IN MEMORIAM GUSTAVI ADOLPHI - 2015

To the memory of Gustavus Adolphus Karlsson of Vasa

*Nyköping, Sweden, 9th of December 1594 
 + Lützen, Saxony, 6th of November 1632

Beloved ruler of nations and leader of armies,

consort, father, friend, and lover

His spouse Mary Eleanor (next to the throne), their daughter Christina Augusta 
(in his arms), his right-hand man Chancellor Axel Oxenstierna (next to the throne),
 his courtiers and his people, his officers and soldiers, will always
 keep his memory alive, as long as Sweden and freedom exist.

Gustavus Adolphus at Lützen

Carl Wilhelm Böttiger (late nineteenth century)

Translated from the Swedish by Sandra Dermark

The Golden King his doublet took,

and then got on his steed,

and he reviewed his vanguard ranks

so gallantly indeed.

"Your breastplate!", they advised him.

"God shields me!", he demised them.

And like last year at Breitenfeld

against old Count Tilly,

the Swedish army was arranged,

a light to guide the free.

Before the bluecoats' right wing,

encouraged them the Light King.

When all the ranks are sure arranged,

with caring, loving glance,

he greeted all the warriors:

they stood ablaze, in trance.

He was so modest, yet so great!

Each heart was sworn to Crown and State!

"Today may be the final stand!"

"Hold on!", they heed his call.

The "Gott mit uns!" resounds once more,

yet whispers stir them all.

"Stirred is our Liege's nutbrown steed..."

"The Lord alone knows why, indeed..."

"All troubles and sorrows be banned!

It's time to sing and pray!

Do not despair, my little band!"

That song won't fade away.

"And to the field, after we sing!

Glory to us, after our King!"

Onward! onward! The battle seems forever!

King Gustavus on the frontline did lead.

His last words: "Hold on, boys! It's now or never!"

The fog hid both royal rider and steed.

His left arm broken, chest and back sore bleeding,

his hand lets the reins go, life is receding.

Oh, sorrow! Oh, despair! Oh, is there any

good Swede to take and cherish his last sigh?

Young Lübeling alone, out of so many,

sore wounded, by his hero's side doth lie.

He rises. Though his blood itself is surging,

His Majesty the youth to rise is urging.

Lübeling's soft hand by a rapier's broken,

yet to his precious treasure doth he cling.

Yet Gustavus falls, not a word he's spoken,

everything turns dark for the Golden King.

Soon enemies over the spoils are fighting,

Croatian riders on his form alighting.

Then, his brothers in arms feel suffocated,

their arms and hearts oppressed by despair.

"The King is bleeding!" His ranks know he's fated,

he's no more seen, he'll nevermore be there.

His stallion Streiff, saddled, without a master,

gallops forth alone, heralding disaster.

Yet, right before their faithful hearts are frozen,

revenge sets the officers' hearts on fire.

Feeling no pain, heroic death they've chosen,

within, a royal voice is heard inspire.

No mourning shall there be, unless victorious

they end the fight: consoled they are, and glorious.

They swear: "O'er Lützen's moors, the setting sun

shall witness that the Swedish army won!"

The oath was held. The battle kept on raging,

Count Pappenheim through Swedish fire did fall.

Gustavus, after dark, kept on war waging,

the victory won by his spirit's call.

His golden and blue boys, before the twilight,

when lying slain on the moors 'neath faint sky-light,

carved the victory runes, on Schwedenstein,

that, in our days, on Lützen's moors still shine.

Inspired by thirst

for glory, on the field of battle quaffed

instead death's bitter draught.

The last word was missing in his epic song:

the word that crowns every achievement.

The mourners have done their duty, right or wrong:

they wrote it in blood and bereavement.

He left us when we (and he) expected it the least, 

in the prime of his life and at the climax of his career,

before he could be tarnished by the failing vigour of an older age

or by the corruption brought upon him by success. 

A single bullet, just like any other, 

suddenly struck his back and entered his noble chest, 

to quench a flame that never could or should have burned brighter.

Gustavus Adolphus,

or

The Lion of the Midnight Sun

A historical tragedy by Sandra Dermark

(Translated by herself from the German)


The one who has quaffed life at deepest draughts
and would risk life and limb for noble cause
will never be looked down on, once deceased.
Such was the Vasa ruler of those days
when lands were rent by cruel religious war.
This play is meant to praise his legacy.

Dramatis personae
(Cast of the play)

Several JESUITS: Catholics dressed in black.
KAISER FERDINAND II: Quite a devout Catholic, though merely ostensibly holy. Raised by Jesuits. He stays at court and sends his generals to fight for him on the war front.
Both his generals of highest command:
ALBRECHT VON WALLENSTEIN: Wealthy landowner, and Duke of Friedland. Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Army. Married with two children (a boy, Berthold, and a girl, Thekla). A true epicurean and freethinker who loves science, with a passion for astrology and other occult sciences. He is afraid of loud noises, and suffers also from heart conditions caused by his lifestyle. Also quite irascible: that he has anyone who contradicts his word executed is a well-known fact both to his many friends and vassals at Schloss Friedland and to his many enemies at the Imperial Court. For he hopes to someday usurp the Kaiser's throne and the rule of the whole realm...
JEAN 'T SERCLAËS, COUNT OF TILLY: Commander-in-Chief of the Catholic League. A completely temperate and chaste veteran of war, who remains undefeated until these days as well. This septuagenarian, raised by Jesuits, is unmarried and childless due to his vow of chastity. He feels more at ease in camp than at court. Cold-hearted towards the enemy, and remains cool even in the hardest trials. Seen in his youth as a killjoy by officers and privates alike, he is now a legendary warrior respected and admired throughout the Catholic armies... except by Wallenstein, who still regards him as a curmudgeon and an old-fashioned one.
GOTTFRIED HEINRICH, COUNT IN PAPPENHEIM: Leader of the Catholic cavalry and left wing, and as cheerful and impulsive as the King of Sweden, born the same year, and with whose destiny his is tied. Known by the nickname of "Scar-Heinz" due to his many scars, the foremost the crossed swords on the coat-of-arms of House Pappenheim on his forehead. Married with one child (a boy, Wolfgang).
A YOUNG CROATIAN OFFICER
OFFICERS, PRIVATES, AND CAMP FOLLOWERS ON THE CATHOLIC SIDE
GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS, KING OF SWEDEN: Our dashing male lead, in his mid-thirties. Lively and impulsive to the point of being foolhardy, honest, confident, and good-looking. He's tall and blond, with a goatee and bright blue eyes. Married with an only child (a little girl, Princess Christina). He is always ready to help those in need and save the oppressed... though he's got his shortcomings when it comes to impulse control.
MARY ELEANOR, QUEEN OF SWEDEN: Married to Gustavus Adolphus. A beautiful and artistically-minded, sensitive young woman from Prussia, who often worries about her royal spouse, since she loves him so much and he loves her equally passionately in return.
ELECTOR WILLIAM OF BRANDENBURG AND PRUSSIA: Reluctant ally of the Swedes and stepbrother to Eleanor. He has got prejudice against Lutherans like the Swedes (therefore, he banished Eleanor from the electorate and declared her persona non grata due to her betrothal and elopement with Gustavus Adolphus).
ELECTOR GEORGE OF SAXONY: Reluctant ally of the Swedes, a first-class drinker and wencher who wants to enjoy his pastimes in peace without being bothered. Can thus appear to be a turncoat who is constantly switching sides. Is henpecked by his clever better half, Electoress Sybil.
SWEDISH GENERALS, OFFICERS, AND PRIVATES, WITH THEIR CAMP FOLLOWERS, AND THEIR BRITISH AND GERMAN ALLIES
The NARRATOR: A she is this, in italics she speaks,
and, for some reason, in pentameter.
Her name won't show up when she intervenes,
thus, if you see pentameter and verse,
you'll know that the Narrator spins her tale.


UP WITH THE CURTAIN!



PRELUDE

Dear Muses Clio and Calliope,
mothers of epic and of history;
and you, Idun, who keep the fruit of gold
that keeps youth sound for stories to be told;
and you, Saga, the cupbearer of tales,
of golden liquor where rapture prevails,
that through the veins spreads and flushes or pales;
and Yuval, Jubal, first minstrel of all
those who have found in flute or strings their call:
I'm but a fragile, reckless mortal maid,
who at your feet's her masterpieces laid,
one out of many who sprung in your shade.
With downcast look, I pray, these verses bless,
no matter if they bring to me success,
since from the bottom of a maiden's heart
on fire they rose, forebearers of art!
'Tis true, the merchandise I bring for sale
is not so brisk as liquor, wine, or ale:
out of a stem that scored the bleeding hand
I wrung it in a bleak and weary land...
but take it: if the taste is sharp and sour,
the better it will be in the darkest hour.
It should do good to both your heart and mind
whenever life is painful or unkind,
and I will soon befriend you, if I may,
on any dark and cloudy, stormy day.
This true story begins, for every nation,
with something called Protestant Reformation,
when Friar Luther faced Kaiser Charles,
who chased the heretic throughout the lands
and had him also declared an outlaw.
Elector Frederick of Saxony
liked Luther, saved his life, and kept him safe.
The Catholics' response did not delay:
a Church Council they soon in Trento held,
and there and then, their creed they reaffirmed.
Throughout the Western world, the Jesuits
and Inquisition smote the Protestants
with cold water, the rack, the stake and fire.
Yet in the end, the Kaiser had to yield
to the Protestants, leave his heavy crown,
and die, thus, in retired obscurity.
This victory sure vexed the Jesuits,
who thought of a grand plan for their revenge.
Decades later, young Archduke Ferdinand,
a Habsburg and the Jesuits' brightest ward,
inherited the Imperial crown and throne.
He aimed to purge the Realm of Protestants,
to whom repression unexpected came!
The chaste and sober, aged Count of Tilly
and wealthy, clever upstart Wallenstein
were the swords of the Kaiser's dreaded host.
And, though together they could always win,
they were too stubborn and too different.
Since Wallenstein sought wealth and power in
those lands he had claimed from the enemy,
his foes at court never liked such a ruse.
And he was a freethinker, furthermore!
And thus, during Reichstag in Regensburg,
they try to persuade the Kaiser to
cashier the Duke of Friedland, Wallenstein...


