The Misanthrope and Other Plays

PHILINTE. Well then? What’s wrong?

ALCESTE.

I pray you, let me be.

PHILINTE. Won’t you explain this sudden wrath to me?

ALCESTE. Leave me alone, I say; run off and hide.

PHILINTE. Without such anger you should hear my side.

ALCESTE. Not I. I will be angry. I won’t hear.

PHILINTE. The reasons for your fits escape me clear;

And though we’re friends, I feel I must insist . . .

ALCESTE. What? I, your friend? Just scratch me off your list.

Till now I have professed to be one, true;

But after what I have just seen in you,

I tell you flatly now that here we part;

I want no place in a corrupted heart.

PHILINTE. Then in your eyes, Alceste, I’m much to blame?

ALCESTE. You should go off and die for very shame;

There’s no excuse for such an act as yours;

It’s one that any decent man abhors.

I see you greet a man like a long-lost friend

And smother him in sweetness without end;

With protestations, offers, solemn vows,

You load the frenzy of your scrapes and bows;

When I ask later whom you cherish so,

Even his name, I find, you barely know.

As soon as he departs, your fervor dies,

And you tell me he’s nothing in your eyes.

Good Lord! You play a base, unworthy role

By stooping to betray your very soul;

And if (which God forbid) I’d done the same,

I’d go right out and hang myself for shame.

PHILINTE. To me the case does not deserve the rope;

Pray you, allow me to retain the hope

That I may exercise some leniency

And need not hang myself from the nearest tree.

ALCESTE. With what bad grace this jesting comes from you!

PHILINTE. But seriously, what would you have me do?

ALCESTE. A man should be sincere, and nobly shrink

From saying anything he does not think.

PHILINTE. But when a man embraces you, I find

You simply have to pay him back in kind,

Respond to his effusions as you may,

And try to meet offers and vows halfway.

ALCESTE. No, I cannot endure this fawning guile

Employed by nearly all your men of style.

There’s nothing I so loathe as the gyrations

Of all these great makers of protestations,

These lavishers of frivolous embraces,

These utterers of empty commonplaces,

Who in civilities won’t be outdone,

And treat the good man and the fool as one.

What joy is there in hearing pretty phrases

From one who loud and fulsome sings your praises,

Vows friendship, love, esteem for evermore,

Then runs to do the same to any boor?

No, no; a soul that is well constituted

Cares nothing for esteem so prostituted;

Our vanity is satisfied too cheap

With praise that lumps all men in one vast heap;

Esteem, if it be real, means preference,

And when bestowed on all it makes no sense.

Since these new vices seem to you so fine,

Lord! You’re not fit to be a friend of mine.

I spurn the vast indulgence of a heart

That will not set merit itself apart;

No, singled out is what I want to be;

The friend of man is not the man for me.

PHILINTE. But one who travels in society

Must show some semblance of civility.

ALCESTE. No, I say; an example should be made

Of hypocrites who ply this shameful trade.

A man should be a man, and let his speech

At every turn reveal his heart to each;

His own true self should speak; our sentiments

Should never hide beneath vain compliments.

PHILINTE. But utter frankness would, in many a case,

Become ridiculous and out of place.

We sometimes—no offense to your high zeal—

Should rather hide what in our heart we feel.

Would it be either fitting or discreet

To air our views of them to all we meet?

Dealing with someone we dislike or hate,

Must we always be sure to set him straight?

ALCESTE. Yes.

PHILINTE. What? Old Émilie you’d promptly tell

That she has passed the age to be a belle,

And that her makeup is a sorry jest?

ALCESTE. No doubt.

PHILINTE.

Tell Dorilas that he’s a pest,

That all his talk has wearied every ear

About his noble blood and brave career?

ALCESTE. Assuredly.

PHILINTE.

You’re joking.

ALCESTE.

I am not.

I’ll spare no one on this point, not one jot.

It hurts my eyes to see the things I’ve seen,

And court and town alike arouse my spleen.

