Читать книгу The Death of Wallenstein - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 5

              Is it possible?

  Is't so? I can no longer what I would?

  No longer draw back at my liking? I

  Must do the deed, because I thought of it?

  And fed this heart here with a dream?

  Because I did not scowl temptation from my presence,

  Dallied with thoughts of possible fulfilment,

  Commenced no movement, left all time uncertain,

  And only kept the road, the access open?

  By the great God of Heaven! it was not

  My serious meaning, it was ne'er resolved.

  I but amused myself with thinking of it.

  The free-will tempted me, the power to do

  Or not to do it. Was it criminal

  To make the fancy minister to hope,

  To fill the air with pretty toys of air,

  And clutch fantastic sceptres moving toward me?

  Was not the will kept free? Beheld I not

  The road of duty close beside me – but

  One little step, and once more I was in it!

  Where am I? Whither have I been transported?

  No road, no track behind me, but a wall,

  Impenetrable, insurmountable,

  Rises obedient to the spells I muttered

  And meant not – my own doings tower behind me.

  A punishable man I seem, the guilt,

  Try what I will, I cannot roll off from me;

  The equivocal demeanor of my life

  Bears witness on my prosecutor's party.

  And even my purest acts from purest motives

  Suspicion poisons with malicious gloss.

  Were I that thing for which I pass, that traitor,

  A goodly outside I had sure reserved,

  Had drawn the coverings thick and double round me,

  Been calm and chary of my utterance;

  But being conscious of the innocence

  Of my intent, my uncorrupted will,

  I gave way to my humors, to my passion:

  Bold were my words, because my deeds were not.

  Now every planless measure, chance event,

  The threat of rage, the vaunt of joy and triumph,

  And all the May-games of a heart overflowing,

  Will they connect, and weave them all together

  Into one web of treason; all will be plan,

  My eye ne'er absent from the far-off mark,

  Step tracing step, each step a politic progress;

  And out of all they'll fabricate a charge

  So specious, that I must myself stand dumb.

  I am caught in my own net, and only force,

  Naught but a sudden rent can liberate me.

  How else! since that the heart's unbiased instinct

  Impelled me to the daring deed, which now

  Necessity, self-preservation, orders.

  Stern is the on-look of necessity,

  Not without shudder may a human hand

  Grasp the mysterious urn of destiny.

  My deed was mine, remaining in my bosom;

  Once suffered to escape from its safe corner

  Within the heart, its nursery and birthplace,

  Sent forth into the foreign, it belongs

  Forever to those sly malicious powers

  Whom never art of man conciliated.

  What is thy enterprise? thy aim? thy object?

  Hast honestly confessed it to thyself?

  Power seated on a quiet throne thou'dst shake,

  Power on an ancient, consecrated throne,

  Strong in possession, founded in all custom;

  Power by a thousand tough and stringy roots

  Fixed to the people's pious nursery faith.

  This, this will be no strife of strength with strength.

  That feared I not. I brave each combatant,

  Whom I can look on, fixing eye to eye,

  Who, full himself of courage, kindles courage

  In me too. 'Tis a foe invisible

  The which I fear – a fearful enemy,

  Which in the human heart opposes me,

  By its coward fear alone made fearful to me.

  Not that, which full of life, instinct with power,

  Makes known its present being; that is not

  The true, the perilously formidable.

  O no! it is the common, the quite common,

  The thing of an eternal yesterday.

  Whatever was, and evermore returns,

  Sterling to-morrow, for to-day 'twas sterling!

  For of the wholly common is man made,

  And custom is his nurse! Woe then to them

  Who lay irreverent hands upon his old

  House furniture, the dear inheritance

  From his forefathers! For time consecrates;

  And what is gray with age becomes religion.

  Be in possession, and thou hast the right,

  And sacred will the many guard it for thee!

  The Swedish officer? Well, let him enter.

  Yet, it is pure – as yet! – the crime has come

  Not o'er this threshold yet – so slender is

  The boundary that divideth life's two paths.