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As if one thought were over-strong 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 talk'd 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 look'd 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 past, I sat all weak and wild;

Whilst you alone stood up, and with strong words
Check'd 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 unaccustom'd 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,
Yet never-O! 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 stay'd not after that accursed feast
One moment in your chamber.-Speak to me.

BERNARDO.

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

Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous coil, Shall be remember'd 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 fill'd 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, 'tis fair;
Look up! Why, yester-night 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, oh God!

CENCI.

Then it was I whose inarticulate words Fell from my lips, who with tottering steps

BEATRICE [speaking very slowly with a forced Fled from your presence, as you now from mine.

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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 despair'd—but now!
What would I say?

[Recovering herself.
Ah! no, 'tis nothing new.
The sufferings we all share have made me wild:
He only struck and cursed me as he pass'd;
He said, he look'd, he did,-nothing at all
Beyond his wont, yet it disorder'd 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;

Stay, I command you-from this day and hour
Never again, I think, with fearless eye,
And brow superior, and unalter'd 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, lothed image of thy cursed mother,
[TO BERNARDO.
Thy milky, meek face makes me sick with hate!
[Exeunt BEATRICE and BERNARDO.
(Aside). So much has past between us as must make
Me bold, her fearful.-"Tis an awful thing
To touch such mischief as I now conceive:
So men sit shivering on the dewy bank,

And try the chill stream with their feet; once in-
How the delighted spirit pants for joy!

LUCRETIA (advancing timidly towards him).
Oh, husband! Pray forgive poor Beatrice,
She meant not any ill.

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You were not here conspiring? You said nothing
Of how I might be dungeon'd as a madman;
Or be condemn'd 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's 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 enregister'd 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 speak that wicked lie again,

I'll kill you. What! it was not by your counsel
That Beatrice disturb'd 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 design'd;
Nor do I think she design'd any thing
Until she heard you talk of her dead brothers.

CENCI.

Blaspheming liar! You are damn'd for this!
But I will take you where you may persuade
The stones you tread on to deliver you :
For men shall there be none but those who dare
All things-not question that which I command.
On Wednesday next I shall set out: you know
That savage rock, the Castle of Petrella,
"Tis safely wall'd, 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?
"Tis she shall grope through a bewildering mist
Of horror: if there be a sun in heaven,
She shall not dare to look upon its beams;
Nor feel its warmth. Let her then wish for night;
The act I think shall soon extinguish all
For me: I bear a darker deadlier gloom

Than the earth's shade, or interlunar air,

Or constellations quench'd in murkiest cloud, In which I walk secure and unbeheld

Towards my purpose.-Would that it were done!

[Erit.

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 train'd in no high-born 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?

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Never inflicted on their meanest slave

Lone counsel from a night of sleepless care

What these endure: shall they have no protection? Pardon me, that I say farewell-farewell!

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Ask me not what I think; the unwilling brain Feigns often what it would not; and we trust Imagination with such phantasies

As the tongue dares not fashion into words,

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 'tis 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 unveil'd 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 murder'd?-Yet, if murder'd, Wherefore by me? And what if I could take The profit, yet omit the sin and peril

In such an action? Of all earthly things

I fear a man whose blows outspeed his words;
And such is Cenci: and while Cenci lives,

His daughter's dowry were a secret grave
If a priest wins her.--Oh, fair Beatrice!
Could but despise danger and gold, and all
Would that I loved thee not, or loving thee
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

Which have no words, their horror makes them dim The self-created shadow. Yet much longer

To the mind's eye-My heart denies itself

To think what you demand.

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Will I not nurse this life of feverous hours:
From the unravell'd 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 match'd 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.

[Exil

ACT III.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in the Cenci Palace.

LUCRETIA; to her enter BEATRICE.

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

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-Than ever there was found a heart to do.
But never fancy imaged such a deed
I see but indistinctly.-
As-

LUCRETIA.

My sweet child,

You have no wound; 'tis 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.-O, 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 fleck'd 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 'tis 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!

[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!

Oh!

LUCRETIA.

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,
Link'd 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 talk'd 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,
[More wildly. 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?

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
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
The source from which it sprung.—

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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.
"Tis 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 suffer'd 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 any thing will move me more.

[To LUCRETIA, in a slow, subdued voice. But now!-Oh blood, which art my father's blood,

Do you know,

I thought I was that wretched Beatrice

Men speak of, whom her father sometimes hales

Circling through these contaminated veins,
If thou, pour'd forth on the polluted earth,
Could wash away the crime, and punishment
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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 you would have me speak?
I, who can feign no image in my mind

Of that which has transform'd 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,

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-mouth'd 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,

Which wouldst thou hear? For there is none to tell Baffling belief, and overpowering speech;

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 suffer'd, you have done
No evil. Death must be the punishment
Of crime, or the reward of trampling down
The thorns which God has strew'd upon the path
Which leads to immortality.

BEATRICE.

Ay, death-
The punishment of crime. I pray thee, God,
Let me not be bewilder'd 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.

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Scarce whisper'd, unimaginable, wrapt
In hideous hints-Oh, most assured redress!

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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.

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