That never once occurred 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.
THEHLA.
His father loves him; Count Octavio
Will interpose no difficulty--
COUNTESS.
His!
His father! His! But yours, niece, what of yours?
THERLA.
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.
THEBLA.
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 banished slumbers from his tent, devoted
His noble head to care, and for this only,
To make a happier pair of you? At length
To draw you from your convent, and conduct
In easy triumph to your arms the man
That chanced to please your eyes! All this, methinks,
He might have purchased 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 stepped,
For no espousals dost thou find the walls
Decked out, no guests the nuptial garland wearing;
Here is no splendor but of arms. Or thinkest 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;
Oh, thrust it far behind thee! Give thou proof
Thou'rt the daughter of the mighty-his
Who where he moves creates the wonderful.
