The Dramatic Works of G. E. Lessing Part 51

EMILIA.

I was. But what are churches and altars to the vicious?--Oh, my mother!

(_Throws herself into_ Claudia's _arms_.)

CLAUDIA.

Speak, my daughter, and remove my fears. What evil can have happened to you in so holy a place?

EMILIA.

Never should my devotion have been more fervent and sincere than on this day. Never was it less what it ought to have been.

CLAUDIA.

Emilia we are all human. The faculty of praying fervently is not always in our power; but, in the eye of Heaven, the wish to pray is accepted as prayer.

EMILIA.

And our wish to sin as sin.

CLAUDIA.

That my Emilia never wished.

EMILIA.

No, my mother. The grace of Heaven has preserved me from falling so low. But, alas! that the vice of others should render us accomplices in vice against our will!

CLAUDIA.

Compose yourself.--Collect your thoughts as well as you can. Tell me at once what has happened to you.

EMILIA.

I had just sunk upon my knees, further from the altar than usual--for I arrived too late. I had just begun to raise my thoughts towards Heaven--when some person placed himself behind me--so close behind me!

I could neither move forwards nor aside, however much I desired it, in my fear lest the devotion of my neighbour might interrupt my prayers.

Devotion was the worst thing which I suspected. But it was not long before I heard a deep sigh close to my ear, and not the name of a saint;--no--the name--do not be angry, dear mother--the name of your daughter.--My own name! Oh, that a peal of thunder had at that moment made me deaf to the rest. The voice spoke of beauty and of love--complained that this day, which crowned my happiness (if such should prove the case) sealed his misery for ever. He conjured me--all this I was obliged to hear, but I did not look round. I wished to seem as if I was not listening. What more could I do? Nothing but pray that my guardian angel would strike me with deafness--even with eternal deafness. This was my prayer--the only prayer which I could utter. At length it was time to rise; the service came to an end. I trembled at the idea of being obliged to turn round--trembled at the idea of beholding him whose impiety had so much shocked me--and when I turned--when I beheld him----

CLAUDIA.

Whom, my daughter?

EMILIA.

Guess, dear mother, guess: I thought I should have sunk into the earth.

Himself!

CLAUDIA.

Whom do you mean?

EMILIA.

The Prince!

CLAUDIA.

The Prince! Blest be your father's impatience! He was here just now, and would not stay till you returned.

EMILIA.

My father here--and not stay till I returned!

CLAUDIA.

If, in the midst of your confusion, you had told him too.

EMILIA.

Well, dear mother--could he have found anything in my conduct deserving of censure?

CLAUDIA.

No--as little as in mine. And yet, yet--you do not know your father.

When enraged, he would have mistaken the innocent for the guilty--in his anger he would have fancied me the cause of what I could neither prevent nor foresee. But proceed, my daughter, proceed. When you recognised the Prince, I trust that you were sufficiently composed to convince him by your looks, of the contempt which he deserved.

EMILIA.

That I was not. After the glance by which I recognised him, I had not courage to cast a second. I fled.

CLAUDIA.

And the Prince followed you?

EMILIA.

I did not know it till I had reached the porch, where I felt my hand seized--by him. Shame compelled me to stop; as an effort to extricate myself would have attracted the attention of every one who was pa.s.sing.

This was the only reflection of which I was capable, or which I at present remember. He spoke, and I replied--but what he said, or what I replied, I know not.--Should I recollect it, my dear mother, you shall hear it. At present I remember nothing further. My senses had forsaken me.--In vain do I endeavour to recollect how I got away from him, and escaped from the porch. I found myself in the street--I heard his steps behind me--I heard him follow me into the house, and pursue me up the stairs----

CLAUDIA.

Fear has its peculiar faculty, my daughter. Never shall I forget the look with which you rushed into this room!--No. He dared not follow you so far.--Heavens! had your father known this!--How angry was he when I merely told him that the Prince had lately beheld you with admiration!

Be at ease, however, my dear girl. Fancy what has happened to be a mere dream. The result will be less, even, than a dream. You will be a.s.sured to-day from all similar designs.

EMILIA.

No, mother! The Count must know it--to him I must relate it.