Scene 1. ÉLIANTE, PHILINTE
PHILINTE. I’ve never seen such stubborn indignation,
Or such a difficult accommodation:
We could not budge the man, hard as we tried,
With all our arguments from every side,
Nor has a case of such a curious sort
Ever, I think, preoccupied this court.
“No, gentlemen,” he said, “to this I cling:
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I’ll concede all, except for this one thing.
Why must he bridle and strike out so madly?
Is his honor at stake in writing badly?
Why must he twist my judgment for the worse?
Even a gentleman can write bad verse.
These things concern our honor not a whit.
That he’s a gentleman I do admit,
A man of quality, merit, and heart,
All that you like—his authorship apart.
I’ll praise his lavish get-up for its charms,
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His skill at dancing, horsemanship, or arms,
But praise his verse? That takes a diplomat.
And if a man can’t write better than that,
He should resist rhyming to his last breath—
At least, unless it’s under pain of death.”
In short, the best grace and accommodation
He found to cover up his irritation
Was to seek—thus—to put Oronte at ease:
“Sir, I regret that I’m so hard to please,
And for your sake I wish with all my heart
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I’d thought your sonnet was a work of art.”
After these words, they had the two embrace,
And hastily concluded the whole case.
ÉLIANTE. His actions are peculiar and extreme,
But, I admit, I hold him in esteem,
And the sincerity that is his pride
Has a heroic and a noble side.
It’s an uncommon virtue in this day
Which I wish others had in the same way.
PHILINTE. The more I see the man, the more I wonder
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At the impassioned spell his heart is under:
Considering what Heaven made him of,
I cannot think how he can fall in love;
And why he loves your cousin, I confess,
Is something I can fathom even less.
ÉLIANTE. This clearly shows that love, in human hearts,
Need not imply community of parts;
And theories of mutual admiration
In this case show themselves without foundation.
PHILINTE. But as you see it, is he loved in turn?
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ÉLIANTE. That point is far from easy to discern.
Whether she really loves him, who can tell?
She knows her own emotions none too well:
Sometimes she’s been in love, and never knew it,
Or thought she was, when there was nothing to it.
PHILINTE. With this cousin of yours, I think he’ll find
More sorrow than has ever crossed his mind;
And if he had this heart of mine, I swear,
He promptly would bestow his love elsewhere,
And, turning in a far better direction,
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Would take advantage of your deep affection.
ÉLIANTE. I am not ceremonious, I fear,
And on these points I like to be sincere:
His love for her causes me no distress;
With all my heart I wish her happiness;
And if the thing were up to me alone,
I’d let him have her for his very own.
But if in such a choice, as just might be,
His love should not be crowned by destiny,
If she should spurn him for some substitute,
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I could be willing to receive his suit;
And in this case I would not take offense
To know she had his earlier preference.
PHILINTE. And I do not begrudge him, for my part,
Madame, the feeling for him in your heart;
And he himself can tell you even more
Just how I have advised him on that score.
But if the bonds of marriage joined those two
So that he could not pay his court to you,
My hope would be that I might take his place
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And seek to win some measure of your grace,
Happy if his poor judgment left you free,
And if that grace, Madame, might fall on me.
ÉLIANTE. Philinte, you’re jesting.
PHILINTE.
No indeed, Madame.
No one could be more earnest than I am,
And eagerly I wait upon the day
When I can tell you all I long to say.
Scene 2. ALCESTE, ÉLIANTE, PHILINTE
ALCESTE. Ah, Madame! You must help me gain redress
For an offense that cracks my steadfastness.
ÉLIANTE. What is it? What has made you so upset?
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ALCESTE. I’ve had . . . I cannot understand it yet;
And the collapse of the whole firmament
Could never crush me as has this event.
It’s done . . . My love . . . There’s nothing I can say.
ÉLIANTE. Try to regain your mind’s composure, pray.
ALCESTE. Just Heaven! Must such graces be combined
With vices worthy of the meanest mind?
