Scene 1. MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, LACKEYS
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Follow me while I go and show off my coat a bit around town; and above all be careful both of you to walk immediately in my footsteps so that people can clearly see that you belong to me.
LACKEYS. Yes, sir.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Call Nicole for me, so I can give her a few orders. . . . Don’t move, here she is.
Scene 2. NICOLE, MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, LACKEYS
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Nicole!
NICOLE. What is it?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Listen.
NICOLE. Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. What are you laughing at?
NICOLE. Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. What does that hussy mean?
NICOLE. Hee, hee, hee! The way you’re dressed! Hee, hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. How’s that?
NICOLE. Oh, oh, Lord have mercy! Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. What kind of a rascal is this? Are you making fun of me?
NICOLE. No, sir, I’d hate to do that. Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. I’ll give you one on the nose if you laugh any more.
NICOLE. Sir, I can’t help it. Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Aren’t you going to stop?
NICOLE. Sir, I ask your pardon; but you look so funny that I can’t keep from laughing. Hee, hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Will you look at that insolence!
NICOLE. You’re really a sketch like that. Hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. I’ll . . .
NICOLE. I beg you to excuse me. Hee, hee, hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Look here, if you laugh the least bit more, I swear I’ll give you the biggest slap that ever was given.
NICOLE. Well, sir, it’s all over. I won’t laugh any more.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Take good care that you don’t. Now, to get ready, you must clean . . .
NICOLE. Hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Clean up properly . . .
NICOLE. Hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. You must, I say, clean up the parlor, and . . .
NICOLE. Hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Again!
NICOLE. Look here, sir, just beat me and let me laugh to my heart’s content. That’ll do me more good. Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. I’m getting mad.
NICOLE. Please, sir, I beg you to let me laugh. Hee, hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. If I catch you . . .
NICOLE. Sir-ir, I’ll blow-ow up if I don’t laugh. Hee, hee, hee!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Why, did anyone ever see such a hussy as that? She comes and laughs insolently in my face, instead of taking orders from me!
NICOLE. What do you want me to do, sir?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. To think, you wench, about getting my house ready for the company that’s due to come soon.
NICOLE. Ah, faith! I’ve no more wish to laugh; and all your company makes such a mess in here that that word is enough to put me in a bad humor.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. I suppose that for your sake I should close my door to everybody?
NICOLE. You should at least close it to certain people.
Scene 3. MADAME JOURDAIN, MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, NICOLE, LACKEYS
MADAME JOURDAIN. Aha! Here’s a new one! What in the world, my dear husband, is that get-up? Is this some kind of joke, to have got yourself decked out like that, and do you want to have people everywhere make fun of you?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. My dear wife, there’s none but the fools, male and female, who’ll make fun of me.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Well, really, they haven’t waited until now to do it, and it’s been a long time now that your carryings-on have been making everybody laugh.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. And just who is this everybody, if you please?
MADAME JOURDAIN. This everybody is people who are right, and who have more sense than you. For my part, I’m scandalized at the life you’re leading. I don’t know what our house is anymore; you’d think it was Mardi Gras every day; and from morning on, for fear we might miss it, we hear a great uproar of fiddlers and singers that disturbs the whole neighborhood.
NICOLE. Madame is quite right. I can’t keep my house clean anymore, with that train of people that you invite home. They have feet that go hunting for mud in every quarter of town to bring it here; and poor Françoise is almost worn out scrubbing the floors that your fine masters come and muddy up regularly every day.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Well now, Nicole, our servant, you’ve got a mighty sharp line of chatter for a peasant girl.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Nicole is right, and she has better sense than you. I’d like to know what you think you can do with a dancing master at your age.
NICOLE. And with a great big master sword player, who comes stamping around and shakes the whole house and loosens all the tiles in the parlor floor?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Be quiet, my maidservant and my wife.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Do you want to learn dancing for the time when your legs are gone?
NICOLE. Or do you have a hankering to kill somebody?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Be quiet, I tell you: you are both ignoramuses, and you don’t know the prerogatives of all that.
MADAME JOURDAIN. You should much rather be thinking of marrying off your daughter, who’s of an age to be provided with a husband.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. I’ll think about marrying off my daughter when a good match for her comes along; but I also want to think about learning the finer things of life.
NICOLE. I’ve also heard, Madame, that to top it off, today he took on a philosophy master.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Indeed I did. I want to have wit and be able to reason about things among people of culture.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Won’t you be going to school one of these days and having yourself whipped, at your age?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Why not? Would God I could get whipped right now in front of everybody, and know the things they learn in school!
NICOLE. Faith, yes! That would do you a lot of good!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Undoubtedly.
MADAME JOURDAIN. All that is mighty necessary for running your house!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Of course it is. You’re both talking like fools, and I’m ashamed of your ignorance. (To MADAME JOURDAIN) For example, you, do you know what it is you’re saying right now?
MADAME JOURDAIN. Yes, I know that what I’m saying is very well said, and that you should do some thinking about living in a different way.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. I’m not talking about that. I’m asking you, what are the words that you’re saying now?
MADAME JOURDAIN. They’re very sensible words, and your conduct is scarcely that.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. I’m not talking about that, I tell you. I ask you: what I speak with you, what I’m saying to you right now, what is it?
