TARTUFFE

by Ranjit Bolt

  ORGON: Maybe.

  CLEANTE: You’re going to break your word?

  ORGON: Who? Me?

  CLEANTE: But what on earth’s preventing you?

  There are no obstacles.

  ORGON: Says who?

  CLEANTE: For God’s sake, can’t you just be clear?

  Valère himself has sent me here

  To put his case.

  ORGON: Well, praise the Lord.

  CLEANTE: Look: are you going to keep your word?

  Just what am I to tell Valère?

  ORGON: Quite honestly, I don’t much care.

  CLEANTE: He has to know what you intend.

  ORGON: To do God’s will.

  CLEANTE: But in the end

  You’ll keep your promise? Yes or no?

  ORGON: Goodbye.

  Exit ORGON.

  CLEANTE: Is this a fatal blow

  To Valère’s hopes? A gruesome thought!

  I’d better give him my report.

  Exit CLEANTE.

  End of Act One.

  ACT TWO

  A room in Orgon’s house. ORGON, MARIANE.

  ORGON: Mariane!

  MARIANE: Papa?

  ORGON: I want a word –

  Here, where we can’t be overheard.

  He is checking a cupboard.

  MARIANE: What are you looking for?

  ORGON: For spies –

  The rooms round here have ears and eyes.

  That seems alright. Well now, my child,

  You are, by nature, sweet and mild,

  If you’re my favourite, then that’s why.

  MARIANE: I’ve shown I’m grateful, haven’t I?

  For all your love? I am, you know.

  ORGON: Well said indeed, my child! Bravo!

  But it’s a love that you must earn:

  By studying, at every turn,

  To make me happy.

  MARIANE: So I do.

  My pride, my joy, is pleasing you.

  ORGON: In such a child I’m truly blessed.

  Now tell me – how d’you like our guest?

  Tartuffe, I mean.

  MARIANE: I’m sorry, I...

  ORGON: Be sure to give the right reply.

  MARIANE: Errmmmmm... Tell me what to say, papa.

  ORGON: Well said, again! How wise you are!

  Then tell me he’s a paragon

  That no one’s virtues ever shone

  So brightly; that your heart is his,

  And that your dearest wish now is

  That I bestow on him your hand.

  MARIANE: Ummmmm...

  ORGON: Well?

  MARIANE: I don’t quite understand...

  ORGON: Pardon?

  MARIANE: Did I mishear you?

  ORGON: Eh?

  MARIANE: Who is it I’m supposed to say...

  Well, all of that?

  ORGON: Tartuffe.

  MARIANE: But why?

  To tell you that would be to lie.

  You’re asking me to lie to you?

  ORGON: No! I require it to be true.

  I want you married to Tartuffe.

  My wanting it should be enough.

  MARIANE: You want Tartuffe...?

  ORGON: My chief desire,

  The thing to which I most aspire,

  Is that this marvellous man should be

  A member of my family.

  Your heart is mine to give away

  Or to withhold. You have no say.

  You’ll like it and... Good God! Dorine!

  He has opened the door and DORINE has fallen into the room.

  (To DORINE.) Hanging about! What does this mean?

  What were you doing at this door?

  Eavesdropping? You’ve been warned before!

  DORINE: I don’t know what it’s all about –

  Just idle chatter, I’ve no doubt –

  Word of this marriage reached my ears

  But, Christ, of all the daft ideas!

  What rumour-mongers people are!

  ORGON: Oh? Is the notion so bizarre?

  DORINE: Is it bizarre? he says! And how!

  I heard you mention it just now

  And still I can’t believe it’s true.

  ORGON: Oh, really? Well, you soon will do.

  DORINE: No, it’s a joke, and you’re a tease.

  ORGON: You’ll soon see otherwise.

  DORINE: Oh, please!

  ORGON: (Getting angry.) It’s not a joke.

  DORINE: Oh, Mariane,

  He’s such a scallywag, this man –

  It’s all a big charade, is this –

  ORGON: Now, look...

  DORINE: Just playing games, he is.

  ORGON: I tell you straight –

  DORINE: You talk away –

  I won’t believe a word you say.

  ORGON: I’m getting angry...

  DORINE: Alright, then,

  Have it your way – we’ll start again:

  You’re reckoned wise, you are, revered,

  What with your long, sagacious beard,

  You’re telling me you really mean...?

  Oh, leave it out!

  ORGON: Look here, Dorine,

  This tone you take is far too free –

  You can’t think how it angers me!

  DORINE: Calm down, monsieur. Let’s talk it through.

  No need to let it rattle you.

  Now is this plan, this marriage plot

  Simply some joke of yours, or what?

  This girl is made of finer stuff

  Than to be fobbed off with Tartuffe.

  (The big fat bigot!) Let him keep

  To higher things (the pious creep).

  His bedroom should be used to pray

  And not in any other way!

  What would you want to choose him for?

  He’d make a rotten son-in-law –

  I mean, you’re rich, and he’s dirt poor.

