Dramatis Personae
(Tartuffe; ou, L’imposteur)
Orgon, husband
toElmire.
Damis, his son.
Valère, Mariane’S lover.
Cléante, Orgon’s brother-in-law.
Tartuffe.
M. Loyal, a tipstaff.
A Police Officer.
Elmire, Orgon’s wife.
Madame Pernelle, Orgon’s mother.
Mariane, Orgon’s daughter.
Dorine, her maid.
Flipote, Madame Pernelle’s servant.
The Scene is in Paris
Act I
Madame Pernelle. Come along, Flipote, come along; let us get away from them.
Elmire. You walk so fast, that one can hardly keep up with you.
Madame Pernelle. Do not trouble yourself, daughter-in-law, do not trouble yourself, do not come any farther; there is no need for all this ceremony.
Elmire. We only give you your due. But pray, mother, why are you in such haste to leave us?
Madame Pernelle. Because I cannot bear to see such goings on. No one cares to please me. I leave your house very little edified: all my advice is despised; nothing is respected, everyone has his say aloud, and it is just like the court of King Pétaud.
Dorine. If …
Madame Pernelle. You are, my dear, a little too much of a talker, and a great deal too saucy for a waiting maid. You give your advice about everything.
Damis. But …
Madame Pernelle. Four letters spell your name, my child, a “fool’’: I, your grandmother, tell you so; and I have already predicted to my son, your father, a hundred times, that you are fast becoming a good-for- nothing, who will give him nought but trouble.
Mariane. I think …
Madame Pernelle. Good-lack! grand-daughter, you play the prude, and to look at you, butter would not melt in your mouth. But still waters run deep, as the saying is; and I do not like your sly doings at all.
Elmire. But, mother …
Madame Pernelle. By your leave, daughter-in-law, your whole conduct is altogether wrong; you ought to set them a good example; and their late mother managed them a great deal better. You are extravagant; and it disgusts me to see you decked out like a princess. The woman who wishes to please her husband only, daughter-in-law, has no need of so much finery.
Cléante. But after all, Madam …
Madame Pernelle. As for you, Sir, who are her brother, I esteem, love, and respect you very much; but, nevertheless, if I were my son and her husband, I would beg of you earnestly not to enter our house. You are always laying down maxims which respectable people ought not to follow. I speak to you rather frankly; but it is a way I have got, and I do not mince my words when I have something on my mind.
Damis. Your M. Tartuffe is an angel, no doubt.…
Madame Pernelle. He is a very worthy man, who ought to be listened to; and I cannot, without getting angry, suffer him to be sneered at by a fool like you.
Damis. What! am I to allow a censorious bigot to usurp an absolute authority in this house! and shall we not be permitted to amuse ourselves, unless that precious gentleman condescends to give us leave!
Dorine. If any one were to listen to him and believe in his maxims, one could not do anything without committing a sin; for he controls everything, this carping critic.
Madame Pernelle. And whatever he does control, is well controlled. He wishes to lead you on the road to Heaven: and my son ought to make you all love him.
Damis. No, look here, grandmother, neither father nor anyone else shall ever induce me to look kindly upon him. I should belie my heart to say otherwise. His manners every moment enrage me; I can foresee the consequence, and one time or other I shall have to come to an open quarrel with this low-bred fellow.
Dorine. Certainly, it is a downright scandal to see a stranger exercise such authority in this house; to see a beggar, who, when he came, had not a shoe to his foot, and whose whole dress may have been worth twopence, so far forget himself as to cavil at everything, and to assume the authority of a master.
Madame Pernelle. Eh! mercy on me! things would go on much better if everything were managed according to his pious directions.
Dorine. He passes for a saint in your opinion; but believe me, he is nothing but a hypocrite.
Madame Pernelle. What a tongue!
Dorine. I should not like to trust myself with him, nor with his man Laurent, without a good guarantee.
Madame Pernelle. I do not know what the servant may be at heart; but as for the master, I will vouch for him as a good man. You bear him ill-will, and only reject him because he tells all of you the truth. It is against sin that his heart waxes wroth, and his only motive is the interest of Heaven.
Dorine. Ay; but why, particularly for some time past, can he not bear any one to come to the house? What is there offensive to Heaven in a civil visit, that there must be a noise about it fit to split one’s ears? Between ourselves, do you wish me to explain? … (Pointing to ELMIRE). Upon my word, I believe him to be jealous of my mistress.
Madame Pernelle. Hold your tongue, and mind what you say.
It is not he only who blames these visits. All the bustle of these people who frequent this house, these carriages everlastingly standing at the door, and the noisy crowd of so many servants, cause a great disturbance in the whole neighbourhood. I am willing to believe that there is really no harm done; but people will talk of it, and that is not right.
Cléante. Alas, Madam, will you prevent people talking? It would be a very hard thing if, in life, for the sake of the foolish things which may be said about us, we had to renounce our best friends. And even if we could resolve to do so, do you think we could compel every one to hold his tongue? There is no protection against slander. Let us, therefore, pay no regard to all this silly tittle-tattle; let us endeavour to live honestly, and leave the gossips to say what they please.
Dorine. May not Daphne, our neighbour, and her little husband, be those who speak ill of us? They whose own conduct is the most ridiculous are always the first to slander others. They never fail to catch eagerly at the slightest rumour of a love-affair, to spread the news of it with joy, and to give it the turn which they want. They think to justify their own actions before the world by those of others, painted in colours of their choosing, either in the false expectation of glossing over their own intrigues with some semblance of innocence, or else by making to fall elsewhere some part of that public blame with which they are too heavily burdened.
Madame Pernelle. All these arguments are nothing to the purpose. Oronte is known to lead an exemplary life. All her cares tend to Heaven; and I have learned from people that she strongly condemns the company who visit here.
Dorine. An admirable pattern indeed, and she is very good, this lady! It is true that she lives very austerely; but age has put this ardent zeal into her breast; people know that she is a prude against her own will. She enjoyed her advantages well enough as long as she was capable of attracting attentions; but, seeing the lustre of her eyes become somewhat dim, she renounces the world which is renouncing her, and conceals under the pompous cloak of lofty wisdom, the decay of her worn-out charms. These are the vicissitudes of coquettes in our time. They find it hard to see their admires desert them. Thus forsaken, their gloomy anxiety sees no other resource but that of prudery; and the severity of these good women censures everything and pardons nothing. Loudly they blame everyone’s life, not through charity, but through envy, which cannot bear another to enjoy those pleasures for which their age gives them no longer a relish.
Madame Pernelle (to Elmire). These are cock-and-bull stories, made to please you, daughter-in-law. One is obliged to keep silence here, for Madam keeps the ball rolling all day. But I also will have my say in my turn. I tell you that my son has never done anything more sensible than in receiving this devout personage in his house; that Heaven itself, in time of need, has sent him here to reclaim all your erring minds; that for your salvation’s sake, you ought to listen to him; and that he censures nothing but what is reprehensible. These visits, these balls, these conversations, are all inventions of the evil one. One never hears a pious word uttered at any of them; nothing but title-tattle, nonsense, and silly gossip. Very often our neighbour comes in for his share of it, and there is back-biting going on right and left. In short, sensible people have their heads turned by the confusion of such meetings. A thousand idle stories are told in no time; and, as a certain doctor said very aptly the other day, it is a perfect tower of Babylon, for every one chatters to his heart’s content; and to show you what brought this up … (pointing to CLÉANTE). But here is this gentleman giggling already! Go and look for some fools to laugh at, and without … (to ELMIRE).Good-bye, daughter-in-law; I will say no more. I make you a present of the rest, but it will be a fine day when I set my foot in your house again. (Slapping FLIPOTE’s face.) Come along you, you stand dreaming and gaping here. Ods bobs! I shall warm your ears for you. March on, slut, march on.
Scene II.—Cléante, Dorine.
Cléante. I shall not go with her, for fear she should fall foul of me again; that this good lady …
Dorine. Ah! it is a pity that she does not hear you say so: she would tell you that you are good, but that she is not yet old enough to be called so.
Cléante. How she fired up against us for nothing! And how infatuated she seems with her Tartuffe!
Dorine. Oh! indeed, all this is nothing compared with the son: and if you saw him, you would say it is much worse. During our troubles he acted like a man of sense, and displayed some courage in the service of his prince; but since he has grown so fond of this Tartuffe, he is become a perfect dolt. He calls him brother, and loves him in his very soul a hundred times better than either mother, son, daughter, or wife. He is the sole confidant of all his secrets, and the prudent director of all his action; he caresses him, embraces him; and one could show no more affection, I think, to a mistress. He will have him seated at the upper end of the table, and is delighted to see him eat as much as six; the choicest morsels of everything must be given to him; and, if he happens to belch, he says to him “God preserve you. ” In short, he is crazy about him; he is his all, his hero; he admires everything he does, he quotes him on all occasions; he looks upon his most trifling actions as miracles; and every word he utters is considered an oracle. The other, who knows his dupe, and wishes to make the most of him, has the art of dazzling him by a hundred deceitful appearances. His pretended devotion draws money from him at every hour of the day; and assumes the right of commenting upon the conduct of every one of us. Even the jackanapes, his servant, pretends also to read us a lesson; he comes preaching to us with fierce looks, and throws away our ribbons, our paint, and our patches. Only the other day, the wretch tore a handkerchief which he had found between the leaves of “The Flower of the Saints,’’ saying that it was a dreadful sin to bring these holy things into contact with the devil’s deckings.
