Full text of "Drama"
JHE MASTER CLASSICS
MASTER CLASSICS
DRAMA
DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
GARDEN CITY NEW
1930
COPYRIGHT, 1898, 1927i * Y 3DOUBLEDAY, PAGE
COMPANY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY
LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
CONTENTS
MRS, MALAPROP AND HER NIECE . . . . , i
Richard Brinsley Sheridan
A GLIMPSE INTO ARCADIA ,,,.,,. 7
W. S. Gilbert
THE MURDER OF DUNCAN ....... 29
William Shakespeare
FALSTAFF AT THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN . , , 37
William Shakespeare
FAUST AND MARGARET ........ 59
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
TARTUFFE ... ..... -. , * . 70
Moliere
ELECTRA AND ORESTES ....... . * 159
Sophocles
AT THE HOUSE OF HARDCASTLE .,.,>. 174
Oliver Goldsmith
SAMSON AND DALILA ..... , , . 194,
John Milton
ROXANE AND CYRANO . . , * , M . 20?
Edmond Rostand
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTAK M f - t ^ ^ 2S
Richard Wagnet
INTRODUCTION
Of all forms of literature the one most diffi-
cult to present in short episodes is drama. To be-
gin with, it is written to be watched, not read,
and the unit is the play and not a single scene.
You and I would much rather go out now to a
theatre and see a play than sit at home and
read one, but since that, at the moment, is im-
possible, let us turn our attention to what we
have here and see what we can get out of it. The
selections are from the most famous of dramas,
from the time of the glorious age of Greek trag-
edy, through the German musical drama,
through Goethe, through Shakespeare, through
Milton, through Rostand. We might go into de-
tail and explain every selection, but it is our hope
that each one explains and justifies itself.
MRS. MALAPROP AND HER NIECE
No one has ever used words with such delicious
inappropriateness as Mrs. Malaprop, who in the
scene which follows discusses her niece, Lydia Lan-
guish, with Sir Anthony Absolute. She and Sir Anth-
ony have arranged a match between Lydia and
young Capt Absolute, but Lydia's affections in the
meanwhile are engaged elsewhere. At least, so Lydia
thinks, not knowing that the young man who has
been making love to her is really Capt Absolute
under a different name,
The scene is Mn. Malapropos lodging*
MRS. MALAPROP. There, Sir Anthony, there
sits the deliberate simpleton who wants to dis-
grace her family, and lavish herself on a fellow
not worth a shilling.
LYDIA, Madam, I thought you once
MRS. MALAPROP, You thought, miss! I don't
know any business you have to think at all-
thought does not become a young woman. But
the point we would request of you is, that you
will promise to forget this fellow to illiterate
him, I say, quite from your memory.
LYDIA. Ah, madam! our memories are inde*
pendent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget
i
'2 DRAMA
MRS. MALAPROP. But I say it is, miss ; there
is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a
person chooses to set about it. Fm sure I have
as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if he
had never existed and I thought it my duty
so to do ; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent
memories don't become a young woman.
SIR ANTHONY. Why sure she won't pretend
to remember what she's ordered not! ay, this
comes of her reading!
LYDIA. What crime, madam, have I com-
mitted, to be treated thus?
MRS. MALAPROP. Now don't attempt to ex-
tirpate yourself from the matter; you know I
have proof controvertible of it. But tell rne,
will you promise to do as you y re bid? Will you
take a husband of your friends' choosing?
LYDIA. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that
had I no preference for any one else, the choice
you have made would be my aversion.
MRS. MALAPROP. What business have you,
miss, with preference and aversion? They don't
become a young woman ; and you ought to know*
that as both always wear off, 'tis safest in matri-
mony to begin with a little aversion. I am sure
I hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as
if he'd been a blackamoor and yet, miss, you
are sensible what a wife I made! and when it
pleased Heaven to release me from him, 'tis
unknown what tears I shed! But suppose we
MRS. MALAPRQP AND HER NIECE g
were going to give you another choice, will you
promise us to give up this Beverley?
LYDIA. Could I belie my thoughts so far as
to give that promise, my actions would certainly
as far belie my words.
MRS. MALAPROP. Take yourself to your
room. You are fit company for nothing but your
own ill-humours.
LYDIA. Willingly, ma'am I cannot change
for the worse. {Exit.
MRS. MALAPROP* There's a little intricate
hussy for you!
SIR ANTHONY. It is not to be wondered at,
ma'am, all this is the natural consequence of
teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand daugh-
ters, by Heaven! Fd as soon have them taught
the black art as their alphabet!
MRS. MALAPROP. Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you
are an absolute misanthropy.
SIR ANTHONY. In my way hither, Mrs. Mala-
prop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth
from a circulating library! She had a book itt
each hand they were half-bound volumes, with
marble covers! From that moment I guessed
how full of duty I should see her mistress!
MRS. MALAPROP. Those are vile places, in-
deed!
SIR ANTHONY. Madam, a circulating library
in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical
knowledge! It blossoms through the year! and
4 DRAMA
depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are
so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the
fruit at last.
MRS. MALAPROP. Fy, fy, Sir Anthony, you
surely speak laconically.
SIR ANTHONY. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in mod-
eration now, what would you have a woman
know?
MRS. MALAPROP. Observe me, Sir Anthony,
I would by no means wish a daughter of mine
to be a progeny of learning;; I don't think so
much learning becomes a young woman; for
instance, I would never let her meddle with
Greek, or Hebrew, or algebra, or simony, or
fluxions, or paradoxes, or such inflammatory
branches of learning neither would it be neces-
sary for her to handle any of your mathematical,
astronomical, diabolical instruments But, Sir
Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old,
to a boarding-school, in order to learn a little
ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should have
a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and as
she grew up, I would have her instructed in
geometry, that she might know something of the
contagious countries; but above all, Sir An-
thony, she might be mistress of orthodoxy, that
she might not mis-spell, and mispronounce words
so shamefully as girls usually do; and likewise
that she might reprehend the true meaning of
MRS. MALAPROP AND HER NIECE 5
what she is saying. This, Sir Anthony, is what
I would have a woman know; and I don't
think there is a superstitious article in it.
SIR ANTHONY. Well, well, Mrs, Malaprop, I
will dispute the point no further with you;
though I must confess that you are a truly mod-
erate and polite arguer, for almost every third
word you say is on my side of the question.
But, Mrs. Malaprop, to the more important
point in debate you say you have no objection
to my proposal ?
MRS. MALAPROP. None, I assure you. I am
under no positive engagement with Mr. Acres,
and as Lydia is so obstinate against him, per-
haps your son may have better success.
SIR ANTHONY. Well, madam, I will write for
the boy directly. He knows not a syllable of this
yet, though I have for some time had the pro-
posal in my head. He is at present with his regi-
ment.
MRS. MALAPROP. We have never seen your
son, Sir Anthony; but I hope no objection on his
side.
SIR ANTHONY. Objection! let him object if
he dare! No, no, Mrs. Malaprop, Jack knows
that the least demur puts me in a frenzy di-
rectly. My process was always very simple in
their younger days, 'twas "Jack, do this"; if
he demurred, I knocked him down and if he
'6 DRAMA. -
grumbled at that, I always sent him out of the
room.
MRS. MALAPROP. Ah, and the properest way,
o j .my conscience! -nothing is so conciliating to
your people as severity. Well,- Sir Anthony, I
shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare
Lydia to receive your son's invocations; and I
hope you will represent her to the captain as an
object not altogether illegible.
SIR ANTHONY. Madam, I will handle the sub-
ject prudently. Well, I must leave you; and let
me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this mat-
ter roundly to the girl. Take my advice keep
a tight hand; if she rejects this proposal, clap her
under lock and key; and if you were just to let
the servants forget to bring her dinner for three
or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come
about.
, . [Exit.
From "The Rivals" by RICH-
ARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
A GLIMPSE INTO ARCADIA
The scene is an Arcadian landscape. A river
runs across the back of the stage.
[Enter Fairies, led by LELIA, QBLIA, FLETA.
They trip across the stage t singing as they
danceJ]
CHORUS
Tripping hither, tripping thither,
Nobody knows why or whither,
We must dance and we must sing
Round about our fairy ring.
SOLO CELIA
We are dainty little fairies,
Ever singing, ever dancing;
We indulge in our vagaries
In a fashion most entrancing.
If you ask the special function
Of our never-ceasing motion,
We reply, without compunction,
That we haven't any notion.
No, we haven't any notion.
CHORUS Tripping hither, etc.
7
8 DRAMA
SOLO LEILA
If you ask us how we live,
Lovers all essentials give:
We can ride on lovers' sighs,
Warm ourselves in lovers* eyes,
Bathe ourselves in lovers' tears,
Clothe ourselves in lovers' fears,
Arm ourselves with lovers' darts,
Hide ourselves in lovers' hearts.
When you know us, you'll discover
That we almost live on lover.
CHORUS Tripping hither, etc.
[At the end of the chorus all sigh wearily."\
CELIA. Ah, it's all very well, but since our
queen banished lolanthe, fairy revels have not
been what they were.
LELJA. lolanthe was the life and soul of Fairy-
land. Why, she wrote all our songs and arranged
all our dances! We sing her songs and we trip
her measures, but we don't enjoy ourselves,
FLETA. To think that five-and-twenty years
have elapsed since she was banished ! What couk
she have done to have deserved so terrible \
punishment?
LELIA. Something awful : she married a mortal
FLETA, Oh ! Is it injudicious to marry a moi
tal?
LEILA. Injudicious? It strikes at the root c
A GLIMPSE INTO ARCADIA 9
the whole fairy system. By our laws the fairy
who marries a mortal dies.
CELIA. But lolanthe didn't die.
[Enter QUEEN OF THE FAIRIES.J
QUEEN. No, because your queen, who loved
her with a surpassing love, commuted her sen-
tence to penal servitude for life, on condition that
she left her husband without a word of explana-
tion and never communicated with him again.
LELIA. And that sentence of penal servitude
she is now working out at the bottom of that
stream ?
QUEEN. Yes. But when I banished her I gave
her all the pleasant places of the earth to dwell
in. I'm sure I never intended that she should go
and live at the bottom of that stream. It makes
me perfectly wretched to think of the discomfort
she must have undergone.
LELIA. To think of the damp! And her chest
was always delicate.
QUEEN, And the frogs! ugh! I never shall
enjoy any peace of mind until I know why lo-
lanthe went to live among the frogs.
FLETA. Then why not summon her and ask
her?
QUEEN. Why? Because if I set eyes on her I
should forgive her at once.
CELIA. Then why not forgive her? Twenty-
five years ! It's a long time.
IO DRAMA
LEILA. Think how we loved her !
QUEEN. Loved her? What was your love to
mine? Why, she was invaluable to me! Who
taught me to curl myself inside a buttercup? lo-
lanthe ! Who taught me to swing upon a cob-
web? lolanthe! Who taught me to dive into a
dewdrop, to nestle in a nutshell, to gambol upon
gossamer? lolanthe!
LELIA. She certainly did surprising things.
FLETA. Oh, give her back to us, great queen
for your sake, if not for ours. [All kneel in sup-
plication .]
QUEEN [irresolute]. Oh, I should be strong
but I am weak; I should be marble, but I arr
clay. Her punishment has been heavier than 1
intended. I did not mean that she should liv<
among the frogs. And Well ! well ! it shall b*
as you wish,
INVOCATION
QUEEN. lolanthe !
ALL. From thy dark exile thou art summoned;
Come to our call,
lolanthe !
lolanthe !
lolanthe !
Come to our call,
lolanthe !
[lOLANTHE rises from the water. She is clad if
tattered and sombre garments* She ftp
A GLIMPSE INTO ARCADIA U
proaches the QUEEN with head &ent $m$
arms crossed.'}
IOLANTHE. With humble breast,
And every hope laid low,
To thy behest,
Offended queen, I bow.
QUEEN. For a dark sin against our fairy laws
We sent thee into lifelong banishment;
But Mercy holds her sway within our
hearts :
Rise, thou are pardoned I
IOLANTHE. Pardoned ?
ALL. Pardoned !
IOLANTHE. Ah !
[Her rags jail -from "her, and she appears clothed
as a fairy. The QUEEN places a diamond
coronet on her head and embraces her. The
others also embrace herJ\
CHORUS. Welcome to our hearts again,
lolanthe! lolanthe!
We have shared thy bitter pain,
lolanthe! lolanthe!
Every heart and every hand
In our loving little band
Welcomes thee to Fairyland,
lolanthe!
QUEEN* And now tell me : with all the world
12 DRAMA
to choose from, why on earth did you decide to
live at the bottom of that stream?
IOLANTHE. To be near my son, Strephon.
QUEEN. Your son! Bless my heart! I didn't
know you had a son.
IOLANTHE. He was born soon after I left my
husband by your royal command, but he doesn't
even know of his father's existence.
FLETA. How old is he ?
IOLANTHE. Twenty-four.
LELIA. Twenty-four! No one to look at you
would think you had a son of twenty-four? But
of course that's one of the advantages of being
immortal we never grow old. Is he pretty?
IOLANTHE. He's extremely pretty, but he's in-
clined to be stout.
ALL [disappointed]. Oh!
QUEEN. I see no objection to stoutness in
moderation.
CELIA. And what is he?
IOLANTHE. He's an Arcadian shepherd, and he
loves Phyllis, a ward in Chancery.
CELIA. A mere shepherd, and he half a fairy !
IOLANTHE. He's a fairy down to the waist,
but his legs are mortal,
CELIA. Dear me!
QUEEN. I have no reason to suppose that I am
more curious than other people; but I confess
I should like to see a person who is a fairy dowa
to the waist, but whose legs are mortal.
A GLIMPSE INTO ARCADIA 13
IOLANTHE. Nothing easier, for here he comes.
'[Enter STREPHON, singing and dancing, and play-
ing on a flageolet. He does not see the
Fairies, who retire up stage as he enters.^
SONG STREPHON
Good-morrow, good mother ;
Good mother, good-morrow!
By some means or other
Pray banish your sorrow!
With joy beyond telling
My bosom is swelling,
So join in a measure
Expressive of pleasure,
For Fm to be married to-day, to-day
Yes, I'm to be married to-day.
CHORUS. Yes, he's to be married to-day, to-day
Yes, he's to be married to-day.
IOLANTHE. Then the Lord Chancellor has at
last given his consent to your marriage with his
beautiful ward, Phyllis ?
STREPHON. Not he, indeed ! To all my tearful
prayers he answers me, "A shepherd lad is no fit
helpmate for a ward of Chancery." I stood in
court, and there I sang him songs of Arcadee,
with flageolet accompaniment, in vain. At first
he seemed amused, so did the Bar, but, quickly
wearying of my song and pipe, he bade me get
14 DRAMA
out. A servile usher then, in crumpled bands ar
rusty bombazine, led me, still singing, in
Chancery Lane! Ill go no more; I'll marry hi
to-day, and brave the upshot, be what it may !-
[Sees Fairies.'] But who are these?
IOLANTHE. Oh, Strephon, rejoice with mi
my queen has pardoned me !
STREPHON. Pardoned you, mother? This
good news, indeed!
IOLANTHE. And these ladies are my belove
sisters.
STREPHON. Your sisters? Then they are u
aunts \_kneeli]*
QUEEN. A pleasant piece of news for yoi
bride on her wedding-day !
STREPHON. Hush! My bride knows nothir
of my fairyhood. I dare not tell her, lest
frighten her. She thinks me mortal, and prefe
me so,
LELIA. Your fairyhood doesn't seem to ha^
done you much good.
STREPHON. Much good? It's the curse of ir
existence! What's the use of being half a fairy
My body can creep through a keyhole, but what
the good of that when my legs are left kickin
behind? I can make myself invisible down to tl:
waist, but that's no use when my legs remai
exposed to view. My brain is a fairy brain, bi
from the waist downward I'm a gibbering idio
My upper half is immortal, but my lower ha
A GLIMPSE INTO ARCADIA IS
grows older every day, and some day or other
must die of old age. What's to become of my
upper half when I've burled my lower half, I
really don't know.
QUEEN. I see your difficulty, but with a fairy
brain you should seek an intellectual sphere of
action. Let me see: Fve a borough or two at
my disposal; would you like to go into Parlia-
ment?
IOLANTHE. A fairy member! That would be
delightful.
STREPHON. I'm afraid I should do no good
there. You see, down to the waist I'm a Tory of
the most determined description, but my legs are
a couple of confounded Radicals, and on a division
they'd be sure to take me into the wrong lobby.
You see, they're two to one, which Is a strong
working majority.
QUEEN. Don't let that distress you ; you shall
be returned as a Liberal-Conservative, and your
legs shall be our peculiar care.
STREPHON. [bowing]. I see Your Majesty does
not do things by halves.
QUEEN. No ; we are fairies down to the feet.
ENSEMBLE
Fare thee well, attractive stranger.
FAIRIES. Fare thee well, attractive stranger.
1 6 DRAMA
QUEEN. Shouldst thou be in doubt or danger,
Peril or perplexitee,
Call us, and we'll come to thee
FAIRIES. Call us, and we'll come to thee.
Tripping hither, tripping thither,
Nobody knows why or whither,
We must now be taking wing
To another fairy ring.
[Fairies and QUEEN trip off, loLANTHE, whc
takes an affectionate farewell of her son
going off last.]
[Enter PHYLLIS, singing and dancing, and ac-
companying herself on a flageolet.]
SONG PHYLLIS
Good-morrow, good lover;
Good lover, good-morrow !
I prithee discover,
Steal, purchase, or borrow,
Some means of concealing
The care you are feeling,
And join in a measure
Expressive of pleasure;
For we're to be married to-day, to-day
For we're to be married to-day*
BOTH. Yes, we're to be married, etc.
STREPHON. My Phyllis! And to-day we're to
be made happy forever!
A GLIMPSE INTO ARCADIA 17
PHYLLIS. Well, we're to be married,
STREPHON. It's the same thing,
PHYLLIS. Well, I suppose it is. But oh,
Strephon, I tremble at the step we're taking. I
believe it's penal servitude for life to marry a
ward of court without the Lord Chancellor's
consent. I shall be of age in two years. Don't you
think you could wait two years ?
STREPHON. Two years! You can't have seen
yourself. Here, look at that [offering mirror],
and tell me if you think it's reasonable to expect
me to wait two years?
PHYLLIS. No; you're quite right; it's asking
too much one must be reasonable.
STREPHON, Besides, who knows what will hap-
pen in two years? Why, you might fall in love
with the Lord Chancellor himself by that time,
PHYLLIS. Yes, he's a clever old gentleman.
STREPHON. As it is, half the House of Lords
are sighing at your feet,
PHYLLIS. The House of Lords is certainly ex-
tremely attentive.
STREPHON. Attentive? I should think they
were! Why did five-and-twenty Liberal peers
come down to shoot over your grass plot last
autumn? It couldn't have been the sparrows.
Why did five-and-twenty Conservative peers
come down to fish in your pond? Don't tell me
it was the goldfish ! No, no. Delays are dangerous,
and if we are to marry, the sooner the better.
i8
DRAMA
DUET PHYLLIS and STREPHOK
PHYLLIS. None shall part us from each other;
One in love and life are we
All in all to one another,
I to thee and thou to me.
PHYLLIS
Thou the tree, and I
the flower ;
Thou the idol, I the
throng ;
Thou the day, and I
the hour;
Thou the singer, I
the song;
Thou the stream, and I
the willow
Thou the sculptor, I
the clay;
Thou the ocean, I the
billow ;
Thou the sunrise, I
the day.
STREPHON
I the tree, and thou the
flower ;
I the idol, thou the
throng;
I the day, and thou the
hour;
I the singer, thou the
song;
I the stream, and thou
the willow ;
I the sculptor, thou
the clay;
I the ocean, thou the
billow ;
I the sunrise, thou
the day.
PHYLLIS. Ever thine since that fond meeting,
When in joy I woke to find
Thine the heart within me beating
Mine the love that heart enshrined.
A GLIMPSE INTO ARCADIA
PHYLLIS
Thou the tree, and I I
the flower;
Thou the idol, I the
throng;
Thou the day, and I I
the hour;
Thou the singer, I
the song;
Thou the stream, and I
I the willow ;
Thou the sculptor, I
the clay;
Thou the ocean, I the I
billow;
Thou the sunrise, I
the day.
[Exeunt STREPHON
STREPHON-
the tree, and thou the
flower ;
I the idol, thou the
throng ;
the day, and thou the
hour;
I the singer, thou the
song;
the stream, and thou
the willow ;
I the sculptor, thou
the clay;
the ocean, thou the
billow ;
I the sunrise, thou
the day,
and PHYLLIS.]
[March. Enter procession of Peers, headed by
the EARL OF MOUNT ARARAT and EARL;
OF TOLLOLLER.]
CHORUS
Loudly let the trumpet bray
Tantantara !
Gayly bang the sounding brasses
Tzing!
As upon its lordly way
20 DRAMA
This unique procession passes!
Tantantara! tzing! boom!
Bow, ye lower, middle classes !
Bow, ye tradesmen ! bow, ye masses !
Blow the trumpets, bang the brasses!
Tantantara! tzing! boom!
We are peers of highest station,
Paragons of legislation,
Pillars of the British nation!
Tantantara! tzing! boom!
\JEnter the LORD CHANCELLOR, followed by M$
train-bearer,"]
SONG LORD CHANCELLOR
The law is the true embodiment
Of everything that's excellent:
It has no kind of fault or flaw ;
And I, my lords, embody the law*
The constitutional guardian I
Of pretty young wards in Chancery.
All are agreeable girls, and none
Are over the age of twenty-one.
A pleasant occupation for
A rather susceptible Chancellor!
ALL. A pleasant, etc.
But, though the compliment implied
Inflates me with legitimate pride,
It nevertheless can't be denied
That it has its inconvenient side;
A GLIMPSE INTO ARCADIA 21
For I'm not so old and not so plain,
And I'm quite prepared to marry again i
But there'd be the deuce to pay in the Lords
If I fell in love with one of my wards ;
Which rather tries my temper, for
I'm such a susceptible Chancellor!
ALL. Which rather, etc.
And every one who'd marry a ward
Must come to me for my accord;
And in my court I sit all day,
Giving agreeable girls away
With one for him, and one for he,
And one for you, and one for ye,
And one for thou, and one for thee ;
But never, oh never, a one for me ;
Which is exasperating for
A highly susceptible Chancellor!
ALL. Which is, etc.
[Enter LORD TOLLOLLER,]
LORD TOLLOLLER. And now, my lord, suppose
we proceed to the business of the day ?
LORD CHANCELLOR. By all means. Phyllis,
who is a ward of court, has so powerfully affected
your lordships that you have appealed to me in a
body to give her to whichever one of you she may
think proper to select ; and a noble lord has gone
to her cottage to request her immediate attend-
22 DRAMA
ance. It would be idle to deny that I, myself
have the misfortune to be singularly attracted b]
this young person. My regard for her is rapidlj
undermining my constitution. Three months age
I was a stout man. I need say no more. If ]
could reconcile it with my duty, I should un-
hesitatingly award her to myself, for I can con-
scientiously say that I know no man who is sc
well fitted to render her exceptionally happy. But
such an award would be open to misconstruction)
and therefore, at whatever personal inconvenience,
I waive my claim.
LORD TOLLQLLER. My lord, I desire, on the
part of this House, to express its sincere sym-
pathy with your lordship's most painful posi-
tion.
LORD CHANCELLOR. I thank your lordships.
The feelings of a Lord Chancellor who is in love
with a ward of court are not to be envied. What
is his position ? Can he give his own consent to his
own marriage with his own ward ? Can he marry
his own ward without his own consent ? And if he
marries his own ward without his own consent,
can he commit himself for contempt of his own
court? can he appear by counsel before himself to
move for arrest by his own judgment? Ah, my
lords, it is indeed painful to have to sit upon a
woolsack which is stuffed with such thorns as
these.
A GLIMPSE INTO ARCADIA 23
[Enter LORD MOUNT ARARAT.]
LORD MOUNT ARARAT. My lords, I have the
pleasure to inform your lordships that I have
succeeded in persuading the young lady to pre-
sent herself at the bar of this House.
[Enter PHYLLIS.]
RECITATIVE PHYLLIS
My well-loved lord and guardian dear,
You summoned me, and I am here.
CHORUS OF PEERS.
Oh, rapture! how beautiful!
How gentle ! how dutiful !
SOLO LORD TOLLOLLER
Of all the young ladies I know,
This pretty young lady's the fairest!
Her lips have the rosiest show,
Her eyes are the richest and rarest*
Her origin's lowly, it's true,
But of birth and position IVe plenty;
I've a grammar and spelling for two,
And blood and behaviour for twenty,
CHORUS. Her origin's lowly, it's true,
But he's grammar and spelling for two;
Of birth and position he's plenty,
With blood and behaviour for
twenty*
24 DRAMA
SOLO EARL OF MOUNT ARARAT
.Though the views of the House have
diverged
On every conceivable motion,
All questions of party are merged
In a frenzy of love and devotion.
If you ask us distinctly to say
What party we claim to belong to,
We reply, without doubt or delay,
The party I'm singing this song to.
CHORUS. If you ask us distinctly to say,
We reply, without doubt or delay,
That the party we claim we belong to
Is the party we're singing this song
to.
SOLO PHYLLIS
I'm very much pained to refuse,
But I'll stick to my pipes and my
tabors ;
I can spell all the words that I use,
And my grammar's as good as my
neighbour's.
As for birth, I was born like the rest,"
My behaviour is rustic, but hearty;
And I know where to turn for the
best.
When I want a particular party.
A GLIMPSE INTO ARCADIA 25
CHORUS. Though her station is none of the best s
We suppose she was born like the rest ;
And she knows where to look for her
hearty
When she wants a particular party.
RECITATIVE PHYLLIS
PHYLLIS. Nay, tempt me not :
To wealth I'll not be bound
In lowly cot
Alone is virtue found.
ALL. No, no, indeed ; high rank will never hurt
you:
The peerage is not destitute of virtue,
BALLAD LORD TOLLOLLER
Spurn not the nobly born
With love affected,
Nor treat with virtuous scorn
The well-connected.
High rank involves no shame ;
We boast an equal claim
With him of humble name
To be respected*
Blue blood!
Blue blood!
2 DRAMA
When virtuous love is sought,
Thy power Is naught,
Though dating from the Flood,
Blue blood ! ah, blue blood.
fCHORUS. When virtuous love, etc.
Spare us the bitter pain,
With stern denials,
Nor with low-born disctain
Augment our trials.
Hearts just as pure and fair
May beat in Belgrave Square
As in the lowly air
Of Seven Dials.
Blue blood !
Blue blood I
Of what avail art thou
To serve us now,
Though dating from the Flood,
Blue blood? ah, blue blood!
CHORUS, Of what avail art thou, etc.
RECITATIVE PHYLLIS
My lords, it may not be;
With grief my heart is riven ;
You waste your words on me.
For, ah ! my heart is given,
ALL. Given ?
PHYLLIS. Yes, given!
ALL. Oh, horror!
A GLIMPSE INTO ARCADIA 2?
RECITATIVE LORD CHANCELLOR
And who has dared to brave our high displeasure?
And thus defy our definite command?
[Enter STREPHON ; PHYLLIS rushes to his arms.]
STREPHON.
J Tis I, young Strephon ; mine the priceless treas-
ure;
Against the world I claim my darling's hand*
ALL. Ah ! rash one, tremble I
STREPHON, A shepherd I
ALL. A shepherd he!
STREPHO-N. Of Arcady <
ALL. Of Arcadee !
STREPHON 'an d PHYLLIS. Betrothed are we !
ALL. Betrothed are they >
STREPHON and PHYLLIS. And mean to be
Espoused to-day.
ENSEMBLE
STREPHON THE OTHERS
A shepherd I A shepherd he
Of Arcady; Of Arcadee;
Betrothed are we Betrothed is he,
And mean to be And means to be
Espoused to-day. Espoused to-day.
LORD CHANCELLOR. Ah! rash one, tremble!
^ DRAMA
DUET LORD MOUNT and LORD TOLLOLLER*
[aside to Peers].
'Neath this blow,
Worse than stab of dagger.
Though we mo-
mentarily stagger,
In each heart
Proud are we innately;
Let's depart,
Dignified and stately
ALL, Let's depart,
Dignified and stately.
CHORUS OF PEERS
(Though our hearts she's badly bruising
In another suitor choosing,
Let's pretend it's most amusing.
Ha! ha! ha! ha! tzing! boom!
From "lolanthe" by
W. S. GILBERT.
THE MURDER OF DUNCAN
The two generals, Macbeth and bis friend, Banquo*
crossing a blasted heath after their victory over the
king of Norway, are greeted by three witches who pre-
dict that Macbeth will one day be thane of Cawdor
and after that king of Scotland. Almost as soon as they
disappear messengers arrive from the actual king,
Duncan, to say that on the death of the thane of
Cawdor he has given that estate to Macbeth. This
excites Macbeth's ambition to such an extent that when
Duncan, and his two sons, Malcom and Donalbain,
come with their retinue, to spend the night with him>
lie and his wife take advantage of the occasion to
bring about the death of the king. Banquo and his son,
Fleance, are also guests of Macbeth* The scene which
we have chosen is the one in which the? murder takes
place. Lady Macbeth has gone to drug the attendants
so as to clear the way for her husband.
The scene is the court of Macbeth's Castle.
[Enter BANQUO, and FLEANCE bearing a torch
before him.
BANQUO. How goes the night, boy?
FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not
heard the clock
BANQUO, And she goes down at twelve,
FLEANCE. I take't, 'tis later, sir.
BANQUO. Hold,* take my sword. There's hus-
bandry in heaven;
Their candles are all out. Take thee that, too,
29
3O DRAMA
A heavy summons lies like lead upon me,
And yet I would not sleep. Merciful Powers,
Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that natur<
Gives way to in repose !
[Enter MACBETH, and a SERVANT with a torch^
Give me my sword.
Who's there?
MACBETH. A friend.
BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The king's
abed
He hath been in unusual pleasure, and
Sent forth great largess to your offices.
This diamond he greets your wife withal,
By the name of most kind hostess and shut up
In measureless content.
MACBETH. Being unprepar'd,
Our will became the servant to defect,
Which else should free have wrought.
BANQUO. All's well
I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters j
To you they have show'd some truth.
MACBETH. I think not of them.
Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve,
We would spend it in some words, upon that busi-
ness,
If you would grant the time.
BANQUO. At your fcind'st leisure.
MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent,
when 'tis,
It shall make honour for you.
THE MURDER OF DUNCAN JI;
BAIS T QUO. So I lose none
In seeking to augment it, but still keep
My bosom f ranchis'd and allegiance clear,
I shall be counseled.
MACBETH. Good repose the while!
BANQUO. Thanks, sir ; the like to you I
[Exeunt BANQUO and FLEANCE*
MACBETH. Go hid thy mistress, when my drink
is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.
[Exit Servant*
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle towards my hand? Come } let me
clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight ? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshaFst me the way that I was going ;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest ; I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so ' before. There's no such
thing;
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half world
32 DRAMA
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep ; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings, nd wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy
pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his de-
sign
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set
earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it Whiles I threat, he
lives ;
Words to the heat of deeds too cool breath gives.
