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ACT II. - Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems). [1901]

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From The Works of Voltaire, A Contemporary Version, (New York: E.R. DuMont, 1901), A Critique and Biography by John Morley, notes by Tobias Smollett, trans. William F. Fleming. Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

Part of: The Works of Voltaire. A Contemporary Version, in 21 vols.

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ACT II.

SCENE I.

lise, martha.

martha.

I see this matrimony frightens you a little: this noise and bustle of preparation has something terrible in it.

lise.

To say the truth, so it has; and the more I think on the weight of this yoke, the more this heart of mine trembles at it. Marriage, in my opinion, is the greatest good, or the greatest evil; there is no such thing as a medium in it: where hearts are united, where harmony of sentiment, taste and humor strengthen the bonds of nature, where love forms the tie, and honor gives a sanction to it, it is surely the happiest state which mortals can enjoy. What pleasure must it be to own your passion publicly, to bear the name of the dear beloved object of your wishes! your house, your servants, your livery, everything carrying with it some pleasing remembrance of the man you love; and then to see your children, those dear pledges of mutual affection, that form, as it were, another union: O such a marriage is a heaven upon earth: but to make a vile contract, to sell our name, our fortune, and our liberty, and submit them to the will of an arbitrary tyrant, and be only his first slave, an upper servant in his family; to be eternally jarring, or running away from one another, the day without joy, and the night without love; to be always afraid of doing what we should not do; to give way to our own bad inclinations, or to be continually opposing them; to be under the necessity either of deceiving an imperious husband or dragging out life in a languid state of troublesome duty and obedience; to mutter, and fret, and pine away with grief and discontent; O such a marriage is the hell of this world.

martha.

The young ladies of this age have certainly, they say, some little demon, some familiar, to inspire them! Why, what a deal of knowledge this girl has picked up in so short a time! the most expert, artful widow in Paris, that ever comforted herself with the thought of having buried three husbands, could not have talked more learnedly on this head than my young mistress here; but we must have a little éclaircissement with regard to this marriage, which it seems is so mighty disgusting: you don’t approve of Monsieur le President, pray how should you like his brother? Come, unriddle the mystery to me. Has not the elder brother supplanted the younger? Come, whom do you love, or whom do you hate? Tell me the truth at once, and speak honestly.

lise.

I know nothing about it: I cannot, dare not tell you the cause of my dislike. Why would you search for a melancholy truth at the bottom of a heart already but too deeply afflicted? We can never see ourselves in the water, whilst the tempest is howling around us; no; first let the storm be hushed, the wind calm, and the surface smooth.

martha.

Comparisons, madam, will never pass for argument: it is easy enough sometimes to see the bottom of a heart, it’s clear enough: and if the passions are now and then a little tempestuous, a young lady of understanding can generally guess from what corner the wind blows that has raised the storm. She knows well enough—

lise.

I tell you, I know nothing; and I am resolved to shut my eyes, and see nothing. I would not wish to know whether I am still weak enough to retain a passion for a wretch whom I ought to abhor, nor would I increase my disgust for one man by regretting the charms of another. No: let the false Euphemon live happy and content, if he can be so; but let him not be disinherited; never will I be so cruel and inhuman as to make myself his sister on purpose to ruin and destroy him. Now you know my heart, search into it no further, unless you mean to tear it in pieces.

SCENE II.

lise, martha,a Servant.

servant.

Madam, the baroness of Croupillac waits below.

lise.

Her visit astonishes me.

servant.

She is just arrived from Angoulême, and comes to pay her respects to you.

lise.

Upon what occasion?

martha.

O upon your marriage, no doubt.

lise.

The very subject I would wish to avoid. Am I in a condition to listen to a heap of ridiculous compliments, a register of commonplace cant, and hypocrisy, that tires one to death; where common sense is murdered by the perpetual exercise of talking without saying anything? What a task I have to go through!

SCENE III.

lise, mme. de croupillac, martha.

martha.

Here her ladyship comes.

lise.

Ay, I see her but too well.

martha.

They say she wants vastly to be married, is apt to be a little quarrelsome, and almost in her dotage.

lise.

Some chairs here. Madam, you will pardon me, if—

mme. de croupillac.

O Madam!

lise.

Madam!

mme. de croupillac.

I, madam, must likewise beg—

lise.

Pray be seated.

mme. de croupillac.

[Sitting down.

Upon my word, madam, I am quite confounded, and wish, from the bottom of my soul, it was in my power to—

lise.

