gustavus adolphus, or the lion of the midnight sun

8/18/2019 Gustavus Adolphus, or the Lion of the Midnight Sun

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Gustavus Adolphus,or

The Lion of the Midnight Sun

A historical tragedy by Sandra Dermark(Translated by herself from the German)

The one who has quaffed life at deepest draughtsand would risk life and limb for noble cause

will never be looked down on, once deceased.Such was the Vasa ruler of those days

when lands were rent by cruel religious war.This play is meant to praise his legacy .

Dramatis personae(Cast of the play)

Several JESUITS: Catholics dressed in black.KAISER FERDINAND II: Quite a devout Catholic, though merely ostensibly holy. Raised byJesuits. He stays at court and sends his generals to fight for him on the war front.Both his generals of highest command:

ALBRECHT VON WALLENSTEIN: Wealthy landowner, and Duke of Friedland.Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Army. Married with two children (a boy, Berthold, and agirl, Thekla). A true epicurean and freethinker who loves science, with a passion forastrology and other occult sciences. He is afraid of loud noises, and suffers also from heartconditions caused by his lifestyle. Also quite irascible: that he has anyone who contradictshis word executed is a well-known fact both to his many friends and vassals at Schloss

Friedland and to his many enemies at the Imperial Court. For he hopes to someday usurpthe Kaiser's throne and the rule of the whole realm...JEAN 'T SERCLAËS, COUNT OF TILLY: Commander-in-Chief of the Catholic League. Acompletely temperate and chaste veteran of war, who remains undefeated until these daysas well. This septuagenarian, raised by Jesuits, is unmarried and childless due to his vow ofchastity. He feels more at ease in camp than at court. Cold-hearted towards the enemy, andremains cool even in the hardest trials. Seen in his youth as a killjoy by officers and privatesalike, he is now a legendary warrior respected and admired throughout the Catholic armies...except by Wallenstein, who still regards him as a curmudgeon and an old-fashioned one.GOTTFRIED HEINRICH, COUNT IN PAPPENHEIM: Leader of the Catholic cavalry and left

wing, and as cheerful and impulsive as the King of Sweden, born the same year, and withwhose destiny his is tied. Known by the nickname of "Scar-Heinz" due to his many scars, the

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foremost the crossed swords on the coat-of-arms of House Pappenheim on his forehead.Married with one child (a boy, Wolfgang).

A YOUNG CROATIAN OFFICEROFFICERS, PRIVATES, AND CAMP FOLLOWERS ON THE CATHOLIC SIDEGUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS, KING OF SWEDEN: Our dashing male lead, in his mid-thirties.Lively and impulsive to the point of being foolhardy, honest, confident, and good-looking.He's tall and blond, with a goatee and bright blue eyes. Married with an only child (a little girl,Princess Christina). He is always ready to help those in need and save the oppressed...though he's got his shortcomings when it comes to impulse control.MARY ELEANOR, QUEEN OF SWEDEN: Married to Gustavus Adolphus. A beautiful andartistically-minded, sensitive young woman from Prussia, who often worries about her royalspouse, since she loves him so much and he loves her equally passionately in return.ELECTOR WILLIAM OF BRANDENBURG AND PRUSSIA: Reluctant ally of the Swedes andstepbrother to Eleanor. He has got prejudice against Lutherans like the Swedes (therefore,he banished Eleanor from the electorate and declared her persona non grata due to herbetrothal and elopement with Gustavus Adolphus).ELECTOR GEORGE OF SAXONY: Reluctant ally of the Swedes, a first-class drinker andwencher who wants to enjoy his pastimes in peace without being bothered. Can thus appearto be a turncoat who is constantly switching sides. Is henpecked by his clever better half,Electoress Sybil.SWEDISH GENERALS, OFFICERS, AND PRIVATES, WITH THEIR CAMP FOLLOWERS,

AND THEIR BRITISH AND GERMAN ALLIESThe NARRATOR: A she is this, in italics she speaks,and, for some reason, in pentameter.Her name won't show up when she intervenes,thus, if you see pentameter and verse,you'll know that the Narrator spins her tale.

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UP WITH THE CURTAIN!

PRELUDE

Dear Muses Clio and Calliope,mothers of epic and of history,and you, Idun, who keep the fruit of goldthat keeps youth sound and stories to be told,and Yuval, Jubal, first minstrel of allthose who have found in flute or strings their call,I'm but a fragile, reckless mortal maid,who at your feet's her masterpieces laid,one out of many who sprung in your shade.With downcast look, I pray, these verses bless,no matter if they bring to me success,since from the bottom of a maiden's hearton fire they rose, forebearers of art! 'Tis true, the merchandise I bring for saleis not so brisk as liquor, wine, or ale:out of a stem that scored the bleeding handI wrung it in a bleak and weary land...but take it: if the taste is sharp and sour,the better it will be in the darkest hour.It should do good to both your heart and mindwhenever life is painful or unkind,and I will soon befriend you, if I may,on any dark and cloudy, stormy day.This true story begins, for every nation,with something called Protestant Reformation,when Friar Luther faced Kaiser Charles,who chased the heretic throughout the landsand had him also declared an outlaw.Elector Frederick of Saxony

liked Luther, saved his life, and kept him safe.The Catholics' response did not delay:a Church Council they soon in Trento held,and there and then, their creed they reaffirmed.Throughout the Western world, the Jesuitsand Inquisition smote the Protestantswith cold water, the rack, the stake and fire.Yet in the end, the Kaiser had to yieldto the Protestants, leave his heavy crown,and die, thus, in retired obscurity.

This victory sure vexed the Jesuits,who thought of a grand plan for their revenge.

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Decades later, young Archduke Ferdinand,a Habsburg and the Jesuits' brightest ward,inherited the Imperial crown and throne.He aimed to purge the Realm of Protestants,to whom repression unexpected came!The chaste and sober, aged Count of Tillyand wealthy, clever upstart Wallensteinwere the swords of the Kaiser's dreaded host.

And, though together they could always win,they were too stubborn and too different.Since Wallenstein sought wealth and power inthose lands he had claimed from the enemy,his foes at court never liked such a ruse.

And thus, during Reichstag in Regensburg,they try to persuade the Kaiser tocashier the Duke of Friedland, Wallenstein...

