BEATRICE [TO LUCRETIA]: Great God! How horrible! some dreadful ill Must have befallen my brothers.

LUCRETIA: Fear not, child, _35 He speaks too frankly.

BEATRICE: Ah! My blood runs cold. I fear that wicked laughter round his eye, Which wrinkles up the skin even to the hair.

CENCI: Here are the letters brought from Salamanca; Beatrice, read them to your mother. God! _40 I thank thee! In one night didst thou perform, By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought. My disobedient and rebellious sons Are dead!—Why, dead!—What means this change of cheer? You hear me not, I tell you they are dead; _45 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 coffins. Rejoice with me—my heart is wondrous glad. _50

[LUCRETIA SINKS, HALF FAINTING; BEATRICE SUPPORTS HER.]

BEATRICE : It is not true!—Dear Lady, pray look up. Had it been true, there is a God in Heaven, He would not live to boast of such a boon. Unnatural man, thou knowest that it is false.

CENCI: Ay, as the word of God; whom here I call _55 To witness that I speak the sober truth;— And whose most favouring Providence was shown Even in the manner of their deaths. For Rocco Was kneeling at the mass, with sixteen others, When the church fell and crushed him to a mummy, _60 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 shows that Heaven has special care of me. _65 I beg those friends who love me, that they mark The day a feast upon their calendars. It was the twenty-seventh of December: Ay, read the letters if you doubt my oath.

[THE ASSEMBLY APPEARS CONFUSED; SEVERAL OF THE GUESTS RISE.]

FIRST GUEST: Oh, horrible! I will depart—

SECOND GUEST: And I.—

THIRD GUEST: No, stay! 70 I do believe it is some jest; though faith! 'Tis mocking us somewhat too solemnly. I think his son has married the Infanta, Or found a mine of gold in El Dorado. 'Tis but to season some such news; stay, stay! 75 I see 'tis only raillery by his smile.

CENCI [FILLING A BOWL OF WINE, AND LIFTING IT UP]: Oh, thou bright wine whose purple splendour leaps And bubbles gaily in this golden bowl Under the lamplight, as my spirits do, To hear the death of my accursed sons! 80 Could I believe thou wert their mingled blood, Then would I taste thee like a sacrament, And pledge with thee the mighty Devil in Hell, Who, if a father's curses, as men say, Climb with swift wings after their children's souls, 85 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! _90 Will none among this noble company Check the abandoned villain?

CAMILLO: For God's sake, Let me dismiss the guests! You are insane, Some ill will come of this.

SECOND GUEST: Seize, silence him!

FIRST GUEST: I will!

THIRD GUEST: And I!

CENCI [ADDRESSING THOSE WHO RISE WITH A THREATENING GESTURE]: Who moves? Who speaks? [TURNING TO THE COMPANY.] 'tis nothing, _95 Enjoy yourselves.—Beware! For my revenge Is as the sealed commission of a king That kills, and none dare name the murderer.

[THE BANQUET IS BROKEN UP; SEVERAL OF THE GUESTS ARE DEPARTING.]

BEATRICE: I do entreat you, go not, noble guests; What, although tyranny and impious hate 100 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 105 To love and shelter? Shall we therefore find No refuge in this merciless wide world? O 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! 110 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 115 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, 120 Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous feast Given at my brothers' deaths. Two yet remain, His wife remains and I, whom if ye save not, Ye may soon share such merriment again As fathers make over their children's graves. 125 O Prince Colonna, thou art our near kinsman, Cardinal, thou art the Pope's chamberlain, Camillo, thou art chief justiciary, Take us away!

CENCI [HE HAS BEEN CONVERSING WITH CAMILLO DURING THE FIRST PART OF BEATRICE'S SPEECH; HE HEARS THE CONCLUSION, AND NOW ADVANCES]: I hope my good friends here Will think of their own daughters—or perhaps _130 Of their own throats—before they lend an ear To this wild girl.

BEATRICE [NOT NOTICING THE WORDS OF CENCI]: Dare no one look on me? None answer? Can one tyrant overbear The sense of many best and wisest men? Or is it that I sue not in some form 135 Of scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit? O God! That I were buried with my brothers! And that the flowers of this departed spring Were fading on my grave! And that my father Were celebrating now one feast for all! 140

NOTE: _132 no edition 1821; not edition 1819.

CAMILLO: A bitter wish for one so young and gentle. Can we do nothing?

COLONNA: Nothing that I see. Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy: Yet I would second any one.

A CARDINAL: And I.

CENCI: Retire to your chamber, insolent girl! _145

BEATRICE: Retire thou, impious man! Ay, 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, 150 But ill must come of ill.—Frown not on me! Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging looks My brothers' ghosts should hunt thee from thy seat! Cover thy face from every living eye, And start if thou but hear a human step: 155 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.

CENCI: My friends, I do lament this insane girl 160 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! 165 Beast that thou art! Fair and yet terrible! I know a charm shall make thee meek and tame, Now get thee from my sight! [EXIT BEATRICE.] Here, Andrea, Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I said I would not drink this evening; but I must; 170 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 Within my veins, and manhood's purpose stern, And age's firm, cold, subtle villainy; 175 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 ACT 1.

ACT 2.

SCENE 2.1: AN APARTMENT IN THE CENCI PALACE. ENTER LUCRETIA AND BERNARDO.

LUCRETIA: Weep 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. O God Almighty, do Thou look upon us, We have no other friend but only Thee! _5 Yet weep not; though I love you as my own, I am not your true mother.

BERNARDO: 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 weep! _10

LUCRETIA: Alas! Poor boy, what else couldst thou have done?

[ENTER BEATRICE.]

BEATRICE [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 15 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, 20 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?

SERVANT: My master bids me say, the Holy Father Has sent back your petition thus unopened. _25 [GIVING A PAPER.] And he demands at what hour 'twere secure To visit you again?

LUCRETIA: At the Ave Mary. [EXIT SERVANT.] So, daughter, our last hope has failed. Ah me! How pale you look; you tremble, and you stand Wrapped in some fixed and fearful meditation, _30 As if one thought were over strong for you: Your eyes have a chill glare; O, dearest child! Are you gone mad? If not, pray speak to me.

BEATRICE: You see I am not mad: I speak to you.

LUCRETIA: You talked of something that your father did 35 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 the blood 40 Rush to my heart, and fell into a trance; And when it passed I sat all weak and wild; Whilst you alone stood up, and with strong words Checked his unnatural pride; and I could see The devil was rebuked that lives in him. 45 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 50 Have given you that cold melancholy look, Succeeding to your unaccustomed fear?

