1670
                        THE WOULD-BE GENTLEMAN

                              by Moliere









țiElectronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)
DAK Upgraded Edition, Copyright 2000, DAK Industries 2000, Inc(R)țI

{ACTORS
                           ACTORS

              M. JOURDAIN «the bourgeois»
              MME JOURDAIN «wife to M. Jourdain»
              LUCILE «daughter to M. Jourdain»
              CLEONTE «in love with Lucile»
              DORIMENE «a marchioness»
              DORANTE «a count, Dorimene's lover»
              NICOLE «a maid-servant to M. Jourdain»
              COVIELLE «servant to Cleonte»
              MUSIC MASTER
              MUSIC MASTER'S PUPIL
              DANCING MASTER
              FENCING MASTER
              PHILOSOPHY MASTER
              MASTER TAILOR
              JOURNEYMAN TAILOR
              LACKEYS
              «The Scene is Paris, in M. Jourdain's house»

{ACT1
                                ACT I


        Music Master, a Pupil of the Music Master (composing
          at a table in the middle of the stage), a Woman Singer,
          and two Men Singers; a Dancing Master and Dancers

  MUSIC MASTER. [to the musicians] Here, step into this hall, and
sit there till he comes.

  DANCING MASTER. [to the dancers] And you too, on this side.

  MUSIC MASTER. [to his pupil] Is it done?

  PUPIL. Yes.

  MUSIC MASTER. Let's see.... Tis mighty well.

  DANCING MASTER. Is it anything new?

  MUSIC MASTER. Yes, 'tis an air for a serenade, which I set him to
compose here while we wait till our gentleman's awake.

  DANCING MASTER. May one see what it is?

  MUSIC MASTER. You will hear it, with the dialogue, when he comes. He
won't be long.

  DANCING MASTER. We have no want of business, either of us, at
present.

  MUSIC MASTER. 'Tis true. We have found a man here, just such a one
as we both of us want. This same Monsieur Jourdain is a sweet
income, with his visions of nobility and gallantry which he has got
into his noddle, and it would be well for your capers and my
crotchets, were all the world like him.

  DANCING MASTER. Not altogether so well; I wish, for his sake, that
he were better skilled than he is in the things we give him.

  MUSIC MASTER. It is true he understands 'em ill, but he pays for 'em
well. And that's what our art has more need of at present than of
anything else.

  DANCING MASTER. For my part, I own it to you, I regale a little upon
glory. I am sensible of applause, and think it a very grievous
punishment in the liberal arts to display one's self to fools and to
expose our compositions to the barbarous judgment of the stupid.
Talk no more of it, there is a pleasure in working for persons who are
capable of relishing the delicacies of an art, who know how to give
a kind reception to the beauties of a work, and, by titillating
approbation, regale you for your labour. Yes, the most agreeable
recompense one can receive for the things one does is to see them
understood, to see 'em caressed with an applause that does you honour.
There's nothing, in my opinion, which pays us better than this for all
our fatigues. And the praises of connoisseurs give an exquisite
delight.

  MUSIC MASTER. I grant it, and I relish them as well as you. There is
nothing certainly that tickles more than the applause you speak of,
but one cannot live upon this incense. Sheer praises won't make a
man easy. There must be something solid mixed withal, and the best
method of praising is to praise with the open hand. This indeed is one
whose understanding is very shallow, who speaks of everything awry,
and cross of the grain, and never applauds but in contradiction to
sense. But his money sets his judgment right. He has discernment in
his purse. His praises are current coin; and this ignorant commoner is
more worth to us, as you see, than that grand witty lord who
introduced us here.

  DANCING MASTER. There's something of truth in what you say; but I
find you lean a little too much towards the pelf. And mere interest is
something so base that an honest man should never discover an
attachment to it.

  MUSIC MASTER. For all that, you decently receive the money our spark
gives you.

  DANCING MASTER. Certainly; but I don't place all my happiness in
that: and I wish that, with his fortune, he had also some good taste
of things.

  MUSIC MASTER. I wish the same; 'tis what we both labour at as much
as we can. But, however, he gives us the opportunity of making
ourselves known in the world; and he'll pay for others what others
praise for him.

  DANCING MASTER. Here he comes.

    [enter M. Jourdain (in a nightgown and cap) and two Lackeys]

  M. JOURDAIN. Well, gentlemen? What have you there? Will you let me
see your little drollery?

  DANCING MASTER. How? What little drollery?

  M. JOURDAIN. Why the- how do you call that thing? your prologue,
or dialogue of songs and dancing.

  DANCING MASTER. Ha, ha!

  MUSIC MASTER. You see we are ready.

  M. JOURDAIN. I have made you wait a little, but 'tis because I am to
be dressed out to-day like your people of quality; and my hosier has
sent me a pair of silk stockings which I thought I should never have
got on.

  MUSIC MASTER. We are here only to wait your leisure.

  M. JOURDAIN. I desire you'll both stay till they have brought me
my clothes, that you may see me.

  DANCING MASTER. As you please.

  M. JOURDAIN. You shall see me most exactly equipped from head to
foot.

  MUSIC MASTER. We don't doubt it.

  M. JOURDAIN. I have had this Indian thing made up for me.

  DANCING MASTER. 'Tis very handsome.

  M. JOURDAIN. My tailor tells me that people of quality go thus in
a morning.

  MUSIC MASTER. It fits you to a miracle.

  M. JOURDAIN. Why, ho! Fellow there! both my fellows!

  FIRST LACKEY. Your pleasure, sir?

  M. JOURDAIN. Nothing! 'Tis only to try whether you hear me
readily. [to the Music and Dancing Masters] What say you of my
liveries?

  DANCING MASTER. They are magnificent.

  M. JOURDAIN. [half-opens his gown and reveals a light pair of
breeches of scarlet velvet, and a green velvet jacket] Here again is a
kind of dishabille to perform my exercises in a morning.

  MUSIC MASTER. 'Tis gallant.

  M. JOURDAIN. Lackey!

  FIRST LACKEY. Sir?

  M. JOURDAIN. T'other lackey!

  SECOND LACKEY. Sir?

  M. JOURDAIN. [taking off his gown] Hold my gown. [to the Music and
Dancing Masters] Do you like me so?

  DANCING MASTER. Mighty well; nothing can be better.

  M. JOURDAIN. Now for your affair a little.

  MUSIC MASTER. I should be glad first to let you hear an air
[pointing to his pupil] he has just composed for the serenade which
you gave me orders about. He is one of my pupils, who has an admirable
talent for these sort of things.

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, but that should not have been put to a pupil to
do; you were not too good for that business yourself.

  MUSIC MASTER. You must not let the name of pupil impose upon you,
sir. These sort of pupils know as much as the greatest masters, and
the air is as good as can be made. Hear it only.

  M. JOURDAIN. [to his servants] Give me my gown that I may hear the
better.- Stay, I believe I shall be better without the gown.- No, give
it me again, it will do better.

  MUSICIAN.
          «I languish night and day, nor sleeps my pain,»
          «Since those fair eyes imposed the rigorous chain;»
          «But tell me, Iris, what dire fate attends»
          «Your enemies, if thus you treat your friends?»

  M. JOURDAIN. This song seems to me a little upon the dismal; it
inclines one to sleep; I should be glad you could enliven it a
little here and there.

  MUSIC MASTER. 'Tis necessary, sir, that the air should be suited
to the words.

  M. JOURDAIN. I was taught one perfectly pretty some time ago.
Stay- um- how is it?

  DANCING MASTER. In good troth, I don't know.

  M. JOURDAIN. There's lamb in it.

  DANCING MASTER. Lamb?

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes- Ho!

            «I thought my dear Namby»
              «As gentle as fair-o:»
            «I thought my dear Namby»
              «As mild as a lamb-y.»
            «Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear-o!»
    «For now the sad scold is a thousand times told,»
         «More fierce than a tiger or bear-o.»

  Isn't it pretty?

  MUSIC MASTER. The prettiest in the world.

  DANCING MASTER. And you sing it well.

  M. JOURDAIN. Yet I never learnt music.

  MUSIC MASTER. You ought to learn it, sir, as you do dancing. They
are two arts which have a strict connection one with the other.

  DANCING MASTER. And which open the human mind to see the beauty of
things.

  M. JOURDAIN. What, do people of quality learn music too?

  MUSIC MASTER. Yes, sir.

  M. JOURDAIN. I'll learn it then. But I don't know how I shall find
time. For, besides the fencing master who teaches me, I have also
got me a philosophy master, who is to begin this morning.

  MUSIC MASTER. Philosophy is something; but music, sir, music-

  DANCING MASTER. Music and dancing- music and dancing, that is all
that's necessary.

  MUSIC MASTER. There's nothing so profitable in a state as music.

  DANCING MASTER. There's nothing so necessary for men as dancing.

  MUSIC MASTER. A state cannot subsist without music.

  DANCING MASTER. Without dancing, a man can do nothing.

  MUSIC MASTER. All the disorders, all the wars one sees in the world,
happen only from not learning music.

  DANCING MASTER. All the disasters of mankind, all the fatal
misfortunes that histories are replete with, the blunders of
politicians, the miscarriages of great commanders, all this comes from
want of skill in dancing.

  M. JOURDAIN. How so?

  MUSIC MASTER. Does not war proceed from want of concord amongst men?

  M. JOURDAIN. That's true.

  MUSIC MASTER. And if all men learnt music, would not that be a means
of keeping them better in tune, and of seeing universal peace in the
world?

  M. JOURDAIN. You're in the right.

  DANCING MASTER. When a man has been guilty of a defect in his
conduct- be it in the affairs of his family, or in the government of
the state, or in the command of an army- don't we always say, such a
one has made a false step in such an affair?

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, we say so.

  DANCING MASTER. And can making a false step proceed from anything
but not knowing how to dance?

  M. JOURDAIN. 'Tis true, and you are both in the right.

  DANCING MASTER. This is to let you see the excellence and
advantage of dancing and music.

  M. JOURDAIN. I now comprehend it.

  MUSIC MASTER. Will you see each of our compositions?

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes.

  MUSIC MASTER. I have told you already that this is a slight essay
which I formerly made upon the different passions that may be
expressed by music.

  M. JOURDAIN. Very well.

  MUSIC MASTER. [to the musicians] Here, come forward. [to M.
Jourdain] You are to imagine with yourself that they are dressed
like shepherds.

  M. JOURDAIN. Why always shepherds? One sees nothing but such stuff
everywhere.

  MUSIC MASTER. When we are to introduce persons as speaking in music,
'tis necessary to probability that we give in to the pastoral way.
Singing has always been appropriated to shepherds; and it is by no
means natural in dialogue that princes or citizens should sing their
passions.

  M. JOURDAIN. Be it so, be it so. Let's see.

    [dialogue in music between a Woman and two Men]

  WOMAN.      «The heart that must tyrannic love obey,»
              «A thousand fears and cares oppress.»
              «Sweet are those sighs and languishments, they say;»
              «Say what they will for me,»
              «Nought is so sweet as liberty.»

  FIRST MAN.  «Nothing so sweet as love's soft fire,»
              «Which can two glowing hearts inspire»
              «With the same life, the same desire.»
              «The loveless swain no happiness can prove.»
              «From life take soothing love,»
              «All pleasure you remove.»

  SECOND MAN. «Sweet were the wanton archer's sway,»
              «Would all with constancy obey;»
              «But, cruel fate!»
              «No nymph is true:»
              «The faithless sex more worthy of our hate,»
              «To love should bid eternally adieu.»

  FIRST MAN.  «Pleasing heat!»

  WOMAN.      «Freedom blest!»

  SECOND MAN. «Fair deceit!»

  FIRST MAN.  «O how I love thee!»

  WOMAN.      «How I approve thee!»

  SECOND MAN. «I detest!»

  FIRST MAN.  «Against love's ardour quit this mortal hate.»

  WOMAN.      «Shepherd, myself I bind here,»
              «To show a faithful mate.»

  SECOND MAN. «Alas! but where to find her?»

  WOMAN.      «Our glory to retrieve,»
              «My heart I here bestow.»

  SECOND MAN. «But, nymph, can I believe»
              «That heart no change will know?»

  WOMAN.      «Let experience decide,»
              «Who loves best of the two.»

  SECOND MAN. «And the perjured side»
              «May vengeance pursue.»

  ALL THREE.  «Then let us kindle soft desire,»
              «Let us fan the amorous fire.»
              «Ah! how sweet it is to love,»
              «When hearts united constant prove!»

  M. JOURDAIN. Is this all?

  MUSIC MASTER. Yes.

  M. JOURDAIN. I find 'tis very concise, and there are some little
sayings in it pretty enough.

  DANCING MASTER. You have here, for my composition, a little essay of
the finest movements, and the most beautiful attitudes with which a
dance can possibly be varied.

  M. JOURDAIN. Are they shepherds too?

  DANCING MASTER. They're what you please. [to the dancers] Hola!


{ACT2
                                ACT II


           Monsieur Jourdain, Music Master, Dancing Master

  M. JOURDAIN. This is none of your stupid things, and these same
fellows flutter it away bravely.

  MUSIC MASTER. When the dance is mixed with the music, it will have a
greater effect still, and you will see something gallant in the little
entertainment we have prepared for you.

  M. JOURDAIN. That's however for by and by; and the person for whom I
have ordered all this, is to do me the honour of dining with me here.

  DANCING MASTER. Everything's ready.

  MUSIC MASTER. But in short, sir, this is not enough, 'tis
necessary such a person as you, who live great and have an inclination
to things that are handsome, should have a concert of music at your
house every Wednesday, or every Thursday.

  M. JOURDAIN. Why so? Have people of quality?

  MUSIC MASTER. Yes, sir.

  M. JOURDAIN. I'll have one then. Will it be fine?

  MUSIC MASTER. Certainly. You must have three voices, a treble, a
counter-tenor, and bass, which must be accompanied with a bass-
viol, a theorbo-lute, and a harpsichord for the thorough-bass, with
two violins to play the symphonies.

