Scene 1. OCTAVE, SILVESTRE
OCTAVE. Ah! Distressing news for a lover’s heart! Harsh extremities that I am reduced to! Silvestre, you’ve just learned at the port that my father is coming back?
SILVESTRE. Yes.
OCTAVE. That he’s arriving this very morning?
SILVESTRE. This very morning.
OCTAVE. And that he’s coming back resolved to have me married?
SILVESTRE. Yes.
OCTAVE. To a daughter of Seigneur Géronte?
SILVESTRE. Of Seigneur Géronte.
OCTAVE. And that this girl is being sent for from Taranto for that?
SILVESTRE. Yes.
OCTAVE. And you have this news from my uncle?
SILVESTRE. From your uncle.
OCTAVE. To whom my father sent it in a letter?
SILVESTRE. In a letter.
OCTAVE. And this uncle, you say, knows all our affairs?
SILVESTRE. All our affairs.
OCTAVE. Oh! Speak up, will you, and don’t make me drag the words out of your mouth this way.
SILVESTRE. Why should I say more? You’re not forgetting a single circumstance, and you’re telling things just exactly as they are.
OCTAVE. At least advise me, and tell me what I am to do in this cruel situation.
SILVESTRE. Faith! I’m as stumped about this as you are, and I could well use some advice myself.
OCTAVE. This cursed return of his slays me.
SILVESTRE. And me no less.
OCTAVE. When my father learns how things stand, I shall see a sudden storm of vehement reprimands burst over me.
SILVESTRE. Reprimands are nothing; would to Heaven I could get off at that price! But for my part I look like someone who will pay more dearly for your follies, and I can see forming, from afar, a storm of cudgel-blows that will break on my shoulders.
OCTAVE. O Heaven! How can I get out of the scrape I’m in?
SILVESTRE. That’s what you should have thought about before you got in it.
OCTAVE. Oh, you kill me with your untimely lessons.
SILVESTRE. You kill me even more with your scatterbrained actions.
OCTAVE. What am I to do? What resolution shall I make? What remedy can I turn to?
Scene 2. SCAPIN, OCTAVE, SILVESTRE
SCAPIN. What is it, Seigneur Octave? What’s wrong with you? What’s the matter? What is this disorder? I find you all upset.
OCTAVE. Ah, my poor dear Scapin, I’m lost, I’m desperate, I’m the most unfortunate of all men.
SCAPIN. How so?
OCTAVE. Haven’t you heard anything about my situation?
SCAPIN. No.
OCTAVE. My father is arriving with Seigneur Géronte, and they want to get me married.
SCAPIN. Well! What’s so disastrous about that?
OCTAVE. Alas! You don’t know the cause of my anxiety.
SCAPIN. No; but it’s up to you whether I’m to know it soon; and I’m a consolatory man, a man to take an interest in young people’s affairs.
OCTAVE. Ah, Scapin! If you could find some device, forge some stratagem, to deliver me from the distress I’m in, I would think I owed you more than life itself.
SCAPIN. To tell you the truth, there are few things impossible for me when I decide to get involved in them. Beyond a doubt, I’ve received from Heaven a pretty fine genius for the fabrication of all those nice turns of wit, all those ingenious intrigues, to which the ignorant vulgar give the name of mischievous machinations; and I may say without vanity that hardly a man has ever been seen who was an abler artisan of schemes and intrigues, who has acquired more glory than I in that noble profession. But faith! Merit is too ill-treated today, and I’ve given up everything since the chagrin of a certain affair that happened to me.
OCTAVE. How’s that? What affair, Scapin?
SCAPIN. An adventure in which I got into trouble with the law.
OCTAVE. The law!
SCAPIN. Yes, we had a bit of a tangle.
SILVESTRE. You and the law!
SCAPIN. Yes. It treated me very badly, and I got so angry at the ingratitude of the times that I resolved not to do anything more. Enough of that. Go ahead and tell me your story.
OCTAVE. You know, Scapin, that two months ago Seigneur Géronte and my father embarked together on a voyage that concerns a certain bit of business in which their interests are involved together.
SCAPIN. I know that.
OCTAVE. And that Léandre and I were left by our fathers, I under the guidance of Silvestre, and Léandre under your direction.
SCAPIN. Yes; I’ve acquitted myself of my commission very well.
OCTAVE. Some time after, Léandre met a young Gypsy girl and fell in love with her.
SCAPIN. I know that too.
