Tartuffe; Or, The Hypocrite. Жан-Батист Мольер

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.

CLEANTE

        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 over-zealous 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?

CLEANTE

        Yes.

ORGON

        I'm your humble servant.

      (Starts to go.)

CLEANTE

        Just a word.

        We'll drop that other subject. But you know

        Valere has had the promise of your daughter.

ORGON

        Yes.

CLEANTE

        You had named the happy day.

ORGON

        'Tis true.

CLEANTE

        Then why put off the celebration of it?

ORGON

        I can't say.

CLEANTE

        Can you have some other plan

        In mind?

ORGON

        Perhaps.

CLEANTE

        You mean to break your word?

ORGON

        I don't say that.

CLEANTE

        I hope no obstacle

        Can keep you from performing what you've promised.

ORGON

        Well, that depends.

CLEANTE

        Why must you beat about?

        Valere has sent me here to settle matters.

ORGON

        Heaven be praised!

CLEANTE

        What answer shall I take him?

ORGON

        Why, anything you please.

CLEANTE

        But we must know

        Your plans. What are they?

ORGON

        I shall do the will

        Of Heaven.

CLEANTE

        Come, be serious. You've given

        Your promise to Valere. Now will you keep it?

ORGON

        Good-bye.

        CLEANTE