Act Three
The same, the following day. ARGAN is seated on his commode getting on with some business. Enter TOINETTE dusting or cleaning. ARGAN stands and motions to TOINETTE that the pan needs emptying. TOINETTE looks into the pan, looks back at ARGAN, looks in the pan again.
ARGAN: What’s wrong with it?
TOINETTE: Why do you do it in here when the latrine is only twenty feet over there?
ARGAN: The latrine’s no good for inspection. As soon as it’s done it’s gone.
TOINETTE: It takes all the fun out of it you mean?
ARGAN: Just tell me what it looks like!
TOINETTE: If inspection is the motive, why don’t you look?
ARGAN: It’s like opening the post. If I know it’s bad news I always get someone else to read it.
TOINETTE: This one’s unique. Utterly original. A one off.
ARGAN: Oh my God. Why?
TOINETTE: Because it’s the last one I’m emptying – ever.
ARGAN: Then it’s your last day here then isn’t it!?
TOINETTE: Yes, if all goes to plan.
TOINETTE leaves with the pan, slamming the door behind her.
ARGAN: (Shouted after her.) What’s in the pan?! Tell me what it looks like! You insolent fat saphist!
Re-enter TOINETTE holding the pan and its contents like a weapon. We can see urine and a turd or two. ARGAN backs off.
TOINETTE: I’m getting sick of this recurring homosexual theme.
ARGAN keeps backing away. Enter BERALDE.
BERALDE: Beautiful morning isn’t it!
BERALDE looks into the pan.
That’s what I like about round here, the informality.
TOINETTE leaves slamming the door behind her.
ARGAN: I’m sorry brother, she’s a snake, that one.
(Brighter.) Very cheap though.
BERALDE: And how are you?
ARGAN: Very poorly.
BERALDE: What do you mean ‘very poorly’?
ARGAN: Poorly. As in not well.
BERALDE: Exactly how ‘not well’ are you?
ARGAN: I’m incredibly and sensationally not well!
BERALDE: Oh.
ARGAN: And how are you?
BERALDE: Dunno. Never think about it.
ARGAN: What!? That’s very very foolish. You should go and have a check up. You might have something serious.
During the next ARGAN gets increasingly excited.
BERALDE: Brother, I need to discuss a delicate issue with you, but I know what you’re like, and I need you to promise me that you’ll not get excited.
ARGAN: Of course I won’t get excited.
BERALDE: You won’t start shouting?
ARGAN: Why would I want to start shouting?!
BERALDE: And if ultimately we disagree you’ll make a commitment now to talk rationally and calmly –
ARGAN: – Yes, yes!
BERALDE: – with me and work towards a compromise position which at least addresses the problem in a practical manner, taking out of the situation all emotion.
ARGAN: Yes!! Of course I’ll stay bloody calm!!! How dare you suggest that I’m emotional and can’t discuss things in a rational manner!!!??? I’ve never –
BERALDE: Why are you trying to marry Angelique off to a doctor?
ARGAN: I want a doctor in the family. In the house. Handy. Here!
BERALDE: By that logic you’ll be marrying Louison off to an apothecary next.
ARGAN: That’s not a bad idea actually. Do you know any?
BERALDE: And I understand that if Angelique doesn’t consent to this arrangement then you’ll have her sent to a convent?
ARGAN: The choice is hers.
BERALDE: I imagine this wife of yours would be delighted to see both your offspring packed off to nunneries and dedicating themselves to God and in particular ‘renouncing all interest in worldy goods’.
ARGAN: You’ve never liked Beline. Why does everybody hate her? Have I missed something?!
BERALDE: I don’t want to discuss Beline, she’s obviously a saint. You’re not ill at all are you?
ARGAN: What?
BERALDE: You’re perfectly well.
ARGAN: How dare – !!??
BERALDE: I don’t think I know anybody more well and less ill than you. Your doctor’s been trying to kill you with his cures for the best part of two years now. You’ve had leeches, piercings, purgings; you’ve been drained, spun, squeezed, squashed, stretched, and steamed. Every time I come round here you’re on some new controlled eating regime. One week it’s nothing but vegetables, the next week it’s fruit. The worst was that ridiculous month when you ate nothing but meat – I mean, what kind of a diet is that, it nearly killed you. You lost three stone. It’s a miracle you’re still alive, and proof that you’re as strong as an ox.
ARGAN: Doctor Purgon is the reason I’m still alive.
BERALDE: Your profound good health is the reason you’re still alive.
ARGAN: You have no faith in Doctor Purgon then?
BERALDE: In the last two years he has diagnosed you as suffering from many diverse ailments, three of which – deafness; insomnia; and worms – he treated with exactly the same expensive concoction of blood freshly bled from the spleen of a living duck.
ARGAN: It worked for the worms.
BERALDE: You never had worms in the first place!
ARGAN: It was preventative! Men at all levels in society – many more learned and wise than you – when they get ill, go to the doctor.
