Which has, from unimaginable years,
Sustained itself with terror and with toil
Over a gulph, 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 noon-day here
'Tis twilight, and at sunset, blackest night.
Ors. Before you reach that bridge, make some excuse
For spurring on your mules, or loitering
Beatr. What sound is that?
Lucr. Hark! No, it cannot be a servant's step;
It must be Cenci, unexpectedly
Returned.-Make some excuse for being here.
Beatr. (To Orsino as she goes out.)
That step we hear approach must never pass
The bridge of which we spoke.
(Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice
Ors. 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 insane and vacant smile.
Enter GIACOMO, in a hurried manner.
How! Have you ventured hither? Know you then That Cenci is from home?
Giac. I sought him here,
And now must wait till he returns.
Ors. Weigh you the danger of this rashness?
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, who is her shield,
And Nature cast him off, who is her shame ;-
And I spurn both. It is 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?
Ors. Be calm, dear friend.
Giac. 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 sat 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-
The compensation which thou seekest here
Will be denied.
Giac. 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.
Ors. 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.
Giac. Is he dead?
Ors. His grave is ready. Know that since we met Cenci has done an outrage to his daughter.
Ors. 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 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!-
Giac. It is enough. My doubts are well appeased.
There is a higher reason for the act
Than mine; there is a holier judge than I,
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?
Ors. 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
Beatr. 'Tis my brother's voice! You know me no Giac. My sister, my lost sister!
Beatr. 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.
A mean apartment in GIACOMO's house. GIACOMO alone.
Giac. '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-winged lightning would not fall
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 was most necessary. O
Thou unreplenished lamp! whose narrow fire
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
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:
It is the form that moulded mine, that sinks
Into the white and yellow spasms of death.
It is the soul by which mine was arrayed
In God's immortal likeness, which now stands
Naked before Heaven's judgment seat!
(a bell strikes.) One! Two!
The hour crawls on; and, when my hairs are white,
My son will then perhaps be waiting thus,
Tortured between just hate and vain remorse;
Chiding the tardy messenger of news
Like those which I expect. I almost wish
He be not dead, although my wrongs are great;
Yet 'tis Orsino's step-
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