February 17 The Harvard Classics, fifteen minutes a day
Death His Curtain Call
While acting in one of his own plays, Molière was suddenly stricken and died shortly after the final curtain. He took an important rôle in “Tartuffe” which introduces to literature a character as famous as Shakespeare’s Falstaff.
- Molière died Feb. 17, 1673.
From the 1930 Reading Guide
Tartuffe
Molière
TARTUFFE
A COMEDY
CHARACTERS … ACTORS
MADAME PERNELLE, mother of Orgon … LOUIS BEJARTORGON, husband of Elmire … MOLIÈREELMIRE, wife of Orgon … MLLE. MOLIÈREDAMIS, son of Orgon … HUBERTMARIANE, daughter of Orgon, in love with Valère … MLLE. DEBRIEVALÈRE, in love with Mariane … LA GRANGECLÉANTE, brother-in-law of Orgon … LA THORILLIERETARTUFFE, a hypocrite … DU CROISYDORINE, Mariane’s maid … MADELEINE BEJARTM. LOYAL, a bailiff … DEBRIEA Police OfficerFLIPOTTE, Madame Pernelle’s servant
The scene is at Paris
ACT I
SCENE I
MADAME PERNELLE and FLIPOTTE, her servant; ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLÉANTE, DAMIS, DORINE
Madame Pernelle
COME, come, Flipotte, and let me get away.
Elmire
You hurry so, I hardly can attend you.
Madame Pernelle
Then don’t, my daughter-in-law. Stay where you are.I can dispense with your polite attentions.
Elmire
We’re only paying what is due you, mother.Why must you go away in such a hurry?
Madame Pernelle
Because I can’t endure your carryings-on,And no one takes the slightest pains to please me.I leave your house, I tell you, quite disgusted;You do the opposite of my instructions;You’ve no respect for anything; each oneMust have his say; it’s perfect pandemonium.
Dorine
If...
Madame Pernelle
You’re a servant wench, my girl, and muchToo full of gab, and too impertinentAnd free with your advice on all occasions.
Damis
But...
Madame Pernelle
You’re a fool, my boy—f, o, o, lJust spells your name. Let grandma tell you thatI’ve said a hundred times to my poor son,Your father, that you’d never come to goodOr give him anything but plague and torment.
Mariane
I think...
Madame Pernelle
O dearie me, his little sister!You’re all demureness, butter wouldn’t meltIn your mouth, one would think to look at you.Still waters, though, they say... you know the proverb;And I don’t like your doings on the sly.
Elmire
But, mother...
Madame Pernelle
Daughter, by your leave, your conductIn everything is altogether wrong;You ought to set a good example for ’em;Their dear departed mother did much better.You are extravagant; and it offends me,To see you always decked out like a princess.A woman who would please her husband’s eyesAlone, wants no such wealth of fineries.
Cléante
But, madam, after all...
Madame Pernelle
Sir, as for you,The lady’s brother, I esteem you highly,Love and respect you. But, sir, all the same,If I were in my son’s, her husband’s, place,I’d urgently entreat you not to comeWithin our doors. You preach a way of livingThat decent people cannot tolerate.I’m rather frank with you; but that’s my way—I don’t mince matters, when I mean a thing.
Damis
Mr. Tartuffe, your friend, is mighty lucky...
Madame Pernelle
He is a holy man, and must be heeded;I can’t endure, with any show of patience,To hear a scatterbrains like you attack him.
Damis
What! Shall I let a bigot criticasterCome and usurp a tyrant’s power here?And shall we never dare amuse ourselvesTill this fine gentleman deigns to consent?
Dorine
If we must hark to him, and heed his maxims,There’s not a thing we do but what’s a crime;He censures everything, this zealous carper.
Madame Pernelle
And all he censures is well censured, too.He wants to guide you on the way to heaven;My son should train you all to love him well.
Damis
No, madam, look you, nothing—not my fatherNor anything—can make me tolerate him.I should belie my feelings not to say so.His actions rouse my wrath at every turn;And I foresee that there must come of itAn open rupture with this sneaking scoundrel.
