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?
NATHAN THE WISE.
A DRAMATIC POEM IN FIVE ACTS.
(_Translated by R. Dillon Boylan_.)
The well-known Goetze Controversy is to be thanked for the appearance
of this, the longest, and in many respects the most important of
Lessing's dramatic works. It was written in 1778-9, in reply to some of
the theological censures of the Hamburg pastor. In 1783, it was first
acted at Berlin, but it met with little success there or elsewhere,
until in 1801, when it was introduced on the Weimar stage, by Schiller
and Goethe.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Sultan Saladin.
Sittah, _his Sister_.
Nathan, _a rich Jew of Jerusalem_.
Recha, _his adopted Daughter_.
Daja, _a Christian woman living in the Jew's house as_ Recha's
_companion_.
_A young_ Knight Templar.
A Dervise.
_The_ Patriarch of Jerusalem.
A Friar.
_An_ Emir _and several of_ Saladin's Mamelukes.
_The scene is in Jerusalem_.
NATHAN THE WISE.
"Introite, nam et heic Dii sunt."
_Apud_ Gellium.
ACT I.
Scene I.--_A Hall in Nathan's House_.
Nathan, _returning from a journey_; Daja, _meeting him_.
DAJA.
'Tis he! 'Tis Nathan! endless thanks to Heaven
That you at last are happily returned.
NATHAN.
Yes, Daja! thanks to Heaven! But why at _last_?
Was it my purpose--was it in my power
To come back sooner? Babylon from here,
As I was forced to take my devious way,
Is a long journey of two hundred leagues;
And gathering in one's debts is not--at best,
A task that expedites a traveller's steps.
DAJA.
O Nathan! what a dire calamity
Had, in your absence, nigh befallen us!
Your house----
NATHAN.
Took fire. I have already heard.
God grant I may have learnt the whole that chanced!
DAJA.
Chance saved it, or it had been burnt to ashes.
NATHAN.
Then, Daja! we had built another house,
And a far better----
DAJA.
True--ay, true! but Recha
Was on the point of perishing amid
The flames----
NATHAN.
Of perishing? Who saidst thou? Recha?
I had not heard of that. I should not then
Have needed any house. What! on the point
Of perishing? Nay, nay; perchance she's dead--
Is burnt alive. Speak, speak the dreadful truth.
Kill me, but do not agonize me thus.
Tell me at once she's dead.
DAJA.
And if she were
Could you expect to hear it from these lips?
NATHAN.
Why then alarm me? Recha! O my Recha!
DAJA.
Your Recha? Yours?
NATHAN.
And can it ever be
That I shall cease to call this child my own?
DAJA.
Is all you have yours by an equal title?
NATHAN.
Nought by a better. What I else enjoy
Are Fortune's gifts, or Nature's. This alone--
This treasure do I owe to virtue.
DAJA.
Nathan!
How dearly must I pay for all your goodness!
If goodness practised for an end like yours
Deserves the name.
NATHAN.
An end like mine! What mean you?
DAJA.
My conscience----
NATHAN.
Daja, let me tell you first----
DAJA.
I say my conscience----
NATHAN.
Oh, the gorgeous robe
That I have bought for you in Babylon!
Costly it is and rare. For Recha's self
I have not bought a richer.
DAJA.
What of that?
My conscience can be silent now no more.
NATHAN.
I long to witness your delight, to see
The bracelets, earrings, and the golden chain
Which I selected at Damascus for you.
DAJA.
'Tis always so, you surfeit me with gifts.
NATHAN.
Accept them freely, as they are bestowed,
And silence!
DAJA.
Silence! Yes. But who can doubt
That you are generosity itself?
And yet----
NATHAN.
I'm but a Jew! Daja, confess
That I have guessed your thought.
DAJA.
You know my thoughts
Far better.
NATHAN.
Well, be silent!
DAJA.
I am dumb.
And henceforth all the evil that may spring
From this, which I cannot avert, nor change,
Fall on your head.
NATHAN.
Let it all fall on me!
But where is Recha? What detains her thus?
