Wallenstein Volume Two E-Book

Friedrich Schiller

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

Seitenzahl: 773

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Wallenstein, Volume Two — The Piccolomini — marks the dramatic turning point in Friedrich Schiller's Wallenstein trilogy. Written in 1799, it follows Wallenstein's Camp and delves into the psychological and political tensions that drive the empire's most powerful general toward rebellion. Whereas the first volume presented the broad social landscape of war, The Piccolomini narrows the focus to the intricate interplay of ambition, loyalty, and deception among the leaders of the imperial army. The central conflict revolves around Albrecht von Wallenstein, commander of the imperial forces, who begins to waver between allegiance to the Emperor and his own growing desire for autonomy. Schiller portrays him as a deeply complex figure — visionary yet indecisive, proud yet tormented by doubt. Around him gathers a circle of allies and enemies whose motives are as ambiguous as his own. Among these figures, Octavio Piccolomini emerges as the embodiment of loyal service to the Emperor, while his son Max Piccolomini becomes a tragic intermediary, torn between filial obedience and his love for Wallenstein's daughter, Thekla. The Piccolomini is structured as a political and moral chess game. Through scenes of diplomatic intrigue and intimate dialogue, Schiller explores the slow unraveling of trust. Wallenstein's officers hesitate, his subordinates question his loyalty, and imperial spies close in. The play's tension derives not from open conflict but from the silent erosion of faith — the moment when ideals collapse under the weight of ambition and fear. At its heart, The Piccolomini is a study of divided loyalties. Max's inner struggle mirrors that of his commander: both men seek integrity in a world ruled by deceit. His tragic love for Thekla humanizes the play's political drama, giving it an emotional depth that balances its intellectual rigor. Through this volume, Schiller deepens his meditation on freedom, moral responsibility, and destiny. He shows how Wallenstein's greatness and downfall stem from the same source — his belief that he can command both history and fate. The Piccolomini thus serves as the moral and emotional bridge between the panoramic realism of Wallenstein's Camp and the tragic culmination of Wallenstein's Death, combining historical grandeur with profound psychological insight.

Leseprobe

Friedrich Schiller

WALLENSTEIN

VOLUME TWO

Contents

INTRODUCTION

WALLENSTEIN

Book 4 – Collegial Convention in Regensburg

Book 5 – Sweden

Book 6 – Ferdinand

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 Two — The Piccolomini — marks the dramatic turning point in Friedrich Schiller’s Wallenstein trilogy. Written in 1799, it follows Wallenstein’s Camp and delves into the psychological and political tensions that drive the empire’s most powerful general toward rebellion. Whereas the first volume presented the broad social landscape of war, The Piccolomini narrows the focus to the intricate interplay of ambition, loyalty, and deception among the leaders of the imperial army.

The central conflict revolves around Albrecht von Wallenstein, commander of the imperial forces, who begins to waver between allegiance to the Emperor and his own growing desire for autonomy. Schiller portrays him as a deeply complex figure — visionary yet indecisive, proud yet tormented by doubt. Around him gathers a circle of allies and enemies whose motives are as ambiguous as his own. Among these figures, Octavio Piccolomini emerges as the embodiment of loyal service to the Emperor, while his son Max Piccolomini becomes a tragic intermediary, torn between filial obedience and his love for Wallenstein’s daughter, Thekla.

The Piccolomini is structured as a political and moral chess game. Through scenes of diplomatic intrigue and intimate dialogue, Schiller explores the slow unraveling of trust. Wallenstein’s officers hesitate, his subordinates question his loyalty, and imperial spies close in. The play’s tension derives not from open conflict but from the silent erosion of faith — the moment when ideals collapse under the weight of ambition and fear.

At its heart, The Piccolomini is a study of divided loyalties. Max’s inner struggle mirrors that of his commander: both men seek integrity in a world ruled by deceit. His tragic love for Thekla humanizes the play’s political drama, giving it an emotional depth that balances its intellectual rigor.

Through this volume, Schiller deepens his meditation on freedom, moral responsibility, and destiny. He shows how Wallenstein’s greatness and downfall stem from the same source — his belief that he can command both history and fate. The Piccolomini thus serves as the moral and emotional bridge between the panoramic realism of Wallenstein’s Camp and the tragic culmination of Wallenstein’s Death, combining historical grandeur with profound psychological insight.

WALLENSTEIN

Book 4 – Collegial Convention in Regensburg

22. Christians

Through the pair of crystal windows in the ornate pretty chapel of the Residence in Munich shone a red wintry sun. The narrow vaults, white polished plaster, took on purplish flecks and lines, as if breathed upon. Floor of jasper and agate; on it the Bavarian court on kneeling-stools; Spanish costumes, lowered shoulders, bowed heads – grey hairs, white wigs, dark tamed locks. On the pulpit to the left of the big silver altar with the relics and St George on his charger – in gold, three plumes on a helmet set with diamonds, rubies, emeralds – a tall priest with glowing eyes, dressed in a tight-drawn black Jesuit robe, was speaking. In his intimidating enthusiasm he waved his arms over them, though they weren’t looking:

“It is permitted sooner to hate God than to love him. For God is too far from us, too lofty; it is a sin to approach too close to him, even in our thoughts. To dare to love him like this or that everyday person, drape ornaments jewels and gold on him in order to demonstrate tender feelings: this serves only to demean him. It constitutes an insult to his divinity. Crawl before him, shrink from him, resent him even: this well befits a person. In that moment when you no longer fear God, you have already denied him. He has not suffered you to be his friend, is not your father, mother, your paramour, your bosom brother. He is not even your king and prince; he declines to be your judge, his judgement is not accessible to you, he pronounces judgement when he chooses and on whomever he chooses. He does not permit us to comprehend him, or investigate his being, and so in his presence the only proper feeling is one of Awe – and with this you have fulfilled your duty as human beings.

