Friedrich Schiller.

The works of Frederick Schiller, translated from the German (Volume 3) online

. (page 1 of 37)
Online LibraryFriedrich SchillerThe works of Frederick Schiller, translated from the German (Volume 3) → online text (page 1 of 37)
Font size
QR-code for this ebook





'A '

•■A •■




f»: -.>:•- -

"■ fr.J->

• '"^^^^;^■



-y- '•■' ?,-.^, ,.




A f-









" Schiller is the Jischylus of Germany, the loftiest of her tragic poeto.*— i
Taylor {of Normich).

" Schiller was at once fiery and tender ; impetuous, soft, aiFectionate ; hie
enthusiasm clothed the universe with grandeur, and sent his spirit forth to
explore its secrets, and mingle warmly in its interests. Thus poetry in
Schiller was not one, but many gifts. It was not the ' lean and flashy song'
of an ear apt for harmony, combined with a maudlin sensibility, or a mere
animal ferocity of passion, and an imagination creative chiefly because un-
bridled ; it was, what true poetry is always, the quintessence of general
mental riches, the purified result of strong thought and conception, and of
refined as well as powerful emotion. In his writings we behold him a
moralist, a philosopher, a man of universal knowledge ; in each of these
capacities he is great, but also in more ; for all that he achieves in these ia
brightened and gilded with the touch of another quality ; his maxims, his
feelings, his opinions, are transformed from the lifeless shape of didactic
truths, into living shapes that address faculties far finer than the under-
standing." — Carlyle.

" With Schiller the imagination and the intellect were so nicely balanced,
that one knows not which was the greater ; owing, happily, to the extensive
range of his studies, it may be said that as the intellect was enriched, the
imagination was strengthened. He did not sing ' as the bird siags,' from
the mere impulse of song, but he rather selected poetry as the most perfect
form for the expression of noble fancies and high thoughts. ' His conscience
was his muse,' " — Sir E. L. Bulwer.

"The better productions ot the German stage have never been made
known to us ; for by some unfortunate chance the wretched pieces of
Kotzebue have found a readier acceptance, or more willing translators, than
the sublimity of Goethe, or the romantic strength of Schiller." — Sir Walter

" Schiller's poetical creations have had, beyond the province oi an, an
immediate effect upon life itself. The mighty charm of his song has not only
touched the imaginations of men, but even their consciences ; and the fiery
eeal with which he entered into conflict with all that is base and vulgar, tuw
Holy enthusiasm with which he vindicated the acknowledged rights and the
insulted dignity of man, more frequently and victoriously than any before
him, make his name illustrious, not only among the poets, but among the
uoblest sages and heroes, who are dear to mankind.' — MerneU


E 7i^nUfi'-












/ IfO^






The present volume forms the third of the Standard Library
edition of Schiller's works, and comprises four of his most
admired dramas.

Don Caelos is translated by E. D. Boylan, Esq., and, in
the opinion of competent judges, the version is eminently
successful. Mr. Theodore Martin kindly gave some assist-
ance in passing it through the press, and, it is but justice to
state, has enhanced the value of the work by his judicious

The translation of Mary Stuaet is that by the late Joseph
MeUish, who appears to have been on terms of intimate
friendship with Schiller*; and mentions, in his preface,
that he was commissioned to introduce this tragedy on the
English stage. His version was made from the prompter's
copy, before the play was published, and, like Coleridge's
Wallenstein, contains many passages not found in the printed
edition. These are distinguished by- brackets. On the other
band,- Mr. MeUish omitted many passages which now form
part of the printed drama, all of which are now added. The

* Mr. Mellish was an Etonian, the schoolfellow, and, in after life, the
friend and companion of Canning and Frere. With these distinguished
scholars he assisted to plan and support that interesting miscellany the
Microcosm, published at Eton, in 1786-7, by Mr. Charles Knight, father of
the late well-known publisher. Mr. Mellish, in his maturer years, held
the appointment of Consul-General at Hamburg, and, during that period,
acquired the friendship and esteem of many of the German literati, es-
pecially Goethe, who dedicated a poem to him.


translation, as a wBole, stands out from similar works of the
time (1800) in almost as marked a degree as Coleridge's
Wallenstein, and some passages exldbit powers of a higli
order ; a few, however, especially in the earlier scenes,
seemed capable of improvement, and these have been revised,
but, in deference to the translator, with a sparing hand.