[A bell rings.
I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to helL Exit.
SCENE II. The Same.
\Enier LADY MACBETH.]
LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them
drunk hath made me bold;
What hath quench'd them hath given me fire.
Hark! Peace!
It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,
THE MURDER OF DUNCAN" 33
Which gives the sternest good night. 1 He is about
it;
The doors are open, and the surfeited grooms
Do mock their charge with snores ; I have drugg'd
their possets,
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live or die.
MACBETH. [PFithinJ Who's there? what, ho!
LADY MACBETH. Alack! I am afraid they have
awak'd,
And 'tis not done. The attempt and not the deed
Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready]
He could not miss *ern. Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done't.
[Enter MACBETH.]
My husband!
MACBETH. I have done the deed. Didst thou
not hear a noise ?
LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and
the crickets cry*
Did not you speak?
MACBETH. When ?
LADY MACBETH. Now.
MACBETH. As I descended!
LADY MACBETH. Ay.
MACBETH. Hark!
Who lies f the second chamber?
1 The hooting of the owl is even now heard by manj
persons with superstitions dread, as an ominous cry.
34 DRAMA
LADY MACBETH. Donalbain*
MACBETH. This is a sorry sight,
[Looking on his hands.
LADY MACBETH- A foolish thought, to say a
sorry sight.
MACBETH. There's one did laugh in's sleep,
and one cried "Murder!"
That they did wake each other; I stood and heard
them ;
But they did say their prayers, and address 5 d
them
Again to sleep.
LADY MACBETH. There are two lodg'd to*
gether.
MACBETH. One cried "God bless us!" and
"Amen !" the other,
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands,
Listening their fear. I could not say '"Amen!"
When they did say "God bless us!"
LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply.
MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pro-
nounce "Amen"?
I had most need of blessing, and "Amen**
Stuck in my throat.
LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be
thought
After these ways ; so, it will make us rnad.
MACBETH. Methought I heard a voice cry,
"Sleep no raore !
Macbeth does murder sleep," the innocent sleep,
THE MURDER OF DUNCAN 35
Sleep that knits up the ravel'd sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast,
LADY MACBETH. What do you mean?
MACBETH, Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to
all the house
"Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Caw-
dor
Shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no
more."
LADY MACBETH. Who was It that thus cried ?
Why, worthy thane,
You do unbend your noble strength to think
So brainsickly of things. Go get some watetv
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.
Why did you bring these daggers from the place 1
They must He there ; go carry them, and smear
[The sleepy grooms with blood,
MACBETH. Ill go no more j
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on't again I dare not.
LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose !
Give me the daggers ; the sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures ; 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal;
For it must seem their guilt.*
[Exit. Knocking within.
MACBETH. Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
3& DRAMA
What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine
eyes.
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will
rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.
[Reenter LADY MACBETH.]
LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your col-
our, but I shame
To wear a heart so white [Knocking within^ I
hear a knocking
At the south entry: retire we to our chamber;
A little water clears us of this deed ;
How easy is it, then ! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended. [Knocking within^
Hark! more knocking.
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,
And show us to be watchers. Be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts,
MACBETH. To know my deed, 'twere best not
know myself. [Knocking within*
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou
couldst! [Exeunt*
From "Macbeth" by
WILLIAM S H AKESPEARE.
FALSTAFF AT THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN
Young Harry Monmouth, Prince of Wales, finds his
greatest delight, not among the noblemen about his
father's court but among the dissolute frequenters of
the Boar's Head Tavern, Poins, Peto, GadshiSl,
Bardolph, and chief of them all, the chief comic char-
acter of all time, Sir John FalstaE This group of
rogues, including Prince Hal, have executed a robbery
on some pilgrims bound for Canterbury. The manner
of it was this: Falstaff, Peto, Bardolph, and Gadshill
robbed them; then the Prince and Poins, in dis-
guise and in jest, robbed the robbers, and easily
enough, at that, for they fled in terror after the first
blow or two. Now the Prince and Poins are waiting
at the Boar's Head Tavern for Falstaif and his
cohorts, wondering what tale of great valour they
will bring with them.
The Scene is The Boars-Head Tavern, East-
cheap.
[Enter the PRINCE and PoiNS.]
PRINCE. Ned, prithee, come out of that fat-
room, and lend me thy hand to laugh a little,
POINS. Where hast been, Hal?
PRINCE. With three or four loggerheads
amongst three or four score hogsheads. I have
sounded the very base-string of humility. Sirrah,
I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers; and
can call them all by their Christian names, as
prom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already
37
38 DRAMA
upon their salvation, that though I be but Prince
of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy; and
tell me flatly I am no proud Jack, like Falstaff,
but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy,
by the Lord, so they call me! and when I am
king of England, I shall command all the good
lads in Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, dye-
ing scarlet ; and when you breathe in your water-
ing, they cry "hem!" and bid you play it off. To
conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter
of an hour, that I can drink with any tinker in
his own language during my life. I tell thee, Ned,
thou hast lost much honour, that thou wert not
with me In this action. But, sweet Ned, to
sweeten the name of Ned, I give thee this penny-
worth of sugar, clapped even now into my hand
by an under-skinker, one that never spake other
English in his life than "Eight shillings and six-
pence," and 'Ton are welcome," with this shrill
addition, "Anon, anon, sir! Score a pint of bastard
in the Half-moon," or so. But, Ned, to drive away
the time till Falstaff come, I prithee, do thou
stand in some by-room, while I question my puny
drawer to what end he gave me the sugar; and
do thou never leave calling "Francis," that his
tale to me may be nothing but "Anon." Step
aside, and 111 show thee a precedent.
POINS. Francis!
PRINCE. Thou are perfect.
POINS. Francis ! [Exit POINS,
FALSTAFF AT THE BQAK/S HEAD TAVERN 39
[Enter FRANCIS.]
FRANCIS. Anon, anon, sir. Look down into
the Pomgarnet, Ralph.
PRINCE. Come hither, Francis.
FRANCIS. My lord ?
PRINCE. How long hast thou to serve, Francis ?
FRANCIS. Forsooth, five years, and as much
as to
POINS [within]. Francis!
FRANCIS. Anon, anon, sir.
PRINCE. Five year! by J r lady, a long lease for
the clinking of pewter. But, Francis, darest thou
be so valiant as to play the coward with thy
indenture and show it a fair pair of heels and run
from it?
FRANCIS. O Lord, sir, I'll be sworn upon all
the books in England, I could find in my heart
POINS [within]. Francis!
FRANCIS. Anon, sir.
PRINCE. How old art thou, Francis?
FRANCIS. Let me see about Michaelmas next
I shall be
POINS [within]. Francis!
FRANCIS. Anon, sir. Pray stay a little, my
lord.
PRINCE. Nay, but hark you, Francis; for the
sugar thou gavest me, 't was a pennyworth,
was *t not?
FRANCIS. O Lord, sir, I would it had been
two!
4O DRAMA
PRINCE. I will give thee for it a thousand
pound; ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt
have it.
POINS [within]. Francis!
FRANCIS. Anon, anon.
PRINCE. Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-
morrow, Francis; or, Francis, o' Thursday; or
indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis !
FRANCIS. My lord?
PRINCE. Wilt thou rob this leathern jerkin,
crystal-button, not-pated, agate-ring, puke-
stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-
pouch,
FRANCIS* O Lord, sir, who do you mean?
PRINCE. Why, then, your brown bastard is
your only drink ; for look you, Francis, your white
canvas doublet will sully: in Barbary, sir, it can-
not come to so much.
FRANCIS. What, sir?
POINS [within]. Francis!
PRINCE. Away, you rogue! dost thou not hear
them call?
[Here they both call him; he stands amazed ,
not knowing which way to ^o.]
{Enter VlNTNER.]
VINTNER- What, stand'st thou still, and hear'st
such a calling? Look to the guests within,
[Exit FRANCIS.] My lord, old Sir John, with
FALSTAFF AT THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN 4!
half-a-dozen more, are at the door; shall I let
them in?
PRINCE. Let them alone awhile, and then open
the door. [Exit VINTNER.] Poins!
[Re-enter PoiNS.]
POINS. Anon, anon, sir.
PRINCE. Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the
thieves are at the door; shall we be merry?
POINS, As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark
ye ; what cunning match have you made with this
jest of the drawer? come, what's the issue?
PRINCE. I am now of all humours that have
showed themselves humours since the old days of
goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present
twelve o'clock at midnight.
[Re-enter FRANCIS.]
What 5 s o'clock, Francis?
FRANCIS. Anon, anon, sir. [Exit.
PRINCE. That ever this fellow should have
fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a
woman! His industry is up-stairs and down-
stairs; his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I
am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the
north ; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of
Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to
his wife "Fie upon this quiet life ! I want work."
a O my sweet Harry," says she, "how many hast
thou killed to-day?" "Give my roam horse a
42 DRAMA
drench/' says he; and answers "Some fourteen/ 5
an hour after; "a trifle, a trifle." I prithee, call
in Falstaff: I'll play Percy, and that damned
brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his wife.
"Rivol" says the drunkard. Call in ribs, call in
tallow,
[Enter FALSTAFF, GADSHILL, BARDOLPH, and
PETO; FRANCIS following with wineJ\
POINS. Welcome, Jack, where hast thou been ?
FALSTAFF. A plague of all cowards, I say, and
a vengeance too! marry, and amen! Give me a
cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I'll
sew nether stocks and mend them and foot them
too. A plague of all cowards ! Give me a cup of
sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant?
[He drinks.
PRINCE. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish
of butter? pitiful-hearted butter, that melted at
the sweet tale of the sun ! if thou didst, then be-
hold that compound.
FALSTAFF, You rogue, here's lime in this sack
too: there is nothing but roguery to be found in
villainous man ; yet a coward is worse than a cup
of sack with lime in it A villainous coward!
Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt, if
manhood, good manhood, -be not forgot upon the
fate of the earth, then am I a shorten herring.
There live not three good men unhanged in Eng-
land; and one of them is fat and grows old;
FALSTAFF AT THE BOARDS, HEAD TAVERN 43
'God help the while ! a bad world, I say. I would
I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or any thing.
A plague of all cowards, I say still.
PRINCE. How now, wool-sack! what mutter
you?
FALSTAFF. A king's son! If I do not beat thee
out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and
drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock bf
wild-geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more.
You Prince of Wales !
PRINCE. Why, you whoreson round man,
what's the matter?
FALSTAFF. Are not you a coward? answer me
to that, and Poins there?
POINS. Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me
coward, by the Lord, I'll stab thee.
FALSTAFF. I call thee coward! I'll see thee
damned ere I call thee coward ; but I would give
a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou;
canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders,
you care not who sees your back; call you that
backing of your friends? A plague upon such
backing! give me them that will face me. Give
me a cup of sack ; I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day.
PRINCE. O villain! thy Mps are scarce wiped
since thou drunkest last.
FALSTAFF. All's one for that. [He drinks."] A
plague of all cowards, still say L
PRINCE. What's the matter?
FALSTAFF. What's the matter! there be four
44 DRAMA
of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this day
morning.
PRINCE. Where is it, Jack? where is it?
FALSTAFF. Where is it! taken from us it is;
a hundred upon poor four of us.
PRINCE. What, a hundred, man?
FALSTAFF. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-
sword with a dozen of them two hours together,
I have escaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust
through the doublet, four through the hose; my
buckler cut through and through; my sword
hacked like a hand-saw ecce signum! I never
dealt better since I was a man ; all would not do.
A plague of all cowards! Let them speak; if
they speak more or less than truth, they are vil-
lains and the sons of darkness.
PRINCE. Speak, sirs; how was it?
GADSHILL. We four set upon some dozen
FALSTAFF. Sixteen at least, my lord.
GADSHILL. And bound them.
PETO. No, no, they were not bound.
FALSTAFF. You rogue, they were bound, every
man of them ; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.
GADSHILL. As we were sharing, some six or
seven fresh men set upon us
FALSTAFF. And unbound the rest, and then
come in the other.
PRINCE. What, fought you with them all ?
FALSTAFF. All! I know not what you call
all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am
FALSTAFF AT THE BOARDS READ TAVERN 45
a bunch of radish: if there were not two or
three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no
two-legged creature.
PRINCE. Pray God you have not murthered
some of them.
FALSTAFF, Nay, that's past praying for: I have
peppered two of them ; two I am sure I have paid,
two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what,
Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me
horse. Thou knowest my old ward; here I lay,
and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram
let drive at me
PRINCE. What, four? thou saidst but two even
now.
FALSTAFF. Four, Hal ; I told thee four.
POINS. Ay, ay, he said four.
FALSTAFF. These four came all a-front, and
mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado but
took all their seven points in my target, thus.
PRINCE. Seven? why, there were but four even
now.
FALSTAFF. In buckram ?
POINS. Ay, four, in buckram suits.
FALSTAFF. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a vil-
lain else.
PRINCE. Prithee, let him alone ; we shall have
more anon.
FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear me, Hal ?
PRINCE. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.
FALSTAFF. Do so, for it is worth the listening
46 DRAMA
to. These nine in buckram that I told thee of
PRINCE. So, two more already.
FALSTAFF. Their points being broken,
PGINS. Down fell their hose.
FALSTAFF. Began to give me ground: but I
followed me closej came in foot and hand; and
with a thought seven of the eleven I paid.
PRINCE* O monstrous! eleven buckram men
grown out of two !
FALSTAFF* But, as the devil would have it,
three misbegotten knaves in Kendal green came
at my back and let drive at me; for it was
so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy
hand.
PRINCE. These lies are like their father that
!>egets them ; gross as a mountain, open, palpable.
Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated
fool, thou whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow*
catch,
FALSTAFF. What, art thou mad? art thou mad?
Is not the truth the truth ?
PRINCE. Why, how couldst thou know these
men in Kendal green, when It was so dark thou
couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us your
reason ; what sayest thou to this ?
POINS. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.
FALSTAFF. What, upon compulsion? Zounds,
an I were at the strappado, or all the racks in
the world, I would not tell you on compulsion,
Give you a reason on compulsion ! if reasons were
FALSTAFF AT THE BOAR S HEAD TAVERN 47
as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man
a reason upon compulsion, I.
PRINCE. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin;
this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this
horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh,
FALSTAFF. 'Sblood, you starveling, you eel-skin*
you dried neat's tongue, you stock-fish, O for
breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's
yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing-
tuck,
PRINCE. Well, breathe awhile, and then to it
again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base
comparisons, hear me speak but this,
POINS. Mark, Jack.
PRINCE. We two saw you four set on four and
bound them, and were masters of their wealth,
Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down.
Then did we two set on your four ; and, with a
word, out-faced you from your prize, and have
it; yea, and can show it you here in the house:
and, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as
nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for
mercy and still run and roared, as ever I heard
bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy
sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in
fight! What trick, what device, what starting-
hole, canst thou now find out to hide thee from
this open and apparent shame ?
POINS. Come, let's hear, Jack; what trick hast
thou now?
48 DRAMA
FALSTAFF. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as
he that made ye. Why, hear you, my masters;
was it for me to kill the heir-apparent ? should I
turn upon the true prince? why, thou knowest I
am as valiant as Hercules: but beware instinct;
the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct
Is a great matter ; I was now a coward on instinct.
I shall think the better of myself and thee during
my life; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true
prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you
have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors;
watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads,
boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellow-
ship come to you! What, shall we be merry? shall
we have a play extempore ?
PRINCE. Content; and the argument shall be
thy running away.
FALSTAFF. Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou
lovest me.
{Enter HOSTESS.]
HOSTESS. O Jesu, my lord the prince!
PRINCE. How now, my lady the hostess ! what
sayest thou to me ?
HOSTESS. Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman
of the court at door would speak with you; he
says he comes from your father.
PRINCE. Give him as much as will make him
a royal man, and send him back again to my
mother.
FALSTAFF AT THE BOAR. S HEAD TAVERN 49
FALSTAFF. What manner of man is he?
HOSTESS. An old man.
FALSTAFF. What doth gravity out of his bed
at midnight? Shall I give him his answer?
PRINCE. Prithee, do, Jack.
FALSTAFF. Faith, and 111 send him packing.
[Exit*
PRINCE. Now, sirs : by y r lady, you fought fair ;
so did you, Peto; so did you, Bardolph: you
are lions too, you ran away upon instinct, you will
not touch the true prince ; no, fie !
BARDOLPH. Faith, I ran when I saw others
run.
PRINCE. Tell me now in earnest, how came
FalstafP s sword so hacked ?
PETO. Why, he hacked it with his dagger, and
said he would swear truth out of England but he
would make you believe it was done in fight, and
persuaded us to do the like.
BARDOLPH. Yea, and to tickle our noses with
spear-grass to make them bleed, and then to be-
slubber our garments with it and swear it was
the blood of true men. I did that I did not this
seven year before, I blushed to hear his monstrous
devices.
PRINCE. O villain, thou stolest a cup of sack
eighteen years ago, and wert taken with the man-
ner, and ever since thou hast blushed extempore.
Thou hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet
thou rannest away; what instinct hadst thou for
it?
SO DRAMA
BARDOLPH. My lord, do you see these meteors?
do you behold these exhalations?
PRINCE. I do.
BARDOLPH. What think you they portend?
PRINCE. Hot livers and cold purses.
BARDOLPH. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken.
PRINCE. No, if rightly taken, halter.
[Re-enter FALSTAFF.]
Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone.
How now, my sweet creature of bombast! How
long it J t ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own
knee?
FALSTAFF. My own knee! when I was about
thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle's talon in the
waist; I could have crept into any alderman's
thumb-ring: a plague of sighing and grief! it
blows a man up like a bladder. There's villainous
news abroad: here was Sir John Bracy from your
father; you must come to the court in the morn-
ing. That same mad fellow of the north, Percy*
and he of Wales, that gave Amamon the bastin-
ado and made Lucifer cuckold and , swore the
devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh
hook what a plague call you him?
POINS. O, Glendower.
FALSTAFF. Owen, Owen, the same; and his
son-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland*
and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that
runs o* horseback up a hill perpendicular,
FALSTAFF AT THE BOAR V HEAD TAVERN 5JD
PRINCE. He that rides at high speed and with
his pistol kills a sparrow flying.
FALSTAFF. You have hit it.
PRINCE. So did he never the sparrow.
FALSTAFF. Well, that rascal hath good mettle
in him ; he will not run.
PRINCE. Why, what a rascal art them then to
praise him so for running!
FALSTAFF. O y horseback, ye cuckoo; but afoot
he will not budge a foot.
PRINCE. Yes, Jack, upon instinct.
FALSTAFF. I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he
is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand
blue-caps more. Worcester is stolen away to-
night ; thy father's beard is turned white with the
news: you may buy land now as cheap as stink-
ing mackerel. But tell me, Hal, art not thou
horrible afeard? thou being heir-apparent, could
the world pick thee out three such enemies again
as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that
devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly afraid?
doth not thy blood thrill at it ?
PRINCE. Not a whit, i 7 faith ; I lack some of
thy instinct.
FALSTAFF. Well, thou wilt be horribly chic!
to-morrow when thou comest to thy father; if
thou love me, practise an answer.
PRINCE. Do thou stand for my father, and ex-
amine me upon the particulars of my life.
FALSTAFF. Shall I ? content ; this chair 'shall
52 DRAMA
be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this
cushion my crown ,
PRINCE. Thy state is taken for a joined-stool,
thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy
precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown!
FALSTAFF. Well, an the fire of grace be not
quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved.
Give me a cup of sack to make my eyes look red,
that it may be thought I have wept ; for I must
ispeak in passion, and I will do it in King Cam-
byses' vein.
PRINCE. Well, here is my leg.
FALSTAFF. And here is my speech. Stand
aside, nobility.
HOSTESS. O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i*
faith!
FALSTAFF. Weep not, sweet queen, for trick-
ling tears are vain.
HOSTESS. O, the father, how he holds his coun-
tenance !
FALSTAFF. For God's sake, lords, convey my
tristful queen; For tears do stop the flood-gates
of her eyes.
HOSTESS. O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these
harlotry players as ever I see!
FALSTAFF, Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good
tickle-brain. Harry, I do not only marvel where
thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art ac-
companied: for though the camomile, the more
jt is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the
FALSTAFF AT THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN ^J
more it -is wasted the sooner it wears. That thou
art my son, I have partly thy mother's word,
partly my own opinion, but chiefly a villainous
trick of thine eye and a foolish hanging of thy
nether lip, that doth warrant me. If then thou be
son to me, here lies the point ; why, being son to
me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun
of heaven prove a micher and eat blackberries?*
a question not to be asked. Shall the son of Eng-
land prove a thief and take purses? <a question
to be asked. There is a thing, Harry, which thou
hast often heard of and it is known to many in
our land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as an-
cient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the
company thou keepest: for, Harry f now I do
not speak to thee in drink but in tears, not in
pleasure but in passion, not in words only, but In
woes also: and yet there is a virtuous man whom
I have often noted in thy company, but I know
not his name.
PRINCE. What manner of man, an it like your
majesty ?
FALSTAFF. A goodly portly man, F faith, and
a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing fy<% and
a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age
some fifty, or, by 'r lady, inclining to three score;
and now I remember me, his name h Falstaff:
if that man should be lewdly given, he dwivetft
me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his look. If then
the tree may be known by the fruit, as tfic fruit
54 DRAMA
by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is
virtue in that Falstaff; him keep with, the rest
banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell
me, where hast thou been this month ?
PRINCE. Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou
stand for me, and 111 play my father.
FALSTAFF. Depose me? if thou dost it half so
gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter,
hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker or a
poulter's hare.
PRINCE. Well, here I am set.
FALSTAFF. And here I stand. Judge, my mas-
ters.
PRINCE. Now, Harry, whence come you?
FALSTAFF. My noble lord, from Eastcheap.
PRINCE. The complaints I hear of thee are
grievous.
FALSTAFF. 'Sblood, my lord, they are false;
nay, I'll tickle ye for a young prince, i' faith.
PRINCE. Swearest thou, ungracious boy ? hence-
forth ne'er look on me. Thou are violently car-
ried away from grace: there is a devil haunts
thee in the likeness of a fat old man; a tun of
man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse
with that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of
beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that
huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of
guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pud-
ding in his belly, that reverent vice, that grey in-
iquity, that father ruffian,, that vanity in years?
FALSTAFF AT THE B0AR ? S HEAD TAVERN 55
Wherein Is he good, but to taste sack and drink it?
wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon
and eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? where-
in crafty, but in villainy? wherein villainous, but
in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?
FALSTAFF. I would your grace would take me
with you ; whom means your grace ?
PRINCE. That villainous abominable misleader
of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.
FALSTAFF. My lord, the man I know.
PRINCE. I know thou dost.
FALSTAFF. But to say I know more harm in
him than in myself, were to say more than I
know. That he is old, the more the pity, his white
hairs do witness it; but that he is, saving your
reverence, a whoremaster, that I utterly deny.
If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked !
if to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old
host that I know is damned; if to be fat be to
be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be
loved. No, my good lord: banish Peto, banish
Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Fal-
staff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, val-
iant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant,
being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him
thy Haxry y s company, banish not him thy Harry's
company: banish plump Jack, and banish all the
world.
PRINCE. I do, I will [A knocking heard.
[Exeunt HOSTESS, FRANCIS, and BARDOLPH.
56 DRAMA
[Re-enter BARDOLPH, running^
BARDOLPH. O, my lord, my lord! the sheriff
with a most monstrous watch is at the door.
FALSTAFF. Out, ye rogue ! Play out the play ;
I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.
[Re-enter the HOSTESS.]
HOSTESS. O Jesu, my lord, my lord !
PRINCE. Heigh, heigh! the devil rides upon a
fiddlestick. What's the matter?
HOSTESS. The sheriff and all the watch are at
the door; they are come to search the house.
Shall I let them in?
FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear, Hal? never call a
true piece of gold a counterfeit; thou art essen-
tially mad, without seeming so.
PRINCE, And thou a natural coward, without
instinct.
FALSTAFF. I deny your major. If you will deny
the sheriff, so; if not, let him enter: if I become
not a cart as well as another man, a plague on
my bringing up! I hope I shall as soon be
strangled with a halter as another.
PRINCE. Go, hide thee behind the arras; the
rest walk up above. Now, my masters, for a
true face and good conscience.
FALSTAFF. Both which I have had; but their
date is out, and therefore I'll hide me,
PRINCE. Call in the sheriff.*
FALSTAFF AT THE BOARDS HEAD TAVERN 3?
[Exeunt all except the PRINCE and PETO.
[Enter SHERIFF and the CARRIER.]
Now, master sheriff, what Is your will with me?
SHERIFF. First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and
cry
Hath followed certain men unto this house.
PRINCE. What men?
SHERIFF.- One of them is well known, my gra-
cious lord,
A gross fat man.
CARRIER. As fat as butter.
PRINCE. The man, I do assure you, is not here ;
For I myself at this time have employ 'd him.
And, sheriff', I will engage my word to thee
That I will, by to-morrow dinner-time,
Send him to answer thee, or any man,
For anything he shall be charg'd withal;
And so let me entreat you leave the house.
SHERIFF. I will, my lord. There are two
gentlemen
Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.
PRINCE. It may be so: if he have robb'd these
men,
He shall be answerable ; and so farewell.
SHERIFF. Good night, my noble lord.
PRINCE. I think it is good morrow, is it not?
SHERIFF. Indeed, my lord, I think it be two
o'clock. [Exeunt SHERIFF and CARRIER.
PRINCE. This oily rascal is known as well as
Paul's. Go, call him forth.
58 DRAMA
PETO, Falstaff! Fast asleep behind the arras,
and snorting like a horse.
PRINCE. Hark, how hard he fetches breath.
Search his pockets. {He searcheth his pockets.]
What hast thou found ?
PETO. Nothing but papers, my lord.
PRINCE. Let's see what they be ; read them.
PETO. [Reads.} f Item, A capon, * . as. 2 d.
Item, Sauce , . . . 4^.
Item, Sack, two gal-
lons, . 5*. 8#.
Item, Anchovies and
sack after supper, 2$.6d
, Item, Bread, . ob,
PRINGE. monstrous! but one half-penny-
worth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack!
What there is else, keep close; we'll read it at
more advantage. There let him sleep till day. Ill
to the court in the morning. We must all to the
wars, and thy place shall be honourable. I'll pro-
cure this fat rogue a charge of foot ; and I know
his death will be a march of twelve-score. The
money shall be paid back again with advantage.
Be with me betimes in the morning ; and so, good
morrow, Peto. [Exeunt.
PETO* Good morrow, good my lord.
From "King Henry IV" Pt I
by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
FAUST AND MARGARET
Faust, having exhausted the joys of intellectual life,
enters into league with the? devil, Mephistopheles,
promising him his soul if he can show him how to
find complete delight elsewhere. The two set out to-
gether. Faust catches sight of Margaret, and with the
help of the devil, decides that the secret lies in love
and sets out to find it In the two scenes here we have
the beginning of Margaret's temptation,
The scene is a street*
FAUST. MARGARET [passing by.]
FAUST
FAIR lady, let it not offend you,
That arm and escort I would lend you!
MARGARET
I'm neither lady, neither fair,
And home I can go without your care,
[She releases herself : , and exit*
FAUST
By Heaven, the girl is wondrous fair !
Of all IVe seen, beyond compare ;
So sweetly virtuous and pure,
And yet a little pert, be sure 1
The lip so red, the cheek's clear dawn,
59
6O DRAMA
I'll not forget while the world rolls on !
How she cast down her timid eyes,
Deep in my heart imprinted lies :
How short and sharp of speech was she,
Why, *t was a real ecstasy !
[MEPHIISTOPHELES enters.J
FAUST
Hear of that girl I'd have possession!
MEPHISTOPHELES
Which, then?
FAUST
The one who just went by,
MEPHISTOPHELES
She, there ? She's coming from confession,
Of every sin absolved; for I,
Behind her chair, was listening nigh.
So innocent is she, indeed,
That to confess she had no need.
I have no power o'er souls so green.
FAUST
And yet, she's older than fourteen,
MEPHISTOPHELES
How now! You're talking like Jack Rake s
Who every flower for himself would take,
And fancies there are no favours more,
Nor honours, save for him in store ;
[Yet always doesn't the thing succeed
FAUST AN1> MARGARET 6l
FAUST
Most Worthy Pedagogue, take heed !
Let not a word of moral law be spoken !
I claim, I tell thee, all my right ;
And if that image of delight
Rest not within mine arms to-night.
At midnight is our compact broken.
MEPHISTOPHELES
But think, the chances of the case !
I need, at least, a fortnight's space,
To find an opportune occasion.
FAUST
Had I but seven hours for all,
I should not on the Devil call,
But win her by my own persuasion.
MEPHISTOPHELES
You almost like a Frenchman prate;
Yet, pray, don't take it as annoj^ance!
Why, all at once, exhaust the joyance?
Your bliss is by no means so great
As if you'd use, to get control,
All sorts of tender rigmarole,
And knead and shape her to your thought,
As in Italian tales 't is taught.
FAUST
Without that, I have appetite.
Ba DRAMA:
MEPHISTOPHELES
But noWj leave jesting out of sight!
I tell you, once for all, that speed
With this fair girl will not succeed ;
By storm she cannot captured be;
We must make use of strategy.
FAUST
Get me something the angel keeps!
Lead me thither where she sleeps !
Get me a kerchief from her breast,
A gartar that her knee has pressed!
M EP HISTOPHELES
That you may see how much I'd fairi
Further and satisfy your pain,
We will no longer lose a minute;
I'll find her room to-day, and take you In it.
FAUST
And shall I see possess her?
MEPHISTOPHELES
No I
Unto a neighbour she must go,
And meanwhile thou, alone, mayst glow
With every hope of future pleasure,
Breathing her atmosphere in fullest measure.
FAUST
Can we go thither?
FAUST AND MARGARET 63'
MEPHISTOPHELES
'T is too early yet,
FAUST
A gift for her I bid thee get !
IE*!*.
MEPHISTOPHELES
Presents at once ? That's good : he's certain to get
at her!
Full many a pleasant place I know,
And treasures, buried long ago:
I must, perforce, look up the matter*
[Exit.
EVENING
'A sm^ll, neatly kept Chamber.
MARGARET [plaiting and binding up the braids
of her hair}*
I'd something give, could I but say
Who was that gentleman, to-day,
Surely a gallant man was he,
And of a noble family;
So much could I in his face behold,
And he wouldn't else, have been so bold !
[Exit.
$4 DRAMA
MEPHISTOPHELES. FAUST
MEPHISTOPHELES
Come in, but gently: follow mel
FAUST [after a moment's silence j,
Leave me alone, I beg of thee !
MEPHISTOPHELES {.prying about}.
Not every girl keeps things so neat.
FAUST \looking around].
O welcome, twilight soft and sweet,
That breathes throughout this hallowed shrine!
Sweet pain of love, bind thou with fetters fleet
The heart that on the dew of hope must pine !
