Scene 1. PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, BÉLISE, TRISSOTIN, L’ÉPINE
PHILAMINTE. Ah! let’s be comfortable, that we may hear
This verse, which warrants an attentive ear.
ARMANDE. I simply burn to see it.
BÉLISE.
So do we.
PHILAMINTE. Whatever you write casts a spell on me.
ARMANDE. Just listening is incomparably sweet.
BÉLISE. My ear could not enjoy a greater treat.
PHILAMINTE. Don’t make us pine; have pity on our plight.
ARMANDE. Hurry.
BÉLISE.
Be quick, and hasten our delight.
PHILAMINTE. We cannot wait to hear your epigram.
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TRISSOTIN. Alas! It is a newborn child, Madame.
You should have pity on its fate, I vow,
For in your court I brought it forth just now.
PHILAMINTE. Its father guarantees it my affection.
TRISSOTIN. Your favor gives it motherly protection.
BÉLISE. Ah, what a wit!
Scene 2. HENRIETTE, PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, BÉLISE, TRISSOTIN, L’ÉPINE
PHILAMINTE (to HENRIETTE, who starts to come in, then
turns to leave). Here now! Why do you flee?
HENRIETTE. Lest I disturb so sweet a causerie.
PHILAMINTE. Then come on in and lend an eager ear
To all the wondrous things that you shall hear.
HENRIETTE. I am no judge of writing, I admit,
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Nor quite at home in the domain of wit.
PHILAMINTE. No matter; there is something else as well;
A secret for you that I have to tell.
TRISSOTIN. Learning has nothing to inflame your heart,
And to be charming is your chosen art.
HENRIETTE. No, neither one, and I am scarcely wild
To . . .
BÉLISE.
Pray, let’s think about the newborn child.
PHILAMINTE (to L’ÉPINE). Come, hurry, bring a chair, you little clown.
(The LACKEY falls as he brings the chair.)
The saucy knave! Should anyone fall down
Who’s studied equilibrium and all?
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BÉLISE. Oaf, don’t you see the causes of your fall,
And that you had your body so inclined
Your center of gravity was left behind?
L’ÉPINE. Madame, I learned that on the floor, alas!
PHILAMINTE. The clod!
TRISSOTIN.
He’s lucky he’s not made of glass.
ARMANDE. Such wit!
BÉLISE.
It never fails him in the least.
PHILAMINTE. Come, quick now, serve us your delightful feast.
TRISSOTIN. For such a hunger as I find in you
An eight-line dish, I fear, will never do;
The epigram or madrigal’s too short,
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And I propose to add, in its support,
The tidbit of a sonnet, which was made
The subject of a princess’ accolade.
Its every line with Attic salt is laced,
And I believe you’ll find it in good taste.
ARMANDE. Oh! I’ve no doubt of it.
PHILAMINTE.
Let’s hear it, now.
BÉLISE (interrupting each time he tries to read). My heart trembles with eagerness, I vow.
I love poetry with a burning passion,
Especially when it’s turned in gallant fashion.
PHILAMINTE. If we keep talking, he can’t say a word.
TRISSOTIN. “Son—.”
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BÉLISE (to HENRIETTE). Silence, my niece!
TRISSOTIN. “Sonnet to Princess Uranie upon Her Fever”*
Your prudence must have gone astray
To treat with such magnificence
And harbor in such opulence
Your worst foe as a stowaway.
BÉLISE. Oh, what a pretty start!
ARMANDE.
My, he has flair!
PHILAMINTE. His verse alone has such a gallant air!
ARMANDE. Prudence astray! Why, I throw down my arms.
BÉLISE. And harbor your worst foe is full of charms.
PHILAMINTE. I like opulence and magnificence,
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Two nouns equally rich in sound and sense.
BÉLISE. Let’s hear the rest.
TRISSOTIN. Your prudence must have gone astray
To treat with such magnificence
And harbor in such opulence
Your worst foe as a stowaway.
