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The included with this eBook or online at If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Proofreading Team at _The_ BIRTH _and_ BABYHOOD OF THE TELEPHONE _by_ Thomas A. Watson _Assistant to Alexander Graham Bell_ (An address delivered before the Third Annual Convention of the Telephone Pioneers of America at Chicago, October 17, 1913) _Information Department_ AMERICAN TELEPHONE AND TELEGRAPH COMPANY _Biography of THOMAS A. WATSON_ Thomas A. Watson was born on January 18, 1854, in Salem, Massachusetts, and died December 13, 1934, at more than four-score years. At the age of 13 he left school and went to work in a store. Always keenly interested in learning more and in making the most of all he learned, every new experience was to him, from his childhood on, an opening door into a larger, more beautiful and more wonderful world. This was the key to the continuous variety that gave interest to his life. In 1874 he obtained employment in the electrical shop of Charles Williams, Jr., at 109 Court Street, Boston. Here he met Alexander Graham Bell, and the telephone chapter in his life began. This he has told in the little book herewith presented. In 1881, having well earned a rest from the unceasing struggle with the problems of early telephony, and being now a man of means, he resigned his position in the American Bell Telephone Company and spent a year in Europe. On his return he started a little machine shop for his own pleasure, at his place in East Braintree, Massachusetts. From this grew the Fore River Ship and Engine Company, which did its large share of building the U. S. Navy of the Spanish War. In 1904 he retired from active business. When 40 years of age and widely known as a shipbuilder, he went to college, taking special courses in geology and biology at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. At the same time he specialized in literature. These studies dominated his later years, leading him in extensive travels all over the world, and at home extending to others the inspiration of a genial simplicity of life and of a love for science, literature and all that is fine in life. The Birth and Babyhood of the Telephone _By_ Thomas A. Watson I am to speak to you of the birth and babyhood of the telephone, and something of the events which preceded that important occasion. These are matters that must seem to you ancient history; in fact, they seem so to me, although the events all happened less than 40 years ago, in the years 1874 to 1880. The occurrences of which I shall speak, lie in my mind as a splendid drama, in which it was my great privilege to play a part. I shall try to put myself back into that wonderful play, and tell you its story from the same attitude of mind I had thenthe point of view of a mere boy, just out of his apprenticeship as an electro-mechanician, intensely interested in his work, and full of boyish hope and enthusiasm. Therefore, as it must be largely a personal narrative, I shall ask you to excuse my many Is and mys and to be indulgent if I show how proud and glad I am that I was chosen by the fates to be the associate of Alexander Graham Bell, to work side by side with him day and night through all these wonderful happenings that have meant so much to the world. The Williams Electrical Workshop I realize now what a lucky boy I was, when at 13 years of age I had to leave school and go to work for my living, although I didnt think so at that time. I am not advising my young friends to leave school at this age, for they may not have the opportunity to enter college as I did at 40. Theres a tide in the affairs of men, you know, and that was the beginning of its flood in my life, for after trying several vocationsclerking, bookkeeping, carpentering, etc.and finding them all unattractive, I at last found just the job that suited me in the electrical work-shop of Charles Williams, at 109 Court Street, Bostonone of the best men I have ever known. Better luck couldnt befall a boy than to be brought so early in life under the influence of such a high-minded gentleman as Charles Williams. I want to say a few words about my work there, not only to give you a picture of such a shop in the early 70s, but also because in this shop the telephone had its birth and a good deal of its early development. I was first set to work on a hand lathe turning binding posts for $5 a week. The mechanics of to-day with their automatic screw machines, hardly know what it is to turn little rough castings with a hand tool. How the hot chips used to fly into our eyes! One day I had a fine idea. I bought a pair of 25-cent goggles, thinking the others would hail me as a benefactor of mankind and adopt my plan. But they laughed at me for being such a sissy boy and public opinion forced me back to the old time-honored plan of winking when I saw a chip coming. It was not an efficient plan, for the chip usually got there first. There was a liberal education in it for me in manual dexterity. There was no specializing in these shops at that time. Each workman built everything there was in the shop to build, and an apprentice also had a great variety of jobs, which kept him interested all the time, for his tools were poor and simple and it required lots of thought to get a job done right. Studies and Experiments There were few books on electricity published at that time. Williams had copies of most of them in his showcase, which we boys used to read noons, but the book that interested me most was Davis Manual of Magnetism, published in 1847, a copy of which I made mine for 25 cents. If you want to get a good idea of the state of the electrical art at that time, you should read that book. I found it very stimulating and that same old copy in all the dignity of its dilapidation has a place of honor on my book shelves to-day. My promotion to higher work was rapid. Before two years had passed, I had tried my skill on about all the regular work of the establishmentcall bells, annunciators, galvanometers, telegraph keys, sounders, relays, registers and printing telegraph instruments. Individual initiative was the rule in Williams shopwe all did about as we pleased. Once I built a small steam engine for myself during working hours, when business was slack. No one objected. That steam engine, by the way, was the embryo of the biggest shipbuilding plant in the United States to-day, which I established some ten years later with telephone profits, and which now employs more than 4,000 men. Such were the electrical shops of that day. Crude and small as they were, they were the forerunners of the great electrical works of to-day. In them were being trained the men who were among the leaders in the wonderful development of applied electricity which began soon after the time of which I am to speak. Williams, although he never had at that time more than 30 or 40 men working for him, had one of the largest and best fitted shops in the country. I think the Western Electric shop at Chicago was the only larger one. That was also undoubtedly better organized and did better work than Williams. When a piece of machinery built by the Western Electric came into our shop for repairs, we boys always used to admire the superlative excellence of the workmanship. Experience with Inventors Besides the regular work at Williams, there was a constant stream of wild-eyed inventors, with big ideas in their heads and little money in their pockets, coming to the shop to have their ideas tried out in brass and iron. Most of them had an angel whom they had hypnotized into paying the bills. My enthusiasm, and perhaps my sympathetic nature, made me a favorite workman with those men of visions, and in 1873-74 my work had become largely making experimental apparatus for such men. Few of their ideas ever amounted to anything, but I liked to do the work, as it kept me roaming in fresh fields and pastures new all the time. Had it not been, however, for my youthful enthusiasmalways one of my chief assetsI fear this experience would have made me so skeptical and cynical as to the value of electrical inventions that my future prospects might have been injured. I remember one limber-tongued patriarch who had induced some men to subscribe $1,000 to build what he claimed to be an entirely new electric engine. I had made much of it for him. There was nothing new in the engine, but he intended to generate his electric current in a series of iron tanks the size of trunks, to be filled with nitric acid with the usual zinc plates suspended therein. When the engine was finished and the acid poured into the tanks for the first time, no one waited to see the engine run, for inventor, angel, and workmen all tried to see who could get out of the shop quickest. I won the race as I had the best start. I suppose there is just such a crowd of crude minds still besieging the work-shops, men who seem incapable of finding out what has been already done, and so keep on, year after year, threshing old straw. The Harmonic Telegraph All the men I worked for at that time were not of that type. There were a few very different. Among them, dear old Moses G. Farmer, perhaps the leading practical electrician of that day. He was full of good ideas, which he was constantly bringing to Williams to have worked out. I did much of his work and learned from him more about electricity than ever before or since. He was electrician at that time for the United States Torpedo Station at Newport, Rhode Island, and in the early winter of 1874 I was making for him some experimental torpedo exploding apparatus. That apparatus will always be connected in my mind with the telephone, for one day when I was hard at work on it, a tall, slender, quick-motioned man with pale face, black side whiskers, and drooping mustache, big nose and high sloping forehead crowned with bushy, jet black hair, came rushing out of the office and over to my work bench. It was Alexander Graham Bell, whom I saw then for the first time. He was bringing to me a piece of mechanism which I had made for him under instructions from the office. It had not been made as he had directed and he had broken down the rudimentary discipline of the shop in coming directly to me to get it altered. It was a receiver and a transmitter of his Harmonic Telegraph, an invention of his with which he was then endeavoring to win fame and fortune. It was a simple affair by means of which, utilizing the law of sympathetic vibration, he expected to send six or eight Morse messages on a single wire at the same time, without interference. Although most of you are probably familiar with the device, I must, to make my story clear, give you a brief description of the instruments, for though Bell never succeeded in perfecting his telegraph, his experimenting on it led to a discovery of the highest importance. The essential parts of both transmitter and receiver were an electro-magnet and a flattened piece of steel clock spring. The spring was clamped by one end to one pole of the magnet, and had its other end free to vibrate over the other pole. The transmitter had, besides this, make-and-break points like an ordinary vibrating bell which, when the current was on, kept the spring vibrating in a sort of nasal whine, of a pitch corresponding to the pitch of the spring. When the signalling key was closed, an electrical copy of that whine passed through the wire and the distant receiver. There were, say, six transmitters with their springs tuned to six different pitches and six receivers with their springs tuned to correspond. Now, theoretically, when a transmitter sent its electrical whine into the line wire, its own faithful receiver spring at the distant station would wriggle sympathetically but all the others on the same line would remain coldly quiescent. Even when all the transmitters were whining at once through their entire gamut, making a row as if all the miseries this world of trouble ever produced were concentrated there, each receiver spring along the line would select its own from that sea of troubles and ignore all the others. Just see what a simple, sure-to-work invention this was; for just break up those various whines into the dots and dashes of Morse messages and one wire would do the work of six, and the Duplex telegraph that had just been invented would be beaten to a frazzle. Bells reward would be immediate and rich, for the Duplex had been bought by the Atlantic and Pacific Telegraph Company, giving them a great advantage over their only competitor, the Western Union Company, and the latter would, of course, buy Bells invention and his financial problems would be solved. All this was, as I have said, theoretical, and it was mighty lucky for Graham Bell that it was, for had his harmonic telegraph been a well behaved apparatus that always did what its parent wanted it to do, the speaking telephone might never have emerged from a certain marvelous conception, that had even then been surging back of Bells high forehead for two or three years. What that conception was, I soon learned, for he couldnt help speaking about it, although his friends tried to hush it up. They didnt like to have him get the reputation of being visionary, orsomething worse. To go on with my story; after Mr. Farmers peace-making machines were finished, I made half a dozen pairs of the harmonic instruments for Bell. He was surprised, when he tried them, to find that they didnt work as well as he expected. The cynical Watson wasnt at all surprised for he had never seen anything electrical yet that worked at first the way the inventor thought it would. Bell wasnt discouraged in the least and a long course of experiments followed which gave me a steady job that winter and brought me into close contact with a wonderful personality that did more to mould my life rightly than anything else that ever came into it. I became mightily tired of those whiners that winter. I called them by that name, perhaps, as an inadequate expression of my disgust with their persistent perversity, the struggle with which soon began to take all the joy out of my young life, not being endowed with the power of Macbeths weird sisters to Look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow and which will not. Let me say here, that I have always had a feeling of respect for Elisha Gray, who, a few years later, made that harmonic telegraph work, and vibrate well-behaved messages, that would go where they were sent without fooling with every receiver on the line. Most of Bells early experimenting on the harmonic telegraph was done in Salem, at the home of Mrs. George Sanders, where he resided for several years, having charge of the instruction of her deaf nephew. The present Y. M. C. A. building is on the site of that house. I would occasionally work with Bell there, but most of his experimenting in which I took part was done in Boston. Bells Theory of Transmitting Speech Mr. Bell was very apt to do his experimenting at night, for he was busy during the day at the Boston University, where he was Professor of Vocal Physiology, especially teaching his fathers system of visible speech, by which a deaf mute might learn to talkquite significant of what Bell was soon to do in making mute metal talk. For this reason I would often remain at the shop during the evening to help him test some improvement he had had me make on the instruments. One evening when we were resting from our struggles with the apparatus, Bell said to me: Watson, I want to tell you of another idea I have, which I think will surprise you. I listened, I suspect, somewhat languidly, for I must have been working that day about sixteen hours, with only a short nutritive interval, and Bell had already given me, during the weeks we had worked together, more new ideas on a great variety of subjects, including visible speech, elocution and flying machines, than my brain could assimilate, but when he went on to say that he had an idea by which he believed it would be possible to talk by telegraph, my nervous system got such a shock that the tired feeling vanished. I have never forgotten his exact words; they have run in my mind ever since like a mathematical formula. _If_, he said, _I could make a current of electricity vary in intensity, precisely as the air varies in density during the production of a sound, I should be able to transmit speech telegraphically_. He then sketched for me an instrument that he thought would do this, and we discussed the possibility of constructing one. I did not make it; it was altogether too costly, and the chances of its working too uncertain to impress his financial backersMr. Gardiner G. Hubbard and Mr. Thomas Sanderswho were insisting that the wisest thing for Bell to do was to perfect the harmonic telegraph; then he would have money and leisure enough to build air castles like the telephone. June 2, 1875 I must have done other work in the shop besides Bells during the winter and spring of 1875, but I cannot remember a single item of it. I do remember that when I was not working for Bell I was thinking of his ideas. All through my recollection of that period runs that nightmarethe harmonic telegraph, the ill working of which got on my conscience, for I blamed my lack of mechanical skill for the poor operation of an invention apparently so simple. Try our best, we could not make that thing work rightly, and Bell came as near to being discouraged as I ever knew him to be. But this spring of 1875 was the dark hour just before the dawn. If the exact time could be fixed, the date when the conception of the undulatory or speech-transmitting current took its perfect form in Bells mind would be the greatest day in the history of the telephone, but certainly June 2, 1875, must always rank next; for on that day the mocking fiend inhabiting that demonic telegraph apparatus, just as a now-you-see-it-and-now-you-dont sort of satanic joke, opened the curtain that hides from man great Natures secrets and gave us a glimpse as quick as if it were through the shutter of a snap-shot camera, into that treasury of things not yet discovered. That imp didnt do this in any kindly, helpful spiritany inventor knows he isnt that kind of a beinghe just meant to tantalize and prove that a man is too stupid to grasp a secret, even if it is revealed to him. But he hadnt properly estimated Bell, though he had probably sized me up all right. That glimpse was enough to let Bell see and seize the very thing he had been dreaming about and drag it out into the world of human affairs. The Telephone Born Coming back to earth, Ill try and tell you what happened that day. In the experiments on the harmonic telegraph, Bell had found that the reason why the messages got mixed up was inaccuracy in the adjustment of the pitches of the receiver springs to those of the transmitter. Bell always had to do this tuning himself, as my sense of pitch and knowledge of music were quite lackinga faculty (or lackulty) which you will hear later became quite useful. Mr. Bell was in the habit of observing the pitch of a spring by pressing it against his ear while the corresponding transmitter in a distant room was sending its intermittent current through the magnet of that receiver. He would then manipulate the tuning screw until that spring was tuned to accord with the pitch of the whine coming from the transmitter. All this experimenting was carried on in the upper story of the Williams building, where we had a wire connecting two rooms perhaps sixty feet apart looking out on Court Street. Realization On the afternoon of June 2, 1875, we were hard at work on the same old job, testing some modification of the instruments. Things were