SCENE VI.——MR. DIAFOIRUS, THOMAS DIAFOIRUS, ARGAN, ANGÉLIQUE, CLÉANTE, TOINETTE, SERVANTS.
ARG.
(putting up his hand to his night-cap without taking it off). Mr. Purgon has forbidden me to uncover my head. You belong to the profession, and know what would be the consequence if I did so.
Mr.
Dia. We are bound in all our visits to bring relief to invalids, and not to injure them.
(Mr. Argan and Mr. Diafoirus speak at the same time.)
ARG.
I receive, Sir….
Mr. DIA.
We come here, Sir….
ARG.
With great joy….
Mr. DIA.
My son Thomas and myself….
ARG.
The honour you do me….
Mr. DIA.
To declare to you, Sir….
ARG.
And I wish….
Mr. DIA.
The delight we are in….
ARG.
I could have gone to your house….
Mr. DIA.
At the favour you do us….
ARG.
To assure you of it….
Mr. DIA.
In so kindly admitting us….
ARG.
But you know, Sir….
Mr. DIA.
To the honour, Sir….
ARG.
What it is to be a poor invalid….
Mr. DIA.
Of your alliance….
ARG.
Who can only….
Mr. DIA.
And assure you….
ARG.
Tell you here….
Mr. DIA.
That in all that depends on our knowledge….
ARG.
That he will seize every opportunity….
Mr. DIA.
As well as in any other way….
ARG.
To show you, Sir….
Mr. DIA.
That we shall ever be ready, Sir….
ARG.
That he is entirely at your service….
Mr. DIA.
To show you our zeal. (To his son) Now, Thomas, come forward, and pay your respects.
T. DIA.
(to Mr. Diafoirus). Ought I not to begin with the father?
Mr. DIA.
Yes.
T. DIA.
(to Argan). Sir, I come to salute, acknowledge, cherish, and revere in you a second father; but a second father to whom I owe more, I make bold to say, than to the first. The first gave me birth; but you have chosen me. He received me by necessity, but you have accepted me by choice. What I have from him is of the body, corporal; what I hold from you is of the will, voluntary; and in so much the more as the mental faculties are above the corporal, in so much the more do I hold precious this future affiliation, for which I come beforehand to-day to render you my most humble and most respectful homage.
TOI.
Long life to the colleges which send such clever people into the world!
T. DIA.
(to Mr. Diafoirus). Has this been said to your satisfaction, father?
Mr. DIA.
Optime.
ARG.
(to Angélique). Come, bow to this gentleman.
T. Dia
(to Mr. Diafoirus). Shall I kiss?
Mr. DIA.
Yes, yes.
T. DIA.
(to Angélique). Madam, it is with justice that heaven has given you the name of stepmother, since we see in you steps towards the perfect beauty which …2
ARG.
(to Thomas Diafoirus). It is not to my wife, but to my daughter, that you are speaking.
T. DIA.
Where is she?
ARG.
She will soon come.
T. DIA.
Shall I wait, father, till she comes?
Mr. DIA.
No; go through your compliments to the young lady in the meantime.
T. DIA.
Madam, as the statue of Memnon gave forth a harmonious sound when it was struck by the first rays of the sun, in like manner do I experience a sweet rapture at the apparition of this sun of your beauty. As the naturalists remark that the flower styled heliotrope always turns towards the star of day, so will my heart for ever turn towards the resplendent stars of your adorable eyes as to its only pole. Suffer me, then, Madam, to make to-day on the altar of your charms the offering of a heart which longs for and is ambitious of no greater glory than to be till death, Madam, your most humble, most obedient, most faithful servant and husband.
TOI.
Ah! See what it is to study, and how one learns to say fine things!
ARG.
(to Cléante). Well! what do you say to that?
CLE.
The gentleman does wonders, and if he is as good a doctor as he is an orator, it will be most pleasant to be one of his patients.
TOI.
Certainly, it will be something admirable if his cures are as wonderful as his speeches.
ARG.
Now, quick, my chair; and seats for everybody. (Servants bring chairs.) Sit down here, my daughter. (To M. Diafoirus) You see, Sir, that everybody admires your son; and I think you very fortunate in being the father of such a fine young man.
Mr. DIA.