The Maid of Orleans is contributed by Miss Anna Swan-
wick, whose translation of Faust, in this series of works, has
since become well known. It has been carefully revised for
this edition, and is now, for the first time, published complete.

The Bride of Messina, which has been regarded as the
poetical masterpiece of Schiller, and perhaps of all his works
presents the greatest difficulties to the translator, is rendered
by A. Lodge, Esq., M.A. This version on its first publica-
tion, a few years ago, was received with deserved eulogy by
several distinguished critics, more especially in the Examiner
and AthencBum, where it formed the subject of elaborate
notices. To the present edition has been prefixed Schiller's
Essay on the Use of the Chorus in Tragedy, in which the
author's favourite theory of the " Ideal of Art " is enforced
with great ingenuity and eloquence.











Peilip the Second, King of Spain.
PoN Carlos, PHnce, Son of Philip.
Alexander Faenese, Prince of

Marquis de Posa.
D0KE of Alva.
Count Lerma, Colonel of^

the Body Guard.
Duke of Feria, Kmght

of the Golden Fleece.
Duke op Medina Si-

DONIA, Admiral.
Don Raimond de Taxis,

Postmaster General.
Domingo, Confessor to the King.
tJEAHD Inquisitor of Spain.


of Spain.

Prior of a Carthusian Convent.

Page of the Queen.

Don Louis Mercado, Physician to
the Qiieen.

Elizabeth deValois, Queen of Spain.

Infanta Clara Farnese, a Child
th ree years of age.

Duchess d'Olivarez, principal At-
tendant on the Queen.

Marchioness de ^ r j- « j

,T 1 Ladies attend-

jMondecar. ', , .,

T, T^ > ant on the

Princess Eboli. f ^

„ „ Queen.

Countess Fuentes. )

Several Ladies, Nobles, Pages, Officer^
of the Body Guard, and mute



Scene I.

The Royal Gardens in Aranjuez.

Carlos and Domingo.


Our pleasant sojourn in Aranjuez

Is over now, and jet jour Higkness quits

These joyous scenes no happier than before.

Our visit hath been fruitless. 0, my Prince,

Break this mysterious and gloomy silence !

Open your heart to your o^^sn father's heart !

A monarch never can too dearly buy

The peace of his own son — his only son

[Carlos looks on the cfvound m silence.
Is there one dearest wish, that bounteous Heaven
Hath e'er withheld from her most favour 'd child?
I stood beside, when in Toledo's walls
The lofty Charles received his vassals' homage.
When conquer'd princes throng'd to kiss his hand,
And there at once six mighty kingdoms fell

2 DON CARI,OS [act I.

In frialty at his feet : — I stood and mark'd

T'l\e young proud blood mount to his glowing cheek,

I saw his bosom swell with high resolves,

His eye, all radiant with triumphant pride,

Flash through the assembled throng ; and that same eye

Confess'd, " Now am I wholly satisfied ! "

[Carlos ticnis away.
This silent sorrow, which for eight long moons
Hath hung its shadows, Prince, upon your brow, —
The myst'ry of the court, the nation's giief, —
Hath cost your father many a sleepless night,
And many a tear of anguish to your mother
CARLOS (turning hastily round).
'My mother !— Grant, Heaven, I may forget
How she became my mother !


Gracious Prince !
CARLOS [pnssing his hand thoughtfully over his hro'x\
Alas 1 alas ! a fruitful source of woe
Have mothers been to me. My youngest act.
When first these eyes beheld the light of day,
Destroyed a mother.


Is it possible.
That this reproach disturbs your conscience, Priuco ?


