ACT II.
SCENE I.
Veniero’s house.—Veniero and Contarini.
Veniero.
Thus are we diverse—both would climb to rule,
With different ends: you for the pride of sway—
I, to amend the people’s wrongs.
Contarini.
It may be.
Enough of that when we have reached the summit
That now appears receding.
Veniero.
How is this?
You’ve gained the Spaniard, and I’ve many a friend
To add unto our list.
Contarini.
No league so strong
But discord may dissever it. Come—come!
Veniero, you and I are gone too far,
And yet not far enough, for each to hope
Safety alone. We need yet firmer ties
To bind our mutual interests.
Veniero.
You distrust me—
Contarini.
Your pardon. In an enterprise like ours,
Where lives and fortunes hang on mutual faith,
Behooves us tread securely.
Veniero.
It is just.
Nor shall you lack a pledge. My daughter’s hand,
Have I not once assured you, seals our bond!
Contarini.
True, yet I doubt. She loves seclusion:
And if I meet her in the shaded walk,
She shuns me with quick step. Or if we sail
By moonlight on the glassy sea—or join
The dance—or banquet in the palace hall—
She meets my salutation with a mien
Repulsive, cold, as if a guest she deemed me
Intrusive.
Veniero.
Nay, you wrong her courtesy.
Contarini.
If wealth and rank, too poor to match her charms,
Yet worth somewhat to youthful woman’s heart,
Could tempt her to be mine——
Veniero.
You have a pledge
More strong—a father’s promise. Were she loth,
A prize, perchance a crown, lies at her feet,
And ’twere a kindly part to bid her wear it,
Even in her own despite. She comes.
Enter Teresa.
Teresa,
Our noble friend doth wait to greet you here,
The signor Contarini.
Teresa.
As your friend
The signor Contarini’s ever welcome.
Contarini.
Thanks, lady! Yet it deeply doth concern me
Business now claims my absence, and forbids
The dear delight I else had hoped to share
With all your presence blesses. With the evening
I’ll seek again this happiness. [Exit.
Veniero.
My daughter!
Why do thy looks—nay start not—thus belie
The morning’s joyousness.
Teresa.
What mean you, sir?
Veniero.
A change of late, hath passed upon this brow
So open once and trusting. Thy light step
Hath lost its buoyancy; that drooping eye
Too often reads the ground—and meets not mine
With glance so bright and bold, as when it had
No consciousness of aught to hide. Dost cherish
A grief that I know not?
Teresa.
What should I grieve for?
You have mistaken, father.
Veniero.
Nay—perchance
Thou lovest me not, as once thou didst? I am grown
Much sterner than of old;—my altered bearing
Suits not thy gentle temper.
Teresa.
Father—dearest!
Yet cruel, and unkind, to doubt the love
Which grows but deeper with advancing years!
Nay, question me no more—these arms shall tell
My growing coldness!
Veniero.
Thou dost love me then!
‘And thy young heart, in tenderness unchecked,
‘Shall pour its thoughts and feelings in my breast,
‘Even as of yore. Come hither! I will hear
‘Patient, the tale of maiden fears and hopes;
‘And note not all the trembling, downcast looks
‘That comment on the story.—Come!
‘Teresa.
‘Dear father—
‘What must I tell you?
‘Veniero.
‘O, that innocent look!
‘Well, I’ll unfold the secret, and list thou!
‘Thou hast thrown off the garb of joyous girlhood,
‘And donned a statelier one. A riper rose
‘Deepens upon thy cheek. Thine eye can flash
‘From its clear depth of blue such meanings forth
‘As thrill the gazer’s heart.
‘Teresa.
‘Hold—would you mock
‘Your own Teresa with such flatteries?
‘Veniero.
‘Are mine alone
‘The lips that breathe such sounds? Say, say, how oft
‘In the gay throng of pleasure, when each tongue
‘Uttered thy praise, and every eye glanced on thee
‘With longing admiration, have I marked
‘Thy step grow prouder, and the mantling flush
‘Of beauty richer, ’neath the adoring gaze,
‘As the young flower doth brighten into bloom,
‘From the sun’s ardent glance!
‘Teresa.
