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ZAÏRE - The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

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ZAÏRE - Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems). [1901]

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From The Works of Voltaire, A Contemporary Version, (New York: E.R. DuMont, 1901), A Critique and Biography by John Morley, notes by Tobias Smollett, trans. William F. Fleming. Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

Author: Voltaire
Translator: William F. Fleming
Notes: Tobias Smollett

Part of: The Works of Voltaire. A Contemporary Version, in 21 vols.

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ZAÏRE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Osman, Sultan of Jerusalem.

Lusignan, A Prince of the Blood of the ancient Kings of Jerusalem.

ZAÏRE, }	Slaves of the Sultan.
FATIMA,}	Slaves of the Sultan.
NERESTAN, }	French Gentlemen.
CHATILLON,}	French Gentlemen.
ORASMIN, }	Officers of the Sultan.
MELIDOR,}	Officers of the Sultan.
A SLAVE.
ATTENDANTS.

Scene, the Seraglio at Jerusalem.

“Zaïre” was written and produced in 1732. During its composition Voltaire wrote to a friend: “Everyone here reproaches me that I do not put more love into my pieces. There shall be love enough this time, I swear, and not mere gallantry. My desire is that there may be nothing so Turkish, so Christian, so amorous, so tender, so infuriate, as that which I am now putting into verse for the pleasure of the public. . . . The names of Montmorenci, Saladire, Jesus, Mahomet, will be in it. There will be mention of the Seine and Jordan, of Paris and Jerusalem. We shall love, we shall baptize, we shall kill, and I will send you the outline as soon as it is done.” The piece was a great success, despite J. B. Rousseau’s adverse criticism. It was played at Berlin, and Geneva; and at Rome on the hundredth anniversary of Voltaire’s death.

An Epistle Dedicatory to Mr. Falkener, an English Merchant, Since Ambassador at Constantinople, with the Tragedy of Zaïre.

You, my dear friend, are an Englishman, and I am a native of France; but lovers of the fine arts are fellow-citizens: men of taste and virtue have pretty nearly the same principles in every country, and form one general commonweal: it is no longer, therefore, matter of astonishment to see a French tragedy dedicated to an Englishman, or an Italian, any more than it would have been, in the days of antiquity, for a citizen of Ephesus, or of Athens, to address his performance to a Grecian of some other city; I lay this tragedy before you, therefore, as my countryman in literature, and my most intimate friend.

I shall, at the same time, have the pleasure of informing my brother Frenchmen here in what light traders are looked upon among you, what regard the English have for a profession so essential to the welfare of their kingdom, and the honor which they have to represent their country in parliament, in the rank of legislators; though trade is despised by our petits-maitres, who, you know as well as myself, both in England and France, are the most contemptible species of being that crawl upon the face of the earth.

My further inducement to correspond with an Englishman, rather than any other man, on subjects of literature, arises from your happy freedom of thought, which never fails to inspire me with bolder ideas, and also with more nervous expression.1 ‘Whoever converses with me has, for the time at least, my heart at his disposal; if his sentiments are lively and animated, he inflames me: if he is strong and nervous, he raises and supports me: the courtier, who is all dissimulation, makes me insensibly as affected and constrained in my behavior as himself; but a bold and fearless spirit gives me sentiment and courage: I catch fire from him, just as young painters, brought up under Lemoine or Argilière, catch the freedom of their masters’ pencils, and compose with their spirit: thus Virgil admired Homer, followed his steps, and, without being a plagiarist, became his rival.’

You need not be apprehensive of my sending you, with this piece, a long apology and vindication of it: I might indeed have told you why I did not make Zaïre more determined to embrace Christianity before she knew her father; why she keeps the secret from her lover; but those who have any judgment, or any justice, will see my reasons without my pointing them out; and as for those critics that are predetermined not to believe me, it would be lost labor to give them any reasons at all.

All I can boast of is that the piece is tolerably simple; a perfection, in my opinion, that is not to be despised.

‘This happy simplicity was one of the distinguishing beauties of learned antiquity: it is a pity you Englishmen don’t introduce this novelty on your stage, which is so filled with horror, gibbets, and murders: put more truth into your dramatic performances, and more noble images: Addison has endeavored to do it: he was the poet of the wife, but he was too stiff: and, in his boasted “Cato,” the two girls are really very insipid characters: imitate from the great Addison only what is good; polish a little the rude manners of your mild muse; write for all times, and all ages, for fame, and for posterity, and transfuse into your works the simplicity of your manners.’

But I would not have your English poets imagine that I mean to give them “Zaire” as a model: I preach simplicity to them, and easy numbers, but I would not be thought to set up for the saint of my own sermon: if “Zaire” has met with success, I owe it not so much to the merit of the performance, as to the tenderness of the love scenes, which I was wise enough to execute as well as I possibly could: in this I flattered the taste of my audience; and he is generally sure to succeed, who talks more to the passions of men than to their reason: if we are ever so good Christians, we must have a little love besides: and I am satisfied the great Corneille was much in the right of it, not to confine himself, in his “Polyeucte,” merely to the breaking of the statues of Jupiter by the new converts: for such is the depravity of human kind, that perhaps ‘the pious soul of Polyeucte would have but little impression on the audience, and even the Christian verses he declaims would have been received with contempt, if it had not been for his wife’s passion for her favorite heathen, who was certainly more worthy of her love than the good devotee her husband.’

Almost the same accident happened to Zaire; my friends, who frequent the theatre, assured me, that if she had been only converted, she would not have been half so interesting: but she was in love with the most perfect religion in the world, and that has made her fortune. I could not, however, expect to escape censure.

‘Many an inexorable critic has carped at and slashed me, and many a remorseless jester has pretended that I only filched an improbable Romance, which I had not the sense to improve; that I have lamed and spoiled the subject; that the catastrophe is unnatural: they even prognosticated the dreadful hiss with which a disgusted public salutes a miserable poet: but I despised their censures, and risked my play upon the stage; the public was more favorable than they expected, or I deserved: instead of hisses, it received shouts: tears flowed from almost every eye: but I am not puffed up with my success, I assure you I am no stranger to all its faults. I know very well it is absolutely indisputable, that before we can make a perfect work, we must sell ourselves to the devil, which was what I did not choose to do.’

I do not flatter myself that the English will do “Zaire” the same honor they have done to “Brutus,” a translation of which has been played at London:1 they tell us here, that you have neither devotion enough to be affected by old Lusignan, nor tenderness to feel for Zaire; you love a conspiracy better than an intrigue; upon your stage, they say the word “country” is sure of getting a clap, and so is “love” upon ours; but to say the truth, you have as much love in your tragedies as we have: if you have not the reputation of being tender, it is not that your stage heroes are not in love, but that they seldom express their passion naturally: our lovers talk like lovers; yours like poets.

But if the French are your superiors in gallantry, there are many things, which, in return, we may borrow of you: to the English theatre I am indebted for the liberty which I have taken of bringing the names of our kings and ancient families upon the stage: a novelty of this kind may perhaps be the means of introducing amongst us a species of tragedy hitherto unknown, and which we seem to want. Some happy geniuses will, I have no doubt, rise up, who will bring to perfection that idea, of which “Zaire” is but a slight sketch: as long as literature meets with protection in France, we shall always have writers enough; nature every day forms men of talents and abilities; we have nothing to do but to encourage and employ them: but if those which distinguish themselves are not supported by some honorable recompense, and by the still more pleasing charm of admiration, all the fine arts must soon perish, even though so many edifices have been raised to shelter and protect them: the noble plantation of Louis XIV. would die away for want of culture: the public might still have taste, but there would be no eminent masters: the sculptor in his academy would see a number of indifferent pupils about him, but never have the ambition to imitate Girardon and Pujet: the painter would rest satisfied with excelling his contemporaries, but would never think of rivalling Poussin: may the successor of Louis XIV. always follow the example of that great monarch, who inspired every artist with emulation, encouraged at the same time a Racine and a Van-Robais: he carried our commerce and our glory to the farthest part of the globe, and extended his bounty to foreigners of all nations, who were astonished at the fame and rewards which our court bestowed upon them: wherever merit appeared, it found a patron in Louis XIV.

Where’er that bounteous star its influence shed,
Fair merit raised her long-declining head;
His royal hand spread honors, wealth, and fame,
Then Viviani, then Cassini came:
Newton refused a gift from France’s throne,
Or Newton too, thou knowest, had been our own:
These are the deeds that raise our Gallia’s fame,
These, Louis, will immortalize thy name,
And truly make thee, what thou wert designed,
The universal monarch of mankind.

You have no foundations equal to the munificent donations of our kings; but then your people supplies the want of them: you do not stand in need of royal favor to honor and reward superior talents of every kind. Steel and Vanbrugh were comedy writers, and at the same time members of parliament: the primacy given to Dr. Tillotson, Newton honored with an important trust, Prior made an ambassador, and Addison a minister of state, are but the common and ordinary consequences of the regard which you pay to merit, and to great men: you heap riches on them while they live, and erect monuments and statues to them after their death: even your celebrated actresses have places in your churches, near the great poets.

‘Your Oldfield, and her predecessor, Bracegirdle, in consideration of their having been so agreeable to the public when in their prime, their course finished, were, by the consent of your whole nation, honored with a pompous funeral, and their remains carried under a velvet pall, and lodged in your church with the greatest magnificence: their spirits, no doubt, are still proud of it, and boast of the honor in the shades below; while the divine Molière, who was far more worthy of it, could scarcely obtain leave to sleep in a churchyard; and the amiable Lecouvreur, whose eyes I closed, could not even so much as obtain two wax-tapers and a coffin; M. de Laubiniere, out of charity, carried away her corpse by night in a hackney-coach to the banks of the river; do you not even now see the god of love breaking his arrows in a rage, and Melopomene in tears, banishing herself from that ungrateful place which Lecouvreur had so long adorned?

But everything, in these our days, conspires to reduce France to that state of barbarism from which Louis XIV. and Cardinal Richelieu had delivered her: that a curse on that policy knows not the value of the fine arts! the world is peopled with nations as powerful as our own; how happens it then that we look on them with so little esteem? For the same reason perhaps that we despise the company of a rich man, whose mind is tasteless and uncultivated. Do not imagine that this empire of wit, this glory of being the universal model for mankind, is a trifling distinction, it is the infallible mark of the grandeur of a kingdom: under the greatest princes the arts have always flourished, and their decay is often succeeded by that of the state itself: history will supply us with ample proofs of it; but this would lead me too far out of my subject: I shall finish this letter, which is already too long, with a little performance, which naturally demands a place at the head of this tragedy: an epistle, in verse, to the actress who played the part of Zaire; I owe her at least this compliment for the manner in which she acquitted herself on that occasion.

‘For the prophet of Mecca never had Greek nor Arabian in his seraglio so beautiful or so genteel: her black eyes, so finely arched and full of tenderness, with her excellent voice, mien and carriage, defended my performance against every auditor that had a mind to be troublesome: but when the reader catches me in his closet, all my honor, I fear, will be lost.’

Adieu, my dear friend, continue to cultivate philosophy and the Belles-lettres, without forgetting to send your ships to the Levant.

I have the honor to remain, &c.

Voltaire.

A Second Letter to Mr. Falkener, Then Ambassador to Constantinople.

From the Second Edition of the Tragedy of Zaire

My dear friend,

For your new dignity of ambassador only makes our friendship more respectable, and shall not prevent my making use of a title even more sacred than that of minister; the name of “Friend” is much above that of, “your Excellency.” I now dedicate to the ambassador of a great king and a free nation what I had before addressed to a plain citizen, and an English merchant: those who know how much commerce is respected in your country must know that a tradesman is there sometimes a legislator, a good officer, and a public minister.

Some ridiculous people who had fallen in with the fashion of paying respect to nothing but nobility, thought proper to laugh at the novelty of a dedication to a man who had nothing but merit to recommend him: who took the liberty, on a stage sacred to calumny and bad taste, to insult the author of that dedication, and to reproach the gentleman to whom it was addressed for being a merchant:1 but we must not, sir, impute to our whole nation an affront so gross and illiberal, that people, ever so uncivilized, would have been ashamed to commit. The magistrates of our police, who are constantly employed in rectifying abuses of this kind, were, to the last degree, surprised at it: but the contempt and ignominy with which the public have branded the acknowledged author of this indignity, are, I hope, a fresh proof of French politeness: those virtues, which form the character of a whole people, are often contradicted, and, as it were, called in question by the vices of an individual: there were some voluptuaries, we know, even at Lacedæmon: there have been low and foolish fellows in England; men without taste. or good breeding, at Athens; and so there are in Paris.

