Scene 1. ALCESTE, PHILINTE
ALCESTE. No use. My mind is quite made up, I tell you.
PHILINTE. But must this blow, however hard, compel you . . . ?
ALCESTE. No, you may talk and argue all you can,
Nothing that you can say will change my plan:
On every side such wickedness I find
That I mean to withdraw from humankind.
What? Honor, virtue, probity, the laws
Impugn my enemy and plead my cause;
Everyone knows of my integrity;
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I put my trust in right and equity;
And yet the outcome leaves me destitute:
Justice is with me, and I lose my suit!
A man whose shame is written on his face
Perjures himself outright, and wins the case!
Good faith gives way before his treachery:
He cuts my throat, and puts the blame on me!
His artificial grimace is so strong
As to taint justice and turn right to wrong!
He gets a court decree to crown his sin,
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And not content with having done me in,
There’s a revolting book in circulation,
A book subject to solemn condemnation,
Deserving to be banned by law—and he
Foully ascribes the authorship to me!
And thereupon Oronte, that evil cheat,
Nods his assent, and seconds the deceit!
Oronte, whose name at court shines bright and clear,
With whom I’ve always been frank and sincere,
Who comes to me to wheedle and coerce,
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And make me comment on his wretched verse;
And just because I answer in good sooth,
Refusing to betray him or the truth,
He attests a crime that never did exist
And sets me up as his antagonist!
I’ll never have his pardon, count upon it,
For failing to appreciate his sonnet!
Lord! What a sordid and familiar story:
Men led to evil by their itch for glory!
Yes, this is the good faith, the virtuous zeal,
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The equity and honor they reveal!
Come, I’ve endured more than enough from men:
Let’s flee this ugly wood, this robbers’ den.
And since you men behave the way you do—
Like wolves—I bid my last farewell to you.
PHILINTE. I think your plan’s a little premature,
And men are not all that depraved, I’m sure;
Your enemy’s charges, it is manifest,
Have not availed to bring on your arrest.
His false report has burst like any bubble,
A
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nd might well get him into serious trouble.
ALCESTE. He? He need have no fear at any time:
He has some sort of privilege for crime;
And far from hurting him, this added shame
Will only serve to magnify his name.
PHILINTE. At any rate, I think you will concede
His rumors have been given little heed:
You have no cause at all for worry there;
As for your lawsuit, which was most unfair,
A higher court will surely countermand
This verdict . . .
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ALCESTE.
No! I mean to let it stand.
The wrong it does me is so manifest,
I won’t appeal it; no, I’ll let it rest.
It shows the right downtrodden and maligned,
And I want it exposed to all mankind
As a clear testimony and display
Of all the evil of the present day.
At twenty thousand francs the cost is high;
But for those twenty thousand francs I’ll buy
The right to rail against man’s wicked state
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And look upon it with undying hate.
PHILINTE. But still . . .
ALCESTE.
But still, don’t press me anymore.
What can you tell me further on this score?
Do you mean to justify, right to my face,
The evil conduct of the human race?
PHILINTE. No, no, all that I’ll readily concede:
The world is ruled by pure intrigue and greed;
Nothing but trickery prevails today,
And humans should be made some other way.
But should their disaffection for the right
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Lead us to try to flee their very sight?
These human flaws give us the satisfaction
Of testing our philosophy in action:
In such employment virtue can take pride;
And if goodness were found on every side,
If all men’s hearts were docile, frank, and just,
Most of our virtues would but gather rust,
Since they can serve to help us calmly bear
The injustices that face us everywhere.
Just as a heart instinct with virtue can . . .
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ALCESTE. Sir, you can talk as well as any man.
Your stock of arguments is most profuse,
But now your eloquence is just no use.
Reason bids me retire for my own good:
My tongue will not obey me as it should;
I could not answer for what I might say,
And I’d have a new quarrel every day.
Don’t argue, let me wait for Célimène:
I’ve got to try to talk with her again.
Whether she really loves me, I don’t know;
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And I must have her answer, yes or no.
PHILINTE. Let’s wait for her with Éliante upstairs.