Dorine
Besides, ’tis downright scandalous to seeThis unknown upstart master of the house—This vagabond, who hadn’t, when he came,Shoes to his feet, or clothing worth six farthings,And who so far forgets his place, as nowTo censure everything, and rule the roost!
Madame Pernelle
Eh! Mercy sakes alive! Things would go betterIf all were governed by his pious orders.
Dorine
He passes for a saint in your opinion.In fact, he’s nothing but a hypocrite.
Madame Pernelle
Just listen to her tongue!
Dorine
I wouldn’t trust him,Nor yet his Lawrence, without bonds and surety.
Madame Pernelle
I don’t know what the servant’s characterMay be; but I can guarantee the masterA holy man. You hate him and reject himBecause he tells home truths to all of you.’Tis sin alone that moves his heart to anger,And heaven’s interest is his only motive.
Dorine
Of course. But why, especially of late,Can he let nobody come near the house?Is heaven offended at a civil callThat he should make so great a fuss about it?I’ll tell you, if you like, just what I think;
(Pointing to Elmire)
Upon my word, he’s jealous of our mistress.
Madame Pernelle
You hold your tongue, and think what you are saying.He’s not alone in censuring these visits;The turmoil that attends your sort of people,Their carriages forever at the door,And all their noisy footmen, flocked together,Annoy the neighbourhood, and raise a scandal.I’d gladly think there’s nothing really wrong;But it makes talk; and that’s not as it should be.
Cléante
Eh! madam, can you hope to keep folk’s tonguesFrom wagging? It would be a grievous thingIf, for the fear of idle talk about us,We had to sacrifice our friends. No, no;Even if we could bring ourselves to do it,Think you that everyone would then be silenced?Against backbiting there is no defenceSo let us try to live in innocence,To silly tattle pay no heed at all,And leave the 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 uponThe slightest hint of any love affair,And spread the news of it with glee, and give itThe 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, eitherTo make their own intrigues seem innocent,Or else to make their neighbours share the blameWhich 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 heardThat 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 attentionsShe 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 virtueShe’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 estateCan 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 anotherEnjoy 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 chanceTo get a word in edgewise, at your house,Because this lady holds the floor all day;But none the less, I mean to have my say, too.I tell you that my son did nothing wiserIn all his life, than take this godly manInto 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 godlinessAt 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 soundOf so much gab, with not a word to say;And as a learned man remarked one dayMost 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 gentleman must snicker, must he?Go find fools like yourself to make you laughAnd don’t...
(To ELMIRE)
Daughter, good-bye; 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 pityShe 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 unpleasantness1Had won him much esteem, and proved his courageIn service of his king; but now he’s likeA man besotted, since he’s been so takenWith this Tartuffe. He calls him brother, loves himA hundred times as much as mother, son,Daughter, and wife. He tells him all his secretsAnd lets him guide his acts, and rule his conscience.He fondles and embraces him; a sweetheartCould not, I think, be loved more tenderly;At table he must have the seat of honour,While with delight our master sees him eatAs much as six men could; we must give upThe choicest tidbits to him; if he belches,
(’tis a servant speaking)2
Master exclaims: “God bless you!”—Oh, he dotesUpon him! he’s his universe, his hero;He’s lost in constant admiration, quotes himOn all occasions, takes his trifling actsFor 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 lackeyMakes 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 kerchiefThat he had found, pressed in the Golden Legend,Calling it a horrid crime for us to mingleThe devil’s finery with holy things.
SCENE III
ELMIRE, MARIANE, DAMIS, CLÉANTE, DORINE
Elmire, to CLÉANTE
You’re very lucky to have missed the speechShe gave us at the door. I see my husbandIs 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 aboutMy sister’s marriage; I suspect TartuffeOpposes it, and puts my father upTo 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 marriageWere 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 far advanced yet, in the country?
Orgon
Dorine...
(To CLÉANTE)
Just wait a bit, please, brother-in-law.Let me allay my first anxietyBy asking news about the family.
(To DORINE)
Has everything gone well these last two days?What’s happening? And how is everybody?
Dorine
Madam had fever, and a splitting headacheDay before yesterday, all day and evening.
Orgon
And how about Tartuffe?
