Scene 1. CLÉANTE, LA FLÈCHE
CLÉANTE. Ah! You scoundrel, where in the world have you been hiding? Didn’t I give you orders . . . ?
LA FLÈCHE. Yes, sir, and I came here to wait for you and not stir; but your honorable father, that most ungracious of men, drove me out against my will, and I ran the risk of a beating.
CLÉANTE. How is our affair going? Things are more urgent than ever; and since I last saw you, I have found out that my father is my rival.
LA FLÈCHE. Your father in love?
CLÉANTE. Yes, and I had all kinds of trouble not to let him see how much this news upset me.
LA FLÈCHE. Him, meddling in love! What the devil does he think he’s doing? Is he trying to play some kind of a joke on everybody? And was love made for people built like him?
CLÉANTE. For my sins, this passion had to come into his head.
LA FLÈCHE. But why keep your love a mystery to him?
CLÉANTE. To give him less reason for suspicion, and to keep the easiest ways open to myself, in case of need, to prevent this marriage. What answer did they give you?
LA FLÈCHE. My word, sir, people who borrow are very unfortunate; and a person has to put up with some pretty strange things when, like you, he has to pass through the hands of the money-lenders.
CLÉANTE. The deal won’t come off?
LA FLÈCHE. Pardon me. Our Maître Simon, the broker they gave us, an active man and full of zeal, says he has done wonders for you; and he insists that your face alone won his heart.
CLÉANTE. I’ll get the fifteen thousand francs I’m asking for?
LA FLÈCHE. Yes, but on a few little conditions that you will have to accept if you want these things to be done.
CLÉANTE. Did he have you talk to the person who is to lend the money?
LA FLÈCHE. Oh, really, now, it doesn’t work that way. He takes even more care to remain unknown than you, and these are much greater mysteries than you think. They won’t tell his name at all, and today they are to bring the two of you together in a house borrowed for the purpose, to learn from your own mouth about your means and your family; and I have no doubt at all that your father’s name alone will make things easy.
CLÉANTE. And especially since our mother is dead, and they can’t keep me from coming into her estate.
LA FLÈCHE. Here are a few articles that he dictated himself to our go-between, to be shown you before doing anything:
Provided that the lender see all his securities, and that the borrower be of age and of a family whose estate is ample, solid, secure, clear and free of all encumbrance, a good precise statement of obligation shall be executed before a notary, the most honest man possible, who to this purpose shall be chosen by the lender, to whom it is most important that the act be drawn up in due form.
CLÉANTE. There’s nothing to object to in that.
LA FLÈCHE. The lender, to have no scruples on his conscience, undertakes to lend the money at only one denier for eighteen.
CLÉANTE. One denier for eighteen! Gad! That’s honorable. There’s no reason to complain.
LA FLÈCHE. That’s true.
But since the said lender does not have at hand the sum in question, and, to please the borrower, is himself constrained to borrow it from another at the rate of one denier for five, it will be proper that the said first borrower shall pay this interest, without prejudice to the rest, considering that it is only to oblige him that the said lender undertakes to borrow this.
CLÉANTE. What the devil! What a bloodsucker! What a robber! That’s more than one denier for four.
LA FLÈCHE. That’s true; that’s just what I said. That’s something for you to see about.
CLÉANTE. What do you expect me to see? I need money, and I’ll simply have to consent to everything.
LA FLÈCHE. That’s the answer I gave.
CLÉANTE. Is there anything else?
LA FLÈCHE. Just one little article more.
Of the fifteen thousand francs that are asked, the lender will be able to pay out in cash only twelve thousand, and for the remaining thousand crowns* the borrower will have to take the used clothing, effects, and jewelry listed in the following memorandum, and which the said lender has set, in good faith, at the most moderate price that was possible for him.
CLÉANTE. What does this mean?
LA FLÈCHE. Listen to the memorandum.
First, one four-poster bed with hangings of Hungarian lace* very handsomely applied to an olive-colored cloth, with six chairs and a counterpane of the same; the whole lot in very good condition and lined with light shot taffeta in red and blue.
Plus one tester of good Aumale serge, in old rose, with silk fringes.
CLÉANTE. What does he expect me to do with that?
LA FLÈCHE. Wait.
