SAVELLA:Strange thoughts beget strange deeds; and here are both:I judge thee not.
BEATRICE:And yet, if you arrest me, _140You are the judge and executionerOf that which is the life of life: the breathOf accusation kills an innocent name,And leaves for lame acquittal the poor lifeWhich is a mask without it. ’Tis most false _145That I am guilty of foul parricide;Although I must rejoice, for justest cause,That other hands have sent my father’s soulTo ask the mercy he denied to me.Now leave us free; stain not a noble house _150With vague surmises of rejected crime;Add to our sufferings and your own neglectNo heavier sum: let them have been enough:Leave us the wreck we have.
SAVELLA:I dare not, Lady.I pray that you prepare yourselves for Rome: _155There the Pope’s further pleasure will be known.
LUCRETIA:O, not to Rome! O, take us not to Rome!
BEATRICE:Why not to Rome, dear mother? There as hereOur innocence is as an armed heelTo trample accusation. God is there _160As here, and with His shadow ever clothesThe innocent, the injured and the weak;And such are we. Cheer up, dear Lady, leanOn me; collect your wandering thoughts. My Lord,As soon as you have taken some refreshment, _165And had all such examinations madeUpon the spot, as may be necessaryTo 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 _170Self-accusation from our agony!Will Giacomo be there? Orsino? Marzio?All present; all confronted; all demandingEach from the other’s countenance the thingWhich is in every heart! O, misery! _175
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 graspsAnd loosens not: a snake whose look transmutesAll things to guilt which is its nutriment. _180She cannot know how well the supine slavesOf blind authority read the truth of thingsWhen written on a brow of guilelessness:She sees not yet triumphant InnocenceStand at the judgement-seat of mortal man, _185A judge and an accuser of the wrongWhich drags it there. Prepare yourself, my Lord;Our suite will join yours in the court below.
GIACOMO:Do evil deeds thus quickly come to end?O, that the vain remorse which must chastiseCrimes done, had but as loud a voice to warnAs its keen sting is mortal to avenge!O, that the hour when present had cast off _5The mantle of its mystery, and shownThe ghastly form with which it now returnsWhen its scared game is roused, cheering the houndsOf conscience to their prey! Alas! Alas!It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed, _10To kill an old and hoary-headed father.
ORSINO:It has turned out unluckily, in truth.
GIACOMO:To violate the sacred doors of sleep;To cheat kind Nature of the placid deathWhich she prepares for overwearied age; _15To drag from Heaven an unrepentant soulWhich might have quenched in reconciling prayersA life of burning crimes…
ORSINO:You cannot sayI urged you to the deed.
GIACOMO:O, had I neverFound in thy smooth and ready countenance _20The mirror of my darkest thoughts; hadst thouNever with hints and questions made me lookUpon the monster of my thought, untilIt grew familiar to desire…
ORSINO:’Tis thusMen cast the blame of their unprosperous acts _25Upon the abettors of their own resolve;Or anything but their weak, guilty selves.And yet, confess the truth, it is the perilIn which you stand that gives you this pale sicknessOf penitence; confess ’tis fear disguised _30From its own shame that takes the mantle nowOf thin remorse. What if we yet were safe?
GIACOMO:How can that be? Already Beatrice,Lucretia and the murderer are in prison.I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak, _35Sent to arrest us.
ORSINO:I have all preparedFor instant flight. We can escape even now,So we take fleet occasion by the hair.
GIACOMO:Rather expire in tortures, as I may.What! will you cast by self-accusing flight _40Assured conviction upon Beatrice?She, who alone in this unnatural work,Stands like God’s angel ministered uponBy fiends; avenging such a nameless wrongAs turns black parricide to piety; _45Whilst 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 endCould you engage in such a perilous crime, _50Training me on with hints, and signs, and smiles,Even to this gulf? 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 _55Disdains to brand thee with.
ORSINO:Put up your weapon.Is it the desperation of your fearMakes you thus rash and sudden with a friend,Now ruined for your sake? If honest angerHave moved you, know, that what I just proposed _60Was 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 speakThe ministers of justice wait below: _65They grant me these brief moments. Now if youHave any word of melancholy comfortTo speak to your pale wife, ’twere best to passOut at the postern, and avoid them so.
NOTE: _58 a friend edition 1821; your friend edition 1839.
GIACOMO:O, generous friend! How canst thou pardon me? _70Would that my life could purchase thine!
ORSINO:That wishNow comes a day too late. Haste; fare thee well!Hear’st thou not steps along the corridor?[EXIT GIACOMO.]I’m sorry for it; but the guards are waitingAt his own gate, and such was my contrivance _75That I might rid me both of him and them.I thought to act a solemn comedyUpon the painted scene of this new world,And to attain my own peculiar endsBy some such plot of mingled good and ill _80As others weave; but there arose a PowerWhich grasped and snapped the threads of my deviceAnd turned it to a net of ruin…Ha![A SHOUT IS HEARD.]Is that my name I hear proclaimed abroad?But I will pass, wrapped in a vile disguise; _85Rags on my back, and a false innocenceUpon my face, through the misdeeming crowdWhich judges by what seems. ’Tis easy thenFor a new name and for a country new,And a new life, fashioned on old desires, _90To change the honours of abandoned Rome.And these must be the masks of that within,Which must remain unaltered…Oh, I fearThat what is past will never let me rest!Why, when none else is conscious, but myself, _95Of my misdeeds, should my own heart’s contemptTrouble me? Have I not the power to flyMy own reproaches? Shall I be the slaveOf…what? A word? which those of this false worldEmploy against each other, not themselves; _100As men wear daggers not for self-offence.But if I am mistaken, where shall IFind the disguise to hide me from myself,As now I skulk from every other eye?
