Percy B. Shelley.
¶BROME, May 2 9 , 181a.
Preface
¶A MANUSCRIPT was communicated to me during my travels in Italy, which was copied from the archives of the Cenci Palace at Rome, and contains a detailed account of the horrors which ended in the extinction of one of the noblest and richest families of that city during the Pontificate of Clement VIII, in the year 1 5 9 9 . The story is, that an old man having spent his life in debauchery and wickedness, conceived at length an implacable hatred towards his children; which showed itself towards one daughter under the form of an incestuous passion, aggravated by every circumstance of cruelty and violence. This daughter, after long and vain attempts to escape from what she considered a perpetual contamination both of body and mind, at length plotted with her mother-in-law and brother to murder their common tyrant. The young maiden, who was urged to this tremendous deed by an impulse which overpowered its horror, was evidently a most gende and amiable being, a creature formed to adorn and be admired, and thus violently thwarted from her nature by the necessity of circumstance and opinion. The deed was quickly discovered, and, in spite of the most earnest prayers made to the Pope by the highest persons in Rome, the criminals were put to death. The old man had during his life repeatedly bought his pardon from the Pope for capital crimes of the most enormous and unspeakable kind, at the price of a hundred thousand crowns; the death therefore of his victims can scarcely be accounted for by the love of justice. The Pope, among other motives for severity, probably felt that whoever killed the Count Cenci deprived his treasury of a certain and copious source of revenue.' Such a story, if told so as to present to the reader all the feelings of those who once acted it, their hopes and fears, their confidences and misgivings, their various interests, passions, and opinions, acting upon and with each other, yet all conspiring to one tremendous end, would be as a light to make apparent some of the most dark and secret caverns of the human heart.
¶' The Papal Government formerly took the most extraordinary precautions against the publicity of facts which offer so tragical a demonstration of its own wickedness and weakness; so that the communication of the MS. had become, until very lately, a matter of some difficulty.
¶»75
p. 276¶On my arrival at Rome I found that the story of the Cenci was a subject not to be mentioned in Italian society without awakening a deep and breathless interest; and that the feelings of the company never failed to incline to a romantic pity for the wrongs, and a passionate exculpation of the horrible deed to which they urged her, who has been mingled two centuries with the common dust. All ranks of people knew the outlines of this history, and participated in the overwhelming interest which it seems to have the magic of exciting in the human heart. I had a copy of Guido's picture of Beatrice which is preserved in the Colonna Palace, and my servant instantly recognized it as the portrait of La Cenci.
¶This national and universal interest which the story produces and has produced for two centuries and among all ranks of people in a great City, where the imagination is kept for ever active and awake, first suggested to me the conception of its fitness for a dramatic purpose. In fact it is a tragedy which has already received, from its capacity of awakening and sustaining the sympathy of men, approbation and success. Nothing remained as I imagined, but to clothe it to the apprehensions of my countrymen in such language and action as would bring it home to their hearts. The deepest and the sublimest tragic compositions, King Lear and the two plays in which the tale of CEdipus is told, were stories which already existed in tradition, as matters of popular belief and interest, before Shakspeare and Sophocles made them familiar to the sympathy of all succeeding generations of mankind.
¶This story of the Cenci is indeed eminently fearful and monstrous: any thing like a dry exhibition of it on the stage would be insupportable. The person who would treat such a subject must increase the ideal, and diminish the actual horror of the events, so that the pleasure which arises from the poetry which exists in these tempestuous sufferings and crimes may mitigate the pain of the contemplation of the moral deformity from which they spring. There must also be nothing attempted to make the exhibition subservient to what is vulgarly termed a moral purpose. The highest moral purpose aimed at in the highest species of the drama, is the teaching the human heart, through its sympathies and antipathies, the knowledge of itself; in proportion to the possession of which knowledge, every human being is wise, just, sincere, tolerant and kind. If dogmas can do more, it is well: but a drama is no fit place for the enforcement of them. Undoubtedly, no person can be truly dishonoured by the act of another; and the fit return to make to the most enormous injuries is kindness and forbearance, and a resolution to convert the injurer from his dark passions by peace and love. Revenge, retaliation, [277]atonement, are pernicious mistakes. If Beatrice had thought in this manner she would have been wiser and better; but she would never have been a tragic character: the few whom such an exhibition would have interested, could never have been sufficiently interested for a dramatic purpose, from the want of finding sympathy in their interest among the mass who surround them. It is in the restless and anatomising casuistry with which men seek the justification of Beatrice, yet feel that she has done what needs justification; it is in the superstitious horror with which they contemplate alike her wrongs, and their revenge, that the dramatic character of what she did and suffered, consists.
¶I have endeavoured as nearly as possible to represent the characters as they probably were, and have sought to avoid the error of making them actuated by my own conceptions of right or wrong, false or true: thus under a thin veil converting names and actions of the sixteenth century into cold impersonations of my own mind. They are represented as Catholics, and as Catholics deeply tinged with religion. To a Protestant apprehension there will appear something unnatural in the earnest and perpetual sentiment of the relations between God and men which pervade the tragedy of the Cenci. It will especially be starded at the combination of an undoubting persuasion of the truth of the popular religion with a cool and determined perseverance in enormous guilt. But religion in Italy is not, as in Protestant countries, a cloak to be worn on particular days; or a passport which those who do not wish to be railed at carry with them to exhibit; or a gloomy passion for penetrating the impenetrable mysteries of our being, which terrifies its possessor at the darkness of the abyss to the brink of which it has conducted him. Religion coexists, as it were, in the mind of an Italian Catholic, with a faith in that of which all men have the most certain knowledge. It is interwoven with the whole fabric of life. It is adoration, faith, submission, penitence, blind admiration; not a rule for moral conduct. It has no necessary connection with any one virtue. The most atrocious villain may be rigidly devout, and without any shock to established faith, confess himself to be so. Religion pervades intensely the whole frame of society, and is according to the temper of the mind which it inhabits, a passion, a persuasion, an excuse, a refuge; never a check. Cenci himself built a chapel in the court of his Palace, and dedicated it to St. Thomas the Apostle, and established masses for the peace of his soul. Thus in the first scene of the fourth act Lucretia's design in exposing herself to the consequences of an expostulation with Cenci after having administered the opiate, was to induce him by a feigned tale to confess himself before death; this being esteemed by Catholics as essential to salvation; and[278] she only relinquishes her purpose when she perceives that her perseverance would expose Beatrice to new outrages.
¶I have avoided with great care in writing this play the introduction of what is commonly called mere poetry, and I imagine there will scarcely be found a detached simile or a single isolated description, unless Beatrice's description of the chasm appointed for her father's murder should be judged to be of that nature. 2
¶In a dramatic composition the imagery and the passion should interpenetrate one another, the former being reserved simply for the full development and illustration of the latter. Imagination is as the immortal God which should assume flesh for the redemption of mortal passion. It is thus that the most remote and the most familiar imagery may alike be fit for dramatic purposes when employed in the illustration of strong feeling, which raises what is low, and levels to the apprehension that which is lofty, casting over all the shadow of its own greatness. In other respects, I have written more carelessly; that is, without an over-fastidious and learned choice of words. In this respect I entirely agree with those modern critics who assert that in order to move men to true sympathy we must use the familiar language of men, and that our great ancestors the ancient English poets are the writers, a study of whom might incite us to do that for our own age which they have done for theirs. But it must be the real language of men in general, and not that of any particular class to whose society the writer happens to belong. So much for what I have attempted; I need not be assured that success is a very different matter; particularly for one whose attention has but newly been awakened to the study of dramatic literature.
¶I endeavoured whilst at Rome to observe such monuments of this story as might be accessible to a stranger. The portrait of Beatrice at the Colonna Palace is admirable as a work of art; it was taken by Guido during her confinement in prison. But it is most interesting as a just representation of one of the loveliest specimens of the workmanship of Nature. There is a fixed and pale composure upon the features: she seems sad and stricken down in spirit, yet the despair thus expressed is lightened by the patience of gentleness. Her head is bound with folds of white drapery from which the yellow strings of her golden hair escape, and fall about her neck. The moulding of her face is exquisitely delicate; the eyebrows are distinct and arched: the lips have that permanent meaning of imagination and sensibility which suffering has[279] not repressed and which it seems as if death scarcely could extinguish. Her forehead is large and clear; her eyes which we are told were remarkable for their vivacity, are swollen with weeping and lustreless, but beautifully tender and serene. In the whole mien there is a simplicity and dignity which united with her exquisite loveliness and deep sorrow are inexpressibly pathetic. Beatrice Cenci appears to have been one of those rare persons in whom energy and gentleness dwell together without destroying one another: her nature was simple and profound. The crimes and miseries in which she was an actor and a sufferer are as the mask and the mantle in which circumstances clothed her for her impersonation on the scene of the world.
p. 279¶The Cenci Palace is of great extent; and though in part modernized, there yet remains a vast and gloomy pile of feudal architecture in the same state as during the dreadful scenes which are the subject of this tragedy. The Palace is situated in an obscure corner of Rome, near the quarter of the Jews, and from the upper windows you see the immense ruins of Mount Palatine half hidden under their profuse overgrowth of trees. There is a court in one part of the Palace (perhaps that in which Cenci built the Chapel to St. Thomas), supported by granite columns and adorned with antique friezes of fine workmanship, and built up, according to the ancient Italian fashion, with balcony over balcony of open-work. One of the gates of the Palace formed of immense stones and leading through a passage, dark and lofty and opening into gloomy subterranean chambers, struck me particularly.
¶Of the Castle of Petrella, I could obtain no further information than that which is to be found in the manuscript.
The CenciDramatis PersonsCount Francesco Cenci.
¶GIACOMO, \his Sons.
Bernardo,Cardinal Camillo.
Marzio,
¶ANDREA, Servant to Cenci.Nobles—Judges—Guards—Servants.LUCRETIA, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children.BEATRICE, his Daughter.
¶The SCENE lies principally in Rome, but changes during the FourthAct to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines.
¶Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.