BERALDE: I am sure there is a hierarchy of wisdom and learning amongst lemmings too. But when the end beckons they all make an appointment with the same cliff.
ARGAN: But doctors have faith in their art.
BERALDE: It shouldn’t be an ‘art’, that’s the problem. At present medicine is a bedfellow of the Humanities and the Classics, which in turn, themselves, are contaminated by Religion.
ARGAN: Brother! Do not speak against God in this house!
BERALDE: Our priests have a defined list of ailments and illnesses which they would have us believe are directly dispensed by God as punishments for sins, for our lack of faith, and whatever nonsense. God made our bodies as machines, mysterious machines, which either work or break down. Doctors should concern themselves with the nitty gritty, the nature of the thing. Look, I’m a brewer. If my beer fails to ferment, I don’t look to heaven for an explanation, I look at what went into the brew; the yeast, the hops, the water, the quantities, the temperature. I do not consider for one moment that my beer has been made rancid by God because he is punishing me for, I don’t know…shouting at my wife. If I’ve shouted at my wife I’ll be punished for that in good time anyway, not by God either, but by my wife.
ARGAN: You sound like you support the circulationists?
BERALDE: And why is the idea of blood circulation treated with such contempt by doctors? Because it’s not already written down in their books; it is a challenge to the Church, the King, and God. Amazingly, the very last thing that concerns doctors is the truth!
ARGAN: But I feel ill. And when I’m treated I feel better.
BERALDE: No. You like two things. Being ill, and letting everybody know you’re ill. Being ill for you, defines, it is who you are. Don’t forget I’ve seen you at several parties and functions. People say to me, ‘What do you do?’ And I say: ‘I brew beer.’ People say to you, ‘What do you do?’ And you say: ‘I ache all over.’ I remember that first time, I’ve never seen you happier, when you told me – ‘I’ve only got six months to live’ –
ARGAN: – Oh, that was a couple of years ago!
BERALDE: I know, but the twinkle in your eye told me everything. At last, a purpose in life, a clear identity, – to die on time!
ARGAN: I didn’t die though did I? So the cures must have worked.
BERALDE: There are two sorts of doctors. Those who believe it all, and make money out of it; and those who know it’s all nonsense, and make money out of it. Medicine is an exercise in hope and disappointment. It will remain so until doctors understand the true nature of our bodies. But even then, there will still be people who will not accept that the spirit world is not involved in the bodily world; there will be people who will be staggered and insulted by the knowledge that their bodies are machines. I predict that even in four or five centuries time, when a cure is readily available for every ailment, and shown to work by a series of provings, such people will still turn their backs on the proven cure and choose to drink dandelion sap, or eat bug oil, or coat their skin in badger saliva. These people only do this because they want to be different, special. This ‘vanity’ is so strong that it even outweighs their desire to be cured. They suffer from a sickness which fogs their eyes, rots their brains, and slows each and every one of their critical faculties until eventually they are terminally credulous.
ARGAN: What disease is that?
BERALDE: Self-obsession.
ARGAN: You’ve just come here to criticise me!
BERALDE: Not at all. I have a spare ticket to Molière’s latest comedy. I thought that might cheer you up.
ARGAN: Who’s he having a go at this time?
BERALDE: Doctors.
ARGAN: Ha! And what right has he got to libel hard-working professional men, when all he does is swan about all day long in the company of a load of poofs being ironic. An honest day’s work would kill him.
BERALDE: So the stage should only be populated by kings and princes?
ARGAN: All I’m saying is that if I was his doctor I’d take my revenge when he falls ill. ‘Ill are we now Molière? You need me now do you Molière?! Got a bit of a life-threatening cough have we, Molière?! Well, here’s my advice to you! Die, die, DIE!!!’
BERALDE: You don’t want to see the play then?
ARGAN: You know me and the theatre. Huh! I’d rather spend the evening having my teeth pulled out. Was that all?
BERALDE: Don’t send Angelique to a convent. She is young, and a little headstrong that is all.
ARGAN: And is there anything else you disapprove of in the way I run my own house?
BERALDE: You’re not choosing a husband for Angelique. You’re choosing a son-in-law for yourself. A mistake would mean a lifetime’s misery for your own child.
Enter Monsieur FLEURANT with a large colonic irrigation machine on wheels. There can be attendants, operatives. FLEURANT leads the procession holding a pipe in gloved hands. The following activity should all be done as a regular routine, almost prosaically.
ARGAN: Is it that time already? How are you today Monsieur Fleurant?
FLEURANT: Well.
He lifts the flap of ARGAN’s shirt tail and thrusts the pipe up his arse.
All the better for seeing you.
The machine starts.
BERALDE: What are you doing?!
ARGAN: My daily enema. Ooo! Cold.
There is metallic ching in the machine as if a swallowed coin has been flushed out. FLEURANT and the operatives all look at the jar simultaneously.
