It’s you I’m speaking to, sister. The t...

It’s you I’m speaking to, sister.

The tiniest error of grammar drives you crazy;

But some of your own conduct gets on my nerves.

Your eternal books, for one example;

Except for that big Plutarch, which is good for creasing my pants,

You ought to burn that useless bookcase

And leave science to the town’s PhD’s.;

Go up to the attic and toss out that long spyglass

That scares the neighbors, and while you’re at it toss

The hundred spooky science doodads you’ve collected.

Don’t bother with what they’re up to on the moon

And pay some attention to what’s going on at home

Where everything’s gone topsy-turvy.

It’s not really right, and for many reasons,

That a woman should study and know so many things.

Teaching her children good manners,

Making the house run, keeping an eye on the help

And managing the household accounts

Should be her study and entire philosophy.

On this point our forefathers showed a lot of good sense

When they said that a woman has learned enough

When her brain power reaches the point

She can tell a shirt from a pair of trousers.

Their wives couldn’t read, but they lived well;

Their learned conversations were all household,

And their books a thimble, needle, and thread,

Which they used to make the trousseaus of their daughters.

Women these days don’t honor these old customs;

They want to write and even become authors;

There’s no science that is too profound for them,

And here more than anyplace in the world,

They penetrate the very deepest secrets.

At my house they know everything but what they ought to know:

What’s going on on the moon and on the pole star,

On Venus, Saturn, and Mars that I don’t care about;

But for all this vain and arcane erudition

They have no clue what’s going on with my stew, which I need.

The help are busy studying so they can please you,

And so they’re doing everything but what I need.

The only work being done around here is reasoning,

And reasoning has totally banished reason.

One servant burns my roast while reading history,

Another one’s dreaming poetry when I want a drink;

In short, I see them following your example;

I have all these servants, but I’m not served.

I had one little servant girl left for me

Who wasn’t yet infected with these airs,

And now with all this hubbub she’s been fired

For committing some kind of sin against the dictionary.

I tell you, sister, that this whole business hurts me,

‘Cause remember, it’s you to whom I speak.

I don’t like all the eggheads you invite here,

Especially your Monsieur Trippeldolt.

He’s been tooting your horn with his poetry,

But all he spouts is utterly nonsensical;

When he’s done you try to figure out what he’s said;

And as for me, I think he’s just a crackpot.

Citation: Moliere, Translated by Jonathan Marks, The Learned Women, Public domain.
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