“Woe to those who believe that God is our Father; almost no further step is needed to embrace heresy. So Sunday should be held holy, for the sake of God; yet you do not hold God holy? Forget not who you are, whence you have come. Do you know how the original sin of your life came about? Are you conscious of all the sins you drag around ever since that day – auspicious day, or inauspicious? See the baseness of humanity, its pitiful desires – and you the children of God! Look at your day, filled with toil, the satisfaction of bodily needs, a hundred vexations, a hundred joys, all blown away, of no more weight than a lightning flash. Lawsuits – envy – the urge for riches, for status – rebellious underlings: this is your life once you are fully grown, or old. Now more fun, now less, games, men, women, wine, beer, tourneys, deer, boar, music, pictures, sleep, languor, comfort, bitterness – all for nothing and a bit. Gloom and groaning when you grow gouty and bent, crouched behind the stove, your empty jaws sup only broth, pain in the kidneys, constipation, incontinence, stomach cramps, and then sleep and sleeplessness.

“Such is the life of the child of God. You feel ashamed, I feel it with you all; you need but grasp this, remember it, keep it always in view. Yes, reflect, remember! Calm the soul, quench all desire! Know him alone, God alone; you have the right to know his name, hear of his existence: it is enough and enough for us. Have the right to fear God: see, I have said it.

“And you feel that I speak the truth. Truth is with me. We do not cradle ourselves in the sentiments and dreams of a maidservant. For us, life is too serious; it is ever present to us, we know it, have endured it, know what awaits us today, tomorrow. There will be no angel to greet us, no promise will be made to us. Let us leave aside the games of children, the dear things, and of fools, the dear things.

“Tomorrow bells will ring out and there will be early Mass. Menials will clomp about the courtyards, the steward will sit high on horseback with his whip and plumed hat. Tomorrow early the bells will ring out: we shall lie half asleep on our backs, then sit up, say our prayers; and the cries of infants for milk and attention resound in our ears. We drink our morning broth, it may be thin and cold, we must inspect our cellars where we keep our treasure and our goods, fasten the chests, for soon carts will rattle across the bridge; they must all be loaded and sealed; we shall exchange curses with the labourers, who will try to cheat us about their wages, we shall be on guard; peasants shuffle past.

“When the bells ring out tomorrow, a mother will have given birth, she will rejoice, her husband will rejoice, and the siblings gaze on the poor little worm. And in many places during this night a change has occurred, one has died of hunger, or of cold by a well, at a stable door, one has been struck down by robbers, one swept away by fever, someone old, sick, who welcomes death, snuffed out in the bedroom. Our life, our life! How can anyone be proud! How can anyone dare be proud, and claim the title Human in a boastful tone – unless he has formed an image based on the strength of his muscles, the cunning of his thoughts, the immoderation of his desires! And what dumb beast is not, in that respect, his superior.

“Our life, our life! We have died a thousand times, out of pride, when we have seen what we are; and it is not by the emperor’s crown, the prince-elector’s crown resting on our head, nor by the bishop’s mitre, the tons of gold, that we are lifted up, but rather by Awe, and horror. Our only comfort is our inability to reflect. Forgetfulness, intoxication only feign to carry us across the abyss. As far as we can see, the only salvation against death and nothingness is Awe.

“Break, o my knees! O my heart, let your pillars fall! Roof above, crush me! Let a hundred cannon, a hundred siege guns be aimed at me: here are my heart, my eyes. I am annealed. Yet still I can laugh at you. You turn iron and marble to dust in the air. I can pray, can tremble!”

Frail old Duke William fell forward from his stool, his pale face slumped, the stool scraped sideways. His son the Prince-elector, hard-faced, grabbed at him.

As the priest came down from the Neue Veste and passed by the wide stables not far from the Chamber of Curiosities, a man, unarmed, touched his sleeve in the fading light and spoke to him as he turned and stopped; said with a timid expression that he’d prefer not to stand here under the eyes of passers-by and the prince’s guards. They slipped quickly down a side alley.

“You are the priest who gave the sermon in Our Lady’s; I heard you. I’m one of Tilly’s men, I’d like to talk to you.”

“What do you want,” asked the Jesuit, quite calm.

In a rasping voice, looking wolfishly at him out of satin eyes, the undersized bearded man, a livid scar running from the right brow down to the corner of his mouth, begged that he might speak with the priest in a closed room, wherever he liked; speak about matters that lay on his heart; swore he had no weapon, no hostile thoughts; he needed help. They went by a devious route past the Jesuit College, at the back wall climbed the steps to the big Synod House. In the dark cell the cleric set a candle at the doorpost; the room was small and high, quite bare; above a bookshelf on the long wall hung a picture of St Francis in the wilderness.

The stranger sat beneath the candle; after much urging from the priest at last explained himself. Born of Protestant parents in Austrian territory, was converted many years ago by a Commission.* Parents gone missing, or killed in the uprisings; – and here he came to a stop, his eyes glancing ever and again at the big painting. Then he wanted to know: What’s the meaning of that picture? The priest made some reply. And now the stranger’s words came swift and tumbling: He’s come – it’s been prophesied to him, he’ll be killed this year in the war, in Lombardy, he needs an amulet, trusts no one else, he’s desperate, desperate. Tears stood in his eyes, he sobbed, sobbed, stared piteously at the priest. Carefully suppressing a smile, the priest asked if he had really attended the sermon.

“You have an amulet,” the man pleaded mulishly, still gazing at St Francis. “You know everything, I listened to you, give me one. Have a heart.”

“My dear man, if you are destined to die, as you say, my amulet will be of no help.”

“I don’t want to die, your reverence. My father and mother are already dead, for nothing. I’ve broken no laws. All I’ve ever had is troubles and grief, and now I’m to die.”

“My dear fellow, you must put all thought of magic charms out of your head. That’s wicked soldier-talk. Be pious, pray.”

The haunted man’s eyes were eager in the candlelight: “Will God help me?”

“Pray.”

“But will he help me.”

“You must not make demands.”

“What’s the point of praying if it doesn’t help? Give me an amulet.”

“Fellow, go on your way. I can do nothing for you.”

The priest rose calmly to his feet. The man clenched his fists: “But I am no fool or rogue, to be sent away like this and fobbed off with words.”

“You are a fool. And that’s putting it mildly.”

The soldier trembled in the doorway, standing behind his chair. “Because I won’t pray? Others too don’t want to pray. And they have no such rotten luck, they don’t have to die.”

“Who in your wicked company will not pray?”

“Who? You have to ask? Your own pupils, you’ve brought it to that. For sure. My best friend was a novice of yours, he advised me to attend your service. I don’t regret it, I noticed well that you see everything rightly, and agreed with all of it. And now you fob me off.”