BERALDE: You don’t need an enema every day!
FLEURANT: (Offering his hand to shake.) I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.
BERALDE: (Refusing his hand.) No, and you never will! This is ridiculous!
FLEURANT: Please tell your manservant to keep his ignorance to himself.
ARGAN: He’s not my –
BERALDE: – That is no way to speak to a gentleman. You are obviously not used to addressing people’s faces!
ARGAN: He’s my brother.
FLEURANT: And I am Monsieur’s apothecary. I am not used to being interfered with in the operation of my profession.
BERALDE: You’re the one doing the interfering!
FLEURANT: Preposterous!
BERALDE: I’ve known some interruptions in my time but this takes the biscuit. My brother and I were in the middle of an important discussion concerning the future matrimonial prospects for my niece and, without invitation or introduction, you mince in here and shove a pipe up his arse.
He pulls the pipe out of ARGAN’s arse.
ARGAN: Ah!
FLEURANT: Such language, sir.
BERALDE: What do you call it?
FLEURANT: In the Latin, anus. In Greek, proacus.
BERALDE: Which do you prefer?
FLEURANT: Me? Er…the Greek. If you don’t know the correct term for it, I doubt you understand it’s function either.
BERALDE: At least, I know enough not to try and talk out of mine.
FLEURANT: How dare you!? Monsieur is terribly ill!! This medication is in accordance with the regime of treatment prescribed by Doctor Purgon.
FLEURANT shoves the pipe back in.
ARGAN: Ooo!
BERALDE: I’m not frightened of Doctor Purgon, though I should be, he treated me once, and to be honest, I’m lucky to be alive!
BERALDE pulls the pipe out.
ARGAN: Ah!
FLEURANT: Are you trying to prevent my patient from taking his enema?
Shoves pipe back in, roughly.
ARGAN: Oooo!! Careful!
BERALDE: This is not a medical enema! This is a financial transfusion. You and your partner in crime, Doctor Purgon, are sucking my brother dry!
Removes pipe, roughly.
ARGAN: Aggh!
FLEURANT shoves it back in.
Ooo!
During the next a tug of war ensues between BERALDE and FLEURANT with the pipe. BERALDE wins.
FLEURANT: If you insist on preventing your brother having his treatment I shall call on Doctor Purgon.
FLEURANT exits in a fluster. Door slam.
BERALDE: With friends like that, who needs enemas?
ARGAN: It’s easy to criticise medicine when you’re healthy. It’s not so easy for me, I happen to be very seriously ill.
BERALDE: And what exactly is wrong with you?
ARGAN: (Getting excited.) For Christ’s sake! I wish you had what I’ve got. Walk a mile in my shoes. One bloody mile!
Enter Doctor PURGON accompanied by TOINETTE. Door slam.
PURGON: (Addressing ARGAN.) Monsieur, I hear that you are refusing to take my colonic clyster.
ARGAN: What?! No it’s –
PURGON: – It’s a sad day when the patient turns against his doctor.
TOINETTE: The end of the world.
ARGAN: No, you’ve got the wrong end of the –
PURGON: – I’ve never been so insulted.
BERALDE: Only because the dead don’t complain.
PURGON: Refusing the cleansing clyster which I had the pleasure to make up myself which –
ARGAN: – Listen! –
PURGON: – was a classic clyster prepared according to the rules laid down by the ancients –
TOINETTE: – He has no respect for anybody.
PURGON: – a clot-clearing cleansing clyster which was sure to have a most wonderful effect on Monsieur’s bowel.
ARGAN: My brother, him, it was he who –
PURGON: – How dare you reject my clyster!?
TOINETTE: How dare you!?
PURGON: This is an assault on the medical profession in general!
TOINETTE: You should hear what he says about doctors behind your back.
PURGON: (To TOINETTE.) What?
TOINETTE: When you’re not here. Kaw!
PURGON: I declare now, Monsieur, that you will no longer have the privilege of my professional services. That is my final account.
He gives him an invoice.
You will need to find another doctor, and if you do I hope you show him more respect. I am severing all relations with you.
TOINETTE: Quite right. He’s terrible.
PURGON: And! I no longer wish to be associated with you or your family in any way.
He takes out a legal document.
This is a substantial bond which I was going to donate to my nephew, Thomas Diafoirerhoea on his marriage to your daughter.
He tears it up violently.
ARGAN: It wasn’t me. It was my brother. He caused all the trouble.
PURGON: Since you’re not interested in getting better, since you’ve failed to show that obedience which one owes to one’s doctors, I have no choice but to abandon you to your condition, and allow the imbalance in your bowels, and the acidity of your spleen, and the fecundity of your rampant bad humours to finally come together in an orchestra of malignancy which will destroy you totally within four days.
TOINETTE: Oooh! Four days to live!
ARGAN: Oh my God no!
PURGON: You will fall into bradypepsia.
