Act IScene II
Cleante, Dorine
Cleante
I won’t escort her down,For fear she might fall foul of me again;The good old lady ...
Dorine
Bless us! What a pityShe 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!
Cleante
How she got angry with us all for nothing!And how she seems possessed with her Tartuffe!
Dorine
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 unpleasantnessHad won him much esteem, and proved his courageIn service of his king; but now he’s likeA man besotted, since he’s been so takenWith this Tartuffe. He calls him brother, loves himA hundred times as much as mother, son,Daughter, and wife. He tells him all his secretsAnd lets him guide his acts, and rule his conscience.He fondles and embraces him; a sweetheartCould not, I think, be loved more tenderly;At table he must have the seat of honour,While with delight our master sees him eatAs much as six men could; we must give upThe choicest tidbits to him; if he belches,
’Tis a servant speaking
Master exclaims: “God bless you!”—Oh, he dotesUpon him! he’s his universe, his hero;He’s lost in constant admiration, quotes himOn all occasions, takes his trifling actsFor 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 lackeyMakes 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 kerchiefThat he had found, pressed in the Golden Legend,Calling it a horrid crime for us to mingleThe devil’s finery with holy things.