badly out of tune that afternoon in that hot garret, not only the instruments, but, I fancy, my enthusiasm and my temper, though Bell was as energetic as ever. I had charge of the transmitters as usual, setting them squealing one after the other, while Bell was retuning the receiver springs one by one, pressing them against his ear as I have described. One of the transmitter springs I was attending to stopped vibrating and I plucked it to start it again. It didnt start and I kept on plucking it, when suddenly I heard a shout from Bell in the next room, and then out he came with a rush, demanding, What did you do then? Dont change anything. Let me see! I showed him. It was very simple. The contact screw was screwed down so far that it made permanent contact with the spring, so that when I snapped the spring the circuit had remained unbroken while that strip of magnetized steel by its vibration over the pole of its magnet was generating that marvelous conception of Bellsa current of electricity that varied in intensity precisely as the air was varying in density within hearing distance of that spring. That undulatory current had passed through the connecting wire to the distant receiver which, fortunately, was a mechanism that could transform that current back into an extremely faint echo of the sound of the vibrating spring that had generated it, but what was still more fortunate, the right man had that mechanism at his ear during that fleeting moment, and instantly recognized the transcendent importance of that faint sound thus electrically transmitted. The shout I heard and his excited rush into my room were the result of that recognition. The speaking telephone was born at that moment. Bell knew perfectly well that the mechanism that could transmit all the complex vibrations of one sound could do the same for any sound, even that of speech. That experiment showed him that the complex apparatus he had thought would be needed to accomplish that long dreamed result was not at all necessary, for here was an extremely simple mechanism operating in a perfectly obvious way, that could do it perfectly. All the experimenting that followed that discovery, up to the time the telephone was put into practical use, was largely a matter of working out the details. We spent a few hours verifying the discovery, repeating it with all the differently tuned springs we had, and before we parted that night Bell gave me directions for making the first electric speaking telephone. I was to mount a small drumhead of gold-beaters skin over one of the receivers, join the center of the drumhead to the free end of the receiver spring and arrange a mouthpiece over the drumhead to talk into. His idea was to force the steel spring to follow the vocal vibrations and generate a current of electricity that would vary in intensity as the air varies in density during the utterance of speech sounds. I followed these directions and had the instrument ready for its trial the very next day. I rushed it, for Bells excitement and enthusiasm over the discovery had aroused mine again, which had been sadly dampened during those last few weeks by the meagre results of the harmonic experiments. I made every part of that first telephone myself, but I didnt realize while I was working on it what a tremendously important piece of work I was doing. The First Telephone Line The two rooms in the attic were too near together for the test, as our voices would be heard through the air, so I ran a wire especially for the trial from one of the rooms in the attic down two flights to the third floor where Williams main shop was, ending it near my work bench at the back of the building. That was the first telephone line. You can well imagine that both our hearts were beating above the normal rate while we were getting ready for the trial of the new instrument that evening. I got more satisfaction from the experiment than Mr. Bell did, for shout my best I could not make him hear me, but I could hear his voice and almost catch the words. I rushed downstairs and told him what I had heard. It was enough to show him that he was on the right track, and before he left that night he gave me directions for several improvements in the telephones I was to have ready for the next trial. I hope my pride in the fact that I made the first telephone, put up the first telephone wire and heard the first words ever uttered through a telephone, has never been too ostentatious and offensive to my friends, but I am sure that you will grant that a reasonable amount of that human weakness is excusable in me. My pride has been tempered to quite a bearable degree by my realization that the reason why I heard Bell in that first trial of the telephone and he did not hear me, was the vast superiority of his strong vibratory tones over any sound my undeveloped voice was then able to utter. My sense of hearing, however, has always been unusually acute, and that might have helped to determine this result. The building where these first telephone experiments were made is still in existence. It is now used as a theater. The lower stories have been much altered, but that attic is still quite unchanged and a few weeks ago I stood on the very spot where I snapped those springs and helped test the first telephone thirty-seven years and seven months before. (_Editors Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. 1.F. 1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm collection. 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The included with this eBook or online at NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY TO THE SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC. NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY TO THE Summit of Mont Blanc, MADE IN JULY, 1819. _BY WM. HOWARD, M. D._ "Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crown'd him long ago, On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow." BALTIMORE: PUBLISHED BY FIELDING LUCAS, JR. J. Robinson, printer. 1821. The account of the following journey was written a few days after its execution, while the author was confined to his chamber by the inconveniences he had suffered, and it was then penned for the gratification of his immediate friends, and without any view to publication. The partiality of friends, however, having permitted it, during his absence, to appear in the Analectic Magazine, for May 1820, it excited more attention than he could have anticipated, which has induced the author to correct the errors arising from haste and other sources, and to republish it in the present form. _Baltimore, April, 1821._ NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY TO THE SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC. ----------------- "Above me are the Alps The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And thron'd Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche--the thunderbolt of snow, All that expands the spirit, yet appals, Gather around these summits, as to show How earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below." BYRON. NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY, &c. Geneva, July, 1819. You, my dear friend, who are well acquainted from my infancy with my clambering disposition, which, within these few months, has carried me to the top of both Vesuvius and tna, will not be much surprised to learn, that I have attempted, with success, to mount to the summit of Mont Blanc; an aerial journey which the sight of this mountain has inspired many persons with a wish to accomplish; but in which few have engaged, and still fewer have succeeded. I am somewhat afraid that you will condemn the expedition as a wild one, and will justly consider the gratification of our curiosity, which was, unfortunately, the only object we attained, as an inadequate recompense for our toil and danger; but you have no cause to fear my embarking in similar adventures in future. Having reached a spot, undoubtedly the highest in Europe, and, with the exception of the Himalaya mountains in India, the highest in the Old World, my curiosity is completely gratified, and there is scarcely any possibility of my meeting with an enterprise of this nature, of sufficient magnitude to renew its excitement: since five of the loftiest of the Alleghanies piled on each other, would scarcely reach to the height I have attained. To give you a correct idea of the nature of our undertaking, I will begin with a concise account of this king of the Alps, and of the various attempts that have been made to reach its summit. Mont Blanc is situated amidst some of the highest mountains of Savoy, forming a part of the great chain of the Alps, above which, however, it raises far its snowy head, as with a dignified air of conscious triumph. It is this white head, which its elevation renders doubly bright, that gives its name. On the north side of the mountain, and immediately at its foot, is the valley of Chamouny, which is sixteen leagues south from Geneva, and is much frequented in the summer season by the inhabitants of that city, and strangers, who throng to this enchanted vale, to enjoy the coolness of the air, and to view its stupendous glaciers, several of which are formed by the snow and ice gliding down from Mont Blanc itself. On the south-east side is the valley of Entrves, which separates Mont Blanc both from the great and the little St. Bernard, and through which runs a small river, whose waters join the Po, below Turin, while the Arva, which flows through Chamouny, joins the Rhone, near Geneva. These rivers finally discharge themselves into the sea, at the distance of several hundred miles from each other; the one into the Mediterranean, near Marseilles, and the other into the Adriatic, near Venice. The chain of Alps, of which Mont Blanc forms a part, runs from N. E. to S. W. and is partly surmounted in its neighbourhood, by sharp pointed rocks, whose sides are too steep for the snow to rest upon, and of which seven, rising abruptly to a great height, have the appropriate name of the "Needles of Chamouny." The height of Mont Blanc, according to the observations of Saussure, is 14,790 French feet above the level of the sea, which is only 5800 less than that of Chimborazo, the summit of which has been never reached: on the other hand, its relative height above the surrounding country is greater; for Mont Blanc is 11,500 above the valley of Chamouny, while Chimborazo, according to Humboldt, is only 11,200 above the plain of Tapia, at its foot. It is calculated that, from this height, the eye could reach sixty-eight leagues, or about 170 of our miles, without being intercepted by the convexity of the earth. Mont Blanc is seen from Lyons in all its magnificence; from the mountains of Burgundy, from Dijon, and even from Langrs, sixty-five leagues distant in a straight line: M. Saussure thought he recognised the mountain of Cavme, near Toulon. About 15,500 English feet, or something less than three miles. In 1760 and 61, Saussure, the celebrated philosopher of Geneva, then engaged in examining the natural history of the Alps, promised a considerable reward to any person who should succeed in finding a practicable path to the summit, offering even to pay for the lost time of those who made ineffectual efforts. The first who undertook this, was Pierre Simon, a hunter of Chamouny, in 1762: but he was unsuccessful. In 1775, four men of the same village endeavoured for the same object, and with as ill success, to follow the ridge of the Montagne de la Cte, which runs parallel to the Glacier of Boissons. In 1783, three others followed the same track, but were attacked by an increasing disposition to sleep, from which they could only relieve themselves by returning. M. Bouritt, of Geneva, made two ineffectual attempts the same year, and the following year another, accompanied by Saussure, his own son, and fifteen guides. In June 1786, six men of the valley of Chamouny, renewed the effort to reach the summit, but fatigue and cold forced them to renounce it; one of them, however, Jacques Balmat, separating from his companions to search for crystals, and having lost himself, was prevented by a storm from rejoining them, and compelled to pass the night on the snow, unprovided and alone; youth, however, and the vigour of his constitution, saved his life. In the morning he perceived the top at no great distance, and having the whole day before him to provide for his descent, he examined leisurely the approaches to it, and observed one, that appeared more accessible than any he had hitherto seen. At his return to Chamouny, he was taken ill, in consequence of his great exposure, and was attended by Dr. Paccard, the physician of the village, to whom he communicated his discovery, and offered, in gratitude for his care, to guide him to the summit of Mont Blanc. In consequence of this, Jacques Balmat and Dr. Paccard, set out from Chamouny the 7th of August, the same year, and slept on the top of the Montagne de la Cte. The next day they experienced great difficulties and excessive fatigue, and were long doubtful of the ultimate event of their enterprise; but finally, at half past 6, P. M. they reached the pinnacle of the mountain, in sight of many visitors, who were at Chamouny, watching their progress with telescopes. The cold was so intense, that provision was frozen in their pockets, the ink congealed in their ink horns, and the mercury in Farenheit's thermometer, sunk to eighteen and a half degrees. They remained about half an hour on the top, regained at midnight the Montagne de la Cte, and after two hours repose, set out for Chamouny, where they arrived at eight in the morning, with their lips swollen, their faces excoriated, and their eyes much inflamed; and it was some time before they recovered from these disagreeable effects. As soon as the intelligence of this success reached Saussure at Geneva, he determined on making a similar attempt: which he in fact did the same year, but was compelled by unfavourable weather to return. He was, however, not discouraged, but as the season was now far advanced, he postponed his operations until the ensuing summer. Accordingly, on the 1st of August, 1787, he again set out from Chamouny, accompanied by his servant, and eighteen guides, carrying a tent, a bed, ladders, cords, provisions, and philosophical instruments. The party arrived early the same day at the Montagne de la Cte, where they passed the night. The next day, notwithstanding an increase of dangers and difficulties, they passed under the Dome de Gout, and reached a platform, or small plain, at the height of 11,790 feet above the sea, where they pitched their tent in the snow, and passed the night. The following morning, (August 3d) the snow was so hard, and the ascent so steep, that they were compelled to cut their footsteps with a hatchet, and it was only by proceeding with the greatest caution, that they were enabled to pass this dangerous acclivity with safety. They, however, persevered, and reached the summit about an hour before noon, in view of many persons who were observing them from Chamouny. M. Saussure turned his eyes to the house where his mother and sisters were watching his progress with a telescope, and had the satisfaction of seeing the waving of a flag, which was the signal they had agreed to make, as soon as they should be assured of his safety. The latter part of his ascent was the slowest and most fatiguing, owing to the difficulty of breathing, occasioned by the rarity of the air: the stoutest of his guides could not take more than thirty steps, without stopping to take breath. No one had the least appetite, but all were much tormented by thirst. The guides pitched the tent, in which M. Saussure remained four hours, making a number of observations. At half after three, the party began to descend, and slept lower 1100 feet than the preceding night. The next day they arrived, without any accident, at Chamouny. This successful expedition of Saussure, and the interesting account he published of it, inspired many persons with a wish of accomplishing the same task; but they were generally soon deterred by an examination into the difficulties attending its execution, and returned satisfied with a view from the vallies below, of the terrific glaciers, and everlasting snows, which defend the approaches to the summit. The following are the principal attempts that have since been made, and it will be perceived that of these few, only a part have succeeded. On the 8th of August, 1787, five days after M. Saussure's return, Col. Beaufoy, an Englishman, set out from Chamouny for Mont Blanc, accompanied by ten guides. He reached the top the following day, and returned the third day to the village, with his face and eyes so inflamed, that he nearly lost his sight in consequence. As he was not properly provided with instruments, he was unable to add much to the observations which had been made by Saussure. He, however, determined the latitude of the summit to be 45, 49, 59. The year following these two journeys, (1788,) Mr. Bouritt, of Geneva, in company with his son, two other gentleman, and a number of guides, attempted the ascent of Mont Blanc. The party was dispersed by a storm, and only Mr. Bouritt, his son, and three guides, succeeded in reaching the top, where the violence of the cold compelled them to abridge their stay to a few minutes. While there, Mr. Bouritt thought he perceived the sea in the direction of Genoa; but the immense distance rendered the objects at the horizon, too indistinct to be certain of it. The whole party returned to Chamouny in a terrible condition. One of Mr. Bouritt's companions, who had lost himself, suffered dreadfully, as well as the guides who were with him, and returned with his feet and hands frozen, while some of the company, who were more fortunate, had only their fingers and ears in the same condition. Mr. Bouritt was obliged to wash for thirteen days in ice water, to restore the use of his limbs, which had suffered from the extreme cold. In 1792, four Englishmen undertook the same journey, but were prevented, by an accident, from proceeding farther than the Montagne de la Cte, where, unfortunately, one of the guides had his leg broken, and another his skull driven in: they themselves were all more or less wounded. A false step of one of the foremost of the party upon a loose rock, which brought it and a number of others down upon his companions, was the cause of this accident. M. Forneret, of Lausanne, and M. d'Ortern set out on the 10th of August, 1802, with seven guides, for Mont Blanc, and notwithstanding a storm, reached the summit the following day. They remained there only twenty minutes, and returned on the 12th to Chamouny, protesting that nothing in the world could tempt them to undertake again the same expedition. In August, 1808, Jacques Balmat, surnamed Mont Blanc, from his having been the first to discover the way to the summit, safely conducted thither fifteen of the inhabitants of Chamouny, one of whom was a _woman_. About this time also he returned with two of his companions, and placed on the top an obelisk of wood, twelve feet in height, (which they had brought up in pieces) to serve in the trigonometrical survey, that was then making of the country. In 1812, M. Rodasse, a banker of Hamburgh, undertook and accomplished the same journey, without any accident. The 16th of September, 1816, the Comte de Lucy, a Frenchman, succeeded, notwithstanding the severity of the cold he experienced, in attaining a rock only 600 feet lower than the summit of Mont Blanc. He was there, however, so entirely overcome with cold and fatigue, that he was unable to proceed