BEATRICE: What is it that you say? I was just thinking 'Twere better not to struggle any more. Men, like my father, have been dark and bloody, _55 Yet never—Oh! Before worse comes of it 'Twere wise to die: it ends in that at last.

LUCRETIA: 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 _60 One moment in your chamber.—Speak to me.

BERNARDO: Oh, sister, sister, prithee, speak to us!

BEATRICE [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 _65 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 _70 Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet limbs, And I have never yet despaired—but now! What could I say? [RECOVERING HERSELF.] Ah, no! 'tis nothing new. The sufferings we all share have made me wild: He only struck and cursed me as he passed; _75 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.

LUCRETIA: Nay, Beatrice; have courage, my sweet girl. 80 If any one despairs it should be I Who loved him once, and now must live with him 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; 85 Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous coil Shall be remembered only as a dream.

BEATRICE: Talk not to me, dear lady, of a husband. Did you not nurse me when my mother died? Did you not shield me and that dearest boy? 90 And had we any other friend but you In infancy, with gentle words and looks, 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 95 If I abandon her who filled the place She left, with more, even, than a mother's love!

BERNARDO: 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 _100 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!

LUCRETIA: My dear, dear children!

[ENTER CENCI, SUDDENLY.]

CENCI: What! Beatrice here! Come hither! [SHE SHRINKS BACK, AND COVERS HER FACE.] Nay, hide not your face, 'tis fair; 105 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. 110

BEATRICE [WILDLY STAGGERING TOWARDS THE DOOR]: Oh, that the earth would gape! Hide me, O God!

CENCI: 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 _115 Never again, I think, with fearless eye, And brow superior, and unaltered cheek, And that lip made for tenderness or scorn, Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of mankind; Me least of all. Now get thee to thy chamber! _120 Thou too, loathed image of thy cursed mother, [TO BERNARDO.] Thy milky, meek face makes me sick with hate! [EXEUNT BEATRICE AND BERNARDO.] [ASIDE.] So much has passed between us as must make Me bold, her fearful.—'Tis an awful thing To touch such mischief as I now conceive: _125 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!

LUCRETIA [ADVANCING TIMIDLY TOWARDS HIM]: O husband! Pray forgive poor Beatrice. She meant not any ill.

CENCI: Nor you perhaps? 130 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: 135 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, 140 How just it were to hire assassins, or Put sudden poison in my evening drink? Or smother me when overcome by wine? Seeing we had no other judge but God, And He had sentenced me, and there were none 145 But you to be the executioners Of His decree enregistered in heaven? Oh, no! You said not this?

LUCRETIA: So help me God, I never thought the things you charge me with!

CENCI: If you dare to speak that wicked lie again 150 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? 155 You judged that men were bolder than they are; Few dare to stand between their grave and me.

LUCRETIA: Look not so dreadfully! By my salvation I knew not aught that Beatrice designed; Nor do I think she designed any thing _160 Until she heard you talk of her dead brothers.

CENCI: 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 165 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: Its dungeons underground, and its thick towers 170 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; 175 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. 180 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 185 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, 190 Or constellations quenched in murkiest cloud, In which I walk secure and unbeheld Towards my purpose.—Would that it were done!

[EXIT.]

SCENE 2.2: A CHAMBER IN THE VATICAN. ENTER CAMILLO AND GIACOMO, IN CONVERSATION.

CAMILLO: There is an obsolete and doubtful law By which you might obtain a bare provision Of food and clothing—

GIACOMO: Nothing more? Alas! Bare must be the provision which strict law Awards, and aged, sullen avarice pays. _5 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 _10 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, _15 To that which nature doth indeed require?—

CAMILLO: Nay, there is reason in your plea; 'twere hard.

GIACOMO: 'Tis hard for a firm man to bear: but I Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth, Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my father 20 Without a bond or witness to the deed: And children, who inherit her fine senses, The fairest creatures in this breathing world; And she and they reproach me not. Cardinal, Do you not think the Pope would interpose 25 And stretch authority beyond the law?

CAMILLO: 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 _30 Your father's cruel hand; he frowned and said, 'Children are disobedient, and they sting Their fathers' hearts to madness and despair, Requiting years of care with contumely. I pity the Count Cenci from my heart; _35 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.' _40 [ENTER ORSINO.] You, my good Lord Orsino, heard those words.

ORSINO: What words?

GIACOMO: 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.—But, say, 45 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 50 What these endure; shall they have no protection?

CAMILLO: 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, _55 Being, as 'twere, the shadow of his own. I pray you now excuse me. I have business That will not bear delay.

[EXIT CAMILLO.]

GIACOMO: But you, Orsino, Have the petition: wherefore not present it?

ORSINO: I have presented it, and backed it with 60 My earnest prayers, and urgent interest; It was returned unanswered. I doubt not But that the strange and execrable deeds Alleged in it—in truth they might well baffle Any belief—have turned the Pope's displeasure 65 Upon the accusers from the criminal: So I should guess from what Camillo said.

GIACOMO: My friend, that palace-walking devil Gold Has whispered silence to his Holiness: And we are left, as scorpions ringed with fire. _70 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.]

ORSINO: What? Fear not to speak your thought. Words are but holy as the deeds they cover: 75 A priest who has forsworn the God he serves; A judge who makes Truth weep at his decree; A friend who should weave counsel, as I now, But as the mantle of some selfish guile; A father who is all a tyrant seems, 80 Were the profaner for his sacred name.

NOTE: _77 makes Truth edition 1821; makes the truth editions 1819, 1839.

GIACOMO: Ask me not what I think; the unwilling brain Feigns often what it would not; and we trust Imagination with such fantasies As the tongue dares not fashion into words, _85 Which have no words, their horror makes them dim To the mind's eye.—My heart denies itself To think what you demand.

ORSINO: But a friend's bosom Is as the inmost cave of our own mind Where we sit shut from the wide gaze of day, _90 And from the all-communicating air. You look what I suspected—

GIACOMO: Spare me now! I am as one lost in a midnight wood, Who dares not ask some harmless passenger The path across the wilderness, lest he, 95 As my thoughts are, should be—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. 100 Pardon me, that I say farewell—farewell! I would that to my own suspected self I could address a word so full of peace.