ÉLIANTE. But still, what . . . ?
ALCESTE.
Everything is devastated;
I’m . . . I’m betrayed; why, I’m assassinated!
Yes, Célimène—can such things be believed?—
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Yes, Célimène’s untrue, and I’m deceived.
ÉLIANTE. Have you strong reasons for this supposition?
PHILINTE. This might be just an ill-conceived suspicion.
Your jealous mind, an easy prey to snares . . .
ALCESTE. Good Lord, sir! Won’t you mind your own affairs?
I’ve proof of her betrayal, all too clear,
In her own hand, right in my pocket, here.
Madame, a letter bearing Oronte’s name
Has shown me my disfavor and her shame:
Oronte, whose suit I thought she viewed askance,
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The one I feared the least of her gallants.
PHILINTE. A letter often gives the wrong impression
And bears a false likeness to a confession.
ALCESTE. Once more, sir, if you please, leave me alone
And mind your business; let me mind my own.
ÉLIANTE. Alceste, control your temper; all this spite . . .
ALCESTE. Madame, this task belongs to you by right;
It is with you my heart now seeks relief
From the torment of overwhelming grief.
Avenge me on that cousin without shame
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Who basely has betrayed so true a flame;
Avenge me for what I trust your soul abhors.
ÉLIANTE. Avenge you? How?
ALCESTE.
Madame, my heart is yours.
Take it, replace the faithless Célimène.
Oh, I’ll have my revenge upon her then!
I want her punished by the deep emotion,
The heartfelt love, the assiduous devotion,
The eager duties and the service true
Which now my heart will sacrifice to you.
ÉLIANTE. Of course I sympathize with what you suffer,
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And I do not disdain the heart you offer;
But it may be the harm is not so great,
And you may drop your vengeance and your hate.
When it’s a charming person does us wrong,
Our plans for vengeance do not linger long:
Whatever the offenses we resent,
A guilty loved one is soon innocent;
The harm we wish her has no aftermath;
And nothing passes like a lover’s wrath.
ALCESTE. No, Madame, that is not the way I burn;
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I’m breaking off with her; there’s no return;
Nothing could ever change what I project;
I’d be ashamed to view her with respect.
—Here she is. My blood boils at her approach;
Her turpitude deserves a sharp reproach;
I shall confound her utterly, and then
Bring you a heart quite free of Célimène.
Scene 3. CÉLIMÈNE, ALCESTE
ALCESTE. Great Heavens! Can I control my indignation?
CÉLIMÈNE. Oh dear! What has brought on your agitation?
What do you mean by these portentous sighs
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And by the somber passion in your eyes?
ALCESTE. Nothing can match, no, not the ugliest crimes,
The faithlessness you’ve shown these many times;
The worst that Fate, Hell, wrathful Heaven could do
Never made anything as bad as you.
CÉLIMÈNE. I marvel at these sweet amenities.
ALCESTE. No, no, this is no time for pleasantries.
You should be blushing; you have ample reason,
And I have certain tokens of your treason.
The cause of my distress is all too plain;
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My apprehensiveness was not in vain;
My doubts, which you thought odious and unsound,
Have led me to the ill my eyes have found;
My star, though you were skillful to pretend,
Warned me of what I had to apprehend.
But don’t presume to make a fool of me
And hope to flout me with impunity.
I know that we cannot control desire,
That love’s autonomy must be entire,
That force won’t strike a heart’s responsive chord,
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And that each soul is free to choose its lord.
So I would find no subject for complaint
If you had spoken frankly, without feint;
Had you spurned my advances from the first,
I’d have blamed fate and waited for the worst.
But thus to fan my hopes with false acclaim
Is faithless treachery, quite without shame,
Deserving the severest castigation;
And I can freely vent my indignation.
Yes, after such a slight, avoid my path:
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I am beside myself with righteous wrath:
Pierced by the mortal blow with which you slay me,
My reason cannot make my sense obey me;
Ruled by the anger that I feel for you,
I cannot answer for what I may do.
