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Siegfried & The Twilight of the Gods. The Ring of the Niblung, part 2
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Never day
Wore as lovely a smile,
For the loathed one has gone at last,
To be looked on by me no more.
[He meditates in silence.
My father—what was he like?—
Ha! like me, without doubt.
Had Mime by chance had a son,
He would have been
Mime's image:
Quite as disgusting,
Filthy and grey,
Small and bent,
Hunchbacked and halting,
With ears long and hanging,
Rheumy eyes running—
Off with the fright!
To see him makes me sick!
[He leans further back and looks up through the branches of the tree. Deep silence. Woodland murmurs.
What could my mother,
I wonder, be like;
That is not
So easy to picture.
[Very tenderly.
Her clear shining eyes
Must have been soft,
And gentle like the roe-deer's,
Only far fairer.
[Very softly.
In fear and woe she bore me,
But why did she die through me?
Must then all human mothers
Thus die on giving
Birth to a son?
That would truly be sad!
Ah, if I only
Could see my mother!—
See my mother,
A woman once!
[He sighs softly, and leans still further back. Deep silence. Louder murmuring of the wood. His attention is at last caught by the song of the birds. He listens with growing interest to one singing in the branches above him.
O lovely warbler,
I know not thy note;
Hast thou thy home in this wood?
If I could but understand him,
His sweet song might say much—
Perhaps of my mother tell me.
A surly old dwarf
Said to me once
That men might learn
To follow the sense
Of birds when they were singing;
Could it indeed be done?
Ha! I will sing
After him,
On the reed follow him sweetly.
Though wanting the words,
Repeating his measure—
Singing what is his language—
Perhaps I shall know what he says.
[He runs to the neighbouring spring, cuts a reed off with his sword, and quickly makes himself a pipe out of it. He listens again.
He stops to hear,
So now for my song!
[He blows into the pipe, breaks off, and cuts it again to improve it. He resumes his blowing, shakes his head, and cuts the pipe once more. After another attempt he gets angry, presses the pipe with his hand, and tries again. He ceases playing and smiles.
That rings not right;
For the lovely tune
The reed is not suited at all.
I fear, sweet bird,
I am too dull;
Thy song cannot I learn.
[He hears the bird again and looks up to him.
He listens so roguishly
There that he shames me;
[Very tenderly.
He waits, and nothing rewards him.
Heida! Come hearken
Now to my horn;
[He flings the pipe away.
All I do sounds wrong
On the stupid reed;
To a song of the woods
Wore as lovely a smile,
For the loathed one has gone at last,
To be looked on by me no more.
[He meditates in silence.
My father—what was he like?—
Ha! like me, without doubt.
Had Mime by chance had a son,
He would have been
Mime's image:
Quite as disgusting,
Filthy and grey,
Small and bent,
Hunchbacked and halting,
With ears long and hanging,
Rheumy eyes running—
Off with the fright!
To see him makes me sick!
[He leans further back and looks up through the branches of the tree. Deep silence. Woodland murmurs.
What could my mother,
I wonder, be like;
That is not
So easy to picture.
[Very tenderly.
Her clear shining eyes
Must have been soft,
And gentle like the roe-deer's,
Only far fairer.
[Very softly.
In fear and woe she bore me,
But why did she die through me?
Must then all human mothers
Thus die on giving
Birth to a son?
That would truly be sad!
Ah, if I only
Could see my mother!—
See my mother,
A woman once!
[He sighs softly, and leans still further back. Deep silence. Louder murmuring of the wood. His attention is at last caught by the song of the birds. He listens with growing interest to one singing in the branches above him.
O lovely warbler,
I know not thy note;
Hast thou thy home in this wood?
If I could but understand him,
His sweet song might say much—
Perhaps of my mother tell me.
A surly old dwarf
Said to me once
That men might learn
To follow the sense
Of birds when they were singing;
Could it indeed be done?
Ha! I will sing
After him,
On the reed follow him sweetly.
Though wanting the words,
Repeating his measure—
Singing what is his language—
Perhaps I shall know what he says.
[He runs to the neighbouring spring, cuts a reed off with his sword, and quickly makes himself a pipe out of it. He listens again.
He stops to hear,
So now for my song!
[He blows into the pipe, breaks off, and cuts it again to improve it. He resumes his blowing, shakes his head, and cuts the pipe once more. After another attempt he gets angry, presses the pipe with his hand, and tries again. He ceases playing and smiles.
That rings not right;
For the lovely tune
The reed is not suited at all.
I fear, sweet bird,
I am too dull;
Thy song cannot I learn.
[He hears the bird again and looks up to him.
He listens so roguishly
There that he shames me;
[Very tenderly.
He waits, and nothing rewards him.
Heida! Come hearken
Now to my horn;
[He flings the pipe away.
All I do sounds wrong
On the stupid reed;
To a song of the woods
Другие электронные книги автора Рихард Вагнер
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