Wallenstein/The Piccolomini/A1S08

by Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller

SCENE VIII.

Enter the Countess Tertsky, leading in her
hand the Princess Thekla, richly adorned
with brilliants.

Countess, Thekla, 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 gladden'd 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 return'd home out of Pomerania,
Your daughter was already in the convent,
Wherein she has remain'd 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 godlike; and now leads her thus adorned
To meet her splendid fortune, and my hope.

DUCHESS. (to Thekla)

Thou wouldest not have recogniz'd thy father,

Would'st 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 alter'd.
The form, that stands before me, falsifies
No feature of the image that hath liv'd
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 extinguish'd being
In a proud line of princes.
I wrong'd 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
Transmitted to a regal ornament,
Around these beauteous brows.
(He clasps her in his arms as Piccolomini enters.)

 

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