LITMIR.BIZ

      ACT II.

       Table of Contents

      Scene. — Council Chamber in the Emperor’s Palace, hung with yellow tapestry. Table, with chair of State, set for the Czar; window behind, opening on to a balcony. As the scene progresses the light outside gets darker.

      Present. — Prince Paul Maraloffski, Prince Petrovitch, Count Rouvaloff, Baron Raff, Count Petouchof.

      Prince Petro. So our young scatter-brained Czarevitch has been forgiven at last, and is to take his seat here again.

      Prince Paul. Yes; if that is not meant as an extra punishment. For my own part, at least, I find these Cabinet Councils extremely exhausting.

      Prince Petro. Naturally; you are always speaking.

      Prince Paul. No; I think it must be that I have to listen sometimes.

      Count R. Still, anything is better than being kept in a sort of prison, like he was — never allowed to go out into the world.

      Prince Paul. My dear Count, for romantic young people like he is, the world always looks best at a distance; and a prison where one’s allowed to order one’s own dinner is not at all a bad place. (Enter the Czarevitch. The courtiers rise.) Ah! good afternoon, Prince. Your Highness is looking a little pale to-day.

      Czare. (slowly, after a pause). I want change of air.

      Prince Paul (smiling). A most revolutionary sentiment! Your Imperial father would highly disapprove of any reforms with the thermometer in Russia.

      Czare. (bitterly). My Imperial father had kept me for six months in this dungeon of a palace. This morning he has me suddenly woke up to see some wretched Nihilists hung; it sickened me, the bloody butchery, though it was a noble thing to see how well these men can die.

      Prince Paul. When you are as old as I am, Prince, you will understand that there are few things easier than to live badly and to die well.

      Czare. Easy to die well! A lesson experience cannot have taught you, whatever you may know of a bad life.

      PRINCE PAUL (shrugging his shoulders). Experience, the name men give to their mistakes. I never commit any.

      Czare. (bitterly). No; crimes are more in your line.

      Prince Petro. (to the Czarevitch). The Emperor was a good deal agitated about your late appearance at the ball last night, Prince.

      COUNT R. (laughing). I believe he thought the Nihilists had broken into the palace and carried you off.

      Baron Raff. If they had you would have missed a charming dance.

      Prince Paul. And an excellent supper. Gringoire really excelled himself in his salad. Ah! you may laugh, Baron; but to make a good salad is a much more difficult thing than cooking accounts. To make a good salad is to be a brilliant diplomatist — the problem is so entirely the same in both cases. To know exactly how much oil one must put with one’s vinegar.

      Baron Raff. A cook and a diplomatist! an excellent parallel. If I had a son who was a fool I’d make him one or the other.

      Prince Paul. I see your father did not hold the same opinion, Baron. But, believe me, you are wrong to run down cookery. For myself, the only immortality I desire is to invent a new sauce. I have never had time enough to think seriously about it, but I feel it is in me, I feel it is in me.

      Czare. You have certainly missed your Prince Paul; the metier,cordon bleu would have suited you much better than the Grand Cross of Honour. But you know you could never have worn your white apron well; you would have soiled it too soon, your hands are not clean enough.

      Prince Paul (bowing). Que voulez vous? I manage your father’s business.

      Czare. (bitterly). You mismanage my father’s business, you mean! Evil genius of his life that you are! before you came there was some love left in him. It is you who have embittered his nature, poured into his ear the poison of treacherous counsel, made him hated by the whole people, made him what he is — a tyrant!

      (The courtiers look significantly at each other.) Prince Paul (calmly). I see your Highness does want change of air. But I have been an eldest son myself. (Lights a cigarette.) I know what it is when a father won’t die to please one.

      (The Czarevitch goes to the top of the stage, and leans against the window, looking out.)

      Prince Petro. (He will be sent into exile, or worse, if he is not careful.to Baron Raff). Foolish boy!

      Baron Raff. Yes. What a mistake it is to be sincere!

      Prince Petro. The only folly you have never committed, Baron.

      Baron Raff. One has only one head, you know, Prince.

      Prince Paul. My dear Baron, your head is the last thing any one would wish to take from you. (Pulls out snuffbox and offers it to Prince Petrovitch.)

      Prince Petro. Thanks, Prince! Thanks!

      Prince Paul. Very delicate, isn’t it? I get it direct from Paris. But under this vulgar Republic everything has degenerated over there. “Cotelettes à l’impériale” vanished, of course, with the Bourbon, and omelettes went out with the Orleanists. La belle France is entirely ruined, Prince, through bad morals and worse cookery. (Enter the Marquis de Poivrard.) Ah! Marquis. I trust Madame la Marquise is well.

      Marquis de P. You ought to know better than I do, Prince Paul; you see more of her.

      Prince Paul (bowing). Perhaps I see more in her, Marquis. Your wife is really a charming woman, so full of esprit, and so satirical too; she talks continually of you when we are together.

      Prince Petro. (looking at the clock). His Majesty is a little late to-day, is he not?

      Prince Paul. What has happened to you, my dear Petrovitch? you seem quite out of sorts. You haven’t quarrelled with your cook, I hope? What a tragedy that would be

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