 | Foscari |  |
5
ACT I.
SCENE I.
St. Mark's Place.Count Erizzo and Celso meeting Donato.
Don.
Good morrow Count Erizzo, you are early.
Are you bound to the Palace?
Eriz.
Aye, Donato,
The common destination; but I go
With an old friend.
Don.
What, Celso, thou turned courtier!
Cel.
I am a suitor to his Highness, Sir,
With Count Erizzo's aid.
Don.
What is your suit?
Eriz.
One of the procurators died last night;
And honest Celso here would fain succeed
To that good office.
Don.
None more capable!
You will not fail.
Eriz.
Scarcely, I think;—and yet
I hardly know. The old Doge likes me not:
There have been murmurs in the Senate, cousin,
At these long wasting wars; and he, I hear,
6
One word—
Don.
It shall be said. Give me the paper.
Yes, at one word from me—the Doge and I
Are friends, old friends, the friends of forty years;
Besides we have a pair of hopeful sons,
Friends from the cradle upwards.
Eriz.
And those friends
May soon be brothers. Will not thy Camilla
Be Foscari's bride, when his rough mistress War
Shall loose him from her arms?
Don.
Aye; he'll return
Too soon, whene'er he comes, to steal away
My age's darling. Yet is he a boy
Full of high thoughts, a noble princely boy,
Kindly and generous; one that may deserve
Even her.—Well, give me this petition, Count.
Look on the post as certain.
[Exit.
Cel.
How can I
Repay—He's gone. Think'st thou he will succeed?
Eriz.
I know not. Either way works well for us.
If he succeed, then will our party gain
A firmer foot in Venice; if he fail,
We gain Donato.
Cel.
Say'st thou so?
Eriz.
I know him.
He's of a temper kind, and quick, and warm;
A powerful partizan, but easily sway'd
By flattery or anger. Of such tools
Are Faction's ranks composed, not officered.
Celso, we'll have this Doge unbonneted,
This Doge who wears his load of four-score years
Easier than I my forty. He contemns
Me and my brother nobles: he may learn
7
These brows of mine do ache for that same bonnet,
And ere this day be ended—
Cel.
'Tis, my Lord,
A golden moment. The young Foscari
Is safe with Sforza in the Milan wars.
Eriz.
Would I were sure of that! This is indeed
The only moment. Celso, I have here,
How intercepted boots not, letters from
Both generals to the Senate. They have gained
A signal victory; Brescia is freed;
And Sforza gives the unshared unmingled praise
To Foscari. We must unthrone the Doge
Ere this news reach the city; for the people
Adore the Foscari. Faugh! I am weary
Of this good Doge, this venerable Doge,
This popular Doge, this Doge who courts and wooes
The noisy rabble, whilst the Senators
He elbows from their seats. And for the son,
With his hot valour and proud lack of pride—
I hate them both. We must not lose an hour—
The people must not hear—
Cel.
The Senate hates them.
Eriz.
Aye, but the Senate—
Cel.
Well, my Lord, the Senate—
Eriz.
Fy! I am one of them; I must not tell
The secrets of the Council. We are not
So stubborn as we seem; the popular voice
Finds there an echo; and besides the Doge
Hath friends. Here comes one.
Enter Count Zeno.
A fair morning to you
Count Zeno. I have scarcely seen you since
Your lingering sickness. You look cheerily.
8
The air of this new day is sweet and freshening,
And breathes a health into the veins. I trust
You need no renovating; yet to step
From a sick bed and a dark silent room
Into the pure and balmy air of June,
With the bright sun lighting so blue a sky,
And sparkling on the waters all around,
Full of the living noise of trade or mirth,
Air, earth, and sea all motion—it is like
Returning from the tomb to this fair world
Of life and sunshine! Such delight is well
Worth a sharp fever.
Eriz.
Nevertheless am I
Content with your report. A homelier joy
Suffices me.
Zeno.
You are the happier man.
Are you for the palace?
Eriz.
No. We wait a friend.
Zeno.
Then I must say good morrow. I am somewhat
In haste to-day.
Eriz.
Good morrow, Count.
[Exit Zeno.
That man
Wears in his courtly smile the consciousness
Of his high influence—the prime favourite he!
Did you not see how graciously he stooped
To me his equal, even as he had been
Himself a prince—proud minion!—Doge, beware!
Beware!—Look, look, Donato too hath found
A check? See how he chafes! See!
Enter Donato.
Don.
Take thy paper!
I am refused. Good morrow!
Eriz.
Nay, come back.
9
Refused by Foscari!
Don.
I was a fool
To ask;—a double fool to pin my faith
Upon this Doge's ermine.
Celso.
I regret
More than my failure the indignity—
Don.
Forget it, Sir.—How go these Milan wars?—
I say, Erizzo, could'st thou have believed
The proudest he in Venice would have dared
To treat me with such scorn?
Eriz.
What! did he scorn thee?
Don.
He chid me, schooled me, blamed my easy temper,
That lent an ear to every cunning tale,
A voice to every false designing knave.
