Читать книгу Don Carlos - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 12

             My father once again!

   Thanks, endless thanks, for this unwonted favor!

   Your hand, my father! O delightful day!

   The rapture of this kiss has long been strange

   To your poor Carlos. Wherefore have I been

   Shut from my father's heart? What have I done?

   Carlos, thou art a novice in these arts —

   Forbear, I like them not —

                 And is it so?

   I hear your courtiers in those words, my father!

   All is not well, by heaven, all is not true,

   That a priest says, and a priest's creatures plot.

   I am not wicked, father; ardent blood

   Is all my failing; – all my crime is youth; —

   Wicked I am not – no, in truth, not wicked; —

   Though many an impulse wild assails my heart,

   Yet is it still untainted.

                 Ay, 'tis pure —

   I know it – like thy prayers —

                   Now, then, or never!

   We are, for once, alone – the barrier

   Of courtly form, that severed sire and son

   Has fallen! Now a golden ray of hope

   Illumes my soul – a sweet presentment

   Pervades my heart – and heaven itself inclines,

   With choirs of joyous angels, to the earth,

   And full of soft emotion, the thrice blest

   Looks down upon this great, this glorious scene!

   Pardon, my father!

      [He falls on his knees before him.

             Rise, and leave me.

                        Father!

   This trifling grows too bold.

                   A son's devotion

   Too bold! Alas!

            And, to crown all, in tears!

   Degraded boy! Away, and quit my sight!

   Now, then, or never! – pardon, O my father!

   Away, and leave my sight! Return to me

   Disgraced, defeated, from the battle-field,

   Thy sire shall meet thee with extended arms:

   But thus in tears, I spurn thee from my feet.

   A coward's guilt alone should wash its stains

   In such ignoble streams. The man who weeps

   Without a blush will ne'er want cause for tears!

   Who is this man? By what mistake of nature

   Has he thus strayed amongst mankind? A tear

   Is man's unerring, lasting attribute.

   Whose eye is dry was ne'er of woman born!

   Oh, teach the eye that ne'er hath overflowed,

   The timely science of a tear – thou'lt need

   The moist relief in some dark hour of woe.

   Think'st thou to shake thy father's strong mistrust

   With specious words?

              Mistrust! Then I'll remove it.

   Here will I hang upon my father's breast,

   Strain at his heart with vigor, till each shred

   Of that mistrust, which, with a rock's endurance,

   Clings firmly round it, piecemeal fall away.

   And who are they who drive me from the king —

   My father's favor? What requital hath

   A monk to give a father for a son?

   What compensation can the duke supply

   For a deserted and a childless age?

   Would'st thou be loved? Here in this bosom springs

   A fresher, purer fountain, than e'er flowed

   From those dark, stagnant, muddy reservoirs,

   Which Philip's gold must first unlock.

                       No more,

   Presuming boy! For know the hearts thou slanderest

   Are the approved, true servants of my choice.

   'Tis meet that thou do honor to them.

                       Never!

   I know my worth – all that your Alva dares —

   That, and much more, can Carlos. What cares he,

   A hireling! for the welfare of the realm

   That never can be his? What careth he

   If Philip's hair grow gray with hoary age?

   Your Carlos would have loved you: – Oh, I dread

   To think that you the royal throne must fill

   Deserted and alone.

              I am alone!

   You have been so till now. Hate me no more,

   And I will love you dearly as a son:

   But hate me now no longer! Oh, how sweet,

   Divinely sweet it is to feel our being

   Reflected in another's beauteous soul;

   To see our joys gladden another's cheek,

   Our pains bring anguish to another's bosom,

   Our sorrows fill another's eye with tears!

   How sweet, how glorious is it, hand in hand,

   With a dear child, in inmost soul beloved,

   To tread once more the rosy paths of youth,

   And dream life's fond illusions o'er again!

   How proud to live through endless centuries

   Immortal in the virtues of a son;

   How sweet to plant what his dear hand shall reap;

   To gather what will yield him rich return,

   And guess how high his thanks will one day rise!

   My father of this early paradise

   Your monks most wisely speak not.

                     Oh, my son,

   Thou hast condemned thyself in painting thus

   A bliss this heart hath ne'er enjoyed from thee.