FIRST JUDGE:Accused, do you persist in your denial?I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty?I demand who were the participatorsIn your offence? Speak truth, and the whole truth.
MARZIO:My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing; _5Olimpio sold the robe to me from whichYou would infer my guilt.
SECOND JUDGE:Away with him!
FIRST JUDGE:Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack’s kissSpeak false? Is it so soft a questioner,That you would bandy lover’s talk with it _10Till it wind out your life and soul? Away!
MARZIO:Spare me! O, spare! I will confess.
FIRST JUDGE:Then speak.
MARZIO:I strangled him in his sleep.
FIRST JUDGE:Who urged you to it?
MARZIO:His own son Giacomo, and the young prelateOrsino sent me to Petrella; there _15The ladies Beatrice and LucretiaTempted me with a thousand crowns, and IAnd my companion forthwith murdered him.Now let me die.
FIRST JUDGE:This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there,Lead forth the prisoner![ENTER LUCRETIA, BEATRICE AND GIACOMO, GUARDED.]Look upon this man; _20When 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 IWhom you did urge with menaces and bribesTo kill your father. When the thing was done _25You clothed me in a robe of woven goldAnd 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 TOWARDS HIM;HE COVERS HIS FACE, AND SHRINKS BACK.]Oh, dartThe terrible resentment of those eyes _30On the dead earth! Turn them away from me!They wound: ’twas torture forced the truth. My Lords,Having said this let me be led to death.
BEATRICE:Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stay awhile.
CAMILLO:Guards, lead him not away.
BEATRICE:Cardinal Camillo, _35You have a good repute for gentlenessAnd wisdom: can it be that you sit hereTo countenance a wicked farce like this?When some obscure and trembling slave is draggedFrom sufferings which might shake the sternest heart _40And bade to answer, not as he believes,But as those may suspect or do desireWhose questions thence suggest their own reply:And that in peril of such hideous tormentsAs merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now _45The 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 poisonYour little nephew; that fair blue-eyed childWho was the lodestar of your life:’—and though _50All see, since his most swift and piteous death,That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time,And all the things hoped for or done thereinAre changed to you, through your exceeding grief,Yet you would say, ‘I confess anything:’ _55And beg from your tormentors, like that slave,The refuge of dishonourable death.I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assertMy innocence.
CAMILLO [MUCH MOVED]:What shall we think, my Lords?Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozen _60Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soulThat she is guiltless.
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;His hair, too, was her colour, and his eyes _65Like hers in shape, but blue and not so deep)As that most perfect image of God’s loveThat ever came sorrowing upon the earth.She is as pure as speechless infancy!
JUDGE:Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord, _70If you forbid the rack. His HolinessEnjoined us to pursue this monstrous crimeBy the severest forms of law; nay evenTo stretch a point against the criminals.The prisoners stand accused of parricide _75Upon such evidence as justifiesTorture.
BEATRICE:What evidence? This man’s?
JUDGE:Even so.
BEATRICE [TO MARZIO]:Come near. And who art thou thus chosen forthOut of the multitude of living menTo kill the innocent?
MARZIO:I am Marzio, _80Thy father’s vassal.
BEATRICE:Fix thine eyes on mine;Answer to what I ask.[TURNING TO THE JUDGES.]I prithee markHis countenance: unlike bold calumnyWhich sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks,He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends _85His gaze on the blind earth.[TO MARZIO.]What! wilt thou sayThat I did murder my own father?
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! _90I am a guilty miserable wretch;I have said all I know; now, let me die!
BEATRICE:My Lords, if by my nature I had beenSo stern, as to have planned the crime alleged,Which your suspicions dictate to this slave, _95And the rack makes him utter, do you thinkI should have left this two-edged instrumentOf my misdeed; this man, this bloody knifeWith my own name engraven on the heft,Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, _100For my own death? That with such horrible needFor deepest silence, I should have neglectedSo trivial a precaution, as the makingHis tomb the keeper of a secret writtenOn a thief’s memory? What is his poor life? _105What are a thousand lives? A parricideHad 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,Wound worse than torture.[TO THE JUDGES.]I have told it all; _110For pity’s sake lead me away to death.
CAMILLO:Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice;He shrinks from her regard like autumn’s leafFrom the keen breath of the serenest north.
BEATRICE:O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge _115Of 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,And so my lot was ordered, that a father _120First turned the moments of awakening lifeTo drops, each poisoning youth’s sweet hope; and thenStabbed with one blow my everlasting soul;And my untainted fame; and even that peaceWhich sleeps within the core of the heart’s heart; _125But the wound was not mortal; so my hateBecame the only worship I could liftTo our great father, who in pity and love,Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off;And thus his wrong becomes my accusation; _130And art thou the accuser? If thou hopestMercy in heaven, show justice upon earth:Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.If thou hast done murders, made thy life’s pathOver the trampled laws of God and man, _135Rush not before thy Judge, and say: ‘My maker,I have done this and more; for there was oneWho was most pure and innocent on earth;And because she endured what never anyGuilty or innocent endured before: _140Because 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 slayThe reverence living in the minds of men _145Towards 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. ThinkWhat ’tis to blot with infamy and blood _150All that which shows like innocence, and is,Hear me, great God! I swear, most innocent,So that the world lose all discriminationBetween the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt,And that which now compels thee to reply _155To what I ask: Am I, or am I notA parricide?
