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?
‘T is gone; and yet its burden remains here 30
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 it cause; suffering has dried away
The source from which it sprung.
BEATRICE (frantically)
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. 40
[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 imagined — no, it cannot be! 50
Horrible things have been in this wild 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 60
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 70
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? 80
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
‘T is 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 90
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 suffer — no, that cannot be!
Many might doubt there were a God above 100
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 110
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. 120
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 130
May mock thee unavenged — it shall not be!
Self-murder — no, that might be no escape,
For thy decree yawns like a Hell between
Our will and it. — Oh! 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. 140
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 r
eligious awe
Restrains me, and the dread lest death itself
Might be no refuge from the consciousness 150
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 mouthèd story;
A mock, a byword, an astonishment: — 160
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 170
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!
(She retires, absorbed in thought)
LUCRETIA
If the lightning
Of God has e’er descended to avenge — 180
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? Oh, God!
If, for the very reasons which should make 190
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 dishonor, and leaves her 200
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.
[BEATRICE advances.
ORSINO
Then —
BEATRICE
Peace, Orsino!
And, honored 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, 210
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 passed,
And lest I be reserved, day after day,
To load with crimes an overburdened 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, 220
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 230
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. 240
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; ‘t is 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 250
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, 260
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
‘T is 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 270
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.
[Exeunt LUCRETIA and BEATRICE.
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
That Cenci is from home?
GIACOMO
I sought him here;
And now must wait till he returns.
ORSINO
Great God! 280
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 290
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, 300
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 310
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 320
My wife was touched, and he went smiling forth.
Percy Bysshe Shelley - Delphi Poets Series Page 101