Sir, it is not because I am his father, but I can boast that I have reason to be satisfied with him, and that all those who see him speak of him as of a youth without guile. He has not a very lively imagination, nor that sparkling wit which is found in some others; but it is this which has always made me augur well of his judgment, a quality required for the exercise of our art. As a child he never was what is called sharp or lively. He was always gentle, peaceful, taciturn, never saying a word, and never playing at any of those little pastimes that we call children's games. It was found most difficult to teach him to read, and he was nine years old before he knew his letters. A good omen, I used to say to myself; trees slow of growth bear the best fruit. We engrave on marble with much more difficulty than on sand, but the result is more lasting; and that dulness of apprehension, that heaviness of imagination, is a mark of a sound judgment in the future. When I sent him to college, he found it hard work, but he stuck to his duty, and bore up with obstinacy against all difficulties. His tutors always praised him for his assiduity and the trouble he took. In short, by dint of continual hammering, he at last succeeded gloriously in obtaining his degree; and I can say, without vanity, that from that time till now there has been no candidate who has made more noise than he in all the disputations of our school. There he has rendered himself formidable, and no debate passes but he goes and argues loudly and to the last extreme on the opposite side. He is firm in dispute, strong as a Turk in his principles, never changes his opinion, and pursues an argument to the last recesses of logic. But, above all things, what pleases me in him, and what I am glad to see him follow my example in, is that he is blindly attached to the opinions of the ancients, and that he would never understand nor listen to the reasons and the experiences of the pretended discoveries of our century concerning the circulation of the blood and other opinions of the same stamp. 3
T. DIA.
(pulling out of his pocket a long paper rolled up, and presenting it to Angélique). I have upheld against these circulators a thesis which, with the permission (bowing to Argan) of this gentleman, I venture to present to the young lady as the first-fruits of my genius.
ANG.
Sir, it is a useless piece of furniture to me; I do not understand these things.
TOI.
(taking the paper). Never mind; give it all the same; the picture will be of use, and we will adorn our attic with it.
T. DIA.
(again bowing to Angélique). With the permission of this gentleman, I invite you to come one of these days to amuse yourself by assisting at the dissection of a woman upon whose body I am to give lectures.
TOI.
The treat will be most welcome. There are some who give the pleasure of seeing a play to their lady-love; but a dissection is much more gallant.
Mr. DIA.
Moreover, in respect to the qualities required for marriage, I assure you that he is all you could wish, and that his children will be strong and healthy.
ARG.
Do you not intend, Sir, to push his way at court, and obtain for him the post of physician there?
Mr. DIA.
To tell you the truth, I have never had any predilection to practice with the great; it never seemed pleasant to me, and I have found that it is better for us to confine ourselves to the ordinary public. Ordinary people are more convenient; you are accountable to nobody for your actions, and as long as you follow the common rules laid down by the faculty, there is no necessity to trouble yourself about the result. What is vexatious among people of rank is that, when they are ill, they positively expect their doctor to cure them.
TOI.
How very absurd! How impertinent of them to ask of you doctors to cure them! You are not placed near them for that, but only to receive your fees and to prescribe remedies. It is their own look-out to get well if they can.
Mr. DIA.
Quite so. We are only bound to treat people according to form.
ARG.
(to Cléante). Sir, please make my daughter sing before the company.
CLE.
I was waiting for your commands, Sir; and I propose, in order to amuse the company, to sing with the young lady an operetta which has lately come out. (To Angélique, giving her a paper) There is your part.
ANG.
Mine?
CLE.
(aside to Angélique). Don't refuse, pray; but let me explain to you what is the scene we must sing. (Aloud) I have no voice; but in this case it is sufficient if I make myself understood; and you must have the goodness to excuse me, because I am under the necessity of making the young lady sing.
ARG.
Are the verses pretty?
CLE.
It is really nothing but a small extempore opera, and what you will hear is only rhythmical prose or a kind of irregular verse, such as passion and necessity make two people utter.
ARG.
Very well; let us hear.
CLE.
