“Superstition,” replied the Princess.
“I will not dispute with you about the word,” replied the Electoral Prince. “But you must concede one thing: He sought to read his fate in the position of the stars. He believed that everything which happened to him was written there, and he tried to read the writing. To that extent he acknowledged the power which governs the stars.”
“Then in reality his superstition was an evidence of his faith,” said the Electoress. “Then if he sometimes fell into a fanaticism, which sprung from his belief in his favorite science, we are bound to excuse him. Do you mean that?”
“Not entirely,” replied Frederick William. “In part he was a fanatic; but besides this there was much of evil in him, and when that evil took possession of his nature it destroyed everything before it.”
The Princess Henrietta replied: “There is nothing upon earth which interests me so much as the human soul. The famous botanist Kluit at Leyden analyzes an object and examines its organism and structure with the microscope. I would like to have an instrument which would so disclose the soul of Wallenstein that I might look into its lowest depths. What a picture it would reveal to my gaze!”
“Sister,” said the Princess Louise, “I agree with you. Many years have passed, but I clearly remember that for a long time I could not rid myself of the picture of the dying Wallenstein by day or night. The door is burst open by the hired assassin. There he stands in the middle of his chamber, an apparition in his white night-dress. The assassin trembles for an instant. Then plucking up courage he rushes upon Wallenstein and pierces him with his knife. Silently and with outstretched arms he receives his death-wound. Not a word! not a sound! He expires in silence! What a monstrous spectacle! But I will desist, for our Rupert is again growing angry.”
It was true, but Rupert only said: “Not yet, sister! But I think you ought not to make such an ado about a murderous soul. In the end you may sympathize with that wretch as well as with Maximilian, who took away our inheritance without a sting of conscience.”
The Electoress grew visibly pale. It was always so when she heard the name of the man who had defeated her husband’s army at Prague.
The oldest Prince, desirous of pacifying his brother, who was somewhat impetuous and outbreaking, said: “Now I will say a word for the sisters who have often expressed themselves as to Maximilian. I may not repeat what they said here, but I remember it. Believe me as to one thing. Had no battle been fought at Prague and had not Maximilian usurped our birthright, I should still have despised him from the bottom of my soul and ranked him far below Wallenstein. How basely he acted! He first suggested his removal. Then when Gustavus Adolphus had driven him into straits, he whined like a dog at Wallenstein’s door and begged for protection and assistance. But hardly is Gustavus Adolphus gone when he again begins his machinations, and continues them until Wallenstein is killed by an assassin.”
“Do you seriously mean, cousin,” said the Electoral Prince, “that Maximilian was the only cause of Wallenstein’s murder?”