with me in a beautiful villa, bella, bella!—and to have clothes like these? But she wouldn't; she didn't want to. It was only natural. She has no affection for me.
Prince Michael. No affection for her mother? This is horrible.
Imperia. It is the truth. Why should she love me? I left her when she was two years old. She knew that I was alive somewhere, a great way off, that I sent her presents and kisses, sometimes—in my letters. My brothers told her terrible things about me; so did my parents. No wonder! Whatever I sent seemed little enough to them.
Prince Michael. Is it possible to live like this?
Imperia. Why not? They are in love. If anything happens to one of us, we stand together for vengeance, without one thought of forgiveness, even after years. But with you, it is different. Have you any affection? It is impossible to insult you. If one could, you would never take to blows. Nobody gives you five hundred lire when he falls in love with or wants to marry your child. Nothing appears to you as it really is—nothing that you think, nothing that you do. But with us it is all truth, and that is the reason it seems so evil.
Prince Michael. It may be so. We face the truth too seldom in our lives.
Imperia. Now I am going to leave you. I am going to see my daughter.
Prince Michael. I should like to see her, too. I will meet you there.
Imperia. But you must not let yourself be known.
Prince Michael. Why not?
Imperia. She has been told that I am living with a Prince, and she imagines that he is like a prince in a fairy-tale—bello, bello!
