The Miser
Moliere
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THE MISER. (L'AVARE.)
BY
MOLIERE
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH PROSE
_WITH A SHORT INTRODUCTION AND EXPLANATORY NOTES._
BY
CHARLES HERON WALL
This play was acted for the first time on September 9, 1668. In it,
Moliere has borrowed from Plautus, and has imitated several other
authors, but he far surpasses them in the treatment of his subject.
The picture of the miser, in whom love of money takes the place of all
natural affections, who not only withdraws from family intercourse,
but considers his children as natural enemies, is finely drawn, and
renders Moliere's Miser altogether more dramatic and moral than those
of his predecessors.
Moliere acted the part of Harpagon.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
HARPAGON, _father to_ CLEANTE, _in love with_ MARIANNE.
CLEANTE, HARPAGON'S _son, lover to_ MARIANNE.
VALERE, _son to_ ANSELME, _and lover to_ ELISE.
ANSELME, _father to_ VALERE _and_ MARIANNE.
MASTER SIMON, _broker_.
MASTER JACQUES, _cook and coachman to_ HARPAGON.
LA FLECHE, _valet to_ CLEANTE.
BRINDAVOINE, and LA MERLUCHE, _lackeys to_ HARPAGON.
A MAGISTRATE _and his_ CLERK.
ELISE, _daughter to_ HARPAGON.
MARIANNE, _daughter to_ ANSELME.
FROSINE, _an intriguing woman_.
MISTRESS CLAUDE, _servant to_ HARPAGON.
* * * * *
_The scene is at_ PARIS, _in_ HARPAGON'S _house_.
THE MISER.
ACT I.
SCENE I.--VALERE, ELISE.
VAL. What, dear Elise! you grow sad after having given me such dear
tokens of your love; and I see you sigh in the midst of my joy! Can
you regret having made me happy? and do you repent of the engagement
which my love has forced from you?
ELI. No, Valere, I do not regret what I do for you; I feel carried on
by too delightful a power, and I do not even wish that things should
be otherwise than they are. Yet, to tell you the truth, I am very
anxious about the consequences; and I greatly fear that I love you
more than I should.
VAL. What can you possibly fear from the affection you have shown me?
ELI. Everything; the anger of my father, the reproaches of my family,
the censure of the world, and, above all, Valere, a change in your
heart! I fear that cruel coldness with which your sex so often repays
the too warm proofs of an innocent love.
VAL. Alas! do not wrong me thus; do not judge of me by others. Think
me capable of everything, Elise, except of falling short of what I owe
to you. I love you too much for that; and my love will be as lasting
as my life!
ELI. Ah! Valere, all men say the same thing; all men are alike in
their words; their actions only show the difference that exists
between them.
VAL. Then why not wait for actions, if by them alone you can judge of
the truthfulness of my heart? Do not suffer your anxious fears to
mislead you, and to wrong me. Do not let an unjust suspicion destroy
the happiness which is to me dearer than life; but give me time to
show you by a thousand proofs the sincerity of my affection.
ELI. Alas! how easily do we allow ourselves to be persuaded by those
we love. I believe you, Valere; I feel sure that your heart is utterly
incapable of deceiving me, that your love is sincere, and that you
will ever remain faithful to me. I will no longer doubt that happiness
is near. If I grieve, it will only be over the difficulties of our
position, and the possible censures of the world.
VAL. But why even this fear?
ELI. Oh, Valere! if everybody knew you as I do, I should not have much
to fear. I find in you enough to justify all I do for you; my heart
knows all your merit, and feels, moreover, bound to you by deep
gratitude. How can I forget that horrible moment when we met for the
first time? Your generous courage in risking your own life to save
mine from the fury of the waves; your tender care afterwards; your
constant attentions and your ardent love, which neither time nor
difficulties can lessen! For me you neglect your parents and your
country; you give up your own position in life to be a servant of my
father! How can I resist the influence that all this has over me? Is
it not enough to justify in my eyes my engagement to you? Yet, who
knows if it will be enough to justify it in the eyes of others? and
how can I feel sure that my motives will be understood?
VAL. You try in vain to find merit in what I have done; it is by my
love alone that I trust to deserve you. As for the scruples you feel,
your father himself justifies you but too much before the world; and
his avarice and the distant way in which he lives with his children
might authorise stranger things still. Forgive me, my dear Elise, for
speaking thus of your father before you; but you know that,
unfortunately, on this subject no good can be said of him. However, if
I can find my parents, as I fully hope I shall, they will soon be
favourable to us. I am expecting news of them with great impatience;
but if none comes I will go in search of them myself.
ELI. Oh no! Valere, do not leave me, I entreat you. Try rather to
ingratiate yourself in my father's favour.
VAL. You know how much I wish it, and you can see how I set about it.