OCTAVE. Since we are great friends, he immediately took me into his confidence about his love, and took me to see this girl, whom I found to be beautiful indeed, but not as much as he wanted me to think her. He talked to me of nothing but her every day; at every moment exaggerated to me her beauty and her grace; praised her wit, and spoke to me with ecstasy of the charms of her conversation, reporting it to me even to the slightest words, which he always strove to make me find the wittiest in the world. He would sometimes scold me for not being sensitive enough to the things he came to tell me, and would constantly blame me for the indifference I showed toward the flames of love.
SCAPIN. I don’t yet see what all this is leading up to.
OCTAVE. One day when I was going with him to visit the people who watch over the object of his love, we heard, in a little house on an out-of-the-way street, some laments mingled with many sobs. We ask what the trouble is. A woman tells us, sighing, that we could see something pitiable there in the persons of some foreigners, and that unless we were insensible we would be touched.
SCAPIN. Where does that take us?
OCTAVE. Curiosity made me urge Léandre to see what it was. We go into a room where we see a dying old woman, attended by a maidservant uttering laments and a girl all melting in tears, the loveliest and most touching girl that anyone ever could see.
SCAPIN. Aha!
OCTAVE. Anyone else would have looked frightful in the state she was in; for she was wearing nothing but a wretched little petticoat with a night bodice of plain fustian; and on her head she had a yellow nightcap, turned down at the top, which let her hair fall in disorder over her shoulders; and yet, dressed like that, she shone with a thousand attractions, and there were nothing but beauties and charms in her whole person.
SCAPIN. I can tell what’s coming.
OCTAVE. If you’d seen her, Scapin, in the state I’m speaking of, you’d have thought she was wonderful.
SCAPIN. Oh! I’ve no doubt of it; and without having seen her, I see perfectly well that she was utterly charming.
OCTAVE. Her tears were none of those disagreeable tears that disfigure a face; there was a touching grace in her weeping, and her grief was the most beautiful in the world.
SCAPIN. I see all that.
OCTAVE. She made everyone dissolve in tears as she cast herself lovingly on the body of this dying woman, whom she called her dear mother; and there was no one whose soul would not have been pierced to see such natural goodness.
SCAPIN. Indeed, that is touching; and I can clearly see that this natural goodness made you love her.
OCTAVE. Ah, Scapin, even a barbarian would have loved her.
SCAPIN. Of course; how could anyone help it?
OCTAVE. After a few words with which I tried to assuage the grief of the charming sufferer, we left there; and when I asked Léandre what he thought of this person, he answered me coldly that he found her rather pretty. I was piqued at the coldness with which he spoke of her, and I decided not to reveal to him the effect that her beauties had had on my soul.
SILVESTRE. (To OCTAVE) If you don’t abridge this story, we’re in for it until tomorrow. Let me finish it in a few words. (To SCAPIN) His heart takes fire from that moment. He can’t live any longer unless he goes to console his lovely sufferer. His frequent visits are rejected by the maidservant, who had become governess on the mother’s decease. Behold, my man in despair. He urges, supplicates, beseeches: nothing doing. He is told that the girl, although without means or support, is of a decent family; and that unless he is to marry her, his advances cannot be tolerated. Now his love is increased by difficulties. He mulls it over in his head, debates, reasons, hesitates, makes his resolve: now he’s been married to her for three days.
SCAPIN. I understand.
SILVESTRE. Now add to that the unforeseen return of the father, who wasn’t expected for two months; the disclosure by the uncle of the secret of this marriage of ours, and the other marriage they are planning between him and the daughter that Seigneur Géronte had by a second wife whom they say he married at Taranto.
OCTAVE. And also add, on top of all that, the poverty in which this lovely person finds herself, and my powerlessness to get the wherewithal to help her.
SCAPIN. Is that all? You’re both mighty hung up over a trifle. That’s a fine reason for such alarm! (To SILVESTRE) You, aren’t you ashamed to fall short in such a small matter? What the devil! Here you are, tall and husky as your father and mother, and you can’t find in your head or contrive in your mind some gallant ruse, some nice little stratagem, to set your affairs straight? Fie! Plague take the blockhead! I wish I’d been given these old men of ours to make dupes of long ago; I’d have led them both around by the nose; and I was no bigger than this (holding his hand near the floor) when I was already distinguishing myself by a hundred pretty tricks.
SILVESTRE. I admit that Heaven did not give me your talents, and that I haven’t the wit, as you do, to get myself embroiled with the law.
OCTAVE. Here is my lovely Hyacinte.
