Wallenstein/The Piccolomini/A3S3

by Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller

SCENE III.

Octavio and Max. Piccolomini.

OCTAVIO.

Well—and what now, son? All will soon be clear;

For all, I'm certain, went thro' that Sesina.

MAX.

(Who through the whole of the foregoing scene

has been in a violent and visible struggle of
feelings, at length starts as one resolved)
I will procure me light a shorter way.
Farewell.

OCTAVIO.

Where now?—Remain here.

MAX.

To the Duke.

OCTAVIO (alarmed)

What———

MAX.(returning)

If thou hast believ'd that I shall act

A part in this thy play, ———
Thou hast miscalculated on me grievously.
My way must be straight on. True with the tongue,
False with the heart—I may not, cannot be:
Nor can I suffer that a man should trust me—
As his friend trust me—and then lull my conscience
With such low pleas as these:—"I ask'd him not—
He did it all at his own hazard—and
My mouth has never lied to him."—No, no!
What a friend takes me for, that I must be.
—I'll to the Duke; ere yet this day is ended
Will I demand of him that he do save
His good name from the world, and with one stride
Break through and rend this fine-spun web of your's.
He can, he will!—I still am his believer,
Yet I'll not pledge myself, but that those letters
May furnish you, perchance, with proofs against him.
How far may not this Tertsky have proceeded—
What may not he himself too have permitted
Himself to do, to snare the enemy,
The laws of war excusing? Nothing, save
His own mouth shall convict him—nothing less!
And face to face will I go question him.

OCTAVIO.

Thou wilt?

MAX.

I will, as sure as this heart beats.

OCTAVIO.

I have, indeed, miscalculated on thee.

I calculated on a prudent son,
Who would have blessed the hand beneficent
That pluck'd him back from the abyss—and lo!
A fascinated being I discover,
Whom his two eyes befool, whom passion wilders,
Whom not the broadest light of noon can heal.
Go, question him!—Be mad enough, I pray thee.
The purpose of thy father, of thy Emperor,
Go, give it up free booty!—Force me, drive me
To an open breach before the time. And now,
Now that a miracle of heaven had guarded
My secret purpose even to this hour,
And laid to sleep Suspicion's piercing eyes,
Let me have liv'd to see that mine own son,
With frantic enterprise, annihilates
My toilsome labours and state-policy.

MAX.

Aye—this state-policy! Oh, how I curse it!

You will some time, with your state-policy,
Compel him to the measure: it may happen,
Because ye are determin'd that he is guilty,
Guilty ye'll make him. All retreat cut off,
You close up every outlet, hem him in
Narrower and narrower, till at length ye force him—
Yes, ye,—ye force him, in his desperation,
To set fire to his prison.—Father! father!
That never can end well—it cannot—will not!

And let it be decided as it may,
I see with boding heart the near approach
Of an ill-starr'd, unblest catastrophe.
For this great Monarch-spirit, if he fall,
Will drag a world into the ruin with him.
And as a ship (that midway on the ocean
Takes fire) at once, and with a thunder-burst
Explodes, and with itself shoots out its crew
In smoke and ruin betwixt sea and heaven;
So will he, falling, draw down in his fall
All us, who're fix'd and mortic'd to his fortune.
Deem of it what thou wilt; but pardon me,
That I must bear me on in my own way.
All must remain pure betwixt him and me;
And, ere the day-light dawns, it must be known
Which I must lose—my father or my friend.

(During his exit the curtain drops.)

 

end of act iii.