PERSONS REPRESENTED
Argante,
father to Octave
and Zerbinette.
GÉRONTE, father to
Léandre and
Hyacintha.
Octave, son to
Argante, and lover to
Hyacintha.
Léandre, son to
Géronte, and lover to
Zerbinette.
Zerbinette, daughter to
Argante, believed to be a
gypsy girl.
Hyacintha, daughter to
Géronte.
Scapin, servant to
Léandre.
Silvestre, servant to
Octave.
Nérine, nurse to
Hyacintha.
Carle.
Two Porters.
The scene is at Naples.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—OCTAVE, SILVESTRE.
Oct. Ah! what
sad news for one in love! What a hard fate to be reduced to! So,
Silvestre, you have just heard at the harbour that my father is
coming back?
Sil. Yes.
Oct. That he
returns this very morning?
Sil. This
very morning.
Oct. With the
intention of marrying me?
Sil. Of
marrying you.
Oct. To a
daughter of Mr. Géronte?
Sil. Of Mr.
Géronte.
Oct. And that
this daughter is on her way from Tarentum for that purpose?
Sil. For that
purpose.
Oct. And you
have this news from my uncle?
Sil. From
your uncle.
Oct. To whom
my father has given all these particulars in a letter?
Sil. In a
letter.
Oct. And this
uncle, you say, knows all about our doings?
Sil. All our
doings.
Oct. Oh!
speak, I pray you; don't go on in such a way as that, and force
me to wrench everything from you, word by word.
Sil. But what
is the use of my speaking? You don't forget one single detail,
but state everything exactly as it is.
Oct. At least
advise me, and tell me what I ought to do in this wretched
business.
Sil. I really
feel as much perplexed as you, and I myself need the advice of
some one to guide me.
Oct. I am
undone by this unforeseen return.
Sil. And I no
less.
Oct. When my
father hears what has taken place, a storm of reprimands will
burst upon me.
Sil.
Reprimands are not very heavy to bear; would to heaven I were
free at that price! But I am very likely to pay dearly for all
your wild doings, and I see a storm of blows ready to burst upon
my shoulders.
Oct. Heavens!
how am I to get clear of all the difficulties that beset my
path!
Sil. You
should have thought of that before entering upon it.
Oct. Oh,
don't come and plague me to death with your unreasonable
lectures.
Sil. You
plague me much more by your foolish deeds.
Oct. What am
I to do? What steps must I take? To what course of action have
recourse?
SCENE II.—OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.
Sca. How now,
Mr. Octave? What is the matter with you? What is it? What
trouble are you in? You are all upset, I see.
Oct. Ah! my
dear Scapin, I am in despair; I am lost; I am the most
unfortunate of mortals.
Sca. How is
that?
Oct. Don't
you know anything of what has happened to me?
Sca. No.
Oct. My
father is just returning with Mr. Géronte, and they want to
marry me.
Sca. Well,
what is there so dreadful about that?
Oct. Alas!
you don't know what cause I have to be anxious.
Sca. No; but
it only depends on you that I should soon know; and I am a man
of consolation, a man who can interest himself in the troubles
of young people.
Oct. Ah!
Scapin, if you could find some scheme, invent some plot, to get
me out of the trouble I am in, I should think myself indebted to
you for more than life.
Sca. To tell
you the truth, there are few things impossible to me when I once
set about them. Heaven has bestowed on me a fair enough share of
genius for the making up of all those neat strokes of mother
wit, for all those ingenious gallantries to which the ignorant
and vulgar give the name of impostures; and I can boast, without
vanity, that there have been very few men more skilful than I in
expedients and intrigues, and who have acquired a greater
reputation in the noble profession. But, to tell the truth,
merit is too ill rewarded nowadays, and I have given up
everything of the kind since the trouble I had through a certain
affair which happened to me.
Oct. How?
What affair, Scapin?
Sca. An
adventure in which justice and I fell out.
Oct. Justice
and you?
Sca. Yes; we
had a trifling quarrel.
Sil. You and
justice?
Sca. Yes. She
used me very badly; and I felt so enraged against the
ingratitude of our age that I determined never to do anything
for anybody. But never mind; tell me about yourself all the
same.
Oct. You
know, Scapin, that two months ago Mr. Géronte and my father set
out together on a voyage, about a certain business in which they
are both interested.
Sca. Yes, I
know that.
Oct. And that
both Léandre and I were left by our respective fathers, I under
the management of Silvestre, and Léandre under your management.
Sca. Yes; I
have acquitted myself very well of my charge.
Oct. Some
time afterwards Léandre met with a young gipsy girl, with whom
he fell in love.
Sca. I know
that too.
Oct. As we
are great friends, he told me at once of his love, and took me
to see this young girl, whom I thought good-looking, it is true,
but not so beautiful as he would have had me believe. He never
spoke of anything but her; at every opportunity he exaggerated
her grace and her beauty, extolled her intelligence, spoke to me
with transport of the charms of her conversation, and related to
me her most insignificant saying, which he always wanted me to
think the cleverest thing in the world. He often found fault
with me for not thinking as highly as he imagined I ought to do
of the things he related to me, and blamed me again and again
for being so insensible to the power of love.
Sca. I do not
see what you are aiming at in all this.
Oct. One day,
as I was going with him to the people who have charge of the
girl with whom he is in love, we heard in a small house on a
by-street, lamentations mixed with a good deal of sobbing. We
inquired what it was, and were told by a woman that we might see
there a most piteous sight, in the persons of two strangers, and
that unless we were quite insensible to pity, we should be sure
to be touched with it.
Sca. Where
will this lead to?
Oct.
Curiosity made me urge Léandre to come in with me. We went into
a low room, where we saw an old woman dying, and with her a
servant who was uttering lamentations, and a young girl
dissolved in tears, the most beautiful, the most touching sight
that you ever saw.
Sca. Oh! oh!
Oct. Any
other person would have seemed frightful in the condition she
was in, for all the dress she had on was a scanty old petticoat,
with a night jacket of plain fustian, and turned back at the top
of her head a yellow cap, which let her hair fall in disorder on
her shoulders; and yet dressed even thus she shone with a
thousand attractions, and all her person was most charming and
pleasant.
Sca. I begin
to understand.
Oct. Had you
but seen her, Scapin, as I did, you would have thought her
admirable.
Sca. Oh! I
have no doubt about it; and without seeing her, I plainly
perceive that she must have been altogether charming.
Oct. Her
tears were none of those unpleasant tears which spoil the face;
she had a most touching grace in weeping, and her sorrow was a
most beautiful thing to witness.
Sca. I can
see all that.
Oct. All who
approached her burst into tears whilst she threw herself, in her
loving way, on the body of the dying woman, whom she called her
dear mother; and nobody could help being moved to the depths of
the heart to see a girl with such a loving disposition.
Sca. Yes, all
that is very touching; and I understand that this loving
disposition made you love her.
Oct. Ah!
Scapin, a savage would have loved her.
Sca.
Certainly; how could anyone help doing so?
Oct. After a
few words, with which I tried to soothe her grief, we left her;
and when I asked Léandre what he thought of her, he answered
coldly that she was rather pretty! I was wounded to find how
unfeelingly he spoke to me of her, and I would not tell him the
effect her beauty had had on my heart.
Sil. (to
Octave). If you do not abridge
your story, we shall have to stop here till to-morrow. Leave it
to me to finish it in a few words. (To
Scapin) His heart takes fire from
that moment. He cannot live without going to comfort the amiable
and sorrowful girl. His frequent visits are forbidden by the
servant, who has become her guardian by the death of the mother.
Our young man is in despair; he presses, begs, beseeches—all in
vain. He is told that the young girl, although without friends
and without fortune, is of an honourable family, and that,
unless he marries her, he must cease his visits. His love
increases with the difficulties. He racks his brains; debates,
reasons, ponders, and makes up his mind. And, to cut a long
story short, he has been married these three days.
Sca. I see.
Sil. Now, add
to this the unforeseen return of the father, who was not to be
back before two whole months; the discovery which the uncle has
made of the marriage; and that other marriage projected between
him and a daughter which Mr. Géronte had by a second wife, whom,
they say, he married at Tarentum.
Oct. And,
above all, add also the poverty of my beloved, and the
impossibility there is for me to do anything for her relief.
Sca. Is that
all? You are both of you at a great loss about nothing. Is there
any reason to be alarmed? Are you not ashamed, you, Silvestre,
to fall short in such a small matter? Deuce take it all! You,
big and stout as father and mother put together, you can't find
any expedient in your noddle? you can't plan any stratagem,
invent any gallant intrigue to put matters straight? Fie! Plague
on the booby! I wish I had had the two old fellows to bamboozle
in former times; I should not have thought much of it; and I was
no bigger than that, when I had given a hundred delicate proofs
of my skill.
Sil. I
acknowledge that Heaven has not given me your talent, and that I
have not the brains like you to embroil myself with justice.
Oct. Here is
my lovely Hyacintha!
SCENE III.—HYACINTHA, OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.
Hya. Ah!
Octave, is what Silvestre has just told Nérine really true? Is
your father back, and is he bent upon marrying you?
Oct. Yes, it
is so, dear Hyacintha; and these tidings have given me a cruel
shock. But what do I see? You are weeping? Why those tears? Do
you suspect me of unfaithfulness, and have you no assurance of
the love I feel for you?
Hya. Yes,
Octave, I am sure that you love me now; but can I be sure that
you will love me always?