MADAME JOURDAIN. Stuff and nonsense.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Oh, no, it’s not that! What we’re both saying, the language we’re speaking right now?
MADAME JOURDAIN. Well?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. What is that called?
MADAME JOURDAIN. That’s called whatever you want to call it.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. It’s prose, ignoramus.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Prose?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Yes, prose. Everything that’s prose is not verse; and everything that’s not verse is prose. Well, that’s what it means to study. (To NICOLE) And you, do you know what you have to do to say U?
NICOLE. How’s that?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Yes. What do you do when you say U?
NICOLE. What?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Just say U, to see.
NICOLE. Well then, U.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Well, what is it you do?
NICOLE. I say U.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Yes; but when you say U, what do you do?
NICOLE. I do what you tell me.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Oh, what a strange business it is to have to deal with idiots! You thrust your lips out and bring the upper jaw close to the lower one: U. Do you see? U. I make a pout: U.
NICOLE. Yep, that’s real purty.
MADAME JOURDAIN. That is admirable.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. It’s something else again if you’d seen O, and DA, DA, and FA, FA.
MADAME JOURDAIN. What is all this rigmarole?
NICOLE. What does all this cure you of?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. It makes me mad to see ignorant women.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Go on, you ought to send all those people on their way, with their tomfoolery.
NICOLE. And especially that great lout of a fencing master, who fills my whole house with dust.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Well, you’ve certainly got that fencing master on the brain. I want to show you how impertinent you are right now. (He has the foils brought and gives one to NICOLE.) Here you are. Demonstrative reasoning, the line of the body. When you thrust in quart, all you have to do is this; and when you thrust in tierce, all you have to do is this. That’s the way never to get killed; and isn’t that fine, to be certain of how you’ll come out when you fight with somebody? There, try a thrust at me, to see.
NICOLE (making several thrusts at MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, and as many touches). Well, what about it?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Easy now! Hold on! Oh, gently! Devil take the hussy!
NICOLE. You told me to thrust.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Yes, but you’re thrusting in tierce before thrusting in quart, and you won’t wait for me to parry.
MADAME JOURDAIN. You’re crazy, my dear husband, with all your fancies; and this has all happened to you since you’ve been taking it into your head to hang around the nobility.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. When I hang around the nobility, I show my judgment, and that’s better than hanging around your bourgeoisie.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Oh yes indeedy! There’s a lot to be gained by going around with your noblemen, and you’ve done good business with that fine Monsieur le Comte that you’re so stuck on.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Peace. Think what you’re saying. Do you know, my dear wife, that you don’t know whom you’re talking about when you talk about him? He’s a person of more importance than you think, a lord who’s well considered at court, and who talks to the King just as I’m talking to you. Isn’t that a very honorable thing for me, for people to see a person of such quality coming to my house so often, calling me his dear friend, and treating me as if I were his equal? You’d never guess how good he is to me; and in front of everybody he shows me regards that leave me embarrassed myself.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Yes, he’s good to you and shows you regards; but he borrows your money.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Well! Isn’t it an honor for me to lend money to a man of that rank? And can I do less for a lord who calls me his dear friend?
MADAME JOURDAIN. And this lord, what does he do for you?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Things that would astonish people, if they knew them.
MADAME JOURDAIN. And what are they?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Enough. I can’t explain it all. Sufficient that if I’ve lent him money, he’ll give it back to me all right, and before long.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Yes, just count on that.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Of course; hasn’t he told me so?
MADAME JOURDAIN. Yes, yes; he won’t fail—not to do so.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. He’s given me his word as a gentleman.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Fiddlesticks!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Well now, you are mighty obstinate, my good wife. I tell you he’ll keep his word, I’m sure.
MADAME JOURDAIN. And I’m sure he won’t, and that all the attentions he shows you are only to cajole you.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Be quiet; here he is.
MADAME JOURDAIN. That’s all we need. Perhaps he’s coming to get another loan from you; and I lose my appetite when I see him.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Be quiet, I tell you.
Scene 4. DORANTE, MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, MADAME JOURDAIN, NICOLE
DORANTE. My dear friend Monsieur Jourdain,* how are you?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Very well, sir, at your service.
DORANTE. And Madame Jourdain here, how is she?
MADAME JOURDAIN. Madame Jourdain is doing as well as she can.
DORANTE. Well, Monsieur Jourdain, how elegant you are!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. As you see.
DORANTE. You look very smart in that coat, and we have no young men at court who are better turned out than you are.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Heh, heh!
MADAME JOURDAIN (aside). He scratches him where he itches.
DORANTE. Turn around. That’s utterly gallant.
MADAME JOURDAIN (aside). Yes, just as stupid from the rear as from the front.
DORANTE. Upon my word, Monsieur Jourdain, I was extraordinarily impatient to see you. You are the man I esteem the most in all the world, and I was talking about you just this morning in the King’s bedchamber.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. You do me great honor, sir. (To MADAME JOURDAIN) In the King’s bedchamber!
DORANTE. Come now, put on your hat.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Sir, I know the respect that I owe you.
