VI

Now clasped the bell within the clay— The mold the mingled metals fill—

Oh, may it, sparkling into day, Reward the labor and the skill! Alas! should it fail, For the mold may be frail— And still with our hope must be mingled the fear— And, ev'n now, while we speak, the mishap may be near! To the dark womb of sacred earth This labor of our hands is given, As seeds that wait the second birth, And turn to blessings watched by heaven! Ah seeds, how dearer far than they We bury in the dismal tomb, Where Hope and Sorrow bend to pray That suns beyond the realm of day May warm them into bloom! From the steeple Tolls the bell, Deep and heavy, The death-knell, Guiding with dirge-note—solemn, sad, and slow, To the last home earth's weary wanderers know. It is that worshipped wife— It is that faithful mother![14] Whom the dark Prince of Shadows leads benighted, From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted. Far from those blithe companions, born Of her, and blooming in their morn; On whom, when couched her heart above, So often looked the Mother-Love! Ah! rent the sweet Home's union-band, And never, never more to come— She dwells within the shadowy land, Who was the Mother of that Home! How oft they miss that tender guide, The care—the watch—the face—the MOTHER— And where she sate the babes beside, Sits with unloving looks—ANOTHER!

VII

While the mass is cooling now, Let the labor yield to leisure, As the bird upon the bough, Loose the travail to the pleasure. When the soft stars awaken! Each task be forsaken! And the vesper-bell, lulling the earth into peace, If the master still toil, chimes the workman's release! Homeward from the tasks of day, Through the greenwood's welcome way Wends the wanderer, blithe and cheerily, To the cottage loved so dearly! And the eye and ear are meeting, Now, the slow sheep homeward bleating; Now, the wonted shelter near, Lowing the lusty-fronted steer Creaking now the heavy wain, Reels with the happy harvest grain; While, with many-colored leaves, Glitters the garland on the sheaves; For the mower's work is done, And the young folks' dance begun! Desert street, and quiet mart;— Silence is in the city's heart; And the social taper lighteth Each dear face that HOME uniteth; While the gate the town before Heavily swings with sullen roar! Though darkness is spreading O'er earth—the Upright And the Honest, undreading, Look safe on the night Which the evil man watches in awe, For the eye of the Night is the Law! Bliss-dowered! O daughter of the skies, Hail, holy ORDER, whose employ Blends like to like in light and joy— Builder of cities, who of old Called the wild man from waste and wold, And, in his but thy presence stealing, Roused each familiar household feeling, And, best of all, the happy ties, The centre of the social band— The Instinct of the Fatherland! United thus—each helping each, Brisk work the countless hands forever; For naught its power to Strength can teach, Like Emulation and Endeavor! Thus linked the master with the man, Each in his rights can each revere, And while they march in freedom's van, Scorn the lewd rout that dogs the rear! To freemen labor is renown! Who works—gives blessings and commands; Kings glory in the orb and crown— Be ours the glory of our hands, Long in these walls—long may we greet Your footfalls, Peace and Concord sweet! Distant the day, oh! distant far, When the rude hordes of trampling War Shall scare the silent vale— The where Now the sweet heaven, when day doth leave The air, Limns its soft rose-hues on the veil of Eve— Shall the fierce war-brand, tossing in the gale, From town and hamlet shake the horrent glare!

VIII

Now, its destined task fulfilled, Asunder break the prison-mold; Let the goodly Bell we build, Eye and heart alike behold. The hammer down heave, Till the cover it cleave:— For not till we shatter the wall of its cell Can we lift from its darkness and bondage the Bell. To break the mold the master may, If skilled the hand and ripe the hour; But woe, when on its fiery way The metal seeks itself to pour, Frantic and blind, with thunder-knell, Exploding from its shattered home, And glaring forth, as from a hell, Behold the red Destruction come! When rages strength that has no reason, There breaks the mold before the season; When numbers burst what bound before, Woe to the State that thrives no more! Yea, woe, when in the City's heart, The latent spark to flame is blown, "Freedom! Equality!"—to blood And Millions from their silence start, To claim, without a guide, their own! Discordant howls the warning Bell, Proclaiming discord wide and far, And, born but things of peace to tell, Becomes the ghastliest voice of war: "Freedom! Equality!"—to blood Rush the roused people at the sound! Through street, hall, palace, roars the flood, And banded murder closes round! The hyena-shapes (that women were!) Jest with the horrors they survey; They hound—they rend—they mangle there, As panthers with their prey! Naught rests to hallow—burst the ties Of life's sublime and reverent awe; Before the Vice the Virtue flies, And Universal Crime is Law! Man fears the lion's kingly tread; Man fears the tiger's fangs of terror; And still, the dreadliest of the dread, Is Man himself in error! No torch, though lit from Heaven, illumes The Blind!—Why place it in his hands? It lights not him—it but consumes The City and the Land!

IX

Rejoice and laud the prospering skies! The kernel bursts its husks—behold From the dull clay the metal rise, Pure-shining, as a star of gold! Neck and lip, but as one beam, It laughs like a sunbeam. And even the scutcheon, clear-graven, shall tell That the art of a master has fashioned the Bell! Come in—come in, My merry men—we'll form a ring The new-born labor christening; And "CONCORD" we will name her! To union may her heart-felt call In brother-love attune us all! May she the destined glory win For which the master sought to frame her— Aloft—(all earth's existence under) In blue-pavilioned heaven afar To dwell—the Neighbor of the Thunder, The borderer of the Star! Be hers above a voice to raise Like those bright hosts in yonder sphere, Who, while they move, their Maker praise, And lead around the wreathed year! To solemn and eternal things We dedicate her lips sublime, As hourly, calmly, on she swings, Fanned by the fleeting wings of Time! No pulse—no heart—no feeling hers! She lends the warning voice to Fate; And still companions, while she stirs, The changes of the Human State! So may she teach us, as her tone But now so mighty, melts away— That earth no life which earth has known From the last silence can delay! Slowly now the cords upheave her! From her earth-grave soars the Bell; 'Mid the airs of Heaven we leave her! In the Music-Realm to dwell! Up—upwards—yet raise— She has risen—she sways. Fair Bell to our city bode joy and increase, And oh, may thy first sound be hallowed to—PEACE.[15]

* * * * *



THE GERMAN ART (1800)

By no kind Augustus reared, To no Medici endeared, German Art arose; Fostering glory smil'd not on her, Ne'er with kingly smiles to sun her, Did her blooms unclose.

No! She went, by Monarchs slighted Went unhonored, unrequited, From high Frederick's throne; Praise and Pride be all the greater, That Man's genius did create her, From Man's worth alone.

Therefore, all from loftier mountains, Purer wells and richer Fountains, Streams our Poet-Art; So no rule to curb its rushing— All the fuller flows it gushing From its deep—The Heart!

* * * * *



COMMENCEMENT OF THE NEW CENTURY (1801)

Where can Peace find a refuge? Whither, say, Can Freedom turn? Lo, friend, before our view The CENTURY rends itself in storm away, And, red with slaughter, dawns on earth the New! The girdle of the lands is loosen'd[16]—hurl'd To dust the forms old Custom deem'd divine,— Safe from War's fury not the watery world;— Safe not the Nile-God nor the antique Rhine. Two mighty nations make the world their field, Deeming the world is for their heirloom given— Against the freedom of all lands they wield This—Neptune's trident; that—the Thund'rer's levin Gold to their scales each region must afford; And, as fierce Brennus in Gaul's early tale, The Frank casts in the iron of his sword, To poise the balance, where the right may fail— Like some huge Polypus, with arms that roam Outstretch'd for prey—the Briton spreads his reign; And, as the Ocean were his household home, Locks up the chambers of the liberal main. On to the Pole where shines, unseen, the Star, Onward his restless course unbounded flies; Tracks every isle and every coast afar, And undiscover'd leaves but—Paradise! Alas, in vain on earth's wide chart, I ween, Thou seek'st that holy realm beneath the sky— Where Freedom dwells in gardens ever green— And blooms the Youth of fair Humanity! O'er shores where sail ne'er rustled to the wind, O'er the vast universe, may rove thy ken; But in the universe thou canst not find A space sufficing for ten happy men! In the heart's holy stillness only beams The shrine of refuge from life's stormy throng; Freedom is only in the land of Dreams; And only blooms the Beautiful in Song!

* * * * *



CASSANDRA (1802)

[There is peace between the Greeks and Trojans—Achilles is to wed Polyxena, Priam's daughter. On entering the Temple, he is shot through his only vulnerable part by Paris.—The time of the following Poem is during the joyous preparations for the marriage.]

And mirth was in the halls of Troy, Before her towers and temples fell; High peal'd the choral hymns of joy, Melodious to the golden shell. The weary had reposed from slaughter— The eye forgot the tear it shed; This day King Priam's lovely daughter Shall great Pelides wed!

Adorn'd with laurel boughs, they come, Crowd after crowd—the way divine, Where fanes are deck'd—for gods the home— And to the Thymbrian's[17] solemn shrine. The wild Bacchantic joy is madd'ning The thoughtless host, the fearless guest; And there, the unheeded heart is sadd'ning One solitary breast!

Unjoyous in the joyful throng, Alone, and linking life with none, Apollo's laurel groves among The still Cassandra wander'd on! Into the forest's deep recesses The solemn Prophet-Maiden pass'd, And, scornful, from her loosen'd tresses, The sacred fillet cast!

"To all its arms doth Mirth unfold, And every heart foregoes its cares; And Hope is busy in the old; The bridal-robe my sister wears. But I alone, alone am weeping; The sweet delusion mocks not me— Around these walls destruction sweeping More near and near I see!

"A torch before my vision glows, But not in Hymen's hand it shines; A flame that to the welkin goes, But not from holy offering-shrines; Glad hands the banquet are preparing, And near, and near the halls of state I hear the God that comes unsparing; I hear the steps of Fate.

"And men my prophet-wail deride! The solemn sorrow dies in scorn; And lonely in the waste, I hide The tortured heart that would forewarn. Amidst the happy, unregarded, Mock'd by their fearful joy, I trod; Oh, dark to me the lot awarded, Thou evil Pythian god!

"Thine oracle, in vain to be, Oh, wherefore am I thus consign'd With eyes that every truth must see, Lone in the City of the Blind? Cursed with the anguish of a power To view the fates I may not thrall, The hovering tempest still must lower— The horror must befall!

"Boots it the veil to lift, and give To sight the frowning fates beneath? For error is the life we live, And, oh, our knowledge is but death! Take back the clear and awful mirror, Shut from mine eyes the blood-red glare Thy truth is but a gift of terror When mortal lips declare.

"My blindness give to me once more[18]— The gay dim senses that rejoice; The Past's delighted songs are o'er For lips that speak a Prophet's voice. To me the future thou hast granted; I miss the moment from the chain— The happy Present-Hour enchanted! Take back thy gift again!

