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 rOURTH SERIES. MISCELLANEOUS. No. 3. 
 
 THE CENCI 
 
 E CtagetJg in J^ibe ^ctg 
 
 BY 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 GIVEN Fl 
 
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 in 2008 with funding from-^ 
 IVIicrosoft Corooration 
 
 UTJONS 
 
 ALFRED F0R4 
 
 IN FORMAN 
 
 AND A 
 
 PROLOGUE BY JOHN TODHUNTER 
 
 Eontion 
 
 PUBLISHED FOR THE SHELLEY SOCIETY 
 BY REEVES AND TURNER 196 STRAND 
 
 1886 
 
 PRICE TWO SHILLINGS AND SIXPENCE 
 
 [•iutt!it;itsi 
 
 mS^m^Sm 
 
LIBRARY 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
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 UNIVERSITY 
 
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THE CENCI 
 
 A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 GIVEN FROM THE POET'S OWN EDITIONS 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BV 
 
 ALFRED FORMAN and H BUXTON FORMAN 
 
 AND A 
 
 PROLOGUE BY JOHN TODHUNTER 
 
 ^■^ \ B rt A ,:? -p^ 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERr.lTY 
 
 LONDON 
 
 Published for the Shelley Society 
 
 By REEVES & TURNER 196 STRAND 
 
 1886 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 it 
 
 Introduction .... 
 Prologue by John Todhunter 
 Dramatis Persons and Cast 
 Dedication to Leigh Hunt 
 Preface by the Author 
 Act I 
 Act II 
 Act III 
 Act IV 
 Act V 
 
 Appendix : Relation of the Death of the Family of 
 the Cenci 
 
 PAGE 
 V 
 
 xiii 
 
 XV 
 
 I 
 
 22 
 
 33 
 
 50 
 
 93 
 
 FRONTISPIECE. 
 
 Portrait of Beatrice Cenci etched by W. B. Scott from the 
 
 Picture attributed to Guido. 
 
 1 0821 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 When Milton gave to the world in 1671 his dramatic 
 poem Samson Agonistes, he set before it a short discourse 
 " Of that sort of Dramatic Poem which is call'd Tragedy." 
 The discourse opens thus : — 
 
 " Tragedy, as it was antiently compos'd, hath been ever 
 held the gravest, moralest, and most profitable of all other 
 Poems: therefore said by Aristotle to be of power by 
 raising pity and fear, or terror, to purge the mind of those 
 and such like passions, that is to temper and reduce them 
 to just measure with a kind of delight stirred up by read- 
 ing or seeing those passions well imitated." 
 
 Of the emotions to which man is subject, pity and terror 
 are the most urgent and tense and the most completely 
 concentrated to a single point of time. Unlike the appe- 
 tites hunger and desire, to which they bear a certain 
 analogy in respect of urgency, tension and concentration, 
 the emotions pity and terror have a large share of unsel- 
 fishness ; for pity is mainly unselfish, though closely knit 
 up with the consideration of what one would himself feel 
 in the circumstances of the person pitied; and terror, 
 though primarily selfish, is largely called into play by 
 
V INTRODUCTION. 
 
 circumstances affecting other persons and not the person 
 assailed by the emotion. Thus these two emotions which 
 it is the gift of tragic poetry to raise and purify are not 
 only extreme in their urgency, tension, and concentra- 
 tion, but eminently purifiable by exaltation of the unselfish 
 element and elimination of the selfish. 
 
 The high tension on the moral chords of our nature 
 produced by pity and terror is not readily obtainable by 
 other emotions ; and, as the strings of a musical instrument 
 must be tense in a high degree before the player can 
 evolve with their assistance those vibrations which con- 
 stitute the basis of music, so the moral nature of man and 
 woman must be as it were strung up, before the highest 
 effects of art can be evoked from it. Hence the test of 
 a great tragedy is not only the measure of its power to 
 awaken pity and terror, but also, and chiefly, its success 
 in purifying those emotions of all that is base or un- 
 pleasant and leaving the whole moral and intellectual 
 nature in a state of complete and vibrant equilibrium. 
 
 It is almost needless to say that tragedies answering 
 satisfactorily this severe test are of extreme rarity. Among 
 dramas of the nineteenth century one looks in vain for an 
 acted tragedy fulfilling the conditions ; and the unacted 
 drama yields but one example, — that tragedy which 
 Shelley wrote for the stage and greatly wished to have 
 upon the stage, but which has been reserved during 
 sixty-seven years for a Society of his special adherents to 
 get acted. 
 
 But we must go further than this ; for tragedies, in the 
 full specific sense, are so few in the whole world's literary 
 history that the small number of companions fgr Shelley's 
 
INTRODUCTION. Vll 
 
 work must be sought in almost as many ages and litera- 
 tures. We cannot find several tragedies answering fully 
 to the test even in the sumptuous collection of great works 
 left us by Shakespeare. We cannot find several in ancient 
 literature, or several in French classic literature, or even 
 one in modern literature of the rest of Europe. But, let 
 it be clearly understood, this is no question of relative 
 greatness alone, simply one of greatness combined with 
 the true tragic quality, the exaltation and purification of 
 pity and terror. In this regard we must exclude from 
 the competition the stately name of ^schylus, and the 
 hifjh names of Calderon, Alfieri, Goethe, Huo-o, Wa^^jner. 
 The material introduction of the supernatural deducts 
 largely from the essentially tragic character of the Ores- 
 teian Trilogy, as from Macbeth and the Ring des Nihelun- 
 gen: Hamlet lacks for the intense appeal to pity and 
 terror that concentration to a single point which we find 
 in the few typical tragedies : Othello is comparatively 
 domestic and un-ideal : Hugo stirs up rather than purifies 
 pity and terror ; and in the Wagnerian lyrical drama there 
 is the further differentiating element of music. 
 
 Companionship for The Genci must be sought in the 
 CEdipus Tyrannus of Sophocles, in the Medea of Euripides, 
 in Shakespeare's King Lear, and in the masterpiece of 
 French classic drama, PMdre. 
 
 It does not follow that a claim is set up for these five 
 tragedies to rank as the greatest of all dramatic works. 
 No question arises as to the relative importance of these 
 and of the Oresteia, Macbeth, Hamlet, Othello, Athalie, Faust, 
 Les Burgraves, or the Nihelungen Tetralogy. But, as pure 
 tragedy, none of these latter will stand comparison with 
 
vm INTRODUCTION. 
 
 any one of the former: that is to say, the catharsis of 
 pity and terror is not so complete in them. 
 
 Mythology and inner significance themselves deduct from 
 the urgency and concentration of the appeal to pity and 
 terror; and the supernatural and musical elements are com- 
 paratively cheap methods, so to speak, of helping to bring 
 the intellectual and moral nature into a state_of_viliraBt 
 eg^ui^i]: ^rium . The purification of pity and terror, without 
 any adventitious aid, but by simple concentration of human 
 interest, is the dramatist's most difficult task ; — not neces- 
 sarily his highest task ; but its superlative difficulty suffices 
 to account for the rarity of pure tragedy. 
 
 For genuine tragedy of idea, conception, and laying out, 
 there is little in English literature, outside Shakespeare's 
 work, to compare with Ot way's Venice Preserved and The 
 Orjphan ; but Otway was poor as a poet and weak as a 
 delineator of character: hence his work does not come 
 seriously into the present comparison. Nevertheless it is 
 noteworthy that The Orjphan, as horrible in subject as it 
 could well be, held the stage in the early part of this 
 century in the hands of that Miss O'Neil to whom a 
 squeamish Covent Garden manager could not even ven- 
 ture to submit The Cenci. 
 
 Now the extreme horror of the main subject of The 
 Cenci is precisely what it has in common with its few 
 great compeers in addition to the splendour of poetic 
 treatment, without which there can be no such thing as 
 tragedy properly so called. For just as in TJie Cenci, in 
 FMdre, in King Lear, in Medea, in CEdipus Tyrannies, the 
 poetical style of each dramatist is at its highest level, so 
 in each of those works we find a subject more terrible 
 
INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 than elsewhere in the works of Shelley, of Racine, of 
 Shakespeare, of Euripides, of Sophocles. In every one of 
 those tragic masterpieces of the world the heart is pierced 
 and the spirit is appalled by crimes violating the most 
 sacred ties of nature. 
 
 It is not as dealing with real events that the tragic 
 masterpiece of Shelley has a supreme value to the world. 
 It is purely as an ideal work that it is of so rare a price. 
 Antiquarian research was in its infancy when Shelley 
 became saturated with the subject of his tragedy; and 
 at that time, beyond the alleged outrage and the murder 
 and execution, the real merits of the Cenci family history 
 were but vaguely known. The documents from which he *J' 
 drew for his conception are the portrait of Beatrice pre- 
 fixed to this volume and the " Relation of the Death of 
 the Family of the Cenci," of which a translation is 
 appended. It is of no consequence whatever in judging 
 of this tragic work whether the portrait represents Beatrice 
 and was painted by Guido or not ; and it is equally in- 
 essential whether the " Relation " is true or untrue. That 
 portrait and that narrative supplied the material; and 
 Sophocles and Shakespeare supplied the bulk of what was 
 not individual in the conception and treatment. The 
 form is Shakespearean ; and so very often is the language. ' 
 The general sense of an awful impending doom is Sopho- >r- 
 clean. But it was from Shelley's own deep heart that the 
 transfiguring forces welled up to make a great tragic char- 
 acter of the Beatrice whose history we have in the " Rela- 
 tion " and whose bodily semblance we find in the picture. 
 
 The sense of that perfect human loveliness in which 
 the Italian girl presented herself to Shelley, living within 
 
X INTEODUCTION. 
 
 the shadow of a nameless crime, under the menacing and 
 ever-encroaching power of a demoniac father, stirred the 
 ardent sympathies of Shelley, his resentment against 
 tyranny and " victorious wrong," from their very founda- 
 tions. And while on the one hand the realized spec- 
 tacle of that tender and lovely girlhood, pitted against 
 the most abandoned of criminals, evokes pity from every 
 heart where pity is not dead, on the other hand the 
 austere dignity and unflinching courage with which, in 
 her despair of release or relief, this gentle creature 
 assumes in her turn the part of a criminal, and reasons 
 of parricide as of a high duty, stirs up horror from its 
 lowest depths. 
 
 But it is not the complicity of Beatrice alone in her 
 father's murder that appeals to our sense of the terrible. 
 The picture is in truth one of a series of horrors growing, 
 as it were naturally, out of a prodigious defection from 
 nature's rule. The spectacle of an old man, consumed 
 with hatred of his wife, children, retainers, and indeed all 
 who come within the scope of his dread personality, is 
 horrible in a high degree. The terror of this picture, 
 however, derives half its force from the mild and humane 
 character of the wife, son, and daughter, who are trans- 
 formed by the power of Count Cenci's own egregious 
 wickedness into instruments of his death. The over- 
 powering criminality of the one is such as to beget in the 
 others not so much hate as fear of what may yet come 
 to pass ; and that fear becomes an imperious need which 
 gives its victims no rest until they have accomplished 
 their unnatural end. The expiation of the whole series 
 of crimes by the mere death of all the principals is unim- 
 
INTRODUCTION. XI 
 
 pressive compared with the surrounding and motive cir- 
 cumstances of guilt and tyranny, endurance and eventual 
 resistance, despair and sudden revenge. The final horror 
 concentrates in the innocent young brother, who sees every 
 member of his family swept away by a devastating wave 
 of crime. 
 
 The intolerable nature of the worst offence of Count 
 Cenci has been urged as a reason for keeping this great 
 tragedy off the stage. But it should not be forgotten that 
 the same reason has been found wholly insufficient to 
 prevent the performance of other tragedies, or even to 
 keep from the glare of the footlights works radically un- 
 suited for stage representation by reason of their struc- 
 ture. Let it be remembered that Byron's Manfred, one 
 of the least actable of dramas, has been publicly per- 
 formed, notwithstanding the crime which overshadows the 
 hero's life, and which leaves the poem open to the same 
 censure as The Cenci. It is remarkable that this should 
 be the case with what is certainly one of Byron's best 
 works, and the most poetical at all events of his dramas. 
 In Manfred we are not left in any real doubt that the 
 crime was actually committed. In The Cenci, the atmos- 
 phere is that of abominable outrage and impending crime 
 against the heroine, by whom, at the close, we are assured 
 that, " tho' wrapt in a strange cloud of crime and shame," 
 she " lived ever holy and unstained." 
 
 An ungenerous prejudice against Shelley, and the general 
 debasement of our national drama, have combined to pre- 
 vent the performance of this masterpiece, in which, not- 
 withstanding the horror of the subject, there is positively 
 not an offensive word. Great and grave authorities have 
 \ 
 
Xll INTKODUCTION. 
 
 from the first treated The Cenci with the profound respect 
 which it merits. To name Landor and Browning among 
 those who acknowledge loyally this " noble tragedy " and 
 "superb achievement" should suffice to make it certain 
 that, when the time comes for a public performance of 
 The Ce7ici to be seriously mooted, such performance will 
 take place without let or hindrance. Our " faith is large 
 in time " ; and the time is well-nigh ripe for this consum- 
 mation of Shelley's wish, this payment of the world's due, 
 this act of simple justice to the fame of England and Eng- 
 land's chief lyric poet, for whom we claim, in virtue of 
 the tragedy now about to be acted for the first time, the 
 prouder title of chief tragic poet since Shakespeare. 
 
 ALFRED FORMAN. 
 H. BUXTON FORMAN. 
 
 2/^th April 1886. 
 
PROLOGUE TO "THE CENCL' 
 
 By JOHN TODHUNTER. 
 
 Wherefore in earnest concourse are ye come, 
 
 With hearts that chide the moments till this dumb 
 
 And shrouded stage grow eloquent 1 Can your eyes 
 
 Delight their sense with tawdry properties, 
 
 The pomp of theatres, the glittering shows 
 
 Of the mummer's art ; with tinsel joys and woes 
 
 Posturing before a painted scene — to-day. 
 
 O'er budded woodlands when the eyes of May 
 
 Gaze blue from the deeps of heaven, when her sweet breath 
 
 To the young leaves and blossoms uttereth 
 
 Summer's delicious name ? 
 
 Nay, who sit here 
 Quicken to rarer influence, from that sphere 
 Supernal, of the pure unbodied mind. 
 Whence, feel ye now what breathes 1 Spirit or wind 
 Instinct with Shelley ! What if we be pent 
 From the rejoicing fields, we are content 
 With the poor circuit of these walls ; for lo ! 
 That wind has breathed upon them, and they grow 
 A Temple of the Spirit : this curtain green 
 Of common baize, the stage's homely screen, 
 Turns to the pall that hides the inmost cell 
 Of Tragedy. 
 
XIV PKOLOGUE. 
 
 " The Cenci ! " With what spell 
 Thrills in your ears that name 1 " The Cenci ! " Falls 
 On your hushed hearts a silence that appals 
 Like the dumb pause of nature, ere the storm 
 Wake in stern music 1 Here in breathing form 
 Shall pass before you now, as though for you 
 His spirit in its travail groaned anew, 
 Shelley's tremendous vision. Ye shall behold 
 That monstrous Father in strange hate grown old, 
 That wrinkled vice, that rank malignity, 
 Spawned from the opulent slime of Italy. 
 Ye shall see Beatrice, that sweet and strong 
 Nature, disnatured by unnatural wrong, 
 Avenging crime with crime — 
 
 who durst weigh 
 Her guilt, her innocence 1 Who shall assay 
 Gold of such dreadful mint ? 
 
 Hold thou the scale, 
 Manage the crucible, who hast told the tale 
 Of Guido and Pompilia, weighing well. 
 With beam that mounts to heaven or sinks to hell, 
 Like the archangel, souls in thy balance true ; 
 For thou, we know, art with us now, to do 
 Honour to Shelley, and we keep to-day, 
 Browning, thy Birthday on this Seventh of May 
 Which brings a Titan to belated birth. 
 But lo ! the hour comes flying o'er the earth 
 Even to these gates — its advent-peal is rung, 
 Hushed be the babble of this faltering tongue, 
 As rills at thunderous rising of the sea — 
 "The Cenci!" 
 
N"AMES OF ACTOES 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERFORMANCE OF "THE CENCI," 
 
 On Friday Afternoox, the 7th of May 1886, at the Grand 
 
 Theatre, Islington. 
 
 Lessee and Manajer : Mr. Charles Wilmot. 
 
 Beatrice Ctnci 
 
 Lucretia, Countess Cenci 
 
 Count Francesco Cenci . 
 
 Orsino, a Prelate 
 
 Cardinal CamiUo . 
 
 Giacomo Cenci 
 
 Bernardo Cenci 
 
 Savella, the Pope's Legate 
 
 Marzio 
 
 Olimpio 
 
 Andrea, Servant to Cenci 
 
 Orsino' s Servant 
 
 Colonna 
 
 First Guest 
 
 Second Guest 
 
 Third Guest 
 
 Fourth Guest 
 
 First Judge 
 
 Officer . 
 
 the Count's Sons 
 
 Miss Alma Murray. 
 
 Miss Maude Brennan. 
 
 Mr. Hermann Vezin. 
 
 Mr. Leonard S. Outram. 
 
 Mr. W. Farren, Junr. 
 
 Mr. Rudolph de Cordova. 
 
 Mr. Mark Ambient. 
 
 Mr. Philip Ben Greet. 
 i Mr. G. K Foss. 
 ( Mr. W. R. Staveley. 
 
 Mr. Cecil Crofton. 
 
 Mr. Ramsey. 
 
 Mr. Ouvry. 
 
 Mr, E. H. Paterson. 
 
 Mr. Kersley. 
 
 Mr. H. Linton. 
 
 Mr. A. Ferguson. 
 
 Mr. Hope Meriscord. 
 
 Mr, T, Percival. 
 
 Stage Manager : Mr, Rudolph de Cordova. 
 

 THE CENCI: 
 
 A TEAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 TO 
 
 LEIGH HUNT, Esq. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I inscribe with your name, from a distant country, and 
 after an absence whose months have seemed years, this 
 the latest of my literary efforts. 
 
 Those writings which I have hitherto published, have 
 been little else than visions which impersonate my own 
 apprehensions of the beautiful and the just. I can also 
 perceive in them the literary defects incidental to youth 
 and impatience ; they are dreams of what ought to be, or 
 may be. The drama which I now present to you is a 
 sad reality. I lay aside the presumptuous attitude of an 
 instructor, and am content to paint, with such colours as 
 my own heart furnishes, that which has been. 
 
 Had I known a person more highly endowed than your- 
 self with all that it becomes a man to possess, I had 
 solicited for this work the ornament of his name.. One 
 more gentle, honourable, innocent and brave; one of more 
 exalted toleration for all who do and think evil, and yet 
 himself more free from evil ; one who knows better how 
 to receive, and how to confer a benefit though he must 
 ever confer far more than he can receive ; one of simpler, 
 and, in the highest sense of the word, of purer life and 
 
 A 
 
Z DEDICATION AND PREFACE TO THE CENCI. 
 
 manners I never knew : and I had already been fortunate 
 in friendships when your name was added to the list. 
 
 In that patient and irreconcilable enmity with domestic 
 and political tyranny and imposture which the tenor of 
 your life has illustrated, and which, had I health and 
 talents, should illustrate mine, let us, comforting each other 
 in our task, live and die. 
 
 All happiness attend you ! 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 PERCY B. SHELLEY. 
 
 EOME, 
 
 May 29, 1819. 
 
 P E E F A C E. 
 
 A Manuscript was communicated to me during my 
 travels in Italy, which was copied from the archives of 
 the Cenci Palace at Rome, and contains a detailed account 
 of the horrors which ended in the extinction of one of the 
 noblest and richest families of that city during the Ponti- 
 ficate of Clement VIII, in the year 1599. The story is, 
 that an old man having spent his life in debauchery and 
 wickedness, conceived at length an implacable hatred 
 towards his children; which shewed itself towards one 
 daughter under the form of an incestuous passion, aggra- 
 vated by every circumstance of cruelty and violence. This 
 daughter, after long and vain attempts to escape from what 
 she considered a perpetual contamination both of body 
 and mind, at length plotted with her mother-in-law and 
 brother to murder their common tyrant. The young 
 maiden who was urged to this tremendous deed by an 
 impulse which overpowered its horror, was evidently a 
 most gentle and amiable being, a creature formed to adorn 
 and be admired, and thus violently thwarted from her 
 nature by the necessity of circumstance and opinion. The 
 deed was quickly discovered, and, in spite of the most 
 earnest prayers made to the Pope by the highest persons 
 in Rome, the criminals were put to death. The old man 
 
PREFACE TO THE CENCI. C> 
 
 had during his life repeatedly bought his pardon from the 
 Pope for capital crimes of the most enormous and unspeak- 
 able kind, at the price of a hundred thousand crowns ; the 
 death therefore of his victims can scarcely be accounted 
 for by the love of justice. The Pope, among other motives 
 for severity, probably felt that whoever killed the Count 
 Cenci deprived his treasury of a certain and copious source 
 of revenue.^ Such a story, if told so as to present to the 
 reader all the feelings of those who once acted it, their 
 hopes and fears, their confidences and misgivings, their 
 various interests, passions and opinions, acting upon and 
 with each other, yet all conspiring to one tremendous end, 
 would be as a light to make apparent some of the most 
 dark and secret caverns of the human heart. 
 
 On my arrival at Rome I found that the story of the 
 Cenci was a subject not to be mentioned in Italian society 
 without awakening a deep and breathless interest ; and that 
 the feelings of the company never failed to incline to a 
 romantic pity for the wrongs, and a passionate exculpation 
 of the horrible deed to which they urged her, who has been 
 mingled two centuries with the common dust. All ranks of 
 people knew the outlines of this history, and participated in 
 the overwhelming interest which it seems to have the magic 
 ,of exciting in the human heart. I had a copy of Guide's 
 picture of Beatrice which is preserved in the Colonna Palace, 
 and my servant instantly recognized it as the portrait of La 
 Cenci. 
 