You will, I hope, forget them, sir, as they are forgotten by the world, and receive this second mark of my respect: they are due to you still more than they were before, as this tragedy has made its appearance at London. It has been translated, and acted with so much success, and the author of it spoken of with so much regard and politeness, that I ought to return my public thanks to the whole nation.

I do not know how to acquit my obligations to you by any other means than acquainting my countrymen here with the particulars of the translation, and representation of “Zaire” on the English stage.

Mr. Hill, a man of letters, and one who seems to understand the theatre better than any English author, did me the honor to translate this piece, with the design of introducing something new on your stage, both with regard to the manner of writing tragedies, and of repeating them. I shall speak, by and by, of the representation.

The art of declaiming was for a long time among you entirely unnatural; most of your tragic actors expressed themselves more like poets seized with rapturous enthusiasm than like men inspired by a real passion. Several of your comedians were even more intolerable; they roared out their verses with an impetuous fury that was no more like the natural tone than convulsions and distortions are to an easy and noble carriage. This air of riot and tumult seemed entirely foreign to your nation, which is naturally sober and grave, even to such a degree, as frequently to appear cold and unanimated in the eye of a stranger. Your preachers never indulge themselves in a declamatory tone, and you would laugh at a pleader at the bar, who should work himself up into a passion: the players were the only outrageous set of people in the kingdom. Our actors and actresses also, particularly the latter, were guilty of this for many years. M. Lecouvreur was the first who broke them of it: thus an Italian writer, a man of great sense and parts, speaks of her:

La legiadra Couvreur sola non trotta
Per quella strade dove i suoi compagni
Van di galoppo tutti quanti in frotta,
Se auvien ch’ella pianga, o che si lagni
Sensa quelli urli spaventosi loro
Ti muove si che in pianger l’accompagni.

The same change which Lecouvreur affected on our stage, Mrs. Cibber brought about on yours, in the part of Zaire: how astonishing it is that in every art it should be so long before we arrive at the simple and the natural!

A novelty that must appear still more extraordinary to a Frenchman is, that a gentleman of your country, a man of rank and fortune, should condescend to play the part of Osman. It was an interesting circumstance to see the two principal characters represented, one by a person of condition, and the other by a young actress not above eighteen years of age, who had never repeated a line before in her life. This instance of a gentleman’s exercising his talents for declamation, is not singular among you; it is perhaps more surprising that we should wonder at it: we ought certainly to reflect, that everything in this world depends upon custom and opinion: the court of France have danced on the stage with the actors of the opera, and we thought there was nothing strange in it, but that the fashion of this kind of entertainment should be discontinued. Why should it be more extraordinary for people to write than to dance in public? is there any difference between these two arts, except that the one is as much above the other as the perfections of the mind are superior to those of the body; I have said it before, and I say so still, none of the polite arts are contemptible; and to be ashamed of talents of any kind is of all things the most shameful.

I come now to the translation of “Zaïre,” and the change which has been made among you with regard to the drama.

You had a strange custom, which even Mr. Addison, the chastest of your writers, adopted, so often does custom get the better of sense and reason; I mean, the ridiculous custom of finishing every act by verses in a different taste from the rest of the piece, which verse usually consisted of a simile. Phædra, as she leaves the stage, compares herself to a bitch; Cato to a rock, and Cleopatra to children that cry themselves asleep. The translator of “Zaïre” was the first who dared to maintain the rights of nature against a custom so directly opposite to her. He proscribed this custom, well knowing that passion should always speak its own language, and that the poet should disappear, to make room for the hero.

Upon this principle he has translated plainly, and without any unnecessary ornaments, all the simple verses of the piece, which must have been entirely spoiled by an endeavor to render them beautiful such as;

On ne peut désirer ce qu’on ne connoît pas.
J’eusse été prés du Gange esclave des faux dieux
Chrétienne dans Paris, Musulmane en ces lie ux.
Mais Orosmane m’aime, & j’ai tout oublié
Non, la reconnoissance est un foible retour
Un tribut offensant, trop peu fait pour l’amour.
Je me croirois haï d’être aimé foiblement.
Je veux avec excès vous aimer & vous plaire
L’art n’est pas fait pour toi, tu n’en a pas besoin,
L’art le plus innocent tient de la perfidie.

All the verses that are in this fine taste of simplicity, are rendered word for word into English: they might very easily have been adorned, but the translator judged in a different manner from several of my countrymen; he liked the verses, and retained therefore all the simplicity of them; the style indeed ought always to be agreeable to the subject; “Alzira,” “Brutus,” and “Zaïre,” for example, required three different kinds of versification: if Berenice complained of Titus, and Ariadne of Theseus, in the style of “Cinna,” neither Berenice nor Ariadne would please or affect us; we can never talk well of love, if we search after any other ornaments but truth and simplicity.

This is not the place to examine whether it be right or wrong to put so much love into our dramatic performances: I will even allow it to be a fault, but it is a fault which will always be universal; nor do I know what name to give that fault, which is the delight of all mankind: of one thing I am satisfied, that the French have succeeded better in it than all other nations, ancient and modern, put together: love appears on our stage with more decorum, more delicacy, and truth than we meet with on any other; and the reason is, because of all nations the French are best acquainted with society: the perpetual commerce and intercourse of the two sexes, carried on with so much vivacity and good breeding, has introduced among us a politeness unknown to all the world but ourselves.

Society principally depends on the fair sex: all those nations who are so unhappy as to confine their women are unsociable: the austerity of your manners, your political quarrels, and religious wars, that rendered you savage and barbarous, deprived you, even down to the age of Charles II. of the pleasures of society, even in the bosom of liberty: the poets, therefore, neither of your country, nor of any other, knew anything of the manner in which love ought to be treated.

Good comedy was utterly unknown amongst us till the days of Molière; as was the art of expressing our sentiments with delicacy till those of Racine, because society had not attained to any degree of perfection before that time: a poet cannot paint in his closet, manners which he has never seen; and would sooner write a hundred odes and epistles than one scene where nature must speak: your Dryden, who was in other respects a great genius, put into the mouth of his heroes in love either high-flown strains of rhetorical flourish, or something indecent, two things equally opposite to tenderness.

If Mr. Racine makes Titus say:

Depuis cinq ans entiers chaque jour je la vois
Et croi toujours la voir pour la première fois.

Your Dryden makes Antony say:

—how I loved,
Witness ye days and nights, and all ye hours,
That danced away with down upon your feet,
As all your business were to count my love,
One day passed by, and nothing saw but love;
Another came, and still ’twas only love:
The suns were wearied out with looking on,
And I untired with loving—

It is very difficult to conceive that Antony should ever really talk thus to Cleopatra. In the same play, Cleopatra speaks thus to Antony:

Come to me, come my soldier, to my arms,
You’ve been too long away from my embraces;
But when I have you fast, and all my own,
With broken murmurs, and with amorous sighs,
I’ll say, you were unkind, and punish you,
And mark you red with many an eager kiss.

It is not improbable that Cleopatra might frequently talk thus, but indecencies of this kind are not to be represented before a respectable audience: some of your countrymen may perhaps say this is pure nature; but we may tell them in answer, that if it be so, it is that nature which ought carefully to be concealed: it shows but little knowledge of human nature, to imagine that we can please the more by presenting these licentious images; on the contrary, it is shutting up the avenues to true pleasure: where everything is at once discovered, we are disgusted; there remains no more to look for or desire; and in our pursuit of pleasure we meet with languor and satiety: this is the reason why those who are truly qualified for society, taste pleasures far more exquisite than grosser appetites can have any idea of: the spectators, in this case, are like lovers who are satiated by too quick possession; those ideas which, when brought too close, would make us blush, should be seen, as it were, through a cloud. It is this veil to which, to a right mind, they are indebted for all their charms: there is no pleasure without decorum.1 The French are certainly better acquainted with this than any other nation upon earth; not because they are without genius and spirit, as the unequal and impetuous Dryden has ridiculously asserted; but because, ever since the regency of Anne of Austria, they have been the most sociable and the most polished people in the universe: and this politeness is not an arbitrary thing, like what they call civility, but a law of nature, which they have happily cultivated far beyond any other nation.

The translation of Zaire has, almost throughout his whole piece, strictly observed those decencies of the stage which are common to us both; but there are, at the same time, some places where he has entirely adhered to ancient customs.

For instance, when in the English piece Osman comes to tell Zaire that he can no longer love her, she answers him by rolling upon the ground: the Sultan is not moved at seeing her in this ridiculous posture of despair, and yet the moment after is astonished at Zaire’s weeping, and cries out, “Zaire, thou weepest.” He should have said to her before; “Zaire, thou rollest upon the ground.”

Insomuch that those three words, “Zaire, thou weepest,” which have so fine an effect on our stage, have none on yours, because they were displaced: those familiar and simple expressions derive all their power from the manner in which they are introduced. “My lord, you change countenance,” is nothing of itself: but when these words are pronounced by Mithridates, we shudder at them.

To say nothing but what we ought to say, and that in the manner in which it ought to be said, is a point of perfection which the French have come nigher to than the writers, myself excepted, of other countries: on this subject we have, I think, a right to dictate to them: you can teach us perhaps greater and more useful things, we ought to acknowledge it. The French, who have written against Sir Isaac Newton’s discoveries, with regard to light and colors, are ashamed of it; those who oppose his system of gravitation will soon be still more so.

You ought to submit to our rules of the stage, as we submit to your philosophy: we have made as good experiments on the human heart, as you have in physics: the art of pleasing seems to be the art of Frenchmen; the art of thinking is all your own. Happy are those, sir, who like you, can unite them.

I am, sir, &c.,

Voltaire.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

zaïre, fatima.

fatima.

I little thought to see the lovely Zaïre,
In all the pride of youth and beauty, thus
Calm and resigned submitting to her fate:
What sweet delusive hope hath pierced the cloud
Of grief that hung upon thee, and revived
Thy drooping heart? this peace of mind hath given
New lustre to thy charms: no longer now
Thy eyes are bathed in tears, no longer seek
Those blissful climes where brave Nerestan promised
To guide our steps; thou talkest not, as of late
We heard thee, of those seats of happiness
Where women reign, by willing slaves adored,
The queens, the idols of a polished people,
Though free yet chaste, and wise though unrestrained,
For social converse fit, and not to fear
Indebted for their virtue: sighest thou, Zaïre,
No more for this gay land of liberty?
Seest thou within these solitary walls
Aught that is lovely? is the name of slave
So grateful now, that to the banks of Seine
Thou wouldst prefer the gloomy Solyma?

zaÏre.

We cannot wish for joys we never knew:
’Twas heaven’s supreme degree to fix us here;
Custom hath made restraint familiar to me:
I look not now beyond the narrow bounds
Of this seraglio; every hour it grows
More pleasing to me, and the world beside
Is lost to Zaïre: to the noble Osman
I yield myself, to live beneath his power;
To honor and obey my royal master
Is my soul’s utmost hope, and its ambition,
All else is but a dream.

fatima.

Hast thou forgot
The kind Nerestan, he whose generous friendship
Promised so oft to free us from the yoke
Of bondage? how did we admire his virtues,
His matchless valor, and intrepid zeal!
The glory he acquired beneath the walls
Of Damas, where so many Christians fell
By Osman’s mighty hand! the conqueror then,
Thou mayest remember, pitied his brave foe,
And, on his word, permitted him to leave
The banks of Jordan; we expect him still
To pay the ransom of our liberty,
And set us free: must all our hopes be vain?

zaÏre.

Perhaps his promise might exceed his power;
Two years are past, and yet he’s not returned:
Alas! my Fatima, a captive stranger,
To gain his liberty, might promise more
Than he could e’er perform: he talked, thou knowest,
Of bringing ransom for ten Christian slaves,
Would break their fetters, or resume his own:
I was too credulous, and much admired
His forward zeal, but I shall think no more on it.

fatima.

