Tartuffe

Name: Tartuffe
Author: Molière

Molière, translated by Curtis Hidden Page

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Introductory Note

Louis XIV entertained his court, in May of 1664, at his recently finished palace and pleasure-grounds of Versailles, with a week of uninterrupted festival. Molière, now the chief furnisher of the king’s pleasures, gave during the week four plays: The Bores; The Forced Marriage; The Princess of Elis, begun in verse, but hastily finished in prose to be ready for the king’s entertainment; and the first three acts of Tartuffe. These three acts taken alone must have seemed much less serious than the play as a whole seems to us now. They are in fact made up for the most part of excellent light comedy:—the harangues of Madame Pernelle, the retorts of Dorine, the quarrel and reconciliation of the lovers, the famous scene of “The poor man!”, and that of the confounding of Damis. Tartuffe himself does not enter until the second scene of the third act, and in that act he is odious and comical; not, as in the later acts, odious and almost terrifying. The character of Cléante was less seriously conceived than in later versions of the play, since part of his original role was later transferred to Dorine. And some of the more serious passages of these three acts as we have them now, especially in the speeches of Cléante, were probably not yet written.

Nevertheless the character of Tartuffe was clearly enough indicated, and the seriousness of Molière’s attack upon religious hypocrisy was evident enough, to arouse immediate opposition. Anne of Austria, the queen-mother, and all the religious or pseudo-religious “cabal” of the court, in which the Jesuits were powerful, united to persuade the young king that Molière’s play was dangerous to true religion; and its public representation was forbidden. A contemporary account of the week’s festivities says: “Although the play was thought most amusing, yet the king, realising what a resemblance there is between those who in true devoutness seek the way to Heaven, and those who with a vain show of good works nonetheless do evil, could not in his delicate carefulness for the things that concern religion suffer vice to be made so like virtue, that one might be taken for the other; and therefore, though there was no doubt of the good intent of the author, he forbade the giving of the play in public, and deprived himself of the pleasure of it, that offence might not come to others who were less capable of discerning good from evil.” The king was at heart on Molière’s side, whatever he might think public policy demanded. “Your majesty,” wrote Molière in his first formal petition for leave to give the play, “was so good as to declare that you could find no fault in this comedy, though you forbade me to produce it in public.”

The prohibition in fact covered only public performances—although a worthy curate, in a book directed against Molière, calling him “a demon clothed in flesh and dressed as a man … who deserved for his crime of sacrilege and impiety to be condemned to public execution, and that by fire, foretaste of the fires of hell, to expiate this terrible crime of lèse-majesté against God, a crime which tends to destroy our Catholic religion,” had declared that the king ordered Molière “to suppress and tear in pieces, destroy and burn all that he had yet written of it, and write no more such infamous matter, on pain of his life.” Molière made his play known by repeated readings (as Beaumarchais was to do with his Marriage of Figaro over a century later), and even won the approval of the papal legate Chigi, as he boasts in his first petition; and he gave several private performances under the patronage of those nearest the king. First the king’s brother, entertaining part of the court at Villers-Cotteret on September 25, 1664, had Molière produce again the first three acts of Tartuffe. Then Condé, the first prince of the blood, had the play produced three times, November 29, 1664, November 8, 1665, and September 20, 1668.