The priest stepped closer to the weeping man, who held his crumpled felt hat to his eyes. “Who sent you to attend my service?”

“Who? Who?” the other mocked, stubborn and fierce. He stared briefly at the priest, then rammed the hat back on his head and with two strides leapt at the painting of St Francis, pulled it down, rushed at the priest who stood there shocked, butted him in the chest with the picture and away through the open door. The frame caught the candle, left darkness behind.

A week later, as the priest entered the building, Brother Porter announced that a young man was waiting for him in his cell. The priest was able to dismiss the porter, who accompanied him for protection; he recognised the young man at once. Only when they entered the cell did he notice that the tanned man with the refined features dragged a painting behind him. The priest stared hard: “It was you?”

“I didn’t send him, Father. He was always at my heels, he’s a helpless creature. I had to take the picture off him by a trick. Here it is.”

“Thank you. Have you a request? Leave it by the wall.”

“Unlike my timorous friend I’m not going to die, but as you see: here I am.”

“Do you have a request?”

“I won’t ask you for an amulet. May I speak with you?”

The priest sat at the window, where crumbs had been scattered for birds. “Your parents greatly lamented your leaving.”

The man by the lectern smiled grimly: “I chose a truly spiritual occupation, please tell them that. I became a soldier, now under my third banner. I must struggle like the angels and devils for my soul; whoever is not strong loses the struggle.”

“You serve under Tilly?”

“Don’t ask about me, Father. Tell me, what do I need?”

“Speak out, my son.”

“I’ve fought in a dozen big battles, been captured, escaped. I’ve lived my life year by year since I ran away from you, just as I wanted. When my regiment of pikemen was disbanded I begged, found work, got up to no good; and when by chance I found myself here and heard you preach, see, Father, none of them sitting there thirsted so avidly for your words as I. You must tell me more. I – need it.”

The priest, bitter: “Thirsted – that was not necessary. But you are a young blood, and are sure you will be forgiven.”

“Speak to me of God.”

“Go strike men dead – Danes, Swedes, and do not ask about God.”

“How does it stand with God? When I studied with you, read from Thomas and Aristotle, I quite forgot to attend to what they were saying; I took it in without thinking. Now I need it; how does it stand with Him?”

“So you are afraid, dear boy.”

“How must I think of Him while I live, and of myself when I die?”

The priest sat at the window where birds were hopping, hunched low over his knees. “The only thing you need do is break your pride. You can do nothing more than tear God from your heart. Mark this! Carry it always with you. Yes, tear God from your heart. Before that vast eternal being, every stale insolent thought of yours must remain silent, your eyes blind. It is written: take not His name in vain: but that’s not enough. Don’t bother him with your death. His name, I tell you, must be eradicated in you. He should be nothing more than the warning sign at the brink of a dreadful abyss: ‘Here and no further!’ Yawning abyss! No one, living or dead, has a claim on Him. Nothing is given to us from Him. Woe to those who merely think on Him. But you are right, dear boy, there’s no need to ask me: you do what you like, murder, steal, go to church, give alms, love, marry – it’s no concern of His. Who cares? Paltry human! I am not His advocate. But be sure of this: God lives. Just not ours.”

The other rested elbows on his knees, chin in hand: “Not think on him! Who then placed Him in our hearts? That was a crime against humanity. If you’re right, that is, Father.”

The priest calmly stood up: “I have spoken, Vincent.”

“It’s no help to me, Father, what you’ve said. It might have been enough when I was your student. Now I need something more.”

“Take Saint Francis as your bosom companion.”

“You can’t brush me off so easily. But I think you don’t mean to mock me. Why do you need saints, and the Saviour?”

“The Saviour tells us how we should live.”

“Reverence, how did the Saviour come by God’s word?”

The priest, back turned, kept silent a long while. “We are Christians, we pray to Christ.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The priest turned a stern tight face to him: “There is nothing unclear. Pride is to be broken, in every human. The god you have in you is the last remnant of heathendom. ‘God,’ says the heathen; no matter one god or many. You’ve been allowed to get away with it for so long. Now it’s time.” He glared grimly at the soldier: “Is it not true, you wish to become a heathen?”

Unsettled, tormented, his tone challenging: “I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?”

“Whether you are a Christian.”

The Jesuit smiled coldly, slowly drew back his head. The soldier pointed: “You’re laughing!” “There is no one more Christian than I.”

Eyes blazed from the doorway: “You want to bring people to despair. I’ve prayed, had fun, felt I was up to hard tasks – through God. Now that’s to be taken away.”

The priest sat at the window, said nothing.

“It’s all to be taken away.” – “Yes.”

Arms flailing: “For what? For whose benefit?”

“My dear boy, now I must laugh. I am a priest of the Church; how should people be any concern of mine.”

“So take yourself off, Father, and bring your wisdom to the pope, the bishops and monks. They are there for us people.”

“No need; they already know it.”

“And what do they say?”

“Well, they don’t trouble themselves with God. For they are pious. They help people by busying them with devotions, spiritual exercises. For Christianity, only a very few are ready.”

The young soldier: “I’m not one of them.” – “No.”

“I wanted to establish God again in me. I wanted to pray to Him, be led to Him. To Him.” “No.”

Wallenstein in conversation with the Venetian Pietro Vico, who was floating ideas for a crusade against the Grand Turk: “Tell me something new, sir, I beg you! I fought for Ferdinand at Gradisca. Wittelsbach has delusions of grandeur, has never forgotten Emperor Louis the Heretic* who fought against the pope. Wittelsbach should have been beaten down; now he sits there on the Isar, the dark man, primps and preens himself, counts his pennies, denies his stomach. A prince!”

“He won’t set himself against the Emperor.”

“Ferdinand is the best of men, a noble man, a knight. He is a child. If you doubt this, just look at the outcome of this evil war. He was supposed to crack the skulls of those worthy Bohemians, my kinsmen. Had to perform his imperial duty, that’s all. But he was a child. I can just picture him glowing with imperial pride, seeing victory over the Bohemians in his pocket. And then to go like that to the Bavarian!”

“Yes, he was ill advised.”

