University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Carravagio and Teresa.
CARRAVAGIO.
The priest has left her: I saw him depart;
He look'd behind just as he left the gate,
And, crossing, heavenward turn'd his eyes and sighed.

TERESA.
May I go in, and ask her how she does?

CARRAVAGIO.
No: patient wait, and leave her till she call.
'Tis impious to pass with curious eye,
Into the sanctu'ry of hopeless sorrow.

TERESA.
Have you sent messengers to bring the count?

CARRAVAGIO.
Not yet, Teresa.

TERESA.
Heavens! why not yet,
When such an hideous outrage has been done?

CARRAVAGIO.
Peace, peace. What has been done, can he undo?

TERESA.
But when do you intend to call him home?

CARRAVAGIO.
Not till the guilty has confession made,
To the content of all th'assembled household,
That she was innocent, and knew him not;
Or till she has decided on her doom.

TERESA.
What mean you, sir? Has she not told us both
That she, to-night, would in the convent lie?

CARRAVAGIO.
But whether as a nun, or with the dead?

TERESA.
You chill my blood. She will not slay herself?

CARRAVAGIO.
She had in thought, before the friar came,
An awful enterprize.

TERESA.
How knew you that?

CARRAVAGIO.
I saw the index written on her brow.

TERESA.
We should not, sir, then leave her long alone.

CARRAVAGIO.
Woman; restrain this eagerness to pry;
Nor with thy pert and seamstress pity, vex
Her solemn magnanimity. Know'st thou
That there are minds of such pure element,
That the alloy'd and current of the world,
Have little common with them but the name;
And hers is of that kind.

TERESA.
But Ferdinando.
How do you mean, sir, to proceed with him?
It is not right to leave him ranging free.—

CARRAVAGIO.
While doubtful of his fate, his mind may change:
He is perplext. To his material soul,
The tragic issue of his flagrant daring,
Is as a new creation. Men like him,
Cannot, in their sublimest fancies, guess
The moods and motives of superior minds.

TERESA.
Why lay such stress, sir, upon his confession?
Do you believe the countess was to blame?

CARRAVAGIO.
No, woman, no: I never thought the thought;
But fame and reputation stand with her
Next in degree to virtue: for the least,
The sacrifice of life were cheap to her.
Did he confess, and place her honour clear,
Her virtue yet might lift her from the soil,
And make her shine the opal of the land.

TERESA.
But where's the need, when we are so convinced,
To place such consequence to his confession?
We may console her if we tell her so.

CARRAVAGIO.
We never can.—Pray thee think less of us.—
Those that but know the palpable of men,
And such compose the throng and crowd of life,
Judge by the fact, and place all in one class,
On whom the law bestows a common name.
She has confess'd adult'ry! Who will pause
To learn the circumstance, nor class her down
With those free wantons, whose lewd highway riots,
Have chang'd the brazen of the lawyer's front,
To blushing copper in th'examination.
But good Teresa, let us quit the theme;
My heart is full, and swelling to distress.
Alas! how little in this world of things,
Are held, the feelings that pervade the heart.
All that high honour and bright recompence
Which should inspire us, and make sweet our toil,
Come by the Alchymy of have and want,
In the post obit value of our works!

SCENE II.

Teresa, Antonia, and Carravagio.
TERESA.
Signor, the countess comes.

ANTONIA.
—Well, Carravagio;
Have you, in all things, done as I desired?

CARRAVAGIO.
I have, my honoured lady,—all—

TERESA.
But one:
He has not yet sent for, my lord, the count.

ANTONIA.
In that omission, he has judged well.—
I thank you, Carravagio: it was wise.

TERESA.
Nor Ferdinando has he yet arrested.

ANTONIA.
Teresa, doubtless he considers well.—
You may retire apart: when there is need,
I will require your presence; but till then—
Teresa?—Go, and lay prepared for me,
The dress of simple white.

TERESA.
Which, my dear lady?

ANTONIA.
That which I wore when I became a bride.

SCENE III.

