Wallenstein Volume One E-Book

Friedrich Schiller

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 600

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Wallenstein, Volume One marks the beginning of Friedrich Schiller's monumental dramatic trilogy about ambition, loyalty, and betrayal during the Thirty Years' War. Written between 1798 and 1799, the trilogy — comprising Wallenstein's Camp, The Piccolomini, and Wallenstein's Death — explores the rise and tragic downfall of the imperial general Albrecht von Wallenstein, a historical figure whose pursuit of power leads him into fatal conflict with the very empire he once served. Volume One, Wallenstein's Camp, serves as a vivid prologue to the main drama. Rather than focusing on the general himself, Schiller depicts the life and atmosphere within his army encampment. Through a mosaic of voices—soldiers, peasants, officers, and camp followers — the play captures the social and moral disarray of a Europe consumed by war. The rough humor, greed, and cynicism of the camp stand in stark contrast to the ideals of honor and loyalty that are soon to be tested in the main action. This first volume paints a broad tableau of war's corruption and the breakdown of unity within the imperial forces. Behind the seemingly chaotic scenes of military life, Schiller introduces the central theme that will dominate the later volumes: the tension between personal ambition and political duty. Wallenstein, though not yet on stage, is already present as a looming figure—admired, feared, and suspected. The camp's gossip and rumors reveal the complex web of alliances and betrayals surrounding him, setting the stage for the psychological and moral conflicts that will define the trilogy. Friedrich Schiller (1759–1805), one of Germany's greatest dramatists and philosophers, combined historical realism with profound ethical inquiry. Alongside Johann Wolfgang von Goethe , he shaped the ideals of Weimar Classicism. In Wallenstein, Schiller transforms a historical episode into a meditation on freedom, destiny, and the moral costs of political power. Volume One establishes this world with a sweeping sense of realism and prepares the reader for the tragic grandeur that unfolds in the later parts of the trilogy.

Leseprobe

Alfred Döblin

WALLENSTEIN

VOLUME ONE

Contents

INTRODUCTION

WALLENSTEIN

Book 1 – Maximilian of Bavaria

Book 2 – Bohemia

Book 3 – War

INTRODUCTION

Friedrich Schiller

1759-1805

Friedrich Schiller was a German poet, playwright, philosopher, and historian, regarded as one of the most important figures in German literature and a central representative of the Sturm und Drang (Storm and Stress) and Weimar Classicism movements. His works explore themes of freedom, morality, and the struggle between reason and emotion, combining artistic beauty with profound philosophical reflection.

Early Life and Education

Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller was born in Marbach am Neckar, in the Duchy of Württemberg. The son of an army officer, he was initially forced by Duke Karl Eugen to study medicine at a military academy, despite his strong interest in literature and philosophy. While serving as a regimental doctor, Schiller began writing secretly, channeling his frustrations into dramatic works that denounced tyranny and celebrated human dignity.

Literary Career and Major Works

Schiller gained fame with his first play, The Robbers (1781), a passionate and rebellious drama that became a defining work of the Sturm und Drang movement. The play’s themes of individual freedom and moral conflict made him a powerful voice for idealism and social justice.

After clashing with the authorities and fleeing Württemberg, Schiller settled in various German cities, eventually finding stability in Weimar, where he developed a close friendship with Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Together, they laid the foundation of Weimar Classicism, a movement that sought harmony between emotion and reason, art and ethics.

Among Schiller’s most celebrated works are Don Carlos (1787), Wallenstein (1799), Maria Stuart (1800), The Maid of Orleans (1801), and William Tell (1804). His plays combine historical grandeur with psychological and moral complexity, portraying the eternal struggle between human freedom and political or social constraints.

As a philosopher, Schiller explored aesthetics and ethics in essays such as On the Aesthetic Education of Man (1795), where he argued that beauty and art are essential for moral and political freedom. His famous Ode to Joy, later set to music by Ludwig van Beethoven in his Ninth Symphony, remains one of the most universal expressions of human fraternity and hope.

Death and Legacy

Friedrich Schiller died in Weimar on May 9, 1805, at the age of 45, after years of poor health.

He is remembered as one of Germany’s greatest literary figures, whose fusion of poetic power, philosophical depth, and moral vision left a lasting mark on European thought and art. Schiller’s works continue to inspire readers and audiences worldwide as timeless meditations on freedom, beauty, and the dignity of the human spirit.

About the work

Wallenstein, Volume One marks the beginning of Friedrich Schiller’s monumental dramatic trilogy about ambition, loyalty, and betrayal during the Thirty Years’ War. Written between 1798 and 1799, the trilogy — comprising Wallenstein’s Camp, The Piccolomini, and Wallenstein’s Death—explores the rise and tragic downfall of the imperial general Albrecht von Wallenstein, a historical figure whose pursuit of power leads him into fatal conflict with the very empire he once served.

Volume One, Wallenstein’s Camp, serves as a vivid prologue to the main drama. Rather than focusing on the general himself, Schiller depicts the life and atmosphere within his army encampment. Through a mosaic of voices—soldiers, peasants, officers, and camp followers — the play captures the social and moral disarray of a Europe consumed by war. The rough humor, greed, and cynicism of the camp stand in stark contrast to the ideals of honor and loyalty that are soon to be tested in the main action. This first volume paints a broad tableau of war’s corruption and the breakdown of unity within the imperial forces.

Behind the seemingly chaotic scenes of military life, Schiller introduces the central theme that will dominate the later volumes: the tension between personal ambition and political duty. Wallenstein, though not yet on stage, is already present as a looming figure—admired, feared, and suspected. The camp’s gossip and rumors reveal the complex web of alliances and betrayals surrounding him, setting the stage for the psychological and moral conflicts that will define the trilogy.

WALLENSTEIN

Book 1 – Maximilian of Bavaria

1. A Feast

When the bohemians were defeated* no one was better pleased than the Emperor. Never had his teeth worked away so nimbly at a pheasant, never had his little eyes in their wrinkled setting flashed so wolfishly from sideboard to plate, plate to sideboard. Had it been feasible between the ponderous droopheaded ox on his left – grey Prince of Carafa, Girolamo* – and the haughty guzzling slurping representative of his Holiness in torrid Rome – shimmering red his buttoned-up silk soutane, purple socks and shoes on the legs beneath the table, alongside the German Emperor’s fidgety snow-white feet – then Ferdinand would have greeted every one of the serving-lads order-takers carving-men hastening through the curtains, the august looming black-staffed Privy Purse, with a “Halloo” and a wave: “This way! Closer! No dawdling, my good fellows, haha. Here he is.” Chew, nibble, bite, tear, grind, crunch. The High Steward of the Kitchen moved over the yellow silk carpet, glanced with a sly smile through the poles of the baldachin at Ferdinand’s muscular lips: pirates boarding oncoming men o’ war, cheeks bulging left and right, seizing booty, emptying like sluices, abetted by the squeezing tongue.

A harp strummed softly, the German flute droned. Leap this way, that way, look lively, bring more jugs; the guzzler is no friend of pauses; must wash down what he’s swallowed. Ferdinand’s lips wanted wet, his throat wet, they’d earned it, threshed their corn.