  ORGON: His poverty is what I prize –

  It elevates him, in my eyes,

  It does him honour, of a sort

  No rich and powerful man at court

  Could merit. But he’s fallen prey

  To frauds, who’ve sucked his wealth away,

  And why? Because his pious gaze

  Is fixed on Heaven, and he pays

  Scant heed to things that have no worth –

  The aims and objects of this earth.

  He’s now in pretty desperate straits,

  But there are various estates

  To which he has a legal claim,

  In fact the deeds are in his name,

  I’m going to help him get them back.

  DORINE: Estates indeed! That doesn’t smack

  Much of unworldliness to me –

  Shouldn’t unworldly people be

  Above such things as titles, birth,

  ‘The aims and objects of this earth’

  To use your phrase – ambition, pride...

  Oo, heck! You do look mortified!

  Alright, then, let’s forget all that,

  Say it’s the man we’re looking at –

  Doesn’t it trouble you to think

  Of forging such a cock-eyed link?

  A man like him, a girl like her?

  I mean, who wouldn’t she prefer?

  You have to think what lies ahead:

  Look, when a lass is made to wed

  Against her wish, the risk is great

  That some day she will deviate

  From the straight path – d’you catch my drift?

  Her virtue, God’s most precious gift,

  Is put in danger. In the end

  Her moral conduct will depend

  Upon the type of man she weds –

  Some flowers belong in different beds –

  When you see cuckolds pointed out

  Just think what caused their horns to sprout,

  They’ve made their wives the way they are,

  Some husbands are a natural
bar

  To constancy. The lass will stray,

  As surely as night follows day.

  She’ll frazzle in the fires of Hell

  And you’ll be packed off there as well,

  For being such a bloody fool

  And breaking Cupid’s card’nal rule.

  ORGON: Are you presuming to advise?

  Is this your counsel, damn your eyes?

  DORINE: You could do worse than follow it.

  ORGON: She’s talking like a rank halfwit.

  Let’s just ignore her, Mariane.

  You will not find a better man –

  Your father knows what’s best for you –

  I gave Valère my word, it’s true,

  For one thing, though, he’s not averse

  To gambling – and there may be worse –

  The boy could be a libertine –

  I can’t think when he last was seen

  In church, but it was months ago.

  DORINE: And when’s the lad supposed to go?

  At your appointed times, is it?

  With every other hypocrite

  Who only goes so people see.

  ORGON: Look here: your views don’t interest me!

  (To MARIANE.) Think how they differ on that score:

  Nobody pleases Heaven more

  Than Tartuffe – and that’s wealth, alright –

  No earthly treasure shines so bright.

  As piety. It will be bliss

  Living with him – consider this:

  Each happy day, each joyous night

  Brimful of pleasure and delight,

  A pair of human turtle doves,

  Forging two perfect, mutual loves

  Into a single, happy whole!

  Nor will time take its usual toll

  Of acrimony and dispute

  Whatever life you want, he’ll suit.

  DORINE: He’ll suit a pair of horns, alright –

  She’ll cuckold him!

  ORGON: Will you be quiet!

  DORINE: It’s written on him, can’t you see?

  ‘Somebody’s going to cuckold me!’

  In great big letters. It’s his fate!

  He won’t escape it, sir – you wait,

  No matter if the girl is chaste,

  It’s just a fact that must be faced.

  ORGON: God, but you’re getting in my hair!

  Silence! This isn’t your affair!

  During the next interchange, DORINE keeps interrupting ORGON just as he is about to speak.

  DORINE: I’ve got your interests at heart.

  ORGON: I’ll see to them – you needn’t start.

  DORINE: I love you, or I wouldn’t speak.

  ORGON: Your love’s not needed, nor’s your cheek.

  DORINE: I’m to stop loving you, am I?

  I won’t!

  ORGON: My God!

  DORINE: I won’t stand by,

  While your good name goes up the spout,

  And you are mocked and pointed out

  By half of...

  ORGON: Have you finished now?

  DORINE: I simply can’t and won’t allow

  This cursèd marriage to occur!

  My conscience won’t permit it, sir.

  ORGON: What impudence! For Heaven’s sake

  Shut up, you hissing, spitting snake!

  DORINE: You’re fuming. Are you sure you ought?

  You’re meant to be a pious sort.

  ORGON: My bile is boiling up in me,

  Heated by your stupidity!

  Not one more word will I allow,

  You really must stop talking now!

  DORINE: Alright, I’ll keep my mouth tight shut.

  I’ll still be thinking thoughts, though, but...

  ORGON: By all means think them, that’s your choice,

  Just don’t give any of them voice

  Or I shall...

  He controls himself, and turns to MARIANE.

  My decision’s made,

  And it’s been very carefully weighed:

  I’ve sized things up, and in my view...

  DORINE: I’ve got to speak, I’m bursting to!

  She shuts up as soon as ORGON turns round and gives her a look.

  ORGON: (To MARIANE.)

  Tartuffe’s no young buck. Nonetheless

  He’s framed in such a way...

  DORINE: Oo, yes!

  A handsome mug and no mistake.

  ORGON: That even if his virtues make...