ORSINO: Farewell!—Be your thoughts better or more bold. [EXIT GIACOMO.] I had disposed the Cardinal Camillo 105 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 minds. Such self-anatomy shall teach the will 110 Dangerous secrets: for it tempts our powers, Knowing what must be thought, and may be done. Into the depth of darkest purposes: So Cenci fell into the pit; even I, Since Beatrice unveiled me to myself, 115 And made me shrink from what I cannot shun, Show a poor figure to my own esteem, To which I grow half reconciled. I'll do As little mischief as I can; that thought Shall fee the accuser conscience. [AFTER A PAUSE.] Now what harm 120 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 125 And such is Cenci: and while Cenci lives His daughter's dowry were a secret grave If a priest wins her.—Oh, fair Beatrice! Would that I loved thee not, or loving thee, Could but despise danger and gold and all 130 That frowns between my wish and its effect. Or smiles beyond it! There is no escape... Her bright form kneels beside me at the altar, And follows me to the resort of men, And fills my slumber with tumultuous dreams, 135 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 140 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 feverous hours: From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo 145 I must work out my own 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 150 From the dread manner of her wish achieved; And she!—Once more take courage, my faint heart; What dares a friendless maiden matched with thee? I have such foresight as assures success: Some unbeheld divinity doth ever, 155 When dread events are near, stir up men's minds To black suggestions; and he prospers best, Not who becomes the instrument of ill, But who can flatter the dark spirit, that makes Its empire and its prey of other hearts 160 Till it become his slave...as I will do.

[EXIT.]

END OF ACT 2.

ACT 3.

SCENE 3.1: AN APARTMENT IN THE CENCI PALACE. LUCRETIA, TO HER ENTER BEATRICE.

BEATRICE [SHE ENTERS STAGGERING AND SPEAKS WILDLY]: Reach me that handkerchief!—My brain is hurt; My eyes are full of blood; just wipe them for me... I see but indistinctly...

LUCRETIA: My sweet child, You have no wound; 'tis only a cold dew That starts from your dear brow.—Alas! Alas! _5 What has befallen?

BEATRICE: How comes this hair undone? Its wandering strings must be what blind me so, And yet I tied it fast.—Oh, horrible! The pavement sinks under my feet! The walls Spin round! I see a woman weeping there, _10 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 air Is changed to vapours such as the dead breathe _15 In charnel pits! Pah! I am choked! There creeps A clinging, black, contaminating mist About me...'tis substantial, heavy, thick, I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues My fingers and my limbs to one another, _20 And eats into my sinews, and dissolves My flesh to a pollution, poisoning The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of life! My God! I never knew what the mad felt Before; for I am mad beyond all doubt! _25 [MORE WILDLY.] No, I am dead! These putrefying limbs Shut round and sepulchre the panting soul 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 _30 O'er these dull eyes...upon this weary heart! O, world! O, life! O, day! O, misery!

LUCRETIA: What ails thee, my poor child? She answers not: Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain, But not its cause; suffering has dried away _35 The source from which it sprung...

BEATRICE [FRANTICLY]: Like Parricide... Misery has killed its father: yet its father Never like mine...O, God! What thing am I?

LUCRETIA: My dearest child, what has your father done?

BEATRICE [DOUBTFULLY]: Who art thou, questioner? I have no father. 40 [ASIDE.] She is the madhouse nurse who tends on me, It is a piteous office. [TO LUCRETIA, IN A SLOW, SUBDUED VOICE.] Do you know I thought I was that wretched Beatrice Men speak of, whom her father sometimes hales From hall to hall by the entangled hair; 45 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! 50 Horrible things have been in this wide 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 55 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...Mother!

LUCRETIA: Oh! My sweet child, know you...

BEATRICE: Yet speak it not: For then if this be truth, that other too 60 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. 65 I have talked some wild words, but will no more. Mother, come near me: from this point of time, I am... [HER VOICE DIES AWAY FAINTLY.]

LUCRETIA: Alas! What has befallen thee, child? What has thy father done?

BEATRICE: What have I done? Am I not innocent? Is it my crime 70 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? 75 What retrospects, outliving even despair?

LUCRETIA: He is a violent tyrant, surely, child: We know that death alone can make us free; His death or ours. But what can he have done Of deadlier outrage or worse injury? _80 Thou art unlike thyself; thine eyes shoot forth A wandering and strange spirit. Speak to me, Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers twine With one another.

BEATRICE: 'Tis the restless life Tortured within them. If I try to speak, 85 I shall go mad. Ay, something must be done; What, 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 90 The consequence of what it cannot cure. Some such thing is to be endured or done: When I know what, I shall be still and calm, And never anything will move me more. But now!—O blood, which art my father's blood, 95 Circling through 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 100 Who sees and permits evil, and so die: That faith no agony shall obscure in me.

LUCRETIA: It must indeed have been some bitter wrong; Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh, my lost child, Hide not in proud impenetrable grief _105 Thy sufferings from my fear.

BEATRICE: I hide them not. What are the words which yon 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 110 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, 115 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?

LUCRETIA: The peace of innocence; Till in your season you be called to heaven. _120 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.

BEATRICE: Ay, death... 125 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 130 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 135 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 nor death can give me rest. 140 Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.

NOTE: _140 nor edition 1821; or editions 1819, 1839 (1st).

ORSINO: And what is he who has thus injured you?

BEATRICE: The man they call my father: a dread name.

ORSINO: It cannot be...

BEATRICE: What it can be, or not, 145 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 150 Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak!

ORSINO: Accuse him of the deed, and let the law Avenge thee.

BEATRICE: Oh, ice-hearted counsellor! If I could find a word that might make known The crime of my destroyer; and that done, _155 My tongue should like a knife tear out the secret Which cankers my heart's core; ay, lay all bare, So that my unpolluted fame should be With vilest gossips a stale mouthed story; A mock, a byword, an astonishment:— _160 If this were done, which never shall be done, Think of the offender's gold, his dreaded hate, And the strange horror of the accuser's tale, Baffling belief, and overpowering speech; Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wrapped _165 In hideous hints...Oh, most assured redress!

ORSINO: You will endure it then?

BEATRICE: Endure!—Orsino, It seems your counsel is small profit. [TURNS FROM HIM, AND SPEAKS HALF TO HERSELF.] Ay, All must be suddenly resolved and done. What is this undistinguishable mist _170 Of thoughts, which rise, like shadow after shadow, Darkening each other?

ORSINO: Should the offender live? Triumph in his misdeed? and make, by use, His crime, whate'er it is, dreadful no doubt, Thine element; until thou mayest become _175 Utterly lost; subdued even to the hue Of that which thou permittest?

BEATRICE [TO HERSELF]: Mighty death! Thou double-visaged shadow! Only judge! Rightfullest arbiter!

[SHE RETIRES, ABSORBED IN THOUGHT.]

LUCRETIA: If the lightning Of God has e'er descended to avenge... _180

ORSINO: 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...