Act ISCENE I.—An Apartment in the Cenci PalaceEnter COUNT CENCI, and CARDINAL CAMILLO
¶CamilloTHAT matter of the murder is hushed upIf you consent to yield his HolinessYour fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.—It needed all my interest in the conclaveTo bend him to this point: he said that youBought perilous impunity with your gold;That crimes like yours if once or twice compoundedEnriched the Church, and respited from hellAn erring soul which might repent and live:—But that the glory and the interest[282]Of the high throne he fills, little consistWith making it a daily mart of guiltAs manifold and hideous as the deedsWhich you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes.Cenci. The third of my possessions—let it go!Ay, I once heard the nephew of the PopeHad sent his architect to view the ground.Meaning to build a villa on my vinesThe next time I compounded with his uncle:I little thought he should outwit me so!Henceforth no witness—not the lamp—shall seeThat which the vassal threatened to divulgeWhose throat is choked with dust for his reward.The deed he saw could not have rated higherThan his most worthless life:—it angers me!Respited me from Hell!—So may the DevilRespite their souls from Heaven. No doubt Pope Clement,And his most charitable nephews, prayThat the Apostle Peter and the saintsWill grant for their sake that I long enjoyStrength, wealth, and pride, and lust, and length of daysWherein to act the deeds which are the stewardsOf their revenue.—But much yet remainsTo which they show no title.Camillo. Oh, Count Cenci!So much that thou mightst honourably liveAnd reconcile thyself with thine own heartAnd with thy God, and with the offended world.How hideously look deeds of lust and bloodThro' those snow white and venerable hairs!—Your children should be sitting round you now,But that you fear to read upon their looksThe shame and misery you have written there.Where is your wife? Where is your gentle daughter?Methinks her sweet looks, which make all things elseBeauteous and glad, might kill the fiend within you.Why is she barred from all society[283]But her own strange and uncomplaining wrongs?Talk with me, Count,—you know I mean you well.I stood beside your dark and fiery youthWatching its bold and bad career, as menWatch meteors, but it vanished not—I markedYour desperate and remorseless manhood; nowDo I behold you in dishonoured ageCharged with a thousand unrepented crimes.Yet I have ever hoped you would amend,And in that hope have saved your life three times.Cenci. For which Aldobrandino owes you nowMy fief beyond the Pincian—Cardinal,One thing, I pray you, recollect henceforth,And so we shall converse with less restraint.A man you knew spoke of my wife and daughter—He was accustomed to frequent my house;So the next day his wife and daughter cameAnd asked if I had seen him; and I smiled:I think they never saw him any more.Camillo. Thou execrable man, beware!—Cenci. Of thee?Nay this is idle:—We should know each other.As to my character for what men call crimeSeeing I please my senses as I list,And vindicate that right with force or guileIt is a public matter, and I care notIf I discuss it with you. I may speakAlike to you and my own conscious heart—For you give out that you have half reformed me,Therefore strong vanity will keep you silentIf fear should not; both will, I do not doubt.All men delight in sensual luxury,All men enjoy revenge; and most exultOver the tortures they can never feel—Flattering their secret peace with others' pain.But I delight in nothing else. I loveThe sight of agony, and the sense of joy,[284]When this shall be another's, and that mine.And I have no remorse and little fear,Which are, I think, the checks of other men.This mood has grown upon me, until nowAny design my captious fancy makesThe picture of its wish, and it forms noneBut such as men like you would start to know,Is as my natural food and rest debarredUntil it be accomplished.Camillo. Art thou notMost miserable?Cenci. Why , miserable?—No.—I am what your theologians callHardened;—which they must be in impudence,So to revile a man's peculiar taste.True, I was happier than I am, while yetManhood remained to act the thing I thought;While lust was sweeter than revenge; and nowInvention palls:—Ay, we must all grow old—And but that there yet remains a deed to actWhose horror might make sharp an appetiteDuller than mine—I'd do—I know not what.When I was young I thought of nothing elseBut pleasure; and I fed on honey sweets:Men, by St. Thomas! cannot live like bees,And I grew tired:—yet, till I killed a foe,And heard his groans, and heard his children's jKnew I not what delight was else on earth,Which now delights me little. I the ratherLook on such pangs as terror ill conceals,The dry fixed eyeball; the pale quivering lip,Which tell me that the spirit weeps withinTears bitterer than the bloody sweat of Christ.I rarely kill the body, which preserves,Like a strong prison, the soul within my power,Wherein I feed it with the breath of fearFor hourly pain.[285]Camillo. Hell's most abandoned fiendDid never, in the drunkenness of guilt,Speak to his heart as now you speak to me;I thank my God that I believe you not.Enter ANDREAAndrea. My Lord, a gentleman from SalamancaWould speak with you.Cenci. Bid him attend me in the grand saloon.[Exit ANDREA.Camillo. Farewell; and I will prayAlmighty God that thy false, impious wordsTempt not his spirit to abandon thee. [Exit CAMILLO.Cenci. The third of my possessions! I must useClose husbandry, or gold, the old man's sword,Falls from my withered hand. But yesterdayThere came an order from the Pope to makeFourfold provision for my cursed sons;Whom I had sent from Rome to Salamanca,Hoping some accident might cut them off;And meaning if I could to starve them there.I pray thee, God, send some quick death upon them!Bernardo and my wife could not be worseIf dead and damned:—then, as to Beatrice—
(Looking around him suspiciously.)
¶I think they cannot hear me at that door;What if they should ? And yet I need not speakThough the heart triumphs with itself in words.O, thou most silent air, that shalt not hearWhat now I think! Thou, pavement, which I treadTowards her chamber,—let your echoes talkOf my imperious step scorning surprise,But not of my intent!—Andrea!Enter ANDREAAndrea. My lord?Cenci. Bid Beatrice attend me in her chamberThis evening:—no, at midnight and alone. [Exeunt.[286]SCENE II.—A Garden in the Cenci PalaceEnter BEATRICE and ORSINO, as in conversationBeatrice. Pervert not truth,Orsino. You remember where we heldThat conversation;—nay, we see the spotEven from this cypress;—two long years are pastSince, on an April midnight, underneathThe moonlight ruins of mount Palatine,I did confess to you my secret mind.Orsino. You said you loved me then.Beatrice. You are a Priest,Speak to me not of love.Orsino. I may obtainThe dispensation of the Pope to marry.Because I am a Priest do you believeYour image, as the hunter some struck deer,Follows me not whether I wake or sleep ?Beatrice. As I have said, speak to me not of love:Had you a dispensation I have not;Nor will I leave this home of miseryWhilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle ladyTo whom I o we life, and these virtuous thoughts,Must suffer what I still have strength to share.Alas, Orsino! All the love that onceI felt for you, is turned to bitter pain.Ours was a youthful contract, which you firstBroke, by assuming vows no Pope will loose.And thus I love you still, but holily,Even as a sister or a spirit might;And so I swear a cold fidelity.And it is well perhaps we shall not marry.You have a sly, equivocating veinThat suits me not.—Ah, wretched that I am!Where shall I turn ? Even now you look on meAs you were not my friend, and as if youDiscovered that I thought so, with false smiles[287]Making my true suspicion seem your wrong.Ah no! forgive me; sorrow makes me seemSterner than else my nature might have been;I have a weight of melancholy thoughts,And they forbode,—but what can they forbodeWorse than I now endure?Orsino. All will be well.Is the petition yet prepared? You knowMy zeal for all you wish, sweet Beatrice;Doubt not but I will use my utmost skillSo that the Pope attend to your complaint.Beatrice. Your zeal for all I wish;—Ah me, you are cold!Your utmost skill . . . speak but one word . . . (aside) Alas!Weak and deserted creature that I am,Here I stand bickering with my only friend! [ To ORSINO.This night my father gives a sumptuous feast,Orsino; he has heard some happy newsFrom Salamanca, from my brothers there,And with this outward show of love he mocksHis inward hate. 'Tis bold hypocrisy,For he would gladlier celebrate their deaths,Which I have heard him pray for on his knees:Great God! that such a father should be mine!But there is mighty preparation made,And all our kin, the Cenci, will be there,And all the chief nobility of Rome.And he has bidden me and my pale MotherAttire ourselves in festival array.Poor lady! She expects some happy changeIn his dark spirit from this act; I none.At supper I will give you the petition:Till when—farewell.Orsino. Farewell. (Exit BEATRICE.) I know the PopeWill ne'er absolve me from my priestly vowBut by absolving me from the revenueOf many a wealthy see; and, Beatrice,I think to win thee at an easier rate.[288]Nor shall he read her eloquent petition:He might bestow her on some poor relationOf his sixth cousin, as he did her sister,And I should be debarred from all access.Then as to what she suffers from her father,In all this there is much exaggeration:—Old men are testy and will have their way;A man may stab his enemy, or his vassal,And live a free life as to wine and women,And with a peevish temper may returnTo a dull home, and rate his wife and children;Daughters and wives call this foul tyranny.I shall be well content if on my conscienceThere rest no heavier sin than what they sufferFrom the devices of my love—A netFrom which she shall escape not. Yet I fearHer subtle mind, her awe-inspiring gaze,Whose beams anatomise me nerve by nerveAnd lay me bare, and make me blush to seeMy hidden thoughts.—Ah, no! A friendless girlWho clings to me, as to her only hope:—I were a fool, not less than if a pantherWere panic-stricken by the antelope's eye,If she escape me. [Exit.
¶SCENE III.—A Magnificent Hall in the Cenci Palace. A Banquet
¶Enter CENCI, LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, ORSINO, CAMILLO, NOBLES
¶Cenci. Welcome, my friends and kinsmen; welcome ye,Princes and Cardinals, pillars of the church,Whose presence honours our festivity.I have too long lived like an anchorite,And in my absence from your merry meetingsAn evil word is gone abroad of me;But I do hope that you, my noble friends,When you have shared the entertainment here,And heard the pious cause for which 'tis given,[289]And we have pledged a health or two together,Will think me flesh and blood as well as you;Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so,But tender-hearted, meek and pitiful.First Guest. In truth, My Lord, you seem too light of heart,Too sprightly and companionable a man,To act the deeds that rumour pins on you.( To his companion.) I never saw such blithe and open cheerIn any eye!Second Guest. Some most desired event,In which we all demand a common joy,Has brought us hither; let us hear it, Count.Cenci. It is indeed a most desired event.If, when a parent from a parent's heartLifts from this earth to the great father of allA prayer, both when he lays him down to sleep,And when he rises up from dreaming it;One supplication, one desire, one hope,That he would grant a wish for his two sons,Even all that he demands in their regard—And suddenly beyond his dearest hope,It is accomplished, he should then rejoice,And call his friends and kinsmen to a feast,And task their love to grace his merriment,Then honour me thus far—for I am he.Beatrice (to Lucretia). Great God! How horrible! Somedreadful illMust have befallen my brothers.Lucretia. Fear not, Child,He speaks too frankly.Beatrice. Ah ! My blood runs cold.I fear that wicked laughter round his eye,Which wrinkles up the skin even to the hair.Cenci. Here are the letters brought from Salamanca;Beatrice, read them to your mother. God!I thank thee! In one night didst thou perform,By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought.[290]My disobedient and rebellious sonsAre dead!—Why, dead!—What means this change of cheer?You hear me not, I tell you they are dead;And they will need no food or raiment more:The tapers that did light them the dark wayAre their last cost. The Pope, I think, will notExpect I should maintain them in their coffins.Rejoice with me—my heart is wondrous glad.[LUCRETIA sin\s, half-fainting; BEATRICE supports her.Beatrice. It is not true!—Dear lady, pray look up.Had it been true, there is a God in Heaven,He would not live to boast of such a boon.Unnatural man, thou knowest that it is false.Cenci. Ay, as the word of God; whom here I callTo witness that I speak the sober truth;—And whose most favouring Providence was shownEven in the manner of their deaths. For RoccoWas kneeling at the mass, with sixteen others,When the church fell and crushed him to a mummy ,The rest escaped unhurt. CristofanoWas stabbed in error by a jealous man,Whilst she he loved was sleeping with his rival;All in the self-same hour of the same night;Which shows that Heaven has special care of me.I beg those friends who love me, that they markThe day a feast upon their calendars.It was the twenty-seventh of December:Ay, read the letters if you doubt my oath.[ The Assembly appears confused; several of the guests rise.First Guest. Oh, horrible! I will depart—
Second Guest. And I.—
¶Third Guest. No , stay!I do believe it is some jest; tho' faith!'Tis mocking us somewhat too solemnly.I think his son has married the Infanta,Or found a mine of gold in El Dorado;'Tis but to season some such news; stay, stay![291]I see 'tis only raillery by his smile.Cenci (filling a bowl of wine, and lifting it up). Oh, thoubright wine whose purple splendour leapsAnd bubbles gaily in this golden bowlUnder the lamp-light, as my spirits do,To hear the death of my accursed sons!Could I believe thou wert their mingled blood,Then would I taste thee like a sacrament,And pledge with thee the mighty Devil in Hell,Who , if a father's curses, as men say,Climb with swift wings after their children's souls,And drag them from the very throne of Heaven,Now triumphs in my triumph!—But thou artSuperfluous; I have drunken deep of joy,And I will taste no other wine to-night.Here, Andrea! Bear the bowl around.A Guest (rising). Thou wretch!Will none among this noble companyCheck the abandoned villain ?Camillo. For God's sakeLet me dismiss the guests! You are insane,Some ill will come of this.Second Guest. Seize, silence him!First Guest. I will!Third Guest. And I!Cenci (addressing those who rise with a threatening gesture).Who moves? Who speaks?(turning to the Company)'tis nothing,Enjoy yourselves.—Beware! For my revengeIs as the sealed commission of a kingThat kills, and none dare name the murderer.
