Scene 1. ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE
ALCESTE. Madame, shall I speak frankly and be brief?
Your conduct gives me not a little grief;
It rouses too much bile within my heart,
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And I can see that we shall have to part.
I have to tell you this for conscience’ sake:
Sooner or later we must surely break.
A thousand pledges to the contrary
I might make, but I could not guarantee.
CÉLIMÈNE. Indeed, your wish to bring me home was kind,
When scolding me was what you had in mind.
ALCESTE. I do not scold; but what is my dismay,
Madame, that the first comer makes his way
Into your heart? By suitors you’re beset;
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And I cannot see this without regret.
CÉLIMÈNE. You blame me for my suitors, this I see.
Can I prevent people from liking me?
And when they try to visit me, no doubt
I ought to take a stick and drive them out?
ALCESTE. A stick, Madame, is not what I suggest,
Merely a heart less easily impressed.
I know that everywhere you cast a spell;
But those your eyes attract you greet too well;
Your graciousness to all who yield their arms
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Completes the conquering action of your charms.
The over-brilliant hopes that you arouse
Surround you with these suitors and their vows;
If only your complaisance were less vast,
This sighing mob would disappear at last.
But by what spell, Madame, if I may know,
Does your Clitandre contrive to please you so?
In worth and virtue is he so supreme
That you should honor him with your esteem?
His little fingernail is very long:
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Is that why your regard for him is strong?
Has his blond wig, which has such great effect
Upon society, won your respect?
Do you love him for the ruffles at his knees?
Or do his multitudinous ribbons please?
Is it the charm of his vast German breeches
That, while he plays the slave, your soul bewitches?
Is it his laugh and his falsetto voice
That make of him the suitor of your choice?
CÉLIMÈNE. To take offense at him is most unfair!
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You know why I must handle him with care,
And that he’s pledged his many friends’ support
To help me when my lawsuit comes to court.
ALCESTE. Then lose your suit, as bravely as you can,
And do not humor that offensive man.
CÉLIMÈNE. Why, everyone excites your jealousy.
ALCESTE. You welcome everyone so charmingly.
CÉLIMÈNE. But this should reassure your anxious mind:
That all who seek, this same complaisance find;
And you would have more cause for discontent
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If there were only one recipient.
ALCESTE. But I, Madame, whose jealousy you blame,
In what way is my treatment not the same?
CÉLIMÈNE. Knowing that you are loved sets you apart.
ALCESTE. How can I prove this to my burning heart?
CÉLIMÈNE. To say what I have said exacts a price;
I think such an avowal should suffice.
ALCESTE. But how can I be certain, even then,
You do not say the same to other men?
CÉLIMÈNE. My! That’s a charming way to pay your court,
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And that makes me appear a pretty sort!
Well then, to give you no more cause to sigh,
All I have said I here and now deny.
There’s no deceiving to be fearful of
Except your own.
ALCESTE.
Lord! And I’m still in love!
If I could just get back my heart, I’d bless
Heaven above for such rare happiness!
I do my best—and this I don’t conceal—
To break the cruel attachment that I feel;
But I have toiled in vain, and now I know
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That it is for my sins I love you so.
CÉLIMÈNE. It’s true, your love for me is matched by none.
ALCESTE. Yes, on that score I’ll challenge anyone.
My love is past belief, Madame; I say
No one has ever loved in such a way.
CÉLIMÈNE. Indeed, your way is novel, and your aim;
The only token of your love is blame;
Your ardor shows itself in angry speech,
And never was a love so quick to preach.
ALCESTE. It rests with you that this should pass away.
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Let’s call a halt to quarreling, I pray,
Speak out with open hearts, then, and begin . . .
Scene 2. CÉLIMÈNE, ALCESTE, BASQUE
CÉLIMÈNE. What is it?
BASQUE.
It’s Acaste.
CÉLIMÈNE.
Well, show him in.
ALCESTE. What? Can one never talk to you alone?
Must you then always welcome everyone?
And can you not for just one moment bear
To have a caller told you are not there?