MARZIO:Thou art not!
JUDGE:What is this?
MARZIO:I here declare those whom I did accuseAre innocent. ’Tis I alone am guilty.
JUDGE:Drag him away to torments; let them be _160Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the foldsOf the heart’s inmost cell. Unbind him notTill he confess.
MARZIO:Torture me as ye will:A keener pang has wrung a higher truthFrom my last breath. She is most innocent! _165Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me;I will not give you that fine piece of natureTo rend and ruin.
NOTE: _164 pang edition 1821; pain editions 1819, 1839.
CAMILLO:What say ye now, my Lords?
JUDGE:Let tortures strain the truth till it be whiteAs snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind. _170
CAMILLO:Yet stained with blood.
JUDGE [TO BEATRICE]:Know you this paper, Lady?
BEATRICE:Entrap me not with questions. Who stands hereAs my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he,Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, judge,What, all in one? Here is Orsino’s name; _175Where is Orsino? Let his eye meet mine.What means this scrawl? Alas! ye know not what,And therefore on the chance that it may beSome evil, will ye kill us?
OFFICER:Marzio’s dead.
JUDGE:What did he say?
OFFICER:Nothing. As soon as we _180Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us,As one who baffles a deep adversary;And holding his breath, died.
JUDGE:There remains nothingBut to apply the question to those prisoners,Who yet remain stubborn.
CAMILLO:I overrule _185Further proceedings, and in the behalfOf these most innocent and noble personsWill use my interest with the Holy Father.
JUDGE:Let the Pope’s pleasure then be done. MeanwhileConduct these culprits each to separate cells; _190And be the engines ready; for this nightIf the Pope’s resolution be as grave,Pious, and just as once, I’ll wring the truthOut of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan.
BERNARDO:How gently slumber rests upon her face,Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly spentClosing in night and dreams, and so prolonged.After such torments as she bore last night,How light and soft her breathing comes. Ay me! _5Methinks that I shall never sleep again.But I must shake the heavenly dew of restFrom this sweet folded flower, thus…wake, awake!What, sister, canst thou sleep?
BEATRICE [AWAKING]:I was just dreamingThat we were all in Paradise. Thou knowest _10This cell seems like a kind of ParadiseAfter our father’s presence.
BERNARDO:Dear, dear sister,Would that thy dream were not a dream! O God!How shall I tell?
BEATRICE:What wouldst thou tell, sweet brother?
BERNARDO:Look not so calm and happy, or even whilst _15I stand considering what I have to sayMy 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 _20The tortures…
BEATRICE:Ha! What was there to confess?They must have told some weak and wicked lieTo flatter their tormentors. Have they saidThat they were guilty? O white innocence,That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide _25Thine awful and serenest countenanceFrom those who know thee not![ENTER JUDGE WITH LUCRETIA AND GIACOMO, GUARDED.]Ignoble hearts!For some brief spasms of pain, which are at leastAs mortal as the limbs through which they pass,Are centuries of high splendour laid in dust? _30And that eternal honour which should liveSunlike, above the reek of mortal fame,Changed to a mockery and a byword? What!Will you give up these bodies to be draggedAt horses’ heels, so that our hair should sweep _35The footsteps of the vain and senseless crowd,Who, that they may make our calamityTheir worship and their spectacle, will leaveThe churches and the theatres as voidAs their own hearts? Shall the light multitude _40Fling, 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? O thou, _45Who 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. _50’Tis but the falsehood it can wring from fearMakes the rack cruel.
GIACOMO:They will tear the truthEven from thee at last, those cruel pains:For pity’s sake say thou art guilty now.
LUCRETIA:Oh, speak the truth! Let us all quickly die; _55And after death, God is our judge, not they;He will have mercy on us.
BERNARDO:If indeedIt 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 _60Your limbs with such keen tortures…
BEATRICE:Tortures! TurnThe rack henceforth into a spinning-wheel!Torture your dog, that he may tell when lastHe lapped the blood his master shed…not me!My pangs are of the mind, and of the heart, _65And of the soul; ay, of the inmost soul,Which weeps within tears as of burning gallTo see, in this ill world where none are true,My kindred false to their deserted selves.And with considering all the wretched life _70Which I have lived, and its now wretched end,And the small justice shown by Heaven and EarthTo me or mine; and what a tyrant thou art,And what slaves these; and what a world we make,The oppressor and the oppressed…such pangs compel _75My answer. What is it thou wouldst with me?
JUDGE:Art thou not guilty of thy father’s death?
BEATRICE:Or wilt thou rather tax high-judging GodThat He permitted such an act as thatWhich I have suffered, and which He beheld; _80Made it unutterable, and took from itAll refuge, all revenge, all consequence,But that which thou 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; _85Say 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. _90Be it enough. Until their final sentenceLet none have converse with them. You, young Lord,Linger not here!
BEATRICE:Oh, tear him not away!
JUDGE:Guards! do your duty.
BERNARDO [EMBRACING BEATRICE]:Oh! would ye divideBody from soul?
