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 fit restraints of daily life,Which have been borne from childhood, but which nowWould be a mockery to my holier plea.As I have said, I have endured a wrong,Which, though it be expressionless, is suchAs asks atonement; both for what is past,And lest I be reserved, day after day,To load with crimes an overburthened soul,And be...what ye can dream not. I have prayedTo God, and I have talked with my own heart,And have unravelled my entangled will,And have at length determined what is right.Art thou my friend, Orsino? False or true?Pledge thy salvation ere I speak.

ORSINO:I swearTo dedicate my cunning, and my strength,My silence, and whatever else is mine,To thy commands.

LUCRETIA:You think we should deviseHis death?

BEATRICE:And execute what is devised,And suddenly. We must be brief and bold.

ORSINO:And yet most cautious.

LUCRETIA:For the jealous lawsWould punish us with death and infamyFor that which it became themselves to do.

BEATRICE:Be cautious as ye may, but prompt. Orsino,What are the means?

ORSINO:I know two dull, fierce outlaws,Who think man's spirit as a worm's, and theyWould trample out, for any slight caprice,The meanest or the noblest life. This moodIs marketable here in Rome. They sellWhat we now want.

LUCRETIA:To-morrow before dawn,Cenci will take us to that lonely rock,Petrella, in the Apulian Apennines.If he arrive there...

BEATRICE:He must not arrive.

ORSINO:Will it be dark before you reach the tower?

LUCRETIA:The sun will scarce be set.

BEATRICE:But I rememberTwo miles on this side of the fort, the roadCrosses a deep ravine; 'tis rough and narrow,And winds with short turns down the precipice;And in its depth there is a mighty rock,Which has, from unimaginable years,Sustained itself with terror and with toilOver a gulf, and with the agonyWith 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 abyssIn which it fears to fall: beneath this cragHuge as despair, as if in weariness,The melancholy mountain yawns...below,You hear but see not an impetuous torrentRaging among the caverns, and a bridgeCrosses the chasm; and high above there grow,With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag,Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose tangled hairIs matted in one solid roof of shadeBy the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night.

ORSINO:Before you reach that bridge make some excuseFor spurring on your mules, or loiteringUntil...

BEATRICE:What sound is that?

LUCRETIA:Hark! No, it cannot be a servant's stepIt must be Cenci, unexpectedlyReturned...Make some excuse for being here.

That step we hear approach must never passThe bridge of which we spoke.

ORSINO:What shall I do?Cenci must find me here, and I must bearThe imperious inquisition of his looksAs to what brought me hither: let me maskMine own in some inane and vacant smile.How! Have you ventured hither? Know you thenThat Cenci is from home?

GIACOMO:I sought him here;And now must wait till he returns.

ORSINO:Great God!Weigh you the danger of this rashness?

GIACOMO:Ay!Does my destroyer know his danger? WeAre now no more, as once, parent and child,But man to man; the oppressor to the oppressed;The slanderer to the slandered; foe to foe:He has cast Nature off, which was his shield,And Nature casts him off, who is her shame;And I spurn both. Is it a father's throatWhich I will shake, and say, I ask not gold;I ask not happy years; nor memoriesOf tranquil childhood; nor home-sheltered love;Though all these hast thou torn from me, and more;But only my fair fame; only one hoardOf peace, which I thought hidden from thy hate,Under the penury heaped on me by thee,Or I will...God can understand and pardon,Why should I speak with man?

ORSINO:Be calm, dear friend.

