ACT III.
SCENE I.
Fiorilla’s house.—Enter Fiorilla and Leonardo.
Fiorilla.
The letter was delivered?
Leonardo.
’Twas entrusted
To one who never failed me, and the messenger
Is even now returned.
Fiorilla.
Did he reveal
The whole to Foscarini?
Leonardo.
No—we judged
The youth should know naught of his lady’s falsehood.
’Twas vaguely urged, that matters of deep import
Required his presence here; that enemies
Were laboring ’gainst his peace. But, pardon me—
I know not how this artifice may prevent
The nuptials of proud Contarini!
Fiorilla.
Know you
That Foscarini loves the maid, and she
Returns his passion, bitterly detesting
His haughty rival! Let the youthful lover
Come at the latest hour—his presence crosses
These ill starred nuptials.
Leonardo.
And you, fairest lady—
Forgive me—is a false admirer worth
Such stratagem to regain?
Fiorilla.
Hear me, Leonardo.
You see me but the gay and fickle dame
Whose smiles are showered on all; to whom the hours,
Brilliant alike, seem but to bring their tribute
Of emulous sweets, even as the gilded flowers
Yield up their honey to the fluttering insect.
How well for those who bask in Pleasure’s smile,
She wears a mask!
Leonardo.
But your smile is the sunlight
That banishes all gloom where’er it shines.
Fiorilla.
Yet envious philosophers have said
The sun himself, that warms and gladdens all,
Is a cold, lifeless mass. No more of that.
His beams can scorch and wither—so can those
You’ve aptly likened to them, when condensed
In hatred’s burning glass.
Leonardo.
I cannot guess
Your meaning.
Fiorilla.
Contarini—you may deem
’Twas vanity—’twas pride—that bound me to him!
Folly! when all that Venice boasts of rank
And wealth were at my feet, why should I spurn
Such suppliance—turning to one who seemed
To mock my power?
Leonardo.
He never offered, then,
His solemn vows?
Fiorilla.
He did! by all that’s sacred!
And I, who feigned his passionate words to hear
As the wind’s idle breath, treasured them deep,
Deep in my soul, which they have filled with gall.
Aye! and its bitterness shall be distilled
In drops upon his heart! Stay, Leonardo,
You’ve not heard all. You shall not see me creep
Like a scorned slave, aside, while others fill
The place that should be mine. I’ll hurl him thence
Or ere he gains that height!
Leonardo.
Nay, lady—
Fiorilla.
Yes!
’Tis you must aid me, while I bring to light
His plottings. It will peril many a head
In Venice—but I care not, so he finds
The hand he spurned is armed with deadly power!
Leonardo.
If you have aught of import to disclose,
Madam, unto the council——
Fiorilla.
Aye—the council!
And they shall hear! Yet, tell me, is not he
One of that fearful number who preside
In secret o’er the state?
Leonardo.
’Tis rumored so—
But the inquisitors’ persons are unknown.
Fiorilla.
’Tis well. Forget my passion and my words.
Now to our business. Leonardo, seek
This youth, and speedily conduct him hither;
He cannot come too soon. I will await you. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Teresa’s chamber. Teresa, in bridal robes, sitting at a table, with writing materials.
Teresa.
I cannot write to him! If I would guide
The pen, my hand refuses to record
The tale it ought to tell. Oh, fatal hand!
Which soon must seal my shame, well dost thou shrink
To do the accusing office!—Foscarini!
Yet may I breathe that name! the walls about me
Will not yet hear it as a guilty sound,
But softly echo back the whispered word,
As if their stones could pity!—
To-night! to-night!
I’m strangely calm. So long I’ve pondered on it,
It seems that even despair has lost its keenness,
And only sits a thick and leaden weight
Upon my soul. I’ve wept, alas! so much,
The founts of grief are dry, and will not yield
A drop to soften me!
Enter Matilda.
Why have you come?
Matilda.
Forgive me—’tis not meet
You should be left alone with sombre thoughts
At such an hour.
Teresa.
It is not late.
Matilda.
