Moliere, Tartuffe

Moliere’s Tartuffe
France, 1664

Unnamed by Artistiq Dude

Introduction

The first thing that strikes us as 21st century readers is simply how powerful the King is. Remember that Shakespeare couldn’t put women on the stage; in 17th century France there were specific rules monitoring drama and how it got performed. Moliere, as a playwright, is subject to these laws, as the deus ex machina technique that ends the play clearly illustrates. Censorship could shut down this play and end Moliere’s career. We see him attempting to flatter the prince to curry favor and maintain his theatrical career.

In his Preface to this play, he uses blatant flattery, writing: “enlightened kings such as you do not need to be told what is wished of them: like God they see what we need and know better than we what they should give us.” He is literally comparing the king to the Judeo-Christian deity. He carefully separates his play, however, from actual corruptions of religion, arguing that the play’s goal, indeed the goal of comedy itself, is to “correct men by amusing them.”

Clearly the Judeo-Christian God and whoever had access to him had great power in this society. The power that Catholic priests wielded by way of hearing confessions and granting penances contributed to their importance in this society. Tartuffe is not a priest, but clearly is associated with Catholicism, which was the dominant religion in Europe at the time, the dominant religion in France, and a political force that bolstered the power of the French crown at the time as well. Seventeenth-century France subscribed to the theory of Divine Right of Kings. A king’s power derived from the almighty who had deemed him King, who had created him a man with the qualities of a monarch, presumably better than “regular” people. So political power, monarchy, was allied with the Judeo-Christian God, and that alliance justified whatever liberties the King could take with his subjects. In a similar way, France was politically allied with the Vatican, the Catholic Church, still a significant political presence in Europe, but not as strong, perhaps, as it had been before the Protestant Reformation.

All this history is to illustrate how power operates in this play, and how power over the behavior of others gets allied with religion. The moral “high ground” wins every time, so the person who appears to be holiest, wields a great deal of power in this play. Consider how each character manipulates power in this play to try to get what he or she wants.

Consider is the aesthetics of the play.

  • Notice that it rhymes; the entire play was originally written in verse.
  • Notice also that it follows conventions of Ancient Greek theater in maintaining the “Three Unities” of time, place and action. In other words, it takes place in real time (no “Meanwhile, back in Verona . . .”); it occurs all in once place; and it has continuous action. Greek drama advocated this type of aesthetic; Shakespeare famously deviates from it, to the delight of his audience.
  • The third theatrical convention this play illustrates is the technique of deus ex machina where the powerful monarch steps in at the end and saves the day.
  • This play exhibits attributes of classical theater, that has survived in popularity to this day.

Tartuffe by Moliere

Madame Pernelle

Elmire

Mariane

Cleante

Damis

Dorine

Flipote

ACT I.

SCENE I.

  • M. Per
    Come along, Flipote, come along; let us get rid of them.
  • Elm.
    You walk so fast, that one can hardly keep up
  • with you.
  • M. Per
    Do not trouble yourself, daughter-in-law, do not
  • trouble yourself, do not come any farther; there is no
  • need for all this ceremony.
  • Elm.
    We only give you your due. But pray, mother,
  • why are you in such haste to leave us?
  • M. Per
    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,
  • every one has his say aloud, and it is just like the court
  • of King Petaud.
  • Dor.
    If . . .
  • M. Per
    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.
  • Dam.
    But . . .
  • M. Per
    Four letters spell your name, my child, a ” fool:”
  • I, your grandmother, tell you so; and I have already pre-
  • dicted to my son, your father, a hundred times, that you are
  • fast becoming a good-for-nothing, who will give him nought
  • but trouble.
  • Mar.
    I think . . .
  • M. Per
    Good-lack! granddaughter, 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.
  • Elm.
    But, mother . . .
  • M. Per
    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.
  • Dam.
    But after all, Madam . . .
  • M. Per
    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.
  • Dam.
    Your Mr. Tartuffe is an angel, no doubt . . .
  • M. Per
    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.
  • Dam.
    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?
  • Dor.
    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.
  • M. Per
    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.
  • Dam.
    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.
  • Dor.
    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.
  • M. Per
    Eh! mercy on me! things would go on much
  • better if everything were managed according to his pious
  • directions.
  • Dor.
    He passes for a saint in your opinion; but, be-
  • lieve me, he is nothing but a hypocrite.
  • M. Per
    What a tongue!
  • Dor.
    I should not like to trust myself with him, nor
  • with his man Laurent, without a good guarantee.
  • M. Per
    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.
  • Dor.
    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 our-
  • selves, do you wish me to explain? . . . [Pointing to
  • Elmire] Upon my word, I believe him to be jealous of
  • my mistress.
  • M. Per
    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 ever-
  • lastingly standing at the door, and the noisy crowd of so many
  • servants, cause a great disturbance in the whole neighbour-
  • hood. I am willing to believe that there is really no harm
  • done; but people will talk of it, and that is not right.
  • Clé.
    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 re-
  • nounce 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.
  • Dor.
    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 ex-
  • pectation of glossing over their own intrigues with some
  • semblance of innocence, or else by making to fall else-
  • where some part of that public blame with which they are
  • too heavily burdened.
  • M. Per
    All these arguments are nothing to the purpose.
  • Orante is known to lead an exemplary life. All her cares
  • tend to Heaven; and I have learned by people that she
  • strongly condemns the company who visit here.
  • Dor.
    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 en-
  • joyed 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 admirers desert them. Thus for-
  • saken, 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.
  • M. Per
    [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 inven-
  • tions of the evil one. One never hears a pious word uttered
  • at any of them; nothing but tittle-tattle, nonsense, and
  • silly prattle. 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 Cleante] 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

    Cleante, Dorine.

  • Cle.
    I shall not go with her, for fear she should
  • fall foul of me again ; that this good lady . . .
  • Dor.
    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.
  • Cle.
    How she fired up against us for nothing ! And
  • how infatuated she seems with her Tartuffe !
  • Dor.
    , 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 actions ; he
  • caresses him, he 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 half a dozen ; the choicest morsels of every
  • thing 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 con-
  • sidered 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 devo-
  • tion 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 III

    Elmire, Mariane, Damis, Cleante, Dorine.

  • Elm.
    [To Cleante] 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 up stairs to await his coming.
  • Cle.
    I will wait for him here, with small pleasure ; and
  • merely say how do ye do to him.
  • Scene IV

    Cleante, Damis, Dorine.

  • Dam.
    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 Valere’s heart, the sister of
  • this friend is, as you know, dear to me; and if it were
  • necessary . . .
  • Dor.
    Here he is.
  • Scene V

    Orgon, Cleante, Dorine.

  • Org.
    Ha! good morrow, brother.
  • Cle.
    I was just going, and am glad to see you returned.
  • The country is not very cheering at present.
  • Org.
    Dorine. … [To Cleante] 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?
  • Dor.
    The day before yesterday my mistress had an
  • attack of fever until evening, accompanied by an extra
  • ordinary headache.
  • Org.
    And Tartuffe?
  • Dor.
    Tartuffe! He is wonderfully well, stout and fat,
  • with a fresh complexion, and a ruddy mouth.
  • Org.
    Poor fellow !
  • Dor.
    In the evening she felt very sick, and could not
  • touch a morsel of supper, so violent was still the pain in
  • her head.
  • Org.
    And Tartuffe ?
  • Dor.
    He supped by himself in her presence ; and very
  • devoutly ate two partridges, and half a leg of mutton hashed.
  • Org.
    Poor fellow !
  • Dor.
    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.
  • Org.
    And Tartuffe ?
  • Dor.
    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.
  • Org.
    Poor fellow !
  • Dor.
    We at length prevailed upon the mistress to be
  • bled ; and she was almost immediately relieved.
  • Org.
    And Tartuffe ?
  • Dor.
    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.
  • Org.
    Poor fellow !
  • Dor.
    At present, they are both well ; and I shall go and
  • inform the mistress how glad you feel at her recovery.
  • Scene VI

    Orgon, Cleante.