"Never for me the nuptial wreath The odor-breathing hair shall twine; My heavy heart is bow'd beneath The service of thy dreary shrine. My youth was but by tears corroded,— My sole familiar is my pain, Each coming ill my heart foreboded, And felt it first—in vain!

"How cheer'ly sports the careless mirth— The life that loves, around I see; Fair youth to pleasant thoughts give birth— The heart is only sad to me. Not for mine eyes the young spring gloweth, When earth her happy feast-day keeps; The charm of life who ever knoweth That looks into the deeps?

"Wrapt in thy bliss, my sister, thine The heart's inebriate rapture-springs;— Longing with bridal arms to twine The bravest of the Grecian kings. High swells the joyous bosom, seeming Too narrow for its world of love, Nor envies, in its heaven of dreaming, The heaven of gods above!

"I too might know the soft control Of one the longing heart could choose, With look which love illumes with soul— The look that supplicates and woos. And sweet with him, where love presiding Prepares our hearth, to go—but, dim, A Stygian shadow, nightly gliding, Stalks between me and him!

"Forth from the grim funereal shore, The Hell-Queen sends her ghastly bands; Where'er I turn—behind—before— Dumb in my path—a Spectre stands! Wherever gayliest, youth assembles— I see the shades in horror clad, Amidst Hell's ghastly People trembles One soul for ever sad!

"I see the steel of Murder gleam— I see the Murderer's glowing eyes— To right—to left, one gory stream— One circling fate—my flight defies! I may not turn my gaze—all seeing, Foreknowing all, I dumbly stand— To close in blood my ghastly being In the far strangers' land!"

Hark! while the sad sounds murmur round, Hark, from the Temple-porch, the cries!— A wild, confused, tumultuous sound!— Dead the divine Pelides lies! Grim Discord rears her snakes devouring— The last departing god hath gone! And, womb'd in cloud, the thunder, lowering, Hangs black on Ilion.



* * * * *



RUDOLPH OF HAPSBURG (1803)

A BALLAD

[Hinrichs properly classes this striking ballad (together with the yet grander one of the "Fight with the Dragon") amongst those designed to depict and exalt the virtue of Humility. The source of the story is in AEgidius Tschudi, a Swiss chronicler; and Schiller appears to have adhered, with much fidelity, to the original narrative.]

At Aachen, in imperial state, In that time-hallow'd hall renown'd, At solemn feast King Rudolf sate, The day that saw the hero crown'd! Bohemia and thy Palgrave, Rhine, Give this the feast, and that the wine;[19] The Arch Electoral Seven, Like choral stars around the sun, Gird him whose hand a world has won, The anointed choice of Heaven.

In galleries raised above the pomp, Press'd crowd on crowd their panting way, And with the joy-resounding tromp, Rang out the millions' loud hurra! For, closed at last the age of slaughter, When human blood was pour'd as water— LAW dawns upon the world![20] Sharp force no more shall right the wrong, And grind the weak to crown the strong— War's carnage-flag is furl'd!

In Rudolf's hand the goblet shines— And gaily round the board look'd he; "And proud the feast, and bright the wines My kingly heart feels glad to me! Yet where the Gladness-Bringer—blest In the sweet art which moves the breast With lyre and verse divine? Dear from my youth the craft of song, And what as knight I loved so long, As Kaiser, still be mine."

Lo, from the circle bending there, With sweeping robe the Bard appears, As silver white his gleaming hair, Bleach'd by the many winds of years; "And music sleeps in golden strings— Love's rich reward the minstrel sings, Well known to him the ALL High thoughts and ardent souls desire! What would the Kaiser from the lyre Amidst the banquet-hall?"

The Great One smiled—"Not mine the sway— The minstrel owns a loftier power— A mightier king inspires the lay— Its hest—THE IMPULSE OF THE HOUR!" As through wide air the tempests sweep, As gush the springs from mystic deep, Or lone untrodden glen; So from dark hidden fount within Comes SONG, its own wild world to win Amidst the souls of men!

Swift with the fire the minstrel glow'd, And loud the music swept the ear:— "Forth to the chase a Hero rode, To hunt the bounding chamois-deer; With shaft and horn the squire behind;— Through greensward meads the riders wind— A small sweet bell they hear. Lo, with the HOST, a holy man— Before him strides the sacristan, And the bell sounds near and near.

"The noble hunter down-inclined His reverent head and soften'd eye, And honor'd with a Christian's mind The Christ who loves humility! Loud through the pasture, brawls and raves A brook—the rains had fed the waves, And torrents from the bill. His sandal-shoon the priest unbound, And laid the Host upon the ground, And near'd the swollen rill!

"What wouldst thou, priest?" the Count began, As, marveling much, he halted there, "Sir Count, I seek a dying man, Sore-hungering for the heavenly fare. The bridge that once its safety gave, Rent by the anger of the wave, Drifts down the tide below. Yet barefoot now, I will not fear (The soul that seeks its God, to cheer) Through the wild wave to go!"

"He gave that priest the knightly steed, He reach'd that priest the lordly reins, That he might serve the sick man's need, Nor slight the task that heaven ordains. He took the horse the squire bestrode; On to the sick, the priest! And when the morrow's sun was red, The servant of the Savior led Back to its lord the beast.

"'Now Heaven forfend!' the Hero cried, 'That e'er to chase or battle more These limbs the sacred steed bestride That once my Maker's image bore; If not a boon allow'd to thee, Thy Lord and mine its Master be, My tribute to the King, From whom I hold, as fiefs, since birth, Honor, renown, the goods of earth, Life and each living thing!"

"'So may the God, who faileth never To hear the weak and guide the dim, To thee give honor here and ever, As thou hast duly honor'd Him!' Far-famed ev'n now through Swisserland Thy generous heart and dauntless hand; And fair from thine embrace Six daughters bloom,[21] six crowns to bring, Blest as the daughters of a KING, The mothers of a RACE!"

The mighty Kaiser heard amazed! His heart was in the days of old; Into the minstrel's heart he gazed, That tale the Kaiser's own had told. Yes, in the bard the priest he knew, And in the purple veil'd from view The gush of holy tears! A thrill through that vast audience ran, And every heart the godlike man Revering God—reveres!



* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: Though the Ideal images of youth forsake us, the Ideal itself still remains to the Poet. It is his task and his companion, for, unlike the Phantasies of Fortune, Fame, and Love, the Phantasies of the Ideal are imperishable. While, as the occupation of life, it pays off the debt of Time, as the exalter of life it contributes to the Building of Eternity.—TRANSLATOR.]

[Footnote 4: "Die Gesalt"—Form. the Platonic Archetype.]

[Footnote 5: This idea is often repeated, somewhat more clearly in the haughty philosophy of Schiller. He himself says, elsewhere—"In a fair soul each single action is not properly moral, but the whole character is moral. The fair soul has no other service than the instincts of its own beauty."—Translator]

[Footnote 6: "Und es wallet, and siedet, und brauset, and zischt," etc. Goethe was particularly struck with the truthfulness of these lines, of which his personal observation at the Falls of the Rhine enabled him to judge. Schiller modestly owns his obligations to Homer's descriptions of Charybdis, Odyss. I., 12. The property of the higher order of imagination to reflect truth, though not familiar to experience, is singularly illustrated in this description. Schiller had never seen even a Waterfall.—TRANSLATOR.]

[Footnote 7: The same rhyme as the preceding line in the original.]

[Footnote 8: "—da kroch's heran," etc. The It in the original has been greatly admired. The poet thus vaguely represents the fabulous misshapen monster, the Polypus of the ancients.]

[Footnote 9: The theatre.]

[Footnote 10: This simile is nobly conceived, but expressed somewhat obscurely. As Hercules contended in vain against Antaeus, the Son of Earth,—so long as the Earth gave her giant offspring new strength in every fall,—so the soul contends in vain with evil—the natural earth-born enemy, while the very contact of the earth invigorates the enemy for the struggle. And as Antaeus was slain at last, when Hercules lifted him from the earth and strangled him while raised aloft, so can the soul slay the enemy (the desire, the passion, the evil, the earth's offspring), when bearing it from earth itself and stifling it in the higher air.—Translator.]

[Footnote 11: Translated by Edward, Lord Lytton (Permission George Routledge & Sons.)]

[Footnote 12: "I call the Living—I mourn the Dead—I break the Lightning." These words are inscribed on the Great Bell of the Minster of Schaffhausen—also on that of the Church of Art near Lucerne. There was an old belief in Switzerland that the undulation of air, caused by the sound of a Bell, broke the electric fluid of a thunder-cloud.]

[Footnote 13: A piece of clay pipe, which becomes vitrified if the metal is sufficiently heated.]

[Footnote 14: The translator adheres to the original, in forsaking the rhyme in these lines and some others.]

[Footnote 15: Written in the time of the French war.]

[Footnote 16: That is—the settled political question—the balance of power.]

[Footnote 17: Apollo.]

[Footnote 18: "Everywhere," says Hoffmeister truly, "Schiller exalts Ideal Belief over real wisdom;—everywhere this modern Apostle of Christianity advocates that Ideal, which exists in Faith and emotion, against the wisdom of worldly intellect, the barren experience of life," etc.—TRANSLATOR.]

[Footnote 19: The office, at the coronation feast, of the Count Palatine of the Rhine (Grand Sewer of the Empire and one of the Seven Electors) was to bear the Imperial Globe and set the dishes on the board; that of the King of Bohemia was cup-bearer. The latter was not, however, present, as Schiller himself observed in a note (omitted in the editions of his collected works), at the coronation of Rudolf.]

[Footnote 20: Literally, "A. judge (ein Richter) was again upon the earth." The word substituted in the translation is introduced in order to recall to the reader the sublime name given, not without justice, to Rudolf of Hapsburg, viz., "THE LIVING LAW."—TRANSLATOR.]

[Footnote 21: At the coronation of Rudolf was celebrated the marriage-feast of three of his daughters—to Ludwig of Bavaria, Otto of Brandenburg, and Albrecht of Saxony. His other three daughters married afterward Otto, nephew of Ludwig of Bavaria, Charles Martell, son of Charles of Anjou, and Wenceslaus, son of Ottocar of Bohemia. The royal house of England numbers Rudolf of Hapsburg amongst its ancestors.—TRANSLATOR.]

* * * * *



DRAMAS



INTRODUCTION TO WALLENSTEIN'S DEATH

By WILLIAM H. CARRUTH, PH.D.

