Tartuffe E-Book

Moliere

• Herausgeber: E-BOOKARAMA
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Among Molière's best-known works is "Tartuffe" (AKA "The Hypocrite"), written in 1664. Though "Tartuffe" was received well by the public and even by Louis XIV, its popularity was lessened when the Archbishop of Paris issued an edict lasting 5 years threatening excommunication for anyone who watched, performed in, or read the play.
Molière's masterpiece 'Tartuffe'' is a story about a man who falls prey to misplaced adoration. The dramatic work presents several dramatic features which define the play as a comedy of manners. Of particular importance is Molière's satirical look at religious hypocrisy. 

Tartuffe, a pious fraud who pretends to speak with divine authority, has insinuated himself into the household of Orgon. When Orgon announces that his daughter Mariane is to marry Tartuffe instead of her fiance Valère, the rest of the family realizes the extent of Tartuffe's influence over Orgon. Tartuffe tries to seduce Orgon's wife Elmire, who traps him into revealing to Orgon his intentions toward her. Orgon throws Tartuffe out of the house, Tartuffe returns with an order of eviction for the family, and at the final moment the tables are turned and the play ends happily.

Leseprobe

Molière

Tartuffe

Table of contents

TARTUFFE

Characters

ACT I

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

ACT II

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

ACT III

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

ACT IV

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

SCENE VIII

ACT V

SCENE I

SCENE II

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

SCENE VIII

TARTUFFE

Molière

Characters

Madame Pernelle, mother of Orgon

Orgon, husband of Elmire Elmire, wife of Orgon Damis, son of Orgon Mariane, daughter of Orgon, in love with Valere Cleante, brother-inlaw of Orgon Tartuffe, a hypocrite Dorine, Mariane’s maid M. 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, Cleante, Damis, Dorine

Madame PernelleCome, come, Flipotte, and let me get away.

ElmireYou hurry so, I hardly can attend you.

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

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

Madame PernelleBecause 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.

DorineIf . . .

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

DamisBut . . .

Madame PernelleYou’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.

MarianeI think . . .

Madame PernelleO 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.

ElmireBut, mother . . .

Madame PernelleDaughter, 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.

CleanteBut, madam, after all . . .

Madame PernelleSir, 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.

DamisMr. Tartuffe, your friend, is mighty lucky . . .

Madame PernelleHe 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.

DamisWhat! 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?

DorineIf 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 PernelleAnd 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.

DamisNo, 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.

DorineBesides, ’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 PernelleEh! Mercy sakes alive! Things would go better If all were governed by his pious orders.

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

Madame PernelleJust listen to her tongue!

DorineI wouldn’t trust him, Nor yet his Lawrence, without bonds and surety.

Madame PernelleI 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.

DorineOf 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 PernelleYou 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.

CleanteEh! 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.

DorineOur 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 PernelleThese 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.

DorineO 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.