act. ANS. No matter, you ought to have waited until evening. Besides, I should have liked to see Pandolphus once more. He who puts a shroud on a man too hastily very often commits murder; for a man is frequently thought dead when he only seems to be so. MASC. I warrant him as dead as dead can be. But now, to return to what we were talking about, Lelio has, resolved (and it will do him good) to give his father a fine funeral, and to comfort the deceased a little for his hard fate, by the pleasure of seeing that we pay him such honours after his death. My master inherits a goodly estate, but as he is only a novice in business, and does not see his way clearly in his affairs, since the greater part of his property lies in another part of the country, or what he has here consists in paper, he would beg of you, after having entreated you to excuse the too great violence which he has shewn of late, to lend him for this last duty at least.... ANS. You have told me so already, and I will go and see him. MASC. (_Alone_). Hitherto, at least, everything goes on swimmingly; let us endeavour to make the rest answer as well; and lest we should be wrecked in the very harbour, let us steer the ship carefully and keep a sharp look out. SCENE IV.--ANSELMO, LELIO, MASCARILLE. ANS. (_Coming out of Pandolphus' house_). Let us leave the house. I cannot, without great sorrow, see him wrapped up in this strange manner. Alas! in so short a time! He was alive this morning. MASC. We go sometimes over a good deal of ground in a short time. LEL. (_Weeping_). Oh! ANS. Dear Lelio, he was but a man after all; even Rome can grant no dispensation from death. LEL. Oh! ANS. Death smites men without giving warning, and always has bad designs against them. LEL. Oh! ANS. That merciless foe would not loosen one grip of his murderous teeth, however we may entreat him. Everybody must feel them. LEL. Oh! MASC. Your preaching will all be in vain; this sorrow is too deep-rooted to be plucked up. ANS. If, notwithstanding all these arguments, you will not cast aside your grief, at least, my dear Lelio, endeavour to moderate it. LEL. Oh! MASC. He will not moderate it; I know his temper. ANS. However, according to your servant's message, I have brought you the money you want, so that you might celebrate your father's funeral obsequies! LEL. Oh! oh! MASC. How his grief increases at these words! It will kill him to think of his misfortune. ANS. I know you will find by the good man's books that I owe him a much larger sum, but even if I should not owe anything, you could freely command my purse. Here it is; I am entirely at your service, and will show it. LEL. (_Going away_). Oh! MASC. How full of grief is my master! ANS. Mascarille, I think it right he should give me some kind of receipt under his hand. MASC. Oh! ANS. Nothing in this world is certain. MASC. Oh! oh! ANS. Get him to sign me the receipt I require. MASC. Alas! How can he comply with your desire in the condition he now is? Give him but time to get rid of his sorrow; and, when his troubles abate a little, I shall take care immediately to get you your security. Your servant, sir, my heart is over full of grief, and I shall go to take my fill of weeping with him. Hi! Hi! ANS. (_Alone_). This world is full of crosses; we meet with them every day in different shapes, and never here below... SCENE V.--PANDOLPHUS, ANSELMO. ANS. Oh Heavens! how I tremble! It is Pandolphus who has returned to the earth! God grant nothing disturbed his repose! How wan his face is grown since his death! Do not come any nearer. I beseech you; I very much detest to jostle a ghost. PAND. What can be the reason of this whimsical terror? ANS. Keep your distance, and tell me what business brings you here. If you have taken all this trouble to bid me farewell, you do me too much honour; I could really have done very well without your compliment. If your soul is restless, and stands in need of prayers. I promise you you shall have them, but do not frighten me. Upon the word of a terrified man, I will immediately set prayers agoing for you, to your very heart's content. "Oh, dead worship, please to go! Heaven, if now you disappear, Will grant you joy down there below, And health as well, for many a year." [Footnote: This seems to be an imitation of a spell, charm, or incantation to lay the supposed ghost, which Anselmo says kneeling and hardly able to speak for terror.] PAND. (_Laughing_). In spite of my indignation, I cannot help laughing. ANS. It is strange, but you are very merry for a dead man. PAND. Is this a joke, pray tell me, or is it downright madness to treat a living man as if he were dead? ANS. Alas! you must be dead; I myself just now saw you. PAND. What? Could I die without knowing it? ANS. As soon as Mascarille told me the news, I was ready to die of grief. PAND. But, really, are you asleep or awake? Don't you know me? ANS. You are clothed in an aerial body which imitates your own, but which may take another shape at any moment. I am mightily afraid to see you swell up to the size of a giant, and your countenance become frightfully distorted. For the love of God, do not assume any hideous form; you have scared me sufficiently for the nonce. PAND. At any other time, Anselmo, I should have considered the simplicity which accompanies your credulity an excellent joke, and I should have carried on the pleasant conceit a little longer; but this story of my death, and the news of the supposed treasure, which I was told upon the road had not been found at all, raises in my mind a strong suspicion that Mascarille is a rogue, and an arrant rogue, who is proof against fear or remorse, and who invents extraordinary stratagems to compass his ends. ANS. What! Am I tricked and made a fool of? Really, this would be a compliment to my good sense! Let me touch him and be satisfied. This is, indeed, the very man. What an ass I am! Pray, do not spread this story about, for they will write a farce about it, and shame me for ever. But, Pandolphus, help me to get the money back which I lent them to bury you. PAND. Money, do you say? Oh! that is where the shoe pinches; that is the secret of the whole affair! So much the worse for you. For my part, I shall not trouble myself about it, but will go and lay an information against this Mascarille, and if he can be caught he shall be hanged, whatever the cost may be. ANS. (_Alone_). And I, like a ninny, believe a scoundrel, and must in one day lose both my senses and my money. Upon my word, it well becomes me to have these gray hairs and to commit an act of folly so readily, without examining into the truth of the first story I hear...! But I see.... SCENE VI.--LELIO, ANSELMO. LEL. Now, with this master-key, I can easily pay Trufaldin a visit. ANS. As far as I can see, your grief has subsided. LEL. What do you say? No; it can never leave a heart which shall ever cherish it dearly. ANS. I came back to tell you frankly of a mistake I made in the money I gave you just now; amongst these louis-d'or, though they look very good, I carelessly put some which I think are bad. I have brought some money with me to change them. The intolerable audacity of our coiners is grown to such a height in this state, that no one can receive any money now without danger of his being imposed upon. It would be doing good service to hang them all! LEL. I am very much obliged to you for being willing to take them back, but I saw none among them that were bad, as I thought. ANS. Let me see the money; let me see it; I shall know them again. Is this all? LEL. Yes. ANS. So much the better. Are you back again? my dear money! get into my pocket. As for you, my gallant sharper, you have no longer got a penny of it. You kill people who are in good health, do ye? And what would you have done, then, with me, a poor infirm father-in-law? Upon my word, I was going to get a nice addition to my family, a most discreet son-in-law. Go, go, and hang yourself for shame and vexation. LEL. (_Alone_). I really must admit I have been bit this time. What a surprise this is! How can he have discovered our stratagem so soon? SCENE VII.--LELIO, MASCARILLE. MASC. What, you were out? I have been hunting for you everywhere. Well, have we succeeded at last? I will give the greatest rogue six trials to do the like. Come, give me the money that I may go and buy the slave; your rival will be very much astonished at this. LEL. Ah! my dear boy, our luck has changed. Can you imagine how ill fortune has served me? MASC. What? What can it be? LEL. Anselmo having found out the trick, just now got back every sou he lent us, pretending some of the gold-pieces were bad, and that he was going to change them. MASC. You do but joke, I suppose? LEL. It is but too true. MASC. In good earnest? LEL. In good earnest; I am very much grieved about it. It will put you into a furious passion. MASC. Me, sir! A fool might, but not I! Anger hurts, and I am going to take care of myself, come what will. After all, whether Celia be captive or free, whether Leander purchases her or whether she remains where she is, I do not care one stiver about it. LEL. Ah! do not show such indifference, but be a little more indulgent to my slight imprudence. Had this last misfortune not happened, you would have confessed that I did wonders, and that in this pretended decease I deceived everybody, and counterfeited grief so admirably that the most sharp-sighted would have been taken in. MASC. Truly you have great reason to boast. LEL. Oh! I am to blame, and I am willing to acknowledge it; but if ever you cared for my happiness, repair this mishap, and help me. MASC. I kiss your hands, I cannot spare the time. LEL. Mascarille, my dear boy! MASC. No. LEL. Do me this favour. MASC. No, I will not. LEL. If you are inflexible, I shall kill myself. MASC. Do so--you may. LEL. Can I not soften your hard heart? MASC. No. LEL. Do you see my sword ready drawn? MASC. Yes. LEL. I am going to stab myself. MASC. Do just what you please. LEL. Would you not regret to be the cause of my death? MASC. No. LEL. Farewell, Mascarille. MASC. Good bye, Master Lelio. LEL. What...? MASC. Kill yourself quick. You are a long while about it. LEL. Upon my word, you would like me to play the fool and kill myself, so that you might get hold of my clothes. MASC. I knew all this was nothing but a sham; whatever people may swear they will do, they are not so hasty now-a-days in killing themselves. SCENE VIII.--TRUFALDIN, LEANDER, LELIO, MASCARILLE. (_Trufaldin taking Leander aside and whispering to him_). LEL. What do I see? my rival and Trufaldin together! He is going to buy Celia. Oh! I tremble for fear. MASC. There is no doubt that he will do all he can; and if he has money, he can do all he will. For my part I am delighted. This is a just reward for your blunders, your impatience. LEL. What must I do? Advise me. MASC. I don't know. LEL. Stay, I will go and pick a quarrel with him. MASC. What good will that do? LEL. What would you have me do to ward off this blow? MASC. Well, I pardon you; I will yet cast an eye of pity on you. Leave me to watch them; I believe I shall discover what he intends to do by fairer means. (_Exit Lelio_). TRUF. (_To Leander_). When you send by and by, it shall be done. MASC. (_Aside and going out_). I must trap him and become his confidant, in order to baffle his designs the more easily. LEAND. (_Alone_). Thanks to Heaven, my happiness is complete. I have found the way to secure it, and fear nothing more. Whatever my rival may henceforth attempt, it is no longer in his power to do me any harm. SCENE IX.--LEANDER, MASCARILLE. MASC. (_Speaking these words within, and then coming on the stage_). Oh! oh! Help! Murder! Help! They are killing me! Oh! oh! oh! oh! Traitor! Barbarian! LEAND. Whence comes that noise? What is the matter? What are they doing to you? MASC. He has just given me two hundred blows with a cudgel. LEAND. Who? MASC. Lelio. LEAND. And for what reason? MASC. For a mere trifle he has turned me away and beats me most unmercifully. LEAND. He is really much to blame. MASC. But, I swear, if ever it lies in my power I will be revenged on him. I will let you know, Mr. Thrasher, with a vengeance, that people's bones are not to be broken for nothing! Though I am but a servant, yet I am a man of honour. After having been in your service for four years you shall not pay me with a switch, nor affront me in so sensible a part as my shoulders! I tell you once more, I shall find a way to be revenged! You are in love with a certain slave, you would fain induce me to get her for you, but I will manage matters so that somebody else shall carry her off; the deuce take me if I don't! LEAND. Hear me, Mascarille, and moderate your passion. I always liked you, and often wished that a young fellow, faithful and clever like you, might one day or other take a fancy to enter my service. In a word, if you think my offer worthy of acceptance, and if you have a mind to serve me, from this moment I engage you. MASC. With all my heart, sir, and so much the rather because good fortune in serving you offers me an opportunity of being revenged, and because in my endeavours to please you I shall at the same time punish that wretch. In a word, by my dexterity, I hope to get Celia for... LEAND. My love has provided already for that. Smitten by a faultless fair one, I have just now bought her for less than her value. MASC. What! Celia belongs to you, then? LEAND. You should see her this minute, if I were the master of my own actions. But alas! it is my father who is so; since he is resolved, as I understand by a letter brought me, to make me marry Hippolyta. I would not have this affair come to his knowledge lest it should exasperate him. Therefore in my arrangement with Trufaldin (from whom I just now parted), I acted purposely in the name of another. When the affair was settled, my ring was chosen as the token, on the sight of which Trufaldin is to deliver Celia. But I must first arrange the ways and means to conceal from the eyes of others the girl who so much charms my own, and then find some retired place where this lovely captive may be secreted. MASC. A little way out of town lives an old relative of mine, whose house I can take the freedom to offer you; there you may safely lodge her, and not a creature know anything of the matter. LEAND. Indeed! so I can: you have delighted me with the very thing I wanted. Here, take this, and go and get possession of the fair one. As soon as ever Trufaldin sees my ring, my girl will be immediately delivered into your hands. You can then take her to that house, when... But hist! here comes Hippolyta. SCENE X.--HIPPOLYTA, LEANDER, MASCARILLE. HIPP. I have some news for you, Leander, but will you be pleased or displeased with it? LEAND. To judge of that, and make answer off-hand, I should know it. HIPP. Give me your hand, then, as far as the church, and I will tell it you as we go. [Footnote: Generally it was thought preferable, during Molière's lifetime, to use the word _temple_ for "church," instead of _église_.] LEAND. (_To Mascarille_). Go, make haste, and serve me in that business without delay. SCENE XI.--MASCARILLE, _alone_. Yes, I will serve you up a dish of my own dressing. Was there ever in the world so lucky a fellow. How delighted Lelio will be soon! His mistress to fall into our hands by these means! To derive his whole happiness from the man he would have expected to ruin him! To become happy by the hands of a rival! After this great exploit, I desire that due preparations be made to paint me as a hero crowned with laurel, and that underneath the portrait be inscribed in letters of gold: _Vivat Mascarillus, rogum imperator_. SCENE XII.--TRUFALDIN, MASCARILLE. MASC. Soho, there! TRUF. What do you want? MASC. This ring, which you know, will inform you what business brings me hither. TRUF. Yes, I recognise that ring perfectly; stay a little, I will fetch you the slave. SCENE XIII.--TRUFALDIN, A MESSENGER, MASCARILLE. MESS. (_To Trufaldin_). Do me the favor, sir, to tell me where lives a gentleman.... TRUF. What gentleman? MESS. I think his name is Trufaldin. TRUF. And what is your business with him, pray? I am he. MESS. Only to deliver this letter to him. TRUF. (_Reads_). "_Providence, whose goodness watches over my life, has just brought to my ears a most welcome report, that my daughter, who was stolen from me by some robbers when she was four years old, is now a slave at your house, under the name of Celia. If ever you knew what it was to be a father, and if natural affection makes an impression on your heart, then keep in your house this child so dear to me, and treat her as if she were your own flesh and blood. I am preparing to set out myself in order to fetch her. You shall be so well rewarded for your trouble, that in everything that relates to your happiness (which I am determined to advance) you shall have reason to bless the day in which you caused mine_." DON PEDRO DE GUSMAN, From Madrid. Marquess of MONTALCANA Though the gipsies can be seldom believed, yet they who sold her to me told me she would soon be fetched by somebody, and that I should have no reason to complain. Yet here I was going, all through my impatience, to lose the fruits of a great expectation. (_To the Messenger_). Had you come but one moment later, your journey would have been in vain; I was going, this very instant, to give the girl up into this gentleman's hands; but it is well, I shall take great care of her. (_Exit Messenger_). (_To Mascarille_). You yourself have heard what this letter says, so you may tell the person who sent you that I cannot keep my word, and that he had better come and receive his money back. MASC. But the way you insult him... TRUF. Go about your business, and no more words. MASC. (_Alone_). Oh, what a curse that this letter came now! Fate is indeed against me. What bad luck for this messenger to come from Spain when he was not wanted! May thunder and hail go with him! Never, certainly, had so happy a beginning such a sad ending in so short a time. SCENE XIV.--LELIO _laughing_, MASCARILLE. MASC. What may be the cause of all this mirth? LEL. Let me have my laugh out before I tell you. MASC. Let us laugh then heartily, we have abundant cause so to do. LEL. Oh! I shall no longer be the object of your expostulations: you who always reproach me shall no longer say that I am marrying all your schemes, like a busy-body as I am. I myself have played one of the cleverest tricks in the world. It is true I am quick-tempered, and now and then rather too hasty; but yet, when I have a mind to it, I can plan as many tricks as any man alive; even you shall own that what I have done shows an amount of sharpness rarely to be met with. MASC. Let us hear what tricks you have invented. LEL. Just now, being terribly frightened on seeing Trufaldin along with my rival, I was casting about to find a remedy for that mischief, when, calling all my invention to my aid, I conceived, digested, and perfected a stratagem, before which all yours, however vain you may be of them, ought undoubtedly to lower their colours. MASC. But what may this be? LEL. May it please you to have a little patience. Without much delay I invented a letter, written by an imaginary nobleman to Trufaldin, setting forth that, having fortunately heard that a certain slave, who lives in the latter's house, and is named Celia, was this grandee's daughter formerly kidnapped by thieves, it was his intention to come and fetch her; and he entreats him at least to keep her and take great care of her; for, that on her account he was setting out from Spain, and would acknowledge his civility by such handsome presents, that he should never regret being the means of making him happy. MASC. Mighty well. LEL. Hear me out; here is something much cleverer still. The letter I speak of was delivered to him, but can you imagine how? Only just in time, for the messenger told me, had it not been for this droll device, a fellow, who looked very foolish, was waiting to carry her off that identical moment. MASC. And you did all this without the help of the devil? LEL. Yes. Would you have believed me capable of such a subtle piece of wit? At least praise my skill, and the dexterity with which I have utterly disconcerted the scheme of my rival. MASC. To praise you as you deserve, I lack eloquence; and feel unequal to the task. Yes, sufficiently to commend this lofty effort, this fine stratagem of war achieved before our eyes, this grand and rare effect of a mind which plans as many tricks as any man, which for smartness yields to none alive, my tongue wants words. I wish I had the abilities of the most refined scholars, so that I might tell you in the noblest verse, or else in learned prose, that you will always be, in spite of everything that may be done, the very same you have been all your life; that is to say, a scatter-brain, a man of distempered reason, always perplexed, wanting common sense, a man of left-handed judgment, a meddler, an ass, a blundering, hare-brained, giddy fellow,--what can I think of? A... a hundred times worse than anything I can say. This is only an abridgement of your panegyric. LEL. Tell me, what puts you in such a passion with me? Have I done anything? Clear up this matter. MASC. No, you have done nothing at all; but do not come after me. LEL. I will follow you all over the world to find out this mystery. MASC. Do so. Come on, then; get your legs in order, I shall give you an opportunity to exercise them. LEL. (_Alone_). He has got away from me! O misfortune which cannot be allayed! What am I to understand by his discourse? And what harm can I possibly have done to myself? ACT III. SCENE I.--MASCARILLE, _alone_ [Footnote: Compare Launcelot Gobbo's speech about his conscience in Shakspeare's _Merchant of Venice_ (ii. 2).] Silence, my good nature, and plead no more; you are a fool, and I am determined not to do it. Yes, my anger, you are right, I confess it! To be for ever doing what a meddler undoes, is showing too much patience, and I ought to give it up after the glorious attempts he has marred. But let us argue the matter a little without passion; if I should now give way to my just impatience the world will say I sank under difficulties, that my cunning was completely exhausted. What then becomes of that public esteem, which extols you everywhere as a first-rate rogue, and which you have acquired upon so many occasions, because you never yet were found wanting in inventions? Honour, Mascarille, is a fine thing; do not pause in your noble labours; and whatever a master may have done to incense you, complete your work, for your own glory, and not to oblige him. But what success can you expect, if you are thus continually crossed by your evil genius? You see he compels you every moment to change your tone; you may as well hold water in a sieve as try to stop that resistless torrent, which in a moment overturns the most beautiful structures raised by your art. Well, once more, out of kindness, and whatever may happen, let us take some pains, even if they are in vain; yet, if he still persists in baffling my designs, then I shall withdraw all assistance. After all, our affairs are not going on badly, if we could but supplant our rival, and if Leander, at last weary of his pursuit, would leave us one whole day for my intended operations. Yes, I have a most ingenious plot in my head, from which I expect a glorious success, if I had no longer that obstacle in my way. Well, let us see if he still persists in his love. SCENE II.--LEANDER, MASCARILLE. MASC. Sir, I have lost my labour; Trufaldin will not keep his word. LEAND. He himself has told me the whole affair; but, what is more, I have discovered that all this pretty rigmarole about Celia being carried off by gypsies, and having a great nobleman for her father, who is setting out from Spain to come hither, is nothing but a mere stratagem, a merry trick, a made-up story, a tale raised by Lelio to prevent my buying Celia. MASC. Here is roguery for you! LEAND. And yet this ridiculous story has produced such an impression on Trufaldin, and he has swallowed the bait of this shallow device so greedily, that he will not allow himself to be undeceived. MASC. So that henceforth he will watch her carefully. I do not see we can do anything more. LEAND. If at first I thought this girl amiable, I now find her absolutely adorable, and I am in doubt whether I ought not to employ extreme measures to make her my own, thwart her ill fortune by plighting her my troth, and turn her present chains into matrimonial ones. MASC. Would you marry her? LEAND. I am not yet determined, but if her origin is somewhat obscure, her charms and her virtue are gentle attractions, which have incredible force to allure every heart. MASC. Did you not mention her virtue? LEAND. Ha! what is that you mutter? Out with it; explain what you mean by repeating that word "virtue." MASC. Sir, your countenance changes all of a sudden; perhaps I had much better hold my tongue. LEAND. No, no, speak out. MASC. Well, then, out of charity I will cure you of your blindness. That girl.... LEAND. Proceed. MASC. So far from being merciless, makes no difficulty in obliging some people in private; you may believe me, after all she is not stony-hearted, to any one who knows how to take her in the right mood. She looks demure, and would fain pass for a prude; but I can speak of her on sure grounds. You know I understand something of the craft, and ought to know that kind of cattle. LEAND. What! Celia?... MASC. Yes, her modesty is nothing but a mere sham, the semblance of a virtue which will never hold out, but vanishes, as any one may discover, before the shining rays emitted from a purse. [Footnote: This is an allusion to the rays of the sun, placed above the crown, and stamped on all golden crown-pieces, struck in France from Louis XI. (November 2, 1475) until the end of the reign of Louis XIII. These crowns were called _écus au soleil_. Louis XIV. took much later for his device the sun shining in full, with the motto, _Nec pluribus impar_.] LEAND. Heavens! What do you tell me? Can I believe such words? MASC. Sir, there is no compulsion; what does it matter to me? No, pray do not believe me, follow your own inclination, take the sly girl and marry her; the whole city, in a body, will acknowledge this favour; you marry the public good in her. LEAND. What a strange surprise! MASC. (_Aside_). He has taken the bait. Courage, my lad; if he does but swallow it in good earnest, we shall have got rid of a very awkward obstruction on our path. LEAND. This astonishing account nearly kills me. MASC. What! Can you... LEAND. Go to the post-office, and see if there is a letter for me. (_Alone, and for a while lost in thought_). Who would not have been imposed upon? If what he says be true then there never was any countenance more deceiving. SCENE III.