  No difference to you...

  He turns and faces DORINE, arms folded.

  DORINE: What a catch!

  If I was forced into a match

  I’d cast about, and find some way

  To make my wretched husband pay.

  Still warm, the wedding meats would be

  When I began to let him see

  How far a wife’s revenge can go –

  All women have their methods.

  ORGON: So:

  You’re just ignoring what I’ve said!

  DORINE: It’s alright, don’t go seeing red,

  Those words were not addressed to you.

  ORGON: Then just who were you talking to?

  DORINE: Myself.

  ORGON: My God, she’s pushing it!

  In fact, she’s asking to be hit.

  He gets ready to hit her. Whenever he looks at her she stands there, motionless and silent.

  (To MARIANE.) Alright, my child, you know my mind...

  You must obey me...and you’ll find...

  The man I’ve cho– you must agree...

  (Turns to DORINE.) Eh? What? No more soliloquy?

  No further comment? Not a peep?

  Ideas run out? Tongue gone to sleep?

  DORINE: I’ve nothing more to say to me.

  ORGON: Go on!

  DORINE: He’s not my cup of tea.

  ORGON: I knew you’d speak!

  DORINE: The girl’s a nit.

  ORGON: (To MARIANE.) You’ll simply have to live with it.

  This is the man you’re ear-marked for.

  You’re having him. My word is law.

  DORINE: (Running off.) I wouldn’t have him, not in jest!

  ORGON: (To MARIANE.) My dear, your maid’s become a pest,

  She is the enemy within.

  She’ll cause me to commit a sin.

  Such insolence! It heats my brain.

  Enough. We’ll speak of this again.

  But now I’ve got to get some air.

  I need to simmer down – out there.

  Exit ORGON. DORINE comes back.

  DORINE: I had to speak for you. How come?

  Had you been suddenly struck dumb?

  You let him set his mad plan out

  While you said what? Precisely nowt!

  MARIANE: Oppose my father? In that mood?

  Fat chance. You saw his attitude –

  He’s always so convinced he’s right.

  DORINE: You’re up against it! You must fight!

  MARIANE: How?

  DORINE: You can tell him, for a start,

  That he does not control your heart:

  Who’s to be married? Him or you?

  Who must the groom be pleasing to?

  He thinks Tartuffe’s the ‘best of men’?

  Let him get married to him, then!

  MARIANE: My father’s power over me

  Is such, I dare not disagree,

  Or even speak.

  DORINE: Let’s think this through:

  We know Valère’s in love with you –

  The only problem we’ve still got

  Is whether you love him or not.

  MARIANE: Dorine, that simply isn’t fair!

  You know that I adore Valère,

  I’ve told you countless times.

  DORINE: I know.

  You mightn’t quite have meant it, though.

  You love him, then? With all your heart?

  You’re not just acting out a part?
/>
  MARIANE: I’ve spoken from the heart throughout

  And I resent this sudden doubt.

  DORINE: You love the boy?

  MARIANE: With such a flame

  It sears me!

  DORINE: And he feels the same?

  MARIANE: Of course.

  DORINE: You’re set on getting wed?

  You wouldn’t want Tartuffe instead?

  MARIANE: I’ll never be that monster’s bride.

  No, it’s Valère, or suicide!

  DORINE: Suicide! Brilliant idea!

  Yes, once you’re dead you’re in the clear!

  That’s the best thought you’ve ever had!

  (Snapping out of sarcasm.)

  You talk such tosh! It makes me mad.

  MARIANE: I’m staring into the abyss

  And yet you harry me like this!

  DORINE: I have to, when you go all limp

  And blather like a witless wimp.

  MARIANE: I’m timid. It’s the way I’m made.

  DORINE: Love can’t afford to be afraid.

  MARIANE: By staying faithful to Valère.

  I’m trying to fight. And he’s nowhere!

  Why, surely, as the man, he’s meant

  To go and get papa’s consent.

  DORINE: Is he? A fat help that’d be:

  Your dad’s gone barmy, hasn’t he?

  A mad Tartuffomaniac

  Who gives his word, then takes it back,

  That’s him! And yet you blame Valère!

  MARIANE: Yes, but a woman can’t declare,

  Openly, that she loves a man,

  And to oppose papa’s new plan,

  Refuse Tartuffe, reject him flat,

  Is tantamount to doing that –

  How long before the whole world knew?

  Then there’s my filial duty, too –

  Valère would die for me, I know,

  But duty, modesty –

  DORINE: Quite so!

  Alright, let’s drop it, enough said,

  Tartuffe has clearly turned your head,

  I won’t be standing in your way,

  You snap him up without delay,

  I’ve looked at him through biased eyes –

  On second thoughts, he’s quite a prize –

  There’s not a better man in France,

  You nab him, while you’ve got the chance!

  Madame Tartuffe – an envied rôle,

  This is the man they all extol,

  He’s really an aristocrat.

  (In his home town they call him that.)

  He’s handsome, too – no, no, he is,

  What with those big red ears of his,

  That face, as ruddy as a rose,