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.
You see I am not mad; I speak to you.
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?
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.
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.
Oh, sister, sister, prithee, speak to us!
Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous coil, Shall be remember'd only as a dream.
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!
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!
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!
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.
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.
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.
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?
I never thought the things you charge me with!
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.
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.
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!
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!
A Chamber in the Vatican.
Enter CAMILLO and GIACOMO, in conversation
There is an obsolete and doubtful law, By which you might obtain a bare provision Of food and clothing.
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?
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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-
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!
My sweet child, know you—
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.
Alas! What has befallen thee, child?
What has thy father 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!
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.—
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,
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 308
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.
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.
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!
Accuse him of the deed, and let the law Avenge thee.
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?
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.
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.
Scarce whisper'd, unimaginable, wrapt In hideous hints-Oh, most assured redress!
Of God has e'er descended to avenge
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-
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?
Think not But that there is redress where there is wrong, So we be bold enough to seize it.
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