Amphitryon

AMPH. After the unworthy affront, which I now learn has been done me, that is indeed what you must prepare yourself for; it is the least that can be expected; and things may not perhaps remain there. The dishonour is sure; my misery is made plain to me; and my pride in vain would hide it from me. The details are still not clear: My anger is just and I claim to be enlightened. Your brother can positively avouch that I did not leave him until this morning: I will go and seek him, in order that I may confound you about the return falsely imputed to me. Afterwards, we will penetrate to the bottom of a mystery unheard of until now; and, in the fury of a righteous anger, woe to him who has betrayed me!

SOS. Monsieur…

AMPH. Do not accompany me, but remain here for me.

CLE. Must I…?

ALC. I cannot hear anything: leave me alone: do not follow me.

SCENE III CLEANTHIS, SOSIE

CLE. Something must have turned his brain; but the brother will soon finish this quarrel.

SOS. This is a very sharp blow for my master; his fate is cruel. I greatly fear something coming for myself. I will go softly in enlightening her.

CLE. Let me see whether he will so much as speak to me! I will not reveal anything.

SOS. These things are often annoying when one knows about them: I hesitate to ask her. Would it not be better not to risk anything, and to ignore what may have happened? Yet, at all hazard, I must see. I cannot help myself. Curiosity concerning things which one would rather not know is a human weakness. Heaven preserve you, Cleanthis!

CLE. Ah! Ah! You dare to come near me, you villain!

SOS. Good Heavens! What is the matter with you? You are always in a temper, and become angry about nothing!

CLE. What do you call about nothing? Speak out.

SOS. I call about nothing what is called about nothing in verse as well as in prose; and nothing, as you well know, means to say nothing, or very little.

CLE. I do not know what keeps me from scratching your eyes out, infamous rascal, to teach you how far the anger of a woman can go.

SOS. Hullo! What do you mean by this furious rage?

CLE. Then you call that nothing, perhaps, which you have done to me?

SOS. What was that?

CLE. So? You feign to be innocent? Do you follow the example of your master and say you did not return here?

SOS. No, I know the contrary too well; but I will be frank with you. We had drunk some wretched wine, which might have made me forget what I did.

CLE. You think, perhaps, to excuse yourself by this trick…

SOS. No, in truth you may believe me. I was in such a condition that I may have done things I should regret; I do not remember what they were.

CLE. You do not even remember the manner in which you thought fit to treat me when you came from the port?

SOS. Not at all. You had better tell me all about it; I am just and sincere, and would condemn myself were I wrong.

CLE. Well? Amphitryon having warned me of your return, I sat up until you came; but I never saw such coldness: I had myself to remind you that you had a wife; and, when I wanted to kiss you, you, turned away your head, and gave me your ear.

SOS. Good.

CLE. What do you mean by good?

SOS. Good gracious! You do not know why I talk like this, Cleanthis: I had been eating garlic, and, like a well-bred man, just turned my breath away from you.

CLE. I showed you every possible tenderness; but you were as deaf as a post to everything I said; never a kind word passed your lips.

SOS. Courage!

CLE. In short, my flame bad to burn alone, its chaste ardour did not find anything in you but ice; you were the culprit in a return that might have been so different: you even went so far as to refuse to take your place in bed, which the laws of wedlock oblige you to occupy.

SOS. What? Did I not go to bed?

CLE. No, you coward.

SOS. Is it possible?

CLE. It is but too true, you rascal. Of all affronts this affront is the greatest; and, instead of your heart repairing its wrong this morning, you left me with words full of undisguised contempt.

SOS. Vivat Sosie!

CLE. Eh, what? Has my complaint had this effect? You laugh at your fine goings on?

SOS. How pleased I am with myself!

CLE. Is this the way to express your grief at such an outrage?

SOS. I should never have believed I could be so prudent.

CLE. Instead of condemning yourself for such a perfidious trick, you rejoice at it to my face!

SOS. Good gracious! Gently, gently! If I appear pleased, you must believe that I have a very strong private reason for it; without thinking of it, I never did better than in using you in such a manner as I did.

CLE. Are you laughing at me, you villain?

SOS. No, I am speaking openly to you. I was in a wretched state. I had a certain load, which your words have lifted from my soul. I was very apprehensive, and feared that I had played the fool with you.

CLE. What is this fear? Come, let us know what you mean.