[The Banquet is broken up; several of the Guests are
¶departing.Beatrice. I do entreat you, go not, noble guests;What, although tyranny and impious hateStand sheltered by a father's hoary hair,[292]What, if 'tis he who clothed us in these limbsWho tortures them, and triumphs? What, if we,The desolate and the dead, were his own flesh,His children and his wife, whom he is boundTo love and shelter ? Shall we therefore findNo refuge in this merciless wide world?0 think what deep wrongs must have blotted outFirst love, then reverence in a child's prone mind,Till it thus vanquish shame and fear! O think!I have borne much, and kissed the sacred handWhich crushed us to the earth, and thought its strokeWas perhaps some paternal chastisement!Have excused much, doubted; and when no doubtRemained, have sought by patience, love, and tearsTo soften him, and when this could not beI have knelt down through the long sleepless nightsAnd lifted up to God, the father of all,Passionate prayers: and when these were not heardI have still borne,—until I meet you here,Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous feastGiven at my brothers' deaths. Two yet remain,His wife remains and I, whom if ye save not,Ye may soon share such merriment againAs fathers make over their children's graves.O Prince Colonna, thou art our near kinsman,Cardinal, thou art the Pope's chamberlain,Camillo, thou art chief justiciary,Take us away!Cenci. (He has been conversing with CAMILLO during thefirst part of BEATRICE'S speech; he hears the conclusion,and now advances.) I hope my good friends hereWill think of their own daughters—or perhapsOf their own throats—before they lend an earTo this wild girl.Beatrice (not noticing the words of Cenci). Dare no onelook on me?None answer? Can one tyrant overbear[293]The sense of many best and wisest men?Or is it that I sue not in some formOf scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit?O God! That I were buried with my brotherslAnd that the flowers of this departed springWere fading on my grave! And that my fatherWere celebrating now one feast for all!Camillo. A bitter wish for one so young and gende;Can we do nothing?Colonna. Nothing that I see.Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy:Yet I would second any one.A Cardinal. And I.Cenci. Retire to your chamber, insolent girl!Beatrice. Retire thou impious man! Ay, hide thyselfWhere never eye can look upon thee more!Wouldst thou have honour and obedienceWho art a torturer? Father, never dreamThough thou mayst overbear this company,But ill must come of ill.—Frown not on me!Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging looksMy brothers' ghosts should hunt thee from thy seat!Cover thy face from every living eye,And start if thou but hear a human step.Seek out some dark and silent corner, thereBow thy white head before offended God,And we will kneel around, and ferventlyPray that he pity both ourselves, and thee.Cenci. My friends, I do lament this insane girlHas spoilt the mirth of our festivity.Good night, farewell; I will not make you longerSpectators of our dull domestic quarrels.Another time.— [Exeunt all but CENCI and BEATRICE.My brain is swimming round;Give me a bowl of wine! [To BEATRICE.Thou painted viper!Beast that thou art! Fair and yet terrible![294]I know a charm shall make thee meek and tame,Now get thee from my sightl [Exit BEATRICE.Here, Andrea,Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I saidI would not drink this evening; but I must;For, strange to say, I feel my spirits failWith thinking what 1 have decreed to do.—[Drinking the wine.Be thou the resolution of quick youthWithin my veins, and manhood's purpose stern,And age's firm, cold, subtle villainy;As if thou wert indeed my children's bloodWhich I did thirst to drink! The charm works well;It must be done; it shall be done, I swear! [Exit.
Act IISCENE I.—An Apartment in the Cenci PalaceEnter LUCRETIA and BERNARDO
¶Lucretia. Weep not, my gentle boy; he struck but meWho have borne deeper wrongs. In truth, if heHad killed me, he had done a kinder deed.O, God Almighty, do thou look upon us,We have no other friend but only thee!Yet weep not; though I love you as my own ,I am not your true mother.Bernardo. O more, more,Than ever mother was to any child,That have you been to me ! Had he not beenMy father, do you think that I should weep!Lucretia. Alas! Poor boy, what else couldst thou have done?
¶Enter BEATRICEBeatrice (in a hurried voice). Did he pass this way? Haveyou seen him, brother?Ah ! No , that is his step upon the stairs;'Tis nearer now ; his hand is on the door;[295]Mother, if I to thee have ever beenA duteous child, now save me! Thou, great God,Whose image upon earth a father is,Dost thou indeed abandon me? He comes:The door is opening now ; I see his face;He frowns on others, but he smiles on me,Even as he did after the feast last night.
Enter a Servant
¶Almighty God, how merciful thou art I'Tis but Orsino's servant.—Well, what news?Servant. My master bids me say, the Holy FatherHas sent back your petition thus unopened. [Giving a paper.And he demands at what hour 'twere secureTo visit you again?Lucretia. At the Ave Mary.[Exit Servant.So daughter, our last hope has failed; Ah me!How pale you look; you tremble, and you standWrapped in some fixed and fearful meditation,As if one thought were over strong for you:Your eyes have a chill glare; O, dearest child!Are you gone mad ? If not, pray speak to me.Beatrice. You see I am not mad: I speak to you.Lucretia. You talked of something that your father didAfter that dreadful feast ? Could it be worseThan when he smiled, and cried, My sons are dead!And every one looked in his neighbour's faceTo see if others were as white as he?At the first word he spoke I felt the bloodRush to my heart, and fell into a trance;And when it passed I sat all weak and wild;Whilst you alone stood up, and with strong wordsChecked his unnatural pride; and I could seeThe devil was rebuked that lives in him.Until this hour thus have you ever stoodBetween us and your father's moody wrath[296]Like a protecting presence: your firm mindHas been our only refuge and defence.What can have thus subdued it? What can nowHave given you that cold melancholy look,Succeeding to your unaccustomed fear?Beatrice. What is it that you say? I was just thinking'Twere better not to struggle any more.Men, like my father, have been dark and bloody,Yet never—Oh! Before worse comes of it'Twere wise to die: it ends in that at last.Lucretia. O talk not so, dear child! Tell meat onceWhat did your father do or say to you ?He stayed not after that accursed feastOne moment in your chamber.—Speak to me.Bernardo. O sister, sister, prithee, speak to us!Beatrice (speaking very slowly with a forced calmness). Itwas one word, Mother, one little word;One look, one smile. (Wildly.) Oh ! He has trampled meUnder his feet, and made the blood stream downMy pallid cheeks. And he has given us allDitch water, and the fever-stricken fleshOf buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve,And we have eaten.—He has made me lookOn my beloved Bernardo, when the rustOf heavy chains has gangrened his sweet limbs,And I have never yet despaired—but now!What could I say? [Recovering herself.Ah ! No , 'tis nothing new.The sufferings we all share have made me wild:He only struck and cursed me as he passed;He said, he looked, he did;—nothing at allBeyond his wont, yet it disordered me .Alas! I am forgetful of my duty,I should preserve my senses for your sake.Lucretia. Nay, Beatrice! have courage, my sweet girl,If any one despairs it should be IWho loved him once, and now must live with him[297]Till God in pity call for him or me.For you may, like your sister, find some husband,And smile, years hence, with children round your knees;Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous coilShall be remembered only as a dream.Beatrice. Talk not to me, dear lady, of a husband.Did you not nurse me when my mother died ?Did you not shield me and that dearest boy ?And had we any other friend but youIn infancy, with gentle words and looks,To win our father not to murder us?And shall I now desert you? May the ghostOf my dead Mother plead against my soulIf I abandon her who filled the placeShe left, with more, even, than a mother's love!Bernardo. And I am of my sister's mind. IndeedI would not leave you in this wretchedness,Even though the Pope should make me free to liveIn some blithe place, like others of my age,With sports, and delicate food, and the fresh air.O never think that I will leave you, Mother!Lucretia. My dear, dear children!
¶Enter CENCI suddenlyCenci. What, Beatrice here!Come hither! [She shrinks back^, and covers her face.Nay, hide not your face, 'tis fair;Look up! Why , yesternight you dared to lookWith disobedient insolence upon me,Bending a stern and an inquiring browOn what I meant; whilst I then sought to hideThat which I came to tell you—but in vain.Beatrice (wildly, staggering towards the door). O that theearth would gape! Hide me, O God!Cenci. Then it was I whose inarticulate wordsFell from my lips, and who with tottering stepsFled from your presence, as you now from mine.[298]Stay, I command you—from this day and hourNever again, I think, with fearless eye,And brow superior, and unaltered cheek,And that lip made for tenderness or scorn,Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of mankind;Me least of all. Now get thee to thy chamber!Thou too, loathed image of thy cursed mother,
[To BERNARDO.
