[The SWEDISH CAPTAIN retires. WALLENSTEIN sits lost in thought, his eyes fixed vacantly, and his head sustained by his hand. The COUNTESS TERZKY enters, stands before him for awhile, unobserved by him; at length he starts, sees her and recollects himself.]

WALLENST.

Comest 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 alter'd 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 and strides across the saloon).

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[34] 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 marvelously hath his aspect

Shot strength into my heart.

COUNTESS.

Thou'lt see him again.

WALLENSTEIN (remains for a while, with, absent mind, then assumes a livelier manner, and turning suddenly to the COUNTESS).

See him again? O never, never again!

COUNTESS.

How?

WALLENSTEIN.

He is gone—is dust.

COUNTESS.

Whom meanest thou, then?

WALLENST.

He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finish'd!

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 today,

For the first time, thy friend was to thee dead;

To thee he died, when first he parted from thee.

WALLENST.

This anguish will be wearied down,[35] I know;

What pang is permanent with man? 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 vanish'd from my life;

For O! he stood beside me, like my youth,

Transform'd for me the real to a dream,

Clothing the palpable and the familiar

With golden exhalations of the dawn.

Whatever fortunes wait my future toils,

The beautiful is vanish'd—and returns not.

COUNTESS.

O be not treacherous to thy own power.

Thy heart is rich enough to vivify

Itself. Thou lovest and prizest virtues in him,

The which thyself didst 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.

Shouldst thou depart this night, and we at waking

Never more find thee!

WALLENSTEIN.

Fancies!

COUNTESS.

O my soul

Has long been weigh'd down by these dark fore-bodings,

And if I combat and repel them waking,

They will crush down upon my heart in dreams.

I saw thee yesternight with thy first wife

Sit at a banquet, gorgeously attired.

WALLENST.

This was a dream of favorable omen,

That marriage being the founder of my fortunes.

COUNTESS.

Today I dreamt that I was seeking thee

In thy own chamber. As I enter'd, 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

Interr'd.

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?

WALTENST.

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 today already walks tomorrow.

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 even 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 hasten'd after thee, and thou ran'st from me

Through a long suite, through many a spacious hall.

There seem'd no end of it: doors creak'd and clapp'd;

I follow'd panting, but could not o'ertake thee;

When on a sudden did I feel myself

Grasp'd from behind—the hand was cold that grasped me—

'Twas thou, and thou didst kiss me, and there seem'd

A crimson covering to envelop us.

WALLENST. 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.]

WALLENST.

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.]

SCENE IV

WALLENSTEIN, GORDON

WALLENST.

All quiet in the town?

GORDON.

The town is quiet.

WALLENST.

I hear a boisterous music! and the Castle

Is lighted up. Who are the revellers?

GORDON.

There is a banquet given at the Castle

To the Count Terzky and Field Marshal Illo.

WALLENST.

In honor of the victory—This tribe

Can show their joy in nothing else but feasting.

[Rings. The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER enters.]

Unrobe me. I will lay me down to sleep.

[WALLENSTEIN takes the keys from GORDON.]

So we are guarded from all enemies,

And shut in with sure friends;

For all must cheat me, or a face like this

[Fixing his eye on GORDON.]

Was ne'er a hypocrite's mask.

[The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER takes off his mantle, collar, and scarf.]

WALLENSTEIN.

Take care—what is that?

GROOM OF THE CHAMBER.

The golden chain is snapped in two.

WALLENST.

Well, it has lasted long enough. Here—give it.

[He takes and looks at the chain.]

'Twas the first present of the Emperor.

He hung it round me in the war of Friule,

He being then Archduke; and I have worn it

Till now from habit—

From superstition, if you will. Belike,

It was to be a talisman to me;

And while I wore it on my neck in faith,

It was to chain to me all my life long

The volatile fortune, whose first pledge it was—

Well, be it so! Henceforward a new fortune

Must spring up for me; for the potency

Of this charm is dissolved.

