 | Tartuffe |  |
5
ACT I.
SCENE.—A Room splendidly furnished. Madame Pernelle, Elmire, Mariane, Cléante, Damis, Dorine, and Flipete, discovered.Mad. P.
Come, Flipete, come, and let me free myself
From such society.
Elm.
You walk so fast,
One scarce can follow you.
Mad. P.
I pray you, don't—
Daughter-in-law, advance not one more step;
I ask not for these outward compliments.
Elm.
We only show a due respect, no more.
But, mother, why should you depart so soon?
Mad. P.
Because I hate the manner of this house—
Because none care to suit my principles.
I leave you—yes—and badly edified.
I give advice and find it is contemn'd;
Nought is respected—each one lifts his voice—
In short, a perfect Babel is this house.
Dor.
If—
Mad. P.
Stop, young woman: for a lady's maid,
You talk too much—are too impertinent;
You have opinions about everything.
Dam.
But—
Mad. P.
Grandson, you're a fool, a blockhead, sir;
I tell you so, and I'm your grandmother.
Long to your father have I prophesied
That you would prove a good-for-nothing wight—
An awful plague to his declining years.
Mar.
I think—
Mad. P.
You think!—yes, grand-daughter, of course
You mean no harm—you look so innocent;
But stillest waters are the deepest, child;—
With that prim air you lead a sorry life.
Elm.
But, mother—
Mad. P.
Be not anger'd when I say
Your conduct—in a word—is scandalous.
6
Their mother—rest her soul!—was more discreet,
You're too expensive—I detest this show;
In truth, you are trick'd out like some princess.
A virtuous woman, who would only please
Her husband, needs not all this finery.
Cle.
But madam, after—
Mad. P.
As her brother, sir,
I look on you with all respect and love;
But were I in my son's, her husband's, place,
I should request your absence from this house.
Unceasingly you utter principles
Such as all honest people should eschew.
I speak a little freely—'tis my way—
When my heart's full, I do not pick my words
Dam.
Monsieur Tartuffe is happy, beyond doubt.
Mad. P.
A worthy man, whom every one should hear;
And if a dolt like you says but one word
Against that man, let him beware my rage.
Dam.
Shall I allow this carping censor, here,
Within this house—to play the despot, madam,
So that we must not e'en amuse ourselves
Without obtaining the good man's consent?
Dor.
If we must take his maxims for our law,
We can do nothing that is not a crime;
This rigid critic would control us all.
Mad. P.
He who controls is well controll'd himself:
He would conduct you on the path to Heaven.
And, mark me, son, you all should try to love him.
Dam.
He's not my father—he's not any thing
That I should take such pains to wish him well;
My heart forbids me to speak otherwise.
His conduct, madam, so awakes my wrath,
That I foresee some noisy consequence.
I shall talk plainly with this gentleman.
Dor.
Assuredly it is most scandalous
To see a stranger play the master thus.
A beggar, who came here with shoeless feet,
Whose garments were not worth a single sou—
A man like this can so forget himself,
That he would rule the house in everything;
Mad. P.
Alas, alas! much better would it be
If all were govern'd by his pious words.
Dor.
Oh yes, I know you fancy him a saint;
But all he does is mere hypocrisy.
Mad. P.
There's tongue—
Dor.
Without the best security,
I would not trust him, or his serving man.
Mad. P.
Nought can I say about the serving man;
But for the master,—he's a worthy soul;
You only scoff at him, and wish him ill,
7
Sin only stirs his anger—nothing else!
All that impels him is the cause of heav'n.
Dor.
Granted—but why,—especially of late,
Can he not bear a single visitor?
Is Heav'n so anger'd by a harmless visit,
That he should raise a storm to split our ears?
Shall I explain my views upon this head?
I think he's jealous of my lady (points to Elmire)
here.
Mad. P.
Hush, hold your tongue; speak not such mischief, girl.
These visits are not blam'd by him alone.
The noise that follows these same visitors,
The coaches stationed ever at the gate,
The throng of footmen, always riotous,
Make quite a turmoil in the neighbourhood.
