The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 5 (THE TWO FOSCARI- Act 3)

The Prison Of Jacopo Foscari Jac. Fos. (solus). No light, save yon faint gleam which shows me walls Which never echoed but to Sorrow's sounds,[58] The sigh of long imprisonment, the step Of feet on which the iron clanked the groan Of Death, the imprecation of Despair! And yet for this I have returned to Venice, With some faint hope, 'tis true, that Time, which wears[153] The marble down, had worn away the hate Of men's hearts; but I knew them not, and here Must I consume my own, which never beat For Venice but with such a yearning as The dove has for her distant nest, when wheeling High in the air on her return to greet Her callow brood. What letters are these which [Approaching the wall. Are scrawled along the inexorable wall? Will the gleam let me trace them? Ah! the names Of my sad predecessors in this place,[59] The dates of their despair, the brief words of A grief too great for many. This stone page Holds like an epitaph their history; And the poor captive's tale is graven on His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record Upon the bark of some tall tree,[60] which bears His own and his belovéd's name. Alas! I recognise some names familiar to me, And blighted like to mine, which I will add, Fittest for such a chronicle as this, Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches.[bk] [He engraves his name. Enter a Familiar of "the Ten." Fam. I bring you food. Jac. Fos.I pray you set it down; I am past hunger: but my lips are parched— The water! Fam.There.[154] Jac. Fos. (after drinking). I thank you: I am better. Fam. I am commanded to inform you that Your further trial is postponed. Jac. Fos.Till when? Fam. I know not.—It is also in my orders That your illustrious lady be admitted. Jac. Fos. Ah! they relent, then—I had ceased to hope it: 'Twas time. Enter Marina. Mar.My best belovéd! Jac. Fos. (embracing her).My true wife, And only friend! What happiness! Mar.We'll part No more. Jac. Fos. How! would'st thou share a dungeon? Mar.Aye, The rack, the grave, all—any thing with thee, But the tomb last of all, for there we shall Be ignorant of each other, yet I will Share that—all things except new separation; It is too much to have survived the first. How dost thou? How are those worn limbs? Alas! Why do I ask? Thy paleness—— Jac. Fos.'Tis the joy Of seeing thee again so soon, and so Without expectancy, has sent the blood Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like thine, For thou art pale too, my Marina! Mar.'Tis The gloom of this eternal cell, which never Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin[bl] To darkness more than light, by lending to The dungeon vapours its bituminous smoke, Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine eyes— No, not thine eyes—they sparkle—how they sparkle![155] Jac. Fos. And thine!—but I am blinded by the torch. Mar. As I had been without it. Couldst thou see here? Jac. Fos. Nothing at first; but use and time had taught me Familiarity with what was darkness; And the grey twilight of such glimmerings as Glide through the crevices made by the winds Was kinder to mine eyes than the full Sun, When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers Save those of Venice; but a moment ere Thou earnest hither I was busy writing. Mar. What? Jac. Fos. My name: look, 'tis there—recorded next The name of him who here preceded me,— If dungeon dates say true. Mar.And what of him? Jac. Fos. These walls are silent of men's ends; they only Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls Were never piled on high save o'er the dead, Or those who soon must be so.—What of him? Thou askest.—What of me? may soon be asked, With the like answer—doubt and dreadful surmise— Unless thou tell'st my tale. Mar.I speak of thee! Jac. Fos. And wherefore not? All then shall speak of me: The tyranny of silence is not lasting, And, though events be hidden, just men's groans Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's! I do not doubt my memory, but my life; And neither do I fear. Mar.Thy life is safe. Jac. Fos. And liberty? Mar.The mind should make its own! Jac. Fos. That has a noble sound; but 'tis a sound, A music most impressive, but too transient: The Mind is much, but is not all. The Mind Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, And torture positive, far worse than death[156] (If death be a deep sleep), without a groan, Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges Than me; but 'tis not all, for there are things More woful—such as this small dungeon, where I may breathe many years. Mar.Alas! and this Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is Prince. Jac. Fos. That thought would scarcely aid me to endure it. My doom is common; many are in dungeons, But none like mine, so near their father's palace; But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope Will stream along those moted rays of light Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford Our only day; for, save the gaoler's torch, And a strange firefly, which was quickly caught Last night in yon enormous spider's net, I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas! I know if mind may bear us up, or no, For I have