ACT THE FIRST

SCENE I. THE REICHSTAG OF REGENSBURGThe Jesuits whisper in the Kaiser's ears,yet Wallenstein serene and bold appears.KAISER: Albrecht von Wallenstein... Pardon Us, but We have never wished for a generalwho abused the power of his rank. Thus, you are cashiered. Your army shall be united withthe Catholic League. Please give Us your sword and your staff of command, and never moretake command of our ranks.WALLENSTEIN: Just as I feared! It was written in the stars! And I saw it coming, that the oldman, that curmudgeon, would be the one to replace me! Yet it is not too late. Were he butwounded or killed, I would be reinstated! Thus, back to the palace of Friedland and to myastral charts! The Kaiser will soon regret such a decision!

SCENE II. THE KING'S LANDINGOn Rügen's chalk cliffs lands the Swedish fleet,

reaching the German shores after long weeks.First lands the King, then Eleanor, his Queen,until the meanest ranker can be seen.GUSTAVUS: Thank the Lord we made it through the storm! That must be a good omen!He kneels and, in his manly baritone,he sings, thus, this encouraging, warm song:Do not despair, my little band,though enemies throughout the landare seeking to destroy you!They rejoice, hoping you'll fall soon,

but they will sing another tune,so keep on brave and coy, you!

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OFFICERS: Long live the Golden King! Long live the Hero King!RANKERS: Long live the Lion of the Midnight Sun!ELEANOR: Long live my beloved, the one I give my heart!EVERYONE: Long live our King and Liege, the chosen Liberator!

SCENE III. INTERLUDE THE FIRSTIn Leipzig, soon, Gustavus's envoysmake allies with Prussia and with Saxony.Not far, Magdeburg is soon overrun,children are orphaned, maidens are abused,even the children are stabbed or far worse...Their only sin was being Protestants,and their slayers were bold for what they'd drunk.Then, th'old Walloon's host heads for Saxony,whose ruler, disturbed by the Leaguers' raids,at first frightened, lets th'enemy host in.

And, pretty soon, Leipzig and Halle fall,surrender to share not Magdeburg's fate.The King of Swedes reached Saxony too late,though the Elector, now racked with regret,turns coat once more to the Protestant side.Both rulers revel and quaff Saxon ale,the dark beer of the hopyards' harvest feast,as they discuss matters of love and war,then rest within the hall of Breitenfeld,north of Leipzig: a lovely grand estate.That night, Gustavus dreams that he confronts,in wrestling, unarmed, the Count of Tilly.Younger and taller, the Swede quickly winsand pins his aged opponent to the ground,then, with his teeth, with strength to him unknown,tears up the green doublet of Jean 't Serclaës,and the shirt and the skin that lie beneath,and even the hard breastbone, as with tongs,

and then, at realizing what he's done,looks into his opponent's open chest,and there finds lungs blackened by gunsmoke soot,scarred by wounds given with both lead and steel,around his shrivelled seventyish heart,which still, though hard and scarred, throbs restlessly.The Walloon is still conscious, reaching outhis hard and dry hands to the younger Swede,with a look of despair in his blue eyes.

A premonition of sure victory?

Such is this autumn night i' th' Swedish camp.The Leaguers, outside Leipzig, stay awake.

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Meanwhile, the daring Count of Pappenheimand the high officers of the great League,all decades younger than Jean de Tilly,coax and taunt their septuagenarian lordto boldly dare give battle the next day.In the end, under pressure, even thoughhe'd rather wait for reinforcements then,the silver-haired Walloon finally yields...

SCENE IV. BREITENFELDOn the vast fields that north of Leipzig lay,a bloody confrontation now takes place:for the first time, the Golden King of Swedesand the silver-haired Count Jean de Tillyconfront each other on the battlefield!This seventh of September, now and here,at Breitenfeld, their ranks facing the sun,will the bold Swedes attain sought victory?GUSTAVUS (singing, at the head of his right wing): Do not despair, my little band,though enemies throughout the landare seeking to destroy you!They rejoice, hoping you'll fall soon,but they will sing another tune,so keep on brave and coy, you!Let us sing, ere we rush into the fray!Today, a new age of freedom will begin!TILLY: Now we've got these heretics! This evening, the Kaiser will receive news of ourthirty-seventh victory! (Taking out his rosary from his breastplate, saying a Hail Mary inLatin): Ave Maria gratia plena...PAPPENHEIM (impatient, pounding his chest, at the head of the League’s left wing): So,shall we attack these frigging heretics or not?'Twas foretold that a Count of Pappenheimwith the crest of the household on his browwould slay a fearsome ruler from the North

in single combat!! Now, at last, the chanceis here to make this prophecy come true!!Forth, strike their right wing, which Gustavus leads!GUSTAVUS (at the head of his right wing): Forwards! Forwards! Gott mit uns!Their confidence will fade away ere dusk!The dream I had last night sure was a signthat we'll, tonight, quaff victory's sweet wine!The Swedes strike, recklessly and gallantly,which does not please the old Count of Tilly.Such weapons, tactics, are to him unknown.

Yet he's sure that Our Lady for a shieldand decades of experience on the field

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will ensure that his tercios still endure.GUSTAVUS (at the head of his right wing): Forwards! Forwards! Gott mit uns!Believe you'll win, like us, and we shall win!Once we have knocked the Pappenheimers out,we'll take the hill were cannons stand by storm!TILLY (looking through his spyglass): The riders gallop among the running pikemen, like thelasses among the lads at the dance! The king of heretics is mad as a hatter... here rush theinfantry and the cavalry together... And little cannons made of leather? This cannot be true!These northerners simply do not understand the noble art of war!PAPPENHEIM (fiery, bereft of self-control, at the head of the Catholic cavalry on the leftwing): Leave the frigging Swedes to me!!Six times we've lashed at them, and all six timesthey've thrust us back, adding fresh red new woundsto my skin's tapestry of warrior life...The seventh will ensure we win this strife!!Jesus and Mary!!! (The Pappenheimers gallop once more and clash with the lines of theirenemy vanguard. A Swedish cannonball hits him in the head, and he falls unconscious onthe battlefield.)The Swedes ascend the slopes of the high hillwhere the League's twelve enormous cannons stand.Croats retreat, Walloons now take to flight,and flags are swept away before their eyes.The silver-haired leader of th'Catholic host,despairing, won't give in that easily.TILLY (now at the head of his hosts): Forwards! Forwards! Jesus and Mary! Do not retreat!They're just a handful of heretics!SWEDISH CAVALRY CAPTAIN (hits Tilly in the head with the stock of his pistol): This is forHeidelberg!SWEDISH LIEUTENANT (stabs Tilly in the side): And this is for Magdeburg!The wounded count now falls and shuts his eyes.