Look out—
The sun has long since set.
Teresa.
Some envious cloud
It is, that hides his beams.
Matilda.
No! it is night—
The summit of yon gilded cupola,
Where last the hues of sunset ever linger,
Has long been wrapt in gloom!
Teresa.
Is it not strange
I should regret the daylight?
Matilda.
Come—no more
Of these sad musings. You have cherished them
’Till your fair cheek is pale, and unbecoming
A youthful bride. Why look—these radiant pearls,
Whose pure transparence should have suited well
With your fresh brow, will find their whiteness shamed.
Teresa.
Matilda!
Matilda.
Here—these flowers are fresh; I’ll wreathe them
In the full wavings of your hair. I’ll braid it
In dark, rich folds upon your temples. Ah!
That form, so stately, yet so full of grace,
That high fair front—they will indeed proclaim you
The queen of loveliness, to every eye
That seeks you in its homage!
Teresa.
Hush! Matilda—
Waste not your idle praises.
Matilda.
I will keep them
For other ears. But should I not be proud
To deck you for your nuptials?
Teresa (shuddering.)
No!
Matilda.
Look not
So sadly. True—you love not Contarini;—
But who among us thinks to wed for love,
When wealth, and rank, and power, and all that’s dear
To woman’s heart, do beckon us to seize them!
Oh! trust me! love’s a bauble, fit to toy with—
But like the shining plaything of the child,
To be thrown by, when riper years bestow
Far richer gifts, and teach him ’twas a trifle
He prized before!
Teresa.
Nay, nay—I need not this.
My heart is senseless. It is cold—cold—cold!
Steeled in an apathy more deep than wo,
Which even keen thought can never pierce again.
What nights of feverish unrest I’ve borne,
What days of weeping and of bitterness,
When I have schooled me to a mocking calmness,
While my heart ached within! But all is past!
My spirit is a waste o’er which hath raged
The desolating fire, to leave its trace
In blackened ruins!—I can feel no more!
Would that I could! I’d rather bear the gnawing
Of anguish, than this dull, dead, frozen void,
In which all sense is buried!
Matilda.
Would the harp
Soothe you? or shall I sing those cheerful songs
That once you loved to hear?
Teresa.
No—no—the sound
Would be a mockery.—Yet, if time urge not,
I’d have you read to me that mournful tale
We oft have read together—of a maid
Compelled like me to nuptials she abhorred,—
Who fled to death’s arms to escape that bridal,
And sleeps within the grave of him she loved.
Matilda.
Nay—nay—you shall not hear so sad a story!
Teresa.
It cannot move me. Hers was a bold spirit,
That dared to spurn the chain, and purchase peace
Even at the price of life.—Would I could be
Like her!
Matilda.
Teresa!
Teresa.
Fear me not—my hands
Are cowards; ‘and my veins were never meant
‘To flow with blood like that which nourishes
‘Heroic hearts.’—There’s something in death’s aspect,
Even when he smiles, that human spirits quail at!
‘The foolish skin doth creep—and the frame shudder,
‘At thought of what awaits them—the dusk pall—
‘The narrow house—the clay cold living tenants—’
Matilda.
Holy St. Mary! Are such thoughts as these
Meet for a festival?
Teresa.
A festival!
True—there’s a noble festival at hand!
Yes—yes—I will be passive.—Deck me out
A victim—oh, how truly!—At the altar,
Say—must I wear a smile!
Matilda.
Oh! not like that!
No—do not smile—the veil will hide your face.—
Teresa.
Will it? that’s well.—I fear me it would shame
The gay surrounding group.—They are not wont
To see such revellers. My looks would wither
More roses than will deck the festal hall!
Matilda.
Talk not so strangely!
Teresa.
Strangely? am I changed?
Matilda.
Oh, sadly!
Teresa.
I rejoice—I would be changed!
Who comes? [Enter two female attendants.
Attendant.
My lady, will you go?
Teresa.
Whither?
Matilda.
Do you forget? but a few moments
Remain—
Attendant.
