No More Learning

O, world! O, life! O, day! O, 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. . .

BEATRICE [FRANTICLY]:
Like Parricide. . .
Misery has 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 [DOUBTFULLY]:
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, SUBDUED 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! _50
Horrible things have been in this wide 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. . .
[PAUSES, SUDDENLY RECOLLECTING HERSELF. ]
Who art thou? Swear to me, ere I die
With fearful expectation, that indeed
Thou art not what thou seemest. . . Mother!

LUCRETIA:
Oh!
My sweet child, know you. . .

BEATRICE:
Yet speak it not:
For then if this be truth, that other too _60
Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth,
Linked with each lasting circumstance of life,
Never 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 AWAY FAINTLY. ]

LUCRETIA:
Alas! What has befallen thee, child?
What 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? _80
Thou art unlike 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, _85
I shall go mad. Ay, something must be done;
What, yet I know not. . . something which shall make
The thing that I have suffered but a shadow
In the dread lightning which avenges it;
Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying _90
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 anything will move me more.
But now! --O blood, which art my father's blood, _95
Circling through 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 _100
Who sees and permits evil, and so die:
That faith no agony shall obscure in me.

LUCRETIA:
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 yon 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 _110
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
Of crime, or the reward of trampling down
The thorns which God has strewed upon the path
Which leads to immortality.

BEATRICE:
Ay, 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 _130
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:--O! 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. _140
Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds
Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.

NOTE:
_140 nor edition 1821; or editions 1819, 1839 (1st).

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, _145
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 _150
Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak!

ORSINO:
Accuse him of the deed, and let the law
Avenge thee.

BEATRICE:
Oh, ice-hearted counsellor!
If I could find a word that might make known
The crime of my destroyer; and that done, _155
My tongue should like a knife tear out the secret
Which cankers my heart's core; ay, lay all bare,
So that my unpolluted fame should be
With vilest gossips a stale mouthed story;
A mock, a byword, an astonishment:-- _160
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, wrapped _165
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. ]
Ay,
All must be suddenly resolved and done.
What is this undistinguishable mist _170
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!
Rightfullest arbiter!

[SHE RETIRES, ABSORBED IN THOUGHT. ]

LUCRETIA:
If the lightning
Of God has e'er descended to avenge. . . _180

ORSINO:
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? _185
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? O God!
If, for the very reasons which should make _190
Redress most swift and sure, our injurer triumphs?
And we, the victims, bear worse punishment
Than that appointed for their torturer?

ORSINO:
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 _205
Might find them with less need.

[BEATRICE ADVANCES. ]

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, _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, _220
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,
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 Rome. 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. . .

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 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 gulf, and with the agony _250
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 _255
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, _260
With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag,
Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose tangled hair
Is matted in one solid roof of shade
By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here
'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night.
_265

ORSINO:
Before you reach that bridge make some excuse
For 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
Returned. . . 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 find 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?

NOTE:
_278 hither edition 1821; thither edition 1819.

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

ORSINO:
Great God! _280
Weigh you the danger of this rashness?

GIACOMO:
Ay!
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,
And Nature casts him off, who is her shame;
And 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.

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, _300
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
I bought new clothing for my ragged babes, _305
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 _310
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 _315
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
My ardent truth, and look averse and cold,
I 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.

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, _340
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 _345
Is, as it were, accomplished.

GIACOMO:
Is he dead?

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

GIACOMO:
What outrage?

ORSINO:
That she speaks not, but you may
Conceive such half conjectures as I do, _350
From her fixed paleness, and the lofty grief
Of her stern brow bent on the idle air,
And her severe unmodulated voice,
Drowning both tenderness and dread; and last
From this; that whilst her step-mother and I, _355
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 _360
Which told, before she spoke it, he must die:. . .

GIACOMO:
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 _370
Did not destroy each other! Is there made
Ravage of thee? O, heart, I ask no more
Justification! Shall I wait, Orsino,
Till he return, and stab him at the door?

ORSINO:
Not so; some accident might interpose _375
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?

