A hall in a sumptuous villa.
The Princess Etelvina, Lady Seymour, the Countess Rinaldi, Edith, Leonardo, Prince Michael, Prince Florencio, Lord Seymour, Harry Lucenti, and the Duke of Suavia are seated about the room. Edith plays upon a lute, while Lady Seymour and Leonardo listen to the music. Princess Etelvina, Prince Michael, Lord Seymour, and the Duke of Suavia take tea. Prince Florencio, the Countess Rinaldi, and Harry Lucenti examine a number of etchings and engravings, engaging meanwhile in animated conversation. Several Servants are in attendance, one of whom hands a telegram to Prince Michael.
Etelvina. News from Suavia?
Prince Michael. Extraordinary news. [To the Princess] You should be the first to announce it. Read...
Duke. Is it serious? [Imposing silence] The music, ladies
Etelvina. I am delighted. Listen, my son. His Imperial Majesty was presented this morning with a prince and heir.
Prince Michael. Long live the Prince!
All. Long live the Prince!
Duke. Viva Suavia!
All. Viva Suavia!
Prince Florencio. [As he takes the telegram] At last! A prince after seven princesses! The weight of the empire has oppressed me long enough; it had become an infirmity. Now I shall recover my health.
Lady Seymour. I must say that you bear the blow cheerfully.
Rinaldi. One does not lose a throne every day.
Etelvina. [To Prince Michael] We must reply at once. Do not delay our congratulations. Our best wishes for the prosperity of the empire.
Prince Florencio. Nobody will believe that they are sincere. People always misunderstand me. The Empress suggested an absence from court because she was afraid that I might be in too great haste to wear the crown. Now that the future of my august cousin will be so closely bound up with mine, there is less reason than ever why I should return to Suavia. Responsibility for my own life will suffice me.
Etelvina. If one may judge by the little care that you take of it.
Prince Florencio. Since it is my own and belongs entirely to me, perhaps I shall finish by valuing it. I am free!—no longer the heir apparent, the centre of so many hopes, so much ambition, and so much hatred. I am sorry for my cousins, the seven little princesses, who have been dreaming all these years of becoming imperial consorts at my expense, as the Salic law of the empire does not permit them to inherit themselves. It will not matter to them now whether or not I behave.
Etelvina. You have no right to talk like that. Always this flippant tone!
Duke. Highness, many of us had placed great faith in you. We watched you from the cradle; we fought beside your father. The heir is a mere babe and the Emperor already old. The state of the empire is perturbed.
Prince Michael. Clearly, this is not a solution.
Prince Florencio. [To Prince Michael] No, my dear uncle, not while you are still young. You may be Regent yet, as you would have been with me; the weight of the empire would have fallen upon your shoulders, and you would have inherited it in the end. My imperial career would have been short.
Etelvina. Who knows? Life then would have had an object for you—it would have acquired meaning. However, if you are satisfied
Prince Florencio. Absolutely. And you? Do you recall Daudet's "Rois en exile": "Do you love me less now that I am not to be king?"
Etelvina. Ungrateful, foolish boy! If you are happy, it is all that I desire.
Lady Seymour. A curious coincidence! Edith was playing the national air of your lost empire.
Prince Florencio. Yes, upon the lute. How depressing! To do it justice, the theme requires drums and trumpets against a background of flashing swords and shining armor I am told that all the fighting spirit of our country has been put into it, although it was composed by a monk who was a foreigner, for the funeral of some poet.
Duke. A preposterous fabrication.
Lady Seymour. A monk, did you say, and a poet? The combination is amusing.
Leonardo. Tennyson might have composed an occasional poem.
Lady Seymour. Tennyson was an exceptional poet. He was a gentleman, received in the best society.
Harry Lucenti. [To Leonardo] Lady Seymour is jealous of me. She will not pardon the Prince my invitation.
Leonardo. You are the scandal of England.
Harry Lucenti. Run through the secrétaires of the great ladies and in every one of them you will find a volume of my poems, laid away with their love-letters. On the table in the drawing-room, the Bible and Kipling.
Leonardo. And a respectable husband at the head of the table.
Harry Lucenti. After dinner, under it.
Leonardo. I told you that joke yesterday and you found it in extremely bad taste.
Harry Lucenti. On the lips of a foreigner, it still continues to be so. It is not easy to forget that one is English, although one has been banished from England like Byron.