this short distance, and compelled, with much reluctance, to return. On reaching the valley he was unable to walk, but was carried by his guides to the inn, where his feet proved to be so much frozen, that on drawing his boot, the skin peeled off and remained in it. Two of his guides were also severely frozen. Count Malzeski, a Pole, left Chamouny the 5th of August, 1818, for Mont Blanc, accompanied by eleven guides, reached the summit the following day, and returned, in safety, the third, without suffering much more inconvenience than having his nose frozen. During our visit to Chamouny, in the beginning of this month, my friend Dr. Van Rensselaer and myself, in our various excursions to the glaciers, and other scenes of the valley, had frequently opportunities of conversing with the guides, who had participated in these journeys, and among them with old Balmat, the Columbus of Mont Blanc. The result was, that our curiosity was strongly excited, and being induced by their representations of the almost certainty of succeeding in the present favourable weather, we finally determined, after much deliberation, to make the attempt. We therefore engaged _Marie Coutet_, an experienced guide, who had been three times on the summit, as leader, and eight other guides to accompany us. They refused to undertake the journey with a smaller party, on account of the number of articles which it was necessary to take with us, as a ladder, cords, provisions, charcoal to melt the snow for drinking, and a number of other things, which were indispensable, and which formed a sufficient quantity to load each of the nine with a considerable burthen. One day was occupied in making preparations, on which our comfort and our ultimate success depended. These were passed in review in the evening, and having found that nothing material was omitted, an early hour the next day was appointed for our departure. Accordingly, on Sunday the 11th of July, we left the village of Chamouny, at five o'clock, full of anxiety ourselves, and accompanied by the good wishes of the honest inhabitants for our success. The necessity of taking advantage of the fine weather, opposed our delaying another day. Our guides, who in common with all the inhabitants of the mountainous parts of Savoy, are very attentive to the duties of their religion, were unwilling to set out on a church day, without having previously attended service. They had, therefore, induced the Cur to celebrate mass at three o'clock, and, notwithstanding the fatigue they expected during the day, the early hour had not prevented them from attending it. We descended the valley by the side of the Arva, about a league, till we approached the glacier of Boissons, and then turning suddenly to the left into the woods, we began immediately a very steep ascent, parallel to, and about a half mile from the edge of the glacier. After about three hours toilsome mounting, we came to the last house on our road. It was the highest dwelling in the neighbourhood, and was one of those cottages called "Chalets," which are inhabited only during three of the summer months, when the peasants drive their cattle from the plains below, to the then richer verdure of the mountains. We found there the old man and his two daughters; his wife, as is the custom, was left behind to take care of the house in the valley. After refreshing ourselves with a delicious draught of fresh milk, and receiving the wishes of these good people, for a 'bon voyage,' we bade adieu to all traces of man, and continued to mount. Another hour's toil brought us above the region of wood, after which the few stinted vegetables we met with, gradually diminished in size, and when we arrived, at 10 o'clock, at the upper edge of the glacier of Boissons, only a few mosses, and the most hardy alpine plants were to be found. We had been compelled a little before, by the precipices of the Aiguille du Midi, which presented themselves like a wall before us, to change our direction, and instead of proceeding parallel to the glacier, to strike off suddenly towards it. We had now a close view of some of the obstacles which bar the approach to Mont Blanc; the glacier of Boissons, on which we were about to enter, seemed to me absolutely impassable. The only relief to the white snow and ice before us, was an occasional rock, thrusting its sharp point above their surface, and too steep to permit the snow to lodge on it. One of these rocks, or rather a chain of them, called the 'Grand Mulet,' which we had destined for our resting place for the night, was before us, but far above our heads at the distance of four or five miles; the glacier, however, still intervened, and appeared to defy all attempts to approach it. The glacier of Boissons, like all the glaciers of the Alps, is an immense mass of ice filling a valley which stretches down the mountain side, and is formed by the accumulated snow and ice, which are constantly in the summer months, falling from above. While the glaciers are thus continually increasing on the surface, the internal heat of the earth is slowly melting them below. Hence, when they are large, there generally proceeds from under them a considerable stream: such are the sources of the Rhine and of the Rhone. Their surface, often resembles that of a violent agitated sea, suddenly congealed. They are frequently of several leagues in breadth, and from 100 to 600 feet in depth. The snow which falls on them, to the depth of several feet every winter, is softened by the sun's rays in summer--and freezing again at the return of cold weather, but in a more solid state, forms a successive layer every year. This stratum may be easily measured, (as each of them is distinctly separated from its neighbour by a dark line,) at the section made by those cracks, which traverse every glacier in all directions. These cracks or crevices, are generally thought to be caused by the irregular sinking of part of the mass, whose support below has been gradually melted away. They are formed suddenly, and frequently with a noise that may be heard at the distance of several miles, and with a shock that makes the neighbouring country tremble: this effect takes place principally in summer. These rents are from a few inches to 20, 30, or even 50 or 60 feet in breadth, and generally of immense depth: probably extending to the bottom of the glacier. They present the greatest danger and difficulty to the passenger. They are often concealed by a layer of snow, which gives no indication on its surface, of its want of solidity; and it often happens that the chamois hunter, notwithstanding all his caution, suddenly sinks through this treacherous veil into the chasm beneath. We remained a couple of hours at our resting place, to take some refreshment, and to regain strength for our next difficult task. Jacques Balmat accompanied us this far, to point out the best means of attaining that spot on which he was the first to set foot; but the infirmities of age prevented him from accompanying us farther. Our feet seemed to linger, and to leave with reluctance the last ground they were to touch until the period of our return. We however entered on the glacier with confidence in the skill and prudence of our guides; several of whom being hunters, and accustomed to chase the chamois over such places, were acquainted with all the precautions, that it was necessary to take for our safety. To avoid the danger of falling into the crevices, especially those masked by the snow, we connected ourselves, three persons together, at the distance of 10 or 12 feet apart, by a cord round the body: so that in case of one of the three falling into a chasm, the other two could at least support him, until assistance could be procured from the rest of the party. Each person was provided with a pole, 6 feet long, and pointed at the bottom with iron, which we found to be a necessary article. Where the crevices were not more than two or three feet broad, we leaped over them with the assistance of our staff; others we passed on natural bridges of snow, that threatened every moment to sink with us into the abyss, and over others, we made a bridge of the ladder, which was extremely slight, as otherwise it would have been impossible for a man to carry it up the steeps we had ascended. Without its assistance, we could not have passed the glacier. Over this slender support we crawled with caution, suspended over a chasm, into which we could see to an immense depth; but of which in no instance could we see the bottom. We were sometimes forced to pass on a narrow ridge of treacherous ice, not more than a foot in breadth, with one of these terrific chasms on either side. The firm step, with which we saw our guides pass these difficulties, inspired us with confidence: but I cannot even now think of some of the situations we were placed in, without a feeling of dread; and especially when in bed, and in the silence of the night, they present themselves to my imagination, I involuntarily shrink with horror at the idea, and am astonished in recollecting what little sensation I felt at the moment. We threw down into some of the narrow cracks, pieces of ice and fragments of rock, and heard for a considerable time, the more and more distant sound, as they bounded from side to side. In no instance could we perceive the stone strike the bottom; but the sound, instead of ceasing suddenly, as would then have been the case, grew fainter and fainter, until it was too feeble to be heard. What then must be the immense depth of these openings, when in these silent regions, the noise of a large stone striking the bottom is too distant to be heard at the orifice! The number of openings we met with, which were broader than the length of our ladder, and which, of course, we had no means of crossing, rendered our path extremely circuitous. We were often enabled, by the ladder's assistance, to scale high and perpendicular banks of snow. It sometimes proved too short to reach to the top; but where the steep was not absolutely perpendicular, we contrived in several instances to remedy this inconvenience. One of the guides, standing on the top of the ladder, enabled the rest, who clambered up by his assistance, and over his shoulders, to reach the summit; when there, we easily drew up him and the ladder with cords. We were occasionally compelled to retrace our steps, and we were frequently so involved in the intricacies of the glacier, that we had to remain without proceeding, a considerable time, until the guides, who were dispersed in every direction on the discovery, could find a practical path to extricate us. In addition to these difficulties, I had not been long on the glacier, before I perceived that my faithless boot had given way; which, as every thing depended upon the state of our feet, was a serious misfortune. Necessity, however, is the mother of invention, and I contrived to bind it with cords in such a manner, that it served me tolerably well the rest of the journey. In consequence of all these obstacles, we only arrived at 5 o'clock at the "Grand Mulet," not more than four or five miles distant, in a straight line from the point where we entered on the glacier; but, from the circuitous route we had taken, we could not have walked less, in this distance, than 14 or 15 miles. We were now 11,000 feet above the level of the sea, and 8,000 feet above the village of Chamouny. A niche on the steep side, and near the top of the rock, about a hundred and fifty feet from its base, and to which we had much difficulty in climbing, was selected for our lodging place; indeed it was the only part of the rock, that afforded any thing like a level place. We were fortunate in finding the day had been so warm, that there was water in some of the crevices of the ice, which circumstance enabled us to economize our charcoal. The sun shone very bright on our side of the rock; but as soon as it sunk below the horizon, the eternal frost around us regained its influence, and the air became very cold. We had, however, time to dry our boots and pantaloons, and I found a pair of large woolen stockings, that I had with me, an invaluable article. Our guides stretched the ladder from one point of the rock to another, and, throwing over it a couple of sheets they had brought for the purpose, formed a kind of tent, just large enough for Dr. Van Rensselaer and myself to creep in: a single blanket upon the rock was our bed. The guides were so loaded with indispensable articles, that we had not been able to bring a blanket, or even an extra coat to cover us. After a cold and uncomfortable supper, we crept into our den, soon after the genial sun had left us, and endeavoured, by every means our ingenuity could suggest, but ineffectually, to keep ourselves warm. We suffered much from the cold, but principally towards morning, as the thermometer was several degrees below freezing. The night seemed to last at least twenty hours; at one time I thought the day must certainly be not distant, and was surprised, at looking at my watch by the light of the moon, to find it only 11 o'clock. Tired of inaction, and shivering with the cold, I crawled out about midnight to endeavour to warm myself, by the exercise of clambering on the rock. The view around was sublime, and rendered me for a time insensible to all feelings of personal suffering. The sky was very clear, but perfectly black; the moon and stars, whose rays were not obscured by passing through the lower dense region of the atmosphere, as when seen from the surface of the earth, shone with a brilliancy, tenfold of what I had ever observed from below; and the comet, with its bright tail, formed in the north-west, a beautiful object. Nothing was to be seen around the rock on which we were placed, but white snow and some heavy clouds, that, floating below us, shut out the valley from our view. The guides appeared to be all asleep, and the only interruption to the silence of death, was the occasional avalanche, rolling with the sound of distant thunder from the highest part of the surrounding glaciers, and heightening the feelings of awful sublimity, which our situation was so calculated to inspire. As our lodging was extremely uncomfortable in every respect, we were under no temptation of lying till a late hour in the morning. On the contrary, we hailed with joy the first appearance of the dawn, which enabled us to substitute the warmth of marching, for the cold inactivity from which we had suffered all night. We set out at three o'clock, leaving most of our provisions and other articles on the rock. Four hours of laborious, but not dangerous walking, brought us to a large plain, called the 'Grand Plateau,' which is nearly surrounded, (on the one hand) by a spur of Mont Blanc, and the Aiguille du Midi; on the other, by the Montagne de la Cte, while Mont Blanc presents itself directly in front. These mountains form a steep amphitheatre around this plain. Here we stopped an hour to breakfast, and to recruit strength for the last and most difficult part of the ascent. We were now more than 12,000 feet above the level of the sea, and only 3,000 feet lower than the summit, which was in full view before us. But I looked around, in vain, for any part of its steep sides that seemed to offer a possibility of being scaled, and when the guides pointed out the route we were to take, among and over precipices, and huge broken masses of snow, and up almost perpendicular steeps, I involuntarily shrunk at the prospect, and could not forbear casting my eye wistfully at our road back. But it would not have done to be deterred at this time by a few difficulties; and a moment's reflection, on the skill and experience of our guides, renewed our confidence, and we began cheerfully to mount the first steep before us. We here began to feel more seriously an effect, that is always experienced at considerable heights, and which had not much incommoded us before. It was impossible for the strongest of us, to take more than twenty or thirty steps, without stopping to take breath, and this effect gradually increased as we continued to ascend; insomuch, that when near the summit, even the stoutest of our guides, who could run for leagues over the lower mountains without panting, could not take more than twelve, or at most fifteen steps, without being ready to sink for want of breath. If we attempted to exceed this number by even three or four steps, a horrible oppression, as of approaching death, seized us; our limbs became excessively painful, and threatened to sink under us. It is very possible, that Walter Scot's hero, Up Ben Lomond's side could press, And not a sob his toil confess; but I am very certain he could not perform the same feat on Mont Blanc. It is remarkable, that a few seconds rest was sufficient to restore both our strength and breath. One of our guides, a robust man, who had been once on the summit, was so much incommoded, that we were compelled to leave him behind to await our return. I experienced some inconvenience from a slight degree of nausea and head-ache, of which most of those, who have made this journey have complained. When ascending tna, two months before, I had been seriously affected both by a difficulty of breathing, and by a violent thumping of the heart and arteries, which was loud enough to be easily heard by my companions, and which the slightest exertion was sufficient to excite. In the present instance I dreaded these effects, and had already begun to feel them in an uncomfortable degree; but was almost entirely relieved by drinking plentifully of vinegar and water, with which our guides, to whom experience had taught its utility, had taken care to be well provided. This drink was extremely agreeable to us; wine on the contrary, disgusted us. All the water we had, we had brought from the rock at which we slept, where we had carefully collected it from the cracks of the ice: for we were now in the region of eternal ice, where rain never falls, and where the utmost power of the midsummer sun can only soften, in a slight degree, the surface of the snow. The acclivity we were now ascending, was steeper than any we had before encountered, so much so that we could only accomplish it by a zigzag path, advancing not more than a few feet every 20 or 30 yards we walked. To have an idea of our situation, you must imagine us marching in single file on the steep mountain side, placing with the greatest care our feet in the steps, which the hardness of the snow rendered it necessary for our leader to cut with an axe, supporting ourselves with our poles against the upper side of the slope, and having on the other side, the same rapid slope terminating below in a precipice several hundred feet in height, over which we saw rapidly hurried all the small pieces of ice, that we loosened with our feet. Our situation was similar to that of a person scaling the steep and iced roof of a lofty house, and constantly liable, by an incautious step, to be suddenly precipitated over the eaves. After we had been proceeding in this manner for some time, I looked down on the Plateau beneath, for the guide we had left, and when at last I discerned him, like a speck on the snow, my head began to grow dizzy at the idea of the distance below me, and I was forced to keep my head averted from this side, to recover from this disagreeable feeling. Our guides had attached themselves and us with cords, each three persons together, as when passing the glacier. They were provided with large iron cramps fastened to their feet, which prevented them from slipping. Doctor Van Ranselaer and myself had found this contrivance impede too much our walking, and after a short trial had given