GIACOMO:
My sister, my lost sister! _380

BEATRICE:
Lost indeed!
I see Orsino has talked with you, and
That you conjecture things too horrible
To speak, yet far less than the truth. Now, stay not,
He might return: yet kiss me; I shall know _385
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 3. 2:
A MEAN APARTMENT IN GIACOMO'S HOUSE.
GIACOMO ALONE.

GIACOMO:
'Tis midnight, and Orsino 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: _5
They are now living in unmeaning dreams:
But I must wake, still doubting if that deed
Be just which is most necessary. O,
Thou unreplenished lamp! whose narrow fire
Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge _10
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 _15
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 _20
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 judgement seat!
[A BELL STRIKES. ]
One! Two!
The hours crawl on; and, when my 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; _30
Yet. . . 'tis Orsino's step. . .
[ENTER ORSINO. ]
Speak!

ORSINO:
I am come
To say he has escaped.

GIACOMO:
Escaped!

ORSINO:
And safe
Within Petrella. He passed by the spot
Appointed for the deed an hour too soon.

GIACOMO:
Are we the fools of such contingencies? _35
And do we waste in blind misgivings 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 henceforth
Will ne'er repent of aught designed or done _40
But my repentance.

ORSINO:
See, the lamp is out.

GIACOMO:
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? Although our first plan failed,
Doubt not but he will soon be laid to rest.
But light the lamp; let us not talk i' the dark. _50

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?

ORSINO:
Once gone
You cannot now recall your sister's peace;
Your own extinguished years of youth and hope; _55
Nor your wife's bitter words; nor all the taunts
Which, from the prosperous, weak misfortune takes;
Nor your dead mother; nor. . .

GIACOMO:
O, speak no more!
I am resolved, although this very hand
Must quench the life that animated it. _60

ORSINO:
There is no need of that. Listen: you know
Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella
In old Colonna's time; him whom your father
Degraded from his post? And Marzio,
That desperate wretch, whom he deprived last year _65
Of a reward of blood, well earned and due?

GIACOMO:
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 _70
Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these men,
But in your name, and as at your request,
To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia.

GIACOMO:
Only to talk?

ORSINO:
The moments which even now
Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight hour _75
May memorize their flight with death: ere then
They must have talked, and may perhaps have done,
And made an end. . .

GIACOMO:
Listen! What sound is that?

ORSINO:
The house-dog moans, and the beams crack: nought else.

GIACOMO:
It is my wife complaining in her sleep: _80
I doubt not she is saying bitter things
Of me; and all my children round her dreaming
That I deny them sustenance.

ORSINO:
Whilst he
Who truly took it from them, and who fills
Their hungry rest with bitterness, now sleeps _85
Lapped in bad pleasures, and triumphantly
Mocks thee in visions of successful hate
Too like the truth of day.

GIACOMO:
If e'er he wakes
Again, I will not trust to hireling hands. . .

ORSINO:
Why, that were well. I must be gone; good-night. _90
When next we meet--may all be done!

NOTE:
_91 may all be done!
Giacomo: And all edition 1821;
Giacomo: May all be done, and all edition 1819.

GIACOMO:
And all
Forgotten: Oh, that I had never been!

[EXEUNT. ]

END OF ACT 3.


ACT 4.

SCENE 4. 1:
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 Rome? _5
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 _10
Which by its own consent shall stoop as low
As that which drags it down.
[ENTER LUCRETIA. ]
Thou loathed wretch!
Hide thee from my abhorrence: fly, begone!
Yet stay! Bid Beatrice come hither.

NOTE:
_4 not now edition 1821; now not edition 1819.

LUCRETIA:
Oh,
Husband! I pray, for thine own wretched sake _15
Heed what thou dost. A man who walks like thee
Through 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, _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.

CENCI:
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
And all that yet remain. My death may be
Rapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go,
Bid her come hither, and before my mood
Be changed, lest I should drag her by the hair. _30

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 I cursed my sons they died. --Ay. . .