Dark melancholy seizes me anew

Each time I watch men act the way they do;

Cowardly flattery is all I see,

Injustice, selfishness, fraud, treachery;

I’ve had my fill; it makes me mad; I plan

To dash head-on with the whole race of man.

PHILINTE. You overdo your philosophic bile;

I see your gloomy fits and have to smile.

We two are like the brothers in The School

For Husbands,* who, though reared by the same rule,

Yet . . .

ALCESTE. Heavens! spare us these inane charades.

PHILINTE. No, really, you should drop your wild tirades.

Your efforts will not change the world, you know,

And inasmuch as frankness charms you so,

I’ll tell you, frankly, that this malady

Is treated everywhere as comedy,

And that your wrath against poor humankind

Makes you ridiculous in many a mind.

ALCESTE. By heaven! so much the better! that’s first-rate.

It’s a good sign; my joy in it is great.

All men are so abhorrent in my eyes

That I’d be sorry if they thought me wise.

PHILINTE. Toward human nature you are very spiteful.

ALCESTE. I am; the hate I feel for it is frightful.

PHILINTE. Shall all poor mortals, then, without exception,

Be lumped together in this mass aversion?

Even today you still find now and then . . .

ALCESTE. No, it is general; I hate all men:

For some are wholly bad in thought and deed;

The others, seeing this, pay little heed;

For they are too indulgent and too nice

To share the hate that virtue has for vice.

Indulgence at its worst we clearly see

Toward the base scoundrel who’s at law with me:

Right through his mask men see the traitor’s face,

And everywhere give him his proper place;

His wheedling eyes, his soft and cozening tone,

Fool only those to whom he is not known.

That this knave rose, where he deserved to fall,

By shameful methods, is well known to all,

And that his state, which thanks to these is lush,

Makes merit murmur and makes virtue blush.

Whatever notoriety he’s won,

Such honor lacks support from anyone;

Call him a cheat, knave, curséd rogue to boot,

Everyone will agree, no one refute.

Yet everywhere his false smile seems to pay:

Everywhere welcomed, hailed, he worms his way;

And if by pulling strings he stands to gain

Some honor, decent men compete in vain.

Good Lord! It fairly turns my blood to ice

To see the way men temporize with vice,

And sometimes I’ve a strong desire to flee

To some deserted spot, from humans free.

PHILINTE. Let’s fret less over morals, if we can,

And have some mercy on the state of man;

Let’s look at it without too much austerity,

And try to view its faults without severity.

In this world virtue needs more tact than rigor;

Wisdom may be excessive in its vigor;

Perfected reason flees extremity,

And says: Be wise, but with sobriety.

The unbending virtue of the olden days

Clashes with modern times and modern ways;

Its stiff demands on mortals go too far;

We have to live with people as they are;

And the greatest folly of the human mind

Is undertaking to correct mankind.

Like you I note a hundred things a day

That might go better, done another way,

But notwithstanding all that comes in view,

Men do not find me full of wrath like you;

I take men as they are, with self-control;

To suffer what they do I train my soul,

And I think, whether court or town’s the scene,

My calm’s as philosophic as your spleen.

ALCESTE. But, sir, this calm, that is so quick to reason,

This calm, is it then never out of season?

If by a friend you find yourself betrayed,

If for your property a snare is laid,

If men besmirch your name with slanderous lies,

You’ll see that and your temper will not rise?

PHILINTE. Why, yes, I see these faults, which make you hot,

As vices portioned to the human lot;

In short, it’s no more shock to my mind’s eye

To see a man unjust, self-seeking, sly,

Than to see vultures hungry for their prey,

Monkeys malicious, wolves athirst to slay.

ALCESTE. Then I should be robbed, torn to bits, betrayed,

Without . . . ? Good Lord! I leave the rest unsaid;

Such reasoning is patently absurd.

PHILINTE. Less talk would help your cause, upon my word:

Outbursts against your foe are out of place;

You should give more attention to your case.

ALCESTE. I’ll give it none. That’s all there is to say.

PHILINTE. Then who will speak for you and pave the way?

ALCESTE. The justice of my cause will speak for me.

