The Misanthrope

  ORONTE. Upon my word! that is wisely said; and I esteem you all the more for it. Let us therefore leave it to time to form such a pleasing bond; but, meanwhile, I am entirely at your disposal. If you have any business at court, every one knows how well I stand with the King; I have his private ear; and, upon my word, he treats me in everything with the utmost intimacy. In short, I am yours in every emergency; and, as you are a man of brilliant parts, and to inaugurate our charming amity, I come to read you a sonnet which I made a little while ago, and to find out whether it be good enough for publicity. ALCESTE. I am not fit, sir, to decide such a matter. You will therefore excuse me.

  ORONTE. Why so?

  ALCESTE. I have the failing of being a little more sincere in those things than is necessary.

  ORONTE. The very thing I ask; and I should have reason to complain, if, in laying myself open to you that you might give me your frank opinion, you should deceive me, and disguise anything from me.

  ALCESTE. If that be the case, sir, I am perfectly willing.

  ORONTE. Sonnet . . . It is a sonnet . . . Hope . . . It is to a lady who flattered my passion with some hope. Hope . . . They are not long, pompous verses, but mild, tender and melting little lines. [At every one of these interruptions he looks at ALCESTE]

  ALCESTE. We shall see.

  ORONTE. Hope . . . I do not know whether the style will strike you as sufficiently clear and easy, and whether you will approve of my choice of words.

  ALCESTE. We shall soon see, sir.

  ORONTE. Besides, you must know that I was only a quarter of an hour in composing it.

  ALCESTE. Let us hear, sir; the time signifies nothing.

  ORONTE. [Reads]

  Hope, it is true, oft gives relief,

  Rocks for a while our tedious pain,

  But what a poor advantage, Phillis,

  When nought remains, and all is gone!

  PHILINTE. I am already charmed with this little bit.

  ALCESTE. [Softly to PHIUNTE] What! do you mean to tell me that you like this stuff?

  ORONTE.

  You once showed some complaisance,

  But less would have sufficed,

  You should not take that trouble

  To give me nought but hope.

  PHILINTE. In what pretty terms these thoughts are put!

  ALCESTE. How now! you vile flatterer, you praise this rubbish!

  ORONTE.

  If I must wait eternally,

  My passion, driven to extremes,

  Will fly to death.

  Your tender cares cannot prevent this,

  Fair Phillis, aye we’re in despair,

  When we must hope for ever.

  PHILINTE. The conclusion is pretty, amorous, admirable.

  ALCESTE. [Softly, and aside to PHILINTE] A plague on the conclusion! I wish you had concluded to break your nose, you poisoner to the devil!

  PHILINTE. I never heard verses more skilfully turned.

  ALCESTE. [Softly, and aside] Zounds! . . .

  ORONTE. [To PHILINTE] You flatter me, and you are under the impression perhaps . . .

  PHILINTE. No, I am not flattering at all.

  ALCESTE. [Softly, and aside] What else are you doing, you wretch?

  ORONTE. [To ALCESTE] But for you, you know our agreement. Speak to me, I pray, in all sincerity.

  ALCESTE. These matters, sir, are always more or less delicate, and every one is fond of being praised for his wit. But I was saying one day to a certain person, who shall be nameless, when he showed me some of his verses, that a gentleman ought at all times to exercise a great control over that itch for writing which sometimes attacks us, and should keep a tight rein over the strong propensity which one has to display such amusements; and that, in the frequent anxiety to show their productions, people are frequently exposed to act a very foolish part. ORONTE. Do you wish to convey to me by this that I am wrong in desiring ...

  ALCEST. I do not say that exactly. But I told him that writing without warmth becomes a bore; that there needs no other weakness to disgrace a man; that, even if people, on the other hand, had a hundred good qualities, we view them from their worst sides.

  ORONTE. Do you find anything to object to in my sonnet?

  ALCESTE. I do not say that. But, to keep him from writing, I set before his eyes how, in our days, that desire had spoiled a great many very worthy people.

  ORONTE. Do I write badly? Am I like them in any way?

