·No text on this page.

·No text on this page.

·No text on this page.

·No text on this page.

·No text on this page.

·THE CENCI
A TRA G E D Y,
IN FIVE ACTS.
By PERCY
B., SHELLEY.y
I T A L Y.
PRINTED FOR C. AND J. OLLIER
VERE S'I HI BOND STREET.
LONDON.
1819.

·No text on this page.

·DEDICATION TO LEIGH HUNT ESQ. MY DEAR FRIEND I inscribe with your name, from a distant country, and after an absence whose inonths have seemed years, this the latest of my literary efforts. Those writings which I have hitherto published , have been little else than visions which iinpersonate my own appre·iv hensions of the beautiful and the just. I can also perceive in thein the literary defects incidental to youth and impatience ; they are dreams of what ought to be, or may be. The draina which i now present to you is a sad reality. I lay aside the presumptuous attitude of an instructor, and am content to paint , with such colours as my own heart furnishes, that which has been. Had I known a person more highly endowed than yourself with all that it becomes a man to possess , I had solicited for this work ihe ornament of his name. One more gentle, honourable innocent and brave; one of inore exalted toleration for all who do and think evil, and yet himself more free froin evil; one who knows better how to receive, and how to confer a benefit though he must ever confer far more than he can receive; one of simpler, and, in the highest sense of the word, of purer life and manners I never knew : and I had already been fortunate in friend- 2 ·Y ships when your name was added to the list. In that patient and irreconcileable eninity with domestic and political tyranny and imposture which the tenor of your life has illustrated, and which, had I health and talents should illustrale mine, let us, comtorting each other in our task , live and die. All happiness attend you! Your affectionate friend , PERCY B. SIELLEY. Rome, May 29. 1819.

·No text on this page.

·VII PREFACE A Manuscript was communicated to me during my travels in Italy which was copied from the archives of the Ceoci Palace at Rome, and contains a detailed account of the horrors which ended in the extinction of one of the noblest and rebest families of that city during the Pouliſicate of Clement VIII, in the year, 1599. The story is, that an old man having spent his life in debauchery and wickedness, conceived al length an implacable hatred towards his children; which shewed itself towards one daughter under the form of an incestnous passion, aggravated by every circumstance of crnelty and violence. This daughter, after long and vam allempts to escape from what she considered a perpetnal contamination both of body aud mind, al length plolled with her mother in-law and brother lo murder their common tyrant. The young maiden who was urged to this tremendous deed by an impulse which overpowered ils horror, was evidently a inost gentle 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 pul to death. The old man lad during his life 10- peatedly bought his pardon from the Pope for capital crimies 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 notives for severity, pro·viii PRE FACE bably felt that whoever killed the Count Cenci deprived his treasury of a certain and copious source of revenge The Papal Government formerly took the most exli aordmany precautions against the publicity of facts which offer sa tragical a demonstration of its own wickedness and weakness; so that the communication of the M. S. liad becomc, until very lately, a muller of some difficulty. Such a story, iſ told so as to present to the reader all the feelings of those who once acted it, their hopes and lears, their confidences and misgivings, their various interests, passions and opinions acting npon and willı cach other, yel all conspuring to one tremendous end, would be asa light to make apparent soine of the most dark and secret caverns of the human heart. 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 interrst; and that the feelings of the company never failed to inclme to a roniantic pity for the wrongs, and a passionate sen!pation of the horrible decd 10 whirl they urged her, who has been mingled two centuries with the common dust. All ranks of people knew the outlines of Wiis history, and parli. cipaled in the overwhelming interest which it series to have the magic of exciting in the human heart. I had a copy of Guido's picture of Beatrice which is preserved in thie Colonna Palace, and my servant instantly recognized it as the portrait of La Conci. Thuis national and universal interest which the story produces and has produced for two centuries and anong all ranks of people in a great City, where the imagination is kept for ever active and awake, first suggested to me the ·PRE FACE 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, approbution and success. Nothing remained as I imagined, but tu clothe it to the apprehensions of my countrymen in such language and action as woud broog it home to their hearts. The deepest and the subliniest tragic compositions, King Lear and the two plays in which the tale of Ædipns is told, were stories which alieady existed in tradition, as inallers of popular belief and intriest, before Shakspeare all Sophocles made them fmiliar to the sympathy of all Succeeding generations of niankind. This story of the Cenei is mdeed eminently fearful and 11}/pystiols: any thug like a diy callition of it on the Nayan Would be supportable. The person who would treat such a sillojser must increase the deal, aud diminish the at] borror of the events, so that the pleasue ufuch inzines from the poetry whirl exists in Wiese lempestuous sufferings and crimos may mitigate the pain of t.e ronieinplation of the moral deformity from iriuh llary sing. Ti.ce must also be nothing altewpled to make the otheke bilion sulservorul lo what is vulgarly terined a moral para pose. The highest moral purpose asmed al in the highest species of the drama, is the teaching the human beat, through its sympathes and antipathus, the knowledge of itself;in proportion to the possession of which huowledge, ciory Ilust bemy is ise, just, sincere, tulerant and kind. If do mas can do more, it is well : bui a diama is no ſit place for the enforcement of tır.: Undoublely, no pera son can be truly dishonoured by the act of 200!her; and the fil Teturn to make to the most enorna jus injurica iş ·PRETACZ kindness and forbearance, and a resolution to convert the injurer from his dark passions by peace and love. Revenge, retaliation, atonement, are pernicious mistakes. If Beatrice had thongbt in this manner she would have been wiser and beller; 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 thc restless and anatomizing casuistry with which men seek the justification of Beatrirc, yet feelthat she has done what needs justification; it is in the superstitions horror with which they contemplate alıke her wrongs and their revenge; that the drainatic character of what she did and suffered, consists. I bave endeavoured as nearly as possible lo represent the characlers as they probably were, and have sought lo avoid the error of making them actualed by my own conceptions of right or wrong, false or trne thus under a thin vcil converting nanies and actions of the sixteenth century into cold impersonatious of my own mind. Tlicy are represented as Catholics, and as Catholics decply tmged with rcligion. To a Prolestant apprehension there will appear something unvatural in the earnest and perpetual sentiment of the relations between God and man which pervade the tragely of the Cenci. It will especially be started at the combination of an undoubting persuasion of the truth of the popular religion with a cool and determined perseverance in cnormous 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 exbibit; or a gloomy passion for, pcuc- ·► + PREPACE trating the impenetrable mysteries of our being, which terrifies its possessor at the darkness of the abyss to the briuk 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 cerlain knowledge. It is interwoven with the whole fabric of life. It is adoo ration, faith, submission, penitence, blind admiration; not a rule for moral conduct It has no necessary connexion with any one virtue. The most atrocions villain may be rigidly devout, and wilhout 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 inbabits, 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 aller having administered the opiale, was to induce him by a fcigned tale to confess himself before death; this being esteemed hy Catholics as essential to salvation; and she only relinquishes her purpose when she perceives that her perseverance would cxpose 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 scar carcely be found a detached simile or a single isolated description, unless Beatrice's description of the chasm appointed for her father's murder should he judged to be of that nalure (*). (*) An idea in this speech was suggested by a must sublime passage ·Tii PRE FACE In a dramatic composition the imagery and the passinn should interpe netrate one another, the former being reserved simply for the full developement 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 writlen more carelessly; that is , withont an over-fastidious and Icarned choice of words. In this respect I entirely agree with those modern critics who assert that in order to inove men to true sympathy we must use the familiar language of men. And that our great ancestors tlic anlient English poels arc the writers, a study of whom might incilc 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 whose society the writer happens to belong. So much for what I have allempted; 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 al the Colonna Palace is most admirable as a work of art: it was taken by Guido dur- In « El Purgatorio de San Patricio » of Calderon. the only plagiarismo which I have mutentionally committed in the whole piece.

·P R E FACE ing 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 thie despair thus expressed is lightened .by the patience of gentleness. Her head is bound with folds of white drapery fiom which the yellow strings of her golden hair escape, and fall about her neck. The nioulding of her face is exquisitely delicate; the eye brows aie distinct and arched: the lips have that permanent meaning of inagination and sensibility which suffering has not repressed and which it seems as if death scarcely could extinguish. Iler forehead is large and clear; her eyes which we are told were remarkable for their vivacity, ale swollen with weeping and lustreless, but beautifully tender and sercne. In the whole mieu there is a simplicly and dignity whichi uniled with her exquisite loveliness and deep sorrow are inexpressib'y pathetic. Beatrice Cenci appears to have been one of those rare persons in whim 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 arc as the mask and the mantle in which circumstances clothed her for her in personation on the scene of the world. The Cenci · Palace is of great extent ; and though in part modernized, there yet remains a vast and gloony 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 ·PREFACE In a dramatic composition the imagery and the passion should interpe netrale one another, the former being reserved siniply for the full developen ent 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 writien 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 antient 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 thal of any particular class to whose society the writer happens to belong. So inuch for what I have alieniplcd; 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 slory as might be accessible lo a stranger. The portrait of Beatrice at the Colonna Palace is most admirable as a work of art : it was taken by Guido durin « El Pargatorio de San Patricio » of Calileron. the only plagiarison which I have intentionally comunitted in the whole piece.

·PRE FACE ing her confinement in prison. But it is most interesting ay: 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 eye brow's are distinct and archied: the 'lips have that permanent meaning of imagination and sensibility which suffering has not repressed and which it seenis as if death scarcely could extinguish . Her forebead is large and clear; her eyes which we are told were remarkable for their vivacity, are swollen with weeping and luslieless, but beautifully tender and serene. In lhe wholc mica there is a simplicity and dignity which united with her exquisite loveliness and deep sorrow are incxpressibly pathetic. Bcatrice Cenci appears to have been one of those rare persons in whom energy and gentleness dwell together without destroying onc an olher : 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 mantlc in which circumstances clothed her for her in personation on the scene of the world. The Cenci · Palace is of great extent; and thongh in part mode, nized, there yet remains a vast and glooniy pile of feudal architecture in the same state as during the dieadful 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 ·xiv PA ZACZ yoursee 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 Conci built the Chapel to St. Thomas ), supported by granite columns and adorned with antique friezes of fine workmanship and built up, according to the antient 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 nó further information than that which is to be found in the manuscript.

·THE C EN CI.

·DRAMATIS PERSONAE. COUNT FRANCESCO CENCI. GIACOMO. his sons. BERNARDO. ÇARDINAL CAMILLO. ORSINO, A PRELATE. SAVELLA, the Pope's Legate. OLIMPIO. Assassins. 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 fourth Act to Petrella a castle ainong the Apulia Apennines. Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.