ACT THE FIRST

SCENE I. THE REICHSTAG OF REGENSBURG
The Jesuits whisper in the Kaiser's ears,
yet Wallenstein serene and bold appears.
He knows the charges: ambition and greed,
as well as lack of any sacred creed.
Yet he believes the stars align, indeed...
KAISER: Albrecht von Wallenstein... Pardon Us, but
We have never wished for a general
who abuses the power of his rank.
Nor one who disbelieves in every creed.
Thus, you are cashiered. And your endless host
shall be united with the Catholic League.
Please give Us your sword and staff of command,
and never more take command of our ranks.
WALLENSTEIN (after handing over his sword and staff to the Kaiser): Just as I feared! 'Twas written in the stars!
I saw it coming; th'old curmudgeon Count
would become my replacement! Yet it is
not too late. Were he but wounded or killed,
I'd be reinstated! Thus, I return
to the palace of Friedland and my charts!
The Kaiser will soon regret such what he's done!

SCENE II. THE KING'S LANDING
In sixteen-thirty, when the sun of June
crowns the far longest light-day of the year,
on Rügen's chalk cliffs lands the Swedish fleet,
reaching the German shores after long weeks.
Through raging summer storms merrily braved,
now the glittering Baltic, cobalt blue,
and the golden sun's rays mirror the flag
hoist by their leader's right arm, strong and true.
First lands the King, then Eleanor, his Queen,
until the meanest ranker can be seen.
GUSTAVUS: Thank the Lord we have made it through the storm!
Surely, this is a sign of our success!
He kneels and, in his manly baritone,
he sings, thus, this encouraging, warm song:
Do not despair, my little band,
though enemies throughout the land
are seeking to destroy you!
Though o'er our fall they laugh secure,
their triumph shall not long endure,
so keep on brave and coy, you!
OFFICERS: Long live, long live the Golden Hero King!
RANKERS: Long live the Lion of the Midnight Sun!
ELEANOR: Long live my heart's beloved, evermore!
EVERYONE: Long live our Liberator, Liege, and Lord!

SCENE III. INTERLUDE THE FIRST
In Leipzig, soon, Gustavus's envoys
make allies with Prussia and with Saxony.
For months, for seasons, tarries this alliance,
not counting on the Electors' compliance...
The one of Brandenburg at least agrees
at last, right after Easter, as fair May
dons her most colourful and fresh array.
Yet who could say in flowering mid-spring
the storm of war does many a dreadful thing?
Not far, Magdeburg is soon overrun,
children are orphaned, maidens are abused,
even the children are stabbed or far worse...
Their only sin was being Protestants,
and their slayers were bold with what they'd drunk.
Oh ruthless thirst for blood, or rather power
(greed, deflowering, rouse, dread); febrile rage,
that can't be quenched until one leaves the stage
of life: that storm that may raze any tower!
Oh, who can paint such sacked towns' miseries
without an inkling of sorrow or dread
on thinking of their shattered maidenhead?
The sober, though helpless, Count of Tilly
would unfairly the harshly blamed one be
for the carnage that many a night and day
ruined the Maiden Town in blooming May.
Yet all the grain was burned for debts to pay
as well! What would the Duke of Friedland say?
The League owes Wallenstein the borrowed wheat
from Friedland's granaries they'd had to eat.
That life-preserving grain Duke Albrecht lent
in quantities, all by the Catholics spent.
Just as he'd planned, the League has debts unpaid!
Thus, th'old Walloon's host heads for Saxony,
whose ruler, disturbed by the Leaguers' raids,
at first frightened, lets th'enemy host in,
now e'en more flustered in the summer sun.
And, pretty soon, Leipzig and Halle fall,
surrender to share not Magdeburg's fate.
The King of Swedes reached Saxony too late,
though the Elector, now racked with regret,
the sacked towns' misery turning his land 
of plenty into one of Magdeburgs,
turns coat once more to the Protestant side,
and soon, in Krostitz hopyards, they unite,
and the master of Krostitz Brewery
receives Gustavus's engagement ring,
the one Eleanor gave him, as a gift
for refreshing the thirsty royal throat.
Both rulers revel and quaff Saxon ale,
the dark beer of the hopyards' harvest feast,
the fair September Maiden's golden blood,
that Leipzig's artists and scholars inspires
to raise their spirits as they quench their thirst
(though it's just stormed down foreign soldiers' throats,
kindling the hot blood in their southron veins,
threatening Leipzig, in the August heat,
fair seat of learning, with Magdeburg's fate!);
it will inspire our royalty as well,
as they discuss matters of love and war,
shaking right hands to seal their new-tied bond,
then rest within the hall of Breitenfeld,
north of Leipzig: a lovely grand estate.
That night, Gustavus dreams that he confronts,
in wrestling, unarmed, the Count of Tilly.
Younger and taller, the Swede quickly wins
and pins his aged opponent to the ground,
then, with his teeth, with strength to him unknown,
tears up the green doublet of Jean 't Serclaës,
and the shirt and the skin that lie beneath,
and even the hard breastbone, as with tongs,
and then, at realizing what he's done,
looks into his opponent's open chest,
and there finds lungs blackened by gunsmoke soot,
scarred by wounds given with both lead and steel,
around his shrivelled seventyish heart,
which still, though hard and scarred, throbs restlessly.
The Walloon is still conscious, reaching out
his hard and dry hands to the younger Swede,
with a look of despair in his blue eyes.
A premonition of sure victory?
Such is this autumn night i' th' Swedish camp.
The Leaguers, outside Leipzig, stay awake.
Meanwhile, the daring Count of Pappenheim
and the high officers of the great League,
all decades younger than Jean de Tilly,
coax and taunt their septuagenarian lord
to boldly dare give battle the next day.
Count Pappenheim's crossed sword-scars, on his brow,
light up, all throbbing, as he beats his chest,
impatient to saddle his snow-white steed,
and gallop as he leads another charge!
"Craven old blighter!" he's thinking and smirks,
wistfully... And, ere dawn, Tilly stands up!
In the end, under pressure, even though
he'd rather wait for reinforcements then,
the silver-haired Walloon finally yields
to youthful hot blood's call... but shall they win?
Was Jean 't Serclaës in the wrong to give in?

SCENE IV. BREITENFELD
On the vast fields that north of Leipzig lay,
a bloody confrontation now takes place:
for the first time, the Golden King of Swedes
and the silver-haired Count Jean de Tilly
confront each other on the battlefield!
This seventh of September, now and here,
at Breitenfeld, their ranks facing the sun,
will the bold Swedes attain sought victory?
GUSTAVUS (singing, at the head of his right wing): Do not despair, my little band,
though enemies throughout the land
are seeking to destroy you!
Though o'er our fall they laugh secure,
their triumph shall not long endure,
so keep on brave and coy, you!
(Spoken.) Let us sing, ere we rush into the fray!
Today, a new age of freedom will begin!
TILLY: Now we've got these heretics! At nightfall,
this evening, the Kaiser will soon receive
news of our thirty-seventh victory! (Taking out his rosary from his breastplate, saying a Hail Mary in Latin): Ave Maria gratia plena...
PAPPENHEIM (impatient, pounding his chest, at the head of the League's left wing): So, shall we strike these heretics or not?
'Twas foretold that a Count of Pappenheim
with the crest of the household on his brow
would slay a fearsome ruler from the North
in single combat!! Now, at last, the chance
is here to make this prophecy come true!!
Forth, strike their right wing, which Gustavus leads!
GUSTAVUS (at the head of his right wing): Forwards! Forwards! Gott mit uns! Ne'er despair!
Their confidence will fade away ere dusk!
The dream I had last night sure was a sign
that we'll, tonight, quaff victory's sweet wine!
The Swedes strike, recklessly and gallantly,
which does not please the old Count of Tilly.
Such weapons, tactics, are to him unknown.
Yet he's sure that Our Lady for a shield
and decades of experience on the field
will ensure that his tercios still endure.
GUSTAVUS (at the head of his right wing): Gott mit uns! Follow us to victory!
Believe you'll win, like us, and we shall win!
Once we have knocked the Pappenheimers out,
we'll take the hill were cannons stand by storm!
TILLY (looking through his spyglass): The riders gallop among pikemen's dash,
like lasses among lads at kermesse dance!
The fair king of heretics is insane...
here rush the infantry and the cavalry
together... And li'l leather cannons, too?
This cannot be true! These northerners do
not understand the noble art of war!
PAPPENHEIM (fiery, bereft of self-control, at the head of the Catholic cavalry on the left wing):
Stay back, my lord, and leave the Swedes to me!!
Six times we've lashed at them, and all six times
they've thrust us back, adding fresh red new wounds
to my skin's tapestry of warrior life...
The seventh will ensure we win this strife!!
Jesus and Mary!!! (The Pappenheimers gallop once more and clash with the lines of their enemy vanguard. A Swedish cannonball hits him in the head, and he falls unconscious on the battlefield.)
With seven fresh red wounds, is left for dead
the Count of Pappenheim, though do not fear
for his safety; for in the aftermath
his life will be saved and wounds tended to,
returning safe and sound among his friends.
Let's return to the fray at Breitenfeld!
The Swedes ascend the slopes of the high hill
where the League's twelve enormous cannons stand.
Croats retreat, Walloons now take to flight,
and flags are swept away before their eyes.