ARMANDE. Prudence astray!
BÉLISE. Harbor your foe!
PHILAMINTE. Opulence and magnificence!
TRISSOTIN. Make her go out, whate’er they say,
From your delightful residence,
Where, with ungrateful insolence,
She seeks to steal your life away.
BÉLISE. Gently! Leave me a chance for respiration.
ARMANDE. I pray you, give me time for admiration.
PHILAMINTE. Those verses thrill one to one’s inmost soul
And bring one to a swoon beyond control.
ARMANDE. Make her go out, whate’er they say.
From your delightful residence.
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Delightful residence—a charming phrase!
What witty things the metaphor conveys!
PHILAMINTE. Make her go out, whate’er they say.
Whate’er they say: what admirable taste!
My debt for that can never be erased.
ARMANDE. Whate’er they say: that is the clause for me.
BÉLISE. Whate’er they say! Lovely, I quite agree.
ARMANDE. I wish I’d said it.
BÉLISE.
Better than a play.
PHILAMINTE. D’you see the subtle things the words convey?
ARMANDE and BÉLISE. Oh, oh!
PHILAMINTE. Make her go out, whate’er they say:
There are those who espouse the fever’s part,
So don’t take anything they say to heart.
Make her go out, whate’er they say.
Whate’er they say, whate’er they say.
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Whate’er they say speaks more than some could see.
I don’t know whether everyone’s like me,
But those words tell me more than volumes could.
BÉLISE. Short as they are, they leave much understood.
PHILAMINTE (to TRISSOTIN).
But when you wrote that sweet whate’er they say,
Did you know all the power those words display?
Were you aware of all we find in it,
And did you think to put in so much wit?
TRISSOTIN. Heh, heh!
ARMANDE.
I have ungrateful on my mind:
Ungrateful fever, yes, unjust, unkind,
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Who mistreats those who have her as their guest.
PHILAMINTE. In short, the quatrains both are of the best.
So let’s turn promptly to the tercets, pray.
ARMANDE. Oh, please! Just one more time, whate’er they say.
TRISSOTIN. Make her go out, whate’er they say,
PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, and BÉLISE. Whate’er they say!
TRISSOTIN. From your delightful residence,
PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, and BÉLISE. Delightful residence!
TRISSOTIN. Where, with ungrateful insolence,
PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, and BÉLISE. Ungrateful fever!
TRISSOTIN. She seeks to steal your life away.
PHILAMINTE. Your life away!
BÉLISE. Ah!
TRISSOTIN. Without respect for rank and birth,
She robs your blood of all its worth,
PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, and BÉLISE. Ah!
TRISSOTIN. And does you harm the clock around!
If she goes with you to the baths,
Give up your temporizing paths,
Use your own hands and see her drowned.
PHILAMINTE. One can’t go on.
BÉLISE.
One swoons.
ARMANDE.
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One dies of bliss.
PHILAMINTE. A thousand shivers seize one, hearing this.
ARMANDE. If she goes with you to the baths,
BÉLISE. Give up your temporizing paths,
PHILAMINTE. Use your own hands and see her drowned:
With your own hands, in the baths, see her drowned.
ARMANDE. Each step brings joy in everything you write.
BÉLISE. Where’er we walk, we meet some fresh delight.
PHILAMINTE. On nothing but the loveliest things we tread.
ARMANDE. They’re little roads bedecked with roses red.
TRISSOTIN. You find the sonnet . . .
PHILAMINTE.
Admirable, new;
No one has ever done as well as you.
BÉLISE. What? No emotion while you heard this piece?
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You cut a sorry figure there, my niece!
HENRIETTE. Why try to cut a figure that we can’t?
Not everyone can be a wit, my aunt.
TRISSOTIN. Perhaps my verses do not please Madame.
HENRIETTE. I’m just no listener.
PHILAMINTE.
Come! The epigram.
