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.