The Piccolomini: A Play

SCENE III.

      Enter the Countess TERZKY, leading in her hand the Princess THEKLA,
      richly adorned with brilliants.

      COUNTESS, TEKLA, WALLENSTEIN, DUCHESS.

   COUNTESS.
   How sister? What, already upon business?
         [Observing the countenance of the DUCHESS.
   And business of no pleasing kind I see,
   Ere he has gladdened at his child. The first
   Moment belongs to joy. Here, Friedland! father!
   This is thy daughter.

      [THEKLA approaches with a shy and timid air, and bends herself as
      about to kiss his hand. He receives her in his arms, and remains
      standing for some time lost in the feeling of her presence.

   WALLENSTEIN.
   Yes! pure and lovely hath hope risen on me,
   I take her as the pledge of greater fortune.

   DUCHESS.
   'Twas but a little child when you departed
   To raise up that great army for the emperor
   And after, at the close of the campaign,
   When you returned home out of Pomerania,
   Your daughter was already in the convent,
   Wherein she has remained till now.

   WALLENSTEIN.
                     The while
   We in the field here gave our cares and toils
   To make her great, and fight her a free way
   To the loftiest earthly good; lo! mother Nature
   Within the peaceful, silent convent walls,
   Has done her part, and out of her free grace
   Hath she bestowed on the beloved child
   The god-like; and now leads her thus adorned
   To meet her splendid fortune, and my hope.

   DUCHESS (to THEKLA).
   Thou wouldst not now have recognized thy father,
   Wouldst thou, my child? She counted scarce eight years
   When last she saw your face.

   THEKLA.
                  O yes, yes, mother!
   At the first glance! My father has not altered.
   The form that stands before me falsifies
   No feature of the image that hath lived
   So long within me!

   WALLENSTEIN.
             The voice of my child!
                 [Then after a pause.
   I was indignant at my destiny,
   That it denied me a man-child, to be
   Heir of my name and of my prosperous fortune,
   And re-illume my soon-extinguished being
   In a proud line of princes.
   I wronged my destiny. Here upon this head,
   So lovely in its maiden bloom, will I
   Let fall the garland of a life of war,
   Nor deem it lost, if only I can wreath it,
   Transmuted to a regal ornament,
   Around these beauteous brows.

      [He clasps her in his arms as PICCOLOMINI enters.