An old gentleman of Bohemia, named Acasto, had retired to his castle with his two sons, Castalio and Polydore: it is true, these are no more Bohemian names, than that of Claudius is Danish. Serina, his daughter, lives with him; he has also at his house a Monimia, who is very different from the Monimia of Racine. This young lady was intrusted to his care by her deceased father. In the castle of Lord Acasto there is a chaplain, a page, and two valets de chambre; this is the retinue of the good man, at least all of it that is seen upon the stage. Add to these, Serina’s maid, and a brother of Monimia’s, a passionate man, just come from Hungary, and you have all the persons of the drama.
If the tragedy of “Hamlet” is opened by two sentinels, that of “The Orphan” is opened by two domestics; for great men should by all means be imitated. These domestics talk of their good master Acasto, and his two sons, Castalio and Polydore, whose only amusement is hunting. Not to keep the reader any longer in suspense, it is proper to inform him that, if he suspects that the two brothers are both in love with Monimia, as in Racine, he is not mistaken; but he will, in all likelihood, be somewhat surprised at being told that Castalio, one of the brothers, who is loved by Monimia, gives his dear Polydore leave to lie with her if he can; he is satisfied, provided he himself may have the same liberty; for he swears that he has no desire to marry her, and “that he will marry when he is old, in order to mortify the flesh.”
However, immediately after having thus declared against marriage, he privately marries Monimia, and Acasto’s chaplain gives them the nuptial benediction. During these transactions, M. Chamont, brother of Monimia, arrives from Hungary; this M. Chamont is a very odd man, and very hard to be pleased; he immediately asks his sister whether she has her maidenhead. Monimia swears to him that her honor is unviolated. “Ah, wherefore have you any doubt concerning my maidenhead, brother?” says she. “Hear me, my sister,” says Chamont, “I not long since had a dream in Hungary; my bed shook, I saw you between two young fellows, who caressed you, turn about. I took my great sword, I ran to them; and upon waking, I found that I had pierced the figured tapestry, just at a place that represented the Theban brothers, Polinices and Etheocles, killing one another.”
“Well, brother,” says Monimia, “since you have been tormented in your sleep, you must torment me waking.” “Oh, this is not all, sister; do not justify yourself too fast. As I walked along, thinking of my dream, I met a toothless old hag, bent double with age, her vaulted back was clothed with a piece of an old hanging, her thighs were hardly covered by rags of all sorts of colors — variety of wretchedness — she gathered a few sticks, she asked me where I was going, and bade me make haste, if I desired to preserve my sister; in fine, she spoke to me of Castalio and Polydore.”
Monimia is greatly surprised at this adventure; she immediately confesses that she was engaged to Castalio; but she swears to her brother that she had never lain with him.
M. Chamont is by no means satisfied with this confession; he is a rough man, as has been already hinted; he goes in quest of the chaplain. “Come,” says he, “Mr. Gravity, tell me, are not you chaplain to the family?” “And you, sir; are you not an officer?” returns the chaplain. “Yes, friend,” says Chamont. “I was once an officer myself,” says the chaplain, “but my friends consigned me to the church; yet I am an honest man, though I wear black; I am tolerably respected in the family; I do not pretend to know more than other people, I concern myself about nobody’s affairs but my own; I rise early, study little, eat and drink merrily; and for this my behavior am held in esteem by everybody.” “Did you know old Chamont, my father?” says the officer. “Yes,” says the chaplain, “I was greatly concerned for his death.” “What, you loved him?” says Chamont; “I could embrace you for that; tell me, do you think Castalio loves my sister?” “Do I think he loves her?” says the chaplain. “Aye, do you think he loves her?” replies Chamont. “Faith I never asked him,” answers the chaplain, “and I am surprised you should ask me such a question.” “Ah, hypocrite,” cries Chamont, “you are like all those of your profession, a good–for–nothing fellow; you have not courage to speak the truth, and you pretend to teach it: are you a party concerned in this affair? What do you do in it? Curse upon the villain’s serious face; you goggle your eyes just as bawds do; they talk of heaven, they look devoutly, and tell lies; they preach like a priest, and thou art a bawd.”
What is pleasant enough is that the chaplain, won by these obliging expressions, owns that he had that morning married Castalio and Monimia in a garret.
The brother is well enough satisfied, and goes with the chaplain. The married couple arrive; nothing remains but to consummate the marriage. Those who are not let into the secret might think, from what had passed before, that this ceremony was to be performed on the stage; but the modest Monimia only bids her husband come and knock three times at her chamber door, when all the family should be asleep. Polydore, the brother, hears what was said from between the side scenes; and not knowing that his brother Castalio is Monimia’s husband, he resolves to be beforehand with him, and to go without delay and make sure of Monimia’s first favors. He addresses himself to the little rogue of a page, promises him sweetmeats and money, if he would amuse his brother Castalio during part of the night: the page plays his part admirably; he talks to Castalio of Monimia’s love, of her garters, and her breasts; he is for singing him a song; and thus he makes him lose time.
Polydore did not lose his; he went to Monimia’s door, he struck three times gently, the maid opened to him; and thus he contrived to lie with his brother’s wife.
At last Castalio comes to the door, and gives three gentle raps; the servant, who ought to know both him and his brother by their voices, does not so much as apprehend a mistake; she thinks that Polydore is the pretended husband who desires admittance, and that it is the true husband Castalio who is in bed; she bids him go about his business, tells him he is a madman; it is to no purpose for him to tell his name, she shuts the door in his face; he is treated by the maid just as Amphitryon is by Sofia.
Polydore having reaped the fruits of his stratagem, probably without uttering a single word, leaves his conquest, and returns to his own bed. Castalio, who was refused admittance, is seized with despair, becomes frantic, rolls himself upon the floor, inveighs against the whole sex; and concludes that, from the time of Eve, who fell in love with the devil, and damned the human species, women have always given rise to ills of every kind.
Monimia, who rose in haste to meet her dear Castalio, in whose company she hoped to enjoy some rapturous moments, meets him, and is going to embrace him; he treats her with the utmost cruelty, and pulls her by the hair off the stage.
M. Chamont, who still remembers his dream, and the old witch he had met, comes with great gravity to ask his sister an account of the consummation of her marriage. The poor woman owns that her husband, after having passed the night with her in raptures, had dragged her about by the hair upon the floor.
This Chamont, who is not to be trifled with, goes in quest of the father — who by the by had been taken ill during the representation of the tragedy, through his great age — he speaks to him in the same tone that he had before used to the chaplain; “Do you know,” says he, “that your son Castalio has married my sister?” “I am sorry for it,” answers the good man. “How! sorry for it!” says Chamont; “by God there’s not a nobleman that might not be proud to marry my sister; but damn me he has used her ill; either teach him manners, or I’ll set your house on fire.” “Well, well, I’ll do you justice; farewell, my dear boy,” says Acasto.
The poor father goes in quest of his son Castalio, in order to examine him with regard to what had passed; whilst he is in conversation with him, Polydore is desirous of knowing how Monimia was, after having passed the night with him; he thinks he had only enjoyed his brother’s mistress in virtue of the permission he had received from him: this discourse makes Monimia begin to suspect her mistake; in fine, Polydore owns that he had enjoyed her; Monimia faints away, and recovers her senses only to abandon herself to the transports of despair.
If such a subject, such language, and such manners, disgust persons of taste all over Europe, they ought to excuse the author: he never so much as suspected that there was anything extravagant in his piece: he dedicates it to the duchess of Cleveland with the simplicity and want of art with which he wrote it; he congratulates that lady upon having had two children by Charles II.