Act 4

SCENE 4.1:

CENCI:She comes not; yet I left her even nowVanquished and faint. She knows the penaltyOf 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 Rome?Might I not drag her by the golden hair?Stamp on her? keep her sleepless till her brainBe overworn? Tame her with chains and famine?Less would suffice. Yet so to leave undoneWhat I most seek! No, 'tis her stubborn willWhich by its own consent shall stoop as lowAs that which drags it down.Thou loathed wretch!Hide thee from my abhorrence: fly, begone!Yet stay! Bid Beatrice come hither.

LUCRETIA:Oh,Husband! I pray, for thine own wretched sakeHeed what thou dost. A man who walks like theeThrough crimes, and through 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,Pity thy daughter; give her to some friendIn marriage: so that she may tempt thee notTo hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse there be.

CENCI:What! like her sister who has found a homeTo mock my hate from with prosperity?Strange ruin shall destroy both her and theeAnd all that yet remain. My death may beRapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go,Bid her come hither, and before my moodBe changed, lest I should drag her by the hair.

LUCRETIA:She sent me to thee, husband. At thy presenceShe 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 hearIf 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 I cursed my sons they died.--Ay...so...As to the right or wrong, that's talk...repentance...Repentance is an easy moment's workAnd more depends on God than me. Well...well...I must give up the greater point, which wasTo poison and corrupt her soul.One, two;Ay...Rocco and Cristofano my curseStrangled: and Giacomo, I think, will findLife a worse Hell than that beyond the grave:Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate,Die in despair, blaspheming: to Bernardo,He is so innocent, I will bequeathThe memory of these deeds, and make his youthThe sepulchre of hope, where evil thoughtsShall grow like weeds on a neglected tomb.When all is done, out in the wide Campagna,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 leaveOf my possessions nothing but my name;Which shall be an inheritance to stripIts wearer bare as infamy. That done,My soul, which is a scourge, will I resignInto the hands of him who wielded it;Be it for its own punishment or theirs,He will not ask it of me till the lashBe broken in its last and deepest wound;Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet,Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me makeShort work and sure...

Oh, stay! It was a feint: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 storeTo bend her to my will.

LUCRETIA:Oh! to what will?What cruel sufferings more than she has knownCanst 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,Through infamies unheard of among men:She shall stand shelterless in the broad noonOf public scorn, for acts blazoned abroad,One among which shall be...What? Canst thou guess?She shall become (for what she most abhorsShall have a fascination to entrapHer loathing will) to her own conscious selfAll she appears to others; and when dead,As she shall die unshrived and unforgiven,A rebel to her father and her God,Her corpse shall be abandoned to the hounds;Her name shall be the terror of the earth;Her spirit shall approach the throne of GodPlague-spotted with my curses. I will makeBody and soul a monstrous lump of ruin.