Bean Richard - The hypochondriac: in a new version

First published in this version in 2005 by Oberon Books Ltd This electronic edition published in 2012 by Oberon Books Ltd
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www.oberonbooks.com Version copyright Richard Bean 2005 Richard Bean is hereby identified as author of this version in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. The author has asserted his moral rights. All rights whatsoever in this version are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before commencement of rehearsal to United Agents 1226 Lexington Street, London, W1F 0LE (info@unitedagents.co.uk). No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained, and no alterations may be made in the title or the text of the play without the authors prior written consent. You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: 978-1-84943-205-4 Visit www.oberonbooks.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that youre always first to hear about our new releases. Note This version was commissioned by the Almeida Theatre London in 2004. It is not a direct translation, and I have cut the Prologue, Interludes, any ballet, and also provided my own Epilogue.

So any students of Molire would be advised to look at the original or a faithful translation. I would like to take this opportunity to thank Chris Campbell, who not only provided the literal translation, but also much useful advice and encouragement. Also, Id like to thank Lindsay Posner for his enthusiasm, help and support, and all the actors for their many useful contributions to the text for which I will take the credit or blame. Richard Bean Characters ARGAN TOINETTE ANGELIQUE BELINE BONNEFOI CLEANTE DIAFOIRERHOEA THOMAS, his son LOUISON BERALDE FLEURANT PURGON and Attendants, Doctors, Patients, Kings etc. This version of The Hypochondriac was first performed at the Almeida Theatre, London on 10 November 2005, with the following cast:

It has a table surface attachedso that he can get on with his work without getting up. It is obviousthat he spends all day every day in it. In the pockets and recesses ofthe chair are secreted books on medicine, pills, potions, handkerchiefsetc. ARGAN is going through receipts and totalling the sums. Whenhe gets a figure he writes it down. ARGAN: Three francs plus two francs is five francs, and another five is ten, and another ten is twenty. Twenty francs?! What the hell!? He refers to the detail of the bill. Twenty-fourth of January, a penetrating, emollient exemplum to soften, moisten and enliven Monsieurs rectum.

What I appreciate most about Doctor Purgons invoices is the poetry. Anal vetting thirty francs. Thirty francs for a quick once over?! Any other part of the body is twenty francs! Whats he asking for? Danger money!? Youre getting ten francs. He writes that down. If you fancy yourself as a poet Purgon you should be employing your words to celebrate love, not to fleece the terminally ill. (Reading.) That same day, a cleansing clyster (huh! alliteration, thatll be an extra ten francs) a cleansing clyster of wild Greek honey infused with roses designed to embellish and generally tidy up Monsieurs fundament. Thirty francs? Nope! Ten.

The night of the twenty-fifth, a soporific, hepatic julep to assist Monsieur to sleep. Thirty-five cents. Credit where credit is due. I went out like a light. Ill give you half. He writes that down. Later on the twenty-fifth, (it was a full day I remember) a bracing, purgative tonic composed of cayenne pepper, oriental senna (oriental? thatll be pricey) and a gill of Monsieur Popineaus elixir patent pending (oh a secret ingredient ching! ching!) to evacuate Monsieurs bile.

Five francs! Over my dead body! Three francs. He writes it down. Twenty-sixth. Ten tablets of anti-flatulence clyster to excite the expulsion of Monsieurs painful wind. Ten francs. Nope! Seven francs! Only seven of them worked. He writes it down. In fact Im losing faith in Purgon.

Todays enema doesnt seem to have worked either. Looking between his legs. Unless it was a quiet one. There might be something seriously wrong with me! Help! Toinette! Im abandoned by my own servants! He rings a handbell. Toinette! Theyve all gone deaf! He throws the handbell at the door. Dinga linga ling! Dinga linga ling! Im getting angry now. In this day and age, leaving a poor frail invalid dangerously stranded in his own home. Oh my God! Theyve left me here to die! He stands and screams. DINGA LINGA BLOODY LING!!! Enter TOINETTE, slowly, ARGAN jumps back into hischair looking pathetic again. TOINETTE: Here we go again. ARGAN: What kept you?! TOINETTE: This is me rushing.

ARGAN: (With a hint of affection.) Lazy cow! TOINETTE: (Suddenly holding her head.) Ah! My head. I banged my head on the shutters, back there, when I was rushing! ARGAN: You neglected me. TOINETTE: Can you see blood? Ohhh! ARGAN: A whole hour TOINETTE: I might die, it could be a brain tumour, or ARGAN: Shut it will you! Now listen to me. TOINETTE: Concussion, maybe a ARGAN: Be quiet! And listen! This is a ticking off. Now TOINETTE: Oh! After what Ive just done to myself rushing, I ARGAN: Ive lost my voice now! TOINETTE: And Ive cracked my head open, so shut up, were square! ARGAN: Dont talk to me like that! TOINETTE: Ill cry. Promise.

ARGAN: Todays enema doesnt TOINETTE: Oh! ARGAN: Listen! You left me. Alone. In here when Im TOINETTE: (Moaning.) Ohh! Is the skin broken? ARGAN: Stop bloody interrupting me will you! TOINETTE: Criticize me all you like. I dont think it matters any more. ARGAN: Im trying incredibly hard to tear a couple of strips off you but you keep interrupting me you big TOINETTE: Yes? ARGAN: daft TOINETTE: Ill cry. ARGAN: lazyfatwhore.

TOINETTE: Fat? He gets up from his chair which is revealed as an emergencycommode. ARGAN: Whats in the pan? TOINETTE: Is this a game? I like games. A gold coin? ARGAN: Insolent tart! I dont think todays enema has worked. Is there anything in there? TOINETTE: Im not poking my nose into Doctor Purgons business. ARGAN: It is your job to take the pan away and empty it! TOINETTE: Ive found a way of doing it without making eye contact. ARGAN: Just tell me whats in there! TOINETTE: (She has a look.) Nothing to write home about sir. ARGAN: Nothing substantial then? TOINETTE: Quite a lot of number one.