Pierre Corneille, in his original dedication for The Theatre of Illusion, described the play as a "strange monster." He first called these five acts a comedy; later, a "caprice" and an "extravagant trifle." Written in 1635 and staged in 1636, the play vanished from the stage for the next three hundred yearsto be revived in 1937 by Louis Jouvet and the Comedie Francaise. Since then it has been widely considered, in Virginia Scott's words, "Corneille's baroque masterpiece." Today this brilliant piece of wit and drama is available in a new translation from one of America's finest poets and translators of French, Richard Wilbur. Widely praised for his translations of plays by Moliere and Racine, Wilbur now turns his poetic grace to this work, which remains as much a celebration of the comedy of humanity and the magic of life as it was when Corneille wrote it.

RICHARD WILBUR, one of America’s most beloved poets, has served as poet laureate of the United States. He has received the National Book Award, two Pulitzer Prizes, and a number of translation prizes, including two Bollingen Prizes and two PEN Awards. He lives in Cummington, Massachusetts.

ACT IScene IPRIDAMANT, DORANTEDORANTEThis wizard, though all nature is his slave,Has made his palace in that gloomy cave.In those dread premises, a perpetual nightYields only to a strange, unearthly lightWhich, with its ghostly luminescence, aidsThe summoning of spirits and of shades.Stand back; his art has charmed these boulders hereTo punish anyone who comes too near,And in that cave-mouth the enchanted airHas hardened to a wall, and serves him thereAs an unseen rampart able to opposeAnd scatter in the dust a thousand foes.But privacy concerns him most; he seesIntruders as far worse than enemies;And so, however eager, you must bideYour time till hes no longer occupied.Each day he takes the air, and Ive no doubtThat very soon he will be coming out.PRIDAMANTI long to see him, yet my doubts remain.Im eager, yet I fear my hopes are vain.The son for whom I feel such dear concern,Who grew estranged because I was too stern,And whom Ive sought for ten years, high and low,Is now forever lost to me, I know.Thinking him willful and a little wild,I laid strict disciplines upon my child,Meaning to tame his spirit; but, sad to say,My strictness only made him run away.I saw that I had blindly overstepped;Id raged at him, but when he fled, I wept,And my paternal love soon bred in meJust guilt for my unjust severity.I sought him, seeing in my travels thenThe Po, the Rhine, the Tagus, and the Seine,But there was no abatement of my grief;My useless wanderings brought me no relief.At length, despairing of such labor lostAnd doubtful that I could at any costContrive by human wit to end my woe,I turned for counsel to the powers below.I met the great practitioners of that scienceOn which Alcandre places his reliance.They all were highly praised, as he by you,But for my sorrows nothing could they do.To me, the spirit world has naught to say,Or says it only in a riddling way.DORANTEAlcandre is no ordinary man.He does things that no other wizard can.I shall not tell you how he wields the thunder,Troubles the ocean, cracks the earth asunder,Whips up a thousand hurricanes, and throwsBattalions of the same against his foes,How with a mystic word or two he forcesMountains to move and clouds to change their courses,Or bids the sun shine at the midnight hour.But youve no need of such displays of power:Enough that he can read mens minds, and seesThe future and the past with equal ease.To know all secrets he has but to look:For him, our destinies are an open book.Like you, I once was skeptical. Yet when weFirst met, he told me all my history,And I was staggered, hearing him lay bareThe details of my every love affair.PRIDAMANTYou tell great things of him.DORANTEAnd could tell more.PRIDAMANTIn vain you seek to raise my spirits, forI know Ill still be in this mournful plightWhen my sad days must end in endless night.DORANTESince I left Brittany with the desireOf coming here to be a country sq

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Excerpted from The Theatre of Illusion by Richard Wilbur, Pierre Corneille
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