BUTLER, CAPTAIN DEVEREUX, and MACDONALD.
MACDONALD.
Here we are, general.
DEVEREUX.
What's to be the watchword?
BUTLER.
Long live the emperor!
BOTH (recoiling).
How?
BUTLER.
Live the house of Austria.
DEVEREUX.
Have we not sworn fidelity to Friedland?
MACDONALD.
Have we not marched to this place to protect him?
BUTLER.
Protect a traitor and his country's enemy?
DEVEREUX.
Why, yes! in his name you administered
Our oath.
MACDONALD.
And followed him yourself to Egra.
BUTLER.
I did it the more surely to destroy him.
DEVEREUX.
So then!
MACDONALD.
An altered case!
BUTLER (to DEVEREUX).
Thou wretched man
So easily leavest thou thy oath and colors?
DEVEREUX.
The devil! I but followed your example;
If you could prove a villain, why not we?
MACDONALD.
We've naught to do with thinking—that's your business.
You are our general, and give out the orders;
We follow you, though the track lead to hell.
BUTLER (appeased).
Good, then! we know each other.
MACDONALD.
I should hope so.
DEVEREUX.
Soldiers of fortune are we—who bids most
He has us.
MACDONALD.
'Tis e'en so!
BUTLER.
Well, for the present
You must remain honest and faithful soldiers.
DEVEREUX.
We wish no other.
BUTLER.
Ay, and make your fortunes.
MACDONALD.
That is still better.
BUTLER.
Listen!
BOTH.
We attend.
BUTLER.
It is the emperor's will and ordinance
To seize the person of the Prince-Duke Friedland
Alive or dead.
DEVEREUX.
It runs so in the letter.
MACDONALD.
Alive or dead—these were the very words.
BUTLER.
And he shall be rewarded from the state
In land and gold who proffers aid thereto.
DEVEREUX.
Ay! that sounds well. The words sound always well
That travel hither from the court. Yes! yes!
We know already what court-words import.
A golden chain perhaps in sign of favor,
Or an old charger, or a parchment-patent,
And such like. The prince-duke pays better.
MACDONALD.
Yes,
The duke's a splendid paymaster.
BUTLER.
All over
With that, my friends. His lucky stars are set.
MACDONALD.
And is that certain?
BUTLER.
You have my word for it.
DEVEREUX.
His lucky fortune's all passed by?
BUTLER.
Forever.
He is as poor as we.
MACDONALD.
As poor as we?
DEVEREUX.
Macdonald, we'll desert him.
BUTLER.
We'll desert him?
Full twenty thousand have done that already;
We must do more, my countrymen! In short—
We—we must kill him.
BOTH (starting back)
Kill him!
BUTLER.
Yes, must kill him;
And for that purpose have I chosen you.
BOTH.
Us!
BUTLER.
You, Captain Devereux, and thee, Macdonald.
DEVEREUX (after a pause).
Choose you some other.
BUTLER.
What! art dastardly?
Thou, with full thirty lives to answer for—
Thou conscientious of a sudden?
DEVEREUX.
Nay
To assassinate our lord and general——
MACDONALD.
To whom we swore a soldier's oath——
BUTLER.
The oath
Is null, for Friedland is a traitor.
DEVEREUX.
No, no! it is too bad!
MACDONALD.
Yes, by my soul!
It is too bad. One has a conscience too——
DEVEREUX.
If it were not our chieftain, who so long
Has issued the commands, and claimed our duty——
BUTLER.
Is that the objection?
DEVEREUX.
Were it my own father,
And the emperor's service should demand it of me,
It might be done perhaps—but we are soldiers,
And to assassinate our chief commander,
That is a sin, a foul abomination,
From which no monk or confessor absolves us.
BUTLER.
I am your pope, and give you absolution.
Determine quickly!
DEVEREUX.
'Twill not do.
MACDONALD.
'Twont do!
BUTLER.
Well, off then! and—send Pestalutz to me.
DEVEREUX (hesitates).
The Pestalutz——
MACDONALD.
What may you want with him?
BUTLER.
If you reject it, we can find enough——
DEVEREUX.
Nay, if he must fall, we may earn the bounty
As well as any other. What think you,
Brother Macdonald?
MACDONALD.