--LELIO, LEANDER. LEL. What may be the cause of your looking so sad? LEAND. Who, I? LEL. Yes, yourself. LEAND. I have, however, no occasion to be so. LEL. I see well enough what it is; Celia is the cause of it. LEAND. My mind does not run upon such trifles. LEL. And yet you had formed some grand scheme to get her into your hands; but you must speak thus, as your stratagem has miscarried. LEAND. Were I fool enough to be enamoured of her, I should laugh at all your finesse. LEL. What finesse, pray? LEAND. Good Heavens! sir, we know all. LEL. All what? LEAND. All your actions, from beginning to end. LEL. This is all Greek to me; I do not understand one word of it. LEAND. Pretend, if you please, not to understand me; but believe me, do not apprehend that I shall take a property which I should be sorry to dispute with you. I adore a beauty who has not been sullied, and do not wish to love a depraved woman. LEL. Gently, gently, Leander. LEAND. Oh! how credulous you are! I tell you once more, you may attend on her now without suspecting anybody. You may call yourself a lady-killer. It is true, her beauty is very uncommon, but, to make amends for that, the rest is common enough. LEL. Leander, no more of this provoking language. Strive against me as much as you like in order to obtain her; but, above all things, do not traduce her so vilely. I should consider myself a great coward if I could tamely submit to hear my earthly deity slandered. I can much better bear your rivalry than listen to any speech that touches her character. LEAND. What I state here I have from very good authority. LEL. Whoever told you so is a scoundrel and a rascal. Nobody can discover the least blemish in this young lady; I know her heart well. LEAND. But yet Mascarille is a very competent judge in such a cause; he thinks her guilty. LEL. He? LEAND. He himself. LEL. Does he pretend impudently to slander a most respectable young lady, thinking, perhaps, I should only laugh at it? I will lay you a wager he eats his words. LEAND. I will lay you a wager he does not. LEL. 'Sdeath! I would break every bone in his body should he dare to assert such lies to me, LEAND. And I will crop his ears, if he does not prove every syllable he has told me. SCENE IV.--LELIO, LEANDER, MASCARILLE. LEL. Oh! that's lucky; there he is. Come hither, cursed hangdog! MASC. What is the matter? LEL. You serpent's tongue! so full of lies! dare you fasten your stings on Celia, and slander the most consummate virtue that ever added lustre to misfortune? MASC. (_In a whisper to Lelio_). Gently; I told him so on purpose. LEL. No, no; none of your winking, and none of your jokes. I am blind and deaf to all you do or say. If it were my own brother he should pay dear for it; for to dare defame her whom I adore is to wound me in the most tender part. You make all these signs in vain. What was it you said to him? MASC. Good Heavens! do not quarrel, or I shall leave you. LEL. You shall not stir a step. MASC. Oh! LEL. Speak then; confess. MASC. (_Whispering to Lelio_). Let me alone. I tell you it is a stratagem. LEL. Make haste; what was it you said? Clear up this dispute between us. MASC. (_In a whisper to Lelio_). I said what I said. Pray do not put yourself in a passion. LEL. (_Drawing his sword_). I shall make you talk in another strain. LEAND. (_Stopping him_). Stay your hand a little; moderate your ardour. MASC. (_Aside_). Was there ever in the world a creature so dull of understanding? LEL. Allow me to wreak my just vengeance on him. LEAND. It is rather too much to wish to chastise him in my presence. LEL. What! have I no right, then, to chastise my own servant? LEAND. What do you mean by saying "your servant?" MASC. (_Aside_). He is at it again! He will discover all. LEL. Suppose I had a mind to thrash him within an inch of his life, what then? He is my own servant. LEAND. At present he is mine. LEL. That is an admirable joke. How comes he to be yours? Surely... MASC. (_In a whisper_). Gently. LEL. What are you whispering? MASC. (_Aside_). Oh! the confounded blockhead. He is going to spoil everything, He understands not one of my signs. LEL. You are dreaming, Leander. You are telling me a pretty story! Is he not my servant? LEAND. Did you not discharge him from your service for some fault? LEL. I do not know what this means. LEAND. And did you not, in the violence of your passion, make his back smart most unmercifully? LEL. No such thing. I discharge him! cudgel him! Either you make a jest of me, Leander, or he has been making a jest of you. MASC. (_Aside_). Go on, go on, numskull; you will do your own business effectually. LEAND. (_To Mascarille_). Then all this cudgelling is purely imaginary? MASC. He does not know what he says; his memory... LEAND. No, no; all these signs do not look well for you. I suspect some prettily contrived trick here; but for the ingenuity of the invention, go your ways, I forgive you. It is quite enough that I am undeceived, and see now why you imposed upon me. I come off cheap, because I trusted myself to your hypocritical zeal. A word to the wise is enough. Farewell, Lelio, farewell; your most obedient servant. SCENE V.--LELIO, MASCARILLE. MASC. Take courage, my boy, may fortune ever attend us I Let us draw and bravely take the field; let us act _Olibrius, the slayer of the innocents_. [Footnote: Olibrius was, according to ancient legends, a Roman governor of Gaul, in the time of the Emperor Decius, very cruel, and a great boaster.] LEL. He accused you of slandering... MASC. And you could not let the artifice pass, nor let him remain in his error, which did you good service, and which pretty nearly extinguished his passion. No, honest soul, he cannot bear dissimulation. I cunningly get a footing at his rival's, who, like a dolt, was going to place his mistress in my hands, but he, Lelio, prevents me getting hold of her by a fictitious letter; I try to abate the passion of his rival, my hero presently comes and undeceives him. In vain I make signs to him, and show him it was all a contrivance of mine; it signifies nothing; he continues to the end, and never rests satisfied till he has discovered all. Grand and sublime effect of a mind which is not inferior to any man living! It is an exquisite piece, and worthy, in troth, to be made a present of to the king's private museum. LEL. I am not surprised that I do not come up to your expectations; if I am not acquainted with the designs you are setting on foot, I shall be for ever making mistakes. MASC. So much the worse. LEL. At least, if you would be justly angry with me, give me a little insight into your plan; but if I am kept ignorant of every contrivance, I must always be caught napping. [Footnote: The original is, _je suis pris sans vert_, "I am taken without green," because in the month of May, in some parts of France, there is a game which binds him or her who is taken without a green leaf about them to pay a forfeit.] MASC. I believe you would make a very good fencing-master, because you are so skilful at making feints, and at parrying of a thrust. [Footnote: In the original we find _prendre les contretemps_, and _rompre les mesures_. In a little and very curious book, "The Scots Fencing Master, or Compleat Smal-Sword Man," printed in Edinburgh 1687, and written by Sir William Hope of Kirkliston, the _contre-temps_ is said to be: "When a man thrusts without having a good opportunity, or when he thrusts at the same time his adversarie thrusts, and that each of them at that time receive a thrust." _Breaking of measure_ is, according to the same booklet, done thus: "When you perceive your adversary thrusting at you, and you are not very certain of the _parade_, then _break his measure_, or make his thrust short of you, by either stepping a foot or half a foot back, with the _single stepp_, for if you judge your adversary's _distance or measure_ well, half a foot will _break his measure_ as well as ten ells."] LEL. Since the thing is done, let us think no more about it. My rival, however, will not have it in his power to cross me, and provided you will but exert your skill, in which I trust... MASC. Let us drop this discourse, and talk of something else; I am not so easily pacified, not I; I am in too great a passion for that. In the first place, you must do me a service, and then we shall see whether I ought to undertake the management of your amours. LEL. If it only depends on that, I will do it! Tell me, have you need of my blood, of my sword? MASC. How crack-brained he is! You are just like those swashbucklers who are always more ready to draw their sword than to produce a tester, if it were necessary to give it. LEL. What can I do, then, for you? MASC. You must, without delay, endeavour to appease your father's anger. LEL. We have become reconciled already. MASC. Yes, but I am not; I killed him this morning for your sake; the very idea of it shocks him. Those sorts of jokes are severely felt by such old fellows as he, which, much against their will, make them reflect sadly on the near approach of death. The good sire, notwithstanding his age, is very fond of life, and cannot bear jesting upon that subject; he is alarmed at the prognostication, and so very angry that I hear he has lodged a complaint against me. I am afraid that if I am once housed at the expense of the king, I may like it so well after the first quarter of an hour, that I shall find it very difficult afterwards to get away. There have been several warrants out against me this good while; for virtue is always envied and persecuted in this abominable age. Therefore go and make my peace with your father. LEL. Yes, I shall soften his anger, but you must promise me then... MASC. We shall see what there is to be done. (_Exit Lelio_). Now, let us take a little breath after so many fatigues; let us stop for a while the current of our intrigues, and not move about hither and thither as if we were hobgoblins. Leander cannot hurt us now, and Celia cannot be removed, through the contrivance of... SCENE VI.--ERGASTE, MASCARILLE. ERG. I was looking for you everywhere to render you a service. I have a secret of importance to disclose. MASC. What may that be? ERG. Can no one overhear us? MASC. Not a soul. ERG. We are as intimate as two people can be; I am acquainted with all your projects, and the love of your master. Mind what you are about by and by; Leander has formed a plot to carry off Celia; I have been told he has arranged everything, and designs to get into Trufaldin's house in disguise, having heard that at this time of the year some ladies of the neighbourhood often visit him in the evening in masks. MASC. Ay, well! He has not yet reached the height of his happiness; I may perhaps be beforehand with him; and as to this thrust, I know how to give him a counter-thrust, by which he may run himself through. He is not aware with what gifts I am endowed. Farewell, we shall take a cup together next time we meet. SCENE VII.--MASCARILLE, alone. We must, we must reap all possible benefit from this amorous scheme, and by a dexterous and uncommon counterplot endeavour to make the success our own, without any danger. If I put on a mask and be beforehand with Leander, he will certainly not laugh at us; if we take the prize ere he comes up, he will have paid for us the expenses of the expedition; for, as his project has already become known, suspicion will fall upon him; and we, being safe from all pursuit, need not fear the consequences of that dangerous enterprise. Thus we shall not show ourselves, but use a cat's paw to take the chesnuts out of the fire. Now, then, let us go and disguise ourselves with some good fellows; we must not delay if we wish to be beforehand with our gentry. I love to strike while the iron is hot, and can, without much difficulty, provide in one moment men and dresses. Depend upon it, I do not let my skill lie dormant. If Heaven has endowed me with the gift of knavery, I am not one of those degenerate minds who hide the talents they have received. SCENE VIII.--LELIO, ERGASTE. LEL. He intends to carry her off during a masquerade! ERG. There is nothing more certain; one of his band informed me of his design, upon which I instantly ran to Mascarille and told him the whole affair; he said he would spoil their sport by some counter-scheme which he planned in an instant; so meeting with you by chance, I thought I ought to let you know the whole. LEL. I am very much obliged to you for this piece of news; go, I shall not forget this faithful service. [_Exit Ergaste_.] SCENE IX.--LELIO, alone. My rascal will certainly play them some trick or other; but I, too, have a mind to assist him in his project. It shall never be said that, in a business which so nearly concerns me, I stirred no more than a post; this is the time; they will be surprised at the sight of me. Why did I not take my blunderbuss with me? But let anybody attack me who likes, I have two good pistols and a trusty sword. So ho! within there; a word with you. SCENE X.--TRUFALDIN _at his window_, LELIO. TRUF. What is the matter? Who comes to pay me a visit? LEL. Keep your door carefully shut to-night. TRUF. Why? LEL. There are certain people coming masked to give you a sorry kind of serenade; they intend to carry off Celia. TRUF. Good Heavens! LEL. No doubt they will soon be here. Keep where you are, you may see everything from your window. Hey! Did I not tell you so? Do you not see them already? Hist! I will affront them before your face. We shall see some fine fun, if they do not give way. [Footnote: This is one of the passages of Molière about which commentators do not agree; the original is, _nous allons voir beau jeu, si la corde ne rompt_. Some maintain that _corde_ refers to the tight rope of a rope dancer; others that _corde_ means the string of a bow, as in the phrase _avoir deux cordes a son arc_, to have two strings (resources) to one's bow. Mons. Eugène Despois, in his carefully edited edition of Molière, (i., 187), defends the latter reading, and I agree with him.] SCENE XI.--LELIO, TRUFALDIN, MASCARILLE, _and his company masked_. TRUF. Oh, the funny blades, who think to surprise me. LEL. Maskers, whither so fast? Will you let me into the secret? Trufaldin, pray open the door to these gentry, that they may challenge us for a throw with the dice. [Footnote: The original has _jouer un momon_. Guy Miege, in his Dictionary of barbarous French. London, 1679 has "_Mommon_, a mummer, also a company of mummers; also a visard, or mask; also a let by a mummer at dice."] (_To Mascarille, disguised as a woman_). Good Heavens! What a pretty creature! What a darling she looks! How now! What are you mumbling? Without offence, may I remove your mask and see your face. TRUF. Hence! ye wicked rogues; begone, ye ragamuffins! And you, sir, good night, and many thanks. SCENE XII.--LELIO, MASCARILLE. LEL. (_After having taken the mask from Mascarille's face_). Mascarille, is it you? MASC. No, not at all; it is somebody else. LEL. Alas! How astonished I am! How adverse is our fate! Could I possibly have guessed this, as you did not secretly inform me that you were going to disguise yourself? Wretch that I am, thoughtlessly to play you such a trick, while you wore this mask. I am in an awful passion with myself, and have a good mind to give myself a sound beating. MASC. Farewell, most refined wit, unparalleled inventive genius. LEL. Alas! If your anger deprives me of your assistance, what saint shall I invoke? MASC. Beelzebub. LEL. Ah! If your heart is not made of stone or iron, do once more at least forgive my imprudence; if it is necessary to be pardoned that I should kneel before you, behold... MASC. Fiddlesticks! Come, my boys, let us away; I hear some other people coming closely behind us. SCENE XIII.--LEANDER _and his company masked;_ TRUFALDIN _at the window_. LEAND. Softly, let us do nothing but in the gentlest manner. TRUF. (_At the window_). How is this? What! mummers besieging my door all night. Gentlemen, do not catch a cold gratuitously; every one who is catching it here must have plenty of time to lose. It is rather a little too late to take Celia along with you; she begs you will excuse her to-night; the girl is in bed and cannot speak to you; I am very sorry; but to repay you for all the trouble you have taken for her sake, she begs you will be pleased to accept this pot of perfume. LEAND. Faugh! That does not smell nicely. My clothes are all spoiled; we are discovered; let us be gone this way. ACT IV. SCENE I.--LELIO, _disguised as an Armenian;_ MASCARILLE. MASC. You are dressed in a most comical fashion. LEL. I had abandoned all hope, but you have revived it again by this contrivance. MASC. My anger is always too soon over; it is vain to swear and curse, I can never keep to my oaths. LEL. Be assured that if ever it lies in my power you shall be satisfied with the proofs of my gratitude, and though I had but one piece of bread... MASC. Enough: Study well this new project; for if you commit now any blunder, you cannot lay the blame upon ignorance of the plot; you ought to know your part in the play perfectly by heart. LEL. But how did Trufaldin receive you? MASC. I cozened the good fellow with a pretended zeal for his interests. I went with alacrity to tell him that, unless he took very great care, some people would come and surprise him; that from different quarters they had designs upon her of whose origin a letter had given a false account; that they would have liked to draw me in for a share in the business, but that I kept well out of it; and that, being full of zeal for what so nearly concerned him, I came to give him timely notice that he might take his precautions. Then, moralizing, I discoursed solemnly about the many rogueries one sees every day here below; that, as for me, being tired with the world and its infamies, I wished to work out my soul's salvation, retire from all its noise, and live with some worthy honest man, with whom I could spend the rest of my days in peace; that, if he had no objection, I should desire nothing more than to pass the remainder of my life with him; that I had taken such a liking to him, that, without asking for any wages to serve him, I was ready to place in his hands, knowing it to be safe there, some property my father had left me, as well as my savings, which I was fully determined to leave to him alone, if it pleased Heaven to take me hence. That was the right way to gain his affection. You and your beloved should decide what means to use to attain your wishes. I was anxious to arrange a secret interview between you two; he himself has contrived to show me a most excellent method, by which you may fairly and openly stay in her house. Happening to talk to me about a son he had lost, and whom he dreamt last night had come to life again, he told me the following story, upon which, just now, I founded my stratagem. LEL. Enough; I know it all; you have told it me twice already. [Footnote: Though Lelio says to Mascarille, "Enough, I know it all," he has not been listening to the speech of his servant, but, in the meanwhile, is arranging his dress, and smoothing his ruffles, and making it clear to the spectator that he knows nothing, and that he will be a bad performer of the part assigned to him. This explains the blunders he makes afterwards in the second and fifth scenes of the same act.] MASC. Yes, yes; but even if I should tell it thrice, it may happen still, that with all your conceit, you might break down in some minor detail. LEL. I long to be at it already. MASC. Pray, not quite so fast, for fear we might stumble. Your skull is rather thick, therefore you should be perfectly well instructed in your part. Some time ago Trufaldin left Naples; his name was then Zanobio Ruberti. Being suspected in his native town of having participated in a certain rebellion, raised by some political faction (though really he is not a man to disturb any state), he was obliged to quit it stealthily by night, leaving behind him his daughter, who was very young, and his wife. Some time afterwards he received the news that they were both dead, and in this perplexity, wishing to take with him to some other town, not only his property, but also the only one who was left of all his family, his young son, a schoolboy, called Horatio, he wrote to Bologna, where a certain tutor, named Alberto, had taken the boy when very young, to finish there his education; but though for two whole years he appointed several times to meet them, they never made their appearance. Believing them to be dead, after so long a time, he came to this city, where he took the name he now bears, without for twelve years ever having discovered any traces of this Alberto, or of his son Horatio. This is the substance of the story, which I have repeated so that you may better remember the groundwork of the plot. Now, you are to personate an Armenian merchant, who has seen them both safe and sound in Turkey. If I have invented this scheme, in preference to any other, of bringing them to life again according to his dream, it is because it is very common in adventures for people to be taken at sea by some Turkish pirate, and afterwards restored to their families in the very nick of time, when thought lost for fifteen or twenty years. For my part, I have heard a hundred of that kind of stories. Without giving ourselves the trouble of inventing something fresh, let us make use of this one; what does it matter? You must say you heard the story of their being made slaves from their own mouths, and also that you lent them money to pay their ransom; but that as urgent business obliged you to set out before them, Horatio asked you to go and visit his father here, whose adventures he was acquainted with, and with whom you were to stay a few days till their arrival. I have given you a long lesson now. LEL. These repetitions are superfluous. From the very beginning I understood it all. MASC. I shall go in and prepare the way. LEL. Listen, Mascarille, there is only one thing that troubles me; suppose he should ask me to describe his son's countenance? MASC. There is no difficulty in answering that! You know he was very little when he saw him last. Besides it is very likely that increase of years and slavery have completely changed him. LEL. That is true. But pray, if he should remember my face, what must I do then? MASC. Have you no memory at all? I told you just now, that he has merely seen you for a minute, that therefore you could only have produced a very transient impression on his mind; besides, your beard and dress disguise you completely. LEL. Very well. But, now I think of it, what part of Turkey...? MASC. It is all the same, I tell you, Turkey or Barbary. LEL. But what is the name of the town I saw them in? MASC. Tunis. I think he will keep me till night. He tells me it is useless to repeat that name so often, and I have already mentioned it a dozen times. LEL. Go, go in and prepare matters; I want nothing more. MASC. Be cautious at least, and act wisely. Let us have none of your inventions here. LEL. Let me alone! Trust to me, I say, once more. MASC. Observe, Horatio, a schoolboy in Bologna; Trufaldin, his true name Zanobio Ruberti, a citizen of Naples; the tutor was called Alberto... LEL. You make me blush by preaching so much to me; do you think I am a fool? MASC. No, not completely, but something very like it. SCENE II.--LELIO, _alone_. When I do not stand in need of him he cringes, but now, because he very well knows of how much use he is to me, his familiarity indulges in such remarks as he just now made. I shall bask in the sunshine of those beautiful eyes, which hold me in so sweet a captivity, and, without hindrance, depict in the most glaring colours the tortures I feel. I shall then know my fate.... But here they are. SCENE III.--TRUFALDIN, LELIO, MASCARILLE. TRUF. Thanks, righteous heaven, for this favourable turn of my fortune! MASC. You are the man to see visions and dream dreams, since you prove how untrue is the saying that dreams are falsehoods. [Footnote: In French there is a play on words between _songes_, dreams, and _mensonges_, falsehoods, which cannot be rendered into English.] TRUF. How can I thank you? what returns can I make you, sir? You, whom I ought to style the messenger sent from Heaven to announce my happiness! LEL. These compliments are superfluous; I can dispense with them. TRUF. (_To Mascarille_). I have seen somebody like this Armenian, but I do not know where. MASC. That is what I was saying, but one sees surprising likenesses sometimes. TRUF. You have seen that son of mine, in whom all my hopes are centred? LEL. Yes, Signor Trufaldin, and he was as well as well can be. TRUF. He related to you his life and spoke much about me, did he not? LEL. More than ten thousand times. MASC. (_Aside to Lelio_). Not quite so much, I should say. LEL. He described you just as I see you, your face, your gait. TRUF. Is that possible? He has not seen me since he was seven years old. And even his tutor, after so long a time, would scarcely know my face again. MASC. One's own flesh and blood never forget the image of one's relations; this likeness is imprinted so deeply, that my father... TRUF. Hold your tongue. Where was it you left him? LEL. In Turkey, at Turin. TRUF. Turin! but I thought that town was in Piedmont. MASC. (_Aside_). Oh the dunce! (_To Trufaldin_). You do not understand him; he means Tunis; it was in reality there he left your son; but the Armenians always have a certain vicious pronunciation, which seems very harsh to us; the reason of it is because in all their words they change _nis_ into _rin_; and so, instead of saying _Tunis_, they pronounce _Turin_. TRUF. I ought to know this in order to understand him. Did he tell you in what way you could meet with his father? MASC. (_Aside_). What answer will he give? [Footnote: Trufaldin having found out that Mascarille makes signs to his master, the servant pretends to fence.] (_To Trufaldin, after pretending to fence_). I was just practising some passes; I have handled the foils in many a fencing school. TRUF. (_To Mascarille_). That is not the thing I wish to know now. (_To Lelio_). What other name did he say I went by? MASC. Ah, Signor Zanobio Ruberti. How glad you ought to be for what Heaven sends you! LEL. That is your real name; the other is assumed. TRUF. But where did he tell you he first saw the light? MASC. Naples seems a very nice place, but you must feel a decided aversion to it. TRUF. Can you not let us go on with our conversation, without interrupting us? LEL. Naples is the place where he first drew his breath. TRUF. Whither did I send him in his infancy, and under whose care? MASC. That poor Albert behaved very well, for having accompanied your son from Bologna, whom you committed to his care. TRUF. Pshaw! MASC. (_Aside_). We are undone if this conversation lasts long. TRUF. I should very much like to know their adventures; aboard what ship did my adverse fate...? MASC. I do not know what is the matter with me, I do nothing but yawn. But, Signor Trufaldin, perhaps this stranger may want some refreshment; besides, it grows late. LEL. No refreshment for me. MASC. Oh sir, you are more hungry than you imagine. TRUF. Please to walk in then. LEL. After you, sir. [Footnote: It shows that Lelio knows not what he is about when he does the honours of the house to the master of the house himself, and forgets that as a stranger he ought to go in first.] MASC. (_To Trufaldin_). Sir, in Armenia, the masters of the house use no ceremony. (_To Lelio, after Trufaldin has gone in_). Poor fellow, have you not a word to say for yourself? LEL. He surprised me at first; but never fear, I have rallied my spirits, and am going to rattle away boldly.. MASC. Here comes our rival, who knows nothing of our plot. (_They go into Trufaldin's house_). SCENE IV.