  ALCESTE. I do not say that. But, in short, I said to him: What pressing need is there for you to rhyme, and what the deuce drives you into print? If we can pardon the sending into the world of a badly-written book, it will only be in those unfortunate men who write for their livelihood. Believe me, resist your temptations, keep these effusions from the public, and do not, how much soever you may be asked, forfeit the reputation which you enjoy at court of being a man of sense and a gentleman, to take, from the hands of a greedy printer, that of a ridiculous and wretched author. That is what I tried to make him understand.

  ORONTE. This is all well and good, and I seem to understand you. But I should like to know what there is in my sonnet to ...

  ALCEST. Candidly, you had better put it in your closet. You have been following bad models, and your expressions are not at all natural. Pray what is—Rocks for a while our tedious pain? And what, When nought remains, and all is gone? What, You should not take that trouble to give me nought but hope? And what, Phillis, aye we’re in despair when we must hope for ever? This figurative style, that people are so vain of, is beside all good taste and truth; it is only a play upon words, sheer affectation, and it is not thus that nature speaks. The wretched taste of the age is what I dislike in this. Our forefathers, unpolished as they were, had a much better one; and I value all that is admired now-a-days far less than an old song which I am going to repeat to you:

  Had our great monarch granted me

  His Paris large and fair;

  And I straightway must quit for aye

  The love of my true dear;

  Then would I say, King Hal, I pray,

  Take back your Paris fair,

  I love much mo my dear, I trow,

  I love much mo my dear.

  This versification is not rich, and the style is antiquated; but do you not see that it is far better than all those trumpery trifles against which good sense revolts, and that in this, passion speaks from the heart?

  Had our great monarch granted me

  His Paris large and fair;

  And I straightway must quit for aye

  The love of my true dear;

  Then would I say, King Hal, I pray,

  Take back your Paris fair,

  I love much mo my dear, I trow,

  I love much mo my dear.

  This is what a really loving heart would say. [To PHILINTE, who is laughing] Yes, master wag, in spite of all your wit, I care more for this than for all the florid pomp and the tinsel which everybody is admiring now-a-days.

  ORONTE. And I, I maintain that my verses are very good.

  ALCESTE. Doubtless you have your reasons for thinking them so; but you will allow me to have mine, which, with your permission, will remain independent.

  ORONTE. It is enough for me that others prize them.

  ALCESTE. That is because they know how to dissemble, which I do not.

  ORONTE. Do you really believe that you have such a great share of wit?

  ALCESTE. If I praised your verses, I should have more.

  ORONTE. I shall do very well without your approbation.

  ALCESTE. You will have to do without it, if it be all the same.

  ORONTE. I should like much to see you compose some on the same subject, just to have a sample of your style.

  ALCESTE. I might, perchance, make some as bad; but I should take good care not to show them to any one.

  ORONTE. You are mighty positive; and this great sufficiency ...

  ALCESTE. Pray, seek some one else to flatter you, and not me.
r />   ORONTE. But, my little sir, drop this haughty tone.

  ALCESTE. In truth, my big sir, I shall do as I like.

  PHILINTE. [Coming between them] Stop, gentlemen! that is carrying the matter too far. Cease, I pray.

  ORONTE. Ah! I am wrong, I confess; and I leave the field to you. I am your servant, sir, most heartily.

  ALCESTE. And I, sir, am your most humble servant.

  SCENE III.

  PHILINTE, ALCESTE.

  PHILINTE. Well! you see. By being too sincere, you have got a nice affair on your hands; I saw that Oronte, in order to be flattered . . .

  ALCESTE. Do not talk to me.

  PHILINTE. But . . .

  ALCESTE. No more society for me.

  PHILINTE. Is it too much . . .

  ALCESTE. Leave me alone.

  PHILINTE. If I . . .

  ALCESTE. Not another word.

  PHILINTE. But what . . .

  ALCESTE. I will hear no more.

  PHILINTE. But . . .

  ALCESTE. Again?

  PHILINTE. People insult . . .

  ALCESTE. Ah! Zounds! this is too much. Do not dog my steps.

  PHILINTE. You are making fun of me; I shall not leave you.

  ACT II.

  SCENE I.

  ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE.

