Граф Орлов
The presence of a foreigner at the celebration — Ambrose Turbon — did not tarnish the mood of those gathered, and his speech met with approval through applause.
- Hm. - Deusa was finally left alone — only briefly, but here was the long-awaited moment of rest — for her, this day was tantamount to exhausting work. - Tell me, O Knight of the Hegemony, how does it come to pass that they celebrate me, yet I feel no joy at all?
Having thought for a moment — for, although Ambrose's attention was primarily fixed on Mariarnelia, there were too many notable faces in the hall for his gaze and mind not to linger on them even for a moment — the knight answered thus:
-- To this question, O mistress of the soul
Two answers I can provide
And the first shall be the wisdom of the ancestors
The second — my own personal opinion
It is known that freedom is the hardest of all
And there is no greater freedom for us than power
<A ruler bears more, implicitly,
Than a peasant, whose burden is heavy but visible
And therefore rulers are sorrowful
When a simple man can lose himself
The sovereign's soul always for the evil and the good
Of their land and subjects doth care.
But I shall speak differently. I am certain, alongside
The visible inborn gifts
Like strength of body, nobility of countenance
There are granted to us unseen blessings.
One soul is fierce in the strife of battle
Another with a discerning mind
Is gifted from birth. But at times
One cannot tell whether for good or for ill
We are as we are. Incapable of sorrow,
Of course, is the peasant who in wild half-bestiality
Finds pleasure for himself.
But a worthy man would look upon such a one
And say: rather than such happiness
I would prefer to throw myself upon a sword.
The tall oak is the first to be broken by the storm
The fairest flower is the most vulnerable of all.
The finer the fabric of the soul, the higher the peak of happiness
More beautiful, but harder to attain.
And the more terrible the depths of despair
To which the path is always paved
For everyone born beneath the sun.
While in the world there is more sorrow than joy
Like a thin string trembling in the wind, the spirit,
Devoid of the armor of indifference with which
Other souls are clad from birth,
Feels the world's grief when others are blind
Hears the stirrings of subtle matters
And sees clearly the truth of things.
At times not knowing their nature
By sound reason alone. Here is the answer
Tangled perhaps, but honest
e si ieu muoir, er mi grans deliuriers