A clearing. The houses of Sganarelle and Monsieur Robert may be seen through the trees.
Scene 1. SGANARELLE, MARTINE (who enter quarreling)
SGANARELLE. No, I tell you I won’t do anything of the sort, and I’m the one to say and be the master.
MARTINE. And I tell you that I want you to live to suit me, and I didn’t marry you to put up with your carryings-on.
SGANARELLE. Oh, what a weary business it is to have a wife, and how right Aristotle is when he says a wife is worse than a demon!
MARTINE. Just listen to that smart fellow with his half-wit Aristotle!
SGANARELLE. Yes, a smart fellow. Just find me a woodcutter who knows how to reason about things, like me, who served a famous doctor for six years, and who as a youngster knew his elementary Latin book by heart.
MARTINE. A plague on the crazy fool!
SGANARELLE. A plague on the slut!
MARTINE. Cursed be the day when I went and said yes!
SGANARELLE. Cursed be the hornified notary who had me sign my own ruin!
MARTINE. Really, it’s a fine thing for you to complain of that affair! Should you let a single moment go by without thanking Heaven for having me for your wife? And did you deserve to marry a person like me?
SGANARELLE. Oh, yes, you did me too much honor, and I had reason to congratulate myself on our wedding night! Oh, my Lord! Don’t get me started on that! I’d have a few things to say . . .
MARTINE. What? What would you say?
SGANARELLE. Let it go at that; let’s drop that subject. Enough that we know what we know, and that you were very lucky to find me.
MARTINE. What do you mean, lucky to find you? A man who drags me down to the poorhouse, a debauchee, a traitor, who eats up everything I own?
SGANARELLE. That’s a lie: I drink part of it
MARTINE. Who sells, piece by piece, everything in the house.
SGANARELLE. That’s living on our means.
MARTINE. Who’s taken even my bed from under me.
SGANARELLE. You’ll get up all the earlier in the morning.
MARTINE. In short, who doesn’t leave a stick of furniture in the whole house.
SGANARELLE. All the easier to move out.
MARTINE. And who does nothing but gamble and drink from morning to night.
SGANARELLE. That’s so I won’t get bored.
MARTINE. And what do you expect me to do with my family in the meantime?
SGANARELLE. Whatever you like.
MARTINE. I have four poor little children on my hands.
SGANARELLE. Set them on the floor.
MARTINE. Who are constantly asking me for bread.
SGANARELLE. Give them the whip. When I’ve had plenty to eat and drink, I want everyone in my house to have his fill.
MARTINE. And you, you drunkard, do you expect things to go on forever like this?
SGANARELLE. My good wife, let’s go easy, if you please.
MARTINE. And me to endure your insolence and debauchery to all eternity?
SGANARELLE. Let’s not get excited, my good wife.
MARTINE. And that I can’t find a way to make you do your duty?
SGANARELLE. My good wife, you know that my soul isn’t very patient and my arm is pretty good.
MARTINE. You make me laugh with your threats.
SGANARELLE. My good little wife, my love, you’re itching for trouble, as usual.
MARTINE. I’ll show you I’m not afraid of you.
SGANARELLE. My dear better half, you’re asking for something.
MARTINE. Do you think your words frighten me?
SGANARELLE. Sweet object of my eternal vows, I’ll box your ears.
MARTINE. Drunkard that you are!
SGANARELLE. I’ll beat you.
MARTINE. Wine-sack!
SGANARELLE. I’ll wallop you.
MARTINE. Wretch!
SGANARELLE. I’ll tan your hide.
MARTINE. Traitor, wiseacre, deceiver, coward, scoundrel, gallowsbird, beggar, good-for-nothing, rascal, villain, thief . . .
SGANARELLE (takes a stick and beats her). Ah! So you want it, eh?
MARTINE. Oh, oh, oh, oh!
SGANARELLE. That’s the right way to pacify you.
Scene 2. MONSIEUR ROBERT, SGANARELLE, MARTINE
MONSIEUR ROBERT. Hey there, hey there, hey there! Fie! What’s this? What infamy! Confound the rascal for beating his wife that way!
MARTINE (arms akimbo, forces MONSIEUR ROBERT back as she talks, and finally gives him a slap). And as for me, I want him to beat me.