Scene
Elmire (to Cléante). You are very fortunate not to have assisted at the speech to which she treated us at the door. But I have just seen my husband; and as he did not see me, I shall go upstairs to await his coming.
Cléante. I will wait for him here, with small pleasure; and merely say how do ye do to him.
Scene IV.—Cléante, Damis, Dorine.
Damis. Just sound him about this marriage of my sister. I suspect that Tartuffe is opposed to it, because he makes my father use so many evasions; and you are not ignorant how greatly I am interested in it.… If the same passion fires my sister’s and Valére’s heart, the sister of this friend is, as you know, dear to me; and if it were necessary …
Dorine. Here he is.
Scene V.—Orgon, Cléante, Dorine.
Orgon. Ha! good morrow, brother.
Cléante. I was just going, and am glad to see you returned. The country is not very cheering at present.
Orgon. Dorine … (to Cléante). Pray, one moment, brother-in-law. Allow me to inquire the news here to ease my mind. (To Dorine). Has everything gone on well these two days? What are they doing, and how are they all?
Dorine. The day before yesterday my mistress had an attack of fever until evening, accompanied by an extraordinary headache.
Orgon. And Tartuffe?
Dorine. Tartuffe! He is wonderfully well, stout and fat, with a fresh complexion, and a ruddy mouth.
Orgon. Poor fellow!
Dorine. In the evening she felt very sick, and could not touch a morsel of supper, so violent was still the pain in her head.
Orgon. And Tartuffe?
Dorine. He supped by himself in her presence; and very devoutly ate two partridges, and half a leg of mutton hashed.
Orgon. Poor fellow!
Dorine. The whole night she did not close her eyes for a moment. She was so feverish that she could not sleep, and we were obliged to sit up with her until morning.
Orgon. And Tartuffe?
Dorine. Pleasantly overcome with sleep, he went to his room when he left the table; and jumped into his cozy bed, where he slept undisturbed until morning.
Orgon. Poor fellow!
Dorine. We at length prevailed upon the mistress to be bled; and she was almost immediately relieved.
Orgon. And Tartuffe?
Dorine. He picked up his courage again as he ought to; and, to fortify himself against all harm, he drank four large draughts of wine at breakfast, to make up for the blood that the mistress had lost.
Orgon. Poor fellow!
Dorine. At present, they are both well; and I shall go and inform the mistress how glad you feel at her recovery.
Scene VI.—Orgon, Cléante.
Cléante. She is laughing at you to your face, brother: and, without wishing to make you angry, I must tell you candidly that it is not without reason. Was there ever such a whim heard of? Can it be possible that any man could so charm you now-a-days as to make you forget everything for him? That after having relieved his indigence, in your own house, you should go as far as …
Orgon. Stop, brother-in-law, you do not know the man of whom you are speaking?
Cléante. I do not know him, if you like; but after all, in order to know what sort of man he is …
Orgon. You would be charmed to know him, brother; and there would be no end to your delight. He is a man … who … ah … a man … in short, a man. One who acts up to his own precepts, enjoys a profound peace, and looks upon the whole world as so much dirt. Yes; I am quite another man since I conversed with him; he teaches me to set my heart upon nothing; he detaches my mind from all friendship; and I could see brother, children, mother, and wife die, without troubling myself in the least about it.
Cléante. Humane sentiments these, brother!
Orgon. Ah! if you had seen how I first met him, you would have conceived the same friendship for him that I feel. Every day he came to church, and, with a gentle mien, kneeled down opposite me. He attracted the notice of the whole congregation by the fervency with which he sent up his prayers to heaven. He uttered sighs, was enraptured, and humbly kissed the ground every moment; and when I went out, he swiftly ran before me to offer me holy water at the door. Informed by his servant, who imitates him in everything, of his poverty, and who he was, I made him some presents: but, with great modesty, he always wished to return some part of them. “It is too much, ” he would say; “too much by half; I do not deserve your pity. ” And when I refused to take them back again, he would go and give them to the poor before my face. At length Heaven moved me to take him to my house, and since then, everything seems to prosper here. I perceive that he reproves everything, and that he takes a great interest, even in my wife, for my sake. He warns me of the people who look too lovingly at her, and he is six times more jealous of her than I am. But you cannot believe how far his zeal goes: the slightest trifle in himself he calls a sin; a mere nothing is sufficient to shock him; so much so that he accused himself, the other day, of having caught a flea whilst he was at his devotions, and of having killed it with too much anger.
Cléante. Zounds! I believe you are mad, brother. Are you making game of me with such a speech? and do you pretend that all this fooling …
Orgon. Brother, this discourse savours of free-thinking. You are somewhat tainted with it; and, as I have often told you, you will get yourself into some unpleasant scrape.
Cléante. The usual clap-trap of your set; they wish everyone to be blind like themselves. To keep one’s eyes open is to be a freethinker; and whosoever does not worship empty mummeries has neither respect for, nor faith in, holy things. Go along; all your speeches do not frighten me; I know what I am saying, and Heaven sees my heart. We are not the slaves of your formalists. There are hypocrites in religion as well as pretenders to courage; and as we never find the truly brave man make much noise where honour leads him, no more are the good and truly pious, whom we ought to follow, those who make so many grimaces. What! would you make no distinction between hypocrisy and true devotion? Would you treat them both alike, and give the same honour to the mask as to the face; put artifice on a level with sincerity, confound appearance with reality, value the shadow as much as the substance; and false coin the same as real? Men, for the most part, are strange creatures, and never keep the right mean; reason’s boundaries are too narrow for them; in every character they overact their parts; and they often spoil the noblest designs, because they exaggerate, and carry them too far. This by the way, brother.
Orgon. Yes, you are no doubt a doctor to be looked up to; you possess all the world’s wisdom; you are the only sage, and the only enlightened man, an oracle, a Cato of the present age; and all men, compared with you, are fools.
Cléante. I am not, brother, a doctor to be looked up to; nor do
I possess all the world’s wisdom. But, in one word, I know enough to distinguish truth from falsehood. And as I know no character more worthy of esteem than the truly devout, nor anything in the world more noble or beautiful than the holy fervour of sincere piety, so I know nothing more odious than the whited sepulchre of a pretended zealot, than those downright impostors, those devotees, for public show, whose sacrilegious and deceitful grimaces abuse with impunity, and make a jest, according to their fancy, of what men hold most holy and sacred; those men who, from motives of self-interest, make a trade of piety, and would purchase honour and reputation at the cost of a hypocritical turning up of the eyes and pretended raptures; those men, I say, whom we see possessed with such an uncommon ardour for the next world, in order to make their fortunes in this; who, with great unction and many prayers, daily recommend and preach solitude in the midst of the court; who know how to reconcile their zeal with their vices; who are passionate, vindictive, without belief, full of artifice, and would, in order to destroy a man, insolently cover their fierce resentment under the cloak of Heaven’s interests. They are the more dangerous in their bitter wrath because they use against us weapons which men reverence, and because their passion, for which they are commended, prompts them to assassinate us with a consecrated blade. One sees too many of those vile characters, but the really devout at heart are easily recognized. Our age has shown us some, brother, who may serve us as glorious examples. Look at Ariston, look at Périandre, Oronte, Alcidamas, Polydore, Clitandre—no one disputes their title. But they do not boast of their virtue. One does not see this unbearable ostentation in them; and their piety is human, is tractable; they do not censure all our doings, they think that these corrections would show too much pride on their part; and, leaving big words to others, they reprove our actions by their own. They do not think anything evil, because it seems so, and their mind is inclined to judge well of others. They have no cabals, no intrigues; all their anxiety is to live well themselves. They never persecute a sinner; they hate sin only, and do not vindicate the interest of Heaven with greater zeal than Heaven itself. These are my people, that is the true way to act; that is, in short, an example to be followed. Your man, to speak plainly, is not of that stamp; you vaunt his zeal with the utmost good faith; but I believe that you are dazzled by a false glare.
Orgon. My dear brother-in-law, have you had your say?
Cléante. Yes.
Orgon (going). I am your humble servant.
Cléante. Pray, one word more, brother. Let us drop this conversation. You know that Valère has your promise to be your son-in-law.
Orgon. Yes.
Cléante. And that you would appoint a day for the wedding.
Orgon. True.
Cléante. Why then defer the ceremony?
Orgon. I do not know.
Cléante. Have you another design in your mind?
Orgon. Perhaps so.
Cléante. Will you break your word?
Orgon. I do not say that.
Cléante. There is no obstacle, I think, to prevent you from fulfilling your promise?
Orgon. That is as it may be.
Cléante. Why so much ado about a single word? Valère sent me to you about it.
Orgon. Heaven be praised for that!
Cléante. But what answer shall I give him?
Orgon. Whatever you please.
Cléante. But it is necessary to know your intentions. What are they?
Orgon. To do just what Heaven ordains.
Cléante. But to the point. Valère has your promise: will you keep it or not?
