EMILIA GALOTTI.
A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.
(_Translated by B. Dillon Boylan_.)
'Emilia Galotti' was commenced in 1757, when Lessing was at Leipzig,
but was thrown aside for some years, until in 1767, when at Hamburg, he
again took it up, intending to have it represented on the Hamburg
stage. But on the failure of the theatrical enterprise with which he
was connected, he once more abandoned it until 1771, when he again
turned his attention to it, and completed it in February of the
following year. It was immediately represented on the Brunswick stage.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Emilia Galotti.
Odoardo _and_ \
> _parents of_ Emilia.
Claudia Galotti, /
Hettore Gonzaga, _Prince of Guastalla_.
Marinelli, _the Prince's Chamberlain_.
Camillo Rota, _one of the Prince's Councillors_.
Conti, _an artist_.
Count Appiani.
Angelo, _a bandit_.
Pirro _and sundry servants_.
EMILIA GALOTTI.
ACT I.
Scene I.--_The Prince's Cabinet_.
_The_ Prince, _seated at a desk, which is covered with papers_.
PRINCE.
Complaints; nothing but complaints! Petitions; nothing but petitions!
Wretched employment! And yet we are envied! To be sure, if we could
relieve every one, we might indeed be envied. Emilia? (opening a
petition, and looking at the signature.) An Emilia? Yes--but an Emilia
Bruneschi--not Galotti. Not Emilia Galotti. What does she want, this
Emilia Bruneschi? (Reads) She asks much--too much. But her name is
Emilia. It is granted (signs the paper, and rings).
_Enter a_ Servant.
PRINCE.
Are any of the Councillors in the antechamber?
SERVANT.
No, your Highness.
PRINCE.
I have begun the day too early. The morning is so beautiful, I will
take a drive. The Marquis Marinelli shall accompany me. Let him be
called. (Exit Servant.) I can attend to nothing more. I was so
happy--delightful thought! so happy--when all at once this wretched
Bruneschi must be named Emilia. Now all my peace is fled.
_Re-enter the_ Servant, _bringing a note_.
SERVANT.
The Marquis has been sent for; and here is a letter from the Countess
Orsina.
PRINCE.
The Countess Orsina? Put it down.
SERVANT.
Her courier waits.
PRINCE.
I will send an answer if necessary. Where is she, in town, or at her
villa?
SERVANT.
She arrived in town yesterday.
PRINCE.
So much the worse--the better, I mean. There is less reason for the
messenger to wait. (Exit Servant.) My dear Countess! (with sarcasm,
as he takes up the letter) as good as read (throwing it down again).
Well, well, I fancied I loved her--one may fancy anything. It may be
that I really did love her. But--I did.
_Re-enter_ Servant.
SERVANT.
The painter Conti requests the honour----
PRINCE.
Conti? Good! admit him. That will change the current of my thoughts
(rising).
Scene II.
Conti, _The_ Prince.
PRINCE.
Good morning, Conti. How goes it with you? How does art thrive?
CONTI.
Art is starving, Prince.
PRINCE.
That must not--shall not be, within the limits of my small dominions.
But the artist must be willing to work.
CONTI.
Work! that is his happiness. But too much work may rain his claim to
the title of artist.
PRINCE.
I do not mean that his works should be many, but his labour much: a
little, but well done. But you do not come empty-handed, Conti?
CONTI.
I have brought the portrait which your Highness ordered; and another
which you did not order; but as it is worthy of inspection----
PRINCE.
That one, is it? And yet I do not well remember----
CONTI.
The Countess Orsina.
PRINCE.
True. The commission, however, was given rather long ago.
CONTI.
Our beauties are not every day at the artist's command. In three
months, the Countess could only make up her mind to sit once.
PRINCE.
Where are the pictures?
CONTI.
In the antechamber. I will fetch them (exit).
Scene III.
PRINCE.
Her portrait! Let it come; it is not herself. But perhaps I may see in
the picture what I can no longer find in her person. But I have no wish
to make such a discovery. The importunate painter! I almost believe
that she has bribed him. But even were it so, if another picture which
is pourtrayed in brighter colours and on a different canvas, could be
obliterated to make room for her once more in my heart, I really think
that I should be content. When I loved the Countess, I was ever gay,
sprightly, and cheerful; now I am the reverse. But no, no, no; happy or
unhappy, it is better as it is.
Scene IV.
The Prince, Conti, with the portraits; he places one with the face
reversed against a chair, and prepares to show the other.
CONTI.
I beg your Highness will bear in mind the limits of our art; much of
the highest perfection of beauty lies altogether beyond its limits.
Look at it in this position.
PRINCE (_after a brief inspection_).
Excellent! Conti, most excellent! It does credit to your taste,--to
your skill. But flattered, Conti--quite, infinitely flattered!
CONTI.
The original did not seem to be of your opinion. But, in truth, she is
not more flattered than art is bound to flatter. It is the province of
art to paint as plastic nature--if there is such a thing--intended her
original design, without the defects which the unmanageable materials
render inevitable, and free from the ravages which result from a
conflict with time.
PRINCE.
The intelligent artist has therefore double merit. But the original,
you say, notwithstanding all this----
CONTI.
Pardon me, Prince! The original is a person who commands my respect. I
did not intend to insinuate anything to her disadvantage.
PRINCE.
As much as you please. But what said the original?
CONTI.
"I am satisfied," said the Countess, "if I am not plainer."
PRINCE.
Not plainer! The original herself!
CONTI.
And she uttered this with an expression of which the portrait affords
no trace, no idea.
PRINCE.
That is just what I meant; therein lies your infinite flattery. Oh! I
know well her proud, contemptuous look, which would disfigure the face
of one of the Graces. I do not deny that a handsome mouth set off with
a slight curl of scorn, sometimes acquires thereby additional beauty.
But, observe, it must be only slight; the look must not amount to
grimace, as it does with this Countess. The eyes, too, must keep
control over the disdainful charmer; eyes which the worthy Countess
decidedly does not possess. You do not even give them to her in the
picture.
CONTI.
Your Highness, I am perfectly amazed.
PRINCE.
And wherefore? All that could be achieved by the resources of art out
of the great prominent staring Medusa eyes of the Countess, you have
honourably accomplished. Honourably, I say, but less honourably would
have been more honest; for tell me yourself, Conti, is the character of
the individual expressed by this picture? yet it should be. You have
converted pride into dignity, disdain into a smile, and the gloom of
discontent into soft melancholy.
CONTI (_somewhat vexed_).
Ah! Prince, we painters expect that a portrait when finished will find
the lover as warm as when he ordered it. We paint with eyes of love,
and the eyes of love alone must judge our works.
PRINCE.
'Tis true, Conti; but why did you not bring it a month sooner? Lay it
aside. What is the other?
CONTI (_taking it up and holding it still reversed_).
It is also a female portrait.
PRINCE.
Then I had almost rather not see it; for the ideal depicted here
(pointing to his forehead), or rather here (laying his hand upon his
heart), it cannot equal. I should like, Conti, to admire your art in
other subjects.
CONTI.
There may be more admirable examples of art, but a more admirable
subject than this cannot exist.
PRINCE.
Then I'll lay a wager, Conti, that it is the portrait of the artist's
own mistress. (Conti turns the picture.) What do I see? Your work,
Conti, or the work of my fancy? Emilia Galotti!
CONTI.
How, Prince! do you know this angel?
PRINCE (_endeavouring to compose himself, but unable to remove
his eyes from the picture_).
A little; just enough to recognise her. A few weeks ago I met her with
her mother at an assembly; since then I have only seen her in sacred
places, where staring is unseemly. I know her father also; he is not my
friend. He it was who most violently opposed my pretensions to
Sabionetta. He is a veteran, proud and unpolished, but upright and
brave.
CONTI.
You speak of the father, this is the daughter.
PRINCE.
By Heavens! you must have stolen the resemblance from her mirror (with
his eyes still rivetted on the picture). Oh, you well know, Conti,
that we praise the artist most when we forget his merits in his works.
CONTI.
Yet I am extremely dissatisfied with this portrait, and nevertheless I
am satisfied with being dissatisfied with myself. Alas! that we cannot
paint directly with our eyes! On the long journey from the eye through
the arm to the pencil, how much is lost! But, as I have already said,
though I know what is lost, and how and why it is lost, I am as proud
and prouder of this loss than of what I have preserved. For by the
former I perceive more than by the latter, that I am a good painter,
though my hand is not always so. Or do you hold, Prince, that Raffaelle
would not have been the greatest of all artists even had he
unfortunately been born without hands?
PRINCE (_turning his eyes a moment from the picture_).
What do you say, Conti? What was your enquiry?
CONTI.
Oh, nothing--nothing; mere idle observations! Your soul, I observe, was
wholly in your eyes. I like such souls and such eyes.
PRINCE (_affecting coldness_).
And so, Conti, you really consider Emilia Galotti amongst the first
beauties of our city.
CONTI.
Amongst them? Amongst the first? The first of our city? You jest,
Prince, or your eyesight must have been all this time as insensible as
your hearing.
PRINCE.
Dear Conti (again fixing his eyes on the picture), how can we
uninitiated trust our eyes? In fact, none but an artist can judge of
beauty.
CONTI.
And must the feeling of every person wait for the decision of a
painter? To a cloister with him who would learn from us what is
beautiful! But this much I must own to you, as a painter, Prince. It is
one of the greatest delights of my life that Emilia Galotti has sat to
me. This head, this countenance, this forehead, these eyes, this nose,
this mouth, this chin, this neck, this bosom, this shape, this whole
form, are from the present time forward my only model of female beauty.
The original picture for which she sat, is in the possession of her
absent father. But this copy----
PRINCE (_turning to him quickly_).
Well, Conti--is not surely bespoke already?
CONTI.
Is for you, Prince, if it affords you any pleasure.
PRINCE.
Pleasure! (smiling.) How can I do better than make your model of
female beauty my own? There, take back that other portrait, and order a
frame for it.
CONTI.
Good.
PRINCE.
As rich and splendid as the carver can possibly make it. It shall be
placed in the gallery. But this must remain here. A study need not be
treated with so much ceremony; one does not hang it up for display. It
should always be at hand. I thank you, Conti, cordially. And as I said
before, the arts shall never starve in my dominions, as long as I have
bread. Send to my treasurer, Conti, and let him pay your own price for
both pictures; as much as you please, Conti.
CONTI.
I must begin to fear, Prince, that you mean to reward me for something
else besides my art?
PRINCE.
Oh the jealousy of an artist! No, no! But remember, Conti, as much as
you please. (Exit Conti.)
Scene V.
_The_ Prince.
PRINCE.
Yes, as much as he pleases. (Turning to the picture.) Thou art mine,
too cheap at any price. Oh, thou enchanting work of art! Do I then
possess thee? But who shall possess thyself, thou still more beautiful
masterpiece of nature? Claim what you will, honest old mother; ask what
you will, morose old father. Demand any price. Yet, dear enchantress, I
should be far more happy to buy thee from thyself! This eye! how full
of love and modesty! This mouth! when it speaks, when it smiles! This
mouth!--Some one comes.--I am still too jealous of thee. (Turning the
picture to the wall.) It is Marinelli. I wish I had not sent for him!
What a morning might I have had!
Scene VI.
Marinelli, _The_ Prince.
MARINELLI.
Your Highness will pardon me; I was not prepared for so early a
summons.
PRINCE.
I felt an inclination to drive out, the morning was so fine. But now it
is almost over, and my inclination has subsided. (After a short
pause). Any news, Marinelli?
MARINELLI.
Nothing of importance that I know. The Countess Orsina arrived in town
yesterday.
PRINCE.
Yes, here lies her morning salutation (pointing to the letter), or
whatever it may be. I am not inquisitive about it. Have you seen her?
MARINELLI.
Am I not unfortunately her confidant? But if ever I am so again with a
lady who takes it into her head to love you desperately, Prince, may
I----
PRINCE.
No rash vows, Marinelli.
MARINELLI.
Indeed, Prince! Is it possible? The Countess, then, is not so utterly
mistaken.
PRINCE.
Quite mistaken, certainly. My approaching union with the Princess of
Massa compels me in the first place to break off all such connections.
MARINELLI.
If that were all, the Countess would doubtless know as well how to
submit to her fate, as the Prince to his.
PRINCE.
My fate is harder far than hers. My heart is sacrificed to a miserable
political consideration. She has but to take back hers, and need not
bestow it against her inclination.
MARINELLI.
Take it back! "Why take it back," asks the Countess, "for a wife, whom
policy and not love attaches to the Prince?" With a wife of that kind
the mistress may still hold her place. It is not, therefore, for a wife
that she dreads being sacrificed, but----
PRINCE.
Perhaps another mistress. What then? would you make a crime of that,
Marinelli?
MARINELLI.
I, Prince? Oh, confound me not with the foolish woman whose cause I
advocate--from pity! For yesterday I own she greatly moved me. She
wished not to mention her attachment to you, and strove to appear cold
and tranquil. But in the midst of the most indifferent topics, some
expression, some allusion, escaped her, which betrayed her tortured
heart. With the most cheerful demeanour she said the most melancholy
things, and on the other hand uttered the most laughable jests with an
air of deep distress. She has taken to books for refuge, which I fear
will be her ruin.
PRINCE.
Yes, for books gave the first blow to her poor understanding. And,
Marinelli, you will scarcely employ for the purpose of renewing my
attachment, that which was the chief cause of our separation. If love
renders her foolish, she would sooner or later have become so, even
without such influence. But enough of her! To something else. Is there
nothing new in town?
MARINELLI.
Next to nothing; for that Count Appiani will be married to-day is
little better than nothing.
PRINCE.
Count Appiani! To whom? I have not heard that he is engaged.
MARINELLI.
The affair has been kept a profound secret. And indeed, there was not
much to create a sensation. You will smile, Prince; but it ever happens
so with sentimental youths! Love always plays the worst of tricks. A
girl without fortune or rank has managed to catch him in her snares,
without any trouble, but with a little display of virtue, sensibility,
wit, and so forth.
PRINCE.
The man who can wholly resign himself to the impressions which
innocence and beauty make upon him is, in my opinion, rather to be
envied than derided. And what is the name of the happy fair one? For
though I well know, Marinelli, that you and Appiani dislike each other,
he is nevertheless a very worthy young man, a handsome man, a rich man,
and an honourable man. I should like to be able to attach him to
myself.