Plus one tapestry hanging representing the loves of Gombaut and Macée.*
Plus one big walnut table with twelve columns or turned legs, which can be pulled out at either end, and provided with its six stools to go under it.
CLÉANTE. Gad, what have I to do . . . ?
LA FLÈCHE. Have patience.
Plus three large muskets all inlaid with mother-of-pearl, with the three forked rests for them.
Plus one brick furnace with two retorts and three flasks, very useful for those with an interest in distilling.
CLÉANTE. I’m going mad.
LA FLÈCHE. Take it easy.
Plus one Bologna lute furnished with all its strings, or nearly all.
Plus one game of “trou-madame”* and one checkerboard, with one game of “goose”* renewed from the Greeks, very suitable for passing the time when one has nothing to do.
Plus one lizard skin, three and a half feet long, stuffed with hay, a very pleasing curio to hang from the ceiling of a room.
The whole lot aforementioned, honestly worth more than four thousand five hundred francs, and reduced to a thousand crowns through the discretion of the lender.
CLÉANTE. The plague choke him with his discretion, the traitor, the cutthroat! Did you ever hear of such usury? And isn’t he content with the insane interest he demands without also forcing me to take, for three thousand francs, the old relics he picks up? I won’t get two hundred crowns for all that; and yet I’ve simply got to make up my mind to consent to what he wants, for he’s in a position to make me accept anything, and the scoundrel has got me with a dagger at my throat.
LA FLÈCHE. No offense, sir, but I see you precisely on the highroad to ruin that Panurge* took, taking money in advance, buying dear, selling cheap, and eating your wheat in the blade.
CLÉANTE. What do you want me to do? That’s what young men are reduced to by the cursed avarice of fathers; and after that people wonder why sons wish their fathers would die.
LA FLÈCHE. I must admit that yours would make the most sedate man in the world angry at his niggardliness. Heaven be praised, I have no great inclination to be hanged; and among my colleagues whom I see dabbling in a lot of little deals, I know how to steer clear, and keep prudently out of all those gallantries that smell the least bit of the gallows; but to tell you the truth, by the way he acts, he would really tempt me to rob him; and in robbing him I would think I was performing a meritorious action.
CLÉANTE. Give me that memorandum a second for another look.
Scene 2. MAÎTRE SIMON, HARPAGON, CLÉANTE, LA FLÈCHE
MAÎTRE SIMON. Yes, sir, it’s a young man who needs money. His affairs make it urgent for him to get some, and he’ll put up with everything you prescribe.
HARPAGON. But do you think, Maître Simon, that there’s no risk? And do you know the name, the means, and the family of the man you are speaking for?
MAÎTRE SIMON. No, I can’t give you full information on all that, and it was only by chance that I was put in touch with him; but you will be informed about everything by himself, and his man has assured me that you will be satisfied when you know him. All I can tell you is that his family is very rich, he has already lost his mother, and he will guarantee, if you want, that his father will die in the next eight months.
HARPAGON. Well, that’s something. Charity, Maître Simon, obliges us to do favors to people when we can.
MAÎTRE SIMON. Of course.
LA FLÈCHE (softly, to CLÉANTE). What does this mean? Our Maître Simon talking to your father?
CLÉANTE (softly, to LA FLÈCHE). Could someone have told him who I am? And would you be the man to betray us?
MAÎTRE SIMON. Aha! You are certainly in a hurry! Who told you it was here? (To HARPAGON) At least it wasn’t I, sir, who revealed to them your name and address; but in my opinion there’s no great harm in that. These are people of discretion, and you can work things out together here.
HARPAGON. What’s this?
MAÎTRE SIMON. This gentleman is the person who wants to borrow from you the fifteen thousand francs I spoke to you about.
HARPAGON. What, you scoundrel? It’s you who abandon yourself to these guilty extremities?
CLÉANTE. What, father? It’s you who lend yourself to these shameful actions?
(Exit MAÎTRE SIMON and LA FLÈCHE.)
HARPAGON. It’s you who are trying to ruin yourself by such disgraceful borrowings?
CLÉANTE. It’s you who are trying to enrich yourself by such criminal usury?
HARPAGON. Do you really dare appear before me after this?
CLÉANTE. Do you really dare show your face to the world after this?
HARPAGON. Tell me, aren’t you ashamed to descend to such debauch? to plunge headlong into frightful expenses? and to squander shamefully the money that your parents amassed for you by the sweat of their brow?