In the Empire – what need to say it – in the Empire there was satisfaction. The Bohemians defeated, the saints Ludmilla and Wenzel* had withdrawn their hands from their deranged worshippers: now they sat in the dust, haha, along with Hus, all their fraternities, their forest witch Libuše,* the Elector Palatine Frederick. The Palatine – what need to say it – the Palatine now hauled his princely garb in a sack on a rope behind him, at his heels through winter mud, crying through the streets, unskilled balladeer in marketplaces, villages: “Will no one here provide a bite to eat? Ten children and no end in sight, will no one fill our stomachs? Wife the daughter of the English king, I once was king in Bohemia; that ‘once’ rings not well in poor Jack’s ears.” Who could say a word at such a time.

Let him toddle on, sweet bold forked creature, they’ll delouse him till his pelt is scoured hairless. Ah, but Malvasier. But Alicante. Ah, Bohemian wine from Podskali. And green Bisamberger, Traminer from Tyrol; and Bacharach and Braubach, moist tinkling pointy-shoed from the banks of Rhine. Apples on the pressed boar’s head: but Molsheimer and Andlauer to chase it down; Alsace, wonderful Alsace.

Who is bewitched by ginger, ginger in the haunch of venison, so that he cannot resist? Hens have been slaughtered, borne in on silver platters, lit by slim white candles. The adoring gaze of twenty tyrants and princes directed their way: rumps and little legs and necks wobble in almond milk, raisins for nibbling scattered around, stuffed into the candied beaks. Mouths pouting, lips salved with spittle, it flowed in streams, bucketed from every spring.

Here comes young wine from the Palatinate. Fire-spewing musket, splendid allegory for a wine-decanter: easy to find the hellhound who thinks to die here. Even the Elected Roman Emperor, say: a shot must come now, this minute, from the great musket resting on the shoulder of the head cup-bearer; the Emperor readies aims fires, straight into the gorge of the capering Fool, prancing laughing goblin in drab cap and bells, while His Majesty gives his white cuffs a shake, sinks back in his chair, calls for a napkin almost swooning in his fervour: “More!”

Trumpets, a half dozen, blared down from the choir, the balcony’s golden cage; the wardrum beat boom. The Emperor sat amid the music behind a wild boar roast in pepper, white hat with heron’s feather on his balding head, ears not hindered by his crunching teeth from following the tune. Sansoni, cornettist, performed his high-pitched duty; unseen falsettos castrati piped and trilled and warbled, played around the steady calm of the bass and the low voice answering, imploring.

To the left of the melancholy Spaniard Carafa is a narrow cheekless goat’s face, crab-red satin scarf above a bulky leather cape-collar, spidery reaching from tight green sleeves towards the millefiori glass: Karl of Liechtenstein, castellan-in-chief, governor in Prague, was speaking of Heidelberg and the fugitive Winter King, how the weather was still frosty, changeable, and all the roads a heavy going, especially for one in a hurry. An abbot chewed a leg off his capon, and as he crunched totted up the abandoned Palatine silver plate delivered to him in Bohemia by pious Walloons.* And even old Harrach* nibbling at his fieldfare, rocking benignly in his chair, gracious, bald-headed, held forth on trials and confiscations in the defeated land, they were good as dead now, Peter von Schwanberg, Ulrich Vchynský, Albrecht von Smiřický, fled away, would not dream of coming back.

Lusty trumpet blasts. All the nobles glanced up for a moment, those in Spanish ruffs, those in embroidered pointed collars from the Netherlands on bright fur-trimmed jackets, those in tight-laced doublets of Hungary-green, in frilly French waistcoats and purple capes, cardinals, abbots, generals and princes, and a shiver went through them as if what they heard was a clarion call to battle. At once the music and the mood relented. Every heated nerve experienced a delicious thrill as the ghostly armies of defeated gorgeous blond-curled Frederick marched through the hall, rode through the clink and roar of voices cups plates, down from the tapestries hanging from the choir on towards the two blazing chandeliers, thundered against curtains that flapped with the comings and goings of marshals and guards: splendidly dismembered Palatine corpses, headless torsos, sightless eyes, wagons, wagons laden with corpses, pulled by donkeys, enveloped in a fog of powder and stink, jammed into caskets like limbs from trees, teetering tottering hup! hup! through the air.

Oh how good they taste, the baked mussels little tarts and conserves of His Imperial Majesty. Shame and scandal if an earl prince archduke becomes Roman Emperor and his stomach fails to match his rise; throat can’t swallow more than it can hold; that goes for all of them: sly abbot of Krems-minster and Emperor alike, Prince Eggenberg, Liechtenstein and Emperor alike, High Steward of the Plate oratory server seneschal carver custodian of carpets doorkeeper of the kitchen and Emperor alike, Marquis Hyacinto di Malaspina, Ugolino di Maneggio, Thomas Bucella, Christoph Teuffel, organist Platzer and His supreme anointed Imperial Majesty of the Holy Roman Empire – all alike, all crunching in unison on their waffle.

Oh how the Tokay in its Venetian glass delighted the Emperor under his white plumed hat. How he smacked his thigh, buried himself deeper in his chair; his face, betrayed by laughter, hidden in his lap.

Sounds of evening hummed through the curtained bay-window as Ferdinand stood with glowing cheeks, chair thrust back, knees not quite steady; servants, one each to left and right, patted dry his plump wet dangling hands. And with bleary eyes, wheezing deep and slow, he stood by the table and the guests attendants gentlemen-in-waiting. Chairs scraped back, napkins fell to the floor, squires scuttled behind the chairs with silver ewers and washbasins. The guests all found their feet, straightened necks, clamped lips.

The Prince of Carafa, at a glance from Lord Chamberlain Meggau, was first to step back to the wall, the music broke off. By the little bronze pillar of dragon-slaying Hercules, the Spaniard, fierce calor-ravaged bison, pulled himself up, squared his shoulders. And as if the line of lords at the table were a worm, its head turned towards the wall, they coiled one after the other away from the table to the shimmering brocade tapestries, and the worm swayed, surged forwards backwards.

Short, thickset, on stumpy pillars of legs grown stiff, he emerged from his place of honour under the baldachin: Emperor Ferdinand the Other. He tore himself loose from the damask-bedded shore of every steaming smell, from the yellow red white fountainhead. His bare cheeks oozed content, foot set itself before foot; he doffed his white hat to every lord with nary a leftward glance at any of them.

Following on pointed feet the greybeard Chamberlain of the Bedchamber; the golden key dangled from his neck over the blue satin jerkin, hollow chest, he carried cloak and prayerbook behind His Majesty.

The physician next, eyes downcast, in a black frock coat, Thomas Mingonius, minister to imperial afflictions; his nose sniffled, his lips were pursed to a stiff snout.

Two Doorkeepers of the Bedchamber, inaudible.