·THE CENC
ITBNRY
185
A C T I.
SCENE I.
An apartment in the Cenci Palace.
Enter COUNT CENCI, and CARDINAL CAMILLO
Cam.
That matter of the murder is hushed up
IC
you consent to yield his Holiness
Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.-
It needed all my interest in the conclave
To bend him to this point: he said that you
Bought perilous impunity with your gold;
That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded
Enriched the Church, and respited from hell
An erring soul which might repent and live: -
But that the glory and the interest
Of the high throne he fills, little consist
With making it a daily mart of guilt
So manifold and hideous as the deeds
Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes.
Cen. The third of my possessions
let it go!
Aye, I once heard the nephew of the Pope
Had sent this architect to view the ground,

·4 T II E CENCI Meaning to build a villa on my vines The next time I compounded with his uncle: I little thought he should outwit me so! Heuceforth no witness - not the lamp - shall see That which the vassal threatened to divulge Whose throat is choked with dust for his reward. The deed he saw could not have rated higher That his most worthless life: - it angers me! Respited from Hell ! - So may the Devil Respite their souls from Heaven. No doubt Pope Clement, And his most charitable nephews, pray That the apostle Peter and the saints Will grant for their sake that I long enjoy Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, and length of days Wherein to act the deeds which are the stewards Of their revenue. Bat much yet remains To which they shew no title. I Cam. Oh, Count Cenci ! So much that thou migh’st honourably live And reconcile thyself with thine own heart And with thy God, and with the offended world. How hideously look deeds of lust and blood Thro' those snow white and venerable hairs ! - Your children should be sitting round you now, But that you fear to read upon their looks The shame and misery you have written there. Where is your wife? Where is your gentle daughter?

·ACT I. SCENE I. 5 you Methinks her sweet looks, which make all things else Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend within you. Why is she barred from all society But her own strange and uncomplaining wrongs? Talk with me, Count, - you know I mean you well. •I stood beside your dark and fiery youth Watching its bold and bad career, as men Watch meteors, but it vanished not - I marked Your desperate and remorseless manhood; now Do I behold you in dishonoured age Charged with a thousand unrepented crimes. Yet I have cver hoped would amend, And in that hope have saved your life three times. ('en. For which Aldobrandino owes you now My 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 came And asked if I had seen him; and I smiled : I think they never saw him any more. Cam. Thou execrable man, beware! - C'en. Of thee? Nay this is idle: - We should know each other. As to my character for what men call crime Seeing I please my senses as I list, And vindicate that right with force or guile, It is a public matter, and I care not If I discuss it with you. I may speak ·Alike to you THE CENCI and my own conscious heart - For you give out that you have half reformed me, Therefore strong vanity will keep you silent If fear should not; both will, I do not doubt. All men delight in sensual luxury, All men enjoy revenge; and most exult Over the tortures they can never feel - Flattering their secret peace with other's pain. But I delight in nothing else. I love The sight of agony, and the sense of joy, When this shall be another's, and that minc. And I have no remorse and little fear, Which are, I think, the checks of other men. This mood has grown upon me, untill now Any design my captious fancy makes The picture of its wish, and it forms none But such as men like you would start to know, Is as my natural food and rest debarred Untill it be accomplished Can. Art thou not Most miserable ? Cen. Why , miserable ? No. I am what your theologians call Hardened; which they must be in impudence, So to revile a man's peculiar taste. True, I was happier than I am, Manhood remained, to act the thing I thought; While lust was sweeter than revenge; and now Invention palls: - Aye , we must all grow old - But that there yet remains a deed to act while yet ·ACT I. SCENE I. Whose horror might make sharp an appetite Duller than mine I'd do, - I know not what. When I was young I thought of nothing else But 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 childrens groans, Knew I not what delight was else on earth, Which now delights me little. I the rather Look on such pangs as terror ill conccals, The dry fixed eye-ball; the pale quivering lip, Which tell me that the spirit weeps within Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of Christ. 1 rarely kill the body which preserves, Like a strong prison, the soul within my power, Wherein I feed it with the breath of fear For hourly pain. Cam. Hell's most abandoned fiend Did 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 ANDREA. Andr. My Lord, a gentleman from Salamanca Would speak with you, Cen. Bid him attend me in the grand saloon. (Exit ANDR.) Cam. Farewell; and I will pray Almighty God that thy false, impious words Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee (Exit 'CAMILLO ) ·8 THE CENCI Cen. The third of my possessions ! I must use Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's sword, Falls from my withered hand. But yesterday There came an order from the Pope to make Fourfold provision for my cursed sons ; Whom I have 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 worse If 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 speak Though the heart triumphs with itself in words. O, thou most silent air, that shall not hear What now I think ! Thou, pavement, which I tread Towards her chamber, let your echoes talk Of my imperious step sco corning surprise, But not of my intent! Andrea ! Enter ANDREA. And. My lord ? Cen. Bid Beatrice attend me in her chamber This evening: - no, at midnight and alone. (Exeunt ) ·ACT I. SCENE II. SCENE II. A garden of the Cenci Palace Enter BEATRICE and ORSINO, as in conversation. Ors. I may Beatr. Pervert not truth, Orsino. You remember where we held That conversation; nay, we see the spot Even from this cypress; - two long years are past Since, on an April midnight, underneath The moon-light ruins of mount Palatine, I did confess to you my secret mind. Ors. You said you loved me then. Beatr. You are a Priest , Speak to me not of love. obtain The dispensation of the Pope to marry. Because I am a Priest do you believe Your image, as the hunter some struck deer, Follows me not whether I wake or sleep? Beatr. As I have said, speak to me not of love; Had you a dispensation I have not; Nor will I leave this home of misery Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle lady To whom I owe life, and these virtuous thoughts, Must suffer what I still have strength to share. Alas, Orsino! All the love that once I felt for you, is turned to bitter pain. Our's was a youthful contract, which you first Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will loose.

·10 THE CENCI And yet 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 vein That suits me not. Ah, wretched that I am ! Where shall I turn ? Even now you look on me As you were not my friend, and as if you Discovered that I thought so, with false smiles Making my true suspicion seem your wrong. Ah! No, forgive me; sorrow makes me scuin Sterner than else my nature might have been; I have a weight of melancholy thoughts , And they forbode, but what can they forbode Worse than I now endure ? Ors. All will be well. Is the petition yet prepared ? You know My zeal for all you wish, sweet Beatrice ; Doubt not but I will use my utmost skill So that the Pope attend to your complaint. Beatr. Your zeal for all I wish ; - Ah me, you are cold! Your utmost skill ... speak but one word ... (aside) Alas! Wcak 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 news From Salamanca, from my brothers there, ·11 ACT I. SCENE 11. And with this outward shew of love he mocks His inward hatc. '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 Mother Attire ourselves in festival array. Poor lady! She expects some happy change In his dark spirit from this act; I none. At supper I will give you the petition : Till when farewell. Ors. Farewell. (Exit BEATRICE.) I know the Pope Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly vow But by alısolving me from the revenue of many a wealthy sce; and , Beatrice, I think to win thee at an easier rate. Nor shall hc read her eloquent petition : He might bestow her on some poor relation or 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 slavc, And live a free life to to: wine or women, ·THE CENCI And with a peevish temper may return To a dull home, and rate his wife and children; Daughters and wives call this, foul' tyranny. I shall be well content if on my conscience There rest no heavier sin than what they suffer From the devices of my love A net From which she shall escape not. Yet I fear Her subtle mind, her awe - inspiring gaze , Whose beams anatomize me nerve by nerve And lay me bare, and make me blush to see My hidden thoughts . - Ah, no! A friendless girl Who clings to me, as to her only hope:- I were a fool, not less than if a panther Were 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. Cen. Welcome, my friends and Kinsmen; welcoine 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 meetings An evil word is gone ubrord of me;

·ACT I. SCENE III. 13 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, 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. 1. 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 cheer In any eye! 2. Guest. Some most desired event, In which we all demand a common joy, Has brought us hither; let us hear it, Count. ('on. It is indeed a most desired event. If when a parent from a parent's heart Lifts from this earth to the great father of all A 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.

·14 THE CENCI Beatr. (to Lucretia) Great God! How horrible! Some dreadful ill Must have befallen my brothers. Lucr. Fear not, Child, He speaks too frankly. Beatr. Ah! My blood runs cold. I fear that wicked laughter round his eye Which wrinkles up the skin even to the hair. Cen. Here are the letters brought from Salamanca Beatrice, read them to your mother. God! I thank thce! In one night didst thou perform, By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought. My disobedient and rebellious sons Are dead! - Why dcad! - 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 way Are their last cost. The Pope, I think, will not Expect I should maintain them in their coflins. Rejoice with me - my heart is wondrous glad. Beatr. ( Lucretia sinks , half fainting; Beatrice supports her.) 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, thiou knowest that it is false. Cen. Aye, as the word of God; whom here I call To witness that I speak the sober truth;- r ·ACT I. SCENE III. 15 And whose most favouring Providence was shewn Even in the manner of their deaths. For Rocco Was kneeling at the mass, with sixteen others, When thc Church fell and cruslied him to a mummy, The rest escaped unhurt. Cristofano Was 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 shews that Heaven has special care of me. I beg those friends who love me, that they mark The day a feast upon their calenders. It was the twenty seventh of December: Aye, read the letters if you doubt my oath. (the assembly appears confused; several of the guests rise ). 1. Guest. Oh, horrible! I will depart.- 2. Guest. And 1.- 3. 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 scason some such news; stay, stay! I see 'tis only raillery by his smile. Cen. (filling a bowl of wine, and lifting it up) Oh, thou bright wine whose purple splendor leaps And bubbles gaily in this golden bowl Under the lamp light, as my spirits do, To hear the death of my accursed sons! Could I believe thou wert their 'mingled blood, ·36 THE CENCI Then would I taste thee like a sacrament, And pledge with thee the mighty Devil iu Hell, Who, if a father's curses, as men say, Climb with swift wings after their childrens souls, And drag them from the very throne of Heaven, Now triumphs in my triumph!- But thou art Superfluous; 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 company Check the abandoned villain? Cam. For God's sake Let me dismiss the guests! You are insane, Some ill will come of this . 2. Guest Seize, silence him! I. Guest I will ! 3. Guest And I! Cen. (Addressing those who risc with a threatening gesture ) Who moves? Who speaks ? ( Turning to the Company ) 'tis nothing, Enjoy yourselves .- Beware! For my revenge Is as the scaled commission of a king That kills, and none dare name the murderer. ( The Banquet is broken up; several of the Guests are departing. Beatr. I do entreat you, go not, noble guests ; What although tyranny, and impious hate ·ACT I. SCENE III. Stand sheltered by, a father's hoary hair? What, if 'tis he who clothed us in these limbs Who tortures them, and triumphs ? What, if we, The desolate and the dead, were his own flesh, His children and his wife, whom he is bound To love and shelter? Shall we therefore find No refuge in this merciless wide world ? Oh, think what deep wrongs must have blotted out First 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 hand Which crushed us to the earth, and thought its stroke Was perhaps some paternal chastisement ! Have excused much, doubted; and when no doubt Remained, have sought by patience, love and tears To soften him, and when this could not be I have knelt down through the long sleepless nights And lifted up to God, the father of all, Passionate prayers: and when these were not heard I have still borne, until I meet you here, Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous feast Given at my brothers' deaths. Two yet remain, His wife remains and I, whom if and I, whom if ye save not, Ye may soon share such merriment again As fathers make over their childrens graves. Oh! Prince Colonna, thou art our near kinsman, Cardinal, thou art the Pope's chamberlain, Camillo , thou art chief justiciary, Take us away! 3 ·28 THE CENCI Cen. ( He has been conversing with Camillo during the first part of Beatrice's speech ; he hears the conclusion, and now advances. I hope my good friends bere Will think of their own daughters or perhaps Of their own throats before they lend an car To this wild girl. Beatr. (Not noticing the cvords of Cenci.) Dare not one look on me? None answer? Can one tyrant overbear The sense of many best and wisest men ? Or is it that I suc not in some form Of scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit? Oh, God! That I were buried with iny Drothers! And that the flowers of this departed spring Were fading on my grave! And that my father Were celebrating now one feast for all! (am. A bitter wish for one so young and gentle; Can we do nothing ? Colon. Nothing that I see. Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy: Yet I would second any one. A Card. And I. Cen. Retire to your chamber, insolent girl! Beatr. Retire thou impious man! Aye hide thyself Where never eye can look upon thee more! Wouldst thou have honour and obedience Who art a torturer? Father, never dream Though thou mayst overbear this company, But ill must come of ill. - Frown not on me!