  M. JOURDAIN. You must add also a trumpet-marine. The
trumpet-marine is an instrument that pleases me, and is very
harmonious.

  MUSIC MASTER. Leave us to manage matters.

  M. JOURDAIN. However, don't forget by and by to send the musicians
to sing at table.

  MUSIC MASTER. You shall have everything you should have.

  M. JOURDAIN. But above all, let the entertainment be fine.

  MUSIC MASTER. You will be pleased with it, and, amongst other
things, with certain minuets you will find in it.

  M. JOURDAIN. Ay, the minuets are my dance; and I have a mind you
should see me dance 'em. Come, master.

  DANCING MASTER. Your hat, sir, if you please.

    [M. Jourdain takes off his foot-boy's hat, and puts it on over his
      own nightcap; upon which his master takes him by the hand and
      makes him dance to a minuet-air which he sings]

    «Tol, lol, lol, lol, lol, lol,»
    «Tol, lol, lol,»
                   «twice;»
    «Tol, lol, lol; tol, lol.»
                             «In time, if you please,»
    «Tol, lol,»
              «the right leg.»
    «Tol, lol, lol.»
                   «Don't shake your shoulders so much.»
    «Tol, lol, lol, lol, lol.»
                             «Why, your arms are out of joint.»
    «Tol, lol, lol, lol, lol.»
                             «Hold up your head. Turn out your toes.»
    «Tol, lol, lol.»
                   «Your body erect.»

  M. JOURDAIN. Heh?

  MUSIC MASTER. Admirably well performed.

  M. JOURDAIN. Now I think of it, teach me how I must bow to salute
a marchioness; I shall have occasion for it by and by.

  DANCING MASTER. How you must bow to salute a marchioness?

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, a marchioness whose name is Dorimene.

  DANCING MASTER. Give me your hand.

  M. JOURDAIN. No. You need only to do it, I shall remember it easily.

  DANCING MASTER. If you would salute her with a great deal of
respect, you must first of all make a bow and fall back, then
advancing towards her, bow thrice, and at the last bow down to her
very knees.

  M. JOURDAIN. Do it a little. [after the Dancing Master has made
three bows] Right.

    [enter a Lackey (holding two foils)

  LACKEY. Sir, your fencing master is here.

  M. JOURDAIN. Bid him come in that he may give me a lesson. [to the
Music and Dancing Masters] I'd have you stay and see me perform.

    [enter a Fencing Master]

  FENCING MASTER. [taking the two foils out of the Lackey's hand,
and giving one to M. Jourdain] Come, sir, your salute. Your body
straight. A little bearing upon the left thigh. Your legs not so
much a-straddle. Your feet both on a line. Your wrist opposite to your
hip. The point of your sword over-against your shoulder. Your arm
not quite so much extended. Your left hand on a level with your eye.
Your left shoulder more square. Hold up your head. Your look bold.
Advance. Your body steady. Beat carte, and push carte. One, two.
Recover. Again with it, your foot firm. One, two. Leap back. When
you make a pass, sir, 'tis necessary your sword should disengage
first, and your body make as small a mark as possible. One, two. Come,
beat tierce, and push the same. Advance. Your body firm. Advance. Quit
after that manner. One, two. Recover. Repeat the same. One, two.
Leap back. Parry, sir, parry. [the Fencing Master gives him two or
three home-thrusts, crying "Parry"]

  M. JOURDAIN. Ugh!

  MUSIC MASTER. You do wonders.

  FENCING MASTER. I have told you already- the whole secret of arms
consists but in two things, in giving and not receiving. And as I
showed you t'other day by demonstrative reason, it is impossible you
should receive if you know how to turn your adversary's sword from the
line of your body; which depends only upon a small motion of your
wrist, either inward, or outward.

  M. JOURDAIN. At that rate therefore, a man without any courage is
sure to kill his man and not to be killed.

  FENCING MASTER. Certainly. Don't you see the demonstration of it?

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes.

  FENCING MASTER. By this one may see of what consideration such
persons as we should be esteemed in a state, and how highly the
science of arms excels all the other useless sciences, such as
dancing, music, and-

  DANCING MASTER. Soft and fair, Monsieur «Sa, sa.» Don't speak of
dancing but with respect.

  MUSIC MASTER. Pray learn to treat the excellence of music in a
handsomer manner.

  FENCING MASTER. You're merry fellows, to pretend to compare your
sciences with mine.

  MUSIC MASTER. Do but see the importance of the creature!

  DANCING MASTER. The droll animal there, with his leathern stomacher!

  FENCING MASTER. My little master skipper, I shall make you skip as
you should do. And you, my little master scraper, I shall make you
sing to some tune.

  DANCING MASTER. Monsieur Tick-tack, I shall teach you your trade.

  M. JOURDAIN. [to the Dancing Master] Are you bewitched to quarrel
with him, who understands tierce and carte, who knows how to kill a
man by demonstrative reason?

  DANCING MASTER. I laugh at his demonstrative reason, and his
tierce and his carte.

  M. JOURDAIN. [to the Dancing Master] Softly, I say.

  FENCING MASTER. [to the Dancing Master] How? Master Impertinence!

  M. JOURDAIN. Nay, my dear fencing master!

  DANCING MASTER. [to the Fencing Master] How? You great dray-horse!

  M. JOURDAIN. Nay, my dancing master.

  FENCING MASTER. If I lay my-

  M. JOURDAIN. [to the Fencing Master] Gently.

  DANCING MASTER. If I lay my clutches on you-

  M. JOURDAIN. Easily.

  FENCING MASTER. I shall curry you with such an air-

  M. JOURDAIN. [to the Fencing Master] For goodness' sake.

  DANCING MASTER. I shall drub you after such a manner-

  M. JOURDAIN. [to the Dancing Master] I beseech you.

  MUSIC MASTER. Let us teach him a little how to speak.

  M. JOURDAIN. [to the Music Master] Lack-a-day, be quiet.

    [enter a Philosophy Master]

  Hola, Monsieur Philosopher, you are come in the nick of time with
your philosophy. Come, and make peace a little amongst these people
here.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. What's to do? What's the matter, gentlemen?

  M. JOURDAIN. They have put themselves into such a passion about
the preference of their professions as to call names, and would come
to blows.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. O fie, gentlemen, what need was there of all this
fury? Have you not read the learned treatise upon anger, composed by
Seneca? Is there anything more base and shameful than this passion,
which makes a savage beast of a man? And should not reason be master
of all our commotions?

  DANCING MASTER. How, sir? Why he has just now been abusing us
both, in despising dancing which is my employment, and music which
is his profession.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. A wise man is above all foul language that can be
given him, and the grand answer one should make to all affronts is
moderation and patience.

  FENCING MASTER. They had both the assurance to compare their
professions to mine.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Should this disturb you? Men should not dispute
about vainglory and rank; that which perfectly distinguishes one
from another is wisdom and virtue.

  DANCING MASTER. I maintained to him that dancing was a science to
which one cannot do sufficient honour.

  MUSIC MASTER. And I, that music is one of those that all ages have
revered.

  FENCING MASTER. And I maintained against 'em both that the science
of defence is the finest and most necessary of all sciences.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. And what becomes of philosophy, then? You are all
three very impertinent fellows, methinks, to speak with this arrogance
before me; and impudently to give the name of science to things that
one ought not to honour even with the name of art, that can't be
comprised but under the name of a pitiful trade of gladiator,
ballad-singer, and morris-dancer.

  FENCING MASTER. Out, ye dog of a philosopher.

  MUSIC MASTER. Hence, ye scoundrel of a pedant.

  DANCING MASTER. Begone, ye arrant pedagogue.

    [the Philosopher falls upon them, they all three lay him on]

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. How? Varlets as you are-

  M. JOURDAIN. Monsieur Philosopher!

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Infamous dogs! Rogues! Insolent curs!

  M. JOURDAIN. Monsieur Philosopher!

  FENCING MASTER. Plague on the animal!

  M. JOURDAIN. Gentlemen!

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Impudent villains!

  M. JOURDAIN. Monsieur Philosopher!

  DANCING MASTER. Deuce take the pack-saddled ass!

  M. JOURDAIN. Gentlemen!

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Profligate vermin!

  M. JOURDAIN. Monsieur Philosopher!

  MUSIC MASTER. The devil take the impertinent puppy!

  M. JOURDAIN. Gentlemen!

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Knaves! Ragamuffins! Traitors! Imposters!

  M. JOURDAIN. Monsieur Philosopher! Gentlemen! Monsieur
Philosopher! Gentlemen! Monsieur Philosopher! [the four masters beat
each other out] Nay, beat your hearts out if you will, I shall neither
meddle nor make with you, I shan't spoil my gown to part you. I should
be a great fool to thrust myself among them, and receive some blow
that might do me a mischief.

    [enter the Philosophy Master]

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. [setting his band right] Now to our lesson.

  M. JOURDAIN. Ah! Sir, I'm sorry for the blows they have given you.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. 'Tis nothing at all. A philosopher knows how to
receive things in a proper manner; and I'll compose a satire against
'em, in the manner of Juvenal, that shall cut 'em most gloriously. Let
that pass. What have you a mind to learn?

  M. JOURDAIN. Everything I can, for I have all the desire in the
world to be a scholar, and it vexes me that my father and mother had
not made me study all the sciences when I was young.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. 'Tis a very reasonable sentiment. «Nam, sine
doctrina vita est quasi mortis imago.» You understand that, and are
acquainted with Latin, without doubt?

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes; but act as if I were not acquainted with it.
Explain me the meaning of that.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. The meaning of it is, that without learning, life
is as it were an image of death.

  M. JOURDAIN. That same Latin's in the right.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Have you not some principles, some rudiments of
science?

  M. JOURDAIN. Oh! yes, I can read and write.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Where would you please to have us begin? Would
you have me teach you logic?

  M. JOURDAIN. What may that same logic be?

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. It's that which teaches us the three operations
of the mind.

  M. JOURDAIN. What are those three operations of the mind?

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. The first, the second, and the third. The first
is to conceive well, by means of universals. The second, to judge
well, by means of categories. The third, to draw the conclusion right,
by means of figures: Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio, Baralipton, etc.

  M. JOURDAIN. These words are too crabbed. This logic does not suit
me by any means. Let's learn something else that's prettier.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Will you learn morality?

  M. JOURDAIN. Morality?

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Yes.

  M. JOURDAIN. What means morality?

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. It treats of happiness, teaches men to moderate
their passions, and-

  M. JOURDAIN. No, no more of that. I'm as choleric as the devil,
and there's no morality holds me; I will have my belly full of passion
whenever I have a mind to it.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Would you learn physics?

  M. JOURDAIN. What is it that physics treat of?

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Physics are what explain the principles of things
natural and the properties of bodies; which discourse of the nature of
elements, of metals, of minerals, of stones, of plants, and animals,
and teach us the cause of all the meteors; the rainbow, «ignes fatui,»
comets, lightnings, thunder, thunder- bolts, rain, snow, hail,
winds, and whirlwinds.

  M. JOURDAIN. There's too much hurly-burly in this, too much
confusion.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. What would you have me teach you then?

  M. JOURDAIN. Teach me orthography.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. With all my heart.

  M. JOURDAIN. Afterwards you may teach me the almanack, to know
when there's a moon, and when not.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Be it so. To pursue this thought of yours right
and treat this matter like a philosopher, we must begin, according
to the order of things, with an exact knowledge of the nature of
letters and the different manner of pronouncing them. And on this head
I am to tell you that letters are divided into vowels, called vowels
because they express the voice: and into consonants, so called because
they sound with the vowels and only mark the different articulations
of the voice. There are five vowels or voices, A, E, I, O, U.

  M. JOURDAIN. I understand all that.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. The vowel A is formed by opening the mouth very
wide, A.

  M. JOURDAIN. A, A. Yes.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. The vowel E is formed by drawing the under-jaw
a little nearer to the upper, A, E.

  M. JOURDAIN. A, E. A, E. In troth it is. How pretty that is!

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. And the vowel I, by bringing the jaws still
nearer one to the other, and stretching the two corners of the mouth
towards the ears, A, E, I.

  M. JOURDAIN. A, E, I, I, I, I. 'Tis true. Long live learning!

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. The vowel O is formed by re-opening the jaws
and drawing the lips near at the two corners, the upper and the under,
O.

  M. JOURDAIN. O, O. There's nothing more just, A, E, I, O, I, O. 'Tis
admirable! I, O, I, O.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. The opening of the mouth makes exactly a little
ring, which resembles an O.

  M. JOURDAIN. O, O, O. You're right, O. How fine a thing it is but to
know something!

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. The vowel U is formed by bringing the teeth
near together without entirely joining them, and pouting out both your
lips, bringing them also near together without absolutely joining 'em,
U.

  M. JOURDAIN. U, U. There's nothing more true, U.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Your two lips pout out, as if you were making
faces. Whence it comes that if you would do that to anybody and make a
jest of him, you need say nothing to him but U.

  M. JOURDAIN. U, U. It's true. Ah! why did not I study sooner, that I
might have known all this!

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. To-morrow we shall take a view of the other
letters, which are the consonants.

  M. JOURDAIN. Is there anything as curious in them, as in these?

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Doubtless. The consonant D, for example, is
pronounced by clapping the tip of your tongue above the upper teeth,
DE.

  M. JOURDAIN. DE, DE. 'Tis so. Oh! charming things! charming things!

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. The F, in leaning the upper teeth upon the
lower lip, EF.

  M. JOURDAIN. EF, EF. 'Tis truth. Ah! father and mother o' mine,
how do I owe you a grudge!

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. And the R, in carrying the tip of the tongue up
to the roof of your mouth; so that being grazed upon by the air
which bursts out with a force, it yields to it, and returns always
to the same part, making a kind of trill, R, ra.

  M. JOURDAIN. R, r, ra. R, r, r, r, r, ra. That's true. What a clever
man are you! And how have I lost time! R, r, r, ra.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. I will explain to you all these curiosities to
the bottom.