“Into the lion’s den, thinking to devour a calf! Whyever did he go to Maximilian just then? Because Munich was on the way back from Frankfurt. Do you know those advisers at the court in Vienna? – ‘I simply must offer thanks to the man in Munich, show myself to him, you can’t stop me’ – and then right away they had something else to think about.”

“And there Max had him!”

“The mouse came out to play right under the cat’s nose.”

“Haha.”

“Cat ate it up. Grabbed it, threw it around a bit, then down the hatch.” Wallenstein continued: “Well, sir, he’d waited long enough for the Emperor. Who couldn’t avoid him. He’d helped him don the imperial robes,* but only to have the pleasure of dragging him down to himself. ‘Show me what you’re wearing!’ says Max. And when Ferdinand left Munich, he was almost no longer emperor.”

“My dear sir, those times, thank goodness, are long past. Soon you shall have a free hand for all sorts of things.”

Wallenstein’s laugh was shrill: “I should have been in Vienna when they helped Ferdinand down from his carriage after that trip: basted, lame, dumb. And none of them knew what was up, and after all he’d won the prize in Frankfurt, was Roman Emperor, and had already nabbed victory over the Bohemians. I wonder what went through their minds, those wise old men in the Castle! ‘The Emperor’s sick, he’s melancholy,’ they cried morning and night, sent for physicians all over the empire.”

“That they did.”

The Duke laughed immoderately: “They’ll have purged him to kingdom come. He atoned all right for seeking the congratulations of his cousin Max.”

23. Demons

To the village of Bubna near Prague, where the Duke had a dairy farm, came a troupe of players conjurers quacksalvers. They first cried their skills fit to be heard all the way to Prague, then built a fence of boards, erected a deep stage. Invited by the Duke to his little summer lodge, some of them one afternoon performed, under strictest secrecy, a special entertainment.

A large hall was placed at their disposal. Elegant ladies and gentlemen occupied the balconies and galleries, servants clustered at the open doors. Spiral stairs wound down into the hall. At the start of the performance a masked player shouted from the door – he wore Greek-style buskins strapped around the calf, a loose white Greek toga, his right hand grasped a hammer from which a lightning-bolt projected; he had the imperious dour expression of a Zeus: Somehow the troupe neglected to include me in the play. You may come down into the hall, if you please; there’ll be such jolly fun.

It was dreadfully hot in the hall. If you looked down, the air roiled and curled over the polished floorboards as from an oven or a blaze. But those who went down noticed no heat, felt no constriction of the chest. Standing tall and oversized, two tawny chimpanzees wandered the boards, dropped now and then onto their hands and ran about. They clambered up pillars, gazed and spat across at the galleries, came back down, flaunted high rumps as they scampered on all fours. Where they had sprung from was a mystery. More and more figures appeared down below, from who knew where. A young lady pulled free of her chaperone, she wanted to see the funny monkeys close to. As her foot touched the lowest step and the heated air of the hall assaulted her, she rushed forward: now a naked figure ran about, jumped up and down in high spirits spinning about itself, yelping. Slowly and without embarrassment she betook her plump pink limbs, buxom body up to one of the brown-furred chimpanzees; it slid across the floorboards as if on ice. A black tail long as an arm, whip-thick, had grown from her spine; she flicked the creature on the nose with it; she still wore her silver shoes and gay dangling garters, her excessively large breasts shook, blond curls swayed like a cowl over the amused snub-nosed face. The two apes romped behind her, then flung their arms around each other and began to dog her steps.

Close by the stairs a grave little man lay quietly on the floor, having turned unhappily this way and that, began crawling on hands and knees. People stepped on him, scolded him; he begged their pardon, kept crawling between their legs, under their feet. Now and then he raised himself, caught his breath, looked grave and sad directly into faces, went again about his work. None were puzzled by any other; all were intent solely on themselves.

An elderly lady joined in. She wore an expensive sable stole, kept it on despite the heat; observed everything eagerly, but from time to time her uneasy hands fiddled under the chin with the clasp of the stole. Suddenly she emitted a horrible scream, tore the stole from her as if suffocating. And now she stood on the spot bare-throated, feet apart; bent back her head, took a deep breath, and from the florid face overtopped by a tall grey wobbling wig came a donkey-like trumpeting honk, lips turned blue, the waving arms trembled and dropped the fan. She quickly walked on, retrieved the fan with a swish of silken skirts, breathed heavily, seemed somewhat relieved. Only to emit as if inspired, after a few turns that slowed, became hesitant, with much stroking of the fur, the same harsh bray. It at once drew loud laughs from all around, including the spectators; she responded by turning pale and indignant.

An officer who braved the descent to the hall met with a serious mishap. He planned to put on a special show for the gallery with his sword and muscular prowess. He crept unnoticed down the stairs, slipped on the last few steps and bounced across the floor. And now he couldn’t stop moving. He looked like a little carved wooden manikin, legs tight together, hands clasped, thick neck, thick head; now he stood on his hands, now jumped upright, fell on his back, now whipped over on his belly, back on his feet in a flash, stood still, took a step. But the lead foot pushed him into the air, he had a struggle to bring the other foot along, and in this way he hurried about the hall, rising a yard high at each step, always striving to cast a friendly smile at those below and up in the galleries, show them his sword, his mighty arm muscles. At once the hall turned against him, threw him to his knees, hurried him along.

Many more came; it was evident to all that the situation harboured the seeds of uproar and discord, that they were faced with an evil entity. This became clear when a priest dared to enter the fray with a determined expression, prayer-book under his arm. On the stair he pressed the book to his chest with his left hand, with the right he held aloft a silver crucifix. He meant to exorcise the hall. In fact, as soon as he stepped down a furious tumult erupted, screams everywhere, figures tumbling madly about. At the same time the hot vapour swirled around him in curious swaying spirals, thickened like smoke; as he brandished the crucifix, flames flickered at the tips; with challenging composure he opened the prayer book, the pages crumpled, turned yellow, dark brown along the edges. And suddenly the book was ablaze; the shocked man dropped it, the book lay smouldering on the floor. When he let go the melting blue-flaming crucifix and blew on his burned hand, he gave a sigh from his inmost being; the black-haired long-gowned man closed his eyes, lifted his arms in a yearning gesture; the cassock with its wide sleeves was already fading in waves of acrid air. He could dance a jig like nobody in the hall, a slender youthful body on long legs in linen hose. He gazed out from artless big blue eyes, sang what sounded like a hymn. His voice, a bright trill, resounded triumphant above all the noise; belted out so prettily and joyfully that up in the galleries they looked shyly at one another from little eyes, spoke of trivialities and had to suppress the tremors within. He had a slightly foolish young man’s face, with a snub nose. Soon one of the chimpanzees came and dragged him by the ears; the people watched anxiously, the singing was interrupted by little frightened squeals.