DORANTE. Good Lord, put it on! No ceremony between us, pray.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Sir . . .
DORANTE. Put it on, I tell you, Monsieur Jourdain; you are my friend.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Sir, I am your humble servant.
DORANTE. I won’t put mine on unless you do.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (putting his hat on). I’d rather be uncivil than a nuisance.
DORANTE. I’m your debtor, as you know.
MADAME JOURDAIN (aside). Yes, we know it only too well.
DORANTE. You have generously lent me money on several occasions, and you have certainly obliged me with the best grace in the world.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Sir, you’re joking.
DORANTE. But I know how to repay what is lent me, and to recognize favors done me.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. I don’t doubt it, sir.
DORANTE. I want to settle things up with you, and I’ve come here to clear up our accounts together.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (to MADAME JOURDAIN). Well! You see how silly you were, my good wife.
DORANTE. I’m a man who likes to pay up his debts as soon as he can.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (to MADAME JOURDAIN). I told you so!
DORANTE. Let’s see now, what do I owe you?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (to MADAME JOURDAIN). There you are with your ridiculous suspicions!
DORANTE. Do you have a good recollection of all the money you’ve lent me?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. I think so. I’ve kept a little memorandum. Here it is. Given to you once, two hundred louis.
DORANTE. That’s true.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Another time, six score.
DORANTE. Yes.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. And another time, a hundred and forty.
DORANTE. You’re right.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. These three items make four hundred and sixty louis, which come to five thousand and sixty francs.
DORANTE. The accounting is very good indeed. Five thousand and sixty francs.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. One thousand eight hundred and thirty-two francs to your plume-seller.
DORANTE. Precisely.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Two thousand seven hundred and eighty francs to your tailor.
DORANTE. That’s true.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Four thousand three hundred and seventy-nine francs twelve sous eight deniers to your clothier.
DORANTE. Very good. Twelve sous eight deniers: the account is exact.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. And one thousand seven hundred and forty-eight francs seven sous four deniers to your saddler.
DORANTE. That’s all exactly right. What does it come to?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Sum total, fifteen thousand eight hundred francs.
DORANTE. Sum total is correct: fifteen thousand eight hundred francs. Now, add another two hundred pistoles that you’re going to give me, that will make precisely eighteen thousand francs, which I’ll pay you the first chance I get.
MADAME JOURDAIN (to MONSIEUR JOURDAIN). Well! Didn’t I guess it all right?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (to MADAME JOURDAIN). Peace!
DORANTE. Will that inconvenience you, to give me what I’ve mentioned?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Oh, no!
MADAME JOURDAIN (to MONSIEUR JOURDAIN). This man milks you like a cow.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Be quiet.
DORANTE. If it’s inconvenient for you, I’ll look elsewhere.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. No, sir.
MADAME JOURDAIN (to MONSIEUR JOURDAIN). He won’t be content until he’s ruined you.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (to MADAME JOURDAIN). Shut up, I tell you.
DORANTE. You have only to tell me if it embarrasses you.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Not at all, sir.
MADAME JOURDAIN (to MONSIEUR JOURDAIN). He’s a real wheedler.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (to MADAME JOURDAIN). Shut up, you.
MADAME JOURDAIN (to MONSIEUR JOURDAIN). He’ll suck you dry to your last sou.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (to MADAME JOURDAIN). Will you shut up?
DORANTE. I have plenty of people who would be overjoyed to lend me money; but since you are my best friend, I thought I would wrong you if I asked anyone else.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. You do me too much honor, sir. I’ll go get what you want.
MADAME JOURDAIN (to MONSIEUR JOURDAIN). What? Are you going to give him that too?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (to MADAME JOURDAIN, as he makes his exit). What am I to do? Do you want me to refuse a man of that rank, who talked about me this morning in the King’s bedchamber?
MADAME JOURDAIN. Go on, you’re a real dupe.
Scene 5. DORANTE, MADAME JOURDAIN, NICOLE
DORANTE. You seem quite melancholy. What’s the matter, Madame Jourdain?
MADAME JOURDAIN. My head’s bigger than my fist, and it’s not swollen at that.
DORANTE. And your charming daughter, where is she? I don’t see her.
MADAME JOURDAIN. My charming daughter is fine where she is.
DORANTE. How is she getting along?
MADAME JOURDAIN. She’s getting along on her own two legs.
DORANTE. Don’t you want to come with her one of these days to see the ballet and comedy that are being performed before the King?
MADAME JOURDAIN. Yes, indeed, we really want to laugh, really want to laugh, we do.
DORANTE. I think, Madame Jourdain, you had plenty of suitors in your younger days, pretty and good-humored as you were.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Land’s sakes, sir! Is Madame Jourdain decrepit and doddering already?
DORANTE. Ah! Faith, Madame Jourdain, I beg your pardon. I wasn’t thinking that you’re still young, and I’m very absent-minded. I beg you to excuse my impertinence.
Scene 6. MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, MADAME JOURDAIN, DORANTE, NICOLE
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Here are two hundred louis exactly.
DORANTE. I assure you, Monsieur Jourdain, that I’m at your service, and I’m burning to do you a favor at court.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. I’m only too obliged to you.