How all around a sense impresses
Of quiet, order, and content!
This poverty what bounty blesses !
What bliss within this narrow den is pent!
\{He throws himself into a leathern arm-chaii
near the bedJ\
Receive me, thou, that in thine open arms
Departed joy and pain were wont to gather!
How oft the children, with their ruddy charms
Hung here, around this throne, where sat th<
father!
Perchance my love, amid the childish band,
Grateful for gifts the Holy Christmas gave her,
'Here meekly kissed the grandsire's withered hand
I feel, O maid! thy very soul
FAUST AND MARGARET 65
Of order and content around me whisper,
Which leads thee with Its motherly control,
The cloth upon thy board bids smoothly thee un-
roll,
The sand beneath thy feet makes whiter, crisper,
dearest hand, to the *t is given
To change this hut into a lower heaven !
And here!
[He lifts one of the bed-cur tains. ~\
What sweetest thrill is in my blood!
Here could I spend whole hours, delaying:
Here Nature shaped, as if in sportive playing,
The angel blossom from the bud.
Here lay the child, with Life's warm essence
The tender bosom filled and fair,
And here was wrought, through holier, purer
presence*
The form diviner beings wear!
And I? What drew me here with power?
How deeply am I moved, this hour!
What seek I? Why so full my heart, and sore 2
Miserable Faust ! I know thee now no more.
Is there a magic vapor here?
1 came, with lust of instant pleasure,
And lie dissolved in dreams of love's sweet
leisure !
Are we the sport of every changeful atmosphere?
66 DRAMA
And If, this moment, came she in to me,
How would I for the fault atonement render!
How small the giant lout would be,
Prone at her feet, relaxed and tender !
MEPHISTOPHELES
Be quick ! I see her there, returning.
FAUST
Go! go! I never will retreat,
MEPHISTOPHELES
Here is a casket, not unmeet,
Which elsewhere I have just been earning.
Here, set it in the press, with haste!
I swear, *t will turn her head, to spy it ;
Some baubles I therein had placed,
That you might win another by it.
True, child is child, and play is play.
FAUST
I know not, should I do it?
MEPHISTOPHELES
Ask you, pray?
Yourself, perhaps, would keep the bubble?
Then I suggest, *t were fair and just
To spare the lovely day your lust,
And spare to me the further trouble.
You are not misery, I trust?
I rub my hands, in expectation tender r
FAUST AND MARGARET 67
'[He places the casket in the press^ 'and locks it
again .]
Now quick, away!
The sweet young maiden to betray,
So that by wish and will you bend her;
And you look as though
To the lecture-hall you were forced to go,*
As if stood before you, grey and loath,
Physics and Metaphysics both !
But away!
[Exeunt.
MARGARET [with a lamp}.
It is so close, so sultry, here !
[She opens the window!}
And yet 't is not so warm outside,
I feel, I know not why, such fear!
Would mother came ! where can she bide ?
My body's chill and shuddering,
I'm but a silly, fearsome thing !
[She begins to slng t while undressing
There was a King in Thule,
Was faithful till the grave,
(To whom his mistress, dying,
A golden goblet gave.
Naught was to him more precious ;
He drained it at every bout:
88 DRAMA
His eyes with tears ran over,
As oft as he drank thereout.
When came his time of dying,
The towns in his land he told,
Naught else to his heir denying
Except the goblet of gold.
'He sat at the royal banquet
With his knights of high degree.
In the lofty hall of his fathers
In the Castle by the Sea.
There stood the old carouser,
And drank the last life-glow;
And hurled the hallowed goblet
Into the tide below.
He saw it plunging and filling,
And sinking deep in the sea:
Then fell his eyelids forever,
And never more drank he!
^She opens the press in order to arrange her
clothes j and perceives the casket of jewels.^
How comes that lovely casket here to me?
I locked the press, most certainly.
'T is truly wonderful I What can within it be ?
Perhaps \ was brought by some one as a pawn,
And mother gave a loan thereon ?
And here there hangs a key to fit:
FAUST AND MARGARET 69
I have a mind to open it,
What is that? God in heaven! Whence came
Such things? Never beheld I aught so fair!
Rich ornaments, such as a noble dame
On highest holidays might wear !
How would the pearl-chain suit my hair?
Ah, who may all this splendour own?
[She adorns herself with the jewellery, and steps
before the mirror.]
Were but the ear-rings mine, alone!
One has at once another air.
What helps one's beauty, youthful blood?
One may possess them, well and good ;
But none the more do others care.
They praise us half in pity, sure:
To gold still tends,
On gold depends
All, all! Alas, we poor!
From "Faust" by
JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE,
translated by BAYARD TAYLOR,
TARTUFFE
[The three acts presented here were first performed
at the Court of Versailles in 1664, but were immedi-
ately suppressed by all the religious factions. The
play's first public appearance was in 1667. Again it
was suppressed. In 1669 it appeared again, and there
was no serious trouble, but it is interesting to know
that at the time of Moliere's death there was a move-
ment on the part of the factions to deny him Christian
burial on account of the hostility which this play had
aroused.]
DRAMATIS PERSONS
ORGOIST, husband to ELMIRE,
DAMIS, his son.
VALERE, MARIANE'S lover.
CLEANTE, ORGON'S brother-in-law.
TARTUFFE.
M. LOYAL, a tipstaff
A POLICE OFFICER.
ELMIRE, ORGON'S wife.
MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON'S mother,
MARIANE, ORGON'S daughter.
DORINE, her maid.
FLIPOTE, MADAME PERNELLE'S servant.
The scene is in Paris, in ORGON'S HOUSE.
70
TARTUFFE 71
ACT I
SCENE L MADAME PERNELLE, ELMIRE. MARI-
ANE, CLEANTE, DAMIS, DORINE, FLIPOTE.
MADAME PERNELLE. Come along, Flipote,
come along; let us get away from them.
ELMIRE. You walk so fast, that one can hardly
keep up with you,
MADAME PERNELLE. Do not trouble yourself,
daughter-in-law, do not trouble yourself, do not
come any farther; there is no need for all this
ceremony.
ELMIRE. We only give you your due. But pray.
Mother, why are you in such haste to leave us?
MADAME PERNELLE. Because I cannot bear
to see such goings on. No one cares to please me.
I leave your house very little edified: all my ad-
vice is despised; nothing Is respected, everyone
lias his say aloud, and it is just like the court of
King Petaud.
DORINE. If ...
MADAME PERNELLE. You are, my dear, a lit-
tle too much of a talker, and a great deal too
saucy for a waiting maid. You give your advice
about everything.
DAMIS. But . . .
MADAME PERNELLE. Four letters spell your
name, my child, a "fool"; I, your grandmother,
tell you so; and I have already predicted to my
son, your father, a hundred times, that you are
72 DRAMA
fast becoming a good-for-nothing, who will give
him nought but trouble.
MARIANE. I think . . .
MADAME PERNELLE. Good-lack! granddaugh-
ter, you play the prude, and to look at you, but-
ter would not melt in your mouth. But still
waters tun deep, as the saying is; and I do not
like your sly doings at all.
ELMIRE. But, Mother . .
MADAME PERNELLE. By your leave, daughter*
In-law, your whole conduct is altogether wrong;
you ought to set them a good example ; and their
late mother managed them a great deal better.
You are extravagant; and it disgusts me to see
you decked out like a princess. The woman who-
wishes to please her husband only, daughter-in*
law, has no need of so much finery.
CLEANTE. But after all, Madam . . .
MADAME PERNELLE. As for you, Sir, who are
her brother, I esteem, love, and respect you very
much ; but, nevertheless, if I were my son and her
husband, I would beg of you earnestly not to
enter our house. You are always laying down
maxims which respectable people ought not to
follow. I speak to you rather frankly; but it is
a way I have got, and I do not mince my words
when I have something on my mind.
DAMIS. Your M. Tartuffe is an angel, no
doubt . . .
MADAME PERNELLE. He is a very worthy
TARTUFFE 73
man, who ought to be listened to ; and I cannot^
without getting angry, suffer him to be sneered at
by a fool like you.
DAMIS. What! am I to allow a censorious
bigot to usurp an absolute authority in this house I
and shall we not be permitted to amuse ourselves,,
unless that precious gentleman condescends to
give us leave !
DORINE. If any one were to listen to him and
believe in his maxims, one could not do anything
without committing a sin; for he controls every-
thing, this carping critic.
MADAME PERNELLE. And whatever he does
control, is well controlled. He wishes to lead you
on the road to Heaven: and my son ought to
make you all love him.
DAMIS. No, look here, Grandmother, neither
Father nor any one else shall ever induce me to
look kindly upon him. I should belie my heart to
'say otherwise. His manners every moment enrage
me; I can foresee the consequence, and one time
or other I shall have to come to an open quarrel
with this low-bred fellow.
DORINE. Certainly, it is a downright scandal
to see a stranger exercise such authority in this
house ; to see a beggar, who, when he came, had
not a shoe to his foot, and whose whole dress
may have been worth twopence, so far forget
himself as to cavil at everything, and to assume
the authority of a master.
74 DRAMA
MADAME PERNELLE. Eh ! mercy on me ! things
would go on much better if everything were
managed according to his pious directions.
DORINE. He passes for a saint in your opinion ;
but believe me, he is nothing but a hypocrite.
MADAME PERNELLE. What a tongue !
DORINE. I should not like to trust myself with
him, nor with his man Laurent, without a good
guarantee.
MADAME PERNELLE. I do not know what the
servant may be at heart ; but as for the master, I
will vouch for him as a good man. You bear him
ill-will, and only reject him because he tells all of
you the truth. It is against sin that his heart
waxes wrothj and his only motive is the interest
of Heaven.
DORINE. Ay; but why, particularly for some
time past, can he not bear any one to come to the
house? What is there offensive to Heaven in a
civil visit, that there must be a noise about it fit
to split one's ears? Between ourselves, do you
wish me to explain? . . . [pointing to ELMIRE].
Upon my word, I believe him to be jealous of my
mistress.
MADAME PERNELLE. Hold your tongue, and
mind what you say. It is not he only who blames
these visits. All the bustle of these people who
frequent this house, these carriages everlastingly
standing at the door, and the noisy crowd of so
many servants, cause a great disturbance in the
TARTUFFE 75
whole neighbourhood* I am willing to believe
that there is really no harm done ; but people will
talk of it, and that is not right,
CLEANTE. Alas, Madam, will you prevent peo-
ple talking? It would be a very hard thing if, in
life, for the sake of the foolish things which may
be said about us, we had to renounce our best
friends. And even if we could resolve to do so,
do you think we could compel every one to hold
his tongue? There is no protection against slan-
der. Let us, therefore, pay no regard to all this
silly tittle-tattle ; let us endeavour to live honestly,
and leave the gossips to say what they please.
DORINE. May not Daphne, our neighbour, and
her little husband, be those who speak ill of us?
They whose own conduct is the most ridiculous
are always the first to slander others. They never
fail to catch eagerly at the slightest rumour of a
love-affair, to spread the news of it with joy, and
to give it the turn which they want. They think
to justify their own actions before the world by
those of others, painted in colours of their choos-
ing, either in the false expectation of glossing
over their own intrigues with some semblance of
innocence, or else by making to fall elsewhere
some part of that public blame with which they
are too heavily burdened.
MADAME PERNELLE. All these arguments are
nothing to the purpose. Orante is known to lead
an exemplary life. All her cares tend to Heaven;
76 DRAMA
and I have learned from people that she strongly
condemns the company who visit here.
DORINE. An admirable pattern indeed, and
she is very good, this lady ! It is true that she lives
very austerely; but age has put this ardent zeal
into her breast; people know that she is a prude
against her own will. She enjoyed her advantages
well enough as long as she was capable of attract-
ing attentions; but, seeing the lustre of her eyes
become somewhat dim, she renounces the world
which is renouncing her, and conceals under the
pompous cloak of lofty wisdom, the decay of her
worn-out charms. These are the vicissitudes of
coquettes in our time. They find it hard to see
their admirers desert them. Thus forsaken, their
gloomy anxiety sees no other resource but that
of prudery ; and the severity of these good women
censures everything and pardons nothing. Loudly
they blame everyone's life, not through charity,
but through envy, which cannot bear another to
enjoy those pleasures for which their age gives
them no longer a relish.
MADAME PERNELLE \to ELMIRE]. These are
cock-and-bull stories, made to please you, daugh-
ter-in-law. One is obliged to keep silence here,
for Madam keeps the ball rolling all day. But I
also will have my say in my turn. I tell you that
my son has never done anything more sensible
than in receiving this devout personage in his
house; that Heaven itself, in time of need, has
TARTUFFE 77
sent him here to reclaim all your erring minds, 9
that for your salvation's sake, you ought to listen
to him ; and that he censures nothing but what is
reprehensible. These visits, these balls, these con-
versations, are all inventions of the evil one. One
never hears a pious word uttered at any of them ;
nothing but tittle-tattle, nonsense, and silly gossip*
Very often our neighbour comes in for his share
of it, and there is back-biting going on right and
left. In short, sensible people have their heads
turned by the confusion of such meetings. A
thousand idle stories are told in no time ; and, as
a certain doctor said very aptly the other day,
it is a perfect tower of Babylon, for everyone
chatters to his heart's content; and, to show you
what brought this up ... [pointing to CLE-*
ANTE], But here is this gentleman giggling ak
ready! Go and look for some fools to laugh at,
and without ... [to ELMIRE]. Good-bye,
daughter-in-law ; I will say no more. I make you
a present of the rest, but it will be a fine day
when I set my foot in your house again. {Slap-
ping FLIPOTE'S face."] Come along you, you
stand dreaming and gaping here. Ods bobs! I
shall warm your ears for you. March on, slut*
march on.
SCENE II. CLEANTE, DORINE.
CLEANTE, I shall not go with her, for fear she
78 DRAMA
should fall foul of me again; that this good
lady . . .
DORINE. Ah ! It is a pity that she does not hear
you say so: she would tell you that you are good,
but that she is not yet old enough to be called so.
CLEANTE. How she fired up against us for
nothing! And how infatuated she seems with her
Tartuffe!
DORINE. Oh! indeed, all this is nothing com-
pared with the son: and if you saw him, you
would say it is much worse. During our troubles
he acted like a man of sense, and displayed some
courage in the service of his prince; but since he
has grown so fond of this Tartuffe, he is become
a perfect dolt. He calls him brother, and loves
him in his very soul a hundred times better than
either mother, son, daughter, or wife. He is the
sole confidant of all his secrets, and the prudent
director of all his actions; he caresses him, em-
braces him; and one could show no more affec-
tion, I think, to a mistress. He will have him
seated at the upper end of the table, and is de-
lighted to see him eat as much as six ; the choicest
morsels of everything must be given to him ; and,
if he happens to belch, he says to him "God pre-
serve you." In short, he is crazy about him ; he is
his all, his hero ; he admires everything he does,
he quotes him on all occasions; he looks upon his
most trifling actions as miracles, and every word
he utters is considered an oracle. The other, who
TARTUFFE 79
knows his dupe, and wishes to make the most of
him, has the art of dazzling him by a hundred
deceitful appearances. His pretended devotion
draws money from him at every hour of the day ;
and assumes the right of commenting upon the
conduct of every one of us. Even the jackanapes,
his servant, pretends also to read us a lesson ; he
comes preaching to us with fierce looks, and
throws away our ribbons, our paint, and our
patches. Only the other day, the wretch tore a
handkerchief which he had found between the
leaves of "The Flower of the Saints," saying
that it was a dreadful sin to bring these holy
things into contact with the devil's deckings.
SCENE III. ELMIRE, MARIANE, DAMIS, CLE-
ANTE, DORINE.
ELMIRE [/o CLEANTE]. You are very fortu-
nate not to have assisted at the speech to which
she treated us at the door. But I have just seen
my husband ; and as he did not see me, I shall go
upstairs to await his corning.
CLEANTE. I will wait for him here, with small
pleasure ; and merely say how do ye do to him.
SCENE IV. CLEANTE, DAMIS, DORINE.
DAMIS. Just sound him about this marriage of
my sister. I suspect that Tartuffe is opposed to it
SO DRAMA
because he makes my father use so many evasions ;
and you are not ignorant how greatly I am inter-
ested in it. ... If the same passion fires my
sister's and Valere's heart, the sister of this friend
is, as you know, dear to me ; and if it were neces-
sary . . .
DORINE. Here he is.
SCENE V. ORGON, CLEANTE, DORINE.
ORGON. Ha! good morrow, brother.
CLEANTE. I was just going, and am glad to see
you returned. The country is not very cheering
at present.
ORGON. Dorine . . [to CLEANTE]. Pray
one moment, brother-in-law. Allow me to inquire
the news here to ease my mind. [To DORINE.]
Has everything gone on well these two
days? What are they doing, and how are they
all?
DORINE. The day before yesterday my mis-
tress had an attack of fever until evening, accom-
panied by an extraordinary headache.
ORGON. And Tartuffe?
DORINE. Tartuffe! He is wonderfully well*
stout and fat, with a fresh complexion, and a
ruddy mouth.
ORGON. Poor fellow!
DORINE. In the evening she felt very sick, and
TARTUFFE 8 1
could not touch a morsel of supper, so violent was
still the pain in her head.
ORGON. And Tartuffe?
DORINE. He supped by himself in her presence;
and very devoutly ate two partridges, and half a
leg of mutton hashed.
ORGON. Poor fellow!
DORINE. The whole night she did not close her
eyes for a moment. She was so feverish that she
could not sleep, and we were obliged to sit up
with her until morning.
ORGON. And Tartuffe?
DORINE. Pleasantly overcome with sleep, he
went to his room when he left the table ; and
jumped into his cozy bed, where he slept undis-
turbed until morning.
ORGON. Poor fellow!
DORINE. We at length prevailed upon the mis-
tress to be bled ; and she was almost immediately
relieved.
ORGON. And Tartuffe?
DORINE. He picked up his courage again as he
ought to ; and, to fortify himself against all harm,
he drank four large draughts of wine at breakfast,
to make up for the blood that the mistress had
lost.
ORGON. Poor fellow!
DORINE. At present, they are both well ; and I
shall go and inform the mistress how glad you
feel at her recovery.
a DRAMA
SCENE VI, ORGON, CLEANTE.
CLEANTE. She is laughing at you to your face,
brother : and, without wishing to make you angry,
I must tell you candidly that it is not without
reason. Was there ever such a whim heard of?
Can it be possible that any man could so charm
you nowadays as to make you forget everything
for him ? That after having relieved his indigence,
in your own house, you should go as far as ...
ORGON. Stop, brother-in-law, you do not know
the man of whom you are speaking?
CLEANTE. I do not know him, if you like; but
after all, in order to know what sort of man he
is ...
ORGON. You would be charmed to know him,
brother ; and there would be no end to your de-
light. He is a man . . . who ... ah ... a
man ... in short, a man. One who acts up to
his own precepts, enjoys a profound peace, and
looks upon the whole world as so much dirt*
Yes; I am quite another man since I conversed
with him; he teaches me to set my heart upon
nothing; he detaches my mind from all friend-
ship; and I could see brother, children, mother,
and wife die, without troubling myself in the
least about it.
CLEANTE, Humane sentiments these, brother!
ORGON. Ah! if you had seen how I first met
TARTUFFE 83
him, you would have conceived the same friend-
ship for him that I feel. Every day he came to
church, and, with a gentle mien, kneeled down
opposite me. He attracted the notice of the whole
congregation by the fervency with which he sent
up his prayers to Heaven. He uttered sighs, was
enraptured, and humbly kissed the ground every
moment : and when I went out, he swiftly ran be-
fore me to offer me holy water at the door. In-
formed by his servant, who imitates him in every-
thing, of his poverty, and who he was, I made him
some presents : but, with great modesty, he always
wished to return some part of them. "It is too
much/* he would say; "too much by half j I do
not deserve your pity/' And when I refused to
take them back again, he would go and give them
to the poor before my face. At length Heaven
moved me to take him to my house, and since
then, everything seems to prosper here. I perceive
that he reproves everything, and that he takes a
great interest, even in my wife, for my sake. He
warns rne of the people who look too lovingly at
her, and he is six times more jealous of her than
I am. But you cannot believe how far his zeal
goes : the slightest trifle in himself he calls a sin ;
a mere nothing is sufficient to shock him ; so much
so that he accused himself, the other day, of hav-
ing caught a flea whilst he was at his devotions,
and of having killed it with too much anger,
CLEANTE. Zounds! I believe you are mad,
P4 DRAMA
brother. Are you making game of me with such
a speech ? and do you pretend that ail this fool-
Ing ...
ORGON. Brother, this discourse savours of free-
thinking. You are somewhat tainted with it;
and, as I have often told you, you will get your-
self Into some unpleasant scrape.
CLEANTE. The usual clap-trap of your set;
they wish everyone to be blind like themselves,
To keep one's eyes open is to be a free-thinker;
and whosoever does not worship empty mummer*-
ies has neither respect for, nor faith in, holy
things. Go along; all your speeches do not
frighten me; I know what I am saying, and
Heaven sees my heart. We are not the slaves of
your formalists. There are hypocrites in religion
as well as pretenders to courage ; and as we i>ever
find the truly brave man make much noise where
honour leads him, no more are the good and truly
pious, whom we ought to follow, those who make
so many grimaces. What! would you make no
distinction between hypocrisy and true devotion?
Would you treat them both alike, and give the
same honour to the mask as to the face ; put arti-
fice on a level with sincerity, confound appear-
ance with reality, value the shadow as much as
the substance; and false coin the same as real?
Men, for the most part, are strange creatures,
and never keep the right mean; reason's bound-
aries are too narrow for them ; in every character
TARTUFFE 85
they overact their parts ; and they often spoil the
noblest designs, because they exaggerate, and
carry them too far. This by the way, brother.
ORGON. Yes, you are no doubt a doctor to be
looked up to ,* you possess all the world's wisdom ;
you are the only sage, and the only enlightened
man, an oracle, a Cato of the present age ; and all
men, compared with you, are fools.
CLEANTE. I am not, brother, a doctor to be
looked up to ; nor do I possess all the world's wis-
dom. But, in one word, I know enough to dis-
tinguish truth from falsehood. And as I know no
character more worthy of esteem than the truly
devout, nor anything in the world more noble or
beautiful than the holy fervour of sincere piety,
so I know nothing more odious than the whited
sepulchre of a pretended zealot, than those down-
right impostors, those devotees, for public show,
whose sacrilegious and deceitful grimaces abuse
with impunity, and make a jest, according to their
fancy, of what men hold most holy and sacred;
those men who, from motives of self-interest,
make a trade of piety, and would purchase honour
and reputation at the cost of a hypocritical turn-
ing up of the eyes and pretended raptures; those
men, I say, whom we see possessed with such an
uncommon ardour for the next world, in order
to make their fortunes in this; who, with great
unction and many prayers, daily recommend and
preach solitude in the midst of the court; wha
86 DRAMA
know how to reconcile their zeal with their vices ;
who are passionate, vindictive, without belief,
full of artifice, and would, in order to destroy a
man, insolently cover their fierce resentment un-
der the cloak of Heaven's interests. They are the
more dangerous in their bitter wrath because
they use against us weapons which men reverence,
and because their passion, for which they are
commended, prompts them to assassinate us with
a consecrated blade. One sees too many of those
vile characters, but the really devout at heart are
easily recognized* Our age has shown us some,
brother, who may serve us as glorious examples.
Look at Ariston, look at Periandre, Oronte, Alci-
damas, Polydore, Clitandre no one disputes
their title. But they do not boast of their virtue,
One does not see this unbearable ostentation in
them ; and their piety is human, is tractable ; they
do not censure all our doings, they think that
these corrections would show too much pride on
their part ; and, leaving big words to others, they
reprove our actions by their own. They do not
think anything evil, because it seems so, and their
mind is inclined to judge well of others. They
have no cabals, no intrigues; all their anxiety is
to live well themselves. They never persecute a
sinner; they hate sin only, and do not vindicate
the interest of Heaven with greater zeal than
Heaven itself. These are my people, that is the
true way to act; that is, in short, an example to
TARTUFFE 87
be followed. Your man, to speak plainly, is not
of that stamp ; you vaunt his zeal with the utmost
good faith ; but I believe that you are dazzled by
a false glare.
ORGON. My dear brother-in-law, have you had
your say?
CLEANTE. Yes.
ORGON [going] . I am your humble servant.
CLEANTE. Pray, one word more, brother. Let
us drop this conversation. You know that Valere
has your promise to be your son-in-law.
ORGON. Yes.
CLEANTE. And that you would appoint a day
for the wedding.
ORGON. True.
CLEANTE. Why then defer the ceremony?
ORGON. I do not know.
CLEANTE. Have you another design in your
mind?
ORGON. Perhaps so.
CLEANTE. Will you break your word?
ORGON. I do not say that.
CLEANTE. There is no obstacle, I think, to pre-
vent you from fulfilling your promise?
ORGON. That is as it may be.
CLEANTE. Why so much ado about a single
word? Valere sent me to you about it.
ORGON. Heaven be praised for that!
CLEANTE. But what answer shall I give him ?
ORGON. Whatever you please.
88 DRAMA
CLEANTE. But It is necessary to know your
intentions. What are they?
ORGON. To do just what Heaven ordains.
CLEANTE. But to the point. Vaiere has your
promise: will you keep it or not?
ORGON. Farewell.
CLEANTE [alone]. I fear some misfortune for
his love, and I ought to inform him of what is
going on.
ACT II
SCENE I. ORGON, MARIANE.
ORGON. Mariane.
MARIANE. Father?
ORGON. Come here; I have something to say
to you privately.
MARIANE [to ORGON, who is looking into a
closet]. What are you looking for?
ORGON. I am looking whether there is any one
there who might overhear us; for it is a most
likely little place for such a purpose. Now we are
all right. Mariane, I have always found you of a
sweet disposition, and you have always been very
dear to me.
MARIANE. I am much obliged to you for this
fatherly affection.
ORGON. That is very well said, daughter ; and
TARTUFFE 8^
TO deserve It, your only care should be to please
me.
MARIANE. That is my greatest ambition.
ORGON. Very well. What say you of our guest
Tartuffe?
MARIANE. Who? I?
ORGON. You. Be careful how you answer.
MARIANE. Alas ! I will say whatever you like
of him.
SCENE II. ORGON, MARIANE, DORINE [enter-
ing softly and keeping behind ORGON, without
being seen]*
ORGON. That is sensibly spoken. . . Tell
me then, my child, that he is a man of the high*
est worth; that he has touched your heart; and
that it would be pleasant to you to see him, with
my approbation, become your husband. Eh?
[MARIANE draws away with surprise.]
MARIANE. He !
ORGON. What is the matter ?
MARIANE. What did you say?
ORGON. What?
MARIANE. Did I mistake?
ORGON. How?
MARIANE. What would you have me say has
touched my heart, Father, and whom would it
be pleasant to have for a husband, with your ap-
probation ?
go DRAMA
ORGON, Tartuffe.
MARIANE. But it is nothing of the kind,
Father, I assure you. Why would you have me
tell such a falsehood?
ORGON. But I wish it to be a truth ; and it is
sufficient for you that I have resolved it so.
MARIANE. What, Father, would you . . .
ORGON. Yes, daughter, I intend by your mar-
riage to unite Tartuffe to my family, He shall be
your husband; I have decided that; and as on
your duty I ... [perceiving DORINE]. What
are you doing here? Your anxious curiosity is
very great, my dear, to induce you to listen to us
in this manner.
DORINE. In truth, I do not know whether this
is a mere report, arising from conjecture or from
chance; but they have just told me the news of
this marriage, and 1 treated it as a pure hoax.
ORGQN. Why so! Is the thing incredible?
DORINE. So much so, that even from you, Sir,
I do not believe it.
ORGON. I know how to make you believe it s
though.
DORINE. Yes, yes, you are telling us a funny
story,
ORGON. I am telling you exactly what you will
see shortly.
DORINE. Nonsense!
ORGON. What I say is not in jest, daughter.
TAKTUFFE 91
DORINE. Come, do not believe your father; he
is joking.
ORGON* I tell you . . .
DORINE. No, you may say what you like ; no-
body will believe you.
ORGON. My anger will at last . , ,
DORINE. Very well ! we will believe you, then ;
and so much the worse for you. What ! is it possi-
ble, Sir, that, with that air of common sense, and
this great beard in the very midst of your facej
you would be foolish enough to be willing to . . .
ORGON. Now listen: you have taken certain
liberties in this house which I do not like ; I tell
you so, my dear*
DORINE. Let us speak without getting angry,
Sir, I beg. Is it to laugh at people that you have
planned this scheme? Your daughter is not suit-
able for a bigot: he has other things to think
about. And, besides, what will such an alliance
bring you? Why, with all your wealth, go and
choose a beggar for your son-in-law . . .
ORGON. Hold your tongue. If he has nothing,
know that it is just for that that we ought to
esteem him. His poverty is no doubt an honest
poverty; it ought to raise him above all grandeur
because he has allowed himself to be deprived of
his wealth by his little care for worldly affairs,
and his strong attachment to things eternal. But
my assistance may give him the means of getting
92 DRAMA
out of his troubles, and of recovering his prop-
erty. His estates are well known in his country;
and, such as you see him, he is quite the noble-
man.
DORINE. Yes, so he says ; and this vanity, Sir s
does not accord well with piety. Whosoever em-
braces the innocence of a holy life should not
boast so much about his name and his lineage;
and the humble ways of piety do but ill agree
with this outburst of ambition. What is the good
of this pride? . . But this discourse offends
you : let us speak of himself, and leave his nobility
alone. Would you, without some compunction,
give a girl like her to a man like him ? And ought
you not to have some regard for propriety, and
foresee the consequences of such a union? Be sure
that a girl's virtue is in danger when her choice
is thwarted in her marriage ; that her living virtu-
ously depends upon the qualities of the husband
whom they have chosen for her, and that those
whose foreheads are pointed at everywhere often
make of their wives what we see that they are. It
is, in short, no easy task to be faithful to husbands
cut out after a certain model ; and he who gives
to his daughter a man whom she hates, is re-
sponsible to Heaven for the faults she commits.
Consider to what perils your design exposes you.
ORGON. I tell you I must learn from her what
to do!
TARTUFFE 93
DORINE. You cannot do better than follow my
advice.
ORGON. Do not let us waste any more time
with this silly prattle, daughter; I am your
father, and know what is best for you, I had
promised you to Valere; but besides his being
inclined to gamble, as I am told, I also suspect
him .to be somewhat of a free-thinker; I never
notice him coming to church.
DORINE. Would you like him to run there at
your stated hours, like those who go there only
to be seen ?
ORGON. I am not asking your advice upon that.
The other candidate for your hand is, in short,
on the best of terms with Heaven, and that Is a
treasure second to none. This union will crown
your wishes with every kind of blessings, it will
be replete with sweetness and delight. You shall
live together in faithful love, really like two
children, like two turtle-doves; there will be no
annoying disputes between you; and you will
make anything you like of him.
DORINE. She? she will never make anything
but a fool of him, I assure you.
