And, honor'd lady, while I speak, I pray
That 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 which now
Would be a mockery to my holier plea.
As I have said, I have endured a wrong,
Which, though it be expressionless, is such
As asks atonement; both for what is past,
And lest I be reserved, day after day,
To load with crimes an overburthen'd soul,
And be what ye can dream not. I have pray'd
To God, and I have talk'd with my own heart,
And have unravell'd my entangled will,
And have at length determined what is right.
Art thou my friend, Orsino? False or true?
Pledge thy salvation ere I speak.
To-morrow before dawn,
Cenci will take us to that lonely rock,
Petrella, in the Apulian Apennines.
If he arrive there-
Will it be dark before you reach the tower?
The sun will scarce be set.
Two miles on this side of the fort, the road
Crosses 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,
Sustain'd itself with terror and with toil
Over a gulf, and with the agony
With 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 abyss
In which it fears to fall: beneath this crag
Huge as despair, as if in weariness,
The melancholy mountain yawns-below,
You hear but see not an impetuous torrent
Raging among the caverns, and a bridge
Crosses the chasm; and high above there grow,
With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag,
Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose tangled hair
Is matted in one solid roof of shade
By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here
"Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night.
Before you reach that bridge, make some excuse
For spurring on your mules, or loitering
Until-
Hark! No, it cannot be a servant's step:
It must be Cenci, unexpectedly
Return'd-Make some excuse for being here.
BEATRICE (to ORSINO, as she goes out).
That step we hear approach must never pass
The bridge of which we spoke.
[Exeunt LUCRETIA and BEATRICE
What shall I do?
Cenci must find me here, and I must bear
The imperious inquisition of his looks
As to what brought me hither: let me mask
Mine own in some inane and vacant smile.
Enter GIACOMO, in a hurried manner.
How! Have you ventured thither? know you then
That Cenci is from home?
I sought him here; And now must wait till he returns.
Weigh you the danger of this rashness?
Does my destroyer know his danger? We
Are now no more, as once, parent and child,
But man to man; the oppressor to the oppress'd;
The slanderer to the slander'd; 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 throat
Which I will shake, and say, I ask not gold;
I ask not happy years; nor memories
Of tranquil childhood; nor home-shelter'd love;
Though all these hast thou torn from me, and more;
But only my fair fame; only one hoard
Of peace, which I thought hidden from thy hate,
Under the penury heap'd on me by thee,
Or I will God can understand and pardon:
Why should I speak with man?
That she speaks not, but you may
Be calm, dear friend. Conceive such half conjectures as I do,
From her fix'd paleness, and the lofty grief
Of her stern brow bent on the idle air,
And her severe unmodulated voice,
Drowning both tenderness and dread; and last
From this; that whilst her stepmother and I,
Bewilder'd in our horror, talk'd together
With obscure hints; both self-misunderstood
And darkly guessing, stumbling, in our talk,
Over the truth, and yet to its revenge,
She interrupted us, and with a look
Which told before she spoke it, he must die.
Well, I will calmly tell you what he did.
This old Francesco Cenci, as you know,
Borrow'd the dowry of my wife from me,
And then denied the loan; and left me so
In poverty, the which I sought to mend
By holding a poor office in the state.
It had been promised to me, and already
I bought new clothing for my ragged babes,
And my wife smiled; and my heart knew repose;
When Cenci's intercession, as I found,
Conferr'd this office on a wretch, whom thus
He paid for vilest service. I return'd
With this ill news, and we sate sad together
Solacing our despondency with tears
Of such affection and unbroken faith
As temper life's worst bitterness; when he
As he is wont, came to upbraid and curse,
Mocking our poverty, and telling us
Such was God's scourge for disobedient sons.
And then, that I might strike him dumb with shame,
I spoke of my wife's dowry; but he coin'd
A brief yet specious tale, how I had wasted
The sum in secret riot; and he saw
My wife was touch'd, and he went smiling forth.
And when I knew the impression he had made,
And felt my wife insult with silent scorn
My ardent truth, and look averse and cold,
I went forth too: but soon return'd again;
Yet not so soon but that my wife had taught
My children her harsh thoughts, and they all cried,
Give us clothes, father! Give us better food!