The Swedish flintlocks’ and light cannons’ shots,

pierce the stoutest breastplates, tear limbs away,

gouge eyes out, lay about to left and right! 
The silver-haired leader of th'Catholic host,
despairing, won't give in that easily.
TILLY (now at the head of his hosts): Jesus and Mary! Halt! Do not retreat!
They're just a handful of heretics, lads!
SWEDISH CAVALRY CAPTAIN (hits Tilly in the head with the stock of his pistol): This is for Heidelberg!
SWEDISH LIEUTENANT (stabs Tilly in the side): And this is for Magdeburg!
The wounded count now falls and shuts his eyes.
A few Walloons gather the unconscious form,
pursued by Swedes, boldly, relentlessly.
Their leader fallen, they must take to flight,
ensuring above all he's safe and sound.
Soon, one third of those trusty Walloons fall,
while the rest flee into the Leipzig woods,
with death's fear ever in their bloodshot eyes,
not before killing those pursuing Swedes.
The Protestants still follow in their wake,
as if pursuing wanted criminals.
Who could e'er say the day would end this way?
Many of those who lost the fray survived,
ta'en prisoner by the golden King of Swedes.
Yet he's freed them and made them his own men,
sworn to the Swedish nation and its flag;
and this offer all prisoners accept,
in gratitude for having spared their lives.
Moreover, they have raided the League's camp
and found rarities worth for royalty,
weapons, flags, Virgins, saints, and jewellery;
the spoils of Magdeburg and other raids,
which victors share according to their grades.
When the Count of Tilly at last awakes,
after weeks of lingering close to death,
he's crushed by the news of his first defeat.
He thinks Fortune's a lady, after all,
grown weary of men in their seventies,
who has a younger Northern lover found,
with strength and manly beauty to abound.
Lady Fortune, as such, favours the bold,
and always spurns a suitor grown too old;
she wearies as limbs tire and blood runs cold.

SCENE V. INTERLUDE THE SECOND
Leipzig and Halle soon yield to the Swedes,
and the Marienburg does soon as well.
How many folks in towns and countryside,
expecting their homes to be burned and sacked,
and ruthless flames rising to kiss the sun,
welcome the Northerners, come to defend
the world they know until the bitter end,
who've spared their homes with peaceful discipline,
with autumn fruits and crops, lining the streets!
How many children line to touch his sleeves,
his scabbard, or the pommel of his sword!
How many well-attained victories
and won engagements fought for freedom's sake,
then fêted with great revels, song and dance,
and drink: the Protestants should celebrate!
Here's to the King and his high officers!
Th’officers’ hearts throb proudly, joyfully,
thus, in the glow of every victory;
His Royal Grace’s, generals’, colonels,
but also the hearts of lieutenants fair,
with downy, soft peach-fuzz for facial hair.
The whole autumn and winter pass this way,
the white winter in resting by the Rhine,
with Christmas trees and presents, and mulled wine,
for it was then the season that both sides
made always, in the snow and frost, a truce
to rest their limbs and plan new strategies,
keeping strain in the winter cold at bay,
both snowstorm and war-storm kept at the door
to make repose all cozy, warm, and sure...
until warm springtime finally arrives.
The Swedes head then straight for Bavarian lands,
yet the Count of Tilly's regained his health,
and he's been waiting for them to show up...

SCENE VI. THE CROSSING OF THE LECH
In springtime, warmly shines the sun again,
liquifying the glaciers of the Alps,
so that the streams that there have their pure source
widen and surge, their waters raging white.
Thus swell th'Iller, the Lech, th'Isar and th'Inn,
the Danube's tributaries, turning each
into a fierce, unfettered Phlegethon.
Where the Lech into the Danube gives way,
at the rapids of th'April confluence,
Jean de Tilly, the aged Catholic lord,
is garrisoned, leading the League, his host,
on the right bank of the treacherous stream,
dismounting the by the surge broken bridge,
to use it as their holdfast's palisade.
Thus, there's no Lech bridge when the Swedes arrive
at the sinister bank of this fierce stream.
The question: Will this stop Gustavus now?
TILLY (looking through his spyglass): There are those fair heretics from the North...
Yet they will never cross this Phlegethon;
there is no chance Bavaria'll be theirs!
Across the surging stream, Gustavus has
begun to carry out his clever plan:
young springtime branches are cut in the woods,
wooden farms they dismount on the left bank.
With the branches, outside their palisades,
the Swedes a bonfire then begin to raise,
far larger than the one within their camp.
On the fourth of April, by light of day,
flames and smoke-clouds rise from this great bonfire...
GUSTAVUS (singing): Do not despair, my little band,
though enemies throughout the land
are seeking to destroy you!
Though o'er our fall they laugh secure,
their triumph shall not long endure,
so keep on brave and coy, you!
Let us sing, ere we rush into the fray!
(Spoken.) We shan't back now, before this petty rill!
If they cannot stop us, no one else will!
The Swedes have lit the bonfire of spring wood,
and, by the smoke-screen from the foe concealed,
they cast a trestle-bridge across the Lech,
this raging Phlegethon of springtime thaw,
then ride and run across the cold, white surge.
For the Leaguers, 'tis no good sign at all...
TILLY (looking through his spyglass): They storm the right bank! This cannot be true!
Hold steady, lads! Aldringen! Pappenheim!
Stop th'advancing heretics! Open fire!
Both high officers obey this command,
but the Swedish attack's as raging fierce
as the white waters of the stream below.
Johann von Aldringen, struck in the head,
falls. Bold Count Gottfried Heinz of Pappenheim
also collapses. Losing consciousness,
he has been struck down from his fiery steed.
The Catholics are forced, thus, to retreat,
carrying their leaders' now unconscious forms
into safety, within the palisade.
Gun after gun is fired on both banks,
and the shots rattle in the April air.
GUSTAVUS (at the head of his armies): Gott mit uns! Follow us to victory!
Shall we, who crossed the Baltic and the Rhine,
back at this rill, half-way across our quest?
Their Phlegethon is our Rubicon;
so onward, friends! Alea iacta est!
The Catholic leader in his seventies
has now entirely ceased to love himself.
His confidence fled half a year before,
shattered by the defeat of Breitenfeld.
For decades on the field, ere Leipzig fell,
Jean de Tilly was for three virtues known:
he had never made love to wench or maid,
neither had lost his reason to strong drink,
nor yielded to the foe in any fray.
Alas! Had he been slain at Breitenfeld,
as a Catholic hero he'd be hailed!
At Breitenfeld, he knew his first defeat
in such a brilliant lifetime and career,
which left his reputation shattered now.
And losing on the field is something that
Jean 't Serclaës does not tolerate at all!
For he thought one more victory would do
to wash the dark stain of Breitenfeld out...
TILLY (Taking out his rosary from his breastplate, saying a Hail Mary in Latin): Ave Maria gratia plena...
Alas! Had he been slain at Breitenfeld,
as a Catholic hero he'd be hailed!
There's no more courage in his aged heart,
which now despair has violently usurped.
And this feeling, so dreadful and so strong,
inspires him to sacrifice it all, 
to risk all at one game of pitch-and-toss,
and never breathe a word about his loss...
TILLY (Taking back his rosary into his breastplate, finishing a Hail Mary in Latin): ...nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.
The silver-haired lord then crosses himself:
his right hand darts to his brow, to his heart,
to his left shoulder, and then to the right.
Then, he takes up his own tercio's stained flag,
white and sky blue, embroidered fittingly,
with Altötting's chapel, the linden green,
and the crowned Virgin, her Child in her arms,
soaring above the quaint and lovely shrine.
Then, on his gray Croatian pony, he
rides on the bridge, to fight the Swedes himself
and secure the sought-after victory.
TILLY (holding the flag up high): Jesus and Mary!
A Swedish cannonball strikes his right thigh,
above the knee, searing flesh, splitting bone.
The aged leader of the Catholic League
falls backwards, with shut eyes and strangely pale,
into the arms of his faithful Walloons.
Leading th'unconscious count out of the fray,
they flee the Swedes, for their dear leader's life.
Gustavus and his host successfully 

