[Exit.
FIESCO (with transport). Julia loves me! Julia! I envy not even the gods. (Exulting.) Let this night be a jubilee. Joy shall attain its summit. Ho! within there! (Servants come running in.) Let the floors swim with Cyprian nectar, soft strains of music rouse midnight from her leaden slumber, and a thousand burning lamps eclipse the morning sun. Pleasure shall reign supreme, and the Bacchanal dance so wildly beat the ground that the dark kingdom of the shades below shall tremble at the uproar!
[Exit hastily. A noisy allegro, during which the back scene opens,
and discovers a grand illuminated saloon, many masks-dancing. At
the side, drinking and playing tables, surrounded with company.
SCENE V.
GIANETTINO, almost intoxicated, LOMELLINO, ZIBO, ZENTURIONE,
VERRINA, CALCAGNO, all masked. Several other nobles and ladies.
GIANETTINO (boisterously). Bravo! Bravo! These wines glide down charmingly. The dancers perform a merveille. Go, one of you, and publish it throughout Genoa that I am in good humor, and that every one may enjoy himself. By my ruling star this shall be marked as a red-letter day in the calendar, and underneath be written,-"This day was Prince Doria merry." (The guests lift their glasses to their mouths. A general toast of "The Republic." Sound of trumpets.) The Republic? (Throwing his glass violently on the ground.) There lie its fragments. (Three black masks suddenly rise and collect about GIANETTINO.)
LOMELLINO (supporting GIANETTINO on his arm). My lord, you lately spoke of a young girl whom you saw in the church of St. Lorenzo.
GIANETTINO. I did, my lad! and I must make her acquaintance.
LOMELLINO. That I can manage for your grace.
GIANETTINO (with vehemence). Can you? Can you? Lomellino, you were a candidate for the procuratorship. You shall have it.
LOMELLINO. Gracious prince, it is the second dignity in the state; more than threescore noblemen seek it, and all of them more wealthy and honorable than your grace's humble servant.
GIANETTINO (indignantly). By the name of Doria! You shall be procurator. (The three masks come forward). What talk you of nobility in Genoa? Let them all throw their ancestry and honors into the scale, one hair from the white beard of my old uncle will make it kick the beam. It is my will that you be procurator, and that is tantamount to the votes of the whole senate.
LOMELLINO (in a low voice). The damsel is the only daughter of one Verrina.
GIANETTINO. The girl is pretty, and, in spite of all the devils in hell, I must possess her.
LOMELLINO. What, my lord! the only child of the most obstinate of our republicans?
GIANETTINO. To hell with your republicans! Shall my passion be thwarted by the anger of a vassal? 'Tis as vain as to expect the tower should fall when the boys pelt it with mussel-shells. (The three black masks step nearer, with great emotion.) What! Has the Duke Andreas gained his scars in battle for their wives and children, only that his nephew should court the favor of these vagabond republicans! By the name of Doria they shall swallow this fancy of mine, or I will plant a gallows over the bones of my uncle, on which their Genoese liberty shall kick itself to death. (The three masks step back in disgust.)
LOMELLINO. The damsel is at this moment alone. Her father is here, and one of those three masks.
GIANETTINO. Excellent! Bring me instantly to her.
LOMELLINO. But you will seek in her a mistress, and find a prude.
GIANETTINO. Force is the best rhetoric. Lead me to her. Would I could see that republican dog that durst stand in the way of the bear Doria. (Going, meets FIESCO at the door.) Where is the Countess?
SCENE VI.
FIESCO and the former.
FIESCO. I have handed her to her carriage. (Takes GIANETTINO'S hand, and presses it to his breast.) Prince, I am now doubly your slave. To you I bow, as sovereign of Genoa-to your lovely sister, as mistress of my heart.
LOMELLINO. Fiesco has become a mere votary of pleasure. The great world has lost much in you.
FIESCO. But Fiesco has lost nothing in giving up the world. To live is to dream, and to dream pleasantly is to be wise. Can this be done more certainly amid the thunders of a throne, where the wheels of government creak incessantly upon the tortured ear, than on the heaving bosom of an enamored woman? Let Gianettino rule over Genoa; Fiesco shall devote himself to love.