  • Cle.
    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 every
  • thing for him ? That after having relieved his indigence in
  • your own house, you should go as far as . . .
  • Org.
    Stop, brother-in-law, you do not know the man of
  • whom you are speaking ?
  • Cle.
    I do not know him, if you like ; but after all, in
  • order to know what sort of man he is . . .
  • Org.
    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.
  • Cle.
    Humane sentiments these, brother !
  • Org.
    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-
  • men, 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 said ; ” 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.
  • Cle.
    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 . . .
  • Org.
    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.
  • Cle.
    The usual clap-trap of your set ; they wish every
  • one to be blind like themselves. To keep one’s eyes open
  • is to be a free-thinker ; and whosoever does not worship
  • pretentious affection 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 exag-
  • gerate, and carry them too far. This by the way, brother.,
  • Org.
    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.
  • Cle.
    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 of 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 affectation 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 resent
  • ment 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 these vile characters, but the really devout at heart are
  • easily recognised. Our age has shown us some, brother, who
  • may serve us as glorious examples. Look at Ariston, look
  • at Periandre, Oroute, 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
  • the 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
  • he followed. To say the truth, your man is not of that
  • stamp: you vaunt his zeal with the best intention; but I
  • believe that you are dazzled by a false glare.
  • Org.
    My dear brother-in-law, have you had your say?
  • Cle.
    Yes.
  • Org.
    [Going] I am your humble servant.
  • Cle.
    Pray, one word more, brother. Let us drop this
  • conversation. You know that Valere has your promise to
  • be your son-in-law.
  • Org.
    Yes.
  • Cle.
    And that you would appoint a day for the wedding.
  • Org.
    True.
  • Cle.
    Why then defer the ceremony?
  • Org.
    I do not know.
  • Cle.
    Have you another design in your mind?
  • Org.
    Perhaps so.
  • Cle.
    Will you break your word?
  • Org.
    I do not say that.
  • Cle.
    There is no obstacle, I think, to prevent you from
  • fulfilling your promise?
  • Org.
    That is as it may be.
  • Cle.
    Why so much ado about a single word ? Valere
  • sent me to you about it.
  • Org.
    Heaven be praised for that!
  • Cle.
    But what answer shall I give him?
  • Org.
    Whatever you please.
  • Cle.
    But it is necessary to know your intentions. What are they ?
  • Org.
    To do just what Heaven ordains.
  • Cle.
    But to the point. Valere has your promise : will
  • you keep it or not ?
  • Org.
    Farewell.
  • Cle.
    [Alone] I fear some misfortune for his love, and
  • I ought to inform him of what is going on.
  • Act II

    Scene I

    Orgon, Mariane.

  • Org.
    Mariane.
  • Mar.
    Father ?
  • Org.
    Come here ; I have something to say to you
  • privately.
  • Mar.
    [To Orgon, who is looking into a closet] What are
  • you looking for ?
  • Org.
    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 also always
  • been very dear to me.
  • Mar.
    I am much obliged to you for this fatherly affection.
  • Org.
    That is very well said, daughter ; and to deserve
  • it, your only care should be to please me.
  • Mar.
    That is my greatest ambition.
  • Org.
    Very well. What say you of our guest Tartuffe?
  • Mar.
    Who? I?
  • Org.
    You. Be careful how you answer.
  • Mar.
    Alas !I will say whatever you like of him.
  • Scene II

    Obgon, Mariane, Dorine,
    entering softly, and keeping behind Organ, without being seen
    .

  • Org.
    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. He?
  • [Mariane draws away with surprise.]
  • Mar.
    He?
  • Org.
    What is the matter?
  • Mar.
    What did you say?
  • Org.
    What?
  • Mar.
    Did I mistake?
  • Org.
    How ?
  • Mar.
    WTho would you have me say has touched my
  • heart, father, and whom would it be pleasant to have for a
  • husband, with your approbation !
  • Org.
    Tartuffe.
  • Mar.
    But it is nothing of the kind, father, I assure you.
  • Why would you have me tell such a falsehood ?
  • Org.
    But I wish it to be a truth ; and it is sufficient for
  • you that I have resolved it so.
  • Mar.
    What, father ! would you . . .
  • Org.
    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.
  • Dor.
    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.
  • Org.
    Why so ! Is the thing incredible 1
  • Dor.
    So much so, that even from you, Sir, I do not
  • believe it.
  • Org.
    I know how to make you believe it, though.
  • Dor.
    Yes, yes, you are telling us a funny story.
  • Org.
    I am telling you exactly what you will see shortly.
  • Dor.
    Nonsense !
  • Org.
    What I say is not in jest, daughter.
  • Dor.
    Come, do not believe your father; he is joking.
  • Org.
    I tell you . . .
  • Dor.
    No, you may say what you like; nobody will be-
  • lieve you.
  • Org.
    My anger will at last . . .
  • Dor.
    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 . . .
  • Org.
    Now listen : you have taken certain liberties in this
  • house, which I do not like ; I tell you so, my dear.
  • Dor.
    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 alli
  • ance bring you ? Why, with all your wealth, go and choose
  • a beggar for a son-in-law . . .
  • Org.
    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.
  • Dor.
    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 certain model; and he who gives to
  • his daughter a man whom she hates, is responsible to Hea-
  • ven for the faults which she commits. Consider to what
  • perils your design exposes you.
  • Org.
    I tell you I must learn from her what to do!
  • Dor.
    You cannot do better than follow my advice.
  • Org.
    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 Valere; 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.
  • Dor.
    Would you like him to run there at your stated
  • hours, like those who go there only to be seen ?
  • Org.
    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.
  • Dor.
    She? she will never make anything but a fool of
  • him, I assure you.
  • Org.
    Heyday! what language!
  • Dor.
    I say that he has the appearance of one, and that his
  • destiny, Sir, will be stronger than all your daughter’s virtue.
  • Org.
    Leave off interrupting me, and try to hold your
  • tongue, without poking your nose into what does not concern
  • you.
  • Dor.
    [She continually interrupts him when he turns
  • round to speak to his daughter] I speak only for your
  • interest, Sir.
  • Org.
    You interest yourself too much ; hold your tongue,
  • if you please.
  • Dor.
    If one did not care for you . . .
  • Org.
    I do not wish you to care for me.
  • Dor.
    And I will care for you, Sir, in spite of yourself.
  • Org.
    Ah!
  • Dor.
    Your honour is dear to me, and I cannot bear to
  • see you the laughingstock of everyone.
  • Org.
    You will not hold your tongue ?
  • Dor.
    It is a matter of conscience to allow you to form
  • such an alliance.
  • Org.
    Will you hold your tongue, you serpent, whose
  • brazen face . . .
  • Dor.
    What ! you are religious, and you fly in a rage !
  • Org.
    Yes, all your nonsense has excited my choler, and
  • once for all, you shall hold your tongue.
  • Dor.
    Be it so. But, though I do not say a word, I will
  • think none the less.
  • Org.
    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.
  • Dor.
    [Aside] It drives me mad that I must not
  • speak.
  • Org.
    Without being a fop, Tartuffe’s mien is such . . .
  • Dor.
    Yes, his is a very pretty phiz !
  • Org.
    That even if you have no sympathy with his
  • other gifts . . .
  • Dor.
    [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.
  • Org.
    [To Dorine] Then you do not heed what I say ?
  • Dor.
    What are you grumbling at? I did not speak to you.
  • Org.
    What did you do then ?
  • Dor.
    I was speaking to myself.
  • Org.
    [Aside] Very well ! I must give her a back
  • hander to pay her out for her extreme insolence. [He puts
  • himself into 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 ?
  • Dor.
    I have nothing to say to myself.
  • Org.
    Just another little word.
  • Dor.
    It does not suit me.
  • Org.
    I was looking out for you, be sure.
  • Dor.
    I am not such a fool as you think me !
  • Org.
    In short, daughter, you must obey, and show a
  • complete deference to my choice.
  • Dor.
    [Running away] I would not care a straw for
  • such a husband.
  • Org.
    [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 III

    Mariane, Dorine.

