Scene 1. CLITANDRE, ACASTE
CLITANDRE. You glow with satisfaction, dear Marquis:
You’re free from worriment and full of glee.
But do you think you’re seeing things aright
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In taking such occasion for delight?
ACASTE. My word! When I regard myself, I find
No reason for despondency of mind.
I’m rich, I’m young, I’m of a family
With some pretention to nobility;
And through the rank that goes with my condition,
At court I can aspire to high position.
For courage, something we must all admire,
’Tis known I have been tested under fire,
And an affair of honor recently
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Displayed my vigor and my bravery.
My wit is adequate, my taste discerning,
To judge and treat all subjects without learning;
When a new play is shown (which I adore),
To sit upon the stage, display my lore,
Determine its success, and stop the show
When any passage merits my “Bravo!”
I make a good appearance, rather chic;
I have fine teeth, an elegant physique.
And as for dress, all vanity aside,
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My eminence can scarcely be denied.
I could not ask for more regard; I seem
To have the ladies’ love, the King’s esteem.
With all this, dear Marquis, I do believe
That no man anywhere has cause to grieve.
CLITANDRE. When elsewhere easy conquests meet your eyes,
Why linger here to utter useless sighs?
ACASTE. I? ’Pon my word, I’m not the sort to bear
A cool reception from a lady fair.
It is for vulgar men, uncouth in dress,
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To burn for belles who will not acquiesce,
Pine at their feet, endure their cold disdain,
Seek some support from sighs and tears—in vain,
And strive to win by assiduity
What is denied their meager quality.
But men of my class are not made to yearn
For anyone, Marquis, without return.
However fair the girls, however nice,
I think, thank God, we too are worth our price;
If they would claim the heart of one like me,
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They should in reason pay the proper fee;
And it would be no more than fair that they
Should meet our every overture halfway.
CLITANDRE. Then you are pleased, Marquis, with prospects here?
ACASTE. They offer me, Marquis, good grounds for cheer.
CLITANDRE. Believe me, leave these fantasies behind;
Dear chap, your self-delusion makes you blind.
ACASTE. Of course, delusion makes me blind; ah, yes.
CLITANDRE. But what assures you of such happiness?
ACASTE. Delusion.
CLITANDRE.
Have you grounds for confidence?
ACASTE. I’m blind.
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CLITANDRE.
What constitutes your evidence?
ACASTE. I tell you, I’m all wrong.
CLITANDRE.
Well, have you, then.
Received some secret vow from Célimène?
ACASTE. No, I am badly treated.
CLITANDRE.
Tell me, please.
ACASTE. Nothing but snubs.
CLITANDRE.
A truce on pleasantries;
Tell me what makes you set your hopes so high.
ACASTE. Yours is the luck, and I can only sigh.
So great is her aversion for my ways
That I shall hang myself one of these days.
CLITANDRE. Come now, Marquis, to mend our rivalry,
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Let us agree on one thing, you and me:
If either one can show beyond a doubt
That in her heart he has been singled out,
The other shall admit defeat and yield,
Leaving the victor master of the field.
ACASTE. My word! Your notion matches my intent;
With all my heart and soul I do consent.
But hush!
Scene 2. CÉLIMÈNE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE
CÉLIMÈNE. Still here?
CLITANDRE.
Love will not let us go.
CÉLIMÈNE. I heard a carriage in the court below:
Who is it?
CLITANDRE.
I don’t know.
Scene 3. BASQUE, CÉLIMÈNE, ACASTE, CLITANDRE
BASQUE.
Arsinoé
Is here, Madame.
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CÉLIMÈNE.
Why, what can bring her, pray?
BASQUE. She’s now downstairs talking with Éliante.
CÉLIMÈNE. What can be on her mind? What can she want?
ACASTE. She plays the perfect prude where’er she goes;
Her ardent zeal . . .
CÉLIMÈNE.
Yes, yes, it’s quite a pose:
Her soul is worldly, and her fondest plan
Is, by some miracle, to catch a man.
She can see only with an envious eye
The suitors someone else is courted by.
Left all alone, but not the least resigned,
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She rages at the world that is so blind.
She tries to hide, by acting like a prude,
Her obvious and frightful solitude.
Rather than find her feeble charms to blame,
She calls the power they lack a cause for shame.
A suitor, though, is what would please her best,
Especially if that suitor was Alceste.
His visits to me make her feel bereft,
And she pronounces this a kind of theft.
In jealous spite, which she can hardly bear,
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She covertly attacks me everywhere.
In short, a sillier soul I never saw;
In her absurdity there’s not a flaw,
And . . .
Scene 4. ARSINOÉ, CÉLIMÈNE.
CÉLIMÈNE. Ah! Madame! Why, what a nice surprise!
I’ve missed you so! I can’t believe my eyes.
ARSINOÉ. There’s something that I think I ought to say.
CÉLIMÈNE. Just seeing you makes this a perfect day.
(Exit ACASTE and CLITANDRE, laughing.)
