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.