OFFICER:That is the headsman’s business. _95
GIACOMO:Have I confessed? Is it all over now?No hope! No refuge! O weak, wicked tongueWhich hast destroyed me, would that thou hadst beenCut out and thrown to dogs first! To have killedMy father first, and then betrayed my sister; _100Ay, thee! the one thing innocent and pureIn this black, guilty world, to that which ISo well deserve! My wife! my little ones!Destitute, helpless, and I…Father! God!Canst Thou forgive even the unforgiving, _105When their full hearts break thus, thus!…
LUCRETIA:O my child!To what a dreadful end are we all come!Why did I yield? Why did I not sustainThose torments? Oh, that I were all dissolvedInto these fast and unavailing tears, _110Which 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 madeOur speedy act the angel of His wrath,Seems, and but seems, to have abandoned us. _115Let 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!O dearest Lady, put your gentle headUpon my lap, and try to sleep awhile: _120Your 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, _125Such as our country gossips sing and spin,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 _130When my life is laid asleep?Little cares for a smile or a tear,The clay-cold corpse upon the bier!Farewell! Heighho!What is this whispers low? _135There 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; _140When to wake? Never again.O World! Farewell!Listen to the passing bell!It says, thou and I must part,With a light and a heavy heart. _145
CAMILLO:The Pope is stern; not to be moved or bent.He looked as calm and keen as is the engineWhich tortures and which kills, exempt itselfFrom aught that it inflicts; a marble form,A rite, a law, a custom: not a man. _5He frowned, as if to frown had been the trickOf his machinery, on the advocatesPresenting the defences, which he toreAnd threw behind, muttering with hoarse, harsh voice:‘Which among ye defended their old father _10Killed in his sleep?’ Then to another: ‘ThouDost 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; _15Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish wrongWhich prompted your unnatural parent’s death.And he replied: ‘Paolo Santa CroceMurdered his mother yester evening,And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife _20That soon, for some just cause no doubt, the youngWill strangle us all, dozing in our chairs.Authority, and power, and hoary hairAre grown crimes capital. You are my nephew,You come to ask their pardon; stay a moment; _25Here is their sentence; never see me moreTill, to the letter, it be all fulfilled.’
BERNARDO:O God, not so! I did believe indeedThat all you said was but sad preparationFor happy news. Oh, there are words and looks _30To 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 batheHis feet and robe with hot and bitter tears?Importune him with prayers, vexing his brain _35With my perpetual cries, until in rageHe strike me with his pastoral cross, and trampleUpon my prostrate head, so that my bloodMay stain the senseless dust on which he treads,And remorse waken mercy? I will do it! _40Oh, wait till I return!
CAMILLO:Alas, poor boy!A wreck-devoted seaman thus might prayTo the deaf sea.
BEATRICE:I hardly dare to fearThat thou bring’st other news than a just pardon.
CAMILLO:May God in heaven be less inexorable _45To the Pope’s prayers than he has been to mine.Here is the sentence and the warrant.
BEATRICE [WILDLY]:OMy God! Can it be possible I haveTo die so suddenly? So young to goUnder the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground! _50To be nailed down into a narrow place;To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no moreBlithe voice of living thing; muse not againUpon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost—How fearful! to be nothing! Or to be… _55What? Oh, where am I? Let me not go mad!Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts! If there should beNo God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void world;The wide, gray, lampless, deep, unpeopled world!If all things then should be…my father’s spirit, _60His 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 gray hairs and wrinkles, he should come _65And wind me in his hellish arms, and fixHis eyes on mine, and drag me down, down, down!For was he not alone omnipotentOn Earth, and ever present? Even though dead,Does not his spirit live in all that breathe, _70And work for me and mine still the same ruin,Scorn, pain, despair? Who ever yet returnedTo teach the laws of Death’s untrodden realm?Unjust perhaps as those which drive us now,Oh, whither, whither?
LUCRETIA:Trust in God’s sweet love, _75The tender promises of Christ: ere night,Think, we shall be in Paradise.
BEATRICE:’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 _80Have 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, _85From 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 elseCan any trust? And yet my heart is cold.
GIACOMO:Know you not, Mother…Sister, know you not? _90Bernardo even now is gone to imploreThe Pope to grant our pardon.
LUCRETIA:Child, perhapsIt will be granted. We may all then liveTo make these woes a tale for distant years:Oh, what a thought! It gushes to my heart _95Like the warm blood.
BEATRICE:Yet both will soon be cold.Oh, trample out that thought! Worse than despair,Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope:It is the only ill which can find placeUpon the giddy, sharp, and narrow hour _100Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift frostThat it should spare the eldest flower of spring:Plead with awakening earthquake, o’er whose couchEven now a city stands, strong, fair, and free;Now stench and blackness yawn, like death. Oh, plead _105With famine, or wind-walking Pestilence,Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man!Cruel, cold, formal man; righteous in words,In deeds a Cain. No, Mother, we must die:Since such is the reward of innocent lives; _110Such the alleviation of worst wrongs.And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold men,Smiling and slow, walk through a world of tearsTo death as to life’s sleep; ’twere just the graveWere some strange joy for us. Come, obscure Death, _115And 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 anotherAs we were once, who now…
NOTE: _105 yawn edition 1821; yawns editions 1819, 1839.
BERNARDO:Oh, horrible! _120That tears, that looks, that hope poured forth in prayer,Even till the heart is vacant and despairs,Should all be vain! The ministers of deathAre waiting round the doors. I thought I sawBlood on the face of one…What if ’twere fancy? _125Soon the heart’s blood of all I love on earthWill sprinkle him, and he will wipe it offAs if ’twere only rain. O life! O world!Cover me! let me be no more! To seeThat perfect mirror of pure innocence _130Wherein 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, _135Whose love was as a bond to all our loves…Dead! The sweet bond broken![ENTER CAMILLO AND GUARDS.]They come! Let meKiss those warm lips before their crimson leavesAre blighted…white…cold. Say farewell, beforeDeath chokes that gentle voice! Oh, let me hear _140You speak!