And as on an ivy trellis the close-bunched leaves bend and bend in the gusting wind, all the noblemen made their bow. Carafa’s head had long since drooped back to his chest when his wine-flushed Serenity Eggenberg pulled in his stomach and sighing stood at ease again. They bowed to the bearer of the imperial German crown, to the lord of Hungary Bohemia Dalmatia Carniola Slavonia, absolute Archduke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy Styria Carinthia Württemberg, to the sceptre-bearer in Upper and Lower Silesia, Earl of Habsburg, Earl of Tyrol, Earl of Gorizia; bowed alongside well-beloved Hans Ulrich von Eggenberg, amiable goatee’d cavalier, and that old glutton, the restless little purple-robed man with parchment skin and dull eyes, Herr Anton Wolfrath, monk abbot bishop prince nullity. Inclined as well this noble face: lovely as a cypress, pearl rings in his ears, stern gaze softened by wine, son of the Italian spice-merchant Verda in the New Market, Johann Baptist von Verdenberg,* earl and chancellor. Dark thick-maned Bohemian Questenberg, Baron Gerhard,* not for long now a mere clerk, huffing mightily under his moustache, reluctant to rise and present himself, goggle-eyed thick-lipped bearhound. Bowing, Zdenko von Lobkowitz.* Bowing with his insignia of the Golden Fleece, very pale, Privy Councillor Meggau.

Far down by the curtain stood the colonel of the bodyguard in tall riding boots, gleaming scabbard over bright yellow doublet trimmed with sable: Neidhard von Mersberg, colossus, hulking gaze, foaming in sweet intoxication, tearing at his Spanish collar: “Sluggards! Blackguards! Damned criminals!” Knew not who, in rage and reverence could only clasp his arms across the clanking breastplate, sink to his knees behind the already departed Emperor.

2. Boar Chase

After Receiving the Primate of Hungary the Emperor requested leave of his ministers. This expression he used with a forced amiability. Their lordships all knew that for months the Emperor had not felt at home in Vienna, that he harbored thoughts of removing completely to Prague, to take up quarters in the sumptuous gloomy apartments of Matthias and Rudolf; it was hard to discern what lay behind it. They blamed continued grieving for his late wife,* she had lain already five years in Grätz, in the chapel of the holy martyr St Catharine; they recalled Ferdinand’s anger at the Viennese nobility, who had left him in the lurch some years earlier when Protestants stormed his castle.* But the court and counselors were struck by this embodiment of the Habsburgs, by his expression as he stood, still oozing sauce and wine from the celebratory feasting, and rode off towards Schrems, towards the place of pilgrimage Hoheneich,* almost unaccompanied, his farewells quite perfunctory.

In Hoheneich stood a little low church; between two pillars let into the wall was an entrance with an oaken door split down the middle and held together with iron brackets, faded and inconspicuous. Once an insolent local nobleman had barricaded this ancient church door as a procession made its way up from Schrems; he hid in a thicket with his cronies to enjoy the spectacle. Choirboys swung censers, monstrances clanked, the banner-bearer at the head laid the silk cloth on the step: the door burst asunder, the children sang on! The shocked nobleman tried to stand up in the thicket of broom, the eyes of the other two were filled with tears of remorse. They pushed through the greenery, left their weapons in the grass, slouched slowly towards the procession until stones were thrown to keep them at a distance. The nobleman ran alongside, uttered a cry, but to his horror what came from his throat was a horrible barking. When he turned to his friends, he saw two strong bulldogs; he himself had a wagging tail, was a lean brown fierce dog slobbering down its chest. The three dogs were later killed and buried beneath a nearby gallows.

The turf was springy beneath the horses’ hooves, they settled to a gentle walk. The going grew soft; sharp tough-sheathed stalks thrust up and pricked the horses’ necks. Hooves splashed in puddles, black water sprayed up to the withers, onto the riders’ legs. Ferdinand’s white greyhound, a tall well-proportioned creature with long ears, ran playfully about. With the Schlagbrücke* behind them and the desolate riverbank of Lower Werd* traversed, there came from Jonas on his mule, still on the other bank almost hidden in the reeds, a lamenting screech; at the bridge-warden’s little hut he stretched arms and legs out to them: “Woe, woe!” Two riders trotted back to him. His drab fool’s cap with the earflaps and cockscomb wobbled violently, the mule flicked its tall ears. “I’m taking leave of Vienna. Join me in taking leave.” And hobbled over the echoing bridge, tossed his shoulder-cape towards the waiting gentlemen with a sly grin and a harsh cackle, whirled his clapper. The Danube lay before them, a warm damp wind blew across. “Shake the dust from your heels, noble lords. Take nothing with you from Vienna. Do not neglect to restore to the worthy city all that belongs to her, else bailiffs may pursue us.” They obeyed with vigour, shook rugs and cloaks over the rolling stream. Ferdinand looked sharply at the drab misshapen creature, after a while handed down his shoulder-cape. Bowing repeatedly to the wide water, to St Stephan’s cathedral and the strong bastions, the midget shook the embroidered cloth, beat it tenderly with his clapper, handed it back to his attentive master. Well it’s clean now, he muttered in a muffled conciliatory tone, free from the dust of the Hohe Markt, the Freyung, Bendler Lane, the Graben* and – the High Council. A crack of the equerry’s whip sat him back on his grey mount.*

They rode down an alley of beeches, hills thick with growth rose beyond. The party approached the scrub cautiously, then the horses, smacked by branches, tossed their heads, tongues rolled against snaffles, they reared back chewing from the gloom before them, stumbled, turned in the road. The glittering noblemen danced on their high-stepping steeds, caught by gusts of wind and then released, over meadows between blackthorn hedges cattle fences. They continued on past the dairy at Schrems. Ferdinand seemed to have no patience for a stop, gulped a glass of soured milk in the stirrups. Across crudely ploughed fields, through sparse coppices. On a hill black legs rose into the air: the dog-gallows with its three uprights.

At the sight the Emperor seemed transformed. They walked around the vacant structure, horses snuffling pawing the ground beside them. Bumptious Sir Jester trotted on his mule, and barked. Earl Paar,* grave, blond-bearded, blue satin hat, blue knee-ribbons, led the horses, which lowered their heads to browse with nibbling lips. They decided to lie in the grass, make a feast. Paar and the Fool went on up to Hoheneich. On a little handcart half an hour later they brought to the quiet meadow the startled deacon in his choirmaster’s surplice, along with two shy scholars; hoisted down a small wine-cask, glasses, plates, whole hams, raw eggs, lettuce. Their lordships pulled the awning from the cart, but the Emperor would not sit on it, he plucked grass, threw flowers at his companions’ faces, blew delicately on dandelions, and before the cart arrived with butter salt bread, was already asleep propped against the gallows. His sallow lined face looked so amiable in sleep that he seemed to be conversing with children in his dreams. The greyhound sniffed at him, pushed the hat from his lap with its long muzzle, stretched out with its forepaws on Ferdinand’s hunting-spats.

A trim figure of mature years in black-brown with silver braiding leaned against a peartree, tugged at his thick ash-coloured beard, let his hat fall to the ground, whispered: “We are on the run, gentlemen.”

Jonas the dwarf whined: “On the run, gentlemen.”

Earl Mansfeld* sat down beside the others, still whispering: “Perhaps only as far as Wolkersdorf.* But possibly on to Styria.”

“Or straight to the Pasha of Ofen,* or the big boss in Turkey,” grinned Jonas.

