The Dramatic Works of G. E. Lessing Part 52

CLAUDIA.

Not for the world. Wherefore? Why? Do you wish to make him uneasy without a cause? And granting that he may not become so at present--know, my child, the poison which does not operate immediately, is not on that account less dangerous. That which has no effect upon the lover, may produce a serious one upon the husband. The lover might even be flattered at winning the prize from so great a rival; but when he has won it--alas, my dear Emilia, the lover often becomes quite another being. Heaven preserve you from such experience!

EMILIA.

You know, dear mother, how willingly I ever submit to your superior judgment. But should he learn from another that the Prince spoke to me to-day, would not my silence sooner or later increase his uneasiness?--I think it would be better not to conceal anything from him.

CLAUDIA.

Weakness--a fond weakness. No, on no account, my daughter! Tell him nothing. Let him observe nothing.

EMILIA.

I submit. I have no will, dear mother, opposed to yours. Ah! (_sighing deeply_), I shall soon be well again. What a silly, timid thing I am!

am I not, mother? I might have conducted myself otherwise, and should, perhaps, have compromised myself just a little.

CLAUDIA.

I would not say this, my daughter, till your own good sense had spoken, which I was sure would be as soon as your alarm was at an end. The Prince is a gallant. You are too little used to the unmeaning language of gallantry. In your mind a civility becomes an emotion--a compliment, a declaration--an idea, a wish--a wish, a design. A mere nothing, in this language, sounds like everything, while everything is in reality nothing.

EMILIA.

Dear mother, my terror cannot but appear ridiculous to myself now. But my kind Appiani shall know nothing of it. He might, perhaps, think me more vain than virtuous----Ah! there he comes himself. That is his step.

Scene VII.

_Enter_ Appiani, _in deep meditation. His eyes are cast down, and he approaches without observing_ Claudia _and_ Emilia, _till the latter runs towards him_.

APPIANI.

Ha! My dearest! I did not expect to find you in the ante-room.

EMILIA.

I wish you to be cheerful, even where you do not expect to see me. Why so grave and solemn? Should not this day inspire joyful emotions?

APPIANI.

It is of greater value to me than my whole life; but it teems with so much bliss for me--perhaps it is this very bliss which makes me so grave--so solemn, as you express it (_espies_ Claudia). Ha! You too here, dear madam. This day I hope to address you by a more familiar name.

CLAUDIA.

Which will be my greatest pride.--How happy you are, Emilia! Why would not your father share our delight?

APPIANI.

But a few minutes have elapsed since I tore myself from his arms--or rather he from mine.--What a man your father is, my Emilia! A pattern of every manly virtue! With what sentiments does his presence inspire my soul! Never is my resolution to continue just and good, so firm as when I see or think of him. And by what, but by fulfilling this resolution, can I make myself worthy of the honour to be called his son--to become your husband, dear Emilia?

EMILIA.

And he would not wait for me!

APPIANI.

Because, in my opinion, this brief interview with his Emilia would have distressed him too much, too deeply affected his soul.

CLAUDIA.

He expected to find you busy with your bridal ornaments, and heard----

APPIANI.

What I have learnt from him with the tenderest admiration. Right, my Emilia. I shall be blessed with a pious wife--and one who is not proud of her piety.

CLAUDIA.

But let us not, whilst we attend to one subject, forget another. It is high time, Emilia. Go!

APPIANI.

Go! Why?

CLAUDIA.

Surely, my lord, you would not lead her to the altar in her present attire.

APPIANI.

In truth, I was not, till you spoke, aware of that. Who can behold Emilia, and take heed of her dress? Yet why should I not lead her to the altar thus?

EMILIA.

No, dear Count, not exactly thus; yet in a dress not much more gay. In a moment I shall be ready. I do not mean to wear those costly jewels, which were the last present of your prodigal generosity, no, nor anything suited to such jewels. Oh, I could quarrel with those jewels were they not your present--for thrice I've dreamt----

CLAUDIA.

Indeed! I know nothing of that.

EMILIA.

That while I wore them, every diamond changed suddenly to a pearl--and pearls, you know, dear mother, signify tears.

CLAUDIA.

Child, the interpretation is more visionary than the dream. Were you not always more fond of pearls than diamonds?

EMILIA.