MARINELLI.
If it be not too late; for, as far as I can learn, it is not his
intention to seek his fortune at court. He will retire with his spouse
to his native valleys of Piedmont, and indulge himself in hunting
chamois or training marmots upon the Alps. What can he do better? Here
his prospects are blighted by the connection he has formed. The first
circles are closed against him.
PRINCE.
The first circles! What are they worth, mere resorts of ceremony,
restraint, ennui, and poverty? But how call you the fair being who is
the cause of all these wondrous sacrifices?
MARINELLI.
A certain--Emilia Galotti?
PRINCE.
What! Marinelli! a certain----
MARINELLI.
Emilia Calotti.
PRINCE.
Emilia Galotti? Never!----
MARINELLI.
Assuredly, your Highness.
PRINCE.
But no, I say. It is not, and it cannot be! You mistake the name. The
family of Galotti is numerous. It may be a Galotti, but not Emilia
Galotti!
MARINELLI.
Emilia--Emilia Galotti.
PRINCE.
There must be another who bears the same names. You said, however, a
certain Emilia Galotti,--a certain one. Of the real Emilia, none but a
fool could so speak.
MARINELLI.
Your Highness is excited. Do you know this Emilia?
PRINCE.
It is my place to question, not yours, Marinelli. Is she the daughter
of Colonel Galotti, who resides at Sabionetta?
MARINELLI.
The same.
PRINCE.
Who lives here in Guastalla with her mother.
MARINELLI.
The same.
PRINCE.
Near the church of All-Saints.
MARINELLI.
The same.
PRINCE.
In a word (turning hastily to the portrait, and giving it to
Marinelli)--there! is it this Emilia Galotti? Pronounce again those
damning words, "the same," and plunge a dagger in my heart.
MARINELLI.
The same.
PRINCE.
Traitor! This? this Emilia Galotti--will to-day be----
MARINELLI.
The Countess Appiani. (The Prince seizes the portrait from the hands
of Marinelli, and flings it aside.)--The marriage will be celebrated
privately at her father's villa, in Sabionetta. About noon the mother
and daughter, the Count, and perhaps a few friends, will leave town
together.
PRINCE (throwing himself in a state of desperation into a chair).
Then I am lost, and care no more for life.
MARINELLI.
What thus affects your Highness?
PRINCE (_starting towards him again_).
Traitor! what affects me thus? Yes, in truth, I love her! I adore her!
You may, perhaps, know it, may even long have known it; all of you who
desire that I should wear for ever the ignominious fetters of the
proud Orsina. That you, Marinelli, who have so often assured me
of your sincere friendship--but a Prince has no friend, can have no
friend--that you should act so treacherously, so deceitfully, as to
conceal till this moment the peril which threatened my love.--Oh, if
ever I forgive you this, let no sin of mine be pardoned!
MARINELLI.
I could scarcely find words, Prince, to express my astonishment--even
if you gave me the opportunity. You love Emilia Galotti? Hear, then, my
oath in reply to yours. If I have ever known or suspected this
attachment in the slightest degree, may the angels and saints abandon
me! I repeat the same imprecation for Orsina. Her suspicions were
directed to a wholly different quarter.
PRINCE.
Pardon me, then, Marinelli (throwing himself into his arms), and pity
me.
MARINELLI.
Well, yes, Prince. There see the consequence of your reserve. "A prince
has no friends." And why? Because he will have none. To-day you honour
us with your confidence, entrust to us your most secret wishes, open
your whole soul to us--and to-morrow we are as perfect strangers to
you, as if you had never exchanged a word with us.
PRINCE.
Alas, Marinelli, how could I entrust a secret to you which I would
scarcely confess to myself?
MARINELLI.
And, which you have, therefore, of course, not confessed to the author
of your uneasiness?
PRINCE.
To her!--All my endeavours have been fruitless to speak with her a
second time.
MARINELLI.
And the first time----
PRINCE.
I spoke to her;--Oh, my brain is turned, and must I continue this
conversation longer? You behold me at the mercy of the waves, and why
inquire how all this has happened? Save me if you can, and then
question me.
MARINELLI.
Save you! Is there much to save? What your Highness has not confessed
to Emilia Galotti, you will confess to the Countess Appiani. Goods
which cannot be obtained in their primitive perfection, must be bought
at second hand, and are often, on that account, bought at a cheaper
rate.
PRINCE.
Be serious, Marinelli, or----
MARINELLI.
To be sure, such articles are generally so much the worse----
PRINCE.
For shame, Marinelli.
MARINELLI.
And the Count intends to leave this country too. Well, we must devise
some scheme----
PRINCE.
And what scheme? My best and dearest Marinelli, contrive something for
me. What would you do, were you in my situation?
MARINELLI.
Above all things, I should regard a trifle as a trifle--and say to
myself that I would not be what I am for nothing--your Highness!
PRINCE.
Delude me not with a power of which I can, on this occasion, make no
use. To-day, said you?--This very day?
MARINELLI.
To-day it is to take place;--but it is only things which have taken
place that cannot be recalled. (After a short pause.) Prince, will
you let me act as I please? Will you approve all I do?
PRINCE.
Anything, Marinelli, which can avert this blow.
MARINELLI.
Then let us lose no time. You must not remain in town, but go to your
palace at Dosalo. The road to Sabionetta passes it. Should I not
succeed in removing the Count, I think--yes, yes, he will be caught in
that snare without doubt. You wish to send an ambassador to Massa
respecting your marriage. Let the Count be ambassador, and order him to
depart this very day.
PRINCE.
Excellent!--Bring him to my palace.--Haste, haste!--I will leave town
instantly. (Exit Marinelli.)
Scene VII.
PRINCE.
Instantly, instantly. Where is it? (Turns to the portrait) On the
ground! That was too bad. (Takes it up) But look! And yet I will look
at thee no more now. Why should I plunge the arrow deeper into the
wound? (Lays it on the table). I have suffered and sighed long
enough--longer than I ought, but done nothing, and my listless
inactivity had nearly ruined all.--And may not all yet be lost? May not
Marinelli fail? Why should I rely on him alone?--It occurs to me that
at this hour (looks at his watch) at this very hour, the pious girl
daily attends mass at the church of the Dominicans. How, if I attempted
to address her there? But to-day--the day of her marriage--her heart
will be occupied with other things than mass. Yet, who knows?--'tis but
a step--(rings, and whilst he hastily arranges the papers on the
table)--
_Enter_ Servant.
My carriage!--Have none of the council arrived?
SERVANT.
Camillo Rota waits without.
PRINCE.
Admit him. (Exit Servant). But he must not attempt to detain
me long. Not now--another time, I will attend to his scrupulous
investigations----There was a petition of one Emilia Bruneschi--here it
is--but, good Bruneschi, if your intercessor----
Scene VIII.
_Enter_ Camillo Rota.
Come, Rota, come. There lie the papers which I have opened this
morning--not very consoling--you will see what is to be done. Take them
with you.
CAMILLO.
I will attend to them.
PRINCE.
Here is a petition from one Emilia Galot--I mean Bruneschi. I have
already signed my consent to it--but yet the request is no trifle. You
may defer the execution of it--or not--as you please.
CAMILLO.
Not as I please, your Highness.
PRINCE.
What more is there--anything to sign?
CAMILLO.
Sentence of death for your Highness's signature.
PRINCE.
With all my heart!--Where is it? Quick!
CAMILLO (_starts and gazes at the_ Prince).
I said a death--warrant.
PRINCE.
I understood you plain enough. It might have been done by this. I am in
haste.
CAMILLO (_looking at his papers_).
I really believe I have not brought it. I beg your Highness's
forgiveness. It can be deferred till to-morrow.
PRINCE.
Be it so. Just collect these papers together. I must away. The rest
to-morrow, Rota.
CAMILLO (_shaking his head, as he collects the papers_).
"With all my heart!"--A death-warrant, with all my heart! I would not
have let him sign at such a moment, had the criminal murdered my own
son.--"With all my heart!" "With all my heart"--The cruel words pierce
my very soul. (Exit.)
ACT II.
Scene I.--_A room in_ Galotti's _house_.
Claudia Galotti, Pirro.
CLAUDIA.
Who dismounted just now in the court-yard? Pirro.
PIRRO.
My master, madam.
CLAUDIA.
My husband? Is it possible?
PIRRO.
Here he comes.
CLAUDIA.
So unexpectedly? (hastens towards him). My dearest lord!
Scene II.
Odoardo, _and the foregoing_.
ODOARDO.
Good morning, my love. Does not my arrival surprise you?
CLAUDIA.
Most agreeably. But is it intended as no more than a surprise?
ODOARDO.
No more. Be not alarmed. The happiness of to-day awakened me early. The
morning was so fine, and the ride so short, I fancied you would be so
busy here to-day, and thought you might perhaps forget something: in a
word, I am come to see you, and shall return immediately. Where is
Emilia? Occupied with her dress, I have no doubt?
CLAUDIA.
With her soul. She is gone to hear mass. "I have need," she said,
"to-day more than at any other time to implore a blessing from above;"
then leaving all else she took her veil, and disappeared.
ODOARDO.
Alone!
CLAUDIA.
It is but a few steps----
ODOARDO.
One incautious step often leads to mischief.
CLAUDIA.
Be not angry; but come in and rest a moment, and, if you please, take
some refreshment.
ODOARDO.
Well, well, as you like. But she ought not to have gone alone.
CLAUDIA.
Stay here, Pirro, in the antechamber, and excuse me to all visitors.
(Exeunt Odoardo and Claudia.)
Scene III.
Pirro, _and afterwards_ Angelo.
PIRRO.
All inquisitive visitors. How I have been questioned! Who comes here?
(Enter Angelo, in a short mantle, with which he conceals his face.)
ANGELO.
Pirro! Pirro!
PIRRO.
An acquaintance, it seems. (Angelo throws back the mantle). Heavens!
Angelo. You!
ANGELO.
Yes, Angelo, as you perceive. I have been wandering long enough round
the house, in order to speak to you. One word with you----
PIRRO.
And dare you again appear in public? Don't you know that, in
consequence of your last murder, you are declared an outlaw, a price
has been put upon your head?
ANGELO.
You don't intend to claim it, I presume?
PIRRO.
What do you want? I implore you not to involve me in misfortune.
ANGELO.
In this way, you mean? (Showing a purse). Take it; it belongs to you.
PIRRO.
To me?
ANGELO.
Have you forgotten? The German gentleman, your last master----
PIRRO.
Hush!
ANGELO.
----Whom you led into our clutches on the road to Pisa----
PIRRO.
If any one should overhear us!
ANGELO.
----Had the kindness, you know, to bequeath us a valuable ring. Do you
not remember? It was so valuable that we could not immediately convert
it into money without suspicion. At length, however, I succeeded. I
received a hundred pistoles for it, and this is your share. Take it.
PIRRO.
No, no! You may keep it.
ANGELO.
Well, with all my heart! If you don't care at what price you put your
head in the market.
PIRRO.
Give it me, then (takes it). And now, what do you want? for I suppose
you did not come in search of me merely for that purpose.
ANGELO.
It seems to you not very credible. Rascal! what do you think of us?
That we are capable of withholding any man's earnings? That may be the
way with honest people; but we don't follow their fashions. Farewell!
(Affects to be going, but turns at the door). One question I must
ask. Old Galotti has just come hurriedly into town quite alone. What
does he want?
PIRRO.
Nothing, merely a ride. His daughter is to be married this evening, at
his country house, whence he has come to Count Appiani. He awaits the
moment with impatience.
ANGELO.
Then he will return soon?
PIRRO.
So soon, that if you remain any longer he will discover you. But you
surely have no thoughts of attacking him. Take care. He is a man----
ANGELO.
Don't I know him? Have I not served under him in the army; but
nevertheless if one could only get much from him! At what time do the
young people follow him?
PIRRO.
Towards noon.
ANGELO.
With many attendants?
PIRRO.
A single carriage will contain the party--the mother, the daughter, and
the count. A few friends from Sabionetta attend as witnesses.
ANGELO.
And the servants?
PIRRO.
Only two besides myself. I shall ride before.
ANGELO.
Good. Another question. Is the carriage Galotti's or the Count's?
PIRRO.
The Count's.
ANGELO.
That is unlucky. There is another outrider, besides a courageous
driver. However----
PIRRO.
I am amazed. What do you intend? The few ornaments which the bride has
will scarcely reward your trouble.
ANGELO.
Then the bride herself shall be the reward.
PIRRO.
And you mean that I should be your accomplice in this crime?
ANGELO.
You ride before! Then ride, ride, and take no trouble about the matter.
PIRRO.
Never!
ANGELO.
What?--I believe the fellow means to play the conscientious--you
rascal! I think you know me. If you utter a syllable--if every
circumstance be not as you have described it----
PIRRO.
But, Angelo, for Heaven's sake----
ANGELO.
Do what you cannot avoid. (Exit.)
PIRRO.
Ha! let the devil hold thee by a single hair, and thou art his for
ever! Wretch that I am!
Scene IV.
Odoardo _and_ Claudia Galotti, Pirro.
ODOARDO.
She stays too long.
CLAUDIA.
One moment more, Odoardo. It would distress her to miss seeing you.
ODOARDO.
I must wait upon the Count, too. How eager am I to call this worthy man
my son! His conduct enchants me, and, above everything, his resolution
to pass his days in his native valleys.
CLAUDIA.
My heart almost breaks when I think of it. Must we so entirely lose our
dear and only child!
ODOARDO.
Can you think you have lost her, when you know she is in the arms of an
affectionate husband? Does not her happiness make your delight? You
almost make me again suspect that your motive for remaining with her in
town, far from an affectionate husband and father, was the bustle and
the dissipation of the world, and proximity of the court, rather than
the necessity of giving our daughter a proper education.
CLAUDIA.
How unjust, Odoardo! But to-day, I may be allowed to speak somewhat in
favour of town and court, though both are so hateful to your strict
virtue; for here alone could love have united a couple formed for each
other; here alone could the Count have found our Emilia, and he has
found her.
ODOARDO.