--ANSELMO, LEANDER. ANS. Stay, Leander, and allow me to tell you something which concerns your peace and reputation. I do not speak to you as the father of Hippolyta, as a man interested for my own family, but as your father, anxious for your welfare, without wishing to flatter you or to disguise anything; in short, openly and honestly, as I would wish a child of mine to be treated upon the like occasion. Do you know how everybody regards this amour of yours, which in one night has burst forth? How your yesterday's undertaking is everywhere talked of and ridiculed? What people think of the whim which, they say, has made you select for a wife a gipsy outcast, a strolling wench, whose noble occupation was only begging? I really blushed for you, even more than I did for myself, who am also compromised by this public scandal. Yes, I am compromised, I say, I whose daughter, being engaged to you, cannot bear to see her slighted, without taking offence at it. For shame, Leander; arise from your humiliation; consider well your infatuation; if none of us are wise at all times, yet the shortest errors are always the best. When a man receives no dowry with his wife, but beauty only, repentance follows soon after wedlock; and the handsomest woman in the world can hardly defend herself against a lukewarmness caused by possession. I repeat it, those fervent raptures, those youthful ardours and ecstacies, may make us pass a few agreeable nights, but this bliss is not at all lasting, and as our passions grow cool, very unpleasant days follow those pleasant nights; hence proceed cares, anxieties, miseries, sons disinherited through their fathers' wrath. LEAND. All that I now hear from you is no more than what my own reason has already suggested to me. I know how much I am obliged to you for the great honour you are inclined to pay me, and of which I am unworthy. In spite of the passion which sways me, I have ever retained a just sense of your daughter's merit and virtue: therefore I will endeavour... ANS. Somebody is opening this door; let us retire to a distance, lest some contagion spreads from it, which may attack you suddenly. SCENE V.--LELIO, MASCARILLE. MASC. We shall soon see our roguery miscarry if you persist in such palpable blunders. LEL. Must I always hear your reprimands? What can you complain of? Have I not done admirably since...? MASC. Only middling; for example, you called the Turks heretics, and you affirmed, on your corporal oath, that they worshipped the sun and moon as their gods. Let that pass. What vexes me most is that, when you are with Celia, you strangely forget yourself; your love is like porridge, which by too fierce a fire swells, mounts up to the brim, and runs over everywhere. LEL. Could any one be more reserved? As yet I have hardly spoken to her. MASC. You are right! but it is not enough to be silent; you had not been a moment at table till your gestures roused more suspicion than other people would have excited in a whole twelvemonth. LEL. How so? MASC. How so? Everybody might have seen it. At table, where Trufaldin made her sit down, you never kept your eyes off her, blushed, looked quite silly, cast sheep's eyes at her, without ever minding what you were helped to; you were never thirsty but when she drank, and took the glass eagerly from her hands; and without rinsing it, or throwing a drop of it away, you drank what she left in it, and seemed to choose in preference that side of the glass which her lips had touched; upon every piece which her slender hand had touched, or which she had bit, you laid your paw as quickly as a cat does upon a mouse, and you swallowed it as glibly as if you were a regular glutton. Then, besides all this, you made an intolerable noise, shuffling with your feet under the table, for which Trufaldin, who received two lusty kicks, twice punished a couple of innocent dogs, who would have growled at you if they dared; and yet, in spite of all this, you say you behaved finely! For my part I sat upon thorns all the time; notwithstanding the cold, I feel even now in a perspiration. I hung over you just as a bowler does over his bowl after he has thrown it, and thought to restrain your actions by contorting my body ever so many times. LEL. Lack-a day! how easy it is for you to condemn things of which you do not feel the enchanting cause. In order to humour you for once I have, nevertheless, a good mind to put a restraint upon that love which sways me. Henceforth... SCENE VI.--TRUFALDIN, LELIO, MASCARILLE. MASC. We were speaking about your son's adventures. TRUF. (_To Lelio_). You did quite right. Will you do me the favour of letting me have one word in private with him? LEL. I should be very rude if I did not. (_Lelio goes into Trufaldin's House_). SCENE VII.--TRUFALDIN, MASCARILLE. TRUF. Hark ye! do you know what I have just been doing? MASC. No, but if you think it proper, I shall certainly not remain long in ignorance. TRUF. I have just now cut off from a large and sturdy oak, of about two hundred years old, an admirable branch, selected on purpose, of tolerable thickness, of which immediately, upon the spot, I made a cudgel, about ... yes, of this size (_showing his arm_); not so thick at one end as at the other, but fitter, I imagine, than thirty switches to belabour the shoulders withal; for it is well poised, green, knotty, and heavy. MASC. But, pray, for whom is all this preparation? TRUF. For yourself, first of all; then, secondly, for that fellow, who wishes to palm one person upon me, and trick me out of another; for this Armenian, this merchant in disguise, introduced by a lying and pretended story. MASC. What! you do not believe...? TRUF. Do not try to find an excuse; he himself, fortunately, discovered his own stratagem, by telling Celia, whilst he squeezed her hand at the same time, that it was for her sake alone he came disguised in this manner. He did not perceive Jeannette, my little god-daughter, who overheard every word he said. Though your name was not mentioned, I do not doubt but you are a cursed accomplice in all this. MASC. Indeed, you wrong me. If you are really deceived, believe me I was the first imposed upon with his story. TRUF. Would you convince me you speak the truth? Assist me in giving him a sound drubbing, and in driving him away; let us give it the rascal well, and then I will acquit you of all participation in this piece of rascality. MASC. Ay, ay, with all my soul. I will dust his jacket for him so soundly, that you shall see I had no hand in this matter. (_Aside_). Ah! you shall have a good licking, Mister Armenian, who always spoil everything. SCENE VIII.--LELIO, TRUFALDIN, MASCARILLE. TRUF. (_Knocks at his door, and then addresses Lelio_). A word with you, if you please. So, Mr. Cheat, you have the assurance to fool a respectable man, and make game of him? MASC. To pretend to have seen his son abroad, in order to get the more easily into his house! TRUF. (_Beating Lelio_). Go away, go away immediately. LEL. (_To Mascarille, who beats him likewise_). Oh! you scoundrel! MASC. It is thus that rogues... LEL. Villain! MASC. Are served here. Keep that for my sake! LEL. What? Is a gentleman...? MASC. (_Beating him and driving him off). March off, begone, I tell you, or I shall break all the bones in your body. TRUF. I am delighted with this; come in, I am satisfied. (_Mascarille follows Trufaldin into his house_). LEL. (_Returning_). This to me! To be thus affronted by a servant! Could I have thought the wretch would have dared thus to ill-treat his master? MASC. (_From Trufaldin's window_). May I take the liberty to ask how your shoulders are? LEL. What! Have you the impudence still to address me? MASC. Now see what it is not to have perceived Jeannette, and to have always a blabbing tongue in your head! However, this time I am not angry with you, I have done cursing and swearing at you; though you behaved very imprudently, yet my hand has made your shoulders pay for your fault. LEL. Ha! I shall be revenged on you for your treacherous behaviour. MASC. You yourself were the cause of all this mischief. LEL. I? MASC. If you had had a grain of sense when you were talking to your idol you would have perceived Jeannette at your heels, whose sharp ears overheard the whole affair. LEL. Could anybody possibly catch one word I spoke to Celia? MASC. And what else was the cause why you were suddenly turned out of doors? Yes, you are shut out by your own tittle-tattle. I do not know whether you play often at piquet, but you at least throw your cards away in an admirable manner. LEL. Oh! I am the most unhappy of all men. But why did you drive me away also? MASC. I never did better than in acting thus. By these means, at least, I prevent all suspicion of my being the inventor or an accomplice of this stratagem. LEL. But you should have laid it on more gently. MASC. I was no such fool! Trufaldin watched me most narrowly; besides, I must tell you, under the pretence of being of use to you, I was not at all displeased to vent my spleen. However, the thing is done, and if you will give me your word of honour, never, directly or indirectly, to be revenged on me for the blows on the back I so heartily gave you, I promise you, by the help of my present station, to satisfy your wishes within these two nights. LEL. Though you have treated me very harshly, yet what would not such a promise prevail upon me to do? MASC. You promise, then? LEL. Yes, I do. MASC. But that is not all; promise never to meddle in anything I take in hand. LEL. I do. MASC. If you break your word may you get the cold shivers! LEL. Then keep it with me, and do not forget my uneasiness. MASC. Go and change your dress, and rub something on your back. LEL. (_Alone_). Will ill-luck always follow me, and heap upon me one misfortune after another? MASC. (_Coming out of Trufaldin's house_). What! Not gone yet? Hence immediately; but, above all, be sure you don't trouble your head about any thing. Be satisfied, that I am on your side; do not make the least attempt to assist me; remain quiet. LEL. (_Going_). Yes, to be sure, I will remain quiet. MASC. (_Alone_). Now let me see what course I am to steer. SCENE IX.--ERGASTE, MASCARILLE. ERG. Mascarille, I come to tell you a piece of news, which will give a cruel blow to your projects. At the very moment I am talking to you, a young gipsy, who nevertheless is no black, and looks like a gentleman, has arrived with a very wan-looking old woman, and is to call upon Trufaldin to purchase the slave you wished to redeem. He seems to be very anxious to get possession of her. MASC. Doubtless it is the lover Celia spoke about. Were ever fortunes so tangled as ours? No sooner have we got rid of one trouble than we fall into another. In vain do we hear that Leander intends to abandon his pursuit, and to give us no further trouble; that the unexpected arrival of his father has turned the scales in favour of Hippolyta; that the old gentleman has employed his parental authority to make a thorough change, and that the marriage contract is going to be signed this very day; as soon as one rival withdraws, another and a more dangerous one starts up to destroy what little hope there was left. However, by a wonderful stratagem, I believe I shall be able to delay their departure and gain what time I want to put the finishing stroke to this famous affair. A great robbery has lately been committed, by whom, nobody knows. These gipsies have not generally the reputation of being very honest; upon this slight suspicion, I will cleverly get the fellow imprisoned for a few days. I know some officers of justice, open to a bribe, who will not hesitate on such an occasion; greedy and expecting some present, there is nothing they will not attempt with their eyes shut; be the accused ever so innocent, the purse is always criminal, and must pay for the offence. ACT V. SCENE I.--MASCARILLE, ERGASTE. MASC. Ah blockhead! numskull! idiot! Will you never leave off persecuting me? ERG. The constable took great care everything was going on smoothly; the fellow would have been in jail, had not your master come up that very moment, and, like a madman spoiled your plot. "I cannot suffer," says he in a loud voice, "that a respectable man should be dragged to prison in this disgraceful manner; I will be responsible for him, from his very looks, and will be his bail." And as they refused to let him go, he immediately and so vigorously attacked the officers, who are a kind of people much afraid of their carcasses, that, even at this very moment, they are running, and every man thinks he has got a Lelio at his heels. MASC. The fool does not know that this gipsy is in the house already to carry off his treasure. ERG. Good-bye, business obliges me to leave you. SCENE II.--MASCARILLE, _alone_. Yes, this last marvellous accident quite stuns me. One would think, and I have no doubt of it, that this bungling devil which possesses Lelio takes delight in defying me, and leads him into every place where his presence can do mischief. Yet I shall go on, and notwithstanding all these buffets of fortune, try who will carry the day. Celia has no aversion to him, and looks upon her departure with great regret. I must endeavour to improve this opportunity. But here they come; let me consider how I shall execute my plan. Yonder furnished house is at my disposal, and I can do what I like with it; if fortune but favours us, all will go well; nobody lives there but myself, and I keep the key. Good Heavens! what a great many adventures have befallen us in so short a time, and what numerous disguises a rogue is obliged to put on. SCENE III.--CELIA, ANDRÈS. AND. You know it, Celia, I have left nothing undone to prove the depth of my passion. When I was but very young, my courage in the wars gained me some consideration among the Venetians, and one time or other, and without having too great an opinion of myself, I might, had I continued in their service, have risen to some employment of distinction; but, for your sake, I abandoned everything; the sudden change you produced in my heart, was quickly followed by your lover joining the gipsies. Neither a great many adventures nor your indifference have been able to make me abandon my pursuit. Since that time, being by an accident separated from you much longer than I could have foreseen, I spared neither time nor pains to meet with you again. At last I discovered the old gipsy-woman, and heard from her that for a certain sum of money, which was then of great consequence to the gipsies, and prevented the dissolution of the whole band, you were left in pledge in this neighbourhood. Full of impatience, I flew hither immediately to break these mercenary chains, and to receive from you whatever commands you might be pleased to give. But, when I thought to see joy sparkle in your eyes, I find you pensive and melancholy; if quietness has charms for you, I have sufficient means at Venice, of the spoils taken in war, for us both to live there; but if I must still follow you as before, I will do so, and my heart shall have no other ambition than to serve you in whatever manner you please. CEL. You openly display your affection for me. I should be ungrateful not to be sensible of it. Besides, just now, my countenance does not bear the impress of the feelings of my heart; my looks show that I have a violent headache. If I have the least influence over you, you will delay our voyage for at least three or four days, until my indisposition has passed away. AND. I shall stay as long as you like; I only wish to please you; let us look for a house where you may be comfortable. Ho! here is a bill up just at the right time. SCENE IV.--CELIA, ANDRÈS, MASCARILLE, _disguised as a Swiss_. AND. Monsieur Swiss, are you the master of the house? MASC. I am at your service. [Footnote: In the original, Mascarille speaks a kind of gibberish, which is only amusing when the play is acted; but it can serve no purpose to translate "_moi, pour serfir a fous_," "_Oui, moi pour d'estrancher chappon champre garni, mais che non point locher te gent te mechant vi_," etc., by "me be at your serfice," "yes. me have de very goot shambers, ready furnish for stranger, but me no loge de people scandaluse," etc. A provincial pronunciation, an Irish brogue, or a Scotch tongue, are no equivalent for this mock Swiss German-French.] AND. Can we lodge here? MASC. Yes, I let furnished lodgings to strangers, but only to respectable people. AND. I suppose your house has a very good reputation? MASC. I see by your face you are a stranger in this town. AND. I am. MASC. Are you the husband of this lady? AND. Sir? MASC. Is she your wife or your sister? AND. Neither. MASC. Upon my word, she is very pretty! Do you come on business, or have you a lawsuit going on before the court? A lawsuit is a very bad thing, it costs so much money; a solicitor is a thief, and a barrister a rogue. AND. I do not come for either of these. MASC. You have brought this young lady then to walk about and to see the town? AND. What is that to you? (_To Celia_). I shall be with you again in one moment; I am going to fetch the old woman presently, and tell them not to send the travelling-carriage which was ready. MASC. Is the lady not quite well? AND. She has a headache. MASC. I have some good wine and cheese within; walk in, go into my small house. (_Celia, Andrès and Mascarille go into the house_). SCENE V.--LELIO, _alone_. However impatient and excited I may feel, yet I have pledged my word to do nothing but wait quietly, to let another work for me, and to see, without daring to stir, in what manner Heaven will change my destiny. SCENE VI.--ANDRÈS, LELIO. LEL. (_Addressing Andrès, who is coming out of the house_). Do you want to see anybody in this house? AND. I have just taken some furnished apartments there. LEL. The house belongs to my father, and my servant sleeps there every night to take care of it. AND. I know nothing of that; the bill, at least, shows it is to be let; read it. LEL. Truly this surprises me, I confess. Who the deuce can have put that bill up, and why...? Ho, faith, I can guess, pretty near, what it means; this cannot possibly proceed but from the quarter I surmise. AND. May I ask what affair this may be? LEL. I would keep it carefully from anybody else, but it can be of no consequence to you, and you will not mention it to any one. Without doubt, that bill can be nothing else but an invention of the servant I spoke of; nothing but some cunning plot he has hatched to place into my hands a certain gipsy girl, with whom I am smitten, and of whom I wish to obtain possession. I have already attempted this several times, but until now in vain. AND. What is her name? LEL. Celia. AND. What do you say? Had you but mentioned this, no doubt I should have saved you all the trouble this project costs you. LEL. How so? Do you know her? AND. It is I who just now bought her from her master. LEL. You surprise me! AND. As the state of her health did not allow her to leave this town, I just took these apartments for her; and I am very glad that on this occasion you have acquainted me with your intentions. LEL. What! shall I obtain the happiness I hope for by your means? Could you...? AND. (_Knocks at the door_). You shall be satisfied immediately. LEL. What can I say to you? And what thanks...? AND. No, give me none; I will have none. SCENE VII.--LELIO, ANDRÈS, MASCARILLE. MASC. (_Aside_). Hallo! Is this not my mad-cap master? He will make another blunder. LEL. Who would have known him in this grotesque dress? Come hither, Mascarille, you are welcome. MASC. I am a man of honour; I am not Mascarille, I never debauched any married or unmarried woman. [Footnote: Mascarille answers in his gibberish, "Moi non point _Masquerille_," an allusion to _maquerelle_ a female pander; hence his further remarks.] LEL. What funny gibberish! It is really very good! MASC. Go about your business, and do not laugh at me. LEL. You can take off your dress; recognise your master. MASC. Upon my word! by all the saints, I never knew you! LEL. Everything is settled, disguise yourself no longer. MASC. If you do not go away I will give you a slap in the face. LEL. Your Swiss jargon is needless, I tell you, for we are agreed, and his generosity lays me under an obligation. I have all I can wish for; you have no reason to be under any farther apprehension. MASC. If you are agreed, by great good luck, I will no longer play the Swiss, and become myself again. AND. This valet of yours serves you with much zeal; stay a little; I will return presently. SCENE VIII.--LELIO, MASCARILLE. LEL. Well, what do you say now? MASC. That I am delighted to see our labours crowned with success. LEL. You were hesitating to doff your disguise, and could hardly believe me. MASC. As I know you I was rather afraid, and still find the adventure very astonishing. LEL. But confess, however, that I have done great things--at least I have now made amends for all my blunders--mine will be the honour of having finished the work. MASC. Be it so; you have been much more lucky than wise. SCENE IX.--CELIA, ANDRÈS, LELIO, MASCARILLE. AND. Is not this the lady you were speaking of to me? LEL. Heavens! what happiness can be equal to mine! AND. It is true; I am indebted to you for the kindness you have shown me; I should be much to blame if I did not acknowledge it; but this kindness would be too dearly bought were I to repay it at the expense of my heart. Judge, by the rapture her beauty causes me, whether I ought to discharge my debt to you at such a price. You are generous, and would not have me act thus. Farewell. Let us return whence we came, and stay there for a few days. (_He leads Celia away_). SCENE X.--LELIO, MASCARILLE. MASC. I am laughing, and yet I have little inclination to it. You two are quite of the same mind; he gives Celia to you. Hem! ... You understand me, sir? LEL. This is too much. I am determined no longer to ask you to assist me; it is useless; I am a puppy, a wretch, a detestable blockhead, not worthy of any one taking any trouble for me, incapable of doing anything. Abandon all endeavours to aid an unfortunate wretch, who will not allow himself to be made happy; after so many misfortunes, after all my imprudent actions, death alone should aid me. SCENE XI.--MASCARILLE, _alone_. That is the true way of putting the finishing stroke to his fate; he wants nothing now but to die, to crown all his follies. But in vain his indignation, for all the faults he has committed urges him to renounce my aid and my support. I intend, happen what will, to serve him in spite of himself, and vanquish the very devil that possesses him. The greater the obstacle, the greater the glory; and the difficulties which beset us are but a kind of tire-women who deck and adorn virtue. SCENE XII.--CELIA, MASCARILLE. CELIA. (_To Mascarille, who has been whispering to her_). Whatever you may say, and whatever they intend doing, I have no great expectation from this delay. What we have seen hitherto may indeed convince us that they are not as yet likely to agree. I have already told you that a heart like mine will not for the sake of one do an injustice to another, and that I find myself strongly attached to both, though by different ties. If Lelio has love and its power on his side, Andrès has gratitude pleading for him, which will not permit even my most secret thoughts ever to harbour anything against his interests. Yes; if he has no longer a place in my heart, if the gift of my hand must not crown his love, I ought at least to reward that which he has done for me, by not choosing another, in contempt of his flame, and suppress my own inclinations in the same manner as I do his. You have heard the difficulties which duty throws in my way, and you can judge now whether your expectations will be realized. MASC. To speak the truth, they are very formidable obstacles in our way, and I have not the knack of working miracles; but I will do my utmost, move Heaven and earth, leave no stone unturned to try and discover some happy expedient. I shall soon let you know what can be done. SCENE XIII.--HIPPOLYTA, CELIA. HIPP. Ever since you came among us, the ladies of this neighbourhood may well complain of the havoc caused by your eyes, since you deprive them of the greatest part of their conquests, and make all their lovers faithless. There is not a heart which can escape the darts with which you pierce them as soon as they see you; many thousands load themselves with your chains, and seem to enrich you daily at our expense. However, as regards myself, I should make no complaints of the irresistible sway of your exquisite charms, had they left me one of all my lovers to console me for the loss of the others; but it is inhuman in you that without mercy you deprive me of all; I cannot forbear complaining to you. CEL. You rally in a charming manner, but I beseech you to spare me a little. Those eyes, those very eyes of yours, know their own power too well ever to dread anything that I am able to do; they are too conscious of their own charms, and will never entertain similar feelings of fear. HIPP. Yet I advance nothing in what I have said which has not already entered the mind of every one, and without mentioning anything else, it is well known that Celia has made a deep impression on Leander and on Lelio. CEL. I believe you will easily console yourself about their loss, since they have become so infatuated; nor can you regret a lover who could make so ill a choice. HIPP. On the contrary, I am of quite a different opinion, and discover such great merits in your beauty, and see in it so many reasons sufficient to excuse the inconstancy of those who allow themselves to be attracted by it, that I cannot blame Leander for having changed his love and broken his plighted troth. In a short time, and without either hatred or anger, I shall see him again brought under my sway, when his father shall have exercised his authority. SCENE XIV.