Tartuffe; Or, The Hypocrite. Жан-Батист МольерЧитать онлайн книгу.

        Now, Mariane.

        Yes, father?

        Come; I'll tell you

        A secret.

        Yes … What are you looking for?

        ORGON (looking into a small closet-room)

        To see there's no one there to spy upon us;

        That little closet's mighty fit to hide in.

        There! We're all right now. Mariane, in you

        I've always found a daughter dutiful

        And gentle. So I've always love you dearly.

        I'm grateful for your fatherly affection.

        Well spoken, daughter. Now, prove you deserve it

        By doing as I wish in all respects.

        To do so is the height of my ambition.

        Excellent well. What say you of – Tartuffe?

        Who? I?

        Yes, you. Look to it how you answer.

        Why! I'll say of him – anything you please.

        ORGON, MARIANE, DORINE (coming in quietly and standing behind

        Orgon, so that he does not see her)

        Well spoken. A good girl. Say then, my daughter,

        That all his person shines with noble merit,

        That he has won your heart, and you would like

        To have him, by my choice, become your husband.

        Eh?

        Eh?

        What say you?

        Please, what did you say?

        What?

        Surely I mistook you, sir?

        How now?

        Who is it, father, you would have me say

        Has won my heart, and I would like to have

        Become my husband, by your choice?

        Tartuffe.

        But, father, I protest it isn't true!

        Why should you make me tell this dreadful lie?

        Because I mean to have it be the truth.

        Let this suffice for you: I've settled it.

        What, father, you would … ?

        Yes, child, I'm resolved

        To graft Tartuffe into my family.

        So he must be your husband. That I've settled.

        And since your duty ..

        (Seeing Dorine)

        What are you doing there?

        Your curiosity is keen, my girl,

        To make you come eavesdropping on us so.

        Upon my word, I don't know how the rumour

        Got started – if 'twas guess-work or mere chance

        But I had heard already of this match,

        And treated it as utter stuff and nonsense.

        What! Is the thing incredible?

        So much so

        I don't believe it even from yourself, sir.

        I know a way to make you credit it.

        No, no, you're telling us a fairly tale!

        I'm telling you just what will happen shortly.

        Stuff!

        Daughter, what I say is in good earnest.

        There, there, don't take your father seriously;

        He's fooling.

        But I tell you …

        No. No use.

        They won't believe you.

        If I let my anger …

        Well, then, we do believe you; and the worse

        For you it is. What! Can a grown-up man

        With that expanse of beard across his face

        Be mad enough to want …?

        You hark me:

        You've taken on yourself here in this house

        A sort of free familiarity

        That I don't like, I tell you frankly, girl.

        There, there, let's not get angry, sir, I beg you.

        But are you making game of everybody?

        Your daughter's not cut out for bigot's meat;

        And he has more important things to think of.

        Besides, what can you gain by such a match?

        How can a man of wealth, like you, go choose

        A wretched vagabond for son-in-law?

        You hold your tongue. And know, the less he has,

        The better cause have we to honour him.

        His poverty is honest poverty;

        It should exalt him more than worldly grandeur,

        For he has let himself be robbed of all,

        Through careless disregard of temporal things

        And fixed attachment to the things eternal.

        My help may set him on his feet