ARGAN: Agh!
PURGON: From bradypepsia to dyspepsia!
ARGAN: Oh God!
PURGON: From dyspepsia to apepsia.
ARGAN: No!
PURGON: From apepsia to diarrhoea.
TOINETTE: Oh no! Not diarrhoea!
PURGON: From diarrhoea to dysentery.
ARGAN: Doctor Purgon!
PURGON: From dysentery to dropsy.
ARGAN: Doctor, doctor, doctor, doctor.
ARGAN sags as if dying.
PURGON: …and from dropsy to a complete, and utterly irretrievable state of lifelessness. Huh!!
PURGON makes to leave, but in the doorway turns, and almost tearfully:
I could have cured you.
Door slam and he’s gone.
ARGAN: (To BERALDE.) Don’t you see what you’ve done!? You’ve killed me!
BERALDE: Rubbish.
TOINETTE gives BERALDE a wink and leaves.
ARGAN: Ugh! Oooooohhhhh! I can feel it, now. Aggghh! It’s happening. I’m finally on the wane!
BERALDE: You’re mad!
ARGAN: Didn’t you hear him!? He said I’d be dead in four days.
BERALDE: And who is he? God? Look on the bright side, this is a chance to find another doctor, someone who knows what he’s talking about.
Enter TOINETTE.
TOINETTE: Sir, there’s a doctor to see you.
ARGAN: Whose doctor?
TOINETTE: No-one’s in particular. He was just passing and he heard you moaning.
ARGAN: Oh. Send him in then.
TOINETTE: It’s funny you know, but he’s the absolute spitting image of me. It’s incredible. If my mother had had a son, well, you wait till you see him.
She rushes out. Door slam.
BERALDE: The entire medical community know about you, your illnesses and your money. They must be listening in at the windows.
ARGAN: (Worried.) I’d never heard of half of those illnesses Purgon mentioned, I think –
Enter TOINETTE disguised as a doctor.
TOINETTE: – I am honoured sir, and would like to proffer to you my humble expertise in all manner of purgings, bleedings, amputations, irrigations, exhumations, and evacuations of the body, mind, and spirit.
ARGAN: Thank you sir.
(To BERALDE.) He’s the image of Toinette!
TOINETTE: Ah! I forgot to tell my valet something. Excuse me, I’ll be back in a tick.
TOINETTE leaves.
ARGAN: My God! If I didn’t know any better I’d say that was Toinette in a hat.
BERALDE: These things happen. It’s a coincidence certainly, but not unknown.
ARGAN: The resemblance is striking!
TOINETTE enters – so quickly that it’s hard to believe she was the doctor.
TOINETTE: You called sir?
ARGAN: No. I didn’t call you. Hey, wait here and take a look at this doctor. He’s the absolute spit of you. Stay, stay!
TOINETTE: Can’t. Sorry. Very busy. Things to do.
TOINETTE leaves.
ARGAN: Isn’t she? It’s amazing.
Enter TOINETTE as doctor.
TOINETTE: I beg your pardon sir.
ARGAN: Have you met my nurse, Toinette, she’s –
TOINETTE: – it is an honour to meet such a famous invalid as you. I have travelled far.
ARGAN: I’m famous?
TOINETTE: You are the world’s most famous hopeless case. I have travelled from the farthest corner of the Mughal Empire to be here. I am related by blood to Babar himself.
ARGAN: Really. Mm. I am your servant sir. And you’re a doctor?
TOINETTE: I’m a consultant.
ARGAN: Oh good.
TOINETTE: How old would you say I am?
ARGAN: Twenty-six, twenty-seven.
TOINETTE: Ninety-two.
ARGAN: Ninety-two?!
TOINETTE: Ninety-two and a half. My body has been treated by my medications consistently for the last seventy years. I now travel from town to town, from country to country in search of medical challenges. I’m afraid I have no interest in spots, or minor rashes.
ARGAN: I do have some rashes, but fortunately I have many other more serious complaints.
TOINETTE: Excellent. Nowadays, I don’t get out of bed unless there’s a full blown plague to treat. It has to be a chronic fever, a life-threatening pleurisy, or a multiple limb amputation. So what I dearly hope sir is for you to have as many serious diseases as possible and to have been given up as a lost cause by the medical profession.
ARGAN: That’s it! That’s me! Just this minute actually!
TOINETTE: And we have been brought together! There is a God! Let me feel your pulse. Come on, come on! Beat! I’ll get you drumming! Who is your doctor?
ARGAN: Doctor Purgon.
TOINETTE: Oh, ha! Ho, ho, ho. Hee, hee, hee. Really, Purgon. My, my. Let’s just say ‘not in the top ten of finest medical brains’. What does he say is wrong with you?
ARGAN: The liver.
TOINETTE: Wrong. It’s the lung.
ARGAN: My lungs?
TOINETTE: Yes. Is there any pain?