  M. JOURDAIN. Pray do. But now, I must commit a secret to you. I'm in
love with a person of great quality, and I should be glad you would
help me to write something to her in a short «billet-doux,» which I'll
drop at her feet.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Very well.

  M. JOURDAIN. That will be very gallant, won't it?

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Without doubt. Is it verse that you would write
to her?

  M. JOURDAIN. No, no, none of your verse.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. You would only have prose?

  M. JOURDAIN. No, I would neither have verse nor prose.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. It must be one or t'other.

  M. JOURDAIN. Why so?

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Because, sir, there's nothing to express one's
self by, but prose, or verse.

  M. JOURDAIN. Is there nothing then but prose, or verse?

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. No, sir, whatever is not prose, is verse; and
whatever is not verse, is prose.

  M. JOURDAIN. And when one talks, what may that be then?

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Prose.

  M. JOURDAIN. How? When I say, Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give
me my nightcap, is that prose?

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Yes, sir.

  M. JOURDAIN. On my conscience, I have spoken prose above these forty
years without knowing anything of the matter; and I have all the
obligations in the world to you for informing me of this. I would
therefore put into a letter to her: Beautiful marchioness, your fair
eyes make me die with love; but I would have this placed in a
gallant manner; and have a gentle turn.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. Why, add that the fire of her eyes has reduced
your heart to ashes: that you suffer for her night and day all the
torments-

  M. JOURDAIN. No, no, no, I won't have all that- I'll have nothing
but what I told you. Beautiful marchioness, your fair eyes make me die
with love.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. You must by all means lengthen the thing out a
little.

  M. JOURDAIN. No, I tell you, I'll have none but those very words
in the letter: but turned in a modish way, ranged handsomely as they
should be. I desire you'd show me a little, that I may see the
different manners in which one may place them.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. One may place them first of all as you said:
Beautiful marchioness, your fair eyes make me die for love. Or
suppose: For love die me make, beautiful marchioness, your fair
eyes. Or perhaps: Your eyes fair, for love me make, beautiful
marchioness, die. Or suppose: Die your fair eyes, beautiful
marchioness, for love me make. Or however: Me make your eyes fair die,
beautiful marchioness, for love.

  M. JOURDAIN. But of all these ways, which is the best?

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. That which you said: Beautiful marchioness,
your fair eyes make me die for love.

  M. JOURDAIN. Yet at the same time, I never studied it, and I made
the whole of it at the first touch. I thank you with all my heart, and
desire you would come in good time to-morrow.

  PHILOSOPHY MASTER. I shall not fail.

    [exit]

  M. JOURDAIN. [to his Lackey] What? Are my clothes not come yet?

  LACKEY. No, sir.

  M. JOURDAIN. This cursed tailor makes me wait unreasonably,
considering it's a day I have so much business in. I shall go mad. A
quartan ague wring this villain of a tailor. D___l take the tailor.
A plague choke the tailor. If I had him but here now, this
detestable tailor, this dog of a tailor, this traitor of a tailor, I-

    [enter a Master Tailor and a Journeyman Tailor (bringing a suit of
      clothes for M. Jourdain)]

  Oh! You're there. I was going to be in a passion with you.

  MASTER TAILOR. I could not possibly come sooner, and I set twenty
fellows to work at your clothes.

  M. JOURDAIN. You have sent me a pair of silk hose so tight that I
had all the difficulty in the world to get 'em on, and there are two
stitches broke in 'em.

  MASTER TAILOR. They'll grow rather too large.

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, if I break every day a loop or two. You have
made me a pair of shoes too, that pinch me execrably.

  MASTER TAILOR. Not at all, sir.

  M. JOURDAIN. How, not at all?

  MASTER TAILOR. No, they don't pinch you at all.

  M. JOURDAIN. I tell you they do hurt me.

  MASTER TAILOR. You fancy so.

  M. JOURDAIN. I fancy so because I feel it. There's a fine reason
indeed.

  MASTER TAILOR. Hold, stay, here's one of the handsomest suits at
court, and the best-matched. 'Tis a masterly work to invent a grave
suit of clothes that should not be black, and I'll give the
cleverest tailor in town six trials to equal it.

  M. JOURDAIN. What a deuce have we here? You have put the flowers
downwards.

  MASTER TAILOR. Why, you did not tell me you would have 'em upwards.

  M. JOURDAIN. Was there any need to tell you of that?

  MASTER TAILOR. Yes, certainly. All the people of quality wear 'em in
that way.

  M. JOURDAIN. Do people of quality wear the flowers downwards?

  MASTER TAILOR. Yes, sir.

  M. JOURDAIN. Oh, 'tis very well, then.

  MASTER TAILOR. If you please I'll put 'em upwards.

  M. JOURDAIN. No, no.

  MASTER TAILOR. You need only say the word.

  M. JOURDAIN. No, I tell you, you have done right. Do you think my
clothes will fit me?

  MASTER TAILOR. A pretty question! I defy a painter with his pencil
to draw you anything that shall fit more exact. I have a fellow at
home who, for fitting a pair of breeches, is the greatest genius in
the world; another who, for the cut of a doublet, is the hero of the
age.

  M. JOURDAIN. Are the peruke and feather as they should be?

  MASTER TAILOR. Everything's well.

  M. JOURDAIN. [looking earnestly at the tailor's clothes] Ah, hah!
Monsieur Tailor, here's my stuff of the last suit you made for me. I
know it very well.

  MASTER TAILOR. The stuff appeared to me so handsome, that I had a
mind to cut a coat out of it for myself.

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, but you should not have cabbaged it out of mine.

  MASTER TAILOR. Will you put on your clothes?

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, give 'em me.

  MASTER TAILOR. Stay; the matter must not go so. I have brought men
along with me to dress you to music; these sort of suits are put on
with ceremony. Soho? come in there, you.

    [enter four Journeymen Tailors, dancing]

  Put on this suit of the gentleman's, in the manner you do to
people of quality.

    [two of the tailors pull off his straight breeches made for his
      exercises, and two others his waistcoat; then they put on his
      new suit to music, and M. Jourdain walks amongst them to show
      them his clothes to see whether they fit or no]

  JOURNEYMAN TAILOR. My dear gentleman, please to give the tailor's
men something to drink.

  M. JOURDAIN. How do you call me?

  JOURNEYMAN TAILOR. My dear gentleman.

  M. JOURDAIN. "My dear gentleman!" See what it is to dress like
people of quality. You may go clothed like a commoner all your days,
and they'll never call you "my dear gentleman." [gives them something]
Stay, there's for "my dear gentleman."

  JOURNEYMAN TAILOR. My lord, we are infinitely obliged to you.

  M. JOURDAIN. My lord! Oh, ho! My lord! Stay, friend; "my lord"
deserves something, "my lord" is none o' your petty words. Hold,
there, "my lord" gives you that.

  JOURNEYMAN TAILOR. My lord, we shall go drink your grace's health.

  M. JOURDAIN. Your grace! oh, oh, oh! stay, don't go. Your grace,
to me! [aside] I'faith if he goes as far as highness, he'll empty my
purse. [aloud] Hold, there's for "my grace."

  JOURNEYMAN TAILOR. My lord, we most humbly thank your grace for your
liberality.

  M. JOURDAIN. He did very well; I was going to give him all.


{ACT3
                               ACT III


                Monsieur Jourdain and his two Lackeys

  M. JOURDAIN. Follow me, that I may go and show my clothes a little
through the town; and especially take care, both of you, to walk
immediately at my heels, that people may plainly see you belong to me.

  LACKEYS. Yes, sir.

  M. JOURDAIN. Call me Nicole, that I may give her some directions.
You need not go- here she comes.

    [enter Nicole]

  Nicole?

  NICOLE. Your pleasure, sir?

  M. JOURDAIN. Harkee.

  NICOLE. [laughing] Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. Who do ye laugh at?

  NICOLE. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. What does this slut mean?

  NICOLE. Ha, ha, ha. How you are bedizened! Ha, ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. How's that?

  NICOLE. Oh! oh! my stars! ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. What a jade is here! What! do ye make a jest of me?

  NICOLE. No, no, sir, I should be very sorry to do so. Ha, ha, ha,
ha, ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. I shall give ye a slap o' the chops, if you laugh any
more.

  NICOLE. Sir, I cannot help it. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. Won't ye have done?

  NICOLE. Sir, I ask your pardon; but you are so comical, that I
cannot hold from laughing. Ha, ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. Do but see the insolence!

  NICOLE. You are so thoroughly droll there! Ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. I shall-

  NICOLE. I beg you would excuse me. Ha, ha, ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. Hold, if you laugh again the least in the world, I
protest and swear I'll give ye such a box o' the ear as ye never had
in your life.

  NICOLE. Well, sir, I have done; I won't laugh any more.

  M. JOURDAIN. Take care you don't. You must clean out against by
and by-

  NICOLE. Ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. You must clean out as it should be-

  NICOLE. Ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. I say, you must go clean out the hall, and-

  NICOLE. Ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. Again?

  NICOLE. [tumbles down with laughing] Hold, sir, beat me rather,
and let me laugh my belly-full, that will do me more good. Ha, ha, ha,
ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. I shall run mad!

  NICOLE. For goodness' sake, sir, I beseech you let me laugh. Ha, ha,
ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. If I take you in hand-

  NICOLE. Si-ir, I shall bu-urst, if I do- not laugh. Ha, ha, ha.

  M. JOURDAIN. But did ever anybody see such a jade as that, who
insolently laughs in my face, instead of receiving my orders!

  NICOLE. What would you have me do, sir?

  M. JOURDAIN. Why, take care to get ready my house for the company
that's to come by and by.

  NICOLE. [getting up] Ay, i'fakins, I've no more inclination to
laugh; all your company makes such a litter here that the very
word's enough to put one in an ill humour.

  M. JOURDAIN. What! I ought to shut my doors against all the world
for your sake?

  NICOLE. You ought at least to shut it against certain people.

    [enter Mme Jourdain]

  MME JOURDAIN. Ah, hah! Here's some new story. What means this,
husband, this same equipage? D'ye despise the world, that you
harness yourself out in this manner? Have you a mind to make
yourself a laughing-stock wherever ye go?

  M. JOURDAIN. None but fools, wife, will laugh at me.

  MME JOURDAIN. In truth, people have not stayed thus long to laugh;
'tis a good while ago that your ways have furnished all the world with
a laugh.

  M. JOURDAIN. Who is that "all the world," pray?

  MME JOURDAIN. That "all the world" is a world perfectly in the
right, and much wiser than yourself. For my part, I am shocked at
the life you lead. I don't know what to call our house. One would
swear 'twere carnival here all the year round; and from break o'
day, for fear there should be any respite, there's nothing to be heard
here but an uproar of fiddles and songsters which disturb the whole
neighbourhood.

  NICOLE. Madame says right. I shall never see my things set to rights
again for that gang of folks that you bring to the house. They ransack
every quarter of the town with their feet for dirt to bring here;
and poor Frances is e'en almost slaved off her legs with scrubbing
of the floors, which your pretty masters come to daub as regularly
as the day comes.

  M. JOURDAIN. Hey-day! our maid Nicole! you have a pretty nimble
tongue of your own for a country-wench.

  MME JOURDAIN. Nicole's in the right, and she has more sense than you
have. I should be glad to know what you think to do with a dancing
master, at your age?

  NICOLE. And with a lubberly fencing master, that comes here with his
stamping to shake the whole house, and tear up all the pavement of the
hall.

  M. JOURDAIN. Peace, our maid, and our wife.

  MME JOURDAIN. What! will you learn to dance against the time
you'll have no legs?

  NICOLE. What! have you a mind to murder somebody?

  M. JOURDAIN. Hold your prate; I tell you you are ignorant creatures,
both of you, and don't know the advantage of all this.

  MME JOURDAIN. You ought much rather to think of marrying your
daughter, who is of age to be provided for.

  M. JOURDAIN. I shall think of marrying my daughter when a suitable
match presents itself but I shall think too of learning the «belles
sciences.»

  NICOLE. I've heard say further, madame, that to pin the basket, he
has got him a philosophy master to-day.

  M. JOURDAIN. Very well. I've a mind to have wit, and to know how
to reason upon things with your genteel people.

  MME JOURDAIN. Won't you go to school one of these days, and be
whipped at your age?

  M. JOURDAIN. Why not? Would I were whipped this very instant
before all the world, so I did but know what they learn at school!

  NICOLE. Yes, forsooth, that would be a mighty advantage t'ye.

  M. JOURDAIN. Without doubt.

  MME JOURDAIN. This is all very necessary to the management of your
house.

  M. JOURDAIN. Certainly. You talk, both of you, like asses, and I'm
ashamed of your ignorance. [to Mme Jourdain] For example, do you know,
you, what it is you now speak?

  MME JOURDAIN. Yes, I know that what I speak is very right, and
that you ought to think of living in another manner.

  M. JOURDAIN. I don't talk of that. I ask you what the words are that
you now speak?

  MME JOURDAIN. They are words that have a good deal of sense in them,
and your conduct is by no means such.

  M. JOURDAIN. I don't talk of that, I tell you. I ask you, what is
that I now speak to you, which I say this very moment?

  MME JOURDAIN. Mere stuff.

  M. JOURDAIN. Pshaw, no, 'tis not that. That which we both of us say,
the language we speak this instant?

  MME JOURDAIN. Well?

  M. JOURDAIN. How is it called?

  MME JOURDAIN. 'Tis called just what you please to call it.

  M. JOURDAIN. 'Tis prose, you ignorant creature.

  MME JOURDAIN. Prose?

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, prose. Whatever is prose, is not verse; and
whatever is not verse, is prose. Now, see what it is to study. And
you, [to Nicole] do you know very well how you must do to say U?

  NICOLE. How?

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes. What is it you do when you say U?

  NICOLE. What?

  M. JOURDAIN. Say U a little, to try.

  NICOLE. Well, U.

  M. JOURDAIN. What is it you do?

  NICOLE. I say U.

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, but when you say U, what is it you do?

  NICOLE. I do as you bid me.