·ACT I. SCENE III. 19 Haste hide thyself, lest with avenging looks My brothers'ghosts should hunt thee from thy șeat! Cover thy face from every living eye, And start "if thou but hear a human step : Seek out some dark and silent corner, there, Bow thy white head before offended God, And we will kneel around, and fervently Pray that he pity both ourselves and thee. Cen. My friends, I do lament this insane girl Has spoilt the mirth of our festivity. Good night , farewell ; I will not make you longer Spectators 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 ! Bcast that thou art! Fair and yet terrible! I know a charm shall make thiec meek and tame, Now get thee from my sight! ( Exit BEATRICE) Here, Andrca, Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I said I would not drink this evening; but I must; For, strange to say, I feel my spirits fail With thinking what I have decreed to do. ( Drinking the wine ) Be thou the resolution of quick youth

·20
THE CENCI
Within my veins, and manhood's purpose stern ,
And age's firm, cold, subtle villainy;
As if thou wert indeed my children's blood
Which I did thirst to drink ! The charm works
well ;
It must be done; it shall be done, I swear!
(Exit)
END OF THE FIRST ACT.

·A C T II.
SCENE I.
An apartment in the Cenci Palace.
Enter LUCRETIA and BERNARDO.
Lucr. W.
eep not, my gentle boy; he struck
but me
Who have borne deeper wrongs. In truth, if he
Had killed me, he had done a kinder deed.
0, 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.
Ber. Oh more, more,
Than ever mother was to any child,
That have you been to me! Had he not been
My father, do
you
think that I should wecp
Lucr. Alas! Poor boy, what else could’st thou
have done?
Enter BEATRICE.
Beatr. (In a hurried voice )
Did he pass this way? Have you seen him,
brother ?
Ah! No, that is, his step upon the stairs;
'Tis nearer now; his hand is on the door;
Mother, if I to thee have ever been
?

·22 THE CENCI A 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 ! "Tis but Orsino's servant. Well, what news ? Serv. My master bids me say, the Holy Father Has sent back your petition thus unopened. ( Giving a paper) And he demands at what hour 'twere secure To visit you again ? Lucr. At the Ave Mary. (Exit Servant. ) So, daughter, our last hope has failed; Ah me ! How pale you look; you tremble, and you stand Wrapped 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, spray speak to me. Beatr. You see I am not mad; I speak to you. Lucr. You talked of some thing that your father did After that dreadful feast? Could it be worse Than when he smiled, and cried, My sons are dead! And every one looked in his neighbour's face To see if others were as white as he? At the first, word he spoke I felt thé blood 1 ·ACT II. SCENE I. 23 Rush to my heart, and fell into a trancc; And when it past I sat all weak and wild; Whilst you alone stood up, and with strong words Checked his unnatural pride; and I could see The devil was rebuked that lives in him. ·Until this hour thus you have ever stood Between us and your father's moody wrath Like a protecting presence: your firm mind Has been our only refuge and defence : What can have thus subdued it? What can now Have given you that cold melancholy look, Succeeding to your unaccustomed fear? Beatr. What is it that you say? I was just thinking "Twerc better not to struggle any more. Men, like my father, have been dark and bloody, Yet never . O! Before worse comes of it "Twere wise to dic: it ends in that at last. Lucr. Oh, talk not so, dear child! Tell me at once What did your father do or say to you? He stayed not after that accursed feast One moment in your chamber.- Speak to me. Ber. Oh, sister, sister, prithee, speak to us! Beatr. ( Speaking very slowly with a forced calmness ) It was one word, Mother, one little word; One look, one smile. (wildly ) Oh! He has trampled me Under his feet, and made the blood stream down ·? 24 THE CENCI My pallid cheeks. And he has given us all Ditch water, and the fever-stricken flesh Of buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve, And we have eaten. - He has made me look On my beloved Bernardo, when the rust Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet limbs, · And I have never yet despaired - but now! What would 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 all Beyond his wont, yet it disordered me. Alas! I am forgetful of my duty, I should preserve my senses for your sake. Lucr. Nay, Beatrice; have courage my sweet girl. If any one despairs it should be i Who loved him once, and now must live with hiin 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' coil Shall be remembered only as a dream. Beatr. 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 you In infancy, with gentle words and looks, ·ACT II. SCENE I. 25 . Enter CENCI, To win our father not to murder us? And shall I now desert you? May the ghost Of my dead Mother plead against my soul If I abandon her who filled the place She left, with more, even, tban a mother's love! Ber. And I am of my sister's mind. Indeed 'I would not leave you in this wretchedness, Even though the Pope should make me free to live In some blithe place, like others of my age, With sports, and delicate food, and the fresh air. Oh, never think that I will leave you, Mother! Lucr. My dear, dear children! suddenly Cen. 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 look With disobedient insolence upon me, Bending a stern and an inquiring brow On what I meant; whilst I then sought to hide That which I came to tell you but in vain. Beatr. (Wildly, staggering towards the door.) Oh, that the earth would gape! Hide me, oh God! ('en. Then it was I whose inarticulate words Fell from my lips, and who with tottering steps Fled from your presence, as you now from mine. Stay, I command you - from this day and hour Never again, I think, with fearless eye, And brow superior, and unaltered cheek, CAM 4 ·28 THE CENCI 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 BEATR. and BER. ) (Aside.) So much has past between us as must make Me bold, her fearful . - 'Tis an awful thing To 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 joy! Lucr. (Advancing timidly towards him) Oh, husband ! Pray forgive poor Beatrice, She meant not any ill. Cen. Nor you perhaps ? Nor that young imp, whom you have taught by rote Parricide with his alphabet ? Nor Giacomo ? Nor those two most unnatural sons, who stirred Enmity 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 nothing Of 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, or ·ACT II. SCENE 1. 27 dare speak Put sudden poison in my evening drink? Or sinother' me when overcome by wine? Seeing we had no other judge but God, And he had sentenced me, and there were none But you to be the executioners ‘Of his decree enregistered in heaven? Oh, no! You said not this? Lucr. So help me God, I never 'thought the things you charge me with! Cen. If you that wicked lie again I'll kill you. What! It was not by your counsel. That Beatrice disturbed the feast last night ? You did not hope to stir some enemies Against me, and escape, and laugh to scorn What 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. Lucr. Look not so dreadfully! By my salvation I knew not aught that Beatrice designed; Nor do I think she designed any thing Until she heard you talk of her dead brothers. Cen. Blaspheming liar! You are damned for this! But I will take you where you may persuade The stones you tread on to deliver you: For men shall there be none but those who dare All things - not question that which I command. On Wednesday next I shall set out: you know That savage rock, the Castle of Petrella, 'Tis safely walled, and moated round about:

·28
THE CENCI
Its dungeons underground, and its thick towers
Never told tales; though they have heard and seen
What might make dumb things speak. - Why
do you linger?
Make speediest preparation for the journey!
( Exit LUCRETIA )
The all beholding sun yet shines; I hear
A 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 hole
Is penetrated with the insolent light.
Come darkness! Yet, what is the day to me?
· And wherefore should I wish for night, who do
A deed which shall confound both night and day?
'Tis she shall grope through a bewildering mist
Of horror: if there be a sun in heaven
She 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 all
For me: I bear a darker deadlier gloom
Than the earth's shade, or interlunar air,
Or constellations quenched in murkiest cloud,
In which I walk secure and unbeheld
Towards my purpose.
Would that it were done!
( Exit.)

·ACT II. SCENE II. 29 SCENE lI. A chamber in the Vatican. Enter CAMILLO and GIACOMO, in conversation. Cam. There is an obsolete and doubtful law By which you might obtain a bare provision Of food and clothing Ciac. Nothing more? Alas! Bare must be the provision which strict law Awards, and aged, sullen avarice pays. Why did my father not apprentice me To some mechanic trade? I should have then Been trained in no highborn necessities Which I could meet not by my daily toil. The eldest son of a rich nobleman Is heir to all his incapacities; He has wide wants, and narrow powers. If you , Cardinal Camillo, were reduced at once From thrice-driven beds of down, and delicate food, An hundred servants, and six palaces, To that which nature doth indeed require ? - Cam. Nay, there is reason. reason in your plea ; 'Iwere hard. Ciac. 'Tis hard for a firm man to bear: but I Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth, Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my father Without a bond or witness to the deed : And children, who inherit her fine senses, The fairest creatures in this breathing world; - .

·30 THE CENCI And she and they reproach me not. Cardinal, Do you not think the Pope would interpose And stretch authority beyond the law? Cam. Though your peculiar case is hard, I know The Pope will not divert the course of law. .After that impious feast the other night I spoke with him, and urged him then to check Your father's cruel hand; he frowned and said, » Children are disobedient, and they sting » Their father's 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 young » I, who have white hairs and a tottering body, » Will keep at least blameless neutrality. » Enter ORSINO. You, my good lord Orsino, heard those words. Ors. What words? Giac. Alas, repeat them not again! There then is no redress for me, at least None but that which I may achieve myself, Since I am driven to the brink. My innocent sister and my only brother Are dying underneath my father's eye. The .memorable torturers of this land, Galeaz Visconti, Borgia , Ezzelin, Never inflicted on their meanest slave What these endure; shall they have no protection? But, say, ·ACT II. SCENE II. 31 I Cam. Why, if they would petition to the Pope I see not how he could refuse it - yet He holds it of most dangerous example In aught to weaken the paternal power, Being, as 'twere, the shadow of his own. pray you now excuse me. I have business "That will not bear delay. (Exit CAMILLO) Giac. But you, Orsino, Have the petition, wherefore not present it? Ors. I have presented it, and backed it with My earnest prayers, and urgent interest; It was returned unanswered. I doubt not But that the strange and execrable deeds Alledged in it in truth they might well baffle Any belief have turned the Pope's displeasure Upon the accusers from the criminal : So I should guess from what Camillo said. Giac. My friend, that palace-walking devil Gold Has 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 persecutor Is shielded by a father's holy name, Or I would - (stops abruptly) Ors. What? Fear not to speak your thought. Words are but holy as the deeds they lover: A priest who has forsworn the God he serves; A judge who makes the truth weep at liis decree; A friend who should weave counsel, as I'now, But as the mantle of some selfish guile;

·32 THE CENCI A father who is all a tyrant seems, Were the prophaner for his sacred name. Giac. Ask me not what I think; the unwilling brain Feigns often what it would 'not; and we trust Imagination with such phantasies As the tongue dares not fashion into words, Which have no words, their horror makes them dim To the mind's eye.- My heart denies itself To think what you demand. Ors. But a friend's bosom Is as the inmost cave of our own mind Where we sit shut from the wide gaze.-úf day, And from the all-communicating air. You look what I suspected - Giac. Spare me now! I am as one lost in a midnight wood Who dares not ask some harmless passenger The path across the wilderness, lest he, As my thoughts are, should be a a murderer, I know you are my friend, and all I dare Speak to my soul that will I trust with thee, But now my heart is heavy and would take Lone counsel from a night of sleepless care. Pardon me, that I say farewell - farewell! I would that to my own suspected self I could address a word so full of peace. Ors. Farewell! Be your thoughts better or more bold. ( Exit Giacomo.)