Why, if he must fall,
And will fall, and it can't be otherwise,
One would not give place to this Pestalutz.
DEVEREUX (after some reflection).
When do you purpose he should fall?
BUTLER.
This night.
To-morrow will the Swedes be at our gates.
DEVEREUX.
You take upon you all the consequences?
BUTLER.
I take the whole upon me.
DEVEREUX.
And it is
The emperor's will, his express absolute will?
For we have instances that folks may like
The murder, and yet hang the murderer.
BUTLER.
The manifesto says—"alive or dead."
Alive—'tis not possible—you see it is not.
DEVEREUX.
Well, dead then! dead! But how can we come at him.
The town is filled with Terzky's soldiery.
MACDONALD.
Ay! and then Terzky still remains, and Illo——
BUTLER.
With these you shall begin—you understand me?
DEVEREUX.
How! And must they too perish?
BUTLER.
They the first.
MACDONALD.
Hear, Devereux! A bloody evening this.
DEVEREUX.
Have you a man for that? Commission me——
BUTLER.
'Tis given in trust to Major Geraldin;
This is a carnival night, and there's a feast
Given at the castle—there we shall surprise them,
And hew them down. The Pestalutz and Lesley
Have that commission. Soon as that is finished——
DEVEREUX.
Hear, general! It will be all one to you—
Hark ye, let me exchange with Geraldin.
BUTLER.
'Twill be the lesser danger with the duke.
DEVEREUX.
Danger! The devil! What do you think me, general,
'Tis the duke's eye, and not his sword, I fear.
BUTLER.
What can his eye do to thee?
DEVEREUX.
Death and hell!
Thou knowest that I'm no milksop, general!
But 'tis not eight days since the duke did send me
Twenty gold pieces for this good warm coat
Which I have on! and then for him to see me
Standing before him with the pike, his murderer.
That eye of his looking upon this coat—
Why—why—the devil fetch me! I'm no milksop!
BUTLER.
The duke presented thee this good warm coat,
And thou, a needy wight, hast pangs of conscience
To run him through the body in return,
A coat that is far better and far warmer
Did the emperor give to him, the prince's mantle.
How doth he thank the emperor? With revolt
And treason.
DEVEREUX.
That is true. The devil take
Such thankers! I'll despatch him.
BUTLER.
And would'st quiet
Thy conscience, thou hast naught to do but simply
Pull off the coat; so canst thou do the deed
With light heart and good spirits.
DEVEREUX.
You are right,
That did not strike me. I'll pull off the coat—
So there's an end of it.
MACDONALD.
Yes, but there's another
Point to be thought of.
BUTLER.
And what's that, Macdonald?
MACDONALD.
What avails sword or dagger against him?
He is not to be wounded—he is——
BUTLER (starting up).
What!
MACDONALD.
Safe against shot, and stab, and flash! Hard frozen.
Secured and warranted by the black art
His body is impenetrable, I tell you.
DEVEREUX.
In Ingolstadt there was just such another:
His whole skin was the same as steel; at last
We were obliged to beat him down with gunstocks.
MACDONALD.
Hear what I'll do.
DEVEREUX.
Well.
MACDONALD.
In the cloister here
There's a Dominican, my countryman.
I'll make him dip my sword and pike for me
In holy water, and say over them
One of his strongest blessings. That's probatum!
Nothing can stand 'gainst that.
BUTLER.
So do, Macdonald!
But now go and select from out the regiment
Twenty or thirty able-bodied fellows,
And let them take the oaths to the emperor.
Then when it strikes eleven, when the first rounds
Are passed, conduct them silently as may be
To the house. I will myself be not far off.
DEVEREUX.
But how do we get through Hartschier and Gordon,
That stand on guard there in the inner chamber?
BUTLER.
I have made myself acquainted with the place,
I lead you through a back door that's defended
By one man only. Me my rank and office
Give access to the duke at every hour.
I'll go before you—with one poinard-stroke
Cut Hartschier's windpipe, and make way for you.
DEVEREUX.
And when we are there, by what means shall we gain
The duke's bed-chamber, without his alarming
The servants of the court? for he has here
A numerous company of followers.
BUTLER.
The attendants fill the right wing: he hates bustle,
And lodges in the left wing quite alone.
DEVEREUX.
