[357] [Dante was in his twentieth, or twenty-first year when the tragedy of Francesca and Paolo was enacted, not at Rimini, but at Pesaro. Some acquaintance he may have had with her, through his friend Guido (not her father, but probably her nephew), enough to account for the peculiar emotion caused by her sanguinary doom.]

[358]

Alternative Versions Transcribed by Mrs. Shelley.

March 20, 1820.

line 4: Love, which too soon the soft heart apprehends, Seized him for the fair form, the which was there Torn from me, and even yet the mode offends.

line 8: Remits, seized him for me with joy so strong—

line 12: These were the words then uttered— Since I had first perceived these souls offended, I bowed my visage and so kept it till— "What think'st thou?" said the bard, whom I (sic) And then commenced—"Alas unto such ill—

line 18: Led these? "and then I turned me to them still And spoke, "Francesca, thy sad destinies Have made me sad and tender even to tears, But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, By what and how Love overcame your fears, So ye might recognize his dim desires?" Then she to me, "No greater grief appears Than, when the time of happiness expires, To recollect, and this your teacher knows. But if to find the first root of our— Thou seek'st with such a sympathy in woes, I will do even as he who weeps and speaks. We read one day for pleasure, sitting close, Of Launcelot, where forth his passion breaks. We were alone and we suspected nought, But oft our eyes exchanged, and changed our cheeks. When we read the desiring smile of her Who to be kissed by such true lover sought, He who from me can be divided ne'er All tremulously kissed my trembling mouth. Accursed the book and he who wrote it were— That day no further did we read in sooth." While the one spirit in this manner spoke The other wept, so that, for very ruth, I felt as if my trembling heart had broke, To see the misery which both enthralls: So that I swooned as dying with the stroke,— And fell down even as a dead body falls.

Another version of the same. line 21: Have made me sad even until the tears arise—

line 27: In wretchedness, and that your teacher knows.

line 31: We read one day for pleasure— Of Launcelot, how passion shook his frame. We were alone all unsuspiciously. But oft our eyes met and our cheeks the same, Pale and discoloured by that reading were; But one part only wholly overcame; When we read the desiring smile of her Who sought the kiss of such devoted lover; He who from me can be divided ne'er Kissed my mouth, trembling to that kiss all over! Accursed was that book and he who wrote— That day we did no further page uncover." While thus—etc.

line 45: I swooned to death with sympathetic thought—

[Another version.] line 33: We were alone, and we suspected nought. But oft our meeting eyes made pale our cheeks, Urged by that reading for our ruin wrought; But one point only wholly overcame: When we read the desiring smile which sought By such true lover to be kissed—the same Who from my side can be divided ne'er Kissed my mouth, trembling o'er all his frame! Accurst the book, etc., etc.

[Another version.] line 33: We were alone and—etc. But one point only 'twas our ruin wrought. When we read the desiring smile of her Who to be kissed of such true lover sought; He who for me, etc., etc.



MARINO FALIERO,

DOGE OF VENICE;

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

"Dux inquieti turbidus Adria." Horace, [Od. III. c. iii. line 5]

[Marino Faliero was produced for the first time at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, April 25, 1821. Mr. Cooper played "The Doge;" Mrs. W. West, "Angiolina, wife of the Doge." The piece was repeated on April 30, May 1, 2, 3, 4, and 14, 1821.

A revival was attempted at Drury Lane, May 20, 21, 1842, when Macready appeared as "The Doge," and Helen Faucit as "Angiolina" (see Life and Remains of E. L. Blanchard, 1891, i. 346-348).

An adaptation of Byron's play, by W. Bayle Bernard, was produced at Drury Lane, November 2, 1867. It was played till December 17, 1867. Phelps took the part of "The Doge," and Mrs. Hermann of "Angiolina." In Germany an adaptation by Arthur Fitger was performed nineteen times by the "Meiningers," circ. 1887 (see Englische Studien, 1899, xxvii. 146).]



INTRODUCTION TO MARINO FALIERO.

Byron had no sooner finished the first draft of Manfred than he began (February 25, 1817) to lay the foundation of another tragedy. Venice was new to him, and, on visiting the Doge's Palace, the veiled space intended for the portrait of Marin Falier, and the "Giants' Staircase," where, as he believed, "he was once crowned and afterwards decapitated," had laid hold of his imagination, while the legend of the Congiura, "an old man jealous and conspiring against the state of which he was ... Chief," promised a subject which the "devil himself" might have dramatized con amore.

But other interests and ideas claimed his attention, and for more than three years the project slept. At length he slips into the postscript of a letter to Murray, dated, "Ravenna, April 9, 1820" (Letters, 1901, v. 7), an intimation that he had begun "a tragedy on the subject of Marino Faliero, the Doge of Venice." The "Imitation of Dante, the Translation of Pulci, the Danticles," etc., were worked off, and, in prospecting for a new vein, a fresh lode of literary ore, he passed, by a natural transition, from Italian literature to Italian history, from the romantic and humorous epopee of Pulci and Berni, to the pseudo-classic drama of Alfieri and Monti.

Jealousy, as "Monk" Lewis had advised him (August, 1817), was an "exhausted passion" in the drama, and to lay the scene in Venice was to provoke comparison with Shakespeare and Otway; but the man himself, the fiery Doge, passionate but not jealous, a noble turned democrat pro hac vice, an old man "greatly" finding "quarrel in a straw," afforded a theme historically time-honoured, and yet unappropriated by tragic art.

There was, too, a living interest in the story. For history was repeating itself, and "politics were savage and uncertain." "Mischief was afoot," and the tradition of a conspiracy which failed might find an historic parallel in a conspiracy which would succeed. There was "that brewing in Italy" which might, perhaps, inspire "a people to redress itself," "and with a cry of, 'Up with the Republic!' 'Down with the Nobility!' send the Barbarians of all nations back to their own dens!" (Letters, 1901, v. 10, 12, 19.)

In taking the field as a dramatist, Byron sought to win distinction for himself—in the first place by historical accuracy, and, secondly, by artistic regularity—by a stricter attention to the dramatic "unities." "History is closely followed," he tells Murray, in a letter dated July 17, 1820; and, again, in the Preface (vide post, pp. 332-337), which is an expansion of the letter, he gives a list of the authorities which he had consulted, and claims to have "transferred into our language an historical fact worthy of commemoration." More than once in his letters to Murray he reverts to this profession of accuracy, and encloses some additional note, in which he points out and rectifies an occasional deviation from the historical record. In this respect, at any rate, he could contend on more than equal terms "with established writers," that is, with Shakespeare and Otway, and could present to his countrymen an exacter and, so, more lifelike picture of the Venetian Republic. It is plain, too, that he was bitten with the love of study for its own sake, with a premature passion for erudition, and that he sought and found relief from physical and intellectual excitement in the intricacies of research. If his history is at fault, it was not from any lack of diligence on his part, but because the materials at his disposal or within his cognizance were inaccurate and misleading. He makes no mention of the huge collection of Venetian archives which had recently been deposited in the Convent of the Frari, or of Doria's transcript of Sanudo's Diaries, bequeathed in 1816 to the Library of St. Mark; but he quotes as his authorities the Vitae Ducum Venetorum, of Marin Sanudo (1466-1535), the Storia, etc., of Andrea Navagero (1483-1529), and the Principj di Storia, etc., of Vettor Sandi, which belongs to the latter half of the eighteenth century. Byron's chroniclers were ancient, but not ancient enough; and, though they "handed down the story" (see Medwin, Conversations, p. 173), they depart in numerous particulars from the facts recorded in contemporary documents. Unquestionably the legend, as it appears in Sanudo's perplexing and uncritical narrative (see, for the translation of an original version of the Italian, Appendix, pp. 462-467), is more dramatic than the "low beginnings" of the myth, which may be traced to the annalists of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries; but, like other legends, it is insusceptible of proof. Byron's Doge is almost, if not quite, as unhistorical as his Bonivard or his Mazeppa. (See Nuovo Archivio Veneto, 1893, vol. v. pt. i. pp. 95-197; 1897, vol. xiii. pt. i. pp. 5-107; pt. ii. pp. 277-374; Les Archives de Venise, par Armand Baschet, 1870; Storia della Repubblica di Venizia, Giuseppe Cappelletti, 1849, iv. pp. 262-317.)

At the close of the Preface, by way of an afterthought, Byron announces his determination to escape "the reproach of the English theatrical compositions" "by preserving a nearer approach to unity," by substituting the regularity of French and Italian models for the barbarities of the Elizabethan dramatists and their successors. Goethe (Conversations, 1874, p. 114) is said to have "laughed to think that Byron, who, in practical life, could never adapt himself, and never even asked about a law, finally subjected himself to the stupidest of laws—that of the three unities." It was, perhaps, in part with this object in view, to make his readers smile, to provoke their astonishment, that he affected a severity foreign to his genius and at variance with his record. It was an agreeable thought that he could so easily pass from one extreme to another, from Manfred to Marino Faliero, and, at the same time, indulge "in a little sally of gratuitous sauciness" (Quarterly Review, July, 1822, vol. xxvii, p. 480) at the expense of his own countrymen. But there were other influences at work. He had been powerfully impressed by the energy and directness of Alfieri's work, and he was eager to emulate the gravity and simplicity, if not the terseness and conciseness, of his style and language. The drama was a new world to conquer, and so far as "his own literature" was concerned it appeared that success might be attainable by "a severer approach to the rules" (Letter to Murray, February 16, 1821)—that by taking Alfieri as his model he might step into the first rank of English dramatists.

Goethe thought that Byron failed "to understand the purpose" of the "three unities," that he regarded the law as an end in itself, and did not perceive that if a play was comprehensible the unities might be neglected and disregarded. It is possible that his "blind obedience to the law" may have been dictated by the fervour of a convert; but it is equally possible that he looked beyond the law or its fulfilment to an ulterior object, the discomfiture of the romantic school, with its contempt for regularity, its passionate appeal from art to nature. If he was minded to raise a "Grecian temple of the purest architecture" (Letters, 1901, v. Appendix III. p. 559), it was not without some thought and hope of shaming, by force of contrast, the "mosque," the "grotesque edifice" of barbarian contemporaries and rivals. Byron was "ever a fighter," and his claim to regularity, to a closer preservation of the "unities," was of the nature of a challenge.