have won the right bank of the surging Lech,

and thus, crossed into warm Bavarian lands.
GUSTAVUS (at the head of his armies): Today's the greatest day in this year's spring!
Bavaria, the whole Electorate,
lies at our feet; soon the crownland itself,
the Kaiser's Austria, will share its fate!
Were I, in sooth, that shrewd old corporal,
I would never have left a place like this
at reach of the advancing enemy!
E'en if a cannonball'd torn my chin off!
Anyway, Monsieur Jean, Comte de Tilly,
has been so kind to leave an empty camp
here on the left bank, where we'd spend this night!
The Swedes encamp in the League's empty post.
What happened to the distressed Catholics?
They've brought their wounded leader somewhere safe,
to the keep of the fort of Ingolstadt,
which the Swedes unexpectedly besiege.
Gustavus learns that Jean 't Serclaës is there,
in bed, in the commandant's residence,
fighting his last fight against death itself.
The King of Swedes sends his own surgeon up,
within the walls, to the commandant's keep,
to tend to the sore wounded Count Tilly,
who can't find the right words to thank this deed,
not merely for his feelings, for such love
cuts through his fever-mists like flaming steel,
but also because lockjaw has set in,
making him toss and turn and writhe in bed,
restraining him to drink, to speak, to breathe,
and racking his aged frame with searing pain;
quenching his thirst and fever is in vain.
SWEDISH SURGEON: I'm so sorry... A man his age, with lockjaw...
PAPPENHEIM (shedding tears, sobbing): Thus... Is there no hope left? Is he to...?
TILLY (finding it hard to breathe, speaking in a faint voice and making a great effort to speak): The Swede, your king, 's a true and noble knight... (He kisses his rosary, making an intense effort, then closes his eyes and ceases to breathe, as his Spanish steel rapier falls to the ground with a clank.)
His Spanish rapier falls upon the ground,
as he breathes out and then, at last, is still.
Thus dies the silver-haired Count of Tilly,
the faithful scourge of the One Catholic Church:
ablaze with fever, seized with searing pain,
against his will to breathe sadly restrained,
yet with his broken, bleeding, heavy heart at last,
after two weeks of intense suffering,
finally soothed, forever laid to rest.
Outside the fort, in camp, Gustavus weeps,
and the high officers do so as well,
mourning such a great, worthy enemy.
'Tis in late April, in the reign of spring,
that such a noble, pure old soul takes wing.
Soon, both armies are leaving Ingolstadt:
the Catholics, to take their deceased lord,
in mourning, southward, to Altötting's shrine,
a chapel by a linden, in the Alps,
to rest forever at Our Lady's feet.
The Swedes, out of respect for Count Tilly,
have pardoned the place where he breathed his last:
the first hold that Gustavus cannot take.
The Swedes have soon become Bavaria's lords,
seizing this region's capital and all,
and then on crowned Austria they close in.
Shall crowned Vienna thus share Munich's fate?
Did not the Kaiser's faith have two warlords,
the older one the scourge, th'other the sword,
a younger, equally important lord,
leader of high officers and great hosts?


DOWN WITH THE CURTAIN!

END OF ACT ONE


ENTR'ACTE, OR INTERLUDE BETWEEN THE ACTS

What did you think about the play so far?
Do you guess th'other warlord's Wallenstein,
the Duke of Friedland, brooding and reserved?
If you have guessed so, I must say you are right.
But the Kaiser has no other choice at all
than to reinstate the one you cashiered saw
in the very first scene of this great play.
In the second act, you will, and I swear, see
how Swedes confronted brooding Wallenstein.
Upon that I rely and thus resume...


UP WITH THE CURTAIN!



ACT THE SECOND

SCENE VII. WALLENSTEIN REINSTATED
In the Bohemian crownland's northern reach,
known as Friedland, id est, the Land of Peace,
in the stateliest Schloss we lay our scene.
In this great keep, fit for crowned royalty,
resides its duke, Albrecht von Wallenstein,
with his two children and Viennese spouse,
who are to him but pawns and signs of rank.
Here, in His Grace's bedchamber, it's dark
this evening. And the Duke is still awake.
On the table before him, charts of stars
and letters from the Kaiser can be seen.
Dark Albrecht reads the letters from his liege,
and then, he whispers smugly to himself...
WALLENSTEIN (whispering): That seventyish curmudgeon is deceased, 
just as I’d foretold... and the ruthless Swedes 
threaten the Kaiser's own imperial lands... 
Last winter, I wrote letters to the King 
of Sweden to have him for an ally. 
But now the old count is bereft of life, 
and therefore, His Imperial Majesty 
requires me once more leading his hosts. 
These events prove a change within my plans: 
I will usurp th’ imperial crown and realm... 
when this golden-haired rival lives no more! (He reads the letter.)
And shall the stripling Archduke be my liege?
And must I abide by the rules of war?
The Kaiser says so... Thus it cannot be! 
(He takes a scroll and a quill, and then he writes)
Your Most Gracious Imperial Majesty!
As the most distinguished nobleman in the whole Realm, I would be pleased to receive carte blanche... Yours truthfully... Your most faithful servant, Albrecht Eusebius Wenzel von Wallenstein!
The Kaiser soon receives the Duke's request,
and soon Wallenstein has received carte blanche.
In sunshine and acclaim, one summer day,
he leaves Schloss Friedland with his only son,
a lad, yet colonel of a regiment,
and his whole armed host and entourage.
His spouse and daughter follow Albrecht too,
not staying within Friedland's castle walls,
but follow husband, father, lord, to war,
as part of th'ostentatious retinue.
Soon, the survivors of the Catholic League,
the few ones by the wrath of Sweden spared,
including the bold Count of Pappenheim,
are joined under the flag of Wallenstein
to the redoubtable Imperial host.

SCENE VIII. THE OLD HOLDFAST
On a hill that there's north of Nuremberg,
overlooking the quaint borough of Fürth,
stands a ruined holdfast from the days of knights.
With palisades around the ivy-lined walls,
from which black iron cannons now protrude,
like many-headed dragon lying down
to watch the vale below and spew its blaze,
Wallenstein's host's intrenched and garrisoned
within the ruined keep, the Swedes in Fürth.
In late August of sixteen thirty-two,
the Swedes stand before the fort on the hill,
as Wallenstein expected that they should.
After all, the whole month, the North-folk fell
under the Duke of Friedland's searing spell:
their burning thirst quenched in a poisoned spring,
which seared their throats and made their fever rise, 
tearing at their life-substance from within,
as flames blazed up and danced before their eyes,
and helmets and breastplates felt like of fire,
weighing down and searing the flesh... so dire...
the sunstruck, febrile Swedes' ranks were soon thinned,
dwindling to only one third that survived,
as the foe never showed by light of day,
staying enthroned in his dragon-like keep.
What's more: to add insult to injury,
locked in this stalemate, all their hopes thus lost,
most of the Swedes who live through this ordeal,
driven by thirst and illness, in despair,
flee the encampment in the dead of night,
when August moon and breeze short respite give;
a few fleeing up north, to distant homes
which they, sadly, will never reach alive;
most of them, rank and file and officers,
however, race uphill into the keep,
turning their coats towards the cool and shade
that, sadly, beckon under Friedland's flag.
Night after short night, more men leave the camp,
even whole companies, leader and all,
thinning the Swedish ranks even far more,
as the enemy keep's garrison swells:
few are those who remain serving their King,
whose thoughts have turned from war to wife and child,
drifting away from harsh reality,
from the war of attrition's dire concerns.
Thus has Wallenstein weakened the fair Swedes,
like snows hastily dwindling in the heat,
whose despair to resolve has given way;
the few survivors mustering at last
what little strength the heat and poison left
within their veins, to rouse their weakened limbs.
Yet they're outnumbered by the garrison
of the dark fortress, which has now increased
with their own friends, their officers, their men:
traitors under the enemy's command...
Is coat-turn, then, a brave and right resolve?
Everything goes according to the plan,
the master schemer thinks, as he looks down,
the August sun caught in his raven hair,
dark sinister eyes through a crossbow-slit.
The Protestants ride and race up the slope
to take the Old Holdfast by sudden storm.
Yet who can challenge the Leviathan
without surrendering to him unscathed?
His heart is hard, as hard as granite rocks.
GUSTAVUS (singing): Do not despair, my little band,
though enemies throughout the land
are seeking to destroy you!
Though o'er our fall they laugh secure,
their triumph shall not long endure,
so keep on brave and coy, you!
(Spoken.) Let us sing, ere we rush into the fray!
That redoubtable holdfast is to fall!
However, Wallenstein makes a sortie.
GUSTAVUS (at the head of his armies): Forwards! Gott mit uns! Never, e'er, despair!
Redoubtable is the Friedlander's keep,
yet this storm will at least sure strike a breach,
and a white cloth will flutter from those walls!
PAPPENHEIM (fiery, bereft of self-control, at the head of the Catholic cavalry on the left wing): Stay back, my lord, and leave the Swedes to me!!
I lost, at Breitenfeld and at the Lech,
the chance to challenge him to single fight...
Follow my banner, dashing rider men;
for the first time, they'll be taking to flight!
Jesus and Mary!!
To the Swedes, an important fact's revealed:
that Wallenstein's completely unlike Tilly.
The Duke of Friedland is a younger lord,
more open-minded and far more prepared,
with weapons and tactics just like the Swedes'.
Soon, many enemies litter the slope,
but so do many Protestants as well.
Only one quarter of the cavalry
of Sweden have survived: the casualties
of foot, cannon, and the enemy ranks
befit, as well, such a catastrophe.
The great General Lennart Torstenssson
has been taken a prisoner of war, 
and so have many young officers too.
WALLENSTEIN (inside the keep): Even though his host dwindles in the fray,
sunstruck, poisoned, by cold steel or hot lead,
the golden-haired one will ere break than bend!
Like a bold young lieutenant, Sweden's king
ranks his life as a trifle, risking it...
Voilà! This ruined holdfast we'll soon leave,
and head up north, for wealthy Saxony!
The Leipzig lands will fall once more to us,
and th'enemy will be in our pursuit!
Then, we will set a trap and lure him in...
Remember what the Kaiser used to say?
"That host of snowmen, ere they reach our lands,
will thaw to liquid in the August sun!"
I could not have said better words myself.
Yet their ruler and leader's still alive,
his own hot blood counters the summer heat;
he'll fall into our snare in Saxony
ere snowfall: for 'twas written in the stars!
The bleak November, Scorpio's clouded skies,
will bring, as it was foretold, his demise...
GUSTAVUS (at the head of his armies): Forwards! Forwards! Gott mit uns! But what now?
The keep is empty, lonely, and ablaze;
and all our pris'ners that the foe has made
storm down the hill at twilight back to us!
Yet Lennart Torstensson is not among
their ranks! Is he...? Has Friedland's Duke him left
locked in this dragon carcass, wreathed in flames?
A YOUNG OFFICER (once taken prisoner, now set free): Your Majesty! There's not even a single sellsword in here!
GUSTAVUS: And why?
THE YOUNG OFFICER: Wallenstein has had all of us set free, except our general, and then had the keep set on fire and left it with all of his army and entourage! They're carrying Torstensson towards Bavaria, to Ingolstadt, where Tilly died. But Wallenstein's host is heading up north, for Saxony. To win the weak-willed Elector over to his side, which is by no means a Herculean task. Especially after such a dire catastrophe has crushed our forces...
GUSTAVUS: That craven! And thus came our first defeat!
Through traitor's means, through poison and deceit!
Few of us live and stay true, to retreat!
Forwards, good folk! The Duke of Friedland will
regret it all ere winter comes again!
Our allies waver, we have lost good men,
yet hope's the last the foe shall wrest from us!