Madam!

mme. de croupillac.

Yes, madam, I heartily wish I could steal your charms; it makes me weep to see you so handsome.

lise.

Pray, madam, be comforted.

mme. de croupillac.

No, madam, that’s impossible. I see, my dear, you may have as many husbands as you please. I had one, too, at least I thought so; only one, and that’s a melancholy consideration; and trouble enough I had to get him, too, and you are going to rob me of him. There is a time, madam—O dear! how soon that time comes about!—when if a lover deserts us, we lose our all, and one is quite left alone: and let me tell you, madam, it is very cruel to take away all from one, who has little or nothing left.

lise.

You must excuse me, madam, but I am really astonished both at your visit and your conversation: what accident, pray, has afflicted you so? Whom have you lost, or whom have I robbed you of?

mme. de croupillac.

My dear child, there are a great many wrinkled old fools, who fancy that, by the help of paint and a few false teeth, they can stop the course of time and pleasure, and fix wandering love; but, to my sorrow, I am a little wiser: I see too plainly that everything is running away, and I can’t bear it.

lise.

I am sorry for it, madam, if it be so; but I can’t possibly make you young again.

mme. de croupillac.

I know it; but I have still some hopes: perhaps to restore my false one to me, might, in some measure, give me fresh youth and beauty.

lise.

What false one do you mean?

mme. de croupillac.

My ungrateful, cruel husband, whom I have run after so long; and little worthy he is of all my care. The President, madam.

lise.

The President!

mme. de croupillac.

Yes, madam: when Croupillac was in her bloom, she would not have talked to presidents; their persons, their manners, their everything was my aversion, but as we grow old, we are not quite so difficult.

lise.

And so, madam—

mme. de croupillac.

And so, madam, in short, you have reduced me to a state of misery and despair.

lise.

I, madam? how? by what means?

mme. de croupillac.

I’ll tell you. I lived, you must know, at Angoulême, and, as a widow, had the free disposal of my person: there, at that very time, was Fierenfat, a student, a president’s apprentice, you understand me: he ogled me for a long time, and took it into his head to be most villainously in love with me. Villainously, I say, most horrid and abominable; for what did he make love to? my money. I got some people to write to the old gentleman, who interested themselves too far in the affair, and talked to him in my name: he returned in answer, that he would—consider it: so you see the thing was settled.

lise.

O yes.

mme. de croupillac.

For my part, I had no objection: his elder brother was at that time, so I was informed, engaged to you.

lise.

[Aside.

Cruel remembrance!

mme. de croupillac.

He was a foolish fellow, my dear; but had then the honor to be in your good graces.

lise.

[Sighing.

Ah me!

mme. de croupillac.

This silly fellow, my dear, as I was telling you, being quite out at elbows, kicked out of doors by his father, and wandering about the wide world, dead, perhaps, by this time (you seem concerned), my college hero, my President, knowing extremely well, that your fortune was, upon the whole, much better than mine, has thought fit to laugh at my disappointment, and go in quest of your superior—portion. But do you think, madam, to run in this manner from brother to brother, and engross a whole family to yourself? I do here most solemnly enter my protest against it: I forbid the banns: I’ll venture my whole estate, my dowry, and everything; in short, the cause shall be so managed, that you, his father, my children, all of us shall be dead, before ever it is put an end to.

lise.

I assure you, madam, with the utmost sincerity, I am very sorry that my marriage should make you miserable: I am sure, however, you have no reason to be angry with me; but I find we may make others jealous without being happy ourselves: look no longer, madam, I beseech you, with an eye of envy upon my condition; he is a husband I shall not quarrel with you for.

mme. de croupillac.

Not quarrel for him?

lise.

No: I’ll give him up to you with all my heart.

mme. de croupillac.

You have no taste then for his person? you don’t love him?

lise.

I see very few charms in matrimony, and none at all in a lawsuit; and so, madam—

SCENE IV.

mme. de croupillac, lise, rondon.

rondon.

So, so, daughter, here’s fine work; protests, declarations, and lawsuits, enough to make one’s hair stand on end. Ouns! shall Rondon be talked to thus? but I’ll ferret them out, the impertinent rascals.

mme. de croupillac.

Must I suffer more indignities! Hear me, M. Rondon.

rondon.

What would you have, madam?

mme. de croupillac.

Your son-in-law, sir, is a false villain, a coxcomb of a new species, a gallant, and a miser, a widow-hunter, a fellow that loves nothing but money.

rondon.

