in good truth, she moved me strangely. She would not say one word of her feelings towards you. She would pretend herself to be quite careless and cold. But in the midst of the most indifferent conversation, one turn, one reference or another escaped her that betrayed her martyred heart. With the gayest manners she said the most melancholy things; and again, the most laughable absurdities with the saddest mien. She has taken refuge among books, and I fear they will make an end of her.

PRINCE. Even as she also gave the first blow to her little share of understanding.—But that which chiefly made me leave her, you do not think to employ, Marinelli, for the purpose of bringing me back to her bondage? If she become foolish through love, surely she would have grown so, sooner or later, even without love. And now, enough of her. Of something else! Is there then nothing going on in the town?

MAR. As good as nothing; for that the Count Appiani will today be married, is not much more than nothing.

PRINCE. The Count Appiani? and with whom then? I never heard that he was engaged.

MAR. The affair is kept very quiet. And, indeed, there was not much to make a noise about. You will laugh, Prince; but so it is with the susceptible! Love always plays them the worst tricks. A girl without property or rank has found means to entangle him in her net, with a little deception; but with much parade of virtue, and feeling, and wit, and how can I know what beside?

PRINCE. A man who can so entirely yield himself to the impressions that innocence and beauty make, without need of second considerations, I had thought he was rather to be envied than to be laughed at. And by what name is the fortunate damsel known? -For with all this is Appiani-I know well that you, Marinelli, can endure him as little as he you-with all this, he is a most worthy young man, a handsome man, a rich man, a man most honourable. I have much wished that I could attach him to me. I shall still think of it.

MAR. If it be not too late; for, so far as I hear, it is by no means his plan to make his fortune at court. He departs with his mistress for his own valleys of Piedmont, to hunt the chamois on the Alps, and train marmots. What better can he do? Here, by the bad match he makes, his fortune is decided. The first circles of society are closed against him.

PRINCE. Pish! with your first circles! in which ceremony,

restraint, ennui, and not unfrequently poverty, hold rule. But name her then, this maiden to whom he brings so great a sacrifice. MAR. It is a certain Emilia Galotti.

PRINCE. HOW, Marinelli? A certain

MAR. Emilia Galotti.

PRINCE. Emilia Galotti? It cannot be !

MAR. Your grace may rely upon it.

PRINCE. No, I tell you that it is not; it cannot be. You are

mistaken in the name.

The race of Galotti is abundant.

Galotti it may be; but not Emilia Galotti; not Emilia !

MAR. Emilia-Emilia Galotti!

A

PRINCE. Then there is another one who bears both names. You said, besides, a certain Emilia Galotti-a certain. Of the right one none but a fool could speak like that—

MAR. You are beside yourself, gracious Prince. Know you then this Emilia?

PRINCE. With permission, Marinelli, I have to ask, not you.Emilia Galotti? the daughter of the General Galotti, at Sabionetta? MAR. The very same.

PRINCE. Who lives here in Guastalla with her mother?
MAR. The very same.

PRINCE. Not far from the church of All Saints?

MAR. The very same.

PRINCE. In one word (springing to the portrait and placing it in Marinelli's hand). There!-This? This Emilia Galotti?— Answer me once more with thine accursed 'the very same,' and thrust the dagger into my heart!

MAR. The very same.

PRINCE. Confusion! This? This Emilia Galotti will to-day be

MAR. Countess Appiani! (The Prince tears the picture from Marinelli's hand and casts it on one side.) The marriage takes place privately on her father's estate, near Sabionetta. Towards noon mother and daughter, the Count, and perhaps a couple of friends, travel thitherward.

lost!

PRINCE (casting himself in agitation in a chair.) Then am I Then will I not live! MAR. But what ails your grace? PRINCE (hurrying towards him.) -Well then, I love her; I adore her. Might you not long since have known it, all of you, for whom rather I should still bear through an eternity the disgracing chains of

Traitor! What ails me?
Might you not know it?

the mad Orsina! But that you, Marinelli, who so often assured me of your heart-felt friendship-oh, a prince hath no friend! can have no friend;-that you, you could so faithlessly, so maliciously hide from me, until this moment, the danger with which my love was threatened: if ever I forgive you that,—may never one of my sins be forgiven !

MAR. I can scarce find words, Prince,-even would you allow me to speak them,-to express my astonishment. You love Emilia Galotti? Vow then against vow : if ever I knew aught—the least -of this love, the least suspected, then may never angel or holy one know aught of me! In the soul of Orsina I would have vowed the same. Her suspicion is upon a far different track.

PRINCE. Pardon me, then, Marinelli, (embracing him,) and pity me.

MAR. Lo, now, Prince! behold the fruits of your reserve! “Oh, princes have no friend, can have no friend!" And the reason, if it be true? Because they will not have one.-To-day they honour us with their confidence, share with us their most secret wishes, open their whole souls; and to-morrow we are again as strange to them, as though we never had exchanged a word.