¶Thy milky, meek face makes me sick with hate![Exeunt BEATRICE and BERNARDO.(Aside.) So much has past between us as must makeMe bold, her fearful.—'Tis an awful thingTo touch such mischief as I now conceive:So men sit shivering on the dewy bank,And try the chill stream with their feet; once in . . .How the delighted spirit pants for joylLucretia (advancing timidly towards him). O husband!Pray forgive poor Beatrice.She meant not any ill.Cenci. Nor you perhaps?Nor that young imp, whom you have taught by roteParricide with his alphabet? Nor Giacomo?Nor those two most unnatural sons, who stirredEnmity up against me with the Pope?Whom in one night merciful God cut off:Innocent lambs! They thought not any ill.You were not here conspiring? You said nothingOf how I might be dungeoned as a madman;Or be condemned to death for some offence,And you would be the witnesses?—This failing,How just it were to hire assassins, orPut sudden poison in my evening drink?Or smother me when overcome by wine?Seeing we had no other judge but God,And he had sentenced me, and there were noneBut you to be the executionersOf his decree enregistered in heaven?[299]Oh, no! You said not this?Lucretia. So help me God,I never thought the things you charge me with!Cenci. If you dare speak that wicked lie againI'll kill you. What! It was not by your counselThat Beatrice disturbed the feast last night?You did not hope to stir some enemiesAgainst me, and escape, and laugh to scornWhat every nerve of you now trembles at?You judged that men were bolder than they are;Few dare to stand between their grave and me.Lucretia. Look not so dreadfully! By my salvationI knew not aught that Beatrice designed;Nor do I think she designed any thingUntil she heard you talk of her dead brothers.Cenci. Blaspheming liar! You are damned for this!But I will take you where you may persuadeThe stones you tread on to deliver you:For men shall there be none but those who dareAll things—not question that which I command.On Wednesday next I shall set out: you knowThat savage rock, the Castle of Petrella:'Tis safely walled, and moated round about:Its dungeons underground, and its thick towersNever told tales; though they have heard and seenWhat might make dumb things speak.—Why do you linger?Make speediest preparation for the journey! [Exit LUCRETIA.The all-beholding sun yet shines; I hearA busy stir of men about the streets;I see the bright sky through the window panes:It is a garish, broad, and peering day;Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and ears,And every little corner, nook, and holeIs penetrated with the insolent light.Come darkness! Yet, what is the day to me ?And wherefore should I wish for night, who doA deed which shall confound both night and day?[300]'Tis she shall grope through a bewildering mistOf horror: if there be a sun in heavenShe shall not dare to look upon its beams;Nor feel its warmth. Let her then wish for night;The act I think shall soon extinguish allFor me: I bear a darker deadlier gloomThan the earth's shade, or interlunar air,Or constellations quenched in murkiest cloud,In which I walk secure and unbeheldTowards my purpose.—Would that it were donel [Exit.
¶SCENE II.—A Chamber in the VaticanEnter CAMILLO and GIACOMO, in conversationCamillo. There is an obsolete and doubtful lawBy which you might obtain a bare provisionOf food and clothing—Giacomo. Nothing more? Alas!Bare must be the provision which strict lawAwards, and aged, sullen avarice pays.Why did my father not apprentice meTo some mechanic trade? I should have thenBeen trained in no highborn necessitiesWhich I could meet not by my daily toil.The eldest son of a rich noblemanIs heir to all his incapacities;He has wide wants, and narrow powers. If you,Cardinal Camillo, were reduced at onceFrom thrice-driven beds of down, and delicate food,An hundred servants, and six palaces,To that which nature doth indeed require?—Camillo. Nay, there is reason in your plea; 'twere hard.Giacomo. 'Tis hard for a firm man to bear: but IHave a dear wife, a lady of high birth,Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my fatherWithout a bond or witness to the deed:And children, who inherit her fine senses,[301]The fairest creatures in this breathing world;And she and they reproach me not. Cardinal,Do you not think the Pope would interposeAnd stretch authority beyond the law?Camillo. Though your peculiar case is hard, I knowThe Pope will not divert the course of law.After that impious feast the other nightI spoke with him, and urged him then to checkYour father's cruel hand; he frowned and said,"Children are disobedient, and they stingTheir fathers' hearts to madness and despair,Requiting years of care with contumely.I pity the Count Cenci from my heart;His outraged love perhaps awakened hate,And thus he is exasperated to ill.In the great war between the old and youngI, who have white hairs and a tottering body,Will keep at least blameless neutrality."
¶Enter ORSINOYou, my good Lord Orsino, heard those words.Orsino. What words?Giacomo. Alas, repeat them not again!There then is no redress for me, at leastNone but that which I may achieve myself,Since I am driven to the brink.—But, say,My innocent sister and my only brotherAre dying underneath my father's eye.The memorable torturers of this land,Galeaz Visconti, Borgia, Ezzelin,Never inflicted on the meanest slaveWhat these endure; shall they have no protection?Camillo. Why, if they would petition to the PopeI see not how he could refuse it—yetHe holds it of most dangerous exampleIn aught to weaken the paternal power,Being, as 'twere, the shadow of his own .[302]I pray you now excuse me. I have businessThat will not bear delay. [Exit CAMILLO.Giacomo. But you, Orsino,Have the petition: wherefore not present it ?Orsino. I have presented it, and backed it withMy earnest prayers, and urgent interest;It was returned unanswered. I doubt notBut that the strange and execrable deedsAlleged in it—in truth they might well baffleAny belief—have turned the Pope's displeasureUpon the accusers from the criminal:So I should guess from what Camillo said.Giacomo. My friend, that palace-walking devil GoldHas whispered silence to his Holiness:And we are left, as scorpions ringed with fire.What should we do but strike ourselves to death ?For he who is our murderous persecutorIs shielded by a father's holy name,Or I would— (Stops abruptly.)Orsino. What? Fear not to speak your thought.Words are but holy as the deeds they cover:A priest who has forsworn the God he serves;A judge who makes Truth weep at his decree;A friend who should weave counsel, as I now,But as the mantle of some selfish guile;A father who is all a tyrant seems,Were the profaner for his sacred name.Giacomo. Ask me not what I think; the unwilling brainFeigns often what it would not; and we trustImagination with such phantasiesAs the tongue dares not fashion into words,Which have no words, their horror makes them dimTo the mind's eye.—My heart denies itselfTo think what you demand.Orsino. But a friend's bosomIs as the inmost cave of our own mindWhere we sit shut from the wide gaze of day,[303]And from the all-communicating air.You look what I suspected—Giacomo. Spare me now!I am as one lost in a midnight wood,Who dares not ask some harmless passengerThe path across the wilderness, lest he,As my thoughts are, should be—a murderer.I know you are my friend, and all I dareSpeak to my soul that will I trust with thee.But now my heart is heavy, and would takeLone counsel from a night of sleepless care.Pardon me, that I say farewell—farewell!I would that to my own suspected selfI could address a word so full of peace.Orsino. Farewell!—Be your thoughts better or morebold. [Exit GIACOMO.I had disposed the Cardinal CamilloTo feed his hope with cold encouragement:It fortunately serves my close designsThat 'tis a trick of this same familyTo analyse their own and other minds.Such self-anatomy shall teach the willDangerous secrets: for it tempts our powers,Knowing what must be thought, and may be done,Into the depth of darkest purposes:So Cenci fell into the pit; even I,Since Beatrice unveiled me to myself,And made me shrink from what I cannot shun,Show a poor figure to my own esteem,To which I grow half reconciled. I'll doAs little mischief as I can; that thoughtShall fee the accuser conscience.(After a pause.) Now what harmIf Cenci should be murdered?—Yet, if murdered,Wherefore by me? And what if I could takeThe profit, yet omit the sin and perilIn such an action? Of all earthly things[304]I fear a man whose blows outspeed his words;And such is Cenci: and while Cenci livesHis daughter's dowry were a secret graveIf a priest wins her.—Oh, fair Beatrice!Would that I loved thee not, or loving theeCould but despise danger and gold and allThat frowns between my wish and its effect,Or smiles beyond it! There is no escape . . .Her bright form kneels beside meat the altar,And follows me to the resort of men,And fills my slumber with tumultuous dreams.So when I wake my blood seems liquid fire;And if I strike my damp and dizzy headMy hot palm scorches it: her very name,But spoken by a stranger, makes my heartSicken and pant; and thus unprofitablyI clasp the phantom of unfelt delightsTill weak imagination half possessesThe self-created shadow. Yet much longerWill I not nurse this life of feverous hours:From the unravelled hopes of GiacomoI must work out my own dear purposes.I see, as from a tower, the end of all:Her father dead; her brother bound to meBy a dark secret, surer than the grave;Her mother scared and unexpostulatingFrom the dread manner of her wish achieved:And she!—Once more take courage my faint heart;What dares a friendless maiden matched with thee?I have such foresight as assures success:Some unbeheld divinity doth ever,When dread events are near, stir up men's mindsTo black suggestions; and he prospers best,Not who becomes the instrument of ill,But who can flatter the dark spirit, that makesIts empire and its prey of other heartsTill it become his slave . . . as I will do. [Exit.
Act IIISCENE I.—An Apartment in the Cenci Palace
¶LUCRETIA, to her enter BEATRICE
Beatrice. (She enters staggering, and speahj wildly.)
¶Reach me that handkerchief!—My brain is hurt;My eyes are full of blood; just wipe them for me . . .I see but indistinctly . . .Lucretia. My sweet child,You have no wound; 'tis only a cold dewThat starts from your dear brow . . . Alas! Alas!What has befallen?Beatrice. How comes this hair undone?Its wandering strings must be what blind me so,And yet I tied it fast.—O, horrible!The pavement sinks under my feet! The wallsSpin round! I see a woman weeping there,And standing calm and motionless, whilst ISlide giddily as the world reels. . . . My God !The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with blood!The sunshine on the floor is black! The airIs changed to vapours such as the dead breatheIn charnel pits! Pah! I am choked! There creepsA clinging, black, contaminating mistAbout me . . . 'tis substantial, heavy, thick,I cannot pluck it from me, for it gluesMy fingers and my limbs to one another,And eats into my sinews, and dissolvesMy flesh to a pollution, poisoningThe subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of life!My God! I never knew what the mad feltBefore; for I am mad beyond all doubt!(More wildly.) No , I am dead! These putrefying limbsShut round and sepulchre the panting soulWhich would burst forth into the wandering air! (A pause.)What hideous thought was that I had even now?Tis gone; and yet its burthen remains here[306]O'er these dull eyes . . . upon this weary heart!0 , world! O, life! O, day! O, misery!Lucretia. What ails thee, my poor child ? She answers not:Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain,But not its cause; suffering has dried awayThe source from which it sprung . . .Beatrice (frantically). Like Parricide . . .Misery has killed its father: yet its fatherNever like mine . • . O, God! What thing am I?Lucretia. My dearest child, what has your father done?Beatrice (doubtfully). Who art thou, questioner? I have nofather.(Aside.) She is the madhouse nurse who tends on me,It is a piteous office.
(To Lucretia, in a slow, subdued voice.) Do you know
¶I thought I was that wretched BeatriceMen speak of, whom her father sometimes halesFrom hall to hall by the entangled hair;At others, pens up naked in damp cellsWhere scaly reptiles crawl, and starves her there,Till she will eat strange flesh. This woful storySo did I overact in my sick dreams,That I imagined . . . no, it cannot be!Horrible things have been in this wild world,Prodigious mixtures, and confusions strangeOf good and ill; and worse have been conceivedThan ever there was found a heart to do.But never fancy imaged such a deed
As... (Pauses, suddenly recollecting herself.)
¶Who art thou? Swear to me, ere I dieWith fearful expectation, that indeedThou art not what thou seemest . . . Mother!
Lucretia. Oh!