CLÉANTE. Don’t you blush to dishonor your position by the deals you make? to sacrifice glory and reputation to the insatiable desire to pile up one crown-piece on another, and to outdo, in the matter of interest, the most infamous dodges that the most notorious usurers ever invented?
HARPAGON. Get out of my sight, you rogue! Get out of my sight!
CLÉANTE. Which one is more criminal, in your opinion, the man who buys a sum of money he needs, or the man who steals a sum of money that he has no use for?
HARPAGON. Out of here, I tell you, and don’t torment my ears.
(Exit CLÉANTE.)
I’m not sorry about this adventure; and it’s a warning to me to keep an eye more than ever on all his actions.
Scene 3. FROSINE, HARPAGON
FROSINE. Sir . . .
HARPAGON. Wait a moment; I’ll come back and talk to you. (Aside) It’s about time I went and took a little look at my money.
Scene 4. LA FLÈCHE, FROSINE
LA FLÈCHE (not seeing FROSINE). It’s an utterly comic adventure. Somewhere he must have a whole big warehouse of used furniture, for we didn’t recognize anything in the memorandum we have.
FROSINE. Oh, it’s you, my poor La Flèche? Fancy meeting you!
LA FLÈCHE. Aha! It’s you, Frosine. What are you doing here?
FROSINE. What I do everywhere else: serving as a go-between, making myself useful to people, and profiting as best I can from the little talents I may have. You know that in this world you have to live by your wits, and that Heaven has given people like me no other revenue than intrigue and ingenuity.
LA FLÈCHE. Do you have some business with the master of the house?
FROSINE. Yes, I’m handling a little matter for him for which I hope to be compensated.
LA FLÈCHE. By him? Oh, my word! You’ll be very clever if you get anything out of him; and I warn you that in here money is very expensive.
FROSINE. There are certain services that are wondrously effective.
LA FLÈCHE. I am your humble servant, and you don’t yet know Seigneur Harpagon. Seigneur Harpagon is of all humans the least human human; the mortal of all mortals who is hardest and most close-fisted. There is no service that drives his gratitude to the point of making him open his hands. Praise, esteem, and goodwill in words, friendliness—all you like; but money—nothing doing. There is nothing more dry and arid than his good graces and his compliments; and give is a word for which he has such an aversion that he never says I give you, but I lend you good day.
FROSINE. Good Lord! I know the art of milking men. I have the secret of winning their tenderness, tickling their hearts, and finding their soft spots.
LA FLÈCHE. Useless trifles here. I defy you to soften up the man in question in the matter of money. On that score he’s cruel, so cruel as to drive anyone to despair; a person could die and he wouldn’t budge. In a word, he loves money, more than reputation, honor, and virtue; and the sight of anyone asking for it throws him into convulsions. That’s striking him in his vulnerable spot, that’s piercing his heart, that’s tearing out his entrails; and if . . . But he’s coming back; I’m off.
Scene 5. HARPAGON, FROSINE
HARPAGON (aside). Everything is as it should be. (To FROSINE)Well, what is it, Frosine?
FROSINE. Oh my Heavens, how well you look! And what a picture of health you are!
HARPAGON. Who, me?
FROSINE. I’ve never seen you looking so fresh and sprightly.
HARPAGON. Really?
FROSINE. What? You’ve never in your life been as young as you are now; and I see people of twenty-five who are older than you.
HARPAGON. And yet, Frosine, I’m a good sixty years old.
FROSINE. Well, sixty, what’s that? A lot indeed! That’s the flower of life, and you’re just coming into your prime.
HARPAGON. That’s true; but nevertheless, as I see it, twenty years less would do me no harm.
FROSINE. Are you joking? You don’t need that, and you’re built to live to a hundred.
HARPAGON. You think so?
FROSINE. Indeed I do. You show all the indications of it. Hold still a moment. Oh, look, right there between your eyes, there’s a sign of long life!
HARPAGON. You’re an expert in those things?
FROSINE. Certainly. Show me your hand. Oh, my goodness, what a life line!
HARPAGON. How’s that?
FROSINE. Don’t you see where that line goes to?
HARPAGON. Well, what does that mean?
FROSINE. My word! I said a hundred; but you’ll pass six score.
