| |
The Cell of a Prison. | |
| |
BEATRICE is discovered asleep on a couch. Enter BERNARDO | |
| |
| Bernardo. How gently slumber rests upon her face, | |
| Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly spent | |
| Closing in night and dreams, and so prolonged. | 5 |
| After such torments as she bore last night, | |
| How light and soft her breathing comes. Ay, me! | |
| Methinks that I shall never sleep again. | |
| But I must shake the heavenly dew of rest | |
| From this sweet folded flower, thus … wake! awake! | 10 |
| What, sister, canst thou sleep? | |
| Beatrice (awaking). I was just dreaming | |
| That we were all in Paradise. Thou knowest | |
| This cell seems like a kind of Paradise | |
| After our father’s presence. | 15 |
| Bernardo. Dear, dear sister, | |
| Would that thy dream were not a dream! O God! | |
| How shall I tell? | |
| Beatrice. What wouldst thou tell, sweet brother? | |
| Bernardo. Look not so calm and happy, or even whilst | 20 |
| I stand considering what I have to say | |
| My heart will break. | |
| Beatrice. See now, thou mak’st me weep: | |
| How very friendless thou wouldst be, dear child, | |
| If I were dead. Say what thou hast to say. | 25 |
| Bernardo. They have confessed; they could endure no more | |
| The tortures… | |
| Beatrice. Ha! What was there to confess? | |
| They must have told some weak and wicked lie | |
| To flatter their tormentors. Have they said | 30 |
| That they were guilty? O white innocence, | |
| That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide | |
| Thine awful and serenest countenance | |
| From those who know thee not! | |
| |
Enter JUDGE with LUCRETIA and GIACOMO, guarded | 35 |
| Ignoble hearts! | |
| For some brief spasms of pain, which are at least | |
| As mortal as the limbs through which they pass, | |
| Are centuries of high splendour laid in dust? | |
| And that eternal honour which should live | 40 |
| Sunlike, above the reek of mortal fame, | |
| Changed to a mockery and a bye-word? What! | |
| Will you give up these bodies to be dragged | |
| At horses’ heels, so that our hair should sweep | |
| The footsteps of the vain and senseless crowd, | 45 |
| Who, that they may make our calamity | |
| Their worship and their spectacle, will leave | |
| The churches and the theatres as void | |
| As their own hearts? Shall the light multitude | |
| Fling at their choice, curses or faded pity, | 50 |
| Sad funeral flowers to deck a living corpse, | |
| Upon us as we pass to pass away, | |
| And leave … what memory of our having been? | |
| Infamy, blood, terror, despair? O thou, | |
| Who wert a mother to the parentless, | 55 |
| Kill not thy child! Let not her wrongs kill thee! | |
| Brother, lie down with me upon the rack, | |
| And let us each be silent as a corpse; | |
| It soon will be as soft as any grave. | |
| ’Tis but the falsehood it can wring from fear | 60 |
| Makes the rack cruel. | |
| Giacomo. They will tear the truth | |
| Even from thee at last, those cruel pains: | |
| For pity’s sake say thou art guilty now. | |
| Lucretia. Oh, speak the truth! Let us all quickly die; | 65 |
| And after death, God is our judge, not they; | |
| He will have mercy on us. | |
| Bernardo. If indeed | |
| It can be true, say so, dear sister mine; | |
| And then the Pope will surely pardon you, | 70 |
| And all be well. | |
| Judge. Confess, or I will warp. | |
| Your limbs with such keen tortures… | |
| Beatrice. Tortures! Turn | |
| The rack henceforth into a spinning wheel! | 75 |
| Torture your dog, that he may tell when last | |
| He lapped the blood his master shed … not me! | |
| My pangs are of the mind, and of the heart, | |
| And of the soul; ay, of the inmost soul, | |
| Which weeps within tears as of burning gall | 80 |
| To see, in this ill world where none are true, | |
| My kindred false to their deserted selves. | |
| And with considering all the wretched life | |