ARSINOÉ. Their leaving now was apropos indeed.
CÉLIMÈNE. Shall we sit down?
ARSINOÉ.
I do not see the need,
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Madame. True friendship should be manifest
In subjects that concern our interest;
And since none matter more to you or me
Than those of honor and propriety,
I come to tell you something, as a friend,
On which your reputation may depend.
I spent the other day with virtuous folk,
And, as it happened, ’twas of you they spoke.
And there, Madame, the freedom of your ways
Had the misfortune not to meet with praise.
The many men from whom you seek applause,
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The rumors your coquettish manners cause,
Found far more censors than they ever ought,
And harsher than I could have wished or thought.
On this, you can imagine where I stood:
I sprang to your defense—as best I could,
Excusing your behavior as well-meant,
And stating I would vouch for your intent.
But there are things, you know as well as I,
We can’t excuse, however hard we try;
And so I had to grant the others’ claim
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That your behavior does not help your name,
That it affords you anything but glory,
And makes of you the butt of many a story,
And that your ways, if you amended them,
Might offer less occasion to condemn.
Not that I think you grant more than you ought:
Heaven preserve my mind from such a thought!
But people hanker so for signs of vice,
To live well for oneself does not suffice.
Madame, I think you have too wise a heart
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Not to accept this counsel in good part,
And to suspect a motive in my breast
Other than fervor for your interest
CÉLIMÈNE. Madame, do not misjudge my attitude:
Advice like yours is cause for gratitude;
Now let me show my deep appreciation
By counsel that concerns your reputation,
And since I see you show your amity
By telling me what people say of me,
I’ll take your kind example as my cue,
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And let you know the things they say of you.
I visited some friends the other day—
People of merit—and it chanced that they
Sought to define the art of living well.
On you, Madame, the conversation fell.
Your prudery, your ready indignation
Were not, alas! held up for admiration.
That affectation of a pious face,
Eternal talk of honor and of grace,
Your screams and airs of outraged innocence,
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When a harmless word allows a doubtful sense,
The self-esteem that gratifies your mind,
The pitying eye you cast upon mankind,
Your frequent lessons, and the wrath you vent
On matters that are pure and innocent:
All this, to speak without equivocation,
Madame, gave rise to general condemnation.
“Why does she wear,” they said, “this modest guise,
This pious mask which all the rest belies?
Though she would never miss a time to pray,
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She beats her servants and withholds their pay.
In church she flaunts her zealous sense of duty,
Yet paints her face and strives to be a beauty.
She covers up the nude when it’s in paint,
But of the thing itself makes no complaint.”
Against them all I spoke right up for you,
Assuring them that none of this was true;
Still nothing would they do but criticize,
And they concluded that you would be wise
To leave the acts of others more alone,
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And think a little more about your own;
That we should take an earnest look within
Before we censure other people’s sin;
That only those whose lives approach perfection
Are licensed to administer correction;
And that we leave this better, even then,
To those whom Heaven has chosen among men.
Madame, you too have far too wise a heart
Not to accept this counsel in good part,
And to suspect a motive in my breast
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Other than fervor for your interest.
ARSINOÉ. I know we run a risk when we exhort,
But I did not expect quite this retort;
And since, Madame, it is so very tart,
I see my frank advice has stung your heart.
CÉLIMÈNE. Why, not at all, Madame; if we were wise,
Such chance for mutual counsel we would prize;
And honesty would banish from our mind
The blindness toward oneself that plagues mankind.
So, if you wish it, we need never end
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This helpful interchange from friend to friend,
And we can tell each other, entre nous,
All that you hear of me, and I of you.
ARSINOÉ. Why, nothing can be heard against your name,
Madame, and it is I whom people blame.
CÉLIMÈNE. Madame, we either praise or blame, in truth,
According to our taste and to our youth.
And thus there is one season for romance,
Another fitter for a prudish stance.
The latter may be suited to the time
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When our attractiveness has passed its prime:
It helps to cover our pathetic lacks.
Someday I may well follow in your tracks:
Age brings all things; but who is in the mood,
Madame, at twenty, to become a prude?
ARSINOÉ. You flaunt a scant advantage there, in truth,
And preen yourself a lot about your youth.
If I am just a bit older than you,
This is no reason for such great ado;
And I confess, Madame, I do not know
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What passion drives you to attack me so.
CÉLIMÈNE. And I, Madame, would like to know the reason
Why hunting me is never out of season.
Why do you blame me for your unsuccess?
And can I help it if men seek you less?
If I inspire so many men with love,
If I am offered daily proofs thereof,
Proofs that you wish might be addressed to you,
It’s not my fault; there’s nothing I can do.
The field is free, and I do not prevent
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Your charming menfolk to your heart’s content.
ARSINOÉ. Come, do you think I envy you that crowd
Of suitors whose attentions make you proud,
And that it is so hard for us to tell
At what a price you hold them in your spell?
Would you have us believe, the way things go,
That it is just your merit charms them so?
