OdoardoandClaudia Galotti, Pirro.
She stays too long.
One moment more, Odoardo. It would distress her to miss seeing you.
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.
My heart almost breaks when I think of it. Must we so entirely lose our dear and only child!
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.
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.
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!
Sir!
Lead my horse to the Count's door. I'll follow you anon, and mount it there. (ExitPirro).--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----
Less, perhaps, than you fear.
Fear! Should I fear anything so contemptible?
Why, have I not already told you that the Prince has seen our daughter?
The Prince! Where?
At the last assembly of the Chancellor Grimaldi, which he honoured with his presence. He conducted himself so graciously towards her----
Graciously?
Yes. He conversed with her for some time.
Conversed with her?
Appeared to be so delighted with her cheerfulness and good sense----
Delighted?
Spoke of her elegance and beauty, in terms of such admiration----
Admiration? And all this you relate to me in a tone of rapture. Oh, Claudia! vain, foolish mother!
Why so?
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.)
Claudia, Galotti.
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!
EmiliaandClaudia Galotti.
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.
What has happened to you, my daughter?
Nothing--nothing.
And yet you look wildly round, and tremble in every limb!
What have I had to hear?--And where have I been forced to hear it?
I thought you were at church.
I was. But what are churches and altars to the vicious?--Oh, my mother! (Throws herself intoClaudia'sarms.)
Speak, my daughter, and remove my fears. What evil can have happened to you in so holy a place?
Never should my devotion have been more fervent and sincere than on this day. Never was it less what it ought to have been.
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.
And our wish to sin as sin.
That my Emilia never wished.
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!
Compose yourself.--Collect your thoughts as well as you can. Tell me at once what has happened to you.
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----
Whom, my daughter?
Guess, dear mother, guess: I thought I should have sunk into the earth. Himself!
Whom do you mean?
The Prince!
The Prince! Blest be your father's impatience! He was here just now, and would not stay till you returned.
My father here--and not stay till I returned!
If, in the midst of your confusion, you had told him too.
Well, dear mother--could he have found anything in my conduct deserving of censure?
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.
That I was not. After the glance by which I recognised him, I had not courage to cast a second. I fled.
And the Prince followed you?
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----
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.
No, mother! The Count must know it--to him I must relate it.
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!
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.
Weakness--a fond weakness. No, on no account, my daughter! Tell him nothing. Let him observe nothing.
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.
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.
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.
EnterAppiani,in deep meditation. His eyes are cast down, and he approaches without observingClaudiaandEmilia,till the latter runs towards him.
Ha! My dearest! I did not expect to find you in the ante-room.
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?
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 (espiesClaudia). Ha! You too here, dear madam. This day I hope to address you by a more familiar name.
Which will be my greatest pride.--How happy you are, Emilia! Why would not your father share our delight?
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?
And he would not wait for me!
Because, in my opinion, this brief interview with his Emilia would have distressed him too much, too deeply affected his soul.
He expected to find you busy with your bridal ornaments, and heard----
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.
But let us not, whilst we attend to one subject, forget another. It is high time, Emilia. Go!
Go! Why?
Surely, my lord, you would not lead her to the altar in her present attire.
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?
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----
Indeed! I know nothing of that.
That while I wore them, every diamond changed suddenly to a pearl--and pearls, you know, dear mother, signify tears.
Child, the interpretation is more visionary than the dream. Were you not always more fond of pearls than diamonds?
I assuredly, dear mother--assuredly----
Signify tears!
How! Does that affect you? You?
It does, though I ought to be ashamed that such is the case; yet when the fancy is once disposed to sad impressions----
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?
Remember! I never see you in idea but in that dress, and I see you so, even when you are not thus attired.
I mean to wear one of the same colour and form--flowing and loose.
Excellent!
And my hair----
In its own dark beauty, in curls formed by the hand of nature.
Not forgetting the rose. Right! Have a little patience, and you shall see me thus. (Exit.)
Count Appiani, Claudia Galotti.
"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!
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?
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.
You make me uneasy, Count.
One thought succeeds another. I am vexed--angry with my friends and with myself.
Why so?
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.
To wait upon the Prince!
Pirro,afterwardsMarinelli, Count Appiani, Claudia.