What you in one night squander were enough
For months!" I look'd, and saw that home was hell.
And to that hell will I return no more
Until mine enemy has render'd up
Atonement, or, as he gave life to me,
I will, reversing nature's law-
The compensation which thou seekest here
Will be denied.
Then-Are you not my friend?
Did you not hint at the alternative,
Upon the brink of which you see I stand.
It is enough. My doubts are well appeased;
There is a higher reason for the act
Than mine; there is a holier judge than me,
A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice,
Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youth
Hast never trodden on a worm, or bruised
A living flower, but thou hast pitied it
With needless tears! Fair sister, thou in whom
Men wonder'd how such loveliness and wisdom
Did not destroy each other! Is there made
Ravage of thee? O heart, I ask no more
Justification! Shall I wait, Orsino,
Till he return, and stab him at the door?
Not so; some accident might interpose
To 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 assured
That-
"Tis my brother's voice! Ye know me not?
My sister, my lost sister!
I see Orsino has talk'd with you, and
That you conjecture things too horrible
To speak, yet far less than the truth. Now, stay not,
He might return: yet kiss me; I shall know
That 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 hearts, Make thine hard, brother. Answer not-farewell. [Exeunt severally.
A mean apartment in GIACOMO's house.
"Tis midnight, and Orsino comes not yet.
What! can the everlasting elements
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Why, what need of this?
Who fear'd the pale intrusion of remorse
In a just deed? Although our first plan fail'd,
Doubt not but he will soon be laid to rest.
[Thunder, and the sound of a storm. But light the lamp; let us not talk i' the dark.
GIACOMO (lighting the lamp).
And yet once quench'd I cannot thus relume
My father's life: do you not think his ghost
Might plead that argument with God?
Feel with a worm like man? If so, the shaft
Of mercy-winged lightning would not fall
On stones and trees. My wife and children sleep:
They are now living in unmeaning dreams :
But I must wake, still doubting if that deed
Be just which was most necessary. O,
Thou unreplenish'd lamp! whose narrow fire
Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge
Devouring 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 be
As thou hadst never been! So wastes and sinks
Even now, perhaps, the life that kindled mine:
But that no power can fill with vital oil
That broken lamp of flesh. Ha! 'tis the blood
Which fed these veins that ebbs till all is cold:
It is the form that moulded mine that sinks
Into the white and yellow spasms of death:
It is the soul by which mine was array'd
In God's immortal likeness which now stands
Naked before Heaven's judgment-seat!
[A bell strikes. 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 news
Like those which I expect. I almost wish
He be not dead, although my wrongs are great;
Yet 'tis Orsino's step-
You cannot now recall your sister's peace;
Your own extinguish'd years of youth and hope;
Nor your wife's bitter words; nor all the taunts
Which, from the prosperous, weak misfortune takes;
Nor your dead mother; nor-
O, speak no more!
I am resolved, although this very hand
Must quench the life that animated it
There is no need of that. Listen: you know
Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella
In old Colonna's time; him whom your father
Degraded from his post? And Marzio,
That desperate wretch, whom he deprived last year
Of a reward of blood, well earn'd and due?
I knew Olimpio; and they say he hated
Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage
His lips grew white only to see him pass.
Of Marzio I know nothing.
Marzio's hate
Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these men,
But in your name, and as at your request,
To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia.
Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight hour,
May memorize their flight with death: ere then
They must have talk'd, and may perhaps have done,
And made an end.
Listen! what sound is that!
The house-dog moans, and the beams crack: naught else.
I doubt not she is saying bitter things
The hours when we should act? Then wind and It is my wife complaining in her sleep:
thunder,
Which seem'd to howl his knell, is the loud laughter Of me; and all my children round her dreaming
With which Heaven mocks our weakness! I hence. That I deny them sustenance.
Will ne'er repent of aught design'd or done
Whilst he
Who truly took it from them, and who fills
Their hungry rest with bitterness, now sleeps
Lapp'd in bad pleasures, and triumphantly
Mocks thee in visions of successful hate
Too like the truth of day.