  • Dor.
    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 !
  • Mar.
    What would you have me do against a tyrannical
  • father ?
  • Dor.
    That which is necessary to ward off such a threat.
  • Mar.
    What?
  • Dor.
    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.
  • Mar.
    Ah ! a father, I confess, has so much authority
  • over us, that I have never had the courage to answer him.
  • Dor.
    But let us argue this affair. Valere has proposed
  • for you : do you love him, pray, or do you not !
  • Mar.
    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 ?
  • Dor.
    How do I know whether your lips have spoken what
  • your heart felt ? and whether you have any real regard for
  • this lover ?
  • Mar.
    You wrong me greatly in doubting it, Dorine; for
  • my true sentiments have been but too clearly shown.
  • Dor.
    You really love him, then ?
  • Mar.
    Yes, very passionately.
  • Dor.
    And, to all appearance, he loves you as well?
  • Mar.
    I believe so.
  • Dor.
    And you are both equally eager to marry each
  • other?
  • Mar.
    Assuredly.
  • Dor.
    What do you expect from this other match then?
  • Mar.
    To kill myself, if they force me to it.
  • Dor.
    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.
  • Mar.
    Good gracious ! Dorine, what a temper you get into !
  • You do not sympathize in the least with people’s troubles.
  • Dor.
    I do not sympathize with people who talk stupidly,
  • and, when an opportunity presents itself, give way as you do!
  • Mar.
    But what would you have me do If I am
  • timid . . .
  • Dor.
    Love requires firmness.
  • Mar.
    But have I wavered in my affection towards
  • Valere ? and is it not his duty to obtain a father’s consent ?
  • Dor.
    But what ! if your father is a downright churl, who
  • is completely taken up with his Tartuffe, and will break off
  • a match he had agreed on, is your lover to be blamed for
  • that?
  • Mar.
    But am I, by a flat refusal and a scornful disdain,
  • to let everyone know how much I am smitten ? However
  • brilliant Valere 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 . . .
  • Dor.
    No, I would have you do nothing of the sort. I
  • perceive that you would like to be Mr Tartuffe’s ; and I
  • should be wrong, now that I come to think 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! is no small fry. 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 every one 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.
  • Mar.
    Good gracious ! . . .
  • Dor.
    How joyful you will be to see yourself the wife of
  • such a handsome husband !
  • Mar.
    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.
  • Dor.
    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 marionnettes.
  • If your husband, however . . .
  • Mar.
    Oh ! you kill me. Try rather to assist me with
  • your counsels.
  • Dor.
    I am your servant.
  • Mar.
    Ah ! for pity’s sake, Dorine . . .
  • Dor.
    This affair ought to go on, to punish you.
  • Mar.
    There is a good girl !
  • Dor.
    No.
  • Mar.
    If I declare to you that . . .
  • Dor.
    Not at all. Tartuffe is your man, and you shall
  • have a taste of him.
  • Mar.
    You know that I have always confided in you :
  • do . . .
  • Dor.
    No, it is of no use, you shall be Tartuffed.
  • Mar.
    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.]
  • Dor.
    Stop, stop, come back. I give in. In spite of all,
  • I must take compassion on you.
  • Mar.
    Look here, Dorine, if they inflict this cruel mar
  • tyrdom upon me, I shall die of it, I tell you.
  • Dor.
    Do not worry yourself. We will cleverly prevent
  • …But here comes Valere, your lover.
  • Scene IV

    Valere, Mariane, Dorine.

  • Val.
    I have just been told a piece of news, Madam, which
  • I did not know, and which is certainly very pretty.
  • Mar.
    What is it ?
  • Val.
    That you are going to be married to Tartuffe.
  • Mar.
    My father has taken this idea into his head,
  • certainly.
  • Val.
    Your father, Madam . . .
  • Mar.
    Has altered his mind : he has just proposed this
  • affair to me.
  • Val.
    What ! seriously ?
  • Mar.
    Yes, seriously, he has openly declared himself for
  • this match.
  • Val.
    And what have you decided, in your own mind,
  • Madam ?
  • Mar.
    I know not.
  • Val.
    The answer is polite. You know not ?
  • Mar.
    No,
  • Val.
    No?
  • Mar.
    What do you advise me ?
  • Val.
    I, I advise you to take this husband.
  • Mar.
    Is that your advice ?
  • Val.
    Yes.
  • Mar.
    Seriously ?
  • Val.
    Doubtless. The choice is glorious, and well worth
  • consideration.
  • Mar.
    Very well, Sir, I shall act upon the advice.
  • Val.
    That will not be very painful, I think.
  • Mar.
    Not more painful than for you to give it
  • Val.
    I gave it to please you, Madam.
  • Mar.
    And I shall follow it to please you.
  • Dor.
    [Retiring to the farther part of the stage] Let us
  • see what this will come to.
  • Val.
    This then is your affection ? And it was all deceit
  • when you . . .
  • Mar.
    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.
  • Val.
    Do not make my advice your excuse. Your
  • resolution was taken beforehand ; and you catch at a frivolous
  • pretext to justify the breaking of your word.
  • Mar.
    Very true, and well put.
  • Val.
    No doubt ; and you never had any real affection
  • for me.
  • Mar.
    Alas ! think so if you like.
  • Val.
    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.
  • Mar.
    Ah! I have no doubt of it; and the love which
  • merit can command . . .
  • Val.
    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.
  • Mar.
    The loss is not great ; and you will easily enough
  • console yourself for this change.
  • Val.
    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.
  • Mar.
    This is, no doubt, an elevated and noble sentiment
  • Val.
    It is so; and every one must approve of it. What
  • would you have me for ever to nourish my ardent affection
  • for you, and not elsewhere bestow that heart which you re-
  • ject, whilst I see you, before my face, pass into the arms
  • of another?
  • Mar.
    On the contrary; as for me, that is what I would
  • have you do, and I wish it were done already.
  • Val.
    You wish it ?
  • Mar.
    Yes.
  • Val.
    That is a sufficient insult, Madam ; and I shall
  • satisfy you this very moment. [He pretends to go.]
  • Mar.
    Very well
  • Val.
    [Coming back] Remember at least, that you
  • yourself drive me to this extremity.
  • Mar.
    Yes.
  • Val.
    [Coming back once more] And that I am only
  • following your example.
  • Mar.
    Very well, my example.
  • Val.
    [Going] That will do : you shall be obeyed on
  • the spot.
  • Mar.
    So much the better.
  • Val.
    [Coming back again] This is the last time that
  • you will ever see me.
  • Mar.
    That is right.
  • Val.
    [Goes, and turns round at the door] Hey ?
  • Mar.
    What is the matter ?
  • Val.
    Did not you call me ?
  • Mar.
    I ! You are dreaming.
  • Val.
    Well ! then I will be gone. Farewell, Madam.
  • [He goes slowly.]
  • Mar.
    Farewell, Sir.
  • Dor.
    [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, Mr
  • Valere. [She takes hold of Valere’s arm.]
  • Val.
    [Pretending to resist] Hey ? what do you want,
  • Dorine ?
  • Dor.
    Come here.
  • Val.
    No, no, I feel too indignant. Do not hinder me
  • from doing as she wishes me.
  • Dor.
    Stop.
  • Val.
    No ; look here, I have made up my mind.
  • Dor.
    Ah !
  • Mar.
    [Aside] He cannot bear to see me, my presence
  • drives him away ; and I had therefore much better leave
  • the place.
  • Dor.
    [Quitting Vallre and running after Mariane]
  • Now for the other ! Where are you running to ?
  • Mar.
    Let me alone.
  • Dor.
    You must come back.
  • Mar.
    No, no, Dorine ; it is of no use detaining me.
  • Val.
    [Aside] I see, but too well, that the sight of me
  • annoys her ; and I had, no doubt, better free her from it
  • Dor.
    [Leaving Mariane and running after Valere]
  • 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.
  • Val.
    [To Dorine] But what are you about ?
  • Mar.
    [To Dorine] What would you do ?
  • Dor.
    I would have you make it up together, and get
  • out of this scrape. [To Valere] Are you mad to wrangle
  • in this way ?
  • Val.
    Did you not hear how she spoke to me ?
  • Dor.
    [To Mariane] Are you silly to have got into such a
  • passion 1
  • Mar.
    Did you not see the thing, and how he has treated
  • me ?
  • Dor.
    Folly on both sides. [To Valere] 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.
  • Mar.
    [To Valere] Why then did you give me such advice?
  • Val.
    [To Mariane] Why did you ask me for it on such
  • a subject ?
  • Dor.
    You are a pair of fools. Come, your hands, both
  • of you. [To Valere] Come, yours.
  • Val.
    [Chiving his hand to Dorine] “What is the good of
  • ray hand ?
  • Dor.
    [To Mariane] Come now ! yours.
  • Mar.
    [Giving hers] What is the use of all this ?
  • Dor.
    Good Heavens ! quick, come on. You love each
  • other better than you think. [VaUre and Mariane hold
  • each other’s hands for some time, without speaking.
  • Val.
    [Turning towards Mariane] Do not do things
  • with such a bad grace, and cast a glance upon one without
  • any hatred. [Mariane turns to Valere, and smiles on him.
  • Dor.
    Truth to tell, lovers are great fools !
  • Val.
    [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 ?
  • Mar.
    And you, are you not the most ungrateful fellow . . .
  • Dor.
    Leave all this debate till another time, and let us
  • think about averting this confounded marriage.
  • Mar.
    Tell us, then, what we are to do.
  • Dor.
    We must do many things. [To Mariane] Your
  • father does but jest ; [to Valere] 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
  • yon to any one 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.
  • Val.
    [To Mariane] Whatever efforts we may make to
  • gether, my greatest hope, to tell the truth, is in you.
  • Mar.
    [To Valere] I cannot answer for the will of a father ;
  • but I shall be no one but Valere’s.
  • Val.
    Oh, how happy you make me ! And, whatever
  • they may attempt . . .
  • Dor.
    Ah ! lovers are never weary of prattling. Be off,
  • I tell you.
  • Val.
    [Goes a step, and returns] After all . . .
  • Dor.
    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 III