ORGON. Heyday ! what language !
DORINE. I say that he has the appearance of
one, and that his destiny, Sir, will be stronger
than all your daughter's virtue.
ORGON* Leave off interrupting me, and try to
94 DRAMA
hold your tongue, without poking your nose into
what does not concern you.
DORINE [she continually interrupts him as he
turns round to speak to his daughter}. I speak
only for your interest, Sir,
ORGON. You interest yourself too much; hold
your tongue, if you please.
DORINE. If one did not care for you . . .
ORGON. I do not wish you to care for me.
DORINE. And I will care for you, Sir, in spite
of yourself.
ORGON. Ah!
DORINE. Your honour is dear to rne, and I
cannot bear to see you the byeword of everyone.
ORGON. You will not hold your tongue?
DORINE. It is a matter of conscience to allow
you to form such an alliance.
ORGON. Will you hold your tongue, you ser-
pent, whose brazen face * . .
DORINE. What! you are religious, and fly in a
rage.
ORGON. Yes, all your nonsense has excited my
choler, and once for all, you shall hold your
tongue.
DORINE. Be it so. But, though I do not say a
word, I will think none the less.
ORGON. Think, if you like; but take care not
to say a word, or . [turning to his daughter]*
That will do. As a sensible man, I have carefully
weighed everything.
TARTUFFE 95
DORINE [aside]. It drives me mad that I must
not speak.
ORGON. Without being a fop, TartufrVs mien
is such . , .
DORINE. Yes, his is a very pretty phiz I
ORGON, That even if you have no sympathy
with his other gifts . * .
DORINE [aside]. She has got a bargain!
[ORGON turns to DORINE, and, with crossed
arms, listens and looks her in the face.} If I were
in her place, assuredly no man should marry me
against my will with impunity; and I would
show him, and that soon after the ceremony, that
a woman has always a revenge at hand.
ORGON [to DORINE], Then you do not heed
what I say?
DORINE. What are you grumbling at? I did
not speak to you.
ORGON. What did you do then?
DORINE. I was speaking to myself.
ORGON [aside] . Very well ! I must give her a
backhander to pay her out for her extreme in-
solence. [He puts himself into a position to slap
DORINE'S face; andj at every word which he says
to his daughter, he turns round to look at DOR-
INE, who stands holt upright without speaking.^
You ought to approve of my plan, daughter , , .
and believe that the husband whom I have se-
lected for you . , . [to DORINE]. Why do you
not speak to yourself?
9& DRAMA
DORINE. I have nothing to .say to myself.
ORGON. Just another little word.
DORINE. It does not suit me.
ORGON. I was looking out for you, be sure.
DORINE. I am not such a fool as you think me !
ORGON. In short, daughter, you must obey,
and show a complete deference to my choice.
DORINE [running away], I would not care a
straw for such a husband*
ORGON [failing to slap DORINE'S face]. You
have a pestilent hussy with you, daughter, with
whom I cannot put up any longer without for-
getting myself. I do not feel equal to continue
our conversation now; her insolent remarks have
set my brain on re, and I must have a breath of
air to compose myself.
SCENE III. MARIANE, DORINE.
DORINE. Tell me have you lost your speech?
And must I act your part in this affair ? To allow
such a senseless proposal to be made to you, with-
out saying the least word against it!
MARIANE. What would you have me do
against a tyrannical father?
DORINE. That which is necessary to ward off
such a threat.
MARIANE. What?
DORINE. Tell him that you .cannot love by
proxy, that you marry for yourself , and not for
TARTUFFE 97
him; that, you being the only one concerned in
this matter, it is you, and not he, who must like
the husband, and that since Tartuffe is so charm-
ing in his eyes, he may marry him himself with-
out let or hindrance.
MARXANE. Ah ! a father, I confess, has so much
authority over us, that I have never had the cour-
age to answer him.
DORINE. But let us argue this affair. Valere
has proposed for you: do you love him, pray, or
do you not?
MARIANE. Ah! you do my feelings great in-
justice, Dorine, to ask me such a question. Have
I not a hundred times opened my heart to 3^ou?
and do not you know the warmth of my affection
for him?
DORINE. How do I know whether your lips
have spoken what your heart felt? and whether
you have any real regard for this lover ?
MARIANE. You wrong me greatly in doubting
it, Dorine ; for my true sentiments have been but
too clearly shown.
DORINE. You really love him, then?
MARIANE. Yes, very passionately.
DORINE. And, to all appearance, he loves you
as well?
MARIANE. I believe so.
DORINE. And you are both equally eager to
marry each other?
MARIANE. Assuredly.
98 DRAMA
DORINE. What do you expect from this other
match then?
MARIANE. To kill myself, if they force me to
it.
DORINE. Very well. That is a resource I did
not think of; you have only to die to get out of
trouble. The remedy is doubtless admirable. It
drives me mad to hear this sort of talk.
MARIANE. Good gracious! Dorine, what a
temper you get into! You do not sympathize in
the least with people's troubles.
DORINE. I do not sympathize with people who
talk stupidly, and, when an opportunity presents
itself, give way as you do!
MARIANE. But what would you have me do?
If I am timid . .
DORINE. Love requires firmness.
MARIANE. But have I wavered in my affec-
tion towards Valere? and is it not his duty to
obtain a father's consent?
DORINE, But what! if your father is a down-
right churl, who is completely taken up with Tar-
tuffe, and will break off a match he had agreed
on, is your lover to be blamed for that?
MARIANE. But am I, by a flat refusal and a
scornful disdain, to let everyone know how much
I am smitten? However brilliant Valere may be,
am I to forget the modesty of my sex, and my
filial duty? And would you have me display my
passion to the whole world . . .
TARTUTTE 99
DORINE. No, I would have you do nothing of
the sort. I perceive that you would like to be
Monsieur Tartuffe's; and I should be wrong,
now that I come to think of it, to turn you from
such a union. What right have I to oppose your
wishes? The match in itself is very advantageous.
Monsieur Tartuffe ! oh, oh ! That is not a pro-
posal to be despised. Certainly Monsieur Tar-
tuffe, all things considered, is no fool; no, not at
all, and it is no small honour to be his better
half. Already everyone crowns him with glory.
He is a noble in his own country, handsome in
appearance; he has red ears and a florid com*
plexion. You will live only too happily with such
a husband.
MARIANE. Good gracious! . . .
DORINE. How joyful you will be to see your-
self the wife of such a handsome husband 1
- MARIANE. Ah! leave off such talk, I pray, and
rather assist me to free myself from this match.
It is finished: I yield, and am ready to do any-
thing.
DORINE. No, a daughter ought to obey her
father, even if he wishes her to marry an ape.
Yours is an enviable fate: of what do you com-
plain? You will drive down in the stage-coach
to his native town, where you will find plenty of
uncles and cousins, whom it will be your great
delight to entertain. You will be introduced di-
rectly into the best society. You will go and
IOO DRAMA
pay the first visits to the wife of the bailie, and
of the assessor, who will do you the honour of
giving you a folding-chair. There, at carnival
time, you may expect a ball, with the grand band
of musicians, to wit, two bagpipes, and sometimes
Fagotin and the marionettes. If your husband,
however , . .
MARIANE. Oh! you kill me. Try rather to
assist me with your counsels*
DORINE. I am your servant,
MARIANE. Ah ! for pity's sake, Dorine . , .
DORINE. This affair ought to go on, to punish
you.
MARIANE. There's a good girl !
DORINE. No.
MARIANE. If I declare to you that . . .
DORINE. Not at all. Tartuffe is the man for
you, and you shall have a taste of him.
MARIANE. You know that I have always con-
fided in you: do . , .
DORINE. No, it is of no use, you shall be Tar-
tuffed.
MARIANE. Very well, since my misfortunes
cannot move you, leave me henceforth entirely
to my despair. My heart shall seek help from
that; and I know an infallible remedy for my
sufferings. [She wishes to go.~\
DORINE. Stop, stop, come back. I give in. In
spite of all, I must take compassion on you.
MARIANE. Look here, Dorine, if they inflict
TARTUFFE IOI
this cruel martyrdom upon me, I shall die of it,
I tell you.
DORINE. Do not fret yourself. We will
cleverly prevent. . . But here comes Valere,
your lover.
SCENE IV. VALERE, MARIANE, DORINE.
VALERE. I have just been told a piece of news.
Madam, which I did not know, and which is cer-
tainly very pretty.
MARIANE. What is it?
VALERE. That you are going to be married to
Tartuffe.
MARIANE. My father has taken this idea into
his head, certainly.
VALERE. Your father, Madam . . .
MARIANE. Has altered his mind: he has just
proposed this affair to me.
VALERE. What! seriously?
MARIANE. Yes, seriously, he has openly de-
clared himself for this match.
VALERE. And what have you decided, in your
own mind, Madam?
MARIANE. I know not.
VALERE. The answer is polite. You know not ?
MARIANE. No.
VALERE. No?
MARIANE. What do you advise me?
YALERE. I, I advise you to take this husband.
IO2 DRAMA -
MARIANE. Is that your advice?
VALERE. Yes.
MARIANE. Seriously?
VALERE. Doubtless. The choice is glorious, and
well worth consideration.
MARIANE. Very well, Sir, I shall act upon the
advice.
VALERE, That will not be very painful, I think.
MARIANE. Not more painful than for you to
give it.
VALERE. I gave it to please you, Madam.
MARIANE. And I shall follow it to please you.
DORINE. [Retiring to the further part of the
stage.] Let us see what this will come to.
VALERE. This then is your affection? And it
was all deceit when you . .
MARIANE. Do not let us speak of that, I pray.
You have told me quite candidly that I ought to
accept the husband selected for me; and I de-
clare that I intend to do so, since you give me
this wholesome advice.
VALERE. Do not make my advice your excuse.
Your resolution was taken beforehand; and you
catch at a frivolous pretext to justify the break-
ing of your word.
MARIANE. Very true, and well put.
VALERE. No doubt; and you never had any
real affection for me.
MARIANE. Alas ! think so, if you like.
VALERE. Yes, yes, if I like; but my offended
TARTUFFE 1 03
feelings may perhaps forestall you in such a de-
sign; and I know where to offer both my heart
and rny hand.
MARIANE. Ah! I have no doubt of it; and the
love which merit can command . . .
VALERE. For Heaven's sake, let us drop merit.
I have but little, no doubt; and you have given
proof of it. But I hope much from the kindness
of some one whose heart is open to me, and who
will not be ashamed to consent to repair my loss.
MARIANE. The loss is not great : and you will
easily enough console yourself for this change.
VALERE. I shall do my utmost, you may de-
pend. A heart that forgets us wounds our self-
love ; we must do our best to forget it also ; if we
do not succeed, we must at least pretend to do
so: for the meanness is unpardonable of still lov-
ing when we are forsaken.
MARIANE. This is, no doubt, an elevated and
noble sentiment.
VALERE. It is so; and every one must approve
of it. What ! would you have me forever to nour-
ish my ardent affection for you, and not elsewhere
bestow that heart which you reject, whilst I see
you, before my face, pass into the arms of an-
other?
MARIANE. On the contrary; as for me, that
is what I would have you do, and I wish it were
done already.
VALERE. You wish it?
104 DRAMA
MARIANE. Yes.
VALERE. This is a sufficient insult, Madam;
and I shall satisfy you this very moment. {He
pretends to goJ\
MARIANE. Very well.
VALERE [coming back]. Remember, at least,
that you yourself drive me to this extremity.
MARIANE. Yes.
VALERE [coming back once more}. And that I
am only following your example.
MARIANE. Very well, my example.
VALERE [going]. That will do: you shall be
obeyed on the spot.
MARIANE. So much the better.
VALERE [coming back again}. This is the last
time that you will ever see me.
MARIANE. That is right.
VALERE [goes, and turns around at the door}*
He?
MARIANE. What is the matter?
VALERE. Did you call me?
MARIANE. I ! You are dreaming.
VALERE. Well ! then I will be gone. Farewell,
Madam. [He goes slowly.]
MARIANE. Farewell, Sir.
DORINE [to MARIANE]. I think that you are
losing your senses with all this folly. I have all
along allowed you to quarrel, to see what it
would lead to at last. Hullo, M. Valere. [She
takes hold of VALERE'S arm."]
TARTUFFE I OS
VALERE [pretending to resist] . Well ! what do
you want, Dorine?
DORINE. Come here.
VALERE. No, no, I feel too indignant. Do not
hinder me from doing as she wishes me.
DORINE. Stop.
VALERE. No; look here, I have made up my
mind.
DORINE. Ah!
MARIANE [aside]. He cannot bear to see me,
my presence drives him away; and I had there-
fore much better leave the place.
DORJNE [quitting VALERE and running after
MARIANE]. Now for the other! Where are you
running to?
MARIANE. Let me alone.
DORINE. You must come back.
MARIANE. No, no, Dorine; It is of no use de-
taining me.
VALERE [aside"]. I see, but too well, that the
sight of me annoys her; and I had, no doubt,
better free her from it.
DORINE [leaving MARIANE and running after
VALERE]. What, again! The devil take you! Yes.
I will have it so. Cease this fooling, and come
here, both of you. [She holds them both.']
VALERE [to DORINE]. But what are you
about ?
MARIANE [to DORINE]. What would you do?
DORINE. I would have you make it up to-
I06 DRAMA
gather, and get out of this scrape. [To VALERE.]
Are you mad to wrangle in this way ?
VALERE, Did you not hear how she spoke to
me?
DORINE [to MARIANE]. Aren't you silly to
have got into such a passion ?
MARIANE. Did you not see the thing, and how
he has treated me?
DORINE. Folly on both sides [to VALERE].
She has no other wish than to remain yours, I
can vouch for it. [To MARIANE.] He loves none
but you, and desires nothing more than to be your
husband. I will answer for it with my life.
MARIANE [to VALERE]. Why then did you
give me such advice?
VALERE [to MARIANE]. Why did you ask me
for it on such a subject?
DORINE. You are a pair of fools. Come, your
hands, both of you. [To VALERE.] Come, yours.
VALERE [giving his hand to DORINE]. What is
the good of my hand ?
DORINE [to MARIANE]. Come now! yours.
MARIANE [giving hers]* What is the use of
all this?
DORINE. Good Heavens! quick, come on. You
love each other better than you think. [VALERE
and MARIANE hold each other's hands for some
time without speaking.]
VALERE [turning towards MARIANE]. Do not
do things with such bad grace ; look at one a little
TARTUFFE IO7
without any hatred. [MARIANE turns to VALERE,
and gives him a little smile.]
DORINE. Truth to tell, lovers are great fools!
VALERE [to MARIANE]. Now really! have I
no reason to complain of you; and, without an
untruth, are you not a naughty girl to delight in
saying disagreeable things?
MARIANE. And you, are you not the most un-
grateful fellow . . .
DORINE. Leave all this debate till another
time, and let us think about averting this con-
founded marriage.
MA&IANE. Tell us, then, what we are to do.
DORINE. We must do many things [to MARI-
ANE]. Your father does but jest [to VALERE] ;
and it is all talk. [To MARIANE.] But as for
you, you had better appear to comply quietly
with his nonsense, so that, in case of need, it may
be easier for you to put off this proposed mar-
riage. In gaining time, we gain everything. Some-
times you can pretend a sudden illness, that will
necessitate a delay; then you can pretend some
evil omens, that you unluckily met a corpse, broke
a looking-glass, or dreamed of muddy water. In
short, the best of it is that they cannot unite you
to any one else but him, unless you please to say
yes. But the better, to succeed, I think it advisable
that you should not be seen talking together. [To
VALERE.] Now go; and without delay, employ
your friends to make Orgon keep his promise to
|08 DRAMA
you. We will interest her brother, and enlist her
mother-in-law on our side. Good-bye.
VALERE [to MARIANE]. Whatever efforts we
may make together, my greatest hope, to tell the
truth, is in you.
MARIANE [to VALERE]. I cannot answer for
the will of a father; but I shall be no one but
Valere's.
VALERE. Oh, how happy you make me! And s
whatever they may attempt . . .
DORINE. Ah! lovers are never weary of prat-
tling. Be off, I tell you.
VALERE [goes a step, and returns}. After
all ...
DORINE. What a cackle! Go you this way;
and you, the other. [DORINE pushes each of them
by the shoulder, and compels them to separate*]
ACT III
SCENE I. DAMIS, DORINE.
DAMIS. May lightning strike me dead on the
spot, may everyone treat me as the greatest of
scoundrels, if any respect or authority shall stop
me from doing something rash!
DORINE. Curb this temper for Heaven's sake;
your father did but mention it. People do not
carry out all their proposals; and the road be*
TARTUFFE 109
tween the saying and the doing is a long one.
DAMIS. I must put a stop to this fellow's plots s
and whisper a word or two in his ear.
DORINE. Gently, pray! leave him, and your
father as well, to your mother-in-law's manage-
ment. She has some influence with Tartuffe: he
agrees to all that she says, and I should not
wonder if he had some sneaking regard for her.
Would to Heaven that it were true! A pretty
thing that would be. In short, your interest
obliges her to send for him : she wishes to sound
him about this marriage that troubles you, to
know his intentions, 'and to acquaint him with the
sad contentions which he may cause, if he en-
tertains any hope on this subject. His servant told
me he was at prayers, and that I could not get
sight of him; but said that he was coming down.
Go, therefore, I pray you, and let me wait for
him.
DAMIS. I may be present at this interview.
DORINE, Not at all They must be alone.
DAMIS. I shall not say a word to him.
DORINE. You deceive yourself: we know your
usual outbursts; and that is just the way to spoil
all. Go.
DAMIS. No ; I will see, without getting angry.
DORINE. How tiresome you are! Here he
conies. Go away. [DAMIS hides himself in a
closet at the farther end of the stage.]
"IIO DRAMA
SCENE II. TARTUFFE, DORINB.
TARTUFFE. [The moment he perceives Don-
JNE, he begins to speak loudly to his servant f
who is behind .] Laurent, put away my hair shirt
and my scourge, and pray that Heaven may ever
enlighten you. If any one calls to see me, say that
I have gone to the prisoners to distribute the
alms which I have received.
DORINE [aside]. What affectation and boast-
ing!
TARTUFFE. What do you want?
DORINE. To tell you . . .
TARTUFFE. [Pulling a handkerchief from his
pocket '.] For Heaven's sake! before you go any
farther, take this handkerchief, I pray.
DORINE. For what ?
TARTUFFE. Cover this bosom, which I cannot
bear to see. The spirit is offended by such sights,
and they evoke sinful thoughts.
DORINE. You are, then, mighty susceptible
to temptation; and the flesh seems to make a
great impression on your senses! I cannot tell,
of course, what heat inflames you : but my desires
are not so easily aroused ; and I could see you
naked from top to toe, without being in the least
tempted by the whole of your skin.
TARTUFFE, Be a little more modest in your
expressions, or I shall leave you on the spot.
DORINE. No, no, it is I who am going to leave
TARTUFFE III
you to yourself; and I have only two words to
say to you. My mistress Is coming down Into this
parlour, and wishes the favour of a minute's con-
versation with you.
TARTUFFE. Alas! with all my heart.
DORINE [aside]. How he softens down! Upon
my word, I stick to what I have said of him.
TARTUFFE. Will she be long?
DORINE. Methinks I hear her. Yes, it is her-
self, and I leave you together.
SCENE III. ELMIRE, TARTUFFK
TARTUFFE. May Heaven, in its mighty good-
ness, for ever bestow upon you health, both of
soul and body, and bless your days as much as
the humblest of its votaries desires,
ELMIRE. I am much obliged for this pious
wish. But let us take a seat, to be more at
ease.
TARTUFFE [seated]. Are you quite recovered
from your indisposition?
ELMIRE [seated]. Quite; the fever soon left
nie.
TARTUFFE. My prayers are not deserving
enough to have drawn this grace from above ; but
not one of them ascended to Heaven that had
not your recovery for its object.
ELMIRE. You are too anxious in your zeal for
me.
112 DRAMA
TARTUFFE. We cannot cherish your dear
health too much; and to re-establish yours, I
would have given mine.
ELMIRE. That is pushing Christian charity
very far; and I feel much indebted to you for
all this kindness.
TARTUFFE. I do much less for you than you
deserve.
ELMIRE. I wished to speak to you in private
about a certain matter, and am glad that no
one is here to observe us.
TARTUFFE. I am equally delighted; and, in-
deed, it is very pleasant to me, Madam, to find
myself alone with you. I have often asked
Heaven for this opportunity, but, till now, ia
vain.
ELMIRE. What I wish is a few words with
you, upon a small matter, in which you must
open your heart and conceal nothing from me.
[DAMIS^ without showing himself, half opens
the door of the closet into which he had retired
to listen to the conversation.^
TARTUFFE. And I will also, in return for
this rare favour, unbosom myself entirely to you,
and swear to you that the reports which I have
spread about the visits which you receive in
homage of your charms, do not spring from
any hatred toward you, but rather from a pas-
sionate zeal which carries me away, and out of
a pure motive . . *
TARTUFFE
ELMIRE. That is how I take it. I think it is
for my good that you trouble yourself so much.
TARTUFFE [taking ELMIRE'S hand and pres-
sing her fingers]. Yes, Madam, no doubt; and
my fervour is such . . .
ELMIRE. Oh! you squeeze me too hard*
TARTUFFE. It is through excess of zeaL I
never had any intention of hurting you, and
would sooner . . . [He places his hand on
ELMIRE'S kneeJ]
ELMIRE. What does your hand there?
TARTUFFE. I am only feeling your dress: the
stuff is very soft.
ELMIRE. Oh! please leave off, I am very
ticklish. [ELMIRE pushes her chair back, and
TARTUFFE draws near with hi$.~\
TARTUFFE [handling ELMIRE'S collar]. Bless
me! how wonderful is the workmanship o
this lace! They work in a miraculous manner
nowadays; never was anything so beautifully
made.
ELMIRE. It is true. But let us have some talk
about our affair. I have been told that my hus-
band wishes to retract his promise, and give you
his daughter. Is it true? Tell me.
TARTUFFE. He has hinted something to me;
but to tell you the truth, Madam, that is not the
happiness for which I am sighing: I behold else-
where the marvellous attraction of that bliss
which forms the height of my wishes.
114 DRAMA
ELMIRE. That is because you have no love f<
earthly things.
TARTUFFE. My breast does not contain a hea
of flint.
ELMIRE. I believe that all your sighs ten
toward Heaven, and that nothing here belo 1
rouses your desires.
TARTUFFE. The love which attaches us to ete
nal beauties does not stifle in us the love
earthly things; our senses may easily be charme
by the perfect works which Heaven has createi
Its reflected loveliness shines forth in such
you; but in you alone it displays its choice
wonders. It has diffused on your face such
beauty, that it dazzles the eyes and transpor
the heart; nor could I behold you, perfect ere;
ture, without admiring in you nature's aurho
and feeling my heart smitten with an ardent lo^
for the most beautiful of portraits, where!
he has reproduced himself. At first I feared th;
this secret ardour might be nothing but a cui
ning snare of the foul fiend ; and my heart eve
resolved to fly your presence, thinking that yc
might be an obstacle to my salvation. But
last I found, O most lovely beauty, that rr
passion could not be blameable; that I coul
reconcile it with modesty; and this made n
freely indulge it. It is, I confess, a great presum]
tion in me to dare to offer you this heart; bu
I expect, in my affections, everything from yo\
TARTUFFE I IS
kindness, and nothing from the vain efforts of
my own weakness. In you is my hope, my hap-
piness, my peace; on you depends my torment
or my bliss ; and it is by your decision solely that
I shall be happy if you wish it; or miserable, if
it pleases you.
ELMIRE. The declaration is exceedingly gal-
lant; but it is, to speak truly, rather a little sur-
prising. Methinks you ought to arm your heart
better, and to reflect a little upon such a design.
A pious man like you, and who is everywhere
spoken of ...
TARTUFFE. Ah! although I am a pious man,
I am not the less a man ; and, when one beholds
your heavenly charms, the heart surrenders and
reasons no longer. I know that such discourse
from me must appear strange; but, after all,
Madam, I am not an angel ; and if my confession
be condemned by you, you must blame your own
attractions for it. As soon as I beheld their more
than human loveliness, you became the queen of
my soul. The ineffable sweetness of 5'our divine
glances broke down the resistance of my obsti-
nate heart; it overcame everything fastings,
prayers, tears and led all my desires to your
charms. My looks and my sighs have told you so
a thousand times ; and, the better to explain my-
self, I now make use of words. If you should
graciously contemplate the tribulations of your
unworthy slave; if your kindness would console
1l6 DRAMA
toe, and will condescend to stoop to my insignif-
icant self, I shall ever entertain for you, O
miracle of sweetness, an unexampled devotion.
Your honour runs not the slightest risk with me,
and need not fear the least disgrace on my part.
All these court gallants, of whom women are so
fond, are noisy in their doings and vain in their
talk; they are incessantly pluming themselves on
their successes, and they receive no favours which
they do not divulge. Their indiscreet tongues, in
which people confide, desecrate the altar on which
their hearts sacrifice. But men of our stamp
love discreetly, and with them a secret is always
surely kept. The care which we take of our own
reputation is a sufficient guarantee for the object
of our love; and it is only with us, when they
accept our hearts, that they find love without
scandal, and pleasure without fear.
ELMIRE. I have listened to what you say, and
your rhetoric explains itself in sufficiently strong
terms to me. But are you not afraid that the
fancy may take me to tell my husband of this
gallant ardour; and that the prompt knowledge
of such an amour might well change the friend-
ship which he bears you.
TARTUFFE. I know that you are too gracious,
and that you will pardon my boldness; that you
will excuse, on the score of human frailty, the
violent transports of a passion which offends you,
and consider, by looking at yourself, that people
TARTUFFE
are not blind, and men are made of flesh and
blood.
ELMIRE. Others would perhaps take It in a
different fashion; but I shall show my discre-
tion. I shall not tell the matter to my husband:
but in return, I require something of you: that
is, to forward, honestly and without quibbling,
the union of Valere and Mariane, to renounce
the unjust power which would enrich you with
what belongs to another ; and . , .
SCENE IV. ELMIRE, DAMIS, TARTUFFE.
DAMIS [coming out of the closet in which he
was hidden]. No, Madam, no; this shall be made
public. I was in there when I overheard it all;
and Providence seems to have conducted me
thither to abash the pride of a wretch who wrongs
me; to point me out a way to take vengeance on
his hypocrisy and insolence; to undeceive my
father, and to show him plainly the heart of a
villain who talks to you of love.
ELMIRE. No, Damis ; it suffices that he reforms,
and endeavours to deserve my indulgence. Since
I have promised him, do not make me break my
word. I have no wish to provoke a scandal; a
woman laughs at such follies, and never troubles
her husband's ears with them.
DAMIS. You have your reasons for acting in
that way, and I also have mine for behaving
II 8 DRAMA
differently. It is a farce to wish to spare him;
and the insolent pride of his bigotry has already
triumphed too much over my just anger, and
caused too much disorder amongst us. The
scoundrel has governed my father too long, and
plotted against my affections as well as Valere's.
My father must be undeceived about this per-
fidious wretch ; and Heaven offers me an easy
means. 1 am indebted to it for this opportunity,
and it is too favourable to be neglected. I should
deserve to have it snatched away from me, did I
not make use of it, now that I have it in hand.
ELMIRE. Damis . * .
DAMIS, No, by your leave, I will use my own
judgment. I am highly delighted: and all you
can say will be in vain to make me forego the
pleasure of revenge. I shall settle this affair
without delay; and here is just the opportunity.
SCENE V. ORGON, ELMIRE, DAMIS,
TARTUFFE.
DAMIS. We will enliven your arrival, Father,
with an altogether fresh incident, that will sur-
prise you much. You are well repaid for all your
caresses, and this gentleman rewards your ten-
derness handsomely. His great zeal for you has
just shown itself; he aims at nothing less than
at dishonouring you; and I have just surprised
him making to your wife an insulting avowal of
TARTUFFB 119
a guilty passion. Her sweet disposition and her
too discreet feelings would by all means have kept
the secret from you ; but I cannot encourage such
insolence, and think that to have been silent about
it would have been to do you an injury.
ELMIRE. Yes, I am of opinion that we ought
never to trouble a husband's peace with all those
silly stories; that our honour does not depend
upon that ; and that it is enough for us to be able
to defend ourselves. These are my sentiments;
and you would have said nothing, Damis, If I
had had any influence with you.
SCENE VI. ORGON, DAMIS, TARTUFFE.
ORGON. What have I heard! Oh, Heavens!
Is it credible?
TARTUFFE. Yes, brother, I am a wicked,
guilty, wretched sinner, full of iniquity, the
greatest villain that ever existed. Each moment
of my life is replete with pollutions; it is but a
mass of crime and corruption; and I see that
Heaven, to chastise me, intends to mortify me on
this occasion. Whatever great crime may be laid
to my charge, I have neither the wish nor the
pride to deny it. Believe what you are told, arm
your anger, and drive me like a criminal from
your house. Whatever shame you may heap upon
me, I deserve still more.
ORGON [/o his son]. What, wretch! dare you,
120 DRAMA
by this falsehood, tarnish the purity of his virtue ?
DAMIS. What, shall the pretended gentleness
of this hypocrite make you belie . . .
ORGON. Peace, cursed plague!
TARTUFFE. Ah ! let him speak ; you accuse him
Wrongly, and you had much better believe in his
Story. Why will you be so favourable to me after
hearing such a fact? Are you, after all, aware of
what I am capable? Why trust to my exterior,
brother, and why, for all that is seen, believe me
to be better than I am? No, no, you allow your-
self to be deceived by appearances, and I am, alas !
nothing less than what they think me. Everyone
takes me to be a godly man, but the real truth is
that I am very worthless. [Addressing himself to
DAMIS.] Yes, my dear child, say on; call me a
perfidious, infamous, lost wretch, a thief, a mur-
derer; load me with still more detestable names;
I shall not contradict you, I have deserved them ;
and I am willing on my knees to suffer ignominy,
as a disgrace due to the crimes of my life.
ORGON [to TARTUFFE]. This is too much,
brother. [To his son.] Does not your heart re-
lent, wretch ?
DAMIS. What ! shall his words deceive you so
far as to ...
OUGON. Hold your tongue, you hangdog.
[Raising TARTUFFE.] Rise, brother, I beseech
you. [To his son] Infamous wretch!
DAMIS. He can , .
TARTUFFE 'J22
ORGOIST. Hold your tongue.
DAMIS. I burst with rage. What ! I am looke
upon as ...
ORGON. Say another word, and I will breal
your bones.
TARTUFFE, In Heaven's name, brother, do no*
forget yourself ! I would rather suffer the greatesi
hardship, than that he should receive the slightest
hurt for my sake.
ORGON [to his son}. Ungrateful monster!
TARTUFFE. Leave him in peace. If I must, on
both knees, ask you to pardon him . . .
ORGON [throwing himself on his knees also,
and embracing TARTUFFE]. Alas! are you in
jest? [To his sonJ\ Behold his goodness, scoun-
drel!
DAMIS. Thus . . .
ORGON. Cease.
DAMIS. What! I ...
