READ STUDY GUIDE: Act II, scenes i–vi |
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Act II, Scene i
| Ragueneau, pastry-cooks, then Lise. Ragueneau is writing, with an inspired |
| air, at a small table, and counting on his fingers. |
| FIRST PASTRY-COOK (bringing in an elaborate fancy dish): |
 Fruits in nougat! |
| SECOND PASTRY-COOK (bringing another dish): |
| Custard! |
| THIRD PASTRY-COOK (bringing a roast, decorated with feathers): |
| Peacock! |
| FOURTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a batch of cakes on a slab): |
| Rissoles! |
| FIFTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a sort of pie-dish): |
| Beef jelly! |
| RAGUENEAU (ceasing to write, and raising his head): |
| Aurora's silver rays begin to glint e'en now on the copper pans, and thou, O |
| Ragueneau! must perforce stifle in thy breast the God of Song! Anon shall |
| come the hour of the lute!—now 'tis the hour of the oven! |
| (He rises. To a cook): |
| You, make that sauce longer, 'tis too short! |
| THE COOK: |
| How much too short? |
| RAGUENEAU: |
| Three feet. |
| (He passes on farther.) |
| THE COOK: |
| What means he? |
| FIRST PASTRY-COOK (showing a dish to Ragueneau): |
| The tart! |
| SECOND PASTRY-COOK: |
| The pie! |
| RAGUENEAU (before the fire): |
| My muse, retire, lest thy bright eyes be reddened by the fagot's blaze! |
| (To a cook, showing him some loaves): |
| You have put the cleft o' th' loaves in the wrong place; know you not that |
| the coesura should be between the hemistiches? |
| (To another, showing him an unfinished pasty): |
| To this palace of paste you must add the roof. . . |
| (To a young apprentice, who, seated on the ground, is spitting the fowls): |
| And you, as you put on your lengthy spit the modest fowl and the superb |
| turkey, my son, alternate them, as the old Malherbe loved well to alternate |
| his long lines of verse with the short ones; thus shall your roasts, in |
| strophes, turn before the flame! |
| ANOTHER APPRENTICE (also coming up with a tray covered by a napkin): |
| Master, I bethought me erewhile of your tastes, and made this, which will |
| please you, I hope. |
| (He uncovers the tray, and shows a large lyre made of pastry.) |
| RAGUENEAU (enchanted): |
| A lyre! |
| THE APPRENTICE: |
| 'Tis of brioche pastry. |
| RAGUENEAU (touched): |
| With conserved fruits. |
| THE APPRENTICE: |
| The strings, see, are of sugar. |
| RAGUENEAU (giving him a coin): |
| Go, drink my health! |
| (Seeing Lise enter): |
| Hush! My wife. Bustle, pass on, and hide that money! |
| (To Lise, showing her the lyre, with a conscious look): |
| Is it not beautiful? |
| LISE: |
| 'Tis passing silly! |
| (She puts a pile of papers on the counter.) |
| RAGUENEAU: |
| Bags? Good. I thank you. |
| (He looks at them): |
| Heavens! my cherished leaves! The poems of my friends! Torn, dismembered, |
| to make bags for holding biscuits and cakes!. . .Ah, 'tis the old tale again. |
| . .Orpheus and the Bacchantes! |
| LISE (dryly): |
| And am I not free to turn at last to some use the sole thing that your |
| wretched scribblers of halting lines leave behind them by way of payment? |
| RAGUENEAU: |
| Groveling ant!. . .Insult not the divine grasshoppers, the sweet singers! |
| LISE: |
| Before you were the sworn comrade of all that crew, my friend, you did not |
| call your wife ant and Bacchante! |
| RAGUENEAU: |
| To turn fair verse to such a use! |
| LISE: |
| 'Faith, 'tis all it's good for. |
| RAGUENEAU: |
| Pray then, madam, to what use would you degrade prose? |
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