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- Herausgeber: e-artnow
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
Daisy Miller portrays the courtship of the beautiful American girl Daisy Miller by Winterbourne, a sophisticated compatriot of hers. His pursuit of her is hampered by her own flirtatiousness, which is frowned upon by the other expatriates when they meet in Switzerland and Italy.
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Daisy Miller
Table of Contents
Dramatis Personae
Mrs. Costello
Madame de Katkoff
Alice Durant
Mrs. Walker
Daisy Miller
A Waiter
An Hotel on the Lake of Geneva—Act I
The Promenade of the Pincian, Rome—Act II
An Hotel in Rome—Act III
Act First
Garden and terrace of an hotel on the Lake of Geneva. The portico of the hotel to the left, with steps leading up to it. In the background a low parapet dividing the garden from the lake, and divided itself by a small gate opening upon a flight of steps which are supposed to descend to a pier. Beyond this a distant view of mountains and of the lake, with the Chateau de Chillon. Orange-trees in green tubs, benches, a few small tables and chairs.
Scene First
(Madame de Katkoff, Eugenio.)
Mme. de Katkoff. (Coming in as if a little startled, with a French book in a pink cover under her arm.) I believe he means to speak to me! He is capable of any impertinence.
Eugenio. (Following slowly, handsomely dressed, with a large watchguard, and a courier’s satchel over his shoulder. He takes off his hat and bows obsequiously, but with a certain mock respect.) Madame does me the honor to recognize me, I think.
Mme. de Katkoff. Certainly I recognize you. I never forget my servants, especially (with a little laugh) the faithful ones!
Eugenio. Madame’s memory is perhaps slightly at fault in leading her to speak of me as a servant Mme. de Katkoff. What were you, then? A friend, possibly?
Eugenio. May I not say that I was, at least on a certain occasion, an adviser?
Mme. de Katkoff. In the way of occasions, I remember only the one on which I turned you out of the house.
Eugenio. You remember it with a little regret, I hope.
Mme. de Katkoff. An immense deal—that I hadn’t dismissed you six months sooner!
Eugenio. I comprehend the regret of Madame. It was in those six months that an incident occurred—(He pauses.)
Mme. de Katkoff. An incident?
Eugenio. An incident which it is natural that Madame should not have desired to come to the knowledge of persons occupying a position, however humble, near Madame.
Mme. de Katkoff. (Aside.) He is more than impertinent—he is dangerous. (Aloud.) You are very audacious. You took away a great deal of money.
Eugenio. Madame appears to have an abundance.
Mme. de Katkoff. (Looking at him a moment.) Yes, I have enough.
Eugenio. (Smiling.) Madame is to be congratulated! I have never ceased to take an interest in Madame. I have followed her—at a distance.
Mme. de Katkoff. The greater the distance, the better!
Eugenio. (Significantly.) Yes, I remember that Madame was very fond of her privacy. But I intrude as little as possible. I have duties at present which give me plenty of occupation. Not so much, indeed, as when I was in the employment of Monsieur de Katkoff: that was the busiest part of my life. The Russians are very exacting—the Americans are very easyl Mme. de Katkoff. You are with Americans now?
Eugenio. Madame sees that she is willing to talk! I am travelling with a family from New York—a family of three persons.
Mme. de Katkoff. You have no excuse, then, for detaining me; you know where to find conversation.
Eugenio. Their conversation is not so agreeable as that of Madame! (With a slight change of tone.) I know more about you than you perhaps suspect.
Mme. de Katkoff. I know what you know.
Eugenio. Oh, I don’t allude to Madame’s secrets. I should never be so indiscreet! It is not a secret to-day that Madame has a charming villa on this lovely lake, about three miles from Geneva.
Mme. de Katkoff. No, that is not a secret.
Eugenio. And that though she leads a life of elegant seclusion, suited to the mourning which she has never laid aside—though she has lightened it a little—since she became a widow, Madame does not entirely shut her doors. She receives a few privileged persons.
Mme. de Katkoff. (Aside.) What on earth is he coming to? (Aloud.) Do you aspire to be one of them?
Eugenio. I should count upon it the day I should have something particular to say to Madame. But that day may never come.