GIANETTINO. Away, Lomellino! It is near midnight. The time draws near -Lavagna, we thank thee for thy entertainment-I have been satisfied.
FIESCO. That, prince, is all that I can wish.
GIANETTINO. Then good-night! To-morrow we have a party at the palace, and Fiesco is invited. Come, procurator!
FIESCO. Ho! Lights there! Music!
GIANETTINO (haughtily, rushing through the three masks). Make way there for Doria!
ONE OF THE THREE MASKS (murmuring indignantly). Make way? In hell! Never in Genoa!
THE GUESTS (in motion). The prince is going. Good night, Lavagna! (They depart.)
SCENE VII.
The THREE BLACK MASKS and FIESCO. (A pause.)
FIESCO. I perceive some guests here who do not share the pleasure of the feast.
MASKS (murmuring to each other with indignation). No! Not one of us.
FIESCO (courteously). Is it possible that my attention should have been wanting to any one of my guests? Quick, servants! Let the music be renewed, and fill the goblets to the brim. I would not that my friends should find the time hang heavy. Will you permit me to amuse you with fireworks. Would you choose to see the frolics of my harlequin? Perhaps you would be pleased to join the ladies. Or shall we sit down to faro, and pass the time in play?
A MASK. We are accustomed to spend it in action.
FIESCO. A manly answer-such as bespeaks Verrina.
VERRINA (unmasking). Fiesco is quicker to discover his friends beneath their masks than they to discover him beneath his.
FIESCO. I understand you not. But what means that crape of mourning around your arm? Can death have robbed Verrina of a friend, and Fiesco not know the loss?
VERRINA. Mournful tales ill suit Fiesco's joyful feasts.
FIESCO. But if a friend-(pressing his hand warmly.) Friend of my soul! For whom must we both mourn?
VRRRINA. Both! both! Oh, 'tis but too true we both should mourn-yet not all sons lament their mother.
FIESCO. 'Tis long since your mother was mingled with the dust.
VERRINA (with an earnest look). I do remember me that Fiesco once called me brother, because we both were sons of the same country!
FIESCO (jocosely). Oh, is it only that? You meant then but to jest? The mourning dress is worn for Genoa! True, she lies indeed in her last agonies. The thought is new and singular. Our cousin begins to be a wit.
VERRINA. Fiesco! I spoke most seriously.
FIESCO. Certainly-certainly. A jest loses its point when he who makes it is the first to laugh. But you! You looked like a mute at a funeral. Who could have thought that the austere Verrina should in his old age become such a wag!
SACCO. Come, Verrina. He never will be ours.
FIESCO. Be merry, brother. Let us act the part of the cunning heir, who walks in the funeral procession with loud lamentations, laughing to himself the while, under the cover of his handkerchief. 'Tis true we may be troubled with a harsh step-mother. Be it so-we will let her scold, and follow our own pleasures.
VERRINA (with great emotion). Heaven and earth! Shall we then do nothing? What is to become of you, Fiesco? Where am I to seek that determined enemy of tyrants? There was a time when but to see a crown would have been torture to you. Oh, fallen son of the republic! By heaven, if time could so debase my soul I would spurn immortality.
FIESCO. O rigid censor! Let Doria put Genoa in his pocket, or barter it with the robbers of Tunis. Why should it trouble us? We will drown ourselves in floods of Cyprian wine, and revel it in the sweet caresses of our fair ones.
VERRINA (looking at him with earnestness). Are these indeed your serious thoughts?
>
FIESCO. Why should they not be, my friend? Think you 'tis a pleasure to be the foot of that many-legged monster, a republic? No-thanks be to him who gives it wings, and deprives the feet of their functions! Let Gianettino be the duke, affairs of state shall ne'er lie heavy on our heads.
VERRINA. Fiesco! Is that truly and seriously your meaning?
FIESCO. Andreas adopts his nephew as a son, and makes him heir to his estates; what madman will dispute with him the inheritance of his power?
VERRINA (with the utmost indignation). Away, then, Genoese! (Leaves FIESCO hastily, the rest follow.)
FIESCO. Verrina! Verrina! Oh, this republican is as hard as steel!
SCENE VIII.
FIESCO. A MASK entering.
MASK. Have you a minute or two to spare, Lavagna?
FIESCO (in an obliging manner). An hour if you request it.