  ALCESTE. Will you have me speak candidly to you, Madam? Well, then, I am very much dissatisfied with your behavior. I am very angry when I think of it; and I perceive that we shall have to break with each other. Yes; I should only deceive you were I to speak otherwise. Sooner or later a rupture is unavoidable; and if I were to promise the contrary a thousand times, I should not be able to bear this any longer.

  CÉLIMÈNE. Oh, I see! it is to quarrel with me, that you wished to conduct me home?

  ALCESTE. I do not quarrel. But your disposition, Madam, is too ready to give any first comer an entrance into your heart. Too many admirers beset you; and my temper cannot put up with that.

  CÉLIMÈNE. Am I to blame for having too many admirers? Can I prevent people from thinking me amiable? and am I to take a stick to drive them away, when they endeavor by tender means to visit me?

  ALCESTE. No, Madam, there is no need for a stick, but only a heart less yielding and less melting at their love-tales. I am aware that your good looks accompany you, go where you will; but your reception retains those whom your eyes attract; and that gentleness, accorded to those who surrender their arms, finishes on their hearts the sway which your charms began. The too agreeable expectation which you offer them increases their assiduities towards you; and your complacency, a little less extended, would drive away the great crowd of so many admirers. But tell me, at least, Madam, by what good fortune Clitandre has the happiness of pleasing you so mightily? Upon what basis of merit and sublime virtue do you ground the honor of your regard for him? Is it by the long nail on his little finger that he has acquired the esteem which you display for him? Are you, like all the rest of the fashionable world, fascinated by the dazzling merit of his fair wig? Do his great rolls make you love him? Do his many ribbons charm you? Is it by the attraction of his great German breeches that he has conquered your heart, whilst at the same time he pretended to be your slave? Or have his manner of smiling, and his falsetto voice, found out the secret of moving your feelings?

  CÉLIMÈNE. How unjustly you take umbrage at him! Do not you know why I countenance him; and that he has promised to interest all his friends in my lawsuit?

  ALCESTE. Lose your lawsuit, Madam, with patience, and do not countenance a rival whom I detest.

  CÉLIMÈNE. But you are getting jealous of the whole world.

  ALCESTE. It is because the whole world is so kindly received by you.

  CÉLIMÈNE. That is the very thing to calm your frightened mind, because my good-will is diffused over all: you would have more reason to be offended if you saw me entirely occupied with one.

  ALCESTE. But as for me, whom you accuse of too much jealousy, what have I more than any of them, Madam, pray?

  CÉLIMÈNE. The happiness of knowing that you are beloved.

  ALCESTE. And what grounds has my lovesick heart for believing it?

  CÉLIMÈNE. I think that, as I have taken the trouble to tell you so, such an avowal ought to satisfy you.

  ALCESTE. But who will assure me that you may not, at the same time, say as much to everybody else perhaps?

  CÉLIMÈNE. Certainly, for a lover, this is a pretty amorous speech, and you make me out a very nice lady. Well! to remove such a suspicion, I retract this moment everything I have said; and no one but yourself shall for the future impose upon you. Will that satisfy you?

  ALCESTE. Zounds! why do I love you so! Ah! if ever I get heart-whole out of your hands, I shall bless Heaven for this rare good fortune. I make no secret of it; I do all that is possible to tear this unfortunate attachment from my heart; but hitherto my greatest efforts have been of no avail; and it is for my sins that I love you thus.

  CÉLIMÈNE. It is very true that your affection for me is unequaled.

  ALCESTE. As for that, I can challenge the whole world. My love for you cannot be conceived; and never, Madam, has any man loved as I do.

  CÉLIMÈNE. Your method, however, is entirely new, for you love people only to quarrel with them; it is in peevish expression alone that your feelings vent themselves; no one ever saw such a grumbling swain.

  ALCESTE. But it lies with you alone to dissipate this ill-humor. For mercy’s sake let us make an end of all these bickerings; deal openly with each other, and try to put a stop . . .

  SCENE II.

  CÉLIMÈNE, ALCESTE, BASQUE.

  CÉLIMÈNE. What is the matter?

  BASQUE. Acaste is below.

  CÉLIMÈNE. Very well! bid him come up.

  SCENE III.

  CÉLlMÈNE, ALCESTE.

  ALCESTE. What! can one never have a little private conversation with you? You are always ready to receive company; and you cannot, for a single instant, make up your mind to be “not at home.”

