Act 2 — SCENE I.
Charles Renauld translation
RAGUENEAU, PASTRY-COOKS, then LISE. RAGUENEAU is writing and counts on his fingers.
FIRST PASTRY-COOK (bearing a dish).
Candied fruits!
SECOND PASTRY-COOK (with another dish).
Pie!
THIRD PASTRY-COOK (with a roast).
Peacock!
FOURTH PASTRY-COOK (with a tray).
Cakes!
FIFTH PASTRY-COOK (with an earthen bowl).
Stewed beef!
RAGUENEAU (stops writing and looks up).
The copper's yellow sheen is silvered by the dawn[12] Now smother, Ragueneau, the godly notes you love! Sweet poesy must wait—just now is cooking time!
(He rises. To one of the cooks).
Look here! Your sauce is thick, and you must lengthen it.
COOK.
How much?
RAGUENEAU.
Three feet.
(Passes on.)
O Muse, keep thou aloof, or else your pleading eyes Will suffer from the glare of vulgar fires here!
(to one of the pastry-cooks).
These loaves are badly set, the split should not be thus, Cesuras should be placed between the hemstitches.
(to another, pointing to an unfinished meat-pie).
This palace made of crust is fine, but needs a roof.
(to an apprentice boy who, seated on the floor, is running a fowl on a spit).
The spit is long enough for chickens, turkeys, all, But alternate, my boy, and imitate Malherbe: His lines the longest were relieved by shorter ones. Do you the same, prepare real stanzas on the spit!
ANOTHER APPRENTICE (carrying a tray over which is a large napkin).
Dear Master, this for you was in the oven cooked. We wish to please you, Sir!
RAGUENEAU.
A lyre!
THE APPRENTICE.
Made of paste!
RAGUENEAU (moved).
Of candied fruits besides! And strings of sugar, too!
THE APPRENTICE.
To give a sweeter tone!
RAGUENEAU (handing him some money).
It's fine; go drink my health
(seeing Lise, as she enters).
My wife! Be silent—skip!
(to Lise, showing her the lyre).
Fine work!
LISE.
Ridiculous!
(She lays on the counter a bundle of paper bags.)
RAGUENEAU.
Some bags; I thank you, dear.
(Looks at the bags.)
The manuscripts I love! The verses of my friends! All mutilated! Torn! To serve as wrappers for .... such prosy things as cakes! It's Orpheus once again pursued by the Bacchantes!
LISE (harshly).
I use the only thing your friends in payment give; Your sorry scribblers bent on not completing lines!
RAGUENEAU.
The ant should not insult the magic cricket's song!
LISE.
Before these crickets thus possessed you wholly, dear, You never said to me: bacchante, or even: ant!
RAGUENEAU.
Treat verses thus!
LISE.
Why not?
RAGUENEAU.
What would you do with prose?