Leonardo. But you have not yet succeeded in banishing England?
Rinaldi. Byron, did you say? Byron never seemed immoral to me. I learned English when I was a schoolgirl, reading Byron.
Leonardo. Did you learn nothing but English reading Byron?
Rinaldi. We are not like Lady Seymour in Italy. It is impossible to shock us with banished poets.
Leonardo. The Countess is shock-proof. She has been cured of timidity.
Rinaldi. Rather I am convalescing. That is the reason I come here every winter.
Leonardo. Always alone.
Rinaldi. What is there to attract my husband?
Leonardo. Nothing; he has been cured already.
Etelvina. There will be great rejoicing in Suavia.
Duke. The court and the official element, not to speak of the people, idolized Prince Florencio. They could not forget that he was the son of the soldier, of the invincible liberator, your husband, venerated throughout Suavia.
Etelvina. Justly so. Yet during these last years, they have hesitated at nothing to discredit my son.
Duke. What constitution at his age could support this continual liquidation?
Prince Michael. If Florencio had been otherwise—pardon, I do not wish to distress you—he is your son, and I know how you love him. But Florencio's conduct
Etelvina. What can you tell me that I do not already know? I have shed too many tears. But now his health distresses me. I have brought him here to recuperate.
Prince Michael. Here? You arrived two days ago, and already the Prefect has advised me that he is frequenting objectionable resorts.
Etelvina. Great heaven!
Prince Michael. The Prefect is a man of the world; everybody calls him the Signore. He is paid handsomely to keep the peace, and throw an air of respectability over this petty principality, which is a cosmopolis and Mecca of all the idlers of the earth.
Etelvina. Do you tell me that Florencio…?
Prince Michael. There is no cause for alarm. The Signore has detailed special agents to watch him; they will protect him should occasion arise. Nevertheless, it is deplorable.
Etelvina. Yes, it is. You sympathize with me. Nothing remained but that he should form an intimacy with this Lucenti, this poet, half-English, half-Italian, a man utterly without moral sense. Lord and Lady Seymour were scandalized to meet him here.
Prince Michael. Is it possible? But I thought… pardon a moment. I noticed, my lady, that you appeared to be somewhat shocked by the presence of Harry Lucenti.
Lady Seymour. Really, nobody receives that man.
Prince Michael. I beg your pardon. I thought I saw you talking with him at the Casino last evening.
Lady Seymour. Oh, many times ! But not before my husband.
Prince Michael. But I have often seen your husband talking with him.
Lady Seymour. Frequently. But never before me.
Prince Michael. English propriety is more complicated than I had imagined.
Lady Seymour. It is respectability.
Rinaldi. [To Leonardo] I am in no humor for trifling this evening. Frankly, I am bored. You have no idea how bored I am.
Leonardo. But you are dying to tell me.
Rinaldi. Artists are such dangerous confidants. Afterward, they reveal all one's secrets to the public.
Leonardo. I am a sculptor. What secrets have you that my art could reveal to the public ? By the way, you would make an admirable Juno.
Rinaldi. You told me Minerva yesterday.
Leonardo. It may be Venus to-morrow; everything in its season.
Rinaldi. You might have worse models.
Leonardo. I defer to your authority.
Rinaldi. I warn you that I am wearing no stays; this is support à la grècque.
Leonardo. Now you are encroaching upon my domain. Only spiritual confidences, if you please.
Rinaldi. Why do you suppose that I am here this evening?
Leonardo. How should I know? Probably because you were invited to dinner by Prince Michael, like the rest of us, to celebrate the arrival of his sister, the Princess Alexandra Etelvina, and her august son, Prince Florencio, the late apparent heir.
Rinaldi. Invited? On the contrary, I am here precisely because I was not invited.
Leonardo. Impossible!
Rinaldi. Apparently I am considered a déclassée; it is my own fault in a way. In Paris I was presented to the Prince officially by the Italian Ambassador, but here, of course, there is no etiquette. One comes for a change, to amuse oneself. One associates with everybody, just as if one were in the country. The Casino, the races, the shooting-club are all neutral ground. Well, one day, at one of them, I chanced upon the Prince with—with his…
Leonardo. With Imperia.
Rinaldi. Should I have refused to bow to him? How absurd! I am not like Lady Seymour, afraid to be seen in public with a fellow countryman, an artist like Harry Lucenti.
Leonardo. It would have been absurd.