A few Walloons gather the unconscious form, pursued by Swedes, relentlessly, boldly.Soon, one third of those trusty Walloons fall,while the rest flee into the Leipzig woods,

not before killing those pursuing Swedes.The Protestants still follow in their wake,as if pursuing wanted criminals.Who could e'er say the day would end this way?Many of those who lost the fray survived,ta'en prisoner by the golden King of Swedes.Yet he's freed them and made them his own men,sworn to the Swedish nation and its flag.When the Count of Tilly at last awakes,after weeks of lingering close to death,

he's crushed by the news of his first defeat.He thinks Fortune's a lady, after all,

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grown weary of men in their seventies,who has a younger Northern lover found.

SCENE V. SECOND INTERLUDELeipzig and Halle soon yield to the Swedes,and the Marienburg does soon as well.How many well-attained victoriesand won engagements fought for freedom's sake,then fêted with great revels, song and dance,and drink: the Protestants should celebrate!Here's to the King and his high officers!The whole autumn and winter pass this way,until warm springtime finally arrives.The Swedes head then straight for Bavarian lands,yet the Count of Tilly's regained his health,and he's been waiting for them to show up...

SCENE VI. THE CROSSING OF THE LECHIn springtime, warmly shines the sun again,liquifying the glaciers of the Alps,so that the streams that there have their pure sourcewiden and surge, their waters raging white.Thus swell th'Iller, the Lech, th'Isar and th'Inn,the Danube’s tributaries, turning eachinto a fierce, unfettered Phlegethon.Where the Lech into the Danube gives way,at the rapids of th'April confluence,Jean de Tilly, the aged Catholic lord,is garrisoned, leading the League, his host,on the right bank of the treacherous stream,dismounting the by the surge broken bridge,to use it as their holdfast's palisade.Thus, there's no Lech bridge when the Swedes arriveat the sinister bank of this fierce stream.

The question: Will this stop Gustavus now?TILLY (looking through his spyglass): There are those heretics... But they cannot cross therapids. They will never get to Bavaria, for there is no chance they will cross.

Across the surging stream, Gustavus hasbegun to carry out his clever plan:young springtime branches are cut in the woods,wooden farms they dismount on the left bank.With the branches, outside their palisades,the Swedes a bonfire then begin to raise,far larger than the one within their camp.

On the fourth of April, by light of day,flames and smoke-clouds rise from this great bonfire...

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GUSTAVUS (singing): Do not despair, my little band,though enemies throughout the landare seeking to destroy you!They rejoice, hoping you'll fall soon,but they will sing another tune,so keep on brave and coy, you!Let us sing, ere we rush into the fray!We shan't back now, before this petty rill!If they cannot stop us, no one else will!The Swedes have lit the bonfire of spring wood,and, by the smoke-screen from the foe concealed,they cast a trestle-bridge across the Lech,this raging Phlegethon of springtime thaw,then ride and run across the cold, white surge.For the Leaguers, 'tis no good sign at all...TILLY (looking through his spyglass): This cannot be true! Aldringen! Pappenheim! Stopthose heretics! Open fire!Both high officers obey this command,but the Swedish attack's as raging fierceas the white waters of the stream below.Johann von Aldringen, struck in the head,falls. Bold Count Gottfried Heinz of Pappenheimalso collapses. Losing consciousness,he has been struck down from his fiery steed.The Catholics are forced, thus, to retreat,carrying their leaders' now unconscious formsinto safety, within the palisade.Gun after gun is fired on both banks,and the shots rattle in the April air.GUSTAVUS (at the head of his armies): Gott mit uns! Follow us to victory!Shall we, who crossed the Baltic and the Rhine,back at this rill, half-way across our quest?Their Phlegethon is our Rubicon;so onward, friends! Alea iacta est!

The Catholic leader in his seventieshas now entirely ceased to love himself.His confidence fled half a year before,shattered by the defeat of Breitenfeld.For decades on the field, ere Leipzig fell,Jean de Tilly was for three virtues known:he had never made love to wench or maid,neither had lost his reason to strong drink,nor yielded to the foe in any fray.

Alas! Had he been slain at Breitenfeld,

as a Catholic hero he'd be hailed! At Breitenfeld, he knew his first defeat

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in such a brilliant lifetime and career,which left his reputation shattered now.

And losing on the field is something thatJean 't Serclaës does not tolerate at all!For he thought one more victory would doto wash the dark stain of Breitenfeld out...TILLY (Taking out his rosary from his breastplate, saying a Hail Mary in Latin): Ave Mariagratia plena...

Alas! Had he been slain at Breitenfeld,as a Catholic hero he'd be hailed!There's no more courage in his aged heart,which now despair has violently usurped.

And this feeling, so dreadful and so strong,inspires him to sacrifice it all,to risk all at one game of pitch-and-toss,and never breathe a word about his loss...TILLY (Taking back his rosary into his breastplate, finishing a Hail Mary in Latin): ...nunc etin hora mortis nostrae. Amen.The silver-haired lord then crosses himself:his right hand darts to his brow, to his heart,to his left shoulder, and then to the right.Then, he takes up his own tercio's stained flag,white and sky blue, embroidered fittingly,with Altötting's chapel, the linden green,and the crowned Virgin, her Child in her arms,soaring above the quaint and lovely shrine.Then, on his gray Croatian pony, herides on the bridge, to fight the Swedes himselfand secure the sought-after victory.TILLY (holding the flag up high): Jesus and Mary!

A Swedish cannonball strikes his right thigh,above the knee, searing flesh, splitting bone.The aged leader of the Catholic Leaguefalls backwards, with shut eyes and strangely pale,

into the arms of his faithful Walloons.Leading th'unconscious count out of the fray,they flee the Swedes, for their dear leader's life.Gustavus and his host successfullyhave won the right bank of the surging Lech,and thus, crossed into warm Bavarian lands.GUSTAVUS (at the head of his armies): Today is such an important day! The wholeElectorate of Bavaria stands now defenseless before us, and soon the crownland, Austriaitself, is to share its fate! If I were that remarkable old corporal, I would never have left sucha great position in the clutches of the advancing enemy. Even if a cannonball had torn my

chin off! Anyway, Monsieur Jean de Tilly has been so kind to leave an empty camp here onthe left bank, for us to spend this night without any effort!