Cel.
Dared he!
Don.
And this to me! Why art thou not
Amazed, Erizzo?
Eriz.
No. It but confirms
What I have heard and scarce believed. The Doge
Is grown so old that he forgets his friends.
Men say—it can't be true—and yet men say—
Don.
What?
Eriz.
That the Doge repents his son's betrothment
To thy Camilla.
Don.
He shall never wed her.
Sir, if this Doge were king of all the earth
He might have found a higher, prouder title
In father to Camilla! They are free.
Camilla's claims shall never interrupt—
What is his project?
Eriz.
Our great enemy,
10
And she, they say—
Don.
Tush! I have seen her, man!
A dark-browed wench, a beetle-browed,—no more
To match with my Camilla than that Gondola
With the Bucentaur!—I will back, and tell him
That Foscari is free. Mine own Camilla!
My prattling, pretty one! I'll back and tell him.
Eriz.
No; rather come with me. What I have said
Is hearsay or conjecture; what is true
Is the misgovernment, the public wrongs
Of this old Foscari, too old to sway
The power of Venice. This is not a place
For such discourse. Come with me to my palace.
Don.
I thought he loved my daughter!
Cel.
Thou art sure.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
An Apartment in the Ducal Palace. The Doge and Count Zeno.Zeno.
Good morrow to your Highness.
Doge.
Dearest Zeno,
This is no common pleasure. Thou the latest
Of our late revellers, whom the sun scarce sees
Till half his course be run—
Zeno.
Oh! good my Lord,
I meet him often ere I go to bed,
The bright reproachful tell-tale!
Doge.
To see thee,
But lately risen from a sharp sickness too,
Afoot so early! There must be some cause,
Some kind or pleasant cause—What brings thee, Count?
11
This letter!
Doge.
No petition for the post
Vacant by poor Venoni's death?
Zeno.
Oh! no.
Doge.
I should have grieved within one little hour
To say twice No to two dear friends. You met
Donato?
Zeno.
Yes, so chafed he saw me not.
Your Highness knows his temper.
Doge.
And I fear
Tried it too much. He asked of me that office
For a known villain, an unusual compound
Of ruffian and of knave, the follower
Of his kinsman Count Erizzo.
Zeno.
Then the Count
Was waiting for Donato. I am grieved
He should be so companioned.
Doge.
He flung from me
Ere I could tell him that the post was given
To Signor Loredano, a ripe scholar
Pining in penury, at the pressing instance
Of his own son.
Zeno.
Cosmo! How like is that
To his unwearied kindness.
Doge.
There is not,
Unless I may except my Foscari,
A youth in Venice who can vie in aught
With Cosmo.
Zeno.
And they are as different
As the bright sun and gentle moon, the sea
In sparkling motion and the quiet land.
The one a stirring, brave and honest soldier,
The other a pale student.
Doge.
Bless them both
12
And soon I hope my pretty sweet Camilla
Will give them that dear title.
Zeno.
Have you had
Tidings of Foscari lately?
Dage.
Not for long,
Longer than common.
Zeno.
Last night at St. Mark's
There was a rumour floating—none could trace
Its source—of a great victory obtained
By Foscari and Sforza.
Doge.
Heaven grant it!
Sure we shall hear to day.—Now dearest Count,
What is your will? You led the old man on
To talk of his dear children, till in sooth
He had forgotten the whole world. Now say
What is that scroll?
Zeno.
My lord—I almost fear—
Dost thou believe in soothsayers?
Doge.
No!—Yes!—
Not much. Why dost thou ask?
Zeno.
Wilt thou not answer?
Doge.
Count Zeno, thou art one to whom, being wise,
A wise man may confess the cherished folly
That lurks within his breast. But tell it not
To fools, good Zeno.
Zeno.
Then thou dost believe?
Doge.
I have some cause. What! didst thou never hear
Of the old prediction that was verified
When I became the Doge?
Zeno.
An old prediction!
Doge.
Some seventy years ago—it seems to me
As fresh as yesterday—being then a lad
No higher than my hand, idle as an heir,
13
I flew a kite unmatched in shape or size
Over the river—we were at our house
Upon the Brenta then; it soared aloft
Driven by light vigorous breezes from the sea,
Soared buoyantly, till the diminished toy
Grew smaller than the falcon when she stoops
To dart upon her prey. I sent for cord,
Servant on servant hurrying, till the kite
Shrank to the size of a beetle: still I called
For cord, and sent to summon father, mother,
My little sisters, my old halting nurse,—
I would have had the whole world to survey
Me and my wondrous kite. It still soared on,
And I stood bending back in extasy,
My eyes on that small point, clapping my hands,
And shouting, and half envying it the flight
That made it a companion of the stars,
When close beside me a deep voice exclaimed—
Aye, mount! mount! mount!—I started back, and saw
A tall and aged woman, one of the wild
Peculiar people whom wild Hungary sends
Roving through every land. She drew her cloak
About her, turned her black eyes up to Heaven,
And thus pursued:—Aye, like his fortunes, mount,
The future Doge of Venice! And before
For very wonder any one could speak
She disappeared.
