Now, Mariane.

Yes, father?

Come; I’ll tell you
A secret.

Yes⁠ ⁠… What are you looking for?

Looking into a small closet-room.

I’m grateful for your fatherly affection.

Well spoken, daughter. Now, prove you deserve it
By doing as I wish in all respects.

To do so is the height of my ambition.

Excellent well. What say you of⁠—Tartuffe?

Who? I?

Yes, you. Look to it how you answer.

Why! I’ll say of him⁠—anything you please.

Well spoken. A good girl. Say then, my daughter,
That all his person shines with noble merit,
That he has won your heart, and you would like
To have him, by my choice, become your husband.
Eh?

Eh?

What say you?

Please, what did you say?

What?

Surely I mistook you, sir?

How now?

Who is it, father, you would have me say
Has won my heart, and I would like to have
Become my husband, by your choice?

Tartuffe.

But, father, I protest it isn’t true!
Why should you make me tell this dreadful lie?

Because I mean to have it be the truth.
Let this suffice for you: I’ve settled it.

What, father, you would⁠ ⁠… ?

Yes, child, I’m resolved
To graft Tartuffe into my family.
So he must be your husband. That I’ve settled.
And since your duty⁠ ⁠…

Seeing Dorine.

What are you doing there?
Your curiosity is keen, my girl,
To make you come eavesdropping on us so.

Upon my word, I don’t know how the rumour
Got started⁠—if ’twas guesswork or mere chance
But I had heard already of this match,
And treated it as utter stuff and nonsense.

What! Is the thing incredible?

So much so
I don’t believe it even from yourself, sir.

I know a way to make you credit it.

No, no, you’re telling us a fairly tale!

I’m telling you just what will happen shortly.

Stuff!

Daughter, what I say is in good earnest.

There, there, don’t take your father seriously;
He’s fooling.

But I tell you⁠ ⁠…

No. No use.
They won’t believe you.

If I let my anger⁠ ⁠…

Well, then, we do believe you; and the worse
For you it is. What! Can a grown-up man
With that expanse of beard across his face
Be mad enough to want⁠ ⁠… ?

You hark me:
You’ve taken on yourself here in this house
A sort of free familiarity
That I don’t like, I tell you frankly, girl.

There, there, let’s not get angry, sir, I beg you.
But are you making game of everybody?
Your daughter’s not cut out for bigot’s meat;
And he has more important things to think of.
Besides, what can you gain by such a match?
How can a man of wealth, like you, go choose
A wretched vagabond for son-in-law?

You hold your tongue. And know, the less he has,
The better cause have we to honour him.
His poverty is honest poverty;
It should exalt him more than worldly grandeur,
For he has let himself be robbed of all,
Through careless disregard of temporal things
And fixed attachment to the things eternal.
My help may set him on his feet again,
Win back his property⁠—a fair estate
He has at home, so I’m informed⁠—and prove him
For what he is, a true-born gentleman.

Yes, so he says himself. Such vanity
But ill accords with pious living, sir.
The man who cares for holiness alone
Should not so loudly boast his name and birth;
The humble ways of genuine devoutness
Brook not so much display of earthly pride.
Why should he be so vain?⁠ ⁠… But I offend you:
Let’s leave his rank, then⁠—take the man himself:
Can you without compunction give a man
Like him possession of a girl like her?
Think what a scandal’s sure to come of it!
Virtue is at the mercy of the fates,
When a girl’s married to a man she hates;
The best intent to live an honest woman
Depends upon the husband’s being human,
And men whose brows are pointed at afar
May thank themselves their wives are what they are.
For to be true is more than woman can,
With husbands built upon a certain plan;
And he who weds his child against her will
Owes heaven account for it, if she do ill.
Think then what perils wait on your design.

To Mariane. So! I must learn what’s what from her, you see!

You might do worse than follow my advice.

Daughter, we can’t waste time upon this nonsense;
I know what’s good for you, and I’m your father.
True, I had promised you to young Valère;
But, first, they tell me he’s inclined to gamble,
And then, I fear his faith is not quite sound.
I haven’t noticed that he’s regular
At church.

You’d have him run there just when you do.
Like those who go on purpose to be seen?

I don’t ask your opinion on the matter.
In short, the other is in Heaven’s best graces,
And that is riches quite beyond compare.
This match will bring you every joy you long for;
’Twill be all steeped in sweetness and delight.
You’ll live together, in your faithful loves,
Like two sweet children, like two turtledoves;
You’ll never fail to quarrel, scold, or tease,
And you may do with him whate’er you please.