It all made a seductive impact on the servants thronging the doorways. Doorkeepers barred the way with staffs, but it was too enticing. As the vapour swirled thicker in the hall, little groups of people ran in, a moment ago they could only stretch out their hands, now they were in a Tower of Babel, limbs asprawl, tongues hanging, making odd faces, strangers to one another, filled with an unfamiliar restlessness and contentment. They collided as if dreaming, rebounded away, collided again, could never have enough of it. They leapt, under some impetus shoved each other into the hall, and were then suddenly deflated, strangely lost and confused. A few noblemen went gravely among the throng, raised their arms, cried with a flourish of the hat: “Here is the renowned So-and-so, praise him, honour him;” went on with a solemn grimace. If someone asked: “What can you do, sir?” he answered: “Anything you like; nothing is obscure to us. Praise us, honour us!” They spread their arms, nodded respect.

Horses pranced among them, each with a man on its back. Dogs leapt wolfishly; no dog had entered the hall. Several gentlemen stared around after making loud noises, then polluted the floor, there was a stink, they pointed, seemed delighted, neighed laughter. One man, tears dripping from his eyes, presented a dreadful sight: his jaw hung down to his knees; the gaping lips of a mouth full of teeth long as arms smacked monstrously; the skull and upper part of the face rose glumly behind; unseeing goggle eyes and shriveled little belly trip-trapped on little legs like stalks. He clung pitiably to a pillar; stepped on from time to time, slurped snorted snarled horribly. Snuffling he would approach someone, grab the frozen shrieking man tight by the hands, the jaws loomed like pincers; he wrestled the twisting flailing man into his maw, sucked, turned blue. Under the horrified gaze of the onlookers he swallowed the creature into his swelling body. They beat at him, spat at him, he howled, sobbed; tears and drool trickled disgustingly. A few short minutes later, the bustle around the unspeaking fellow resumed as before. Only bluish transparent shadows of people stood close to him; these were ones he had swallowed earlier: from time to time they tried to force a way into his mouth to fetch their bodies, but he closed the jaws with some difficulty, teeth snapped angrily at them.

Breathless, drenched in sweat, several tried in distraught confusion to reach the stairs, the hall doors; now their former figure was restored; they grinned and lisped timidly. They made enquiries, a trembling was in them, they burst out laughing when people told them what was happening below, pushed their way roughly outside. Some, almost beside themselves, were seized by a melancholy, sat helpless, hid their faces.

Amid the hall’s heat and the growing press of people, the tumult grew. People hit out; gradually noticed one another. Any who did not slink away found this new home congenial. Suddenly the leaping man, the unhappy officer, sprang with this woman, then with that, up into the air; she screamed, he whooped, and though not entirely master of his legs he improvised a preposterous clacking dance over the heads of the throng. Once he pulled a halfchoked victim from the giant-mouthed man’s teeth; roars from the frustrated fellow, wheezes from the rescued victim sailing limp through the room on the arm of the leaping man. The dogs kept up a running battle with the apes, now here now there across the floor. An impetuous decision led the hymn-singing youth, suddenly fallen silent, to assault the young horsetailed lady; she flung the tail around his throat, he upended her; she shrieked piteously.

A voice called out as animals milled about the hall in frightful numbers, horses, cows, boars, as various apparitions changed shape in the blink of an eye, tumbled head over heels; called out: “The Duke, the Duke,” the cries ever more piercing. A pillar of fire went through the hall; hissed like a waterspout, stretched slowly up to the ceiling; as it meandered turned to ashes people and animals who failed to move out of the way. Acrid smoke billowed.

Now those in the galleries and outside broke windows. Shattering screams arose from the hall and down from the galleries. The pillar of fire stood still. As if cut off at the knees, it collapsed suddenly. Smoke swirled across the floor, lay thick on the creatures screaming singing helplessly in the tumult. Draughts of fresh air blew in.

Following this alarming event, the population around Prague and in other Bohemian regions experienced a whole series of demonic irruptions. Two devils from Hell broke free of their chains and went marauding in Bohemia. They targeted in particular the region along the Elbe-side cliffs of Goat Mountain by Aussig, in the valley of Waldheim, let themselves be glimpsed in the dusky light of evening, soon were impudent enough to show themselves by day. In the months of April and May they were seen running around on triple-peaked Starling Rock with spears in their backs, long bobbing shafts, the barbed points embedded in the flesh above the hips; these must have been hurled at them from the pit of Hell as they made their escape. They went about like weary pioneers of an artillery regiment, as if what they carried on the back was a leather kitbag with trenching tools, from which they were loath to be parted.

But they were discovered on numerous occasions, as when a little bit drunk at the castle of Děčín they removed their cloaks and the guest-room servants suddenly made a grab for the jauntily bobbing shafts, thinking to remove them. Screams of blue murder, shrill yelps and howls arose, the two Grim Reapers flung up their arms, eyes starting like apples, bodies doubled up over their lovely waistcoats, the shafts quivered, metallic clanging on the floorboards, in a flash the pair rushed howling spreading smoke all around up the chimney; a green liquid leaked down from the shafts; they clattered and whistled on the roof.

By the end of May it was only too well known in the whole region that they were absconded demons. They once spoke of it themselves: During a disturbance in Hell none could hold us back; the tumult in Hell increases day by day, everyone growing bolder, it will come to violence; we are merely the forerunners of whole hordes.

