ACT IV.
SCENE I.
A street.—Enter Contarini and Steno.
Contarini.
Know you his name?
Steno.
Antonio Foscarini.
The same whom you a short time since despatched
On the embassy to Switzerland.
Contarini.
So soon
Returned?
Steno.
Some private cause of haste, it seems,
Hath brought him hither. But a few days past,
I know, he was not here.
Contarini.
Well—trace him out,
He’s desperate—and should be removed. Mark you?
Steno.
Signor, ’tis done.
Contarini.
Be wary—but be speedy. [Exit Steno.
Enter Fiorilla.
A lady! I must smooth this troubled brow,
For such fair meeting.
Fiorilla.
Well—my lord—
Contarini.
Fiorilla!
Fiorilla.
Am I so changed, that you scarce know me, sir?
Then doth my mirror flatter, for it tells me
Of features yet unaltered; and in truth
They might be—for short space of time hath passed
Since we last met.
Contarini.
They are all radiant still
With beauty—and would be, though years had striven
To steal some charm away. But those few days
Have wrought a change in me. I’m wedded—lady.
Fiorilla.
Wedded? Aye, I have heard the tale—but sooth,
It dwelt not in my mind. These idle rumors,
You know, my lord, even when they merit credence,
So lightly pass us by—we scarce are wont
To give them heed!
Contarini.
And yet I hoped once, lady,
Fiorilla would not heedlessly have listened
To aught that spoke of me!
Fiorilla.
Ha! ha!
Contarini.
My bride—
You have not seen her! Oh! her gentle beauty
Might rival yours!
Fiorilla.
Indeed!
Contarini.
The rose perchance
Upon her cheek wears not a bloom so rich;
Her brow may be less haughty—but ’tis moulded
In form as perfect.
Fiorilla.
Gallant cavalier!
Why in seclusion veil such matchless charms?
Contarini.
She seeks it.
Fiorilla.
Undisturbed to muse, no doubt,
On you, to greet you with a dearer welcome
When you invade her solitude. Happy bridegroom!
Whom no tormenting sprite of jealousy
Can haunt! whose treasured flower will yield its sweets
To him alone—none other!
Contarini.
She would jest;
Yet plays a smile too mocking on her lips
For courtesy!—Fiorilla—
Fiorilla.
Nay, my lord—
I would not that your gracious words be wasted
On one so worthless, when far dearer cares
Await you at your home. Your lady, doubtless,
Mourns for your absence; or—perchance I err,
Invokes the aid of some more courteous knight
To while away the hours.
Contarini.
Ha!
Fiorilla.
Only, signor,
A substitute. When the proud sun withdraws
His beams, we hail the star—less bright indeed,
That cheers the gloom.—Methinks I saw but now
Young Foscarini.—Ho! there.—
Enter Marco.
Farewell my lord—I’ll not detain you longer—
[Exit Contarini.
Let him go ponder on my words. Hence, Marco,
Seek Loredano, and entreat his presence
Now, at my house. [Exit Marco.] I will no longer pause
But strike the blow, and win a swift revenge! [Exit.
SCENE II.
An apartment in Contarini’s palace.—Enter Teresa.
Teresa.
Let him believe me false! Let him believe
I spurned at truth—if such a thought can heal
The bitter wound I planted in his breast!
But mine—why—let it fester, and grow rank,
And spread, and spread, till its consuming poison
Hath eaten life out! Let him curse and hate me!
Yet that were hard to bear! My misery, sure
Might claim some pity! I would fain be thought on
With grief, but not with scorn. I’d be remembered
Like a dim, far off vision, wan and sad,
Leaving a mournful yet a softened image,
Mellowed by passing time to tenderer hues,
To fade at length, like tremulous light, away!
Enter Stefano with a paper.
Stefano.
Lady—a cavalier without desired me
To give you this.
Teresa.
(Takes the paper, looks at it,—then hurriedly averts her head.)
And bade you bring the answer?
Stefano.
He did.
Teresa.
To write to him! to speak with him!
I must not;—will not! I have reared the barrier
That aye must sever us, and will abide
The die which duty cast.—Take it—Stefano—
Tell him there is no answer. [Exit Stefano.