ALCESTE. No, I am too oppressed with anxious cares.
Go on and see her; I’ll sit here apart
In this dark corner with my gloomy heart.
PHILINTE. That’s not good company for any man;
I’ll ask Éliante to join us if she can.
Scene 2. ORONTE, CÉLIMÈNE, ALCESTE
ORONTE. Yes, Madame, it is for you to decide
Whether a bond between us shall be tied.
I must ask you to answer with precision:
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A lover will not stand for indecision.
If you’re at all responsive to my flame,
You can reveal that to me without shame;
And as you know, the proof that I request
Is that you end the courtship of Alceste.
Sacrifice him, Madame, and promptly break
All your relations with him for my sake.
CÉLIMÈNE. But why do you attack him with such spirit,
When I’ve so often heard you praise his merit?
ORONTE. Madame, let’s let such explanations be;
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The question is just how you feel toward me.
So kindly make your choice between us two,
And my decision will depend on you.
ALCESTE (coming out of his corner). Madame, the gentleman’s request is just,
And I support it; yes, decide you must.
The same ardor, the same concern are mine;
My love can’t do without some clearcut sign;
Matters have gone too far for more delay,
And now’s the time for you to have your say.
ORONTE. Sir, I’ve no wish to be importunate
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And bother you, if you’re so fortunate.
ALCESTE. Sir, I’ve no wish to have you share a part—
Even if this be jealous—of her heart.
ORONTE. If your love is more precious in her view . . .
ALCESTE. If she can have the slightest taste for you . . .
ORONTE. I swear I’ll leave her to you there and then.
ALCESTE. I swear I’ll never see her face again.
ORONTE. Madame, pray tell us what we’ve come to hear.
ALCESTE. Madame, you can speak freely, without fear.
ORONTE. All you need do is say how you’re inclined.
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ALCESTE. All you need do is to make up your mind.
ORONTE. What? When we ask your choice, you seem put out?
ALCESTE. What? Your soul hesitates and seems in doubt?
CÉLIMÈNE. Good Lord! This urgency is out of place,
And both of you show no more sense than grace.
My mind’s made up about this situation,
And in my heart there is no hesitation;
Between you two it is in no suspense,
And I could well declare its preference.
But I think it a painful indiscretion
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To utter such a face-to-face confession;
I think these words that are so hard to bear
Should not be spoken when both men are there;
I think our hearts betray our inclinations
Without being forced to such harsh revelations,
And that there are much gentler ways to use
When we must tell a lover such bad news.
ORONTE. No, no, the truth! I have no cause to fear it.
Come, please speak up.
ALCESTE.
And I demand to hear it.
There’s nothing in your openness to scare us;
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Believe me, I’ve no wish to have you spare us.
You don’t need everyone under your sway;
Enough uncertainty, enough delay:
Now is the time to answer our demand.
If you decline. I shall know where I stand;
Your silence will amount to an admission
That will corroborate my worst suspicion.
ORONTE. I’m grateful for your indignation, sir;
And what you say is what I say to her.
CÉLIMÈNE. Oh, how you weary me with this caprice!
Can’t you be fair, and let me have some peace?
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Haven’t I told you why I will not budge?
But here comes Éliante: I’ll let her judge.
Scene 3. ÉLIANTE, PHILINTE, CÉLIMÈNE, ORONTE, ALCESTE
CÉLIMÈNE. Cousin, I find myself beset indeed
By these two men, who seem to have agreed.
With equal warmth they both insist, my dear,
That I should make my choice between them clear,
And, by a sentence uttered face to face,
That I make one of them give up the chase.
Has anyone ever behaved this way?
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ÉLIANTE. Don’t seek my frank opinion on this, pray:
I’m not the one to ask, as you will find,
And I’m for people who will speak their mind.
ORONTE. Madame, you may defend yourself in vain.
ALCESTE. No use in being devious, that’s plain.
ORONTE. You must speak up, you must, and end this doubt.
ALCESTE. Or if you won’t, your silence will speak out.
ORONTE. One word from you, and there’ll be no more scenes.
