The Piccolomini

SCENE III

QUESTENBERG and OCTAVIO.

QUESTENBERG (with signs of aversion and astonishment)

 
   What have I not been forced to hear, Octavio!
   What sentiments! what fierce, uncurbed defiance!
   And were this spirit universal —
 

OCTAVIO

 
                     Hm!
   You're now acquainted with three-fourths of the army.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
   Where must we seek, then, for a second host
   To have the custody of this? That Illo
   Thinks worse, I fear me, than he speaks. And then
   This Butler, too – he cannot even conceal
   The passionate workings of his ill intentions.
 

OCTAVIO

 
   Quickness of temper – irritated pride;
   'Twas nothing more. I cannot give up Butler.
   I know a spell that will soon dispossess
   The evil spirit in him.
 

QUESTENBERG (walking up and down in evident disquiet)

 
               Friend, friend!
   O! this is worse, far worse, than we had suffered
   Ourselves to dream of at Vienna. There
   We saw it only with a courtier's eyes,
   Eyes dazzled by the splendor of the throne.
   We had not seen the war-chief, the commander,
   The man all-powerful in his camp. Here, here,
   'Tis quite another thing.
   Here is no emperor more – the duke is emperor.
   Alas, my friend! alas, my noble friend!
   This walk which you have ta'en me through the camp
   Strikes my hopes prostrate.
 

OCTAVIO

 
                 Now you see yourself
   Of what a perilous kind the office is,
   Which you deliver to me from the court.
   The least suspicion of the general
   Costs me my freedom and my life, and would
   But hasten his most desperate enterprise.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
   Where was our reason sleeping when we trusted
   This madman with the sword, and placed such power
   In such a hand? I tell you, he'll refuse,
   Flatly refuse to obey the imperial orders.
   Friend, he can do it, and what he can, he will.
   And then the impunity of his defiance —
   Oh! what a proclamation of our weakness!
 

OCTAVIO

 
   D'ye think, too, he has brought his wife and daughter
   Without a purpose hither? Here in camp!
   And at the very point of time in which
   We're arming for the war? That he has taken
   These, the last pledges of his loyalty,
   Away from out the emperor's dominions —
   This is no doubtful token of the nearness
   Of some eruption.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
            How shall we hold footing
   Beneath this tempest, which collects itself
   And threats us from all quarters? The enemy
   Of the empire on our borders, now already
   The master of the Danube, and still farther,
   And farther still, extending every hour!
   In our interior the alarum-bells
   Of insurrection – peasantry in arms —
   All orders discontented – and the army,
   Just in the moment of our expectation
   Of aidance from it – lo! this very army
   Seduced, run wild, lost to all discipline,
   Loosened, and rent asunder from the state
   And from their sovereign, the blind instrument
   Of the most daring of mankind, a weapon
   Of fearful power, which at his will he wields.
 

OCTAVIO

 
   Nay, nay, friend! let us not despair too soon
   Men's words are even bolder than their deeds;
   And many a resolute, who now appears
   Made up to all extremes, will, on a sudden,
   Find in his breast a heart he wot not of,
   Let but a single honest man speak out
   The true name of his crime! Remember, too,
   We stand not yet so wholly unprotected.
   Counts Altringer and Gallas have maintained
   Their little army faithful to its duty,
   And daily it becomes more numerous.
   Nor can he take us by surprise; you know
   I hold him all encompassed by my listeners.
   What'er he does, is mine, even while 'tis doing —
   No step so small, but instantly I hear it;
   Yea, his own mouth discloses it.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
                    'Tis quite
   Incomprehensible, that he detects not
   The foe so near!
 

OCTAVIO

 
            Beware, you do not think,
   That I, by lying arts, and complaisant
   Hypocrisy, have sulked into his graces,
   Or with the substance of smooth professions
   Nourish his all-confiding friendship! No —
   Compelled alike by prudence, and that duty
   Which we all owe our country and our sovereign,
   To hide my genuine feelings from him, yet
   Ne'er have I duped him with base counterfeits!
 

QUESTENBERG

 
   It is the visible ordinance of heaven.
 

