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 not 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

Of scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit?
Oh, God! that I were buried with my brothers!
And that the flowers of this departed spring
Were fading on my grave! And that my father
Were celebrating now one feast for all!

Retire, thou impious man! Ay, hide thyself
Where never eye can look upon thee more!
Wouldst thou have honor 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:
Seek 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.

CENCI.

My friends, I do lament this insane girl
Has spoilt the mirth of our festivity.
Good night, farewell; I will not make you longer
Spectators of our dull domestic quarrels.
Another time.-

[Exeunt all but CENCI and BEATRICE.
My brain is swimming round;
(To BEATRICE). Thou painted viper!

Give me a bowl of wine!

Alas! poor boy, what else couldst thou have done? Enter BEATRICE.

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.

Enter a SERVANT.

Almighty God, how merciful thou art! "Tis but Orsino's servant.-Well, what news

SERVANT.

My master bids me say, the Holy Father
Has sent back your petition thus unopen'd.

[Giving a Paper And he demands at what hour 't were secure To visit you again?

LUCRETIA.

At the Ave-Mary. [Exit SERVANT So, daughter, our last hope has fail'd! Ah me! How pale you look; you tremble, and you stand Wrapp'd in some fix'd and fearful meditation,

As if one thought were over-strong for you: Your eyes have a chill glare; oh, dearest child! Are you gone mad? If not, pray speak to me.

BEATRICE.

You see I am not mad; I speak to you.

LUCRETIA.

You talk'd of something that your father did
After that dreadful feast? Could it be worse
Than when he smiled, and cried, My sons are dead!
And every one look'd in his neighbor's face
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 unaccustom'd 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 stay'd not after that accursed feast
One moment in your chamber.-Speak to me.

BERNARDO.

Oh, sister, sister, prithee, speak to us!

Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous coil, Shall be remember'd only as a dream.

BEATRICE.

Talk not to me, dear lady, of a husband:
Did you not nurse me when my mother died?
Did you not shield me and that dearest boy?
And had we any other friend but you
In infancy, with gentle words and looks
And shall I now desert you? May the ghost
To win our father not to murder us?
Of my dead mother plead against my soul
If I abandon her who fill'd the place

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,
Even though the Pope should make me free to live
In some blithe place, like others of my age,
With sports, and delicate food, and the fresh air.
Oh, never think that I will leave you, Mother!

LUCRETIA.

My dear, dear children!

Enter CENCI, suddenly.

CENCI.

What, Beatrice here! Come hither! [She shrinks back, and covers her face. Nay, hide not your face, 'tis fair; Look up! Why, yester-night you dared to look With disobedient insolence upon me, Bending a stern and an inquiring 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, oh God!

CENCI.

Then it was I whose inarticulate words Fell from my lips, who with tottering steps

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 despair'd-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 pass'd;
He said, he look'd, he did,-nothing at all
Beyond his wont, yet it disorder'd me.
Alas! I am forgetful of my duty,

I should preserve my senses for your sake.

LUCRETIA.

Nay, Beatrice; have courage, my sweet girl.
If any one despairs, it should be I,

Who loved him once, and now must live with him
Till God in pity call for him or me;

For you may, like your sister, find some husband, And smile, years hence, with children round your knees;

Stay, I command you-from this day and hour
Never again, I think, with fearless eye,
And brow superior, and unalter'd 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, lothed image of thy cursed mother,
[TO BERNARDO.
Thy milky, meek face makes me sick with hate!
[Exeunt BEATRICE and BERNARDO.
(Aside). So much has past 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).
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 stirr'd
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 dungeon'd as a madman;
Or be condemn'd 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's 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 enregister'd 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 disturb'd 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 design'd;
Nor do I think she design'd any thing
Until she heard you talk of her dead brothers.

CENCI.

Blaspheming liar! You are damn'd 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 wall'd, 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 night;
The act I think shall soon extinguish all

SCENE II.

A Chamber in the Vatican.

Enter CAMILLO and GIACOMO, in conversation.

CAMILLO.

There is an obsolete and doubtful law,
By which you might obtain a bare provision
Of food and clothing.

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 train'd in no high-born necessities
Which I could meet not by my daily toil.
The eldest son of a rich nobleman

Is heir to all his incapacities;

He has wide wants, and narrow powers. If you, Cardinal Camillo, were reduced at once

From thrice-driven beds of down, and delicate food An hundred servants, and six palaces,

To that which nature doth indeed require?

Alas, repeat them not again! There then is no redress for me, at least None but that which I may achieve myself, Since I am driven to the brink.-But say, My innocent sister and my only brother Are dying underneath my father's eye, The memorable torturers of this land, Galeaz Visconti, Borgia, Ezzelin,

Never inflicted on their meanest slave

Lone counsel from a night of sleepless care

Ask me not what I think; the unwilling brain Feigns often what it would not; and we trust Imagination with such phantasies

As the tongue dares not fashion into words,

I would that to my own suspected self
I could address a word so full of peace.

ORSINO.

Farewell!-Be your thoughts better or more bold.
[Exit GIACOMO
I had disposed the Cardinal Camillo
To feed his hope with cold encouragement:
It fortunately serves my close designs
That 'tis a trick of this same family
To analyze their own and other minds.
Such self-anatomy shall teach the will
Dangerous secrets: for it tempts our powers,
Knowing what must be thought, and may be done,
Into the depth of darkest purposes:

So Cenci fell into the pit; even I,
Since Beatrice unveil'd me to myself,

And made me shrink from what I cannot shun,
Show a poor figure to my own esteem,
To which I grow half reconciled. I'll do
As little mischief as I can; that thought
Shall fee the accuser Conscience. [After a pause.

Now what harm

If Cenci should be murder'd?-Yet, if murder'd, Wherefore by me? And what if I could take The profit, yet omit the sin and peril

In such an action? Of all earthly things

I fear a man whose blows outspeed his words;
And such is Cenci: and while Cenci lives,
His daughter's dowry were a secret grave
If a priest wins her.--Oh, fair Beatrice!
Would that I loved thee not, or loving thee
Could but despise danger and gold, and all

That frowns between my wish and its effect,
Or smiles beyond it! There is no escape-
Her bright form kneels beside me at the altar,
And follows me to the resort of men,
And fills my slumber with tumultuous dreams,
So when I wake my blood seems liquid fire;
And if I strike my damp and dizzy head,
My hot palm scorches it: her very name,
But spoken by a stranger, makes my heart
Sicken and pant; and thus unprofitably
I clasp the phantom of unfelt delights,
Till weak imagination half possesses

Will I not nurse this life of feverous hours:
From the unravell'd hopes of Giacomo

I must work out my own dear purposes.

I see, as from a tower, the end of all:
Her father dead; her brother bound to me
By a dark secret, surer than the grave;
Her mother scared and unexpostulating,
From the dread manner of her wish achieved:
And she-Once more take courage, my faint heart;
What dares a friendless maiden match'd with thee?

I have such foresight as assures success!
Some unbeheld divinity doth ever,

When dread events are near, stir up men's minds

To black suggestions; and he prospers best,
Not who becomes the instrument of ill,
But who can flatter the dark spirit, that makes
Its empire and its prey of other hearts
Till it become his slave-as I will do.

[Ert.