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 neighbour’s face

To see if others were as white as he?

40At 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

Checked his unnatural pride; and I could see

45The 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:

50What 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

’Twere better not to struggle any more.

55Men, 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?

60He 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

65Under 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

70On my beloved Bernardo, when the rust

Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet limbs,

And I have never yet despaired—but now!

What would I say?      [Recovering herself.

                     Ah! No, ’tis nothing new.

The sufferings we all share have made me wild:

75He 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.

80   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,

85And 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?

90Did 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

95Of 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,

100Even 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!

105Come hither!   [She shrinks back, and covers her face.

                  Nay, hide not your face, ’tis fair;

Look up! Why, yesternight you dared to look

With disobedient insolence upon me,

Bending a stern and an inquiring brow

On what I meant; whilst I then sought to hide

110That 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, and who with tottering steps

Fled from your presence, as you now from mine.

115Stay, 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;

120Me 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 past between us as must make

Me bold, her fearful.—’Tis an awful thing

125To 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,

130She 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?

135Whom 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,

140And 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,

145And 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!

150   Cenci. If you dare 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

155What 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;

160Nor do I think she designed any thing

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:

165For men shall there be none but those who dare

All things—not question that which I command.

On Wednesday next I shall set out: you know

That savage rock, the Castle of Petrella,

’Tis safely walled, and moated round about:

170Its dungeons underground, and its thick towers

Never told tales; though they have heard and seen

What might make dumb things speak.—Why do you linger?

Make speediest preparation for the journey! [Exit LUCRETIA.

The all-beholding sun yet shines; I hear

175A 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

180Is 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

185Of 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

190Than 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

5Awards, 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.

10The 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,

15An hundred servants, and six palaces,

To that which nature doth indeed require?—

   Camillo. Nay, there is reason in your plea; ’twere hard.

   Giacomo. ’Tis hard for a firm man to bear: but I

Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth,

20Whose 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,

25Do you not think the Pope would 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

30I 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.

35I 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,

40Will 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 atchieve myself,

45Since 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,

50Never 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

55In aught to weaken the paternal power,

Being, as ’twere, the shadow of his own.

I pray you now excuse me. I have business

That will not bear delay.      [Exit CAMILLO.

   Giacomo.  But you, Orsino,

Have the petition: wherefore not present it?

60   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

Alledged in it—in truth they might well baffle

65Any belief—have turned the Pope’s displeasure

Upon the accusers from the criminal:

So I should guess from what Camillo said.

   Giacomo.