OCTAVIO

 
   I know not what it is that so attracts
   And links him both to me and to my son.
   Comrades and friends we always were – long habit,
   Adventurous deeds performed in company,
   And all those many and various incidents
   Which stores a soldier's memory with affections,
   Had bound us long and early to each other —
   Yet I can name the day, when all at once
   His heart rose on me, and his confidence
   Shot out into sudden growth. It was the morning
   Before the memorable fight at Luetzen.
   Urged by an ugly dream, I sought him out,
   To press him to accept another charger.
   At a distance from the tents, beneath a tree,
   I found him in a sleep. When I had waked him
   And had related all my bodings to him,
   Long time he stared upon me, like a man
   Astounded: thereon fell upon my neck,
   And manifested to me an emotion
   That far outstripped the worth of that small service.
   Since then his confidence has followed me
   With the same pace that mine has fled from him.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
   You lead your son into the secret?
 

OCTAVIO

 
                     No!
 

QUESTENBERG

 
   What! and not warn him either, what bad hands
   His lot has placed him in?
 

OCTAVIO

 
                 I must perforce
   Leave him in wardship to his innocence.
   His young and open soul – dissimulation
   Is foreign to its habits! Ignorance
   Alone can keep alive the cheerful air,
   The unembarrassed sense and light free spirit,
   That makes the duke secure.
 

QUESTENBERG (anxiously)

 
   My honored friend! most highly do I deem
   Of Colonel Piccolomini – yet – if —
   Reflect a little —
 

OCTAVIO

 
             I must venture it.
   Hush! There he comes!
 

SCENE IV

MAX. PICCOLOMINI, OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, QUESTENBERG.

MAX

 
   Ha! there he is himself. Welcome, my father!
 

[He embraces his father. As he turns round, he observes

 
      QUESTENBERG, and draws back with a cold and reserved air.
   You are engaged, I see. I'll not disturb you.
 

OCTAVIO

 
   How, Max.? Look closer at this visitor.
   Attention, Max., an old friend merits – reverence
   Belongs of right to the envoy of your sovereign.
 

MAX. (drily)

 
   Von Questenberg! – welcome – if you bring with you
   Aught good to our headquarters.
 

QUESTENBERG (seizing his hand)

 
                    Nay, draw not
   Your hand away, Count Piccolimini!
   Not on my own account alone I seized it,
   And nothing common will I say therewith.
 

[Taking the hands of both.

 
   Octavio – Max. Piccolomini!
   O savior names, and full of happy omen!
   Ne'er will her prosperous genius turn from Austria,
   While two such stars, with blessed influences
   Beaming protection, shine above her hosts.
 

MAX

 
   Heh! Noble minister! You miss your part.
   You come not here to act a panegyric.
   You're sent, I know, to find fault and to scold us —
   I must not be beforehand with my comrades.
 

OCTAVIO (to MAX.)

 
   He comes from court, where people are not quite
   So well contented with the duke as here.
 

MAX

 
   What now have they contrived to find out in him?
   That he alone determines for himself
   What he himself alone doth understand!
   Well, therein he does right, and will persist in't
   Heaven never meant him for that passive thing
   That can be struck and hammered out to suit
   Another's taste and fancy. He'll not dance
   To every tune of every minister.
   It goes against his nature – he can't do it,
   He is possessed by a commanding spirit,
   And his, too, is the station of command.
   And well for us it is so! There exist
   Few fit to rule themselves, but few that use
   Their intellects intelligently. Then
   Well for the whole, if there be found a man
   Who makes himself what nature destined him,
   The pause, the central point, to thousand thousands
   Stands fixed and stately, like a firm-built column,
   Where all may press with joy and confidence —
   Now such a man is Wallenstein; and if
   Another better suits the court – no other
   But such a one as he can serve the army.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
   The army? Doubtless!
 

