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,
130
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:—O! In this mortal world
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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,
140
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 …
145
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
150
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
155
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;
160
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;
165
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.
170
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,
175
Thine element; until thou mayst 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
180
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,
185
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? O God!
190
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.
195
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,
200
As 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
205
Will 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,
210
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
215
As 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,
220
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,
225
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
230
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
235
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,
240
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
245
Crosses a deep ravine; ’tis rough and na
rrow,
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
250
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
255
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
260
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
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
270
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
275
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.
280
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;
285
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;
290
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,
295
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,
300
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
305
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
310
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,
315
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
320
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,
325
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
330
For months!’ I looked, and saw that home was hell.
And to that hell will I return to more
Until mine enemy has rendered up
Atonement, or, as he gave life to me
I will, reversing Nature’s law …
Orsino. Trust me,
335
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?
340
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,
345
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
350
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
355
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,
360
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,
365
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
370
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?
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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. ’Tis 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,
385
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
390
Make thine hard, brother. Answer not … farewell.
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE II.—A mean Apartment in GIACOMO’S House. GIACOMO alone.
Giacomo. ’Tis 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-wingèd lightning would not fall
5
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 is most necessary. O,
Thou unreplenishing lamp! whose narrow fire
10
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
15
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! ’tis the blood
Which fed these veins that ebbs till all is cold:
The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley: (A Modern Library E-Book) Page 48
