Читать книгу Mary Stuart - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 5

   And dare the ruffian venture to your face

   Such language! Oh, 'tis hard – 'tis past endurance.

   In the fair moments of our former splendor

   We lent to flatterers a too willing ear; —

   It is but just, good Hannah, we should now

   Be forced to hear the bitter voice of censure.

   So downcast, so depressed, my dearest lady!

   You, who before so gay, so full of hope,

   Were used to comfort me in my distress;

   More gracious were the task to check your mirth

   Than chide your heavy sadness.

                   Well I know him —

   It is the bleeding Darnley's royal shade,

   Rising in anger from his darksome grave

   And never will he make his peace with me

   Until the measures of my woes be full.

   What thoughts are these —

                Thou may'st forget it, Hannah;

   But I've a faithful memory – 'tis this day

   Another wretched anniversary

   Of that regretted, that unhappy deed —

   Which I must celebrate with fast and penance.

   Dismiss at length in peace this evil spirit.

   The penitence of many a heavy year,

   Of many a suffering, has atoned the deed;

   The church, which holds the key of absolution,

   Pardons the crime, and heaven itself's appeased.

   This long-atoned crime arises fresh

   And bleeding from its lightly-covered grave;

   My husband's restless spirit seeks revenge;

   No sacred bell can exorcise, no host

   In priestly hands dismiss it to his tomb.

   You did not murder him; 'twas done by others.

   But it was known to me; I suffered it,

   And lured him with my smiles to death's embrace.

   Your youth extenuates your guilt. You were

   Of tender years.

            So tender, yet I drew

   This heavy guilt upon my youthful head.

   You were provoked by direst injuries,

   And by the rude presumption of the man,

   Whom out of darkness, like the hand of heaven,

   Your love drew forth, and raised above all others.

   Whom through your bridal chamber you conducted

   Up to your throne, and with your lovely self,

   And your hereditary crown, distinguished

   [Your work was his existence, and your grace

   Bedewed him like the gentle rains of heaven.]

   Could he forget that his so splendid lot

   Was the creation of your generous love?

   Yet did he, worthless as he was, forget it.

   With base suspicions, and with brutal manners,

   He wearied your affections, and became

   An object to you of deserved disgust:

   The illusion, which till now had overcast

   Your judgment, vanished; angrily you fled

   His foul embrace, and gave him up to scorn.

   And did he seek again to win your love?

   Your favor? Did he e'er implore your pardon?

   Or fall in deep repentance at your feet?

   No; the base wretch defied you; he, who was

   Your bounty's creature, wished to play your king,

   [And strove, through fear, to force your inclination.]

   Before your eyes he had your favorite singer,

   Poor Rizzio, murdered; you did but avenge

   With blood the bloody deed —

                  And bloodily,

   I fear, too soon 'twill be avenged on me:

   You seek to comfort me, and you condemn me.

   You were, when you consented to this deed,

   No more yourself; belonged not to yourself;

   The madness of a frantic love possessed you,

   And bound you to a terrible seducer,

   The wretched Bothwell. That despotic man

   Ruled you with shameful, overbearing will,

   And with his philters and his hellish arts

   Inflamed your passions.

                All the arts he used

   Were man's superior strength and woman's weakness.

   No, no, I say. The most pernicious spirits

   Of hell he must have summoned to his aid,

   To cast this mist before your waking senses.

   Your ear no more was open to the voice

   Of friendly warning, and your eyes were shut

   To decency; soft female bashfulness

   Deserted you; those cheeks, which were before

   The seat of virtuous, blushing modesty,

   Glowed with the flames of unrestrained desire.

   You cast away the veil of secrecy,

   And the flagitious daring of the man

   O'ercame your natural coyness: you exposed

   Your shame, unblushingly, to public gaze:

   You let the murderer, whom the people followed

   With curses, through the streets of Edinburgh,

   Before you bear the royal sword of Scotland

   In triumph. You begirt your parliament

   With armed bands; and by this shameless farce,

   There, in the very temple of great justice,

   You forced the judges of the land to clear

   The murderer of his guilt. You went still further —

   O God!

       Conclude – nay, pause not – say for this

   I gave my hand in marriage at the altar.

   O let an everlasting silence veil

   That dreadful deed: the heart revolts at it.

   A crime to stain the darkest criminal!

   Yet you are no such lost one, that I know.

   I nursed your youth myself – your heart is framed

   For tender softness: 'tis alive to shame,

   And all your fault is thoughtless levity.

   Yes, I repeat it, there are evil spirits,

   Who sudden fix in man's unguarded breast

   Their fatal residence, and there delight

   To act their dev'lish deeds; then hurry back

   Unto their native hell, and leave behind

   Remorse and horror in the poisoned bosom.

   Since this misdeed, which blackens thus your life,

   You have done nothing ill; your conduct has

   Been pure; myself can witness your amendment.

   Take courage, then; with your own heart make peace.

   Whatever cause you have for penitence,

   You are not guilty here. Nor England's queen,

   Nor England's parliament can be your judge.

   Here might oppresses you: you may present

   Yourself before this self-created court

   With all the fortitude of innocence.

   I hear a step.

           It is the nephew – In.