My lord enquires for you. The guests
Are even now assembled.
Teresa.
It is well.
I’ll follow you. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A street, faintly lighted. Enter Foscarini.
Foscarini.
Once more in Venice! How my native air
Takes from these limbs their weariness! What were
The breezes of the rugged Alps, to this,
So bland—so wooing? All, in loveliness
The same—the same! The Lagune, brightly clear,
Yet mirrors in its depths the marble domes
That rise above it—lordly towers—where shine
A thousand torches, like so many stars
Gleaming through clouds of silver. From afar,
The surge-like tone of multitudes, the hum
Of glad, familiar voices, and the wild
Faint music of the happy gondolier,
Float up in blended murmurs. Queen of cities!
Goddess of ocean! with the beauty crowned
Of Aphrodite from her parent deep!
If thine Ausonian heaven denies the strength
That nerves a mountain race of sterner mould,
It gives thee charms whose very softness wins
All hearts to worship!
Enter Vincentio.
By this light—Vincentio?
Whence come you, signor?
Vincentio.
Foscarini?
Foscarini.
Aye!
What news are stirring?
Vincentio.
None—of note.
Foscarini.
You come
I augur by your garb—from some late festival?
Vincentio.
A bridal. One of our first citizens
To-night doth wed his daughter—and assembles
The prime of Venice. Light, and flowers, and smiles,
Soon wearied me—who am not wont to toy
My hours away in mirth.
Foscarini.
Then, splenetic,
You left the joyous scene?
Vincentio.
’Twas not all joy.
If I mistake not, with the flowers that wrought
The bridal wreath, some leaves of bitterness
Were mingled.
Foscarini.
Ha!
Vincentio.
The bridegroom rich and noble—
The father proud and pleased—the guests all smiling—
But the mute bride!—I could not see her face,
But in her drooping form, like a bowed lily—
Her passive mien, and strange unconsciousness,
I read far more than bashfulness.
Foscarini.
Indeed!
Vincentio.
Before the altar she might have been deemed
A life like statue. From her veiled lips
Her words came slow and solemn, as the oracle
Speaks from its cloudy shrine.—Oh! much I fear
The fathers of our city are grown stern,
And sacrifice to gold and foul ambition
Treasures of youthful love.
Foscarini (aside.)
I dare not utter
The doubt that’s at my heart—(aloud)—The bridegroom, said you?
Vincentio.
Is stern and haughty—though in courtesy
Well skilled—as noble senator should be. (ironically.)
Foscarini.
A senator? his name——
Vincentio.
’Tis Contarini—
A synonyme for all that’s merciful! (sneeringly.)
Foscarini.
The bride?
Vincentio.
Teresa—daughter to——
Foscarini.
No more!
Or I shall stop your breath! begone!
Vincentio.
What’s this?
Foscarini.
Hence! you have basely slandered her—the fairest—
The truest.—No! ’twas not Teresa! speak!
You have mistaken her name?
Vincentio.
I spoke the truth—
Veniero’s daughter.
Foscarini.
Well—begone and leave me!
(Exit Vincentio. Foscarini paces the scene a few moments in silence—then suddenly stops.)
If this be true, I’ll seek her—I’ll confront her—
I’ll blast her sight—and drag her from his arms.
E’en at their bridal feast inflict the penalty
Of guile like hers. Away. [Exit.
SCENE IV.
A spacious and magnificent apartment; brilliantly decorated and illuminated. Veniero discovered. Numerous guests, some in masks, seemingly in conversation.
Enter the Doge, Badoero, Contarini, Teresa, Matilda, and others.
Veniero.
Once more we welcome all! Let mirth reign here,
Since ne’er a day hath dawned, of joy like this!
And Loredano too—I craved his presence;
Why comes he not? I harbor no resentments
In this glad hour. When happiness o’erflows
The heart, its tide doth sweep all evil thoughts
Like wrecks, away. He should be welcome here.
Say—will ye pledge me, friends?
Doge.
Most willingly.