Oct. Ah!
could anyone love you once without loving you for ever?
Hya. I have
heard say, Octave, that your sex does not love so long as ours,
and that the ardour men show is a fire which dies out as easily
as it is kindled.
Oct. Then, my
dear Hyacintha, my heart is not like that of other men, and I
feel certain that I shall love you till I die.
Hya. I want
to believe what you say, and I have no doubt that you are
sincere; but I fear a power which will oppose in your heart the
tender feelings you have for me. You depend on a father who
would marry you to another, and I am sure it would kill me if
such a thing happened.
Oct. No,
lovely Hyacintha, there is no father who can force me to break
my faith to you, and I could resolve to leave my country, and
even to die, rather than be separated from you. Without having
seen her, I have already conceived a horrible aversion to her
whom they want me to marry; and although I am not cruel, I wish
the sea would swallow her up, or drive her hence forever. Do not
weep, then, dear Hyacintha, for your tears kill me, and I cannot
see them without feeling pierced to the heart.
Hya. Since
you wish it, I will dry my tears, and I will wait without fear
for what Heaven shall decide.
Oct. Heaven
will be favourable to us.
Hya. It
cannot be against us if you are faithful.
Oct. I
certainly shall be so.
Hya. Then I
shall be happy.
Sca. (aside).
She is not so bad, after all, and I think her pretty enough.
Oct. (showing
Scapin). Here is a man who, if he
would, could be of the greatest help to us in all our trouble.
Sca. I have
sworn with many oaths never more to meddle with anything. But if
you both entreat me very much, I might….
Oct. Ah! if
entreaties will obtain your help, I beseech you with all my
heart to steer our bark.
Sca. (to
Hyacintha). And you, have you
anything to say?
Hya. Like
him, I beseech you, by all that is most dear to you upon earth,
to assist us in our love.
Sca. I must
have a little humanity, and give way. There, don't be afraid; I
will do all I can for you.
Oct. Be sure
that….
Sca. (to
Octave). Hush! (To
Hyacintha) Go, and make yourself
easy.
SCENE IV.—OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.
Sca. (to
Octave). You must prepare
yourself to receive your father with firmness.
Oct. I
confess that this meeting frightens me before hand, for with him
I have a natural shyness that I cannot conquer.
Sca. Yes; you
must be firm from the first, for fear that he should take
advantage of your weakness, and lead you like a child. Now,
come, try to school yourself into some amount of firmness, and
be ready to answer boldly all he can say to you.
Oct. I will
do the best I can.
Sca. Well!
let us try a little, just to see. Rehearse your part, and let us
see how you will manage. Come, a look of decision, your head
erect, a bold face.
Oct. Like
this.
Sca. A little
more.
Oct. So?
Sca. That
will do. Now, fancy that I am your father, just arrived; answer
me boldly as if it were he himself.—"What! you scoundrel, you
good-for-nothing fellow, you infamous rascal, unworthy son of
such a father as I, dare you appear before me after what you
have done, and after the infamous trick you have played me
during my absence? Is this, you rascal, the reward of all my
care? Is this the fruit of all my devotion? Is this the respect
due to me? Is this the respect you retain for me?"—Now then, now
then.—"You are insolent enough, scoundrel, to go and engage
yourself without the consent of your father, and contract a
clandestine marriage! Answer me, you villain! Answer me. Let me
hear your fine reasons"….—Why, the deuce, you seem quite lost.
Oct. It is
because I imagine I hear my father speaking.
Sca. Why,
yes; and it is for this reason that you must try not to look
like an idiot.
Oct. I will
be more resolute, and will answer more firmly.
Sca. Quite
sure?
Sil. Here is
your father coming.
Oct. Oh
heavens! I am lost.
SCENE V.—SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.
Sca. Stop,
Octave; stop. He's off. What a poor specimen it is! Let's wait
for the old man all the same.
Sil. What
shall I tell him?
Sca. Leave
him to me; only follow me.
SCENE VI.—ARGANTE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE (at the further part
of the stage).
Arg. (thinking
himself alone). Did anyone ever hear of such an action?
Sca. (to
Silvestre). He has already heard
of the affair, and is so struck by it that, although alone, he
speaks aloud about it.
Arg. (thinking
himself alone). Such a bold thing to do.
Sca. (to
Silvestre). Let us listen to him.
Arg. (thinking
himself alone). I should like to know what they can say to
me about this fine marriage.
Sca. (aside).
We have it all ready.
Arg. (thinking
himself alone). Will they try to deny it?
Sca. (aside).
No: we have no thought of doing so.
Arg. (thinking
himself alone). Or will they undertake to excuse it?
Sca. (aside).
That may be.
Arg. (thinking
himself alone). Do they intend to deceive me with
impertinent stories?
Sca. (aside).
May be.
Arg. (thinking
himself alone). All they can say will be useless.
Sca. We shall
see.
Arg. (thinking
himself alone). They will not take me in.
Sca. (aside).
I don't know that.
Arg. (thinking
himself alone). I shall know how to put my rascal of a son
in a safe place.
Sca. (aside).
We shall see about that.
Arg. (thinking
himself alone). And as for that rascal Silvestre, I will
cudgel him soundly.
Sil. (to
Scapin). I should have been very
much astonished if he had forgotten me.
Arg. (seeing
Silvestre). Ah, ah! here you are,
most wise governor of a family, fine director of young people!
Sca. Sir, I
am delighted to see you back.
Arg. Good
morning, Scapin. (To Silvestre)
You have really followed my orders in a fine manner, and my son
has behaved splendidly.
Sca. You are
quite well, I see.
Arg. Pretty
well. (To Silvestre) You
don't say a word, you rascal!
Sca. Have you
had a pleasant journey?
Arg. Yes,
yes, very good. Leave me alone a little to scold this villain!
Sca. You want
to scold?
Arg. Yes, I
wish to scold.
Sca. But
whom, Sir?
Arg. (Pointing
to Silvestre). This
scoundrel!
Sca. Why?
Arg. Have you
not heard what has taken place during my absence?
Sca. Yes, I
have heard some trifling thing.
Arg. How!
Some trifling thing! Such an action as this?
Sca. You are
about right.
Arg. Such a
daring thing to do!
Sca. That's
quite true.
Arg. To marry
without his father's consent!
Sca. Yes,
there is something to be said against it, but my opinion is that
you should make no fuss about it.
Arg. This is
your opinion, but not mine; and I will make as much fuss as I
please. What! do you not think that I have every reason to be
angry?
Sca. Quite
so. I was angry myself when I first heard it; and I so far felt
interested in your behalf that I rated your son well. Just ask
him the fine sermons I gave him, and how I lectured him about
the little respect he showed his father, whose very footsteps he
ought to kiss. You could not yourself talk better to him. But
what of that? I submitted to reason, and considered that, after
all, he had done nothing so dreadful.
Arg. What are
you telling me? He has done nothing so dreadful? When he goes
and marries straight off a perfect stranger?
Sca. What can
one do? he was urged to it by his destiny.
Arg. Oh, oh!
You give me there a fine reason. One has nothing better to do
now than to commit the greatest crime imaginable—to cheat,
steal, and murder—and give for an excuse that we were urged to
it by destiny.
Sca. Ah me!
You take my words too much like a philosopher. I mean to say
that he was fatally engaged in this affair.
Arg. And why
did he engage in it?
Sca. Do you
expect him to be as wise as you are? Can you put an old head on
young shoulders, and expect young people to have all the
prudence necessary to do nothing but what is reasonable? Just
look at our Léandre, who, in spite of all my lessons, has done
even worse than that. I should like to know whether you yourself
were not young once, and have not played as many pranks as
others? I have heard say that you were a sad fellow in your
time, that you played the gallant among the most gallant of
those days, and that you never gave in until you had gained your
point.
Arg. It is
true, I grant it; but I always confined myself to gallantry, and
never went so far as to do what he has done.
Sca. But what
was he to do? He sees a young person who wishes him well; for he
inherits it from you that all women love him. He thinks her
charming, goes to see her, makes love to her, sighs as lovers
sigh, and does the passionate swain. She yields to his pressing
visits; he pushes his fortune. But her relations catch him with
her, and oblige him to marry her by main force.
Sil. (aside).
What a clever cheat!
Sca. Would
you have him suffer them to murder him? It is still better to be
married than to be dead.
Arg. I was
not told that the thing had happened in that way.
Sca. (showing
Silvestre). Ask him, if you like;
he will tell you the same thing.
Arg. (to
Silvestre). Was he married
against his wish?
Sil. Yes,
Sir.
Sca. Do you
think I would tell you an untruth?
Arg. Then he
should have gone at once to a lawyer to protest against the
violence.
Sca. It is
the very thing he would not do.
Arg. It would
have made it easier for me to break off the marriage.
Sca. Break
off the marriage?
Arg. Yes
Sca. You will
not break it off.
Arg. I shall
not break it off?
Sca. No.
Arg. What!
Have I not on my side the rights of a father, and can I not have
satisfaction for the violence done to my son?
Sca. This is
a thing he will not consent to.
Arg. He will
not consent to it?
Sca. No.
Arg. My son?
Sca. Your
son. Would you have him acknowledge that he was frightened, and
that he yielded by force to what was wanted of him? He will take
care not to confess that; it would be to wrong himself, and show
himself unworthy of a father like you.
Arg. I don't
care for all that.
