July 8 The Harvard Classics, fifteen minutes a day
Italy’s Fair Assassin
When the monstrous Cenci forced his daughter Beatrice into a horrible situation, she revolted and boldly struck for freedom. Shelley tells her pitiful story in one of his best works.
- Percy Bysshe Shelley drowned, July 8, 1822.
From the 1930 Reading Guide
Cenci
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Page 288 opens with the end of Orsino’s speech that closes Scene II; the reading starts at Scene III (the banquet) on that page.
SCENE III.—A Magnificent Hall in the Cenci Palace. A Banquet
Enter CENCI, LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, ORSINO, CAMILLO, NOBLES
Cenci. Welcome, my friends and kinsmen; welcome ye,Princes and Cardinals, pillars of the church,Whose presence honours our festivity.I have too long lived like an anchorite,And in my absence from your merry meetingsAn evil word is gone abroad of me;But I do hope that you, my noble friends,When you have shared the entertainment here,And heard the pious cause for which ’tis given,And we have pledged a health or two together,Will think me flesh and blood as well as you;Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so,But tender-hearted, meek and pitiful.First Guest. In truth, My Lord, you seem too light of heart,Too sprightly and companionable a man,To act the deeds that rumour pins on you.(To his companion.) I never saw such blithe and open cheerIn any eye!Second Guest. Some most desired event,In which we all demand a common joy,Has brought us hither; let us hear it, Count.Cenci. It is indeed a most desired event.If, when a parent from a parent’s heartLifts from this earth to the great father of allA prayer, both when he lays him down to sleep,And when he rises up from dreaming it;One supplication, one desire, one hope,That he would grant a wish for his two sons,Even all that he demands in their regard—And suddenly beyond his dearest hope,It is accomplished, he should then rejoice,And call his friends and kinsmen to a feast,And task their love to grace his merriment,Then honour me thus far—for I am he.Beatrice (to Lucretia). Great God! How horrible! Some dreadful illMust have befallen my brothers.Lucretia. Fear not, Child,He speaks too frankly.Beatrice. Ah! My blood runs cold.I fear that wicked laughter round his eye,Which wrinkles up the skin even to the hair.Cenci. Here are the letters brought from Salamanca;Beatrice, read them to your mother. God!I thank thee! In one night didst thou perform,By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought.My disobedient and rebellious sonsAre dead!—Why, dead!—What means this change of cheer?You hear me not, I tell you they are dead;And they will need no food or raiment more:The tapers that did light them the dark wayAre their last cost. The Pope, I think, will notExpect I should maintain them in their coffins.Rejoice with me—my heart is wondrous glad.
[LUCRETIA sinks, half-fainting; BEATRICE supports her.
Beatrice. It is not true!—Dear lady, pray look up.Had it been true, there is a God in Heaven,He would not live to boast of such a boon.Unnatural man, thou knowest that it is false.Cenci. Ay, as the word of God; whom here I callTo witness that I speak the sober truth;—And whose most favouring Providence was shownEven in the manner of their deaths. For RoccoWas kneeling at the mass, with sixteen others,When the church fell and crushed him to a mummy,The rest escaped unhurt. CristofanoWas stabbed in error by a jealous man,Whilst she he loved was sleeping with his rival;All in the self-same hour of the same night;Which shows that Heaven has special care of me.I beg those friends who love me, that they markThe day a feast upon their calendars.It was the twenty-seventh of December:Ay, read the letters if you doubt my oath.
[The Assembly appears confused; several of the guests rise.
First Guest. Oh, horrible! I will depart—Second Guest. And I.—Third Guest. No, stay!I do believe it is some jest; tho’ faith!’Tis mocking us somewhat too solemnly.I think his son has married the Infanta,Or found a mine of gold in El Dorado;’Tis but to season some such news; stay, stay!I see ’tis only raillery by his smile.Cenci (filling a bowl of wine, and lifting it up). Oh, thou bright wine whose purple splendour leapsAnd bubbles gaily in this golden bowlUnder the lamp-light, as my spirits do,To hear the death of my accursèd sons!Could I believe thou wert their mingled blood,Then would I taste thee like a sacrament,And pledge with thee the mighty Devil in Hell,Who, if a father’s curses, as men say,Climb with swift wings after their children’s souls,And drag them from the very throne of Heaven,Now triumphs in my triumph!—But thou artSuperfluous; I have drunken deep of joy,And I will taste no other wine to-night.Here, Andrea! Bear the bowl around.A Guest (rising). Thou wretch!Will none among this noble companyCheck the abandoned villain?Camillo. For God’s sakeLet me dismiss the guests! You are insane,Some ill will come of this.Second Guest. Seize, silence him!First Guest. I will!Third Guest. And I!
