The Prince, Orsina, Marinelli.
I must come to his assistance.
Ha! There he is.
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.)
Orsina, Marinelli.
Your ladyship has now heard, from himself, what you would not believe from my lips, have you not?
Have I? Have, I indeed?
Most certainly.
"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.
On this condition, I may tell her part of the truth.
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.
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----
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?
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.
They are with the Prince! A lady and her mother! Is the lady handsome?
The Prince is extremely sorry for her situation.
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.
It is Emilia Galotti.
What? Emilia Galotti? Oh, Marinelli, let me not mistake this lie for truth.
Why?
Emilia Galotti?
Yes. Whom you can scarcely know.
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?
Can I have disclosed too much?
And Count Appiani was her destined bridegroom--Count Appiani, who was shot to-day?
Exactly.
Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!
What now?
I could kiss the devil that tempted him to do it.
Whom? Tempted? To do what?
Yes, I could kiss--him--even wert thou that devil, Marinelli.
Countess!
Come hither. Look at me--steadfastly--eye to eye.
Well?
Know you not my thoughts?
How can I?
Have you no concern in it?
In what?
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?
You alarm me, Countess.
Indeed! Now, Marinelli--has your good heart no suspicion?
Suspicion? Of what?
'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!
Countess! Countess! Have you lost your senses?
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.
How can so horrid a suspicion fall from your lips, or enter your imagination?
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.
Countess, you would talk your life into danger----
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 meetsOdoardoentering hastily.)
Odoardo, Orsina, Marinelli.
Pardon me, gracious lady----
I can grant no pardon here, for I can take no offence. You must apply to this gentleman (pointing toMarinelli).
The father! This completes the business.
Pardon a father, sir, who is in the greatest embarrassment, for entering unannounced.
Father!--(turning round again)--Of Emilia, no doubt! Ha! Thou art welcome.
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?
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.
Why announce? merelyannounceme?
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?
You are right, my lord, you are right.
But, Countess, may I not first have the honour of handing you to your carriage?
By no means.
Allow me to perform my duty.
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.
Have you forgotten what the Prince himself commanded?
Let him come, and repeat his commands. I shall expect him.
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.
Very well. Only make haste, my lord.
(ExitMarinelli.)
Orsina, Odoardo.
ORSINA (after a pause, during which she has surveyedOdoardowith a look of compassion, while he has cast towards her a glance of curiosity).
Alas! What did he say to you, unfortunate man?
Unfortunate!
Truth it certainly was not--at least, not one of those sad truths which await you.
Which await me? Do I, then, not know enough? Madam--but proceed, proceed.
You know nothing?
Nothing.
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.
Sorrows and anger? Madam--but I forget--go on.
Should she even be your only daughter--your only child--but it matters not. An unfortunate child is ever an only one.
Unfortunate?--Madam! But why do I attend to her? And yet, by Heaven, no lunatic speaks thus.
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.
What must I think?
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.
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.
Mark my words, then. What do you know, who fancy that you know enough? That Appiani is wounded? Wounded only? He is dead.
Dead? Dead? Woman, you abide not by your promise. You said you would rob me of my reason, but you break my heart.
Thus much by the way. Now, let me proceed. The bridegroom is dead, and the bride, your daughter, worse than dead.
Worse? Worse than dead? Say that she too is dead--for I know but one thing worse.
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.
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!
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.
Spoke to her at church? The Prince to my daughter?
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.
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!
Have I roused thee, old man?
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.
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.
I thank thee. Dear child, whosoever again asserts thou art a lunatic, he shall answer it to me.
Conceal it, instantly. (Odoardohides 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 Mænads, 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!
Claudia, Odoardo, Orsina.
EnterClaudia.
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.
'Tis well. Be calm, and answer me.--(ToOrsina)--Not that I doubt your information, Madam. Is the Count dead?
He is.
Is it true that the Prince spoke this morning to Emilia, at the church?
