Act I
Just when the day has been fixed for the marriage of Lucinde, daughter of M. Géronte, she suddenly becomes dumb, and no doctors are found skillful enough to cure her. One day Valère, M. Géronte's attendant, and Lucas, the nurse, are scouring the country in search of someone able to restore their young mistress's speech, when they fell in with Martine, the wife of Sganarelle, a bibulous faggot-binder. Sganarelle, who has served a famous doctor for ten years, has just been beating his wife, and she, in revenge, hearing the kind of person they are looking for, strongly recommends her husband to them as an eccentric doctor who has performed wonderful and almost incredible cures, but who always disclaims his profession, and will never practice it until he has been well cudgelled. Lucas and Valère accordingly go in quest of Sganarelle, and, having found him, express their desire of availing themselves of his services as doctor. At first the faggot-binder vehemently denies that he is a doctor, but at last—thanks to the use of the persuasion recommended by Martine—he confesses to a knowledge of the physician's art, is induced to undertake the cure of Mlle. Lucinde, and, on being introduced at M. Géronte's house, gives proof of his eccentricity as a doctor by cudgelling the master and embracing the nurse.
[Enter Lucinde, Valère, Géronte, Lucas, Sganarelle, and Jacqueline.
Sganarelle: Is this the patient?
Géronte: Yes. I have but one daughter; I should feel inexpressible grief were she to die.
Sganarelle: Don't let her do anything of the kind. She must not die without a doctor's prescription.
Géronte: You have made her laugh, monsieur.
Sganarelle: It is the best symptom in the world when the doctor makes his patient laugh. What sort of pain do you feel?
Lucinde (replies by signs, putting her hand to her mouth, to her head, and under her chin): Ha, hi, ho, ha!
Sganarelle (imitating her): Ha, hi, ho, ha! I don't understand you.
Géronte: That is what her complaint is, monsieur. She became dumb, without our being able to find out the cause. It is this accident which has made us put off the marriage. The man she is going to marry wishes to wait till she gets better.
Sganarelle: Who is the fool that does not want his wife to be dumb? Would to heaven that mine had that complaint! I would take good care she did not recover her speech.
Géronte: Well, monsieur, I beg of you to take all possible pains to cure her of this illness.
Sganarelle (to the patient): Let me feel your pulse. This tells me your daughter is dumb.
Géronte: Yes, monsieur, that is just what her illness is; you have found it out the very first time.
Sganarelle: We great doctors, we know things at once. An ignorant person would have been puzzled, and would have said to you: "It is this, it is that." But I was right the very first time. I tell you your daughter is dumb.
Géronte: But I should be very pleased if you could tell me how this happened.
Sganarelle: It is because she has lost her speech.
Géronte: But, please, what was the cause of the loss of speech?
Sganarelle: All our best authorities will tell you that it is an impediment in the action of her tongue.
Géronte: But, nevertheless, let us have your opinion on this impediment in the action of her tongue.
Sganarelle: I hold that this impediment in the action of her tongue is caused by certain humours, which among us learned men are called peccant humours. For as the vapours formed by the exhalations of the influences which arise in the region of complaints, coming—so to speak—to—Do you know Latin?
Géronte: In no sort of way.
Sganarelle (rising in astonishment): You don't know Latin?
Géronte: No.
Sganarelle (assuming various amusing attitudes): Singulariter, nominativo hæc musa, "the muse," bonus, bona, bonum, Deus sanctus, estne oratio latenas? Quare? "Why?" Luia substantivo et adjectivum concordat in generi, numerum, et casus.
Géronte: Oh! Why did I not study?
Jacqueline: What a clever man he is!
Sganarelle: Thus these vapours of which I speak passing from the left side, where the liver is, to the right side where the heart is, it happens that the lungs, which we call in Latin armyan, having communication with the brain, which in Greek we name nasmus, by means of the vena cava, which we call in Hebrew cubile, in their way meet the said vapours, which fill the ventricles of the omoplata; and as the said vapours—be sure you understand this argument, I beg you—and as these said vapours have a certain malignancy—listen carefully to this, I pray you.
Géronte: Yes.
Sganarelle: Are gifted with a certain malignancy which is caused—please pay attention——
Géronte: I am doing so.
Sganarelle: Which is caused by the acridity of the humour engendered in the concavity of the diaphragm, it happens that these vapours—Ossabundus, nequezs, nequer, potarinum, quipsa milus. That is just what makes your daughter dumb.
Géronte: No one, doubtless, could argue better. There is but one thing that puzzles me. It seems to me that you place the heart and liver differently from where they are; the heart is on the left side, and the liver on the right.
Sganarelle: Yes, that was so formerly; but we have changed all that, and nowadays we practise medicine by an entirely new method.
Géronte: I did not know that. I must ask you to pardon my ignorance.
Sganarelle: There is no harm done. You are not obliged to be as clever as we are.
Géronte: Certainly not. But what do you think, monsieur, ought to be done for this complaint?
Sganarelle: My advice is that she should be put to bed, and, for a remedy, you must see that she takes plenty of bread soaked in wine.
Géronte: Why so, monsieur?
Sganarelle: Because in bread and wine mixed together there is a sympathetic virtue which causes speech. Don't you know that they give nothing else to parrots, and that they learn to speak by being fed on this diet?
Géronte: That is true. What a great man you are! Quick, bring plenty of bread and wine.
Sganarelle: I shall come back at night to see how she is getting on.
Géronte: Just wait a moment, please.
Sganarelle: What do you want?
Géronte: To give you your fee, monsieur.
Sganarelle (holding out his hand from under his gown, while Géronte opens his purse): I shall not take it, monsieur.
Géronte: I beseech you.
Sganarelle: You are jesting.
Géronte: That is settled.
Sganarelle: I will not.
Géronte: What!
Sganarelle: I don't practise for money.
Géronte: I am sure you don't.
Sganarelle (after having taken the money): Is it good weight?
Géronte: Yes, monsieur.
Sganarelle: I am not a mercenary doctor.
Géronte: I know that.
Sganarelle: Self-interest is not my motive.
Géronte: I never for a moment thought it was.
[Exit.