Were it well over—hey, Macdonald! I
Feel queerly on the occasion, devil knows.
MACDONALD.
And I, too. 'Tis too great a personage.
People will hold us for a brace of villains.
BUTLER.
In plenty, honor, splendor—you may safely
Laugh at the people's babble.
DEVEREUX.
If the business
Squares with one's honor—if that be quite certain.
BUTLER.
Set your hearts quite at ease. Ye save for Ferdinand
His crown and empire. The reward can be
No small one.
DEVEREUX.
And 'tis his purpose to dethrone the emperor?
BUTLER.
Yes! Yes! to rob him of his crown and life.
DEVEREUX.
And must he fall by the executioner's hands,
Should we deliver him up to the emperor
Alive?
BUTLER.
It were his certain destiny.
DEVEREUX.
Well! Well! Come then, Macdonald, he shall not
Lie long in pain.
[Exeunt BUTLER through one door, MACDONALD and DEVEREUX
through the other.
SCENE III.
A saloon, terminated by a gallery, which extends far
into the background.
WALLENSTIN sitting at a table. The SWEDISH CAPTAIN
standing before him.
WALLENSTEIN.
Commend me to your lord. I sympathize
In his good fortune; and if you have seen me
Deficient in the expressions of that joy,
Which such a victory might well demand,
Attribute it to no lack of good-will,
For henceforth are our fortunes one. Farewell,
And for your trouble take my thanks. To-morrow
The citadel shall be surrendered to you
On your arrival.
[The SWEDISH CAPTAIN retires. WALLENSTEIN sits lost in thought,
his eyes fixed vacantly, and his head sustained by his hand. The
COUNTESS TERZKY enters, stands before him for awhile, unobserved
by him; at length he starts, sees her and recollects himself.
WALLENSTEIN.
Comest thou from her? Is she restored? How is she?
COUNTESS.
My sister tells me she was more collected
After her conversation with the Swede.
She has now retired to rest.
WALLENSTEIN.
The pang will soften
She will shed tears.
COUNTESS.
I find thee altered, too,
My brother! After such a victory
I had expected to have found in thee
A cheerful spirit. Oh, remain thou firm!
Sustain, uphold us! For our light thou art,
Our sun.
WALLENSTEIN.
Be quiet. I ail nothing. Where's
Thy husband?
COUNTESS.
At a banquet—he and Illo.
WALLENSTEIN (rises and strides across the saloon).
The night's far spent. Betake thee to thy chamber.
COUNTESS.
Bid me not go, oh, let me stay with thee!
WALLENSTEIN (moves to the window).
There is a busy motion in the heaven,
The wind doth chase the flag upon the tower,
Fast sweep the clouds, the sickle [11] of the moon,
Struggling, darts snatches of uncertain light.
No form of star is visible! That one
White stain of light, that single glimmering yonder,
Is from Cassiopeia, and therein
Is Jupiter. (A pause.) But now
The blackness of the troubled element hides him!
[He sinks into profound melancholy, and looks vacantly
into the distance.
COUNTESS (looks on him mournfully, then grasps his hand).
What art thou brooding on?
WALLENSTEIN.
Methinks
If I but saw him, 'twould be well with me.
He is the star of my nativity,
And often marvellously hath his aspect
Shot strength into my heart.
COUNTESS.
Thou'lt see him again.
WALLENSTEIN (remains for awhile with absent mind, then assumes a livelier
manner, and turning suddenly to the COUNTESS).
See him again? Oh, never, never again!
COUNTESS.
How?
WALLENSTEIN.
He is gone—is dust.
COUNTESS.
Whom meanest thou, then?
WALLENSTEIN.
He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finished!
For him there is no longer any future,
His life is bright—bright without spot it was,
And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour
Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap,
Far off is he, above desire and fear;
No more submitted to the change and chance
Of the unsteady planets. Oh, 'tis well
With him! but who knows what the coming hour
Veiled in thick darkness brings us?
COUNTESS.
Thou speakest of Piccolomini. What was his death?
The courier had just left thee as I came.
[WALLENSTEIN by a motion of his hand makes signs to her
to be silent.
Turn not thine eyes upon the backward view,
Let us look forward into sunny days,
Welcome with joyous heart the victory,
Forget what it has cost thee. Not to-day,
For the first time, thy friend was to thee dead;
To thee he died when first he parted from thee.