Mme. de Katkoff. Let us hope so!
Eugenio. Let us hope so! Meanwhile Madame is in a position to know as well as myself that—as I said just now—the Americans are very easy.
Mme. de Katkoff. The Americans?
Eugenio. Perhaps, after all, Madame doesn’t find them so? Her most privileged visitor is of that nationality! Has he discovered—like me—that the Russians are very exacting?
Mme. de Katkoff. (Looking at him a moment, then quickly, though with an effort.) The Russians, when their antagonists go too far, can be as dangerous as anyone else! I forget your nationality.
Eugenio. I am not sure that Madame ever knew it. I’m an Italian Swiss, a native of the beautiful city of Lugano. Is Madame acquainted with Lugano? If she should go that way, I recommend the Hotel Washington: always our Americans, you see! The Russians? They are the most dangerous people I know, and we gentlemen who take charge of families know everything.
Mme. de Katkoff. You had better add frankly that you traffic in your knowledge.
Eugenio. What could be more just? It costs us a good deal to get it.
Mme. de Katkoff. (To herself, after a pause.) It is best to know the worst, and have done with it. (Aloud.) How much do you want?
Eugenio. How much do I want for what? For keeping quiet about Mr. Winterbourne, so that his family shan’t think he’s wasting his time, and come out from America to bring him home? You see I know even his name! He’s supposed to be at Geneva for purposes of study.
Mme. de Katkoff. How much do you want to go away and never let me see you again? Be merciful. Remember that I’m not rich.
Eugenio. I know exactly the fortune of Madame! She is not rich, for very good reasons—she was exceedingly extravagant in her youth! On the other hand, she is by no means in misery. She is not rich, like the American lady—the amiable Mrs. Miller—whom I have at present the honor to serve; but she is able to indulge herself with the usual luxuries.
Mme. de Katkoff. It would be a luxury to get rid of you!
Eugenio. Ah, I’m not sure that Madame can afford that; that would come under the head of extras! Moreover, I’m not in want of money. The amiable Mrs. Miller—
Mme. de Katkoff. (Interrupting.) The amiable Mrs. Miller is as great a fool as I?
Eugenio. I should never think of comparing her with Madame! Madame has much more the appearance of one who is born to command. It is for this reason that I approached her with the utmost deliberation. I recognized her three days ago, the evening she arrived at the hotel, and I pointed her out to Mrs. Miller as a Russian lady of great distinction, whose husband I had formerly the honor to serve in a very confidential position. Mrs. Miller has a daughter even more amiable than herself, and this young lady was profoundly impressed with the distinguished appearance of Madame.
Mme. de Katkoff. Her good opinion is doubtless of great value; but I suppose it’s hardly to assure me of that—
Eugenio. I may add that I didn’t permit myself to make any further remarks.
Mme. de Katkoff. And your discretion’s an example of what you are capable of doing? I should be happy to believe it, and if you have not come to claim your reward—
Eugenio. My reward? My reward shall be this: that we leave the account open between us! (Changing his tone entirely.) Let me speak to you very frankly. Some eight years ago, when you were thirty years old, you were living at Dresden.
Mme. de Katkoff. I was living at Dresden, but I was not thirty years old.
Eugenio. The age doesn’t matter—we will call it twenty, if you like—that makes me younger, too. At that time I was under your roof; I was the confidential servant, on a very exceptional footing, of M. de Katkoff. He had a great deal of business—a great deal of diplomatic business; and as he employed me very often to write for him—do you remember my beautiful hand?—I was not so much a servant as a secretary. At any rate, I was in a position to observe that you had a quarrel with your husband.
Mme. de Katkoff. In a position? I should think you were! He paid you to spy upon me.
Eugenio. To spy upon you?
Mme. de Katkoff. To watch me—to follow me—to calumniate me.
Eugenio. (Smiling.) That’s just the way you used to talk! You were always violent, and that gave one an advantage.
Mme. de Katkoff. All this is insupportable. Please to spare me your reminiscences, and come to the point.
