Tartuffe

gossips free to vent their gall. Dorine

Our neighbour Daphne, and her little husband,
Must be the ones who slander us, I’m thinking.
Those whose own conduct’s most ridiculous,
Are always quickest to speak ill of others;
They never fail to seize at once upon
The slightest hint of any love affair,
And spread the news of it with glee, and give it
The character they’d have the world believe in.
By others’ actions, painted in their colours,
They hope to justify their own; they think,
In the false hope of some resemblance, either
To make their own intrigues seem innocent,
Or else to make their neighbours share the blame
Which they are loaded with by everybody.

Madame Pernelle

These arguments are nothing to the purpose.
Orante, we all know, lives a perfect life;
Her thoughts are all of heaven; and I have heard
That she condemns the company you keep.

Dorine

O admirable pattern! Virtuous dame!
She lives the model of austerity;
But age has brought this piety upon her,
And she’s a prude, now she can’t help herself.
As long as she could capture men’s attentions
She made the most of her advantages;
But, now she sees her beauty vanishing,
She wants to leave the world, that’s leaving her,
And in the specious veil of haughty virtue
She’d hide the weakness of her worn-out charms.
That is the way with all your old coquettes;
They find it hard to see their lovers leave ’em;
And thus abandoned, their forlorn estate
Can find no occupation but a prude’s.
These pious dames, in their austerity,
Must carp at everything, and pardon nothing.
They loudly blame their neighbours’ way of living,
Not for religion’s sake, but out of envy,
Because they can’t endure to see another
Enjoy the pleasures age has weaned them from.

Madame Pernelle

To Elmire. There! That’s the kind of rigmarole to please you,
Daughter-in-law. One never has a chance
To get a word in edgewise, at your house,
Because this lady holds the floor all day;
But nonetheless, I mean to have my say, too.
I tell you that my son did nothing wiser
In all his life, than take this godly man
Into his household; heaven sent him here,
In your great need, to make you all repent;
For your salvation, you must hearken to him;
He censures nothing but deserves his censure.
These visits, these assemblies, and these balls,
Are all inventions of the evil spirit.
You never hear a word of godliness
At them⁠—but idle cackle, nonsense, flimflam.
Our neighbour often comes in for a share,
The talk flies fast, and scandal fills the air;
It makes a sober person’s head go round,
At these assemblies, just to hear the sound
Of so much gab, with not a word to say;
And as a learned man remarked one day
Most aptly, ’tis the Tower of Babylon,
Where all, beyond all limit, babble on.
And just to tell you how this point came in⁠ ⁠…

To Cléante. So! Now the gentlemen must snicker, must he?
Go find fools like yourself to make you laugh
And don’t⁠ ⁠…

To Elmire. Daughter, goodbye; not one word more.
As for this house, I leave the half unsaid;
But I shan’t soon set foot in it again,

Cuffing Flipotte.

Come, you! What makes you dream and stand agape,
Hussy! I’ll warm your ears in proper shape!
March, trollop, march!

Scene II

	Cléante, Dorine.
Cléante	I won’t escort her down, For fear she might fall foul of me again; The good old lady⁠ ⁠…
Dorine	Bless us! What a pity She shouldn’t hear the way you speak of her! She’d surely tell you you’re too “good” by half, And that she’s not so “old” as all that, neither!
Cléante	How she got angry with us all for nothing! And how she seems possessed with her Tartuffe!
Dorine	Her case is nothing, though, beside her son’s! To see him, you would say he’s ten times worse! His conduct in our late unpleasantness1 Had won him much esteem, and proved his courage In service of his king; but now he’s like A man besotted, since he’s been so taken With this Tartuffe. He calls him brother, loves him A hundred times as much as mother, son, Daughter, and wife. He tells him all his secrets And lets him guide his acts, and rule his conscience. He fondles and embraces him; a sweetheart Could not, I think, be loved more tenderly; At table he must have the seat of honour, While with delight our master sees him eat As much as six men could; we must give up The choicest tidbits to him; if he belches, ’tis a servant speaking.2 Master exclaims: “God bless you!”⁠—Oh, he dotes Upon him! he’s his universe, his hero; He’s lost in constant admiration, quotes him On all occasions, takes his trifling acts For wonders, and his words for oracles. The fellow knows his dupe, and makes the most on’t, He fools him with a hundred masks of virtue, Gets money from him all the time by canting, And takes upon himself to carp at us. Even his silly coxcomb of a lackey Makes it his business to instruct us too; He comes with rolling eyes to preach at us, And throws away our ribbons, rouge, and patches. The wretch, the other day, tore up a kerchief That he had found, pressed in the Golden Legend, Calling it a horrid crime for us to mingle The devil’s finery with holy things.

Scene III

	Elmire, Mariane, Damis, Cléante, Dorine.
Elmire	To Cléante. You’re very lucky to have missed the speech She gave us at the door. I see my husband Is home again. He hasn’t seen me yet, So I’ll go up and wait till he comes in.
Cléante	And I, to save time, will await him here; I’ll merely say good morning, and be gone.

Scene IV

	Cléante, Damis, Dorine.
Damis	I wish you’d say a word to him about My sister’s marriage; I suspect Tartuffe Opposes it, and puts my father up To all these wretched shifts. You know, besides, How nearly I’m concerned in it myself; If love unites my sister and Valère, I love his sister too; and if this marriage Were to⁠ ⁠…
Dorine	He’s coming.

Scene V

	Orgon, Cléante, Dorine.
Orgon	Ah! Good morning, brother.
Cléante	I was just going, but am glad to greet you. Things are not