The edition of Molière’s works, published in 1682, and edited by La Grange and Vinot, speaks of the play as having been given, at these three performances for Condé, “perfect, complete, and finished.” It has therefore been taken for granted by all scholars and editors that the play was completed, practically in the form in which we have it, by November, 1664. There exists however a letter of Condé’s son, the Duc d’Enghien, written in October of 1665, and recently published, in which he urges his agent at Paris to beg Molière, in all secrecy, for a performance of Tartuffe (the one actually given November 8, 1665), and to ask him, “in case the fourth act of Tartuffe be written, whether he could not give that also.” The Duc d’Enghien had been present at the performance of November, 1664; if the whole play had been given then, why should he ask doubtfully, just before the performance of November, 1665, whether the fourth act were yet written, and could be given? The only solution yet suggested is that by “written” the Duc d’Enghien may have meant “rewritten”—which to say the least seems doubtful. I am inclined to think, in spite of the usual accuracy of La Grange, that the adjectives “perfect, complete, and finished” may rightly have applied to the play only at the two later, or possibly even the last, of these three performances for Condé; and that, contrary to the universally accepted opinion, the play was not finished until after 1664, and possibly even not until 1667, when the first public performance was given. There is further evidence pointing in this direction in a letter written by the French Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Monsieur de Lionne, to the librarian of the ex-Queen of Sweden, Christine, who eagerly wished to arrange a private performance of Tartuffe. On February 26, 1666, Monsieur de Lionne writes: “What you request, in behalf of the Queen of Sweden, regarding the comedy of Tartuffe which Molière had begun and has never finished, is entirely impossible, being a matter not in my control, or even in that of the king. …” Monsieur Mesnard, who gives this letter in the Grands Ecrivains edition of Molière, asks in a note on the line which I have italicised: “Was Monsieur de Lionne so ill informed? Or did he pretend to be?” It is hardly probable that he was ill informed, since the rest of the letter shows familiarity with the king’s personal attitude toward the play, and with Molière’s personal reasons for not wishing to let it go out of his hands. May we not infer that possibly Monsieur de Lionne was right, and that in February of 1666 Molière had not yet given final shape to the last acts of his play? It is certainly interesting and suggestive to consider the last two acts of Tartuffe as perhaps not having been written, in anything like their present form at least, until after The Misanthrope; and this would explain their marked contrast, in tone and in mood, with the first three acts, which belong (excepting possibly a few of the more serious passages) to a somewhat earlier and very different period of Molière’s life.

In any case he was constantly revising the play. In 1667 he gave it a new title, The Impostor the better to protect himself from the charge of criticising in it men of true religion; he changed the name of its principal character (for the word tartuffe had already come into general use as a common noun, suggesting at once hypocrisy and religious unction) to Panulphe, and made him a man of the world, dressed in the latest fashion, with large wig, little hat, short sword, and “lace all over his clothes,” to avoid the resemblance of the black-robed lay confessor Tartuffe with the priesthood; and, as he says, “toning down the play in many places, cut out everything which it seemed possible could furnish the shadow of a pretext to the famous originals of the portrait; but all to no purpose.” In this form the play was produced at Paris, August 5, 1667, while the king, who it seems had orally given permission for its production if properly revised, was absent with the army in Flanders; on the next day the President of the highest court in Paris issued an injunction forbidding further performances, and five days later the Archbishop of Paris promulgated an order forbidding all persons to take part in, read, or hear the play, in public or in private, under penalty of excommunication. Molière at once closed his theatre, and despatched two of his chief actors with his second petition to the king, who promised to take up the matter again on his return. It was not for a year and a half, however, that formal and authoritative permission was finally granted, and the play was given, beginning on February 5, 1669, to the largest audiences that had ever crowded Molière’s theatre. In the meanwhile Molière had still further revised his work (as we know from comparing our present text with a rather detailed contemporary account of the single performance of 1667), had restored the name Tartuffe, and had given to the role of Cléante its seriousness and importance as representing his own ideas and his answer to his enemies.

This answer he repeated, in his own person, in the preface to the first edition of the play:

“If you will take the trouble to examine my comedy in good faith, you will surely see that my intentions are throughout innocent, and that the play in no wise tends to turn to ridicule the things that we ought to reverence; that I have shown in it all that carefulness which the delicacy of the subject called for; and that I have used all the art and the pains that I could, to make clear the distinction between your hypocrite and your man of true devoutness. I have employed to that end two whole acts in preparing the entry of my scoundrel. He does not leave the auditor one moment in doubt; … he says nothing, he does nothing, but what paints him to the spectators as a rascal, and sets off the character of the truly virtuous man I put in opposition to him …

“If the office of comedy is to correct the vices of men, I know not why any should have a special privilege of exemption. This one [hypocrisy] has consequences far more dangerous to the State than all the others. … ’Tis a mighty stroke at any vice to make it the laughingstock of everybody; for men will easily suffer reproof; but they can by no means endure mockery. They will consent to be wicked, but not to be ridiculous.”