PRINCE. Ah, Marinelli, how could I entrust to you that which I scarcely acknowledged to myself?

MAR. And have confessed then by so much the less to the authoress of your distress.

PRINCE. To her? All my labour has been in vain to speak with her a second time.

MAR. And the first time

PRINCE. I spoke with her——Oh, I am losing reason! And I am to tell you a long tale?—You see me a victim to the waves; why do you question me how I came to be so? Rescue me, if you can, and question afterwards.

MAR. Rescue? is there much to be rescued? What your grace has delayed acknowledging to Emilia Galotti, confess it now to Countess Appiani. Merchandise we cannot obtain from the first hand we purchase then of the second: and such merchandise are with the second often so much cheaper.

PRINCE. Seriously, Marinelli, seriously, or-
MAR. I confess, by so much worse-
PRINCE. You lose all shame!

MAR. And then the Count carries her out of
Yes, then must we strike upon some other plan.

your domains.

PRINCE.

you for me.

And upon what?-Best, dearest Marinelli, think What would you do, were you in my place? MAR. Above all things, regard a trifle as but a trifle still; and tell myself that I would not be in vain, what I am—the master. PRINCE. Flatter me not with a power, of which in this case I can see no use.-To-day, say you? even to-day?

MAR. To-day-it will be done; and only things already done are beyond the reach of counsel. (After a little reflection,) Will you grant to me free powers, Prince? Will you confirm all that I may do?

PRINCE. All, Marinelli, all, that can avert this stroke.

MAR. Then let us lose no time.-But you must not stay in town. Go at once to your villa, by Dosalo. The road to Sabionetta passes it. If I do not succeed in immediately distancing the Count, I think-Yet stay; I think in this case we are certain. Will you not send, Prince, on account of your marriage, an ambassador to Massa? Let the Count be this ambassador, with the condition that he depart at once.-You understand?

PRINCE. Excellent!-but carry it into effect. Go, speed! I mount immediately for Dosalo. [Exit MARINElli.

SCENE VII.-The PRINCE.

Immediately! immediately!-Where did I leave it?-(looking for the portrait.) Upon the ground? that was too bad! (raising it.) But gaze upon it !—I must gaze upon it no more. Why should I press the arrow yet more deeply into my wound? (lays it aside.) Pined, sighed have I, long enough,-longer than I should: but nothing done! and through this delicate inactivity, within a hair of losing all !—And were all lost ?-Should Marinelli not succeed?— Why do I put my faith in him alone? I remember, about this hour, (looking at his watch,) about this very hour, the pious maiden is in the habit of going every morning to hear mass, with the Dominicans.—What if I sought there to speak with her?—Yet to-day, to-day, upon her wedding-day,-to-day, when other things beside the mass lie at her heart.-Yet, who can tell?—It is a chance.(Rings, and as he hastily gathers together some of the papers on the table, the Servant enters.) Order the carriage.-Is not one of my advocates arrived?

SERV. Camillo Rota.

PRINCE. Let him enter. (Exit Servant) But detain me he must not. Not this time!-Gladly another day will I remain so much the longer at the service of his deliberations.-Ay, there was the petition of an Emilia Bruneschi.-(Seeking it.) 'Tis this.-But, good Bruneschi, where your friendly—

SCENE VIII.-CAMILLO ROTA, papers in his hand. The PRINCE.

PRINCE. Come, Rota, come.-Here are what I have opened this morning. Not much that is consoling!—You will see readily yourself what should be subscribed to them.-Take them, then. CAMILLO. Very good, my Prince.

PRINCE. Yet another here, is the petition of an Emilia Galott--Bruneschi I would say.-True, I have already signed assent. But yet-the matter is no trifle-let its ratification be postponed: Or not postponed-which you please. CAMILLO. Not as I please, your grace.

PRINCE. What else is there? something to sign?
CAMILLO. A death-warrant is to be signed.

PRINCE. Right gladly.-Give it me! quick!

CAMILLO (surprised, and gazing earnestly at the Prince.) A death-warrant—I said.

PRINCE. Yes, I hear you.—It might have been done by this time. I am in haste.

CAMILLO (looking among his writings.) I have not it with me, I find! Your grace will pardon me.-It can be postponed until the morrow.

PRINCE. That also !-Pack now together: I must hence.-Tomorrow, Rota, I will have more leisure!

[Exit.

CAMILLO (shaking his head as he collects the papers and departs.) Right gladly?—A death-warrant right gladly ?—I could not have let him sign it in this moment, had it been for the murderer of my only son.-Right gladly! right gladly!—It pierces me to the soul, this terrible Right gladly!

(End of Act I.)