Comic Romance

Paul Scarron

Description

Paul Scarron's masterpiece, The Comic Romance, recounts the adventures of a troupe of provincial itinerant actors, skilfully weaving comic anecdotes of their amorous exploits and the central love story between Leandre and his beloved Angelique into a rich and realistic tapestry depicting rural France.

Informations

• Publié par: Alma Books
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9780714546575
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Comic Romance
Paul Scarron
Translated by Jacques Houis

ALMA CLASSICS




alma classics Ltd London House 243-253 Lower Mortlake Road Richmond Surrey TW9 2LL United Kingdom www.almaclassics.com
The Comic Romance first published in French in 1651–57 This edition first published by Alma Classics Ltd in 2012
Cover image © Getty Images
Translation and Extra Material © Jacques Houis, 2012
Printed in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe Ltd
Typeset by Tetragon
isbn : 978-1-84749-220-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the express prior consent of the publisher.


Contents
The Comic Romance
To the Coadjutor
To The Reader Who Is Scandalized
First Part
Second Part
Notes
Paul Scarron’s Life and Works
Translator’s Note
Select Bibliography


The Comic Romance


TO THE COADJUTOR *
That Is Saying It All
Y es, Monsignor,
Your name alone carries with it all the titles and all the praise that can be given to the most illustrious persons of the century. It will make my book seem good, however bad it may be; and even those who find that I could have done a better job of writing it will have to admit that I could not do a better job of dedicating it. Were the honour you do me by the affection you have shown me through so much kindness and so many visits not to incline me to seek out carefully the means to please you, I would be so inclined anyway. Thus my novel was destined for you from the time I had the honour of reading you the beginning, which you found to your liking. This, more than anything else, gave me the courage to finish it, and prevents me from blushing while giving you such a bad gift. Should you value it for more than it is worth, or should the least part of it please you, I would not trade places with the healthiest man in France. But, Monsignor, I do not dare hope that you will read it; it would be too much time wasted for someone who uses his time as effectively as you, and who has more important things to do. I will be sufficiently rewarded for my book should you merely deign to receive it and should you take my word – as it is the only faculty I have left – that I am, with my entire being,
Monsignor,
Your most humble, most obedient and most obliged servant,
Scarron


To The Reader Who Is Scandalized
By the Typographical Errors Contained in My Book
I am not going to give you any errata from my book other than the book itself, which is full of errors. The printer is less to blame than I, whose bad habit it is often to write what I give the printer on the eve of the day it is printed. So much so that, my head still full of what I just finished writing, I reread the pages I am given to correct in roughly the same way I recited in school the lesson I had not had time to learn – I mean by glancing at a few lines and skipping over what I had not yet forgotten. Those who know how to discern the good from the bad in what they read will soon recognize the errors I was able to make, and those who do not understand what they read will not notice my failures. That, benevolent or malevolent reader, is all I have to say; if you like my book enough to want it to be more correct, buy enough copies to warrant a second printing, and I promise it will be reviewed, augmented and corrected.
Scarron


