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.