Wallenstein's Camp. Friedrich von Schiller
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Название: Wallenstein's Camp
Автор: Friedrich von Schiller
Издательство: Public Domain
Жанр: Драматургия
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Wallenstein's Camp: A Play
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 passion, 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 passage 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."
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.
Cuirassier, of a Walloon regiment. Servant Girl.
Cuirassier, 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.
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.
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! God 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!
From the kitchen a couple are coming this way,
Not much shall we make by such blades as they.
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 glass 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.
[They move towards the tent.
SCENE II
The above – Sergeant-Major, Trumpeter, Hulan.
What would the boor? Out, rascal, away!
Some victuals and drink, worthy masters, I pray,
For not a warm morsel we've tasted to day.
Ay, guzzle and guttle – 'tis always the way.
Not broken your fast! there – drink, ye hound!
He leads the peasant to the tent – the others come forward.
Think ye they've done it without good ground?
Is it likely they double our pay to-day,
Merely that we may be jolly and gay?
Why, the duchess arrives to-day, we know,
And her daughter too —