ORGON. Peace, I tell you: I know too well
the motive of your attack. You all hate him, and
I now perceive wife, children, and servants all
let loose against him. Every trick is impudently
resorted to, to remove this pious person from my
house; but the more efforts they put forth to
banish him, the more shall I employ to keep him
here, and I shall hasten to give him my daughter^
to abash the pride of my whole family.
DAMIS. Do you mean to compel her to accept
him?
122 DRAMA
ORGGN. Yes, wretch! and to enrage you, this
very evening. Yes! I defy you all, and shall let
you know that I am the master, and that I will
be obeyed. Come, retract; throw yourself at his
feet immediately, you scoundrel, and ask his par-
don.
DAMIS. What ! I at the feet of this rascal who,
by his impostures . . .
ORGON. What, you resist, you beggar, and
insult him besides! [To TARTUFFE.] A cudgel!
a cudgel! do not hold me back. [To his j"ora.]
Out of my house, this minute, and never dare to
come back to it.
DAMIS. Yes, I shall go ; but . . .
ORGON. Quick, leave the place. I disinherit
you, you hangdog, and give you my curse besides*
SCENE VII. ORGON, TARTUFFE.
ORGON, To offend a saintly person in that
way!
TARTUFFE* Forgive him, O Heaven ! the pang
he causes me. [To ORGON.] Could you but
know my grief at seeing myself blackened in my
brother's sight .
ORGON, Alas!
TARTUFFE. The very thought of this ingrati-
tude tortures my soul to that extent. . . . The
horror I conceive of it* * * * My heart is so op-
TARTUFFE 123
pressed that I cannot speak, and I believe it will
be my death.
ORGON \running , all in tears, toward the door*
by which his son has disappeared'}. Scoundrel! I
am sorry my hand has spared you, and not
knocked you down on the spot. [To TARTUFFE.]
Compose yourself, brother, and do not grieve.
TARTUFFE. Let us put an end to these sad
disputes. I perceive what troubles I cause in
this house, and think it necessary, brother, to
leave it.
ORGON. What! you are jesting surely?
TARTUFFE. They hate me, and I find that they
are trying to make you suspect my integrity.
ORGON. What does it matter? Do you think
that, in my heart, I listen to them?
TARTUFFE. They will not fail to continue, you
may be sure; and these self-same stories which
you now reject may, perhaps, be listened to at
another time.
ORGON. No, brother, never.
TARTUFFE. Ah, brother! a wife may easily
impose upon a husband.
ORGON. No, no.
TARTUFFE. Allow me, by removing hence
promptly, to deprive them of all subject of at-
tack.
ORGON. No, you shall remain ; my life depends
upon it
124 DRAMA
TARTUFFE. Well ! I must then mortify myself.
If, however, you would . . .
ORGON. Ah !
TARTUFFE. Be it so: let us say no more about
it. But I know how to manage in this. Honour
is a tender thing, and friendship enjoins me to
prevent reports and causes for suspicion. I shall
shun your wife, and you shall not see me ...
ORGON. No, in spite of all, you shall fre-
quently be with her. To annoy the world is my
greatest delight; and I wish you to be seen with
her at all times. Nor is this all : the better to defy
them all, I will have no other heir but you, and I
am going forthwith to execute a formal deed of
gift of all my property to you. A faithful and
honest friend, whom I take for son-in-law, is
dearer to me than son, wife, and parents. Will
you not accept what I propose?
TARTUFFE. The will of Heaven be done in all
things.
ORGON. Poor fellow. Quick! let us get the
draft drawn up: and then let envy itself burst
with spite !
ACT IV
SCENE I. CLEANTE, TARTUFFE.
CLEANTE. Yes, everyone talks about it, and
you may believe me. The stir which this rumour
TARTOTFE
makes is not at all to your credit f and I have just
met you, Sir, opportunely, to tell you my opinion
in two words. I will not sift these reports to the
bottom; I refrain, and take the thing at its worst.
Let us suppose that Damis has not acted well)
and that you have been wrongly accused ; would
it not be like a Christian to pardon the offence,
and to smother all desire of vengeance in your
heart? And ought you, on account of a dispute
with you, to allow a son to be driven from his
father's home ? I tell you once more, and candidly,
that great and small are scandalized at it ; and, if
you will take my advice, you will try to make
peace, and not push matters to extremes. Make
a sacrifice to God of your resentment, and re-
store a son to his father's favour,
TARTUFFE. Alas! for my own part, I would
do so with all my heart. I do not bear him. Sir,
the slightest ill-will; I forgive him everything;
I blame him for nothing; and would serve him
to the best of my power. But Heaven's interest
is opposed to it; and if he comes back, I must
leave the house. After his unparalleled behav-
iour, communication with him would give rise
to scandal: Heaven knows what all the world
would immediately think of it! They would im-
pute it to sheer policy on my part; and they
would say everywhere, that knowing myself to be
guilty, I pretend a charitable zeal for my accuser;
that I arn afraid, and wish to conciliate him, in
126 DRAMA
order to bribe him, in an underhand manner, into
silence.
CLEANTE. You try to put forward pretended
excuses, and all your reasons. Sir, are too far-
fetched. Why do you charge yourself with
Heaven's interests? Has it any need of us to
punish the guilty? Allow it to take its own
course; think only of the pardon which it enjoins
for offences, and do not trouble yourself about
men's judgments, when you are following the
sovereign edicts of Heaven. What! shall the
trivial regard for what men may think prevent
the glory of a good action ? No, no ; let us always
do what Heaven prescribes, and not trouble our
heads with other cares.
TARTUFFE. I have already told you that from
my heart I forgive him; and that, Sir, is doing
what Heaven commands us to do: but after the
scandal and the insult of to-day, Heaven does not
require me to live with him.
CLEANTE. And does it require you, Sir, to lend
your ear to what a mere whim dictates to his
father, and to accept the gift of a property to
which in justice you have no claim whatever?
TARTUFFE. Those who know me will not
think that this proceeds from self-interest. All the
world's goods have but few charms for me ; I am
not dazzled by their deceptive glare: and should
I determine to accept from his father that dona-
TARTUFFE 12 f
tion which he wishes to make me, it is only, in
truth, because I fear that all that property might
fall in wicked hands; lest it might be divided
amongst those who would make a bad use of it in
this world, and would not employ it, as I intend,
for the glory of Heaven and the well-being of my
fellow men.
CLEANTE. Oh, Sir, you need not entertain
those delicate scruples, which may give cause
for the rightful heir to complain. Allow him at
his peril to enjoy his own, without troubling your-
self in any way ; and consider that it is better even
that he should make a bad use of it, than that you
should be accused of defrauding him of it. My
only wonder is, that you could have received such
a proposal unblushingly. For after all, has true
piety any maxim showing how a legitimate heir
may be stripped of his property? And if Heaven
has put into your head an invincible obstacle to
your living with Damis, would it not be better
that as a prudent man you should make a civil
retreat from this, than to allow that, contrary to
all reason, the son should be turned out of the
house for you. Believe me, Sir, this would be
giving a proof of your probity, . .
TARTUFFE, Sir, it is half-past three: certain
religious duties call me upstairs, and you will ex-
cuse my leaving you so soon,
PLEANTE [alone]. Ah!
128 DRAMA
SCENE II. ELMJRB, MARIANE, CLEANTE, Do
RINE.
DORINE [to CLEANTE]. For Heaven's sake,
Sir, bestir yourself with us for her: she is In
mortal grief; and the marriage contract which
her father has resolved upon being signed this
evening, drives her every moment to despair.
Here he comes! Pray, let us unite our efforts,
and try, by force or art, to shake this unfortunate
design that causes us all this trouble.
SCENE III. ORGON, ELMIRE, MARIANE, OLE-
ANTE, DORINE.
ORGON. Ah! I am glad to see you all assem-
bled. [To MARIANE.] There is something in this
document to please you, and you know already
what it means.
MARIANE [at ORGON'S feet}. Father, in the
name of Heaven which knows my grief, and by
all that can move your heart, relax somewhat of
your paternal rights, and absolve me from obedi-
ence in this case. Do not compel me, by this harsh
command, to reproach Heaven with my duty to
you; and alas! do not make wretched the life
which you have given me, Father. If, contrary
to the sweet expectations which I have formed,
you forbid me to belong to him whom I have
dared to love, kindly save me at least, I implore
you on my knees, from the torment of belonging
TARTUFFE 129
to one whom I abhor; and do not drive me to
despair by exerting your full power over me.
ORGON [somewhat moved]. Firm, my heart;
none of this human weakness 1
MARIANE. Your tenderness for him causes me
no grief ; indulge it to its fullest extent, give him
your wealth, and if that be not enough, add mine
to it; I consent to it with all my heart, and I
leave you to dispose of it. But, at least, stop short
of my own self; and allow me to end in the aus-
terities of a convent, the sad days which Heaven
has allotted to me.
ORGON. Ah, that is it! When a father crosses
a girl's love-sick inclination, she wishes to become
a nun. Get up. The more repugnance you feel
in accepting him, the greater will be your merit.
Mortify your senses by this marriage, and do
not trouble me any longer.
DORINE, But what . . .
ORGON. Hold your tongue. Meddle only with
what concerns you. I flatly forbid you to say an-
other word.
CLEANTE. If you will permit me to answer you,
and advise . .
ORGON. Your advice is the best in the world,
brother; it is well argued, and I set great store
by it : but you must allow me not to avail myself
of it.
ELMIRE \to her husband]* I am at a loss what
to say, after all I have seen ; and I quite admire
130 DRAMA
your blindness. You must be mightily bewitched
and prepossessed in his favour, to deny to us the
incidents of this day.
ORGON. I am your servant, and judge by ap-
pearances. I know your indulgence for my rascal
of a son, and you were afraid of disowning the
trick which he wished to play on the poor fellow*
But, after all, you took it too quietly to be be-
lieved ; and you ought to have appeared somewhat
more upset.
ELMIRE. Is our honour to bridle up so strongly
at the simple avowal of an amorous transport,
and can there be no reply to aught that touches
it, without fury in our eyes and invectives in our
mouth? As for me, I simply laugh at such talk;
and the noise made about it by no means pleases
me, I love to show my discreetness quietly, and
I am not at all like those savage prudes, whose
honour is armed with claws and teeth, and who
at the least word would scratch people's faces.
Heaven preserve me from such good behaviour!
I prefer a virtue that is not diabolical, and believe
that a discreet and cold denial is no less effective
in repelling a lover.
ORGON. In short, I know the whole affair, and
will not be imposed upon.
ELMIRE. Once more, I wonder at your strange
weakness ; but what would your unbelief answer
If I were to show you that you had been told the
truth.
TARTUFFE 131
ORGON. Show!
ELMIRE. Aye.
ORGON. Stuff.
ELMIRE. But if I found the means to show you
plainly? . .
ORGON. Idle stories.
ELMIRE. What a strange man! Answer me,
at least. I am not speaking of believing us ; but
suppose that we found a place where you could
plainly see and hear everything, what would you
say then of your good man?
ORGON. In that case, I should say that * * .
I should say nothing, for the thing cannot be.
ELMIRE. Your delusion has lasted too long,
and I have been too much taxed with imposture.
I must, for my gratification, without going any
farther, make you a witness of all that I have
told you,
ORGON. Be it so. I take you at your word.
We shall see your dexterity, and how j^ou will
make good this promise.
ELMIRE [to DORINE]. Bid him to come to
me.
DORINE [to ELMIRE]. He Is crafty, and it will
be difficult, perhaps, to catch him.
ELMIRE [to DORINE]. No; people are easily
duped by those whom they love, and conceit
is apt to deceive itself. Bid him come down.
[To CLEANTE and MARIANE.] And do you re-
tire.
132 DRAMA
SCENE IV. ELMIRE, ORGON.
ELMJRE. Come, and get under this table.
ORGON. Why so?
ELMIRE. It is necessary that you should con-
ceal yourself well.
ORGON. But why under this table?
ELMIRE. Good Heavens! do as you are told; I
have thought about my plan, and you shall judge.
Get under there, I tell you, and, when you are
there, take care not to be seen or heard.
ORGON. I confess that my complaisance is
great ; but I must needs see the end of your enter-
prise.
ELMIRE. You will have nothing, I believe, to
reply to me. [To ORGON under the table.]
Mind ! I am going to meddle with a strange mat-
ter, do not be shocked in any way. I must be
permitted to say what I like ; and it is to convince
you, as I have promised. Since I am compelled to
it, I am going to make this hypocrite drop his
mask by addressing soft speeches to him, flatter
the shameful desires of his passion, and give him
full scope for his audacity. As it is for your sake
alone, and the better to confound him, that I
pretend to yield to his wishes, I shall cease as
soon as you show yourself, and things need not go
farther than you wish. It is for you to stop his
mad passion, when you think matters are carried
far enough, to spare your wife, and not to expose
TARTUFFE 133
me any more than is necessary to disabuse you.
This is your business, it remains entirely with
you, and , . . But he comes. Keep close, and be
careful not to show yourself.
SCENE V. TARTUFFE, ELMIRE, ORGON [under
the table'}.
TARTUFFE. I have been told that you wished
to speak to me here,
ELMIRE. Yes. Some secrets will be revealed
to you. But close this door before they are told to
you, and look about everywhere, for fear of a
surprise. [TARTUFFE doses the door, and comes
back.~\ We assuredly do not want here a scene like
the one we just passed through: I never was sc
startled in my life. Damis put me in a terrible
fright for you; and you saw, indeed, that I did
my utmost to frustrate his intentions and calm
his excitement. My confusion, it is true, was sc
great, that I had not a thought of contradictini
him: but, thanks to Heaven, everything has
turned out the better for that, and is upon a mucl
surer footing. The esteem in which you are helc
has allayed the storm, and my husband will noi
take any umbrage at you. The better to brave
people's ill-natured comments, he wishes us to b<
together at all times ; and it is through this that
without fear of incurring blame, I can be closetec
here alone with you; and this justifies me in open
134 DRAMA
ing to you my heart, a little too ready, perhaps,
to listen to your passion.
TARTUFFE. This language is somewhat diffi-
cult to understand, Madam; and you just now
spoke in quite a different strain.
BLMIRE. Ah ! how little you know the heart of
a woman, if such a refusal makes you angry ; and
how little you understand what it means to con-
vey, when it defends itself so feebly! In those
moments, our modesty always combats the tender
sentiments with which we may be inspired. What-
ever reason we may find for the passion that sub-
dues us, we always feel some shame in owning
it. We deny it at first: but in such a way as
to give you sufficiently to understand that our
heart surrenders; that, for honour's sake, words
oppose our wishes, and that such refusals promise
everything. This is, no doubt, making a somewhat
plain confession to you, and showing little re-
gard for our modesty. But, since these words
have at last escaped me, would I have been so
anxious to restrain Damis, would I, pray, have
so complacently listened, for such a long time, to
the offer of your heart, would I have taken the
matter as I have done, if the offer of that heart
had had nothing in it to please me ? And, when I
myself would have compelled you to refuse the
match that had just been proposed, what ought
this entreaty to have given you to understand,
but the interest I was disposed to take in you, and
TARTUFFE 135
the vexation it would have caused me, that this
marriage would have at least divided a heart that
I wished all to myself ?
TARTUFFE. It is very sweet, no doubt, Madam,
to hear these words from the lips we love; their
honey plentifully diffuses a suavity throughout
my senses, such as was never yet tasted. The
happiness of pleasing you is my highest study,
and my heart reposes all its bliss in your affection ;
but, by your leave, this heart presumes still to
have some doubt in its own felicity. I may look
upon these words as a decent stratagem to compel
me to break off the match that is on the point of
being concluded; and, if I must needs speak can-
didly to you, I shall not trust to such tender
words, until some of those favours, for which I
sigh, have assured me of all which they intend to
express, and fixed in my heart a firm belief of the
charming kindness which you intend for me.
ELMIRE [after having coughed to warn her
husband] . What ! would you proceed so fast, and
exhaust the tenderness of one's heart at once?
One takes the greatest pains to make you the
sweetest declarations; meanwhile is not that
enough for you? and will nothing content you,
but pushing things to the utmost extremity?
TARTUFFE. The less a blessing is deserved, the
less one presumes to expect it. Our love dares
hardly rely upon words. A lot full of happiness is
difficult to realize, and we wish to enjoy it before
136 DRAMA
believing in it. As for me, who think myself so*
little deserving of your favours, I doubt the suc-
cess of my boldness; and shall believe nothing,
Madam, until you have convinced my passion by
real proofs.
ELMIRE. Good Heavens! how very tyranni-
cally your love acts ! And into what a strange
confusion it throws me! What a fierce sway it
exercises over our hearts! and how violently it
clamours for what it desires! What! can I find
no shelter from your pursuit? and will you
scarcely give rue time to breathe? Is it decent to
be so very exacting, and to insist upon your de-
mands being satisfied immediately; and thus, by
your pressing efforts, to take advantage of the
weakness which you see one has for you?
TARTXJFFE. But if you look upon my addresses
with a favourable eye, why refuse me convincing;
proofs ?
ELMIRE. But how can I comply with what you.
wish, without offending that Heaven of which
you are always speaking?
TARTUFFE. If it be nothing but Heaven that
opposes itself to my wishes, it is a trifle for me
to remove such an obstacle; and that need be no*
restraint upon your love.
ELMIRE. But they frighten us so much with the
judgments at Heaven!
TARTUFFE. I can dispel these ridiculous fears
for you, Madam, and I possess the art of allaying
TARTUPFE 137
scruples. Heaven, It is true, forbids certain grati-
fications, but there are ways and means of com-
pounding such matters. According to our different
wants, there is a science which loosens that which
binds our conscience, and which rectifies the evil
of the act with the purity of our intentions. We
shall be able to initiate you into these secrets.
Madam; you have only to be led by me. Satisfy
my desires, and have no fear; I shall be answer-
able for everything, and shall take the sin upon
myself. [ELMIRE coughs louder.'} You cough very
much, Madam?
ELMIRE. Yes, I am much tormented.
TARTUFFE. Would you like a piece of this
liquorice ?
ELMIRE. It is an obstinate cold, no doubt ; and
I know that all the liquorice in the world will
do it no good.
TARTUFFE. That, certainly, is very sad.
ELMIRE. Yes, more than I can say.
TARTUFFE. In short, your scruples, Madam,
are easily overcome. You may be sure of the se~
cret being kept, and there is no harm done unless
the thing is bruited about. The scandal which
it causes constitutes the offence, and sinning in
secret is no sinning at all.
ELMIRE [after having coughed once more]. In
short, I see that I must make up my mind to
yield; that I must consent to grant you every-
thing; and that with less than that, I ought not
138 DRAMA
to pretend to satisfy you, or to be believed. It Is
no doubt very hard to go to that length, and it is
greatly in spite of myself that I venture thus
far; but, since people persist in driving me to
this; since they will not credit aught I may say,
and wish for more convincing proofs, I can but
resolve to act thus, and satisfy them. If this grati-
fication offends, so much the worse for those
who force me to it : the fault ought surely not to
be mine,
TARTUFFE. Yes, Madam, I take it upon my-
self ; and the thing in itself . . .
ELMIRE. Open this door a little, and see, pray.
If my husband be not in that gallery.
TARTUFFE. What need is there to take so
much thought about him? Between ourselves, he
is easily led by the nose. He is likely to glory in
all our interviews, and I have brought him so
far that he will see everything, and without be-
lieving anything.
ELMIRE. It matters not. Go, pray, for a mo-
ment and look carefully everywhere outside.
SCENE VI. ORGON, ELMIRE.
ORGON [coming from under the table}. Thi
is, I admit to you, an abominable wretch ! I can
not recover myself, and all this perfectly stun
me.
ELMIRE. What, you come out so soon! Yo
TARTUFFE 139
are surely jesting. Get under the tablecloth again ;
it is not time yet. Stay to the end, to be quite
sure of the thing, and do not trust at all to mere
conjectures.
ORGON. No, nothing more wicked ever came
out of hell.
ELMIRE. Good Heavens! you ought not to be-
lieve things so lightly. Be fully convinced before
you give in ; and do not hurry for fear of being
mistaken. [ELMIRE pushes ORGON behind her."}
SCENE VII. TARTUFFE, ELMIRE, ORGON*
TARTUFFE {without seeing ORGON], Every-
thing conspires, Madam, to my satisfaction. I
have surveyed the whole apartment; there is no
one there; and my delighted soul ... [At the
moment that TARTUFFE advances with open arms
to embrace ELMIRE, she draws back, and TAR-
TUFFE preceives ORGON.]
ORGON [stopping TARTUFFE]. Gently! you
are too eager in your amorous transports, and
you ought not to be so impetuous. Ha ! ha ! good
man, you wished to victimize me! How you are
led away by temptations! You would marry my
daughter, and covet my wife ! I have been a long
while in doubt whether you were in earnest,
and I always expected you would change your
tone ; but this is pushing the proof far enough : I
am satisfied, and wish for no more.
140 DRAMA
ELMIRE [/o TARTUFFE]. It is much against
my inclinations that I have done this: but I have
been driven to the necessity of treating you thus.
TARTUFFE [/o ORGON]. What! do you be-
lieve . . .
ORGON. Come, pray, no more. Be off! and
without ceremony.
TARTUFFE. My design . . .
ORGON. These speeches are no longer of any
use; you must get out of this house, and forth-
with.
TARTUFFE. It is for you to get out, you who
assume the mastership: the house belongs to me,
I will make you know it, and show you plainly
enough that it is useless to resort to these cow-
ardly tricks to pick a quarrel with me; that one
cannot safely, as one thinks, insult me; that I
have the means of confounding and of punishing
imposture, of avenging offended Heaven, and
of making those repent who talk of turning me
out hence,
SCENE VIII. ELMIRE, ORGON.
ELMIRE. What language is this ? and what does
he mean?
ORGON* I am, in truth, all confusion, and this
Is no laughing matter*
ELMIRE. How so?
TARTUFFE
ORGON. I perceive my mistake by what he
says; and the deed of gift troubles my mind.
ELMIRE. The deed of gift?
ORGON. Yes. The thing Is done. But something
else disturbs me, too.
ELMIRE. And what?
ORGON. You shall know all. But first let us
go and see if a certain box is still upstairs.
ACT V
SCENE L ORGON, QLEANTE.
CLEANTE. Where would you run to?
ORGON. Indeed! how can I tell?
CLEANTE. It seems to me that we should begin
by consulting together what had best be done in
this emergency.
ORGON. This box troubles me sorely. It makes
me despair more than all the rest.
CLEANTE. This box then contains an impor-
tant secret?
ORGON. It is a deposit that Argas himself, the
friend whom I pity, entrusted secretly to my own
hands. He selected me for this in his flight; and
from what he told me, it contains documents upon
which his life and fortune depend.
CLEANTE. Why then did you confide It Into
other hands?
ORGON. It was from a conscientious motive. I
142 DRAMA
straightway confided the secret to the wretch ;
and his arguing persuaded me to give this box
into his keeping, so that, in case of any inquiry, I
might be able to deny it by a ready subterfuge, by
\vhich my conscience might have full absolution
for swearing against the truth.
CLEANTE. This is critical, at least, to judge
from appearances; and the deed of gift, and his
confidence, have been, to tell you my mind, steps
too inconsiderately taken. You may be driven
far with such pledges; and since the fellow has
these advantages over you, it is a great impru-
dence on your part to drive him to extremities;
and you ought to seek some gentler method.
ORGON". What! to hide such a double-dealing
heart, so wicked a soul, under so farr an appear-
ance of touching fervour! And I who received
him in my house a beggar and penniless. . ,
It is all over ; I renounce all pious people. Hence-
forth I shall hold them in utter abhorrence, and
be worse to them than the very devil.
CLEANTE. Just so ! you exaggerate again ! You
never preserve moderation in anything. You
never keep within reason's bounds; and always
rush from one extreme to another. You see your
mistake, and find out that you have been imposed
upon by a pretended zeal. But is there any rea-
son why, in order to correct yourself, you should
fall into a greater error still, and ay that all
pious people have the same feelings as that per-
TAHTUFFE 143
fidious rascal? What! because a scoundrel has
audaciously deceived you, under the pompous
show of outward austerity, you will needs have
it that every one is like him, and that there is no
really pious man to be found nowadays? Leave
those foolish deductions to free-thinkers: distin-
guish between real virtue and its counterfeit;
never bestow your esteem too hastily, and keep
in this the necessary middle course. Beware, if
possible, of honouring imposture; but do not at-
tack true piety also; and if you must fall in-
to an extreme, rather offend again on the other
side.
SCENE II. ORGON, CLEANTE, DAMIS,
DAMIS, What! Father, is it true that this
scoundrel threatens you? that he forgets all that
you have done for him, and that his cowardly
and too contemptible pride turns your kindness
for him against yourself ?
ORGON. Even so, my son ; and it causes me un-
utterable grief.
DAMIS. Leave him to me, I will slice his ears
off. Such insolence must not be tolerated: it is
my duty to deliver you from him at once ; and, to
put an end to this matter, I must knock him
down.
CLEANTE. Spoken just like a regular youth.
Moderate, if you please, these violent transports.
144 DRAMA
JWe live under a government, and in an age, in
which violence only makes matters worse.
SCENE III. MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON, EL-
MIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, DAMIS, DORINE.
MADAME PERNELLE, What Is all this? What
dreadful things do I hear!
ORGON. Some novelties which my own eyes
hav witnessed, and you see how I am repaid for
my kindness. I affectionately harbour a fellow
creature in his misery, I shelter him and treat
him as my own brother ; I heap favours upon him
every day; I give him my daughter, and every-
thing I possess: and, at that very moment, the
perfidious, infamous wretch forms the wicked de-
sign of seducing my wife; and, not content even
with these vile attempts, he dares to threaten me
with my own favours; and, to encompass my
ruin, wishes to take advantage of my indiscreet
good nature, drive -me from my property which I
have transferred to him, and reduce me to that
condition from which I rescued him !
DORINE. Poor fellow !
MADAME PERNELLE. I can never believe, my
son, that he would commit so black a deed.
ORGON. What do you mean ?
MADAME PERNELLE. Good people are always
envied.
TARTUFFE 145
ORGON. What do you mean by all this talk,
Mother?
MADAME PERNELLE. That there are strange
goings-on in your house, and that we know but
too well the hatred they bear him.
ORGON. What has this hatred to do with what
I have told you ?
MADAME PERNELLE. I have told you a hun-
dred times, when a boy,
"That virtue here is persecuted ever;
That envious men may die, but envy never."
ORGON. But in what way does this bear upon
to-day's doings?
MADAME PERNELLE. They may have con-
cocted a hundred idle stories against him.
ORGON. I have already told you that I have
seen everything myself. "
MADAME PERNELLE. The malice of slanderers
is very great.
ORGON. You will make me swear, Mother. I
tell you that with my own eyes I have witnessed
this daring crime.
MADAME PERNELLE. Evil tongues have always
venom to scatter abroad, and nothing here below
can guard against it.
ORGON. That is a very senseless remark. I
have seen it, I say, seen with my own eyes, seen,
what you call seen. Am I to din it a hundred
146 DRAMA
times In your ears, and shout like four people?
MADAME PERNELLE, Goodness me! appear-
ances most frequently deceive: you must not al-
ways judge by what you see.
ORGON. I am boiling with rage !
MADAME PERNELLE. Human nature is liable
to false suspicions, and good is often construed
Into evil.
ORGON. I must construe the desire to embrace
my wife into a charitable design !
MADAME PERNELLE. It is necessary to have
good reasons for accusing people ; and you ought
to have waited until you were quite certain of the
thing.
ORGON. How the deuce could I be more cer-
tain? Ought I to have waited, Mother, until to
my very eyes, he had . . You will make me
say some foolish thing.
MADAME PERNELLE. In short, his soul is too
full of pure zeal; and I cannot at all conceive
that he would have attempted the things laid to
his charge.
ORGON. Go, my passion Is so great that, if you
were not my mother, I do not know what I might
say to you.
DORINE [to ORGON]. A just reward of things
here below, Sir; you would not believe any one,
and now they will not believe you.
CLEANTE. We are wasting in mere trifling the
time that should be employed in devising some
TARTUFFE 147
measures. We must not remain inactive when a
knave threatens.
DAMIS. What ! would his effrontery go to that
extent?
ELMIRE. As for me, I hardly think It possible,
and his ingratitude here shows itself too plainly*
CLEANTE [*o ORGON]. Do not trust to that;
he will find some means to justify his doings
against you; and for less than this, a powerful
party has involved people in a vexatious maze.
I tell you once more, that, armed with what he
has, you should never have pushed him thus far.
ORGON. True enough; but what could I do?
I was unable to master my resentment at the
presumption of the wretch.
CLEANTE. I wish, with all my heart, that we
could patch up even a shadow of peace between
you two.
ELMIRE. Had I but known how he was armed
against us, I would have avoided bringing things
to such a crisis ; and my . . .
ORGON [to DORINE, seeing M. LOYAL come
ln\. What does this man want? Go and see
quickly. I am in a fine state for people to come
to see me !
SCENE IV. ORGON, MADAME PERNBLLE, EL-
MIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE, DAMIS, DORINE,
M. LOYAL.
M. LOYAL [to DORINE at the farther part of
148 DRAMA
'the stage}. Good-morning, dear sister; pray, let
me speak to your master.
DORINE. He is engaged; and I doubt whether
he can see any one at present.
M. LOYAL. I do not intend to be intrusive in
his own house. I believe that my visit will have
nothing to displease him. I have come upon a
matter of which he will be very glad.
DORINE. Your name?
M. LOYAL. Only tell him that I am come from
Monsieur Tartuffe, for his good.
DORINE [to ORGON]. This is a man who
comes, in a gentle way, from Monsieur Tar-
tuffe, upon some business, of which, he says, you
will be very glad.
CLEANTE [to ORGON]. You must see who
this man is, and what he wants.
ORGON [to CLEANTE]. Perhaps he comes to
reconcile us; How shall I receive him?
CLEANTE. You must not allow your anger to
get the upper hand,, and if he speaks of an ar-
rangement, you should listen to him,
M. LOYAL [to ORGON]. Your servant, Sir!
May Heaven punish those who would harm you,
'and may it favour you as much as I wish!
ORGON [softly to CLEANTE]. This mild begin-
ning confirms my opinion, and augurs already
some reconciliation.
M. LOYAL. Your whole family has always been
dear to me, and I served your father.
TARTUFFE 149
ORGON. I am ashamed, Sir, and crave your
pardon for not knowing you or your name.
M. LOYAL. My name is Loyal, a native of
Normandy, and I am a tipstaff to the court in
spite of envy. For the last forty years, I have
had the happiness, thanking Heaven, of exercising
the functions thereof with much honour; and I
have come, with your leave, Sir, to serve you
with a writ of a certain decree . . .
ORGON. What! you are here . . .
M. LOYAL. Let us proceed without anger, Sir.
It is nothing but a summons ; a notice to quit this
house, you and yours, to remove your chattels,
and to make room for others, without delay or
remissness, as required hereby.
ORGON. I ! leave this house!