‘Nay—nay—you wrong me
‘To say I love such scenes. I ask no voice
‘To sound my praise, dear father, if your eye
‘Look smilingly upon me!
‘Veniero.
‘And if one,
‘One voice, my girl—in its low musical depth
‘More dear and thrilling than the crowd’s applause,
‘Even as the far off murmur of the surge,
‘Heard at hushed eve, is sweeter than the homage
‘Of waves tumultuous dashing at our feet—
‘If one fond voice shall whisper in your ear
‘A deeper worship—Ha! methinks I’ve banished
‘Indifference now!
‘Teresa.
‘I pray you——
‘Veniero.
‘Well—no more!’
I will not question further.—But, just now,
When summoned, thou camest hither, wherefore sate
Repelling coldness on thy moody brow?
Did not my guest deserve regard?
Teresa.
Forgive me,
If I have lacked it!
Veniero.
Nay, it is not well
To wear an aspect sullen thus and cold
Toward one I love. This noble, my Teresa,
Is high in power.
Teresa.
In his proud eye there lurks
A something which I would not look upon.
Veniero.
Nought can’st thou read there, save the admiration
Which woman never shrinks from. Hear me girl,
This noble loves you. He who spurned all chains,
Would be your willing captive. He has bent
To sue, who could command; and offers you
His greatness and his power, claiming your hand
The purchase of such gifts.
Teresa.
Oh—never! never!
Veniero.
Come—come—displease me not. What state is proffered
That you should slight the boon? A princely one!
Why—not a maid in Venice but will gaze
In envy on your pomp, as you flaunt by,
A queen in all but name! Wed Contarini!
The great—the proud! him that would never deign
To bend his glance on beauty, emulous
To court it!
Teresa.
Nay—my father! happiness
Dwells not with pride! Not for a crown,
A regal crown, would I bestow my hand
Where my heart went not herald to the gift!
Veniero.
Ungrateful girl! and may not pleasure dwell
With pomp? Or dost thou deem his years too many?
And know’st not that to such as he, his passion
Is an idolatry? Oh! when time has checked
The blood’s swift current, and made pale the brow
With lofty thought, and blanched stern manhood’s locks,
Love comes with boundless power, and sways the heart
A sole, unrivalled sovereign. How doth youth
Wear his soft yoke? More lightly than he wears
The pageant plume, which every fickle wind
Stirs at its will, to be thrown careless by,
When he shall weary of its pride! To youth
Love is the shallow rill that mocks the sunshine,
Wasting its strength in idle foam away:—
To age, the river, silent, broad, and deep—
Hiding the wealth of years within its breast—
Baffling the vain eye that would read its depths—
Broader and deeper growing, as the channel
Of life wears on!
Enter Steno and Pascali.
Steno.
Signor Veniero, we arrest you.
Veniero.
Ha!
Treachery afoot!
Teresa.
My father!—what means this?
Steno (presenting a paper.)
Would you behold our warrant?
Veniero (aside.)
’Tis his hand!
And from the cypher breaks a clearer light
Upon this business! (aloud) Though unconscious quite
Of any deed or thought which could draw on me
Suspicion or displeasure, I obey
The council’s will.
Teresa.
My father, go not with them!
Some wrong is here. Nay, Signors, ye have sought
A culprit—not Veniero, old Veniero,
Whose head is grey in service of the state!
The friend of Contarini, too! but now
He parted hence.
Steno.
If he be innocent,
Let him before the council vindicate
His slandered fame, and be dismissed with honor:
The guiltless can have nought to dread.
Veniero.
No more,
Teresa! He speaks well. On false pretence
St. Mark will ne’er condemn one who has prized
His interests so dearly. Let us part.
Await here my return, which I will hope
Mine innocence shall speed.
Teresa.
No—no—my father—
I will go with you!
Steno.
Lady—it may not be.
Signor, we are ready.
Veniero.
I attend you.
[Exeunt all but Teresa.
Teresa.
Gone,
To prison, and his prison barred to me!
I’ll seek these senators. I’ll plead for him
With words of ready truth, on which shall hang
Conviction. If there be love of justice,
I’ll rouse and arm it for my cause! [Exit.