LUCRETIA: But if one, like this wretch, Should mock, with gold, opinion, law, and power? 185 If there be no appeal to that which makes The guiltiest tremble? If because our wrongs, For that they are unnatural, strange and monstrous, Exceed all measure of belief? O God! If, for the very reasons which should make 190 Redress most swift and sure, our injurer triumphs? And we, the victims, bear worse punishment Than that appointed for their torturer?

ORSINO: Think not But that there is redress where there is wrong, So we be bold enough to seize it.

LUCRETIA: How? _195 If there were any way to make all sure, I know not...but I think it might be good To...

ORSINO: Why, his late outrage to Beatrice; For it is such, as I but faintly guess, As makes remorse dishonour, and leaves her _200 Only one duty, how she may avenge: You, but one refuge from ills ill endured; Me, but one counsel...

LUCRETIA: For we cannot hope That aid, or retribution, or resource Will arise thence, where every other one _205 Might find them with less need.

[BEATRICE ADVANCES.]

ORSINO: Then...

BEATRICE: Peace, Orsino! And, honoured Lady, while I speak, I pray, That you put off, as garments overworn, Forbearance and respect, remorse and fear, And all the fit restraints of daily life, _210 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, _215 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, _220 And have at length determined what is right. Art thou my friend, Orsino? False or true? Pledge thy salvation ere I speak.

ORSINO: I swear To dedicate my cunning, and my strength, My silence, and whatever else is mine, _225 To thy commands.

LUCRETIA: You think we should devise His death?

BEATRICE: And execute what is devised, And suddenly. We must be brief and bold.

ORSINO: And yet most cautious.

LUCRETIA: For the jealous laws Would punish us with death and infamy _230 For that which it became themselves to do.

BEATRICE: Be cautious as ye may, but prompt. Orsino, What are the means?

ORSINO: I know two dull, fierce outlaws, Who think man's spirit as a worm's, and they Would trample out, for any slight caprice, _235 The meanest or the noblest life. This mood Is marketable here in Rome. They sell What we now want.

LUCRETIA: To-morrow before dawn, Cenci will take us to that lonely rock, Petrella, in the Apulian Apennines. _240 If he arrive there...

BEATRICE: He must not arrive.

ORSINO: Will it be dark before you reach the tower?

LUCRETIA: The sun will scarce be set.

BEATRICE: But I remember Two miles on this side of the fort, the road Crosses a deep ravine; 'tis rough and narrow, _245 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 gulf, and with the agony _250 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 _255 Huge as despair, as if in weariness, The melancholy mountain yawns...below, You hear but see not an impetuous torrent Raging among the caverns, and a bridge Crosses the chasm; and high above there grow, _260 With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag, Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose tangled hair Is matted in one solid roof of shade By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here 'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night. _265

ORSINO: Before you reach that bridge make some excuse For spurring on your mules, or loitering Until...

BEATRICE: What sound is that?

LUCRETIA: Hark! No, it cannot be a servant's step It must be Cenci, unexpectedly _270 Returned...Make some excuse for being here.

BEATRICE [TO ORSINO AS SHE GOES OUT]: That step we hear approach must never pass The bridge of which we spoke.

[EXEUNT LUCRETIA AND BEATRICE.]

ORSINO: What shall I do? Cenci must find me here, and I must bear The imperious inquisition of his looks _275 As to what brought me hither: let me mask Mine own in some inane and vacant smile. [ENTER GIACOMO, IN A HURRIED MANNER.] How! Have you ventured hither? Know you then That Cenci is from home?

NOTE: _278 hither edition 1821; thither edition 1819.

GIACOMO: I sought him here; And now must wait till he returns.

ORSINO: Great God! _280 Weigh you the danger of this rashness?

GIACOMO: Ay! 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: _285 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 _290 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, _295 Or I will...God can understand and pardon, Why should I speak with man?

ORSINO: Be calm, dear friend.

GIACOMO: Well, I will calmly tell you what he did. This old Francesco Cenci, as you know, Borrowed the dowry of my wife from me, _300 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, _305 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 With this ill news, and we sate sad together _310 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 _315 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 _320 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; _325 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. _330 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...

ORSINO: Trust me, The compensation which thou seekest here _335 Will be denied.

GIACOMO: Then...Are you not my friend? Did you not hint at the alternative, Upon the brink of which you see I stand, The other day when we conversed together? My wrongs were then less. That word parricide, _340 Although I am resolved, haunts me like fear.

ORSINO: 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 _345 Is, as it were, accomplished.

GIACOMO: Is he dead?

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

GIACOMO: What outrage?

ORSINO: That she speaks not, but you may Conceive such half conjectures as I do, _350 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, _355 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 _360 Which told, before she spoke it, he must die:...

GIACOMO: It is enough. My doubts are well appeased; There is a higher reason for the act Than mine; there is a holier judge than me, A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice, 365 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 370 Did not destroy each other! Is there made Ravage of thee? O, heart, I ask no more Justification! Shall I wait, Orsino, Till he return, and stab him at the door?

ORSINO: Not so; some accident might interpose _375 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.]

BEATRICE: 'Tis my brother's voice! You know me not?

GIACOMO: My sister, my lost sister! _380

BEATRICE: 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 385 That then thou hast consented to his death. Farewell, farewell! Let piety to God, Brotherly love, justice and clemency, And all things that make tender hardest hearts Make thine hard, brother. Answer not...farewell. 390

[EXEUNT SEVERALLY.]

SCENE 3.2: A MEAN APARTMENT IN GIACOMO'S HOUSE. GIACOMO ALONE.

GIACOMO: '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: 5 They are now living in unmeaning dreams: But I must wake, still doubting if that deed Be just which is most necessary. O, Thou unreplenished lamp! whose narrow fire Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge 10 Devouring darkness hovers! Thou small flame, Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls, Still flickerest up and down, how very soon, Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail and be As thou hadst never been! So wastes and sinks 15 Even now, perhaps, the life that kindled mine: But that no power can fill with vital oil That broken lamp of flesh. Ha! 'tis the blood Which fed these veins that ebbs till all is cold: It is the form that moulded mine that sinks 20 Into the white and yellow spasms of death: It is the soul by which mine was arrayed In God's immortal likeness which now stands Naked before Heaven's judgement seat! [A BELL STRIKES.] One! Two! The hours crawl on; and, when my hairs are white, 25 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; 30 Yet...'tis Orsino's step... [ENTER ORSINO.] Speak!

ORSINO: I am come To say he has escaped.

GIACOMO: Escaped!

