VOLTAIRE: 60+ Works in One Volume - Philosophical Writings, Novels, Historical Works, Poetry, Plays & Letters. Вольтер. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Вольтер
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most redoubtable adversary; if you treat M. Maffei in this manner, what am I to expect from you? I acknowledge that, in many points, you have too much reason on your side. You have taken a great deal of pains to rake together a heap of brambles and briars; but why would you not enjoy the pleasure of gathering a few flowers? There are certainly many in M. Maffei; and which, I dare affirm, will flourish forever. Such are the scenes between the mother and son, and the narration of the catastrophe. I can’t help thinking that these strokes are affecting and pathetic. You say, the subject alone makes all the beauty; but was it not the same subject in other authors who have treated Mérope? Why, with the same assistance, had they not the same success? Does not this single argument prove, that M. Maffei owes as much to his genius as to his subject?

      To be plain with you, I think M. Maffei has shown more art than myself, in the manner by which he has contrived to make Mérope think that her son is the murderer of her son. I could not bring myself to make use of the ring as he did; because, after the royal ring that Boilieu laughs at in his satires, this circumstance would always appear too trifling on our stage. We must conform to the fashions of our own age and nation; and, for the same reason, we ought not lightly to condemn those of foreigners.

      Neither M. Maffei nor I have sufficiently explained the motives that should so strongly incline Poliphontes to espouse the queen. This is, perhaps, a fault inherent in the subject; but I must own I think this fault very inconsiderable, when the circumstances it produces are so interesting. The grand point is to affect and draw tears from the spectators. Tears were shed both at Verona and at Paris. This is the best answer that can be made to the critics. It is impossible to be perfect; but how meritorious is it to move an audience, in spite of all our imperfections! Most certain it is, that in Italy many things are passed over, which would not be pardoned in France: first, because taste, decorum, and the stage itself, are not the same in both; secondly, because the Italians, having no city where they represent dramatic pieces every day, cannot possibly be so used to things of this kind as ourselves. Opera, that splendid monster, has driven Melpomene from among them; and there are so many of the Castrati there, that no room is left for Roscius and Æsopus: but if ever the Italians should have a regular theatre, I believe they would soon get beyond us: their stages are more extensive, their language more tractable, their blank verses easier to be made, their nation possessed of more sensibility; but they want encouragement, peace, and plenty.

      ACT I.

      SCENE I.

       Table of Contents

      ismenia, mérope.

      ismenia.

       Let not, great queen, thy soul forever dwell

       On images of horror and despair;

       The storm is past, and brighter days succeed:

       Long hast thou tasted heaven’s severest wrath,

       Enjoy its bounties now: the gods, thou seest,

       Have blessed our land with victory and peace;

       And proud Messene, after fifteen years

       Of foul division and intestine wars,

       Now from her ruins lifts her towering front,

       Superior to misfortune: now no more

       Shalt thou behold her angry chiefs support

       Their jarring interests, and in guilt alone

       United, spread destruction, blood and slaughter,

       O’er half thy kingdom, and dispute the throne

       Of good Cresphontes: but the ministers

       Of heaven, the guardians of our sacred laws,

       The rulers, and the people, soon shall meet,

       Free in their choice, to fix the power supreme:

       If virtue gives the diadem, ’tis thine:

       Thine by irrevocable right: to thee,

       The widow of Cresphontes, from our kings

       Descended, must devolve Messene’s throne:

       Thou, whom misfortunes and firm constancy

       Have made but more illustrious, and more dear;

       Thou, to whom every heart in secret tied—

      mérope.

       No news of Narbas! shall I never see

       My child again?

      ismenia.

       Despair not, madam: slaves

       Have been despatched on every side; the paths

       Of Elis all are open to their search:

       Doubtless the object of your fears is placed

       In faithful hands, who will restore to you

       Their sacred trust.

      mérope.

       Immortal gods! who see

       My bitter griefs, will ye restore my son?

       Is my Ægisthus living? have you saved

       My wretched infant? O preserve him still,

       And shield him from the cruel murderer’s hand!

       He is your son, the pure, the spotless blood

       Of your Alcides. Will you not protect

       The dear, dear image of the best of men,

       The best of kings, whose ashes I adore?

      ismenia.

       But wherefore must this tender passion turn

       Thy soul aside from every other purpose?

      mérope.

       I am a mother: canst thou wonder yet?

      ismenia.

       A mother’s fondness should not thus efface

       The duty of a queen, your character,

       And noble rank; though in his infant years

       You loved this son, yet little have you seen

       Or known of him.

      mérope.

       Not seen him, my Ismenia?

       O he is always present to my heart,

       Time has no power to loose such bonds as these;

       His danger still awakens all my fears,

       And doubles my affection: once I’ve heard

       From Narbas, and but once these four years past,

       And that alas! but made me more unhappy.

       “Ægisthus,” then he told me, “well deserves

       A better fate; he’s worthy of his mother.

       And of the gods, his great progenitors:

       Exposed to every ill, his virtue braves,

       And will surmount them: hope for everything

       From him, but be aware of Poliphontes.”

      ismenia.

       Prevent him then, and take the reins of empire

       In your own hands.

      mérope.

       That empire is my son’s:

       Perdition on the cruel step-mother,

       The lover of herself, the savage heart,

       That could enjoy the pleasures of a throne,

       And disinherit her own blood! O no: Ismenia,

       If my Ægisthus lives not, what is empire.

       Or what is life to me! I should renounce them.

       I should have died when my unhappy lord