Orgon. Farewell.
Cléante (alone). I fear some misfortune for his love, and I ought to inform him of what is going on.
Act II
Orgon. Mariane.
Mariane. Father?
Orgon. Come here; I have something to say to you privately.
Mariane (to ORGON, who is looking into a closet). What are you looking for?
Orgon. I am looking whether there is anyone there who might overhear us; for it is a most likely little place for such a purpose. Now we are all right. Mariane, I have always found you of a sweet disposition, and you have always been very dear to me.
Mariane. I am much obliged to you for this fatherly affection.
Orgon. That is very well said, daughter; and to deserve it, your only care should be to please me.
Mariane. That is my greatest ambition.
Orgon. Very well. What say you of our guest Tartuffe?
Mariane. Who? I?
Orgon. You. Be careful how you answer.
Mariane. Alas! I will say whatever you like of him.
Scene II.—Orgon, Mariane, Dorine (entering softly and keeping behind Orgon, without being seen).
Orgon. That is sensibly spoken. … Tell me then, my child, that he is a man of the highest worth; that he has touched your heart; and that it would be pleasant to you to see him, with my approbation, become your husband. Eh? (Mariane draws away with surprise.)
Mariane. He!
Orgon. What is the matter?
Mariane. What did you say?
Orgon. What?
Mariane. Did I mistake?
Orgon. How?
Mariane. What would you have me say has touched my heart, father, and whom would it be pleasant to have for a husband, with your approbation?
Orgon. Tartuffe.
Mariane. But it is nothing of the kind, father, I assure you. Why would you have me tell such a falsehood?
Orgon. But I wish it to be a truth; and it is sufficient for you that I have resolved it so.
Mariane. What, father would you …
Orgon. Yes, daughter, I intend by your marriage to unite Tartuffe to my family. He shall be your husband; I have decided that; and as on your duty I … (perceiving Dorine). What are you doing here? Your anxious curiosity is very great, my dear, to induce you to listen to us in this manner.
Dorine. In truth, I do not know whether this is a mere report arising from conjecture or from chance; but they have just told me the news of this marriage, and I treated it as a pure hoax.
Orgon. Why so! Is the thing incredible?
Dorine. So much so, that even from you, Sir, I do not believe it.
Orgon. I know how to make you believe it, though.
Dorine. Yes, yes, you are telling us a funny story.
Orgon. I am telling you exactly what you will see shortly.
Dorine. Nonsense!
Orgon. What I say is not in jest, daughter.
Dorine. Come, do not believe your father; he is joking.
Orgon. I tell you …
Dorine. No, you may say what you like; nobody will believe you.
Orgon. My anger will at last …
Dorine. Very well! we will believe you then; and so much the worse for you. What! is it possible, Sir, that, with that air of common sense, and this great beard in the very midst of your face, you would be foolish enough to be willing to …
Orgon. Now listen: you have taken certain liberties in this house, which I do not like; I tell you so, my dear.
Dorine. Let us speak without getting angry, Sir, I beg. Is it to laugh at people that you have planned this scheme? Your daughter is not suitable for a bigot: he has other things to think about. And, besides, what will such an alliance bring you? Why, with all your wealth, go and choose a beggar for your son-in- law …
Orgon. Hold your tongue. If he has nothing, know that it is just for that that we ought to esteem him. His poverty is no doubt an honest poverty; it ought to raise him above all grandeur, because he has allowed himself to be deprived of his wealth by his little care for worldly affairs, and his strong attachment to things eternal. But my assistance may give him the means of getting out of his troubles, and of recovering his property. His estates are well known in his country; and, such as you see him, he is quite the nobleman.
Dorine. Yes, so he says; and this vanity, Sir, does not accord well with piety. Whosoever embraces the innocence of a holy life should not boast so much about his name and his lineage; and the humble ways of piety do but ill agree with this outburst of ambition. What is the good of this pride. … But this discourse offends you: let us speak of himself, and leave his nobility alone. Would you, without some compunction, give a girl like her to a man like him? And ought you not to have some regard for propriety, and foresee the consequences of such a union? Be sure that a girl’s virtue is in danger when her choice is thwarted in her marriage; that her living virtuously depends upon the qualities of the husband whom they have chosen for her, and that those whose foreheads are pointed at everywhere often make of their wives what we see that they are. It is, in short, no easy task to be faithful to husbands cut out after a certainmodel; and he who gives to his daughter a man whom she hates, is responsible to Heaven for the faults she commits. Consider to what perils your design exposes you.
Orgon. I tell you I must learn from her what to do!
Dorine. You cannot do better than follow my advice.
Orgon. Do not let us waste any more time with this silly prattle, daughter; I am your father, and know what is best for you. I had promised you to Valère; but besides his being inclined to gamble, as I am told, I also suspect him to be somewhat of a free-thinker; I never notice him coming to church.
Dorine. Would you like him to run there at your stated hours, like those who go there only to be seen?
Orgon. I am not asking your advice upon that. The other candidate for your hand is, in short, on the best of terms with Heaven, and that is a treasure second to none. This union will crown your wishes with every kind of blessings, it will be replete with sweetness and delight. You shall live together in faithful love, really like two children, like two turtle-doves; there will be no annoying disputes between you; and you will make anything you like of him.
Dorine. She? she will never make anything but a fool of him, I assure you.
Orgon. Heyday! what language!
Dorine. I say that he has the appearance of one, and that his destiny, Sir, will be stronger than all your daughter’s virtue.
Orgon. Leave off interrupting me, and try to hold your tongue, without poking your nose into what does not concern you.
Dorine (she continually interrupts him as he turns round to speak to his daughter). I speak only for your interest, Sir.
Orgon. You interest yourself too much; hold your tongue, if you please.
Dorine. If one did not care for you …
Orgon. I do not wish you to care for me.
Dorine. And I will care for you, Sir, in spite of yourself.
Orgon. Ah!
Dorine. Your honor is dear to me, and I cannot bear to see you the byeword of everyone.
Orgon. You will not hold your tongue?
Dorine. It is a matter of conscience to allow you to form such an alliance.
Orgon. Will you hold your tongue, you serpent, whose brazen face …
Dorine. What! you are religious, and fly in a rage!
Orgon. Yes, all your nonsense has excited my choler, and once for all, you shall hold your tongue.
Dorine. Be it so. But, though I do not say a word, I will think none the less
Orgon. Think, if you like; but take care not to say a word, or … (turning to his daughter). That will do. As a sensible man, I have carefully weighed everything.
Dorine (aside). It drives me mad that I must not speak.
Orgon. Without being a fop, Tartuffe’s mien is such …
Dorine. Yes, his is a very pretty phiz!
Orgon. That even if you have no sympathy with his other gifts …
Dorine (aside). She has got a bargain! (Orgon turns to Dorine, and, with crossed arms, listens and looks her in the face.) If I were in her place, assuredly no man should marry me against my will with impunity; and I would show him, and that soon after the ceremony, that a woman has always a revenge at hand.
Orgon (to Dorine). Then you do not heed what I say?
Dorine. What are you grumbling at? I did not speak to you.
Orgon. What did you do then?
Dorine. I was speaking to myself.
Orgon (aside). Very well! I must give her a backhander to pay her out for her extreme insolence. (He puts himself in a position to slap Dorine’s face; and, at every word which he says to his daughter, he turns round to look at Dorine, who stands bolt upright without speaking.) You ought to approve of my plan, daughter … and believe that the husband whom I have selected for you … (to Dorine). Why do you not speak to yourself?
Dorine. I have nothing to say to myself.
Orgon. Just another little word.
Dorine. It does not suit me.
Orgon. I was looking out for you, be sure.
Dorine. I am not such a fool as you think me!
Orgon. In short, daughter, you must obey, and show a complete deference to my choice.
Dorine (running away). I would not care a straw for such a husband.
Orgon (failing to slap Dorine’s face). You have a pestilent hussy with you, daughter, with whom I cannot put up any longer without forgetting myself. I do not feel equal to continue our conversation now; her insolent remarks have set my brain on fire, and I must have a breath of air to compose myself.
Scene
Dorine. Tell me have you lost your speech? And must I act your part in this affair? To allow such a senseless proposal to be made to you, without saying the least word against it!
Mariane. What would you have me do against a tyrannical father?
Dorine. That which is necessary to ward off such a threat.
Mariane. What?
Dorine. Tell him that you cannot love by proxy, that you marry for yourself, and not for him; that, you being the only one concerned in this matter, it is you, and not he, who must like the husband, and that since Tartuffe is so charming in his eyes, he may marry him himself without let or hindrance.
Mariane. Ah! a father, I confess, has so much authority over us, that I have never had the courage to answer him.
Dorine. But let us argue this affair. Valère has proposed to you: do you love him, pray, or do you not?
Mariane. Ah! you do my feelings great injustice, Dorine, to ask me such a question. Have I not a hundred times opened my heart to you? and do not you know the warmth of my affection for him?
Dorine. How do I know whether your lips have spoken what your heart felt? and whether you have any real regard for this lover?
Mariane. You wrong me greatly in doubting it, Dorine; for my true sentiments have been but too clearly shown.
Dorine. You really love him, then?
Mariane. Yes, very passionately.
