Did you not shield me and that dearest boy? In infancy, with gentle words and looks, To win our father not to murder us? 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, Enter CENCI, suddenly. Cenci. Come hither. What! Beatrice here? [She shrinks back, and covers her face. Nay, hide not your face, 'tis fair; Look up! Why, yesternight you dared to look Bending a stern and an enquiring 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, O 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. Stay, 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 : Me least of all. Now get thee to thy chamber. Thou too, [To BERNARDO] loathed image of thy cursed mother: Thy milky meek face makes me sick with hate! [Exeunt BEATRICE and BERNARDO. (Aside.) So much has passed 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). O husband! Pray forgive poor Beatrice,― She 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, And he had sentenced me, and there were none 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! 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 ; Nor do I think she designed anything 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 : For men shall there be none but those who dare That savage rock, the Castle of Petrella. 'Tis safely walled, and moated round about : Its 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? A busy stir of men about the streets; She shall not dare to look upon its beams, Nor feel its warmth. Let her, then, wish for night. For me: I bear a darker deadlier gloom Than the earth's shade, or interlunar air, SCENE II.-A Chamber in the Vatican. 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 trained in no highborn necessities [Exit. Which I could meet not by my daily toil. Is heir to all his incapacities; He has wide wants, and narrow powers. If you, From thrice-driven beds of down, and delicate food, To that which nature doth indeed require?— Camillo. Nay, there is reason in your plea; 'twere hard. Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth, 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 I spoke with him, and urged him then to check Your father's cruel hand. He frowned and said: [Enter ORSINO. In the great war between the old and young, Giacomo. Alas! repeat them not again. There then is no redress for me; at least None but that which I may achieve myself, But say, My innocent sister and my only brother Never inflicted on their meanest slave What these endure; shall they have no protection? Giacomo. But you, Orsino, Have the petition; wherefore not present it? [Exit CAMILLO. Orsino. I have presented it, and backed it with It was returned unanswered. I doubt not So I should guess from what Camillo said. Giacomo. My friend, that palace-walking devil, Gold, Has whispered silence to his Holiness. And we are left as scorpions ringed with fire: What should we do but strike ourselves to death? For he who is our murderous persecutor Is shielded by a father's holy name, Or I would Orsino. [Stops abruptly. What? Fear not to speak your thought. Words are but holy as the deeds they cover. A father who is all a tyrant seems; Were the profaner for his sacred name. Giacomo. Ask me not what I think! The unwilling brain Feigns often what it would not; and we trust Imagination with such fantasies As the tongue dares not fashion into words; Which have no words,-their horror makes them dim To the mind's eye. My heart denies itself To think what you demand. Orsino. But a friend's bosom |