  M. JOURDAIN. O! what a strange thing it is to have to do with
brutes! You pout out your lips, and bring your under-jaw to your
upper, U, d'ye see? I make a mouth, U.

  NICOLE. Yes, that's fine.

  MME JOURDAIN. 'Tis admirable!

  M. JOURDAIN. 'Tis quite another thing, had but you seen O, and DE,
DE, and EF, EF.

  MME JOURDAIN. What is all this ridiculous stuff?

  NICOLE. What are we the better for all this?

  M. JOURDAIN. It makes one mad, to see these ignorant women.

  MME JOURDAIN. Go, go, you should send all these folks apacking
with their silly stuff.

  NICOLE. And especially that great lubberly fencing master, who fills
all my house with dust.

  M. JOURDAIN. Hey-day! This fencing master sticks strangely in thy
stomach. I'll let thee see thy impertinence presently. [he orders
the foils to he brought, and gives one to Nicole] Stay, reason
demonstrative, the line of the body. When they push in carte one
need only do so; and when they push in tierce one need only do so.
This is the way never to be killed; and is not that clever to be
upon sure grounds, when one has an encounter with anybody? There, push
at me a little, to try.

  NICOLE. Well, how? [Nicole gives him several thrusts]

  M. JOURDAIN. Gently! Hold! Oh! Softly; deuce take the hussy.

  NICOLE. You bid me push.

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, but you push me in tierce before you push in
carte, and you have not patience while I parry.

  MME JOURDAIN. You are a fool, husband, with all these whims, and
this is come to you since you have taken upon you to keep company with
quality.

  M. JOURDAIN. When I keep company with quality, I show my judgment;
and that's much better than herding with your bourgeoisie.

  MME JOURDAIN. Yes, truly, there's a great deal to be got by
frequenting your nobility; and you have made fine work with that count
you are so bewitched with.

  M. JOURDAIN. Peace, take care what you say. Do you well know,
wife, that you don't know whom you speak of when you speak of him?
He's a man of more importance than you think of; a nobleman of
consideration at court, who speaks to the king just for all the
world as I speak to you. Is it not a thing that does me great
honour, that you see a person of that quality come so often to my
house, who calls me his dear friend and treats me as if I were his
equal? He has more kindness for me than one would ever imagine, and he
caresses me in such a manner before all the world that I myself am
perfectly confounded at it.

  MME JOURDAIN. Yes, he has a great kindness for you, and caresses
you; but he borrows your money of you.

  M. JOURDAIN. Well, and is it not a great honour to me to lend
money to a man of that condition? And can I do less for a lord who
calls me his dear friend?

  MME JOURDAIN. And what is it this lord does for you?

  M. JOURDAIN. Things that would astonish you if you did but know 'em.

  MME JOURDAIN. And what may they be?

  M. JOURDAIN. Peace, I can't explain myself. 'Tis sufficient that
if I have lent him money, he'll pay it me honestly, and that before
'tis long.

  MME JOURDAIN. Yes, stay you for that.

  M. JOURDAIN. Certainly. Did he not tell me so?

  MME JOURDAIN. Yes, yes, and he won't fail to disappoint you.

  M. JOURDAIN. He swore to me on the faith of a gentleman.

  MME JOURDAIN. A mere song.

  M. JOURDAIN. Hey! You are mighty obstinate, wife of mine; I tell you
he will keep his word with me, I am sure of it.

  MME JOURDAIN. And I am sure that he will not, and all the court he
makes to you is only to cajole you.

  M. JOURDAIN. Hold your tongue. Here he comes.

  MME JOURDAIN. That's all we shall have of him. He comes perhaps to
borrow something more of you; the very sight of him gives me my
dinner.

  M. JOURDAIN. Hold your tongue, I say.

    [enter Dorante]

  DORANTE. My dear friend, Monsieur Jourdain, how do you do?

  M. JOURDAIN. Very well, sir, to do you what little service I can.

  DORANTE. And Madame Jourdain there, how does she do?

  MME JOURDAIN. Madame Jourdain does as well as she can.

  DORANTE. Hah! Monsieur Jourdain, you're dressed the most genteelly
in the world!

  M. JOURDAIN. As you see.

  DORANTE. You have a very fine air with that dress, and we have ne'er
a young fellow at court that's better made than you.

  M. JOURDAIN. He, he.

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside] He scratches him where it itches.

  DORANTE. Turn about. 'Tis most gallant.

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside] Yes, as much of the fool behind as before.

  DORANTE. 'Faith, Monsieur Jourdain, I was strangely impatient to see
you. You're the man in the world I most esteem, and I was talking of
you again this morning at the king's levee.

  M. JOURDAIN. You do me a great deal of honour, sir. [to Mme
Jourdain] At the king's levee!

  DORANTE. Come, be covered.

  M. JOURDAIN. Sir, I know the respect I owe you.

  DORANTE. Lack-a-day, be covered; no ceremony, pray, between us two.

  M. JOURDAIN. Sir-

  DORANTE. Put on your hat, I tell you, Monsieur Jourdain; you are
my friend.

  M. JOURDAIN. Sir, I am your humble servant.

  DORANTE. I won't be covered, if you won't.

  M. JOURDAIN. [puts on his hat] I choose rather to be unmannerly than
troublesome.

  DORANTE. I am your debtor, you know.

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside] Yes, we know it but too well.

  DORANTE. You have generously lent me money upon several occasions;
and have obliged me, most certainly, with the best grace in the world.

  M. JOURDAIN. You jest, sir.

  DORANTE. But I know how to repay what is lent me, and to be grateful
for the favours done me.

  M. JOURDAIN. I don't doubt it, sir.

  DORANTE. I'm willing to get out of your books, and came hither to
make up our accounts together.

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Mme Jourdain] Well, you see your
impertinence, wife.

  DORANTE. I'm one who love to be out of debt as soon as I can.

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Mme Jourdain] I told you so.

  DORANTE. Let's see a little what 'tis I owe you.

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Mme Jourdain] You there, with your ridiculous
suspicions.

  DORANTE. Do you remember right all the money you have lent me?

  M. JOURDAIN. I believe so. I made a little memorandum of it. Here it
is. Let you have at one time two hundred louis d'or.

  DORANTE. 'Tis true.

  M. JOURDAIN. Another time, six-score.

  DORANTE. Yes.

  M. JOURDAIN. And another time a hundred and forty.

  DORANTE. You are right.

  M. JOURDAIN. These three articles make four hundred and sixty
louis d'or, which come to five thousand and sixty livres.

  DORANTE. The account is very right. Five thousand and sixty livres.

  M. JOURDAIN. One thousand eight hundred and thirty-two livres to
your plume-maker.

  DORANTE. Just.

  M. JOURDAIN. Two thousand seven hundred and four-score livres to
your tailor.

  DORANTE. 'Tis true.

  M. JOURDAIN. Four thousand three hundred and seventy-nine livres,
twelve sols, and eight deniers to your tradesman.

  DORANTE. Very well. Twelve sols, eight deniers. The account is just.

  M. JOURDAIN. And a thousand seven hundred and forty-eight livres,
seven sols, four deniers to your saddler.

  DORANTE. 'Tis all true. What does that come to?

  M. JOURDAIN. Sum total, fifteen thousand eight hundred livres.

  DORANTE. The sum total, and just. Fifteen thousand and eight hundred
livres. To which add two hundred pistoles, which you are going to lend
me, that will make exactly eighteen thousand francs, which I shall pay
you the first opportunity.

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside to M. Jourdain] Well, did I not guess how
'twould be!

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Mme Jourdain] Peace.

  DORANTE. Will it incommode you to lend me what I tell you?

  M. JOURDAIN. Oh! no.

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside to M. Jourdain] This man makes a mere milch cow
of you.

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Mme Jourdain] Hold your tongue.

  DORANTE. If this will incommode you, I'll seek it elsewhere.

  M. JOURDAIN. No, sir.

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside to M. Jourdain] He'll ne'er be satisfied till
he has ruined you.

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Mme Jourdain] Hold your tongue, I tell you.

  DORANTE. You need only tell me if this puts you to any straits.

  M. JOURDAIN. Not at all, sir.

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside to M. Jourdain] 'Tis a true wheedler.

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Mme Jourdain] Hold your tongue then.

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside to M. Jourdain] He'll drain you to the last
farthing.

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Mme Jourdain] Will you hold your tongue?

  DORANTE. I've a good many people would be glad to lend it me, but as
you are my very good friend, I thought I should wrong you if I asked
it of anybody else.

  M. JOURDAIN. 'Tis too much honour, sir, you do me. I'll go fetch
what you want.

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside to M. Jourdain] What! going to lend him still
more?

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Mme Jourdain] What can I do? Would you have
me refuse a man of that rank, who spoke of me this morning at the
king's levee?

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside to M. Jourdain] Go, you're a downright dupe.

    [exit M. Jourdain]

  DORANTE. You seem to me very melancholy. What ails you, Madame
Jourdain?

  MME JOURDAIN. My head's bigger than my fist, even if it is not
swelled.

  DORANTE. Where is Mademoiselle your daughter that I don't see her?

  MME JOURDAIN. Mademoiselle my daughter is pretty well where she is.

  DORANTE. How does she go on?

  MME JOURDAIN. She goes on her two legs.

  DORANTE. Won't you come with her, one of these days, and see the
ball, and the play that's acted at court?

  MME JOURDAIN. Yes, truly, we've a great inclination to laugh, a
great inclination to laugh have we.

  DORANTE. I fancy, Madame Jourdain, you had a great many sparks in
your younger years, being so handsome and good-humoured as you were.

  MME JOURDAIN. Tredame, sir! what, is Madame Jourdain grown decrepit,
and does her head totter already with a palsy?

  DORANTE. Odso, Madame Jourdain, I ask your pardon. I was not
thinking that you are young. I'm very often absent. Pray excuse my
impertinence.

    [enter M. Jourdain]

  M. JOURDAIN. [to Dorante] Here's two hundred pieces for you, hard
money.

  DORANTE. I do assure you, Monsieur Jourdain, I am absolutely
yours; and I long to do you service at court.

  M. JOURDAIN. I'm infinitely obliged to you.

  DORANTE. If Madame Jourdain inclines to see the royal diversion,
I'll get her the best places in the ballroom.

  MME JOURDAIN. Madame Jourdain kisses your hand.

  DORANTE. [aside to M. Jourdain] Our pretty marchioness, as I
informed you in my letter, will be here by and by to partake of your
ball and collation; I brought her, at last, to consent to the
entertainment you design to give her.

  M. JOURDAIN. Let us draw to a distance a little, for a certain
reason.

  DORANTE. 'Tis eight days since I saw you, and I gave you no
tidings of the diamond you put into my hands to make her a present of,
as from you; but the reason was, I had all the difficulty in the world
to conquer her scruples, and 'twas no longer ago than to- day, that
she resolved to accept of it.

  M. JOURDAIN. How did she like it?

  DORANTE. Marvellously; and I am much deceived if the beauty of
this diamond has not an admirable effect upon her.

  M. JOURDAIN. Grant it, kind Heaven!

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside to Nicole] When he's once with him, he can
never get rid of him.

  DORANTE. I made her sensible in a proper manner of the richness of
the present and the strength of your passion.

  M. JOURDAIN. These kindnesses perfectly overwhelm me; I am in the
greatest confusion in the world to see a person of your quality demean
himself on my account as you do.

  DORANTE. You jest sure. Does one ever stop at such sort of
scruples among friends? And would not you do the same thing for me, if
occasion offered?

  M. JOURDAIN. Oh! certainly, and with all my soul.

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside to Nicole] How the sight of him torments me!

  DORANTE. For my part, I never mind anything when a friend is to be
served; and when you imparted to me the ardent passion you had
entertained for the agreeable marchioness, with whom I was acquainted,
you see that I made an immediate offer of my service.

  M. JOURDAIN. 'Tis true, these favours are what confound me.

  MME JOURDAIN. [to Nicole] What! will he never be gone?

  NICOLE. They are mighty great together.

  DORANTE. You've taken the right way to smite her. Women, above all
things, love the expense we are at on their account; and your frequent
serenades, your continual entertainments, that sumptuous firework
she saw on the water, the diamond she received by way of present
from you, and the regale you are now preparing- all this speaks much
better in favour of your passion than all the things you yourself
could possibly have said to her.

  M. JOURDAIN. There's no expense I would not be at, if I could by
that means find the way to her heart. A woman of quality has
powerful charms for me, and 'tis an honour I would purchase at any
rate.

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside to Nicole] What can they have to talk of so
long together? Go softly, and listen a little.

  DORANTE. By and by you will enjoy the pleasure of seeing her at your
ease; your eyes will have full time to be satisfied.

  M. JOURDAIN. To be at full liberty, I have ordered matters so that
my wife shall dine with my sister, where she'll pass the whole
afternoon.

  DORANTE. You have done wisely, for your wife might have perplexed us
a little. I have given the proper orders for you to the cook, and
for everything necessary for the ball. 'Tis of my own invention; and
provided the execution answers the plan, I am sure 'twill be-

  M. JOURDAIN. [perceives that Nicole listens, and gives her a box
on the ear] Hey, you're very impertinent. [to Dorante] Let us go if
you please.

    [exit M. Jourdain and Dorante]

  NICOLE. I'faith, curiosity has cost me something; but I believe
there's a snake in the grass, for they were talking of some affair
which they were not willing you should be present at.

  MME. JOURDAIN. This is not the first time, Nicole, that I have had
suspicions of my husband. I am the most deceived person in the
world, or there is some amour in agitation, and I am labouring to
discover what it should be. But let's think of my daughter. You know
the love Cleonte has for her. He is a man who hits my fancy, and I
have a mind to favour his addresses and help him to Lucile, if I can.

  NICOLE. In truth, madame, I am the most ravished creature in the
world, to find you in these sentiments; for if the master hits your
taste, the man hits mine no less; and I could wish our marriage
might be concluded under favour of theirs.

  MME JOURDAIN. Go, and talk with him about it, as from me, and tell
him to come to me presently, that we may join in demanding my daughter
of my husband.