it up, so that we had to rely on the firmness of foot of those guides to whom we were tied, to preserve us in case of our falling. I am not entirely convinced, that if one of us had had the misfortune to fall, and were slipping down the declivity, he would not have drawn his two companions, in spite of these precautions, over the precipice. To add to our difficulties, the sun was excessively bright, and almost blinded us, notwithstanding the gauze veils with which we were all provided. Fortunately, we met with but few crevices; however, on passing one of these that was hid by the snow, I suddenly sunk, but my body being thrown forward by this motion, my breast opposed a larger surface to the snow which thus supported me, and I was easily extricated by a guide. On looking back through the hole I had broken, I could perceive the black cavity beneath. At one period, our path necessarily led us close under a wall of snow, more than 150 feet high, from the top of which projected several large masses of snow, that appeared to require only a touch to bring them down on our heads. Our captain pointed out our danger, and enjoined us to pass as quickly as possible, and to observe the strictest silence. When we looked up at these -------- Toppling crags of ice, The avalanches, whom a breath draws down In mountainous o'erwhelming, we felt no disposition to disobey his directions, but passed on with hurried step, and in the stillness of death. The inhabitants of those parts of the Alps, exposed to these avalanches, assert that the concussion of the air, produced by the voice, is often sufficient to loosen, and bring down their immense masses. Hence the muleteer is often seen to take the bells from his animals, when he passes through a valley subject to this danger. A few years since some young men, relying on the solidity of the ice, and wishing to try the echo, were so imprudent as to discharge a pistol in a large cave which is at the lower edge of the glacier des Bois, near Chamouny. The shock brought down the roof, which crushed them on the spot. At 11 o'clock we had passed most of the difficulties, and all the dangers of our ascent, and reached a granite rock, which appears or nipple, which forms the summit of Mont Blanc. This rock is only 1000 feet lower than the summit. Here we enjoyed a full view of the valley and village of Chamouny, which had hitherto been masked by the 'Aiguille du Midi;' and when we recollected the promises of our friends there, to watch our progress with their glasses, and were convinced that they were at that moment observing us, we felt relieved from the sensation which we had previously experienced, of being shut out from the world. In fact, we learned afterwards, that they had seen us distinctly, counted our number, and observed that one of the party was missing: this was the guide we had left at the 'plateau.' Our final object was now close at hand. We turned, with renewed ardor, to accomplish it; continuing our zigzag path, till, after much suffering from fatigue, cold, and shortness of breath, we stood, at half an hour after noon, on the highest point of Europe! Our first impulse, on arriving, was to enjoy the pleasure of throwing our eyes around, without encountering any obstacle. The world was at our feet. The sensations I felt were rather those of awe, than of sublimity. It seemed that I no longer trod on this globe, but that I was removed to some higher planet, from which I could look down on a scene which I had lately inhabited, and where I had left behind me the passions, the sufferings, and the vices of men. The houses of Chamouny, appeared like dwellings of ants, and the river which flows through the valley, seemed not sufficient to drown one of these pigmy animals. These emotions made me for some time insensible to the cold, but the piercing wind, which here had free scope, soon put an end to my waking dream, and bringing me back to the reality of life, enabled me to fix my attention on the objects around. Notwithstanding the pleasure inspired by the view, it was certainly more terrific than beautiful. The distant objects appeared as if covered by a veil. To the north-west was the chain of Jura, with a mist hanging on its whole extent, which prevented the eye from penetrating into France, in that direction. On the north was the lake of Geneva; of a black colour, and surrounded by mountains, which we had thought high, while we were on its banks, but which now appeared insignificant, and the lake itself seemed scarcely capacious enough to bathe in. To the east were the only mountains that appeared of a considerable size; among which, the most conspicuous were the Jungfrau and Schreckhorn in Grindelwalden, and Monte Rosa, on the borders of Piedmont, which raises its hoary and magnificent head to within a few hundred feet of the level of Mont Blanc. The grand St. Bernard was at our feet, to the south east, scarcely appearing to rise to more than a mole hill's height above the adjoining vallies. The obstacles which Bonaparte had to encounter in leading his army over this mountain, even in winter, appeared so diminished in our eyes, that this vaunted undertaking lost, at the moment, in our estimation, much of its heroism and grandeur. The view below and immediately around, presented a shapeless collection of craggy points, among which the 'Needles' were easily distinguished. We could hardly trust our senses, when we saw, beneath our feet, those rocks which, from below, appear higher than Mont Blanc itself, and which seem to penetrate into the region of the stars, and to threaten to 'disturb the moon in passing by.' Our view may be compared with that from the top of an elevated steeple over an extensive city, of which, except in the immediate neighbourhood, the roof only of the various buildings which compose it, are to be seen. The only green that we could perceive, was the narrow valley of Chamouny, and the two vallies by the side of St. Bernard. The portion of the earth that was not covered with snow, appeared of a gloomy and dark grey colour. The world presented an image of chaos, and offered but little to tempt our return to it. The top of Mont Blanc is a ridge of perhaps 150 feet in length, and six or eight in breadth. It is entirely composed of snow, which is probably of immense depth, and is constantly accumulating. We could see no traces of the obelisk, 12 feet in height, which had been set up about ten years before. One of our guides was of the number of those who placed it, and designated to us its position. The highest rock which appears above the snow, is a small one of granite, 600 feet below the summit. We remained but a few minutes immediately on the top, as the wind blew hard and piercingly cold. Descending a few feet on the south side, we were partially sheltered from the wind, and here the sun shone with an excessive brightness, heating every part of the body exposed to his rays; but the least breath of wind, which reached us at intervals, was sufficient to make us shiver with cold. Farenheit's thermometer in the sun, was two degrees below freezing, and five and a half in the shade. It must be considered, however, that we suffered a much greater degree of cold than the thermometer indicated, from the rapid evaporation from the surface of our bodies, of the insensible transpiration occasioned by the dryness and great rarity of the surrounding air. This cause, familiar to physiologists, affected our sensations, and could not influence the thermometer. Most of our guides stretched themselves on the snow in the sun, and yielded to the strong inclination to sleep, which we all felt. Only one or two of them ate: the others, on the contrary, evinced an aversion to all kinds of food. We did not suffer the great thirst which Saussure and his party experienced; This we prevented by drinking vinegar and water, which was very grateful to us, instead of pure water. Our pulses were increased in frequency and fulness, and we had all the symptoms of fever. I occupied myself, notwithstanding the indisposition to action which I felt, in making a few observations, and in stopping and sealing very carefully a bottle which I had filled with the air of the summit, intended for examination on my return. The colour of the sky had gradually assumed a deeper tint of blue as we ascended: its present colour was dark indigo, approaching nearly to black. There was something awful in this appearance, so different from any we had ever witnessed. There was nothing to which we could compare it, except to the sun shining at midnight. During some of the first attempts that were made to ascend Mont Blanc, this appearance produced so strong an effect on the minds of the guides, who imagined that Heaven was frowning on their undertaking, that they refused to proceed. The portion of atmosphere above us was entirely free from the vapours which the lower strata always contain, and was truly the 'pure empyreal,' seldom seen by mortal eyes. We had all our life beheld the sun through a mist, but we now saw him, face to face, in all his splendour. The guides asserted that the stars can be seen, in full day, by a person placed in the shade. It being near noon, and the sun almost over our heads, we could not find shadow to enable us to make the experiment. The air on the top of Mont Blanc is of but little more than half the density of that at the surface of the ocean. According to the observations of Saussure, the height of the barometer on the summit, was sixteen and a half inches, while that of a corresponding one at Geneva, was twenty-eight inches. In consequence of this rarity of the air, a pistol, heavily charged, which we fired several times, made scarcely more noise than the crack of a postillion's whip. We remained an hour and a quarter on the summit, part of which time was spent in useless regrets at not having waited to provide ourselves with instruments, as we were now so admirably situated to make with them a series of interesting experiments. Those which had suggested themselves, were principally concerning the absorption and radiation of caloric, and on the degree of cold produced by the evaporation of ther and other liquids. We found the descent more easy and much less fatiguing, though perhaps more dangerous than the ascent, on account of the greater risk of slipping. We passed under the place where the avalanche threatened us, with even more caution and more rapidity than before, as we found that a small piece had actually fallen, and covered our path since we had passed by. We arrived in about an hour at the 'Grand Plateau,' where we stopped to refresh ourselves, and gratify our returning appetites. We found the guide whom we had left, quite relieved. Here the sun, reflected from the walls of snow which surrounded us on three sides, poured down upon us with the most burning heat that I ever experienced from its rays, while our feet, cold from being immersed in the snow, prevented perspiration, and thus increased its power. Wherever its rays could penetrate, as between the cap and neckcloth, or even to the hands, it resembled the application of a heated iron. We were compelled, in addition to the assistance of our veils, to keep our eyes half closed, and even then the light was too powerful for them. We however continued with ease and cheerfulness our descent, until an unexpected difficulty occurred. Where in the morning we had cut our footsteps with an axe, we now found the snow so much softened by the sun, that we sunk in it every third or fourth step, to the middle of the body. My friend and myself were more subject to this inconvenience than the guides, on account of the soles of our boots presenting a less surface to the snow, than those of their large shoes. After plunging on in this manner for some time, I began to despair of reaching our rock, which was yet four or five miles distant: but there was no alternative but to proceed. We therefore kept on, though with excessive fatigue. We frequently fell forward, and one limb being tightly engaged in the snow, was violently twisted, and constantly liable to be sprained; which in our situation would have been a serious misfortune. The crevices too were, from their edges having become softened, more dangerous than before. Perseverance and caution, however, triumphed over all these difficulties, and we reached the 'Grand Mulet,' half an hour after five, our boots, stockings, and pantaloons completely soaked. These were immediately stretched on the rock to dry, which the heat of the sun soon effected. I had the disappointment to find, on examining my pockets, that the bottle which I had so carefully filled with the air of the summit, had been broken in one of my frequent falls, and of course my hopes of making with it some interesting experiments, were now destroyed. The thermometer was also broken. Notwithstanding the Herculean labour of the day, and the fatigue we experienced at the time, we had not been long on our rock before we felt strong and invigorated, as if just risen from a comfortable night's repose. This effect of the mountain air has often been remarked. We had even sufficient strength, and ample time to enable us to continue our descent with ease to Chamouny; but in the present softened state of the snow it would have been madness to attempt to cross the glacier, which we had found difficult and dangerous the preceding day, even before the sun's rays had affected it. In fact, while two of the guides were looking down on our path over the glacier, they saw a bridge of snow which we all crossed the day before, suddenly sink into the chasm beneath. Imprisoned thus by the glacier, which was now all that intervened betwixt us and terra firma, we quietly resolved to remain where we were, and made the same arrangements for passing the night, as we had done the evening before. We were, however, at present better off: I mentioned that we had been so fortunate as to find a sufficient supply of water in the neighbourhood of our rock, in consequence of which most of the charcoal, we had brought to melt the snow, remained. With this we made a small fire at our feet, and by blowing almost constantly, kept it up during the night. It has been often observed, that as we ascend in the atmosphere, the difficulty of maintaining combustion, is proportionably increased. The cold was notwithstanding our fire, so great, that whenever I fell asleep, I was awakened in a few minutes to shiver and chatter my teeth. Our guides slept in the open air, huddled as close together as possible. July 13th.--The dawning of the day was truly welcome, as it promised a near termination to our toils and suffering, while the gratification of having accomplished a difficult and interesting object remained as a recompense. We left our hard bed without reluctance, and were impatient at the slowness with which the guides made their preparations in packing up their numerous articles. We began to descend as the sun illumined the white top of Mont Blanc, but long before his beams penetrated below. Above our heads the sky was perfectly clear, while the vallies beneath, and all except a few of the highest surrounding mountains, were concealed by a sea of clouds. The appearance of the clouds when seen from above is singular; they resemble immense floating masses of light carded cotton. We retraced our path of the first day, and took the same precaution as then of tying ourselves together. When the sun's rays began to shine on the snow around us, I found that my eyes were so much inflamed, I could scarcely bear them sufficiently open to see the path; notwithstanding the gauze veil I had constantly used, my face was in a terrible condition: the outer skin had fallen, rendering my chin and lips one continued sore. Doctor Van Rensselaer's eyes were in a worse condition than mine, and his face nearly as bad. At one part of the glacier where the snow had been so hard at our passing, that our feet left no impression, we lost our path, which was a misfortune, as we had chosen a much better path in ascending, than we could have done in descending. We however fell in with the track of two chamois, which our guides followed with confidence, relying on the instinct, which they attribute to these animals, of finding a practicable path over the most difficult glaciers. When we had at last past the glacier, our feet seemed to rejoice at once more touching firm ground; and we felt as if returning to the world from a distant voyage. The rest of our task offered no difficulty, being a constant descent down the rocky mountain side, except what was occasioned by our almost total blindness, and the pain we suffered in our eyes. It was however very fatiguing, as the descent from a mountain is generally more so than the ascent to it. We stopped at the same Chalet, where two days before we had bid adieu to the world; and were regaled by the old man and his daughters with another delicious draught of milk and cream. We reached the village soon after ten o'clock in the morning, having been absent fifty-three hours, during forty-five of which we were on the ice. We were received with many congratulations by the honest villagers, who had taken considerable interest in our success. As soon as my companion and myself reached our inn, we buried ourselves in our chamber, to enjoy the luxury of a bed, and of darkness, which was necessary for our eyes. It was not until the sun had set, and the twilight was not too strong for them, that we ventured out to regale ourselves with a comfortable meal. Two English visitors, who had watched with a glass our progress on the top of Mont Blanc, had expressed a determination to follow our example; but our account of the difficulties we met with, and still more the view of the condition we were in, soon induced them to abandon the design. We walked out at the approach of night under the "Needles," and as we saw these rocks, on whose sides -------- the clouds Pause to repose themselves in passing by, and on whose tops the stars seemed to rest, we could scarcely realize the idea that they were the same we had seen only thirty hours before, far below our feet. The next day after our return to Chamouny, our eyes had become so much stronger, that we were enabled, without much inconvenience, to proceed to Geneva, where we have since remained to recover from our sufferings. Though now more than a week has elapsed, my face is yet much inflamed; but my eyes have regained their usual strength. Dr. Van Rensselaer has suffered in the same manner, but on the whole rather less than myself. Wherever the sun's rays could penetrate, even behind the ears to the level of the neckcloth, the skin has fallen off, and I have exchanged the tawny hue of an Italian and Sicilian sun, for the fair complexion of a German or Englishman. We have purchased perhaps too dearly the indulgence of our curiosity; but at present, when the difficulties are passed, and the gratification remains, I cannot regret our hardships, especially if I succeed in making you partake of the one, without suffering from the other. THE END. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES 1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. 2. The following misprints have been corrected: "Bourrit" corrected to "Bouritt" (page 12) "representa-ons" corrected to "representations" (page 15) "breath" corrected to "breadth" (page 20) "visiters" corrected to "visitors" (page 47) 3. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling and punctuation usage have been retained. End of the (available with this file or online at Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing when you share it without charge with others. 1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. 