ORSINO: And safe Within Petrella. He passed by the spot Appointed for the deed an hour too soon.

GIACOMO: Are we the fools of such contingencies? 35 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 40 But my repentance.

ORSINO: See, the lamp is out.

GIACOMO: If no remorse is ours when the dim air Has 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? _45 No, I am hardened.

ORSINO: Why, what need of this? Who feared the pale intrusion of remorse In a just deed? Although our first plan failed, Doubt not but he will soon be laid to rest. But light the lamp; let us not talk i' the dark. _50

GIACOMO [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?

ORSINO: Once gone You cannot now recall your sister's peace; Your own extinguished years of youth and hope; _55 Nor your wife's bitter words; nor all the taunts Which, from the prosperous, weak misfortune takes; Nor your dead mother; nor...

GIACOMO: O, speak no more! I am resolved, although this very hand Must quench the life that animated it. _60

ORSINO: There is no need of that. Listen: you know Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella In old Colonna's time; him whom your father Degraded from his post? And Marzio, That desperate wretch, whom he deprived last year _65 Of a reward of blood, well earned and due?

GIACOMO: I knew Olimpio; and they say he hated Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage His lips grew white only to see him pass. Of Marzio I know nothing.

ORSINO: Marzio's hate _70 Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these men, But in your name, and as at your request, To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia.

GIACOMO: Only to talk?

ORSINO: The moments which even now Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight hour _75 May memorize their flight with death: ere then They must have talked, and may perhaps have done, And made an end...

GIACOMO: Listen! What sound is that?

ORSINO: The house-dog moans, and the beams crack: nought else.

GIACOMO: It is my wife complaining in her sleep: _80 I doubt not she is saying bitter things Of me; and all my children round her dreaming That I deny them sustenance.

ORSINO: Whilst he Who truly took it from them, and who fills Their hungry rest with bitterness, now sleeps _85 Lapped in bad pleasures, and triumphantly Mocks thee in visions of successful hate Too like the truth of day.

GIACOMO: If e'er he wakes Again, I will not trust to hireling hands...

ORSINO: Why, that were well. I must be gone; good-night. _90 When next we meet—may all be done!

NOTE: _91 may all be done! Giacomo: And all edition 1821; Giacomo: May all be done, and all edition 1819.

GIACOMO: And all Forgotten: Oh, that I had never been!

[EXEUNT.]

END OF ACT 3.

ACT 4.

SCENE 4.1: AN APARTMENT IN THE CASTLE OF PETRELLA. ENTER CENCI.

CENCI: She comes not; yet I left her even now Vanquished and faint. She knows the penalty Of her delay: yet what if threats are vain? Am I not now within Petrella's moat? Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome? 5 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 10 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.

NOTE: _4 not now edition 1821; now not edition 1819.

LUCRETIA: Oh, Husband! I pray, for thine own wretched sake 15 Heed what thou dost. A man who walks like thee Through crimes, and through the danger of his crimes, Each hour may stumble o'er a sudden grave. And thou art old; thy hairs are hoary gray; As thou wouldst save thyself from death and hell, 20 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.

CENCI: What! like her sister who has found a home To mock my hate from with prosperity? 25 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. 30

LUCRETIA: 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 _35 If God, to punish his enormous crimes, Harden his dying heart!'

CENCI: Why—such things are... No doubt divine revealings may be made. 'Tis plain I have been favoured from above, For when I cursed my sons they died.—Ay...so... 40 As to the right or wrong, that's 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. [A PAUSE, LUCRETIA APPROACHES ANXIOUSLY, AND THEN SHRINKS BACK AS HE SPEAKS.] One, two; 45 Ay...Rocco and Cristofano my curse Strangled: and Giacomo, I think, will find Life a worse Hell than that beyond the grave: Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate, Die in despair, blaspheming: to Bernardo, 50 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, 55 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; 60 Which shall be an inheritance to strip Its wearer bare as infamy. That done, My soul, which is a scourge, will I resign Into the hands of him who wielded it; Be it for its own punishment or theirs, 65 He will not ask it of me till the lash Be broken in its last and deepest wound; Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet, Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me make Short work and sure...

[GOING.]

LUCRETIA [STOPS HIM]: Oh, stay! It was a feint: _70 She had no vision, and she heard no voice. I said it but to awe thee.

CENCI: That is well. Vile palterer with the sacred truth of God, Be thy soul choked with that blaspheming lie! For Beatrice worse terrors are in store _75 To bend her to my will.

LUCRETIA: Oh! to what will? What cruel sufferings more than she has known Canst thou inflict?

CENCI: Andrea! Go call my daughter, And if she comes not tell her that I come. What sufferings? I will drag her, step by step, 80 Through 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 85 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, 90 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. 95

[ENTER ANDREA.]

ANDREA: The Lady Beatrice...

CENCI: Speak, pale slave! What Said she?

ANDREA: My Lord, 'twas what she looked; she said: 'Go tell my father that I see the gulf Of Hell between us two, which he may pass, I will not.'

[EXIT ANDREA.]

CENCI: Go thou quick, Lucretia, _100 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 _105 Cities in their prosperity? The world's Father Must grant a parent's prayer against his child, Be he who asks even what men call me. Will not the deaths of her rebellious brothers Awe her before I speak? For I on them _110 Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came. [ENTER LUCRETIA.] Well; what? Speak, wretch!

LUCRETIA: She said, 'I cannot come; Go tell my father that I see a torrent Of his own blood raging between us.'

CENCI [KNEELING]: God, Hear me! If this most specious mass of flesh, _115 Which Thou hast made my daughter; this my blood, This particle of my divided being; Or rather, this my bane and my disease, Whose sight infects and poisons me; this devil Which sprung from me as from a hell, was meant _120 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, _125 As Thou the common God and Father art Of her, and me, and all; reverse that doom! Earth, in the name of God, let her food be Poison, until she be encrusted round With leprous stains! Heaven, rain upon her head _130 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 loathed lameness! All-beholding sun, Strike in thine envy those life-darting eyes _135 With thine own blinding beams!

LUCRETIA: Peace! Peace! For thine own sake unsay those dreadful words. When high God grants He punishes such prayers.

CENCI [LEAPING UP, AND THROWING HIS RIGHT HAND TOWARDS HEAVEN]: He does his will, I mine! This in addition, That if she have a child...

LUCRETIA: Horrible thought! _140

CENCI: That if she ever have a child; and thou, Quick Nature! I adjure thee by thy God, That thou be fruitful in her, and increase And multiply, fulfilling his command, And my deep imprecation! May it be _145 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 _150 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. _155 So he may hunt her through 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, _160 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; _165 My heart is beating with an expectation Of horrid joy. [ENTER LUCRETIA.] What? Speak!

