Oh, ice-hearted counsellor!

If I could find a word that might make known

155The crime of my destroyer; and that done,

My tongue should like a knife tear out the secret

Which cankers my heart’s core; aye, lay all bare

So that my unpolluted fame should be

With vilest gossips a stale mouthed story;

160A mock, a bye-word, 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;

165Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wrapt

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.

                                                     Aye,

All must be suddenly resolved and done.

170What 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,

175Thine 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

180Of 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,

185Should 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!

190If, 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,

195So 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,

200As makes remorse dishonour, 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

205Will arise thence, where every other one

Might find them with less need.    [BEATRICE advances.

   Orsino.    Then …

   Beatrice.       Peace, Orsino!

And, honoured Lady, while I speak, I pray,

That you put off, as garments overworn,

Forbearance and respect, remorse and fear,

210And 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

215As asks atonement; both for what is past,

And lest I be reserved, day after day,

To load with crimes an overburthened soul,

And be … what ye can dream not. I have prayed

To God, and I have talked with my own heart,

220And 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,

225My 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

230Would 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

235Would 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,

240Petrella, 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

245Crosses a deep ravine; ’tis 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

250Over a gulph, 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

255In 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

260Crosses 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

265’Tis 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;

270It 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

275The 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;

280And now must wait till he returns.

   Orsino.     Great God!

Weigh you the danger of this rashness?

   Giacomo.     Aye!

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;

285The 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;

290I 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,

295Under 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,

300Borrowed 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

305I 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

310With 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,

315Mocking 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

320The 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,

325I 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

330For 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,

335The 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?

340My 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,

345So 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

350Conceive 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

355From 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,

360She 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,

365A 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

370Men 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?

375   Orsino.