University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Same Scene.
Enter Orgon and Mariane, L.
Org.
Mariane!

Mar.
Father.

Org.
Hither, child; I wish
To speak with you alone.

(Looks in closet, R.)
Mar.
What is't you seek?

Org.
I take precautions lest we be o'erheard;
This for an ambush is the very spot.
Good! All seems right; so now, my Mariane—
I've always seen in you a placid mind,
And you have ever been most dear to me.

Mar.
I owe my thanks for this paternal love.

Org.
Well said, my child—and to deserve this love
Your only care should be to please your father.

Mar.
That is the only object of my life.

Org.
Well said again. What think you of Tartuffe,
Our guest?

Mar.
I!

Org.
You—mind well your answering, child.

Mar.
So be it—all that you require I'll say.

Enter Dorine, softly.
Org.
A good beginning. You will say, my child,
That in his person lofty merit shines—
That he has touched your heart—that you would like,
With my consent, to have him for a husband.
Well?

Mar.
Well?

Org.
What?

Mar.
Pray?

Org.
Proceed.

Mar.
There's some mistake.

Org.
Mistake!

Mar.
Of whom, pray, would you have me say
That he has touched my heart; that I should like,
With your consent, to have him for a husband.

Org.
Tartuffe.

Mar.
Why, nothing of the sort I feel;
You would not have me so belie myself.

Org.
I wish that this should be the honest truth;
And that I wish it, is enough for you.

Mar.
You don't mean, father—

Org.
Daughter, yes—I mean
That worthy Tartuffe shall belong to us
By marrying you—this—this I have resolv'd
And as I— (sees Dorine)
—You! What are you doing there?
Your curiosity is somewhat strong,
That in this fashion you are eaves-dropping

Dor.
Indeed I know not if the rumour came
From mere conjecture, or some passing chance.
Of this same marriage I have been informed,
And thought the news an idle tale—no more.

Org.
Is it incredible?

Dor.
To that degree,
That when you tell it, sir, I can't believe you.

Org.
I know the means then to ensure your faith.

Dor.
Yes, yes, I hear—a very pleasant tale.

Org.
I but predict what you will shortly see.

Dor.
A jest!

Org.
No, what I'm saying is no jest.

Dor.
(to Mariane.)
Nay, take no heed of what your father says, He's joking—

Org.
I!

Dor.
Protest howe'er you please,
None will believe you, sir.

Org.
My rage at last—

Dor.
Well, you shall be believed—the worse for you.
What, is it possible, with that wise air,
And that large beard upon your countenance,
That you are mad enough to wish—

Org.
Stop—stop—
You take a certain license in this house
Which does not please me. This I tell you, child.

Dor.
Nay, I entreat, let's keep our temper, sir;
A bigot is no husband for your child;
Some other object should employ his thoughts.
Then—from this union what would you derive?
Why do you set about, with all your wealth,
To choose a beggar for a son-in-law?

Org.
Silence! if he has nothing, you should know
That from that very cause he claims respect;
There is an honor in his poverty
Which raises him above all worldly greatness,
Seeing that he has merely lost his wealth
By taking little care of temp'ral things.
My aid, too, will supply him with the means
Of getting rid of his embarrassments
And gaining his estates—they're fiefs of worth,
And you may plainly see he's gently born.

Dor.
Yes, yes, he says so, and this vanity
Accords but little with his saintly air.
He who adopts a pure and holy life
Should not so greatly boast of name and birth.
Why so much pride? But this offends you, sir,
We'll talk not of his birth, but of himself.
Can you, without some slight uneasiness,
Give up your daughter to a man like him?
Should you not think, sir, of propriety,
And see, this marriage may have bad results?
The virtue of a girl is perill'd, sir,
When she is forced to wed against her will.
The resolution of a virtuous life
Upon the husband's qualities depends,
And those the world esteems—unfortunate,
Have often caused the error of their wives.
Fidelity is not a little hard
With certain husbands of a certain stamp.
Whoever gives his child to one she hates
Owes an account to Heav'n for all her faults.

Org.
Daughter, pay no attention to this talk;
I am your father—know what you require;
Your hand, indeed, I promised to Valère,
But he, I hear, is somewhat giv'n to play,
And his opinions are a little free;
I do not find he often goes to church.

Dor.
What! would you have him ever running there,
Like those who go on purpose to be seen?