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included with this eBook or online at This file was first posted on August 12, 2003 Last Updated: May 12, 2013 THE IMPOSTURES OF SCAPIN. (LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN.) By Molire Translated Into English Prose. With Short Introductions And Explanatory Notes By Charles Heron Wall Acted on May 24, 1671, at the Palais Royal, 'Les Fourberies de Scapin' had great success. It is nothing, however, but a farce, taken partly from classical, partly from Italian or from French sources. Molire acted the part of Scapin. PERSONS REPRESENTED. ARGANTE, _father to_ OCTAVE _and_ ZERBINETTE. GRONTE, _father to_ LANDRE _and_ HYACINTHA. OCTAVE, _son to_ ARGANTE, _and lover to_ HYACINTHA. LANDRE, _son to_ GRONTE, _and lover_ to ZERBINETTE. ZERBINETTE, _daughter to_ ARGANTE, _believed to be a gypsy girl_. HYACINTHA, _daughter to_ GRONTE. SCAPIN, _servant to_ LANDRE. SILVESTRE, _servant to_ OCTAVE. NRINE, _nurse to_ HYACINTHA. CARLE. TWO PORTERS. _The scene is at_ NAPLES. THE IMPOSTURES OF SCAPIN. ACT I. SCENE I.--OCTAVE, SILVESTRE. OCT. Ah! what sad news for one in love! What a hard fate to be reduced to! So, Silvestre, you have just heard at the harbour that my father is coming back? SIL. Yes. OCT. That he returns this very morning? SIL. This very morning. OCT. With the intention of marrying me? SIL. Of marrying you. OCT. To a daughter of Mr. Gronte? SIL. Of Mr. Gronte. OCT. And that this daughter is on her way from Tarentum for that purpose? SIL. For that purpose. OCT. And you have this news from my uncle? SIL. From your uncle. OCT. To whom my father has given all these particulars in a letter? SIL. In a letter. OCT. And this uncle, you say, knows all about our doings? SIL. All our doings. OCT. Oh! speak, I pray you; don't go on in such a way as that, and force me to wrench everything from you, word by word. SIL. But what is the use of my speaking? You don't forget one single detail, but state everything exactly as it is. OCT. At least advise me, and tell me what I ought to do in this wretched business. SIL. I really feel as much perplexed as you, and I myself need the advice of some one to guide me. OCT. I am undone by this unforeseen return. SIL. And I no less. OCT. When my father hears what has taken place, a storm of reprimands will burst upon me. SIL. Reprimands are not very heavy to bear; would to heaven I were free at that price! But I am very likely to pay dearly for all your wild doings, and I see a storm of blows ready to burst upon my shoulders. OCT. Heavens! how am I to get clear of all the difficulties that beset my path! SIL. You should have thought of that before entering upon it. OCT. Oh, don't come and plague me to death with your unreasonable lectures. SIL. You plague me much more by your foolish deeds. OCT. What am I to do? What steps must I take? To what course of action have recourse? SCENE II.--OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE. SCA. How now, Mr. Octave? What is the matter with you? What is it? What trouble are you in? You are all upset, I see. OCT. Ah! my dear Scapin, I am in despair; I am lost; I am the most unfortunate of mortals. SCA. How is that? OCT. Don't you know anything of what has happened to me? SCA. No. OCT. My father is just returning with Mr. Gronte, and they want to marry me. SCA. Well, what is there so dreadful about that? OCT. Alas! you don't know what cause I have to be anxious. SCA. No; but it only depends on you that I should soon know; and I am a man of consolation, a man who can interest himself in the troubles of young people. OCT. Ah! Scapin, if you could find some scheme, invent some plot, to get me out of the trouble I am in, I should think myself indebted to you for more than life. SCA. To tell you the truth, there are few things impossible to me when I once set about them. Heaven has bestowed on me a fair enough share of genius for the making up of all those neat strokes of mother wit, for all those ingenious gallantries to which the ignorant and vulgar give the name of impostures; and I can boast, without vanity, that there have been very few men more skilful than I in expedients and intrigues, and who have acquired a greater reputation in the noble profession. But, to tell the truth, merit is too ill rewarded nowadays, and I have given up everything of the kind since the trouble I had through a certain affair which happened to me. OCT. How? What affair, Scapin? SCA. An adventure in which justice and I fell out. OCT. Justice and you? SCA. Yes; we had a trifling quarrel. SIL. You and justice? SCA. Yes. She used me very badly; and I felt so enraged against the ingratitude of our age that I determined never to do anything for anybody. But never mind; tell me about yourself all the same. OCT. You know, Scapin, that two months ago Mr. Gronte and my father set out together on a voyage, about a certain business in which they are both interested. SCA. Yes, I know that. OCT. And that both Landre and I were left by our respective fathers, I under the management of Silvestre, and Landre under your management. SCA. Yes; I have acquitted myself very well of my charge. OCT. Some time afterwards Landre met with a young gipsy girl, with whom he fell in love. SCA. I know that too. OCT. As we are great friends, he told me at once of his love, and took me to see this young girl, whom I thought good-looking, it is true, but not so beautiful as he would have had me believe. He never spoke of anything but her; at every opportunity he exaggerated her grace and her beauty, extolled her intelligence, spoke to me with transport of the charms of her conversation, and related to me her most insignificant saying, which he always wanted me to think the cleverest thing in the world. He often found fault with me for not thinking as highly as he imagined I ought to do of the things he related to me, and blamed me again and again for being so insensible to the power of love. SCA. I do not see what you are aiming at in all this. OCT. One day, as I was going with him to the people who have charge of the girl with whom he is in love, we heard in a small house on a by-street, lamentations mixed with a good deal of sobbing. We inquired what it was, and were told by a woman that we might see there a most piteous sight, in the persons of two strangers, and that unless we were quite insensible to pity, we should be sure to be touched with it. SCA. Where will this lead to? OCT. Curiosity made me urge Landre to come in with me. We went into a low room, where we saw an old woman dying, and with her a servant who was uttering lamentations, and a young girl dissolved in tears, the most beautiful, the most touching sight that you ever saw. SCA. Oh! oh! OCT. Any other person would have seemed frightful in the condition she was in, for all the dress she had on was a scanty old petticoat, with a night jacket of plain fustian, and turned back at the top of her head a yellow cap, which let her hair fall in disorder on her shoulders; and yet dressed even thus she shone with a thousand attractions, and all her person was most charming and pleasant. SCA. I begin to understand. OCT. Had you but seen her, Scapin, as I did, you would have thought her admirable. SCA. Oh! I have no doubt about it; and without seeing her, I plainly perceive that she must have been altogether charming. OCT. Her tears were none of those unpleasant tears which spoil the face; she had a most touching grace in weeping, and her sorrow was a most beautiful thing to witness. SCA. I can see all that. OCT. All who approached her burst into tears whilst she threw herself, in her loving way, on the body of the dying woman, whom she called her dear mother; and nobody could help being moved to the depths of the heart to see a girl with such a loving disposition. SCA. Yes, all that is very touching; and I understand that this loving disposition made you love her. OCT. Ah! Scapin, a savage would have loved her. SCA. Certainly; how could anyone help doing so? OCT. After a few words, with which I tried to soothe her grief, we left her; and when I asked Landre what he thought of her, he answered coldly that she was rather pretty! I was wounded to find how unfeelingly he spoke to me of her, and I would not tell him the effect her beauty had had on my heart. SIL. (_to_ OCTAVE). If you do not abridge your story, we shall have to stop here till to-morrow. Leave it to me to finish it in a few words. (_To_ SCAPIN) His heart takes fire from that moment. He cannot live without going to comfort the amiable and sorrowful girl. His frequent visits are forbidden by the servant, who has become her guardian by the death of the mother. Our young man is in despair; he presses, begs, beseeches--all in vain. He is told that the young girl, although without friends and without fortune, is of an honourable family, and that, unless he marries her, he must cease his visits. His love increases with the difficulties. He racks his brains; debates, reasons, ponders, and makes up his mind. And, to cut a long story short, he has been married these three days. SCA. I see. SIL. Now, add to this the unforeseen return of the father, who was not to be back before two whole months; the discovery which the uncle has made of the marriage; and that other marriage projected between him and a daughter which Mr. Gronte had by a second wife, whom, they say, he married at Tarentum. OCT. And, above all, add also the poverty of my beloved, and the impossibility there is for me to do anything for her relief. SCA. Is that all? You are both of you at a great loss about nothing. Is there any reason to be alarmed? Are you not ashamed, you, Silvestre, to fall short in such a small matter? Deuce take it all! You, big and stout as father and mother put together, you can't find any expedient in your noddle? you can't plan any stratagem, invent any gallant intrigue to put matters straight? Fie! Plague on the booby! I wish I had had the two old fellows to bamboozle in former times; I should not have thought much of it; and I was no bigger than that, when I had given a hundred delicate proofs of my skill. SIL. I acknowledge that Heaven has not given me your talent, and that I have not the brains like you to embroil myself with justice. OCT. Here is my lovely Hyacintha! SCENE III.--HYACINTHA, OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE. HYA. Ah! Octave, is what Silvestre has just told Nrine really true? Is your father back, and is he bent upon marrying you? OCT. Yes, it is so, dear Hyacintha; and these tidings have given me a cruel shock. But what do I see? You are weeping? Why those tears? Do you suspect me of unfaithfulness, and have you no assurance of the love I feel for you? HYA. Yes, Octave, I am sure that you love me now; but can I be sure that you will love me always? OCT. Ah! could anyone love you once without loving you for ever? HYA. I have heard say, Octave, that your sex does not love so long as ours, and that the ardour men show is a fire which dies out as easily as it is kindled. OCT. Then, my dear Hyacintha, my heart is not like that of other men, and I feel certain that I shall love you till I die. HYA. I want to believe what you say, and I have no doubt that you are sincere; but I fear a power which will oppose in your heart the tender feelings you have for me. You depend on a father who would marry you to another, and I am sure it would kill me if such a thing happened. OCT. No, lovely Hyacintha, there is no father who can force me to break my faith to you, and I could resolve to leave my country, and even to die, rather than be separated from you. Without having seen her, I have already conceived a horrible aversion to her whom they want me to marry; and although I am not cruel, I wish the sea would swallow her up, or drive her hence forever. Do not weep, then, dear Hyacintha, for your tears kill me, and I cannot see them without feeling pierced to the heart. HYA. Since you wish it, I will dry my tears, and I will wait without fear for what Heaven shall decide. OCT. Heaven will be favourable to us. HYA. It cannot be against us if you are faithful. OCT. I certainly shall be so. HYA. Then I shall be happy. SCA. (_aside_). She is not so bad, after all, and I think her pretty enough. OCT. (_showing_ SCAPIN). Here is a man who, if he would, could be of the greatest help to us in all our trouble. SCA. I have sworn with many oaths never more to meddle with anything. But if you both entreat me very much, I might.... OCT. Ah! if entreaties will obtain your help, I beseech you with all my heart to steer our bark. SCA. (_to_ HYACINTHA). And you, have you anything to say? HYA. Like him, I beseech you, by all that is most dear to you upon earth, to assist us in our love. SCA. I must have a little humanity, and give way. There, don't be afraid; I will do all I can for you. OCT. Be sure that.... SCA. (_to_ OCTAVE). Hush! (_To_ HYACINTHA) Go, and make yourself easy. SCENE IV.--OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE. SCA. (_to_ OCTAVE). You must prepare yourself to receive your father with firmness. OCT. I confess that this meeting frightens me before hand, for with him I have a natural shyness that I cannot conquer. SCA. Yes; you must be firm from the first, for fear that he should take advantage of your weakness, and lead you like a child. Now, come, try to school yourself into some amount of firmness, and be ready to answer boldly all he can say to you. OCT. I will do the best I can. SCA. Well! let us try a little, just to see. Rehearse your part, and let us see how you will manage. Come, a look of decision, your head erect, a bold face. OCT. Like this. SCA. A little more. OCT. So? SCA. That will do. Now, fancy that I am your father, just arrived; answer me boldly as if it were he himself.--"What! you scoundrel, you good-for-nothing fellow, you infamous rascal, unworthy son of such a father as I, dare you appear before me after what you have done, and after the infamous trick you have played me during my absence? Is this, you rascal, the reward of all my care? Is this the fruit of all my devotion? Is this the respect due to me? Is this the respect you retain for me?" --Now then, now then.--"You are insolent enough, scoundrel, to go and engage yourself without the consent of your father, and contract a clandestine marriage! Answer me, you villain! Answer me. Let me hear your fine reasons"....--Why, the deuce, you seem quite lost. OCT. It is because I imagine I hear my father speaking. SCA. Why, yes; and it is for this reason that you must try not to look like an idiot. OCT. I will be more resolute, and will answer more firmly. SCA. Quite sure? SIL. Here is your father coming. OCT. Oh heavens! I am lost. SCENE V.--SCAPIN, SILVESTRE. SCA. Stop, Octave; stop. He's off. What a poor specimen it is! Let's wait for the old man all the same. SIL. What shall I tell him? SCA. Leave him to me; only follow me. SCENE VI.--ARGANTE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE (_at the further part of thestage_). ARG. (_thinking himself alone_). Did anyone ever hear of such an action? SCA. (_to_ SILVESTRE). He has already heard of the affair, and is so struck by it that, although alone, he speaks aloud about it. ARG. Such a bold thing to do. SCA. (_to_ SILVESTRE). Let us listen to him. ARG. I should like to know what they can say to me about this fine marriage. SCA. (_aside_). We have it all ready. ARG. Will they try to deny it? SCA. (_aside_). No: we have no thought of doing so. ARG. Or will they undertake to excuse it? SCA. (_aside_). That may be. ARG. Do they intend to deceive me with impertinent stories? SCA. (_aside_). May be. ARG. All they can say will be useless. SCA. We shall see. ARG. They will not take me in. SCA. (_aside_). I don't know that. ARG. I shall know how to put my rascal of a son in a safe place. SCA. (_aside_). We shall see about that. ARG. And as for that rascal Silvestre, I will cudgel him soundly. SIL. (_to_ SCAPIN). I should have been very much astonished if he had forgotten me. ARG. (_seeing_ SILVESTRE). Ah, ah! here you are, most wise governor of a family, fine director of young people! SCA. Sir, I am delighted to see you back. ARG. Good morning, Scapin. (_To_ SILVESTRE) You have really followed my orders in a fine manner, and my son has behaved splendidly. SCA. You are quite well, I see. ARG. Pretty well. (_To_ SILVESTRE) You don't say a word, you rascal! SCA. Have you had a pleasant journey? ARG. Yes, yes, very good. Leave me alone a little to scold this villain! SCA. You want to scold? ARG. Yes, I wish to scold. SCA. But whom, Sir? ARG. (_Pointing to_ SILVESTRE). This scoundrel! SCA. Why? ARG. Have you not heard what has taken place during my absence? SCA. Yes, I have heard some trifling thing. ARG. How! Some trifling thing! Such an action as this? SCA. You are about right. ARG. Such a daring thing to do! SCA. That's quite true. ARG. To marry without his father's consent! SCA. Yes, there is something to be said against it, but my opinion is that you should make no fuss about it. ARG. This is your opinion, but not mine; and I will make as much fuss as I please. What! do you not think that I have every reason to be angry? SCA. Quite so. I was angry myself when I first heard it; and I so far felt interested in your behalf that I rated your son well. Just ask him the fine sermons I gave him, and how I lectured him about the little respect he showed his father, whose very footsteps he ought to kiss. You could not yourself talk better to him. But what of that? I submitted to reason, and considered that, after all, he had done nothing so dreadful. ARG. What are you telling me? He has done nothing so dreadful? When he goes and marries straight off a perfect stranger? SCA. What can one do? he was urged to it by his destiny. ARG. Oh, oh! You give me there a fine reason. One has nothing better to do now than to commit the greatest crime imaginable--to cheat, steal, and murder--and give for an excuse that we were urged to it by destiny. SCA. Ah me! You take my words too much like a philosopher. I mean to say that he was fatally engaged in this affair. ARG. And why did he engage in it? SCA. Do you expect him to be as wise as you are? Can you put an old head on young shoulders, and expect young people to have all the prudence necessary to do nothing but what is reasonable? Just look at our Landre, who, in spite of all my lessons, has done even worse than that. I should like to know whether you yourself were not young once, and have not played as many pranks as others? I have heard say that you were a sad fellow in your time, that you played the gallant among the most gallant of those days, and that you never gave in until you had gained your point. ARG. It is true, I grant it; but I always confined myself to gallantry, and never went so far as to do what he has done. SCA. But what was he to do? He sees a young person who wishes him well; for he inherits it from you that all women love him. He thinks her charming, goes to see her, makes love to her, sighs as lovers sigh, and does the passionate swain. She yields to his pressing visits; he pushes his fortune. But her relations catch him with her, and oblige him to marry her by main force. SIL. (_aside_). What a clever cheat! SCA. Would you have him suffer them to murder him? It is still better to be married than to be dead. ARG. I was not told that the thing had happened in that way. SCA. (_showing_ SILVESTRE). Ask him, if you like; he will tell you the same thing. ARG. (_to_ SILVESTRE). Was he married against his wish? SIL. Yes, Sir. SCA. Do you think I would tell you an untruth? ARG. Then he should have gone at once to a lawyer to protest against the violence. SCA. It is the very thing he would not do. ARG. It would have made it easier for me to break off the marriage. SCA. Break off the marriage? ARG. Yes SCA. You will not break it off. ARG. I shall not break it off? SCA. No. ARG. What! Have I not on my side the rights of a father, and can I not have satisfaction for the violence done to my son? SCA. This is a thing he will not consent to. ARG. He will not consent to it? SCA. No. ARG. My son? SCA. Your son. Would you have him acknowledge that he was frightened, and that he yielded by force to what was wanted of him? He will take care not to confess that; it would be to wrong himself, and show himself unworthy of a father like you. ARG. I don't care for all that. SCA. He must, for his own honour and yours, say that he married of his own free will. ARG. And I wish for my own honour, and for his, that he should say the contrary. SCA. I am sure he will not do that. ARG. I shall soon make him do it. SCA. He will not acknowledge it, I tell you. ARG. He shall do it, or I will disinherit him. SCA. You? ARG. I. SCA. Nonsense! ARG. How nonsense? SCA. You will not disinherit him. ARG. I shall not disinherit him? SCA. No. ARG. No? SCA. No. ARG. Well! This is really too much! I shall not disinherit my son! SCA. No, I tell you. ARG. Who will hinder me? SCA. You yourself. ARG. I? SCA. Yes; you will never have the heart to do it. ARG. I shall have the heart. SCA. You are joking. ARG. I am not joking. SCA. Paternal love will carry the day. ARG. No, it will not. SCA. Yes, yes. ARG. I tell you that I will disinherit him. SCA. Rubbish. ARG. You may say rubbish; but I will. SCA. Gracious me, I know that you are naturally a kind-hearted man. ARG. No, I am not kind-hearted; I can be angry when I choose. Leave off talking; you put me out of all patience. (_To_ SYLVESTRE) Go, you rascal, run and fetch my son, while I go to Mr. Gronte and tell him of my misfortune. SCA. Sir, if I can be useful to you in any way, you have but to order me. ARG. I thank you. (_Aside_) Ah! Why is he my only son? Oh! that I had with me the daughter that Heaven has taken away from me, so that I might make her my heir. SCENE VII.