NOTE: _136 was as a Rossetti cj.; was a editions 1819, 1821, 1839.
BEATRICE:Farewell, my tender brother. ThinkOf our sad fate with gentleness, as now:And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten for theeThy sorrow’s load. Err not in harsh despair,But tears and patience. One thing more, my child: _145For thine own sake be constant to the loveThou bearest us; and to the faith that I,Though wrapped in a strange cloud of crime and shame,Lived ever holy and unstained. And thoughIll tongues shall wound me, and our common name _150Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent browFor men to point at as they pass, do thouForbear, and never think a thought unkindOf those, who perhaps love thee in their graves.So mayest thou die as I do; fear and pain _155Being subdued. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!
BERNARDO:I cannot say, farewell!
CAMILLO:Oh, Lady Beatrice!
BEATRICE:Give yourself no unnecessary pain,My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, tieMy girdle for me, and bind up this hair _160In any simple knot; ay, that does well.And yours I see is coming down. How oftenHave we done this for one another; nowWe shall not do it any more. My Lord,We are quite ready. Well, ’tis very well. _165
The sort of mistake that Shelley made as to the extent of his own genius and powers, which led him deviously at first, but lastly into the direct track that enabled him fully to develop them, is a curious instance of his modesty of feeling, and of the methods which the human mind uses at once to deceive itself, and yet, in its very delusion, to make its way out of error into the path which Nature has marked out as its right one. He often incited me to attempt the writing a tragedy: he conceived that I possessed some dramatic talent, and he was always most earnest and energetic in his exhortations that I should cultivate any talent I possessed, to the utmost. I entertained a truer estimate of my powers; and above all (though at that time not exactly aware of the fact) I was far too young to have any chance of succeeding, even moderately, in a species of composition that requires a greater scope of experience in, and sympathy with, human passion than could then have fallen to my lot,—or than any perhaps, except Shelley, ever possessed, even at the age of twenty-six, at which he wrote The Cenci.
On the other hand, Shelley most erroneously conceived himself to be destitute of this talent. He believed that one of the first requisites was the capacity of forming and following-up a story or plot. He fancied himself to be defective in this portion of imagination: it was that which gave him least pleasure in the writings of others, though he laid great store by it as the proper framework to support the sublimest efforts of poetry. He asserted that he was too metaphysical and abstract, too fond of the theoretical and the ideal, to succeed as a tragedian. It perhaps is not strange that I shared this opinion with himself; for he had hitherto shown no inclination for, nor given any specimen of his powers in framing and supporting the interest of a story, either in prose or verse. Once or twice, when he attempted such, he had speedily thrown it aside, as being even disagreeable to him as an occupation.
The subject he had suggested for a tragedy was Charles I: and he had written to me: ‘Remember, remember Charles I. I have been already imagining how you would conduct some scenes. The second volume of “St. Leon” begins with this proud and true sentiment: “There is nothing which the human mind can conceive which it may not execute.” Shakespeare was only a human being.’ These words were written in 1818, while we were in Lombardy, when he little thought how soon a work of his own would prove a proud comment on the passage he quoted. When in Rome, in 1819, a friend put into our hands the old manuscript account of the story of the Cenci. We visited the Colonna and Doria palaces, where the portraits of Beatrice were to be found; and her beauty cast the reflection of its own grace over her appalling story. Shelley’s imagination became strongly excited, and he urged the subject to me as one fitted for a tragedy. More than ever I felt my incompetence; but I entreated him to write it instead; and he began, and proceeded swiftly, urged on by intense sympathy with the sufferings of the human beings whose passions, so long cold in the tomb, he revived, and gifted with poetic language. This tragedy is the only one of his works that he communicated to me during its progress. We talked over the arrangement of the scenes together. I speedily saw the great mistake we had made, and triumphed in the discovery of the new talent brought to light from that mine of wealth (never, alas, through his untimely death, worked to its depths)—his richly gifted mind.
We suffered a severe affliction in Rome by the loss of our eldest child, who was of such beauty and promise as to cause him deservedly to be the idol of our hearts. We left the capital of the world, anxious for a time to escape a spot associated too intimately with his presence and loss. (Such feelings haunted him when, in “The Cenci”, he makes Beatrice speak to Cardinal Camillo of
‘that fair blue-eyed childWho was the lodestar of your life:’—and say—All see, since his most swift and piteous death,That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time,And all the things hoped for or done thereinAre changed to you, through your exceeding grief.’)
Some friends of ours were residing in the neighbourhood of Leghorn, and we took a small house, Villa Valsovano, about half-way between the town and Monte Nero, where we remained during the summer. Our villa was situated in the midst of a podere; the peasants sang as they worked beneath our windows, during the heats of a very hot season, and in the evening the water-wheel creaked as the process of irrigation went on, and the fireflies flashed from among the myrtle hedges: Nature was bright, sunshiny, and cheerful, or diversified by storms of a majestic terror, such as we had never before witnessed.