Professor of Comparative Literature, Leland Stanford University

Schiller wrote in rapid succession, during his Storm and Stress period, The Robbers, Fiesco, Cabal and Love, and the beginning of Don Carlos (finished in 1787). Between this time and his last period, which opens with Wallenstein, he devoted himself assiduously to the study of philosophy, history, and esthetic theory. Even in writing Don Carlos he had felt that he needed to give more care to artistic form and to the deeper questions of dramatic unity. His own dissatisfaction with the results achieved was one of several reasons why for nearly ten years he dropped dramatic composition. He felt, too, that he needed more experience of life. He himself said of the greatest of his Storm and Stress dramas that he had attempted to portray humanity before he really knew humanity.

In 1788 he published the first part of his History of the Rebellion of the Netherlands, which brought him the appointment to the chair of history in the University of Jena. The occupation with his next historical work, the History of the Thirty Years' War, suggested to him the thought of dramatizing the career of Wallenstein. But he was not yet clear with himself on questions of artistic method. He was studying Homer and dramatizing Euripides, lecturing and writing on dramatic theory. Further delays were due to marriage and to serious illness. It was not until 1796 that Schiller felt ready to begin work on the long planned drama of Wallenstein.

The first scenes were written in prose, but soon the poet realized that only the dignified heroic verse was suited to his theme. Then "all went better." Constant discussions with Goethe and Christian Gottfried Koerner helped him to clear up his doubts and overcome the difficulties of his subject. He found that history left too little room for sympathy with Wallenstein, for he conceived him as really guilty of treason. He decided early to lighten the gloom of his theme by introducing the love episode of Max and Thekla. He modified also his view of the nature of Wallenstein's guilt. Gradually the material grew upon him. What he had planned as a Prologue became the one-act play, Wallenstein's Camp, which, when it was produced in October, 1798, at the reopening of the Weimar Theatre, was preceded by 138 lines of Dedication, since printed as the Prologue. Already Schiller had foreseen the development into more than five acts, and accordingly The Piccolomini appeared separately, January 30, 1799, and the whole series in order about the middle of April, upon the completion of Wallenstein's Death.

Wallenstein is a trilogy, but in name rather than in real connection and relation of parts. Wallenstein's Camp is a picture of masses, introducing only common soldiers and none of the chief personages of the other parts of the composition. Its purpose is to present something of the tremendous background of the action proper and to give a realizing sense of the influence upon Wallenstein's career of the soldiery with which he operated—as Schiller expressed it in a line of his Prologue: "His camp alone explains to us his crime." By this he meant that, on the one hand, the blind confidence of the troops in the luck and the destiny of their leader made him arrogant and reckless, and, on the other hand, perhaps, that the mercenary character of these soldiers of fortune forced Wallenstein to steps which his calm judgment would have condemned.

In a succession of eleven scenes of very unequal length the various arms of the service are introduced, together with camp followers and a Capuchin preacher; in reminiscences the earlier features of the great war and some feats of the general are recalled; in discussions the character of Wallenstein and of his leading officers is sketched; finally the report of the recent demand of the Emperor, that Wallenstein detach 8,000 men to escort the Cardinal Infant to the Netherlands, reveals the opposition of the army to such an order and its unconditional loyalty to Wallenstein.

The second and third parts of the trilogy, The Piccolomini and Wallenstein's Death, constitute, in fact, one ten-act play, which requires two evenings for presentation. So slight is the organic division between the two plays that, as first presented, in the fall of 1798 and the spring of 1799, The Piccolomini included the first two acts of Wallenstein's Death as later printed and here given, while the last three acts were so divided as to constitute five.

The Piccolomini, which could not be reprinted in this anthology, presents essentially what is called the "exposition" of the entire drama, together with a part of the complication of the plot. Questenberg, the imperial commissioner, visits Wallenstein's headquarters in Pilsen to present the order of the Emperor for the detachment of eight regiments of Wallenstein's best cavalry to serve as escort to the Cardinal Infant on his way to the Netherlands. He meets distrust and almost incredible defiance from Wallenstein's officers, excepting Octavio Piccolomini, one of the oldest and most trusted, to whom he brings secret dispatches directing him to supersede Wallenstein in case of the latter's open rebellion, which the court believes he has already determined upon. Wallenstein himself meets the demands with a reproachful reference to the violation of the plenary powers intrusted to him by the Emperor as the condition of his assuming the command, but announces that he will relieve him from embarrassment by resigning. This announcement is received with a storm of protests from his officers. Questenberg and Octavio are deeply concerned to make sure of the adherence to their cause of Octavio's son, Max, a child of the camp and an especial favorite with Wallenstein. Max has just arrived at Pilsen as escort of Wallenstein's wife and of his daughter Thekla, to whom he has lost his heart. Wallenstein and his masterful sister, Countess Terzky, are also eager to secure Max to their side in the coming conflict, and the Countess tries to persuade Thekla to govern her actions accordingly. Thekla, however, is nobly frank with Max and warns him to trust only his own heart; for she realizes that the threads of a dark plot are drawing close about herself and Max, though she does not clearly understand what it is. Meanwhile Terzky and Illo have planned a meeting of Wallenstein's officers to protest against his withdrawal. In a splendid banquet scene they present a written agreement (Revers) to stand by the general so far as loyalty to the Emperor will permit, and then, when all are heated with wine, secure signatures to a substituted document from which this reservation of loyalty to the Emperor is omitted. It is the hope of Illo and Terzky, through the sight of this document, to persuade Wallenstein to open rebellion. Max Piccolomini, coming late to the banquet from the interview with Thekla, refuses to sign the pledge, not because he sees through the deception, but because he is in no mood for business. Before morning his father summons him, thinking Max has refused to sign because he scented the intended treason, and reveals to him the whole situation—the plots of the officers, Wallenstein's dangerous negotiations with enemies of the Emperor, and his own commission to take command and save whatever he can of loyal troops. Max is thunder-truck. He can believe neither Wallenstein's purpose of treason nor his father's duplicity in dealing behind the back of his great commander. He refuses to follow his father's orders and leaves him with the avowed intention of going to Wallenstein and calling upon him to clear himself of the calumnious charges of the court. At this point begins the action of Wallenstein's Death.

In all of his later dramas excepting William Tell, Schiller endeavored to introduce a factor which is called "the dramatic guilt," a circumstance, usually in the character of the hero but sometimes in his environment, which makes the tragic outcome inevitable and yet leaves room in the breast of the reader or spectator for sympathy with the hero in his fate. In the case of Wallenstein this "guilt" is the dalliance with the love of power and the possibility of rebellion, not a deliberate intention to commit treason. In the close of his treatment of Wallenstein in The Thirty Years' War Schiller says: "No one of his actions justifies us in considering him convicted of treason. * * * Thus Wallenstein fell, not because he was a rebel, but he rebelled because he fell."

The circumstances are urged that Wallenstein was a prince of the Empire, and had as such the right to negotiate with foreign powers; that his delegated authority from the Emperor gave him the right to do so in the Emperor's name; that the Emperor had not kept faith with Wallenstein, and had thus justified him in at least frightening the court; that self preservation seemed to indicate rebellion as the only recourse; that Wallenstein's belief in his destiny and the fatuous devotion of his army led him to reckless action; and finally that he did not originally intend to commit actual treason.

Thus prepared, the reader can easily sympathize with Wallenstein in his downfall; this sympathy is entirely won by the admirable courage with which Wallenstein bears the successive blows of fate, and it is strengthened by consideration of the mean motives of the men who serve as the tools of his execution, and by the remembrance that the fate of Max and Thekla is bound up in his. Schiller was concerned lest the love episode should detract from the interest due the chief persons of the tragedy; his art has effected the exact opposite.

The influence of Shakespeare is more or less obvious in all of Schiller's later dramas. Aside from the splendid rhetoric of the monologues, the character of Countess Terzky, so similar to that of Lady Macheth, suggests this. But such influence is not so controlling as to be in any respect a reproach to Schiller. Goethe in his generous admiration considered Wallenstein "so great that nothing could be compared with it." "In the imaginative power whereby history is made into drama, in the triumph of artistic genius over a vast and refractory mass of material, and in the skill with which the character of the hero is conceived and denoted, Wallenstein is unrivaled. Its chief figure is by far the stateliest and most impressive of German tragic heroes." [22]

* * * * *



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

WALLENSTEIN, Duke of Friedland, Generalissimo of the Imperial Forces in the Thirty Years' War.

DUCHESS OF FRIEDLAND, Wife of Wallenstein.

THEKLA, her Daughter, Princess of Friedland.

The COUNTESS TERZKY, Sister of the Duchess.

LADY NEUBRUNN.

OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, Lieutenant-General.

MAX PICCOLOMINI, his son, Colonel of a regiment of Cuirassiers.

COUNT TERZKY, the Commander of several Regiments, and Brother-in-law of Wallenstein.

ILLO, Field Marshall, Wallenstein's Confident.

ISOLANI, General of the Croats.

BUTLER, an Irishman, Commander of a regiment of Dragoons.

GORDON, Governor Egra.

MAJOR GERALDIN.

CAPTAIN DEVEREUX.

CAPTAIN MACDONALD.

AN ADJUTANT.

NEUMANN, Captain of Cavalry, Aide-de-Camp to Terzky.

COLONEL WRANGEL, Envoy from the Swedes.

ROSENBURG, Master of Horse.

SWEDISH CAPTAIN.

SENI.

BURGOMASTER of Egra.

ANSPESSADE of the Cuirassiers.

GROOM OF THE} Belonging to CHAMBER, } the Duke. A PAGE, }

Cuirassiers, Dragoons, Servants.



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN (1800)[23]

TRANSLATED BY S.T. COLERIDGE



ACT I

SCENE I

A Room fitted up for astrological labors, and provided with celestial Charts, with Globes, Telescopes, Quadrants, and other mathematical Instruments—Seven Colossal Figures, representing the Planets, each circle in the background, so that Mars and Saturn are nearest the eye.—The remainder of the Scene, and its disposition, is given in the Fourth Scene of the Second Act.—There must be a Curtain over the Figures, which may be dropped, and conceal them on occasion.

[In the Fifth Scene of this Act it must be dropped; but in the Seventh Scene it must be again drawn up wholly or in part.]

WALLENSTEIN at a black Table, on which a Speculum Astrologicum is described with Chalk. SENI is taking Observations through a window.

WALLENSTEIN.

All well—and now let it be ended, Seni. Come, The dawn commences, and Mars rules the hour. We must give o'er the operation. Come, We know enough.

SENI.

Your Highness must permit me Just to contemplate Venus. She's now rising; Like as a sun, so shines she in the east.

WALLENST.

She is at present in her perigee, And now shoots down her strongest influences.

[Contemplating the figure on the table.]