SOS. The doctors say that, when one is drunk, one should abstain from one's wife, for, in that condition we can only have children who are dull, and who cannot live. Think, if my heart had not armed itself with coldness, what troubles might have followed!

CLE. I do not care a fig for doctors, with their insipid reasonings. Let them rule those who are sick without wishing to govern healthy people. They meddle with too many affairs when they seek to rein in our chaste desires; in addition to the dog days, and their strict rules, they tell us a hundred ridiculous stories into the bargain.

SOS. Gently.

CLE. No; I maintain theirs is a worthless conclusion: those reasons come from idiotic brains. Neither wine nor time ought to prevent the duties of conjugal love from being fulfilled; doctors are donkeys.

SOS. I entreat you, moderate your anger against them; they are honest people, whatever the world may say of them.

CLE. Things are not what you think them; you can shut up; your excuse will not go down; and, sooner or later, I tell you plainly, I will avenge myself for the contempt you show me every day. I remember everything you said just now, and I shall try to make use of the liberty you gave me, You faithless, cowardly husband.

SOS. What?

CLE. You told me just now, you villain, that you would heartily agree to my loving another.

SOS. Ah! In that matter I was wrong. I retract; my honour is at stake. You had better beware you do not give way to that sentiment.

CLE. Nevertheless if some time I can make up my mind to the thing…

SOS. Just stop talking for the present. Amphitryon is coming back, and he seems pleased.

SCENE IV JUPITER, CLEANTHIS, SOSIE

JUP. I shall take this opportunity of appearing to Alcmene to banish the sorrow in which she wishes to indulge, and, under the pretence that brings me here, I will gratify my passion with the delight of a reconciliation with her. Alcmene is upstairs, is she not?

CLE. Yes; she is thoroughly upset and wishes to be left alone: she has forbidden me to follow her.

JUP. Whatever prohibition she may have given you does not concern me.

CLE. So far as I can see, his grief has beaten a quick retreat.

SCENE V CLEANTHIS, SOSIE

SOS. What do you say, Cleanthis, to these cheerful looks, after his terrible rage?

CLE. That we should all do well to send all men to the devil; the best of them is not worth much.

SOS. You say that because you are in a passion; but you are too fond of men; upon my word, you would all look as black as thunder if the devil were to take them all away.

CLE. Really…

SOS. Here they come. Hush.

SCENE VI JUPITER, ALCMENE, CLEANTHIS, SOSIE

JUP. Do you want to drive me to despair? Alas! Stay, lovely Alcmene.

ALC. No, I cannot remain longer with the author of my grief.

JUP. I beseech you

ALC. Leave me.

JUP. What…?

ALC. Leave me, I tell you.

JUP. Her tears touch me to the heart; her sorrow troubles me. Allow me to

ALC. No, do not follow me.

JUP. Where are you going?

ALC. Where you are not.

JUP. That would be a vain attempt to make. I am linked to your beauty by too close a bond to suffer a moment's separation from you. I shall follow you everywhere, Alcmene.

ALC. And I shall flee from you everywhere.

JUP. I am very terrible, then!

ALC. Yes, more than I can say. Indeed, I look upon you as a frightful monster, a cruel, furious monster, whose approach is to be feared; as a monster to be avoided everywhere. My heart suffers incredible grief at the sight of you; it is a torture that overpowers me; I do not know anything under Heaven so frightful, horrible and odious, that I could not better endure than you.

JUP. Alas! Do these words really come from your mouth?

ALC. I have many more in my heart; I only regret I cannot find words to express all I feel.

JUP. Ah! What has my heart done to you, Alcmene, that I should be looked upon as such a monster?

ALC. Oh! Just Heaven! He can ask that? Is it not enough to drive me mad?

JUP. Yet, in a milder spirit…

ALC. No; I do not wish either to see or to hear anything of you.

JUP. Have you really the heart to treat me thus? Is this the tender love which I heard yesterday was to last so long?

ALC. No, no, it is not; your base insults have ordained it otherwise. That passionate and tender love does not exist any longer; you have cruelly killed it in my heart by a hundred keen wounds. In its place stands an inflexible wrath, a lively resentment, an invincible indignation, the despair of a heart justly incensed, which resolves to hate you for this grievous injury, as much as it was willing to love you; that is to say to hate as much as possible.

JUP. Alas! Your love must have had but little strength, if it can be killed by so slight a matter! Can a jest divorce us? Is there any need to be so roused at a trifle?