At the top of the house there was a sort of terrace. There is often such in Italy, generally roofed: this one was very small, yet not only roofed but glazed. This Shelley made his study; it looked out on a wide prospect of fertile country, and commanded a view of the near sea. The storms that sometimes varied our day showed themselves most picturesquely as they were driven across the ocean; sometimes the dark lurid clouds dipped towards the waves, and became water-spouts that churned up the waters beneath, as they were chased onward and scattered by the tempest. At other times the dazzling sunlight and heat made it almost intolerable to every other; but Shelley basked in both, and his health and spirits revived under their influence. In this airy cell he wrote the principal part of “The Cenci”. He was making a study of Calderon at the time, reading his best tragedies with an accomplished lady living near us, to whom his letter from Leghorn was addressed during the following year. He admired Calderon, both for his poetry and his dramatic genius; but it shows his judgement and originality that, though greatly struck by his first acquaintance with the Spanish poet, none of his peculiarities crept into the composition of “The Cenci”; and there is no trace of his new studies, except in that passage to which he himself alludes as suggested by one in “El Purgatorio de San Patricio”.
Shelley wished “The Cenci” to be acted. He was not a playgoer, being of such fastidious taste that he was easily disgusted by the bad filling-up of the inferior parts. While preparing for our departure from England, however, he saw Miss O’Neil several times. She was then in the zenith of her glory; and Shelley was deeply moved by her impersonation of several parts, and by the graceful sweetness, the intense pathos, the sublime vehemence of passion she displayed. She was often in his thoughts as he wrote: and, when he had finished, he became anxious that his tragedy should be acted, and receive the advantage of having this accomplished actress to fill the part of the heroine. With this view he wrote the following letter to a friend in London:
‘The object of the present letter us to ask a favour of you. I have written a tragedy on a story well known in Italy, and, in my conception, eminently dramatic. I have taken some pains to make my play fit for representation, and those who have already seen it judge favourably. It is written without any of the peculiar feelings and opinions which characterize my other compositions; I have attended simply to the impartial development of such characters as it is probable the persons represented really were, together with the greatest degree of popular effect to be produced by such a development. I send you a translation of the Italian manuscript on which my play is founded; the chief circumstance of which I have touched very delicately; for my principal doubt as to whether it would succeed as an acting play hangs entirely on the question as to whether any such a thing as incest in this shape, however treated, would be admitted on the stage. I think, however, it will form no objection; considering, first, that the facts are matter of history, and, secondly, the peculiar delicacy with which I have treated it. (In speaking of his mode of treating this main incident, Shelley said that it might be remarked that, in the course of the play, he had never mentioned expressly Cenci’s worst crime. Every one knew what it must be, but it was never imaged in words—the nearest allusion to it being that portion of Cenci’s curse beginning—
“That, if she have a child,” etc.)
‘I am exceedingly interested in the question of whether this attempt of mine will succeed or not. I am strongly inclined to the affirmative at present; founding my hopes on this—that, as a composition, it is certainly not inferior to any of the modern plays that have been acted, with the exception of “Remorse”; that the interest of the plot is incredibly greater and more real; and that there is nothing beyond what the multitude are contented to believe that they can understand, either in imagery, opinion, or sentiment. I wish to preserve a complete incognito, and can trust to you that, whatever else you do, you will at least favour me on this point. Indeed, this is essential, deeply essential, to its success. After it had been acted, and successfully (could I hope for such a thing), I would own it if I pleased, and use the celebrity it might acquire to my own purposes.
‘What I want you to do is to procure for me its presentation at Covent Garden. The principal character, Beatrice, is precisely fitted for Miss O’Neil, and it might even seem to have been written for her (God forbid that I should see her play it—it would tear my nerves to pieces); and in all respects it is fitted only for Covent Garden. The chief male character I confess I should be very unwilling that any one but Kean should play. That is impossible, and I must be contented with an inferior actor.’
The play was accordingly sent to Mr. Harris. He pronounced the subject to be so objectionable that he could not even submit the part to Miss O’Neil for perusal, but expressed his desire that the author would write a tragedy on some other subject, which he would gladly accept. Shelley printed a small edition at Leghorn, to ensure its correctness; as he was much annoyed by the many mistakes that crept into his text when distance prevented him from correcting the press.
Universal approbation soon stamped “The Cenci” as the best tragedy of modern times. Writing concerning it, Shelley said: ‘I have been cautious to avoid the introducing faults of youthful composition; diffuseness, a profusion of inapplicable imagery, vagueness, generality, and, as Hamlet says, “words, words”.’ There is nothing that is not purely dramatic throughout; and the character of Beatrice, proceeding, from vehement struggle, to horror, to deadly resolution, and lastly to the elevated dignity of calm suffering, joined to passionate tenderness and pathos, is touched with hues so vivid and so beautiful that the poet seems to have read intimately the secrets of the noble heart imaged in the lovely countenance of the unfortunate girl. The Fifth Act is a masterpiece. It is the finest thing he ever wrote, and may claim proud comparison not only with any contemporary, but preceding, poet. The varying feelings of Beatrice are expressed with passionate, heart-reaching eloquence. Every character has a voice that echoes truth in its tones. It is curious, to one acquainted with the written story, to mark the success with which the poet has inwoven the real incidents of the tragedy into his scenes, and yet, through the power of poetry, has obliterated all that would otherwise have shown too harsh or too hideous in the picture. His success was a double triumph; and often after he was earnestly entreated to write again in a style that commanded popular favour, while it was not less instinct with truth and genius. But the bent of his mind went the other way; and, even when employed on subjects whose interest depended on character and incident, he would start off in another direction, and leave the delineations of human passion, which he could depict in so able a manner, for fantastic creations of his fancy, or the expression of those opinions and sentiments, with regard to human nature and its destiny, a desire to diffuse which was the master passion of his soul.