That it is with a proper love they burn,
And that they hope for nothing in return?
Vain explanations never do ring true,
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No one is fooled; and I know women who,
Though made for every mortal to adore,
Yet do not summon suitors to their door.
From this I think we safely may conclude
That such devotion springs from gratitude,
That no one courts us for our lovely eyes,
And that we pay a price for all their sighs.
So be a little less inclined to gloat
On conquests that deserve such little note;
Correct your disposition to be vain,
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And show your fellow humans less disdain.
If we were envious of such as you,
I rather think we could, as others do,
Let ourselves go; and then you soon would find
All can have suitors who are so inclined.
CÉLIMÈNE. Then help yourself, Madame, and we shall see
If you can lure them with this recipe;
And if . . .
ARSINOÉ.
Madame, let’s leave things as they are;
More talk would carry both of us too far;
I would have taken leave, as soon I will,
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But that my carriage keeps me waiting still.
CÉLIMÈNE. Madame, believe me, you are free to stay
As long as you like; please do not rush away;
But, lest more formal talk from me fatigue you,
Here’s someone much more likely to intrigue you;
This gentleman, who comes just when he should,
Will entertain you better than I could.
Alceste, I have a letter I must send,
Or else I shall antagonize a friend.
Please stay here with Madame; I have no doubt
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She’ll graciously excuse my stepping out.
Scene 5. ALCESTE, ARSINOÉ
ARSINOÉ. She wants the two of us to talk, you see,
While waiting till my carriage comes for me;
And she could show me no consideration
As nice as such a private conversation.
Truly, people whose merit is supreme
Attract unanimous love and esteem;
And by its charm your high distinction earns
The interest of my heart in your concerns.
I only wish the court would have the grace
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To set your merit in its proper place:
You are ill-treated, and I swear it hurts
To see you fail to get your true deserts.
ALCESTE. Who, I, Madame? And what should be my claim?
What service to the state adorns my name?
What splendid thing have I achieved, in short,
To justify my preference at court?
ARSINOÉ. The court regards some with a kindly eye
Which their achievements hardly justify.
Merit requires a chance to meet some test;
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And yours, which is so plainly manifest,
Should . . .
ALCESTE.
Heavens! forget my merit; be so kind.
How can the court keep such things on its mind?
It would be quite a task for it to scan
The merit that resides in every man.
ARSINOÉ. True merit is most difficult to hide;
Yours commands high esteem on every side;
And yesterday, in two distinguished places,
I heard important persons sing your praises.
ALCESTE. But undiscerning praise today is cheap,
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Madame, and lumps us all in one great heap:
With merit all are equally endowed;
Applause no longer makes us justly proud;
We toss bouquets in one another’s face;
And in the news my valet has his place.
ARSINOÉ. I wish your quality was more in view,
And that a post at court appealed to you.
If you would show the slightest inclination,
Machinery would be in operation;
And I have influence to bring to bear
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To make your progress smooth beyond compare.
ALCESTE. And there, Madame, what role am I to play?
My character demands I stay away.
And Heaven did not make me of the sort
To get along contentedly at court;
I do not have the virtues that you need
To do your business there and to succeed.
Only in honesty can I compete,
I simply have no talent for deceit;
And anyone who can’t equivocate
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Should leave the place before it is too late.
Away from court we lack support, no doubt,
And all the titles that are handed out;
But there is consolation for our soul:
We do not have to play a silly role,
Brook the rebuffs that all must undergo,
Admire the verse of Mr. So-and-So,
Burn incense at the shrine of Madam Blank,
And suffer every noble mountebank.
ARSINOÉ. All right; about the court I shall be mute;
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But I am much distressed about your suit,
And I could wish, if I may speak my mind,
To see your love more suitably assigned.
You certainly deserve a better fate,
And Célimène is not your proper mate.
ALCESTE. One thing, Madame, I do not comprehend:
Do you forget this lady is your friend?
ARSINOÉ. Yes; but my conscience has been grieved too long
At watching you endure so great a wrong;
Seeing you in this state, I am dismayed,
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And you should know your passion is betrayed.
ALCESTE. Your tender sentiments I now discover,
Madame: what welcome tidings for a lover!
ARSINOÉ. Yes, though she is my friend, I do declare
That she does not deserve your loving care,
And that her kindness to you is but show.
ALCESTE. Perhaps, Madame; the heart we cannot know;
But could you not in charity decline
To plant such a disloyal thought in mine?
ARSINOÉ. If you would rather look the other way,
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There’s no use talking, and I’ve said my say.
ALCESTE. Whatever we are told in this domain,
Doubt is the thing that gives the greatest pain;
And I would rather not have information
Without the chance for clear verification.
ARSINOÉ. Enough said. Very well. To set things right,
On this score you shall have abundant light.
Yes, with your own eyes you shall clearly see:
All you need do is to come home with me;
Convincing proof I will provide you there
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Of your betrayal by your lady fair;
And if you’re cured of your infatuation,
You might even be offered consolation.