Жан-Батист Мольер - Tartuffe; Or, The Hypocrite

MADAME PERNELLE and FLIPOTTE, her servant; ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE,

Come, come, Flipotte, and let me get away.

You hurry so, I hardly can attend you.

Then don't, my daughter-in law. Stay where you are.
I can dispense with your polite attentions.

We're only paying what is due you, mother.
Why must you go away in such a hurry?

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.

If …

You're a servant wench, my girl, and much
Too full of gab, and too impertinent
And free with your advice on all occasions.

But …

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.

I think …

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.

But, mother …

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.

But, madam, after all …

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.

Mr. Tartuffe, your friend, is mighty lucky …

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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!

Eh! Mercy sakes alive! Things would go better
If all were governed by his pious orders.

He passes for a saint in your opinion.
In fact, he's nothing but a hypocrite.

Just listen to her tongue!

I wouldn't trust him,
Nor yet his Lawrence, without bonds and surety.