--CELIA, HIPPOLYTA, MASCARILLE. MASC. Great news! great news! a wonderful event which I am now going to tell you! CEL. What means this? MASC. Listen. This is, without any compliments... CEL. What? MASC. The last scene of a true and genuine comedy. The old gipsy-woman was, but this very moment... CEL. Well? MASC. Crossing the market-place, thinking about nothing at all, when another old woman, very haggard-looking, after having closely stared at her for some time, hoarsely broke out in a torrent of abusive language, and thus gave the signal for a furious combat, in which, instead of swords, muskets, daggers, or arrows, nothing was seen but four withered paws, brandished in the air, with which these two combatants endeavoured to tear off the little flesh old age had left on their bones. Not a word was heard but drab, wretch, trull. Their caps, to begin with, were flying about, and left a couple of bald pates exposed to view, which rendered the battle ridiculously horrible. At the noise and hubbub, Andrès and Trufaldin, as well as many others, ran to see what was the matter, and had much ado to part them, so excited were they by passion. Meanwhile each of them, when the storm was abated, endeavoured to hide her head with shame. Everybody wished to know the cause of this ridiculous fray. She who first began it having, notwithstanding the warmth of her passion, looked for some time at Trufaldin, said in a loud voice,--"It is you, unless my sight misgives me, who, I was informed, lived privately in this town; most happy meeting! Yes, Signor Zanobio Ruberti, fortune made me find you out at the very moment I was giving myself so much trouble for your sake. When you left your family at Naples, your daughter, as you know, remained under my care. I brought her up from her youth. When she was only four years old she showed already in a thousand different ways what charms and beauty she would have. That woman you see there--that infamous hag--who had become rather intimate with us, robbed me of that treasure. Your good lady, alas! felt so much grief at this misfortune, that, as I have reason to believe it shortened her days; so that, fearing your severe reproaches because your daughter had been stolen from me, I sent you word that both were dead; but now, as I have found out the thief, she must tell us what has become of your child." At the name of Zanobio Ruberti, which she repeated several times throughout the story, Andrès, after changing colour often, addressed to the surprised Trufaldin these words: "What! has Heaven most happily brought me to him whom I have hitherto sought in vain! Can I possibly have beheld my father, the author of my being, without knowing him? Yes, father, I am Horatio, your son; my tutor, Albert, having died, I felt anew certain uneasiness in my mind, left Bologna, and abandoning my studies, wandered about for six years in different places, according as my curiosity led me. However, after the expiration of that time, a secret impulse drove me to revisit my kindred and my native country; but in Naples, alas! I could no longer find you, and could only hear vague reports concerning you; so that having in vain tried to meet with you, I ceased to roam about idly, and stopped for a while in Venice. From that time to this I have lived without receiving any other information about my family, except knowing its name." You may judge whether Trufaldin was not more than ordinarily moved all this while; in one word (to tell you shortly that which you will have an opportunity of learning afterwards more at your leisure, from the confession of the old gipsy-woman), Trufaldin owns you (_to Celia_) now for his daughter; Andrès is your brother; and as he can no longer think of marrying his sister, and as he acknowledges he is under some obligation to my master, Lelio, he has obtained for him your hand. Pandolphus being present at this discovery, gives his full consent to the marriage; and to complete the happiness of the family, proposes that the newly-found Horatio should marry his daughter. See how many incidents are produced at one and the same time! CEL. Such tidings perfectly amaze me. MASC. The whole company follow me, except the two female champions, who are adjusting their toilet after the fray. Leander and your father are also coming. I shall go and inform my master of this, and let him know that when we thought obstacles were increasing, Heaven almost wrought a miracle in his favour. (_Exit Mascarille_). HIPP. This fortunate event fills me with as much as joy as if it were my own case. But here they come. SCENE XV.--TRUFALDIN, ANSELMO, ANDRÈS, CELIA, HIPPOLYTA, LEANDER. TRUF. My child! CEL. Father! TRUF. Do you already know how Heaven has blest us? CEL. I have just now heard this wonderful event. HIPP. (_To Leander_). You need not find excuses for your past infidelity. The cause of it, which I have before my eyes, is a sufficient excuse. LEAND. I crave nothing but a generous pardon. I call Heaven to witness that, though I return to my duty suddenly, my father's authority has influenced me less than my own inclination. AND. (_To Celia_). Who could ever have supposed that so chaste a love would one day be condemned by nature? However, honour swayed it always so much, that with a little alteration it may still continue. CEL. As for me, I blamed myself, and thought I was wrong, because I felt nothing but a very sincere esteem for you. I could not tell what powerful obstacle stopped me in a path so agreeable and so dangerous, and diverted my heart from acknowledging a love which my senses endeavoured to communicate to my soul. TRUF. (_To Celia_). But what would you say of me if, as soon as I have found you, I should be thinking of parting with you? I promised your hand to this gentleman's son. CEL. I know no will but yours. SCENE XVI.--TRUFALDIN, ANSELMO, PANDOLPHUS, CELIA, HIPPOLYTA, LELIO, LEANDER, ANDRÈS, MASCARILLE. MASC. Now, let us see whether this devil of yours will have the power to destroy so solid a foundation as this; and whether your inventive powers will again strive against this great good luck that befalls you. Through a most unexpected favourable turn of fortune your desires are crowned with success, and Celia is yours. LEL. Am I to believe that the omnipotence of Heaven...? TRUF. Yes, son-in-law, it is really so. PAND. The matter is settled. AND. (_To Lelio_). By this I repay the obligation you lay me under. LEL. (_To Mascarille_). I must embrace you ever so many times in this great joy... MASC. Oh! oh! gently, I beseech you; he has almost choked me. I am very much afraid for Celia if you embrace her so forcibly. One can do very well without such proofs of affection. TRUF. (_To Lelio_). You know the happiness with which Heaven has blessed me; but since the same day has caused us all to rejoice, let us not part until it is ended, and let Leander's father also be sent for quickly. MASC. You are all provided for. Is there not some girl who might suit poor Mascarille? As I see, every Jack has his Gill, I also want to be married. ANS. I have a wife for you. MASC. Let us go, then; and may propitious Heaven give us children, whose fathers we really are. 
6681	----	SGANARELLE; OU, LE COCU IMAGINAIRE COMÉDIE EN UN ACTE. * * * * * SGANARELLE: OR THE SELF-DECEIVED HUSBAND. A COMEDY IN ONE ACT. (_THE ORIGINAL IN VERSE_.) 28TH MAY, 1660. INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. Six months after the brilliant success of the _Précieuses Ridicules_, Molière brought out at the Théâtre du Petit-Bourbon a new comedy, called _Sganarelle, ou le Cocu Imaginaire_, which I have translated by _Sganarelle, or the self-deceived Husband_. It has been said that Molière owed the first idea of this piece to an Italian farce, _Il Ritratto ovvero Arlichino cornuto per opinione_, but, as it has never been printed, it is difficult to decide at the present time whether or not this be true. The primary idea of the play is common to many _commedia dell' arte_, whilst Molière has also been inspired by such old authors as Noël Du Fail, Rabelais, those of the _Quinze joyes de Mariage_, of the _Cent nouvelles Nouvelles_, and perhaps others. The plot of _Sganarelle_ is ingenious and plausible; every trifle becomes circumstantial evidence, and is received as conclusive proof both by the husband and wife. The dialogue is sprightly throughout, and the anxious desire of Sganarelle to kill his supposed injurer, whilst his cowardice prevents him from executing his valorous design, is extremely ludicrous. The chief aim of our author appears to have been to show how dangerous it is to judge with too much haste, especially in those circumstances where passion may either augment or diminish the view we take of certain objects. This truth, animated by a great deal of humour and wit, drew crowds of spectators for forty nights, though the play was brought out in summer and the marriage of the young king kept the court from Paris. The style is totally different from that employed in the _Précieuses Ridicules_, and is a real and very good specimen of the _style gaulois_ adapted to the age in which Molière lived. He has often been blamed for not having followed up his success of the _Précieuses Ridicules_ by a comedy in the same style, but Molière did not want to make fresh enemies. It appears to have been a regular and set purpose with him always to produce something farcical after a creation which provoked either secret or open hostility, or even violent opposition. Sganarelle appears in this piece for the first time, if we except the farce, or rather sketch, of the _Médecin volant_, where in reality nothing is developed, but everything is in mere outline. But in Sganarelle Molière has created a character that is his own just as much as Falstaff belongs to Shakespeare, Sancho Panza to Cervantes, or Panurge to Rabelais. Whether Sganarelle is a servant, a husband, the father of Lucinde, the brother of Ariste, a guardian, a faggot-maker, a doctor, he always represents the ugly side of human nature, an antiquated, grumpy, sullen, egotistical, jealous, grovelling, frightened character, ever and anon raising a laugh on account of his boasting, mean, morose, odd qualities. Molière was, at the time he wrote _Sganarelle_, more than thirty years old, and could therefore no longer successfully represent Mascarille as the rollicking servant of the _Blunderer_. This farce was published by a certain Mr. Neufvillenaine, who was so smitten by it that, after having seen it represented several times, he knew it by heart, wrote it out, and published it, accompanied by a running commentary, which is not worth much, and preceded by a letter to a friend in which he extols its beauties. Molière got, in 1663, his name inserted, instead of that of Neufvillenaine, in the _privilége du roi_. Mr. Henry Baker, the translator of this play, in the "Select Comedies of M. de Molière, London, 1732," oddly dedicates it to Miss Wolstenholme [Footnote: I suppose the lady was a descendant of Sir John Wolstenholme, mentioned in one of the notes of Pepy's Diary, Sept. 5, 1662, as created a baronet, 1664, an intimate friend of Lord Clarendon's, and collector outward for the Port of London--ob. 1679.] in the following words:-- MADAM, Be so good to accept this little Present as an Instance of my high Esteem. Whoever has any Knowledge of the French Language, or any Taste for COMEDY, must needs distinguish the Excellency of _Moliére's_ Plays: one of which is here translated. What the _English_ may be, I leave others to determine; but the ORIGINAL, which you receive along with it, is, I am certain, worthy your Perusal. Tho' what You read, at present, is called a DEDICATION, it is, perhaps, the most unlike one of any thing You ever saw: for, You'll find not one Word, in Praise, either of Your blooming Youth, Your agreeable Person, Your genteel Behaviour, Your easy Temper, or Your good Sense... and, the Reason is, that I cannot for my Life bring myself to such a Degree of Impertinence, as to sit down with a solemn Countenance, and Take upon me to inform the World, that the Sun is bright, and that the Spring is lovely. My Knowledge of You from Your Infancy, and the many Civilities I am obliged for to Your Family, will, I hope, be an Excuse for this Presumption in, MADAM, _Your most obedient humble servant_ H. B. Enfield, Jan. 1st 1731-2. This play seems to have induced several English playwrights to imitate it. First, we have Sir William D'Avenant's _The Playhouse to be Let_, of which the date of the first performance is uncertain. According to the Biographia Britannica, it was "a very singular entertainment, composed of five acts, each being a distinct performance. The first act is introductory, shows the distress of the players in the time of vacation, that obliges them to let their house, which several offer to take for different purposes; amongst the rest a Frenchman, who had brought over a troop of his countrymen to act a farce. This is performed in the second act, which is a translation of Moliére's _Sganarelle, or the Cuckold Conceit_; all in broken French to make the people laugh. The third act is a sort of comic opera, under the title of The History of Sir Francis Drake. The fourth act is a serious opera, representing the cruelties of the Spaniards in Peru. The fifth act is a burlesque in Heroicks on the Amours of Cæsar and Cleopatra, has a great deal of wit and humour, and was often acted afterwards by itself." With the exception of the first act, all the others, which are separate and distinct, but short dramatic pieces, were written in the time of Oliver Cromwell, and two of them at least were performed at the Cockpit, when Sir William D'Avenant had obtained permission to present his entertainments of music and perspective in scenes. The second imitation of _Sganarelle_ is "_Tom Essence, or the Modish Wife_, a Comedy as it is acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1677. London, printed by T. M. for W. Cademan, at the _Pope's Head_, in the Lower Walk of the _New Exchange_ in the _Strand_, 1677." This play is written by a Mr. Thomas Rawlins, printer and engraver to the Mint, under Charles the First and Second, and is founded on two French comedies---viz., Molière's _Sganarelle_, and Thomas Corneille's _Don César d' Avalos_. The prologue is too bad to be quoted, and I doubt if it can ever have been spoken on any stage. This play is written partly in blank verse, partly in prose; though very coarse, it is, on the whole, clever and witty. Old Moneylove, a credulous fool, who has a young wife (Act ii., Scene I), reminds one at times of the senator Antonio in Otway's _Venice Preserved_, and is, of course, deceived by the gallant Stanley; the sayings and doings of Mrs. Moneylove, who is "what she ought not to be," and the way she tricks her husband, are very racy, perhaps too much so for the taste of the present times. I do not think any dramatist would now bring upon the stage a young lady like Theodocia, daughter of old Moneylove, reading the list about Squire Careless. Tom Essence is a seller of perfumes, a "jealous coxcomb of his wife;" and Courtly is "a sober gentleman, servant to Theodocia;" these are imitations of Sganarelle and Lelio. Loveall, "a wilde debaucht blade," and Mrs. Luce, "a widdow disguis'd, and passes for Theodocia's maid," are taken from Corneille. In the epilogue, the whole of which cannot be given, Mrs. Essence speaks the following lines: "But now methinks a Cloak-Cabal I see, Whose Prick-ears glow, whilst they their Jealousie In _Essence_ find; but Citty-Sirs, I fear, Most of you have more cause to be severe. We yield you are the truest Character." Nearly all the scenes imitated in this play from Molière's _Sganarelle_ contain nothing which merits to be reproduced. _The Perplexed Couple, or Mistake upon Mistake_, as it is acted at the New Theatre in Lincolns-Inn-Fields, by the Company of Comedians, acting under Letters Patent granted by King Charles the Second. London, Printed for _W. Meares_ at the _Lamb_, and _F. Brown_, at the _Black Swan_ without _Temple Bar_, 1715, is the third imitation of Molière's _Sganarelle_. This comedy, printed for two gentlemen, with zoological signs, was written by a Mr. Charles Molloy, who for a long time was the editor of a well-known paper, _Common Sense_, in defence of Tory principles. This play had little success, and deserved to have had none, for it has no merit whatever. Our author states in the prologue:-- "The injur'd Muses, who with savage Rage, Of late have often been expell'd a Tyrant Stage, Here fly for Refuge; where, secure from Harms, By you protected, shall display their Charms... No Jest profane the guilty scene deforms, That impious way of being dull he scorns; No Party Cant shall here inflame the Mind, And poison what for Pleasure was designed." Mr. Molloy admits in the preface that "the Incident of the Picture in the Third act, something in the Fourth, and one Hint in the last Act, are taken from the _Cocu Imaginaire_; the rest I'm forced to subscribe to myself, for I can lay it to no Body else." I shall only remark on this, that nearly the whole play is a mere paraphrasing of Molière's _Cocu Imaginaire_, and several other of his plays. The scene between Leonora, the heroine, and Sterling, the old usurer and lover (Act I.), is imitated from Madelon's description in the art of making love in the _Pretentious Young Ladies_, and so are many others. The servant Crispin is a medley of Mascarille from _The Blunderer_, of Gros-René from _The Love-Tiff_, and of the servant of the same name in the _Cocu Imaginaire_; the interfering uncle of Lady Thinwit, is taken from _George Dandin_, whilst Sir Anthony Tainwit becomes Sganarelle. The only thing new I have been able to discover in _The Perplexed Couple_ is the lover Octavio disguising himself as a pedlar to gain admittance to the object of his love; and old Sterling, the usurer, marrying the maid instead of the mistress. Molière's farce has been lengthened by those means into a five-act comedy, and though "no jest profane" may be found in it it is more full than usual of coarse and lewd sayings, which can hardly be called inuendoes. The play is a mistake altogether; perhaps that is the reason, its second name is called _Mistake upon Mistake_. _The Picture, or the Cuckold in Conceit_, a Comedy in one act, by Js. Miller, is founded on Molière, and is the fourth imitation of _Sganarelle_. London, MDCCXLV. This play is, on the whole, a free translation of Molière's, interspersed with some songs set to music by Dr. Arne. Sganarelle is called Mr. Timothy Dotterel, grocer and common councilman; Gorgibus, Mr. Per-cent; Lelio, Mr. Heartly; Gros-René, John Broad, whilst Celia's maid is called Phillis. The Prologue, spoken by Mr. Havard, ends thus: "...To-night we serve A Cuckold, that the Laugh does well deserve; A Cuckold in Conceit, by Fancy made As mad, as by the common Course of Trade: And more to please ye, and his Worth enhance, He's carbonado'd a la mode de France; Cook'd by Molière, great Master of his Trade, From whose Receipt this Harrico was made. But if that poignant Taste we fail to take, That something, that a mere Receipt can't make; Forgive the Failure--we're but Copies all, And want the Spirit of th' Original." The fifth and best imitation is Arthur Murphy's _All in the Wrong_, a comedy in five acts, first performed during the summer season of 1761, at the Theatre Royal, in Drury Lane. Though the chief idea and several of the scenes are taken from _Sganarelle_, yet the characters are well drawn, and the play, as a whole, very entertaining. The Prologue, written and spoken by Samuel Foote, is as follows: "To-night, be it known to Box, Gall'ry, and Pit, Will be open'd the best Summer-Warehouse for Wit; [Footnote: Mr. Garrick, at this time, had let his playhouse for the summer months.] The New Manufacture, Foote and Co., Undertakers; Play, Pantomime, Opera, Farce,--by the Makers! We scorn, like our brethren, our fortunes to owe To Shakespeare and Southern, to Otway and Rowe. Though our judgment may err, yet our justice is shewn, For we promise to mangle no works but our own. And moreover on this you may firmly rely, If we can't make you laugh, that we won't make you cry. For Roscius, who knew we were mirth-loving souls, Has lock'd up his lightning, his daggers, and bowls. Resolv'd that in buskins no hero shall stalk, He has shut us quite out of the Tragedy walk. No blood, no blank verse!--and in short we're undone, Unless you're contented with Frolic and Fun. If tired of her round in the Ranelagh-mill, There should be but one female inclined to sit still; If blind to the beauties, or sick of the squall, A party should shun to catch cold at Vauxhall; If at Sadler's sweet Wells the made wine should be thick, The cheese-cakes turn sour, or Miss Wilkinson sick; If the fume of the pipes should oppress you in June, Or the tumblers be lame, or the bells out of tune; I hope you will call at our warehouse in Drury; We've a curious assortment of goods, I assure you; Domestic and foreign, and all kinds of wares; English cloths, Irish linnen, and French petenlairs! If for want of good custom, or losses in trade, The poetical partners should bankrupts be made; If from dealings too large, we plunge deeply in debt, And Whereas issue out in the Muses Gazette; We'll on you our assigns for Certificates call; Though insolvent, we're honest, and give up our all." Otway in his very indecent play, _The Soldier's Fortune_, performed at Dorset Garden, 1681, has borrowed freely from Molière; namely: one scene from _Sganarelle_, four scenes from _The School for Husbands_, and a hint from _The School for Wives_. The joke from _The Pretentious Young Ladies_, Scene xii., page 162, about "the half moon and the full moon" is repeated in the conversation between Fourbin and Bloody-Bones in _The Soldier's Fortune_. Sir John Vanbrugh also translated Molière's _Sganarelle_, which was performed at the Queen's Theatre in the Haymarket, 1706, but has not been printed. There was also a ballad opera played at Drury Lane April 11, 1733, called the _Imaginary Cuckold_, which is an imitation of _Sganarelle_. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ GORGIBUS, _a citizen of Paris_. LELIO, _in love with Celia_. SGANARELLE, _a citizen of Paris and the self-deceived husband_. [Footnote: Molière acted this part himself. In the inventory of his dresses taken after his death, and given by M. Eudore Soulié in his _Recherches sur Molière_, 1863. we find: "a ... dress for the _Cocu imaginaire_, consisting of knee-breeches, doublet, cloak, collar, and shoes, all in crimson red satin."] VILLEBREQUIN, _father to Valère_. GROS-RENÉ, _servant to Lelio_. A RELATIVE OF SGANARELLE'S WIFE. CELIA, _daughter of Gorgibus_. SGANARELLE'S WIFE. CELIA'S MAID. _Scene_.--A PUBLICK PLACE IN PARIS. SGANARELLE: OR THE SELF-DECEIVED HUSBAND, (_SGANARELLE: OU LE COCU IMAGINAIRE_.) SCENE I.--GORGIBUS, CELIA, CELIA'S MAID. CEL. (_Coming out in tears, her father following her_). Ah! never expect my heart to consent to that. GORG. What do you mutter, you little impertinent girl? Do you suppose you can thwart my resolution? Have I not absolute power over you? And shall your youthful brain control my fatherly discretion by foolish arguments? Which of us two has most right to command the other? Which of us two, you or I, is, in your opinion, best able to judge what is advantageous for you? Zounds, do not provoke me too much, or you may feel, and in a very short time too, what strength this arm of mine still possesses! Your shortest way, you obstinate minx, would be to accept without any more ado the husband intended for you; but you say, "I do not know what kind of temper he has, and I ought to think about it beforehand, if you will allow me." I know that he is heir to a large fortune; ought I therefore to trouble my head about anything else? Can this man, who has twenty thousand golden charms in his pocket to be beloved by you, want any accomplishments? Come, come, let him be what he will, I promise you that with such a sum he is a very worthy gentleman! CEL. Alas! GORG. Alas, indeed! What is the meaning of that? A fine alas you have uttered just now! Look ye! If once you put me in a passion you will have plenty of opportunities for shouting alas! This comes of that eagerness of yours to read novels day and night; your head is so full of all kinds of nonsense about love, that you talk of God much less than of Clélie. Throw into the fire all these mischievous books, which are every day corrupting the minds of so many young people; instead of such trumpery, read, as you ought to do, the Quatrains of Pibrac and the learned memorandum-books of Councillor Matthieu, [Footnote: Gui du Faur de Pibrac (1528-1584) was a distinguished diplomatist, magistrate, and orator, who wrote several works, of which the _Cinquante quatrains contenant préceptes et enseignements utiles pour la vie de l'homme, composes à l'imitation de Phocylides, Epicharmus, et autres poétes grecs_, and which number he afterwards increased to 126, are the best known. These quatrains, or couplets of four verses, have been translated into nearly all European and several Eastern languages. A most elegant reprint has been published of them, in 1874, by M. A. Lemetre, of Paris.] [Footnote: Pierre Matthieu (1563--1621), a French historian and poet wrote, among other works, his _Tablettes de la vie et de la mort, quatrains de la Vanité du Monde_, a collection of 274 moral quatrains, divided in three parts, each part of which was published separately in an oblong shape, like a memorandum book; hence the name _Tablettes_.] a valuable work and full of fine sayings for you to learn by heart; the Guide for Sinners [Footnote: _La guide des pécheurs_, the Guide for Sinners, is a translation in French of an ascetic Spanish work, _la guia de pecadores_, written by a Dominican friar, Lewis, of Granada.] is also a good book. Such writings teach people in a short time how to spend their lives well, and if you had never read anything but such moral books you would have known better how to submit to my commands. CEL. Do you suppose, dear father, I can ever forget that unchangeable affection I owe to Lelio? I should be wrong to dispose of my hand against your will, but you yourself engaged me to him. GORG. Even if you were engaged ever so much, another man has made his appearance whose fortune annuls your engagement. Lelio is a pretty fellow, but learn that there is nothing that does not give way to money, that gold will make even the most ugly charming, and that without it everything else is but wretchedness. I believe you are not very fond of Valère, but though you do not like him as a lover, you will like him as a husband. The very name of husband endears a man more than is generally supposed, and love is often a consequence of marriage. But what a fool I am to stand arguing when I possess the absolute right to command. A truce then, I tell you, to your impertinence; let me have no more of your foolish complaints. This evening Valère intends to visit you, and if you do not receive him well, and look kindly upon him, I shall... but I will say no more on this subject. SCENE II.--CELIA, CELIA'S MAID. MAID. What, madam! you refuse positively what so many other people would accept with all their heart! You answer with tears a proposal for marriage, and delay for a long time to say a "yes" so agreeable to hear! Alas! why does some one not wish to marry me? I should not need much entreaty: and so far from thinking it any trouble to say "yes" once, believe me I would very quickly say it a dozen times. Your brother's tutor was quite right when, as we were talking about worldly affairs, he said, "A woman is like the ivy, which grows luxuriantly whilst it clings closely to the tree, but never thrives if it be separated from it." Nothing can be truer, my dear mistress, and I, miserable sinner, have found it out. Heaven rest the soul of my poor Martin! when he was alive my complexion was like a cherub's; I was plump and comely, my eyes sparkled brightly, and I felt happy: now I am doleful. In those pleasant times, which flew away like lightning, I went to bed, in the very depth of winter, without kindling a fire in the room; even airing the sheets appeared then to me ridiculous; but now I shiver even in the dogdays. In short, madam, believe me there is nothing like having a husband at night by one's side, were it only for the pleasure of hearing him say, "God bless you," whenever one may happen to sneeze. CEL. Can you advise me to act so wickedly as to forsake Lelio and take up with this ill-shaped fellow? MAID. Upon my word, your Lelio is a mere fool to stay away the very time he is wanted; his long absence makes me very much suspect some change in his affection. GEL. (_showing her the portrait of Lelio_). Oh! do not distress me by such dire forebodings! Observe carefully the features of his face; they swear to me an eternal affection; after all, I would not willingly believe them to tell a falsehood, but that he is such as he is here limned by art, and that his affection for me remains unchanged. MAID. To be sure, these features denote a deserving lover, whom you are right to regard tenderly. CEL. And yet I must--Ah! support me. (_She lets fall the portrait of Lelio_.) MAID. Madam, what is the cause of... Heavens! she swoons. Oh! make haste! help! help! SCENE III.