 This national and universal interest which the story pro- 
 duces and has produced for two centuries and among all ranks 
 of people in a great City, where the imagination is kept for 
 ever active and awake, first suggested to me the conception 
 of its fitness for a dramatic purpose. In fact it is a tragedy 
 which has already received from its capacity of awakening 
 and sustaining the sympathy of men, approbation and success. 
 Nothing remained as I imagined, but to clothe it to the 
 apprehensions of my countrymen in such language and action 
 
 ^ The Papal Government formerly took the most extraordinary precautions 
 against the publicity of facts which offer so tragical a demonstration of its own 
 wickedness and weakness ; so that the communication of the MS. had become, 
 until very lately, a matter of some difficulty. 
 
4 PREFACE TO THE CENCI. 
 
 as would bring it liome to their hearts. The deepest and 
 the sublimest tragic compositions, King Lear and the two 
 plays in which the tale of CEdipus is told, were stories 
 which already existed in tradition, as matters of popular 
 belief and interest, before Shakspeare and Sophocles made 
 them familiar to the sympathy of all succeeding generations 
 of mankind. 
 
 This story of the Cenci is indeed eminently fearful and 
 monstrous : any thing like a dry exhibition of it on the 
 stage would be insupportable. The person who would treat 
 such a subject must increase the ideal, and diminish the 
 actual horror of the events, so that the pleasure which arises 
 from the poetry which exists in these tempestuous sufferings 
 and crimes may mitigate the pain of the contemplation of 
 the moral deformity from which they spring. There musr, 
 also be nothing attempted to make the exhibition subservient 
 to what is vulgarly termed a moral purpose. The highest 
 moral purpose aimed at in the highest species of the drama, 
 is the teaching the human heart, through its sympathies 
 and antipathies, the knowledge of itself ; in proportion to 
 the possession of which knowledge, every human being is 
 wise, just, sincere, tolerant and kind. If dogmas can do 
 more, it is well: but a drama is no fit place for the 
 enforcement of them. Undoubtedly, no person can be truly 
 dishonoured by the act of another ; and the fit return to 
 make to the most enormous injuries is kindness and for- 
 bearance, and a resolution to convert the injurer from his 
 dark passions by peace and love. Eevenge, retaliation, 
 atonement, are pernicious mistakes. If Beatrice had thought 
 in this manner she would have been wiser and better ; but 
 she would never have been a tragic character : the few 
 whom such an exhibition would have interested, could never 
 have been sufficiently interested for a dramatic purpose, 
 from the want of finding sympathy in their interest among 
 the mass who surround them. It is in the restless and 
 anatomizing casuistry with which men seek the justification 
 of Beatrice, yet feel that she has done what needs justifi- 
 cation ; it is in the superstitious horror with which they 
 contemplate alike her wrongs and their revenge ; that the 
 dramatic character of what she did and suffered, consists. 
 
PllEFACE TO THE CENCI. 5 
 
 I have endeavoured as nearly as possible to represent the 
 characters as they probably were, and have sought to avoid 
 the error of making them actuated by my own conceptions 
 of right or wrong, false or true: thus under a thin veil 
 converting names and actions of the sixteenth century into 
 cold impersonations of my own mind. They are represented 
 as Catholics, and as Catholics deeply tinged with religion. 
 To a Protestant apprehension there will appear something 
 unnatural in the earnest and perpetual sentiment of the 
 relations between God and men which pervade the tragedy 
 of the Cenci. It will especially be startled at the com- 
 bination of an undoubting persuasion of the truth of the 
 popular religion with a cool and determined perseverance in 
 enormous guilt. But religion in Italy is not, as in Protestant 
 countries, a cloak to be worn on particular days ; or a 
 passport which those who do not wish to be railed at carry 
 with them to exhibit ; or a gloomy passion for penetrating 
 the impenetrable mysteries of our being, which terrifies its 
 possessor at the darkness of the abyss to the brink of which 
 it has conducted him. Eeligion coexists, as it were, in the 
 mind of an Italian Catholic, with a faith in that of which 
 all men have the most certain knowledge. It is interwoven 
 with the whole fabric of life. 'It is adoration, faith, sub- 
 mission, penitence, blind admiration; not a rule for moral 
 conduct. It has no necessary connexion with any one virtue. 
 The most a.trocious villain may be rigidly devout, and 
 without any shock to established faith, confes.^ himself to 
 be so. Eeligion pervades intensely the whole frame of 
 society, and is according to the temper of the mind which 
 it inhabits, a passion, a persuasion, an excuse, a refuge ; 
 never a check. Cenci himself built a chapel in the court 
 of his Palace, and dedicated it to St. Thomas the Apostle, 
 and established masses for the peace of his soul. Thus in 
 the first scene of the fourth act Lucretia's design in exposing 
 herself to the consequences of an expostulation with Cenci 
 after having administered the opiate, was to induce him by 
 a feigned tale to confess himself before death ; this being 
 esteemed by Catholics as essential to salvation; and she 
 only relinquishes her purpose when she perceives that her 
 perseverance would expose Beatrice to new outrages. 
 
6 PREFACE TO THE CEXCI. 
 
 I have avoided with great care in writing this play 
 the introduction of what is commonly called mere poetry, 
 and I imagine there will scarcely be found a detached 
 simile or a single isolated description, unless Beatrice's 
 description of the chasm appointed for her father's murder 
 should be judged to be of that nature.^ 
 
 In a dramatic composition the imagery and the passion 
 should interpenetrate one another, the former being reserved 
 simply for the full development and illustration of the 
 latter. Imagination is as the immortal God which should 
 assume fiesh for the redemption of mortal passion. It is 
 thus that the most remote and the most familiar imagery 
 may alike be fit for dramatic purposes when employed in 
 the illustration of strong feeling, which raises what is low, 
 and levels to the apprehension that which is lofty, casting 
 over all the shadow of its own greatness. In other respects, 
 I have written more carelessly; that is, without an over- 
 fastidious and learned choice of words. In this respect I 
 entirely agree with those modern critics who assert that in 
 order to move men to true sympathy we must use the 
 familiar language of men, and that our great ancestors 
 the antient English poets are the writers, a study of whom 
 might incite us to do that for our own age which they 
 have done for theirs. But it must be the real language of 
 men in general and not that of any particular class to 
 whose society the wTiter happens to belong. So much for 
 what I have attempted ; I need not be assured that success 
 is a very different matter; particularly for one whose at- 
 tention has but newly been awakened to the study of 
 dramatic literature. 
 
 I endeavoured whilst at Eome to observe such monu- 
 ments of this story as might be accessible to a stranger. 
 The portrait of Beatrice at the Colonna Palace is admir- 
 able as a work of art : it was taken by Guido during 
 her confinement in prison. But it is most interesting as a 
 just representation of one of the loveliest specimens of the 
 workmanship of Nature. There is a fixed and pale com- 
 
 ^ An idea in this speech was suggested by a most sublime passage in " El 
 Purgatorio de San Patricio " of Calderon ; the only plagiarism which I have 
 intentionally committed in the whole piece. 
 
PREFACE TO THE CENCI. 7 
 
 posure upon the features : she seems sad and stricken down 
 in spirit, yet the despair thus expressed is lightened by the 
 patience of gentleness. Her head is bound with folds of 
 white drapery from which the yellow strings of her golden 
 hair escape, and fall about her neck. The moulding of her 
 face is exquisitely delicate; the eyebrows are distinct and 
 arched : the lips have that permanent meaning of imagina 
 tion and sensibility which suffering has not repressed and 
 which it seems as if death scarcely could extinguish. Her 
 forehead is large and clear; her eyes which we are told 
 were remarkable for their vivacity, are swollen with weep- 
 ing and lustreless, but beautifully tender and serene. In 
 the whole mien there is a simplicity and dignity which 
 united with her exquisite loveliness and deep sorrow are 
 inexpressibly pathetic. Beatrice Cenci appears to have been 
 one of those rare persons in whom energy and gentleness 
 dwell together without destroying one another: her nature 
 was simple and profound. The crimes and miseries in 
 which she was an actor and a sufferer are as the mask and 
 the mantle in which circumstances clothed her for her im- 
 personation on the scene of the world. 
 
 The Cenci Palace is of great extent; and though in 
 part modernized, there yet remains a vast and gloomy 
 pile of feudal architecture in the same state as during 
 the dreadful scenes which are the subject of this tragedy. 
 The Palace is situated in an obscure corner of Eome, near 
 the quarter of the Jews, and from the upper windows you 
 see the immense ruins of Mount Palatine half hidden under 
 their profuse overgrowth of trees. There is a court in one 
 part of the Palace (perhaps that in which Cenci built the 
 Chapel to St. Thomas), supported by granite columns and 
 adorned with antique friezes of fine workmanship, and 
 built up, according to the antient Italian fashion, with 
 balcony over balcony of open-work. One of the gates of 
 the Palace formed of immense stones and leading through 
 a passage, dark and lofty and opening into gloomy subter- 
 ranean chambers, struck me particularly. 
 
 Of the Castle of Petrella, I could obtain no further infor- 
 mation than that which is to be found in the manuscript. 
 
THE C E N C I. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 Savella, the Pope's Legate. 
 
 Olimpio, ( Aggassins 
 Marzio, i assassins. 
 
 Andrea, Servant to Cenci. 
 Nobles — Judges — Guards — Servants, 
 
 Count Francesco Cenci. 
 
 GlACOMO, / r,- c 
 
 Bernardo, [ ^'' ^^"«- 
 Cardinal Camillo. 
 Orsino, a Prelate. 
 
 LucRETiA, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children. 
 Beatrice, his Daughter. 
 
 The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the fourth 
 Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines. 
 
 Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII. 
 
 ACT L 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. Enter COUNT CENCI, 
 AND CARDINAL CAMILLO. 
 
 Camillo. 
 That matter of the murder is hushed up 
 If you consent to yield his Holiness 
 Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate. — 
 It needed all my interest in the conclave 
 To bend him to this point: he said that you 5 
 
 Bought perilous impunity with your gold; 
 That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded 
 Enriched the Church, and respited from hell 
 An erring soul which might repent and live: — 
 But that the glory and the interest 10 
 
 Of the high throne he fills, little consist 
 
SCENE I.] THE CENCI. » 
 
 With making it a daily mart of guilt 
 As manifold and hideous as the deeds 
 Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes. 
 
 Cenci. 
 The third of my possessions — let it go! is 
 
 Aye, I once heard the nephew of the Pope 
 Had sent his architect to view the ground, 
 Meaning to build a villa on my vines 
 The next time I compounded with his uncle : 
 I little thought he should outwit me so ! 20 
 
 Henceforth no witness — not the lamp — shall see 
 That which the vassal threatened to divulge 
 Whose throat is choked with dust for his reward. 
 The deed he saw could not have rated higher 
 Than his most worthless life: — it angers me! 25 
 
 pespited me from Hell! — So may the Devil 
 Pespite their souls from Heaven. No doubt Pope Clement, 
 And his most charitable nephews, pray 
 That the Apostle Peter and the saints 
 Will grant for their sake that I long enjoy 30 
 
 Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, and length of days 
 Wherein to act the deeds which are the stewards 
 Of their revenue. — But much yet remains 
 To which they shew no title. 
 Camillo. 
 
 Oh, Count Cenci ! 
 So much that thou mightst honourably live 35 
 
 And reconcile thyself with thine own heart 
 And with thy God, and with the offended world. 
 How hideously look deeds of lust and blood 
 Thro' those snow white and venerable hairs ! — 
 Your children should be sitting round you now, 40 
 
 But that you fear to read upon their looks 
 The shame and misery you have written there. 
 Where is your wife ? Where is your gentle daughter ? 
 Methinks her sweet looks, which make all things else 
 Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend within you. 45 
 Why is she barred from all society 
 But her own strange and uncomplaining wrongs ? 
 Talk with me, Count, — you know I mean you well. 
 
10 THE CENCI. [acti. 
 
 I stood beside your dark and tiery youth 
 
 Watching its bold and bad career, as men so 
 
 Watch meteors, but it vanished not — I marked 
 
 Your desperate and remorseless manhood ; now 
 
 Do I behold you in dishonoured age 
 
 Charged with a thousand unrepented crimes. 
 
 Yet I have ever hoped you would amend, 55 
 
 And in that hope have saved your life three times. 
 
 Cenci. 
 For which Aldobrandino owes you now 
 My fief beyond the Pincian. — Cardinal, 
 One thing, I pray you, recollect henceforth, 
 And so we shall converse with less restraint. 60 
 
 A man you knew spoke of my wife and daughter — 
 He was accustomed to frequent my house ; 
 So the next day his wife and daughter came 
 And asked if I had seen him ; and I smiled : 
 I think they never saw him any more. (55 
 
 Camillo. 
 Tliou execrable man, beware ! — 
 Cenci. 
 
 Of thee ? 
 Nay this is idle : — We should know each other. 
 As to my character for what men call crime 
 Seeing I please my senses as I list, 
 And vindicate that right with force or guile, '^ 
 
 It is a public matter, and I care not 
 If I discuss it with you. I may speak 
 Alike to you and my own conscious heart — 
 For you give out that you have half reformed me, 
 Therefore strong vanity will keep you silent 75 
 
 If fear should not; both will, I do not doubt. 
 All men delight in sensual luxury. 
 All men enjoy revenge ; and most exult 
 Over the tortures they can never feel — 
 Flattering their secret peace with others' pain. sj 
 
 But I delight in nothing else. I love 
 The sight of agony, and the sense of joy, 
 When this shall be another's, and that mine. 
 And I have no remorse and little fear. 
 
ENKi.] THE CENCI. 11 
 
 Which are, I think, the checks of other men. 65 
 
 This mood has grown upon me, until now 
 
 Any design my captious fancy makes 
 
 The picture of its wish, and it forms none 
 
 But such as men like you would start to know, 
 
 Is as my natural food and rest debarred 90 
 
 Until it be accomplished. 
 
 Camillo. 
 
 Art thou not 
 Most miserable ? 
 
 Cenci. 
 Why, miserable ? — 
 No. — I am what your theologians call 
 Hardened; — which they must be in impudence, 
 So to revile a man's peculiar taste. 95 
 
 True, I was happier than I am, while yet 
 Manhood remained to act the thincr I thoucjht; 
 While lust was sweeter than revenge; and now 
 Invention palls : — Aye, we must all grow old— - 
 And but that there yet remains a deed to act 100 
 
 Whose horror might make sharp an appetite 
 Duller than mine — I'd do, — I know not what. 
 When I was young I thought of nothing else 
 But pleasure ; and I fed on honey sweets : 
 Men, by St. Thomas 1 cannot live like bees, ps 
 
 And I grew tired: — yet, till I killed a foe, 
 And heard his groans, and heard his children's groans. 
 Knew I not what delight was else on earth, 
 Which now delights me little. I the rather 
 Look on such pangs as terror ill conceals, no 
 
 The dry fixed eyeball; the pale quivering lip. 
 Which tell me that the spirit weeps within 
 Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of Christ. 
 I rarely kill the body, which preserves, 
 Like a strong prison, the soul within my power, 115 
 
 AVherein I feed it with the breath of fear 
 For hourly pain. 
 
 Camillo. 
 Hell's most abandoned fiend 
 Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt. 
 
12 THE CENCI. [act I. 
 
 Speak to his heart as now you speak to me ; 
 I thank my God that I believe you not. vm 
 
 Enter Andrea. 
 
 Andrea. 
 My Lord, a gentleman from Salamanca 
 Would speak with you. 
 
 Cenci. 
 Bid him attend me in the grand saloon. {Exit Andrea.) 
 
 Camillo. 
 Farewell; and I will pray 
 
 Almighty God that thy false, impious words 125 
 
 Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. {Exit Camillo.) 
 
 Cenci. 
 The third of my possessions ! I must use 
 Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's sword, 
 Falls from my withered hand. But yesterday 
 There came an order from the Pope to make 130 
 
 Fourfold provision for my cursed sons; 
 Whom I had sent from Eome to Salamanca, 
 Hoping some accident might cut them off; 
 And meaning if I could to starve them there. 
 I - pray thee, God, se i-id somp g njck deat h upon them ! 135 
 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. uo 
 
 0, thou most silent air, that shalt 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 1 — Andrea ! 
 Enter Andrea. 
 
 Andrea. 
 
 My lord? 145 
 
 Cencl 
 Bid Beatrice attend me in her. chamber 
 This evening : — no, at midnight and alone. {Exatnt.) 
 
scKNE ii.J THE CENCI. 13 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Garden of the Cenci Palace. Enter BEATRICE and ORSINO, 
 AS in conversation. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Pervert not truth, 
 Orsino. You remember where we held 
 That conversation; — nay, we see the spot 
 Even from this cypress ; — two long years are past 
 Since, on an April midnight, underneath s 
 
 The moonlight ruins of mount Palatine, 
 I did confess to you my secret nnnd. 
 
 Orsino. 
 You said you loved me then. 
 Beatrice. 
 
 You ai-e a Priest, 
 Speak to me not of love. 
 
 Orsino. 
 
 I may obtain 
 The dispensation of the Pope to marry. lo 
 
 Because I am a Priest do you believe 
 Your image, as the hunter some struck deer. 
 Follows me not whether I wake or sleep ? 
 
 Beatrice. 
 As I have said, speak to me not of love ; 
 Had you a dispensation I have not; n 
 
 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 20 
 
 I felt for you, is turned to bitter pain. 
 Our's 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; 25 
 
 And so I swear a cold fidelity. 
 And it is well perliaps we shall not marry. 
 
14 THE CENCI. [act I. 
 
 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 30 
 
 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; 35 
 
 I have a weight of melancholy thoughts, 
 
 And they forbode, — but what can they forbode 
 
 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; ^ 40 
 
 Doubt not but I will use my utmost skill 
 So that the Pope attend to your complaint. 
 
 Beatkice. 
 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, 45 
 
 Here I stand bickering with my only friend ! (To OiiSiNO) 
 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 shew of love he mocks oc 
 
 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, bi 
 
 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 et 
 
 In his dark spirit from th'^n^^^.t; I none. 
 At supper I will give you . petition : 
 Till when — farewell. 
 
SCENE III.] THE CENCI. 15 
 
 OflSINO. 
 
 Parewell. {Exit Beatrice.) I know the Pope 
 Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly vow 
 But by absolving me from the revenue 65 
 
 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, 70 
 
 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, 75 
 
 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 so 
 
 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 anatomize me nerve by nerve 85 
 
 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, 90 
 
 If she escape me. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A MAGNIFICENT HaLL IN THE CeNCI PaLACE. A BaNQUET. EnTER 
 
 CENCI, LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, ORSINO, CAMILLO, NOBLES. 
 
 'fCI. 
 Welcome, my friends v kinsmen; welcome ye, 
 Princes and Cardinals, jf lars of the church. 
 Whose presence honou^^ our festivity. 
 
16 THE CENCI. [act I. 
 
 I have too long lived like an anchorite, 
 
 And in my absence from your merry meetings s 
 
 An evil word is gone abroad of me; 
 
 But I do hope that you, my noble friends, 
 
 When you have shared the entertainment here, 
 
 And heard the pious cause for which 'tis given, 
 
 And we have pledged a health or two together, ^^ 
 
 Will think me flesh and blood as well as you; 
 
 Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so, 
 
 But tender-hearted, meek and pitiful. 
 
 First Guest. 
 In truth, my Lord, you seem too light of heart, 
 Too sprightly and companionable a man, i) 
 
 To act the deeds that rumour pins on you. 
 (To his companion) I never saw such blithe and open cheer 
 In any eye ! 
 
 Second Guest. 
 Some most desired event, 
 In which we all demand a common joy. 
 Has brought us hither; let us hear it, Count. 20 
 
 Cenci. 
 It is indeed a most desired event. 
 If when a parent from a parent's heart 
 Lifts from this earth to the great father of all 
 A prayer, both when he lays him down to sleep. 
 And when he rises up from dreaming it ; '^3 
 
 One supplication, one desire, one hope, 
 That he would grant a wish for his two sons, 
 Even all that he demands in their regard — 
 And suddenly beyond his dearest hope, 
 It is accomplished, he should then rejoice, so 
 
 And call his friends and kinsmen to a feast, 
 And task their love to grace his merriment, 
 Then honour me thus far — for I am he. 
 
 Beatrice (to Lucretia). 
 Great God ! How horrible ! Some dreadful ill 
 Must have befallen my brothers. 
 Lucretia. 
 
 Fear not, Child, 3f 
 He speaks too frankly. 
 
scKNEiii.] THE CENCI. 17 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Ah! My blood runs cold. 
 I fear that wicked laughter round his eye, 
 Which wrinkles up the skin even to the hair. 
 
 Cenci. 
 Here are the letters brought from Salamanca; 
 Beatrice, read them to your mother. God! 40 
 
 I thank thee! In one night didst thou perform, 
 By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought. 
 My disobedient and rebellious sons 
 
 Are dead ! — Why dead! — What means this change of cheer? 
 You hear me not, I tell you they are dead; 45 
 
 And they will need no food or raiment more : 
 The tapers that did light them the dark way 
 Are their last cost. The Pope, I think, will not 
 Expect I should maintain them in their coffins. 
 Eejoice with me — my heart is wondrous glad. 50 
 
 Beatrice. 
 {Lucretia sinks, half fainting ; Beati^ice supports her.) 
 It is not true! — Dear lady, pray look up. 
 Had it been true, there is a God in Heaven, 
 He would not live to boast of such a boon. 
 Unnatural man, thou knowest that it is false. 
 