    Scene I

    Damis, Dorine.

  • Dam.
    May lightning strike me dead on the spot, may
  • every one treat me as the greatest of scoundrels, if any
  • respect or authority shall stop me from doing something
  • rash !
  • Dor.
    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.
  • Dam.
    I must put a stop to this fellow’s plots, and whisper
  • a word or two in his ear.
  • Dor.
    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. /
  • Dam.
    I may be present at this interview.
  • Dor.
    Not at all. They must be alone.
  • Dam.
    I shall not say a word to him.
  • Dor.
    You deceive yourself: we know your usual outbursts ;
  • and that is just the way to spoil all. Go.
  • Dam.
    No ; I will see, without getting angry.
  • Dor.
    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.

  • Tar.
    [The moment he perceives Dorine, he begins to speak
  • loudly to his servant, who is behind] 87 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.
  • Dor.
    [Aside] What affectation and boasting !
  • Tar.
    What do you want ?
  • Dor.
    To tell you . . .
  • Tar.
    [Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket] For
  • Heaven’s sake ! before you go any farther, take this hand
  • kerchief, I pray.
  • Dor.
    For what ?
  • Tar.
    Cover this bosom, which I cannot bear to see.
  • The spirit is offended by such sights, and they evoke sinful
  • thoughts.
  • Dor.
    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.
  • Tar.
    Be a little more modest in your expressions, or I
  • shall leave you on the spot.
  • Dor.
    No, no, it is I who am going to leave you to your
  • self ; 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.
  • Tar.
    Alas ! with all my heart.
  • Dor.
    [Aside] How he softens down ! Upon my word, I
  • stick to what I have said of him.
  • Tar.
    Will she be long ?
  • Dor.
    Methinks I hear her. Yes, it is herself, and I leave
  • you together.
  • Scene III

    Elmire, Tartuffe.

  • Tar.
    May Heaven, in its mighty goodness, for ever be-
  • stow upon you health both of soul and of body; and bless
  • your days as much as the humblest of its votaries desires.
  • Elm.
    I am much obliged for this pious wish. But let us
  • take a seat, to be more at ease.
  • Tar.
    [Seated] Are you quite recovered from your
  • indisposition ?
  • Elm.
    [Seated] Quite ; this fever has soon left me.
  • Tar.
    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.
  • Elm.
    You are too anxious in your zeal for me.
  • Tar.
    We cannot cherish your dear health too much ; and
  • to re-establish yours, I would have given mine.
  • Elm.
    That is pushing Christian charity very far ; and I
  • feel much indebted to you for all this kindness.
  • Tar.
    I do much less for you than you deserve.
  • Elm.
    I wished to speak to you in private about a certain
  • matter, and am glad that no one is here to observe
  • us.
  • Tar.
    I am equally delighted ; and no doubt, it is very
  • pleasant to me, Madam, to find myself alone with you. I
  • have often asked this opportunity from Heaven, but, till
  • now, in vain.
  • Elm.
    What I wish is a few words with you, upon a small
  • matter, in which you bare 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.
  • Tar.
    And I will also, in return for this rare favour, un
  • bosom myself entirely to you, and swear to you that the
  • reports which I have spread about the visits which you re-
  • ceive 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 . . .
  • Elm.
    That is how I take it. I think it is for my good
  • that you trouble yourself so much.
  • Tar.
    [Taking Elmire’s hand and pressing her fingers]
  • Yes, Madam, no doubt ; and my fervour is such . . .
  • Elm.
    Oh ! you squeeze me too hard.
  • Tar.
    It is through excess of zeal. I never had any in
  • tention of hurting you, and would sooner. . . [He places
  • his hand on Elmire’s knee.]
  • Elm.
    What does your hand there ?
  • Tar.
    I am only feeling your dress : the stuff is very soft
  • Elm.
    Oh ! please leave off, I am very ticklish. [Elmire
  • pushes her chair back, and Tartuffe draws near with his.]
  • Tar.
    [Handling the collar of Elmire] 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.
  • Elm.
    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.
  • Tar.
    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.
  • Elm.
    That is because you have no love for earthly
  • things.
  • Tar.
    My breast does not contain a heart of flint.
  • Elm.
    I believe that all your sighs tend towards Heaven,
  • and that nothing here below rouses your desires.
  • Tar.
    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 him
  • self. 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, oh 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.
  • Elm.
    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 . . .
  • Tar.
    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 loveliness, 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, oh miracle of sweetness, an
  • 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 in
  • discreet 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.
  • Elm.
    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 ?
  • Tar.
    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.
  • Elm.
    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 some
  • thing of you : that is, to forward, honestly and without
  • quibbling, the union of Valere with Mariane, to renounce
  • the unjust power which would enrich you with what be
  • longs to another ; and . . .
  • Scene IV

    Elmire, Damis, Tartuffe.