MONSIEUR ROBERT. Oh! Then with all my heart, I consent.
MARTINE. What are you meddling for?
MONSIEUR ROBERT. I’m wrong.
MARTINE. Is it any business of yours?
MONSIEUR ROBERT. You’re right.
MARTINE. Just look at this meddler, trying to keep husbands from beating their wives.
MONSIEUR ROBERT. I take it all back.
MARTINE. What have you got to do with it?
MONSIEUR ROBERT. Nothing.
MARTINE. Have you any right to poke your nose in?
MONSIEUR ROBERT. No.
MARTINE. Mind your own business.
MONSIEUR ROBERT. I won’t say another word.
MARTINE. I like to be beaten.
MONSIEUR ROBERT. All right.
MARTINE. It’s no skin off your nose.
MONSIEUR ROBERT. That’s true.
MARTINE. And you’re a fool to come butting in where it’s none of your business. (Slaps MONSIEUR ROBERT. He turns toward SGANARELLE, who likewise forces him back as he talks, threatening him with the same stick and finally beating and routing him with it.)
MONSIEUR ROBERT. Neighbor, I beg your pardon with all my heart. Go on, beat your wife and thrash her to your heart’s content; I’ll help you if you want.
SGANARELLE. Me, I don’t want to.
MONSIEUR ROBERT. Oh well, that’s another matter.
SGANARELLE. I want to beat her if I want to; and I don’t want to beat her if I don’t want to.
MONSIEUR ROBERT. Very well.
SGANARELLE. She’s my wife, not yours.
MONSIEUR ROBERT. Undoubtedly.
SGANARELLE. I don’t take orders from you.
MONSIEUR ROBERT. Agreed.
SGANARELLE. I don’t need any help from you.
MONSIEUR ROBERT. That’s fine with me.
SGANARELLE. And you’re a meddler to interfere in other people’s affairs. Learn that Cicero says that you mustn’t put the bark between the tree and your finger. (Beats MONSIEUR ROBERT and drives him offstage, then returns to his wife and clasps her hand.)
Well now, let’s us two make peace. Shake on it.
MARTINE. Oh yes! After beating me that way!
SGANARELLE. That’s nothing. Shake.
MARTINE. I will not.
SGANARELLE. Eh?
MARTINE. No.
SGANARELLE. My little wife!
MARTINE. No, sir.
SGANARELLE. Come on, I say.
MARTINE. I won’t do anything of the kind.
SGANARELLE. Come, come, come.
MARTINE. No, I want to be angry.
SGANARELLE. Fie! It’s nothing. Come on, come on.
MARTINE. Let me be.
SGANARELLE. Shake, I say.
MARTINE. You’ve treated me too badly.
SGANARELLE. All right, then, I ask your pardon: give me your hand.
MARTINE. I forgive you; (aside) but you’ll pay for it.
SGANARELLE. You’re crazy to pay any attention to that: those little things are necessary from time to time for a good friendship; and five or six cudgel-blows between people in love only whet their affection. There now, I’m off to the woods, and I promise you more than a hundred bundles of kindling wood today.
Scene 3. MARTINE (alone)
MARTINE. All right, whatever face I put on, I’m not forgetting my resentment; and I’m burning inside to find ways to punish you for the beatings you give me. I know very well that a wife always has in hand means of taking revenge on a husband; but that’s too delicate a punishment for my gallowsbird. I want a vengeance that he’ll feel a bit more; and that would be no satisfaction for the offense I’ve received.
Scene 4. VALÈRE, LUCAS, MARTINE
LUCAS. Doggone it! We sure both tooken on one heck of a job; and me, I don’t know what I’m gonna come up with.
VALÈRE. Well, what do you expect as the wet-nurse’s husband? We have to obey our master; and then we both have an interest in the health of the mistress, his daughter; and no doubt her marriage, put off by her illness, would be worth some kind of present to us. Horace, who is generous, has the best chances of anyone to win her hand; and although she has shown a fondness for a certain Léandre, you know very well that her father has never consented to accept him as a son-in-law.
MARTINE (musing, aside). Can’t I think up some scheme to get revenge?