  CÉLIMÈNE. Do you wish me to quarrel with Acaste?

  ALCESTE. You have such regard for people, which I by no means like.

  CÉLIMÈNE. He is a man never to forgive me, if he knew that his presence could annoy me.

  ALCESTE. And what is that to you, to inconvenience yourself so ...

  CÉLIMÈNE. But, good Heaven! the amity of such as he is of importance; they are a kind of people who, I do not know how, have acquired the right to be heard at court. They take their part in every conversation; they can do you no good, but they may do you harm; and, whatever support one may find elsewhere, it will never do to be on bad terms with these very noisy gentry.

  ALCESTE. In short, whatever people may say or do, you always find reasons to bear with every one; and your very careful judgment ...

  SCENE IV.

  ALCESTE, CÉLlMÈNE, BASQUE.

  BASQUE. Clitandre is here, too, Madam.

  ALCESTE. Exactly so. [Wishes to go]

  CÉLIMÈNE. Where are you running to?

  ALCESTE. I am going.

  CÉLIMÈNE. Stay.

  ALCESTE. For what?

  CÉLIMÈNE. Stay.

  ALCESTE. I cannot.

  CÉLIMÈNE. I wish it.

  ALCESTE. I will not. These conversations only weary me; and it is too bad of you to wish me to endure them.

  CÉLIMÈNE. I wish it, I wish it.

  ALCESTE. No, it is impossible.

  CÉLIMÈNE. Very well, then; go, begone; you can do as you like.

  SCENE V.

  ÉLIANTE, PHILINTE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE, ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE, BASQUE.

  ÉLIANTE. [To CÉLIMÈNE] Here are the two marquises coming up with us. Has anyone told you?

  CÉLIMÈNE. Yes. [To BASQUE] Place chairs for everyone. [BASQUE places chairs, and goes out] [To ALCESTE] You are not gone?

  ALCESTE. No; but I am determined, Madam, to have you make up your mind either for them or for me.

  CÉLIMÈNE. Hold your tongue.


  ALCESTE. This very day you shall explain yourself.

  CÉLIMÈNE. You are losing your senses.

  ALCESTE. Not at all. You shall declare yourself.

  CÉLIMÈNE. Indeed!

  ALCESTE. You must take your stand.

  CÉLIMÈNE. You are jesting, I believe.

  ALCESTE. Not so. But you must choose. I have been too patient.

  CLITANDRE. Egad! I have just come from the Louvre, where Cléonte, at the levee, made himself very ridiculous. Has he not some friend who could charitably enlighten him upon his manners?

  CÉLIMÈNE. Truth to say, he compromises himself very much in society; everywhere he carries himself with an air that is noticed at first sight, and when after a short absence you meet him again, he is still more absurd than ever.

  ACASTE. Egad! Talk of absurd people, just now, one of the most tedious ones was annoying me. That reasoner, Damon, kept me, if you please, for a full hour in the broiling sun, away from my sedan-chair.

  CÉLIMÈNE. He is a strange talker, and one who always finds the means of telling you nothing with a great flow of words. There is no sense at all in his tittle-tattle, and all that we hear is but noise.

  ÉLIANTE. [To PHILINTE] This beginning is not bad; and the conversation takes a sufficiently agreeable turn against our neighbors.

  CLITANDRE. Timante, too, Madam, is another original.

  CÉLIMÈNE. He is a complete mystery from top to toe, who throws upon you, in passing, a bewildered glance, and who, without having anything to do, is always busy. Whatever he utters is accompanied with grimaces; he quite oppresses people by his ceremonies. To interrupt a conversation, he has always a secret to whisper to you, and that secret turns out to be nothing. Of the merest molehill he makes a mountain, and whispers everything in your ear, even to a “good-day.”

  ACASTE. And Geralde, Madam?

  CÉLIMÈNE. That tiresome story-teller! He never comes down from his nobleman’s pedestal; he continually mixes with the best society, and never quotes any one of minor rank than a Duke, Prince, or Princess. Rank is his hobby, and his conversation is of nothing but horses, carriages, and dogs. He thee’s and thou’s persons of the highest standing, and the word Sir is quite obsolete with him.