Pierre Corneille

The Liar

Pierre Corneille wrote The Liar—a free adaptation of a Spanish play by Alarcón—during the winter of 1643-44, and it was then performed at the Marais with the famous comedian Jodelet in the role of Cliton. It was a hit, and we are told that Parisian ladies, charmed by Dorante’s imagined banquet-on-the-water in Act I, clamored for real entertainments based upon “la fête du Menteur.” The verve and inventiveness of the play have continued to delight audiences ever since.
-Richard Wilbur, translator

Dorante                   Permit me, please,
        To ask your pardon while I clasp your knees.
        I’m—

Géronte        What?

Dorante        In Poitiers—

Géronte            Stand up, now. Explain.

Dorante    I’m married, Sir. To hide the truth is vain.

Géronte    Without my blessing!

Dorante            It was done by force,
        Which you’ve the power to annul, of course.
        We were compelled to wed in consequence
        Of a series of outrageous accidents—
        If you only knew.

Géronte            Come, tell me everything.
Dorante    She’s of good family, though she doesn’t bring
        As rich a dowry as you might prefer.

Géronte    What’s done is done. Well, tell me more of her.
        Her name?

Dorante        Orphise. And Armédon’s her father.

Géronte    One name’s as unfamiliar as the other.
        Go on.

Dorante        Soon after I arrived, I saw
        A girl for whom the coldest heart would thaw.
        Such were her charms, so brilliant was her gaze,
        That she enslaved me by her gentle ways.
        I sought therefore to meet her, and to please
        By gifts and kindnesses and courtesies,
        Till after six months’ fervent courtship of her
        I was both her beloved and her lover.
        She showed me secret favors—though nothing wrong—
        And I so pressed my conquest that ere long
        I’d tiptoe through her quarter, out of sight,
        To chat with her for part of every night.
        One night, when I’d just climbed into her chamber
        (It was, I think, the second of September—
        Yes, I was caught precisely on that date),
        Her father had been dining out till late.
        He comes home, knocks upon her door, and she
        Grows pale, then finds a hiding place for me,
        Opens the door, and with sly expertise
        Enfolds the old man in a hug and squeeze,
        So that he won’t perceive her rumpled state.
        He sits down; says it’s time she had a mate,
        And tells her of an offer he’s received.
        Needless to say, I’m anxious and aggrieved,
        But she replies with great diplomacy,
        Pleasing her father and yet soothing me.
        Just when the old man says that it is time
        To go, my pocket watch begins to chime!
        He says to his daughter, who’s at first struck dumb,
        “Since when do you have a watch? From whom did it come?”
        “Acaste, my cousin, sent it,” she declares,