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The Swedes encamp in the League's empty post.What happened to the distressed Catholics?They've brought their wounded leader somewhere safe,to the keep of the fort of Ingolstadt,which the Swedes unexpectedly besiege.Gustavus learns that Jean 't Serclaës is there,in bed, in the commandant's residence,fighting his last fight against death itself.The King of Swedes sends his own surgeon up,within the walls, to the commandant's keep,to tend to the sore wounded Count Tilly,who can't find the right words to thank this deed,not merely for his feelings, for such lovecuts through his fever-mists like flaming steel,but also because lockjaw has set in,making him toss and turn and writhe in bed,restraining him to drink, to speak, to breathe,and racking his aged frame with searing pain.SWEDISH SURGEON: I'm so sorry... A man his age, with lockjaw...PAPPENHEIM (shedding tears, sobbing): Thus... Is there no hope?TILLY (finding it hard to breathe, speaking in a faint voice and making a great effort tospeak): The Swede, your king, is a true and noble knight... (He kisses his rosary, making anintense effort, then closes his eyes and ceases to breathe, as his Spanish steel rapier falls tothe ground with a clank.)His Spanish rapier falls upon the ground,as he breathes out and then, at last, is still.Thus dies the silver-haired Count of Tilly,the faithful scourge of the One Catholic Church:ablaze with fever, seized with searing pain,against his will to breathe sadly restrained,yet with his broken, bleeding, heavy heart at last,after two weeks of intense suffering,finally soothed, forever laid to rest.Outside the fort, in camp, Gustavus weeps,

and the high officers do so as well,mourning such a great, worthy enemy.Soon, both armies are leaving Ingolstadt:the Catholics, to take their deceased lord,in mourning, southward, to Altötting's shrine,a chapel by a linden, in the Alps,to rest forever at Our Lady's feet.The Swedes, out of respect for Count Tilly,have pardoned the place where he breathed his last:the first hold that Gustavus cannot take.

The Swedes have soon become Bavaria's lords,seizing this region's capital and all,

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and then on crowned Austria they close in.Shall crowned Vienna thus share Munich's fate?Did not the Kaiser's faith have two warlords,the older one the scourge, th'other the sword,a younger, equally important lord,leader of high officers and great hosts?

DOWN WITH THE CURTAIN!

END OF ACT ONE

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ENTR'ACTE, OR INTERLUDE BETWEEN THE ACTS

What did you think about the play so far?Do you guess th'other warlord's Wallenstein,the Duke of Friedland, brooding and reserved?If you have guessed so, I must say you are right.But the Kaiser has no other choice at allthan to reinstate the one you cashiered sawin the very first scene of this great play.In the second act, you will, and I swear, seehow Swedes confronted brooding Wallenstein.Upon that I rely and thus resume...

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UP WITH THE CURTAIN!

ACT THE SECOND

SCENE VII. WALLENSTEIN REINSTATEDIn the Bohemian crownland's northern reach,known as Friedland, id est, the Land of Peace,in the stateliest Schloss we lay our scene.In this great keep, fit for crowned royalty,resides its duke, Albrecht von Wallenstein,with his two children and Viennese spouse,who are to him but pawns and signs of rank.Here, in His Grace's bedchamber, it's darkthis evening. And the Duke is still awake.On the table before him, charts of starsand letters from the Kaiser can be seen.Dark Albrecht reads the letters from his liege,and then, he whispers smugly to himself...WALLENSTEIN (whispering): That seventyish curmudgeon is deceased,

just as I’d foretold... and the ruthless Swedesthreaten the Kaiser's own imperial lands...Last winter, I wrote letters to the Kingof Sweden to have him for an ally.But now the old count is bereft of life,and therefore, His Imperial Majestyrequires me once more leading his hosts.These events prove a change within my plans:I will usurp th’ imperial crown and realm...when this golden-haired rival lives no more! (He reads the letter.)

And shall the stripling Archduke be my liege? And must I abide by the rules of war?The Kaiser says so: Thus it cannot be!

(He takes a scroll and a quill, and then he writes) Your Most Gracious Imperial Majesty! Asthe most distinguished nobleman in the whole Realm, I would be pleased to receive carteblanche... Yours truthfully... Your most faithful servant, Albrecht Eusebius Wenzel vonWallenstein!The Kaiser soon receives the Duke's request,and soon Wallenstein has received carte blanche.In sunshine and acclaim, one summer day,he leaves Schloss Friedland with his only son,a lad, yet colonel of a regiment,and his whole armed host and entourage.

His spouse and daughter follow Albrecht too,not staying within Friedland’s castle walls,

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but follow husband, father, lord, to war,as part of th'ostentatious retinue.Soon, the survivors of the Catholic League,the few ones by the wrath of Sweden spared,including the bold Count of Pappenheim,are joined under the flag of Wallensteinto the redoubtable Imperial host .

SCENE VIII. THE OLD HOLDFASTOn a hill that there's north of Nuremberg,overlooking the quaint borough of Fürth,stands a ruined holdfast from the days of knights.With palisades around the ivy-lined walls,from which black iron cannons now protrude,like many-headed dragon lying downto watch the vale below and spew its blaze,Wallenstein's host's intrenched and garrisonedwithin the ruined keep, the Swedes in Fürth.In late August of sixteen thirty-two,the Swedes stand before the fort on the hill,which Wallenstein expected that they should.The Protestants ride and race up the slopeto take the Old Holdfast by sudden storm.Yet who can challenge the Leviathanwithout surrendering to him unscathed?His heart is hard, as hard as granite rocks.GUSTAVUS (singing): Do not despair, my little band,though enemies throughout the landare seeking to destroy you!They rejoice, hoping you'll fall soon,but they will sing another tune,so keep on brave and coy, you!Let us sing, ere we rush into the fray!That redoubtable holdfast is to fall!

However, Wallenstein makes a sortie.GUSTAVUS (at the head of his armies): Forwards! Gott mit uns!Redoubtable is the Friedlander's keep,yet this storm will at least sure strike a breach,and a white cloth will flutter from those walls!PAPPENHEIM (fiery, bereft of self-control, at the head of the Catholic cavalry on the leftwing): Leave the frigging Swedes to me!! Jesus and Mary!!!I lost, at Breitenfeld and at the Lech,the chance to challenge him to single fight...Follow my banner, dashing rider men;

for the first time, they'll be taking to flight!To the Swedes, an important fact's revealed:

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that Wallenstein's completely unlike Tilly.The Duke of Friedland is a younger lord,more open-minded and far more prepared,with weapons and tactics just like the Swedes'.Soon, many enemies litter the slope,but so do many Protestants as well.The great General Lennart Torstensssonhas been taken a prisoner of war,and so have many young officers too.WALLENSTEIN (inside the keep): Even though his host dwindles in the fray,the golden-haired one will ere break than bend!Like a bold young lieutenant, Sweden's kingranks his life as a trifle, risking it...Voilà! This ruined holdfast we'll soon leave,and head up north, for wealthy Saxony!The Leipzig lands will fall once more to us,and th'enemy will be in our pursuit!Then, we will set a trap and lure him in...GUSTAVUS (at the head of his armies): Forwards! Forwards! Gott mit uns! But what?The keep is empty, lonely, and ablaze;and all our pris'ners that the foe has madestorm down the hill at twilight back to us!Yet Lennart Torstensson is not amongtheir ranks! Has Friedland's Duke him leftlocked in this dragon carcass, wreathed in flames?