   The Omniscient be my judge! You till this hour

   Have still debarred me from your heart, and all

   Participation in your royal cares.

   The heir of Spain has been a very stranger

   In Spanish land – a prisoner in the realm

   Where he must one day rule. Say, was this just,

   Or kind? And often have I blushed for shame,

   And stood with eyes abashed, to learn perchance

   From foreign envoys, or the general rumor,

   Thy courtly doings at Aranjuez.

   Thy blood flows far too hotly in thy veins.

   Thou would'st but ruin all.

                  But try me, father.

   'Tis true my blood flows hotly in my veins.

   Full three-and-twenty years I now have lived,

   And naught achieved for immortality.

   I am aroused – I feel my inward powers —

   My title to the throne arouses me

   From slumber, like an angry creditor;

   And all the misspent hours of early youth,

   Like debts of honor, clamor in mine ears.

   It comes at length, the glorious moment comes

   That claims full interest on the intrusted talent.

   The annals of the world, ancestral fame,

   And glory's echoing trumpet urge me on.

   Now is the blessed hour at length arrived

   That opens wide to me the list of honor.

   My king, my father! dare I utter now

   The suit which led me hither?

                   Still a suit?

   Unfold it.

         The rebellion in Brabant

   Increases to a height – the traitor's madness

   By stern, but prudent, vigor must be met.

   The duke, to quell the wild enthusiasm,

   Invested with the sovereign's power, will lead

   An army into Flanders. Oh, how full

   Of glory is such office! and how suited

   To open wide the temple of renown

   To me, your son! To my hand, then, O king,

   Intrust the army; in thy Flemish lands

   I am well loved, and I will freely gage

   My life for their fidelity and truth.

   Thou speakest like a dreamer. This high office

   Demands a man – and not a stripling's arm.

   It but demands a human being, father:

   And that is what Duke Alva ne'er hath been.

   Terror alone can tie rebellion's hands:

   Humanity were madness. Thy soft soul

   Is tender, son: they'll tremble at the duke.

   Desist from thy request.

                Despatch me, sire,

   To Flanders with the army – dare rely

   E'en on my tender soul. The name of prince,

   The royal name emblazoned on my standard,

   Conquers where Alva's butchers but dismay.

   Here on my knees I crave it – this the first

   Petition of my life. Trust Flanders to me.

   Trust my best army to thy thirst for rule,

   And put a dagger in my murderer's hand!

   Great God! and is this all – is this the fruit

   Of a momentous hour so long desired!

   Oh, speak to me more kindly – send me not

   Thus comfortless away – dismiss me not

   With this afflicting answer, oh, my father!

   Use me more tenderly, indeed, I need it.

   This is the last resource of wild despair —

   It conquers every power of firm resolve

   To beat it as a man – this deep contempt —

   My every suit denied: Let me away —

   Unheard and foiled in all my fondest hopes,

   I take my leave. Now Alva and Domingo

   May proudly sit in triumph where your son

   Lies weeping in the dust. Your crowd of courtiers,

   And your long train of cringing, trembling nobles,

   Your tribe of sallow monks, so deadly pale,

   All witnessed how you granted me this audience.

   Let me not be disgraced. Oh, strike me not

   With this most deadly wound – nor lay me bare

   To sneering insolence of menial taunts!

   "That strangers riot on your bounty, whilst

   Carlos, your son, may supplicate in vain."

   And as a pledge that you would have me honored,

   Despatch me straight to Flanders with the army.

   Urge thy request no farther – as thou wouldst

   Avoid the king's displeasure.

                   I must brave

   My king's displeasure, and prefer my suit

   Once more, it is the last. Trust Flanders to me!

   I must away from Spain. To linger here

   Is to draw breath beneath the headsman's axe:

   The air lies heavy on me in Madrid

   Like murder on a guilty soul – a change,

   An instant change of clime alone can cure me.

   If you would save my life, despatch me straight

   Without delay to Flanders.

                 Invalids,

   Like thee, my son – need not be tended close,

   And ever watched by the physician's eye —

   Thou stayest in Spain – the duke will go to Flanders.

   Assist me, ye good angels!

                 Hold, what mean

   Those looks so wild?

              Father, do you abide

   Immovably by this determination?

   It was the king's.

             Then my commission's done.