Auspicious aspect! fateful in conjunction, At length the mighty three corradiate; And the two stars of blessing, Jupiter And Venus, take between them the malignant Slily-malicious Mars, and thus compel Into my service that old mischief-founder: For long he viewed me hostilely, and ever With beam oblique, or perpendicular, Now in the Quartile, now in the Secundan, Shot his red lightnings at my stars, disturbing Their blessed influences and sweet aspects. Now they have conquer'd the old enemy, And bring him in the heavens a prisoner to me.

SENI (who has come down from the window).

And in a corner house, your Highness—think of that! That makes each influence of double strength.

WALLENST.

And sun and moon, too, in the Sextile aspect, The soft light with the vehement—so I love it; SOL is the heart, LUNA the head of heaven; Bold be the plan, fiery the execution.

SENI.

And both the mighty Lumina by no Maleficus affronted. Lo! Saturnus, Innocuous, powerless, in cadente Domo.

WALLENST.

The empire of Saturnus is gone by; Lord of the secret birth of things is he Within the lap of earth, and in the depths Of the imagination dominates; And his are all things that eschew the light. The time is o'er of brooding and contrivance, For Jupiter, the lustrous, lordeth now, And the dark work, complete of preparation, He draws by force into the realm of light. Now must we hasten on to action, ere The scheme and most auspicious positure Parts o'er my head, and takes once more its flight, For the heavens journey still, and sojourn not.

[There are knocks at the door.]

There's some one knocking there. See who it is.

TERZKY (from without).

Open, and let me in.

WALLENSTEIN.

Ay—'tis Terzky. What is there of such urgence? We are busy.



TERZKY (from without).

Lay all aside at present, I entreat you. It suffers no delaying.

WALLENSTEIN.

Open, Seni!

[While SENI opens the door for TERZKY, WALLENSTEIN draws the curtain over the figures.]

SCENE II

WALLENSTEIN. COUNT TERZKY

TERZKY (enters).

Hast thou already heard it? He is taken. Gallas has given him up to the Emperor.

[SENI draws off the black table, and exit.]

WALLENSTEIN (to TERZKY).

Who has been taken? Who is given up?

TERZKY.

The man who knows our secrets, who knows every Negotiation with the Swede and Saxon, Through whose hands all and everything has pass'd—

WALLENSTEIN (drawing back).

Nay, not Sesina?—Say, No! I entreat thee.

TERZKY.

All on his road for Regensburg to the Swede He was plunged down upon by Gallas' agent, Who had been long in ambush, lurking for him. There must have been found on him my whole packet To Thur, to Kinsky, to Oxenstiern, to Arnheim: All this is in their hands; they have now an insight Into the whole—our measures and our motives.

SCENE III

To them enters ILLO.

ILLO (to TERZKY).

Has he heard it?

TERZHY.

He has heard it.

ILLO (to WALLENSTEIN).

Thinkest thou still To make thy peace with the Emperor, to regain His confidence? E'en were it now thy wish To abandon all thy plans, yet still they know What thou hast wish'd: then forwards thou must press, Retreat is now no longer in thy power.

TERZKY.

They have documents against us, and in hands, Which show beyond all power of contradiction—

WALLENST.

Of my handwriting—no iota. Thee I punish for thy lies.

ILLO.

And thou believest, That what this man, and what thy sister's husband, Did in thy name, will not stand on thy reck'ning? His word must pass for thy word with the Swede, And not with those that hate thee at Vienna?

TERZKY.

In writing thou gavest nothing—But bethink thee, How far thou ventured'st by word of mouth With this Sesina! And will he be silent? If he can save himself by yielding up Thy secret purposes, will he retain them?

ILLO.

Thyself dost not conceive it possible; And since they now have evidence authentic How far thou hast already gone, speak!—tell us, What art thou waiting for? Thou canst no longer Keep thy command; and beyond hope of rescue Thou'rt lost, if thou resign'st it.

WALLENSTEIN.

In the army Lies my security. The army will not Abandon me. Whatever they may know, The power is mine, and they must gulp it down— And if I give them caution for my fealty, They must be satisfied, at least appear so.

ILLO.

The army, Duke, is thine now—for this moment— 'Tis thine, but think with terror on the slow, The quiet power of time. From open violence The attachment of thy soldiery secures thee Today—tomorrow: but grant'st thou them a respite Unheard, unseen, they'll undermine that love On which thou now dost feel so firm a footing, With wily theft will draw away from thee One after the other other—

WALLENSTEIN.

'Tis a cursed accident!

ILLO.

Oh! I will call it a most blessed one, If it work on thee as it ought to do, Hurry thee on to action—to decision. The Swedish General—

WALLENSTEIN.

He's arrived! Know'st thou What his commission is—

ILLO.

To thee alone Will he intrust the purpose of his coming.

WALLENST.

A cursed, cursed accident! Yes, yes, Sesina knows too much, and won't be silent.

TERZKY.

He's a Bohemian fugitive and rebel, His neck is forfeit. Can he save himself At thy cost, think you he will scruple it? And if they put him to the torture, will he, Will he, that dastardling, have strength enough—

WALLENSTEIN (lost in thought).

Their confidence is lost, irreparably! And I may act which way I will, I shall Be and remain forever in their thought A traitor to my country. How sincerely Soever I return back to my duty, It will no longer help me—

ILLO.

Ruin thee, That it will do! Not thy fidelity, Thy weakness will be deemed the sole occasion—

WALLENSTEIN (pacing up and down in extreme agitation).

What! I must realize it now in earnest, Because I toy'd too freely with the thought! Accursed he who dallies with a devil! And must I—I must realize it now— Now, while I have the power, it must take place?

ILLO.

Now—now—ere they can ward and parry it!

WALLENSTEIN (looking at the paper of signatures).

I have the Generals' word—a written promise! Max Piccolomini stands not here—how's that?

TERZKY.

It was—he fancied—

ILLO.

Mere self-willedness. There needed no such thing 'twixt him and you.

WALLENST.

He is quite right; there needed no such thing. The regiments, too, deny to march for Flanders— Have sent me in a paper of remonstrance, And openly resist the Imperial orders. The first step to revolt's already taken.

ILLO.

Believe me, thou wilt find it far more easy To lead them over to the enemy Than to the Spaniard.

WALLENSTEIN.

I will hear, however, What the Swede has to say to me.

ILLO (eagerly to TERZKY).

Go, call him He stands without the door in waiting.

WALLENSTEIN.

Stay! Stay but a little. It hath taken me All by surprise; it came too quick upon me; 'Tis wholly novel that an accident, With its dark lordship, and blind agency, Should force me on with it.

ILLO.

First hear him only, And after weigh it.

[Exeunt TERZKY and ILLO.]

SCENE IV.

WALLENSTEIN (in soliloquy).

Is it possible? Is't so! I can no longer what I would? No longer draw back at my liking? I Must do the deed, because I thought of it? And fed this heart here with a dream? Because I did not scowl temptation from my presence, Dallied with thoughts of possible fulfilment, Commenced no movement, left all time uncertain, And only kept the road, the access open? By the great God of Heaven! it was not My serious meaning, it was ne'er resolved. I but amused myself with thinking of it. The free-will tempted me, the power to do Or not to do it—Was it criminal To make the fancy minister to hope, To fill the air with pretty toys of air, And clutch fantastic sceptres moving t'ward me! Was not the will kept free? Beheld I not The road of duty close beside me—but One little step, and once more I was in it! Where am I? Whither have I been transported? No road, no track behind me, but a wall Impenetrable, insurmountable, Rises obedient to the spells I muttered And meant not—my own doings tower behind me.

[Pauses and remains in deep thought.]

A punishable man I seem; the guilt, Try what I will, I cannot roll off from me; The equivocal demeanor of my life Bears witness on my prosecutor's party. And even my purest acts from purest motives Suspicion poisons with malicious gloss. Were I that thing for which I pass, that traitor, A goodly outside I had sure reserved, Had drawn the coverings thick and double round me, Been calm and chary of my utterance; But being conscious of the innocence Of my intent, my uncorrupted will, I gave way to my humors, to my passion: Bold were my words, because my deeds were not. Now every planless measure, chance event, The threat of rage, the vaunt of joy and triumph, And all the May-games of a heart o'erflowing, Will they connect, and weave them all together Into one web of treason; all will be plain, My eye ne'er absent from the far-off mark, Step tracing step, each step a politic progress; And out of all they'll fabricate a charge So specious that I must myself stand dumb. I am caught in my own net, and only force, Nought but a sudden rent, can liberate me.

[Pauses again.]

How else! since that the heart's unbias'd instinct Impell'd me to the daring deed, which now Necessity, self-preservation, orders. Stern is the on-look of Necessity, Not without shudder may a human hand Grasp the mysterious urn of destiny. My deed was mine, remaining in my bosom: Once suffer'd to escape from its safe corner Within the heart, its nursery and birth-place, Sent forth into the Foreign, it belongs Forever to those sly malicious powers Whom never art of man conciliated.

[Paces in agitation through the chamber, then pauses, and after the pause breaks out again into audible soliloquy.]

What is thy enterprise? thy aim? thy object? Hast honestly confess'd it to thyself? Power seated on a quiet throne thou'dst shake, Power on an ancient consecrated throne, Strong in possession, founded in all custom; Power by a thousand tough and stringy roots Fix'd to the people's pious nursery-faith. This, this will be no strife of strength with strength. That fear'd I not. I brave each combatant, Whom I can look on, fixing eye to eye, Who, full himself of courage, kindles courage In me too. 'Tis a foe invisible The which I fear—a fearful enemy, Which in the human heart opposes me, By its coward fear alone made fearful to me. Not that, which full of life, instinct with power, Makes known its present being; that is not The true, the perilously formidable. O no! it is the common, the quite common, The thing of an eternal yesterday. What ever was, and evermore returns, Sterling tomorrow, for today 'twas sterling! For of the wholly common is man made, And custom is his nurse! Woe then to them Who lay irreverent hands upon his old House furniture, the dear inheritance From his forefathers! For time consecrates; And what is gray with age becomes religion. Be in possession, and thou hast the right, And sacred will the many guard it for thee!

[To the PAGE who here enters.]

The Swedish officer?—Well, let him enter.

[The PAGE exit, WALLENSTEIN fixes his eye in deep thought on the door.]

Yet is it pure—as yet!—the crime has come Not o'er this threshold yet—so slender is The boundary that divideth life's two paths.

SCENE V

WALLENSTEIN and WRANGEL

WALLENSTEIN (after having fixed a searching look on him).

Your name is Wrangel?

WRANGEL.

Gustave Wrangel, General Of the Sudermanian Blues.

WALLENSTEIN.

It was a Wrangel Who injured me materially at Stralsund, And by his brave resistance was the cause Of the opposition which that sea-port made.

WRANGEL.

It was the doing of the element With which you fought, my Lord! and not my merit. The Baltic Neptune did assert his freedom: The sea and land, it seem'd, were not to serve One and the same.