DORANTE. If Madame Jourdain wants to see the entertainment before the King, I’ll see that she gets the best seats in the house.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Madame Jourdain kisses your hands.
DORANTE (aside to MONSIEUR JOURDAIN). Our fair marquise, as I told you in my note, will come here soon for the ballet and the meal, and I finally got her to consent to the party you want to give her.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (aside to DORANTE). Let’s go a little farther away, for good reason.
DORANTE. It’s a week since I’ve seen you, and I haven’t told you the latest about the diamond you placed in my hands to present to her on your behalf; but the fact is I’ve had all the trouble in the world in overcoming her scruples, and it’s only today that she’s made up her mind to accept it.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. How did she like it?
DORANTE. She thought it was wonderful; and unless I’m much mistaken, the beauty of that diamond will set you high in her regard.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Would God!
MADAME JOURDAIN (to NICOLE). Once he’s with him, he can’t leave him.
DORANTE. I made the most to her of the richness of this present and the greatness of your love.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. These are kindnesses, sir, that overwhelm me; and I am most greatly embarrassed to see a person of your rank lower himself for my sake to do what you’re doing.
DORANTE. Are you joking? Between friends, does one stop at this sort of scruple? And wouldn’t you do the same thing for me if the occasion should arise?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Oh, certainly, and with all my heart!
MADAME JOURDAIN (to NICOLE). How his presence weighs on me!
DORANTE. For my part, I don’t worry about anything when a friend needs a service; and when you confided to me the passion you had formed for this charming marquise whom I knew, you saw that right away I freely offered myself to serve your love.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. That’s true, these are kindnesses that embarrass me.
MADAME JOURDAIN (to NICOLE). Won’t he ever go away?
NICOLE (to MADAME JOURDAIN). They like to be together.
DORANTE. You took the right approach to touch her heart. Above all else women like the expenditures people make for them; and your frequent serenades and continual bouquets, that superb display of fireworks on the water, the diamond she has received on your behalf, and the party you are preparing for her—all this speaks to her far better in favor of your love than any words you might have said to her yourself.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. There are no expenditures I would not make if thereby I could find the way to her heart. A woman of quality has ravishing charms for me, and it’s an honor I would buy at any price.
MADAME JOURDAIN (to NICOLE). What can they be talking about for so long? Go up quietly and lend an ear a bit.
DORANTE. You will soon enjoy at your ease the pleasure of seeing her, and your eyes will have all the time you want to be satisfied.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. To be completely free, I’ve arranged for my wife to go and dine at my sister’s and stay on the whole time after dinner.
DORANTE. You have acted prudently, and your wife might have embarrassed us. I’ve given the necessary orders for you to the cook, and for all the things that are needed for the ballet. It’s a composition of my own; and provided the execution comes up to my idea, I’m sure it will be found . . .
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (noticing that NICOLE is listening, and giving her a slap). Well, you’re mighty impertinent! (To DORANTE) Let’s get out of here, if you please.
Scene 7. MADAME JOURDAIN, NICOLE
NICOLE. Faith, Madame! Curiosity cost me something; but I think I smell a rat, and they’re talking about some affair where they don’t want you to be.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Today’s not the first time, Nicole, that I’ve had suspicions about my husband. Unless I’m utterly mistaken, he’s trying to promote some amour, and I’m trying to find out what it may be. But let’s think about my daughter. You know about Cléonte’s love for her. He’s a man I like, and I want to help his suit and give him Lucile if I can.
NICOLE. To tell the truth, Madame, I’m most delighted to see that this is your feeling; for if you like the master, I like the valet no less, and I could wish that our marriage might take place in the shadow of theirs.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Go and speak to him for me, and tell him to come and see me as soon as he can, so that together we can ask my husband for my daughter’s hand.
NICOLE. I’ll run and do it with joy, Madame, and I couldn’t be given a pleasanter errand.
(Exit MADAME JOURDAIN.)
I think I’m going to make the men very happy.
Scene 8. CLÉONTE, COVIELLE, NICOLE
NICOLE. Ah, there you are, just at the right time. I am a bearer of joyful news, and I come . . .
CLÉONTE. Go away, perfidious girl, and don’t come and beguile me with your traitorous words.
NICOLE. Is that the way you receive . . . ?
CLÉONTE. Go away, I tell you. Go to your faithless mistress right away and tell her that she will never again in her life delude the too simple Cléonte.
NICOLE. What sort of caprice is that? My poor dear Covielle, give me some idea of what this means.
COVIELLE. My poor dear Covielle! You little minx! Come on, quick, get out of my sight, wretched girl, and leave me in peace!
NICOLE. What? You too . . . !
COVIELLE. Get out of my sight, I tell you, and never speak to me again in your life!
NICOLE. Well! What’s bitten the two of them? Let’s go and inform my mistress of this fine how-do-you-do.
Scene 9. CLÉONTE, COVIELLE
CLÉONTE. What? Treat a sweetheart in that way, and a sweetheart who is the most faithful and passionate of all sweethearts!
COVIELLE. It’s a frightful thing, what they’re doing to the two of us.