ARGAN: I get a pain here. (Points to his forehead.)
TOINETTE: Yup. The lungs. Ah! I see you have a full head of hair.
BERALDE: Yes, the outside of his head’s working perfectly.
TOINETTE: That’s the lungs again.
ARGAN: Occasionally I get a really piercing pain in my stomach, as if I had colic?
TOINETTE: No it’s not colic, it’s the lungs. And you’ll be eating well, yeah?
ARGAN: Yes, I have good appetite.
TOINETTE: That’s the lungs you see. Do you like a drink of red wine?
ARGAN: Why yes, I do.
TOINETTE: Always the same with lung problems. Do you get a little drowsy, you know, in the evenings, after a good meal with plenty of wine?
ARGAN: Oh dear yes! Is that serious?!
TOINETTE: And in the mornings, after a good sleep, are you a bit fuzzy for the first couple of minutes?
ARGAN: Oh God, yes I am.
TOINETTE: Mmm. What does your doctor tell you to eat?
ARGAN: Soup.
TOINETTE: No!
ARGAN: Chicken.
TOINETTE: Idiot!
ARGAN: Veal.
TOINETTE: Never!
ARGAN: Eggs?
TOINETTE: No, no, no.
ARGAN: They’re fresh eggs.
TOINETTE: The worst!
ARGAN: I have to drink my wine diluted.
TOINETTE: Ignorantus, ignoranta, ignorantum! Drink your wine neat, and to thicken your blood you should eat lots of good fat beef, good fat pork, ripe Dutch cheese, cereals, and buns. Buns help everything else ‘coagulate’. That means ‘stick’.
ARGAN: So lots of sticky buns then?
TOINETTE: By the ton. Now then, in order to cure you the first thing you have to do is sack that doctor of yours.
ARGAN: Well, that’s done.
TOINETTE: And I’ll send one of my trainees to administer my prescriptions.
ARGAN: That’s very good of you.
TOINETTE: Are you right-handed or left-handed?
ARGAN: Right-handed.
TOINETTE: We’ll amputate the left arm then.
ARGAN: What?
TOINETTE: If you don’t use it that much, you’ll not miss it, and at the moment it’s taking all the nourishment from your other arm.
ARGAN: Yes, but…it’s my arm. I’ve had it years.
TOINETTE: You could do to have one of those eyes out too.
ARGAN: Eh?
TOINETTE: When you’ve got two eyes, the one can confuse the other. We’ll just gouge it out. Shall we book you in for Tuesday?
ARGAN: I’m not in a rush.
TOINETTE: Farewell, I am sorry I have to leave you so soon but I have a consultation about another of my patients who died yesterday.
ARGAN: He died?
TOINETTE: Yes, goodbye.
TOINETTE leaves.
BERALDE: Very clever man.
ARGAN: I’m not sure about him.
BERALDE: What didn’t you like?
ARGAN: After a month with him, I wouldn’t have any limbs left. Anyway, I didn’t trust him.
BERALDE: Why not?
ARGAN: He didn’t charge me anything.
Enter TOINETTE.
TOINETTE: Get off me!
ARGAN: What’s going on?
TOINETTE: Put it this way, he wasn’t trying to take my pulse.
ARGAN: Now that is impressive, at ninety-two.
BERALDE: We must talk about my niece. There is an alternative possible match, now that Doctor Purgon has broken off the contract with Thomas Diafoirerhoea.
ARGAN: No! She’s going to a nunnery. That’ll teach the little minx. I know what’s been going on with this ‘sweetheart’.
BERALDE: What have you got against love? The feelings are natural and honest and can lead to marriage.
ARGAN: She’s going to be a nun. N U N. Nun.
BERALDE: I know who’s behind this.
ARGAN: There you go again, no-one likes her. My dear, dear wife.
BERALDE: She’s really got you on a string hasn’t she?
TOINETTE: Sir, please don’t speak ill of Madame. She is without artifice, pure, loving.
ARGAN: Tell him how she worries about my illnesses.
TOINETTE: Yes, always worrying about the seriousness of the ailment, always wondering what she will do if he passes away.
(To BERALDE.) How can I convince you of her loyalty?
(To ARGAN.) Sir, I have an idea. I can prove to your brother once and for all the depth of Madame’s love for you.
ARGAN: How?
TOINETTE: Stretch out in your chair and pretend to be dead.
ARGAN: What?
TOINETTE: Madame has just arrived home, and will come in here shortly, if she discovers you dead, then your brother will see the grief and agony of her suffering when she sees him.
ARGAN: It’s unnecessary, but I see your plan. But don’t leave her too long in the throws of grief, people have been known to die of a broken heart you know.
TOINETTE: I wouldn’t worry about that.
(To BERALDE.) Hide over here sir.
ARGAN acts dead. Then he sits up, worried.
ARGAN: Will it make me ill?
TOINETTE: What?
ARGAN: Pretending to be dead.
