Bernardo and my wife could not be worse
If dead and damned :-then, as to Beatrice-
[Looking around him suspiciously.

I think they cannot hear me at that door;
What if they should? And yet I need not speak,
Though the heart triumphs with itself in words.
O, thou most silent air, that shall not hear
What now I think! Thou, pavement, which I tread
Towards her chamber,-let your echoes talk
Of my imperious step, scorning surprise,
But not of my intent !-Andrea!

As I have said, speak to me not of love;
Had you a dispensation, I have not;
Nor will I leave this home of misery
Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle lady
To whom I owe life, and these virtuous thoughts,
Must suffer what I still have strength to share.
Alas, Orsino! All the love that once
I felt for you, is turned to bitter pain.
Ours was a youthful contract, which you first
Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will loose.
And thus I love you still, but holily,
Even as a sister or a spirit might;
And so I swear a cold fidelity.

And it is well perhaps we shall not marry.
You have a sly, equivocating vein

That suits me not.-Ah, wretched that I am!
Where shall I turn? Even now you look on me
As you were not my friend, and as if you
Discovered that I thought so, with false smiles
Making my true suspicion seem your wrong.
Ah! No, forgive me; sorrow makes me seem

Sterner than else my nature might have been;
I have a weight of melancholy thoughts,
And they forebode, but what can they forebode
Worse than I now endure?

ORSINO.

All will be well. Is the petition yet prepared? You know My zeal for all you wish, sweet Beatrice; Doubt not but I will use my utmost skill So that the Pope attend to your complaint.

BEATRICE.

Your zeal for all I wish ?-Ah me, you are cold!
Your utmost skill-speak but one word-
(Aside.) Alas!

Weak and deserted creature that I am,
Here I stand bickering with my only friend!
(TO ORSINO.)

This night my father gives a sumptuous feast,
Orsino; he has heard some happy news
From Salamanca, from my brothers there,
And with this outward show of love he mocks
His inward hate. 'Tis bold hypocrisy,

For he would gladlier celebrate their deaths,
Which I have heard him pray for on his knees:
Great God! that such a father should be mine!-
But there is mighty preparation made,
And all our kin, the Cenci, will be there,
And all the chief nobility of Rome.

And he has bidden me and my pale mother
Attire ourselves in festival array.
Poor lady! She expects some happy change
In his dark spirit from this act; I none.
At supper I will give you the petition :
Till when-farewell.

ORSINO. Farewell.

[Exit BEATRICE. I know the Pope

Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly vow
But by absolving me from the revenue
Of many a wealthy see; and, Beatrice,

I think to win thee at an easier rate.
Nor shall he read her eloquent petition:
He might bestow her on some poor relation
Of his sixth-cousin, as he did her sister,
And I should be debarred from all access.
Then as to what she suffers from her father,
In all this there is much exaggeration :
Old men are testy, and will have their way;
A man may stab his enemy, or his vassal,
And live a free life as to wine or women,
And with a peevish temper may return
To a dull home, and rate his wife and children;
Daughters and wives call this foul tyranny.
I shall be well content, if on my conscience
There rest no heavier sin than what they suffer
From the devices of my love-A net
From which she shall escape not. Yet I fear
Her subtle mind, her awe-inspiring gaze,
Whose beams anatomise me, nerve by nerve,
And lay me bare, and make me blush to see
My hidden thoughts.-Ah, no! a friendless girl
Who clings to me, as to her only hope :-
I were a fool, not less than if a panther
Were panic-stricken by the antelope's eye,
If she escape me.

[Exit.

I do entreat you, go not, noble guests;
What although tyranny and impious hate
Stand sheltered by a father's hoary hair?
What if 'tis he who clothed us in these limbs
Who tortures them, and triumphs? What, if we,
The desolate and the dead, were his own flesh,
His children and his wife, whom he is bound
To love and shelter? Shall we therefore find
No refuge in this merciless wide world?

Oh, think what deep wrongs must have blotted out
First love, then reverence in a child's prone mind,
Till it thus vanquish shame and fear! Oh, think!
I have borne much, and kissed the sacred hand
Which crushed us to the earth, and thought its
stroke

Was perhaps some paternal chastisement !

Have excused much, doubted; and when no doubt
Remained, have sought by patience, love and tears,
To soften him; and when this could not be,
I have knelt down through the long sleepless nights,
And lifted up to God, the father of all,
Passionate prayers: and when these were not heard,
I have still borne ;-until I meet you here,
Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous feast
Given at my brothers' deaths. Two yet remain,
His wife remains and I, whom if ye save not,
Ye may soon share such merriment again
As fathers make over their children's graves.
Oh! Prince Colonna, thou art our near kinsman ;
Cardinal, thou art the Pope's chamberlain ;
Camillo, thou art chief justiciary;
Take us away!

CENCI. (He has been conversing with CAMILLO during the first part of BEATRICE's speech; he hears the conclusion, and now advances.)

I hope my good friends here

Will think of their own daughters or perhaps
Of their own throats-before they lend an ear
To this wild girl.

BEATRICE (not noticing the words of CENCI).
Dare no one look on me?
None answer? Can one tyrant overbear
The sense of many best and wisest men?
Or is it that I sue not in some form

Retire thou, impious man! Ay, hide thyself
Where never eye can look upon thee more!
Wouldst thou have honour and obedience,
Who art a torturer? Father, never dream,
Though thou mayst overbear this company,
But ill must come of ill.-Frown not on me!
Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging looks
My brothers' ghosts should hunt thee from thy seat!
Cover thy face from every living eye,
And start if thou but hear a human step:
Seck out some dark and silent corner, there,
Bow thy white head before offended God,
And we will kneel around, and fervently
Pray that he pity both ourselves and thee.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in the Cenci Palace.

Enter LUCRETIA and BERNARDO.

LUCRETIA.

BEATRICE (in a hurried voice).

Did he pass this way? Have you seen him, brother?
Ah! no, that is his step upon the stairs;
'Tis nearer now; his hand is on the door;
Mother, if I to thee have ever been

A duteous child, now save me! Thou, great God,
Whose image upon earth a father is,
Dost thou indeed abandon me? He comes;
The door is opening now; I see his face;
He frowns on others, but he smiles on me,
Even as he did after the feast last night.

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 unaccustomed fear?

BEATRICE.

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.

LUCRETIA.

Oh, talk not so, dear child! Tell me at once
What did your father do or say to you?
He 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
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 despaired-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 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.

Then it was I whose inarticulate words
Fell from my lips, 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, 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 passed between us as must
Me bold, her fearful.-Tis an awful thing [make
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.

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?
Whom 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,
And 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,
And 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!

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
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.

LUCRETIA.

Look not so dreadfully! by my salvation
I knew not aught that Beatrice designed;
Nor 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:
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 walled, 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!
[Exit LUCRETIA.

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

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