Dorine. And, to all appearance, he loves you as well?
Mariane. I believe so.
Dorine. And you are both equally eager to marry each other?
Mariane. Assuredly.
Dorine. What do you expect from this other match then?
Mariane. To kill myself, if they force me to it.
Dorine. Very well. That is a resource I did not think of; you have only to die to get out of trouble. The remedy is doubtless admirable. It drives me mad to hear this sort of talk.
Mariane. Good gracious! Dorine, what a temper you get into! You do not sympathize in the least with people’s troubles.
Dorine. I do not sympathize with people who talk stupidly, and, when an opportunity presents itself, give way as you do!
Mariane. But what would you have me do? If I am timid …
Dorine. Love requires firmness.
Mariane. But have I wavered in my affection towards Valère? and is it not his duty to obtain a father’s consent?
Dorine. But what! if your father is a downright churl, who is completely taken up with Tartuffe, and will break off a match he had agreed on, is your lover to be blamed for that?
Mariane. But am I, by a flat refusal and a scornful disdain, to let everyone know how much I am smitten? However brilliant Valère may be, am I to forget the modesty of my sex, and my filial duty? And would you have me display my passion to the whole world …
Dorine. No, I would have you do nothing of the sort. I perceive that you would like to be M. Tartuffe’s; and I should be wrong, now that I come to thing of it, to turn you from such a union. What right have I to oppose your wishes? The match in itself is very advantageous. Monsieur Tartuffe! oh, oh! That is not a proposal to be despised. Certainly Monsieur Tartuffe, all things considered, is no fool; no, not at all, and it is no small honour to be his better half. Already everyone crowns him with glory. He is a noble in his own country, handsome in appearance; he has red ears and a florid complexion. You will live only too happily with such a husband.
Mariane. Good gracious! …
Dorine. How joyful you will be to see yourself the wife of such a handsome husband!
Mariane. Ah! leave off such talk, I pray, and rather assist me to free myself from this match. It is finished: I yield, and am ready to do anything.
Dorine. No, a daughter ought to obey her father, even if he wishes her to marry an ape. Yours is an enviable fate: of what do you complain? You will drive down in the stage-coach to his native town, where you will find plenty of uncles and cousins, whom it will be your great delight to entertain. You will be introduced directly into the best society. You will go and pay the first visits to the wife of the bailie, and of the assessor, who will do you the honour of giving you a folding-chair. There, at carnival time, you may expect a ball, with the grand band of musicians, to wit, two bagpipes, and sometimes Fagotin and the marionettes. If your husband, however …
Mariane. Oh! you kill me. Try rather to assist me with your counsels.
Dorine. I am your servant.
Mariane. Ah! for pity’s sake, Dorine …
Dorine. This affair ought to go on, to punish you.
Mariane. There’s a good girl!
Dorine. No.
Mariane. If I declare to you that …
Dorine. Not at all. Tartuffe is the man for you, and you shall have a taste of him.
Mariane. You know that I have always confided in you: do …
Dorine. No, it is of no use, you shall be Tartuffed.
Mariane. Very well, since my misfortunes cannot move you, leave me henceforth entirely to my despair. My heart shall seek help from that; and I know an infallible remedy for my sufferings. (She wishes to go.)
Dorine. Stop, stop, come back. I give in. In spite of all, I must take compassion on you.
Mariane. Look here, Dorine, if they inflict this cruel martyrdom upon me, I shall die of it, I tell you.
Dorine. Do not fret yourself. We will cleverly prevent. … But here comes Valère, your lover.
Scene IV.—Valère, Mariane, Dorine.
Valère. I have just been told a piece of news, Madam, which I did not know, and which is certainly very pretty.
Mariane. What is it?
Valère. That you are going to be married to Tartuffe.
Mariane. My father has taken this idea into his head, certainly.
Valère. Your father, Madam …
Mariane. Has altered his mind: he has just proposed this affair to me.
Valère. What! seriously?
Mariane. Yes, seriously, he has openly declared himself for this match.
Valère. And what have you decided, in your own mind, Madam?
Mariane. I know not.
Valère. The answer is polite. You know not?
Mariane. No.
Valère. No?
Mariane. What do you advise me?
Valère. I, I advise you to take this husband.
Mariane. Is that your advice?
Valère. Yes.
Mariane. Seriously?
Valère. Doubtless. The choice is glorious, and well worth consideration.
Mariane. Very well, Sir, I shall act upon the advice.
Valère. That will not be very painful, I think.
Mariane. Not more painful than for you to give it.
Valère. I gave it to please you, Madam.
Mariane. And I shall follow it to please you.
Dorine. (retiring to the further part of the stage). Let us see what this will come to.
Valère. This then is your affection? And it was all deceit when you …
Mariane. Do not let us speak of that, I pray. You have told me quite candidly that I ought to accept the husband selected for me; and I declare that I intend to do so, since you give me this wholesome advice.
Valère. Do not make my advise your excuse. Your resolution was taken beforehand; and you catch at a frivolous pretext to justify the breaking of your word.
Mariane. Very true, and well put.
Valère. No doubt; and you never had any real affection for me.
Mariane. Alas! think so, if you like.
Valère. Yes, yes, if I like; but my offended feelings may perhaps forestall you in such a design; and I know where to offer both my heart and my hand.
Mariane. Ah! I have no doubt of it; and the love which merit can command …
Valère. For Heaven’s sake, let us drop merit. I have but little, no doubt; and you have given proof of it. But I hope much from the kindness of some one whose heart is open to me, and who will not be ashamed to consent to repair my loss.
Mariane. The loss is not great: and you will easily enough console yourself for this change.
Valère. I shall do my utmost, you may depend. A heart that forgets us wounds our self-love; we must do our best to forget it also; if we do not succeed, we must at least pretend to do so: for the meanness is unpardonable of still loving when we are forsaken.
Mariane. This is, no doubt, an elevated and noble sentiment.
Valère. It is so; and every one must approve of it. What! would you have me forever to nourish my ardent affection for you, and not elsewhere bestow that heart which you reject, whilst I see you, before my face, pass into the arms of another?
Mariane. On the contrary; as for me, that is what I would have you do, and I wish it were done already.
Valère. You wish it?
Mariane. Yes.
Valère. That is a sufficient insult, Madam; and I shall satisfy you at this very moment. (He pretends to go).
Mariane. Very well.
Valère (coming back). Remember at least, that you yourself drive me to this extremity.
Mariane. Yes.
Valère (coming back once more). And that I am only following your example.
Mariane. Very well, my example.
Valère (going). That will do: you shall be obeyed on the spot.
Mariane. So much the better.
Valère (coming back again). This is the last time that you will ever see me.
Mariane. That is right.
Valère (goes, and turns round at the door). He?
Mariane. What is the matter?
Valère. Did you call me?
Mariane. I! You are dreaming.
Valère. Well! then I will be gone. Farewell, Madam. (He goes slowly.)
Mariane. Farewell, Sir.
Dorine (to Mariane). I think that you are losing your senses with all this folly. I have all along allowed you to quarrel, to see what it would lead to at last. Hullo, M. Valère. (She takes hold of Valère’s arm.)
Valère (pretending to resist). Well! what do you want, Dorine?
Dorine. Come here.
Valère. No, no, I feel too indignant. Do not hinder me from doing as she wishes me.
Dorine. Stop.
Valère. No; look here, I have made up my mind.
Dorine. Ah!
Mariane (aside). He cannot bear to see me, my presence drives him away; and I had therefore much better leave the place.
Dorine (quitting Valère and running after Mariane). Now for the other! Where are you running to?
Mariane. Let me alone.
Dorine. You must come back.
Mariane. No, no, Dorine; it is of no use detaining me.
Valère (aside). I see, but too well, that the sight of me annoys her; and I had, no doubt, better free her from it.
Dorine (leaving Mariane and running after Valère). What, again! The devil take you! Yes. I will have it so. Cease this fooling, and come here, both of you. (She holds them both.)
Valère (to Dorine). But what are you about?
Mariane (to Dorine). What would you do?
Dorine. I would have you make it up together, and get out of this scrape. (To Valère.) Are you made to wrangle in this way?
Valère. Did you not hear how she spoke to me?
Dorine (to Mariane). Aren’t you silly to have got into such a passion?
Mariane. Did you not see the thing, and how he has treated me?
Dorine. Folly on both sides (to Valère). She has no other wish than to remain yours, I can vouch for it. (To Mariane.) He loves none but you, and desires nothing more than to be your husband. I will answer for it with my life.
Mariane (to Valère). Why then did you give me such advice?
Valère (to Mariane). Why did you ask me for it on such a subject?
Dorine. You are a pair of fools. Come, your hands, both of you. (To Valère.) Come, yours.
Valère (giving his hand to Dorine). What is the good of my hand?
Dorine (to Mariane). Come now! yours.
Mariane (giving hers). What is the use of all this?
Dorine. Good Heavens! quick, come on. You love each other better than you think. (Valère and Mariane hold each other’s hands for some time without speaking.)
Valère (turning towards Mariane). Do not do things with such bad grace; look at one a little without any hatred. (Mariane turns to Valère, and gives him a little smile).
Dorine. Truth to tell, lovers are great fools!
