The Misanthrope

  CLITANDRE. It is said that he is on the best of terms with Bélise.

  CÉLIMÈNE. Poor silly woman, and the dreariest company! When she comes to visit me, I suffer from martyrdom; one has to rack one’s brain perpetually to find out what to say to her; and the impossibility of her expressing her thoughts allows the conversation to drop every minute. In vain you try to overcome her stupid silence by the assistance of the most commonplace topic; even the fine weather, the rain, the heat and the cold are subjects, which, with her, are soon exhausted. Yet for all that, her calls, unbearable enough, are prolonged to an insufferable length; and you may consult the clock, or yawn twenty times, but she stirs no more than a log of wood.

  ACASTE. What think you of Adraste?

  CÉLIMÈNE. Oh! What excessive pride! He is a man positively puffed out with conceit. His self-importance is never satisfied with the court, against which he inveighs daily; and whenever an office, a place, or a living is bestowed on another, he is sure to think himself unjustly treated.

  CLITANDRE. But young Cléon, whom the most respectable people go to see, what say you of him?

  CÉLIMÈNE. That it is to his cook he owes his distinction, and to his table that people pay visits.

  ÉLIANTE. He takes pains to provide the most dainty dishes.

  CÉLIMÈNE. True; but I should be very glad if he would not dish up himself. His foolish person is a very bad dish, which, to my thinking, spoils every entertainment which he gives.

  PHILINTE. His uncle Damis is very much esteemed; what say you to him, Madam?

  CÉLIMÈNE. He is one of my friends.

  PHILINTE. I think him a perfect gentleman, and sensible enough.

  CÉLIMÈNE. True; but he pretends to too much wit, which annoys me. He is always upon stilts, and, in all his conversations, one sees him laboring to say smart things. Since he took it into his head to be clever, he is so difficult to please that nothing suits his taste. He must needs find mistakes in everything that one writes, and thinks that to bestow praise does not become a wit, that to find fault shows learning, that only fools admire and laugh, and that, by not approving of anything in the works of our time, he is superior to all other people. Even in conversations he finds something to cavil at, the subjects are too trivial for his condescension; and, with arms crossed on his breast, he looks down from the height of his intellect with pity on what everyone says.

  ACASTE. Drat it! his very picture.

  CLITANDRE. [To CÉLIMÈNE] You have an admirable knack of portraying people to the life.

  ALCESTE. Capital, go on, my fine courtly friends. You spare no one, and everyone will have his turn. Nevertheless, let but any one of those persons appear, and we shall see you rush to meet him, offer him your hand, and, with a flattering kiss, give weight to your protestations of being his servant.

  CLITANDRE. Why this to us? If what is said offends you, the reproach must be addressed to this lady.

  ALCESTE. No, gadzooks! it concerns you; for your assenting smiles draw from her wit all these slanderous remarks. Her satirical vein is incessantly recruited by the culpable incense of your flattery; and her mind would find fewer charms in raillery, if she discovered that no one applauded her. Thus it is that to flatterers we ought everywhere to impute the vices which are sown among mankind.

  PHILINTE. But why do you take so great an interest in those people, for you would condemn the very things that are blamed in them?

  CÉLIMÈNE. And is not this gentleman bound to contradict? Would you have him subscribe to the general opinion; and must he not everywhere display the spirit of contradiction with which Heaven has endowed him? Other people’s sentiments can never please him. He always supports a contrary idea, and he would think himself too much of the common herd, were he observed to be of any one’s opinion but his own. The honor of gainsaying has so many charms for him, that he very often takes up the cudgels against himself; he combats his own sentiments as soon as he hears them from other folks’ lips. ALCESTE. In short, Madam, the laughers are on your side; and you may launch your satire against me.

  PHILINTE. But it is very true, too, that you always take up arms against everything that is said; and that your avowed spleen cannot bear people to be praised or blamed.

  ALCESTE. ’Sdeath! spleen against mankind is always seasonable, because they are never in the right, and I see that, in all their dealings, they either praise impertinently, or censure rashly.

  CÉLIMÈNE. But . . .

  ALCESTE. No, Madam, no, though I were to die for it, you have pastimes which I cannot tolerate; and people are very wrong to nourish in your heart this great attachment to the very faults which they blame in you.

  CLITANDRE. As for myself, I do not know; but I openly acknowledge that hitherto I have thought this lady faultless.

