The Love-Tiff
GR. – RE. And so will I. Let us both be angry, and put our love on the list of our old sins; we must teach a lesson to that wayward sex, and make them feel that we possess some courage. He that will bear their contempt shall have enough of it. If we had sense enough not to make ourselves too cheap, women would not talk so big. Oh! how insolent they are through our weakness! May I be hanged if we should not see them fall upon our neck more often than we wished, if it was not for those servilities with which most men, now-a-days, continually spoil them.
ERAS. As for me, nothing vexes me so much as contempt; and to punish her's by one as great, I am resolved to cherish a new passion.
GR. – RE. So will I, and never trouble my head about women again. I renounce them all, and believe honestly you could not do better than to act like me. For, master, people say that woman is an animal hard to be known, and naturally very prone to evil; and as an animal is always an animal, and will never be anything but an animal, though it lived for a hundred thousand years, so, without contradiction, a woman is always a woman, and will never be anything but a woman as long as the world endures.
[Footnote: This passage is paraphrased from Erasmus, Colloquia familiaria et Encomium Moriae, in which, after having called a woman animal stultum atque ineptum verum ridiculum, et suave, Folly adds, Quemadmodum, juxta Graecorum proverbium, simia semper est simia, etiamsi purpura vestiatur, ita mulier semper mulier est, hoc est stulta, quamcunque personam induxerit.]
Wherefore, as a certain Greek author says: a woman's head is like a quicksand; for pray, mark well this argument, which is most weighty: As the head is the chief of the body, and as the body without a chief is worse than a beast, unless the chief has a good understanding with the body, and unless everything be as well regulated as if it were measured with a pair of compasses, we see certain confusions arrive; the animal part then endeavours to get the better of the rational, and, we see one pull to the right, another to the left; one wants something soft, another something hard; in short, everything goes topsy turvy. This is to show that here below, as it has been explained to me, a woman's head is like a weather-cock on the top of a house, which veers about at the slightest breeze; that is why cousin Aristotle often compares her to the sea; hence people say that nothing in the world is so stable as the waves.
[Footnote: Though "stable" is here used, it is only employed to show the confusion of Gros-René's ideas, who, of course, wishes to say "unstable."]
Now, by comparison – for comparison makes us comprehend an argument distinctly, – and we learned men love a comparison better than a similitude, – by comparison, then, if you please, master, as we see that the sea, when a storm rises, begins to rage, the wind roars and destroys, billows dash against billows with a great hullabaloo, and the ship, in spite of the mariner, goes sometimes down to the cellar and sometimes up into the garret; so, when a woman gets whims and crotchets into her head, we see a tempest in the form of a violent storm, which will break out by certain … words, and then a … certain wind, which by … certain waves in … a certain manner, like a sand-bank … when … In short, woman is worse than the devil.
[Footnote: This long speech of Gros-René ridicules the pedantic arguments of some of the philosophers of the time of Molière. It also attributes to the ancients some sayings of authors of the day; for example, the comparison, from a Greek author, "that a woman's head is like a quicksand," is from a contemporary; the saying from Aristotle, comparing woman to the sea, is from Malherbe. Words very familiar look more homely when employed with high-flown language, and Gros-René's speech is no bad example of this, whilst at the same time it becomes more muddled the longer it goes on. There exists also a tradition that the actor who performs the part of Gros-René should in order to show his confusion, when he says "goes sometimes down the cellar," point to his head, and when he mentions "up into the garret," point to his feet.]
ERAS. You have argued that very well.
GR. – RE. Pretty well, thanks to Heaven; but I see them coming this way, sir, – stand firm.
ERAS. Never fear.
GR. – RE. I am very much afraid that her eyes will ensnare you again.
SCENE III. – ÉRASTE, LUCILE, MARINETTE, GROS-RENÉ
MAR. He is not gone yet, but do not yield.
LUC. Do not imagine I am so weak.
MAR. He comes towards us.
ERAS. No, no, madam, do not think that I have come to speak to you again of my passion; it is all over; I am resolved to cure myself. I know how little share I have in your heart. A resentment kept up so long for a slight offence shows me your indifference but too plainly, and I must tell you that contempt, above all things, wounds a lofty mind. I confess I saw in you charms which I never found in any other; the delight I took in my chains would have made me prefer them to sceptres, had they been offered to me. Yes, my love for you was certainly very great; my life was centred in you; I will even own that, though I am insulted, I shall still perhaps have difficulty enough to free myself. Maybe, notwithstanding the cure I am attempting, my heart may for a long time smart with this wound. Freed from a yoke which I was happy to bend under, I shall take a resolution never to love again. But no matter, since your hatred repulses a heart which love brings back to you, this is the last time you shall ever be troubled by the man you so much despise.