SCENE II.
Fiorilla’s house.—Enter Fiorilla with attendants and Marco.
Fiorilla (to attendants.)
Go for the present: deck the hall of mirth
As may become her state who bids the guests;
And your own emulous skill. For this poor person,
I’ll care for it alone. [Exeunt attendants.
You have prepared
The chamber for our secret guests?
Marco.
’Tis ready.
They need not fear intrusion.
Fiorilla.
All is right. [Exit Marco.
I am now mistress of their secret. Set me
A woman’s wit against a statesman’s arts!
I’ll hold them at my bidding. Troth, I knew not
How great a spirit bowed to me, when knelt
The lordly Contarini at my feet!
Enter Leonardo.
Sir, welcome.
Leonardo.
Thanks, sweet lady. I am honored
In your fair greeting.
Fiorilla.
Tell me, you who hear
The lightest breath of ever varying rumor,
What says the world abroad?
Leonardo.
Tumults are stirring
That fill the popular ear, and threaten danger
To those in power.
Fiorilla.
What reck I of the danger
Which statesmen tempt, when beauty’s empire shakes not
Her sparkling sceptre ’tis, that I would wield,
Her throne I covet.
Leonardo.
Rumor, too, has tongues
Enough to speak of you.
Fiorilla.
And what say they?
Leonardo.
They join your name with Contarini’s, lady,
And say, they shortly will be one.
Fiorilla.
Indeed!
’Tis an impertinent tale;—but power like his
Were it not worth the sharing?
Leonardo.
And such grace
And loveliness would well become its pride.
Fiorilla.
Nay—now you flatter. Come, I’ll be content
To wear mine own name now, meek Fiorilla;
An humble one, ’tis true, but best befitting
Her modesty, that bears it. For the rest,
If time have honors in his keeping for me——
Re-enter Marco.
Marco.
Lady, some other guests.
Fiorilla.
I will receive them. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Badoero’s house. Enter Badoero, Loredano, and Contarini.
Loredano.
We look to search out guilt among the people,
And lo! it greets us on our very threshold!
Who would have thought that one so widely trusted,
A hero in our wars, one who has borne
Honors unnumbered from the generous state,
Could prove himself a traitor?
Badoero.
We must look
More closely, ere we judge.
Loredano.
What need we more?
’Twas rumored long ago that he opposed
The election of the Ten, the prop of Venice.
In the conspiracy so lately crushed,
Did he not plead for mercy on the guilty?
Hath he not said we needed not a power
Supreme, to interfere with the decrees
Of the great council? And this paper, found
Only last night within the Lion’s mouth,
Denounces him our foe.
Badoero.
Be it ours to weigh
Proofs and defence. We may not spill the blood
Of senators precipitately, nor keep
The axe from the guilty, though it strike the noblest.
But what new guest is this?
Enter Teresa.
Contarini.
Lady—whence come you?
Teresa.
I come to seek for justice; yet find only
Looks that repel me. Where’s the doge?
Loredano.
Who is it,
That thus intrudes on us?
Contarini.
Veniero’s daughter.
(Endeavouring to persuade her to return.)
Business attends us. Nay, we are not used
To admit such counsellors.
Teresa.
Are you the judges
Who fain would close your ears against defence,
The culprit’s right? Away! there is no place
Where innocence may not plead against the wrong
Which threatens it—wrong that will harm alike
The judges and the accused. I pray you, signors,
A word! ye will go hence the imputed crime
To judge of one who——
Loredano.
Who hath wronged the state.
Teresa.
No—no! ye do mistake—he never did!
Know ye of whom ye speak? ’Tis Veniero,
The patriot, the patrician! He do wrong?
Why—not a peasant who e’er shared his bounty,
Would not repel the charge! I’ve seen him list
With pitying, tearful eye the beggar’s tale,
Whose heart was gladdened by his sympathy!
I’ve known him watch for hours beside the couch
Of some poor menial slave, who had no friend
Save God and him. ‘He do wrong? Oh! the lips
Of the poor bless him, and the humblest heart
Leaps at his presence!’
Loredano.