HARPAGON. Is it possible?
FROSINE. They’ll have to kill you, I tell you; and you’ll bury your children and your children’s children.
HARPAGON. Splendid. How is our business going?
FROSINE. Need you ask? And do I ever take a hand in anything without making it come out? Above all I have a marvelous talent for matchmaking; there aren’t two people in the world that I couldn’t find a way to pair off in a short time; and I think that if I took it into my head, I could marry the Grand Turk to the Republic of Venice. Of course there were no such great difficulties in this affair. Since I have dealings with the ladies, I’ve talked to them both about you at length, and I’ve told the mother about the designs you had formed on Mariane, from seeing her pass in the street and take the air at her window.
HARPAGON. She answered . . .
FROSINE. She received the proposal with joy; and when I gave her to understand that you were very anxious to have her daughter present this evening at the signing of your own daughter’s marriage contract, she consented without difficulty and entrusted her to me for that purpose.
HARPAGON. You see, Frosine, I am obliged to give a supper for Seigneur Anselme, and I’d like very much for her to share in the treat.
FROSINE. You’re right. After dinner she’s to pay a visit to your daughter, and from there she plans to go and make a trip to the fair, and then come to the supper.
HARPAGON. Well! They’ll go together in my carriage, which I’ll lend them.
FROSINE. That’s just the thing for her.
HARPAGON. But Frosine, have you talked with the mother about the dowry she can give her daughter? Did you tell her that she had to bestir herself, make some effort, and bleed her-self, for an occasion like this one? For after all, one does not marry a girl unless she brings something.
FROSINE. What? She’s a girl that will bring you twelve thousand francs a year.
HARPAGON. Twelve thousand francs a year!
FROSINE. Yes. In the first place, she’s trained and brought up to eat very sparingly; she’s a girl accustomed to live on salad, milk, cheese, and apples, and consequently she will have no need of a well-served table, nor exquisite consommés, nor eternal broths of peeled barley, nor the other delicacies that another woman would require; and that is no such small matter but that it will amount every year to three thousand francs at the least. Besides that she has no taste for anything but very simple dress, and does not like fancy clothes or rich jewelry or sumptuous furnishings, which others of her sex go in for so heartily; and this item is worth more than four thousand francs a year. Moreover, she has a horrible aversion to gambling, which is not a common trait in today’s women; and I know one in our neighborhood who lost twenty thousand francs at “trente-et-quarante” this year. But let’s take only a quarter of that. Five thousand francs a year for gambling, and four thousand francs on clothes and jewelry, that makes nine thousand francs; and a thousand crowns that we put down for food: doesn’t that give you your twelve thousand francs of hard money per year?
HARPAGON. Yes, that’s not bad; but there’s nothing real in that accounting.
FROSINE. Pardon me! Isn’t it something real to bring you in marriage a great sobriety, the inheritance of a great love of simplicity in adornment, and the acquisition of a great fund of hatred for gambling?
HARPAGON. It’s just a joke to try to make up a dowry for me out of all the expenses that she won’t incur. I won’t give any quittance for what I don’t receive; and I’ve got to get some money out of this.
FROSINE. Good Lord! You’ll get plenty; and they spoke to me of certain money they have abroad that you will become master of.
HARPAGON. We’ll have to look into that. But, Frosine, there’s another thing that worries me. The girl is young, as you see; and young folk ordinarily like only those like themselves and seek only their company. I’m afraid that a man of my age may not be to her taste; and that that may come to produce in my house certain little disorders that would not suit me.
FROSINE. Ah, how little you know her! That’s another peculiarity I was going to mention to you. She has a frightful aversion for young men, and loves only old ones.
HARPAGON. She?
FROSINE. Yes, she. I wish you had heard her talk on the subject. She can’t abide the sight of a young man at all; but she is never more delighted, she says, than when she can see a handsome old man with a majestic beard. The eldest are the most charming for her, and I warn you not to go making yourself look younger than you are. She wants a man at the very least to be in his sixties; and not four months ago, all ready to be married, she flatly broke off the marriage on the grounds that her sweetheart revealed that he was only fifty-six and didn’t put on spectacles to sign the contract.
HARPAGON. Just on those grounds?
FROSINE. Yes. She says that fifty-six is no satisfaction to her; and most of all, she favors noses that wear spectacles.
