Wallenstein/The Death of Wallenstein/A1S07
SCENE VII.
Wallenstein.Tertsky.
WALLENSTEIN. (stepping to the window.)What now, then?
TERTSKY.There are strange movements among all the troops,And no one knows the cause. Mysteriously,With gloomy silentness, the several corpsMarshal themselves, each under its own banners.Tiefenbach's corps make threatening movements; onlyThe Pappenheimers still remain aloofIn their own quarters, and let no one enter.
WALLENSTEIN.Does Piccolomini appear among them?
TERTSKY.We are seeking him: he is no where to be met with.
WALLENSTEIN.What did the Aide-de-Camp deliver to you?
TERTSKY.My regiments had dispatched him; yet once more They swear fidelity to thee, and waitThe shout for onset, all prepar'd, 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.
TERTSKY.O that thou hadst believ'd me! Yester eveningDid we conjure thee not to let that skulker,That fox, Octavio, pass the gates of Pilsen.Thou gav'st him thy own horses to flee from thee.
WALLENSTEIN.The old tune still! Now, once for all, no moreOf this suspicion—it is doting folly.
TERTSKY.Thou did'st confide in Isolani too;And lo! he was the first that did desert thee.
WALLENSTEIN.It was but yesterday I rescued himFrom abject wretchedness. Let that go by.I never reckon'd yet on gratitude.And wherein doth he wrong in going from me?He follows still the god whom all his lifeHe has worshipp'd at the gaming table. WithMy 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 stow'd,And with the which well-pleas'd and confidentHe travers'd the open sea; now he beholds itIn eminent jeopardy among the coast-rocks, And hurries to preserve his wares. As lightAs the free bird from the hospitable twigWhere it had nested, he flies off from me:No human tie is snapp'd betwixt us two.Yea, he deserves to find himself deceiv'd,Who seeks a heart in the unthinking man.Like shadows on a stream, the forms of lifeImpress their characters on the smooth forehead,Nought sinks into the bosom's silent depth:Quick sensibility of pain and pleasureMoves the light fluids lightly; but no soulWarmeth the inner frame.
TERTSKY.Yet, would I ratherTrust the smooth brow than that deep furrow'd one.