¶My sweet child, know you . . .Beatrice. Yet speak it not:For then if this be truth, that other tooMust be a truth, a firm enduring truth,[307]Linked with each lasting circumstance of life,Never to change, never to pass away.Why so it is. This is the Cenci Palace;Thou art Lucretia; I am Beatrice.I have talked some wild words, but will no more.Mother, come near me : from this point of time,I am . . . (Her voice dies away faintly.)Lucretia. Alas! What has befallen thee, child?What has thy father done?Beatrice. What have I done?Am I not innocent? Is it my crimeThat one with white hair and imperious brow,Who tortured me from my forgotten yearsAs parents only dare, should call himselfMy father, yet should be!—Oh, what am I?What name, what place, what memory shall be mine?What retrospects, outliving even despair?Lucretia. He is a violent tyrant, surely, child:We know that death alone can make us free;His death or ours. But what can he have doneOf deadlier outrage or worse injury?Thou art unlike thyself; thine eyes shoot forthA wandering and strange spirit. Speak to me,Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers twineWith one another.Beatrice. 'Tis the restless lifeTortured within them. If I try to speakI shall go mad. Ay , something must be done;What, yet I know not . . . something which shall makeThe thing that I have suffered but a shadowIn the dread lightning which avenges it;Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroyingThe consequence of what it cannot cure.Some such thing is to be endured or done:When I know what, I shall be still and calm,And never any thing will move me more.But now!—Oh blood, which art my father's blood,[308]Circling thro' these contaminated veins,If thou, poured forth on the polluted earth,Could wash away the crime, and punishmentBy which I suffer . . . no, that cannot be!Many might doubt there were a God aboveWho sees and permits evil, and so die:That faith no agony shall obscure in me.Lucretia. It must indeed have been some bitter wrong;Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh, my lost child,Hide not in proud impenetrable griefThy sufferings from my fear.Beatrice. I hide them not.What are the words which you would have me speak?I, who can feign no image in my mindOf that which has transformed me : I, whose thoughtIs like a ghost shrouded and folded upIn its own formless horror: of all words,That minister to mortal intercourse,Which wouldst thou hear ? For there is none to tellMy misery: if another ever knewAught like to it, she died as I will die,And left it, as I must, without a name.Death! Death! Our law and our religion call theeA punishment and a reward . . . Oh , whichHave I deserved?Lucretia. The peace of innocence;Till in your season you be called to heaven.Whate'er you may have suffered, you have doneNo evil. Death must be the punishmentOf crime, or the reward of trampling downThe thorns which God has strewed upon the pathWhich leads to immortality.Beatrice. Ay, death . . .The punishment of crime. I pray thee, God,Let me not be bewildered while I judge.If I must live day after day, and keepThese limbs, the unworthy temple of thy spirit,[309]As a foul den from which what thou abhorrestMay mock thee, unavenged . . . it shall not be!Self-murder . . . no, that might be no escape,For thy decree yawns like a Hell betweenOur will and it:—O! In this mortal worldThere is no vindication and no lawWhich can adjudge and execute the doomOf that through which I suffer.
¶Enter ORSINO(She approaches him solemnly.) Welcome, Friend!I have to tell you that, since last we met,I have endured a wrong so great and strange,That neither life nor death can give me rest.Ask me not what it is, for there are deedsWhich have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.Orsino. And what is he who has thus injured you?Beatrice. The man they call my father: a dread name.Orsino. It cannot be . . .Beatrice. What it can be, or not,Forbear to think. It is, and it has been;Advise me how it shall not be again.I thought to die; but a religious aweRestrains me, and the dread lest death itselfMight be no refuge from the consciousnessOf what is yet unexpiated. Oh , speak!Orsino. Accuse him of the deed, and let the lawavenge thee.Beatrice. Oh, ice-hearted counsellor!If I could find a word that might make knownThe crime of my destroyer; and that done,My tongue should like a knife tear out the secretWhich cankers my heart's core; ay, lay all bareSo that my unpolluted fame should beWith vilest gossips a stale mouthed story;A mock, a bye-word, an astonishment:—If this were done, which never shall be done,[310]Think of the offender's gold, his dreaded hateAnd the strange horror of the accuser's tale,Baffling belief, and overpowering speech;Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wraptIn hideous hints . . . Oh, most assured redress!Orsino. You will endure it then?Beatrice. Endure?—Orsino,It seems your counsel is small profit.
{Turns from him, and speaks half to herself.)
¶Ay,All must be suddenly resolved and done.What is this undistinguishable mistOf thoughts, which rise, like shadow after shadow,Darkening each other ?Orsino. Should the offender live?Triumph in his misdeed? and make, by use,His crime, whate'er it is, dreadful no doubt,Thine element; until thou mayest becomeUtterly lost; subdued even to the hueOf that which thou permittest?Beatrice {to herself). Mighty death!Thou double-visaged shadow? Only judge!Rightfullest arbiter!
(She retires absorbed in thought.)
¶Lucretia. If the lightningOf God has e'er descended to avenge . . .Orsino. Blaspheme not! His high Providence commitsIts glory on this earth, and their own wrongsInto the hands of men ; if they neglectTo punish crime . . .Lucretia. But if one, like this wretch,Should mock, with gold, opinion, law, and power?If there be no appeal to that which makesThe guiltiest tremble ? If because our wrongs,For that they are unnatural, strange, and monstrous,Exceed all measure of belief? O God!If, for the very reasons which should make[311]Redress most swift and sure, our injurer triumphs?And we, the victims, bear worse punishmentThan that appointed for their torturer?Orsino. Think notBut that there is redress where there is wrong,So we be bold enough to seize it.Lucretia. How ?If there were any way to make all sure,I know not . . . but I think it might be goodTo . . .Orsino. Why , his late outrage to Beatrice;For it is such, as I but faintly guess,As makes remorse dishonour, and leaves herOnly one duty, how she may avenge:You, but one refuge from ills ill endured;Me, but one counsel . . .Lucretia. For we cannot hopeThat aid, or retribution, or resourceWill arise thence, where every other oneMight find them with less need. (BEATRICE advances.)Orsino. Then . . .Beatrice. Peace, Orsino!And, honoured Lady, while I speak, I prayThat you put off, as garments overworn,Forbearance and respect, remorse and fear,And all the fit restraints of daily life,Which have been borne from childhood, but whichnowWould be a mockery to my holier plea.As I have said, I have endured a wrong,Which, though it be expressionless, is suchAs asks atonement; both for what is past,And lest I be reserved, day after day,To load with crimes an overburthened soul,And be . . . what ye can dream not. I have prayedTo God, and I have talked with my own heart,And have unravelled my entangled will,[312]And have at length determined what is right.Art thou my friend, Orsino? False or true?Pledge thy salvation ere I speak.Orsino. I swearTo dedicate my cunning, and my strength,My silence, and whatever else is mine,To thy commands.Lucretia. You think we should deviseHis death?Beatrice. And execute what is devised,And suddenly. We must be brief and bold.Orsino. And yet most cautious.Lucretia. For the jealous lawsWould punish us with death and infamyFor that which it became themselves to do.Beatrice. Be cautious as ye may, but prompt.Orsino,What are the means?Orsino. I know two dull, fierce outlaws,Who think man's spirit as a worm's, and theyWould trample out, for any slight caprice,The meanest or the noblest life. This moodIs marketable here in Rome. They sellWhat we now want.Lucretia. To-morrow before dawn,Cenci will take us to that lonely rock,Petrella, in the Apulian Apennines.If he arrive there . . .Beatrice. He must not arrive.Orsino. Will it be dark before you reach the tower?Lucretia. The sun will scarce be set.Beatrice. But I rememberTwo miles on this side of the fort, the roadCrosses a deep ravine; 'tis rough and narrow,And winds with short turns down the precipice;And in its depth there is a mighty rock,Which has, from unimaginable years,Sustained itself with terror and with toil[313]Over a gulph, and with the agonyWith which it clings seems slowly coming down ;Even as a wretched soul hour after hour,Clings to the mass of life; yet clinging, leans;And leaning, makes more dark the dread abyssIn which it fears to fall: beneath this cragHuge as despair, as if in weariness,The melancholy mountain yawns . . . below,You hear but see not an impetuous torrentRaging among the caverns, and a bridgeCrosses the chasm; and high above there grow,With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag,Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose tangled hairIs matted in one solid roof of shadeBy the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night.Orsino. Before you reach that bridge make some excuseFor spurring on your mules, or loiteringUntil . . .Beatrice. What sound is that ?Lucretia. Hark! No , it cannot be a servant's step;It must be Cenci, unexpectedlyReturned . . . Make some excuse for being here.Beatrice. (To ORSINO, as she goes out.) That step we hearapproach must never passThe bridge of which we spoke.[Exeunt LUCRETIA and BEATRICE.Orsino. What shall I do?Cenci must find me here, and I must bearThe imperious inquisition of his looksAs to what brought me hither: let me maskMine own in some inane and vacant smile.
¶Enter GIACOMO, in a hurried mannerHow ! Have you ventured hither? Know you thenThat Cenci is from home ?Giacomo. I sought him here;And now must wait till he returns.[314]Orsino. Great God!Weigh you the danger of this rashness ?
Giacomo. Ay!
¶Does my destroyer know his danger? WeAre now no more, as once, parent and child,But man to man; the oppressor to the oppressed;The slanderer to the slandered; foe to foe:He has cast Nature off, which was his shield,And Nature casts him off, who is her shame;And I spurn both. Is it a father's throatWhich I will shake, and say, I ask not gold;I ask not happy years; nor memoriesOf tranquil childhood; nor home-sheltered love;Though all these hast thou torn from me, and more;But only my fair fame; only one hoardOf peace, which I thought hidden from thy hate,Under the penury heaped on me by thee,Or I will . . . God can understand and pardon,Why should I speak with man?Orsino. Be calm, dear friend.Giacomo. Well, I will calmly tell you what he did.This old Francesco Cenci, as you know,Borrowed the dowry of my wife from me,And then denied the loan; and left me soIn poverty, the which I sought to mendBy holding a poor office in the state.It had been promised to me, and alreadyI bought new clothing for my ragged babes,And my wife smiled; and my heart knew repose.When Cenci's intercession, as I found,Conferred this office on a wretch, whom thusHe paid for vilest service. I returnedWith this ill news, and we sate sad togetherSolacing our despondency with tearsOf such affection and unbroken faithAs temper life's worst bitterness; when he,As he is wont, came to upbraid and curse,[315]Mocking our poverty, and telling usSuch was God's scourge for disobedient sons.And then, that I might strike him dumb with shameI spoke of my wife's dowry; but he coinedA brief yet specious tale, how I had wastedThe sum in secret riot; and he sawMy wife was touched, and he went smiling forth.And when I knew the impression he had made,And felt my wife insult with silent scornMy ardent truth, and look averse and cold,I went forth too: but soon returned again;Yet not so soon but that my wife had taughtMy children her harsh thoughts, and they all cried,"Give us clothes, father! Give us better food!What you in one night squander were enoughFor months!" I looked, and saw that home was hell.And to that hell will I return no moreUntil mine enemy has rendered upAtonement, or, as he gave life to meI will, reversing nature's law . . .Orsino. Trust me,The compensation which thou seekest hereWill be denied.Giacomo. Then . . . Are you not my friend?Did you not hint at the alternative,Upon the brink of which you see I stand,The other day when we conversed together ?My wrongs were then less. That word parricide,Although I am resolved, haunts me like fear.Orsino. It must be fear itself, for the bare wordIs hollow mockery. Mark, how wisest GodDraws to one point the threads of a just doom,So sanctifying it: what you deviseIs, as it were, accomplished.Giacomo. Is he dead ?Orsino. His grave is ready. Know that since we met.Cenci has done an outrage to his daughter.[316]Giacomo. What outrage ?Orsino. That she speaks not, but you mayConceive such half conjectures as I do,From her fixed paleness, and the lofty griefOf her stern brow bent on the idle air,And her severe unmodulated voice,Drowning both tenderness and dread; and lastFrom this; that whilst her step-mother and I,Bewildered in our horror, talked togetherWith obscure hints; both self-misunderstoodAnd darkly guessing, stumbling, in our talk,Over the truth, and yet to its revenge,She interrupted us, and with a lookWhich told before she spoke it, he must die: . . .Giacomo. It is enough. My doubts are well appeased;There is a higher reason for the actThan mine; there is a holier judge than me,A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice,Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youthHast never trodden on a worm, or bruisedA living flower, but thou hast pitied itWith needless tears! Fair sister, thou in whomMen wondered how such loveliness and wisdomDid not destroy each other! Is there madeRavage of thee ? O, heart, I ask no moreJustification! Shall I wait, Orsino,Till he return, and stab him at the door?Orsino. Not so; some accident might interposeTo rescue him from what is now most sure;And you are unprovided where to fly,How to excuse or to conceal. Nay, listen:All is contrived; success is so assuredThat . . .