That I allow. But were you right, good Claudia, because the result has
been fortunate? It is well that this court education has ended so
happily. Let us not affect to be wise, when we have only been
fortunate. It is well that it has ended so happily. They who were
destined for each other have found each other. Now let them go where
peace and innocence invite them. Why should the Count remain here? To
cringe--to fawn--to flatter--to supplant the Marinellis--to make a
fortune which he does not want--to obtain a dignity, which he does not
value?--Pirro!
PIRRO.
Sir!
ODOARDO.
Lead my horse to the Count's door. I'll follow you anon, and mount it
there. (Exit Pirro).--Why should the Count serve here, when he may
command elsewhere? Besides, you do not consider, Claudia, that, by his
union with my daughter, he is utterly ruined with the Prince? The
Prince hates me----
CLAUDIA.
Less, perhaps, than you fear.
ODOARDO.
Fear! Should I fear anything so contemptible?
CLAUDIA.
Why, have I not already told you that the Prince has seen our daughter?
ODOARDO.
The Prince! Where?
CLAUDIA.
At the last assembly of the Chancellor Grimaldi, which he honoured with
his presence. He conducted himself so graciously towards her----
ODOARDO.
Graciously?
CLAUDIA.
Yes. He conversed with her for some time.
ODOARDO.
Conversed with her?
CLAUDIA.
Appeared to be so delighted with her cheerfulness and good sense----
ODOARDO.
Delighted?
CLAUDIA.
Spoke of her elegance and beauty, in terms of such admiration----
ODOARDO.
Admiration? And all this you relate to me in a tone of rapture. Oh,
Claudia! vain, foolish mother!
CLAUDIA.
Why so?
ODOARDO.
Well, well. This, too, has ended happily.--Ha! when I think----That
were exactly the point where a wound would be to me most deadly.--A
libertine, who admires, and seduces----Claudia! Claudia! The very
thought rouses my fury. You ought to have mentioned this to me
immediately.--But to-day I would not willingly say anything to vex you.
And I should (as she takes him by the hand), were I to stay longer.
Therefore, let me begone. God be with you, Claudia; follow me in
safety. (Exit.)
Scene V.
Claudia, Galotti.
CLAUDIA.
What a man! What rigid virtue--if virtue that should be called, to
which everything seems suspicious and culpable. If this be a knowledge
of mankind, who would not wish to remain in ignorance? Why does Emilia
stay so long?----He dislikes the father--consequently, if he admire the
daughter, he must mean to bring disgrace upon him!
Scene VI.
Emilia _and_ Claudia Galotti.
EMILIA (_rushing in, much alarmed_.)
Heaven be praised! I am now in safety. Or has he even followed me
hither? (Throwing back her veil and espying her mother). Has he, my
mother, has he?--No, thank Heaven.
CLAUDIA.
What has happened to you, my daughter?
EMILIA.
Nothing--nothing.
CLAUDIA.
And yet you look wildly round, and tremble in every limb!
EMILIA.
What have I had to hear?--And where have I been forced to hear it?
CLAUDIA.
I thought you were at church.
EMILIA.
I was. But what are churches and altars to the vicious?--Oh, my mother!
(Throws herself into Claudia's arms.)
CLAUDIA.
Speak, my daughter, and remove my fears. What evil can have happened to
you in so holy a place?
EMILIA.
Never should my devotion have been more fervent and sincere than on
this day. Never was it less what it ought to have been.
CLAUDIA.
Emilia we are all human. The faculty of praying fervently is not always
in our power; but, in the eye of Heaven, the wish to pray is accepted
as prayer.
EMILIA.
And our wish to sin as sin.
CLAUDIA.
That my Emilia never wished.
EMILIA.
No, my mother. The grace of Heaven has preserved me from falling so
low. But, alas! that the vice of others should render us accomplices in
vice against our will!
CLAUDIA.
Compose yourself.--Collect your thoughts as well as you can. Tell me at
once what has happened to you.
EMILIA.
I had just sunk upon my knees, further from the altar than usual--for I
arrived too late. I had just begun to raise my thoughts towards
Heaven--when some person placed himself behind me--so close behind me!
I could neither move forwards nor aside, however much I desired it, in
my fear lest the devotion of my neighbour might interrupt my prayers.
Devotion was the worst thing which I suspected. But it was not long
before I heard a deep sigh close to my ear, and not the name of a
saint;--no--the name--do not be angry, dear mother--the name of your
daughter.--My own name! Oh, that a peal of thunder had at that
moment made me deaf to the rest. The voice spoke of beauty and of
love--complained that this day, which crowned my happiness (if such
should prove the case) sealed his misery for ever. He conjured me--all
this I was obliged to hear, but I did not look round. I wished to seem
as if I was not listening. What more could I do? Nothing but pray that
my guardian angel would strike me with deafness--even with eternal
deafness. This was my prayer--the only prayer which I could utter. At
length it was time to rise; the service came to an end. I trembled at
the idea of being obliged to turn round--trembled at the idea of
beholding him whose impiety had so much shocked me--and when I
turned--when I beheld him----
CLAUDIA.
Whom, my daughter?
EMILIA.
Guess, dear mother, guess: I thought I should have sunk into the earth.
Himself!
CLAUDIA.
Whom do you mean?
EMILIA.
The Prince!
CLAUDIA.
The Prince! Blest be your father's impatience! He was here just now,
and would not stay till you returned.
EMILIA.
My father here--and not stay till I returned!
CLAUDIA.
If, in the midst of your confusion, you had told him too.
EMILIA.
Well, dear mother--could he have found anything in my conduct deserving
of censure?
CLAUDIA.
No--as little as in mine. And yet, yet--you do not know your father.
When enraged, he would have mistaken the innocent for the guilty--in
his anger he would have fancied me the cause of what I could neither
prevent nor foresee. But proceed, my daughter, proceed. When you
recognised the Prince, I trust that you were sufficiently composed to
convince him by your looks, of the contempt which he deserved.
EMILIA.
That I was not. After the glance by which I recognised him, I had not
courage to cast a second. I fled.
CLAUDIA.
And the Prince followed you?
EMILIA.
I did not know it till I had reached the porch, where I felt my hand
seized--by him. Shame compelled me to stop; as an effort to extricate
myself would have attracted the attention of every one who was passing.
This was the only reflection of which I was capable, or which I at
present remember. He spoke, and I replied--but what he said, or what I
replied, I know not.--Should I recollect it, my dear mother, you shall
hear it. At present I remember nothing further. My senses had forsaken
me.--In vain do I endeavour to recollect how I got away from him, and
escaped from the porch. I found myself in the street--I heard his steps
behind me--I heard him follow me into the house, and pursue me up the
stairs----
CLAUDIA.
Fear has its peculiar faculty, my daughter. Never shall I forget the
look with which you rushed into this room!--No. He dared not follow you
so far.--Heavens! had your father known this!--How angry was he when I
merely told him that the Prince had lately beheld you with admiration!
Be at ease, however, my dear girl. Fancy what has happened to be a mere
dream. The result will be less, even, than a dream. You will be assured
to-day from all similar designs.
EMILIA.
No, mother! The Count must know it--to him I must relate it.
CLAUDIA.
Not for the world. Wherefore? Why? Do you wish to make him uneasy
without a cause? And granting that he may not become so at
present--know, my child, the poison which does not operate immediately,
is not on that account less dangerous. That which has no effect upon
the lover, may produce a serious one upon the husband. The lover might
even be flattered at winning the prize from so great a rival; but when
he has won it--alas, my dear Emilia, the lover often becomes quite
another being. Heaven preserve you from such experience!
EMILIA.
You know, dear mother, how willingly I ever submit to your superior
judgment. But should he learn from another that the Prince spoke
to me to-day, would not my silence sooner or later increase his
uneasiness?--I think it would be better not to conceal anything from
him.
CLAUDIA.
Weakness--a fond weakness. No, on no account, my daughter! Tell him
nothing. Let him observe nothing.
EMILIA.
I submit. I have no will, dear mother, opposed to yours. Ah! (sighing
deeply), I shall soon be well again. What a silly, timid thing I am!
am I not, mother? I might have conducted myself otherwise, and should,
perhaps, have compromised myself just a little.
CLAUDIA.
I would not say this, my daughter, till your own good sense had spoken,
which I was sure would be as soon as your alarm was at an end. The
Prince is a gallant. You are too little used to the unmeaning language
of gallantry. In your mind a civility becomes an emotion--a compliment,
a declaration--an idea, a wish--a wish, a design. A mere nothing, in
this language, sounds like everything, while everything is in reality
nothing.
EMILIA.
Dear mother, my terror cannot but appear ridiculous to myself now. But
my kind Appiani shall know nothing of it. He might, perhaps, think me
more vain than virtuous----Ah! there he comes himself. That is his
step.
Scene VII.
Enter Appiani, in deep meditation. His eyes are cast down, and he
approaches without observing Claudia and Emilia, till the latter
runs towards him.
APPIANI.
Ha! My dearest! I did not expect to find you in the ante-room.
EMILIA.
I wish you to be cheerful, even where you do not expect to see me. Why
so grave and solemn? Should not this day inspire joyful emotions?
APPIANI.
It is of greater value to me than my whole life; but it teems with so
much bliss for me--perhaps it is this very bliss which makes me so
grave--so solemn, as you express it (espies Claudia). Ha! You too
here, dear madam. This day I hope to address you by a more familiar
name.
CLAUDIA.
Which will be my greatest pride.--How happy you are, Emilia! Why would
not your father share our delight?
APPIANI.
But a few minutes have elapsed since I tore myself from his arms--or
rather he from mine.--What a man your father is, my Emilia! A pattern
of every manly virtue! With what sentiments does his presence inspire
my soul! Never is my resolution to continue just and good, so firm as
when I see or think of him. And by what, but by fulfilling this
resolution, can I make myself worthy of the honour to be called his
son--to become your husband, dear Emilia?
EMILIA.
And he would not wait for me!
APPIANI.
Because, in my opinion, this brief interview with his Emilia would have
distressed him too much, too deeply affected his soul.
CLAUDIA.
He expected to find you busy with your bridal ornaments, and heard----
APPIANI.
What I have learnt from him with the tenderest admiration. Right, my
Emilia. I shall be blessed with a pious wife--and one who is not proud
of her piety.
CLAUDIA.
But let us not, whilst we attend to one subject, forget another. It is
high time, Emilia. Go!
APPIANI.
Go! Why?
CLAUDIA.
Surely, my lord, you would not lead her to the altar in her present
attire.
APPIANI.
In truth, I was not, till you spoke, aware of that. Who can behold
Emilia, and take heed of her dress? Yet why should I not lead her to
the altar thus?
EMILIA.
No, dear Count, not exactly thus; yet in a dress not much more gay. In
a moment I shall be ready. I do not mean to wear those costly jewels,
which were the last present of your prodigal generosity, no, nor
anything suited to such jewels. Oh, I could quarrel with those jewels
were they not your present--for thrice I've dreamt----
CLAUDIA.
Indeed! I know nothing of that.
EMILIA.
That while I wore them, every diamond changed suddenly to a pearl--and
pearls, you know, dear mother, signify tears.
CLAUDIA.
Child, the interpretation is more visionary than the dream. Were you
not always more fond of pearls than diamonds?
EMILIA.
I assuredly, dear mother--assuredly----
APPIANI (_thoughtful and melancholy_).
Signify tears!
EMILIA.
How! Does that affect you? You?
APPIANI.
It does, though I ought to be ashamed that such is the case; yet when
the fancy is once disposed to sad impressions----
EMILIA.
But why should yours be so? Guess the subject of my thoughts. What did
I wear, and how did I look when I first attracted your attention? Do
you remember?
APPIANI.
Remember! I never see you in idea but in that dress, and I see you so,
even when you are not thus attired.
EMILIA.
I mean to wear one of the same colour and form--flowing and loose.
APPIANI.
Excellent!
EMILIA.
And my hair----
APPIANI.
In its own dark beauty, in curls formed by the hand of nature.
EMILIA.
Not forgetting the rose. Right! Have a little patience, and you shall
see me thus. (Exit.)
Scene VIII.
Count Appiani, Claudia Galotti.
APPIANI (_looks after her with a downcast mien_).
"Pearls signify tears!"--a little patience! Yes! if we could but defy
time! If a minute on the clock were not sometimes an age within us!
CLAUDIA.
Emilia's remark was no less just than quick, Count. You are to-day more
grave than usual. And yet you are but a step from the object of your
wishes. Do you repent that you have attained the wished-for goal?
APPIANI.
How could you, dear mother, suspect this of your son? But it is true. I
am to-day unusually dejected and gloomy. All that I have seen, heard or
dreamt, has preached since yesterday, and before yesterday this
doctrine to me--to be but one step from the goal, and not to have
attained it, is in reality the same. This one idea engrosses all my
thoughts. What can it mean? I understand it not.
CLAUDIA.
You make me uneasy, Count.
APPIANI.
One thought succeeds another. I am vexed--angry with my friends and
with myself.
CLAUDIA.
Why so?
APPIANI.
My friends absolutely require, that, before I solemnize my marriage, I
should acquaint the Prince with my intentions. They allow I am not
bound to do this, but maintain that respect towards him demands it; and
I have been weak enough to consent. I have already ordered my carriage
for the purpose.
CLAUDIA (_starts_).
To wait upon the Prince!
Scene IX.
Pirro, _afterwards_ Marinelli, Count Appiani, Claudia.
_Enter_ Pirro.
PIRRO.
My lady, the Marquis Marinelli is at the door, and inquires for the
Count.
APPIANI.
For me!
PIRRO.
Here his lordship comes. (Opens the door and exit.)
_Enter_ Marinelli.
MARINELLI.
I ask pardon, madam. My lord Count, I called at your house, and was
informed that I should find you here. I have important business with
you. Once more pardon, madam. It will occupy but a few minutes.
CLAUDIA.
I will not impede it. (Curtseys and exit.)
Scene X.
Marinelli, Appiani.
APPIANI.
Now, my lord?
MARINELLI.
I come from his Highness.
APPIANI.
What are his commands?
MARINELLI.
I am proud to be the bearer of this distinguished favour; and if Count
Appiani will not wilfully misunderstand one of his most devoted
friends----
APPIANI.
