Читать книгу Don Carlos - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 2

   Our pleasant sojourn in Aranjuez

   Is over now, and yet your highness quits

   These joyous scenes no happier than before.

   Our visit hath been fruitless. Oh, my prince,

   Break this mysterious and gloomy silence!

   Open your heart to your own father's heart!

   A monarch never can too dearly buy

   The peace of his own son – his only son.

   Is there one dearest wish that bounteous Heaven

   Hath e'er withheld from her most favored child?

   I stood beside, when in Toledo's walls

   The lofty Charles received his vassals' homage,

   When conquered princes thronged to kiss his hand,

   And there at once six mighty kingdoms fell

   In fealty at his feet: I stood and marked

   The young, proud blood mount to his glowing cheek,

   I saw his bosom swell with high resolves,

   His eye, all radiant with triumphant pride,

   Flash through the assembled throng; and that same eye

   Confessed, "Now am I wholly satisfied!"

   This silent sorrow, which for eight long moons

   Hath hung its shadows, prince, upon your brow —

   The mystery of the court, the nation's grief —

   Hath cost your father many a sleepless night,

   And many a tear of anguish to your mother.

   My mother! Grant, O heaven, I may forget

   How she became my mother!

                 Gracious prince!

   Alas! alas! a fruitful source of woe

   Have mothers been to me. My youngest act,

   When first these eyes beheld the light of day,

   Destroyed a mother.

              Is it possible

   That this reproach disturbs your conscience, prince?

   And my new mother! Hath she not already

   Cost me my father's heart? Scarce loved at best.

   My claim to some small favor lay in this —

   I was his only child! 'Tis over! She

   Hath blest him with a daughter – and who knows

   What slumbering ills the future hath in store?

   You jest, my prince. All Spain adores its queen.

   Shall it be thought that you, of all the world,

   Alone should view her with the eyes of hate —

   Gaze on her charms, and yet be coldly wise?

   How, prince? The loveliest lady of her time,

   A queen withal, and once your own betrothed?

   No, no, impossible – it cannot be!

   Where all men love, you surely cannot hate.

   Carlos could never so belie himself.

   I prithee, prince, take heed she do not learn

   That she hath lost her son's regard. The news

   Would pain her deeply.

   CARLOS.            Ay, sir! think you so?

   Your highness doubtless will remember how,

   At the late tournament in Saragossa,

   A lance's splinter struck our gracious sire.

   The queen, attended by her ladies, sat

   High in the centre gallery of the palace,

   And looked upon the fight. A cry arose,

   "The king! he bleeds!" Soon through the general din,

   A rising murmur strikes upon her ear.

   "The prince – the prince!" she cries, and forward rushed,

   As though to leap down from the balcony,

   When a voice answered, "No, the king himself!"

   "Then send for his physicians!" she replied,

   And straight regained her former self-composure.

   But you seem wrapped in thought?

   CARLOS.              In wonder, sir,

   That the king's merry confessor should own

   So rare a skill in the romancer's art.

   Yet have I heard it said that those

   Who watch men's looks and carry tales about,

   Have done more mischief in this world of ours

   Than the assassin's knife, or poisoned bowl.

   Your labor, Sir, hath been but ill-bestowed;

   Would you win thanks, go seek them of the king.

   This caution, prince, is wise. Be circumspect

   With men – but not with every man alike.

   Repel not friends and hypocrites together;

   I mean you well, believe me!

   CARLOS.               Say you so?

   Let not my father mark it, then, or else

   Farewell your hopes forever of the purple.

   How!

   CARLOS.   Even so! Hath he not promised you

   The earliest purple in the gift of Spain?

   You mock me, prince!

   CARLOS.        Nay! Heaven forefend, that I

   Should mock that awful man whose fateful lips

   Can doom my father or to heaven or hell!

   I dare not, prince, presume to penetrate

   The sacred mystery of your secret grief,

   Yet I implore your highness to remember

   That, for a conscience ill at ease, the church

   Hath opened an asylum, of which kings

   Hold not the key – where even crimes are purged

   Beneath the holy sacramental seal.

   You know my meaning, prince – I've said enough.

   No! be it, never said, I tempted so

   The keeper of that seal.

                Prince, this mistrust —

   You wrong the most devoted of your servants.

   Then give me up at once without a thought

   Thou art a holy man – the world knows that —

   But, to speak plain, too zealous far for me.

   The road to Peter's chair is long and rough,

   And too much knowledge might encumber you.

   Go, tell this to the king, who sent thee hither!

   Who sent me hither?

   CARLOS.           Ay! Those were my words.

   Too well-too well, I know, that I'm betrayed,

   Slandered on every hand – that at this court

   A hundred eyes are hired to watch my steps.

   I know, that royal Philip to his slaves

   Hath sold his only son, and every wretch,

   Who takes account of each half-uttered word,

   Receives such princely guerdon as was ne'er

   Bestowed on deeds of honor, Oh, I know

   But hush! – no more of that! My heart will else

   O'erflow and I've already said too much.

   The king is minded, ere the set of sun,

   To reach Madrid: I see the court is mustering.

   Have I permission, prince?

   CARLOS.              I'll follow straight.

   O wretched Philip! wretched as thy son!

   Soon shall thy bosom bleed at every pore,

   Torn by suspicion's poisonous serpent fang.

   Thy fell sagacity full soon shall pierce

   The fatal secret it is bent to know,

   And thou wilt madden, when it breaks upon thee!