Org.
I ask not your advice upon that point.
Tartuffe, I know, has virtue beyond price;
This marriage gives you all you can desire—
'Twill be compos'd of nought but peace and joy;
Link'd by your pure affections, you will live
Like happy children—like two turtle doves,
No sad dispute will ever mar your bliss,
But you will make your husband what you please.

Dor.
She'll make of him a fool, I promise you.

Org.
Fie! Here's discourse!

Dor.
I know it by his look.

Org.
Truce to these interruptions—hold your tongue,
And meddle not with what concerns you not.

Dor.
'Tis only for your good, sir, that I speak.

Org.
You're far too kind—so, once more, hold your tongue.

Dor.
If no one lov'd you—

Org.
I want no one's love.

Dor.
Spite of yourself, I still will love you.

Org.
Ha!

Dor.
Your honor's dear to me—I cannot bear
To see you make yourself a public jest.

Org.
You won't be silent?

Dor.
'Twere a heinous sin
To let you form connections such as this.

Org.
Impudent viper, will you hold your tongue?

Dor.
Good as we are, we lose our tempers, sir.

Org.
My bile is stirr'd by this impertinence;
And you shall hold your tongue, I am resolv'd.

Dor.
So be it, but I shall not think the less.

Org.
Think what you please, but take the greatest care
Just to say nothing. (to Mariane.)
Like a prudent man,
I have maturely weigh'd all things.

Dor.
I burst
With rage to think I cannot speak.

Org.
Tartuffe
Is no Adonis—still—

Dor.
A pretty phiz!

Org.
And even if you felt no sympathy
For all his other gifts—

Dor.
A precious lot!
[Orgon turns round to Dorine, and with folded arms looks round into her face.
If I were in her place, no man on earth
Should force me with impunity to wed.

Org.
(to Dorine.)
You set no value, then, on my commands?

Dor.
Why blame me, sir? I do not speak to you

Org.
To whom, pray, are you talking?

Dor.
To myself.

Org.
Good. (aside.)
To chastise her, for her impudence,
I've got a good strong hand in readiness.
[Gets ready to box Dorine's ears, and cautiously turns round to her, while she keeps silent.
Daughter, my plan should meet with your approval—
You ought to think the husband I have chosen—
(to Dorine.)
Why don't you speak?

Dor.
I've nothing more to say.

Org.
A little word?

Dor.
Thank you, I'd rather not.

Org.
I watch'd you sharply.

Dor.
I may be a fool.

Org.
In short, my daughter, you must be obedient,
And to my choice pay perfect deference.

Dor.
But not the fool to take a spouse like that.

[steps aside, to escape a box on the ear which is aimed at her by Orgon.
Org.
That girl, my daughter, is a perfect pest—
I even hold it sin to live with her.
I cannot now pursue her any more,
Her insolence has set me quite on fire.
I'll take a little air to cool myself.

[Exit, C.
Dor.
Tell me, pray, have you lost the pow'r of speech?
Am I to play your part in this affair?
What! listen to a senseless plan like this,
And not so much as speak a single word!

Mar.
What should I do against a father's will?

Dor.
All that you can to parry such a blow.

Mar.
How?

Dor.
Tell him hearts don't love by deputy—
That for yourself you marry, not for him—
That since the whole affair, in fact, is yours,
'Tis you, not him, the husband ought to please.

Mar.
A parent has so much authority,
I ne'er have had the courage to object.

Dor.
Let's reason. Young Valère is somebody—
Now, do you love the youth, or do you not?

Mar.
Oh! this is sad injustice to my love!
How could you ask that question—how, Dorine?
To you so often I unlock my heart,
And still my feelings are unknown to you!

Dor.
You love him, then?

Mar.
Yes, with my very soul.

Dor.
And he appears to feel as much for you?

Mar.
I think so.

Dor.
And you equally desire
To marry one another?

Mar.
Certainly.

Dor.
What is your plan with this new marriage scheme?

Mar.
To kill myself, if they would force my will.

Dor.
Wisely resolved—I never thought of that.
Death, to be sure, will help you from the scrape.
A marv'lous remedy! I feel enrag'd
While giving ear to such absurdity.

Mar.
Why—what a temper you begin to show;
You have no pity for a suff'ring heart.

Dor.
I do not pity people who talk—stuff,
And show so little nerve when danger calls.

Mar.
What would you? If I feel timidity—

Dor.
There should be firmness in a heart that loves.

Mar.
And have not I shown firmness for Valère?
'Tis now his duty to persuade my father.