·ACT II, SCENE II. 33 I had disposed the Cardinal Camillo To feed his hope with cold encouragement: It fortunately serves my close designs That 'tis a trick of this same family To analyse their own and other miuds. Such self-anatomy shall teach the will Dangerous secrets : for it tempts our powers, Knowiug what must be thought, and may be done, Into the depth of darkest purposes: So Cenci fell into the pit; even I, Siyce Beatrice unveiled me to myself, And made me shrink from what I cannot shun, Shew a poor figure to my own esteem, To which I grow lialf reconciled . I'll do As little mischief as I can; that thought Shall fee the accuser conscience. (After a pause) Now what harm If Cenci should be murdered? - Yet, if murdered, Wherefore by me? And what if I could take The profit, yet omit the sin and peril In such an action? Of all earthly things I fear a man whose blows outspeed his words And such is Cenci: and while Cenci lives His daughter's dowry were a secret grave If a priest wins her. - Oh, fair Beatricer! Would that I loved thee not, or loving thee Could but despise danger and gold and dui That frowns between my wish and its effect, Or smiles beyond it! There is no escaper...

·34 THE CENCI Her bright form kneels beside me at 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 head My hot palm scorches it: her very name, But spoken by a stranger, makes my heart Sicken and pant; and thus unprofitably I clasp the phantom of unfelt delights Till weak imagination half possesses The self-created shadow. Yet much longer Will I not nurse this life of feveroiis hours: From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo, con I must work out my owu dear purposes. I see, as from a tower, the end of all: Her father dead; her brother bound to me By a dark secret, surer than the grave; Her mother scared and unexpostulating From the dread manner of her wish atchieved: 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 minds To black suggestions; and he prospers best, Not whp becomes the instrument of ill, But why can flatter the dark spirit, that makes Its empire and its prey of other hearts Till it become his slave as I will do. (Exit.) END OF THE SECOND ĄCT.

·ACT
III.
SCENE I.
An apartment in the Cenci Palace.
LUCRETIA, to her enter BEATRICE.
Beatr. (She enters staggering, and speaks wildly.)
Rèoch me that handkerchief! - My brain is hurt;
*My eyes are full of blood; just wipe them for me...
1 sce but, indistinctly
Lucr. My sweet child,
You have no wound; 'tis only a cold dew
That starts from
your
dear brow ...Alas! Alas!
· What has befallen?
Beatr. How comes this hair undone?
Its wandering strings must be what blind me so,
And yet I tied it fast. - 0, horrible!
The pavement sinks under my feet! The walls
Spin round! I see a woman weeping there,
And standing calm and motionless, whilst I
Slide giddily as the world reels .... My God!
The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with blood!
The sunshine on the floor is black! The hir
Is changed to vapours such as the dead bibathe
Ta-charnel pits! Pah! I am choked! There crkeps
A clinging, black, contaminating mist
'tis substantial, heavy, thick ,
About me...

·The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of life! 36 T 11 E CENCI I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues My fingers and my limbs to one another, And eats into my sinews, and dissolves My flesh to a pollution, poisoning My God! I never knew what the mad felt Before; for I am mad beyond all doubt! ( more wildly) No, I am dead! These putrefying limbs Shut round and sepulchre the panting sou Which 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 O'er these dull eyes ... upon this weary heart! O, world! O, life!.0, day! O, misery! Lucr. What ails thee, my poor child ? She answers not: Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain, But not its cause; suffering has dried away The source from which it sprung Beatr. (franticly ) Like Parricide Misery has killed its father: yet its father Never like mine ... O, God! What thing Lucr. My dearest child, what has your father done ? Bedtr. (doubtfully ) Whd art thou questioner? I have no father.. (aside) She is the madhouse nurse who tends on me ·ACT III. SCENE I. 37 It is a piteous office. (to Lucretia, in a slow, subdued voice) Do you know I thought I was that wretched Beatrice Men speak of, whom her father sometimes hales • From hall to hall by the cntangled hair; At others, pens up naked in damp cells Where scaly reptiles crawl, and starves her there, Till she will eat strange flesh. This woful story So 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 strange Of good and ill; and worse have been conceived Than 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 die With fearful expectation, that indeed Thou art not what thou seemest ... Mojler! Lucr. Oh! My sweet child, know you ... Beatr. Yet speak it not: For then if this be truth, that other too Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth, 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 am... 38 THE CENCI I have talked some wild words, but will no more. Mother, come near me: from this point of time, (her voice dies arvay faintly 7 Lucr. Alas! What has befallen thee, child ? What has thy father done ? Beatr. What have I done? Am I not innocent ? Is it my crime That one with white hair, and imperious brow, Who tortured me from my forgotten years, As parents only dare, should call himself My father, yet should be! - Oh, what am I? What name, what place, what memory shall be mine? Whạt retrospects, outliving even despair? Lucr. 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 done Of deadlier outrage or worse injury? Thou art unlike thyself; thinc eyes shoot forth A wandering and strange spirit. Speak to me, Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers twine With one another. Beatr. 'Tis the restless life Tortured within them. If I try to speak I shall go mad. Aye, something must be done; What 1}, yet I know not... something which shall make The thing that I have suffered but a shadow . In the dread lightning which avenges it; Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying ·ACT TIT. SCENE I. 39 The consequence of what it cannot cure. Some such thing is to be endured or done: wien 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, •Circling thro’these contaminated veins If thou, poured forth on the polluted earth, Could wash away the crime, and punishment By which I suffer.... no, that cannot be! Many might doubt there were a God above Who sees and permits evil, and so die : That faith no agony shall obscure in me. Lucr. It must indeed have been some bitter wrong i content Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh, my lost child, Hide not in proud impenetrable grief Thy sufferings from my fear, Beatr. I hide them not. What are the words which you would have me speak ? I, who can feign no image in my mind Of that which has transformed me, I, whose thought Is like a ghost shrouded and folded up In its own formless horror. Of all words, That minister to mortal intercourse, Which wouldst thou hear ? For there is none to tell My misery: if another ever knew Aught like to it, she died as I will die, ·. 40 THE CENCI And left it, as I must, without a name. Death! Death! Our law and our religion call thee A punishment and a reward Oh, which Have I deserved ? Lucr. The peace of innocence; Till in your season you be called to heaven. Whate'er you may have suffered, you have done No evil. Death must be the punishment Of crime, or the reward of trampling down The thorns which God has strewed upon the path Which leads to immortality. Beatr. Aye, 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 keep These limbs, the unworthy temple of thy spirit, As a foul den from which what thou abhorrest May mock thee, unavenged ... it shall not be! Self murder ... no that might be no escape, For thy decree yawns like a Hell between Our will and it: - O! In this mortal world There is no vindication and no law Which can adjudge and execute the doom Of 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 or death can give me rest. Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds ·ACT III. SCENE I. 4. Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue. Ors. And what is he who has thus injured you? Beatr. The man they call. my father: a drcad name. Ors. It cannot be ... Beatr. 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 awe Restrains me, and the dread lest death itself Might be no refuge from the consciousness Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak! Ors. Accuse him of the deed, and let the law Avenge thee. Beatr. Oh, ice-hearted counsellor ! · If I could find a word that might make known The crime of my destroyer; and that done My tongue should like a knife tear out the secret Which .cankers my heart's core; aye, lay all bare So that my unpolluted fame should be. With vilest gossips a stale-mouthed story; A mock, a bye-word, an astonishment:- If this were done, which never shall be done, Think of the offender's gold, his dreaded hate Aird the strange horror of the accuser's tale Baffling belief, and overpowering speech; Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wrapt In hideous hints ... Oh, most assured redress! Ors. You will endure it then ? 6 ?

·42 THE CENCI Beatr. Endure ? Orsino, It seems your counsel is small profit. ( Turns from him, and speaks half to herse!) Aye, All must be suddenly resolved and done. What is this undistinguishable mist Of thoughts, which rise, like shadow after shadow, Darkening each other? Ors. 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 become Utterly lost; subdued even to the hue Of that which thou permittest ? Beatr. (To herself) Mighty death! Thou double visaged shadow! Only judge ! Rightfullest arbiter! (She retires absorbed in thought.) Lucr. If the lightning Of God has e'er descended to avenge ... Ors. Blaspheme not ! His high Providence commits Its glory on this earth, and their own wrongs , Into the hands of men; if they neglect To punish crime ... Lucr. But if one, like this wretch , Should mock with gold, opinion law and power? If there be no appeal to that which makes The guiltiest tremble? If because our wrongs, ·ACT III. SCENE I. 43 For that they are, unnatural, strange and mon strous, Exceed all measure of belief ? Oh,. God! If, for the very reasons which should make Redress most swift and sure, our injurer triumphs? And we the victims , bear worse punishment Than that appointed for their torturer ? Ors. Think not But that there is redress where there is wrong, So we be bold enough to seize it. Lucr. How ? If there were any way to make all sure I know not ... but I think it might be good To Ors. Why, his late outrage to Beatrice ; For it is such, as I but faintly guess, As makes remorse dishonour, and leaves her Only one duty, how she may avenge : You, but one refuge from ills ill endured; Me, but one counsel Lucr. For we cannot hope That aid, or retribution, or resource Wil arise thence, where every other one Might find them with less need. ( BEATRICE advances. ) Ors. Then Beatr. Peace, Orsino! And, honoured Lady, while I speak, I pray, That you put off, as garments overworn, Forbearance and respect, remorse and fear, .

·41 THE CENCI 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 overburthened soul, And be... what ye can dream not. I have prayed To God, and I have talked with my own heart, And have unravelled 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. Ors. I swear To dedicate my cunning, and my strength, My silence, and whatever else is mine, To thy commands. Lucr. You think we should devise His death? Beatr. Ånd execute what is devised, And suddenly. We must be brief and bold. Ors. And yet most cautious . Lucr. For the jealous laws Would punish us with death and infamy For that which it became themselves to do. Beatr. Be cautious as ye may , but prompt. Orsino; What are the means ?