 Cenci. 
 Aye, as the word of God; whom here I call 55 
 
 To witness that I speak the sober truth; — 
 And whose most favouring Providence was shewn 
 Even in the manner of their deaths. For Eocco 
 
 (Was kneeling at the mass, with sixteen others, 
 When the church fell and crushed him to a mummy, eo 
 The rest escaped unhurt. Cristofano 
 Was stabbed in error by a jealous man, 
 Whilst she he loved was sleeping with his rival; 
 All in the self-same hour of the same night; 
 Which shews that Heaven has special care of me. es 
 I beg those friends who love me, that they mark 
 The day a feast upon their calendars. 
 It was the twenty-seventh of December: 
 Aye, read the letters if you doubt my oath. 
 {The assembly appears confused; several of the guests rise.) 
 
18 THE CENCI. [act i. 
 
 First Guest. 
 Oh, horrible! I will depart. — 
 
 Second Guest. 
 
 And I.— 
 Third Guest. 
 
 No, stay ! 70 
 
 I do believe it is some jest; tho' faith! 
 'Tis mocking us somewhat too solemnly. 
 I think his son has married the Infanta, 
 Or found a mine of gold in El dorado ; 
 'Tis but to season some such news ; stay, stay ! 75 
 
 I see 'tis only raillery by his smile. 
 Cenci. 
 (filling a howl of wine, and lifting it up) 
 Oh, thou bright wine whose purple splendour leaps 
 And bubbles gaily in this golden bowl 
 Under the lamp-light, as my spirits do. 
 To hear the death of my accursed sons ! so 
 
 Could I believe thou wert their mingled blood, 
 Then would I taste thee like a sacrament, 
 And pledge with thee the mighty Devil in Hell, 
 ' Who, if a father's curses, as men say. 
 Climb with swift wings after their children's souls, 85 
 And drag them from the very throne of Heaven, 
 Now triumphs in my triumph ! — But thou art 
 Superfluous; I have drunken deep of joy. 
 And I will taste no other wine to-night. 
 Here, Andrea! Bear the bowl around. 
 A Guest (rising). 
 
 Thou wretch ! so 
 Will none among this noble company 
 Check the abandoned villain ? 
 Camillo. 
 
 For God's sake 
 Let me dismiss the guests ! You are insane. 
 Some ill will come of this. 
 
 Second Guest. 
 
 Seize, silence him ! 9i 
 
 First Guest. 
 I will! 
 
bckne 111.] the cenci. 19 
 
 Third Guest. 
 And I! 
 
 Cenci. {Addressing those who rise with a threatening gesture) 
 Who moves ? Who speaks ? 
 {Turning to the Gom'pany) 'tis nothing, 
 Enjoy yourselves. — Beware! For my revenge 96 
 
 Is as the sealed commission of a king 
 That kills, and none dare name the murderer. 
 
 {The Banquet is broken up; several of the Guests are departing.) 
 Beatrice. 
 I do entreat you, go not, noble guests; 
 What, although tyranny and impious hate loo 
 
 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 los 
 
 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 ! 0, think ! no 
 
 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 
 Kemained, have sought by patience, love and tears ii5 
 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, 120 
 
 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. 125 
 
 Oh ! Prince Colonna, thou art our near kinsman, 
 Cardinal, thou art the Pope's chamberlain, 
 Camillo, thou art chief justiciary, 
 Take us away ! 
 
20 the cenci. 
 
 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 i3o 
 
 Of their own throats — before they lend an ear 
 To this wild girl. 
 
 Beatkice. (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 135 
 
 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 ! ho 
 
 Camillo. 
 A bitter wish for one so young and gentle \ 
 -Can we do nothing? 
 
 COLONNA. 
 
 Nothing that I see. 
 Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy: 
 Yet I would second any one. 
 
 A Cardinal. 
 
 And I. 
 Cenci. 
 Eetire to your chamber, insolent girl ! us 
 
 Beatrice. 
 Eetire thou impious man ! Aye hide tliyself 
 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, iso 
 
 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 : 155 
 
SCENE III.] THE CENCI. 21 
 
 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 leo 
 
 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 hit Cenci and Beatrice.) 
 
 My brain is swimming round ; 
 Give me a bowl of wine ! (To Beatrice) Thou painted viper ! 
 Beast that thou art ! Fair and yet terrible ! luti 
 
 I know a charm shall make thee meek and tame, 
 Now get thee from my sight! (Exit Beatrice.) 
 
 Here, Andrea, 
 Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I said 
 I would not drink this evening; but I must; no 
 
 For, strange to say, I feel my spirits fail 
 With thinking what I have decreed to do. — 
 
 (Drinking the wine) 
 Be thou the resolution of quick youth 
 Within my veins, and manhood's purpose stern. 
 And age's firm, cold, subtle villainy; 175 
 
 As if thou wert indeed my children's blood 
 Which I did thirst to drink! The charm works well; 
 It must be done; it shall be done, I swear! (Exit) 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT. 
 
22 THE CENCI. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. Enter LUCRETIA and 
 BERNARDO. 
 
 LuCRETIA. 
 
 Weep not, my gentle boy; he struck but me 
 
 Who have borne deeper wrongs. In truth, if he 
 
 Had killed me, he had done a kinder deed. 
 
 0, God Almighty, do thou look upon us. 
 
 We have no other friend but only thee ! 6 
 
 Yet weep not; though I love you as my own, 
 
 I am not your true mother. 
 
 Beknardo. 
 
 Oh more, more, 
 Than ever mother was to any child, 
 That have you been to me ! Had he not been 
 My father, do you think that I should weep? lo 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 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 15 
 
 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, 20 
 
 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? 
 
scene i.] the cenci. 23 
 
 Servant. 
 My master bids me say, the Holy Eather 
 Has sent back your petition thus unopened. {Giving a paper) 
 And he demands at what hour 'twere secure 26 
 
 To visit you again? 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 At the Ave Mary. (Exit Servant.) 
 So, daughter, our last hope has failed ; Ah me ! 
 How pale you look; you tremble, and you stand 
 Wrapped in some fixed and fearful meditation, 3) 
 
 As if one thought were over strong for you: 
 Your eyes have a chill glare; 0, 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 talked of something that your father did 35 
 
 After that dreadful feast? Could it be worse 
 
 Than when he smiled, and cried, My sons are dead! 
 
 And every one looked in his neighbour's face 
 
 To see if others were as white as he? 
 
 At the first word he spoke I felt the blood 40 
 
 Eush 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 
 
 Checked his unnatural pride; and I could see 
 
 The devil was rebuked that lives in him. • 45 
 
 Until this hour thus have you 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 50 
 
 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 dai-k and bloody, 55 
 
 Yet never — ! Before worse comes of it 
 'Twere wise to die: it ends in that at last. 
 
24 THE CENCI. [ACT II. 
 
 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 6o 
 
 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 05 
 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 70 
 
 Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet limbs, 
 And I have never yet despaired — but now! 
 What could 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; 75 
 
 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. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Nay, Beatrice; have courage my sweet girl, so 
 
 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, And some husband, 
 
 And smile, years hence, with children round your knees; s5 
 
 Whilst I, then dead^ and all this hideous coil 
 
 Shall be remembered 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? so 
 
BCENBL] THE CENCI. 25 
 
 And had we any other friend but you 
 
 In infancy, with gentle words and looks, 
 
 To win our father not to murder us ? 
 
 And shall I now desert you ? May the ghost 
 
 Of my dead Mother plead against my soul »5 
 
 If I abandon her who filled 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 loo 
 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 hack, and covers her face) 
 
 Nay, hide not your face, 'tis fair; los 
 
 Look up! Why, yesternight 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. no 
 
 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, and who with tottering steps 
 Fled from your presence, as you now from mine. 
 Stay, I command you — from this day and hour ii5 
 
 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 1 120 
 Thou too, loathed image of thy cursM mother, 
 
26 THE CENCL [act ii. 
 
 {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 : 125 
 
 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 ? 130 
 
 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 ? 
 J~~Whom in one night merciful God cut off: 135 
 
 \ 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, uo 
 
 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 us 
 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 150 
 
 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 
 
SCENE I.] THE CENCI. 27 
 
 Against me, and escape, and laugh to scorn 
 What every nerve of you now trembles at ? 155 
 
 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 leo 
 
 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 i65 
 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 underground, and its thick towers no 
 
 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; 175 
 
 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. iso 
 
 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 iss 
 
 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 
 
 For me : I bear a darker deadlier gloom 
 
 Than the earth's shade, or interlunar air, 190 
 
28 THE CENCI. [ACT II. 
 
 Or constellations quenched in murkiest cloud, 
 
 In which I walk secure and unbeheld 
 
 Towards my purpose. — Would that it were done ! {Exit) 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 A Chamber in the Vatican. Enter CAMILLO and GIACOMO, 
 
 IN CONVERSATION. 
 
 Ca'millo. 
 There is an obsolete and doubtful law 
 By which you might obtain a bare provision 
 Of food and clothing — 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 Nothing more ? Alas 1 
 Bare must be the provision which strict law 
 Awards, and ag^d, sullen avarice pays. 6 
 
 Why did my father not apprentice me 
 To some mechanic trade ? I should have then 
 Been trained in no highborn necessities 
 Which I could meet not by my daily toiL 
 The eldest son of a rich nobleman lo 
 
 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, 15 
 
 To that which nature doth indeed require ? — 
 
 Camillo. 
 Nay, there is reason in your plea; 'twere hard. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 'Tis hard for a firm man to bear: but I 
 
 Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth, 
 
 Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my father 20 
 
 Without a bond or witness to the deed: 
 
 And children, who inherit her fine senses, 
 
 The fairest creatures in this breathing world; 
 
 And she and they reproach me not. Cardinal, 
 
8CKNE II.] THE CENCI. 29 
 
 Do you not think the Pope would interpose ^5 
 
 And stretch authority beyond the law? 
 
 Camillo. 
 Though your peculiar case is hard, I know 
 The Pope will not divert the course of law. 
 After that impious feast the other night 
 I spoke with him, and urged him then to check 3o 
 
 Your father's cruel hand; he frowned and said, 
 "Children are disobedient, and they sting 
 "Their fathers' hearts to madness and despair, 
 " Eequiting years of care with contumely. 
 "I pity the Count Cenci from my heart; 35 
 
 "His outraged love perhaps awakened hate, 
 "And thus he is exasperated to ill. 
 "In the great war between the old and young 
 "I, who have white hairs and a tottering body, 
 "Will keep at least blameless neutrality.'^ 40 
 
 Enter Orsino. 
 You, my good Lord Orsino, heard those words. 
 
 Oesino. 
 What words? 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 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, 45 
 
 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 the meanest slave 50 
 
 What these endure; shall they have no protection? 
 
 Camillo. 
 Why, if they would petition to the Pope 
 I see not how he could refuse it — yet 
 He holds it of most dangerous example 
 In aught to weaken the paternal power, 55 
 
 Being, as 'twere, the shadow of his own. 
 I pray you now excuse me. I have business 
 That will not bear delay. (Exit Camillo.) 
 
30 THE CENCI. [act II. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 But you, Orsino, 
 Have the petition : wherefore not present it ? 
 
 Oesino. 
 I have presented it, and backed it with eo 
 
 My earnest prayers, and urgent interest; 
 It was returned unanswered. I doubt not 
 But that the strange and execrable deeds 
 Alleged in it — in truth they might well baffle 
 Any belief — have turned the Pope's displeasure 65 
 
 Upon the accusers from tlie criminal: 
 So I should guess from what Camillo said. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 My friend, that palace-walking devil Gold 
 
 Has whispered silence to his Holiness: 
 
 And we are left, as scorpions ringed with fire. to 
 
 What should we do but strike ourselves to deatli ? 
 
 Tor he who is our murderous persecutor 
 
 Is shielded. by a father's holy name. 
 
 Or I would — (stojps abruptly) 
 
 OPtSINO. 
 
 What? Fear not to speak your thought. 
 Words are but holy as the deeds they cover: 75 
 
 A priest who has forsworn the God he serves ; 
 A judge who makes Truth weep at his decree; 
 A friend who should weave counsel, as I now, 
 But as the mantle of some selfish guile ; 
 A father who is all a tyrant seems, so 
 
 Were the profaner for his sacred name. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 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, ss 
 
 Which have no words, their horror makes them dim 
 To the mind's eye. — My heart denies itself 
 To think what you demand. 
 
 Orsino. 
 
 But a friend's bosom 
 Is as the inmost cave of our own mind 
 
SCENE II.] THE CENCI. 31 
 
 Where we sit shut from the wide gaze of day, »o 
 
 And from the all-communicating air. 
 You look what I suspected — 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 Spare me now! 
 I am as one lost in a midnight wood, 
 Who dares not ask some harmless passenger 
 The path across the wilderness, lest he, w 
 
 As my thoughts are, should be — a murderer. 
 I know you are my friend, and all I dare 
 Speak to my soul that will I trust with thee. 
 But now my heart is heavy, and would take 
 Lone counsel from a night of sleepless care. loo 
 
 Pardon me, that I say farewell^ — farewell ! 
 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 105 
 
 To feed his hope with cold encouragement: 
 It fortunately serves my close designs 
 That 'tis a trick of this same family 
 To analyse their own and other minds. 
 Such self- anatomy shall teach the will no 
 
 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 unveiled me to myself, 115 
 
 And made me shrink from what I cannot shun. 
 Shew 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 120 
 
 If Cenci should be murdered? — Yet, if murdered. 
 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 
 
32 THE CENCI. [act h 
 
 I fear a man whose blows outspeed his words; 123 
 
 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 130 
 
 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, 135 
 
 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 no 
 
 I clasp the phantom of unfelt delights 
 
 Till weak imagination half possesses 
 
 The self-created shadow. Yet much longer 
 
 Will I not nurse this life of feverous hours : 
 
 From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo 145 
 
 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 150 
 
 From the dread manner of her wish achieved: 
 
 And she! — Once more take courage my faint heart; 
 
 What dares a friendless maiden matched with thee ? 
 
 I have such foresight as assures success: 
 
 Some unbeheld divinity doth ever, 155 
 
 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 160 
 
 Till it become his slave ... as I will do. {Exit) 
 
 END OF THE SECOND ACT. 
 
fcCENK I.] THE CENCI. 33 
 
 ACT HI. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 An Apartmknt in the Cknci Palace. LUCRETIA, to hek enter 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 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 1 Alas ! 5 
 
 What has befallen ? 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 How comes this hair undone ? 
 Its wandering strings must be what blind me so, 
 And yet I tied it fast. — 0, horrible ! 
 The pavement sinks under my feet 1 The walls 
 Spin round ! I see a woman weeping there, 10 
 
 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 is 
 
 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, 20 
 
 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 ! 25 
 
34 THE CENCI. [act hi. 
 
 (wore 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 30 
 
 O'er these dull eyes. . . upon this weary heart ! 
 
 0, world ! 0, life ! 0, day ! 0, 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 35 
 
 The source from which it sprung. . . 
 Beateice {franticly). 
 
 Like Parricide. . . 
 Misery lias 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 (douUfully). 
 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, suhdued 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; 45 
 
 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 ! so 
 
 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 55 
 
 As. . . (paicses, suddenly recollecting herself) 
 Who art thou ? Swear to me, ere I die 
 With fearful expectation, that indeed 
 Thou art not what thou seemest. . . Mother ! 
 
8CEKEI.] THE CENCI. 35 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Oh! 
 
 My sweet child, know you. . . 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Yet speak it not: 
 For then if this be truth, that other too eo 
 
 Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth, 
 Linked with each lasting circumstance of life, 
 ISTever to change, never to pass away. 
 Why so it is. This is the Cenci Palace; 
 Thou art Lucretia; I am Beatrice. 65 
 
 I have talked some wild words, but will no more. 
 Mother, come near me : from this point of time, 
 I am. . . {her voice dies avmy faintly) 
 
 LUCEETIA. 
 
 Alas! What has befallen thee, child? 
 AVhat 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? 75 
 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? £o 
 
 Thou art unhke 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 ss 
 
 I shall go mad. Aye, something must be done; 
 What, yet I know not. . . something which shall make 
 
36 THE CENCI. [ACT Til. 
 
 The thing that I have suffered but a shadow 
 
 In the dread lightning which avenges it; 
 
 ]>rief, rapid, irreversible, destroying m 
 
 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 any thing will move me more. 
 
 But now ! — Oh blood, which art my father's blood, 95 
 
 Circling thro' 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 lao 
 
 Who sees and permits evil, and so die : 
 
 That faith no agony shall obscure in me. 
 
 LUCEETIA. 
 
 It must indeed have been some bitter wrong ; 
 Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh, my lost child, 
 "Hide not in proud impenetrable grief 105 
 
 Thy sufferings from my fear. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 I hide them not. 
 What are the words which you 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 no 
 
 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, 115 
 
 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 
 
BCENK I.] THE CEXCr. 37 
 
 Of crime, or tlie reward of trampling down 
 
 The thorns which God has strewed upon the path 
 
 Which leads to immortality. 
 
 BEATrvICE. 
 
 Aye, death. . . 125 
 
 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 iso 
 
 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 : — ! In this mortal world 
 There is no vindication and no law 135 
 
 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. no 
 
 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, us 
 
 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 im 
 
 Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak! 
 
38 THE CENCI. [AcriiL 
 
 Orsino. 
 Accuse him of the deed, and let the law 
 Aveuge thee. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 Oh, ice-hearted counsellor! 
 If I could find a word that might make known 
 The crime of my destroyer; and that done, ir,t 
 
 My tongue should like a knife tear out the secret 
 Which cankers my heart's core; aye, lay all bare 
 So that my unpolluted fame should be 
 With vilest gossips a stale mouthM story; 
 A mock, a bye-word, an astonishment: — leo 
 
 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, wrapt i65 
 
 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) Aye, 
 All must be suddenly resolved and done. 
 AVhat is this undistinguishable mist no 
 
 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 175 
 
 Utterly lost; subdued even to the hue 
 Of that which thou permittest? 
 
 Beatrice (To herself). 
 
 Mighty death ! 
 Thou double-visaged shadow! Only judge! 
 Ptightfullest arbiter! (SJie retires absorbed in thoitght) 
 
BCENEi.] THE CENCI. 39 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 If the lightning 
 Of God has e'er descended to avenge. . . i«o 
 
 Oesino. 
 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? iss 
 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 ifo 
 
 Redress most swift and sure, our injurer triumphs? 
 And we, the victims, bear worse punishment 
 Than that appointed for their torturer? 
 
 OllSINO. 
 
 Think not 
 But that there is redress where there is wrong, 
 So we be bold enough to seize it. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 How ? 195 
 
 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 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 ?05 
 
 Might find them with less need. (Beatrice advancesi.'^ 
 
40 thl: CENCI. [act m. 
 
 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 ht 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 past, 215 
 
 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, 22{) 
 
 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, 225 
 
 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, 
 
8CENKI.] Tiir: CEXCi. 41 
 
 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, 235 
 
 The meanest or the noblest life. This mood 
 Is marketable here in Eome. 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. . . 
 
 Beathici:. 
 
 He must not arrive. 
 
 Orsino. 
 Will it be dark before you reach the tower? 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 'Hie 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, 245 
 
 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 gulph, and with the agony 25) 
 
 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 2.>5 
 
 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, 26a 
 
 With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag, 
 Cedars, and yews, and pines ; whose tangled hair 
 
42 THE CENCI. [act hi. 
 
 Is matted in one sulid roof of shade 
 
 By the dark ivy's twine. At noon-day here 
 
 'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night. ^eo 
 
 Orsino. 
 Before you reach that bridge make some excuse 
 Tor 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 
 
 Be turned . . . 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 iind me here, and I must bear 
 The imperious inquisition of his looks 275 
 
 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 ? 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 I sought him here ; 
 And now must wait till he returns. 
 Orsino. 
 
 Great God! aso 
 
 Weigh you the danger of this rashness ? 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 Aye! 
 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: 285 
 
 He has cast Nature off. which was his shield, 
 
BCF.NEI.] THE CENCI. 43 
 
 And Nature casts him off, who is her shame; 
 Aud 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, 295 
 
 Or I will. . . God can understand and pardon, 
 Why should I speak with man? 
 Orsino. 
 
 Be calm, dear friend. 
 GlACOMO. 
 Well, I will calmly tell you what he did. 
 This old Francesco Cenci, as you know. 
 Borrowed the dowry of my wife from me, soo 
 
 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 
 1 bought new clothing for my ragged babes, 805 
 
 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 sio 
 
 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 sis 
 
 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. 
 And when I knew the impression he had made. 
 And felt my wife insult with silent scorn 
 
44 THE CENCI. [aci hi. 
 
 My ardent truth, and look averse and cold, 
 1 went forth too : but soon returned again ; 325 
 
 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. 330 
 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 335 
 
 Will be denied. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 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, sw 
 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 34 > 
 
 Is, as it were, accomplished. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 Is he dead ? 
 Oesino. 
 His grave is ready. Know that since we met 
 Cenci has done an outrage to his daughter. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 What outrage ? 
 
 Orsino. 
 That she speaks not, but you may 
 Conceive such half conjectures as I do, soo 
 
 From her fixed paleness, and the lofty grief 
 Of her stern brow bent on the idle air, 
 
scKNKi.] THE CEXCI. 45 
 
 And lier severe unmodulated voice, 
 
 Drowning both tenderness and dread; and last 
 
 From this; that whilst her step-mother and I, S55 
 
 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 seo 
 
 Which told before she spoke it, he must die : . . . 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 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, 365 
 
 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 sro 
 
 Did not destroy each other! Is there made 
 Ravage of tliee ? 0, heart, I ask no more 
 Justification! Shall I wait, Orsino, 
 Till he return, and stab him at the door? 
 