  ACASTE. I see that she is endowed with charms and attractions; but the faults which she has have not struck me.

  ALCESTE. So much the more have they struck me; and far from appearing blind, she knows that I take care to reproach her with them. The more we love any one, the less we ought to flatter her. True love shows itself by overlooking nothing; and, were I a lady, I would banish all those mean-spirited lovers who submit to all my sentiments, and whose mild complacencies every moment offer up incense to my vagaries.

  CÉLIMÈNE. In short, if hearts were ruled by you we ought, to love well, to relinquish all tenderness, and make it the highest aim of perfect attachment to rail heartily at the persons we love.

  ÉLIANTE. Love, generally speaking, is little apt to put up with these decrees, and lovers are always observed to extol their choice. Their passion never sees aught to blame in it, and in the beloved all things become lovable. They think their faults perfections, and invent sweet terms to call them by. The pale one vies with the jessamine in fairness; another, dark enough to frighten people, becomes an adorable brunette; the lean one has a good shape and is lithe; the stout one has a portly and majestic bearing; the slattern, who has few charms, passes under the name of a careless beauty; the giantess seems a very goddess in their sight; the dwarf is an epitome of all the wonders of Heaven; the proud one has a soul worthy of a diadem; the artful brims with wit; the silly one is very good-natured; the chatterbox is good-tempered; and the silent one modest and reticent. Thus a passionate swain loves even the very faults of those of whom he is enamored.

  ALCESTE. And I maintain that . . .

  CÉLIMÈNE. Let us drop the subject, and take a turn or two in the gallery. What! are you going, gentlemen?

  CLITANDRE and ACASTE. No, no, Madam.

  ALCESTE. The fear of their departure troubles you very much. Go when you like, gentlemen; but I tell you beforehand that I shall not leave until you leave.

  ACASTE. Unless it inconveniences this lady, I have nothing to call me elsewhere the whole day.

  CLITANDRE. I, provided I am present when the King retires, I have no other matter to call me away.

  CÉLIMÈNE. [To ALCESTE] You only joke, I fancy.

  ALCESTE. Not at all. We shall soon see whether it is me of whom you wish to get rid.

  SCENE VI.

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

  BASQUE. [To ALCESTE] There is a man downstairs, sir, who wishes to speak to you on business which cannot be postponed.

  ALCESTE. Tell him that I have no such urgent business.

  BASQUE. He wears a jacket with large plaited skirts embroidered with gold.

  CÉLIMÈNE. [To ALCESTE] Go and see who it is, or else let him come in.

  SCENE VII.

  ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE, ÉLIANTE, ACASTE, PHILINTE, CLITANDRE, a Guard of the Maréchaussée.

  ALCESTE. [Going to meet the Guard] What may be your pleasure? Come in, sir.

  GUARD. I would have a few words privately with you, sir.

  ALCESTE. You may speak aloud, sir, so as to let me know.

  GUARD. The Marshals of France, whose commands I bear, hereby summon you to appear before them immediately, sir.


  ALCESTE. Whom? Me, sir?

  GUARD. Yourself.

  ALCESTE. And for what?

  PHILINTE. [To ALCESTE] It is this ridiculous affair between you and Oronte.

  CELIMENE. [To PHILINTE] What do you mean?

  PHILINTE. Oronte and he have been insulting each other just now about some trifling verses which he did not like; and the Marshals wish to nip the affair in the bud.

  ALCESTE. Well, I shall never basely submit.

  PHILINTE. But you must obey the summons: come, get ready.

  ALCESTE. How will they settle this between us? Will the edict of these gentlemen oblige me to approve of the verses which are the cause of our quarrel? I will not retract what I have said; I think them abominable.

  PHILINTE. But with a little milder tone . . .

  ALCESTE. I will not abate one jot; the verses are execrable.

  PHILINTE. You ought to show a more accommodating spirit. Come along.

  ALCESTE. I shall go, but nothing shall induce me to retract.

  PHILINTE. Go and show yourself.

  ALCESTE. Unless an express order from the King himself commands me to approve of the verses which cause all this trouble, I shall ever maintain, egad, that they are bad, and that a fellow deserves hanging for making them. [To CLITANDRE and ACASTE, who are laughing) Hang it! gentlemen, I did not think I was so amusing.

  CÉUMÈNE. Go quickly whither you are wanted.