[GROOM OF THE CHAMBER retires with the vestments. WALLENSTEIN rises, takes a stride across the room, and stands at last before GORDON in a posture of meditation.]

How the old time returns upon me! I

Behold myself once more at Burgau, where

We two were Pages of the Court together.

We oftentimes disputed: thy intention

Was ever good; but thou wert wont to play

The Moralist and Preacher, and wouldst rail at me—

That I strove after things too high for me,

Giving my faith to bold unlawful dreams,

And still extol to me the golden mean—

Thy wisdom hath been proved a thriftless friend

To thy own self. See, it has made thee early

A superannuated man, and (but

That my munificent stars will intervene)

Would let thee in some miserable corner

Go out like an untended lamp.

GORDON.

My Prince!

With light heart the poor fisher moors his boat,

And watches from the shore the lofty ship

Stranded amid the storm.

WALLENSTEIN.

Art thou already

In harbor then, old man? Well! I am not.

The unconquer'd spirit drives me o'er life's billows;

My planks still firm, my canvas swelling proudly.

Hope is my goddess still, and Youth my inmate;

And while we stand thus front to front almost

I might presume to say that the swift years

Have passed by powerless o'er my unblanched

hair.

[He moves with long strides across the Saloon, and remains on the opposite side over against GORDON.]

Who now persists in calling Fortune false?

To me she has proved faithful; with fond love

Took me from out the common ranks of men,

And like a mother goddess, with strong arm

Carried me swiftly up the steps of life.

Nothing is common in my destiny,

Nor in the furrows of my hand. Who dares

Interpret then my life for me as 'twere

One of the undistinguishable many?

True, in this present moment I appear

Fallen low indeed; but I shall rise again.

The high flood will soon follow on this ebb;

The fountain of my fortune, which now stops

Repress'd and bound by some malicious star,

Will soon in joy play forth from all its pipes.

GORDON.

And yet remember I the good old proverb,

"Let the night come before we praise the day."

I would be slow from long-continued fortune

To gather hope: for Hope is the companion

Given to the unfortunate by pitying Heaven.

Fear hovers round the head of prosperous men;

For still unsteady are the scales of fate.

WALLENSTEIN (smiling).

I hear the very Gordon that of old

Was wont to preach, now once more preaching;

I know well that all sublunary things

Are still the vassals of vicissitude.

The unpropitious gods demand their tribute;

This long ago the ancient Pagans knew:

And therefore of their own accord they offer'd

To themselves injuries, so to atone

The jealousy of their divinities:

And human sacrifices bled to Typhon.

[After a pause, serious, and in a more subdued manner.]

I too have sacrificed to him—For me

There fell the dearest friend, and through my fault

He fell! No joy from favorable fortune

Can overweight the anguish of this stroke.

The envy of my destiny is glutted

Life pays for life. On his pure head the lightning

Was drawn off which would else have shatter'd me.

SCENE V

To these enter SENI

WALLENST.

Is not that Seni! and beside himself,

If one may trust his looks? What brings thee hither

At this late hour, Baptista?

SENI.

Terror, Duke!

On thy account.

WALLENSTEIN.

What now?

SENI.

Flee ere the day break!

Trust not thy person to the Swedes!

WALLENSTEIN.

What now

Is in thy thoughts?

SENI (with louder voice).

Trust not thy person to the Swedes.

WALLENSTEIN.

What is it, then?

SENI (still more urgently).

O wait not the arrival of these Swedes!

An evil near at hand is threatening thee

From false friends. All the signs stand full of horror!

Near, near at hand the net-work of perdition—

Yea, even now 'tis being cast around thee!

WALLENST.

Baptista, thou art dreaming!—Fear befools thee.

SENI.

Believe not that an empty fear deludes me.

Come, read it in the planetary aspects;

Read it thyself that ruin threatens thee

From false friends.

WALLENSTEIN.

From the falseness of my friends

Has risen the whole of my unprosperous fortunes.