TOINETTE: No! Get down! Here she comes.
Enter BELINE. TOINETTE starts shrieking.
BELINE: What’s happened?!
TOINETTE: Oh! Madame, your husband –
BELINE: (Hopeful.) Yes?
TOINETTE: He’s gone. He’s deceased, and passed on.
BELINE: (Hopeful.) Is he dead?
TOINETTE: Oh! Yes. He’s hopelessly dead.
BELINE: Good! At last! Kaw! He took his time, I thought it would never happen. Stop wailing!
TOINETTE: Sorry. It just felt like the right thing to do.
BELINE: He’s not worth it. Good riddance I say. I’ve had to marry some strange men in my time but never before have I been stuck with such a disgusting, nauseating, foul pig as…that.
TOINETTE: There’s no need to be polite madame, he’s dead, say what you really mean.
BELINE: It was like living with a rotting corpse. Always blowing his nose; inspecting the snot; buckets everywhere – full of bile, urine, spit. Stools – dated, labelled and stored in boxes.
TOINETTE: I look forward to your tearful eulogy at the funeral.
BELINE: And he was a bore. A tedious, soporific, deadly bore.
TOINETTE: He said nice things about you.
BELINE: Sex. And a son. That’s all he wanted. Ill? He was never too ill when it came to that. Ha! Colic? Temperature? Contagion? Nothing affected it. Twenty-four hours a day he was ready. You could hang a flag off it.
(Directly to TOINETTE.) We need to conceal his death until I’ve sorted out the will. Damn! I’ll have to forge his signature. I need your help now. You’ll be well rewarded Toinette. And we’ve got to get those two girls of his off to a convent. So much to do! Ha, ha! First things first, his keys.
BELINE puts a hand in one of ARGAN’s pockets.
ARGAN: Darling!
BELINE: (Genuinely horrified.) Agh!
TOINETTE: (False shriek.) Ah! The deceased has un-deceased himself!
BELINE makes to exit.
BELINE: What!? Aggh!!! What is this!? You’re not dead!?
ARGAN: No! My God no, not legally dead, no. God! I can’t believe this! This…this…what….I mean…I can’t believe this! You…you…I’ve played dead for two minutes but…but…obviously…you…you! You’ve been playing ‘loving wife’ for years! This…get out! Ill…yes…Ill I may be but…I have never been…look at me I’m lost for words! I have never been so sickened by anything in my life as by the words…the words I have just heard coming from…that…your sewer, yes! sewer of a mouth. Such pure wickedness, such rank evil…I’ve never, never! I can’t believe it! My brother…he, and my servant…my brother out of love, my servant from loyalty…they staged this…this performance for my benefit, and I thank them, thank you…thank you. You are now gloriously shown for what you are. You should be a professional actress, maybe Molière will take you on. Well!? What do you have to say for yourself?
Pause, during which BELINE is struggling to find anything to say.
An actress, yet now speechless. What is it they say in the theatre? Beline, exit stage left.
BELINE: (Backing off.) No, no, no.
ARGAN: Yes, yes, yes! Get out of my house!
BELINE: I have been with you for three years. I deserve –
ARGAN: – You deserve to be whipped!
BELINE: I’m going to see my solicitor.
ARGAN: No-one’s stopping you!
BELINE: You’ll not get away with this.
ARGAN: If you can keep your hands off him for half an hour maybe he can prepare the divorce papers!
BELINE exits.
Ha, ha! Extraordinary! Brilliant Toinette, brilliant. Oh my God! It feels as if my eyes have been opened. What have I been doing for all these years! This has been a big lesson for me. My life begins today! Thank you brother. You’ve saved me.
BERALDE: (Out of hiding.) We had to do something.
TOINETTE: Did you hear what she said!? I’d never have believed it! Wait! That’s Angelique, let’s do this again, –
ARGAN: Again? What? Trick Angelique?
TOINETTE: Don’t you want to know how she truly feels about you? Lie back!
ARGAN plays dead again. BERALDE hides. ANGELIQUE enters. TOINETTE wails.
ANGELIQUE: Toinette!? What is it?!
TOINETTE: Your father… Aoooohh!!
ANGELIQUE goes over to ARGAN.
He was alive just a minute ago, we were talking, then he blew his nose, and then…aaaahhh!! DEAD!!
ANGELIQUE: (Through genuine tears.) Father! Oh father!! Oh Lord please don’t take my father away from me, he is all I have. Please, please, no, no, this can’t be true. His love and happiness is all I have ever craved, please Lord save him. Not now, oh no, when he is unhappy with me. That would be unbearable!
Enter CLEANTE.
CLEANTE: What has happened Angelique? Why are you crying?
ANGELIQUE: I have just lost the most precious thing in my life. My father has died.
CLEANTE: Good heavens. I’m sorry. That’s terrible. I came here to see him, to beg for your hand in marriage.