Sca. He must,
for his own honour and yours, say that he married of his own
free will.
Arg. And I
wish for my own honour, and for his, that he should say the
contrary.
Sca. I am
sure he will not do that.
Arg. I shall
soon make him do it.
Sca. He will
not acknowledge it, I tell you.
Arg. He shall
do it, or I will disinherit him.
Sca. You?
Arg. I.
Sca.
Nonsense!
Arg. How
nonsense?
Sca. You will
not disinherit him.
Arg. I shall
not disinherit him?
Sca. No.
Arg. No?
Sca. No.
Arg. Well!
This is really too much! I shall not disinherit my son!
Sca. No, I
tell you.
Arg. Who will
hinder me?
Sca. You
yourself.
Arg. I?
Sca. Yes; you
will never have the heart to do it.
Arg. I shall
have the heart.
Sca. You are
joking.
Arg. I am not
joking.
Sca. Paternal
love will carry the day.
Arg. No, it
will not.
Sca. Yes,
yes.
Arg. I tell
you that I will disinherit him.
Sca. Rubbish.
Arg. You may
say rubbish; but I will.
Sca. Gracious
me, I know that you are naturally a kind-hearted man.
Arg. No, I am
not kind-hearted; I can be angry when I choose. Leave off
talking; you put me out of all patience. (To
Silvestre) Go, you rascal, run
and fetch my son, while I go to Mr. Géronte and tell him of my
misfortune.
Sca. Sir, if
I can be useful to you in any way, you have but to order me.
Arg. I thank
you. (Aside) Ah! Why is he my only son? Oh! that I had
with me the daughter that Heaven has taken away from me, so that
I might make her my heir.
SCENE VII.—SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.
Sil. You are
a great man, I must confess; and things are in a fair way to
succeed. But, on the other hand, we are greatly pressed for
money, and we have people dunning us.
Sca. Leave it
to me; the plan is all ready. I am only puzzling my brains to
find out a fellow to act along with us, in order to play a
personage I want. But let me see; just look at me a little.
Stick your cap rather rakishly on one side. Put on a furious
look. Put your hand on your side. Walk about like a king on the
stage.1
That will do. Follow me. I possess some means of changing your
face and voice.
Sil. I pray
you, Scapin, don't go and embroil me with justice.
Sca. Never
mind, we will share our perils like brothers, and three years
more or less on the galleys are not sufficient to check a noble
heart.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—GÉRONTE, ARGANTE.
Ger. Yes,
there is no doubt but that with this weather we shall have our
people with us to-day; and a sailor who has arrived from
Tarentum told me just now that he had seen our man about to
start with the ship. But my daughter's arrival will find things
strangely altered from what we thought they would be, and what
you have just told me of your son has put an end to all the
plans we had made together.
Arg. Don't be
anxious about that; I give you my word that I shall remove that
obstacle, and I am going to see about it this moment.
Ger. In all
good faith, Mr. Argante, shall I tell you what? The education of
children is a thing that one could never be too careful about.
Arg. You are
right; but why do you say that?
Ger. Because
most of the follies of young men come from the way they have
been brought up by their fathers.
Arg. It is so
sometimes, certainly; but what do you mean by saying that to me?
Ger. Why do I
say that to you?
Arg. Yes.
Ger. Because,
if, like a courageous father, you had corrected your son when he
was young, he would not have played you such a trick.
Arg. I see.
So that you have corrected your own much better?
Ger.
Certainly; and I should be very sorry if he had done anything at
all like what yours has done.
Arg. And if
that son, so well brought up, had done worse even than mine,
what would you say?
Ger. What?
Arg. What?
Ger. What do
you mean?
Arg. I mean,
Mr. Géronte, that we should never be so ready to blame the
conduct of others, and that those who live in glass houses
should not throw stones.
Ger. I really
do not understand you.
Arg. I will
explain myself.
Ger. Have you
heard anything about my son?
Arg. Perhaps
I have.
Ger. But
what?
Arg. Your
servant Scapin, in his vexation, only told me the thing roughly,
and you can learn all the particulars from him or from some one
else. For my part, I will at once go to my solicitor, and see
what steps I can take in the matter. Good-bye.
SCENE II.—GÉRONTE (alone).
Ger. What can
it be? Worse than what his son has done! I am sure I don't know
what anyone can do more wrong than that; and to marry without
the consent of one's father is the worst thing that I can
possibly imagine.
2
SCENE III—GÉRONTE, LÉANDRE.
Ger. Ah, here
you are!
Lea. (going
quickly towards his father to embrace him). Ah! father, how
glad I am to see you!
Ger. (refusing
to embrace him). Stay, I have to speak to you first.
Lea. Allow me
to embrace you, and….
Ger. (refusing
him again). Gently, I tell you.
Lea. How!
father, you deprive me of the pleasure of showing you my joy at
your return?
Ger.
Certainly; we have something to settle first of all.
Lea. But
what?
Ger. Just
stand there before me, and let me look at you.
Lea. What
for?
Ger. Look me
straight in the face.
Lea. Well?
Ger. Will you
tell me what has taken place here in my absence?
Lea. What has
taken place?
Ger. Yes;
what did you do while I was away?
Lea. What
would you have me do, father?
Ger. It is
not I who wanted you to do anything, but who ask you now what it
is you did?
Lea. I have
done nothing to give you reason to complain.
Ger. Nothing
at all?
Lea. No.
Ger. You
speak in a very decided tone.
Lea. It is
because I am innocent.
Ger. And yet
Scapin has told me all about you.
Lea. Scapin!
Ger. Oh! oh!
that name makes you change colour.
Lea. He has
told you something about me?
Ger. He has.
But this is not the place to talk about the business, and we
must go elsewhere to see to it. Go home at once; I will be there
presently. Ah! scoundrel, if you mean to bring dishonour upon
me, I will renounce you for my son, and you will have to avoid
my presence for ever!
SCENE IV.—LÉANDRE (alone).
Lea. To
betray me after that fashion! A rascal who for so many reasons
should be the first to keep secret what I trust him with! To go
and tell everything to my father! Ah! I swear by all that is
dear to me not to let such villainy go unpunished.
SCENE V.—OCTAVE, LÉANDRE, SCAPIN.
Oct. My dear
Scapin, what do I not owe to you? What a wonderful man you are,
and how kind of Heaven to send you to my help!
Lea. Ah, ah!
here you are, you rascal!
Sca. Sir,
your servant; you do me too much honour.
Lea. (drawing
his sword). You are setting me at defiance, I believe.… Ah!
I will teach you how….
Sca. (falling
on his knees). Sir!
Oct. (stepping
between them). Ah! Léandre.
Lea. No,
Octave, do not keep me back.
Sca. (to
Léandre). Eh! Sir.
Oct. (keeping
back Léandre). For mercy's
sake!
Lea. (trying
to strike). Leave me to wreak my anger upon him.
Oct. In the
name of our friendship, Léandre, do not strike him.
Sca. What
have I done to you, Sir?
Lea. What you
have done, you scoundrel!
Oct. (still
keeping back Léandre).
Gently, gently.
Lea. No,
Octave, I will have him confess here on the spot the perfidy of
which he is guilty. Yes, scoundrel, I know the trick you have
played me; I have just been told of it. You did not think the
secret would be revealed to me, did you? But I will have you
confess it with your own lips, or I will run you through and
through with my sword.
Sca. Ah! Sir,
could you really be so cruel as that?
Lea. Speak, I
say.
Sca. I have
done something against you, Sir?
Lea. Yes,
scoundrel! and your conscience must tell you only too well what
it is.
Sca. I assure
you that I do not know what you mean.
Lea. (going
towards Scapin to strike
him). You do not know?
Oct. (keeping
back Léandre). Léandre!
Sca. Well,
Sir, since you will have it, I confess that I drank with some of
my friends that small cask of Spanish wine you received as a
present some days ago, and that it was I who made that opening
in the cask, and spilled some water on the ground round it, to
make you believe that all the wine had leaked out.
Lea. What!
scoundrel, it was you who drank my Spanish wine, and who
suffered me to scold the servant so much, because I thought it
was she who had played me that trick?
Sca. Yes,
Sir; I am very sorry, Sir.
Lea. I am
glad to know this. But this is not what I am about now.
Sca. It is
not that, Sir?
Lea. No; it
is something else, for which I care much more, and I will have
you tell it me.
Sca. I do not
remember, Sir, that I ever did anything else.
Lea. (trying
to strike Scapin). Will you
speak?
Sca. Ah!
Oct. (keeping
back Léandre). Gently.
Sca. Yes,
Sir; it is true that three weeks ago, when you sent me in the
evening to take a small watch to the gypsy3
girl you love, and I came back, my clothes spattered with mud
and my face covered with blood, I told you that I had been
attacked by robbers who had beaten me soundly and had stolen the
watch from me. It is true that I told a lie. It was I who kept
the watch, Sir.
Lea. It was
you who stole the watch?
Sca. Yes,
Sir, in order to know the time.
Lea. Ah! you
are telling me fine things; I have indeed a very faithful
servant! But it is not this that I want to know of you.
Sca. It is
not this?
Lea. No,
infamous wretch! it is something else that I want you to
confess.
Sca. (aside).
Mercy on me!
Lea. Speak at
once; I will not be put off.
Sca. Sir, I
have done nothing else.
Lea. (trying
to strike Scapin). Nothing
else?
Oct. (stepping
between them). Ah! I beg….