ALCESTE. And if you’re silent, I’ll know what that means.
Scene 4. ACASTE, CLITANDRE, ARSINOÉ, PHILINTE, ÉLIANTE, ORONTE, CÉLIMÈNE, ALCESTE
ACASTE. Madame, with no offense, we two are here
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To try to get a little matter clear.
CLITANDRE. Your presence, sirs, is timely, I declare,
And you are both involved in this affair.
ARSINOÉ. Madame, my coming must be a surprise,
But these men would not have it otherwise:
They both came to me angry and aggrieved
Over an act too mean to be believed.
I think there is a goodness in your soul
That would not let you play so base a role:
My eyes belied their strongest evidence,
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My friendship overlooked our difference,
And so I came to keep them company
And see you overthrow this calumny.
ACASTE. Yes, Madame, let’s see, with a peaceful mind,
What sort of explanation you can find.
You wrote Clitandre this note, now didn’t you?
CLITANDRE. It was you wrote Acaste this billet-doux?
ACASTE. To you this handwriting is not obscure,
Messieurs, and her indulgence, I am sure,
Has made it known to every person here;
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But this is something for you all to hear.
(He reads)
“You’re a strange man to condemn my sprightliness and reproach me with never being so happy as when I’m not with you. Nothing could be more unjust; and if you don’t come very soon and ask my pardon for this offense, I shall never forgive you for it as long as I live. Our great lout of a Viscount . . .”
He should be here.
“Our great lout of a Viscount, whom you complain about first, is a man I never could fancy; and since I watched him for a good three-quarters of an hour spitting into a well to make circles in the water, I have never been able to think well of him. As for the little Marquis . . .”
All vanity aside, gentlemen, that’s me.
“As for the little Marquis, who held my hand so long yesterday, I don’t know anything as insignificant as his whole person; and the only merit of his kind lies in his cloak and sword. As for the man with the green ribbons . . .”
(To ALCESTE) Your turn, sir.
“As for the man with the green ribbons, he sometimes amuses me with his bluntness and his surly grouchiness; but there are hundreds of times when I find him as tiresome as can be. And as for the man with the jacket . . .”*
(To ORONTE) Here’s your bundle.
“And as for the man with the jacket, who has gone in for wit and wants to be an author in spite of everyone, I can’t give myself the trouble to listen to what he says; and his prose wearies me as much as his poetry. So get it into your head that I don’t always have as good a time as you think; that I miss you more than I could wish in all the parties that I’m dragged into; and that a marvelous seasoning for the pleasures we enjoy is the presence of the persons we love.”
CLITANDRE. And now here I am.
(He reads)
“Your Clitandre, whom you mention, and who puts on such sweetish airs, is the last man I could be fond of. He is absurd to suppose he is loved; and so are you, to think you are not. To be reasonable, exchange your beliefs for his; and see me as much as you can to help me endure the vexation of being beleaguered by him.”
It’s a fine character these portraits show,
Madame, and there’s a name for it, you know.
Enough: we two shall everywhere impart
This glorious self-portrait of your heart.
ACASTE. I could well speak, I’ve ample provocation;
But you’re not worthy of my indignation;
And there are nobler hearts, as you shall see,
Ready to comfort a petit marquis.
(Exit ACASTE and CLITANDRE.)
ORONTE. What? You can tear me into shreds this way
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After the things I’ve seen you write and say!
And your false heart, which seems for love designed,
Offers itself in turn to all mankind!
Go to, I’ve been a dupe too much, too long;
I should be grateful that you’ve proved me wrong.
You give me back my heart, a welcome prize,
And in your loss of it my vengeance lies.
(To ALCESTE)
If I was in your way, I no longer am,
So pray conclude your business with Madame.
(Exit ORONTE.)
ARSINOÉ. Really, that is the blackest action yet.
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I can’t keep silent, I am too upset.
How can such treachery be justified?
I leave the other gentlemen aside;
But take a man of honor like Alceste,
Whose heart by your good fortune you possessed,
Who worshiped you beyond what tongue can say,
Should he have been . . . ?