¶Enter BEATRICEBeatrice. 'Tis my brother's voice! You know me not?Giacomo. My sister, my lost sister![317]Beatrice. Lost indeed!I see Orsino has talked with you, andThat you conjecture things too horribleTo speak, yet far less than the truth.Now , stay not,He might return: yet kiss me; I shall knowThat then thou hast consented to his death.Farewell, farewell! Let piety to God,Brotherly love, justice and clemency,And all things that make tender hardest heartsMake thine hard, brother. Answer not . . . farewell.[Exeunt severally.SCENE II.—A mean Apartment in GIACOMO'S HouseGIACOMO aloneGiacomo. 'Tis midnight, and Orsino comes not yet.[Thunder, and the sound of a storm.What! can the everlasting elementsFeel with a worm like man ? If so the shaftOf mercy-winged lightning would not fallOn stones and trees. My wife and children sleep:They are now living in unmeaning dreams:But I must wake, still doubting if that deedBe just which was most necessary. O,Thou unreplenished lamp! whose narrow fireIs shaken by the wind, and on whose edgeDevouring darkness hovers! Thou small flame,Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls,Still flickerest up and down, how very soon,Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail and beAs thou hadst never been! So wastes and sinksEven now, perhaps, the life that kindled mine:But that no power can fill with vital oilThat broken lamp of flesh. Ha ! 'tis the bloodWhich fed these veins that ebbs till all is cold:It is the form that moulded mine that sinksInto the white and yellow spasms of death:[318]It is the soul by which mine was arrayedIn God's immortal likeness which now standsNaked before Heaven's judgment seat!
(A bell strides.) One! Two!
¶The hours crawl on ; and when my hairs are white,My son will then perhaps be waiting thus,Tortured between just hate and vain remorse;Chiding the tardy messenger of newsLike those which I expect. I almost wishHe be not dead, although my wrongs are great;Yet . . . 'tis Orsino's step . . .
¶Enter ORSINOSpeak!Orsino. I am comeTo say he has escaped.Giacomo. Escaped!Orsino. And safeWithin Petrella. He past by the spotAppointed for the deed an hour too soon.Giacomo. Are we the fools of such contingencies?And do we waste in blind misgivings thusThe hours when we should act? Then wind and thunder,Which seemed to howl his knell, is the loud laughterWith which Heaven mocks our weakness! I henceforthWill ne'er repent of aught designed or doneBut my repentance.Orsino. See, the lamp is out.Giacomo. If no remorse is ours when the dim airHas drank this innocent flame, why should we quailWhen Cenci's life, that light by which ill spiritsSee the worst deeds they prompt, shall sink for ever?No , I am hardened.Orsino. Why , what need of this?Who feared the pale intrusion of remorseIn a just deed? Altho' our first plan failed,Doubt not but he will soon be laid to rest.But light the lamp; let us not talk i' the dark.[319]Giacomo (lighting the lamp). And yet once quenched Icannot thus relumeMy father's life: do you not think his ghostMight plead that argument with God?Orsino. Once goneYou cannot now recall your sister's peace;Your own extinguished years of youth and hope;Nor your wife's bitter words; nor all the tauntsWhich, from the prosperous, weak misfortune takes;Nor your dead mother; nor . . .Giacomo. O, speak no more!I am resolved, although this very handMust quench the life that animated it.Orsino. There is no need of that. Listen: you knowOlimpio, the castellan of PetrellaIn old Colonna's time; him whom your fatherDegraded from his post? And Marzio,That desperate wretch, whom he deprived last yearOf a reward of blood, well earned and due ?Giacomo. I knew Olimpio; and they say he hatedOld Cenci so, that in his silent rageHis lips grew white only to see him pass.Of Marzio I know nothing.Orsino. Marzio's hateMatches Olimpio's. I have sent these men,But in your name and as at your request,To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia.Giacomo. Only to talk ?Orsino. The moments which even nowPass onward to to-morrow's midnight hourMay memorise their flight with death: ere thenThey must have talked, and may perhaps have doneAnd made an end . . .Giacomo. Listen! What sound is that?Orsino. The house-dog moans, and the beams crack noughtelse.Giacomo. It is my wife complaining in her sleep:I doubt not she is saying bitter things[320]Of me ; and all my children round her dreamingThat I deny them sustenance.Orsino. Whilst heWho truly took it from them, and who fillsTheir hungry rest with bitterness, now sleepsLapped in bad pleasures, and triumphantlyMocks thee in visions of successful hateToo like the truth of day.Giacomo. If e'er he wakesAgain, I will not trust to hireling hands . . .Orsino. Why , that were well. I must be gone; good-When next we meet—may all be done!
Giacomo. And all
Act IVSCENE I.—An Apartment in the Castle of Petrella
¶Enter CENCICenci. She comes not; yet I left her even nowVanquished and faint. She knows the penaltyOf her delay: yet what if threats are vain?Am I not now within Petrella's moat?Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome ?Might I not drag her by the golden hair?Stamp on her? Keep her sleepless till her brainBe overworn? Tame her with chains and famine?Less would suffice. Yet so to leave undoneWhat I most seek! No , 'tis her stubborn willWhich by its own consent shall stoop as lowAs that which drags it down.
¶Enter LUCRETIAThou loathed wretch!Hide thee from my abhorrence; fly, begone!Yet stay! Bid Beatrice come hither.[321]Lucretia. Oh,Husband! I pray for thine own wretched sakeHeed what thou dost. A man who walks like theeThro' crimes, and thro' the danger of his crimes,Each hour may stumble o'er a sudden grave.And thou art old; thy hairs are hoary gray;As thou wouldst save thyself from death and hell,Pity thy daughter; give her to some friendIn marriage: so that she may tempt thee notTo hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse there be.Cenci. What! like her sister who has found a homeTo mock my hate from with prosperity ?Strange ruin shall destroy both her and theeAnd all that yet remain. My death may beRapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go,Bid her come hither, and before my moodBe changed, lest I should drag her by the hair.Lucretia. She sent me to thee, husband. At thy presenceShe fell, as thou dost know, into a trance;And in that trance she heard a voice which said,"Cenci must die! Let him confess himself!Even now the accusing Angel waits to hearIf God, to punish his enormous crimes,Harden his dying heart!"Cenci. Why—such things are . . .No doubt divine revealings may be made.'Tis plain I have been favoured from above,For when I cursed my sons they died.—Ay . . . so . . .As to the right or wrong that's talk . . . repentance . . .Repentance is an easy moment's workAnd more depends on God than me. Well . . . well . . .I must give up the greater point, which wasTo poison and corrupt her soul.\A pause; LUCRETIA approaches anxiously, and then shrinkjbac\ as he speahj.One, two ;Ay . . . Rocco and Cristofano my curse[322]Strangled: and Giacomo, I think, will findLife a worse Hell than that beyond the grave:Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate,Die in despair, blaspheming: to Bernardo,He is so innocent, I will bequeathThe memory of these deeds, and make his youthThe sepulchre of hope, where evil thoughtsShall grow like weeds on a neglected tomb.When all is done, out in the wide Campagna,I will pile up my silver and my gold;My costly robes, paintings and tapestries;My parchments and all records of my wealth,And make a bonfire in my joy, and leaveOf my possessions nothing but my name;Which shall be an inheritance to stripIts wearer bare as infamy. That done,My soul, which is a scourge, will I resignInto the hands of him who wielded it;Be it for its own punishment or theirs,He will not ask it of me till the lashBe broken in its last and deepest wound;Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet,Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me makeShort work and sure . . . [Going.Lucretia. (Stops him.) Oh, stay! It was a feint:She had no vision, and she heard no voice.I said it but to awe thee.Cenci. That is well.Vile palterer with the sacred truth of God,Be thy soul choked with that blaspheming lie!For Beatrice worse terrors are in storeTo bend her to my will.Lucretia. Oh ! to what will?What cruel sufferings more than she has knownCanst thou inflict?Cenci. Andrea! Go call my daughter,And if she comes not tell her that I come.What sufferings? I will drag her, step by step,[323]Thro' infamies unheard of among men :She shall stand shelterless in the broad noonOf public scorn, for acts blazoned abroad,One among which shall be . . . What ? Canst thou guess ?She shall become (for what she most abhorsShall have a fascination to entrapHer loathing will) to her own conscious selfAll she appears to others; and when dead,As she shall die unshrived and unforgiven,A rebel to her father and her God,Her corpse shall be abandoned to the hounds;Her name shall be the terror of the earth;Her spirit shall approach the throne of GodPlague-spotted with my curses. I will makeBody and soul a monstrous lump of ruin.
