And then, that I might strike him dumb with shame, A brief yet specious tale, how I had wasted The sum in secret riot; and he saw My wife was touched, and he went smiling forth. Yet not so soon but that my wife had taught My children her harsh thoughts; and they all cried, For months!" I looked, and saw that home was hell. Trust me, The compensation which thou seekest here 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." Orsino. It must be fear itself, for the bare word Is hollow mockery. Mark how wisest God Is, as it were, accomplished. Giacomo. Is he dead? Know that, since we met, Orsino. His grave is ready. Orsino. That she speaks not, but you may Conceive such half conjectures as I do, She interrupted us, and with a look 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 holler judge than me, Till he return, and stab him at the door? Orsino. Not so; some accident might interpose 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? Beatrice. I see Orsino has talked with you, and That you conjecture things too horrible Lost indeed! To speak, yet far less than the truth. Now, stay not,— 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, [Exeunt severally SCENE II.-A mean Apartment in GIACOMO's Ilouse. 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 On stones and trees. My wife and children sleep : Even now perhaps, the life that kindled mine: That broken lamp of flesh. Ha! 'tis the blood [A bell strikes. One! Two! The hours crawl on; and, when my hairs are white, Like those which I expect. I almost wish Within Petrella. He passed by the spot Appointed for the deed, an hour too soon. Giacomo. Are we the fools of such contingencies? 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! Will ne'er repent of aught designed or done, See, the lamp is out. I henceforth Giacomo. If no remorse is ours when the dim air Orsino. Why, what need of this? Who feared the pale intrusion of remorse In a just deed? Although our first plan failed, But light the lamp; let us not talk i' the dark. Giacomo (lighting the lamp.) And yet, once quenched, I cannot thus relume My father's life: do you not think his ghost Orsino. Once gone, You cannot now recall your sister's peace; Which from the prosperous weak misfortune takes; Giacomo. Oh speak no more! I am resolved, although this very hand Orsino. There is no need of that. Listen. You know In old Colonna's time,-him whom your father That desperate wretch whom he deprived last year Giacomo. I knew Olimpio; and they say he hated His lips grew white only to see him pass. Orsino. Marzio's hate Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these men- Giacomo. Only to talk? The moments which even now Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight hour May memorize their flight with death. Ere then They must have talked, and may perhaps have done, 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. I doubt not she is saying bitter things Of me; and all my children round her dreaming Orsino. Whilst he Who truly took it from them, and who fills 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! When next we meet. Giacomo. Forgotten! Oh that I had never been! ACT IV. SCENE 1.—An Apartment in the Castle of Petrella. Enter CENCI. Conci. She comes not; yet I left her even now Ur fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome? What I most seek! No, 'tis her stubborn will 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 star-Bid Beatrice come hither. Husband! I pray, for thine own wretched sake, As thou wouldst save thyself from death and, hell, 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? Strange rain shall destroy both her and thee, And all that yet remain. My death may be Bid her come hither, and before my mood Be changed, lest I should drag her by the hair. Lardia. 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 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—so— As to the right or wrong, that's talk !—Repentance — |