Dramatis Personae

Madame Pernelle, mother of Orgon
Orgon, husband of Elmire
Elmire, wife of Orgon
Damis, son of Orgon
Mariane, daughter of Orgon, in love with Valère
Valère, in love with Mariane
Cléante, brother-in-law of Orgon
Tartuffe, a hypocrite
Dorine, Mariane’s maid
Mr. Loyal, a bailiff
A Police Officer
Flipotte, 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 one Must have his say; it’s perfect pandemonium.
Dorine	If …
Madame Pernelle	You’re a servant wench, my girl, and much Too full of gab, and too impertinent And free with your advice on all occasions.
Damis	But …
Madame Pernelle	You’re a fool, my boy—f, o, o, l Just spells your name. Let grandma tell you that I’ve said a hundred times to my poor son, Your father, that you’d never come to good Or 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 melt In 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 conduct In 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 eyes Alone, 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 come Within our doors. You preach a way of living That 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 criticaster Come and usurp a tyrant’s power here? And shall we never dare amuse ourselves Till 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 father Nor 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 it An open rupture with this sneaking scoundrel.
Dorine	Besides, ’tis downright scandalous to see This 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 now To censure everything, and rule the roost!
Madame Pernelle	Eh! Mercy sakes alive! Things would go better If 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 character May be; but I can guarantee the master A holy man. You hate him and reject him Because 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 call That 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 tongues From wagging? It would be a grievous thing If, 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 defence So 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 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 far advanced yet, in the country?
Orgon	Dorine …
	To Cléante. Just wait a bit, please, brother-in-law. Let me allay my first anxiety By 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 headache Day 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 nausea And couldn’t touch a single thing for supper, Her headache still was so severe.
Orgon	And how About 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 wink Of sleep, the fever racked her so; and we Had to sit up with her till daylight.
Orgon	How About 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 then She was relieved at once.
Orgon	And how about Tartuffe?
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 mistress How 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 today have charms to make you Forget 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 man He 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 man Whoever does his will, knows perfect peace, And counts the whole world else, as so much dung. His converse has transformed me quite; he weans My heart from every friendship, teaches me To 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 I. He 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 me To 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 modesty He 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 sake He even takes great interest in my wife; He lets me know who ogles her, and seems Six 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 him Accuse himself for having, while at prayer, In too much anger caught and killed a flea.
Cléante	Zounds, brother, you are mad, I think! Or else You’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 tainted Therewith. I’ve preached to you a score of times That you’ll draw down some judgment on your head.
Cléante	That is the usual strain of all your kind; They must have everyone 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 know What 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 ones Who 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 between Hypocrisy and genuine devoutness? And will you treat them both alike, and pay The selfsame honour both to masks and faces Set 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, because They 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 more To be admired than men of true religion, Nothing more noble or more beautiful Than is the holy zeal of true devoutness; Just so I think there’s naught more odious Than whited sepulchres of outward unction, Those barefaced charlatans, those hireling zealots, Whose sacrilegious, treacherous pretence Deceives at will, and with impunity Makes 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 office With false eye-rollings and affected raptures; Those men, I say, who with uncommon zeal Seek 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 boldness To call their private grudge the cause of heaven; All the more dangerous, since in their anger They 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 eyes Look at Ariston, Periandre, 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 credit With them; they even incline to think the best Of 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 overzealous to attempt Far 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 know Valère 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 plan In mind?
Orgon	Perhaps.
Cléante	You mean to break your word?
Orgon	I don’t say that.
Cléante	I hope no obstacle Can 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 know Your plans. What are they?
Orgon	I shall do the will Of Heaven.
Cléante	Come, be serious. You’ve given Your promise to Valère. Now will you keep it?
Orgon	Goodbye.
Cléante	Alone. His love, methinks, has much to fear; I must go let him know what’s happening here.

fetching the rest…

Introductory Note

This answer he repeated, in his own person, in the preface to the first edition of the play:

Dramatis Personae

Madame Pernelle, mother of Orgon

Orgon, husband of Elmire

Elmire, wife of Orgon

Damis, son of Orgon

Mariane, daughter of Orgon, in love with Valère

Valère, in love with Mariane

Cléante, brother-in-law of Orgon

Tartuffe, a hypocrite

Dorine, Mariane’s maid

Mr. Loyal, a bailiff

A Police Officer

Flipotte, Madame Pernelle’s servant