Where am I off to?
LA SOURIS.
Yes.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
I am going to throw myself in the Seine.
LA SOURIS.
Don’t do that. It is too cold and too wet.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
What do you want me to do?
LA SOURIS.
You must get a move on — you must do something for your living.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Why?
LA SOURIS.
I dunno, but one must pull oneself out of it, somehow. You are up against it, but it won’t last for ever. You’ll sell your cabbages and carrots again soon, I tell you. Come up here. I’ve a loaf and some sausage, and a bottle. We’ll have supper like a pair of toffs, and I’ll make you a bed like mine, with sacks and papers, and we’ll see if things aren’t better to-morrow. So come on up, my ancient.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
You are young — you still have some good in you. It’s a bad world, but you are no part of it, yet. Kid though you are, you can say that you have been the saving of a man. No great matter, perhaps. Nothing to boast of — it won’t stop the moon going round, it won’t make the state any handsomer — but you have saved a man.
[CRAINQUEBILLE, with bowed head and arms drooped by his sides, goes up without more words.
[In this translation of Crainquebille in its dramatic form, an attempt has been made to provide an English stage version. Consequently, it has been freely adapted in places. — ED.]
THE COMEDY OF A MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE
Translated by Wilfrid Jackson and Emilie Jackson
CONTENTS
ACT I.
SCENE I.
SCENE II.
SCENE III.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
SCENE II.
SCENE III.
SCENE IV.
SCENE V.
THE COMEDY OF A MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE
A room on the ground floor in the house of M. LEONARD BOTAL. On the left the door gives on the Rue Dauphine in Paris; when the door opens the Pont Neuf is visible. On the right a door opens into the kitchen; at the back a wooden staircase leads to the upper rooms. Against the walls hang portraits of magistrates in their robes, and immense cupboards are ranged, crammed and overflowing with bags, books, papers, and parchments. A pair of steps on wheels gives access to the top of the cupboards. A writing-table, chairs, and stuffed arm-chairs, and a spinning-wheel.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
GILLES BOISCOURTIER, ALIZON, then MAITRE ADAM FUMEE, and M. LEONARD BOTAL. [GILLES BOISCOURTIER is scribbling and yawning when ALIZON the servant enters with a large basket on each arm. As soon as he sees her, GILLES BOISCOURTIER Pounces on her.
ALIZON.
Holy Virgin! How long has it been the fashion to swoop on a body like a wild thing, in a room open to all comers, too?
GILLES
(drawing a bottle of wine from one of the baskets).
Don’t squawk, you little goose. No one is going to pluck you. You’re not worth it.
ALIZON.
Will you be so good as to leave the Judge’s wine alone, you thief!
[She puts her baskets on the ground, snatches the bottle back, boxes the secretary’s ears, picks up her baskets again, and flies to the kitchen, of which the fireplace can be seen through the half-open door.
MAITRE ADAM FUMEE enters.
ADAM.
Isn’t this the house of M. Léonard Boitai, Judge of the civil and criminal courts?
GILLES.
It is, monsieur, and at this moment you are speaking to his secretary, Gilles Boiscourtier, at your service.
ADAM.
Well, my lad, go and tell him that his old fellow-student, Maître Adam Fumée, advocate, is come to discuss some business. —
[From outside comes the voice of a hawker calling: “Chickweed for your cage-birds.”
GILLES.
Monsieur, here he is himself.
[LEONARD BOTAL comes down the staircase. GILLES retires into the kitchen.
ADAM.
Welcome, M. Léonard Botal, I am delighted to see you once again.
LEONARD.
Good day, Maître Adam Fumée, and how have you been all the long time since I last had the pleasure of seeing you?
ADAM.
Very well; and I hope you can say the same, sir?
LEONARD.
What good wind blows you here, Maître Adam Fumée?
ADAM.
I come from Chartres on purpose to lodge a memorial in favour of a young lady, an orphan, whose...
LEONARD.
Do you remember the days, Maître Adam Fumée, when we studied law at the University of Orleans?
ADAM.
Yes — we used to play the flute, sup with the ladies, and dance from morning till night.... I am come, my dear sir and comrade, to lodge a memorial in favour of a young lady, an orphan, whose case is pending in your court.
LEONARD.
Can she pay?
ADAM.
She is a young orphan....
LEONARD.
I quite understand, but can she pay?
ADAM.
She is a young orphan who has been plundered by her guardian, who has left her nothing but her eyes to cry with. If she wins her case she will be rich again, and will bestow substantial tokens of her gratitude.
LEONARD.
(taking the paper that MAITRE ADAM holds out).
We will look into the matter.
ADAM.
Thank you, my dear sir and comrade.
LEONARD.
We will investigate her case without fear or favour.
ADAM.
There is no need to tell me so. But — come now — are things going as well with you as you could wish? You seem careworn. And yet you have dropped in for a good thing.
LEONARD.
I paid a good price for it, and I was not taken in.
ADAM. —
Perhaps you are weary of living alone? Have you no thought of marrying?
LEONARD.