  ALCEST. I am going, Madam; but shall come back here to finish our discussion.

  ACT III.

  SCENE I.

  CLITANDRE, ACASTE.

  CLITANDRE. My dear marquis, you appear mightily pleased with yourself ; everything amuses you, and nothing discomposes you. But really and truly, think you, without flattering yourself, that you have good reasons for appearing so joyful?

  ACASTE. Egad, I do not find, on looking at myself, any matter to be sorrowful about. I am wealthy, I am young, and am descended from a family which, with some appearance of truth, may be called noble; and I think that, by the rank which my lineage confers upon me, there are very few offices to which I might not aspire. As for courage, which we ought especially to value, it is well known—this without vanity—that I do not lack it; and people have seen me carry on an affair of honor in a manner sufficiently vigorous and brisk. As for wit, I have some, no doubt; and as for good taste, to judge and reason upon everything without study; at “first nights,” of which I am very fond, to take my place as a critic upon the stage, to give my opinion as a judge, to applaud, and point out the best passages by repeated bravoes, I am sufficiently adroit; I carry myself well, and am good-looking, have particularly fine teeth, and a good figure. I believe, without flattering myself, that, as for dressing in good taste, very few will dispute the palm with me. I find myself treated with every possible consideration, very much beloved by the fair sex; and I stand very well with the King. With all that, I think, dear marquis, that one might be satisfied with oneself anywhere.

  CLITANDRE. True. But, finding so many easy conquests elsewhere, why come you here to utter fruitless sighs?

  ACASTE. I? Zounds! I have neither the wish nor the disposition to put up with the indifference of any woman. I leave it to awkward and ordinary people to burn constantly for cruel fair maidens, to languish at their feet, and to bear with their severities, to invoke the aid of sighs and tears, and to endeavor, by long and persistent assiduities, to obtain what is denied to their little merit. But men of my stamp, marquis, are not made to love on trust, and be at all the expenses themselves. Be the merit of the fair ever so great, I think, thank Heaven, that we have our value as well as they; that it is not reasonable to enthrall a heart like mine without its costing them anything; and that, to weigh everything in a just scale, the advances should be, at least, reciprocal.

  CLITANDRE. Then you think that you are right enough here, marquis?

  ACASTE. I have some reason, marquis, to think so.

  CLITANDRE. Believe me, divest yourself of this great mistake: you flatter yourself, dear friend, and are altogether self-deceived.

  ACASTE. It is true. I flatter myself, and am, in fact, altogether self-deceived.

  CLITANDRE. But what causes you to judge your happiness to be complete ?

  ACASTE. I flatter myself.

  CLITANDRE. Upon what do you ground your belief?

  ACASTE. I am altogether self-deceived.

  CLITANDRE. Have you any sure proofs?

  ACASTE. I am mistaken, I tell you.

  CLITANDRE. Has Célimène made you any secret avowal of her inclinations?

  ACASTE. No, I am very badly treated by her.

  CLITANDRE. Answer me, I pray.

  ACASTE. I meet with nothing but rebuffs.

  CLITANDRE. A truce to your raillery; and tell me what hope she has held out to you.

  ACASTE. I am the rejected, and you are the lucky one. She has a great aversion to me, and one of these days I shall have to hang myself.

  CLITANDRE. Nonsense. Shall we two, marquis, to adjust our love affairs, make a compact together? Whenever one of us shall be able to show a certain proof of having the greater share in Celimene’s heart, the other shall leave the field free to the supposed conqueror, and by that means rid him of an obstinate rival.

  ACASTE. Egad! you please me with these words, and I agree to that from the bottom of my heart. But, hush.

  SCENE II.

  CELIMENE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE.

  CELIMENE. What! here still?

  CLITANDRE. Love, Madam, detains us.

  CÉLIMÈNE. I hear a carriage below. Do you know whose it is? CLITANDRE. No.

  SCENE III.

  CÉLIMÈNE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE, BASQUE.

  BASQUE. Arsinoé, Madam, is coming up to see you.

  CÉLIMÈNE. What does the woman want with me?

  BASQUE. Eliante is downstairs talking to her.

  CÉLIMÈNE. What is she thinking about, and what brings her here?

  ACASTE. She has everywhere the reputation of being a consummate prude, and her fervent zeal ...