Marino Faliero was dedicated to "Baron Goethe," but the letter which should have contained the dedication was delayed in transit. Goethe never saw the dedication till it was placed in his hands by John Murray the Third, in 1831, but he read the play, and after Byron's death bore testimony to its peculiar characteristics and essential worth. "Lord Byron, notwithstanding his predominant personality, has sometimes had the power of renouncing himself altogether, as may be seen in some of his dramatic pieces, particularly in his Marino Faliero. In this piece one quite forgets that Lord Byron, or even an Englishman, wrote it. We live entirely in Venice, and entirely in the time in which the action takes place. The personages speak quite from themselves and their own condition, without having any of the subjective feelings, thoughts, and opinions of the poet" (Conversations, 1874, p. 453).

Byron spent three months over the composition of Marino Faliero. The tragedy was completed July 17 (Letters, 1901, v. 52), and the copying (vide post, p. 461, note 2) a month later (August 16, 17, 1820). The final draft of "all the acts corrected" was despatched to England some days before October 6, 1820.

Early in January, 1821 (see Letters to Murray, January 11, 20, 1821, Letters, 1901, v. 221-228), an announcement reached Byron that his play was to be brought out at Drury Lane Theatre, by Elliston. Against this he protested by every means in his power, and finally, on Wednesday, April 25, four days after the publication of the first edition (April 21, 1821), an injunction was obtained from Lord Chancellor Eldon, prohibiting a performance announced for that evening. Elliston pursued the Chancellor to the steps of his own house, and at the last moment persuaded him to allow the play to be acted on that night only. Legal proceeedings were taken, but, in the end, the injunction was withdrawn, with the consent of Byron's solicitors, and the play was represented again on April 30, and on five nights in the following May. As Byron had foreseen, Marino Faliero was coldly received by the playgoing public, and proved a loss to the "speculating buffoons," who had not realized that it was "unfit for their Fair or their booth" (Letter to Murray, January 20, 1821, Letters, 1901, v. 228, and p. 226, note 2. See, too, Memoirs of Robert W. Elliston, 1845, pp. 268-271).

Byron was the first to perceive that the story of Marino Faliero was a drama "ready to hand;" but he has had many followers, if not imitators or rivals.

"Marino Faliero, tragedie en cinq actes," by Casimir Jean Francois Delavigne, was played for the first time at the Theatre of Porte Saint Martin, May 31, 1829.

In Germany tragedies based on the same theme have been published by Otto Ludwig, Leipzig, 1874; Martin Grief, Vienna, 1879; Murad Effendi (Franz von Werner), 1881, and others (Englische Studien, vol. xxvii. pp. 146, 147).

Marino Faliero, a Tragedy, by A. C. Swinburne, was published in 1885.

Marino Faliero was reviewed by Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh Review, July 21, 1821, vol. 35, pp. 271-285; by Heber, in the Quarterly Review, July, 1822, vol. xxvii. pp. 476-492; and by John Wilson, in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, April, 1821, vol. 9, pp. 93-103. For other notices, vide ante ("Introduction to The Prophecy of Dante"), p. 240.



PREFACE.

The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of the most remarkable events in the annals of the most singular government, city, and people of modern history. It occurred in the year 1355. Every thing about Venice is, or was, extraordinary—her aspect is like a dream, and her history is like a romance. The story of this Doge is to be found in all her Chronicles, and particularly detailed in the "Lives of the Doges," by Marin Sanuto, which is given in the Appendix. It is simply and clearly related, and is perhaps more dramatic in itself than any scenes which can be founded upon the subject.

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of talents and of courage. I find him commander-in-chief of the land forces at the siege of Zara,[359] where he beat the King of Hungary and his army of eighty thousand men, killing eight thousand men, and keeping the besieged at the same time in check; an exploit to which I know none similar in history, except that of Caesar at Alesia,[360] and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He was afterwards commander of the fleet in the same war. He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador at Genoa and Rome,—at which last he received the news of his election to the dukedom; his absence being a proof that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was apprised of his predecessor's death and his own succession at the same moment. But he appears to have been of an ungovernable temper. A story is told by Sanuto, of his having, many years before, when podesta and captain at Treviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who was somewhat tardy in bringing the Host.[361] For this, honest Sanuto "saddles him with a judgment," as Thwackum did Square;[362] but he does not tell us whether he was punished or rebuked by the Senate for this outrage at the time of its commission. He seems, indeed, to have been afterwards at peace with the church, for we find him ambassador at Rome, and invested with the fief of Val di Marino, in the march of Treviso, and with the title of count, by Lorenzo, Count-bishop of Ceneda. For these facts my authorities are Sanuto, Vettor Sandi,[363] Andrea Navagero,[364] and the account of the siege of Zara, first published by the indefatigable Abate Morelli, in his Monumenti Veneziani di varia Letteratura, printed in 1796,[365] all of which I have looked over in the original language. The moderns, Daru, Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with the ancient chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to his jealousy; but I find this nowhere asserted by the national historians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, says that "Altri scrissero che....dalla gelosa suspizion di esso Doge siasi fatto (Michel Steno) staccar con violenza," etc., etc.; but this appears to have been by no means the general opinion, nor is it alluded to by Sanuto, or by Navagero; and Sandi himself adds, a moment after, that "per altre Veneziane memorie traspiri, che non il solo desiderio di vendetta lo dispose alla congiura ma anche la innata abituale ambizion sua, per cui aneleva a farsi principe independente." The first motive appears to have been excited by the gross affront of the words written by Michel Steno on the ducal chair, and by the light and inadequate sentence of the Forty on the offender, who was one of their "tre Capi."[366] The attentions of Steno himself appear to have been directed towards one of her damsels, and not to the "Dogaressa"[367] herself, against whose fame not the slightest insinuation appears, while she is praised for her beauty, and remarked for her youth. Neither do I find it asserted (unless the hint of Sandi be an assertion) that the Doge was actuated by jealousy of his wife; but rather by respect for her, and for his own honour, warranted by his past services and present dignity.

I know not that the historical facts are alluded to in English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View of Italy[368]. His account is false and flippant, full of stale jests about old men and young wives, and wondering at so great an effect from so slight a cause. How so acute and severe an observer of mankind as the author of Zeluco could wonder at this is inconceivable. He knew that a basin of water spilt on Mrs. Masham's gown deprived the Duke of Marlborough of his command, and led to the inglorious peace of Utrecht—that Louis XIV. was plunged into the most desolating wars, because his minister was nettled at his finding fault with a window, and wished to give him another occupation—that Helen lost Troy—that Lucretia expelled the Tarquins from Rome—and that Cava brought the Moors to Spain—that an insulted husband led the Gauls to Clusium, and thence to Rome—that a single verse of Frederick II.[369] of Prussia on the Abbe de Bernis, and a jest on Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of Rosbach—that the elopement of Dearbhorgil[370] with Mac Murchad conducted the English to the slavery of Ireland that a personal pique between Maria Antoinette and the Duke of Orleans precipitated the first expulsion of the Bourbons—and, not to multiply instances of the teterrima causa, that Commodus, Domitian, and Caligula fell victims not to their public tyranny, but to private vengeance—and that an order to make Cromwell disembark from the ship in which he would have sailed to America destroyed both King and Commonwealth. After these instances, on the least reflection it is indeed extraordinary in Dr. Moore to seem surprised that a man used to command, who had served and swayed in the most important offices, should fiercely resent, in a fierce age, an unpunished affront, the grossest that can be offered to a man, be he prince or peasant. The age of Faliero is little to the purpose, unless to favour it—

"The young man's wrath is like [light] straw on fire, But like red hot steel is the old man's ire."

[Davie Gellatley's song in Waverley, chap. xiv.]

"Young men soon give and soon forget affronts, Old age is slow at both."

Laugier's reflections are more philosophical:—"Tale fu il fine ignominioso di un' uomo, che la sua nascita, la sua eta, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi talenti per lungo tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la sua capacita sperimentata ne' governi e nelle ambasciate, gli avevano acquistato la stima e la fiducia de' cittadini, ed avevano uniti i suffragj per collocarlo alla testa della repubblica. Innalzato ad un grado che terminava gloriosamente la sua vita, il risentimento di un' ingiuria leggiera insinuo nel suo cuore tal veleno che basto a corrompere le antiche sue qualita, e a condurlo al termine dei scellerati; serio esempio, che prova non esservi eta, in cui la prudenza umana sia sicura, e che nell' uomo restano sempre passioni capaci a disonorarlo, quando non invigili sopra se stesso."[371]

Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero begged his life? I have searched the chroniclers, and find nothing of the kind: it is true that he avowed all. He was conducted to the place of torture, but there is no mention made of any application for mercy on his part; and the very circumstance of their having taken him to the rack seems to argue any thing but his having shown a want of firmness, which would doubtless have been also mentioned by those minute historians, who by no means favour him: such, indeed, would be contrary to his character as a soldier, to the age in which he lived, and at which he died, as it is to the truth of history. I know no justification, at any distance of time, for calumniating an historical character: surely truth belongs to the dead, and to the unfortunate: and they who have died upon a scaffold have generally had faults enough of their own, without attributing to them that which the very incurring of the perils which conducted them to their violent death renders, of all others, the most improbable. The black veil which is painted over the place of Marino Faliero amongst the Doges, and the Giants' Staircase[372], where he was crowned, and discrowned, and decapitated, struck forcibly upon my imagination; as did his fiery character and strange story. I went, in 1819, in search of his tomb more than once to the church San Giovanni e San Paolo; and, as I was standing before the monument of another family, a priest came up to me and said, "I can show you finer monuments than that." I told him that I was in search of that of the Faliero family, and particularly of the Doge Marino's. "Oh," said he, "I will show it you;" and, conducting me to the outside, pointed out a sarcophagus in the wall with an illegible inscription[373]. He said that it had been in a convent adjoining, but was removed after the French came, and placed in its present situation; that he had seen the tomb opened at its removal; there were still some bones remaining, but no positive vestige of the decapitation. The equestrian statue[374] of which I have made mention in the third act as before that church is not, however, of a Faliero, but of some other now obsolete warrior, although of a later date. There were two other Doges of this family prior to Marino; Ordelafo, who fell in battle at Zara, in 1117 (where his descendant afterwards conquered the Huns), and Vital Faliero, who reigned in 1082. The family, originally from Fano, was of the most illustrious in blood and wealth in the city of once the most wealthy and still the most ancient families in Europe. The length I have gone into on this subject will show the interest I have taken in it. Whether I have succeeded or not in the tragedy, I have at least transferred into our language an historical fact worthy of commemoration.