PHILINTE. Is there no judge that you will stoop to see?*

ALCESTE. No; don’t you think my case is just and clear?

PHILINTE. True, but intrigue is what you have to fear,

And . . .

ALCESTE. No, I’ll take no steps, I’ll not give in;

I’m either right or wrong.

PHILINTE.

Don’t think you’ll win.

ALCESTE. I shall not budge.

PHILINTE.

Your enemy is strong.

And by collusion he . . .

ALCESTE.

What then? He’s wrong.

PHILINTE. You’re making a mistake.

ALCESTE.

All right; we’ll see.

PHILINTE. But . . .

ALCESTE.

Let me lose my case; that will please me.

PHILINTE. But after all . . .

ALCESTE.

In this chicanery

I’ll see if men have the effrontery,

And are sufficiently base, vile, perverse,

To wrong me in the sight of the universe.

PHILINTE. Oh, what a man!

ALCESTE.

My case—despite the cost,

For the sheer beauty of it—I’d see lost.

PHILINTE. People would really laugh at you, you know,

Alceste, if they could hear you talking so.

ALCESTE. Too bad for those who laugh.

PHILINTE.

Even this rigor

Which you require of all with so much vigor,

This rectitude that you make so much of,

Do you observe it in the one you love?

It still amazes me when I see you,

Who censor humankind the way you do,

And see in it so much that you abhor,

Find in it anyone you can adore;

And what astonishes me further yet

Is the strange choice on which your heart is set.

The candid Éliante finds you attractive,

Arsinoé the prude would like you active;

Meanwhile your unconcern with them is plain;

Instead you are bewitched by Célimène,

One whose sharp tongue and whose coquettish ways

Are just the things in fashion nowadays.

How is it that in her you tolerate

Failings which, found in others, rouse your hate?

Are they no longer faults in one so dear?

Are they unseen? Are others too severe?

ALCESTE. No, love for this young widow does not blind

My eyes to all the faults that others find,

And I, despite my ardor for her, am

The first to see them and the first to damn.

But still, for all of that, she has an art;

She finds and fills a soft spot in my heart;

I see her flaws and blame them all I will,

No matter what I do, I love her still;

Her grace remains too strong. My love, no doubt,

Will yet prevail and drive these vices out.

PHILINTE. If you do that, it will be no small coup.

You think she loves you, then?

ALCESTE.

Indeed I do!

I’d not love her unless I thought she did.

PHILINTE. But if her fondness for you is not hid,

Why do your rivals cause you such concern?

ALCESTE. A smitten heart wants to possess in turn,

And all I’ve come here for is to reveal

To her all that my passion makes me feel.

PHILINTE. For my part, if mere wishes had a voice,

Her cousin Éliante would be my choice.

Her heart esteems you and is staunch and true;

She’d be a sounder, better match for you.

ALCESTE. You’re right, my reason says so every day;

But over love reason has little sway.

PHILINTE. Your loving hopes I fear that she may flout,

And . . .

ORONTE. Éliante, I hear downstairs, is out,

And likewise Célimène, with things to do,

But since they told me that I might find you,

I came to tell you frankly, anyway,

That I esteem you more than tongue can say,

And that I long have wished and now intend

To ask you to accept me as a friend.

Yes, yes, I would see merit have its due;

In friendship’s bond I would be joined with you.

An ardent friend, as nobly born as I,

Can surely not be easily passed by.

(To ALCESTE)

For you, if you don’t mind, my words are meant.

(At this point ALCESTE is lost in thought and seems not to hear that ORONTE is speaking to him.)

ALCESTE. Me, sir?

ORONTE.

You. Are they something to resent?

ALCESTE. No, but your praise of me comes unexpected;

Such high regard I never had suspected.

ORONTE. My great esteem should come as no surprise,

And you can claim the like in all men’s eyes.

ALCESTE. Sir . . .

ORONTE.

Our whole State possesses nothing higher

Than all your merit, which men so admire.

ALCESTE. Sir . . .

ORONTE.

Yes, you are far worthier, say I,

Than all I see that others rate so high.

ALCESTE. Sir . . .

ORONTE.