[WALLENST.

You pluck'd the Admiral's hat from off my head.

WRANGEL.

I come to place a diadem thereon.]

WALLENSTEIN (makes the motion for him to take a seat, and seats himself).

And where are your credentials? Come you provided with full powers, Sir General?

WRANGEL.

There are so many scruples yet to solve—

WALLENSTEIN (having read the credentials).

An able letter!—Ay—he is a prudent Intelligent master whom you serve, Sir General! The Chancellor writes me, that he but fulfils His late departed Sovereign's own idea In helping me to the Bohemian crown.

WRANGEL.

He says the truth. Our great King, now in heaven, Did ever deem most highly of your Grace's Preeminent sense and military genius; And always the commanding Intellect, He said, should have command, and be the King.

WALLENST.

Yes, he might say it safely.—General Wrangel,

[Taking his hand affectionately.]

Come, fair and open. Trust me, I was always A Swede at heart. Eh! that did you experience Both in Silesia and at Nuremberg; I had you often in my power, and let you Always slip out by some back door or other. 'Tis this for which the Court can ne'er forgive me, Which drives me to this present step: and since Our interests so run in one direction, E'en let us have a thorough confidence Each in the other.

WRANGEL.

Confidence will come Has each but only first security.

WALLENST.

The Chancellor still, I see, does not quite trust me; And, I confess—the game does not lie wholly To my advantage. Without doubt he thinks, If I can play false with the Emperor, Who is my sovereign, I can do the like With the enemy, and that the one too were Sooner to be forgiven me than the other. Is not this your opinion, too, Sir General?

WRANGEL.

I have here a duty merely, no opinion.

WALLENST.

The Emperor hath urged me to the uttermost: I can no longer honorably serve him; For my security, in self-defence, I take this hard step, which my conscience blames.

WRANGEL.

That I believe. So far would no one go Who was not forced to it.

[After a pause.]

What may have impell'd Your princely Highness in this wise to act Toward your Sovereign Lord and Emperor, Beseems not us to expound or criticise. The Swede is fighting for his good old cause, With his good sword and conscience. This concurrence, This opportunity, is in our favor, And all advantages in war are lawful. We take what offers without questioning; And if all have its due and just proportions—

WALLENST.

Of what then are ye doubting? Of my will? Or of my power? I pledged me to the Chancellor, Would he trust me with sixteen thousand men, That I would instantly go over to them With eighteen thousand of the Emperor's troops.

WRANGEL.

Your Grace is known to be a mighty war-chief, To be a second Attila and Pyrrhus. 'Tis talked of still with fresh astonishment, How some years past, beyond all human faith, You call'd an army forth, like a creation: But yet—

WALLENSTEIN.

But yet?

WRANGEL.

But still the Chancellor thinks It might yet be an easier thing from nothing To call forth sixty thousand men of battle, Than to persuade one sixtieth part of them—

WALLENST.

What now? Out with it, friend!

WRANGEL.

To break their oaths.

WALLENST.

And he thinks so? He judges like a Swede, And like a Protestant. You Lutherans Fight for your Bible. You are interested About the cause; and with your hearts you follow Your banners. Among you, whoe'er deserts To the enemy hath broken covenant With two Lords at one time. We've no such fancies.

WRANGEL.

Great God in Heaven! Have then the people here No house and home, no fireside, no altar?

WALLENST.

I will explain that to you, how it stands:— The Austrian has a country, ay, and loves it, And has good cause to love it—but this army, That calls itself the Imperial, this that houses Here in Bohemia, this has none—no country; This is an outcast of all foreign lands, Unclaim'd by town or tribe, to whom belongs Nothing except the universal sun. And this Bohemian land for which we fight— [Loves not the master whom the chance of war, Not its own choice or will, hath given to it. Men murmur at the oppression of their conscience, And power hath only awed but not appeased them; A glowing and avenging mem'ry lives Of cruel deeds committed on these plains; How can the son forget that here his father Was hunted by the blood-hound to the mass? A people thus oppress'd must still be feared, Whether they suffer or avenge their wrongs.]

WRANGEL.

But then the Nobles and the Officers? Such a desertion, such a felony, It is without example, my Lord Duke, In the world's history.

WALLENSTEIN.

They are all mine— Mine unconditionally—mine on all terms. Not me, your own eyes you must trust.

[He gives him the paper containing the written oath. WRANGEL reads it through, and, having read it, lays it on the table, remaining silent.]

So then? Now comprehend you?

WRANGEL.

Comprehend who can! My Lord Duke, I will let the mask drop—yes! I've full powers for a final settlement. The Rhinegrave stands but four days' march from here With fifteen thousand men, and only waits For orders to proceed and join your army. Those orders I give out, immediately We're compromised.

WALLENSTEIN.

What asks the Chancellor?

WRANGEL (considerately).

Twelve regiments, every man a Swede—my head The warranty—and all might prove at last Only false play—

WALLENSTEIN (starting).

Sir Swede!

WRANGEL (calmly proceeding).

Am therefore forced T' insist thereon, that he do formally, Irrevocably break with the Emperor, Else not a Swede is trusted to Duke Friedland.

WALLENST.

Come, brief, and open! What is the demand?

WRANGEL.

That he forthwith disarm the Spanish regiments Attached to the Emp'ror, that he seize on Prague, And to the Swedes give up that city, with The strong pass Egra.

WALLENSTEIN.

That is much indeed! Prague!—Egra's granted—but—but Prague!—'T won't do. I give you every security Which you may ask of me in common reason— But Prague—Bohemia—these, Sir General, I can myself protect.

WRANGEL.

We doubt it not. But 'tis not the protection that is now Our sole concern. We want security That we shall not expend our men and money All to no purpose.

WALLENSTEIN.

'Tis but reasonable.

WRANGEL.

And till we are indemnified, so long Stays Prague in pledge.

WALLENSTEIN.

Then trust you us so little?

WRANGEL (rising).

The Swede, if he would treat well with the German, Must keep a sharp look-out. We have been call'd Over the Baltic, we have saved the empire From ruin—with our best blood have we sealed The liberty of faith and gospel truth. But now already is the benefaction No longer felt, the load alone is felt. Ye look askance with evil eye upon us, As foreigners, intruders in the empire, And would fain send us, with some paltry sum Of money, home again to our old forests. No, no! my Lord Duke! no!—it never was For Judas' pay, for chinking gold and silver, That we did leave our King by the Great Stone[24] No, not for gold and silver have there bled So many of our Swedish Nobles—neither Will we, with empty laurels for our payment, Hoist sail for our own country. Citizens Will we remain upon the soil, the which Our Monarch conquer'd for himself, and died.

WALLENST.

Help to keep down the common enemy, And the fair border land must needs be yours.

WRANGEL.

But when the common enemy lies vanquish'd, Who knits together our new friendship then? We know, Duke Friedland! though perhaps the Swede Ought not to have known it, that you carry on Secret negotiations with the Saxons. Who is our warranty, that we are not The sacrifices in those articles Which 'tis thought needful to conceal from us?

WALLENSTEIN (rises).

Think you of something better, Gustave Wrangel! Of Prague no more.

WRANGEL.

Here my commission ends.

WALLENST.

Surrender up to you my capital! Far liever would I face about, and step Back to my Emperor.

WRANGEL.

If time yet permits—

WALLENST.

That lies with me, even now, at any hour.

WRANGEL.

Some days ago, perhaps. Today, no longer; No longer since Sesina's been a prisoner.

[WALLENSTEIN is struck, and silenced.]

My Lord Duke, hear me—We believe that you At present do mean honorably by us. Since yesterday we're sure of that—and now This paper warrants for the troops, there's nothing Stands in the way of our full confidence. Prague shall not part us. Hear! The Chancellor Contents himself with Altstadt; to your Grace He gives up Ratschin and the narrow side. But Egra above all must open to us, Ere we can think of any junction.

WALLENSTEIN.

You, You therefore must I trust, and not you me? I will consider of your proposition.

WRANGEL.

I must entreat that your consideration Occupy not too long a time. Already Has this negotiation, my Lord Duke, Crept on into the second year! If nothing Is settled this time, will the Chancellor Consider it as broken off for ever.

WALLENST.

Ye press me hard. A measure such as this, Ought to be thought of.

WRANGEL.

Ay! but think of this too, That sudden action only can procure it Success—think first of this, your Highness.

[Exit WRANGEL.]

SCENE VI

WALLENSTEIN, TERZKY, and ILLO (re-enter)

ILLO.

It's all right?

TERZKY.

Are you compromised?

ILLO.

This Swede Went smiling from you. Yes! you're compromised.

WALLENST.

As yet is nothing settled: and (well weighed) I feel myself inclined to leave it so.

TERZKY.

How? What is that?

WALLENSTEIN.

Come on me what will come, The doing evil to avoid an evil Cannot be good!

TERZKY.

Nay, but bethink you, Duke.

WALLENST.

To live upon the mercy of these Swedes! Of these proud-hearted Swedes!—I could not bear it.

ILLO.

Goest thou as fugitive, as mendicant? Bringest thou not more to them than thou receivest?

WALLENST.

How fared it with the brave and royal Bourbon Who sold himself unto his country's foes, And pierced the bosom of his father-land? Curses were his reward, and men's abhorrence Avenged th' unnatural and revolting deed.

ILLO.

Is that thy case?

WALLENSTEIN.

True faith, I tell thee, Must ever be the dearest friend of man: His nature prompts him to assert its rights. The enmity of sects, the rage of parties, Long cherish'd envy, jealousy, unite; And all the struggling elements of evil Suspend their conflict, and together league In one alliance 'gainst their common foe— The savage beast that breaks into the fold, Where men repose in confidence and peace. For vain were man's own prudence to protect him. 'Tis only in the forehead nature plants The watchful eye—the back, without defence, Must find its shield in man's fidelity.

TERZKY.

Think not more meanly of thyself than do Thy foes, who stretch their hands with joy to greet thee; Less scrupulous far was the Imperial Charles, The powerful head of this illustrious house; With open arms he gave the Bourbon welcome; For still by policy the world is ruled.

SCENE VII

To these enter the COUNTESS TERZKY

WALLENST.

Who sent for you? There is no business here For women.

COUNTESS.

I am come to bid you joy.

WALLENST.

Use thy authority, Terzky; bid her go.

COUNTESS.

Come I perhaps too early? I hope not.

WALLENST.

Set not this tongue upon me, I entreat you: You know it is the weapon that destroys me. I am routed, if a woman but attack me: I cannot traffic in the trade of words With that unreasoning sex.

COUNTESS.

I had already Given the Bohemians a king.

WALLENSTEIN (sarcastically).

They have one, In consequence, no doubt.