I hope, indeed, there is no weighty harm—
But folks will chatter, and that's not so well.
Cle.
Well, madam, can we stop the chattering?
Believe me, life would be a poor affair,
If, to escape each blockhead's cank'rous tongue,
We were obliged to give up our best friends:
And even if we did so, do you think
We should compel the world to hold it's peace?
There is no rampart against calumny;
So let us take no heed of foolish talk,
But try to be as virtuous as we can,
And let the scandal-mongers talk at will.
Dor.
Our neighbour Daphne and her little spouse,—
Those, I will wager, speak the worst of us.
For those whose acts are most ridiculous
Are ever first to censure all the rest.
They never fail to snatch, with eager grasp,
The least suspicion of a tender tie,
Then joyfully disseminate their news,
And give the fact what colouring they please.
From other's actions—as they paint them, mind—
They think to draw a license for their own,
Fasely believing that some slight resemblance
Will make their own intrigues seem innocent,
Or that their neighbour's shoulders may have part
Of the huge load of censure which they bear.
Mad. P.
These arguments are nothing to the point.
Orante, you know, leads quite a model life;
She cares for nought but heav'n, and I have heard
She much condemns the throng who visit here.
Dor.
Oh, admirable pattern! Worthy lady!
I grant the life she leads is most austere.
But age has raised this ardour in her soul,
Her tott'ring frame has taught her prudery.
8
She turned her beauty to the best account;
But when the lustre faded from her eyes,
She fled a wicked world—that quitted her;
And now beneath the pompous mask of wisdom
She hides the weakness of her faded charms.
This is the way with all our fine coquettes,
They cannot bear to see their lovers go;
By all deserted, their unquiet souls
Can find no other trade than that of prude.
Such is the rigour of these pious dames;
They censure all, show clemency to none.
Against their neighbours loudly they exclaim,
By envy, not by charity, impell'd;
Unwilling any those delights should share
The taste for which age quenches in themselves.
Mad. P.
This is the sort of talk that pleases you,
Daughter-in-law. Here one must hold one's peace.
This lady lets no tongue wag but her own;
Still I'll attempt to edge in a few words:
I say my son ne'er did a wiser thing
Than in receiving this most holy man.
He was a special gift of Providence,
Bestow'd to lead your wand'ring souls aright,
One whom you ought to hear for your own good—
One who blames nought but that which merits blame.
Those balls, those visits, and those conversations,
Are all devices of the Evil One.
There we ne'er hear an edifying word;
But idle tattle, songs, frivolities.
Our neighbours, too, are oft a fruitful theme,—
The art of scandal is well understood.
Rational people feel their brains annoy'd
By the confusion such assemblies make,
Setting in motion chatt'ring tongues by scores.
[Pointing to Cleante.
Oh! this fair gentleman begins to yawn!
Look out for fools who may amuse you, sir.
Daughter-in-law (to Elmire)
, no more have I to say,
Except that I lightly esteem this house,
And 'twill be long 'ere I intrude again.
Come, you minx, who stand idly gaping there, (to Flipete.)
Op'ning your great dull eyes; come, come, I say,
I'll make your ears ring.
[Boxes ears.
[Exeunt all but Cléante and Dorine, C.
Cle.
Here's a breeze for nought.
It seems her head is turned by this Tartuffe.
Dor.
Oh, this is nothing to the son, good sir!
9
In our late troubles he showed good discretion
And was most valiant in his prince's cause;
But now he is so taken with Tartuffe
It seems that all his faculties are dull.
He calls Tartuffe his brother, loves him more,—
Far more than mother, daughter, son, or wife.
To him alone his secrets he entrusts,
And makes him of his actions the sole guide.
To him he leaves the highest place at table,
And loves to see him eat as much as six;
All the prime cuts are given to Tartuffe.
In short, your brother's mad about him, sir,
Worships him always, talks of nothing else,
And thinks whate'er he does a miracle.
Tartuffe, who knows his dupe, to gain his ends,
Employs a thousand wiles to dazzle him—
Piously coaxing forth some good round sums,
And boldly passing censure on us all.