HARPAGON. What you’re telling me is a very novel thing.
FROSINE. It goes further than I could tell you. In her bedroom you see a few pictures and prints; but what do you think they are? Adonises, Cephaluses,* Parises, and Apollos? No; fine portraits of Saturn, of King Priam, of old Nestor, and of good father Anchises on the shoulders of his son.*
HARPAGON. That’s admirable! I never would have thought it; and I am delighted to learn that her taste runs that way. Indeed, if I’d been a woman, I wouldn’t have liked young men.
FROSINE. I should think not. Young men are a fine lot, for anyone to love! They’re pretty boys with running noses, fine show-offs, to make anyone crave their skin; and I’d certainly like to know what relish there is to them.
HARPAGON. As for me, I don’t find any; and I don’t know how it is that there are women who love them so.
FROSINE. You’d have to be raving mad. To find youth attractive! Does that make sense? Those blond youngsters, are they men? And can anybody take to those creatures?
HARPAGON. That’s what I keep saying every day: with their voices like milk-fed hens, and their three little wisps of beard turned up like a cat’s whiskers, their wigs of tow, their flowing breeches, and all unbuttoned over the stomach!
FROSINE. Oh, they’re mighty well got up indeed compared with a man like you! Now you, you’re a man. There’s something here to satisfy the sight; and this is the way you have to be built and dressed to inspire love.
HARPAGON. You like my looks?
FROSINE. Do I? You’re irresistible, and your face is fit for a painting. Turn around a little, please. Couldn’t be better. Let me see you walk. There’s a fine figure of a man—trim, free and easy as it should be, and with no sign of imperfection.
HARPAGON. I’ve nothing serious, thank God. There’s just my catarrh that gets me from time to time.
FROSINE. That’s nothing. Your catarrh is not unbecoming to you, and you cough with grace.
HARPAGON. Just tell me now: hasn’t Mariane seen me yet? Hasn’t she noticed me passing by?
FROSINE. No, but we’ve talked a lot about you. I’ve described your person to her, and I did not fail to praise your merit, and the advantage it would be for her to have a husband like you.
HARPAGON. You’ve done well, and I thank you for it.
FROSINE. I would like to make one small request of you, sir. (HARPAGON looks severe.) I have a lawsuit that I’m on the point of losing for lack of a little money; and you could easily enable me to win the case, if you were to show me a little kindness.—You could never believe how delighted she will be to see you. (HARPAGON looks cheerful again.) Ah, how pleased with you she will be! And what a wonderful effect that old-fashioned ruff of yours will have on her fancy! But above all she’ll be charmed with your breeches, attached as they are to your doublet with laces; it’s enough to make her crazy about you; and a lover with laced-up breeches will be a wonderful treat for her.
HARPAGON. Really, I’m enchanted to have you tell me this.
FROSINE. Truly, sir, this lawsuit is a matter of very great consequence to me. (HARPAGON looks severe again.) I’m ruined if I lose it; and some small assistance would put my affairs back in order.—I wish you’d seen how delighted she was to hear me talk about you. (HARPAGON looks cheerful again.) Joy shone in her eyes at the account of your qualities; and in short, I made her extremely impatient to see this marriage all settled.
HARPAGON. You’ve given me great pleasure, Frosine; and I confess I’m extremely obliged to you.
FROSINE. I beseech you, sir, to give me the little assistance I’m asking of you. (HARPAGON looks severe again.) It will put me on my feet again, and I’ll be eternally grateful to you.
HARPAGON. Good-by. I’m going to finish my letters.
FROSINE. I assure you, sir, that you could never give me relief in greater need.
HARPAGON. I’ll give orders to have my carriage all ready to take you two to the fair.
FROSINE. I wouldn’t trouble you if I weren’t forced to by necessity.
HARPAGON. And I’ll see to it that we have supper early, so as not to make you ill waiting.
FROSINE. Don’t refuse me the favor I’m begging you for.—You couldn’t believe, sir, the pleasure that . . .
HARPAGON. I’m off. Someone’s calling me. See you anon. (Exit)
FROSINE. I hope a fever gets you, you stingy dog, and takes you straight to the devil! The skinflint held out against all my attacks! But I mustn’t give up the business for all that; and in any case I’ve got the other side, from which I am certain to get a good reward.