Scene VII

ORGON, TARTUFFE

ORGON
What! So insult a saintly man of God!

TARTUFFE
Heaven, forgive him all the pain he gives me!^[1]

(To Orgon)
Could you but know with what distress I see
Them try to vilify me to my brother!

ORGON
Ah!

TARTUFFE
The mere thought of such ingratitude
Makes my soul suffer torture, bitterly . . .
My horror at it . . . Ah! my heart’s so full
I cannot speak . . . I think I’ll die of it.

ORGON (in tears, running to the door through which he drove away his son)
Scoundrel! I wish I’d never let you go,
But slain you on the spot with my own hand.

(To Tartuffe)
Brother, compose yourself, and don’t be angry.

TARTUFFE
Nay, brother, let us end these painful quarrels.
I see what troublous times I bring upon you,
And think ’tis needful that I leave this house.

ORGON
What! You can’t mean it?

TARTUFFE
Yes, they hate me here,
And try, I find, to make you doubt my faith.

ORGON
What of it? Do you find I listen to them?

TARTUFFE
No doubt they won’t stop there. These same reports
You now reject, may some day win a hearing.

ORGON
No, brother, never.

TARTUFFE
Ah! my friend, a woman
May easily mislead her husband’s mind.

ORGON
No, no.

TARTUFFE
So let me quickly go away
And thus remove all cause for such attacks.

ORGON
No, you shall stay; my life depends upon it.

TARTUFFE
Then I must mortify myself. And yet,
If you should wish . . .

ORGON
No, never!

TARTUFFE
Very well, then;
No more of that. But I shall rule my conduct
To fit the case. Honour is delicate,
And friendship binds me to forestall suspicion,
Prevent all scandal, and avoid your wife.

ORGON
No, you shall haunt her, just to spite them all.
‘Tis my delight to set them in a rage;
You shall be seen together at all hours
And what is more, the better to defy them,
I’ll have no other heir but you; and straightway
I’ll go and make a deed of gift to you,
Drawn in due form, of all my property.
A good true friend, my son-in-law to be,
Is more to me than son, and wife, and kindred.
You will accept my offer, will you not?

TARTUFFE
Heaven’s will be done in everything!

ORGON
Poor man!
We’ll go make haste to draw the deed aright,
And then let envy burst itself with spite!