A YOUNG OFFICER (once taken prisoner, now set free): Your Majesty! There's not even asingle sellsword in here!GUSTAVUS: And why?THE YOUNG OFFICER: Wallenstein has had all of us set free, except our general, and thenhad the keep set on fire and left it with all of his army and entourage! They're carryingTorstensson towards Bavaria, to Ingolstadt, where Tilly died. But Wallenstein's host isheading up north, for Saxony. To win the weak-willed Elector over to his side, which is by nomeans a Herculean task.GUSTAVUS: That craven! And this has proven our first defeat! Forwards! The Duke of

Friedland will soon regret it all!SCENE IX. THE REVIEWNow summer ends, and autumn thus begins.The air is colder, flowers wither, mistshrouds the lands in the evening and the morn.The Swedes follow the wake of Wallensteininto Thuringia, then to Saxony.It's late October. It's All Hallow's Eve,the date when spirits rise to mortal realms.

'Twixt Erfurt and Lützen, the Swedish hostis holding a review: the King and Queen

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are obviously there. Through the leaden cloudssteal a few pallid rays of autumn sun,yet something painful's clear to Eleanor ...ELEANOR (unquiet): What are you thinking of?GUSTAVUS: Leipzig and Halle have already fallen...ELEANOR (crying): Once more, the storm of war tears us apart...GUSTAVUS (drying up her tears, soothing her): But... Have I ever failed to return into yourwarm, loving arms?ELEANOR (crying, sobbing, drying up her own tears): Without you... Think of us! Think ofour little child, our only daughter?GUSTAVUS (soothing her): I have received a letter from her! She writes for each time betterthan before! (He takes up the letter and reads aloud): "My most gracious, beloved lordfather..." Yes, it is really my girl, my child! My little Stina wishing me good luck!ELEANOR (unquiet): You will surely need it!GUSTAVUS (soothing her, as he dries up a single tear): She wishes for a present! Weshould buy her a gift or two in Leipzig, after our victory!ELEANOR (unquiet): Will you get through it?GUSTAVUS (soothing her): Darling, would you like a gift as well?ELEANOR (bursting into tears): Yes! I would like you alive!!!GUSTAVUS (drying up her tears, soothing her): My dear Eleanor... never have I seen you insuch a dreary mood!ELEANOR (bursting into tears): I had the most dreadful dream last night!GUSTAVUS (soothing her): And what have you dreamt of, my love?ELEANOR (shedding tears, drying them up on Gustavus's doublet collar): There was a battlefought. You confronted Wallenstein upon the battlefield. But he had evil spirits, and demons,and dark fairies on his side! Then everything was hidden in fog and gunsmoke, until the hazeparted at twilight over the silent lea, where I sought you among the countless slain, hopingyou'd be at least wounded, but still alive... (Shedding tears, drying them up on Gustavus'scollar, now clasping his waist.) But you...GUSTAVUS (soothing her): Had I fallen upon the battlefield?ELEANOR (shedding tears, drying them up on her handkerchief, still clasping her husband'swaist): Darling! Give me but one last kiss ere the battle is fought!GUSTAVUS (soothing her, shedding tears and quickly drying them up on his collar): Yes,one last kiss! (He passionately kisses Eleanor's lips, as she kisses his equally passionately.)

One another they give a fiery kiss,as the sun sets for Sweden's royal pair,ere one of them, upon the battlefield,sees his short life of love and war recede,having lived three decades and seven yearsthat he's quaffed heartily, at deepest draughts:ere Gustavus Adolphus, slain, expires.'Tis true, the dream he had at Breitenfeldforetold what was to come, but disbeliefsets in with this one, the worst sight of all.

At twilight, in the autumn evening mist,fair Eleanor dries up her crystal tears.

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She feels, she knows, she has to let him go:Her spouse must fight, for a warrior he is;in her heart, she'll always keep his last kiss!

SCENE 10 - LÜTZENOn Lützen's fields lies thick and heavy fog,as if it had grown on the heathland bloom.The morn is cold and clammy, eerie, dark,on the sixth of November, when two hostsled by renowned leaders will soon clash.On the Swedish side of the battlefield,upon his fiery nutbrown stallion Streiff,the Golden King rides past his waiting ranks,with cheerful twinkles in his sky-blue eyes,encouraging the officers to lead,encouraging the rank and file to fight,lively, fiery, in his manly baritone,soon joined by the whole Swedish Army-Choir,when, 'gainst impatience and anxiety,they sing "Do not despair, my little band!"Still young, though renowned and inured to war,of gathering more laurels he is sure.GUSTAVUS, THEN THE WHOLE SWEDISH ARMY (singing in chorus): Do not despair, mylittle band,though enemies throughout the landare seeking to destroy you!They rejoice, hoping you'll fall soon,but they will sing another tune,so keep on brave and coy, you!Next to Lützen, across the battlefield,in a sedan chair twelve officers bear,with scarlet curtains, on a scarlet throneof cushions, dark and brooding Wallenstein,the quiet leader with a heart so cold

that one can't say of stone, or steel, or ice,casts piercing glares, as he reviews his host,with an ironic sneer upon pale lips.Though he's not even breathed a word or two,his fixed expression fills them all with dread,from the proud colonels to the rank and file:his reputation is their guiding star,his iron will binds all their hearts to his,for Friedland, they will bleed and they will die.They're all foot men, and gunners on the hills:

where's Count Pappenheim, where's the cavalry?The Duke of Friedland wrote, after he woke,

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a letter to the Count of Pappenheim."To Lützen! Make haste! As soon as you can!"In Halle, by the Saale, garrisoned,Count Gottfried has this letter quickly skimmed,and now he rides to Lützen at full speed,spearheading his galloping cavalry.Now the fog lifts, the veils of cold mist, giltby the pale autumn sunlight, slowly partlike a curtain before a tragedy,one filled with bloodshed, passion, love, and death.GUSTAVUS (at the head of his right wing): Forwards! Forwards! Gott mit uns!They’re faltering in the centre and right,their hopes waver, ready to take to flight:I'll save my ranks, there, in the thickest fight!The Imperialists strike, thus falter the Swedes.Their liege lord, seeing his men put to rout,rides, fast as lightning, forwards to their aid.Yet the fog, mixed with gunsmoke, now returns.Gustavus leaves his detachment behind,for Streiff is faster than their Swedish steeds,and soon he's lost within enemy lines.