***
[Composed at the Villa Valsovano near Leghorn—or possibly later, during Shelley’s sojourn at Florence—in the autumn of 1819, shortly after the Peterloo riot at Manchester, August 16; edited with Preface by Leigh Hunt, and published under the poet’s name by Edward Moxon, 1832 (Bradbury & Evans, printers). Two manuscripts are extant: a transcript by Mrs. Shelley with Shelley’s autograph corrections, known as the ‘Hunt manuscript’; and an earlier draft, not quite complete, in the poet’s handwriting, presented by Mrs. Shelley to (Sir) John Bowring in 1826, and now in the possession of Mr. Thomas J. Wise (the ‘Wise manuscript’). Mrs. Shelley’s copy was sent to Leigh Hunt in 1819 with view to its publication in “The Examiner”; hence the name ‘Hunt manuscript.’ A facsimile of the Wise manuscript was published by the Shelley Society in 1887. Sources of the text are (1) the Hunt manuscript; (2) the Wise manuscript; (3) the editio princeps, editor Leigh Hunt, 1832; (4) Mrs. Shelley’s two editions (“Poetical Works”) of 1839. Of the two manuscripts Mrs. Shelley’s transcript is the later and more authoritative.]
1.As I lay asleep in ItalyThere came a voice from over the Sea,And with great power it forth led meTo walk in the visions of Poesy.
2.I met Murder on the way— _5He had a mask like Castlereagh—Very smooth he looked, yet grim;Seven blood-hounds followed him:
3.All were fat; and well they mightBe in admirable plight, _10For one by one, and two by two,He tossed them human hearts to chewWhich from his wide cloak he drew.
4.Next came Fraud, and he had on,Like Eldon, an ermined gown; _15His big tears, for he wept well,Turned to mill-stones as they fell.
5.And the little children, whoRound his feet played to and fro,Thinking every tear a gem, _20Had their brains knocked out by them.
6.Clothed with the Bible, as with light,And the shadows of the night,Like Sidmouth, next, HypocrisyOn a crocodile rode by. _25
7.And many more Destructions playedIn this ghastly masquerade,All disguised, even to the eyes,Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.
8.Last came Anarchy: he rode _30On a white horse, splashed with blood;He was pale even to the lips,Like Death in the Apocalypse.
9.And he wore a kingly crown;And in his grasp a sceptre shone; _35On his brow this mark I saw—‘I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!’
10.With a pace stately and fast,Over English land he passed,Trampling to a mire of blood _40The adoring multitude.
11.And a mighty troop around,With their trampling shook the ground,Waving each a bloody sword,For the service of their Lord. _45
12.And with glorious triumph, theyRode through England proud and gay,Drunk as with intoxicationOf the wine of desolation.
13.O’er fields and towns, from sea to sea, _50Passed the Pageant swift and free,Tearing up, and trampling down;Till they came to London town.
14.And each dweller, panic-stricken,Felt his heart with terror sicken _55Hearing the tempestuous cryOf the triumph of Anarchy.
15.For with pomp to meet him came,Clothed in arms like blood and flame,The hired murderers, who did sing _60‘Thou art God, and Law, and King.
16.‘We have waited, weak and loneFor thy coming, Mighty One!Our purses are empty, our swords are cold,Give us glory, and blood, and gold.’ _65
17.Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,To the earth their pale brows bowed;Like a bad prayer not over loud,Whispering—‘Thou art Law and God.’—
18.Then all cried with one accord, _70‘Thou art King, and God, and Lord;Anarchy, to thee we bow,Be thy name made holy now!’
19.And Anarchy, the Skeleton,Bowed and grinned to every one, _75As well as if his educationHad cost ten millions to the nation.
20.For he knew the PalacesOf our Kings were rightly his;His the sceptre, crown, and globe, _80And the gold-inwoven robe.
21.So he sent his slaves beforeTo seize upon the Bank and Tower,And was proceeding with intentTo meet his pensioned Parliament _85
22.When one fled past, a maniac maid,And her name was Hope, she said:But she looked more like Despair,And she cried out in the air:
23.‘My father Time is weak and gray _90With waiting for a better day;See how idiot-like he stands,Fumbling with his palsied hands!
24.‘He has had child after child,And the dust of death is piled _95Over every one but me—Misery, oh, Misery!’
25.Then she lay down in the street,Right before the horses’ feet,Expecting, with a patient eye, _100Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.
26.When between her and her foesA mist, a light, an image rose,Small at first, and weak, and frailLike the vapour of a vale: _105
27.Till as clouds grow on the blast,Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,And glare with lightnings as they fly,And speak in thunder to the sky,
28.It grew—a Shape arrayed in mail _110Brighter than the viper’s scale,And upborne on wings whose grainWas as the light of sunny rain.
29.On its helm, seen far away,A planet, like the Morning’s, lay; _115And those plumes its light rained throughLike a shower of crimson dew.
30.With step as soft as wind it passedO’er the heads of men—so fastThat they knew the presence there, _120And looked,—but all was empty air.
31.As flowers beneath May’s footstep waken,As stars from Night’s loose hair are shaken,As waves arise when loud winds call,Thoughts sprung where’er that step did fall. _125
32.And the prostrate multitudeLooked—and ankle-deep in blood,Hope, that maiden most serene,Was walking with a quiet mien:
33.And Anarchy, the ghastly birth, _130Lay dead earth upon the earth;The Horse of Death tameless as windFled, and with his hoofs did grindTo dust the murderers thronged behind.