It is now four years that I have meditated this work; and before I had sufficiently examined the records, I was rather disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy in Faliero. But, perceiving no foundation for this in historical truth, and aware that jealousy is an exhausted passion in the drama, I have given it a more historical form. I was, besides, well advised by the late Matthew Lewis[375] on that point, in talking with him of my intention at Venice in 1817. "If you make him jealous," said he, "recollect that you have to contend with established writers, to say nothing of Shakespeare, and an exhausted subject:—stick to the old fiery Doge's natural character, which will bear you out, if properly drawn; and make your plot as regular as you can." Sir William Drummond[376] gave me nearly the same counsel. How far I have followed these instructions, or whether they have availed me, is not for me to decide. I have had no view to the stage; in its present state it is, perhaps, not a very exalted object of ambition; besides, I have been too much behind the scenes to have thought it so at any time.[ct] And I cannot conceive any man of irritable feeling[cu] putting himself at the mercies of an audience. The sneering reader, and the loud critic, and the tart review, are scattered and distant calamities; but the trampling of an intelligent or of an ignorant audience on a production which, be it good or bad, has been a mental labour to the writer, is a palpable and immediate grievance, heightened by a man's doubt of their competency to judge, and his certainty of his own imprudence in electing them his judges. Were I capable of writing a play which could be deemed stage-worthy, success would give me no pleasure, and failure great pain. It is for this reason that, even during the time of being one of the committee of one of the theatres, I never made the attempt, and never will[377]. But I wish that others would, for surely there is dramatic power somewhere, where Joanna Baillie, and Milman, and John Wilson exist. The City of the Plague[1816] and the Fall of Jerusalem [1820] are full of the best "materiel" for tragedy that has been seen since Horace Walpole, except passages of Ethwald[1802] and De Montfort[1798]. It is the fashion to underrate Horace Walpole; firstly, because he was a nobleman, and secondly, because he was a gentleman; but, to say nothing of the composition of his incomparable letters, and of the Castle of Otranto[1765], he is the "Ultimus Romanorum," the author of the Mysterious Mother[1768], a tragedy of the highest order, and not a puling love-play. He is the father of the first romance and of the last tragedy in our language, and surely worthy of a higher place than any living writer, be he who he may.[378]

In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I forgot to mention that the desire of preserving, though still too remote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregularity, which is the reproach of the English theatrical compositions, permits, has induced me to represent the conspiracy as already formed, and the Doge acceding to it; whereas, in fact, it was of his own preparation and that of Israel Bertuccio. The other characters (except that of the Duchess), incidents, and almost the time, which was wonderfully short for such a design in real life, are strictly historical, except that all the consultations took place in the palace. Had I followed this, the unity would have been better preserved; but I wished to produce the Doge in the full assembly of the conspirators, instead of monotonously placing him always in dialogue with the same individuals. For the real facts, I refer to the Appendix.[379]

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MEN.

Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice. Bertuccio Faliero, Nephew of the Doge. Lioni, a Patrician and Senator. Benintende, Chief of the Council of Ten. Michel Steno, One of the three Capi of the Forty. Israel Bertuccio, Chief of the Arsenal, } Philip Calendaro, } Conspirators. Dagolino, } Bertram, }

Signor of the Night, "Signore di Notte," one of the Officers belonging to the Republic. First Citizen. Second Citizen. Third Citizen.

Vincenzo, } Pietro, } Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace. Battista, }

Secretary of the Council of Ten.

Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, The Council of Ten, the Giunta, etc., etc.

WOMEN.

Angiolina, Wife to the Doge. Marianna, her Friend. Female Attendants, etc.

Scene Venice—in the year 1355.



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE.

(AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.)



ACT I.

SCENE I.—An Antechamber in the Ducal Palace.

PIETRO speaks, in entering, to BATTISTA.

Pie. Is not the messenger returned?[cv]

Bat. Not yet; I have sent frequently, as you commanded, But still the Signory[380] is deep in council, And long debate on Steno's accusation.

Pie. Too long—at least so thinks the Doge.

Bat. How bears he These moments of suspense?

Pie. With struggling patience.[cw] Placed at the Ducal table, covered o'er With all the apparel of the state—petitions, Despatches, judgments, acts, reprieves, reports,— He sits as rapt in duty; but whene'er[cx] 10 He hears the jarring of a distant door, Or aught that intimates a coming step,[cy] Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders, And he will start up from his chair, then pause, And seat himself again, and fix his gaze Upon some edict; but I have observed For the last hour he has not turned a leaf.

Bat. 'Tis said he is much moved,—and doubtless 'twas Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly.

Pie. Aye, if a poor man: Steno's a patrician, 20 Young, galliard, gay, and haughty.[cz]

Bat. Then you think He will not be judged hardly?

Pie. 'Twere enough He be judged justly; but 'tis not for us To anticipate the sentence of the Forty.

Bat. And here it comes.—What news, Vincenzo?

Enter VINCENZO.

Vin. 'Tis Decided; but as yet his doom's unknown: I saw the President in act to seal The parchment which will bear the Forty's judgment Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—The Ducal Chamber.

MARINO FALIERO, Doge; and his Nephew, BERTUCCIO FALIERO.[381]

Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do you justice.

Doge. Aye, such as the Avogadori[382] did, Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty To try him by his peers, his own tribunal.

Ber. F. His peers will scarce protect him; such an act Would bring contempt on all authority.

Doge. Know you not Venice? Know you not the Forty? But we shall see anon.

Ber. F. (addressing VINCENZO, then entering.) How now—what tidings?

Vin. I am charged to tell his Highness that the court Has passed its resolution, and that, soon 10 As the due forms of judgment are gone through, The sentence will be sent up to the Doge; In the mean time the Forty doth salute The Prince of the Republic, and entreat His acceptation of their duty.

Doge. Yes— They are wond'rous dutiful, and ever humble. Sentence is passed, you say?

Vin. It is, your Highness: The President was sealing it, when I Was called in, that no moment might be lost In forwarding the intimation due 20 Not only to the Chief of the Republic, But the complainant, both in one united.

Ber. F. Are you aware, from aught you have perceived, Of their decision?

Vin. No, my Lord; you know The secret custom of the courts in Venice.

Ber. F. True; but there still is something given to guess, Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would catch at; A whisper, or a murmur, or an air More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. The Forty are but men—most worthy men, 30 And wise, and just, and cautious—this I grant— And secret as the grave to which they doom The guilty: but with all this, in their aspects— At least in some, the juniors of the number— A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced.

Vin. My Lord, I came away upon the moment, And had no leisure to take note of that Which passed among the judges, even in seeming; My station near the accused too, Michel Steno, 40 Made me—

Doge (abruptly). And how looked he? deliver that.

Vin. Calm, but not overcast, he stood resigned To the decree, whate'er it were;—but lo! It comes, for the perusal of his Highness.

Enter the SECRETARY of the Forty.

Sec. The high tribunal of the Forty sends Health and respect to the Doge Faliero,[da] Chief magistrate of Venice, and requests His Highness to peruse and to approve The sentence passed on Michel Steno, born Patrician, and arraigned upon the charge 50 Contained, together with its penalty, Within the rescript which I now present.

Doge. Retire, and wait without. [Exeunt SECRETARY and VINCENZO.] Take thou this paper: The misty letters vanish from my eyes; I cannot fix them.

Ber. F. Patience, my dear Uncle: Why do you tremble thus?—nay, doubt not, all Will be as could be wished.

Doge. Say on.

Ber. F. (reading). "Decreed In council, without one dissenting voice, That Michel Steno, by his own confession, Guilty on the last night of Carnival 60 Of having graven on the ducal throne The following words—"[383]

Doge. Would'st thou repeat them? Would'st thou repeat them—thou, a Faliero, Harp on the deep dishonour of our house, Dishonoured in its Chief—that Chief the Prince Of Venice, first of cities?—To the sentence.

Ber. F. Forgive me, my good Lord; I will obey— (Reads) "That Michel Steno be detained a month In close arrest."[384]

Doge. Proceed.

Ber. F. My Lord, 'tis finished.

Doge. How say you?—finished! Do I dream?—'tis false— 70 Give me the paper—(snatches the paper and reads)— "'Tis decreed in council That Michel Steno"—Nephew, thine arm!

Ber. F. Nay, Cheer up, be calm; this transport is uncalled for— Let me seek some assistance.

Doge. Stop, sir—Stir not— 'Tis past.

Ber. F. I cannot but agree with you The sentence is too slight for the offence; It is not honourable in the Forty To affix so slight a penalty to that Which was a foul affront to you, and even To them, as being your subjects; but 'tis not 80 Yet without remedy: you can appeal To them once more, or to the Avogadori, Who, seeing that true justice is withheld, Will now take up the cause they once declined, And do you right upon the bold delinquent. Think you not thus, good Uncle? why do you stand So fixed? You heed me not:—I pray you, hear me!

