FIESCO. Fool? Fellow, art thou mad?
MOOR. Pardon! I had a mind for a few more sequins.
FIESCO (laughing, gives him another sequin). Well. 'Like poor knaves.'
MOOR. Who receive pardon at the very block. They are yours both soul and body.
FIESCO. I'm glad of it. They turn the scale among the populace of Genoa.
MOOR. What a scene it was! Zounds! I almost acquired a relish for benevolence. They caught me round the neck like madmen. The very girls seemed in love with my black visage, that's as ill-omened as the moon in an eclipse. Gold, thought I, is omnipotent: it makes even a Moor look fair.
FIESCO. That thought was better than the soil which gave it birth. These words are favorable; but do they bespeak actions of equal import?
MOOR. Yes-as the murmuring of the distant thunder foretells the approaching storm. The people lay their heads together-they collect in parties-break off their talk whenever a stranger passes by. Throughout Genoa reigns a gloomy silence. This discontent hangs like a threatening tempest over the republic. Come, wind, then hail and lightning will burst forth.
FIESCO. Hush!-hark! What is that confused noise?
MOOR (going to the window). It is the tumult of the crowd returning from the senate- house.
FIESCO. To-day is the election of a procurator. Order my carriage! It is impossible that the sitting should be over. I'll go thither. It is impossible it should be over if things went right. Bring me my sword and cloak-where is my golden chain?
MOOR. Sir, I have stolen and pawned it.
FIESCO. That I am glad to hear.
MOOR. But, how! Are there no more sequins for me?
FIESCO. No. You forgot the cloak.
MOOR. Ah! I was wrong in pointing out the thief.
FIESCO. The tumult comes nearer. Hark! 'Tis not the sound of approbation. Quick! Unlock the gates; I guess the matter. Doria has been rash. The state balances upon a needle's point. There has assuredly been some disturbance at the senate-house.
MOOR (at the window). What's here! They're coming down the street of Balbi-a crowd of many thousands-the halberds glitter-ah, swords too! Halloo! Senators! They come this way.
FIESCO. Sedition is on foot. Hasten amongst them; mention my name; persuade them to come hither. (Exit Moon hastily.) What reason, laboring like a careful ant, with difficulty scrapes together, the wind of accident collects in one short moment.
SCENE V.
FIESCO, ZENTURIONE, ZIBO, and ASSERATO, rushing in.
ZIBO. Count, impute it to our anger that we enter thus unannounced.
ZENTURIONE. I have been mortally affronted by the duke's nephew in the face of the whole senate.
ASSERATO. Doria has trampled on the golden book of which each noble Genoese is a leaf.
ZENTURIONE. Therefore come we hither. The whole nobility are insulted in me; the whole nobility must share my vengeance. To avenge my own honor I should not need assistance.
ZIBO. The whole nobility are outraged in his person; the whole nobility must rise and vent their rage in fire and flames.
ASSERATO. The rights of the nation are trodden under foot; the liberty of the republic has received a deadly blow.
FIESCO. You raise my expectation to the utmost.
ZIBO. He was the twenty-ninth among the electing senators, and had drawn forth a golden ball to vote for the procurator. Of the eight-and-twenty votes collected, fourteen were for me, and as many for Lomellino. His and Doria's were still wanting--
ZENTURIONE. Wanting! I gave my vote for Zibo. Doria-think of the wound inflicted on my honor-Doria--
ASSERATO (interrupting him). Such a thing was never heard of since the sea washed the walls of Genoa.
ZENTURIONE (continues, with great heat). Doria drew a sword, which he had concealed under a scarlet cloak-stuck it through my vote-called to the assembly--
ZIBO. 'Senators, 'tis good-for-nothing-'tis pierced through. Lomellino is procurator.'
ZENTURIONE. 'Lomellino is procurator.' And threw his sword upon the table.
ASSERATO. And called out, ''Tis good-for-nothing!' and threw his sword upon the table.
FIESCO (after a pause). On what are you resolved?
ZENTURIONE. The republic is wounded to its very heart. On what are we resolved?
FIESCO. Zenturione, rushes may yield to a breath, but the oak requires a storm. I ask, on what are you resolved?
ZIBO. Methinks the question shall be, on what does Genoa resolve?
FIESCO. Genoa! Genoa! name it not. 'Tis rotten, and crumbles wherever you touch it. Do you reckon on the nobles? Perhaps because they put on grave faces, look mysterious when state affairs are mentioned-talk not of them! Their heroism is stifled among the bales of their Levantine merchandise. Their souls hover anxiously over their India fleet.
ZENTURIONE. Learn to esteem our nobles more justly. Scarcely was Doria's haughty action done when hundreds of them rushed into the street tearing their garments. The senate was dispersed--
FIESCO (sarcastically). Like frighted pigeons when the vulture darts upon the dovecot.
ZENTURIONE. No! (fiercely)-like powder-barrels when a match falls on them.
ZIBO. The people are enraged. What may we not expect from the fury of the wounded boar!
FIESCO (laughing). The blind, unwieldy monster, which at first rattles its heavy bones, threatening, with gaping jaws, to devour the high and low, the near and distant, at last stumbles at a thread- Genoese, 'tis in vain! The epoch of the masters of the sea is past-Genoa is sunk beneath the splendor of its name. Its state is such as once was Rome's, when, like a tennis-ball, she leaped into the racket of young Octavius. Genoa can be free no longer; Genoa must be fostered by a monarch; therefore do homage to the mad-brained Gianettino.
ZENTURIONE (vehemently). Yes, when the contending elements are reconciled, and when the north pole meets the south. Come, friends.
FIESCO. Stay! stay! Upon what project are you brooding, Zibo?
ZIBO. On nothing.
FIESCO (leading them to a statue). Look at this figure.
ZENTURIONE. It is the Florentine Venus. Why point to her?
FIESCO. At least she pleases you.
ZIBO. Undoubtedly, or we should be but poor Italians. But why this question now?
FIESCO. Travel through all the countries of the globe, and among the most beautiful of living female models, seek one which shall unite all the charms of this ideal Venus.
ZIBO. And then take for our reward?
FIESCO. Then your search will have convicted fancy of deceit--
ZENTURIONE (impatiently). And what shall we have gained?
FIESCO. Gained? The decision of the long-protracted contest between art and nature.
ZENTURIONE (eagerly). And what then?
FIESCO. Then, then? (Laughing.) Then your attention will have been diverted from