Dorine
Tartuffe? He’s well;He’s mighty well; stout, fat, fair, rosy-lipped.
Orgon
Poor man!
Dorine
At evening she had nauseaAnd could’t touch a single thing for supper,Her headache still was so severe.
Orgon
And howAbout Tartuffe?
Dorine
He supped alone, before her,And unctuously ate up two partridges,As well as half a leg o’ mutton, deviled.
Orgon
Poor man!
Dorine
All night she couldn’t get a winkOf sleep, the fever racked her so; and weHad to sit up with her till daylight.
Orgon
HowAbout Tartuffe?
Dorine
Gently inclined to slumber,He left the table, went into his room,Got himself straight into a good warm bed,And slept quite undisturbed until next morning.
Orgon
Poor man!
Dorine
At last she let us all persuade her,And got up courage to be bled; and thenShe was relieved at once.
Orgon
And how aboutTartuffe?
Dorine
He plucked up courage properly,Bravely entrenched his soul against all evils,And, to replace the blood that she had lost,He drank at breakfast four huge draughts of wine.
Orgon
Poor man!
Dorine
So now they both are doing well;And I’ll go straightway and inform my mistressHow pleased you are at her recovery.
SCENE VI
ORGON, CLÉANTE
Cléante
Brother, she ridicules you to your face;And I, though I don’t want to make you angry,Must tell you candidly that she’s quite right.Was such infatuation ever heard of?And can a man to-day have charms to make youForget all else, relieve his poverty,Give him a home, and then...?
Orgon
Stop there, good brother,You do not know the man you’re speaking of.
Cléante
Since you will have it so, I do not know him;But after all, to tell what sort of manHe is...
Orgon
Dear brother, you’d be charmed to know him;Your raptures over him would have no end.He is a man... who... ah!... in fact... a manWhoever does his will, knows perfect peace,And counts the whole world else, as so much dung.His converse has transformed me quite; he weansMy heart from every friendship, teaches meTo have no love for anything on earth;And I could see my brother, children, mother,And wife, all die, and never care—a snap.
Cléante
Your feelings are humane, I must say, brother!
Orgon
Ah! If you’d seen him, as I saw him first,You would have loved him just as much as IHe came to church each day, with contrite mien,Kneeled, on both knees, right opposite my place,And drew the eyes of all the congregation,To watch the fervour of his prayers to heaven;With deep-drawn sighs and great ejaculations,He humbly kissed the earth at every moment;And when I left the church, he ran before meTo give me holy water at the door.I learned his poverty, and who he was,By questioning his servant, who is like him,And gave him gifts; but in his modestyHe always wanted to return a part.“It is too much,” he’d say, “too much by half;I am not worthy of your pity.” Then,When I refused to take it back, he’d go,Before my eyes, and give it to the poor.At length heaven bade me take him to my home,And since that day, all seems to prosper here.He censures everything, and for my sakeHe even takes great interest in my wife;He lets me know who ogles her, and seemsSix times as jealous as I am myself.You’d not believe how far his zeal can go:He calls himself a sinner just for trifles;The merest nothing is enough to shock him;So much so, that the other day I heard himAccuse himself for having, while at prayer,In too much anger caught and killed a flea.
Cléante
Zounds, brother, you are mad, I think! Or elseYou’re making sport of me, with such a speech.What are you driving at with all this nonsense...?
Orgon
Brother, your language smacks of atheism;And I suspect your soul’s a little taintedTherewith. I’ve preached to you a score of timesThat you’ll draw down some judgment on your head.
Cléante
That is the usual strain of all your kind;They must have every one as blind as they.They call you atheist if you have good eyes;And if you don’t adore their vain grimaces,You’ve neither faith nor care for sacred things.No, no; such talk can’t frighten me; I knowWhat I am saying; heaven sees my heart.We’re not the dupes of all your canting mummers;There are false heroes—and false devotees;And as true heroes never are the onesWho make much noise about their deeds of honour,Just so true devotees, whom we should follow,Are not the ones who make so much vain show.What! Will you find no difference betweenHypocrisy and genuine devoutness?And will you treat them both alike, and payThe self-same honour both to masks and facesSet artifice beside sincerity,Confuse the semblance with reality,Esteem a phantom like a living person,And counterfeit as good as honest coin?Men, for the most part, are strange creatures, truly!You never find them keep the golden mean;The limits of good sense, too narrow for them,Must always be passed by, in each direction;They often spoil the noblest things, becauseThey go too far, and push them to extremes.I merely say this by the way, good brother.
