_Wallenstein (turns himself round to the females)._ Lo, there the mother with the darling daughter! For once we'll have an interval of rest-- Come! my heart yearns to live a cloudless hour In the beloved circle of my family. 40 _Countess._ 'Tis long since we've been thus together, brother. _Wallenstein (to the Countess aside)._ Can she sustain the news? Is she prepared? _Countess._ Not yet. _Wallenstein._ Come here, my sweet girl! Seat thee by me, For there is a good spirit on thy lips. Thy mother praised to me thy ready skill: 45 She says a voice of melody dwells in thee, Which doth enchant the soul. Now such a voice Will drive away from me the evil demon That beats his black wings close above my head. _Duchess._ Where is thy lute, my daughter? Let thy father 50 Hear some small trial of thy skill. _Thekla._ My mother! I-- _Duchess._ Trembling? Come, collect thyself. Go, cheer Thy father. _Thekla._ O my mother! I--I cannot. _Countess._ How, what is that, niece? _Thekla (to the Countess)._ O spare me--sing--now--in this sore anxiety, 55 Of the o'erburthen'd soul--to sing to him, Who is thrusting, even now, my mother headlong Into her grave! _Duchess._ How, Thekla? Humoursome? What! shall thy father have expressed a wish In vain? _Countess._ Here is the lute. _Thekla._ My God! how can I-- 60 [_The orchestra plays. During the ritornello THEKLA expresses in her gestures and countenance the struggle of her feelings: and at the moment that she should begin to sing, contracts herself together, as one shuddering, throws the instrument down, and retires abruptly._ _Duchess._ My child! O she is ill-- _Wallenstein._ What ails the maiden? Say, is she often so? _Countess._ Since then herself Has now betrayed it, I too must no longer Conceal it. _Wallenstein._ What? _Countess._ She loves him! _Wallenstein._ Loves him! Whom? _Countess._ Max does she love! Max Piccolomini. 65 Hast thou ne'er noticed it? Nor yet my sister? _Duchess._ Was it this that lay so heavy on her heart? God's blessing on thee, my sweet child! Thou needest Never take shame upon thee for thy choice. _Countess._ This journey, if 'twere not thy aim, ascribe it 70 To thine own self. Thou shouldest have chosen another To have attended her. _Wallenstein._ And does he know it? _Countess._ Yes, and he hopes to win her. _Wallenstein._ Hopes to win her! Is the boy mad? _Countess._ Well--hear it from themselves.