  • Dam.
    [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 me 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.
  • Elm.
    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.
  • Dam.
    You have your reasons for acting in that 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 Valere’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.
  • Elm.
    Damis . . .
  • Dam.
    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

    Elmire, Damis, Tartuffe.

  • Dam.
    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,
  • Elm.
    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.

  • Org.
    What have I heard ! Oh Heavens ! is it credible ?
  • Tar.
    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.
  • Org.
    [To his Son] What, wretch ! dare you, by this
  • falsehood, tarnish the purity of his virtue ?
  • Dam.
    What, shall the pretended gentleness of this
  • hypocrite make you believe . . .
  • Org.
    Peace, cursed plague !
  • Tar.
    Ah! let him speak ; you accuse him wrongly, and
  • you had much better believe in 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 a 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.
  • Org.
    [To Tartuffe] This is too much, brother. [To his
  • Son] Does not your heart relent, wretch ?
  • Dam.
    What ! shall his words deceive you so far as to . . .
  • Org.
    Hold your tongue, you hangdog ! [Raising Tartuffe]
  • Rise, brother, I beseech you. [To his Son] Infamous
  • wretch !
  • Dam.
    He can . .
  • Org.
    Hold your tongue.
  • Dam.
    I burst with rage. What ! I am looked upon
  • as . . .
  • Org.
    Say another word, and I will break your bones.
  • Tar.
    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.
  • Org.
    [To his Son] Ungrateful monster !
  • Tar.
    Leave him in peace. If I must on both knees,
  • ask you to pardon him . . .
  • Org.
    [Throwing himself on his knees also, and embrac
  • ing Tartuffe] Alas ! are you in jest ? [To his Son] Behold
  • his goodness, scoundrel !
  • Dam.
    Thus . . .
  • Org.
    Cease.
  • Bam. What! I . . .
  • Org.
    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.
  • Dam.
    Do you mean to compel her to accept him ?
  • Org.
    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.
  • Dam.
    What’t I ! at the feet of this rascal who, by his
  • impostures . . .
  • Org.
    What, you resist, you beggar, and insult him be
  • sides ! [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.
  • Dam.
    Yes, I shall go ; but . . .
  • Org.
    Quick, leave the place. I disinherit you, you
  • hangdog, and give you my curse besides.
  • Scene VII

    Orgon, Tartuffe.

  • Org.
    To offend a saintly person in that way !
  • Tar.
    Forgive him, oh Heaven ! the pang he causes me.
  • [To Orgon] Could you but know my grief at seeing myself
  • blackened in my brother’s sight . . .
  • Org.
    Alas !
  • Tar.
    The very thought of this ingratitude tortures ray
  • 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.
  • Org.
    [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.
  • Tar.
    Let us put an end to these sad disputes. I per
  • ceive what troubles I cause in this house, and think it neces
  • sary, brother, to leave it.
  • Org.
    What ! you are jesting surely ?
  • Tar.
    They hate me, and I find that they are trying to
  • make you suspect my integrity.
  • Org.
    What does it matter ? Do you think that, in my
  • heart, I listen to them ?
  • Tar.
    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.
  • Org.
    No, brother, never.
  • Tar.
    Ah, brother ! a wife may easily impose upon a
  • husband.
  • Org.
    No, no.
  • Tar.
    Allow me, by removing hence promptly, to deprive
  • them of all subject of attack.
  • Org.
    No, you shall remain ; my life depends upon it.
  • Tar.
    Well ! I must then mortify myself. If, however,
  • you would . . .
  • Org.
    Ah!
  • Tar.
    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 sus-
  • picion. I shall shun your wife, and you shall not see me . . .
  • Org.
    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 ?
  • Tar.
    The will of Heaven be done in all things.
  • Org.
    Poor fellow. Quick ! let us get the draft drawn
  • up : and then let envy itself burst with spite !
  • Act IV

    Scene I

    Cleante, Tartuffe.

  • Cle.
    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 ac-
  • count 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.
  • Tar.
    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 man-
  • ner, into silence.
  • Cle.
    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 ? Leave to it the care of its own vengeance;
  • 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.
  • Tar.
    I have already told you that from my heart I for
  • give 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.
  • Cle.
    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 ?
  • Tar.
    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.
  • Cle.
    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, with
  • out 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 pro-
  • perty? 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 . . .
  • Tar.
    Sir, it is half-past three: certain religious duties
  • call me upstairs, and you will excuse my leaving you so
  • soon.
  • Cle.
    [Alone] Ah!
  • Act IV

    Scene II

    Elmire, Mariane, Cleante, Dorine.

  • Dor.
    [To Cleante] For Heaven’s sake, Sir, bestir your
  • self 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 III

    Orgon, Elmire, Mariane, Cleante, Dorine.

  • Org.
    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.
  • Mar.
    [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.
  • Org.
    [Somewhat moved] Firm, my heart ! none of this
  • human weakness !
  • Mar.
    Your tenderness for him causes me no grief;
  • indulge it to its full 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.
  • Org.
    Ah, that is it ! When a father crosses a girl’s love
  • sick inclinations, 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.
  • Dor.
    But what . . .
  • Org.
    Hold your tongue. Meddle only with what concerns
  • you. I flatly forbid you to say another word.
  • Cle.
    If you will permit me to answer you, and advise . . .
  • Org.
    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
  • Elm.
    [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.
  • Org.
    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.
  • Elm.
    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 invec-
  • tives 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.
  • Org.
    In short, I know the whole affair, and will not be
  • imposed upon.
  • Elm.
    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.
  • Org.
    Show !
  • Elm.
    Aye.
  • Org.
    Stuff.
  • Elm.
    But if I found the means to show you plainly? . . .
  • Org.
    Idle stories.
  • Elm.
    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 ?
  • Org.
    In that case, I should say that … I should say
  • nothing, for the thing cannot be.
  • Elm.
    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,,.’-
  • Org.
    Be it so. I take you at your word. We shall
  • see your dexterity, and how you will make good this
  • promise.
  • Elm.
    [To Dorine] Bid him come to me.
  • Dor.
    [To Elmire] He is crafty, and it will be difficult,
  • perhaps, to catch him.
  • Elm.
    [To Dorine] No ; people are easily duped by those
  • whom they love, and conceit is apt to deceive itself. Bid
  • him come down. [To Cleante and Mariane] And do you
  • retire.
  • Scene IV

    Elmire, Orgon.

  • Elm.
    Come, and get under this table.
  • Org.
    Why so ?
  • Elm.
    It is necessary that you should conceal yourself
  • well.
  • Org.
    But why under this table ?
  • Elm.
    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.
  • Org.
    I confess that my complaisance is great : but I
  • must needs see the end of your enterprise.
  • Elm.
    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 com-
  • pelled to it, I am going to make this hypocrite drop his
  • mask by addressing soft speeches to him, flatter the shame
  • less 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].

