by Percy Bysshe Shelley
SCENE 3.2:

SCENE 3.1:



 BEATRICE [SHE ENTERS STAGGERING AND SPEAKS WILDLY]: Reach me that handkerchief!-My brain is hurt; My eyes are full of blood; just wipe them for me... I see but indistinctly... 
 LUCRETIA: My sweet child, You have no wound; 'tis only a cold dew That starts from your dear brow.-Alas! Alas! What has befallen? 
 BEATRICE: How comes this hair undone? Its wandering strings must be what blind me so, And yet I tied it fast.-Oh, horrible! The pavement sinks under my feet! The walls Spin round! I see a woman weeping there, And standing calm and motionless, whilst I Slide giddily as the world reels...My God! The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with blood! The sunshine on the floor is black! The air Is changed to vapours such as the dead breathe In charnel pits! Pah! I am choked! There creeps A clinging, black, contaminating mist About me...'tis substantial, heavy, thick, I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues My fingers and my limbs to one another, And eats into my sinews, and dissolves My flesh to a pollution, poisoning The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of life! My God! I never knew what the mad felt Before; for I am mad beyond all doubt! [MORE WILDLY.] No, I am dead! These putrefying limbs Shut round and sepulchre the panting soul Which would burst forth into the wandering air! [A PAUSE.] What hideous thought was that I had even now? 'Tis gone; and yet its burthen remains here O'er these dull eyes...upon this weary heart! O, world! O, life! O, day! O, misery! 
 LUCRETIA: What ails thee, my poor child? She answers not: Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain, But not its cause; suffering has dried away The source from which it sprung... 
 BEATRICE [FRANTICLY]: Like Parricide... Misery has killed its father: yet its father Never like mine...O, God! What thing am I? 
 LUCRETIA: My dearest child, what has your father done? 
 BEATRICE [DOUBTFULLY]: Who art thou, questioner? I have no father. [ASIDE.] She is the madhouse nurse who tends on me, It is a piteous office. [TO LUCRETIA, IN A SLOW, SUBDUED VOICE.] Do you know I thought I was that wretched Beatrice Men speak of, whom her father sometimes hales From hall to hall by the entangled hair; At others, pens up naked in damp cells Where scaly reptiles crawl, and starves her there, Till she will eat strange flesh. This woful story So did I overact in my sick dreams, That I, it cannot be! Horrible things have been in this wide world, Prodigious mixtures, and confusions strange Of good and ill; and worse have been conceived Than ever there was found a heart to do. But never fancy imaged such a deed As... [PAUSES, SUDDENLY RECOLLECTING HERSELF.] Who art thou? Swear to me, ere I die With fearful expectation, that indeed Thou art not what thou seemest...Mother! 
 LUCRETIA: Oh! My sweet child, know you... 
 BEATRICE: Yet speak it not: For then if this be truth, that other too Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth, Linked with each lasting circumstance of life, Never to change, never to pass away. Why so it is. This is the Cenci Palace; Thou art Lucretia; I am Beatrice. I have talked some wild words, but will no more. Mother, come near me: from this point of time, I am... [HER VOICE DIES AWAY FAINTLY.] 
 LUCRETIA: Alas! What has befallen thee, child? What has thy father done? 
 BEATRICE: What have I done? Am I not innocent? Is it my crime That one with white hair, and imperious brow, Who tortured me from my forgotten years, As parents only dare, should call himself My father, yet should be!-Oh, what am I? What name, what place, what memory shall be mine? What retrospects, outliving even despair? 
 LUCRETIA: He is a violent tyrant, surely, child: We know that death alone can make us free; His death or ours. But what can he have done Of deadlier outrage or worse injury? Thou art unlike thyself; thine eyes shoot forth A wandering and strange spirit. Speak to me, Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers twine With one another. 
 BEATRICE: 'Tis the restless life Tortured within them. If I try to speak, I shall go mad. Ay, something must be done; What, yet I know not...something which shall make The thing that I have suffered but a shadow In the dread lightning which avenges it; Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying The consequence of what it cannot cure. Some such thing is to be endured or done: When I know what, I shall be still and calm, And never anything will move me more. But now!-O blood, which art my father's blood, Circling through these contaminated veins, If thou, poured forth on the polluted earth, Could wash away the crime, and punishment By which I, that cannot be! Many might doubt there were a God above Who sees and permits evil, and so die: That faith no agony shall obscure in me. 
 LUCRETIA: It must indeed have been some bitter wrong; Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh, my lost child, Hide not in proud impenetrable grief Thy sufferings from my fear. 
 BEATRICE: I hide them not. What are the words which yon would have me speak? I, who can feign no image in my mind Of that which has transformed me: I, whose thought Is like a ghost shrouded and folded up In its own formless horror: of all words, That minister to mortal intercourse, Which wouldst thou hear? For there is none to tell My misery: if another ever knew Aught like to it, she died as I will die, And left it, as I must, without a name. Death, Death! Our law and our religion call thee A punishment and a reward...Oh, which Have I deserved? 
 LUCRETIA: The peace of innocence; Till in your season you be called to heaven. Whate'er you may have suffered, you have done No evil. Death must be the punishment Of crime, or the reward of trampling down The thorns which God has strewed upon the path Which leads to immortality. 
 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, As a foul den from which what Thou abhorrest May mock Thee, shall not be!, that might be no escape, For Thy decree yawns like a Hell between Our will and it:-O! In this mortal world 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, That neither life nor death can give me rest.[1] 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... 
 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 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 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; 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; 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. 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, Thine 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! 
 LUCRETIA: If the lightning 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, 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! 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. 
 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, 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 Will arise thence, where every other one Might find them with less need. 
 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, 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 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, 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, 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 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 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, 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 Crosses 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 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 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 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 '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 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. 
 ORSINO: What shall I do? Cenci must find me here, and I must bear 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[2] That Cenci is from home? 
 GIACOMO: I sought him here; And now must wait till he returns. 
 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; 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; 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, 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, 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 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 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, 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 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, 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 For 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, 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? 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, 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 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 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, 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, 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 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? 
 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... 
 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, 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 Make thine hard, brother. Answer not...farewell. 

"nor" [edition 1821]; "or" [editions 1819, 1839 (1st)].


"hither" [edition 1821]; "thither" [edition 1819].