MASK. Then condescend to walk into the fields with me.
FIESCO. It wants but ten minutes of midnight.
MASK. Walk with me, Count, I pray.
FIESCO. I will order my carriage.
MASK. That is useless-I shall send one horse: we want no more, for only one of us, I hope, will return.
FIESCO (with surprise). What say you?
MASK. A bloody answer will be demanded of you, touching a certain tear.
FIESCO. What tear?
MASK. A tear shed by the Countess of Lavagna. I am acquainted with that lady, and demand to know how she has merited to be sacrificed to a worthless woman?
FIESCO. I understand you now; but let me ask who 'tis that offers so strange a challenge?
MASK. It is the same that once adored the lady Zibo, and yielded her to Fiesco.
FIESCO. Scipio Bourgognino!
BOURGOGNINO (unmasking). And who now stands here to vindicate his honor, that yielded to a rival base enough to tyrannize over innocence.
FIESCO (embraces him with ardor). Noble youth! thanks to the sufferings of my consort, which have drawn forth the manly feelings of your soul; I admire your generous indignation-but I refuse your challenge.
BOURGOGNINO (stepping back). Does Fiesco tremble to encounter the first efforts of my sword?
FIESCO. No, Bourgognino! against a nation's power combined I would boldly venture, but not against you. The fire of your valor is endeared to me by a most lovely object-the will deserves a laurel, but the deed would be childish.
BOURGOGNINO (with emotion). Childish, Count! women can only weep at injuries. 'Tis for men to revenge them.
FIESCO. Uncommonly well said-but fight I will not.
BOURGOGNINO (turning upon him contemptuously). Count, I shall despise you.
FIESCO (with animation). By heaven, youth, that thou shalt never do-not even if virtue fall in value, shall I become a bankrupt. (Taking him by the hand, with a look of earnestness.) Did you ever feel for me-what shall I say-respect?
BOURGOGNINO. Had I not thought you were the first of men I should not have yielded to you.
FIESCO. Then, my friend, be not so forward to despise a man who once could merit your respect. It is not for the eye of the youthful artist to comprehend at once the master's vast design. Retire, Bourgognino, and take time to weigh the motives of Fiesco's conduct!
[Exit BOURGOGNINO, in silence.
Go! noble youth! if spirits such as thine break out in flames in thy country's cause, let the Dorias see that they stand fast!
SCENE IX.
FIESCO.-The MOOR entering with an appearance of timidity,
and looking round cautiously.
FIESCO (fixing his eye on him sharply). What wouldst thou here? Who art thou?
MOOR (as above). A slave of the republic.
FIESCO (keeping his eye sharply upon him). Slavery is a wretched craft. What dost thou seek?
MOOR. Sir, I am an honest man.
FIESCO. Wear then that label on thy visage, it will not be superfluous- but what wouldst thou have?
MOOR (approaching him, FIESCO draws back). Sir, I am no villain.
FIESCO. 'Tis well thou hast told me that-and yet-'tis not well either (impatiently). What dost thou seek?
MOOR (still approaching). Are you the Count Lavagna?
FIESCO (haughtily). The blind in Genoa know my steps-what wouldst thou with the Count?
MOOR (close to him). Be on your guard, Lavagna!
FIESCO (passing hastily to the other side). That, indeed, I am.
MOOR (again approaching). Evil designs are formed against you, Count.
FIESCO (retreating). That I perceive.
MOOR. Beware of Doria!
FIESCO (approaching him with an air of confidence). Perhaps my suspicions have wronged thee, my friend-Doria is indeed the name I dread.
MOOR. Avoid the man, then. Can you read?
FIESCO. A curious question! Thou hast known, it seems, many of our cavaliers. What writing hast thou?
MOOR. Your name is amongst other condemned sinners. (Presents a paper, and draws close to FIESCO, who is standing before a looking-glass and glancing over the paper-the MOOR steals round him, draws a dagger, and is going to stab.)
FIESCO (turning round dexterously, and seizing the MOOR'S arm.) Stop, scoundrel! (Wrests the dagger from him.)
MOOR (stamps in a frantic manner). Damnation! Your pardon-sire!