  CÉLIMÈNE. Psha, downright humbug. In her inmost soul she is as worldly as any; and her every nerve is strained to hook some one, without being successful, however. She can only look with envious eyes on the accepted lovers of others; and in her wretched condition, forsaken by all, she is for ever railing against the blindness of the age. She endeavors to hide the dreadful isolation of her home under a false cloak of prudishness; and to save the credit of her feeble charms, she brands as criminal the power which they lack. Yet a swain would not come at all amiss to the lady; and she has even a tender hankering after Alceste. Every attention that he pays me, she looks upon as a theft committed by me, and as an insult to her attractions; and her jealous spite, which she can hardly hide, breaks out against me at every opportunity, and in an underhand manner. In short, I never saw anything, to my fancy, so stupid. She is impertinent to the last degree ...

  SCENE IV

  ARSINOT, CÉLIMÈNE, CLITANDRE, ACASTE.

  CÉLIMÈNE. Ah! what happy chance brings you here, Madam? I was really getting uneasy about you.

  ARSINOÉ. I have come to give you some advice as a matter of duty.

  CÉLIMÈNE. How very glad I am to see you!

  [Exeunt CLITANDRE and ACASTE, laughing

  SCENE V.

  ARSINOÉ, CÉLIMÈNE.

  ARSINOÉ. They could not have left at a more convenient opportunity.

  CÉLIMÈNE. Shall we sit down?

  ARSINOÉ. It is not necessary. Friendship, Madam, must especially show itself in matters which may be of consequence to us; and as there are none of greater importance than honor and decorum, I come to prove to you, by an advice which closely touches your reputation, the friendship which I feel for you. Yesterday I was with some people of rare virtue, where the conversation turned upon you; and there, your conduct, which is causing some stir, was unfortunately, Madam, far from being commended. That crowd of people, whose visits you permit, your gallantry and the noise it makes, w
ere criticized rather more freely and more severely than I could have wished. You can easily imagine whose part I took. I did all I could to defend you. I exonerated you, and vouched for the purity of your heart, and the honesty of your intentions. But you know there are things in life which one cannot well defend, although one may have the greatest wish to do so; and I was at last obliged to confess that the way in which you lived did you some harm; that, in the eyes of the world, it had a doubtful look; that there was no story so ill-natured as not to be everywhere told about it; and that, if you liked, your behavior might give less cause for censure. Not that I believe that decency is in any way outraged. Heaven forbid that I should harbor such a thought! But the world is so ready to give credit to the faintest shadow of a crime, and it is not enough to live blameless one’s self. Madam, I believe you to be too sensible not to take in good part this useful counsel, and not to ascribe it only to the inner promptings of an affection that feels an interest in your welfare.

  CÉLIMÈNE. Madam, I have a great many thanks to return you. Such counsel lays me under an obligation; and, far from taking it amiss, I intend this very moment to repay the favor, by giving you an advice which also touches your reputation closely; and as I see you prove yourself my friend by acquainting me with the stories that are current of me, I shall follow so nice an example, by informing you what is said of you. In a house the other day, where I paid a visit, I met some people of exemplary merit, who, while talking of the proper duties of a well spent life, turned the topic of the conversation upon you, Madam. There your prudishness and your too fervent zeal were not at all cited as a good example. This affectation of a grave demeanor, your eternal conversations on wisdom and honor, your mincings and mouthings at the slightest shadows of indecency, which an innocent though ambiguous word may convey, that lofty esteem in which you hold yourself, and those pitying glances which you cast upon all, your frequent lectures and your acrid censures on things which are pure and harmless; all this, if I may speak frankly to you, Madam, was blamed unanimously. What is the good, said they, of this modest mien and this prudent exterior, which is belied by all the rest? She says her prayers with the utmost exactness; but she beats her servants and pays them no wages. She displays great fervor in every place of devotion; but she paints and wishes to appear handsome. She covers the nudities in her pictures; but loves the reality. As for me, I undertook your defence against everyone, and positively assured them that it was nothing but scandal; but the general opinion went against me, as they came to the conclusion that you would do well to concern yourself less about the actions of others, and take a little more pains with your own; that one ought to look a long time at one’s self before thinking of condemning other people; that when we wish to correct others, we ought to add the weight of a blameless life; and that even then, it would be better to leave it to those whom Heaven has ordained for the task. Madam, I also believe you to be too sensible not to take in good part this useful counsel, and not to ascribe it only to the inner promptings of an affection that feels an interest in your welfare.