The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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SCENE IV. — PRECIOSA'S chamber. She is sitting, with a book in

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      her hand, near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in its cage. The COUNT OF LARA enters behind unperceived.

      Prec. (reads).

       All are sleeping, weary heart!

       Thou, thou only sleepless art!

      Heigho! I wish Victorian were here. I know not what it is makes me so restless!

      (The bird sings.)

      Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, I have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day!

      All are sleeping, weary heart!

       Thou, thou only sleepless art!

       All this throbbing, all this aching,

       Evermore shall keep thee waking,

       For a heart in sorrow breaking

       Thinketh ever of its smart!

      Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish. Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? Or who takes note of every flower that dies? Heigho! I wish Victorian would come. Dolores!

      (Turns to lay down her boot and perceives the COUNT.)

      Ha!

       Lara. Senora, pardon me.

       Prec. How's this? Dolores!

       Lara. Pardon me—

       Prec. Dolores!

       Lara. Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting.

      If I have been too bold—

       Prec. (turning her back upon him). You are too bold!

      Retire! retire, and leave me!

       Lara. My dear lady,

      First hear me! I beseech you, let me speak!

      'T is for your good I come.

       Prec. (turning toward him with indignation). Begone! begone!

      You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds

      Would make the statues of your ancestors

      Blush on their tombs! Is it Castilian honor,

      Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here

      Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong?

      O shame! shame! shame! that you, a nobleman,

      Should be so little noble in your thoughts

      As to send jewels here to win my love,

      And think to buy my honor with your gold!

      I have no words to tell you how I scorn you!

      Begone! The sight of you is hateful to me!

      Begone, I say!

       Lara. Be calm; I will not harm you.

       Prec. Because you dare not.

       Lara. I dare anything!

      Therefore beware! You are deceived in me.

      In this false world, we do not always know

      Who are our friends and who our enemies.

      We all have enemies, and all need friends.

      Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court

      Have foes, who seek to wrong you.

       Prec. If to this

      I owe the honor of the present visit,

      You might have spared the coming. Raving spoken,

      Once more I beg you, leave me to myself.

       Lara. I thought it but a friendly part to tell you

      What strange reports are current here in town.

      For my own self, I do not credit them;

      But there are many who, not knowing you,

      Will lend a readier ear.

       Prec. There was no need

      That you should take upon yourself the duty

      Of telling me these tales.

       Lara. Malicious tongues

      Are ever busy with your name.

       Prec. Alas!

      I've no protectors. I am a poor girl,

      Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests.

      They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself.

      I give no cause for these reports. I live

      Retired; am visited by none.

       Lara. By none?

      O, then, indeed, you are much wronged!

       Prec. How mean you?

       Lara. Nay, nay; I will not wound your gentle soul

      By the report of idle tales.

       Prec. Speak out!

      What are these idle tales? You need not spare me.

       Lara. I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me

      This window, as I think, looks toward the street,

      And this into the Prado, does it not?

      In yon high house, beyond the garden wall—

      You see the roof there just above the trees—

      There lives a friend, who told me yesterday,

      That СКАЧАТЬ