LUC. You might have made the favour complete, sir, and spared me also this last trouble.
ERAS. Very well, madam, very well, you shall be satisfied. I here break off all acquaintance with you, and break it off for ever, since you wish it; may I lose my life if ever again I desire to converse with you!
LUC. So much the better, you will oblige me.
ERAS. No, no, do not be afraid that I shall break my word! For, though my heart may be weak enough not to be able to efface your image, be assured you shall never have the pleasure of seeing me return.
LUC. You may save yourself the trouble.
ERAS. I would pierce my breast a hundred times should I ever be so mean as to see you again, after this unworthy treatment.
LUC. Be it so; let us talk no more about it.
ERAS. Yes, yes; let us talk no more about it; and to make an end here of all unnecessary speeches, and to give you a convincing proof, ungrateful woman, that I forever throw off your chain, I will keep nothing which may remind me of what I must forget. Here is your portrait; it presents to the eye many wonderful and dazzling charms, but underneath them lurk as many monstrous faults; it is a delusion which I restore to you.
GR. – RE. You are right.
LUC. And I, not to be behind-hand with you in the idea of returning everything, restore to you this diamond which you obliged me to accept.
MAR. Very well.
ERAS. Here is likewise a bracelet of yours.
[Footnote: Formerly lovers used to wear bracelets generally made of each others hair, which no doubt were hidden from the common view. Shakespeare, in his Mid-summer Night's Dream, Act i., Scene I, says, "Thou, Lysander, thou hast… stol'n th' impression of her fantasy with bracelets of thy hair."]
LUC. And this agate seal is yours.
ERAS. (Reads). "You love me with the most ardent passion, Éraste, and wish to know if I feel the same. If I do not love Éraste as much, at least I am pleased that Éraste should thus love me. – LUCILE." You assure me by this letter that you accept my love; it is a falsehood which I punish thus. (Tears the letter).
LUC. (Reading). "I do not know what may be the fate of my ardent love, nor how long I shall suffer; but this I know, beauteous charmer, that I shall always love you. – ÉRASTE." This is an assurance of everlasting love; both the hand and the letter told a lie. (Tears the letter).
GR. – RE. Go on.
ERAS. (Showing another letter). This is another of your letters; it shall share the same fate.
MAR. (To Lucile). Be firm.
LUC. (Tearing another letter). I should be sorry to keep back one of them.
GR. – RE. (To Éraste). Do not let her have the last word.
MAR. (To Lucile). Hold out bravely to the end.
LUC. Well, there are the rest.
ERAS. Thank Heaven, that is all! May I be struck dead if I do not keep my word!
LUC. May it confound me if mine be vain.
ERAS. Farewell, then.
LUC. Farewell, then.
MAR. (To Lucile). Nothing could be better.
GR. – RE. (To Éraste). You triumph.
MAR. (To Lucile). Come, let us leave him.
GR. – RE. (To Éraste). You had best retire after this courageous effort.
MAR. (To Lucile). What are you waiting for?
GR. – RE. (To Éraste). What more do you want?
ERAS. Ah, Lucile, Lucile! you will be sorry to lose a heart like mine, and I know it.
LUC. Éraste, Éraste, I may easily find a heart like yours.
ERAS. No, no, search everywhere; you will never find one so passionately fond of you, I assure you. I do not say this to move you to pity; I should be in the wrong now to wish it; the most respectful passion could not bind you. You wanted to break with me; I must think of you no more. But whatever any one may pretend, nobody will ever love you so tenderly as I have done.
LUC. When a woman is really beloved she is treated differently, and is not condemned so rashly.
ERAS. Those who love are apt to be jealous on the slightest cause of suspicion, but they can never wish to lose the object of their adoration, and that you have done.
LUC. Pure jealousy is more respectful.
ERAS. An offence caused by love is looked upon with more indulgence.
LUC. No, Éraste, your flame never burnt very bright.
ERAS. No, Lucile, you never loved me.