MAX

 
               What delight to observe
   How he incites and strengthens all around him,
   Infusing life and vigor. Every power
   Seems as it were redoubled by his presence
   He draws forth every latent energy,
   Showing to each his own peculiar talent,
   Yet leaving all to be what nature made them,
   And watching only that they be naught else
   In the right place and time; and he has skill
   To mould the power's of all to his own end.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
   But who denies his knowledge of mankind,
   And skill to use it? Our complaint is this:
   That in the master he forgets the servant,
   As if he claimed by birth his present honors.
 

MAX

 
   And does he not so? Is he not endowed
   With every gift and power to carry out
   The high intents of nature, and to win
   A ruler's station by a ruler's talent?
 

QUESTENBERG

 
   So then it seems to rest with him alone
   What is the worth of all mankind beside!
 

MAX

 
   Uncommon men require no common trust;
   Give him but scope and he will set the bounds.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
   The proof is yet to come.
 

MAX

 
                 Thus are ye ever.
   Ye shrink from every thing of depth, and think
   Yourselves are only safe while ye're in shallows.
 

OCTAVIO (to QUESTENBERG)

 
   'Twere best to yield with a good grace, my friend;
   Of him there you'll make nothing.
 

MAX. (continuing)

 
                     In their fear
   They call a spirit up, and when he comes,
   Straight their flesh creeps and quivers, and they dread him
   More than the ills for which they called him up.
   The uncommon, the sublime, must seem and be
   Like things of every day. But in the field,
   Ay, there the Present Being makes itself felt.
   The personal must command, the actual eye
   Examine. If to be the chieftain asks
   All that is great in nature, let it be
   Likewise his privilege to move and act
   In all the correspondences of greatness.
   The oracle within him, that which lives,
   He must invoke and question – not dead books,
   Not ordinances, not mould-rotted papers.
 

OCTAVIO

 
   My son! of those old narrow ordinances
   Let us not hold too lightly. They are weights
   Of priceless value, which oppressed mankind,
   Tied to the volatile will of their oppressors.
   For always formidable was the League
   And partnership of free power with free will.
   The way of ancient ordinance, though it winds,
   Is yet no devious path. Straight forward goes
   The lightning's path, and straight the fearful path
   Of the cannon-ball. Direct it flies, and rapid;
   Shattering that it may reach, and shattering what it reaches,
   My son, the road the human being travels,
   That, on which blessing comes and goes, doth follow
   The river's course, the valley's playful windings,
   Curves round the cornfield and the hill of vines,
   Honoring the holy bounds of property!
   And thus secure, though late, leads to its end.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
   Oh, hear your father, noble youth! hear him
   Who is at once the hero and the man.
 

OCTAVIO

 
   My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee!
   A war of fifteen years
   Hath been thy education and thy school.
   Peace hast thou never witnessed! There exists
   An higher than the warrior's excellence.
   In war itself war is no ultimate purpose,
   The vast and sudden deeds of violence,
   Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment,
   These are not they, my son, that generate
   The calm, the blissful, and the enduring mighty!
   Lo there! the soldier, rapid architect!
   Builds his light town of canvas, and at once
   The whole scene moves and bustles momently.
   With arms, and neighing steeds, and mirth and quarrel
   The motley market fills; the roads, the streams
   Are crowded with new freights; trade stirs and hurries,
   But on some morrow morn, all suddenly,
   The tents drop down, the horde renews its march.
   Dreary, and solitary as a churchyard;
   The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie,
   And the year's harvest is gone utterly.
 

MAX

 
   Oh, let the emperor make peace, my father!
   Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel
   For the first violet⁵ of the leafless spring,
   Plucked in those quiet fields where I have journeyed.
 

OCTAVIO

 
   What ails thee? What so moves thee all at once?
 

MAX

 
   Peace have I ne'er beheld? I have beheld it.
   From thence am I come hither: oh, that sight,
   It glimmers still before me, like some landscape
   Left in the distance, – some delicious landscape!
   My road conducted me through countries where
   The war has not yet reached. Life, life, my father —
   My venerable father, life has charms
   Which we have never experienced. We have been
   But voyaging along its barren coasts,
   Like some poor ever-roaming horde of pirates,
   That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship,
   House on the wild sea with wild usages,
   Nor know aught of the mainland, but the bays
   Where safeliest they may venture a thieves' landing.
   Whate'er in the inland dales the land conceals
   Of fair and exquisite, oh, nothing, nothing,
   Do we behold of that in our rude voyage.
 