A shot has struck his left arm, and he bleeds(the bullet pierced the humerus, went through),taking the reins now only in his right hand,while the left, in a bloodstained glove, hangs limp.

A CROATIAN OFFICER, WHO RIDES BEHIND THE KING: Such a tall and well-dressedrider! Surely he must be some great leader! (To Gustavus.) Long time have I sought you!(He shoots the King of Sweden in the upper back.)The lethal leaden bullet with his nameand the three crowns of Sweden written onhas, after searing doublet, shirt, and skin,struck, pierced, and shattered his right shoulder-blade,then plunged into the lung tissue beneath,taking ashes, gunpowder, bone shards in,

tearing fragile, delicate veins apart,into that soft and fluffy shrine of life,that hall of countless pathways firmly tied,once rose-red, slightly stained by breathing inthe haze and gunsmoke of the battlefields,that source of speeches, words of love, brave songs,his "Gott mit uns!" and his "Do not despair,"but also of love expressed for wife and child,and for advisors, friends, motherland, creed,and Freedom of Worship, that noble cause

for which his life now begins to recede.Thus, filled with stranger poisons and with blood,

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those thin and fragile pipes begin to swell,cannot the good receive, nor th'bad expel.

As his teary azure eyes quickly shut,a scarlet foam trickles through parted lips,contrasting with his face, now strangely pale,as his cavalier hat falls to the ground,uncovering his short and golden hair...the cold right hand drops the steed's leather reins,and, plunging into darkness, falls off Streiffthe unconscious frame. His noble chestis racked with pain that sears his throbbing heartand stabs his sides for every time he breathes,making it harder. And he drowns in blood.Now his beloved spouse, Queen Eleanor,before the wounded Vasa appears in dreams,awaiting, once more, his kiss and embrace,like in Poland, when wounded where his throat

joined his chest, he lay fighting for life:she, with the surgeon, stayed by his bedside,and clasped her spouse once he had won at last.Now the vision of Eleanor is gone:he sees Christina, his daughter and heir,in his arms, pulling his golden moustache,with those Vasa twinkles and lovely smile...

And Gustavus holds her, she claps her handsas the cannons of Lützen roar around,like she cheerfully did at Kalmar Slott."A warrior's daughter! She wants an encore!"he told the gunners, and they fired once more.GUSTAVUS (in a faint voice, with blood on his lips): Once... I was... the King of... Sweden...(Coughs up blood.) Elea...nor... Chris...tina... (Coughs up blood.)

As consciousness and reason leave his frame,these visions soothe his mood and ease his pain.Yet those around the unconscious King of Swedes

are not his loved ones, but the ruthless foe,who now close in and recognize his face.That golden hair, that high brow, that moustache,and that sharp goatee... Yes, 'twas someone great,and the lethal lead, true, pierced noble parts.The Croats call him by the worst insultstheir Slavic speech has got, though he can't hear,as they plunge both their hot lead and cold steelinto his noble chest: once, twice, then thrice,gunshots and stabbing blades enter his lungs,

leaving them in a worse state than before,now making it impossible to breathe:

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completely tearing that life-seat apart,and thus, erratic throbs his failing heart.Then, the Croatian sellswords soon proceed,like eager children who snatch Christmas gifts,to rifle the unconscious King of Swedes:his rapier and twin pistols are soon theirs,his doublet, breeches, riding-boots, and spurs,the lace-lined collar and the lace-lined gloves,beneath the left one, the bright wedding ring,a modest golden band with rubies setin which the officer, squinting, reads a namefit for a blueblood: "Mary Eleanor."The young lieutenant claims it for his bride,his colonel's daughter, namesake of the Queen's,and for himself he claims the golden chainon the Vasa's riddled, suffering chest:the chain with which once a child princess played,curiously peering through the shiny links.

And now it graces a young subaltern!To Gustavus Adolphus, in that state,deeply unconscious, seized with searing pain,trifles are weapons, clothes, and jewellery,which his slayers now share as spoils of war.The doublet will to the Kaiser be sent,and a Habsburg heirloom it will become,while the weapons will grace Wallenstein's hall,displayed on Schloss Friedland's war-trophy wall.The King's left in his blood-stained linen shirt,riddled with stabbing and with bullet holes.In the struggle within for life and death,the victor is now already announced,with those four gunshots and those two stab wounds,but a flitting spark of life still resists...THE CROATIAN OFFICER: Now he's suffered enough! I must give him the coup de grâce!

(He takes his pistol and shoots Gustavus in the nape of the neck.) A slower, painful death would be far worse.Thus, Gustavus is shot for mercy's sake,by the enemy leader's sympathy.

A trigger pulled at the nape of his neck,another bullet with his name and crestwritten on, and he finally is still.The last thing in his life: the final shotexploding in his head, that fills with light,his flitting spark of life finally quenched

after struggling in vain and in despair,with silent heart, not breathing anymore.

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Yet the lieutenant, not convinced at all,draws his own rapier of fine Spanish steeland plunges it into the Vasa's back,between his shoulder blades, cutting his spine,then piercing his still heart, before it's drawn.Still on the fields gun after gun is fired,as Streiff, the nutbrown stallion, gallops forthwith bloodstained saddle and no pistols onwithin the holsters. Through the bluish fog,laced with gunsmoke, and through the storm of war,like wildfire spread the words: "Gustavus slain!"from the generals to the rank and file.Everyone knows it on the battlefield,both the Swedes and the hosts of Friedland's Duke.The officers of Sweden, filled with dread,then turn to courage, fired up by revenge,yet the fog blurs the line 'twixt friend and foe,and every warrior's but a silhouette.Thus, Lützen's fray becomes a great mêlée,where everyone wounds and slays everyone,striking with hot lead and cold steel alike:Imperialists kill Swedes, who kill their ownas well as Friedlanders, who decimatetheir own hosts. All is chaos, all is storm,with lightning, thunderbolts, and dreary clouds,and screams of wounded, in pain, in despair,as only one observes it from afar:Wallenstein, in his canopy sedan,from a hill north of the vast battlefield,with the village of Lützen burning nearand towards Leipzig fleeing refugees,by the Schloss where his daughter and his spousespend the day, entertained with needlework,embroidering their flowers, making lace.

The great lord's scared of gunshots: irony,but irrational, primal fear of his:that's why there are no church-bells near his keep,why his officers wrap their spurs in laceor satin ribbons off the battlefield,to spare his panic, followed by his rage,then, by the dreaded execution stand!Once impatient, he's seen a distant cloudin the western horizon: Pappenheim?If 'tis he, will he reach the front in time?