--SCAPIN, SYLVESTRE. SIL. You are a great man, I must confess; and things are in a fair way to succeed. But, on the other hand, we are greatly pressed for money, and we have people dunning us. SCA. Leave it to me; the plan is all ready. I am only puzzling my brains to find out a fellow to act along with us, in order to play a personage I want. But let me see; just look at me a little. Stick your cap rather rakishly on one side. Put on a furious look. Put your hand on your side. Walk about like a king on the stage. {Footnote: Compare the 'Impromptu of Versailles'.} That will do. Follow me. I possess some means of changing your face and voice. SIL. I pray you, Scapin, don't go and embroil me with justice. SCA. Never mind, we will share our perils like brothers, and three years more or less on the galleys are not sufficient to check a noble heart. ACT II. SCENE I.--GRONTE, ARGANTE. GER. Yes, there is no doubt but that with this weather we shall have our people with us to-day; and a sailor who has arrived from Tarentum told me just now that he had seen our man about to start with the ship. But my daughter's arrival will find things strangely altered from what we thought they would be, and what you have just told me of your son has put an end to all the plans we had made together. ARG. Don't be anxious about that; I give you my word that I shall remove that obstacle, and I am going to see about it this moment. GER. In all good faith, Mr. Argante, shall I tell you what? The education of children is a thing that one could never be too careful about. ARG. You are right; but why do you say that? GER. Because most of the follies of young men come from the way they have been brought up by their fathers. ARG. It is so sometimes, certainly; but what do you mean by saying that to me? GER. Why do I say that to you? ARG. Yes. GER. Because, if, like a courageous father, you had corrected your son when he was young, he would not have played you such a trick. ARG. I see. So that you have corrected your own much better? GER. Certainly; and I should be very sorry if he had done anything at all like what yours has done. ARG. And if that son, so well brought up, had done worse even than mine, what would you say? GER. What? ARG. What? GER. What do you mean? ARG. I mean, Mr. Gronte, that we should never be so ready to blame the conduct of others, and that those who live in glass houses should not throw stones. GER. I really do not understand you. ARG. I will explain myself. GER. Have you heard anything about my son? ARG. Perhaps I have. GER. But what? ARG. Your servant Scapin, in his vexation, only told me the thing roughly, and you can learn all the particulars from him or from some one else. For my part, I will at once go to my solicitor, and see what steps I can take in the matter. Good-bye. SCENE II.--GRONTE (_alone_). GER. What can it be? Worse than what his son has done! I am sure I don't know what anyone can do more wrong than that; and to marry without the consent of one's father is the worst thing that I can possibly imagine. {Footnote: No exaggeration, if we consider that this was said two hundred years ago, and by a French father.} SCENE III--GRONTE, LANDRE. GER. Ah, here you are! LEA. (_going quickly towards his father to embrace him_). Ah! father, how glad I am to see you! GER. (_refusing to embrace him_). Stay, I have to speak to you first. LEA. Allow me to embrace you, and.... GER. (_refusing him again_). Gently, I tell you. LEA. How! father, you deprive me of the pleasure of showing you my joy at your return? GER. Certainly; we have something to settle first of all. LEA. But what? GER. Just stand there before me, and let me look at you. LEA. What for? GER. Look me straight in the face. LEA. Well? GER. Will you tell me what has taken place here in my absence? LEA. What has taken place? GER. Yes; what did you do while I was away? LEA. What would you have me do, father? GER. It is not I who wanted you to do anything, but who ask you now what it is you did? LEA. I have done nothing to give you reason to complain. GER. Nothing at all? LEA. No. GER. You speak in a very decided tone. LEA. It is because I am innocent. GER. And yet Scapin has told me all about you. LEA. Scapin! GER. Oh! oh! that name makes you change colour. LEA. He has told you something about me? GER. He has. But this is not the place to talk about the business, and we must go elsewhere to see to it. Go home at once; I will be there presently. Ah! scoundrel, if you mean to bring dishonour upon me, I will renounce you for my son, and you will have to avoid my presence for ever! SCENE IV.--LANDRE (_alone_). LEA. To betray me after that fashion! A rascal who for so many reasons should be the first to keep secret what I trust him with! To go and tell everything to my father! Ah! I swear by all that is dear to me not to let such villainy go unpunished. SCENE V.--OCTAVE, LANDRE, SCAPIN. OCT. My dear Scapin, what do I not owe to you? What a wonderful man you are, and how kind of Heaven to send you to my help! LEA. Ah, ah! here you are, you rascal! SCA. Sir, your servant; you do me too much honour. LEA. (_drawing his sword_). You are setting me at defiance, I believe...Ah! I will teach you how.... SCA. (_falling on his knees_). Sir! OCT. (_stepping between them_). Ah! Landre. LEA. No, Octave, do not keep me back. SCA. (_to_ LANDRE). Eh! Sir. OCT. (_keeping back_ LANDRE). For mercy's sake! LEA. (_trying to strike_). Leave me to wreak my anger upon him. OCT. In the name of our friendship, Landre, do not strike him. SCA. What have I done to you, Sir? LEA. What you have done, you scoundrel! OCT. (_still keeping back_ LANDRE). Gently, gently. LEA. No, Octave, I will have him confess here on the spot the perfidy of which he is guilty. Yes, scoundrel, I know the trick you have played me; I have just been told of it. You did not think the secret would be revealed to me, did you? But I will have you confess it with your own lips, or I will run you through and through with my sword. SCA. Ah! Sir, could you really be so cruel as that? LEA. Speak, I say. SCA. I have done something against you, Sir? LEA. Yes, scoundrel! and your conscience must tell you only too well what it is. SCA. I assure you that I do not know what you mean. LEA. (_going towards_ SCAPIN _to strike him_). You do not know? Landre! SCA. Well, Sir, since you will have it, I confess that I drank with some of my friends that small cask of Spanish wine you received as a present some days ago, and that it was I who made that opening in the cask, and spilled some water on the ground round it, to make you believe that all the wine had leaked out. LEA. What! scoundrel, it was you who drank my Spanish wine, and who suffered me to scold the servant so much, because I thought it was she who had played me that trick? SCA. Yes, Sir; I am very sorry, Sir. LEA. I am glad to know this. But this is not what I am about now. SCA. It is not that, Sir? LEA. No; it is something else, for which I care much more, and I will have you tell it me. SCA. I do not remember, Sir, that I ever did anything else. LEA. (_trying to strike_ SCAPIN). Will you speak? SCA. Ah! Gently. SCA. Yes, Sir; it is true that three weeks ago, when you sent me in the evening to take a small watch to the gypsy {Footnote: _gyptienne_. Compare act v. scene ii. _Bohmienne_ is a more usual name.} girl you love, and I came back, my clothes spattered with mud and my face covered with blood, I told you that I had been attacked by robbers who had beaten me soundly and had stolen the watch from me. It is true that I told a lie. It was I who kept the watch, Sir. LEA. It was you who stole the watch? SCA. Yes, Sir, in order to know the time. LEA. Ah! you are telling me fine things; I have indeed a very faithful servant! But it is not this that I want to know of you. SCA. It is not this? LEA. No, infamous wretch! it is something else that I want you to confess. SCA. (_aside_). Mercy on me! LEA. Speak at once; I will not be put off. SCA. Sir, I have done nothing else. LEA. Nothing else? Ah! I beg.... SCA. Well, Sir, you remember that ghost that six months ago cudgelled you soundly, and almost made you break your neck down a cellar, where you fell whilst running away? LEA. Well? SCA. It was I, Sir, who was playing the ghost. LEA. It was you, wretch! who were playing the ghost? SCA. Only to frighten you a little, and to cure you of the habit of making us go out every night as you did. LEA. I will remember in proper time and place all I have just heard. But I'll have you speak about the present matter, and tell me what it is you said to my father. SCA. What I said to your father? LEA. Yes, scoundrel! to my father. SCA. Why, I have not seen him since his return! LEA. You have not seen him? SCA. No, Sir. LEA. Is that the truth? SCA. The perfect truth; and he shall tell you so himself. LEA. And yet it was he himself who told me. SCA. With your leave, Sir, he did not tell you the truth. SCENE VI.--LANDRE, OCTAVE, CARLE, SCAPIN. CAR. Sir, I bring you very bad news concerning your love affair. LEA. What is it now? CAR. The gypsies are on the point of carrying off Zerbinette. She came herself all in tears to ask me to tell you that, unless you take to them, before two hours are over, the money they have asked you for her, she will be lost to you for ever. LEA. Two hours? CAR. Two hours. SCENE VII.--LANDRE, OCTAVE, SCAPIN. LEA. Ah! my dear Scapin, I pray you to help me. SCA. (_rising and passing proudly before_ LANDRE). Ah! my dear Scapin! I am my dear Scapin, now that I am wanted. LEA. I will forgive you all that you confessed just now, and more also. SCA. No, no; forgive me nothing; run your sword through and through my body. I should be perfectly satisfied if you were to kill me. LEA. I beseech you rather to give me life by serving my love. SCA. Nay, nay; better kill me. LEA. You are too dear to me for that. I beg of you to make use for me of that wonderful genius of yours which can conquer everything. SCA. Certainly not. Kill me, I tell you. LEA. Ah! for mercy's sake, don't think of that now, but try to give me the help I ask. OCT. Scapin, you must do something to help him. SCA. How can I after such abuse? LEA. I beseech you to forget my outburst of temper, and to make use of your skill for me. OCT. I add my entreaties to his. SCA. I cannot forget such an insult. OCT. You must not give way to resentment, Scapin. LEA. Could you forsake me, Scapin, in this cruel extremity? SCA. To come all of a sudden and insult me like that. LEA. I was wrong, I acknowledge. SCA. To call me scoundrel, knave, infamous wretch! LEA. I am really very sorry. SCA. To wish to send your sword through my body! LEA. I ask you to forgive me, with all my heart; and if you want to see me at your feet, I beseech you, kneeling, not to give me up. OCT. Scapin, you cannot resist that? SCA. Well, get up, and another time remember not to be so hasty. LEA. Will you try to act for me? SCA. I will see. LEA. But you know that time presses. SCA. Don't be anxious. How much is it you want? LEA. Five hundred crowns. SCA. You? OCT. Two hundred pistoles. SCA. I must extract this money from your respective fathers' pockets. (_To_ OCTAVE) As far as yours is concerned, my plan is all ready. (_To_ LANDRE) And as for yours, although he is the greatest miser imaginable, we shall find it easier still; for you know that he is not blessed with too much intellect, and I look upon him as a man who will believe anything. This cannot offend you; there is not a suspicion of a resemblance between him and you; and you know what the world thinks, that he is your father only in name. LEA. Gently, Scapin. SCA. Besides, what does it matter? But, Mr. Octave, I see your father coming. Let us begin by him, since he is the first to cross our path. Vanish both of you; (_to_ OCTAVE) and you, please, tell Silvestre to come quickly, and take his part in the affair. SCENE VIII.--ARGANTE, SCAPIN. SCA. (_aside_). Here he is, turning it over in his mind. ARG. Such behaviour and such lack of consideration! To entangle himself in an engagement like that! Ah! rash youth. SCA. Your servant, Sir. ARG. SCA. You are thinking of your son's conduct. ARG. Yes, I acknowledge that it grieves me deeply. SCA. Ah! Sir, life is full of troubles; and we should always be prepared for them. I was told, a long time ago, the saying of an ancient philosopher which I have never forgotten. ARG. What was it? SCA. That if the father of a family has been away from home for ever so short a time, he ought to dwell upon all the sad news that may greet him on his return. He ought to fancy his house burnt down, his money stolen, his wife dead, his son married, his daughter ruined; and be very thankful for whatever falls short of all this. In my small way of philosophy, I have ever taken this lesson to heart; and I never come home but I expect to have to bear with the anger of my masters, their scoldings, insults, kicks, blows, and horse-whipping. And I always thank my destiny for whatever I do not receive. ARG. That's all very well; but this rash marriage is more than I can put up with, and it forces me to break off the match I had intended for my son. I have come from my solicitor's to see if we can cancel it. SCA. Well, Sir, if you will take my advice, you will look to some other way of settling this business. You know what a law-suit means in this country, and you'll find yourself in the midst of a strange bush of thorns. ARG. I am fully aware that you are quite right; but what else can I do? SCA. I think I have found something that will answer much better. The sorrow that I felt for you made me rummage in my head to find some means of getting you out of trouble; for I cannot bear to see kind fathers a prey to grief without feeling sad about it, and, besides, I have at all times had the greatest regard for you. ARG. I am much obliged to you. SCA. Then you must know that I went to the brother of the young girl whom your son has married. He is one of those fire-eaters, one of those men all sword-thrusts, who speak of nothing but fighting, and who think no more of killing a man than of swallowing a glass of wine. I got him to speak of this marriage; I showed him how easy it would be to have it broken off, because of the violence used towards your son. I spoke to him of your prerogatives as father, and of the weight which your rights, your money, and your friends would have with justice. I managed him so that at last he lent a ready ear to the propositions I made to him of arranging the matter amicably for a sum of money. In short, he will give his consent to the marriage being cancelled, provided you pay him well. ARG. And how much did he ask? SCA. Oh! at first things utterly out of the question. ARG. But what? SCA. Things utterly extravagant. ARG. But what? SCA. He spoke of no less than five or six hundred pistoles. ARG. Five or six hundred agues to choke him withal. Does he think me a fool? SCA. Just what I told him. I laughed his proposal to scorn, and made him understand that you were not a man to be duped in that fashion, and of whom anyone can ask five or six hundred pistoles! However, after much talking, this is what we decided upon. "The time is now come," he said, "when I must go and rejoin the army. I am buying my equipments, and the want of money I am in forces me to listen to what you propose. I must have a horse, and I cannot obtain one at all fit for the service under sixty pistoles." ARG. Well, yes; I am willing to give sixty pistoles. SCA. He must have the harness and pistols, and that will cost very nearly twenty pistoles more. ARG. Twenty and sixty make eighty. SCA. Exactly. ARG. It's a great deal; still, I consent to that. SCA. He must also have a horse for his servant, which, we may expect, will cost at least thirty pistoles. ARG. How, the deuce! Let him go to Jericho. He shall have nothing at all. SCA. Sir! ARG. No; he's an insolent fellow. SCA. Would you have his servant walk? ARG. Let him get along as he pleases, and the master too. SCA. Now, Sir, really don't go and hesitate for so little. Don't have recourse to law, I beg of you, but rather give all that is asked of you, and save yourself from the clutches of justice. ARG. Well, well! I will bring myself to give these thirty pistoles also. SCA. "I must also have," he said, "a mule to carry...." ARG. Let him go to the devil with his mule! This is asking too much. We will go before the judges. SCA. I beg of you, Sir! ARG. No, I will not give in. SCA. Sir, only one small mule. ARG. No; not even an ass. SCA. Consider.... ARG. No, I tell you; I prefer going to law. SCA. Ah! Sir, what are you talking about, and what a resolution you are going to take. Just cast a glance on the ins and outs of justice, look at the number of appeals, of stages of jurisdiction; how many embarrassing procedures; how many ravening wolves through whose claws you will have to pass; serjeants, solicitors, counsel, registrars, substitutes, recorders, judges and their clerks. There is not one of these who, for the merest trifle, couldn't knock over the best case in the world. A serjeant will issue false writs without your knowing anything of it. Your solicitor will act in concert with your adversary, and sell you for ready money. Your counsel, bribed in the same way, will be nowhere to be found when your case comes on, or else will bring forward arguments which are the merest shooting in the air, and will never come to the point. The registrar will issue writs and decrees against you for contumacy. The recorder's clerk will make away with some of your papers, or the instructing officer himself will not say what he has seen, and when, by dint of the wariest possible precautions, you have escaped all these traps, you will be amazed that your judges have been set against you either by bigots or by the women they love. Ah! Sir, save yourself from such a hell, if you can. 