He’s in the right of it.

mme. de croupillac.

In my own house has he a thousand times vowed eternal constancy to me.

rondon.

Promises of that kind, madam, are very seldom kept.

mme. de croupillac.

And then to leave me so basely.

rondon.

I believe I should have done the same.

mme. de croupillac.

But I shall talk to his father in a proper manner.

rondon.

I’d rather you would talk to him than to me.

mme. de croupillac.

’Tis a wicked thing, so it is; and the whole sex will take my part, and cry out shame upon him.

rondon.

They can’t cry louder than yourself.

mme. de croupillac.

I’ll make the world know how they should treat a baroness.

rondon.

I’ll tell you how: laugh at her.

mme. de croupillac.

A husband, look ye, I must have; and I will take him, or his old father, or you.

rondon.

Me?

mme. de croupillac.

Yes, you.

rondon.

I defy you.

mme. de croupillac.

We’ll try it: I’ll go to law with you.

rondon.

Ridiculous.

SCENE V.

rondon, fierenfat, lise.

rondon.

[To Lise.

Pray, madam, what’s the reason you receive such visitors in my house? you are always bringing me into some scrape or other.

[To Fierenfat.

And you, sir, Mr. King of Pedants, what nonsensical demon inspired you with the thought of courting a baroness, only to laugh at and abuse her? A pretty scheme indeed, with that flat face of yours, to give yourself the airs of a flighty young coxcomb; with that grave sorrowful countenance to play the gallant: it might have become the rake your brother, but for you—fie! fie!

fierenfat.

My dear father-in-law, don’t be misled: I never was desirous of this match; I only promised her conditionally, and always reserved to myself the right of taking a richer wife, if I could get one; the disinheriting my elder brother, and coming into immediate possession of his fortune, have given me pretensions to your daughter: come, come, money makes the best matches.

rondon.

So it does, my boy; there you’re in the right.

lise.

Now that right I take to be quite wrong.

rondon.

Pshaw! pshaw! money does everything, that’s certain; let us therefore settle the affair immediately: sixty good sacks full of French crowns will set everything right, in spite of all the Croupillacs in the universe. How this Euphemon makes me wait! I’m out of all patience; but let us sign before he comes.

lise.

No, sir, there I enter my caveat: I will only submit on certain conditions.

rondon.

Conditions! impertinence! you pretend to say—

lise.

I say, sir, what I think: can we ever taste, can we enjoy that guilty happiness, which springs from another’s misery? and you, sir, [to Fierenfat] can you in your prosperity forget that you have a brother?

fierenfat.

A brother? I never saw him in my life: he was gone from home when I was at college, hard at my Cujatius and Bartole. I’ve heard indeed of his pranks since; and, if he ever comes back again, we know what we have to do, never fear that; we shall send him off to the galleys.

lise.

A brotherly and a Christian resolution! In the meantime you’ll confiscate his estate; that, I suppose, is your intention: but I tell you, sir, I detest and abhor the project.

rondon.

Heigh! heigh! very fine; but come, my dear, the contract is drawn, and the lawyer has taken care of all that.

fierenfat.

Our forefathers have determined concerning this matter; consult the written law: let me see, in Cujatius, chapter the fifth, sixth, and seventh, we read thus: “Every debauched libertine that leaves his father’s house, or pillages the same, shall, ipso facto, be dispossessed of everything, and disinherited as a bastard.”

lise.

I know nothing about laws or precedents, nor have ever read Cujatius; but will venture to pronounce, that they are a set of vile unfeeling wretches, foes to common sense and without humanity, who say a brother should let a brother perish: nature and honor have their rights to plead, that are more powerful than Cujatius and all your laws.

rondon.

Come, come, let’s have none of your codes, and your honor, and your nonsense; but do as I’d have you: what’s all this fuss about an elder brother? there should be money.

lise.

There should be virtue, sir: let him be punished: but leave him at least something to subsist on, the poor remains of an elder brother’s right: in a word, sir, I must tell you, my hand shall never be purchased at the price of his ruin: blot out, therefore, that article in the contract which I abhor, and which would be a disgrace to us all: if lucrative views induced you to draw it up thus, it is a shame and a dishonor to us, and therefore, I desire it may be expunged.

fierenfat.

How very little women know of business!

rondon.

What! you want to correct two attorneys-at-law, and make a contract void: O lud! O lud!

lise.

Why not?

rondon.