Sca. Well,
Sir, you remember that ghost that six months ago cudgelled you
soundly, and almost made you break your neck down a cellar,
where you fell whilst running away?
Lea. Well?
Sca. It was
I, Sir, who was playing the ghost.
Lea. It was
you, wretch! who were playing the ghost?
Sca. Only to
frighten you a little, and to cure you of the habit of making us
go out every night as you did.
Lea. I will
remember in proper time and place all I have just heard. But
I'll have you speak about the present matter, and tell me what
it is you said to my father.
Sca. What I
said to your father?
Lea. Yes,
scoundrel! to my father.
Sca. Why, I
have not seen him since his return!
Lea. You have
not seen him?
Sca. No, Sir.
Lea. Is that
the truth?
Sca. The
perfect truth; and he shall tell you so himself.
Lea. And yet
it was he himself who told me.
Sca. With
your leave, Sir, he did not tell you the truth.
SCENE VI.—LÉANDRE, OCTAVE, CARLE, SCAPIN.
Car. Sir, I
bring you very bad news concerning your love affair.
Lea. What is
it now?
Car. The
gypsies are on the point of carrying off Zerbinette. She came
herself all in tears to ask me to tell you that, unless you take
to them, before two hours are over, the money they have asked
you for her, she will be lost to you for ever.
Lea. Two
hours?
Car. Two
hours.
SCENE VII.—LÉANDRE, OCTAVE, SCAPIN.
Lea. Ah! my
dear Scapin, I pray you to help me.
Sca. (rising
and passing proudly before Léandre).
Ah! my dear Scapin! I am my dear Scapin, now that I am wanted.
Lea. I will
forgive you all that you confessed just now, and more also.
Sca. No, no;
forgive me nothing; run your sword through and through my body.
I should be perfectly satisfied if you were to kill me.
Lea. I
beseech you rather to give me life by serving my love.
Sca. Nay,
nay; better kill me.
Lea. You are
too dear to me for that. I beg of you to make use for me of that
wonderful genius of yours which can conquer everything.
Sca.
Certainly not. Kill me, I tell you.
Lea. Ah! for
mercy's sake, don't think of that now, but try to give me the
help I ask.
Oct. Scapin,
you must do something to help him.
Sca. How can
I after such abuse?
Lea. I
beseech you to forget my outburst of temper, and to make use of
your skill for me.
Oct. I add my
entreaties to his.
Sca. I cannot
forget such an insult.
Oct. You must
not give way to resentment, Scapin.
Lea. Could
you forsake me, Scapin, in this cruel extremity?
Sca. To come
all of a sudden and insult me like that.
Lea. I was
wrong, I acknowledge.
Sca. To call
me scoundrel, knave, infamous wretch!
Lea. I am
really very sorry.
Sca. To wish
to send your sword through my body!
Lea. I ask
you to forgive me, with all my heart; and if you want to see me
at your feet, I beseech you, kneeling, not to give me up.
Oct. Scapin,
you cannot resist that?
Sca. Well,
get up, and another time remember not to be so hasty.
Lea. Will you
try to act for me?
Sca. I will
see.
Lea. But you
know that time presses.
Sca. Don't be
anxious. How much is it you want?
Lea. Five
hundred crowns.
Sca. You?
Oct. Two
hundred pistoles.
Sca. I must
extract this money from your respective fathers' pockets. (To
Octave) As far as yours is
concerned, my plan is all ready. (To
Léandre) And as for yours,
although he is the greatest miser imaginable, we shall find it
easier still; for you know that he is not blessed with too much
intellect, and I look upon him as a man who will believe
anything. This cannot offend you; there is not a suspicion of a
resemblance between him and you; and you know what the world
thinks, that he is your father only in name.
Lea. Gently,
Scapin.
Sca. Besides,
what does it matter? But, Mr. Octave, I see your father coming.
Let us begin by him, since he is the first to cross our path.
Vanish both of you; (to Octave)
and you, please, tell Silvestre to come quickly, and take his
part in the affair.
SCENE VIII.—ARGANTE, SCAPIN.
Sca. (aside).
Here he is, turning it over in his mind.
Arg. (thinking
himself alone). Such behaviour and such lack of
consideration! To entangle himself in an engagement like that!
Ah! rash youth.
Sca. Your
servant, Sir.
Arg. Good
morning, Scapin.
Sca. You are
thinking of your son's conduct.
Arg. Yes, I
acknowledge that it grieves me deeply.
Sca. Ah! Sir,
life is full of troubles; and we should always be prepared for
them. I was told, a long time ago, the saying of an ancient
philosopher which I have never forgotten.
Arg. What was
it?
Sca. That if
the father of a family has been away from home for ever so short
a time, he ought to dwell upon all the sad news that may greet
him on his return. He ought to fancy his house burnt down, his
money stolen, his wife dead, his son married, his daughter
ruined; and be very thankful for whatever falls short of all
this. In my small way of philosophy, I have ever taken this
lesson to heart; and I never come home but I expect to have to
bear with the anger of my masters, their scoldings, insults,
kicks, blows, and horse-whipping. And I always thank my destiny
for whatever I do not receive.
Arg. That's
all very well; but this rash marriage is more than I can put up
with, and it forces me to break off the match I had intended for
my son. I have come from my solicitor's to see if we can cancel
it.
Sca. Well,
Sir, if you will take my advice, you will look to some other way
of settling this business. You know what a law-suit means in
this country, and you'll find yourself in the midst of a strange
bush of thorns.
Arg. I am
fully aware that you are quite right; but what else can I do?
Sca. I think
I have found something that will answer much better. The sorrow
that I felt for you made me rummage in my head to find some
means of getting you out of trouble; for I cannot bear to see
kind fathers a prey to grief without feeling sad about it, and,
besides, I have at all times had the greatest regard for you.
Arg. I am
much obliged to you.
Sca. Then you
must know that I went to the brother of the young girl whom your
son has married. He is one of those fire-eaters, one of those
men all sword-thrusts, who speak of nothing but fighting, and
who think no more of killing a man than of swallowing a glass of
wine. I got him to speak of this marriage; I showed him how easy
it would be to have it broken off, because of the violence used
towards your son. I spoke to him of your prerogatives as father,
and of the weight which your rights, your money, and your
friends would have with justice. I managed him so that at last
he lent a ready ear to the propositions I made to him of
arranging the matter amicably for a sum of money. In short, he
will give his consent to the marriage being cancelled, provided
you pay him well.
Arg. And how
much did he ask?
Sca. Oh! at
first things utterly out of the question.
Arg. But
what?
Sca. Things
utterly extravagant.
Arg. But
what?
Sca. He spoke
of no less than five or six hundred pistoles.
Arg. Five or
six hundred agues to choke him withal. Does he think me a fool?
Sca. Just
what I told him. I laughed his proposal to scorn, and made him
understand that you were not a man to be duped in that fashion,
and of whom anyone can ask five or six hundred pistoles!
However, after much talking, this is what we decided upon. "The
time is now come," he said, "when I must go and rejoin the army.
I am buying my equipments, and the want of money I am in forces
me to listen to what you propose. I must have a horse, and I
cannot obtain one at all fit for the service under sixty
pistoles."
Arg. Well,
yes; I am willing to give sixty pistoles.
Sca. He must
have the harness and pistols, and that will cost very nearly
twenty pistoles more.
Arg. Twenty
and sixty make eighty.
Sca. Exactly.
Arg. It's a
great deal; still, I consent to that.
Sca. He must
also have a horse for his servant, which, we may expect, will
cost at least thirty pistoles.
Arg. How, the
deuce! Let him go to Jericho. He shall have nothing at all.
Sca. Sir!
Arg. No; he's
an insolent fellow.
Sca. Would
you have his servant walk?
Arg. Let him
get along as he pleases, and the master too.
Sca. Now,
Sir, really don't go and hesitate for so little. Don't have
recourse to law, I beg of you, but rather give all that is asked
of you, and save yourself from the clutches of justice.
Arg. Well,
well! I will bring myself to give these thirty pistoles also.
Sca. "I must
also have," he said, "a mule to carry…."
Arg. Let him
go to the devil with his mule! This is asking too much. We will
go before the judges.
Sca. I beg of
you, Sir!
Arg. No, I
will not give in.
Sca. Sir,
only one small mule.
Arg. No; not
even an ass.
Sca.
Consider….
Arg. No, I
tell you; I prefer going to law.
Sca. Ah! Sir,
what are you talking about, and what a resolution you are going
to take. Just cast a glance on the ins and outs of justice, look
at the number of appeals, of stages of jurisdiction; how many
embarrassing procedures; how many ravening wolves through whose
claws you will have to pass; serjeants, solicitors, counsel,
registrars, substitutes, recorders, judges and their clerks.
There is not one of these who, for the merest trifle, couldn't
knock over the best case in the world. A serjeant will issue
false writs without your knowing anything of it. Your solicitor
will act in concert with your adversary, and sell you for ready
money. Your counsel, bribed in the same way, will be nowhere to
be found when your case comes on, or else will bring forward
arguments which are the merest shooting in the air, and will
never come to the point. The registrar will issue writs and
decrees against you for contumacy. The recorder's clerk will
make away with some of your papers, or the instructing officer
himself will not say what he has seen, and when, by dint of the
wariest possible precautions, you have escaped all these traps,
you will be amazed that your judges have been set against you
either by bigots or by the women they love. Ah! Sir, save
yourself from such a hell, if you can. 'Tis damnation in this
world to have to go to law; and the mere thought of a lawsuit is
quite enough to drive me to the other end of the world.