You know the skilful manoeuvres I have had to use in order to
introduce myself into his service; under what a mask of sympathy and
conformity of tastes I disguise my own feelings to please him; and
what a part I play to acquire his affection. I succeed wonderfully
well, and I feel that to obtain favour with men, there are no better
means than to pretend to be of their way of thinking, to fall in with
their maxims, to praise their defects, and to applaud all their
doings. One need not fear to overdo it, for however gross the
flattery, the most cunning are easily duped; there is nothing so
impertinent or ridiculous which they will not believe, provided it be
well seasoned with praise. Honesty suffers, I acknowledge; but when we
have need of men, we may be allowed without blame to adapt ourselves
to their mode of thought; and if we have no other hope of success but
through such stratagem, it is not after all the fault of those who
flatter, but the fault of those who wish to be flattered.
ELI. Why do you not try also to gain my brother's goodwill, in case
the servant should betray our secret?
VAL. I am afraid I cannot humour them both. The temper of the father
is so different from that of the son that it would be difficult to be
the confidant of both at the same time. Rather try your brother
yourself; make use of the love that exists between you to enlist him
in our cause. I leave you, for I see him coming. Speak to him, sound
him, and see how far we can trust him.
ELI. I greatly fear I shall never have the courage to speak to him of
my secret.
SCENE II.--CLEANTE, ELISE,
CLE. I am very glad to find you alone, sister. I longed to speak to
you and to tell you a secret.
ELI. I am quite ready to hear you, brother. What is it you have to
tell me?
CLE. Many things, sister, summed up in one word--love.
ELI. You love?
CLE. Yes, I love. But, before I say more, let me tell you that I know
I depend on my father, and that the name of son subjects me to his
will; that it would be wrong to engage ourselves without the consent
of the authors of our being; that heaven has made them the masters of
our affections, and that it is our duty not to dispose of ourselves
but in accordance to their wish; that their judgment is not biassed by
their being in love themselves; that they are, therefore, much more
likely not to be deceived by appearances, and to judge better what is
good for us; that we ought to trust their experience rather than the
passion which blinds us; and that the rashness of youth often carries
us to the very brink of dangerous abysses. I know all this, my sister,
and I tell it you to spare you the trouble of saying it to me, for my
love will not let me listen to anything, and I pray you to spare me
your remonstrances.
ELI. Have you engaged yourself, brother, to her you love?
CLE. No, but I have determined to do so; and I beseech you once more
not to bring forward any reason to dissuade me from it.
ELI. Am I such a very strange person, brother?
CLE. No, dear sister; but you do not love. You know not the sweet
power that love has upon our hearts; and I dread your wisdom.
ELI. Alas! my brother, let us not speak of my wisdom. There are very
few people in this world who do not lack wisdom, were it only once in
their lifetime; and if I opened my heart to you, perhaps you would
think me less wise than you are yourself.
CLE. Ah! would to heaven that your heart, like mine....
ELI. Let us speak of you first, and tell me whom it is you love.
CLE. A young girl who has lately come to live in our neighbourhood,
and who seems made to inspire love in all those who behold her.
Nature, my dear sister, has made nothing more lovely; and I felt
another man the moment I saw her. Her name is Marianne, and she lives
with a good, kind mother, who is almost always ill, and for whom the
dear girl shows the greatest affection. She waits upon her, pities and
comforts her with a tenderness that would touch you to the very soul.
Whatever she undertakes is done in the most charming way; and in all
her actions shine a wonderful grace, a most winning gentleness, an
adorable modesty, a ... ah! my sister, how I wish you had but seen
her.
ELI. I see many things in what you tell me, dear brother; and it is
sufficient for me to know that you love her for me to understand what
she is.
CLE. I have discovered, without their knowing it, that they are not in
very good circumstances, and that, although they live with the
greatest care, they have barely enough to cover their expenses. Can
you imagine, my sister, what happiness it must be to improve the
condition of those we love; skilfully to bring about some relief to
the modest wants of a virtuous family? And think what grief it is for
me to find myself deprived of this great joy through the avarice of a
father, and for it to be impossible for me to give any proof of my
love to her who is all in all to me.
ELI. Yes, I understand, dear brother, what sorrow this must be to you.
CLE. It is greater, my sister, than you can believe. For is there
anything more cruel than this mean economy to which we are subjected?
this strange penury in which we are made to pine? What good will it do
us to have a fortune if it only comes to us when we are not able to
enjoy it; if now to provide for my daily maintenance I get into debt
on every side; if both you and I are reduced daily to beg the help of
tradespeople in order to have decent clothes to wear? In short, I
wanted to speak to you that you might help me to sound my father
concerning my present feelings; and if I find him opposed to them, I
am determined to go and live elsewhere with this most charming girl,
and to make the best of what Providence offers us. I am trying
everywhere to raise money for this purpose; and if your circumstances,
dear sister, are like mine, and our father opposes us, let us both
leave him, and free ourselves from the tyranny in which his hateful
avarice has for so long held us.