Enter Elmire, Mariane, and Damis, C.
Elm.
You were most fortunate that you escaped
The lesson which she gave us at the door.
I've seen my husband, but he saw not me,
And therefore I shall wait for him up stairs.
Cle.
I shall wait here, to save all loss of time,
And only mean to wish him a good day.
[Exeunt Elmire and Mariane, L
Dam.
Just touch upon the marriage of my sisters—
Tartuffe, methinks, is raising obstacles.
You know my interest in that affair—
I wish Valère successful in his love,
Because, you know, his sister has my heart;
And if—
Dor.
He's coming.
[Exit Damis, C.
Enter Orgon, C.
Org.
Brother, a good day.
Cle.
Gladly I welcome you on your return.
The country is not very forward yet?
Org.
Dorine—nay, brother, wait awhile, I pray;
You will allow me just to calm my mind,
And ask how things are going on at home.
Well— (to Dorine)
—well, has all been right these last few days?
What are you doing—are you all quite well?
Dor.
My lady yesterday was indisposed,
And had a headache—such a headache, sir!
Org.
And Tartuffe—?
Dor.
Tartuffe, nothing ails Tartuffe;
He's fat and sleek—in excellent good case.
10
Poor soul!
Dor.
Last night she lost her appetite,
And would not touch a morsel at her supper,
So much her aching head distracted her.
Org.
But Tartuffe—?
Dor.
Supp'd alone before her face.
He eat two partridges most piously,
And half a leg of mutton hash'd, besides.
Org.
Poor soul!
Dor.
My lady could not close her eyes
For one short moment all the tedious night;
We had to wait on her till break of day.
Org.
But Tartuffe—?
Dor.
Had a most refreshing sleep;
He left his supper for his chamber, sir,
And jump'd at once into his nice warm bed,
Where, at his ease, he slumber'd till the day.
Org.
Poor soul!
Dor.
At last, yielding to our entreaties,
My lady, sir, consented to be bled,
And her poor head was freed from pain at once.
Org.
But Tartuffe—?
Dor.
He got up as brave as ever.
To fortify his soul against all harm,
And to regain the blood my lady lost,
He drank for breakfast four good cups of wine.
Org.
Poor soul!
Dor.
At present they are both quite well,
And I will haste to tell my lady, sir,
The int'rest you have taken in her health.
[Exit L.
Cle.
Good brother, she is laughing in your face,
And—mind I mean to give you no offence—
I frankly say she has a right to laugh.
Did e'er one hear of such a senseless whim?
What, now-a-days, a man can bear a charm
To make you forget all, except himself?
What, after having help'd him in his troubles
You go so far that—
Org.
Stop, good brother, stop—
You do not know the man of whom you speak.
Cle.
I do not know him—you may have it so;
Indeed to learn what sort of man he is—
Org.
Nay, if you did, I'm sure you would be charm'd-
Oh there would be no end to your delight;
He is a man who—yes, he is a man
Who follows what he teaches; keeps his soul
Most tranquil; looks upon the world as dross.
Through his discourse I'm quite another being;
He teaches me to set my heart on nought;
From all affection he has freed my soul,
And I could see wife, mother, children die,
11
Cle.
Such sentiments, I own, are most humane.
Org.
If you had seen him as I met him first
Your feelings would have been the same as mine.
With a meek air he daily came to church,
And in my sight dropp'd humbly on his knees.
The fervent zeal with which he breath'd his pray'rs
Attracted the regards of ev'ry one;
His sighs were deep, most heavy were his groans,
And on the ground he ever press'd his lips.
Instructed by his man—his worthy copy
Of his high merits and his poverty,—
A trifle I bestowed on him; but he
Would ever modestly return a part.
“This is too much,” he'd say, “too much by half—
I do not merit your compassion, sir.”
And when I would not take it back again,
He gave it to the poor before my eyes.
At length, thank Heav'n! he came to live with me,
And from that happy hour I've prosper'd well.
