ACT I

Scene 1. ARMANDE, HENRIETTE

ARMANDE. What, sister, is your eagerness so great

To quit the sweetness of your maiden state?

And dare you be so pleased at being wed?

Can such a vulgar plan enter your head?

HENRIETTE. Yes, sister.

ARMANDE.

How can one endure that “yes”?

How can one stomach it without distress?

HENRIETTE. Why should the thought afflict you in this way,

Sister . . . ?

ARMANDE.

Oh, fie!

HENRIETTE.

How’s that?

ARMANDE.

Oh, fie, I say!

Why, don’t you understand how such a word

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Can be offensive any time it’s heard?

It brings a squalid picture to the mind;

The thoughts it prompts are of the ugliest kind.

Doesn’t it make you quake to recognize

The consequences that this word implies?

HENRIETTE. The consequences it suggests to me

Are husband, children, home, a family;

And on reflection, I see nothing there

That makes me tremble or that I can’t bear.

ARMANDE. Do such relationships appeal to you?

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HENRIETTE. At my age, are there better things to do

Than find a man with whom to spend your life

As his dearly beloved and loving wife,

And from this union, formed in tenderness,

Fashion a life of blameless happiness?

Hasn’t a well-matched marriage some appeal?

ARMANDE. Lord, what a sordid mind your words reveal!

Believe me, it’s a sorry role you’ll play,

Cooped up with household chores day after day,

And nothing to induce a lofty mood

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But a hero husband and a squalling brood!

Leave such affairs and their ignoble sport

To common people of the cruder sort;

Set up higher objectives for your leisures,

Try to acquire a taste for nobler pleasures,

And, treating sense and matter with disdain,

Devote yourself to mind with might and main.

Your mother’s an example and a guide

Honored for scholarship on every side;

Try to be her true daughter, just like me,

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Fit member of a brilliant family,

And welcome in your spirit and your heart

The joys that love of study can impart;

Rather than be a slave to any man,

Marry philosophy, while still you can,

Which raises us above all humankind

And gives the sovereign power to the mind,

Bringing our animal part under control,

Which makes us like a beast without a soul.

This is the love, this is the dedication

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Which should fill our existence with elation;

The cares some women cherish, I confess,

Seem to my eyes horrible pettiness.

HENRIETTE. Almighty Heaven, which orders all on earth,

Shapes us for different functions from our birth;

Not every mind can muster, I’m afraid,

The stuff of which philosophers are made.

If yours is born to live upon the heights

Ascended by the learned in their flights,

Mine, sister, is at home upon the ground;

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In petty cares its frailty is found.

Rather than trouble Heaven’s just regulations,

Let each of us follow her inclinations.

Your great and noble genius makes you free

To tread the summits of philosophy,

While my poor spirit, in this lower sphere,

Delights in marriage and its earthly cheer.

Thus, while our lives differ from one another,

We each of us will emulate our mother:

You by the soul, with all its noble treasures;

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I by the senses and their cruder pleasures;

You by the fruits of light and of the mind;

I by those of a more material kind.

ARMANDE. When there is someone we would emulate,

It is her good points we should imitate;

We don’t model ourselves on her one bit

By being like her when we cough or spit.

HENRIETTE. But you would not be here with all your pride

If Mother had not had another side;

And, sister, it is well for you that she

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Had other interests than philosophy.

Allow me certain base reactions, pray,

Thanks to which you now see the light of day;

And don’t suppress, by giving me your scorn,

Some tiny scholar waiting to be born.

ARMANDE. I see your mind is in a hopeless state

From your insane resolve to get a mate;

But who’s the man for whom your heart’s inclined?

I trust it’s not Clitandre you have in mind.

HENRIETTE. And can you tell me why he shouldn’t be?

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Or don’t you think he’s good enough for me?

ARMANDE. No; but it’s a dishonorable plan

To try to steal another woman’s man;

And surely no one fails to realize

That I have been the object of his sighs.

HENRIETTE. Yes; but these sighs, for you, are all in vain,

And you’re above our basely human plane;

You have renounced marriage for evermore,

And it’s philosophy that you adore.

Since you don’t want Clitandre in any case,

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Why do you care if someone takes your place?

ARMANDE. Reason may hold the senses in control,

And yet attentions gratify the soul;

A worthy man may seek our hand in vain

And yet be welcome as a faithful swain.

HENRIETTE. I’ve never held him back, by word or sign,

From any adoration at your shrine;

And when your firm refusal set him free,

I simply let him pay his court to me.

ARMANDE. When a rejected suitor turns to you,

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Can you be satisfied his vows are true?

Do you think you’re the one he yearns to wed,

And that his love for me is wholly dead?