COUNTESS (to the others).

Ha! what new scruple?

TERZKY.

The Duke will not.

COUNTESS.

He will not what he must!

ILLO.

It lies with you now. Try. For I am silenced When folks begin to talk to me of conscience And of fidelity.

COUNTESS.

How? then, when all Lay in the far-off distance, when the road Stretch'd out before thine eyes interminably, Then hadst thou courage and resolve; and now, Now that the dream is being realized, The purpose ripe, the issue ascertain'd, Dost thou begin to play the dastard now? Plann'd merely, 'tis a common felony; Accomplish'd, an immortal undertaking: And with success comes pardon hand in hand, For all event is God's arbitrament.

SERVANT (enters).

The Colonel Piccolomini.

COUNTESS (hastily).

Must wait.

WALLENST.

I cannot see him now. Another time.

SERVANT.

But for two minutes he entreats an audience: Of the most urgent nature is his business.

WALLENST.

Who knows what he may bring us! I will hear him.

COUNTESS (laughs).

Urgent for him, no doubt? but thou may'st wait.

WALLENST.

What is it?

COUNTESS.

Thou shalt be inform'd hereafter. First let the Swede and thee be compromised.

[Exit SERVANT.]

WALLENST.

If there were yet a choice! if yet some milder Way of escape were possible—I still Will choose it, and avoid the last extreme.

COUNTESS.

Desirest thou nothing further? Such a way Lies still before thee. Send this Wrangel off. Forget thou thy old hopes, cast far away All thy past life; determine to commence A new one. Virtue hath her heroes too, As well as fame and fortune.—To Vienna Hence—to the Emperor—kneel before the throne Take a full coffer with thee—say aloud, Thou didst but wish to prove thy fealty; Thy whole intention but to dupe the Swede.

ILLO.

For that too 'tis too late. They know too much; He would but bear his own head to the block.

COUNTESS.

I fear not that. They have not evidence To attaint him legally, and they avoid The avowal of an arbitrary power. They'll let the Duke resign without disturbance. I see how all will end. The King of Hungary Makes his appearance, and 'twill of itself Be understood that then the Duke retires. There will not want a formal declaration; The young King will administer the oath To the whole army; and so all returns To the old position. On some morrow morning The Duke departs; and now 'tis stir and bustle Within his castles. He will hunt, and build, And superintend his horses' pedigrees; Creates himself a court, gives golden keys, And introduces strictest ceremony In fine proportions, and nice etiquette; Keeps open table with high cheer: in brief, Commences mighty King—in miniature. And while he prudently demeans himself, And gives himself no actual importance, He will be let appear whate'er he likes; And who dares doubt that Friedland will appear A mighty Prince to his last dying hour? Well now, what then? Duke Friedland is as others, A fire-new Noble, whom the war hath raised To price and currency, a Jonah's gourd, An over-night creation of court-favor, Which with an undistinguishable ease Makes Baron or makes Prince.

WALLENSTEIN (in extreme agitation).

Take her away. Let in the young Count Piccolomini.

COUNTESS.

Art thou in earnest? I entreat thee! Canst thou Consent to bear thyself to thy own grave, So ignominiously to be dried up? Thy life, that arrogated such an height To end in such a nothing! To be nothing, When one was always nothing, is an evil That asks no stretch of patience, a light evil; But to become a nothing, having been—

WALLENSTEIN (starts up in violent agitation).

Show me a way out of this stifling crowd, Ye powers of Aidance! Show me such a way As I am capable of going. I Am no tongue-hero, no fine virtue-prattler; I cannot warm by thinking; cannot say To the good luck that turns her back upon me, Magnanimously: "Go; I need thee not." Cease I to work, I am annihilated. Dangers nor sacrifices will I shun, If so I may avoid the last extreme; But ere I sink down into nothingness, Leave off so little, who began so great, Ere that the world confuses me with those Poor wretches whom a day creates and crumbles, This age and after ages[25] speak my name With hate and dread; and Friedland be redemption For each accursed deed.

COUNTESS.

What is there here, then, So against nature? Help me to perceive it! O let not Superstition's nightly goblins Subdue thy clear bright spirit! Art thou bid To murder?—with abhorr'd, accursed poinard, To violate the breasts that nourish'd thee? That were against our nature, that might aptly Make thy flesh shudder, and thy whole heart sicken,[26] Yet not a few, and for a meaner object, Have ventured even this, ay, and perform'd it. What is there in thy case so black and monstrous? Thou art accused of treason—whether with Or without justice is not now the question— Thou art lost if thou dost not avail thee quickly Of the power which thou possessest—Friedland! Duke! Tell me where lives that thing so meek and tame, That doth not all his living faculties Put forth in preservation of his life? What deed so daring, which necessity And desperation will not sanctify?

WALLENST.

Once was this Ferdinand so gracious to me; He loved me; he esteem'd me; I was placed The nearest to his heart. Full many a time We like familiar friends, both at one table, Have banqueted together. He and I— And the young kings themselves held me the basin Wherewith to wash me—and is't come to this?

COUNTESS.

So faithfully preserves thou each small favor, And hast no memory for contumelies? Must I remind thee, how at Regensburg This man repaid thy faithful services? All ranks and all conditions in the empire Thou hadst wronged, to make him great,—hadst loaded on thee, On thee, the hate, the curse of the whole world. No friend existed for thee in all Germany, And why? because thou hadst existed only For the Emperor. To the Emperor alone Clung Friedland in that storm which gather'd round him At Regensburg in the Diet—and he dropp'd thee! He let thee fall! he let thee fall a victim To the Bavarian, to that insolent! Deposed, stript bare of all thy dignity And power, amid the taunting of thy foes, Thou wert let drop into obscurity.— Say not the restoration of thy honor Has made atonement for that first injustice. No honest good-will was it that replaced thee; The law of hard necessity replaced thee, Which they had fain opposed, but that they could not.

WALLENST.

Not to their good wishes, that is certain, Nor yet to his affection I'm indebted For this high office: and if I abuse it, I shall therein abuse no confidence.

COUNTESS.

Affection! confidence!—they needed thee. Necessity, impetuous remonstrant! Who not with empty names, or shows of proxy, Is served, who'll have the thing and not the symbol, Ever seeks out the greatest and the best, And at the rudder places him, e'en though She had been forced to take him from the rabble— She, this Necessity, it was that placed thee In this high office; it was she that gave thee Thy letters patent of inauguration. For, to the uttermost moment that they can, This race still help themselves at cheapest rate With slavish souls, with puppets! At the approach Of extreme peril, when a hollow image Is found a hollow image and no more, Then falls the power into the mighty hands Of Nature, of the spirit giant-born, Who listens only to himself, knows nothing Of stipulations, duties, reverences, And, like the emancipated force of fire, Unmaster'd scorches, ere it reaches them, Their fine-spun webs, their artificial policy.

WALLENST.

'Tis true! they saw me always as I am— Always! I did not cheat them in the bargain. I never held it worth my pains to hide The bold all-grasping habit of my soul.

COUNTESS.

Nay rather—thou hast ever shown thyself A formidable man, without restraint; Hast exercised the full prerogatives Of thy impetuous nature, which had been Once granted to thee. Therefore, Duke, not thou Who hast still remained consistent with thyself; But they are in the wrong, who fearing thee, Intrusted such a power in hand they fear'd. For, by the laws of Spirit, in the right Is every individual character That acts in strict consistence with itself. Self-contradiction is the only wrong. Wert thou another being, then, when thou Eight years ago pursuedst thy march with fire, And sword, and desolation, through the Circles Of Germany, the universal scourge, Didst mock all ordinances of the empire, The fearful rights of strength alone exertedst, Trampledst to earth each rank, each magistracy, All to extend thy Sultan's domination? Then was the time to break thee in, to curb Thy haughty will, to teach thee ordinance. But no, the Emperor felt no touch of conscience; What served him pleased him, and without a murmur He stamp'd his broad seal on these lawless deeds. What at that time was right, because thou didst it For him, today is all at once become Opprobrious, foul, because it is directed Against him.—O most flimsy superstition!

WALLENSTEIN (rising).

I never saw it in this light before; 'Tis even so. The Emperor perpetrated Deeds through my arm, deeds most unorderly. And even this prince's mantle, which I wear, I owe to what were services to him, But most high misdemeanors 'gainst the empire.

COUNTESS.

Then betwixt thee and him (confess it Friedland!) The point can be no more of right and duty, Only of power and the opportunity. That opportunity, lo! it comes yonder Approaching with swift steeds; then with a swing Throw thyself up into the chariot-seat, Seize with firm hand the reins, ere thy opponent Anticipate thee, and himself make conquest Of the now empty seat. The moment comes; It is already here, when thou must write The absolute total of thy life's vast sum. The constellations stand victorious o'er thee, The planets shoot good fortune in fair junctions, And tell thee, "Now's the time!" The starry courses Hast thou thy life long measured to no purpose? The quadrant and the circle, were they play-things?

[Pointing to the different objects in the room.]

The zodiacs, the rolling orbs of heaven, Hast pictured on these walls, and all around thee In dumb, foreboding symbols hast thou placed These seven presiding Lords of Destiny— For toys? Is all this preparation nothing? Is there no marrow in this hollow art, That even to thyself it doth avail Nothing, and has no influence over thee In the great moment of decision?—

WALLENSTEIN. (during this last speech walks up and down with inward struggles, laboring with passion; stops suddenly, stands still, then interrupting the COUNTESS).

Send Wrangel to me—I will instantly Dispatch three couriers—

ILLO (hurrying out).

God in heaven be praised!

WALLENST.

It is his evil genius and mine. Our evil genius! It chastises him Through me, the instrument of his ambition; And I expect no less than that Revenge E'en now is whetting for my breast the poinard. Who sows the serpent's teeth, let him not hope To reap a joyous harvest. Every crime Has, in the moment of its perpetration, Its own avenging angel—dark misgiving, An ominous sinking at the inmost heart. He can no longer trust me. Then no longer Can I retreat—so come that which must come. Still destiny preserves its due relations, The heart within us is its absolute Vicegerent.

[To TERZKY.]

Go, conduct you Gustave Wrangel To my state-cabinet.—Myself will speak to The couriers.—And dispatch immediately A servant for Octavio Piccolomini.

[To the COUNTESS, who cannot conceal her triumph.]

No exultation! woman, triumph not! For jealous are the Powers of Destiny. Joy premature, and shouts ere victory, Encroach upon their rights and privileges. We sow the seed, and they the growth determine.

[While he is making his exit the curtain drops.]

* * * * *



ACT II

SCENE I

Scene, as in the preceding Act

WALLENSTEIN, OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI

WALLENSTEIN (coming forward in conversation).