And my new mother ! Hath ^he not already
Cost me my father's heart ? Scarce lov'd at best.
My claim to some small favour lay in this —
I was his only child ! 'Tis over ! She
Hath blest him with a daughter — and who knows
What slumbering ills the future hath in store ?


You jest, my Prince. All Spain adores its Queea.
Shall it be thought that you. of all the world.
Alone should view her with the eyes of hate. —
Gaze on her charms, and yet be coldly wise ?
How, Prince ? The loveliest lady of her time,
A Queen withal, and once your own betrothed?
No, no, impossible— it cannot be !
Where all men love, you surely cannot hate

SC. I.J 1»0N CARLOS. 3

Carlos could never so belie himself.
1 prithee, Prince, take heed she do not learn
That she hath lost her son's regard. The uewa
Would pain her deeply.


Ay, sir ! think you so .'


Your Highness doubtless will remember how.

At the late tournament in Saragossa,

A lance's splinter struck our gracious Sire.

The Queen, attended by her ladies, sat

High in the centre gallery of the palace.

And looked upon the fight. A cry arose,

" The liing ! he bleeds ! " Soon through the general din,

A rising murmur strikes upon her ear.

" The Prince — The Prince ! " she cries, and forward rushed,

As though to leap down from the balcony.

When a voice answerd, " No, the King hiraseK ! "

*' Then send for his physicians ! " she replied.

And straight regain'd her former self-composure.

[After a short pause
But you seem wrapp'd in thought ?


In wonder, sir.
That the King's merry confessor should own
So rare a skill in the romancer's art. [Austertly.

Yet have I ever heard it said, that those
Who watch men's looks, and carry tales about.
Have done more mischief in this world of ours,
Than the assassin's knife, or poison'd bowl.
Your labour, sir, hath been but ill-bestow'd ;
Would you win thanks, go seek them of the King.


This caution. Prince, is wise. Be circumspect
With men — but not with every man alike.
Repel not friends and hypocrites together ;
I mean you well, believe me !


Say you so ?
Let not my father mark it, then, or. else
Farewell your hopes for ever of the pui-ple

u H



DOMINGO (starts).
Kow !


Even so I Hath he not promised you
The earliest pui*ple in the gift of Spain ?


You mock me, Prince I


Nay ! Heaven forefend, that I
Should mock that awful man, whose fateful lips
Can doom my father or to heaven or hell !


I dare not, Prince, presume to penetrate

The sacred mystery of your secret grief,

Yet I implore your Highness to remember,

That, for a conscience ill at ease, the Church

Hath opened an asylum, of which kings

Hold not the key — where even crimes are purged

Beneath the holy Sacramental seal.

You know my meaning. Prince — I've said enough.


No ! be it never said, I tempted so
The keeper of that seal.


Prince, this mistrust- —
You wrong the most devoted of youi* servants.


Then give me up at once without a thought !
Thou art a holy man, — the world knows that, —
But, to speak plain, too zealous far for me.
The road to Peter's chair is long and rough,
And too much knowledge might encumber _\ou.
Go, tell tliis to the King, who sent thee hither !


Who sent me hither ?


Ay ! Those were my wordi
Too well — too well, I know, that I'm betray 'd,
Slander'd on every hand — that at tiiis court
A hundred eyes are hired to watch my steps.


I know, that royal Philip to his slaves
Hath sold his only son, and ev'ry wretch,
^Vho takes account of each half-utter'd word.
Receives such princely guerdon, as was ne'er
Bestowed on deeds of honour. 0, I know-

But hush ! —no more of that ' My heart \s-ill else
O'erflow, and I've already said too much.


The King is minded, ere the set o-f sun,

To reach Madrid : I see the Court is mustering.

Have I permission, Prince ?


I'll follow straight.

[Eont Domingo.
CART.os {after a short silence).
0, wretched Philip ! wretched as thy son !
Soon shall thy bosom bleed at ev'ry pore,
Tom by suspicion's poisonous sequent fang.
Thy fell sagacity full soon shall pierce
The fatal secret it is bent to know,
And thou wilt madden, when it breaks upon thee !

Scene II.
Carlos, Marquis of Posa.


