The Death of Wallenstein (play)

SCENE VII.

WALLENSTEIN, TERZKY.

WALLENSTEIN (stepping to the window).

What now, then?

TERZKY.

There are strange movements among all the troops,

And no one knows the cause. Mysteriously,

With gloomy silentness, the several corps

Marshal themselves, each under its own banners;

Tiefenbach's corps make threatening movements; only

The Pappenheimers still remain aloof

In their own quarters and let no one enter.

WALLENSTEIN.

Does Piccolomini appear among them?

TERZKY.

We are seeking him: he is nowhere to be met with.

WALLENSTEIN.

What did the aide-de-camp deliver to you?

TERZKY.

My regiments had despatched him; yet once more

They swear fidelity to thee, and wait

The shout for onset, all prepared, and eager.

WALLENSTEIN.

But whence arose this larum in the camp?

It should have been kept secret from the army

Till fortune had decided for us at Prague.

TERZKY.

Oh, that thou hadst believed me! Yester-evening

Did we conjure thee not to let that skulker,

That fox, Octavio, pass the gates of Pilsen.

Thou gavest him thy own horses to flee from thee.

WALLENSTEIN.

The old tune still! Now, once for all, no more

Of this suspicion-it is doting folly.

TERZKY.

Thou didst confide in Isolani too;

And lo! he was the first that did desert thee.

WALLENSTEIN.

It was but yesterday I rescued him

From abject wretchedness. Let that go by;

I never reckoned yet on gratitude.

And wherein doth he wrong in going from me?

He follows still the god whom all his life

He has worshipped at the gaming-table. With

My fortune and my seeming destiny

He made the bond and broke it, not with me.

I am but the ship in which his hopes were stowed,

And with the which, well-pleased and confident,

He traversed the open sea; now he beholds it

In eminent jeopardy among the coast-rocks,

And hurries to preserve his wares. As light

As the free bird from the hospitable twig

Where it had nested he flies off from me:

No human tie is snapped betwixt us two.

Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived

Who seeks a heart in the unthinking man.

Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life

Impress their characters on the smooth forehead,

Naught sinks into the bosom's silent depth:

Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure

Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul

Warmeth the inner frame.

TERZKY.

Yet, would I rather

Trust the smooth brow than that deep furrowed one.