TRISSOTIN. “On a Marigold-Colored Carriage, Given to a Lady Who is a Friend of His”*
PHILAMINTE. These titles are unique, no doubt of it.
ARMANDE. Their novelty prepares us for his wit.
TRISSOTIN. Love sold his bondage to me at a price,
BÉLISE, ARMANDE, and PHILAMINTE. Ah!
TRISSOTIN. That costs me half my wealth, to be precise;
Seeing this carriage (and its cost),
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With gold so lavishly embossed
That it astounds the countryside
And sounds my Laïs’ triumph far and wide,
PHILAMINTE. Aha! My Laïs! That’s a learned note.
BÉLISE. Yes, it’s an admirable protective coat.
TRISSOTIN. Seeing this carriage (and its cost),
With gold so lavishly embossed
That it astounds the countryside
And sounds my Laïs’ triumph far and wide,
No longer say it’s marigold,
But rather say it’s made of gold.
ARMANDE. Oh, oh! That is a marvelous surprise!
PHILAMINTE. Nobody else can write verse in this wise.
BÉLISE. No longer say it’s marigold,
But rather say it’s made of gold.
You can almost decline it: gold, of gold, i’ gold.
PHILAMINTE. I may be too impressed; I cannot say;
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But since I knew you first, in every way
I have admired your prose and verse, you know.
TRISSOTIN. If there were something you would care to show,
Our admiration too could be in season.
PHILAMINTE. I’ve nothing new in verse, but I have reason
To hope to show you, confidentially,
Eight chapters on our planned Academy.
In his Republic Plato outlined one,
But did not finish what he had begun.
A complete treatment is what I propose,
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And now I have most of it down in prose.
For I confess it vexes me to find
That men won’t give us credit for a mind,
And I mean to avenge us if I can
For the low rank accorded us by man,
Who limits us to mere futilities
And bars the door to eternal verities.
ARMANDE. To our whole sex it is a great offense
For us to limit our intelligence
To judging how a skirt or cloak is made,
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The beauties of some lace or some brocade.
BÉLISE. This gross unbalance must be overthrown;
Our minds need freedom to be on their own.
TRISSOTIN. The merits of the sex I recognize,
And if I vaunt the beauty of their eyes,
I honor too the brilliance of their wit.
PHILAMINTE. And we reciprocate, no doubt of it;
But there are some to whom we’d make it plain
(Whose haughty learning treats us with disdain)
That women are equipped with knowledge too.
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We can have learned meetings, as they do,
In many aspects better regulated,
Uniting what is elsewhere separated,
Mingling beautiful words with lofty lore,*
Revealing secrets undisclosed before,
And, on the questions set by anyone,
Inviting in each sect, espousing none.
TRISSOTIN. For order, Aristotle is my meat.
PHILAMINTE. But for abstractions, Plato’s hard to beat.
ARMANDE. Epicurus is strong, and meets my needs.
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BÉLISE. I like his doctrine of the little seeds,
But I do find his void hard to digest,
And to me, subtle matter is the best.*
TRISSOTIN. On the magnet, Descartes and I agree.
ARMANDE. I like his vortex.
PHILAMINTE.
Falling worlds for me!
ARMANDE. I yearn to start this congress of the mind
And signalize ourselves by some rare find.
TRISSOTIN. Your keenness offers grounds for hope, it’s true,
And nature can keep little hid from you.
PHILAMINTE. I’ve one discovery to publish soon,
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For I have clearly seen men in the moon.*
BÉLISE. I’ve not seen men, I think not, anyway,
But I’ve seen steeples just as clear as day.
ARMANDE. We shall explore, besides the universe,
History, grammar, morals, law, and verse.
PHILAMINTE. Moral questions arouse my interest,
And once the greatest thinkers loved them best;
But there the Stoics are the ones for me,
And their sage is as fine as fine can be.
ARMANDE. For language, we shall soon reveal our rules,
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And we expect to overturn the schools.
