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.