OCTAVIO (attentive, with an appearance of uneasiness)

 
   And so your journey has revealed this to you?
 

MAX

 
   'Twas the first leisure of my life. O tell me,
   What is the meed and purpose of the toil,
   The painful toil which robbed me of my youth,
   Left me a heart unsouled and solitary,
   A spirit uninformed, unornamented!
   For the camp's stir, and crowd, and ceaseless larum,
   The neighing war-horse, the air-shattering trumpet,
   The unvaried, still returning hour of duty,
   Word of command, and exercise of arms —
   There's nothing here, there's nothing in all this,
   To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart!
   Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not —
   This cannot be the sole felicity,
   These cannot be man's best and only pleasures!
 

OCTAVIO

 
   Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey.
 

MAX

 
   Oh day, thrice lovely! when at length the soldier
   Returns home into life; when he becomes
   A fellow-man among his fellow-men.
   The colors are unfurled, the cavalcade
   Mashals, and now the buzz is hushed, and hark!
   Now the soft peace-march beats, home, brothers, home!
   The caps and helmet are all garlanded
   With green boughs, the last plundering of the fields.
   The city gates fly open of themselves,
   They need no longer the petard to tear them.
   The ramparts are all filled with men and women,
   With peaceful men and women, that send onwards.
   Kisses and welcomings upon the air,
   Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures.
   From all the towers rings out the merry peal,
   The joyous vespers of a bloody day.
   O happy man, O fortunate! for whom
   The well-known door, the faithful arms are open,
   The faithful tender arms with mute embracing.
 

QUESTENBERG (apparently much affected)

 
           O that you should speak
   Of such a distant, distant time, and not
   Of the to-morrow, not of this to-day.
 

MAX. (turning round to him quick and vehement)

 
   Where lies the fault but on you in Vienna!
   I will deal openly with you, Questenberg.
   Just now, as first I saw you standing here
   (I'll own it to you freely), indignation
   Crowded and pressed my inmost soul together.
   'Tis ye that hinder peace, ye! – and the warrior,
   It is the warrior that must force it from you.
   Ye fret the general's life out, blacken him,
   Hold him up as a rebel, and heaven knows
   What else still worse, because he spares the Saxons,
   And tries to awaken confidence in the enemy;
   Which yet's the only way to peace: for if
   War intermit not during war, how then
   And whence can peace come? Your own plagues fall on you!
   Even as I love what's virtuous, hate I you.
   And here I make this vow, here pledge myself,
   My blood shall spurt out for this Wallenstein,
   And my heart drain off, drop by drop, ere ye
   Shall revel and dance jubilee o'er his ruin.
 

[Exit

SCENE V

QUESTENBERG, OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI.

 

QUESTENBERG

 
   Alas! alas! and stands it so?
 

[Then in pressing and impatient tones.

 
   What friend! and do we let him go away
   In this delusion – let him go away?
   Not call him back immediately, not open
   His eyes, upon the spot?
 

OCTAVIO (recovering himself out of a deep study)

 
                He has now opened mine,
   And I see more than pleases me.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
                   What is it?
 

OCTAVIO

 
   Curse on this journey!
 

QUESTENBERG

 
               But why so? What is it?
 

OCTAVIO

 
   Come, come along, friend! I must follow up
   The ominous track immediately. Mine eyes
   Are opened now, and I must use them. Come!
 

[Draws QUESTENBERG on with him.

QUESTENBERG

 
   What now? Where go you then?
 

OCTAVIO

 
                   To her herself.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
                           To —
 

OCTAVIO (interrupting him and correcting himself)

 
   To the duke. Come, let us go 'Tis done, 'tis done,
   I see the net that is thrown over him.
   Oh! he returns not to me as he went.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
   Nay, but explain yourself.
 

OCTAVIO

 
                 And that I should not
   Foresee it, not prevent this journey! Wherefore
   Did I keep it from him? You were in the right.
   I should have warned him. Now it is too late.
 

