Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE CENCI; A TRAGEDY: ACTS 1-3, by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: That matter of the murder is hushed up Last Line: [exeunt. Subject(s): Despair; Gothic Drama; Hate; Italy; Italians | ||||||||
DRAMATIS PERSONAE COUNT FRANCESCO CENCI. GIACOMO, BERNARDO, his Sons. CARDINAL CAMILLO. PRINCE COLONNA. ORSINO, a Prelate. SAVELLA, the Pope's Legate. OLIMPIO, MARZIO, Assassins. ANDREA, Servant to CENCI. NOBLES. JUDGES. GUARDS, SERVANTS. LUCRETIA, Wife of CENCI and Stepmother of his children. BEATRICE, his Daughter. The SCENE lies principally in Rome, but changes during the fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines. TIME. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII. Act I SCENE I. -- An Apartment in the CENCI Palace. Enter COUNT CENCI and CARDINAL CAMILLO. CAMILLO THAT matter of the murder is hushed up If 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 As manifold and hideous as the deeds Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes. CENCI The third of my possessions -- let it go! Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope Had sent his architect to view the ground, Meaning to build a villa on my vines The next time I compounded with his uncle. I little thought he should outwit me so! Henceforth 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 Than his most worthless life -- it angers me! Respited me 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. -- But much yet remains To which they show no title. CAMILLO Oh, Count Cenci! So much that thou mightst honorably 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 Through 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? 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 dishonored age Charged with a thousand unrepented crimes. Yet I have ever hoped you would amend, And in that hope have saved your life three times. CENCI For which Aldobrandino owes you 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. CAMILLO Thou execrable man, beware! CENCI Of thee? Nay, this is idle. We should know each other. As to my character for what men call 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 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 others' 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 mine; And I have no remorse and little fear, Which are, I think, the checks of other men. This mood has grown upon me, until 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 Until it be accomplished. CAMILLO Art thou not Most miserable? CENCI 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, while yet Manhood remained to act the thing I thought, -- While lust was sweeter than revenge; and now Invention palls. Ay, we must all grow old. And but that there remains a deed to act 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 children's 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 conceals -- The dry, fixed eyeball, the pale, quivering lip, Which tell me that the spirit weeps within Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of Christ. I rarely kill the body, which preserves, Like a strong prison, the soul within my power, Wherein I feed it with the breath of fear For hourly pain. CAMILLO 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 ANDREA My Lord, a gentleman from Salamanca Would speak with you. CENCI Bid him attend me In the grand saloon. [Exit ANDREA. CAMILLO Farewell; and I will pray Almighty God that thy false, impious words Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. [Exit CAMILLO. CENCI 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 had sent from Rome to Salamanca, Hoping some accident might cut them off, And meaning, if I could, to starve them there. I pray thee, God, send some quick death upon them! Bernardo and my wife could not be 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 shalt not hear What now I think! Thou pavement which I tread Towards her chamber, -- let your echoes talk Of my imperious step, scorning surprise, But not of my intent! -- Andrea! Enter ANDREA ANDREA My Lord? CENCI Bid Beatrice attend me in her chamber This evening: -- no, at midnight and alone. [Exeunt. SCENE II. -- A Garden of the Cenci Palace. Enter BEATRICE and ORSINO, as in conversation. BEATRICE Pervert not truth, Orsino. You remember where we held That conversation; nay, we see the spot Even from this cypress; two long years are passed Since, on an April midnight, underneath The moonlight ruins of Mount Palatine, I did confess to you my secret mind. ORSINO You said you loved me then. BEATRICE You are a priest. Speak to me not of love. ORSINO I may 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? BEATRICE As I have said, speak to me not of love; Had you a dispensation, I have not; Nor will I leave this home of 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. Ours was a youthful contract, which you first Broke by assuming vows no Pope will loose. And thus I love you still, but holily, Even as a sister or a spirit might; And so I swear a cold fidelity. And it is well perhaps we shall not marry. You have a sly, equivocating 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 seem Sterner than else my nature might have been; I have a weight of melancholy thoughts, And they forebode, -- but what can they forebode Worse than I now endure? ORSINO 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. BEATRICE Your zeal for all I wish. Ah me, you are cold! Your utmost skill -- speak but one word -- (Aside) Alas! Weak and deserted creature that I am, Here I stand bickering with my only friend! (To ORSINO) This night my father gives a sumptuous feast, Orsino; he has heard some happy news From Salamanca, from my brothers there, And with this outward show of love he mocks His inward hate. 