Thereafter the pair allowed nothing more to be seen of them; and one evening cowherds on the slopes by Bodenstadt observed two figures wrestling silently in the clover, apparently going at one another with spears. But they were demons, who had sworn either to kill themselves or be rid of the spears. In the heat of battle they flung themselves right left; the shafts waggled over them like erect tails; suddenly one lifted the other up, a loud crack!, a piercing scream, whimpering; one lay pale and motionless on his back, the splintered spear thirty yards away, the victor crawled towards it, snuffled at the end where green satanic blood dripped. He lifted up his unconscious companion, dragged him along in his jaws by an arm, pulled out the spearhead and pissed burning urine into him, whereupon the other gagged, stirred and came round. They plugged the oozing hole in his back with tree bark. Then they went at it again, yelping. The victor ran howling with envy around the straight slim other, who picked up the detached iron spearhead, tied the other to a tree and began banging lustily on his spear-shaft, spat at him, and heedless of his wails pulled on the shaft until he fell on his back spraying green ichor – he’d soon be done for. The other, grimly determined, sat on him back to back, pressed the wound closed, plugged it with pitch that oozed from between his teeth, and with the body of a little kitten that happened to be lying at his feet.

And once they both appeared one noontime at the crossroads outside Bodenstadt, as naked hairy demons with ungainly horse’s hooves, red fur, staring goggle eyes, hanks of black

hair combed backwards, hardly bigger than boys of ten; they jabbered coarsely together. Birds in the fields flew up at their approach. Suddenly the demons themselves flapped as ravens behind a young girl, dropped to her shoulders jabbing sharp beaks into her bare flesh. Bloodcurdling yells from women and lads; horrible to hear, the bellowing of spooked oxen, hens flapping, pigs squealing. Peasants barricaded their doors, bells pealed. A good hour later two fashionable gentlemen came along, mud on their silk-laced shoes, seemed exhausted. They gazed in surprise at the empty village street, called softly for people, a mug of wine, fingered their swords. Doors opened hesitantly, people inquired through windows whether they had not seen something. But they had noticed nothing, had only – they said this with a puzzled air – smelled a disgusting stink, but that might have come from a mouldering cow.

The peasants would have suspected deception, had not the dumb beasts still been kicking vigorously in their stalls; the barber was still treating the hole in the poor girl’s shoulder. They came out, all smiles that two noble trustworthy gentlemen should come along just at this moment. One of the gentlemen, lips contorted in fierce glee, observed the girl’s wound through his spyglass; she flinched back wailing, ran across the street, summat’s not right with them, one of ’em’s the demon that pecked me. General mockery of the wounded girl from the peasants thronging the street; they bowed to the visitors.

But the gentleman had been ready for the rabid girl, he made them show him the salved wound again, he would apply an Italian cure. The girl resisted, the man raged with a harsh laugh and threats. The shamed and offended peasants pushed the struggling maiden into a shed; haughtily he dismissed the mob. He sat alone facing the girl, gazed at her, feasted on her fear. And as he grinned and folded his arms behind his back, his nose grew long and suddenly it was a thick strong beak, his loose cloak was splayed and lifted by ruffling plumage, and a raven sat there on the bench, jabbed its beak into the wound, pecked, hacked, tore. It flapped around the girl as she jumped up beating about her and bleating horribly; forced her away from the wall, out from a corner, went for her forehead, the screaming mouth, clawed and cawed, had its fun. With one leg it held fast to the apron-string at her shoulder, then sank its head into the bloody wound, meanwhile felt with the other leg for her mouth, clawed streak after streak from her nose downwards. Its fat feathery body pressed against her pallid cheek, beak stabbing; it jumped onto her nose directing jabs left and right at her flailing hands, pulled her knotted hair into disarray, the powerful wings beat before her eyes, blinding her.

So engrossed was it in the frenzied struggle that it failed to notice the knocking. Only when the door burst open did it flap wildly up from her. All saw the mighty raven, feathers flying. At the very same moment there sat the sword-clinking gentleman, he lunged fuming, eyes flashing, right at them: What impertinence, he’d only been driving out the evil spirit that had entered her; see the feathers, now it’s vanished, useless unruly fools and bumpkins that you are. His hands were behind his back; when he brought them forward they were bloodstained up to the knuckles. In their terror they kept silent, let him through, the girl threshed unconscious on the ground, foaming. In the priest’s parlour the two gentlemen calmed down over a glass of wine; they caroused noisily all afternoon, until towards evening the hapless cleric plucked up the courage to celebrate late Mass: he meant to question them, what had brought them to this village, such an honour, by what paths had they come, and – .

And as he sat lost in thought in the sexton’s room it seemed already to him that he was growing, that something sacred was speaking through him; he was almost choleric and could hardly be restrained from taking to his heels. For the other peasants too had grown suspicious, they stood outside the little church muttering darkly together in fear. Stuck their heads through the window of the priest’s house: the guests had flown. The one who had kept in the background went whistling around the neighbourhood, took an interest in granaries ovens larders cattlesheds, kept asking his cringing guide what it was they mostly lived on here, what would cause them most torment and misery. The crops had failed that year, the rain seemed never-ending, the sun had shone warm only a short time, barely a week to mow and bring in the hay; grain black with ergot.

The noble gentleman, dazzled by the novelty, drank it all in. His insistent questions were strange; but whenever one of the hoi polloi came up to laugh at him and quickly run away, the gentleman would transfix him lightning-fast with a dreadful eye that stabbed to the heart; the fellow would clutch his chest; who knew a man’s eye could move that fast. Hissing softly, looking at the ground, the gentleman would enquire after his friend, disappear around the corner. And at once would be back again, scolding: Where’s my friend, has some harm been done to him, I’ll lodge a complaint with the regional governor, the vice-regent in Prague; railed, screamed: I want to know right now – where is my dear companion.

A black hen clucked on a roof; he cawed, cackled mocking at it, over his shoulder saw the priest approaching, tore the biretta from the priest’s head, slipped through the open door of the church, cackled again in the doorway grinning: I shall seek my friend. And already the space inside was filled with tumult, laughter, clapping. He mocked the priest from behind the altar: “Bring me my little brother,” whooped, lured on, the priest tried to recover his biretta, a cold slime sprayed over him, he flinched back in disgust, in his horror climbed the tower stairs, pulled on the bell rope. The alarum rang out across the valleys. Nearby villages responded, he kept going tirelessly, amid the hellish crashing and commotion below he tugged at the bells and made them peal out. They hopped from altar to confessional, squatted spreading filth on statues of saints, crucifixes. Neighbours arrived with creaking wagons, brought axes firepumps water-buckets, piled up in the lanes.