Proceed, I pray, without more ceremony.
MARINELLI.
I will. The Prince is obliged to send an ambassador immediately to the
Duke of Massa respecting his marriage with the Princess his daughter.
He was long undetermined whom to appoint, till his choice at last has
fallen upon you, my lord.
APPIANI.
Upon me?
MARINELLI.
Yes--and if friendship may be allowed to boast, I was instrumental----
APPIANI.
Truly I am at a loss for thanks. I had long renounced the hope of being
noticed by the Prince.
MARINELLI.
I am sure he only waited for a proper opportunity, and if the present
mission be not sufficiently worthy of Count Appiani, I own my
friendship has been too precipitate.
APPIANI.
Friendship, friendship! every third word. With whom am I speaking? The
Marquis Marinelli's friendship I never dreamt of gaining.
MARINELLI.
I acknowledge my fault, Count Appiani, my unpardonable fault in wishing
to be your friend without your permission. But what of that? The favour
of his Highness, and the dignity he offers, remain the same. I do not
doubt you will accept them with pleasure.
APPIANI (_after some consideration_).
Undoubtedly.
MARINELLI.
Come, then, with me.
APPIANI.
Whither?
MARINELLI.
To the Prince's palace at Dosalo. All is ready. You must depart to-day.
APPIANI.
What say you? To-day?
MARINELLI.
Yes. Rather now than an hour hence. The business presses.
APPIANI.
Indeed! Then I am sorry I must decline the honour which the Prince
intended to confer upon me.
MARINELLI.
How?
APPIANI.
I cannot depart to-day,--nor to-morrow--nor the next day.
MARINELLI.
You are jesting, Count.
APPIANI.
With you?
MARINELLI.
Incomparable! If with the Prince, the joke is so much the merrier.--You
cannot?
APPIANI.
No, my lord, no--and I trust that the Prince himself will think my
excuse sufficient.
MARINELLI.
I am eager to hear it.
APPIANI.
Oh, it is a mere trifle. I mean to be married to-day.
MARINELLI.
Indeed!--and what then?
APPIANI.
And what then?--Your question shows a cursed simplicity!
MARINELLI.
There are examples, Count, of marriages having been deferred. I do not
mean to infer that the delay was pleasant to the bride and bridegroom.
To them it was, no doubt, a trial, yet the sovereign's command----
APPIANI.
Sovereign's command? A sovereign of my own option, I am not so strictly
bound to obey. I admit that you owe the Prince absolute obedience, but
not I. I came to his court a volunteer. I wished to enjoy the honour of
serving him, but not of being his slave. I am the vassal of a greater
sovereign.
MARINELLI.
Greater or smaller, a monarch is a monarch.
APPIANI.
Idle controversy! Enough! Tell the Prince what you have heard. Tell him
I am sorry I cannot accept the honour, as I to-day intend to solemnize
an union which will consummate my happiness.
MARINELLI.
Will you not at the same time inform him with whom?
APPIANI.
With Emilia Galotti.
MARINELLI.
The daughter of this family?
APPIANI.
Yes.
MARINELLI.
Humph!
APPIANI.
What do you mean?
MARINELLI.
I mean that there would be the less difficulty in deferring the
ceremony till your return.
APPIANI.
The ceremony?
MARINELLI.
Yes. The worthy parents will not think much about it.
APPIANI.
The worthy parents?
MARINELLI.
And Emilia will remain faithful to you, of course.
APPIANI.
Of course?----You are an impertinent ape, with your "of course."
MARINELLI.
This to me, Count?
APPIANI.
Why not?
MARINELLI.
Heaven and hell! You shall hear from me.
APPIANI.
Pshaw! The ape is malicious, but----
MARINELLI.
Death and damnation!--Count, I demand satisfaction.
APPIANI.
You shall have it.
MARINELLI.
----And would insist upon it instantly--but that I should not like to
spoil the day for the loving bridegroom.
APPIANI.
Good--natured creature!--(seizes his arm). I own an embassy to Massa
does not suit me, but still I have time enough to take a walk with you.
Come.
MARINELLI (_extricates himself from the_ Count's _grasp_).
Patience, my lord, patience! (Exit.)
Scene XI.
Appiani, Claudia.
APPIANI.
Go, worthless wretch----Ha! that does me good. My blood
circulates----I feel different and all the better.
CLAUDIA (_hastily and alarmed_).
Heavens! My lord--I overheard an angry altercation. Your cheek is
flushed. What has happened?
APPIANI.
Nothing, Madam, nothing. The chamberlain Marinelli has conferred a
favour on me. He has saved me a visit to the Prince.
CLAUDIA.
Indeed!
APPIANI.
We can therefore leave town earlier. I go to give orders to my people,
and shall return immediately. Emilia will, in the meantime, get ready.
CLAUDIA.
May I feel quite at ease, my lord?
APPIANI.
Perfectly so, dear Madam. (Exeunt severally.)
ACT III.
Scene, _an apartment in the_ Prince's _country palace_.
Scene I.
_Enter_ Prince _and_ Marinelli.
MARINELLI.
In vain. He refused the proffered honour with the greatest contempt.
PRINCE.
This ends all hope, then. Things take their course,
MARINELLI.
According to all appearances.
PRINCE.
I relied so firmly on your project--but who knows how ridiculously you
acted? I ought to have recollected that though a blockhead's counsel
may be good, it requires a clever man to execute it.
MARINELLI.
A pretty reward, this!
PRINCE.
Why should you be rewarded?
MARINELLI.
For having risked my life on the venture. Finding that neither raillery
nor reason could induce the Count to sacrifice his love to honour, I
tried to rouse his anger. I said things to him which made him
forget himself. He used insulting expressions, and I demanded
satisfaction--yes, satisfaction on the spot. One of us must fall,
thought I. Should it be his fate, the field is ours--should it be
mine--why, he must fly, and the Prince will at least gain time.
PRINCE.
Did you act thus, Marinelli?
MARINELLI.
Yes; he, who is ready to sacrifice his life for princes, ought to learn
beforehand how grateful they are likely to be.
PRINCE.
And the Count? Report says that he is not the man to wait till
satisfaction is a second time demanded.
MARINELLI.
No doubt, in ordinary cases. Who can blame him? He said that he had
then something of greater consequence than a duel to occupy his
thoughts, and put me off till a week after his marriage.
PRINCE.
With Emilia Galotti. The idea drives me to distraction----Thus, then,
the affair ended, and now you come hither to boast that you risked your
life in my behalf--sacrificed yourself for me.
MARINELLI.
What more, my lord, would you have had me do?
PRINCE.
More? As if you had done anything!
MARINELLI.
May I be allowed to ask what your Highness has done for yourself? You
were so fortunate as to see her at church. What is the result of your
conference?
PRINCE (_with a sneer_).
You have curiosity enough--but I will satisfy it. All happened as I
wished. You need take no further trouble, my most serviceable friend.
She met my proposal more than half way. I ought to have taken her with
me instantly. (In a cold and commanding tone.) Now you have heard
what you wished to know, and may depart.
MARINELLI.
And may depart! Yes, yes. Thus the song ends, and so 'twould be were I
to attempt the impossible. The impossible, did I say? No. Impossible it
is not--only a daring attempt. Had we the girl in our power, I would
answer for it that no marriage should take place.
PRINCE.
Ay--you would answer for anything. I suppose, for instance, you would
like to take a troop of my guards, lie in ambush by the highway, fall
to the number of fifty upon one carriage, and bear the girl in triumph
to me.
MARINELLI.
A girl has been carried off before now by force, though there has been
no appearance of force in the transaction.----
PRINCE.
If you were able to do this, you would not talk so much about it.
MARINELLI.
----But I cannot be answerable for the consequences. Unforeseen
accidents may happen.
PRINCE.
Is it my custom to make people answerable for what they cannot help?
MARINELLI.
Therefore your Highness will--(a pistol is fired at a distance). Ha!
What was that? Did not my ears deceive me? Did not your Highness also
hear a shot. And hark! Another!
PRINCE.
What means this? What is the matter?
MARINELLI.
How if I were more active than you deemed me?
PRINCE.
More active! Explain, then----
MARINELLI.
In short, what I mentioned is now taking place.
PRINCE.
Is it possible?
MARINELLI.
But forget not, Prince, what you just now promised. You pledge your
word that----
PRINCE.
The necessary precautions I hope have been taken.
MARINELLI.
Yes, as carefully as possible. The execution of my plan is entrusted to
people on whom I can rely. The road, as you know, runs close by your
park fence. There the carriage will be attacked by a party, apparently
to rob the travellers. Another band (one of whom is my trusty servant)
will rush from the park as if to assist those who are attacked. During
the sham battle between the two parties, my servant will seize Emilia,
as if to rescue her, and bring her through the park into the palace.
This is the plan. What says your Highness now?
PRINCE.
You surprise me beyond measure. A fearful anxiety comes o'er me.
(Marinelli walks to the window.) What are you looking at?
MARINELLI.
That must be the scene of action--yes, and see, some one in a mask has
just leapt over the fence--doubtless to acquaint me with the result.
Withdraw awhile, your Highness.
PRINCE.
Ah, Marinelli----
MARINELLI.
Well--now, doubtless, I have done too much--as I before had done too
little.
PRINCE.
Not so--not so--yet I cannot perceive----
MARINELLI.
Perceive?--It is best done at one blow. Withdraw quickly. You must not
be seen here.
(_Exit_ Prince.)
Scene II.
Marinelli _and presently_ Angelo.
MARINELLI (_goes again to the window_).
The carriage is returning slowly to town. So slowly? and at each door a
servant? These appearances do not please me; they show the plot has
only half succeeded. They are driving some wounded person carefully,
and he is not dead. The fellow in the mask comes nearer. 'Tis Angelo
himself--foolhardy! But he knows the windings of this place. He beckons
to me--he must know that he has succeeded.--Ha! ha! Count Appiani. You,
who refused an embassy to Massa, have been obliged to go a longer
journey. Who taught you to recognize apes so well? 'Tis true, they are
malicious (walks towards the door). Well, Angelo?
_Enter_ Angelo, _with his mash in his hand_.
ANGELO.
Be ready, my lord. She will be here directly.
MARINELLI.
How did you succeed in other respects?
ANGELO.
As you wished, I have no doubt.
MARINELLI.
How is it with the Count?
ANGELO.
So, so. But he must have had some suspicions, for he was not quite
unprepared.
MARINELLI.
Quick, tell me--is he dead?
ANGELO.
I am sorry for him, poor man.
MARINELLI.
There! Take that for thy compassion (gives him a purse).
ANGELO.
And our poor Nicolo too, he has shared the same luck.
MARINELLI.
What! Loss on both sides?
ANGELO.
Yes. I could cry for the honest lad's fate; though I come in for
another quarter of this purse by it; for I am his heir, since I avenged
him. This is a law among us, and as good a law, methinks, as ever was
made for the support of friendship and fidelity. This Nicolo, my
lord----
MARINELLI.
No more of your Nicolo! The Count----
ANGELO.
Zounds! The Count finished him, and I finished the Count. He fell, and
though he might be alive when they put him into the coach, I'll answer
for it that he will never come alive out of it.
MARINELLI.
Were you but sure of this, Angelo----
ANGELO.
I'll forfeit your custom, if it be not true. Have you any further
commands? For I have a long journey. We must be across the frontier
before sunset.
MARINELLI.
Go, then.
ANGELO.
Should anything else occur in my way, you know where to inquire for me.
What any other can venture to do will be no magic for me, and my terms
are lower than any other's. (Exit.)
MARINELLI.
'Tis well--yet not so well as it might have been. Shame on thee,
Angelo, to be such a niggard! Surely the Count was worthy of a second
shot. Now, he may die in agony; poor Count! Shame, Angelo! It was a
cruel and bungling piece of work. The Prince must not know what has
happened. He himself must discover how advantageous this death is to
him. Death! What would I not give to be certain of it!
Scene III.
The Prince, Marinelli.
PRINCE.
Here she comes up the avenue. She flies before the servants. Fear gives
wings to her feet. She must not suspect our design. She thinks she is
escaping from robbers. How long will her mistake last?
MARINELLI.
At least we have her here.
PRINCE.
But will not her mother come in search of her? Will not the Count
follow her? What can we do then? How can I keep her from them?
MARINELLI.
To all this I confess I can make no reply. But we must see. Compose
yourself, Prince. This first step was, at all events, necessary.
PRINCE.
How so, if we are obliged to recede?
MARINELLI.
But perhaps we need not. There are a thousand things on which we may
make further steps. Have you forgotten the chief one?
PRINCE.
How can I have forgotten that of which I never thought? What mean you
by the chief one?
MARINELLI.
The art of pleasing and persuading--which in a prince who loves can
never fail.
PRINCE.
Can never fail! True, except when it is most needed. I have already
made a poor attempt in this art to-day. All my flattery, all my
entreaties could not extract one word from her. Mute, trembling, and
abashed, she stood before me like a criminal who fears the judge's
fatal sentence. Her terror was infectious. I trembled also and
concluded by imploring her forgiveness. Scarcely dare I speak to her
again--and, at all events, I dare not be present when she arrives. You,
Marinelli, must receive her. I will listen to your conversation, and
join you when I am more collected.
Scene IV.
Marinelli, _presently his servant_ Battista, _and_ Emilia.
MARINELLI.
If she did not see him fall--and of course she could not, as she fled
instantly But she comes, and I too do not wish to be the first to meet
her eye (withdraws to a corner of the apartment).
_Enter_ Battista _and_ Emilia.
BATTISTA.
This way--this way--dear lady.
EMILIA (_out of breath_).
Oh! I thank you, my friend--I thank you. But, Heavens! Where am I?
Quite alone, too! Where are my mother, and the Count? They are surely
coming? Are they not close behind me?
BATTISTA.
I suppose so.
EMILIA.
You suppose so? Are you not certain? Have you not seen them? Were not
pistols fired behind us?
BATTISTA.
Pistols? Was it so?
EMILIA.
Surely. Oh, Heavens! and the Count or my mother is shot.
BATTISTA.
I'll go in search of them instantly.
EMILIA.
Not without me! I'll go with you! I must go with you. Come, my friend.