M. LOYAL. Yes, Sir, if you please. The house
at present, as you well know, belongs incontest-
ably to good Monsieur Tartuffe. Of all, your
property, he is henceforth lord and master, by
virtue of a contract of which I am the bearer. It
is in due form, and nothing can be said against it.
DAMIS [to M. LOYAL]. Certainly this impu-
dence is immense, and I admire it!
M. LOYAL [to DAMIS]. Sir, my business lies
not with you [pointing to ORGON] ; it is with this
gentleman. He is both reasonable and mild, and
knows too well the duty of an honest man to op-
pose the law in any way.
PRGON. But . * *
150 DRAMA
M- LOYAL, Yes, Sir, I know that you would
not rebel for a million of money, and that, like a
gentleman, you will allow me to execute here the
orders which I have received,
DAMIS, M. Tipstaff, you may chance to get
your black gown well dusted here.
M. LOYAL [to ORGON]. Order your son to
hold his tongue or to retire. Sir. I should be very
loth to have recourse to writing, and to see your
name figure in my official report.
DORINE [aside]. This M. Loyal has a very
disloyal air.
M. LOYAL. Having a great deal of sympathy
with all honest people, I charged myself with
these documents. Sir, as much to oblige and
please you, as to avoid the choice of those who,
not having the same consideration for you that
inspires me, might have proceeded in a less gentle
way.
ORGON. And what can be worse than to order
people to quit their own house?
M. LOYAL. You are allowed time, and I shall
suspend until to-morrow the execution of the
writ, Sir. I shall come only to pass the night here
with ten of my people without noise or without
scandal. For form's sake you must, if you please,
before going to bed, bring me the keys of your
door, I shall take care not to disturb your rest,
and to permit nothing which is not right. But
TARTUFFE IS I
to-morrow, you must be ready in the morning to
clear the house of even the smallest utensil; my
people shall assist you, and I have selected strong
ones, so that they can help you to remove every-
thing. One cannot act better than I do, I think;
and as I am treating you with great indulgence,
I entreat you also, Sir, to profit by it, so that
I may not be annoyed in the execution of my
duty.
ORGON {aside}. I would willingly give just
now the best hundred gold pieces of what re-
mains to me for the pleasure of striking on this
snout the soundest blow that ever was dealt.
CLEANTE [softly to ORGON]. Leave well
alone. Do not let us make things worse,
DAMIS. I can hardly restrain myself at this
strange impertinence, and my fingers are itch-
ing.
DORINE. Upon my word, M. Loyal, with such
a broad back, a few cudgel blows would do you
no harm.
M. LOYAL. We might easily punish these in-
famous words, sweetheart; and there is a law
against women, too.
CLEANTE [to M, LOYAL]. Pray let us put an
end to all this, Sir, Hand over this paper quickly,
and leave us.
M, LOYAL, Till by-and~by, May Heaven bless
you all!
152 DRAMA
ORGON. And may it confound you, and him
who sends you !
SCENE V. ORGON, MADAME PERNELLE, EL-
MIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, DAMIS, DORINE.
ORGON. Well! Mother, do you see now
whether I am right; and you may judge of the
rest from the writ. Do you at last perceive his "
treacheries ?
MADAME PERNELLE. I stand aghast, and feel
as if dropped from the clouds.
DORINE [to ORGON]. You are wrong to com-
plain, you are wrong to blame him, and his pious
designs are confirmed by this. His virtue is per-
fected in the love for his neighbour. He knows
that worldly goods often corrupt people, and he
wishes, from pure charity, to take everything
away from you which might become an obstacle
to your salvation.
ORGON. Hold your tongue. I must always
be saying that to you.
CLEANTE [to ORGON]. Let us decide what had
best be done.
ELMIRE. Go and expose the audacity of the
ungrateful wretch. This proceeding destroys the
validity of the contract; and his treachery will
appear too black to allow him to meet with the
success which we surmise.
TARTUKFB 153
SCENE VI. VALERE, ORGON, MADAME PER-
NELLE, ELMIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, DAMISJ
DORINE.
VALERE. It is with great regret, Sir, that I
come to afflict you ; but I see myself compelled to
it by pressing danger. A most intimate and faith-
ful friend, who knows the interest which I take
in you, has, for my sake, by a most hazardous
step, violated the secrecy due to the affairs of the
State, and has just sent me an intimation, in
consequence of which you will be obliged to flee
immediately. The scoundrel who has long im-
posed upon you has an hour since accused you to
the King, and amongst other charges which he
brings against you, has lodged in his hands im-
portant documents of a state-criminal, of which,
he says, contrary to the duty of a subject, you
have kept the guilty secret. I am ignorant of the
details of the crime laid to your charge; but a
warrant is out against you; and the better to
execute it, he himself is to accompany the per-
son who is to arrest you.
CLEANTE. These are his armed rights; and
by this the traitor seeks to make himself master
of your property.
ORGON. The man is, I own to you, a wicked
brute!
154 DRAMA
VALERE. The least delay may be fatal to you.
I have my coach at the door to carry you off, with
a thousand louis which I bring you. Let us lose
no time ; the blow is terrible, and is one of those
which are best parried by flight. I offer myself to
conduct you to a place of safety, and will accom-
pany you to the end of your flight.
ORGON. Alas, what do I not owe to your con-
siderate efforts ! I must await another opportunity
to thank you; and I implore Heaven to be propi-
tious enough to enable me one day to acknowledge
this generous service. Farewell: be careful, the
rest of you . . .
CLEANTE. Go quickly. We will endeavour,
brother, to do what is necessary.
SCENE VII. TARTUFFE, A P'OLICE OFFICER,
MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON, ELMIRE,
CLEANTE, MARIANE, VALERE, DAMIS, DOR-
INE.
TARTUFFE [stopping ORGON], Gently, Sir,
gently, do not run so fast. You will not have to
go far to find a lodging; we take you a prisoner
in the King's name.
ORGON. Wretch ! you have reserved this blow
for the last: this is the stroke, villain, by which
you dispatch me; and which crowns all your
perfidies.
TARTUFFE 155
TARTUFFE. Your abuse cannot Incense me;
Heaven has taught me to suffer everything.
CLEANTE. Your moderation is great, I confess.
DAMIS. How impudently the villain sports
with Heaven!
TARTUFFE. All your outrages cannot move me
in the least ; and I think of nothing but my duty.
MARIANE. You may glorify yourself very
much upon this ; and this task is very honourable
for you to undertake.
TARTUFFE. A task cannot but be glorious when
it proceeds from the power that sends me
hither.
ORGON. But do you remember, ungrateful
wretch, that my charitable hand raised you from
a miserable condition?
TARTUFFE. Yes, I know what help I received
from you ; but the King's interest is my first duty.
The just obligation of this sacred duty stifles all
gratitude of my heart; and to such a powerful
consideration, I would sacrifice friend, wife, kin-
dred, and myself with them.
ELMIRE. The impostor!
DORINE. How artfully he makes himself a
lovely cloak of all that is sacred.
CLEANTE. But if this zeal which guides you,
and upon which you plume yourself so much, be
so perfect as you say, why has it not shown itself
until Orgon caught you trying to seduce his wife ;
156 DRAMA
and why did you not think of denouncing him
until his honour obliged him to drive you from his
house? I do not say that the gift of all his prop-
erty, which he has made over to you, ought to
have turned you from your duty ; but why, wish-
ing to treat him as a criminal to-day, did you
consent to take aught from him?
TARTUFFE [to the OFFICER]. Pray, Sir, de-
liver me from this clamour, and be good enough
to execute your orders.
OFFICER.. Yes, we have no doubt delayed too
long to discharge them ; your words remind me of
this just in time ; and to execute them, follow me
directly to the prison which is destined for your
abode.
TARTUFFE. Who? I, Sir?
OFFICER. Yes, you.
TARTUFFE. Why to prison ?
OFFICER. I have no account to give to you.
[To ORGON*.] Compose yourself, Sir, after so
great an alarm. We live under a monarch, an
enemy of fraud, a monarch whose eyes penetrate
into the heart, and whom all the art of impostors
cannot deceive. Blessed with great discernment,
his lofty soul looks clearly at things; it is never
betrayed by exaggeration, and his sound reason
falls into no excess. He bestows lasting glory on
men of worth; but he shows this zeal without
blindness, and his love for sincerity does not close
his heart to the horror which falsehood must
TARTUFFE 157
inspire. Even this person could not hoodwink
him, and he has guarded himself against more
artful snares. He soon perceived, by his subtle
penetration, all the vileness concealed in his in-
most heart. In coming to accuse you, he has be-
trayed himself, and, by a just stroke of supreme
justice, discovered himself to the King as a
notorious rogue, against whom information had
been laid under another name. His life is a long
series of wicked actions, of which whole volumes
might be written. Our monarch, in short, has de-
tested his vile ingratitude and disloyalty toward
you ; has joined this affair to his other misdeeds,
and has placed me under his orders, only to see his
Impertinence carried out to the end, and to make
him by himself give you satisfaction for every-
thing. Yes, he wishes me to strip the wretch of
all your documents which he professes to possess*
and to give them into your hands. By his
sovereign power he annuls the obligations of the
contract which gave him all your property, and
lastly, pardons you this secret offence, in which
the flight of a friend has involved you; and it is
the reward of your former zeal in upholding his
rights, to show that he knows how to recompense
a good action when least thought of; that merit
never loses aught with him ; and that he remem-
bers good much better than evil.
DORINE. Heaven be praised!
MADAME PERNELLE. I breathe again.
158 DRAMA
ELMIRE, Favourable success!
MARIANE. Who dared foretell this?
ORGON [to TARTUFFE, whom the OFFICER
leads off.] Well, wretch, there you are . * .
SCENE VIII. MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON,
ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE, VALERE,
DAMIS, DORINE.
CLEANTE. Ah! brother, stop; and do not
descend to indignities. Leave the wretch to his
fate, and do not add to the remorse that over-
whelms him. Rather wish that his heart, from
this day, may be Converted to virtue; that,
through detestation of his crimes, he may reform
his life, and soften the justice of our great prince;
while you throw yourself at his knees to render
thanks for his goodness, which has treated you so
leniently.
ORGON. Yes, it is well said. Let us throw
ourselves joyfully at his feet, to laud the kindness
which his heart displays to us. Then, having
acquitted ourselves of this first duty, we must
apply ourselves to the just cares of another, and
by a sweet union crown in Valere the ,flame of a
generous and sincere lover,
MOLIERE.
ELECTRA AND ORESTES
After Agamemnon had been killed by Ms wife,
Clytemnestra, and her paramour, Aegisthos, his son,
Orestes, is sent away, lest he in turn avenge his
father's death by killing his mother and her lover.
His sister, Electra, is allowed to remain at the
palace where she broods upon her sorrows and waits
year after year for her brother's return, When he
does finally come, bringing with him his friend,
Pylades, he does not give his own name, for he
wishes to conceal his identity until he has accom-
plished his purpose. Further to throw his enemies
off the track he brings a funeral urn which he de-
clares contains the ashes of Orestes, but the sight
of Electra's grief is more than he can bear and he
lets her know that he is indeed her brother. The
scene opens with the appearance of Orestes and
Pylades who inquire of the chorus the way to the
home of Aegisthos.
The scene is before the palace of Agamemnon*
[Enter ORESTES and PYLADES, followed by two
or three Attendants bearing a funeral urn^\
ORESTES
And did we then, ye women, hear aright?
And do we rightly journey where we wish?
CHORUS
What dost thou search? And wherefore art thou
come?
l6o DRAMA
ORESTES
This long time past I seek .ZEgisthos* home.
CHORUS
Thou comest right, and blameless he who told
thee,
ORESTES
And which of you would tell to those within
The longed-for coming of our company?
CHORUS [pointing to ELECTRA].
She, if 'tis fit to call the nearest one.
ORESTES
Go, then, O maiden, go and tell them there,
That certain men from Phokis seek ^Egisthos.
ELECTRA
Ah, wretched me! It cannot be ye bring
Clear proofs of that dire rumour which, we
heard?
ORESTES
I know not of thy rumour; S trophies old
Charged me to bring the news about Orestes.
ELECTRA
What is it, stranger? Fear creeps through my
veins.
ORESTES
We bring, as thou dost see, in one small urn.
All that is left, poor relics of the dead.
ELECTRA AND ORESTES l6l
ELECTRA
Ah, me! And this is it! 'Twould seem I gaze
On that same burden, clear and close at hand.
ORESTES
If thou dost weep Orestes' hapless fate,
Know that this urn doth all his body hold.
ELECTRA
Ah, stranger ! Now by all the Gods, I p*ray,
If this urn hold him, give it in mine hands,
That I my fate and that of all my kin
May wail and weep with these poor ashes here,
ORESTES [to his Attendants].
Bring it, and give it her, whoe'er she be :
At least she does not ask it as in hate,
But is perchance a friend, or near in blood.
ELECTRA [taking the urn in her hands].
O sole memorial of his life whom most
Of all alive I loved! Orestes mine,
With other thoughts I sent thee forth than these
With which I now receive thee. Now, I bear
In these my hands what is but nothingness;
But sent thee forth, dear boy, in bloom of youth.
Ah, would that I long since had ceased to live
Before I sent thee to a distant shore,
[With these my hands, and saved thee then from
death !
So had'st thou perished on that self-same day,
And had a share in that thy father's tomb.
1 62 DRAMA
But now from home, an exile in a land
That was not thine, without thy sister near,
So did'st thou die, and I, alas, poor me!
Did neither lay thee out with lustral rites
And loving hands, nor bear thee, as was meet,
Sad burden, from the blazing funeral pyre;
But thou, poor sufferer, tended by the hands
Of strangers, comest, in this paltry urn,
In paltry bulk. Ah, miserable me!
For all the nurture, now so profitless,
Which I was wont with sweetest toil to giy
For thee, my brother. Never did she love,
Thy mother, as I loved thee; nor did they
Who dwell within there nurse thee, but 'twas I
And I was ever called thy sister true ;
But now all this has vanished in a day
In this thy death ; for, like a whirlwind, thou
Hast passed, and swept off all. My father falls
I perish; thou thyself hast gone from sight;
Our foes exult. My mother, wrongly named,
For mother she is none, is mad with joy,
Of whom thou oft did'st send word secretly
That thou would'st come and one day show thy-
self
A true avenger. But thine evil fate,
Thine and mine also, hath bereaved me of thee }
And now hath sent, instead of that dear form,
This dust, this shadow, vain and profitless*
Woe, woe is me!
O piteous, piteous corpse!
ELECTRA AND ORESTES 1 63
Thou dearest, who did'st tread,
(Woe, woe is me!)
Paths full of dread and fear,
How hast thou brought me low,
Yea, brought me very low, thou dearest one!
Therefore receive thou me to this thine home,
Ashes to ashes, that with thee below
I may from henceforth dwell. When thou wast
here
I shared with thee an equal lot, and now
I crave in dying not to miss thy tomb;
For those that die I see are freed of grief,
CHORUS
Thou, O Electra, take good heed, wast born
Of mortal father, mortal, too, Orestes;
Yield not too much to grief. To suffer thus
Is common lot of all.
ORESTES [trembling]*
Ah, woe is me!
What shall I say? Ah, whither find my way
In words confused? I fail to rule my speech*
ELECTRA
What grief disturbs thee? Wherefore speak'st
thou thus?
ORESTES
Is this Electra's noble form I see?,
ELECTRA
That self-same form, and sad enough its state.
X64 DRAMA
ORESTES
Alas, alas, for this sad lot of thine!
ELECTRA
Surely thou dost not wail, O friend, for me?
ORESTES
O form most basely, godlessly misused!
ELECTRA
Thy words ill-omened fall on none but me,
ORESTES
Alas, for this thy life of lonely woe!
ELECTRA
Why, in thy care for me, friend, groanest thou?
ORESTES
How little knew I of my fortune's ills!
ELECTRA
What have I said to throw such light on them?
ORESTES
Now that I see thee clad with many woes,
ELECTRA
And yet thou see'st but few of all mine ills.
ORESTES
SVhat could be sadder than all this to see?
ELECTRA
This, that I sit at meat with murderers.
ELECTRA AND ORESTES
ORESTES
With whose? What evil dost thou mean by this?
ELECTRA
My father's; next, I'm forced to be their slave.
ORESTES
And who constrains thee to this loathed task?
ELECTRA
My mother she is called, no mother like.
ORESTES
How so? By blows, or life with hardships full?
ELECTRA
Both blows and hardships, and all forms of
ill.
ORESTES
And is there none to help, not one to check?
ELECTRA
No, none. Who was . . . thou bringest him as
dust.
ORESTES
O sad one! Long I pitied as I gazed!
ELECTRA
Know, then, that thou alone dost pity me.
ORESTES
For I alone come suffering woes like thine.
l66 DRAMA
ELECTRA
What? Can it be thou art of kin to us?
ORESTES
If these are friendly, I could tell thee more.
ELECTRA
Friendly are they; thou'lt speak to faithful ones,
ORESTES
Put by that urn, that thou may j st hear the
whole.
ELECTRA
Ah, by the Gods, O stranger, ask not that.
ORESTES
Do what I bid thee, and thou shalt not err
ELECTRA
Nay, by thy beard, of that prize rob me not.
ORESTES
I may not have it so.
ELECTRA
Ah me, Orestes,
How wretched I, bereaved of this thy tomb !
ORESTES
Hush, hush such words: thou hast no cause for
wailing,
ELECTRA
Have I no cause, who mourn a brother's death?
ELECTRA AND ORESTES 1 67
ORESTES
Thou hast no call to utter speech like this.
ELECTRA
Am I then deemed unworthy of the dead?
ORESTES
Of none unworthy. This is nought to thee.
ELECTRA
Yet if I hold Orestes' body here.
ORESTES
s Tis not Orestes' save in show of speech.
ELECTRA
Where, then, is that poor exile's sepulchre?
ORESTES
Nay, of the living there's no sepulchre.
ELECTRA
What say'st thou, boy?
ORESTES
No falsehood what I say,
ELECTRA
And does he live ?
ORESTES
He lives, if I have life.
ELECTRA
What? Art thou he?
l68 DRAMA
ORESTES
Look thou upon this seal ?
My father's once, and learn if I speak truth.
ELECTRA
O blessed light!
ORESTES
Most blessed, I too own.
ELECTRA
O voice ! And art thou come ?
ORESTES
No longer learn
Thy news from others.
ELBCTRA
And I have thee here.
Here In my grasp?
ORESTES
So may'st thou always have me!
ELECTRA
O dearest friends, my fellow-citizens,
Look here on this Orestes, dead indeed
In feigned craft, and by that feigning saved.
CHORUS
We see it, daughter ; and at what has chanced
A tear of gladness trickles from our eyes.
ELECTRA
O offspring, offspring of a form most dear,
ELECTRA AND ORESTES 169-
Ye came, ye came at last,
Ye found us, yea, ye came,
Ye saw whom ye desired.
ORESTES
Yes, we are come. Yet wait and hold thy peace.
ELECTRA
What now?
ORESTES
Silence Is best, lest some one hear within.
ELECTRA
Nay, nay. By Artemis,
The ever-virgin One,
I shall not deign to dread
Those women there within,
With worthless burden still
Cumbering the ground.
ORESTES
See to it, for in women too there lives
The strength of battle. Thou hast proved it welL
ELECTRA [sobbing].
Ah, ah! Ah me!
There thou hast touched upon a woe unveiled.
That knows no healing, no,
Nor ever may be hid,
ORESTES
I know it well. But, when occasion bids,
Then shall we call those deeds to memory.
I7O DRAMA
ELECTRA
All time for me Is fit,
Yea, all, to speak of this,
With wrath as it deserves;
Till now I had scant liberty of speech,
ORESTES
.There we are one. Preserve, then, what thou
hast.
ELECTRA
And what, then, shall I do ?
ORESTES
When time serves not>
Speak not overmuch,
ELECTRA
And who then worthily }
Now thou art come, would choose
Silence instead of speech?
For lo! I see thee now unlocked, unhoped for.
ORESTES
Then thou did'st see me here,
When the Gods urged my coming.
ELECTRA
Thou hast said
[What mounts yet higher than thy former boon.
If God has sent thee forth
To this our home; I deem
work as Heaven's own deed.
ELECTRA AND ORESTES tjt,
ORESTES
Loth am I to restrain thee In thy joy,
And yet I fear delight overmasters thee.
ELECTRA
thou who after many a weary year
At last hast deigned to come,
(Oh, coming of great joy!)
'Do not, thus seeing me
Involved in many woes, .
ORESTES
What is it that thou ask'st me not to do?,
ELECTRA
Deprive me not, nor force me to forego
The joy supreme of looking on thy face.
ORESTES
1 should be wroth with others who would force
thee.
ELECTRA
Dost thou consent, then?
ORESTES
How act otherwise?.
ELECTRA
Ah, friends, I heard a voice
Which never had I dreamt would come to me;
Then I kept in my dumb and passionate mood,
Nor cried I, as I heard;
172 DRAMA
But now I have thee ; them hast come to me
With face most precious, dear to look upon,
Which e'en in sorrow 1 can ne'er forget.
ORESTES
All needless words pass over. Tell me not
My mother's shame, nor how ^Egisthos drains
My father's wealth, much wastes, and scatters
much ;
Much speech might lose occasion's golden hour;
But what fits in to this our present need,
That tell me, where, appearing or concealed,
We best shall check our boasting enemies,
In this our enterprise ; so when we twain
Go to the palace, look to it, that she note not,
Thy mother, by thy blither face, our coming,
But mourn as for that sorrow falsely told.
When we have prospered, then shalt thou have
leave
Freely to smile, and joy exultingly.
ELECTRA
Yes, brother dear ! Whatever pleaseth thee,
That shall be my choice also, since my joy
I had not of mine own, but gained from thee,
Nor would I cause thee e'en a moment's pain,
Myself to reap much profit. I should fail,
So doing, to work His will who favours us.
What meets us next, thou knowest, dost thou
not?
ZEgisthos, as thou nearest, gone from home;
1LECTRA AND ORESTES '1 73
My mother there within, of whom fear not
Lest she should see my face look blithe with joy;
For my old hatred eats into my soul,
And, since I've seen thee, I shall never cease
To weep for very joy. How could I cease,
Who in this one short visit looked on thee
Dead, and alive again ? Strange things to-day
Hast thou wrought out, so strange that should
there come
My father, in full life, I should not deem
'Twas a mere marvel, but believe I saw him*
But, since thou com j st on such an enterprise.
Rule thou as pleases thee. Were I alone,
I had not failed of two alternatives,
Or nobly had I saved myself, or else
Had nobly perished.
ORESTES
Silence now is best;
I hear the steps of some one from within,
As if approaching.
From "Electra" by SOPHOCLES,
translated by E, H Plumptre.
AT THE HOUSE OF HARDCASTLE
Mr. Marlow and Mr. Hastings are en route for the
liome of Mr. Hardcastle where Mr. Marlow is going
to pay court to Miss Hardcastle when they meet Tony,
Mr* Hardcastle's step-son, Tony assures them that
they will have to spend the night at the inn before
reaching their destination and points out the Hard-
castle home which is very near as the inn. Hard-
castle is astounded by their ill-breeding and they are
convinced that he is the most impudent inn keeper
that they have ever known.
Mrs. Hardcastle is the guardian of her niece, Miss
Neville, She is anxious to make a match between
Tony and Miss Neville for she is loath to let the
Neville fortune pass out of the family, Tony who
opposes the match is helping Hastings and Miss
Neville to elope.
[Enter HARDCASTLE.]
HARDCASTLE. What could my old friend Sir
Charles mean by recommending his son as the
rnodestest young man in town ? To me he appears
the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke
with a tongue. He has taken possession of the
easy chair by the fire-side already. He took off his
boots in the parlour, and desired me to see them
taken care of* Fm desirous to know how his
impudence affects my daughter. She will cer-
tainly be shocked at it.
174
AT THE HOUSE OF HARDCASTLE IJ$
[Enter Miss HARDCASTLE plainly dressed.J
HARDCASTLE. Well, my Kate, I see you have
changed your dress as I bid you; and yet, I be-
lieve, there was no great occasion.
Miss HARDCASTLE. I find such a pleasure, sir, in
obeying your commands that I take care to observe
them without ever debating their propriety.
HARDCASTLE. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give
you some cause, particularly when I recom-
mended my modest gentleman to you as a lover
to-day.
Miss HARDCASTLE. You taught me to expect
something extraordinary, and I find the original
exceeds the description!
HARDCASTLE. I was never so surprised in my
life! He has quite confounded all my faculties!
Miss HARDCASTLE. I never saw anything like
it and a man of the world, too!
HARDCASTLE. Ay, he learned it all abroad.
What a fool was I, to think a young man could
learn modesty by travelling. He might as soon
learn wit at a masquerade.
Miss HARDCASTLE. It seems all natural to him.
HARDCASTLE, A good deal assisted by bad
company and a French dancing-master.
Miss HARDCASTLE. Sure, you mistake, papa!
a French dancing-master could never have taught
him that timid look that awkward address
that bashful manner
J7& DUAMA
HARDCASTLE. Whose look? whose manner,
child?
Miss HARDCASTLE. Mr. Marlow's; his man-
waise home,* his timidity, struck me at the first
sight.
HARDCASTLE. Then your first sight deceived
you; for I think him one of the most brazen
first sights that ever astonished rny senses!
Miss HARDCASTLE. Sure, sir, you rally! I
never saw anyone so modest.
HARDCASTLE, And can you be serious ? I never
saw such a bouncing, swaggering puppy since I
was born. Bully Dawson t was but a fool to him.
Miss HARDCASTLE. Surprising! He rnet me
with a respectful bow, a stammering voice, and
a look fixed on the ground.
HARDCASTLE. He met me with a loud voice, a
lordly air, and a familiarity that made my blood
freeze again.
Miss HARDCASTLE. He treated me with dif-
dence and respect; censured the manners of the
age; admired the prudence of girls that never
laughed; tired me with apologies for being tire-
some; then left the room with a bow and
"Madam, I would not for the world detain you."
HARDCASTLE. He spoke to me as if he knew me
all his life before; asked twenty questions, and
* Embarrassment.
t A ruffian or "hector'* of Whitefriars.
AT THE HOUSE OF HARDCASTLE 177
never waited for an answer ; interrupted my best
remarks with some silly pun ; and when I was in
my best story of the Duke of Marlborough and
Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand
at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father
if he was a maker of punch !
Miss HARDCASTLE. One of us must certainly
be mistaken.
HARDCASTLE. If he be what he has shown him-
self, I'm determined he shall never have my
consent.
Miss HARDCASTLE. And if he be the sullen
thing I take him, he shall never have mine.
HARDCASTLE. In one thing then we are agreed
to reject him.
Miss HARDCASTLE. Yes. But upon conditions.
For if you should find him less impudent, and
I more presuming; if you find him more respect-
ful, and I more importunate I don't know
the fellow is well enough for a man. Certainly
we don't meet many such at a horse-race in the
country.
HARDCASTLE. If we should find him. so
But that's impossible. The first appearance has
done my business. I'm seldom deceived in that.
Miss HARDCASTLE. And yet there may be
many good qualities under that first appearance.
HARDCASTLE. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's
outside to her taste, she then sets about guessing
the rest of his furniture. With her, a smooth
178 DRAMA
face stands for good sense and a genteel figure for
every virtue.
Miss HARDCASTLE. I hope, sir, a conversation
begun with a compliment to my good sense won't
end with a sneer at my understanding ?
HARDCASTLE. Pardon me, Kate. But if young
Mr, Brazen can find the art of reconciling con-
tradictions, he may please us both, perhaps.
Miss HARDCASTLE. And as one of us must be
mistaken, what if we go to make further dis-
coveries ?
HARDCASTLE. Agreed. But depend on't I'm
in the right.
Miss HARDCASTLE. And depend on't Fm not
much in the wrong. [Exeunt.]
{Enter TONY running in with a casket.]
TONY. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are,
My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs,* and all. My
mother shan't cheat the poor souls out of their
f ortin neither. Oh, my genus, is that you ?
{Enter HASTINGS.]
HASTINGS. My dear friend, how have you
managed with your mother? I hope you have
amused her with pretending love for your cousin,
and that you are willing to be reconciled at last?
Our horses will be refreshed in a short time, and
we shall soon be ready to set off.
* Pendants,
AT THE HOUSE OF HARDCASTLE 179
TONY. And here's something to bear your
charges by the way. [Giving the casketJ\ Your
sweetheart's jewels. Keep them, and hang those,
I say, that would rob you of one of them!
HASTINGS. But how have you procured them
from your mother?
TONY. Ask me no questions, and 111 tell you
no fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb.
If I had not a key to every drawer In mother's
bureau, how could I go to the alehouse so often
as I do? An honest man may rob himself of his
own at any time.
HASTINGS, Thousands do it every day. But to
be plain with you, Miss Neville is endeavouring
to procure them from her aunt this very instant.
If she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way at
least of obtaining them.
TONY. Well, keep them, till you know how it
will be. But I know how it will be well enough ;
she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth in
her head !
HASTINGS. But I dread the effects of her re-
sentment, when she finds she has lost them.
TONY, Never you mind her resentment, leave
me to manage that. I don't value her resentment
the bounce of a cracker. Zounds! here they are!
Morrice, Prance ! *
[Exit HASTINGS.
*Both words here mean "hurry away*"
l8o DRAMA
{Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and Miss NEVILLE.]
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Indeed, Constance, you
amaze me. Such a girl as you want jewels? It
will be time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty
years hence, when your beauty begins to want
repairs.
Miss NEVILLE. But what will repair beauty
at forty will certainly improve it at twenty^
madam.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Yours, my dear, can admit
of none. That natural blush is beyond a thousand
ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at
present. Don't you see half the ladies of our ac-
quaintance, my lady Killdaylight, and Mrs
Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels
to town, and bring nothing but paste and mar-
casites * back ?
Miss NEVILLE. But who knows, madam, but
somebody that shall be nameless would like me
best with all my little finery about me ?
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Consult your glass, my
dear, and then see, if with such a pair of eyes, you
want any better sparklers. What do you think,
Tony, my dear, does your cousin Con want any
jewels, in your eyes, to set off her beauty ?
TONY. That's as thereafter may be.
Miss NEVILLE. My dear aunt, if you knew
how It would oblige me.
*Marcasite is a mineral often mistaken for gold*
and silver ore.
AT THE HOUSE OF HARDCASTLE l8l
MRS, HARDCASTLE. A parcel of old-fashioned
rose and table-cut*" things. They would make
you look like the court of king Solomon at a
puppet-show. Besides, I believe I can't readily
come at them. They may be missing, for aught I
know to the contrary.
TONY. [Apart to MRS. HARDCASTLE.] Then
why don't you tell her so at once, as she's so
longing for them. Tell her they're lost. It's the
only way to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call
me to bear witness.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. [Apart to TONY.] You
know, my dear, I'm only keeping them for you.
So if I say they're gone, you'll bear me witness,
will you? He! he! he!
TONY. Never fear me. Ecod! I'll say I saw
them taken out with my own eyes.