The priest, rigid with terror, in the stretching and straining of his arms heard and saw nothing. He was still in the tower when the bell, swinging high suddenly, came out of its seat and slammed down to the street, killing a pig as it shattered. The same impetus swung him to the side, he followed the bell, head upturned, his neck snapped. Space, the church itself, began to shake, expand, spread out, chalk dust trickled down the walls, a hole suddenly gaped in the wall of the tower, as well as falling stones two copper-red figures with tails emerged zigzagging. A bleating in the air. In the tumult below, the villagers began to quarrel; the neighbours thought they had been hoaxed, in some puzzling manner an obscure rage flamed in them: they had to scratch and gouge as if to soothe a maddening itch. Bells were still ringing out from nearby villages; people ran shouting down from the hills, along the brooks, horrible wrinkled faces, thick bulging lips, groaning breasts, interrupting their work, a meal, their sleep, wherever they stood or lay. Down by the collapsed church they punched and scratched, demented men and women no longer knew who they were. All must go in the pot.

At a pause in the fracas one would gaze troubled and distressed at another’s throat, squeeze the neck; it was the imperative of a terrible teeth-grinding all-pervading passion.

Peasants cast ploughs aside, sent their women to watch the cattle, sat gloomily outside doors and cowsheds, smacked their lips. In many a spot they came together in crowds, loitered, took comfort in the sight and feel of one another. They ambled aimlessly down to the woods, clustered at manor houses, scattered again across fields. They clumped mutely, under a spell, helpless, mistrustful, stood with sluggish humors by little wooden wayside shrines, crucifixes. No one drove them away. They snuffled grimly at the shrine. One cried in contempt: “We have no reason to linger. We’ll be on our way.”

“We shall stay here.”

They searched each other’s faces, clustered, felt again the strength of a neighbour’s muscles, crowded together. Closed in on the crucifix. Those at the back felt left out, pushed harder, the cry ran forward: “That thing can’t stay in our field.” Harsh laughter with it.

“Christ, Christ!” stolid from those at the front, almost touching the shrine.

“The priests put it there.”

“They know why they do it.”

“Caps off! So you know and don’t forget what you must do at such a place. The reverend priest put this up.”

“It cannot stay in our field.” In all of them an urge to act, leaping from muscle to muscle.

“Knock it down.” – “Down with the shameless thing!” – “Shameless.” Every cry strong enough to draw fifty more behind. Those cowering at the front, praying almost, were shoved helplessly against the shrine; the mob broke the post in two, smashed it. Now they knew what they wanted: on to the next crucifix; the hunt was on for shrines of the crucified man.

From scattered cottages on the ploughed slopes, people watched dismayed and upset, shut themselves in: “That’s not the way at all. They won’t manage it like that.” The grey priest of the parish, suddenly infected, crumpled his cassock and stormed off down to his flock, from his tempestuous breast delivered a furious sermon: It’s holy work you are about, I am on your side, someone has stolen our Christ and put a false one in his place. The mob swallowed him, it was a battering ram hurling itself at the wooden shrines. Ever and again he struggled free, the cry rose on all sides, everyone gladly took up the refrain: “They stole our Christ. This is not our Christ. It’s the Christ of the gentry, the princes, knights. Believe me! A false Christ. A mark of serfdom. They’ve built castles with cannon, ramparts, ditches, walls, to keep us down. Churches are castles. The Saviour wanted to free us from them, they’ve taken him into the churches, bound him, locked him in. He stands in our fields so we know we are serfs, must remain in our servitude. Come all ye that labour – hoho, kneel down, ye that labour. In Rome he sits in his Peter’s castle all of gold. Satan has vanquished the Saviour. He’s stolen him away!”

“We must set him free!” – “The pope’s in on it.” – “To the church.” – “Save Jesus!”

Men and women came running from Aussig and Děčín, the mob grew, an agitated mass eager for action, yet deep down troubled by a feeling they were on the wrong path; ever and again they faltered, sought to calm themselves. “We’re spreading the gospel of Jesus, that the gentry stole from us.” – “Deceivers! Rogues!”

Yet they assaulted not manor houses, not the estates of nobles, but only churches from village to village. And their rage only grew under the sense of a wrong path taken. Beating on house doors they cried: “Get up! Bring out your Christ! His image here, out with it, it’s a false one.” They hauled dung-carts from sheds, hitched oxen, piled on crucifixes, images, prayer books. Women wept at windows, children shrank back in fear from fathers who had no eyes for them. A young one-eyed peasant from Aussig, formerly one of Mansfeld’s men, wept passionately, waved his arms at the piled up cart: “Our Lord Jesus Christ has been besmirched. Thou wast not our shield, because we never knew thee. It’s not our fault, we didn’t know. It’s not our fault we came too late to think on thee. Forgive us sinners!”

Many bystanders sank to their knees. Frightened cries: “Jesus, Jesus!” – “Forgive us!” – “Mercy!” The strong, the angry would not be swayed: “We’ll save him!” One man pushed his way through, arms thrusting like a swimmer’s he reached the encircled well; when he began to pull on the pump handle people melted back. Tiger-fierce he carried the filled bucket to the cart. Everyone watched intently. With a great swing he tipped water over the crucifixes, called out in a savage broken tone: “Second baptism. It’s done!” Joyfully, arms raised he gazed at the trickling heap, and around him silent people stretched arms out to him. “Into the earth!” shouted the fanatical baptist, shook himself, turned pale. Unthinkingly obedient, they pushed the cart out of the alley, at the first meadow dug a hole with picks, tipped the crucifixes in, even the ones with the mildest face and women weeping at the feet.

“His body in the earth. He himself, raised again from the dead, lives in Heaven above.”

As the mob surged on: “Now we’ve managed it all so well, should we not head for Prague and tell the governor what we’ve done and what we think?” The berserk baptist, angrily grinding his teeth: “Let’s head to Vienna, the Emperor, and tell him we want no more lords over us and no violence and acknowledge over us only Jesus Christ and the Roman Emperor. We demand an accounting for the desecration of our beloved Saviour, we want our Jesus back. And recompense.” – “Recompense, recompense!”