Scene 3. HYACINTE, OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE
HYACINTE. Ah! Octave, is it true, what Silvestre has just told Nérine, that your father is back and intends to have you married?
OCTAVE. Yes, lovely Hyacinte, and this news has been a cruel blow to me. But what do I see? You’re weeping? Why these tears? Tell me, do you suspect me of some infidelity, and aren’t you certain of the love I feel for you?
HYACINTE. Yes, Octave, I’m sure that you love me; but I’m not sure that you always will.
OCTAVE. Oh! Can anyone love you and not love you all his life?
HYACINTE. I’ve heard, Octave, that your sex loves less long than ours, and that the ardors men display to us are flames that burn out as easily as they are kindled.
OCTAVE. Ah! My dear Hyacinte, then my heart is not made like those of other men, and for my part I clearly feel that I will love you till the grave.
HYACINTE. I want to believe that you feel what you say, and I have no doubt that your words are sincere; but I fear a power that will combat in your heart the tender feelings you may have for me. You are dependent on a father who wants to have you married to another; and I’m sure I will die if this misfortune happens to me.
OCTAVE. No, lovely Hyacinte, no father can force me to break my word to you, and I shall be ready to leave my country, and life itself if necessary, rather than leave you. Without having seen her, I’ve already formed a frightful aversion for the woman who is destined for me; and without being cruel, I wish the sea would keep her from here forever. So don’t weep, please, my dear Hyacinte, for your tears kill me, and I cannot see them without feeling my heart pierced.
HYACINTE. Since you will have it so, I’ll dry my tears, and I’ll await with a steady eye whatever Heaven is pleased to decree for me.
OCTAVE. Heaven will be favorable to us.
HYACINTE. It could not be contrary to me if you are faithful to me.
OCTAVE. That I shall certainly be.
HYACINTE. Then I shall be happy.
SCAPIN (aside). She’s not such a fool, my word! and I think she’s rather passable.
OCTAVE (pointing to SCAPIN). Here’s a man who, if he would, could be a marvelous help to us in all our necessities.
SCAPIN. I have sworn great oaths to have nothing more to do with the world; but if you both ask me very persuasively, maybe . . .
OCTAVE. Ah! If all that’s needed to get your help is to ask you very persuasively, I beseech you with all my heart to take on the direction of our little boat.
SCAPIN (to HYACINTE). And you, have you nothing to say to me?
HYACINTE. I beseech you, just as he does, by all that is dearest to you in the world, to be willing to serve our love.
SCAPIN. We have to let ourselves be overcome, and have a little humanity. Go on, I’m willing to take a hand for you.
OCTAVE. Rest assured that . . .
SCAPIN. (To OCTAVE) Hush! (To HYACINTE) You go away, and rest easy.
(Exit HYACINTE.)
(To OCTAVE) And you, prepare to stand up firmly to meeting your father.
OCTAVE. I admit that that meeting makes me tremble in advance; and I have a natural timidity that I cannot conquer.
SCAPIN. However, you have to appear firm at the first clash, for fear that he may take advantage of your weakness to lead you about like a child. There, try to pull yourself together. A little boldness, and think how to give a resolute answer to anything he can say to you.
OCTAVE. I’ll do the best I can.
SCAPIN. Here, let’s practice a bit, to get you used to it. Let’s rehearse your part a bit and see if you will play it well. Come on. Resolute face, head high, assured look.
OCTAVE. Like that?
SCAPIN. A little more still.
OCTAVE. So?
SCAPIN. Good. Imagine that I’m your father arriving, and answer me firmly as if you were answering himself. “What, blackguard, good-for-nothing, wretch, son unworthy of a man like me, do you really dare appear before my eyes after your fine behavior, after the cowardly trick you played on me during my absence? Is that the fruit of my cares, you scoundrel, is that the fruit of my cares, the respect you owe me, the respect you retain for me?” Come on now. “You have the insolence, you rascal, to get engaged without your father’s consent, to contract a clandestine marriage? Answer me, rogue, answer me. Let’s just see your fine reasons.” Oh! What the devil! You stand there stupefied.
OCTAVE. The fact is I imagine it’s my father I’m hearing.
SCAPIN. Why, yes. That’s the reason why you mustn’t act like an idiot.
OCTAVE. I’m going to be more resolute, and I’ll reply firmly.
SCAPIN. Sure?
OCTAVE. Sure.
SILVESTRE. Here comes your father.
OCTAVE. O Heavens! I’m done for.