If I lie, may heaven strike me dead!

And, to confirm to you what I’ve just said,

Allow me, sir, a heart-to-heart embrace,

And in your friendship let me find a place.

Shake on it, if you please. Then it is mine,

Your friendship?

ALCESTE.

Sir . . .

ORONTE.

What? Then do you decline?

ALCESTE. Sir, most excessively you honor me;

But friendship asks a bit more mystery,

And surely we profane its name sublime

By using it on all, and all the time.

Upon enlightened choice this bond depends;

We need to know each other to be friends,

And we might prove to be so different

That both of us might presently repent.

ORONTE. By heaven! That’s wisely spoken on that score,

And I esteem you for it all the more.

Let us let time prepare friendship’s fruition;

But meanwhile I am at your disposition.

If you need help at court for anything,

You know I have some standing with the King.

He listens to me, and in every way

Treats me more decently than I can say.

In short, consider me as all your own;

And, since your brilliant mind is widely known,

I’ve come to ask your judgment as a friend

Upon a sonnet that I lately penned,

And learn whether I ought to publish it.

ALCESTE. For such a judgment, sir, I’m hardly fit.

So please excuse me.

ORONTE.

Why?

ALCESTE.

For this defect:

I’m always more sincere than men expect.

ORONTE. Exactly what I ask; I could complain

If, when I urged you to speak clear and plain,

You then disguised your thought in what you said.

ALCESTE. Since you will have it so, sir, go ahead.

ORONTE. “Sonnet . . .” It is a sonnet. “Hope . . .” You see,

A lady once aroused some hope in me.

“Hope . . .” This is nothing grandiose or sublime,

But just a soft, sweet, tender little rhyme.

(At each interruption he looks at ALCESTE.)

ALCESTE. We shall see.

ORONTE.

“Hope . . .” The style may not appear

To you sufficiently easy and clear,

And you may think the choice of words is bad.

ALCESTE. We shall see, sir.

ORONTE.

Moreover, let me add,

A quarter hour was all the time I spent.

ALCESTE. Come, sir; the time is hardly pertinent.

ORONTE. Hope does, ’tis true, some comfort bring,

And lulls awhile our aching pain;

But, Phyllis, ’tis an empty thing

When nothing follows in its train.

PHILINTE. That is a charming bit, and full of verve.

ALCESTE (aside). You call that charming? What! You have the nerve?

ORONTE. My flame you once seemed to invite;

’Twas pity that you let it live,

And kept me languishing, poor wight,

When hope was all you had to give.

PHILINTE. Oh, in what gallant terms these things are put!

ALCESTE (aside). You wretched flatterer! Gallant, my foot!

ORONTE. Should an eternity to wait

Render my ardor desperate,

Then my decease shall end my pains.

Your fond concern you well may spare;

Fair Phyllis, it is still despair

When hope alone is what remains.

PHILINTE. That dying fall casts a seductive spell.

ALCESTE (aside, to PHILINTE). Poisoner, you and your fall may go to hell.

I wish you’d taken one right on your nose.

PHILINTE. I’ve never heard verses as fine as those.

ALCESTE. Good Lord!

ORONTE.

You flatter me; perhaps you’re trying . . .

PHILINTE. I am not flattering.

ALCESTE (aside).

No, only lying.

ORONTE (to ALCESTE). But you, sir, you recall what we agreed;

Please be sincere. How do these verses read?

ALCESTE. Questions of talent, sir, are ticklish matters,

And we all yearn to hear the voice that flatters;

But when a man—no matter who—one day

Read me his verses, I made bold to say

A gentleman must have the will to fight

Our universal human itch to write,

That he must overcome his great temptations

To make a fuss about such recreations,

And that our eagerness for self-display

Can give us many a sorry role to play.

ORONTE. I think I gather what you’re getting at:

That I am wrong to want . . .

ALCESTE.

I don’t say that.

But frigid writing palls, and can bring down—

So I told him—a worthy man’s renown;

Though one had every other quality,

Our weakest points are what men choose to see.

ORONTE. Then with my sonnet, sir, do you find fault?