--CELIA, SGANARELLE, CELIA'S MAID. SGAN. What is the matter? I am here. MAID. My lady is dying. SGAN. What! is that all? You made such a noise, I thought the world was at an end. Let us see, however. Madam, are you dead? Um! she does not say one word. MAID. I shall fetch somebody to carry her in; be kind enough to hold her so long. SCENE IV.--CELIA, SGANARELLE, SGANARELLE'S WIFE. SGAN. (_passing his hand over Celia's bosom_). She is cold all over, and I do not know what to say to it. Let me draw a little nearer and try whether she breathes or not. Upon my word, I cannot tell, but I perceive still some signs of life. SGAN.'S WIFE, (_looking from the window_). Ah! what do I see? My husband, holding in his arms... But I shall go down; he is false to me most certainly; I should be glad to catch him. SGAN. She must be assisted very quickly; she would certainly be in the wrong to die. A journey to another world is very foolish, so long as a body is able to stay in this. (_He carries her in_). SCENE V.--SGANARELLE'S WIFE, _alone_. He has suddenly left this spot; his flight has disappointed my curiosity; but I doubt no longer that he is unfaithful to me; the little I have seen sufficiently proves it. I am no longer astonished that he returns my modest love with strange coldness; the ungrateful wretch reserves his caresses for others, and starves me in order to feed their pleasures. This is the common way of husbands; they become indifferent to what is lawful; at the beginning they do wonders, and seem to be very much in love with us, but the wretches soon grow weary of our fondness, and carry elsewhere what is due to us alone. Oh! how it vexes me that the law will not permit us to change our husband as we do our linen! That would be very convenient; and, troth, I know some women whom it would please as much as myself. (_Taking up the picture which Celia had let fall_). But what a pretty thing has fortune sent me here; the enamel of it is most beautiful, the workmanship delightful; let me open it? SCENE VI.--SGANARELLE, SGANARELLE'S WIFE. SGAN. (_Thinking himself alone_). They thought her dead, but it was nothing at all! She is already recovering and nearly well again. But I see my wife. SGAN.'S WIFE. (_Thinking herself alone_). O Heaven! It is a miniature, a fine picture of a handsome man. SGAN. (_Aside, and looking over his wife's shoulder_). What is this she looks at so closely? This picture bodes my honour little good. A very ugly feeling of jealousy begins to creep over me. SGAN.'S WIFE. (_Not seeing her husband_). I never saw anything more beautiful in my life! The workmanship is even of greater value than the gold! Oh, how sweet it smells! SGAN. (_Aside_). The deuce! She kisses it! I am victimized! SGAN.'S WIFE. (_Continues her Monologue_.) I think it must be a charming thing to have such a fine-looking man for a sweetheart; if he should urge his suit very much the temptation would be great. Alas! why have I not a handsome man like this for my husband instead of my booby, my clod-hopper...? SGAN. (_Snatching the portrait from her_). What, hussey! have I caught you in the very act, slandering your honourable and darling husband? According to you, most worthy spouse, and everything well considered, the husband is not as good as the wife? In Beelzebub's name (and may he fly away with you), what better match could you wish for? Is there any fault to be found with me? It seems that this shape, this air, which everybody admires; this face, so fit to inspire love, for which a thousand fair ones sigh both night and day; in a word, my own delightful self, by no manner of means pleases you. Moreover, to satisfy your ravenous appetite you add to the husband the relish of a gallant. SGAN.'S WIFE. I see plainly the drift of your jocular remarks, though you do not clearly express yourself. You expect by these means... SGAN. Try to impose upon others, not upon me, I pray you. The fact is evident; I have in my hands a convincing proof of the injury I complain of. SGAN.'S WIFE. I am already too angry, and do not wish you to make me more so by any fresh insult. Hark ye, do not imagine that you shall keep this pretty thing; consider... SGAN. I am seriously considering whether I shall break your neck. I wish I had but the original of this portrait in my power as much as I have the copy. SGAN.'S WIFE. Why? SGAN. For nothing at all, dear, sweet object of my love! I am very wrong to speak out; my forehead ought to thank you for many favours received. (_Looking at the portrait of Lelio_). There he is, your darling, the pretty bed-fellow, the wicked incentive of your secret flame, the merry blade with whom... SGAN.'S WIFE. With whom? Go on. SGAN. With whom, I say... I am almost bursting with vexation. [Footnote: The original has: "_j'en creve d'ennuis_." The French word _ennui_, which now only means weariness of mind, signified formerly injury, and the vexation or hatred caused thereby; something like the English word "annoy," as in Shakespeare's Richard III., v. 3: "Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, and wake in joy; Good angels guard thee from the boar's annoy."] SGAN.'S WIFE. What does the drunken sot mean by all this? SGAN. You know but too well, Mrs. Impudence. No one will call me any longer Sganarelle, but every one will give me the title of Signor Cornutus; my honor is gone, but to reward you, who took it from me, I shall at the very least break you an arm or a couple of ribs. SGAN.'S WIFE. How dare you talk to me thus? SGAN. How dare you play me these devilish pranks? SGAN.'S WIFE. What devilish pranks? Say what you mean. SGAN. Oh! It is not worth complaining of. A stag's top-knot on my head is indeed a very pretty ornament for everybody to come and look at. SGAN.'S WIFE. After you have insulted your wife so grossly as to excite her thirst for vengeance, you stupidly imagine you can prevent the effects of it by pretending to be angry? Such insolence was never before known on the like occasion. The offender is the person who begins the quarrel. SGAN. Oh! what a shameless creature! To see the confident behaviour of this woman, would not any one suppose her to be very virtuous? SGAN.'S WIFE. Away, go about your business, wheedle your mistresses, tell them you love them, caress them even, but give me back my picture, and do not make a jest of me. (_She snatches the picture from him and runs away_). SGAN. So you think to escape me; but I shall get hold of it again in spite of you. SCENE VII.--LELIO, GROS-RENÉ. GR.-RE. Here we are at last; but, sir, if I might be so bold, I should like you to tell me one thing. LEL. Well, speak. GR.-RE. Are you possessed by some devil or other, that you do not sink under such fatigues as these? For eight whole days we have been riding long stages, and have not been sparing of whip and spur to urge on confounded screws, whose cursed trot shook us so very much that, for my part, I feel as if every limb was out of joint; without mentioning a worse mishap which troubles me very much in a place I will not mention. And yet, no sooner are you at your journey's end, than you go out well and hearty, without taking rest, or eating the least morsel. LEL. My haste may well be excused, for I am greatly alarmed about the report of Celia's marriage. You know I adore her, and, before everything, I wish to hear if there is any truth in this ominous rumour. GR.-RE. Ay, sir, but a good meal would be of great use to you to discover the truth or falsehood of this report; doubtless you would become thereby much stronger to withstand the strokes of fate. I judge by my own self, for, when I am fasting, the smallest disappointment gets hold of me and pulls me down; but when I have eaten sufficiently my soul can resist anything, and the greatest misfortunes cannot depress it. Believe me, stuff yourself well, and do not be too cautious. To fortify you under whatever misfortune may do, and in order to prevent sorrow from entering your heart, let it float in plenty of wine. [Footnote: This is an imitation of Plautus' _Curculio, or the Forgery_. The Parasite of Phæaedromus, who gave his name to the piece, says (ii. 3):--"I am quite undone. I can hardly see; my mouth is bitter; my teeth are blunted; my jaws are clammy through fasting; with my entrails thus lank with abstinence from food, am I come... Let's cram down something first; the gammon, the udder, and the kernels; these are the foundations for the stomach, with head and roast-beef, a good-sized cup and a capacious pot, that council enough may be forthcoming."] LEL. I cannot eat. GR.-RE. (_Aside_). I can eat very well indeed; If it is not true may I be struck dead! (_Aloud_). For all that, your dinner shall be ready presently. LEL. Hold your tongue, I command you. GR.-RE. How barbarous is that order! LEL. I am not hungry, but uneasy. GR.-RE. And I am hungry and uneasy as well, to see that a foolish love-affair engrosses all your thoughts. [Footnote: Shakespeare, in _The Two Gentlemen of Verona_ (Act ii., Sc. I), has the following: _Speed_. ...Why muse you, sir? 'tis dinner-time. _Val_. I have dined. _Speed_. Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon, love, can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress; be moved, be moved.] LEL. Let me but get some information about my heart's delight, and without troubling me more, go and take your meal if you like. GR.-RE. I never say nay when a master commands. SCENE VIII.--LELIO, _alone_. No, no, my mind is tormented by too many terrors; the father has promised me Celia's hand, and she has given me such proofs of her love that I need not despair. SCENE IX.--SGANARELLE, LELIO. SGAN. (_Not seeing Lelio, and holding the portrait in his hand_). I have got it. I can now at my leisure look at the countenance of the rascal who causes my dishonour. I do not know him at all. LEL. (_Aside_). Heavens! what do I see? If that be my picture, what then must I believe? SGAN. (_Not seeing Lelio_). Ah! poor Sganarelle! your reputation is doomed, and to what a sad fate! Must... (_Perceiving that Lelio observes him he goes to the other side of the stage_). LEL. (_Aside_). This pledge of my love cannot have left the fair hands to which I gave it, without startling my faith in her. SGAN. (_Aside_). People will make fun of me henceforth by holding up their two fingers; songs will be made about me, and every time they will fling in my teeth that scandalous affront, which a wicked wife has printed upon my forehead. LEL. (_Aside_). Do I deceive myself? SGAN. (_Aside_). Oh! Jade! [Footnote: The original is _truande_, which, as well as the masculine _truand_, meant, in old French, a vagabond, a rascal; it is still retained in the English phrase "to play the truant."] were you impudent enough to cuckold me in the flower of my age? The wife too of a husband who may be reckoned handsome! and must be a monkey, a cursed addle-pated fellow... LEL. (_Aside, looking still at the portrait in Sganarelle's hand_). I am not mistaken; it is my very picture. SGAN. (_Turning his back towards him_). This man seems very inquisitive. LEL. (_Aside_). I am very much surprised. SGAN. What would he be at? LEL. (_Aside_). I will speak to him. (_Aloud_). May I... (_Sganarelle goes farther off_). I say, let me have one word with you. SGAN. (_Aside, and moving still farther_). What does he wish to tell me now? LEL. Will you inform me by what accident that picture came into your hands? SGAN. (_Aside_). Why does he wish to know? But I am thinking... (_Looking at Lelio and at the portrait in his hand_). Oh! upon my word, I know the cause of his anxiety; I no longer wonder at his surprise. This is my man, or rather, my wife's man. LEL. Pray, relieve my distracted mind, and tell me how you come by... SGAN. Thank Heaven, I know what disturbs you; this portrait, which causes you some uneasiness, is your very likeness, and was found in the hands of a certain acquaintance of yours; the soft endearments which have passed between that lady and you are no secret to me. I cannot tell whether I have the honour to be known by your gallant lordship in this piece of gallantry; but henceforth, be kind enough to break off an intrigue, which a husband may not approve of; and consider that the holy bonds of wedlock... LEL. What do you say? She from whom you received this pledge... SGAN. Is my wife, and I am her husband. LEL. Her husband? SGAN. Yes, her husband, I tell you. Though married I am far from merry; you, sir, know the reason of it; this very moment I am going to inform her relatives about this affair. [Footnote: The original has _mari-tres-marri_; literally, "husband very sad;" _marri_ being the old French for sad: the ancient plays and tales are full of allusions to the connection between these two words, _mari_ and _marri_.] SCENE X.--LELIO, _alone_. Alas! what have I heard! The report then was true that her husband was the ugliest of all his sex. Even if your faithless lips had never sworn me more than a thousand times eternal love, the disgust you should have felt at such a base and shameful choice might have sufficiently secured me against the loss of your affection... But this great insult, and the fatigues of a pretty long journey, produce all at once such a violent effect upon me, that I feel faint, and can hardly bear up under it. SCENE XI.--LELIO, SGANARELLE'S WIFE. SGAN.'S WIFE. In spite of me, my wretch... (_Seeing Lelio_). Good lack! what ails you? I perceive, sir, you are ready to faint away. LEL. It is an illness that has attacked me quite suddenly. SGAN'S WIFE. I am afraid you shall faint; step in here, and stay until you are better. LEL. For a moment or two I will accept of your kindness. SCENE XII.--SGANARELLE, A RELATIVE OF SGANARELLE'S WIFE. REL. I commend a husband's anxiety in such a case, but you take fright a little too hastily. All that you have told me against her, kinsman, does not prove her guilty. It is a delicate subject, and no one should ever be accused of such a crime unless it can be fully proved. SGAN. That is to say, unless you see it. REL. Too much haste leads us to commit mistakes. Who can tell how this picture came into her hands, and, after all, whether she knows the man? Seek a little more information, and if it proves to be as you suspect, I shall be one of the first to punish her offence. SCENE XIII.--SGANARELLE, _alone_. Nothing could be said fairer; it is really the best way to proceed cautiously. Perhaps I have dreamt of horns without any cause, and the perspiration has covered my brow rather prematurely. My dishonour is not at all proved by that portrait which frightened me so much. Let me endeavour then by care... SCENE XIV.--SGANARELLE, SGANARELLE'S WIFE, _standing at the door of her house, with_ LELIO. SGAN. (_Aside seeing them_). Ha! what do I see? Zounds! there can be no more question about the portrait, for upon my word here stands the very man, in _propria persona_. SGAN.'S WIFE. You hurry away too fast, sir; if you leave us so quickly, you may perhaps have a return of your illness. LEL. No, no, I thank you heartily for the kind assistance you have rendered me. SGAN. (_Aside_). The deceitful woman is to the last polite to him. (_Sganarelle's Wife goes into the house again_). SCENE XV.--SGANARELLE, LELIO. SGAN. He has seen me, let us hear what he can say to me. LEL. (_Aside_). Oh! my soul is moved! this sight inspires me with... but I ought to blame this unjust resentment, and only ascribe my sufferings to my merciless fate; yet I cannot help envying the success that has crowned his passion. (_Approaching Sganarelle_). O too happy mortal in having so beautiful a wife. SCENE XVI.--SGANARELLE, CELIA, _at her window, seeing Lelio go away_. SGAN. (_Alone_). This confession is pretty plain. His extraordinary speech surprises me as much as if horns had grown upon my head. (_Looking at the side where Lelio went off_). Go your way, you have not acted at all like an honourable man. CEL. (_Aside, entering_). Who can that be? Just now I saw Lelio. Why does he conceal his return from me? SGAN. (_Without seeing Celia_). "O too happy mortal in having so beautiful a wife!" Say rather, unhappy mortal in having such a disgraceful spouse through whose guilty passion, it is now but too clear, I have been cuckolded without any feeling of compassion. Yet I allow him to go away after such a discovery, and stand with my arms folded like a regular silly-billy! I ought at least to have knocked his hat off, thrown stones at him, or mud on his cloak; to satisfy my wrath I should rouse the whole neighbourhood, and cry, "Stop, thief of my honour!" CEL. (_To Sganarelle_). Pray, sir, how came you to know this gentleman who went away just now and spoke to you? SGAN. Alas! madam, it is not I who am acquainted with him; it is my wife. CEL. What emotion thus disturbs your mind? SGAN. Do not blame me; I have sufficient cause for my sorrow; permit me to breathe plenty of sighs. CEL. What can be the reason of this uncommon grief? SGAN. If I am sad it is not for a trifle: I challenge other people not to grieve, if they found themselves in my condition. You see in me the model of unhappy husbands. Poor Sganarelle's honour is taken from him; but the loss of my honour would be small--they deprive me of my reputation also. CEL. How do they do that? SGAN. That fop has taken the liberty to cuckold me--saving your presence, madam--and this very day my own eyes have been witness to a private interview between him and my wife. CEL. What? He who just now... SGAN. Ay, ay, it is he who brings disgrace upon me; he is in love with my wife, and my wife is in love with him. CEL. Ah! I find I was right when I thought his returning secretly only concealed some base design; I trembled the minute I saw him, from a sad foreboding of what would happen. SGAN. You espouse my cause with too much kindness, but everybody is not so charitably disposed; for many, who have already heard of my sufferings, so far from taking my part, only laugh at me. CEL. Can anything be more base than this vile deed? or can a punishment be discovered such as he deserves? Does he think he is worthy to live, after polluting himself with such treachery? O Heaven! is it possible? SGAN. It is but too true. CEL. O traitor, villain, deceitful, faithless wretch! SGAN. What a kind-hearted creature! CEL. No, no, hell has not tortures enough to punish you sufficiently for your guilt! SGAN. How well she talks! CEL. Thus to abuse both innocence and goodness! SGAN. (_Sighing aloud_). Ah! CEL. A heart which never did the slightest action deserving of being treated with such insult and contempt. SGAN. That's true. CEL. Who far from... but it is too much; nor can this heart endure the thought of it without feeling on the rack. SGAN. My dear lady, do not distress yourself so much; it pierces my very soul to see you grieve so at my misfortune. CEL. But do not deceive yourself so far as to fancy that I shall sit down and do nothing but lament; no, my heart knows how to act in order to be avenged; nothing can divert me from it; I go to prepare everything. SCENE XVII.--SGANARELLE, _alone_. May Heaven keep her for ever out of harm's way! How kind of her to wish to avenge me! Her anger at my dishonour plainly teaches me how to act. Nobody should bear such affronts as these tamely, unless indeed he be a fool. Let us therefore hasten to hunt out this rascal who has insulted me, and let me prove my courage by avenging my dishonour. [Footnote: A similar adventure is told of the renowned fabulist La Fontaine. One day some one informed him that Poignan, a retired captain of dragoons and one of his friends, was by far too intimate with Madame La Fontaine, and that to avenge his dishonour he ought to fight a duel with him. La Fontaine calls upon Poignan at four o'clock in the morning, tells him to dress, takes him out of town, and then coolly says "that he has been advised to fight a duel with him in order to avenge his wounded honour." Soon La Fontaine's sword flies out of his hand, the friends go to breakfast, and the whole affair is at an end.] I will teach you, you rogue, to laugh at my expense, and to cuckold people without showing them any respect. (_After going three or four steps he comes back again_.) But gently, if you please, this man looks as if he were very hot-headed and passionate; he may, perhaps, heaping one insult upon another, ornament my back as well as he has done my brow. [Footnote: In the original there is a play on words which cannot be rendered in English. _Il pourrait bien ... charger de bois mon dos comme, il a fait mort front_. _Bois_ means "stick" and "stags' antlers."] I detest, from the bottom of my heart, these fiery tempers, and vastly prefer peaceable people. I do not care to beat for fear of being beaten; a gentle disposition was always my predominant virtue: But my honour tells me that it is absolutely necessary I should avenge such an outrage as this. Let honour say whatever it likes, the deuce take him who listens. Suppose now I should play the hero, and receive for my pains an ugly thrust with a piece of cold steel quite through my stomach; when the news of my death spreads through the whole town, tell me then, my honour, shall you be the better of it. [Footnote: Compare in Shakespeare's _Part First of King Henry IV_. v. I, Falstaff's speech about honour.] The grave is too melancholy an abode, and too unwholesome for people who are afraid of the colic; as for me, I find, all things considered, that it is, after all, better to be a cuckold than to be dead. What harm is there in it? Does it make a man's legs crooked? does it spoil his shape? The plague take him who first invented being grieved about such a delusion, linking the honour of the wisest man to anything a fickle woman may do. Since every person is rightly held responsible for his own crimes, how can our honour, in this case, be considered criminal? We are blamed for the actions of other people. If our wives have an intrigue with any man, without our knowledge, all the mischief must fall upon our backs; they commit the crime and we are reckoned guilty. It is a villainous abuse, and indeed Government should remedy such injustice. Have we not enough of other accidents that happen to us whether we like them or not? Do not quarrels, lawsuits, hunger, thirst, and sickness sufficiently disturb the even tenour of our lives? and yet we must stupidly get it into our heads to grieve about something which has no foundation. Let us laugh at it, despise such idle fears, and be above sighs and tears. If my wife has done amiss, let her cry as much as she likes, but why should I weep when I have done no wrong? After all, I am not the only one of my fraternity, and that should console me a little. Many people of rank see their wives cajoled, and do not say a word about it. Why should I then try to pick a quarrel for an affront, which is but a mere trifle? They will call me a fool for not avenging myself, but I should be a much greater fool to rush on my own destruction. (_Putting his hand upon his stomach_). I feel, however, my bile is stirred up here; it almost persuades me to do some manly action. Ay, anger gets the better of me; it is rather too much of a good thing to be a coward too! I am resolved to be revenged upon the thief of my honour. Full of the passion which excites my ardour, and in order to make a beginning, I shall go and tell everywhere that he lies with my wife. SCENE XVIII.--GORGIBUS, CELIA, CELIA'S MAID. CEL. Yes, I will yield willingly to so just a law, father; you can freely dispose of my heart and my hand; I will sign the marriage contract whenever you please, for I am now determined to perform my duty. I can command my own inclinations, and shall do whatever you order me. GORG. How she pleases me by talking in this manner! Upon my word! I am so delighted that I would immediately cut a caper or two, were people not looking on, who would laugh at it. Come hither, I say, and let me embrace you; there is no harm in that; a father may kiss his daughter whenever he likes, without giving any occasion for scandal. Well, the satisfaction of seeing you so obedient has made me twenty years younger. SCENE XIX.--CELIA, CELIA'S MAID. MAID. This change surprises me. CEL. When you come to know why I act thus, you will esteem me for it. MAID. Perhaps so. CEL. Know then that Lelio has wounded my heart by his treacherous behaviour, and has been in this neighbourhood without... MAID. Here he comes. SCENE XX.--LELIO, CELIA, CELIA'S MAID. LEL. Before I take my leave of you for ever, I will at least here tell you that... CEL. What! are you insolent enough to speak to me again? LEL. I own my insolence is great, and yet your choice is such I should not be greatly to blame if I upbraided you. Live, live contented, and laugh when you think of me, as well as your worthy husband, of whom you have reason to be proud. CEL. Yes, traitor, I will live so, and I trust most earnestly that the thought of my happiness may disturb you. LEL. Why this outbreak of passion? CEL. You pretend to be surprised, and ask what crimes you have committed? SCENE XXI.--CELIA, LELIO, SGANARELLE _armed cap-a-pié_, CELIA'S MAID. SGAN. I wage war, a war of extermination against this robber of my honour, who without mercy has sullied my fair name. CEL. (_To Lelio, pointing to Sganarelle_). Look on this man, and then you will require no further answer. LEL. Ah! I see. CEL. A mere glance at him is sufficient to abash you. LEL. It ought rather to make you blush. SGAN. My wrath is now disposed to vent itself upon some one; my courage is at its height; if I meet him, there will be blood shed. Yes, I have sworn to kill him, nothing can keep me from doing so. Wherever I see him I will dispatch him. (_Drawing his sword halfway and approaching Lelio_). Right through the middle of his heart I shall thrust... LEL. (_Turning round_). Against whom do you bear such a grudge? SGAN. Against no one. LEL. Why are you thus in armour? SGAN. It is a dress I put on to keep the rain off. (_Aside_). Ah! what a satisfaction it would be for me to kill him! Let us pluck up courage to do it. LEL. (_Turning round again_). Hey? SGAN. I did not speak. (_Aside, boxing his own ears, and thumping himself to raise his courage_). Ah! I am enraged at my own cowardice! Chicken-hearted poltroon! CEL. What you have seen ought to satisfy you, but it appears to offend you. LEL. Yes through him I know you are guilty of the greatest faithlessness that ever wronged a faithful lover's heart, and for which no excuse can be found. SGAN. (_Aside_). Why have I not a little more courage? CEL. Ah, traitor, speak not to me in so unmanly and insolent a manner. SGAN. (_Aside_). You see, Sganarelle, she takes up your quarrel: courage, my lad, be a trifle vigorous. Now, be bold, try to make one noble effort and kill him whilst his back is turned. LEL. (_Who has moved accidentally a few steps back, meets Sganarelle, who was drawing near to kill him. The latter is frightened, and retreats_). Since my words kindle your wrath, madam, I ought to show my satisfaction with what your heart approves, and here commend the lovely choice you have made. CEL. Yes, yes, my choice is such as cannot be blamed. LEL. You do well to defend it. SGAN. No doubt, she does well to defend my rights, but what you have done, sir, is not according to the laws; I have reason to complain; were I less discreet, much blood would be shed. LEL. Of what do you complain? And why this... SGAN. Do not say a word more. You know too well where the shoe pinches me. But conscience and a care for your own soul should remind you that my wife is my wife, and that to make her yours under my very nose is not acting like a good Christian. LEL. Such a suspicion is mean and ridiculous! Harbour no scruples on that point: I know she belongs to you; I am very far from being in love with... CEL. Oh! traitor! how well you dissemble! LEL. What! do you imagine I foster a thought which need disturb his mind? Would you slander me by accusing me of such a cowardly action? CEL. Speak, speak to himself; he can enlighten you. SGAN. (_To Celia_), No, no, you can argue much better than I can, and have treated the matter in the right way. SCENE XXII.