People running up asked: “Where to?” From the back, the middle: “Where are we off to?”

24. ‘Naught to do with Religion’

Emperor Ferdinand observed with deepest satisfaction how the German Empire had been brought to heel. It was his decision that had set in motion the dreadful Wallenstein machinery, he alone had prevented any curbing of the machine; on and on it toiled. At court people would rise to their feet meaning to sully his delight; he would stare back with unruffled composure, twinkle sympathetically, majestically. Prince Eggenberg is too soberly conscious of his safety, unable to play, unable to win; good, one can make use of him. Trautmannsdorf has courage, but he likes to take his crooked back and lie in the sun, look on yawning from his cosy corner. Big Lamormaini grunts his pleasure, sniffs the great roast being prepared for the Church in the north; enough said, any more would be carping, nothing that concerns that man has ever gone entirely right. Money cannot flow fast enough to Herr Meggau; Baron Stralendorf grumbles about an unseemly army only half Catholic, as if repression from a Protestant hand is less rigorous than from a Catholic. And what is he up to in Munich, dethroned Max, no longer playing emperor but just one prince among many, gnashing his teeth. It was he who conjured this adventure in what is already the distant past, but for his urging the Duke of Friedland would never have risen so high to be taken on as imperial General. The Emperor owes him thanks, but the Bavarian is unhappy at the course of events; it seems, really seems, that nothing in the Empire pleases him any more, it’s no fun being the sacrifice. And victory is no fun for the Duke of Friedland. His fate has burdened him, there’s bad poisonous blood in him. When he conquered Lower Saxony it drove him on to Denmark; when Denmark lay prostrate, Bethlen stirred; once Bethlen was pacified, the Turk beckoned; Friedland the burning sword that cannot but slash, someone must rein him in, control him.

But to Emperor Ferdinand everything was clear: his piety had been rewarded by the Mother of God with these men and a subjugated Germany. The Emperor, who in the months after the crushing of the Danes and Lower Saxons wandered still jaundiced from swamp fever about the castle or in Wolkersdorf or at Schönbrunn, now looked events straight in the eye, coyly and in tittering captivation, accepted them in furtive silence like a hermit who lets hinds and stags stray into his hut. He watched the destruction of the enemy in Silesia with painful excitement, then suddenly a crack appeared in him: he became clairvoyant. The huge campaigns came, the victories: he knew before they happened; it occurred to him he knew much more, it sometimes seemed Wallenstein knew this secret, but cold reports showed that the Duke was ignorant of what had occurred. And so the war danced on at his feet, mysteriously silent; ecstatic courtiers raved at every success, bells rang out across Holstein, Pomerania. Ferdinand was filled with a growing placid coyness. He became guarded, silent; over yonder he saw his fate playing out. A monstrous hand* was visible in these events driven by warriors horses cannon, the warriors had no idea what they were up to, why they fell; horses galloped and thought they obeyed the reins and the coachman, cannon were made of bronze, and not one believed that something more than the skill of their handlers steered the balls of stone, lead, chainshot. For those with eyes to see, a hand was writing on the soil of Lower Saxony and Holstein, the writing clearer line by line.

The Empress had to join in. For all his intimacy when together with her, taking a stroll, riding out, bringing her presents, Ferdinand seldom thought of her. He went about with his creation: a gentle absorbing woman filled with fierce passions; it was Heaven’s grace that led her to him, she was the vibrant echoing space within his soul. Now at her side in a closed chaise across May-bright hills, he showed in little phrases how matters were progressing out there. Ferdinand’s face had still not recovered from his sickness; the almost bald little skull draped in folds of skin moved on a wobbling neck, his chilled collapsed body bent, curled like a hedgehog in brown and dappled heaps of furs, hands and feet often trembling. The whiteblue eyes were content to gaze straight ahead. He whispered humbly: “We are a tool of the Almighty. The prayers and intercessions were not in vain.”

The lady from Mantua, torn from all her connections, allowed herself to be carried along almost unresisting; a sense of profound sinfulness never left her. Gritting her teeth she bent bowed braced herself at his side into the role he wrote for her; ever and again violated herself in horror and bliss, uncurled just for him. The trilling folksongs of Lombardy, sweet, free, bearing in them the joy of a pure radiant landscape, memories of country dances, bright costumes, festivals – she would never hear them again, or only as a parody that pained her. What the Church was, that there must be a Church, a holy Church of blessings, became comprehensible to her in her sinfulness, her inconsolable alienation. At prayer she snuggled up to the Emperor, there was a pure blessed communion between them that absolved everything; and she was able to stroll with him without flinching; if only she could stay like this. She became patroness of new Orders, was drawn to old ones fallen into ruin; the treasury of grace she accumulated must alleviate her life, pour darkness down to shroud the path she walked. She discovered with suicidal joy that the harder colder air of this country pleased her by and by; that she went down streets here as if back home. Only foreigners visiting her from Savoy and Mantua found her unrecognisable with her strange wide eyes, saw how ravaged she was by grief; put it down to the lack of children.

And while the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire was thrust up to the heights, steeped in victories that conferred on him a celestial power, in the Empire his adherents jostled to control the division of the looted spoils wherever they could be seized. Their hot eyes focused on the two archbishoprics twelve bishoprics in Lower Saxony, the famous towns of Magdeburg Bremen Halberstadt Merseburg Lübeck. Now they could seize what they had so long lusted after. These prince-bishoprics symbolised the decline of Catholic power. Slowly, imperceptibly almost, they had slid into Protestant hands. Those dark times were over. Among the Emperor’s allies in the League the muttering never stopped as war bared its true face, all smiles towards Wallenstein’s lot, all glares toward the Danes. They did not draw the Emperor into their secret, planned to confront him with demands like those claims for compensation during the Duke’s rise to power. The sharp-eared gentlemen in Vienna diverted the stream, soothed the rage and opposition to Wallenstein’s actions, all the while alluding to the prospect of the reversion of the bishoprics as a potential concession from the Emperor, but first victory, victory first. They became tractable; meanwhile the iron Bohemian’s war-chariot rattled unhindered across Lower Germany. When the Bohemian and the Emperor with him blaze up in all their awful glory, negotiations over such demands will take on another aspect, and not to their liking: so thought the counsellors.