LUC. Oh! that does not trouble you much, I suppose; perhaps it would have been much better for me if… But no more of this idle talk; I do not say what I think on the subject.
ERAS. Why?
LUC. Because, as we are to break, it would be out of place, it seems to me.
ERAS. Do we break, then?
LUC. Yes, to be sure; have we not done so already?
ERAS. And you can do this calmly?
LUC. Yes; so can you.
ERAS. I?
LUC. Undoubtedly. It is weakness to let people see that we are hurt by losing them.
ERAS. But, hard-hearted woman, it is you who would have it so.
LUC. I? not at all; it was you who took that resolution.
ERAS. I? I thought it would please you.
LUC. Me; not at all; you did it for your own satisfaction.
ERAS. But what if my heart should wish to resume its former chain? If, though very sad, it should sue for pardon…?
[Footnote: An imitation from Horace, book iii., ode ix., vers. 17 and 18. Quid? si prisca redet Venus Diductosque jugo cogit aheneo?]
LUC. No, no; do no such thing; my weakness is too great. I am afraid I might too quickly grant your request.
ERAS. Oh! you cannot grant it, nor I ask for it, too soon, after what I have just heard. Consent to love me still, madam; so pure a flame ought to burn for ever, for your own sake. I ask for it, pray grant me this kind pardon.
LUC. Lead me home.
SCENE IV. – MARINETTE, GROS-RENÉ
MAR. Oh! cowardly creature,
GR. – RE. Oh! weak courage.
MAR. I blush with indignation.
GR. – RE. I am swelling with rage; do not imagine I will yield thus.
MAR. And do not think to find such a dupe in me.
GR. – RE. Come on, come on; you shall soon see what my wrath is capable of doing.
MAR. I am not the person you take me for; you have not my silly mistress to deal with. It is enough to look at that fine phiz to be smitten with the man himself! Should I fall in love with your beastly face? Should I hunt after you? Upon my word, girls like us are not for the like of you.
GR. – RE. Ay! and you address me in such a fashion? Here, here, without any further compliments, there is your bow of tawdry lace, and your narrow ribbon; it shall not have the honour of being on my ear any more.
MAR. And to show you how I despise you, here, take back your half hundred of Paris pins, which you gave me yesterday with so much bragging.
GR. – RE. Take back your knife too; a thing most rich and rare; it cost you about twopence when you made me a present of it.
MAR. Take back your scissors with the pinchbeck chain.
GR. – RE. I forgot the piece of cheese you gave me the day before yesterday – here it is; I wish I could bring back the broth you made me eat, so that I might have nothing belonging to you.
MAR. I have none of your letters about me now, but I shall burn every one of them.
GR. – RE. And do you know what I shall do with yours?
MAR. Take care you never come begging to me again to forgive you.
GR. RE. (Picking up a bit of straw). To cut off every way of being reconciled, we must break this straw between us; when a straw is broken, it settles an affair between people of honour.
[Footnote: A wisp of straw, or a stick, was formerly used as a symbol of investiture of a feudal fief. According to some authors the breaking of the straw or stick was a proof that the vassals renounced their homage; hence the allusion of Molière. The breaking of a staff was also typical of the voluntary or compulsory abandonment of power. Formerly, after the death of the kings of France, the grand maitre (master of the household) broke his wand of office over the grave, saying aloud three times, le roi est mort and then Vive le roi. Hence also, most likely, the saying of Prospero, in Shakespeare's "Tempest" Act v. Sc. I, "I'll break my staff," i. e., I voluntarily abandon my power. Sometimes the breaking of a staff betokened dishonour, as in Shakespeare's second part of "Henry VI." Act I. Sc. 2. when Gloster says: "Methought this staff, mine office-badge in court was broke in twain."]
Cast none of your sheep's eyes at me;
[Footnote: According to tradition, Gros-René and Marinette stand on the stage back to back; from time to time they look to the right and to the left; when their looks meet they turn their heads abruptly away, whilst Gros-René presents over his shoulder to Marinette the piece of straw, which the latter takes very good care not to touch.]
I will be angry.
MAR. Do not look at me thus; I am too much provoked.
GR. – RE. Here, break this straw; this is the way of never recanting again; break. What do you laugh at, you jade?
MAR. Yes, you make me laugh.
GR. – RE. The deuce take your laughing! all my anger is already softened.