Dor.
What! If your father is a crabbed soul,
So much wrapp'd up in this same dear Tartuffe,
That he can break his word about your marriage,
Your hapless lover is to bear the blame?

Mar.
Still by a bold refusal should I show
That I have so much compromis'd my heart?
What e'er Valère's deserts may be, should I
Forget all duty, and all modesty?
You would not have me, before all the worl

Dor.
I would have nothing—you, I plainly see,
Would have Tartuffe, and I am very wrong
In trying to break off so good a match,—
Aye, I confess, a very proper match.
Monsieur Tartuffe, when we consider right,
Is not a man for everybody's market—
A blessing it must be to be his wife;
A noble man—a very well made man—
A good complexion, and a comely mien.
Oh, such a spouse is too much happiness!

Mar.
For mercy's sake, no more of this discourse,
But help me to avert this hated marriage;
I yield myself entirely to your will.

Dor.
No, no; a daughter must obey her sire,
E'en if he choose a monkey for her spouse.

Mar.
You're killing me; advise me, I entreat.

Dor.
Your humble servant.

Mar.
Nay, for pity's sake—

Dor.
This marriage should take place to punish you.

Mar.
My good Dorine—

Dor.
No—

Mar.
If my fondest wish—

Dor.
Monsieur Tartuffe's the man, and you shall have him.

Mar.
You know you always were my confidant.

Dor.
You to your heart's content shall be “Tartuff'd.”

Mar.
Well, since you take no pity on my lot,
Abandon me henceforth to my despair,
From that alone my heart shall borrow aid.
I know a remedy for all my ills.

[Going, L.
Dor.
No! Stop! Come back! I give up all my rage.
In spite of all, I must be merciful.

Mar.
Mark, rather than endure such martyrdom,
I tell you plainly, I will die, Dorine.

Dor.
Now, don't torment yourself—a little tact
Will be sufficient. Hold! here comes Valère.

Enter Valere, C.
Val.
Madam, I have been told a piece of news,
Which, I suppose, I must consider good.

Mar.
What is it, pray?

Val.
That you will wed Tartuffe

Mar.
My father certainly has such a plan.

Val.
Your father?

Mar.
Has a little changed his views;
Only just now he has proposed the match.

Val.
What, seriously?

Mar.
Yes, no doubt of that—
Upon this marriage he has set his heart.

Val.
And, whither do your inclinations tend,
Madam?

Mar.
I do not know.

Val.
A frank reply—
You do not know?

Mar.
No; what do you advise?

Val.
I—I! To take the husband, by all means.

Mar.
You counsel this?

Val.
Yes.

Mar.
Honestly?

Val.
Of course;
All must respect so excellent a choice.

Mar.
Good sir, I'll follow this most sage advice.

Val.
And, as I think, without the slightest pain.

Mar.
No more, sir, than you felt in giving it.

Val.
I only gave it, madam, to please you.

Mar.
And to please you, sir, I shall follow it.

Val.
So, this is love—and all was mere deceit
When you—

Mar.
Nay, I entreat, no more of that.
You plainly tell me that I ought to take
The husband whom my father offers me;
And I declare, that thus I mean to act,
Since with such wisdom you have counsell'd me.

Val.
Let not my counsels furnish your excuse,
Your resolution was already form'd,
And you would seize a frivolous pretext
To justify a flagrant breach of faith.

Mar.
Most truly spoken.

Val.
Doubtless—and your heart
Has never beat for me with real love.

Mar.
You are quite free to harbour these fine thoughts.

Val.
Quite free, no doubt; but it is possible
That I may lead the way, not follow, madam—
I know where I can take my hand and heart.

Mar.
I do not doubt you, merit such as yours
Must surely—

Val.
Psha! no more of that, I pray.
My merit's small enough, as you have proved:
It is on kindness, madam, I depend.
I know a heart that, when I am repuls'd,
Will be most ready to repair my loss.

Mar.
A loss, no doubt, most easy to be borne:
You will be able to console yourself.

Val.
I'll do my best, and you will bear in mind
A heart that slights us summons forth our pride,
And to forget it, we must take all pains:
And if we fail, why, then—then we must break it;
For nothing can be baser than a man,
Who loves the woman that abandons him.

Mar.
A sentiment most noble and sublime.

Val.
Most true, and one that all men should adopt.
What, I, forsooth, must keep my flame alive,
While you are to another's arms consign'd,
Nor give elsewhere a heart that you despise!