34.A rushing light of clouds and splendour, _135A sense awakening and yet tenderWas heard and felt—and at its closeThese words of joy and fear arose
35.As if their own indignant EarthWhich gave the sons of England birth _140Had felt their blood upon her brow,And shuddering with a mother’s throe
36.Had turned every drop of bloodBy which her face had been bedewedTo an accent unwithstood,— _145As if her heart had cried aloud:
37.‘Men of England, heirs of Glory,Heroes of unwritten story,Nurslings of one mighty Mother,Hopes of her, and one another; _150
38.‘Rise like Lions after slumberIn unvanquishable number,Shake your chains to earth like dewWhich in sleep had fallen on you—Ye are many—they are few. _155
39.‘What is Freedom?—ye can tellThat which slavery is, too well—For its very name has grownTo an echo of your own.
40.‘’Tis to work and have such pay _160As just keeps life from day to dayIn your limbs, as in a cellFor the tyrants’ use to dwell,
41.‘So that ye for them are madeLoom, and plough, and sword, and spade, _165With or without your own will bentTo their defence and nourishment.
42.‘’Tis to see your children weakWith their mothers pine and peak,When the winter winds are bleak,— _170They are dying whilst I speak.
43.‘’Tis to hunger for such dietAs the rich man in his riotCasts to the fat dogs that lieSurfeiting beneath his eye; _175
44.‘’Tis to let the Ghost of GoldTake from Toil a thousandfoldMore than e’er its substance couldIn the tyrannies of old.
45.‘Paper coin—that forgery _180Of the title-deeds, which yeHold to something of the worthOf the inheritance of Earth.
46.‘’Tis to be a slave in soulAnd to hold no strong control _185Over your own wills, but beAll that others make of ye.
47.‘And at length when ye complainWith a murmur weak and vain’Tis to see the Tyrant’s crew _190Ride over your wives and youBlood is on the grass like dew.
48.‘Then it is to feel revengeFiercely thirsting to exchangeBlood for blood—and wrong for wrong— _195Do not thus when ye are strong.
49.‘Birds find rest, in narrow nestWhen weary of their winged quest;Beasts find fare, in woody lairWhen storm and snow are in the air. _200
50.‘Asses, swine, have litter spreadAnd with fitting food are fed;All things have a home but one—Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none!
51.‘This is Slavery—savage men, _205Or wild beasts within a denWould endure not as ye do—But such ills they never knew.
52.‘What art thou Freedom? O! could slavesAnswer from their living graves _210This demand—tyrants would fleeLike a dream’s dim imagery:
53.‘Thou art not, as impostors say,A shadow soon to pass away,A superstition, and a name _215Echoing from the cave of Fame.
54.‘For the labourer thou art bread,And a comely table spreadFrom his daily labour comeIn a neat and happy home. _220
55.Thou art clothes, and fire, and foodFor the trampled multitude—No—in countries that are freeSuch starvation cannot beAs in England now we see. _225
56.‘To the rich thou art a check,When his foot is on the neckOf his victim, thou dost makeThat he treads upon a snake.
57.Thou art Justice—ne’er for gold _230May thy righteous laws be soldAs laws are in England—thouShield’st alike the high and low.
58.‘Thou art Wisdom—Freemen neverDream that God will damn for ever _235All who think those things untrueOf which Priests make such ado.
59.‘Thou art Peace—never by theeWould blood and treasure wasted beAs tyrants wasted them, when all _240Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.
60.‘What if English toil and bloodWas poured forth, even as a flood?It availed, Oh, Liberty,To dim, but not extinguish thee. _245
61.‘Thou art Love—the rich have kissedThy feet, and like him following Christ,Give their substance to the freeAnd through the rough world follow thee,
62.‘Or turn their wealth to arms, and make _250War for thy beloved sakeOn wealth, and war, and fraud—whence theyDrew the power which is their prey.
63.‘Science, Poetry, and ThoughtAre thy lamps; they make the lot _255Of the dwellers in a cotSo serene, they curse it not.
64.‘Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,All that can adorn and blessArt thou—let deeds, not words, express _260Thine exceeding loveliness.
65.‘Let a great Assembly beOf the fearless and the freeOn some spot of English groundWhere the plains stretch wide around. _265
66.‘Let the blue sky overhead,The green earth on which ye tread,All that must eternal beWitness the solemnity.
67.‘From the corners uttermost _270Of the bounds of English coast;From every hut, village, and townWhere those who live and suffer moanFor others’ misery or their own,
68.‘From the workhouse and the prisonWhere pale as corpses newly risen,Women, children, young and old _277Groan for pain, and weep for cold—
69.‘From the haunts of daily lifeWhere is waged the daily strife _280With common wants and common caresWhich sows the human heart with tares—
70.‘Lastly from the palacesWhere the murmur of distressEchoes, like the distant sound _285Of a wind alive around
71.‘Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,Where some few feel such compassionFor those who groan, and toil, and wailAs must make their brethren pale—
72.‘Ye who suffer woes untold, _291Or to feel, or to beholdYour lost country bought and soldWith a price of blood and gold—
73.‘Let a vast assembly be, _295And with great solemnityDeclare with measured words that yeAre, as God has made ye, free—
74.‘Be your strong and simple wordsKeen to wound as sharpened swords, _300And wide as targes let them be,With their shade to cover ye.