LUCAS. But what kind of wild idea has the master tooken into his head, now that the doctors have used up all their Latin?
VALÈRE. You sometimes find, by looking hard, what you don’t find at first; and often in simple places . . .
MARTINE. Yes, I must get revenge, whatever the price; that beating sticks in my crop, I can’t swallow it, and . . . (She says all this still musing, not noticing the two men, so that when she turns around, she bumps into them.) Oh! Gentlemen, I beg your pardon; I didn’t see you, and I was trying to think of something that’s bothering me.
VALÈRE. Everyone has his problems in this world, and we too are looking for something we would very much like to find.
MARTINE. Would it be anything I might help you with?
VALÈRE. It just might. We’re trying to find some able man, some special doctor, who might give some relief to our master’s daughter, ill with a disease that has suddenly taken away the use of her tongue. Several doctors have already exhausted all their learning on her; but you sometimes find people with wonderful secrets, with certain special remedies, who can very often do what the others couldn’t; and that’s what we’re looking for.
MARTINE (aside). Oh! What a wonderful scheme Heaven inspires me with to get revenge on my gallowsbird! (Aloud) You couldn’t have come to a better place to find what you’re looking for; and we have a man here, the most marvelous man in the world for hopeless illnesses.
VALÈRE. And, pray, where can we find him?
MARTINE. You’ll find him right now in that little clearing over there, spending his time cutting wood.
LUCAS. A doctor cutting wood?
VALÈRE. Spending his time gathering herbs, do you mean?
MARTINE. No, he’s an extraordinary man who enjoys that—strange, fantastic, crotchety—you’d never take him for what he is. He goes around dressed in an eccentric way, sometimes affects ignorance, keeps his knowledge hidden, and every day avoids nothing so much as exercising the marvelous talents Heaven has given him for medicine.
VALÈRE. It’s an amazing thing that all great men always have some caprice, some little grain of folly mingled with their learning.
MARTINE. This one’s mania is beyond all belief, for it sometimes goes to the point of his wanting to be beaten before he’ll acknowledge his capacity; and I’m telling you you’ll never get the better of him, he’ll never admit he’s a doctor, if he’s in that mood, unless you each take a stick and beat him into confessing in the end what he’ll hide from you at first. That’s what we do when we need him.
VALÈRE. That’s a strange mania!
MARTINE. That’s true; but afterward, you’ll see he does wonders.
VALÈRE. What’s his name?
MARTINE. His name is Sganarelle, but he’s easy to recognize. He’s a man with a big black beard, wearing a ruff and a green and yellow coat.
LUCAS. A green and yaller coat? So he’s a parrot doctor?*
VALÈRE. But is it really true that he’s as skillful as you say?
MARTINE. What? He’s a man who works miracles. Six months ago a woman was abandoned by all the other doctors. They thought she’d been dead for a good six hours, and were getting ready to bury her, when they forced the man we’re talking about to come. After he’d looked her over, he put a little drop of something or other in her mouth, and that very moment she got up out of bed and right away started walking around her room as if nothing had happened.
LUCAS. Ah!
VALÈRE. It must have been a drop of elixir of gold.
MARTINE. That might well be. Then again, not three weeks ago a youngster twelve years old fell down from the top of the steeple and broke his head, arms, and legs on the pavement. They had no sooner brought our man in than he rubbed the boy’s whole body with a certain ointment he knows how to make; and right away the boy got up on his feet and ran off to play marbles.
LUCAS. Ah!
VALÈRE. That man must have a universal cure.
MARTINE. Who doubts it?
LUCAS. By jingo, that’s sure the man we need. Let’s go get him quick.
VALÈRE. We thank you for the favor you’re doing us.
MARTINE. But anyway, be sure to remember what I warned you about.
LUCAS. Tarnation! Leave it to us. If a beating is all it takes, she’s our cow.
VALÈRE. That certainly was a lucky encounter for us; and for my part, I’m very hopeful about it.
Scene 5. SGANARELLE, VALÈRE, LUCAS
SGANARELLE (enters singing, bottle in hand). La, la, la!
VALÈRE. I hear someone singing and cutting wood.