This to the noble lady, in whose honor
We are to-night assembled. Ne’er till now
So fair a claim to loyalty hath met
Our willing homage.
Veniero.
Cheer, my girl! wear not
That solemn aspect, which would better grace
The sanctuary! Our friends and your fond sire
Invoke your smiles to make them happy.
Teresa.
Sir,
I thank both them and you.
Veniero (to Contarini.)
I pray you, Signor,
Since to your keeping my authority
Over this wayward girl is now surrendered,
Command her to be merry.
Contarini.
Pardon me.
You would not have me claim so speedily
A wife’s obedience! Now, at least, her will
Shall rule herself and me!
Veniero.
Oh! you will be
A proper husband! Who begins by bending
His neck to greet the yoke—henceforth must wear it!
(Foscarini enters, masked, and remains at the back of the scene, watching Teresa.)
Contarini.
And where could chains so golden and so soft,
Clasped by a hand so fair, enfold a captive
In sweeter bondage? Trust me—you know not
The worth of smiles like hers, to deem them fit
For every eye to share!
Say, gentle lady—would you join the dance?
Teresa.
The dance? No—no!—My lord—I pray your pardon,
I meant not this abruptness.
Contarini.
As you will!
You are a queen here, and in queenly right
You shall control us all; your regal pleasure
The law that we obey.
Foscarini (aside.)
She does not smile!
Her falsehood bears with it the sting, remorse!
Contarini.
Would music please my noble bride?
Teresa (aside.)
These lights!
My brain grows sick beneath their weary glare!
Leave me, I pray you! Nay—nay—heed me not!
Let me not mar your mirth!
Contarini.
I will not leave you:
I am too proud to stand beside you.
Foscarini (in a low tone.)
Aye!
She may betray you too!
Teresa (aside.)
That voice—that voice!
I cannot ’scape it! Strange—my haunting fancies
Should thus take form, to syllable reproaches
I ever hear within!
‘Doge.
‘What ails the lady?
‘Teresa (aside.)
‘They must be silenced—for I may not hear
‘Their tauntings now!’
Matilda.
Teresa! you are pale
And discomposed:—this night’s fatigue hath been
O’er harassing.
Teresa.
Yes—yes—
Contarini.
Wine will restore her—
Teresa.
You are mistaken;
I am not ill!
Contarini.
Take it—fair lady—
Foscarini (snatches another cup and advances.)
Hold!
I claim a right to pledge your lovely bride!
I—humblest of her slaves! Lady! I drink
Long life to you—and happiness—such as
Your truth deserves! Could man e’er wish you more?
Teresa.
’Tis he. Oh God! (faints.) [Foscarini retires.
Contarini.
Teresa!
Veniero.
She has swooned! my daughter! Help!
(They raise her—she revives—but still appears unconscious.)
Teresa (wildly.)
Accuse me not! accuse me not! Oh no!
I did not wrong thee! I have borne the wrong!
Didst thou but know the misery that has dragged me,
Despite of all thy love to bear me up,
Down, down, to this! thou wouldst not, couldst not scorn me!
Judge me not here!
Contarini.
Who was’t disturbed you,—say?
Teresa (recovering.)
Ha!
Contarini.
Who was it dared intrude, to move you thus?
Reveal his name, and instant punishment
Shall overtake the wretch!
Teresa (eagerly detaining him.)
Oh, no—no—no!
Contarini.
Detain me not! let me but find him!
Teresa.
Hold!
What would you do? what have I said? ’twas nothing—
Indeed—’twas nothing!
Contarini.
Tell me—whose the voice
That frighted you?
Teresa.
No voice! Move not—I pray you!
It was an idle fancy.—Did I say
Some one had spoken to me?—’Twas not so!
My brain hath coined strange tales! ’Tis cause for mirth
That I should think such things.
Contarini.
Such eagerness
To screen the offender——
Teresa.
My lord! I am ashamed
To have disturbed this noble company
With such absurd, strange weakness. I beseech you
Let me retire awhile!
Veniero.
Go.
[Exeunt Teresa, Matilda and attendants.