 Oesiko. 
 N'ot so ; some accident might interpose 875 
 
 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. . . 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 'Tis my brother's voice ! You know me not ? sso 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 My sister, my lost sister ! 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Lost indeed! 
 I see Orsino has talked with you, and 
 That you conjecture things too horrible 
 
46 TEIE CENCI. [act hi. 
 
 To speak, yet far less than the truth. Kow, stay not, 
 He -might return: yet kiss me; I shall know asr, 
 
 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. 390 
 
 {Exeunt severally.) 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 A MEAN APARTMENT IN GlACOMO's HoUSE. GIACOMO ALONE. 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 'Tis midnight, and Orsiuo 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. 0, 
 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! 
 
f- 
 
 . 'the cexXci. 47 
 
 {a hell strikes) One I Two ! 
 
 Tlie hours crawl on ; and when- ray hairs are white, " 25 
 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; so 
 
 Yet. . . 'tis Orsino's step. . . 
 
 Enter Orsino. 
 
 Speak ! 
 
 Orsino. 
 
 I am come 
 To say he has escaped. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 Escaped ! 
 Orsino. 
 
 And safe 
 Within Petrella. He past by the spot 
 Appointed for 'the deed an hour too soon. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 Are we the fools of such contingencies ? 85 
 
 And do we waste in blind mis^rivinc^s thus 
 The hours when we should act ? Then wind and thunder, 
 Which seemed to howl his knell, is the loud laughter 
 With which Heaven mocks our weakness! I hencefortli 
 Will ne'er repent of aught designed or done 4j 
 
 But my repentance. 
 
 Orsino. 
 
 See, the lamp is out. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 If no remorse is ours when the dim air 
 
 Has drank this innocent flame, why should we quail 
 
 When Cenci's life, that light by which ill spirits 
 
 See the worst deeds they prompt, shall sink for ever? 45 
 
 No, I am hardened. 
 
 Orsino. 
 Why, what need of this? 
 Who feared the pale intrusion of remorse 
 In a just deed ? Altho* our first plan failed, 
 
48 THE CENCI. [actiii. 
 
 Doubt not but he will soon be laid to rest. 
 
 But light the lamp; let us not talk i' the dark. so 
 
 GiACOMO {lighting the lamp). 
 And yet once quenched I cannot thus relume 
 My father's life: do you not think his ghost 
 Might plead that argument with God ? 
 Oesino. 
 
 Once gone 
 You cannot now recall your sister's peace; 
 Your own extinguished years of youth and hope; «f' 
 Nor your wife's bitter words; nor all the taunts 
 Which, from the prosperous, weak misfortune takes; 
 Nor your dead mother; nor. . . 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 0, speak no more! 
 I am resolved, although this very hand 
 Must quench the life that animated it. eo 
 
 Orsino. 
 There is no need of that. Listen: you know 
 Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella 
 In old Colonna's time; him whom your father 
 33egraded from his post? And Marzio, 
 That desperate wretch, whom he dej^rived last year 65 
 Of a reward of blood, w^ell earned and due? 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 I knew Olimpio; and they say he hated 
 Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage 
 His .lips grew white only to see him pass. 
 Of Marzio I know nothing. 
 
 Orsino. 
 
 Marzio's hate 7o 
 
 Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these men, 
 But in your name, and as at your request. 
 To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 Only to talk? 
 
 Orsino. 
 The moments which even now 
 Pass onward to tomorrow's midnight hour 75 
 
scEWEii.] THE CENCI. 49 
 
 May memorize their flight with death: ere then 
 They must have talked, and may perhaps have done, 
 And made an end. . . , 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 Listen! What sound is that? 
 Orsino. 
 The housedog moans, and the beams crack : nought else. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 It is my wife complaining in her sleep: • so 
 
 I doubt not she is saying bitter things 
 Of me ; and all my children round her dreaming 
 That I deny them sustenance. 
 Oesino. 
 
 Whilst he 
 Who truly took it from them, and who fills 
 Their hungry rest with bitterness, now sleeps ss 
 
 Lapped in bad pleasures, and triumphantly 
 Mocks thee in visions of successful hate 
 Too like the truth of day. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 If e'er he wakes 
 Again, I will not trust to hireling hands. . . 
 
 Oesino. 
 Why, that were well. I must be gone; good night: 90 
 When next we meet — may all be done! 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 And all 
 Forgotten : Oh, that I had never been ! (Exeunt) 
 
 END OF IHE THIRD ACT. 
 
60 THE CENCI. [act IV. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 An Apartment in the Castle of Petrella. Enter CENCI. 
 
 Cenci. 
 She comes not; yet I left her even now 
 Vanquished and faint. She knows the penalty 
 Of her delay : yet what if threats are vain ? 
 Am I not now within Petrella's moat ? 
 Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Eome ? 6 
 
 Might I not drag her by the golden hair ? 
 Stamp on her? Keep her sleepless till her brain 
 Be overworn ? Tame her with chains and famine ? 
 Less would suffice. Yet so to leave undone 
 What I most seek ! No, 'tis her stubborn will lo 
 
 Which by its own consent shall stoop as low 
 As that which drags it down. 
 
 Enter Luceetia. 
 
 Thou loathed wretch! 
 Hide thee from my abhorrence; Ely, begone! 
 Yet stay! Bid Beatrice come hither. 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Oh, 
 Husband! I pray for thine own wretched sake is 
 
 Heed what thou dost. A man who walks like thee 
 Thro' crimes, and thro' the danger of his crimes. 
 Each hour may stumble o'er a sudden grave. 
 And thou art old; thy hairs are hoary gray; 
 As thou wouldst save thyself from death and hell, 20 
 Pity thy daughter; give her to some friend 
 In marriage : so that she may tempt thee not 
 To hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse there be. 
 
 Oencj. 
 What! like her sister who has found a home 
 To mock my hate from with prosperity ? 25 
 
 Strange ruin shall destroy both her and thee 
 
SCENE I.] THE CENCI. 51 
 
 And all that yet remain. My death may be 
 
 Eapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go, 
 
 Bid her come hither, and before my mood 
 
 Be changed, lest I should drag her by the hair. so 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 She sent me to thee, husband. At thy presence 
 
 She fell, as thou dost know, into a trance; 
 
 And in that trance she heard a voice which said, 
 
 "Cenci must die! Let him confess himself! 
 
 "Even now the accusing Angel waits to hear 35 
 
 "If God, to punish his enormous crimes, 
 
 "Harden his dying heart!" 
 
 Cenci. 
 
 Why — such things are. . . 
 No doubt divine revealings may be made. 
 Tis plain I have been favoured from above. 
 For when 1 cursed m"y sons they died. — AyeT^ . so. . . 40 
 As to the right or wrong that's talk. . . repentance. . . 
 Eepentance is an easy moment's work 
 And more depends on God than me. Well. . . well. . . 
 I must give up the greater point, which was 
 To poison and corrupt her soul. 45 
 
 {A jpause ; Lucretia approaches anxiously, and then shrinks 
 hack as he speaks.) 
 
 One, two; 
 Aye. . . Eocco and Cristofano my curse 
 Strangled: and Giacomo, I think, will find 
 Life a worse Hell than that beyond the grave: 
 Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate. 
 Die in despair, blaspheming: to Bernardo, so 
 
 He is so innocent, I will bequeath 
 The memory of these deeds, and make his youth 
 The sepulchre of hope, where evil thoughts 
 Shall grow like weeds on a neglected tomb. 
 When all is done, out in the wide Campagna, 55 
 
 I will pile up my silver and my gold ; 
 My costly robes, paintings and tapestries; 
 My parchments and all records of my wealth, 
 And make a bonfire in my joy, and leave 
 Of my possessions nothing but my name; 60 
 
52 THE CENCI. [act IV. 
 
 Which shall be an inheritance to strip 
 
 Its wearer bare as infamy. That done, 
 i My soul, which is a scourge, will I resign 
 ' Into the hands of him who wielded it; 
 
 Be it for its own punishment or theirs, es 
 
 He will not ask it of me till the lash 
 
 Be broken in its last and deepest wound; 
 
 Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet, 
 
 Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me make 
 
 Short work and sure. . . (going) 
 
 LUCRETIA. {Stops him) 
 
 Oh, stay! It was a feint: to 
 
 She had no vision, and she heard no voice. 
 
 I said it but to awe thee. 
 
 Cenci. 
 
 That is well. 
 
 Vile palterer with the sacred truth of God, 
 
 Be thy soul choked with that blaspheming lie ! 
 
 For Beatrice worse terrors are in store 7s 
 
 To bend her to my will. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Oh! to what will? 
 What cruel sufferings more than she has known 
 Canst thou inflict? 
 
 Cenci. 
 Andrea! Go call my daughter, 
 And if she comes not tell her that I come. 
 What sufferings ? I will drag her, step by step, S'l 
 
 Thro' infamies unheard of among men: 
 She shall stand shelterless in the broad noon 
 Of public scorn, for acts blazoned abroad. 
 One among which shall be . . .What ? Canst thou guess ? 
 She shall become, (for what she most abhors 85 
 
 Shall have a fascination to entrap 
 Her loathing will), to her own conscious self 
 All she appears to others; and when dead, 
 As she shall die unshrived and unforgiven, 
 A rebel to her father and her God, 9(j 
 
 Her corpse shall be abandoned to the hounds; 
 Her name shall be the terror of the earth; 
 
SCENE I.] THE CENCI. \. r ^ j/ 53 
 
 Her spirit shall approach the throne of God 
 
 Plague- spotted with my curses. I will make 
 
 Body and soul a monstrous lump of ruin. 95 
 
 Enter Andrea. 
 Andrea. 
 
 Tlie lady Beatrice . 
 Said she? 
 
 Cenci. 
 
 Speak, pale slave ! What 
 
 Andrea. 
 My Lord, 'twas what she looked; she said: 
 "Go tell my father that I see the gulph 
 " Of Hell between us two, which he may pass, 
 "I will not." 
 
 {Exit Andrea.) 
 Cenci. 
 Go thou quick, Lucretia, 100 
 
 Tell her to come; yet let her understand 
 Her coming is consent : and say, moreover. 
 That if she come not I will curse her. {Exit LuCRETiA.) 
 
 Ha! 
 With what but with a father's curse doth God 
 Panic-strike arm^d victory, and make pale 105 
 
 Cities in their prosperity? The world's Father 
 Must grant a parent's prayer against his child 
 Be he who asks even what men call me. 
 Will not the deaths of her rebellious brothers 
 Awe her before I speak ? Por I on them no 
 
 Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came. 
 
 Enter Lucretia. 
 Well ; what ? Speak, wretch ! 
 Lucretia. 
 
 She said, "I cannot come; 
 "Go tell my father that I see a torrent 
 " Of his own blood raging between us." 
 Cenci {kneeling). 
 
 God! 
 Hear me ! If this most specious mass of flesh, 115 
 
 Which thou hast made my daughter; this my blood, 
 
54 THE CENCI. [ACT IV. 
 
 This particle of my divided being; 
 
 Or rather, this my bane and my disease, 
 
 Whose sight infects and poisons me ; this devil 
 
 Which sprung from me as from a hell, was meant 120 
 
 To aught good use; if her bright loveliness 
 
 Was kindled to illumine this dark world; 
 
 If nursed by thy selectest dew of love 
 
 Such virtues blossom in her as should make 
 
 The peace of life, I pray thee for my sake, 125 
 
 As thou the common God and Father art 
 
 Of her, and me, and all ; reverse that doom ! 
 
 Earth, in the name of God, let her food be 
 
 Poison, until she be encrusted round 
 
 With leprous stains ! Heaven, rain upon her head lao 
 
 The blistering drops of the Maremma's dew. 
 
 Till she be speckled like a toad ; parch up 
 
 Those love-enkindled lips, warp those fine limbs 
 
 To loathed lameness! All beholding sun. 
 
 Strike in thine envy those life-darting eyes 135 
 
 With thine own blinding beams! 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Peace! Peace! 
 For thine own sake unsay those dreadful words. 
 When high God grants he punishes such prayers. 
 Cenci. 
 {Lea'ping up, and throwing his right hand towards Heaven) 
 He does his will, I mine ! This in addition, 
 That if she have a child . . . 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Horrible thought! wo 
 
 Cenci. 
 That if she ever have a child; and thou. 
 Quick Nature! I adjure thee by thy God, 
 That thou be fruitful in her, and encrease 
 And multiply, fulfilling his command. 
 And my deep imprecation! May it be 145 
 
 A hideous likeness of herself, that as 
 From a distorting mirror, she may see 
 Her image mixed with what she most abhors, 
 Smiling upon her from her nursing breast. 
 
SCENE I.] THE CENCI. 55 
 
 And that the child may from its infancy iso 
 
 Grow, day by day, more wicked and deformed, 
 
 Turning her mother's love to misery: 
 
 And that both she and it may live until 
 
 It shall repay her care and pain with hate, 
 
 Or what may else be more unnatural. 155 
 
 So he may hunt her through the clamorous scoffs 
 
 Of the loud world to a dishonoured grave. 
 
 Shall I revoke this curse ? Go, bid her come, 
 
 Before my words are chronicled in heaven. {Exit Lucretia.) 
 
 I do not feel as if I were a man, leo 
 
 But like a fiend appointed to chastise 
 
 The offences of some unremembered world. 
 
 My blood is running up and down my veins ; 
 
 A fearful pleasure makes it prick and tingle : 
 
 I feel a giddy sickness of strange awe; jee 
 
 My heart is beating with an expectation 
 
 Of horrid joy. 
 
 Enter LuCRETlA. 
 What? Speak! 
 
 LUOKETIA. 
 
 She bids thee curse ; 
 And if thy curses, as they cannot do, 
 Could kill her soul . . . 
 
 Cenci. 
 
 She would not come. 'Tis well, 
 I can do both : first take what I demand, 170 
 
 And then extort concession. To thy chamber! 
 riy ere I spurn thee: and beware this night 
 That thou cross not my footsteps. It were safer 
 To come between the tiger and his prey. (Exit Lucretia.) 
 It must be late ; mine eyes grow weary dim 175 
 
 With unaccustomed heaviness of sleep. 
 Conscience 1 Oh, thou most insolent of lies ! 
 They say that sleep, that healing dew of heaven. 
 Steeps not in balm the foldings of the brain 
 Which thinks thee an impostor. I will go iso 
 
 First to belie thee with an hour of rest. 
 Which will be deep and calm, I feel : and then . . . 
 0, multitudinous Hell, the fiends will shake 
 
56 THE CENCI. [ACT IV. 
 
 Thine arches with the laughter of their joy ! 
 
 There shall be lamentation heard in Heaven isa 
 
 As o'er an angel fallen; and upon Earth 
 
 All good shall droop and sicken, and ill things 
 
 Shall with a spirit of unnatural life 
 
 Stir and be quickened . . . even as I am now. {Exit.) 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Before the Castle op Petrella. Enter BEATRICE and 
 LUCRETIA ABOVE on the Eamparts. 
 
 Beateice. 
 They come not yet. 
 
 LUCKETIA. 
 
 'Tis scarce midnight. 
 Beateice. 
 
 How slow 
 Behind the course of thought, even sick with speed, 
 Lags leaden-footed time! 
 
 LUCEETIA. 
 
 The minutes pass ... 
 If he should wake before the deed is done ? 
 
 Beateice. 
 0, Mother! He must never wake again. 5 
 
 What thou hast said persuades me that our act 
 Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell 
 Out of a human form. 
 
 LUCEETIA. 
 
 'Tis true he spoke 
 Of death and judgment with strange confidence 
 For one so wicked; as a man believing 10 
 
 In God, yet recking not of good or ilL 
 And yet to die without confession ! . . . 
 Beateice. 
 
 Oh! 
 Believe that Heaven is merciful and just, 
 And will not add our dread necessity 
 
SCENE II.] THE CENCI. 57 
 
 To the amount of his offences. 
 
 Enter Olimpio and Maezio, heloiv. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 See, 15 
 
 They come. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 All mortal things must hasten thus 
 To their dark end. Let us go down. 
 
 (Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice from above.) 
 Olimpio. 
 How feel you to this work ? 
 Marzio. 
 
 As one who thinks 
 A thousand crowns excellent market price 
 For an old murderer's life. Your cheeks are pale. 20 
 
 Olimpio. 
 It is the white reflexion of your own, 
 Which you call pale. 
 
 Marzio. 
 
 Is that their natural hue? 
 Olimpio. 
 Or 'tis my hate and the deferred desire 
 To wreak it, which extinguishes their blood. 
 
 Marzio. 
 You are inclined then to this business? 
 Olimpio. 
 
 Aye. 25 
 
 If one should bribe me with a thousand crowns 
 To kill a serpent which had stung my child, 
 I could not be more willing. 
 
 Enter Beatrice and Lucretia, heloio, 
 Noble ladies 1 
 Beatrice. 
 Are ye resolved? 
 
 Olimpio. 
 Is he asleep? 
 Marzio. 
 
 Is all 
 Quiet ? 
 
bS THE CENCI. [act IV. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 I mixed an opiate with his drink: so 
 
 He sleeps so soundly. . . 
 
 Beateice. 
 
 That his death will he 
 But as a change of sin- chastising dreams, 
 A dark continuance of the Hell within him, 
 "Which God extinguish! But ye are resolved? 
 Ye know it is a high and holy deed? ss 
 
 Olimpio. 
 We are resolved. 
 
 Marzio. 
 As to the how this act 
 Be warranted, it rests with you. 
 Beatrice. 
 
 WeU, follow! 
 Olimpio. 
 Hush! Hark! What noise is that? 
 Marzio. 
 
 Ha ! some one comes ! 
 Beatrice. 
 Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to rest 
 Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate, 40 
 
 Which ye left open, swinging to the wind, 
 That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, follow! 
 And be your steps like mine, light, quick and bold. 
 
 (Uxeunt) 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 An Apartment in the Castle. Enter BEATRICE and 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 They are about it now. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Nay, it is done* 
 
 LuCRETIA, 
 
 I have not heard him groan. 
 
SCENE III.] THE CENCI. 59 
 
 Beatrice. 
 H 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 He will not groan. 
 
 What sound is that? 
 About his bed. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 List! 'tis the tread of feet 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 My God! 
 If he be now a cold stiff corpse. . . 
 Beatrice. 
 
 0, fear not 
 What may be done, but what is left undone: 
 The act seals all. 
 
 Enter Olimpio and Marzio. 
 Is it accomplished? 
 Marzio. 
 
 What? 
 Olimpio. 
 Did you not call? 
 
 Beatrice. 
 When ? 
 Olimpio. 
 
 Kow. 
 Beatrice. 
 
 I ask if all is over? 
 Olimpio. 
 We dare not kill an old and sleeping man; 
 His thin grey hair, his stern and reverent brow, : 
 
 His veinM hands crossed on his heaving breast, 
 And the calm innocent sleep in which he lay, 
 Quelled me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot do it. 
 
 Marzio. 
 But I was bolder; for I chid OUmpio, 
 And bade him bear his wrongs to his own grave i 
 
 And leave me the reward. And now my knife 
 Touched the loose wrinkled throat, when the old man 
 Stirred in his sleep, and said, "God! hear, 0, hear, 
 "A father's curse! What, art thou not our father?" 
 
60 THE CENCI. [ACT IV. 
 
 And then he laughed. I knew it was the ghost 20 
 
 Of my dead father speaking through his lips, 
 And could not kill him. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Miserable slaves ! 
 Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man, 
 Found ye the boldness to return to me 
 With such a deed undone ? Base palterers ! 25 
 
 Cowards and traitors! Why, the very conscience 
 Which ye would sell for gold and for revenge 
 Is an equivocation: it sleeps over 
 A thousand daily acts disgracing men ; 
 And when a deed where mercy insults heaven. , . so 
 Why do I talk? 
 (Snatching a dagger from one of them and raising it.) 
 
 Hadst thou a tongue to say, 
 She murdered her own father, I must do it! 
 But never dream ye shall outlive him long! 
 
 Olimpio. 
 Stop, for God's sake! 
 
 Marzio. 
 I will go back and kill him. 
 
 Olimpio. 
 Give me the weapon, we must do thy will. 35 
 
 Beatrice. 
 Take it ! Depart ! Eeturn ! {Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio.) 
 
 How pale thou art! 
 We do but that which 'twere a deadly crime 
 To leave undone. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Would it were done! 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Even whilst 
 That doubt is passing through your mind, the world 
 Is conscious of a change. Darkness and hell -lo 
 
 Have swallowed up the vapour they sent forth 
 To blacken the sweet light of life. My breath 
 Comes, methinks, lighter, and the jellied blood 
 Euns freely thro' my veins. Hark! 
 
scfiNB III.] THE CENCI. 61 
 
 Enter Olimpio and Marzio. 
 
 He is. . . 
 Olimpio. 
 
 Dead! 
 Marzio. 
 We strangled him that there might be no blood; 45 
 And then we threw his heavy corpse i' the garden 
 Under the balcony; 'twill seem it fell. 
 
 Beatrice, {giving them a hag of coin) 
 Here, take this gold, and hasten to your homes. 
 And, Marzio, because thou wast only awed 
 By that which made me tremble, wear thou this ! so 
 
 {Clothes him in a rich mantle) 
 It was the mantle which my grandfather 
 Wore in his high prosperity, and men 
 Envied his state : so may they envy thine. 
 Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God 
 To a just use. Live long and thrive! And, mark, 55 
 If thou hast crimes, repent: this deed is none. 
 {A horn is sounded.) 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Hark, 'tis the castle horn; my God! it sounds 
 Like the last trump. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 Some tedious guest is coming. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 The drawbridge is let down; there is a tramp 
 Of horses in the court; fly, hide yourselves! 60 
 
 {Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio.) 
 Beatrice. 
 Let us retire to counterfeit deep rest; 
 I scarcely need to counterfeit it now: 
 The spirit which doth reign within these limbs 
 Seems strangely undisturbed. I could even sleep 
 Fearless and calm: all ill is surely past. {Exeunt.) 65 
 
62 THE CENCI. [act IV. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Another Apartment in the Castle. Enter on one side the 
 Legate SAVELLA, introduced by a Servant, and on the 
 other LUCEETIA and BERNARDO. 
 
