by Lord Byron
“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 fù il fine ignominioso di un’ uomo, che la sua nascità, la sua età, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi talenti per lungo tempo esercitati ne’ maggiori impieghi, la sua capacità 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 insinuò nel suo cuore tal veleno che bastò a corrompere le antiche sue qualità, e a condurlo al termine dei scellerati; serio esempio, che prova non esservi età, in cui la prudenza umana sia sicura, e che nell’ uomo restano sempre passioni capaci a disonorarlo, quando non invigili sopra se stesso.”
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, 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. 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 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 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 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. And I cannot conceive any man of irritable feeling 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. 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 and the Fall of Jerusalem are full of the best “matériel” for tragedy that has been seen since Horace Walpole, except passages of Ethwald and De Montfort. 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, he is the “Ultimus Romanorum,” the author of the Mysterious Mother, 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.
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.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
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.
} Conspirators.
Israel Bertuccio, Chief of the Arsenal,
Philip Calendaro,
Dagolino,
Bertram,
Signor of the Night, “Signore di Notte,” one of the Officers belonging to the Republic.
First Citizen.
Second Citizen.
Third Citizen.
}Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace.
Vincenzo,
Pietro,
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?
Bat. Not yet;
I have sent frequently, as you commanded,
But still the Signory 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.
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 10
He hears the jarring of a distant door,
Or aught that intimates a coming step,
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.
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.
Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do you justice.
Doge. Aye, such as the Avogadori 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,
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 — ”
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.”
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
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,