Mansfeld leaned across, with no change of expression grabbed him by the neck, turned him upside down, poked his stomach, hissed: “No croaking, frog, d’you hear.”

Jonas blubbed, crawled free from the circle. Earl Paar drew in his legs, hugged his knees: “The Master of Horse had some thoughts to share.”

Mansfeld, eyes wandering restlessly, sighed: “Something is going to happen.”

Paar, coolly: “I think we are not hounds, who must bark when we tree a sow.”

The bearded man slowly stroked the pink feather in his hat. A young baron lay on his back in fine scarlet garb, not turning; his slanting eyes gazed from a bronzed smooth face up at the white cloud-mountains sailing: Anyone may do as he thinks fit; but he thinks otherwise than Earl Paar.

“So we are to tree the quarry?”

The baron sat up suddenly, rumpling his clothes, moved close to Paar, stared hard at him, drew in his legs in their scarlet hose, hugged his knees: “You, sir, are a favourite of the Emperor and love the Emperor, no one can stop you doing what you want.”

Softly Mansfeld, Master of Horse, declared: he will have to inform his Highness the Archduke Leopold* if they have particular cause for concern; he cannot neglect to do so, must also let Serenity Eggenberg, Abbot Anton and the Father Confessor* know it in good time; for something, in sweet Saviour’s name, is going to happen.

A flock of white geese was driven scrabbling honking past them. After a pause Paar stood up, said sombrely that nothing was on fire, they were over-anxious. Anyway, there were horses in every village to convey news, and lads who could ride. He was no counselor, was responsible only for serving His Imperial Majesty’s person. When the bronzed head of baron Peter Mollart* lifted to look at him, Paar burst out laughing, then suddenly took the astonished man unawares: The Emperor needs help, anyone can see. Were they really just drones around the Emperor, as implied by their talk of sending word back to court. He would wake the Emperor, tell him all, rescue him from their clutches. The baron’s bright eyes shrank from the earl, exchanging glances with Mansfeld he asked to be left alone, and urged them not to disturb the Emperor’s sleep by overloud disputing. He chewed on a stalk of grass. Mansfeld whistled through his teeth.

“I’d be no better than a scoundrel,” growled Paar, “were I not willing to flee with him to the Pasha of Ofen, if such a notion should enter his head. Or I’d be nothing more than a stain of spittle on his coat.”

Mollart stretched out gold and scarlet on the green grass. Sprightly Mansfeld observed the Emperor with a clear cool gaze, watched closely by the smouldering earl, who bit his lower lip.

He had a friendly smile, the man propped against the gallows, his face in sleep sallow and childlike. The whip had fallen from his hand. The hound made a little leap over his body to the other side.

In black Jesuit robes, square flat hat in his left hand, the priest led the hesitant Emperor into the church. The door fell shut behind them. Two tall white candles burned before the little altar, giving an uncertain light; between them a metal crucifix. The Emperor was led down the gloomy aisle. He placed his small green hat before him on the carpeted step, the priest knelt at his side. The greyhaired Emperor knelt without bowing his head. He held his neck rigid, as if he saw something emerging towards him out of the wall. He waited as if for an enemy assault, along a dreadful unseen front. His mouth was pressed shut, sweat gathered in his balled fists. He knelt, but was sat on an armoured steed in harness, heavy lance under his arm, not moving.

When the priest gave a sign to leave, the rigid man could not rise; he fell onto his hands, and forgot his hat on the step. He had gone into the church like a blind man, came out sweat-drenched, distraught, into open air jubilant with larks. The man of God handed him back to their lordships with a polite smile. The Emperor bowed low to the man of God. At cards in the little castle he sat profoundly agitated, as silent as the others.

They set off early on a wild boar chase. They headed towards Begelhof. Into misty air they rode, dew scattering from leaves, cuckoos calling in distant woods, the horses gladly sank their sleek legs in cartload-deep greenery. As the sun rose higher the birdsong swelled, resounding calls of finch and starling; fat black crows sailed harshly clamouring on heavy wingbeats out of the low pines and settled around wormholes. The bent backs of the riders straightened, stupor faded from their eyes; their bodies, just now sagging slumping, felt themselves into the springy swaying motion of the horses. On they went towards Begelhof. Yelping from down there in many different tones. Rendezvous at the little wooden lodge of the master of hounds, by the long row of kennels. Morning-cup in open air. Five horns summoned to the saddle.

About the sturdy stable-boys swarmed packs of French hounds, bloodhounds, boarhounds, a mass of black and black-brown markings. Behind the hovels, nervous peasants moved about the fields, hid. Peasants in drab caps trudged fieldward in groups, led ponderous nags and wagons pressed into service, sought out narrow field-edge paths in single file; they had been rousted from their hovels with muttered shouts and hasty fists. There was whistling nearby, a sudden rumpus: the game-boxes had been opened, out leapt the tusker, blinded by the light, the hounds yowled and leaped, piled onto one another, tugged madly at the leash. Leather straps cracked over them. Then tally-ho. Off they go, the hounds, hurtling before the wind, belling softly tail-down in the furrows. The field moved off.

And how they rode, following the scent of the terrified desperate blacksmocked creature across gashed sweet-smelling open ploughland, and now their lordships’ hearts began to pound; Ferdinand’s heart pounded with the old passion, warmth ascended from the hide of his white steed into his arms, surged down from his shoulders to his hands. Around the hips, under the silver belt with the heavy boar-sword the air smouldered so fiercely it forced its way through the fine chain-mail shirt to announce itself to the flapping white-green tabard. Tasselled the sword’s hilt, long and firm the deep-grooved blade, fronted by the two-edged shining bloodthirsty dagger. Wind was no longer wind, woods no longer woods, bog not bog. The horses flew, hardly touched ground, necks swathed in steam. Fences cottages bushes leaped suddenly at them, past them. The eyes of these cavaliers under their plumed hats swelling in the wind, under flushed brows, narrowed in the dazzling brightness, eyelids squeezed in growing ardour. Their lordships lofted line after line over hurdles and blackthorn hedges. Horses straining, rear hooves pushing back, forelegs bent to chest; they floated, hurled clods of earth behind them, rear hooves joined together while forelegs already stretched like feelers towards new ground that welcomed them, swept them on. Ears pointed forward.

More fervent still, the enticing colourful choir of hounds. The ground became knee-deep, the boar hurtled past farmyards, hurtled through, swam across ponds. Hounds behind, horses behind, huntsmen above. Wattle fences, fords, thickets. For a few bare seconds the desperate savage squat black tusker stood there on short muddy legs, drooping snout on the neckless head, then it burst into cool undergrowth. Head over heels into the thicket the hounds vanished, a single swarm. Lords and horses, recoiling from the wall of vegetation, swung round to the left, away to the right.