Are you deceiving me? Can she have heard
That I am here?
DAJA.
Yourself must answer that.
Terror still palpitates through every nerve,
And fancy mingles fire with all her thoughts.
In sleep her soul's awake; but when awake,
Is wrapt in slumber. Less than mortal now,
And now far more than angel, she appears.
NATHAN.
Poor child! how frail a thing is human nature!
DAJA.
She lay this morning with her eyelids closed--
One would have thought her dead--when suddenly
She started from her couch, and cried, "Hark, hark!
Here come my father's camels, and I hear
His own sweet voice again!" With that, her eyes
Once more she opened, and her arms' support
Withdrawn, her head droop'd softly on her pillow.
Quickly I hastened forth, and now behold,
I find you here. But marvel not at this.
Has not her every thought been long engrossed
With dreams of you and him?
NATHAN.
Of him! What him?
DAJA.
Of him who from the flames preserved her life.
NATHAN.
And who was he? Where is he? Name the man
Who saved my Recha?
DAJA.
A young Templar he!
Brought hither captive lately, and restored
To freedom by the Sultan.
NATHAN.
How? A Templar?
A captive, too, and pardoned by the Sultan?
Could not my Recha's life have been preserved
By some less wondrous miracle? O God!
DAJA.
But for this stranger's help, who risked afresh
The life so unexpectedly restored,
Recha had surely perished.
NATHAN.
Where is he?
Where is this noble youth? Where is he, Daja?
Oh, lead me to his feet! But you already
Have surely lavished on him all the wealth
That I had left behind; have given him all--
And promised more, much more.
DAJA.
How could we, Nathan?
NATHAN.
Why not?
DAJA.
He came we know not whence, he went
We know not whither. To the house a stranger,
And guided by his ear alone, he rushed
With fearless daring through the smoke and flame,
His mantle spread before him, till he reached
The spot whence issued piercing screams for help.
We thought him lost; when, bursting through the fire,
He stood before us, bearing in his arms
Her almost lifeless form. Unmoved and cold,
Deaf to our cries of thanks, he left his prize,
Passed through the wondering crowd, and disappeared.
NATHAN.
But not for ever, Daja, I would hope.
DAJA.
For some days after, 'neath yon spreading palms,
Which wave above our blest Redeemer's grave,
We saw him pacing thoughtful to and fro.
With transport I approached to speak my thanks.
I pleaded, begged, entreated that for once,
Once only, he would see the grateful maid,
Who longed to shed at her preserver's feet
Her tears of gratitude.
NATHAN.
Well?
DAJA.
All in vain!
Deaf to my warmest prayers, he poured on me
Such bitter taunts----
NATHAN.
That you withdrew dismayed.
DAJA.
Far otherwise. I sought to meet him daily,
And daily heard his harsh insulting words.
Much have I borne, and would have borne still more;
But lately he has ceased his lonely walk
Beneath the spreading palms that shade the grave
Of Him who rose from death; and no man knows
Where he may now be found. You seem surprised.
NATHAN.
I was considering how such a scene
Must work upon a mind like Recha's. Scorned
By one whom she can never cease to prize;
Repelled by one who still attracts her to him.
Her head and heart at strife! And long, full long
The contest may endure, without the power
To say if anger or regret shall triumph.
Should neither prove the victor, Fancy then
May mingle in the fray, and turn her brain.
Then Passion will assume fair Reason's garb,
And Reason act like Passion. Fatal change!
Such, doubtless, if I know my Recha well,
Must be her fate; her mind is now unhinged.
DAJA.
But her illusions are so sweet and holy.
NATHAN.
But yet she raves!
DAJA.
The thought she clings to most,
Is that the Templar was no earthly form,
But her blest guardian angel, such as she
From childhood fancied hovering o'er her path;
Who from his veiling cloud, amid the fire
Rushed to her aid in her preserver's form.
You smile incredulous. Who knows the truth?
Permit her to indulge the fond deceit,
Which Christian, Jew, and Mussulman alike
Agree to own. The illusion is so sweet!