Miss NEVILLE. I desire them but for a day,
madam. Just to be permitted to show them
as relics, and then they may be locked up again.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. To be plain with you, my
dear Constance, if I could find them, you should
have them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost,
for aught I know; but we must have patience
wherever they are.
Miss NEVILLE. I'll not believe it; this is but
a shallow pretense to deny me. -I know they're
*J. e. f with fiat upper surfaces, cut in angles only
at tlae sides.
DRAMA
too valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are
to answer for the loss.
MRS, HARDCASTLE. Don't be alarmed, Con-
stance. If they be lost, I must restore an equiva-
lent. But my son knows they are missing, and not
to be found.
TONY. That I can bear witness to. They are
missing, and not to be found, I'll take my oath
on j t!
MRS. HARDCASTLE. You must learn resigna-
tion, my dear; for though we lose our fortune,
yet we should not lose our patience. See me, how
calm I am !
Miss NEVILLE. Ay, people are generally cairn
at the misfortunes of others.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Now, I wonder a girl of
your good sense should waste a thought upon such
trumpery. We shall soon find them, and in the
meantime you shall make use of my garnets till
your jewels be found.
Miss NEVILLE. I detest garnets!
MRS. HARDCASTLE. The most becoming things
in the world to set off a clear complexion. You
have often seen how well they look upon me. You
shall have them. Exit*
Miss NEVILLE. I dislike them of all things.
You shan't stir. Was ever anything so provok-
ing to mislay my own jewels and force me to
wear her trumpery?
TONY* Don't be a fool If she gives you the
AT THE HOUSE OF HARDCASTLE 1 83
garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are
your own already, I have stolen them out of her
bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your
spark, hell tell you more of the matter. Leave
me to manage her.
Miss NEVILLE. My dear cousin!
TONY. Vanish ! She's here, and has missed them
already. [Exit Miss NEVILLE,] Zounds ! how she
fidgets and spits about like a Catharine wheel,*
[Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE.]
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Confusion! thieves! rob-
bers ! We are cheated, plundered, broke open, un-
done!
TONY. What's the matter, what's the matter,
mamma? I hope nothing has happened to any of
the good family!
MRS. HARDCASTLE. We are robbed. My bur-
eau has been broke open, the jewels taken out,
and Fm undone!
TONY, Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the
laws, I never saw it better acted in my life.
Ecod, I thought you was ruined in earnest, ha,
ha, ha!
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Why, boy, I am ruined
in earnest. My bureau has been broke open, and
all taken away.
TONY. Stick to that; ha, ha, ha! stick to that
*So named from the spiked wheel used In the
martyrdom of St. Catherine of Alexandria.
184 DRAMA
111 bear witness,, you know, call me to bear wit-
ness.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. I tell you, Tony, by all
that's precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall
be ruined for ever.
TONY. Sure I know they're gone, and I am
to say so.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. My dearest Tony, but
hear me. They're gone, I say.
TONY. By the laws, mamma, you make me for
to laugh, ha! ha! I know who took them well
enough, ha! ha! ha!
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Was there ever such a
blockhead, that can't tell the difference between
jest and earnest? I tell you I'm not in jest, booby!
TONY* That's right, that's right ; you must be
in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect
either of us. Ill bear witness that they are gone.
MRS, HARDCASTLE. Was there ever such a
cross-grained brute, that won't hear me ! Can you
bear witness that you're no better than a fool?
Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on
one hand, and thieves on the other?
TONY. I can bear witness to that.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Bear witness again, you
blockhead, you, and III turn you out of the
room directly. My poor niece, what will become
of her? Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if
you enjoyed my distress?
TONY. I can bear witness to that.
AT THE HOUSE OF BARDCASTLE 1 85
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Do you insult me, mon-
ster? Ill teach you to vex your mother, I will!
TONY. I can bear witness to that.
[He runs off, she follows him*
{Enter Miss HARDCASTLE and MAID.]
Miss HARDCASTLE. What an unaccountable
creature is that brother of mine, to send them
to the house as an inn, ha! ha! I don't wonder
at his impudence.
MAID. But what is more, madam, the young
gentleman as you passed by in your present dress*
asked me if you were the barmaid? He mistook
you for the barmaid, madam!
Miss HARDCASTLE. Did he? Then as I live
I'm resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me,
Pimple, how do you like my present dress ? Don't
you think I look something like Cherry in the
Beaux' Stratagem 1 ? *
MAID. It's the dress, madam, that every lady
wears in the country, but when she visits or re-
ceives company.
Miss HARDCASTLE. And are you sure he does
not remember my face or person ?
MAID. Certain of it !
Miss HARDCASTLE. I vow, I thought so; for
though we spoke for some time together, yet
his fears were such, that he never once .looked
* Comedy by George Farquhar. Cherry 5s the;
daughter of the landlord in the Jplay.
1 86 DRAMA
tip during the interview. Indeed, if he had, my
bonnet would have kept him from seeing me.
MAID. But what do you hope from keeping
him in his mistake?
Miss HARDCASTLE. In the first place, I shall
be seen, and that is no small advantage to a girl
who brings her face to market. Then I shall
perhaps make an acquaintance, and that's no
small victory gained over one who never ad-
dresses any but the wildest of her sex. But my
chief aim is to take my gentleman off his guard,
and, like an invisible champion of romance, exam-
ine the giant's force before I offer to combat.
MAID. But you axe sure you can act your part,
and disguise your voice, so that he may mistake
that, as he has already mistaken your person?
Miss HARDCASTLE. Never fear me. I think I
have got the true bar cant. Did your honour
call ? Attend the Lion * there. Pipes and to-
bacco for the Angel. The Lamb has been out-
rageous this half hour !
MAID. It will do, madam. But he's here,
[Exit MAID.
Enter MARXOW
MARLOW. What a bawling in every part of
the house! I have scarce a moment's repose* If
eighteenth-century inns rooms were generally
named, instead of being numbered. "Angel" and
''Lamb" are likewise names of rooms.
AT THE HOUSE 1 OF HARDCASTLE 187
I go to the best room, there I 'find my host and
his story; if I fly to the gallery^ there we have
my hostess with her curtsey down to the ground.,
I have at last got a moment to myself, and now
for recollection.
[Walks and muses '.]
Miss HARDCASTLE. Did you call, sir ? did your
honour call?
MARLOW. [Musing J} As for Miss Hardcastle,,
she's too grave and sentimental for me,
Miss HARDCASTLE. Did your honour call?
[She still places herself before him,, he turning
away."}
MARLOW. No, child. [Musing."} Besides, from 1
the glimpse I had of her, I think she squints.
Miss HARDCASTLE. I'm sure, sir, I heard the
bell ring,
MARLOW. No, no. [Musing."} I have pleased
my father, however, by coming down, and 111 to-
morrow please myself by returning.
[Taking out his tablets, and perusing .]
Miss HARDCASTLE. Perhaps the other gentle-
man called, sir?
MARLOW. I tell you, no.
Muss HARDCASTLE. I should be glad to know,
sir. We have sucb a parcel of servants.
MARLOW. No, no, I tell you. [Looks full in
*O!d inns had galleries, upon which the bedrooms
opened, around a central yard. This was a feature
of Mr. Hardcastle's house which made it look lite
an inn to the two strangers.
1 88 DRAMA
her face.J Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted
-I wanted I vow, child, you are vastly hand-
some.
Miss HARDCASTLE. O la, sir, you'll make one
ashamed.
MARLOW. Never saw a more sprightly malic-
ious eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you
got any of your a what d'ye call it in the
house ?
Miss HARDCASTLE. No, sir, we have been out
of that these ten days.
MARLOW. One may call in this house, I find,
to very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a
taste, just by way of trial, of the nectar of your
lips; perhaps I might be disappointed in that
too!
Miss HARDCASTLE. Nectar? nectar? that's a
liquor there's no call for in these parts. French,
I suppose. We keep no French wines here, sir*
MARLOW. Of true English growth, I assure
you.
Miss HARDCASTLE. Then it's odd I should
not know it. We brew all sorts of wines in this
house, and I have lived here these eighteen years.
MARLOW. Eighteen years! Why one would
think, child, you kept the bar before you were
born. How old are you?
Miss HARDCASTLE. O sir, I must not tell my
age. They say women and music should never be
dated*
AT THE HOUSE OF HARDCASTLE l8
MARLOW. To guess at this distance, you can't
be much above forty. [Approaching.] Yet nearer
I don't think so much. [Approaching.'} By coming
close to some women they look younger still ; but
when we come very close indeed [Attempt*
ing to kiss her.]
Miss HARDCASTLE. Pray, sir, keep your dis-
tance. One would think you wanted to know
one's age as they do horses*, by mark of mouth,
MARLOW. I protest, child, you use me ex-
tremely ill. If you keep me at this distance, how
is it possible you and I can be ever acquainted?
Miss HARDCASTLE. And who wants to be ac-
quainted with you ? I want no such acquaintance,
not L Fm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle
that was here awhile ago in this obstropalous
manner. Ill warrant me, before her you looked
dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, and
talked for all the world as if you was before a
justice of peace.
MARLOW. [Aside .] Egad! she has hit it, sure
enough. [To her.] In awe of her, child? Ha! ha!
ha! A mere awkward, squinting thing! No, no!
I find you don't know me. I laughed, and rallied
her a little, but I was unwilling to be too severe.
No, I could not be too severe, curse me!
Miss HARDCASTLE. O then, sir, you are a
favourite, I find, among the ladies?
MARLOW. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And
yet, hang me, I don't see what they find in me
AT THE HOUSE OF HARDCASTLB I $9
MARLOW. To guess at this distance, you can't
be much above forty. [Approaching*] Yet nearer
I don't think so much. [Approaching.] By coming
close to some women they look younger still ; but
when we come very close indeed [Attempt*
ing to kiss her]
Miss HARDCASTLE. Pray, sir, keep your dis-
tance. One would think you wanted to know
one's age as they do horses*, by mark of mouth,
MARLOW. I protest, child, you use me ex-
tremely ill. If you keep me at this distance, how
is it possible you and I can be ever acquainted?
Miss HARDCASTLE. And who wants to be ac-
quainted with you ? I want no such acquaintance,
not L I'm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle
that was here awhile ago in this obstropalous
manner. I'll warrant me, before her you looked
dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, and
talked for all the world as if you was before a
justice of peace.
MARLOW. [Aside.] Egad! she has hit it, sure
enough. [To her] In awe of her, child? Ha! ha!
ha! A mere awkward, squinting thing! No, no!
I find you don't know me. I laughed, and rallied
her a little, but I was unwilling to be too severe.
No, I could not be too severe, curse me!
Miss HARDCASTLE. O then, sir, you are a
favourite, I find, among the ladies?
MARLOW. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And
yet, hang me, I don't see what they find in me
AT THE HOUSE OF HARDCASTLB IQI;
what time they all have for minding their woik
or their family.
MARLOW. [Aside."] All's well ; she don't laugh
at me. [To her.'] Do you ever work, child?
Miss HARDCASTLE. Ay, sure. There's not a
screen or a quilt in the whole house but what
can bear witness to that.
MARLOW. Odso ! Then you must show me your
embroidery. I embroider and draw patterns my-
self a little. If you want a judge of your work
you must apply to me.
[Seizing her handJ]
Miss HARDCASTLE, Ay, but the colours don't
look well by candle-light. You shall see all in
the morning. [Struggling J\
MARLOW. And why not now r my angel ? Such
beauty fires beyond the power of resistance.*
Pshaw! the father here! My old luck: I never
sicked seven that I did not throw ames-ace*
three times following.
[Exit MARLQW.
[Enter HARDCASTLE, who stands in surprised]
HARDCASTLE. So, madam! So I find this fs
your modest lover. This is your humble admirer
that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only
adored at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art
J*To "nick seven" is to throw seven (a lucky throw)
with the dice. "Ames-ace," properly ambs ace, two
aces thrown together, is the, lowest possible: throw*
192 DRAMA
thou not ashamed to deceive your father so?
Miss HARDCASTLE. Never trust me, dear papa,
but hell still the modest man I first took him for;
you'll be convinced of it as well as L
HARDCASTLE. By the hand of my body, I be-
lieve his impudence is infectious! Didn't I see
him seize your hand? Didn't I see him haul you
about like a milkmaid? and now you talk of his
respect and his modesty, forsooth !
Miss HARDCASTLE* But if I shortly convince
you of his modesty, that he has only the faults
that will pass off with time, and the virtues that
will improve with age, I hope you'll forgive him.
HARDCASTLE. The girl would actually make
one run mad! I tell you I'll not be convinced.
I am convinced. He has scarcely been three hours
In the house, and he has already encroached on all
my prerogatives. You may like his impudence,
and call it modesty. But my son-in-law, madam,
must have very different qualifications.
Miss HARDCASTLE. Sir, I ask but this night to
convince you.
HARDCASTLE. You shall not have half the
time, for I have thoughts of turning him out this
very hour,
Miss HARDCASTLE. Give me that hour then*
and I hope to satisfy you.
HARDCASTLE. Well, an hour let ft be then.
But 111 have no trifling with your father. All
fair and open, do you mind me?
AT THE HOUSE OF HARDCASTLE 193
Miss HARDCASTLE. I hope, sir, you have ever
found that I considered your commands as my
pride; for your kindness is such, that my duty
as yet has been inclination. Exeunt.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
From "She Stoops to Conquer*"
SAMSON AND DALILA
Samson, made captive, blind, and now in the prison
at Gaza, there to labour as in a common workhouse,
on a festival day, in the general cessation from la-
bour, comes forth into the open air to a place nigh,
somewhat retired, there to sit a while and bemoan
his condition: where he happens at length to be
visited by certain friends and equals of his tribe,
which make the Chorus, who seek to comfort him
-what they can; then by his old father, Manoa, who
endeavours the like, and withal tells him his purpose
to procure his liberty by ransom; lastly, that this
feast was proclaimed by the Philistines as a day of
thanksgiving for their deliverance from the hands
of Samson which yet more troubles him. Manoa
then departs to prosecute his endeavour with the
Philistian lords for Samson's redemption. At this
point Dalila enters,
The scene is before the prison in Gaza*
CHORUS
But who is this, what thing of sea or land?
Female of sex it seems,
That, so bedecked, ornate, and gay s
Comes this way sailing,
Like a stately ship
Of Tarsus, bound for th j isles
Of Javan or Gadire,
194
SAMSON AWD DALILA 195
With all her bravery on, and tackk trim,
Sails filled, and streamers waving,
Courted by all the winds that hold them play;
An amber scent of odorous perfume
Her harbinger, a damsel train behind ;
Some rich Philistlan matron she may seem;
And now, at nearer view, no other certain
Than Dalila, thy wife.
SAMSON
My wife, my traitress, let her not come near me.
CHORUS
Yet on she moves; now stands and eyes thee
fixed,
About t* have spoke; but now, with head de-
clined,
Like a fair flower surcharged with dew, she
weeps,
And words, addressed seem into tears dissolved,
Wetting the borders of her silken veil:
But now again she makes address to speak*
DALILA
With doubtful feet and wavering resolution
I came, still dreading thy displeasure, Samson;
Which to have merited, without excuse,
I cannot but acknowledge; yet, if tears
May expiate (though the fact more evil drew
In the perverse event than I foresaw),
My penance hath not slackened, though my
pardon
196
No way assured. But conjugal affection,
Prevailing over fear and timorous doubt*
Hath led me on, desirous to behold
Once more thy face, and know of thy estate,
If aught in my ability may serve
To lighten what thou suffer'st, and appease
Thy mind with what amends is in my power.
Though late, yet in some part to recompense
My rash but more unfortunate misdeed.
SAMSON
Out, out* hysena! These are thy wonted arts.
And arts of every woman false like thee.
To break all faith, all vows, deceive, betray j
Then, as repentant, to submit, beseech.
And reconcilement move with feigned remorse,
Confess, and promise wonders in her change;
Not truly penitent, but chief to try
Her husband, how far urged his patience bears,
His virtue or weakness which way to assail:
Then, with more cautious and instructed skill,
Again transgresses, and again submits ;
That wisest and best men, full oft beguiled,
With goodness principled not to reject
The penitent, but ever to forgive,
Are drawn to wear out miserable days,
Entangled with a pois'nous bosom snake s
If not by quick destruction soon cut off.
As I by thee, to ages an example.
SAMSOK AND DALILA 197
DALILA
Yet hear me, Samson ; not that I endeavour
To lessen or extenuate my offence,
But that, on th* other side, if it be weighed
By itself, with aggravations not surcharged,
Or else with just allowance counterpoised,
I may, if possible, thy pardon find
The easier towards me, or thy hatred less.
First granting, as I do, it was a weakness
In me, but incident to all our sex,
Curiosity, inquisitive, importune
Of secrets, then with like infirmity
To publish them, both common female faults |
Was it not weakness also to make known
For importunity, that is for naught,
Wherein consisted all thy strength and safety?
To what I did thou show'dst me first the way.
But I to enemies revealed, and should not !
Nor shouldst thou have trusted that to woman's
frailty :
Ere I to thee, thou to thyself wast cruel.
Let weakness, then, with weakness come to
parle,
So near related, or the same of kind;
Thine forgive mine, that men may censure thine
The gentler, if severely thou exact not
More strength from me than in thyself was
found.
And what if love, which thou interpret'st hate,
jg8 DRAMA
The jealousy of love y powerful of sway
In human hearts, nor less in mine towards thee t
Caused what I did? I saw thee mutable
Of fancy; feared lest one day thou wouldst leave
me
As her at Timna; sought by all means, there-
fore,
How to endear, and hold thee to me firmest:
No better way I saw than by importuning
To learn thy secrets, get into my power
Thy key of strength and safety: thou wilt say,
"Why, then, revealed?" I was assured by those
Who tempted me that nothing was designed
Against thee but safe custody and hold*
That made for me; I knew that liberty
Would draw thee forth to perilous enterprises.
While I at home sat full of cares and fears,
Wailing thy absence in my widowed bed ;
Here I should still enjoy thee, day and night,
Mine and love's prisoner, not the Philistines',
Whole to myself, unhaarded abroad,
Fearless at home of partners in my love.
These reasons in Love's law have passed for good*
Though fond and reasonless to some perhaps;
And love hath oft, well meaning, wrought much
woe,
Yet always pity or pardon hath obtained.
Be not unlike all others, not austere
As thou art strong, inflexible as steeL
SAMSON AND DALILA 199
If thou in strength all mortals dost exceed,
In umcompassionate anger do not so*
SAMSON
How cunningly the sorceress displays
Her own transgressions, to upbraid me mine!
That malice, not repentance, brought thee hither
By this appears : I gave, thou say'st, th' example,
I led the way bitter reproach, but true;
I to myself was false ere thou to me.
Such pardon, therefore, as I give my folly
Take to thy wicked deed; which when thou
seest
Impartial, self-severe, inexorable,
Thou wilt renounce thy seeking, and much rather
Confess it feigned; weakness is thy excuse,
And I believe it; weakness to resist
Philistian gold. If weakness may excuse,
What murderer, what traitor, parricide.
Incestuous, sacrilegious, but may plead it?
All wickedness is weakness; that plea, therefore,
With God or man will gain thee no remission.
But love constrained thee; call it furious rage
To satisfy thy lust : Love seeks to have love ;
My love how couldst thou hope, who took'st the
way
To raise in me inexpiable hate,
Knowing, as needs I must, by thee betrayed?
In vain thou striv'st to cover shame with shame t
Or by evasions thy crime uncover'st more.
20O DRAMA
DALILA
Since thou determm'st weakness for no plea
In man or woman, though to thy own condemn*
ing,
Hear what assaults I had, what snares be^des,
What sieges girt me round, ere I consented ;
Which might have awed the best-resolved of
men,
The constantest, to have yielded without blame*
It was not gold, as to my charge thou lay'st,
That wrought with me: thou know'st the
magistrates
And princes of my country came in person,
Solicited, commanded, threatened, urged,
Adjured by all the bonds of civil duty
And of religion pressed how just it was s
How honourable, how glorious to entrap
A common enemy, who had destroyed
Such numbers of our nation : and the priest
Was not behind, but ever at my ear,
Preaching how meritorious with the gods
It would be to ensnare an irreligious
Dishonourer of Dagon: what had I
To oppose against such powerful arguments?
Only my love of thee held long debate,
And combated in silence all these reasons
With hard contest. At length, that grounded
maxim,
So rife and celebrated in the mouths
Qr wisest men, that to the public good
SAMSON* AND DAULA 2OI
Private respects must yield, with grave authority
Took full possession of me, and prevailed;
Virtue, as I thought, truth, duty, so enjoining,
SAMSON
I thought where all thy circling wiles would
end:
In feigned religion, smooth hypocrisy.
But, had thy love, still odiously pretended,
Been, as it ought, sincere, it would have taught
thee
Far other reasonings, brought forth other deeds*
I, before all the daughters of my tribe
And of my nation, chose thee from among
My enemies, loved thee, as too well thou knew'st;
Too "well ! unbosomed all my secrets to thee,
Not out of levity, but overpowered
By thy request, who could deny thee nothing;
Yet now am judged an enemy. Why, then,
Didst thou at first receive me for thy husband?
Then, as since then, thy country's foe professed:
Being once a wife, for me thou wast to leave
Parents and country; nor was I their subject,
Nor under their protection, but my own;
Thou mine, not theirs: if aught against my life
Thy country sought of thee, it sought unjustly,
Against the law of nature, law of nations;
No more thy country, but an impious crew
Of men conspiring to uphold their state
By worse than hostile deeds, violating the ends
For which our country is a name so dear;
202 DRAMA
Not therefore to be obeyed. But zeal moved thee ;
To please thy gods thou didst it; gods unable
To acquit themselves and prosecute their foes
But by ungodly deeds, the contradiction
Of their own deity, gods cannot be:
Less therefore to be pleased, obeyed, or feared.
These false pretexts and varnished colours fail-
ing*
Bare in thy guilt, how foul must thou appear !
DALILA
In argument with men a woman ever
Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.
SAMSON
For want of words, no doubt, or lack of breath !
Witness when I was worried with thy peals.
DALILA
I was a fool, too rash, and quite mistaken
In what I thought would have succeeded best.
Let me obtain forgiveness of thee, Samson;
Afford me place to show what recompense
Towards thee I intend for what I have mis-
done,
Misguided : only what remains past cure
Bear not too sensibly, nor still insist
To afflict thyself in vain: though sight be lost,.
Life yet hath many solaces, enjoyed
Where other senses want not their delights,
At home, in leisure and domestic ease,
SAMSON AND DALILA 03
Exempt from many a care and chance to which
Eyesight exposes, daily, men abroad.
I to the lords will intercede, not doubting
Their favourable ear, that I may fetch thee
From forth this loathsome prison-house, to abide
With me, where my redoubled love and care,
With nursing diligence, to me glad office,
May ever tend about thee to old age,
With all things grateful cheered, and so supplied
t That what by me thou hast lost thou least shalt
miss.
SAMSON
No, no! of my condition take no care;
It fits not ; thou and I long since are twain ;
Nor think me so unwary or accursed
To bring my feet again into the snare
Where once I have been caught j I know thy
trains,
Though dearly to my cost, thy gins, and toils;
Thy fair enchanted cup, and warbling charms,
No more on me have power; their force Is
nulled ;
So much of adder's wisdom I have learnt
To fence my ear against thy sorceries.
If in my flower of youth and strength, when all
men
Loved, honoured, feared me, thou alone could
hate me,
pThy husband, slight me, sell me, and forgo me,
2O4 DRAMA
How wouldst thou use me now, blind, and
thereby
Deceivable, in most things as a child
Helpless, thence easily contemned and scorned,
And last neglected? How wouldn't thou insult,
When I must live uxorious to thy will
In perfect thraldom! how again betray me,
Bearing my words and doings to the lords
To gloss upon, and, censuring, frown or smile?
This jail I count the house of liberty
To thine, whose doors my feet shall never enter.
DALILA
Let me approach at least, and touch, thy hand.
SAMSON
Not for thy life, lest fierce remembrance wake
My sudden rage to tear thee joint by joint.
At distance I forgive thee; go with that;
Bewail thy falsehood, and the pious works
It hath brought forth to make thee memorable
Among illustrious women, faithful wives;
Cherish thy hastened widowhood with the gold
Of matrimonial treason: so farewell.
DALILA
I see thou art implacable, more deaf
To prayers than winds and seas; yet winds to
seas
Are reconciled at length, and sea to shore:
pThy anger, unappeasable, still rages,
SAMSON" &N0 PALILA 205
Eternal tempest never to be calmed.
Why do I humble thus myself, and, suing
For peace, reap nothing but repulse and hate?
Bid go with evil omen, and the brand
Of infamy upon my name denounced?
To mix with thy concernments I desist
Henceforth, nor too much disapprove my own.
Fame, if not double-faced, is double-mouthed,
And with contrary blast proclaims most deeds ;
On both his wings, one black, th* other white,
Bears greatest names in his wild aery flight,
My name, perhaps, among the circumcised
In Dan, in Judah, and the bordering tribes*
To all posterity may stand defamed,
With malediction mentioned, and the blot
Of falsehood most unconjugal traduced*
But in my country, where I most desire,
In Ecron, Gaza, Asdod, and in Gath s
I shall be named among the famousest
Of women, sung at solemn festivals,
Living and dead recorded, who, to save
Her country from a fierce destroyer, chose
Above the faith of wedlock-bands; my tomb
With odours visited and annual flowers.
Not less renowned than in Mount Ephraim
Jael, who, with inhospitable guile,
Smote Sisera sleeping, through the temples nailed*
Nor shall I count it heinous to enjoy
The public marks of honour and reward
Conferred upon me for the piety
2O6 DRAMA
Which to my country I was judged to have
shown.
At this whoever envies or repines,
I leave him to his lot, and like my own.
CHORUS
She's gone a manifest serpent by her sting
Discovered in the end, till now concealed.
JOHN MILTON
From "Samson Agonistes."
ROXANE AND CYRANO
Roxane is beloved of two men, Cyrano de Bergerac>
whose ugliness amounts to a deformity, and Christian
de Neuvillette, who is as handsome as a god and as
stupid as he can very well be. He is as conscious of
his stupidity as Cyrano is of his ugliness, and so begs
Cyrano to write his letters to Roxane. Because of the!
brilliance of these letters Roxane falls in love (she
thinks) with Christian. In the famous scene which
follows, Cyrano renounces his hopes, not because he
cares what happens to Christian but because he cares
a great deal what happens to Roxane* Christian has
decided that for once he will address himself directly
to Roxane without any help from Cyrano.
Scene; ROXANE'S house and the wall o/ her
garden* Over the house-door , a balcony and win*
dow. A bench beside the doorstep by means of
which the balcony can easily be scaled.
CHRISTIAN. [Catching sight of ROXANE who
is coming out from CLOMIRB'S whose house is
across the street.] She is coming! Cyrano, no, do
not leave me! ...
CYRANO [bowing to him]. I will not meddle.
Monsieur.
[H* disappears behind the garden wall]
207
2O8 DRAMA
RoXANE. "You are here! [She goes to him."}
Evening Is closing round. . . , Wait! . , .
They have all gone. . . . The air is so mild.
. * Not a passer in sight. . . * Let us sit here.
. . . Talk! . . . I will listen.
CHRISTIAN [sits beside her, on the bench.
Silence.] I love you.
ROXANE [closing her eyes]. Yes. Talk to me
of love.
CHRISTIAN. I love you.
ROXANE. Yes. That is the theme. Play varia-
tions upon it.
CHRISTIAN. I love . .
ROXANE. Variations!
CHRISTIAN. I love you so much . . .
ROXANE. I do not doubt it. What fur-
ther? . . .
CHRISTIAN. And further. I should be so happy
If you loved me! Tell me, Roxane, that you
love me . . .
ROXANE [pouting}* You proffer cider to me
when I was hoping for champagne! . . Now
tell me a little how you love me?
CHRISTIAN. Why . . . very, very much.
ROXANE. Oh! * * unravel, disentangle your
sentiments !
CHRISTIAN. Your throat! . . I want to
kiss it! . . *
ROXANE. Christian!
CHRISTIAN. I love you! . . .
RQXANE AND CYRANO 209
ROXANE [attempting to rise}. Again! * .
CHRISTIAN [hastily, holding her back}. No, I
do not love you! * . .
ROXANE [sitting down again}. That is for-
tunate !
CHRISTIAN. I adore you!
ROXANE [rising and moving away"}. Oh! * * *
CHRISTIAN. Yes, . . love makes me into a
fool!
ROXANE [drily}. And I am displeased at it!
as I should be displeased at your no longer being
handsome.
CHRISTIAN. But . .
ROXANE. Go, and rally your routed eloquence !
CHRISTIAN. I . . *
ROXANE. You love me. I have heard it. Good-
evening. [She goes toward the house.}
CHRISTIAN. No, no, not yet! ... I wish to
tell you . .
ROXANE [pushing open the door to go in}.
That you adore me. Yes, I know. No! No! Go
away! . . . Go! . . . Go! . . .
CHRISTIAN. But I . . *
[She doses the door in his face.}
CYRANO [who has been on the scene a mo*
mentj unnoticed}. Unmistakably a success.
CHRISTIAN. Help me!
CYRANO. No, sir, no.
CHRISTIAN. I will go kill myself if I am not
taken back into favor at once ... at once!
2IO DRAMA
CYRANO. And how can I ... how, the devil ?
* . . make you learn on the spot . .
CHRISTIAN, [seizin ff him by the arm}. Oh,
there! . . . Look! . . , See!
[Light has appeared in the balcony window."}
CYRANO [with emotion]* Her window!
CHRISTIAN. Oh, I shall die!
CYRANO. Not so loud!
CHRISTIAN [in a whisper}. I shall die!
CYRANO. It is a dark night. . . ,
CHRISTIAN. Well?
CYRANO. All may be mended. But you do not
deserve, . . . There! stand there, miserable boy!
... in front of the balcony! I will stand under it
and prompt you.
CHRISTIAN. But , .
CYRANO. Do as I bid you !
THE PAGES [reappearing at the lack, to
CYRANO]. Hey!
CYRANO. Hush! [He signs to them to lower
their voices.}
FIRST PAGE [in a lower -voice"}. We have
finished serenading Montfleury!
CYRANO [low, quickly'}. Go and stand out of
sight. One at this street corner, the other at that ;
and if any one conies near, play! . . *
SECOND PAGE. What sort of tune, Monsieur
the Gassendist?
CYRANO. Merry if it be a woman, mournful
if it be a man.* [The PAGES disappear f one #f
ROXANE AND CYRANO 211
tack street corner. To CHRISTIAN.] Call her!
CHRISTIAN. Roxane!
CYRANO [picking up pebbles and throwing
them at the window-pane]. Wait! A few peb-
bles . . .
ROXANE [opening the window"}* Who is call-
ing me?
CHRISTIAN. It is I . . .
ROXANE. Who is.. * . I?
CHRISTIAN. Christian!
ROXANE [disdainfully'}. Oh, you!
CHRISTIAN. I wish to speak with you.
CYRANO [under the balcony f to CHRISTIAN],
Speak low! . . *
ROXANE. No, your conversation is too common*
You may go home!