GIACOMO:Well, I will calmly tell you what he did.This old Francesco Cenci, as you know,Borrowed the dowry of my wife from me,And then denied the loan; and left me soIn poverty, the which I sought to mendBy holding a poor office in the state.It had been promised to me, and alreadyI bought new clothing for my ragged babes,And my wife smiled; and my heart knew repose.When Cenci's intercession, as I found,Conferred this office on a wretch, whom thusHe paid for vilest service. I returnedWith this ill news, and we sate sad togetherSolacing our despondency with tearsOf such affection and unbroken faithAs temper life's worst bitterness; when he,As he is wont, came to upbraid and curse,Mocking our poverty, and telling usSuch 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 coinedA brief yet specious tale, how I had wastedThe sum in secret riot; and he sawMy wife was touched, and he went smiling forth.And when I knew the impression he had made,And felt my wife insult with silent scornMy ardent truth, and look averse and cold,I went forth too: but soon returned again;Yet not so soon but that my wife had taughtMy children her harsh thoughts, and they all cried,'Give us clothes, father! Give us better food!What you in one night squander were enoughFor months!' I looked, and saw that home was hell.And to that hell will I return no moreUntil mine enemy has rendered upAtonement, or, as he gave life to meI will, reversing Nature's law...

ORSINO:Trust me,The compensation which thou seekest hereWill be denied.

GIACOMO: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,Although I am resolved, haunts me like fear.

ORSINO:It must be fear itself, for the bare wordIs hollow mockery. Mark, how wisest GodDraws to one point the threads of a just doom,So sanctifying it: what you deviseIs, as it were, accomplished.

GIACOMO:Is he dead?

ORSINO:His grave is ready. Know that since we metCenci has done an outrage to his daughter.

GIACOMO:What outrage?

ORSINO:That she speaks not, but you mayConceive such half conjectures as I do,From her fixed paleness, and the lofty griefOf her stern brow bent on the idle air,And her severe unmodulated voice,Drowning both tenderness and dread; and lastFrom this; that whilst her step-mother and I,Bewildered in our horror, talked togetherWith obscure hints; both self-misunderstoodAnd darkly guessing, stumbling, in our talk,Over the truth, and yet to its revenge,She interrupted us, and with a lookWhich told, before she spoke it, he must die:...

GIACOMO:It is enough. My doubts are well appeased;There is a higher reason for the actThan mine; there is a holier judge than me,A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice,Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youthHast never trodden on a worm, or bruisedA living flower, but thou hast pitied itWith needless tears! Fair sister, thou in whomMen wondered how such loveliness and wisdomDid not destroy each other! Is there madeRavage of thee? O, heart, I ask no moreJustification! Shall I wait, Orsino,Till he return, and stab him at the door?

ORSINO:Not so; some accident might interposeTo 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 assuredThat...

BEATRICE:'Tis my brother's voice! You know me not?

GIACOMO:My sister, my lost sister!

BEATRICE:Lost indeed!I see Orsino has talked with you, andThat you conjecture things too horribleTo speak, yet far less than the truth. Now, stay not,He might return: yet kiss me; I shall knowThat 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 heartsMake thine hard, brother. Answer not...farewell.

SCENE 3.2:

GIACOMO:'Tis midnight, and Orsino comes not yet.What! can the everlasting elementsFeel with a worm like man? If so, the shaftOf mercy-winged lightning would not fallOn stones and trees. My wife and children sleep:They are now living in unmeaning dreams:But I must wake, still doubting if that deedBe just which is most necessary. O,Thou unreplenished lamp! whose narrow fireIs shaken by the wind, and on whose edgeDevouring 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 beAs thou hadst never been! So wastes and sinksEven now, perhaps, the life that kindled mine:But that no power can fill with vital oilThat broken lamp of flesh. Ha! 'tis the bloodWhich fed these veins that ebbs till all is cold:It is the form that moulded mine that sinksInto the white and yellow spasms of death:It is the soul by which mine was arrayedIn God's immortal likeness which now standsNaked before Heaven's judgement seat!One! Two!The hours crawl on; and, when my hairs are white,My son will then perhaps be waiting thus,Tortured between just hate and vain remorse;Chiding the tardy messenger of newsLike those which I expect. I almost wishHe be not dead, although my wrongs are great;Yet...'tis Orsino's step...Speak!

ORSINO:I am comeTo say he has escaped.