CÉLIMÈNE. Come, please explain this latest of your fits.
Tell me, have you completely lost your wits?
ALCESTE. Yes, yes, I lost them at that fatal hour
When first I fell into your poisonous power,
And when I sought sincerity as well
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In the false charms that caught me in their spell.
CÉLIMÈNE. Pooh! Of what treachery can you complain?
ALCESTE. Oh, what duplicity! How well you feign!
But I have ready proof at my command.
Just look at this, and recognize your hand.
This note at least should leave you mortified;
Its evidence is not to be denied.
CÉLIMÈNE. Then this explains your mood, and all you’ve said?
ALCESTE. Can you behold this note, and not turn red?
CÉLIMÈNE. If I should blush, perhaps you’ll state the reason?
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ALCESTE. What? Are you adding shamelessness to treason?
Do you disown it, as an unsigned note?
CÉLIMÈNE. But why disown a letter that I wrote?
ALCESTE. And you can look at it without dismay
Although its very style gives you away?
CÉLIMÈNE. You really are too patently absurd.
ALCESTE. Against this witness, who could take your word?
And how can you offend me so, and flaunt
Your clear infatuation with Oronte?
CÉLIMÈNE. Oronte! Who says he is the addressee?
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ALCESTE. The persons who today gave it to me.
But let’s assume it’s for some other swain:
Does that give me less reason to complain?
Will that make you less guilty in the end?
CÉLIMÈNE. But if it’s written to a lady friend,
Where is the guilt, and what’s this all about?
ALCESTE. Oh! that’s an artful dodge, a neat way out.
I grant I’d not expected such deceit,
And that just makes my certainty complete.
How can you stoop to such a lame excuse?
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And do you really think me that obtuse?
Come, come, let’s see in just what way you’ll try
To lend support to such an obvious lie,
And by what artifice you will pretend
This ardent note was for a lady friend.
Just tell me how you will explain away
What I shall read . . .
CÉLIMÈNE.
I do not choose to say.
I don’t concede to you or anyone
The right to talk to me as you have done.
ALCESTE. Don’t take offense; just tell me, if you please,
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How you can justify such terms as these.
CÉLIMÈNE. NO, I’ll do nothing of the kind, I swear.
Think what you like of me; I just don’t care.
ALCESTE. Please, show me how this letter could be meant
For any woman, and I’ll be content.
CÉLIMÈNE. No, no, it’s for Oronte; you must be right;
I welcome his attentions with delight;
In all he says and does, he has a way;
And I’ll agree to anything you say.
Make up your mind, let nothing interfere;
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But I have heard from you all I will hear.
ALCESTE. Heavens! How could such a cruel trick be invented?
And has a heart ever been so tormented?
I come to tax her with her perfidy,
I’m the complainant—and she turns on me!
My pain and my suspicions she provokes.
She won’t deny her guilt, but boasts and jokes!
And yet my heart is still too weak and faint
To break the chains that hold it in constraint
And arm itself with generous disdain
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Against the object that it loves in vain!
Ah, faithless girl, with what consummate skill
You play upon my utter lack of will
And make capital of the vast excess
Of my ill-omened, fatal tenderness!
At least defend yourself for this offense
And drop this claim of guilt, this vain pretense;
Show me the innocence of what you wrote;
My fond heart will forget about the note.
Just try your best to seem faithful, and know
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That I will try my best to think you so.
CÉLIMÈNE. Your jealous frenzies make you mad, I swear,
And you do not deserve the love I bear.
What makes you think that I would condescend,
On your account, to brazen and pretend?
And why, if my heart leaned another way,
Shouldn’t I quite sincerely have my say?
What? Can the way in which I’ve spoken out
About my feelings leave you any doubt?
Has that such weight against this guarantee?
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Can you regard it and not outrage me?
And since it’s hard for women to confess
Their sentiments of love and tenderness,
Since honor bids us never to reveal
The force of any ardor we may feel,
A man for whom this hurdle is surmounted
Should know our word is not to be discounted.