'T is 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. ORSINO Farewell. [Exit BEATRICE. I know the Pope Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly vow But by absolving me from the revenue Of many a wealthy see; and, Beatrice, I think to win thee at an easier rate. Nor shall he read her eloquent petition. He might bestow her on some poor relation Of his sixth cousin, as he did her sister, And I should be debarred from all access. Then as to what she suffers from her father, In all this there is much exaggeration. Old men are testy, and will have their way. A man may stab his enemy, or his vassal, And live a free life as to wine or women, 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 he 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. CENCI Welcome, my friends and kinsmen; welcome ye, Princes and Cardinals, pillars of the church, Whose presence honors our festivity. I have too long lived like an anchorite, And in my absence from your merry meetings An evil word is gone abroad of me; But I do hope that you, my noble friends, When you have shared the entertainment here, And heard the pious cause for which 't is 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. FIRST GUEST In truth, my Lord, you seem too light of heart, Too sprightly and companionable a man, To act the deeds that rumor pins on you. [To his companion. I never saw such blithe and open cheer In any eye! SECOND GUEST Some most desired event, In which we all demand a common joy, Has brought us hither; let us hear it, Count. CENCI It is indeed a most desired event. If when a parent from a parent's 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 honor me thus far, for I am he. BEATRICE (to LUCRETIA) Great God! How horrible! some dreadful ill Must have befallen my brothers. LUCRETIA Fear not, child, He speaks too frankly. BEATRICE Ah! My blood runs cold. I fear that wicked laughter round his eye, Which wrinkles up the skin even to the hair. CENCI Here are the letters brought from Salamanca. Beatrice, read them to your mother. God! I thank thee! In one night didst thou perform, By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought. 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; 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. BEATRICE (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, thou knowest that it is false. CENCI Ay, as the word of God; whom here I call To witness that I speak the sober truth; And whose most favoring 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; 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. 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! I do believe it is some jest; though, faith! 'T is mocking us somewhat too solemnly. I think his son has married the Infanta, Or found a mine of gold in El Dorado. 'T is but to season some such news; stay, stay! I see 't is only raillery by his smile. CENCI (filling a bowl of wine, and lifting it up) O thou bright wine, whose purple splendor leaps And bubbles gayly 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, Then would I taste thee like a sacrament, And pledge with thee the mighty Devil in Hell, Who, if a father's curses, as men say, Climb with swift wings after their children's souls, And drag them from the very throne of Heaven, Now triumphs in my triumph! -- But thou 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? 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. 'T is nothing, 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 Stand sheltered by a father's hoary hair? What if 't is 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! Oh, 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 ye save not, Ye may soon share such merriment again As fathers make over their children's graves. Oh! 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 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 Of scrupulous law that ye deny my suit? Oh, 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! 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! BEATRICE Retire thou, impious man! Ay, hide thyself Where never eye can look upon thee more! Wouldst thou have honor 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! 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; 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 Has spoiled 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! 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; 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; 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. Act II DRAMATIS PERSONAE COUNT FRANCESCO CENCI. GIACOMO, BERNARDO, his Sons. CARDINAL CAMILLO. PRINCE COLONNA. ORSINO, a Prelate. SAVELLA, the Pope's Legate. OLIMPIO, MARZIO, Assassins. ANDREA, Servant to CENCI. NOBLES. JUDGES. GUARDS, SERVANTS. LUCRETIA, Wife of CENCI and Stepmother of his children. BEATRICE, his Daughter. The SCENE lies principally in Rome, but changes during the fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines. TIME. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII. SCENE I. -- 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! 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? 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; 'T is nearer now; his hand is on the door; Mother, if I to thee have ever been 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! 'T is but Orsino's servant. -- Well, what news? SERVANT My master bids me say the Holy Father Has sent back your petition thus unopened. (Giving a paper) And he demands at what hour 't were 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, As if one thought were overstrong for you; Your eyes have a chill glare; oh, 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 After that dreadful feast? Could it be worse Than when he smiled, and cried, 'My sons are dead!' And every one looked in his neighbor's face To see if others were as white as he? At the first word he spoke I felt the blood 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. 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? BEATRICE What is it that you say? I was just thinking 'T were better not to struggle any more. Men, like my father, have been dark and bloody; Yet never -- oh! before worse comes of it, 'T were 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 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 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! 't is 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. LUCRETIA Nay, Beatrice; have courage, my sweet girl. 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; 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? 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, 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 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, 't is 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. 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 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! 