Arg. How much
does he want for the mule?
Sca. For the
mule, for his horse and that of his servant, for the harness and
pistols, and to pay a little something he owes at the hotel, he
asks altogether two hundred pistoles, Sir.
Arg. Two
hundred pistoles?
Sca. Yes.
Arg. (walking
about angrily). No, no; we will go to law.
Sca.
Recollect what you are doing.
Arg. I shall
go to law.
Sca. Don't go
and expose yourself to….
Arg. I will
go to law.
Sca. But to
go to law you need money. You must have money for the summons,
you must have money for the rolls, for prosecution, attorney's
introduction, solicitor's advice, evidence, and his days in
court. You must have money for the consultations and pleadings
of the counsel, for the right of withdrawing the briefs, and for
engrossed copies of the documents. You must have money for the
reports of the substitutes, for the court fees4
at the conclusion, for registrar's enrolment, drawing up of
deeds, sentences, decrees, rolls, signings, and clerks'
despatches; letting alone all the presents you will have to
make. Give this money to the man, and there you are well out of
the whole thing.
Arg. Two
hundred pistoles!
Sca. Yes, and
you will save by it. I have made a small calculation in my head
of all that justice costs, and I find that by giving two hundred
pistoles to your man you will have a large margin left—say, at
least a hundred and fifty pistoles—without taking into
consideration the cares, troubles, and anxieties, which you will
spare yourself. For were it only to avoid being before everybody
the butt of some facetious counsel, I had rather give three
hundred pistoles than go to law.5
Arg. I don't
care for that, and I challenge all the lawyers to say anything
against me.
Sca. You will
do as you please, but in your place I would avoid a lawsuit.
Arg. I will
never give two hundred pistoles.
Sca. Ah! here
is our man.
SCENE IX.—ARGANTE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE, dressed out as a
bravo.
Sil. Scapin,
show me that Argante who is the father of Octave.
Sca. What
for, Sir?
Sil. I have
just been told that he wants to go to law with me, and to have
my sister's marriage annulled.
Sca. I don't
know if such is his intention, but he won't consent to give the
two hundred pistoles you asked; he says it's too much.
Sil. S'death!
s'blood! If I can but find him, I'll make mince-meat of him,
were I to be broken alive on the wheel afterwards.
(Argante
hides, trembling, behind Scapin.)
Sca. Sir, the
father of Octave is a brave man, and perhaps he will not be
afraid of you.
Sil. Ah! will
he not? S'blood! s'death! If he were here, I would in a moment
run my sword through his body. (Seeing
Argante.) Who is that man?
Sca. He's not
the man, Sir; he's not the man.
Sil. Is he
one of his friends?
Sca. No, Sir;
on the contrary, he's his greatest enemy.
Sil. His
greatest enemy?
Sca. Yes.
Sil. Ah!
zounds! I am delighted at it. (To
Argante) You are an enemy of that scoundrel Argante, are
you?
Sca. Yes,
yes; I assure you that it is so.
Sil. (shaking
Argante's hand roughly).
Shake hands, shake hands. I give you my word, I swear upon my
honour, by the sword I wear, by all the oaths I can take, that,
before the day is over, I shall have delivered you of that
rascally knave, of that scoundrel Argante. Trust me.
Sca. But,
Sir, violent deeds are not allowed in this country.
Sil. I don't
care, and I have nothing to lose.
Sca. He will
certainly take his precautions; he has relations, friends,
servants, who will take his part against you.
Sil. Blood
and thunder! It is all I ask, all I ask. (Drawing his sword.)
Ah! s'death! ah! s'blood! Why can I not meet him at this very
moment, with all these relations and friends of his? If he would
only appear before me, surrounded by a score of them! Why do
they not fall upon me, arms in hand? (Standing upon his guard.)
What! you villains! you dare to attack me? Now, s'death! Kill
and slay! (He lunges out on all sides; as if he were fighting
many people at once.) No quarter; lay on. Thrust. Firm.
Again. Eye and foot. Ah! knaves! ah! rascals! ah! you shall have
a taste of it. I'll give you your fill. Come on, you rabble!
come on. That's what you want, you there. You shall have your
fill of it, I say. Stick to it, you brutes; stick to it. Now,
then, parry; now, then, you. (Turning towards
Argante and
Scapin.) Parry this; parry. You
draw back? Stand firm, man! S'death! What! Never flinch, I say.
Sca. Sir, we
have nothing to do with it.
Sil. That
will teach you to trifle with me.
SCENE X.—ARGANTE, SCAPIN.
Sca. Well,
Sir, you see how many people are killed for two hundred pistoles.
Now I wish you a good morning.
Arg. (all
trembling). Scapin.
Sca. What do
you say?
Arg. I will
give the two hundred pistoles.
Sca. I am
very glad of it, for your sake.
Arg. Let us
go to him; I have them with me.
Sca. Better
give them to me. You must not, for your honour, appear in this
business, now that you have passed for another; and, besides, I
should be afraid that he would ask you for more, if he knew who
you are.
Arg. True;
still I should be glad to see to whom I give my money.
Sca. Do you
mistrust me then?
Arg. Oh no;
but….
Sca. Zounds!
Sir; either I am a thief or an honest man; one or the other. Do
you think I would deceive you, and that in all this I have any
other interest at heart than yours and that of my master, whom
you want to take into your family? If I have not all your
confidence, I will have no more to do with all this, and you can
look out for somebody else to get you out of the mess.
Arg. Here
then.
Sca. No, Sir;
do not trust your money to me. I would rather you trusted
another with your message.
Arg. Ah me!
here, take it.
Sca. No, no,
I tell you; do not trust me. Who knows if I do not want to steal
your money from you?
Arg. Take it,
I tell you, and don't force me to ask you again. However, mind
you have an acknowledgment from him.
Sca. Trust
me; he hasn't to do with an idiot.
Arg. I will
go home and wait for you.
Sca. I shall
be sure to go. (Alone.) That one's all right; now for the
other. Ah! here he is. They are sent one after the other to fall
into my net.
SCENE XI.—GÉRONTE, SCAPIN.
Sca. (affecting
not to see Géronte). O
Heaven! O unforeseen misfortune! O unfortunate father! Poor
Géronte, what will you do?
Ger. (aside).
What is he saying there with that doleful face?
Sca. Can no
one tell me whereto find Mr. Géronte?
Ger. What is
the matter, Scapin?
Sca. (running
about on the stage, and still affecting not to see or hear
Géronte). Where could I meet him,
to tell him of this misfortune?
Ger. (stopping
Scapin). What is the matter?
Sca. (as
before). In vain I run everywhere to meet him. I cannot find
him.
Ger. Here I
am.
Sca. (as
before). He must have hidden himself in some place which
nobody can guess.
Ger. (stopping
Scapin again). Ho! I say,
are you blind? Can't you see me?
Sca. Ah! Sir,
it is impossible to find you.
Ger. I have
been near you for the last half-hour. What is it all about?
Sca. Sir….
Ger. Well!
Sca. Your
son, Sir….
Ger. Well! My
son….
Sca. Has met
with the strangest misfortune you ever heard of.
Ger. What is
it?
Sca. This
afternoon I found him looking very sad about something which you
had said to him, and in which you had very improperly mixed my
name. While trying: to dissipate his sorrow, we went and walked
about in the harbour. There, among other things, was to be seen
a Turkish galley. A young Turk, with a gentlemanly look about
him, invited us to go in, and held out his hand to us. We went
in. He was most civil to us; gave us some lunch, with the most
excellent fruit and the best wine you have ever seen.
Ger. What is
there so sad about all this?
Sca. Wait a
little; it is coming. Whilst we were eating, the galley left the
harbour, and when in the open sea, the Turk made me go down into
a boat, and sent me to tell you that unless you sent by me five
hundred crowns, he would take your son prisoner to Algiers.
Ger. What!
five hundred crowns!
Sca. Yes,
Sir; and, moreover, he only gave me two hours to find them in.
Ger. Ah! the
scoundrel of a Turk to murder me in that fashion!
Sca. It is
for you, Sir, to see quickly about the means of saving from
slavery a son whom you love so tenderly.
Ger. What the
deuce did he want to go in that galley for?6
Sca. He had
no idea of what would happen.
Ger. Go,
Scapin, go quickly, and tell that Turk that I shall send the
police after him.
Sca. The
police in the open sea! Are you joking?
Ger. What the
deuce did he want to go in that galley for?
Sca. A cruel
destiny will sometimes lead people.
Ger. Listen,
Scapin; you must act in this the part of a faithful servant.
Sca. How,
Sir?
Ger. You must
go and tell that Turk that he must send me back my son, and that
you will take his place until I have found the sum he asks.
Sca. Ah! Sir;
do you know what you are saying? and do you fancy that that Turk
will be foolish enough to receive a poor wretch like me in your
son's stead?
Ger. What the
deuce did he want to go in that galley for?
Sca. He could
not foresee his misfortune. However, Sir, remember that he has
given me only two hours.
Ger. You say
that he asks….
Sca. Five
hundred crowns.
Ger. Five
hundred crowns! Has he no conscience?
Sca. Ah! ah!
Conscience in a Turk!
Ger. Does he
understand what five hundred crowns are?