The warning should have come before! At present

I need no revelation from the stars

To know that.

SENI.

Come and see! trust thine own eyes!

A fearful sign stands in the house of life—

An enemy; a fiend lurks close behind

The radiance of thy planet.—O be warn'd!

Deliver not up thyself to these heathens,

To wage a war against our holy church.

WALLENSTEIN (laughing gently).

The oracle rails that way! Yes, yes! Now

I recollect. This junction with the Swedes

Did never please thee—lay thyself to sleep,

Baptista! Signs like these I do not fear.

GORDON (who during the whole of this dialogue has shown marks of extreme agitation, and now turns to WALLENSTEIN).

My Duke and General! May I dare presume?

WALLENST.

Speak freely.

As performed at the Municipal Theatre, Hamburg, 1906]

GORDON.

What if 'twere no mere creation

Of fear, if God's high providence vouchsafed

To interpose its aid for your deliverance,

And made that mouth its organ?

WALLENSTEIN.

Ye're both feverish!

How can mishap come to me from the Swedes!

They sought this junction with me—'tis their

interest.

GORDON (with difficulty suppressing his emotion).

But what if the arrival of these Swedes—

What if this were the very thing that wing'd

The ruin that is flying to your temples?

[Flings himself at his feet.]

There is yet time, my Prince.

SENI.

O hear him! hear him!

GORDON (rises).

The Rhinegrave's still far off. Give but the orders,

This citadel shall close its gates upon him.

If then he will besiege us, let him try it.

But this I say; he'll find his own destruction

With his whole force before these ramparts, sooner

Than weary down the valor of our spirit.

He shall experience what a band of heroes,

Inspirited by an heroic leader,

Is able to perform. And if indeed

It be thy serious wish to make amend

For that which thou hast done amiss—this, this

Will touch and reconcile the Emperor,

Who gladly turns his heart to thoughts of mercy

And Friedland, who returns repentant to him,

Will stand yet higher in his Emperor's favor

Than e'er he stood when he had never fallen.

WALLENSTEIN (contemplates him with surprise, remains awhile, betraying strong emotion).

Gordon—your zeal and fervor lead you far.

Well, well—an old friend has a privilege.

Blood, Gordon, has been flowing. Never, never

Can the Emperor pardon me; and if he could,

Yet I—I never could let myself be pardon'd.

Had I foreknown what now has taken place,

That he, my dearest friend, would fall for me

My first death-offering; and had the heart

Spoken to me, as now it has done—Gordon,

It may be, I might have bethought myself;

It may be too, I might not. Might or might not

Is now an idle question. All too seriously

Has it begun to end in nothing, Gordon!

Let it then have its course.

[Stepping to the window.]

All dark and silent-at the castle too

All is now hush'd—Light me, Chamberlain!

[The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER, who had entered during the last dialogue, and had been standing at a distance and listening to it with visible expressions of the deepest interest, advances in extreme agitation, and throws himself at the DUKE'S feet.]

And thou too! But I know why thou dost wish

My reconcilement with the Emperor.

Poor man! he hath a small estate in Carinthia,

And fears it will be forfeited because

He's in my service. Am I then so poor

That I no longer can indemnify

My servants? Well! to no one I employ

Means of compulsion. If 'tis thy belief

That fortune has fled from me, go! forsake me.

This night for the last time mayst thou unrobe me,

And then go over to thy Emperor.

Gordon, good night! I think to make a long

Sleep of it: for the struggle and the turmoil

Of this last day or two was great. May't please you!

Take care that they awake me not too early.

[Exit WALLENSTEIN, the GROOM OF THE CHAMBER lighting him.SENI follows, GORDON remains on the darkened stage, following the DUKE with his eye, till he disappears at the farther end of the gallery: then by his gestures the old man expresses the depth of his anguish and stands leaning against a pillar.]

SCENE VI

GORDON, BUTLER (at first behind the scenes)

BUTLER (not yet come into view of the stage).

Here stand in silence till I give the signal.