LUCRETIA: She bids thee curse; And if thy curses, as they cannot do, Could kill her soul...

CENCI: She would not come. 'Tis well, I can do both; first take what I demand, 170 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 175 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 180 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 185 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 now.

[EXIT.]

SCENE 4.2: BEFORE THE CASTLE OF PETRELLA. ENTER BEATRICE AND LUCRETIA ABOVE ON THE RAMPARTS.

BEATRICE: They come not yet.

LUCRETIA: 'Tis scarce midnight.

BEATRICE: How slow Behind the course of thought, even sick with speed, Lags leaden-footed time!

LUCRETIA: The minutes pass... If he should wake before the deed is done?

BEATRICE: O, mother! He must never wake again. _5 What thou hast said persuades me that our act Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell Out of a human form.

LUCRETIA: 'Tis true he spoke Of death and judgement with strange confidence For one so wicked; as a man believing _10 In God, yet recking not of good or ill. And yet to die without confession!...

BEATRICE: 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.]

LUCRETIA: See, _15 They come.

BEATRICE: All mortal things must hasten thus To their dark end. Let us go down.

[EXEUNT LUCRETIA AND BEATRICE FROM ABOVE.]

OLIMPIO: How feel you to this work?

MARZIO: As one who thinks A thousand crowns excellent market price For an old murderer's life. Your cheeks are pale. _20

OLIMPIO: It is the white reflection of your own, Which you call pale.

MARZIO: Is that their natural hue?

OLIMPIO: Or 'tis my hate and the deferred desire To wreak it, which extinguishes their blood.

MARZIO: You are inclined then to this business?

OLIMPIO: Ay, _25 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!

BEATRICE: Are ye resolved?

OLIMPIO: Is he asleep?

MARZIO: Is all Quiet?

LUCRETIA: I mixed an opiate with his drink: _30 He sleeps so soundly...

BEATRICE: 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? _35

OLIMPIO: We are resolved.

MARZIO: As to the how this act Be warranted, it rests with you.

BEATRICE: Well, follow!

OLIMPIO: Hush! Hark! What noise is that?

MARZIO: Ha! some one comes!

BEATRICE: Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to rest Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate, _40 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 4.3: AN APARTMENT IN THE CASTLE. ENTER BEATRICE AND LUCRETIA.

LUCRETIA: They are about it now.

BEATRICE: Nay, it is done.

LUCRETIA: I have not heard him groan.

BEATRICE: He will not groan.

LUCRETIA: What sound is that?

BEATRICE: List! 'tis the tread of feet About his bed.

LUCRETIA: My God! If he be now a cold, stiff corpse...

BEATRICE: O, fear not _5 What may be done, but what is left undone: The act seals all. [ENTER OLIMPIO AND MARZIO.] Is it accomplished?

MARZIO: What?

OLIMPIO: Did you not call?

BEATRICE: When?

OLIMPIO: Now.

BEATRICE: I ask if all is over?

OLIMPIO: We dare not kill an old and sleeping man; His thin gray hair, his stern and reverend brow, _10 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.

NOTE: _10 reverend]reverent all editions.

MARZIO: But I was bolder; for I chid Olimpio, And bade him bear his wrongs to his own grave 15 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 20 Of my dead father speaking through his lips, And could not kill him.

BEATRICE: Miserable slaves! Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man, Found ye the boldness to return to me With such a deed undone? Base palterers! 25 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... 30 Why do I talk? [SNATCHING A DAGGER FROM ONE OF THEM, AND RAISING IT.] Hadst thou a tongue to say, 'She murdered her own father!'—I must do it! But never dream ye shall outlive him long!

OLIMPIO: Stop, for God's sake!

MARZIO: I will go back and kill him.

OLIMPIO: Give me the weapon, we must do thy will. _35

BEATRICE: Take it! Depart! Return! [EXEUNT OLIMPIO AND MARZIO.] How pale thou art! We do but that which 'twere a deadly crime To leave undone.

LUCRETIA: Would it were done!

BEATRICE: Even whilst That doubt is passing through your mind, the world Is conscious of a change. Darkness and Hell _40 Have swallowed up the vapour they sent forth To blacken the sweet light of life. My breath Comes, methinks, lighter, and the jellied blood Runs freely through my veins. Hark! [ENTER OLIMPIO AND MARZIO.] He is...

OLIMPIO: Dead!

MARZIO: We strangled him that there might be no blood; _45 And then we threw his heavy corpse i' the garden Under the balcony; 'twill seem it fell.

BEATRICE [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! 50 [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. Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God To a just use. Live long and thrive! And, mark, 55 If thou hast crimes, repent: this deed is none.

[A HORN IS SOUNDED.]

LUCRETIA: Hark, 'tis the castle horn: my God! it sounds Like the last trump.

BEATRICE: Some tedious guest is coming.

LUCRETIA: The drawbridge is let down; there is a tramp Of horses in the court; fly, hide yourselves! _60

[EXEUNT OLIMPIO AND MARZIO.]

BEATRICE: Let us retire to counterfeit deep rest; I scarcely need to counterfeit it now: The spirit which doth reign within these limbs Seems strangely undisturbed. I could even sleep Fearless and calm: all ill is surely past. _65

[EXEUNT.]

SCENE 4.4: ANOTHER APARTMENT IN THE CASTLE. ENTER ON ONE SIDE THE LEGATE SAVELLA, INTRODUCED BY A SERVANT, AND ON THE OTHER LUCRETIA AND BERNARDO.

SAVELLA: 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?

LUCRETIA [IN A HURRIED AND CONFUSED MANNER]: I think he sleeps; Yet, wake him not, I pray, spare me awhile, 5 He is a wicked and a wrathful man; Should he be roused out of his sleep to-night, Which is, I know, a hell of angry dreams, It were not well; indeed it were not well. Wait till day break... [ASIDE.] Oh, I am deadly sick! 10

NOTE: _6 a wrathful edition 1821; wrathful editions 1819, 1839.

SAVELLA: I grieve thus to distress you, but the Count Must answer charges of the gravest import, And suddenly; such my commission is.

LUCRETIA [WITH INCREASED AGITATION]: I dare not rouse him: I know none who dare... 'Twere perilous;...you might as safely waken _15 A serpent; or a corpse in which some fiend Were laid to sleep.

SAVELLA: Lady, my moments here Are counted. I must rouse him from his sleep, Since none else dare.

LUCRETIA [ASIDE]: O, terror! O, despair! [TO BERNARDO.] Bernardo, conduct you the Lord Legate to _20 Your father's chamber.