NATHAN.
I love it too. But go, good Daja! go,
See what she does--if I can speak with her.
This guardian angel, wilful and untamed,
I'll then seek out--and if he still is pleased
To sojourn here a while with us--or still
Is pleased to play the knight so boorishly,
I'll doubtless find him out and bring him here.
DAJA.
You are too daring, Nathan.
NATHAN.
Trust me, Daja!
If fond delusion yield to sweeter truth--
For human beings ever to their kind
Are dearer after all than angels are--
You will not censure me, when you perceive
Our lov'd enthusiast's mind again restored.
DAJA.
You are so good, and so discerning, Nathan!
But see, behold! Yes, here she comes herself.
Scene II.
Recha, Nathan, _and_ Daja.
RECHA.
And is it you! your very self, my father?
I thought you had but sent your voice before you,
Where are you lingering still? What mountains, streams,
Or deserts now divide us? Here we are
Once more together, face to face, and yet
You do not hasten to embrace your Recha!
Poor Recha! she was almost burnt alive!
Yet she escaped----But do not, do not shudder.
It were a dreadful death to die by fire!
NATHAN.
My child! my darling child!
RECHA.
Your journey lay
Across the Tigris, Jordan, and Euphrates,
And many other rivers. 'Till that fire
I trembled for your safety, but since then
Methinks it were a blessed, happy thing
To die by water. But you are not drowned,
Nor am I burnt alive. We will rejoice,
And thank our God, who bore you on the wings
Of unseen angels o'er the treacherous streams,
And bade my angel bear me visibly
On his white pinion through the raging flames.
NATHAN (_aside_).
On his white pinion! Ha! I see; she means
The broad white fluttering mantle of the Templar.
RECHA.
Yes, visibly he bore me through the flames,
O'ershadowed by his wings. Thus, face to face,
I have beheld an angel--my own angel.
NATHAN.
Recha were worthy of so blest a sight.
And would not see in him a fairer form
Than he would see in her.
RECHA (_smiling_).
Whom would you flatter--
The angel, dearest father, or yourself?
NATHAN.
And yet methinks, dear Recha, if a man--
Just such a man as Nature daily fashions--
Had rendered you this service, he had been
A very angel to you.
RECHA.
But he was
No angel of that stamp, but true and real.
And have I not full often heard you say
'Tis possible that angels may exist?
And how God still works miracles for those
Who love Him? And I love Him dearly, father.
NATHAN.
And He loves you; and 'tis for such as you
That He from all eternity has wrought
Such ceaseless wonders daily.
RECHA.
How I love
To hear you thus discourse!
NATHAN.
Well, though it sound
A thing but natural and common-place
That you should by a Templar have been saved,
Is it the less a miracle for that?
The greatest of all miracles seems this:
That real wonders, genuine miracles,
Can seem and grow so commonplace to us.
Without this universal miracle,
Those others would scarce strike a thinking man,
Awaking wonder but in children's minds,
Who love to stare at strange, unusual things,
And hunt for novelty.
DAJA.
Why will you thus
With airy subtleties perplex her mind,
Already overheated?
NATHAN.
Silence, Daja!
And was it then no miracle that Recha
Should be indebted for her life to one
Whom no small miracle preserved himself?
Who ever heard before, that Saladin
Pardoned a Templar? that a Templar asked it--
Hoped it--or for his ransom offered more
Than his own sword--belt, or at most his dagger?
RECHA.
That argues for me, father! All this proves
That my preserver was no Templar knight,
But only seemed so. If no captive Templar
Has e'er come hither but to meet his death,
And through Jerus'lem cannot wander free,
How could I find one, in the night, to save me?
NATHAN.
Ingenious, truly! Daja, you must speak.
Doubtless, you know still more about this knight;
For 'twas from you I learnt he was a prisoner.
DAJA.
'Tis but report indeed, but it is said
That Saladin gave freedom to the knight,
Moved by the likeness which his features bore
To a lost brother whom he dearly loved,
Though since his disappearance twenty years
Have now elapsed. He fell I know not where,
And e'en his very name's a mystery.