--CELIA, LELIO, SGANARELLE, SGANARELLE'S WIFE, CELIA'S MAID. SGAN.'S WIFE. (_To Celia_). I am not inclined, Madam, to show that I am over-jealous; but I am no fool, and can see what is going on. There are certain amours which appear very strange; you should be better employed than in seducing a heart which ought to be mine alone. CEL. This declaration of her love is plain enough. [Footnote: Some commentators think it is Lelio who utters these words, but they are clearly Celia's.] SGAN. (_To his wife_). Who sent for you, baggage? You come and scold her because she takes my part, whilst you are afraid of losing your gallant. CEL. Do not suppose anybody has a mind to him. (_Turning towards Lelio_). You see whether I have told a falsehood, and I am very glad of it. LEL. What can be the meaning of this? MAID. Upon my word, I do not know when this entanglement will be unravelled. I have tried for a pretty long time to comprehend it, but the more I hear the less I understand. Really I think I must interfere at last. (_Placing herself between Lelio and Celia_). Answer me one after another, and (_To Lelio_) allow me to ask what do you accuse this lady of? LEL. That she broke her word and forsook me for another. As soon as I heard she was going to be married I hastened hither, carried away by an irrepressible love, and not believing I could be forgotten; but discovered, when I arrived here, that she was married. MAID. Married! To whom? LEL. (_Pointing to Sganarelle_). To him. MAID. How! to him? LEL. Yes, to him. MAID. Who told you so? LEL. Himself, this very day. MAID. (_To Sganarelle_)Is this true? SGAN. I? I told him I was married to my own wife. LEL. Just now, whilst you looked at my picture, you seemed greatly moved. SGAN. True, here it is. LEL. (_To Sganarelle_). You also told me that she, from whose hands you had received this pledge of her love, was joined to you in the bonds of wedlock. SGAN. No doubt (_pointing to his wife_), for I snatched it from her, and should not have discovered her wickedness had I not done so. SGAN.'S WIFE. What do you mean by your groundless complaint? I found this portrait at my feet by accident. After you had stormed without telling me the cause of your rage, I saw this gentleman (_pointing to Lelio_)nearly fainting, asked him to come in, but did not even then discover that he was the original of the picture. CEL. I was the cause of the portrait being lost; I let it fall when swooning, and when you (_to Sganarelle_) kindly carried me into the house. MAID. You see that without my help you had still been at a loss, and that you had some need of hellebore. [Footnote: Among the ancients the _helleborus officinalis_ or _orientalis_ was held to cure insanity; hence the allusion.] SGAN. (_Aside_). Shall we believe all this? I have been very much frightened for my brow. SGAN.'S WIFE. I have not quite recovered from my fear; however agreeable credulity may be, I am both to be deceived. SGAN. (_To his wife_). Well, let us mutually suppose ourselves to be people of honour. I risk more on my side than you do on yours; accept, therefore, without much ado, what I propose. SGAN.'S WIFE. Be it so, but wo be to you if I discover anything. CEL. (_To Lelio, after whispering together_). Ye heavens! if it be so, what have I done? I ought to fear the consequences of my own anger! Thinking you false, and wishing to be avenged, I in an unhappy moment complied with my father's wishes, and but a minute since engaged myself to marry a man whose hand, until then, I always had refused. I have made a promise to my father, and what grieves me most is... But I see him coming. LEL. He shall keep his word with me. SCENE XXIII.--GORGIBUS, CELIA, LELIO, SGANARELLE, SGANARELLE'S WIFE, CELIA'S MAID. LEL. Sir, you see I have returned to this town, inflamed with the same ardour, and now I suppose you will keep your promise, which made me hope to marry Celia, and thus reward my intense love. GORG. Sir, whom I see returned to this town inflamed with the same ardour, and who now supposes I will keep my promise, which made you hope to marry Celia, and thus reward your intense love, I am your lordship's very humble servant. LEL. What, sir, is it thus you frustrate my expectations? GORG. Ay, sir, it is thus I do my duty, and my daughter obeys me too. CEL. My duty compels me, father, to make good your promise to him. GORG. Is this obeying my commands as a daughter ought to do? Just now you were very kindly disposed towards Valère, but you change quickly... I see his father approaching, who certainly comes to arrange about the marriage. SCENE XXIV.--VILLEBREQUIN, GORGIBUS, CELIA, LELIO, SGANARELLE, SGANARELLE'S WIFE, CELIA'S MAID. GORG. What brings you hither, M. Villebrequin? VILL. An important secret, which I only discovered this morning, and which completely prevents me from keeping the engagement I made with you. My son, whom your daughter was going to espouse, has deceived everybody, and been secretly married these four months past to Lise. Her friends, her fortune, and her family connections, make it impossible for me to break off this alliance; and hence I come to you.... GORG. Pray, say no more. If Valère has married some one else without your permission, I cannot disguise from you, that I myself long ago, promised my daughter Celia to Lelio, endowed with every virtue, and that his return today prevents me from choosing any other husband for her. VILL. Such a choice pleases me very much. LEL. This honest intention will crown my days with eternal bliss. GORG. Let us go and fix the day for the wedding. SGAN. (_Alone_). Was there ever a man who had more cause to think himself victimized? You perceive that in such matters the strongest probability may create in the mind a wrong belief. Therefore remember, never to believe anything even if you should see everything. 
6680	----	LES FÂCHEUX. COMÉDIE. * * * * * THE BORES. A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS. (_THE ORIGINAL IN VERSE_.) AUGUST 17TH, 1661. INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. _The Bores_ is a character-comedy; but the peculiarities taken as the text of the play, instead of being confined to one or two of the leading personages, are exhibited in different forms by a succession of characters, introduced one after the other in rapid course, and disappearing after the brief performance of their rôles. We do not find an evolution of natural situations, proceeding from the harmonious conduct of two or three individuals, but rather a disjointed series of tableaux--little more than a collection of monologues strung together on a weak thread of explanatory comments, enunciated by an unwilling listener. The method is less artistic, if not less natural; less productive of situations, if capable of greater variety of illustrations. The circumstances under which Molière undertook to compose the play explain his resort to the weaker manner of analysis. The Superintendent-General of finance, [Footnote: In Sir James Stephen's _Lectures on the History of France_, vol. ii. page 22, I find: "Still further to centralize the fiscal economy of France, Philippe le Bel created a new ministry. At the head of it he placed an officer of high rank, entitled the Superintendent-General of Finance, and, in subordination to him, he appointed other officers designated as Treasurers."] Nicolas Fouquet desiring to entertain the King, Queen, and court at his mansion of Vaux-le-Vicomte, asked for a comedy at the hands of the Palais-Royal company, who had discovered the secret of pleasing the Grand Monarque. Molière had but a fortnight's notice; and he was expected, moreover, to accommodate his muse to various prescribed styles of entertainment. Fouquet wanted a cue for a dance by Beauchamp, for a picture by Lebrun, for stage devices by Torelli. Molière was equal to the emergency. Never, perhaps, was a literary work written to order so worthy of being preserved for future generations. Not only were the intermediate ballets made sufficiently elastic to give scope for the ingenuity of the poet's auxiliaries, but the written scenes themselves were admirably contrived to display all the varied talent of his troupe. The success of the piece on its first representation, which took place on the 17th of August, 1661, was unequivocal; and the King summoned the author before him in order personally to express his satisfaction. It is related that, the Marquis de Soyecourt passing by at the time, the King said to Molière, "There is an original character which you have not yet copied." The suggestion was enough. The result was that, at the next representation, Dorante the hunter, a new bore, took his place in the comedy. Louis XIV. thought he had discovered in Molière a convenient mouthpiece for his dislikes. The selfish king was no lover of the nobility, and was short-sighted enough not to perceive that the author's attacks on the nobles paved the way for doubts on the divine right of kings themselves. Hence he protected Molière, and entrusted to him the care of writing plays for his entertainments; the public did not, however, see _The Bores_ until the 4th of November of the same year; and then it met with great success. The bore is ubiquitous, on the stage as in everyday life. Horace painted him in his famous passage commencing _Ibam forte via Sacrâ_, and the French satirist, Regnier, has depicted him in his eighth satire. Molière had no doubt seen the Italian farce, "_Le Case svaliggiate ovvera gli Interrompimenti di Pantalone_," which appears to have directly provided him with the thread of his comedy. This is the gist of it. A girl, courted by Pantaloon, gives him a rendezvous in order to escape from his importunities; whilst a cunning knave sends across his path a medley of persons to delay his approach, and cause him to break his appointment. This delay, however, is about the only point of resemblance between the Italian play and the French comedy. There are some passages in Scarron's _Epîtres chagrines_ addressed to the Marshal d'Albret and M. d'Elbène, from which our author must have derived a certain amount of inspiration; for in these epistles the writer reviews the whole tribe of bores, in coarse but vigorous language. Molière dedicated _The Bores_ to Louis XIV. in the following words: SIRE, I am adding one scene to the Comedy, and a man who dedicates a book is a species of Bore insupportable enough. Your Majesty is better acquainted with this than any person in the kingdom: and this is not the first time that you have been exposed to the fury of Epistles Dedicatory. But though I follow the example of others, and put myself in the rank of those I have ridiculed; I dare, however, assure Your Majesty, that what I have done in this case is not so much to present You a book, as to have the opportunity of returning You thanks for the success of this Comedy. I owe, Sire, that success, which exceeded my expectations, not only to the glorious approbation with which Your Majesty honoured this piece at first, and which attracted so powerfully that of all the world; but also to the order, which You gave me, to add a _Bore_, of which Yourself had the goodness to give me the idea, and which was proved by everyone to be the finest part of the work. [Footnote: See Prefatory Memoir, page xxviii. ?] I must confess, Sire, I never did any thing with such ease and readiness, as that part, where I had Your Majesty's commands to work. The pleasure I had in obeying them, was to me more than _Apollo_ and all the _Muses_; and by this I conceive what I should be able to execute in a complete Comedy, were I inspired by the same commands. Those who are born in an elevated rank, may propose to themselves the honour of serving Your Majesty in great Employments; but, for my part, all the glory I can aspire to, is to amuse You. [Footnote: In spite of all that has been said about Molière's passionate fondness for his profession, I imagine he must now and then have felt some slight, or suffered from some want of consideration. Hence perhaps the above sentence. Compare with this Shakespeare's hundred and eleventh sonnet: "Oh! for my sake, do you with Fortune chide The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand; And almost thence my nature is subdu'd To what it works in, like the dyer's hand."] The ambition of my wishes is confined to this; and I think that, to contribute any thing to the diversion of her King, is, in some respects, not to be useless to France. Should I not succeed in this, it shall never be through want of zeal, or study; but only through a hapless destiny, which often accompanies the best intentions, and which, to a certainty, would be a most sensible affliction to SIRE, _Your_ MAJESTY'S _most humble, most obedient, and most faithful Servant_, MOLIÈRE. In the eighth volume of the "Select Comedies of M. de Molière, London, 1732," the play of _The Bores_ is dedicated, under the name of _The Impertinents_, to the Right Honourable the Lord Carteret, [Footnote: John, Lord Carteret, born 22nd April, 1690, twice Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, was Secretary of State and head of the Ministry from February, 1742, until November 23, 1744, became Earl Granville that same year, on the death of his mother; was president of the Council in 1751, and died in 1763.] in the following words: MY LORD, It is by Custom grown into a sort of Privilege for Writers, of whatsoever Class, to attack Persons of Rank and Merit by these kind of Addresses. We conceive a certain Charm in Great and Favourite Names, which sooths our Reader, and prepossesses him in our Favour: We deem ourselves of Consequence, according to the Distinction of our Patron; and come in for our Share in the Reputation he bears in the World. Hence it is, MY LORD, that Persons of the greatest Worth are most expos'd to these Insults. For however usual and convenient this may be to a Writer, it must be confess'd, MY LORD, it may be some degree of Persecution to a _Patron_; Dedicators, as _Molière_ observes, being a Species of _Impertinents_, troublesome enough. Yet the Translator of this Piece hopes he may be rank'd among the more tolerable ones, in presuming to inscribe to Your LORDSHIP the _Facheux of Molière_ done into _English_; assuring himself that Your LORDSHIP will not think any thing this Author has writ unworthy of your Patronage; nor discourage even a weaker Attempt to make him more generally read and understood. Your LORDSHIP is well known, as an absolute Master, and generous Patron of Polite Letters; of those Works especially which discover a Moral, as well as Genius; and by a delicate Raillery laugh men out of their Follies and Vices: could the Translator, therefore, of this Piece come anything near the Original, it were assured of your Acceptance. He will not dare to arrogate any thing to himself on this Head, before so good a Judge as Your LORDSHIP: He hopes, however, it will appear that, where he seems too superstitious a Follower of his Author, 'twas not because he could not have taken more Latitude, and have given more Spirit; but to answer what he thinks the most essential part of a Translator, to lead the less knowing to the Letter; and after better Acquaintance, Genius will bring them to the Spirit. The Translator knows your LORDSHIP, and Himself too well to attempt Your Character, even though he should think this a proper occasion: The Scholar--the Genius--the Statesman--the Patriot--the Man of Honour and Humanity.--Were a Piece finish'd from these Out-lines, the whole World would agree in giving it Your LORDSHIP. But that requires a Hand--the Person, who presents This, thinks it sufficient to be indulg'd the Honour of subscribing himself _My_ LORD, _Your Lordship's most devoted, most obedient, humble servant,_ THE TRANSLATOR. Thomas Shadwell, whom Dryden flagellates in his _Mac-Flecknoe_, and in the second part of _Absalom and Achitophel_, and whom Pope mentions in his _Dunciad_, wrote _The Sullen Lovers, or the Impertinents_, which was first performed in 1668 at the Duke of York's Theatre, by their Majesties' Servants. This play is a working up of _The Bores_ and _The Misanthrope_, with two scenes from _The Forced Marriage_, and a reminiscence from _The Love-Tiff_. It is dedicated to the "Thrice Noble, High and Puissant Prince William, Duke, Marquis, and Earl of Newcastle," because all Men, who pretend either to Sword or Pen, ought "to shelter themselves under Your Grace's Protection." Another reason Shadwell gives for this dedication is in order "to rescue this (play) from the bloody Hands of the Criticks, who will not dare to use it roughly, when they see Your Grace's Name in the beginning." He also states, that "the first Hint I received was from the Report of a Play of Molière's of three Acts, called _Les Fascheux_, upon which I wrote a great part of this before I read that." He borrowed, after reading it, the first scene in the second act, and Molière's story of Piquet, which he translated into Backgammon, and says, "that he who makes a common practice of stealing other men's wit, would if he could with the same safety, steal anything else." Shadwell mentions, however, nothing of borrowing from _The Misanthrope_ and _The Forced Marriage_. The preface was, besides political difference, the chief cause of the quarrel between Shadwell and Dryden; for in it the former defends Ben Jonson against the latter, and mentions that--"I have known some of late so insolent to say that Ben Jonson wrote his best playes without wit, imagining that all the wit playes consisted in bringing two persons upon the stage to break jest, and to bob one another, which they call repartie." The original edition of _The Sullen Lovers_ is partly in blank verse; but, in the first collected edition of Shadwell's works, published by his son in 1720, it is printed in prose. Stanford, "a morose, melancholy man, tormented beyond measure with the impertinence of people, and resolved to leave the world to be quit of them" is a combination of Alceste in _The Misanthrope_, and Éraste in _The Bores_; Lovel, "an airy young gentleman, friend to Stanford, one that is pleased with, and laughs at, the impertinents; and that which is the other's torment, is his recreation," is Philinte of _The Misanthrope_; Emilia and Carolina appear to be Célimène and Eliante; whilst Lady Vaine is an exaggerated Arsinoé of the same play. Sir Positive At-all, "a foolish knight that pretends to understand everything in the world, and will suffer no man to understand anything in his Company, so foolishly positive, that he will never be convinced of an error, though never so gross," is a very good character, and an epitome of all the Bores into one. The prologue of _The Sullen Lovers_ begins thus:-- "How popular are Poets now-a-days! Who can more Men at their first summons raise, Than many a wealthy home-bred Gentleman, By all his Interest in his Country can. They raise their Friends; but in one Day arise 'Gainst one poor Poet all these Enemies." PREFACE. Never was any Dramatic performance so hurried as this; and it is a thing, I believe, quite new, to have a comedy planned, finished, got up, and played in a fortnight. I do not say this to boast of an _impromptu_, or to pretend to any reputation on that account: but only to prevent certain people, who might object that I have not introduced here all the species of Bores who are to be found. I know that the number of them is great, both at the Court and in the City, and that, without episodes, I might have composed a comedy of five acts and still have had matter to spare. But in the little time allowed me, it was impossible to execute any great design, or to study much the choice of my characters, or the disposition of my subject. I therefore confined myself to touching only upon a small number of Bores; and I took those which first presented themselves to my mind, and which I thought the best fitted for amusing the august personages before whom this play was to appear; and, to unite all these things together speedily, I made use of the first plot I could find. It is not, at present, my intention to examine whether the whole might not have been better, and whether all those who were diverted with it laughed according to rule. The time may come when I may print my remarks upon the pieces I have written: and I do not despair letting the world see that, like a grand author, I can quote Aristotle and Horace. In expectation of this examination, which perhaps may never take place, I leave the decision of this affair to the multitude, and I look upon it as equally difficult to oppose a work which the public approves, as it is to defend one which it condemns. There is no one who does not know for what time of rejoicing the piece was composed; and that _fete_ made so much noise, that it is not necessary to speak of it [Footnote: _The Bores_, according to the Preface, planned, finished, got up, and played in a fortnight, was acted amidst other festivities, first at Vaux, the seat of Monsieur Fouquet, Superintendent of Finances, the 17th of August, 1661, in the presence of the King and the whole Court, with the exception of the Queen. Three weeks later Fouquet was arrested, and finally condemned to be shut up in prison, where he died in 1672. It was not till November, 1661, that _The Bores_ was played in Paris.] but it will not be amiss to say a word or two of the ornaments which have been mixed with the Comedy. The design was also to give a ballet; and as there was only a small number of first-rate dancers, it was necessary to separate the _entrées_ [Footnote: See Prefatory Memoir, page xxx., note 12] of this ballet, and to interpolate them with the Acts of the Play, so that these intervals might give time to the same dancers to appear in different dresses; also to avoid breaking the thread of the piece by these interludes, it was deemed advisable to weave the ballet in the best manner one could into the subject, and make but one thing of it and the play. But as the time was exceedingly short, and the whole was not entirely regulated by the same person, there may be found, perhaps, some parts of the ballet which do not enter so naturally into the play as others do. Be that as it may, this is a medley new upon our stage; although one might find some authorities in antiquity: but as every one thought it agreeable, it may serve as a specimen for other things which may be concerted more at leisure. Immediately upon the curtain rising, one of the actors, whom you may suppose to be myself, appeared on the stage in an ordinary dress, and addressing himself to the King, with the look of a man surprised, made excuses in great disorder, for being there alone, and wanting both time and actors to give his Majesty the diversion he seemed to expect; at the same time in the midst of twenty natural cascades, a large shell was disclosed, which every one saw: and the agreeable Naiad who appeared in it, advanced to the front of the stage, and with an heroic air pronounced the following verses which Mr. Pellison had made, and which served as a Prologue. PROLOGUE. (_The Theatre represents a garden adorned with Termini and several fountains. A Naiad coming out of the water in a shell.) Mortals, from Grots profound I visit you, Gallia's great Monarch in these Scenes to view; Shall Earth's wide Circuit, or the wider Seas, Produce some Novel Sight your Prince to please; Speak He, or wish: to him nought can be hard, Whom as a living Miracle you all regard. Fertile in Miracles, his Reign demands Wonders at universal Nature's Hands, Sage, young, victorious, valiant, and august, Mild as severe, and powerful as he's just, His Passions, and his Foes alike to foil, And noblest Pleasures join to noblest Toil; His righteous Projects ne'er to misapply, Hear and see all, and act incessantly: He who can this, can all; he needs but dare, And Heaven in nothing will refuse his Prayer. Let Lewis but command, these Bounds shall move, And trees grow vocal as Dodona's Grove. Ye Nymphs and Demi-Gods, whose Presence fills Their sacred Trunks, come forth; so Lewis wills; To please him be our task; I lead the way, Quit now your ancient Forms but for a Day, With borrow'd Shape cheat the Spectator's Eye, And to Theatric Art yourselves apply. (_Several Dryads, accompanied by Fawns and Satyrs, come forth out of the Trees and Termini_.) Hence Royal Cares, hence anxious Application, (His fav'rite Work) to bless a happy Nation: His lofty Mind permit him to unbend, And to a short Diversion condescend; The Morn shall see him with redoubled Force, Resume the Burthen and pursue his Course, Give Force to Laws, his Royal Bounties share, Wisely prevent our Wishes with his Care. Contending Lands to Union firm dispose, And lose his own to fix the World's Repose. But now, let all conspire to ease the Pressure Of Royalty, by elegance of Pleasure. Impertinents, avant; nor come in sight, Unless to give him more supreme Delight. [Footnote: The Naiad was represented by Madeleine Beéjart, even then good-looking, though she was more than forty years old. The verses are taken from the eighth volume of the "Select Comedies of M. de Molière in French and English, London, 1732," and as fulsome as they well can be. The English translation, which is not mine, fairly represents the official nonsense of the original.] (_The Naiad brings with her, for the Play, one part of the Persons she has summoned to appear, whilst the rest begin a Dance to the sound of Hautboys, accompanied by Violins_.) DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. ÉRASTE, _in love with Orphise_. DAMIS, _guardian to Orphise_. ALCIDOR, _a bore_. LISANDRE, _a bore_. ALCANDRE, _a bore_. ALCIPPE, _a bore_. DORANTE, _a bore_. CARITIDÈS, _a bore_. ORMIN, _a bore_. FILINTE, _a bore_. LA MONTAGNE, _servant to Éraste_. L'ÉPINE, _servant to Damis_. LA RIVIERE _and_ TWO COMRADES. ORPHISE, _in love with Éraste_. ORANTE, _a female bore_. CLIMÈNE, _a female bore_. _Scene_.