CLÉONTE. I reveal for a certain person all the ardor and all the tenderness imaginable; I love nothing in the world but her, and have her alone in my mind; she constitutes all my cares, all my desires, all my joy; I speak of her alone, think of her alone, dream of her alone, breathe through her alone, my heart lives in her alone: and this is the fitting reward for so much affection! I go two days without seeing her, which for me are two frightful centuries; I meet her by chance; my heart, at the sight of her, is all transported, my joy bursts out on my face, I fly toward her in ecstasy; and the faithless creature turns her eyes away from me and passes brusquely by, as if she had never seen me in her life!
COVIELLE. I say the same things as you do.
CLÉONTE. Is it possible, Covielle, for anything to match this perfidy of the ingrate Lucile?
COVIELLE. Or that, sir, of that hussy Nicole?
CLÉONTE. After so many ardent sacrifices, sighs, and vows that I’ve offered to her charms!
COVIELLE. After so many assiduous homages, so many attentions and services I’ve done for her in the kitchen!
CLÉONTE. So many tears that I’ve shed at her knees!
COVIELLE. So many buckets of water that I’ve drawn from the well for her!
CLÉONTE. SO much ardor I’ve shown in cherishing her more than myself!
COVIELLE. So much heat I’ve endured turning the spit in place of her!
CLÉONTE. She flees me with disdain!
COVIELLE. She turns her back on me with effrontery!
CLÉONTE. It’s perfidy worthy of the greatest punishments.
COVIELLE. It’s a betrayal that deserves a thousand slaps in the face.
CLÉONTE. Don’t ever take it into your head, I pray you, to speak to me on her behalf.
COVIELLE. I, sir! God forbid!
CLÉONTE. Don’t come to me with excuses for this faithless girl’s action.
COVIELLE. Have no fear.
CLÉONTE. No, you see, all you may say to defend her will be no use.
COVIELLE. Who has that in mind?
CLÉONTE. I want to preserve my resentment against her, and break off all relations with her.
COVIELLE. I consent to that.
CLÉONTE. Perhaps that Monsieur le Comte who goes to her house has caught her eye; and her mind, I can see, is letting itself be dazzled by rank. But, for my own honor, I must forestall the revelation of her inconstancy. I mean to keep step with her in this change toward which I see her hurrying, and not let her have all the glory of leaving me.
COVIELLE. That’s very well said, and I, on my own account, share all your feelings.
CLÉONTE. Lend a hand to my spite, and support my resolve against any remains of love that might speak to me on her behalf. Tell me, I beseech you, all the bad things you can about her; paint me a portrait of her person that will make her contemptible to me; and point out to me clearly, to destroy my taste for her, all the defects you can see in her.
COVIELLE. She, sir! She’s a girl who puts on a lot of airs, an affected bit of goods, a fine one for you to be so much in love with! I see nothing in her that isn’t very ordinary, and you can find a hundred girls that will be more worthy of you. In the first place, her eyes are small.*
CLÉONTE. That’s true, her eyes are small; but they’re full of fire; they’re the most brilliant, the most piercing in the world, the most touching to be seen anywhere.
COVIELLE. Her mouth is large.
CLÉONTE. Yes; but there are graces to be seen in it that you don’t see in other mouths; and that mouth, when you see it, inspires desires, is the most attractive, the most loving in the world.
COVIELLE. As for her figure, it’s not tall.
CLÉONTE. No, but it’s graceful and well built.
COVIELLE. She affects nonchalance in her speech and in her actions.
CLÉONTE. That’s true; but she does so with grace, and her manners are engaging; they have an indefinable charm that insinuates itself into the heart.
COVIELLE. As for wit . . .
CLÉONTE. Ah, that she has, Covielle, of the most subtle and delicate kind.
COVIELLE. Her conversation . . .
CLÉONTE. Her conversation is charming.
COVIELLE. She’s always serious.
CLÉONTE. Do you want broad playfulness, everlasting expansive gaiety? And do you find anything sillier than women who laugh at everything?
COVIELLE. But finally, she’s as capricious as anybody in the world.
CLÉONTE. Yes, she is capricious, I agree; but in beautiful women everything looks good; we put up with anything from beautiful women.
COVIELLE. Since that’s the way it goes, I see perfectly well that you want to love her forever.
CLÉONTE. I? I’d rather die; and I’m going to hate her as much as I’ve loved her.
COVIELLE. And how, if you find her so perfect?
CLÉONTE. That’s how my revenge will be the more brilliant, and how I mean to show my strength of heart all the better, by hating her, by leaving her, beautiful, attractive, and lovable as I find her to be . . . Here she is.
Scene 10. CLÉONTE, LUCILE, COVIELLE, NICOLE
NICOLE. For my part, I was utterly scandalized.
LUCILE. It can only be what I’m telling you, Nicole. But here he is.
CLÉONTE (to COVIELLE). I won’t even speak to her.
COVIELLE. I’ll follow your example.
LUCILE. Why, what is it, Cléonte? What’s the matter?
NICOLE. What’s wrong with you, Covielle?
LUCILE. What makes you so distressed?
NICOLE. What’s put you in such a bad humor?
LUCILE. Are you struck dumb, Cléonte?