 Savella, 
 Lady, my duty to his Holiness 
 Be my excuse that thus unseasonably 
 I break upon your rest. I must speak with 
 Count Cenci ; doth he sleep ? 
 
 LUCEETIA. (in a hurried and confused manner) 
 
 I think he sleeps ; 
 Yet wake him not, I pray, spare me awhile, 5 
 
 He is a wicked and a wrathful man ; 
 Should he be roused out of his sleep to-night. 
 Which is, I know, a hell of angry dreams, 
 It were not well ; indeed it were not well. 
 Wait till day break. . . . (aside) 0, 1 am deadly sick ! lo 
 
 Savella. 
 I grieve thus to distress you, but the Count 
 Must answer charges of the gravest import, 
 And suddenly; such my commission is. 
 
 LUCRETIA. (with increased agitation) 
 I dare not rouse him : I know none who dare. . . 
 'Twere perilous ; . . . you might as safely waken is 
 
 A serpent ; or a corpse in which some fiend 
 Were laid to sleep. 
 
 Savella. 
 
 Lady, my moments here 
 Are counted. I must rouse him from his sleep, 
 Since none else dare. 
 
 LuCEETiA (aside.) 
 
 0, terror! 0, despair! is 
 
 (To Bernardo) Bernardo, conduct you the Lord Legate to 
 Your father's chamber. (Exeunt Savella and Bernardo.) 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
scene iv.] the cenci. 63 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 'Tis a messenger 
 Come to arrest the culprit who now stands 
 Before the throne of unappealable God. 
 Both Earth and Heaven, consenting arbiters, 
 Acquit our deed. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Oh, agony of fear! 25 
 
 Would that he yet might live! Even now I heard 
 The Legate's followers whisper as they passed 
 They had a warrant for his instant death. 
 All was prepared by unforbidden means 
 Which we must pay so dearly, having done. 30 
 
 Even now they search the tower, and find the body; 
 Now they suspect the truth; now they consult 
 Before they come to tax us with the fact; 
 0, horrible, 'tis all discovered! 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Mother, 
 What is done wisely, is done well. Be bold 35 
 
 As thou art just. 'Tis like a truant child 
 To fear that others know what thou hast done. 
 Even from thine own strong consciousness, and thus 
 Write on unsteady eyes and altered cheeks 
 All thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to thyself, 40 
 
 And fear no other witness but thy fear. 
 For if, as cannot be, some circumstance 
 Should rise in accusation, we can blind 
 Suspicion with such cheap astonishment, 
 Or overbear it with such guiltless pride, 45 
 
 As murderers cannot feign. The deed is done, 
 And what may follow now regards not me. 
 I am as universal as the light; 
 Eree as the earth-surrounding air; as firm 
 As the world's centre. Consequence, to me, 50 
 
 Is as the wind which strikes the solid rock 
 But shakes it not. (A cry within and tumult) 
 
 Voices. 
 Murder! Murder! Murder! 
 Enter Bernardo and Savella. 
 
64 THE CENCI. [act IV. 
 
 Savella (to his followers). 
 Go search the castle round; sound the alarm; 
 Look to the gates that none escape! 
 Beatkice. 
 
 What now? 
 Bernardo. 
 I know not what to say. . . my father's dead. 55 
 
 Beatrice. 
 How ; dead ! he only sleeps ; you mistake, brother. 
 His sleep is very calm, very like death; 
 'Tis wonderful how well a tyrant sleeps. 
 He is not dead ? 
 
 Bernardo. 
 
 Dead; murdered. 
 
 LuCRETiA. (with extreme agitation) 
 
 Oh, no, no, 
 He is not murdered though he may be dead; eo 
 
 I have alone the keys of those apartments. 
 
 Savella. 
 Ha! Is it so? 
 
 Beatrice. 
 My Lord, I pray excuse us; 
 "We will retire; my mother is not well: 
 She seems quite overcome with this strange horror. 
 (Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice.) 
 Savella. 
 Can you suspect who may have murdered him ? 65 
 
 Bernardo. 
 I know not what to think. 
 
 Savella. 
 
 Can you name any 
 Who had an interest in his death? 
 Bernardo. 
 
 Alas ! 
 I can name none who had not, and those most 
 Who most lament that such a deed is done; 
 My mother, and my sister, and myself. 70 
 
 Savella. 
 'Tis strange! There were clear marks of violence. 
 
SCENE IV.] THE CENCI. 65 
 
 I found the old man's body in the moonlight 
 Hanging beneath the window of his chamber, 
 Among the branches of a pine: he could not 
 Have fallen there, for all liis limbs lay heaped 75 
 
 And effortless ; 'tis true there was no blood . . . 
 Favour me, Sir; it much imports your house 
 That all should be made clear; to tell the ladies 
 That I request their presence. {Exit Bernakdo.) 
 
 Enter Guards bringing in Mahzio. 
 Guard. 
 
 We have one. 
 Officer. 
 My Lord, we found this ruffian and another so 
 
 Lurking among the rocks; there is no doubt 
 })Ut that they are the murderers of Count Cenci: 
 Each had a bag of coin; this fellow wore 
 A orold-inwoven robe, which shininf:^ bright 
 
 O ' DO 
 
 Under the dark rocks to the glimmering moon 85 
 
 Betrayed them to our notice: the other fell 
 Desperately fighting. 
 
 Savella. 
 
 What does he confess ? 
 Officer. 
 He keeps firm silence; but these lines found on him 
 May speak. 
 
 Savella. 
 Their language is at least sincere, {reads) 
 To THE Lady Beatrice. 
 "That the atonement of what my nature no 
 
 " Sickens to conjecture may soon arrive, 
 " I send thee, at thy brother's desire, those 
 "Who will speak and do more than I dare 
 " Write. . . Thy devoted servant, Orsino." 
 
 Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Bernardo. 
 Knowest thou this writing. Lady ? 
 Beatrice. 
 
 No. 
 Savella, 
 
 Nor thou? »5 
 
66 THE CENCL [act iv. 
 
 Luc RET! A. 
 
 {Rer conduct throughout the scene is marhed hy extreme 
 
 agitation.) 
 Where was it found ? What is it ? It should be 
 Orsino's hand ! It speaks of that strange horror 
 Which never yet found utterance, but which made 
 Between that hapless child and her dead father 
 A gulph of obscure hatred. 
 
 Savella. 
 
 Is it so ? 100 
 
 Is it true, Lady, that thy father did 
 Such outrages as to awaken in thee 
 Unfilial hate? 
 
 Beatkice. 
 Not hate 'twas more than hate : 
 This is most true, yet wherefore question me? 
 
 Savella. 
 There is a deed demanding question done; 105 
 
 Thou hast a secret which will answer not. 
 
 Beatkice. 
 What sayest ? My Lord, your words are bold and rash. 
 
 Savella. 
 I do arrest all present in the name 
 Of the Pope's Holiness. You must to Eome. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 0, not to Rome ! Indeed we are not guilty. no 
 
 Beatrice. 
 Guilty ! Who dares talk of guilt ? My Lord, 
 I am more innocent of parricide 
 Than is a child born fatherless . . . Dear Mother, 
 Your gentleness and patience are no shield 
 For this keen-judging world, this two-edged lie, ns 
 
 Which seems, but is not. What ! will human laws, 
 Rather will ye who are their ministers. 
 Bar all access to retribution first, 
 And then, when heaven doth interpose to do 
 What ye neglect, arming familiar things 120 
 
 To the redress of an unwonted crime. 
 Make ye the victims who demanded it 
 
SCENE IV.] THE CENCI. 67 
 
 Culprits ? 'Tis ye are culprits ! That poor wretch 
 
 Who stands so pale, and trembling, and amazed, 
 
 If it be true he murdered Cenci, was 125 
 
 A sword in the right hand of justest God. 
 
 Wherefore should I have wielded it? Unless 
 
 The crimes which mortal tongue dare never name 
 
 God therefore scruples to avenge. 
 
 Savella. 
 
 You own 
 That you desired his death ? 
 
 Beatkice. 
 
 It would have been 130 
 A crime no less than his, if for one moment 
 That fierce desire had faded in my heart. 
 'Tis true I did believe, and hope, and pray, 
 Aye, I even knew ... for God is wise and just, 
 That some strange sudden death hung over him. 135 
 
 'Tis true that this did happen, and most true 
 There was no other rest for me on earth, 
 No other hope in Heaven . . . now what of this ? 
 
 Savella. 
 Strange thoughts beget strange deeds ; and here are both : 
 I judge thee not. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 And yet, if you arrest me, 140 
 
 You are the judge and executioner 
 Of that which is the life of life : the breath 
 Of accusation kills an innocent name, 
 And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life 
 Which is a mask without it. 'Tis most false 145 
 
 That I am guilty of foul parricide ; 
 Although I must rejoice, for justest cause, 
 That other hands have sent my father's soul 
 To ask the mercy he denied to me. 
 Now leave us free: stain not a noble house iso 
 
 With vague surmises of rejected crime ; 
 Add to our sufferings and your own neglect 
 No heavier sum : let them have been enough : 
 Leave us the wreck we have. 
 
68 THE CENCI. [act iv. 
 
 Savella. 
 
 I dare not, Lady. 
 I pray that you prepare yourselves for Eome : i'>5 
 
 There the Pope's further pleasure will be known. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 0, not to Eome ! 0, take us not to Eome ! 
 
 Beatrice. 
 Why not to Eome, dear mother? There as here 
 Our innocence is as an armed heel 
 To trample accusation. God is there ico 
 
 As here, and with his shadow ever clothes 
 The innocent, the injured and the weak; 
 And such are we. Cheer up, dear Lady, lean 
 On me; collect your wandering thoughts. My Lord, 
 As soon as you have taken some refreshment, i65 
 
 And had all such examinations made 
 Upon the spot, as may be necessary 
 To the full understanding of this matter. 
 We shall be ready. Mother ; will you come ? 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Ha ! they will bind us to the rack, and wrest i7o 
 
 Self-accusation from our agony! 
 
 Will Giacomo be there ? Orsino ? Marzio ? 
 
 All present; all confronted; all demanding 
 
 Each from the other's countenance the thing 
 
 Which is in every heart! 0, misery! 175 
 
 {She faints, and is home out.) 
 
 Savella. 
 She faints : an ill appearance this. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 My Lord, 
 She knows not yet the uses of the world. 
 She fears that power is as a beast which grasps 
 And loosens not: a snake whose look transmutes 
 All things to guilt which is its nutriment. iso 
 
 She cannot know how well the supine slaves 
 Of blind authority read the truth of things 
 When written on a brow of guilelessness : 
 She sees not yet triumphant Innocence 
 
scENKi.] THE CENCI. 69 
 
 Stand at the judgment-seat of mortal man, iss 
 
 A judge and an accuser of the wrong 
 Which drags it there. Prepare yourself, my Lord ; 
 Our suite will join yours in the court below. {Exeunt.) 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH ACT. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 57L 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 An Apartment in Orsino's Palace. Enter ORSINO and GIACOMO. 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 Do evil deeds thus quickly come to end? 
 
 O, that the vain remorse which must chastise 
 
 Crimes done, had but as loud a voice to warn 
 
 As its keen sting is mortal to avenge ! 
 
 O, that the hour when present had cast off 5 
 
 The mantle of its mystery, and shewn 
 
 The ghastly form with which it now returns 
 
 When its scared game is roused, cheering the hounds 
 
 Of conscience to their prey ! Alas ! Alas ! 
 
 It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed, 10 
 
 To kill an old and hoary-headed father. 
 
 Orsino. 
 It has turned out unluckily, in truth. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 To violate the sacred doors of sleep ; 
 
 To cheat kind nature of the placid death 
 
 Which she prepares for overwearied age; 15 
 
 To drag from Heaven an unrepentant soul 
 
 Which might have quenched in reconciling prayers 
 
 A life of burning crimes . . . 
 
 Orsino. \ 
 
 You cannot say 
 I urged you to the deed. 
 
70 THE CENCI. [ACTV. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 0, had I never 
 Found in thy smooth and ready countenance 20 
 
 The mirror of my darkest thoughts; hadst thou 
 Never w^ith hints and questions made me look 
 Upon the monster of my thought, until 
 It grew familiar to desire . . . 
 Oesino. 
 
 'Tis thus 
 Men cast the blame of their unprosperous acts 25 
 
 Upon the abettors of their own resolve; 
 Or any thing but their weak, guilty selves. 
 And- yet, confess the truth, it is the peril 
 In which you stand that gives you this pale sickness 
 Of penitence; Confess 'tis fear disguised 30 
 
 From its own shame that takes the mantle now 
 Of thin remorse. What if we yet were safe ? 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 How can that be? -Already Beatrice, 
 
 Lucretia and the murderer are in prison. 
 
 I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak, ss 
 
 Sent to arrest us. 
 
 Oesino. 
 I have all prepared 
 For instant flight. We can escape even now, 
 So we take fleet occasion by the hair. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 Eather expire in tortures, as I may. 
 
 What ! will you cast by self-accusing flight 40 
 
 Assured conviction upon Beatrice ? 
 
 She, who alone in this unnatural work. 
 
 Stands like God's angel ministered upon 
 
 By fiends ; avenging such a nameless wrong 
 
 As turns black parricide to piety; u 
 
 Whilst we for basest ends ... I fear, Orsino, 
 
 While I consider all your words and looks. 
 
 Comparing them with your proposal now, 
 
 That you must be a villain. For what end 
 
 Could you engage in such a perilous crime, 50 
 
 Training me on with hints, and signs, and smiles. 
 
h::nk 1.] THE CEXCI. 71 
 
 y.ven to this guljili ? Thou art no liar ? No, 
 
 Thou art a lie! Traitor and murderer! 
 
 Coward and slave! But, no, defend thyself; (drawing.) 
 
 Let the sword speak what the indignant tongue .')5 
 
 Disdains to brand thee with. 
 
 Orsino. 
 
 Put up your weapon. 
 Is it the desperation of your fear 
 Makes you thus rash and sudden with a friend, 
 Now ruined for your sake ? If honest anger 
 Have moved you, know, that what I just proposed w 
 Was but to try you. As for me, I think, 
 Thankless affection led me to this point, 
 From which, if my firm temper could repent, 
 I cannot now recede. Even whilst we speak 
 The ministers of justice wait below : 65 
 
 They grant me these brief moments. Now if you 
 Have any word of melancholy comfort 
 To speak to your pale wife, 'twere best to pass 
 Out at the postern, and avoid them so. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 O, generous friend ! How canst thou pardon me ? ro 
 
 Would that my life could purchase thine! 
 
 Orsino. ^ 
 
 That wisli 
 Now comes a day too late. Haste; fare thee well! 
 Hear'st thou not steps along the corridor ? (Uxit Giacomo.) 
 I'm sorry for it; but tlie guards are waiting 
 At his own gate, and such was my contrivance 75 
 
 That I might rid me both of him and them. 
 I thought to act a solemn comedy 
 Upon the painted scene of this new world, 
 And to attain my own peculiar ends 
 By some such plot of mingled good and ill so 
 
 As others weave; but there arose a Power 
 Which graspt and snapped the threads of my device 
 And turned it to a net of ruin . . . Ha ! (a shout is heard) 
 Is that my name I hear proclaimed abroad ? 
 But I will pass, wrapt in a vile disguise; ss 
 
 Bags on my back, and a false innocence 
 
: THE CENCI. [actv. 
 
 Upon my face, thro' the misdeeming crowd 
 
 Whicli judges by what seems. 'Tis easy then 
 
 Eor a new name and for a country new, 
 
 And a new life, fashioned on old desires, oo 
 
 To change the honours of abandoned Eome. 
 
 And these must be the masks of that within. 
 
 Which must remain unaltered. . . Oh, I fear 
 
 That what is past will never let me rest! 
 
 Why, when none else is conscious, but myself, 95 
 
 Of my misdeeds, should my own heart's contempt 
 
 Trouble me ? Have I not the power to fly 
 
 My own reproaches ? Shall I be the slave 
 
 Of . . . what ? A word ? which those of this false world 
 
 Employ against each other, not themselves; 100 
 
 As men wear daggers not for self-offence. 
 
 But if I am mistaken, where shall I 
 
 rind the disguise to hide me from myself, 
 
 As now I skulk from every other eye? (Exit.) 
 
 sce:n'e II. 
 
 A Hall op Justice. CAMILLO, Judges &c. are discoverkd 
 
 SEATED ; MAKZIO IS LED IN. 
 
 First Judge. 
 Accused, do you persist in your denial ? 
 I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty? 
 I demand who were the participators 
 In your offence? Speak truth and the whole truth. 
 
 Marzio. 
 My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing; 
 Olimpio sold the robe to me from which 
 You would infer my guilt. 
 
 Second Judge. 
 
 Away with him ! 
 
 EiRST Judge. 
 Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack's kiss 
 Speak false? Is it so soft a questioner. 
 
scKiJKii.l THE CENCI. 73 
 
 That you would bandy lover's talk with it lo 
 
 Till it wind out your life and soul ? Away ! 
 
 Marzio. 
 Spare me ! 0, spare ! I will confess. 
 FiiisT Judge. 
 
 Then speak. 
 Marzio. 
 I strangled him in his sleep. 
 
 I'lEST Judge. 
 
 Who urged you to it ? 
 Marzio. 
 His own son Giacomo, and the young prelate 
 Orsino sent me to Petrella; there u 
 
 The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia 
 Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I 
 And my companion forthwith murdered him. 
 Now let me die. 
 
 First Judge. 
 This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there, 20 
 
 Lead forth the prisoners ! 
 Enter Lucretia, Beatrice and Giacomo, guarded. 
 
 Look upon this man ; 
 When did you see him last ? 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 We never saw him. 
 Marzio. 
 You know me too well, Lady Beatrice. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 I know thee ! How ? where ? when ? 
 Marzio. 
 
 You know 'twas I 
 Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes 25 
 
 To kill your father. When the thing was done 
 You clothed me in a robe of woven gold 
 And bade me thrive : how I have thriven, you see. 
 You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, 
 You know that what I speak is true. 
 (Beatrice advances tovjards him; he covers his face, and shrinks 
 hack) 0, dart 5$o 
 
74 THE CENCI. [ACT V. 
 
 The terrible resentment of those eyes 
 
 On the dead earth 1 Turn them away from me! 
 
 They wound : 'twas torture forced the truth. My Lords, 
 
 Having said this let me be led to death. 
 
 Beatrick 
 Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stay awhile. as 
 
 Camillo. 
 Guards, lead him not away. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Cardinal Camillo, 
 You have a good repute for gentleness 
 And wisdom: can it be that you sit here 
 To countenance a wicked farce like this ? 
 When some obscure and trembling slave is dragged -lo 
 From sufferings which might shake the sternest heart 
 And bade to answer, not as he believes, 
 But as those may suspect or do desire 
 Whose questions thence suggest their own reply : 
 And that in peril of such hideous torments 45 
 
 As merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now 
 The thing you surely know, which is that you, 
 If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel, 
 And you were told : " Confess that you did poison 
 Your little nephew ; that fair blue-eyed child 50 
 
 Who was the loadstar of your life : " — and though 
 All see, since his most swift and piteous death, 
 That day and night, and heaven and earth, and tiiiK^, 
 And all the things hoped for or done therein 
 Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief, 55 
 Yet you would say, " I confess any thing : " 
 And beg from your tormentors, like that slave, 
 The refuge of dishonourable death. 
 I pray thee. Cardinal, that thou assert 
 My innocence. 
 
 Camillo (much moved). 
 
 What shall we think, my Lords ? pc 
 
 Shame on these tears ! I thought the heart was frozen 
 Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soul 
 That she is guiltless. 
 
SCENE n.] THE CENCI. 75 
 
 Judge. 
 
 Yet she must be tortured. 
 Camillo. 
 I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew 
 (If he now lived he would be just her age; es 
 
 His hair, too, was her colour, and his eyes 
 Like her's in shape, but blue and not so deep) 
 As that most perfect image of God's love 
 That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. 
 She is as pure as speechless infancy ! to 
 
 Judge. 
 Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord, 
 If you forbid the rack. His Holiness 
 Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime 
 By the severest forms of law ; nay even 
 To stretch a point against the criminals. 75 
 
 The prisoners stand accused of parricide 
 Upon such evidence as justifies 
 Torture. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 What evidence ? This man's ? 
 
 Judge. 
 
 Even so. 
 Beatrice {to Marzio). 
 Come near. And who art thou thus chosen forth 
 Out of the multitude of livinjc men 
 
 To kill the innocent ? 
 Thy father's vassal. 
 
 o 
 
 Marzio. 
 
 I am Marzio, 
 
 Beatrice. 
 Eix thine eyes on mine; 
 Answer to what I ask. {turning to the Judges) 
 
 I prithee mark 
 His countenance : unlike bold calumny 
 Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks, 
 He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends ss 
 His gaze on the blind earth. 
 
 {to Marzio) What! wilt thou say 
 That I did murder my own father? 
 
76 ^ THE CENCI. ■ [act V. 
 
 Marzio. 
 
 Oh! 
 Spare me ! My brain swims round. . . I cannot speak. . . 
 It was that horrid torture forced the truth. 
 Take me away ! Let her not look on me ! so 
 
 I am a guilty miserable wretch; 
 I have said all I know; now, let me die! 
 