Sca. Yes,
Sir, he knows that five hundred crowns are one thousand five
hundred francs.7
Ger. Does the
scoundrel think that one thousand five hundred francs are to be
found in the gutter?
Sca. Such
people will never listen to reason.
Ger. But what
the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?
Sca. Ah! what
a waste of words! Leave the galley alone; remember that time
presses, and that you are running the risk of losing your son
for ever. Alas! my poor master, perhaps I shall never see you
again, and that at this very moment, whilst I am speaking to
you, they are taking you away to make a slave of you in Algiers!
But Heaven is my witness that I did all I could, and that, if
you are not brought back, it is all owing to the want of love of
your father.
Ger. Wait a
minute, Scapin; I will go and fetch that sum of money.
Sca. Be
quick, then, for I am afraid of not being in time.
Ger. You said
four hundred crowns; did you not?
Sca. No, five
hundred crowns.
Ger. Five
hundred crowns!
Sca. Yes.
Ger. What the
deuce did he want to go in that galley for?
Sca. Quite
right, but be quick.
Ger. Could he
not have chosen another walk?
Sca. It is
true; but act promptly.
Ger. Cursed
galley!
Sca. (aside)
That galley sticks in his throat.
Ger. Here,
Scapin; I had forgotten that I have just received this sum in
gold, and I had no idea it would so soon be wrenched from me. (Taking
his purse out of his pocket, and making as if he were giving it
to Scapin.) But mind you tell
that Turk that he is a scoundrel.
Sca. (holding
out his hand). Yes.
Ger. (as
above). An infamous wretch.
Sca. (still
holding out his hand). Yes.
Ger. (as
above). A man without conscience, a thief.
Sca. Leave
that to me.
Ger. (as
above). That….
Sca. All
right.
Ger. (as
above). And that, if ever I catch him, he will pay for it.
Sca. Yes.
Ger. (putting
back the purse in his pocket). Go, go quickly, and fetch my
son.
Sca. (running
after him). Hallo! Sir.
Ger. Well?
Sca. And the
money?
Ger. Did I
not give it to you?
Sca. No,
indeed, you put it back in pour pocket.
Ger. Ah! it
is grief which troubles my mind.
Sca. So I
see.
Ger. What the
deuce did he want to go in that galley for? Ah! cursed galley!
Scoundrel of a Turk! May the devil take you!
Scapin (alone).
He can't get over the five hundred crowns I wrench from him; but
he has not yet done with me, and I will make him pay in a
different money his imposture about me to his son.
SCENE XII.—OCTAVE, LÉANDRE, SCAPIN.
Oct. Well,
Scapin, have your plans been successful?
Lea. Have you
done anything towards alleviating my sorrow?
Sca. (to
Octave). Here are two hundred
pistoles I have got from your father.
Oct. Ah! how
happy you make me.
Sca. (to
Léandre), But I could do nothing
for you.
Lea. (going
away). Then I must die, Sir, for I could not live without
Zerbinette.
Sca. Hallo!
stop, stop; my goodness, how quick you are!
Lea. What can
become of me?
Sca. There,
there, I have all you want.
Lea. Ah! you
bring me back to life again.
Sca. But I
give it you only on one condition, which is that you will allow
me to revenge myself a little on your father for the trick he
has played me.
Lea. You may
do as you please.
Sca. You
promise it to me before witnesses?
Lea. Yes.
Sca. There,
take these five hundred crowns.
Lea. Ah! I
will go at once and buy her whom I adore.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—ZERBINETTE, HYACINTHA, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.
Sil. Yes;
your lovers have decided that you should be together, and we are
acting according to their orders.
Hya. (to
Zerbinette). Such an order has
nothing in it but what is pleasant to me. I receive such a
companion with joy, and it will not be my fault if the
friendship which exists between those we love does not exist
also between us two.
Zer. I accept
the offer, and I am not one to draw back when friendship is
asked of me.
Sca. And when
it is love that is asked of you?
Zer. Ah! love
is a different thing. One runs more risk, and I feel less
determined.
Sca. You are
determined enough against my master, and yet what he has just
done for you ought to give you confidence enough to respond to
his love as you should.
Zer. As yet I
only half trust him, and what he has just done is not sufficient
to reassure me. I am of a happy disposition, and am very fond of
fun, it is true. But though I laugh, I am serious about many
things; and your master will find himself deceived if he thinks
that it is sufficient for him to have bought me, for me to be
altogether his. He will have to give something else besides
money, and for me to answer to his love as he wishes me, he must
give me his word, with an accompaniment of certain little
ceremonies which are thought indispensable.
Sca. It is so
he understands this matter. He only wants you as his wife, and I
am not a man to have mixed in this business if he had meant
anything else.
Zer. I
believe it since you say so; but I foresee certain difficulties
with the father.
Sca. We shall
find a way of settling that.
Hya. (to
Zerbinette). The similarity of
our fate ought to strengthen the tie of friendship between us.
We are both subject to the same fears, both exposed to the same
misfortune.
Zer. You have
this advantage at least that you know who your parents are, and
that, sure of their help, when you wish to make them known, you
can secure your happiness by obtaining a consent to the marriage
you have contracted. But I, on the contrary, have no such hope
to fall back upon, and the position I am in is little calculated
to satisfy the wishes of a father whose whole care is money.
Hya. That is
true; but you have this in your favour, that the one you love is
under no temptation of contracting another marriage.
Zer. A change
in a lover's heart is not what we should fear the most. We may
justly rely on our own power to keep the conquest we have made;
but what I particularly dread is the power of the fathers; for
we cannot expect to see them moved by our merit.
Hya. Alas!
Why must the course of true love never run smooth? How sweet it
would be to love with no link wanting in those chains which
unite two hearts.
Sca. How
mistaken you are about this! Security in love forms a very
unpleasant calm. Constant happiness becomes wearisome. We want
ups and downs in life; and the difficulties which generally
beset our path in this world revive us, and increase our sense
of pleasure.
Zer. Do tell
us, Scapin, all about that stratagem of yours, which, I was
told, is so very amusing; and how you managed to get some money
out of your old miser. You know that the trouble of telling me
something amusing is not lost upon me, and that I well repay
those who take that trouble by the pleasure it gives me.
Sca.
Silvestre here will do that as well as I. I am nursing in my
heart a certain little scheme of revenge which I mean to enjoy
thoroughly.
Sil. Why do
you recklessly engage in enterprises that may bring you into
trouble?
Sca. I
delight in dangerous enterprises.
Sil. As I
told you already, you would give up the idea you have if you
would listen to me.
Sca. I prefer
listening to myself.
Sil. Why the
deuce do you engage in such a business?
Sca. Why the
deuce do you trouble yourself about it?
Sil. It is
because I can see that you will without necessity bring a storm
of blows upon yourself.
Sca. Ah,
well, it will be on my shoulders, and not on yours.
Sil. It is
true that you are master of your own shoulders, and at liberty
to dispose of them as you please.
Sca. Such
dangers never stop me, and I hate those fearful hearts which, by
dint of thinking of what may happen, never undertake anything.
Zer. (to
Scapin). But we shall want you.
Sca. Oh, yes!
but I shall soon be with you again. It shall never be said that
a man has with impunity put me into a position of betraying
myself, and of revealing secrets which it were better should not
be known.
SCENE II.—GÉRONTE, SCAPIN.
Ger. Well!
Scapin, and how have we succeeded about my son's mischance?
Sca. Your son
is safe, Sir; but you now run the greatest danger imaginable,
and I sincerely wish you were safe in your house.
Ger. How is
that?
Sca. While I
am speaking to you, there are people who are looking out for you
everywhere.
Ger. For me?
Sca. Yes.
Ger. But who?
Sca. The
brother of that young girl whom Octave has married. He thinks
that you are trying to break off that match, because you intend
to give to your daughter the place she occupies in the heart of
Octave; and he has resolved to wreak his vengeance upon you. All
his friends, men of the sword like himself, are looking out for
you, and are seeking you everywhere. I have met with scores here
and there, soldiers of his company, who question every one they
meet, and occupy in companies all the thoroughfares leading to
your house, so that you cannot go home either to the right or
the left without falling into their hands.
Ger. What can
I do, my dear Scapin?
Sca. I am
sure I don't know, Sir; it is an unpleasant business. I tremble
for you from head to foot and…. Wait a moment.
(Scapin
goes to see in the back of the stage if there is anybody coming.)
Ger. (trembling).
Well?
Sca. (coming
back). No, no; 'tis nothing.
Ger. Could
you not find out some means of saving me?
Sca. I can
indeed think of one, but I should run the risk of a sound
beating.
Ger. Ah!
Scapin, show yourself a devoted servant. Do not forsake me, I
pray you.
Sca. I will
do what I can. I feel for you a tenderness which renders it
impossible for me to leave you without help.
Ger. Be sure
that I will reward you for it, Scapin, and I promise you this
coat of mine when it is a little more worn.
Sca. Wait a
minute. I have just thought, at the proper moment, of the very
thing to save you. You must get into this sack, and I….
Ger. (thinking
he sees somebody). Ah!
Sca. No, no,
no, no; 'tis nobody. As I was saying, you must get in here, and
must be very careful not to stir. I will put you on my
shoulders, and carry you like a bundle of something or other. I
shall thus be able to take you through your enemies, and see you
safe into your house. When there, we will barricade the door and
send for help.
Ger. A very
good idea.