What? you do not know, Maître Adam, that I am newly wed? I married last month, a young lady from the provinces, of good family and appearance — Catherine Momichel, the seventh daughter of the Judge of the Criminal Court at Salency. Unhappily, she is dumb, and that is my trouble.
ADAM.
Your wife dumb?
LEONARD.
Alas!
ADAM.
Quite dumb?
LEONARD.
Dumb as a fish.
ADAM.
Did you not notice it before you married her?
LEONARD.
It would have been scarcely possible not to remark it. But it did not affect me as it does to-day. I reflected that she was good-looking, and had means, and I only thought of the blessings she was bringing me and of the pleasure I should have in her. But now these considerations appeal to me less, and I heartily wish that she could speak. It would be gratifying to my mental faculties and advantageous for my household. The residence of a judge needs — what? A woman of charm, who receives litigants pleasantly, and leads them gently by tactful observations to proffer gifts in order that their cases may receive closer attention. People only give when they are encouraged to give. A wife with a well-turned phrase and a timely gesture will extract a ham from this one, a piece of cloth from that — from a third wine or poultry. But this poor dumb thing of a Catherine never gets anything. Whereas the kitchen, the cellar, the stable, and barns of my learned brothers are bursting with good things, thanks to their wives, I get hardly enough to keep the pot boiling. So you may see, Maître Adam Fumée, what harm it does me to have a dumb wife. I am worth the half of what I should be... and the worst of it is that it is making me melancholy and distraught.
ADAM.
There is no cause, sir. On close consideration your lot would disclose advantages which are not to be despised.
LEONARD.
ADAM.
What strange fancies!
LEONARD.
And that is not all. Living with the dumb, I am becoming dumb myself. From time to time I catch myself expressing myself in signs, as she does. The other day, on the bench, I actually passed sentence in dumb-show, and condemned a man to the galleys simply by gesture and pantomime.
ADAM.
There is no need to say more. One can understand that a dumb wife is poor at response. And one does not care about talking when one never gets a reply.
LEONARD.
Now you know the reason of my depression.
ADAM.
I have no wish to vex you, and I think you have just and sufficient cause. But there may be a way to put a stop to this. Tell me: is your wife deaf as well as dumb?
LEONARD.
Catherine is no more deaf than you or I. Even less, if I may say so. She can hear the grass growing.
ADAM.
If that is the case, you may take hope. When doctors, apothecaries, and surgeons succeed in giving speech to a deaf-mute the utterance is as lifeless as his own hearing. He hears neither what is said to him nor what he says himself. It is otherwise with mutes who can hear. It is a mere trifle for the doctor to loosen the tongue of such a one. The operation is so slight that it is daily performed on puppies who are backward in barking. Does it require a countryman such as I am to inform you that a famous doctor, who lives but a few steps from your dwelling in the Carrefour Buci, at the sign of the Dragon, Master Simon Colline, is renowned for loosing the tongues of the ladies of Paris. With a turn of the wrist he will set flowing from the mouth of your good lady a flood of well-articulated words, even as on turning a tap the imprisoned water flows forth with a gentle gurgle.
LEONARD.
Is this true, Maître Adam? You are not deceiving me? You are not speaking for a client?
ADAM.
I speak as your friend, and tell you the simple truth.
LEONARD.
Then I will send for this celebrated doctor; and that without an instant’s delay.
ADAM.
As you like. But before calling him in, reflect soberly on what is the wisest course. For, all things considered, if a dumb wife has her drawbacks, she also has her advantages. Good evening, my dear sir and comrade. Believe me your friend, and read my memorial, I beg of you. If you exercise your justice in favour of a young orphan plundered by her greedy guardian, you shall have no cause to repent.
LEONARD.
Return ere long, Maître Adam. I shall have prepared my judgment. [MAITRE ADAM leaves.
SCENE II.
LEONARD, then GILLES, then CATHERINE.
LEONARD (calling).
Gilles! Gilles! He does not hear me, the young rip! He is in the kitchen as usual, upsetting the pots and the maids. Glutton and rake that he is! Gilles! Gilles! you scamp! you rascal!
GILLES.
Here I am, your worship.
LEONARD.
Well, young man, go as fast as you can to the famous doctor who lives in the Carrefour Buci, at the sign of the Dragon — Master Simon Colline — and tell him to come at once to this house to treat a dumb woman.
GILLES.
Yes, sir.
LEONARD.
Go straight there, mind, and don’t linger on the Pont Neuf watching the boatmen. I know you, you vagabond. You haven’t your equal when it comes to cheating.
GILLES.
You judge me wrongly, sir —
LEONARD.
Off with you — and bring the famous doctor.
GILLES.
Yes, sir. — [He goes.
LEONARD
(seated before his table, covered with legal documents).
I have fourteen judgments to deliver to-day, without counting the decree relating to the ward of Maître Adam Fumée. And it’s hard work, for a judgment does no credit to the judge unless it be well turned, subtle, elegant, and adorned with every ornament of style and thought. It must sparkle with ideas, and juggle with words. Where should one embody wit if not in a judgment?
[CATHERINE, who has come down the staircase, takes her place at the spinning-wheel, near the table. She smiles at her husband and prepares to spin.