  • Tar.
    I have been told that you wished to speak to me
  • here.
  • Elm.
    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 a 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 closetted here
  • alone with you ; and this justifies me in opening to you my
  • heart, a little too ready perhaps, to listen to your passion.
  • Tar.
    This language is somewhat difficult to understand,
  • Madam ; and you just now spoke in quite a different strain.
  • Elm.
    Ah ! how little you know the heart of a woman, if
  • such a refusal makes you angry ! and how little you under
  • stand 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.67
  • 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 com-
  • pelled 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 vexa-
  • tion it would have caused me, that this marriage would have
  • at least divided a heart that I wished all to myself ?
  • Tar.
    It is very sweet, no doubt, Madam, to hear these
  • words from the lips we love; their honey plentifully dif-
  • fuses a suavity throughout my senses, such as they 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.
  • Elm.
    [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 ?
  • Tar.
    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 realise, 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.
  • Elm.
    Good Heavens ! how very tyrannically 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 exact
  • ing, 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?
  • Tar.
    But if you look upon my addresses with a favourable
  • eye, why refuse me convincing proofs ?
  • Elm.
    But how can I comply with what you wish,
  • without offending that Heaven of which you are always
  • speaking ?
  • Tar.
    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.
  • Elm.
    But they frighten us so much with the judgments
  • of Heaven !
  • Tar.
    I can dispel these ridiculous fears for you,
  • Madam, and I possess the art of allaying scruples. Hea
  • ven, it is true, forbids certain gratifications, but there are
  • ways and means of compounding such matters. Accord
  • ing 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.70 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
  • Elm.
    Yes, I am much tormented.
  • Tar.
    Would you like a piece of this liquorice ?
  • Elm.
    It is an obstinate cold, no doubt; and I know that
  • all the liquorice in the world will do it no good.
  • Tar.
    That, certainly, is very sad.
  • Elm.
    Yes, more than I can say.
  • Tar.
    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.
  • Elm.
    [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.
  • Tar.
    Yes, Madam, I take it upon myself ; and the thing
  • in itself . . .
  • Elm.
    Open this door a little, and, see, pray, if my hus-
  • band be not in that gallery.
  • Tar.
    What need is there to take so much thought about
  • him ? Between ourselves, he is easily led by the nose. He
  • is likely to glory in all our interviews, and I have brought
  • him so far that he will see everything, and without be-
  • lieving anything.
  • Elm.
    It matters not. Go, pray, for a moment and look
  • carefully everywhere outside.
  • Scene VI

    Orgon, Elmire.

  • Org.
    [Coming from, under the table] This is, I admit
  • to you, an abominable wretch ! I cannot recover myself,
  • and all this perfectly stuns me.
  • Elm.
    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.
  • Org.
    No, nothing more wicked ever came out of bell.
  • Elm.
    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 VII

    Tartuffe, Elmire, Orgon.

  • Tar.
    [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.
  • Org.
    [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.
  • Elm.
    [To Tartuffe] It is much against my inclinations
  • that I have done this : but I have been driven to the neces
  • sity of treating you thus.
  • Tar.
    [To Orgon What ! do you believe . . .
  • Org.
    Come, pray, no more. Decamp, and without
  • ceremony.
  • Tar.
    My design . . .
  • Org.
    These speeches are no longer of any use ; you must
  • get out of this house, and forthwith.
  • Tar.
    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.

  • Elm.
    What language is this? and what does he mean?
  • Org.
    I am, in truth, all confusion, and this is no laughing
  • matter.
  • Elm.
    How so ?
  • Org.
    I perceive my mistake by what he says; and the
  • deed of gift troubles my mind.
  • Elm.
    The deed of gift!
  • Org.
    Yes. The thing is done. But something else dis-
  • turbs me too.
  • Elm.
    And what ?
  • Org.
    You shall know all. But first let us go and see if
  • a certain box is still upstairs.
  • Act V

    Scene I

    Cleante, Tartuffe.

  • Cle.
    Where would you run to ?
  • Org.
    Indeed ! how can I tell ?
  • Cle.
    It seems to me that we should begin by consulting
  • together what had best be done in this emergency.
  • Org.
    This box troubles me sorely. It makes me
  • despair more than all the rest.
  • Cle.
    This box then contains an important secret ?
  • Org.
    It is a deposit 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 con-
  • tains documents upon which his life and fortune depend.
  • Cle.
    Why then did you confide it into other hands ?
  • Org.
    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.
  • Cle.
    This is critical, at least, to judge from appearances ;
  • And the deed of gift, and this 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.
  • Org.
    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.
  • Cle.
    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, will you needs have it that every
  • one is like him, and that there is no really pious man to be
  • found now-a-days ? Leave those foolish deductions to free
  • thinkers : distinguish between real virtue and its counterfeit ;
  • never bestow your esteem too hastily, and keep in this
  • the necessary middle course. Beware, if possible, of honour-
  • ing imposture ; but do not attack true piety also ; and if
  • you must fall into an extreme, rather offend again on the
  • other side.
  • Scene II

    Orgon, Cleante, Damis.

  • Dam.
    What ! father, is it true that this scoundrel
  • threatens you ? that he forgets all that you have done for
  • him, and that his cowardly and too contemptible pride
  • turns your kindness for him against yourself?
  • Org.
    Even so, my son ; and it causes me unutterable
  • grief.
  • Dam.
    Leave him to me, I will slice his ears off.
  • Such insolence must not be tolerated : it is my duty to
  • deliver you from him at once ; and, to put an end to this
  • matter, I must knock him down.
  • Cle.
    Spoken just like a regular youth. Moderate,
  • if you please, these violent transports. We live under a
  • government, and in an age, in which violence only makes
  • matters worse.
  • Scene III

    Madame Pernelle, Orgon, Elmire, Cleante, Mariane, Damis, Dorine.

  • Mad. P.
    What is all this? What dreadful things do I
  • hear !
  • Org.
    Some novelties which my own eyes have
  • witnessed, and you see how I am repaid for my kindness.
  • I affectionately harbour a fellow creature in his misery, I
  • shelter him and treat him as my own brother ; I heap favours
  • upon him every day ; I give him my daughter, and every
  • thing I possess : and, at that very moment, the perfidious,
  • infamous wretch forms the wicked design of seducing my
  • wife ; and, not content even with these vile attempts, he dares
  • to threaten me with my own favours ; and, to encompass my
  • ruin, wishes to take advantage of my indiscreet good nature,
  • drive me from my property which I have transferred to
  • him, and reduce me to that condition from which I rescued
  • him !
  • Dor.
    Poor fellow !
  • Mad. P.
    I can never believe, my son, that he would
  • commit so black a deed.
  • Org.
    What do you mean ?
  • Mad. P.
    Good people are always envied.
  • Org.
    What do you mean by all this talk, mother ?
  • Mad. P.
    That there are strange goings-on in your
  • house, and that we know but too well the hatred they bear
  • him.
  • Org.
    What has this hatred to do with what I have
  • told you ?
  • Mad. P.
    I have told you a hundred times, when a boy,
  • “That virtue here is persecuted ever ;
  • That envious men may die, but envy never.”
  • Org.
    But in what way does this bear upon to-day’s
  • doings ?
  • Mad. P.
    They may have concocted a hundred idle
  • stories against him.
  • Org.
    I have already told you that I have seen every
  • thing myself.
  • Mad. P.
    The malice of slanderers is very great
  • Org.
    You will make me swear, mother. I tell you
  • that with my own eyes I have witnessed this daring crime.
  • Mad. P.
    Evil tongues have always venom to scatter
  • abroad, and nothing here below can guard against it.
  • Org.
    That is a very senseless remark. I have seen
  • it, I say, seen with my own eyes, seen, what you call
  • seen. Am I to din it a hundred times in your ears, and
  • shout like four people ?
  • Mad. P.
    Goodness me ! appearances most frequently
  • deceive : you must not always judge by what you see.
  • Org.
    I am boiling with rage !
  • Mad. P.
    Human nature is liable to false suspicions, and
  • good is often construed into evil.
  • Org.
    I must construe the desire to embrace my wife
  • into a charitable design !
  • Mad. P.
    It is necessary to have good reasons for
  • accusing people ; and you ought to have waited until you
  • were quite certain of the thing.
  • Org.
    How the deuce could I be more certain ?
  • Ought I to have waited, mother, until to my very eyes, he had
  • . . . You will make me say some foolish thing.
  • Mad. P.
    In short, his soul is too full of pure zeal; and I
  • cannot at all conceive that he would have attempted the
  • things laid to his charge.
  • Org.
    Go, my passion is so great that, if you were not
  • my mother, I do not know what I might say to you.
  • Dor.
    [To Orgon] A just reward of things here below,
  • Sir : you would not believe anyone, and now they will not
  • believe you.
  • Cle.
    We are wasting in mere trifling, the time that
  • should be employed in devising some measures. We must
  • not remain inactive when a knave threatens.
  • Dam.
    What ! would his effrontery go to that extent ?
  • Elm.
    As for me, I hardly think it possible, and his
  • ingratitude here shows itself too plainly.
  • Cle.
    [To Orgon] Do not trust to that ; he will find
  • some means to justify his doings against you ; and for less
  • than this, a powerful party has involved people in a vexa-
  • tious maze. I tell you once more, that, armed with what
  • he has, you should never have pushed him thus far.
  • Org.
    True enough ; but what could I do ? I was
  • unable to master my resentment at the presumption of the
  • wretch.
  • Cle.
    I wish, with all my heart, that we could patch up
  • even a shadow of peace, between you two.
  • Elm.
    Had I but known how he was armed against
  • us, I would have avoided bringing things to such a crisis ;
  • and my . . .
  • Org.
    [To Dorine, seeing M. Loyal come in] What
  • does this man want ? Go and see quickly. I am in a
  • fine state for people to come to see me !
  • Scene IV