NICOLE. Have you lost your tongue, Covielle?
CLÉONTE. What a crime!
COVIELLE. What a couple of Judases!
LUCILE. I see perfectly well that our recent encounter has troubled your mind.
CLÉONTE. Aha! They see what they’ve done.
NICOLE. Our greeting this morning got your goat.
COVIELLE. They’ve guessed where the shoe pinches.
LUCILE. Isn’t it true, Cléonte, that that’s the cause of your vexation?
CLÉONTE. Yes, perfidious woman, it is, since speak I must. And let me tell you that you shall not triumph in your faithlessness as you expect, that I mean to be the first to break with you, and that you shall not have the advantage of sending me away. No doubt I’ll have trouble in conquering the love I have for you, it will cause me distress, I shall suffer for a time; but I’ll get over it, and I’ll sooner pierce my own heart than be so weak as to return to you.
COVIELLE. Same here.
LUCILE. That’s a lot of fuss over nothing. I want to tell you, Cléonte, what it was made me avoid your greeting this morning.
CLÉONTE. No, I won’t listen to a thing.
NICOLE. I want to let you know the reason we went by so quickly.
COVIELLE. I won’t hear a thing.
LUCILE. Know that this morning . . .
CLÉONTE. No, I tell you.
NICOLE. Learn that . . .
COVIELLE. No, traitress.
LUCILE. Listen!
CLÉONTE. No such thing.
NICOLE. Let me speak.
COVIELLE. I’m deaf.
LUCILE. Cléonte!
CLÉONTE. No.
NICOLE. Covielle!
COVIELLE. Not a bit.
LUCILE. Stop!
CLÉONTE. Nonsense!
NICOLE. Hear me!
COVIELLE. Fiddlesticks!
LUCILE. One moment.
CLÉONTE. Not at all.
NICOLE. A little patience.
COVIELLE. Bunk.
LUCILE. Two words!
CLÉONTE. No, it’s all over.
NICOLE. One word!
COVIELLE. We’re all through.
LUCILE. Well! Since you won’t listen to me, keep on thinking what you’re thinking, and do as you please.
NICOLE. Since that’s how you’re acting, take it any way you like.
(Up to this point the girls have been following the young men around the stage; from now on the young men follow the girls.)
CLÉONTE. All right, let’s know the reason for such a fine greeting.
LUCILE. I don’t feel like telling it anymore.
COVIELLE. All right, just tell us this story.
NICOLE. Me, I don’t want to tell it to you anymore.
CLÉONTE. Say what . . .
LUCILE. No, I won’t say a thing.
COVIELLE. Tell me . . .
NICOLE. No, I’m not telling a thing.
CLÉONTE. Please.
LUCILE. No, I tell you.
COVIELLE. Out of charity . . .
NICOLE. Nothing doing.
CLÉONTE. I beg you.
LUCILE. Let me be.
COVIELLE. I conjure you.
NICOLE. Get out of here.
CLÉONTE. Lucile!
LUCILE. No.
COVIELLE. Nicole!
NICOLE. Not a bit.
CLÉONTE. In the name of the gods!
LUCILE. I won’t.
COVIELLE. Speak to me.
NICOLE. Not at all.
CLÉONTE. Clear up my doubts.
LUCILE. No, I’ll do nothing of the sort.
COVIELLE. Cure my mind.
NICOLE. No, I don’t feel like it.
CLÉONTE. Well! Since you care so little about ending my pain and justifying yourself for your unworthy treatment of my flame, you see me, ingrate, for the last time, and I’m going far away from you to die of grief and love.
COVIELLE. And I’m going to follow in his footsteps.
LUCILE. Cléonte!
NICOLE. Covielle!
CLÉONTE. Eh?
COVIELLE. What is it?
LUCILE. Where are you going?
CLÉONTE. Where I told you.
COVIELLE. We’re going to die.
LUCILE. You’re going to die, Cléonte?
CLÉONTE. Yes, cruel girl, since you want it.
LUCILE. I want you to die?
CLÉONTE. Yes, you want it.
LUCILE. Who says so?
CLÉONTE. Isn’t it wanting it not to want to clear up my suspicions?
LUCILE. Is that my fault? If you’d been willing to listen to me, wouldn’t I have told you that the incident this morning that you’re complaining about was caused by the presence of an old aunt of mine who absolutely insists that the mere approach of a man dishonors a girl, who preaches us sermons perpetually on this subject, and who pictures all men to us as devils whom we must flee?
NICOLE. That’s the secret of the matter.
CLÉONTE. You’re not deceiving me, Lucile?
COVIELLE. You’re not handing me a line?
LUCILE. Nothing could be more true.
NICOLE. That’s the thing as it is.
COVIELLE (to CLÉONTE). Do we give in to this?
CLÉONTE. Ah, Lucile! With one word from your lips, how many things you can appease in my heart! And how easily we let ourselves be persuaded by the persons we love!
COVIELLE. How easily we get softened up by these confounded creatures!
Scene 11. MADAME JOURDAIN, CLÉONTE, LUCILE, COVIELLE, NICOLE
MADAME JOURDAIN. I’m very glad to see you, Cléonte, and you’re here at the right time. My husband’s coming; take your chance quickly to ask him for Lucile’s hand in marriage.