Parting the scarlet curtains, Albrecht seeshow the cloud he has i' th' horizon seen

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turns to hoof-beating, rushing cavalry,which he watches, a spyglass to his eyes,rushing forth right into the storm of blood:the Pappenheimers have arrived at last!

And Count Gottfried, storming into the fray,stark unaware of the Vasa's harsh fate,wants to defy Gustavus to a duel.

A foretelling within House Pappenheimtold of a count scarred with the household's crest,a marshal's two crossed swords, upon his brow,who would, upon a stormy battlefield,challenge and fight a great king from the North,whom he would then in single combat slay.Ever since he received such a scar,Gottfried of Pappenheim strongly believesthat he's the one within the prophecy.Thus had he, at the Lech and Breitenfeld,stormed forth, yet lost his chances to defeat.

And thus, as those crossed scars now swell once more,as they do with impatience or with rage,as he seeks the fair Vasa to defy.They're kindred spirits: both are thirtyish,happily married, with an only child,left-handed, quick to act in rage and joy,they share the same initial, love strong drink,bold warriors, impatient, passionate,always wearing their hearts upon their sleeves,and risking life and limb upon the field.One’s hair was golden, th’other’s was dark brown;one led his left wing, th’other led his right.They could as well have been the best of friends,if war had not brought them untimely endsand locked them into bitter rivalry.PAPPENHEIM (fiery, determined): Where's the bold King of Sweden? I wish that he, as soon

as possible, stepped up to my challenge to single combat!The right wing is the one Gustavus leadsalways, as I have seen at Breitenfeldand by this springtime's surging Phlegethon,yet, in this chaos of gunsmoke and fogthat I now breathe, I can't tell left from right...'Tis a command at gunpoint from our ranks:Summon the King of Sweden to this site!SWEDISH CAVALRY CAPTAIN (drawing his pistol): Your rival lies upon this battlefield,wounded by either friend or enemy,

unconscious, his eyes shut, face strangely pale,but he will ne'er awake: Gustavus, blessed,

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as if it had grown on the heathland bloom.Most of the warlords have fallen this day:Gustavus, whom his general friends seek,Pappenheim, struggling by the surgeon's lamp,and young Berthold von Wallenstein, the Duke'sonly son: now his daughter is his heir,and for her brother she sheds crystal tears.So does their mother, Duchess Isabelle:losing a child of hers leaves her no rest.Not to count th'officers and ranker men,whom the survivors earth in every trenchand pray for: the privates piled in mass graves,of every nation and background, as one,the officers, each one in his own grave,marked by a rough and modest wooden cross.Still by rushlight, at twilight, Sweden's lordstheir liege across the fog and darkness seek,their ankles often seized by forms that reekyet still are fully conscious and alive,asking them for a drink to quench their thirstand always offered a friendly canteen,then to the Swedish surgeons ta'en in haste,both their own wounded and the enemy's,for Wallenstein, crushed at last by defeat,left his common-born wounded i' th' retreat.The rushlights flicker as one of them finds,in a heap of Swedish and Balkan slain,lying flat on his face on bloody mud,the lifeless form of the bold Golden King,left as wretched as any officerwho has been rifled on the battlefield.The only garment he bears is his shirt,drenched through with mud and blood, stained, worn, and torn.His noble parts, the sides, and chest, and back,

are riddled with cold steel and with hot lead,shot and stabbed fiercely with many red wounds:four stab wounds, the fourth one right in the back,next to a deep and crimson bullet hole,one of three: other two have pierced his chest,which not even a Vasa can survive.

As they carry their liege to Weissenfels,one of them notices a gunshot woundthrough the left forearm, which it even broke.

And, when they reach that village late at night,

ere the surgeons embalm the Hero King,they'll find his golden hair with crimson stains

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and the hole on the nape of his fair neck,dyed with the blood that left with his great life,before they wash him, take his vitals out,and fill him with preserving herbs and creams,and broken-hearted Mary Eleanoris forever bereft of happiness.More stars dot the night sky. The air turns coldin the November night, now veiled in fog,a clammy fog in spite of their rushlights,as cold as the strangely pale, buried slain,but coldest are the hearts of Jan Banérand the other survivors. And why notsince they've been shattered by the rage of war?The Protestants have won on Lützen's plain,yet paid a high price: lives of countless slain,more than their liege lord, though 'tis not in vain.Cold are their hearts, no longer heeding pain:the fate of those who live through Warfare's reign.

SCENE 11. THE CHAPEL OF WEISSENFELS'Twixt Leipzig and the Lützen ruins, there'sa castle-village, now all draped in blackfrom the keep's windows to the Lutheran church.

A quaint spot's Weissenfels, though mourning crêpeand dreary, bleak November make it dire.Within the chapel of Schloss Weissenfels,in mourning black draped, lies, within a caseornate with battle scenes from his lifetime,a good-looking man, still young, thirtyish,his golden hair cut short, crowned with laurel wreath,his visage strangely pale, azure eyes shut,a rapier hilt held in his rigid hands,all dressed in armour plates, save for his head.

And both his friends and strangers gather there

to shed tears for the fallen, for the slain,all dressed in black and heads bent in respect. A beautiful young lady now storms in,her golden hair bright as the candle-lightbeneath a pitch black veil lined with black lacefine as ice crystals. Her gown of fine silk,midnight-coloured, without embroideries,rustles, like her petticoats, in her wake.From blood-shot azure eyes she dries up tearsinto her pitch black, lace-lined handkerchief.

Hers is the likeness of a shattered heart,that, lonely, has seen dearest hopes depart.

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Eleanor's captive at Nyköpingshus,then, after losing once more her life's light,she flees to Denmark in the dark of night.Christina, for 'tis best for her, returnsto friends and family at Stegeborg.The late king had made his daughter his heir,and thus, the Regents finally resumeto rear her like a crown prince, have her trainedin statescraft, history, classical lore,art and philosophy, Latin and French,which she speaks as easily as you please,military tactics, fencing, shooting guns,riding (her body as fit as her mind)...instead of needlework and other choresusually taught to maidens of blue blood.Christina soon is called, in foreign lands,a princess of unusual cleverness.When crowned queen, in her eighteenth year, she'll ruleas well as any crowned male could have:the hope and legacy of great renown!

And Wallenstein? He can't be put to rout,as Sweden's Banér loses, in strong drink,his reason, to drown his sorrows away.