  NICOLE. I fly, madame, with joy, and I could not have received a
more agreeable commission.

    [exit Mme Jourdain]

  I believe I shall very much rejoice their hearts.

    [enter Cleonte and Covielle]

  Hah, most luckily met. I'm an ambassadress of joy, and I come-

  CLEONTE. Be gone, ye perfidious slut, and don't come to amuse me
with thy traitorous speeches.

  NICOLE. Is it thus you receive-

  CLEONTE. Be gone, I tell thee, and go directly and inform thy
false mistress, that she never more, while she lives, shall impose
upon the too simple Cleonte.

  NICOLE. What whim is this? My dear Covielle, tell me a little what
does this mean.

  COVIELLE. Thy dear Covielle, wicked minx? Away quickly out of my
sight, hussy, and leave me at quiet.

  NICOLE. What! dost thou, too-

  COVIELLE. Out o' my sight, I tell thee, and talk not to me, for
thy life.

  NICOLE. [aside] Hey-day! What gadfly has stung 'em both? Well, I
must march and inform my mistress of this pretty piece of history.

    [exit]

  CLEONTE. What! treat a lover in this manner; and a lover the most
constant, the most passionate of all lovers!

  COVIELLE. 'Tis a horrible trick they have served us both.

  CLEONTE. I discover all the ardour for her, all the tenderness one
can imagine. I love nothing in the world but her, have nothing in my
thoughts besides her. She is all my care, all my desire, all my joy. I
speak of nought but her, think of nought but her, dream of nought
but her, I breathe only for her, my heart lives wholly in her; and
this is the worthy recompense of such a love! I am two days without
seeing her, which are to me two horrible ages; I meet her
accidentally, my heart feels all transported at the sight; joy
sparkles in my face; I fly to her with ecstasy, and the faithless
creature turns away her eyes, and brushes hastily by me, as if she had
never seen me in her life!

  COVIELLE. I say the same as you do.

  CLEONTE. Is it possible to see anything, Covielle, equal to this
perfidy of the ungrateful Lucile?

  COVIELLE. Or to that, sir, of the villainous jade Nicole?

  CLEONTE. After so many ardent sacrifices of sighs and vows that I
have made to her charms!

  COVIELLE. After so much assiduous sneaking, cares, and services that
I have paid her in the kitchen!

  CLEONTE. So many tears that I have shed at her feet!

  COVIELLE. So many buckets of water that I have drawn for her!

  CLEONTE. Such ardour as I have shown, in loving her more than
myself!

  COVIELLE. So much heat as I have endured, in turning the spit in her
place!

  CLEONTE. She flies me with disdain!

  COVIELLE. She turns her back upon me with impudence!

  CLEONTE. This is a perfidy worthy the greatest punishment.

  COVIELLE. This a treachery that deserves a thousand boxes o' the
ear.

  CLEONTE. Prithee, never think to speak once more to me in her
favour.

  COVIELLE. I, sir? Marry, Heaven forbid.

  CLEONTE. Never come to excuse the action of this perfidious woman.

  COVIELLE. Fear it not.

  CLEONTE. No, d'ye see, all discourses in her defence will signify
nothing.

  COVIELLE. Who dreams of such a thing?

  CLEONTE. I'm determined to continue my resentment against her, and
break off all correspondence.

  COVIELLE. I give my consent.

  CLEONTE. This same count that visits her, pleases perhaps her eye;
and her fancy, I see plainly, is dazzled with quality. But I must, for
my own honour, prevent the triumph of her inconstancy. I'll make as
much haste as she can do towards the change which I see she's
running into, and won't leave her all the glory of quitting me.

  COVIELLE. 'Tis very well said, and for my share, I enter into all
your sentiments.

  CLEONTE. Second my resentments, and support my resolutions against
all the remains of love that may yet plead for her. I conjure thee,
say all the ill things of her thou canst. Paint me her person so as to
make her despicable; and, in order to disgust me, mark me out well all
the faults thou canst find in her.

  COVIELLE. She, sir? A pretty mawkin, a fine piece to be so much
enamoured with. I see nothing in her but what's very indifferent,
and you might find a hundred persons more deserving of you. First of
all she has little eyes.

  CLEONTE. That's true, she has little eyes; but they are full of
fire, the most sparkling, the most piercing in the world, the most
striking that one shall see.

  COVIELLE. She has a wide mouth.

  CLEONTE. Yes; but one sees such graces in it, as one does not see in
other mouths, and the sight of that mouth inspires desire: 'tis the
most attractive, the most amorous in the world.

  COVIELLE. As to her height, she's not tall.

  CLEONTE. No; but she's easy, and well-shaped.

  COVIELLE. She affects a negligence in speaking and acting.

  CLEONTE. 'Tis true; but all this has a gracefulness in her, and
her ways are engaging; they have I don't know what charms that
insinuate into our hearts.

  COVIELLE. As to her wit-

  CLEONTE. Ah! Covielle, she has the most refined, the most delicate
turn of wit.

  COVIELLE. Her conversation-

  CLEONTE. Her conversation is charming.

  COVIELLE. She's always grave.

  CLEONTE. Would you have flaunting pleasantry, a perpetual profuse
mirth? And d'ye see anything more impertinent than those women who are
always upon the giggle?

  COVIELLE. But in short, she is the most capricious creature in the
world.

  CLEONTE. Yes, she is capricious, I grant ye, but everything sits
well upon fine women; we bear with everything from the fair.

  COVIELLE. Since that's the case, I see plainly you desire always
to love her.

  CLEONTE. I should love death sooner; and I am now going to hate
her as much as ever I loved her.

  COVIELLE. But how, if you think her so perfect?

  CLEONTE. Therein shall my vengeance be more glaring; therein shall I
better display the force of my resolution in hating her, quitting her,
most beautiful as she is; most charming, most amiable, as I think her.
Here she is.

    [enter Lucile and Nicole]

  NICOLE. [to Lucile] For my part, I was perfectly shocked at it.

  LUCILE. It can be nothing else, Nicole, but what I said. But there
he comes.

  CLEONTE. [to Covielle] I won't so much as speak to her.

  COVIELLE. I'll follow your example.

  LUCILE. What means this, Cleonte, what's the matter with you?

  NICOLE. What ails thee, Covielle?

  LUCILE. What trouble has seized you?

  NICOLE. What cross humour possesses thee?

  LUCILE. Are you dumb, Cleonte?

  NICOLE. Hast thou lost thy speech, Covielle?

  CLEONTE. The abandoned creature!

  COVIELLE. Oh! the Judas!

  LUCILE. I see very well that the late meeting has disordered your
mind.

  CLEONTE. [to Covielle] O, ho! She sees what she has done.

  NICOLE. The reception of this morning has made thee take snuff.

  COVIELLE. [to Cleonte] She has guessed where the shoe pinches.

  LUCILE. Is it not true, Cleonte, that this is the reason of your
being out of humour?

  CLEONTE. Yes, perfidious maid, that is it, since I must speak; and I
can tell you that you shall not triumph, as you imagine, by your
unfaithfulness, that I shall be beforehand in breaking with you, and
you won't have the credit of discarding me. I shall, doubtless, have
some difficulty in conquering the passion I have for you: 'twill cause
me uneasiness; I shall suffer for a while; but I shall compass my
point, and I would sooner stab myself to the heart than have the
weakness of returning to you.

  COVIELLE. [to Nicole] As says the master, so says the man.

  LUCILE. Here's a noise indeed about nothing. I'll tell you, Cleonte,
the reason that made me avoid joining you this morning.

  CLEONTE. [endeavouring to go to avoid Lucile] No, I'll hear nothing.

  NICOLE. [to Covielle] I'll let thee into the cause that made us pass
you so quick.

  COVIELLE. [endeavouring to go to avoid Nicole] I will hear nothing.

  LUCILE. [following Cleonte] Know that this morning-

  CLEONTE. [walks about without regarding Lucile] No, I tell you.

  NICOLE. [following Covielle] Learn that-

  COVIELLE. [walks about likewise without regarding Nicole] No,
traitress.

  LUCILE. Hear me.

  CLEONTE. Not a bit.

  NICOLE. Let me speak.

  COVIELLE. I'm deaf.

  LUCILE. Cleonte!

  CLEONTE. No.

  NICOLE. Covielle!

  COVIELLE. No.

  LUCILE. Stay.

  CLEONTE. Idle stuff.

  NICOLE. Hear me.

  COVIELLE. No such thing.

  LUCILE. One moment.

  CLEONTE. Not at all.

  NICOLE. A little patience.

  COVIELLE. A fiddle-stick.

  LUCILE. Two words.

  CLEONTE. No, 'tis over.

  NICOLE. One word.

  COVIELLE. No more dealings.

  LUCILE. [stopping] Well, since you won't hear me, keep your opinion,
and do what you please.

  NICOLE. [stopping likewise] Since that's thy way, e'en take it all
just as it pleases thee.

  CLEONTE. Let's know the subject then of this fine reception.

  LUCILE. [going in her turn to avoid Cleonte] I've no longer an
inclination to tell it.

  COVIELLE. Let us a little into this history.

  NICOLE. [going likewise in her turn to avoid Covielle] I won't
inform thee now, not I.

  CLEONTE. [following Lucile] Tell me-

  LUCILE. No, I'll tell you nothing.

  COVIELLE. [following Nicole] Say-

  NICOLE. No, I say nothing.

  CLEONTE. For goodness' sake.

  LUCILE. No, I tell you.

  COVIELLE. Of all charity.

  NICOLE. Not a bit.

  CLEONTE. I beseech you.

  LUCILE. Let me alone.

  COVIELLE. I conjure thee.

  NICOLE. Away with thee.

  CLEONTE. Lucile!

  LUCILE. No.

  COVIELLE. Nicole!

  NICOLE. Not at all.

  CLEONTE. For Heaven's sake.

  LUCILE. I will not.

  COVIELLE. Speak to me.

  NICOLE. Not a word.

  CLEONTE. Clear up my doubts.

  LUCILE. No, I'll do nothing towards it.

  COVIELLE. Cure my mind.

  NICOLE. No, 'tis not my pleasure.

  CLEONTE. Well, since you are so little concerned to ease me of my
pain, and to justify yourself as to the unworthy treatment my
passion has received from you, ungrateful creature, 'tis the last time
you shall see me, and I am going far from you to die of grief and
love.

  COVIELLE. [to Nicole] And I'll follow his steps.

  LUCILE. [to Cleonte, who is going] Cleonte!

  NICOLE. [to Covielle, who follows his master] Covielle!

  CLEONTE. [stopping] Hey?

  COVIELLE. [likewise stopping] Your pleasure?

  LUCILE. Whither do you go?

  CLEONTE. Where I told you.

  COVIELLE. We go to die.

  LUCILE. Do you go to die, Cleonte?

  CLEONTE. Yes, cruel, since you will have it so.

  LUCILE. I? I have you die?

  CLEONTE. Yes, you would.

  LUCILE. Who told you so?

  CLEONTE. [going up to Lucile] Would you not have it so, since you
would not clear up my suspicions?

  LUCILE. Is that my fault? Would you but have given me the hearing,
should I not have told you that the adventure you make such complaints
about was occasioned this morning by the presence of an old aunt who
will absolutely have it that the mere approach of a man is a dishonour
to a girl, who is perpetually lecturing us upon this head, and
represents to us all mankind as so many devils, whom one ought to
avoid.

  NICOLE. [to Covielle] There's the whole secret of the affair.

  CLEONTE. Don't you deceive me, Lucile?

  COVIELLE. [to Nicole] Dost thou not put a trick upon me?

  LUCILE. [to Cleonte] There's nothing more true.

  NICOLE. [to Covielle] 'Tis the very thing, as it is.

  COVIELLE. [to Cleonte] Shall we surrender upon this?

  CLEONTE. Ah, Lucile, what art have you to calm my passions with a
single word! How easily do we suffer ourselves to be persuaded by
those we love!

  COVIELLE. How easily is one wheedled by these plaguy animals!

    [enter Mme Jourdain

  MME JOURDAIN. I am very glad to see you, Cleonte, and you are here
apropos. My husband's acoming; catch your opportunity quick, and
demand Lucile in marriage.

  CLEONTE. Ah, madame, how sweet is that word, how it flatters my
wishes! Could I receive an order more charming? a favour more
precious?

    [enter M. Jourdain]

  Sir, I was not willing to employ any other person to make a
certain demand of you which I have long intended. It concerns me
sufficiently to undertake it in my own person; and, without farther
circumlocution, I shall inform you that the honour of being your
son-in-law is an illustrious favour which I beseech you to grant me.

  M. JOURDAIN. Before I give you an answer, sir, I desire you would
tell me whether you are a gentleman.

  CLEONTE. Sir, the generality of people don't hesitate much on this
question. People speak out bluff, and with ease. They make no
scruple of taking this title upon 'em, and custom now-a-days seems
to authorise the theft. For my part, I confess to you, my sentiments
in this matter are somewhat more delicate. I look upon all imposture
as unworthy an honest man, and that there is cowardice in denying what
Heaven has made us; in tricking ourselves out, to the eyes of the
world, in a stolen title; in desiring to put ourselves off for what we
are not. I am undoubtedly born of parents who have held honourable
employments. I have had the honour of six years' service in the
army; and I find myself of consequence enough to hold a tolerable rank
in the world; but for all this I won't give myself a name, which
others in my place would think they might pretend to, and I'll tell
you frankly that I am no gentleman.

  M. JOURDAIN. Your hand, sir; my daughter is no wife for you.

  CLEONTE. How?

  M. JOURDAIN. You are no gentleman, you shan't have my daughter.

  MME JOURDAIN. What would you be at then with your gentlemen? D'ye
think we sort of people are of the line of St. Louis?

  M. JOURDAIN. Hold your tongue, wife, I see you're acoming.

  MME JOURDAIN. Are we either of us otherwise descended thin of
plain citizens?

  M. JOURDAIN. There's a scandalous reflection for you!

  MME JOURDAIN. And was not your father a tradesman as well as mine?