Justly or naturally, we abhor
And each harbor a deadly hatred for
Certain locutions, whether verbs or nouns,
Which we abandon to each other’s frowns.
We’re planning bans to punish their transgressions,
And we should open up our learned sessions
By placing a proscription or a curse
On words we want to purge from prose and verse.
PHILAMINTE. But the best plan of our Academy,
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Whose execution I can’t wait to see,
A glorious scheme, which will elicit praise
From all the finest minds in future days,
Is the excision of those dirty parts
Which, in the fairest words, offend pure hearts,
Those playthings of the fools of every age,
Which nasty jokers have made all the rage,
Sources of puns unworthy of the name,
With which men wound a woman’s sense of shame.
TRISSOTIN. Most admirable plans, beyond a doubt!
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BÉLISE. You’ll see our statutes when we’ve worked them out.
TRISSOTIN. They’ll be both fair and wise, assuredly.
ARMANDE. We’ll judge all works, for so our laws decree;
Our laws place prose and verse beneath our rule;
None shall have wit except us and our school;
We’ll find flaws everywhere, to our delight,
And see that no one else knows how to write.
Scene 3. L’ÉPINE, TRISSOTIN, PHILAMINTE, BÉLISE, ARMANDE, HENRIETTE, VADIUS
L’ÉPINE. Sir, there’s a man to speak to you out there.
He’s dressed in black, and has a quiet air.
TRISSOTIN. That learned man who made such an ado
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To have the honor soon of meeting you.
PHILAMINTE. You’ve every right to introduce the man.
(TRISSOTIN goes to do so.)
Well, let us show our wit as best we can.
(To HENRIETTE) You there! I told you clearly, didn’t I,
That I have need of you?
HENRIETTE.
May I ask why?
PHILAMINTE. Come; soon your wish to know shall be contented.
TRISSOTIN. Here is a man dying to be presented.
I could not be accused except in vain
Of bringing to you one of the profane:
Among the keenest wits he holds his own.
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PHILAMINTE. Your sponsoring hand’s enough to make that known.
TRISSOTIN. He knows the ancients better than any man;
No one in France can read Greek as he can.
PHILAMINTE. Good Heavens, Greek! Greek! Sister, he knows Greek!
BÉLISE. My niece, Greek!
ARMANDE.
Greek! How lovely! How unique!
PHILAMINTE. The gentleman knows Greek? Let each of us,
Sir, for the love of Greek, embrace you—thus.
(Kisses him. He kisses all the women except HENRIETTE, who refuses.)
HENRIETTE. Excuse me, sir, but Greek I do not speak.
PHILAMINTE. I’ve marvelous respect for books in Greek.
VADIUS. I fear to bother you, but burn to pay,
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Madame, sincere homage to you today.
I trust I’ve not disturbed some learned chat.
PHILAMINTE. With Greek? There’s nothing you could spoil with that.
TRISSOTIN. His verses are as brilliant as his prose,
And if urged, he could show you some of those.
VADIUS. Authors are prone, with everything they write,
To fall on conversation like a blight;
At table, alcove, or the Cours-la-Reine,*
They read their verse while others yawn in vain.
Nothing, it seems to me, betrays less sense
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Than for an author to cadge compliments,
And, to a bystander’s reluctant ear,
Deliver what he cannot choose but hear.
A captive audience I do not seek;
I share the feeling of a certain Greek*
Who once forbade his sage—in black and white—
To gratify this itching to recite.
Now: for the young in love this verse is meant;
I should be glad to hear your sentiment.
TRISSOTIN. Yours is the only poetry that soars.
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VADIUS. Love and the Graces rule in all of yours.
TRISSOTIN. Your style is free, your words afford delight.
VADIUS. Ithos and pathos* shine in all you write.
TRISSOTIN. We have seen eclogues issued from your pen
Beyond Theocritus’ and Virgil’s ken.
