Читать книгу The Maid of Orleans - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 11

   Hope bringest thou, or not? Be brief, La Hire,

   Out with thy tidings! What must we expect?

   Expect naught, sire, save from thine own good sword.

   The haughty duke will not be reconciled!

   Speak! How did he receive my embassy?

   His first and unconditional demand,

   Ere he consent to listen to thine errand,

   Is that Duchatel be delivered up,

   Whom he doth name the murderer of his sire.

   This base condition we reject with scorn!

   Then be the league dissolved ere it commence!

   Hast thou thereon, as I commanded thee,

   Challenged the duke to meet him in fair fight

   On Montereau's bridge, whereon his father fell?

   Before him on the ground I flung thy glove,

   And said: "Thou wouldst forget thy majesty,

   And like a knight do battle for thy realm."

   He scornfully rejoined "He needed not

   To fight for that which he possessed already,

   But if thou wert so eager for the fray,

   Before the walls of Orleans thou wouldst find him,

   Whither he purposed going on the morrow;"

   Thereon he laughing turned his back upon me.

   Say, did not justice raise her sacred voice,

   Within the precincts of my parliament?

   The rage of party, sire, hath silenced her.

   An edict of the parliament declares

   Thee and thy race excluded from the throne.

   These upstart burghers' haughty insolence!

   Hast thou attempted with my mother aught?

   With her?

         Ay! How did she demean herself?

   I chanced to step within St. Denis' walls

   Precisely at the royal coronation.

   The crowds were dressed as for a festival;

   Triumphal arches rose in every street

   Through which the English monarch was to pass.

   The way was strewed with flowers, and with huzzas,

   As France some brilliant conquest had achieved,

   The people thronged around the royal car.

   They could huzza – huzza, while trampling thus

   Upon a gracious sovereign's loving heart!

   I saw young Harry Lancaster – the boy —

   On good St. Lewis' regal chair enthroned;

   On either side his haughty uncles stood,

   Bedford and Gloucester, and before him kneeled,

   To render homage for his lands, Duke Philip.

   Oh, peer dishonored! Oh, unworthy cousin!

   The child was timid, and his footing lost

   As up the steps he mounted towards the throne.

   An evil omen! murmured forth the crowd,

   And scornful laughter burst on every side.

   Then forward stepped Queen Isabel – thy mother,

   And – but it angers me to utter it!

                     Say on.

   Within her arms she clasped the boy,

   And herself placed him on thy father's throne.

   Oh, mother! mother!

              E'en the murderous bands

   Of the Burgundians, at this spectacle,

   Evinced some tokens of indignant shame.

   The queen perceived it, and addressed the crowds,

   Exclaiming with loud voice: "Be grateful, Frenchmen,

   That I engraft upon a sickly stock

   A healthy scion, and redeem you from

   The misbegotten son of a mad sire!"

   She-wolf of France! Rage-breathing Megara!

   Yourselves have heard the posture of affairs.

   Delay no longer, back return to Orleans,

   And bear this message to my faithful town;

   I do absolve my subjects from their oath,

   Their own best interests let them now consult,

   And yield them to the Duke of Burgundy;

   'Yclept the Good, he need must prove humane.

   What say'st thou, sire? Thou wilt abandon Orleans!

   My king! Abandon not thy faithful town!

   Consign her not to England's harsh control.

   She is a precious jewel in the crown,

   And none hath more inviolate faith maintained

   Towards the kings, thy royal ancestors.

   Have we been routed? Is it lawful, sire,

   To leave the English masters of the field,

   Without a single stroke to save the town?

   And thinkest thou, with careless breath, forsooth,

   Ere blood hath flowed, rashly to give away

   The fairest city from the heart of France?

   Blood hath been poured forth freely, and in vain

   The hand of heaven is visibly against me;

   In every battle is my host o'erthrown,

   I am rejected of my parliament,

   My capital, my people, hail me foe,

   Those of my blood, – my nearest relatives, —

   Forsake me and betray – and my own mother

   Doth nurture at her breast the hostile brood.

   Beyond the Loire we will retire, and yield

   To the o'ermastering hand of destiny

   Which sideth with the English.

                   God forbid

   That we in weak despair should quit this realm!

   This utterance came not from thy heart, my king,

   Thy noble heart, which hath been sorely riven

   By the fell deed of thy unnatural mother,

   Thou'lt be thyself again, right valiantly

   Thou'lt battle with thine adverse destiny,

   Which doth oppose thee with relentless ire.