·... ACT III. SCENE I. 45 Ors. I know two dull, fierce outlaws, Who think man's spirit as a worm's, and they Would trample out, for any slight caprice, The meanest or the noblest life. This mood Is marketable here in Rome. They sell .What we now want. Lucr. To-morrow before dawn, Cenci will take us to that lonely rock, Petrella, in the Apulian Appenines. If he arrive there Beatr. He must not arrive. Ors. Will it be dark before you reach the tower? Lucr. The sun will scarce be set. Beatr. But I remember Two miles on this side of the fort, the road Crosses a dcep 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 Over a gulph, 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 ·46 THE CENCI Crosses the chasm; and high above there grow, With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag, Cedars, and yews, and pines; whosetangled hair Is matted in one solid roof of shade By the dark ivy's twine. At noon-day here 'Tis twilight, and at sunset blacķest night. Ors. Before you reach that bridge make some excuse For spurring on your mules, or loitering Until ... as she Beatr. What sound is that? Lucr. Hark! No, it cannot be a servant's step; It must be Cenci, unexpectedly Returned ... Make some excuse for being here. Beatr. (to ORSINO, goes out) That step we hear approach must never pass The bridge of which we spoke. ( Exeunt LUCRETIA and BEATRICE) Ors. What shall I do? Cerci 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! Nave you ventured thither? know you then That Cenci is from home? Giac. I sought him here; And now must wait till he returns. Ors. Great God! Weigh you the danger of this rashness?

·ACT III. SCENE I. 47 Giac, Aye! Does my destroyer know his danger ? We Are 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 throat Which I will shake, and say, I ask not gold; I ask not happy years ; nor memories Of tranquil childhood; nor home-sheltered 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 heaped on me by thee, Or I will ... God can understand and pardon, Why should I speak with man? Ors. Be calm, dear friend. Giac. 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 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, Conferred this office on a wretch, whom thus He paid for vilest service. I returned ·Gå THE CENCI 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 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. Giac. Then... Are you not my friend?

·ACT III. SCENE I. 49 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 loſty 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 änd 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 me, 7 ·ha THE CENCI 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 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 cnough >> 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. Giac. Then ... Are you friend? got my ·ACT III. SCENE I. 49 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 me, 7 ·50 THE CENCI 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 wondered how such loveliness and wisdom Did not destroy each other! Is there made Ravage of thee? O, hcart, 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 dcath. 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 )

·ACT III. SCENE II.
51
2
SCENE 11.
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 decd
Be jusť which was most necessary. 0,
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 flickercst up and down, how very soon,
Did I not fced thre, 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 thiese 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 stauds

·52 TII E CENCI Naked before Heaven's judgement 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... Enter ORSINO Speak! Ors. I am come To say he has escaped. Giac. Escaped! Ors. And safe Within Petrella. He past 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 aim air ·ACT III. SCENE II. 53 Hlas drank this innocent flame, why should we quail When Cenci's life, that light by which ill spirits See the worst 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 ? 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. 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. Once gone You cannot now recall your sister's peace; 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. O, speak no more! I am resolved, although this very hand Must quench the life that animated it. Ors. 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, ·54 TIE CENCI That desperate wretch , whom he deprived last year Of a reward of blood, well earned and duc? Giac. I knew Olimpio ; and they say he hated Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage His lips grew white only to see hiin pass. Of Marzio I know nothing. Ors. 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. Giac. Only to talk ? Ors. The moments which even now Pass onward to morrow's midniglit hour May memorize 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 housedog moans , and the beanis crack: nought clse. Giac. It is my wife complaining in her sleep: I doubt not she is saying bitter things Of and all my children round her drcaming 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 me ;

·ACT III. SCENE II.
55
Mocks thee in visions of successful hate
Too like the truth of day.
Giac. If e'er he wakes
Again, I will not trust to hireling hands
Ors: Why, that were well. I must be gone;
good night!
When next we meet ...
Giac. May all be done and all
Forgotten Oh, that I had never been!
(exeunt.)
END OF THE THIRD ACT.

·No text on this page.

·ACTIV.
SCENE I.
An apartment in the Castle of Petrella
Enter CENCI.
Cen. he 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 now not 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, '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
Thro' 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;
8

·58 THE CENCI 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 abo.e, For when I cursed my sons they died. - Aye ... so... As to the right or wrong thats talk repentance... Repentance is an easy moment's work And more depends on God than me. Well ... well ... I must give up the greater point, which was To poison and corrupt her soul. (4 pause; Lucretia approaches anxiously, and then shrinks back as he speaks.)

·ACT. IV. SCENE I. 59 . Onc, two; Aye Rocco and Cristofano my curse Strangled : and Giacomo, I think, will find Life å 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 lands 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; Chatill its hate be all inflicted. Yet, Lest death outspeed my purpose , let me make Short work and sure (going) Lucr. (Stops him ) Oh, stay! It was a feint: She had no vision, and she heard no voice . I said it but to awe thee. Cen. That is well.

·60 THE CENCI Vile palterer with the sacred truth of God, Be thiy soul choked with that blaspheming lie! For Beatrice worse terrors are in store To bend her to my will. Lucr. Oh! to what will ? What cruel sufferings more than she has known Canst thou inflict? C'en. Andrea! Go call my daughter, And if she comes not tell her that ] come. What sufferings ? I will drag her, step by step, Thro' infamies unheard of among men: She shall stand shelterless in the broad noon Of public scorn, for acts blazoned 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 loathing will), to her own conscious self All 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 God Plague spotted with my curses. I will make Body and soul a monstrous lump of ruin. Enter ANDREA. Andr. The lady Beatrice C'en. Speak, pale slave! What Said she ? ."

·ACT IV. SCENE 1. 61 Andr. My Lord, 'twas what she looked; she said : Go tell my father that I see the gulph Of Hell between us two, which he may pass, I will not. ( Exit ANDREA.) ('en. Go thou quick, Lucretia, Tell her to come; yet let her understand Her 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 God Panic-strike armed victory, and make pale Cities in their prosperity? The world's Father Must grant a parent's prayer against his child Be he who asks even what mcn call me. Will not the deaths of her rebellious brothers Awe her before I speak ? For I on then Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came. Enter LUCRETIA Well; /what? Speak, wretch! Lucr. She said, I cannot come ; Go tell my father that I see a torrent Øf his own blood raging between us. Cen. ( 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, .

·62 TII É CENCI Whose sight infects and poisons me; this deřil 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, untill 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-enkindled lips, warp those fine limbs To loatbed lameness! All beholding sun, Strike in thine envy those lite darting eyes With thine own blinding beams ! Lucr. Peace!' Peace! For thine own sake unsay those dreadful words. When high God grants he punishes such prayers. Cen. ( Leaping up, and throwing his right hand towards Heaven) He does his will, I mine! This in addition, That if slie have a child ... Lucr. Horrible thought! Cen. That if she ever have a child; and thou Quick Nature! I adjure thee by thy God, That thou be fruitful in her, and encrease And multiply, fulfilling his command, ·ACT IV. SCENE I. 63 And my deep imprecation! May it be A hideous likeness of herself, that as From a distorting mirror, she may see Her image mixed 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 deformed, 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 thro’ the clamorous scoffs Of 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 chastise The 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 expectation Of. horrid joy. Enter LUCRETIA What ? Speak! Lucr. She bids thee curse ; And if thy curses, as they cannot do , Could kill her soul ... Cen. She would not come. 'Tis well, ·64 THE CENCI 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. ( Exit LUCRETIA ) It must be late ; mine eyes grow weary dim With 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 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 All good shall droop and sicken, and ill things Shall with a spirit of unnatural life Stir and be quickened even as I am pow. ( Exit) SCENE II. Before the Castle of Petrella Enter BEATRICE and LUCRETIA above on the ramparts. Beatr. They come not yet , Lucr. 'Tis scarce midnight.

·ACT IV. SCENE II. 65 Beatr. How slow Behind the course of thought, even sick with speed, Lags leaden-footed time! Lucr. The minutes pass .. If he should wake before the deed is done? Beatr. O, Mother! He must never wake again. What thou hast said persuades me that our act Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell Out of a human form. Lucr. 'Tis true he spoke Of death and judgement with strange confidence For one so wicked; as a man believing In God, yet recking not of good or ill. And yet to die without confession!... Beatr. Oh! Believe that heaven is merciful and just, · And will not add our dread necessity To the amount of his offences. Enter OLIMPIO and MARZIO, below. Lucr. See, They come. Beatr. All mortal things must hasten thus To their dark end. Let us go down. Exeunt LUCR. and BEATR. from above. Olim. How feel you to this work? Mar. As one who thinks A thousand crowns excellent market price . For an old murderer's life. Your cheeks are pale. Olim. It is the white reflexion of your own, Which you call pale, 9 ·66 T II E CENCI Mar. Is that their natural hue? Olim. Or 'tis my hate and the deferred desire To wreak it, which extinguishes their blood. Mar. You are inclined then to this business? Olim. Aye. If one should bribe me with a thousand crowns To kill a serpent which had stung my child, I could not be more willing. Enter BEATRICE and LUCRETIA, below. Noble ladies! Beatr. Are ye resolved ? Olim. Is he asleep? Mar. Is all Quiet ? Lucr. I mixed an opiate with his drink : He sleeps so soundly... Beatr. That his death will be But 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 ? Olim. We are resolved. Mar. As to the how this act Be warranted, it rests with you. Beatr. Well, follow! Olim. Hush! Hark! What noise is that? Mar. Ha! some one comes! Beatr. Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to rest Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate,

·ACT IV. SCENE INI,
67
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.
Lucr. They are about it now.
Beatr. Nay, it is done.
Lucr. I have not heard him groan.
Beatr. He will not groan.
Lucr. What sound is that?
Beatr. List! 'tis the tread of feet
About his bed.
Lucr. My God!
If he be now a cold stiff corpse...
Beatr. O, fear not
What may be done, but what is left undone:
The act seals all,
Enter OLIMPIO and MARZIO.
Is it accomplished?
Mar. What?
Olim. Did you not call ?
Beatr. When ?
Olim. Now.
Beatr. I ask if all is over?
Olim. We dare not kill an old and sleeping man;

·68 T II E CENCI His thin' grey hair, his stern and reverent brow, 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. Mar. But I was bolder; for I chid Olimpio, And bade him bear his wrongs to his own grave And leave me the reward. And now my knife Touched the loose wrinkled throat, when the old man Stirred 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 ghost Of my dead father speaking through his lips, And could not kill him. Beatr. Miserable slaves! Where, if ve dare not kill a sleeping man, Found ye the boldness to return to me With such a deed undone ? Base palterers ! Cowards and traitors! Why, the very conscience Which ye would sell for gold and for revenge Is an equivocation: it sleeps over A 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! Olim. Stop, for God's sake! Mar. I will go back and kill him.