ANGELIQUE: I am sorry, I cannot talk of marriage now. After this, I no longer wish to live in this world, and as a mark of respect to my father I will carry out his last wish, that I become a nun. I will kiss him now, to seal my final vow to him.
She stoops to kiss ARGAN.
ARGAN: My sweet!
ANGELIQUE: (Terrified.) Agh!
ARGAN: (Holding her.) Don’t be afraid sugar. I’m not dead.
ANGELIQUE: Oh Father!
ARGAN: There, there. My dearest, sweet daughter, my little baby girl. Oh I’m so pleased that I have seen your goodness.
ANGELIQUE: Oh God! I’m so happy you’re alive! Promise me one thing father, now that you live, if you do not want me to marry the man I love, this man, then please do not force another on me.
CLEANTE: (Kneeling.) Sir! I beg of you, please listen to your daughter. Do you want to be remembered as a man who took up his sword to fight against love?
BERALDE: That’s a good question.
TOINETTE: You can’t ignore their passion!
ARGAN: I’ll agree to the marriage –
General positive noises, people start to kiss each other and celebrate until…
On condition that –
The celebrations halt.
– he trains to be a doctor.
CLEANTE: (Light-hearted.) With pleasure. I would do anything! Even a dentist! Yes, a doctor! That can’t be too hard.
BERALDE: (To ARGAN.) Why don’t you become a doctor?
TOINETTE: Good idea. No disease would dare attack a doctor.
BERALDE: What could be more convenient? In one body, you can be both the invalid and the healer. There’d always be a doctor on hand.
TOINETTE: Cheaper too.
ARGAN: You’re laughing at me. I’m too old to be a student.
BERALDE: You don’t need to study. You’ve had every disease in the book.
ARGAN: That’s true. But I can’t speak Latin.
BERALDE: Talk jibberish. It doesn’t matter. Simply putting on the white coat turns you into a expert, a genius, beyond questioning.
ARGAN: You can’t become a doctor just by putting on a white coat!
BERALDE: No, you’d need a beard as well.
TOINETTE: A white coat and a beard, perfect.
BERALDE: You could be inaugurated straight away.
ARGAN: You’re mad!
BERALDE: I’ve arranged for friends of mine from the Medical Faculty to come here and perform the ceremony in your own living-room.
ARGAN: For a large fee?
BERALDE: Obviously.
ARGAN: I always thought I’d make a good doctor, and I’ve learnt a few things about the human body from being so seriously ill for so long. Let’s do it.
BERALDE: (To ARGAN.) Go and get dressed in something more appropriate.
ARGAN: And a wig!
BERALDE: Yes. Off you go!
ARGAN leaves.
TOINETTE: I’ll get the students.
Exit TOINETTE.
CLEANTE: What’s the plan?
ANGELIQUE: Do you really have friends in the faculty?
BERALDE: Calm down! The students from the faculty are rehearsing a burlesque about doctors. I thought it would be fun to perform it in front of him, to show him up. They’re waiting outside.
ANGELIQUE: Uncle! You’ve planned all this?!
BERALDE: It’s just a bit of fun.
ANGELIQUE: I don’t want to make fun of my father!
BERALDE: I would agree with you, if he was going to suffer, but I think this is helping, he’s beginning to see the error of his ways.
CLEANTE: Do you consent to this burlesque Angelique?
ANGELIQUE: I don’t know. Alright! I can trust my uncle.
BERALDE: Excellent!
Enter a troupe of students dressed in white coats all with beards. This troupe can be made up from the actors who played BELINE, LOUISON, DIAFOIRERHOEA, his son THOMAS, Doctor PURGON, and BONNEFOI. TOINETTE is with them. They sing and dance.
CHORUS: Scientissimi doctores,
Medicinae professores,
Chirurgiani et apothecari,
Non possum, docti confreri
In nostro docto corpore.
A nos bene conserve
Et totas dignas ramplire
Quam personas capabiles
Has placas honorabiles
In nostro docto corpore
Sententarum facultatis
Et credo quod trovabitis
Salus, honor and bonum argentum
Atque grandum appetitum
In nostro docto corpore.
CHORUS: ANUS SINGULAR!
DOCTOR (2): Anus, ane, anum, ani, ani, ano.
CHORUS: ANUS PLURAL!
DOCTOR (2): Ani, ani, anos, anorum, anis, anis.
CHORUS: Bene, bene respondere
Dignus, dignus, est entrare
In nostro docto corpore,
In nostro docto corpore.
Enter ARGAN still in wheelchair but out of his pyjamas.
CHORUS: ENEMA SINGULAR!
DOCTOR (3): Enema, enema, enemam, enemae, enemae, enema.
CHORUS: ENEMA PLURAL!
DOCTOR (3): Enemae, enemae, enemas, enemarum, enemis, enemis.
CHORUS: Bene, bene respondere
Dignus, dignus, est entrare
In nostro docto corpore,
In nostro docto corpore.