CÉLIMÈNE. You’d have me quarrel with him too, for sure?
ALCESTE. Some of your courtesies I can’t endure.
CÉLIMÈNE. That man would bear a grudge for evermore,
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If he knew I find the sight of him a bore.
ALCESTE. And why should this make you put on an act?
CÉLIMÈNE. Heavens! Influence is an important fact.
I don’t know why, but people of his sort
Can talk loud and importantly at court.
They push their way into each interview;
They cannot help, but they can damage you;
And even if your other aid is stout,
Don’t quarrel with these men who love to shout.
ALCESTE. No matter what the reason or the base,
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You find cause to receive the human race;
And the precautions that you take, perforce . . .
Scene 3. BASQUE, ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE
BASQUE. Madame, here is Clitandre as well.
ALCESTE (showing that he wants to leave).
Of course.
CÉLIMÈNE. Where are you going?
ALCESTE.
Leaving.
CÉLIMÈNE.
Stay.
ALCESTE.
What for?
CÉLIMÈNE. Stay here.
ALCESTE.
I can’t.
CÉLIMÈNE.
I want you to.
ALCESTE.
No more.
These conversations weary me past cure;
This is too much to ask me to endure.
CÉLIMÈNE. You shall remain, you shall.
ALCESTE.
It cannot be.
CÉLIMÈNE. All right, then, go; it’s quite all right with me.
Scene 4. ÉLIANTE, PHILINTE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE, ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE, BASQUE
ÉLIANTE. Here are the two marquis who’ve come to call.
Were they announced?
CÉLIMÈNE.
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Indeed. (To BASQUE) Bring chairs for all.
(To ALCESTE) You haven’t left?
ALCESTE.
No, Madame. I demand
That you declare to all just where you stand.
CÉLIMÈNE. Oh, hush.
ALCESTE.
You shall explain yourself today.
CÉLIMÈNE. You’re mad.
ALCESTE.
I am not. You shall say your say.
CÉLIMÈNE. Ah!
ALCESTE.
You’ll make up your mind.
CÉLIMÈNE.
I think you’re joking.
ALCESTE. No, you shall choose; this doubt is too provoking.
CLITANDRE. My word! I’ve just come from the King’s levee,
Where Cléonte played the fool for all to see.
Has he no friend who could, with kindly tact,
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Teach him the rudiments of how to act?
CÉLIMÈNE. Indeed, in social life the man’s a dunce;
His manner startles every eye at once;
And when you see him, later on, once more,
You find him more fantastic than before.
ACASTE. Speaking of characters fantastical,
I’ve just endured the greatest bore of all:
Damon, the talker, kept me, by your leave,
One hour in the hot sun without reprieve.
CÉLIMÈNE. Yes, his strange mania for reasoning
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Makes him talk on, and never say a thing;
His discourse in obscurity abounds,
And all you listen to is merely sounds.
ÉLIANTE (to PHILINTE). Not a bad opening. Soon the entire nation
Will be in danger of annihilation.
CLITANDRE. Timante is quite a character, you know.
CÉLIMÈNE. The man of mystery from top to toe,
Who gives you a distracted glance, aside,
Does nothing, yet is always occupied.
Grimaces lend importance to each word;
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His high portentousness makes him absurd;
He interrupts your talk, in confidence,
To whisper a secret of no consequence;
At making trifles great he has no peer;
Even “Good day” he whispers in your ear.
ACASTE. Géralde, Madame?
CÉLIMÈNE.
He tells a tedious tale.
All but great nobles are beyond the pale;
He mingles with those of the highest note,
And none but duke or princess will he quote.
He is obsessed with rank; his monologues
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Are all of horses, carriages, and dogs;
He uses tu in speaking to the great,
And seems to think Monsieur* is out of date.
CLITANDRE. They say Bélise appreciates his merit.
CÉLIMÈNE. How dry she is in talk, and poor in spirit!
I find it torture to receive her call:
You labor to say anything at all,
And the sterility of her expression
At every moment kills the conversation.
