HYACINTH—What’s wrong, my dear? Has anything happened?
BEATRICE—[_Her glances follow ALEXANDRA through the door out to the
garden._] I didn’t care to speak of it in her presence. But that’s just
it. Nothing has happened.
HYACINTH—I don’t understand.
BEATRICE—Albert told you how much he loved us all.
HYACINTH—Yes.
BEATRICE—Well, he has fallen in love with everyone here ... except
Alexandra.
HYACINTH—What did you expect in three days?
BEATRICE—Not love, perhaps ... but at least some sign of interest in the
girl. But no. Not the slightest advance. Though we did everything we
could.
HYACINTH—Perhaps ... there are ... political reasons....
BEATRICE—[_With a smile._] You underestimate me, Karl.
HYACINTH—Forgive me.... I know you are the best informed woman in Europe.
BEATRICE—I’ll show you my correspondence. Oh, I have no illusions on the
subject. I know perfectly well that the only reason they are considering
a marriage with us is because two or three royal families have made
simultaneous advances and they can’t afford to offend any of them.
HYACINTH—I see.
BEATRICE—And that is what makes me so anxious, Karl. The Czar wants him
for Olga—Constantine’s daughter. Edward would have liked to get him for
England—for Patricia. Frederic has been telegraphing me every day from
Vienna, and Amelie from St. Petersburg.
HYACINTH—So Albert must make up his mind quickly.
BEATRICE—Rome is out of the question for him. And so it is imperative for
him to choose a wife immediately.
HYACINTH—Then he’ll go to Montenegro.
BEATRICE—That is just what I am afraid of. He is a very obedient son.
Dominica, his mother, dominates him utterly. And she has sent him
everywhere. First to Dresden for Leopoldine Charlotte, but he didn’t
like her. She tends to corpulence. From there he went to Portugal. The
Infantin Silvina Gonzaga. A most admirable girl, but incredibly ugly. So
on he went to Belgium, to Maria Hermine, who is two heads taller than
he is—And he rightly decided that such an alliance would make him look
ridiculous in his people’s eyes. And now he is here. And if we let him
get away from us his next stop will undoubtedly be Montenegro. [_Dries
her eyes. SYMPHOROSA enters from the garden._]
BEATRICE—Well?
SYMPHOROSA—He stretched his hand outside the bed.
BEATRICE—What for?
SYMPHOROSA—For his lemonade.
BEATRICE—Was the lemonade there?
SYMPHOROSA—Yes, he drank it.
BEATRICE—I was so afraid it mightn’t have been there! And then?
SYMPHOROSA—Then he turned over and went to sleep again.
BEATRICE—Thank you, dear.