EnterPirro.
My lady, the Marquis Marinelli is at the door, and inquires for the Count.
For me!
Here his lordship comes. (Opens the door and exit.)
EnterMarinelli.
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.
I will not impede it. (Curtseys and exit.)
Marinelli, Appiani.
Now, my lord?
I come from his Highness.
What are his commands?
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----
Proceed, I pray, without more ceremony.
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.
Upon me?
Yes--and if friendship may be allowed to boast, I was instrumental----
Truly I am at a loss for thanks. I had long renounced the hope of being noticed by the Prince.
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.
Friendship, friendship! every third word. With whom am I speaking? The Marquis Marinelli's friendship I never dreamt of gaining.
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.
Undoubtedly.
Come, then, with me.
Whither?
To the Prince's palace at Dosalo. All is ready. You must depart to-day.
What say you? To-day?
Yes. Rather now than an hour hence. The business presses.
Indeed! Then I am sorry I must decline the honour which the Prince intended to confer upon me.
How?
I cannot depart to-day,--nor to-morrow--nor the next day.
You are jesting, Count.
With you?
Incomparable! If with the Prince, the joke is so much the merrier.--You cannot?
No, my lord, no--and I trust that the Prince himself will think my excuse sufficient.
I am eager to hear it.
Oh, it is a mere trifle. I mean to be married to-day.
Indeed!--and what then?
And what then?--Your question shows a cursed simplicity!
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----
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.
Greater or smaller, a monarch is a monarch.
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.
Will you not at the same time inform him with whom?
With Emilia Galotti.
The daughter of this family?
Yes.
Humph!
What do you mean?
I mean that there would be the less difficulty in deferring the ceremony till your return.
The ceremony?
Yes. The worthy parents will not think much about it.
The worthy parents?
And Emilia will remain faithful to you, of course.
Of course?----You are an impertinent ape, with your "of course."
This to me, Count?
Why not?
Heaven and hell! You shall hear from me.
Pshaw! The ape is malicious, but----
Death and damnation!--Count, I demand satisfaction.
You shall have it.
----And would insist upon it instantly--but that I should not like to spoil the day for the loving bridegroom.
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.
Patience, my lord, patience! (Exit.)
Appiani, Claudia.
Go, worthless wretch----Ha! that does me good. My blood circulates----I feel different and all the better.
Heavens! My lord--I overheard an angry altercation. Your cheek is flushed. What has happened?
Nothing, Madam, nothing. The chamberlain Marinelli has conferred a favour on me. He has saved me a visit to the Prince.
Indeed!
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.
May I feel quite at ease, my lord?
Perfectly so, dear Madam. (Exeunt severally.)
Scene,an apartment in thePrince'scountry palace.
EnterPrinceandMarinelli.
In vain. He refused the proffered honour with the greatest contempt.
This ends all hope, then. Things take their course,
According to all appearances.
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.
A pretty reward, this!
Why should you be rewarded?
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.
Did you act thus, Marinelli?
Yes; he, who is ready to sacrifice his life for princes, ought to learn beforehand how grateful they are likely to be.
And the Count? Report says that he is not the man to wait till satisfaction is a second time demanded.
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.
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.
What more, my lord, would you have had me do?
More? As if you had done anything!
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?
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.
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.
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.
A girl has been carried off before now by force, though there has been no appearance of force in the transaction.----
If you were able to do this, you would not talk so much about it.
----But I cannot be answerable for the consequences. Unforeseen accidents may happen.
Is it my custom to make people answerable for what they cannot help?
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!
What means this? What is the matter?
How if I were more active than you deemed me?
More active! Explain, then----
In short, what I mentioned is now taking place.
Is it possible?
But forget not, Prince, what you just now promised. You pledge your word that----
The necessary precautions I hope have been taken.
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?
You surprise me beyond measure. A fearful anxiety comes o'er me. (Marinelliwalks to the window.) What are you looking at?
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.
Ah, Marinelli----
Well--now, doubtless, I have done too much--as I before had done too little.
Not so--not so--yet I cannot perceive----
Perceive?--It is best done at one blow. Withdraw quickly. You must not be seen here.
(ExitPrince.)