He sends me word from Linz that he lies sick; But I have sure intelligence that he Secretes himself at Frauenberg with Gallas. Secure them both, and send them to me hither. Remember, thou takest on thee the command Of those same Spanish regiments,—constantly Make preparation, and be never ready; And if they urge thee to draw out against me, Still answer YES, and stand as thou wert fetter'd; I know that it is doing thee a service To keep thee out of action in this business. Thou lovest to linger on in fair appearances; Steps of extremity are not thy province; Therefore have I sought out this part for thee. Thou wilt this time be of most service to me By thy inertness. The mean time, if fortune Declare itself on my side, thou wilt know What is to do.

Enter MAX PICCOLOMINI

Now go, Octavio. This night must thou be off, take my own horses Him here I keep with me—make short farewell— Trust me, I think, we all shall meet again In joy and thriving fortunes.

OCTAVIO (to his son).

I shall see you Yet ere I go.

SCENE II

WALLENSTEIN, MAX PICCOLOMINI

MAX. (advances to him).

My General?

WALLENSTEIN.

That I am no longer, if Thou stylest thyself the Emperor's officer.

MAX.

Then thou wilt leave the army, General?

WALLENST.

I have renounced the service of the Emperor.

MAX.

And thou wilt leave the army?

WALLENSTEIN.

Rather hope I To bind it nearer still and faster to me.

[He seats himself.]

Yes, Max, I have delay'd to open it to thee, Even till the hour of acting 'gins to strike. Youth's fortunate feeling doth seize easily The absolute right, yea, and a joy it is To exercise the single apprehension Where the sums square in proof; But where it happens that of two sure evils One must be taken, where the heart not wholly Brings itself back from out the strife of duties, There 'tis a blessing to have no election, And blank necessity is grace and favor. —This is now present: do not look behind thee,— It can no more avail thee. Look thou forwards! Think not! judge not! prepare thyself to act! The Court—it hath determined on my ruin, Therefore I will be beforehand with them. We'll join the Swedes—right gallant fellows are they, And our good friends.

[He stops himself, expecting PICCOLOMINI's answer.]

I have ta'en thee by surprise. Answer me not. I grant thee time to recollect thyself.

[He rises, retires at the back of the stage. MAX remains for a long time motionless, in a trance of excessive anguish. At his first motion WALLENSTEIN returns, and places himself before him.]

MAX.

My General, this day thou makest me Of age to speak in my own right and person, For till this day I have been spared the trouble To find out my own road. Thee have I follow'd With most implicit unconditional faith, Sure of the right path if I follow'd thee. Today, for the first time, dost thou refer Me to myself, and forcest me to make Election between thee and my own heart.

WALLENST.

Soft cradled thee thy Fortune till today; Thy duties thou couldst exercise in sport, Indulge all lovely instincts, act forever With undivided heart. It can remain No longer thus. Like enemies, the roads Start from each other. Duties strive with duties. Thou must needs choose thy party in the war Which is now kindling 'twixt thy friend and him Who is thy Emperor.

MAX.

War! is that the name? War is as frightful as heaven's pestilence, Yet it is good. Is it heaven's will as that is? Is that a good war, which against the Emperor Thou wagest with the Emperor's own army? O God of heaven! what a change is this! Beseems it me to offer such persuasion To thee, who like the fix'd star of the pole Wert all I gazed at on life's trackless ocean? O! what a rent thou makest in my heart! The ingrain'd instinct of old reverence, The holy habit of obediency, Must I pluck live asunder from thy name? Nay, do not turn thy countenance upon me— It always was as a god looking upon me! Duke Wallenstein, its power has not departed. The senses still are in thy bonds, although, Bleeding, the soul hath freed itself.

WALLENSTEIN.

Max, hear me.

MAX.

O! do it not, I pray thee, do it not! There is a pure and noble soul within thee Knows not of this unblest, unlucky doing. Thy will is chaste, it is thy fancy only Which hath polluted thee; and innocence— It will not let itself be driven away From that world-awing aspect. Thou wilt not, Thou canst not, end in this. It would reduce All human creatures to disloyalty Against the nobleness of their own nature. 'Twill justify the vulgar misbelief Which holdeth nothing noble in free will And trusts itself to impotence alone Made powerful only in an unknown power.

WALLENST.

The world will judge me sternly, I expect it. Already have I said to my own self All thou canst say to me. Who but avoids The extreme, can he by going round avoid it? But here there is no choice. Yes—I must use Or suffer violence—so stands the case; There remains nothing possible but that.

MAX.

O that is never possible for thee! 'Tis the last desperate resource of those Cheap souls to whom their honor, their good name Is their poor saving, their last worthless keep, Which, having staked and lost, they stake themselves In the mad rage of gaming. Thou art rich And glorious; with an unpolluted heart Thou canst make conquest of whate'er seems highest! But he, who once hath acted infamy, Does nothing more in this world.

WALLENSTEIN (grasps his hand).

Calmly, Max! Much that is great and excellent will we Perform together yet. And if we only Stand on the height with dignity, 'tis soon Forgotten, Max, by what road we ascended. Believe me, many a crown shines spotless now That yet was deeply sullied in the winning. To the evil spirit doth the earth belong, Not to the good. All that the powers divine Send from above are universal blessings, Their light rejoices us, their air refreshes, But never yet was man enrich'd by them In their eternal realm no property Is to be struggled for—all there is general The jewel, the all-valued gold we win From the deceiving Powers, depraved in nature, That dwell beneath the day and blessed sun-light. Not without sacrifices are they render'd Propitious, and there lives no soul on earth That e'er retired unsullied from their service.

MAX.

Whate'er is human, to the human being Do I allow—and to the vehement And striving spirit readily I pardon The excess of action; but to thee, my General, Above all others make I large concession. For thou must move a world, and be the master— He kills thee who condemns thee to inaction. So be it then! maintain thee in thy post By violence. Resist the Emperor, And, if it must be, force with force repel: I will not praise it, yet I can forgive it. But not—not to the traitor—yes!—the word Is spoken out— Not to the traitor can I yield a pardon. That is no mere excess! that is no error Of human nature—that is wholly different; O that is black, black as the pit of hell!

[WALLENSTEIN betrays a sudden agitation.]

Thou canst not hear it named, and wilt thou do it? O, turn back to thy duty! That thou canst I hold it certain. Send me to Vienna: I'll make thy peace for thee with the Emperor. He knows thee not. But I do know thee. He Shall see thee, Duke, with my unclouded eye, And I bring back his confidence to thee.

WALLENST.

It is too late! Thou knowest not what has happen'd.

MAX.

Were it too late, and were things gone so far, That a crime only could prevent thy fall, Then—fall! fall honorably, even as thou stood'st! Lose the command. Go from the stage of war, Thou canst with splendor do it—do it too With innocence. Thou hast lived much for others, At length live thou for thy own self. I follow thee; My destiny I never part from thine.

WALLENST.

It is too late! Even now, while thou art losing Thy words, one after the other are the milestones Left fast behind by my post couriers Who bear the order on to Prague and Egra.

[MAX stands as convulsed, with a gesture and countenance expressing the most intense anguish.]

Yield thyself to it. We act as we are forced. I cannot give assent to my own shame And ruin. Thou—no—thou canst not forsake me! So let us do what must be done, with dignity, With a firm step. What am I doing worse Than did famed Caesar at the Rubicon, When he the legions led against his country, The which his country had delivered to him? Had he thrown down the sword he had been lost, As I were if I but disarm'd myself. I trace out something in me of this spirit; Give me his luck, that other thing I'll bear.

[MAX quits him abruptly. WALLENSTEIN startled and overpowered, continues looking after him and is still in this posture when TERZKY enters.]

SCENE III

WALLENSTEIN, TERZKY

TERZKY.

Max Piccolomini just left you?

WALLENSTEIN.

Where is Wrangel?

TERZKY.

He is already gone.

WALLENSTEIN.

In such a hurry?

TERZKY.

It is as if the earth had swallow'd him. He had scarce left thee when I went to seek him. I wish'd some words with him—but he was gone. How, when, and where, could no one tell me. Nay, I half believe it was the devil himself; A human creature could not so at once Have vanish'd.

ILLO (enters).

Is it true that thou wilt send Octavio?

TERZKY.

How, Octavio! Whither send him?

WALLENST.

He goes to Frauenburg, and will lead hither The Spanish and Italian regiments.

ILLO.

No! Nay, Heaven forbid!

WALLENSTEIN.

And why should Heaven forbid?

ILLO.

Him!—that deceiver! Wouldst thou trust to him The soldiery? Him wilt thou let slip from thee, Now in the very instant that decides us—

TERZKY.

Thou wilt not do this—No! I pray thee, no!

WALLENST.

Ye are whimsical.

ILLO.

O but for this time, Duke, Yield to our warning! Let him not depart.

WALLENST.

And why should I not trust him only this time, Who have always trusted him? What, then, has happen'd That I should lose my good opinion of him? In complaisance to your whims, not my own, I must, forsooth, give up a rooted judgment. Think not I am a woman. Having trusted him E'en till today, today too will I trust him.

TERZKY.

Must it be he—he only? Send another.

WALLENST.

It must be he whom I myself have chosen; He is well fitted for the business. Therefore I gave it him.

ILLO.

Because he's an Italian— Therefore is he well fitted for the business!

WALLENST.

I know you love them not—nor sire nor son— Because that I esteem them, love them—visibly Esteem them, love them more than you and others. E'en as they merit. Therefore are they eye-blights, Thorns in your foot-path. But your jealousies, In what affect they me or my concerns? Are they the worse to me because you hate them? Love or hate one another as you will, I leave to each man his own moods and likings; Yet know the worth of each of you to me.

ILLO.

Von Questenberg, while he was here, was always Lurking about with this Octavio.

WALLENST.

It happen'd with my knowledge and permission.

ILLO.

I know that secret messengers came to him From Gallas—

WALLENSTEIN.

That's not true.

ILLO.

O thou art blind, With thy deep-seeing eyes!

WALLENSTEIN.

Thou wilt not shake My faith for me—my faith, which founds itself On the profoundest science. If 'tis false, Then the whole science of the stars is false; For know, I have a pledge from Fate itself, That he is the most faithful of my friends.

ILLO.

Hast thou a pledge, that this pledge is not false?

WALLENST.