Rinaldi. Art and beauty are sacred in Italy. One of the popes said apropos of Benvenuto Cellini, that such artists were above all laws. I did not hesitate to meet the Prince's innamorata, nor absent myself from the companies at her villa, nor hurry to leave the Prince at the moment she arrived, when only a few remained—the intimates, the inner circle. They are the most fascinating. However, the Prince has taken my condescension for moral abdication. That is the reason I am here without an invitation. Naturally, he did not seem surprised, but when the Princess saw me, she was like an icicle.
Leonardo. She is extremely old-fashioned. She receives only dragons of virtue.
Rinaldi. And discretion, like the daughter of the Duke of Suavia. Romantic creature, is she not?—a young lady in waiting, whom the Princess retains in the family so that Prince Florencio may entertain himself at home, and not create such scandals in Suavia.
Leonardo. Poor Prince! He is very susceptible; a lover of art, indefatigable in the pursuit of beauty.
Rinaldi. Entirely too much so. Was he not a lover of Imperia before his uncle?
Leonardo. I may have heard talk.
Rinaldi. And after you?
Leonardo. She was only my model; I was never her lover. She took her name, Imperia, from one of my statues. It was at my studio in Rome that she met Prince Florencio.
Rinaldi. Who left you without a model? You see I am taking your word. Then you fell sick.
Leonardo. With malaria.
Rinaldi. And changed your life completely. Your art suffered a collapse. Is it true that you broke into pieces a great block of marble which you had prepared for a gigantic statue, The Triumph of Life? It was to have been a work of genius, and surely not the last. Italy then might have boasted two Leonardos, equally great.
Leonardo. Leonardo! You have no idea how the name has obsessed me ever since I was a child. It has been to me like some preternatural portent. My father admired the divine da Vinci, so he gave me the name—my father was a lover of beautiful things, an idolater of great artists. It was a mighty name which compelled me from my boyhood's days to dream great dreams. But you see how it was: a great ideal can be realized only when it has been reduced to our scale, shattered into parts. From that block of Carrara marble from which I intended to carve my masterpiece, I cut a thousand figurines, such as you have seen in the windows and at the exhibitions, or afterward in the parlors and boudoirs of the rich—graceful, if you will, they were charming; the public was pleased, and they sold very well. Instead of a dazzling flash of inspiration in a single work, a spark of artful grace in a thousand toys; instead of a monument to immortalize an heroic deed and embody beauty to posterity, a paper-weight, perhaps, or a bibelot to support an electric light. And people thought that I had realized my ideal! They judged my soul by my work. They see the grains of sand, but they do not know that in their making a mountain crumbled into dust!
Rinaldi. But suppose the ideal is one of love, as mine is?
Leonardo. You know the secret. Break the block of your illusions and content yourself with figurines. Love all as you would have loved one.
Rinaldi. Loving much is not the same as loving many. Consider your experience. You broke the marble, but have you been able to forget your model, your Imperia? Why are you here if it is not for her?
Leonardo. We are all here for something.
Rinaldi. Which we do not tell. We fly from ourselves, from the false lives which we lead, which our position in the world imposes. That is why we huddle together in this promiscuous place where everybody sees and knows everything, but where everybody agrees to see and know nothing. To-night we are cowed into respectability by the presence of the Princess; we are in another world, where we are bored beyond speaking. We would give an eternity to be free as our thoughts are at this moment.
Leonardo. We are shadows of ourselves as we pass through the world. We see those who walk beside us, yet we know nothing of what they are.
Prince Florencio. [To Harry Lucenti] I must go with mother. It will never do to have her worry. I can give out that I have gone to bed, and join you later. Will those people be there?
Harry Lucenti. We might stop for them at the theatre. Do you know Mr. Jacob's new theatre? A gorgeous music-hall, in the worst possible taste, but diverting. Of course it has less character than the old puppet-show by the port, with its sailors and stevedores, open-mouthed at the sight of the fine ladies adventuring slumming. But Cecco's tavern is still there. He gives foreigners their money's worth, too—the whole performance, popular dances, a duel with knives, winding up with a raid by the police, all engineered and directed by Cecco. You would swear it was the truth.
Prince Florencio. We might take supper there. It will be more amusing than these eternal midnight cafés.
Harry Lucenti. I think so, too. We can have the performance suppressed. He knows we are in the secret. [They continue the conversation.