Mar.
Nay, on the contrary, I think with you,
And only wish the thing were done already.

Val.
You wish so?

Mar.
Yes.

Val.
This insult is too much.
I can oblige you madam; yes, at once.

[Going, C.
Mar.
Good, very good.

Val.
Remember, 'tis yourself
By whom my heart is forced to such extremes.

Mar.
I do.

Val.
And mind, I only form this plan
To follow your example.

Mar.
Be it so.

Val.
Enough, you shall most strictly be obeyed.

Mar.
Excellent!

Val.
You will never see me more.

[Going.
Mar.
That's better still.

Val.
(turning back.)
Eh!

Mar.
What!

Val.
You call'd me back.

Mar.
I! you are dreaming.

Val.
So. Then I'll depart.
Madam, farewell.

Mar.
Farewell, sir.

Dor.
For my part,
I think you soon will drive each other mad.
Come, I have let you quarrel all this time
To see how far absurdity would go.
Monsieur Valère.

[Takes his arm.
Val.
(pretending to struggle.)
What would you have, Dorine?

Dor.
Come here.

Val.
Not I, 'tis not my humour—no.
Prevent me not from following her will.

Dor.
Stop.

Val.
No. You may perceive my mind's made up.

Dor.
Ah!

Mar.
Yes, my presence drives him from the spot—
'Twere best for me to leave him to himself.

Dor.
(leaves Valère and runs to Mariane.)
'Tis your turn now!

Mar.
Leave me!

Dor.
I say, come back.

Mar.
Not I, Dorine, your efforts are in vain.

Val.
I see my very aspect tortures her;
'Twere best I should relieve her of my presence.

Dor.
(leaves Mariane and runs to Valère.)
Again! Deuce take ye both. I'll have my way.
Leave off your nonsense and come here, here—both.

[Takes both by the hand and leads them towards each other.
Val.
What would you have?

Mar.
What are you doing, pray?

Dor.
I'm making peace, and ending this affair.
(to Valère.)
Pray are you mad, good sir, to squabble so?

Val.
You heard her kindly counsels, I suppose.

Dor.
(to Mariane.)
Are you mad too, to lose your temper thus?

Mar.
Did you not see how he behaved to me.

Dor.
Folly on both sides. (to Valère.)
Mark, her only wish
Is to be yours—that I myself can vouch.
(to Mariane.)
He loves you only, and his sole desire
Is to become your husband, that I'll swear.

Mar.
(to Valère.)
How came you then to give me such advice?

Val.
How could you ask for it on such a point?

Dor.
You're both stark mad; come, give me both your hands.
You first. (to Valère.)


Val.
(gives it.)
What would you have with it?

Dor.
(to Mariane.)
Now yours.

Mar.
Whither can all this tend? (gives hand to Dorine.)


Dor.
Come forward—quick.
You love each other more than you suppose.

[Mariane and Valère remain for some time holding each other by the hand, without looking at each other.]
Val.
(turning to Mariane.)
Still, do not act as though you were compell'd,
But look as though you did not hate me quite.

[Mariane turns towards him smiling.
Dor.
Lovers are crazy, that's the honest truth.

Val.
(to Mariane.)
I had, you'll own, good reason to complain;
And, to speak plainly, was it not too bad
To wound my feelings with such cruel words?

Mar.
But are you not the most ungrateful man?

Dor.
Leave this discussion for another time,
And think how you'll prevent this wretched match.

Mar.
Yes—tell us all the means we must employ.

Dor.
Listen. First, put your father off his guard
By feigning a consent to this fine scheme;
Then 'twill be easy in extremities
By some pretext to put this marriage off;
In gaining time you're gaining everything.
A sudden illness well will serve your turn—
An ugly dream—a broken looking-glass,—
At all events 'twill be the wisest plan
Not to be seen talking together thus.
(to Valère.)
So go, and do your best among your friends
To make them take your part about the promise;
We'll rouse the brother to exert himself,
And gain the step-mother for an ally.
Good bye!

Val.
Whatever efforts we may make,
Be sure my only hope depends on you.

Mar.
I cannot answer for my father's will,
Yet none shall e'er possess me but Valère.

Val.
You crown me with delight. Whate'er I do—

Dor.
These lovers never can leave off their prate.
Begone, I say.

Val.
In fact—

Dor.
Oh, what a tongue.
Come—you go this way, you go that. There—there.

[Pushes off each by the shoulders in a different direction.