Cruelty!
Must we not probe deep, to dig out the venom?
What matter if he deem me cold and proud?
I must be so—to him!
Enter Matilda.
Matilda.
Hush! I have tidings.
The unhappy Foscarini is without,
And craves to see you.
Teresa.
Me!
Matilda.
For one short moment.
Oh! had you seen him as he urged the boon—
So suppliant, so desperate! his voice
Tremulous with suffering.
Teresa.
Hold—Matilda—hold!
He is already answered.
Matilda.
How?
Teresa.
You ask?
Matilda.
Oh, do not be so stern! what wrong can chance
Or harm, if you will grant this poor request?
But just to bid farewell, he says;—and then
He’ll fly from you for ever, into lands
Where Venice is unheard of.
Teresa.
Urge no more!
I will not see him. Let him go—and bury
All thoughts of me for ever!
Matilda.
He’ll not go;
He will besiege you with his fruitless prayers,
Though you are deaf to them.—Think of his danger.
Teresa.
What?
Matilda.
His life is sought by secret enemies.
This is too certain; I myself have heard
Dark-boding threats from Contarini’s lips,
Uttered when he thought none beheld. You know
His cold blood-thirsty hate!
Teresa.
Oh, yes—too well!
Hasten Matilda! warn him—bid him ’scape
While there is time.
Matilda.
Alas! he will not heed
Warning, except from you.
Teresa.
What must I do?
Matilda.
Speak to him—bid him leave this fatal place.
He will obey you. Pause not! your delay
May seal his fate.
Teresa.
No—no—say I command,
Command him to be gone! by all that’s past—
(bitterly.) The past! what curse is in that word! what claim
Have I to his obedience?
Matilda.
Dear Teresa,
Weigh not a fancied duty ’gainst his life;
Think—should he fall beneath their eager swords—
And you the cause?
Teresa.
Oh heaven! Away—and tell him
I come.—I do no wrong—to save the innocent!
Lead the way—quick—but softly. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Garden, near the palace of Contarini. On one side the palace of the Spanish ambassador.
Enter Foscarini.
Foscarini.
She would repel me! but I’ll see her once
Before we part for ever: claim her pardon.
How could I deem her worthless! Oh, what wild
Playthings of fortune we—who if the cup
We drink hath aught of bitter—dash it down—
And madly spurn the sweetness in the dregs!
We tear the wound—and hate the balm that heals it!
Enter Teresa.
Teresa!
Teresa.
Signor—
Foscarini.
So cold! then all I feared is true:
You love me not!
Teresa.
Hush—busy torturer!
Should I be here, else?
Foscarini (bitterly.)
Such was not your welcome
When last we met!
Teresa.
And is all else unchanged?
Look in my face, and read what I have borne
Since then.
Foscarini.
Alas! so wasted and so wan—
Yet never half so lovely!
Teresa.
Why—that’s well—
If burning sorrow could dry up life’s springs—
But they flow on—though every fount is sealed
That could renew them. Strange—that life should cling
But closer as we strive to shake it off!
And mock its tenement, though that be worn
Too thin to harbor it!
Foscarini.
Nay—you talk wildly.
Teresa.
Oh, there has been a weary fever here,
That scorched—and scorched—as it would sear my brain,
’Till that grew wayward. All things seemed a vision,
‘Measureless, shadowy—strange—yet dim and fleeting’—
But I’m awake now!
Foscarini.
Awake to keener grief,
I would not add to it!
Teresa.
You pity me!
You have forgiven me! All my fault and wrong,
And suffering—you know!
Foscarini.
All—but too well.
I know you guiltless.
Teresa.
No—you know not half
The wild, bad thoughts I’ve cherished.—Foscarini,
I’ve wished thee dead! I’ve looked upon the sky
When the fierce tempest blackened it—and hoped—
And hoped its wings would sweep thee to destruction!
Invoked the hoary mountain rocks to crush thee!
Prayed, as I ne’er before have prayed for weal
Of thine or mine—for death—ere thou shouldst come
To find me thus.—Why art thou here?
Foscarini.
I come
To look on you once more; to hear your voice
Even in these groves—where we were wont to meet
In happy hours——
Teresa.