Rinaldi. [To Leonardo] I felt sure that you were sympathetic, but this intimacy with the Prince was disconcerting. My husband may be appointed Ambassador to Suavia. It would never do to have these people suspect anything. Otherwise, I should have consulted the Prefect.
Leonardo. The Signore? How could you be so foolish? This place would be a paradise but for him. Every winter he imports the picked rogues of Christendom; then they pay him to keep an eye on them; so he contrives to earn his salary. However, leave it to me; there is no occasion to worry. You say he works in a music-hall?—an acrobat, a brute of a fellow?
Rinaldi. A brute, but wonderful! You understand; you, too, are an artist.
Leonardo. Is he threatening you with an open scandal?
Rinaldi. I am in for five thousand francs.
Leonardo. It seems incredible. You have been foolish in more senses than one.
Rinaldi. Not a word of it to anybody.
Leonardo. No, everybody knows it already. Don't imagine that everybody hears from me what I hear from everybody.
Rinaldi. But do they know?
Leonardo. Oh! I should not bother. The same thing happened to Lady Seymour with one of her grooms. Now she envelops herself in the British flag, without condescending to notice you during the entire evening. We become impossible socially, not because of what people know about us, but because of what they imagine we may know about them.
Rinaldi. Precisely. We ought always to say what we know about everybody, not out of malice, but in the interest of truth and good feeling. All of us are made of the same clay. Virtue consists merely of those vices which one does not possess. If it had been virtuous not to eat apples, and I had been Eve, man would never have fallen. I cannot abide the sight of apples; although I do not complain of those that eat them. No doubt they have good reasons.
Leonardo. They seem good to them.
Etelvina. [Rising] It is growing late; it is time to retire. [To Prince Michael] Will you lunch with us to-morrow?
Prince Michael. Without fail. And we shall write to the Emperor.
Duke. [To a Servant] Her Highness's carriage. Gentlemen, her Highness retires.
Etelvina. Good evening to all. It has been pleasant to meet old friends.—My lady, I may count you among them.
Lady Seymour. Your Highness compliments me to say so.
Etelvina. Countess… [To Leonardo] My dear artist, your works have become indispensable in my house. I trust that you apply yourself now? Your new style is entrancing. Like the old masters, you combine art with utility. Even the necessities you make charming. Good afternoon.
Prince Florencio. [To Harry] Don't be long.
Harry Lucenti. I shall be there before you. Good night.
Prince Florencio. Good-by, uncle.
Prince Michael. Be careful of your health! Have some regard for your mother.
Prince Florencio. Yes, I remain at home this evening.
Etelvina. So Florencio has promised me.
Princess Etelvina, Prince Florencio, Edith, and the Duke of Suavia retire, accompanied by Prince Michael.
Rinaldi. The Princess is remarkably well preserved.
Leonardo. She almost looks young.
Lady Seymour. She leads the life of an anchorite—a good thing for the poor.
Rinaldi. Very popular, too, I am told, in Suavia.
Leonardo. The virtues of the Princess prove more embarrassing at court than the vices of her son. That is the reason they advise them to travel.
Lord Seymour. I never meddle in foreign affairs.
Leonardo. An artist, my lord, must communicate his impressions. It is a matter of habit.
Lord Seymour. Damn bad habit! [To Lady Seymour] I shall accompany you, my dear. Where do you pass the evening?
Lady Seymour. At the Villa Miranda. There is to be chamber-music. You know what that is…
Prince Michael re-enters.
Prince Michael. The Princess was delighted to meet you again.
Lady Seymour. Apparently everybody delights the Princess. Good evening, your Highness. Did you receive the invitation to my concert?
Prince Michael. A concert such as could be arranged only by an artist of your taste.
Lord and Lady Seymour go out, escorted by the Prince.
Rinaldi. You noticed that she did not invite me? However, it makes no matter. I don't need her invitation.
Leonardo. You will go without it, of course.
Rinaldi. Depend upon me.
Harry Lucenti. Never permit yourself such a liberty with an Englishwoman; the risk is too great.
Rinaldi. I shall present myself upon the arm of one of her grooms.
Harry Lucenti. I should advise you not to meddle in foreign affairs.
Rinaldi. Ah! Do you defend your hypocritical society after having become the victim of it?
Harry Lucenti. I do not complain; I do as I like, and others do the same. I scandalize England, but the world is before me.