GORDON (starts up).

'Tis he! he has already brought the murderers.

BUTLER.

The lights are out. All lies in profound sleep.

GORDON. What shall I do? Shall I attempt to save him?

Shall I call up the house? alarm the guards?

BUTLER (appears, but scarcely on the stage).

A light gleams hither from the corridor.

It leads directly to the Duke's bed-chamber.

GORDON.

But then I break my oath to the Emperor;

If he escape and strengthen the enemy,

Do I not hereby call down on my head

All the dread consequences?

BUTLER (stepping forward).

Hark! Who speaks there?

GORDON.

'Tis better, I resign it to the hands

Of Providence. For what am I, that I

Should take upon myself so great a deed?

I have not murdered him, if he be murder'd;

But all his rescue were my act and deed;

Mine—and whatever be the consequences,

I must sustain them.

BUTLER (advances).

I should know that voice.

GORDON.

Butler!

BUTLER.

'Tis Gordon. What do you want here?

Was it so late then, when the Duke dismiss'd you?

GORDON.

Your hand bound up and in a scarf?

BUTLER.

'Tis wounded.

That Illo fought as he were frantic, till

At last we threw him on the ground.

GORDON (shuddering). Both dead?

BUTLER.

Is he in bed?

GORDON.

Ah, Butler!

BUTLER.

Is he? speak.

GORDON.

He shall not perish! Not through you! The Heaven

Refuses your arm. See—'tis wounded!—

BUTLER.

There is no need of my arm.

GORDON.

The most guilty

Have perish'd, and enough is given to justice.

[The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER advances from the Gallery with his finger on his mouth commanding silence.]

GORDON.

He sleeps! O murder not the holy sleep!

BUTLER.

No! he shall die awake.

[Is going.]

GORDON.

His heart still cleaves

To earthly things: he's not prepared to step

Into the presence of his God!

BUTLER (going).

God's merciful!

GORDON (holds him).

Grant him but this night's respite.

BUTLER (hurrying off)

The next moment

May ruin all.

GORDON (holds him still).

One hour!—

BUTLER. Unhold me! What

Can that short respite profit him?

GORDON.

O—Time

Works miracles. In one hour many thousands

Of grains of sand run out; and quick as they,

Thought follows thought within the human soul.

Only one hour! Your heart may change its purpose,

His heart may change its purpose—some new tidings

May come; some fortunate event, decisive,

May fall from Heaven and rescue him. O what

May not one hour achieve!

BUTLER.

You but remind me,

How precious every minute is!

[He stamps on the floor.]

SCENE VII

To these enter MACDONALD and DEVEREUX, with the HALBERDIERS

GORDON (throwing himself between him and them).

No, monster!

First over my dead body thou shalt tread.

I will not live to see the accursed deed!

BUTLER (forcing him out of the way).

Weak-hearted dotard!

[Trumpets are heard in the distance.]

DEVEREUX and MACDONALD.

Hark! the Swedish trumpets!

The Swedes before the ramparts! Let us hasten!

GORDON (rushes out).

O, God of mercy!

BUTLER (calling after him).

Governor, to your post!

GROOM OF THE CHAMBER (hurries in).

Who dares make larum here? Hush! The Duke sleeps.

DEVEREUX (with loud harsh voice).

Friend, it is time now to make larum.

GROOM OF THE CHAMBER.

Help!

Murder!

BUTLER.

Down with him!

GROOM OF THE CHAMBER (run through the body by DEVEREUX, falls at the entrance of the Gallery).

Jesus Maria!

BUTLER.

Burst the doors open.

[They rush over the body into the Gallery—two doors are heard to crash one after the other.—Voices, deadened by the distance—clash of arms—then all at once a profound silence.]

Poprzedni 1 ...12 131415 16 ...33 Kolejny

The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 03

SCENE III

SCENE IV

SCENE V

SCENE VI

SCENE VII

Osoby, które czytają tę książkę, przeczytały również