Eyes bloodshot, wheezing, Ferdinand and a few gentlemen spellbound oblivious on their jostling mounts, drunk with anger, befuddled. Shots were fired in the forest, horse turned as spurs dug, the baying of hounds sounded nearer farther through the dark blackberry tangle. They fought the thicket, toiled sweat-blind bursting with wrath and desire against branches brambles beast. The ugly tusker was surrounded, the pack howled in the crashing undergrowth. Then hounds struggled past beneath Ferdinand’s gray, without thinking he raised his whip, the crook caught the groaning steed on the nose. It reared on its hind legs, turned, two steps back, and as it turned tipped onto its side, its master down among the fleeing hounds, itself against the shuddering trunk of a fig tree, kicking at it, feet waving grimly hopelessly like a beetle’s. Shrill squeals and whining from a hound, its side torn open by the rider’s boots as he fell. Paar, jolted from his reverie by the creature’s yelping, looked behind him, leaped down, stumbled back, shouted: “Mansfeld, Mollart”; but they had pressed on. As he jumped over a pile of dead branches, the gray with a furious lurch and push struggled to its knees, stood upright trembling, flanks heaving, beside the Emperor stretched out belly-down, his neck blue-red, on a bed of needles.

When Paar turned him over he sat up at once, arms braced on the ground behind him, stared unseeing through the horse’s legs. Paar dragged him like a doll to rest against the tree. The spurs tore grooves in the dirt, his face sank, he folded his hands, hung his needle-covered head as if in sorrow, moved his lips. Through the thicket came sounds of the hunt, the quarry had been flushed onto open fields. The Emperor pushed groaning at his knees. Then the horse was there, his saddlecloth, Earl Paar held his shoulder, pressed a hunting-flask to his lips.

The Emperor’s gaze was joyless, he allowed himself to be stood upright, stared wretchedly at the manservant, who was fumbling to free the sword at his belt. They stood like this a long while, the Emperor’s lips quivered, his shoulders shook convulsively: “What happened? What was that?” He stammered, gulped wine from the flask that Paar pressed into his left hand, without thinking tipped the dregs onto the ground.

“What is it, Majesty?”

“Paar, I was almost gone. It almost had me. I must pray. I must pray.”

He mumbled, rubbed his muddy hands, whimpered in confusion. “There was need of a sign. I did not expect it.” He groaned, sat on a fallen trunk, wiped blood from his grazed scalp, whispered staring hard at the earl, fists clenched: “We should not be afraid. Power is in our hands. What does Earl Paar say?”

“Nothing, your Majesty.”

He beat fists against his chest, in rising agitation stretched his lively twitching face towards the pale man, who breathed: “Nothing, your Majesty.” Again Ferdinand drummed wordlessly against his chest, mouth open, fuming, stumbled to his feet, shook the flinching man by the shoulders. “Well well. You are spying on me. Who sent you?”

“Your Majesty fell from your horse. I was close ahead of you in the chase.”

Ferdinand sank lamenting to his knees: “Dead almost, I’d have died unshriven, gone from this life stained, unfree.”

Paar bit his lip, in shame and reverence pulled the Emperor up, held him under the arms, and as he led him lifted the horn in his left hand, blew. A streak of blood trickled from the Emperor’s forehead down his nose to his mouth. The Emperor limped on as if nothing had happened, hat with its broken feather askew on the back of his head. After a while stood still, listened into the woods, smiled at his companion, hobbled by the daze that drifted over brain and throat: “Blow again. You blow well.”

He stalked ahead, brandished the boar-sword, eyes like moons, features slack and apathetic. Paar ran past him in torment, calling luring the two horses, he chattered away, glumly opened a path through the bushes for the Emperor.

A sudden thought twitched through him: If the Emperor did want to flee – he had no idea why he wanted to, but if he did – then now. The chase would not end soon. Now. Everything had been put in place, from today carts and servants were standing ready at the ferryman’s cottage. The Emperor wants to flee, I can rescue him from his obscure plight, he’s in my hands, no others can come between us. Now. The forest spun around Paar. He fended off the thought for just a moment. In a flash out of the thicket, onto the horses. Paar clenched his teeth, swung the whip: “Ho!”

Ploughed fields. The Emperor slumped on his mount staring at the mane, now and then at the horizon, with an occasional encouraging flick of the reins. The beast ran steadily alongside Paar’s. No baying here from the pack, no halloos and manly laughter. Mile-wide expanse of grass, to the left a line of hills in a haze of blue; when the wind lifted up the air, trees revealed their black-green crowns. Paar’s thoughts projected out beyond his horse’s head, his sombre face twitched with many little tremors, the slit white-green sleeves swelled up like bells, the left hand holding the reins was ungloved, muddy; the long pointed cuff of his right glove was torn. The horses jolted and leaped, on the enormous heath they threshed like swimmers in the sea, toiled, up down, little hopping creatures.

Paar, in gloomy despair, groaned into the breeze: “By my Saviour, I am doing what is right.” He called to the side: “We’ve come a good way already.” He couldn’t hear it, no one could have heard it. He shouted: “We’ve come so far already.” Off it went, twenty, fifty paces to the rear. Had anyone heard. The sound snapped off at his mouth. You couldn’t hear the clip-clop of the horses, no jingling harness; rapid beating gushing surging of blood in the ears, eyes darkening.

The Emperor clung to his gray, the sound came, mysterious exciting: “So far, so far already.”

“Earl Paar.” The sound snapped off at the mouth. “Paar, Hans, Hans.”

The breeze blustered, sloshed around breast, face, closed over the back. “Slow down, Hans. Ride slower. Can you hear me?” The Emperor; he sat more upright, crumpled his hat on the saddle in front of him, streak of dried blood on his nose. Paar hauled on the reins. “Where are we, Hans?”

“Another half hour.” The horses raced on.

“Where are you taking me? Where’s the tusker?”

“A long way off. Your Majesty will see.” Paar’s voice was almost exultant, his expression alternately fearful and tender. “See the smoke. They’re burning weeds in the field. It’s all arranged. See the flag.” Abruptly the plain fell away, sudden shouts came from below. On the bank of a twinkling river herds of cattle grazed, outside the ferryman’s cottage people bustled, carts waiting. Bright blue clouds of smoke billowed across from the heath. The earl’s eyes streamed, he shouted franticly down, waved. Across the water loomed a black wall of cloud, heavy drops were falling, blades of grass flashed glittered in the gentle sunshine.

“Saved. These are the carts. Our carts. The people are loyal. Here! Hoo-ah hoo-ah!”

The Emperor pulled himself together. His horse, mouth agape, straining back, gulped air, danced on its hind legs. Paar, galloping past, turned back breathless, joy on his face, breathless, breathless: “These are the carts. Your Majesty may take my head. Saved. We are saved.”

Hoarsely the Emperor cried out, eyes showing the whites, pointed at the churls running towards them with pikes and partizans:* “Who are they? What do they want?”

Paar’s arms upraised: “Stay where you are. Stay by the carts. Come no closer! But these are our people.” The Emperor thundered: “Cur, wretch, did I tell you to bring me here? Rogue, I’ll cut you down where you stand. What have you dragged me to? What am I meant to do, what do you want of me?”

Paar dismounted, fiery-red, drenched in sweat; hung on the neck of his unfamiliar black. The Emperor should come, the Emperor should not be afraid, it’s happened, he is saved, nothing can go against him now; freedom, wherever he commands, the people are reliable, clothes lie ready.

