VOLTAIRE: 60+ Works in One Volume - Philosophical Writings, Novels, Historical Works, Poetry, Plays & Letters. Вольтер
Читать онлайн книгу.to my honest zeal,
My conduct, and my brother, I appeal
From thy suspicions.
mariamne.
I’ve already told thee,
All is forgotten, I am satisfied,
And I can pardon, though I can’t believe thee.
mazael.
Now, by the power supreme, my royal mistress,
Scarce could my pains—
mariamne.
Stop, Mazael, excuse
Is added injury; obey the king,
That is thy duty: sold to my oppressors,
Thou art their instrument; perform thy office,
I shall not stoop to make complaints of thee.
Thou, Salome, mayest hence, and tell the king
[To Salome.
The secrets of my soul; inflame his heart
Once more with rage; I shall not strive to calm it:
Instruct your creatures to deal forth their slander,
I’ve left their vile attempts unpunished still;
Content to use no arms against my foes,
But blameless virtue, and a just disdain.
mazael.
What haughtiness!
salome.
’Twill meet with its reward:
It is the pride of art to punish folly.
SCENE III.
mariamne, eliza, nabal.
eliza.
Why, my loved mistress, would you thus provoke
A foe who burns with ardor to destroy you?
Perhaps the rage of Herod is suspended
But for a time, and yet may burst upon you.
Death was departing, and thou callest him back,
When thou shouldst strive to turn his dart aside:
Thou hast no friend to guard or to defend thee;
Varus, thy kind protector, must obey
The senate’s orders, and to distant realms
Convey its high commands: at his request,
And by thy kind assistance, Herod gained
His power, and now the tyrant will return
With double terror: thou hast furnished him
With arms against thyself, and must depend
On this proud master, to be dreaded more
Because he loves, because his passion soured
By thy disdain—
mariamne.
My dear Eliza, fly,
Bring Varus hither: thou art in the right;
I see it all; but I have other cares;
My soul is filled with more important business:
Let Varus come: Nabal, stay thou with me.
SCENE IV.
mariamne, nabal.
mariamne.
Thy virtues, thy experience, and thy zeal
For Mariamne’s welfare, have long since
Deserved my confidence: thou knowest my heart,
And all its purposes; the woes I feel,
And those I fear: thou sawest my wretched mother,
Driven to despair, with tears imploring me
To share her flight: her mind, replete with terror,
Sees every moment the impetuous Herod,
Yet reeking with the blood of half her race,
Assassinate her dearest Mariamne.
Still she entreats me, with my helpless children,
To fly his wrath, and leave this hated clime;
The Roman vessels might transport us soon
From Syria’s borders to the Italian shore;
From Varus I might hope some kind protection,
And from Augustus; fortune points the way
For my escape, the only path of safety:
And yet, from virtue or from weakness, which
I know not, but my foolish heart recoils
At flying from a husband’s arms, and keeps,
Spite of myself, my lingering footsteps here.
nabal.
Thy fears are groundless; yet I must admire them,
Because they flow from virtue: thy brave heart,
That fears not death, yet trembles at the thought
Even of imaginary guilt: but cease
Your causeless doubts; consider where you are;
Open your eyes, and mark this fatal palace,
Wet with a father’s and a brother’s blood.
In vain the king denies the horrid deed;
Cæsar in vain absolves him from the crime,
Whilst the whole East pronounce him guilty of it.
Think of thy mother’s fears, thy injured sons,
Thy murdered father, the king’s cruelty,
Thy sister’s hatred, and what scarce my tongue
Can mention without horror, though thy virtue
Regardless smiles, thy death this day determined.
If, undismayed by such a scene of woe,
Thou art resolved to meet and brave thy fate,
O still remember, still defend thy children:
The king hath taken away their hopes of empire,
And well thou knowest what dreadful oracles
Long since alarmed thy fears, when heaven foretold,
That a strange hand should one day join thy sons
To their unhappy father. A wild Arab,
Implacable and pitiless, already
Hath half fulfilled the terrible prediction:
After a deed so horrid, may he not
Accomplish all the rest? From Herod’s rage
Nothing is sacred; who can tell but now,
Even now he comes to act his bloody purpose,
And blot out all our Asmonæan race?
’Tis time to guard against him, to prevent
His guilt, and stop his murderous hand; to save
Those tender victims from a tyrant’s sword,
And hide them from the sight of such examples.
Within thy palace from my earliest years
Brought up, and by