MARINELLI (_approaches as if he had just entered_).
Ha! fair lady! What misfortune, or rather what good fortune--what
fortunate misfortune has procured us the honour----
EMILIA (_astonished_).
How!--You here, my lord!--This then is doubtless your house. Pardon my
intrusion. We have been attacked by robbers. Some good people came to
our assistance,--and this honest man took me out of the carriage and
conducted me hither. But I am alarmed to find that I alone am rescued.
My mother must be still in danger. I heard pistols fired behind us.
Perhaps she is dead,--and yet I live. Pardon me. I must away, I must
return to the place, which I ought not to have left.
MARINELLI.
Compose yourself, dear lady. All is well. The beloved persons, for whom
you feel this tender anxiety, will soon be here.--Run, Battista; they
may perhaps not know where the lady is. See whether you can find them
in any of the lodges, and conduct them hither instantly.
(_Exit_ Battista.)
EMILIA.
Are you sure they are all safe? Has nothing happened to them?--Oh, what
a day of terrors has this been to me! But I ought not to remain here; I
should hasten to meet them.
MARINELLI.
Why so, dear lady? You are already breathless and exhausted. Compose
yourself, and condescend to step into this room, where you will find
better accommodation than here. I feel certain that the Prince has
already found your gracious mother, and is escorting her hither.
EMILIA.
Who do you say?
MARINELLI.
Our gracious Prince himself.
EMILIA (_extremely terrified_).
The Prince!
MARINELLI.
He flew to your assistance at the first intelligence. He is highly
incensed that such a crime should have been committed so near to his
villa, nay, almost before his eyes. He has sent in search of the
villains, and if they be seized, their punishment will be most severe.
EMILIA.
The Prince!--Where am I then?
MARINELLI.
At Dosalo, the Prince's villa.
EMILIA.
How strange!--And you think he will soon arrive?--But with my mother
too?
MARINELLI.
Here he is, already.
Scene V.
_The_ Prince, Emilia, _and_ Marinelli.
PRINCE.
Where is she? Where is she?--We have sought you everywhere, dear
lady.--You are well, I hope? Now, all is well. The Count and your
mother----
EMILIA.
Oh, your Highness! Where are they? Where is my mother?
PRINCE.
Not far off, close at hand.
EMILIA.
Heavens! In what a situation shall I perhaps find one or other of them!
For your Highness conceals from me--I perceive----
PRINCE.
I conceal nothing, be assured. Lean on my arm, and accompany me to them
without fear.
EMILIA (_irresolute_).
But--if they be not wounded--if my suspicions be not true--why are they
not already here?
PRINCE.
Hasten then, that all these sad apprehensions may at once be banished.
EMILIA.
What shall I do? (wrings her hands).
PRINCE.
How, dear lady! Can you harbour any suspicion against me?
EMILIA (_falls at his feet_).
On my knees I entreat you----
PRINCE (_raising her_).
I am quite ashamed.--Yes, Emilia, I deserve this mute reproach. My
conduct this morning cannot be justified, or even excused. Pardon my
weakness: I ought not to have made you uneasy by an avowal, from which
I could expect no advantage. I was amply punished by the speechless
agitation with which you listened to it, or rather did not listen to
it. And if I might be allowed to think this accident the signal
of more favourable fortune--the most wondrous respite of my final
sentence--this accident, which allows me to behold and speak to you
again before my hopes for ever vanish--this accident, which gives
me an opportunity of imploring your forgiveness--yet will I--do not
tremble--yet will I rely only and entirely on your looks. Not a sigh,
not a syllable shall offend you. Only wound me not with suspicions--do
not for a moment doubt the unbounded influence which you possess over
me--only imagine not that you need any protection against me. And now
come--come where delights more in harmony with your feelings, await
you. (Leads her away, not without opposition.) Follow us, Marinelli.
(_Exeunt_ Prince _and_ Emilia.)
MARINELLI.
Follow us! That means of course--Follow us not. And why should I follow
them? He will now find how far he can proceed with her, without
witnesses. All that I have to do is to prevent intrusion. From the
Count I no longer expect it--but from her mother. Wonderful, indeed,
would it be, were she to have departed quietly, leaving her daughter
unprotected. Well, Battista, what now?
Scene VI.
Battista _and_ Marinelli.
BATTISTA (_in haste_).
The mother, my lord chamberlain----
MARINELLI.
As I suspected. Where is she?
BATTISTA.
She will be here immediately, unless you prevent it. When you ordered
me to pretend to look for her, I felt little inclination to do so. But
in the distance I heard her shrieks. She is in search of her daughter,
and will discover the whole plot. All the people who inhabit this
retired spot have gathered round her, and each vies with his neighbour
to show her the way. Whether she has been told that you are here, or
that the Prince is here, I know not. What is to be done?
MARINELLI.
Let us see (considering). Refuse her admittance when she knows that
her daughter is here? That will not do. She will certainly open her
eyes when she finds her lambkin in the clutches of the wolf. Eyes! They
would be of little consequence; but Heaven have mercy on our ears!
Well, well. A woman's lungs are not inexhaustible. She will be silent,
when she can shriek no longer. Besides, the mother it is whom we should
gain over to our side--and if I be a judge of mothers--to be a sort of
prince's step--mother would flatter most of them. Let her come,
Battista, let her come.
BATTISTA.
Hark, my lord!
CLAUDIA (_within_).
Emilia! Emilia! My child! Where are you?
MARINELLI.
Go, Battista, and use your endeavours to dismiss her inquisitive
companions.
Scene VII.
Claudia, Battista, Marinelli.
_As_ Battista _is going_, Claudia _meets him_.
CLAUDIA.
Ha! You took her out of the carriage. You led her away. I know you
again. Where is she? Speak, wretch.
BATTISTA.
Are these your thanks?
CLAUDIA.
Oh, if you merit thanks (in a mild tone), forgive me, worthy man.
Where is she? Let me no longer be deprived of her. Where is she?
BATTISTA.
She could not be more safe, were she in heaven.--My master, here, will
conduct you to her. (Observes that some people are beginning to
follow Claudia.) Back there! Begone! (Exit, driving them away.)
Scene VIII.
Claudia, Marinelli.
CLAUDIA.
Your master? (espies Marinelli, and starts). Ha! Is this your
master? You here, Sir--and my daughter here--and you--you will
conduct me to her?
MARINELLI.
With great pleasure, madam.
CLAUDIA.
Hold! It just occurs to me. It was you, I think, who visited Count
Appiani this morning at my house,--whom I left alone with him,--and
with whom he afterwards had a quarrel?
MARINELLI.
A quarrel? That I did not know. We had a trifling dispute respecting
affairs of state.
CLAUDIA.
And your name is Marinelli?
MARINELLI.
The Marquis Marinelli.
CLAUDIA.
True. Hear, then, Marquis Marinelli. Your name, accompanied with a
curse----but no--I will not wrong the noble man--the curse was inferred
by myself--your name was the last word uttered by the dying Count.
MARINELLI.
The dying Count? Count Appiani?----You hear, Madam, what most surprises
me in this your strange address--the dying Count?--What else you mean
to imply, I know not.
CLAUDIA (_with asperity, and in a deliberate tone_).
Marinelli was the last word uttered by the dying Count.--Do you
understand me now? I myself did not at first understand it, though it
was spoken in a tone--a tone which I still hear. Where were my senses
that I could not understand it instantly?
MARINELLI.
Well, Madam, I was always the Count's friend--his intimate friend. If,
therefore, he pronounced my name at the hour of death----
CLAUDIA.
In that tone!--I cannot imitate--I cannot describe it--but it
signified----everything. What! Were we attacked by robbers? No--by
assassins--by hired assassins: and Marinelli was the last word uttered
by the dying Count, in such a tone----
MARINELLI.
In such a tone? Did any one ever hear that a tone of voice used in a
moment of terror could be a ground of accusation against an honest man?
CLAUDIA.
Oh that I could appear before a tribunal of justice, and imitate that
tone? Yet, wretch that I am! I forget my daughter. Where is she--dead
too? Was it my daughter's fault that Appiani was thy enemy?
MARINELLI.
I revere the mother's fears, and therefore pardon you.--Come, Madam.
Your daughter is in an adjoining room, and I hope her alarms are by
this time at an end. With the tenderest solicitude is the Prince
himself employed in comforting her.
CLAUDIA.
Who?
MARINELLI.
The Prince.
CLAUDIA.
The Prince! Do you really say the Prince--our Prince?
MARINELLI.
Who else should it be?
CLAUDIA.
Wretched mother that I am!--And her father, her father! He will curse
the day of her birth. He will curse me.
MARINELLI.
For Heaven's sake, Madam, what possesses you?
CLAUDIA.
It is clear. To-day--at church--before the eyes of the All-pure--in the
presence of the Eternal, this scheme of villainy began. (To
Marinelli.) Murderer! Mean, cowardly murderer! Thou wast not bold
enough to meet him face to face, but base enough to bribe assassins
that another might be gratified. Thou scum of murderers! honourable
murderers would not endure thee in their company. Why may I not spit
all my gall, all my rancour into thy face, thou panderer?
MARINELLI.
You rave, good woman. Moderate your voice, at any rate, and remember
where you are.
CLAUDIA.
Where I am! Remember where I am! What cares the lioness, when robbed of
her young, in whose forest she roars?
EMILIA (_within_).
Ha! My mother! I hear my mother's voice.
CLAUDIA.
Her voice? 'Tis she! She has heard me. Where are you, my child?--I
come, I come (rushes into the room, followed by Marinelli).
ACT IV.
Scene I.--_The same_.
The Prince _and_ Marinelli.
PRINCE.
Come, Marinelli, I must collect myself--I look to you for explanation.
MARINELLI.
Oh! maternal anger! Ha! ha! ha!
PRINCE.
You laugh?
MARINELLI.
Had you, Prince, but seen her frantic conduct in this room! You heard
how she screamed; yet how tame she became as soon as she beheld you!
Ha! ha! Yes--I never yet knew the mother who scratched a prince's eyes
out, because he thought her daughter handsome.
PRINCE.
You are a poor observer. The daughter fell senseless into her mother's
arms. This made the mother forget her rage. It was her daughter, not
me, whom she spared, when, in a low voice, she uttered--what I myself
had rather not have heard--had rather not have understood.
MARINELLI.
What means your Highness?
PRINCE.
Why this dissimulation? Answer me. Is it true or false?
MARINELLI.
And if it were true!
PRINCE.
If it were! It is, then--he is dead (in a threatening tone).
Marinelli! Marinelli!
MARINELLI.
Well?
PRINCE.
By the God of justice I swear that I am innocent of this blood. Had you
previously told me that the Count's life must be sacrificed--God is my
witness I would as soon have consented to lose my own.
MARINELLI.
Had I previously told you! As if the Count's death was part of my plan!
I charged Angelo that on his soul he should take care that no person
suffered injury; and this, too, would have been the case, had not the
Count begun the fray, and shot the first assailant on the spot.
PRINCE.
Indeed! he ought to have understood the joke better.
MARINELLI.
So that Angelo was enraged, and instantly avenged his comrade's
death----
PRINCE.
Well, that is certainly very natural.
MARINELLI.
I have reproved him for it.
PRINCE.
Reproved him! How good--natured! Advise him never to appear again in my
dominions; for my reproof might not be found so good-natured.
MARINELLI.
Just as I foresaw! I and Angelo.--Design and accident; all the
same.--It was, however, agreed, and indeed promised, that I should not
be answerable for any accidents which might happen.
PRINCE.
Might happen, say you, or must?
MARINELLI.
Still better! Yet one word, your Highness, before you say in harsh
phrase what you think of me. The Count's death was far from being a
matter of indifference to me. I had challenged him. He left the world
without giving me satisfaction, and my honour, consequently, remains
tarnished. Allowing, therefore, what under other circumstances I
deserved the suspicion you allude to, can I in this? (with assumed
anger.) He who can so suspect me----
PRINCE (_yielding_).
Well, well!
MARINELLI.
Oh that he were still alive! I would give all that I possess--(with
bitterness)--even the favour of my Prince--even that treasure,
invaluable and never to be trifled with, would I give.
PRINCE.
Well, well! I understand you. His death was accidental, merely
accidental--you assure me that it was so, and I believe it. But will
any one else believe it? Will Emilia--her mother--the world?
MARINELLI (_coldly_).
Scarcely.
PRINCE.
What, then, will they believe? You shrug your shoulders. They will
suppose Angelo the tool and me the prime mover.
MARINELLI (_still more coldly_).
Probable enough!
PRINCE.
Me! me, myself!--or from this hour I must resign all hopes of Emilia.
MARINELLI (_in a tone of perfect indifference_).
Which you must also have done, had the Count lived.
PRINCE (_violently_).
Marinelli!--(checking his warmth)--But you shall not rouse my anger.
Be it so. It is so. You mean to imply that the Count's death is
fortunate for me;--the best thing which could have happened--the only
circumstance which could bring my passion to a happy issue--and,
therefore, no matter how it happened. A Count more or less in the world
is of little consequence. Am I right?--I am not alarmed at a little
crime; but it must be a secret little crime, a serviceable little
crime. But ours has not been either secret or serviceable. It has
opened a passage only to close it again. Every one will lay it to our
door. And, after all, we have not perpetrated it at all. This can only
be the result of your wise and wonderful management.
MARINELLI.
If your Highness have it so----
PRINCE.
Why not?--I want an explanation----
MARINELLI.
I am accused of more than I deserve.
PRINCE.
I want an explanation.
MARINELLI.
Well then, what error in my plans has attached such obvious suspicion
to the Prince? The fault lies in the master-stroke which your Highness
so graciously put to my plans----
PRINCE.
I?
MARINELLI.
Allow me to say that the step which you took at church this
morning--with whatever circumspection it was done, or however
inevitable it might be--was not part of my programme.
PRINCE.
How did that injure it?
MARINELLI.
Not indeed the whole plan, but its opportuneness.
PRINCE.
Do I understand you?
MARINELLI.
To speak more intelligibly. When I undertook the business, Emilia knew
nothing of the Prince's attachment. Her mother just as little. How if I
formed my foundation upon this circumstance, and in the meantime the
Prince was undermining my edifice?
PRINCE (_striking his forehead_).