There exist moments in the life of man, When he is nearer the great Soul of the world Than is man's custom, and possesses freely The power of questioning his destiny: And such a moment 'twas, when in the night Before the action in the plains of Luetzen, Leaning against a tree, thoughts crowding thoughts, I look'd out far upon the ominous plain. My whole life, past and future, in this moment Before my mind's eye glided in procession, And to the destiny of the next morning The spirit, fill'd with anxious presentiment, Did knit the most removed futurity. Then said I also to myself: "So many Dost thou command. They follow all thy stars And as on some great number set their All Upon thy single head, and only man The vessel of thy fortune. Yet a day Will come when Destiny shall once more scatter All these in many a several direction: Few be they who will stand out faithful to thee." I yearn'd to know which one was faithfullest Of all, this camp included. Great Destiny, Give me a sign! And he shall be the man, Who, on the approaching morning, comes the first To meet me with a token of his love. And thinking this, I fell into a slumber. Then midmost in the battle was I led In spirit. Great the pressure and the tumult! Then was my horse kil'd under me; I sank; And over me away, all unconcernedly, Drove horse and rider—and thus trod to pieces I lay, and panted like a dying man; Then seized me suddenly a savior arm; It was Octavio's—I awoke at once; 'Twas broad day, and Octavio stood before me. "My brother," said he, "do not ride today The dapple, as you're wont; but mount the horse Which I have chosen for thee. Do it, brother! In love to me. A strong dream warn'd me so." It was the swiftness of his horse that snatch'd me From the hot pursuit of Bannier's dragoons. My cousin rode the dapple on that day, And never more saw I of horse or rider.

ILLO.

That was a chance.

WALLENSTEIN (significantly).

There's no such thing as chance. [And what to us seems merest accident Springs from the deepest source of destiny.] In brief, 'tis sign'd and seal'd that this Octavio Is my good angel—and now no word more.

[He is retiring.]

TERZKY.

This is my comfort—Max remains our hostage.

ILLO.

And he shall never stir from here alive.

WALLENSTEIN (stops and turns himself round).

Are ye not like the women who forever Only recur to their first word, although One had been talking reason by the hour! Know that the human being's thoughts and needs Are not like ocean billows, blindly moved. The inner world, his microcosmus, is The deep shaft out of which they spring eternally. They grow by certain laws, like the tree's fruit— No juggling chance can metamorphose them. Have I the human kernel first examined? Then I know, too, the future will and action.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE IV

Chamber in the residence of Piccolomini

OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI (attired for traveling), AN ADJUTANT

OCTAVIO.

Is the detachment here?

ADJUT.

It awaits below.

OCTAVIO.

And are the soldiers trusty, Adjutant? Say, from what regiment hast thou chosen them?

ADJUT. From Tiefenbach's.

OCTAVIO.

That regiment is loyal; Keep them in silence in the inner court, Unseen by all, and when the signal peals Then close the doors; keep watch upon the house, And all ye meet be instantly arrested.

[Exit Adjutant.]

I hope indeed I shall not need their service, So certain feel I of my well laid plans; But when an empire's safety is at stake 'Twere better too much caution than too little.

SCENE V

A Chamber in PICCOLOMINI's Dwelling-House.

OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, ISOLANI, entering

ISOLANI.

Here am I—Well! who comes yet of the others?

OCTAVIO (with an air of mystery).

But, first, a word with you, Count Isolani.

ISOLANI (assuming the same air of mystery).

Will it explode, ha?—Is the Duke about To make the attempt? In me, friend, you may place Full confidence—Nay, put me to the proof.

OCTAVIO.

That may happen.

ISOLANI.

Noble brother, I am Not one of those men who in words are valiant, And when it comes to action skulk away. The Duke has acted toward me as a friend. God knows it is so; and I owe him all— He may rely on my fidelity.

OCTAVIO.

That will be seen hereafter.

ISOLANI.

Be on your guard, All think not as I think; and there are many Who still hold with the Court—yes, and they say That those stolen signatures bind them to nothing.

[OCTAVIO.

Indeed! Pray name to me the chiefs that think so.

ISOLANI.

Plague upon them! all the Germans think so; Esterhazy, Kaunitz, Deodati, too, Insist upon obedience to the Court.]

OCTAVIO.

I am rejoiced to hear it.

ISOLANI.

You rejoice

OCTAVIO.

That the Emperor has yet such gallant servants, And loving friends!

ISOLANI.

Nay, jeer not, I entreat you. They are no such worthless fellows, I assure you.

OCTAVIO.

I am assured already. God forbid That I should jest!—In very serious earnest, I am rejoiced to see an honest cause So strong.

ISOLANI.

The Devil!—what!—Why, what means this? Are you not, then—For what, then, am I here?

OCTAVIO.

That you may make full declaration, whether You will be call'd the friend or enemy Of the Emperor.

ISOLANI (with an air of defiance).

That declaration, friend, I'll make to him in whom a right is placed To put that question to me.

OCTAVIO.

Whether, Count, That right is mine, this paper may, instruct you.

ISOLANI (stammering).

Why,—why—what! this is the Emperor's hand and seal! [Reads.] "Whereas, the officers collectively Throughout our army will obey the orders Of the Lieutenant-General Piccolomini. As from ourselves."—Hem—Yes! so I— Yes! yes!— I—I give you joy, Lieutenant-General!

OCTAVIO.

And you submit you to the order?

ISOLANI.

I— But you have taken me so by surprise— Time for reflection one must have—

OCTAVIO.

Two minutes.

ISOLANI.

My God! But then the case is—

OCTAVIO.

Plain and simple You must declare you, whether you determine To act a treason 'gainst your Lord and Sovereign, Or whether you will serve him faithfully.

ISOLANI.

Treason!—My God!—But who talks then of treason?

OCTAVIO.

That is the case. The Prince-duke is a traitor— Means to lead over to the enemy The Emperor's army.—Now, Count!—brief and full— Say, will you break your oath to the Emperor? Sell yourself to the enemy?—Say, will you?

ISOLANI.

What mean you? I—I break my oath, d'ye say, To his Imperial Majesty? Did I say so!—When, when have I said that?

OCTAVIO.

You have not said it yet—not yet. This instant I wait to hear, Count, whether you will say it.

ISOLANI.

Ay! that delights me now, that you yourself Bear witness for me that I never said so.

OCTAVIO.

And you renounce the Duke then?

ISOLANI.

If he's planning Treason—why, treason breaks all bonds asunder.

OCTAVIO.

And are determined, too, to fight against him?

ISOLANI.

He has done me service—but if he's a villain, Perdition seize him!—All scores are rubb'd off.

OCTAVIO.

I am rejoiced that you are so well disposed. This night, break off in the utmost secrecy With all the light-arm'd troops—it must appear As came the order from the Duke himself. At Frauenburg's the place of rendezvous; There will Count Gallas give you further orders.

ISOLANI.

It shall be done.-But you'll remember me With the Emperor—how well-disposed you found me.

OCTAVIO.

I will not fail to mention it honorably.

[Exit ISOLANI. A Servant enters.]

What, Colonel Butler!—Show him up.

ISOLANI (returning).

Forgive me too my bearish ways, old father! Lord God! how should I know, then, what a great Person I had before me.

OCTAVIO. No excuses!

ISOLANI.

I am a merry lad, and if at time A rash word might escape me 'gainst the Court Amidst my wine—You know no harm was meant.

[Exit.]

OCTAVIO.

You need not be uneasy on that score That has succeeded. Fortune favor us With all the others only but as much!

SCENE VI

OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, BUTLER

BUTLER.

At your command, Lieutenant-General.

OCTAVIO.

Welcome, as honor'd friend and visitor.

BUTLER.

You do me too much honor.

OCTAVIO (after both have seated themselves).

You have not Return'd the advances which I made you yesterday— Misunderstood them as mere empty forms. That wish proceeded from my heart—I was In earnest with you—for 'tis now a time In which the honest should unite most closely.

BUTLER.

'Tis only the like-minded can unite.

OCTAVIO.

True! and I name all honest men like-minded. I never charge a man but with those acts To which his character deliberately Impels him; for alas! the violence Of blind misunderstandings often thrusts The very best of us from the right track. You came through Frauenburg. Did the Count Gallas Say nothing to you? Tell me. He's my friend.

BUTLER.

His words were lost on me.

OCTAVIO.

It grieves me sorely, To hear it: for his counsel was most wise. I had myself the like to offer.

BUTLER.

Spare Yourself the trouble—me th' embarrassment, To have deserved so ill your good opinion.

OCTAVIO.

The time is precious—let us talk openly. You know how matters stand here. Wallenstein Meditates treason—I can tell you further, He has committed treason; but few hours Have past since he a covenant concluded With the enemy. The messengers are now Full on their way to Egra and to Prague. Tomorrow he intends to lead us over To the enemy. But he deceives himself; For Prudence wakes—The Emperor has still Many and faithful friends here, and they stand In closest union, mighty though unseen. This manifesto sentences the Duke— Recalls the obedience of the army from him, And summons all the loyal, all the honest, To join and recognize in me their leader. Choose—will you share with us an honest cause? Or with the evil share an evil lot?

BUTLER (rises).

His lot is mine.

OCTAVIO.

Is that your last resolve?

BUTLER.

It is.

OCTAVIO.

Nay, but bethink you, Colonel Butler! As yet you have time. Within my faithful breast That rashly utter'd word remains interr'd. Recall it, Butler! choose a better party; You have not chosen the right one.

BUTLER (going).

Any other Commands for me, Lieutenant-General?

OCTAVIO.

See your white hairs: recall that word!

BUTLER.

Farewell!

OCTAVIO.

What! Would you draw this good and gallant sword In such a cause? Into a curse would you Transform the gratitude which you have earn'd By forty years' fidelity from Austria?

BUTLER (laughing with bitterness).

Gratitude from the House of Austria!

[He is going.]

OCTAVIO (permits him to go as far as the door, then calls after him).

Butler!

BUTLER.

What wish you?

OCTAVIO.

How was't with the Count?

BUTLER.

Count? what?

OCTAVIO (coldly).

The title that you wish'd, I mean.

BUTLER (starts in sudden passion).

Hell and damnation!

OCTAVIO (coldly).

You petition'd for it— And your petition was repelled—Was it so?

BUTLER.

Your insolent scoff shall not go by unpunish'd. Draw!

OCTAVIO.

Nay! your sword to 'ts sheath! and tell me calmly, How all that happen'd. I will not refuse you Your satisfaction afterward. Calmly, Butler!

BUTLER.

Be the whole world acquainted with the weakness For which I never can forgive myself. Lieutenant-General! Yes; I have ambition. Ne'er was I able to endure contempt. It stung me to the quick, that birth and title Should have more weight than merit has in the army. I would fain not be meaner than my equal, So in an evil hour I let myself Be tempted to that measure. It was folly! But yet so hard a penance it deserved not. It might have been refused; but wherefore barb And venom the refusal with contempt? Why dash to earth and crush with heaviest scorn The gray-hair'd man, the faithful veteran? Why to the baseness of his parentage Refer him with such cruel roughness, only Because he had a weak hour and forgot himself? But nature gives a sting e'en to the worm Which wanton Power treads on in sport and insult.