    Orgon, Madame Pernelle, Elmire, Mariane,
    Cleante, Damis, Dorine, Mr Loyal.

  • M. Loy.
    [To Dorine at the farther part of the stage]
  • Good morning, dear sister ; pray, let me speak to your
  • master.
  • Dor.
    He is engaged ; and I doubt whether he can
  • see anyone at present.
  • M. Loy.
    I do not intend to be intrusive in his own
  • house. I believe that my visit will have nothing to displease
  • him. I have come upon a matter of which he will be very
  • glad.
  • Dor.
    Your name ?
  • M. Loy.
    Only tell him that I come from Monsieur
  • Tartuffe, for his good.
  • Dor.
    [To Orgon] This is a man who comes, in a
  • gentle way, from Monsieur Tartuffe, upon some business,
  • of which, he says, you will be very glad.
  • Cle.
    [To Orgon] You must see who this man is, and
  • what he wants.
  • Org.
    [To Cleante] Perhaps he comes to reconcile us :
  • How shall I receive him ?
  • Cle.
    You must not allow your anger to get the upper
  • hand, and if he speaks of an arrangement, you should listen
  • to him.
  • M. Loy.
    [To Orgon] Your servant, Sir ! May Heaven
  • punish those who would harm you, and may it favour you
  • as much as I wish !
  • Org.
    [Softly to Cleante] This mild beginning
  • confirms my opinion, and augurs already some reconciliation.
  • M. Loy.
    Your whole family has always been dear to me,
  • and I served your father.
  • Org.
    I am ashamed, Sir, and crave your pardon for
  • not knowing you or your name.
  • M. Loy.
    My name is Loyal, a native of Normandy, and
  • I am a tipstaff to the court in spite of envy. For the last
  • forty years, I have had the happiness, thanking Heaven, of
  • exercising the functions thereof with much honour ; and I
  • have come, with your leave, Sir, to serve you with a writ of
  • a certain decree . . .
  • Org.
    What ! you are here . . .
  • M. Loy.
    Let us proceed without anger, Sir. It is nothing
  • but a summons ; a notice to quit this house, you and yours,
  • to remove your chattels, and to make room for others, with
  • out delay or remissness, as required hereby.
  • Org.
    I ! leave this house !
  • M. Loy.
    Yes, Sir, if you please. The house at present,
  • as you well know, belongs incontestably to good Monsieur
  • Tartuffe. Of all your property, he is henceforth lord and
  • master, by virtue of a contract of which I am the
  • bearer. It is in due form, and nothing can be said
  • against it.
  • Dam.
    [To M. Loyal] Certainly this impudence is
  • immense, and I admire it !
  • M. Loy.
    [To Damis] Sir, my business lies not with you ;
  • [Pointing to Orgon] it is with this gentleman. He is both
  • reasonable and mild, and knows too well the duty of an
  • honest man to oppose the law in any way.
  • Org.
    But . . .
  • M. Loy.
    Yes, Sir, I know that you would not rebel for
  • a million of money, and that, like a gentleman, you will
  • allow me to execute here the orders which I have received.
  • Dam.
    Mr Tipstaff, you may chance to get your black
  • gown well dusted here.
  • M. Loy.
    [To Orgon] Order your son to hold his tongue
  • or to retire, Sir. I should be very loth to have recourse to
  • writing, and to see your name figure in my official report.
  • Dor.
    [Aside] This Mr Loyal has a very disloyal air.
  • M. Loy.
    Having a great deal of sympathy with all honest
  • people, I charged myself with these documents, Sir, as much
  • to oblige and please you, as to avoid the choice of those
  • who, not having the same consideration for you that
  • inspires me, might have proceeded in a less gentle way.
  • Org.
    And what can be worse than to order people
  • to quit their own house ?
  • M. Loy.
    You are allowed time, and I shall suspend until tom-
  • orrow the execution of the writ, Sir. I shall come only to
  • pass the night herewith ten of my people without noise or without
  • scandal. For form’s sake, you must, if you please, before
  • going to bed, bring me the keys of your door. I shall take
  • care not to disturb your rest, and to permit nothing which
  • is not right. But to-morrow, you must be ready in the morning,
  • to clear the house of even the smallest utensil ; my people
  • shall assist you, and I have selected strong ones, so that
  • they can help you to remove everything. One cannot act
  • better than I do, I think ; and as I am treating you with
  • great indulgence, I entreat you also, Sir, to profit by it, so
  • that I may not be annoyed in the execution of my duty.
  • Org.
    [Aside] I would willingly give just now the
  • best hundred gold pieces of what remains to me for the
  • pleasure of striking on this snout the soundest blow that
  • ever was dealt.
  • Cle.
    [Softly to Orgon] Leave well alone. Do not let us
  • make things worse.
  • Dor.
    I can hardly restrain myself at this strange
  • impertinence, and my fingers are itching.
  • Dor.
    Upon my word, Mr Loyal, with such a broad
  • back, a few cudgel blows would do you no harm.
  • M. Loy.
    We might easily punish these infamous words,
  • sweetheart ; and there is a law against women too.
  • Cle.
    [To Monsieur Loyal] Pray, let us put an end
  • to all this, Sir. Hand over this paper quickly, and leave us.
  • M. Loy.
    Till by-and-by. May Heaven bless you all !
  • Org.
    And may it confound you, and him who sends
  • you !
  • Scene V

    Orgon, Madame Pernelle, Elmire, Cleante, Mariane, Damis, Dorine.

  • Org.
    Well ! mother, do you see now whether I am
  • right ; and you may judge of the rest from the writ. Do you
  • at last perceive his treacheries ?
  • Mad. P.
    I stand aghast, and feel as if dropped from the
  • clouds.
  • Dor.
    [To Orgon] You are wrong to complain, you are
  • wrong to blame him, and his pious designs are confirmed by
  • this. His virtue is perfected in the love for his neighbour.
  • He knows that worldly goods often corrupt people, and he
  • wishes, from pure charity, to take everything away from you
  • which might become an obstacle to your salvation.
  • Org.
    Hold your tongue. I must always be saying
  • that to you.
  • Cle.
    [To Orgon] Let us consult what had best be
  • done.
  • Elm.
    Go and expose the audacity of the ungrateful
  • wretch. This proceeding destroys the validity of the contract ;
  • and his treachery will appear too black to allow him
  • to meet with the success which we surmise.
  • Scene VI

    Valere, Orgon, Madame Pernelle, Elmire,
    Cleante, Mariane, Damis, Dorine.