With him? Do naught but give him horns, I’ll warrant.

Out on thee, wench!

I tell you he’s cut out for’t;
However great your daughter’s virtue, sir,
His destiny is sure to prove the stronger.

Have done with interrupting. Hold your tongue.
Don’t poke your nose in other people’s business.

She keeps interrupting him, just as he turns and starts to speak to his daughter.

You’re too officious; pray you, hold your tongue.

’Tis love of you⁠ ⁠…

I want none of your love.

Then I will love you in your own despite.

You will, eh?

Yes, your honour’s dear to me;
I can’t endure to see you made the butt
Of all men’s ridicule.

Won’t you be still?

’Twould be a sin to let you make this match.

Won’t you be still, I say, you impudent viper!

What! you are pious, and you lose your temper?

I’m all wrought up, with your confounded nonsense;
Now, once for all, I tell you hold your tongue.

Then mum’s the word; I’ll take it out in thinking.

Think all you please; but not a syllable
To me about it, or⁠ ⁠… you understand!

As a wise father, I’ve considered all
With due deliberation.

I’ll go mad
If I can’t speak.

Though he’s no lady’s man,
Tartuffe is well enough⁠ ⁠…

A pretty phiz!

So that, although you may not care at all
For his best qualities⁠ ⁠…

A handsome dowry!

Were I in her place, any man should rue it
Who married me by force, that’s mighty certain;
I’d let him know, and that within a week,
A woman’s vengeance isn’t far to seek.

To Dorine. So⁠—nothing that I say has any weight?

Eh? What’s wrong now? I didn’t speak to you.

What were you doing?

Talking to myself.

Oh! Very well. Aside. Her monstrous impudence
Must be chastised with one good slap in the face.

Daughter, you must approve of my design.⁠ ⁠…
Think of this husband⁠ ⁠… I have chosen for you⁠ ⁠…

To Dorine. Why don’t you talk to yourself?

Nothing to say.

One little word more.

Oh, no, thanks. Not now.

Sure, I’d have caught you.

Faith, I’m no such fool.

So, daughter, now obedience is the word;
You must accept my choice with reverence.

Running away.

Swinging his hand at her and missing her.

Say, have you lost the tongue from out your head?
And must I speak your role from A to Zed?
You let them broach a project that’s absurd,
And don’t oppose it with a single word!

What can I do? My father is the master.

Do? Everything, to ward off such disaster.

But what?

Tell him one doesn’t love by proxy;
Tell him you’ll marry for yourself, not him;
Since you’re the one for whom the thing is done,
You are the one, not he, the man must please;
If his Tartuffe has charmed him so, why let him
Just marry him himself⁠—no one will hinder.

A father’s rights are such, it seems to me,
That I could never dare to say a word.

Came, talk it out. Valère has asked your hand:
Now do you love him, pray, or do you not?

Dorine! How can you wrong my love so much,
And ask me such a question? Have I not
A hundred times laid bare my heart to you?
Do you know how ardently I love him?

How do I know if heart and words agree,
And if in honest truth you really love him?

Dorine, you wrong me greatly if you doubt it;
I’ve shown my inmost feelings, all too plainly.

So then, you love him?

Yes, devotedly.

And he returns your love, apparently?

I think so.

And you both alike are eager
To be well married to each other?

Surely.

Then what’s your plan about this other match?

To kill myself, if it is forced upon me.

Good! That’s a remedy I hadn’t thought of.
Just die, and everything will be all right.
This medicine is marvellous, indeed!
It drives me mad to hear folk talk such nonsense.

Oh dear, Dorine you get in such a temper!
You have no sympathy for people’s troubles.

I have no sympathy when folk talk nonsense,
And flatten out as you do, at a pinch.

But what can you expect?⁠—if one is timid?⁠—

But what is love worth, if it has no courage?

Am I not constant in my love for him?
Is’t not his place to win me from my father?

But if your father is a crazy fool,
And quite bewitched with his Tartuffe? And breaks
His bounden word? Is that your lover’s fault?

But shall I publicly refuse and scorn
This match, and make it plain that I’m in love?
Shall I cast off for him, whate’er he be,
Womanly modesty and filial duty?
You ask me to display my love in public⁠ ⁠… ?