·. ACT IV. SCENE III. 69 Olim. Give me the weapon, we must do thy will. Beatr. Take it! Depart ! Return! ( Exeunt Olim. and Mar. ) How pale thou art ! We do but that which 'twere a deadly crime To leave undone. Lucr. Would it were done! Beatr. Even whilst That doubt is passing through your mind, the world Is conscious of a change. Darkness and hell Have swallowed up the vapour they sent forth To blacken the sweet light of life. My breath Comes, methinks, lighter and the gellyed blood Runs freely thro' my veins. Hark! Enter OLIMPIO and MARZIO He is... Olim. Dead! Mar. We strangled him that there might be no blood; And then we threw his heavy corpse i' the garden Under the balcony ; 'twill seem it fell. Beatr. (giving them a bag of coin ) Here take this gold, and hasten to your homes. And, Marzio, because thou wast only awed By that which made me tremble, wear thou this! ( Clothes him in a rich mantle ) · It was the mantle which my grandfather Wore in his high prosperity, and men Envied his state: so may they envy thine.

·70
THE CENCI
Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God
To a just use. Live long and thrive! And, mark,
If thou hast crimes, repent: this deed is none.
(A horn is sounded )
Lucr. Hark, 'tis the castle horn; my God! it sounds
Like the last trump.
Beats. Some tedious guest is coming.
Lucr. The drawbridge is let down; there is a
tramp
Of horses in the court; fly, hide yourselves !
( Exeunt olim. and mar. )
Beatr. Let us retire to counterfeit deep rest;
I sčarcely need to conterfeit it now:
The spirit which doth reign within these limbs
Seems strangely undisturbed. I could even sleep
Fearless 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 BERNARDO.
Sav. Lady, my duty to his Holiness
Be my excuse that thus unseasonably
I break upon your rest. I must speak with
Count Cenci; doth he sleep?
Lucr. ( In a hurried and confused manner )
I think he sleeps ;

·ACT IV. SCENE IV. 71 Yet wake him not, I pray, spare me awhile , He is a wicked and 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. (asicle ) O, I am deadly sick! Sav. I grieve thus to distress you, but the Count Must answer charges of the gravest import, And suddenly; such my commission is. Lucr. (With increased agitation) I dare not rouse him: I know none who dare ... "Twere perilous;... you might as safely waken A serpent; or a corpse in which some fiend Were laid to sleep. Sav. Lady, my moments here Are counted. I must rouse him from his sleep, Since none else dare. Lucr. (aside) O, terror! O, despair! (to Bernardo) Bernardo, conduct you the Lord Legate to Your father's chamber. (exeunt sav. and BERN.) enter BEATRICE Beatr. 'Tis a messenger Come to arrest the culprit who now stands Before the throne of unappcalable God. Both Earth and Heaven, consenting arbiters, )) Acquit our deed.

·72 THE CENCI Lucr. Oh, agony of fear! Would that he yet might live! Even now I heard The legate's followers whisper as they passed They had a warrant for his instant death. All was prepared by unſorbidden means Which we must pay so dearly, having done. Even now they search the tower, and find the body; Now they suspect the truth ; now they consult Before they come to tax us with the fact; O, horrible, 'tis all discovered! Beatr. Mother, What is done wisely, is done well. Be bold As thou art just. 'Tis like a truant child To fear that others know what thou hast done, Even from thine own strong consciousness, and thus Write on unsteady eyes and altered cheeks All thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to thyself, And fear no other witness but thy fear. For if, as cannot be, some circumstance Should rise in açcusation, we can blind Suspicion 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 firm As the world's centre. Consequence, to me, Is as the wind which strikes the solid rock But shakes it not. (A cry within and tumult) ·ACT IV. SCENE IV. 73 Murder! Murder! Murder! Enter BERNARDO and SAVELLA Sav. (to his followers ) Go, search the castle round; sound the alarm; Look to the gates that none escape ! Beatr. What now? Ber. I know not what to say my father's dead. Beatr. How; dead! he only sleeps; you inistake, brother, His sleep is very calm, very like death; ”Tis wonderful how well a tyrant sleeps. He is not dead? Ber. Dead; murdered. Lucr. (With extreme agitation) Oh, no, no, He is not murdered though he may be dead; I have alone the keys of those apartments. Sav. Ha! Is it so? Beatr. My Lord, I pray excuse us; We will retire; my mother is not well : She seems quite overcome with this strange horror. (exeunt LUCR. and BEATR.) Sav. Can you suspect who may have murdered him ? Ber. I know not what to think. Sav. Can you name any Who had an interest in his death? Ber. Alas! I can name none who had not, and those most Who most lament that such a deed is done; My mother, and my sister, and myself. 10 ·74 THE CENCI Sav. 'Tis strange! There were clear marks of violence. I found the old man's body in the moonlight Hanging beneath the window of his chamber Among the branches of a pine: he could not Have fallen there, for all his limbs lay heaped And effortless; 'tis true there was no blood ... Favour me, Sir; it much imports your house That all should be made clear; to tell the ladies That I request their presence. (exit BER.) Enter Guards bringing in MARZIO Guard. We have one. Officer. My Lord, we found this ruffian and another Lurking among the rocks; there is no doubt But that they are the murderers of Count Cenci: Each had a bag of coin; this fellow wore A gold-inwoven robe, which shining bright Under the dark rocks to the glimmerivg moon Betrayed them to our notice: the other fell Desperately fighting Sav. What does he confess ? Officer. He keeps' firm silence; but these lines found on him May speak. Sav. Their language is at least sincere. (reads) TO THE LADY BEATRICE. » That the atonement of what my nature ·ACT IV. SCENE IV. 75 » Sickens to conjecture may soon arrive, » I send thee, at thy brother's desire, those » Who will speak and do more than I dare » Write Tly devoted servant, OASINO. Enter LUCRETIA , BEATRICE and BERNARDO. Knowest thou this writing, Lady? Beatr. No. Sav, Nor thou ? Lucr. ( Her conduct throughout the scene is marked by extreme agitation.) Where was it found? What is it? It should be Orsino's hand! It speaks of that strange horror Which never yet found utterance, but which made Between that hapless child and her dcad father A gulph of obscure hatred. Sav. Is it so? Is it true, Lady, that thy father did Such outrages as to awaken in thee Unfilial hate? Beatr. Not hate, 'twas more than hate: This is most true, yet wherefore question me? Snv. There is a deed demanding question done; Thou hast a secret which will answer not. Beatr. What sayest ? My Lord, your words are bold and rash. Sav. I do arrest all present in the name of the Pope's Holiness. You must to Romne. Lucr. (), not to Romc! Indeed we are not guilty .

·76 THE CENCI Beatr. Guilty! Who dares talk of guilt ? My Lord, I am more innocent of parricide Than is a child born fatherless Dear Mother, Your gentleness and patience are no shield For 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 do What ye neglect, arming familiar things To the redress of an unwonted crime Make ye the victims who demanded it Culprits ? "Tis ye arc culprits ! That poor wretch Who stands so pale, and trembling, and amazed, If it be true he murdered Cenci, was A sword in the right hand of justest God, Wherefore should I have wielded it ? Unless The crimes which mortal tongue dare never name God therefore scruples to avenge. Sav. You own That you desired his death? Beatr. It would have been A crime no less than his, iſ for one moment: That fierce desire had faded in my heart. 'Tis true I did believe, and hope, and pray , Aye, 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 true There was no other rest for me on carth, ·ACT IV. SCENE IV. 77 No other hope in Heaven ... now what of this? Sav. Strange thoughts beget strange deeds; and. here are both: I judge thee not. Beatr. And yet, if you arrest me, You are the judge and executioner Of that which is the life of life: the breath Of accusation kills an innocent name, And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life Which is a mask without it. 'Tis most false That I am guilty of foul parricide; Although I must rejoice, for justest cause, 'That other hands have sent my father's soul To ask the mercy he denied to me. Now leave us free: stain not a .noble house With vague surmises of rejected crime; * Add to our sufferings and your own neglect No heavier sum: let them have been enough: Leave us the wreck we have. Sav. I dare not, Lady. you prepare yourselves for. Rome: There the Pope's further pleasure will be known. Lucr. O, not to Rome! O, take us not to Rome! Beatr. Why not to Rome, dear mother. There as here Our innocence is as an armed heel 'To trample accusation. God is there As here, and with his shadow ever clothes The innocent, the injured and the weak; And such are we. Cheer up, dear Lady, lean pray that ·78 TIE CENCI On mc; collect your wandering thoughts. My Lord, As soon as you have taken some refreshment, And had all such examinations made Upon the spot, as may be necessary To the full understanding of this matter, We shall be ready. Mother; will you come? Lucr. Ha ! they will bind us to the rack, and wrest Self-accusation from our agony! Will Giacomo be there? Orsino ? Marzio? All present; all confronted; all demanding Each from the others countenance the thing Which is in every heart! O, miscry! ( She faints, and is borne out.) Sav. She faints: an ill appearance this. Beatr. My Lord, She knows not yet the uses of the world. She fears that power is as a beast which grasps And loosens not: a snake whose look transmutes All things to guilt which is its nutriment. She cannot know how well the supine slaves Of blind authority read the truth of things When written on a brow of guilelessness : She secs not yet triumphant Innocence Stand at the judgement-seat of mortal man, A judge and an accuser of the wrong Which drags it there. Prepare yourself, My Lord; Our suite will join yours in the court below. ( Exeunt ) END OF THE FOURTH ACT.

·A CT V.
SCENE I.
An apartment in Orsino's Palace.
Enter ORSINO and GIACOMO.
Giac.
Do evil
o evil deeds thus quickly come to end?
O, that the vain remorse which must chastise
Crimes done, had but as loud a voice to warn
As its keen sting is mortal to avenge!
O, that the hour when present had cast off
The mantle of its mystery, and shewn
The ghastly form with which it now returns
When its scared game is roused, chcering the
hounds
Of conscience to their prey! Alas! Alas!
It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed,
To kill an old and hoary-headed father.
Ors. It has turned out unluckily, in truth.
Giac. To violate the sacred doors of sleep;
To chcat kind nature of the placid death
Which she prepomes for overwearied age;
To drag from Heaven an unrepentant soul
Which might have quenched in reconciling prayers
A life of burning crimes ...
Ors. You cannot say
I urged you to the deed.
Giac. O, had I never