Speak not, speak not of them!
They’re angels, whose accusing voice to heaven
Doth tell of broken faith, and trampled hopes,
And injured goodness! They have baneful influence
They made me what I am!
Foscarini.
Mine own Teresa!
Let me so call you now—blame not yourself
For what hath severed us. I blame you not.
Heaven doth attest my truth, I hold you now,
As pure, as guiltless of all wrong—as when
I first believed you.
Teresa.
Oh! thou wilt not hate me!
I bless thee for it! That fear has wrought so oft
My thoughts to bitterness! It was a phantom
That haunted me, and mocked my tears! No—no!
Thy pity, like the angel of Heaven’s mercy,
Will smile—and smile—and soothe me as I pass
Down to the cold and welcome grave—and then—
When I am dead—thou’lt think on me—weep for me—
Wilt thou not, Foscarini?
Foscarini.
Listen to me!
The victim hath no duties. That forced vow
Which came not from the heart, and bears no sanction
Of the consenting will, Heaven did not register.
Teresa.
What mean you?
Foscarini.
You are mine! Good spirits have heard
Our vows, and sealed those bonds, which mortal hands
Can never loose. Far from this hated land
Shine skies as bright—and fields as verdant bloom
To bless the fond and true. Escape with me.
The ship is waiting—let it bear us far
To some propitious clime, where no regrets
Or misery shall pursue us.
Teresa.
Ha! a fitting
Companion to your flight! a fugitive wife!
Whose wife? ’Tis well—peace I have lost—and you
Would take all that remains!
Foscarini.
Forgive—forgive me!
’Twas but a thought of madness. It is past.
I’ll not offend again. Now shall you know
What he can dare, who loses you!
Teresa.
What frenzy
Gleams in your eye! No—Foscarini—no!
You could not do so wild, so fierce a wrong,
Because the blossom of young life is blighted,
To pluck its stem of verdure from the root!
Live—for my sake! Hence from this wretched city,
Where you are watched, and sought for, as the bloodhound
Doth seek his prey! Go—go! we may not meet
On earth again.
‘Foscarini.
‘So wretched——
‘Teresa.
‘Happier far
‘Than I, since you in liberty may weep;
‘While I in secret, chided, must pour forth
‘The bitter drops that burn where’er they fall.
‘Remain not here’—we part——
Enter Matilda, hastily.
Matilda.
Begone—with speed!
You’re traced, and to this spot. Your husband comes
With men and torches to arrest him. Hence! [to Foscarini.
Not that way! There they throng the path! This side!
You may escape them there! [points in the direction of the Spanish palace.
Teresa (withholding him.)
No! no! not there!
Matilda.
It is the only way.
Teresa.
The Spaniard dwells there!
’Tis death to enter these forbidden walls!
Is it not so decreed?
Foscarini.
’Tis infamy
To you, if I remain!
Teresa.
You shall not go.
What is a name to me? Stay—I’ll reveal
All—all to Contarini; I will plead
Even at his feet! He’ll hear me, and will save you!
Foscarini.
You know him not; he’d spurn you, and his slaves
Would scoff at you. No—no—I choose my death,
Rather than your disgrace!
Teresa (clinging to him.)
Break not my hold!
I caused thy danger—I alone! I’ll shield thee
With my entwining arms. They shall not strike—
Or if they do—mine—mine—shall be the death!
Foscarini.
Love! love! my fate
Preserves me for embrace so blest as this,
Only when I must break from it! Oh! death
Would have such sweetness thus! [footsteps heard.
Hence—let me go!
They’ll not arrest me. I will never fall,
Trust me, by hands ignoble, while this weapon
Can serve me truly! [breaks from her, and exit.
Enter Contarini and Steno, with servants bearing torches.
Contarini.
Ha! the traitor fled!
But one way’s open. Steno—haste—withdraw
Your trusty men, and search within the walls
Of yonder palace. He is proved a traitor.
[Exeunt Steno and servants.
He’s in my toils—and you—so fair and false——
(Tumult—the report of a pistol heard.)
Teresa.
Lost! lost!
(Re-enter Steno and servants, dragging in Foscarini, who is wounded. The curtain falls.)