If yet he should be faithful, and return
To keep his plighted faith, then wouldst thou not—

zaÏre.

It is not as it was, my Fatima,
The time is past.

fatima.

What sayest thou?

zaÏre.

I’ll not hide
The secret from my friend; perhaps the Sultan
May yet conceal it, but thy Zaïre’s heart
With safety may repose on Fatima:
Know then, some three months since, when thou wert absent,
Removed with other slaves from Jordan’s banks,
Kind heaven, to put a period to our woes,
Raised up a powerful friend—the mighty Osman—

fatima.

Well, what of Osman?

zaÏre.

He, the Sultan’s self,
The Christian’s haughty conqueror, is the slave
Of Zaïre; yes, he loves me, Fatima;
Nay, blush not, (for I understand thee well)
Think not I mean to stain my spotless honor,
Or stoop to be the mistress of a tyrant;
That I will ever hazard the quick change
Of transitory passion; no, my friend,
I am not so far lost to modesty,
And native pride, as to forget myself;
Rather than fall so low I would embrace
The milder fate of slavery and death;
But I shall more astonish thee: for know,
I have subdued his haughty soul to love
Most pure, and most refined: amidst the crowd
Of rival beauties that contend for Osman,
I, I alone have fixed his wandering heart,
And Hymen soon, in spite of all their deep
And dark intrigues, shall make the Sultan mine

fatima.

It is a conquest worthy of thy charms,
And of thy virtues: I am much surprised,
But more delighted; may thy happiness
Be perfect! I shall rank myself with joy
Amongst thy subjects.

zaÏre.

Be my equal still,
And share my fortune; royalty with thee
Divided will make Zaïre doubly happy.

fatima.

Pleased with thy choice, long may indulgent heaven
Smile on thy nuptial bed; may never grief
Intrude to poison the sweet cup of grandeur,
By us called happiness! alas, how little
Doth it deserve the name! but tell me, Zaïre,
Art thou at ease, and feelest thou naught within
To check thy joys? hast thou forgot that once
Thou wert a Christian?

zaÏre.

Ha! what sayest thou? why
Wouldst thou recall my sorrows, Fatima?
Alas! I know not who or what I am,
Not even who gave me birth.

fatima.

Nerestan oft
Hath said, thou wert the daughter of a Christian;
The cross, which in thy infant years adorned thee,
Confirms it; still that sacred pledge remains
Perhaps but to remind thee of the faith
Which thou hast quitted.

zaÏre.

I’ve no other proof;
Shall that alone persuade me to embrace
A faith detested by the man I love?
Our thoughts, our manners, our religion, all
Are formed by custom, and the powerful bent
Of early years: born on the banks of Ganges
Zaïre had worshipped Pagan deities;
At Paris I had been a Christian; here
I am a happy Mussulman: we know
But what we learn; the instructing parent’s hand
Graves in our feeble hearts those characters
Which time retouches, and examples fix
So deeply in the mind, that naught but God
Can e’er efface: but thou wert hither brought
A captive at an age when reason joined
To sage experience had informed thy soul,
And well-confirmed its faith: for me, a slave
Even from my cradle to the Saracens,
Too late the Christian light broke in upon me;
Yet far from wishing ill to laws so pure,
Spite of myself, I own to thee, that cross,
Whene’er I looked upon it, filled my soul
With reverential awe, and oft in secret
Have I invoked its holy aid, ere Osman
Possessed my heart: thine is a noble faith;
I honor much those charitable laws
Which old Nerestan many a time hath told me
Would wipe off every tear, and make mankind
One sweet united family of love:
A Christian must be happy.

fatima.

Wherefore then
Wouldst thou become their most inveterate foe,
And wed their proud oppressor?

zaÏre.

Wouldst thou have me
Refuse so fair a present as the heart
Of Osman? no: I will confess my weakness;
But for the Sultan, Zaïre had long since
Embraced thy faith, and been, like thee, a Christian:
But Osman loves me, and ’tis all forgotten:
My every thought, my every hope is fixed
On him alone, and my enraptured soul
Can dwell on naught but Osman: O, my friend,
Think on his lovely form, and graceful mind,
His noble deeds, his glory, and renown:
The crown he offers is not worth my care;
The poor return of gratitude would ill
Repay his passion; love would spurn the gift:
’Tis not to Osman’s throne, but Osman’s self,
That I aspire: perhaps I am to blame;
But trust me, Fatima, if heaven had doomed him
To Zaïre’s fate, if he were now, like me,
A wretched slave, and I on Syria’s throne,
Or love deceives me much, or I should stoop
With joy, and raise him up to me and empire.

fatima.

But hark, they come this way; perhaps ’tis Osman.

zaÏre.

It is; it must be he; my fluttering heart
Speaks his arrival; for these two long days
He hath been absent, but propitious love
Restores him to my wishes.

SCENE II.

osman, zaïre, fatima.

osman.

Virtuous Zaïre,
Ere Hymen join our hands, permit me here
To pour forth all my honest heart before you:
I follow not our eastern monarchs’ laws,
Nor act by their example; well I know
How wide a field is left by Mahomet
For luxury to range in, that at pleasure
I might command a crowd of kneeling slaves,
Receive their incense, and return their love;
From the Seraglio’s peaceful seats deal forth
My laws, and in the arms of indolence
Govern my kingdom; but that well I know
How sloth deludes us, tempting are her charms,
But fatal is their end: a hundred kings
Have I beheld, her tributary slaves,
Our prophet’s most unworthy successors,
Caliphs that trembled midst the splendid pomp
Of visionary power, and only held
The name of kings, who might have lived the lords
Of all mankind, the conquerors of the world,
Had they but been, like their great ancestors,
The masters of themselves: then Solyma
And Syria fell beneath the valiant Bouillon,
But heaven, to chastise the impious foe,
Upraised the arm of mighty Saladin:
My father conquered Jordan, and to him,
Unequal to the weight of empire, next
Succeeded Osman, the disputed lord
Of a weak kingdom: whilst the haughty Christians,
Thirsting for blood, thick from the western coast,
Pour in upon me; whilst the voice of war,
And the shrill trumpet heard on every side,
Call us to arms, shall Osman waste his hours
In the loose dalliance of a soft seraglio?
No, Zaïre, love, and glory, bear me witness,
To thee alone I swear eternal truth,
To take thee for my mistress, and my wife;
To live thy friend, thy lover, and thy husband;
Zaïre alone shall with the toils of war
Divide my heart: think not I mean to trust
Thy honor to our savage Asian guards,
Those shameless pandars to the lawless pleasures
Of their imperious masters; I esteem
As well as love thee, and to Zaïre’s self
Its fittest guard, commit my Zaïre’s virtue.
Thou knowest my heart, on thee alone thou seest
Osman has placed his hopes of happiness;
I need not add how wretched it would make
My future life, shouldst thou repay my fondness
With the poor cold return of gratitude;
I love thee, Zaïre, yes, with rapture love thee,
And hope to find in thee an equal claim:
I own, whate’er the heart of Osman seeks,
It seeks with ardor; I should think you hated,
Did you not love me, with excess of passion:
Such is my nature; if it suits with thine,
I am thy husband, but on this condition,
And only this, if marriage did not make
Thee happy, I were most supremely wretched.

zaÏre.

Wretched, my lord? O if thy happiness
Depends on Zaïre’s truth, and Zaïre’s love,
Never was mortal half so blest as Osman.
Yes; the fond lover, and the tender wife,
All thou canst wish for, shalt thou find in Zaire,
For thou hast raised her far above her sex,
Above her hopes; O what excess of bliss
To hold my life, my happiness from thee,
Such envied bounties from the man I love,
To be the work of thy creating hand!
But if among the crowd of rival hearts
Thy partial favor has selected Zaïre’s,
O if thy choice—

SCENE III.

osman, zaïre, fatima, orasmin.

orasmin.

My lord, that Christian slave,
Who, on his promise given, had thy permission
To visit France, is thence returned, and begs
An audience.

osman.

Let him enter.

fatima.

Gracious heaven!

osman.

Why comes he not?

orasmin.

My lord, he waits without;
I did not think a Christian might approach
Your royal presence in this sacred place.

osman.

In every place access is free to Osman;
I hate our eastern policy, that hides
Its tyrants from the public eye, to screen
Oppression: give him entrance.

SCENE IV.

osman, zaïre, fatima, orasmin, nerestan.

nerestan.

Generous Sultan,
Whose virtues even thy Christian foes admire,
I come, as bound in honor, to discharge
My vows, and bring with me the promised ransom
Of beauteous Zaïre, the fair Selima,
And ten more Christian prisoners; I have done
My duty to the captives, do thou thine,
And set them free; I have bestowed on them
My little all, and naught remains for me
But noble poverty; Nerestan still
Must be thy slave; I have preserved my honor,
Unblemished, and fulfilled my sacred word.

osman.

Christian, thy virtue merits my best praise;
But think not Osman e’er will be surpassed
In generosity; receive thy freedom,
Take back thy treasures; take my bounty with them;
I promised thee ten Christian slaves, I’ll give thee
A hundred more, demand them when thou wilt;
Let them depart, and teach their countrymen,
That even in Syria’s plains some virtues dwell;
Thence let them judge, if they or Osman best
Deserve to reign in Solyma; but know,
Old Lusignan must still remain a captive;
It were not safe to give him liberty;
Sprung from the royal blood of France, he claims
A right to govern here, and that alone
Condemns him to perpetual slavery,
To groan in chains, and never more behold
The light of day: I pity him, and yet
It must be so; cruel necessity
Compels me to this rigor: and for Zaïre,
She must remain with me; not all thy gold
Can purchase her; not the whole race of Christians,
With all their kings, shall ever force her from me:
You may depart.

fatima.

What do I hear?

nerestan.

My lord,
She is a Christian born; I have your word,
Your honor, and her own, that she should go
When I returned: poor Lusignan! could he
Offend thee? wherefore wouldst thou—

osman.

Christian, hence:
It is my will; therefore no more: thy pride
Offends me; go, and ere to-morrow’s sun
Shines on this palace, leave my kingdom.

fatima.

Heaven
Assist us now!

osman.

Go, Zaïre, and assume
Thy empire o’er my palace; there command
As my Sultana; I will hence, and give
My orders for our nuptials.

SCENE V.

osman, orasmin.

osman.

Didst thou mark,
Orasmin, that presumptuous slave; he sighed,
And fixed his eyes upon her.

orasmin.

O my lord,
Beware of jealousy.

osman.

Ha! jealous, sayest thou?
Thinkest thou the pride of Osman will descend
So low! to love as if I hated her?
Suspicion but provokes the crime it fears;
Zaire is truth itself; and O Orasmin
I love her to idolatry; if e’er
I could be jealous—if my foolish heart—
But I will think no more on it; let my soul
Dwell on the sweet idea of her charms:
Haste, my Orasmin, and get all things ready
For the dear happy moment that unites
Thy sovereign to the object of his wishes:
One hour I will devote to public cares,
The rest shall all be given to love and Zaïre.

End of the First Act.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

nerestan, chatillon.

chatillon.

Joy to our great deliverer, the brave,
The generous Nerestan, sent by heaven
To save thy fellow Christians! O come forth,
Appear amongst us, and receive the tribute
Due to thy virtues; let the happy few,
Whom thou has blest with freedom, clasp thy knees,
And kiss thy gracious hand: they crowd to see
Their benefactor, do not hide thyself
From their desiring eyes, but let us all
United—

nerestan.

O Chatillon, talk not thus
Of my deservings, I have done no more
Than was my duty; circumstanced like me,
Like me thou wouldst have acted.

chatillon.

Every Christian
Should sacrifice himself to his religion:
To leave our own, and think on other’s good,
Is our first happiness; how blest art thou,
By gracious heaven appointed to perform
This noble duty! but, for us, the sport
Of cruel fortune, slaves in Solyma,
By Osman’s father left in chains, and long
Forgotten, here for life we had remained
In sad captivity, nor e’er beheld
Our native land, had not thy generous aid
Stepped in to save us.

nerestan.

