University of Virginia Library

Scene I

Scene—A Saloon, terminated by a gallery which extends far into the back-ground. Wallenstein sitting at a table. The Swedish Captain standing before him.
Wallenstein.
Commend me to your lord. I sympathize
In his good fortune; and if you have seen me
Deficient in the expressions of that joy
Which such a victory might well demand,
Attribute it to no lack of good will,
For henceforth are our fortunes one. Farewell,
And for your trouble take my thanks. To-morrow
The citadel shall be surrendered to you
On your arrival.

[The Swedish Captain retires. Wallenstein sits lost in thought, his eyes fixed vacantly, and his head sustained by his hand. The Countess Tertsky

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enters, stands before him awhile, unobserved by him; at length he starts, sees her, and recollects himself.
Wallenstein.
Com'st thou from her? Is she restored? How is she?

Countess.
My sister tells me, she was more collected
After her conversation with the Swede.
She has now retired to rest.

Wallenstein.
The pang will soften,
She will shed tears.

Countess.
I find thee altered too,
My brother! After such a victory
I had expected to have found in thee
A cheerful spirit. O remain thou firm!
Sustain, uphold us! For our light thou art,
Our sun.

Wallenstein.
Be quiet. I ail nothing. Where's
Thy husband?

Countess.
At a banquet—he and Illo.

Wallenstein
(rises).
The night's far spent. Betake thee to thy chamber.

Countess.
Bid me not go, O let me stay with thee!

Wallenstein
(moves to the window).
There is a busy motion in the Heaven,
The wind doth chase the flag upon the tower,
Fast sweep the clouds, the sickle of the moon,
Struggling, darts snatches of uncertain light.
No form of star is visible! That one
White stain of light, that single glimmering yonder,
Is from Cassiopeia, and therein
Is Jupiter. (A pause.)
But now
The blackness of the troubled element hides him!

[He sinks into profound melancholy, and looks vacantly into the distance.
Countess
(looks on him mournfully, then grasps his hand).
What art thou brooding on?

Wallenstein.
Methinks,
If I but saw him, 'twould be well with me.
He, is the star of my nativity,
And often marvellously hath his aspect
Shot strength into my heart.

Countess.
Thou'lt see him again.

Wallenstein.
See him again? O never, never again.

Countess.
How?

Wallenstein.
He is gone—is dust.

Countess.
Whom meanest thou then?

Wallenstein.
He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finished!
For him there is no longer any future,
His life is bright—bright without spot it was,
And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour
Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap.
Far off is he, above desire and fear;
No more submitted to the change and chance
Of the unsteady planets. O 'tis well
With him! but who knows what the coming hour
Veil'd in thick darkness brings for us!

Countess.
Thou speakest
Of Piccolomini. What was his death?
The courier had just left thee as I came.
[Wallenstein by a motion of his hand makes signs to her to be silent.
Turn not thine eyes upon the backward view,
Let us look forward into sunny days,
Welcome with joyous heart the victory,
Forget what it has cost thee. Not to-day,
For the first time, thy friend was to thee dead;
To thee he died, when first he parted from thee.

Wallenstein.
I shall grieve down this blow, of that I'm conscious.
What does not man grieve down? From the highest,
As from the vilest thing of every day
He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost
In him. The bloom is vanished from my life.
For O! he stood beside me, like my youth,
Transformed for me the real to a dream,
Clothing the palpable and familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.
Whatever fortunes wait my future toils,
The beautiful is vanished—and returns not.

Countess.
O be not treacherous to thy own power.
Thy heart is rich enough to vivify
Itself. Thou lov'st and prizest virtues in him,
The which thyself did'st plant, thyself unfold.

Wallenstein
(stepping to the door).
Who interrupts us now at this late hour?
It is the Governor. He brings the keys
Of the Citadel. 'Tis midnight. Leave me, sister!

Countess.
O 'tis so hard to me this night to leave thee—
A boding fear possesses me!

Wallenstein.
Fear? Wherefore?

Countess.
Should'st thou depart this night, and we at waking
Never more find thee!

Wallenstein.
Fancies!

Countess.
O my soul
Has long been weighed down by these dark forebodings.
And if I combat and repel them waking,
They still rush down upon my heart in dreams,
I saw thee yesternight with thy first wife
Sit at a banquet gorgeously attired.

Wallenstein.
This was a dream of favourable omen,
That marriage being the founder of my fortunes.

Countess.
To-day I dreamt that I was seeking thee
In thy own chamber. As I entered, lo!
It was no more a chamber; the Chartreuse
At Gitschin 'twas, which thou thyself hast founded,
And where it is thy will that thou should'st be
Interred.

Wallenstein.
Thy soul is busy with these thoughts.

Countess.
What dost thou not believe that oft in dreams
A voice of warning speaks prophetic to us?

Wallenstein.
There is no doubt that there exist such voices.
Yet I would not call them
Voices of warning that announce to us
Only the inevitable. As the sun,
Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image
In the atmosphere, so often do the spirits
Of great events stride on before the events,
And in to-day already walks to-morrow.
That which we read of the fourth Henry's death
Did ever vex and haunt me like a tale
Of my own future destiny. The King
Felt in his breast the phantom of the knife,
Long ere Ravaillac arm'd himself therewith.
His quiet mind forsook him: the phantasma
Started him in his Louvre, chased him forth
Into the open air: like funeral knells
Sounded that coronation festival;
And still with boding sense he heard the tread
Of those feet that ev'n then were seeking him
Throughout the streets of Paris.

Countess.
And to thee
The voice within thy soul bodes nothing?

Wallenstein.
Nothing.
Be wholly tranquil.

Countess.
And another time
I hastened after thee, and thou ran'st from me
Through a long suite, through many a spacious hall,
There seemed no end of it: doors creaked and clapped;
I followed panting, but could not o'ertake thee;
When on a sudden did I feel myself
Grasped from behind—the hand was cold that grasped me—
'Twas thou, and thou did'st kiss me, and there seemed
A crimson covering to envelop us.

Wallenstein.
That is the crimson tapestry of my chamber.

Countess
(gazing on him).
If it should come to that—if I should see thee,
Who standest now before me in the fulness
Of life—

[She falls on his breast and weeps.
Wallenstein.
The Emperor's proclamation weighs upon thee—
Alphabets wound not—and he finds no hands.

Countess.
If he should find them, my resolve is taken—
I bear about me my support and refuge.

[Exit Countess.