  M. JOURDAIN. Plague take the woman! She never has done with this. If
your father was a tradesman, so much was the worse for him; but as for
mine, they are numskulls that say he was. All that I have to say to
you is that I will have a gentleman for my son-in-law.

  MME JOURDAIN. Your daughter should have a husband that's proper
for her, and an honest man who is rich and well made would be much
better for her than a gentleman who is deformed and a beggar.

  NICOLE. That's very true. We have a young squire in our town who
is the most awkward looby, the veriest driveller that I ever set
eyes on.

  M. JOURDAIN. Hold your prate, Madame Impertinence. You are always
thrusting yourself into conversation. I've means sufficient for my
daughter, and want nothing but honour, and I will have her a
marchioness.

  MME JOURDAIN. A marchioness!

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, a marchioness.

  MME JOURDAIN. Marry, Heaven preserve me from it!

  M. JOURDAIN. 'Tis a determined thing.

  MME JOURDAIN. 'Tis what I shall never consent to. Matches with
people above one are always subject to grievous inconveniences. I
don't like that a son-in-law should have it in his power to reproach
my daughter with her parents, or that she should have children who
should be ashamed to call me grandmother. Should she come and visit me
with the equipage of a grand lady and, through inadvertency, miss
curtsying to some of the neighbourhood, they would not fail,
presently, saying a hundred idle things. Do but see, would they say,
this lady marchioness, what haughty airs she gives herself! She's
the daughter of Monsieur Jourdain, who was over and above happy,
when she was a little one, to play children's play with us. She was
not always so lofty as she is now; and her two grandfathers sold cloth
near St. Innocent's Gate. They amassed great means for their children,
which they are paying for now, perhaps very dear, in the other
world. People don't generally grow so rich by being honest. I won't
have all these tittle-tattle stories; in one word, I'll have a man who
shall be beholden to me for my daughter, and to whom I can say, Sit
you down there, son-in-law, and dine with me.

  M. JOURDAIN. See there the sentiments of a little soul, to desire
always to continue in a mean condition. Let me have no more replies;
my daughter shall be a marchioness in spite of the world; and if you
put me in a passion, I'll make her a duchess.

    [exit]

  MME JOURDAIN. Cleonte, don't be discouraged by all this. [to Lucile]
Follow me, daughter, and come tell your father resolutely that if
you have not him, you won't marry anybody at all.

    [exeunt Mme Jourdain, Lucile, and Nicole]

  COVIELLE. You have made a pretty piece of work of it with your
fine sentiments.

  CLEONTE. What wouldst thou have me do? I have a scrupulousness in
this case that no precedents can conquer.

  COVIELLE. You're in the wrong to be serious with such a man as that.
Don't you see that he's a fool? And would it cost you anything to
accommodate yourself to his chimeras?

  CLEONTE. You're in the right; but I did not dream it was necessary
to bring your proofs of nobility, to be son-in-law to Monsieur
Jourdain.

  COVIELLE. [laughing] Ha, ha, ha.

  CLEONTE. What d'ye laugh at?

  COVIELLE. At a thought that's come into my head to play our spark
off and help you to obtain what you desire.

  CLEONTE. How?

  COVIELLE. The thought is absolutely droll.

  CLEONTE. What is it?

  COVIELLE. There was a certain masquerade performed a little while
ago, which comes in here the best in the world; and which I intend
to insert into a piece of roguery I design to make for our coxcomb.
This whole affair looks a little like making a joke of him; but with
him we may hazard everything. There's no need here to study finesse so
much- he's a man who will play his part to a wonder, and will easily
give in to all the sham tales we shall take in our heads to tell
him. I have actors, I have habits all ready, only let me alone.

  CLEONTE. But inform me of it.

  COVIELLE. I am going to let you into the whole of it. Let's
retire; there he comes.

    [exeunt Covielle and Cleonte; enter M. Jourdain]

  M. JOURDAIN. What a deuce can this mean? They have nothing but great
lords to reproach me with; and I for my part see nothing so fine as
keeping company with your great lords; there's nothing but honour
and civility among 'em, and I would it had cost me two fingers of a
hand to have been born a count or a marquis.

    [enter a Lackey]

  LACKEY. Sir, here's the count, and a lady whom he's handing in.

  M. JOURDAIN. Good lack-a-day, I have some orders to give. Tell 'em
that I'm acoming in a minute.

    [exit M. Jourdain; enter Dorante and Dorimene]

  LACKEY. My master says that he's acoming in a minute.

    [exit Lackey]

  DORANTE. 'Tis very well.

  DORIMENE. I don't know, Dorante; I take a strange step here in
suffering you to bring me to a house where I know nobody.

  DORANTE. What place then, madame, would you have a lover choose to
entertain you in, since, to avoid clamour, you neither allow of your
own house nor mine?

  DORIMENE. But you don't mention that I am every day insensibly
engaged to receive too great proofs of your passion. In vain do I
refuse things, you weary me out of resistance, and you have a civil
kind of obstinacy which makes me come gently into whatsoever you
please. Frequent visits commenced, declarations came next, which
drew after them serenades and entertainments, which were followed by
presents. I opposed all these things, but you are not disheartened,
and you become master of my resolutions step by step. For my part, I
can answer for nothing hereafter, and I believe in the end you will
bring me to matrimony, from which I stood so far aloof.

  DORANTE. Faith, madame, you ought to have been there already. You
are a widow, and depend upon nobody but yourself. I am my own
master, and love you more than my life. What does it stick at, then,
that you should not, from this day forward, complete my happiness?

  DORIMENE. Lack-a-day, Dorante, there must go a great many
qualities on both sides, to make people live happily together; and two
of the most reasonable persons in the world have often much ado to
compose a union to both their satisfactions.

  DORANTE. You're in the wrong, madame, to represent to yourself so
many difficulties in this affair; and the experience you have had
concludes nothing for the rest of the world.

  DORIMENE. In short, I always abide by this. The expenses you put
yourself to for me disturb me for two reasons; one is, they engage
me more than I could wish; and the other is, I'm sure (no offence to
you!) that you can't do this but you must incommode yourself, and I
would not have you do that.

  DORANTE. Fie, madame, these are trifles, and 'tis not by that-

  DORIMENE. I know what I say; and, amongst other things, the
diamond you forced me to take, is of value-

  DORANTE. Nay, madame, pray don't enhance the value of a thing my
love thinks unworthy of you: and permit- Here's the master of the
house.

    [enter M. Jourdain]

  M. JOURDAIN. [after having made two bows, finding himself too near
Dorimene] A little farther, madame.

  DORIMENE. How?

  M. JOURDAIN. One step, if you please.

  DORIMENE. What then?

  M. JOURDAIN. Fall back a little for the third.

  DORANTE. Monsieur Jourdain, madame, knows the world.

  M. JOURDAIN. Madame, 'tis a very great honour that I am fortunate
enough to be so happy, but to have the felicity that you should have
the goodness to grant me the favour, to do me the honour, to honour me
with the favour of your presence; and had I also the merit to merit
a merit like yours, and that Heaven- envious of my good- had granted
me- the advantage of being worthy- of-

  DORANTE. Monsieur Jourdain, enough of this; my lady does not love
great compliments, and she knows you are a man of wit. [aside to
Dorimene] 'Tis a downright bourgeois, ridiculous enough, as you see,
in his whole behaviour.

  DORIMENE. [aside to Dorante] It is not very difficult to perceive
it.

  DORANTE. Madame, this is a very good friend of mine.

  M. JOURDAIN. 'Tis too much honour you do me.

  DORANTE. A very polite man.

  DORIMENE. I have a great esteem for him.

  M. JOURDAIN. I have done nothing yet, madame, to merit this favour.

  DORANTE. [aside to M. Jourdain] Take good care however not to
speak to her of the diamond you gave her.

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Dorante] Mayn't I ask her only how she
likes it?

  DORANTE. [aside to M. Jourdain] How! Take special care you don't.
'Twould be villainous of you; and to act like a man of gallantry,
you should make as if it were not you who made the present. [aloud]
Monsieur Jourdain, madame, says that he's in raptures to see you at
his house.

  DORIMENE. He does me a great deal of honour.

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Dorante] How am I obliged to you, sir, for
speaking to her in that manner on my account!

  DORANTE. [aside to M. Jourdain] I have had a most terrible
difficulty to get her to come hither.

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Dorante] I don't know how to thank you enough
for it.

  DORANTE. He says, madame, that he thinks you the most charming
person in the world.

  DORIMENE. 'Tis a great favour he does me.

  M. JOURDAIN. Madame, it's you who do the favours, and-

  DORANTE. Let's think of eating.

    [enter a Lackey]

  LACKEY. [to M. Jourdain] Everything is ready, sir.

  DORANTE. Come, then, let us sit down to table; and fetch the
musicians.


{ACT4
                                ACT IV


     Dorimene, Monsieur Jourdain, Dorante, three Musicians, Lackeys

  DORIMENE. How, Dorante? Why here's a most magnificent repast!

  M. JOURDAIN. You are pleased to banter, madame; I would it were more
worthy of your acceptance.

    [Dorimene, M. Jourdain, Dorante, and three Musicians sit down at
      the table

  DORANTE. Monsieur Jourdain, madame, is in the right in what he says,
and he obliges me in paying you, after so handsome a manner, the
honours of his house. I agree with him that the repast is not worthy
of you. As it was myself who ordered it, and I am not so clearly
sighted in these affairs as certain of our friends, you have here no
very learned feast; and you will find incongruities of good cheer in
it, some barbarisms of good taste. Had our friend Damis had a hand
here, everything had been done by rule; elegance and erudition would
have run through the whole, and he would not have failed
exaggerating all the regular pieces of the repast he gave you, and
force you to own his great capacity in the science of good eating;
he would have told you of bread «de rive,» with the golden
kissing-crust, raised too all round with a crust that crumples
tenderly in your teeth; of wine with a velvet sap, heightened with a
smartness not too overpowering; of a breast of mutton stuffed with
parsley; of a loin of veal «de riviere,» thus long, white, delicate,
and which is a true almond paste between the teeth; of your partridges
heightened with a surprising «gout;» and then by way of farce or
entertainment, of a soup with jelly broth, fortified with a young
plump turkey-pout, cantoned with pigeons, and garnished with white
onions married to succory. But, for my part, I confess to you my
ignorance; and, as Monsieur Jourdain has very well said, I wish the
repast were more worthy of your acceptance.

  DORIMENE. I make no other answer to this compliment than eating as I
do.

  M. JOURDAIN. Ah! what pretty hands are there!

  DORIMENE. The hands are so so, Monsieur Jourdain; but you mean to
speak of the diamond, which is very pretty.

  M. JOURDAIN. I, madame? Marry, Heaven forbid I should speak of it; I
should not act like a gentleman of gallantry, and the diamond is a
very trifle.

  DORIMENE. You are wondrous nice.

  M. JOURDAIN. You have too much goodness-

  DORANTE. [having made signs to M. Jourdain] Come, give some wine
to Monsieur Jourdain, and to those gentlemen who will do us the favour
to sing us a catch.

  DORIMENE. You give a wondrous relish to the good cheer by mixing
music with it; I am admirably well regaled here.

  M. JOURDAIN. Madame, it is not-

  DORANTE. Monsieur Jourdain, let us listen to these gentlemen,
they'll entertain us with something better than all we can possibly
say.

  First and Second MUSICIANS. [together, each with a glass in his
hand]

       «Put it round, my dear Phyllis, invert the bright glass;»
         «Oh what charms to the crystal those fingers impart!»
       «You and Bacchus combined, all resistance surpass,»
         «And with passion redoubled have ravished my heart.»
           «'Twixt him, you, and me, my charmer, my fair,»
           «Eternal affection let's swear.»

       «At the touch of those lips how he sparkles more bright!»
         «And his touch, in return, those lips does embellish:»
       «I could quaff 'em all day, and drink bumpers all night.»
         «What longing each gives me, what gusto, what relish!»
           «'Twixt him, you, and me, my charmer, my fair,»
           «Eternal affection let's swear.»

  Second and Third MUSICIANS. [together]

          «Since time flies so nimbly away,»
              «Come drink, my dear boys, drink about;»
          «Let's husband him well while we may,»
              «For life may be gone before the mug's out.»
          «When Charon has got us aboard,»
              «Our drinking and wooing are past;»
          «We ne'er to lose time can afford,»
              «For drinking's a trade not always to last.»

          «Let your puzzling rogues in the schools,»
              «Dispute of the» bonum «of man;»
          «Philosophers dry are but fools»-
              «The secret is this: drink, drink off your can.»
          «When Charon has got us aboard,»
              «Our drinking and wooing are past;»
          «We ne'er to lose time can afford,»
              «For drinking's a trade not always to last.»

  ALL THREE. [together]

      «Why bob there! some wine, boys! come fill the glass, fill,»
      «Round and round let it go, till we bid it stand still.»

  DORIMENE. I don't think anything can be better sung; and 'tis
extremely fine.

  M. JOURDAIN. I see something here though, madame, much finer.

  DORIMENE. Hey! Monsieur Jourdain is more gallant than I thought he
was.

  DORANTE. How, madame! who do you take Monsieur Jourdain for?

  M. JOURDAIN. I wish she would take me for what I could name.

  DORIMENE. Again?

  DORANTE. [to Dorimene] You don't know him.

  M. JOURDAIN. She shall know me whenever she pleases.

  DORIMENE. Oh! Too much.

  DORANTE. He's one who has a repartee always at hand. But you don't
see, madame, that Monsieur Jourdain eats all the pieces you have
touched.

  DORIMENE. Monsieur Jourdain is a man that I am charmed with.

  M. JOURDAIN. If I could charm your heart, I should be-

    [enter Mme Jourdain]

  MME JOURDAIN. Hey-day! why here's a jolly company of you, and I
see very well you did not expect me. It was for this pretty affair,
then, Monsieur Husband o' mine, that you were in such a violent
hurry to pack me off to dine with my sister; I just now found a
play-house below, and here I find a dinner fit for a wedding. Thus
it is you spend your money, and thus it is you feast the ladies in
my absence, and present 'em with music and a play, whilst I'm sent
abroad in the meantime.