What do you say? shall we break or not?
MAR. Just as you please.
GR. – RE. Just as you please.
MAR. Nay, it shall be as you please.
GR. RE. Do you wish me never to love you?
MAR. I? As you like.
GR. – RE. As you yourself like; only say the word.
MAR. I shall say nothing.
GR. – RE. Nor I.
MAR. Nor I.
GR. – RE. Faith! we had better forswear all this nonsense; shake hands, I pardon you.
MAR. And I forgive you.
GR. – RE. Bless me! how you bewitch me with your charms.
MAR. What a fool is Marinette when her Gros-René is by.
* * * * *
ACT V
SCENE I. – MASCARILLE, alone
"As soon as darkness has invaded the town, I will enter Lucile's room; go, therefore, and get ready immediately the dark lantern, and whatever arms are necessary." When my master said these words, it sounded in my ears as if he had said, "Go quickly and get a halter to hang yourself." But come on, master of mine, for I was so astonished when first I heard your order, that I had no time to answer you; but I shall talk with you now, and confound you; therefore defend yourself well, and let us argue without making a noise. You say you wish to go and visit Lucile to-night? "Yes, Mascarille." And what do you propose to do? "What a lover does who wishes to be convinced." What a man does who has very little brains, who risks his carcass when there is no occasion for it. "But do you know what is my motive? Lucile is angry." Well, so much the worse for her. "But my love prompts me to go and appease her." But love is a fool, and does not know what he says: will this same love defend us against an enraged rival, father, or brother? "Do you think any of them intend to harm us?" Yes, really, I do think so; and especially this rival. "Mascarille, in any case, what I trust to is, that we shall go well armed, and if anybody interrupts us we shall draw." Yes, but that is precisely what your servant does not wish to do. I draw! Good Heavens! am I a Roland, master, or a Ferragus?
[Footnote: Roland, or Orlando in Italian, one of Charlemagne's paladins and nephew is represented as brave, loyal, and simple-minded. On the return of Charlemagne from Spain, Roland, who commanded the rearguard, fell into an ambuscade at Roncezvalles, in the Pyrenées (778), and perished, with the flower of French chivalry. He is the hero of Ariosto's poem, "Orlando Furioso." In this same poem Cant. xii. is also mentioned Ferragus, or Ferrau in Italian, a Saracen giant, who dropped his helmet into the river, and vowed he would never wear another till he had won that worn by Orlando; the latter slew him in the only part where he was vulnerable.]
You hardly know me. When I, who love myself so dearly, consider that two inches of cold steel in this body would be quite sufficient to send a poor mortal to his last home, I am particularly disgusted. "But you will be armed from head to foot." So much the worse. I shall be less nimble to get into the thicket; besides, there is no armour so well made but some villainous point will pierce its joints. "Oh! you will then be considered a coward." Never mind; provided I can but always move my jaws. At table you may set me down for as good as four persons, if you like; but when fighting is going on, you must not count me for anything. Moreover, if the other world possesses charms for you, the air of this world agrees very well with me. I do not thirst after death and wounds; if you have a mind to play the fool, you may do it all by yourself, I assure you.
SCENE II. – VALÈRE, MASCARILLE
VAL. I never felt a day pass more slowly; the sun seems to have forgotten himself; he has yet such a course to run before he reaches his bed, that I believe he will never accomplish it; his slow motion drives me mad.
MASC. What an eagerness to go in the dark, to grope about for some ugly adventure! You see that Lucile is obstinate in her repulses…
VAL. A truce to these idle remonstrances. Though I were sure to meet a hundred deaths lying in ambush, yet I feel her wrath so greatly, that I shall either appease it, or end my fate. I am resolved on that.
MASC. I approve of your design; but it is unfortunate, sir, that we must get in secretly.
VAL. Very well.
MASC. And I am afraid I shall only be in the way.
VAL. How so?
MASC. I have a cough which nearly kills me, and the noise it makes may betray you. Every moment… (He coughs). You see what a punishment it is.
VAL. You will get better; take some liquorice.
MASC. I do not think, sir, it will get better. I should be delighted to go with you, but I should be very sorry if any misfortune should befall my dear master through me.
SCENE III. – VALÈRE, LA RAPIÈRE, MASCARILLE
LA RA. Sir, I have just now heard from good authority that Éraste is greatly enraged against you, and that Albert talks also of breaking all the bones in Mascarille's body, on his daughter's account.
