Mel. Well, sir, what's all that gibberish?
Damas. Oh, oh!--only Italian, your highness!--The Prince of Como does not understand his own language!
Mel. Not as you pronounce it; who the deuce could?
Mme. Deschap. Ha! ha! cousin Damas, never pretend to what you don't know.
Pauline. Ha! ha! cousin Damas; you speak Italian, indeed!
[Makes a mocking gesture at him.
Beau. [to GLAVIS]. Clever dog!--how ready!
Gla. Ready, yes; with my diamond ring!--Damn his readiness!
Damas. Laugh at me!--laugh at a Colonel in the French army!--the fellow's an impostor; I know he is. I'll see if he understands fighting as well as he does Italian.--[Goes up to him, and aside.] Sir, you are a jackanapes.--Can you construe that?
Mel. No, sir; I never construe affronts in the presence of ladies;by-and-by I shall be happy to take a lesson--or give one.
Damas. I'll find the occasion, never fear!
Mme. Deschap. Where are you going, cousin?
Damas. To correct my Italian. [Exit.
Beau. [to GLAVIS]. Let us after, and pacify him; he evidently suspects something.
Gla. Yes!--but my diamond ring!
Beau. And my box!--We are over-taxed fellow-subjects!--we must stop the supplies, and dethrone the prince.
Gla. Prince!--he ought to be heir-apparent to King Stork.
[Exeunt BEAUSEANT and GLAVIS.
Mme. Deschap. Dare I ask your highness to forgive my cousin's insufferable vulgarity?
Pauline. Oh yes!--you will forgive his manner for the sake of his heart.
Mel. And the sake of his cousin.--Ah, madam, there is one comfort in rank,--we are so sure of our position that we are not easily affronted. Besides, M. Damas has bought the right of indulgence from his friends, by never showing it to his enemies.
Pauline. Ah! he is, indeed, as brave in action as he is rude in speech.
He rose from the ranks to his present grade, and in two years!
Mel. In two years!--two years, did you say?
Mme. Deschap. [aside]. I don't like leaving girls alone with their lovers; but, with a prince, it would be so ill-bred to be prudish.
(Exit.
Mel. You can be proud of your connection with one who owes his position to merit--not birth.
Pauline. Why, yes; but still Mel. Still what, Pauline!
Pauline. There is something glorious in the heritage of command.
A man who has ancestors is like a representative of the past.
Mel. True; but, like other representatives, nine times out of ten he is a silent member. Ah, Pauline! not to the past, but to the future, looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity.
Pauline. You say this to please me, who have no ancestors;but you, prince, must be proud of so illustrious a race!
Mel. No, no! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pensioner on the dead! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regarded as the incentives to exertion, not the titledeeds to sloth!
I honor the laurels that overshadow the graves of our fathers;it is our fathers I emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have planted, my own ashes may repose!
Dearest! couldst thou but see with my eyes!
Pauline. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and think that thou lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the Lake of Como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst swear to me that they would be desolate without Pauline;and when thou describest them, it is with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if custom had made thee disdain greatness.
Mel. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint The home to which, could love fulfil its prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen!*--A deep vale (* The reader will observe that Melnotte evades the request of Pauline.
He proceeds to describe a home, which be does not say he possesses, but to which he would lead her, "could Love fulfil its prayers."This caution is intended as a reply to a sagacious critic who censures the deion, because it is not an exact and prosaic inventory of the characteristics of the Lake of Como!--When Melnotte, for instance, talks of birds "that syllable the name of Pauline"(by the way, a literal translation from an Italian poet), he is not thinking of ornithology, but probably of the Arabian Nights. He is venting the extravagant, but natural, enthusiasm of the poet and the lover.)Shut out by Alphine hills from the rude world;Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies, As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, As I would have thy fate!
Pauline. My own dear love!
Mel. A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love; we'd read no books That were not tales of love--that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!
And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange-groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture?
Pauline. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue!
Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly, Who would not love thee like Pauline?
Mel. [bitterly.] Oh, false one!
It is the prince thou lovest, not the man If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power, I had painted poverty, and toil, and care, Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue;--Pauline, That is not love!
Pauline. Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince!