| Which I have lived, and its now wretched end, | |
| And the small justice shown by Heaven and Earth | 85 |
| To me or mine; and what a tyrant thou art, | |
| And what slaves these; and what a world we make, | |
| The oppressor and the oppressed … such pangs compel | |
| My answer. What is it thou wouldst with me? | |
| Judge. Art thou not guilty of thy father’s death? | 90 |
| Beatrice. Or wilt thou rather tax high judging God | |
| That he permitted such an act as that | |
| Which I have suffered, and which he beheld; | |
| Made it unutterable, and took from it | |
| All refuge, all revenge, all consequence, | 95 |
| But that which thou hast called my father’s death? | |
| Which is or is not what men call a crime, | |
| Which either I have done, or have not done; | |
| Say what ye will. I shall deny no more. | |
| If ye desire it thus, thus let it be, | 100 |
| And so an end of all. Now do your will; | |
| No other pains shall force another word. | |
| Judge. She is convicted, but has not confessed. | |
| Be it enough. Until their final sentence | |
| Let none have converse with them. You, young Lord, | 105 |
| Linger not here! | |
| Beatrice. Oh, tear him not away! | |
| Judge. Guards, do your duty. | |
| Bernardo (embracing BEATRICE). | |
| Oh! would ye divide | 110 |
| Body from soul? | |
| Officer. That is the headsman’s business. [Exeunt all but LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, and GIACOMO. | |
| Giacomo. Have I confessed? It is all over now? | |
| No hope! No refuge! O weak, wicked tongue | |
| Which hast destroyed me, would that thou hadst been | 115 |
| Cut out and thrown to dogs first! To have killed | |
| My father first, and then betrayed my sister; | |
| Ay, thee! the one thing innocent and pure | |
| In this black guilty world, to that which I | |
| So well deserve! My wife! my little ones! | 120 |
| Destitute, helpless, and I … Father! God! | |
| Canst thou forgive even the unforgiving, | |
| When their full hearts break thus, thus!… [Covers his face and weeps. | |
| Lucretia. O my child! | |
| To what a dreadful end are we all come! | 125 |
| Why did I yield? Why did I not sustain | |
| Those torments? Oh, that I were all dissolved | |
| Into these fast and unavailing tears, | |
| Which flow and feel not! | |
| Beatrice. What ’twas weak to do, | 130 |
| ’Tis weaker to lament, once being done; | |
| Take cheer! The God who knew my wrong, and made | |
| Our speedy act the angel of his wrath, | |
| Seems, and but seems, to have abandoned us. | |
| Let us not think that we shall die for this. | 135 |
| Brother, sit near me; give me your firm hand, | |
| You had a manly heart. Bear up! Bear up! | |
| O dearest Lady, put your gentle head | |
| Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile: | |
| Your eyes look pale, hollow and overworn, | 140 |
| With heaviness of watching and slow grief. | |
| Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy tune, | |
| Not cheerful, nor yet sad; some dull old thing, | |
| Some outworn and unused monotony, | |
| Such as our country gossips sing and spin, | 145 |
| Till they almost forget they live: lie down! | |
| So, that will do. Have I forgot the words? | |
| Faith! They are sadder than I thought they were. | |
SONG | |
| False friend, wilt thou smile or weep | 150 |
| When my life is laid asleep? | |
| Little cares for a smile or a tear, | |
| The clay-cold corpse upon the bier! | |
| Farewell! Heigho! | |
| What is this whispers low? | 155 |
| There is a snake in thy smile, my dear; | |
| And bitter poison within thy tear. | |
| |
| Sweet sleep, were death like to thee, | |
| Or if thou couldst mortal be, | |
| I would close these eyes of pain; | 160 |
| When to wake? Never again. | |
| O World! Farewell! | |
| Listen to the passing bell! | |
| It says, thou and I must part, | |
| With a light and a heavy heart. [The scene closes. | 165 |
| |