No, no, I ask you nothing. You shall be
Mister Tartuffe’s; why, now I think of it,
I should be wrong to turn you from this marriage.
What cause can I have to oppose your wishes?
So fine a match! An excellent good match!
Mister Tartuffe! Oh ho! No mean proposal!
Mister Tartuffe, sure, take it all in all,
Is not a man to sneeze at⁠—oh, by no means!
’Tis no small luck to be his happy spouse.
The whole world joins to sing his praise already;
He’s noble⁠—in his parish; handsome too;
Red ears and high complexion⁠—oh, my lud!
You’ll be too happy, sure, with him for husband.

Oh dear!⁠ ⁠…

What joy and pride will fill your heart
To be the bride of such a handsome fellow!

Oh, stop, I beg you; try to find some way
To help break off the match. I quite give in,
I’m ready to do anything you say.

No, no, a daughter must obey her father,
Though he should want to make her wed a monkey.
Besides, your fate is fine. What could be better!
You’ll take the stagecoach to his little village,
And find it full of uncles and of cousins,
Whose conversation will delight you. Then
You’ll be presented in their best society.
You’ll even go to call, by way of welcome,
On Mrs. Bailiff, Mrs. Tax-Collector,
Who’ll patronise you with a folding-stool.
There, once a year, at carnival, you’ll have
Perhaps⁠—a ball; with orchestra⁠—two bagpipes;
And sometimes a trained ape, and Punch and Judy;
Though if your husband⁠ ⁠…

Oh, you’ll kill me. Please
Contrive to help me out with your advice.

I thank you kindly.

Oh! Dorine, I beg you⁠ ⁠…

To serve you right, this marriage must go through.

Dear girl!

No.

If I say I love Valère⁠ ⁠…

No, no. Tartuffe’s your man, and you shall taste him.

You know I’ve always trusted you; now help me⁠ ⁠…

No, you shall be, my faith! Tartuffified.

Well, then, since you’ve no pity for my fate
Let me take counsel only of despair;
It will advise and help and give me courage;
There’s one sure cure, I know, for all my troubles.

She starts to go.

There, there! Come back. I can’t be angry long.
I must take pity on you, after all.

Oh, don’t you see, Dorine, if I must bear
This martyrdom, I certainly shall die.

Now don’t you fret. We’ll surely find some way.
To hinder this⁠ ⁠… But here’s Valère, your lover.

Madam, a piece of news⁠—quite new to me⁠—
Has just come out, and very fine it is.

What piece of news?

Your marriage with Tartuffe.

’Tis true my father has this plan in mind.

Your father, madam⁠ ⁠…

Yes, he’s changed his plans,
And did but now propose it to me.

What!
Seriously?

Yes, he was serious,
And openly insisted on the match.

And what’s your resolution in the matter,
Madam?

I don’t know.

That’s a pretty answer.
You don’t know?

No.

No?

What do you advise?

I? My advice is, marry him, by all means.

That’s your advice?

Yes.

Do you mean it?

Surely.
A splendid choice, and worthy of your acceptance.

Oh, very well, sir! I shall take your counsel.

You’ll find no trouble taking it, I warrant.

No more than you did giving it, be sure.

I gave it, truly, to oblige you, madam.

And I shall take it to oblige you, sir.

Withdrawing to the back of the stage.

So,
That is your love? And it was all deceit
When you⁠ ⁠…

I beg you, say no more of that.
You told me, squarely, sir, I should accept
The husband that is offered me; and I
Will tell you squarely that I mean to do so,
Since you have given me this good advice.

Don’t shield yourself with talk of my advice.
You had your mind made up, that’s evident;
And now you’re snatching at a trifling pretext
To justify the breaking of your word.

Exactly so.

Of course it is; your heart
Has never known true love for me.

Alas!
You’re free to think so, if you please.

Yes, yes,
I’m free to think so; and my outraged love
May yet forestall you in your perfidy,
And offer elsewhere both my heart and hand.

No doubt of it; the love your high deserts
May win⁠ ⁠…

Good Lord, have done with my deserts!
I know I have but few, and you have proved it.
But I may find more kindness in another;
I know of someone, who’ll not be ashamed
To take your leavings, and make up my loss.

The loss is not so great; you’ll easily
Console yourself completely for this change.

