Читать книгу Mary Stuart - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 9

   She scorns us, she defies us! will defy us,

   Even at the scaffold's foot. This haughty heart

   Is not to be subdued. Say, did the sentence

   Surprise her? Did you see her shed one tear,

   Or even change her color? She disdains

   To make appeal to our compassion. Well

   She knows the wavering mind of England's queen.

   Our apprehensions make her bold.

                    My lord,

   Take the pretext away which buoys it up,

   And you shall see this proud defiance fail

   That very moment. I must say, my lord,

   Irregularities have been allowed

   In these proceedings; Babington and Ballard

   Should have been brought, with her two secretaries,

   Before her, face to face.

                 No, Paulet, no.

   That was not to be risked; her influence

   Upon the human heart is too supreme;

   Too strong the female empire of her tears.

   Her secretary, Curl, if brought before her,

   And called upon to speak the weighty word

   On which her life depends, would straight shrink back

   And fearfully revoke his own confession.

   Then England's enemies will fill the world

   With evil rumors; and the formal pomp

   Of these proceedings to the minds of all

   Will only signalize an act of outrage.

   That is the greatest torment of our queen,

   [That she can never 'scape the blame. Oh God!]

   Had but this lovely mischief died before

   She set her faithless foot on English ground.

   Amen, say I!

          Had sickness but consumed her!

   England had been secured from such misfortune.

   And yet, if she had died in nature's course,

   The world would still have called us murderers.

   'Tis true, the world will think, despite of us,

   Whate'er it list.

             Yet could it not be proved?

   And it would make less noise.

                   Why, let it make

   What noise it may. It is not clamorous blame,

   'Tis righteous censure only which can wound.

   We know that holy justice cannot 'scape

   The voice of censure; and the public cry

   Is ever on the side of the unhappy:

   Envy pursues the laurelled conqueror;

   The sword of justice, which adorns the man,

   Is hateful in a woman's hand; the world

   Will give no credit to a woman's justice

   If woman be the victim. Vain that we,

   The judges, spoke what conscience dictated;

   She has the royal privilege of mercy;

   She must exert it: 'twere not to be borne,

   Should she let justice take its full career.

   And therefore —

            Therefore should she live? Oh, no,

   She must not live; it must not be. 'Tis this,

   Even this, my friend, which so disturbs the queen,

   And scares all slumber from her couch; I read

   Her soul's distracting contest in her eyes:

   She fears to speak her wishes, yet her looks,

   Her silent looks, significantly ask,

   "Is there not one amongst my many servants

   To save me from this sad alternative?

   Either to tremble in eternal fear

   Upon my throne, or else to sacrifice

   A queen of my own kindred on the block?"

   'Tis even so; nor can it be avoided —

   Well might it be avoided, thinks the queen,

   If she had only more attentive servants.

   How more attentive?

              Such as could interpret

   A silent mandate.

             What? A silent mandate!

   Who, when a poisonous adder is delivered

   Into their hands, would keep the treacherous charge

   As if it were a sacred, precious jewel?

   A precious jewel is the queen's good name

   And spotless reputation: good my lord,

   One cannot guard it with sufficient care.

   When out of Shrewsbury's hands the Queen of Scots

   Was trusted to Sir Amias Paulet's care,

   The meaning was —

             I hope to God, my lord,

   The meaning was to give the weightiest charge

   Into the purest hands; my lord, my lord!

   By heaven I had disdained this bailiff's office

   Had I not thought the service claimed the care

   Of the best man that England's realm can boast.

   Let me not think I am indebted for it

   To anything but my unblemished name.

   Spread the report she wastes; grows sicker still

   And sicker; and expires at last in peace;

   Thus will she perish in the world's remembrance,

   And your good name is pure.

                  But not my conscience.

   Though you refuse us, sir, your own assistance,

   You will not sure prevent another's hand.

   No murderer's foot shall e'er approach her threshold

   Whilst she's protected by my household gods.

   Her life's a sacred trust; to me the head

   Of Queen Elizabeth is not more sacred.

   Ye are the judges; judge, and break the staff;

   And when 'tis time then let the carpenter

   With axe and saw appear to build the scaffold.

   My castle's portals shall be open to him,

   The sheriff and the executioners:

   Till then she is intrusted to my care;

   And be assured I will fulfil my trust,

   She shall nor do nor suffer what's unjust.