Doge (dashing down the ducal bonnet, and offering to trample upon it, exclaims, as he is withheld by his nephew). Oh! that the Saracen were in St. Mark's! Thus would I do him homage.

Ber. F. For the sake Of Heaven and all its saints, my Lord—

Doge. Away! 90 Oh, that the Genoese were in the port! Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara[385] Were ranged around the palace!

Ber. F. 'Tis not well In Venice' Duke to say so.

Doge. Venice' Duke! Who now is Duke in Venice? let me see him, That he may do me right.

Ber. F. If you forget Your office, and its dignity and duty. Remember that of man, and curb this passion. The Duke of Venice——

Doge (interrupting him). There is no such thing— It is a word—nay, worse—a worthless by-word: 100 The most despised, wronged, outraged, helpless wretch, Who begs his bread, if 'tis refused by one, May win it from another kinder heart; But he, who is denied his right by those Whose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer Than the rejected beggar—he's a slave— And that am I—and thou—and all our house, Even from this hour; the meanest artisan Will point the finger, and the haughty noble May spit upon us:—where is our redress? 110

Ber. F. The law, my Prince—

Doge (interrupting him). You see what it has done; I asked no remedy but from the law—[386] I sought no vengeance but redress by law— I called no judges but those named by law— As Sovereign, I appealed unto my subjects, The very subjects who had made me Sovereign, And gave me thus a double right to be so. The rights of place and choice, of birth and service, Honours and years, these scars, these hoary hairs, The travel—toil—the perils—the fatigues— 120 The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, Were weighed i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest stain, The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime Of a rank, rash patrician—and found wanting! And this is to be borne!

Ber. F. I say not that:— In case your fresh appeal should be rejected, We will find other means to make all even.

Doge. Appeal again! art thou my brother's son? A scion of the house of Faliero? The nephew of a Doge? and of that blood 130 Which hath already given three dukes to Venice? But thou say'st well—we must be humble now.

Ber. F. My princely Uncle! you are too much moved;— I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly Left without fitting punishment: but still This fury doth exceed the provocation, Or any provocation: if we are wronged, We will ask justice; if it be denied, We'll take it; but may do all this in calmness— Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep Silence. 140 I have yet scarce a third part of your years, I love our house, I honour you, its Chief, The guardian of my youth, and its instructor— But though I understand your grief, and enter In part of your disdain, it doth appal me To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air.

Doge. I tell thee—must I tell thee—what thy father Would have required no words to comprehend? Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 150 Of torture from the touch? hast thou no soul— No pride—no passion—no deep sense of honour?

Ber. F. 'Tis the first time that honour has been doubted, And were the last, from any other sceptic.

Doge. You know the full offence of this born villain, This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, Who threw his sting into a poisonous libel,[db] And on the honour of—Oh God! my wife, The nearest, dearest part of all men's honour, Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 160 Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul comments, And villainous jests, and blasphemies obscene; While sneering nobles, in more polished guise, Whispered the tale, and smiled upon the lie Which made me look like them—a courteous wittol, Patient—aye—proud, it may be, of dishonour.

Ber. F. But still it was a lie—you knew it false, And so did all men.

Doge. Nephew, the high Roman Said, "Caesar's wife must not even be suspected,"[387] And put her from him.

Ber. F. True—but in those days—— 170

Doge. What is it that a Roman would not suffer, That a Venetian Prince must bear? old Dandolo[dc] Refused the diadem of all the Caesars,[388] And wore the ducal cap I trample on— Because 'tis now degraded.

Ber. F. 'Tis even so.

Doge. It is—it is;—I did not visit on The innocent creature thus most vilely slandered Because she took an old man for her lord, For that he had been long her father's friend And patron of her house, as if there were 180 No love in woman's heart but lust of youth And beardless faces;—I did not for this Visit the villain's infamy on her, But craved my country's justice on his head, The justice due unto the humblest being Who hath a wife whose faith is sweet to him, Who hath a home whose hearth is dear to him— Who hath a name whose honour's all to him, When these are tainted by the accursing breath Of Calumny and Scorn.

Ber. F. And what redress 190 Did you expect as his fit punishment?

Doge. Death! Was I not the Sovereign of the state— Insulted on his very throne, and made A mockery to the men who should obey me? Was I not injured as a husband? scorned As man? reviled, degraded, as a Prince? Was not offence like his a complication Of insult and of treason?—and he lives! Had he instead of on the Doge's throne Stamped the same brand upon a peasant's stool, 200 His blood had gilt the threshold; for the carle Had stabbed him on the instant.

Ber. F. Do not doubt it, f He shall not live till sunset—leave to me The means, and calm yourself.

Doge. Hold, nephew: this Would have sufficed but yesterday; at present I have no further wrath against this man.

Ber. F. What mean you? is not the offence redoubled By this most rank—I will not say—acquittal; For it is worse, being full acknowledgment Of the offence, and leaving it unpunished? 210

Doge. It is redoubled, but not now by him: The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest— We must obey the Forty.

Ber. F. Obey them! Who have forgot their duty to the Sovereign?

Doge. Why, yes;—boy, you perceive it then at last; Whether as fellow citizen who sues For justice, or as Sovereign who commands it, They have defrauded me of both my rights (For here the Sovereign is a citizen); But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 220 Of Steno's head—he shall not wear it long.

Ber. F. Not twelve hours longer, had you left to me The mode and means; if you had calmly heard me, I never meant this miscreant should escape, But wished you to suppress such gusts of passion, That we more surely might devise together His taking off.

Doge. No, nephew, he must live; At least, just now—a life so vile as his Were nothing at this hour; in th' olden time[dd] Some sacrifices asked a single victim, 230 Great expiations had a hecatomb.

Ber. F. Your wishes are my law: and yet I fain Would prove to you how near unto my heart The honour of our house must ever be.

Doge. Fear not; you shall have time and place of proof: But be not thou too rash, as I have been. I am ashamed of my own anger now; I pray you, pardon me.

Ber. F. Why, that's my uncle! The leader, and the statesman, and the chief Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself! 240 I wondered to perceive you so forget All prudence in your fury at these years, Although the cause—

Doge. Aye—think upon the cause— Forget it not:—When you lie down to rest, Let it be black among your dreams; and when The morn returns, so let it stand between The Sun and you, as an ill-omened cloud Upon a summer-day of festival: So will it stand to me;—but speak not, stir not,— Leave all to me; we shall have much to do, 250 And you shall have a part.—But now retire, 'Tis fit I were alone.

Ber. F. (taking up and placing the ducal bonnet on the table). Ere I depart, I pray you to resume what you have spurned, Till you can change it—haply, for a crown! And now I take my leave, imploring you In all things to rely upon my duty, As doth become your near and faithful kinsman, And not less loyal citizen and subject. [Exit BERTUCCIO FALIERO.

Doge (solus). Adieu, my worthy nephew.—Hollow bauble! [Taking up the ducal cap. Beset with all the thorns that line a crown, 260 Without investing the insulted brow With the all-swaying majesty of Kings; Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy, Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. [Puts it on. How my brain aches beneath thee! and my temples Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. Could I not turn thee to a diadem? Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre Which in this hundred-handed Senate rules, Making the people nothing, and the Prince 270 A pageant? In my life I have achieved Tasks not less difficult—achieved for them, Who thus repay me! Can I not requite them? Oh for one year! Oh! but for even a day Of my full youth, while yet my body served My soul as serves the generous steed his lord, I would have dashed amongst them, asking few In aid to overthrow these swoln patricians; But now I must look round for other hands To serve this hoary head; but it shall plan 280 In such a sort as will not leave the task Herculean, though as yet 'tis but a chaos Of darkly brooding thoughts: my fancy is In her first work, more nearly to the light Holding the sleeping images of things For the selection of the pausing judgment.— The troops are few in——

Enter VINCENZO.

Vin. There is one without Craves audience of your Highness.

Doge. I'm unwell— I can see no one, not even a patrician— Let him refer his business to the Council. 290

Vin. My Lord, I will deliver your reply; It cannot much import—he's a plebeian, The master of a galley, I believe.

Doge. How! did you say the patron of a galley?[389] That is—I mean—a servant of the state: Admit him, he may be on public service. [Exit VINCENZO.

Doge (solus). This patron may be sounded; I will try him. I know the people to be discontented: They have cause, since Sapienza's[390] adverse day, When Genoa conquered: they have further cause, 300 Since they are nothing in the state, and in The city worse than nothing—mere machines, To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasure. The troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised, And murmur deeply—any hope of change Will draw them forward: they shall pay themselves With plunder:—but the priests—I doubt the priesthood Will not be with us; they have hated me Since that rash hour, when, maddened with the drone, I smote the tardy Bishop at Treviso,[391] 310 Quickening his holy march; yet, ne'ertheless, They may be won, at least their Chief at Rome, By some well-timed concessions; but, above All things, I must be speedy: at my hour Of twilight little light of life remains. Could I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, I had lived too long, and willingly would sleep Next moment with my sires; and, wanting this, Better that sixty of my fourscore years Had been already where—how soon, I care not— 320 The whole must be extinguished;—better that They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be The thing these arch-oppressors fain would make me. Let me consider—of efficient troops There are three thousand posted at——

Enter VINCENZO and ISRAEL BERTUCCIO.

Vin. May it please Your Highness, the same patron whom I spake of Is here to crave your patience.

Doge. Leave the chamber, Vincenzo.— [Exit VINCENZO. Sir, you may advance—what would you?

I. Ber. Redress.

Doge. Of whom?

I. Ber. Of God and of the Doge.

Doge. Alas! my friend, you seek it of the twain 330 Of least respect and interest in Venice. You must address the Council.

I. Ber. 'Twere in vain; For he who injured me is one of them.

Doge. There's blood upon thy face—how came it there?

I. Ber. 'Tis mine, and not the first I've shed for Venice, But the first shed by a Venetian hand: A noble smote me.

Doge. Doth he live?