First Part


Chapter I
A Theatre Troupe Arrives in the Town of Le Mans
T he sun had completed more than half of his journey, and his chariot, having reached the downward slope of the world, moved faster than he wanted. Had his steeds wished to take advantage of their downhill course, they could have completed what was left of the day in less than ten minutes; but instead of pulling with all their might, they frolicked and curvetted about, breathing the sea air which made them whinny as it alerted them to the proximity of the sea, where, it is said, their master sleeps every night. To put it in simpler, more human terms, it was between five and six o’clock in the afternoon when a cart pulled into the marketplace of Le Mans. Hitched to four rather emaciated oxen led by a brood mare whose colt sauntered all around it like the little devil he was, the cart was piled high with trunks, chests and big bolts of painted canvas, forming a pyramid on top of which sat a lady wearing a patchwork of town clothes and country clothes. A young man, whose clothing was as shabby as his bearing was noble, walked beside the cart. A large bandage on his face covered one eye and half of his cheek. He shouldered a long rifle he had used to murder several magpies, blue jays and crows. These he wore strung together like a bandolier at the bottom of which hung, by their feet, a hen and a gosling, in all likelihood pilfered. Instead of a hat, he wore a nightcap bound by garters of several colours, and this headgear looked like a kind of rough, unfinished turban. His doublet was a grisette coat with a strap for a belt, which also served to hold up a sword of such great length it was impossible to wield effectively without a stand. He wore tucked breeches like those worn by actors when they portray heroes of antiquity, and instead of shoes he had a tragedian’s buskins covered with mud up to the ankles. An old man, less irregularly though very poorly dressed, walked beside him. He carried a bass viol on his shoulders and, because he stooped a bit as he walked, from a distance he could have been mistaken for a big tortoise walking on its hind legs. Now some critic will probably grumble about this comparison because of the disproportion between a tortoise and a man, but I am referring to the giant tortoises found in the Indies and, moreover, I have it on my own authority.
Let us return to our caravan. It passed in front of a tennis * court called The Doe, at the door of which many of the town’s most prominent citizens were gathered. The novelty of the rig and the noise made by the rabble crowded around the cart caused all of these honourable bourgeois to look over at our strangers. A sheriff’s lieutenant named La Rappinière, among others, accosted them with a magistrate’s air of authority, demanding to know what kind of people they were. The young man I described earlier spoke up and, without removing his turban, because he held his rifle with one hand and the hilt of his sword with the other, to keep it from hitting his legs, told him that they were French by birth, actors by profession, that his own stage name was Destiny, his old companion’s Grudge, and the lady’s, who was perched on top of their luggage like a hen, Cave. This bizarre name made several in the group laugh, whereupon the young actor added that the name Cave should seem no more far-fetched to thinking men than those of Mountain, Valley, Rose or Thorn.
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of punches and cursing coming from the front of the cart. It was the tennis court’s servant who had attacked the driver, because his oxen and mare were helping themselves to a pile of hay in front of the door. The combatants were separated, and the tennis-court keeper, who loved the theatre more than she did sermons or vespers, with a generosity unheard of in a tennis-court keeper, allowed the driver to let his animals eat their fill. He accepted her offer, and while the animals ate, the author rested awhile and began to think about what he would say in the second chapter.


Chapter II
The Sort of Man the Sieur de La Rappinière Was
I n those days the Sieur de La Rappinière was the town joker of Le Mans. Every small town has its joker, and the city of Paris has its fair share of them. There is a joker in every neighbourhood, and I myself would have been my neighbourhood’s joker if I had wanted to, but as everyone knows, I forsook the vanities of this world a long time ago. But to return to the Sieur de La Rappinière, he soon resumed the conversation which had been interrupted by the fist fight and asked the young actor if their troupe consisted only of Mademoiselle Cave, Monsieur Grudge and himself.
“Our troupe is as complete as the Prince of Orange’s or His Grace the Duke of Épernon’s,” he replied, “but because of a mishap we suffered in Tours, where our scatterbrained doorkeeper killed one of the royal intendant’s riflemen, we were forced to escape with one shoe off and one shoe on, in the sorry state you see us in now.”
“Those riflemen did the same thing at La Flèche,” said La Rappinière.
“May St Anthony’s fire burn them up!” said the tennis-court keeper. “Thanks to them we won’t be having a play.”
“Not if it were up to us,” replied the old actor. “If we had the keys to our trunks and we could get to our clothes, we would entertain you townsmen for four or five days before heading to Alençon, where we are supposed to meet up with the rest of the troupe.”
Everyone’s ears pricked up at the actor’s words. La Rappinière offered Cave one of his wife’s old dresses and the tennis-court keeper offered Destiny and Grudge two or three outfits she was keeping on deposit. “But,” added someone in the group, “there are only three of you.”
“I’ve acted an entire play all by myself,” said Grudge. “I was the king, the queen and the ambassador, all at the same time. I played the queen in falsetto, and the ambassador in a nasal voice, turning towards my crown, which I had placed on a chair. As the king I returned to my seat, my crown and my dignity, and I spoke in a deeper voice. We’ll b