Rinaldi. You scandalize the world.
Harry Lucenti. The world is too dull to be so easily scandalized. Fancy, if one were obliged to please everybody!—Do you please everybody?
Leonardo. The Countess does, and no complaints.
Rinaldi. I am excessively careful about what people think of me.
Leonardo. As everybody knows.
Rinaldi. Without joking.
Leonardo. Seriously. Of course everybody knows. But I say, if you were not careful!
Harry Lucenti. Prince Florencio will be waiting.
Rinaldi. Evidently he is a great friend of yours. If he had been Emperor, he would have kept you always at his side like…
Harry Lucenti. You intended to say like a fool?
Rinaldi. A rather sad fool.
Harry Lucenti. English fools are always sad. They might pass for diplomatists in other countries.
Leonardo. All fools are sad. A smile is the most efficient grave-digger. We cry over what lives, what suffers, what we still carry in our hearts; but when we laugh at a thing—love, faith, memory, hope—it is dead. Shakespeare's fools are the most tragic figures in his tragedies. Hamlet shrivels up in the presence of the grave-diggers, singing and jesting among the graves. Their spades grit in the earth, and out comes the skull of Yorick, the King's jester, to leer and scoff with that horrible grin of his bony jaws. Everything dies, but we still smile. What is life, eternally renewing itself, but the triumphant smile of love as it conquers death?
Rinaldi. But death is the end of all things, and then…
Harry Lucenti. Hell then. Fortunately, you Italians have a most alluring Inferno. I see you, Countess, in the same circle as Francesca, always in the best society.
Rinaldi. You must not joke about such things. I am a believer; I hope to be saved.
Leonardo. Why not? The lives of all the saints have two parts—even the best of them. You are still in the first.
Rinaldi. Let us talk of something else. Often, I leap out of bed, shrieking, in the middle of the night, mad with terror, because the idea of death creeps into my mind as I am falling asleep. Sometimes when it is day, one of those days all holiday and sunshine, in the midst of the crowds and the festival, suddenly I stop and think that within a few years all those people will no longer be there, that they will all be dead, and it seems to me that I must cry out to them and warn them, as if some terrible calamity were impending! Then, all at once a dark veil of silence descends before my eyes—I am not well; I have consulted physicians.
Leonardo. What do they say?
Rinaldi. They advise me to distract myself, to sleep always with a light, with some one near.
Leonardo. A simple prescription for you to follow.
Prince Michael and the Signore enter.
Signore. Ah, gentlemen! What! The Countess? It is a long time since I have had the pleasure—although I have not forgotten her.
Rinaldi. The Signore Prefect is very kind. Whenever I have had the pleasure before, it has always been because of some experience that was disagreeable. The last time I lost my jewels.
Signore. Well, you had no reason to complain. Do you remember that night you heard rumblings in your villa? And the time that escroc tried to make you dance to the tune of those letters?
Rinaldi. They were forgeries.
Signore. I suppose those anonymous articles were forgeries which revealed such intimate knowledge of the details of your life? But I was on hand to protect you.
Rinaldi. You protected me, Signore. [To Leonardo] I wish I could remember the man's name.
Leonardo. As he never tells the truth, nobody knows his real one. Call him the Signore, and you will make no mistake.
Prince Michael. I had no idea that the Countess was one of your clients.
Signore. One of the best of them. That theft of her jewels—a trick to make people think they were genuine. They were imitation. She valued them at three million francs. The anonymous articles she wrote herself, so that she could truthfully say they were slander.
Prince Michael. Very clever of her.
Signore. An extreme measure.
Rinaldi. [To Leonardo] The Signore bows with a mysterious air, as if he were doing one the favor to keep a secret.
Leonardo. I hardly think he would go so far. I hear he is about to publish his memoirs.
Rinaldi. Gracious! I shall have to buy up the edition. Will you see me home?
Leonardo. As far as you like.
Rinaldi. You do not wish to wait for Imperia?
Leonardo. Not in the least. I shall retire with you.
Rinaldi. Highness, I was delighted to receive your invitation.
Prince Michael. Are you leaving so soon? Imperia may be here at any moment. Now we are only the intimates, the inner circle.
Rinaldi. I have decided that it is best not to be too intimate. I had supposed that there was only a garden between your villa and that of Imperia—a garden with a gate; but I realize now that you have erected an impenetrable wall.
