The Works of Frederick Schiller Part 134

PRESIDENT (extending his arms convulsively towards heaven). Not from me, Judge of the world. Ask not these souls from me, but from him!

(Pointing to WORM.)

WORM (starting). From me?

PRESIDENT. Accursed villain, from thee! From thee, Satan! Thou gavest the serpent's counsel! thine be the responsibility; their blood be not on my head, but on thine!

WORM. On mine! on mine! (laughing hysterically.) Oh! Excellent! Now I understand the grat.i.tude of devils. On mine, thou senseless villain!

Was he my son? Was I thy master? Mine the responsibility? Ha! by this sight which freezes the very marrow in my bones! Mine it shall be! I will brave destruction, but thou shalt perish with me. Away! away! Cry murder in the streets! Awaken justice! Bind me, officers! Lead me hence! I will discover secrets which shall make the hearer's blood run cold. (Going.)

PRESIDENT (detaining him). Surely, madman, thou wilt not dare?

WORM (tapping him on the shoulder). I will, though,--comrade, I will! I am mad, 'tis true; but my madness is thy work, and now I will act like a madman! Arm in arm with thee will I to the scaffold! Arm in arm with thee to h.e.l.l! Oh! how it tickles my fancy, villain, to be d.a.m.ned with thee! (The officers carry him off.)

MILLER (who has lain upon LOUISA'S corpse in silent anguish, starts suddenly up, and throws the purse before the MAJOR'S feet.) Poisoner, take back thy accursed gold! Didst thou think to purchase my child with it? (Rushes distractedly out of the chamber.)

FERDINAND (in a voice scarcely audible). Follow him! He is desperate.

The gold must be taken care of for his use; 'tis the dreadful acknowlegment of my debt to him. Louisa! I come! Farewell! On this altar let me breathe my last.

PRESIDENT (recovering from his stupor). Ferdinand! my son! Not one last look for a despairing father? (FERDINAND is laid by the side of LOUISA.)

FERDINAND. My last must sue to G.o.d for mercy on myself.

PRESIDENT (falling down before him in the most dreadful agony). The Creator and the created abandon me! Not one last look to cheer me in the hour of death! (FERDINAND stretches out his trembling hand to him, and expires.)

PRESIDENT (springing up). He forgave me! (To the OFFICERS.) Now, lead on, sirs! I am your prisoner.

[Exit, followed by the OFFICERS; the curtain falls.

THE CAMP OF WALLENSTEIN

Translated by James Churchill.

The Camp of Wallenstein is an introduction to the celebrated tragedy of that name; and, by its vivid portraiture of the state of the general's army, gives the best clue to the spell of his gigantic power. The blind belief entertained in the unfailing success of his arms, and in the supernatural agencies by which that success is secured to him; the unrestrained indulgence of every pa.s.sion, and utter disregard of all law, save that of the camp; a hard oppression of the peasantry and plunder of the country, have all swollen the soldiery with an idea of interminable sway. But as we have translated the whole, we shall leave these reckless marauders to speak for themselves.

Of Schiller's opinion concerning the Camp, as a necessary introduction to the tragedy, the following pa.s.sage taken from the prologue to the first representation, will give a just idea, and may also serve as a motto to the work:--

"Not he it is, who on the tragic scene Will now appear--but in the fearless bands Whom his command alone could sway, and whom His spirit fired, you may his shadow see, Until the bashful Muse shall dare to bring Himself before you in a living form; For power it was that bore his heart astray His Camp, alone, elucidates his crime."

THE CAMP OF WALLENSTEIN.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Sergeant-Major | of a regiment of Recruit.

Trumpeter | Terzky's carabineers. Citizen.

Artilleryman, Peasant.

Sharpshooters. Peasant Boy.

Mounted Yagers, of Holk's corps. Capuchin.

Dragoons, of Butler's regiment. Regimental Schoolmaster.

Arquebusiers, of Tiefenbach's regiment. Sutler-Woman.

Cuira.s.sier, of a Walloon regiment. Servant Girl.

Cuira.s.sier, of a Lombard regiment. Soldiers' Boys.

Croats. Musicians.

Hulans.

(SCENE.--The Camp before Pilsen, in Bohemia.)

SCENE I.

Sutlers' tents--in front, a Slop-shop. Soldiers of all colors and uniforms thronging about. Tables all filled. Croats and Hulans cooking at a fire. Sutler-woman serving out wine. Soldier-boys throwing dice on a drum-head. Singing heard from the tent.

Enter a Peasant and his Son.

SON.

Father, I fear it will come to harm, So let us be off from this soldier swarm; But boist'rous mates will ye find in the shoal-- 'Twere better to bolt while our skins are whole.

FATHER.

How now, boy! the fellows wont eat us, though They may be a little unruly, or so.

See, yonder, arriving a stranger train, Fresh comers are they from the Saal and Mayne; Much booty they bring of the rarest sort-- 'Tis ours, if we cleverly drive our sport.

A captain, who fell by his comrade's sword, This pair of sure dice to me transferred; To-day I'll just give them a trial to see If their knack's as good as it used to be.

You must play the part of a pitiful devil, For these roaring rogues, who so loosely revel, Are easily smoothed, and tricked, and flattered, And, free as it came, their gold is scattered.

But we--since by bushels our all is taken, By spoonfuls must ladle it back again; And, if with their swords they slash so highly, We must look sharp, boy, and do them slyly.

[Singing and shouting in the tent.

Hark, how they shout! G.o.d help the day!

'Tis the peasant's hide for their sport must pay.

Eight months in our beds and stalls have they Been swarming here, until far around Not a bird or a beast is longer found, And the peasant, to quiet his craving maw, Has nothing now left but his bones to gnaw.

Ne'er were we crushed with a heavier hand, When the Saxon was lording it o'er the land: And these are the Emperor's troops, they say!

SON.

From the kitchen a couple are coming this way, Not much shall we make by such blades as they.

FATHER.

They're born Bohemian knaves--the two-- Belonging to Terzky's carabineers, Who've lain in these quarters now for years; The worst are they of the worthless crew.

Strutting, swaggering, proud and vain, They seem to think they may well disdain With the peasant a gla.s.s of his wine to drain But, soft--to the left o' the fire I see Three riflemen, who from the Tyrol should be Emmerick, come, boy, to them will we.

Birds of this feather 'tis luck to find, Whose trim's so spruce, and their purse well lined.