Читать книгу Don Carlos - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 3

   Lo! Who comes here? 'Tis he! O ye kind heavens,

   My Roderigo!

   MARQUIS.       Carlos!

   CARLOS.            Can it be?

   And is it truly thou? O yes, it is!

   I press thee to my bosom, and I feel

   Thy throbbing heart beat wildly 'gainst mine own.

   And now all's well again. In this embrace

   My sick, sad heart is comforted. I hang

   Upon my Roderigo's neck!

   MARQUIS.             Thy heart!

   Thy sick sad heart! And what is well again

   What needeth to be well? Thy words amaze me.

   What brings thee back so suddenly from Brussels?

   Whom must I thank for this most glad surprise?

   And dare I ask? Whom should I thank but thee,

   Thou gracious and all bounteous Providence?

   Forgive me, heaven! if joy hath crazed my brain.

   Thou knewest no angel watched at Carlos' side,

   And sent me this! And yet I ask who sent him.

   Pardon, dear prince, if I can only meet

   With wonder these tumultuous ecstacies.

   Not thus I looked to find Don Philip's son.

   A hectic red burns on your pallid cheek,

   And your lips quiver with a feverish heat.

   What must I think, dear prince? No more I see

   The youth of lion heart, to whom I come

   The envoy of a brave and suffering people.

   For now I stand not here as Roderigo —

   Not as the playmate of the stripling Carlos —

   But, as the deputy of all mankind,

   I clasp thee thus: – 'tis Flanders that clings here

   Around thy neck, appealing with my tears

   To thee for succor in her bitter need.

   This land is lost, this land so dear to thee,

   If Alva, bigotry's relentless tool,

   Advance on Brussels with his Spanish laws.

   This noble country's last faint hope depends

   On thee, loved scion of imperial Charles!

   And, should thy noble heart forget to beat

   In human nature's cause, Flanders is lost!

   Then it is lost.

            What do I hear? Alas!

   Thou speakest of times that long have passed away.

   I, too, have had my visions of a Carlos,

   Whose cheek would fire at freedom's glorious name,

   But he, alas! has long been in his grave.

   He, thou seest here, no longer is that Carlos,

   Who took his leave of thee in Alcala,

   Who in the fervor of a youthful heart,

   Resolved, at some no distant time, to wake

   The golden age in Spain! Oh, the conceit,

   Though but a child's, was yet divinely fair!

   Those dreams are past!

               Said you, those dreams, my prince!

   And were they only dreams?

                 Oh, let me weep,

   Upon thy bosom weep these burning tears,

   My only friend! Not one have I – not one —

   In the wide circuit of this earth, – not one

   Far as the sceptre of my sire extends,

   Far as the navies bear the flag of Spain,

   There is no spot – none – none, where I dare yield

   An outlet to my tears, save only this.

   I charge thee, Roderigo! Oh, by all

   The hopes we both do entertain of heaven,

   Cast me not off from thee, my friend, my friend!

   Look on me, Posa, as an orphan child,

   Found near the throne, and nurtured by thy love.

   Indeed, I know not what a father is.

   I am a monarch's son. Oh, were it so,

   As my heart tells me that it surely is,

   That thou from millions hast been chosen out

   To comprehend my being; if it be true,

   That all-creating nature has designed

   In me to reproduce a Roderigo,

   And on the morning of our life attuned

   Our souls' soft concords to the selfsame key;

   If one poor tear, which gives my heart relief,

   To thee were dearer than my father's favor —

   Oh, it is dearer far than all the world!

   I'm fallen so low, have grown so poor withal,

   I must recall to thee our childhood's years, —

   Must ask thee payment of a debt incurred

   When thou and I were scarce to boyhood grown.

   Dost thou remember, how we grew together,

   Two daring youths, like brothers, side by side?

   I had no sorrow but to see myself

   Eclipsed by thy bright genius. So I vowed,

   Since I might never cope with thee in power,

   That I would love thee with excess of love.

   Then with a thousand shows of tenderness,

   And warm affection, I besieged thy heart,

   Which cold and proudly still repulsed them all.

   Oft have I stood, and – yet thou sawest it never

   Hot bitter tear-drops brimming in mine eyes,

   When I have marked thee, passing me unheeded,

   Fold to thy bosom youths of humbler birth.

   "Why only these?" in anguish, once I asked —

   "Am I not kind and good to thee as they?"

   But dropping on thy knees, thine answer came,

   With an unloving look of cold reserve,

   "This is my duty to the monarch's son!"

   Oh, spare me, dearest prince, nor now recall

   Those boyish acts that make me blush for shame.

   I did not merit such disdain from thee —

   You might despise me, crush my heart, but never

   Alter my love. Three times didst thou repulse

   The prince, and thrice he came to thee again,

   To beg thy love, and force on thee his own.

   At length chance wrought what Carlos never could.

   Once we were playing, when thy shuttlecock

   Glanced off and struck my aunt, Bohemia's queen,

   Full in the face! She thought 'twas with intent,

   And all in tears complained unto the king.

   The palace youth were summoned on the spot,

   And charged to name the culprit. High in wrath

   The king vowed vengeance for the deed: "Although

   It were his son, yet still should he be made

   A dread example!" I looked around and marked

   Thee stand aloof, all trembling with dismay.

   Straight I stepped forth; before the royal feet

   I flung myself, and cried, "'Twas I who did it;

   Now let thine anger fall upon thy son!"

   Ah, wherefore, prince, remind me?

                     Hear me further!