ELI. It is but too true that every day he gives us more and more
reason to regret the death of our mother, and that....
CLE. I hear his voice. Let us go a little farther and finish our talk.
We will afterwards join our forces to make a common attack on his hard
and unkind heart.
SCENE III.--HARPAGON, LA FLECHE.
HAR. Get out of here, this moment; and let me have no more of your
prating. Now then, be gone out of my house, you sworn pickpocket, you
veritable gallows' bird.
LA FL. (_aside_). I never saw anything more wicked than this
cursed old man; and I truly believe, if I may be allowed to say so,
that he is possessed with a devil.
HAR. What are you muttering there between your teeth?
LA FL. Why do you send me away?
HAR. You dare to ask me my reasons, you scoundrel? Out with you, this
moment, before I give you a good thrashing.
LA FL. What have I done to you?
HAR. Done this, that I wish you to be off.
LA FL. My master, your son, gave me orders to wait for him.
HAR. Go and wait for him in the street, then; out with you; don't stay
in my house, straight and stiff as a sentry, to observe what is going
on, and to make your profit of everything. I won't always have before
me a spy on all my affairs; a treacherous scamp, whose cursed eyes
watch all my actions, covet all I possess, and ferret about in every
corner to see if there is anything to steal.
LA FL. How the deuce could one steal anything from you? Are you a man
likely to be robbed when you put every possible thing under lock and
key, and mount guard day and night?
HAR. I will lock up whatever I think fit, and mount guard when and
where I please. Did you ever see such spies as are set upon me to take
note of everything I do? (_Aside_) I tremble for fear he should
suspect something of my money. (_Aloud_) Now, aren't you a fellow
to give rise to stories about my having money hid in my house?
LA FL. You have some money hid in your house?
HAR. No, scoundrel! I do not say that. _(Aside)_ I am furious!
_(Aloud)_ I only ask if out of mischief you do not spread abroad
the report that I have some?
LA FL. Oh! What does it matter whether you have money, or whether you
have not, since it is all the same to us?
HAR. _(raising his hand to give LA FLECHE a blow)_. Oh! oh! You
want to argue, do you? I will give you, and quickly too, some few of
these arguments about your ears. Get out of the house, I tell you once
more.
LA FL. Very well; very well. I am going.
HAR. No, wait; are you carrying anything away with you?
LA FL. What can I possibly carry away?
HAR. Come here, and let me see. Show me your hands.
LA FL. There they are.
HAR. The others.
LA FL. The others?
HAR. Yes.
LA FL. There they are.
HAR. (_pointing to LA FLECHE'S breeches_). Have you anything hid
in here?
LA FL. Look for yourself.
HAR. (_feeling the knees of the breeches_). These wide knee-
breeches are convenient receptacles of stolen goods; and I wish a pair
of them had been hanged.
LA FL. (_aside_). Ah! how richly such a man deserves what he
fears, and what joy it would be to me to steal some of his....
HAR. Eh?
LA FL. What?
HAR. What is it you talk of stealing?
LA FL. I say that you feel about everywhere to see if I have been
stealing anything.
HAR. And I mean to do so too. (_He feels in LA FLECHE'S
pockets_).
LA FL. Plague take all misers and all miserly ways!
HAR. Eh? What do you say?
LA FL. What do I say?
HAR. Yes. What is it you say about misers and miserly ways.
LA FL. I say plague take all misers and all miserly ways.
HAR. Of whom do you speak?
LA FL. Of misers.
HAR. And who are they, these misers?
LA FL. Villains and stingy wretches!
HAR. But what do you mean by that?
LA FL. Why do you trouble yourself so much about what I say?
HAR. I trouble myself because I think it right to do so.
LA FL. Do you think I am speaking about you?
HAR. I think what I think; but I insist upon your telling me to whom
you speak when you say that.
LA FL. To whom I speak? I am speaking to the inside of my hat.
HAR. And I will, perhaps, speak to the outside of your head.
LA FL. Would you prevent me from cursing misers?
HAR. No; but I will prevent you from prating and from being insolent.
Hold your tongue, will you?
LA FL. I name nobody.
HAR. Another word, and I'll thrash you.
LA FL. He whom the cap fits, let him wear it.
HAR. Will you be silent?
LA FL. Yes; much against my will.
HAR. Ah! ah!
LA FL. (_showing_ HARPAGON _one of his doublet pockets_).
Just look, here is one more pocket. Are you satisfied?
HAR. Come, give it up to me without all that fuss.
LA FL. Give you what?
HAR. What you have stolen from me.
LA FL. I have stolen nothing at all from you.
HAR. Are you telling the truth?
LA FL. Yes.
HAR. Good-bye, then, and now you may go to the devil.
LA FL. (_aside_). That's a nice way of dismissing anyone.
HAR. I leave it to your conscience, remember!
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