Valère (to Mariane). Now really! have I no reason to complain of you; and, without an untruth, are you not a naughty girl to delight in saying disagreeable things?
Mariane. And you, are you not the most ungrateful fellow …
Dorine. Leave all this debate till another time, and let us think about averting this confounded marriage.
Mariane. Tell us, then, what we are to do.
Dorine. We must do many things (to Mariane). Your father does but jest (to Valère); and it is all talk. (to Mariane.) But as for you, you had better appear to comply quietly with his nonsense, so that, in case of need, it may be easier for you to put off this proposed marriage. In gaining time, we gain everything. Sometimes you can pretend a sudden illness, that will necessitate a delay; then you can pretend some evil omens, that you unluckily met a corpse, broke a looking-glass, or dreamed of muddy water. In short, the best of it is that they cannot unite you to anyone else but him, unless you please to say yes. But, the better to succeed, I think it advisable that you should not be seen talking together. (To Valere.) Now go; and without delay, employ your friends to make Orgon keep his promise to you. We will interest her brother, and enlist her mother-in-law on our side. Good-bye.
Valère (to Mariane). Whatever efforts we may make together, my greatest hope, to tell the truth, is in you.
Mariane (to Valere). I cannot answer for the will of a father; but I shall be no one but Valère’s.
Valère. Oh, how happy you make me! And, whatever they may attempt …
Dorine. Ah! lovers are never weary of prattling. Be off, I tell you.
Valère (goes a step, and returns). After all …
Dorine. What a cackle! Go you this way; and you, the other. (Dorine pushes each of them by the shoulder, and compels them to separate.)
Act
Damis. May lightning strike me dead on the spot, may everyone treat me as the greatest of scoundrels, if any respect or authority shall stop me from doing something rash!
Dorine. Curb this temper for Heaven’s sake: your father did but mention it. People do not carry out all their proposals; and the road between the saying and the doing is a long one.
Damis. I must put a stop to this fellow’s plots, and whisper a word or two in his ear.
Dorine. Gently, pray! leave him, and your father as well, to your mother-in-law’s management. She has some influence with Tartuffe: he agrees to all that she says, and I should not wonder if he had some sneaking regard for her. Would to Heaven that it were true! A pretty thing that would be. In short, your interest obliges her to send for him: she wishes to sound him about this marriage that troubles you, to know his intentions, and to acquaint him with the sad contentions which he may cause, if he entertains any hope on this subject. His servant told me he was at prayers, and that I could not get sight of him; but said that he was coming down. Go, therefore, I pray you, and let me wait for him.
Damis. I may be present at this interview.
Dorine. Not at all. They must be alone.
Damis. I shall not say a word to him.
Dorine. You deceive yourself: we know your usual outbursts; and that is just the way to spoil all. Go.
Damis. No; I will see, without getting angry.
Dorine. How tiresome you are! Here he comes. Go away. (Damis hides himself in a closet at the farther end of the stage.)
Scene II.—Tartuffe, Dorine.
Tartuffe. (The moment he perceives Dorine, he begins to speak loudly to his servant, who is behind). Laurent, put away my hair shirt and my scourge, and pray that Heaven may ever enlighten you. If any one calls to see me, say that I have gone to the prisoners to distribute the alms which I have received.
Dorine (aside). What affectation and boasting!
Tartuffe. What do you want?
Dorine. To tell you …
Tartuffe (pulling a handkerchief from his pocket). For Heaven’s sake! before you go any farther, take this handkerchief, I pray.
Dorine. For what?
Tartuffe. Cover this bosom, which I cannot bear to see. The spirit is offended by such sights, and they evoke sinful thoughts.
Dorine. You are, then, mighty susceptible to temptation; and the flesh seems to make a great impression on your senses! I cannot tell, of course, what heat inflames you; but my desires are not so easily aroused; and I could see you naked from top to toe, without being in the least tempted by the whole of your skin.
Tartuffe. Be a little more modest in your expressions, or I shall leave you on the spot.
Dorine. No, no, it is I who am going to leave you to yourself; and I have only two words to say to you. My mistress is coming down into this parlour, and wishes the favour of a minute’s conversation with you.
Tartuffe. Alas! with all my heart.
Dorine (aside). How he softens down! Upon my word, I stick to what I have said of him.
Tartuffe. Will she be long?
Dorine. Methinks I hear her. Yes, it is herself, and I leave you together.
Scene
Tartuffe. May Heaven, in its mighty goodness, for ever bestow upon you health, both of soul and body, and bless your days as much as the humblest of its votaries desires.
Elmire. I am much obliged for this pious wish. But let us take a seat, to be more at ease.
Tartuffe (seated). Are you quite recovered from your indisposition?
Elmire (seated). Quite; the fever soon left me.
Tartuffe. My prayers are not deserving enough to have drawn this grace from above; but not one of them ascended to Heaven that had not your recovery for its object.
Elmire. You are too anxious in your zeal for me.
Tartuffe. We cannot cherish your dear health too much; and to re-establish yours, I would have given mine.
Elmire. That is pushing Christian charity very far; and I feel much indebted to you for all this kindness.
Tartuffe. I do much less for you than you deserve.
Elmire. I wished to speak to you in private about a certain matter, and am glad that no one is here to observe us.
Tartuffe. I am equally delighted; and, indeed, it is very pleasant to me, Madam, to find myself alone with you. I have often asked Heaven for this opportunity, but, till now, in vain.
Elmire. What I wish is a few words with you, upon a small matter, in which you must open your heart and conceal nothing from me. (Damis, without showing himself, half opens the door of the closet into which he had retired to listen to the conversation.)
Tartuffe. And I will also, in return for this rare favour, unbosom myself entirely to you, and swear to you that the reports which I have spread about the visits which you receive in homage of your charms, do not spring from any hatred towards you, but rather from a passionate zeal which carries me away, and out of a pure motive …
Elmire. That is how I take it. I think it is for my good that you trouble yourself so much.
Tartuffe (taking Elmire’s hand and pressing her fingers). Yes, Madam, no doubt; and my fervour is such …
Elmire. Oh! you squeeze me too hard.
Tartuffe. It is through excess of zeal. I never had any intention of hurting you, and would sooner … (He places his hand on Elmire’s knee).
Elmire. What does your hand there?
Tartuffe. I am only feeling your dress: the stuff is very soft.
Elmire. Oh! please leave off, I am very ticklish. (Elmire pushes her chair back, and Tartuffe drawes near with his).
Tartuffe (handing Elmire’s collar). Bless me! how wonderful is the workmanship of this lace! They work in a miraculous manner now-a-days; never was anything so beautifully made.
Elmire. It is true. But let us have some talk about our affair. I have been told that my husband wishes to retract his promise, and give you his daughter. Is it true? Tell me.
Tartuffe. He has hinted something to me; but to tell you the truth, Madam, that is not the happiness for which I am sighing: I behold elsewhere the marvellous attractions of that bliss which forms the height of my wishes.
Elmire. That is because you have no love for earthly things.
Tartuffe. My breast does not contain a heart of flint.
Elmire. I believe that all your sighs tend towards Heaven, and that nothing here below rouses your desires.
Tartuffe. The love which attaches us to eternal beauties does not stifle in us the love of earthly things; our senses may easily be charmed by the perfect works which Heaven has created. Its reflected loveliness shines forth in such as you; but in you alone it displays its choicest wonders. It has diffused on your face such beauty, that it dazzles the eyes and transports the heart; nor could I behold you, perfect creature, without admiring in you nature’s author, and feeling my heart smitten with an ardent love for the most beautiful of portraits, wherein he has reproduced himself. At first I feared that this secret ardour might be nothing but a cunning snare of the foul fiend; and my heart even resolved to fly your presence, thinking that you might be an obstacle to my salvation. But at last I found, O most lovely beauty, that my passion could not be blameable; that I could reconcile it with modesty; and this made me freely indulge it. It is, I confess, a great presumption in me to dare to offer you this heart; but I expect, in my affections, everything from your kindness, and nothing from the vain efforts of my own weakness. In you is my hope, my happiness, my peace; on you depends my torment or my bliss; and it is by your decision solely that I shall be happy if you wish it; or miserable, if it pleases you.
Elmire. The declaration is exceedingly gallant; but it is, to speak truly, rather a little surprising. Methinks you ought to arm your heart better, and to reflect a little upon such a design. A pious man like you, and who is everywhere spoken of …
Tartuffe. Ah! although I am a pious man, I am not the less a man; and, when one beholds your heavenly charms, the heart surrenders and reasons no longer. I know that such discourse from me must appear strange; but, after all, Madam, I am not an angel; and if my confession be condemned by you, you must blame your own attractions for it. As soon as I beheld their more than human lovliness, you became the queen of my soul. The ineffable sweetness of your divine glances broke down the resistance of my obstinate heart; it overcame everything—fastings, prayers, tears—and led all my desires to your charms. My looks and my sighs have told you so a thousand times; and, the better to explain myself, I now make use of words. If you should graciously contemplate the tribulations of your unworthy slave; if your kindness would console me, and will condescend to stoop to my insignificant self, I shall ever entertain for you, O miracle of sweetness, and unexampled devotion. Your honour runs not the slightest risk with me, and need not fear the least disgrace on my part. All these court gallants, of whom women are so fond, are noisy in their doings and vain in their talk; they are incessantly pluming themselves on their successes, and they receive no favours which they do not divulge. Their indiscreet tongues, in which people confide, desecrate the altar on which their hearts sacrifice. But men of our stamp love discreetly, and with them a secret is always surely kept. The care which we take of our own reputation is a sufficient guarantee for the object of our love; and it is only with us, when they accept our hearts, that they find love without scandal, and pleasure without fear.
