THE MISCHIEVOUS MACHINATIONS OF SCAPIN

A prose comedy in three acts, first performed on May 24, 1671, at the Théâtre du Palais-Royal in Paris by Molière’s Troupe du Roi. Molière played Scapin; La Thorillière, Silvestre; Mlle. Beauval, Zerbinette; the distribution of the other roles is not known. The play was warmly received and has always remained popular.

Molière’s use of his sources is, as usual, considerable and free. The plot mainly follows that of Terence’s Phormio; minor borrowings are from Plautus, Cyrano de Bergerac, Rotrou, and (for the business of the sack) Tabarin or some other contemporary or earlier farce writer. Boileau, a good friend and admirer of Molière, disapproved of the business of the sack, failing, as he said, to recognize in it the author of The Misanthrope; and many critics since his time have echoed his feelings. Recently, however, as farce has had a better press, the play has been hailed by many as a masterpiece of “pure theater.”

Certainly the concern is all for theatrical fantasy and legerdemain, not for realism. The plot as such (the loves of Octave and Léandre for Hyacinte and Zerbinette, crossed by the plans of their stingy old fathers) is little more than a pretext for comic scenes and stories; the true plot, the action that intrigues us, is in effect created by Scapin as he goes along. He is the master manipulator; all the other characters dance when he whistles. His character, the only one that is more than sketched, is that of a virtuoso in love with his virtuosity; and in this it reflects that of Molière as craftsman.

In this play Molière shows no more concern with ideas or with serious involvement of the spectator than he does with realism or character. The comedy is a romp in the land of inventive make-believe. Scapin not only plays a variety of parts (Argante to Octave, a Basque, a Swiss and other soldiers, and so on) but also directs others (Octave, Silvestre), tells of other parts he has played (the werewolf), and stage-manages the whole action. When no one is acting a part, someone is likely to be telling a story; and the story-telling is also dramatic, since its comedy lies not in the story itself but in the story’s relation to the teller and the listener. Zerbinette’s account to Géronte of how Géronte was bilked would be dull repetition—except that the giddy Zerbinette tells the story to its victim; and the effect is similar in the final scene when Scapin, even in asking pardon of Géronte for the beating he gave him, mentions it repeatedly with obvious relish to the obvious discomfiture of Géronte.

In short, the play is an exercise in sheer virtuosity; and as anyone knows who has seen it performed, it works.