CLÉONTE. Ah, Madame, how sweet these words are to me, and how they flatter my desires! Could I receive a more charming order, a more precious favor?
Scene 12. MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, MADAME JOURDAIN, CLÉONTE, LUCILE, COVIELLE, NICOLE
CLÉONTE. Sir, I didn’t want to get anyone else to make a request of you that I have long been meditating. It concerns me closely enough for me to take it on myself; and so, without beating around the bush further, I will tell you that the honor of being your son-in-law is a glorious favor that I beg you to grant me.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Before giving you an answer, sir, I ask you to tell me if you are a gentleman.
CLÉONTE. Sir, most people don’t hesitate much on this question. The word is easy to throw around. People have no scruples about assuming this title, and usage today seems to authorize the theft of it. For my part, I admit, I have slightly more delicate feelings about this matter. I think that any imposture is unworthy of an honorable man, and that there is cowardice in disguising what Heaven had us born to be, in adorning ourselves in the eyes of the world with a stolen title, in trying to pass ourselves off for what we are not. To be sure, I was born of ancestors who have held honorable positions. I have acquired the honor of six years of service under arms, and I have enough means to hold a pretty passable position in society. But with all that, I don’t want to give myself a title that others in my place would feel entitled to assume, and I will tell you frankly that I am not a gentleman.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Shake on it, sir; my daughter is not for you.
CLÉONTE. How’s that?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. You’re not a gentleman. You shall not have my daughter.
MADAME JOURDAIN. What are you talking about with your gentleman business? Are we sprung from Saint Louis’s rib?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Be quiet, wife; I can see you coming.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Are we both descended from anything but good bourgeois?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. There goes your tongue!
MADAME JOURDAIN. And wasn’t your father a tradesman just like mine?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Plague take the woman! She’s never failed. If your father was a tradesman, too bad for him; but as for mine, it’s only the ill-informed who say so. As for me, all I have to say to you is that I want to have a gentleman for my son-in-law.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Your daughter needs a husband who is suited to her, and she’d be much better off with an honorable man who is rich and attractive than with a beggarly and unattractive gentleman.
NICOLE. That’s true. In our village we have the gentleman’s son who’s the biggest oaf and the stupidest lout I’ve ever seen.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Shut up, you, with your impertinence. You’re always butting into the conversation. I have enough money for my daughter. All I need is honor, and I want to make her a marquise.
MADAME JOURDAIN. A marquise?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Yes, a marquise.
MADAME JOURDAIN. Alas! God forbid!
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. It’s something I’ve decided on.
MADAME JOURDAIN. It’s something I’ll never consent to. Marriages above your station are always subject to unpleasant drawbacks. I don’t want a son-in-law to be able to reproach my daughter for her parents, and for her to have children who are ashamed to call me their grandma. If she had to come and visit me decked out like a grand lady, and by mistake failed to greet someone in the neighborhood, right away people wouldn’t fail to say a hundred stupid things. “Do you see that Madame la Marquise,” they’d say, “with her high and mighty airs? That’s Monsieur Jourdain’s daughter, who was only too happy, when she was little, to play at being a fine lady with us. She wasn’t always as lofty as she is now, and both her grandfathers used to sell cloth by the Porte Saint-Innocent. They piled up some wealth for their children, which they may be paying mighty dear for now in the other world, and you just don’t get that rich by being honest folk.” I don’t want all that gossip; and in a word, I want a man who will feel obliged to me for my daughter, and to whom I can say: “Sit down there, my son-in-law, and have dinner with me.”
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Those are certainly the sentiments of a petty mind, to want to remain always in lowliness. Don’t answer me further; my daughter shall be a marquise in spite of everybody; and if you get me angry, I’ll make her a duchess.
(Exit)
MADAME JOURDAIN. Cléonte, don’t lose heart yet. Follow me, my daughter, and come and tell your father resolutely that if you don’t get him, you won’t marry anyone.
Scene 13. CLÉONTE, COVIELLE
COVIELLE. You made a fine success of it with your fine sentiments.
CLÉONTE. Well, what would you have me do? On that score I have scruples that example cannot overcome.
COVIELLE. Are you joking, to take the matter seriously with a man like that? Don’t you see he’s crazy? And was it costing you anything to accommodate yourself to his fancies?
CLÉONTE. You’re right; but I didn’t think you had to give your proofs of nobility to be the son-in-law of Monsieur Jourdain.
COVIELLE. Ha, ha, ha!
CLÉONTE. What are you laughing about?
COVIELLE. An idea that comes to my mind to play a trick on our man and have you get what you want.
CLÉONTE. How’s that?
COVIELLE. It’s a really funny notion.
CLÉONTE. What is it, then?
COVIELLE. There has been a certain masquerade performed for a little while that would do perfectly here, and that I’d like to work into a hoax I want to perpetrate on this ridiculous man of ours. The whole thing smacks a bit of low comedy; but with him you can risk anything, you don’t have to be too careful; and he’s the man to play his own part in it to perfection, to lend himself easily to all the nonsense we take it into our heads to tell him. I have the actors, I have the costumes all ready; just leave it to me.