You’ll never make a good housewife; you’ll let everything go to rack and ruin.

lise.

At present, sir, I cannot boast my knowledge of the world, or of economy; but I will maintain it, the love of money destroys more families than it supports; and if ever I have a house of my own, the foundation of it shall be laid on—justice.

rondon.

She is light-headed; but let us humor her a little: come, give him a little portion, and the business will be over.

fierenfat.

Ay, ay, well—I give to my brother—ay, I give him—come along—

rondon.

Not a single farthing.

SCENE VI.

euphemon, rondon, lise, fierenfat.

rondon.

O here comes the old gentleman. Well, I have brought my daughter to reason; we want nothing now but your hand to the contract. Come, come, let’s have no more delays, cheer up, put on your jovial countenance, your wedding looks, man; for in nine months’ time, I’ll lay my life, two thumping boys—come, come, let us laugh and sing, and cast away care: sign, my boy, sign.

euphemon.

I can’t, sir.

fierenfat.

You can’t?

rondon.

Ay, here’s another now!

fierenfat.

For what reason, pray?

rondon.

What is all this madness? Are all the world turned fools? Everybody says no. Why how is this? what’s the meaning of it?

euphemon.

To sign the contract at a time like this, would be flying in the face of nature.

rondon.

What! is my lady Croupillac at the bottom of all this?

euphemon.

No: she’s a fool, and wants to break off the match for her own sake: ’tis not from her ridiculous noise that my uneasiness arises, I assure you.

rondon.

Whence comes it then? Did that fellow out of the coach put it into your head? Are we indebted to him for all this?

euphemon.

What he told me must at least retard our happy marriage, which we were so eager upon.

lise.

What did he tell you, sir?

fierenfat.

Ay, sir, what news did he bring?

euphemon.

News that shocked me: at Bordeaux this man saw my son, naked, friendless, and in prison, dying with hunger; shame and sickness leading him to the grave: sickness and misfortunes had blasted the flower of his youth; and an obstinate fever, that had poisoned his blood, seemed to threaten that his last hour was not far off: when he saw him, he was then just expiring: alas! perhaps by this time he is no more.

rondon.

Then his pension’s paid.

lise.

Dead?

rondon.

Don’t be frightened, child, what is it to you?

fierenfat.

Ha! the blood hath forsaken her cheeks; she looks pale as death.

rondon.

The jade has a little too much sensibility about her, that’s the truth of it: but as he’s dead, I forgive thee.

fierenfat.

But after all, sir, do you mean—

euphemon.

Don’t be afraid; you shall have her; it is my desire you should: but to choose a day of mourning for a wedding-day, would be highly unbecoming. How would my griefs interrupt your mirth! how would your chaplets fade when wetted with a father’s tears! no, my son, you must put off your happiness, and give me one day to indulge my sorrow: joy so ill-timed as this would be an affront to decency.

lise.

No doubt it would: for my part, I had much rather share with you in your affliction, than think of marriage.

fierenfat.

Nay, but, my dear father—

rondon.

Why, you’re an old fool: what! put off a wedding, that has been the Lord knows how long upon the anvil, for an ungrateful young dog, who has been a hundred times disinherited: a p—x on you and your whole family!

euphemon.

At such a time a father must still be a father; his errors, his vices, and his crimes always made me unhappy; and it hurts me still more to think, that he is dead without ever repenting of them.

rondon.

Well, well, we’ll make that matter easy: ha! boy, let us give him some grandsons to make him amends: come, come, sign, and let’s have a dance: what nonsense this is!

euphemon.

But, sir—

rondon.

But—ouns! this makes me mad: to be sorry for the luckiest accident that could happen, ridiculous! Sorrow is good for nothing at the best; but to whimper and whine, because you have got rid of a burden, intolerable absurdity! This eldest son, this scourge of yours, to my knowledge, two or three times had like to have broken your heart; sooner or later he would have brought you to the grave: therefore, prithee, man, take my advice, and make yourself easy; the loss of such a son is the greatest gain.

euphemon.

True, my friend; but it is a gain that costs me more than you think: alas! I lament that he died, and I lament that ever he was born.

rondon.

[To Fierenfat.

Away, follow the old gentleman, and be as expeditious as you can; the dead, you see, has got hold of the living; so take the contract, I’ll not be haggled with any longer; take his hand, and make him sign. For you, madam [to Lise] we shall expect you to-night; everything will go well, I warrant you.

lise.

I’m in the utmost despair.

End of the Second Act.