 Beatrice. 
 My Lords, if by my nature I had been 
 So stern, as to have planned the crime alleged. 
 Which your suspicions dictate to this slave, 95 
 
 And the rack makes him utter, . do you think 
 I should have left this two-edged instrument 
 Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody knife 
 With my own name engraven on the heft, loo 
 
 Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, 
 For my own death? That with such horrible need 
 For deepest silence, I should have neglected 
 So trivial a precaution, as the making 
 His tomb the keeper of a secret written 105 
 
 On a thief's memory ? What is his poor life ? 
 What are a thousand lives? A parricide 
 Had trampled them like dust ; and, see, he lives ! 
 {turning to Marzio) And thou . . . 
 
 Marzio. 
 Oh, spare me! Speak to me no more! 
 That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones, no 
 
 Wound worse than torture. 
 
 (to the Judges) I have told it all; 
 For pity's sake lead me away to death. 
 
 Camillo. 
 Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice, 
 He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leaf 
 From the keen breath of the serenest north. 115 
 
 Beatrice. 
 Oh, tliou who tremblest on the giddy verge 
 Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me; 
 So mayst thou answer God with less dismay: 
 What evil have we done thee ? I, alas ! 
 Have lived but on this earth a few sad years 12Q 
 
SCENE II.] THE CENCT. 77 
 
 And so my lot was ordered, that a fatlier 
 
 First turned the moments of awakening life 
 
 To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope; and then 
 
 Stabbed with one blow my everlasting soul; 
 
 And my untainted fame; and even that peace 125 
 
 Which sleeps within the core of the heart's heart ; 
 
 But the wound was not mortal; so my hate 
 
 Became the only worship I could lift 
 
 To our great father, who in pity and love, 
 
 Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off; , i30 
 
 And thus his wrong becomes my accusation ; 
 
 And art thou the accuser? If thou hopest 
 
 Mercy in heaven, shew justice upon earth : 
 
 Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart. 
 
 If thou hast done murders, made thy life's path i36 
 
 Over the trampled laws of God and man, 
 
 Rush not before thy Judge, and say : "My maker, 
 
 "I have done this and more; for there was one 
 
 " Who was most pure and innocent on earth ; 
 
 "And because she endured what never any 140 
 
 " Guilty or innocent endured before : 
 
 " Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought ; 
 
 " Because thy hand at length did rescue her ; 
 
 " I with my words killed her and all her kin." 
 
 Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay 145 
 
 The reverence living in the minds of men 
 
 Towards our ancient house, and stainless fame ! 
 
 Think what it is to strangle infant pity, 
 
 Cradled in the belief of guileless looks. 
 
 Till it become a crime to suffer. Think 150 
 
 What 'tis to blot with infamy and blood 
 
 All that which shews like innocence, and is. 
 
 Hear me, great God ! I swear, most innocent, 
 
 So that the world lose all discrimination 
 
 Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt, 155 
 
 And that which now compels thee to reply 
 
 To what I ask : Am I, or am I not 
 
 A parricide ? 
 
 Maezio. 
 Thou art not! 
 
78 THE CENCI. [aotv. 
 
 Judge. 
 
 What is this ? 
 
 Marzio. 
 I here declare those whom I did accuse 
 Are innocent. 'Tis I alone am guilty. i6o 
 
 Judge. 
 Drag him away to torments ; let them be 
 Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds 
 Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him not 
 Till he confess. 
 
 Marzio. 
 Torture me as ye will: 
 A keener pain has wrung a higher truth les 
 
 From my last breath. She is most innocent I 
 Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me ; 
 I will not give you that fine piece of nature 
 To rend and ruin. {Exit Marzio, guarded?) 
 
 Camillo. 
 What say ye now, my Lords? 
 Judge. 
 Let tortures strain the truth till it be white i7o 
 
 As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind. 
 
 Camillo. 
 Yet stained with blood. 
 
 Judge {to Beatrice). 
 
 Know you this paper, Lady ? 
 Beatrice. 
 Entrap me not with questions. Who stands here 
 As my accuser ? Ha ! wilt thou be he, 
 Who art my judge ? Accuser, witness, judge, 175 
 
 What, all in one ? Here is Orsino's name ; 
 Wliere is Orsino? Let his eye meet mine. 
 What means this scrawl ? Alas ! Ye know not what, 
 And therefore on the chance that it may be 
 Some evil, will ye kill us? 
 
 Enter an Officer, 
 Office K. 
 
 Marzio's dead. iso 
 
the cenci. 79 
 
 Judge. 
 
 What did he say? 
 
 Officer. 
 Nothing. As soon as we 
 Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us, 
 As one who baffles a deep adversary; 
 And holding his breath, died. 
 Judge. 
 
 There remains nothing 
 But to apply the question to those prisoners, iss 
 
 Who yet remain stubborn. 
 
 Camillo. 
 
 I overrule 
 Further proceedings, and in the behalf 
 Of these most innocent and noble persons 
 Will use my interest with the Holy Father. 
 
 Judge. 
 Let the Pope's pleasure then be done. Meanwhile lao 
 Conduct these culprits each to separate cells; 
 And be the engines ready : for this night 
 If the Pope's resolution be as grave, 
 Pious, and just as once, I'll wring the truth 
 Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan. 195 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Cell of a Prison. BEATRICE is discovered asleep on a 
 Couch ; enter BERNARDO. 
 
 Beenardo. 
 How gently slumber rests upon her face. 
 Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly spent 
 Closing in night and dreams, and so prolonged. 
 After such torments as she bore last night, 
 How light and soft her breathing comes. Ay, me ! 5 
 Methinks that I shall never sleep again. 
 But I must shake the heavenly dew of rest 
 From this sweet folded flower, thus. . . wake ! awake ! 
 What, sister, canst thou sleep ? 
 
80 THE CENCT. [act v. 
 
 Beatiuce (awaking). 
 
 I was just dreaming 
 That we were all in Paradise. Thou knowest ic 
 
 This cell seems like a kind of Paradise 
 Aftei our father's presence. 
 
 Beenakdo. 
 
 Dear, dear sister, 
 Would that thy dream were not a dream ! 0, God ! 
 How shaU I tell? 
 
 Beatrice. 
 Vf hat wouldst thou tell, sweet brother ? 
 
 Bernardo. 
 Look not so calm and happy, or even whilst is 
 
 I stand considering what I have to say 
 My heart will break. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 See now, thou mak'st me weep: 
 How very friendless thou wouldst be, dear child, 
 If I were dead. Say what thou hast to say. 
 
 Bernardo. 
 They have confessed; they could endure no more 2c 
 The tortures. . . 
 
 Beatrice. 
 Ha! What was there to confess? 
 They must have told some weak and wicked lie 
 To flatter their tormentors. Have they said 
 That they were guilty ? 0, white innocence. 
 That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide 25 
 Thine awful and serenest countenance 
 Prom those who know thee not ! 
 Unter Judge with Ltjcretia and Giacomo, guarded. 
 
 Ignoble hearts ! 
 For some brief spasms of pain, which are at least 
 As mortal as the limbs through which they pass, 
 Are centuries of high splendour laid in dust? 3c 
 
 And that eternal honour which should live 
 Sunlike, above the reek of mortal fame. 
 Changed to a mockery and a bye- word? What! 
 Will you give up these bodies to be dragged 
 
KCKNK Til.] THE CENCr. 81 
 
 At horses' lieels, so that our hair should sweep 35 
 
 The footsteps of the vain and senseless crowd, 
 
 Who, that they may make our calamity 
 
 Their worship and their spectacle, will leave 
 
 The churches and the theatres as void 
 
 As their own hearts? Shall the light multitude 40 
 
 Fling, at their choice, curses or faded pity, 
 
 Sad funeral flowers to deck a living corpse, 
 
 Upon us as we pass to pass away, 
 
 And leave. . . what memory of our having been ? 
 
 Infamy, blood, terror, despair? thou, 45 
 
 Who wert a mother to the parentless, 
 
 Kill not thy child ! Let not her wrongs kill thee ! 
 
 Brother, lie down with me upon the rack, 
 
 And let us each be silent as a corpse; 
 
 It soon will be as soft as any grave. 60 
 
 'Tis but the falsehood it can wring from fear 
 
 Makes the rack cruel. 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 They will tear the truth 
 Even from thee at last, those cruel pains: 
 For pity's sake say thou art guilty now. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 O, speak the truth ! Let us all quickly die ; w 
 
 And after death, God is our judge, not they; 
 He will have mercy on us. 
 
 Bernardo. 
 
 If indeed 
 It can be true, say so, dear sister mine; 
 And then the Pope will surely pardon you. 
 And all be well. 
 
 Judge. 
 Confess, or I will warp eo 
 
 Your limbs with such keen tortures. . . 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Tortures ! Turn 
 The rack henceforth into a spinning wheel ! 
 Torture your dog, that he may tell when last 
 He lapped the blood his master shed . . . not me ! 
 
 F 
 
82 THE CENCI. [act v. 
 
 My pangs are of the mind, and of the heart, es 
 
 And of the soul; aye, of the inmost soul, 
 
 Which weeps within tears as of burning gall 
 
 To see, in this ill world where none are true, 
 
 My kindred false to their deserted selves. 
 
 And with considering all the wretched life 70 
 
 Which I have lived, and its now wretched end, 
 
 And the small .justice shewn by Heaven and Eartli 
 
 To me or mine; and what a tyrant thou art, 
 
 And what slaves these; and v/hat a world we make, 
 
 The oppressor and the oppressed such pangs compel 75 
 
 My answer. What is it thou wouldst with me? 
 
 Judge. 
 Art thou not guilty of thy father's death ? 
 
 Beatkice. 
 Or wilt tliou rather tax high judging God 
 That he permitted such an act as that 
 Which I have suffered, and which he beheld; so 
 
 Made it unutterable, and took from it 
 All refuge, all revenge, all consequence, 
 But that which tliou hast called my father's death ? 
 Which is or is not what men call a crime. 
 Which either I have done, or have not done; 85 
 
 Say what ye will. I shall deny no more. 
 If ye desire it thus, thus let it be, 
 And so an end of all. Now do your will; 
 No other pains shall force another word. 
 
 Judge. 
 She is convicted, but has not confessed. 00 
 
 Be it enough. Until their final sentence 
 Let none have converse with them. You, young Lord, 
 Linger not here! 
 
 Beatkice. 
 0, tear him not away! 
 
 Judge. 
 Guards do your duty. 
 
 Bernardo {Emhracing Beatrice). 
 Oh 1 would ye divide 
 Body from soul? 
 
auKNK IU.J THE CENCI. 83 
 
 Officer. 
 . That is the headsman's business. 86 
 {Exeunt all hut Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo.) 
 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 Have I confessed? Is it all over now? 
 
 No hope ! No refuge ! 0, weak, wicked tongue 
 
 Which hast destroyed me would that thou hadst been 
 
 Cut out and thrown to dogs first! To have killed 
 
 My father first, and then betrayed my sister; loo 
 
 Aye, thee ! the one thing innocent and pure 
 
 In this black guilty woild, to that which I 
 
 So well deserve ! My wife ! my little ones ! 
 
 Destitute, helpless, and I . . . Father ! God ! 
 
 Canst thou forgive even the unforgiving, los 
 
 When their full hearts break thus, thus ! . . 
 
 {Covers his face and weeps) 
 
 Lucretia. 
 
 0, my child! 
 To what a dreadful end are we all come! 
 Why did I yield ? Why did I not sustain 
 Those torments? Oh, that I were all dissolved 
 Into these fast and unavailing tears, no 
 
 Which flow and feel not! 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 What 'twas weak to do, 
 'Tis weaker to lament, once being done; 
 Take cheer! The God who knew my wrong, and made 
 Our speedy act the angel of his wrath, 
 Seems, and but seems to have abandoned us. 115 
 
 Let us not think that we shall die for this. 
 Brother, sit near me; give me your firm hand. 
 You had a manly heart. Bear up ! Bear up ! 
 0, dearest Lady, put your gentle head 
 Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile: 120 
 
 Your eyes look pale, hollow and overworn, 
 With heaviness of watching and slow grief. 
 Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy tune, 
 Not cheerful, nor yet sad; some dull old thing, 
 Some outworn and unused monotony, 125 
 
 Such as our country gossips sing and spin, 
 
84 THE CENCI. [actv. 
 
 Till they almost forget they live : lie down ! 
 So, that will do. Have I forgot the words ? 
 Faith! They are sadder than I thought they were. 
 
 SONG. 
 False friend, wilt thou smile or weep iso 
 
 When my life is laid asleep ? 
 Little cares for a smile or a tear, 
 The clay-cold corpse upon the bier! 
 
 Farewell! Heigho! 
 
 What is this whispers low? 135 
 
 There is a snake in thy smile, my dear; 
 And bitter poison within thy tear. 
 
 Sweet sleep, were death like to thee. 
 
 Or if thou couldst mortal be, 
 
 I would close these eyes of pain; 3*0 
 
 When to wake ? Never again. 
 
 0, World! Farewell! 
 
 Listen to the passing bell! 
 It says, thou and I must part. 
 With a light and a heavy heart. {The scene closes.) hs 
 
 SCENE lY. 
 
 A Hall op the Prison. Enter CAMILLO and BERNARDO. 
 
 Camillo. 
 The Pope is stern; not to be moved or bent. 
 He looked as calm and keen as is the engine 
 Which tortures and which kills, exempt itself 
 From aught that it inflicts; a marble form, 
 A rite, a law, a custom: not a man. 
 He frowned, as if to frown had been the trick 
 Of his machinery, on the advocates 
 Presenting the defences, which he tore 
 And threw behind, muttering with hoarse, harsh voice ; 
 " Which among ye defended their old father 1 
 
8CKNE IV.] THE CENCL 85 
 
 " Killed in his sleep ? " Then to another : " Thou 
 
 " Dost this in virtue of thy place ; 'tis well." 
 
 He turned to me then, looking deprecation, 
 
 And said these three words, coldly: "They must die." 
 
 Bernardo. 
 And yet you left him not ? 
 
 Camillo. 
 
 I urged him still; ir) 
 
 Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish wrong 
 Which prompted your unnatural parent's death. 
 And he replied: "Paolo Santa Croce 
 "Murdered his mother yester evening, 
 " And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife 
 "That soon, for some just cause no doubt, the young 20 
 "Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs. 
 "Authority, and power, and hoary hair 
 "Are grown crimes capital. You are my nephew, 
 " You come to ask their pardon ; stay a moment ; 20 
 " Here is their sentence ; never see me more 
 "Till, to the letter, it be all fulfilled." 
 
 Bernardo. 
 O, God, not so ! I did believe indeed 
 That all you said was but sad preparation 
 For happy news. 0, there are words and looks so 
 
 To bend the sternest purpose! Once I knew them, 
 Now I forget them at my dearest need. 
 What think you if I seek him out, and bathe 
 His feet and robe with hot and bitter tears ? 
 Importune him with prayers, vexing his brain zb 
 
 With my perpetual cries, until in rage 
 He strike me with his pastoral cross, and trample 
 Upon my prostrate head, so that my blood 
 May stain the senseless dust on which he treads, 
 And remorse waken mercy ? I will do it ! 40 
 
 0, wait till I return ! (ricshes out.) 
 
 Camillo. 
 Alas ! poor boy ! 
 A wreck-devoted seaman thus might pray 
 To the deaf sea. 
 Unter Lucretia, Beatrice and Giacomo, guarded. 
 
86 THE CENCI. [act v. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 I hardly dare to fear 
 That thou bring'st other news than a just pardon. 
 
 Camillo. 
 May God in heaven be less inexorable 45 
 
 To the Pope's prayers, than he has been to mine. 
 Here is the sentence and the warrant. 
 Beatrice {wildly). 
 
 Oh, 
 My God! Can it be possible I have 
 To die so suddenly ? So young to go 
 Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground ! so 
 
 To be nailed down into a narrow place ; 
 To see no more sweet sunshine ; hear no more 
 Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again 
 Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost — 
 How fearful ! to be nothing ! Or to be. . . t>f, 
 
 What ? 0, where am I ? Let me not go mad ! 
 Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts ! If there should be 
 No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void world ; 
 The wide, grey, lampless, deep, unpeopled world ! 
 If all things then should be. . . my father's spirit, eo 
 His eye, his voice, his touch surrounding me ; 
 The atmosphere and breath of my dead life ! 
 If sometimes, as a shape more like himself, 
 Even the form which tortured me on earth. 
 Masked in grey hairs and wrinkles, he should come «>5 
 And wind me in his liellish arms, and fix 
 His eyes on mine, and drag me down, down, down 1 
 For was he not alone omnipotent 
 On Earth, and ever present? Even tho' dead. 
 Does not his spirit live in all that breathe, 'o 
 
 And work for me and mine still the same ruin, 
 Scorn, pain, despair ? Who ever yet returned 
 To teach the laws of death's untrodden realm ? 
 Unjust perhaps as those which drive us now, 
 0, whither, whither ? 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Trust in God's sweet love, 's 
 
 The tender promises of Christ : ere night, 
 
SCENE IV.] THE CENCL 87 
 
 Think we shall be in Paradise. 
 Beatrick 
 
 'Tis past! 
 Whatever comes my heart shall sink no more. 
 And yet, I know not why, your words strike chill : 
 How tedious, false and cold seem all things. I 
 Have met with much injustice in this world; 
 No difference has been made by God or man, 
 Or any power moulding my wretched lot, 
 'Twixt good or evil, as regarded me. 
 I am cut off from the only world I know. 
 From light, and life, and love, in youth's sweet prime. 
 You do well telling me to trust in God, 
 I hope I do trust in him. In whom else 
 Can any trust ? And yet my heart is cold. 
 
 {During the latter speecJies GiACOMO ?ms 
 retired conversing with Camillo, tvho 
 now goes out; GiACOMO advances.) 
 GlACOMO. 
 
 Know you not, Mother . . . Sister, know you not ? ^i' 
 Bernardo even now is gone to implore 
 The Pope to grant our pardon. 
 
 LUCRETIA. 
 
 Child, perhaps 
 It will be granted. We may all then live 
 To make these woes a tale for distant years: 
 O, what a thought ! It gushes to my heart 91 
 
 Like the warm blood. 
 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Yet both will soon be cold. 
 0, trample out that thought! Worse than despair, 
 Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope : 
 It is the only ill which can find place 
 Upon the giddy, sharp and narrow hour »oii 
 
 Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift frost 
 That it should spare the eldest flower of spring: 
 Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er whose couch 
 Even now a city stands, strong, fair and free ; 
 Now stench and blackness yawn, like death. 0, plead 105 
 With famine, or wind-walking Pestilence, 
 
88. THE CENCI. [act v. 
 
 Blind lightning, or tlie deaf sea, not with man ! 
 Cruel, cold, formal man; righteous in words, 
 
 fn deeds a Cain. No, Mother, we must die: 
 ince such is the reward of innocent lives ; no 
 
 Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. 
 And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold men. 
 Smiling and slow, walk thro' a world of tears 
 To death as to life's sleep ; 'twere just the grave 
 ( Were some strange joy for us. Come, obscure Death, iis 
 ^ And wind me in thine all-embracing arms ! 
 Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom. 
 And rock me to the sleep from which none wake. 
 Live ye, who live, subject to one another 
 As we were once, who now . . . 
 
 Bernardo rushes in. 
 Bernardo. 
 
 Oh, horrible! 120 
 
 That tears, that looks, that hope poured forth in prayer. 
 Even till the heart is vacant and despairs. 
 Should all be vain! The ministers of death 
 Are waiting round the doors. I thought I saw 
 Blood on the face of one . . . what if 'twere fancy ? 12s 
 Soon the heart's blood of all I love on earth 
 Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it off 
 As if 'twere only rain. 0, life ! 0, world ! 
 Cover me ! let me be no more ! To see 
 That perfect mirror of pure innocence iso 
 
 Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and good, 
 Shivered to dust! To see thee, Beatrice, 
 Who made all lovely thou didst look upon . . . 
 Thee, light of life . . . dead, dark ! while I say, sister, 
 To hear I have no sister ; and thou, Mother, 135 
 
 Whose love was as a bond to all our loves . . . 
 Dead ! The sweet bond broken ! 
 
 Enter Camillo and Guards. 
 
 They come! Let me 
 Kiss those warm lips before their crimson leaves 
 Are blighted . . . white . . . cold. Say farewell, before 
 Death chokes that gentle voice! O, let me hear no 
 
 You speak ! 
 
sokne iv. 1 the cenci. 89 
 
 Beateice. 
 Farewell, my tender brother. Think 
 Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now: 
 And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten for thee 
 Thy sorrow's load. Err not in harsh despair, 
 But tears and patience. One thing more, my child, hs 
 For thine own sake be constant to the love 
 Thou bearest us; and to the faith that I, 
 Tho' wrapt in a strange cloud of crime and shame, 
 Lived ever holy and unstained. And tho* 
 111 tongues shall wound me, and our common name iso 
 Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent brow 
 For men to point at as they pass, do thou 
 Forbear, and never think a thought unkind 
 Of those, who perhaps love thee in their graves. 
 So mayest thou die as I do; fear and pain 155 
 
 Beiug subdued. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell! 
 
 Bernakdo. 
 I cannot say, farewell 1 
 
 Camillo. 
 
 0, Lady Beatrice! 
 
 Beatrice. 
 Give yourself no unnecessary pain. 
 My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, tie 
 My girdle for me, and bind up this hair leo 
 
 In any simple knot; aye, that does well. 
 And yours I see is coming down. How often 
 Have we done this for one another; now 
 We shall not do it any more. My Lord, 
 We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very welL i«e 
 
 TUE END. 
 