But the whole tale sounds so incredible,
It may be mere invention, pure romance.
NATHAN.
And why incredible? Would you reject
This story, Daja, as so oft is done,
To fix on something more incredible,
And credit that? Why should not Saladin,
To whom his race are all so dear, have loved
In early youth a brother now no more?
Since when have features ceased to be alike?
Is an impression lost because 'tis old?
Will the same cause not work a like effect?
What, then, is so incredible? My Daja,
This can to you be no great miracle;
Or does a wonder only claim belief
When it proceeds from you?
DAJA.
You mock me, Nathan!
NATHAN.
Nay, 'tis the very tone you use yourself.
And yet, dear Recha, your escape from death
Remains no less a miracle
Of Him who turns the proud resolves of kings
To mockery, or guides them to their end
By the most slender threads.
RECHA.
O father, father!
My error is not wilful, if I err.
NATHAN.
No, I have ever found you glad to learn.
See, then, a forehead vaulted thus or thus,
A nose of such a shape, and brows that shade
The eye with straighter or with sharper curve,
A spot, a mole, a wrinkle, or a line--
A nothing--in an European's face,
And you are saved in Asia from the flames!
Is that no wonder, wonder-seeking folk?
What need to summon angels to your aid?
DAJA.
But, Nathan, where's the harm,--if I may speak--
In thinking one was rescued by an angel
Rather than by a man? Are we not brought
Thus nearer to the first mysterious cause
Of our life's preservation?
NATHAN.
Pride, rank pride!
The iron pot would with a silver tongs
Be lifted from the furnace, to believe
Itself a silver vase! Well! where's the harm?
And "where's the good?" I well may ask in turn.
Your phrase, "It brings you nearer to the first
Mysterious cause!" is nonsense--if 'tis not
Rank blasphemy:--it works a certain harm.
Attend to me. To him who saved your life,
Whether he be an angel or a man,
You both--and you especially--should pay
Substantial services in just return.
Is not this true? Now, what great services
Have you the power to render to an angel!
To sing his praise--to pour forth sighs and prayers--
Dissolve in transports of devotion o'er him--
Fast on his vigil, and distribute alms?
Mere nothings! for 'tis clear your neighbour gains
Far more than he by all this piety.
Not by your abstinence will he grow fat,
Nor by your alms will he be rendered rich;
Nor by your transports is his glory raised,
Nor by your faith in him his power increased.
Say, is not all this true? But to a man----
DAJA.
No doubt a man had furnished us with more
Occasions to be useful to himself;
God knows how willingly we had seized them!
But he who saved her life demanded nought;
He needed nothing--in himself complete
And self--sufficient--as the angels are;
RECHA.
And when at last he vanished----
NATHAN.
How was that?
Did he then vanish? 'Neath yon spreading palms
Has he not since been seen? Or have you sought
Elsewhere to find him?
DAJA.
No, in truth we've not.
NATHAN.
Not sought him, Daja? Cold enthusiasts!
See now the harm: suppose your angel stretched
Upon a bed of sickness!
DAJA.
Sickness, what!
RECHA.
A chill creeps over me. I shudder, Daja!
My forehead, which till now was warm, becomes
As cold as very ice; come, feel it, Daja.
NATHAN.
He is a Frank, unused to this hot clime,
Young and unpractised in his order's rules,
In fastings and in watchings quite untrained.
RECHA.
Sick! sick!
DAJA.
Your father means 'twere possible.
NATHAN.
Friendless and penniless, he may be lying
Without the means to purchase aid.
RECHA.
Alas!
NATHAN.
Without advice, or hope, or sympathy,
May lie a prey to agony and death.
RECHA.
Where, where?
NATHAN.
And yet for one he never knew--
Enough for him it was a human being--
He plunged amid the flames and----
DAJA.
Spare her, Nathan!
NATHAN.
He sought no more to know the being whom
He rescued thus--he shunned her very thanks----
RECHA.
Oh, spare her!
