The MOOR and FIESCO.
FIESCO. Who was it that just now departed?
MOOR. The Marquis Calcagno.
FIESCO. This handkerchief was left upon the sofa. My wife has been
here.
MOOR. I met her this moment in great agitation.
FIESCO. This handkerchief is moist (puts it in his pocket). Calcagno
here? And Leonora agitated? This evening thou must learn what has
happened.
MOOR. Miss Bella likes to hear that she is fair. She will inform me.
FIESCO. Well--thirty hours are past. Hast thou executed my commission?
MOOR. To the letter, my lord.
FIESCO (seating himself). Then tell me how they talk of Doria, and of
the government.
MOOR. Oh, most vilely. The very name of Doria shakes them like an
ague-fit. Gianettino is as hateful to them as death itself--there's
naught but murmuring. They say the French have been the rats of Genoa,
the cat Doria has devoured them, and now is going to feast upon the mice.
FIESCO. That may perhaps be true. But do they not know of any dog
against that cat?
MOOR (with an affected carelessness). The town was murmuring much of a
certain--poh--why, I have actually forgotten the name.
FIESCO (rising). Blockhead! That name is as easy to be remembered as
'twas difficult to achieve. Has Genoa more such names than one?
MOOR. No--it cannot have two Counts of Lavagna.
FIESCO (seating himself). That is something. And what do they whisper
about my gayeties?
MOOR (fixing his eyes upon him). Hear me, Count of Lavagna! Genoa must
think highly of you. They can not imagine why a descendant of the first
family--with such talents and genius--full of spirit and popularity--
master of four millions--his veins enriched with princely blood--a
nobleman like Fiesco, whom, at the first call, all hearts would fly to
meet----
FIESCO (turns away contemptuously). To hear such things from such a
scoundrel!
MOOR. Many lamented that the chief of Genoa should slumber over the ruin
of his country. And many sneered. Most men condemned you. All bewailed
the state which thus had lost you. A Jesuit pretended to have smelt out
the fox that lay disguised in sheep's clothing.
FIESCO. One fox smells out another. What say they to my passion for the
Countess Imperiali?
MOOR. What I would rather be excused from repeating.
FIESCO. Out with it--the bolder the more welcome. What are their
murmurings?
MOOR. 'Tis not a murmur. At all the coffee-houses, billiard-tables,
hotels, and public walks--in the market-place, at the Exchange, they
proclaim aloud----
FIESCO. What? I command thee!
MOOR (retreating). That you are a fool!
FIESCO. Well, take this sequin for these tidings. Now have I put on a
fool's cap that these Genoese may have wherewith to rack their wits.
Next I will shave my head, that they may play Merry Andrew to my Clown.
How did the manufacturers receive my presents?
MOOR (humorously). Why, Mr. Fool, they looked like poor knaves----
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.