FIESCO (seizing him, calls with a loud voice). Stephano! Drullo! Antonio! (holding the MOOR by the throat.) Stay, my friend !-what hellish villany! (Servants enter.) Stay, and answer-thou hast performed thy task like a bungler. Who pays thy wages?
MOOR (after several fruitless attempts to escape). You cannot hang me higher than the gallows are--
FIESCO. No-be comforted-not on the horns of the moon, but higher than ever yet were gallows-yet hold! Thy scheme was too politic to be of thy own contrivance speak, fellow! who hired thee?
MOOR. Think me a rascal, sir, but not a fool.
FIESCO. What, is the scoundrel proud? Speak, sirrah! Who hired thee?
MOOR (aside). Shall I alone be called a fool? Who hired me? 'Twas but a hundred miserable sequins. Who hired me, did you ask? Prince Gianettino.
FIESCO (walking about in a passion). A hundred sequins? And is that all the value set upon Fiesco's head? Shame on thee, Prince of Genoa! Here, fellow (taking money from an escritoire), are a thousand for thee. Tell thy master he is a niggardly assassin. (MOOR looks at him with astonishment.) What dost thou gaze at? (MOOR takes up the money-lays it down-takes it up again, and looks at FIESCO with increased astonishment). What dost thou mean?
MOOR (throwing the money resolutely upon the table). Sir, that money I have not earned-I deserve it not.
FIESCO. Blockhead, thou hast deserved the gallows; but the offended elephant tramples on men not on worms. Were thy life worth but two words I would have thee hanged.
MOOR (bowing with an air of pleasure at his escape). Sir, you are too good--
FIESCO. Not towards thee! God forbid! No. I am amused to think my humor can make or unmake such a villain as thou, therefore dost thou go scot-free-understand me aright-I take thy failure as an omen of my future greatness-'tis this thought that renders me indulgent, and preserves thy life.
MOOR (in a tone of confidence). Count, your hand! honor for honor. If any man in this country has a throat too much-command me, and I'll cut it-gratis.
FIESCO. Obliging scoundrel! He would show his gratitude by cutting throats wholesale!
MOOR. Men like me, sir, receive no favor without acknowledgment. We know what honor is.
FIESCO. The honor of cut-throats?
MOOR. Which is, perhaps, more to be relied on than that of your men of character. They break their oaths made in the name of God. We keep ours pledged to the devil.
FIESCO. Thou art an amusing villain.
MOOR. I rejoice to meet your approbation. Try me; you will find in me a man who is a thorough master of his profession. Examine me; I can show my testimonials of villany from every guild of rogues-from the lowest to the highest.
FIESCO. Inde
ed! (seating himself.) There are laws and systems then even among thieves. What canst thou tell me of the lowest class?
MOOR. Oh, sir, they are petty villains, mere pick-pockets. They are a miserable set. Their trade never produces a man of genius; 'tis confined to the whip and workhouse-and at most can lead but to the gallows.
FIESCO. A charming prospect! I should like to hear something of a superior class.
MOOR. The next are spies and informers-tools of importance to the great, who from their secret information derive their own supposed omniscience. These villains insinuate themselves into the souls of men like leeches; they draw poison from the heart, and spit it forth against the very source from whence it came.
FIESCO. I understand thee-go on--
MOOR. Then come the conspirators, villains that deal in poison, and bravoes that rush upon their victims from some secret covert. Cowards they often are, but yet fellows that sell their souls to the devil as the fees of their apprenticeship. The hand of justice binds their limbs to the rack or plants their cunning heads on spikes-this is the third class.
FIESCO. But tell me! When comes thy own?
MOOR. Patience, my lord-that is the very point I'm coming to-I have already passed through all the stages that I mentioned: my genius soon soared above their limits. 'Twas but last night I performed my masterpiece in the third; this evening I attempted the fourth, and proved myself a bungler.
FIESCO. And how do you describe that class?
MOOR (with energy). They are men who seek their prey within four walls, cutting their way through every danger. They strike at once, and, by their first salute, save him whom they approach the trouble of returning thanks for a second. Between ourselves they are called the express couriers of hell: and when Beelzebub is hungry they want but a wink, and he gets his mutton warm.
FIESCO. Thou art an hardened villain-such a tool I want. Give me thy hand-thou shalt serve me.
MOOR. Jest or earnest?
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