Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair- 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 honour'd. 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 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 Cæsar, or the Catiline,
By the true touchstone of desert-success. (1)
That moment summon'd 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.
Would he were return'd! He has been much disquieted of late; And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spirit, Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, Which seems to be more nourish'd 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; and his bold brow
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.
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 doom'd to expiate his rash insult with Such chastisement as will enforce respect To female virtue, and to noble blood.
Ang. "T was a gross insult; but I heed it not
(1) "What Gifford says of the first act is very consolatory. English-sterling genuine English, is a desideratum amongst you, and I am glad that I have got so much left; though Heaven knows how I retain it: I hear none but from my valet, and he is Nottinghamshire; and I see none but in your new publications, and theirs is no language at
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 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 slander'd virtue. Ang. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim? Or if it must depend upon men's words? The dying Roman said, "'t was but a name:" It were indeed no more, if human breath 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
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 blazon'd forth; And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming, 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 But feel not less the love and gratitude Due to my father, who bestow'd 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. 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 bestow'd my hand Upon Faliero: he had known him noble, Brave, generous; rich in all the qualities 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 foster'd 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 overstrain'd, and this I fear in him.
And then he has been rash from his youth upwards,
Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness
In such sort, that the wariest of republics Has lavish'd 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 One, who, if your fair hand were still to give, Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter?
Ang. I answer'd your first question when I said I married.
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, Sudden and daring, and yet secret; 't would Be well that he were won: needs must hope That Israel Bertuccio has secured him, But fain would be-
My lord, pray pardon me For breaking in upon your meditation; The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, Charged me to follow and inquire 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! Doge. My dearest child, forgive me why delay So long approaching me?--I saw you not. Ang. You were absorb'd 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? (1) 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. [jocund. Doge. He shall.-But let that pass.-We will be 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 On an old man oft moved with many cares?
Ang. I feel no wrath, but some surprise: I knew not Speak, and 't is done. 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 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.
Be better you should quit me; he seems rapt
(1) "This scene is, perhaps, the finest in the whole play. The character of the calm pure-spirited Angiolina is deve loped in it most admirably;-the great difference between her temper and that of her fiery husband is vividly por. trayed; but not less vividly touched is that strong bond of their union which exists in the common nobleness of their deeper natures. There is no spark of jealousy in the old man's thoughts, he does not expect the fervours of youthful passion in his wife, nor does he find them: but he finds what is far better,-the fearless confidence of one, who, being to the heart's core innocent, can scarcely be a believer in the existence of such a thing as guilt. He finds every charm which gratitude, respect, anxious and deep-seated
You're ever kind to me. I have nothing to desire, or to request, Except to see you oftener and calmer. Doge. Calmer?
Ay, 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!
affection can give to the confidential language of a lovely, and a modest, and a pious woman. She has been extremely troubled by her observance of the countenance and gesture of the Doge, ever since the discovery of Steno's guilt; and she does all she can to soothe him from his proud irritation. Strong in her consciousness of purity, she has brought herself to regard without anger the insult offered to herself; and the yet uncorrected instinct of a noble heart makes her try to persuade her lord, as she is herself persuaded, that Steno, whatever be the sentence of his judges, must be punished-more even than they would wish him to be-by the secret suggestions of his own guilty conscience,-the deep blushes of his privacy." Lockhart.-L. E.
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, Which long use and a talent like to yours Have render'd 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 climb'd 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, Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's,
You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, As you have risen, with an unalter'd 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.
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 Unfix'd 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?
Doge. 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 me enough in the conviction 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.
(I) "This scene between the Doge and Angiolina, though intolerably long, has more force and beauty than any thing that goes before it. She endeavours to soothe the furious mood of her aged partner; while he insists that nothing but the libeller's death could make fitting expiation for his offence. This speech of the Doge is an elaborate, and after all, ineffectual attempt, by rhetorical exaggerations, to give
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 damn'd his hundred judges, And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs.
