The Hypochondriac

Full Text and Introduction (NHB Drama Classics)

Molière

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2015
• ISBN:
  9781780016429
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Teatro

The NHB Drama Classics series presents the world's greatest plays in affordable, highly readable editions for students, actors and theatregoers. The hallmarks of the series are accessible introductions (focussing on the play's theatrical and historical background, together with an author biography, key dates and suggestions for further reading) and the complete text, uncluttered with footnotes. The translations, by leading experts in the field, are accurate and above all actable. The editions of English-language plays include a glossary of unusual words and phrases to aid understanding.
Molière's classic farce, Le Malade Imaginaire, in a fresh and performable translation.
The 'imaginary invalid' Argan is so obsessed with his health that he fails to notice what is happening around him in his own family. His scheming wife and loving daughter are finally revealed to him in their true light by Argan's brother, who poses as a quack doctor and suggests he feigns death to test their loyalty.
Translated and introduced by Martin Sorrell.

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC

Act One

1. ARGAN.

ARGAN (alone in his room, checking his consultants’ bills and accounts, using counters). Three and two make five, plus five ten, and ten more make twenty. Three and two make five. ‘In addition, on the twenty-fourth last, one exploratory, preparatory and emollient enema, for the purpose of softening, moistening and refreshing Monsieur Argan’s lower bowel’. I like Mr Florid, my apothecary. His bills are phrased so politely. ‘M. Argan’s lower bowel, thirty sous’. Yes . . . All very well being polite, Mr Florid, but you have to be fair too; you can’t go stinging patients like that. Thirty sous for an enema! Got to be some movement there, that’ll have to drop down. Otherwise, you know what you can do with it . . . You’ve only charged twenty sous up till now, and when an apothecary says twenty sous, it’s ten he’s got in mind. There we are then, ten. ‘In addition, on the same date, a strong detergent enema made up of diacatholicon, rhubarb, an edulcorated rose-water infusion, and other preparations as per prescription, for the purpose of cleaning, washing and scrubbing M. Argan’s gut, thirty sous’. Ten sous again, if you don’t mind. ‘In addition, on the evening of the same date, a hepatic, soporific, somniferous julep to help M. Argan sleep, thirty-five sous’. No complaints about that one, it did the trick. Ten, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen and a half sous. ‘In addition, on the twenty-fifth, a tonic purgative made up of fresh cascara and Levantine senna, as prescribed by Dr Purgeon, to expel and evacuate M. Argan’s bile, four francs’. Ah! Mr Florid, I’m not taking that lying down! Patients have rights. Dr Purgeon didn’t authorise you to charge four francs. Three francs it should be. Yes, put three francs down, and I’ll pay . . . half. ‘In addition, on the same date, a lenitive and astringent potion to make M. Argan sleep, thirty sous’. All right, that’s one ten-sous piece, one fifteen-sous. ‘In addition, on the twenty-sixth, a carminative emetic to expel M. Argan’s wind, thirty sous’. Is this a joke? Ten. ‘In addition, M. Argan’s enema, repeat dose, same evening. Thirty sous’. What does he take me for? Ten! ‘In addition, on the twenty-seventh, a double-strength laxative to invade, break up, and evacuate M. Argan’s foul humours, three francs’. So, that’s half, plus one thirty-sous piece. Now you’re talking sense. ‘In addition, on the twenty-eighth, a single dose of skimmed and sweetened whey, to cleanse, mollify and lenify M. Argan’s blood, twenty sous’. Ten – right away. ‘In addition, a fortified cordial made up of half a gramme of bezoar, with essence of lemon and pomegranate, as per prescription, five francs’. Steady on, doctor, that’s a touch excessive. If you go on like this, nobody’ll want to be ill any more. Why don’t you settle for half, and I’ll add two twenty-sous pieces? Three plus two, five, another five equals ten, and ten is twenty. Let’s see again: two twenty-sous pieces, six ten-sous, one fifteen-sous . . . That’s sixty-three francs four and a half sous. So that means this month I must have taken one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight lots of medicine, and one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve enemas. Last month it came to twelve lots of medicine and twenty enemas. Hmm! Not in the least surprising, that. I haven’t been so well this month as last. I’ll tell Dr Purgeon, he’ll have to get stuck in and do something about it. (Shouting.) Somebody come and clear all this away! . . . Nobody there? As usual, I’m wasting good breath. I’m always telling them that I mustn’t be left on my own, ever. No use. (Rings a little bell to summon his servants.) They don’t hear, or don’t want to. This damn thing isn’t loud enough! Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling. (Pause.) Deafening silence. Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling. (Pause.) There’s none so deaf as those who . . . Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, where the blazes is everyone? Toinette, ting-a-ling. Just as if I didn’t exist. She’s a pain in the . . . , she really is! Ting-a-ling. Selfish cow! Ting-a-ling. On top of everything else they want me to burst an artery! (No longer rings bell, just shouts.) Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling. She can go to hell, for all I care. Hey, monkey-face, you can’t just leave invalids on their own, unattended! Unbelievable. Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling. For crying out loud! Baboon-bum, where are you? Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling. I don’t believe this, they are going to let me die! Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling!

