CZAR: It is no nightingale. ’Tis love himself singing for very ecstasy of joy that thou art changed into his votaress. (Clock begins striking twelve.) Oh, listen, sweet, it is the lovers’ hour. Come, let us stand without, and hear the midnight answered from tower to tower over the wide white town. Our wedding night! What is that? What is that? (Loud murmurs of CONSPIRATORS in the street.)

VERA (breaks from him and rushes across the stage): The wedding guests are here already! Ay! You shall have your sign! (Stabs herself.) You shall have your sign! (Rushes to the window.)

CZAR (intercepts her by rushing between her and window, and snatches dagger out of her hand): Vera!

VERA (clinging to him): Give me back the dagger! Give me back the dagger! There are men in the street who seek your life! Your guards have betrayed you! This bloody dagger is the signal that you are dead. (CONSPIRATORS begin to shout below in the street.) Oh, there is not a moment to be lost! Throw it out! Throw it out! Nothing can save me now; this dagger is poisoned! I feel death already in my heart. There was no other way but this.

CZAR (holding dagger out of her reach): Death is in my heart too; we shall die together!

VERA: Oh, love! Love! Love! Be merciful to me! The wolves are hot upon you! – you must live for liberty, for Russia, for me! Oh, you do not love me! You offered me an empire once! Give me this dagger, now! Oh, you are cruel! My life for yours! What does it matter? (Loud shout in the street, ‘VERA! VERA! To the rescue! To the rescue!’)

CZAR: The bitterness of death is past for me.

VERA: Oh, they are breaking in below! See! The bloody man behind you! (CZAR turns round for an instant.) Ah! (VERA snatches dagger and flings it out of window.)

CONSPIRATORS (below): Long live the people!

CZAR: What have you done?

VERA: I have saved Russia! (Dies).

TABLEAU

CURTAIN

A Florentine Tragedy

Enter THE HUSBAND

SIMONE: My good wife, you come slowly, were it not better
To run to meet your lord? Here, take my cloak.
Take this pack first. ’Tis heavy. I have sold nothing:
Save a furred robe unto the Cardinal’s son,
Who hopes to wear it when his father dies,
And hopes that will be soon.
    But who is this?
Why you have here some friend. Some kinsman doubtless,
Newly returned from foreign lands and fallen
Upon a house without a host to greet him?
I crave your pardon, kinsman. For a house
Lacking a host is but an empty thing
And void of honour; a cup without its wine,
A scabbard without steel to keep it straight,
A flowerless garden widowed of the sun.
Again I crave your pardon, my sweet cousin.