--PARIS. * * * * * [Footnote: Molière himself played probably the parts of Lisandre the dancer, Alcandre the duellist, or Alcippe the gambler, and perhaps all three, with some slight changes in the dress. He also acted Caritidès the pedant, and Dorante the lover of the chase. In the inventory taken after Molière's death we find: "A dress for the Marquis of the _Fâcheux_, consisting in a pair of breeches very large, and fastened below with ribbands, (_rhingrave_), made of common silk, blue and gold-coloured stripes, with plenty of flesh-coloured and yellow trimmings, with Colbertine, a doublet of Colbertine cloth trimmed with flame-coloured ribbands, silk stockings and garters." The dress of Caritidès in the same play, "cloak and breeches of cloth, with picked trimmings, and a slashed doublet." Dorante's dress was probably "a hunting-coat, sword and belt; the above-mentioned hunting-coat ornamented with fine silver lace, also a pair of stag-hunting gloves, and a pair of long stockings (_bas a botter_) of yellow cloth." The original inventory, given by M. Soulié, has _toile Colbertine_, for "Colbertine cloth." I found this word in Webster's Dictionary described from _The Fop's Dictionary of 1690_ as "A lace resembling net-work, the fabric of Mons. Colbert, superintendent of the French king's manufactures." In Congreve's _The Way of the World_, Lady Wishfort, quarrelling with her woman Foible (Act v., Scene i), says to her, among other insults: "Go, hang out an old Frisoneer gorget, with a yard of yellow colberteen again!"] THE BORES (_LES FÁCHEUX._) ACT I. SCENE I.--ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE. ER. Good Heavens! under what star am I born, to be perpetually worried by bores? It seems that fate throws them in my way everywhere; each day I discover some new specimen. But there is nothing to equal my bore of to-day. I thought I should never get rid of him; a hundred times I cursed the harmless desire, which seized me at dinner time, to see the play, where, thinking to amuse myself, I unhappily was sorely punished for my sins. I must tell you how it happened, for I cannot yet think about it coolly. I was on the stage, [Footnote: It was the custom for young men of fashion to seat themselves upon the stage (see Vol. I.. Prefatory Memoir, page 26, note 7). They often crowded it to such an extent, that it was difficult for the actors to move. This custom was abolished only in 1759, when the Count de Lauraguais paid the comedians a considerable sum of money, on the condition of not allowing any stranger upon the stage.] in a mood to listen to the piece which I had heard praised by so many. The actors began; everyone kept silence; when with a good deal of noise and in a ridiculous manner, a man with large rolls entered abruptly, crying out "Hulloa, there, a seat directly!" and, disturbing the audience with his uproar, interrupted the play in its finest passage. Heavens! will Frenchmen, altho' so often corrected, never behave themselves like men of common-sense? Must we, in a public theatre, show ourselves with our worst faults, and so confirm, by our foolish outbursts what our neighbours everywhere say of us? Thus I spoke; and whilst I was shrugging my shoulders, the actors attempted to continue their parts. But the man made a fresh disturbance in seating himself, and again crossing the stage with long strides, although he might have been quite comfortable at the wings, he planted his chair full in front, and, defying the audience by his broad back, hid the actors from three-fourths of the pit. A murmur arose, at which anyone else would have felt ashamed; but he, firm and resolute, took no notice of it, and would have remained just as he had placed himself, if, to my misfortune, he had not cast his eyes on me. "Ah, Marquis!" he said, taking a seat near me, "how dost thou do? Let me embrace thee." Immediately my face was covered with blushes that people should see I was acquainted with such a giddy fellow. I was but slightly known to him for all that: but so it is with these men, who assume an acquaintance on nothing, whose embraces we are obliged to endure when we meet them, and who are so familiar with us as to thou and thee us. He began by asking me a hundred frivolous questions, raising his voice higher than the actors. Everyone was cursing him; and in order to check him I said, "I should like to listen to the play." "Hast thou not seen it, Marquis? Oh, on my soul, I think it very funny, and I am no fool in these matters. I know the canons of perfection, and Corneille reads to me all that he writes." Thereupon he gave me a summary of the piece, informing me scene after scene of what was about to happen; and when we came to any lines which he knew by heart, he recited them aloud before the actor could say them. It was in vain for me to resist; he continued his recitations, and towards the end rose a good while before the rest. For these fashionable fellows, in order to behave gallantly, especially avoid listening to the conclusion. I thanked Heaven, and naturally thought that, with the comedy, my misery was ended. But as though this were too good to be expected, my gentleman fastened on me again, recounted his exploits, his uncommon virtues, spoke of his horses, of his love-affairs, of his influence at court, and heartily offered me his services. I politely bowed my thanks, all the time devising some way of escape. But he, seeing me eager to depart, said, "Let us leave; everyone is gone." And when we were outside, he prevented my going away, by saying, "Marquis, let us go to the Cours to show my carriage." [Footnote: The Cours is that part of the Champs-Elysées called _le Cours-la-Reine_; because Maria de Medici, the wife of Henry IV., had trees planted there. As the theatre finished about seven o'clock in the evening, it was not too late to show a carriage.] "It is very well built, and more than one Duke and Peer has ordered a similar one from my coach-maker." I thanked him, and the better to get off, told him that I was about to give a little entertainment. "Ah, on my life, I shall join it, as one of your friends, and give the go-by to the Marshal, to whom I was engaged." "My banquet," I said, "is too slight for gentlemen of your rank." "Nay," he replied, "I am a man of no ceremony, and I go simply to have a chat with thee; I vow, I am tired of grand entertainments." "But if you are expected, you will give offence, if you stay away." "Thou art joking, Marquis! We all know each other; I pass my time with thee much more pleasantly." I was chiding myself, sad and perplexed at heart at the unlucky result of my excuse, and knew not what to do next to get rid of such a mortal annoyance, when a splendidly built coach, crowded with footmen before and behind, stopped in front of us with a great clatter; from which leaped forth a young man gorgeously dressed; and my bore and he, hastening to embrace each other, surprised the passers-by with their furious encounter. Whilst both were plunged in these fits of civilities, I quietly made my exit without a word; not before I had long groaned under such a martyrdom, cursing this bore whose obstinate persistence kept me from the appointment which had been made with me here. LA M. These annoyances are mingled with the pleasures of life. All goes not, sir, exactly as we wish it. Heaven wills that here below everyone should meet bores; without that, men would be too happy. ER. But of all my bores the greatest is Damis, guardian of her whom I adore, who dashes every hope she raises, and has brought it to pass that she dares not see me in his presence. I fear I have already passed the hour agreed on; it is in this walk that Orphise promised to be. LA M. The time of an appointment has generally some latitude, and is not limited to a second. ER. True; but I tremble; my great passion makes out of nothing a crime against her whom I love. LA M. If this perfect love, which you manifest so well, makes out of nothing a great crime against her whom you love; the pure flame which her heart feels for you on the other hand converts all your crimes into nothing. ER. But, in good earnest, do you believe that I am loved by her? LA M. What! do you still doubt a love that has been tried? ER. Ah, it is with difficulty that a heart that truly loves has complete confidence in such a matter. It fears to flatter itself; and, amidst its various cares, what it most wishes is what it least believes. But let us endeavour to discover the delightful creature. LA M. Sir, your necktie is loosened in front. ER. No matter. LA M. Let me adjust it, if you please. ER. Ugh, you are choking me, blockhead; let it be as it is. LA M. Let me just comb... ER. Was there ever such stupidity! You have almost taken off my ear with a tooth of the comb. [Footnote: The servants had always a comb about them to arrange the wigs of their masters, whilst the latter thought it fashionable to comb and arrange their hair in public (see _The Pretentious Young Ladies_).] LA M. Your rolls... ER. Leave them; you are too particular. LA M. They are quite rumpled. ER. I wish them to be so. LA M. At least allow me, as a special favour, to brush your hat, which is covered with dust. ER. Brush, then, since it must be so. LA M. Will you wear it like that? ER. Good Heavens, make haste! LA M. It would be a shame. ER. _(After waiting_). That is enough. LA M. Have a little patience. ER. He will be the death of me! LA M. Where could you get all this dirt? ER. Do you intend to keep that hat forever? LA M. It is finished. ER. Give it me, then. LA M. (_Letting the hat fall_). Ah! ER. There it is on the ground. I am not much the better for all your brushing! Plague take you! LA M. Let me give it a couple of rubs to take off... ER. You shall not. The deuce take every servant who dogs your heels, who wearies his master, and does nothing but annoy him by wanting to set himself up as indispensable! SCENE II.--ORPHISE, ALCIDOR, ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE. (_Orphise passes at the foot of the stage; Alcidor holds her hand._) ER. But do I not see Orphise? Yes, it is she who comes. Whither goeth she so fast, and what man is that who holds her hand? (_He bows to her as she passes, and she turns her head another way_). SCENE III.--ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE. ER. What! She sees me here before her, and she passes by, pretending not to know me! What can I think? What do you say? Speak if you will. LA M. Sir, I say nothing, lest I bore you. ER. And so indeed you do, if you say nothing to me whilst I suffer such a cruel martyrdom. Give me some answer; I am quite dejected. What am I to think? Say, what do you think of it? Tell me your opinion. LA M. Sir, I desire to hold my tongue, and not to set up for being indispensable. ER. Hang the impertinent fellow! Go and follow them; see what becomes of them, and do not quit them. LA M. (_Returning_). Shall I follow at a distance? ER. Yes. LA M. (_Returning_). Without their seeing me, or letting it appear that I was sent after them? ER. No, you will do much better to let them know that you follow them by my express orders. LA M. (_Returning_). Shall I find you here? ER. Plague take you. I declare you are the biggest bore in the world! SCENE IV.--ÉRASTE, _alone_. Ah, how anxious I feel; how I wish I had missed this fatal appointment! I thought I should find everything favourable; and, instead of that, my heart is tortured. SCENE V.--LISANDRE, ÉRASTE. LIS. I recognized you under these trees from a distance, dear Marquis; and I came to you at once. As one of my friends, I must sing you a certain air which I have made for a little Couranto, which pleases all the connoisseurs at court, and to which more than a score have already written words. [Footnote: See Vol. I., page 164, note 14.] I have wealth, birth, a tolerable employment, and am of some consequence in France; but I would not have failed, for all I am worth, to compose this air which I am going to let you hear. (_He tries his voice_). La, la; hum, hum; listen attentively, I beg. (_he sings an air of a Couranto_). Is it not fine? ER. Ah! LIS. This close is pretty. (_He sings the close over again four or five times successively_). How do you like it? ER. Very fine, indeed. LIS. The steps which I have arranged are no less pleasing, and the figure in particular is wonderfully graceful. (_He sings the words, talks, and dances at the same time; and makes Éraste perform the lady's steps_). Stay, the gen-man crosses thus; then the lady crosses again: together: then they separate, and the lady comes there. Do you observe that little touch of a faint? This fleuret? These coupés running after the fair one. [Footnote: A fleuret was an old step in dancing formed of two half coupées and two steps on the point of the toes.] [Footnote: A coupé is a movement in dancing, when one leg is a little bent, and raised from the ground, and with the other a motion is made forward.] Back to back: face to face, pressing up close to her. (_After finishing_). What do you think of it, Marquis? ER. All those steps are fine. LIS. For my part, I would not give a fig for your ballet-masters. ER. Evidently. LIS. And the steps then? ER. Are wonderful in every particular. LIS. Shall I teach you them, for friendship's sake? ER. To tell the truth, just now I am somewhat disturbed .... LIS. Well, then, it shall be when you please. If I had those new words about me, we would read them together, and see which were the prettiest. ER. Another time. LIS. Farewell. My dearest Baptiste has not seen my Couranto; I am going to look for him. We always agree about the tunes; I shall ask him to score it. (_Exit, still singing_.) [Footnote: Jean Baptiste Lulli had been appointed, in the month of May of 1661, the same year that _The Bores_ was first played, _Surintendant et Compositeur de la musique de la chambre du Roi_.] SCENE VI.--ÉRASTE, _alone_. Heavens! must we be compelled daily to endure a hundred fools, because they are men of rank, and must we, in our politeness, demean ourselves so often to applaud, when they annoy us? SCENE VII.--ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE. LA M. Sir, Orphise is alone, and is coming this way. ER. Ah, I feel myself greatly disturbed! I still love the cruel fair one, and my reason bids me hate her. LA M. Sir, your reason knows not what it would be at, nor yet what power a mistress has over a man's heart. Whatever just cause we may have to be angry with a fair lady, she can set many things to rights by a single word. ER. Alas, I must confess it; the sight of her inspires me with respect instead of with anger. SCENE VIII.--ORPHISE, ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE. ORPH. Your countenance seems to me anything but cheerful. Can it be my presence, Éraste, which annoys you? What is the matter? What is amiss? What makes you heave those sighs at my appearance? ER. Alas! can you ask me, cruel one, what makes me so sad, and what will kill me? Is it not malicious to feign ignorance of what you have done to me? The gentleman whose conversation made you pass me just now... ORPH. (_Laughing_). Does that disturb you? ER. Do, cruel one, anew insult my misfortune. Certainly, it ill becomes you to jeer at my grief, and, by outraging my feelings, ungrateful woman, to take advantage of my weakness for you. ORPH. I really must laugh, and declare that you are very silly to trouble yourself thus. The man of whom you speak, far from being able to please me, is a bore of whom I have succeeded in ridding myself; one of those troublesome and officious fools who will not suffer a lady to be anywhere alone, but come up at once, with soft speech, offering you a hand against which one rebels. I pretended to be going away, in order to hide my intention, and he gave me his hand as far as my coach. I soon got rid of him in that way, and returned by another gate to come to you. ER. Orphise, can I believe what you say? And is your heart really true to me? ORPH. You are most kind to speak thus, when I justify myself against your frivolous complaints. I am still wonderfully simple, and my foolish kindness... ER. Ah! too severe beauty, do not be angry. Being under your sway, I will implicitly believe whatever you are kind enough to tell me. Deceive your hapless lover if you will; I shall respect you to the last gasp. Abuse my love, refuse me yours, show me another lover triumphant; yes, I will endure everything for your divine charms. I shall die, but even then I will not complain. ORPH. As such sentiments rule your heart, I shall know, on my side ... SCENE IX.--ALCANDRE, ORPHISE, ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE. ALC. (_To Orphise_). Marquis, one word. Madame, I pray you to pardon me, if I am indiscreet in venturing, before you, to speak with him privately. (_Exit Orphise_). SCENE X.--ALCANDRE, ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE. ALC. I have a difficulty, Marquis, in making my request; but a fellow has just insulted me, and I earnestly wish, not to be behind-hand with him, that you would at once go and carry him a challenge from me. You know that in a like case I should joyfully repay you in the same coin. ER. (_After a brief silence_). I have no desire to boast, but I was a soldier before I was a courtier. I served fourteen years, and I think I may fairly refrain from such a step with propriety, not fearing that the refusal of my sword can be imputed to cowardice. A duel puts one in an awkward light, and our King is not the mere shadow of a monarch. He knows how to make the highest in the state obey him, and I think that he acts like a wise Prince. When he needs my service, I have courage enough to perform it; but I have none to displease him. His commands are a supreme law to me; seek some one else to disobey him. I speak to you, Viscount, with entire frankness; in every other matter I am at your service. Farewell. [Footnote: During his long reign, Louis XIV. tried to put a stop to duelling; and, though he did not wholly succeed, he prevented the seconds from participating in the fight,--a custom very general before his rule, and to which Éraste alludes in saying that he does not "fear that the refusal of his (my) sword can be imputed to cowardice."] SCENE XI.--ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE. ER. To the deuce with these bores, fifty times over! Where, now, has my beloved gone to? LA M. I know not. ER. Go and search everywhere till you find her. I shall await you in this walk. BALLET TO ACT I. _First Entry_. Players at Mall, crying out "Ware!" compel Éraste to draw back. After the players at Mall have finished, Éraste returns to wait for Orphise. _Second Entry_. Inquisitive folk advance, turning round him to see who he is, and cause him again to retire for a little while. * * * * * ACT II. SCENE I.--ÉRASTE, _alone_. Are the bores gone at last? I think they rain here on every side. The more I flee from them, the more I light on them; and to add to my uneasiness, I cannot find her whom I wish to find. The thunder and rain have soon passed over, and have not dispersed the fashionable company. Would to Heaven that those gifts which it showered upon us, had driven away all the people who weary me! The sun sinks fast; I am surprised that my servant has not yet returned. SCENE II.--ALCIPPE, ÉRASTE. ALC. Good day to you. ER. (_Aside_). How now! Is my passion always to be turned aside? ALC. Console me, Marquis, in respect of a wonderful game of piquet which I lost yesterday to a certain Saint-Bouvain, to whom I could have given fifteen points and the deal. It was a desperate blow, which has been too much for me since yesterday, and would make me wish all players at the deuce; a blow, I assure you, enough to make me hang myself in public.--I wanted only two tricks, whilst the other wanted a piquet. I dealt, he takes six, and asks for another deal. I, having a little of everything, refuse. I had the ace of clubs (fancy my bad luck!) the ace, king, knave, ten and eight of hearts, and as I wanted to make the point, threw away king and queen of diamonds, ten and queen of spades. I had five hearts in hand, and took up the queen, which just made me a high sequence of five. But my gentleman, to my extreme surprise, lays down on the table a sequence of six low diamonds, together with the ace. I had thrown away king and queen of the same colour. But as he wanted a piquet, I got the better of my fear, and was confident at least of making two tricks. Besides the seven diamonds he had four spades, and playing the smallest of them, put me in the predicament of not knowing which of my two aces to keep. I threw away, rightly as I thought, the ace of hearts; but he had discarded four clubs, and I found myself made _Capot_ by a six of hearts, unable, from sheer vexation, to say a single word. [Footnote: In the seventeenth century, piquet was not played with thirty-two, but with thirty-six, cards; the sixes, which are now thrown away, remained then in the pack. Every player received twelve cards, and twelve remained on the table. He who had to play first could throw away seven or eight cards, the dealer four or five, and both might take fresh ones from those that were on the table. A trick counted only when taken with one of the court-cards, or a ten. Saint-Bouvain, after having taken up his cards, had in hand six small diamonds with the ace, which counted 7, a sequence of six diamonds from the six to the knave counted 16, thus together 23, before he began to play. With his seven diamonds he made seven tricks, but only counted 3, for those made by the ace, knave, and ten; this gave him 26. Besides his seven diamonds he had four spades, most likely the ace, king, knave, and a little one, and a six of hearts; though he made all the tricks he only counted 3, which gave him 29. But as Alcippe had not made a single trick, he was _capot_, which gave Saint-Bouvain 40; this with the 29 he made before, brought the total up to 69. As the latter only wanted a _piquet_, that is 60,--which is when a player makes thirty in a game, to which an additional thirty are then added, Saint-Bouvain won the game. Alcippe does not, however, state what other cards he had in his hand at the moment the play began besides the ace of clubs and a high sequence of five hearts, as well as the eight of the same colour.] By Heaven, account to me for this frightful piece of luck. Could it be credited, without having seen it? [Footnote: Compare with Molière's description of the game of piquet Pope's poetical history of the game of Ombre in the third Canto of _The Rape of the Lock._] ER. It is in play that luck is mostly seen. ALC. 'Sdeath, you shall judge for yourself if I am wrong, and if it is without cause that this accident enrages me. For here are our two hands, which I carry about me on purpose. Stay, here is my hand, as I told you; and here ... ER. I understood everything from your description, and admit that you have a good cause to be enraged. But I must leave you on certain business. Farewell. But take comfort in your misfortune. ALC. Who; I? I shall always have that luck on my mind; it is worse than a thunderbolt to me. I mean to shew it to all the world. (_He retires and on the point of returning, says meditatively_) A six of hearts! two points. ER. Where in the world are we? Go where we will, we see nothing but fools. SCENE III.--ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE. ER. Ha! how long you have been, and how you have made me suffer. LA M. Sir, I could not make greater haste. ER. But at length do you bring me some news? LA M. Doubtless; and by express command, from her you love, I have something to tell you. ER. What? Already my heart yearns for the message. Speak! LA M. Do you wish to know what it is? ER. Yes; speak quickly. LA M. Sir, pray wait. I have almost run myself out of breath. ER. Do you find any pleasure in keeping me in suspense? LA M. Since you wish to know at once the orders which I have received from this charming person, I will tell you.... Upon my word, without boasting of my zeal, I went a great way to find the lady; and if... ER. Hang your digressions! LA M. Fie! you should somewhat moderate your passion; and Seneca... ER. Seneca is a fool in your mouth, since he tells me nothing of all that concerns me. Tell me your message at once. LA M. To satisfy you, Orphise ... An insect has got among your hair. ER. Let it alone. LA M. This lovely one sends you word ... ER. What? LA M. Guess. ER. Are you aware that I am in no laughing mood? LA M. Her message is, that you are to remain in this place, that in a short time you shall see her here, when she has got rid of some country-ladies, who greatly bore all people at court. ER. Let us, then stay in the place she has selected. But since this message affords me some leisure, let me muse a little. (_Exit La Montagne_). I propose to write for her some verses to an air which I know she likes. (_He walks up and down the stage in a reverie_). SCENE IV.