’Twas the hand of heaven;
I was but its unworthy instrument;
Its providence hath softened the fierce soul
Of youthful Osman: but a bitter draught
Is poured into my cup of joy; his mercy
Is cruel and oppressive: God, who sees
My heart, will bear me witness that I meant
To serve his cause, and act for him alone;
For heaven I had reserved a youthful beauty,
Whom fierce Nouraddin had enslaved, what time
The proud contemners of our holy faith
Surprised great Lusignan, myself long-time
A captive with her; I at length regained
Short liberty, on promise of return;
And now had fondly hoped, delusive dream!
To bring back Zaïre to that happy court
Where Louis and the virtues reign: already
The queen, propitious to my friendly zeal,
Forth from the throne stretched her protecting hand;
But now alas! the wished-for moment near
That should have freed her from captivity,
She must not go; what did I say? she will not;
Zaïre herself forsakes the Christian faith
For Osman, for the Sultan, who, it seems,
Adores her—but we’ll think no more of Zaïre,
Another cruel care demands our grief,
Another base refusal; O Chatillon,
The wretched Christian’s hope is now no more.

chatillon.

Accept my all, my liberty, my life,
If it can save them, ’tis at thy disposal.

nerestan.

Alas! old Lusignan is still a slave,
The last of his great race, a race of heroes,
Descended from the valiant Bouillon; he,
Whom fame has made immortal, still must groan
In chains, for Osman never will restore him.

chatillon.

Then all thy goodness, all thy cares are vain:
What soldier, who e’er held his honor dear,
Would wish for freedom whilst his chief remains
In slavery! Thou, Nerestan, couldst not know
The gallant Lusignan as I have known him,
For thou wert born, so gracious heaven ordained,
Long after those sad times of woe and slaughter,
When I beheld our city fall a prey
To these barbarians: O if thou hadst seen
The temple sacked, the holy tomb profaned,
Fathers, and children, husbands, daughters, wives,
In flames expiring at the altar’s feet;
Our good old sovereign, bent beneath the weight
Of years, and murdered o’er his bleeding sons!
Then Lusignan, the last of his high race,
Revived our drooping courage; terrible
He stood, amidst the carnage of the field,
His right hand grasped a falchion wet with blood,
And with the left he pointed to the cross;
Then cried aloud, “Now countrymen be faithful.”
The power divine, that favored us this day,
Protected him in that tremendous hour
Beneath its friendly wing, and smoothed his path
To safety and repose: Cæsarea then
Received our poor remains, where Lusignan
Was by the general voice proclaimed our king:
O my Nerestan, the Almighty power,
To humble haughty man, withholds from him
Fair virtue’s prize till life’s short race is run;
We fought long-time for heaven, but fought in vain;
The sacred city, smoking in its ruins,
Still lay, when by a treacherous Greek betrayed
In our asylum, we beheld the flame
That raged in hapless Sion reach to us,
And over Cæsarea’s walls with fury spread;
There, bound in ignominious chains, I saw
Great Lusignan, superior to misfortune,
And only weeping for his country’s fate;
E’er since that fatal hour the good old man,
The Christians’ father (he deserves that name)
In a dark dungeon lies, by all neglected,
By all forgotten: such is the hard fate
For us he suffers, and whilst he is wretched
Tell me, Nerestan, how can we be happy?

nerestan.

Unless we were barbarians: O I loathe
The destiny that keeps us from each other;
Thou hast recalled the times and sorrows past;
I shudder at the sad remembrance of them:
Cæsarea buried in her smoking ruins,
Thy prison, and great Lusignan in bondage,
Were the first objects that my eyes beheld;
I know thy woes, with them my life began;
Midst shrieking infants, ravished from the breasts
Of trembling mothers, was Nerestan borne
To this seraglio, with my fellow-captive,
The lovely Zaïre, who, forgive my sighs,
For this barbarian now hath left her God.

chatillon.

It is the glory of these Mussulmans
Thus to seduce the minds of captive Christians;
Blest be the hand of heaven that saved thy youth
From their delusions; but, my lord, this Zaïre,
Though she renounced the Christian faith, may serve
The Christian cause; her interest with the Sultan,
Who loves her, may be useful; by what arm
God sends us help, it matters not; for justice
With wisdom oft conspires to draw advantage
Alike from our misfortunes, and our crimes:
The beauteous Zaïre’s influence may subdue
The stubborn heart of Osman, and persuade him
To give us back a hero whom himself
Must needs admire, and whom he cannot fear.

nerestan.

But thinkest thou Lusignan would condescend
To take his liberty on terms like these?
Or if he would, how can I get from Zaïre
A moment’s audience? Osman will not grant it:
Will this seraglio’s gates, for ever barred,
Open to me? nay, grant I gain admission,
What can I hope from an apostate woman?
Nerestan’s presence would reproach her falsehood,
And she must read her shame upon my brow:
’Tis most ungrateful to the generous mind
To sue for aid of those whom we despise:
If they refuse, it sorely hurts our pride;
And if they grant, we blush to accept it of them.

chatillon.

Yet think on Lusignan, and strive to serve him.

nerestan.

I must: but how to get at this false woman—
We’re interrupted; ha! who comes? ’tis Zaïre.

SCENE II.

zaïre, chatillon, nerestan.

zaÏre.

[To Nerestan.
Be not alarmed; by Osman’s leave I come
To thank the brave Nerestan; do not look
So sternly on me, nor with bitter words
Reproach my weakness; I have wished, yet feared,
To meet thee; why I know not, but my heart
Still flutters at thy presence; from our birth
We have been subject to one common fate;
One prison held us in our infant years;
Together have we felt the galling yoke
Of slavery, still by tender friendship made
Lighter to both: at length thy kinder fate
Led thee to France, and I was left to mourn
Thy absence; whether it arose from pity,
From nobleness of soul, or partial fondness,
I know now, but thy generous ardor fought
And gained a ransom for the hapless Zaïre;
But heaven hath counteracted thy kind purpose,
And I am doomed for ever to remain
In Solyma: long time a slave unknown,
And undistinguished, Zaïre lived, till Osman
Look’d down upon me; but tho’ fortune smiles
Propitious now, and offers all her charms
Of pomp and grandeur, yet I cannot leave
Without regret my fellow-captive: oft
Shall I reflect on thee, and on thy goodness,
And cherish the remembrance of thy virtues:
Like thee, I will endeavor to relieve
The wretched, ever will protect the Christians,
And be a mother to them; for thy sake
They will be always dear to Zaïre.

nerestan.

You
Protect the Christian! you who have forsaken them?
You, who have trampled on the sacred ashes
Of Lusignan’s great ancestors!

zaÏre.

O no:
I hold their virtues in most dear remembrance,
And come even now to give you back your joy,
Your hope, the last and greatest of their race:
Your Lusignan is free, and comes to meet you.

chatillon.

And shall we see once more our honored father,
Our best support?

nerestan.

And shall we owe to Zaïre
A life so precious?

zaÏre.

When I asked the favor
I did not hope it, but the generous sultan,
Beyond my wish, consented, and they soon
Will bring him here.

nerestan.

How my heart beats, Chatillon!

zaÏre.

I weep his fate, Nerestan, for, like him,
I too have languished in captivity;
Woes which ourselves have felt we always pity.

nerestan.

Good heaven, what virtue in an infidel!

SCENE III.

zaïre, lusignan, chatillon, nerestan,Several Christian Slaves.

lusignan.

Who calls me from the dark abode of death?
Am I with Christians? O support me, guide
My trembling footsteps; I am weak with age
And with misfortunes: am I free indeed?

zaÏre.

You are, my lord.

chatillon.

You live to make us happy,
Us wretched Christians.

lusignan.

Sure I know that voice:
Can it be you, Chatillon? do I see
My friend, my fellow martyr to the faith
Of our forefathers? where am I? O aid
My feeble sight!

chatillon.

This is the palace, sir,
Built by your royal ancestors, but now
The seat of fierce Nouraddin’s son.

zaÏre.

Great Osman,
Its noble master, is a friend to virtue:
This generous youth,
[Pointing to Nerestan.
To thee unknown, from France
Is late arrived, and kindly brings with him
The ransom of ten Christian slaves; the sultan,
Resolved in honor’s path to tread with him,
To crown their wishes, has delivered thee.

lusignan.

The sons of France are in their nature noble,
Beneficent, and brave; I know them well,
And have experienced their humanity.
[Turning to Nerestan.
Hast thou then passed the ocean to relieve
These wretched captives’ woes, and set us free?
Say, generous stranger, whom am I to thank
For this unequalled goodness?

nerestan.

I am called
Nerestan; almost from my birth a slave
In Solyma; I left in earliest years
The Turkish empire, and with Louis learned
The rugged talk of war; beneath his banner
Long time I fought; to him I owe my rank
And fortune, to the first of monarchs, famed
Alike for valor and for holy zeal
To heaven and its true faith: I followed him
To Charent’s banks, where the fierce English, long
Unconquered, bent beneath the Gallic power.
Haste then, and show the venerable marks
Of thy hard slavery to the best of kings;
He will reward thee; Paris will revere
A martyr to the cross, and Louis’ court,
The asylum of oppressed royalty,
With open arms receive an injured sovereign.

lusignan.

I knew the court of France in all its glory;
When Philip conquered at Bouvines, I fought
With Montmorency, Melum, and d’Estaing,
With valiant Nesle, and the renowned Coucy,
But never shall behold it more; alas!
Thou seest I am descending to the grave,
To seek the King of Kings, and ask of him
The due reward of all my sufferings past.
Whilst I have life, yet hear me, thou kind witness
Of my last moments, good Chatillon, thou
Nerestan, too, and this fair mourner here,
Who honors with her tears the wretched fate
Of dying Lusignan: O pity me,
Pity the most unhappy father sure
That ever groaned beneath the wrath of heaven!
Time has no power o’er miseries like mine:
Still I lament a daughter, and three sons,
Torn from me in their infancy: Chatillon,
Thou must remember it.

chatillon.

I do, my lord,
And shudder at it now.

lusignan.

A prisoner with me,
Cæsarea then in flames, thou sawest my wife
And two of my dear sons expire.

chatillon.

I did;
Loaded with chains I could not help them.

lusignan.

O
I was a father, and yet could not die:
O ye loved infants, from your heavenly mansion
Look down propitious on my other children,
If yet they live, O succor and protect them!
To this seraglio, even where now we stand,
That daughter and that son whom I lament
Were by the hands of vile barbarians borne,
And here condemned to bear the shameful yoke
Of slavery.

chatillon.

’Tis too true; your daughter then
Was in her cradle; in these arms I held her,
And scarce had time to sprinkle o’er her face
The holy water, and pronounce her Christian,
E’er the rude hands of bloody Saracens
Rushed in, and tore her from me: thy last son,
Scarce four years old, just capable of feeling
His early sorrows, to Jerusalem
Was carried with his sister.

nerestan.

How my heart
Beats at the mournful tale! about that age
I was a prisoner in Cæsarea; thence,
Covered with blood, and bound in chains, I followed
A crowd of Christian slaves.

lusignan.

Didst thou; O heaven!
And wert thou brought up here in this seraglio?
[Looking earnestly at them.
Alas! perhaps you might have known my children,
Your age the same; perhaps these eyes—O madam,
What foreign ornament is that? how long
May you have worn it?

zaÏre.

Ever since my birth:
Why sigh you, sir?

lusignan.

Permit my trembling hands—

zaÏre.

Whence is this strange emotion? O my lord,
What look you so intently on?

lusignan.

O heaven!
O Providence! O eyes, do not deceive
My fearful hope—’tis she—it was a present
To my dear wife; my children always wore it
Upon their birthday: O I faint, I die
With rapture.

zaÏre.

Ha! what do I hear? my soul
Is lost in doubt; O say, my lord—

lusignan.

Great God,
Who seest my tears, forsake me not; O thou
Who on this cross didst perish, and for us
Didst rise again, this is thy work, O haste,
Complete it, gracious heaven!
[Turning to Zaire.
And hast thou kept it
Indeed so long? and were you prisoners both,
Both in Cæsarea seized, and brought together?

zaÏre.

We were, my lord.

nerestan.