Cenci (addressing those who rise with a threatening gesture).Who moves? Who speaks?(turning to the Company)’tis nothing,Enjoy yourselves.—Beware! For my revengeIs as the sealed commission of a kingThat kills, and none dare name the murderer.
[The Banquet is broken up; several of the Guests are departing.
Beatrice. I do entreat you, go not, noble guests;What, although tyranny and impious hateStand sheltered by a father’s hoary hair,What, if ’tis he who clothed us in these limbsWho tortures them, and triumphs? What, if we,The desolate and the dead, were his own flesh,His children and his wife, whom he is boundTo love and shelter? Shall we therefore findNo refuge in this merciless wide world?O think what deep wrongs must have blotted outFirst love, then reverence in a child’s prone mind,Till it thus vanquish shame and fear! O think!I have borne much, and kissed the sacred handWhich crushed us to the earth, and thought its strokeWas perhaps some paternal chastisement!Have excused much, doubted; and when no doubtRemained, have sought by patience, love, and tearsTo soften him, and when this could not beI have knelt down through the long sleepless nightsAnd lifted up to God, the father of all,Passionate prayers: and when these were not heardI have still borne,—until I meet you here,Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous feastGiven at my brothers’ deaths. Two yet remain,His wife remains and I, whom if ye save not,Ye may soon share such merriment againAs fathers make over their children’s graves.O Prince Colonna, thou art our near kinsman,Cardinal, thou art the Pope’s chamberlain,Camillo, thou art chief justiciary,Take us away!
Cenci. (He has been conversing with CAMILLO during the first part of BEATRICE’S speech; he hears the conclusion, and now advances.) I hope my good friends hereWill think of their own daughters—or perhapsOf their own throats—before they lend an earTo this wild girl.Beatrice (not noticing the words of Cenci). Dare no one look on me?None answer? Can one tyrant overbearThe sense of many best and wisest men?Or is it that I sue not in some formOf scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit?O God! That I were buried with my brothers!And that the flowers of this departed springWere fading on my grave! And that my fatherWere celebrating now one feast for all!Camillo. A bitter wish for one so young and gentle;Can we do nothing?Colonna. Nothing that I see.Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy:Yet I would second any one.A Cardinal. And I.Cenci. Retire to your chamber, insolent girl!Beatrice. Retire thou impious man! Ay, hide thyselfWhere never eye can look upon thee more!Wouldst thou have honour and obedienceWho art a torturer? Father, never dreamThough thou mayst overbear this company,But ill must come of ill.—Frown not on me!Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging looksMy brothers’ ghosts should hunt thee from thy seat!Cover thy face from every living eye,And start if thou but hear a human step.Seek out some dark and silent corner, thereBow thy white head before offended God,And we will kneel around, and ferventlyPray that he pity both ourselves, and thee.Cenci. My friends, I do lament this insane girlHas spoilt the mirth of our festivity.Good night, farewell; I will not make you longerSpectators of our dull domestic quarrels.Another time.—[Exeunt all but Cenci and Beatrice.My brain is swimming round;Give me a bowl of wine! [To Beatrice.Thou painted viper!Beast that thou art! Fair and yet terrible!I know a charm shall make thee meek and tame,Now get thee from my sight! [Exit Beatrice.Here, Andrea,Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I saidI would not drink this evening; but I must;For, strange to say, I feel my spirits failWith thinking what I have decreed to do.—[Drinking the wine.Be thou the resolution of quick youthWithin my veins, and manhood’s purpose stern,And age’s firm, cold, subtle villainy;As if thou wert indeed my children’s bloodWhich I did thirst to drink! The charm works well;It must be done; it shall be done, I swear! [Exit.
ACT II
SCENE I.—An Apartment in the Cenci Palace
Enter LUCRETIA and BERNARDO
Lucretia. Weep not, my gentle boy; he struck but meWho have borne deeper wrongs. In truth, if heHad killed me, he had done a kinder deed.O, God Almighty, do thou look upon us,We have no other friend but only thee!Yet weep not; though I love you as my own,I am not your true mother.Bernardo. O more, more,Than ever mother was to any child,That have you been to me! Had he not beenMy father, do you think that I should weep!Lucretia. Alas! Poor boy, what else couldst thou have done?