NATHAN.
Did not wish to see her more,
Unless to save her for the second time--
Enough for him that she was human!
DAJA.
Hold!
NATHAN.
He may have nothing to console him dying,
Save the remembrance of his deed.
DAJA.
You kill her!
NATHAN.
And you kill him, or might have done at least.
'Tis med'cine that I give, not poison, Recha!
But be of better cheer: he lives--perhaps
He is not ill.
RECHA.
Indeed? not dead--not ill?
NATHAN.
Assuredly not dead--for God rewards
Good deeds done here below--rewards them hero.
Then go, but ne'er forget how easier far
Devout enthusiasm is, than good deeds.
How soon our indolence contents itself
With pious raptures, ignorant, perhaps,
Of their ulterior end, that we may be
Exempted from the toil of doing good.
RECHA.
O father! leave your child no more alone.--
But may he not have only gone a journey?
NATHAN.
Perhaps. But who is yonder Mussulman,
Numbering with curious eye my laden camels?
Say, do you know him?
DAJA.
Surely your own Dervise.
NATHAN.
Who?
DAJA.
Your Dervise--your old chess companion.
NATHAN.
Al-Hafi do you mean? What!--that Al-Hafi?
DAJA.
No other: now the Sultan's treasurer.
NATHAN.
What, old Al-Hafi? Do you dream again?
And yet 'tis he himself--he's coming hither.
Quick, in with you! What am I now to hear?
Scene III.
Nathan _and the_ Dervise.
DERVISE.
Ay, lift your eyes and wonder.
NATHAN.
Is it you?
A Dervise so magnificent!
DERVISE.
Why not?
Can you make nothing of a Dervise, Nathan?
NATHAN.
Ay, surely, but I've still been wont to think
A Dervise--I would say a thorough Dervise--
Will ne'er let anything be made of him.
DERVISE.
Well, by the Prophet! though it may be true
That I'm no thorough Dervise, yet one must----
NATHAN.
_Must_, Hafi! You a Dervise! No man _must_----
And least of all a Dervise.
DERVISE.
Nay, he must,
When he is much implored and deems it right.
NATHAN.
Well spoken, Hafi! Let us now embrace.
You're still, I trust, my friend.
DERVISE.
Why not ask first
What has been made of me?
NATHAN.
I take my chance,
In spite of all that has been made of you.
DERVISE.
May I not be a servant of the state
Whose friendship is no longer good for you?
NATHAN.
If you but still possess your Dervise heart
I'll run the risk of that. The stately robe
Is but your cloak.
DERVISE.
And yet it claims some honour.
But, tell me truly, at a court of yours
What had been Hafi's rank?
NATHAN.
A Dervise only--
Or, if aught else--perhaps my cook.
DERVISE.
Why yes!
That I might thus unlearn my native trade,
Your cook! why not your butler? But the Sultan--
He knows me better--I'm his treasurer.
NATHAN.
What, you?--his treasurer?
DERVISE.
Mistake me not,
I only bear his lesser purse; his father
Still manages the greater, and I am
The treasurer of his house.
NATHAN.
His house is large!
DERVISE.
Far larger than you think--all needy men
Are of his house.
NATHAN.
Yet Saladin is such
A foe to beggars!
DERVISE.
That he'd root them out,
Though he turned beggar in the enterprise.
NATHAN.
Bravo! I meant as much.
DERVISE.
He's one already.
His treasury at sunset every day
Is worse than empty; and although the tide
Flowed high at morn, 'tis ebb before the noon.
NATHAN.
Because it flows through channels such as we
Can neither stop nor fill.
DERVISE.
You hit the truth.
NATHAN.
I know it well.
DERVISE.
Ah! 'tis an evil case
When kings are vultures amid carcases,
But ten times worse when they're the carcases
Amid the vultures.
NATHAN.
Dervise, 'tis not so.
DERVISE.
Is that your thought? But, come, what will you give
If I resign my office in your favour?
NATHAN.
What are your profits?
DERVISE.