SGANARELLE. La, la, la . . . ! My word, that’s enough work for a while. Let’s take a little breather. (Drinks) That wood is salty as the devil. (Sings)
Sweet glug-glug,
How I love thee!
Sweet glug-glug
Of my little jug!
But everybody would think me too smug
If you were as full as you can be.
Just never be empty, that’s my plea.
Come, sweet, let me give you a hug.
(Speaks again) Come on, good Lord, we mustn’t breed melancholy.
VALÈRE. There’s the man himself.
LUCAS. I think you’re right, and we done stumbled right onto him.
VALÈRE. Let’s get a closer look.
SGANARELLE (seeing them, looks at them, turning first toward one, then toward the other, and lowers his voice). Ah! my little hussy! How I love you, my little jug!
But everybody . . . would think . . . me . . . too smug,
If . . .
What the devil! What do these people want?
VALÈRE. That’s the one, no doubt about it.
LUCAS. That’s him, his spit an’ image, just like they prescribed him to us.
SGANARELLE (aside). They’re looking at me and consulting. What can they have in mind? (He puts his bottle on the ground. As VALÈRE bows to greet him, SGANARELLE thinks he is reaching down to take his bottle away, and so puts it on the other side of him. When LUCAS bows in turn, he picks it up again and clutches it to his belly, with much other byplay.)
VALÈRE. Sir, isn’t your name Sganarelle?
SGANARELLE. How’s that?
VALÈRE. I’m asking you if you’re not the man named Sganarelle?
SGANARELLE (turning toward VALÈRE, then toward LUCAS). Yes and no, depending on what you want with him.
VALÈRE. All we want is to pay him all the civilities we can.
SGANARELLE. In that case, my name is Sganarelle.
VALÈRE. Sir, we are delighted to see you. We have been addressed to you for something we’re looking for; and we come to implore your aid, which we need.
SGANARELLE. If it’s something, sirs, connected with my little line of business, I am all ready to serve you.
VALÈRE. Sir, you are too kind. But, sir, put on your hat, please; the sun might give you trouble.
LUCAS. Slap it on, sir.
SGANARELLE (aside). These are very ceremonious people.
VALÈRE. Sir, you must not find it strange that we should come to you. Able men are always sought out, and we are well informed about your capability.
SGANARELLE. It is true, gentlemen, that I’m the best man in the world for cutting kindling wood.
VALÈRE. Ah, sir . . . !
SGANARELLE. I spare no pains, and cut it in such a way that it’s above criticism.
VALÈRE. Sir, that’s not the point.
SGANARELLE. But also I sell it at a hundred and ten sous for a hundred bundles.
VALÈRE. Let’s not talk about that, if you please.
SGANARELLE. I promise you I can’t let it go for less.
VALÈRE. Sir, we know how things stand.
SGANARELLE. If you know how things stand, you know that that’s what I sell them for.
VALÈRE. Sir, you’re joking when . . .
SGANARELLE. I’m not joking. I can’t take anything off for it.
VALÈRE. Let’s talk in other terms, please.
SGANARELLE. You can find it for less elsewhere: there’s kindling and kindling; but as for what I cut . . .
VALÈRE. What? Sir, let’s drop this subject.
SGANARELLE. I swear you couldn’t get it for a penny less.
VALÈRE. Fie now!
SGANARELLE. No, on my conscience, that’s what you’ll pay. I’m speaking sincerely, and I’m not the man to overcharge.
VALÈRE. Sir, must a person like you waste his time on these crude pretenses and stoop to speaking like this? Must such a learned man, a famous doctor like yourself, try to disguise himself in the eyes of the world and keep his fine talents buried?
SGANARELLE (aside). He’s crazy.
VALÈRE. Please, sir, don’t dissimulate with us.
SGANARELLE. What?
LUCAS. All this here fiddle-faddle don’t do no good; we knows what we knows.
SGANARELLE. What about it? What are you trying to tell me? Whom do you take me for?
VALÈRE. For what you are: for a great doctor.
SGANARELLE. Doctor yourself: I’m not one and I’ve never been one.
VALÈRE (aside). That’s his madness gripping him. (Aloud) Sir, please don’t deny things any longer; and pray let’s not come to regrettable extremes.