'Tis damnation in this world to have to go to law; and the mere thought of a lawsuit is quite enough to drive me to the other end of the world. ARG. How much does he want for the mule? SCA. For the mule, for his horse and that of his servant, for the harness and pistols, and to pay a little something he owes at the hotel, he asks altogether two hundred pistoles, Sir. ARG. Two hundred pistoles? SCA. Yes. ARG. (_walking about angrily_). No, no; we will go to law. SCA. Recollect what you are doing. ARG. I shall go to law. SCA. Don't go and expose yourself to.... ARG. I will go to law. SCA. But to go to law you need money. You must have money for the summons, you must have money for the rolls, for prosecution, attorney's introduction, solicitor's advice, evidence, and his days in court. You must have money for the consultations and pleadings of the counsel, for the right of withdrawing the briefs, and for engrossed copies of the documents. You must have money for the reports of the substitutes, for the court fees {1} at the conclusion, for registrar's enrolment, drawing up of deeds, sentences, decrees, rolls, signings, and clerks' despatches; letting alone all the presents you will have to make. Give this money to the man, and there you are well out of the whole thing. {1} _pices_, "spices," in ancient times, equalled _sweetmeats_, and were given to the judge by the side which gained the suit, as a mark of gratitude. These _pices_ had long been changed into a compulsory payment of money when Molire wrote. In Racine's _Plaideurs_, act ii. scene vii., Petit Jean takes literally the demand of the judge for _pices_, and fetches the pepper-box to satisfy him. ARG. SCA. Yes, and you will save by it. I have made a small calculation in my head of all that justice costs, and I find that by giving two hundred pistoles to your man you will have a large margin left--say, at least a hundred and fifty pistoles--without taking into consideration the cares, troubles, and anxieties, which you will spare yourself. For were it only to avoid being before everybody the butt of some facetious counsel, I had rather give three hundred pistoles than go to law. {Footnote: What would Molire have said if he had been living now!} ARG. I don't care for that, and I challenge all the lawyers to say anything against me. SCA. You will do as you please, but in your place I would avoid a lawsuit. ARG. I will never give two hundred pistoles. SCA. Ah! here is our man. SCENE IX.--ARGANTE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE, _dressed out as a bravo_. SIL. Scapin, show me that Argante who is the father of Octave. SCA. What for, Sir? SIL. I have just been told that he wants to go to law with me, and to have my sister's marriage annulled. SCA. I don't know if such is his intention, but he won't consent to give the two hundred pistoles you asked; he says it's too much. SIL. S'death! s'blood! If I can but find him, I'll make mince-meat of him, were I to be broken alive on the wheel afterwards. (ARGANTE _hides, trembling, behind_ SCAPIN.) SCA. Sir, the father of Octave is a brave man, and perhaps he will not be afraid of you. SIL. Ah! will he not? S'blood! s'death! If he were here, I would in a moment run my sword through his body. (_Seeing_ ARGANTE.) Who is that man? SCA. He's not the man, Sir; he's not the man. SIL. Is he one of his friends? SCA. No, Sir; on the contrary, he's his greatest enemy. SIL. His greatest enemy? SCA. Yes. SIL. Ah! zounds! I am delighted at it. (_To_ ARGANTE) You are an enemy of that scoundrel Argante, are you? SCA. Yes, yes; I assure you that it is so. SIL. (_shaking_ ARGANTE'S _hand roughly_). Shake hands, shake hands. I give you my word, I swear upon my honour, by the sword I wear, by all the oaths I can take, that, before the day is over, I shall have delivered you of that rascally knave, of that scoundrel Argante. Trust me. SCA. But, Sir, violent deeds are not allowed in this country. SIL. I don't care, and I have nothing to lose. SCA. He will certainly take his precautions; he has relations, friends, servants, who will take his part against you. SIL. Blood and thunder! It is all I ask, all I ask. Ah! s'death! ah! s'blood! Why can I not meet him at this very moment, with all these relations and friends of his? If he would only appear before me, surrounded by a score of them! Why do they not fall upon me, arms in hand? (_Standing upon his guard_.) What! you villains! you dare to attack me? Now, s'death! Kill and slay! (_He lunges out on all sides; as if he were fighting many people at once_.) No quarter; lay on. Thrust. Firm. Again. Eye and foot. Ah! knaves! ah! rascals! ah! you shall have a taste of it. I'll give you your fill. Come on, you rabble! come on. That's what you want, you there. You shall have your fill of it, I say. Stick to it, you brutes; stick to it. Now, then, parry; now, then, you. (_Turning towards_ ARGANTE and SCAPIN.) Parry this; parry. You draw back? Stand firm, man! S'death! What! Never flinch, I say. SCA. Sir, we have nothing to do with it. SIL. That will teach you to trifle with me. SCENE X.--ARGANTE, SCAPIN. SCA. Well, Sir, you see how many people are killed for two hundred pistoles. Now I wish you a good morning. ARG. (_all trembling_). Scapin. SCA. What do you say? ARG. I will give the two hundred pistoles. SCA. I am very glad of it, for your sake. ARG. Let us go to him; I have them with me. SCA. Better give them to me. You must not, for your honour, appear in this business, now that you have passed for another; and, besides, I should be afraid that he would ask you for more, if he knew who you are. ARG. True; still I should be glad to see to whom I give my money. SCA. Do you mistrust me then? ARG. Oh no; but.... SCA. Zounds! Sir; either I am a thief or an honest man; one or the other. Do you think I would deceive you, and that in all this I have any other interest at heart than yours and that of my master, whom you want to take into your family? If I have not all your confidence, I will have no more to do with all this, and you can look out for somebody else to get you out of the mess. ARG. Here then. SCA. No, Sir; do not trust your money to me. I would rather you trusted another with your message. ARG. Ah me! here, take it. SCA. No, no, I tell you; do not trust me. Who knows if I do not want to steal your money from you? ARG. Take it, I tell you, and don't force me to ask you again. However, mind you have an acknowledgment from him. SCA. Trust me; he hasn't to do with an idiot. ARG. I will go home and wait for you. SCA. I shall be sure to go. (_Alone_.) That one's all right; now for the other. Ah! here he is. They are sent one after the other to fall into my net. SCENE XI.--GRONTE, SCAPIN. SCA. (_affecting not to see_ GRONTE). O Heaven! O unforeseen misfortune! O unfortunate father! Poor Gronte, what will you do? GER. (_aside_). What is he saying there with that doleful face? SCA. Can no one tell me whereto find Mr. Gronte? GER. What is the matter, Scapin? SCA. (_running about on the stage, and still affecting not to see or hear_ GRONTE). Where could I meet him, to tell him of this misfortune? GER. (_stopping_ SCAPIN). What is the matter? SCA. (_as before_). In vain I run everywhere to meet him. I cannot find him. GER. Here I am. SCA. (_as before_). He must have hidden himself in some place which nobody can guess. GER. (_stopping_ SCAPIN _again_). Ho! I say, are you blind? Can't you see me? SCA. Ah! Sir, it is impossible to find you. GER. I have been near you for the last half-hour. What is it all about? SCA. Sir.... GER. Well! SCA. Your son, Sir.... GER. Well! My son.... SCA. Has met with the strangest misfortune you ever heard of. GER. What is it? SCA. This afternoon I found him looking very sad about something which you had said to him, and in which you had very improperly mixed my name. While trying: to dissipate his sorrow, we went and walked about in the harbour. There, among other things, was to be seen a Turkish galley. A young Turk, with a gentlemanly look about him, invited us to go in, and held out his hand to us. We went in. He was most civil to us; gave us some lunch, with the most excellent fruit and the best wine you have ever seen. GER. What is there so sad about all this? SCA. Wait a little; it is coming. Whilst we were eating, the galley left the harbour, and when in the open sea, the Turk made me go down into a boat, and sent me to tell you that unless you sent by me five hundred crowns, he would take your son prisoner to Algiers. GER. What! SCA. Yes, Sir; and, moreover, he only gave me two hours to find them in. GER. Ah! the scoundrel of a Turk to murder me in that fashion! SCA. It is for you, Sir, to see quickly about the means of saving from slavery a son whom you love so tenderly. GER. What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for? {Footnote: _Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galre?_ This sentence has become established in the language with the meaning, "Whatever business had he there?"} SCA. He had no idea of what would happen. GER. Go, Scapin, go quickly, and tell that Turk that I shall send the police after him. SCA. The police in the open sea! Are you joking? GER. SCA. A cruel destiny will sometimes lead people. GER. Listen, Scapin; you must act in this the part of a faithful servant. SCA. How, Sir? GER. You must go and tell that Turk that he must send me back my son, and that you will take his place until I have found the sum he asks. SCA. Ah! Sir; do you know what you are saying? and do you fancy that that Turk will be foolish enough to receive a poor wretch like me in your son's stead? GER. SCA. He could not foresee his misfortune. However, Sir, remember that he has given me only two hours. GER. You say that he asks.... SCA. GER. Has he no conscience? SCA. Ah! ah! Conscience in a Turk! GER. Does he understand what five hundred crowns are? SCA. Yes, Sir, he knows that five hundred crowns are one thousand five hundred francs. {Footnote: The _cu_ stands usually for _petit cu_, which equalled three franks. "Crown," employed in a general sense, seems the only translation possible.} GER. Does the scoundrel think that one thousand five hundred francs are to be found in the gutter? SCA. Such people will never listen to reason. GER. But what the deuce did he want to go in that galley for? SCA. Ah! what a waste of words! Leave the galley alone; remember that time presses, and that you are running the risk of losing your son for ever. Alas! my poor master, perhaps I shall never see you again, and that at this very moment, whilst I am speaking to you, they are taking you away to make a slave of you in Algiers! But Heaven is my witness that I did all I could, and that, if you are not brought back, it is all owing to the want of love of your father. GER. Wait a minute, Scapin; I will go and fetch that sum of money. SCA. Be quick, then, for I am afraid of not being in time. GER. You said four hundred crowns; did you not? SCA. No, five hundred crowns. GER. SCA. Yes. GER. SCA. Quite right, but be quick. GER. Could he not have chosen another walk? SCA. It is true; but act promptly. GER. Cursed galley! SCA. (_aside_) That galley sticks in his throat. GER. Here, Scapin; I had forgotten that I have just received this sum in gold, and I had no idea it would so soon be wrenched from me. (_Taking his purse out of his pocket, and making as if he were giving it to_ SCAPIN.) But mind you tell that Turk that he is a scoundrel. SCA. (_holding out his hand_). Yes. GER. (_as above_). An infamous wretch. SCA. (_still holding out his hand_). Yes. GER. (_as above_). A man without conscience, a thief. SCA. Leave that to me. GER. (_as above_). That.... SCA. All right. GER. (_as above_). And that, if ever I catch him, he will pay for it. SCA. Yes. GER. (_putting back the purse in his pocket_). Go, go quickly, and fetch my son. SCA. (_running after him_). Hallo! Sir. GER. Well? SCA. And the money? GER. Did I not give it to you? SCA. No, indeed, you put it back in pour pocket. GER. Ah! it is grief which troubles my mind. SCA. So I see. GER. Ah! cursed galley! Scoundrel of a Turk! May the devil take you! SCAPIN (_alone_). He can't get over the five hundred crowns I wrench from him; but he has not yet done with me, and I will make him pay in a different money his imposture about me to his son. SCENE XII.-OCTAVE, LANDRE, SCAPIN. OCT. Well, Scapin, have your plans been successful? LEA. Have you done anything towards alleviating my sorrow? SCA. (_to_ OCTAVE). Here are two hundred pistoles I have got from your father. OCT. Ah! how happy you make me. SCA. (_to_ LANDRE), But I could do nothing for you. LEA. (_going away_). Then I must die, Sir, for I could not live without Zerbinette. SCA. Hallo! stop, stop; my goodness, how quick you are! LEA. What can become of me? SCA. There, there, I have all you want. LEA. Ah! you bring me back to life again. SCA. But I give it you only on one condition, which is that you will allow me to revenge myself a little on your father for the trick he has played me. LEA. You may do as you please. SCA. You promise it to me before witnesses? LEA. Yes. SCA. There, take these five hundred crowns. LEA. Ah! I will go at once and buy her whom I adore. ACT III. SCENE I.--ZERBINETTE, HYACINTHA, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE. SIL. Yes; your lovers have decided that you should be together, and we are acting according to their orders. HYA. (_to_ ZERBINETTE). Such an order has nothing in it but what is pleasant to me. I receive such a companion with joy, and it will not be my fault if the friendship which exists between those we love does not exist also between us two. ZER. I accept the offer, and I am not one to draw back when friendship is asked of me. SCA. And when it is love that is asked of you? ZER. Ah! love is a different thing. One runs more risk, and I feel less determined. SCA. You are determined enough against my master, and yet what he has just done for you ought to give you confidence enough to respond to his love as you should. ZER. As yet I only half trust him, and what he has just done is not sufficient to reassure me. I am of a happy disposition, and am very fond of fun, it is true. But though I laugh, I am serious about many things; and your master will find himself deceived if he thinks that it is sufficient for him to have bought me, for me to be altogether his. He will have to give something else besides money, and for me to answer to his love as he wishes me, he must give me his word, with an accompaniment of certain little ceremonies which are thought indispensable. SCA. It is so he understands this matter. He only wants you as his wife, and I am not a man to have mixed in this business if he had meant anything else. ZER. I believe it since you say so; but I foresee certain difficulties with the father. SCA. We shall find a way of settling that. HYA. (_to_ ZERBINETTE). The similarity of our fate ought to strengthen the tie of friendship between us. We are both subject to the same fears, both exposed to the same misfortune. ZER. You have this advantage at least that you know who your parents are, and that, sure of their help, when you wish to make them known, you can secure your happiness by obtaining a consent to the marriage you have contracted. But I, on the contrary, have no such hope to fall back upon, and the position I am in is little calculated to satisfy the wishes of a father whose whole care is money. HYA. That is true; but you have this in your favour, that the one you love is under no temptation of contracting another marriage. ZER. A change in a lover's heart is not what we should fear the most. We may justly rely on our own power to keep the conquest we have made; but what I particularly dread is the power of the fathers; for we cannot expect to see them moved by our merit. HYA. Alas! Why must the course of true love never run smooth? How sweet it would be to love with no link wanting in those chains which unite two hearts. SCA. How mistaken you are about this! Security in love forms a very unpleasant calm. Constant happiness becomes wearisome. We want ups and downs in life; and the difficulties which generally beset our path in this world revive us, and increase our sense of pleasure. ZER. Do tell us, Scapin, all about that stratagem of yours, which, I was told, is so very amusing; and how you managed to get some money out of your old miser. You know that the trouble of telling me something amusing is not lost upon me, and that I well repay those who take that trouble by the pleasure it gives me. SCA. Silvestre here will do that as well as I. I am nursing in my heart a certain little scheme of revenge which I mean to enjoy thoroughly. SIL. Why do you recklessly engage in enterprises that may bring you into trouble? SCA. I delight in dangerous enterprises. SIL. As I told you already, you would give up the idea you have if you would listen to me. SCA. I prefer listening to myself. SIL. Why the deuce do you engage in such a business? SCA. Why the deuce do you trouble yourself about it? SIL. It is because I can see that you will without necessity bring a storm of blows upon yourself. SCA. Ah, well, it will be on my shoulders, and not on yours. SIL. It is true that you are master of your own shoulders, and at liberty to dispose of them as you please. SCA. Such dangers never stop me, and I hate those fearful hearts which, by dint of thinking of what may happen, never undertake anything. ZER. (_to_ SCAPIN). But we shall want you. SCA. Oh, yes! but I shall soon be with you again. It shall never be said that a man has with impunity put me into a position of betraying myself, and of revealing secrets which it were better should not be known. SCENE II.--GRONTE, SCAPIN. GER. Well! Scapin, and how have we succeeded about my son's mischance? SCA. Your son is safe, Sir; but you now run the greatest danger imaginable, and I sincerely wish you were safe in your house. GER. How is that? SCA. While I am speaking to you, there are people who are looking out for you everywhere. GER. For me? SCA. Yes. GER. But who? SCA. The brother of that young girl whom Octave has married. He thinks that you are trying to break off that match, because you intend to give to your daughter the place she occupies in the heart of Octave; and he has resolved to wreak his vengeance upon you. All his friends, men of the sword like himself, are looking out for you, and are seeking you everywhere. I have met with scores here and there, soldiers of his company, who question every one they meet, and occupy in companies all the thoroughfares leading to your house, so that you cannot go home either to the right or the left without falling into their hands. GER. What can I do, my dear Scapin? SCA. I am sure I don't know, Sir; it is an unpleasant business. I tremble for you from head to foot and.... Wait a moment. (SCAPIN _goes to see in the back of the stage if there is anybody coming_.) GER. (_trembling_). Well? SCA. (_coming back_). No, no; 'tis nothing. GER. Could you not find out some means of saving me? SCA. I can indeed think of one, but I should run the risk of a sound beating. GER. Ah! Scapin, show yourself a devoted servant. Do not forsake me, I pray you. SCA. I will do what I can. I feel for you a tenderness which renders it impossible for me to leave you without help. GER. Be sure that I will reward you for it, Scapin, and I promise you this coat of mine when it is a little more worn. SCA. Wait a minute. I have just thought, at the proper moment, of the very thing to save you. You must get into this sack, and I.... GER. (_thinking he sees somebody_). Ah! SCA. No, no, no, no; 'tis nobody. As I was saying, you must get in here, and must be very careful not to stir. I will put you on my shoulders, and carry you like a bundle of something or other. I shall thus be able to take you through your enemies, and see you safe into your house. When there, we will barricade the door and send for help. GER. A very good idea. SCA. The best possible. You will see. (_Aside_) Ah! you shall pay me for that lie. GER. What? SCA. I only say that your enemies will be finely caught. Get in right to the bottom, and, above all things, be careful not to show yourself and not to move, whatever may happen. GER. You may trust me to keep still. SCA. Hide yourself; here comes one of the bullies! He is looking for you. (_Altering his voice_.) {Footnote: All the parts within inverted commas are supposed to be spoken by the man Scapin is personating; the rest by himself.