APPENDIX 
 
In a most interesting letter to Peacock, dated '' Livorno, July 1819" (Es.fay.% 
 (kc, Vol. II, pp. 217 to 220), Shelley gives an account of The Cenci, begs his 
 friend to get it acted at Covent Garden, and says : " I send you a translation of 
 tlie Italian manuscript on which my play is founded, the chief subject of which 
 I have touched very delicately. . . Tlie translation which I send you, is to be 
 j)refixed to the play, together with a print of Beatrice." The omission of this 
 literal version of the story from the two editions of The Cenci published during 
 Shelley's life may perhaps have arisen from the consideration that, to the public 
 of that day, the bare horrors of the story might, if given, negative that very 
 delicacy and reticence to which Shelley refers. In the same letter to Peacock, 
 it is stated that the narrative then existed only in manuscript. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 EELATION OF THE DEATH OF THE FAMILY 
 OF THE CENCI. 
 
 The most wicked life which the Roman nobleman, Francesco 
 Cenci, led while he lived in this world, not only occasioned his 
 own ruin and death, but also that of many others, and brought 
 down the entire destruction of his house. This nobleman was the 
 son of Monsignore Cenci, who, having been treasurer during the 
 pontificate of Pius V., left immense wealth to Francesco, his only 
 son. From this inheritance alone he enjoyed an income of 160,000 
 crowns, and he increased his fortune by marrying an exceedingly 
 rich lady, who died after she had given birth to seven unfortunate 
 children. He then contracted a second marriage with Lucretia 
 Petroni, a lady of a noble Roman family ; but he had no children 
 by her. Sodomy was the least, and atheism the greatest, of tlie 
 vices of Francesco ; as is proved by the tenor of his life ; for he 
 was three times accused of sodomy, and paid the sum of 100,000 
 crowns to government, in commutation of tlie punishment rightfully 
 awarded to this crime : and concerning his religion, it is sufficient 
 to state, that he never frequented any church ; and although he 
 caused a small chapel, dedicated to the apostle St. Thomas, to be 
 built in the court of his palace, his intention in so doing was to 
 bury there all his children, whom he cruelly hated He had driven 
 the eldest of these, Giacomo, Cristofero, and Rocco, from the pater- 
 nal mansion, while they were yet too young to have given him any 
 real cause of displeasure. He sent them to the university of Sala- 
 manca, butj refusing to remit to them there the money necossary 
 
94 APPENDIX. 
 
 for their maiutenance, they desperately returned home. They 
 found that this change only increased their misery, for the hatred 
 and contempt of their father towards them was so aggravated, that 
 he refused to dress or maintain them, so that they were obliged to 
 have recourse to the Pope, who caused Cenci to make them a fit 
 allowance, with which they withdrew from his house. 
 
 The third imprisonment of Francesco for his accustomed crime 
 of sodomy, occurred at this time, and his sons took occasion to 
 supplicate the Pope to punish their father, and to remove so great 
 a monster from his family. The Pope, though before inclined to 
 condemn Francesco to the deserved punishment of death, would 
 not do it at the request of his sons, but permitted him again to 
 compound with the law, by paying the accustomed penalty of 
 1 00,000 crowns. The hatred of Francesco towards his sons was 
 augmented by this proceeding on their parts ; he cursed them ; and 
 often also struck and ill-treated his daughters. The eldest of these, 
 lieing unable any longer to support the cruelty of her father, 
 exposed her miserable condition to the Pope, and supplicated him 
 either to marry her, according to his choice, or to shut her up in a 
 monastery, that by any means she might be liberated from the 
 cruel oppression of her parent. Her prayer was heard, and the 
 Pope, in pity to her unhappiness, bestowed her in marriage to 
 Signore Carlo Gabrielli, one of the first gentlemen of the city of 
 Gabbio, and obliged Francesco to give her a fitting dowry of some 
 thousand crowns. 
 
 Francesco fearing that his youngest daughter would, when she 
 grew up, follow the example of her sister, bethought himself how 
 to hinder this design, and for that purpose shut her up alone in 
 an apartment of the palace, where he himself brought her food, 
 so that no one might approach her ; and imprisoned her in this 
 manner for several months, often inflicting on her blows with a 
 stick. 
 
 In the meantime ensued the death of two of his sons, Rocco and 
 Cristofero — one being assassinated by a surgeon, and the other by 
 Paolo Corso, while he was attending mass. The inhuman father 
 showed every sign of joy on hearing this news, saying that nothing 
 would exceed his pleasure if all his children died, and that when 
 the grave would receive the last he would, as a demonstration of 
 
THE DEATH OF THE FAMILY OF THE CENCI. 95 
 
 joy, make a bonfire of all that he possessed. And on the present 
 occasion, as a further sign of his hatred, he refused to pay the 
 smallest sum towards the funeral expenses of his murdered sons. 
 Francesco carried his wicked debauchery to such an eKcess, that he 
 caused girls (of whom he constantly kept a number in his house), 
 and also common courtezans, to sleep in the bed of his wife, and 
 often endeavoured, by force and threats, to debauch his daughter 
 Beatrice, who was now grown up, and exceedingly beautiful. 
 He gave her more liberty in his palace, and was not ashamed to 
 seek her naked in her bed, showing himself thus with his cour- 
 tezans, and making her witness of all that could pass between 
 them and him. He tried to persuade the poor girl, by an enormous 
 heresy, that children born of the commerce of a father with his 
 daughter were all saints, and that the saints who obtained th»3 
 highest places in Paradise had been thus bom. Beatrice's re- 
 sistance of his infamous desires was punished by blows and ill 
 treatment. 
 
 Beatrice, finding it impossible to continue to live in so miser- 
 able a manner, followed the example of her sister ; she sent a 
 well-written supplication to the Pope, imploring him to exercise 
 his authority in withdrawing her from the violence and cruelty 
 of her father. — But this petition, which might, if listened to, 
 have saved this unfortunate girl from an early death, produced 
 not the least effect. It was afterwards found among the collec- 
 tion of memorials, and it is pretended that it never came before 
 the Pope. 
 
 Francesco, having discovered this attempt on the part of his 
 daughter, became more enraged, and redoubled his tyranny ; 
 confining with rigour not only Beatrice, but also his wife. At 
 length, these unhappy women, finding themselves, without hope 
 of relief, driven by desperation, resolved to plan his death. 
 
 The Palace Cenci was sometimes visited by a Monsignore Guerra 
 — a young man of handsome person and attractive manners, and of 
 that facile character which might easily be induced to become a 
 partner in any action, good or evil, as it might happen. His 
 countenance was pleasing, and his person tall and well pro- 
 portioned ; he was somewhat in love with Beatrice, and well 
 acquainted with the turpitude of Francesco's character, and was 
 
96 APPENDIX. 
 
 hated by him on account of the familiar intercourse which sub- 
 sisted between him and the children of this unnatural father : for 
 this reason he timed his visits with caution, and never came to 
 the house but when he knew that Francesco was absent. He was 
 moved to a lively compassion of the state of Lucretia and Beatrice, 
 who often related their increasing misery to him, and his pity was 
 for ever fed. and augmented by some new tale of tyranny and 
 cruelty. In one of these conversations Beatrice let fall some 
 words which plainly indicated that she and her mother-in-law con- 
 templated the murder of their tyrant, and ]\Ionsignore Guerra not 
 only showed approbation of their design, but also promised to co- 
 operate with them in their undertaking. Thus stimulated, Beatrice 
 communicated the design to her eldest brother, Giacomo, without 
 whose concurrence it was impossible that they should succeed. 
 This latter was easily drawn into consent, since he was utterly dis- 
 gusted with his father, who ill-treated him, and refused to allow 
 him a sufficient support for his wife and children. 
 
 The apartments of Monsignore Guerra was the place in which 
 the circumstances of the crime about to be committed were 
 concerted and determined on. Here Giacomo, with the under- 
 standing of his sister and mother-in-law, held various consulta- 
 tions, and finally resolved to commit the murder of Francesco to 
 two of his vassals, who had become his inveterate enemies ; one 
 called Marzio, and the other Olympio : the latter, by means of 
 Francesco, had been deprived of his post as castellan of the Rock 
 of Petrella. 
 
 It was already well known that Francesco, with the permission 
 of Signore Marzio di Colonna, baron of that feud, had resolved to 
 retire to Petrella, and to pass the summer there with his family. 
 Some banditti of the kingdom of Naples were hired, and were 
 instructed to lie in wait in the woods about Petrella, and, upon 
 advice being given them of the approach of Francesco, to seize 
 upon him. This scheme was so arranged that, although the robbers 
 were only to seize and take off Francesco, yet that his wife and 
 children should not be suspected of being accomplices in the act. 
 But the affair did not succeed ; for, as the banditti were not in- 
 formed of his approach in time enough, Francesco arrived safe and 
 sound at Petrella. They were obliged therefore to form sonje 
 
THE DEATH OF THE FAMILY OF THE CENCI. 97 
 
 new scheme to obtain tlie end which eveiy day made them more 
 impatient to effect ; for Francesco still persisted in his wicked con- 
 duct. He, being an old man, above seventy years of age, never 
 quitted the castle ; therefore no use could be made of the banditti, 
 who were still secreted in the environs. It was determined, there- 
 fore, to accomplish the murder in Francesco's own house. 
 
 Marzio and Olympio were called to the castle ; and Beatrice, 
 accompanied by her mother-in-law, conversed with them from a 
 window during the night-time, when her father slept. She ordered 
 them to repair to Monsignore Guerra with a note, in which they 
 were desired to murder Francesco, in consideration of a reward of 
 a thousand crowns : a third to be given them before the act, by 
 Monsignore Guerra, and the other two thirds, by the ladies them- 
 selves, after the deed should be accomplished. Having consented 
 to this agreement, they were secretly admitted into the castle the 
 8th of September, 1598 ; but because this day Avas the anniversary 
 of the birth of the Blessed Virgin, the Signora Lucretia, held back 
 by her veneration for so holy a time, desired, with the consent of 
 her daughter-in-law, that the execution of the murder should be 
 put off until the following day. They dexterously mixed opium 
 with the drink of Francesco, who, upon going to bed, was soon 
 oppressed by a deep sleep. About midnight his daughter herself 
 led the two assassins into the apartment of her father, and left 
 them there that they might execute the deed they had undertaken, 
 and retired to a chamber close by, where Lucretia remained also, 
 expecting the return of the murderers, and the relation of their 
 success. Soon after the assassins entered, and told the ladies that 
 pity had held them back, and that they could not overcome their 
 repugnance to kill in cold blood a. poor sleeping old man. These 
 words filled Beatrice with anger, and after having bitterly reviled 
 them as cowards and traitors, she exclaimed, " Since you have not 
 courage enough to murder a sleeping man, I will kill my father 
 myself; but your lives shall not be long secure." The assassins, 
 hearing this short but terrible threat, feared that if they did not 
 commit the deed, the tempest would burst over their own heads, 
 took courage, and re-entered the chamber where Francesco slept, 
 and with a hammer drove a nail into his head, making it pass by 
 his eye, and another they drove into his neck. After a few 
 
 G 
 
98 APPENDIX. 
 
 struggles the unhappy Francesco breathed his last. The murderers 
 departed, after having received the remainder of the promised re- 
 ward ; besides which, Beatrice gave Marzio a mantle trimmed with 
 gold. After this the two ladies, after drawing out the two nails, 
 enveloped the body in a fine sheet, and carried it to an open 
 gallery that overhung a garden, and had underneath an elder-tree : 
 from thence they threw it down, so that it might be believed that 
 Francesco, attending a call of nature, was traversing this gallery, 
 when, being only supported by feeble beams, it had given way, and 
 thus had lost his life. 
 
 And so indeed was it believed the next day, when the feigned 
 lamentations of Lucretia and Beatrice, who appeared inconsolable, 
 spread the news of Francesco's death. He received an honourable 
 burial ; and his family, after a short stay at the castle, returned to 
 Rome to enjoy the fruits of their crime. They passed some time 
 there in tranquillity ; but Divine Justice, which would not allow 
 so atrocious a wickedness to remain hid and unpunished, so 
 ordered it, that the Court of Naples, to which the account of 
 the death of Cenci was forwarded, began to entertain doubts 
 concerning the mode by which he came by it, and sent a com- 
 missary to examine the body and to take informations. Among 
 other things, this man discovered a circumstance to the prejudice 
 of the family of the deceased : it appeared that the day after the 
 event of her father's death, Beatrice had given to wash a sheet 
 covered with blood, saying : . . . ^ These informations were in- 
 stantly forwarded to the Court of Rome ; but, nevertheless, several 
 months passed without any step being taken in disfavour of the 
 Cenci family ; and, in the meantime, the youngest son of Francesco 
 died, and two only remained of the five that he had had ; namely, 
 Giacomo and Bernardo. Monsignore Guerra, having heard of the 
 notification made by the Court of Naples to that of Rome, fearing 
 that Marzio and Olympio might fall into the hands of justice, and 
 
 ^ The passage here omitted from (Paris, 1822), to be found in the 
 the translation contains the deposi- British Museum. The French ver- 
 tion of the Petrella laundress. The sion in the same volume is, in this 
 curious may read it in the original passage, wholly original, — not a trans- 
 Italian, in the Melanges publics pour lation. 
 la SocieM des Bibliophiles Fran^ais 
 
THE DEATH OF THE FAMILY OF THE CENCI. 99 
 
 be induced to confess their crime, suddenly hired men to murder 
 them, but succeeded only in assassinating Olympio at the city of 
 Terni. Marzio, who had escaped this misfortune, soon incurred 
 that of being imprisoned at Naples, where he confessed the whole ; 
 and instantly, while the arrival of Marzio at Rome from Naples 
 was expected, Giacomo and Bernardo were arrested, and imprisoned 
 in the Corte Savella, and Lucretia and Beatrice were confined in 
 their own house under a good guard ; but afterwards they were 
 also conducted to the prison where were the brothers. They were 
 here examined, and all constantly denied the crime, and par- 
 ticularly Beatrice, who also denied having given to Marzio the 
 mantle trimmed with gold, of which mention was before made ; 
 and Marzio, overcome and moved by the presence of mind and 
 courage of Beatrice, retracted all that he had deposed at Naples, 
 and, rather than again confess, obstinately died under his tor- 
 ments. 
 
 There not being sufficient proof to justify putting the Cenci 
 family to the torture, they were all transferred to Castello, where 
 they remained several months in tranquillity. But, for their mis- 
 fortune, one of the murderers of Olympio at Terni fell into the 
 hands of justice ; he confessed that he had been hired to this deed 
 by Monsignore Guerra, who had also commissioned him to assassi- 
 nate Marzio. Fortunately for this prelate, he received prompt 
 information of the testimony given against him, and was able to 
 hide himself for a time, and to plan his escape, which was very 
 difficult; for his stature, the fairness and beauty of his counte- 
 nance, and his light hair, made him conspicuous for discovery. 
 He changed his dress for that of a charcoal-man, blackening his 
 face, and shaving his head ; and thus disguised, driving two asses 
 before him, with some bread and onions in his hands, he passed 
 freely through Rome, under the eyes of the ministers of justice, 
 who sought him everywhere ; and, without being recognised by 
 any one, passed out of one of the gates of the city, where, after 
 a short time, he was met by the sbirri, who were searching the 
 country, and passed unknown by them, not without suffering great 
 fear at his risk of being discovered and arrested : by means of this 
 ingenious disguise he effected his escape to a safe country. 
 
 The flight of Monsignore Guerra, joined to the confession of the 
 
100 APPENDIX. 
 
 murderer of Olympio, aggravated the other proofs so much, that 
 the Cenci were re-transferred from Castello to Corte Savella, and 
 were condemned to be put to the torture. The two sons sank 
 vilely under their torments, and became convicted ; Lucretia, being 
 of advanced age, having completed her fiftieth year, and being of a 
 fat make, was not able to resist the torture of the cord, and there- 
 fore told all she knew. But the Signora Beatrice, being young, 
 lively, and strong, neither with good nor ill treatment, with 
 menaces, nor fear of torture, would allow a single word to pass her 
 lips which might inculpate her ; and even, by her lively eloquence, 
 confused the judges who examined her. The Pope, being informed 
 of all that passed by Signor Ulysse Moraci, the judge employed in 
 this affair, became suspicious that the beauty of Beatrice had soft- 
 ened the mind of this judge, and committed the cause to another, 
 who found out another mode of torment, called the torture of the 
 hair ; and when she was already tied under this torture, he brought 
 before her her mother-in-law and brothers. They began altogether 
 to exhort her to confess ; saying, that since the crime had been 
 committed, they must suffer the punishment. Beatrice, after some 
 resistance, said, " So you all wish to die, and to disgrace and ruin 
 
 our house ? This is not right ; but since it so pleases you, so let 
 
 it be : " — and turning to the jailers, she told them to unbind her, 
 and that all the examinations might be brought to her, saying, 
 " That which I ought to confess, that will I confess ; that to which 
 I ought to assent, to that will I assent ; and that which I ought to 
 deny, that will I deny : " — and in this manner she was convicted 
 without having confessed. They were then all unbound ; and, 
 since it was now five months since all had met, they wished to eat 
 together that day : but, three days afterwards, they were again 
 divided — the ladies being left in the Corte Savella, and the 
 brothers being transferred to the dungeons of the Tordinona. 
 
 The Pope, after having seen all the examinations, and the entire 
 confessions, ordered that the delinquents should be drawn through 
 the streets at the tails of horses, and afterwards decapitated. Many- 
 cardinals and princes interested themselves, and entreated that at 
 least they might be allowed to draw up their defence. The Pope 
 at first refused to comply, replying with severity, and asking these 
 intercessors what defence had been allowed to Francesco, when he 
 
THE DEATH OF THE FAMILY OF THE CENCI. 101 
 
 had been so barbarously murdered in his sleep ; but afterwards he 
 yielded to allow them twenty-five days' time. The most celebrated 
 Eoman advocates undertook to defend the criminals ; and, at the 
 end of the appointed time, brought their writings to the Pope. 
 The first that spoke was the advocate Nicolas di Angelis ; but the 
 Pope interrupted him angrily in the middle of his discourse, say- 
 ing, that he greatly wondered that there existed in Kome children 
 unnatural enough to kill their father; and that there should be 
 found advocates depraved enough to defend so horrible a crime. 
 These words silenced all except the advocate Farinacci ; who said 
 " Holy Father, we have not fallen at your feet to defend the atro- 
 city of the crime, but to save the life of the innocent, when your 
 Holiness will deign, to hear us." The Pope listened patiently to 
 him for four hours, and then, taking the writings, dismissed them. 
 The advocate Altieri, who was the last to depart, turned back, and, 
 throwing himself at the feet of the Pope, said, that his office as 
 advocate to the poor would not allow him to refuse to appear in 
 this affair ; and the Pope replied that he was not surprised at the 
 part that he, but at that which tlie others had taken. Instead of 
 retiring to rest, he spent the whole night in studying the cause 
 with the Cardinal di San Marcello — noting with great care the 
 most exculpating passages of the writing of the advocate Farinacci ; 
 with which he became so satisfied, that he gave hope of granting a 
 pardon to the criminals ; for the crimes of the father and children 
 were contrasted and balanced in this writing -, and to save the sons, 
 the greater guilt was attributed to Beatrice ; and thus, by saving 
 the mother-in-law, the daughter might the more easily escape, who 
 was dragged, as it were, to the committing so enormous a crime by 
 the cruelty of her father. The Pope, therefore, that the criminals 
 might enjoy the benefit of time, ordered them again to be confined 
 in secret. But since, by the high dispensation of Providence, it 
 was resolved that they should incur the just penalty of parricide, 
 it so happened, that at this time Paolo Santa Croce killed his 
 mother in the town of Subiaco, because she refused to give up her 
 inheritance to him. And the Pope, upon the occurrence of this 
 second crime of this nature, resolved to punish those guilty of the 
 first ; and the more so, because the matricide Santa Croce had 
 escaped from the vengeance of the law by flight. The Pope re- 
 
102 APPENDIX. 
 
 turned to Monte Cavallo the 6th of May, that he might consecrate 
 the next morning, in the neighbouring church of S. Maria degii 
 Angeli, the Cardinal Diveristiana, appointed by him to be bishop 
 of Okimbre, on the 3rd of May of the same year, 1599 : on the 
 10th of May he called into his presence Monsignore Ferrante 
 Taverna, governor of Rome, and said to him, "I give up into your 
 hands the Cenci cause, that you may as soon as you can execute 
 the justice allotted to them," As soon as the governor arrived at 
 his palace, he communicated the sentence to, and held a council 
 with, the criminal judge, concerning the manner of death to be 
 inflicted on the criminals. Many nobles instantly hastened to the 
 palaces of the Quirinal and the Vatican, to implore the grace of at 
 least a private death for the ladies, and the pardon of the innocent 
 Bernardo ; and, fortunately, they were in time to save the life of 
 this youth, because many hours were necessarily employed in 
 preparing the scaffold over the bridge of S. Angelo, and then in 
 waiting for the Confraternity of Mercy, who were to accompany 
 the condemned to the place of suffering. 
 