¶Enter ANDREAAndrea. The Lady Beatrice . . .Cenci. Speak, pale slavel WhatSaid she?Andrea. My lord, 'twas what she looked; she said:"Go tell my father that I see the gulfOf Hell between us two, which he may pass,I will not." [Exit ANDREA.Cenci. Go thou quick, Lucretia,Tell her to come; yet let her understandHer coming is consent: and say, moreover,That if she come not I will curse her. [Exit LUCRETIA.Ha !With what but with a father's curse doth GodPanic-strike armed victory, and make paleCities in their prosperity? The world's FatherMust grant a parent's prayer against his child,Be he who asks even what men call me.Will not the deaths of her rebellious brothersA we her before I speak ? For I on themDid imprecate quick ruin, and it came.[324]Enter LUCRETIAWell ; what? Speak, wretch 1Lucretia. She said, "I cannot come;Go tell my father that I see a torrentOf his own blood raging between us."Cenci (kneeling). God!Hear me! If this most specious mass of flesh,Which thou hast made my daughter; this my blood,This particle of my divided being;Or rather, this my bane and my disease,Whose sight infects and poisons me; this devilWhich sprung from me as from a hell, was meantTo aught good use; if her bright lovelinessWas kindled to illumine this dark world;If nursed by thy selectest dew of loveSuch virtues blossom in her as should makeThe peace of life, I pray thee for my sake,As thou the common God and Father artOf her, and me, and all; reverse that doom!Earth, in the name of God, let her food bePoison, until she be encrusted roundWith leprous stains! Heaven, rain upon her headThe blistering drops of the Maremma's dew,Till she be speckled like a toad; parch upThose love-enkindled lips, warp those fine limbsTo loathed lameness! All-beholding sun,Strike in thine envy those life-darting eyesWith thine own blinding beams!Lucretia. Peace! Peace!For thine own sake unsay those dreadful words.When high God grants he punishes such prayers.Cenci (leaping up, and throwing his right hand towardsHeaven). He does his will, I mine! This in addition,That if she have a child . . .Lucretia. Horrible thought!Cenci. That if she ever have a child; and thou,[325]Quick Nature! I adjure thee by thy God,That thou be fruitful in her, and increaseAnd multiply, fulfilling his command,And my deep imprecation! May it beA hideous likeness of herself, that asFrom a distorting mirror, she may seeHer image mixed with what she most abhors,Smiling upon her from her nursing breast.And that the child may from its infancyGrow, day by day, more wicked and deformed,Turning her mother's love to misery:And that both she and it may live untilIt shall repay her care and pain with hate,Or what may else be more unnatural.So he may hunt her through the clamorous scoffsOf the loud world to a dishonoured grave.Shall I revoke this curse ? Go, bid her come,Before my words are chronicled in Heaven. [Exit LUCRETIA.I do not feel as if I were a man,But like a fiend appointed to chastiseThe offences of some unremembered world.My blood is running up and down my veins;A fearful pleasure makes it prick and tingle:I feel a giddy sickness of strange awe;My heart is beating with an expectationOf horrid joy.Enter LUCRETIAWhat? Speak!Lucretia. She bids thee curse;And if thy curses, as they cannot do,Could kill her soul . . .Cenci. She would not come. Tis well,I can do both: first take what I demand,And then extort concession. To thy chamber!Fly ere I spurn thee: and beware this nightThat thou cross not my footsteps. It were saferTo come between the tiger and his prey. [Exit LUCRETIA.[326]It must be late; mine eyes grow weary dimWith unaccustomed heaviness of sleep.Conscience! Oh, thou most insolent of lies!They say that sleep, that healing dew of Heaven,Steeps not in balm the foldings of the brainWhich thinks thee an impostor. I will goFirst to belie thee with an hour of rest,Which will be deep and calm, I feel: and then . . .O, multitudinous Hell, the fiends will shakeThine arches with the laughter of their joy!There shall be lamentation heard in HeavenAs o'er an angel fallen and upon EarthAll good shall droop and sicken, and ill thingsShall with a spirit of unnatural lifeStir and be quickened . . . even asIa m now . [Exit.
¶SCENE II.—Before the Castle of PetrellaEnter BEATRICE and LUCRETIA above on the RampartsBeatrice. They come not yet.Lucretia. 'Tis scarce midnight.Beatrice. How slowBehind the course of thought, even sick with speed,Lags leaden footed time!Lucretia. The minutes pass . . .If he should wake before the deed is done?Beatrice. O, mother! He must never wake again.What thou hast said persuades me that our actWill but dislodge a spirit of deep hellOut of a human form.Lucretia. 'Tis true he spokeOf death and judgment with strange confidenceFor one so wicked; as a man believingIn God, yet recking not of good or ill.And yet to die without confession! . . .
Beatrice. Oh!
¶Believe that Heaven is merciful and just,[327]And will not add our dread necessityTo the amount of his offences.
¶Enter OLIMPIO and MARZIO, belowLucretia. See,They come.Beatrice. All mortal things must hasten thusTo their dark end. Let us go down.[Exeunt LUCRETIA and BEATRICE from above.Olimpio. How feel you to this work?Marzio. As one who thinksA thousand crowns excellent market priceFor an old murderer's life. Your cheeks are pale.Olimpio. It is the white reflection of your own ,Which you call pale.Marzio. Is that their natural hue?Olimpio. Or 'tis my hate and the deferred desireTo wreak it, which extinguishes their blood.Marzio. You are inclined then to this business?
Olimpio. Ay.
¶If one should bribe me with a thousand crownsTo kill a serpent which had stung my child,I could not be more willing.
Marzio. Is all
¶Quiet?Lucretia. I mixed an opiate with his drink:He sleeps so soundly . . .Beatrice. That his death will beBut as a change of sin-chastising dreams,A dark continuance of the Hell within him,Which God extinguish! But ye are resolved?Ye know it is a high and holy deed?[328]Olimpio. We are resolved.Marzio. As to the how this actBe warranted, it rests with you.Beatrice. Well, follow!Olimpio. Hush ! Hark! What noise is that?Marzio. Ha! some one comes!Beatrice. Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to restYour baby hearts. It is the iron gate,Which ye left open, swinging to the wind,That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, follow!And be your steps like mine, light, quick and bold. [Exeunt.
¶SCENE III.—An Apartment in the Castle
Enter BEATRICE and LUCRETIA
¶Lucretia. They are about it now.Beatrice. Nay, it is done.Lucretia. I have not heard him groan.Beatrice. He will not groan.Lucretia. What sound is that?Beatrice. List! 'tis the tread of feetAbout his bed.Lucretia. My God!If he be now a cold stiff corpse . . .Beatrice. O , fear notWhat may be done, but what is left undone:The act seals all.
¶Enter OLIMPIO and MARZIOIs it accomplished ?Marzio. What?Olimpio. Did you not call?Beatrice. When ?
Olimpio. Now.
¶Beatrice. I ask if all is over?
¶Olimpio. We dare not kill an old and sleeping man;
¶His thin gray hair, his stern and reverent brow,
p. 329¶His veined hands crossed on his heaving breast,And the calm innocent sleep in which he lay,Quelled me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot do it.Marzio. But I was bolder; for I chid Olimpio,And bade him bear his wrongs to his own graveAnd leave me the reward. And now my knifeTouched the loose wrinkled throat, when the old manStirred in his sleep, and said, "God! hear, O, hear,A father's curse! What, art thou not our father?"And then he laughed. I knew it was the ghostOf my dead father speaking through his lips,And could not kill him.Beatrice. Miserable slaves!Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man,Found ye the boldness to return to meWith such a deed undone? Base palterers!Cowards and traitors! Why , the very conscienceWhich ye would sell for gold and for revengeIs an equivocation: it sleeps overA thousand daily acts disgracing men;And when a deed where mercy insults Heaven . . .Why do I talk?
[Snatching a dagger from one of them and raising it.
¶Hadst thou a tongue to say,She murdered her own father, I must do it!But never dream ye shall outlive him long!Olimpio. Stop, for God's sake!Marzio. I will go back and kill him.Olimpio. Give me the weapon, we must do thy will.Beatrice. Take it! Depart! Return![Exeunt OLIMPIO and MARZIO.How pale thou art!We do but that which 'twere a deadly crimeTo leave undone.Lucretia. Would it were done!Beatrice. Even whilstThat doubt is passing through your mind, the world[330]Is conscious of a change. Darkness and HellHave swallowed up the vapour they sent forthTo blacken the sweet light of life. My breathComes, methinks, lighter, and the jellied bloodRuns freely thro' my veins. Hark!Enter OLIMPIO and MARZIOHe is . . .Olimpio. Dead!Marzio. We strangled him that there might be no blood;And then we threw his heavy corpse i' the gardenUnder the balcony; 'twill seem it fell.Beatrice (giving them a bag of coin). Here, take this goldand hasten to your homes.And, Marzio, because thou wast only awedBy that which made me tremble, wear thou this![ Clothes him in a rich mantle.It was the mantle which my grandfatherWore in his high prosperity, and menEnvied his state: so may they envy thine.Thou wert a weapon in the hand of GodTo a just use. Live long and thrive! And, mark,If thou hast crimes, repent: this deed is none.[A horn is sounded.Lucretia. Hark, 'tis the castle horn; my God! it soundsLike the last trump.Beatrice. Some tedious guest is coming.Lucretia. The drawbridge is let down; there is a trampOf horses in the court; fly, hide yourselves![Exeunt OLIMPIO and MARZIO.Beatrice. Let us retire to counterfeit deep rest;I scarcely need to counterfeit it now:The spirit which doth reign within these limbsSeems strangely undisturbed. I could even sleepFearless and calm: all ill is surely past. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.—Another Apartment in the Castle
¶Enter on one side the Legate SAVELLA, introduced by a Servant,and on the other LUCRETIA and BERNARDOSavella. Lady, my duty to his HolinessBe my excuse that thus unseasonablyI break upon your rest. I must speak withCount Cenci; doth he sleep?Lucretia (in a hurried and confused manner). I think hesleeps;Yet wake him not, I pray, spare me awhile,He is a wicked and a wrathful man;Should he be roused out of his sleep to-night,Which is, I know, a hell of angry dreams,It were not well; indeed it were not well.Wait till day break . . . (aside) O, I am deadly sick!Savella. I grieve thus to distress you, but the CountMust answer charges of the gravest import,And suddenly; such my commission is.Lucretia (with increased agitation). I dare not rouse him :I know none who dare . . .T were perilous; . . . you might as safely wakenA serpent; or a corpse in which some fiendWere laid to sleep.Savella. Lady, my moments hereAre counted. I must rouse him from his sleep,Since none else dare.Lucretia (aside). O, terror! O, despair!(To BERNARDO.) Bernardo, conduct you the Lord Legate toYour father's chamber. [Exeunt SAVELLA and BERNARDO.
¶Enter BEATRICEBeatrice. 'Tis a messengerCome to arrest the culprit who now standsBefore the throne of unappealable God.Both Earth and Heaven, consenting arbiters,Acquit our deed.[332]Lucretia. Oh, agony of fear!Would that he yet might live! Even now I heardThe Legate's followers whisper as they passedThey had a warrant for his instant death.All was prepared by unforbidden meansWhich we must pay so dearly, having done.Even now they search the tower, and find the body;Now they suspect the truth; now they consultBefore they come to tax us with the fact;O, horrible, 'tis all discovered!Beatrice. Mother,What is done wisely, is done well. Be boldAs thou art just. 'Tis like a truant childTo fear that others know what thou hast done,Even from thine own strong consciousness, and thusWrite on unsteady eyes and altered cheeksAll thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to thyself,And fear no other witness but thy fear.For if, as cannot be, some circumstanceShould rise in accusation, we can blindSuspicion with such cheap astonishment,Or overbear it with such guiltless pride,As murderers cannot feign. The deed is done,And what may follow now regards not me.I am as universal as the light;Free as the earth-surrounding air; as firmAs the world's centre. Consequence, to me,Is as the wind which strikes the solid rockBut shakes it not.
[A cry within and tumult.
¶Voices. Murder! Murder! Murder!