} "Vat! I shall not hab de pleasure to kill dis Gronte, and one vill not in sharity show me vere is he?" (_To_ GRONTE, _in his ordinary tone_) Do not stir. "Pardi! I vill find him if he lied in de mittle ob de eart" (_To_ GRONTE, _in his natural tone_) Do not show yourself. "Ho! you man vid a sack!" Sir! "I will give thee a pound if thou vilt tell me where dis Gronte is." You are looking for Mr. Gronte? "Yes, dat I am." And on what business, Sir? "For vat pusiness?" Yes. "I vill, pardi! trash him vid one stick to dead." Oh! Sir, people like him are not thrashed with sticks, and he is not a man to be treated so. "Vat! dis fob of a Gronte, dis prute, dis cat." Mr. Gronte, Sir, is neither a fop, a brute, nor a cad; and you ought, if you please, to speak differently. "Vat! you speak so mighty vit me?" I am defending, as I ought, an honourable man who is maligned. "Are you one friend of dis Gronte?" Yes, Sir, I am. "Ah, ah! You are one friend of him, dat is goot luck!" (_Beating the sack several times with the stick_.) "Here is vat I give you for him." (_Calling out as if he received the beating_) Ah! ah! ah! ah! Sir. Ah! ah! Sir, gently! Ah! pray. Ah! ah! ah! "Dere, bear him dat from me. Goot-pye." Ah! the wretch. Ah!...ah! GER. (_looking out_). Ah! Scapin, I can bear it no longer. SCA. Ah! Sir, I am bruised all over, and my shoulders are as sore as can be. GER. How! It was on mine he laid his stick. SCA. I beg your pardon, Sir, it was on my back. GER. What do you mean? I am sure I felt the blows, and feel them still. SCA. No, I tell you; it was only the end of his stick that reached your shoulders. GER. You should have gone a little farther back, then, to spare me, and.... SCA. (_pushing_ GRONTE'S _head back into the sack_). Take care, here is another man who looks like a foreigner. "Frient, me run like one Dutchman, and me not fint all de tay dis treatful Gronte." Hide yourself well. "Tell me, you, Sir gentleman, if you please, know you not vere is dis Gronte, vat me look for?" No, Sir, I do not know where Gronte is. "Tell me, trutful, me not vant much vit him. Only to gife him one tosen plows vid a stick, and two or tree runs vid a swort tro' his shest." I assure you, Sir, I do not know where he is. "It seems me I see sometink shake in dat sack." Excuse me, Sir. "I pe shure dere is sometink or oder in dat sack." Not at all, Sir. "Me should like to gife one plow of de swort in dat sack." Ah! Sir, beware, pray you, of doing so. "Put, show me ten vat to be dere?" Gently, Sir. "Why chently?" You have nothing to do with what I am carrying. "And I, put I vill see." You shall not see. "Ah! vat trifling." It is some clothes of mine. "Show me tem, I tell you." I will not. "You vill not?" No. "I make you feel this shtick upon de sholders." I don't care. "Ah! you vill poast!" (_Striking the sack, and calling out as if he were beaten_) Oh! oh! oh! Oh! Sir. Oh! oh! "Goot-bye, dat is one littel lesson teach you to speak so insolent." Ah! plague the crazy jabberer! Oh! GER. (_looking out of the sack_). Ah! all my bones are broken. SCA. Ah! I am dying. GER. Why the deuce do they strike on my back? SCA. (_pushing his head back into the bag_). Take care; I see half a dozen soldiers coming together. (_Imitating the voices of several people_.) "Now, we must discover Gronte; let us look everywhere carefully. We must spare no trouble, scour the town, and not forget one single spot Let us search on all sides. Which way shall we go? Let us go that way. No, this. On the left. On the right. No; yes." (_To_ GRONTE _in his ordinary voice_) Hide yourself well. "Ah! here is his servant. I say, you rascal, you must tell us where your master is. Speak. Be quick. At once. Make haste. Now." Ah! gentlemen, one moment. (GRONTE _looks quietly out of the bag, and sees_ SCAPIN'S _trick_.) "If you do not tell us at once where your master is, we will shower a rain of blows on your back." I had rather suffer anything than tell you where my master is. "Very well, we will cudgel you soundly." Do as you please. "You want to be beaten, then?" I will never betray my master. "Ah! you will have it--there." Oh! (_As he is going to strike_, GRONTE _gets out of the bag, and_ SCAPIN _runs away_.) GER. (_alone_). Ah! infamous wretch! ah I rascal! ah! scoundrel! It is thus that you murder me? SCENE III.--ZERBINETTE, GRONTE. ZER. (_laughing, without seeing_ GRONTE). Ah, ah! I must really come and breathe a little. GER. (_aside, not seeing_ ZERBINETTE). Ah! I will make you pay for it. ZER. (_not seeing_ GRONTE). Ah, ah, ah, ah! What an amusing story! What a good dupe that old man is! GER. This is no matter for laughter; and you have no business to laugh at it. ZER. Why? What do you mean, Sir? GER. I mean to say that you ought not to laugh at me. ZER. Laugh at you? GER. Yes. ZER. How! Who is thinking of laughing at you? GER. Why do you come and laugh in my face? ZER. This has nothing to do with you. I am only laughing with myself at the remembrance of a story which has just been told me. The most amusing story in the world. I don't know if it is because I am interested in the matter, but I never heard anything so absurd as the trick that has just been played by a son to his father to get some money out of him. GER. By a son to his father to get some money out of him? ZER. Yes; and if you are at all desirous of hearing how it was done, I will tell you the whole affair. I have a natural longing for imparting to others the funny things I know. GER. Pray, tell me that story. ZER. Willingly. I shall not risk much by telling it you, for it is an adventure which is not likely to remain secret long. Fate placed me among one of those bands of people who are called gypsies, and who, tramping from province to province, tell you your fortune, and do many other things besides. When we came to this town, I met a young man, who, on seeing me, fell in love with me. From that moment he followed me everywhere; and, like all young men, he imagined that he had but to speak and things would go on as he liked; but he met with a pride which forced him to think twice. He spoke of his love to the people in whose power I was, and found them ready to give me up for a certain sum of money. But the sad part of the business was that my lover found himself exactly in the same condition as most young men of good family, that is, without any money at all. His father, although rich, is the veriest old skinflint and greatest miser you ever heard of. Wait a moment--what is his name? I don't remember it--can't you help me? Can't you name some one in this town who is known to be the most hard-fisted old miser in the place? GER. No. ZER. There is in his name some Ron...Ronte... Or...Oronte...No. G...Gronte. Yes, Gronte, that's my miser's name. I have it now; it is the old churl I mean. Well, to come back to our story. Our people wished to leave this town to-day, and my lover would have lost me through his lack of money if, in order to wrench some out of his father, he had not made use of a clever servant he has. As for that servant's name, I remember it very well. His name is Scapin. He is a most wonderful man, and deserves the highest praise. GER. (_aside_). Ah, the wretch! ZER. But just listen to the plan he adopted to take in his dupe--ah! ah! ah! ah! I can't think of it without laughing heartily--ah! ah! ah! He went to that old screw--ah! ah! ah!--and told him that while he was walking about the harbour with his son--ah! ah!--they noticed a Turkish galley; that a young Turk had invited them to come in and see it; that he had given them some lunch--ah! ah!--and that, while they were at table, the galley had gone into the open sea; that the Turk had sent him alone back, with the express order to say to him that, unless he sent him five hundred crowns, he would take his son to be a slave in Algiers--ah, ah, ah! You may imagine our miser, our stingy old curmudgeon, in the greatest anguish, struggling between his love for his son and his love for his money. Those five hundred crowns that are asked of him are five hundred dagger-thrusts--ah! ah! ah! ah! He can't bring his mind to tear out, as it were, this sum from his heart, and his anguish makes him think of the most ridiculous means to find money for his son's ransom--ah! ah! ah! He wants to send the police into the open sea after the Turk's galley--ah! ah! ah! He asks his servant to take the place of his son till he has found the money to pay for him--money he has no intention of giving--ah! ah! ah! He yields up, to make the five hundred crowns, three or four old suits which are not worth thirty--ah! ah! ah! The servant shows him each time how absurd is what he proposes, and each reflection of the old fellow is accompanied by an agonising, "But what the deuce did he want to go in that galley for? Ah! cursed galley. Ah! At last, after many hesitations, after having sighed and groaned for a long time...But it seems to me that my story does not make you laugh; what do you say to it? GER. What I say? That the young man is a scoundrel--a good-for-nothing fellow--who will be punished by his father for the trick he has played him; that the gypsy girl is a bold, impudent hussy to come and insult a man of honour, who will give her what she deserves for coming here to debauch the sons of good families; and that the servant is an infamous wretch, whom Gronte will take care to have hung before to-morrow is over. SCENE IV.--ZERBINETTE, SILVESTRE. SIL. Where are you running away to? Do you know that the man you were speaking to is your lover's father? ZER. I have just begun to suspect that it was so; and I related to him his own story without knowing who he was. SIL. What do you mean by his story? ZER. Yes; I was so full of that story that I longed to tell it to somebody. But what does it matter? So much the worse for him. I do not see that things can be made either better or worse. SIL. You must have been in a great hurry to chatter; and it is indiscretion, indeed, not to keep silent on your own affairs. ZER. Oh! he would have heard it from somebody else. SCENE V.--ARGANTE, ZERBINETTE, SILVESTRE. ARG. (_behind the scenes_). Hullo! Silvestre. SIL. (_to_ ZERBINETTE). Go in there; my master is calling me. SCENE VI.--ARGANTE, SILVESTRE. ARG. So you agreed, you rascals; you agreed--Scapin, you, and my son--to cheat me out of my money; and you think that I am going to bear it patiently? SIL. Upon my word, Sir, if Scapin is deceiving you, it is none of my doing. I assure you that I have nothing whatever to do with it. ARG. We shall see, you rascal! we shall see; and I am not going to be made a fool of for nothing. SCENE VII.-GRONTE, ARGANTE, SILVESTRE. GER. Ah! Mr. Argante, you see me in the greatest trouble. ARG. And I am in the greatest sorrow. GER. This rascal, Scapin, has got five hundred crowns out of me. ARG. Yes, and this same rascal, Scapin, two hundred pistoles out of me. GER. He was not satisfied with getting those five hundred crowns, but treated me besides in a manner I am ashamed to speak of. But he--shall pay me for it. ARG. I shall have him punished for the trick he has played me. GER. And I mean to make an example of him. SIL. (_aside_). May Heaven grant that I do not catch my share of all this! GER. But, Mr. Argante, this is not all; and misfortunes, as you know, never come alone. I was looking forward to the happiness of to-day seeing my daughter, who was everything to me; and I have just heard that she left Tarentum a long while since; and there is every reason to suppose that the ship was wrecked, and that she is lost to me for ever. ARG. But why did you keep her in Tarentum, instead of enjoying the happiness of having her with you? GER. I had my reasons for it; some family interests forced me till now to keep my second marriage secret. But what do I see? SCENE VIII.--ARGANTE, GRONTE, NRINE, SILVESTRE. GER. What! you here, Nrine? NER. (_on her knees before_ GRONTE). Ah! Mr. Pandolphe, how.... GER. Call me Gronte, and do not use the other name any more. The reasons which forced me to take it at Tarentum exist no longer. NER. Alas! what sorrow that change of name has caused us; what troubles and difficulties in trying to find you out! GER. And where are my daughter and her mother? NER. Your daughter, Sir, is not far from here; but before I go to fetch her, I must ask you to forgive me for having married her, because of the forsaken state we found ourselves in, when we had no longer any hope of meeting you. GER. My daughter is married? NER. Yes, Sir. GER. And to whom? NER. To a young man, called Octave, the son of a certain Mr. Argante. GER. O Heaven! ARG. What an extraordinary coincidence. GER. Take us quickly where she is. NER. You have but to come into this house. GER. Go in first; follow me, follow me, Mr. Argante. SIL. (alone). Well, this is a strange affair. SCENE IX.--SCAPIN, SILVESTRE. SCA. Well, Silvestre, what are our people doing? SIL. I have two things to tell you. One is that Octave is all right; our Hyacintha is, it seems, the daughter of Gronte, and chance has brought to pass what the wisdom of the fathers had decided. The other, that the old men threaten you with the greatest punishments--particularly Mr. Gronte. SCA. Oh, that's nothing. Threats have never done me any harm as yet; they are but clouds which pass away far above our heads. SIL. You had better take care. The sons may get reconciled to their fathers, and leave you in the lurch. SCA. Leave that to me. I shall find the means of soothing their anger, and.... SIL. Go away; I see them coming. SCENE X.--GRONTE, ARGANTE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NRINE, SILVESTRE. GER. Come, my daughter; come to my house. My happiness would be perfect if your mother had been with you. ARG. Here is Octave coming just at the right time. SCENE XI.--ARGANTE, GRONTE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NRINE, SILVESTRE. ARG. Come, my son, come and rejoice with us about the happiness of your marriage. Heaven.... OCT. No, father, all your proposals for marriage are useless. I must be open with you, and you have been told how I am engaged. ARG. Yes; but what you do not know.... OCT. I know all I care to know. ARG. I mean to say that the daughter of Mr. Gronte.... OCT. The daughter of Mr. Gronte will never be anything to me. GER. It is she who.... OCT. (_to_ GRONTE). You need not go on, Sir; I hope you will forgive me, but I shall abide by my resolution. SIL. (_to_ OCTAVE). Listen.... OCT. Be silent; I will listen to nothing. ARG. (_to_ OCTAVE). Your wife.... OCT. No, father, I would rather die than lose my dear Hyacintha (_crossing the theatre, and placing himself by_ HYACINTHA). Yes, all you would do is useless; this is the one to whom my heart is engaged. I will have no other wife. ARG. Well! she it is whom we give you. What a madcap you are never to listen to anything but your own foolish whim. HYA. (_showing_ GRONTE). Yes, Octave, this is my father whom I have found again, and all our troubles are over. GER. Let us go home; we shall talk more comfortably at home. HYA. (_showing_ ZERBINETTE). Ah! father, I beg of you the favour not to part me from this charming young lady. She has noble qualities, which will be sure to make you like her when you know her. GER. What! do you wish me to take to my house a girl with whom your brother is in love, and who told me to my face so many insulting things? ZER. Pray forgive me, Sir; I should not have spoken in that way if I had known who you were, and I only knew you by reputation. GER. By reputation; what do you mean? HYA. Father, I can answer for it that she is most virtuous, and that the love my brother has for her is pure. GER. It is all very well. You would try now to persuade me to marry my son to her, a stranger, a street-girl! SCENE XII.-ARGANTE, GRONTE, LANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NRINE, SILVESTRE. LEA. My father, you must no longer say that I love a stranger without birth or wealth. Those from whom I bought her have just told me that she belongs to an honest family in this town. They stole her away when she was four years old, and here is a bracelet which they gave me, and which will help me to discover her family. ARG. Ah! To judge by this bracelet, this is my daughter whom I lost when she was four years old. GER. Your daughter? ARG. Yes, I see she is my daughter. I know all her features again. My dear child! GER. Oh! what wonderful events! SCENE XIII.--ARGANTE, GRONTE, LANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NRINE, SILVESTRE, CARLE. CAR. Ah! gentlemen, a most sad accident has just taken place. GER. What is it? CAR. Poor Scapin.... GER. Is a rascal whom I shall see hung. CAR. Alas! Sir, you will not have that trouble. As he was passing near a building, a bricklayer's hammer fell on his head and broke his skull, leaving his brain exposed. He is dying, and he has asked to be brought in here to speak to you before he dies. SCENE XIV.--ARGANTE, GRONTE, LANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NRINE. SILVESTRE, CARLE, SCAPIN. SCA. (_brought in by some men, his head wrapped up, as if he were wounded_). Oh, oh! gentlemen, you see me.... Oh! You see me in a sad state. Oh! I would not die without coming to ask forgiveness of all those I may have offended. Oh! Yes, gentlemen, before I give up the ghost, I beseech you to forgive me all I have done amiss, and particularly Mr. Argante and Mr. Gronte. Oh! ARG. I forgive you; die in peace, Scapin. SCA. (_to_ GRONTE). It is you, Sir, I have offended the most, because of the beating with the cudgel which I.... GER. Leave that alone. SCA. I feel in dying an inconceivable grief for the beating which I.... GER. Ah me! be silent. SCA. That unfortunate beating that I gave.... GER. Be silent, I tell you; I forgive you everything. SCA. Alas! how good you are. But is it really with all your heart that you forgive me the beating which I...? GER. Yes, yes; don't mention it. I forgive you everything. You are punished. SCA. Ah! Sir, how much better I feel for your kind words. GER. Yes, I forgive you; but on one condition, that you die. SCA. How! Sir? GER. I retract my words if you recover. SCA. Oh! oh! all my pains are coming hack. ARG. Mr. Gronte, let us forgive him without any condition, for we are all so happy. GER. Well, be it so. ARG. Let us go to supper, and talk of our happiness. SCA. And you, take me to the end of the table; it is there I will await death. End of available with this file or online at Section 1. 1.D. 1.E. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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