Enter BEATRICE
Beatrice (in a hurried voice). Did he pass this way? Have you seen him, brother?Ah! No, that is his step upon the stairs;’Tis nearer now; his hand is on the door;Mother, if I to thee have ever beenA duteous child, now save me! Thou, great God,Whose image upon earth a father is,Dost thou indeed abandon me? He comes:The door is opening now; I see his face;He frowns on others, but he smiles on me,Even as he did after the feast last night.
Enter a Servant
Almighty God, how merciful thou art!’Tis but Orsino’s servant.—Well, what news?Servant. My master bids me say, the Holy FatherHas sent back your petition thus unopened. [Giving a paper.And he demands at what hour ’twere secureTo visit you again?Lucretia. At the Ave Mary.
[Exit Servant.
So daughter, our last hope has failed; Ah me!How pale you look; you tremble, and you standWrapped in some fixed and fearful meditation,As if one thought were over strong for you:Your eyes have a chill glare; O, dearest child!Are you gone mad? If not, pray speak to me.Beatrice. You see I am not mad: I speak to you.Lucretia. You talked of something that your father didAfter that dreadful feast? Could it be worseThan when he smiled, and cried, My sons are dead!And every one looked in his neighbour’s faceTo see if others were as white as he?At the first word he spoke I felt the bloodRush to my heart, and fell into a trance;And when it passed I sat all weak and wild;Whilst you alone stood up, and with strong wordsChecked his unnatural pride; and I could seeThe devil was rebuked that lives in him.Until this hour thus have you ever stoodBetween us and your father’s moody wrathLike a protecting presence: your firm mindHas been our only refuge and defence.What can have thus subdued it? What can nowHave given you that cold melancholy look,Succeeding to your unaccustomed fear?Beatrice. What is it that you say? I was just thinking’Twere better not to struggle any more.Men, like my father, have been dark and bloody,Yet never—Oh! Before worse comes of it’Twere wise to die: it ends in that at last.Lucretia. O talk not so, dear child! Tell me at onceWhat did your father do or say to you?He stayed not after that accursèd feastOne moment in your chamber.—Speak to me.Bernardo. O sister, sister, prithee, speak to us!Beatrice (speaking very slowly with a forced calmness). It was one word, Mother, one little word;One look, one smile. (Wildly.) Oh! He has trampled meUnder his feet, and made the blood stream downMy pallid cheeks. And he has given us allDitch water, and the fever-stricken fleshOf buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve,And we have eaten.—He has made me lookOn my beloved Bernardo, when the rustOf heavy chains has gangrened his sweet limbs,And I have never yet despaired—but now!What could I say? [Recovering herself.Ah! No, ’tis nothing new.The sufferings we all share have made me wild:He only struck and cursed me as he passed;He said, he looked, he did;—nothing at allBeyond his wont, yet it disordered me.Alas! I am forgetful of my duty,I should preserve my senses for your sake.Lucretia. Nay, Beatrice! have courage, my sweet girl,If any one despairs it should be IWho loved him once, and now must live with himTill God in pity call for him or me.For you may, like your sister, find some husband,And smile, years hence, with children round your knees;Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous coilShall be remembered only as a dream.Beatrice. Talk not to me, dear lady, of a husband.Did you not nurse me when my mother died?Did you not shield me and that dearest boy?And had we any other friend but youIn infancy, with gentle words and looks,To win our father not to murder us?And shall I now desert you? May the ghostOf my dead Mother plead against my soulIf I abandon her who filled the placeShe left, with more, even, than a mother’s love!Bernardo. And I am of my sister’s mind. IndeedI would not leave you in this wretchedness,Even though the Pope should make me free to liveIn some blithe place, like others of my age,With sports, and delicate food, and the fresh air.O never think that I will leave you, Mother!Lucretia. My dear, dear children!
Enter CENCI suddenly
Cenci. What, Beatrice here!Come hither! [She shrinks back, and covers her face.Nay, hide not your face, ’tis fair;Look up! Why, yesternight you dared to lookWith disobedient insolence upon me,Bending a stern and an inquiring browOn what I meant; whilst I then sought to hideThat which I came to tell you—but in vain.Beatrice (wildly, staggering towards the door). O that the earth would gape! Hide me, O God!Cenci. Then it was I whose inarticulate wordsFell from my lips, and who with tottering stepsFled from your presence, as you now from mine.Stay, I command you—from this day and hourNever again, I think, with fearless eye,And brow superior, and unaltered cheek,And that lip made for tenderness or scorn,Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of mankind;Me least of all. Now get thee to thy chamber!Thou too, loathed image of thy cursèd mother,[To BERNARDO.Thy milky, meek face makes me sick with hate!