·80 THE CENCI - Found in thy smooth and ready countenance The mirror of my darkest thoughts; hadst thou Never with hints and questions made me look Upon the monster of my thought, until It grew familiar to desire ... Ors. 'Tis thus Men cast the blame of their unprosperous acts Upon the abettors of their own resolve; Or any thing but their weak, guilty selves. And yet, confess the truth, it is the peril In which you stand that gives you this pale sickness Of penitence; Confess 'tis fear disguised From its own shame that takes the mantle now Of thin remorse. What if we yet were safe ? Giac. 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. Ors. I have all prepared For instant flight. We can escape even now, So we take fleet occasion by the hair. Giac. Rather expire in tortures, as may. What! will you cast by self-acasing flight Assured conviction upon Beatrice ? She, who alone in this unnatural work, Stands like God's angel ministered upon By fiends; avenging such a nameless wrong As turns black parricide to piety; Whilst we for basest ends ... I fear, Orsino, I ·ACT V. SCENE I. 81 While I consider all your words and looks, Comparing them with your proposal now, That you must be a villain. For what end Could you engage in such a perilous crime, Training me on with hints, and signs, and smiles, Even to this gulph? Thou art no liar? No, Thou art a lie! Traitor and murderer! Coward and slave! But, no, defend thyself; ( drawing. ) Let the sword speak what the indignant tongue Disdains to brand thee with. Ors. Put up your weapon. Is it the desperation of your fear Makes you thus rash and sudden with a friend, Now ruined for your sake? If honest anger Have moved you, know, that what I just proposed Was 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 speak The ministers of justice wait below: They grant me these brief moments. Now if you Have any word of melancholy comfort To. speak to your pale wife, 'twere best to pass Out at the postern, aud avoid them so. Giac. (), generous friend! How canst thou pardon me? Would that my life could purchase thine ! Ors. That wish Now comes a day too late. Haste; fare thec well! 11 ·82 THE CENCI Hear'st thou not steps along the corridor? (Exit Giacomo ) I'm sorry for it; but the guards are waiting At his own gate, and such was my contrivance That I might rid me both of him and them. I thought to act a solemņ comedy Upon the painted scene of this new world, And to attain my own peculiar ends By some such plot of mingled good and ill As others weave; but there arose a Power Which graspt and snapped the threads of my device And 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 innocence Upon my face, thro' the misdeeming crowd Which judges by what seems. 'Tis easy then For a new 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 fear That what is past will never let me rest! Why, when none else is conscious, but myself, Of my misdeeds, should my own heart's contempt Trouble me? Have I not the power to fly My own reproaches? Shall I be the slave Of... what? A word? which those of this false world

·ACT V. SCENE II.
83
Employ against each other, not themselves;
As men wear daggers not for self offence.
But if I am mistaken, where shall 1
Find the disguise to hide me from myself,
As now I skulk from every other eye ?
(Exit.)
SCENE II.
A Hall of Justice.
CAMILLO, Judges etc. are discovered seated;
MARZIO is led in.
1. Judge. Accused, do you persist in your denial ?
I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty ?
I demand who were the participators
In your offence? Speak truth and the whole truth.
Mar. My God! I did not kill him; I know
nothing;
Olimpio sold the robe to me from which
You would infer my guilt.
2. Judge Away with him!
1. Judge Dare you, with lips yet white from
the rack's kiss
Speak false? Is it so soft a questioner,
That you would bandy lover's talk with it
· Till it wind out your life and soul ? Away!
Mar. Spare me! O, spare! I will confess.
Judge Then speak.
Mar. I strangled him in his sleep.

·84 TIE CENCI 1. Judge Who urged you to it? Mar. His own son Giacomo, and the young prelate Orsino sent me to Petrella; there The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I And my companion forthwith murdered him. Now let me die. 1. Judge This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there, Lead forth the prisoners! Enter LUCRETIA, BEATRICE and GIACOMO, guarded. Look upon this man; When did you see him last? Beatr. We never saw hiin. Mar. You know me too well, Lady Beatrice. Beatr. I know thee! How? where! when? Mar. You know twas I Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes To kill your father. When the thing was done You clothed me in a robe of woven gold And bade me thrive: how I have thriven, you see. You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia , You know that what I speak is true. (BEATRICE advances towards him; he covers his face, and shrinks back.) O, dart The terrible resentment of those eyes On the dead earth! Turn them away from me! They wound: 'twas torture forced the truth. My Lords, ·ACT V. SCENE II. -85 Having said this let me be led to death. Beatr. Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stay awhile. Cam. Guards, lead him not away. Beatr. Cardinal Camillo, You have a good repute for gentleness And wisdom: can it be that you sit here To countenance a wicked farce like this? When some obscure, and trembling slave is dragged From sufferings which might shake the sternest heart And bade to answer, not as he believes, But as those may suspect or do desire Whose questious thence suggest their own reply: And that in peril of such hidcous torments As merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now The thing you surely know, which is that you, If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel, And you were told: Confess that you did poison Your little nephew; that fair blue-eyed child Who was the loadstar of your life: and though All sce, since his most swift and piteous death, That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time, And all the things hoped for or done therein Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief, Yet you would say I confess any thing. :And beg from your tormentors, like that slave, The refuge of dishonourable death. I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert ·86 THE CENCI My innocence. Cam. ( Much moved) What shall we think, my lords ? Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozen Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soul That she is guiltless. Judge. Yet she must be tortured. Cam I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew : (If he now lived he would be just her age; His hair, too, was her colour, and his eyes Like her's in shape, but blue and not so deep) As that most perfect image of God's love That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. She is as pure as speechless infancy! Judge. Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord, If you forbid the rack. His Holiness Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime By the severest forms of law; nay even To stretch a point against the criminals. The prisoners stand accused of parricide Upon such evidence as justifies Torture. Beatr. What evidence ? This man's ? Judge. Even so. Beatr. ( to MARZIO ) Come near. And who art thou thus chosen forth Out of the multitude of living men To kill the innocent ?

·ACT V. SCENE II. 7 Mar. I am Marzio, Thy father's vassal. Beatr. Fix thine eyes on mine ; Answer to what I ask. ( turning to the Judges) I prithee mark His countenance: unlike bold calumny Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks, He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends His gaze on the blind earth. (to MARZIO) What! wilt thou say That I did murder my own father? Mar. Oh! Spare me! My brain swims round...I cannot speak... It was that horrid torture forced the truth. Take me away! Let her not look on me! I am a guilty miserable wretch; I have said all I know; now, let me die! Beatr. My Lords, if by my nature I had been So stern, as to have planned the crime alledged , Which your suspicions dictate to this slave, And the rack makes him utter, do you think I should have left this two edged instrument Of my misdeed; misdeed; this man, this bloody knife With my own name engraven on the heft, Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, For my own death ? That with such horrible need For deepest silence, I should have neglected ·88 THE CENCI So trivial a precaution, as the making His tomb the keeper of a secret written On a thief's memory ? What is his poor life. What are a thousand lives? A parricide Had trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives! ( turning to MARZIO ) And thou ... Mar. Oh, spare me! Speak to me no more! That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones Wound worse than torture. ( to the Judges ) I have told it all; For pity's sake lead me away to death . Cam. Guards, lead him nearer the lady Beatrice, He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leaf From the keen breath of the serenest north. Beatr. Oh, thou who tremblest on the giddy verge Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me; So mayest thou answer God with less dismay: What evil have we done thee? I, alas! Hlave lived but on this earth a few sad years And so my lot was ordered, that a father First turned the moments of awakening life To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope ; and then Stabbed with one blow my everlasting soul ; And my untainted fame ; and even that peace Which sleeps within the core of the heart's heart; But the wound was not mortal; so my hate ·2 ) ACT V. SCENE II. 89 Became the only worship I could lift To our grcat father, who in pity and love, Afrmed thec, as thou dost say, to cut him off; And thus his wrong becomes my accusation; And art thou the accuser? If thou hopest Mercy in lieaven, shew justice upon carth: Worse than a bloody hand is a hard lcurt. If thou hast done murders, made thy life's path Over the trampled laws of God and man Rush not before tiy Judge, and say: » My maker, » I have done this and more; for there was one » Who was most pure and innocent on eartlı; » And because she endured what never any Guilty or innocent endured before: » Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought; ' » Because thy hand at length did rescue her; » [ with my words killed her and all hier kin.» Think, I adjurc you, what it is to slay The reverence living in the minds of men Towards our ancient house, and stainless faune ! Think what it is to strangte infant pity, Cradled in the belief of guileless looks, Till it become a crime to suffer. Think What 'tis to blot with infamy and blood All that which shews like innocence, and is, Hear me, great God! I swear, most innocent, .So that the world lose all discrimination Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt, And that which now coinpels thee to reply 12 ·90 THE CENCI To what I ask : Am I, or am I not A parricide ? Mar. Thou art not! Judge. What is this? Mar. I here declare those whom I did accuse Are innocent. 'Tis I alone am guilty. Judge. Drag him away to torments; let them be Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him not Till he confess. Mar. Torture me as ye will: A keener pain has wrung a higher truth From my last breath. She is most innocent! Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves 'well with me; I will not give you that fine piece of nature To rend and ruin. (exit MARZIO, guarded) Cam. What, say ye now, my Lords ? Judge. Let tortures strain the truth till it be white As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind. Cam. Yet stained with blood. Judge. (to Beatrice) Know this paper, Lady: Beatr. Entrap me not with questions. Who stands here As my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he, Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, judge, What, all in one ? Here is Orsino's name; Where is Orsino? Let his. eye mcet mine. you

·cam. I overrule
ACT V. SCENE A.
91,
that means this scrawl ? Alas! Ye know not what,
And therefore on the chance that it may be
Sume evil, will ye kill us?
Enter an officer.
Officer. Marzio's dead.
Judge. What did he say?
Officer Nothing. As soon as we
Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us,
As one who baffles a deep adversary;
And holding his breath, died.
Judge There remains nothing
But to apply the question to those prisoners,
Who yet remain stubborn.
Further proceedings, and in the behalf
Of these most innocent and noble persons
Will use my interest with the Holy Father.
Julge Let the Pope's pleasure then be done.
Meanwhile
Conduct these culprits each to separate cells;
And be, the engines ready: for this night
If the Pope's resolution be as grave,
Pious and just as once, I'll wring the truth
Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan.
(Exeunt.)

·97
TIIE CENCI
SCENE III.
The cell of a prison.
BEATRICE is discovereil aslecp on a couch;
enter BERNARDO.
Ber. How gently slumber rests upon her face,
Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly spent
Closing in night and dreams, and so prolonged.
After such torments as she hore last night,
Hlow light and soft her breathing comes. Ay, me!
Methinks that I shall never sleep again.
But I must shake the heavenly dew of rest
From this sweet folded flower, thus wake!
awake!
What, sister, canst thou sleep?
Beatr. (awaking ) I was just dreaming
That we were all in Paradise. Thou knowest
This cell seems like a kind of Paradise
After our father's presence.
Ber. Dear, dear sister,
Would that thy dream were not a dream! O, God!
How shall I tell ?
Beatr. What wouldst thou tell, sweet brother?
Ber. Look not so calm and happy, or even
whilst
I stand considering what I have to say
My heart will break.
Beatr. See now, thou mak’st me wecp:
How very friendless thou would'st bc, dear child,

·ACT V. SCENE IJI. 93 If I were dead. Say what thou hast to say. Der. They have confessed ; they could endure no more The tortures. Beatr. Ha! What was there to confess ? They must have told some weak and wicked lie To latter their tormentors. Have they said That they were guilty ? O, white innocence, That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide Tline awful and serenest countenance From those who know thee not! Enter judge with Lucretia and GIACOMO, guarded Ignoble hearts! For some brief spasms of pain, which are at least As mortal aš the limbs through which they pass, Are centuries of high splendour laid in dust? And that eternal honour which should live Sunlike, above the reek of mortal fame, Changed to a mockery and a bye-word? What! Will you give up these bodies to be dragged At horse's heels, so that our hair should sweep The footsteps of the vain and senseless crowd, Who, that they may make our calamity Their worship and thșir spectacle, will leave The churches and the theatres as void As their own hearts ? Shall the lighit multitude Fling, at their choice, cuses or faded pity, Sad funeral flowers to deck a living corpse, Upon us as we pass to pass away, And leave what niemory of our having been?