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. -- 'T is 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! LUCRETIA (advancing timidly towards him) O husband! pray forgive poor Beatrice. She meant not any ill. CENCI Nor you perhaps? Nor that young imp, whom you have taught by 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 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 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, 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. LUCRETIA Look not so dreadfully! By my salvation I knew not aught that Beatrice designed; Nor do I think she designed anything 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 All things -- not question that which I command. On Wednesday next I shall set out; you know That savage rook, the Castle of Petrella; 'T is safely walled, and moated round about; Its dungeons under ground 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? 'T is 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. SCENE II. -- 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. 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? -- CAMILLO Nay, there is reason in your plea; 't were hard. GIACOMO 'T is 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; And she and they reproach me not. Cardinal, Do you not think the Pope will interpose 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 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; 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. 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, 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? 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, Being, as 't were, 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 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 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. 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; A priest who has forsworn the God he serves, A judge who makes Truth weep at his decree, A friend who should weave counsel, as I now, But as the mantle of some selfish guile, A father who is all a tyrant seems, -- Were the profaner for his sacred name. GIACOMO Ask me not what I think; the unwilling brain Feigns often what it would not; and we trust Imagination with such fantasies 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. 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 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, 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. 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 To feed his hope with cold encouragement. It fortunately serves my close designs That 't is a trick of this same family To analyze their own and other minds. Such self-anatomy shall teach the will 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, 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 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. -- O fair Beatrice! Would that I loved thee not, or, loving thee, Could but despise danger and gold and all 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, 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 feverous hours. From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo 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 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, 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 Till it become his slave -- as I will do. [Exit. Act III DRAMATIS PERSONAE COUNT FRANCESCO CENCI. GIACOMO, BERNARDO, his Sons. CARDINAL CAMILLO. PRINCE COLONNA. ORSINO, a Prelate. SAVELLA, the Pope's Legate. OLIMPIO, MARZIO, Assassins. ANDREA, Servant to CENCI. NOBLES. JUDGES. GUARDS, SERVANTS. LUCRETIA, Wife of CENCI and Stepmother of his children. BEATRICE, his Daughter. The SCENE lies principally in Rome, but changes during the fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines. TIME. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII. SCENE I. -- An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. LUCRETIA; 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; 't is only a cold dew That starts from your dear brow. -- Alas, alas! What has befallen? BEATRICE How comes this hair undone? Its wandering strings must be what blind me so, And yet I tied it fast. -- Oh, 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 air Is changed to vapors such as the dead breathe In charnel-pits! Pah! I am choked! There creeps A clinging, black, contaminating mist About me -- 't is substantial, heavy, thick; 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 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! (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? 'T is gone; and yet its burden remains here 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 it cause; suffering has dried away The source from which it sprung. BEATRICE (frantically) 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. [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; 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 -- Mother! LUCRETIA Oh! My sweet child, know you -- BEATRICE 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 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 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? 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? 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 'T is the restless life Tortured within them. If I try to speak, 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 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, 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 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 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 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, 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. 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 -- 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. -- Oh! 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 nor death can give me rest. Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue. ORSINO And what is he who has thus injured you? BEATRICE The man they call my father; a dread name. ORSINO It cannot be -- BEATRICE What it can be, or not, Forbear to think. It is, and it has been; Advise me how it shall not be again. I thought to die; but a religious awe Restrains me, and the dread lest death itself Might be no refuge from the consciousness 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, 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: -- 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 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 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 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 -- 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? 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? 