¶Enter BERNARDO and SAVELLASavella (to his followers). Go search the castle round;sound the alarm;Look to the gates that none escape!Beatrice. What now?Bernardo. I know not what to say . . . my father's dead.[333]Beatrice. How ; dead! he only sleeps; you mistake, brother.His sleep is very calm, very like death;'Tis wonderful how well a tyrant sleeps.He is not dead?Bernardo. Dead; murdered.
Lucretia (with extreme agitation). Oh no, no,
¶He is not murdered though he may be dead;I have alone the keys of those apartments.Savella. Ha ! Is it so?Beatrice. My Lord, I pray excuse us;We will retire; my mother is not well:She seems quite overcome with this strange horror.[Exeunt LUCRETIA and BEATRICE.Savella. Can you suspect who may have murdered him?Bernardo. I know not what to think.Savella. Can you name anyWho had an interest in his death?Bernardo. Alas!I can name none who had not, and those mostWho most lament that such a deed is done;My mother, and my sister, and myself.Savella. 'Tis strange! There were clear marks of violence.I found the old man's body in the moonlightHanging beneath the window of his chamber,Among the branches of a pine: he could notHave fallen there, for all his limbs lay heapedAnd effortless; 'tis true there was no blood . . .Favour me, Sir; it much imports your houseThat all should be made clear; to tell the ladiesThat I request their presence. [Exit BERNARDO.
¶Enter GUARDS bringing in MARZIOGuard. We have one.Officer. My Lord, we found this ruffian and anotherLurking among the rocks; there is no doubtBut that they are the murderers of Count Cenci;Each had a bag of coin; this fellow woreA gold-inwoven robe, which shining bright[334]Under the dark rocks to the glimmering moonBetrayed them to our notice: the other fellDesperately fighting.Savella. What does he confess?Officer. He keeps firm silence; but these lines found on himMay speak.Savella. Their language is at least sincere. [Reads.
¶" To THE LADY BEATRICE.—That the atonement of what
¶my nature sickens to conjecture may soon arrive, I sendthee, at thy brother's desire, those who will speak and domore than I dare write. . . . Thy devoted servant,
Orsino."Enter LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, and BERNARDO
¶Knowest thou this writing, Lady ?Beatrice. No .Savella. Nor thou ?Lucretia. {Her conduct throughout the scene is marked byextreme agitation.) Where was it found? What is it?It should beOrsino's hand! It speaks of that strange horrorWhich never yet found utterance, but which madeBetween that hapless child and her dead fatherA gulf of obscure hatred.Savella. Is it so?Is it true, Lady, that thy father didSuch outrages as to awaken in theeUnfilial hate?Beatrice. Not hate, 'twas more than hate:This is most true, yet wherefore question me?Savella. There is a deed demanding question done;Thou hast a secret which will answer not.Beatrice. What sayest? My Lord, your words are bold andrash.Savella. I do arrest all present in the nameOf the Pope's Holiness. You must to Rome.Lucretia. O, not to Rome. Indeed we are not guilty.[335]Beatrice. Guilty! Who dares talk of guilt? My Lord,I am more innocent of parricideThan is a child born fatherless. . . . Dear mother,Your gentleness and patience are no shieldFor this keen-judging world, this two-edged lie,Which seems, but is not. What! will human laws,Rather will ye who are their ministers,Bar all access to retribution first,And then, when Heaven doth interpose to doWhat ye neglect, arming familiar thingsTo the redress of an unwonted crime,Make ye the victims who demanded itCulprits? 'Tis ye are culprits! That poor wretchWho stands so pale, and trembling, and amazed,If it be true he murdered Cenci, wasA sword in the right hand of justest God.Wherefore should I have wielded it? UnlessThe crimes which mortal tongue dare never nameGod therefore scruples to avenge.Savella. You ownThat you desired his death?Beatrice. It would have beenA crime no less than his, if for one momentThat fierce desire had faded in my heart.'Tis true I did believe, and hope, and pray,Ay, I even knew . . . for God is wise and just,That some strange sudden death hung over him.'Tis true that this did happen, and most trueThere was no other rest for me on earth,No other hope in Heaven . . . now what of this?Savella. Strange thoughts beget strange deeds; and here areboth:I judge thee not.Beatrice. And yet, if you arrest me,You are the judge and executionerOf that which is the life of life: the breathOf accusation kills an innocent name,[336]And leaves for lame acquittal the poor lifeWhich is a mask without it. 'Tis most falseThat I am guilty of foul parricide;Although I must rejoice, for justest cause,That other hands have sent my father's soulTo ask the mercy he denied to me.Now leave us free; stain not a noble houseWith vague surmises of rejected crime;Add to our sufferings and your own neglectNo heavier sum: let them have been enough:Leave us the wreck we have.Savella. I dare not, Lady.I pray that you prepare yourselves for Rome:There the Pope's further pleasure will be known.Lucretia. O, not to Rome! O, take us not to Rome!Beatrice. Why not to Rome, dear mother ? There as hereOur innocence is as an armed heelTo trample accusation. God is thereAs here, and with his shadow ever clothesThe innocent, the injured and the weak;And such are we. Cheer up, dear Lady, leanOn me; collect your wandering thoughts. My Lord,As soon as you have taken some refreshment,And had all such examinations madeUpon the spot, as may be necessaryTo the full understanding of this matter,We shall be ready. Mother; will you come?Lucretia. Ha ! they will bind us to the rack, and wrestSelf-accusation from our agony!Will Giacomo be there? Orsino? Marzio?All present; all confronted; all demandingEach from the other's countenance the thingWhich is in every heart! O, misery![She faints, and is borne out.Savella. She faints: an ill appearance, this.Beatrice. My Lord,She knows not yet the uses of the world.[337]She fears that power is as a beast which graspsAnd loosens not: a snake whose look transmutesAll things to guilt which is its nutriment.She cannot know how well the supine slavesOf blind authority read the truth of thingsWhen written on a brow of guilelessness:She sees not yet triumphant InnocenceStand at the judgment-seat of mortal man,A judge and an accuser of the wrongWhich drags it there. Prepare yourself, my Lord;Our suite will join yours in the court below. [Exeunt.
Act V
¶SCENE L—An Apartment in ORSINO'S PalaceEnter ORSINO and GIACOMOGiacomo. Do evil deeds thus quickly come to end?O, that the vain remorse which must chastiseCrimes done, had but as loud a voice to warnAs its keen sting is mortal to avenge!O, that the hour when present had cast offThe mantle of its mystery, and shownThe ghastly form with which it now returnsWhen its scared game is roused, cheering the houndsOf conscience to their prey! Alas! Alas!It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed,To kill an old and hoary-headed father.Orsino. It has turned out unluckily, in truth.Giacomo. To violate the sacred doors of sleep;To cheat kind nature of the placid deathWhich she prepares for overwearied age;To drag from Heaven an unrepentant soulWhich might have quenched in reconciling prayersA life of burning crimes . . .Orsino. You cannot sayI urged you to the deed.Giacomo. O, had I never[338]Found in thy smooth and ready countenanceThe mirror of my darkest thoughts; hadst thouNever with hints and questions made me lookUpon the monster of my thought, untilIt grew familiar to desire . . .Orsino. 'Tis thusMen cast the blame of their unprosperous actsUpon the abettors of their own resolve;Or anything but their weak, guilty selves.And yet, confess the truth, it is the perilIn which you stand that gives you this pale sicknessOf penitence; confess 'tis fear disguisedFrom its own shame that takes the mantle nowOf thin remorse. What if we yet were safe?Giacomo. How can that be? Already Beatrice,Lucretia and the murderer are in prison.I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak,Sent to arrest us.Orsino. I have all prepared.For instant flight. We can escape even now,So we take fleet occasion by the hair.Giacomo. Rather expire in tortures, as I may.What! will you cast by self-accusing flightAssured conviction upon Beatrice?She, who alone in this unnatural work,Stands like God's angel ministered uponBy fiends; avenging such a nameless wrongAs turns black parricide to piety;Whilst we for basest ends . . . I fear, Orsino,While I consider all your words and looks,Comparing them with your proposal now,That you must be a villain. For what endCould you engage in such a perilous crime,Training me on with hints, and signs, and smiles,Even to this gulf? Thou art no liar? No ,Thou art a lie! Traitor and murderer!Coward and slave! But, no, defend thyself; [Drawing.[339]Let the sword speak what the indignant tongueDisdains to brand thee with.Orsino. Put up your weapon.Is it the desperation of your fearMakes you thus rash and sudden with a friend,Now ruined for your sake? If honest angerHave moved you, know, that what I just proposedWas but to try you. As for me, I think,Thankless affection led me to this point,From which, if my firm temper could repent,I cannot now recede. Even whilst we speakThe ministers of justice wait below:They grant me these brief moments. Now if youHave any word of melancholy comfortTo speak to your pale wife, 'twere best to passOut at the postern, and avoid them so.Giacomo. O, generous friend! How canst thou pardon me ?Would that my life could purchase thine!Orsino. That wishNow comes a day too late. Haste; fare thee well!Hear'st thou not steps along the corridor? [Exit GIACOMO.I'm sorry for it; but the guards are waitingAt his own gate, and such was my contrivanceThat I might rid me both of him and them.I thought to act a solemn comedyUpon the painted scene of this new world,And to attain my own peculiar endsBy some such plot of mingled good and illAs other weave; but there arose a PowerWhich graspt and snapped the threads of my deviceAnd turned it to a net of ruin . . . Ha ![A shout is heard.Is that my name I hear proclaimed abroad ?But I will pass, wrapt in a vile disguise;Rags on my back, and a false innocenceUpon my face, thro' the misdeeming crowdWhich judges by what seems. 'Tis easy then[340]For anew name and for a country new,And a new life, fashioned on old desires,To change the honours of abandoned Rome.And these must be the masks of that within,Which must remain unaltered . . . Oh, I fearThat what is past will never let me rest!Why , when none else is conscious, but myself,Of my misdeeds, should my own heart's contemptTrouble me? Have 1 not the power to flyMy own reproaches? Shall I be the slaveOf . . . what? A word? which those of this false worldEmploy against each other, not themselves;As men wear daggers not for self-offence.But if I am mistaken, where shall IFind the disguise to hide me from myself,As now I skulk from every other eye?[Exit.SCENE II.—A Hall of JusticeCAMILLO , JUDGES, etc., are discovered seated; MARZIO is led inFirst Judge. Accused, do you persist in your denial?I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty?I demand who were the participatorsIn your offence? Speak truth and the whole truth.Marzio. My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing;Olimpio sold the robe to me from whichYou would infer my guilt.Second Judge. Away with him!First Judge. Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack'skissSpeak false? Is it so soft a questioner,That you would bandy lover's talk with itTill it wind out your life and soul? Away!Marzio. Spare me! O, spare! I will confess.First Judge. Then speak.Marzio. I strangled him in his sleep.First Judge. Who urged you to it?[341]Marzio. His own son Giacomo, and the young prelateOrsino sent me to Petrella; thereThe ladies Beatrice and LucretiaTempted me with a thousand crowns, and IAnd my companion forthwith murdered him.Now let me die.First Judge. This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there.Lead forth the prisoner!