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    The Misanthrope
    The Misanthrope
    The Misanthrope
    Ebook126 pages59 minutes

    The Misanthrope

    By Molière

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    About this ebook

    The Misanthrope, or the Cantankerous Lover (French: Le Misanthrope ou l'Atrabilaire amoureux; is a 17th-century comedy of manners in verse written by Molière. It was first performed on 4 June 1666 at the Théâtre du Palais-Royal, Paris by the King's Players.
    The play satirizes the hypocrisies of French aristocratic society, but it also engages a more serious tone when pointing out the flaws that all humans possess. The play differs from other farces at the time by employing dynamic characters like Alceste and Célimène as opposed to the traditionally flat characters used by most satirists to criticize problems in society. It also differs from most of Molière's other works by focusing more on character development and nuances than on plot progression. The play, though not a commercial success in its time, survives as Molière's best known work today.
    Because both Tartuffe and Don Juan, two of Molière's previous plays, had already been banned by the French government, Molière may have subdued his actual ideas to make his play more socially acceptable. As a result, there is much uncertainty about whether the main character, Alceste, is supposed to be perceived as a hero for his strong standards of honesty or whether he is supposed to be perceived as a fool for having such idealistic and unrealistic views about society. Molière has received much criticism for The Misanthrope.
    |Source Wikipédia|
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRaanan Editeur
    Release dateMay 7, 2020
    ISBN9782714905154
    Author

    Molière

    Molière was a French playwright, actor, and poet. Widely regarded as one of the greatest writers in the French language and universal literature, his extant works include comedies, farces, tragicomedies, comédie-ballets, and more.

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      Book preview

      The Misanthrope - Molière

      Paris

      ACT I

      SCENE I

      PHILINTE, ALCESTE

      PHILINTE

      What is it? What’s the matter?

      ALCESTE, seated

      Leave me, pray.

      PHILINTE

      But tell me first, what new fantastic humour . . .

      ALCESTE

      Leave me alone, I say. Out of my sight!

      PHILINTE

      But can't you listen, at least, and not be angry?

      ALCESTE

      I will be angry, and I will not listen.

      PHILINTE

      I cannot understand your gusts of temper;

      And though we're friends, I'll be the very first . . .

      ALCESTE, starting to his feet

      What, I, your friend? Go strike that off your books.

      I have professed to be so hitherto;

      But after seeing what you did just now,

      I tell you flatly I am so no longer

      And want no place in such corrupted hearts.

      PHILINTE

      Am I so very wicked, do you think?

      ALCESTE

      Go to, you ought to die for very shame!

      Such conduct can have no excuse; it must

      Arouse abhorrence in all men of honour.

      I see you load a man with your caresses,

      Profess for him the utmost tenderness,

      And overcharge the zeal of your embracings

      With protestations, promises, and oaths;

      And when I come to ask you who he is

      You hardly can remember even his name!

      Your ardour cools the moment he is gone,

      And you inform me you care nothing for him!

      Good God! 'tis shameful, abject, infamous,

      So basely to play traitor to your soul;

      And if, by evil chance, I'd done as much,

      I should go straight and hang myself for spite.

      PHILINTE

      It doesn't seem to me a hanging matter,

      And I'll petition for your gracious leave

      A little to commute your rigorous sentence,

      And not go hang myself for that, an't please you.

      ALCESTE

      How unbecoming is your pleasantry!

      PHILINTE

      But seriously, what would you have me do?

      ALCESTE

      Be genuine; and like a man of honour

      Let no word pass unless it's from the heart.

      PHILINTE

      But when a man salutes you joyfully,

      You have to pay him back in his own coin,

      Make what response you can to his politeness,

      And render pledge for pledge, and oath for oath.

      ALCESTE

      No, no, I can't endure these abject manners

      So much affected by your men of fashion;

      There's nothing I detest like the contortions

      Of all your noble protestation-mongers,

      So generous with meaningless embraces,

      So ready with their gifts of empty words,

      Who vie with all men in civilities,

      And treat alike the true man and the coxcomb.

      What use is it to have a man embrace you,

      Swear friendship, zeal, esteem, and faithful love,

      And loudly praise you to your face, then run

      And do as much for any scamp he meets?

      No, no. No self-respecting man can ever

      Accept esteem that 's prostituted so;

      The highest honour has but little charm

      If given to all the universe alike;

      Real love must rest upon some preference;

      You might as well love none, as everybody.

      Since you go in for these prevailing vices,

      By God, you 're not my kind of man, that's all;

      I'll be no sharer in the fellowship

      Of hearts that make for merit no distinction;

      I must be singled out; to put it flatly,

      The friend of all mankind’s no friend for me.

      PHILINTE

      But, while we’re of the world, we must observe

      Some outward courtesies that custom calls for.

      ALCESTE

      No, no, I tell you; we must ruthlessly

      Chastise this shameful trade in make-beliefs

      Of friendship. Let's be men; on all occasions

      Show in our words the truth that's in our hearts,

      Letting the heart itself speak out, not hiding

      Our feelings under masks of compliment.

      PHILINTE

      There’s many a time and place when utter frankness

      Would be ridiculous, or even worse;

      And sometimes, no offence to your high honour,

      'Tis well to hide the feelings in our hearts.

      Would it be proper, decent, in good taste,

      To tell a thousand people your opinion

      About themselves? When you detest a man,

      Must you declare it to him, to his face?

      ALCESTE

      Yes.

      PHILINTE

      What!—you’d tell that ancient dame, Emilia,

      That she’s too old to play the pretty girl,

      And that her painting is a public scandal?

      ALCESTE

      Of course.

      PHILINTE

      And Dorilas, that he’s a bore;

      And that he’s wearied every ear at court

      With tales of his exploits and high extraction?

      ALCESTE

      By all means.

      PHILINTE

      You are joking.

      ALCESTE

      No. I’ll spare

      No one. My eyes are far too much offended.

      The court and town alike present me nothing

      But objects to provoke my spleen; I fall

      Into black humours and profound disgust,

      To see men treat each other as they do;

      There's nowhere aught but dastard flattery,

      Injustice, treachery, selfishness, deceit;

      I can't endure it, I go mad —and mean

      Squarely to break with all the human race.

      PHILINTE

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