Again, I will not trust to hireling hands.
If God, to punish his enormous crimes, Harden his dying heart!"
No doubt divine revealings may be made.
"Tis plain I have been favor'd from above,
For when I cursed my sons, they died.-Ay-s0—
As to the right or wrong, that's talk. Repentance-
Why, that were well. I must be gone; good night! Repentance is an easy moment's work,
She comes not; yet I left her even now
Vanquish'd and faint. She knows the penalty
Of 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 brain
Be overworn? Tame her with chains and famine?
Less would suffice. Yet so to leave undone
What I most seek! No, 't is her stubborn will,
Which by its own consent shall stoop as low
As that which drags it down.
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And more depends on God than me. Well-well-
I must give up the greater point, which was
To poison and corrupt her soul.
[A pause; LUCRETIA approaches anxiously, and
then shrinks back as he speaks.
One, two;
Ay-Rocco and Cristofano my curse
Strangled and Giacomo, I think, will find
Life 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 bequeath
The memory of these deeds, and make his youth
The sepulchre of hope, where evil thoughts
Shall 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 leave
Of my possessions nothing but my name,
Which shall be an inheritance to strip
Its wearer bare as infamy. That done,
My soul, which is a scourge, will I resign
Into the hands of him who wielded it;
Be it for its own punishment or theirs,
He will not ask it of me till the lash
Be broken in its last and deepest wound;
Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet,
Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me make
Short work and sure.
Oh, stay! It was a feint:
She had no vision, and she heard no voice. I said it but to awe thee.
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 store To bend her to my will.
Oh! to what will? What cruel sufferings more than she has known Canst thou inflict?
Andrea! go, call my daughter; And if she comes not, tell her that I come. What sufferings? I will drag her, step by step, Through infamies unheard of among men ; She shall stand shelterless in the broad noon Of public scorn, for acts blazon'd abroad, One among which shall be-What? Canst thou guess? She shall become (for what she most abhors Shall have a fascination to entrap Her lothing will), to her own conscious self All she appears to others; and when dead,
That if she ever have a child; and thou, Quick Nature! I adjure thee by thy God, That thou be fruitful in her, and increase And multiply, fulfilling his command,
My lord, 'twas what she look'd; she said: And my deep imprecation! May it be Go tell my father that I see the gulf Of Hell between us two, which he may pass, I will not.
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 devil
Which sprung from me as from a hell, was meant
To aught good use; if her bright loveliness
Was kindled to illumine this dark world;
If, nursed by thy selectest dew of love,
Such virtues blossom in her as should make
The peace of life, I pray thee for my sake,
As thou the common God and Father art
Of her, and me, and all; reverse that doom!
Earth, in the name of God, let her food be
Poison, until she be encrusted round
With leprous stains! Heaven, rain upon her head
The blistering drops of the Maremma's dew,
Till she be speckled like a toad; parch up
Those love-enkindling lips, warp those fine limbs
To lothed lameness! All-beholding sun,
Strike in thine envy those life-darting eyes
With thine own blinding beams!
A hideous likeness of herself, that as
From a distorting mirror, she may see
Her image mix'd with what she most abhors,
Smiling upon her from her nursing breast.
And that the child may from its infancy
Grow, day by day, more wicked and deform'd,
Turning her mother's love to misery;
And that both she and it may live until
It shall repay her care and pain with hate,
Or what may else be more unnatural,
So he may hunt her through the clamorous scoffs
Of the loud world to a dishonor'd grave.
Shall I revoke this curse? Go, bid her come,
Before my words are chronicled in heaven.
She would not come. I can do both: first take what I demand, And then extort concession. To thy chamber! Fly ere I spurn thee: and beware this night That thou cross not my footsteps. It were safer To come between the tiger and his prey.
It must be late; mine eyes grow weary dim
With unaccustom'd 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 brain
Which thinks thee an impostor. I will go
First to belie thee with an hour of rest,
Which will be deep and calm, I feel: and then-
O, multitudinous Hell, the fiends will shake
Thine arches with the laughter of their joy!
There shall be lamentation heard in Heaven
As o'er an angel fallen; and upon Earth
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