Ang. Oh! had this false and flippant libeller 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 make 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? Is't nothing to have fill'd these veins with poison For their once healthful current? is it nothing To have stain'd your name and mine-the noblest Is't nothing to have brought into contempt A prince before his people? to have fail'd 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 Ang. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own? Is Satan saved From wrath eternal? (2)
Ang. Do not speak thus wildly- 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, scorn'd, spurn'd, 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! My injured wife, the child of Loredano, The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd 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!
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 fail'd? 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, oppress'd With his last malady, he will'd 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 A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not
Think with him, but would not oppose the thought Which soothed his death-bed.
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.
'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, Nor the false edge of aged appetite, Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, And a young bride: for in my fieriest youth I sway'd such passions; nor was this my age Infected with that leprosy of lust
Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, Making them ransack to the very last The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys: Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, Too helpless to refuse a state that's honest, 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. (1) 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, 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, And not less truly in a faithful heart.
Ang. My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes, Hallow'd 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 cross'd 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
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
You had been won, but thought the change your
A pride, not in your beauty, but your conduct, A trust in you-a patriarchal love,
And not a doting homage-friendship, faithSuch 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, Were I still in my five-and-twentieth spring; I trusted to the blood of Loredano 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 Which I have never for one moment ceased [trust, To honour you the more for.
Doge. Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock 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 't were wed to him it covets most: An incarnation of the poet's god In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or The demi-deity, Alcides, in
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. (2) Ang. And seeing, feeling thus this truth in others, (I pray you pardon me;) but wherefore yield you To the most fierce of fatal passions, and Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate Of such a thing as Steno?
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? [back Doge. I have thought on't till-but let me lead you
(2) "These passages, though not perfectly dramatic, have great sweetness and diguity, and remind us, in their rich verbosity, of the moral and mellifluous parts of Massinger." Jeffrey.-L. E.
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 Oa foreign shores, in all things you appear'd Worthy to be our first of native dames. Ang. To what does this conduct? Doge.
To thus much-that 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 (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 condemn'd 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; 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 honour'd still by me: but may your days Be many yet and happier than the present! 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! (1) 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,
(1) The unpromising nature of the subject has imposed upon the poet two difficulties. The first is, that which is of the very essence of his plot,-the inadequacy of the supposed grievance to the storm of passion conjured up in his soul; a storm resembling
ocean into tempest toss'd,
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly; '—
the other is, the nature and character of the conspiracy itself, which excites no sympathy. With regard to the former difficulty, the poet is evidently conscious of it. The Doge is for ever dwelling on the affront, as if he were him. self conscious that it stood in need of rhetorical heightening. How slight and inadequate is the cause of this emotion; or, as Sir Lucius O'Trigger would express it, What a pity that so much good passion should be wasted!' Othello la bouring beneath the unutterable load of the most overwhelming conviction which can press upon the heart-writhing
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 toil'd To make my country honour'd. 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, 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 't is Enough for Fortune to have granted once, That which scarce one more favour'd citizen May win in many states and years. Thus speak I? Venice has forgot that dayThen why should I remember it?-Farewell, Sweet Angiolina! I must to my cabinet; There's much for me to do-and the hour hastens. Ang. Remember what you were. Doge.
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. An hour of rest will give you to your toils With fitter thoughts and freshen'd strength. Doge.
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.
An instant-yet an instant your companion! I cannot bear to leave you thus.
under the smart of an ardent affection, cankered and corroded by the death-taint of a feverish suspicion,-could scarcely have expressed himself with greater emphasis of mental agony. But, while Othello gives speech to the tortures that are rending him, it is nature whose unexaggerated and genuine voice is echoed from his bosom. No tumid phrase of passion, no forced and unnatural sorrows, burst from him in tones beyond the precise amount of the suffering. There is an equipoise (and Shakspeare never failed to adjust it by the nicest proportion) between the anguish of the soul and the phrase that gives it utterance: and it is from the total absence of this proportion, that we refuse our sympathies to Faliero." Ecl. Rev.-L. E. (2) In the MS.— "Where death sits
in his all-sweeping shadow."-LE
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