But the play, as we experience it, is not always busy with the revelation of personality; it is also, and perhaps more densely, concerned with portraying the intricacies of communication in an atmosphere of intrigue—with suspicion, deception, implication, inference, double entendre, the understanding or misunderstanding of look or word. In the latter part of Act Two, Scene 2, for example, Isabelle has asked Sganarelle to convey an ambiguous message which she intends as a signal to Valère that she is aware of his passion; Sganarelle understands the message as a stern rebuff, and delivers it with an admixture of his own jealous vehemence; Valère does not know what to make of this filtered communication, sent by his beloved but spoken by his rival; Ergaste, however, hypothesizes a secret and favorable meaning, and the departing Sganarelle, looking back at Ergaste and Valère in colloquy, more than once misreads the latter’s facial expressions. Given so rich a fabric of doubtful interactions, a critic might well classify The School for Husbands as “comedy of intrigue,” and many have done so. Others have as firmly called it “comedy of character.” Some have treated it as a hybrid transitional piece—an anticipation of deeper character-studies to come, or a sketch for The School for Wives (1662), which would return to its theme and rework certain of its situations. Yet it seems to me that we may find this play quite sufficient in its own right, judging with Jacques Guicharnaud that its balance of elements is “esthetically satisfying”; with Donald Frame that it represents Molière’s “first demonstration of complete mastery of his craft”; with Martin Turnell that, whatever its place in the canon, it is a “constant delight.”
The title of The School for Husbands may seem to imply that the play is a lecture, in which the author advocates permissive child-rearing and the laissez-faire treatment of young women and wives. Certainly the comedy appealed to the ladies of Molière’s day, whose enthusiasm was a great factor in its success; and as surely there will be those who, presenting it in this translation, will be tempted to give it a strong feminist spin. They will be the more inclined to do so because Ariste, whom some have taken to be Molière’s spokesman, is rewarded by the plot with the fond fidelity of Léonor. Still, it is well to remember that the raisonneurs of Molière are never effectual or wholly admirable in their arguments, and that their major function is to play straight-man to the aberrated central figure, exacerbating him and prompting him to display his imbalance. It is an impoverishment, furthermore, to treat a dramatic character as a mere mouthpiece, and readers should bear in mind that Ariste’s views and actions are conditioned by the desire of an aging man to retain the goodwill of a lively, beautiful young woman. We should also recognize that Isabelle, though driven by circumstances to hoodwink her guardian, is not at all a social rebel. Neither she nor Léonor shares the servants’ relish for amorous trickery; she repeatedly asks the audience, in asides or little soliloquies, to excuse her subterfuges; and in her letter to Valère she regrets being forced “to overstep the bounds of decorum prescribed for my sex.” There is no question, in School for Husbands, as to where our sympathies are to lie, but the play seems less a positive case for specific freedoms than a depiction of oppressive folly. If we look in this work for Molière’s “ideas,” we can most confidently do so by focusing on Sganarelle: In him, as in the Orgon of Tartuffe, we see that it is wrong, and deserving of ridicule, to misuse one’s authority as parent or husband, and that—on the comic stage at least, where Nature tends to triumph—such tyranny will bring about its own undoing.
This French play, now three hundred and thirty years old, is like Molière’s work generally in requiring little or no mediation; it comes across to us readily, in spite of time and cultural differences. But the reader may be amused by this footnote, which I take from Von Laun’s old prose translation, and which has to do with the royal edict brought on stage by Sganarelle at the beginning of Act Two, Scene 6: “It is remarkable that Louis XIV, who was so extravagant himself in his buildings, dress and general expenses, published sixteen laws against luxury; the law Sganarelle speaks of was promulgated November 27th 1660, against the use of guipures, cannetilles, paillettes, etc., on men’s dresses.” Sganarelle’s speech, then, is topical; and since it praises the king’s decree through the lips of a crank, it may be one of those passages in which Molière felt free to josh his royal or noble patrons with a jester’s impunity.
In working on this translation, I have been helped at times by the prose versions of Baker and Miller, of Wall and of Von Laun. My wife, as always, has been my chief consultant. I must also thank Jean Migrenne, William Jay Smith, Sonja Haussmann Smith and Albert Bermel for their clarifications of particular passages, and James Merrill for his kindness in reading the whole.