Eugenio. The point is this—that I got the advantage of you then, and that I have never lost it! Though you didn’t care for your husband, you cared for someone else; and M. de Katkoff—with my assistance, if you will—discovered the object of your preference. Need I remind you of what followed, the day this discovery became known to you? Your surprise was great, because you thought yourself safe; but your anger was even greater. You found me for a moment in your path, and you imagined—for that moment—that I was a Russian serf. The mistake had serious consequences. You called me by the vilest of names—and I have never forgotten it!
Mme. de Katkoff. I thank you for reminding me of my contempt. It was extremely sweet.
Eugenio. It made you very reckless. I got possession of two letters, addressed to the person I speak of, and singularly rash compositions. They bear your signature in full.
Mme. de Katkoff. Can there be any better proof that I have nothing to be ashamed of?
Eugenio. You were not ashamed then, because, as I have already remarked, you were reckless. But to-day you are wise.
Mme. de Katkoff. (Proudly.) Whatever I have said—I have always signed!
Eugenio. It’s a habit I appreciate. One of those letters I gave to M. de Katkoff; the other—the best—I kept for myself.
Mme. de Katkoff. What do you mean by the best?
Eugenio. I mean—the worst!
Mme. de Katkoff. It can’t be very bad.
Eugenio. (Smiling.) Should you like me to submit it to a few of your friends?
Mme. de Katkoff. (Aside.) Horrible man! (Aloud.) That’s the point, then: you wish to sell it.
Eugenio. No; I only wish you to know I have it.
Mme. de Katkoff. I knew that already. What good does it do you?
Eugenio. You suspected it, but you didn’t know it. The good it does me is this—that when, as sometimes happens to us poor members of a despised and laborious class, I take stock of my prospects and reckon up the little advantages I may happen to possess, I like to feel that particular one among them.
Mme. de Katkoff. I see—you regard it as a part of your capital. But you draw no income.
Eugenio. Ah, the income, Madame, ‘is accumulating!
Mme. de Katkoff. If you are trying to frighten me, you don’t—very much!
Eugenio. Very much—no! But enough is as good as a feast. There is no telling what may happen. We couriers have our ups and downs, and some day I may be in distress. Then, and only then, if I feel a pinch, I shall call on Madame. For the present—
Mme. de Katkoff. For the present, you only wish to insult mel Eugenio. Madame does injustice to my manners: they are usually much appreciated. For the rest of the time that we remain under the same roof—so to speak—I shall not again disturb your meditations.
Mme. de Katkoff. Be so good as to leave me.
Eugenio. I wish Madame a very good morning! (He goes into the hotel.)
Mme. de Katkoff. (Stands a moment, thinking.) That’s what it is to have been a fool—for a single moment! That moment reechoes through eternity. He has shaken my nerves, and in this wretched garden one is always observed. (Exit into the hotel.)
Scene Second
(Mrs. Costello, Miss Durant, Charles Reverdy. They come out of the hotel as Mme. de Katkoff passes into it, looking at her attentively.)
Reverdy. (Who carries a camp-stool.) That’s the biggest swell in the house—a Russian princess!
Mrs. Costello. A Russian princess is nothing very great. We have found one at every hotel.
Reverdy. Well, this is the best of them all. You would notice her anywhere.
Mrs. Costello. The best bred people are the people you notice least.
Reverdy. She’s very quiet, any way. She speaks to no one.
Mrs. Costello. You mean by that that no one speaks to her.
Reverdy. (Aside.) The old lady’s snappish this morning: hanged if I’ll stand it! (Aloud.) No one speaks to her, because no one ventures to.
Miss Durant. You ventured to, I think, and she didn’t answer you. That’s what you mean by her being quiet!
Reverdy. She dropped her fan, and I picked it up and gave it to her. She thanked me with a smile that was a poem in itself: she didn’t need to speak!
Mrs. Costello. You needn’t mind waiting on Russian princesses. Your business is to attend to us—till my nephew comes.
Reverdy. (Looking at his watch.) As I understand you, he’s already due.
Mrs. Costello. He’s a quarter an hour late. We are waiting breakfast.
Miss Durant. I’m afraid the delay will bring on one of your headaches.
Mrs. Costello. I have one already, so it doesn’t matter!
Reverdy. (Aside.) Very convenient, those headaches! (Aloud.) Won’t you sit down, at least? (Offering camp-stool.) You know I don’t come out for three minutes without our little implement.