CHRISTIAN. In mercy! * . *
ROXANE. No . , . you do not love , me any
more!
CHRISTIAN [whom CYRANO & prompting"]*
You accuse me ... just Heaven! of loving you
no more. . . . when I can love you no more!
ROXANE [who was about to close her win**
dow, stopping]. Ah, that is a little better!
CHRISTIAN, [same business]* To what a ...
size has Love grown in my . sigh-rocked soul
which the ... cruel* cherub has chosen for Ms
cradle! * .
ROXANE [stepping nearer to the edge af^the*
balcony"}* That is distinctly better! , , . But,
212 DKAMA
since he is so cruel, this Cupid, you were unwise
not to smother him in his cradle!
CHRISTIAN [same business]. I tried to, but,
Madame, the . . . attempt was futile. This .
new-born Love is ... a little Hercules , , ,
ROXANE. Much, much better!
CHRISTIAN \sarn e business], . . Who found
it merest baby-play to . ,. ,. strangle the serpents
. . twain, Pride and .... Mistrust.
ROXANE {leaning her elbows on the balcony*
rail]* Ah, that is very good indeed! . . . But
why do you speak so slowly and stintedly? Has
your imagination gout in its wings?
CYRANO [drawing CHRISTIAN under the bal~
cony, and taking his place] . Hush ! It is becoming
too difficult!
ROXANE. To-night your words come falter-
ingly. , . * Why is it? .
CYRANO [talking low like CHRISTIAN], Be-
cause of the dark. They have to grope to find
your ear.
ROXANE. My words do not find the same dif-
ficulty.
CYRANO. They reach their point at once? Of
course they do ! That is because I catch them with
my heart. My heart, you see, is very large, your
ear particularly small. . . Besides, your words
drop . that goes quickly; mine have to rlimH
4 t , and that takes longer!
ROXANE AND CYRANO 213
ROXANE. They have been climbing more nim-
bly, however, in the last few minutes.
CYRANO. They are becoming used to this
gymnastic feat!
ROXANE. It is true that I am talking with you
from a very mountain top!
CYRANO. It is sure that a hard word dropped
from such a height upon my heart would shatter
it!
ROXANE [with the motion of leaving}. I will
come down.
CYRANO [quickly']. Do not!
ROXANE [pointing at the bench at the foot of
the balcony]. Then do you get up on the
seat! * * .
CYRANO [drawing away in terror}. No.
, ROXANE. How do you mean ... no?
CYRANO \with ever-increasing emotion}. Let
us profit a little by this chance of talking softly
together without seeing each other . * .
ROXANE. Without seeing each other? , . ,
CYRANO. Yes,, to my mind, delectable! Each
guesses at the other, and no more. You discern
but the trailing blackness of a mantle, and I a
dawn-grey glimmer - which is a summer gown.
1 am a shadow merely, a pearly phantom are you !
you can never know what these moments are to
me! If ever I was eloquent * * .
ROXANE. You were!
214 DRAMA
CYRANO. My words never till now surged from
my very heart , . .
ROXANE. And why?
CYRANO. Because, till now, they must strain
to reach you through . . .
ROXANE. What?
CYRANO. Why, the bewildering emotion a
man feels who sees you, and whom you look
upon ! . . . But this evening, it seems to me that
I am speaking to you for the first time !
ROXANE. It is true that your voice is alto-
gether different.
CYRANO [coming nearer, feverishly"}. Yes,
altogether different, because, protected by the
dark, I dare at last to be myself. I dare . . *
[He stops, and distractedly.^ What was I say-
ing? ... I do not know . . . All this .
forgive my incoherence ! . . , is so delicious * . .
is so new to me!
ROXANE. So new? . . .
CYRANO in extreme confusion, still trying to
mend his expressions]. So new . . , yes, new, to
be sincere; the fear of being mocked always con-
strains my heart . . .
ROXANE. Mocked * . . for what?
CYRANO. Why, . * . for its impulses, its
flights! , . . Yes, my heart always cowers be-
hind the defence of my wit. I set forth to cap
ture a star . . . and then, for dread of laughter,
I stop and pick a flower ... of rhetoric!
ROXANE AND CYRANO 215
ROXANE. That sort of flower has its pleasing
points . . .
CYRANO. But yet, to-night, let us scorn it!
ROXANE. Never before had you spoken as you
are speaking! . .
CYRANO. Ah, if far from Cupid-darts and
quivers, we might seek a place of somewhat
fresher things! If instead of drinking, Hat sip
by sip, from a chiselled golden thimble, drops
distilled and dulcified, we might try the sensa-
tion of quenching the thirst of our souls by
stooping to the level of the great river, and set-
ting our lips to the stream!
ROXANE. But yet, wit . . . fancy . . deli-
cate conceits. ...
CYRANO. I gave my fancy leave to frame con-
ceits, before, to make you linger, . . . but now
it would be an affront to this balm-breathing
night, to Nature and the hour, to talk like char-
acters in a pastoral performed at Court ! . * Let
us give Heaven leave, looking at us with all its
earnest stars, to strip us of disguise and artifice:
I fear, ... oh, fear . . . lest in our mistaken
alchemy sentiment should be subtilized to evapora-
tion; lest the life of the heart should waste in
these empty pastimes, and the final refinement of
the fine be the undoing of -the refined! -
ROXANE. But yet, wit, . . . aptness, . . in-
genuity -. -. .
CYRANO, I hate them in love ! Criminal, what
2l6 DRAMA
one loves, to prolong overmuch that paltry
thrust and parry! The moment, however, comes
inevitably, and I pity those for whom it never
comes 1 in which, we apprehending the noble
depth of the love we harbor, a shallow word
hurts us to utter!
ROXANE. If . , . if, then, that moment has
come for us two, what words will you say to
me?
CYRANO. All those, all those, all those that
come to me! Not in formal nosegay order, , ,
I will throw them you in a wild sheaf! I love
you, choke with love, I love you, dear. . . , My
brain reels, I can bear no more, it is too much.
. Your name is in my heart the golden clapper
in a bell ; and as I know no rest, Roxane, always
the heart is shaken, and ever rings your name!
. , . Of you, I remember all, all have I loved!
Last year, one day, the twelfth of May, in going
out at morning you changed the fashion of your
hair. . , . I have taken the light of your hair
for my light, and as having stared too long at
the sun, on everything one sees a scarlet wheel,
on everything when I came from my chosen light,
my dazzled eye sets swimming golden blots ! , . .
ROXANE [in a voice unsteady with emotion].
Yes , . * this is love . .
CYRANO. Ah, verily! The feeling which in-
vades me, terrible and jealous, is love * . , with
all its mournful frenzy! It is love, yet self-
ROXANE AND CYRANO 217
forgetting more than the wont of love! Ah, for
your happiness now readily would I give mine,
though you should never know it, might I but,
from a distance, sometimes, hear the happy
laughter bought by my sacrifice! Every glance
of yours breeds in me new strength, new valour !
Are you beginning to understand? Tell me, do
you grasp my love's measure? Does some little
part of my soul make itself felt of you there In
the darkness? . . , Oh, what is happening to me
this evening is too sweet, too deeply dear!
I tell you all these things, and you listen to me,
you! Not in my least modest hoping did I ever
hope so much ! I have now only to die ! It is be-
cause of words of mine that she is trembling
among the dusky branches! For you are tren>
bling, like a flower among leaves I Yes, you trem-
ble, ... for whether you will or no, I have felt
the worshipped trembling of your hand all along
this thrilled and blissful jasmin-bough! [He
madly kisses the end of a pendant bough .]
ROXANE. Yes, I tremble . . . and weep . . .
and love you . . . and am yours! . . For you
have carried me away * . . away! , . .
CYRANO. Then, let death come ! I have moved
you, I! * * . There is but one thing more I
ask . . ,
CHRISTIAN [under the balcony]. A kiss I
ROXANE [drawing hastily back}. What!
CYRANO, Oh!
21 8 DRAMA
ROXANE. You ask? . . .
CYRANO. Yes ... I ... [To CHRISTIAN.]
iYou are in too great haste!
CHRISTIAN. Since she is so moved, I must take
advantage of it!
[CYRANO to ROXANE]. I ... Yes, it is true
I asked . . . but, merciful heavens ! . . . I knew
at once that I had been too bold.
ROXANE. [a shade disappointed"}. You insist
no more than so?
CYRANO. Indeed, I insist . . . without insist-
ing! Yes! yes! but your modesty shrinks! . . .
I insist, but yet ... the kiss I begged ... re-
fuse it me!
CHRISTIAN [to CYRANO, pulling at his man-
tie]. Why?
CYRANO. Hush, Christian!
ROXANE [bending over the balcony-rail].
What are you whispering?
CYRANO. Reproaches to myself for having
gone too far; I was saying "Hush, Christian!"
[The theorbos are* heard playing"]. Your pardon!
... a second ! . . . Someone is coming !
[ROXANE closes the window. CYRANO listens
to the theorbos, one of which plays a lively, and
the other a lugubrious tune.]
CYRANO. A dance? ... A dirge? >. . .
What do they mean ? is it -a man or a woman ?
. . . Ah, It is a monk !
[Enter a CAPUCHIN MONK,, who- goes from
ROXANE AND CYRANO 219
'house to house, with a lantern^ examining the
doorsJ]
CYRANO [to THE CAPUCHIN]. What are you
looking for, Diogenes?
THE CAPUCHIN. I am looking for the house
of Madame . . .
CHRISTIAN. He is in the way!
THE CAPUCHIN. Magdeleine Robin . . .
CYRANO [pointing up one of the streets]. This
way! . . . Straight ahead ... go straight
ahead . . .
THE CAPUCHIN. I thank you. I will say ten
Aves for your peace. [Exit.]
CYRANO. My good wishes speed your cowl!
[He comes forward toward CHRISTIAN.]
CHRISTIAN. Insist upon the kiss! . . .
CYRANO. No, I will not!
CHRISTIAN. Sooner or later . . .
CYRANO. It is true! It must come, the moment
of inebriation when your lips shall imperiously
be impelled toward each other, because the one
is fledged with youthful gold and the other is
so soft a pink! ... [To himself, ] I had rather
it should be because . . . [Sound of the window
reopening; CHRISTIAN hides under the balcony]*
ROXANE [stepping forward on the balcony]*
Are you there? We were speaking of ... of
... of a ...
CYRANO. Kiss. The word is sweet. Why does
your fair lip stop at it? If the mere word burns
22O DRAMA
it, what will be of the thing itself ? Do not make
it into a fearful matter, and then fear? Did you
not a moment ago insensibly leave playfulness
behind and slip without trepidation from a smile
to a sigh, from a sigh to a tear? Slip but a little
further in the same blessed direction: from a
tear to a kiss there is scarcely a dividing shiver!
ROXANE. Say no more!
CYRANO. A kiss! When all is said, what is a
kiss? An oath of allegiance taken in closer prox-
imity, a promise more precise, a seal on a con-
fession, a rose-red dot upon the letter i in loving;
a secret which elects the mouth for ear; an in-
stant of eternity murmuring like a bee; balmy
communion with a flavour of flowers ; a fashion of
inhaling each other's heart, and of tasting, on
the brink of the lips, each other's soul !
ROXANE. Say no more ... no more!
CYRANO. A kiss, Madame, is a thing so noble
that the Queen of France, on the most fortunate
of lords, bestowed one, did the queen herself!
ROXANE. If that be so ...
CYRANO [with increasing fervour]. Like Buck-
ingham I have suffered in long silence, like
him I worship a queen, like him I am sorrowful
and unchanging . . .
ROXANE. Like him you enthrall through the
eyes the heart that follow you!
CYRANO [to himself, sobered]. True, I am
handsome ... I had forgotten!
ROXANE AND CYRANO 221
ROXANE. Come then and gather it, the supreme
flower . . .
CYRANO [pushing CHRISTIAN toward the bal-
cony"], Go!
ROXANE . * . tasting of the heart
CYRANO. Go! . . .
ROXANE, . . . murmuring like a bee.
CYRANO. Go! ...
CHRISTIAN [hesitating]* But now I feel as if
I ought not !
ROXANE. . . , making Eternity an instant. * .
CYRANO [pushing CHRISTIAN]. Scale the bal-
cony, you donkey!
[CHRISTIAN springs toward the balcony, and
climbs by means of the bench, the vine, the posts
and balusters].
CHRISTIAN. Ah, Roxane! [He clasps her to
him, and bends over her lips]*
CYRANO. Ha! . , * What a turn of the screw
to my heart! . * . Kiss, banquet of Love at
which I am Lazarus, a crumb drops from your
table even to me, here in the shade. , . Yes,
in my outstretched heart a little falls, as I feel
that upon the lip pressing her lip Roxane kisses
the words spoken by me!
From "Cyrano de Bergerac M
by EDMOND ROSTAND,
BHUNNHILDB AND WOTAN
Disobeying the command of Wotan, the king of
the gods, Briinhilde has helped Siegmund in battle
and has saved the life of hrs bride, Sieglinde who
is to become the mother of Siegfried. The Valkyries
are gathering after the battle each one bringing a
warrior whom she has rescued.
The scene is on the top of a rocky mountain*
On the right the stage is bounded by a pine~
wood. On the left is the entrance to a cave, above
which the rock rises to its highest point. At the
back the mew is quite open. Rocks of varying
heights form the edge of the precipice. Clouds fly
at intervals past the mountain peak as if driven
by storm. Four of the FalkyYks; Gerhilde, Ort~
linde, Waltraute, and Schwierthite have taken
up their position on the rocky peak above the
cam* They are in full armour.
GERHILDE
[On the highest point, calling towards the back-
ground, where a dense cloud is passing^]
Hojotolio! Hojotoho!
Heiaha! Heiaha!
Helmwige! Here!
Guide hither thy horse!
222
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTA3ST 22$
HELMWIGE'S VOICE
[At the back.} '
Hojotoho! Hojotoho!
Hojotoho! Hojotoho!
Heiaha!
[A flash of lightning comes from the cloud, show-
ing a Valkyrie on horseback, on whose saddle
hangs a slain warrior. The apparition,
approaching the cliff, passes from left to
right.
GERHILDE, WALTRAUTE, AND SCHWERTLEITE
[Calling to her as she draws near.]
Heiaha! Heiaha!
[The cloud with the apparition vanishes to the
right behind the wood.
ORTLINDE
[Calling into the woodJ\
Thy stallion make fast
By Ortlinde's mare;
Gladly my grey
Will graze by thy chestnut!
WALTRAUTE
[Calling towards the wood.]
Who hangs at thy saddle?
HELMWIGE
[Coming out of the
Sintolt, the Hegeling!
224 DRAMA
SCHWERTLEXTB
Fasten thy chestnut
Far from the grey then;
Ortlinde's mare
Carries Wittig, the Irming!
GERHILDE
[Descending a Tittle towards the others.]
And Sintolt and Wittig
Always were foemen!
ORTLINDE
[Springs up and runs to the wood.]
Heiaha! Heiaha!
Xhe horse is kicking my mare!
GERHILDE
{Laughing aloud with HELMWIGE and
SCHWERTLEITE.]
The heroes* feud
Makes foes of the horses!
HELMWIGE
\Calling back into the wood.]
Quiet, Brownie!
Pick not a quarrel.
WALTRAXJTE
[On the highest point, where listening towards
the right she has taken GERHILDE'S place as
watcher, calling towards the right-hand side
of the background,]
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTAN 225
Hoioho! Hoioho!
Siegrune, come!
What keeps thee so long?
SIEGRUNE'S VOICE
[From the back in the right.]
Work to do.
Are the others all there?
THE VALKYRIES
[In answer ', their gestures, as well as a bright light
behind the wood, showing that SlEGRUNB has
just arrived there.
Hojotoho! Hojotoho!
Heiaha! Heiaha!
GRIMGERDE'S AND ROSSWEISSE'S VOICES
[From the back on the ///.]
Hojotoho! Hojotoho!
Heiaha !
WALTRAUTE
[Towards the left.]
Grimgerd and Rossweisse!
GERHILDE
Together they ride.
[In a cloud which passes across the stage from
the left f and from which lightning flashes,
ROSSWEISSE and GRIMGERDE appear, also on
horseback, each carrying a slain warrior on
her saddle.
226 DRAMA
HELMWIGE, ORTLINDE, AND SIEGRUNE
[Have come out of the wood and wave their hands
from the edge of the precipice to ROSSWEISSE
and GRIMGERDE, who disappear behind the
We greet yon, valiant ones !
Rossweiss and Grlmgerde!
ROSSWEISSE'S AND GRIMGERDE'S VOICES
Hojotoho! Hojotoho!
Heiaha!
ALL THE OTHER VALKYRIES
Hojotoho! Hojotoho!
Heiaha! Heiaha!
GERHILDE
[Calling into the wood.'}
Your horses lead into
The wood to rest!
ORTLINDE
[Also calling into the wood."]
Lead the mares far off
One from the other,
Until our heroes 1
Anger is laid!
HELMWIGE
[The others laughing^
The grey has paid
For the heroes' anger.
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTAN" 227
ROSSWEISSE AND GRIMGERDE
\Comlng out of the wood.]
Hojotoho! Hojotoho!
THE VALKYRIES
Be welcomed ! Be welcomed !
SCHWERTLEITE
Went ye twain on one quest?
GRIMGERDE
No, singly we rode,
And met but to-day.
ROSSWEISSE
If we all are assembled
Why linger longer?
,To Walhall let us away,
^Bringing to Wotan the slain*
HELMWIGE
We are but eight;
Wanting is one.
GERHILDE
By the brown-eyed Walsung
Briinnhilde tarries.
WALTRAUTK
Until she joins us
Here we must wait;
Warfather's greeting
Grim were indeed
228 DRAMA
If we returned without her!
SlEGRUNE
\0n the look-out, calling towards the
Hojotoho! Hojotoho!
This way! This way!
[To the others*
In hottest haste riding,
Hither she comes.
THE VALKYRIES
[/f // hasten to the look-out.^
Hojotoho! Hojotoho!
Heiaha !
Briinnhilde, hei!
ey watch her with growing astonishment*
WALTRAUTE
See, she leads woodward
Her staggering horse.
GRIMGERDE
From swift riding
How Grane pants!
ROSSWEISSE
No Valkyrie's flight
Ever so fast was.
ORTLINDE
What lies on her saddle?
HELMWIGE
That is ho man!
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTAN
SlEGRUNE
*Tis a woman, see!
GERHILDE
^Where found she the maid?,
SCHWERTLEITE
Has she no greeting
For her sisters?
WALTRAUTE
[Calling down very loudly.J
Heiaha! Briinnhilde!
Dost thou not hear?
ORTLINDE
From her horse
Let us help our sister.
[HELMWIGE and GERHILDE run to the woo'd f
followed by SlEGRUNE and ROSSWEISSE.
THE VALKYRIES
Hojotoho! Hojotoho!
Heiaha !
WALTRAUTE
[Looking into the
To earth has sunk
Grane the strong one!
GRIMGERDE
From the saddle swift
She snatches the maid*
$30 DRAMA
THE OTHER VALKYRIES
[Running to the wood.]
Sister! Sister!
iWhat has occurred?
[The Valkyries all return to the stage; BRUNN-
HILDE accompanies them, leading and sup-
porting SlEGLINDE.
BRUNNHILDE
[Breathless.]
Shield me and help
In dire distress!
THE VALKYRIES
Whence rodest them hither,
Hasting so hard?
Thus ride they only who flee.
BRUNNHILDE
I flee for the first time
And am pursued:
Warfather follows close.
THE VALKYRIES
[Terribly alarmed.]
Hast thou gone crazy?
Speak to us! What?
Pursued by Warfather?
Flying from him?
BRUNNHILDE
[Turns and looks out anxiously, then comes back.]
O sisters, spy
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTAN" 231
From the rocky peak!
Look north and tell me
If Warfather nears!
[ORTLINDE an d WALTRAUTE spring up the peak
to the look-out.
Quick! Is he in sight?
ORTLINDE
A storm from the north
Is nearing.
WALTRAUTE
Darkly the clouds
Congregate there.
THE VALKYRIES
Warfather,* riding
His sacred steed, comes!
BRUNNHILDE
The wrathful hunter,
He rides from the north;
He nears, he nears, in fury!
Save this woman!
Sisters your help!
THE VALKYRIES
What threatens the woman?
BRUNNHILDE
Hark to me quickly !
Sieglinde this is,
Siegmund's sister and bride.
232 DRAMA
Wotan his fury
Against the Walsungs has turned.
He told me
That to-day I must fail
The brother in strife;
But with my shield
I guarded him safe,
Daring the God,
Wlio slew him himself with his spear.
Siegmund fell;
But I fled,
Bearing his bride.
To protect her
And from the stroke
Of his -wrath to hide,
I hastened, O my sisters, to you I
THE VALKYRIES
[Full of fear.']
O foolish sister,
How mad thy deed!
Woe's me! Woe's me!
Briinnhilde, lost one!
Mocked, disobeyed
By Briinnhilde
"Warfather's holy command!
[On the look-out.~\
Darkness comes
From the north like the night.
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTAN 233
ORTLINDE
[On the look-out.]
Hither steering,
Rages the storm.
ROSSWEISSE, GRIMGERDE, AND SCHWERTLEITE
Wildly neighs
Warfather's horse!
HELMWIGE, GERHILDE, AND SIEGRUNE
Panting, snorting it comes!
BRUNNHILDE
Woe to the woman
If here she is found s
For Wotan has vowed
The Walsungs shall perish!
The horse that is swiftest
Which of you lends,
t That forth the woman may fly?
SIEGRUNE
Wouldst have us too
Madly rebel?
BRUNNHILDE
Rossweisse, sister,
Wilt lend me thy racer !
ROSSWEISSE
The fleet one from Wotan
Never yet fled.
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTAN 235
O cover me, Death,
From the sorrow!
Wouldst thou not have me
Curse thee for flying?
Thou must hearken, maid, to my prayer:
Pierce thou my heart with thy sword !
BRUNNHILDE
[Impressively.]
Live for the sake
Of thy love, O woman!
Rescue the pledge
Thou has gotten from him:
The Walsung's child thou shalt bear!
SlEGLINDE
[Gives a violent start; suddenly her face beams
with sublime joy]
Save me, ye bold ones!
Rescue my child!
Shelter me, maidens,
And strong be your shield!
[An ever-darkening thunder storm nears from
the back.
WALTRAUTE
[On the look-out.']
The storm has drawn nigh.
ORTLINDE
Fly, all who fear it!
236 DRAMA
THE VALKYRIES
Hence with the -woman ;
Here she is lost:
The Valkyries dare not
Shield her from doom I
SIEGLINDE
[On her knees before BRUNNHILDE.]
Save me, O maid!
Rescue the mother!
BRUNNHILDE
[Raises SIEGLINDE with sudden
Away then, and swiftly!
Alone thou shalt fly.
I stay in thy stead,
.Victim of Wotan's anger.
I will hold here
The God in his wrath,
JTill I know thee past reach of his rage
SIEGLINDE
Say, whither shall my flight be?
BRUNNHILDE
Wliich of you, sisters,
Eastward has journeyed?
SlEGRUNE
A forest stretches
Far in the east;
The Nibehtng's hoard
By Fafner thither was borne.
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTAN" 237
SCHWERTLEITE
There as a dread
Dragon he sojourns,
And in a cave
Keeps watch over Alberich's ring.
GRIMGERDE
'Tis uncanny there
For a woman's home.
BRUNNHILDE
And yet from Wotan's wrath
Shelter sure were the wood;
For he both fears
And keeps far from the place.
WALTRAUTE
{On the look-out.]
Raging, Wotan
Rides to the rock!
THE VALKYRIES
Briinnhilde, hark!
Like a storm-wind he conies!
BRUNNHILDE
[Urgently.]
Flee then swiftly,
Thy face to the east!
Boldly enduring,
Defy every ill
Hunger and thirst,
DRAMA
Briar and stone;
Laugh, whether gnawed
By anguish or want!
For one thing know
And hold to always >
The world's most glorious hero
Hideth, O woman, thy sheltering womb !
[She takes the pieces of SIEGMUND^S sword from
under her breast-plate and gives them to SlEG-
LINDE.
The splintered sword's pieces
Guard securely;
From the field where slain was
His father I brought them.
And now I name
Him who one day
The sword new-welded shall swing
"Siegfried" rejoice and prevail!
SIEGLINPE
[Greatly moved '.J
Sublimest wonder!
Glorious maidS
From thee high solace
I have received!
For him whom we loved
I save the beloved one.
May rny thanks one day
Sweet reward bring!
Fare thou well!
Be blest by Sieglind* in woe!
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTAN 239
[She hastens away to the right In front. The
rocky peak is surrounded by black thunder-
clouds. A fearful storm rages from the
back. A fiery glow increases in strength to
the right.
WOTAN'S VOICE
Stay, Briinnhilde!
ORTLINDE AND WALTRAUTE
[Coming down from the look-out."}
The rock is reached
By horse and rider!
[BRUNNHILDE., after following SIEGLINDE with
her eyes for a while } goes towards the back*
ground, looks into the wood f and comes for-
ward again fearfully.
THE VALKYRIES
Woe, Woe! Briinnhilde!
Vengeance he brings I
BRUNNHILDE
Ah, sisters, help!
My courage fails!
His wrath will crush me
Unless ye ward off its weight.
THE VALKYRIES
{Fly toiuards the rocky point in fear* drawing
BRUNNHILDE with them.]
This way, then, lost one!
Hide from his sight!
24O DRAMA
Cling closely to us,
And heed not his call!
[They hide BRUNNHILDE in their midst and look
anxiously towards the wood f which is now
lit up by a bright fiery glow, while in the
background it has grown quite dark.
Woe! Woe!
Raging, Wotan
Swings from his horse!
Hither hastes
His foot for revenge!
WOTAN
[Comes from the wood in a terrible state of
wrath and excitement and goes towards the
VALKYRIES on the height^ looking angrily
for BRUNNHILDE.]
Where is Briinnhilde?
Where is the guilty one?
Would ye defy me
And hide the rebel?
THE VALKYRIES
Fearful and loud thy rage is!
By what misdeed have thy daughters
Vexed and provoked thee
To terrible wrath?
WOTAN
Fools, would ye flout me?
Have a care, rash ones!
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTAN 24!
I know: Briinnhilde
Fain ye would hide.
Leave her, the lost one
Cast off for ever,
Even as she
Cast off her worth!
THE VALKYRIES
To us fled the pursued one,
In her need praying for help,
Dismayed and fearful.
Dreading thy wrath.
For our trembling sister
Humbly we beg
That thy first wild rage be calmed.
WOTANT
Weak-hearted
And womanish brood!
Is this your valaur,
Given by me?
For this have I reared you
Bold for the fight,
Made you relentless
And hard of heart
That ye wild ones might weep and whine
When my wrath on a faithless one falls?
Learn, wretched whimperers,
What was the crime
Of her for whom
Ye are shedding those tears.
DRAMA
No one but she
Knew what most deeply I brooded;
No one but she
Pierced to the source of my being;
Through her deeds
All, I wished to be, came to birth.
This sacred bond
So completely she broke
That she defied me,
Opposing my will,
Her master's command
Openly mocked,
And against me pointed the spear
That she held from me alone,
Hearest, Brtinnhilde?
Thou who didst hold
Thy helm and spear,
Grace and delight,
Life and name as my gift!
Hearing my voice thus accusing,
Dost hide from inean terror,
A coward who shirks her doom?
BRUNNHILDE
[Steps out from the band of VALKYRIES, and
humbly but with a firm step descends from
the rocky peak until within a short distance
from WOTAN.]
Here I am, Father,
Awaiting thy sentence!
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTAN 345
WOTAN"
I sentence thee not;
Thou hast shaped thy doom for thyself,
Through my will only
Wert thou at all,
Yet against my will thou hast worked;
Thy part it was
To fulfill my commands,
Yet against me thou hast commanded;
Wish-maid
Thou wert to me,
Yet thy wish has dared to cross mine ;
Shield-maid
Thou wert to me,
Yet against me raised was thy shield;
Lot-chooser
Thou wert to me:
Against me the lot thou hast chosen;
Hero-rouser
Thou wert to me ;
Thou hast roused up heroes against me.
What once thou wert
Wotan has told thee:
What thou art now,
Demand of thyself!
Wi$h*-xnaid thou art no more;
Valkyrie thou art no longer:
What now thou art
For aye thou shalt be,!
244 DRAMA
BRUNNHILDE
[Greatly terrified^]
^Thou dost cast me off?
Ah, can it be so?
WOTAN
No more shall I send thee from Walhall
To seek upon fierce
Fields for the slain;
With heroes no more
Shalt thou fill my hall:
When the high Gods sit at banquet,
No more shalt thou pour
The wine in my horn;
No more shall I kiss
The mouth of my child*
Among heaven's hosts
Numbered no longer,
Outcast art thou
From the kinship of Gods;
Our bond is broken in twain,
And from my sight henceforth thou now art
banned.
THE VALKYRIES
[Leave their places in the excitement, and come a
little farther down the rocks."]
Woe's me! Woe!
Sister! O sister!
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTA3ST 24J
BRUNNHILDE
All that thou gavest
Thou dost recall?
WOTAN
Conquering thee, one shall take all!
For here on the rock
Bound thou shalt be,
Defenceless in sleep,
Charmed and enchained;
The man who chances this way
And awakes her, shall master the maid.
THE VALKYRIES
[Come down from the height in great excite
ment, and in terrified groups surroum
BRUNNHILDE, who lies half kneeling be/or
WOTAN.]
O stay, Father!
The sentence recall.
Shall the maiden droop
And be withered by man?
O dread one, avert thou
The crying disgrace:
For as sisters share we her shame*
Have ye not heard
Wotan's decree?
246 DRAMA
From out your band
Shall your traitorous sister be banished,
No more to ride
Through the clouds her swift steed to the battle
Her maidenhood's flower
Will fade away;
Her grace and her favour
Her husband's will be;
Her husband will rule her
And she will obey;
Beside the hearth she will spin,
To all .mockers a mark for scorn,
[BRUNNHILDE sinks with a cry to the grounc
THE VALKYRIES, horror-stricken, reco\
from her violently.
Fear ye her fate?
Then fly from the lost one!
Swiftly forsake
And flee from her far!
Let one but venture
Near her to linger,
Seek to befriend her,
Defying my will
The fool shall share the same ..doom:
I warn you, ye bold ones, well!
Up and away!
Hence, and return not!
Get ye gone at a gallop,
Trouble is rife else for you here!
BRUNNHILDE AND WOTAN 247
THE VALKYRIES
[Separate with a wild cry and rush into the
wood."] Woe! Woe!
[Black clouds settle thickly on the cliff; a rush*
Ing sound is heard in the wood. From the
clouds breaks a vivid -flash of lightning* by
which THE VALKYRIES are seen packed
closely together, and riding wildly away
with loose bridles. The storm soon subsides;
the thunder-clouds gradually disperse. In
the following scene the weather becomes fine
again and twilight falls* followed at the
close by night,
From "The Valkyrie" by
RICHARD WAGNER,
translated by Margaret Armour.
THE END
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