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!*—
(* The reader will observe that Melnotte evades the request
of Pauline. He proceeds to describe a home, which he 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 description,
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.)
A deep vale
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!
At first, in truth, I might not have been won,
Save through the weakness of a flatter’d pride;
But now,—oh! trust me,—couldst thou fall from power
And sink—
Mel. As low as that poor gardener’s son
Who dared to lift his eyes to thee?—
Pauline. Even then,
Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dear
By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep
Is woman’s love! We are like the insects, caught
By the poor glittering of a garish flame;
But, oh, the wings once scorch’d, the brightest star
Lures us no more; and by the fatal light
We cling till death!
Mel. Angel! [Aside.] O conscience! conscience!
It must not be; her love hath grown a torture
Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant,
And—ha! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me.
I have business with these gentlemen—I—I
Will forwith join you.
Pauline. Do not tarry long! [Exit.
Enter BEAUSEANT and GLAVIS.
Mel. Release me from my oath,—I will not marry her!
Beau Then thou art perjured.