The Life of Friedrich Schiller. Томас КарлейльЧитать онлайн книгу.

      King.This fire

      Is laudable. You would do good to others;

      How you do it, patriots, wise men think

      Of little moment, so it be but done.

      Seek for yourself the office in my kingdoms

      That will give you scope to gratify

      This noble zeal.

      Mar.There is not such an office.

      King. How?

      Mar.What the king desires to spread abroad

      Through these weak hands, is it the good of men?

      That good which my unfetter'd love would wish them?

      Pale majesty would tremble to behold it!

      No! Policy has fashioned in her courts

      Another sort of human good; a sort

      Which she is rich enough to give away,

      Awakening with it in the hearts of men

      New cravings, such as it can satisfy.

      Truth she keeps coining in her mints, such truth

      As she can tolerate; and every die

      Except her own she breaks and casts away.

      But is the royal bounty wide enough

      For me to wish and work in? Must the love

      I hear my brother pledge itself to be

      My brother's jailor? Can I call him happy

      When he dare not think? Sire, choose some other

      To dispense the good which you have stamped for us.

      With me it tallies not; a prince's servant

      I cannot be.

      King [rather quickly].

      You are a Protestant.

      Mar. [after some reflection]

      Sire, your creed is also mine.[After a pause.

      I find

      I am misunderstood: 'tis as I feared.

      You see me draw the veil from majesty,

      And view its mysteries with steadfast eye:

      How should you know if I regard as holy

      What I no more regard as terrible?

      Dangerous I seem, for bearing thoughts too high:

      My King, I am not dangerous: my wishes

      Lie buried here.[Laying his hand on his breast.

      The poor and purblind rage

      Of innovation, that but aggravates

      The weight o' th' fetters which it cannot break,

      Will never heat my blood. The century

      Admits not my ideas: I live a citizen

      Of those that are to come. Sire, can a picture

      Break your rest? Your breath obliterates it.

      King. No other knows you harbour such ideas?

      Mar. Such, no one.

      King [rises, walks a few steps, then stops opposite the Marquis.

      —Aside]. New at least, this dialect!

      Flattery exhausts itself: a man of parts

      Disdains to imitate. For once let's have

      A trial of the opposite! Why not?

      The strange is oft the lucky.—If so be

      This is your principle, why let it pass!

      I will conform; the crown shall have a servant

      New in Spain,—a liberal!

      Mar.Sire, I see

      How very meanly you conceive of men;

      How, in the language of the frank true spirit

      You find but another deeper artifice

      Of a more practis'd coz'ner: I can also

      Partly see what causes this. 'Tis men;

      'Tis men that force you to it: they themselves

      Have cast away their own nobility,

      Themselves have crouch'd to this degraded posture.

      Man's innate greatness, like a spectre, frights them;

      Their poverty seems safety; with base skill

      They ornament their chains, and call it virtue

      To wear them with an air of grace. Twas thus

      You found the world; thus from your royal father

      Came it to you: how in this distorted,

      Mutilated image could you honour man?

      King. Some truth there is in this.

      Mar.Pity, however,

      That in taking man from the Creator,

      And changing him into your handiwork,

      And setting up yourself to be the god

      Of this new-moulded creature, you should have

      Forgotten one essential; you yourself

      Remained a man, a very child of Adam!

      You are still a suffering, longing mortal,

      You call for sympathy, and to a god

      We can but sacrifice, and pray, and tremble!

      O unwise exchange! unbless'd perversion!

      When you have sunk your brothers to be play'd

      As harp-strings, who will join in harmony

      With you the player?

      King [aside].By Heaven, he touches me!

      Mar. For you, however, this is unimportant;

      It but makes you separate, peculiar;

      'Tis the price you pay for being a god.

      And frightful were it if you failed in this!

      If for the desolated good of millions,

      You the Desolator should gain—nothing!

      If the very freedom you have blighted

      And kill'd were that alone which could exalt

      Yourself!—Sire, pardon me, I must not stay:

      The matter makes me rash: my heart is full,

      Too strong the charm of looking on the one

      Of living men to whom I might unfold it.