Prince Michael. Don't be vindictive! It isn't my fault. Princess Etelvina admits but few to her acquaintance.
Rinaldi. And she is very wise to do so. Hereafter, I shall imitate her example. Good evening, Highness.
Harry Lucenti. Highness, good evening.
Prince Michael. Sinister poet! Dark courier of infernos like Virgil! Be mindful of Prince Florencio; his health is precarious.
Harry Lucenti. I shall endeavor to be as mindful of him as your Highness. You deprived him of his mistress—entirely for his good. I shall do the same whenever I have the opportunity.
Prince Michael. Good evening.
The Countess Rinaldi, Leonardo, and Harry Lucenti go out.
Prince Michael. To what am I indebted for this honor, Signore?
Signore. I have a difficult duty to perform—believe me, solely in your Highness's interest. Positively, this intrusion is most disagreeable.
Prince Michael. Not to me; I am glad to see you.
Signore. No, but it is to me; I am the one who finds it disagreeable. You will appreciate that the meeting here of two Princes is regarded with suspicion in Suavia. You are both immediate heirs, in direct succession to the throne.
Prince Michael. I beg your pardon—were, were until to-day. Haven't you seen the telegram?
Signore. Another heir? I am delighted! That is, I am disappointed—upon your account, although I am relieved.
Prince Michael. Do not trouble yourself upon my account. You are at liberty to be relieved or disappointed quite as may suit your convenience.
Signore. Then I am relieved, because a conspiracy had been anticipated and I had been retained to keep you under surveillance. Of course, knowing as I do the sort of life that you lead here
Prince Michael. To avoid being Emperor I would have conspired all my life! Do you suppose that I would exchange my liberty for an empire?
Signore. No, no! I beg of you, do not insist. I should not have spoken unless I had been sure. The government of Suavia subsists upon conspiracies. To-day it is an assassination, to-morrow an insurrection. Last year we had a fellow suspected of anarchism, a Belgian who lived in the most extraordinary manner—in a wooden stockade which he built for himself. And there he was visited by the most singular people, the most outlandish in dress! We felt sure we had discovered a hotbed of sedition, and took measures to surprise it, with the result that it turned out to be a gallery for taking views for the cinematograph. Yes, sir! And such views! I had him indicted for an assault upon morality; but we have preserved the films. If some day your Highness would like to arrange a little entertainment for your friends, I should be delighted to lend them to you.
Prince Michael. Thank you, but I should not care to be surprised in a conspiracy of that nature.
Signore. In my entire career I have never been guilty of a single indiscretion.
Prince Michael. You must have seen a great deal.
Signore. I hold the key to a whole cabinet of mysteries. For the most part, people know as much about life as they do about the theatre—they see the play, that is all; the real show goes on behind the scenes.
Prince Michael. By the way, that reminds me; Prince Florencio
Signore. Oh! I have him always under my eye! At times it is difficult; that Englishman knows some remarkable places. And what people! He would have made a good Prefect.
Prince Michael. No, you are quite inimitable.
Signore. Inimitable? Am I not? I should like to see what this Babel would be without me, although upon the surface everything appears so quiet and so calm. The difficulty in my profession is not to inform myself about my business; it is to prevent myself from becoming informed about what is not my business. However, your Highness need have no concern. Pardon this intrusion…
Prince Michael. You are pardoned, you may be sure.
The Signore goes out.
During the conclusion of the scene, Imperia has been slowly descending the staircase of the hall.
Prince Michael. Imperia! How are you? I have not seen you all day. I have not had one spare moment.
Imperia. I also have had guests.
Prince Michael. So I see.
Imperia. No, you must not judge by this. I do not dress for others; I dress for myself. I like to see myself in beautiful clothes. Your friends did not care to wait for me?
Prince Michael. They all had something for the evening. The Countess is terribly put out; I did not find it convenient to invite her.
Imperia. And so she invited herself? She was right. In a company which included Lady Seymour and Harry Lucenti, the Countess could scarcely have been out of place. Such hypocrisy is odious.
Prince Michael. In the first place, with regard to Lady Seymour, people say, they don't know. As far as the poet is concerned, he is the Prince's friend, and an artist.
Imperia. In her line, the Countess is also an artist.
Prince Michael. She is a fool. Now I hear that she is in love with an acrobat. Not only does she frequent the circus every evening, but she actually goes behind the scenes and mingles with the performers.
Imperia. Yes, I have seen her there myself.