 The sentence was executed the morning of Saturday, the 11th 
 of May. The messengers charged with the communication of the 
 sentence, and the Brothers of the Conforteria, were sent to the 
 several prisons at five the preceding night; and at six the sen- 
 tence of death was communicated to the unhappy brothers while 
 they were placidly sleeping. Beatrice on hearing it broke into a 
 piercing lamentation, and into passionate gesture, exclaiming, 
 " How is it possible, O my God ! that I must so suddenly die 1 " 
 Lucretia, as prepared and already resigned to her fate, listened 
 without terror to the reading of this terrible sentence ; and with 
 gentle exhortations induced her daughter-in-law to enter the 
 chapel with her ; and the latter, whatever excess she might have 
 indulged in on the first intimation of a speedy death, so much 
 the more now courageously supported herself, and gave every one 
 certain proofs of a humble resignation. Having requested that a 
 notary might be allowed to come to her, and her request being 
 granted, she made her will, in which she left 15,000 crowns to the 
 Fraternity of the Sacre Stimmate ; and willed that all her dowry 
 should be employed in portioning for marriage fifty maidens ; and 
 Lucretia, imitating the example of her daughter-in-law, ordered 
 
THE DEATH OF THE FAMILY OF THE CENCI. 103 
 
 that she should be buried in the church of S. Gregorio at Monte 
 Celio, willed 32,000 crowns for charitable uses, and made other 
 legacies ; after which they passed some time in the Conforteria, 
 reciting psalms and litanies and other prayers, with so much fer- 
 vour that it well appeared that they were assisted by the peculiar 
 grace of God. At eight o'clock they confessed, heard mass, and 
 received the holy communion. Beatrice, considering that it was 
 not decorous to appear before the judges and on the scaffold with 
 their splendid dresses, ordered two dresses, one for herself, and the 
 other for her mother-in-law, made in the manner of the nuns — 
 gathered up, and with long sleeves of black cotton for Lucretia, 
 and of common silk for herself ; with a large cord girdle. When 
 these dresses came, Beatrice rose, and, turning to Lucretia— "Mother," 
 said she, " the hour of our departure is drawing near, let us dress 
 therefore in these clothes, and let us mutually aid one another in 
 this last office." Lucretia readily complied with this invitation, 
 and they dressed, each helping the other, showing the same indiffer- 
 ence and pleasure as if they were dressing for a feast. 
 
 The Company of Mercy arrived soon after at the prisons of the 
 Tordinona ; and while they were waiting below in the street with 
 the crucifix until the condemned should descend, an accident hap- 
 pened, which gave rise to such a tumult among the immense crowd 
 there collected, that there was danger of much disorder. It thus 
 happened ; some foreign gentlemen, wlio were posted at a high 
 window, inadvertently threw down a flower-pot which was outside 
 the window, which falling on one of the brothers of the Order of 
 Mercy, mortally wounded him. This caused a disturbance in the 
 crowd ; and those who were too far off to kno\v the cause, took 
 flight, and falling one over the other, several were wounded. When 
 the tumult was calmed, the brothers Giacomo and Bernardo de- 
 scended to the door of the prison, near which opportunely hap- 
 pened to be some fiscal officers, who, going up to Bernardo, told him 
 that through the clemency of the sovereign pontiff, his life was 
 spared to him, with this condition, that he should be present at 
 the death of his relations. A scarlet mantle trimmed with gold, 
 in which he had at first been conducted to prison, was given him, 
 to envelop him. Giacomo was already on the car, when the placet 
 of the Pope arrived, freeing him from the severer portion of the 
 
104 APPENDIX. 
 
 punishment added to the sentence, and ordering that it should be 
 executed only by the hammer and quartering. 
 
 The funereal procession passed through the Via dell' Orso, by 
 the ApoUinara, thence through the Piazza Navona ; from the 
 church of S. Pantalio to the Piazza Pollarola, through the Campo 
 di Piori, S. Carlo a Castinari, to the Arco de' Conte Cenci ; pro- 
 ceeding, it stopped under the Palace Cenci, and then finally rested 
 at the Corte Savella, to take the two ladies. When these arrived, 
 Lucretia remained last, dressed in black, as has been described, 
 with a veil of the same colour, which covered her as far as her 
 girdle : Beatrice was beside her, also covered by a veil : they wore 
 velvet slippers, with silk roses and gold fastenings ; and, instead 
 of manacles, their wrists were bound by a silk cord, which was 
 fastened to their girdles in such a manner as to give them almost 
 the free use of their hands. Each had in her left hand the holy 
 sign of benediction, and in the right a handkerchief, with which 
 Lucretia wiped her tears, and Beatrice the perspiration from her 
 forehead. Being arrived at the place of punishment, Bernardo was 
 left on the scaffold, and the others were conducted to the chapel. 
 During this dreadful separation, this unfortunate youth, reflecting 
 that he was soon going to behold the decapitation of his nearest 
 relatives, fell down in a deadly swoon, from which, however, he 
 was at last recovered, and seated opposite the block. The first 
 that came forth to die was Lucretia, who, being fat, found diffi- 
 culty in placing herself to receive the blow. The executioner 
 taking off her handkerchief, her neck was discovered, which was 
 still handsome, although she was fifty years of age. Blushing 
 deeply, she cast her eyes down, and then, casting them up to 
 heaven, full of tears, she exclaimed, "Behold, dearest Jesus, this 
 guilty soul about to appear before thee — to give an account of its 
 acts, mingled with many crimes. When it shall appear before 
 thy Godhead, I pray thee to look on it with an eye of mercy, and 
 not of justice." She then began to recite the psalm Miserere mei 
 Deus, and placing her neck under the axe, the head was struck 
 from her body while she was repeating the second verse of this 
 psalm, at the words et secundum multitudinem. A^Hien the execu- 
 tioner raised the head, the populace saw with wonder that the 
 countenance long retained its vivacity, until it was wrapt up in a 
 
THE DEATH OF THE FAMILY OF THE CENCL 105 
 
 black handkerchief, and placed in a corner of the scaffold. While 
 the scaffold was being arranged for Beatrice, and whilst the 
 Brotherhood returned to the chapel for her, the balcony of a shop 
 filled with spectators fell, and five of those nnderneath were 
 wounded, so that two died a few days after. Beatrice, hearing 
 the noise, asked the executioner if her mother had died well, 
 and being replied that she had, she knelt before the crucifix, and 
 spoke thus : — " Be thou everlastingly thanked, my gracious 
 Saviour, since, by the good death of my mother, thou hast given 
 me assurance of thy mercy towards me." Then, rising, she coura- 
 geously and devoutly walked towards the scaffold, repeating by 
 the way several prayers with so much fervour of spirit, that all 
 who heard her shed tears of compassion. Ascending the scaffold, 
 while she arranged herself, she also turned her eyes to heaven, and 
 thus prayed : — " Most beloved Jesus, who, relinquishing thy 
 divinity, becamest a man ; and didst through love purge my sin- 
 ful soul also of its original sin with thy precious blood ; deign, 
 I beseech thee, to accept that which I am about to shed at thy 
 most merciful tribunal, as a penalty which may cancel my many 
 crimes, and spare me a part of that punishment justly due to me." 
 Then she placed her head under the axe, which at one blow was 
 divided from her body, as she was repeating the second verse of 
 the psalm De profundis, at the words Jiaiit aures tuce ; the blow 
 gave a violent motion to her body, and discomposed her dress. 
 The executioner raised the head to the view of the people, and 
 in placing it in the coffin placed underneath, the cord by which it 
 was suspended slipped from his hold, and the head fell to the 
 ground, shedding a great deal of blood, which was wiped up with 
 water and sponges. 
 
 On the death of his sister, Bernardo again fainted ; the most 
 efficacious remedies were for some time uselessly employed upon 
 him ; and it was believed by all that his second swoon, having 
 found him already overcome and without strength, had deprived 
 him of life. At length, after the lapse of a quarter of an hour, he 
 came to himself, and by slow degrees recovered the use of his 
 senses. Giacomo was then conducted to the scaff'old, and the 
 executioner took from him the mourning cloko which enveloped 
 him. He fixed his eyes on Bernardo, and then, turning, addressed 
 
106 APPENDIX. 
 
 the people "\vitli a loud voice : " Now that I am about to present 
 myself before the Tribunal of infallible Truth, I swear that if my 
 Saviour, pardoning me my faults, shall place me in the road to 
 salvation, I will incessantly pray for the preservation of his Holi- 
 ness, who has spared me the aggravation of punishment but too 
 much due to my enormous crime, and has granted life to my 
 brother Bernardo, who is most innocent of the guilt of parricide, 
 as I have constantly declared in all my examinations. It only 
 afflicts me in these my last moments, that he should have been 
 obliged to be present at so fatal a scene : but since, my God, it 
 has so pleased thee, fiat voluntas tua." After speaking thus, he 
 knelt down : the executioner blinded his eyes, and tied his legs 
 to the scaffold, gave him a blow on the temple with a leaded 
 hammer, cut ofif his head, and cut his body into four pieces which 
 were fixed on the hooks of the scaffolding. 
 
 When the last penalty of justice was over, Bernardo was re-con- 
 ducted to the prison of the Tordinona, where he was soon attacked 
 by a burning fever ; he was bled and received other remedies, so 
 that in the end he recovered his health, though not without great 
 suffering. The bodies of Lucretia and Beatrice were left at the end 
 of the bridge until the evening, illuminated by two torches, and 
 surrounded by so great a concourse of people, that it was impos- 
 sible to cross the bridge. An hour after dark, the body of Beatrice 
 was placed in a coffin, covered by a black velvet pall, richly adorned 
 with gold : garlands of flowers were placed, one at her head, and 
 another at her feet ; and the body was strewed with flowers. It 
 was accompanied to the cliurch of S. Peter in Montorio by the 
 Brotherhood of the Order of Mercy, and followed by many Fran- 
 ciscan monks, with great pomp and innumerable torches ; she was 
 there buried before the high altar, after the customary ceremony 
 liad been performed. By reason of the distance of the church 
 from the bridge, it was four hours after dark before the ceremony 
 was finished. Afterwards the body of Lucretia, accompanied in 
 the same manner, was carried to the church of S. Gregorio upon 
 the Celian Hill ; where, after the ceremony, it was honourably 
 buried. 
 
 Beatrice was rather tall, of a fair complexion ; and she had a 
 dimple on each cheek, which, especially when she smiled, added a 
 
THE DEATH OF THE FAMILY OF THE CENCI. 107 
 
 grace to her lovely countenance that transported every one who 
 beheld her. Her hair appeared like threads of gold ; and, because 
 they were extremely long, she used to tie it up, and, when after- 
 wards she loosened it, the splendid ringlets dazzled the eyes of the 
 spectator. Her eyes were of a deep blue, pleasing, and full of fire. 
 To all these beauties she added, both in words and actions, a spirit 
 and a majestic vivacity that captivated every one. She was twenty 
 years of age when she died. 
 
 Lucretia was as tall as Beatrice, but her full make made her 
 appear less : she was also fair, and so fresh complexioned, that at 
 fifty, which was her age when she died, she did not appear above 
 thirty. Her hair was black, and her teeth regular and white to an 
 extraordinary degree. 
 
 Giacomo was of a middle size ; fair but ruddy ; and with black 
 eyebrows : affable in his nature, of good address, and well skilled 
 in every science, and in all knightly exercises. He was not more 
 than twenty-eight years of age when he died. 
 
 Lastly, Bernardo so closely resembled Beatrice in complexion, 
 features, and everything else, that if they had changed clothes the 
 one might easily have been taken for the other. His mind also 
 seemed formed in the same model as that of his sister ; and at the 
 time of her death he was six-and-twenty years old. 
 
 He remained in the prison of Tordinona until the month of 
 September of the same year, after which time, at the interces- 
 sion of the most Venerable Grand Brotherhood of the Most Holy 
 Crucifix of St. Marcellus, he obtained the favour of his liberty 
 upon paying the sum of 25,000 crowns to the Hospital of the 
 Most Holy Trinity of Pilgrims. Thus he, as the sole remnant of 
 the Cenci family, became heir to all their possessions. He is now 
 married, and has a son named Cristofero. 
 
 The most faithful portrait of Beatrice exists in the Palace of the 
 Villa Pamtili, without the gate of San Pancrazio : if any other is 
 to be found in the Palazzo Cenci, it is not shown to any one ; — so 
 as not to renew the memory of so horrible an event. 
 
 This was the end of this family : and until the time when this 
 account is put together it has not been possible to find the Mar- 
 quess Paolo Santa Croce ; but there is a rumour that he dwells in 
 Brescia, a city of the Venetian states. 
 
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 Also, price 16s., uniform ivitli the 1 vol. Keats. 
 
 SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS, in Large Type with- 
 out Notes, 2 vols., crown 8vo. Second Edition. With Mrs. 
 Shelley's Notes. Strongly bound in buckram, sides gilt from 
 a Design by the late Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and Frontis- 
 pieces Etched by W. B. Scott. 
 
 THE SHELLEY LIBRARY ; an Essay in Bibliography, 
 by H. Buxton Forman. A complete bibliographical account of 
 all the works issued by Shelley, and of the various editions 
 since published ; together with particulars concerning Shelley 
 Literature. Part I., price 3s. 6d. 
 
 The following are printed for private distribution. {Particulars 
 on application to Messrs. Reeves ^ Turner.) 
 
 THE D^MON OF THE WORLD, by Percy Bysshe 
 
 Shelley : The First Part as published in 1816 with Alastor ; 
 the Second Part Deciphered and now first printed from his 
 manuscript Revision and Interpolations in the newly discovered 
 copy of Queen Mab. Edited by H. Buxton Forman. 16md: 
 1876. 
 
 NOTES ON SCULPTURES IN ROME AND FLOR- 
 ENCE, together with a Lucianic Fragment and a Criticism of 
 Peacock's Poem "Rhododaphne," by Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
 Given from Manuscript Sources by H. Buxton Forman. 8vo. 
 1879. 
 
 THE PEDIGREE OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 now first given from the Records of the College of Arms. 
 With an unpublished portrait. 4to. 1880. 
 
( 3 ) 
 A COMPLETE LIBRARY .EDITIOX 
 
 OF 
 
 THE WORKS OF JOHN KEATS, 
 
 Edited By H. BUXTON FORMAN, 
 
 With copious Notes and Appendices, and full Indexes of Subjects 
 and First Lines, in 4 volumes, price 4 guineas. 
 
 The text of the poems pubhshed by Keats has been scrupu- 
 lously revised from the poet's own editions ; and these, as well 
 as the posthumous poems, have been collated as far as possible 
 with the Author's manuscripts. Variations and numerous con- 
 siderable cancelled passages are inserted in footnotes ; and 
 fourteen poems not given by other editors are added from 
 manuscript and other sources. An important mass of letters 
 to various persons is now first published, increasing the number 
 of letters to about two hundred; and those re-edited from 
 printed sources have been largely revised from the originals. 
 
 Among the illustrations are five authentic portraits, by Severn, 
 Haydon, and Hilton, and a beau'"'ul etching of Keats's burial- 
 place from a drawing by Samuel Palmer. The book has been 
 printed in the best style at the Chiswick Press by Messrs. 
 Charles Whittingham & Co., and no pains have been spared to 
 render it in all respects complete, both as to material and as to 
 illustration and execution. The volumes are strongly and hand- 
 somely bound in buckram, appropriately decorated from an 
 "original design. 
 
 SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. 
 
 VOLUME 1. — Poems published in 1817 — Endymion collated throughout 
 with the first draft, the final manuscript, and a corrected copy of the 
 first edition — Criticisms by Leigh Hunt, the Quarterly and Edinburgh 
 Reviews, &c. 
 
 VOLUME IL — Lamia, Isabella, The Eve op St. Agnes, and other 
 Poems (1820) — Posthumous Poems — Otho the Great — Criticisms by 
 Leigh Hunt — Isabella from Boccaccio by John Payne — The Pot of 
 Basil Song, &c. 
 
( 4 ) 
 
 VOLUME III. — Criticism of Edmund Kean — Notes on Shakespeare and 
 Milton — Miscellaneous Letters — The " Cockney School " attack on 
 Keats — J. H. Reynolds's Defence, &c. 
 
 VOLUME IV, — Miscellaneous Letters — Letters to Eanny Brawne — 
 Severn's Account of Keats's death — Adonais— Shelley and Byron on 
 Keats — Personal Recollections of Keats by Leigh Hunt, Charles 
 Cowden Clarke, Haydon, Charles Armitage Brown, Joseph Severn, 
 and George Keats — General Index, &c. 
 
 Uniform with the 2 vol. Shelley, price 8s. 
 
 KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS, given from his own 
 Editions and other Authentic Sources, and collated with many 
 Manuscripts. 1 vol., crown 8vo, Second Edition, buckram 
 gilt, portrait etched by W. B. Scott. 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS TO 
 FANNY BRAWNE, 
 
 given from the MSS., Mdth Introduction, Notes, Appendix, and 
 Index. Illustrated with Severn's last portrait of Keats, etched 
 by W. B. Scott ; silhouette of Fanny Brawne, and fac-simile 
 of a three-page letter, printed upon actual paper of the period. 
 Foolscap 8vo, cloth, price 8s. 6d. 
 
COMMITTEE. fl 
 
 William E. A. Axon. Robert Alfred Potts. 
 
 Miss Mathilde Blind, 
 
 Rev. Stopford A. Brooke, M.A. 
 
 Bertram Dobell. 
 
 Alfred Forman. 
 
 H. Buxton Forman. 
 
 F.y.FuRNiVALL, M. A.,PH.D.(7>mi') 
 
 Charles Gordon Hall. 
 
 Rev. W. a. Harrison, M.A. 
 
 Prof. A. S. Napier, M.A. , Ph.D, 
 
 W. M. RossETTi. {C/iairmanA 
 Gabriel Sarrazin. 
 William Bell Scott 
 Henry Sweet, M.A 
 Wm. Bernhard Tegetmeier. 
 John Todhunter, M.D 
 A. W. Verrall, M.A. 
 Hermann Vezin. 
 Thomas J. Wise.* 
 
 I/on. Sec. Sydney E. Preston, 88, Eaton Place, London, S.W. 
 The Yearly Subscription (which constitutes Membership) is One Guinea rl, 
 every first of January beginning January 1st 1886, and should be pa 
 either to the Honorary Secretary , Sydney E. Preston, Esq 88 Eaton Pl-,r 
 London, S.W., or to the Chairman of Committei, WiLliam Michae 
 ROSSETTI. Esq., 5, Endsleigh Gardens, Euston Road, Lond^ N W 
 T i 't-t J^"""- ^^"^^^:iPrf " 1« $5-25, and may be paid as above, o^ to an 
 T^ J^.'l"- ^^''- '" ^^^ ^^^^^'^ '^^^t^' '' ^ee p. 2 of Prospectus ) 
 Each Member is entitled to one copy of all the Publications of the Societ 
 during the current year with a second copy of the Note-Book) ; to atten 
 nndyrf/ST^'?-^"^ ^^'^'^fy^Meetings; and to admission for himse 
 ^nH ^/A? Vr^ r r ^"y"f;^^e Society's performances of The C en. 
 and Hdlas The first performance of 77^. Cenci v^\\\ take place at the Gran 
 Theatre, Islington, on the afternoon of May 7, 1886. 
 
 fourteln^°^-'^^.- ^''^^'''^^^°"' ^°'' '^^^ wilTbe ^least twelve of the followinj 
 
 \ Adonais (Pisa, 1821). A Facsimile Reprint on hand-made Paper 
 by Thomas J. Wise. 10s. ^ r 
 
 Edite( 
 
 2. Shelley s Review of Hogg's novel, '' Memoirs of Prince Alexy Hdmatoff ' 
 Reprinted from 77.. C.^W AW^, Dec. 1814, -on hand-made Paper7wkl 
 Extract from an Article by Prof. Dowden. Edited by Thos. J. Wise 
 2.r. Oct. P -. ' 
 
 P.no.^^^'w/T ^""^ "^'if r^^'u' 4'^'^^- ^ Facsimile Reprint on hand-made 
 Paper. With a new Preface by Bertram Dobell. 6j. \Issued 
 
 4- A Shelley BlMiography, or "The Shelley Library." Part I First 
 Editions and their Reproductions. By H. Buxton Forman. \Issued. " 
 
 <\ u i^«^^rr7/y.;«^/- //«/W Dzet (1813). Reprint, with Preface by H. 
 S Salt and W. E. A. Axon. Presented by Mr. Axon. T/ssued 
 
 6. A Memoir of Shellev with a fresh Preface, by William Michael Rossetti, 
 a Portrait ot Shelley, and an engraving of his Tomb. \Tssued. 
 
 1. The a««- (with a Prologue by Dr. John Todhunter for the performance 
 on May 7), with an Introchiction by Alfred Forman and H. Buxton Forman ; 
 and a Portrait of Beatrice Cenci. xn.„.^ 
 
 M?- /f %n-^^^K ^,T''^'^^ J^f-P'"^"^ °^ hand-made Paper. PresenJed'by 
 Mr. F. S. Ellis, edited by T. J. Wise. r^^ ^^^^^ ^ 
 
 b \fR'''A''"poT4^^^^^^" '^''''''"'''^^ '■^i'"''^ ""^ hand-made Paper. Presented 
 
 P.n^' '^^^a-Ta^ it Irhh People {1%12\ Facsimile Reprint oJtln'd-nmde 
 Paper. Edited by Thos. J. Wise. Presented by Mr. W. B. Slater. \ At Press 
 
 11. Shelley's Necessity of Atheism (1811). Facsimile reprint on hand-made 
 Paper. Presented and edited by Mr. T. J. Wise. [PreMrin^ 
 
 12. Biographical Articles on Shelley, Part L : those by Stockdale', froni his 
 J^tM^svt, 1826-7 ; by Hogg, from 77/^ New Monthlv Magazine, 1832-^ • and bv 
 
 A Newspaper Editor » from Fraser's Magazine. June, 1841. {Preparin^^ 
 
 13. The Shelley Society's Note-Book, edited by S. E, Preston, Hon Scc 
 No. I of the Note- Book was issued on April 6, and No. 2 on May I, 188*6 
 
 14. The Shelley Society's Papers. Part T, by IL Sweet, M.A., &c , &c. 
 The Committee hope that the Shellev Primer, bv Mr. H, S. Snlt will 1.,. 
 
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