Mine? not much; but you
Would soon grow rich; for when, as oft occurs,
The Sultan's treasury is at an ebb,
You might unlock your sluices, pour in gold,
And take in form of interest what you please.
NATHAN.
And interest on the interest of the interest.
DERVISE.
Of course.
NATHAN.
Until my capital becomes
All interest.
DERVISE.
Well! is not the offer tempting?
Farewell for ever to our friendship then,
For I had counted on you.
NATHAN.
How so, Hafi?
DERVISE.
I thought you would have helped me to discharge
My task with credit; that I should have found
Your treasury ready. Ha! you shake your head.
NATHAN.
Let us explain. We must distinguish here.
To you, Dervise Al-Hafi, all I have
Is welcome; but to you, the Defterdar
Of Saladin--to that Al-Hafi, who----
DERVISE.
I guessed as much. You ever are as good
As you are wise and prudent. Only wait.
The two Al-Hafis you distinguish thus
Will soon be parted. See, this robe of honour,
Which Saladin bestowed, before 'tis worn
To rags, and suited to a Dervise back,
Will in Jerusalem hang from a nail;
Whilst I, upon the Ganges' scorching strand,
Barefoot amid my teachers will be found.
NATHAN.
That's like yourself!
DERVISE.
Or playing chess with them.
NATHAN.
Your greatest bliss!
DERVISE.
What do you think seduced me?
Hopes of escaping future penury,
The pride of acting the rich man to beggars,
Would this have metamorphosed all at once
The richest beggar to a poor rich man?
NATHAN.
No.
DERVISE.
But I yielded to a sillier whim.
For the first time I felt myself allured
By Saladin's kind-hearted, flattering words.
NATHAN.
And what were they?
DERVISE.
He said a beggar's wants
Are known but to the poor alone; that they
Alone can tell how want should be relieved.
"Thy predecessor was too cold," he said,
"Too harsh, and when he gave, 'twas with a frown.
He searched each case too strictly, not content
To find out want, he would explore the cause,
And thus he measured out his niggard alms.
Not so wilt thou bestow, and Saladin
Will not appear so harshly kind in thee.
Thou art not like that choked-up conduit-pipe,
Whence in unequal streams the water flows,
Which it receives in pure and copious stores.
Al-Hafi thinks, Al-Hafi feels like me."
The fowler whistled, and at last the quail
Ran to his net. Cheated, and by a cheat?
NATHAN.
Hush, Dervise, hush!
DERVISE.
What! is it not a cheat
To grind mankind by hundred thousands thus!
Oppress them, plunder, butcher, and torment,
And singly play the philanthropic part?
Not cheating, to pretend to imitate
That heavenly bounty, which in even course
Descends alike on desert and on plain,
On good and bad, in sunshine and in shower,
And not possess the never empty hand
Of the Most High! Not cheating----
NATHAN.
Dervise, cease!
DERVISE.
Nay, let me speak of cheating of my own,
How now? Were it not cheating to seek out
The bright side of impostures such as these,
That under colour of this brighter side
I might take part in them? What say you now?
NATHAN.
Fly to your desert quickly. Amongst men
I fear you'll soon unlearn to be a man.
DERVISE.
I fear so too. Farewell!
NATHAN.
What, so abrupt?
Stay, stay, Al-Hafi! Has the desert wings?
It will not fly away. Here, stay, Al-Hafi!
He's gone; he's gone. I would that I had asked
About that Templar; he must know the man.
Scene IV.
Daja (_rushing in_), Nathan.
DAJA.
O Nathan, Nathan!
NATHAN.
Well! what now?
DAJA.
He's there.
He shows himself once more.
NATHAN.
Who, Daja--who?
DAJA.
He--he!
NATHAN.
Where cannot he be found? But _he_
You mean, is, I suppose, the only _He_.
That should not be, were he an angel's self.
DAJA.
Beneath the palms he wanders up and down,
And gathers dates.
NATHAN.
And eats them, I suppose,
Just as a Templar would.
DAJA.
You mock me, sir!
