Читать книгу Demetrius - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 1

Thus then hath this tempestuous Diet been

   Conducted safely to a prosperous close;

   And king and commons part as cordial friends.

   The nobles have consented to disarm,

   And straight disband the dangerous Rocoss1;

   Whilst our good king his sacred word has pledged,

   That every just complaint shall have redress.

   And now that all is peace at home, we may

   Look to the things that claim our care abroad.

   Is it the will of the most high Estates

   That Prince Demetrius, who hath advanced

   A claim to Russia's crown, as Ivan's son,

   Should at their bar appear, and in the face

   Of this august assembly prove his right?

   Honor and justice both demand he should;

   It were unseemly to refuse his prayer.

   The documents on which he rests have been

   Examined, and are found authentic. We

   May give him audience.

               Nay! We must, we must!

   To hear is to admit his right.

                   And not

   To hear is to reject his claims unheard.

   Is it your will that he have audience?

   I ask it for the second time – and third.

   Let him stand forth before our throne!

                       And speak!

   Yes, yes! Let him be heard!

                  Write down, my lord,

   That here I do protest against this step,

   And all that may ensue therefrom, to mar

   The peace of Poland's state and Moscow's crown.

   Prince Dmitri, son of Ivan! if the pomp

   Of this great Diet scare thee, or a sight

   So noble and majestic chain thy tongue,

   Thou may'st – for this the senate have allowed —

   Choose thee a proxy, wheresoe'er thou list,

   And do thy mission by another's lips.

   My lord archbishop, I stand here to claim

   A kingdom, and the state of royalty.

   'Twould ill beseem me should I quake before

   A noble people, and its king and senate.

   I ne'er have viewed a circle so august,

   But the sight swells my heart within my breast

   And not appals me. The more worthy ye,

   To me ye are more welcome; I can ne'er

   Address my claim to nobler auditory.

   ..         The august republic

   Is favorably bent.    ..

   Most puissant king! Most worthy and most potent

   Bishops and palatines, and my good lords,

   The deputies of the august republic!

   It gives me pause and wonder to behold

   Myself, Czar Ivan's son, now stand before

   The Polish people in their Diet here.

   Both realms were sundered by a bloody hate,

   And, whilst my father lived, no peace might be.

   Yet now hath Heaven so ordered these events,

   That I, his blood, who with my nurse's milk

   Imbibed the ancestral hate, appear before you

   A fugitive, compelled to seek my rights

   Even here in Poland's heart. Then, ere I speak,

   Forget magnanimously all rancors past,

   And that the Czar, whose son I own myself,

   Rolled war's red billows to your very homes.

   I stand before you, sirs, a prince despoiled.

   I ask protection. The oppressed may urge

   A sacred claim on every noble breast.

   And who in all earth's circuit shall be just,

   If not a people great and valiant, – one

   In plenitude of power so free, it needs

   To render 'count but to itself alone,

   And may, unchallenged, lend an open ear

   And aiding hand to fair humanity.

   You do allege you are Czar Ivan's son;

   And truly, nor your bearing nor your speech

   Gainsays the lofty title that you urge,

   But shows us that you are indeed his son.

   And you shall find that the republic bears

   A generous spirit. She has never quailed

   To Russia in the field! She loves, alike,

   To be a noble foe – a cordial friend.

   Ivan Wasilowitch, the mighty Czar

   Of Moscow, took five spouses to his bed,

   In the long years that spared him to the throne.

   The first, a lady of the heroic line

   Of Romanoff, bare him Feodor, who reigned

   After his father's death. One only son,

   Dmitri, the last blossom of his strength,

   And a mere infant when his father died,

   Was born of Marfa, of Nagori's line.

   Czar Feodor, a youth, alike effeminate

   In mind and body, left the reins of power

   To his chief equerry, Boris Godunow,

   Who ruled his master with most crafty skill.