  DORANTE. What do you mean, Madame Jourdain? and what's your fancy to
take it into your head that your husband spends his money, and that
'tis he who entertains my lady? Know, pray, that 'tis I do it, that he
only lends me his house, and that you ought to consider a little
better what you say.

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, Madame Impertinence, 'tis the count that
presents the lady with all this, who is a person of quality. He does
me the honour to borrow my house, and is pleased to let me be with
him.

  MME JOURDAIN. 'Tis all stuff, this. I know what I know.

  DORANTE. Madame Jourdain, take your best spectacles, take 'em.

  MME JOURDAIN. I've no need of spectacles, sir, I see clear enough;
I've smelt things out a great while ago, I am no ass. 'Tis base in
you, who are a great lord, to lend a helping hand, as you do, to the
follies of my husband. And you, madame, who are a great lady, 'tis
neither handsome nor honest in you to sow dissension in a family,
and to suffer my husband to be in love with you.

  DORIMENE. What can be the meaning of all this? Go, Dorante, 'tis
wrong in you to expose me to the silly visions of this raving woman.

  DORANTE. [following Dorimene, who goes out] Madame, why madame,
where are you running?

  M. JOURDAIN. Madame- My lord, make my excuses to her and endeavour
to bring her back.

    [exit Dorante]

  [to Mme Jourdain] Ah! impertinent creature as you are, these are
your fine doings; you come and affront me in the face of all the
world, and drive people of quality away from my house.

  MME JOURDAIN. I value not their quality.

    [Lackeys take away the table]

  M. JOURDAIN. I don't know what hinders me, you plaguy hussy, from
splitting your skull with the fragments of the feast you came here
to disturb.

  MME JOURDAIN. [going] I despise all this. I defend my own rights,
and I shall have all the wives on my side.

  M. JOURDAIN. You do well to get out of the way of my fury.

    [exit Mme Jourdain]

  She came here at a most unlucky time. I was in the humour of
saying fine things, and never did I find myself so witty. What have we
got here?

    [enter Covielle, disguised]

  COVIELLE. Sir, I don't know whether I have the honour to be known to
you.

  M. JOURDAIN. No, sir.

  COVIELLE. I have seen you when you were not above thus tall.

  M. JOURDAIN. Me?

  COVIELLE. Yes. You were one of the prettiest children in the
world; and all the ladies used to take you in their arms to kiss you.

  M. JOURDAIN. To kiss me?

  COVIELLE. Yes, I was an intimate friend of the late gentleman your
father.

  M. JOURDAIN. Of the late gentleman my father!

  COVIELLE. Yes. He was a very honest gentleman.

  M. JOURDAIN. What is't you say?

  COVIELLE. I say that he was a very honest gentleman.

  M. JOURDAIN. My father?

  COVIELLE. Yes.

  M. JOURDAIN. Did you know him very well?

  COVIELLE. Certainly.

  M. JOURDAIN. And did you know him for a gentleman?

  COVIELLE. Without doubt.

  M. JOURDAIN. I don't know then what the world means.

  COVIELLE. How?

  M. JOURDAIN. There is a stupid sort of people who would face me down
that he was a tradesman.

  COVIELLE. He a tradesman? 'Tis mere scandal; he never was one. All
that he did was, that he was very obliging, very officious, and as
he was a great connoisseur in stuffs, he used to pick them up
everywhere, have 'em carried to his house, and gave 'em to his friends
for money.

  M. JOURDAIN. I'm very glad of your acquaintance, that you may bear
witness that my father was a gentleman.

  COVIELLE. I'll maintain it in the face of all the world.

  M. JOURDAIN. You will oblige me. What business brings you here?

  COVIELLE. Since my acquaintance with the late gentleman your father,
honest gentleman, as I was telling you, I have travelled round the
world.

  M. JOURDAIN. Round the world?

  COVIELLE. Yes.

  M. JOURDAIN. I fancy 'tis a huge way off, that same country.

  COVIELLE. Most certainly. I have not been returned from these
tedious travels of mine but four days. And because I have an
interest in everything that concerns you, I come to tell you the
best news in the world.

  M. JOURDAIN. What?

  COVIELLE. You know that the son of the Great Turk is here.

  M. JOURDAIN. I? No.

  COVIELLE. How? He has a most magnificent train. All the world goes
to see him, and he has been received in this country as a person of
importance.

  M. JOURDAIN. In troth, I did not know that.

  COVIELLE. What is of advantage to you in this affair is that he is
in love with your daughter.

  M. JOURDAIN. The son of the Great Turk?

  COVIELLE. Yes, and wants to be your son-in-law.

  M. JOURDAIN. My son-in-law, the son of the Great Turk?

  COVIELLE. The son of the Great Turk your son-in-law. As I have
been to see him, and perfectly understand his language, he held a
conversation with me; and after some other discourse, says he to me:
"Acciam croc soler, onch alla moustaph gidelum amanahem varahini
oussere carbulath." That is to say, "Have you not seen a young
handsome person, who is the daughter of Monsieur Jourdain, a gentleman
of Paris?"

  M. JOURDAIN. The son of the Great Turk said that of me?

  COVIELLE. Yes, as I made answer to him that I knew you
particularly well, and that I had seen your daughter. Ah, says he to
me, "Marababa sahem"; that is to say, "Ah! how am I enamoured with
her!"

  M. JOURDAIN. "Marababa sahem" means: "Ah! how am I enamoured with
her"?

  COVIELLE. Yes.

  M. JOURDAIN. Marry, you did well to tell me so, for as for my
part, I should never have believed that "Marababa sahem" had meant,
"Ah! how am I enamoured with her!" 'Tis an admirable language, this
same Turkish!

  COVIELLE. More admirable than one can believe. Do you know very well
what is the meaning of "Cacaramouchen"?

  M. JOURDAIN. "Cacaramouchen"? No.

  COVIELLE. 'Tis as if you should say, "My dear soul."

  M. JOURDAIN. "Cacaramouchen" means, "My dear soul"?

  COVIELLE. Yes.

  M. JOURDAIN. Why, 'tis very wonderful! "Cacaramouchen- my dear
soul." Would one ever have thought it? I am perfectly confounded at
it.

  COVIELLE. In short, to finish my embassy, he comes to demand your
daughter in marriage; and to have a father-in-law who should be
suitable to him, he designs to make you a Mamamouchi, which is a
certain grand dignity of his country.

  M. JOURDAIN. Mamamouchi?

  COVIELLE. Yes, Mamamouchi; that is to say, in our language, a
Paladin. Paladin is your ancient- Paladin, in short- there's nothing
in the world more noble than this; and you will rank with the grandest
lord upon earth.

  M. JOURDAIN. The son of the Great Turk does me a great deal of
honour, and I desire you would carry me to him, to return him my
thanks.

  COVIELLE. How? Why he's just acoming hither.

  M. JOURDAIN. Is he acoming hither?

  COVIELLE. Yes. And he brings all things along with him for the
ceremony of your dignity.

  M. JOURDAIN. He's main hasty.

  COVIELLE. His love will suffer no delay.

  M. JOURDAIN. All that perplexes me, in this case, is that my
daughter is an obstinate hussy who has took into her head one Cleonte,
and vows she'll marry no person besides him.

  COVIELLE. She'll change her opinion when she sees the son of the
Grand Turk; and then there happens here a very marvellous adventure,
that is, that the son of the Grand Turk resembles this Cleonte, with a
trifling difference. I just now came from him, they showed him me; and
the love she bears for one may easily pass to the other, and- I hear
him coming; there he is.

    [enter Cleonte, like a Turk, and three Pages holding up his gown]

  CLEONTE. Ambousahim oqui boraf, Iordina, salamalequi.

  COVIELLE. [to M. Jourdain] That is to say, Monsieur Jourdain, "May
your heart be all the year like a rose-tree in flower!" These are
obliging ways of speaking in that country.

  M. JOURDAIN. I am His Turkish Highness's most humble servant.

  COVIELLE. Carigar camboto oustin moraf.

  CLEONTE. Oustin yoc catamalequi basum base alla moran.

  COVIELLE. He says, "Heaven give you the strength of lions and the
prudence of serpents!"

  M. JOURDAIN. His Turkish Highness does me too much honour; and I
wish him all manner of prosperity.

  COVIELLE. Ossa binamin sadoc babally oracaf ouram.

  CLEONTE. Bel-men.

  COVIELLE. He says that you should go quickly with him to prepare
yourself for the ceremony, in order afterwards to see your daughter
and to conclude the marriage.

  M. JOURDAIN. So many things in two words?

  COVIELLE. Yes, the Turkish language is much in that way; it says a
great deal in a few words. Go quickly where he desires you.

    [exit M. Jourdain, Cleonte, and Pages]

  Ha, ha, ha. I'faith, this is all absolutely droll. What a dupe!
Had he had his part by heart, he could not have played it better. O,
ho!

    [enter Dorante]

  I beseech you, sir, lend us a helping hand here, in a certain affair
which is in agitation.

  DORANTE. Ah! ah! Covielle, who could have known thee? How art thou
trimmed out there!

  COVIELLE. You see, ha, ha!

  DORANTE. What do ye laugh at?

  COVIELLE. At a thing, sir, that well deserves it.

  DORANTE. What?

  COVIELLE. I could give you a good many times, sir, to guess the
stratagem we are making use of with Monsieur Jourdain, to bring him
over to give his daughter to my master.

  DORANTE. I don't at all guess the stratagem, but I guess it will not
fail of its effect, since you undertake it.

  COVIELLE. I know, sir, you are not unacquainted with the animal.

  DORANTE. Tell me what it is.

  COVIELLE. Be at the trouble of withdrawing a little farther off,
to make room for what I see acoming. You will see one part of the
story whilst I give you a narration of the rest.


{ACT4|TURK_CEREMONY
                         The Turkish Ceremony


          The Mufti, Dervishes, Turks (assisting the Mufti),
                         Singers and Dancers

    Six Turks enter gravely, two and two, to the sound of
      instruments. They bear three carpets, with which they dance in
      several figures, and then lift them up very high. The Turks,
      singing, pass under the carpets and range themselves on each
      side of the stage. The Mufti, accompanied by Dervishes, closes
      the march.
    Then the Turks spread the carpets on the ground and kneel down
      upon them, the Mufti and Dervishes standing in the middle of
      them; while the Mufti invokes Mahomet in dumb contortions and
      grimaces, the Turks prostrate themselves to the ground, singing
      «Allah,» raising their hands to heaven, singing «Allah,» and so
      continuing alternately to the end of the invocation, when they
      all rise up, singing «Allahekber.»
    Then two Dervishes bring Monsieur Jourdain, clothed like a Turk,
      his head shaved, without a turban or sabre.

  MUFTI. [to M. Jourdain]
          «If thou understandest,»
                 «Answer;»
          «If thou dost not understand,»
             «Hold thy peace, hold thy peace.»
           «I am Mufti,»
             «Thou! who thou art»
          «I don't know:»
             «Hold thy Peace, hold thy peace.»

    [two Dervishes retire with M. Jourdain

  Say, Turk, who is this, An Anabaptist, an Anabaptist?

  THE TURKS. No.

  MUFTI. A Zwinglian?

  THE TURKS. No.

  MUFTI. A Coffite?

  THE TURKS. No.

  MUFTI. A Hussite? A Morist? A Fronist?

  THE TURKS. No, no, no.

  MUFTI. No, no, no. Is he a Pagan?

  THE TURKS. No.

  MUFTI. A Lutheran?

  THE TURKS. No.

  MUFTI. A Puritan?

  THE TURKS. No.

  MUFTI. A Brahmin? A Moffian? A Zurian?

  THE TURKS. No, no, no.

  MUFTI. No, no, no. A Mahometan, a Mahometan?

  THE TURKS. There you have it, there you have it.

  MUFTI. How is he called? How is he called?

  THE TURKS. Jourdain, Jourdain.

  MUFTI. [dancing] Jourdain! Jourdain!

  THE TURKS. Jourdain, Jourdain.

  MUFTI.      «To Mahomet for Jourdain»
              «I pray night and day,»
              «That he would make a Paladin»
              «Of Jourdain, of Jourdain.»
              «Give him a turban, and give a sabre,»
              «With a galley and a brigantine,»
              «To defend Palestine.»
              «To Mahomet for Jourdain»
              «I pray night and day.»

  [to the Turks] Is Jourdain a good Turk?

  THE TURKS. That he is, that he is.

  MUFTI. [singing and dancing]
    «Ha, la ba, ba la chou, ba la ba, ba la da.»

    [exit]

  THE TURKS. «Ha, la ba, ba la chou, ba la ba, ba la da.»

    [The Mufti returns with the State Turban, which is of an
      immeasurable largeness, garnished with lighted wax candles, four
      or five rows deep, accompanied by two Dervishes, bearing the
      Alcoran, with comic caps garnished also with lighted candles.
    [The two other Dervishes lead up Monsieur Jourdain and place him
      on his knees with his hands to the ground so that his back, on
      which the Alcoran is placed, may serve for a desk to the Mufti,
      who makes a second burlesque invocation, knitting his eyebrows,
      striking his hands sometimes upon the Alcoran, and tossing over
      the leaves with precipitation, after which, lifting up his
      hands, and crying with a loud voice, «Hoo.»
    [During this second invocation the assistant Turks, bowing down
      and raising themselves alternately, sing likewise,

    HOO, HOO, HOO.

  M. JOURDAIN. [after they have taken the Alcoran off his back] Ouf!

  MUFTI. [to M. Jourdain] Thou wilt not be a knave?

  THE TURKS. No, no, no.

  MUFTI. Not be a thief?

  THE TURKS. No, no, no.

  MUFTI. [to the Turks] Give the turban.

  THE TURKS. «Thou wilt not be a knave?»
               «No, no, no.»
             «Not be a thief?»
               «No, no, no.»
             «Give the turban.»