HENRIETTE. He says so. What he tells me I believe.

ARMANDE. Sister, don’t be so easy to deceive;

For when he claims he loves you now, you’ll find

He’s self-deluded, not in his right mind.

HENRIETTE. I do not know; however, if you please,

Let’s find this out and set our minds at ease.

I see him coming; and while he is here,

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I’m sure that he can make this matter clear.

Scene 2. CLITANDRE, ARMANDE, HENRIETTE

HENRIETTE. Some things my sister says leave me in doubt;

So please, between the two of us, speak out.

Clitandre, please tell us without circumspection

Which of us has a claim to your affection.

ARMANDE. No, no; it might afford you too much pain

If both of us required you to explain;

It is embarrassing and out of place

To have to make such statements face to face.

CLITANDRE. No, Madame, my heart shuns dissimulation,

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And will not grudge you a free explanation;

I’m not embarrassed by it, for my part,

And I shall tell you frankly, from the heart,

That those sweet bonds with which my soul is tied,

My love, my wishes, all (pointing to HENRIETTE) are on this side.

Don’t be dismayed at hearing this from me:

This is the way you wanted things to be.

Your charms had won me, and my tender sighs

Proved what desire there shone out of my eyes;

My heart had vowed to love you evermore;

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But by your conquest you set little store.

Your eyes reduced me to a sorry role

And proudly lorded it over my soul.

And so I sought, weary of all these pains,

A kinder mistress and less cruel chains.

(Pointing to HENRIETTE) All this I found, Madame, within these eyes,

Whose gracious radiance I shall always prize;

They dried my tears with just one pitying glance;

Your rebuff did not make them look askance.

Such rare kindness has won my heart forever;

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My present bonds nothing can make me sever;

And now I dare, Madame, to conjure you

Not to attempt, by anything you do,

To summon back the heart you owned before,

For it has found its love for evermore.

ARMANDE. What makes you think, sir, that I have this aim,

And that I’d like to fan your former flame?

There is a funny side to your assumption,

And telling me about it is presumption.

HENRIETTE. Come, sister, gently. Where’s that self-control

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That curbs the animal portion of the soul,

And leads the force of anger to submit?

ARMANDE. But you who talk so, do you practice it,

By holding yourself ready to receive

This show of love without your parents’ leave?

Duty affords them the decisive voice;

We are not free to love save by their choice;

Over our hearts they have the final say,

And it’s a crime to want to have our way.

HENRIETTE. I thank you for the goodness you reveal

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In telling me my duty with such zeal;

My heart welcomes the lessons that you teach,

And, so you’ll see I practice what you preach,

Clitandre, if you would have me for your wife,

Gain the consent of those who gave me life;

Legitimize your power over my flame,

And give me leave to love you without shame.

CLITANDRE. To reach that goal shall be my firm intent,

And I was waiting for your sweet consent.

ARMANDE. Sister, what a triumphant mood you’re in

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To think that all this fills me with chagrin!

HENRIETTE. I, sister? Not at all. Within your soul

Reason, I know, holds sense in strict control;

And in you wisdom’s lessons so prevail

That you’d not stoop to anything so frail.

Far from supposing you in misery,

I think you’ll deign to do your best for me,

Back his petition, and help consummate

The marriage that we eagerly await.

I pray you’ll do so; and, to work your best . . .

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ARMANDE. I see your petty mind is moved to jest,

And that you’re proud of a heart that’s tossed to you.

HENRIETTE. Tossed though it be, you seem to like it too;

And if your eyes could capture back your swain,

You’d cast them down on him without much pain.

ARMANDE. To that I will not deign to say one word;

And such remarks are better left unheard.

HENRIETTE. That is well done for you; your moderation

Elicits my unbounded admiration.

Scene 3. CLITANDRE, HENRIETTE

HENRIETTE. Your frank avowal took her by surprise.

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CLITANDRE. She will not let me have it otherwise,

And it’s her foolish pride she has to thank

For forcing me to be completely frank.

But since I may, it’s time I had begun;

I’ll see your father . . .

HENRIETTE.

Mother is the one.

Father is readier to give consent,

But then his resolution is soon bent;

Heaven gave to him a kindliness of heart

That makes him yield to Mother from the start.

Her rule is absolute; all her decrees

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Soon become law, and with the greatest ease.

With her and with my aunt, I’d like to see

Your soul a bit more ready to agree;

If you could look more kindly on their views,

You would have much to gain, little to lose.

CLITANDRE. They’ve ways of which I never have been fond,

Not even in the person of Armande,

And women scholars simply aren’t my kind.