WALLENSTEIN.
This anguish will be wearied down [12], I know;
What pang is permanent with man? From the highest,
As from the vilest thing of every day,
He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost
In him. The bloom is vanished from my life,
For oh, he stood beside me, like my youth,
Transformed for me the real to a dream,
Clothing the palpable and the familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn,
Whatever fortunes wait my future toils,
The beautiful is vanished—and returns not.
COUNTESS.
Oh, be not treacherous to thy own power.
Thy heart is rich enough to vivify
Itself. Thou lovest and prizest virtues in him,
The which thyself didst plant, thyself unfold.
WALLENSTEIN (stepping to the door).
Who interrupts us now at this late hour?
It is the governor. He brings the keys
Of the citadel. 'Tis midnight. Leave me, sister!
COUNTESS.
Oh, 'tis so hard to me this night to leave thee;
A boding fear possesses me!
WALLENSTEIN.
Fear! Wherefore?
COUNTESS.
Shouldst thou depart this night, and we at waking
Never more find thee!
WALLENSTEIN.
Fancies!
COUNTESS.
Oh, my soul
Has long been weighed down by these dark forebodings,
And if I combat and repel them waking,
They still crush down upon my heart in dreams,
I saw thee, yesternight with thy first wife
Sit at a banquet, gorgeously attired.
WALLENSTHIN.
This was a dream of favorable omen,
That marriage being the founder of my fortunes.
COUNTESS.
To-day I dreamed that I was seeking thee
In thy own chamber. As I entered, lo!
It was no more a chamber: the Chartreuse
At Gitschin 'twas, which thou thyself hast founded,
And where it is thy will that thou shouldst be
Interred.
WALLENSTEIN.
Thy soul is busy with these thoughts.
COUNTESS.
What! dost thou not believe that oft in dreams
A voice of warning speaks prophetic to us?
WALLENSTEIN.
There is no doubt that there exist such voices,
Yet I would not call them
Voices of warning that announce to us
Only the inevitable. As the sun,
Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image
In the atmosphere, so often do the spirits
Of great events stride on before the events,
And in to-day already walks to-morrow.
That which we read of the fourth Henry's death
Did ever vex and haunt me like a tale
Of my own future destiny. The king
Felt in his breast the phantom of the knife
Long ere Ravaillac armed himself therewith.
His quiet mind forsook him; the phantasma
Started him in his Louvre, chased him forth
Into the open air; like funeral knells
Sounded that coronation festival;
And still with boding sense he heard the tread
Of those feet that even then were seeking him
Throughout the streets of Paris.
COUNTESS.
And to thee
The voice within thy soul bodes nothing?
WALLENSTEIN.
Nothing.
Be wholly tranquil.
COUNTESS.
And another time
I hastened after thee, and thou rann'st from me
Through a long suite, through many a spacious hall.
There seemed no end of it; doors creaked and clapped;
I followed panting, but could not overtake thee;
When on a sudden did I feel myself
Grasped from behind,—the hand was cold that grasped me;
'Twas thou, and thou didst kiss me, and there seemed
A crimson covering to envelop us.
WALLENSTEIN.
That is the crimson tapestry of my chamber.
COUNTESS (gazing on him).
If it should come to that—if I should see thee,
Who standest now before me in the fulness
Of life——
[She falls on his breast and weeps.
WALLENSTEIN.
The emperor's proclamation weighs upon thee—
Alphabets wound not—and he finds no hands.
COUNTESS.
If he should find them, my resolve is taken—
I bear about me my support and refuge.
[Exit COUNTESS.
SCENE V.
WALLENSTEIN, GORDON.
WALLENSTEIN.
All quiet in the town?
GORDON.
The town is quiet.
WALLENSTEIN.
I hear a boisterous music! and the castle
Is lighted up. Who are the revellers?
GORDON.
There is a banquet given at the castle
To the Count Terzky and Field-Marshal Illo.
WALLENSTEIN.
In honor of the victory—this tribe
Can show their joy in nothing else but feasting.
[Rings. The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER enters.
Unrobe me. I will lay me down to sleep.
[WALLENSTEIN takes the keys from GORDON.
So we are guarded from all enemies,
And shut in with sure friends.
