on that account a less dangerous poison. What makes no impression upon the lover, may make much upon the husband. It may even flatter the lover to have supplanted a rival so much his superior in rank. But when he has once supplanted him; ah! my child, then does he become quite another creature. May your good angel guard you from this discovery! Emilia. You know, my mother, how willingly I yield in all things to your better judgment. But if he should learn from another, that the Prince had spoken with me to-day, would not my concealment, sooner or later, increase his unhappiness? Besides, I have been unwilling to reserve from him anything in my heart. Claudia. Weakness! confiding weakness!-No, by no means, my daughter! Tell him nothing. Let him remark nothing. Emilia. Indeed, my mother, I have no will contrary to yours. Ah! (with a deep sigh) thus I will be cheerful again. What a foolish, timid thing I am! No, my mother, I should perhaps have thought very differently of this hereafter, and should never have forgiven myself. Claudia. I wished not to say this to you, my daughter, before your own good judgment suggested it; and I knew it would suggest it, as soon as you came to yourself. The Prince is gallant. You are too little accustomed to the unmeaning language of gallantry. Courtesy appears in that as sentiment; flattery as protestation; a mere fancy as a wish; a wish as an intention. A mere nothing sounds in their language like everything; and everything is in it just nothing at all. Emilia. Oh, my mother! how perfectly ridiculous does my fear now appear to me! Now, he shall indeed know nothing of this, my good Appiani! He might find therein more evidence of vanity than of virtue. Ha! he is coming himself! That is his step. SCENE VII.-COUNT APPIANI, EMILIA and CLAUDIA GALOTTI. Appiani (enters pensive, his eyes cast down, and approaches without noticing EMILIA until she springs towards him). Ah, my dearest! I was not expecting you in the ante-room. Emilia. I should wish you to be happy, Count, even if you were not expecting me. So solemn ! so grave! Is this day worth no joyous emotion? Appiani. It is worth more to me than all my life besides. But pregnant with so much happiness for me, may it not be this very happiness itself which makes me so grave-so solemn, as you term it, my Emilia? (observing her mother)-Ha! you are here also, worthy Madam! Soon to be called by a name so much dearer ! Claudia. Which will be my greatest pride! How happy are you, my daughter! Why was not your father willing to participate in our joy? Appiani. Even now have I torn myself from his arms, or rather he has torn himself from mine! What a man, my Emilia, is your father! An example of every manly virtue! With what aspirations is my soul filled in his presence! Never is my resolution to be always good-always noble, stronger than when I see him-when I think of him. And how otherwise than by the fulfilment of this resolution, can I become worthy to be called his son; to be yours, my Emilia ? Emilia. And he would not wait for me? Appiani. I suppose because his Emilia, in this transient visit, would have agitated him too much-would have too powerfully usurped his soul. Claudia. He thought to find you engaged with your bridal ornaments, and learned Appiani. What I have heard again from him with the tenderest admiration. This is well, my Emilia! I shall receive in you a pious wife, and one whose piety is without ostentation. Claudia. But, my children, do this, and leave not the other undone ! Now, it is high time; now hasten, Emilia! Appiani. For what, worthy lady? Claudia. Would you, Count, lead her to the altar as she is now? Appiani. Indeed, I had not thought of this before. Who can see you, Emilia, and notice your attire? And why not thus, even as she is? Emilia. No, my dear Count, not thus-not exactly thus; but still not very splendidly, not very. One moment, and I will be ready. No ornaments at all! none of the last gift of your most lavish generosity! Nothing, nothing at all of that which alone is becoming to such ornaments. I could almost be vexed with those jewels, if they were not from you. For three times have I dreamed of them. Claudia. Indeed, I knew nothing of this! Emilia. It was as if I wore them, and suddenly every stone became a pearl. But pearls, mother, denote tears. Claudia. Child! the interpretation is more visionary than the dream. Were you not always a greater admirer of pearls than of diamonds? Emilia. True, my mother-very true Appiani (thoughtful and sad). Denote tears-denote tears! Appiani. Perhaps so; I ought to be ashamed; yet when the picture of the imagination resembles that of the dream Emilia. Why is it thus and what do you think I have imagined? What did I wear-how did I appear, when I first attracted your regard? Do you still remember? Appiani. Do I still remember? I see you in thought no otherwise than as now. And you appear the same, even if you are not the same. Emilia. Then a dress similar in color and in form; flowing and free Appiani. Excellent! Emilia. And the hair Appiani. In its own brown lustre, with the ringlets which Nature has prepared. Emilia. Not forgetting the rose therein! Right! right! A little patience, and I will appear before you thus! SCENE VIII.-COUNT APPIANI, CLAUDIA GALOTTI. Appiani (looking after her with a dejected countenance.) Pearls denote tears!A little patience! Yes, if time would have it as well as we! If a moment by the clock might not, with us, prolong itself into a year! Claudia. Emilia's perception, Sir Count, was as hasty as it was just. You are, to-day, more sad than usual. Only one step from the accomplishment of your wishes, and do you regret that it is so near? Appiani. Ah, my mother, and can you suspect your son of this? But it is true; I am, to-day, unusually sad and gloomy. For see you, worthy lady, yet one step from the completion, or one which is not yet passed, is, in truth, an important one. Everything which I see, hear, or dream, since yesterday and the day before, predict to me this truth. This thought mingles with every other which comes to me-What is it? What does it mean? Claudia. You make me unhappy, Sir Count Appiani. One thing corresponds with another! I am angry—angry with my friends, with myself Claudia. Why so? Appiani. My friends desired that, by all means, I might inform the Prince of my intended marriage, before it was celebrated. They allow that I am under no obligations to do this, but respect for him demands it; and I have been weak enough to promise compliance. I must now go and call upon him. Claudia (starting.) Upon the Prince? SCENE IX.