That crimes like yours if once or twice And reconcile thyself with thine own compounded

heart

Enriched the Church, and respited from And with thy God, and with the offended hell

world.

An erring soul which might repent and How hideously look deeds of lust and live:blood

Thro' those snow white and venerable
hairs!-

But that the glory and the interest
Of the high throne he fills, little consist
With making it a daily mart of guilt
As manifold and hideous as the deeds
Which you scarce hide from men's re-
volted eyes.

Your children should be sitting round
you now,

But that you fear to read upon their looks

Cenci. The third of my possessions The shame and misery you have written

-let it go! there. Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Where is your wife? Where is your Pope

gentle daughter?

Had sent his architect to view the ground,
Meaning to build a villa on my vines
The next time I compounded with his
uncle:

Methinks her sweet looks, which make
all things else
Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend
within you.

Why is she barred from all society
But her own strange and uncomplaining
wrongs?

I little thought he should outwit me so! Henceforth no witness-not the lamp shall see

That which the vassal threatened to divulge

Talk with me, Count,-you know I mean you well.

Whose throat is choked with dust for I stood beside your dark and fiery youth his reward. Watching its bold and bad career, as

The deed he saw could not have rated

higher

Than his most worthless life:-it angers
me!
Respited me from Hell! So may the
Devil

Respite their souls from Heaven.
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

men

Watch meteors, but it vanished not-
I marked
Your desperate and remorseless man-
hood; now

Do I behold you in dishonoured age
No Charged with a thousand unrepented
crimes.

Yet I have ever hoped you would amend, And in that hope have saved your life three times.

Cenci. For which Aldobrandino owes you now

Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, and length of days My fief beyond the Pincian-Cardinal, Wherein to act the deeds which are the One thing, pray you, recollect hence

stewards forth, Of their revenue. But much yet re- And so we shall converse with less remains straint.

To which they show no title.

A man you knew spoke of my wife and daughter-

Camillo.

Oh, Count Cenci! So much that thou mightst honourably He was accustomed to frequent my

live

house;

Cenci. Why, miserable?— No. I am what your theologians call And asked if I had seen him; and I Hardened; - which they must be in smiled:

impudence,

I think they never saw him any more.
Camillo. Thou execrable man, be-
ware!-

So to revile a man's peculiar taste.
True, I was happier than I am, while
yet

So the next day his wife and daughter

came

Manhood remained to act the thing I
thought;

While lust was sweeter than revenge;
and now
Invention palls:-Ay, we must all grow
old-

Seeing I please my senses as I list,

And vindicate that right with force or And but that there yet remains a deed guile,

to act

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-

Whose horror might make sharp an
appetite

Duller than mine--I'd do I know not what.

else

For you give out that you have half re- | When I was young I thought of nothing formed me, Therefore strong vanity will keep you But pleasure; and I fed on honey sweets: silent Men, by St. Thomas! cannot live like bees,

If fear should not; both will, I do not doubt.

And I grew tired:-yet, till I killed a
foe,

All men delight in sensual luxury,
All men enjoy revenge; and most exult And heard his groans, and heard his
Over the tortures they can never feel-
Flattering their secret peace with others'
pain.

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,
Which are, I think, the checks of other

men.

This mood has grown upon me, until

Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of
Christ.

now

Any design my captious fancy makes
The picture of its wish, and it forms

I rarely kill the body, which preserves,
Like a strong prison, the soul within
my power,

none

But such as men like you would start Wherein I feed it with the breath of to know, fear

Is as my natural food and rest debarred For hourly pain.

Until it be accomplished.

Camillo.

Art thou not

Most miserable?

Cenci.
Of thee?
Nay this is idle :-We should know each
other.

As to my character for what men call crime

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,

The dry fixed eyeball; the pale quivering lip,

Which tell me that the spirit weeps within

Camillo. doned fiend Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt,

Hell's most aban

Speak to his heart as now you speak to

me;

I thank my God that I believe you not.
Enter ANDREA.

Andrea.

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

Andrea.
My lord?
Cenci. Bid Beatrice attend me in
her chamber

My Lord, a gentleman from This evening:-no, at midnight and
alone.
[Exeunt.

Salamanca

Fourfold provision for my cursed sons; Whom I had sent from Rome to Salamanca,

Hoping some accident might cut them off;

And meaning if I could to starve them there.

I pray thee, God, send some quick
death upon them!