   Feodor was childless, and his barren bride

   Denied all prospect of an heir. Thus, when

   The wily Boiar, by his fawning arts,

   Had coiled himself into the people's favor,

   His wishes soared as high as to the throne.

   Between him and his haughty hopes there stood

   A youthful prince, the young Demetrius

   Iwanowitsch, who with his mother lived

   At Uglitsch, where her widowhood was passed.

   Now, when his fatal purpose was matured,

   He sent to Uglitsch ruffians, charged to put

   The Czarowitsch to death.

   One night, when all was hushed, the castle's wing,

   Where the young prince, apart from all the rest,

   With his attendants lay, was found on fire.

   The raging flames ingulfed the pile; the prince

   Unseen, unheard, was spirited away,

   And all the world lamented him as dead.

   All Moscow knows these things to be the truth.

   Yes, these are facts familiar to us all.

   The rumor ran abroad, both far and near,

   That Prince Demetrius perished in the flames

   When Uglitsch was destroyed. And, as his death

   Raised to the throne the Czar who fills it now,

   Fame did not hesitate to charge on him

   This murder foul and pitiless. But yet,

   His death is not the business now in hand!

   This prince is living still! He lives in you!

   So runs your plea. Now bring us to the proofs!

   Whereby do you attest that you are he?

   What are the signs by which you shall be known?

   How 'scaped you those were sent to hunt you down

   And now, when sixteen years are passed, and you

   Well nigh forgot, emerge to light once more?

   'Tis scarce a year since I have known myself;

   I lived a secret to myself till then,

   Surmising naught of my imperial birth.

   I was a monk with monks, close pent within

   The cloister's precincts, when I first began

   To waken to a consciousness of self.

   My impetuous spirit chafed against the bars,

   And the high blood of princes began to course

   In strange unbidden moods along my veins.

   At length I flung the monkish cowl aside,

   And fled to Poland, where the noble Prince

   Of Sendomir, the generous, the good,

   Took me as guest into his princely house,

   And trained me up to noble deeds of arms.

   How? You still ignorant of what you were?

   Yet ran the rumor then on every side,

   That Prince Demetrius was still alive.

   Czar Boris trembled on his throne, and sent

   His sassafs to the frontiers, to keep

   Sharp watch on every traveller that stirred.

   Had not the tale its origin with you?

   Did you not give the rumor birth yourself?

   Had you not named to any that you were

   Demetrius?

         I relate that which I know.

   If a report went forth I was alive,

   Then had some god been busy with the fame.

   Myself I knew not. In the prince's house,

   And in the throng of his retainers lost,

   I spent the pleasant springtime of my youth.

                In silent homage

   My heart was vowed to his most lovely daughter.

   Yet in those days it never dreamed to raise

   Its wildest thoughts to happiness so high.

   My passion gave offence to her betrothed,

   The Castellan of Lemberg. He with taunts

   Chafed me, and in the blindness of his rage

   Forgot himself so wholly as to strike me.

   Thus savagely provoked, I drew my sword;

   He, blind with fury, rushed upon the blade,

   And perished there by my unwitting hand.

   Yes, it was even so.

   Mine was the worst mischance! A nameless youth,

   A Russian and a stranger, I had slain

   A grandee of the empire – in the house

   Of my kind patron done a deed of blood,

   And sent to death his son-in-law and friend.

   My innocence availed not; not the pity

   Of all his household, nor his kindness – his,

   The noble Palatine's, – could save my life;

   For it was forfeit to the law, that is,

   Though lenient to the Poles, to strangers stern.

   Judgment was passed on me – that judgment death.

   I knelt upon the scaffold, by the block;

   To the fell headsman's sword I bared my throat,

   And in the act disclosed a cross of gold,

   Studded with precious gems, which had been hung

   About my neck at the baptismal font.

   This sacred pledge of Christian redemption

   I had, as is the custom of my people,

   Worn on my neck concealed, where'er I went,

   From my first hours of infancy; and now,

   When from sweet life I was compelled to part,

   I grasped it as my only stay, and pressed it

   With passionate devotion to my lips.