And in Ferdinand – exploding with rage as he turned his horse about, shoved the man aside, applied the spurs – there floated the thought, fanning the flames to a howling horror: this is how matters stand, this is where I am: unmasked.

Endless heath. Thin slanting threads of rain pursued them, washed over them, laid a grey veil before them. Paar’s mount strained to his, Paar strained, stretching out, his hand stretched out to him, called out something to the man whose head was drooping to his chest under the rain. Phrases were swallowed, the voice cried, implored the other, tried to persuade him as they raced. For heaven’s sake, not back, he must trust him, oh please trust. Words came back: “Where is the chase? Take me back. Or you are doomed.”

On and on in the dripping murk. Silent horses. Paar rode behind the Emperor, to one side. Fear rose in the Emperor, squatted on his back, his shoulders: “Satan is here.” Woods to the right, feathery billowing moss. Flitting between palings, like ghosts past huts fences. Plantations sped by like smoke. The earl, face grey now, succumbed to a daze, a browencompassing absence; a paralysis seized his breast more strongly by the minute; the horse jogged a jolting hunk of meat, up down, up down.

Horns, many horns, sharp blasts. Voices shouting. Black clumps on the field, baying hounds. They stormed into a confusion of peasants. A long while later their lordships came racing up out of the woods, returning from the chase.

Pale beside his horse the Emperor stared vacantly, rain dripped from him. Their lordships placed cloaks and rugs around him. He’d taken a tumble in a thicket, he and Earl Paar had lost their way. Peasants ran to find the surgeon. Paar trudged wearily at their heels, made no reply.

In the little castle Ferdinand told him: he was a traitor. When Paar slumped without a word, Ferdinand commanded him to behave himself, without further ado keep out of his sight. As Paar headed for the door, the Emperor seethed with rage, tears started from his eyes: “Hans, I must bring you before the court, I must let them cut off your head, throw you in chains. You are a rogue, you are a – mad, you’re a villain, I can’t let you go like this.”

Utterly drained, Paar stood with lowered head, still in wet muddy hunting gear.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you. I cannot. I cannot.” When Paar knelt down, the Emperor, clutching his black silk gown in his left hand, struck him twice on the head with his fist, shoved his right shoulder, spat. The earl fell back, lay half on the floor. Ferdinand, hoarsely: “You will stay here.” He paced up and down by the evening-lit windows. After a while he said: “Go now. You will lie low. You will stay in the castle until I send you away.”

When the Emperor, horribly agitated, appeared at early Mass, having returned from confession at Hoheneich with a grey-green crumpled face, none dared approach him. Then at dinner the word “Digby”* was heard, passed from table to table in the tents in the garden. The Emperor enquired, his whole body elated. All they knew was that the English envoy had staged a ridiculously pompous entry into Vienna; that, as Abbot Anton reported, the English king was offering to mediate between his Roman majesty and the Palatine along with all his still-warring adherents. The Master of Horse waited a long while before the Emperor came out with something: “A good day has been granted us, Earl Mansfeld. Don’t let the mishap of yesterday’s chase worry you. We won’t stay here. To Vienna! We must welcome Mr Digby.”

3. God Bless Digby, Earl of Bristol!

Like a hopelles lost traveller drawn to a distant gleam – house, stable, watch-fires of a mercenary horde, burning forest – so did Ferdinand draw near to Digby, the English envoy, elevated by King James to Earl of Bristol, who had journeyed here from the quarters of the Spanish Infanta* in Brussels. Ferdinand ordered traveling carriages to be readied for their comfort on the road. “To Vienna, my lords, my dear Mollart, Earl Mansfeld. There is peace in the Empire, you shall see. Why should we tarry, when such a blessing for the whole world awaits. To Vienna!”

Among their lordships on the journey back there was but one topic of conversation: how to celebrate their unexpectedly early return. At first the Emperor was feverish: stormy feelings ebbed and flowed, surged through him in violent waves from the throat deep into his body, made him laugh, rejoice, turn and turn about, wave his hands, unable to keep still. Glittering Mollart half lay in the open carriage, kept as usual a haughty silence. The master of the hunt beamed to see that the unlucky day was forgotten. Paar sat in the last of the six carriages among jolly cavaliers, half of them strangers, his glances shy, often gazing at the hands that had taken up reins for the Emperor’s abduction, looked past them all, sometimes unawares uttered a muffled groan, so that already on the previous day they had avoided him and now kept their distance. The silver partizans of the bodyguard flashed beside the carriage like darting birds. Now and then a wild terror seized the Emperor. In the carriages they chattered in French, Spanish, German, Italian: duels at the Ochsengries:* the tilt, ring-jousts. Behind the words lay tamed genteel appetites, refined tastes, endless banqueting carousing. Hands ready for a fight, midriff ready for a laugh, their tongues orphaned platters, mouths unfilled breadovens. They swallowed spittle, ate dusty air as their distant gaze gleamed with dreams of tender roasts.

And then evening had to come with candles, torches, the stamp of guards outside doors, tables cleared, cards and dice on bare wood, hot-cheeked gamblers, hard-nosed bankers, French liqueurs, wine by the cartload, trumps: “Lying Hell-hounds!” “Pestilential devils!” “Brothers, let Satan devour me if I haven’t won.”

To Vienna! No delay! God bless Digby, Earl of Bristol!

The carriages jolted along avenues, horses galloped with a huzza ho! New teams waiting at every village. Dust rose high, they glided on its wave. Two horns in the lead, two horns to the sides, two horns at the rear. They saw and heard nothing. And as their lordships entered Vienna, neither silky Mollart, nor Nostitz, nor Mansfeld, nor Ferdinand the Other gave a thought to Digby, the bearer of communications from England. The Hohe Markt, galleries above the Graben, alley after alley, Petersplatz, ponderous pealing from the tower of St Stephan’s: the Turkish bell announcing noon. The carriages came to a halt, their lordships knelt in the street, the Emperor in his carriage. In sun-drenched Castle Square pressing against the lines of Life Guards, a rabble of beggars Beguines Minorites Discalced. Mollart hurled his coin purse with excessive force at the chest of a Savoyard youth, tumbled him over; others scrambled for it.

Digby soon learned that His Roman Majesty was again in residence at the Castle. High men of state knew it too, jousts took place, preparations for a masquerade, peasant market in the Prater. But they knew no more than this, not tomorrow, not the next day. The bay windows of the Castle gleamed late into the night from apartments large and small as the knights within made merry. The Emperor wandered here and there, thought and thought, no one to advise him whom to speak to, whom to send to Gurland, his Treasurer, for gold and many many presents to bring Digby to his side.

One morning King James had turned with a dismissive glance away from that elegant conversationalist and voluptuary, his chancellor Buckingham, whose fine pink silk hose were a joy: he would be taken to the springtime air of the garden; perhaps the people are right, perhaps someone should travel to the Continent, stick a finger in the stew that the fool Frederick has landed himself in. The young lord leaped half a yard high on the carpet as the dejected king left the room with barely a nod. Then he counted his steps, one two three four, to the door, an even number, the matter would turn out well. And while James attended with much scolding to the mulching of the hot-beds, and grieved inwardly at the way his daughter Elizabeth had flung herself besotted around the neck of that leaky German prince-elector, that windbag, his lovely proud daughter, haughty Buckingham in his mansion was passing oracular news to three refractory Parliamentarians, casually letting fall that a friendly hand would be extended to the defeated Bohemian king, took mocking enjoyment as the dismayed simpletons saw their cause swim away; and went to tell Lord Digby.

