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 coined

A brief yet specious tale, how I had wasted
The sum in secret riot; and he saw

My wife was touched, 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 returned 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 looked, and saw that home was hell.
And to that hell will I return no more,
Until mine enemy has rendered up
Atonement, or, as he gave life to me,
I will, reversing nature's law-

Ors.

Trust me,

The compensation which thou seekest here
Will be denied.

Giao.

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.

Ors. It must be fear itself, for the bare word
Is hollow mockery. Mark, how wisest God
Draws to one point the threads of a just doom,
So sanctifying it: what you devise

Is, as it were, accomplished.

Giac.

Is he dead?

Ors. His grave is ready. Know that since we met Cenci has done an outrage to his daughter.

Giac. What outrage?

Ors.

That she speaks not, but you may

Conceive such half conjectures as I do,

From her fixed 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 step-mother and I,
Bewildered in our horror, talked 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!—

Giac. It is enough. My doubts are well appeased. There is a higher reason for the act

Than mine; there is a holier judge than I,

A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice,
Who, in the gentleness of thy sweet youth,
Has never trodden on a worm, or bruised
A living flower, but thou hast pitied it
With needless tears!-fair sister, thou in whom
Men wondered 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?

Ors. 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

Enter BEATRICE.

Beatr. 'Tis my brother's voice! You know me not?
Giac. My sister, my lost sister!

Beatr.

Lost, indeed!

I see Orsino has talked 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.

SCENE II.

(Exeunt severally.)

A mean apartment in GIACOMO's house.

GIACOMO alone.

Giac. 'Tis midnight, and Orsino comes not yet.

(Thunder, and the sound of a storm.)

What! can the everlasting elements

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 recessary. O,
Thou unreplenished 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
Ever now, perhaps, the life that kindled mine:
But that no power can fill with vital oil

That broker 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 arrayed
In God's immortal likeness, which now stands
Naked before Heaven's judgment seat!

(A bell strikes.)

One! Two!
The hour crawls 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-

Ors.

To say he has escaped.

Giac.

Ors.

Within Petrella. He pass'd by the spot
Appointed for the deed an hour too soon.

Giac. Are we the fools of such contingencies?

And do we waste in blind misgivings thus

The hours when we should act? Then wind and thunder,
Which seemed to howl his knell, is the loud laughter

With which Heaven mocks our weakness! I henceforth

Will ne'er repent of aught designed or done,

But my repentance.

Ors.

See, the lamp is out.

Giac. If no remorse is ours when the dim air

Has drunk this innocent flame, why should we quail
When Cenci's life, that light by which ill spirits
See the worse deeds they prompt, shall sink for ever?
No, I am hardened,

Ors. Why, what need of this?

Who feared the pale intrusion of remorse

In a just deed? Although 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.
Giac. (lighting the lamp.)

And yet, once quenched, I cannot thus relume

My father's life: do you not think his ghost
Might plead that argument with God?

Ors.

You cannot now recal your sister's peace;

Once gone,

Your own extinguished 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-

Giac.
Oh, speak no more!
I am resolved, although this very hand
Must quench the life that animated it.

Ors. There is no need of that.
Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella

Listen: you know

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 earned and due.

Giac. 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.

Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these men,
But in your name, and as at your request,

To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia.

Giac. Only to talk?

Ors.

The moments which even now

Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight hour,

May memorise their flight with death: ere then

They must have talked, and may perhaps have done,

And made an end

Giac.

Listen! What sound is that?

Ors. The house-dog moans, and the beams crack: nought else Giac. It is my wife complaining in her sleep:

I doubt not she is saying bitter things

Of me; and all my children round her dreaming
That I deny them sustenance.

Ors.

Whilst he

Who truly took it from them, and who fills
Their hungry rest with bitterness, now sleeps
Lapped 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

Ors. Why, that were well. I must be gone; good night. When next we meet may all be done!

And all

Giac.
Forgotten. Oh, that I had never been!

(Exeunt.)

ACT IV. SCENE I

An Apartment in the Castle of Petrella. Enter CENCL

Cen. She comes not; yet I left her even now
Vanquished 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 years 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, 'tis her stubborn will,
Which, by its own consent, shall stoop as low
As that which drags it down.

Enter LUCRETIA.

Thou loathed wretch!

Hide thee from my abhorrence! fly, begone!
Yet stay! Bid Beatrice come hither.

Lucr.

Oh,

Husband! I pray, for thine own wretched sake,
Heed what thou dost. A man who walks like thee
Through crimes, and through the danger of his crimes,
Each hour may stumble o'er a sudden grave.
And thou art old; thy hairs are hoary grey.

As thou wouldst save thyself from death and hell,
Pity thy daughter; give her to some friend

In marriage; so that she may tempt thee not

To hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse there be.

Cen. What! like her sister, who has found a home

To mock my hate from with prosperity?

Strange ruin shall destroy both her and thee,

And all that yet remain. My death may be
Rapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go,

Bid her come hither, and before my mood

Be changed, lest I should drag her by the hair.

Lucr. She sent me to thee, husband. At thy presence

She 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 hear

If God, to punish his enormous crimes,

Harden his dying heart!"

Cen.

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 work,