Sca. The best
possible. You will see. (Aside) Ah! you shall pay me for
that lie.
Ger. What?
Sca. I only
say that your enemies will be finely caught. Get in right to the
bottom, and, above all things, be careful not to show yourself
and not to move, whatever may happen.
Ger. You may
trust me to keep still.
Sca. Hide
yourself; here comes one of the bullies! He is looking for you.
(Altering his voice.)8
"Vat! I shall not hab de pleasure to kill dis Géronte, and one
vill not in sharity show me vere is he?" (To
Géronte, in his ordinary tone)
Do not stir. "Pardi! I vill find him if he lied in de mittle ob
de eart." (To Géronte,
in his natural tone) Do not show yourself. "Ho! you man vid
a sack!" Sir! "I will give thee a pound if thou vilt tell me
where dis Géronte is." You are looking for Mr. Géronte? "Yes,
dat I am." And on what business, Sir? "For vat pusiness?" Yes.
"I vill, pardi! trash him vid one stick to dead." Oh! Sir,
people like him are not thrashed with sticks, and he is not a
man to be treated so. "Vat! dis fob of a Géronte, dis prute, dis
cat." Mr. Géronte, Sir, is neither a fop, a brute, nor a cad;
and you ought, if you please, to speak differently. "Vat! you
speak so mighty vit me?" I am defending, as I ought, an
honourable man who is maligned. "Are you one friend of dis
Géronte?" Yes, Sir, I am. "Ah, ah! You are one friend of him,
dat is goot luck!" (Beating the sack several times with the
stick.) "Here is vat I give you for him." (Calling out as
if he received the beating) Ah! ah! ah! ah! Sir. Ah! ah!
Sir, gently! Ah! pray. Ah! ah! ah! "Dere, bear him dat from me.
Goot-pye." Ah! the wretch. Ah!…ah!
Ger. (looking
out). Ah! Scapin, I can bear it no longer.
Sca. Ah! Sir,
I am bruised all over, and my shoulders are as sore as can be.
Ger. How! It
was on mine he laid his stick.
Sca. I beg
your pardon, Sir, it was on my back.
Ger. What do
you mean? I am sure I felt the blows, and feel them still.
Sca. No, I
tell you; it was only the end of his stick that reached your
shoulders.
Ger. You
should have gone a little farther back, then, to spare me, and….
Sca. (pushing
Géronte's head back into the
sack). Take care, here is another man who looks like a
foreigner. "Frient, me run like one Dutchman, and me not fint
all de tay dis treatful Géronte." Hide yourself well. "Tell me,
you, Sir gentleman, if you please, know you not vere is dis
Géronte, vat me look for?" No, Sir, I do not know where Géronte
is. "Tell me, trutful, me not vant much vit him. Only to gife
him one tosen plows vid a stick, and two or tree runs vid a
swort tro' his shest." I assure you, Sir, I do not know where he
is. "It seems me I see sometink shake in dat sack." Excuse me,
Sir. "I pe shure dere is sometink or oder in dat sack." Not at
all, Sir. "Me should like to gife one plow of de swort in dat
sack." Ah! Sir, beware, pray you, of doing so. "Put, show me ten
vat to be dere?" Gently, Sir. "Why chently?" You have nothing to
do with what I am carrying. "And I, put I vill see." You shall
not see. "Ah! vat trifling." It is some clothes of mine. "Show
me tem, I tell you." I will not. "You vill not?" No. "I make you
feel this shtick upon de sholders." I don't care. "Ah! you vill
poast!" (Striking the sack, and calling out as if he were
beaten) Oh! oh! oh! Oh! Sir. Oh! oh! "Goot-bye, dat is one
littel lesson teach you to speak so insolent." Ah! plague the
crazy jabberer! Oh!
Ger. (looking
out of the sack). Ah! all my bones are broken.
Sca. Ah! I am
dying.
Ger. Why the
deuce do they strike on my back?
Sca. (pushing
his head back into the bag). Take care; I see half a dozen
soldiers coming together. (Imitating the voices of several
people.) "Now, we must discover Géronte; let us look
everywhere carefully. We must spare no trouble, scour the town,
and not forget one single spot Let us search on all sides. Which
way shall we go? Let us go that way. No, this. On the left. On
the right. No; yes." (To Géronte
in his ordinary voice) Hide yourself well. "Ah! here is
his servant. I say, you rascal, you must tell us where your
master is. Speak. Be quick. At once. Make haste. Now." Ah!
gentlemen, one moment. (GÉRONTE looks quietly out of the bag,
and sees Scapin's trick.)
"If you do not tell us at once where your master is, we will
shower a rain of blows on your back." I had rather suffer
anything than tell you where my master is. "Very well, we will
cudgel you soundly." Do as you please. "You want to be beaten,
then?" I will never betray my master. "Ah! you will have
it—there." Oh!
(As he is going to strike,
Géronte gets out of the bag,
and Scapin runs away.)
Ger. (alone).
Ah! infamous wretch! ah! rascal! ah! scoundrel! It is thus that
you murder me?
SCENE III.—ZERBINETTE, GÉRONTE.
Zer. (laughing,
without seeing Géronte). Ah,
ah! I must really come and breathe a little.
Ger. (aside,
not seeing Zerbinette). Ah! I
will make you pay for it.
Zer. (not
seeing Géronte). Ah, ah, ah,
ah! What an amusing story! What a good dupe that old man is!
Ger. This is
no matter for laughter; and you have no business to laugh at it.
Zer. Why?
What do you mean, Sir?
Ger. I mean
to say that you ought not to laugh at me.
Zer. Laugh at
you?
Ger. Yes.
Zer. How! Who
is thinking of laughing at you?
Ger. Why do
you come and laugh in my face?
Zer. This has
nothing to do with you. I am only laughing with myself at the
remembrance of a story which has just been told me. The most
amusing story in the world. I don't know if it is because I am
interested in the matter, but I never heard anything so absurd
as the trick that has just been played by a son to his father to
get some money out of him.
Ger. By a son
to his father to get some money out of him?
Zer. Yes; and
if you are at all desirous of hearing how it was done, I will
tell you the whole affair. I have a natural longing for
imparting to others the funny things I know.
Ger. Pray,
tell me that story.
Zer.
Willingly. I shall not risk much by telling it you, for it is an
adventure which is not likely to remain secret long. Fate placed
me among one of those bands of people who are called gypsies,
and who, tramping from province to province, tell you your
fortune, and do many other things besides. When we came to this
town, I met a young man, who, on seeing me, fell in love with
me. From that moment he followed me everywhere; and, like all
young men, he imagined that he had but to speak and things would
go on as he liked; but he met with a pride which forced him to
think twice. He spoke of his love to the people in whose power I
was, and found them ready to give me up for a certain sum of
money. But the sad part of the business was that my lover found
himself exactly in the same condition as most young men of good
family, that is, without any money at all. His father, although
rich, is the veriest old skinflint and greatest miser you ever
heard of. Wait a moment—what is his name? I don't remember
it—can't you help me? Can't you name some one in this town who
is known to be the most hard-fisted old miser in the place?
Ger. No.
Zer. There is
in his name some Ron…Ronte…. Or…Oronte…. No. Gé…Géronte. Yes,
Géronte, that's my miser's name. I have it now; it is the old
churl I mean. Well, to come back to our story. Our people wished
to leave this town to-day, and my lover would have lost me
through his lack of money if, in order to wrench some out of his
father, he had not made use of a clever servant he has. As for
that servant's name, I remember it very well. His name is Scapin.
He is a most wonderful man, and deserves the highest praise.
Ger. (aside).
Ah, the wretch!
ZER. But just listen to the plan he adopted
to take in his dupe—ah! ah! ah! ah! I can't think of it without
laughing heartily—ah! ah! ah! He went to that old screw—ah! ah!
ah!—and told him that while he was walking about the harbour
with his son—ah! ah!—they noticed a Turkish galley; that a young
Turk had invited them to come in and see it; that he had given
them some lunch—ah! ah!—and that, while they were at table, the
galley had gone into the open sea; that the Turk had sent him
alone back, with the express order to say to him that, unless he
sent him five hundred crowns, he would take his son to be a
slave in Algiers—ah, ah, ah! You may imagine our miser, our
stingy old curmudgeon, in the greatest anguish, struggling
between his love for his son and his love for his money. Those
five hundred crowns that are asked of him are five hundred
dagger-thrusts—ah! ah! ah! ah! He can't bring his mind to tear
out, as it were, this sum from his heart, and his anguish makes
him think of the most ridiculous means to find money for his
son's ransom—ah! ah! ah! He wants to send the police into the
open sea after the Turk's galley— ah! ah! ah! He asks his
servant to take the place of his son till he has found the money
to pay for him—money he has no intention of giving—ah! ah! ah!
He yields up, to make the five hundred crowns, three or four old
suits which are not worth thirty—ah! ah! ah! The servant shows
him each time how absurd is what he proposes, and each
reflection of the old fellow is accompanied by an agonising,
"But what the deuce did he want to go in that galley for? Ah!
cursed galley. Ah! scoundrel of a Turk!" At last, after many
hesitations, after having sighed and groaned for a long time….
But it seems to me that my story does not make you laugh; what
do you say to it?
Ger. What I
say? That the young man is a scoundrel—a good-for-nothing
fellow—who will be punished by his father for the trick he has
played him; that the gypsy girl is a bold, impudent hussy to
come and insult a man of honour, who will give her what she
deserves for coming here to debauch the sons of good families;
and that the servant is an infamous wretch, whom Géronte will
take care to have hung before to-morrow is over.