·94 THE CENCI Infamy, blood, terror, despair? O thou, Who wert a mother to the parentless Kill not thy child! Let not her wrongs kill thee! Brother, lie down with me upon the rack, And let us each be silent as a corpse; It soon will be as soft as any grave. "T'is but the falsehood it can wring from fear Makes the rack cruel. Giac. They will tear the truth Even from thee at last, those cruel pains : For pity's sake say thou art guilty now. Lucr. O, speak the truth! Let us all quickly die; And after death, God is our judge, not they; He will have mercy on us. Ber. If indeed It can be true, say so, dear sister mine; And then the Pope will surely pardon you, And all be well. Judge. Confess, or I will warp Your limbs with such keen tortures ... Beatr. Tortures! Turn The rack henceforth into a spinning wheel! Torture your dog, that he may tell when last He lapped the blood his master shed... not me! My pangs are of the mind, and of the heart, And of the soul; aye, of the inmost soul, Which weeps within tears as of burning gall To see, in this ill world where none are true, My kindred false to their deserted selves. And with considering all the wretched life ·ACT V. SCENE III. 95 Which I have lived, and its now wretched end, And the small justice shewn by Heaven and Earth To me or mine; and what a tyrant thou art, And what slaves these; and what a world we make, The oppressor and the oppressed.... such pangs compel My answer. What is it thou wouldst with me? Judge. Art thou not guilty of thy father's death? Beatr. Or wilt thou rather tax high judging God That he permitted such an act as that Which I have suffered, and which he beheld; Made it unutterable, and took from it All refuge, all revenge, all consequence, But that which thou hast called my father's death! Which is or is not what men call a crime, Which either I have done, or have not done; Say what yo will. I shall deny no more. If ye desire it thus, thus let it be, And so an end of all. Now do your wili; No other pains shall force another word. Judge She is convicted, but has not confessed. Be it enough. Until their final sentence Let none have converse with them. You, young kord, Linger not here! Beatr. 0, tear him not away! Judge Guards do your duty. : Ber. (Embracing BEATRICE ) Oh! would ye divide Body froin soul? Officer. That is the headsman's business.

·96 TIIE CENCI ( Exeunt all but LUCR. BEATR. and GIAC. ) Giac. Have I confessed ? Is it all over now? No hope ! No refuge ! O, weak, wicked tongue Which hast destroyed me would that thou hadst been Cut out and thrown to dogs first ? To have killed My father first, and then betrayed my sister; Aye, thee! the one thing innocent and pure In this black guilty world, to that which I So well deserve! My wife! my little ones ! Destitute, helpless and I... Father! God! Canst thou forgive cven the unforgiving, When their full hearts break thus, thus! .. ( Covers his face and weeps ) Lucr. O, my child ! To what a dreadful end are we all come! Why did I yield? Why did I not sustain 'Those torments? Oh, that I were all dissolved Into these fast and unavailing tears, Which flow and feel not! Beatr. What 'twas weak to do, "Tis weaker to lament, once being done; Take cheer! The God who kncw my wrong, and made Our speedy act the angel of his wrath, Seems, and but seeins to have abandoned us. # Let us not think that we shall die for this. Brother, sit near me; give me your firm hand, You had a manly heart. Bear up! Bear up! 0, dearest Lady, put your gentle head Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile:

·ACT V. SCENE III. 97 Your eyes look pale, hollow and overworn, With heaviness of watching and slow grief. Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy tune, Not cheerful, nor yet sad; some dull old thing Some outworn and unused monotony , Such as our country gossips sing and spin, Till they almost forget they live: lie down! So, that will do. Have I forgot the words? Faith! They are sadder than I thought they were. SONG False friend, wilt thou smile or weep When my life is laid asleep? Little cares for a smile or a tear, The clay-cold corpse upon the bier! Farewell! Heighho! What is this whispers low? There is a snake in thy smile, my And bitter poison within thy tear. dear; Sweet sleep, were death like to thee, Or if thou couldst mortal be, I would close these eyes of pain; When to wake? Never again. 0, World ! Farewell ! Listen to the passing bell ! It says, thou and I must part, With a light and a heavy heart. ( The scene closes.) 13 ·98 TIIE CENCI SCENE IV. A Hall of the Prison. Enter CAMILLO and BERNARDO. . Cam. The Pope is stern; not to be moved or bent. He looked as calm and keen as is the engine Which tortures and which kills, exempt itself From auglit that it inflicts; a marble form, A rite, a law, a custom: not a man. He frowned, as if to frown had been the trick Of his machinery, on the advocates Presenting the defences, which he tore And threw behind, muttering with hoarse, harsh voice : » Which among ye defended their old father » Killed in his sleep? » Then to another: » Thou » Dost this in virtue of thy place; 'tis well. » He turned, to me then, looking deprecation, And said these three words , coldly: They must die. Ber. And yet you left him not? Cam. I urged him still ; Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish wrong Which prompted your unnatural parent's death. And he replied. » Paolo Santa Croce » Murdered his mother yester evening, » And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife >> ·:// ACT V. SCENE IV. 99 » That soon, for some just cause no doubt, the young » Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs. '» Authority, and power, and hoary hair » Are grown crimes capital. You are my nephew, » You come to ask their pardon; stay a moment; > Here is their sentence; never see me more » Till, to the letter, it be all fulfilled. » Ber. O, God, not so! I did believe indeed That all you said was but sad preparation For lappy news. O, there are words and looks To bend the sternest purpose! Once I knew them, Now I forget them at my dearest nced. What think you if I scek liim out, and bathe His fcet and robe with hot and bitter tears? Importune him with prayers, vexing his brain (l'ith my perpetual cries, until in rage He strike me with his pastoral cross, and trample Upon my prostrate head, so that my blood May stain the senseless dust on whicli lic treads, And reinorse waken mercy? I will do it! O, wait till I rctnrn! (rushes out.) ('am. Alas! poor boy! A wreck-devoted seaman thus might pray To the deal sea. Enter LUCRETIA BEATRICT. and GIACOMO, guarded. Beatr. I hardly dare to fear That thou bring'st olher news than a just pardon. Cam. May God in heaven be less inexorable To the Pope's prayers, than he has been to mine. . > .

·100 THE CENCI ... Here is the sentence and the warrant. Beatr. (Wildly ) Oh, My God! Can it be possible I have To die so suddenly ? So young to go Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground ! To be nailed down into a narrow place; To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no more Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost How fearful! to be nothing ! Or to be What ? O, where am I ? Let me not go mad! Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts ! If there should be No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void world; The wide, grey, lampless, deep, unpeopled world! If all things then should be my father's spirit His eye, his voice, his touch surrounding me; The atmosphere and breath of my dead life! If sometimes, as a shape more like himself, Even the form which tortured me on earth, Masked in grey hairs and wrinkles, he should come And wind me in his hellish arms, and fix His eyes on mine, and drag me down, down, down! For was he not alone omnipotent On Earth, and ever present? Even tho'dead, Does not his spirit live in all that breathe, And work for me and mine still the same ruin, Scorn, pain, despair? Who ever yet returned ·ACT V. SCENE IV. 101, To teach the laws of death's untrodden realm? Unjust perhaps as those which drive us now, O, whither, whither? Lucr. Trust in God's sweet love, The tender promises of Christ: ere night Think we shall be in Paradisc. Beatr. "Tis past! Whatever comes my heart shall sink no more. And yet, I know not why, your words strike chill : How tedious, false and cold seem all things. I Have met with much injustice in this world; No difference has been made by God or man, Or any power moulding my wretched lot, 'Twixt good or evil, as regarded me. I am cut off from the only world I know, From light, and life, and love, in youtli's sweet prime. You do well telling me to trust in God, I hope I do trust in him. In whom else Can any trust? And yet my heart is cold. (During the latter speeches GIACOMO has retired . conversing with CAMILLOY who now goes out; GIACOMO advances) Giac. Know you not, Mother ... Sister, know you not? Bernardo even now is gone to implore The Pope to grant our pardon. Lucr. Child, perhaps It will be granted. We may all then live To make these woes a tale for distant years:

·102 THE CENCI O, what a thought! It gushes to my heart Like the warm blood. Beatr. Yet both will soon be cold 0, trample out that thought! Worse than despair, Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope: It is the only ill which can find place Upon the giddy, sharp and narrow hour Tottering bencath us. Plead with the swift frost That it should spare the eldest flower of spring: Plead with awakening Eartlıquake, o'er whose couch Even now a city stands, strong, fair and free; Now stench and blackness yawns, like death. O, plead With famine, or wind-walking Pestilence, Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man! Cruel, cold, formal man; rightcous in words, In deeds a Cain. No, Mother, we must die: Since such is the reward of innocent lives; Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold mcn, Smiling and slow, walk thro' a world of tcars To death as to life's sleep; 'Iwere just the grave Were some strange joy for us. Come, obscure Death, And wind me in thine all-embracing arms ! Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom, And rock me to the sleep from which none walc:. Live yc, who live, subject to one another As we were once, who now...

·ACT. V SCENE IV. 193 BERNARDO rashes Ber. Oh, horrible! That tears, that looks, that hope poured forth mahes in. in prayer, Even till the heart is vacant and despairs, Should all be vain! The ministers of death Are waiting round the doors. I thought I saw Blood on the face of one... what if 'twere fancy? Soon the heart's blood of all I love on earth Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it off As if 'twere only rain. 0, liſe! (), world! Cover me! let mc be no more! To sec That perfect mirror of pure innocence Wherein 1 gazed, and grew happy and good, Shivered to dust! To scc thce, Beatrice, Who made all lovely thou didst look upon... Thee, light of life... dead, dark ! while I say, sister, To hear I have no sister; and thou, Mother, Whose love was a bond to all our loves... Dead! The sweet bond broken! Enter Camillo and Guards. They come! Let me Kiss those warm lips before their crimson leaves Arc blighted ... white... cold. Say farewell, before Death chokes that gentle voice! 'o, let me hear You speak! Beatr. Farewell, my tender brother. Think Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now: And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten for thee Thy sorrow's load. Err not in harsh despair, 1

·104
THE C.ENCI
But tears and patience, One thing more, my child,
For thine own sake he constant to the love
Thou bearest us; and to the faith that I,
Tho' wrapt in a strange cloud of crime and
shame,
Lived ever holy and unstained. And tho'
Ill tongues shall wound me, and our common
name
Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent brow
For men to point at as they pass, do thou
Forbear, and never think a thought unkind
Of those, who perhaps love thee in their graves.
So mayest thou die as I do; fear and pain
Being subdued. Farewell ! Farewell! Farewell !
Ber. I cannot
say,
farewell !
Cam..O, Lady Beatrice!
Beatr. Give yourself no unnecessary pain,
My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, tie
My girdle for nie, and bind up this hair
In any simple knot; aye, that does well.
And yours I see, is coming down. How often
Have we done this for one another; now
We shall not do it any more. My Lord,
We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very well.
THE END.

·No text on this page.

·No text on this page.

·No text on this page.

·No text on this page.

·No text on this page.

·No text on this page.

·No text on this page.