TARTUFFE Read online

  The point that things have got to here?

  No one’s allowed to breathe a word

  But Madam here. May I be heard?

  May I, just this once, have my say?

  I think it was a joyous day

  When my poor son took in this sage,

  This saint, this beacon for our age,

  Whose coming Heaven has decreed

  To save you in your hour of need,

  Redeem your souls, and bring you back

  Onto the straight and narrow track.

  As for his strictures, I’ve no doubt

  Such blame as he has meted out

  Is earned. You ought, for your own good,

  To pay him heed. I wish you would.

  The social whirl, the idle chat,

  The dinners, dances, all of that,

  Are Satan’s works. I can’t recall

  Hearing one pious word let fall

  While in this house, just pure moonshine,

  Waffle and gossip. You malign

  Your neighbours, too – nobody’s spared,

  A war of words has been declared

  On half of Paris. No one sane

  Should come here, it infects the brain

  To hear the din you people make,

  The buzz of talk, for talk’s own sake.

  You know, in church the other day

  A priest I know was moved to say

  That parties, such as happen here,

  These routs, give one a good idea

  Of the old tower of Babylon,

  For at them, people babble on.

  Another parallel he drew –

  She turns on CLEANTE, who is sniggering behind his hand.

  I won’t be tittered at by you!

  Go find those silly friends you see

  And laugh with them, but not at me!

  (To ELMIRE.) Goodbye. I’m leaving. Don’t you worry,

  I shan’t be back here in a hurry –

  I’ve had my fill. Flipote, come on...

  FLIPOTE has dozed off on her feet. MME PERNELLE hits her.

  Well, move, you indolent moron!

  She flounces out with FLIPOTE, followed anxiously by ELMIRE, DAMIS and MARIANE. CLEANTE is about to go with them, then thinks better of it.

  CLEANTE: On second thoughts, I’m safer here.

  That mad old dragon’s bent my ear

  Enough for one day.

  DORINE: What’s that? ‘Old’?

  Oh, how she’d blast you, how she’d scold,

  If she could hear you call her that!

  There’d be the most almighty spat!

  CLEANTE: These angry scenes she likes to stage?

  How did we put her in this rage?

  And also, can you tell me why

  Tartuffe’s the apple of her eye?

  DORINE: Her eye! You ought to see her son,

  He’s really the besotted one.

  To think that he was taken for

  A wise man, in the civil war,

  A stalwart servant of the King –

  Does all that count for anything

  Now he’s gone barmy? Does it heck!

  Tartuffe has got him at his beck

  And bloody call! Devoured him whole

  He has; possessed him, heart and soul.

  Become the centre of his life,

  Daughter and mother, son and wife?

  Forgotten for his new amour.

  Companion, confidant, mentor,

  Tartuffe is all of those in one.

  To see the way Monsieur Orgon

  Coddles him, and embraces him,

  And waits upon his every whim –

  A libertine could not adore

  His very favourite mistress more.

  At meals, the place of honour’s his,

  No matter what the party is;

  The master sheds ecstatic tears

  Watching his darling, while he clears

  Dish after dish, plate after plate,

  More than Gargantua ever ate,

  And when he belches, with eyes raised,

  The master murmurs: ‘God be praised!’

  He thinks the smallest thing he does

  Is more or less miraculous,

  If he broke wind he’d bottle it;

  He quotes from him like holy writ,

  Regards him as a...what’s it called?

  CLEANTE: An oracle. Well, I’m appalled.

  DORINE: As for Tartuffe, he knows his man,

  He’ll bleed him bloodless if he can,

  He’s worked out how to keep him hooked,

  No opening is overlooked –

  He is performing, all the time,

  A sort of pious pantomime

  For which my master has to pay.

  He gives him money. Every day

  More of his gold is being poured

  Into the purse of this fat fraud.

  Sensing his power, Tartuffe grows bold,

  His chief delight’s to carp and scold

  At all of us. His young valet,

  Laurent, keeps entering the fray –

  He’ll fix us with his fiery eyes

  And rant and rave and sermonise,

  Or confiscate a beauty spot,

  Ribbon, or rouge, or God knows what.

  Just yesterday the little pest

  Had found a kerchief being pressed

  Between a book of martyrs’ prayers.

  ‘’Tis mortal sin!’ the boy declares,

  ‘To place the Devil’s fripperies

  ’Twixt sacred pages such as these!

  This kerchief touches ladies’...heads!’

  And then he tore the thing to shreds!

  Enter ELMIRE, DAMIS, MARIANE.

  ELMIRE: How wise to stay here! There was more –

  A second lecture at the door.

  Noises off: front door closing, ORGON’s voice in the hall.

  My husband! Can I face him? No.

  I’ll see him upstairs. Off I go.

  Exit ELMIRE.

  CLEANTE: I’ll wait for him, and say Hello.

  Though, there again, he’s such a bore,

  I can’t think what I’m staying for.