I’ll try my best, that you may well believe.
When we’re forgotten by a woman’s heart,
Our pride is challenged; we, too, must forget;
Or if we cannot, must at least pretend to.
No other way can man such baseness prove,
As be a lover scorned, and still in love.

In faith, a high and noble sentiment.

Yes; and it’s one that all men must approve.
What! Would you have me keep my love alive,
And see you fly into another’s arms
Before my very eyes; and never offer
To someone else the heart that you had scorned?

Oh, no, indeed! For my part, I could wish
That it were done already.

What! You wish it?

Yes.

This is insult heaped on injury;
I’ll go at once and do as you desire.

He takes a step or two as if to go away.

Oh, very well then.

Turning back.

Of course.

Turning back again.

Yes.

At the door.

So much the better.

Coming back again.

So be it, then.

He goes toward the door, but just as he reaches it, turns around.

What?

You didn’t call me?

I? You are dreaming.

Very well, I’m gone. Madam, farewell.

He walks slowly away.

Farewell, sir.

I must say
You’ve lost your senses and both gone clean daft!
I’ve let you fight it out to the end o’ the chapter
To see how far the thing could go. Oho, there,
Mister Valère!

She goes and seizes him by the arm, to stop him. He makes a great show of resistance.

What do you want, Dorine?

Come here.

No, no, I’m quite beside myself.
Don’t hinder me from doing as she wishes.

Stop!

No. You see, I’m fixed, resolved, determined.

So!

Aside. Since my presence pains him, makes him go,
I’d better go myself, and leave him free.

Leaving Valère, and running after Mariane.

Let me be.

Come back.

No, no, it isn’t any use.

Aside. ’Tis clear the sight of me is torture to her;
No doubt, t’were better I should free her from it.

Leaving Mariane and running after Valère.

She pulls first one, then the other, toward the middle of the stage.

To Dorine. What’s your idea?

To Dorine. What can you mean to do?

Set you to rights, and pull you out o’ the scrape.

To Valère. Are you quite mad, to quarrel with her now?

Didn’t you hear the things she said to me?

To Mariane. Are you quite mad, to get in such a passion?

Didn’t you see the way he treated me?

Fools, both of you.

To Valère. She thinks of nothing else
But to keep faith with you, I vouch for it.

To Mariane. And he loves none but you, and longs for nothing
But just to marry you, I stake my life on’t.

To Valère. Why did you give me such advice then, pray?

To Mariane. Why ask for my advice on such a matter?

You both are daft, I tell you. Here, your hands.

To Valère. Come, yours.

Giving Dorine his hand.

To Mariane. Now, yours.

Giving Dorine her hand.

Oh, quick now, come along. There, both of you⁠—
You love each other better than you think.

Valère and Mariane hold each other’s hands some time without looking at each other.

At last turning toward Mariane.

Mariane looks sideways toward Valère, with just a bit of a smile.

My faith and troth, what fools these lovers be!

To Mariane. But come now, have I not a just complaint?
And truly, are you not a wicked creature
To take delight in saying what would pain me?

And are you not yourself the most ungrateful⁠ ⁠… ?

Leave this discussion till another time;
Now, think how you’ll stave off this plaguey marriage.

Then tell us how to go about it.

Well,
We’ll try all sorts of ways.

To Mariane. Your father’s daft;

To Valère. This plan is nonsense.

To Mariane. You had better humour
His notions by a semblance of consent,
So that in case of danger, you can still
Find means to block the marriage by delay.
If you gain time, the rest is easy, trust me.
One day you’ll fool them with a sudden illness,
Causing delay; another day, ill omens:
You’ve met a funeral, or broke a mirror,
Or dreamed of muddy water. Best of all,
They cannot marry you to anyone
Without your saying yes. But now, methinks,
They mustn’t find you chattering together.

To Valère. You, go at once and set your friends at work
To make him keep his word to you; while we
Will bring the brother’s influence to bear,
And get the stepmother on our side, too.
Goodbye.

To Mariane. Whatever efforts we may make,
My greatest hope, be sure, must rest on you.

To Valère. I cannot answer for my father’s whims;
But no one save Valère shall ever have me.

You thrill me through with joy! Whatever comes⁠ ⁠…

Oho! These lovers! Never done with prattling!
Now go.

Starting to go, and coming back again.

What a gabble and pother!
Be off! By this door, you. And you, by t’other.

She pushes them off, by the shoulders, in opposite directions.