In vain, her stupid silence to annul,
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You try each commonplace, however dull:
Sunny or rainy weather, heat or frost
Are topics that you rapidly exhaust;
Meanwhile her visit, draining all your strength,
Drags on and on at terrifying length;
You ask the time, you yawn and yawn, but no:
She sits there like a log and will not go.
ACASTE. What of Adraste?
CÉLIMÈNE.
Oh, what colossal pride!
His love of self has puffed him up inside,
At court he misses due consideration,
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So railing at it is his occupation;
No post or benefice goes to anyone,
But that he thinks injustice has been done.
CLITANDRE. On young Cléon what will your verdict be?
He entertains the best society.
CÉLIMÈNE. He has a cook who is extremely able;
And what they come to visit is his table.
ÉLIANTE. He serves you nothing but the finest food.
CÉLIMÈNE. He serves himself as well, and that’s less good:
His stupid person is a sorry dish
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That spoils the taste of fowl and roast and fish.
PHILINTE. Some think Damis, his uncle, rather fine.
What do you say?
CÉLIMÈNE.
He is a friend of mine.
PHILINTE. He seems a decent sort, I must admit.
CÉLIMÈNE. Yes, but he tries too hard to be a wit;
He talks so stiltedly you always know
That he’s premeditating some bon mot.
Since he has set his mind on being clever,
He takes delight in nothing whatsoever;
In all that’s written he finds only flaws,
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And thinks that cleverness forbids applause,
That criticism is a sign of learning,
Enjoyment only for the undiscerning,
And that to frown on any book that’s new
Places him high among the happy few;
He looks on common talk with condescension
As much too trivial for his attention;
Folding his arms, from high above the rabble,
He glances down with pity on our babble.
ACASTE. Damme, Madame, that is exactly true.
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CLITANDRE. There’s no one can portray a man like you.
ALCESTE. That’s right, my courtly friends, be strong, spare none,
Strike hard, and have your sport with everyone;
Yet when one of these victims comes in sight,
Your haste in meeting him is most polite,
And with a kiss and offer of your hand,
You demonstrate that you’re at his command.
CLITANDRE. But why blame us? If what is said offends you,
’Tis to Madame that your remonstrance sends you.
ALCESTE. By God, no! ’Tis to you; your fawning laughter
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Affords her wit just the applause she’s after.
Her bent for character assassination
Feeds constantly upon your adulation;
For satire she would have less appetite
Were it not always greeted with delight.
Thus flatterers deserve our main assaults
For leading humans into many faults.
PHILINTE. But why so eager to defend the name
Of those in whom you damn the things we blame?
CÉLIMÈNE. Don’t you see, he must be opposed to you?
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Would you have him accept the common view,
And not display, in every company,
His heaven-sent gift for being contrary?
The ideas of others he will not admit;
Always he must maintain the opposite;
He’d fear he was an ordinary human
If he agreed with any man—or woman.
For him contrariness offers such charms,
Against himself he often turns his arms;
And should another man his views defend,
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He will combat them to the bitter end.
ALCESTE. The laughers are with you, Madame; you’ve won.
Go on and satirize me; have your fun.
PHILINTE. But it is also true you have a way
Of balking at whatever people say;
And that your spite, which you yourself avow,
Neither applause nor censure will allow.
ALCESTE. My God! That’s because men are never right;
It always is the season for our spite;
I see them on all matters, in all ways,
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Quick with rash censure and untimely praise.
CÉLIMÈNE. But . . .
ALCESTE.
No, Madame, you shall learn, though it kill me,
With what distaste some of your pleasures fill me,
And that I find those persons much to blame
Who foster faults that damage your good name.
CLITANDRE. As for me, I don’t know; but I aver
That up to now I’ve found no fault in her.
ACASTE. Her charms and grace are evident to me;
But any faults I fear I cannot see.
ALCESTE. I see them all; she knows the way I feel;
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My disapproval I do not conceal.