    [the Turks, dancing, put the turban on M. Jourdain's head at the
      sound of the instruments

  MUFTI. [giving the sabre to M. Jourdain]
             «Be brave, be no scoundrel,»
             «Take the sabre.»

  THE TURKS. [drawing their sabres]
             «Be brave, be no scoundrel,»
             «Take the sabre.»

    [the Turks, dancing, strike M. Jourdain several times with their
      sabres, to music]

  MUFTI.     «Give, give»
             «The bastonade.»

  THE TURKS. «Give, Give,»
             «The bastonade.»

    [the Turks, dancing, give M. Jourdain several strokes with a
      cudgel, to music]

  MUFTI.     «Don't think it a shame,»
             «This is the last affront.»

  THE TURKS. «Don't think it a shame,»
             «This is the last affront.»

    [The Mufti begins a third invocation. The Dervishes support him
      with great respect, after which the Turks, singing and dancing
      round the Mufti, retire with him and lead off Monsieur
      Jourdain.


{ACT5
                                ACT V


                  Madame Jourdain, Monsieur Jourdain

  MME JOURDAIN. Bless us all! Mercy upon us I What have we got here?
What a figure! What! dressed to go a-mumming, and is this a time to go
masked? Speak therefore, what does this mean? Who has trussed you up
in this manner?

  M. JOURDAIN. Do but see the impertinent slut, to speak after this
manner to a Mamamouchi.

  MME JOURDAIN. How's that?

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, you must show me respect now I am just made a
Mamamouchi.

  MME JOURDAIN. What d'ye mean with your Mamamouchi?

  M. JOURDAIN. Mamamouchi, I tell you. I am a Mamamouchi.

  MME JOURDAIN. What beast is that?

  M. JOURDAIN. Mamamouchi, that is to say, in our language, a Paladin.

  MME JOURDAIN. A Paladin? Are you of an age to be a morris-dancer?

  M. JOURDAIN. What an ignoramus! I say, Paladin. 'Tis a dignity of
which I have just now gone through the ceremony.

  MME JOURDAIN. What ceremony then?

  M. JOURDAIN. Mahameta per Jordina.

  MME JOURDAIN. What does that mean?

  M. JOURDAIN. Jordina, that is to say, Jourdain.

  MME JOURDAIN. Well, how Jourdain?

  M. JOURDAIN. Voler far un Paladina de Jordina.

  MME JOURDAIN. What?

  M. JOURDAIN. Dar turbanta con galera.

  MME JOURDAIN. What's the meaning of that?

  M. JOURDAIN. Per deffender Palestina.

  MME JOURDAIN. What is it you would say?

  M. JOURDAIN. Dara, dara, bastonnara.

  MME JOURDAIN. What is this same jargon?

  M. JOURDAIN. Non tener honta, questa star l'ultima affronta.

  MME JOURDAIN. What in the name of wonder can all this be?

  M. JOURDAIN. [singing and dancing]
  «Hou la ba, ba la chou, ba la ba, ba la da.»
    [falls down to the ground]

  MME JOURDAIN. Alas and well-a-day! My husband is turned fool.

  M. JOURDAIN. [getting up and walking off] Peace! insolence, show
respect to Monsieur Mamamouchi.

  MME JOURDAIN. [alone] How could he lose his senses? I must run and
prevent his going out. [seeing Dorimene and Dorante] So, so, here come
the rest of our gang. I see nothing but vexation on all sides.

    [exit Mme Jourdain; enter Dorante and Dorimene]

  DORANTE. Yes, madame, you'll see the merriest thing that can be
seen; and I don't believe it's possible, in the whole world, to find
another man so much a fool as this here. And besides, madame, we
must endeavour to promote Cleonte's amour and to countenance his
masquerade. He's a very pretty gentleman and deserves that one
should interest one's self in his favour.

  DORIMENE. I've a very great value for him, and he deserves good
fortune.

  DORANTE. Besides, we have here, madame, an entertainment that will
suit us, and which we ought not to suffer to be lost; and I must by
all means see whether my fancy will succeed.

  DORIMENE. I saw there magnificent preparations, and these are
things, Dorante, I can no longer suffer. Yes, I'm resolved to put a
stop, at last, to your profusions; and to break off all the expenses
you are at on my account, I have determined to marry you out of
hand. This is the real secret of the affair, and all these things end,
as you know, with marriage.

  DORANTE. Ah! madame, is it possible you should form so kind a
resolution in my favour?

  DORIMENE. I only do it to prevent you from ruining yourself; and
without this, I see plainly that before 'tis long you won't be worth a
groat.

  DORANTE. How am I obliged to you, madame, for the care you take to
preserve my estate! 'Tis entirely at your service, as well as my
heart, and you may use both of 'em just in the manner you please.

  DORIMENE. I shall make a proper use of them both. But here comes
your man; an admirable figure.

    [enter M. Jourdain]

  DORANTE. Sir, my lady and I are come to pay our homage to your new
dignity, and to rejoice with you at the marriage you are concluding
betwixt your daughter and the son of the Grand Turk.

  M. JOURDAIN. [bowing first in the Turkish manner] Sir, I wish you
the force of serpents and the wisdom of lions.

  DORIMENE. I was exceeding glad to be one of the first, sir, who
should come and congratulate you upon the high degree of glory to
which you are raised.

  M. JOURDAIN. Madame, I wish your rose-tree may flower all the year
round; I am infinitely obliged to you for interesting yourselves in
the honour that's paid me; and I am greatly rejoiced to see you
returned hither, that I may make my most humble excuses for the
impertinence of my wife.

  DORIMENE. That's nothing at all, I can excuse a commotion of this
kind in her; your heart ought to be precious to her, and 'tis not at
all strange the possession of such a man as you are should give her
some alarms.

  M. JOURDAIN. The possession of my heart is a thing you have entirely
gained.

  DORANTE. You see, madame, that Monsieur Jourdain is none of those
people whom prosperity blinds, and that he knows, in all his grandeur,
how to own his friends.

  DORIMENE. 'Tis the mark of a truly generous soul.

  DORANTE. Where is His Turkish Highness? We should be glad, as your
friends, to pay our devoirs to him.

  M. JOURDAIN. There he comes, and I have sent to bring my daughter to
join hands with him.

    [enter Cleonte, in a Turkish habit]

  DORANTE. [to Cleonte] Sir, we come to compliment Your Highness, as
friends of the gentleman your father-in-law, and to assure you, with
respect, of our most humble services.

  M. JOURDAIN. Where's the dragoman, to tell him who you are and
make him understand what you say? You shall see that he'll answer you,
and he speaks Turkish marvellously. Hola! there; where the deuce is he
gone? [to Cleonte]
                                Stref,
                                strif,
                                strof,
                                straf.

  The gentleman is a

       «grande segnore, grande segnore, grande segnore;»

  and madame is a

       «granda dama, granda dama.»

  [seeing he cannot make himself be understood]
  Lack-a-day! [to Cleonte] Sir, he be a French Mamamouchi, and
madame a French Mamamouchess. I can't speak plainer. Good, here's
the dragoman.

    [enter Covielle, disguised]

  Where do you run? We can say nothing without you. [pointing to
Cleonte] Inform him a little that the gentleman and lady are persons
of great quality who come to pay their compliments to him, as
friends of mine, and to assure him of their services. [to Dorimene and
Dorante] You shall see how he will answer.

  COVIELLE. Alabala crociam, acci boram alabamen.

  CLEONTE. Catalequi tubal ourin soter amalouchan.

  M. JOURDAIN. [to Dorimene and Dorante] Do ye see?

  COVIELLE. He says that the rain of prosperity waters, at all
seasons, the garden of your family.

  M. JOURDAIN. I told you that he speaks Turkish.

  DORANTE. This is admirable.

    [enter Lucile]

  M. JOURDAIN. Come, daughter, come nearer, and give the gentleman
your hand who does you the honour of demanding you in marriage.

  LUCILE. What's the matter, father, how are you dressed here? What!
are you playing a comedy?

  M. JOURDAIN. No, no, 'tis no comedy, 'tis a very serious affair; and
the most honourable for you that possibly can be wished. [pointing
to Cleonte] This is the husband I bestow upon you.

  LUCILE. Upon me, father?

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes, upon you. Come, take him by the hand, and thank
Heaven for your good fortune.

  LUCILE. I won't marry.

  M. JOURDAIN. I'll make you; am I not your father?

  LUCILE. I won't do it.

  M. JOURDAIN. Here's a noise indeed! Come, I tell you. Your hand
here.

  LUCILE. No, father, I've told you before that there's no power can
oblige me to take any other husband than Cleonte; and I am
determined upon all extremities rather than- [discovering Cleonte]
'Tis true that you are my father; I owe you absolute obedience; and
you may dispose of me according to your pleasure.

  M. JOURDAIN. Hah, I am charmed to see you return so readily to
your duty; and it is a pleasure to me to have my daughter obedient.

    [enter Mme Jourdain]

  MME JOURDAIN. How, how, what does this mean? They tell me you design
to marry your daughter to a mummer.

  M. JOURDAIN. Will you hold your tongue, impertinence? You're
always coming to mix your extravagances with everything; there's no
possibility of teaching you common sense.

  MME JOURDAIN. 'Tis you whom there's no teaching to be wise, and
you go from folly to folly. What's your design, what would you do with
this flock of people?

  M. JOURDAIN. I design to marry my daughter to the son of the Grand
Turk.

  MME JOURDAIN. To the son of the Grand Turk?

  M. JOURDAIN. Yes. [pointing to Covielle] Make your compliments to
him by the dragoman there.
-
  MME JOURDAIN. I have nothing to do with the dragoman, and I shall
tell him plainly to his face that he shall have none of my daughter.

  M. JOURDAIN. Will you hold your tongue once more?

  DORANTE. What, Madame Jourdain, do you oppose such an honour as
this? Do you refuse His Turkish Highness for a son-in-law?

  MME JOURDAIN. Lack-a-day, sir, meddle you with your own affairs.

  DORIMENE. 'Tis a great honour, 'tis by no means to be rejected.

  MME JOURDAIN. Madame, I desire you too not to give yourself any
trouble about what no ways concerns you.

  DORANTE. 'Tis the friendship we have for you that makes us
interest ourselves in what is of advantage to you.

  MME JOURDAIN. I shall easily excuse your friendship.

  DORANTE. There's your daughter consents to her father's pleasure.

  MME JOURDAIN. My daughter consent to marry a Turk?

  DORANTE. Certainly.

  MME JOURDAIN. Can she forget Cleonte?

  DORANTE. What would one not do to be a great lady?

  MME JOURDAIN. I would strangle her with my own hands, had she done
such a thing as this.

  M. JOURDAIN. Here's tittle-tattle in abundance. I tell you this
marriage shall be consummated.

  MME JOURDAIN. And I tell you that it shall not be consummated.

  M. JOURDAIN. What a noise is here?

  LUCILE. Mother!

  MME JOURDAIN. Go, you are a pitiful hussy.

  M. JOURDAIN. [to Mme Jourdain] What! do you scold her for being
obedient to me?

  MME JOURDAIN. Yes, she belongs to me as well as you.

  COVIELLE. [to Mme Jourdain] Madame.

  MME JOURDAIN. What would you say to me, you?

  COVIELLE. One word.

  MME JOURDAIN. I've nothing to do with your word.

  COVIELLE. [to M. Jourdain] Sir, would she hear me but one word in
private, I'll promise you to make her consent to what you have a mind.

  MME JOURDAIN. I won't consent to it.

  COVIELLE. Only hear me.

  MME JOURDAIN. No.

  M. JOURDAIN. [to Mme Jourdain] Give him the hearing.

  MME JOURDAIN. No, I won't hear him.

  M. JOURDAIN. He'll tell you-

  MME JOURDAIN. He shall tell me nothing.

  M. JOURDAIN. Do but see the great obstinacy of the woman! Will it do
you any harm to hear him?

  COVIELLE. Only hear me; you may do what you please afterwards.

  MME JOURDAIN. Well, what?

  COVIELLE. [aside to Mme Jourdain] We have made signs to you, madame,
this hour. Don't you see plainly that all is done purely to
accommodate ourselves to the visions of your husband; that we are
imposing upon him under this disguise, and that it is Cleonte
himself who is the son of the Great Turk?

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside to Covielle] Oh, oh?

  COVIELLE. [aside to Mme Jourdain] And that 'tis me, Covielle, who am
the dragoman?

  MME JOURDAIN. [aside to Covielle] Oh! in that case, I give up.

  COVIELLE. [aside to Mme Jourdain] Don't seem to know anything of the
matter.

  MME JOURDAIN. [aloud] Yes, 'tis all done, I consent to the marriage.

  M. JOURDAIN. Ay, all the world submits to reason. [to Mme
Jourdain] You would not hear him. I knew he would explain to you
what the son of the Great Turk is.

  MME JOURDAIN. He has explained it to me sufficiently, and I'm
satisfied with it. Let us send for a notary.

  DORANTE. 'Tis well said. And, Madame Jourdain, that you may set your
mind perfectly at rest, and that you should this day quit all jealousy
which you may have entertained of the gentleman your husband, my
lady and I shall make use of the same notary to marry us.

  MME JOURDAIN. I consent to that too.

  M. JOURDAIN. [aside to Dorante] 'Tis to make her believe.

  DORANTE. [aside to M. Jourdain] We must by all means amuse her a
little with this pretence.

  M. JOURDAIN. Good, good. [aloud] Let somebody go for the notary.

  DORANTE. In the meantime, till he comes and has drawn up the
contracts, let us see our entertainment, and give His Turkish Highness
the diversion of it.

  M. JOURDAIN. Well advised; come let us take our places.

  MME JOURDAIN. And Nicole?

  M. JOURDAIN. I give her to the dragoman; and my wife, to whosoever
pleases to take her.

  COVIELLE. Sir, I thank you. [aside] If it's possible to find a
greater fool than this, I'll go and publish it in Rome.


                               THE END