Shouldn’t he be ready to stake his life
On what costs us so much internal strife?
Come, such suspicions earn my indignation;
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And you are not worth my consideration.
I am a fool; I’m sorry this is true
And that I still have some regard for you;
I should look elsewhere, that is all too plain,
And give you proper reason to complain.
ALCESTE. Treacherous girl! How can I be so weak?
I cannot trust the sugared words you speak;
Yet fate enjoins—and follow it I must—
That my soul be abandoned to your trust;
Although you may betray me, even so
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I must learn to what lengths your heart will go.
CÉLIMÈNE. No, you don’t love me in the proper fashion.
ALCESTE. Ah! Nothing can be likened to my passion.
My eagerness to prove it goes so far
That I could wish you worse off than you are.
Yes, I could wish that no one found you charming,
That your predicament was quite alarming,
That Heaven had given you nothing at your birth,
Not rank, nor family, nor any worth,
So that my heart, a gleaming sacrifice,
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Might compensate and might alone suffice;
’Twould be my pride and joy, all else above,
To have you owe everything to my love.
CÉLIMÈNE, You surely wish me well in your own way!
I hope to Heaven I never see the day . . .
But here’s . . . Monsieur Du Bois, I do declare!
Scene 4. DU BOIS, CÉLIMÈNE, ALCESTE
ALCESTE. What does this outfit mean, this frightened air?
What’s wrong?
DU BOIS.
Sir . . .
ALCESTE.
Well?
DU BOIS.
I have strange things to tell.
ALCESTE. What are they?
DU BOIS.
Our affairs aren’t going well.
ALCESTE. What?
DU BOIS.
Shall I speak?
ALCESTE.
Yes, yes, speak up, and quick.
DU BOIS. Isn’t that someone . . . ?
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ALCESTE.
Oh! You’ll make me sick.
Will you speak up?
DU BOIS.
Monsieur, we must give ground.
ALCESTE. How’s that?
DU BOIS.
We must decamp without a sound.
ALCESTE. And why?
DU BOIS.
I tell you, sir, we’ve got to fly.
ALCESTE. What for?
DU BOIS.
We mustn’t stop to say good-by.
ALCESTE. But for what reason? What’s this all about?
DU BOIS. This reason, sir: we promptly must get out.
ALCESTE. Honestly, I will break your head in two,
You knave, if that’s the best that you can do.
DU BOIS. Sir, a black somber man, in face and dress,
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Came to our place—the kitchen door, no less—
And left a paper filled with such a scrawl
You’d have to be a demon to read it all.
It’s all about your lawsuit, I’ve no doubt;
But even Satan couldn’t make it out.
ALCESTE. Well then? What of it? Just explain to me:
Why should this paper mean we have to flee?
DU BOIS. A little later, sir, an hour or more,
A man who’s been to visit you before
Came in great haste, and finding you not there,
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Gave me a message that I was to bear
(Knowing I’m the most dutiful of men),
To tell you . . . Wait; what is his name again?
ALCESTE. What did he tell you, wretch? Forget his name.
DU BOIS. Well, he’s a friend of yours; it’s all the same.
He told me you have got to get away,
And you could be arrested if you stay.
ALCESTE. But why? Nothing specific? Think, man, think.
DU BOIS. No; but he did ask me for pen and ink,
And wrote this note, in which I think you’ll see
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The explanation of this mystery.
ALCESTE. Well, give it to me.
CÉLIMÈNE.
What’s this all about?
ALCESTE. I don’t know, but I hope soon to find out.
Come on, you oaf, what are you waiting for?
DU BOIS (after a long search). My goodness, sir! I left it in your drawer.
ALCESTE. I don’t know why I don’t . . .
CÉLIMÈNE.
No, that can wait;
You’d better go and set this matter straight.
ALCESTE. It seems that fate, no matter what I do,
Will never let me have a talk with you;
But let me come again ere day is done,
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And I shall think for once my love has won.