Can it be so?

lusignan.

Their speech,
Their features, all confirm it; every look
Brings their dear mother to my eyes: O heaven,
Restore my feeble senses thus o’erpowered
With joy! O madam, O Nerestan, help,
Chatillon, to support me! O Nerestan,
If yet I ought to call thee by that name,
Once thou wert wounded, by a desperate hand;
I saw the villain strike thee; hast thou not
The scar upon thy breast?

nerestan.

I have, my lord.

lusignan.

Just God! blessed moment!

nerestan.

[Kneeling.
O my lord! O Zaïre!

lusignan.

Come near, my children.

nerestan.

Am I then your son?

zaÏre.

My lord!

lusignan.

O blessed discovery! happy hour!
My son! my daughter! O embrace your father!

chatillon.

Trust me, Chatillon’s heart rejoices with you.

lusignan.

I know not how to force me from your arms,
My dearest children! do I then behold
Once more my wretched family? my son,
Thou art the worthy heir of Lusignan:
But say, my daughter, O dispel the doubts
That rise to check my happiness! O God,
That guidest our fortunes, thou who hast restored
My daughter, have I found a Christian? Zaïre,
Alas! thou weepest, and thy dejected eyes
Are turned aside from me: unhappy woman!
I understand thee but too well: O heaven,
O guilt! guilt!

zaÏre.

Yes: I’ll not deceive my father:
Brought up in Osman’s court, and to his laws
Obedient; punish sir, your wretched daughter;
I own I was a Mussulman.

lusignan.

The wrath
Of heaven pursues me still; and but for thee,
My son, that word had ended my sad being:
For thee, O God! and in thy glorious cause,
These threescore years old Lusignan hath fought,
But fought in vain; hath seen thy temple fall,
Thy goodness spurned, thy sacred rites profaned:
For twenty summers in a dungeon hid,
With tears have I implored thee to protect
My children; thou hast given them to my wishes,
And in my daughter now I find thy foe:
I am myself, alas! the fatal cause
Of thy lost faith; had I not been a slave—
But, O my daughter! thou dear lovely object
Of all my cares, O think on the pure blood
Within thy veins, the blood of twenty kings,
All Christians like myself, the blood of heroes,
Defenders of the faith, the blood of martyrs:
Thou art a stranger to thy mother’s fate;
Thou dost not know, that in the very moment
That gave thee birth, I saw her massacred
By those barbarians, whose detested faith
Thou hast embraced: thy brothers, the dear martyrs,
Stretch forth their hands from heaven, and wish to embrace
A sister; O remember them! that God
Whom thou betrayest, for us, and for mankind,
Even in this place expired; where I so oft
Have fought for him, where now his blood by me
Calls loudly on thee: see you temple, see
These walls; behold the sacred mountain, where
Thy Saviour bled; the tomb whence he arose
Victorious; in each path where’er thou treadest
Shalt thou behold the footsteps of thy God:
Wilt thou renounce thy honor and thy father?
Wilt thou renounce thy maker? O my Zaïre,
Thou weepest; the blood forsakes thy cheek; I see
Thy heart is softened to repentance: truth,
Sent by indulgent heaven, already beams
On thy enlightened soul; again I find
My daughter; from the hands of infidels
To save her thus in happiness and glory.

nerestan.

Do I indeed once more behold a sister?
And is her soul—

zaÏre.

Dear author of my life,
My father, speak; what must I do?

lusignan.

Remove
At once my shame and sorrow with a word,
And say thou art—a Christian.

zaÏre.

Then, my lord,
I am a Christian.

lusignan.

’Tis enough, O God!
Thou hearest, receive, and ratify her vow!

SCENE IV.

zaïre, lusignan, chatillon, nerestan, orasmin.

orasmin.

Madam, the sultan wills me to inform you,
You must this moment leave the place, and quit
These Christian slaves: you, Frenchmen, follow me.

chatillon.

What dreadful stroke is this?

lusignan.

Our courage, friends,
Must now support us.

zaÏre.

O my lord!

lusignan.

O thou,
Whom now I dare not name, remember me,
And swear that thou wilt keep the fatal secret.

zaÏre.

I swear.

lusignan.

Farewell! the rest be left to heaven.

End of the Second Act.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

osman, orasmin.

osman.

Orasmin, ’tis not as thy groundless fears
Suggested to thee; Louis turns no more
His arms against us; his disgusted people
Are wearied with the unsuccessful search
Of climates, which heaven ne’er designed for them:
They will not leave their seats of ease and plenty
To languish in Arabia’s sultry deserts,
And wet our verdant palms in Christian blood:
Their ships are spread indeed o’er Syria’s sea,
And Asia trembles at the sight; but know,
Towards fertile Egypt Louis bends his way,
In search of Melidor, my secret foe:
Their quarrels fix but on a firmer base
The throne of Osman: I have nought to fear
From Egypt or from France; by their division
My power is strengthened: prodigal of blood,
I thank them for it, they destroy each other,
To save my subjects and avenge my cause.
Release those Christians; I would please their master,
And therefore they shall live; let them be sent
To Louis; it may teach him to respect
Our holy faith, and know me for his friend:
Tell him I give him Lusignan, the man
Who claims by birth alliance to his throne,
Whom my brave father twice subdued, and kept
In chains, nor whilst he lived would set him free.

orasmin.

His name so dear to Christians—

osman.

For his name
I heed it not.

orasmin.

O but, my lord, if Louis—

osman.

’Twere needless to dissemble now, Orasmin,
’Tis Zaïre’s will, therefore no more; my heart
Yields to its conqueror, and Lusignan
Is given to her; I had not else released
My pris’ner: Louis is not worth my care;
But I would make atonement for the wrongs
Of injured Zaïre and her Christian friends;
I’ve been too harsh with them: ’tis but an hour
Before our happy nuptials, and meantime
I would oblige my Zaïre; she desires
Some private conference with the brave Nerestan,
That generous Christian—

orasmin.

And have you complied?

osman.

I have, Orasmin: they were slaves together
Even from their childhood, and perhaps may ne’er
Behold each other more; she asks, in short,
Who must not be denied: the rigid laws
Of our seraglio were not made for Zaïre;
I hate its cruel, its severe restraint,
That binds the free-born soul in shameful bonds,
And makes a virtue of necessity.
I am not sprung, thank heaven! of Asian blood,
But, midst the rocks of Tauric Scythia born,
From my forefathers boast a Scythian heart,
Fiery and bold, yet generous and humane:
I would have all partake of Osman’s joy,
And therefore let Nerestan see her: go,
Conduct him to her, he attends without;
Let Zaïre be obeyed.

SCENE II.

orasmin, nerestan.

orasmin.

Please you to rest
A moment here, till Zaïre comes.

SCENE III.

nerestan.

[Alone.
Just heaven!
And must I leave her? cruel fate! to whom,
To what is she reserved? alas! my father,
Religion, virtue—but she’s here.

SCENE IV.

zaïre, nerestan.

nerestan.

My sister,
At length we may converse; but what a time
Hath heaven appointed for our meeting! ne’er
Wilt thou behold thy wretched father more.

zaÏre.

Not Lusignan? O God!

nerestan.

His end is nigh:
His feeble powers, oppressed with sudden joy
At the unexpected sight of his dear children,
Are quite exhausted, and the springs of life
Will soon be motionless; but, O my sister,
Think how the wretched state of his last moments
Will be embittered by his cruel doubts
Concerning thee; uncertain of thy faith
He dies, and asks with his expiring breath
If Zaïre is a Christian.

zaÏre.

Am I not
Thy sister? thinkest thou I will e’er renounce
Thy faith and mine, forgetful of the tie
That binds us?

nerestan.

Yet thou art a stranger to it;
’Tis but the morning of that glorious day
Which must enlighten thee; thou hast not yet
Received the precious pledge, the sacred stream
That copious flows to wash our crimes away:
Swear by our miseries, by our family,
By all those holy martyrs whence we sprung,
Thou wilt this day receive the mystic seal,
The mark distinctive of the living God.

zaÏre.

I swear to thee, by him whom I adore,
That God whose laws unknowing I revere,
Henceforth, Nerestan, to embrace thy faith
And be a Christian: but, O tell me, what
Doth it require of Zaïre?

nerestan.

To detest
Thy tyrant master, and obey the God
Of our forefathers, that benignant power
Who died to save us, who conducted me
To my dear sister, and restored to thee
Our long-lost father; but, alas! Nerestan
Cannot instruct thee, mine’s a soldier’s zeal,
Devoid of knowledge; soon a holy priest
Shall visit thee, and open the fair book
Of wisdom, clear thy mind’s obstructed sight,
And give thee liberty, and life: remember
Thy oath; take heed that baptism lead thee not
To curses and to death: but how, my sister,
Shall I gain leave to bring him to thee? whom
Must I apply to in this vile seraglio?
O heaven! that thus the blood of twenty kings,
The daughter of great Lusignan, that thou,
Nerestan’s sister, and a Christian, thus
Should be the slave of Osman! but, no more;
You understand me, Zaïre: gracious God!
Were we reserved for this at last?

zaÏre.

Go on,
My cruel brother, and pursue thy triumph
O’er Zaïre’s weakness; O thou knowest not yet
Her secret faults, her sorrows, and her crimes:
Pity, Nerestan, an unhappy sister,
Misled, betrayed, and dying with despair:
I am a Christian, and impatient wait
The holy water that must purge my heart,
And wash its stains away: I will not live
Unworthy of my brother, of myself,
Of my great ancestors, of thee, my father,
Afflicted Lusignan! but tell me all,
What will your Christian laws require of Zaïre?
How will they punish an unhappy woman,
Left to repine in sad captivity?
What, if amidst her sorrows she should find
A generous patron in a brave barbarian,
Warmed by his goodness, what if she should feel
A grateful passion, and give up her heart
To him that saved her?

nerestan.

Ha! what sayest thou? rather
Might instant death—

zaÏre.

Strike, and prevent thy shame;
For know—

nerestan.

O heaven! couldst thou, my sister?

zaÏre.

Yes;
I stand condemned, I am my own accuser:
Osman adores me, and I meant to wed him.

nerestan.

To wed him? to wed Osman? can it be?
Couldst thou, descended from a race of kings,
Couldst thou, my sister?

zaÏre.

Strike; for know, I love him.

nerestan.

Shame as thou art to our untainted blood,
Now, did I listen to the voice of honor,
Did not the law of that all-saving God
Whom yet thou knowest not, did not my religion
Withhold my arm, this moment would I rush
Into the palace, and there sacrifice
This vile barbarian, this imperious lover;
Would plunge the dagger in thy guilty breast,
Then turn it on my own: O infamy!
Whilst Louis, the world’s bright example, bears
His conquering legions to the affrighted Nile,
But to return on wings of victory
To free thy captive God, and give him back
His native walls, meantime Nerestan’s sister
Renounces all, and weds an infidel:
And must I tell the good old man, his daughter
Hath chosen a Tartar for her God? alas!
Ev’n now thy dying father kneels to heaven
For Zaïre’s happiness.

zaÏre.

O stay, my brother,
Perhaps thy Zaïre still deserves thy love;
Thou dost not know me; spare thy keen reproaches,
For, O, thy cruel scorn, thy bitter wrath,
Is worse to me even than the death I asked,
Which yet thou hast refused me: O Nerestan,
I know thou art oppressed, I know thou sufferest
For my misfortunes; but I suffer more:
Would that kind heaven had taken my wretched life,
Before this heart glowed with a guilty flame
For Osman! and yet, who that knew his virtues
Would not have loved him! he did all for me;
His generous heart from crowds of fond admirers
Selected Zaïre; she alone subdued
His fiery soul, and softened his resentment:
He hath revived the Christian’s hope; to him
I owe the dear delight of seeing thee,
My brother: O Nerestan, thou shouldst pardon,
Indeed thou shouldst, for I am truly wretched:
My oath, my duty, my remorse, my father,
My fatal passion, and thy cruel anger,
Are punishment enough: repentance fills
All Zaïre’s soul, and leaves no room for love.

nerestan.