Damnation!
MARINELLI.
How, if he himself betrayed his intentions?
PRINCE.
Cursed interposition!
MARINELLI.
For had he not so behaved himself I should like to know what part of my
plan could have raised the least suspicion in the mind of the mother or
the daughter?
PRINCE.
You are right.
MARINELLI.
And therein I certainly am very wrong.--Pardon me.
Scene II.
Battista, The Prince, Marinelli.
_Enter_ BATTISTA (_hastily_).
The Countess is arrived.
PRINCE.
The Countess? What Countess?
BATTISTA.
Orsina!
PRINCE.
Orsina? Marinelli!
MARINELLI.
I am as much astonished as yourself.
PRINCE (_to_ Battista).
Go--run--Battista. She must not alight. I am not here--not here to her.
She must return this instant. Go, go. (Exit Battista). What does the
silly woman want? How dares she take this liberty? How could she know
that we were here? Is she come as a spy? Can she have heard anything?
Oh, Marinelli, speak, answer me. Is the man offended, who vows he is my
friend--offended by a paltry altercation? Shall I beg pardon?
MARINELLI.
Prince, as soon as you recover yourself, I am yours again, with my
whole soul. The arrival of Orsina is as much an enigma to me as to you.
But she will not be denied. What will you do?
PRINCE.
I will not speak to her. I will withdraw.
MARINELLI.
Right! Do so instantly; I will receive her.
PRINCE.
But merely to dismiss her. No more. We have other business to perform.
MARINELLI.
Not so, not so. Our other things are done. Summon up resolution and all
deficiencies will be supplied. But do I not hear her? Hasten, Prince.
In that room (pointing to an adjoining apartment, to which the Prince
retires)--you may, if you please, listen to our conversation. She
comes, I fear, at an unpropitious moment for her.
Scene III.
The Countess Orsina, Marinelli.
ORSINA (_without perceiving_ Marinelli).
What means this? No one comes to meet me, but a shameless servant, who
endeavours to obstruct my entrance. Surely I am at Dosalo, where, on
former occasions, an army of attendants rushed to receive me--where
love and ecstasy awaited me. Yes. The place is the same, but----Ha! you
here, Marinelli? I am glad the Prince has brought you with him. Yet,
no. My business with his Highness must be transacted with himself only.
Where is he?
MARINELLI.
The Prince, Countess?
ORSINA.
Who else?
MARINELLI.
You suppose that he is here, then,--or know it, perhaps. He, however,
does not expect a visit from your ladyship.
ORSINA.
Indeed! He has not then received my letter this morning.
MARINELLI.
Your letter? But--yes. I remember he mentioned that he had received
one.
ORSINA.
Well? Did I not in that letter request he would meet me here to-day? I
own he did not think proper to return a written answer; but I learnt
that an hour afterwards he drove from town to Dosalo. This I thought a
sufficient answer, and therefore I have come.
MARINELLI.
A strange accident!
ORSINA.
Accident! It was an agreement--at least as good as an agreement. On my
part, the letter--on his, the deed. How you stand staring, Marquis!
What surprises you?
MARINELLI.
You seemed resolved yesterday never to appear before the Prince again.
ORSINA.
Night is a good councillor. Where is he? Where is he? Doubtless in the
chamber, whence sighs and sobs were issuing as I passed. I wished to
enter, but the impertinent servant would not let me pass.
MARINELLI.
Dearest Countess----
ORSINA.
I heard a woman's shriek. What means this, Marinelli? Tell me--if I be
your dearest Countess--tell me. A curse on these court slaves! Their
tales! their lies! But what matters it whether you choose to tell me or
not? I will see for myself.
MARINELLI (_holding her back_).
Whither would you go?
ORSINA.
Where I ought to have gone long since. Is it proper, think you,
that I should waste any time in idle conversation with you in the
ante-chamber, when the Prince expects me in the saloon?
MARINELLI.
You are mistaken, Countess. The Prince does not expect you here. He
cannot--will not see you.
ORSINA.
And yet is here, in consequence of my letter.
MARINELLI.
Not in consequence of your letter.
ORSINA.
He received it, you say.
MARINELLI.
Yes, but he did not read it.
ORSINA (_violently_).
Not read it! (Less violently.) Not read it! (Sorrowfully, and wiping
away a tear.) Not even read it!
MARINELLI.
From preoccupation, I am certain, not contempt.
ORSINA (_with pride_).
Contempt! Who thought of such a thing? To whom do you use the term?
Marinelli, your comfort is impertinent. Contempt! Contempt! To me! (In
a milder tone.) It is true that he no longer loves me. That is
certain. And in place of love something else has filled his soul. It is
natural. But why should this be contempt? Indifference would be enough.
Would it not, Marinelli?
MARINELLI.
Certainly, certainly.
ORSINA (_with a scornful look_).
Certainly! What an oracle, who can be made to say what one pleases!
Indifference in the place of love!--That means nothing in the place of
something. For learn, thou mimicking court-parrot, learn from a woman,
that indifference is but an empty word, a mere sound which means
nothing. The mind can only be indifferent to objects of which it does
not think; to things which for itself have no existence. Only
indifferent for a thing that is nothing--that is as much as saying not
indifferent. Is that meaning beyond thee, man?
MARINELLI (_aside_).
Alas! how prophetic were my fears?
ORSINA.
What do you mutter?
MARINELLI.
Mere admiration! Who does not know, Countess, that you are a
philosopher?
ORSINA.
Am I not? True; I am a philosopher. But have I now shown it; ah, shame!
If I have shown it, and have often done so, it were no wonder if the
Prince despised me. How can man love a creature which, in spite of him,
will think? A woman who thinks is as silly as a man who uses paint.
She ought to laugh--do nothing but laugh, that the mighty lords of the
creation may be kept in good humour--What makes me laugh now,
Marinelli? Why, the accidental circumstance that I should have written
to the Prince to come hither--that he should not have read my letter
and nevertheless have come. Ha! ha! ha! 'Tis an odd accident, very
pleasant and amusing. Why don't you laugh, Marinelli? The mighty lords
of the creation may laugh, though we poor creatures dare not think.
(In a serious and commanding tone.) Then laugh, you!
MARINELLI.
Presently, Countess, presently.
ORSINA.
Blockhead! while you speak the proper moment is for ever past. No. Do
not laugh--for mark me, Marinelli, (with emotion) that which makes me
laugh, has, like every thing in the world, its serious side. Accident!
Could it be accidental that the Prince, who little thought that he
would see me here, must see me?--Accident! Believe me, Marinelli, the
word accident is blasphemy. Nothing under the sun is accidental, and
least of all this, of which the purpose is so evident.--Almighty and
all--bounteous Providence, pardon me that I joined this poor weak
sinner in giving the name of accident to what so plainly is Thy
work--yes, Thy immediate work. (In a hasty tone to Marinelli.) Dare
not again to lead me thus astray from truth.
MARINELLI.
This is going too far (aside)--But, Countess----
ORSINA.
Peace with your but--that word demands reflection, and--my head, my
head!--(Puts her hand to her forehead)--Contrive that I may speak to
the Prince immediately, or I shall soon want strength to do so. You
see, Marinelli, that I must speak to him--that I am resolved to speak
to him.
Scene IV.
The Prince, Orsina, Marinelli.
PRINCE (_aside, as he advances_).
I must come to his assistance.
ORSINA (_espies him, but remains irresolute whether to approach
him or not_).
Ha! There he is.
PRINCE (_walks straight across the room towards the other
apartments_).
Ha! The fair Countess, as I live. How sorry I am, Madam, that I can
to-day so ill avail myself of the honour of your visit. I am engaged. I
am not alone. Another time, dear Countess, another time. At present
stay no longer--no longer, I beg. And you, Marinelli--I want you.
(Exit.)
Scene V.
Orsina, Marinelli.
MARINELLI.
Your ladyship has now heard, from himself, what you would not believe
from my lips, have you not?
ORSINA (_as if petrified_).
Have I? Have, I indeed?
MARINELLI.
Most certainly.
ORSINA (_deeply affected_).
"I am engaged, I am not alone." Is this all the excuse I am worth? For
whose dismissal would not these words serve? For every importunate, for
every beggar. Could he not frame one little falsehood for me? Engaged!
With what? Not alone! Who can be with him? Marinelli, dear Marinelli,
be compassionate--tell me a falsehood on your own account. What can a
falsehood cost you? What has he to do? Who is with him? Tell me, tell
me. Say anything which first occurs to you, and I will go.
MARINELLI (_aside_).
On this condition, I may tell her part of the truth.
ORSINA.
Quick, Marinelli, and I will go. He said, "Another time, dear
Countess!" Did he not? That he may keep his promise--that he may have
no pretext to break it--quick, then, Marinelli,--tell me a falsehood,
and I will go.
MARINELLI.
The Prince, dear Countess, is really not alone. There are persons with
him, whom he cannot leave for a moment--persons, who have just escaped
imminent danger. Count Appiani----
ORSINA.
Is with him! What a pity that I know this to be false! Quick, another!
for Count Appiani, if you do not know it, has just been assassinated by
robbers. I met the carriage, with his body in it, as I came from town.
Or did I not? Was it a dream?
MARINELLI.
Alas, it was not a dream. But they who accompanied the Count were
fortunately rescued, and are now in this palace; namely, a lady to whom
he was betrothed, and whom, with her mother, he was conducting to
Sabionetta, to celebrate his nuptials.
ORSINA.
They are with the Prince! A lady and her mother! Is the lady handsome?
MARINELLI.
The Prince is extremely sorry for her situation.
ORSINA.
That he would be, I hope, even if she were hideous--for her fate is
dreadful. Poor girl! at the moment he was to become thine for ever, he
was torn for ever from thee. Who is she? Do I know her? I have of late
been so much out of town, that I am ignorant of every thing.
MARINELLI.
It is Emilia Galotti.
ORSINA.
What? Emilia Galotti? Oh, Marinelli, let me not mistake this lie for
truth.
MARINELLI.
Why?
ORSINA.
Emilia Galotti?
MARINELLI.
Yes. Whom you can scarcely know.
ORSINA.
I do know her--though our acquaintance only began to-day. Emilia
Galotti! Answer me seriously. Is Emilia Galotti the unfortunate lady
whom the Prince is consoling?
MARINELLI (_aside_).
Can I have disclosed too much?
ORSINA.
And Count Appiani was her destined bridegroom--Count Appiani, who was
shot to-day?
MARINELLI.
Exactly.
ORSINA (_clapping her hands_).
Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!
MARINELLI.
What now?
ORSINA.
I could kiss the devil that tempted him to do it.
MARINELLI.
Whom? Tempted? To do what?
ORSINA.
Yes, I could kiss--him--even wert thou that devil, Marinelli.
MARINELLI.
Countess!
ORSINA.
Come hither. Look at me--steadfastly--eye to eye.
MARINELLI.
Well?
ORSINA.
Know you not my thoughts?
MARINELLI.
How can I?
ORSINA.
Have you no concern in it?
MARINELLI.
In what?
ORSINA.
Swear. No, do not swear, for that might be another crime. But
yes--swear. One sin more or less is of no consequence to a man who is
already damned. Have you no concern in it?
MARINELLI.
You alarm me, Countess.
ORSINA.
Indeed! Now, Marinelli--has your good heart no suspicion?
MARINELLI.
Suspicion? Of what?
ORSINA.
'Tis well. Then I will entrust you with a secret--a secret, which will
make each hair upon your head stand on end. But here, so near the door,
some one might overhear us. Come here--(puts her finger to her
mouth)--mark me, it is a secret--a profound secret. (Places her mouth
to his ear, as if about to whisper, and shouts as loudly as she can)
The Prince is a murderer!
MARINELLI.
Countess! Countess! Have you lost your senses?
ORSINA.
Senses? Ha! ha! ha! (laughing loudly). I have very seldom, if
ever, been so satisfied with my understanding as I am at this moment.
Depend upon it, Marinelli--but it is between ourselves--(in a low
voice)--the Prince is a murderer--the murderer of Count Appiani. The
Count was assassinated, not by robbers, but by the Prince's myrmidons,
by the Prince himself.
MARINELLI.
How can so horrid a suspicion fall from your lips, or enter your
imagination?
ORSINA.
How? Very naturally. This Emilia Galotti, who is now in the palace,
and whose bridegroom--was thus trundled head over heels out of the
world--this Emilia Galotti did the Prince to-day accost in the Church
of the Dominicans, and held a lengthy conversation with her. That I
know, for my spies not only saw it, but heard what he said. Now, sir,
have I lost my senses? Methinks I connect the attendant circumstances
very tolerably together. Or has all this happened, too, by accident? If
so, Marinelli, you have as little idea of the wickedness of man as you
have of prevision.
MARINELLI.
Countess, you would talk your life into danger----
ORSINA.
Were I to mention this to others? So much the better! So much the
better! To-morrow I will repeat it aloud in the market-place--and, if
any one contradict me--if any one contradict me, he was the murderer's
accomplice. Farewell. (As she is going, she meets Odoardo entering
hastily.)
Scene VI.
Odoardo, Orsina, Marinelli.
ODOARDO.
Pardon me, gracious lady----
ORSINA.
I can grant no pardon here, for I can take no offence. You must apply
to this gentleman (pointing to Marinelli).
MARINELLI (_aside_).
The father! This completes the business.
ODOARDO.
Pardon a father, sir, who is in the greatest embarrassment, for
entering unannounced.
ORSINA.
Father!--(turning round again)--Of Emilia, no doubt! Ha! Thou art
welcome.
ODOARDO.
A servant came in haste to tell me that my family was in danger near
here. I flew hither, he mentioned, and found that Count Appiani has
been wounded--and carried back to town--and that my wife and daughter
have found refuge in the palace. Where are they, sir, where are they?
MARINELLI.
Be calm, Colonel. Your wife and daughter have sustained no injury save
from terror. They are both well. The Prince is with them. I will
immediately announce you.
ODOARDO.
Why announce? merely announce me?
MARINELLI.
For reasons--on account of--on account of--you know, sir, that you are
not upon the most friendly terms with the Prince. Gracious as may be
his conduct towards your wife and daughter--they are ladies--will your
unexpected appearance be welcome to him?
ODOARDO.
