Тамара Казавчинская - Беспокойное бессмертие: 450 лет со дня рождения Уильяма Шекспира

This interchange of love, I here protest,
Upon my part shall be unviolable.

Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league
With thy embracements to my wife’s allies,
And make me happy in your unity.

Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate
Upon your grace, but with all duteous love
Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me
With hate in those where I expect most love.
When I have most need to employ a friend,
And most assurèd that he is a friend,
Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile
Be he unto me. This do I beg of heaven,
When I am cold in love to you or yours.

A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham,
Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart.
There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here
To make the blessèd period of this peace.

And, in good time,
Here comes Sir Richard Ratcliffe and the duke.

Good morrow to my sovereign king and queen;
And princely peers, a happy time of day.

Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day.
Brother, we have done deeds of charity,
Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate,
Between these swelling wrong-incensèd peers.

A blessèd labour, my most sovereign lord.
Among this princely heap, if any here
By false intelligence or wrong surmise
Hold me a foe; if I unwittingly or in my rage
Have aught committed that is hardly borne
By any in this presence, I desire
To reconcile me to his friendly peace.
ʼTis death to me to be at enmity;
I hate it and desire all good men’s love.
First, madam, I entreat true peace of you,
Which I will purchase with my duteous service;
Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham,
If ever any grudge were lodged between us;
Of you and you, Lord Rivers, and of Dorset,
That all without desert have frowned on me;
Of you, Lord Woodville, and Lord Scales, of you;
Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen, indeed of all.
I do not know that Englishman alive
With whom my soul is any jot at odds
More than the infant that is born tonight
I thank my God for my humility.

A holy day shall this be kept hereafter.
I would to God all strifes were well compounded.
My sovereign lord, I do beseech your highness
To take our brother Clarence to your grace.

Why, madam, have I offered love for this,
To be so flouted in this royal presence?
Who knows not that the noble duke is dead?

Who knows not he is dead?
Who knows he is?

Ay, my good lord, and no one in the presence
But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks.

But he (poor man) by your first order died,
And that a wingèd Mercury did bear;
Some tardy cripple bore the countermand,
That came too lag to see him burièd.
God grant that some, less noble and less loyal,
Nearer in bloody thoughts and not in blood,
Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did,
And yet go current from suspicion.
Enter Stanley earl of Derby.

The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant’s life,
Who slew today a riotous gentleman
Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk.

Have a tongue to doom my brother’s death,
And shall the same give pardon to a slave?
My brother killed no man; his fault was thought,
And yet his punishment was bitter death.
Who sued to me for him? Who (in my wrath)
Kneeled at my feet, and bade me be advised?
Who spoke of brotherhood? Who spoke of love?
Who told me how the poor soul did forsake
The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me?
Who told me, in the field ’at Tewksbury
When Oxford had me down, he rescued me
And said ʼDear brother, live, and be a king’?
Who told me, when we both lay in the field,
Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me
Even in his garments and gave himself
(All thin and naked) to the numb cold night?
All this from my remembrance brutish wrath
Sinfully plucked, and not a man of you
Had so much grace to put it in my mind.
But when your carters or your waiting vassals
Have done a drunken slaughter and defaced
The precious image of our dear redeemer,
You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon,
And I, unjustly too, must grant it you.
But for my brother not a man would speak,
Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself
For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all
Have been beholding to him in his life,
Yet none of you would once beg for his life.
O God, I fear thy justice will take hold
On me and you, and mine, and yours, for this.
Come, Hastings, help me to my closet.
Ah, poor Clarence!

This is the fruit of rashness. Marked you not
How that the guilty kindred of the queen
Looked pale when they did hear of Clarence’ death?
Oh, they did urge it still unto the king.
God will revenge it. Come, lords, will you go
To comfort Edward with our company?

Днесь стужу наших бедствий превратил
Не отсвет солнца, отпрыск Йорка — в лето,
И толща мрачных туч над домом Йорков
Навек исчезла в море слез чужих.
Днесь на челе у нас венцы победны,
Доспехи снятые блестят с домашних стен,
Труба зовет на пир, а не на битву,
Сменился ратный строй отрадой танцев.
Днесь мрачный дух войны не хмурит брови —
Чем прыгать на стального скакуна,
Чтобы пугать противников ужасных,
В покои дам он ловко проскользнет,
Чтобы прельщаться томным звуком лютни.
Но я не создан для таких забав,
Не отражусь я в зеркале любовном;
Я отчеканен грубо, и не стать мне
Перед вертлявой девою блистать;
Обрезок соразмерности прекрасной,
Лишен я образа природой лицемерной
И искаженный послан ей до срока
В мир совершенства недосотворен,
Настолько хром и безобразен, что
Вслед появленью моему собаки лают, —
Поре затишья вовсе я не рад,
Мне время в играх проводить не в пору —
А разве что на собственную тень
Коситься, тешась собственным уродством.
Но раз уж не гожусь я в кавалеры,
Чтоб проводить в забавах эти дни,
Я докажу, что я гожусь в злодеи,
Утехи этих дней несносны мне.
Расставил я силки, сплетя их ловко
Из пьяных грез, пророчеств, клеветы,
Чтоб угодив в них, Кларенс и король
Возненавидели теперь друг друга смертно;
Когда король столь искрен, справедлив,
Сколь я лукав, и лжив, и вероломен,
Днесь Кларенса запрут, как птицу в клетке,
Из-за пророчества о том, что буква Джи
Для Эдварда потомков смертоносна,
Но спрячься мысль на дне души —
Вот и Кларенс —

День добрый, брат. Что значит эта стража
При вас?

Его Величество король
Назначил стражу охранять меня,
Чтоб в Тауэр я прибыл невредимым.

Затем, что имя мое Джордж.

Уволь, милорд, не вы тому виною,
Ему бы взять под стражу ваших крестных
Или Его Величество избрал
Вам Тауэр купелью новой. Впрочем,
В чем дело, Кларенс, мог бы я узнать?

Я сам не прочь. Но тщетно утверждал я
Свою невинность. Говорят, король,
Уверовав в пророческие грезы,
Из азбуки изъял он букву «Джи»,
Ему кудесник рек, мол, буква «Джи»
Сулит потомкам царским мятежи,
Мне ж имя Джордж, в нем первой буквой «Джи»,
И, значит, от меня добра не жди.
Из-за таких вот пустяков, узнал я,
Король надумал заточить меня.