such, and shown it before men; It sinks in solitude: my soul is social. Mar. I will be with thee. Jac. Fos.Ah! if it were so! But that they never granted—nor will grant, And I shall be alone: no men; no books— Those lying likenesses of lying men. I asked for even those outlines of their kind, Which they term annals, history, what you will, Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were Refused me,—so these walls have been my study, More faithful pictures of Venetian story, With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is The Hall not far from hence, which bears on high Hundreds of Doges, and their deeds and dates. Mar. I come to tell thee the result of their Last council on thy doom. Jac. Fos.I know it—look! [He points to his limbs, as referring to the Question which he had undergone. Mar. No—no—no more of that: even they relent[157] From that atrocity. Jac. Fos.What then? Mar.That you Return to Candia. Jac. Fos.Then my last hope's gone. I could endure my dungeon, for 'twas Venice; I could support the torture, there was something In my native air that buoyed my spirits up Like a ship on the Ocean tossed by storms, But proudly still bestriding[61] the high waves, And holding on its course; but there, afar, In that accurséd isle of slaves and captives, And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck, My very soul seemed mouldering in my bosom, And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. Mar. And here? Jac. Fos.At once—by better means, as briefer.[bm] What! would they even deny me my Sire's sepulchre, As well as home and heritage? Mar.My husband! I have sued to accompany thee hence, And not so hopelessly. This love of thine For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil Is Passion, and not Patriotism; for me, So I could see thee with a quiet aspect, And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, I would not cavil about climes or regions. This crowd of palaces and prisons is not A Paradise; its first inhabitants Were wretched exiles. Jac. Fos.Well I know how wretched! Mar. And yet you see how, from their banishment Before the Tartar into these salt isles, Their antique energy of mind, all that[158] Remained of Rome for their inheritance, Created by degrees an ocean Rome;[62] And shall an evil, which so often leads To good, depress thee thus? Jac. Fos.Had I gone forth From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking Another region, with their flocks and herds; Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion, Or like our fathers, driven by Attila[63] From fertile Italy, to barren islets, I would have given some tears to my late country And many thoughts; but afterwards addressed Myself, with those about me, to create A new home and fresh state: perhaps I could Have borne this—though I know not. Mar.Wherefore not? It was the lot of millions, and must be The fate of myriads more. Jac. Fos.Aye—we but hear Of the survivors' toil in their new lands,[159] Their numbers and success; but who can number The hearts which broke in silence at that parting, Or after their departure; of that malady[64] Which calls up green and native fields to view From the rough deep, with such identity To the poor exile's fevered eye, that he Can scarcely be restrained from treading them? That melody,[65] which out of tones and tunes[bn] Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow Of the sad mountaineer, when far away From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds, That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought, And dies.[66] You call this weakness! It is strength, I say,—the parent of all honest feeling. He who loves not his Country, can love nothing. Mar. Obey her, then: 'tis she that puts thee forth.[] Jac. Fos. Aye, there it is; 'tis like a mother's curse Upon my soul—the mark is set upon me. The exiles you speak of went forth by nations, Their hands upheld each other by the way, Their tents were pitched together—I'm alone. Mar. You shall be so no more—I will go with thee. Jac. Fos. My best Marina!—and our children? Mar.They, I fear, by the prevention of the state's Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure), Will not be suffered to proceed with us. Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them? Mar.Yes—with many a pang! But—I can leave them, children as they are, To teach you to be less a child. From this Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted By duties paramount; and 'tis our first On earth to bear. Jac. Fos.Have I not borne? Mar.Too much From tyrannous injustice, and enough To teach you not to shrink now from a lot, Which, as compared with what you have undergone Of late, is mercy. Jac. Fos.Ah! you never yet Were far away from Venice, never saw Her beautiful towers in the receding distance, While every furrow of the vessel's track Seemed ploughing deep into your heart; you never Saw day go down upon your native spires[bo] So calmly with its gold and crimson glory, And after dreaming a disturbéd vision Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. Mar. I will divide this with you. Let us think Of our departure from this much-loved city, (Since you must love it, as it seems,) and this Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you. Our children will be cared for by the Doge, And by my uncles; we must sail ere night.