The Piccolomini | Page 6

honored friend! most highly do I deem?Of Colonel Piccolomini--yet--if--?Reflect a little----
OCTAVIO.
I must venture it.?Hush! There he comes!
SCENE IV.
MAX. PICCOLOMINI, OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, QUESTENBERG.
MAX.?Ha! there he is himself. Welcome, my father!
[He embraces his father. As he turns round, he observes?QUESTENBERG, and draws back with a cold and reserved air.
You are engaged, I see. I'll not disturb you.
OCTAVIO.?How, Max.? Look closer at this visitor.?Attention, Max., an old friend merits--reverence?Belongs of right to the envoy of your sovereign.
MAX. (drily).?Von Questenberg!--welcome--if you bring with you?Aught good to our headquarters.
QUESTENBERG (seizing his hand).
Nay, draw not?Your hand away, Count Piccolimini!?Not on my own account alone I seized it,?And nothing common will I say therewith.
[Taking the hands of both.?Octavio--Max. Piccolomini!?O savior names, and full of happy omen!?Ne'er will her prosperous genius turn from Austria,?While two such stars, with blessed influences?Beaming protection, shine above her hosts.
MAX.?Heh! Noble minister! You miss your part.?You come not here to act a panegyric.?You're sent, I know, to find fault and to scold us--?I must not be beforehand with my comrades.
OCTAVIO (to MAX.).?He comes from court, where people are not quite?So well contented with the duke as here.
MAX.?What now have they contrived to find out in him??That he alone determines for himself?What he himself alone doth understand!?Well, therein he does right, and will persist in't?Heaven never meant him for that passive thing?That can be struck and hammered out to suit?Another's taste and fancy. He'll not dance?To every tune of every minister.?It goes against his nature--he can't do it,?He is possessed by a commanding spirit,?And his, too, is the station of command.?And well for us it is so! There exist?Few fit to rule themselves, but few that use?Their intellects intelligently. Then?Well for the whole, if there be found a man?Who makes himself what nature destined him,?The pause, the central point, to thousand thousands?Stands fixed and stately, like a firm-built column,?Where all may press with joy and confidence--?Now such a man is Wallenstein; and if?Another better suits the court--no other?But such a one as he can serve the army.
QUESTENBERG.?The army? Doubtless!
MAX.
What delight to observe?How he incites and strengthens all around him,?Infusing life and vigor. Every power?Seems as it were redoubled by his presence?He draws forth every latent energy,?Showing to each his own peculiar talent,?Yet leaving all to be what nature made them,?And watching only that they be naught else?In the right place and time; and he has skill?To mould the power's of all to his own end.
QUESTENBERG.?But who denies his knowledge of mankind,?And skill to use it? Our complaint is this:?That in the master he forgets the servant,?As if he claimed by birth his present honors.
MAX.?And does he not so? Is he not endowed?With every gift and power to carry out?The high intents of nature, and to win?A ruler's station by a ruler's talent?
QUESTENBERG.?So then it seems to rest with him alone?What is the worth of all mankind beside!
MAX.?Uncommon men require no common trust;?Give him but scope and he will set the bounds.
QUESTENBERG.?The proof is yet to come.
MAX.
Thus are ye ever.?Ye shrink from every thing of depth, and think?Yourselves are only safe while ye're in shallows.
OCTAVIO (to QUESTENBERG).?'Twere best to yield with a good grace, my friend;?Of him there you'll make nothing.
MAX. (continuing).
In their fear?They call a spirit up, and when he comes,?Straight their flesh creeps and quivers, and they dread him More than the ills for which they called him up.?The uncommon, the sublime, must seem and be?Like things of every day. But in the field,?Ay, there the Present Being makes itself felt.?The personal must command, the actual eye?Examine. If to be the chieftain asks?All that is great in nature, let it be?Likewise his privilege to move and act?In all the correspondences of greatness.?The oracle within him, that which lives,?He must invoke and question--not dead books,?Not ordinances, not mould-rotted papers.
OCTAVIO.?My son! of those old narrow ordinances?Let us not hold too lightly. They are weights?Of priceless value, which oppressed mankind,?Tied to the volatile will of their oppressors.?For always formidable was the League?And partnership of free power with free will.?The way of ancient ordinance, though it winds,?Is yet no devious path. Straight forward goes?The lightning's path, and straight the fearful path?Of the cannon-ball. Direct it flies, and rapid;?Shattering that it may reach, and shattering what it reaches, My son, the road the human being travels,?That, on which blessing comes and goes, doth follow?The river's course, the valley's playful windings,?Curves round the cornfield and the hill of vines,?Honoring the holy bounds of property!?And thus secure, though late, leads to its end.
QUESTENBERG.?Oh, hear your father, noble youth! hear him?Who is at once the hero and the man.
OCTAVIO.?My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee!?A war of fifteen years?Hath been thy education and thy school.?Peace hast thou never witnessed! There exists?An higher than the warrior's excellence.?In war itself war is no ultimate purpose,?The vast and sudden deeds of