The Death of Wallenstein (play)

SCENE VIII.

GORDON and BUTLER.

GORDON (looking after them).

Unhappy men! How free from all foreboding

They rush into the outspread net of murder

In the blind drunkenness of victory;

I have no pity for their fate. This Illo,

This overflowing and foolhardy villain,

That would fain bathe himself in his emperor's blood.

BUTLER.

Do as he ordered you. Send round patrols,

Take measures for the citadel's security;

When they are within I close the castle-gate

That nothing may transpire.

GORDON (with earnest anxiety).

Oh! haste not so!

Nay, stop; first tell me--

BUTLER.

You have heard already,

To-morrow to the Swedes belongs. This night

Alone is ours. They make good expedition.

But we will make still greater. Fare you well.

GORDON.

Ah! your looks tell me nothing good. Nay, Butler,

I pray you promise me!

BUTLER.

The sun has set;

A fateful evening doth descend upon us,

And brings on their long night! Their evil stars

Deliver them unarmed into our hands,

And from their drunken dream of golden fortunes

The dagger at their hearts shall rouse them. Well,

The duke was ever a great calculator;

His fellow-men were figures on his chess-board

To move and station, as his game required.

Other men's honor, dignity, good name,

Did he shift like pawns, and made no conscience of

Still calculating, calculating still;

And yet at last his calculation proves

Erroneous; the whole game is lost; and low!

His own life will be found among the forfeits.

GORDON.

Oh, think not of his errors now! remember

His greatness, his munificence; think on all

The lovely features of his character,

On all the noble exploits of his life,

And let them, like an angel's arm, unseen,

Arrest the lifted sword.

BUTLER.

It is too late.

I suffer not myself to feel compassion,

Dark thoughts and bloody are my duty now.

[Grasping GORDON's hand.

Gordon! 'tis not my hatred (I pretend not

To love the duke, and have no cause to love him).

Yet 'tis not now my hatred that impels me

To be his murderer. 'Tis his evil fate.

Hostile occurrences of many events

Control and subjugate me to the office.

In vain the human being meditates

Free action. He is but the wire-worked [8] puppet

Of the blind Power, which, out of its own choice,

Creates for him a dread necessity.

What too would it avail him if there were

A something pleading for him in my heart-

Still I must kill him.

GORDON.

If your heart speak to you

Follow its impulse. 'Tis the voice of God.

Think you your fortunes will grow prosperous

Bedewed with blood-his blood? Believe it not!

BUTLER.

You know not. Ask not! Wherefore should it happen

That the Swedes gained the victory, and hasten

With such forced marches hitherwards? Fain would I

Have given him to the emperor's mercy. Gordon!

I do not wish his blood,-but I must ransom

The honor of my word,-it lies in pledge-

And he must die, or--

[Passionately grasping GORDON's hand.

Listen, then, and know

I am dishonored if the duke escape us.

GORDON.

Oh! to save such a man--

BUTLER.

What!

GORDON.

It is worth

A sacrifice. Come, friend! Be noble-minded!

Our own heart, and not other men's opinions,

Forms our true honor.

BUTLER (with a cold and haughty air).

He is a great lord,

This duke, and I am of but mean importance.

This is what you would say! Wherein concerns it

The world at large, you mean to hint to me,

Whether the man of low extraction keeps

Or blemishes his honor-

So that the man of princely rank be saved?

We all do stamp our value on ourselves:

The price we challenge for ourselves is given us.

There does not live on earth the man so stationed

That I despise myself compared with him.

Man is made great or little by his own will;

Because I am true to mine therefore he dies!

GORDON.

I am endeavoring to move a rock.

Thou hadst a mother, yet no human feelings.

I cannot hinder you, but may some God

Rescue him from you!

[Exit GORDON.

BUTLER [9] (alone).

I treasured my good name all my life long;

The duke has cheated me of life's best jewel,

So that I blush before this poor weak Gordon!

He prizes above all his fealty;

His conscious soul accuses him of nothing;

In opposition to his own soft heart

He subjugates himself to an iron duty.

Me in a weaker moment passion warped;

I stand beside him, and must feel myself

The worst man of the two. What though the world

Is ignorant of my purposed treason, yet

One man does know it, and can prove it, too-

High-minded Piccolomini!

There lives the man who can dishonor me!

This ignominy blood alone can cleanse!

Duke Friedland, thou or I. Into my own hands

Fortune delivers me. The dearest thing a man has is himself.