CLÉONTE. But tell me . . .
COVIELLE. I’ll tell you all about it. Let’s leave; he’s coming back.
Scene 14. MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, LACKEY
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. What the devil is all this? They have nothing to reproach me for but the noble lords; and I don’t think anything is as fine as to associate with noble lords. With them there is nothing but honor and civility; and I wish it had cost me two fingers off my hand, and I’d been born a count or a marquis.
LACKEY. Sir, here is Monsieur le Comte, and a lady on his arm.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Oh, my Lord! I have some orders to give. Tell them I’ll be here right away.
Scene 15. DORIMÈNE, DORANTE, LACKEY
LACKEY. The master says likely he’ll be here right away.
DORANTE. Very good.
DORIMÈNE. I don’t know, Dorante; this is another strange thing I’m doing here, letting you take me into a house where I don’t know anybody.
DORANTE. Then what place, Madame, would you have my love choose to entertain you, since, to avoid publicity, you want neither your house nor mine?
DORIMÈNE. But you don’t mention that I’m becoming involved imperceptibly every day by accepting excessive tokens of your passion. I try to defend myself against these things, but you wear down my resistance; and you have a polite obstinacy which makes me come around gradually to whatever you like. It began with the frequent visits; the declarations came next, which brought after them the serenades and entertainments, which were followed by the presents. I opposed all that; but you don’t give up, and step by step you overcome my resolutions. For me, I can no longer answer for anything, and I think that in the end you’ll persuade me to marriage, which I have put so far from my mind.
DORANTE. Faith, Madame! You should be married already. You’re a widow, and dependent only on yourself. I am my own master, and I love you more than my life. What is to keep you from making my happiness complete this very day?
DORIMÈNE. Good Lord, Dorante! Many qualities on both sides are needed to live happily together; and the two most reasonable people in the world often have trouble in forming a union to their satisfaction.
DORANTE. You can’t be serious, Madame, in picturing so many difficulties in this; and the experience you have had proves nothing about all the others.
DORIMÈNE. Anyway, I still come back to this: the expenditures I see you make for me worry me for two reasons: one, they commit me more than I would like; and two, I am sure—no offense—that you do not make them without financial embarrassment; and I don’t want that.
DORANTE. Ah, Madame, those are trifles; and it’s not by those . . .
DORIMÈNE. I know what I’m saying; and among other things, the diamond you forced me to accept is so valuable . . .
DORANTE. Oh, Madame! Please don’t make so much of something that my love finds unworthy of you; and permit . . . Here’s the master of the house.
Scene 16. MONSIEUR JOURDAIN, DORIMÈNE, DORANTE, LACKEY
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (after making two bows as he steps forward, and finding himself too close to DORIMÈNE). A little farther back, Madame.
DORIMÈNE. How’s that?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. One step back, if you please.
DORIMÈNE. What?
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Step back a bit, for the third.
DORANTE. Madame, Monsieur Jourdain knows his etiquette.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Madame, it’s a very great glory for me to find myself so fortunate as to be so happy as to have the happiness that you have had the goodness to grant me the grace of doing me the honor of honoring me with the favor of your presence; and if I also had the merit of meriting a merit like yours, and if Heaven . . . envious of my good fortune . . . had granted me . . . the advantage of finding myself worthy . . . of the . . .
DORANTE. Monsieur Jourdain, that’s enough of that. Madame does not like great compliments, and she knows that you are a man of wit. (Aside, to DORIMÈNE) He’s a good bourgeois, rather ridiculous, as you see, in all his manners.
DORIMÈNE (aside, to DORANTE). It’s not hard to see that.
DORANTE. Madame, this is the best of my friends.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. You do me too much honor.
DORANTE. A complete man of the world.
DORIMÈNE. I have much esteem for him.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. I’ve done nothing yet, Madame, to deserve that favor.
DORANTE (aside, to MONSIEUR JOURDAIN). Be very careful, at any rate, that you don’t speak to her about the diamond you gave her.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (aside, to DORANTE). Couldn’t I just ask her how she likes it?
DORANTE (aside, to MONSIEUR JOURDAIN). What? See that you don’t. That would be vulgar of you; and to act as a man of the world, you have to behave as though it wasn’t you who gave her that present. (Aloud) Madame, Monsieur Jourdain says he is delighted to see you in his house.
DORIMÈNE. He honors me greatly.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (aside, to DORANTE). How obliged I am to you, sir, for speaking to her thus for me!
DORANTE (aside, to MONSIEUR JOURDAIN). I had frightful difficulty in getting her to come.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN (aside, to DORANTE). I don’t know how to thank you for it.
DORANTE. He says, Madame, that he thinks you’re the most beautiful person in the world.
DORIMÈNE. That’s very gracious of him.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN. Madame, the graciousness is all on your side; and . . .
DORANTE. Let’s think about eating.
LACKEY. Everything is ready, sir.
DORANTE. Then let’s sit down, and send in the musicians.
Six COOKS, who have prepared the feast, perform a dance together, which makes up the THIRD INTERLUDE. After that, they bring in a table covered with various dishes.