-CLAUDIA GALOTTI, APPIANI. To them enters PIRro, and soon after MARinelli. Pirro. Madam, the Marquis Marinelli stops before the house, and inquires for my lord, the Count, Appiani. For me? Pirro. He is already here. (Opens to the MARQUIS, and retires.) Marinelli. I ask your pardon, worthy lady. My lord, I have been at your house, and learned that I should find you here. I have urgent business with you. Worthy lady, once more I must demand pardon; it will occupy us but a few moments. Claudia. I will not interrupt you. (Bows to him and withdraws.) SCENE X.-MARINELLI, APPIANI. Appiani. Now, my lord? Marinelli. I come from His Serene Highness, The Prince. Marinelli. I am proud to be the bearer of so distinguished a favor; and if Count Appiani will not recognize in me, at once, one of his most devoted friends Appiani. Without farther preface, if I may request it. Marinelli. Thus, then!-The Prince must send a messenger without delay to the Duke of Massa, concerning some business relating to his marriage with the Princess, daughter to the Duke. He was, for a long time, undecided whom to select for this office. Finally, his choice fell upon you, Sir Count. Appiani. Upon me? Marinelli. And this, if friendship may be boastful, not without my advice. Appiani. Truly, you place me under very embarrassing obligations. I have, for some time, supposed that the Prince would probably have no farther occasion for my services. Marinelli. I am assured he has only waited for a worthy opportunity. And if this is not sufficiently worthy such a man as the Count Appiani, then truly has my friendship been too precipitate. Appiani. Friendship, friendship, every second word! With whom am I speaking? The friendship of the Marquis Marinelli is what I have never dreamed of. Marinelli. I acknowledge my wrong, Sir Count, my unpardonable wrong, in wishing, without your permission, to be your friend. But of what consequence is all this? The favor of the Prince, the honor offered to you, remain the same, and I doubt not you will accept them with pleasure. Appiani (after a moment's reflection.) By all means. Marinelli. Now therefore come. Appiani. Whither? Marinelli. To the Prince, at Dosola. Everything is in readiness, and you must set forth to-day. Appiani. What say you?-To-day? Marinelli. Rather this very hour than to wait until the next. The business is of the utmost urgency. Appiani. In truth? Then I regret to say that I must decline the honor which the Prince intended for me. Appiani. I cannot set out to-day; nor yet to-morrow; nor even the day after to-morrow.. Marinelli. You jest, Sir Count. Appiani. With you? Marinelli. Unparalleled! If the joke please the Prince, then will he be made quite merry by it. You cannot go? Appiani. No, my lord, I cannot; and I hope the Prince will accept my excuse. Marinelli. Which I am curious to learn. Appiani. Oh, a mere trifle! Know, that to-day I shall take to myself a wife. Marinelli. Ah! and then? Appiani. And then? and then? Your question is wonderfully ingenuous. Marinelli. There have been examples, Sir Count, of marriages being postponed. True, I do not think it is always well, either for the bride or the bridegroom. The business may be rather unpleasant to you; but still, I thought, the command of a ruler— Appiani. The command of a ruler? of a ruler? A ruler whom one chooses for himself, is not in reality his ruler. I grant, you owe to the Prince unlimited obedience. But I do not. I came to his court of my own free will. I wish to have the honor of serving him, but not of being his slave. I am the subject of a higher ruler. Marinelli. Higher or lower, ruler is ruler. Appiani. Why should I stand here disputing with you? Enough! say to the Prince what you have heard,-that I regret the necessity of declining his offer, because to-day I fulfil an engagement which determines the happiness of my life. Marinelli. Will you not also inform him with whom? Appiani. With Emilia Galotti. Marinelli. The daughter of this family? Appiani. Of this family. Marinelli. Hem! hem! Appiani. What pleases you? Marinelli. I should suppose that there would therefore be little difficulty in deferring the ceremony until your return. Appiani. The ceremony? Only the ceremony? Marinelli. The good parents would not take it amiss. Appiani. The good parents? Marinelli. And Emilia would perhaps remain true to you. Appiani. Perhaps true? You are, with your perhaps, perhaps, a com plete ape. Marinelli. This to me, Count? Appiani. Why not? Marinelli. Heaven and hell! We will speak together. Appiani. Pah! The ape is rather mischievous; but Marinelli. Death and destruction! Count, I demand satisfaction. Appiani. As a matter of course. Marinelli. And would take it now, only that I would not, for the tender bridegroom, spoil this happy day. Appiani. Good hearted creature! Not yet! (seizing him by the hand.) For Massa, certainly, I may not depart to-day, but there is plenty of time for a walk with you. Come, come on! Marinelli (tearing himself away, he takes his leave). Patience, Countonly patience! SCENE XI.-APPIANI, CLAUDIA Galotti. Appiani. Go, worthless wretch! Ha! this has done me good. It has put my blood in motion. I feel other and better than before. Claudia (hastily and alarmed.) Heavens! Sir Count! I have heard a violent dispute. Your countenance is flushed. What has happened? Appiani. Nothing, worthy lady-nothing at all. The Chamberlain Marinelli has done me a great service. He has spared me the trouble of calling on the Prince. Claudia. Indeed? Appiani. We can therefore set out so much the sooner. I will go and hurry my people, and will be back again directly. Emilia will, in the mean time, be ready. [Exeunt in different directions.] CONCLUSION OF ACT II. THE FATE OF SMOLLETT. INSTRUCTED and amused, the world confess The Poet's hopes are rent away and wrecked; |