SCENE IX. THE REVIEW
Now summer ends, and autumn thus begins.
The air grows colder, flowers wither, mist
shrouds the lands in the evening and the morn.
The winter's coming fast, ready to kill.
Leaving a trail of dead, by wounds and ill, 
stopping to bury them each day at dusk,
their desperate strength failing day by day,
the Swedes follow the wake of Wallenstein
into Thuringia, then to Saxony.
It's late October. It's All Hallow's Eve,
the date when spirits rise to mortal realms.
'Twixt Erfurt and Lützen, the Swedish host
is holding a review: the King and Queen
are obviously there. Through the leaden clouds
steal a few pallid rays of autumn sun,
yet something painful's clear to Eleanor...
ELEANOR (unquiet): Gustavus, dear... What are you thinking of?
GUSTAVUS: Leipzig and Halle have already fallen...
ELEANOR (crying): Once more, the storm of war tears us apart...
GUSTAVUS (drying up her tears, soothing her): But... Have I ever failed to return
to rest into your warm and loving arms?
ELEANOR (crying, sobbing, drying up her own tears): Without you... Dear Gustavus, think of us!
Think of our little child, la petite Christine,
our only daughter!
GUSTAVUS (soothing her): I have just received
a letter from her! She writes for each time,
as I have read, much better than before! (He takes up the letter and reads aloud): "My most gracious, beloved lord father..."
Yes, 'tis really my girl, my only child!
My little Stina wishing me good luck!
ELEANOR (unquiet): You will surely need it upon the field!
GUSTAVUS (soothing her, as he dries up a single tear): She wishes for a present! We should buy
her one or two in Leipzig, once we've won!
Her birthday's just ere Christmas; she, like me,
was born under the worthy Centaur's sign...
ELEANOR (unquiet): Will you get through it?
GUSTAVUS (soothing her): Darling, Eleanor,
you'd like a gift, too?
ELEANOR (bursting into tears): I would like you alive!!!
GUSTAVUS (drying up her tears, soothing her): Your eyes, your face... Beloved Eleanor...
never have I seen you in such a mood!
ELEANOR (bursting into tears): Why!? I had the most dreadful dream last night!
GUSTAVUS (soothing her): And what fell scenes have you dreamt of, my love?
ELEANOR (shedding tears, drying them up on Gustavus's doublet collar): There was a battle fought one autumn day.
You faced Wallenstein upon the field.
But he had evil spirits on his side!
Then, fog and gunsmoke shrouded everything,
until, at twilight o'er the silent lea,
the haze parted, and I, alone, sought you
among the countless slain, hoping you'd be
at least wounded, but still alive... (Shedding tears, drying them up on Gustavus's collar, now clasping his waist.) But you...
GUSTAVUS (soothing her): Had I fallen upon the battlefield?
ELEANOR (shedding tears, drying them up on her handkerchief, still clasping her husband's waist): My dear Gustavus! Give me one last kiss
ere the battle is fought!
GUSTAVUS (soothing her, shedding tears and quickly drying them up on his collar): Yes, one last kiss! (He passionately kisses Eleanor's lips, as she kisses his equally passionately.)
One another they give a fiery kiss,
as the sun sets for Sweden's royal pair,
ere one of them, upon the battlefield,
sees his short life of love and war recede,
having lived three decades and seven years
that he's quaffed heartily, at deepest draughts:
ere Gustavus Adolphus, slain, expires.
'Tis true, the dream he had at Breitenfeld
foretold what was to come, but disbelief
sets in with this one, the worst sight of all.
At twilight, in the autumn evening mist,
fair Eleanor dries up her crystal tears.
She feels, she knows, she has to let him go:
Her spouse must fight, for a warrior he is;
in her heart, she'll always keep his last kiss!