[161] Jac. Fos. That's sudden. Shall I not behold my father? Mar. You will. Jac. Fos.Where? Mar.Here, or in the ducal chamber— He said not which. I would that you could bear Your exile as he bears it. Jac. Fos.Blame him not. I sometimes murmur for a moment; but He could not now act otherwise. A show Of feeling or compassion on his part Would have but drawn upon his agéd head Suspicion from "the Ten," and upon mine Accumulated ills. Mar.Accumulated! What pangs are those they have spared you? Jac. Fos.That of leaving Venice without beholding him or you, Which might have been forbidden now, as 'twas Upon my former exile. Mar.That is true, And thus far I am also the State's debtor, And shall be more so when I see us both Floating on the free waves—away—away— Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorred, Unjust, and—— Jac. Fos.Curse it not. If I am silent, Who dares accuse my Country? Mar.Men and Angels! The blood of myriads reeking up to Heaven, The groans of slaves in chains, and men in dungeons, Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and subjects, Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads; and Though last, not least, thy silence! Couldst thou say Aught in its favour, who would praise like thee? Jac. Fos. Let us address us then, since so it must be, To our departure. Who comes here? [162] Enter Loredano attended by Familiars. Lor. (to the Familiars).Retire, But leave the torch.[Exeunt the two Familiars. Jac. Fos. Most welcome, noble Signor. I did not deem this poor place could have drawn Such presence hither. Lor.'Tis not the first time I have visited these places. Mar.Nor would be The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. Came you here to insult us, or remain[bp] As spy upon us, or as hostage for us? Lor. Neither are of my office, noble Lady! I am sent hither to your husband, to Announce "the Ten's" decree. Mar.That tenderness Has been anticipated: it is known. Lor. As how? Mar.I have informed him, not so gently, Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe, The indulgence of your colleagues; but he knew it. If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence! The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you, And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though Their sting is honester. Jac. Fos.I pray you, calm you: What can avail such words? Mar.To let him know That he is known. Lor.Let the fair dame preserve Her sex's privilege. Mar.I have some sons, sir, Will one day thank you better. Lor.You do well To nurse them wisely. Foscari—you know Your sentence, then? Jac. Fos.Return to Candia? Lor.True— For life.[163] Jac. Fos. Not long. Lor.I said—for life. Jac. Fos.And I Repeat—not long. Lor.A year's imprisonment In Canea—afterwards the freedom of The whole isle. Jac. Fos.Both the same to me: the after Freedom as is the first imprisonment. Is't true my wife accompanies me? Lor.Yes, If she so wills it. Mar.Who obtained that justice? Lor. One who wars not with women. Mar.But oppresses Men: howsoever let him have my thanks For the only boon I would have asked or taken From him or such as he is. Lor.He receives them As they are offered. Mar.May they thrive with him So much!—no more. Jac. Fos.Is this, sir, your whole mission? Because we have brief time for preparation, And you perceive your presence doth disquiet This lady, of a house noble as yours. Mar. Nobler! Lor.How nobler? Mar.As more generous! We say the "generous steed" to express the purity Of his high blood. Thus much I've learnt, although Venetian (who see few steeds save of bronze),[67] From those Venetians who have skirred[68] the coasts Of Egypt and her neighbour Araby: And why not say as soon the "generous man?" If race be aught, it is in qualities[164] More than in years; and mine, which is as old As yours, is better in its product, nay— Look not so stern—but get you back, and pore Upon your genealogic tree's most green Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there Blush to find ancestors, who would have blushed For such a son—thou cold inveterate hater! Jac. Fos. Again, Marina! Mar.Again! still, Marina. See you not, he comes here to glut his hate With a last look upon our misery? Let him partake it! Jac. Fos.That were difficult. Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes it now— Aye, he may veil beneath a marble brow And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. A few brief words of truth shame the Devil's servants No less than Master; I have probed his soul A moment, as the Eternal Fire, ere long, Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me! With death, and chains, and exile in his hand, To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit; They are his weapons, not his armour, for I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart. I care not for his frowns! We can but die, And he but live, for him the very worst Of destinies: each day secures him more His tempter's. Jac. Fos.This is mere insanity. Mar. It may be so; and who hath made us mad? Lor. Let her go on; it irks not me. Mar.That's false! You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph Of cold looks upon manifold griefs! You came To