ALCESTE.
Madame, allow me, pray,
To guard my interest here; that’s all I ask;
Don’t charge yourself with this superfluous task.
My heart, though grateful for your vindication,
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Is in no state to pay its obligation;
And if—I have to tell you, for it’s true—
I sought revenge, it would not be with you.
ARSINOÉ. Do you think, sir, that that was in my mind,
And that I look on you as such a find?
To tell the truth, I find you very vain
If that’s the kind of thought you entertain.
To hanker for the leavings of Madame,
I’d have to be less choosy than I am.
Come down a peg, open your eyes, give heed:
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I’m not the kind of person that you need;
Keep sighing for her; she is quite a catch;
I can hardly wait to see so fine a match,
(Exit ARSINOÉ.)
ALCESTE. Well! I have held my tongue, for all I see,
And let everyone speak ahead of me:
Have my feelings been long enough suppressed?
And may I now . . . ?
CÉLIMÈNE.
Yes, tell me all the rest.
You’ve every reason to complain your fill
And reproach me for everything you will.
I’m wrong, I do confess; my consternation
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Leads me to seek no vain extenuation.
The others’ wrath I treated with disdain,
But I agree, my crime toward you is plain;
I’ve earned your bitterness, lost your esteem;
I know full well how guilty I must seem,
That everything proclaims I have betrayed you,
And if you hate me, it’s because I’ve made you.
Go ahead; I consent.
ALCESTE.
Ah! traitress, how?
Can I conquer my passion even now?
And though I burn to hate you, as you say,
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Do you think my heart is ready to obey?
(To ÉLIANTE and PHILINTE)
See what unworthy tenderness can do;
Bear witness to my frailty, you two.
But this is not yet all. I must confess,
And you shall see me push it to excess,
Proving that those who call us wise are wrong,
And that mere human nature is too strong.
(To CÉLIMÈNE)
I’m willing to forget the things you’ve done;
My soul will find excuse for every one;
And I’ll contrive to view your blackest crimes
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As youthful foibles caused by evil times,
Provided only that your heart agree
To flee human society with me,
And that you’ll follow me without delay
To the seclusion where I’ve vowed to stay:
Only thus, in the minds of everyone,
Can you repair the harm your note has done,
And after a scene which noble hearts abhor,
Enable me to love you as before.
CÉLIMÈNE. What! I renounce the world before I’m old,
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And molder in some solitary hold?
ALCESTE. If your love matches mine and is as true,
Why should all other men matter to you?
Why can’t I be sufficient to your need?
CÉLIMÈNE. At twenty, solitude is grim indeed.
I fear I lack the loftiness of soul
To undertake so difficult a role.
If marriage can fulfill your aspiration,
I think I could resolve on that relation,
And thus . . .
ALCESTE.
No, never did I hate you so,
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And this refusal is the final blow.
Since this is something that you cannot do—
Find all in me, as I find all in you—
Go, I refuse you, and at last I sever
My most unworthy ties to you forever.
(Exit CÉLIMÈNE. To ÉLIANTE)
Madame, your beauty is adorned with worth,
You only are sincere in all the earth;
For you my admiration is extreme.
But now please be content with my esteem;
Forgive me if the turmoil in my soul
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No longer lets me seek a suitor’s role:
I feel unworthy, and that Heaven’s plan
Did not create me for a married man;
That you deserve a hand better than mine,
And not the discard of a heart less fine,
And that . . .
ÉLIANTE.
Follow this notion to the end;
I do not find myself without a friend;
And if I asked Philinte, I understand
He might be happy to accept my hand.
PHILINTE. Madame, if I could have you for my wife,
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I’d gladly sacrifice my blood, my life.
ALCESTE. May both of you forever feel like this,
And thus experience true wedded bliss!
While I, betrayed, and overwhelmed with wrong,
Leave an abyss where vices are too strong,
And seek some solitary place on earth
Where one is free to be a man of worth.
(Exit ALCESTE.)
PHILINTE (to ÉLIANTE). Come, Madame, let’s do everything we can
To thwart the aims of this unhappy man.