SAB. I am glad to meet you, uncle, to tell you of a good piece of
news: I bring the cleverest doctor in the world, a man who comes from
foreign lands, who knows the most important secrets, and who will no
doubt cure my cousin. He was fortunately shown to me, and I bring him
to you. He is so clever, that I heartily wish I were ill, so that he
might cure me.
GOR. Where is he?
SAB. Close at hand; here he is.
GOR. Doctor, I am your very humble servant. I sent for you, to come and see
my daughter who is ill; I put all my hopes in you.
SGAN. Hippocrates says, and Galen too, with strong reasoning argues,
that a person does not feel well when he is ill. You are right to put
all your hopes in me, for I am the greatest, the cleverest, the wisest
doctor in the vegetable, animal, and mineral faculty.
GOR. I am delighted to hear it.
SGAN. Do not imagine that I am an ordinary doctor, a common doctor.
All other doctors compared to me are abortions. I possess wonderful
talents; I am master of many secrets. _Salamalec, salamalec._ "Hast
thou courage, Rodrigo?"[3] _Signor, si; signor, non. Per omnia sæcula
sæculorum._ Still, let us see a little. (_Feels_ GORGIBUS'S _pulse._)
SAB. Eh! He is not the patient; it is his daughter who is ill.
SGAN. It does not matter: the blood of the father and that of the
daughter are the same; and by the deterioration of the blood of the
father, I can know the illness of the daughter.
GOR. Ah! doctor, I am greatly afraid that my daughter will die.
SGAN. S'death! she must not! she must not indeed have the pleasure of
dying before she has the doctor's prescription. But, Mr. Gorgibus, can
I see your daughter?
SAB. She is up; I will bring her if you like.
SCENE V.--SABINE, GORGIBUS, SGANARELLE (_as doctor_), LUCILE.
SGAN. Well, young lady, so you are ill?
LUC. Yes, sir.
SGAN. So much the worse; it is a proof that you are not quite well. Do
you feel great pains in your head and back?
LUC. Yes, sir.
Sgan. I thought so. Yes, the great doctor I spoke of, in the chapter
he made on the nature of animals, said ... a hundred fine things; and
how the humours which have connexion, have much relation to each
other; for instance, as melancholy is the enemy to joy, and as the
bile in going through our body makes us become yellow, and as nothing
is more contrary to good health than illness; so we can say with that
great man that your daughter is very ill. I must give her a
prescription.
Gor. Quick! a table, paper and ink!
Sgan. Is there anybody here who can write?
Gor. What! do you not know how to write?
Sgan. Ah! I was forgetting; I have so many things to think of, that I
forget the half.... I think it is quite necessary for your daughter to
have a change of air and that she should go and enjoy herself
somewhere in the country.
Gor. We have a very fine garden, and some rooms attached to it; if you
think it will do, I will send her there.
Sgan. Let us go and see the place. (_Exeunt._)