I blame, yet pity thee: kind heaven, I trust,
Will never let thee perish in thy sins;
The arm of God, that makes the weakest strong,
Will cherish and support a tender flower
That bends beneath the fury of the storm:
He will not suffer thy divided heart
To fluctuate thus ’twixt Him and a barbarian;
Baptism will quench the guilty flame, and Zaïre
In the true faith shall live a pious Christian,
Or die a martyr: promise then thy father,
Promise thy king, thy country, and that God
Whose powerful voice thou hast already heard,
Thou wilt not think of these detested nuptials
Before the priest hath opened thy dark mind,
And, in Nerestan’s sight, pronounced thee Christian:
Say, wilt thou promise, Zaïre?

zaÏre.

Yes; I promise:
Make me a Christian, make me free; do what
Thou wilt with Zaïre: but haste, close the eyes
Of my dear father: would I could go with thee,
And die before him!

nerestan.

Sister, fare thee well!
Since I must leave thee in this hated palace,
Farewell! remember, I shall soon return
To save thee from perdition, from thyself,
And from the powers of hell, by holy baptism.

SCENE V.

zaÏre.

[Alone.
I am alone: now hear me, gracious heaven!
For what am I reserved? O God, command
This rebel heart not to relinquish thee!
Am I the daughter of great Lusignan,
Or Osman’s wife; a lover, or a Christian?
Ye sacred oaths, my father, and my country,
All shall be heard, all shall be satisfied!
But where’s my friend? where is my Fatima?
In this distressful hour the world forsakes me:
Deserted, and forlorn, how shall I bear
The galling weight of these discordant duties!
O God! I will be thine, and thine alone;
But, O! preserve me from the sight of Osman,
The dear, the generous Osman! did I think
This morn, that ere the day was past, my heart
Should dread to see him; I whose every hope
And joy, and happiness, on him alone
Depended? O! I had no other care,
No pleasure, but to listen to his love;
To wish, and wait for, and adore my Osman!
And now it is a crime to think of him.

SCENE VI.

zaïre, osman.

osman.

Come forth, my love! for my impatient soul
Is on the wing, and will not brook delay!
The torch of Hymen casts its sacred light
On happy Osman, and the perfumed mosque
Invites us; Mahomet’s all-powerful God
Propitious hears and answers to our vows;
My people on their knees, in fervent prayer,
United sue for Zaïre’s happiness;
Whilst thy proud rivals, who disputed long
My heart with thee, at length confess thy power,
Pleased to submit, and happy to obey:
The rites attend thee, and the throne’s prepared;
Haste then, my love, and make thy Osman happy.

zaÏre.

O grief! O love! O wretched Zaïre!

osman.

Haste.

zaÏre.

O hide me!

osman.

Ha! what sayest thou?

zaÏre.

O my lord—

osman.

Give me thy hand, come, beauteous Zaïre, deign—

zaÏre.

What can I say to him? assist me, heaven!

osman.

O! I must triumph o’er this tender weakness,
This sweet embarrassment; it makes me love thee
With double ardor.

zaÏre.

osman.

Those sighs, my Zaïre,
Endear thee more to Osman; ’tis the mark
Of modest virtue thus to shrink from love;
But haste, my charmer, and repay my fondness,
My constancy—

zaÏre.

O Fatima, support me!
My lord—

osman.

Well, what? O heaven!

zaire.

That heaven’s my witness,
All Zaire’s hopes of happiness were placed
On thee; my soul desired to call thee mine:
Not that I sought the splendor of a throne;
Thoughts distant far and nobler filled my breast:
I could have wish, to thee and to thy virtues
United, to have lived in solitude,
With thee despised the pomp of Asia’s pride,
And spurned her crowns and sceptres at my feet:
But O! my lord, these Christians—

osman.

What have they
To do with Osman, or with Osman’s love?

zaÏre.

Old Lusignan, oppressed with age and sorrow,
Now touches his last moments.

osman.

Be it so;
What is that Christian slave to thee, or why
Feelest thou for him? thou art not of his faith,
But from thy infant years hast followed mine,
And worshipped Osman’s God; shall Zaïre weep
Because an old man pays the debt of nature?
At such a time as this shall Zaïre mourn?
Should she not rather centre all her cares
In Osman now, and think of naught but love?

zaÏre.

If ever I was dear to thee—

osman.

If ever!
O God!

zaÏre.

Defer, my lord, a little while
Our nuptials, let me—

osman.

Ha! what sayest thou? heaven!
Can Zaïre speak thus?

zaÏre.

O I cannot bear
His anger.

osman.

Zaïre!

zaÏre.

O forgive, my lord,
These sighs! alas, I have forgot myself,
Forgot my duty, all I owe to thee:
I cannot bear that look—permit me, sir,
But for a moment to retire, to hide
My tears, my grief, my love, and my despair.
[She goes out.

SCENE VII.

osman, orasmin.

osman.

Amazement! dumb and motionless I stand
With horror: did I hear aright, Orasmin,
Was it to me that Zaïre spoke, to Osman?
Does she avoid me; fly from me? O heaven!
What have I seen, and whence this wondrous change?
She’s gone, she’s lost; I know not who I am,
Or what, or where.

orasmin.

You are yourself the cause
Of your complaint, and but accuse a heart
Where you and you alone in triumph reign.

osman.

But why those sighs, those tears, that sudden flight!
Whence that deep sorrow, in her downcast eyes
So plainly written? O if that wily Frenchman—
Horrible thought! how dreadfully the light
Breaks in upon me! ’tis impossible;
A vile barbarian; O, it cannot be
Orasmin; thinkest thou that the heart of Osman
Will e’er descend to fear a Christian slave?
But tell me, thou perhaps couldst mark her features,
And understand the language of her eye;
Am I betrayed? nay, do not hide thy thoughts,
But let me know my misery: ha! thou tremblest;
It is enough.

orasmin.

I would not rive thy heart
With fond suspicions: I beheld her weep,
But nothing more; saw naught that could alarm—

osman.

Was I reserved to bear an injury
Like this? had Zaïre meant to play me false,
She would have done it with more art; would ne’er
Have openly avowed her treacherous purpose:
O no; she must be innocent; but tell me,
This Frenchman—he, thou sayest too sighed and wept;
And what of that! he might not sigh for her;
It was not love perhaps that made him weep;
Or if it was, why should I fear a slave,
One who to-morrow parts from her forever?

orasmin.

Against our laws, my lord, you gave him leave
To see her twice; he came.

osman.

The traitor! yes,
I know he did; but if again he dares
To visit her, I’ll tear the slave to pieces,
And mix his life-blood with the faithless Zaire’s.
Pardon, my friend, the transports of a heart
So deeply pierced; it is by nature warm,
And has been wounded in the tenderest part:
I know my rage, Orasmin, and my weakness,
Know ’tis beneath me to be thus disturbed;
But Zaïre—O I cannot, will not think it:
Her heart could ne’er be guilty of such baseness,
It was not made for falsehood; nor shall Osman
Stoop to complaint or mean submission; no:
It were unworthy of a king to wait
For explanations of this strange conduct:
I will resume that empire o’er my heart
Which I had lost, forget the very name
Of Zaïre: yes; henceforth let my seraglio
Be shut forever, fear and terror reign
Within my palace; let despotic power
Rule unreluctant o’er a race of slaves!
Osman henceforth shall be an eastern king,
And reign like them: perhaps we may forget
Our rank a while, and cast an eye of favor
Upon our vassals; but to stand in awe
Of a proud mistress, is most shameful; no:
To western climes we leave such fond submission
The dangerous sex, ambitious to enslave
Our easy hearts, and bend them to their will,
In Europe rule, but here they must obey.

End of the Third Act.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

zaïre, fatima.

fatima.

How I admire, and how I pity thee!
The Christian God inspires thee; let not then
Thy soul despair, for he shall give thee strength
To break the powerful chains of mighty love.

zaÏre.

When shall I make the glorious sacrifice?

fatima.

Thou suest to heaven for pardon, but mayest claim
Its justice; God will guard thy innocence,
And shield thy virtue.

zaÏre.

Zaïre never wanted
His kind protection more.

fatima.

The God thou servest
Will be a father to thee; he shall guide
Thy wandering steps, speak to thy doubting heart,
And take thee to his bosom: though the priest
Dare not attend thee here—

zaÏre.

Alas! my friend,
How have I pierced the soul of generous Osman,
And driven him to despair! a dreadful task!
But ’tis thy will, O God, and I obey:
Zaïre had been too happy.

fatima.

Wilt thou then
Hazard the victory after all thy toil?

zaÏre.

Unhappy victory, and inhuman virtue!
Alas! thou knowest not, Fatima, how dear
They cost me; all my hopes of happiness
Were fixed on love, and Osman: take my heart,
Accept my guilty tears, subdue my passion
Eternal God, and make me all thy own!
But O my friend, even now the lovely image
Of my dear generous Osman steps between
My God and me; that form is still before me,
Forever in my sight: ye race of kings
From whom I sprang, my father, mother, country,
And thou, my God, since you have taken him from me,
Finish a life that is not worth my care
Without him; let me die a blameless victim,
Let Osman close the eyes of her he loved!
But he has left me, left the wretched Zaïre,
Inquires not, thinks not of me; O I faint,
My Fatima, I never can survive it.

fatima.

Remember thou art the daughter of a king,
The favorite of heaven, the chosen of God;
And will not he protect thee?

zaÏre.

Will he not
Protect my Osman too? a God of mercy
Can never hate, can never persecute
A heart so just, so brave, so good as Osman’s;
What could he more, had he been born a Christian?
O that this holy minister would come,
This blest interpreter of heaven’s high will,
To ease my wounded heart, and give me comfort!
Still I have hope that kind benignant God,
Whose darling attribute is clemency,
Will not forbid our union, will forgive
The struggles of a heart so torn as mine;
Perhaps by raising Zaïre to the throne
Of Syria he might serve the Christian cause:
Great Saladin, thou knowest, whose potent arm
Robbed us of Jordan’s empire, who, like Osman,
Was famed for mercy, from a Christian sprung.

fatima.

Alas! thou seest not that, to calm thy soul,
Mistaken as thou art—

zaÏre.

I see it all;
See that my father, country, friends, condemn me;
See that I follow Lusignan, yet love.
Adore my Osman; see that still my life
Is linked with his: O I could wish to see him,
To throw me at his feet, and tell him all.

fatima.

That would destroy thy brother, and endanger
The Christians, who have no support but thee;
Thou wouldst betray that God who calls thee back
From error’s paths, and bids thee follow him.

zaÏre.

O didst thou know the noble heart of Osman!

fatima.

He is protector of the Mussulman,
Therefore the more he loves thee, doubtless, Zaïre,
Less willing must he be to have thee worship
A God his faith has taught him to abhor.
The priest, thou knowest, will visit thee in secret,
And thou hast promised—

zaÏre.

I will wait for him;
I’ve promised to preserve the secret still
From Osman; cruel silence! but to make
My woes complete, I am no longer loved.

SCENE II.

osman, zaïre.

osman.

There was a time when thy deluding charms
Inflamed my soul; a willing captive then
I gloried in my chains: I hoped indeed,
Vain hope! a sovereign sighing at thy feet
Might claim some kind return, and thought myself
Beloved by Zaïre; but I am undeceived:
Yet think not, madam, I will ever stoop
To mean complaints, or with the whining race
Of vulgar lovers vindicate my wrongs
By loud reproaches; no: I am above
Dissimulation, and am come to tell you
I mean to treat it with that just contempt
Which it deserves; think not by female arts,
Or subtle arguments, to color o’er
Thy conduct, I disclaim thee, know thee not;
And, for I would not make thee blush, desire
The hated cause may be a secret still;
I would not wish to know it: all is past:
Another may be found to fill the throne
Which you despise; another may have eyes
Perhaps for Osman’s merit, and a heart
For Osman’s love: I know ’twill cost me dear
To part from Zaïre, but I am resolved:
For I had rather lose thee, rather die
With anguish and despair, than make thee mine,
If but a sigh escaped thee for another,
And not for Osman: fare thee well; these eyes
Must ne’er behold thee more.

zaÏre.

It is thy will
O, God, to reign unrivalled in my heart,
And thou hast robbed me now of all:—my lord,
Since you no longer love me—

osman.