Lo ! Who comes here ? 'Tis he ! 0, ye kind heavens,
My Roderigo !


Carlos !


Can it be ?
And is it truly thou ? 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 !


Thy heart !
Thy sick, sad heart ! And what is well again —
What needeth to be well ? Thy words amaze me.



Wliat brings thee back so suddenly from Brussels t
Whom must I thank for this most glad surprise ?
And dare 1 ask ? Whom should I thank but thee,
Thou gracious and all bounteous Providence ?
Forgive me, Heaven! if joy hath crazed my brain
Thou knew'st, no angel watch'd 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 look'd to find Don Philip's son.

A hectic red bums 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 suft'ering 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 succour 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, lov'd 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 speak'st of times, that long have pass'd 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,
\Mio, in the fervour of a youthful heart,
Resolv'd, at some no distant time, to wake
The golden age in Spain ! the conceit.
Though but a child's, was yet divinely fair!
Those dreams are past I


Said you, those dreams, my Pnnc€ !
And were they only dreams ?


O 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 his naAdes bear the flag of Spain,
There is no spot — none — none, where I dare peld
An outlet to my tears, save only this
1 charge thee, Roderigo ! 0, by all
The hopes we both do entertain of heaven.
Cast me not off from thee, my friend, my friend !

[PosA bends over lilm in silent emotion.
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. — 0, 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 favour —


0. it is dearer far than all the world !


I'm fallen so low, have grown so poor withal,
1 must recall to thee our childhoods years,—


Must ask tliee paj-ment of a debt incurr a
When thou and I \Yere scarce to boyhood grown.
Dost thou remember, how we grew together,
Two daring youths, like brothers, side by side ?
[ had no sorrow but to see myself
Eclipsed by thy bright genius. So I vow'd,
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 saw'st it never- -
Hot bitter tear-drops brimming in mine eyes.
When I have mark'd 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 laiees, thine answer came,
With an unloving look of cold resei-ve,
" This is my duty to the monarch's son ! "


spare me, dearest Prince, nor now recall
Those boyish acts that make me blush for shame.


1 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 complain'd unto the King.
The palace youth were summoned on the spot,
And charged to name the culprit. — High in -wrath,
The King vow'd vengeance for the deed : " Although
It were his son, yet still should he be made
A dread example ! " I look'd £iround, and mark'd


Thee stand aloof, all trembling ^-ith dismay.
Straight I stepp'd 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 farther !
Before the face of the assembled Coui-t,
That stood, all pale with pity, round about.
Thy Carlos was tied up, ^Yhipt like a slave —
I look'd on thee and wept not. Blow rain'd on blow ;
I gnash 'd my teeth with pain, yet wept I not !
My royal blood stream'd 'neath the pitiless lash ;
I look'd 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."

MARQUIS {stretching forth his hand to carlos).
Carlos, 111 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
Bums 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 !


my God


Nay, no forbearance ! Spare me not ! Speak I 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 saj '
The son doth love his mother. All the world's
Established usages, — the course of nature, —


T\.( ne's fearful laws, denounce my fatal passion.
JMy suit contlicts with my own father's rights :
I ieel 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,

Watch'd hy a jealous father, hemm'd around

By ceremonial forms, how, how could I

Approach her unohserved ? 'Tis now eight months^

Eight maddening months, since the King summoned me

Home from my studies, — since I have been doom'd

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.

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 !


Th*"r! do you hate your father ?


No. oh aol



1 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 crush 'd
Love's tender germ within my youthful heart?
Six years Id 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 1 ne'er
Beheld him, save when, for some childish fault.
I was brought out for chastisement. 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. Koderigo !

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?

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 centret

Then rush apart for ever and for ever.

12 DON CARLOS [act I


i feel a dire foreboding.


So del
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 Kins to me ?


MARQUIS [after a pause).
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

Tha quiet of the place, the freer manners,

AL favour you


And such, too, was my hope ;

Online LibraryFriedrich SchillerThe works of Frederick Schiller, translated from the German (Volume 3) → online text (page 1 of 37)