Mancini
Do you know what blood flows in the veins of an Italian woman? The blood of Hannibal and Corsini—of a Borgia—and of a dirty Lombardi peasant—and of a Moor. Oh! an Italian woman is not of a lower race, with only peasants and gypsies behind her. All possibilities, all forms are included in her, as in our marvelous sculpture. Do you understand that, you fool? Strike here—out springs a washerwoman, or a cheap street girl whom you want to throw out, because she is sloppy and has a screechy voice. Strike there—but carefully and gently, for there stands a queen, a goddess, the Venus of the Capitol, who sings like a Stradivarius and makes you cry, idiot! An Italian woman—
He
You're quite a poet, Mancini! But what will the Baron make of her?
Mancini
What? What? Make of her? A baroness, you fool! What are you laughing at? I don't get you? But I am happy that this lovesick beast is neither a duke nor a prince—or she would be a princess and I—what would become of me? A year after the wedding they would not let me even into the kitchen [laughing] not even into the kitchen! I, Count Mancini, and she a—a simple—
He
[Jumping up]: What did you say? You are not her father, Mancini?
Mancini
Tss—the devil—I am so nervous to-day! Heavens, who do you think I am? "Her father?" Of course [tries to laugh] how silly you are—haven't you noticed the family resemblance? Just look, the nose, the eyes—[Suddenly sighs deeply.] Ah, He! How unhappy I am! Think of it. Here I am, a gentleman, nearly beaten in my struggle to keep up the honour of my name, of an old house, while there in the parquet—there sits that beast, an elephant with the eyes of a spider ... and he looks at Consuelo ... and....