ALC. Ah! It is just that which offends me: that which my anger cannot pardon. I should have felt less wounded by the justifiable transports of a fit of jealousy. Jealousy makes impressions the force of which oftentimes carries us beyond our control; at such times the most discreet mind, no doubt, finds it difficult enough to answer for its deeds. The violence of a heart which may have been deluded has, in its very delusion, a peace-offering for an aggrieved soul, and the love that gave birth to its fears, furnishes, in spite of all its violence, at least some reasons to urge as excuse. Outbursts such as these ever have love as an excuse against anger: for love gave birth to them, and we can easily pardon what we cannot control.

But to fly into uncontrollable fury, in gaiety of heart, and so causelessly and keenly to wound the tenderness and honour of a heart that dearly loves you, ah! It is too cruel a blow: my grief can never forget it.

JUP. Yes, you are right, Alcmene; I admit it. This action is unquestionably an odious crime; I do not pretend to justify it longer: yet allow my heart to defend itself in your eyes, and let it reveal to you who is to blame for this insulting fury. To tell you frankly, it is the husband Alcmene, who has done this wrong; it is the husband whom you must blame. The lover has no share in this churlish anger: his heart is not capable of offending you. He has too much respect and affection for you ever to think of it; had he been guilty of the crime of doing aught that could wound you, he would pierce himself with a hundred stabs before your eyes. But the husband has cast aside that humble submission which should always be yours; by his harsh deeds, the husband has made himself known; he thought the rights of marriage allowed him everything. Yes, it is he no doubt who is guilty towards you; he only has ill-treated your lovely person. Hate, detest the husband; I consent to it; I yield him to your mercy; but, Alcmene, spare the lover from the anger which such an offence gives you; do not let him suffer; differentiate between him and the guilty one; and, finally, in order to be just, do not punish him for what he has not done.

ALC. Oh! All these subtleties are but frivolous excuses; such language only annoys incensed minds. In vain do you use these ridiculous prevarications. I do not make any distinction in him who offends me; everything in him becomes the object of my anger, the lover and the husband are alike confounded in its just violence. Both occupy my thoughts; both are painted in the same colours by my wounded heart. Both are guilty; both have offended me; and both are odious to me.

JUP. Well! Then, since you wish it, I must charge myself with the offence. Yes, you are right, when you sacrifice me as a guilty victim to your resentment. Anger towards me sways you; it is but too just, and all the terrible wrath you show causes me to suffer only lawful torments. It is right you should shun my presence, and in your anger threaten to flee from me everywhere. I must be a detestable object to you; you are right in thinking ill of me. My crime in being offensive in your charming eyes surpasses every horror; it is a crime that offends men and Gods; in short, as punishment for my insolence I deserve that your hatred should vent its utmost upon me. I beg your forgiveness, I beg it upon my knees, I beg it for the sake of the most lively passion, of the tenderest love for you, which has ever been kindled in a human breast. If, charming Alcmene, your heart refuses me the pardon which I have the audacity to seek, then shall a well-aimed stroke put an end to my life, and release me from the harsh severity of a penalty which I can no longer bear. Yes, this state of things drives me to despair. Do not think, Alcmene, that, enamoured as I am of your celestial charms, I can live a day under your wrath. Even these moments' agony is barbarously prolonged and my sad heart sinks under their mortal blows. The cruel wounds of a thousand vultures are not comparable in any way to my lively grief. Alcmene, you have but to tell me I need not hope for pardon: and immediately this sword, by a happy thrust, shall pierce the heart of a miserable wretch before your eyes. This heart, this traitorous heart, too deserving of death, since it has offended an adorable being, will be happy if, in descending into the place of shades, my death appeases your anger, and, after this wretched day, it leaves in your soul no impression of hatred in remembering my love! This is all I ask as a sovereign favour.

ALC. Ah! Cruel husband.

JUP. Speak, Alcmene, speak.

ALC. Must I still keep some kindness for you, who insult me by so many indignities?

JUP. Whatever resentment an outrage causes us, can it hold out against the remorse of a heart deeply in love?

ALC. A heart full of passion would rather expose itself to a thousand deaths, than offend the object beloved.

JUP. The more one loves, the easier it is

ALC. No, do not speak to me any longer about it; you deserve my hatred.

JUP. You hate me then?

ALC. I make every effort to do so, and it annoys me to feel that all your insults do not yet carry my vengeance so far as yield to it.