You have deeply ventured;
But all must do so who would greatly win:
Thus far I'll answer you-your secret's safe.
Near to the church where sleep my sires: the same,
Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul;
A gondola, with one oar only, will
Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by.
Be there.
Unless with all entrusted,
What would you have me answer?
Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you.
But I must know your plan, your names, and numbers;
The last may then be doubled, and the former
Matured and strengthen'd.
We're enough already; You are the sole ally we covet now.
But bring me to the knowledge of your chiefs.
That shall be done upon your formal pledge
To keep the faith that we will pledge to you.
In the full hope your highness will not falter
In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave.
[Exit ISRAEL BERTUCCIO.
At midnight, by the church Saints John and Paul,
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,
This night I'll bring to your apartment By sweet revenge on all that's base in Venice,
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Would he were return d!
Ile 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
Late; but the atmosphere is thick and dusky; | An aspect of eternity: his thoughts,
At the midnight hour, then,
lis feelings, passions, good or evil, all
Hlave nothing of old age; and his bold brow
Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years,
I know not that, but he has been detected.
And deem you this enough for such foul scoru?
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.
MARIANNA.
Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue.
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.
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.
This but proves it is the name
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.
Ilis 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 lukedom met him.
But, previous to this marriage, had your heart
Neer 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?
I answer'd your first question when I said I married.
And the second ?
ANGIOLINA.
I pray you pardon, if I have offended.
I feel no wrath, but some surprise: I knew not That wedded bosoms could permit themselves To ponder upon what they now might chuse, Or aught, save their past choice.
Tis their past choice That far too often makes them deem they would Now chuse more wisely, could they cancel it.
It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts.
Here comes the Doge-shall I retire?
Be better you should quit me; he seems wrapt
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: I needs must hope
That Israel Bertuccio has secured him,
But fain would be--
I thought the Duke had held command in Venice.
He shall.-But let that pass.-We will be jocund.
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?
Speak, and 't is done.
'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-'t is this which makes me More pensive and less tranquil than my wont.
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 have risen, with an unalter'd brow:
you
Your feelings now are of a different kind;
Something has stung your pride, not patriotism.
Pride! Angiolina? Alas! none is left me.
Yes-the same sin that overthrew the angels, And of all sins most easily besets
In ours?-But let them look to it who have saved him. ANGIOLINA.
Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies.
Doth Heaven forgive her own? Is Satan saved From wrath eternal?
Do not speak thus wildlyHeaven will alike forgive you. and your foes.
Amen! May Heaven forgive them.
Yes, when they are in heaven!
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. Badst 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!
Neer from that moment could this breast have known | Why should you doubt it? has it ever fail'd?
A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more.
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 littlesgold?
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 names'
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
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 opprest
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.
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.
T was 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 chuse, and urged in answer
Your father's choice.
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.
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 chuse 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 chuse more fitly in respect of years,
And not less truly in a faithful heart.
ANGIOLINA.
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.
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 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.
ANGIOLINA.
And have ever had. DOGE.
I think so. For the difference in our years,
You knew it, chusing 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.
You have done well-I thank you for that trust,
Which I have never for one moment ceased
To honour you the more for.
Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 't is 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
'T were 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 faller 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.
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?
It is not Steno who could move me thus; Had it been so, he should-but let that pass.
What is 't you feel so deeply, then, even now?
The violated majesty of Venice,
At once insulted in her lord and laws.
Alas! why will you thus consider it?
I have thought on't till-but let me lead you back
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
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