Act IScene VI
Orgon, Cleante
Cleante
Brother, she ridicules you to your face;And I, though I don’t want to make you angry,Must tell you candidly that she’s quite right.Was such infatuation ever heard of?And can a man to-day have charms to make youForget all else, relieve his poverty,Give him a home, and then ... ?
Orgon
Stop there, good brother,You do not know the man you’re speaking of.
Cleante
Since you will have it so, I do not know him;But after all, to tell what sort of manHe is ...
Orgon
Dear brother, you’d be charmed to know him;Your raptures over him would have no end.He is a man ... who ... ah! ... in fact ...a manWhoever does his will, knows perfect peace,And counts the whole world else, as so much dung.His converse has transformed me quite; he weansMy heart from every friendship, teaches meTo have no love for anything on earth;And I could see my brother, children, mother,And wife, all die, and never care—a snap.
Cleante
Your feelings are humane, I must say, brother!
Orgon
Ah! If you’d seen him, as I saw him first,You would have loved him just as much as I.He came to church each day, with contrite mien,Kneeled, on both knees, right opposite my place,And drew the eyes of all the congregation,To watch the fervour of his prayers to heaven;With deep-drawn sighs and great ejaculations,He humbly kissed the earth at every moment;And when I left the church, he ran before meTo give me holy water at the door.I learned his poverty, and who he was,By questioning his servant, who is like him,And gave him gifts; but in his modestyHe always wanted to return a part.“It is too much,” he’d say, “too much by half;I am not worthy of your pity.” Then,When I refused to take it back, he’d go,Before my eyes, and give it to the poor.At length heaven bade me take him to my home,And since that day, all seems to prosper here.He censures everything, and for my sakeHe even takes great interest in my wife;He lets me know who ogles her, and seemsSix times as jealous as I am myself.You’d not believe how far his zeal can go:He calls himself a sinner just for trifles;The merest nothing is enough to shock him;So much so, that the other day I heard himAccuse himself for having, while at prayer,In too much anger caught and killed a flea.
Cleante
Zounds, brother, you are mad, I think! Or elseYou’re making sport of me, with such a speech.What are you driving at with all this nonsense ... ?
Orgon
Brother, your language smacks of atheism;And I suspect your soul’s a little taintedTherewith. I’ve preached to you a score of timesThat you’ll draw down some judgment on your head.
Cleante
That is the usual strain of all your kind;They must have every one as blind as they.They call you atheist if you have good eyes;And if you don’t adore their vain grimaces,You’ve neither faith nor care for sacred things.No, no; such talk can’t frighten me; I knowWhat I am saying; heaven sees my heart.We’re not the dupes of all your canting mummers;There are false heroes—and false devotees;And as true heroes never are the onesWho make much noise about their deeds of honour,Just so true devotees, whom we should follow,Are not the ones who make so much vain show.What! Will you find no difference betweenHypocrisy and genuine devoutness?And will you treat them both alike, and payThe self-same honour both to masks and facesSet artifice beside sincerity,Confuse the semblance with reality,Esteem a phantom like a living person,And counterfeit as good as honest coin?Men, 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, becauseThey 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 moreTo be admired than men of true religion,Nothing more noble or more beautifulThan is the holy zeal of true devoutness;Just so I think there’s naught more odiousThan whited sepulchres of outward unction,Those barefaced charlatans, those hireling zealots,Whose sacrilegious, treacherous pretenceDeceives at will, and with impunityMakes 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 officeWith false eye-rollings and affected raptures;Those men, I say, who with uncommon zealSeek 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 boldnessTo call their private grudge the cause of heaven;All the more dangerous, since in their angerThey 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 eyesLook 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 creditWith them; they even incline to think the bestOf 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 attemptFar 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 knowValere 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 planIn mind?
Orgon
Perhaps.
Cleante
You mean to break your word?
Orgon
I don’t say that.
Cleante
I hope no obstacleCan 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 knowYour plans. What are they?
Orgon
I shall do the willOf Heaven.
Cleante
Come, be serious. You’ve givenYour promise to Valere. Now will you keep it?
Orgon
Good-bye.
Cleante
Alone
His love, methinks, has much to fear;I must go let him know what’s happening here.