  • Val.
    It is with great regret, Sir, that I come to afflict you ;
  • but I see myself compelled to it by pressing danger. A most
  • intimate and faithful friend, who knows the interest which
  • I take in you, has, for ray sake, by a most hazardous step,
  • violated the secrecy due to the affairs of the State, and has just
  • sent me an intimation, in consequence of which you will be
  • obliged to flee immediately. The scoundrel who has long
  • imposed upon you, has an hour since accused you to the
  • King, and amongst other charges which he brings against
  • you, has lodged in his hands important documents of a state criminal,
  • of which, he says, contrary to the duty of a subject,
  • you have kept the guilty secret. I am ignorant of the details
  • of the crime laid to your charge ; but a warrant is out
  • against you ; and the better to execute it, he himself is to
  • accompany the person who is to arrest you.
  • Cle.
    These are his armed rights ; and by this the traitor
  • seeks to make himself master of your property.
  • Org.
    The man is, I own to you, a wicked brute !
  • Val.
    The least delay may be fatal to you. I have my
  • coach at the door to carry you off, with a thousand louis
  • which I bring you. Let us lose no time; the blow
  • is terrible, and is one of those which are best parried by flight.
  • I offer myself to conduct you to a place of safety, and will
  • accompany you to the end of your flight.
  • Org.
    Alas, what do I not owe to your obliging cares ! I
  • must await another opportunity to thank you ; and I implore
  • Heaven to be propitious enough to enable me one day to
  • acknowledge this generous service. Farewell : be careful,
  • the rest of you …
  • Cle.
    Go quickly. We will endeavour, brother, to do
  • what is necessary.
  • Scene VII

    Tartuffe, A Police Officer, Madame Pernelle,
    Orgon, Elmire, Cleante, Mariane, Valere, Damis, Dorine.

  • Tar.
    [Stopping Orgon] Gently, Sir, gently, do not run
  • so fast You will not have to go far to find a lodging ; we
  • take you a prisoner in the King’s name.
  • Org.
    Wretch ! you have reserved this blow for the last :
  • this is the stroke, villain, by which you despatch me ; and
  • which crowns all your perfidies.
  • Tar.
    Your abuse cannot incense me ; Heaven has taught
  • me to suffer everything.
  • Cle.
    Your moderation is great, I confess.
  • Dam.
    How impudently the villain sports with Heaven !
  • Tar.
    All your outrages cannot move me in the least ; and
  • I think of nothing but my duty.
  • Mar.
    You may glorify yourself very much upon this ;
  • and this task is very honourable for you to undertake.
  • Tar.
    A task cannot but be glorious when it proceeds from
  • the power that sends me hither.
  • Org.
    But do you remember, ungrateful wretch ; that my
  • charitable hand raised you from a miserable condition ?
  • Tar.
    Yes, I know what help I received from you ; but
  • the King’s interest is my first duty. The just obligation of
  • this sacred duty stifles all gratitude in my heart ; and to such
  • a powerful consideration, I would sacrifice friend, wife, kindred,
  • and myself with them.
  • Elm.
    The hypocrite !
  • Dor.
    How artfully he makes himself a lovely cloak of all
  • that is sacred.
  • Cle.
    But if this zeal, which guides you, and upon which
  • you plume yourself so much, be so perfect as you say, why
  • has it not shown itself until Orgon caught you trying to
  • seduce his wife ; and why did you not think of denouncing
  • him until his honour obliged him to drive you from his
  • house ? I do not say that the gift of all his property,
  • which he has made over to you, ought to have turned you
  • from your duty ; but why, wishing to treat him as a criminal
  • to-day, did you consent to take aught from him ?
  • Tar.
    [To the Officer] Pray, Sir, deliver me from this
  • clamour, and be good enough to execute your orders.
  • Offi.
    Yes, we have no doubt, delayed too long to discharge
  • them ; your words remind me of this just in time ; and
  • to execute them, follow me directly to the prison which is
  • destined for your abode.
  • Tar.
    Who ? I, Sir ?
  • Offi.
    Yes, you.
  • Tar.
    Why to prison ?
  • Offi.
    I have no account to give to you [To Orgon]
  • Compose yourself, Sir, after so great an alarm. We live under
  • a monarch, an enemy to fraud, a monarch whose eyes penetrate
  • into the heart, and whom all the art of impostors cannot
  • deceive. Blessed with great discernment, his lofty soul
  • looks clearly at things ; it is never betrayed by exaggeration,
  • and his sound reason falls into no excess. He bestows
  • lasting glory on men of worth ; but he shows this zeal with
  • out blindness, and his love for sincerity does not close his
  • heart to the horror which falsehood must inspire. Even
  • this person could not hoodwink him, and he has guarded
  • himself against more artful snares. He soon perceived, by
  • his subtle penetration, all the vileness concealed in his-
  • inmost heart. In coming to accuse you, he has betrayed
  • himself, and, by a just stroke of supreme justice,
  • discovered himself to the King as a notorious rogue, against
  • whom information had been laid under another name.
  • His life is a long series of wicked actions, of which whole
  • volumes might be written. Our monarch, in short, has
  • detested his vile ingratitude and disloyalty towards you; has
  • joined this affair to his other misdeeds, and has placed me
  • under his orders, only to see his impertinence carried out to
  • the end, and to make him by himself give you satisfaction
  • for everything. Yes, he wishes me to strip the wretch
  • of all your documents which he professes to possess, and
  • to give them into your hands. By his sovereign power he
  • annuls the obligations of the contract which gave him all
  • your property, and lastly, pardons you this secret offence,
  • in which the flight of a friend has involved you ; and it is
  • the reward of your former zeal in upholding his rights,
  • to show that he knows how to recompense a good action
  • when least thought of; that merit never loses aught with
  • him ; and that he remembers good much better than evil.
  • Dor.
    Heaven be praised !
  • Mad. P.
    I breathe again.
  • Elm.
    Favourable success !
  • Mar.
    Who dared foretell this ?
  • Org.
    [To Tartuffe, while the officer leads off] Well,
  • wretch, there you are . . .
  • Scene VIII

    Madame Pernelle, Orgon, Elmire, Mariane, Cleante, Valere, Damis, Dorine.

  • Cle.
    Ah ! brother, stop; and do not descend to indignities.
  • Leave the wretch to his fate, and do not add to the
  • remorse that overwhelms him. Rather wish that his heart,
  • from this day, may be converted to virtue ; that he may
  • reform his life, in detesting his vice, and soften the justice
  • of our great prince ; while you throw yourself at his knees
  • to render thanks for his goodness, which has treated you so
  • leniently.
  • Org.
    Yes, it is well said. Let us throw ourselves
  • joyfully at his feet, to laud the kindness which his heart
  • displays to us. Then, having acquitted ourselves of this
  • first duty, we must apply ourselves to the just cares of another,
  • and by a sweet union crown in Valere the flame of a
  • generous and sincere lover.
  • Source:

    Molière, 1622-1673. The Dramatic Works of Molière. Edinburgh: W. Paterson, 1875.HathiTrust. Web. 27 September 2018. <https://hdl.handle.net/2027/mdp.39076006863745>

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    The Anthology of World Literature 1650-present Copyright © 2021 by Kathleen Hohenleitner is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.

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