Travelling together with the Lord Chancellor from London to Portsmouth, under the protection of fifty ironclad arquebusiers – yellow-red sleeves, cold stares out of raised viziers, well-fed tramping mounts – were two German gentlemen who would not be shaken off: Rusdorf* and Pawel, counselors to the Elector Palatine. They spoke frequently and with energy in French to the Lord Chancellor, who as the mood took him either listened, or threw out words in English which they failed to understand. In Portsmouth Digby declined the company of these two gentlemen, but Buckingham shrugged: nothing could be done about them without arousing Parliament. Wrinkling his nose, the young Earl of Bristol allowed the two Palatines to be introduced: he and Buckingham exchanged grins and winks as the German counselors, bowing to all sides, went aboard.

From Easter Sunday* to Thursday the Englishman toured Vienna, studied city walls and bastions, leapt up and down ramparts, popped up again in villages deep in the nearby woods, out to Hernals and other suburbs – Laurenzergrund, Altlerchenfeld, Nikolsdorf – the Rustschacher, the Gravel-pit, Tabor-street where the Jews lived, Mariahilf. As every church rang out with songs of praise for the Resurrection of the dear Lord Jesus, and towers shook with pealing bells, Digby soldiered on from the squat Red Tower Gate to Im-Elend Tower,* Schott Tower, Jörgen Tower and St Marx. And as he passed by the hospital in Easter Monday’s rain, he sent two pages to the gatekeeper of the Heiners-Bastion, to require admittance on the morrow through the Carinthian Gate. Young lads with long ribbons rode across fields, drove horses into the stream. In the night he was awoken in his lodgings by the glow of flames; outside green-clad people were waving fiery torches, singing in procession, strewing ashes in the air.

The insolent lord kept the twenty-strong detachment of city guard pikemen waiting until midday at the Carinthian Gate. He arrived in a palanquin, his calf-eyes wandering over the tender maidens, strolling ladies perched on chopines,* ordered a halt so he could look with a shake of the head beneath the cowls of a group of Minorites. The Hohe Markt was thronged; a detour was indicated. With flutes and drums, high on horseback, the bakers’ guild appeared, masters and apprentices in white hose, their leggings pearl-grey, blue jackets, silver buckles on their shoes. They had started off at the Salzgries.* A garlanded apprentice, very young on a snow-white steed, was pelted with flowers and jubilant cries from windows and balconies; clutched to his breast was the enormous Turkish goblet:* three slain Janissaries engraved in silver, together with three bakers and the gaping mine that had been discovered at the Heidenschuss House, site of their triumph. A closed chair tailing his lordship carried the two pestilent Palatines. In Nuremberg* Rusdorf had acquired a suit of English footman’s livery; he had accompanied Pawel to Vienna only on condition that he be allowed to wear it. They sat tensely behind the curtains, made sure not a word escaped into the crowd.

When two days later Abbot Anton of Krems-minster, president of the Chamber, received them in the quiet of his refectory – the deferential slack-cheeked worthy appeared completely overawed, wistful modest glances all about; he now and then shrank back in distaste from a moth and excused himself almost tearfully as he chased it through the room, lost his cap, swatted vainly at every side, sorrowfully showed the guests pink empty palms — when he greeted them he asked that he be allowed to treat separately with the envoy of the King of England and the counselors of the Elector Palatine. They responded stiffly to his bow; the German gentlemen were lost for words, exchanged bewildered glances. Digby, hulking, wild blond goatee, arms akimbo, stared at them as if they were a pair of familiar exotic creatures, gestured: The gentlemen are not yet so well prepared, they can give their reply tomorrow.

In their quarters, sought out and questioned by Digby, they firmly declined to answer, had to take counsel first. Obviously they had come on behalf of the king of Bohemia and Elector Palatine, but would certainly not let themselves be separated from England in the discussion. Twirling his riding crop, he asked if they meant to put a spoke in his wheel, perhaps he should wait until they had despatched a courier to their master. Their mouths spat monosyllables and little words such as duty, immutable, decree.

“You mean to vex me, you gentlemen from Heidelberg.* Know that you’re on slippery ground here.”

Snarling: “Immutable. Must be.”

“You gentlemen can conduct your own affairs. You seem to think I’m here on your behalf. I am the envoy of the English Crown and Parliament, which has been insulted. That is all.”

“Good. Good. Understood. With his lordship’s leave.”

“Granted. I have time.”

“Your servants, sir. God be with you.”

“Now now, you German gentlemen. Is this a parley, or a boxing match?”

Pushed up his blue silk sleeves, crop between his teeth, showed off his solid muscles. For several minutes he stood, pumped his arms. They walked up and down, heads bowed, hands behind backs. He straightened the rumpled sleeves and with a coarse laugh stomped out.

The Emperor was not here. When he was here he received no one. The rage of the two counselors as Digby pranced around Vienna, completely unconcerned, perhaps dealing on his own account.

Late one evening he stepped into the guest room of their quarters, where they were sat by candlelight drinking honey-beer. In the doorway Digby, his massive frame shifting unsteadily in the darkness, shouted out: “Rusdorf!” – “Sir?”

“Rusdorf, here boy!”

Outrage.

“Hey hey. What I say. Here now!”

“He’s mad,” the counselors whispered.

“Up on the table, hop hop.”

“What.”

“Jump on the table.” The floor shook at Digby’s approach. Pawel breathed: “He’s mad! Do it.” Rusdorf in his long brown coat, shrinking from Digby, suddenly leapt on the table beside the beer mugs, raised his arms: “I protest in the name of my royal and Electoral master.”

“You’re very quiet, the other one.”

Who said nothing at all, watched Digby’s mouth intently with furrowed brow.

“The other one.” As Digby started roaring a third time: “The –”, shocked Pawel clambered onto chair, table, sat on the table’s edge opposite Rusdorf. The big man nodded in satisfaction: “Good, good. Down now.” Took a candle to light him as he went. The two alone. They felt their way to Pawel’s room, closed the door, stared, seemed about to fall into each other’s arms, clasped hands. Pawel groaned: “What is left but to kill ourselves.”

Rusdorf, broken: “Dear brother.” Pawel would not be calmed: “He’ll come again. Depend on it. This was the first time. Today was just a trial.”

“Pawel, what should we do.”

“Worse will come. And – we must serve our master.”

“Our poor poor king.”

When Digby returned at noon next day, Rusdorf was sitting alone, afraid to leave his quarters. Without a word Digby raised his crop. Then he whistled. Rusdorf beseeched: “You carry it too far, sir. Do you not know whom we serve?” – Whistle. – “A high-born prince, son in law of the King of England.” One step from Digby was enough to bring Rusdorf up on the table, next to a porridge bowl.