SGANARELLE. To what?
VALÈRE. To certain things that we would be sorry for.
SGANARELLE. Good Lord! Come to whatever you like. I’m no doctor, and I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.
VALÈRE (aside). I can certainly see we’ll have to use the remedy. (Aloud) Once more, sir, I beg you to admit what you are.
LUCAS. Dad bust it! No more messin’ around; confess frank-like that you’re a doctor.
SGANARELLE. I’m getting mad.
VALÈRE. Why deny what everyone knows?
LUCAS. Why all this fuss and feathers? And what good does that done you?
SGANARELLE. Gentlemen, I tell you in one word as well as in two thousand: I’m not a doctor.
VALÈRE. You’re not a doctor?
SGANARELLE. No.
LUCAS. You ain’t no doc?
SGANARELLE. No, I tell you.
VALÈRE. Since you insist, we’ll have to go ahead.
(They each take a stick and beat him.)
SGANARELLE. Oh, oh, oh! Gentlemen, I’m whatever you like.
VALÈRE. Why, sir, do you force us to this violence?
LUCAS. Why do you give us the botherment of beating you?
VALÈRE. I assure you that I could not regret it more.
LUCAS. By jeepers, I’m sorry about it, honest.
SGANARELLE. What the devil is this, gentlemen? I ask you, is it a joke, or are you both crazy, to insist I’m a doctor?
VALÈRE. What? You still won’t give in, and you deny you’re a doctor?
SGANARELLE. Devil take me if I am!
LUCAS. It ain’t true that you’re a doc?
SGANARELLE. No, plague take me! (They start beating him again.) Oh, oh! Well, gentlemen, since you insist, I’m a doctor, I’m a doctor; an apothecary too, if you see fit. I’d rather consent to anything than get myself beaten to death.
VALÈRE. Ah! That’s fine, sir; I’m delighted to find you in a reasonable mood.
LUCAS. You fair cram my heart with joy when I see you talk thataway.
VALÈRE. I beg your pardon with all my heart.
LUCAS. I begs your excuse for the liberty I done tooken.
SGANARELLE (aside). Well now! Suppose I’m the one that’s mistaken? Could I have become a doctor without noticing it?
VALÈRE. Sir, you won’t regret showing us what you are; and you’ll certainly be satisfied with your treatment.
SGANARELLE. But, gentlemen, aren’t you making a mistake yourselves? Is it quite certain that I’m a doctor?
LUCAS. Yup, by jiminy!
SGANARELLE. Honestly?
VALÈRE. Beyond a doubt.
SGANARELLE. Devil take me if I knew it!
VALÈRE. What? You’re the ablest doctor in the world.
SGANARELLE. Aha!
LUCAS. A doc which has cureded I don’t know how many maladies.
SGANARELLE. My Lord!
VALÈRE. A woman had been taken for dead six hours before; she was ready to be buried, when, with a drop of something or other, you brought her back to life and set her walking around the room right away.
SGANARELLE. I’ll be darned!
LUCAS. A little boy twelve years old left himself fall from the top of a steeple, from which he got his head, legs, and arms busted; and you, with some kind of ointment or other, you fixed him so he gets right up on his feet and goes off to play marbles.
SGANARELLE. The devil you say!
VALÈRE. In short, sir, you will have every satisfaction with us; and you’ll earn whatever you like if you’ll let us take you where we mean to.
SGANARELLE. I’ll earn whatever I like?
VALÈRE. Yes.
SGANARELLE. Oh! I’m a doctor, there’s no denying it. I’d forgotten, but now I remember. What’s the problem? Where do we have to go?
VALÈRE. We’ll take you. The problem is to go see a girl who’s lost her speech.
SGANARELLE. My word! I haven’t found it.
VALÈRE. He likes his little joke. Let’s go, sir.
SGANARELLE. Without a doctor’s gown?
VALÈRE. We’ll get one.
SGANARELLE (presenting his bottle to VALÈRE). Hold that, you: that’s where I put my potions. (Turning toward LUCAS and spitting on the ground.) You, step on that; doctor’s orders.
LUCAS. Land’s sakes! That’s a doctor I like. I reckon he’ll do all right, ’cause he’s a real comic.*