   The jewel was observed; its sheen and worth

   Awakened curiosity and wonder.

   They set me free, and questioned me; yet still

   I could not call to memory a time

   I had not worn the jewel on my person.

   Now it so happened that three Boiars who

   Had fled from the resentment of their Czar

   Were on a visit to my lord at Sambor.

   They saw the trinket, – recognized it by

   Nine emeralds alternately inlaid

   With amethysts, to be the very cross

   Which Ivan Westislowsky at the font

   Hung on the neck of the Czar's youngest son.

   They scrutinized me closer, and were struck

   To find me marked with one of nature's freaks,

   For my right arm is shorter than my left.

   Now, being closely plied with questions, I

   Bethought me of a little psalter which

   I carried from the cloister when I fled.

   Within this book were certain words in Greek

   Inscribed there by the Igumen himself.

   What they imported was unknown to me,

   Being ignorant of the language. Well, the psalter

   Was sent for, brought, and the inscription read.

   It bore that Brother Wasili Philaret

   (Such was my cloister-name), who owned the book,

   Was Prince Demetrius, Ivan's youngest son,

   By Andrei, an honest Diak, saved

   By stealth in that red night of massacre.

   Proofs of the fact lay carefully preserved

   Within two convents, which were pointed out.

   On this the Boiars at my feet fell down,

   Won by the force of these resistless proofs,

   And hailed me as the offspring of their Czar.

   So from the yawning gulfs of black despair

   Fate raised me up to fortune's topmost heights.

   And now the mists cleared off, and all at once

   Memories on memories started into life

   In the remotest background of the past.

   And like some city's spires that gleam afar

   In golden sunshine when naught else is seen,

   So in my soul two images grew bright,

   The loftiest sun-peaks in the shadowy past.

   I saw myself escaping one dark night,

   And a red lurid flame light up the gloom

   Of midnight darkness as I looked behind me

   A memory 'twas of very earliest youth,

   For what preceded or came after it

   In the long distance utterly was lost.

   In solitary brightness there it stood

   A ghastly beacon-light on memory's waste.

   Yet I remembered how, in later years,

   One of my comrades called me, in his wrath

   Son of the Czar. I took it as a jest,

   And with a blow avenged it at the time.

   All this now flashed like lightning on my soul,

   And told with dazzling certainty that I

   Was the Czar's son, so long reputed dead.

   With this one word the clouds that had perplexed

   My strange and troubled life were cleared away.

   Nor merely by these signs, for such deceive;

   But in my soul, in my proud, throbbing heart

   I felt within me coursed the blood of kings;

   And sooner will I drain it drop by drop

   Than bate one jot my title to the crown.

   And shall we trust a scroll which might have found

   Its way by merest chance into your hands

   Backed by the tale of some poor renegades?

   Forgive me, noble youth! Your tone, I grant,

   And bearing, are not those of one who lies;

   Still you in this may be yourself deceived.

   Well may the heart be pardoned that beguiles

   Itself in playing for so high a stake.

   What hostage do you tender for your word?

   I tender fifty, who will give their oaths, —

   All Piasts to a man, and free-born Poles

   Of spotless reputation, – each of whom

   Is ready to enforce what I have urged.

   There sits the noble Prince of Sendomir,

   And at his side the Castellan of Lublin;

   Let them declare if I have spoke the truth.

   How seem these things to the august Estates?

   To the enforcement of such numerous proofs

   Doubt and mistrust, methinks, must needs give way.

   Long has a creeping rumor filled the world

   That Dmitri, Ivan's son, is still alive.

   The Czar himself confirms it by his fears.

   – Before us stands a youth, in age and mien

   Even to the very freak that nature played,

   The lost heir's counterpart, and of a soul

   Whose noble stamp keeps rank with his high claims.

   He left a cloister's precincts, urged by strange,

   Mysterious promptings; and this monk-trained boy

   Was straight distinguished for his knightly feats.