You are right, my lord, you are right.
MARINELLI.
But, Countess, may I not first have the honour of handing you to your
carriage?
ORSINA.
By no means.
MARINELLI (_taking her hand, not in the most gentle way_).
Allow me to perform my duty.
ORSINA.
Softly!--I excuse you, Marquis. Why do such as you ever consider mere
politeness a duty, and neglect as unimportant what is really an
essential duty? To announce this worthy man immediately is your duty.
MARINELLI.
Have you forgotten what the Prince himself commanded?
ORSINA.
Let him come, and repeat his commands. I shall expect him.
MARINELLI (_draws_ Odoardo _aside_).
I am obliged to leave you, Colonel, with a lady whose intellect--you
understand me, I mention this that you may know in what way to treat
her remarks, which are sometimes singular. It were better not to enter
into conversation with her.
ODOARDO.
Very well. Only make haste, my lord.
(_Exit_ Marinelli.)
Scene VII.
Orsina, Odoardo.
ORSINA (after a pause, during which she has surveyed Odoardo with a
look of compassion, while he has cast towards her a glance of
curiosity).
Alas! What did he say to you, unfortunate man?
ODOARDO (_half aside_).
Unfortunate!
ORSINA.
Truth it certainly was not--at least, not one of those sad truths which
await you.
ODOARDO.
Which await me? Do I, then, not know enough? Madam--but proceed,
proceed.
ORSINA.
You know nothing?
ODOARDO.
Nothing.
ORSINA.
Worthy father! What would I give that you were my father! Pardon me.
The unfortunate so willingly associate together. I would faithfully
share your sorrows--and your anger.
ODOARDO.
Sorrows and anger? Madam--but I forget--go on.
ORSINA.
Should she even be your only daughter--your only child--but it matters
not. An unfortunate child is ever an only one.
ODOARDO.
Unfortunate?--Madam! But why do I attend to her? And yet, by Heaven, no
lunatic speaks thus.
ORSINA.
Lunatic? That, then, was the secret which he told you of me. Well,
well. It is perhaps not one of his greatest falsehoods. I feel that I
am something like one; and believe me, sir, they who, under certain
circumstances, do not lose their intellect, have none to lose.
ODOARDO.
What must I think?
ORSINA.
Treat me not with contempt, old man. You possess strong sense. I know
it by your resolute and reverend mien. You also possess sound judgment,
yet I need but speak one word, and both these qualities are fled for
ever.
ODOARDO.
Oh, Madam, they will have fled before you speak that word, unless you
pronounce it soon. Speak, I conjure you; or it is not true that you are
one of that good class of lunatics who claim our pity and respect; you
are naught else than a common fool. You cannot have what you never
possessed.
ORSINA.
Mark my words, then. What do you know, who fancy that you know enough?
That Appiani is wounded? Wounded only? He is dead.
ODOARDO.
Dead? Dead? Woman, you abide not by your promise. You said you would
rob me of my reason, but you break my heart.
ORSINA.
Thus much by the way. Now, let me proceed. The bridegroom is dead, and
the bride, your daughter, worse than dead.
ODOARDO.
Worse? Worse than dead? Say that she too is dead--for I know but one
thing worse.
ORSINA.
She is not dead; no, good father, she is alive, and will now just begin
to live indeed; the finest, merriest fool's paradise of a life--as long
as it lasts.
ODOARDO.
Say the word, Madam! The single word, which is to deprive me of my
reason! Out with it! Distil not thus your poison drop by drop. That
single word at once!
ORSINA.
You yourself shall put the letters of it together. This morning the
Prince spoke to your daughter at church; this afternoon he has her at
his----his summer-palace.
ODOARDO.
Spoke to her at church? The Prince to my daughter?
ORSINA.
With such familiarity and such fervour. Their agreement was about no
trifling matter; and if they did agree, all the better: all the better
if your daughter made this her voluntary asylum. You understand--and in
that case this is no forcible seduction, but only a trifling--trifling
assassination.
ODOARDO.
Calumny! Infamous calumny! I know my daughter. If there be murder here,
there is seduction also, (Looks wildly round, stamping and foaming.)
Now, Claudia! Now, fond mother! Have we not lived to see a day of joy?
Oh, the gracious Prince! Oh, the mighty honour!
ORSINA (_aside_).
Have I roused thee, old man?
ODOARDO.
Here I stand before the robber's cave. (Throws his coat back on both
sides, and perceives he has no weapon.) 'Tis a marvel that, in my
haste, I have not forgotten my hands too. (Feeling in all his
pockets.) Nothing, nothing.
ORSINA.
Ha! I understand, and can assist you. I have brought one. (Produces a
dagger.) There! Take it, take it quickly, ere any one observes us. I
have something else, too--poison--but that is for women, not for men.
Take this (forcing the dagger upon him), take it.
ODOARDO.
I thank thee. Dear child, whosoever again asserts thou art a lunatic,
he shall answer it to me.
ORSINA.
Conceal it, instantly. (Odoardo hides the dagger.) The opportunity
for using it is denied to me. You will not fail to find one, and you
will seize the first that comes, if you are a man. I am but a woman,
yet I came hither resolute. We, old man, can trust each other, for we
are both injured, and by the same seducer. Oh, if you knew how
preposterously, how inexpressibly, how incomprehensibly, I have been
injured by him, you would almost forget his conduct towards yourself.
Do you know me? I am Orsina, the deluded, forsaken Orsina--perhaps
forsaken only for your daughter. But how is she to blame? Soon she also
will be forsaken; then another, another, and another. Ha! (As if in
rapture) What a celestial thought! When all who have been victims of
his arts shall form a band, and we shall be converted into Maenads, into
furies; what transport will it be to tear him piecemeal, limb from
limb, to wallow through his entrails, and wrench from its seat the
traitor's heart--that heart which he promised to bestow on each, and
gave to none. Ha! that indeed will be a glorious revelry!
Scene VIII.
Claudia, Odoardo, Orsina.
_Enter_ Claudia.
CLAUDIA (_looks round, and as soon as she espies her husband,
runs towards him_.)
I was right. Our protector, our deliverer! Are you really here? Do I
indeed behold you, Odoardo? From their whisper and their manner I knew
it was the case. What shall I say to you, if you are still ignorant?
What shall I say to you if you already know everything? But we are
innocent. I am innocent. Your daughter is innocent. Innocent; wholly
innocent.
ODOARDO (_who, on seeing his wife, has endeavoured to compose
himself_).
'Tis well. Be calm, and answer me.--(To Orsina)--Not that I doubt
your information, Madam. Is the Count dead?
CLAUDIA.
He is.
ODOARDO.
Is it true that the Prince spoke this morning to Emilia, at the church?
CLAUDIA.
It is; but if you knew how much she was alarmed--with what terror she
rushed home.
ORSINA.
Now, was my information false?
ODOARDO (_with a bitter laugh_).
I would not that it were! For worlds I would not that it were!
ORSINA.
Am I a lunatic?
ODOARDO (_wildly pacing the apartment_).
Oh!--nor as yet am I.
CLAUDIA.
You commanded me to be calm, and I obeyed--My dear husband, may I--may
I entreat----
ODOARDO.
What do you mean? Am I not calm? Who can be calmer than I? (Putting
restraint upon himself.) Does Emilia know that Appiani is dead?
CLAUDIA.
She cannot know it, but I fear that she suspects it, because he does
not appear.
ODOARDO.
And she weeps and sobs.
CLAUDIA.
No more. That is over, like her nature, which you know. She is the most
timid, yet the most resolute of her sex; incapable of governing her
first emotions, but upon the least reflection calm and prepared for
all. She keeps the Prince at a distance--she speaks to him in a
tone----Let us, dear Odoardo, depart immediately.
ODOARDO.
I came on horseback hither. What is to be done? You, Madam, will
probably return to town?
ORSINA.
Immediately.
ODOARDO.
May I request you to take my wife with you.
ORSINA.
With pleasure.
ODOARDO.
Claudia, this is the Countess Orsina, a lady of sound sense, my friend
and benefactress. Accompany her to town, and send our carriage hither
instantly. Emilia must not return to Guastalla. She shall go with me.
CLAUDIA.
But--if only--I am unwilling to part from the child.
ODOARDO.
Is not her father here? I shall be admitted at last. Do not delay!
Come, my lady. (Apart to her.) You shall hear from me.--Come,
Claudia. (Exeunt.)
ACT V.
Scene I.--_As before_.
The Prince, Marinelli.
MARINELLI.
From this window your Highness may observe him. He is walking to and
fro under the arcade. Now he turns this way. He comes; no, he turns
again. He has not yet altogether made up his mind; but is much calmer,
or at least appears so. To us this is unimportant. He will scarcely
dare utter the suspicions which these women have expressed! Battista
says that he desired his wife to send the carriage hither as soon as
she should reach the town, for he came hither on horseback. Mark my
words. When he appears before your Highness, he will humbly return
thanks for the gracious protection which you were pleased to afford to
his family, will recommend himself and his daughter to your further
favour, quietly take her to town, and with perfect submission await the
further interest which your Highness may think proper to take in the
welfare of his child.
PRINCE.
But should he not be so resigned--and I scarcely think he will, I know
him too well to expect it--he may, perhaps, conceal his suspicions, and
suppress his indignation; but instead of conducting Emilia to town, he
may take her away and keep her with himself, or place her in some
cloister beyond my dominions. What then?
MARINELLI.
Love's fears are farsighted. But he will not.
PRINCE.
But, if he were to do it, what would the death of the unfortunate Count
avail us?
MARINELLI.
Why this gloomy supposition? "Forward!" shouts the victor, and asks not
who falls near him--friend or foe. Yet if the old churl should act as
you fear, prince--(After some consideration) I have it. His wish
shall prove the end of his success. I'll mar his plan. But we must not
lose sight of him. (Walks again to the window.) He had almost
surprised us. He comes. Let us withdraw awhile, and in the meanwhile,
Prince, you shall hear how we can elude the evil you apprehend.
PRINCE (_in a threatening tone_).
But, Marinelli----
MARINELLI.
The most innocent thing in the world. (Exeunt.)
Scene II.
ODOARDO.
Still no one here? 'Tis well. They allow me time to get still cooler. A
lucky chance. Nothing is more unseemly than a hoary-headed man
transported with the rage of youth. So I have often thought, yet I have
suffered myself to be aroused----by whom? By a woman whom jealousy had
driven to distraction. What has injured virtue to do with the revenge
of vice? I have but to save the former. And thy cause, my son--my
son----I could never weep, and will not learn the lesson now. There is
another, who will avenge thy cause. Sufficient for me that thy murderer
shall not enjoy the fruit of his crime. May this torment him more than
even the crime itself; and when at length loathsome satiety shall drive
him from one excess to another, may the recollection of having failed
in this poison the enjoyment of all! In every dream may the bride
appear to him, led to his bedside by the murdered bridegroom; and when,
in spite of this, he stretches forth his sinful arms to seize the
prize, may he suddenly hear the derisive laughter of hell echo in his
ears, and so awake.
Scene III.
Marinelli, Odoardo.
MARINELLI.
We have been looking for you, Sir.
ODOARDO.
Has my daughter been here?
MARINELLI.
No; the Prince.
ODOARDO.
I beg his pardon. I have been conducting the Countess to her carriage.
MARINELLI.
Indeed.
ODOARDO.
A good lady!
MARINELLI.
And where is your lady?
ODOARDO.
She accompanied the Countess that she might send my carriage hither. I
would request the Prince to let me stay with my daughter till it
arrives.
MARINELLI.
Why this ceremony? The Prince would have felt pleasure in conducting
your daughter and her mother to town.
ODOARDO.
My daughter at least would have been obliged to decline that honour.
MARINELLI.
Why so?
ODOARDO.
She will not go to Guastalla again.
MARINELLI.
Indeed! Why not?
ODOARDO.
Count Appiani is dead.
MARINELLI.
For that very reason----
ODOARDO.
She must go with me.
MARINELLI.
With you?
ODOARDO.
With me.--I tell you the Count is dead--though she may not know it.
What therefore has she to do in Guastalla? She must go with me.
MARINELLI.
The future residence of the lady must certainly depend upon her
father--but at present----
ODOARDO.
Well? What?
MARINELLI.
At present, sir, you will, I hope, allow her to be conveyed to
Guastalla.
ODOARDO.
My daughter, conveyed to Guastalla? Why so?
MARINELLI.
Why! Consider----
ODOARDO (_incensed_).
Consider! consider! consider that there is nothing to consider. She
must and shall go with me.
MARINELLI.
We need have no contention on the subject, sir. I may be mistaken. What
I think necessary may not be so. The Prince is the best judge--he,
therefore, will decide. I go to bring him to you.
Scene IV.
Odoardo.
ODOARDO.
How? Never! Prescribe to me whether she shall go! Withhold her from me!
Who will do this?--Who dares attempt it?--He, who dares here do
anything he pleases?----'Tis well, 'tis well. Then shall he see how
much I, too, dare, and whether I have not already dared. Short-sighted
voluptuary! I defy thee.--He who regards no law is as independent
as he who is subject to no law. Knowest thou not this? Come on, come
on----But what am I saying? My temper once more overpowers my reason.
What do I want? I should first know why I rave. What will not a
courtier assert? Better had I allowed him to proceed. I should have
heard his pretext for conveying my daughter to Guastalla, and I could
have prepared a proper reply. But can I need a reply!--Should one fail
me--should----I hear footsteps. I will be calm.
Scene V.
The Prince, Marinelli, Odoardo.
PRINCE.
My dear worthy Galotti.--Was such an accident necessary to bring you to
your Prince? Nothing less would have sufficed--but I do not mean to
reproach you.
ODOARDO.
Your Highness, I have ever thought it unbecoming to press into the
presence of my Prince. He will send for those whom he wants. Even now I
ask your pardon----
PRINCE.
Would that many, whom I know, possessed this modest pride!--But to the
subject. You are, doubtless, anxious to see your daughter. She is again
alarmed on account of her dear mother's sudden departure. And why
should she have departed? I only waited till the terrors of the lovely
Emilia were completely removed, and then I should have conveyed both
the ladies in triumph to town. Your arrival has diminished by half the
pleasure of this triumph; but I will not entirely resign it.