For all must cheat me, or a face like this
[Fixing his eyes on GORDON.
Was ne'er a hypocrite's mask.
[The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER takes off his mantle, collar, and scarf.
WALLENSTEIN.
Take care—what is that?
GROOM OF THE CHAMBER.
The golden chain is snapped in two.
WALLENSTEIN.
Well, it has lasted long enough. Here—give it.
[He takes and looks at the chain.
'Twas the first present of the emperor.
He hung it round me in the war of Friule,
He being then archduke; and I have worn it
Till now from habit—
From superstition, if you will. Belike,
It was to be a talisman to me;
And while I wore it on my neck in faith,
It was to chain to me all my life-long
The volatile fortune, whose first pledge it was.
Well, be it so! Henceforward a new fortune
Must spring up for me; for the potency
Of this charm is dissolved.
[GROOM OF THE CHAMBER retires with the vestments. WALLENSTEIN
rises, takes a stride across the room, and stands at last before
GORDON in a posture of meditation.
How the old time returns upon me! I
Behold myself once more at Burgau, where
We two were pages of the court together.
We oftentimes disputed: thy intention
Was ever good; but thou were wont to play
The moralist and preacher, and wouldst rail at me—
That I strove after things too high for me,
Giving my faith to bold, unlawful dreams,
And still extol to me the golden mean.
Thy wisdom hath been proved a thriftless friend
To thy own self. See, it has made thee early
A superannuated man, and (but
That my munificent stars will intervene)
Would let thee in some miserable corner
Go out like an untended lamp.
GORDON.
My prince
With light heart the poor fisher moors his boat,
And watches from the shore the lofty ship
Stranded amid the storm.
WALLENSTEIN.
Art thou already
In harbor, then, old man? Well! I am not.
The unconquered spirit drives me o'er life's billows;
My planks still firm, my canvas swelling proudly.
Hope is my goddess still, and youth my inmate;
And while we stand thus front to front almost,
I might presume to say, that the swift years
Have passed by powerless o'er my unblanched hair.
[He moves with long strides across the saloon, and remains
on the opposite side over against GORDON.
Who now persists in calling fortune false?
To me she has proved faithful; with fond love
Took me from out the common ranks of men,
And like a mother goddess, with strong arm
Carried me swiftly up the steps of life.
Nothing is common in my destiny,
Nor in the furrows of my hand. Who dares
Interpret then my life for me as 'twere
One of the undistinguishable many?
True, in this present moment I appear
Fallen low indeed; but I shall rise again.
The high flood will soon follow on this ebb;
The fountain of my fortune, which now stops,
Repressed and bound by some malicious star,
Will soon in joy play forth from all its pipes.
GORDON.
And yet remember I the good old proverb,
"Let the night come before we praise the day."
I would be slow from long-continued fortune
To gather hope: for hope is the companion
Given to the unfortunate by pitying heaven.
Fear hovers round the head of prosperous men,
For still unsteady are the scales of fate.
WALLENSTEIN (smiling).
I hear the very Gordon that of old
Was wont to preach, now once more preaching;
I know well, that all sublunary things
Are still the vassals of vicissitude.
The unpropitious gods demand their tribute.
This long ago the ancient pagans knew
And therefore of their own accord they offered
To themselves injuries, so to atone
The jealousy of their divinities
And human sacrifices bled to Typhon.
[After a pause, serious, and in a more subdued manner.
I too have sacrificed to him—for me
There fell the dearest friend, and through my fault
He fell! No joy from favorable fortune
Can overweigh the anguish of this stroke.
The envy of my destiny is glutted:
Life pays for life. On his pure head the lightning
Was drawn off which would else have shattered me.
SCENE V.
To these enter SENI.
WALLENSTEIN.
Is not that Seni! and beside himself,
If one can trust his looks? What brings thee hither
At this late hour, Baptista?
SENI.
Terror, duke!
On thy account.
WALLENSTEIN.
What now?
SENI.
Flee ere the day break!
Trust not thy person to the Swedes!
WALLENSTEIN.
What now
Is in thy thoughts?
SENI (with louder voice).
Trust not thy person to the Swedes.
WALLENSTEIN.
What is it, then?
SENI (still more urgently).
Oh, wait not the arrival of these Swedes!