QUESTENBERG

 
   But what's too late? Bethink yourself, my friend,
   That you are talking absolute riddles to me.
 

OCTAVIO (more collected)

 
   Come I to the duke's. 'Tis close upon the hour
   Which he appointed you for audience. Come!
   A curse, a threefold curse, upon this journey!
 

[He leads QUESTENBERG off.

ACT II

SCENE I

Changes to a spacious chamber in the house of the Duke of Friedland. Servants employed in putting the tables and chairs in order. During this enters SENI, like an old Italian doctor, in black, and clothed somewhat fantastically. He carries a white staff, with which he marks out the quarters of the heavens.

FIRST SERVANT. Come – to it, lads, to it! Make an end of it. I hear the sentry call out, "Stand to your arms!" They will be here in a minute.

SECOND SERVANT. Why were we not told before that the audience would be held here? Nothing prepared – no orders – no instructions.

THIRD SERVANT. Ay, and why was the balcony chamber countermanded, that with the great worked carpet? There one can look about one.

FIRST SERVANT. Nay, that you must ask the mathematician there. He says it is an unlucky chamber.

SECOND SERVANT. Poh! stuff and nonsense! that's what I call a hum. A chamber is a chamber; what much can the place signify in the affair?

SENI (with gravity)

 
   My son, there's nothing insignificant,
   Nothing! But yet in every earthly thing,
   First and most principal is place and time.
 

FIRST SERVANT (to the second). Say nothing to him, Nat. The duke

 
   himself must let him have his own will.
 

SENI (counts the chairs, half in a loud, half in a low voice, till he comes to eleven, which he repeats)

 
   Eleven! an evil number! Set twelve chairs.
   Twelve! twelve signs hath the zodiac: five and seven,
   The holy numbers, include themselves in twelve.
 

SECOND SERVANT. And what may you have to object against eleven? I should like to know that now.

SENI

 
   Eleven is transgression; eleven oversteps
   The ten commandments.
 

SECOND SERVANT. That's good? and why do you call five a holy number?

SENI

 
   Five is the soul of man: for even as man
   Is mingled up of good and evil, so
   The five is the first number that's made up
   Of even and odd.
 

SECOND SERVANT. The foolish old coxcomb!

FIRST SERVANT. Ay! let him alone though. I like to hear him; there is

 
   more in his words than can be seen at first sight.
 

THIRD SERVANT. Off, they come.

SECOND SERVANT. There! Out at the side-door.

[They hurry off: SENI follows slowly. A page brings the staff of command on a red cushion, and places it on the table, near the duke's chair. They are announced from without, and the wings of the door fly open.

SCENE II

WALLENSTEIN, DUCHESS.

WALLENSTEIN

 
   You went, then, through Vienna, were presented
   To the Queen of Hungary?
 

DUCHESS

 
   Yes; and to the empress, too,
   And by both majesties were we admitted
   To kiss the hand.
 

WALLENSTEIN

 
             And how was it received,
   That I had sent for wife and daughter hither
   To the camp, in winter-time?
 

DUCHESS

 
                  I did even that
   Which you commissioned me to do. I told them
   You had determined on our daughter's marriage,
   And wished, ere yet you went into the field,
   To show the elected husband his betrothed.
 

WALLENSTEIN

 
   And did they guess the choice which I had made?
 

DUCHESS

 
   They only hoped and wished it may have fallen
   Upon no foreign nor yet Lutheran noble.
 

WALLENSTEIN

 
   And you – what do you wish, Elizabeth?
 

DUCHESS

 
   Your will, you know, was always mine.
 

WALLENSTEIN (after a pause)

 
                      Well, then, —
   And in all else, of what kind and complexion
   Was your reception at the court?
 

[The DUCHESS casts her eyes on the ground, and remains silent.

 
   Hide nothing from me. How were you received?
 

DUCHESS

 
   O! my dear lord, all is not what it was.
   A canker-worm, my lord, a canker-worm
   Has stolen into the bud.
 