   He shows a trinket which the Czarowitsch

   Once wore, and one that never left his side;

   A written witness, too, by pious hands,

   Gives us assurance of his princely birth;

   And, stronger still, from his unvarnished speech

   And open brow truth makes his best appeal.

   Such traits as these deceit doth never don;

   It masks its subtle soul in vaunting words,

   And in the high-glossed ornaments of speech.

   No longer, then, can I withhold the title

   Which he with circumstance and justice claims

   And, in the exercise of my old right,

   I now, as primate, give him the first voice.

   My voice goes with the primate's.

                     So does mine.

   And mine!

         And mine.

              And all!

                   My gracious sirs!

   Weigh well ere you decide! Be not so hasty!

   It is not meet the council of the realm

   Be hurried on to —

             There is nothing here

   For us to weigh; all has been fully weighed.

   The proofs demonstrate incontestably.

   This is not Moscow, sirs! No despot here

   Keeps our free souls in manacles. Here truth

   May walk by day or night with brow erect.

   I will not think, my lords, in Cracow here,

   Here in the very Diet of the Poles,

   That Moscow's Czar should have obsequious slaves.

   Oh, take my thanks, ye reverend senators!

   That ye have lent your credence to these proofs;

   And if I be indeed the man whom I

   Protest myself, oh, then, endure not this

   Audacious robber should usurp my seat,

   Or longer desecrate that sceptre which

   To me, as the true Czarowitsch, belongs.

   Yes, justice lies with me, – you have the power.

   'Tis the most dear concern of every state

   And throne, that right should everywhere prevail,

   And all men in the world possess their own.

   For there, where justice holds uncumbered sway,

   There each enjoys his heritage secure,

   And over every house and every throne

   Law, truth, and order keep their angel watch.

   It is the key-stone of the world's wide arch,

   The one sustaining and sustained by all,

   Which, if it fail, brings all in ruin down.

   Oh, look on me, renowned Sigismund!

   Great king, on thine own bosom turn thine eyes.

   And in my destiny behold thine own.

   Thou, too, hast known the rude assaults of fate;

   Within a prison camest thou to the world;

   Thy earliest glances fell on dungeon walls.

   Thou, too, hadst need of friends to set thee free,

   And raise thee from a prison to a throne.

   These didst thou find. That noble kindness thou

   Didst reap from them, oh, testify to me.

   And you, ye grave and honored councillors,

   Most reverend bishops, pillars of the church,

   Ye palatines and castellans of fame,

   The moment has arrived, by one high deed,

   To reconcile two nations long estranged.

   Yours be the glorious boast, that Poland's power

   Hath given the Muscovites their Czar, and in

   The neighbor who oppressed you as a foe

   Secure an ever-grateful friend. And you,

   The deputies of the august republic,

   Saddle your steeds of fire! Leap to your seats!

   To you expand high fortune's golden gates;

   I will divide the foeman's spoil with you.

   Moscow is rich in plunder; measureless

   In gold and gems, the treasures of the Czar;

   I can give royal guerdons to my friends,

   And I will give them, too. When I, as Czar,

   Set foot within the Kremlin, then, I swear,

   The poorest of you all, that follows me,

   Shall robe himself in velvet and in sables;

   With costly pearls his housings shall he deck,

   And silver be the metal of least worth,

   That he shall shoe his horses' hoofs withal.

   How! shall we leave the Cossack to despoil us

   At once of glory and of booty both?

   We've made a truce with Tartar and with Turk,

   And from the Swedish power have naught to fear.

   Our martial spirit has been wasting long

   In slothful peace; our swords are red with rust.

   Up! and invade the kingdom of the Czar,

   And win a grateful and true-hearted friend,

   Whilst we augment our country's might and glory.

   War! War with Moscow!

               Be it so resolved!

   On to the votes at once!

                Grand marshal, please

   To order silence! I desire to speak.

   War! War with Moscow!

               Nay, I will be heard.

   Ho, marshal, do your duty!

                 'Tis, you see,