  DAMIS: My sister’s marriage – don’t forget –

  You haven’t spoken to him yet –

  Tartuffe’s against it – I suspect

  That’s why its progress has been checked:

  He’s planting doubts in father’s head.

  It’s vital to me, as I’ve said,

  That my old friend Valère should be

  Allied, by marrying her, to me,

  Since then his sister, whom I love...

  I’m hoping that by virtue of...

  DORINE: He’s coming!

  CLEANTE shoos DAMIS and MARIANE away. They go. ORGON enters, other side.

  ORGON: Brother-in-law, good day.

  CLEANTE: I was about to dash away.

  It’s good to have you back so soon.

  So – countryside not quite in bloom?

  ORGON: Dorine – (Breaks off.)

  (To CLEANTE.) Brother-in-law, no doubt

  You understand, and aren’t put out –

  I must take each thing in its turn –

  I’ve matters of more grave concern

  To deal with first – I need to know

  What’s happened in my absence.

  (Turns back to DORINE.) So:

  What is the news? How’s everyone?

  Is all well? What’s been going on?

  DORINE: The mistress gave us all a scare.

  A fever came from God knows where

  That had her rushing to her bed.

  ORGON: And Tartuffe?

  DORINE Oh, his lips are red,

  His mien is moist and fresh and sleek,

  In fact his health is at its peak.

  ORGON: Poor man!

  DORINE: She suffered, that first night:

  She seemed to lose her appetite.

  The reason must have be
en the pain –

  It was a really bad migraine.

  ORGON: And Tartuffe?

  DORINE: Oh, he ate and ate!

  Sat by her with a piled-up plate

  And very piously ploughed through

  Two grouse, and lots of mincemeat, too.

  ORGON: Poor man!

  DORINE: She had a sleepless night,

  The fever having reached its height –

  We kept a vigil by her side.

  ORGON: And Tartuffe?

  DORINE: Once he’d satisfied

  His appetite, he went to bed

  And slept as soundly as the dead.

  ORGON: Poor man!

  DORINE: We kicked up such a fuss

  She finally gave way to us

  And let herself be purged and bled

  Which knocked the fever on the head.

  ORGON: And Tartuffe?

  DORINE: He would not despair.

  What must be borne, he meant to bear.

  All blows he steadfastly withstood

  And, to replace Madame’s lost blood,

  During his lunch the following day,

  He put a quart of wine away.

  ORGON: Poor man!

  DORINE: They’re both as right as rain:

  He’s still well, and she’s well again.

  If you’ll excuse me, I must go:

  I’m sure Madame would love to know

  About your husbandly concern

  And how relieved you were to learn

  That hers were not a fatal case.

  Exit DORINE.

  CLEANTE: The girl was laughing in your face.

  With reason, too, I’m bound to say –

  Now, please don’t take this the wrong way –

  But I don’t think I’ve ever heard

  Of an obsession so absurd:

  How has it happened? How can he,

  Or any man, have this degree

  Of influence over you? Mere whim,

  That’s what it is. You rescued him,

  You took him in, when he was poor,

  All well and good, but why do more?

  Why should you –

  ORGON: May I stop you there?

  D’you know this man? Are you aware

  Of whom you’re speaking?

  CLEANTE: Maybe not,

  But certain types aren’t hard to spot:

  I’d say Tartuffe was someone who...

  ORGON: But if you knew him like I do

  You’d find him a complete delight –

  He is... Now let me get this right...

  He is a man... He is a man.

  Live by his doctrines – those who can

  Perceive this world but as a joke,

  Merely a whiff of conjuror’s smoke.

  You know, Tartuffe’s completely changed

  My view of life – he’s rearranged

  My attitudes, and helped me find

  A true tranquillity of mind.

  Just talking to him’s set me free:

  I needed things – now I can see

  It’s all illusion, even love –

  That’s one disease he’s cured me of:

  Yes, I could see my family die

  And not so much as blink an eye.

  CLEANTE: Well, how humane.

  ORGON: If you’d been there

  When I first met the man, I swear

  You’d have been captivated too.

  Each day, in church, he’d take the pew

  Right next to mine and, with an air

  Of perfect meekness, kneel in prayer.

  My God, what praying, though! What zeal!

  A fervour one could touch, and feel!

  The congregation gazed in awe

  As now he stooped to kiss the floor,

  Now heaved a heavy, pious sigh,

  Or uttered a repentant cry.

  Then, when I left, he’d go before,

  Dash off to meet me at the door

  And greet me with a splash or two

  Of holy water. As to who,

  And how impoverished he was,

  I pretty soon found out, because

  Laurent, his faithful acolyte,

  Quickly informed me of his plight.

  I gave him money after that,

  Gifts he was always gibbing at:

  ‘It’s too much! Take back half,’ he’d say,

  ‘Don’t throw your charity away

  On such an undeserving one!’