   Before the face of the assembled court,

   That stood, all pale with pity, round about,

   Thy Carlos was tied up, whipped like a slave;

   I looked on thee, and wept not. Blow rained on blow;

   I gnashed my teeth with pain, yet wept I not!

   My royal blood streamed 'neath the pitiless lash;

   I looked on thee, and wept not. Then you came,

   And fell half-choked with sobs before my feet:

   "Carlos," you cried, "my pride is overcome;

   I will repay thee when thou art a king."

   Carlos, I'll keep my word; my boyhood's vow

   I now as man renew. I will repay thee.

   Some day, perchance, the hour may come —

                         Now! now!

   The hour has come; thou canst repay me all.

   I have sore need of love. A fearful secret

   Burns in my breast; it must – it must be told.

   In thy pale looks my death-doom will I read.

   Listen; be petrified; but answer not.

   I love – I love – my mother!

                 O my God!

   Nay, no forbearance! spare me not! Speak! speak!

   Proclaim aloud, that on this earth's great round

   There is no misery to compare with mine.

   Speak! speak! – I know all – all that thou canst say

   The son doth love his mother. All the world's

   Established usages, the course of nature,

   Rome's fearful laws denounce my fatal passion.

   My suit conflicts with my own father's rights,

   I feel it all, and yet I love. This path

   Leads on to madness, or the scaffold. I

   Love without hope, love guiltily, love madly,

   With anguish, and with peril of my life;

   I see, I see it all, and yet I love.

   The queen – does she know of your passion?

                         Could I

   Reveal it to her? She is Philip's wife —

   She is the queen, and this is Spanish ground,

   Watched by a jealous father, hemmed around

   By ceremonial forms, how, how could I

   Approach her unobserved? 'Tis now eight months,

   Eight maddening months, since the king summoned me

   Home from my studies, since I have been doomed

   To look on her, adore her day by day,

   And all the while be silent as the grave!

   Eight maddening months, Roderigo; think of this!

   This fire has seethed and raged within my breast!

   A thousand, thousand times, the dread confession

   Has mounted to my lips, yet evermore

   Shrunk, like a craven, back upon my heart.

   O Roderigo! for a few brief moments

   Alone with her!

            Ah! and your father, prince!

   Unhappy me! Remind me not of him.

   Tell me of all the torturing pangs of conscience,

   But speak not, I implore you, of my father!

   Then do you hate your father?

                   No, oh, no!

   I do not hate my father; but the fear

   That guilty creatures feel, – a shuddering dread, —

   Comes o'er me ever at that terrible name.

   Am I to blame, if slavish nurture crushed

   Love's tender germ within my youthful heart?

   Six years I'd numbered, ere the fearful man,

   They told me was my father, met mine eyes.

   One morning 'twas, when with a stroke I saw him

   Sign four death-warrants. After that I ne'er

   Beheld him, save when, for some childish fault,

   I was brought out for chastisement. O God!

   I feel my heart grow bitter at the thought.

   Let us away! away!

             Nay, Carlos, nay,

   You must, you shall give all your sorrow vent,

   Let it have words! 'twill ease your o'erfraught heart.

   Oft have I struggled with myself, and oft

   At midnight, when my guards were sunk in sleep,

   With floods of burning tears I've sunk before

   The image of the ever-blessed Virgin,

   And craved a filial heart, but all in vain.

   I rose with prayer unheard. O Roderigo!

   Unfold this wondrous mystery of heaven,

   Why of a thousand fathers only this

   Should fall to me – and why to him this son,

   Of many thousand better? Nature could not

   In her wide orb have found two opposites

   More diverse in their elements. How could

   She bind the two extremes of human kind —

   Myself and him – in one so holy bond?

   O dreadful fate! Why was it so decreed?

   Why should two men, in all things else apart,

   Concur so fearfully in one desire?

   Roderigo, here thou seest two hostile stars,

   That in the lapse of ages, only once,

   As they sweep onwards in their orbed course,

   Touch with a crash that shakes them to the centre,

   Then rush apart forever and forever.

   I feel a dire foreboding.

                 So do I.

   Like hell's grim furies, dreams of dreadful shape

   Pursue me still. My better genius strives

   With the fell projects of a dark despair.

   My wildered subtle spirit crawls through maze

   On maze of sophistries, until at length

   It gains a yawning precipice's brink.

   O Roderigo! should I e'er in him

   Forget the father – ah! thy deathlike look

   Tells me I'm understood – should I forget

   The father – what were then the king to me?

   One thing, my Carlos, let me beg of you!

   Whate'er may be your plans, do nothing, – nothing, —

   Without your friend's advice. You promise this?

   All, all I promise that thy love can ask!

   I throw myself entirely upon thee!

   The king, I hear, is going to Madrid.

   The time is short. If with the queen you would

   Converse in private, it is only here,

   Here in Aranjuez, it can be done.

   The quiet of the place, the freer manners,

   All favor you.

           And such, too, was my hope;

   But it, alas! was vain.

                Not wholly so.

   I go to wait upon her. If she be

   The same in Spain she was in Henry's court,

   She will be frank at least. And if I can

   Read any hope for Carlos in her looks —

   Find her inclined to grant an interview —

   Get her attendant ladies sent away —

   Most of them are my friends – especially

   The Countess Mondecar, whom I have gained

   By service to her son, my page.

                    'Tis well;

   Be you at hand, and ready to appear,

   Whene'er I give the signal, prince.

                      I will, —

   Be sure I will: – and all good speed attend thee!

   I will not lose a moment; so, farewell.