(Runs off.)
SCAPIN. Stop! Octave, stay here! Octave! There, he’s fled. What a poor specimen of a man! Let’s wait for the old man anyway.
SILVESTRE. What shall I say to him?
SCAPIN. Let me do the talking, and just follow my lead.
Scene 4. ARGANTE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE
ARGANTE (for his first ten speeches, thinking himself alone). Did anyone ever hear of such a thing?
SCAPIN (to SILVESTRE). He’s already learned about the affair, and has it so much on his mind that even alone he’s talking about it out loud.
ARGANTE. The nerve of them!
SCAPIN (to SILVESTRE). Let’s listen to him a bit.
ARGANTE. I’d really like to know what they can tell me about this fine marriage.
SCAPIN (aside). We’ve thought about it.
ARGANTE. Will they try to deny the thing?
SCAPIN (aside). No, we’re not thinking of that.
ARGANTE. Or suppose they undertake to excuse it?
SCAPIN (aside). That just might be done.
ARGANTE. Will they hope to put me off with wild stories?
SCAPIN (aside). Maybe.
ARGANTE. All their speeches will be no use.
SCAPIN (aside). We shall see.
ARGANTE. They won’t put anything over on me.
SCAPIN (aside). Let’s not swear to anything.
ARGANTE. I’ll find a way to have my blackguard of a son put away in a safe place.
SCAPIN (aside). We’ll take care of that.
ARGANTE. And as for that rogue Silvestre, I’ll tan his hide.
SILVESTRE (to SCAPIN). I would have been mighty astonished if he’d forgotten me.
ARGANTE (noticing SILVESTRE). Aha! So there you are, wise governor of a family, fine director of young people!
SCAPIN. Sir, I’m delighted to see you back.
ARGANTE. Hello, Scapin. (To SILVESTRE) You certainly followed my orders in a fine way, and my son behaved very wisely indeed in my absence.
SCAPIN. You’re well, as far as I can see?
ARGANTE. Pretty well. (To SILVESTRE) You’re not saying a word, you scoundrel, you’re not saying a word.
SCAPIN. Did you have a good trip?
ARGANTE. Oh Lord! Very good. Let me do a little scolding in peace.
SCAPIN. You want to scold?
ARGANTE. Yes, I want to scold.
SCAPIN. Whom, sir?
ARGANTE (pointing to SILVESTRE). That rogue there.
SCAPIN. Why?
ARGANTE. Didn’t you hear what happened in my absence?
SCAPIN. I did hear of some small matter or other.
ARGANTE. What? Some small matter? A thing like that?
SCAPIN. You’re somewhat right.
ARGANTE. A piece of effrontery like that?
SCAPIN. That’s true.
ARGANTE. A son who gets married without his father’s consent?
SCAPIN. Yes, there’s something to be said about that. But I would think you shouldn’t make a fuss about it.
ARGANTE. I wouldn’t think so, for my part, and I want to make my bellyful of fuss. What? You don’t think I have every reason in the world to be angry?
SCAPIN. Yes, I do. I myself was angry at first when I learned about the thing, and I got involved on your behalf to the point of scolding your son. Just ask him what fine reprimands I made to him, and how I dressed him down on the scant respect he retained for a father whose footsteps he should kiss. No one could give him a better talking to, even if it were yourself. But what then? I gave way to reason, and came to the conclusion that at bottom he’s not so much in the wrong as one might think.
ARGANTE. What kind of a story is this you’re telling me? He’s not so much in the wrong to go out on the spur of the moment and marry a stranger?
SCAPIN. What can you expect? He was driven to it by his destiny.
ARGANTE. Aha! That’s one of the finest reasons in the world. All you have to do nowadays is commit every imaginable crime, cheat, steal, murder, and say for your excuse that you were driven to it by your destiny.
SCAPIN. Good Lord! You take my words too much like a philosopher. I mean he found himself fatally involved in this affair.
ARGANTE. And why did he get involved?
SCAPIN. Do you expect him to be as wise as you? Young folks are young, and don’t have all the prudence they would need to do nothing but what’s reasonable; witness our Léandre, who, in spite of all my lessons, in spite of all my remonstrances, for his part has gone and done something even worse than your son. I’d really like to know whether you yourself weren’t young once, and, in your day, didn’t sow your wild oats like the rest. I myself have heard that once upon a time you were a gay blade with the women, that you had your fun with the liveliest of them at that time, and that you didn’t approach any of them without going all the way.