SCENE X - LÜTZEN
On Lützen's fields lies thick and heavy fog,
as if it had grown on the heathland bloom.
The morn is cold and clammy, eerie, dark,
on the sixth of November, when two hosts
led by renowned leaders will soon clash.
On the Swedish side of the battlefield,
upon his fiery nutbrown stallion Streiff,
the Golden King rides past his waiting ranks,
with cheerful twinkles in his sky-blue eyes,
encouraging the officers to lead,
encouraging the rank and file to fight,
lively, fiery, in his manly baritone,
soon joined by the whole Swedish Army-Choir,
when, 'gainst impatience and anxiety,
they sing "Do not despair, my little band!"
Still young, though renowned and inured to war,
of gathering more laurels he is sure.
GUSTAVUS, THEN THE WHOLE SWEDISH ARMY (singing in chorus): Do not despair, my little band,
though enemies throughout the land
are seeking to destroy you!
Though o'er our fall they laugh secure,
their triumph shall not long endure,
so keep on brave and coy, you!
Next to Lützen, across the battlefield,
in a sedan chair twelve officers bear,
with scarlet curtains, on a scarlet throne
of cushions, dark and brooding Wallenstein,
the quiet leader with a heart so cold
that one can't say of stone, or steel, or ice,
casts piercing glares, as he reviews his host,
with an ironic sneer upon pale lips.
Though he's not even breathed a word or two,
his fixed expression fills them all with dread,
from the proud colonels to the rank and file:
his reputation is their guiding star,
his iron will binds all their hearts to his,
for Friedland, they will bleed and they will die.
They're all foot men, and gunners on the hills:
where's Count Pappenheim, where's the cavalry?
The Duke of Friedland wrote, after he woke,
a letter to the Count of Pappenheim.
"To Lützen! Make haste! As soon as you can!"
In Halle, by the Saale, garrisoned,
Count Gottfried has this letter quickly skimmed,
and now he rides to Lützen at full speed,
spearheading his galloping cavalry.
Now the fog lifts, the veils of cold mist, gilt
by the pale autumn sunlight, slowly part
like a curtain before a tragedy,
one filled with bloodshed, passion, love, and death.
GUSTAVUS (at the head of his right wing): Forwards! Forwards! Gott mit uns! Ne'er despair!
They're faltering in the centre and right,
their hopes waver, ready to take to flight:
I'll save my ranks, there, in the thickest fight!
The Imperialists strike, thus falter the Swedes.
Their liege lord, seeing his men put to rout,
rides, fast as lightning, forwards to their aid.
Yet the fog, mixed with gunsmoke, now returns.
Gustavus leaves his detachment behind,
for Streiff is faster than their Swedish steeds,
and soon he's lost within enemy lines.
A shot has struck his left arm, and he bleeds
(the bullet pierced the humerus, went through),
taking the reins now only in his right hand,
while the left, in a bloodstained glove, hangs limp.
A CROATIAN OFFICER, WHO RIDES BEHIND THE KING: Such a tall and well-dressed rider is he!
Surely some great leader he must thus be! (To Gustavus.) Long time have I sought you! (He shoots the King of Sweden in the upper back.)
The lethal leaden bullet with his name
and the three crowns of Sweden written on
has, after searing doublet, shirt, and skin,
struck, pierced, and shattered his right shoulder-blade,
then plunged into the lung tissue beneath,
taking ashes, gunpowder, bone shards in,
tearing fragile, delicate veins apart,
into that soft and fluffy shrine of life,
that hall of countless pathways firmly tied,
once rose-red, slightly stained by breathing in
the haze and gunsmoke of the battlefields,
that source of speeches, words of love, brave songs,
his "Gott mit uns!" and his "Do not despair,"
but also of love expressed for wife and child,
and for advisors, friends, motherland, creed, 
and Freedom of Worship, that noble cause
for which his life now begins to recede.
Thus, filled with stranger poisons and with blood,
those thin and fragile pipes begin to swell,
cannot the good receive, nor th'bad expel.
As his teary azure eyes quickly shut,
a scarlet foam trickles through parted lips,
contrasting with his face, now strangely pale,
as his cavalier hat falls to the ground,
uncovering his short and golden hair...
the cold right hand drops the steed's leather reins,
and, plunging into darkness, falls off Streiff
the unconscious frame. His noble chest
is racked with pain that sears his throbbing heart
and stabs his sides for every time he breathes,
making it harder. And he drowns in blood,
that fills his lungs with every breath he takes.
Now his beloved spouse, Queen Eleanor,
before the wounded Vasa appears in dreams,
awaiting, once more, his kiss and embrace,
like in Poland, when wounded where his throat
joined his chest, he lay fighting for life:
she, with the surgeon, stayed by his bedside,
and clasped her spouse once he had won at last.
Now the vision of Eleanor is gone:
he sees Christina, his daughter and heir,
in his arms, pulling his golden moustache,
with those Vasa twinkles and lovely smile...
And Gustavus holds her, she claps her hands
as the cannons of Lützen roar around,
like she cheerfully did at Kalmar Slott.
"A warrior's daughter! She wants an encore!"
he told the gunners, and they fired once more.
GUSTAVUS (in a faint voice, with blood on his lips): Once... I was... the King of... Sweden... (Coughs up blood.) Elea...nor... Chris...tina... (Coughs up blood.)
As consciousness and reason leave his frame,
these visions soothe his mood and ease his pain.
Yet those around the unconscious King of Swedes
are not his loved ones, but the ruthless foe,
who now close in and recognize his face.
That golden hair, that high brow, that moustache,
and that sharp goatee... Yes, 'twas someone great,
and the lethal lead, true, pierced noble parts.
The Croats call him by the worst insults
their Slavic speech has got, though he can't hear,
as they plunge both their hot lead and cold steel
into his noble chest: once, twice, then thrice,
gunshots and stabbing blades enter his lungs,
leaving them in a worse state than before,
now making it impossible to breathe:
completely tearing that life-seat apart,
and thus, erratic throbs his failing heart,
the broken throne of a bright soul indeed.
Then, the Croatian sellswords soon proceed, 
like eager children who snatch Christmas gifts,
to rifle the unconscious King of Swedes:
his rapier and twin pistols are soon theirs,
his doublet, breeches, riding-boots, and spurs
-those silver spurs-, his golden pocket-watch,
the lace-lined collar and the lace-lined gloves,
beneath the left one, the bright wedding ring,
a modest golden band with rubies set
in which the officer, squinting, reads a name
fit for a blueblood: "Mary Eleanor."
The young lieutenant claims it for his bride,
his colonel's daughter, namesake of the Queen's,
and for himself he claims the golden chain
on the Vasa's riddled, suffering chest:
the chain with which once a child princess played,
curiously peering through the shiny links.
And now it graces a young subaltern!
To Gustavus Adolphus, in that state,
deeply unconscious, seized with searing pain,
trifles are weapons, clothes, and jewellery,
which his slayers now share as spoils of war.
The doublet will to the Kaiser be sent,
and a Habsburg heirloom it will become,
while the weapons will grace Wallenstein's hall,
displayed on Schloss Friedland's war-trophy wall.
The King's left in his blood-stained linen shirt,
riddled with stab tears and with bullet holes.
Extreme exhaustion plunges reason's light
into most painful weakness, darkest depths;
our spirits are bound to the throbbing blood,
whereof a lot, gushed out in a sore wound,
tears out, in surging stream, not only strength
and sense, but even reason, wit, and life.
Thus, trifles to him, too, are health and strength,
and hope, and love, and power, and his youth
-he's thirty-seven-; all drifting away.
In the struggle within for life and death,
the victor is now already announced,
with those four gunshots and those two stab wounds,
but a flitting spark of life still resists;
the living seat of blood to throb insists...
THE CROATIAN OFFICER: Now he's suffered enough! I must give him
the final mercy blow, the coup de grâce! (He takes his pistol and shoots Gustavus in the nape of the neck.)
A slower, painful death would be far worse.
Thus, Gustavus is shot for mercy's sake,
by the enemy leader's sympathy.
A trigger pulled at the nape of his neck,
another bullet with his name and crest
written on, and he finally is still.
The last thing in his life: the final shot
exploding in his head, that fills with light,
his flitting spark of life finally quenched
after struggling in vain and in despair,
with silent heart, not breathing anymore.
Yet the lieutenant, not convinced at all,
draws his own rapier of fine Spanish steel
and plunges it into the Vasa's back,
between his shoulder blades, cutting his spine,
then piercing his still heart, before it's drawn.
Still on the fields gun after gun is fired,
as Streiff, the nutbrown stallion, gallops forth
with bloodstained saddle and no pistols on
within the holsters. Through the bluish fog,
laced with gunsmoke, and through the storm of war,
like wildfire spread the words: "Gustavus slain!"
from the generals to the rank and file.
Everyone knows it on the battlefield,
both the Swedes and the hosts of Friedland's Duke.
Yet is Gustavus a keystone removed?
Will they waver upon their leader's fall,
like their enemies did at Breitenfeld?
The officers of Sweden, filled with dread,
at first wish in despair to take to flight,
then turn to courage, fired up by revenge,
taking fresh heart, to fight desperate on,
yet the fog blurs the line 'twixt friend and foe,
and every warrior's but a silhouette.
Thus, Lützen's fray becomes a great mêlée,
where everyone wounds and slays everyone,
striking with hot lead and cold steel alike:
Imperialists kill Swedes, who kill their own
as well as Friedlanders, who decimate
their own hosts. All is chaos, all is storm,
with lightning, thunderbolts, and dreary clouds,
and screams of wounded, in pain, in despair,
as only one observes it from afar:
Wallenstein, in his canopy sedan,
from a hill north of the vast battlefield,
with the village of Lützen burning near
and towards Leipzig fleeing refugees,
by the Schloss where his daughter and his spouse
spend the day, entertained with needlework,
embroidering their flowers, making lace.
The great lord's scared of gunshots: irony,
but irrational, primal fear of his:
that's why there are no church-bells near his keep,
why his officers wrap their spurs in lace
or satin ribbons off the battlefield,
to spare his panic, followed by his rage,
then, by the dreaded execution stand!
Once impatient, he's seen a distant cloud
in the western horizon: Pappenheim?
If 'tis he, will he reach the front in time?
Parting the scarlet curtains, Albrecht sees
how the cloud he has i' th' horizon seen
turns to hoof-beating, rushing cavalry,
which he watches, a spyglass to his eyes,
rushing forth right into the storm of blood:
the Pappenheimers have arrived at last!
And Count Gottfried, storming into the fray,
stark unaware of the Vasa's harsh fate,
yearns to defy Gustavus to a duel.
A foretelling within House Pappenheim
told of a count scarred with the household's crest,
a marshal's two crossed swords, upon his brow,
who would, upon a stormy battlefield,
challenge and fight a great king from the North,
whom he would then in single combat slay.
Ever since he received such a scar,
Gottfried of Pappenheim strongly believes
that he's the one within the prophecy.
Thus had he, at the Lech and Breitenfeld,
stormed forth, yet lost his chances to defeat.
And thus, as those crossed scars now swell once more,
as they do with impatience or with rage,
now he seeks the fair Vasa to defy.
They're kindred spirits: both are thirtyish,
as tall and strong as any good young men,
happily married, with an only child,
left-handed, quick to act in rage and joy,
with equally hot blood within their veins,
they share the same initial, love strong drink,
bold warriors, impatient, passionate,
always wearing their hearts upon their sleeves,
and risking life and limb upon the field.
One's hair was golden, th'other's was dark brown;
one led his left wing, th'other led his right.
They could as well have been the best of friends,
if war had not brought them untimely ends
and locked them into bitter rivalry.
PAPPENHEIM (fiery, determined): Where's the bold King of Sweden? I wish that
he had soon stepped up to my challenge to
single combat! I've never liked to wait!
The right wing is the one Gustavus leads
always, as I have seen at Breitenfeld
and by this springtime's surging Phlegethon,
yet, in this chaos of gunsmoke and fog
that I now breathe, I can't tell left from right...
'Tis a command at gunpoint from our ranks:
Summon the King of Sweden to this site!
SWEDISH CAVALRY CAPTAIN (drawing his pistol): Your rival lies upon this battlefield,
wounded by either friend or enemy,
unconscious, his eyes shut, face strangely pale,
but he will ne'er awake: Gustavus, blessed,
lies on this lea, eternal is his rest!
PAPPENHEIM (shocked, in despair): Thus, nought at all is left to do for me!
The Count's left nipple, where's supposed the heart,
is pierced by the Swede's blazing, fatal lead.
Reeling, Gottfried falls backwards on the heath.
That gunshot knew right where it had to strike;
plunging between the fifth and sixth left ribs,
through that light wing that, stirring, kindles life...
yet, ere the shot reaches the throbbing heart,
the throne of such a spirit, bold and true,
it stops within the lung, though not in vain:
a vessel's severed, and he's racked with pain
as he falls into his followers' arms,
his lungs filling with blood each time he breathes.
The Pappenheimers, burning with revenge,
as some of them carry their fiery lord
to the surgeon's beds within their own camp,
fire at the Swedish officer as well,
riddling his chest and midriff with hot lead,
which causes him to reel, pale, bleeding, dead.
PAPPENHEIM (half-conscious, in a faint voice, with blood on his lips): Eli...sabeth... (He reaches out his left hand to his aide-de-camp ere he shuts his eyes.) Give it... (Coughs up blood) ...to my... Eli...sabeth...
He falls unconscious, lungs filling with blood,
as his aide takes the left glove off and takes 
from that ring-finger the Count's wedding ring, 
a rarity with gilt flowers inlaid, 
which he then swallows hard, with a loud gulp, 
then kisses Gottfried's pale and cold left hand 
as he is to the surgeon brought away.
Elisabeth will soon receive the ring,
by this officer hastily thrown up,
at Schloss Lützen: lady-in-waiting she is
to the Duchess of Friedland. And she will
wash the wedding ring clean with searing tears,
constantly holding her lace handkerchief,
and wake by Gottfried's bedside day and night,
as he quietly drowns in his own blood
and fights his last fray, swallowing the pain
with snowball-cooled ale flagons to his lips
and deep draughts drunk to quench his burning thirst:
wishing for her spouse to return to life
and their boy Wolfgang to regain his sire...
Alas! Next week, within learn'd Leipzig's walls,
the bold Count Gottfried will at last expire,
earning at last for searing pain relief,
but leaving widowed spouse and heir in grief.
A blazing gunshot entered his left lung,
though from the front instead of from the back;
even in death his life ran parallel 
to that of the fair war-hero he sought;
the afterlife reconciliates and
unites those confronted in war, and thus,
having on Lethe's banks drunk peace again,
Gustavus and Gottfried are friends at last
now in the colourful Elysian glen.
But let's return to Lützen's stormy fields:
now twilight descends on the weary lea,
a thin thread of the sun's true golden light
and Venus shining in the skies above,
a lonely beacon in the moonless eve,
flocks of large crows crossing the evening skies
towards the feast of which their shares will be
the few private soldiers not earthed tonight,
as the November mist rises again.
On Lützen's fields will soon lie heavy fog,
as if it had grown on the heathland bloom.
Most of the warlords have fallen this day:
Gustavus, whom his general friends seek,
Pappenheim, struggling by the surgeon's lamp,
and young Berthold von Wallenstein, the Duke's
only son: now his daughter is his heir,
and for her brother she sheds crystal tears.
So does their mother, Duchess Isabelle:
losing a child of hers leaves her no rest.
Not to count th'officers and ranker men,
whom the survivors earth in every trench
and pray for: the privates piled in mass graves,
of every nation and background, as one,
the officers, each one in his own grave,
marked by a rough and modest wooden cross.
Still by rushlight, at twilight, Sweden's lords
their liege across the fog and darkness seek,
their ankles often seized by forms that reek
yet still are fully conscious and alive,
asking them for a drink to quench their thirst
and always offered a friendly canteen,
then to the Swedish surgeons ta'en in haste,
both their own wounded and the enemy's,
for Wallenstein, crushed at last by defeat,
left his common-born wounded i' th' retreat.
How close, how tight they one another clasp:
the pikeman from the Crown of Aragón,
decades-scarred, a lieutenant pale and fair;
the tercio's ensign, wrapped within his flag,
a sturdy Finnish farmhand; Prussian or
Saxon freelancer presses to his chest
the dead or dying Croat, and so forth.
Would you behold a faithful, true embrace?
Star-crossed young lovers, kissing among smiles,
seek not: head for a twilit battlefield,
and look at how the slaughtered enemies
lie, pressing one another heart to heart,
as they have done in their last dying throes,
not reconciled until it's far too late,
in final, eerie strange tranquillity.
Like springtime, joy and love and hope soon fade:
hatred, sorrow, anxiety and dread
endure for decades, e'en among the dead.
Ah, if they would awake, would they, revived,
reach for each other in peace or in rage?
Such scenes stir the worn seekers to the core.
When comes the end to this cruel storm of war?
The rushlights flicker as one of them finds,
in a heap of Swedish and Balkan slain,
lying flat on his face on bloody mud,
the lifeless form of the bold Golden King,
left as wretched as any officer
who has been rifled on the battlefield.
The only garment he bears is his shirt,
drenched through with mud and blood, stained, worn, and torn.
His noble parts, the sides, and chest, and back,
are riddled with cold steel and with hot lead,
shot and stabbed fiercely with many red wounds:
four stab wounds, the fourth one right in the back,
next to a deep and crimson bullet hole,
one of three: other two have pierced his chest,
which not even a Vasa can survive.
Never was there a more beautiful death,
never a blood-rose was a brighter shade
than those dyed in such warm and generous
crimson liquid life, springing on the pierced
chest of the one who dies for noble cause!
Once that hot blood had churned, and throbbed, and raised
such passions that the world order was turned
on its head: now still is that keep of ice!
As they carry their liege to Weissenfels,
one of them notices a gunshot wound
through the left arm, which that shot even broke.
And, when they reach that village late at night,
ere the surgeons embalm the Hero King,
they'll find his golden hair with crimson stains
and the hole on the nape of his fair neck,
dyed with the blood that left with his great life,
before they wash him, take his vitals out,
and fill him with preserving herbs and creams,
and broken-hearted Mary Eleanor
is forever bereft of happiness.
More stars dot the night sky. The air turns cold
in the November night, now veiled in fog,
a clammy fog in spite of their rushlights, 
as cold as the strangely pale, buried slain,
but coldest are the hearts of Jan Banér
and the other survivors. And why not
since they've been shattered by the rage of war?
The Protestants have won on Lützen's plain,
yet paid a high price: lives of countless slain,
more than their liege lord, though 'tis not in vain.
Cold are their hearts, no longer heeding pain:
the fate of those who live through Warfare's reign.