An evil near at hand is threatening thee
From false friends. All the signs stand full of horror!
Near, near at hand the net-work of perdition—
Yea, even now 'tis being cast around thee!
WALLENSTEIN.
Baptista, thou art dreaming!—fear befools thee.
SENI.
Believe not that an empty fear deludes me.
Come, read it in the planetary aspects;
Read it thyself, that ruin threatens thee
From false friends.
WALLENSTEIN.
From the falseness of my friends
Has risen the whole of my unprosperous fortunes.
The warning should have come before! At present
I need no revelation from the stars
To know that.
SENI.
Come and see! trust thine own eyes.
A fearful sign stands in the house of life—
An enemy; a fiend lurks close behind
The radiance of thy planet. Oh, be warned!
Deliver not up thyself to these heathens,
To wage a war against our holy church.
WALLENSTEIN (laughing gently).
The oracle rails that way! Yes, yes! Now
I recollect. This junction with the Swedes
Did never please thee—lay thyself to sleep,
Baptista! Signs like these I do not fear.
GORDON (who during the whole of this dialogue has shown marks
of extreme agitation, and now turns to WALLENSTEIN).
My duke and general! May I dare presume?
WALLENSTEIN.
Speak freely.
GORDON.
What if 'twere no mere creation
Of fear, if God's high providence vouchsafed
To interpose its aid for your deliverance,
And made that mouth its organ?
WALLENSTEIN.
Ye're both feverish!
How can mishap come to me from the Swedes?
They sought this junction with me—'tis their interest.
GORDON (with difficulty suppressing his emotion).
But what if the arrival of these Swedes—
What if this were the very thing that winged
The ruin that is flying to your temples?
[Flings himself at his feet.
There is yet time, my prince.
SENI.
Oh hear him! hear him!
GORDON (rises).
The Rhinegrave's still far off. Give but the orders,
This citadel shall close its gates upon him.
If then he will besiege us, let him try it.
But this I say; he'll find his own destruction,
With his whole force before these ramparts, sooner
Than weary down the valor of our spirit.
He shall experience what a band of heroes,
Inspirited by an heroic leader,
Is able to perform. And if indeed
It be thy serious wish to make amend
For that which thou hast done amiss,—this, this
Will touch and reconcile the emperor,
Who gladly turns his heart to thoughts of mercy;
And Friedland, who returns repentant to him,
Will stand yet higher in his emperor's favor
Then e'er he stood when he had never fallen.
WALLENSTEIN (contemplates him with surprise, remains silent a while,
betraying strong emotion).
Gordon—your zeal and fervor lead you far.
Well, well—an old friend has a privilege.
Blood, Gordon, has been flowing. Never, never
Can the emperor pardon me: and if he could,
Yet I—I ne'er could let myself be pardoned.
Had I foreknown what now has taken place,
That he, my dearest friend, would fall for me,
My first death offering; and had the heart
Spoken to me, as now it has done—Gordon,
It may be, I might have bethought myself.
It may be too, I might not. Might or might not
Is now an idle question. All too seriously
Has it begun to end in nothing, Gordon!
Let it then have its course.
[Stepping to the window.
All dark and silent—at the castle too
All is now hushed. Light me, chamberlain?
[The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER, who had entered during the last dialogue,
and had been standing at a distance and listening to it with visible
expressions of the deepest interest, advances in extreme agitation
and throws himself at the DUKE's feet.
And thou too! But I know why thou dost wish
My reconcilement with the emperor.
Poor man! he hath a small estate in Carinthia,
And fears it will be forfeited because
He's in my service. Am I then so poor
That I no longer can indemnify
My servants? Well! to no one I employ
Means of compulsion. If 'tis thy belief
That fortune has fled from me, go! forsake me.
This night for the last time mayst thou unrobe me,
And then go over to the emperor.
Gordon, good-night! I think to make a long
Sleep of it: for the struggle and the turmoil
Of this last day or two was great. May't please you
Take care that they awake me not too early.
[Exit WALLENSTEIN, the GROOM OF THE CHAMBER lighting him. SENI
follows, GORDON remains on the darkened stage, following the DUKE
with his eye, till he disappears at the further end of the gallery:
then by his gestures the old man expresses the depth of his anguish,
and stands leaning against a pillar.