Wallenstein/The Piccolomini/A2S07

by Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller

SCENE VII.

Countess (returns)⁠Thekla.

 

COUNTESS.

Fie, lady niece! to throw yourself upon him,

Like a poor gift to one who cares not for it,
And so must be flung after him! For you,
Duke Friedland's only child, I should have thought,
It had been more beseeming to have shewn yourself
More chary of your person.

THEKLA (rising)

⁠And what mean you?

DUCHESS.

I mean, niece, that you should not have forgotten

Who you are, and who he is. But perchance
That never once occurr'd to you.

THEKLA.

⁠What then?

COUNTESS.

That you're the daughter of the Prince Duke Friedland.

THEKLA.

Well—and what farther?

DUCHESS.

⁠What? A pretty question!

THEKLA.

He was born that which we have but become.

He's of an ancient Lombard family,
Son of a reigning Princess.

COUNTESS.

⁠ Are you dreaming?

Talking in sleep? An excellent jest, forsooth!
We shall no doubt right courteously entreat him
To honor with his hand the richest heiress
In Europe.

THEKLA.

⁠That will not be necessary.

COUNTESS.

Methinks 'twere well, though, not to run the hazard.

THEKLA.

His father loves him; Count Octavio

Will interpose no difficulty———

COUNTESS.

⁠His!

His father! His! But your's, niece, what of your's?

THEKLA.

Why, I begin to think you fear his father,

So anxiously you hide it from the man;
His father, his, I mean.

COUNTESS. (looks at her as scrutinizing)

⁠Niece, you are false.

THEKLA.

Are you then wounded? O, be friends with me!

COUNTESS.

You hold your game for won already. Do not

Triumph too soon!—

THEKLA (interrupting her, and attempting to
⁠soothe her.)

⁠Nay now, be friends with me.

COUNTESS.

It is not yet so far gone.

THEKLA.

⁠I believe you.

COUNTESS.

Did you suppose your father had laid out

His most important life in toils of war,
Denied himself each quiet earthly bliss,
Had banish'd slumbers from his tent, devoted
His noble head to care, and for this only,
To make a happy pair of you? At length
To draw you from your convent, and conduct
In easy triumph to your arms the man
That chanc'd to please your eyes! All this, methinks,
He might have purchas'd at a cheaper rate.

THEKLA.

That which he did not plant for me, might yet

Bear me fair fruitage of its own accord.
And if my friendly and affectionate fate,
Out of his fearful and enormous being,
Will but prepare the joys of life for me—

COUNTESS.

Thou seest it with a lovelorn maiden's eyes.

Cast thine eye round, bethink thee who thou art.
Into no house of joyance hast thou stepp'd,
For no espousals dost thou find the walls
Deck'd out, no guests the nuptial garland wearing.
Here is no splendor but of arms. Or think'st thou

That all these thousands are here congregated
To lead up the long dances at thy wedding?
Thou see'st thy father's forehead full of thought,
Thy mother's eye in tears: upon the balance
Lies the great destiny of all our house.
Leave now the puny wish, the girlish feeling,
O thrust it far behind thee! Give thou proof,
That thou'rt the daughter of the Mighty—his,
Who where he moves creates the wonderful.
Not to herself the woman must belong,
Annex'd and bound to alien destinies.
But she performs the best part, she the wisest,
Who can transmute the alien into self,
Meet and disarm necessity by choice;
And what must be, take freely to her heart,
And bear and foster it with mother's love.

THEKLA.

Such ever was my lesson in the convent.

I had no loves, no wishes, knew myself
Only as his—his daughter—his, the Mighty!
His fame, the echo of whose blast drove to me
From the far distance, waken'd in my soul
No other thought than this—I am appointed
To offer myself up in passiveness to him.

COUNTESS.

That is thy fate. Mould thou thy wishes to it.

I and thy mother gave thee the example.

THEKLA.

My fate hath shewn me him, to whom behoves it

That I should offer up myself. In gladness
Him will I follow.

COUNTESS.

⁠Not thy fate hath shewn him!

Thy heart, say rather—'twas thy heart, my child!

THEKLA.

Faith hath no voice but the heart's impulses.

I am all his! His Present—his alone,
Is this new life, which lives in me? He hath
A right to his own creature. What was I
Ere his fair love infus'd a soul into me?

COUNTESS.

Thou would'st oppose thy father, then, should he

Have otherwise determin'd with thy person?
(Thekla remains silent. The Countess continues.)
Thou mean'st to force him to thy liking?—Child,
His name is Friedland.

THEKLA.

⁠My name too is Friedland.

He shall have found a genuine daughter in me.

COUNTESS.

What? he has vanquish'd all impediment,

And in the wilful mood of his own daughter
Shall a new struggle rise for him? Child! child!
As yet thou hast seen thy father's smiles alone;
The eye of his rage thou hast not seen. Dear child,
I will not frighten thee. To that extreme,
I trust it ne'er shall come. His will is yet
Unknown to me: 'tis possible, his aims
May have the same direction as thy wish.
But this can never, never be his will,

That thou, the daughter of his haughty fortunes,
Should'st e'er demean thee as a love-sick maiden;
And like some poor cost-nothing, fling thyself
Toward the man, who, if that high prize ever
Be destin'd to await him, yet, with sacrifices
The highest love can bring, must pay for it.
⁠[Exit Countess.

THEKLA (who during the last speech had been
⁠standing evidently lost in her reflections.)

I thank thee for the hint. It turns

My sad presentiment to certainty.
And it is so!—Not one friend have we here,
Not one true heart! we've nothing but ourselves!
O she said rightly—no auspicious signs
Beam on this covenant of our affections.
This is no theatre where hope abides.
The dull thick noise of war alone stirs here.
And love himself, as he were arm'd in steel,
Steps forth, and girds him for the strife of death.
⁠(Music from the banquet-room is heard.)
There's a dark spirit walking in our house,
And swiftly will the Destiny close on us.
It drove me hither from my calm asylum,
It mocks my soul with charming witchery,
It lures me forward in a seraph's shape,
I see it near, I see it nearer floating,
It draws, it pulls me with a godlike power—
And lo! the abyss—and thither am I moving—
I have no power within me not to move!
(The music from the banquet-room becomes
⁠louder.)

O when a house is doom'd in fire to perish,
Many and dark heaven drives his clouds together,
Yea, shoots his lightnings down from sunny heights,
Flames burst from out the subterraneous chasms,
^[1]And fiends and angels, mingling in their fury,
Sling fire-brands at the burning edifice.
⁠[Exit Thekla.

1. There are few, who will not have taste enough to laugh at the two concluding lines of this soliloquy; and still fewer, I would fain hope, who would not have been more disposed to shudder, had I given a faithful translation. For the readers of German I have added the original:
   ⁠Blind-wüthendschleudert selbst der Gott der Freude
   ⁠Den Pechkranz in das brennende Gebäude.