Elmire. I have listened to what you say, and your rhetoric explains itself in sufficiently strong terms to me. But are you not afraid that the fancy may take me to tell my husband of this gallant ardour; and that the prompt knowledge of such an amour might well change the friendship which he bears you.
Tartuffe. I know that you are too gracious, and that you will pardon my boldness; that you will excuse, on the score of human frailty, the violent transports of a passion which offends you, and consider, by looking at yourself, that people are not blind, and men are made of flesh and blood.
Elmire. Others would perhaps take it in a different fashion; but I shall show my discretion. I shall not tell the matter to my husband: but in return, I require something of you: that is, to forward, honestly and without quibbling, the union of Valère with Mariane, to renounce the unjust power which would enrich you with what belongs to another; and …
Scene IV.—Elmire, Damis, Tartuffe.
Damis (coming out of the closet in which he was hidden). No, Madam, no; this shall be made public. I was in there when I overheard it all; and Providence seems to have conducted me thither to abash the pride of a wretch who wrongs me; to point out a way to take vengeance on his hypocrisy and insolence; to undeceive my father, and to show him plainly the heart of a villain who talks to you of love.
Elmire. No, Damis; it suffices that he reforms, and endeavours to deserve my indulgence. Since I have promised him, do not make me break my word. I have no wish to provoke a scandal; a woman laughs at such follies, and never troubles her husband’s ears with them.
Damis. You have your reasons for acting this way, and I also have mine for behaving differently. It is a farce to wish to spare him; and the insolent pride of his bigotry has already triumphed too much over my just anger, and caused too much disorder amongst us. The scoundrel has governed my father too long, and plotted against my affections as well as Valère’s. My father must be undeceived about this perfidious wretch; and Heaven offers me an easy means. I am indebted to it for this opportunity, and it is too favourable to be neglected. I should deserve to have it snatched away from me, did I not make use of it, now that I have it in hand.
Elmire. Damis …
Damis. No, by your leave, I will use my own judgment. I am highly delighted: and all you can say will be in vain to make me forego the pleasure of revenge. I shall settle this affair without delay; and here is just the opportunity.
Scene V.—Orgon, Elmire, Damis, Tartuffe.
Damis. We will enliven your arrival, father, with an altogether fresh incident, that will surprise you much. You are well repaid for all your caresses, and this gentleman rewards your tenderness handsomely. His great zeal for you has just shown itself; he aims at nothing less than at dishonouring you; and I have just surprised him making to your wife an insulting avowal of a guilty passion. Her sweet disposition, and her too discreet feelings would by all means have kept the secret from you; but I cannot encourage such insolence, and think that to have been silent about it would have been to do you an injury.
Elmire. Yes, I am of opinion that we ought never to trouble a husband’s peace with all those silly stories; that our honour does not depend upon that; and that it is enough for us to be able to defend ourselves. These are my sentiments; and you would have said nothing, Damis, if I had had any influence with you.
Scene VI.—Orgon, Damis, Tartuffe.
Orgon. What have I heard! Oh, Heavens! Is it credible?
Tartuffe. Yes, brother, I am a wicked, guilty, wretched sinner, full of iniquity, the greatest villain that ever existed. Each moment of my life is replete with pollutions; it is but a mass of crime and corruption; and I see that Heaven, to chastise me, intends to mortify me on this occasion. Whatever great crime may be laid to my charge, I have neither the wish nor the pride to deny it. Believe what you are told, arm your anger, and drive me like a criminal from your house. Whatever shame you may heap upon me, I deserve still more.
Orgon (to his Son). What, wretch! dare you, by this falsehood, tarnish the purity of his virtue?
Damis. What, shall the pretended gentleness of this hypocrite make you belie …
Orgon. Peace, cursed plague!
Tartuffe. Ah! let him speak; you accuse him wrongly, and you had much better believe his story. Why will you be so favourable to me after hearing such a fact? Are you, after all, aware of what I am capable? Why trust to my exterior, brother, and why, for all that is seen, believe me to be better than I am? No, no, you allow yourself to be deceived by appearances, and I am, alas! nothing less than what they think me. Everyone takes me to be a godly man, but the real truth is that I am very worthless. (Addressing himself to Damis.) Yes, my dear child, say on; call me perfidious, infamous, lost wretch, a thief, a murderer; load me with still more detestable names: I shall not contradict you, I have deserved them; and I am willing on my knees to suffer ignominy, as a disgrace due to the crimes of my life.
Orgon (to Tartuffe). This is too much, brother. (To his Son). Does not your heart relent, wretch?
Damis. What! shall his words deceive you so far as to …
Orgon. Hold your tongue, you hangdog. (Raising Tartuffe.) Rise, brother, I beseech you. (To his Son.) Infamous wretch!
Damis. He can …
Orgon. Hold your tongue.
Damis. I burst with rage. What! I am looked upon as …
Orgon. Say another word, and I will break your bones.
Tartuffe. In Heaven’s name, brother, do not forget yourself! I would rather suffer the greatest hardship, than that he should receive the slightest hurt for my sake.
Orgon (to his Son). Ungrateful monster!
Tartuffe. Leave him in peace. If I must on both knees, ask you to pardon him …
Orgon (Throwing himself on his knees also, and embracing Tartuffe). Alas! are you in jest? (To his Son.) Behold his goodness, scoundrel!
Damis. Thus …
Orgon. Cease.
Damis. What! I …
Orgon. Peace, I tell you: I know too well the motive of your attack. You all hate him, and I now perceive wife, children, and servants all let loose against him. Every trick is impudently resorted to, to remove this pious person from my house; but the more efforts they put forth to banish him, the more shall I employ to keep him here, and I shall hasten to give him my daughter, to abash the pride of my whole family.
Damis. Do you mean to compel her to accept him?
Orgon. Yes, wretch! and to enrage you, this very evening. Yes! I defy you all, and shall let you know that I am the master, and that I will be obeyed. Come, retract; throw yourself at his feet immediately, you scoundrel, and ask his pardon.
Damis. What! I at the feet of the rascal who, by his impostures …
Orgon. What, you resist, you beggar, and insult him besides! (To Tartuffe). A cudgel! a cudgel! do not hold me back. (To his Son). Out of my house, this minute, and never dare to come back to it.
Damis. Yes, I shall go; but …
Orgon. Quick, leave the place. I disinherit you, you hangdog, and give you my curse besides.
Scene
Orgon. To offend a saintly person in that way!
Tartuffe. Forgive him, O Heaven! the pang he causes me. (To Orgon). Could you but know my grief at seeing myself blackened in my brother’s sight …
Orgon. Alas!
Tartuffe. The very thought of this ingratitude tortures my soul to that extent. … The horror I conceive of it. … My heart is so oppressed that I cannot speak, and I believe it will be my death.
Orgon (running, all in tears, towards the door, by which his son has disappeared). Scoundrel! I am sorry my hand has spared you, and not knocked you down on the spot. (To Tartuffe.) Compose yourself, brother, and do not grieve.
Tartuffe. Let us put an end to these sad disputes. I perceive what troubles I cause in this house, and think it necessary, brother, to leave it.
Orgon. What! you are jesting surely?
Tartuffe. They hate me, and I find that they are trying to make you suspect my integrity.
Orgon. What does it matter? Do you think that, in my heart, I listen to them?
Tartuffe. They will not fail to continue, you may be sure; and these self-same stories which you now reject, may, perhaps, be listened to at another time.
Orgon. No, brother, never.
Tartuffe. Ah, brother! a wife may easily impose upon a husband.
Orgon. No, no.
Tartuffe. Allow me, by removing hence promptly, to deprive them of all subject of attack.
Orgon. No, you shall remain; my life depends upon it.
Tartuffe. Well! I must then mortify myself. If, however, you would …
Orgon. Ah!
Tartuffe. Be it so: let us say no more about it. But I know how to manage in this. Honour is a tender thing, and friendship enjoins me to prevent reports and causes for suspicion. I shall shun your wife, and you shall not see me …
Orgon. No, in spite of all, you shall frequently be with her. To annoy the world is my greatest delight; and I wish you to be seen with her at all times. Nor is this all: the better to defy them all, I will have no other heir but you, and I am going forthwith to execute a formal deed of gift of all my property to you. A faithful and honest friend, whom I take for son-in-law, is dearer to me than son, wife, and parents. Will you not accept what I propose?
Tartuffe. The will of Heaven be done in all things.
Orgon. Poor fellow. Quick! let us get the draft drawn up: and then let envy itself burst with spite!