SCENE XI. THE CHAPEL OF WEISSENFELS
'Twixt Leipzig and the Lützen ruins, there's
a castle-village, now all draped in black
from the keep's windows to the Lutheran church.
A quaint spot's Weissenfels, though mourning crêpe
and dreary, bleak November make it dire.
Within the chapel of Schloss Weissenfels,
in mourning black draped, lies, within a case
ornate with battle scenes from his lifetime,
a righteous warrior, slain in victory:
a good-looking man, still young, thirtyish,
his golden hair short, crowned with laurel wreath,
his visage strangely pale, azure eyes shut,
a rapier hilt held in his rigid hands,
all dressed in armour plates, save for his head.
And both his friends and strangers gather there
to shed tears for the fallen, for the slain,
all dressed in black and heads bent in respect.
A beautiful young lady now storms in,
her golden hair bright as the candle-light
beneath a pitch black veil lined with black lace
fine as ice crystals. Her gown of fine silk,
midnight-coloured, without embroideries,
rustles, like her petticoats, in her wake.
From blood-shot azure eyes she dries up tears
into her pitch black, lace-lined handkerchief.
Hers is the likeness of a shattered heart,
that, lonely, has seen dearest hopes depart.
She is the Prussian-born and Prussian-bred
Queen Dowager of Sweden, Eleanor,
who, brokenhearted, will feel nothing more.
ELEANOR (desperate, crying, sobbing, her face buried in her hands): Oh, Gustavus... my beloved, my light!
Without you, I am lost, I can't exist!
Alone and helpless, nothing I'll resist! (She bends over the form of her spouse and kisses his cold lips).
Ere you went forth, we one another kissed! (She buries her face in her hands, sobbing).
RANKERS (mournful): Such a ruler and such a leader e'er
there never was and there will never be!
OFFICERS, GENERALS (mournful): Such a war hero and such a dear friend
there never was and there will never be!
ELEANOR (desperate, crying, sobbing, her face buried in her hands): Oh...! Such a spouse... such a father... and such
a lover... there ne'er was... and ne'er will be!
Oh, Gustavus! My beloved... my light...
Without you, I am lost, I can't exist!
Alone and helpless, nothing I'll resist! (She reels and collapses, her face buried in her hands, by her husband lying in state.)