[EXEUNT SAVELLA AND BERNARDO.]

[ENTER BEATRICE.]

BEATRICE: 'Tis a messenger Come to arrest the culprit who now stands Before the throne of unappealable God. Both Earth and Heaven, consenting arbiters, Acquit our deed.

LUCRETIA: Oh, agony of fear! 25 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 unforbidden means Which we must pay so dearly, having done. 30 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!

BEATRICE: Mother, What is done wisely, is done well. Be bold 35 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, 40 And fear no other witness but thy fear. For if, as cannot be, some circumstance Should rise in accusation, we can blind Suspicion with such cheap astonishment, Or overbear it with such guiltless pride, 45 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, 50 Is as the wind which strikes the solid rock, But shakes it not.

[A CRY WITHIN AND TUMULT.]

VOICES: Murder! Murder! Murder!

[ENTER BERNARDO AND SAVELLA.]

SAVELLA [TO HIS FOLLOWERS]: Go search the castle round; sound the alarm; Look to the gates, that none escape!

BEATRICE: What now?

BERNARDO: I know not what to say...my father's dead. _55

BEATRICE: How; dead! he only sleeps; you mistake, brother. His sleep is very calm, very like death; 'Tis wonderful how well a tyrant sleeps. He is not dead?

BERNARDO: Dead; murdered.

LUCRETIA [WITH EXTREME AGITATION]: Oh no, no! He is not murdered though he may be dead; _60 I have alone the keys of those apartments.

SAVELLA: Ha! Is it so?

BEATRICE: My Lord, I pray excuse us; We will retire; my mother is not well: She seems quite overcome with this strange horror.

[EXEUNT LUCRETIA AND BEATRICE.]

SAVELLA: Can you suspect who may have murdered him? _65

BERNARDO: I know not what to think.

SAVELLA: Can you name any Who had an interest in his death?

BERNARDO: 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. _70

SAVELLA: '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 _75 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 BERNARDO.]

[ENTER GUARDS, BRINGING IN MARZIO.]

GUARD: We have one.

OFFICER: My Lord, we found this ruffian and another 80 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 glimmering moon 85 Betrayed them to our notice: the other fell Desperately fighting.

SAVELLA: What does he confess?

OFFICER: He keeps firm silence; but these lines found on him May speak.

SAVELLA: Their language is at least sincere. [READS.] 'To the Lady Beatrice. _90 That the atonement of what my nature 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... 'Thy devoted servant, Orsino.' [ENTER LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, AND BERNARDO.] Knowest thou this writing, Lady?

BEATRICE: No.

SAVELLA: Nor thou? _95

LUCRETIA [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 dead father A gulf of obscure hatred.

SAVELLA: Is it so? _100 Is it true, Lady, that thy father did Such outrages as to awaken in thee Unfilial hate?

BEATRICE: Not hate, 'twas more than hate: This is most true, yet wherefore question me?

SAVELLA: There is a deed demanding question done; _105 Thou hast a secret which will answer not.

BEATRICE: What sayest? My Lord, your words are bold and rash.

SAVELLA: I do arrest all present in the name Of the Pope's Holiness. You must to Rome.

LUCRETIA: O, not to Rome! Indeed we are not guilty. _110

BEATRICE: 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, _115 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 _120 To the redress of an unwonted crime, Make ye the victims who demanded it Culprits? 'Tis ye are culprits! That poor wretch Who stands so pale, and trembling, and amazed, If it be true he murdered Cenci, was _125 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.

SAVELLA: You own That you desired his death?

BEATRICE: It would have been 130 A crime no less than his, if for one moment That fierce desire had faded in my heart. 'Tis true I did believe, and hope, and pray, Ay, I even knew...for God is wise and just, That some strange sudden death hung over him. 135 'Tis true that this did happen, and most true There was no other rest for me on earth, No other hope in Heaven...now what of this?

SAVELLA: Strange thoughts beget strange deeds; and here are both: I judge thee not.

BEATRICE: And yet, if you arrest me, _140 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 _145 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 _150 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.

SAVELLA: I dare not, Lady. I pray that you prepare yourselves for Rome: _155 There the Pope's further pleasure will be known.

LUCRETIA: O, not to Rome! O, take us not to Rome!

BEATRICE: Why not to Rome, dear mother? There as here Our innocence is as an armed heel To trample accusation. God is there 160 As here, and with His shadow ever clothes The innocent, the injured and the weak; And such are we. Cheer up, dear Lady, lean On me; collect your wandering thoughts. My Lord, As soon as you have taken some refreshment, 165 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?

LUCRETIA: Ha! they will bind us to the rack, and wrest 170 Self-accusation from our agony! Will Giacomo be there? Orsino? Marzio? All present; all confronted; all demanding Each from the other's countenance the thing Which is in every heart! O, misery! 175

[SHE FAINTS, AND IS BORNE OUT.]

SAVELLA: She faints: an ill appearance this.

BEATRICE: My Lord, She knows not yet the uses of the world. 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. 180 She cannot know how well the supine slaves Of blind authority read the truth of things When written on a brow of guilelessness: She sees not yet triumphant Innocence Stand at the judgement-seat of mortal man, 185 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 ACT 4.

ACT 5.

SCENE 5.1: AN APARTMENT IN ORSINO'S PALACE. ENTER ORSINO AND GIACOMO.

GIACOMO: Do 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 5 The mantle of its mystery, and shown The ghastly form with which it now returns When its scared game is roused, cheering the hounds Of conscience to their prey! Alas! Alas! It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed, 10 To kill an old and hoary-headed father.

ORSINO: It has turned out unluckily, in truth.

GIACOMO: To violate the sacred doors of sleep; To cheat kind Nature of the placid death Which she prepares for overwearied age; _15 To drag from Heaven an unrepentant soul Which might have quenched in reconciling prayers A life of burning crimes...

ORSINO: You cannot say I urged you to the deed.

GIACOMO: O, had I never Found in thy smooth and ready countenance _20 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...

ORSINO: 'Tis thus Men cast the blame of their unprosperous acts 25 Upon the abettors of their own resolve; Or anything 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 30 From its own shame that takes the mantle now Of thin remorse. What if we yet were safe?

GIACOMO: How can that be? Already Beatrice, Lucretia and the murderer are in prison. I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak, _35 Sent to arrest us.

ORSINO: I have all prepared For instant flight. We can escape even now, So we take fleet occasion by the hair.