   Is it not true? A dark and ominous doom

   Impendeth o'er the heaven-abandoned house

   Of Valois – there preside the avenging powers,

   To whom a mother's crime unbarred the way.

   For thirty years my sire in madness raved;

   Already have three elder brothers been

   Mowed down by death; 'tis the decree of heaven,

   The house of the Sixth Charles is doomed to fall.

   In thee 'twill rise with renovated life!

   Oh, in thyself have faith! – believe me, king,

   Not vainly hath a gracious destiny

   Redeemed thee from the ruin of thy house,

   And by thy brethren's death exalted thee,

   The youngest born, to an unlooked-for throne

   Heaven in thy gentle spirit hath prepared

   The leech to remedy the thousand ills

   By party rage inflicted on the land.

   The flames of civil discord thou wilt quench,

   And my heart tells me thou'lt establish peace,

   And found anew the monarchy of France.

   Not I! The rude and storm-vexed times require

   A pilot formed by nature to command.

   A peaceful nation I could render happy

   A wild, rebellious people not subdue.

   I never with the sword could open hearts

   Against me closed in hatred's cold reserve.

   The people's eye is dimmed, an error blinds them,

   But this delusion will not long endure;

   The day is not far distant when the love

   Deep rooted in the bosom of the French,

   Towards their native monarch, will revive,

   Together with the ancient jealousy,

   Which forms a barrier 'twixt the hostile nations.

   The haughty foe precipitates his doom.

   Hence, with rash haste abandon not the field,

   With dauntless front contest each foot of ground,

   As thine own heart defend the town of Orleans!

   Let every boat be sunk beneath the wave,

   Each bridge be burned, sooner than carry thee

   Across the Loire, the boundary of thy realm,

   The Stygian flood, o'er which there's no return.

   What could be done I have done. I have offered,

   In single fight, to combat for the crown.

   I was refused. In vain my people bleed,

   In vain my towns are levelled with the dust.

   Shall I, like that unnatural mother, see

   My child in pieces severed with the sword?

   No; I forego my claim, that it may live.

   How, sire! Is this fit language for a king?

   Is a crown thus renounced? Thy meanest subject,

   For his opinion's sake, his hate and love,

   Sets property and life upon a cast;

   When civil war hangs out her bloody flag,

   Each private end is drowned in party zeal.

   The husbandman forsakes his plough, the wife

   Neglects her distaff; children, and old men,

   Don the rude garb of war; the citizen

   Consigns his town to the devouring flames,

   The peasant burns the produce of his fields;

   And all to injure or advantage thee,

   And to achieve the purpose of his heart.

   Men show no mercy, and they wish for none,

   When they at honor's call maintain the fight,

   Or for their idols or their gods contend.

   A truce to such effeminate pity, then,

   Which is not suited to a monarch's breast.

   Thou didst not heedlessly provoke the war;

   As it commenced, so let it spend its fury.

   It is the law of destiny that nations

   Should for their monarchs immolate themselves.

   We Frenchmen recognize this sacred law,

   Nor would annul it. Base, indeed, the nation

   That for its honor ventures not its all.

   You've heard my last resolve; expect no other.

   May God protect you! I can do no more.

   As thou dost turn thy back upon thy realm,

   So may the God of battle aye avert

   His visage from thee. Thou forsak'st thyself,

   So I forsake thee. Not the power combined

   Of England and rebellious Burgundy,

   Thy own mean spirit hurls thee from the throne.

   Born heroes ever were the kings of France;

   Thou wert a craven, even from thy birth.

   The king abandons you. But I will throw

   Myself into your town – my father's town —

   And 'neath its ruins find a soldier's grave.

   Oh, let him not depart in anger from thee!

   Harsh words his lips have uttered, but his heart

   Is true as gold. 'Tis he, himself, my king,

   Who loves thee, and hath often bled for thee.

   Dunois, confess, the heat of noble wrath

   Made thee forget thyself; and oh, do thou

   Forgive a faithful friend's o'erhasty speech!

   Come, let me quickly reconcile your hearts,

   Ere anger bursteth forth in quenchless flame.

   Our way lies over the Loire. Duchatel,

   See all our equipage embarked.

                    Farewell.

   Oh, if he goes, we are forsaken quite!

   Follow, La Hire! Oh, seek to soften him!