Orgon
You are the sole expounder of the doctrine;Wisdom shall die with you, no doubt, good brother,You are the only wise, the sole enlightened,The oracle, the Cato, of our age.All men, compared to you, are downright fools.
Cléante
I’m not the sole expounder of the doctrine,And wisdom shall not die with me, good brother.But this I know, though it be all my knowledge,That there’s a difference ’twixt false and true.And as I find no kind of hero moreTo be admired than men of true religion,Nothing more noble or more beautifulThan is the holy zeal of true devoutness;Just so I think there’s naught more odiousThan whited sepulchres of outward unction,Those barefaced charlatans, those hireling zealots,Whose sacrilegious, treacherous pretenceDeceives at will, and with impunityMakes mockery of all that men hold sacred;Men who, enslaved to selfish interests,Make trade and merchandise of godliness,And try to purchase influence and officeWith false eye-rollings and affected raptures;Those men, I say, who with uncommon zealSeek their own fortunes on the road to heaven;Who, skilled in prayer, have always much to ask,And live at court to preach retirement;Who reconcile religion with their vices,Are quick to anger, vengeful, faithless, tricky,And, to destroy a man, will have the boldnessTo call their private grudge the cause of heaven;All the more dangerous, since in their angerThey use against us weapons men revere,And since they make the world applaud their passion,And seek to stab us with a sacred sword.There are too many of this canting kind.Still, the sincere are easy to distinguish;And many splendid patterns may be found,In our own time, before our very eyesLook at Ariston, Périandre, Oronte,Alcidamas, Clitandre, and Polydore;No one denies their claim to true religion;Yet they’re no braggadocios of virtue,They do not make insufferable display,And their religion’s human, tractable;They are not always judging all our actions,They’d think such judgment savoured of presumption;And, leaving pride of words to other men,’Tis by their deeds alone they censure ours.Evil appearances find little creditWith them; they even incline to think the bestOf others. No caballers, no intriguers,They mind the business of their own right living.They don’t attack a sinner tooth and nail,For sin’s the only object of their hatred;Nor are they over-zealous to attemptFar more in heaven’s behalf than heaven would have ’em.That is my kind of man, that is true living,That is the pattern we should set ourselves.Your fellow was not fashioned on this model;You’re quite sincere in boasting of his zeal;But you’re deceived, I think, by false pretences.
Orgon
My dear good brother-in-law, have you quite done?
Cléante
Yes.
Orgon
I’m your humble servant.
(Starts to go.)
Cléante
Just a word.We’ll drop that other subject. But you knowValère has had the promise of your daughter.
Orgon
Yes.
Cléante
You had named the happy day.
Orgon
’Tis true.
Cléante
Then why put off the celebration of it?
Orgon
I can’t say.
Cléante
Can you have some other planIn mind?
Orgon
Perhaps.
Cléante
You mean to break your word?
Orgon
I don’t say that.
Cléante
I hope no obstacleCan keep you from performing what you’ve promised.
Orgon
Well, that depends.
Cléante
Why must you beat about?Valère has sent me here to settle matters.
Orgon
Heaven be praised!
Cléante
What answer shall I take him?
Orgon
Why, anything you please.
Cléante
But we must knowYour plans. What are they?
Orgon
I shall do the willOf Heaven.
Cléante
Come, be serious. You’ve givenYour promise to Valère. Now will you keep it?
Orgon
Good-bye.
Cléante (alone)
His love, methinks, has much to fear;I must go let him know what’s happening here.
Volume 26, pages 199–217 · See the scanned page on archive.org
This is the reading for February 17 in Fifteen Minutes a Day: The Reading Guide (1930 edition), page 33. There the assignment reads “Vol. 26, pp. 199–217.” Read it in the guide.