Tartuffe; Or, The Hypocrite

Of attending her lecture beside the door-- Here comes my spouse! Since he doesn't see me, I'm going upstairs to rest quietly. Cleante. Then I'll remain with no pleasure on my part To tell him hello and then quickly depart. Damis. Ask him about the marriage of Mariane. I think Tartuffe will oppose it if he can, For he sets up so many prerequisites, And you know what an interest I take in it. The heat that inflames my sister and Valere Has made his sweet sister so very dear To me that if . . . Dorine. Shh, he's here. SCENE IV Orgon, Cleante, Dorine Orgon. Hello, brother! Cleante. I'm glad you've returned before my departure. The countryside isn't quite blossoming yet. Orgon. Dorine . . . One second brother, please! Just let Me set my heart at ease and soothe my fear Concerning the things that have happened here. [To Dorine.] For these past two days, how have things gone on? What has happened? And how is everyone? Dorine. The first day your wife had a bad fever And a headache that just wouldn't leave her. Orgon. And Tartuffe? Dorine. Tartuffe? He's in splendid shape, Fat and flabby, with red lips, and a shining face. Orgon. Poor fellow! Dorine. That night, your wife felt so sick And so feverish that she could only pick At her dinner and scarcely ate a bite. Orgon. And Tartuffe? Dorine. He alone ate with all his might, And devoutly devoured a pair of pheasants And a leg of lamb in our lady's presence. Orgon. Poor fellow! Dorine. The whole night passed before she Could even close her eyes to fall asleep; Shivers and chills beset her in bed, And right up till dawn we watched her with dread. Orgon. And Tartuffe? Dorine. Drowsy from all that he'd consumed, He left the table, went straight to his room, And fell quickly into his nice, warm sack Where he slept all night flat on his back. Orgon. Poor fellow. Dorine. At last your wife began heeding Our good advice that she needed bleeding, And she began to recover soon thereafter. Orgon. And Tartuffe? Dorine. He couldn't have been any better. To fortify himself against every ill And to regain the blood that Madam spilled, He drank at brunch four great glasses of wine. Orgon. Poor fellow! Dorine. Both of them are now quite fine; I'll now be going up to tell your wife Of your deep concern at this threat to her life. SCENE V Orgon, Cleante Cleante. She's making fun of you to your face, brother; And, though I don't intend to be a bother, I must frankly admit that there's some justice In what she says. What a crazy caprice You have for him! And how could he exert Such charm that you'll even let your wife be hurt? After taking this pauper into your heart, You go so far . . . Orgon. Stop there! Or we must part! You don't know the man to whom you refer. Cleante. Okay. Say I don't know him if you prefer, But then to know what sort of man he might be . . . Orgon. Brother, you'd be charmed if you could only see Him, and your glee would be . . . gargantuan! He's a man who . . . who . . . a man . . . well, a man! Learn from him a peacefulness most exquisite, That lets you drop your woes like . . . dried horseshit! Yes, I've been reborn because of his preaching: He teaches me that I shouldn't love anything, From every earthly passion he has freed my life; I'd watch my brother, mother, children, and wife Drop dead without caring so much as that! [He snaps his fingers.] Cleante. You've sure got humane sentiments down pat! Orgon. Ah! If you'd seen him as I did at first, Your eyes would have feasted on him with a spiritual thirst! Each day he came to church smiling with sweet peace And threw himself down before me on both knees. He drew upon himself the eyes of everyone there By the holy fervor of his pious prayer. He sighed and wept with a most saintly passion And humbly kissed the earth in a fetching fashion; And when I was going, he rushed out front To bless me with water from the holy font. His servant (matching his master to a T) Then informed me of his identity-- And his poverty. So I made a donation, But then he tried to return a portion. "It's too much," he said. "You're too generous; I don't merit your pity and kindness." And when I refused to take it back, he gave It in alms to the poor right there in the nave. Then God bade me take him into my home And now life is sweet as a honeycomb. He governs us all, and to protect my honor Bids my wife grant his godly rule upon her. He forewarns me of men who might give her the eye, And he really seems far more jealous than I! Why, you wouldn't believe his fear of Hell! He thinks himself damned for the least bagatelle. Such trifles suffice to scandalize him That he even accused himself of sin For having slain with a bit too much wrath A flea that just happened to cross his path. Cleante. My goodness, brother! I think you're crazy! Are you mocking me with sheer lunacy? And how can you pretend that this pure rot . . . ? Orgon. Dear brother, your words reek of that