  I’d make him keep it, whereupon,

  Not even caring if I saw,

  He’d dole it out among the poor.

  And then he came to share my roof.

  God’s will it was, and here’s the proof:

  I’ve prospered, flourished, since that day –

  Everything seems to go my way,

  And this, I’m sure, is the effect

  Of being chivvied, chided, checked

  By him – he sort of...vets one’s life.

  As for his interest in my wife:

  You know, it almost equals mine!

  He guards my honour all the time:

  And thanks to him, if some young beau

  Is ogling her, I’m sure to know;

  He’s jealous – yes, it really is

  As if she weren’t my wife, but his!

  His zeal’s the main thing – it’s immense –

  You know, he somehow seems to sense...

  Can almost smell the stench of sin

  In something we’d see nothing in!

  And who is he the last to spare?

  Himself. Last Tuesday, while at prayer,

  He’d raised his hand to squash a flea,

  And afterwards he came to me

  Full of remorse, and pious pain,

  Over this midge that he had slain!

  CLEANTE: What utter rubbish! You’re insane!

  You’ve buckled, from religious stress.

  Or are you joking? Please say yes.

  ORGON: Brother-in-law that smacks of sin –

  I think you bear some spots within,

  If I were you I’d change my tune –

  Your soul will be in danger soon –

  I’ve warned you many times.

  CLEANTE: Your kind

  All talk like that – because you’re blind

  You’d rather others didn’t see,

  You deem perceptiveness to be

  A kind of sin! Let us adore

  The idols that you kneel before

  Or else be damned! Well, listen here:

  Your sermons don’t fill me with fear:

  I know my subject, for a start,

  And Heaven sees into my heart.

  I don’t believe your pious pose.

  If there’s false courage, then, God knows,

  There is false piety as well:

  The brave man you can always tell

  By how he doesn’t rant and roar

  And bluster, in the heat of war –

  How may pious men be known?

  They don’t pull faces, sigh and groan.

  D’you really have so dull a wit

  That you can’t tell a hypocrite

  From an unfeigned, religious man?

  It doesn’t look as though you can –

  You treat them as a single case,

  Confound the visor with the face.

  We humans are a curious lot –

  The fact is, few of us have got

  A sense of Nature’s golden mean,

  We can’t keep straight, we have to lean

  To one, extreme and dangerous side:

  The bounds of reason aren’t that wide,

  Staying within them is a feat

  Beyond our scope – you seldom meet

  A man who’ll tread its narrow way

  If there’s a chance for him to stray.

  (That last bit wasn’t à propos –

  I felt I had to say it though.)

  ORGON: Oh, you’re infallible, you are!

&nb
sp; Nobody sees so deep or far –

  You are a Cato for our age

  An oracle, a mighty sage.

  Anyone else is just a prat

  Compared to you.

  CLEANTE: I don’t think that.

  But I know one thing more than you:

  I can distinguish false from true:

  Like the next man, I recognise

  Religion as a thing to prize.

  What jewel more precious can there be

  Than perfect, unfeigned piety,

  A fervour that is felt, and real?

  But this...this squashed flea kind of zeal,

  Worn, as a lady wears her paint,

  The posturing of the plaster saint,

  This, above all things, I deplore –

  Nothing on earth disgusts me more

  Than the religious charlatan,

  The ladder-climbing holy man,

  Whose sanctimonious grimace

  Is donned, to get some post or place.

  He’s full of pride, ambition, spite,

  Yet no one dresses wrong as right,

  Or worldliness as sanctity

  With greater stealth and skill than he.

  He is more greatly to be feared

  Because his weapons are revered,

  His fervour’s popular, and so

  You will hear people cry, ‘Bravo!’

  As victims perish in the fire

  Of his ‘just’ wrath, his ‘righteous’ ire.

  But if you seek another kind,

  The truly saintly, you will find

  They, too, are easy to discern:

  They do not seethe, and boil, and burn

  With faith that’s too good to be true,

  They hate that sort of ballyhoo.

  Nor will you see them rush about

  Ferreting so-called sinners out

  And damning them – they call that proud,

  By them, some licence is allowed,

  Humanity shines out of them,

  There’s only one way they’ll condemn

  Such actions as they can’t condone –

  That’s by the goodness of their own.

  Is your man like them? I fear not.

  I’d lump him with the other lot.

  ORGON: Thanks, brother-in-law. Now, is that it?

  CLEANTE: I just mean he’s a hypocrite.

  ORGON: Good day, then.

  CLEANTE: Wait! Let’s leave it there

  And talk of other things – Valère,

  You chose him as your son-in-law,

  You’ve given him your word, what’s more.

  ORGON: I have.

  CLEANTE: You’ve named a day.

  ORGON: Quite so.

  CLEANTE: Why put it off?

  ORGON: Damned if I know.

  CLEANTE: Well...have you changed your mind?