Tartuffe; Or, The Hypocrite. Жан-Батист Мольер

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        I won't escort her down,

        For fear she might fall foul of me again;

        The good old lady …

        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!

        How she got angry with us all for nothing!

        And how she seems possessed with her Tartuffe!

        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 unpleasantness 1

        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.

        ELMIRE (to Cleante)

        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.

        And I, to save time, will await him here;

        I'll merely say good-morning, and be gone.

        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 Valere,

        I love his sister too; and if this marriage

        Were to …

        He's coming.

        Ah! Good morning, brother.

        I was just going, but am glad to greet you.

        Things are not far advanced yet, in the country?

        Dorine …

        (To Cleante)

        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?

        Madam had fever, and a splitting headache

        Day before yesterday, all day and evening.

        And how about Tartuffe?

        Tartuffe? He's well;

        He's mighty well; stout, fat, fair, rosy-lipped.

        Poor man!

        At evening she had nausea

        And couldn't touch a single thing for supper,

        Her headache still was so severe.

        And СКАЧАТЬ