Act IV
Cléante. Yes, everyone talks about it, and you may believe me. The stir which this rumour makes is not at all to your credit; and I have just met you, Sir, opportunely, to tell you my opinion in two words. I will not sift these reports to the bottom; I refrain, and take the thing at its worst. Let us suppose that Damis has not acted well, and that you have been wrongly accused; would it not be like a Christian to pardon the offence, and to smother all desire of vengeance in your heart? And ought you, on account of a dispute with you, to allow a son to be driven from his father’s home? I tell you once more, and candidly, that great and small are scandalized at it; and, if you will take my advice, you will try to make peace, and not push matters to extremes. Make a sacrifice to God of your resentment, and restore a son to his father’s favour.
Tartuffe. Alas! for my own part, I would do so with all my heart. I do not bear him, Sir, the slightest ill- will; I forgive him everything; I blame him for nothing; and would serve him to the best of my power. But Heaven’s interest is opposed to it; and if he comes back, I must leave the house. After his unparalleled behaviour, communication with him would give rise to scandal: Heaven knows what all the world would immediately think of it! They would impute it to sheer policy on my part; and they would say everywhere, that knowing myself to be guilty, I pretend a charitable zeal for my accuser; that I am afraid, and wish to conciliate him, in order to bribe him, in an underhand manner, into silence.
Cléante. You try to put forward pretended excuses, and all your reasons, Sir, are too far-fetched. Why do you charge yourself with Heaven’s interests? Has it any need of us to punish the guilty? Allow it to take its own course; think only of the pardon which it enjoins for offences, and do not trouble yourself about men’s judgments, when you are following the sovereign edicts of Heaven. What! shall the trivial regard for what men may think prevent the glory of a good action? No, no; let us always do what Heaven prescribes, and not trouble our heads with other cares.
Tartuffe. I have already told you that from my heart I forgive him; and that, Sir, is doing what Heaven commands us to do: but after the scandal and the insult of to-day, Heaven does not require me to live with him.
Cléante. And does it require you, Sir, to lend your ear to what a mere whim dictates to his father, and to accept the gift of a property to which in justice you have no claim whatever?
Tartuffe. Those who know me will not think that this proceeds from self-interest. All the world’s goods have but few charms for me; I am not dazzled by their deceptive glare: and should I determine to accept from his father that donation which he wishes to make to me, it is only, in truth, because I fear that all that property might fall into wicked hands; lest it might be divided amongst those who would make a bad use of it in this world, and would not employ it, as I intend, for the glory of Heaven and the well-being of my fellow men.
Cléante. Oh, Sir, you need not entertain those delicate scruples, which may give cause for the rightful heir to complain. Allow him at his peril to enjoy his own, without troubling yourself in any way; and consider that it is better even that he should make a bad use of it, than that you should be accused of defrauding him of it. My only wonder is, that you could have received such a proposal unblushingly. For after all, has true piety any maxim showing how a legitimate heir may be stripped of his property? And if Heaven has put into your head an invincible obstacle to your living with Damis, would it not be better that as a prudent man you should make a civil retreat from this, than to allow that, contrary to all reason, the son should be turned out of the house for you. Believe me, Sir, this would be giving a proof of your probity …
Tartuffe. Sir, it is half past three: certain religious duties call me upstairs, and you will excuse my leaving you so soon.
Cléante (alone). Ah!
Scene II.—Elmire, Mariane, Cléante, Dorine.
Dorine (to Cléante). For Heaven’s sake, Sir, bestir yourself with us for her: she is in mortal grief; and the marriage contract which her father has resolved upon being signed this evening, drives her every moment to despair. Here he comes! Pray, let us unite our efforts, and try, by force or art, to shake this unfortunate design that causes us all this trouble.
Scene
Orgon. Ah! I am glad to see you all assembled. (To Mariane.) There is something in this document to please you, and you know already what it means.
Mariane (at Orgon’s feet). Father, in the name of Heaven which knows my grief, and by all that can move your heart, relax somewhat of your paternal rights, and absolve me from obedience in this case. Do not compel me, by this harsh command, to reproach Heaven with my duty to you; and alas! do not make wretched the life which you have given me, father. If, contrary to the sweet expectations which I have formed, you forbid me to belong to him whom I have dared to love, kindly save me at least, I implore you on my knees, from the torment of belonging to one whom I abhor; and do not drive me to despair by exerting your full power over me.
Orgon (somewhat moved). Firm, my heart; none of this human weakness!
Mariane. Your tenderness for him causes me no grief; indulge it to its fullest extent, give him your wealth, and if that be not enough, add mine to it; I consent to it with all my heart, and I leave you to dispose of it. But, at least, stop short of my own self; and allow me to end in the austerities of a convent, the sad days which Heaven has allotted to me.
Orgon. Ah, that is it! When a father crosses a girl’s love-sick inclination, she wishes to become a nun. Get up. The more repugnance you feel in accepting him, the greater will be your merit. Mortify your senses by this marriage, and do not trouble me any longer.
Dorine. But what …
Orgon. Hold your tongue. Meddle only with what concerns you. I flatly forbid you to say another word.
Cléante. If you will permit me to answer you, and advise …
Orgon. Your advice is the best in the world, brother; it is well argued, and I set great store by it: but you must allow me not to avail myself of it.
Elmire (to her husband). I am at a loss what to say, after all I have seen; and I quite admire your blindness. You must be mightily bewitched and prepossessed in his favour, to deny to us the incidents of this day.
Orgon. I am your servant, and judge by appearances. I know your indulgence for my rascal of a son, and you were afraid of disowning the trick which he wished to play on the poor fellow. But, after all, you took it too quietly to be believed; and you ought to have appeared somewhat more upset.
Elmire. Is our honour to bridle up so strongly at the simple avowal of an amorous transport, and can there be no reply to aught that touches it, without fury in our eyes and invectives in our mouth? As for me, I simply laugh at such talk; and the noise made about it by no means pleases me. I love to show my discreetness quietly, and am not at all like those savage prudes, whose honour is armed with claws and teeth, and who at the least word would scratch people’s faces. Heaven preserve me from such good behaviour! I prefer a virtue that is not diabolical, and believe that a discreet and cold denial is no less effective in repelling a lover.
Orgon. In short, I know the whole affair, and will not be imposed upon.
Elmire. Once more, I wonder at your strange weakness; but what would your unbelief answer if I were to show you that you had been told the truth.
Orgon. Show!
Elmire. Aye.
Orgon. Stuff.
Elmire. But if I found the means to show you plainly? …
Orgon. Idle stories.
Elmire. What a strange man! Answer me, at least. I am not speaking of believing us; but suppose that we found a place where you could plainly see and hear everything, what would you say then of your good man?
Orgon. In that case, I should say that … I should say nothing, for the thing cannot be.
Elmire. Your delusion has lasted too long, and I have been too much taxed with imposture. I must, for my gratification, without going any farther, make you a witness of all that I have told you.
Orgon. Be it so. I take you at your word. We shall see your dexterity, and how you will make good this promise.
Elmire (to Dorine). Bid him come to me.
Dorine (to Elmire). He is crafty, and it will be difficult, perhaps, to catch him.
Elmire (to Dorine). No; people are easily duped by those whom they love, and conceit is apt to deceive itself. Bid him come down. (To Cléante and Mariane.) And do you retire.
Scene IV.—Elmire, Orgon.
Elmire. Come, and get under this table.
Orgon. Why so?
Elmire. It is necessary that you should conceal yourself well.
Orgon. But why under this table?
Elmire. Good Heavens! do as you are told; I have thought about my plan, and you shall judge. Get under there, I tell you, and, when you are there, take care not to be seen or heard.
Orgon. I confess that my complaisance is great; but I must needs see the end of your enterprise.
Elmire. You will have nothing, I believe, to reply to me. (To Orgon under the table.) Mind! I am going to meddle with a strange matter, do not be shocked in any way. I must be permitted to say what I like; and it is to convince you, as I have promised. Since I am compelled to it, I am going to make this hypocrite drop his mask by addressing soft speeches to him, flatter the shameful desires of his passion, and give him full scope for his audacity. As it is for your sake alone, and the better to confound him, that I pretend to yield to his wishes, I shall cease as soon as you show yourself, and things need not go farther than you wish. It is for you to stop his mad passion, when you think matters are carried far enough, to spare your wife, and not to expose me any more than is necessary to disabuse you. This is your business, it remains entirely with you, and … But he comes. Keep close, and be careful not to show yourself.
Scene V.—Tartuffe, Elmire, Orgon (under the table).
Tartuffe. I have been told that you wished to speak to me here.
Elmire. Yes. Some secrets will be revealed to you. But close this door before they are told to you, and look about everywhere, for fear of a surprise. (Tartuffe closes the door, and comes back). We assuredly do not want here a scene like the one we just passed through: I never was so startled in my life. Damis put me in a terrible fright for you; and you saw, indeed, that I did my utmost to frustrate his intentions and calm his excitement. My confusion, it is true, was so great, that I had not thought of contradicting him: but, thanks to Heaven, everything has turned out the better for that, and is upon a much surer footing. The esteem in which you are held has allayed the storm, and my husband will not take any umbrage at you. The better to brave people’s ill-natured comments, he wishes us to be together at all times; and it is through this that, without fear of incurring blame, I can be closeted here alone with you; and this justfies me in opening to you my heart, a little too ready perhaps, to listen to your passion.