be sued to in vain—to mark our tears, And hoard our groans—to gaze upon the wreck Which you have made a Prince's son—my husband; In short, to trample on the fallen—an office The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him! How have you sped? We are wretched, Signor, as Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us,[165] And how feel you? Lor.As rocks. Mar.By thunder blasted: They feel not, but no less are shivered. Come, Foscari; now let us go, and leave this felon, The sole fit habitant of such a cell, Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly Till he himself shall brood in it alone. Enter the Doge. Jac. Fos. My father! Doge (embracing him). Jacopo! my son—my son! Jac. Fos. My father still! How long it is since I Have heard thee name my name—our name! Doge.My boy! Couldst thou but know—— Jac. Fos.I rarely, sir, have murmured. Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. Mar.Doge, look there! [She points to Loredano. Doge. I see the man—what mean'st thou? Mar.Caution! Lor.Being The virtue which this noble lady most[bq] May practise, she doth well to recommend it. Mar. Wretch! 'tis no virtue, but the policy Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice: As such I recommend it, as I would To one whose foot was on an adder's path. Doge. Daughter, it is superfluous; I have long Known Loredano. Lor.You may know him better. Mar. Yes; worse he could not. Jac. Fos.Father, let not these Our parting hours be lost in listening to Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it—is it, Indeed, our last of meetings? Doge.You behold These white hairs![166] Jac. Fos.And I feel, besides, that mine Will never be so white. Embrace me, father! I loved you ever—never more than now. Look to my children—to your last child's children: Let them be all to you which he was once, And never be to you what I am now. May I not see them also? Mar.No—not here. Jac. Fos. They might behold their parent any where. Mar. I would that they beheld their father in A place which would not mingle fear with love, To freeze their young blood in its natural current. They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well, I know his fate may one day be their heritage, But let it only be their heritage, And not their present fee. Their senses, though Alive to love, are yet awake to terror; And these vile damps, too, and yon thick green wave Which floats above the place where we now stand— A cell so far below the water's level, Sending its pestilence through every crevice, Might strike them: this is not their atmosphere, However you—and you—and most of all, As worthiest—you, sir, noble Loredano! May breathe it without prejudice. Jac. Fos.I had not Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. I shall depart, then, without meeting them? Doge. Not so: they shall await you in my chamber. Jac. Fos. And must I leave them—all? Lor.You must. Jac. Fos.Not one? Lor. They are the State's. Mar.I thought they had been mine. Lor. They are, in all maternal things. Mar.That is, In all things painful. If they're sick, they will Be left to me to tend them; should they die, To me to bury and to mourn; but if They live, they'll make you soldiers, senators,[167] Slaves, exiles—what you will; or if they are Females with portions, brides and bribes for nobles! Behold the State's care for its sons and mothers! Lor. The hour approaches, and the wind is fair. Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where the genial wind Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom? Lor.'Twas so When I came here. The galley floats within A bow-shot of the "Riva di Schiavoni." Jac. Fos. Father! I pray you to precede me, and Prepare my children to behold their father. Doge. Be firm, my son! Jac. Fos.I will do my endeavour. Mar. Farewell! at least to this detested dungeon, And him to whose good offices you owe In part your past imprisonment. Lor.And present Liberation. Doge.He speaks truth. Jac. Fos.No doubt! but 'tis Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him. He knows this, or he had not sought to change them, But I reproach not. Lor.The time narrows, Signor. Jac. Fos. Alas! I little thought so lingeringly To leave abodes like this: but when I feel That every step I take, even from this cell, Is one away from Venice, I look back Even on these dull damp walls, and—— Doge.Boy! no tears. Mar. Let them flow on: he wept not on the rack To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. They will relieve his heart—that too kind heart— And I will find an hour to wipe away Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now, But would not gratify yon wretch so far. Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. Lor. (to the Familiar).The torch, there! Mar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre, With Loredano mourning like an heir.[168] Doge. My son, you are feeble; take this hand. Jac. Fos.Alas! Must youth support itself on age, and I Who ought to be the prop of yours? Lor.Take mine. Mar. Touch it not, Foscari; 'twill sting you. Signor, Stand off! be sure, that if a grasp of yours Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are plunged, No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you; It could not save, but will support you ever.