There are sacred duties
Higher than such, fair lady! He betrays
The people in their rulers.
Teresa.
Believe it not!
He has served you long and well. His years are many,
But they outnumber not the victories
He won for you. His hair is grey—’tis blanched
With hardship more than age. Would he now cast
The reverend mantle of his honors off,
To league with traitors? No—you need not fear him!
Loredano.
What boots all this? The guardian of the state,
Where he fears, punishes.
Teresa.
Are ye wont to doom
Without at least the solemn show of right?
Will ye hear no defence? And, Contarini,
Darest thou not speak for him, who wast so late
His loved and honored guest? or art thou leagued
In bitter compact with this scorner here
To rob me of his life?
Loredano.
Let her begone;
Must she insult us? Come, the hour draws nigh.
Badoero.
Your pardon. Heed not words that sorrow utters.
She did not mean offence.
Teresa.
My lord—my lord!
There’s mercy in your looks; nay they are human.
Are you my father’s judge?
Badoero.
Pray you, retire,
And be at peace.
Teresa.
You will not heed the terms
“Traitor” and “treachery!” They mean nought—at least
Nought—coupled with his name! Listen to me.
I’ve known him long—longer than any here.
He reared my childhood. I have sate by him
In hours of fondness, when the careless words
Fell from his lips unnoted, save by me:—
Think you he would deceive me? No! I’ll pledge
Life, more than life, upon his truth!
Badoero.
Nay—lady;
This cannot aught avail. Trust in our justice.
That shall be rendered him. If we fail not
To rend the veil from guilt, we are not slow
To acquit the innocent.
Teresa.
He is innocent!
Badoero.
Then go thy way, and hope the best. My lords,
Business attends us.
[Exeunt all but Contarini and Teresa.
Contarini.
Teresa!
Teresa (looking up.)
Who calls? You my lord, who keep
Stern silence, when one you have called your friend
Is basely slandered?
Contarini.
As a senator,
I may not screen the guilty.
Teresa.
Hence, then—join
The herd who seek his slaughter, while I go
To share his dungeon!
Contarini.
Hear me yet a moment.
One way remains to save his life;—and you,
You may redeem it.
Teresa.
How? speak—and I’ll bless you!
Contarini.
Briefly—your sire revealed before his arrest
My love, my suit. Grant it—bestow your hand
On one who loves you with a boundless passion,
And I will stir the powers of heaven and earth
To compass his release.
Teresa.
And do you proffer
Such terms in earnest truth?
Contarini.
In truth I do.
Accept them—and be blest.
Teresa.
Is this the noble
So honored? This the haughty senator?
Ready to barter in his selfishness
The trust he holds? Bearing the solemn charge—
A nation’s safety—laden with the prayers
Of suppliant millions, on his truth who rest
Their hopes—their all—yet ready to fling down
The mighty burthen, if it impede the way
To some light goal of pleasure! Is’t to such
We plead?—Before I reverenced, though I feared thee,
I scorn thee now!
Contarini.
Proud, wayward girl, remember
Whom ’tis you taunt!
Teresa.
Full well, my lord, I know
There can be few like you. Within yon halls,
Some there must be, to whom the voice of justice
Shall not unheeded speak. To them I trust—
To Heaven—and to the strength of innocence,
And not to you! [Exit.
Contarini.
So lovely in disdain!
She shall be mine, despite her scorn and hate! [Exit.
SCENE IV.
A prison.—Veniero discovered.—Beltramo enters with a lamp.
Veniero.
Set down the lamp—there—where its beams may pierce
Farthest into the gloom. ‘Alack, the rays
‘Faint ere they half can journey to these walls,
‘Though sooth, they are not spacious.’—You have orders,
Remember, to admit my child. Retire. [Exit Beltramo.
A dark dawn, truly, for the gorgeous day
That waits upon my fortunes; but its noon
Will shine the brighter. Can he fail me now?
I scarce would trust his plighted word alone!
But, were it not that breath of mine could blow
His fabric of ambition to the winds,
I’ve yet another hold; he loves the girl
Whose fair young hand must bind this wreath of glory
Around her brows and mine.—She is here. This hour
Improved, shall win us all.
