Don Carlos. Фридрих Шиллер

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       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!

       MARQUIS.

       O my God!

       CARLOS.

       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.

       MARQUIS.

       The queen—does she know of your passion?

       CARLOS.

       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!

       MARQUIS.

       Ah! and your father, prince!

       CARLOS.

       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!

       MARQUIS.

       Then do you hate your father?

       CARLOS.

       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!

       MARQUIS.

       Nay, Carlos, nay,

       You must, you shall give all your sorrow vent,

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

       CARLOS.

       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.

       MARQUIS.

       I feel a dire foreboding.

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