’Tis too true;
Honor commands it; I adored thee once,
But I must leave thee, must renounce thee, ’twas
Thy own request—beneath another law—
Zaïre, thou weepest!

zaÏre.

O think not, I beseech you,
Think not, my lord, I shall regret the pomp
And splendor of a throne; it is decreed
That I must lose thee, such is my hard fate:
But punish me forever, angry heaven,
If there be aught on earth I shall regret
But Osman’s heart!

osman.

Zaïre, thou lovest me!

zaÏre.

Love him!
O God!

osman.

Amazement? Zaïre said she loved me:
Why then thou cruel maid, why tear the heart
Of faithful Osman thus? in my despair,
Alas! I thought I could command myself
To love, or hate; but ’tis impossible:
Zaïre can never be forgotten; no:
Osman could never harbor such a thought,
To place another on his throne; forgive
My rage, my madness; ’twas affected all,
All false; I could not leave, I could not hate thee;
It was the only scorn thy tender heart
Ever experienced: O I love thee still,
And ever must: but wherefore thus delay
My happiness? speak, was it fond caprice,
Or was it fear, or artifice? but art
Was never made for thee; thou needest it not:
Even where it is most innocent, it looks
Like falsehood, and perfidiousness: O Zaïre,
Let it not break the holy tie that binds us:
I ever have abhorred it: Osman’s heart
Is full of naught but truth.

zaÏre.

Despair, and horror!
O thou art dear to me, indeed thou art,
Believe me, Osman; and the tender love
I feel for thee makes me supremely wretched.

osman.

Explain thyself: O heaven! and can it be?
But thou wert born to make me wretched.

zaÏre.

Why
Must I not speak?

osman.

What dreadful secret, Zaïre,
Dost thou keep from me? have the Christian slaves
Conspired against me? speak, am I betrayed?

zaÏre.

Who would betray so good so kind a master?
No, generous Osman, thou hast naught to fear;
Zaïre alone is wretched: but her griefs
Are to herself.

osman.

Great God! is Zaïre wretched?

zaÏre.

Permit me on my knees, my lord, to ask
One favor of thee.

osman.

Were it Osman’s life,
Thou mightest command it: speak, and it is thine.

zaÏre.

O would to heaven we could have been united!
But O, my lord, permit me this one day
To be alone; leave me to meditate
On my misfortunes, and to hide my griefs
From thee; to-morrow all shall be revealed:

osman.

O heaven! what woes dost thou inflict upon me!
Canst thou—

zaÏre.

If love still pleads for Zaïre, grant her
This one request! do not refuse me.

osman.

Well;
It must be so; I have no will but thine:
Remember that I sacrifice to thee
The dearest, happiest moments of my life.

zaÏre.

O talk not thus, my lord, it wounds my heart
Too deeply.

osman.

You will leave me, Zaïre?

zaÏre.

Yes:
I must; farewell.

SCENE III.

osman, orasmin.

osman.

So soon to seek retirement!
It is an insult o’er my easy heart;
The more I think, Orasmin, on her conduct,
The more am I perplexed; I cannot find
The hidden cause of this mysterious sorrow:
By Osman’s partial fondness raised to empire,
Even in the bosom of that happiness
Her soul desired, thus loving and beloved,
Yet are her eyes forever bathed in tears:
I hate her fond caprice, her discontent
And causeless grief—yet was not I to blame?
Did I not slight her? did I not offend
My Zaïre? wherefore then should I complain?
I must atone for my injurious transports
By double kindness, by indulging her
In every wish: it is enough that Osman
Is loved by Zaïre: her untainted soul
Is void of art; hers is the tender age
Of innocence and truth, when simple nature
Guides every thought, and dictates every word:
I will rely on her sincerity:
I know she loves me; in her eyes I read
The tender tale; whilst her impatient soul
Flew to her lovely lips and told me all:
Can there on earth be hearts so base as e’er
To boast a passion which they never feel?

SCENE IV.

osman, orasmin, melidor.

melidor.

My lord, the guards have stopped a letter sent
To Zaïre.

osman.

Give it me: who sent it to her?

melidor.

One of those Christian slaves whom you released,
Who, as he strove to enter the seraglio,
Was seized, and put in chains.

osman.

Ha! what do I read!
Leave me—I tremble—

SCENE V.

osman, orasmin.

orasmin.

This may clear up all,
And set your heart at ease.

osman.

Ha! let me read
Again; this letter must determine all,
And fix my fate—“Dear Zaïre, now’s the time
To meet us; near the mosque thou wilt perceive
A secret passage; unsuspected thence
Thou mayest escape, and easily deceive
Thy keepers; we must hazard all; thou knowest
My zeal: I wait impatient for thee; haste,
I cannot live, if thou shouldst prove unfaithful
What sayest thou, my Orasmin?

orasmin.

I, my lord?
I’m shocked, astonished at her.

osman.

Now thou seest
How I am treated.

orasmin.

O detested treason!
You must resent an injury like this:
You who so lately but on slight suspicion
So deeply felt the wound; a deed so black,
I hope, my lord, will cure you of your love.

osman.

Haste, my Orasmin, fly this instant, show her
That letter—let her tremble, and then plunge
The dagger in her faithless breast—no, stay,
Not yet—that Christian first—let him be brought
Before her—stay—I can determine nothing,
My rage o’erpowers me; O I faint, support me,
Orasmin.

orasmin.

’Tis indeed a cruel stroke!

osman.

’Tis all unfolded now, this dreadful secret,
That sat so heavy on her guilty heart:
Beneath the specious veil of modest fear
She left me for a while; I let her go;
She wept at parting; wept but to betray me;
O Zaïre, Zaïre.

orasmin.

Everything conspires
To make her doubly guilty: O my lord,
Fall not a victim to her arts, recall
Thy wonted courage, and deep sense of wrong.

osman.

This is the gallant, boasted, brave Nerestan,
The Christian’s hero, that proud son of honor,
So famed for his sublimity of virtue;
Admired, nay envied by the jealous Osman;
Who could not bear a rival in a slave,
And now he stoops to this vile treachery,
This base imposture: O but Zaïre—she
Is far more guilty, O a thousand times
More vile, more impious—a poor Christian slave,
I might have left her in her mean estate,
And not debased her; well she knows what Osman
Has done for her; ungrateful wretch!

orasmin.

My lord,
If midst the horrors of thy troubled soul
I might be heard—forgive me—but if—

osman.

Yes:
I’ll see, and talk to her—go, fetch her hither;
Fly, bring her, slave.

orasmin.

In this distracted state
What can you say to her?

osman.

I know not what;
But I must see her.

orasmin.

To complain, to threaten,
To make her weep, to let your easy heart
Again be softened by her tears, to seek,
In spite of all your wrongs, some poor pretence
To justify her conduct: trust me, sir,
’Twere better to conceal this paper from her,
Or send it to her by some hand unknown;
Thus, spite of all her arts, thou mayest discover
Her inmost thoughts, and unsuspected trace
The secret windings of her treacherous heart.

osman.

Dost thou indeed believe that Zaïre’s false?
But I will tempt my fate, and try her virtue;
I’ll try how far a bold and shameless woman
Can urge her falsehood.

orasmin.

O my lord, I fear,
A heart like thine—

osman.

Be not alarmed: alas!
Osman, like Zaïre, never can dissemble:
But I am master of myself, and know
How to restrain my anger: yes, Orasmin;
Since she descends so low—here—take this letter,
This fatal scroll, choose out a trusty slave,
And send it to her—go:—I will avoid her:
Let her not dare approach—just heaven! ’tis she.

SCENE VI.

osman, zaïre, orasmin.

zaÏre.

I have obeyed your orders, and attend you,
But own they much surprised me; whence, my lord,
This sudden message? what important business—

osman.

Business of moment, madam, of much more
Than you perhaps imagine; I’ve reflected
On our condition, Zaïre: we have made
Each other wretched, and ’tis fit we come
To explanations for our mutual interest:
Perhaps my care, my tenderness, my bounty,
The confidence my soul reposed on Zaïre,
My pride forgot, my sceptre at thy feet,
All my officious services demanded
Some kind return from Zaïre; nay perhaps
Forever courted, and forever pressed
By a fond lover, thy reluctant heart
Might yield, mistaking gratitude for love:
Let us be free and open to each other,
Answer with truth to my sincerity:
If love’s supreme unconquerable power
Pleads for another, if thy doubtful heart
Uncertain wavers ’twixt his claim and mine,
Avow it frankly, and I here forgive thee;
But pause not, let me know my rival, quick,
Now whilst I’m here, whilst I am speaking to thee,
A moment more will be too late for pardon.

zaÏre.

Is this a language fit for me to hear,
Or you to speak, my lord? I’ve not deserved it;
But know, this injured heart, which heaven hath tried
With sore affliction, could defy thy power,
Did it not feel its foolish weakness still
For Osman; were it not for my fond love,
That fatal passion, which I ought no more
To cherish, never should I thus descend
To justify my conduct: whether heaven,
That still hath persecuted wretched Zaïre,
Decrees that we shall pass our lives together,
I know not; but, whatever be my lot,
By honor’s sacred laws, that in my heart
Are deeply graved, I swear, were Zaïre left
To her own choice, she would reject the vows
Of powerful monarchs kneeling at her feet;
All would be hateful to her after Osman:
But I will tell thee more, will open all
My foolish heart, will own it sighed for thee
Long ere thy passion justified my own:
Never did Zaïre own another master,
Nor ever will: here, bear me witness, heaven!
If I offended, if I have deserved
Eternal wrath; if Zaïre has been guilty,
If she has been ungrateful, ’twas for thee.

osman.

Good heaven! she talks of tenderness and love,
Though I have proof before me of her falsehood;
O black ingratitude! O perjured Zaïre!

zaÏre.

What says my lord? you seem disordered.

osman.

No:
I am not, for thou lovest me.

zaÏre.

That fierce tone,
And wild demeanor, suit not with thy words;
Thou talkest of love, yet fillest my heart with terror.

osman.

Thou lovest me?

zaÏre.

Canst thou doubt it? yet thy eyes
Are red with anger; what indignant looks
They cast upon me; furies in thy aspect!
Thou dost not doubt me?

osman.

No: I doubt no longer:
You may retire: be gone.

SCENE VII.

osman, orasmin.

osman.

Didst thou observe her
Orasmin? how she braves it to the last
She glories in her crime; so artful too,
So calmly, so deliberately false:
But say, my friend, hast thou dispatched that slave,
That I may know the worst of Zaïre’s guilt,
And Osman’s shame?

orasmin.

I have obeyed your orders;
Now I may hope you will no longer sigh
For Zaïre and her treacherous charms; henceforth
You must behold her with indifference,
Unless you should at last repent your justice,
And love resume his empire o’er your heart.

osman.

Orasmin, I adore her more than ever.

orasmin.

Indeed, my lord? O heaven!

osman.

Methinks I see
A dawn of hope before me: this young Christian,
This hated rival, bold, presumptuous, vain
Full of his country’s levity, perhaps,
But thinks that Zaïre listened to his vows,
One look from her might easily deceive him:
He thinks himself beloved; and he alone
May be to blame, they may not both be guilty:
She never saw that letter, I have been
Too ready to believe myself undone.
Orasmin, mark me—at the dead of night,
When darkness lends her sable veil to hide
The crimes of mortals, soon as this Nerestan
Comes to the palace, instant let the guard
Seize him, and bound in fetters bring him to me:
Leave Zaïre free: thou knowest my heart; thou knowest
To what excess I love; thou knowest how fierce
My anger is, how cruel my resentment;
I tremble but to think on it myself;
O I have been most shamefully deceived;
But woe to those who have offended Osman.

End of the Fourth Act.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

osman, orasmin,a Slave.

osman.

They’ve told her of it, and she comes to meet him;
False wretch!—remember, slave, thy master’s fate
Is in thy hands: give her the Christian’s letter;
Observe her well, and bring me back her answer;
Let me know all—but soft, she’s here, Orasmin,
[To Orasmin.
Come thou with me, and let thy tender friendship
Teach me to hide my rage and my despair.

SCENE II.

zaïre, fatima,a Slave.

zaÏre.