ALCESTE. I don’t say that; but urging him to halt,

I pointed out to him how, time and again,

This thirst has spoiled extremely worthy men.

ORONTE. Am I like them? Don’t I know how to rhyme?

ALCESTE. I don’t say that. But, I said, take your time:

Have you some urgent need to versify

And see yourself in print? I ask you, why?

The authors of bad books we may forgive

Only when the poor wretches write to live.

Take my advice and overcome temptations,

Hide from the public all these occupations,

Against all urgings raise a stout defense,

And keep your good name as a man of sense;

Don’t change it in some greedy printer’s stall

For that of author ridiculed by all.

—That’s what I tried to make this man perceive.

ORONTE. All right. I understand you, I believe.

About my sonnet, though: may I be told . . . ?

ALCESTE. Frankly, your sonnet should be pigeonholed.

The models you have used are poor and trite;

There’s nothing natural in what you write.

What is this “lulls awhile our aching pain”?

This “nothing follows in its train”?

Or “kept me languishing, poor wight,

When hope was all you had to give”?

And “Phyllis, it is still despair

When hope alone is what remains”?

This mannered style, so dear to people’s hearts,

From human nature and from truth departs;

It’s purest affectation, verbal play,

And Nature never speaks in such a way.

Standards today are wretched, I maintain;

Our fathers’ taste, though crude, was far more sane.

What men now prize gives me far less delight

Than this old song which I will now recite:

If the king had given me

Great Paris for my own,

And had said the price must be

To leave my love alone,

I would tell the king Henri:

Then take back your great Paris,*

I prefer my love, hey ho,

I prefer my love.

The rhyme’s not rich, the style is old and rough,

But don’t you see this is far better stuff

Than all this trumpery that flouts good sense,

And that here passion speaks without pretence?

If the king had given me

Great Paris for my own,

And had said the price must be

To leave my love alone,

I would tell the king Henri:

Then take back your great Paris,

I prefer my love, hey ho,

I prefer my love.

That’s what a really loving heart might say.

(To PHILINTE)

Laugh on. Despite the wits who rule today,

I rate this higher than the flowery show

Of artificial gems, which please men so.

ORONTE. And I maintain my verse is very good.

ALCESTE. I’m sure that you have reasons why you should;

But grant my reasons leave to disagree

And not let yours impose themselves on me.

ORONTE. Enough for me that others rate it high.

ALCESTE. They have the art of feigning, sir; not I.

ORONTE. No doubt you think you’ve quite a share of wit?

ALCESTE. To praise your verse, I should need more of it.

ORONTE. I’ll get along without your praise, I trust.

ALCESTE. I hope you’re right, sir, for I fear you must.

ORONTE. I’d like to see you try, in your own way,

On this same theme, to show what you could say.

ALCESTE. My verses might be just as bad, I own,

But I’d be careful not to make them known.

ORONTE. Your talk is high and mighty, and your ways . . .

ALCESTE. Look elsewhere for a man to sing your praise.

ORONTE. My little man, don’t take this tone with me.

ALCESTE. Big man, my tone is just what it should be.

PHILINTE (stepping between them). Come, gentlemen, enough! I pray you, no!

ORONTE. My fault, I do admit. And now I’ll go.

With all my heart, I am your servant, sir.

ALCESTE. And I, sir, am your humble servitor.

PHILINTE. Well, there you are! You see? By being candid,

Just note in what a nasty mess you’ve landed;

Oronte’s desire for praise was obvious . . .

ALCESTE. Don’t speak to me.

PHILINTE.

But . . .

ALCESTE.

Finis between us.

PHILINTE. You’re too . . .

ALCESTE.

Leave me.

PHILINTE.

If . . .

ALCESTE.

Not another word.

PHILINTE. But what! . . .

ALCESTE.

I’m deaf.

PHILINTE.

But . . .

ALCESTE.

More?

PHILINTE.

This is absurd.

ALCESTE. Good Lord! I’ve had enough. Be off with you.

PHILINTE. You don’t mean that. Where you go, I go too.

ACT I