WALLENSTEIN

 
                Ay! is it so?
   What, they were lax? they failed of the old respect?
 

DUCHESS

 
   Not of respect. No honors were omitted,
   No outward courtesy; but in the place
   Of condescending, confidential kindness,
   Familiar and endearing, there were given me
   Only these honors and that solemn courtesy.
   Ah! and the tenderness which was put on,
   It was the guise of pity, not of favor.
   No! Albrecht's wife, Duke Albrecht's princely wife,
   Count Harrach's noble daughter, should not so —
   Not wholly so should she have been received.
 

WALLENSTEIN

 
   Yes, yes; they have taken offence. My latest conduct
   They railed at it, no doubt.
 

DUCHESS

 
                  O that they had!
   I have been long accustomed to defend you,
   To heal and pacify distempered spirits.
   No; no one railed at you. They wrapped them up,
   O Heaven! in such oppressive, solemn silence!
   Here is no every-day misunderstanding,
   No transient pique, no cloud that passes over;
   Something most luckless, most unhealable,
   Has taken place. The Queen of Hungary
   Used formerly to call me her dear aunt,
   And ever at departure to embrace me —
 

WALLENSTEIN

 
   Now she omitted it?
 

DUCHESS (wiping away her tears after a pause)

 
              She did embrace me,
   But then first when I had already taken
   My formal leave, and when the door already
   Had closed upon me, then did she come out
   In haste, as she had suddenly bethought herself,
   And pressed me to her bosom, more with anguish
   Than tenderness.
 

WALLENSTEIN (seizes her hand soothingly)

 
            Nay, now collect yourself.
   And what of Eggenberg and Lichtenstein,
   And of our other friends there?
 

DUCHESS (shaking her head)

 
                    I saw none.
 

WALLENSTEIN

 
   The ambassador from Spain, who once was wont
   To plead so warmly for me?
 

DUCHESS

 
                 Silent, silent!
 

WALLENSTEIN

 
   These suns then are eclipsed for us. Henceforward
   Must we roll on, our own fire, our own light.
 

DUCHESS

 
   And were it – were it, my dear lord, in that
   Which moved about the court in buzz and whisper,
   But in the country let itself be heard
   Aloud – in that which Father Lanormain
   In sundry hints and —
 

WALLENSTEIN (eagerly)

 
               Lanormain! what said he?
 

DUCHESS

 
   That you're accused of having daringly
   O'erstepped the powers intrusted to you, charged
   With traitorous contempt of the emperor
   And his supreme behests. The proud Bavarian,
   He and the Spaniards stand up your accusers —
   That there's a storm collecting over you
   Of far more fearful menace than the former one
   Which whirled you headlong down at Regensburg.
   And people talk, said he, of – Ah!
 

[Stifling extreme emotion.

WALLENSTEIN

 
                     Proceed!
 

DUCHESS

 
   I cannot utter it!
 

WALLENSTEIN

 
             Proceed!
 

DUCHESS

 
                  They talk —
 

WALLENSTEIN

 
   Well!
 

DUCHESS

 
       Of a second —
          (catches her voice and hesitates.)
 

WALLENSTEIN

 
              Second —
 

DUCHESS

 
                    Most disgraceful
   Dismission.
 

WALLENSTEIN

 
          Talk they?
 

[Strides across the chamber in vehement agitation.

 
                Oh! they force, they thrust me
   With violence, against my own will, onward!
 

DUCHESS (presses near him in entreaty)

 
   Oh! if there yet be time, my husband, if
   By giving way and by submission, this
   Can be averted – my dear Lord, give way!
   Win down your proud heart to it! Tell the heart,
   It is your sovereign lord, your emperor,
   Before whom you retreat. Oh! no longer
   Low trickling malice blacken your good meaning
   With abhorred venomous glosses. Stand you up
   Shielded and helmed and weaponed with the truth,
   And drive before you into uttermost shame
   These slanderous liars! Few firm friends have we —
   You know it! The swift growth of our good fortune
   It hath but set us up a mark for hatred.
   What are we, if the sovereign's grace and favor
   Stand not before us!