Antonia and Carravagio.
ANTONIA.
My worthy friend, why falls this shower of sorrow?
What we, afflictions and mischances deem,
Are but the movements of that viewless chain,
On which, dependant from the throne of Heaven,
Hang all inferior and created things.
Nought from the vassalage of fate is free,
But Virtue: she alone exemption boasts,
And in her own allodian grandeur firm,
Denies the claims that Chance and Time pretend.
What! though this fabric crumble into dust,
And with the sentenc'd globe return again
Into the elements, and all to nothing;
That which is I, shall purified ascend,
And with the general vanishing of things,
Behold its dross and blemish pass away.
But come, 'tis fit we should proceed to trial.
Good signor, call the household to attend,
And such esteemed and venerated neighbours,
As by their testimony, may avouch
The high result of what shall come to pass.

CARRAVAGIO.
It is then meet the culprit should attend.

ANTONIA.
Undoubtedly. How! think you otherwise?

CARRAVAGIO.
No, gracious lady; but I feared, the sight
Might wake afresh the anguish of your mind.

ANTONIA.
Good, worthy, Carravagio, that is past;
The struggle done and vanquish'd Shame laid low.
Who is there fashioned in corporeal form,
That I may not with steady eye survey?
Yea not the taunt of my own true-lov'd lord
In giving credence to the menial's tale,
Would disconcert my all-collected mind.

CARRAVAGIO.
Is it your pleasure that the count should come?

ANTONIA.
No, spare me that—I could not bear his grief,
Nor part from him without a painful pang.—
I pray you, friend, be speedy in this task;
For idle time is like a giant's robe,
It loads, perplexes, and exhausts the strength.

SCENE IV.

CARRAVAGIO.
She has decided as I thought she would.
Alas! alas! but who may dare to thwart
The high resolves of such a soul as hers.

SCENE V.

Teresa and Carravagio.
TERESA.
Where is the countess gone?—All is prepar'd.

CARRAVAGIO.
Attend you here, and what she may require
Give without speaking, and with lowly service,
Such as befits our mean and abject natures,
When call'd to offices of awful issue.

TERESA.
How is she now?

CARRAVAGIO.
Magnificent! sublime!
Like the archangel on the wall of Heav'n,
Who looking down on our sublunar orb,
Computes the good and ill of human life,
And finds a vast preponderance of ill.

SCENE VI.

TERESA.
Ah me! that one so fair should fall so foul!
Betray'd unconsciously. She has resolv'd,
To quit the world and pine away a nun:
Doom'd by the crime of Fortune to a jail.—

SCENE VII.

Teresa and Ferdinando.
TERESA.
Well Ferdinando, this is joyous work;
Thou art in truth a special gay gallant.

FERDINANDO.
To you nor other, will I answer give,
Till face to face with witnesses we meet.—
So! he has sent to call the neighbours in;
And summons up the servants to a show.
Ay, let him call and summon as he may;
The world shall learn who was, or which, to blame.
'Tis shrewd of him, that I must needs admit,
To turn on me and bait me for the scorn.
But fraud is fraud; this will not last them long—
The shallow silvering will soon be bare,
And all the base and counterfeit reveal'd.

TERESA.
You then persist still in your innocence?

FERDINANDO.
I do, and will do, till they shew such proof
As hands may touch, and eyes may look upon.
I am not made so ductile as they deem.

TERESA.
Behold the neighbours and the servants come,
With tearful eyes and faces full of woe;
And Carravagio sadder than them all.

SCENE VIII.

Carravagio, Teresa, Ferdinando, &c.
CARRAVAGIO.
Good friends, by order of our noble lady,
You are assembl'd for a solemn cause.
This house so long, the honour of the land,
Renown'd for hospitality and all
The liberal virtues that should wait on rank,
Has been the scene of a tremendous outrage.
Beneath the masque of darkness, in the guise
Of wedded Confidence, dire Rape last night
Stole in and rifled with opprobrious daring
The chaste embraces of our lady's love.
Th'infernal robber undetected fled;—
But various circumstance, of pointing proof,
Has fix'd the guilty charge on Ferdinando.
For bearing late commission from our lord
He did presume—Oh impious presumption!
To slip the door and glide into her room,
Unheard, unseen, as she defenceless lay,
All in the dark and negligence of sleep.
On this great fact the countess builds her charge—
But lo she comes!—make way—apart—divide.
What mighty grandeur in her form dilates
Beyond the comprehension of our thoughts!

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.