Of course, a woman ought to have a mind,

But I’d forbid her that outrageous yearning

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To learn a lot just for the sake of learning;

I’d have her know, for questions people pose,

How not to know some of the things she knows;

I’d have her study be for her alone;

Let her have knowledge; but not make it known,

Drop authors’ names, emit pompous quotations,

Or witticize her simplest observations.

I do respect your mother Philaminte;

But countenance her wholly, that I can’t,

Nor echo all she says, I must admit,

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Nor idolize her paragon of wit.

Her Monsieur Trissotin’s a crashing bore;

I cannot see what she esteems him for,

Or how she sets in such a lofty sphere

A fool whose every work provokes a jeer,

Whose pedant pen supplies, with doubtful grace,

The wrapping paper for the market place.

HENRIETTE. His speech, his writings cast a deadly pall;

Indeed I share your feelings one and all;

But since he holds my mother in his spell,

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You ought to do your best to treat him well.

A lover must not rest till he has won

The unreserved support of everyone;

And so that he may have no enemies,

Even the family dog he tries to please.

CLITANDRE. You’re right, of course; of that I’m well aware;

But Monsieur Trissotin I cannot bear.

And even to gain favor in his sight,

I cannot stoop to praise what he can write.

You see, I’d read his works, to my regret,

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And knew the man before we ever met.

His jumbled writings brought into full view

The man himself, a pedant through and through:

His lofty arrogance, so freely flaunted,

The self-esteem that never can be daunted,

The happy and luxuriant conceit

That makes his self-assurance so complete,

Renders his worth one of his chief delights,

And gives him joy in everything he writes,

So that he would not change his place and name

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For that of a general with all his fame.

HENRIETTE. To see all that you need to have good eyes.

CLITANDRE. Even his face, too, I could visualize,

And from his wretched verses I could see

What kind of man the poet had to be;

I’d guessed his looks so well in every way

That when I saw a man the other day

Among the shops, I bet he was the one—

Our Trissotin. You know, I would have won.

HENRIETTE. No!

CLITANDRE.

That’s the way it was. But here’s Bélise.

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I trust you will allow me, if you please,

To be quite frank, and try to win your aunt

To help us with your mother Philaminte.

Scene 4. CLITANDRE, BÉLISE

CLITANDRE. Ah, pray, Madame, allow a happy swain

Not to let such a moment pass in vain,

For I’m in love, and simply must reveal . . .

BÉLISE. Gently, sir; pray don’t tell me all you feel.

If I’ve become the object of your sighs,

Your only spokesman, sir, must be your eyes;

Theirs is the only language to convey

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Desires that would offend another way.

Yes, love me, sigh, burn: that I will permit;

But pray allow me not to know of it;

I need not bridle at your secret suit

As long as your interpreters are mute;

But if your lips should ever speak your plight,

I’d have to banish you out of my sight.

CLITANDRE. My plans, Madame, give you no cause for fear:

Henriette is the one I hold so dear;

And I implore you to be on my side

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And try to help me win her for my bride.

BÉLISE. Oh! that’s a neat evasion, I must say,

Which earns the highest praise in every way;

In all the novels I have read, I’ve never

Encountered anything that was so clever.

CLITANDRE. Madame, let me say one thing from the start:

It’s no evasion, but what’s in my heart.

With Henriette I’m ardently in love

By a decree that comes from Heaven above;

Henriette is the one for whom I pine.

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I dream that Henriette one day be mine.

You can help greatly, and my one request

Is that on my behalf you do your best.

BÉLISE. Ingenious as you are, I realize

What you are getting at under this guise;

The trick is clever, and I’ll play my part

By not revealing what is in my heart;

But Henriette views marriage with disdain,

And if you love her, you will love in vain.

CLITANDRE. Oh come, Madame, why make so much ado,

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And cling to notions that are just not true?

BÉLISE. Heavens! Let’s stop this fencing. Why deny

What I have seen your glances signify?

Enough for you to know that I’m content

With what your love was able to invent,

And, knowing your respect for good repute,

I can be willing to permit your suit,

Provided that your transports you refine

And offer a pure worship at my shrine.

CLITANDRE. But . . .

BÉLISE.

No, that is enough for now. Good day.

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I’ve told you more than I had meant to say.

CLITANDRE. But your mistake . . .

BÉLISE.

Stop! Not so fast; don’t rush:

Offended modesty has made me blush.

CLITANDRE. Hanged if it’s you I love! That’s too absurd!

BÉLISE. No, no, I will not hear another word.

(Exit)

CLITANDRE. The deuce with her and her mad prepossessions!

Who ever saw the like of these obsessions?

I’ll pass on this commission if I can,

And try to get help from some wiser man.