The Hypochondriac

Molière, Richard Bean

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2012
• Print ISBN: 9781840026177
• eBook ISBN: 9781849432054
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

Molière's classic farce pokes fun at Argan, a man so obsessed by his own imaginary ailments that he can no longer control his haphazard household or the mercenary medics he employs. With doctors determined to grow fat from the profits of his condition, Argan's closest relatives battle to show him the truth of his situation. Using elaborate trickery, they strive to cure the real disease from which he suffers, managing to pile confusion upon hilarious confusion.
This version of The Hypochondriac premiered at the Almeida Theatre, London in 2005.

Act Three

The same, the following day. ARGAN is seated on his commode getting on with some business. Enter TOINETTE dusting or cleaning. ARGAN stands and motions to TOINETTE that the pan needs emptying. TOINETTE looks into the pan, looks back at ARGAN, looks in the pan again.

ARGAN: What’s wrong with it?

TOINETTE: Why do you do it in here when the latrine is only twenty feet over there?

ARGAN: The latrine’s no good for inspection. As soon as it’s done it’s gone.

TOINETTE: It takes all the fun out of it you mean?

ARGAN: Just tell me what it looks like!

TOINETTE: If inspection is the motive, why don’t you look?

ARGAN: It’s like opening the post. If I know it’s bad news I always get someone else to read it.

TOINETTE: This one’s unique. Utterly original. A one off.

ARGAN: Oh my God. Why?

TOINETTE: Because it’s the last one I’m emptying – ever.

ARGAN: Then it’s your last day here then isn’t it!?

TOINETTE: Yes, if all goes to plan.

TOINETTE leaves with the pan, slamming the door behind her.

ARGAN: (Shouted after her.) What’s in the pan?! Tell me what it looks like! You insolent fat saphist!

Re-enter TOINETTE holding the pan and its contents like a weapon. We can see urine and a turd or two. ARGAN backs off.

TOINETTE: I’m getting sick of this recurring homosexual theme.

ARGAN keeps backing away. Enter BERALDE.

BERALDE: Beautiful morning isn’t it!

BERALDE looks into the pan.

That’s what I like about round here, the informality.

TOINETTE leaves slamming the door behind her.

ARGAN: I’m sorry brother, she’s a snake, that one.

(Brighter.) Very cheap though.

BERALDE: And how are you?

ARGAN: Very poorly.

BERALDE: What do you mean ‘very poorly’?

ARGAN: Poorly. As in not well.

BERALDE: Exactly how ‘not well’ are you?

ARGAN: I’m incredibly and sensationally not well!

BERALDE: Oh.

ARGAN: And how are you?

BERALDE: Dunno. Never think about it.

ARGAN: What!? That’s very very foolish. You should go and have a check up. You might have something serious.

During the next ARGAN gets increasingly excited.

BERALDE: Brother, I need to discuss a delicate issue with you, but I know what you’re like, and I need you to promise me that you’ll not get excited.

ARGAN: Of course I won’t get excited.

BERALDE: You won’t start shouting?

ARGAN: Why would I want to start shouting?!

BERALDE: And if ultimately we disagree you’ll make a commitment now to talk rationally and calmly –

ARGAN: – Yes, yes!

BERALDE: – with me and work towards a compromise position which at least addresses the problem in a practical manner, taking out of the situation all emotion.

ARGAN: Yes!! Of course I’ll stay bloody calm!!! How dare you suggest that I’m emotional and can’t discuss things in a rational manner!!!??? I’ve never –

BERALDE: Why are you trying to marry Angelique off to a doctor?

ARGAN: I want a doctor in the family. In the house. Handy. Here!

BERALDE: By that logic you’ll be marrying Louison off to an apothecary next.

ARGAN: That’s not a bad idea actually. Do you know any?

BERALDE: And I understand that if Angelique doesn’t consent to this arrangement then you’ll have her sent to a convent?

ARGAN: The choice is hers.

BERALDE: I imagine this wife of yours would be delighted to see both your offspring packed off to nunneries and dedicating themselves to God and in particular ‘renouncing all interest in worldy goods’.

ARGAN: You’ve never liked Beline. Why does everybody hate her? Have I missed something?!

BERALDE: I don’t want to discuss Beline, she’s obviously a saint. You’re not ill at all are you?

ARGAN: What?

BERALDE: You’re perfectly well.

ARGAN: How dare – !!??

BERALDE: I don’t think I know anybody more well and less ill than you. Your doctor’s been trying to kill you with his cures for the best part of two years now. You’ve had leeches, piercings, purgings; you’ve been drained, spun, squeezed, squashed, stretched, and steamed. Every time I come round here you’re on some new controlled eating regime. One week it’s nothing but vegetables, the next week it’s fruit. The worst was that ridiculous month when you ate nothing but meat – I mean, what kind of a diet is that, it nearly killed you. You lost three stone. It’s a miracle you’re still alive, and proof that you’re as strong as an ox.

ARGAN: Doctor Purgon is the reason I’m still alive.

BERALDE: Your profound good health is the reason you’re still alive.

ARGAN: You have no faith in Doctor Purgon then?

BERALDE: In the last two years he has diagnosed you as suffering from many diverse ailments, three of which – deafness; insomnia; and worms – he treated with exactly the same expensive concoction of blood freshly bled from the spleen of a living duck.

ARGAN: It worked for the worms.

BERALDE: You never had worms in the first place!

ARGAN: It was preventative! Men at all levels in society – many more learned and wise than you – when they get ill, go to the doctor.

BERALDE: I am sure there is a hierarchy of wisdom and learning amongst lemmings too. But when the end beckons they all make an appointment with the same cliff.

ARGAN: But doctors have faith in their art.

BERALDE: It shouldn’t be an ‘art’, that’s the problem. At present medicine is a bedfellow of the Humanities and the Classics, which in turn, themselves, are contaminated by Religion.

ARGAN: Brother! Do not speak against God in this house!

BERALDE: Our priests have a defined list of ailments and illnesses which they would have us believe are directly dispensed by God as punishments for sins, for our lack of faith, and whatever nonsense. God made our bodies as machines, mysterious machines, which either work or break down. Doctors should concern themselves with the nitty gritty, the nature of the thing. Look, I’m a brewer. If my beer fails to ferment, I don’t look to heaven for an explanation, I look at what went into the brew; the yeast, the hops, the water, the quantities, the temperature. I do not consider for one moment that my beer has been made rancid by God because he is punishing me for, I don’t know…shouting at my wife. If I’ve shouted at my wife I’ll be punished for that in good time anyway, not by God either, but by my wife.

ARGAN: You sound like you support the circulationists?

BERALDE: And why is the idea of blood circulation treated with such contempt by doctors? Because it’s not already written down in their books; it is a challenge to the Church, the King, and God. Amazingly, the very last thing that concerns doctors is the truth!

ARGAN: But I feel ill. And when I’m treated I feel better.

BERALDE: No. You like two things. Being ill, and letting everybody know you’re ill. Being ill for you, defines, it is who you are. Don’t forget I’ve seen you at several parties and functions. People say to me, ‘What do you do?’ And I say: ‘I brew b...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Copyright page
• Note
• Characters
• Contents
• Act One
• Act Two
• Act Three