Tartuffe. This language is somewhat difficult to understand, Madam; and you just now spoke in quite a different strain.
Elmire. Ah! how little you know the heart of a woman, if such a refusal makes you angry! and how little you understand what it means to convey, when it defends itself so feebly! In those moments, our modesty always combats the tender sentiments with which we may be inspired. Whatever reason we may find for the passion that subdues us, we always feel some shame in owning it. We deny it at first: but in such a way as to give you sufficiently to understand that our heart surrenders; that, for honour’s sake, words oppose our wishes, and that such refusals promise everything. This is, no doubt, making a somewhat plain confession to you, and showing little regard for our modesty. But, since these words have at last escaped me, would I have been so anxious to restrain Damis, would I, pray, have so complacently listened, for such a long time, to the offer of your heart, would I have taken the matter as I have done, if the offer of that heart had had nothing in it to please me? And, when I myself would have compelled you to refuse the match that had just been proposed, what ought this entreaty to have given you to understand, but the interest I was disposed to take in you, and the vexation it would have caused me, that this marriage would have at least divided a heart that I wished all to myself?
Tartuffe. It is very sweet, no doubt, Madam, to hear these words from the lips we love; their honey plentifully diffuses a suavity throughout my senses, such as was never yet tasted. The happiness of pleasing you is my highest study, and my heart reposes all its bliss in your affection; but, by your leave, this heart presumes still to have some doubt in its own felicity. I may look upon these words as a decent stratagem to compel me to break off the match that is on the point of being concluded; and, if I must needs speak candidly to you, I shall not trust to such tender words, until some of those favours, for which I sigh, have assured me of all which they intend to express, and fixed in my heart a firm belief of the charming kindness which you intend for me.
Elmire (after having coughed to warn her husband). What! would you proceed so fast, and exhaust the tenderness of one’s heart at once? One takes the greatest pains to make you the sweetest declarations; meanwhile is not that enough for you? and will nothing content you, but pushing things to the utmost extremity?
Tartuffe. The less a blessing is deserved, the less one presumes to expect it. Our love dares hardly rely upon words. A lot full of happiness is difficult to realize, and we wish to enjoy it before believing in it. As for me, who think myself so little deserving of your favours, I doubt the success of my boldness; and shall believe nothing, Madam, until you have convinced my passion by real proofs.
Elmire. Good Heavens! how very tyranically your love acts! And into what a strange confusion it throws me! What a fierce sway it exercises over our hearts! and how violently it clamours for what it desires! What! can I find no shelter from your pursuit? and will you scarcely give me time to breathe? Is it decent to be so very exacting, and to insist upon your demands being satisfied immediately; and thus, by your pressing efforts, to take advantage of the weakness which you see one has for you?
artuffe. But if you look upon my addresses with a favourable eye, why refuse me convincing proofs?
Elmire. How can I comply with what you wish, without offending that Heaven of which you are always speaking?
Tartuffe. If it be nothing but Heaven that opposes itself to my wishes, it is a trifle for me to remove such an obstacle; and that need be no restraint upon your love.
Elmire. But they frighten us so much with the judgments of Heaven!
Tartuffe. I can dispel these ridiculous fears for you, Madam, and I possess the art of allaying scruples. Heaven, it is true, forbids certain gratifications, but there are ways and means of compounding such matters. According to our different wants, there is a science which loosens that which binds our conscience, and which rectifies the evil of the act with the purity of our intentions. We shall be able to initiate you into these secrets, Madam; you have only to be led by me. Satisfy my desires, and have no fear; I shall be answerable for everything, and shall take the sin upon myself. (Elmire coughs louder.) You cough very much, Madam?
Elmire. Yes, I am much tormented.
Tartuffe. Would you like a piece of this liquorice?
Elmire. It is an obstinate cold, no doubt; and I know that all the liquorice in the world will do it no good.
Tartuffe. That, certainly, is very sad.
Elmire. Yes, more than I can say.
Tartuffe. In short, your scruples, Madam, are easily overcome. You may be sure of the secret being kept, and there is no harm done unless the thing is bruited about. The scandal which it causes constitutes the offence, and sinning in secret is no sinning at all.
Elmire (after having coughed once more). In short, I see that I must make up my mind to yield; that I must consent to grant you everything; and that with less than that, I ought not to pretend to satisfy you, or to be believed. It is no doubt very hard to go to that length, and it is greatly in spite of myself that I venture thus far; but, since people persist in driving me to this; since they will not credit aught I may say, and wish for more convincing proofs, I can but resolve to act thus, and satisfy them. If this gratification offends, so much the worse for those who force me to it: the fault ought surely not to be mine.
Tartuffe. Yes, Madam, I take it upon myself; and the thing in itself …
Elmire. Open this door a little, and see, pray, if my husband be not in that gallery.
Tartuffe. What need is there to take so much thought about him? Between ourselves, he is easily led by the nose. He is likely to glorify in all our interviews, and I have brought him so far that he will see everything, and without believing anything.
Elmire. It matters not. Go, pray, for a moment and look carefully everywhere outside.
Scene VI.—Orgon, Elmire.
Orgon (coming from under the table). This is, I admit to you, an abominable wretch! I cannot recover myself, and all this perfectly stuns me.
Elmire. What, you come out so soon! You are surely jesting. Get under the table-cloth again; it is not time yet. Stay to the end, to be quite sure of the thing, and do not trust at all to mere conjectures.
Orgon. No, nothing more wicked ever came out of hell.
Elmire. Good Heavens! you ought not to believe things so lightly. Be fully convinced before you give in; and do not hurry for fear of being mistaken. (Elmire pushes Orgon behind her.)
Scene
Tartuffe (without seeing Orgon). Everything conspires, Madam, to my satisfaction. I have surveyed the whole apartment; there is no one there; and my delighted soul … (At the moment that Tartuffe advances with open arms to embrace Elmire, she draws back, and Tartuffe perceives Orgon).
Orgon (stopping Tartuffe). Gently! you are too eager in your amorous transports, and you ought not to be so impetuous. Ha! ha! good man, you wished to victimize me! How you are led away by temptations! You would marry my daughter, and covet my wife! I have been a long while in doubt whether you were in earnest, and I always expected you would change your tone; but this is pushing the proof far enough: I am satisfied, and wish for no more.
Elmire (to Tartuffe). It is much against my inclinations that I have done this: but I have been driven to the necessity of treating you thus.
Tartuffe (to Orgon). What! do you believe …
Orgon. Come, pray, no more. Be off! and without ceremony.
Tartuffe. My design …
Orgon. These speeches are no longer of any use; you must get out of this house, and forthwith.
Tartuffe. It is for you to get out, you who assume the mastership: the house belongs to me, I will make you know it, and show you plainly enough that it is useless to resort to these cowardly tricks to pick a quarrel with me; that one cannot safely, as one thinks, insult me; that I have the means of confounding and of punishing imposture, of avenging offended Heaven, and of making those repent who talk of turning me out hence.
Scene VIII.—Elmire, Orgon.
Elmire. What language is this? and what does he mean?
Orgon. I am, in truth, all confusion, and this is no laughing matter.
Elmire. How so?
Orgon. I perceive my mistake by what he says; and the deed of gift troubles my mind.
Elmire. The deed of gift?
Orgon. Yes. The thing is done. But something else disturbs me too.
Elmire. And what?
Orgon. You shall know all. But first let us go and see if a certain box is still upstairs.
ACT V
Cléante. Where would you run to?
Orgon. Indeed! how can I tell?
Cléante. It seems to me that we should begin by consulting together what had best be done in this emergency.
Orgon. This box troubles me sorely. It makes me despair more than all the rest.
Cléante. This box then contains an important secret?
Orgon. It is a deposite that Argas himself, the friend whom I pity, entrusted secretly to my own hands. He selected me for this in his flight; and from what he told me, it contains documents upon which his life and fortune depend.
Cléante. Why then did you confide it into other hands?
Orgon. It was from a conscientious motive. I straightway confided the secret to the wretch; and his arguing persuaded me to give this box into his keeping, so that, in case of any inquiry, I might be able to deny it by a ready subterfuge, by which my conscience might have full absolution for swearing against the truth.
Cléante. This is critical, at least, to judge from appearances; and the deed of gift, and his confidence, have been, to tell you my mind, steps too inconsiderately taken. You may be driven far with such pledges; and since the fellow has these advantages over you, it is a great imprudence on your part to drive him to extremities; and you ought to seek some gentler method.
Orgon. What! to hide such a double-dealing heart, so wicked a soul, under so fair an appearance of touching fervour! And I who received him in my house a beggar and penniless. … It is all over; I renounce all pious people. Henceforth I shall hold them in utter abhorrence, and be worse to them than the very devil.
Cléante. Just so! you exaggerate again! You never preserve moderation in anything. You never keep within reason’s bounds; and always rush from one extreme to another. You see your mistake, and find out that you have been imposed upon by a pretended zeal. But is there any reason why, in order to correct yourself, you should fall into a greater error still, and say that all pious people have the same feelings as that perfidious rascal? What! because a scoundrel has audaciously deceived you, under the pompous show of outward austerity, you will needs have it that every one is like him, and that there is no reall