—RW
Cummington, Massachusetts, 1991
CHARACTERS
SGANARELLE (skan-a-RELL), a man approaching forty;
brother to Ariste and guardian to Isabelle
ARISTE (ah-REEST), Sganarelle’s elder brother by twenty
years; guardian to Léonor
ISABELLE (eez-a-BELL), Léonor’s sister, Sganarelle’s young
ward
LÉONOR (lay-o-NOR), Isabelle’s sister, Ariste’s ward
LISETTE (lee-ZET), Léonor’s maid
VALÈRE (va-LAIR), Isabelle’s lover
ERGASTE (air-GHAST), valet to Valère
A MAGISTRATE
A NOTARY
PLACE
The scene throughout: A residential square in Paris.
Act One
Scene 1
Sganarelle, Ariste.
SGANARELLE
Enough talk, Brother; let’s give our tongues a rest,
And let’s each live his life as he thinks best.
Although you’re my superior in age
And old enough, indeed, to be a sage,
Nevertheless I hereby notify you
That I don’t care to be corrected by you,
That my own taste suffices to advise me,
And that my way of life quite satisfies me.
ARISTE
Yet all condemn it.
SGANARELLE
Yes, idiots of your sort,
Dear Brother.
ARISTE
Thank you; what a sweet retort!
SGANARELLE
Since you won’t drop the subject, tell me, do,
What these fine critics take exception to.
ARISTE
They blame that surly humor which makes you flee
From all the pleasures of society,
And lends a sort of grim outlandishness
To all you do, even to the way you dress.
SGANARELLE
I see: I mustn’t wear what clothes I please,
But must submit to fashion’s wise decrees!
Do you propose, by precepts so bizarre,
Dear elder Brother—for that is what you are
By twenty blesséd years, I must confess,
Although of course it couldn’t matter less—
Do you propose, I say, to force me to
Adorn myself as your young dandies do?
To wear those little hats which leave their brains,
Such as they are, exposed to winds and rains,
And those immense blond wigs which hide their features
And make one doubt that they are human creatures?
Those tiny doublets, cut off at armpit level,
Those collars hanging almost to the navel,
Those sleeves that drag through soups and gravy boats,
And those huge breeches, loose as petticoats?
Those small, beribboned slippers, too neat for words,
Which make them look like feather-footed birds?
Those rolls of lace they force their legs to wear
Like the leg irons that slaves and captives bear,
So that we see each fop and fashion plate
Walk like a pigeon, with a waddling gait?
You’d have me dress like that? I note with loathing
ARISTE
It’s best at all times to observe convention
And not, by being odd, attract attention.
For all extremes offend, and wise men teach
Themselves to deal with fashion as with speech,
Accepting calmly, with no fuss or haste,
Whatever changes usage has embraced.
I’m far from recommending those whose passion
Is always to improve upon the fashion,
And who are filled with envy and dismay
If someone else is more extreme than they:
But it is bad, on any ground, to shun
The norm, and not to do the thing that’s done;
Better by far to join the foolish throng
Than stand alone and call the whole world wrong.
SGANARELLE
There speaks a vain old man who slyly wears
A black wig to conceal his few white hairs.
ARISTE
It’s strange with what persistence and ill grace
You throw my age forever in my face,
And how incessantly I’m forced to hear
You blame my style of dress and my good cheer:
As if old age should bid all joys good-bye,
Thinking of nothing save that it must die,
And doesn’t look grotesque enough unless
It’s sour of mood and dismal in its dress.
SGANARELLE
However that may be, my firm intent
Is not to alter my habiliment.
Despite the mode, I’ll have a hat that’s made
To shield my head and give my eyes some shade,
A fine long doublet which will wrap me ’round
To warm my belly and keep digestion sound,
Breeches which fit me well in thighs and seat,
And sturdy shoes which won’t torment my feet.
Thus did our forebears dress, and they were wise;
Those I offend are free to shut their eyes.
Scene 2
Léonor, Isabelle, Lisette; Ariste and Sganarelle, talking unobserved at the front of the stage.
LÉONOR
(To Isabelle:)
I’ll take the blame, if he should make a scene.
LISETTE
(To Isabelle:)
Shut in your lonely room all day? How mean!
ISABELLE
He’s like that.