ODOARDO.
Your Highness honours me too much. Allow me to spare my unfortunate
child the various mortifications, which friendship and enmity,
compassion and malicious pleasure, prepare for her in town.
PRINCE.
Of the sweet comforts, which the friendly and compassionate bestow, it
would be cruelty to deprive her; but against all the mortifications of
enmity and malice, believe me, I will guard her, dear Galotti.
ODOARDO.
Prince, paternal love is jealous of its duties. I think I know what
alone suits my daughter in her present situation. Retirement from the
world--a cloister as soon as possible.
PRINCE.
A cloister?
ODOARDO.
Till then, let her weep under the protection of her father.
PRINCE.
Shall so much beauty wither in a cloister?----Should one disappointed
hope embitter one against the world?--But as you please. No one has a
right to dictate to a parent. Take your daughter wherever you think
proper, Galotti.
ODOARDO (_to_ Marinelli).
Do you hear, my lord?
MARINELLI.
Nay, if you call upon me to speak----
ODOARDO.
By no means, by no means.
PRINCE.
What has happened between you two?
ODOARDO.
Nothing, your Highness, nothing. We were only settling which of us had
been deceived in your Highness.
PRINCE.
How so?--Speak, Marinelli.
MARINELLI.
I am sorry to interfere with the condescension of my Prince, but
friendship commands that I should make an appeal to him as judge.
PRINCE.
What friendship?
MARINELLI.
Your Highness knows how sincerely I was attached to Count Appiani--how
our souls were interwoven----
ODOARDO.
Does his Highness know that? Then you are indeed the only one who does
know it.
MARINELLI.
Appointed his avenger by himself----
ODOARDO.
You?
MARINELLI.
Ask your wife. The name of Marinelli was the last word of the dying
Count, and was uttered in such a tone----Oh may that dreadful tone
sound in my ears for ever, if I do not strain every nerve to discover
and to punish his murderers!
PRINCE.
Rely upon my utmost aid.
ODOARDO.
And upon my most fervent wishes. All this is well. But what further?
PRINCE.
That I, too, want to know, Marinelli.
MARINELLI.
It is suspected that the Count was not attacked by robbers----
ODOARDO (_with a sneer_).
Indeed!
MARINELLI.
But that a rival hired assassins to despatch him.
ODOARDO (_bitterly_).
Indeed! A rival?
MARINELLI.
Exactly.
ODOARDO.
Well then--May damnation overtake the vile assassin!
MARINELLI.
A rival--a favoured rival too.
ODOARDO.
How? Favoured? What say you?
MARINELLI.
Nothing but what fame reports.
ODOARDO.
Favoured? favoured by my daughter?
MARINELLI.
Certainly not. That cannot be. Were you to say it I would contradict
it. But, on this account, your Highness, though no prejudice, however
well-grounded, can be of any weight in the scale of justice, it will,
nevertheless, be absolutely necessary that the unfortunate lady should
be examined.
PRINCE.
True--undoubtedly.
MARINELLI.
And where can this be done but in Guastalla?
PRINCE.
There you are right, Marinelli, there you are right.--This alters the
affair, dear Galotti. Is it not so. You yourself must see----
ODOARDO.
Yes! I see----what I see. O God! O God!
PRINCE.
What now? What is the matter?
ODOARDO.
I am only angry with myself for not having foreseen what I now
perceive. Well, then--she shall return to Guastalla. I will take her to
her mother, and till she has been acquitted, after the most rigid
examination, I myself will not leave Guastalla. For who knows--(with a
bitter smile of irony)--who knows whether the court of justice may not
think it necessary to examine me?
MARINELLI.
It is very possible. In such cases justice rather does too much than
too little. I therefore even fear----
PRINCE.
What? What do you fear?
MARINELLI.
That the mother and daughter will not, at present, be suffered to
confer together.
ODOARDO.
Not confer together?
MARINELLI.
It will be necessary to keep mother and daughter apart.
ODOARDO.
To keep mother and daughter apart?
MARINELLI.
The mother, the daughter, and the father. The forms of the court
absolutely enjoin this caution; and I assure your Highness that it
pains me that I must enforce the necessity of at least placing Emilia
in strict security.
ODOARDO.
In strict security!--Oh, Prince, Prince!--Butyes--right!--of course, of
course! In strict security! Is it not so, Prince? Oh! justice! oh
justice is a fine thing! Excellent! (Hastily puts his hand into the
pocket in which he had concealed the dagger.)
PRINCE (_in a soothing tone_).
Compose yourself, dear Galotti.
ODOARDO (_aside, drawing his hand, without the dagger, from
his pocket_).
There spoke his guardian angel.
PRINCE.
You are mistaken. You do not understand him. You think, perhaps, by
security is meant a prison and a dungeon.
ODOARDO.
Let me think so, and I shall be at ease.
PRINCE.
Not a word of imprisonment, Marinelli. The rigour of the law may easily
be combined with the respect due to unblemished virtue. If Emilia must
be placed in proper custody, I know the most proper situation for
her--my chancellor's house. No opposition, Marinelli. Thither I will
myself convey her, and place her under the protection of one of the
worthiest of ladies, who shall be answerable for her safety. You go too
far, Marinelli, you go too far, if you require more. Of course,
Galotti, you know my chancellor Grimaldi and his wife?
ODOARDO.
Undoubtedly I do. I also know the amiable daughters of this noble pair.
Who does not know them? (To Marinelli).--No, my lord--do not agree to
this. If my daughter must be confined, she ought to be confined in the
deepest dungeon. Insist upon it, I beseech you. Fool that I was to make
any request. Yes, the good Sybil was right. "They, who under certain
circumstances, do not lose their intellect, have none to lose."
PRINCE.
I do not understand you. Dear Galotti, what can I do more? Be
satisfied, I beseech you. She shall be conveyed to the chancellor's
house. I myself will convey her thither; and if she be not there
treated with the utmost respect, my word is of no value. But fear
nothing; it is settled. You, Galotti, may do as you think proper. You
may follow us to Guastalla, or return to Sabionetta, as you please. It
would be ridiculous to dictate any conduct to you. And now, farewell
for the present, dear Galotti.--Come, Marinelli. It grows late.
ODOARDO (_who has been standing in deep meditation_).
--How! May I not even see my daughter, then? May I not even see her
here? I submit to everything--I approve of everything. A chancellor's
house is, of course, a sanctuary of virtue. Take my daughter thither, I
beseech your Highness--nowhere but thither. Yet I would willingly have
some previous conversation with her. She is still ignorant of the
Count's death, and will be unable to understand why she is separated
from her parents. That I may apprise her gently of the one, and console
her for this parting----I must see her, Prince, I must see her.
PRINCE.
Come, then, with us.
ODOARDO.
Surely the daughter can come to her father. Let us have a short
conversation here, without witnesses. Send her hither, I beg your
Highness.
PRINCE.
That, too, shall be done. Oh, Galotti, if you would be my friend, my
guide, my father!
(_Exeunt_ Prince _and_ Marinelli).
Scene VI.
Odoardo.
ODOARDO (after a pause, during which his eyes follow the
Prince).
Why not? Most willingly. Ha! ha! ha! (Looks wildly around.) Who
laughed? By Heaven I believe it was myself. 'Tis well. I will
be merry. The game is near an end. Thus must it be, or thus.
But--(pauses)--how if she were in league with him? How if this were
the usual deception? How if she were not worthy of what I am about to
do for her? (Pauses again.) And what am I about to do for her? Have I
a heart to name it even to myself? A thought comes to me--a thought
which can be but a thought. Horrible!--I will go. I will not wait until
she comes. (Raises his eyes towards Heaven.) If she be innocent, let
Him who plunged her into this abyss, extricate her from it. He needs
not my hand. I will away. (As he is going he espies Emilia.) Ha! 'Tis
too late. My hand is required--He requires it.
Scene VII.
Emilia, Odoardo.
_Enter_ Emilia.
EMILIA.
How! Ton here, my father? And you alone--without the Count--without my
mother? So uneasy, too, my father?
ODOARDO.
And you so much at ease, my daughter?
EMILIA.
Why should I not be so, my father? Either all is lost, or nothing. To
be able to be at ease, and to be obliged to be at ease, do they not
come to the same thing!
ODOARDO.
But what do you suppose to be the case?
EMILIA.
That all is lost--therefore that we must be at ease, my father.
ODOARDO.
And you are at ease, because necessity requires it? Who are you? A
girl; my daughter? Then should the man and the father be ashamed
of you. But let me hear. What mean you when you say that all is
lost?--that Count Appiani is dead?
EMILIA.
And why is he dead? Why? Ha! It is, then, true, my father--the horrible
tale is true which I read in my mother's tearful and wild looks. Where
is my mother? Where has she gone?
ODOARDO.
She is gone before us--if we could but follow her.
EMILIA.
Oh, the sooner the better. For if the Count be dead--if he was doomed
to die on that account--Ha! Why do we stay here? Let us fly, my father.
ODOARDO.
Fly! Where is the necessity? You are in the hands of your ravisher, and
will there remain.
EMILIA.
I remain in his hands?
ODOARDO.
And alone--without your mother--without me.
EMILIA.
I remain alone in his hands? Never, my father--or you are not my
father. I remain alone in his hands? 'Tis well. Leave me, leave me. I
will see who can detain me--who can compel me. What human being can
compel another?
ODOARDO.
I thought, my child, you were tranquil.
EMILIA.
I am so. But what do you call tranquillity?--To lay my hands in my lap,
and patiently bear what cannot be borne, and suffer what should be
suffered.
ODOARDO.
Ha! If such be thy thoughts, come to my arms, my daughter. I have ever
said, that Nature, when forming woman, wished to form her master-piece.
She erred in that the clay she chose was too plastic. In every other
respect man is inferior to woman. Ha! If this be thy composure, I
recognize my daughter again. Come to my arms. Now, mark me. Under the
pretence of legal examination, the Prince--tears thee (the hellish
fool's play!) tears thee from our arms, and places thee under the
protection of Grimaldi.
EMILIA.
Tears me from your arms? Takes me--would tear me--take
me--would--would----As if we ourselves had no will, father.
ODOARDO.
So incensed was I, that I was on the point of drawing forth this dagger
(produces it), and plunging it into the hearts of both the villains.
EMILIA.
Heaven forbid it! my father. This life is all the wicked can enjoy.
Give me, give me the dagger.
ODOARDO.
Child, it is no bodkin.
EMILIA.
If it were, it would serve as a dagger. 'Twere the same.
ODOARDO.
What! Is it come to that? Not yet, not yet. Reflect. You have but one
life to lose, Emilia.
EMILIA.
And but one innocence.
ODOARDO.
Which is proof against all force.
EMILIA.
But not against all seduction. Force! Force! What is that? Who may not
defy force? What you call force is nothing. Seduction is the only real
force. I have blood, my father, as youthful and as warm as that of
others. I have senses too. I cannot pledge myself: I guarantee nothing.
I know the house of Grimaldi. It is a house of revelry--a single hour
spent in that society, under the protection of my mother, created such
a tumult in my soul, that all the rigid exercises of religion could
scarcely quell it in whole weeks. Religion! And what religion? To avoid
no worse snares thousands have leapt into the waves, and now are
saints. Give me the dagger, then, my father, give it to me.
ODOARDO.
And didst thou but know who armed me with this dagger----
EMILIA.
That matters not. An unknown friend is not the less a friend. Give me
the dagger, father, I beseech you.
ODOARDO.
And if I were to give it you?--what then? There! (He presents it)
EMILIA.
And there! (She seizes it with ardour, and is about to stab herself
when Odoardo wrests it from her.)
ODOARDO.
See how rash----No; it is not for thy hand.
EMILIA.
Tis true; then with this bodkin will I! (she searches for one in her
hair, and feels the rose in her head). Art thou still there? Down,
down! thou shouldst not deck the head of one, such as my father wishes
me to be!
ODOARDO.
Oh! my daughter!
EMILIA.
Oh, my father! if I understand you. But no, you will not do it, or why
so long delayed. (In a bitter tone, while she plucks the leaves of the
rose.) In former days there was a father, who, to save his daughter
from disgrace plunged the first deadly weapon which he saw, into his
daughter's heart--and thereby gave her life, a second time. But those
were deeds of ancient times. Such fathers exist not now.
ODOARDO.
They do, they do, my daughter (stabs her). God of heaven! What have I
done? (supports her in his arms as she sinks.)
EMILIA.
Broken a rose before the storm had robbed it of its bloom. Oh, let me
kiss this kind parental hand.
Scene VIII.
The Prince, Marinelli, Odoardo, Emilia.
PRINCE (_entering_).
What means this? Is Emilia not well?
ODOARDO.
Very well, very well.
PRINCE (_approaching her_.)
What do I see? Oh, horror!
MARINELLI.
I am lost!
PRINCE.
Cruel father, what hast thou done.
ODOARDO.
Broken a rose before the storm had robbed it of its bloom. Said you not
so, my daughter?
EMILIA.
Not you, my father. I, I myself----
ODOARDO.
Not thou my daughter--not thou! Quit not this world with falsehood on
thy lips. Not thou, my daughter--thy father, thy unfortunate father.
EMILIA.
Ah!--My father----(Dies in his arms. He lays her gently on the
floor.)
ODOARDO.
Ascend on high! There, Prince! Does she still charm you? Does she still
rouse your appetites?--here, weltering in her blood--which cries for
vengeance against you. (After a pause.) Doubtless you wait to see the
end of this. You expect, perhaps, that I shall turn the steel against
myself, and finish the deed like some wretched tragedy. You are
mistaken. There! (Throws the dagger at his feet.) There lies the
blood-stained witness of my crime. I go to deliver myself into the
hands of justice. I go to meet you as my judge: then I shall meet you
in another world, before the Judge of all. (Exit.)
PRINCE (_after a pause, during which he surveys the body with a
look of horror and despair, turns to_ Marinelli).
Here! Raise her. How! Dost thou hesitate? Wretch! Villain! (Tears the
dagger from his grasp.) No. Thy blood shall not be mixed with such as
this. Go: hide thyself for ever. Begone, I say. Oh God! Oh God! Is it
not enough for the misery of many that monarchs are men? Must devils in
disguise become their friends?