VADIUS. Your odes have something gallant and refined
That leaves your old friend Horace far behind.
TRISSOTIN. Your chansonnettes have such a loving fall!
VADIUS. Nothing can match your sonnets, nothing at all.
TRISSOTIN. Your rondeaus! Is there anything more charming?
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VADIUS. Your madrigals! So witty, so disarming!
TRISSOTIN. Your ballades I wholeheartedly admire.
VADIUS. And of your crambo-verse* I never tire.
TRISSOTIN. If only France could recognize your worth, . . .
VADIUS. If brilliance were acknowledged here on earth, . . .
TRISSOTIN. A gilded coach would take you everywhere.
VADIUS. Your statue’d be in every public square.
Ahem! It’s a ballade; your judgment on it
Is what I . . .
TRISSOTIN.
Did you hear a little sonnet
On the fever of Princess Uranie?
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VADIUS. Oh yes, I heard it read in company.
TRISSOTIN. You know who wrote it?
VADIUS.
No, but I know this:
It’s nothing anyone would ever miss.
TRISSOTIN. Yet many folk think it deserves great fame.
VADIUS. It’s a very bad sonnet all the same;
And if you’ve seen it, you will side with me.
TRISSOTIN. Not at all, I completely disagree;
Few people could have written such a sonnet.
VADIUS. Well, Heaven preserve me from having done it!
TRISSOTIN. I maintain it’s incomparably fine;
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And my main reason is: the poem is mine.
VADIUS. Yours!
TRISSOTIN.
Mine.
VADIUS.
I can’t see how that came to pass.
TRISSOTIN. My sonnet failed to please your ear, alas!
VADIUS. I must have had something else in my head,
Or else the poem must have been badly read.
But here is my ballade, if you’re inclined.
TRISSOTIN. The ballade is a dull form, to my mind,
Old-fashioned and completely out of date.
VADIUS. It has its charms for some, at any rate.
TRISSOTIN. To me it’s still a sorry form of verse.
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VADIUS. Your feeling does not make it any worse.
TRISSOTIN. Well, pedants love it dearly, that is clear.
VADIUS. And yet we see it does not please your ear.
TRISSOTIN. You see yourself in others, stupidly.
VADIUS. You have the nerve to pin your traits on me.
TRISSOTIN. You scribbling hack, go, get along with you.
VADIUS. You dime-a-dozen laureate, you too.
TRISSOTIN. You impudent, text-snatching plagiarist!
VADIUS. You pedant . . .
PHILAMINTE.
Gentlemen, I must insist!
TRISSOTIN. You owe the Latins and the Greeks your soul.
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Come on, give them back all you basely stole.
VADIUS. You took Horace and cut him at both ends.
Go to Parnassus, then, and make amends.
TRISSOTIN. Your book came out unnoticed, don’t forget.
VADIUS. Nor you, your publisher immersed in debt.
TRISSOTIN. In vain you try to smirch my fame, you know.
VADIUS. Oh, yes, your fame! Yes, tell it to Boileau!*
TRISSOTIN. Tell him your own.
VADIUS.
Of this I’m satisfied:
He treats me better; that can’t be denied.
He strikes me just the tiniest of blows,
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Among the authors everybody knows;
But in his verse you’re never left in peace:
His arrows rain on you and never cease.
TRISSOTIN. And that’s what shows that he thinks more of me.
He lumps you with the men of low degree.
He thinks one blow enough to set you back,
And you’re not honored with renewed attack;
But he assails me as an adversary
Who makes his fullest effort necessary;
And each new blow reveals to everyone
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That victory for him is never won.
VADIUS. My pen will give a sample of my strength.
TRISSOTIN. And mine will show my mastery at length.
VADIUS. Verse, prose, Greek, Latin, I defy you, then.
(Exit)
TRISSOTIN. I’ll meet you at the bookstore,* pen to pen.