Who can desire to speak with wretched Zaïre,
At such a time, when all is horror round me?
If it should be my brother! but the gates
Are shut on every side; yet heaven’s high hand,
To strengthen my weak faith, by secret paths
Might lead him to me: but what unknown slave—

slave.

This letter, madam, trusted to my hands,
Will speak my errand.

zaÏre.

Give it me.
[She reads.

fatima.

[Aside, whilst Zaïre reads the letter.
Great God!
Send down thy blessing, and deliver her
From barbarous Osman!

zaÏre.

Fatima, come near me,
I must consult with thee.

fatima.

[To the slave.
You may retire;
Be ready when we call for you: away.

SCENE III.

zaïre, fatima.

zaÏre.

Read this, my Fatima, and tell me what
I ought to do: I would obey my brother.

fatima.

Say rather, madam, that you would obey
The will of heaven; ’tis not Nerestan calls,
It is the voice of God.

zaÏre.

I know it is;
And I have sworn to serve him: but the attempt
Is dangerous, to my brother, to myself,
To all the Christians.

fatima.

’Tis not that alarms you,
’Tis not their danger that suggests thy fears,
’Tis love: I know thy heart would judge like theirs,
Like theirs determine, did not love oppose it:
But O reflect, be mistress of thyself;
You fear to offend a lover who has wronged,
Who has insulted you; thou canst not see
The Tartar’s soul through all his boasted virtues:
Did he not threaten even while he adored?
And yet your heart preserves its fond attachment,
You sigh for Osman still.

zaÏre.

I have no cause
To hate him, Osman never injured me;
He offered me a throne, and I refused it;
The temple was adorned, the rites prepared,
And I, who ought to have revered his power,
Despised his offered hand, and braved his anger.

fatima.

And canst thou in this great decisive hour
Neglect thy duty thus to think of love?

zaÏre.

All, all conspires to drive me to despair:
No power on earth can free me: I would quit
With joy these walls so fatal to my peace,
Would wish to see the Christian’s happier clime,
Yet my fond heart in secret longs to stay
Forever here: how dreadful my condition!
I know not what I wish, or what I ought
To do, and only feel myself most wretched:
O I have sad forebodings of my fate,
Avert them, heaven! preserve the Christians, save
My dearest brother!—when Nerestan’s gone,
I will take courage, and impart to Osman
The dreadful secret; tell him to what faith
This heart is bound, and who is Zaïre’s God;
I know his generous soul will pity me:
But, be as it will, whate’er I suffer,
I never will betray my brother: go,
And bring him here—call back that slave:

SCENE IV.

zaÏre.

[Alone.
O God
Of my forefathers, God of Lusignan,
And all our race, O let thy hand direct,
Thine eye enlighten Zaïre!

SCENE V.

zaïre,a Slave.

zaÏre.

Tell the Christian
Who gave thee this, he may depend on me,
And Fatima is ready to conduct him.
[Aside.
Take courage, Zaïre, yet thou mayest be happy.

SCENE VI.

osman, orasmin,a Slave.

osman.

How lingering time retards my hasty vengeance!
He comes:—well, slave, what says she? answer me,
Speak.

slave.

O my lord, her soul was deeply moved:
She wept, grew pale, and trembled; sent me out,
Then called me back, and with a faltering voice,
That spoke a heart oppressed with sorrow, promised
To meet him there this night.

osman.

[To the slave.
Away; begone;
It is enough.—Orasmin, hence, I loath
The sight of every human being; go,
And leave me to the horrors of my soul;
I hate the world, myself, and all mankind.

SCENE VII.

osman.

[Alone.
Where am I? gracious heaven! O fatal passion!
Zaïre, Nerestan, ye ungrateful pair,
Haste, and deprive me of a life which you
Have made most wretched: O abandoned Zaïre,
Thou shalt not long enjoy—what ho! Orasmin.

SCENE VIII.

osman, orasmin.

osman.

Cruel Orasmin! thus to leave thy friend
In his distress! this rival, is he come?

orasmin.

Not yet, my lord.

osman.

Detested night, that lendest
Thy guilty veil to cover crimes like these!
The faithless Zaïre! after all my kindness—
Alas! unmoved, and with an eye serene,
I could have borne the loss of empire, kept
My peace of mind in poverty and chains,
But to be thus deceived by her I love—

orasmin.

What purpose you, my lord? may I request—

osman.

Didst thou not hear a dreadful cry?

orasmin.

My lord!

osman.

Methought I heard some noise: they’re coming.

orasmin.

No:
No creature stirs, the whole seraglio’s wrapped
In sleep: all is silent; night’s dark shade—

osman.

All sleeps
But guilt, that wakes and spreads its horrors round me:
To urge her baseness to a height like this!
O Zaïre, thou couldst never know how much,
How tenderly I loved, how I adored thee;
One look from her, Orasmin, guides my fate,
And makes her Osman blest or cursed forever:
Pity my rage, away! ungrateful woman!

orasmin.

And dost thou weep? did Osman weep? O heaven!

osman.

’Twas the first time I ever wept, Orasmin;
But they are cruel tears, and death ere long
Will follow them; thou seest my shame, Orasmin:
Now, Zaïre, weep, for they are tears of blood.

orasmin.

I tremble for thee.

osman.

Tremble for my love,
For my hard sufferings, for my vengeance: hark!
They come; I cannot be deceived; I hear them.

orasmin.

Close by the palace wall they creep along.

osman.

Fly, seize Nerestan, bring him here in chains
Before me.

SCENE IX.

osman, zaïre, fatima.

[In the dark, at the bottom of the stage.

zaÏre.

Fatima, come near me.

osman.

Hark!
What do I hear? ’tis the enchanting voice
That hath so oft seduced me, that false tongue,
The instrument of guilt and perfidy:
But now for vengeance—O ’tis she, ’tis Zaïre,
I cannot strike,
[He takes out a dagger.
The uplifted poniard drops
From my weak hand: O heaven!

zaÏre.

This is the way,
Come on, support me, Fatima.

fatima.

He comes.

osman.

That word awakes my slumbering rage: she dies.

zaÏre.

I tremble every step I take; my heart
Sinks down with fear: Nerestan, is it you?
I’ve waited a long time.

osman.

[Runs up to Zaïre and stabs her.
’Tis I, false woman!
’Tis Osman, whom thou hast betrayed: thou diest.

zaÏre.

[Falling on a sofa.
O, I am slain; great God!

osman.

I am revenged:
What have I done? punished the guilty: here
I’ll leave her:—Ha! her lover, too—now fate
Completes my vengeance.

SCENE the last.

osman, zaïre, nerestan, orasmin,Slaves.

osman.

Bring the villain hither:
Approach, thou midnight plunderer, who comest
To rob me of my all: now, traitor, take
Thy due reward; prepare thyself for torments,
For miseries, almost equal to my own:
You have given orders for his punishment?

orasmin.

I have, my lord.

osman.

A part of it thou feelest
Already in thy heart; I see thou lookest
Around thee for the partner of thy crimes,
The wretch who has dishonored me—look there.

nerestan.

What fatal error—ha!

osman.

Look, there she lies

nerestan.

What do I see? my sister! Zaïre dead!
O monster! O unhappy hour!

osman.

His sister?
Impossible!

nerestan.

Barbarian, ’tis too true:
Haste, Osman, haste, and shed the poor remains
Of Lusignan’s high blood; destroy Nerestan,
The last of our unhappy race: know, tyrant,
That Lusignan was Zaïre’s wretched father:
Within these arms the good old man expired:
And sad Nerestan brought his last farewell,
His dying words to Zaïre: yes, I came
To strengthen her weak heart, direct her will,
And turn her to the Christian faith: alas!
She had opposed the will of heaven, and now
Our God hath punished her for loving thee.

osman.

Did Zaïre love me, Fatima?—his sister?
Did she love Osman, sayest thou?

fatima.

Tyrant, yes:
That was her only crime, and thou hast murdered
A lovely innocent who still adored
Her cruel master; still had hopes the God
Of her forefathers gracious would receive
The tribute of her tears, and pity her;
Would have compassion on her artless youth,
Forgive her weakness, and perhaps one day
Unite her to thee: O to that excess
She loved thee, that her heart was long divided
’Twixt Osman and her God.

osman.

It is enough;
I was beloved: away, I’ll hear no more.

nerestan.

Who next must fall a victim to thy rage?
Thine and thy father’s hand have spilt the blood
Of all our race, Nerestan only lives
To brave thee; haste, and send him to that father
Whose guiltless daughter thou hast sacrificed:
Where are your torments? I despise them all:
I’ve felt the worst thou canst inflict upon me:
But O if yet, all savage as thou art,
Thou canst attend to honor’s voice, remember
The Christian slaves whom thou hast sworn to free:
Speak, hast thou yet humanity enough
To keep thy sacred promise? if thou hast,
I die contented.

osman.

Zaïre!

orasmin.

O sir, go in,
Let me entreat you—let Nerestan—

nerestan.

Speak,
Barbarian, what is thy will?

osman.

[After a long pause.
Take off his chains.
Orasmin, let his friends be all set free;
Let the poor Christians have whate’er they wish;
Give them large presents, and conduct them safe
To Joppa.

orasmin.

Sir!

osman.

Reply not, but obey me,
I am thy sultan, and thy friend; no more,
But do it instantly—
[To Nerestan.
And thou, brave warrior.
Brave but unfortunate, yet not so wretched
As Osman is, leave thou this bloody scene,
And take with thee that victim of my rage,
The dear, the guiltless Zaïre: to thy king,
And to thy fellow Christians, when thou tellest
Thy mournful story, every eye will shed
A tear for thee; all will detest the crime,
And some perhaps lament the fate of Osman:
But take this dagger with thee, which I plunged
In Zaïre’s breast; tell them I killed the best,
The sweetest, dearest innocent, that heaven
Ever formed; this cruel hand destroyed her: tell them
That I adored, and that I have revenged her:
[Stabs himself.
[To his attendants.
Respect this hero, and conduct him safe.

nerestan.

Direct me, heaven! ’midst all my miseries,
And all thy guilt, I must admire thee, Osman;
Nay more, thy foe Nerestan must lament thee.

End of the Fifth and Last Act.

[1 ] The passages marked thus ‘ ’ are, in the original, written in a familiar kind of verse, consisting of eight syllables, which M. Voltaire is, in most of his letters, fond of intermingling with his prose: the reader will easily perceive that, however agreeable those rhymes might be to a French ear, both the subject and style, in the greater part of them, are of such a nature, as not to admit of poetical translation into English.

[1 ] Voltaire was mistaken in this particular, as no translation of his Brutus was ever exhibited on the English stage.

[1 ] Mr. Falkner, and some other gentlemen of character, were affronted at the Theatre Italienne at Paris, by some injurious reflections thrown out upon them in a contemptible farce exhibited there, which was hissed by the audience.

[1 ] There is no expression in the English language which fully comprehends the meaning of the French word bienséance, which, notwithstanding, unfortunately for a translator, being a favorite phrase, recurs in almost every page: as does also the word naivete, for which we have no terms in all respects corresponding to it.

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ZAÏRE - Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems). [1901]

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ZAÏRE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

An Epistle Dedicatory to Mr. Falkener, an English Merchant, Since Ambassador at Constantinople, with the Tragedy of Zaïre.

I have the honor to remain, &c.

A Second Letter to Mr. Falkener, Then Ambassador to Constantinople.

My dear friend,

I am, sir, &c.,

ACT I.

SCENE I.

fatima.

zaÏre.

fatima.

zaÏre.

fatima.

zaÏre.

fatima.

zaÏre.

fatima.

zaÏre.

fatima.

zaÏre.

fatima.

zaÏre.

fatima.

zaÏre.

fatima.

zaÏre.

fatima.

zaÏre.

SCENE II.

osman.

zaÏre.

SCENE III.

orasmin.

osman.

fatima.

osman.

orasmin.

osman.

SCENE IV.

nerestan.

osman.

fatima.

nerestan.

osman.

fatima.

osman.

SCENE V.

osman.

orasmin.

osman.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

chatillon.

nerestan.

chatillon.

nerestan.

chatillon.

nerestan.

chatillon.

nerestan.

chatillon.

nerestan.