Bernardo and my wife could not be worse
If dead and damned:-
:- - then, as to
Beatrice-

Beatrice.

Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee.
Pervert not truth,
[Exit CAMILLO. | Orsino. You remember where we held
Cenci. The third of my possessions! That conversation;-nay, we see the

I must use

spot

Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's Even from this cypress;-two long years are past

sword,

yesterday

Falls from my withered hand. But Since, on an April midnight, underneath
The moonlight ruins of mount Palatine,
There came an order from the Pope to I did confess to you my secret mind.
make
Orsino. You said you loved me
then.
Beatrice.
You are a Priest,
Speak to me not of love.
Orsino.

Enter ANDREA.

(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.

O, thou most silent air, that shalt not
hear

What now I think!
which I tread
Towards her chamber,-let your echoes
talk

Of my imperious step scorning surprise,
But not of my intent!--Andrea!

SCENE II.-A GARDEN OF THE CENCI PALACE. Enter BEATRICE and ORSINO, as in conversation.

Beatrice. As I have said, speak to
me not of love;

Had you a dispensation I have not;
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
Thou, pavement, I felt for you, is turned to bitter pain.
Ours was a youthful contract, which you
first

Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will loose.

And thus I love you still, but holily,

I may obtain The dispensation of the Pope to marry. Because I am a Priest do you believe Your image, as the hunter some struck deer,

Follows me not whether I wake or sleep?

Where shall I turn? Even now you look on me

As you were not my friend, and as if

you

Great God! that such a father should be
mine!

But there is mighty preparation made,
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

In his dark spirit from this act; I none.
Discovered that I thought so, with false At supper I will give you the petition:
smiles
Till when-farewell.
Making my true suspicion seem your

Orsino. Farewell. (Exit BEATRICE.)
I know the Pope

wrong.

Ah no! forgive me; sorrow makes me Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly

VOW

seem

been;

Sterner than else my nature might have But by absolving me from the revenue
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

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; Doubt not but I will use my utmost skill

Of his sixth cousin, as he did her sister,
And I should be debarred from all access.
Then as to what she suffers from her
father,

·--

In all this there is much exaggeration: So that the Pope attend to your com- Old men are testy and will have their

plaint.

way;

...

Beatrice. Your zeal for all I wish ;- A man may stab his enemy, or his vassal, Ah me, you are cold! And live a free life as to wine or women, Your utmost skill . . . speak but one And with a peevish temper may return word (aside) Alas! To a dull home, and rate his wife and Weak and deserted creature that I am, children; Here I stand bickering with my only Daughters and wives call this foul friend! [To ORSINO. tyranny. This night my father gives a sumptuous I shall be well content if on my confeast, science

Orsino; he has heard some happy news
From Salamanca, from my brothers

There rest no heavier sin than what they suffer

there,

From the devices of my love-A net And with this outward show of love he From which she shall escape not. Yet mocks His inward hate. 'Tis bold hypocrisy, For he would gladlier celebrate their deaths,

I fear
Her subtle mind, her awe-inspiring gaze,
Whose beams anatomise me nerve by

Which I have heard him pray for on his
knees:

nerve

And lay me bare, and make me blush

to see

as you;

Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so,
But tender-hearted, meek and pitiful.
First Guest. In truth, my Lord,

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

you seem too light of heart, Too sprightly and companionable a man, To act the deeds that rumour pins on you.

Some most desired

event,
In which we all demand a common joy,
Has brought us hither; let us hear it,
Count.
S

A prayer, both when he lays him down
to sleep,
And when he rises up from dreaming
it;

One supplication, one desire, one hope,
That he would grant a wish for his two

By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought.
My disobedient and rebellious sons
Are dead! Why dead!-What means
this change of cheer?

(To his companion.) I never saw such You hear me not, I tell you they are
blithe and open cheer
In any eye!
Second Guest.

sons,

Even all that he demands in their
regard-

And suddenly beyond his dearest hope,
It is accomplished, he should then rejoice,
And call his friends and kinsmen to a
feast,

And task their love to grace his merri-
ment,

Then honour me thus far-for I am he.
Beatrice (to LUCRETIA). Great God!
How horrible! Some dreadful ill
Must have befallen my brothers.
Fear not, Child,

Lucretia.

He speaks too frankly.
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!

I thank thee! In one night didst thou
perform,

dead;

And they will need no food or raiment

more:

The tapers that did light them the dark

way

Are their last cost.
will not

The Pope, I think,

X