Scene 4. TRISSOTIN, PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, BÉLISE, HENRIETTE
TRISSOTIN. Don’t wonder I’m as angry as I am:
The fact is, he impugned your taste, Madame,
By daring to attack my sonnet’s merits.
PHILAMINTE. I’ll try to bring you back to better spirits.
Let’s change the subject. Come here, Henriette.
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For quite some time my soul has been upset
To find you lacking any trace of wit;
But I’ve a way to have you get a bit.
HENRIETTE. That would be an unnecessary care:
Learned discussions are not my affair;
I like my ease, and it is not my way
To strive for wit in everything I say.
That, mother, is no part of my ambition;
I’m happy to be dull, with your permission;
I’d rather be content with common speech
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Than strain for wit that lies beyond my reach.
PHILAMINTE. Yes, but it hurts me too, and drives me wild
To find myself disgraced by my own child.
The beauty of the face can never last,
It’s like a flower, whose bloom is quickly past;
And it resides no deeper than the skin;
That of the mind is firmly lodged within.
So I’ve long sought some means to have you gain
This beauty that the years attack in vain,
To fill you with a salutary yearning
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To savor the delicious fruits of learning;
And I have found the way to manage it:
By marrying you to a man of wit,
(Pointing to TRISSOTIN) This gentleman, in whom you are to see
The husband picked for you by my decree.
HENRIETTE. Me, mother?
PHILAMINTE.
You. Go on, act innocent.
BÉLISE (to TRISSOTIN). I understand: your eyes ask my consent
To reassign a heart that I possess.
All right, I give you up; the answer’s yes.
Yours will be an auspicious wedding day.
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TRISSOTIN. In my delight I don’t know what to say,
Madame, I’m honored so that Henriette
Will . . .
HENRIETTE. Gently, sir, it’s not concluded yet.
Don’t hurry so.
PHILAMINTE (to HENRIETTE). For that, you make a scene?
D’you know that if . . . Well, you know what I mean.
(To TRISSOTIN) Leave her alone; there’s nothing else to do.
Scene 5. HENRIETTE, ARMANDE
ARMANDE. You see the trouble mother takes for you.
I can’t believe a more illustrious match . . .
HENRIETTE. Why don’t you take him, if he’s such a catch?
ARMANDE. He’s for you, not for me; that is the plan.
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HENRIETTE. You are my elder; welcome to the man.
ARMANDE. If marriage found such favor in my sight,
I would accept your offer with delight.
HENRIETTE. If, like you, I had pedants on the brain,
I might accept his hand and not complain.
ARMANDE. Although our tastes are different, I’m afraid,
Our parents’ will, sister, must be obeyed.
A mother’s power over us is entire,
And in vain by resisting you aspire . . .
Scene 6. CHRYSALE, ARISTE, CLITANDRE, HENRIETTE, ARMANDE
CHRYSALE (presenting CLITANDRE to HENRIETTE). Come, daughter, you must do as I have planned:
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Remove your glove, and take this gentleman’s hand,
And from now on put this into your head:
This is the man I mean to have you wed.
ARMANDE. Sister, you hardly seem to be dismayed.
HENRIETTE. Sister, our parents’ will must be obeyed.
A father’s power over us is entire.
ARMANDE. A mother needs obedience like a sire.
CHRYSALE. What does that mean?
ARMANDE.
It means it seems to me
That on this Mother and you do not agree;
And she has someone else . . .
CHRYSALE.
Prattler, be still!
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Go philosophize with her all you will,
And just leave me and my affairs alone.
Tell her my plan. I want it clearly known
That she’s not to come storming at my ears.
Quick, on your way.
ARISTE.
That’s wonderful: three cheers!
CLITANDRE. What joy! What ecstasy! We shall be wed!
CHRYSALE. All right, then, take her hand, and go ahead,
Escort her to her room. What a sweet caress!
My heart is stirred by all this tenderness,
Old age’s apathy is left behind,
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And all my youthful loves come back to mind.