I. Ber. Not long— But for the hope I had and have, that you, My Prince, yourself a soldier, will redress Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice 340 Permit not to protect himself:—if not— I say no more.

Doge. But something you would do— Is it not so?

I. Ber. I am a man, my Lord.

Doge. Why so is he who smote you.

I. Ber. He is called so; Nay, more, a noble one—at least, in Venice: But since he hath forgotten that I am one, And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn— 'Tis said the worm will.

Doge. Say—his name and lineage?

I. Ber. Barbaro.

Doge. What was the cause? or the pretext?

I. Ber. I am the chief of the arsenal,[392] employed 350 At present in repairing certain galleys But roughly used by the Genoese last year. This morning comes the noble Barbaro[393] Full of reproof, because our artisans Had left some frivolous order of his house, To execute the state's decree: I dared To justify the men—he raised his hand;— Behold my blood! the first time it e'er flowed Dishonourably.

Doge. Have you long time served?

I. Ber. So long as to remember Zara's siege, 360 And fight beneath the Chief who beat the Huns there, Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero.—

Doge. How! are we comrades?—the State's ducal robes Sit newly on me, and you were appointed Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome; So that I recognised you not. Who placed you?

I. Ber. The late Doge; keeping still my old command As patron of a galley: my new office Was given as the reward of certain scars (So was your predecessor pleased to say): 370 I little thought his bounty would conduct me To his successor as a helpless plaintiff; At least, in such a cause.

Doge. Are you much hurt?

I. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem.

Doge. Speak out; fear nothing: being stung at heart, What would you do to be revenged on this man?

I. Ber. That which I dare not name, and yet will do.

Doge. Then wherefore came you here?

I. Ber. I come for justice, Because my general is Doge, and will not See his old soldier trampled on. Had any, 380 Save Faliero, filled the ducal throne, This blood had been washed out in other blood.

Doge. You come to me for justice—unto me! The Doge of Venice, and I cannot give it; I cannot even obtain it—'twas denied To me most solemnly an hour ago!

I. Ber. How says your Highness?

Doge. Steno is condemned To a month's confinement.

I. Ber. What! the same who dared To stain the ducal throne with those foul words, That have cried shame to every ear in Venice? 390

Doge. Aye, doubtless they have echoed o'er the arsenal, Keeping due time with every hammer's clink, As a good jest to jolly artisans; Or making chorus to the creaking oar, In the vile tune of every galley-slave, Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted He was not a shamed dotard like the Doge.

I. Ber. Is't possible? a month's imprisonment! No more for Steno?

Doge. You have heard the offence, And now you know his punishment; and then 400 You ask redress of me! Go to the Forty, Who passed the sentence upon Michel Steno; They'll do as much by Barbaro, no doubt.

I. Ber. Ah! dared I speak my feelings!

Doge. Give them breath. Mine have no further outrage to endure.

I. Ber. Then, in a word, it rests but on your word To punish and avenge—I will not say My petty wrong, for what is a mere blow, However vile, to such a thing as I am?— But the base insult done your state and person. 410

Doge. You overrate my power, which is a pageant. This Cap is not the Monarch's crown; these robes Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags; Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and these But lent to the poor puppet, who must play Its part with all its empire in this ermine.

I. Ber. Wouldst thou be King?

Doge. Yes—of a happy people.

I. Ber. Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of Venice?

Doge. Aye, If that the people shared that sovereignty, So that nor they nor I were further slaves 420 To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hydra,[394] The poisonous heads of whose envenomed body Have breathed a pestilence upon us all.

I. Ber. Yet, thou wast born, and still hast lived, patrician.

Doge. In evil hour was I so born; my birth Hath made me Doge to be insulted: but I lived and toiled a soldier and a servant Of Venice and her people, not the Senate; Their good and my own honour were my guerdon. I have fought and bled; commanded, aye, and conquered; 430 Have made and marred peace oft in embassies, As it might chance to be our country's 'vantage; Have traversed land and sea in constant duty, Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice, My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear spires, Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, It was reward enough for me to view Once more; but not for any knot of men, Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat! But would you know why I have done all this? 440 Ask of the bleeding pelican why she Hath ripped her bosom? Had the bird a voice, She'd tell thee 'twas for all her little ones.

I. Ber. And yet they made thee Duke.

Doge. They made me so; I sought it not, the flattering fetters met me Returning from my Roman embassy, And never having hitherto refused Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did not, At these late years, decline what was the highest Of all in seeming, but of all most base 450 In what we have to do and to endure: Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject, When I can neither right myself nor thee.

I. Ber. You shall do both, if you possess the will; And many thousands more not less oppressed, Who wait but for a signal—will you give it?

Doge. You speak in riddles.

I. Ber. Which shall soon be read At peril of my life—if you disdain not To lend a patient ear.

Doge. Say on.

I. Ber. Not thou, Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 460 Contemned and trampled on; but the whole people Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs: The foreign soldiers in the Senate's pay Are discontented for their long arrears; The native mariners, and civic troops, Feel with their friends; for who is he amongst them Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters, Have not partook[395] oppression, or pollution, From the patricians? And the hopeless war Against the Genoese, which is still maintained 470 With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung From their hard earnings, has inflamed them further: Even now—but, I forget that speaking thus, Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death!

Doge. And suffering what thou hast done—fear'st thou death? Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten By those for whom thou hast bled.

I. Ber. No, I will speak At every hazard; and if Venice' Doge Should turn delator, be the shame on him, And sorrow too; for he will lose far more 480 Than I.

Doge. From me fear nothing; out with it!

I. Ber. Know then, that there are met and sworn in secret A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true; Men who have proved all fortunes, and have long Grieved over that of Venice, and have right To do so; having served her in all climes, And having rescued her from foreign foes, Would do the same from those within her walls. They are not numerous, nor yet too few For their great purpose; they have arms, and means, 490 And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient courage.

Doge. For what then do they pause?

I. Ber. An hour to strike.

Doge (aside). Saint Mark's shall strike that hour![396]

I. Ber. I now have placed My life, my honour, all my earthly hopes Within thy power, but in the firm belief That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause, Will generate one vengeance: should it be so, Be our Chief now—our Sovereign hereafter.

Doge. How many are ye?

I. Ber. I'll not answer that Till I am answered.

Doge. How, sir! do you menace? 500

I. Ber. No; I affirm. I have betrayed myself; But there's no torture in the mystic wells Which undermine your palace, nor in those Not less appalling cells, the "leaden roofs," To force a single name from me of others. The Pozzi[397] and the Piombi were in vain; They might wring blood from me, but treachery never. And I would pass the fearful "Bridge of Sighs," Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 510 Between the murderers and the murdered, washing The prison and the palace walls: there are Those who would live to think on't, and avenge me.

Doge. If such your power and purpose, why come here To sue for justice, being in the course To do yourself due right?

I. Ber. Because the man, Who claims protection from authority, Showing his confidence and his submission To that authority, can hardly be Suspected of combining to destroy it. 520 Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, A moody brow and muttered threats had made me A marked man to the Forty's inquisition; But loud complaint, however angrily It shapes its phrase, is little to be feared, And less distrusted. But, besides all this, I had another reason.

Doge. What was that?

I. Ber. Some rumours that the Doge was greatly moved By the reference of the Avogadori Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 530 Had reached me. I had served you, honoured you, And felt that you were dangerously insulted, Being of an order of such spirits, as Requite tenfold both good and evil: 'twas My wish to prove and urge you to redress. Now you know all; and that I speak the truth, My peril be the proof.

Doge. You have deeply ventured; But all must do so who would greatly win: Thus far I'll answer you—your secret's safe.

I. Ber. And is this all?

Doge. Unless with all intrusted, 540 What would you have me answer?

I. Ber. I would have you Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you.

Doge. But I must know your plan, your names, and numbers; The last may then be doubled, and the former Matured and strengthened.

I. Ber. We're enough already; You are the sole ally we covet now.

Doge. But bring me to the knowledge of your chiefs.

I. Ber. That shall be done upon your formal pledge To keep the faith that we will pledge to you.

Doge. When? where?

I. Ber. This night I'll bring to your apartment 550 Two of the principals: a greater number Were hazardous.

Doge. Stay, I must think of this.— What if I were to trust myself amongst you, And leave the palace?

I. Ber. You must come alone.

Doge. With but my nephew.

I. Ber. Not were he your son!

Doge. Wretch! darest thou name my son? He died in arms At Sapienza[398] for this faithless state. Oh! that he were alive, and I in ashes! Or that he were alive ere I be ashes! I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 560

I. Ber. Not one of all those strangers whom thou doubtest, But will regard thee with a filial feeling, So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them.

Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place of meeting?

I. Ber. At midnight I will be alone and masked Where'er your Highness pleases to direct me, To wait your coming, and conduct you where You shall receive our homage, and pronounce Upon our project.

Doge. At what hour arises The moon?

I. Ber. Late, but the atmosphere is thick and dusky, 570 'Tis a sirocco.

Doge. At the midnight hour, then, Near to the church where sleep my sires;[399] the same, Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul; A gondola,[400] with one oar only, will Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. Be there.

I. Ber. I will not fail.

Doge. And now retire——

I. Ber. In the full hope your Highness will not falter In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave. [Exit Isreal Bertuccio.

Doge (solus). At midnight, by the church Saints John and Paul, Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair— 580 To what? to hold a council in the dark With common ruffians leagued to ruin states! And will not my great sires leap from the vault, Where lie two Doges who preceded me, And pluck me down amongst them? Would they could! For I should rest in honour with the honoured. Alas! I must not think of them, but those Who have made me thus unworthy of a name Noble and brave as aught of consular On Roman marbles; but I will redeem it 590 Back to its antique lustre in our annals, By sweet revenge on all that's base in Venice, And freedom to the rest, or leave it black To all the growing calumnies of Time, Which never spare the fame of him who fails, But try the Caesar, or the Catiline, By the true touchstone of desert—Success.[401]



ACT II.

SCENE I.—An Apartment in the Ducal Palace.