Enter Teresa.
My daughter here?
I am not quite forsaken.
Teresa (clinging to him.)
No, my father!
Veniero.
Who bade thee seek me? Let me look on thee,
Thy cheek is wet with tears. Nay, dry them girl—
Let them not flow for me. True, I can give
Poor welcome; yet thy loveliness breaks in
Upon my prison’s gloom, like the fresh light
Of morning to the hopeless. Weep not for me!
Why—foolish child! will tears undo these bars?
They are of massive weight, and have withstood
In ancient service past, more briny floods
Than would have drowned this cell, save that the earth
Drank the hot tide of anguish as it gushed,—
More thirsty now than ever! Let me pass
Nearer that side—methinks a freer air
Is entering thence. Your hand, Beltramo—
Teresa.
Hold!
What hand should serve him but mine own?—What’s this?
You tremble, you are faint! Help—ho!
Veniero.
’Tis nought!
I do not tremble. Yet I’m sick at heart
To look upon this dungeon—knowing here
The wretched remnant of my days may pass,
Shut out from light and life!
Teresa.
Oh! talk not so!
We’ve friends in the council; they will never hear
Your name attainted, and hold back in silence.
Veniero.
Alas! you know them not; know not that here
Who is suspected is already doomed.
’Tis hard that I should perish thus, the scorn
Of the schooled rabble! Trust me—I would meet
Death on the field with joy—but to be hewn
By menial hands—gazed on by eyes that gloat
Upon my blood—or wept by vulgar pity!
I do not scorn to say I fear such fate.
Contarini (entering.)
You may escape it.
Veniero.
Ha!
Contarini.
Hear me, Veniero.
I speak to you as one who is condemned,
Though sentence be not passed. Proofs are alleged
So specious and so startling, it were madness
To dream of an acquittal. I alone
By means that cannot fail, have power to save you.
Veniero.
Thanks! thanks! (aside) you’ve well begun!
Contarini.
Yet will I sue
And humble me for you, to be disdained
By yonder fair, when I shall kneel to claim
My guerdon for such service? Shall the city
Know that I saved you for your daughter’s love,
And know me spurned by her? No! I will plead
For you, but as the father of my bride!
Let your Teresa pledge her faith to me,
Before high heaven and you;—in two hours’ time
I’ll set you free.
Veniero.
Teresa!
Teresa.
It is false!
His story’s false, my father! Heed him not!
They will not sentence you!
Contarini.
You’ll learn my truth,
When ’tis too late.
Veniero.
Dost doubt him,
When proofs like these (pointing to his dungeon walls) confirm his tale?
Or deem’st thou
My life not worth the purchase?
Teresa.
Alas! my strait
Is fearful! But I know him the deceiver!
Trust him not. If he talk of bribes and stratagems,
Think you he’d scruple at a gilded tale,
To cheat us with false hopes?
Contarini.
Let the sun set,
And you are fatherless!
Teresa.
And would you take,
Even could you wring from me the sacrifice,
A victim bride?
Contarini.
Aye, though I won your hate!
From you even hate is sweetness—Choose between
A husband whom you love not, and the death
Of one you love!
Veniero.
Urge her no more—her choice
Is fixed already! Let me die in peace—
She may look on; and—if she weep for me,
Some dearer hand will dry her short lived tears.
Teresa (struggling with emotion.)
My father!
Veniero.
Touch me not! the old man’s years
Are nearly run—why should they now be lengthened?
These hairs are white—no matter! they’ll be dabbled
With red, full soon! My limbs are old and weary—
They’ll rest well in the grave—and until then
The earth’s a fitting bed! (throws himself on the ground.)
Teresa (kneeling beside him.)
Oh! taunt me not
So bitterly! Oh! I would die to save you!
Veniero.
Would die! so those who prate of filial virtue
Talk—but shrink from the test. Off! I’ll no more
Of clinging and of honied words!
Teresa.
Dear father!
I am your child—and more than life I love you!
Speak to me! speak to me! With idle words
I will displease no more.—For your sake, father,
I will do all!—will wed—him!
Veniero.
She is yours!
[Joins her hand with Contarini’s.—The curtain falls.]