Prince Michael. You? You at the circus!
Imperia. Yes, the last four nights, without missing one.
Prince Michael. But you said nothing about it.
Imperia. You didn't ask.
Prince Michael. What infatuation is this?
Imperia. It isn't infatuation. I go to see my daughter.
Prince Michael. Your daughter! What daughter? I didn't know you had a daughter.
Imperia. You never asked. What do you know of my life? What other people have told you, who know no more about it than you do, what for some reason I may have seen fit to tell you myself—only I always tell you the truth.
Prince Michael. But this daughter?
Imperia. She is the child of the only man I ever loved.
Prince Michael. Thanks.
Imperia. And I still love him; I always shall.
Prince Michael. Where is he?
Imperia. In prison, reprieved from a death-sentence, serving for life.
Prince Michael. Romantic episode!
Imperia. He stabbed a foreigner in Rome, attempting to take his money. He killed him. He had been three days without food. We models could earn nothing then; the malaria had driven out the artists.
Prince Michael. Were you living with him at the time?
Imperia. No, he was living with his mother. I lived at home with my parents and my brothers and sisters, with my child. My father owned a house by the riverside, half tavern, half concert-hall. We children did a little of everything. During the day we went out as models; at night we danced tarantellas in the theatre and sang Neapolitan songs. Then Leonardo gave my father five hundred lire to let me come to live with him.
Prince Michael. But Imperia! This is horrible!
Imperia. It is the truth. What was my father to do? We had to live somehow.
Prince Michael. How old is this daughter?
Imperia. Fourteen. I was fifteen when she was born.
Prince Michael. Where has she been all these years?
Imperia. At home with my parents.
Prince Michael. Has it never occurred to you to bring her here?
Imperia. Why should I? I always sent her money, so she wanted for nothing. Besides, she was better off there. I should have liked to see her, to have returned home—oh, so often! But to bring her here…
Prince Michael. What do you intend to do now?
Imperia. They have written me that she has fallen in love.
Prince Michael. At fourteen? Admirable precocity!
Imperia. No, not in Italy. We are not like you are. It is a young fellow who danced in the theatre with her. She ran off with him.
Prince Michael. Excellent!
Imperia. And now they are appearing together at Mr. Jacob's. Donina—her name is Donina, that was my name at home—is the star of the troupe. She is not beautiful, but she is attractive, oh, so attractive!—very much as I was, as I might have been. And the boy is a fine strapping fellow, bello, bello! He looks like one of the Madonna's angels, but they say he is a rogue. All the girls are mad over him, and Donina is jealous, oh, so jealous! As jealous as I was, as I should have been!
Prince Michael. But, Imperia! It makes my blood run cold to hear you. Do you consent to this? Do you abet it?
Imperia. Abet what? That my daughter should love a man, that she should be happy loving and suffering for him? That is life. I asked her: Would you like to come and live with me in a beautiful villa, bella, bella!—and to have clothes like these? But she wouldn't; she didn't want to. It was only natural. She has no affection for me.
Prince Michael. No affection for her mother? This is horrible.
Imperia. It is the truth. Why should she love me? I left her when she was two years old. She knew that I was alive somewhere, a great way off, that I sent her presents and kisses, sometimes—in my letters. My brothers told her terrible things about me; so did my parents. No wonder! Whatever I sent seemed little enough to them.
Prince Michael. Is it possible to live like this?
Imperia. Why not? They are in love. If anything happens to one of us, we stand together for vengeance, without one thought of forgiveness, even after years. But with you, it is different. Have you any affection? It is impossible to insult you. If one could, you would never take to blows. Nobody gives you five hundred lire when he falls in love with or wants to marry your child. Nothing appears to you as it really is—nothing that you think, nothing that you do. But with us it is all truth, and that is the reason it seems so evil.
Prince Michael. It may be so. We face the truth too seldom in our lives.
Imperia. Now I am going to leave you. I am going to see my daughter.
Prince Michael. I should like to see her, too. I will meet you there.
Imperia. But you must not let yourself be known.
Prince Michael. Why not?
Imperia. She has been told that I am living with a Prince, and she imagines that he is like a prince in a fairy-tale—bello, bello!
Prince Michael. And she would be disappointed? Isn't it so? How amiable!
Imperia. It is the truth. She is—as I was. All she understands is love—like his. Youth and happiness and joy!
Curtain