University of Virginia Library

SCENE IX.

Antonia, Carravagio, Teresa, Ferdinando, &c.
ANTONIA.
Have you disclosed to them what has mischanced?

CARRAVAGIO.
I have performed all to the point commanded;
Would you that I should still proceed in it?

ANTONIA.
It might for delicacy be as well—
But no: I will myself. My worthy friends,
In common wrongs, such as may fall on all,
We may entrust the agency of others;
And purchas'd advocacy may avail.
But in my dire unprecedented case,
I should impair my own preserv'd esteem,
Preserv'd unspotted in th'unconscious sin,
Could I forego my painful vindication,
Ferdinando.—

FERDINANDO.
Madam.—

ANTONIA.
Do you confess?

FERDINANDO.
That I did pass into your room, I do;
That I know well my lord was wrong'd last night,
I also must declare.

TERESA.
To me he said,
That when he entered he believed you knew

ANTONIA.
When the time comes to ask for your report,
Then tell your knowledge.—Yes, I know full well
That in the world the guilt will so be thought.—
Do you confess?

FERDINANDO.
How! that I did the wrong?

CARRAVAGIO.
Out with the quibble, sir—out with it all.
I see it working in thy alt'ring visage.

ANTONIA.
Let him proceed.—What though he dare pretend
That in the crime the blame must rest on me,
I but desire confession of the fact.
Do you confess?—Still blush you to atone?

CARRAVAGIO.
Give way, give way, O miserable man!
To the contrition that begins to rise.

ANTONIA.
Turn, turn, O turn thee from thy fatal lapse,
And strive to reach the upward tract again.
The path of vice lies with inviting slope
Down the declivity; and every step
Is smoother, easier, lower still and lower,
Till nothing from the headlong fall can save.
In mercy to thyself confession make.

TERESA.
The fiercest tortures, penal craft employs,
To wrench out secrets from the clenched knave,
Will tear the truth from thy obdurate breast.

ANTONIA.
Patience, Teresa, cherish milder thoughts,
And e'en in injury benev'lence own.
Benevolence is like the glorious sun,
Whose free impartial splendour fosters all:
It is the radiance of the human soul,
The proof and sign of its celestial birth.
All other creatures of corporeal ore,
Partake the common qualities of man:
Love, hatred, anger, all particular aims!
But in this infinite and pure effusion,
This only passion of divinity,
He grows the rival of the heav'nly God.—
Do you confess?

FERDINANDO.
What is't I should confess?—
What is this sin, this robbery, this wrong?
Where is the loss? Where is the detriment?
When theft is wrought a certain void is left;
When malice strikes, a wound or blain appears;
Wrong ever comes in manifest effect;
But this is fantasy, or falsely charged.

ANTONIA.
Behold, thou shrewd equivocating fiend,
The test thou dar'st desire—

TERESA.
Oh! horror! horror!
She has stabb'd herself!—

ANTONIA.
Wilt thou yet confess?

TERESA.
Help! help!—fly all ye wond'ring—

ANTONIA.
Silence, woman;
Attend thy duty, and support me here.
This is no time for idle exclamation.—
I want but yet the pleasure ere I die,
To hear him say he uninvited came.
But if too rapid, ebb my streaming life,
May this dread act, my only sure appeal,
Deter the sullying Slander from my fame.

TERESA.
See how the sheety pale of death appears,
On that bright face that tempted thee to sin.

ANTONIA.
Woman, forbear; nor once again presume
To breathe allusion to the fatal theme.—
Think you he will confess?

CARRAVAGIO.
I think he will.

ANTONIA.
Would he were speedy, for I faint apace.
My eyes grow dim—God bless you, worthy friends.
Commend me, signor, to my dearest lord.

TERESA.
Alas! alas! she dies!—

CARRAVAGIO.
It is away!—
Her pure and heav'nly spirit is away.
Oh! it has flown like a poor frighten'd bird,
Appealing to the Heavens against the hand
That plunder'd ruthlessly its early nest.—
Friends, let us quit this theatre of blood,
With the sad moral graven on our hearts.
One guilty act is parent to a race;
And the last born still more detestable,
In bent and form than all that did precede.

TERESA.
What would'st thou with the knife? Its sheath of blood,
Wert thou a man of human mould compos'd,
Would be like mortal pestilence to thee.

CARRAVAGIO.
Rouse thee, poor wretch! from thy astonishment;
There is no visionary horror here.
The fatal steel in thy amazed sight,
So dropping rubies is no magic fiction;
Nor this fair casket, that so late contained
A glorious gem by Heav'ns own master placed,
A dreamy show; but all reality.—
Tortures await thee.—

FERDINANDO.
Thus from them I fly.