[Exeunt BEATRICE and BERNARDO.
(Aside.) So much has past between us as must makeMe bold, her fearful.—’Tis an awful thingTo touch such mischief as I now conceive:So men sit shivering on the dewy bank,And try the chill stream with their feet; once in...How the delighted spirit pants for joy!Lucretia (advancing timidly towards him). O husband! Pray forgive poor Beatrice.She meant not any ill.Cenci. Nor you perhaps?Nor that young imp, whom you have taught by roteParricide with his alphabet? Nor Giacomo?Nor those two most unnatural sons, who stirredEnmity up against me with the Pope?Whom in one night merciful God cut off:Innocent lambs! They thought not any ill.You were not here conspiring? You said nothingOf how I might be dungeoned as a madman;Or be condemned to death for some offence,And you would be the witnesses?—This failing,How just it were to hire assassins, orPut sudden poison in my evening drink?Or smother me when overcome by wine?Seeing we had no other judge but God,And he had sentenced me, and there were noneBut you to be the executionersOf his decree enregistered in heaven?Oh, no! You said not this?Lucretia. So help me God,I never thought the things you charge me with!Cenci. If you dare speak that wicked lie againI’ll kill you. What! It was not by your counselThat Beatrice disturbed the feast last night?You did not hope to stir some enemiesAgainst me, and escape, and laugh to scornWhat every nerve of you now trembles at?You judged that men were bolder than they are;Few dare to stand between their grave and me.Lucretia. Look not so dreadfully! By my salvationI knew not aught that Beatrice designed;Nor do I think she designed any thingUntil she heard you talk of her dead brothers.Cenci. Blaspheming liar! You are damned for this!But I will take you where you may persuadeThe stones you tread on to deliver you:For men shall there be none but those who dareAll things—not question that which I command.On Wednesday next I shall set out: you knowThat savage rock, the Castle of Petrella:’Tis safely walled, and moated round about:Its dungeons underground, and its thick towersNever told tales; though they have heard and seenWhat might make dumb things speak.—Why do you linger?Make speediest preparation for the journey! [Exit Lucretia.The all-beholding sun yet shines; I hearA busy stir of men about the streets;I see the bright sky through the window panes:It is a garish, broad, and peering day;Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and ears,And every little corner, nook, and holeIs penetrated with the insolent light.Come darkness! Yet, what is the day to me?And wherefore should I wish for night, who doA deed which shall confound both night and day?’Tis she shall grope through a bewildering mistOf horror: if there be a sun in heavenShe shall not dare to look upon its beams;Nor feel its warmth. Let her then wish for night;The act I think shall soon extinguish allFor me: I bear a darker deadlier gloomThan the earth’s shade, or interlunar air,Or constellations quenched in murkiest cloud,In which I walk secure and unbeheldTowards my purpose.—Would that it were done! [Exit.
SCENE II.—A Chamber in the Vatican
Enter CAMILLO and GIACOMO, in conversation
Camillo. There is an obsolete and doubtful lawBy which you might obtain a bare provisionOf food and clothing—Giacomo. Nothing more? Alas!Bare must be the provision which strict lawAwards, and agèd, sullen avarice pays.Why did my father not apprentice meTo some mechanic trade? I should have thenBeen trained in no highborn necessitiesWhich I could meet not by my daily toil.The eldest son of a rich noblemanIs heir to all his incapacities;He has wide wants, and narrow powers. If you,Cardinal Camillo, were reduced at onceFrom thrice-driven beds of down, and delicate food,An hundred servants, and six palaces,To that which nature doth indeed require?—Camillo. Nay, there is reason in your plea; ’twere hard.Giacomo. ’Tis hard for a firm man to bear: but IHave a dear wife, a lady of high birth,Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my fatherWithout a bond or witness to the deed:And children, who inherit her fine senses,The fairest creatures in this breathing world;And she and they reproach me not. Cardinal,Do you not think the Pope would interposeAnd stretch authority beyond the law?
Page 300 ends mid-sentence; the reading runs on to its end on page 301.
Volume 18, pages 288–300 · See the scanned page on archive.org
This is the reading for July 8 in Fifteen Minutes a Day: The Reading Guide (1930 edition). There the assignment reads “Vol. 18, pp. 288–300.” Read it in the guide.