He manages my house—deep interest takes
In all my wife does—for my honour's sake,
He tells me who regards her with soft looks,
Appearing far more jealous than myself.
You can't conceive the measure of his zeal.
The smallest bagatelle he deems a sin.
'Tis but the other day he blamed himself
Because at pray'rs he caught a flea, and kill'd it
With too much anger.
Cle.
Brother, you are crazed,
Or think to mock me with this strange discourse.
What can you mean? This tissue of mad stuff—
Org.
Brother, this language is a little free—
I fear you're not quite right within your soul;
And, as I've told you twenty times before,
You'll draw some sad misfortune on your head.
Cle.
This is the common talk of all your class,
Who wish the world no wiser than themselves.
'Tis impious, so they think, to have good eyes;
And he who will not worship vain pretence
Has no respect or faith in sacred things.
Talk as you will, you cannot frighten me;
Heav'n sees my heart, and as I speak, I act;
We are not all the slaves of hypocrites.
There are false saints, besides false heroes, man;
And as we find, when honour leads the way,
The truly valiant make not the most noise;
So the true devotees, whom we should follow,
Are not the folks who make the longest face.
What, brother, no distinction can you draw
Between devotion and hypocrisy—
12
Esteem the phantom as the real man,
And worthless counters as the current coin?
Men are, in general, most strangely made;
We rarely find them in the proper track—
The limits reason sets they find too strait,
And go to wild extremes in everything.
The noblest principles they often spoil,
Because they wish to carry them too far.
Org.
Oh! you are doubtless a most rev'rend doctor,
Comprising all the wisdom of the world;
You only are enlighted—the sole sage—
An oracle—the Cato of our time,
While all mankind but you, are empty fools.
Cle.
I am not, brother, a most rev'rend doctor,
Comprising all the wisdom of the world;
My sum of science, in one word, is this—
I can distinguish between true and false;
And as I think there is no kind of hero
Merits more praise than the true devotee,
That there is nothing nobler in the world
Than the pure fervour of a pious zeal;
So do I find nought more detestable
Than the false plaster of affected zeal.
Those folks, whose soul obeys their interest—
Who make devotion a mere merchandize,
Seeking their fortune on the road to heav'n;—
Who, 'mid their pray'rs, are begging ev'ry day,
And preach the charms of solitude, at Court—
Who to their vices aptly fit their zeal,
Are quick, revengeful, faithless, full of trick
And, to destroy their fellows, cloak their malice
By feigning ardor for the cause of heav'n;
All the more dang'rous in their savage wrath,
Because we must respect the arms they use,
Because they strike their blows with sacred steel;—
Too oft we see impostors of this kind,
But still the really good may be discern'd.
Our age, my brother, sets before our eyes
Many whom we might use as bright examples—
Many who of their virtues make no boast,
But who, although devout, are still humane;
They do not judge severely all we do,
But deem there's much presumption in such censure;
Leaving to others their censorious pride—
They only shame our actions by their own.
People like these should be our pattern, brother,
This friend of yours is of another mould.
Org.
Brother-in-law, you've finished your discourse?
Cle.
I have.
Org.
(bows.)
Your humble servant.
13
One word more—
We'll change the subject. As you know, Valère
Has got your word to be your son-in-law.
Org.
True.
Cle.
You had fix'd upon the happy day.
Org.
Most true again.
Cle.
Why, then, defer the wedding?
Org.
I cannot say.
Cle.
Have you some other thought?
Org.
Perhaps I have.
Cle.
What! would you break your word?
Org.
I said not that.
Cle.
No obstacle, I hope,
Will cause you to commit a breach of faith.
Org.
Why, that's according—
Cle.
To the point at once—
'Tis at Valère's request that I am here.
Org.
May Heav'n be prais'd!
Cle.
What answer shall I take?
Org.
E'en what you please.
Cle.
Let us speak plainly, brother;
The word you've given, will you keep or no?
Org.
Good-bye.
[Exit, L.
Cle.
I fear his love will meet some check—
I must inform the youth of all that's passed.
[Exit, C.
END OF ACT I.
| Tartuffe | |