--ORANTE, CLIMÈNE, ÉRASTE (_at the side of the stage, unseen_.) OR. Everyone will be of my opinion. CL. Do you think you will carry your point by obstinacy? OR. I think my reasons better than yours. CL. I wish some one could hear both. OR. I see a gentleman here who is not ignorant; he will be able to judge of our dispute. Marquis, a word, I beg of you. Allow us to ask you to decide in a quarrel between us two; we had a discussion arising from our different opinions, as to what may distinguish the most perfect lovers. ER. That is a question difficult to settle; you had best look for a more skilful judge. OR. No: you speak to no purpose. Your wit is much commended; and we know you. We know that everyone, with justice, gives you the character of a... ER. Oh, I beseech you ... OR. In a word, you shall be our umpire, and you must spare us a couple of minutes. CL. (_To Orante_). Now you are retaining one who must condemn you: for, to be brief, if what I venture to hold be true, this gentleman will give the victory to my arguments. ER. (_Aside_). Would that I could get hold of any rascal to invent something to get me off! OR. (_To Climène_). For my part, I am too much assured of his sense to fear that he will decide against me. (_To Éraste_). Well, this great contest which rages between us is to know whether a lover should be jealous. CL. Or, the better to explain my opinion and yours, which ought to please most, a jealous man or one that is not so? OR. For my part, I am clearly for the last. CL. As for me, I stand up for the first. OR. I believe that our heart must declare for him who best displays his respect. CL. And I that, if our sentiments are to be shewn, it ought to be for him who makes his love most apparent. OR. Yes; but we perceive the ardour of a lover much better through respect than through jealousy. CL. It is my opinion that he who is attached to us, loves us the more that he shows himself jealous? OR. Fie, Climène, do not call lovers those men whose love is like hatred, and who, instead of showing their respect and their ardour, give themselves no thought save how to become wearisome; whose minds, being ever prompted by some gloomy passion, seek to make a crime out of the slightest actions, are too blind to believe them innocent, and demand an explanation for a glance; who, if we seem a little sad, at once complain that their presence is the cause of it, and when the least joy sparkles in our eyes, will have their rivals to be at the bottom of it; who, in short, assuming a right because they are greatly in love, never speak to us save to pick a quarrel, dare to forbid anyone to approach us, and become the tyrants of their very conquerors. As for me, I want lovers to be respectful; their submission is a sure proof of our sway. CL. Fie, do not call those men true lovers who are never violent in their passion; those lukewarm gallants, whose tranquil hearts already think everything quite sure, have no fear of losing us, and overweeningly suffer their love to slumber day by day, are on good terms with their rivals, and leave a free field for their perseverance. So sedate a love incites my anger; to be without jealousy is to love coldly. I would that a lover, in order to prove his flame, should have his mind shaken by eternal suspicions, and, by sudden outbursts, show clearly the value he sets upon her to whose hand he aspires. Then his restlessness is applauded; and, if he sometimes treats us a little roughly, the pleasure of seeing him, penitent at our feet, to excuse himself for the outbreak of which he has been guilty, his tears, his despair at having been capable of displeasing us, are a charm to soothe all our anger. OR. If much violence is necessary to please you, I know who would satisfy you; I am acquainted with several men in Paris who love well enough to beat their fair ones openly. CL. If to please you, there must never be jealousy, I know several men just suited to you; lovers of such enduring mood that they would see you in the arms of thirty people without being concerned about it. OR. And now you must, by your sentence, declare whose love appears to you preferable. (_Orphise appears at the back of the stage, and sees Éraste between Orante and Climène_). ER. Since I cannot avoid giving judgment, I mean to satisfy you both at once; and, in order, not to blame that which is pleasing in your eyes, the jealous man loves more, but the other loves wisely. CL. The judgment is very judicious; but... ER. It is enough. I have finished. After what I have said permit me to leave you. SCENE V.--ORPHISE, ÉRASTE. ER. (_Seeing Orphise, and going to meet her_). How long you have been, Madam, and how I suffer ... ORPH. Nay, nay, do not leave such a pleasant conversation. You are wrong to blame me for having arrived too late. (_Pointing to Orante and Climène, who have just left_). You had wherewithal to get on without me. ER. Will you be angry with me without reason, and reproach me with what I am made to suffer? Oh, I beseech you, stay ... ORPH. Leave me, I beg, and hasten to rejoin your company. SCENE VI.--ÉRASTE, _alone_. Heaven! must bores of both sexes conspire this day to frustrate my dearest wishes? But let me follow her in spite of her resistance, and make my innocence clear in her eyes. SCENE VII.--DORANTE, ÉRASTE. DOR. Ah, Marquis, continually we find tedious people interrupting the course of our pleasures! You see me enraged on account of a splendid hunt, which a booby ... It is a story I must relate to you. ER. I am looking for some one, and cannot stay. DOR. (_Retaining him_). Egad, I shall tell it you as we go along. We were a well selected company who met yesterday to hunt a stag; on purpose we went to sleep on the ground itself--that is, my dear sir, far away in the forest. As the chase is my greatest pleasure, I wished, to do the thing well, to go to the wood myself; we decided to concentrate our efforts upon a stag which every one said was seven years old. [Footnote: The original expression is _cerf dix-corps_; this, according to the _dictionnaire de chasse_, is a seven years' old animal.] But my own opinion was--though I did not stop to observe the marks--that it was only a stag of the second year. [Footnote: The technical term is: "a knobbler;" in French, _un cerf à sa seconde tête.] We had separated, as was necessary, into different parties, and were hastily breakfasting on some new-laid eggs, when a regular country-gentleman, with a long sword, proudly mounted on his brood-mare, which he honoured with the name of his good mare, came up to pay us an awkward compliment, presenting to us at the same time, to increase our vexation, a great booby of a son, as stupid as his father. He styled himself a great sportsman, and begged that he might have the pleasure of accompanying us. Heaven preserve every sensible sportsman, when hunting, from a fellow who carries a dog's horn, which sounds when it ought not; from those gentry who, followed by ten mangy dogs, call them "my pack," and play the part of wonderful hunters. His request granted, and his knowledge commended, we all of us started the deer, [Footnote: The original has _frapper à nos brisées_; _brisées_ means "blinks." According to Dr. Ash's Dictionary, 1775, "Blinks are the boughs or branches thrown in the way of a deer to stop its course."] within thrice the length of the leash, tally-ho! the dogs were put on the track of the stag. I encouraged them, and blew a loud blast. My stag emerged from the wood, and crossed a pretty wide plain, the dogs after him, but in such good order that you could have covered them all with one cloak. He made for the forest. Then we slipped the old pick upon him; I quickly brought out my sorrel-horse. You have seen him? ER. I think not. DOR. Not seen him? The animal is as good as he is beautiful; I bought him some days ago from Gaveau. [Footnote: A well-known horse-dealer in Molière's time.] I leave you to think whether that dealer, who has such a respect for me, would deceive me in such a matter; I am satisfied with the horse. He never indeed sold a better, or a better-shaped one. The head of a barb, with a clear star; the neck of a swan, slender, and very straight; no more shoulder than a hare; short-jointed, and full of vivacity in his motion. Such feet--by Heaven! such feet!--double-haunched: to tell you the truth, it was I alone who found the way to break him in. Gaveau's Little John never mounted him without trembling, though he did his best to look unconcerned. A back that beats any horse's for breadth; and legs! O ye Heavens! [Footnote: Compare the description of the horse given by the Dauphin in Shakespeare's Henry V., Act iii., Scene 6, and also that of the "round hoof'd, short jointed" jennet in the _Venus and Adonis_ of the same author.] In short, he is a marvel; believe me, I have refused a hundred pistoles for him, with one of the horses destined for the King to boot. I then mounted, and was in high spirits to see some of the hounds coursing over the plain to get the better of the deer. I pressed on, and found myself in a by-thicket at the heels of the dogs, with none else but Drecar. [Footnote: A famous huntsman in Molière's time.] There for an hour our stag was at bay. Upon this, I cheered on the dogs, and made a terrible row. In short, no hunter was ever more delighted! I alone started him again; and all was going on swimmingly, when a young stag joined ours. Some of my dogs left the others. Marquis, I saw them, as you may suppose, follow with hesitation, and Finaut was at a loss. But he suddenly turned, which delighted me very much, and drew the dogs the right way, whilst I sounded horn and hallooed, "Finaut! Finaut!" I again with pleasure discovered the track of the deer by a mole-hill, and blew away at my leisure. A few dogs ran back to me, when, as ill-luck would have it, the young stag came over to our country bumpkin. My blunderer began blowing like mad, and bellowed aloud, "Tallyho! tallyho! tallyho!" All my dogs left me, and made for my booby. I hastened there, and found the track again on the highroad. But, my dear fellow, I had scarcely cast my eyes on the ground, when I discovered it was the other animal, and was very much annoyed at it. It was in vain to point out to the country fellow the difference between the print of my stag's hoof and his. He still maintained, like an ignorant sportsman, that this was the pack's stag; and by this disagreement he gave the dogs time to get a great way off. I was in a rage, and, heartily cursing the fellow, I spurred my horse up hill and down dale, and brushed through boughs as thick as my arm. I brought back my dogs to my first scent, who set off, to my great joy, in search of our stag, as though he were in full view. They started him again; but, did ever such an accident happen? To tell you the truth, Marquis, it floored me. Our stag, newly started, passed our bumpkin, who, thinking to show what an admirable sportsman he was, shot him just in the forehead with a horse-pistol that he had brought with him, and cried out to me from a distance, "Ah! I've brought the beast down!" Good Heavens! did any one ever hear of pistols in stag-hunting? As for me, when I came to the spot, I found the whole affair so odd, that I put spurs to my horse in a rage, and returned home at a gallop, without saying a single word to that ignorant fool. ER. You could not have done better; your prudence was admirable. That is how we must get rid of bores. Farewell. DOR. When you like, we will go somewhere where we need not dread country-hunters. ER. (_Alone_). Very well. I think I shall lose patience in the end. Let me make all haste, and try to excuse myself. BALLET TO ACT II. _First Entry_. Bowlers stop Éraste to measure a distance about which there is a dispute. He gets clear of them with difficulty, and leaves them to dance a measure, composed of all the postures usual to that game. _Second Entry_. Little boys with slings enter and interrupt them, who are in their turn driven out by _Third Entry_. Cobblers, men and women, their fathers, and others, who are also driven out in their turn. _Fourth Entry_. A gardener, who dances alone, and then retires. * * * * * ACT III. SCENE I.--ÉRASTE, LA MONTAGNE. ER. It is true that on the one hand my efforts have succeeded; the object of my love is at length appeased. But on the other hand I am wearied, and the cruel stars have persecuted my passion with double fury. Yes, Damis, her guardian, the worst of bores, is again hostile to my tenderest desires, has forbidden me to see his lovely niece, and wishes to provide her to-morrow with another husband. Yet Orphise, in spite of his refusal, deigns to grant me this evening a favour; I have prevailed upon the fair one to suffer me to see her in her own house, in private. Love prefers above all secret favours; it finds a pleasure in the obstacle which it masters; the slightest conversation with the beloved beauty becomes, when it is forbidden, a supreme favour. I am going to the rendezvous; it is almost the hour; since I wish to be there rather before than after my time. LA M. Shall I follow you? ER. No. I fear least you should make me known to certain suspicious persons. LA M. But .... ER. I do not desire it. LA M. I must obey you. But at least, if at a distance.... ER. For the twentieth time will you hold your tongue? And will you never give up this practice of perpetually making yourself a troublesome servant? SCENE II.--CARITIDÈS; ÉRASTE. CAR. Sir, it is an unseasonable time to do myself the honour of waiting upon you; morning would be more fit for performing such a duty, but it is not very easy to meet you, for you are always asleep, or in town. At least your servants so assure me. I have chosen this opportunity to see you. And yet this is a great happiness with which fortune favours me, for a couple of moments later I should have missed you. ER. Sir, do you desire something of me? CAR. I acquit myself, sir, of what I owe you; and come to you ... Excuse the boldness which inspires me, if... ER. Without so much ceremony, what have you to say to me? CAR. As the rank, wit, and generosity which every one extols in you... ER. Yes, I am very much extolled. Never mind that, sir. CAR. Sir, it is a vast difficulty when a man has to introduce himself; we should always be presented to the great by people who commend us in words, whose voice, being listened to, delivers with authority what may cause our slender merit to be known. In short, I could have wished that some persons well-informed could have told you, sir, what I am... ER. I see sufficiently, sir, what you are. Your manner of accosting me makes that clear. CAR. Yes, I am a man of learning charmed by your worth; not one of those learned men whose name ends simply in _us_. Nothing is so common as a name with a Latin termination. Those we dress in Greek have a much superior look; and in order to have one ending in _ès_, I call myself Mr. Caritidès. ER. Caritidès be it. What have you to say? CAR. I wish, sir, to read you a petition, which I venture to beg of you to present to the King, as your position enables you to do. ER. Why, sir, you can present it yourself! ... CAR. It is true that the King grants that supreme favour; but, from the very excess of his rare kindness, so many villainous petitions, sir, are presented that they choke the good ones; the hope I entertain is that mine should be presented when his Majesty is alone. ER. Well, you can do it, and choose your own time. CAR. Ah, sir, the door-keepers are such terrible fellows! They treat men of learning like snobbs and butts; I can never get beyond the guard-room. The ill-treatment I am compelled to suffer would make me withdraw from court for ever, if I had not conceived the certain hope that you will be my Mecaeænas with the King. Yes, your influence is to me a certain means ... ER. Well, then, give it me; I will present it. CAR. Here it is. But at least, hear it read. ER. No ... CAR. That you may be acquainted with it, sir, I beg. "TO THE KING. "_Sire,--Your most humble, most obedient, most faithful and most learned subject and servant, Caritidès, a Frenchman by birth, a Greek_ [Footnote: The original has _Grec_, a Greek. Can Caritidès have wished to allude to the _græaca fides_? _Grec_ means also a cheat at cards, and is said to owe its name to a certain Apoulos, a knight of Greek origin, who was caught in the very act of cheating at play in the latter days of Louis XIV.'s reign, even in the palace of the _grand monarque_.] _by profession, having considered the great and notable abuses which are perpetrated in the inscriptions on the signs of houses, shops, taverns, bowling-alleys, and other places in your good city of Paris; inasmuch as certain ignorant composers of the said inscriptions subvert, by a barbarous, pernicious and hateful spelling, every kind of sense and reason, without any regard for etymology, analogy, energy or allegory whatsoever, to the great scandal of the republic of letters, and of the French nation, which is degraded and dishonoured, by the said abuses and gross faults, in the eyes of strangers, and notably of the Germans, curious readers and inspectors of the said inscriptions..." [Footnote: This is an allusion either to the reputation of the Germans as great drinkers, or as learned decipherers of all kinds of inscriptions.] ER. This petition is very long, and may very likely weary... CAR. Ah, sir, not a word could be cut out. ER. Finish quickly. CAR. (Continuing). "_Humbly petitions your Majesty to constitute, for the good of his state and the glory of his realm, an office of controller, supervisor, corrector, reviser and restorer in general of the said inscriptions; and with this office to honour your suppliant, as well in consideration of his rare and eminent erudition, as of the great and signal services which he has rendered to the state and to your Majesty, by making the anagram of your said Majesty in French, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Syriac, Chaldean, Arabic_..." ER. (_Interrupting him_). Very good. Give it me quickly and retire: it shall be seen by the King; the thing is as good as done. CAR. Alas! sir, to show my petition is everything. If the King but see it, I am sure of my point; for as his justice is great in all things, he will never be able to refuse my prayer. For the rest, to raise your fame to the skies, give me your name and surname in writing, and I will make a poem, in which the first letters of your name shall appear at both ends of the lines, and in each half measure. ER. Yes, you shall have it to-morrow, Mr. Caritidès. (_Alone_). Upon my word, such learned men are perfect asses. Another time I should have heartily laughed at his folly. SCENE III.--ORMIN, ÉRASTE. ORM. Though a matter of great consequence brings me here, I wished that man to leave before speaking to you. ER. Very well. But make haste; for I wish to be gone. ORM. I almost fancy that the man who has just left you has vastly annoyed you, sir, by his visit. He is a troublesome old man whose mind is not quite right, and for whom I have always some excuse ready to get rid of him. On the Mall, in the Luxembourg, [Footnote: The Mall was a promenade in Paris, shaded by trees, near the Arsenal.] [Footnote: The Luxembourg was in Molière's time the most fashionable promenade of Paris.] and in the Tuileries he wearies people with his fancies; men like you should avoid the conversation of all those good-for-nothing pedants. For my part I have no fear of troubling you, since I am come, sir, to make your fortune. ER. (_Aside_). This is some alchymist: one of those creatures who have nothing, and are always promising you ever so much riches. (_Aloud_). Have you discovered that blessed stone, sir, which alone can enrich all the kings of the earth? ORM. Aha! what a funny idea! Heaven forbid, sir, that I should be one of those fools. I do not foster idle dreams; I bring you here sound words of advice which I would communicate, through you, to the King, and which I always carry about me, sealed up. None of those silly plans and vain chimeras which are dinned in the ears of our superintendents; [Footnote: This is an allusion to the giver of the feast, Mons. Fouquet, _surintendant des finances_. See also page 299, note I.] none of your beggarly schemes which rise to no more than twenty or thirty millions; but one which, at the lowest reckoning, will give the King a round four hundred millions yearly, with ease, without risk or suspicion, without oppressing the nation in any way. In short, it is a scheme for an inconceivable profit, which will be found feasible at the first explanation. Yes, if only through you I can be encouraged ... ER. Well, we will talk of it. I am rather in a hurry. ORM. If you will promise to keep it secret, I will unfold to you this important scheme. ER. No, no; I do not wish to know your secret. ORM. Sir, I believe you are too discreet to divulge it, and I wish to communicate it to you frankly, in two words. I must see that none can hear us. (_After seeing that no one is listening, he approaches Eraste's ear_). This marvellous plan, of which I am the inventor, is... ER. A little farther off, sir, for a certain reason. ORM. You know, without any need of my telling you, the great profit which the King yearly receives from his seaports. Well, the plan of which no one has yet thought, and which is an easy matter, is to make all the coasts of France into famous ports. This would amount to vast sums; and if ... ER. The scheme is good, and will greatly please the King. Farewell. We shall see each other again. ORM. At all events assist me, for you are the first to whom I have spoken of it. ER. Yes, yes. ORM. If you would lend me a couple of pistoles, you could repay yourself out of the profits of the scheme .... ER. (_Gives money to Ormin_). Gladly. (_Alone_). Would to Heaven, that at such a price I could get rid of all who trouble me! How ill-timed their visit is! At last I think I may go. Will any one else come to detain me? SCENE IV.--FILINTE, ÉRASTE. FIL. Marquis, I have just heard strange tidings. ER. What? FIL. That some one has just now quarrelled with you. ER. With me? FIL. What is the use of dissimulation? I know on good authority that you have been called out; and, as your friend, I come, at all events, to offer you my services against all mankind. ER. I am obliged to you; but believe me you do me.... FIL. You will not admit it; but you are going out without attendants. Stay in town, or go into the country, you shall go nowhere without my accompanying you. ER. (_Aside_). Oh, I shall go mad. FIL. Where is the use of hiding from me? ER. I swear to you, Marquis, that you have been deceived. FIL. It is no use denying it. ER. May Heaven smite me, if any dispute.... FIL. Do you think I believe you? ER. Good Heaven, I tell you without concealment that.... FIL. Do not think me such a dupe and simpleton. ER. Will you oblige me? FIL. No. ER. Leave me, I pray. FIL. Nothing of the sort, Marquis. ER. An assignation to-night at a certain place.... FIL. I do not quit you. Wherever it be, I mean to follow you. ER. On my soul, since you mean me to have a quarrel, I agree to it, to satisfy your zeal. I shall be with you, who put me in a rage, and of whom I cannot get rid by fair means. FIL. That is a sorry way of receiving the service of a friend. But as I do you so ill an office, farewell. Finish what you have on hand without me. ER. You will be my friend when you leave me. (_Alone_). But see what misfortunes happen to me! They will have made me miss the hour appointed. SCENE V.--DAMIS, L'ÉPINE, ÉRASTE, LA RIVIÈRE, _and his Companions_. DAM. (_Aside_). What! the rascal hopes to obtain her in spite of me! Ah! my just wrath shall know how to prevent him! ER. (_Aside_). I see some one there at Orphise's door. What! must there always be some obstacle to the passion she sanctions! DAM. (_To L'Epine_). Yes, I have discovered that my niece, in spite of my care, is to receive Éraste in her room to-night, alone. LA R. (_To his companions_). What do I hear those people saying of our master? Let us approach safely, without betraying ourselves. DAM. (_To L'Epine_). But before he has a chance of accomplishing his design, we must pierce his treacherous heart with a thousand blows. Go and fetch those whom I mentioned just now, and place them in ambush where I told you, so that at the name of Éraste they may be ready to avenge my honour, which his passion has the presumption to outrage; to break off the assignation which brings him here, and quench his guilty flame in his blood. LA R. (_Attacking Damis with his companions_). Before your fury can destroy him, wretch! you shall have to deal with us! ER. Though he would have killed me, honour urges me here to rescue the uncle of my mistress. (_To Damis_). I am on your side, Sir. (_He draws his sword and attacks La Rivière and his companions, whom he puts to flight_.) DAM. Heavens! By whose aid do I find myself saved from a certain death? To whom am I indebted for so rare a service? ER. (_Returning_). In serving you, I have done but an act of justice. DAM. Heavens. Can I believe my ears! Is this the hand of Éraste? ER. Yes, yes, Sir, it is I. Too happy that my hand has rescued you: too unhappy in having deserved your hatred. DAM. What! Éraste, whom I was resolved to have assassinated has just used his sword to defend me! Oh, this is too much; my heart is compelled to yield; whatever your love may have meditated to-night, this remarkable display of generosity ought to stifle all animosity. I blush for my crime, and blame my prejudice. My hatred has too long done you injustice! To show you openly I no longer entertain it, I unite you this very night to your love. SCENE VI.--ORPHISE, DAMIS, ÉRASTE. ORPH. (_Entering with a silver candlestick in her hand_). Sir, what has happened that such a terrible disturbance.... DAM. Niece, nothing but what is very agreeable, since, after having blamed, for a long time, your love for Éraste, I now give him to you for a husband. His arm has warded off the deadly thrust aimed at me; I desire that your hand reward him. ORPH. I owe everything to you; if, therefore, it is to pay him your debt. I consent, as he has saved your life. ER. My heart is so overwhelmed by this great miracle, that amidst this ecstasy, I doubt if I am awake. DAM. Let us celebrate the happy lot that awaits you; and let our violins put us in a joyful mood. (_As the violins strike up, there is a knock at the door_). ER. Who knocks so loud? SCENE VII.--DAMIS, ORPHISE, ÉRASTE, L'ÉPINE. L'EP. Sir, here are masks, with kits and tabors. (_The masks enter, filling the stage_). ER. What! Bores for ever? Hulloa, guards, here. Turn out these rascals for me. BALLET TO ACT III. _First Entry_. Swiss guards, with halberds, drive out all the troublesome masks, and then retire to make room for a dance of [Footnote: The origin of the introduction of the Swiss Guards (mercenaries) in the service of the French and other foreign powers may be ascribed to the fact that Switzerland itself, being too poor to maintain soldiers in time of peace, allowed them to serve other nations on condition of coming back immediately to their own cantons in time of war or invasion. It is particularly with France that Switzerland contracted treaties to furnish certain contingents in case of need. The first of these dates back as far as 1444 between the Dauphin, afterwards Charles VII., and the different cantons. This Act was renewed in 1453, and the number of soldiers to be furnished was fixed once for all, the minimum being 6,000, and the maximum 16,000. The Helvetians, who until 1515 had always been faithful to their engagements, turned traitors in that year against Francis I., who defeated them at Marignan. But the good feeling was soon afterwards re-established, and a new treaty, almost similar to the former, restored the harmony between the two nations. Another document is extant, signed at Baden in 1553, by which the cantons bind themselves to furnish Henry II. with as many troops as he may want. It is particularly remarkable, inasmuch as it served as a basis for all subsequent ones until 1671. These conventions have not always been faithfully carried out, for the Swiss contracted engagements with other nations, notably with Spain, Naples, and Sardinia, and even with Portugal. At the commencement of the campaign of 1697, Louis XIV. had, notwithstanding all this, as many as 32,000 Swiss in his service, the highest number ever attained. The regulations for the foreign colonels and captains in their relations among themselves, and with the French Government, were not unlike those in force at present for the native soldiery in our Indian possessions. Towards the end of Louis XIV.'s reign the number decreased to 14,400, officers included; it rose in 1773 to 19,836, and during the wars of 1742-48. to 21,300. The ebb and flow of their numbers continued from that time until the Revolution of 1830, when they were finally abolished. They received a much higher pay than the national troops, and had besides this many other advantages, one of them being that the officers had in the army the next grade higher than that which they occupied in their own regiments; for instance, the colonel of a Swiss regiment had the rank of a major-general, and retired on the pay of a lieutenant-general, &c. They enjoyed the same privileges, with some slight modifications, wherever they served elsewhere.] _Second Entry_. Four shepherds and a shepherdess, who, in the opinion of all who saw it, concluded the entertainment with much grace.