It is; but if you knew how much she was alarmed--with what terror she rushed home.
Now, was my information false?
I would not that it were! For worlds I would not that it were!
Am I a lunatic?
Oh!--nor as yet am I.
You commanded me to be calm, and I obeyed--My dear husband, may I--may I entreat----
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?
She cannot know it, but I fear that she suspects it, because he does not appear.
And she weeps and sobs.
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.
I came on horseback hither. What is to be done? You, Madam, will probably return to town?
Immediately.
May I request you to take my wife with you.
With pleasure.
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.
But--if only--I am unwilling to part from the child.
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.)
The Prince, 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.
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?
Love's fears are farsighted. But he will not.
But, if he were to do it, what would the death of the unfortunate Count avail us?
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.
But, Marinelli----
The most innocent thing in the world. (Exeunt.)
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.
Marinelli, Odoardo.
We have been looking for you, Sir.
Has my daughter been here?
No; the Prince.
I beg his pardon. I have been conducting the Countess to her carriage.
Indeed.
A good lady!
And where is your lady?
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.
Why this ceremony? The Prince would have felt pleasure in conducting your daughter and her mother to town.
My daughter at least would have been obliged to decline that honour.
Why so?
She will not go to Guastalla again.
Indeed! Why not?
Count Appiani is dead.
For that very reason----
She must go with me.
With you?
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.
The future residence of the lady must certainly depend upon her father--but at present----
Well? What?
At present, sir, you will, I hope, allow her to be conveyed to Guastalla.
My daughter, conveyed to Guastalla? Why so?
Why! Consider----
Consider! consider! consider that there is nothing to consider. She must and shall go with me.
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.
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.
The Prince, Marinelli, Odoardo.
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.
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----
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.
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.
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.
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.
A cloister?
Till then, let her weep under the protection of her father.
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.
Do you hear, my lord?
Nay, if you call upon me to speak----
By no means, by no means.
What has happened between you two?
Nothing, your Highness, nothing. We were only settling which of us had been deceived in your Highness.
How so?--Speak, 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.
What friendship?
Your Highness knows how sincerely I was attached to Count Appiani--how our souls were interwoven----
Does his Highness know that? Then you are indeed the only one who does know it.
Appointed his avenger by himself----
You?
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!
Rely upon my utmost aid.
And upon my most fervent wishes. All this is well. But what further?
That I, too, want to know, Marinelli.
It is suspected that the Count was not attacked by robbers----
Indeed!
But that a rival hired assassins to despatch him.
Indeed! A rival?
Exactly.
Well then--May damnation overtake the vile assassin!
A rival--a favoured rival too.
How? Favoured? What say you?
Nothing but what fame reports.
Favoured? favoured by my daughter?
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.
True--undoubtedly.
And where can this be done but in Guastalla?
There you are right, Marinelli, there you are right.--This alters the affair, dear Galotti. Is it not so. You yourself must see----
Yes! I see----what I see. O God! O God!
What now? What is the matter?
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?
It is very possible. In such cases justice rather does too much than too little. I therefore even fear----
What? What do you fear?
That the mother and daughter will not, at present, be suffered to confer together.
Not confer together?
It will be necessary to keep mother and daughter apart.
To keep mother and daughter apart?
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.
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.)
Compose yourself, dear Galotti.
There spoke his guardian angel.
You are mistaken. You do not understand him. You think, perhaps, by security is meant a prison and a dungeon.
Let me think so, and I shall be at ease.
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?
Undoubtedly I do. I also know the amiable daughters of this noble pair. Who does not know them? (ToMarinelli).--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."
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.
--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.
Come, then, with us.
Surely the daughter can come to her father. Let us have a short conversation here, without witnesses. Send her hither, I beg your Highness.
That, too, shall be done. Oh, Galotti, if you would be my friend, my guide, my father!
(ExeuntPrinceandMarinelli).