SCENE IV.—ZERBINETTE, SILVESTRE.
Sil. Where
are you running away to? Do you know that the man you were
speaking to is your lover's father?
Zer. I have
just begun to suspect that it was so; and I related to him his
own story without knowing who he was.
Sil. What do
you mean by his story?
Zer. Yes; I
was so full of that story that I longed to tell it to somebody.
But what does it matter? So much the worse for him. I do not see
that things can be made either better or worse.
Sil. You must
have been in a great hurry to chatter; and it is indiscretion,
indeed, not to keep silent on your own affairs.
Zer. Oh! he
would have heard it from somebody else.
SCENE V.—ARGANTE, ZERBINETTE, SILVESTRE.
Arg. (behind
the scenes). Hullo! Silvestre.
Sil. (to
Zerbinette). Go in there; my
master is calling me.
SCENE VI.—ARGANTE, SILVESTRE.
Arg. So you
agreed, you rascals; you agreed—Scapin, you, and my son —to
cheat me out of my money; and you think that I am going to bear
it patiently?
Sil. Upon my
word, Sir, if Scapin is deceiving you, it is none of my doing. I
assure you that I have nothing whatever to do with it.
Arg. We shall
see, you rascal! we shall see; and I am not going to be made a
fool of for nothing.
SCENE VII.—GÉRONTE, ARGANTE, SILVESTRE.
Ger. Ah! Mr.
Argante, you see me in the greatest trouble.
Arg. And I am
in the greatest sorrow.
Ger. This
rascal, Scapin, has got five hundred crowns out of me.
Arg. Yes, and
this same rascal, Scapin, two hundred pistoles out of me.
Ger. He was
not satisfied with getting those five hundred crowns, but
treated me besides in a manner I am ashamed to speak of. But he—
shall pay me for it.
Arg. I shall
have him punished for the trick he has played me.
Ger. And I
mean to make an example of him.
Sil. (aside).
May Heaven grant that I do not catch my share of all this!
Ger. But, Mr.
Argante, this is not all; and misfortunes, as you know, never
come alone. I was looking forward to the happiness of to-day
seeing my daughter, who was everything to me; and I have just
heard that she left Tarentum a long while since; and there is
every reason to suppose that the ship was wrecked, and that she
is lost to me for ever.
Arg. But why
did you keep her in Tarentum, instead of enjoying the happiness
of having her with you?
Ger. I had my
reasons for it; some family interests forced me till now to keep
my second marriage secret. But what do I see?
SCENE VIII.—ARGANTE, GÉRONTE, NÉRINE, SILVESTRE.
Ger. What!
you here, Nérine?
Ner. (on
her knees before Géronte).
Ah! Mr. Pandolphe, how….
Ger. Call me
Géronte, and do not use the other name any more. The reasons
which forced me to take it at Tarentum exist no longer.
Ner. Alas!
what sorrow that change of name has caused us; what troubles and
difficulties in trying to find you out!
Ger. And
where are my daughter and her mother?
Ner. Your
daughter, Sir, is not far from here; but before I go to fetch
her, I must ask you to forgive me for having married her,
because of the forsaken state we found ourselves in, when we had
no longer any hope of meeting you.
Ger. My
daughter is married?
Ner. Yes,
Sir.
Ger. And to
whom?
Ner. To a
young man, called Octave, the son of a certain Mr. Argante.
Ger. O
Heaven!
Arg. What an
extraordinary coincidence.
Ger. Take us
quickly where she is.
Ner. You have
but to come into this house.
Ger. Go in
first; follow me, follow me, Mr. Argante.
Sil. (alone).
Well, this is a strange affair.
SCENE IX.—SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.
Sca. Well,
Silvestre, what are our people doing?
Sil. I have
two things to tell you. One is that Octave is all right; our
Hyacintha is, it seems, the daughter of Géronte, and chance has
brought to pass what the wisdom of the fathers had decided. The
other, that the old men threaten you with the greatest
punishments— particularly Mr. Géronte.
Sca. Oh,
that's nothing. Threats have never done me any harm as yet; they
are but clouds which pass away far above our heads.
Sil. You had
better take care. The sons may get reconciled to their fathers,
and leave you in the lurch.
Sca. Leave
that to me. I shall find the means of soothing their anger,
and….
Sil. Go away;
I see them coming.
SCENE X.—GÉRONTE, ARGANTE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NÉRINE,
SILVESTRE.
Ger. Come, my
daughter; come to my house. My happiness would be perfect if
your mother had been with you.
Arg. Here is
Octave coming just at the right time.
SCENE XI.—ARGANTE, GÉRONTE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE,
NÉRINE, SILVESTRE.
Arg. Come, my
son, come and rejoice with us about the happiness of your
marriage. Heaven….
Oct. No,
father, all your proposals for marriage are useless. I must be
open with you, and you have been told how I am engaged.
Arg. Yes; but
what you do not know….
Oct. I know
all I care to know.
Arg. I mean
to say that the daughter of Mr. Géronte….
Oct. The
daughter of Mr. Géronte will never be anything to me.
Ger. It is
she who….
Oct. (to
Géronte). You need not go on,
Sir; I hope you will forgive me, but I shall abide by my
resolution.
Sil. (to
Octave). Listen….
Oct. Be
silent; I will listen to nothing.
Arg. (to
Octave). Your wife….
Oct. No,
father, I would rather die than lose my dear Hyacintha (crossing
the theatre, and placing himself by
Hyacintha). Yes, all you would do is useless; this is the
one to whom my heart is engaged. I will have no other wife.
Arg. Well!
she it is whom we give you. What a madcap you are never to
listen to anything but your own foolish whim.
Hya. (showing
Géronte). Yes, Octave, this is my
father whom I have found again, and all our troubles are over.
Ger. Let us
go home; we shall talk more comfortably at home.
Hya. (showing
Zerbinette). Ah! father, I beg of
you the favour not to part me from this charming young lady. She
has noble qualities, which will be sure to make you like her
when you know her.
Ger. What! do
you wish me to take to my house a girl with whom your brother is
in love, and who told me to my face so many insulting things?
Zer. Pray
forgive me, Sir; I should not have spoken in that way if I had
known who you were, and I only knew you by reputation.
Ger. By
reputation; what do you mean?
Hya. Father,
I can answer for it that she is most virtuous, and that the love
my brother has for her is pure.
Ger. It is
all very well. You would try now to persuade me to marry my son
to her, a stranger, a street-girl!
SCENE XII.–ARGANTE, GÉRONTE, LÉANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA,
ZERBINETTE, NÉRINE, SILVESTRE.
Lea. My
father, you must no longer say that I love a stranger without
birth or wealth. Those from whom I bought her have just told me
that she belongs to an honest family in this town. They stole
her away when she was four years old, and here is a bracelet
which they gave me, and which will help me to discover her
family.
Arg. Ah! To
judge by this bracelet, this is my daughter whom I lost when she
was four years old.
Ger. Your
daughter?
Arg. Yes, I
see she is my daughter. I know all her features again. My dear
child!
Ger. Oh! what
wonderful events!
SCENE XIII.—ARGANTE, GÉRONTE, LÉANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA,
ZERBINETTE, NÉRINE, SILVESTRE, CARLE.
Car. Ah!
gentlemen, a most sad accident has just taken place.
Ger. What is
it?
Car. Poor
Scapin….
Ger. Is a
rascal whom I shall see hung.
Car. Alas!
Sir, you will not have that trouble. As he was passing near a
building, a bricklayer's hammer fell on his head and broke his
skull, leaving his brain exposed. He is dying, and he has asked
to be brought in here to speak to you before he dies.
SCENE XIV.—ARGANTE, GÉRONTE, LÉANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA,
ZERBINETTE, NÉRINE. SILVESTRE, CARLE, SCAPIN.
Sca. (brought
in by some men, his head wrapped up, as if he were wounded).
Oh, oh! gentlemen, you see me…. Oh! You see me in a sad state.
Oh! I would not die without coming to ask forgiveness of all
those I may have offended. Oh! Yes, gentlemen, before I give up
the ghost, I beseech you to forgive me all I have done amiss,
and particularly Mr. Argante and Mr. Géronte. Oh!
Arg. I
forgive you; die in peace, Scapin.
Sca. (to
Géronte). It is you, Sir, I have
offended the most, because of the beating with the cudgel which
I….
Ger. Leave
that alone.
Sca. I feel
in dying an inconceivable grief for the beating which I….
Ger. Ah me!
be silent.
Sca. That
unfortunate beating that I gave….
Ger. Be
silent, I tell you; I forgive you everything.
Sca. Alas!
how good you are. But is it really with all your heart that you
forgive me the beating which I…?
Ger. Yes,
yes; don't mention it. I forgive you everything. You are
punished.
Sca. Ah! Sir,
how much better I feel for your kind words.
Ger. Yes, I
forgive you; but on one condition, that you die.
Sca. How!
Sir?
Ger. I
retract my words if you recover.
Sca. Oh! oh!
all my pains are coming hack.
Arg. Mr.
Géronte, let us forgive him without any condition, for we are
all so happy.
Ger. Well, be
it so.
Arg. Let us
go to supper, and talk of our happiness.
Sca. And you,
take me to the end of the table; it is there I will await death.