His lordship, throwing hat crop sword to the floor, picked up the chair, reached for the jug, and as he swallowed asked the counselor: “What was that about your master. It amused me.” Rusdorf begged softly, with a certain confidential note in his voice: Would he not see reason, consider their common interest, family connection between their masters and everything; they should come to understand for themselves that their affairs go hand in hand. Digby asked whose was the almost empty wineglass; and to Rusdorf’s boundless outrage his lordship called for the servant, who came at once and leant against the doorpost. Wine for his lordship; a clean glass for the gentleman on the table.

Rusdorf had not managed to climb down from the table; the merest glance from Digby held him fast. Now he sat, hand over his eyes, dumb, while his lordship slurped, gulped, and when he left clapped him vigorously on the shoulder.

Rusdorf said nothing to Pawel about this visit. He could see from the way Digby played with his crop that he would one day feel its sting. With this mournful knowledge he tried to steer Digby’s unbridled savagery onto himself alone, so that their business could proceed through Pawel; he often defended his lordship against Pawel, young men are all the same. “We were no better at that age. I myself, Pawel, student at Altdorf,* oh my!” Licked his lips tenderly.

Pawel was seated alone at the luncheon table. Digby entering: “Where’s the other one?”

“I don’t know. I do know, but I won’t tell.”

Without a word Digby opened the door to the adjacent side-room. “Out! Out! Rusdorf!” Across the landing: “Rusdorf. Here. Now.” Something padded from a second side-room, in green nightshirt and red nightcap.

“But faster, if you’ll pardon my asking.”

Rusdorf stood hesitant before him, whispered: “My God, Lord, Earl, don’t address me in that tone.”

He hissed between his teeth: “The other one led me a dance. Why were you hiding, you damnable beggar?”

“Oh Lord God Almighty, from Pawel, my lord.”

“Quiet. Go on ahead.” Pointed his crop at Pawel, who sat there silent, playing with the hilt of his dagger.

“What is it?” Rusdorf asked miserably.

“He must go up on the table. Go on.” Raising his eyebrows he took the crop between his teeth, crooked his arm.

Rusdorf begging, doffing his cap: “Oh sir.” Who was adamant.

Rusdorf stroked his hand, made a face of pitiful sincerity, asked him very softly to come into the next room; he thought to let his lordship humiliate him there in any way he wanted.

Digby’s brows remained raised. Timidly Rusdorf approached Pawel at the table, implored: “Our poor master.” Pawel’s expression did not change, he seemed not to know Rusdorf.

“Our poor master,” beseeched Rusdorf. “Go!” he whispered. Pawel’s dagger quivered in a floorboard. Rusdorf looked around at Digby, who stood still, matching Pawel’s glare.

“Come, onto the table. I’ll sit with you both, we managed it yesterday. It’ll soon be over.” He grabbed Rusdorf by the shoulder. The touch of hand on blue cloth sent a shudder through him. His shoulder was jerked, his upper body pulled forwards, backwards. Unbalanced, Rusdorf stumbled sideways onto his hands.

“So!” He stood meekly before the earl. Who, crop between his teeth, gestured with his eyes to Pawel. Quiet angry weeping by the table:

“You should not draw it out so long. Else I cannot bear it. It goes beyond my strength. Having to endure all this from, from the malefactor.”

Barely audible: “Go.”

“You must, you must. What have I ever done to you?”

“Rusdorf, go.”

“Don’t tell me to go. It would cost you little to treat me right. You must not play your games with me.”

“Rusdorf, leave my hand alone.”

He bristled: “Do not call me by my name.”

Rusdorf seized the seated man about the waist. Pawel, unmoving, rigid as a tree-trunk, was lifted slightly; then he pressed the dagger hilt to the groaning man’s temple. Rusdorf let go with a cry. Digby, spitting the crop onto the floor, stepped calmly up to Pawel and clapped him on the shoulder: “Nicely done, sir.”

For three days Rusdorf was invisible. Emerged lamenting, peered all around him. What has happened in the meantime. Is all on the same footing as before. We are making history.

“No need to excite yourself, my brother.”

And the Earl of Bristol, ever chasing boldly after dogs and plump women; a pleasant business. When Digby appeared at noon Rusdorf screeched defiance. Digby savoured it, took no notice of the man, conversed with Pawel. But as he took his leave, at the doorway the earl could not resist a little feint at the agitated counselor with his riding crop.

“Fooled you!” – he cringed – “ another, good, and another.”

He was still cursing grumbling at Vesper-time, when Pawel too left him.

Pulling himself together with a terrible effort, almost mad with worry, Rusdorf pursued him down the alley. He stood out with his fevered gaze, trembling lips, muttered monologue, English livery; had to shout at boys who chased him; he tried to ask the way of men artisans students in the streets, ran off with a grin while they were still responding. He trotted desperately at the head of a little mob, his only recourse to feign drunkenness, turned up hours later at his lodgings amid a tumult of shouts and jeers, dragged upstairs by an angry Digby, who removed his livery.

After this he went out often in his own clothes, unmolested. Became active once more. And one day the earl received an unexpected visit from a secretary of the Imperial High Council, from whom he was astonished to learn that his efforts accorded well with the intentions of His Majesty and that no obstacle now remained to setting a date for the audience.

His lordship dragged laughing Rusdorf out of the room by his hair. “Acting behind my back! Without asking me, or informing me. You! You! Who is this Palatine. I’ll throttle the fellow.” Rusdorf responded with delighted yapping. Loud reproaches from Digby as he left.

Pawel, who was also present, dragged his melancholy person through the lodging, disgusted at the Englishman, and his companion. His ears hardly heard the other’s triumph. When Digby flushed him out that evening, in a loud coarse voice asked if this gentleman too was thinking to oppose him, Pawel replied dully that he would not for long remain a burden to the other two, his lordship had nothing to fear from him.

Rusdorf pestered Pawel, in the evening was horrified to read the documents, valedictory letters, spread out on the table; the other let him have them. But when Rusdorf tried to take his hand, he shrank back as if stung, hissed: “Monster. Brutish. Slimy. Don’t touch me.”

Rusdorf tearful: “We can do nothing without Digby. Forgive me.”

“Do not touch me, sir.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Let it happen as you wish, sir. But I would ask that you be gone soon from my sight.”

“What will you do, my brother? Where will you go?”

No answer.

“Brother, dearest brother, I must tell you. You must not leave. Brother, you may despatch your letters or not. I won’t stop you. No, you shall not leave. I, I won’t allow it.”

“And how does Herr Rusdorf think to stop me.”

“You should not ask.”

“I shall leave Digby and you, sir, today.”

“You won’t close the house door behind you. You cannot. You are coercing me. You must think whether I have my honour or not. I am not to be led by you, sir, to be the butt of mockery. I must stay with Digby.”

“You’ll see.”

“I beg you, do not attempt this.” Rusdorf knelt, wept before the other, who turned sadly away from him.

Two hours later, Pawel, creeping in disguise down the half-dark stairway, was stabbed in the darkness of the bottom landing; two dagger-thrusts pierced his upper arm and both thighs, so that he collapsed wailing. Rusdorf disappeared down a side alley with the bloody blade.