Mrs. Costello. I don’t care for that; I’ll sit on a bench.
Reverdy. (Aside.) She insists on my bringing it, and yet she won’t use it! (The ladies seat themselves, and he places himself between them, astride the camp-stool. He continues, aloud.) If Mr. Winterbourne is already due, my holiday has legally begun.
Miss Durant. You won’t lose anything by waiting. After he comes you will be at perfect liberty.
Reverdy. Oh yes, after that you won’t look at me, I suppose! Miss Durant is counting very much on Mr. Winterbourne.
Mrs. Costello. And I am counting very much on Miss Durant. You are to be very nice to him, you know.
Miss Durant. That will depend on how I like him.
Mrs. Costello. That’s not what I brought you to Europe for—to make conditions. Besides, Frederick’s a perfect gentleman.
Miss Durant. You seem to wish me to promise to marry him. I must wait till he asks me, you know.
Reverdy. He will ask you if Mrs. Costello bids him. He is evidently in excellent training.
Mrs. Costello. I haven’t seen him for ten years: at that time he was a model nephew.
Reverdy. I shouldn’t wonder if he were to turn out a regular “hard" one. That would be a jolly lark!
Mrs. Costello. That’s not his reputation. Moreover, he has been brought up in Geneva, the most moral city in Europe.
Reverdy. You can’t tell anything from that. Here am I, brought up in New York—and we all know what New York is. Yet where can you find a more immaculate young man? I haven’t a fault—I’m ashamed of myself!
Miss Durant. If Mr. Winterbourne is a little wild, I shan’t like him any the less. Some faults are very charming.
Reverdy. Tell me what they are, and I’ll try and acquire them.
Mrs. Costello. My dear Alice, I’m startled by your sentiments. I have tried to form your taste ...
Miss Durant. Yes, but you have only cultivated my dislikes. Those are a few of my preferences.
Reverdy. Tell us a few more of them—they sound awfully spicy!
Miss Durant. I’m very fond of a certain indifference. I like men who are not always running after you with a campstool, and who don’t seem to care whether you like them or not.
Mrs. Costello. If you like rude men, they are very easily found. If I didn’t know you were a very nice girl, I should take you for—I don’t know what!
Reverdy. Miss Durant’s remarks are addressed to me, and between you two ladies it’s hard to know what to do. You want me to be always at your elbow, and you make a great point of the camp-stool. Will you have it a little, for a change? (Getting up and offering it. Mrs. Costello refuses with a gesture.) I don’t offer it to Miss Alice; we have heard what she think of it!
Miss Durant. I didn’t speak of that piece of furniture: I spoke of the person who carries it.
Reverdy. The person who carries the camp-stool? Is that what I’ve come to be known by? Look here, my dear friends, you ought to engage a courier.
Mrs. Costello. To cheat us out of our eyes? Thank you very much!
Reverdy. A courier with a gorgeous satchel, and a feather in his hat—like those ladies from Schenectady!
Mrs. Costello. So that he might smoke in our faces, as he does in theirs, and have his coffee with us after dinner, as he does with them? They have ruined a good servant.
Miss Durant. They treat him as an equal; they make him their companion.
Reverdy. But they give him handsome wages—which is more than you do me!
Miss Durant. I have no doubt they give him little tokens of affection, and locks of their hair. But that makes them only the more dreadful!
Mrs. Costello. I’m glad to see, my dear, that your taste is coming back to you!
Reverdy. Oh, if taste consists in demolishing Miss Daisy Miller, she can take the prize.
Miss Durant. Demolishing her? I should be sorry to take that trouble. I think her very vulgar: that’s all!
Mrs. Costello. Miss Daisy Miller? Is that her distinguished name?
Reverdy. (Aside.) Ah, we can’t all be named Costello!
Mrs. Costello. They are the sort of Americans that one does one’s duty by not accepting.
Reverdy. Ah, you don’t accept her?
Mrs. Costello. I would if I could—but I can’t. One should let Europeans know—
Reverdy. One should let them know?
Mrs. Costello. That we are not all like that.
Reverdy. They can see it for themselves: she’s charmingly pretty.
Miss Durant. You are extremely impertinent.