LÉONOR
Sister, I’m sorry for your plight.
LISETTE
(To Léonor:)
His brother and he are just like day and night.
Madam, the Fates were kind in giving you,
As guardian, the sane one of the two.
ISABELLE
I marvel that for one day he should fail
To drag me with him, or shut me in my jail.
LISETTE
I’d send him and his Spanish ruff to Hades,
If—
SGANARELLE
(Lisette having bumped into him:)
Where are you going, may I ask, young ladies?
LÉONOR
We don’t yet know, but since the weather’s fair
I’ve asked my sister out to take the air,
And—
SGANARELLE
(To Léonor:)
You may go where you like, for all of me.
Just run along.
(Pointing to Lisette:)
She’ll keep you company.
(To Isabelle:)
But you, if you please, won’t go on this excursion.
ARISTE
Oh, Brother, let them go. They need diversion.
SGANARELLE
Your servant, Brother.
ARISTE
Youth must be permitted—
SGANARELLE
Youth, sir, is foolish; and age can be half-witted.
ARISTE
With Léonor, could she come to any ill?
SGANARELLE
No; but with me she will be safer still.
ARISTE
But—
SGANARELLE
All that she does I strictly oversee,
Thus honoring my responsibility.
ARISTE
And do I neglect her sister, would you say?
SGANARELLE
Well, each man thinks and acts in his own way.
These girls are orphans. Their father, our dear friend,
Entrusted them to us at his life’s end,
Bidding us marry them, if so inclined,
Or find them spouses of a proper kind.
Thus we have ruled them with the double sway
Of father and husband, from their childhood’s day.
That one, dear Brother, you undertook to rear,
And I took charge of raising this one, here;
Pray govern yours according to your views,
And let me train the other as I choose.
ARISTE
I think—
SGANARELLE
I think, and firmly will declare,
That that’s how we should manage this affair.
You let your charge be dashingly arrayed:
So be it; she has a flunky and a maid;
I’m quite content; she idly gads about,
And our young beaux are free to seek her out:
All that is splendid. But my charge, be it known,
Shall live by my desires, and not her own;
She’ll dress in serge, in simple browns and grays,
And not wear black except on holidays;
Like any prudent girl, she’ll stay indoors
And occupy herself with household chores;
In leisure time she’ll mend my linen, or make
Some knitted stockings for amusement’s sake;
She’ll close her ears to young men’s fancy talk,
And never go unguarded for a walk.
The flesh is weak, as each day’s gossip warns.
If I can help it, I shall not wear horns,
And since her destiny’s to be my wife,
I mean to guard her as I would my life.
ISABELLE
You have no reason—
SGANARELLE
Be still. You know you’re not
To leave the house without me. Had you forgot?
LÉONOR
Oh, come, sir—
SGANARELLE
Madam, I’d rather not debate
With one whose wit and wisdom are so great.
LÉONOR
Are you vexed to find me here with Isabelle?
SGANARELLE
Why, yes—because you spoil her, truth to tell.
Frankly, your visits here disturb my peace,
And you’d oblige me if they were to cease.
LÉONOR
Well, shall I speak with equal frankness, sir?
I don’t know how all this may sit with her,
But such mistrust, I know, would rouse my ire;
And, though we share a mother and a sire,
We’re not true sisters if the things you do,
Day after day, can make her fond of you.
LISETTE
Yes, all these stern precautions are inhuman.
Are we in Turkey, where they lock up women?
It’s said that females there are slaves or worse,
And that’s why Turks are under Heaven’s curse.
Our honor, sir, is truly very frail
If we, to keep it, must be kept in jail.
But do you think that such severities
Bar us, in fact, from doing what we please,
Or that, when we’re dead set upon some plan,
We can’t run rings around the cleverest man?
All these constraints are vain and ludicrous:
The best course, always, is to trust in us.
It’s dangerous, sir, to underrate our gender.
Our honor likes to be its own defender.
It almost gives us a desire to sin
When men mount guard on us and lock us in,
And if my husband were so prone to doubt me,
I just might justify his fears about me.
SGANARELLE
(To Ariste:)
Well, teacher, there’s what comes of what you teach.
Do you not shudder, hearing such a speech?
ARISTE
School for Husbands and the Imaginary Cuckold, or Sganarelle Page 2