free thought With which I find you more than a bit impeached, And, as ten times or more I have clearly preached, You will soon find yourself in a wicked bind. Cleante. Now this is the normal jargon of your kind. They want everyone to be as blind as they are. To be clear-sighted, is to be in error, And one who rejects their vain hypocrisy Has no respect for faith or sanctity. Go on, all your tart sermons scarcely smart; I know what I'm saying, and God sees my heart. I'm not a slave to your silly ceremony. There is false piety like false bravery; Just as one often sees, when honor calls us, That the bravest men never make the most fuss, So, too, the good Christians, whom one should follow, Are not those who find life so hard to swallow. What now? Will you not make any distinction Between hypocrisy and true devotion? Would you wish to use the same commonplace To describe both a mere mask and a true face? To equate artifice with sincerity Is to confound appearance and reality. To admire a shadow as much as you do Is to prefer counterfeit money to true. The majority of men are strangely made! And their true natures are rarely displayed. For them the bounds of reason are too small; In their shabby souls they love to lounge and sprawl. And very often they spoil a noble deed By their urge for excess and reckless speed. But all this, brother, is idle chatter. Orgon. Without doubt you are a renowned teacher; With all the world's knowledge in your coffer. You're the only oracle, the wisest sage, The enlightened one, the Cato of our age; And next to you, all other men are dumb. Cleante. Brother, I know I'm not the wisest one Nor the most learned man in Christendom But in moral matters my greatest coup Is to differentiate false from true. And since I know of no heroes about More to be praised than the truly devout And nothing at all with greater appeal Than the holy fervor of saintly zeal, So too nothing could be more odious Than the white-washed face of a zeal that's specious, Or these frank charlatans, seeking places, Whose false and sacrilegious double faces Exploit our love of God and make a game Of our reverence for Christ's holy name. These people who, with a shop-keeper's soul, Make cheap trinkets to trade on the Credo, And hope to purchase credit and favor Bought with sly winks and affected fervor; These people, I say, whose uncommon hurry On the path to Heaven leads through their treasury, Who, writhing and praying, demand a profit each day And call for a Retreat while pocketing their pay, Who know how to tally their zeal with their vices,-- Faithless, vindictive, full of artifices-- To ruin someone they'll conceal their resentment With a capacious cloak of Godly contentment. They are doubly dangerous in their vicious ire Because they destroy us with what we admire, And their piety, which gains them an accolade, Is a tool to slay us with a sacred blade. There are many men in this false disguise, But those with pure hearts are easy to recognize. Our age, my friend, has brought into plain sight Many glorious examples of what is right. Look at Ariston, or Periandre, Oronte, Alcidamus, or Clitandre; Their title is one that all agree to. They decline any fanfare for their virtue; They don't indulge in vain ostentation; Their humane faith finds form in moderation; They never censure all of our actions, For they sense the vain pride in such transactions. And, leaving boastful rhetoric to others, By their own actions they reprove their brothers. The appearance of evil is no concern of theirs; They cast the best light on others' affairs. They plot no intrigues; seek no one to fleece; Their only concern is to live at peace. They don't seek to cause any sinner chagrin; Their abhorrence is directed only at sin. And they don't take the side of God more extremely Than God himself--who could act supremely! These are my models, and these are their ways; Such examples are the ones that most merit praise. But your man, in truth, is not made from such steel. In good faith, perhaps, you praise his great zeal, But I think you're dazed by his meaningless Glitter. Orgon. Dear brother-in-law, are you finished? Cleante. Yes. Orgon. Your humble servant. [He begins to leave.] Cleante. Pardon me. One word, brother. Let's drop this discussion. You know that Valere Has your word that he'll be Mariane's spouse. Orgon. Yes. Cleante. And you've announced this fact in your house. Orgon. That is true. Cleante. Then why postpone the event? Orgon. I don't know. Cleante. Do you intend to recant? Orgon. Perhaps. Cleante. How could you go back on your word? Orgon. I didn't say I would. Cleante. I hope no absurd Hitch could make you retract your own promise. Orgon. We'll see. Cleante. Why do you speak with such finesse? Valere sent me to ask you this verbatim. Orgon. Praise God! Cleante. But what shall I report to him? Orgon. What you please. Cleante. But it is essential To know your plans. What are they?