ARGANTE. That’s true, I agree; but I always confined myself to gallantry, and I never went as far as to do what he’s done.
SCAPIN. What would you have him do? He sees a young girl who wishes him well (for he takes after you in being loved by all women). He finds her charming. He pays her visits, tells her sweet nothings, sighs gallantly, acts passionate. She surrenders to his pursuit. He presses his good fortune. There he is surprised with her by her relatives, who, by main force, oblige him to marry her.
SILVESTRE (aside). What a clever trickster he is!
SCAPIN. Would you have wanted him to let himself be killed? At least it’s better to be married than to be dead.
ARGANTE. They didn’t tell me that was the way things happened.
SCAPIN (pointing to SILVESTRE). Ask him, then. He won’t tell you the contrary.
ARGANTE (to SILVESTRE). It was by force that he was married?
SILVESTRE. Yes, sir.
SCAPIN. Would I lie to you?
ARGANTE. Then he should have gone immediately and protested against the violence to a notary.
SCAPIN. That’s what he wouldn’t do.
ARGANTE. That would have made it easier for me to break up this marriage.
SCAPIN. Break up this marriage!
ARGANTE. Yes.
SCAPIN. You’ll never break it up.
ARGANTE. I’ll never break it up?
SCAPIN. No.
ARGANTE. What? I shan’t have a father’s rights on my side, and satisfaction for the violence they did to my son?
SCAPIN. That’s something he won’t agree to.
ARGANTE. He won’t agree to it!
SCAPIN. No.
ARGANTE. My son?
SCAPIN. Your son. Do you want him to confess that he was capable of fear, and that it was by force he was made to do things? He’s not likely to go and admit that. That would be doing himself a wrong, and showing himself unworthy of a father like you.
ARGANTE. I don’t care a rap about that.
SCAPIN. He must, for his honor and yours, say wherever he goes that it was of his own free will that he married her.
ARGANTE. And I, for my honor and his, want him to say the opposite.
SCAPIN. No, I’m sure he won’t do it.
ARGANTE. I’ll surely force him to.
SCAPIN. He won’t do it, I tell you.
ARGANTE. He’ll do it, or I’ll disinherit him.
SCAPIN. You?
ARGANTE. I.
SCAPIN. That’s a good one.
ARGANTE. What do you mean, a good one?
SCAPIN. You won’t disinherit him.
ARGANTE. I won’t disinherit him?
SCAPIN. No.
ARGANTE. No?
SCAPIN. No.
ARGANTE. Ha! That’s pretty funny. I won’t disinherit my son.
SCAPIN. No, I tell you.
ARGANTE. Who’ll stop me?
SCAPIN. Yourself.
ARGANTE. Me?
SCAPIN. Yes. You won’t have the heart to.
ARGANTE. I will.
SCAPIN. You’re joking.
ARGANTE. I am not joking.
SCAPIN. Paternal tenderness will play its part.
ARGANTE. It won’t do a thing.
SCAPIN. Yes, yes.
ARGANTE. I tell you this shall be done.
SCAPIN. Nonsense.
ARGANTE. You mustn’t say “nonsense.”
SCAPIN. Good Lord! I know you; you’re naturally good.
ARGANTE. I am not good, and I’m bad when I want to be. Let’s end this talk; it’s getting my bile up. (To SILVESTRE) Get along with you, you blackguard, get along with you and fetch me my rascal of a son, while I go join Seigneur Géronte and tell him my misfortune.
SCAPIN. Sir, if I can be useful to you in any way, you have only to command me.
ARGANTE. I thank you. (Aside) Ah! Why does he have to be my only son? And why do I not have now the daughter whom Heaven took from me, so I could make her my heiress?
Scene 5. SCAPIN, SILVESTRE
SILVESTRE. I admit that you’re a great man, and matters are going well; but on the other hand, we’re pressed for money to live on, and we have people on all sides barking at our heels.
SCAPIN. Leave it to me; the plot’s hatched. I’m just casting about in my mind for a man we can trust, to play a part I need. Wait. Hold still a minute. Pull your cap down like a tough guy. Take a stand on one leg. Put your hand to your side. Get some fury in your eyes. Strut about a bit like the king in a tragedy. That’s fine. Follow me. I know secret ways to disguise your face and your voice.
SILVESTRE. I conjure you at least not to go and get me embroiled with the law.
SCAPIN. Go on, go on with you: we’ll share the risks like brothers; and three years more or less in the galleys are not a thing to check a noble heart.