LEONARD (stops writing).
Good morning, my love. I did not even hear you. You are like one of those creatures of fable who seem to float in the air, or like a dream sent by the gods to happy mortals, as the poets tell.
A countryman is heard passing in the street, crying: “Fine watercress, good for the blood, three-farthings a bundle.”
LEONARD. —
My love, you are one of Nature’s marvels, a person accomplished in every way: only speech is lacking in you. Would you not be very pleased to acquire it? Would you not be happy if all the pretty thoughts one guesses from your eyes could pass your lips? Would it not be a satisfaction to you to exhibit your wit? Would it not please you to tell your husband that you love him? Would it not seem sweet to you to call him your treasure and sweetheart? No doubt it would... (A street-hawker is heard crying as he passes: “Dips — cotton dips! Burn brighter than any star!”) Well, I have good news for you, my love. A clever doctor will be here presently who will make you speak. (CATHERINE gives signs of satisfaction.) He will loose your tongue without hurting you.
[CATHERINE displays her joy by graceful gesturing and posturing. A blind man is heard passing along the street, singing a bourrée to the bagpipes:
Fish, gaily sporting,
One comes to catch you,
Tra-la-lal-la.
Youth, idly courting,
Mill-maiden frail!
Schemes to attach you
Past all avail.
[The blind man in a lugubrious voice: “Charity, for the love of God, good ladies and gentlemen.” He appears on the doorstep and continues to sing:
Riverward wend you,
Arm clipped in arm,
Tra-la-lal-la.
Mill-maiden, send you
Take no alarm!
Trip you and bend you,
Flaunting each charm,
Tra-la-lal-la.
[CATHERINE starts dancing the bourrée with the blind ma?i; he takes up his song again:
Mill-maiden, send you
Come not to harm!
Tra-la-lal-la.
[The blind man stops his playing and dancing to drone out in a formidable and cavernous voice: “Charity, for the love of God, good ladies and gentlemen.”
LEONARD
(who, immersed in his papers, has seen nothing, chases him out, calling him)
Rogue, money-grubber, vagabond! — (Throwing brief-bags at his head. — To CATHERINE, who has gone back to her spinning-wheel.) My love, since you came down I have not wasted my time. I have sent fourteen men and six women to the stocks; distributed between seventeen individuals... (he reckons up)... Six, twenty-four... thirty-two... forty-four... forty-seven and nine... fifty-six, and eleven, sixty-seven, and ten, seventy-seven, and eight, eighty-five, and twenty, one hundred and five. A hundred and five years at the galleys. Does that not give you a high notion of a judge’s powers, and can I help feeling a little proud? (CATHERINE, who has stopped spinning, leans against the table and looks smilingly at her husband. Then she seats herself on the table all covered with bags full of legal documents. LEONARD, pretending to pull the bags from under her.) My love, you are hiding some arch criminals from justice. Thieves and murderers.... I will not pursue them, however... their place of refuge is sacred.
[A s
weep is heard crying without: “Sweep your chimneys, young ladies, from top to bottom” LEONARD and CATHERINE embrace across the table. But seeing the Faculty coming, CATHERINE escapes up the stairs.
SCENE III.
LEONARD, GILLES, MASTER SIMON COLLINE, MASTER SERAPHIN DULAURIER, then MASTER JEAN MAUGIER, then ALIZON.
GILLES.
Your worship, here is the great doctor you have summoned.
MASTER SIMON.
Yes, I am Master Simon Colline, in person. And here is Master Jean Maugier, the surgeon. You have asked for our attendance?
LEONARD.
Yes, sir, to give a dumb woman speech.
SIMON.
It is well. We wait the arrival of Master Séraphin Dulaurier, the apothecary. As soon as he comes we will operate according to our knowledge and understanding.
LEONARD.
Ah, does it need an apothecary, then, to make the dumb speak?
SIMON.
Yes, sir, and whoever doubts it totally ignores the inter-relation of organs and their mutual dependence. Master Séraphin Dulaurier will not be long in coming.
JEAN MAUGIER
(suddenly bawling with the voice of a Stentor).
Oh! how grateful we should be to learned doctors such as Master Simon Colline, who labour to keep us in health, and tend us in sickness. Oh! how worthy of all praise and blessing are these good doctors who practise their profession in accordance with the laws of instructed knowledge and long experience.
SIMON (bowing slightly).
You are too kind, Master Jean Maugier.
LEONARD.
Will you take some refreshment, gentlemen, while we are waiting for the good apothecary?
SIMON.
Willingly.
JEAN.
With pleasure.
LEONARD.
So, Master Simon Colline, you can perform a little operation which will enable my wife to speak?
SIMON.
I will order the operation, that is to say. I give the orders, Master Jean Maugier executes them... Have you your instruments, Master Jean?
JEAN.
Yes, Master.... (He exhibits a saw three feet long with two-inch teeth, knives, pincers, shears, a centre-bit, a gigantic auger, a probe, etc)
Enter ALIZON, with wine.
LEONARD.
I trust, gentlemen, that you are not going to make use of all those?
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 396