After Lützen, as scapegoat for defeat,a baker's dozen officers were hanged,yet that fray proved for him the turning pointthat opened his great streak of victories.Now, life's more ostentatious than beforefor the ducals of Friedland, and the throneis soon, in Albrecht's dreams, within his reach.

A bridegroom for his daughter seeks the Dukeof Friedland, to become his heir and hope,

preferently a Habsburg fiancé.Yet the Kaiser discovers soon the ruse

of the Bohemian upstart to usurpthe highest rank within the Occident. And, as Schloss Friedland's claimed and occupiedby the Habsburgs, Albrecht von Wallenstein,in exile, is in his bedchamber slain,one February night, in Eger's keep,by turncoats true to Kaiser Ferdinand.Slain by his own, thus died a traitor's deaththe Duke of Friedland: silent as before,his lips sealed as they'd always been in life,

reaching his arms towards the starry sky,a partizan blade in his cold, hard heart,

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plunged in his chest: though not stabbed in the backliterally, he had been in the true sense:a traitor slain by traitors to his cause.His widowed lady and fatherless child,Isabella and Thekla, soon receivethe Kaiser's pardon and their own estate,and Thekla will the Lord of Kaunitz wed,a clever young noble from Austerlitz,regaining her place at the Austrian court.Her grandson Wenzel, named for Friedland's Duke(Albrecht Eusebius Wenzel's the full name),whom she'll raise until her aged heart is still,will also live in the realm's history:Maria Theresa's chancellor he'll be,a wise and skilled advisor of renown,who'll bring to Austria the Enlightenment.From one fatherless princess, we now givethe lifetime of another one up north.In Sweden, Christina is later crowned,now come of age, throughout the lands renowned,a princess of unusual clevernesscrowned queen, showered with praise and flattery,with candied lies, but with sincere truths too.She still studies art and philosophy,and tactics, and she owns so many books,and speaks Latin as easily as you please,like a dozen or more strange languages.Her golden hair is bright as candle-lightand her blue eyes shine with her rapier wit,yet she usually declines wearing gowns,make-up and hairstyles, corsets, petticoats:a ribbon in her ponytail to tie,riding-boots, riding-breeches, broad-brimmed hat,and a buff doublet comprise her real attire.

And she will die a maiden, without spouse,since she would never like her mother grievewhen her loved one should her one day leave.

After ruling for nearly a complete year just as well as any prince could have done,she turns to her advisors, those five men,now seventyish, silver-haired, their backs bent,the Regents of her childhood, clears her throat,and solemnly speaks the following words:CHRISTINA: Why should there not be peace?

JOHANN VON WITTELSBACH, KLAS FLEMING (unison): Why not indeed?...say two of them, those born in foreign lands.

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The other three, the Swedes, sternly replythat the kingdom should prosper with the war,seeing that it is fought on foreign shore.

And thus, Christina, fiery, replies,full of Vasa élan, passionately,when she has just assembled her whole courtin the French gardens of Nyköpingshus,of her intentions telling everyone:CHRISTINA (passionate, to the reluctant Regents): You say the realm would prosper, butyou meanthat your own wealth is what you have in mind!So many children orphaned, maidens raped,communities and landscapes overrun...and, at the end of the day, how should we payour students, artisans, and farmer lads,young men called by the Crown against their willto take enemy lives with pike and shot!Thus she her court of her intentions tells,and so, she has determined to seek peace,to much rejoicing and acclaim at court,for those advisors who declined have just,due to old age, left for the provinces,to spend without statescraft their twilight years.The wish for peace is, thus, now set in stone.

And, four years later, the treaties are signedby Swedes and Austrians in Osnabrück,thanks to Christina and to Leopold,the Kaiser's son, the Archduke, who's just hadin Vienna's Hofburg the same idea,as the last shot is fired... right, anywherein Western lands, for where we do not care.Three decades of war that have overrunthe heart of Europe have come to an end.

And soon, the Swedish palace sees once more

a lady, now within her autumn years,embrace her adult daughter, now her Queen. At last, Eleanor's tears are those of joy,and hope returns within her healing heart,as Christina sheds joyful tears as well.For, once peace in Westphalia had been signed,she'd sought the traces of lost Eleanor,down to the Prussian fortress of Küstrin,where she had lived as the commandant's ward,and invited her back to Sweden's court.

When Christina grew up, as half a child,she realized why her mother reached out

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and screamed, as the Chancellor parted them.That Eleanor was not the least insane,as Christina had thought of her herself,but... one who loved not wisely but too well,and, being wrought, perplexed in the extreme."When I am queen, I'll have her by my side,and we'll discuss everything in our lives!"Thus thought Christina, thus she did decide,headstrong as a true Vasa. From now on,Eleanor and her daughter win lost timeby watching plays, reading books, art, song, dance...Love 'twixt a mother and her female childis far stronger than steel, warmer than flames,and more enduring than the universe.Yet soon Christina'll feel the heavy crown,the throne uneasy, the powerful urgeof crossing lands as an adventurer,the true freedom unknown to royalty...Naming her best childhood friend Charles her heir(he lost her heart and hand, yet won her crown),she'll part from Eleanor, both in warm tears,embracing her and telling her that shewill lose her, but win Charles as son and heir(which Eleanor will find hard to accept),then gallop forth towards the southern lands,until, staying with Leopold in Spa,in the Low Countries, yes, with th'Austrian heir(and Tilly's heir and great-nephew Ernest),given a province of his own to ruleas practice for when he shall rule the realm...a Habsburg and a Vasa turning friendsin such a lovely backdrop... Suddenlyshe'll know her mother, at Nyköpingshus,has closed forever those lovely bright eyes,

and is now with her Gustavus at last,their spirits strolling across Paradise,their bodies in the same shrine, side by side:he in his thirties, she, decrepit, aged,no longer the fresh flower of her youth,but at last by his side, and that's the truth.So now, we leave the Swedish royalty:the warrior and his lovely lady fair,at last reunited, and that fore'er,their clever daughter, in a foreign land,

brooding, restless and weary, on Spanish strand,concealing tears, head buried in her hands.

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And realms rising from the ruins of warto hope and to the future as before.

After three decades, thirty endless years,written in history with blood and tears,we Westerners a precious lesson learned:that, though we'd make the same mistake, returned,over and over, always to remindus when prejudice has turned us unkind:to tolerate, though we may not pay heedto them, others' thoughts, cultures, choice, and creed,for that will make us brave and wise indeed.It's been a pleasure to retell this taledrawn from real life, with values that prevail,and thus, wishing our best wishes to you,readers, we tearfully bid you all adieu.

DOWN WITH THE CURTAIN!

THE END.

gustavus adolphus, or the lion of the midnight sun

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