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? ORSINO Think not But that there is redress where there is wrong, So we be bold enough to seize it. LUCRETIA How? If there were any way to make all sure, I know not -- but I think it might be good To -- ORSINO Why, his late outrage to Beatrice -- For it is such, as I but faintly guess, As makes remorse dishonor, and leaves her 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 Might find them with less need. [BEATRICE advances. ORSINO Then -- BEATRICE Peace, Orsino! And, honored Lady, while I speak, I pray That you put off, as garments overworn, Forbearance and respect, remorse and fear, And all the fit restraints of daily life, Which have been borne from childhood, but which now Would be a mockery to my holier plea. As I have said, I have endured a wrong, Which, though it be expressionless, is such As asks atonement, both for what is passed, And lest I be reserved, day after day, To load with crimes an overburdened 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. ORSINO I swear To dedicate my cunning, and my strength, My silence, and whatever else is mine, 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 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, 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. 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; 't is 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 gulf, and with the agony With which it clings seems slowly coming down; Even as a wretched soul hour after hour Clings to the mass of life; yet, clinging, leans; And, leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss In which it fears to fall; beneath this crag Huge as despair, as if in weariness, The melancholy mountain yawns; below, You hear but see not an impetuous torrent Raging among the caverns, and a bridge Crosses the chasm; and high above there grow, With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag, Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose tangled hair Is matted in one solid roof of shade By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here 'T is twilight, and at sunset blackest night. 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 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 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? GIACOMO I sought him here; And now must wait till he returns. ORSINO Great God! 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. 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? ORSINO Be calm, dear friend. GIACOMO Well, I will calmly tell you what he did. This old Francesco Cenci, as you know, Borrowed the dowry of my wife from me, And then denied the loan; and left me 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 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 -- ORSINO Trust me, The compensation which thou seekest here 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, 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 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 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 -- 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, 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 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 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 'T is my brother's voice! You know me not? GIACOMO My sister, my lost sister! 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 That then thou hast consented to his death. Farewell, farewell! Let piety to God, Brotherly love, justice and clemency, And all things that make tender hardest hearts, Make thine hard, brother. Answer not -- farewell. [Exeunt severally. SCENE II. -- A mean Apartment in GIACOMO'S House. GIACOMO alone. GIACOMO 'T is midnight, and Orsino comes not yet. (Thunder, and the sound of a storm) What! can the everlasting elements Feel with a worm like man? If so, the shaft Of mercy-winged lightning would not fall On stones and trees. My wife and children sleep; They are now living in unmeaning dreams; But I must wake, still doubting if that deed Be just which was most necessary. Oh, Thou unreplenished lamp, whose narrow fire Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge Devouring darkness hovers! thou small flame, Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls, Still flickerest up and down, how very soon, Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail and be As thou hadst never been! So wastes and sinks Even now, perhaps, the life that kindled mine; But that no power can fill with vital oil, -- That broken lamp of flesh. Ha! 't is the blood Which fed these veins that ebbs till all is cold; It is the form that moulded mine that sinks Into the white and yellow spasms of death; It is the soul by which mine was arrayed In God's immortal likeness which now stands Naked before Heaven's judgment-seat! (A bell strikes) One! Two! The 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 -- 't is 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? 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. ORSINO See, the lamp is out. GIACOMO If no remorse is ours when the dim air Has drunk this innocent flame, why should we quail When Cenci's life, that light by which ill spirits See the worst deeds they prompt, shall sink forever? 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. 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; Nor your wife's bitter words; nor all the taunts Which, from the prosperous, weak misfortune takes; Nor your dead mother; nor -- GIACOMO Oh, speak no more! I am resolved, although this very hand Must quench the life that animated it. 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 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 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 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; 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 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! When next we meet, may all be done! GIACOMO And all Forgotten! Oh, that I had never been! [Exeunt. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...1851: A MESSAGE TO DENMARK HILL by RICHARD HOWARD TONIGHT THE HEART-SHAPED LEAVES by JAN HELLER LEVI JEWISH GRAVEYARDS, ITALY by PHILIP LEVINE SAILING HOME FROM RAPALLO by ROBERT LOWELL SUNLIGHT AND SHADOW by LISEL MUELLER HOW DUKE VALENTINE CONTRIVED by BASIL BUNTING FRAGMENTS FROM ITALY: 1 by JOHN CIARDI A DIRGE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY ADONAIS; AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |
|