DOCTOR (1): Ubi est novissimus doctore?!
BERALDE: (Pushing ARGAN forward.) That’s you!
ARGAN: Hello.
CHORUS: Bene, bene respondere
Dignus, dignus, est entrare
In nostro docto corpore,
In nostro docto corpore.
DOCTOR (1): Scientissimi doctores
Medicinae professores
Qui hic assemblati estis dominum.
Salut!
CHORUS: Salut!
ARGAN: Salve!
DOCTOR (1): Nos regardat sicut Deos
Et nostris ordainicus
In nostro clubbi blokey
Im Hippocratic oki cokey
Grandam vogam ubi sumus
Per totam terram vedemus
Sunt de nobis inflatuti
Patienti and the poorlyoli
Quam personas capabiles
Et totas diagnosis ramplire
Slowly fondly examinandum
Dignam credo leg off second opinium
Grandam dolorem capitat
I don’t like the look of that
Super illas under the weather maladi
Fideles executores very handy coldy
In Nostro docto corpore!
CHORUS: In nostro docto corpore!
DOCTOR (1): (To ARGAN.) Parlat Latin?
ARGAN: I can decline bellum. War.
CHORUS: Donare, donare, donare!
ARGAN: Blum, blum, blum,
Bli, blo, blo,
Bla, bla, bla
Blorum, blis, blis.
CHORUS: Bene, bene respondere
Dignus, dignus, est entrare
In nostro docto corpore,
In nostro docto corpore.
One of the CHORUS steps forward and gives him a white coat. ARGAN dresses in it and stands out of his wheelchair. He straightens his back.
DOCTOR (1): How’s yer verbs?
ARGAN: Amo, I love. Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant.
CHORUS: Bene, bene respondere
Dignus, dignus, est entrare
In nostro docto corpore,
In nostro docto corpore.
One of the CHORUS steps forward and gives him a black beard, another gives him a saw, another a knife, another a huge syringe.
DOCTOR (1): Vivat, vivat, vivat
Novus doctor bene parlat
CHORUS: Vivat, vivat, vivat
Novus doctor bene parlat.
A patient is wheeled on.
DOCTOR (1): Primus Patienti!
Enter PATIENT, wailing.
CHORUS: (To ARGAN.) Novissimus Doctore
Medico Proffission
Primus Patiente
Clysterium donare
Postea seignare
Ensuitta Purgare.
ARGAN: Me?
CHORUS: Clysterium donare
Postea seignare
Ensuitta Purgare.
ARGAN: What’s wrong with her?
During the next, four of the CHORUS spread out from head to foot and declare the illnesses they find in front of them. They take a line each.
CHORUS: Athlete’s Foot
Achilles Heel
Ankylosing Spondylitis
Nits!
Bunions
Bedwetting
Benign Prostatic Hyperplasia
Nits!
Corns
Cystitis
Cirrhosis of the liver
Nits!
Dementia
Depression
Dupuytren’s Contrature
Nits!
CHORUS: Clysterium donare
Postea seignare
Ensuitta Purgare.
ARGAN: But I don’t know what I’m doing.
The patient holds out a hand which is stuffed with bank notes. ARGAN is handed a knife. During the next he cuts the woman’s stomach open and starts pulling out the liver, pancreas, organs, bones etc. At the end of the operation the woman jumps off the stretcher and kisses ARGAN. Through the next ARGAN is struggling to keep up, and coughs intermittently.
CHORUS: Vivat, vivat, vivat
a thousand times Vivat.
ARGAN is really struggling.
Bene, bene, respondere
Dignus, dignus est entrare
In nostro docto corpore
IN NOSTRO DOCTO CORPORE!
All the cast take a bow. Argan can barely stand. And a second bow, then all but Argan leave the stage. Argan kneels and coughs, he coughs up blood and spits. It’s ugly. BERALDE / LA THORILLIÈRE enters.
LA THORILLIÈRE: (To the wings.) Curtain! Curtain! Molière’s ill! Call his doctor! Molière’s ill. Get his doctor now! Get the bloody curtain down!
ANGELIQUE / ARMANDE runs on with water. But ARGAN / MOLIÈRE is too far gone to be able to drink.
ARMANDE: Please drink! Here! (To LA THORILLIÈRE.) He was coughing blood at the end of Act Two.
LA THORILLIÈRE: It’s his lungs.
Enter CHORUS (1).
CHORUS (1): What is it?
LA THORILLIÈRE: It’s Molière. His lungs.
Enter CHORUS (2).
CHORUS (2): His doctor’s not here.
LA THORILLIÈRE: Get another bloody doctor then!
Exit CHORUS (2).
ARMANDE: Drink my sweet, drink. It’s me Armande. Drink.
LA THORILLIÈRE: (To the audience.) Molière’s collapsed. We need a doctor. Is there a doctor in? (Beat.) Come on! We need a fucking doctor
To black.