The subject of the scene is as follows. A shepherd was paying every attention to the beauties of a play, when he was disturbed by a noise close to him, and on turning round he saw a scoundrel who, with insolent language, was annoying a young shepherdess. He immediately espoused the cause of a sex to which all men owe homage; and after having chastised the brute for his insolence, he came near the shepherdess to comfort her. He sees a young girl with the most beautiful eyes he has ever beheld, who is shedding tears which he thinks the most precious in the world. Alas! says he to himself, can any one be capable of insulting such charms? Where is the unfeeling wretch, the barbarous man to be found who will not feel touched by such tears? He endeavours to stop those beautiful tears, and the lovely shepherdess takes the opportunity of thanking him for the slight service he has rendered her. But she does it in a manner so touching, so tender, and so passionate that the shepherd cannot resist it, and each word, each look is a burning shaft which penetrates his heart. Is there anything in the world worthy of such thanks? and what will not one do, what service and what danger will not one be delighted to run to attract upon oneself even for a moment the touching sweetness of so grateful a heart? The whole play was acted without his paying any more attention to it; yet he complains that it was too short, since the end separates him from his lovely shepherdess. From that moment, from that first sight, he carries away with him a love which has the strength of a passion of many years. He now feels all the pangs of absence, and is tormented in no longer seeing what he beheld for so short a time. He tries every means to meet again with a sight so dear to him, and the remembrance of which pursues him day and night. But the great watch which is kept over his shepherdess deprives him of all the power of doing so. The violence of his passion urges him to ask in marriage the adorable beauty without whom he can no longer live, and he obtains from her the permission of doing so, by means of a note that he has succeeded in sending to her. But he is told in the meantime that the father of her whom he loves has decided upon marrying her to another, and that everything is being got ready to celebrate the wedding. Judge what a cruel wound for the heart of that poor shepherd! Behold him suffering from this mortal blow; he cannot bear the dreadful idea of seeing her he loves in the arms of another; and in his despair he finds the means of introducing himself into the house of his shepherdess, in order to learn her feelings and to hear from her the fate he must expect. There he sees everything ready for what he fears; he sees the unworthy rival whom the caprice of a father opposes to the tenderness of his love; he sees that ridiculous rival triumphant near the lovely shepherdess, as if already assured of his conquest. Such a sight fills him with a wrath he can hardly master. He looks despairingly at her whom he adores, but the respect he has for her and the presence of her father prevent him from speaking except with his eyes. At last he breaks through all restraint, and the greatness of his love forces him to speak as follows. (He sings.)
 Phyllis, too sharp a pain you bid me bear;
 Break this stern silence, tell me what to fear;
 Disclose your thoughts, and bid them open lie
 To tell me if I live or die.
ANG.
 The marriage preparations sadden me.
 O'erwhelmed with sorrow,
 My eyes I lift to heaven; I strive to pray,
 Then gaze on you and sigh. No more I say.
CLE.
 Tircis, who fain would woo,
 Tell him, Phyllis, is it true,
 Is he so blest by your sweet grace
 As in your heart to find a place?
ANG.
 I may not hide it, in this dire extreme,
 Tircis, I own for you my love….
CLE.
 O blessed words! am I indeed so blest?
 Repeat them, Phyllis; set my doubts at rest.
ANG.
 I love you, Tircis!
CLE.
 Ah! Phyllis, once again.
ANG.
 I love you, Tircis!
CLE.
 Alas! I fain
 A hundred times would hearken to that strain.
ANG.
 I love you! I love you!
 Tircis, I love you!
CLE.
 Ye kings and gods who, from your eternal seat,
 Behold the world of men beneath your feet,
 Can you possess a happiness more sweet?
 My Phyllis! one dark haunting fear
 Our peaceful joy disturbs unsought;
 A rival may my homage share.
ANG.
 Ah! worse than death is such a thought!
 Its presence equal torment is
 To both, and mars my bliss.
CLE.
 Your father to his vow would subject you.
ANG.
 Ah! welcome death before I prove untrue.
ARG.
And what does the father say to all that?
CLE.
Nothing.
ARG.
Then that father is a fool to put up with those silly things, without saying a word!
CLE.
(trying to go on singing).
 Ah! my love….
ARG.
No; no; that will do. An opera like that is in very bad taste. The shepherd Tircis is an impertinent fellow, and the shepherdess Phyllis an impudent girl to speak in that way in the presence of her father. (To Angélique) Show me that paper. Ah! ah! and where are the words that you have just sung? This is only the music.
CLE.
Are you not aware, Sir, that the way of writing the words with the notes themselves has been lately discovered?
ARG.
Has it? Good-bye for the present. We could have done very well without your impertinent opera.
CLE.
I thought I should amuse you.
ARG.
Foolish things do not amuse, Sir. Ah! here is my wife.
Footnotes:
[2] Thomas Diafoirus is evidently going to base some compliment on the belle-mère. The only way out of the difficulty in English seems to be to complete the sentence somewhat.
[3] Harvey's treatise on the circulation of the blood was published in 1628. His discovery was violently opposed for a long time afterwards.