Loving and flattering are worlds apart;
The least forgiving is the truest heart;
And I would send these soft suitors away,
Seeing they dote on everything I say,
And that their praise, complaisant to excess,
Encourages me in my foolishness.
CÉLIMÈNE. In short, if we’re to leave it up to you,
All tenderness in love we must eschew;
And love can only find its true perfection
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In railing at the objects of our affection.
ÉLIANTE. Love tends to find such laws somewhat austere,
And lovers always brag about their dear;
Their passion never sees a thing to blame,
And everything is lovely in their flame:
They find perfection in her every flaw,
And speak of her with euphemistic awe.
The pallid one’s the whitest jasmine yet;
The frightful dark one is a sweet brunette;
The spindly girl is willowy and free;
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The fat one bears herself with majesty;
The dowdy one, who’s ill-endowed as well,
Becomes a careless and neglectful belle;
The giantess is a divinity;
The dwarf, a heavenly epitome;
With princesses the proud one can compete;
The tricky one has wit; the dull one’s sweet;
The tireless talker’s charmingly vivacious,
The mute girl modest, womanly, and gracious.
Thus every man who loves beyond compare
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Loves even the defects of his lady fair.
ALCESTE. And I, for my part, claim . . .
CÉLIMÈNE.
Let’s end this talk
And step outside for just a little walk.
What? You are leaving, sirs?
CLITANDRE and ACASTE.
No, Madame, no.
ALCESTE. You’re certainly afraid that they may go.
Leave when you like, sirs; but I’m warning you,
I shall not leave this place until you do.
ACASTE. Unless Madame should be a little tired,
There’s nowhere that my presence is required.
CLITANDRE. I must go later to the King’s couchee,
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But until then I am quite free today.
CÉLIMÈNE. You’re joking, surely.
ALCESTE.
No. I need to know
Whether you wish for them, or me, to go.
Scene 5. BASQUE, ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE, ÉLIANTE, ACASTE, PHILINTE, CLITANDRE
BASQUE. Sir, there’s a man to see you in the hall
Who says his business will not wait at all.
ALCESTE. Tell him I have no business of such note.
BASQUE. He has a uniform, a great tailcoat
With pleats and lots of gold.
CÉLIMÈNE.
Please go and see,
Or let him in.
ALCESTE (to the OFFICER).
What do you want with me?
Come in, sir.
Scene 6. OFFICER, ALCESTE, CÉLIMÈNE, ÉLIANTE, ACASTE, PHILINTE, CLITANDRE
OFFICER.
Sir, with you I crave a word.
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ALCESTE. You may speak up, sir; let your news be heard.
OFFICER. The Marshals,* sir, have ordered me to say
You must appear before them right away.
ALCESTE. Who, I, sir?
OFFICER.
You yourself.
ALCESTE.
What can they want?
PHILINTE. It’s that ridiculous business with Oronte.
CÉLIMÈNE. How’s that?
PHILINTE.
They are about to take the sword
Over some verse with which Alceste was bored.
The Marshals want of course to quash the matter.
ALCESTE. They’ll never force me to back down and flatter.
PHILINTE. You’ll have to follow orders; come, let’s go.
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ALCESTE. What can they reconcile, I’d like to know?
Shall I now, after everything that’s passed,
Be sentenced to admire his verse at last?
I don’t take back a single thing I said.
I think they’re bad.
PHILINTE.
But with a calmer head . . .
ALCESTE. I won’t back down; his verse is a disgrace.
PHILINTE. Intransigence like yours is out of place.
Come on.
ALCESTE.
I’ll go; but I shall not unsay
One thing I’ve said.
PHILINTE.
Come, let’s be on our way.
ALCESTE. Unless I have the King’s express command
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To like these verses, I have made my stand.
That they are bad, on this I’ll never falter,
And that their author well deserves the halter.
(To CLITANDRE and ACASTE, who laugh)
By God! Messieurs, I never really knew
I was so funny.
CÉLIMÈNE.
Come, be off with you.
Go where you must.
ALCESTE.
I go, Madame, but straight
I shall return to settle our debate.