ANGIOLINA[402] (wife of the DOGE) and MARIANNA.

Ang. What was the Doge's answer?

Mar. That he was That moment summoned to a conference; But 'tis by this time ended. I perceived Not long ago the Senators embarking; And the last gondola may now be seen Gliding into the throng of barks which stud The glittering waters.

Ang. Would he were returned! He has been much disquieted of late; And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spirit, Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, 10 Which seems to be more nourished by a soul So quick and restless that it would consume Less hardy clay—Time has but little power On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike To other spirits of his order, who, In the first burst of passion, pour away Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in him An aspect of Eternity: his thoughts, His feelings, passions, good or evil, all Have nothing of old age;[403] and his bold brow 20 Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years, Not their decrepitude: and he of late Has been more agitated than his wont. Would he were come! for I alone have power Upon his troubled spirit.

Mar. It is true, His Highness has of late been greatly moved By the affront of Steno, and with cause: But the offender doubtless even now Is doomed to expiate his rash insult with Such chastisement as will enforce respect 30 To female virtue, and to noble blood.

Ang. 'Twas a gross insult; but I heed it not For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself, But for the effect, the deadly deep impression Which it has made upon Faliero's soul, The proud, the fiery, the austere—austere To all save me: I tremble when I think To what it may conduct.

Mar. Assuredly The Doge can not suspect you?

Ang. Suspect me! Why Steno dared not: when he scrawled his lie, 40 Grovelling by stealth in the moon's glimmering light, His own still conscience smote him for the act, And every shadow on the walls frowned shame Upon his coward calumny.

Mar. 'Twere fit He should be punished grievously.

Ang. He is so.

Mar. What! is the sentence passed? is he condemned?[de]

Ang. I know not that, but he has been detected.

Mar. And deem you this enough for such foul scorn?

Ang. I would not be a judge in my own cause, Nor do I know what sense of punishment 50 May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno; But if his insults sink no deeper in The minds of the inquisitors than they Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, Be left to his own shamelessness or shame.

Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slandered virtue.

Ang. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim? Or if it must depend upon men's words? The dying Roman said, "'twas but a name:"[404] It were indeed no more, if human breath 60 Could make or mar it.

Mar. Yet full many a dame, Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong Of such a slander; and less rigid ladies, Such as abound in Venice, would be loud And all-inexorable in their cry For justice.

Ang. This but proves it is the name And not the quality they prize: the first Have found it a hard task to hold their honour, If they require it to be blazoned forth; And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming 70 As they would look out for an ornament Of which they feel the want, but not because They think it so; they live in others' thoughts, And would seem honest as they must seem fair.

Mar. You have strange thoughts for a patrician dame.

Ang. And yet they were my father's; with his name, The sole inheritance he left.

Mar. You want none; Wife to a Prince, the Chief of the Republic.

Ang. I should have sought none though a peasant's bride, But feel not less the love and gratitude 80 Due to my father, who bestowed my hand Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend, The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge.

Mar. And with that hand did he bestow your heart?

Ang. He did so, or it had not been bestowed.

Mar. Yet this strange disproportion in your years, And, let me add, disparity of tempers, Might make the world doubt whether such an union Could make you wisely, permanently happy.

Ang. The world will think with worldlings; but my heart 90 Has still been in my duties, which are many, But never difficult.

Mar. And do you love him?

Ang. I love all noble qualities which merit Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me To single out what we should love in others, And to subdue all tendency to lend The best and purest feelings of our nature To baser passions. He bestowed my hand Upon Faliero: he had known him noble, Brave, generous; rich in all the qualities 100 Of soldier, citizen, and friend; in all Such have I found him as my father said. His faults are those that dwell in the high bosoms Of men who have commanded; too much pride, And the deep passions fiercely fostered by The uses of patricians, and a life Spent in the storms of state and war; and also From the quick sense of honour, which becomes A duty to a certain sign, a vice When overstrained, and this I fear in him. 110 And then he has been rash from his youth upwards, Yet tempered by redeeming nobleness In such sort, that the wariest of republics Has lavished all its chief employs upon him, From his first fight to his last embassy, From which on his return the Dukedom met him.

Mar. But previous to this marriage, had your heart Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth, Such as in years had been more meet to match Beauty like yours? or, since, have you ne'er seen 120 One, who, if your fair hand were still to give, Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter?

Ang. I answered your first question when I said I married.

Mar. And the second?

Ang. Needs no answer.

Mar. I pray you pardon, if I have offended.

Ang. I feel no wrath, but some surprise: I knew not That wedded bosoms could permit themselves To ponder upon what they now might choose, Or aught save their past choice.

Mar. 'Tis their past choice That far too often makes them deem they would 130 Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it.

Ang. It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts.

Mar. Here comes the Doge—shall I retire?

Ang. It may Be better you should quit me; he seems rapt In thought.—How pensively he takes his way! [Exit MARIANNA.

Enter the DOGE and PIETRO.

Doge (musing). There is a certain Philip Calendaro Now in the Arsenal, who holds command Of eighty men, and has great influence Besides on all the spirits of his comrades: This man, I hear, is bold and popular, 140 Sudden and daring, and yet secret; 'twould Be well that he were won: I needs must hope That Israel Bertuccio has secured him, But fain would be——

Pie. My Lord, pray pardon me For breaking in upon your meditation; The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, Charged me to follow and enquire your pleasure To fix an hour when he may speak with you.

Doge. At sunset.—Stay a moment—let me see— Say in the second hour of night. [Exit PIETRO.

Ang. My Lord! 150

Doge. My dearest child, forgive me—why delay So long approaching me?—I saw you not.

Ang. You were absorbed in thought, and he who now Has parted from you might have words of weight To bear you from the Senate.

Doge. From the Senate?

Ang. I would not interrupt him in his duty And theirs.

Doge. The Senate's duty! you mistake; 'Tis we who owe all service to the Senate.

Ang. I thought the Duke had held command in Venice.

Doge. He shall.—But let that pass.—We will be jocund. 160 How fares it with you? have you been abroad? The day is overcast, but the calm wave Favours the gondolier's light skimming oar; Or have you held a levee of your friends? Or has your music made you solitary? Say—is there aught that you would will within The little sway now left the Duke? or aught Of fitting splendour, or of honest pleasure, Social or lonely, that would glad your heart, To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 170 On an old man oft moved with many cares? Speak, and 'tis done.

Ang. You're ever kind to me. I have nothing to desire, or to request, Except to see you oftener and calmer.

Doge. Calmer?

Ang. Aye, calmer, my good Lord.—Ah, why Do you still keep apart, and walk alone, And let such strong emotions stamp your brow, As not betraying their full import, yet Disclose too much?

Doge. Disclose too much!—of what? What is there to disclose?

Ang. A heart so ill 180 At ease.

Doge. 'Tis nothing, child.—But in the state You know what daily cares oppress all those Who govern this precarious commonwealth; Now suffering from the Genoese without, And malcontents within—'tis this which makes me More pensive and less tranquil than my wont.

Ang. Yet this existed long before, and never Till in these late days did I see you thus. Forgive me; there is something at your heart More than the mere discharge of public duties, 190 Which long use and a talent like to yours Have rendered light, nay, a necessity, To keep your mind from stagnating. 'Tis not In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you,— You, who have stood all storms and never sunk, And climbed up to the pinnacle of power And never fainted by the way, and stand Upon it, and can look down steadily Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port, 200 Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's, You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, As you have risen, with an unaltered brow: Your feelings now are of a different kind; Something has stung your pride, not patriotism.

Doge. Pride! Angiolina? Alas! none is left me.

Ang. Yes—the same sin that overthrew the angels, And of all sins most easily besets Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature: The vile are only vain; the great are proud. 210

Doge. I had the pride of honour, of your honour, Deep at my heart—But let us change the theme.

Ang. Ah no!—As I have ever shared your kindness In all things else, let me not be shut out From your distress: were it of public import, You know I never sought, would never seek To win a word from you; but feeling now Your grief is private, it belongs to me To lighten or divide it. Since the day When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 220 Unfixed your quiet, you are greatly changed, And I would soothe you back to what you were.

Doge. To what I was!—have you heard Steno's sentence?

Ang. No.

Doge. A month's arrest.

Ang. Is it not enough?

Doge. Enough!—yes, for a drunken galley slave, Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master; But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, Who stains a Lady's and a Prince's honour Even on the throne of his authority.

Ang. There seems to be enough in the conviction 230 Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood: All other punishment were light unto His loss of honour.

Doge. Such men have no honour; They have but their vile lives—and these are spared.

Ang. You would not have him die for this offence?

Doge. Not now:—being still alive, I'd have him live Long as he can; he has ceased to merit death; The guilty saved hath damned his hundred judges, And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs.

Ang. Oh! had this false and flippant libeller 240 Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon, Ne'er from that moment could this breast have known A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more.

Doge. Does not the law of Heaven say blood for blood? And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it. Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows, That makes such deadly to the sense of man? Do not the laws of man say blood for honour,— And, less than honour, for a little gold? Say not the laws of nations blood for treason? 250 Is't nothing to have filled these veins with poison For their once healthful current? is it nothing To have stained your name and mine—the noblest names? Is't nothing to have brought into contempt A Prince before his people? to have failed In the respect accorded by Mankind To youth in woman, and old age in man? To virtue in your sex, and dignity In ours?—But let them look to it who have saved him.

Ang. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 260

Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own? Is there not Hell For wrath eternal?[df][405]

Ang. Do not speak thus wildly—[dg] Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes.

Doge. Amen! May Heaven forgive them!

Ang. And will you?

Doge. Yes, when they are in Heaven!

Ang. And not till then?

Doge. What matters my forgiveness? an old man's, Worn out, scorned, spurned, abused; what matters then My pardon more than my resentment, both Being weak and worthless? I have lived too long; But let us change the argument.—My child! 270 My injured wife, the child of Loredano, The brave, the chivalrous, how little deemed Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, That he was linking thee to shame!—Alas! Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst thou But had a different husband, any husband In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, To suffer this, and yet be unavenged! 280

Ang. I am too well avenged, for you still love me, And trust, and honour me; and all men know That you are just, and I am true: what more Could I require, or you command?