Zeno.
Strange! Hast thou never seen
That woman since?
Doge.
I never saw her more.
After a slight brief search, the wonder sank
Into a jest. My mother for a while
Called me her pretty Doge, her madcap Doge,
14
On that proud title; and my sisters long
Talked of the tall Hungarian. None believed
But my old nurse.
Zeno.
And thou?
Doge.
Long time in me
The seeds of faith lay dormant; till at last
As youth's gay wildness sobered, and ambition
Grew stronger in my soul, the prophecy
Knocked at my thoughts, and I by fits believed
That which I wished were true. Now for thy scroll;—
Whence comes it?
Zeno.
Even such an aged crone,
So tall, so habited, stayed me last night
At my own door, and with an earnest voice,
Her shaking hand prest on my arm, implored
That, as I loved the good Doge Foscari,
I would at his first waking give him this.
Doge.
She must be dead! Full seventy years ago—
And then her locks were grizzled!—She is dead.
And what, at fourscore years, have I to do
With fate or fortune! My long race is run.
Zeno.
Read it at least.
Doge.
(reads.)
“The ducal bonnet trembles on thy
brow, Doge of Venice, trembles—and will fall, though
the stars themselves shew me not when. Grant the
first boon that shall be asked of thee to-morrow, or
before the next sun rises thy very heart shall be rent
in twain.”
This is too palpable. Grant the first boon!
Make thee the Procurator! Fy! Fy! Fy!
Erizzo's talent hath forsaken him;
This cheat is shallow. They have heard the tale
15
Off to the waves and winds!
Zeno.
Yet hath the count
A party in the state; and for Donato,
Kind, hasty, generous and beloved, his power
May vie with thine.
Doge.
But never will be used
Against me, Zeno. I should hate myself
Could I suspect Donato. Count, we'll go
Together to the Senate. Thou shalt see
The quick relenting of his sudden wrath,
His graceful self-rebuke, his honest love.
Zeno.
I'll gladly be converted.
Doge.
Doubt him not.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
An Apartment in the Donato Palace.Camilla and Laura.
Camilla.
Laura, hast thou seen Cosmo?
Laura.
Not to day.
Cam.
Sure he'll not cheat us of his early smiles,
His gay good-morrow, that best joy of home
When dear friends meet in morning cheerfulness.
Lau.
And such a cheerfulness! and such a smile!
None are like his.
Cam.
None! Hast thou never seen
The heaven of kindness that in Foscari's eyes
Shines under those dark brows? And I'm the sister
Of that dear Cosmo, the selected bride
Of that still dearer Foscari! Oh, cousin
I am the blessedest creature that e'er trod
16
Can hope to be so happy;—thou, perchance
When Cosmo—
Enter Cosmo.
We were speaking of thee.
Cos.
Well,
I trust fair maids. My gentle lady Laura,
Say yes to that.
Cam.
Feed not man's vanity;
Let not thy blushes answer.
Cos.
Sister mine,
'Tis thou art clothed in blushes. Why the dawn
Opening her ardent eyes, and shaking wide
Her golden locks on the Adriatic wave,
The bright Aurora, she is sad and pale
And spiritless compared to thee. Hast thou
Been Psyche's errand? Or hath some fair vision
Lapt thee in loveliness?
Cam.
I think I dreamt
Of heaven; for I was in a place where care
And fear and sorrow came not, self-sustained
On wings such as the limner's cunning lends
To the Seraphim, and singing like a bird
From the deep gladness of a merry heart
The whole night long. And when the morning came
And I awakened in this work-day world,
The spell was on me still; and still is on
The buoyancy, the joy, the certain hope
Of happiness. Brother, are there no news
Of Foscari?
Cos.
None certain. Yet is there
A balmyness of hope; and stirring rumours
Come pattering round us, with a pleasant sound,
17
They talk of Foscari and victory—
Cam.
There hath then been a battle. Is he safe?
Cos.
As safe as I myself.
Cam.
Fy! what a fool
Am I to tremble so! And art thou sure?
Cos.
There is no certainty, but such a hope
As is her forerunner. Hath not my father
Heard of this victory?
Lau.
He hath been long
Gone to the palace, and wished you to follow.
Cos.
Gladly. I have a good man's gratitude
To pay to the good Doge. I must away
Or I shall miss the Senate.
Cam.
Thou wilt send
The tidings, Cosmo?
Cos.
Surely.
Cam.
Quickly?
Cos.
Yes.
Cam.
Good tidings, Cosmo.
Cos.
Yes. My pretty cousin
Hast thou no charge to give?
Lau.
Why bring this tale,
This happy tale thyself.
Cam.
Aye come thyself
Dear Cosmo, and farewell.
[Exit Cosmo.
Now Laura mine
Let us to the high balcony. I need
Fresh air and sun and sparkling sights and sounds
To help sustain this happiness, this hope,
Which weighs almost like fear. My dearest, come.
[Exeunt.
END OF ACT THE FIRST.
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