Her eager eye espied him long ago,
When scarcely seen amid the distant trees.
She watches him intently, and implores
That you will go to him without delay.
Then go, and from the window she will mark
Which way his paces tend. Go, go; make haste!
NATHAN.
What! thus, as I alighted from my camel?
Would that be seemly? But do you accost him;
Tell him of my return. I do not doubt
You'll find the honest man forbore our house
Because the host was absent. He'll accept
A father's invitation. Say I ask him,
I heartily request him.
DAJA.
All in vain!
In short, he will not visit any Jew.
NATHAN.
Then use your best endeavours to detain him,
Or, with unerring eye, observe his steps,
And mark him well. Go, I shall not be long.
(Nathan _enters the house_. Daja _retires_.)
Scene V.
_A Place of Palms. The_ Templar, _walking to and fro; a_ Friar,
_following him at some distance, as if desirous of addressing him_.
TEMPLAR.
It cannot be for pastime that this man
Follows me thus. See how he eyes my hands!
Good brother--or, perhaps I should say, father!
FRIAR.
No, brother; a lay brother, at your service.
TEMPLAR.
Well, brother, then, if I had anything--
But truly I have nothing----
FRIAR.
Thanks the same!
God will reward your purpose thousandfold.
The will and not the deed perfects the giver.
Nor was I sent to follow you for alms.
TEMPLAR.
Sent?
FRIAR.
From the convent.
TEMPLAR.
Where I even now
Was hoping to partake a pilgrim's fare.
FRIAR.
'Tis meal--time now, the tables all are full;
But if it please you, we will turn together.
TEMPLAR.
No matter, though I have not tasted meat
For many days; these dates, you see, are ripe.
FRIAR.
Be sparing of that fruit, sir, for too much
Is hurtful, sours the blood, and makes one sad.
TEMPLAR.
And what if sadness suits me? Though, methinks,
'Twas not to give this warning that you came.
FRIAR.
Oh, no! my mission was to question you--
To feel your pulse a little.
TEMPLAR.
And you tell
This tale yourself?
FRIAR.
Why not?
TEMPLAR.
An artful soul! (_aside_).
And has the convent many more like you?
FRIAR.
I know not. Mere obedience is my duty.
TEMPLAR.
And you obey without much questioning.
FRIAR.
Could it be rightly termed obedience else?
TEMPLAR.
The simple mind is ever in the right.--(_aside_).
But will you not inform me who it is
That wishes to know more of me? Not you,
I dare be sworn.
FRIAR.
Would such a wish become
Or profit me?
TEMPLAR.
Whom would it then become
Or profit to be thus inquisitive?
FRIAR.
Perhaps the Patriarch--'twas he that sent.
TEMPLAR.
The Patriarch? and does he know my badge
So ill?--The red cross on the snow-white robe.
FRIAR.
Why? I know that.
TEMPLAR.
Well, brother, hear me out.
I am a Templar--and a prisoner now.
Made captive with some others at Tebnin,
Whose fortress we had almost ta'en by storm
Just as the truce expired. Our hopes had been
To threaten Sidon next. Of twenty knights
Made prisoners there together, I alone
Was pardoned by command of Saladin.
The Patriarch now knows what he requires,
And more than he requires.
FRIAR.
And yet no more
Than he had learned already. He would ask
Why you, of all the captives doomed to die,
Alone were spared?
TEMPLAR.
Can I myself tell that?
Already with bare neck I had knelt down
Upon my mantle, to await the stroke,
When Saladin with steadfast eye surveys me.
Nearer he draws--he makes a sign--they raise me--
I am unbound--I would express my thanks--
I mark the tear-drop glisten in his eye--
We both stand mute--he turns and leaves the spot--
I stay. And now, how all this hangs together,
The Patriarch must explain.
FRIAR.
The Patriarch thinks
That Heaven preserved you for some mighty deed.
TEMPLAR.
Some mighty deed? To rescue from the flames
A Jewish maid! To lead to Sinai's mount
Bands of inquiring pilgrims--and the like!
FRIAR.