Doge. 'Tis well, And may be better; but whate'er betide, Be thou at least kind to my memory.

Ang. Why speak you thus?

Doge. It is no matter why; But I would still, whatever others think, Have your respect both now and in my grave.

Ang. Why should you doubt it? has it ever failed? 290

Doge. Come hither, child! I would a word with you. Your father was my friend; unequal Fortune Made him my debtor for some courtesies Which bind the good more firmly: when, oppressed With his last malady, he willed our union, It was not to repay me, long repaid Before by his great loyalty in friendship; His object was to place your orphan beauty In honourable safety from the perils, Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 300 A lonely and undowered maid. I did not Think with him, but would not oppose the thought Which soothed his death-bed.

Ang. I have not forgotten The nobleness with which you bade me speak If my young heart held any preference Which would have made me happier; nor your offer To make my dowry equal to the rank Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim My father's last injunction gave you.

Doge. Thus, 'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 310 Nor the false edge of aged appetite, Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, And a young bride: for in my fieriest youth I swayed such passions; nor was this my age Infected with that leprosy of lust[406] Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, Making them ransack to the very last The dregs of pleasure for their vanished joys; Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, Too helpless to refuse a state that's honest, 320 Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. Our wedlock was not of this sort; you had Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer Your father's choice.

Ang. I did so; I would do so In face of earth and Heaven; for I have never Repented for my sake; sometimes for yours, In pondering o'er your late disquietudes.

Doge. I knew my heart would never treat you harshly: I knew my days could not disturb you long; And then the daughter of my earliest friend, 330 His worthy daughter, free to choose again. Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom Of womanhood, more skilful to select By passing these probationary years, Inheriting a Prince's name and riches, Secured, by the short penance of enduring An old man for some summers, against all That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might Have urged against her right; my best friend's child Would choose more fitly in respect of years, 340 And not less truly in a faithful heart.

Ang. My Lord, I looked but to my father's wishes, Hallowed by his last words, and to my heart For doing all its duties, and replying With faith to him with whom I was affianced. Ambitious hopes ne'er crossed my dreams; and should The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so.

Doge. I do believe you; and I know you true: For Love—romantic Love—which in my youth I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 350 Lasting, but often fatal, it had been No lure for me, in my most passionate days, And could not be so now, did such exist. But such respect, and mildly paid regard As a true feeling for your welfare, and A free compliance with all honest wishes,— A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings As Youth is apt in, so as not to check Rashly, but win you from them ere you knew 360 You had been won, but thought the change your choice; A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct; A trust in you; a patriarchal love, And not a doting homage; friendship, faith,— Such estimation in your eyes as these Might claim, I hoped for.

Ang. And have ever had.

Doge. I think so. For the difference in our years You knew it choosing me, and chose; I trusted Not to my qualities, nor would have faith In such, nor outward ornaments of nature, 370 Were I still in my five and twentieth spring; I trusted to the blood of Loredano[407] Pure in your veins; I trusted to the soul God gave you—to the truths your father taught you— To your belief in Heaven—to your mild virtues— To your own faith and honour, for my own.

Ang. You have done well.—I thank you for that trust, Which I have never for one moment ceased To honour you the more for.

Doge. Where is Honour, Innate and precept-strengthened, 'tis the rock 380 Of faith connubial: where it is not—where Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 'Twere hopeless for humanity to dream Of honesty in such infected blood, Although 'twere wed to him it covets most: An incarnation of the poet's God In all his marble-chiselled beauty, or The demi-deity, Alcides, in 390 His majesty of superhuman Manhood, Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not; It is consistency which forms and proves it: Vice cannot fix, and Virtue cannot change. The once fall'n woman must for ever fall; For Vice must have variety, while Virtue Stands like the Sun, and all which rolls around Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect.

Ang. And seeing, feeling thus this truth in others, (I pray you pardon me;) but wherefore yield you 400 To the most fierce of fatal passions, and Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate Of such a thing as Steno?

Doge. You mistake me. It is not Steno who could move me thus; Had it been so, he should—but let that pass.

Ang. What is't you feel so deeply, then, even now?

Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, At once insulted in her Lord and laws.

Ang. Alas! why will you thus consider it?

Doge. I have thought on't till—but let me lead you back 410 To what I urged; all these things being noted, I wedded you; the world then did me justice Upon the motive, and my conduct proved They did me right, while yours was all to praise: You had all freedom—all respect—all trust From me and mine; and, born of those who made Princes at home, and swept Kings from their thrones On foreign shores, in all things you appeared Worthy to be our first of native dames.

Ang. To what does this conduct?

Doge. To thus much—that 420 A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all— A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing, Even in the midst of our great festival, I caused to be conducted forth, and taught How to demean himself in ducal chambers; A wretch like this may leave upon the wall The blighting venom of his sweltering heart, And this shall spread itself in general poison; And woman's innocence, man's honour, pass Into a by-word; and the doubly felon 430 (Who first insulted virgin modesty By a gross affront to your attendant damsels Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) Requite himself for his most just expulsion By blackening publicly his Sovereign's consort, And be absolved by his upright compeers.

Ang. But he has been condemned into captivity.

Doge. For such as him a dungeon were acquittal; And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass Within a palace. But I've done with him; 440 The rest must be with you.

Ang. With me, my Lord?

Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel; I Have let this prey upon me till I feel My life cannot be long; and fain would have you Regard the injunctions you will find within This scroll (giving her a paper) ——Fear not; they are for your advantage: Read them hereafter at the fitting hour.

Ang. My Lord, in life, and after life, you shall Be honoured still by me: but may your days Be many yet—and happier than the present! 450 This passion will give way, and you will be Serene, and what you should be—what you were.

Doge. I will be what I should be, or be nothing; But never more—oh! never, never more, O'er the few days or hours which yet await The blighted old age of Faliero, shall Sweet Quiet shed her sunset! Never more Those summer shadows rising from the past Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life, Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 460 Shall soothe me to my moment of long rest. I had but little more to ask, or hope, Save the regards due to the blood and sweat, And the soul's labour through which I had toiled To make my country honoured. As her servant— Her servant, though her chief—I would have gone Down to my fathers with a name serene And pure as theirs; but this has been denied me. Would I had died at Zara!

Ang. There you saved The state; then live to save her still. A day, 470 Another day like that would be the best Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you.

Doge. But one such day occurs within an age; My life is little less than one, and 'tis Enough for Fortune to have granted once, That which scarce one more favoured citizen May win in many states and years. But why Thus speak I? Venice has forgot that day— Then why should I remember it?—Farewell, Sweet Angiolina! I must to my cabinet; 480 There's much for me to do—and the hour hastens.[408]

Ang. Remember what you were.

Doge. It were in vain! Joy's recollection is no longer joy, While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still.

Ang. At least, whate'er may urge, let me implore That you will take some little pause of rest: Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid, That it had been relief to have awaked you, Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers thus. 490 An hour of rest will give you to your toils With fitter thoughts and freshened strength.

Doge. I cannot— I must not, if I could; for never was Such reason to be watchful: yet a few— Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, And I shall slumber well—but where?—no matter. Adieu, my Angiolina.

Ang. Let me be An instant—yet an instant your companion! I cannot bear to leave you thus.

Doge. Come then, My gentle child—forgive me: thou wert made 500 For better fortunes than to share in mine, Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow.[dh] When I am gone—it may be sooner than Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring Within—above—around, that in this city Will make the cemeteries populous As e'er they were by pestilence or war,— When I am nothing, let that which I was Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 510 A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing Which would not have thee mourn it, but remember. Let us begone, my child—the time is pressing.

SCENE II.—A retired spot near the Arsenal.

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO and PHILIP CALENDARO.[409]

Cal. How sped you, Israel, in your late complaint?

I. Ber. Why, well.

Cal. Is't possible! will he be punished?

I. Ber. Yes.

Cal. With what? a mulct or an arrest?

I. Ber. With death!

Cal. Now you rave, or must intend revenge, Such as I counselled you, with your own hand.

I. Ber. Yes; and for one sole draught of hate, forego The great redress we meditate for Venice, And change a life of hope for one of exile; Leaving one scorpion crushed, and thousands stinging My friends, my family, my countrymen! 10 No, Calendaro; these same drops of blood, Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his For their requital——But not only his; We will not strike for private wrongs alone: Such are for selfish passions and rash men, But are unworthy a Tyrannicide.

Cal. You have more patience than I care to boast. Had I been present when you bore this insult, I must have slain him, or expired myself In the vain effort to repress my wrath. 20

I. Ber. Thank Heaven you were not—all had else been marred: As 'tis, our cause looks prosperous still.

Cal. You saw The Doge—what answer gave he?

I. Ber. That there was No punishment for such as Barbaro.

Cal. I told you so before, and that 'twas idle To think of justice from such hands.

I. Ber. At least, It lulled suspicion, showing confidence. Had I been silent, not a Sbirro[410] but Had kept me in his eye, as meditating A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 30

Cal. But wherefore not address you to the Council? The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him?

I. Ber. You shall know that hereafter.

Cal. Why not now?

I. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. Get your musters, And bid our friends prepare their companies: Set all in readiness to strike the blow, Perhaps in a few hours: we have long waited For a fit time—that hour is on the dial, It may be, of to-morrow's sun: delay 40 Beyond may breed us double danger. See That all be punctual at our place of meeting, And armed, excepting those of the Sixteen,[411] Who will remain among the troops to wait The signal.

Cal. These brave words have breathed new life Into my veins; I am sick of these protracted And hesitating councils: day on day Crawled on, and added but another link To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves, 50 Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. Let us but deal upon them, and I care not For the result, which must be Death or Freedom! I'm weary to the heart of finding neither.