MASC. I? I have nothing to do with all this confusion. What have I done to have all the bones in my body broken? Am I the guardian of the virginity of all the girls in the town, that I am to be thus threatened? Have I any influence with temptation? Can I help it, I, poor fellow, if I have a mind to try it?
VAL. Oh! they are not so dangerous as they pretend to be; however courageous love may have made Éraste, he will not have so easy a bargain with us.
LA RA. If you should have any need for it, my arm is entirely at your service. You know me to be at all times staunch.
[Footnote: It is thought the introduction of Mons. de la Rapière contains an allusion to the poor noblemen of Languedoc, who formerly made a kind of living by being seconds at duels, and whom the Prince de Conti compelled to obey the edicts of Louis XIV. against duelling. The Love-tiff was first played in 1656 at Béziers, where the States of Languedoc were assembled.]
VAL. I am much obliged to you, M. de la Rapière.
LA RA. I have likewise two friends I can procure, who will draw against all comers, and upon whom you may safely rely.
MASC. Accept their services, sir.
VAL. You are too kind.
LA RA. Little Giles might also have assisted us, if a sad accident had not taken him from us. Oh, sir, it is a great pity! He was such a handy fellow, too! You know the trick justice played him; he died like a hero; when the executioner broke him on the wheel, he made his exit without uttering a word.
VAL. M. de la Rapière, such a man ought to be lamented, but, as for your escort, I thank you, I want them not.
LA RA. Be it so, but do not forget that you are sought after, and may have some scurvy trick played upon you.
VAL. And I, to show you how much I fear him, will offer him the satisfaction he desires, if he seeks me; I will immediately go all over the town, only accompanied by Mascarille.
SCENE IV. – VALÈRE, MASCARILLE
MASC. What, sir? will you tempt Heaven? Do not be so presumptuous!
Lack-a-day! you see how they threaten us. How on every side…
VAL. What are you looking at yonder?
MASC. I smell a cudgel that way. In short, if you will take my prudent advice, do not let us be so obstinate as to remain in the street; let us go and shut ourselves up.
VAL. Shut ourselves up, rascal? How dare you propose to me such a base action? Come along, and follow me, without any more words.
MASC. Why, sir, my dear master, life is so sweet! One can die but once, and it is for such a long time!
VAL. I shall half kill you, if I hear anything more. Here comes Ascanio; let us leave him; we must find out what side he will choose. However, come along with me into the house, to take whatever arms we may want.
MASC. I have no great itching for fighting. A curse on love and those darned girls, who will be tasting it, and then look as if butter would not melt in their mouth.
SCENE V. – ASCANIO, FROSINE
ASC. Is it really true, Frosine, do I not dream? Pray tell me all that has happened, from first to last.
FROS. You shall know all the particulars in good time; be patient; such adventures are generally told over and over again, and that every moment. You must know then that after this will, which was on condition of a male heir being born, Albert's wife who was enceinte, gave birth to you. Albert, who had stealthily and long beforehand laid his plan, changed you for the son of Inez, the flower-woman, and gave you to my mother to nurse, saying it was her own child. Some ten months after, death took away this little innocent, whilst Albert was absent; his wife being afraid of her husband, and inspired by maternal love, invented a new stratagem. She secretly took her own daughter back; you received the name of the boy, who had taken your place, whilst the death of that pretended son was kept a secret from Albert, who was told that his daughter had died. Now the mystery of your birth is cleared up, which your supposed mother had hitherto concealed. She gives certain reasons for acting in this manner, and may have others to give, for her interests were not the same as yours. In short, this visit,
[Footnote: That is the visit of which Frosine speaks, Act iv., Scene I]
from which I expected so little, has proved more serviceable to your love than could have been imagined. This Inez has given up all claim to you. As it became necessary to reveal this secret, on account of your marriage, we two informed your father of it; a letter of his deceased wife has confirmed all. Pursuing our reasoning yet farther, and being rather fortunate as well as skilful, we have so cunningly interwoven the interests of Albert and of Polydore, so gradually unfolded all this mystery to the latter, that we might not make things appear too terrible to him in the beginning, and, in a word, to tell you all, so prudently led his mind step by step to a reconciliation, that Polydore is now as anxious as your father to legitimize that connection which is to make you happy.