CLOSURE

And what occurred after this tragedy?
You'd like to know it, and the end to see?
Leipzig's regained, so is all Saxony,
by the Swedes, after Lützen's victory.
Yet the King and Queen wend their way up north,
to their lands, he in state, she in despair.
The court of Sweden, at Nyköpingshus,
is draped in black when they return in spring,
and pain and sorrow rule there, bleak and sore,
for shattered within is Queen Eleanor!
She has Christina spirited away
from her aunt and the way she should be reared,
away from Stegeborg, to keep her child,
her only daughter, the likeness and heir
of the late Great Gustavus, by her side.
Within these empty, dire, tiresome halls,
forced to shed tears and sob against her will,
forbidden to play, to whisper, to speak,
yet somehow at least allowed to read books
(a pastime that her passion will become),
Princess Christina grows, a thoughtful child,
aloof and curious, defiant at heart,
until the Regency tears them apart:
parted from her young daughter, the "insane"
Eleanor's captive at Nyköpingshus,
then, after losing once more her life's light,
she flees to Denmark in the dark of night.
Christina, for 'tis best for her, returns
to friends and family at Stegeborg.
The late king had made his daughter his heir,
and thus, the Regents finally resume
to rear her like a crown prince, have her trained
in statescraft, history, classical lore,
art and philosophy, Latin and French,
which she speaks as easily as you please,
military tactics, fencing, shooting guns,
riding (her body as fit as her mind)...
instead of needlework and other chores
usually taught to maidens of blue blood.
Christina soon is called, in foreign lands, 
a princess of unusual cleverness.
When crowned queen, in her eighteenth year, she'll rule
as well as any crowned male could have:
the hope and legacy of great renown!
And Wallenstein? He can't be put to rout,
as Sweden's Banér loses, in strong drink,
his reason, to drown his sorrows away.
After Lützen, as scapegoat for defeat,
a baker's dozen officers were hanged,
yet that fray proved for him the turning point
that opened his great streak of victories.
Now, life's more ostentatious than before
for the ducals of Friedland, and the throne
is soon, in Albrecht's dreams, within his reach.
A bridegroom for his daughter seeks the Duke 
of Friedland, to become his heir and hope,
preferently a Habsburg fiancé.
Among black-clad Victorian gentlemen,
realistic, striving entrepreneurs
who view the world with reason and to gain,
he'd be no stranger: centuries ahead
he saw the light and breathed his very last.
That thirst for power we have spoken of
has burned for decades, e'er parching his throat,
since young Albrecht, trilustral orphan, was
expelled from Altdorf University.
Ever since, he's been never satisfied,
his spirit e'er for higher station vied,
that unquenchable thirst leading to rise
higher and higher: e'en to chart the skies,
feeling upon himself everyone's eyes,
pile Pelion upon Ossa, drink each stream
that waters the Realm dry: ever a dream
has always spurred him on from discontent,
and wings to reach dizzying heights him lent;
his reach feels e'er too narrow, ne'er he'll lose...
Yet the Kaiser discovers soon the ruse
of the Bohemian upstart to usurp
the highest rank within the Occident.
And, as Schloss Friedland's claimed and occupied
by the Habsburgs, Albrecht von Wallenstein,
in exile, is in his bedchamber slain,
one February night, in Eger's keep,
by turncoats true to Kaiser Ferdinand.
Slain by his own, thus died a traitor's death
the Duke of Friedland: silent as before,
his lips sealed as they'd always been in life,
reaching his arms towards the starry sky,
a partizan blade in his cold, hard heart,
piercing the sturdy breastbone, to sink in
where that e'er-reaching spirit had its throne,
now quenched, dark, icy, empty, and alone
as that seat of life-blood is the cold steel
plunged in his chest: though not stabbed in the back
literally, he had been in the true sense:
a traitor slain by traitors to his cause.
His widowed lady and fatherless child,
Isabella and Thekla, soon receive
the Kaiser's pardon and their own estate,
and Thekla will the Lord of Kaunitz wed,
a clever young noble from Austerlitz,
regaining her place at the Austrian court.
Her grandson Wenzel, named for Friedland's Duke
(Albrecht Eusebius Wenzel's the full name),
whom she'll raise until her aged heart is still,
will also live in the realm's history:
Maria Theresa's chancellor he'll be,
a wise and skilled advisor of renown,
who'll bring to Austria the Enlightenment.
From one fatherless princess, we now give
the lifetime of another one up north.
In Sweden, Christina is later crowned,
now come of age, throughout the lands renowned,
a princess of unusual cleverness
crowned queen, showered with praise and flattery,
with candied lies, but with sincere truths too.
She still studies art and philosophy,
and tactics, and she owns so many books,
and speaks Latin as easily as you please,
like a dozen or more strange languages.
Her golden hair is bright as candle-light
and her blue eyes shine with her rapier wit,
yet she usually declines wearing gowns,
make-up and hairstyles, corsets, petticoats:
a ribbon in her ponytail to tie,
riding-boots, riding-breeches, broad-brimmed hat,
and a buff doublet comprise her real attire.
And she will die a maiden, without spouse,
since she would never like her mother grieve
when her loved one should her one day leave.
After ruling for nearly a complete year
just as well as any prince could have done,
she turns to her advisors, those five men,
now seventyish, silver-haired, their backs bent,
the Regents of her childhood, clears her throat,
and solemnly speaks the following words:
CHRISTINA: Why should there not be peace?
JOHANN VON WITTELSBACH, KLAS FLEMING (unison): Why not indeed?
...say two of them, those born in foreign lands.
The other three, the Swedes, sternly reply
that the kingdom should prosper with the war,
seeing that it is fought on foreign shore.
And thus, Christina, fiery, replies,
full of Vasa élan, passionately,
when she has just assembled her whole court
in the French gardens of Nyköpingshus,
of her intentions telling everyone:
CHRISTINA (passionate, to the reluctant Regents): You say the realm would prosper, but you mean
that your own wealth is what you have in mind!
So many children orphaned, maidens raped,
communities and landscapes overrun...
and, at the end of the day, how should we pay
our students, artisans, and farmer lads,
young men called by the Crown against their will
to take enemy lives with pike and shot!
Thus she her court of her intentions tells,
and so, she has determined to seek peace,
to much rejoicing and acclaim at court,
for those advisors who declined have just,
due to old age, left for the provinces,
to spend without statescraft their twilight years.
The wish for peace is, thus, now set in stone.
And, four years later, the treaties are signed
by Swedes and Austrians in Osnabrück,
thanks to Christina and to Leopold,
the Kaiser's son, the Archduke, who's just had
in Vienna's Hofburg the same idea,
as the last shot is fired... right, anywhere
in Western lands, for where we do not care.
Three decades of war that have overrun
the heart of Europe have come to an end.
And soon, the Swedish palace sees once more
a lady, now within her autumn years,
embrace her adult daughter, now her Queen.
At last, Eleanor's tears are those of joy,
and hope returns within her healing heart,
as Christina sheds joyful tears as well.
For, once peace in Westphalia had been signed,
she'd sought the traces of lost Eleanor,
down to the Prussian fortress of Küstrin,
where she had lived as the commandant's ward,
and invited her back to Sweden's court.
When Christina grew up, as half a child,
she realized why her mother reached out
and screamed, as the Chancellor parted them.
That Eleanor was not the least insane,
as Christina had thought of her herself,
but... one who loved not wisely but too well,
and, being wrought, perplexed in the extreme.
"When I am queen, I'll have her by my side,
and we'll discuss everything in our lives!"
Thus thought Christina, thus she did decide,
headstrong as a true Vasa. From now on,
Eleanor and her daughter win lost time
by watching plays, reading books, art, song, dance...
Love 'twixt a mother and her female child
is far stronger than steel, warmer than flames,
and more enduring than the universe.
Yet soon Christina'll feel the heavy crown,
the throne uneasy, the powerful urge
of crossing lands as an adventurer,
the true freedom unknown to royalty...
Naming her best childhood friend Charles her heir
(he lost her heart and hand, yet won her crown),
she'll part from Eleanor, both in warm tears,
embracing her and telling her that she 
will lose her, but win Charles as son and heir
(which Eleanor will find hard to accept),
then gallop forth towards the southern lands,
until, staying with Leopold in Spa,
in the Low Countries, yes, with th'Austrian heir
(and Tilly's heir and great-nephew Ernest),
given a province of his own to rule
as practice for when he shall rule the realm...
a Habsburg and a Vasa turning friends
in such a lovely backdrop... Suddenly
she'll know her mother, at Nyköpingshus,
has closed forever those lovely bright eyes,
and is now with her Gustavus at last,
their spirits strolling across Paradise,
their bodies in the same shrine, side by side:
he in his thirties, she, decrepit, aged,
no longer the fresh flower of her youth,
but at last by his side, and that's the truth.
So now, we leave the Swedish royalty:
the warrior and his lovely lady fair,
at last reunited, and that fore'er,
their clever daughter, in a foreign land,
brooding, restless and weary, on Spanish strand,
concealing tears, head buried in her hands.
And realms rising from the ruins of war
to hope and to the future as before.
After three decades, thirty endless years,
written in history with blood and tears,
we Westerners a precious lesson learned:
that, though we'd make the same mistake, returned,
over and over, always to remind
us when prejudice has turned us unkind:
to tolerate, though we may not pay heed
to them, others' thoughts, cultures, choice, and creed,
for that will make us brave and wise indeed.
It's been a pleasure to retell this tale
drawn from real life, with values that prevail,
and thus, wishing our best wishes to you,
readers, we tearfully bid you all adieu.



DOWN WITH THE CURTAIN!



THE END.

PS. Here are this year's Gustavus Adolphus cakes.