I. Ber. We will be free in Life or Death! the grave Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready? And are the sixteen companies completed To sixty?

Cal. All save two, in which there are Twenty-five wanting to make up the number.

I. Ber. No matter; we can do without. Whose are they? 60

Cal. Bertram's[412] and old Soranzo's, both of whom Appear less forward in the cause than we are.

I. Ber. Your fiery nature makes you deem all those Who are not restless cold; but there exists Oft in concentred spirits not less daring Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them.

Cat. I do not doubt the elder; but in Bertram There is a hesitating softness, fatal To enterprise like ours: I've seen that man Weep like an infant o'er the misery 70 Of others, heedless of his own, though greater; And in a recent quarrel I beheld him Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's.

I. Ber. The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, And feel for what their duty bids them do. I have known Bertram long; there doth not breathe A soul more full of honour.

Cal. It may be so: I apprehend less treachery than weakness; Yet as he has no mistress, and no wife To work upon his milkiness of spirit, 80 He may go through the ordeal; it is well He is an orphan, friendless save in us: A woman or a child had made him less Than either in resolve.

I. Ber. Such ties are not For those who are called to the high destinies Which purify corrupted commonwealths; We must forget all feelings save the one, We must resign all passions save our purpose, We must behold no object save our country, And only look on Death as beautiful, 90 So that the sacrifice ascend to Heaven, And draw down Freedom on her evermore.

Cal. But if we fail——[413]

I. Ber. They never fail who die In a great cause: the block may soak their gore:[di] Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs Be strung to city gates and castle walls— But still their Spirit walks abroad. Though years Elapse, and others share as dark a doom, They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts Which overpower all others, and conduct 100 The world at last to Freedom. What were we, If Brutus had not lived? He died in giving[dj] Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson— A name which is a virtue, and a Soul Which multiplies itself throughout all time, When wicked men wax mighty, and a state Turns servile. He and his high friend were styled "The last of Romans!"[414] Let us be the first Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires.

Cal. Our fathers did not fly from Attila[415] 110 Into these isles, where palaces have sprung On banks redeemed from the rude ocean's ooze, To own a thousand despots in his place. Better bow down before the Hun, and call A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms[416] masters! The first at least was man, and used his sword As sceptre: these unmanly creeping things Command our swords, and rule us with a word As with a spell.

I. Ber. It shall be broken soon. You say that all things are in readiness; 120 To-day I have not been the usual round, And why thou knowest; but thy vigilance Will better have supplied my care: these orders In recent council to redouble now Our efforts to repair the galleys, have Lent a fair colour to the introduction Of many of our cause into the arsenal, As new artificers for their equipment, Or fresh recruits obtained in haste to man The hoped-for fleet.—Are all supplied with arms? 130

Cal. All who were deemed trust-worthy: there are some Whom it were well to keep in ignorance Till it be time to strike, and then supply them; When in the heat and hurry of the hour They have no opportunity to pause, But needs must on with those who will surround them.

I. Ber. You have said well. Have you remarked all such?

Cal. I've noted most; and caused the other chiefs To use like caution in their companies. As far as I have seen, we are enough 140 To make the enterprise secure, if 'tis Commenced to-morrow; but, till 'tis begun, Each hour is pregnant with a thousand perils.

I. Ber. Let the Sixteen meet at the wonted hour, Except Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch Within the arsenal, and hold all ready, Expectant of the signal we will fix on.

Cal. We will not fail.

I. Ber. Let all the rest be there; I have a stranger to present to them. 150

Cal. A stranger! doth he know the secret?

I. Ber. Yes.

Cal. And have you dared to peril your friends' lives On a rash confidence in one we know not?

I. Ber. I have risked no man's life except my own— Of that be certain: he is one who may Make our assurance doubly sure, according[417] His aid; and if reluctant, he no less Is in our power: he comes alone with me, And cannot 'scape us; but he will not swerve.

Cal. I cannot judge of this until I know him: 160 Is he one of our order?

I. Ber. Aye, in spirit, Although a child of Greatness; he is one Who would become a throne, or overthrow one— One who has done great deeds, and seen great changes; No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny; Valiant in war, and sage in council; noble In nature, although haughty; quick, yet wary: Yet for all this, so full of certain passions, That if once stirred and baffled, as he has been Upon the tenderest points, there is no Fury 170 In Grecian story like to that which wrings His vitals with her burning hands, till he Grows capable of all things for revenge; And add too, that his mind is liberal, He sees and feels the people are oppressed, And shares their sufferings. Take him all in all, We have need of such, and such have need of us.

Cal. And what part would you have him take with us?

I. Ber. It may be, that of Chief.

Cal. What! and resign Your own command as leader?

I. Ber. Even so. 180 My object is to make your cause end well, And not to push myself to power. Experience, Some skill, and your own choice, had marked me out To act in trust as your commander, till Some worthier should appear: if I have found such As you yourselves shall own more worthy, think you That I would hesitate from selfishness, And, covetous of brief authority, Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts, Rather than yield to one above me in 190 All leading qualities? No, Calendaro, Know your friend better; but you all shall judge. Away! and let us meet at the fixed hour. Be vigilant, and all will yet go well.

Cal. Worthy Bertuccio, I have known you ever Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan What I have still been prompt to execute. For my own part, I seek no other Chief; What the rest will decide, I know not, but I am with YOU, as I have ever been, 200 In all our undertakings. Now farewell, Until the hour of midnight sees us meet. [Exeunt.



ACT III.

SCENE I.—Scene, the Space between the Canal and the Church of San Giovanni e San Paolo. An equestrian Statue before it.—A Gondola lies in the Canal at some distance.

Enter the DOGE alone, disguised.

Doge (solus). I am before the hour, the hour whose voice, Pealing into the arch of night, might strike These palaces with ominous tottering, And rock their marbles to the corner-stone, Waking the sleepers from some hideous dream Of indistinct but awful augury Of that which will befall them. Yes, proud city! Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which makes thee A lazar-house of tyranny: the task Is forced upon me, I have sought it not; 10 And therefore was I punished, seeing this Patrician pestilence spread on and on, Until at length it smote me in my slumbers, And I am tainted, and must wash away The plague spots in the healing wave. Tall fane! Where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues shadow The floor which doth divide us from the dead, Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold blood, Mouldered into a mite of ashes, hold In one shrunk heap what once made many heroes, 20 When what is now a handful shook the earth— Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our house! Vault where two Doges rest[418]—my sires! who died The one of toil, the other in the field, With a long race of other lineal chiefs And sages, whose great labours, wounds, and state I have inherited,—let the graves gape, Till all thine aisles be peopled with the dead, And pour them from thy portals to gaze on me! I call them up, and them and thee to witness 30 What it hath been which put me to this task— Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of glories, Their mighty name dishonoured all in me, Not by me, but by the ungrateful nobles We fought to make our equals, not our lords:[dk] And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave, Who perished in the field, where I since conquered, Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs Of thine and Venice' foes, there offered up By thy descendant, merit such acquittance?[dl] 40 Spirits! smile down upon me! for my cause Is yours, in all life now can be of yours,— Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, And in the future fortunes of our race! Let me but prosper, and I make this city Free and immortal, and our House's name Worthier of what you were—now and hereafter!

Enter ISRAEL BERTUCCIO.

I. Ber. Who goes there?

Doge. A friend to Venice.

I. Ber. 'Tis he. Welcome, my Lord,—you are before the time.

Doge. I am ready to proceed to your assembly. 50

I. Ber. Have with you.—I am proud and pleased to see Such confident alacrity. Your doubts Since our last meeting, then, are all dispelled?

Doge. Not so—but I have set my little left[419] Of life upon this cast: the die was thrown When I first listened to your treason.—Start not! That is the word; I cannot shape my tongue To syllable black deeds into smooth names, Though I be wrought on to commit them. When I heard you tempt your Sovereign, and forbore 60 To have you dragged to prison, I became Your guiltiest accomplice: now you may, If it so please you, do as much by me.

I. Ber. Strange words, my Lord, and most unmerited; I am no spy, and neither are we traitors.

Doge. We—We!—no matter—you have earned the right To talk of us.—But to the point.—If this Attempt succeeds, and Venice, rendered free And flourishing, when we are in our graves, Conducts her generations to our tombs, 70 And makes her children with their little hands Strew flowers o'er her deliverers' ashes, then The consequence will sanctify the deed, And we shall be like the two Bruti in The annals of hereafter; but if not, If we should fail, employing bloody means And secret plot, although to a good end, Still we are traitors, honest Israel;—thou No less than he who was thy Sovereign Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 80

I. Ber. 'Tis not the moment to consider thus, Else I could answer.—Let us to the meeting, Or we may be observed in lingering here.

Doge. We are observed, and have been.

I. Ber. We observed! Let me discover—and this steel——-

Doge. Put up; Here are no human witnesses: look there— What see you?

I. Ber. Only a tall warrior's statue[420] Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light Of the dull moon.

Doge. That Warrior was the sire Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 90 Decreed to him by the twice rescued city:— Think you that he looks down on us or no?

I. Ber. My Lord, these are mere fantasies; there are No eyes in marble.

Doge. But there are in Death. I tell thee, man, there is a spirit in Such things that acts and sees, unseen, though felt; And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 'Tis in such deeds as we are now upon. Deem'st thou the souls of such a race as mine Can rest, when he, their last descendant Chief, 100 Stands plotting on the brink of their pure graves With stung plebeians?

I. Ber. It had been as well To have pondered this before,—ere you embarked In our great enterprise.—Do you repent?

Doge. No—but I feel, and shall do to the last. I cannot quench a glorious life at once, Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be,[dm] And take men's lives by stealth, without some pause: Yet doubt me not; it is this very feeling, And knowing what has wrung me to be thus, 110 Which is your best security. There's not A roused mechanic in your busy plot[dn] So wronged as I, so fall'n, so loudly called To his redress: the very means I am forced By these fell tyrants to adopt is such, That I abhor them doubly for the deeds Which I must do to pay them back for theirs.