2. TOINETTE, ARGAN.

TOINETTE (entering Argan’s room). Here I am!

ARGAN. Ah! You little . . .

TOINETTE (pretending to have hit her head). All right, all right . . . Now look what you’ve made me do, you’re so bloody impatient. I was in such a hurry to get here, I hit my head on the corner of a shutter.

ARGAN (angry). D’you expect me to believe? . . .

TOINETTE (to shut him up each time). Ouch!

ARGAN. I’ve been waiting . . .

TOINETTE. Ouch!

ARGAN. A whole hour . . .

TOINETTE. Ouch!

ARGAN. And nobody . . .

TOINETTE. Ouch!

ARGAN. Shut up, will you. I’m trying to reduce you to a quivering wreck.

TOINETTE. Oh charming, that’s really nice. Just what I need after what I’ve done to myself.

ARGAN. What about me! I’ve almost lost my voice, shouting.

TOINETTE. And I’ve almost lost my head, thanks to you. I call that quits. Agreed?

ARGAN. By God, you are a little . . .

TOINETTE. If you go on, I’ll cry.

ARGAN. But you just left me for . . .

TOINETTE. Bloody hell!

ARGAN. Foulmouth! . . . Do you want me to? . . .

TOINETTE. Ouch!

ARGAN. Shut up, will you! She won’t even give me the pleasure of telling her off!

TOINETTE. Tell me off as much as you like. See if I care.

ARGAN. You won’t let me get going. Every time I start, you interrupt.

TOINETTE. Look, if your pleasure’s yelling at me, yell. Whatever blows your frock up. But my pleasure’s howling, so let me howl.

ARGAN. All right, all right. Truce. Now, get rid of all of this. (Gets up from his chair.) Has today’s enema taken?

TOINETTE. Taken?

ARGAN. Yes, yes. Did I produce much bile?

TOINETTE. How should I know, for crying out loud? I don’t stick my nose into that. That’s for your Mr Florid. He’s the one that’s making the killing.

ARGAN. I’ve got to take another one in a minute. Go and get some hot water.

TOINETTE. These two . . . medicos, Florid and Purgeon, are having a high old time with you. They’re making mincemeat out of you. I’d like to know exactly what sort of illness it is that needs so many medicines.

ARGAN. Don’t meddle. This is too hard for you. Fetch my daughter, will you, I want a word with her about a little matter.

TOINETTE. Talk of the devil . . . she must be psychic.

3. ANGÉLIQUE, TOINETTE, ARGAN.

ARGAN. I was just thinking about you, Angélique. Come over here, I want a little word.

ANGÉLIQUE. I’m listening, father.

ARGAN (hurrying off to toilet). Just one moment. Pass me my sti...