GIACOMO: Rather expire in tortures, as I may. What! will you cast by self-accusing flight 40 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; 45 Whilst we for basest ends...I fear, Orsino, While I consider all your words and looks, Comparing them with your proposal now, That you must be a villain. For what end Could you engage in such a perilous crime, 50 Training me on with hints, and signs, and smiles, Even to this gulf? Thou art no liar? No, Thou art a lie! Traitor and murderer! Coward and slave! But no, defend thyself; [DRAWING.] Let the sword speak what the indignant tongue 55 Disdains to brand thee with.

ORSINO: 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 60 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: 65 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, and avoid them so.

NOTE: _58 a friend edition 1821; your friend edition 1839.

GIACOMO: O, generous friend! How canst thou pardon me? _70 Would that my life could purchase thine!

ORSINO: That wish Now comes a day too late. Haste; fare thee well! Hear'st thou not steps along the corridor? [EXIT GIACOMO.] I'm sorry for it; but the guards are waiting At his own gate, and such was my contrivance 75 That I might rid me both of him and them. I thought to act a solemn 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 80 As others weave; but there arose a Power Which grasped 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, wrapped in a vile disguise; 85 Rags on my back, and a false innocence Upon my face, through 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, 90 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, 95 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 Employ against each other, not themselves; 100 As men wear daggers not for self-offence. But if I am mistaken, where shall I Find the disguise to hide me from myself, As now I skulk from every other eye?

[EXIT.]

SCENE 5.2: A HALL OF JUSTICE. CAMILLO, JUDGES, ETC., ARE DISCOVERED SEATED; MARZIO IS LED IN.

FIRST 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.

MARZIO: My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing; _5 Olimpio sold the robe to me from which You would infer my guilt.

SECOND JUDGE: Away with him!

FIRST 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 _10 Till it wind out your life and soul? Away!

MARZIO: Spare me! O, spare! I will confess.

FIRST JUDGE: Then speak.

MARZIO: I strangled him in his sleep.

FIRST JUDGE: Who urged you to it?

MARZIO: His own son Giacomo, and the young prelate Orsino sent me to Petrella; there _15 The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I And my companion forthwith murdered him. Now let me die.

FIRST JUDGE: This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there, Lead forth the prisoner! [ENTER LUCRETIA, BEATRICE AND GIACOMO, GUARDED.] Look upon this man; _20 When did you see him last?

BEATRICE: We never saw him.

MARZIO: You know me too well, Lady Beatrice.

BEATRICE: I know thee! How? where? when?

MARZIO: You know 'twas I Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes To kill your father. When the thing was done 25 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.] Oh, dart The terrible resentment of those eyes 30 On the dead earth! Turn them away from me! They wound: 'twas torture forced the truth. My Lords, Having said this let me be led to death.

BEATRICE: Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stay awhile.

CAMILLO: Guards, lead him not away.

BEATRICE: Cardinal Camillo, _35 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 _40 And bade to answer, not as he believes, But as those may suspect or do desire Whose questions thence suggest their own reply: And that in peril of such hideous torments As merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now _45 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 lodestar of your life:'—and though _50 All see, 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 anything:' _55 And beg from your tormentors, like that slave, The refuge of dishonourable death. I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert My innocence.

CAMILLO [MUCH MOVED]: What shall we think, my Lords? Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozen _60 Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soul That she is guiltless.

JUDGE: Yet she must be tortured.

CAMILLO: 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 _65 Like hers 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, 70 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 75 Upon such evidence as justifies Torture.

BEATRICE: What evidence? This man's?

JUDGE: Even so.

BEATRICE [TO MARZIO]: Come near. And who art thou thus chosen forth Out of the multitude of living men To kill the innocent?

MARZIO: I am Marzio, _80 Thy father's vassal.

BEATRICE: 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 _85 His gaze on the blind earth. [TO MARZIO.] What! wilt thou say That I did murder my own father?

MARZIO: 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! _90 I am a guilty miserable wretch; I have said all I know; now, let me die!

BEATRICE: My Lords, if by my nature I had been So stern, as to have planned the crime alleged, Which your suspicions dictate to this slave, _95 And the rack makes him utter, do you think I should have left this two-edged instrument Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody knife With my own name engraven on the heft, Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, _100 For my own death? That with such horrible need For deepest silence, I should have neglected 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? _105 What are a thousand lives? A parricide Had trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives! [TURNING TO MARZIO.] And thou...

MARZIO: 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; _110 For pity's sake lead me away to death.

CAMILLO: Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice; He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leaf From the keen breath of the serenest north.

BEATRICE: O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge _115 Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me; So mayst thou answer God with less dismay: What evil have we done thee? I, alas! Have lived but on this earth a few sad years, And so my lot was ordered, that a father _120 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; _125 But the wound was not mortal; so my hate Became the only worship I could lift To our great father, who in pity and love, Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off; And thus his wrong becomes my accusation; _130 And art thou the accuser? If thou hopest Mercy in heaven, show justice upon earth: Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart. If thou hast done murders, made thy life's path Over the trampled laws of God and man, _135 Rush not before thy Judge, and say: 'My maker, I have done this and more; for there was one Who was most pure and innocent on earth; And because she endured what never any Guilty or innocent endured before: _140 Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought; Because thy hand at length did rescue her; I with my words killed her and all her kin.' Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay The reverence living in the minds of men _145 Towards our ancient house, and stainless fame! Think what it is to strangle 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 _150 All that which shows 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 compels thee to reply _155 To what I ask: Am I, or am I not A parricide?

MARZIO: Thou art not!

JUDGE: What is this?

MARZIO: I here declare those whom I did accuse Are innocent. 'Tis I alone am guilty.

JUDGE: Drag him away to torments; let them be _160 Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him not Till he confess.

MARZIO: Torture me as ye will: A keener pang has wrung a higher truth From my last breath. She is most innocent! _165 Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me; I will not give you that fine piece of nature To rend and ruin.

NOTE: _164 pang edition 1821; pain editions 1819, 1839.

[EXIT MARZIO, GUARDED.]

CAMILLO: What say ye now, my Lords?

JUDGE: Let tortures strain the truth till it be white As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind. _170

CAMILLO: Yet stained with blood.

JUDGE [TO BEATRICE]: Know you this paper, Lady?

BEATRICE: 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; _175 Where is Orsino? Let his eye meet mine. What means this scrawl? Alas! ye know not what, And therefore on the chance that it may be Some evil, will ye kill us?

[ENTER AN OFFICER.]

OFFICER: Marzio's dead.

JUDGE: What did he say?

OFFICER: Nothing. As soon as we _180 Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us, As one who baffles a deep adversary; And holding his breath, died.